Catoctin is a couple of days out.  The weather looks like it’s going to be good: the horribly high humidity that has graced our Nation’s capital is moving on, and temps are slated for the high-80s/low-90s.  Aside from the fact that the gypsy moth has done a number on the usually thick canopy over the course, and that lower temps means more lively (and prickly) herpetofauna, I’m feeling good about the race.  I’m well trained; I’ve got my gear figured out, I’ve got a hotel room close enough to the start line that I don’t have to get up at 4 am (even though I probably will); my shoes are polished (figuratively speaking); and intellectually I’m ready.

All of which is very nice, I’m sure.

Then there’s the irrational side, the bit that cares not at all for all of those things, but instead, sitting astride a kettledrum of doubt, pounds out a steady cadence of 50K, 31M, 7H, 150 people, the unknown.

Impending Catoctin is right.

No mystery that I’ve been running for 20 years. Also no mystery that I’ve not really taken it very seriously. I’ve never really competed, and after that marathon in 1998, I’ve not worked towards a running goal with any seriousness. I’ve run lots and lots of miles, sure. But with modest goals, and few indicators that I was really getting any better; my running was about doing something I enjoyed and that was about it. This weekend I had an epiphany of sorts.

I’m in Atlanta, and I went over to the Chattahoochee to run some flatlander miles.  I was a couple of miles into the run when I noticed a path veering off to the right and heading straight up a mountain.  I’d been clocking a good 9:50 m/m pace which explains why I was already 120 feet up before the “what the freakin’ hell?” side of my brain caught up with my “owwwww, look at that, something nasty to run up, weeeeeee” side of my brain.  But, by then, it was too late.

This was good gnarly mountainous running at its best: camouflaged slick rock, gullies of loose dirt, malevolent roots, lots of attitudinal altitude, some nice views, and only a few other walkers/ runners/ crawlers.  Getting the crap pounded out of my quads was something I really needed, and I could tell most of the trails I’d been on for the last few months had some hills here and there, but were nothing like the gut busting, bone jarring ascents and descents of good rough trail running.

So I ran to end of the trail, turned around, ran back down, did another couple of miles on the flat, looked at my watch and saw two things.  Thing one was that I’d clicked off the 10 miles I’d set out to do.  Thing two was that I’d kept a 10:40 pace for the whole run.  A 10:40 pace for the whole run.  The whole run with the mountain included.

“Holy shiiiiiiiit”, I muttered.  This training stuff does work.

I’ve planned since March for TNF 50M to be my first official ultra.  Sure, I’d planned to do some ultraish runs in training for the race, but TNF was going to be the great coming out.  Unfortunately, I’ve made a huge tactical error.  Looking at my training calendar I knew that the first weekend of August I was slated to do 30 miles.  So, there’s that.  Then there’s the Internet.  Which led me to the ULTRA mailing list.  Which – unfortunately – led me to the Catoctin 50K race on August 2.

Yes.  So, you see what’s happened?

I’ve gone and gotten myself into a real live ultra in advance of my first real live ultra.

I’ve actually gotten myself into a gnarly, rock-invested, mountainous, humid, wet, and opinionated real live ultra.

So, there’s that.

Main website is here.

Previous year’s race reports here (John’s is particularly good).