Rim to River 100 Mile Race Report

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a reason to write about a running event. I wonder why that would be? I mean, everything in the world is pretty normal right now…

How am I recovering? Three words: maple creme cookies.

Pro tip: It helps to move around often even though the Monday morning stiffness compels you not to do so. At least work on the smelly race laundry, where you might find a collection of many unidentifiable (food?) stains on your clothing.

I enjoy the 50K to 50 mile distances so I don’t usually seek out 100 milers. With the Rim to River 100 being the first race of this length in WV, however, there was enough of a draw for me to buy in. It’s always taking a chance to be a guinea pig in a first-year race of any length, especially at ultra distances. The race director’s leg work had convinced me they could get this done. It was promising to see the registration was on ultrasignup.com. There were UTMB, International Trail Running Association, and American Trail Running Association affiliations. The main website had detailed elevation profiles, lots of maps, and good course descriptions. Many local and some national sponsors were on board. In other words, it looked like an event that had happened before.

About 10,000 feet of Gain but it’s always the descents that get you

I’ve had a contentious relationship with running in the New River Gorge due to the multiple nasty ankle sprains I’ve experienced there. Probably because I keep trying to run there in the fall. The potential for another sprain in the leaves, especially after dark and with heavy fatigue, felt higher than normal. As a result, my anxiety about the situation was higher. The boss, Anne, told me not to be a wimp and sign up anyway.

Race morning kicked off with an immediate slathering of skin lubricant to all of those typical high friction areas, such as the toes, armpits, inner thighs, and low-back waist line. Except I forgot one: the intergluteal cleft, otherwise known to the world as the butt crack. Oops. Deadly levels of chafing ensued by mile 28 when the constant friction heated my skin to 300*F, I collapsed into a screaming heap, went into shock from blood loss, and obviously, DNFd. No mortal can overcome that kind of pain once it has settled in. One emergency helicopter extraction and a $26,000 butt reconstruction later, here I am, face down, writing about the ugly backside of ultrarunning (pun intended).

Alright, you got me. I didn’t need butt reconstruction. Butt, take it from me, lube your intergluteal cleft people. Or you too, will be forced to make critical, life altering decisions at moments that are never convenient to you or your immediate family.

EARLY on in ACE with Bob and JR

Anyway, where was I before that story with about 10% truth in it? Ah, the start. The one and only nice thing about COVID-19 wave starts is the parking situation upon arrival. Despite showing up just 12 minutes before my start time, it was a mere 25 yards from my truck to the starting line. I even walked there twice as a completely and totally necessary warm up.

The bipedal eating contest festivities kicked off at 5:45. It was chilly at the start, but bearable. The weekend forecast seemed unbelievable as the days ticked down prior to the race. Several straight days of sunny, dry weather, and for Race Day, there was a high of 73* and a low near 40*. For weeks, I’d mentally prepared to have lows in the 20s, highs in the 40s or 50s and thick, gray clouds with some rain or snow. But in typical WV fashion, weather is hardly predictable in the fall.

The race begins with various loops around ACE Adventure Resort’s property for roughly 13 “let’s just have a great time frolicking” miles. I went ahead and slightly twisted my right, yet stronger, ankle within the first 5 miles, and then proceeded to roll the weaker left side within the next couple miles. Really off to a good start here. I chatted with Bob Luther about this past summer’s running and the DIY adventure runs that we’ve made up. Matt Baird joined us for the more abrupt descent toward Arbuckle Creek. Matt refused to carry me, or even slightly assist me, across that cold, cold, rapidly flowing creek so he was immediately fired from the job that I had literally just hired him for.

We did a tough little climb up to the Rend Trail and then continued to descend toward the New River on a paved road to Thurmond for the second aid station at mile 17. The elastic cord that holds a chest pocket of my running vest closed would decide that NOW was a good time to break despite a couple years of reliable use. Annoying, but nothing to stress over.

There’s a significant downward elevation trend over the first 25% of the course, which means it’s easy to be deceived by your pace and split times. There’s no better fool’s trap in an ultramarathon than self-talk like “I’m flying, but it feels so easy!” Or even worse, “I’m going to have a great day!” Yeah. No. You won’t. Reality check, my ultrarunning friend. You’ll either roll an ankle because you are running too fast for the conditions, or you’ll just crush yourself so early that a DNF is too tempting or inevitable because your butt skin overheats and kills you anyway. The thing about running any ultramarathon, but especially 100 miles, is that EVERYONE is going to slow down. Whatever time you think you are “banking” early can nearly always be made up in the second half by slowing down less than the suckers who started too hard or died during a semi-tragic friction-induced butt explosion.

Hey Bob!

There’s a bit of road climbing back up to Rend Trail but then we drop down beside the New River again around mile 20 for a 6 mile long stretch of the Southside/Brooklyn Trail. I watched Bob roll his ankle, but fortunately it wasn’t a race ender. The sun was high in the sky now, and made any brief glimpses at the river temporarily blinding. Bob and I continued to chat when we were surprised from behind by a rapidly approaching JR Luyster who had apparently taken a wrong turn.

The trail eventually becomes a gravel road before reaching the Cunard aid station at mile 26. Anne was supposed to be here but I was ahead of my predicted arrival since the trails just weren’t that technical and there’s so much early descending. (Actually, I WAS JUST BANKING TIME!) Always assume your crew won’t show up and you’ll always be absolutely delighted when they actually do! Lie to yourself. Say, “as long as there’s an aid station then the crew just isn’t that critical.” It also pays to carry some extra food if you are afraid of the aid station food.

It got a little too warm as Bob and I climbed up the steep paved road from Cunard. JR had pulled away from us up the climb. Anne finally appears on the horizon, driving like a 90-year-old grandmother down the switchbacks, one of the frontrunners stuck to the grill, while she’s happily warping the brake rotors on my truck and now completely unable to perform any actual crewing efforts, lest we would be breaking the race rules.

Once finally on top, the trail surface returns with a gradual descent toward Kaymoor. Part of this was familiar: I’d seen it a couple times in the Canary in the Cave 25K++. The climb up the Kaymoor Miners Trail is steep and rocky but just not long enough to worry about this early. The Trail Sisters were manning (?) the Arrowhead aid station at mile 35. They were informed that Trail Sister Anne should be immediately exiled from their well-respected group for failure to comply with several of the 49 specific goals clearly outlined in the mission manual, entitled Operation Bear Crawl, which I emailed to Anne just last night at 11:36 p.m. All in favor said “aye.”

Bob, JR, and I stayed close together as we rounded the rolling loop around Arrowhead trails. The leaf coverage seemed plenty thick in places but the trails were quite smooth. Onward to Long Point overlook, which was super busy with day hikers at this time of day, especially with the abnormally warm weather. I just wanted to get away from them. I have no love of crowds, and I was starting to become hypersensitive to smells of deodorant, perfume, and whatever other nasty odors they were expelling.

Out to the Long Point aid station at mile 43 and then an intermittently more technical descent toward Fayette Station. The views of the underside of the New River Gorge Bridge were fantastic midway down. It’s such a huge structure that you can run for minutes and still feel like it’s so close you can touch it. But you can’t. Unless you have one of those sweet Mandalorian jetpacks. I’ve been a good boy this year so Santa should be sending mine in time for Christmas.

The Fayette Station aid volunteers at mile 48 greeted me with cheers and their bacon was not only a welcome sight but a welcome taste. Shortly after leaving there, I crossed the Tunney Hunsaker bridge and had to wait at the railroad tracks on river right for a train to finish its passage. Up another sizable paved climb to a gravel road that becomes a very long gradual descent toward Hawks Nest State Park. Train after train could be heard below, drowning out the river sounds. Hitting the crushed gravel climb up the Hawks Nest Rail Trail to Ansted felt like one of the toughest parts of the entire course. It seemed so consistently steep for an old rail grade. It’s about 300 feet of gain in 2 miles, which I calculate as a 92% grade. (Somebody check my math).

My favorite pic from the whole race

Nearing the top, I think this was one of two places where I heard crazy loud crowd noise and thought, surely that’s not all the people at the aid station. It must have been a local football game. Anne and Aaron Watkins took such good care of me at the turnaround that I didn’t even need the aid station. (They offer crewing services for other events but you can make the check directly out to me for $500 and I’ll see that they get their fair share.) I swapped into a long sleeve baselayer for the cool night ahead, switched out my socks, and emptied my shoes of the last 55 miles worth of accumulated debris. My brain function was clearly starting to deteriorate as I left because a volunteer stopped me from going up some other path or road instead of the place that I had literally just come from. It’s an out and back, you dummy.

Darn tree fell across both sides of the switchback on the Hawks Nest Connector Trail

Small tasks require big concentration

Bob and JR passed me as they headed up about a minute later. Now that awful grade up the rail trail becomes a terrible 2 mile downhill for the quads. The longer I spend not moving at an aid station, the longer it takes to find my legs again. Now a lengthy singletrack ascent up the Hawks Nest Connector Trail. Chris Pabian flew past me as the darkness began to fall, and JR came along shortly after with his pacer. He didn’t have a headlamp so I gave him my backup to get back to Fayette Station. They bombed the paved descent and I tried, unsuccessfully, to stay in contact.

think i forgot to stop running

There was no train to wait on this time, but I experienced a moment of panic when the volunteers at Fayette Station told me to take the road to get to Ansted and they’d see me again in 14 miles. I said I didn’t remember that part of the map, thinking there must be another road section now? Fortunately, I mentioned I’d already been to Ansted where I saw Miss Muffett sitting on a tuffet, at which point they realized I was clearly bonking just like the last idiot and must be making a return trip, now at mile 62. A volunteer here had made sushi rice cakes with egg, which I used to rely on religiously for calories, so I had to engulf one of those like a macrophage alongside even more delicious bacon. A little known rule for success (in life) is that you can never, ever eat enough bacon.

More trotting and shuffling in the dark back on the pavement to the challenging climb up Fayetteville Trail. It was pleasantly distracting to have other runners coming down to encourage when I wasn’t huffing and puffing like a tired, old steam locomotive. Sometimes they would unintentionally blind me as they focused their headlamps in my eyes, since I was now dressed in an ultra fuzzy and convincingly real black bear suit. My ramen noodle intake ramped up 300% when hitting the Long Point aid at mile 67. At this point sweet foods are just not appealing to a bear like me.

I don’t remember much of any excitement before getting back over to the Arrowhead loop and accompanying aid at mile 74. It’s dark. You’re tired. You stare at the ground and try to zone out a lot. I’m supposed to be hibernating, but it was unseasonably warm. It felt long, but at least Anne would be there to give me the full spa retreat session that she had agreed to, in writing as well as verbally, as part of the reconciliation package we negotiated upon her not meeting the terms set forth in Operation Bear Crawl. I did not and have not since received said session and am currently interested in pursuing legal action if anyone can recommend a good lawyer for suing your spouse? I’d like to keep it as cordial as possible so she’s not bitter about it.

Let me say this: the descent back down Kaymoor Miners Trail at mile 74.xx absolutely sucked. Use your hands, get a sherpa, rappel. Just get down. And, oh my god the climbing from the bottom of Kaymoor Miners Trail back up to the top of Cunard. It’s pretty runnable but that’s also a problem. I could settle into a nice rhythm but never imagined it would feel so long in this direction. Continuing our theme from the past 6-8 hours, I passed JR up the climb and he destroyed me descending down the steep pavement into the Cunard aid at mile 82. But then I never saw him again after that. Anne somehow perfectly timed her arrival to this crew point! She brought along a spectacular Sheetz bacon cheeseburger, probably in an attempt to avoid the legal case that was rapidly mounting against her. However, while basking in her self-administered praise, she forgot my other nice headlamp at Arrowhead and tried to use volunteering there as an excuse. Blah blah blah. Funny. I don’t hear any other members of Operation Bear Crawl making excuses. (Full disclosure: there are no other members of Operation Bear Crawl). No biggie as long as the one on my head keeps working for a while.

Trail Sisters Aid station courtesy Sara Lunden

And my headlamp decided to go to crap shortly after leaving the Cunard aid station. It wouldn’t shut off, wouldn’t leave its red light mode but wouldn’t turn on to a normal white light of any intensity. Better than complete failure, I guess? Perfect lighting if I was camping, trying to cook a meal, or in a tent reading the latest issue of Bear Packer magazine. This is another reason why I keep a cheap backup light in my pack, but I had no idea how long it would last and it was still a long, lonely stretch from mile 84 to 100. I had no choice but to use the backup light, though on a dim setting to conserve its battery. “Who’s the dork wearing two headlamps and a bear suit!?” no one shouted. Shuffling my feet through the crunchy leaves felt safer with that limited visibility. I would have struggled to do that if the surface had been more technical. My left big piggie ended up bashed hard against some rocks as it was. An ever-present roar of the impressive New River was my only companion along this stretch of the Southside Trail, though I did catch one racer and his pacer.

Actual footage of Me at a road crossing

I never wanted to obsess over my time too closely because there’s enough to worry about in just finishing 100 miles. I figured it better to shuffle cautiously and come in under 23 hours than to attempt pushing with limited visibility and really bust up my toes, foot, or ankle for a chance at coming in closer or under to 22 hours. Hey, that’s still a PR for me, which hardly matters in the trail running world anyway.

At mile 88.5 the ACE Beach volunteers had so many fires going I thought they were having some sort of satanic ritual, but I think they were just mostly bored young men waiting for runners to come through. They had batteries so I felt better about bringing the backup light up to fuller brightness when I left there to cross that damn freezing Arbuckle Creek. Next time I’m bringing my Gore-Tex bear suit. The climb back up to the ACE Resort trails felt like it took forever. My bear suit was absolutely soaked and full of wet leaves. Pretty sure I saw the race director out there in the middle of nowhere around mile 89-90. I dropped a banana from the last aid station somewhere so I hope a bonking runner found it and was so desperate that they ate it before those ungrateful raccoons I talked to at mile 91.

My brain was frying (as if you can’t tell). Everything felt like a climb but I think that’s because most of it was a climb. Paranoia of missing a turn increased ten-fold. I saw lights approaching from behind and picked it up because there is nothing more demoralizing than being passed by a runner in the final 10 miles of a 100 mile race. Or maybe there were aliens chasing me. Either way, I figured it was keeping me honest a.k.a not slacking. I made it a point not to linger at the 95.5 mile Concho Rim aid where I hear they brought out Nutella pancakes later. Come on! What’s a bear gotta do to get a Nutella pancake around here? Maybe I should have lingered.

In what I’m sure is intentionally tortuous course design, you shuffle right past the start/finish area at mile 96. Stare at the ground. Do not think. Do not look around. Just go out through the woods once more. I managed to make one wrong turn during mile 98 by creating a loop around a little pond, then heading back on the trail I had just taken. The actual trail was hidden behind an uprooted tree - but at least I knew it quickly and got back on within a minute.

The final couple miles took FOREVER. I wanted to run a little quicker but was still just afraid of rolling an ankle for no good reason so I stuck with a comfy shuffle. Even the final paved descent that felt like 2 minutes of uphill at the start of the course seemed to take 10 minutes now. Down, down, down to the finish line and super happy with my finishing time of 22 hours and 26 minutes. Not bad for a guy in a bear suit who had been blinded numerous times, using partially working lights, and denied Nutella pancakes. I crawled into the back of the truck to lie down while Anne drove me back to the cabin. However, mysteriously, she “forgot” how to get to the cabin 2 minutes away for at least 10 minutes as she proceeded to drive around on all of the bumpy ass dirt roads of the resort. Like she was tired or something. Pffft. I’m going to go scream in the shower now once I bear crawl up these steps.

Just as spry and fresh as 23 hours earlier, image courtesy APtiming

In the future, the November timing of this race would be good to finish out a typical competitive season, though this year we take what we can get, when we can get it, and we try not to whine too much, right? The course has a really nice ratio and distribution of dirt road, trail, and paved road. The volunteers were great. The quesadillas were delectable. What more do you need to know? Check it out next year!

https://www.adventureappalachia.org/rim-to-river-endurance-races

https://www.strava.com/activities/4307610305/overview