Run.Brownie.Run.

Photo-ops before the race right infront of Old Baldy.

Quite inconsistent with my impulsive attitude, it took me this long to write about Badwater Cape Fear experience. Not that I had to. Tonight, however, as I went for a quick 4-mile run, I thought   about BW Cape Fear. I don’t know why. Maybe because my knee hurt a bit as I pounded on the road tonight. The pain just brought some memories from the BWCF experience.

But it was not all bad, thus, this writing.

Let’s turn back the clock.

January 2014, I was at a runner-friend’s birthday. My two other runner-friends mentioned running BWCF. I had asked for the date. As soon as I found out it will be on March 22, I decided I   was signing up for the 50-mile race. Or 51.4 miles. That was part of the impulse that led me to decide. Part of the reason was spite. I have a very spiteful attitude. Of course, I did that to spite Jun, who was running a 100-miler the same day at the NJ Ultra Fest. Boom, done. Before even registering, I knew I was in and traveling to North Carolina in March.

Fast-forward some weeks after. I did some training. I kinda figured, having finished Beast of Burden Winter 50-miles that January, there really wasn’t much training needed. Well, at least, I thought I could only improve on it and knowing I had finished 50 miles before, I had some sort of a guage that I CAN actually finish running a 50. So I trained some. Part of the training was, in fact, driving to Long Branch to run on the beach. I drove alone and managed to run 10 miles.  Somehow, I had the delusion that the “orientation” to the sand in Long Branch parallels running in Bald Head Island in March.

Wrong.

Come March 20 at night, my friends Gerald, Luis, Donna, and I travelled to North Carolina. It was a long drive. But did I care? No. I was not driving, at all. I just slept.

Being in the south in March was not bad, at all. The weather was almost perfect for running, in my opinion. We arrived in North Carolina early, about 10 in the morning. Thankfully, after lounging in the lobby, the hotel staff allowed us early check-in. Phew! What a relief.

Then we headed to Bojangle’s. I had to explain to my friends, you know you’re in the south when you see Bojangle’s. But being the vegangster that I am, all I could have were fries. Boohoo.

No introduction needed.

Afternoon finally came. After some sight-seeing by the water with some jumping-picture-taking, we headed to BHI, where the race was to take place. In the ferry we met some new friends, mostly, from all over the place. Some were nice enough to remain friends. One of the amazing people I met was Keith Straw. As Gerald would explain to me, he is a multiple Badwater 135 veteran. Being the experienced runner that he is, I found him to be the very humble, down-to-earth.

Soon enough, we got to BHI. Had our mugshots taken and had some photo-ops with Cris Kostman, the Race Director. Of course, at that point, I knew so little about BW, but Gerald insisted it would be good for me to rub elbows with Chris, in case I decide to run Badwater 135. Huh? Me? Run Badwater 135?! I don’t know about that.

But yes, I did.

One of the most beautiful things that happened, however, was meeting Jessica P. Jess is a  runner-friend’s friend. Now this runner-friend, Andy, is someone I met from BoB. You know, perhaps, by virtue of running a small race like BoB, fellow runners become some sort of family. I think, Andy will never realize it, but he is part of my BoB family or maybe, I sort of assimilated myself as part of that BoB family, being the newcomer to the race.

When Andy told me about his friend running BW, I actually though this friend would merely be an acquaitance. Writing this now, I can say, Jess has become a good friend, despite the distance.

Fine, I’ll also talk about Laura. Hahaha. Laura is another one beautiful thing that happened in BWCF. She is the crazy woman from upstate NY, who also ran BoB. I had to admit here now, before BW, Laura and I became Facebook friends, but I did not remember her from running the Beast. (Sorry, Laura). Maybe because back then we were covered from head-t0-toe. Duh, its Buffalo.

Anyway, this crazy women, coupled with some crazy Filipinos were almost a disaster. Or ended up as a disaster when seven of us squeezed inside a golf cart and skidded off our path. Six of us may not have run the race the next day. Thankfully, through some divine intervention or something, we survived. (And yes, Jess had some alcohol while driving the cart).

Chris and Laurie Kostman at the pre-race shindig.

Anyway, fast-forward race day.

Boy, I hate waking up early. But do I have a choice? This was even earlier because we had to board the ferry to Bald Head Island again. And oh, did I mention I thought it was ridiculous that I paid $49.99 for that ferry ride for 2 days?!

Race day morning, I donned some SportSkirts. Put my TrailWhippAss singlet, my Altra Lone Peak 1.5, my DirtyGirlsGaiters, and my UltrAspire Spry Vest on. I was ready. Or so I thought. Somewhere in one of my drop bags was my Hoka, which, even at this time, remains my biggest regret. Why did I not wear it?

The start line was at the Old Baldy Lighthouse. We were there early enough that I was still able to munch on some purple yams, as if the gas I passed the day before was not enough.

We met some more of the people we met at the ferry and the packet pick-up the day before. Of course, there was Keith in his pink tutu.

I, on the other hand, managed to change into my usual Asics running short (which, by the way, I have 3 of exact same style and color, which I almost always use in races). I figured, my thighs were too big and with a skirt, they would be rubbing each other and would equal to a bad chafe. So that I changed.

Not much later, Chris played the national anthem on his iPhone and finally, the gun (or was it the bullhorn) went off. And we ran.

Laura Makey at the entrance to the trail section.

The first 9 miles or so were on pavement, along the mostly desolate roads of BHI. People were just waking up and regardless of how the island was not touristy, we got some cheers from the locals. From the above was a drone for some reason and being the annoying soul that I am, I waved and waved at it.

So I ran those 9 miles. But those 9 miles were hell. Running on the pavement was just way too much for me at that point. I decided to run on the loose gravel by the sidewalk. Somehow that helped. I thought I couldn’t wait til I get to the AS and change shoes. Or get to the sand where I can still wear my Lone Peak and have the sand for cushion. That was my motivation at that point, but early on, my legs and feet were already dying.

At some point towards the end of those 9 miles, my poor, dying soul was revived when we finally arrived at an entrance to what was to become the trail section. I’m not too sure how long that was but 1 mile or 5, that was pure bliss to me. I was just running through the woods with childhood candor, only, manifested in my feet. It was there that I decided, I love trails. And I belong in the trails.

Holy F#ck!!! Imagine 40 miles of this.

Now some of my friends joked that the reason I was flying was because I am a midget. Maybe. But a midget that can run careless, run free.

I was sad when that section was over and I neared the AS.

I went and had some water and nutrition. This girl at the AS, who looked like some elite runner had the nicest attitude and helped me with my bladder.

And of course, I remembered the adage “beware of the chair.” Instead, I walked to my drop bag and ate some of my vegangster food. My Hokas were there but for some reason, I did not even bother changing shoes.

Soon enough, I was heading to the sand. It was supposedly the start of the 40 miles of sand. It was an out-and-back-course times 2, meaning, each way took 10 miles to the far AS (where, by the way, if you don’t come back for your drop bags the next day, all your belongings left there will be discarded and I had left quite a number of really good vegan snacks there. And I regret that.)

When I said the 9 miles of pavement was painful, running on this North Carolina sand was torturous!!! It was hell. Or what’s worse than hell?

My definition and description of it would be (and I have maintained this description when people asked me about BWCF): The sand was either too soft or too packed, it was like running pavement.

And it really was like on cement.

It was just difficult for me finding my state of “satori,” as Jurek would say. My mind was working too hard on trying to figure out whether I should run on the soft or on the packed sand. Add to that, trying to elude getting wet on the waves.

It was one of the most agonizing runs I had. I think, comparable, to my first 50k at the Wildcat Ridge Romp. Maybe worse. The stretch of sand just seemed endless that it, somewhat, created a mirage. At some hallucinatory state, even, an oasis. Or maybe that was the middle AS.

So clueless about the pain.

Whatever it was, the feeling of pain didn’t leave me. It was at that point that I started to question whatever happened to the training and to the words Nicklaus Combs had said “At least its sand; not pavement.” Then I felt hot with the tailwind and decided to take my singlet off. The heat was another issue I had to contend with, although at that time, it was not so bad.

Then I started to have regrets. I started those dreaded words “I should’ve…” And I am not one to regret. I hate I should’ves. The biggest I should’ve was— I SHOULD’VE STUCK WITH MY HOKA. I don’t know why I allowed myself to be talked into such assurance as “You don’t need Hoka. The sand will be your cushion.” Cushion, my butt. No. It wasn’t.

Finally, after some painful manuevering up and down, back and forth from the soft to the packed sand, I reached the far AS. I ate some and for some reason, my butt sat. Fortunately, like some spikes were on the bench, I got up immediately. It was not long til I was running again toward the finish line, where I would jump off again for another out-and-back for the final 20 miles.

I think the perfect storm just crumbled me right there. I started to walk more. Now, I ran BoB Winter 50 walking only as much as 50 feet max, maybe. But this, I walked much.

It was then that I started to think that if I can just see the middle AS, it would be awesome and I would be, at least, halfway.

But that took forever. It just dragged that not even the encouragement from others and the lie we always hear that goes “your’e looking good. keep it up.” didn’t work.  I knew I looked like shit.

So after passing the middle age station (finally!), I pulled my phone from my vest. Dialled my team-mate and good friend and TWA co-prez, Dylan’s, phone. Or maybe I texted him first. I’m certain I was cursing. I was so mad that it took me forever to reach him. Actually, I never reached him. I knew he was at the NJ Ultrafest at the time, watching the other TrailWhippAsses and friends run. Bastard.

Race morning ferry ride to Bald Head Island.

So I walked or maybe ran. Finally my phone rang. And then I cried. I had asked Dylan if it was okay to DD (drop-down) to a 50k. And I cried some more.

I cried because it was our quasi-slogan to never DD or DNF unless you’re hurt or injured. And I had DD’d on 2 races prior to BWCF on a whim. I thought this was a whim again. Technically, I estimated that once I get to the AS at the finish line, I would have another 6 hours to finish the last 20 miles. I thought that was doable. My mind said so, but my body just disagreed.

Thankfully, Dylan talked some sense that day (maybe because it was not time to drink wine yet and he was sober). He told me, it was okay to drop down because I was still dropping down to an Ultra distance. That made sense. Of course, I had forgotten that. But I think part of me that didn’t want to give up was because I was still on a delusional state at that time, thinking if I finished another 50, I would make a friend proud. Boohoo. Sucker.

So finally, like a child, I wiped my tears and hung up, decided on dropping down. It was around that time when I finally saw Gerald and Luis again. Apparently, they had discussed my “fate” in the race and came up with an idea that I would have a better prognosis if I DD’d to 50k. Or maybe, they just didn’t want to wait for me so long in the cold. Hahaha.

Whatever their intentions (and I know they were good), they were right in affirming and confirming for me the brave decision to drop down.

I went and run feeling freer at the thought that I would no longer need to save some energy for another 20 miles stretch. The support about the decision to DD was overwhelming that finishing at 50k didn’t really hurt that much— besides the fact that I had my eyes set on the buckle.

Finally, I neared the finish. And let me note that for some reason, another runner running the 50k was mostly behind me that day but managed to pass me, nearing the finish. We finished by only a few seconds or a minute apart.

Little did I know that that would be another (minor) regret I would have running that race. Apparently, if I had not let her pass me, I would have ended second in the women’s category for the 50k. I landed 3rd, instead. Not that there was any award, but that would have been a good headliner when I get home.

At the AS, Donna met me. I could never be thankful enough to finish a race. It was pure agony at its best.

At some point, I gathered myself and received my medal from Chris.

Thankful for the vegan option.

I swore my usual lie never to run that race again.

Then I devoured on the hot vegan bean soup. And then some. And then some more.

I was home.

I raised my leg.

Watched my other friends finish. Or pass out, as in Jessica’s case.

Yelled for our new friend, Brad, to finish as soon as the lightning started to come.

And it was time for the ferry back to the mainland.

Looking back, Badwater Cape Fear remains to be one of the hardest races I’ve done. Not that I have  a lot under my belt. I would say, it was even worse than the slickrock of Moab. But then again, it would not be BADWATER if it were not hard. It would be some other other name.

I guess, as an addendum to all these introspection that I did while running those 4 miles tonight in Jersey City, it is worth to note that it was in BWCF that I realize my love affair with road races has met its demise. It is dead.

I will still run road race (and have, in fact, signed up for one road marathon), but it is in the towpath or the trail that I will spend most of my years running careless, running free.

But Badwater Cape Fear 2015? Well, it IS already on my calendar. I am coming back to claim that buckle.

It’s not me if I don’t jump. No kidding. This was at the start of the sandy stretch. No idea what was waiting for me.