Conquering 100: My Old Dominion Story

“It’s you against the course against the clock.”

The first time I heard race director Ray Waldron’s words, I was sweaty and thirsty and fidgeting uncomfortably in a white folding chair. In the row ahead, a woman frantically tapped her foot while two seats over, a man was apparently relaxed enough to read a book. I was sure I could separate the first-timers from the veterans, but was I just as obviously new to the hundred miler cult? As I struggled to memorize the slides showing the tricky spots on the course, and listened intently to tales of runners traveling miles in the wrong direction, a fresh wave of self-doubt smacked me in the face. What had I gotten myself into? There was no way I could make the midnight cutoff at Elizabeth Furnace! The race was starting in less than TWELVE HOURS! Nestled snugly among my family and satiated from an early dinner of salad, fries, and IPAs at the quaint but cavernous Springhouse Tavern, I had fleeting fantasies of staying that way forever. Of not even starting the race I had researched and trained for and invested in and obsessed over for the last five months.

Old Dominion was not my original plan. It was supposed to be Vermont. I had imagined spending a week up north to explore a new state, eat pounds of cheese, taste maple syrup, and, you know, run 100 miles. But then I heard that Vermont would be utilizing a lottery system this year. Since I’m generally unlucky regarding random prizes, and since I was absolutely determined to attempt my first hundred this year, I let my husband, Johnny, convince me to register for Old Dominion instead. With Laurel Highlands 70.5 under my belt, I could mostly wrap my head around the distance, and the 14,000 feet of elevation gain didn’t scare me. But a 28-hour cutoff? Was that even possible for me? And what about crew? It would also be Johnny’s first hundred, so not only would we be without each other during the race, we might kill each other in the weeks leading up to it. This was not a wise idea.

On June 1, 2019, shortly before 4 a.m., I hugged my husband and forced back tears when I realized I wouldn’t see him until the following day. My brother Mike and sister-in-law Cyndi would be waiting at every possible aid station, but I worried about their patience and sanity. It may have been my first time running this far, but it was their first time crewing.

A prayer was said and we were released into the wild. Seventy-eight headlamps bobbed up and down around the track of the Shenandoah County Fairgrounds at four o’clock in the morning while the Chariots of Fire song played through the speakers. Laughing at these five minutes of frivolity compared with the long and daunting task that awaited me, I waved to my brother and settled in for a long day. Within the first mile, I began to feel the stress and buildup of the past few weeks falling away. The time for worrying was over; I just had to move forward and take care of myself through two sunrises.

Checking in with Henry before the start.

24 hours earlier

I’m up at 4 a.m. as usual, only instead of getting dressed to run, I’m wandering from room to room; picking things up and putting them down; and attempting to pack and organize a suitcase, a cooler, a giant tote bag, and a large plastic tub. There are cartons of coconut water, an entire jar of bread and butter pickles, and an orange Jell-o fruit thing. Candied ginger, trail mix, and stinky jalapeno pretzel pieces. Mini Ritz Bits, peanut butter Toast Chee, Skittles, and Starburst. GUs, chews, and a bottle of Tylenol. Five pairs of running shoes, three kinds of bug spray, a tangle of charging cables. Oh, might as well throw in a few more bras and the novel I’m reading. The coffee pot! DO NOT forget the coffee pot!! Five hours and a grocery store stop later, we finally squeeze into our overstuffed car, bound for Woodstock, Virginia.

24 hours later

The early miles and easy small talk were behind us, and we were becoming more spread out. Observing the few folks around me, I noticed a guy wearing shorts and a t-shirt, a simple hydration pack, and no watch. How I envied him for a moment. I wanted to be free of all this STUFF. I felt ridiculous with my hat and sunglasses and bright orange ice bandana, my giant Garmin, my vest threatening to burst with unnecessary things. I felt gluttonous and spoiled thinking about all the junk I had crammed into every possible space and now expected to have at my disposal.

But the day was heating up, not every aid station was fully stocked, and I heard those words in my head: “It’s you against the course against the clock.” With a personal cutoff of 50 miles in under twelve hours, I needed all the help I could get. Okay, so I didn’t intend to stop and read my book, and I never touched the Jell-o, but my preparedness was not completely unfounded. And my crew was indispensable. There are two things you just can’t put in a drop bag: one is the sight of familiar faces shouting encouragement and recording unflattering video from the top of a hill as you shuffle your way up. The other is ice.

Still, despite the convenience store’s worth of supplies that were waiting for me wherever Mike and Cyndi were, I wasn’t immune to heat and hopelessness. I hit my first low point during muddy Duncan Hollow. The flies were buzzing, the sun was beating, and the climb went on forever. A hint of a headache was creeping in, and my ice had melted miles ago. I popped some Tylenol and pushed away thoughts of quitting, although I would later curse myself for not accepting a bottle of Gatorade (yes, they were handing out entire bottles!) at the Peach Orchard aid station. If my headache reached migraine status, I would be shut down.

I made it to Crisman Hollow just in time. And they had ice! I checked in, weighed in, refilled, and emerged back onto shaded gravel road. By the time I was reunited with my crew, I had overcome the headache and renewed my confidence. I switched shoes while balancing on one foot and politely refusing the offer of a chair (were they trying to sabotage me?!), and left Four Points #2 feeling brand new.

Happy to see my crew at Four Points.

Reaching the halfway point of a race can go in various psychological directions. In an out-and-back, the turnaround can evoke a positive feeling of “going home.” On a multiple loop course, mileage is emphasized less than number of loops remaining, which is often easier to grasp. When I power walked my way across the sprawling orange “50” chalked across the road at Old Dominion, my thoughts briefly swerved into dark and dangerous territory. I had to do that many miles all over again?? But then I noticed that I had made it to the reverse side of my handy cheat sheet and could “see” the finish, even if it was just a word on a sweaty, laminated piece of paper stuffed into my pocket. The rest of the race suddenly seemed tangible again.

My second low happened somewhere between Edinburg Gap and Little Fort. Maybe it was the time of day or my expanding blisters and ruined quads. It could’ve been the awkward leap-frogging and subsequent forced conversations I found myself in when the introvert in me (which is all of me) was desperate to be alone in the dark. Of course, I knew what lay ahead.

Six weeks earlier

“What do you think? Should we turn back?” I am paralyzed. There is no way I can keep going on this trail, which moments ago merely ran parallel to the swiftly moving, boulder-filled stream to our left, and had now BECOME the swiftly moving, boulder-filled stream. No one had mentioned this in any of the race reports we read. But to turn back would mean climbing and descending Veach and Sherman in reverse, which would mean another, oh, four and a half hours out here. Nope. “Let’s keep going. I’ll just have to use my hands.”

This is our idea of a day trip. A 22-mile training loop that encompasses the notoriously difficult section between Elizabeth Furnace and Veach West (roughly miles 75 to 86 of the race), plus Mudhole Gap and a few road sections. We are aware that our legs are fresh and the sun is up and we are not depleted from having run all day. We know these miles will be exponentially harder during the race. I’m overwhelmed and intimidated.

Nearly seven hours after starting our adventure, we’ve finally circled back to Elizabeth Furnace, where we collapse into the car. I devour a bagel sandwich and seriously consider withdrawing from the race.

Before we knew what we were getting ourselves into.

Six weeks later

They say ignorance is bliss. They’re right. Sherman and Veach, Sherman and Veach… the names kept looping through my head, taunting me like this was some cruel childhood game. Knowing what was coming was unbearable. I couldn’t do it this time. I also knew no one would let me quit just because I didn’t “feel like it.”

Shortly after 10 p.m., I rolled into Elizabeth Furnace, downed a few swigs of black coffee, slurped some chicken noodle soup (with a bonus potato at the bottom), gave my legs a quick turn with The Stick, and was promptly nudged out of the aid station to the comforting sound of claps and cheers. I had easily beaten the clock up to this point, now it was time to conquer the course.

I felt like Frodo and Sam trying to get into Mordor. For every few steps I stumbled up the mountain, there seemed to be an opposing force pushing against me. I stopped several times to hold onto a tree and wait for my pounding heart to calm down. Every time I looked ahead to find the next orange glow stick, it seemed I was looking at the sky until finally, FINALLY the ground levelled out. I wanted to cry.

I tiptoed down the other side, kicking rocks with every step. Lightning flashed in the distance, and moths flocked to my headlamp. The bandana that previously held ice was now a mask to keep them from fluttering into my nose and ears. This was hell.

And then my feet touched asphalt. I was halfway through the hardest part of the entire race. When I saw the blue Christmas lights and heard the animated conversation, I wondered if I was hallucinating. Did I smell grilled meat? I had reached the oasis of aid stations. A Coke and a hotdog were all I needed to lift my spirits. I could do this. I would do this. I could feel the finish line. (Man, it’s amazing what a hit of sodium will do to improve things.) The bandana that previously served as a moth mask was now being used to wipe hotdog grease from my face and hands.

After more tiptoeing and cursing up and over the mountain, I was elated to find that the raging river of our training run was just a regular stream again. I cruised into the Veach West aid station, where I was greeted with bacon and coffee. And most importantly, no more trails! My family updated me on Johnny’s progress: although chafed and grumpy, he was doing well and was on track to finish under 24 hours. Yessss! I swapped my shoes one last time, still while balancing on one foot, no chair for me thankyouverymuch. I grabbed a cold pierogi for the road and set out for the final hilly-but-runnable chunk of Old Dominion.

Alone with my thoughts in the hours just before dawn, I listened to the frogs and the incessant song of the whippoorwill. My favorite time of day had arrived once again since I had started this journey, and I was still out there, moving forward. I hadn’t slept or sat down in over 24 hours, and my feet and quads were on fire, but the promise of another sunrise would keep me going. I wanted so badly to fly down Woodstock Tower Road, but my body wouldn’t let me, and I could manage no more than a few running steps at a time. It didn’t matter though; I would get there under 28 hours even if I strolled the rest of the way.

I heard my husband before I saw him. It was the sound of my name, slightly slurred and with the accent on the second syllable, his signature catcall for me during a race. I smiled when I saw him, but oh, how I wanted to stop there. I whined briefly, tossed him my headlamp, and marched on. Three more little miles through town, and I would be finished.

Back around the track, but this time there was no music and no other runners. Mike and Johnny watched quietly while Cyndi somehow had enough energy left to call out a “Go, Bets!” every few seconds. A man recorded my time as I shuffled underneath the banner, and a handful of onlookers cheered from the bleachers. It took me nearly 27 hours to get there, but it was over way too soon.

We hobbled to the parking lot (well, two of us hobbled, the other two just walked) and celebrated for about five minutes before my sleep-deprived brother and sister-in-law got on whichever road was the most direct route to Starbucks. Back at our hotel, I showered, briefly examined the blisters that had formed on almost every toe, and spent about half an hour struggling through the act of getting dressed before it was time for the post-race banquet.

A cool breeze swirled through the open hall, rustling the fresh flowers arranged on every table. Those of us who had only recently crossed the finish line enjoyed the luxury of our chairs and rested our heads on the tables while others had obviously finished early enough to get in a decent nap. We indulged in bacon, eggs, sausage gravy, biscuits, fruit, bagels, and every pancake topping imaginable before Ray and his wife and co-director, Wynne Botts Waldron, along with race founder, Pat Botts, began the awards ceremony.

Every finisher was given the chance to share his or her experience, and the sub-24 hour runners were presented with their buckles. I was too tired and unprepared to muster up more than a single sentence about Old Dominion being my and Johnny’s first hundred, and how glad I was that we had chosen this one. Oh, but the words would come later. At that moment, I was simply happy for this extension of the celebration before we all went our separate ways.

It’s been a month, and Johnny and I are still finding new things Old Dominion-related to talk about. We’ve posted repeatedly on social media and were interviewed on a podcast. We’re still answering questions from friends and family who are in disbelief that we took on such a feat. Why was our experience so magical? Was it simply because it was our first and we shared it together? That’s a huge part of it, but I know it’s mostly the race itself. We chose a well-organized, old-school, low-key, challenging event, and while we’ll never recreate our 2019 Old Dominion journey, we are already planning to return and conquer the clock and the course once again.

A classic Old Dominion view. Photo by Karsten Brown.