Courage Over Comfort: Part 3
Cayuga Trails 50
Cresting the hill, I was thrilled to hit flat ground again. A runner bobbed ahead of me in the distance, my new pacer. I locked my eyes on his back, determined to keep up. The urgent need for a bathroom break made me even happier to know the aid station was just ahead.
Through the trees, I caught glimpses of the inflatable arch and heard the sweet sounds of music and voices. Ten miles down. Three more loops to go.
As I made the left turn into the aid station, a perfect line of porta-potties greeted me. Talk about timing. I ducked in before refueling—what a setup.
I hurried to the aid station where volunteers topped off my empty flasks while I grabbed a handful of potato chips, eating as I stuffed more gels from my drop bag into my running vest. No time to linger, I had a cutoff time to beat.
Back on the trail, I headed in a new direction for the 15 mile Buttermilk Falls loop. This section promised creek crossings, stone steps, and tremendous views. One question nagged at me: how deep would the water be? Knee-deep? Waist-deep? Whatever awaited, I would focus on the other side and charge through without hesitation.
The trail started flat with some downhill relief before punching skyward again. Back to hiking I went, hands on thighs, repeating my mantras: Be brave and believe. Courage over comfort.
Silence enveloped me as I climbed. No runners ahead or behind—just me and the forest. I took a deep breath of the crisp air, finding peace in the solitude. At the top, I started running again, hoping to catch up to someone.
Train tracks appeared ahead, triggering memories of the JFK 50 miler when a train thundered past, horn blaring. Relief washed over me as I crossed the tracks in silence; all I could hear was my breath.
When will the creek show up? Just as that thought formed, I spotted the water. Two runners stood frozen at the bank, staring at the current like deer in headlights.
“Let's go for it!” I called, splashing into the ice-cold creek.
The shock felt amazing on my throbbing left foot. The current tugged hard, forcing me to windmill my arms for balance as I fought across. Only then did I notice the photographer capturing our adventure. I laughed, imagining how comical I must look as the other runners finally followed behind me.
We hauled ourselves up the muddy bank, sneakers squelching with each step, laughing as we continued through the fields. This section was a mud pit—I dreaded seeing it again on the return loop when dozens more runners would make their way through.
Thankfully, the race director had laid boards over the worst sections. I ran from board to board as they tipped and wobbled under my weight, ankles sliding as I picked up pace just to escape this challenging stretch.
Despite my left foot's protests and the blisters I could feel forming from the creek crossing, I felt strong. Then I shifted focus to the names tucked in my running vest—people touched by cancer, some fighting treatment right now.
What I was experiencing was nothing compared to their battle. I needed to run hard for them.
Get to the next aid station. Get to the next aid station.
Two miles ahead lay my target. I began planning my refuel: bottles topped off, grab a potato and banana, get back on course. Simple. Efficient.
I kept my eyes forward, relieved to see volunteers ushering me into the aid station. They had a feast waiting.
“Water or electrolytes?” a volunteer asked.
“Electrolytes, please.”
I held out my empty flask as he filled it, then grabbed the second for a top-off. Runners crowded the tables, helping themselves to the spread. I snagged a potato and banana as the smell of bacon wafted through the air and cheers carried us back onto the trail.
I pushed my discomfort aside, devouring the potato first, then the banana, fueling up for what lay ahead. I was approaching one of the course's most challenging sections (in my opinion), Buttermilk Falls and its infamous stone steps. Several runners appeared ahead, perfect. I ran until I reached the steps, then began my ascent alongside another runner. The company for the climb felt like a gift.
“Have you run this before?” he asked between breaths.
“No, have you?”
“I have, but didn't make it the entire way. I've come back to finish what I started.”
“Good for you.”
He smiled as we continued climbing. I glanced left to admire the view—the roaring waterfall was tremendous, a reminder of nature's power and my own small place within it.
To be continued...
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to share with a friend,
Julie
(Author's Note: I've started using Grammarly to edit my writing, which helps me communicate more clearly and create a better reading experience for you.)
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Julie B. Hughes, you are a true champion. In strength and Spirit. I smiled as I remembered Neil Young’s classic “Long May You Run.”
Convenience beckons
But choose the road less traveled
A "life worth breathing"
Jules, the photo of you crossing the creek is priceless. Frolicking in nature. You pay true homage to the indigenous people on whose land we "moderns" desecrate 24/7/365. Will we ever wake up from our "Sleep of Convenience" in time? Thanks for leading the way Jules. May your life continue to be your compelling message: Courage Over Convenience.