Get Up This Hill. Part 9

The People Who Carry You: Substack Series

Miles 60-70 with my son Brindsley.

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I cruised past the aid station and spotted my family and crew. Mile 60, farther than I’d ever gone, and all I could think about was the dry shirt Jeff was already holding out for me.

I stripped off my vest and soaking wet shirt, pulled on the fresh shirt, and everyone moved in to restock my fuel and swap my flasks. Bethany pressed a headlamp into my hands. “You might need this heading up the gorge.” I hadn’t even thought about the dark. I was grateful she had, and Brindsley already had his headlamp over his hat. He was ready to pace me.

We got a quick photo and took off. I noticed immediately how slow I was; stopping had cost me momentum, and it took a while to find my rhythm again.

Brindsley ran beside me, raincoat on, vest over it, grinning. “Mom, it’s so green.” He was right. Back home in Syracuse, NY, our trees were still bare. The deep, vibrant green gave me new energy, and having my son beside me made it even better.

A runner came up from behind with his own pacer. “Awesome job, buddy,” he said to Brindsley. Brindsley smiled as he ran right through the mud puddles. He could handle the distance, but he’d been worried about getting a stomachache, especially when he’d spotted Oreos at the aid station.

He told me that after the race, he stood there, debating between Oreos and applesauce. He grabbed the applesauce pouch. “The lame way,” he’d said.

A cyclist rolled up beside us. “This must be an early Mother’s Day gift.”

I smiled. “Yes, it is. Thank you.”

He rode with us for a moment, cheering, “Great job, keep it up,” then was gone.

Then the feathers. I recognized them before I saw the face. “Here comes W.” W, the runner I’d met at the pasta dinner, with his signature feathers. He passed us, and I threw him a fist pump. He was looking strong, and it made me happy.

We caught up with another runner named M, whom I’d met earlier in the race. He was moving well, and I was glad to keep up with his pace. He chatted with Brindsley and me about his family back home and his goal of finishing under 24 hours, while I kept track of my nutrition timing. I was rolling and wanted to stay on top of my fueling to keep this pace. My bladder had other plans and could wait no longer.

I didn’t want to listen. We had momentum. Big mistake.

Urine trickled down my leg mid-stride. The runner was mid-story, and I felt terrible cutting him off. “I have to stop. I’ll try to catch up.” I told Brindsley and ducked behind a tree in the woods. Thank you, tree. I cleaned up, grateful again for the crew bag restocked with toilet paper. I placed it in the empty ziplock and climbed back up the bank to the path.

Back on the path, it took a while to find my legs again. The sky had gone dark, and Brindsley and I both clicked on our headlamps. I was looking forward to running in the dark. No stars yet, and where is the moon? I turned my eyes back to the path and my footing. I watched for the cones. When did I eat last? I grabbed a gel then looked at my watch. I needed to take another in 20 minutes. Don’t forget. My mind was not as sharp as it was an hour ago, but the rain had stopped. The Potomac was calm; it steadied me.

“Wow, look at the water,” Brindsley said.

I looked out over the water and saw the dark gray surface. “How ya doing, buddy?”

“Good, this is so cool.”

We ran, and Brindsley talked about books he was reading, stories he was writing, and how much he was enjoying the day. “I’m so glad Bethany is your friend,” he said, and her husband is so funny.” I smiled. Having an ultrarunner friend who shows up to crew and pace the last 30 miles was priceless. I knew how lucky I was.

There was M. He had no light. I offered my headlamp since Brindsley had his own, but he said, “I’m okay. I have one at camp.” I nodded. We ran together in silence for a few minutes, then he mentioned his stomach was off. I felt bad; stomach issues are hard. I wished him well, and Brindsley and I kept going.

We crossed the bridge, and I fixed my eyes ahead for the cones. They now had glow lights beside them, visible in the dark. We crossed the road, and I took the lead onto the narrow trail, Brindsley just behind me.

“Ready for this?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s walk and take our time.”

I grabbed trees for support as the trail pitched upward and told Brindsley to catch me if I went backward. I said it like a joke, but I think it made him nervous as he closed the gap between us. Later, he’d tell me he was terrified, staring down into pure black on either side.

I didn’t look back. I just kept moving. Get up this hill. Get up this hill. Almost to Camp Manidokan.

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Thank you for writing with me. See you soon.

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