February 1st, 2020
You don’t have to register and pay money to run an ultra-marathon. Don’t get me wrong, formal races are a lot of fun and give you official times that you can use to measure your progress (or to measure yourself against others if you’re one of those types, and we all do this to varying degrees). The competition of being on a course with other runners and the adrenaline boost that you get is unique to formal races. The pressure of not only hitting your personal targets, but also passing and being passed is a pressure that is impossible to duplicate outside of an organized competition. I get that. But you can still push yourself to new and interesting challenges without providing your credit card information, and there’s a certain sense of exploration that comes with ultra running that lends itself well to “unorganized” events. So when a friend offered up an open invitation to run from Bowling Green through the Kentucky countryside to the next county over, I didn’t hesitate to join.
We split into two groups, with my slower group leaving at 5:30 and a faster group 30 minutes later. We headed to the Old Louisville Road bridge and crossed the Barren river going North. During the Civil War the Barren had briefly been a front between Union and Confederate armies in neutral Kentucky, but now it’s just a scenic, if not lazy river that we barely noticed as we ran through the dark. When we arrived at the turn onto Porter Pike, the road that would take us out of town, I realized that we may not hit a toilet again for 30 miles, so I decided to duck into a gas station because I knew that once we got on the country roads the options would be limited to cow pastures and hay fields. With this critical task complete, we continued into the dark, running past the Corvette museum and nearby racetrack. Slowly the traces of civilization and commerce became less and less and soon we were running through fields and pastures.
The early miles seemed to fly by and like most runs we talked about all manner of things as we watched the sun rise over the horizon. The night before, we had placed one gallon water jugs at various spots along the route and 9 miles in we came to the first of these, the Gott Volunteer Fire Department. I was carrying soft flasks in my vest, and at 9 miles I still had plenty, but a stop along the way is always welcome. Leaving the Gott VFD and resuming our run East, we were now firmly in the countryside, which in Kentucky is a disparate mixture of bucolic farms and dilapidated mobile homes with broken down cars in the front yard. Just beyond Gott, the road forked and we followed highway 1297 which split towards the North but basically ran parallel with Porter Pike and the Barren river to the South.
This stretch of road was mostly dotted with rustic old barns and fields of cows, who were mostly oblivious to our presence. The sun was was now above the horizon and an early morning mist hung low over the rolling hills. Our pace was hovering around 8:40 minutes/mile and had been consistently in the mid-eight minute range for the entire run. We were moving well, but even our small group of three runners was starting to string out a bit along the route and as we came into a makeshift water station at a small country church 13 miles in, we had about two minutes between the first and last runners to arrive. We each filled our water and stretched a bit. It had been 3 months since I finished the Tunnel Hill 100 and my left hamstring was still feeling weak. I hadn’t felt any pain at all during that race, but in the following days the pain had become debilitating and limited the amount of running I could do. In recent weeks it had shown some improvement, but now 13 miles in with 30 to go, I was starting to feel some twinges and fatigue, especially on the hills.
County Line 
I checked my phone and read a text from the two guys in the fast group and saw that they were making some serious time on us. I realized they’d catch us before the next aid station, so I kept peeking over my shoulder for any sign of the bright neon colors that distinguish runners from natural environments. Right on cue, at 15 miles they appeared on the horizon way behind us. The two small, bright colored dots grew larger and larger and soon they pulled even with me and then ahead. I kept them about 100 yards in front of me over the next mile and soon we pulled into another water station at a small church just across highway 101. My friend and fellow Tunnel Hill 100 finisher Brent was starting to fall further behind and a combination of tired muscles and relatively fast pace was starting to get to him and his calves were beginning to cramp. For the next half mile or so after leaving the water station I stayed between Brent and the lead group, trying to keep both in sight. We encountered more and more hills and so I let the fast group get away from me and I dropped back to pick up Brent. At 18 miles we settled into a routine of walking the hills and running the downs and flats. I knew we had a pit stop at the 1297 market coming up at mile 20, so I encouraged Brent and we pushed on steadily.
When we arrived at the market the fast group was nowhere to be seen, having long since departed. My car was parked at the town square in Glasgow, where we planned to finish, so I was a little concerned about taking too much time, but it was clear we needed some calories. I hadn’t eaten enough the night before and just had a banana that morning so I was starting to feel a little weak. I bought a bag of chips and a couple candy bars and Brent talked the lady behind the counter into cooking us each a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit. Some of my favorite parts of these long runs is finding little places like this and gorging myself on junk food. It probably doesn’t help me become a better runner, but there’s nothing quite like chasing a bag of chips with a king size Payday. Throwing in a sausage biscuit and chugging a Body Armor was just the icing on the cake. Besides, I need to develop my gas station eating skills if I want to finish HOTS this summer.
Back on the road again, we both felt better and moved a little stronger over the next 10K, where we arrived at our last water station at a small church in Beckton. We were now only 7 miles from our goal, but the pace was dropping significantly and we were walking as much as we were running. As we approached Glasgow it seemed that the hills grew higher and longer but we trudged on. Later when I looked at Strava, it showed that the entire course was a steady uphill climb. The traffic also started to pick up as we stumbled into town. It was shortly before noon as we got onto the city streets. We were down to our last two miles but there was no more running left, just a death march to the square. I started to feel a blister developing on my right heel and each step was a tiny shot of pain. I tend to have trouble with my heels, probably just due to my foot shape, but with half a mile to go I just wanted this run to be over.
It’s funny how fast the first 5 or 6 miles go by and how slow that last 800 meters seems. Of course on runs like this you only have your own sense of accomplishment waiting for you at the finish line. There’s no hype music, no one calling your name, no spectators or friends and family, no medals or food tables. We just walked over and leaned up against my car to mark the occasion. The fast group had texted earlier that they had gotten a ride home, so it was just us. I kept thinking we should do something to mark the occasion, but unlike a formal race where everyone lingers around and swaps war stories, self-organized runs like this tend to end rather abruptly and unceremoniously. We snapped a picture to prove it had happened and toweled off a bit, and then I looked around and behind me like there should be something else to it, but the run was over and it was time to go home.
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