Bimblers Bluff 50K: Exactly What You Think It Isn’t?

The following race report was sent in by runner Siskanna Naynaha

Greetings to all!

Sorry that it’s been so long since my last communication, but things have been so crazy here (I know, you’re sick of hearing that!). In addition to moving from Glastonbury to West Hartford, Connecticut in the last month, Joaquín started school at a new daycare, James started at a new high school, Mekyael has taken on new work territories in addition to New England (namely, northern New Jersey and all of New York except NYC and Long Island), and I have been enjoying teaching a new—to me—class (Latina/o lit) and designing another for spring (Writing Through Research; basically a course in advanced research and writing, which I am focusing on film as a rhetorical “text”).

This, however, did not seem like nearly enough to manage on its own, so I also decided to run my first marathon AND my first 50K in October. Frankly, I was more interested in the 50K because it’s a trail race (they call them races, though if I am “racing” against anything it’s old age or uselessness or the occasional tedium of academic life), which I MUCH prefer to road racing, but I needed to be able to run a marathon FIRST in order to be sure I could actually finish 50K (32.5 miles). I’m sure the race organizer didn’t mean that those two distances should necessarily be run within 2 weeks of each other, but the racing season was growing short, and who knows what next year will hold for the Camara-Naynahas, so I decided to go for it.

As many of you know from my marathon text messages (it was automated and connected to the timing chip on my shoe; I wasn’t actually stopping to text everyone with my splits!), that run went fine. The first half was pretty fast (for me), in fact, though I was a little nauseous and had to stop multiple times to answer the call of nature in the 2nd half. That slowed me down quite a bit, but I finished without much ado in 4:26:12. I was up and about and basically back to my usual self the next day. Actually, the only real ramification of the race seems to have been a nasty cold that came on about 4 days later and hung on like white on rice for the next 10 days. To be honest, I was just happy that I wasn’t ill before or during the marathon, so I counted my blessings and focused on mentally preparing for the Bluff.

I was feeling my best since the marathon on the big day, the day of the Bimblers Bluff 50K. We had to rise and shine fairly early since the race started in Guilford, CT, about 45 minutes from our new home in West Hartford. Mekyael and I were on the road by 6:15 a.m. He drove while I drank coffee, ate, bandaged my feet, and adjusted my gear. We also stopped at McDonald’s where I got an egg mcmuffin, hash browns, and oj. (Yes, seriously. Before the marathon I ate sooooooo healthily for 2 weeks, and then I just felt like puking for the last 13 miles. I decided this time I was just going to eat and drink whatever I wanted and see just how things went.)

Mekyael and I arrived at the starting line just in time for the pre-race info session, which I kind of heard, in part. I was probably too far from the organizer, aka Mr. Bimble, considering this was my first “Ultra” event along with my first time on the Bluff, but I caught the bit about tape colors—tied to trees at various intervals to mark the trail—which temporarily switched from pink with black stripes to bright orange somewhere around the halfway mark. I also saw the specially designed finishers’ prize (a cool multifunctional tube of fabric called a “Buff”—they’re cool: look it up online). And then it was pretty much time to start.

We went outside into the damp but unexpectedly sunny New England morn (it had rained heavily most of the day and night before), we lined up as much as possible, and at 8:00 a.m. sharp we were off—somewhere around 195 individuals and 22 relay team members (the actual number of entrants)—for our confrontation with the Bluff, billed enigmatically as “exactly what you think it isn’t.”

Being from Idaho, I was expecting a fairly smooth trail run. This IS Connecticut, after all, and the state is mostly flat with rolling hills rising smoothly out if the even terrain every so often. I also expected reasonably well defined trails that had been tamped down to a hard dirt pack by bikers, hikers, runners, dogs, and horses—a la Boise foothills. Instead, the first 2 miles was basically a hodgepodge of ups and downs, stream crossings, boulder scrambling, and jagged rock of mixed sizes covered in a perfectly camouflaging blanket of new-fallen leaves. At the first creek I hopped up onto a big boulder but before I got a chance to hop down to the stream my feet slipped out from under me and I fell on my a@!. While this was all kind of a surprise to me, I was optimistic and just assumed that after a few miles things would mellow out and we’d all be able to start running in earnest.

Then I twisted my right ankle, hard, for the first time. People started to pass me and ask if I was okay, to which I replied, “Yes, yeah!” as I hobbled along, trying to “walk it off.” After a minute or so my ankle was loosening back up, so I started jogging slowly, and soon enough had picked up the pace to something close to what I was running before, though caution—and perhaps a dawning sense of realization—would dictate that I kept myself down to a thoughtful, observant pace for the rest of the race. And so went the next 7-8 miles. I was feeling great when I cruised into the 2nd aid station at 10 miles. I chowed-down some PB&J and bananas while I thought cheerfully about the next 20 miles. “That was practically cake!” I thought. “50K? Bring it on!!” Then I hit the trail again, which immediately started climbing what was labeled, in a fit of morbid humor, no doubt, “The Escalator.”

This climb to the top of the Bluff was a 4-legged scramble the entire way. I, alas, am only equipped with 2 legs, so I spent part of the time scraping my way upward with my hands in the dirt (which DID help eliminate the remnants of my sticky aid-station snackage) and part of the time standing partially erect with both arms pinwheeling backward as my body stubbornly refused to disobey the law of gravity. After having just run 10 miles, it was a real struggle to the top, but once there I was rewarded with the most scenic vista I’ve encountered since my move to the East. There was a picturesque little lake (or big pond) directly below the Bluff, and the old white colonials surrounding it sat placidly surveying their own reflections in the glassy water. The houses themselves were framed by rustic old barns in an array of browns and burgundies, and beyond that stretched miles and miles of New England’s famous autumn foliage in brilliant shades of crimson and gold dotted in between by still-fading greens. I stopped here for a few minutes to take in the scene, during which time the topography and its surreal beauty reminded me of all the amazing blessings in my life. But then, finally, I had to move on.

Imagine my surprise to find that this was not even necessarily the hardest part of the 6-mile stretch between aid stations 2 and 3. Arguably, it was, but then there were 5 ½ more miles of tough climbs interspersed with steep downhills consisting of the aforementioned camouflaged piles of jagged rock. At this point I was running alone for the first time in the race and following the pink and black striped tape rather casually, when I suddenly came upon a pie plate stapled to a tree with an arrow drawn on it in back marker. The arrow pointed improbably straight toward the sky. Opposite the pie-plate bearing tree was a rock face split by a moderately wide cleft in the stone through which a narrow ribbon of water drizzled, a steady token of the previous night’s storm.

I quickly found some good hand holds and hoisted myself up over the ledge of the 6-7 foot outcropping, then looked for pink and black ribbon. I found some and started off again, relieved to find myself moving downhill soon after. Unfortunately, after making a short loop around the rock projection, I found myself staring up at the same damned pie plate with the arrow pointing skyward. “SH*!” I breathed loudly. “No way!”

“Yes way,” was the Bluff’s satisfied reply. I traversed the rock face once more, and this time at the top I stopped to look around for a while so I could locate pink tape that didn’t turn me around in a circle. That was the first and least serious time that I would get lost during the race, and I thought certainly I had learned an important lesson there.

About four miles later another runner finally passed me. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any of my Bluff compatriots since right after the 2nd aid station, so while it always pains me slightly to get passed, I was happy to see another runner and even more pleased to have someone else to navigate the trail for me. Now I could focus my energy on attacking the uphill climbs and keeping my footing. In fact, I was so thrilled that I took off after my cohort in a kind of giddy haze and promptly caught my toe on a particularly bulky rock protuberance and really ate crap for the first time. I still have a neat row of black and blue marks running from my right upper thigh down to my shin, but at the time it didn’t hurt much more than my pride. I caught my breath, pushed myself back up onto my feet, and took off chasing my new running buddy. I wasn’t about to lose her now.

I followed her for the next mile and a half up to aid station 3, just passing her before we hit the highway crossing and shuffled in for some grub at 15.9 miles. Here we snacked substantially, I on boiled potatoes with salt, m&m’s, and bananas (of course). We had three hours to reach the next aid station in order to make the cut-off time of 7 hours at the 22 mile mark, and we agreed that this should be no problem whatsoever. After filling our hydration packs, My New Running Buddy and I started off once again.

Our little party of 2 was destined to part ways soon, however, and despite the fact that she had a bum knee she lost me on the next series of uphill climbs. They had told us at the previous aid station that there were still quite a few people behind us, so I was a little disappointed to lose My New Running Buddy but happy enough to follow the next tough guy who came along. Unfortunately, he happened to pass while I was off in the woods answering the call of nature, followed closely by 2 women who were picking their way cautiously around the flooded out trail. I figured there would be many more coming, so I concentrated on maintaining some momentum and just tried to keep them in sight off in the distance. At this point I was following the faint blue streak of Tough Guy’s t-shirt, which I glimpsed every so often through the foliage and alternating blinding streaks of sunlight cut through by afternoon shadows in the woods. There was also the tape, which had indeed switched to bright orange at halfway, but mostly I stuck by the trees adorned with a swatch of blue paint since the race appeared to have been following this trail marking for quite some miles now. I plodded along, often lost in thought, until I was snapped back to reality by another long uphill climb. I thought the women at the last aid station had said no more steep hills in this section. What the? Then I saw Blue-T-Shirt-Tough-Guy through the trees up above, so I kept on at it, cursing a little under my breath.

Finally, after another ½ mile or so of slogging my way uphill, I crested the long incline and found myself atop a giant stone outcropping that looked down on some more densely wooded forest. There was a blue swatch of paint right in the center of the top boulder, so I started my way confidently down the other side. At this point I encountered a day hiker making her way up the stone ridge (a disconcerting part of the race was to find people walking along leisurely with their Dunkin Donuts coffee cups, looking nonchalantly around at the birds and leaves, having ambled in from nearby parking lots). The hiker was gesturing down the hill and talking at me, so I stopped to see what was up.

“Does this lead back to highway 77?” she asks waving down the hill behind her.

I shrug, “I don’t know. I’ve never been on this trail before. I’m just following markers on the trees until I get to the next race station.”

“Oh,” she says definitively, “well, you’re lost.”

What? I thought. This lady is a kooky-bird!! Who does she think she is? She doesn’t even know where I’m going, so how can she know if I’m lost or not?!

“Oooooookay,” I say patronizingly, about to book my way down the hill anyway.

“No, I’m serious,” she says. “You’re with the other runners, right? Following the pink and black tape?” I nod, suddenly feeling unsure. “Yeah,” she says as she starts on her way back up the hill. “They all turned off way back there.” She points up over the ridge, back in the direction I had just come from, then disappears over the peak.

No. Way. I thought. I started off down the hill in the same direction I had been going for the past ¾ of a mile or so, when it dawned on me that while I had seen other runners off in the distance (or so I thought), it had been a while since I’d seen any orange OR pink and black tape. I stopped for a minute to give the dilemma some thought. Part of me recognized, I think, that it would be a good ways back before I encountered the elusive pink and black tape, and I just didn’t want to have to backtrack that far. After all, I’d already run about 18 miles by then, and, jeez, what a waste of energy! But then again, what if that trail DID lead down to highway 77 (wherever that was)? How much further was that? And then would I even be able to find my way back? I imagined myself attempting to wave down passing motorists, explaining lamely that I was in a 50K trail race and I got lost. While I had wondered absently about my ability to go the distance many times in the weeks leading up to the race, I knew for certain that all hopes of completing the 50K would be dashed by such a detour. Reluctantly, feeling utterly dejected, I turned around.

As I ran down the other side of that long, long hill, I chanted what would become my mantra for the next 16 miles or so and the remainder of the day: “Pink and black; Pink and black; Pink and black.” There it was, just as I had feared and expected, almost a mile in the opposite direction from the one I had been running for far too long. I got back on the trail, determined that I would NOT lose it again. I had to stop a handful of times to meander around a bit looking for the next strip of dangling pink and black. Eventually I would find the trail and move on. My little tangential adventure and subsequent prudence cost me precious time, and I tottered into the next aid station with barely a 20 minute cushion before the cut off time—7 hours. Before the race, I thought that I would surely have made this distance in 5 or 6 hours, tops!!

The kind souls at aid station 4 admired my fingernails (freshly painted in festive Halloween designs), joked with me about falling down, and filled and reattached my water bottles while I ate more potatoes and bananas, plus m&m’s (this last turned out to be a mistake at this juncture in the race). They also packed me a baggie full of pretzels to go, and once again I was off.

To be honest, when I was approaching that 4th aid station I began to wonder if I would make it all the way. If I got lost like that again my timing was going to cut it close. And I was getting tired. I decided to push on with a nagging apprehension at the back of my mind. Soon it didn’t matter, though, because it was 8 miles out to the next aid station, with nothing but woods in between. That meant that after a few more miles I was basically committed to finishing the race, since it was only 2.5 from aid station 5 to the finish. At that moment I surprised a white-tailed deer, a doe, which was foraging on the trail. She leapt off to the side a few yards and stood watching sideways, carefully scrutinizing me. I murmured some assurance that I meant her no harm and tried to keep up my pace.

Some miles later I stepped off the trail a ways to once again answer the call of nature. In hindsight, why I insisted on removing myself so far from the marked path is a mystery to me. I hadn’t seen anyone since Blue-T-Shirt-Tough-Guy way back by aid station 3, so who was I hiding my hiney from anyway? Well, my gratuitous modesty cost me in the end, so to speak. I ambled my way back onto the trail, apparently several crucial yards beyond a well marked bend in the race course, and, following some ancient pink tape (withOUT black stripes) from some race or logging expedition of yesteryear, I once again ran well off the designated Bimblers Bluff route.

THIS time I was running downhill, which is perhaps why I deceived myself into believing that these sad little shreds of tape, tape the color of faded pink carnations, must surely mark the direction n which I was supposed to be travelling. Until, eventually, I ran into a steel gate that blocked access from a road, across which I spotted a sleepy suburban subdivision, and no race volunteers nor aid tent whatsoever.

I was fuming. Aaaaargh!!! I turned and started running back up the long, long hill, huffing and cussing the entire way. I had lost vital time that I needed to make up for now.

Another ¾ of a mile or so back I found the painfully obvious markers where the trail veered off the old logging road I’d been running on. In the now perceptibly fading light, I trundled along, knowing that I was a good 4 miles or so from water (I was out already), from nourishment, and probably from any human company to reassure me.

Unfortunately, it was probably only another couple of miles before I was lost yet again. This time, however, I was chanting my mantra (“pink and black pink and black pink and black!”), and when I lost the trail I immediately circled back to the last legitimate strand of tape. It was probably in part out of extreme caution—since I had already added a couple of extraneous miles to my first 50K—and in part out of dread since the last thing I wanted to do was get lost in the unfamiliar Connecticut woods . . . in the dark.

I wandered around in a big circle for 15 minutes, roaming back again and again to that last precious bit of pink and black tape, but I could not find the next marker! I called out into the woods a few times: “Hello! Hello?” because I wasn’t sure at this point, after wandering so far off course 2 times, how far I was from the next aid station—1 mile? 3 miles? Was there anyone behind me who would come along and help me get back on track? I hadn’t seen anyone for-EVER! I was truly about to give up and just sit down under that damned piece of tape until someone came looking for me, when I decided that I would follow some tramped down leaves a little further around a bend than I had gone so far. I started off again thinking, If it’s not there, that’s it. And then there it was. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Now I just had to worry about how far I was from the next aid station. The light was ever fading, and I was thirsty.

About another mile on I heard the familiar clanging of a cow bell (a few volunteers had been ringing these loudly at the starting line along with a couple of the aid stations). I happily loped toward the sound of the bell and a sweet, sweet soul who told me I was only a mile from the fifth and final aid station. That meant I was just 3.5 from the finish. I didn’t know if I was going to make the cutoff at this point after all my aimless wandering around. I had lost valuable time at that last diversion. But at least I wasn’t going to get lost in woods in the dark. Sweet Guy with the Cow Bell actually guided me into the last aid station after calling Mr. Bimble on his cellie to let him know I wasn’t dead, seriously injured, or completely and hopelessly lost.

At the final, blessed aid station was a motley crew of guys who were all pleasantly happy to see me. (I had apparently started to worry more than just my little old self.) “Am I the last one?” I asked.

“Yeah, but just finishing a 50K is a real accomplishment!” one of the Crew tried to console me.

“Damn it!” I said. “I didn’t want to be the last one!!”

Now it was on, as far as I was concerned. I had to finish, and do it strong. They offered me food, which I couldn’t stomach at this point in the race, and refilled my water bottles while we all debated the likelihood of my making it to the finish in the final cut-off time (10 hours from the beginning of the race)—I had 30 minutes left—and the necessity of borrowing a headlamp from one of the Crew in order to navigate the final 2.5 (even in the given time, it would likely be dark by the time I crossed the finishline). They decided the mini-flashlight I had stashed in my hydro-belt would suffice, and told me to run like hell to the end.

So I did. Mind you, at that point I knew that I would finish, but the big question remained: Would I get lost in the Connecticut woods in the dark? My answer to myself was a resounding, “Oh, hayell no!”

That last little stretch had to be close to my fastest 2.5 of the entire 50K. A few times I had to slow and look around in the dusk while I chanted, literally out loud, “Pink and black, pink and black!! Where are you, Pink and black?!” But within a few seconds I had gained the trail again and took off like the proverbial bat out of you-know-where.

I was running along at a pretty good clip when all of the sudden I came across a guy just standing there on the trail in the growing shadows. I assumed it was a volunteer waiting for me until he asked solemnly, looking up at the graying sky that still peeked through the tree cover overhead, “So, do you know the way?” I thought this very strange since he seemed to be staring right at a tape marker hanging from the tree directly in front of him.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, “I see 2 pieces of pink and black tape right here so it must be this way!” I ran on, admittedly buoyed to an immoderate degree by the fact that I was no longer in last place. I jubilantly bounded up the hillside facing my most recent encounter, but then it dawned on me, that guy could actually be in trouble.

I stopped and called back: “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just got a few cramps,” he answered.

I wasn’t sure exactly how far it was, but I knew I was close enough to the finish to send someone quickly if he didn’t follow. I contemplated going back and giving him my flashlight because I hadn’t seen one on him, but then I remembered all of the time I had already spent lost out there myself. “There’s more tape up here!” I called down. “Come up this way!” I didn’t know if he followed or not, but I ran on over the crest of the hill.

Just a few minutes later I almost crashed into Mr. Bimble as he ran out of the shadows to my left and popped up on the trail in front of me. “This way!” he said, and after a second, “your husband’s waiting for you!”

“I bet he is!” I called out. I told him there was one more guy behind me who said he was experiencing some cramps. Jerry assured me that he’d go back for him. I followed Mr. Bimble for a minute until he pointed me up one final long, upward slope. Just right up there, he told me, was the end. He turned to go back for my last remaining compatriot out on the Bluff, and let me go on alone. As I crested the hill, a small crowd of volunteers, including most of the Motley Crew from aid station #5, and my husband and baby all stood whooping and hollering and clanging their cow bells like crazy. I couldn’t help grinning like a maniac of the highest order. I ran into the finishers’ chute while Joaquín screamed ecstatically, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” His dad put him down and he ran through the finishers’ chute after me where I picked him up and held him tight with such satisfaction, I can’t even really describe it. It was truly a brilliant moment in a life that’s been blessedly full.

We were there a few minutes later when the final finisher came down the hill, my husband clanging his cow bell like crazy once more. We were numbers 68 and 69 out of 69 finishers, some 126 less than had actually entered to run the Bluff individually.

I hobbled around the house like a decrepit old woman for 3 days afterward, and I slept like a stone from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. for as many nights, but now, a week later, I don’t feel any worse for the wear. In fact, I feel better, with this sense of accomplishment that makes me smile at the little everyday problems that often consume my thoughts and energy. I went out for an easy 3 miles yesterday, and as I ran I pondered the next challenge I’ll take on. New York ’09, for sure. Maybe Boston before that, if I can speed up a bit this year. And I have to check the Ultra calendar for next year. A 50-miler—maybe a full hunny?—doesn’t seem out of the question at all . . .

Here’s a link if you’d like to look at some photos of the race day festivities.

http://www.chrisrenda.com/proof_albums/Bimblers%20Bluff%2050K/proofs.html

In case this interminable email isn’t proof enough that I ran it, you can find me in photos #30, 210, and 211.

What more can I say? Except ramble on, folks, ramble on.