Laufen den Ring
I always come home from my limited experiences in the Massanuttens feeling like I have Seen Some Shit. Feeling disconnected and detached from reality. PTSD'esque, I suppose. Who are all these people? What am I doing here in Target when there's something greater out there? Why would anyone voluntarily choose to waste their time and energy attempting to run along the absurdly rocky trails that scatter the ridge lines? Why do I find myself wanting to go back and run some more?
My first experience was in April while Betsy and I were training for Old Dominion. We had read just about all we could read about the 100 miler and we knew we had to experience some of the trails firsthand. We knew about Sherman and Veach and we knew that it would be the most challenging 11 miles of the race. The majority of our training run that morning, climbing and descending the mountain, was spent laughing at the ludicrous rocks that laid out in front of us. We didn't know if we would have the tenacity a few weeks later to get up and over this bitch twice after running 75 glorious road miles beforehand.
But we did it. June 1st. Well, I guess technically it was June 1st and 2nd. Betsy wrote about it. It was hard, man. My friend, Jon, walked with me during that stretch. I think he was surprised with how gnarly the trails were himself. It was dark and we were kicking rocks. Looking up and seeing only a trail of glow sticks ascending into the skies of Sherman Gap. What in the hell are we doing here? We hobbled down the other side. Jon had cell reception and was texting Jeremy, who was waiting, very patiently, at the Veach Gap trailhead. "Do you think Jeremy would come pick us up?"
He did not. We made it up and over again. 11 miles took us 4 hours. I was certain that Jon was never going to talk to me again. My feet were a mess. I had a blister that covered my entire pinky toe, nail and all. I had torn the calluses from the pads of my feet. Toenails became a distant memory. I wasn't going to run these trails again.
Just kidding! Why not try a 71 mile circuit run of the Massanutten Mountain Trail? I texted Jon and told him I wanted to give it a shot. He replied with a gif, a "that's insane," and a "good luck lol."
I know plenty of guys who have done it and I know it's well supported by the VHTRC. They say it's a fat-ass race, but there are plenty of aid stations. Get your head straight and accept that it's going to be slow-going. Stay hydrated and keep the calories going and you'll be fine.
I'm a few minutes into the run Labor Day Weekend and Dan Hawk catches up with me. He has completed The Ring twice before and once in reverse. We agree to stick together and it calms my nerves a bit. We make plans and assure one another that it's nothing personal if we get snippy later on. He says he's a different person when he gets tired, but I don't believe it. I warn him that he's going to see an entirely different side of me if a horsefly decides to harass me.
We haven't hit the first aid station at mile 13 yet. There are rocks everywhere. We have been climbing the entire time. I'm already sick of carrying all of this fucking water in this fucking vest on my fucking back. I continually apologize to Dan for my language. There are rocks everywhere. Each section is bullshit. Occasionally we're able to open up and run for a few steps but these are few and far between. There are rocks everywhere.
3 hours and 39 minutes to go 13.2 miles. The volunteers that hiked in the fluids at Milford Gap are extraordinary. We are told that we're moving well and that this is a good pace. I refill all of my water things while Dan eats anything and everything in front of him. Seriously, that boy can eat.
Every section of The Ring is terrible. I don't have a firsthand account (spoiler alert), but here's what I hear:
"I just want to make it to Camp Roosevelt. The first 25 miles is the hardest."
"Duncan Hollow doesn't ever not suck."
"Waterfall."
"You think the rocks are bad? All of the rocks are over there!"
"Kerns is the worst."
"Signal Knob sucks!"
At Camp Roosevelt, 25 miles, 7 hours and 13 minutes. Betsy is there and she fills my water things. I suck down a LaCroix and let her know that a DNF is a distinct possibility today. I am hot, I am chafing, I am sick of carrying all of this fucking water in this fucking vest on my fucking back. Dan is eating again and has 4 pieces of watermelon in his hands. He has spent the last hour and a half on an app on his phone learning German. I am a cussing sweating mess - tripping and stumbling in between these rocks - and Dan is bone-dry, head in his phone, motoring along. A triumphant trumpet signals when he has completed a lesson. I don't know how this guy does it. I meet a couple of VHTRC folks and the harassment they provide is both degrading and encouraging. My spirits are momentarily lifted and I trot out of there.
Duncan Hollow. I know Duncan Hollow from Old Dominion. Duncan Hollow should be runnable. It's like, the least rocky section that I've encountered so far. I am shot, though. It is hot and it is exposed. The sun is beating down on my stupid black hydration vest and my black Faster Bastards shirt. Dan is feeling good and I tell him not to hold back on account of my suffering. He asks if I want some encouragement and a push to keep going after I tell him that I'm considering dropping. I'm not quite sure how to answer that and he takes off ahead of me, catching up with another runner.
After the slow burn up Duncan Hollow, I start down the crease towards the infamous Waterfall. As soon as I think I've reached the lowest point in the descent, there's still more to go. The real shit-kicking part is that this would be a great section to run if I wasn't completely depleted. Gorgeous single track leads you through damp, moss covered rocks and winds along ridges next to large drop-offs.
You know when you reach Waterfall, trust me. I wish I would have taken a minute to take a picture - maybe then it would have spared me. Looking up at this climb it looks manageable though. Steep, sure - but it's not that long. I wasn't intimidated by this bitch. Just a blip on the map as far as I'm concerned. I see the top, get to the top, the top is a turn. I see the top, get to the top, the top is a turn. Holy fucking shit. There are pebbles in my shoes and my back hurts. I stop, hold onto a tree and hope my chest doesn't burst. My head is beating in sync with my heart. I make it to the top and eventually drop at the next aid station - 34.3 miles, 10 hours 37 minutes.
I didn't quit immediately when I got there, but it didn't take long. My hips were cramping as I sat to get the pebbles out of my shoes. Then my calves would suck themselves in towards my shins. It felt absolutely incredible to get out of my wet shirt and to get that fucking vest off of my fucking back.
A guy at the aid station asked if I wanted shot of bourbon. "No thanks, I got a couple of Rocks* in the cooler." If that doesn't seem like an appropriate end, I don't know what does.
Dan Hawk went on to finish his 3rd Ring in 25 hours.
My first experience was in April while Betsy and I were training for Old Dominion. We had read just about all we could read about the 100 miler and we knew we had to experience some of the trails firsthand. We knew about Sherman and Veach and we knew that it would be the most challenging 11 miles of the race. The majority of our training run that morning, climbing and descending the mountain, was spent laughing at the ludicrous rocks that laid out in front of us. We didn't know if we would have the tenacity a few weeks later to get up and over this bitch twice after running 75 glorious road miles beforehand.
But we did it. June 1st. Well, I guess technically it was June 1st and 2nd. Betsy wrote about it. It was hard, man. My friend, Jon, walked with me during that stretch. I think he was surprised with how gnarly the trails were himself. It was dark and we were kicking rocks. Looking up and seeing only a trail of glow sticks ascending into the skies of Sherman Gap. What in the hell are we doing here? We hobbled down the other side. Jon had cell reception and was texting Jeremy, who was waiting, very patiently, at the Veach Gap trailhead. "Do you think Jeremy would come pick us up?"
He did not. We made it up and over again. 11 miles took us 4 hours. I was certain that Jon was never going to talk to me again. My feet were a mess. I had a blister that covered my entire pinky toe, nail and all. I had torn the calluses from the pads of my feet. Toenails became a distant memory. I wasn't going to run these trails again.
Just kidding! Why not try a 71 mile circuit run of the Massanutten Mountain Trail? I texted Jon and told him I wanted to give it a shot. He replied with a gif, a "that's insane," and a "good luck lol."
I know plenty of guys who have done it and I know it's well supported by the VHTRC. They say it's a fat-ass race, but there are plenty of aid stations. Get your head straight and accept that it's going to be slow-going. Stay hydrated and keep the calories going and you'll be fine.
I'm a few minutes into the run Labor Day Weekend and Dan Hawk catches up with me. He has completed The Ring twice before and once in reverse. We agree to stick together and it calms my nerves a bit. We make plans and assure one another that it's nothing personal if we get snippy later on. He says he's a different person when he gets tired, but I don't believe it. I warn him that he's going to see an entirely different side of me if a horsefly decides to harass me.
We haven't hit the first aid station at mile 13 yet. There are rocks everywhere. We have been climbing the entire time. I'm already sick of carrying all of this fucking water in this fucking vest on my fucking back. I continually apologize to Dan for my language. There are rocks everywhere. Each section is bullshit. Occasionally we're able to open up and run for a few steps but these are few and far between. There are rocks everywhere.
3 hours and 39 minutes to go 13.2 miles. The volunteers that hiked in the fluids at Milford Gap are extraordinary. We are told that we're moving well and that this is a good pace. I refill all of my water things while Dan eats anything and everything in front of him. Seriously, that boy can eat.
Every section of The Ring is terrible. I don't have a firsthand account (spoiler alert), but here's what I hear:
"I just want to make it to Camp Roosevelt. The first 25 miles is the hardest."
"Duncan Hollow doesn't ever not suck."
"Waterfall."
"You think the rocks are bad? All of the rocks are over there!"
"Kerns is the worst."
"Signal Knob sucks!"
At Camp Roosevelt, 25 miles, 7 hours and 13 minutes. Betsy is there and she fills my water things. I suck down a LaCroix and let her know that a DNF is a distinct possibility today. I am hot, I am chafing, I am sick of carrying all of this fucking water in this fucking vest on my fucking back. Dan is eating again and has 4 pieces of watermelon in his hands. He has spent the last hour and a half on an app on his phone learning German. I am a cussing sweating mess - tripping and stumbling in between these rocks - and Dan is bone-dry, head in his phone, motoring along. A triumphant trumpet signals when he has completed a lesson. I don't know how this guy does it. I meet a couple of VHTRC folks and the harassment they provide is both degrading and encouraging. My spirits are momentarily lifted and I trot out of there.
Duncan Hollow. I know Duncan Hollow from Old Dominion. Duncan Hollow should be runnable. It's like, the least rocky section that I've encountered so far. I am shot, though. It is hot and it is exposed. The sun is beating down on my stupid black hydration vest and my black Faster Bastards shirt. Dan is feeling good and I tell him not to hold back on account of my suffering. He asks if I want some encouragement and a push to keep going after I tell him that I'm considering dropping. I'm not quite sure how to answer that and he takes off ahead of me, catching up with another runner.
After the slow burn up Duncan Hollow, I start down the crease towards the infamous Waterfall. As soon as I think I've reached the lowest point in the descent, there's still more to go. The real shit-kicking part is that this would be a great section to run if I wasn't completely depleted. Gorgeous single track leads you through damp, moss covered rocks and winds along ridges next to large drop-offs.
You know when you reach Waterfall, trust me. I wish I would have taken a minute to take a picture - maybe then it would have spared me. Looking up at this climb it looks manageable though. Steep, sure - but it's not that long. I wasn't intimidated by this bitch. Just a blip on the map as far as I'm concerned. I see the top, get to the top, the top is a turn. I see the top, get to the top, the top is a turn. Holy fucking shit. There are pebbles in my shoes and my back hurts. I stop, hold onto a tree and hope my chest doesn't burst. My head is beating in sync with my heart. I make it to the top and eventually drop at the next aid station - 34.3 miles, 10 hours 37 minutes.
I didn't quit immediately when I got there, but it didn't take long. My hips were cramping as I sat to get the pebbles out of my shoes. Then my calves would suck themselves in towards my shins. It felt absolutely incredible to get out of my wet shirt and to get that fucking vest off of my fucking back.
A guy at the aid station asked if I wanted shot of bourbon. "No thanks, I got a couple of Rocks* in the cooler." If that doesn't seem like an appropriate end, I don't know what does.
 |
| *"Rocks" is slang for Rolling Rocks beer. Duh. He knew what I was talking about. |
Dan Hawk went on to finish his 3rd Ring in 25 hours.
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