Ginger Soup for the Soul: a Story of Redemption at the C&O Canal 100
It was happening. I couldn’t stop it. I’m pretty sure I was yelling nooooooo as all eyes turned toward me and heads shook with disappointment and pity and the music came to a halt, all in slow motion. I was about to sit in a chair at mile 75 of the C&O Canal 100.
I’ve always been wary of The Chair, afraid my muscles will suddenly cease to function and that I’ll succumb to the “pleasure” that’s really just the ending of pain, and my race will be over. But it couldn’t be helped this time, and I made sure to announce to the volunteers at Antietam that this was a first for me. I only needed two minutes off my aching feet, one of which was experiencing a first of its own: a soon-to-be massive swath of blister on the underside. The other foot had also been a bother from mile one; it was my bunion foot, and it was doing this stretchy-arch-neuroma thing that only happens when I’m not running. Yeah, right.
I sprang up before I could get too comfortable; time to move.
I need something but I’m not sure what.
Countless times I would utter that sentence throughout the day and night, the solution often eluding me, until the only options left were not water and food but mere ideas and promises.
If you finish this thing, you’ll never have to do it again, and you can relax for the rest of the year!
Just one more long run and then you’ll be finished and you can sleep and scratch this off your list.
Ah, yes, fortified by my own bribery.
But why?
Because you have to.
Signing up for C&O 2024 was an obvious decision; it was to be my redemption race after a DNF there in 2023. Last year, I knew by mile 60 that I would not be finishing, but I managed to shuffle nine more miles to Camp Manidokan, where I promptly dropped out. I had the beginnings of a nasty cold and was also greeted by my period during the race. Terrible timing, although was there ever good timing when it came to that?
I had endured decades of pain and discomfort due to endometriosis, adenomyosis, and fibroids, and it was continuing to get worse. I finally scheduled a total laparoscopic hysterectomy for November 2023, so C&O would be my first Really Big race after surgery, proof to myself that healing happens, and a big eff you to the naysayers.
First you have to get there.
Recovery, training, taper all went smoothly. I vowed not to make the same mistakes as last year (like working the day before the race), and joked that no matter what happened, well, I wouldn't have to worry about my period! What else could go wrong?
Race week, nice and easy, lots of extra sleep, Friday off, drop bags, lists, I am ready.
After a restless night spent watching the hours slide away, I brewed my pot of rocket fuel, cooked oatmeal for the road, and tried not to think about the fact that in another 24 hours, I would still be out there with double digit mileage ahead of me.
Nervous butterflies upon arrival, last minute rearranging of supplies, good mornings and good lucks to Jill Young, Charlene Howard, the Johns Hord and Calabrese, and race director Lance Dockery, gloves and jacket, one more kiss and hug from Johnny, be careful out there, around the field, down the one hill, and an exhale. Now flat towpath for 40 miles.
I felt strong and confident even as other runners dashed past me and stayed ahead for hours. My five minute run, five minute walk, as dictated by my Gym Boss vibrating reliably on my wrist, worked well for me. I also had enough gels, bars, and chews to last me at least 30 miles even without aid stations.
But the aid stations!
I was experiencing their offerings as if new to ultrarunning again. By the time I left Dargan Bend, I had already sampled a peanut butter-and-banana sandwich, potatoes with salt (but griddled like in a diner!), and a generous hunk of chocolate chip banana bread, on top of three Huma gels, plus Coke.
This is what you paid for, enjoy it!
Long stretch to Keep Tryst. Past the port-a-pot, around the bend, weaving through the confused Harpers Ferry tourists, rushing river to the right.
Now cold rain.
The poncho buried in my vest would have stayed there, but I spied John Calabrese and his friend ahead, both encased in clear flapping plastic. All it took was hearing this could last for hours before I unearthed my own —it has sleeves!— and shimmied my way into it.
This feels really nice. Whole new world. Game-changer. Oh, here comes my husband!
I knew Johnny was having a rough day as soon as I saw him. He had mentioned his foot hurting earlier, but the weather was calling the shots now. I didn’t have a good feeling.
Turnaround at Brunswick, dutifully replacing gels, navigating through the dripping folds of poncho plastic, still laughing about the rain.
By mile 29, I had consumed a hummus wrap and half a grilled cheese, plus orange slices, peanut butter pretzels, and some pickles.
So many options!
Back to Keep Tryst and the rain had not let up. It was becoming not-fun now. When I recall Adeline Ntam handing me a cup of ginger soup, and Dave Kadis taking my picture, all I see is nighttime, rain pouring off our ponchos in sheets, runners and volunteers shouting to be heard over the deluge. It wasn’t like that at all. Raining, yes. Dreary and grey. A bit of commotion you would expect at any aid station along the course of a 100 miler. But my mind cannot let go of that image of darkness and chaos. Perhaps some part of me already knew things were going to get bad. Or maybe that hot ginger soup was simply a magical elixir, a chalice of hope, causing everything around it to momentarily dim.
Long stretch to the cone, more bewildered Harpers Ferry hikers, rushing river to my left, rain gone, grappling with the poncho, up the one hill, first time.
Oh look, there’s my husband.
I wasn’t surprised to see he had dropped, but I wasn’t prepared either. We hadn’t discussed a plan for one of us to DNF, and of course I immediately had thoughts of cutting my own race short. I asked him if he would be okay with my continuing on, and he said you have to.
After swapping my wet shirt for a long sleeve and ladling peanut M&Ms into my hands and asking for one more reassurance from Johnny about switching into crew mode, I embarked yet again.
Down the one (now slippery) hill, to the towpath, loop two, cattle prod on my wrist, stretchy-arch-neuroma thing, and is that a hotspot on the bottom of my right foot?
Where the hell is Keep Tryst?!
Finally. I was gifted a steaming cup of ginger soup to go. I heard another runner ask do you have the soup? Or was it The Soup? Short stretch to Brunswick. Frogs. Oh look, there’s my husband! We shared a couple of miles, and I stuffed a bag of mini muffins in my pocket.
Just get to 70.
The next nine miles would drag, but I was ready for it this time. I knew if I could just leave Manidokan one more time, that my chances of finishing would increase. Johnny would be sleeping in the car when I arrived, winded, with legs shaking, at the top of the hill, so I would be just a little less tempted to quit. I began reciting brush teeth, wash face, water, GO. Head down, I stuck to the plan. Skittles and a Rice Krispies treat and back down the hill for the last time!
Deterioration began in earnest somewhere between my final right turn onto the towpath and the Antietam aid station. The hotspot was officially a blister that I was choosing to ignore even though every step was a reminder of it. I heard my name in the darkness; it must’ve been Trish Cecil, who was pacing a friend. Oddly, I heard my name a second time moments later but couldn’t figure out who it could be. Did I imagine it? Was I fatigued enough to hallucinate?
Where the hell is Antietam? You only have to see it one more time. Just get there. I can’t.
You have to.
Enter The Chair.
Instant coffee to go.
I just want to sleep. Why can’t I go to sleep? I feel so sick, nothing sounds good. Oh my god I need to get this done. No more food. The blister.
The Gym Boss was now mocking me. I couldn’t maintain five minutes of running at a time, and the thing was weighing down my wrist. At Dargan Bend, I turned it off for the remainder of the race, stowed it out of sight, switched my headlamp battery, and found myself yet again in a chair. I worried I might vomit. The word “broth” was enough to trigger a gag reflex, but the concerned and patient volunteers kept naming foods until I perked up at “pancakes,” and took a bag for the road.
Man in yellow, delirious dialogue, temperature dropping. Gloves again. Two men, leap-frogging, smile every mile, sorry about my grumpy reply. Long stretch to Keep Tryst, Harpers Ferry deserted, endless train drowning out the sound of wild animals (or bad men), pepper spray in hand, rushing river to my right.
What if I get so tired I veer to the side and fall in the Potomac? I just want to sleep. You can sleep tomorrow! But actually it’s 1:30 in the morning, so it’s today! I can’t do this. You have to. The blister. Why am I out here doing this to myself? No more 100s. This is the last one. I feel so sick. Suffering. Why?? But you brought it upon yourself. No more of these. Oh my god I might throw up. Complete hell. I can’t.
You have to.Chair again. Really good coffee. Short stretch to Brunswick. Last turnaround!
After a brief text exchange, Johnny and I found each other again. He walked and shuffled with me for about two miles. Frogs. Mud. But also the first birdsong of the new day. Oh, good morning! I could do this. Just ten more miles. But I still felt nauseous, and ooooh, the blister, so I took the chair one more time.
Rushing river to my left. Mostly empty Harpers Ferry. Bend in the trail, port-a-pot. Can’t run any more. Almost. Almost. Where’s the damn cone?
I texted Johnny: I see the goddamn cone. A man darted past me as I approached the turnoff, smiling and spry as could be. I waved and mumbled something about not being able to make it up the hill. You have to! was his reply.
And so I did.
Author's note: I didn't know who the second woman yelling my name was, but at the time of writing, it dawned on me that it must have been Charlene Howard. I also have since rescinded my vow to never run another 100 miler. And, as with all ultras, I learned a few things, most importantly: stick with the plan even if the smorgasbord of aid station food seems unbearably tempting, and maybe consider addressing a blister of that magnitude before it becomes a real problem. Finally, I recommend C&O for anyone who wants a unique challenge. Just because the course is easy does not mean the race is easy. It will test your mind above all, but the low key, old school vibe, the wonderful volunteers and race directors, and, yes, the aid stations make it a race not to be missed!
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