2012 Kings Mountain Marathon - Racing in the southern hills

Misty sunrise in my hometown
Rows of cotton 'bout knee high
Mrs. Baker down the dirt road
Still got clothes out on the line

Over a beer with Jefferson and Jared it was decided that running Kings Mountain Marathon was a terrific idea. Why this decision was made still escapes me… This seems to happen to me a lot, and I never learn. There are worse choices to make, right? At least that’s what I tell myself.

Through the winter Jared helped our friend Jefferson, the race director for Kings Mountain Marathon, do some advertising for the race. They carefully crafted a challenge for participants to try and beat Jared as he attempted his first marathon at Kings Mountain, and by the middle of January it was written in stone and live on the interwebs. Speaking quite honestly, I had agreed early on that I'd race, but hardly expected the whim to come to fruition. I secretly hoped for injury or something to come up to preclude me from racing that weekend, but nothing came. Dammit. On the first day of February I conceded defeat and told Jefferson that I would in fact come down to Clover, South Carolina and race.

The course itself runs through two different parks: Kings Mountain State Park and Kings Mountain Military Park, both located in western South Carolina. For the DC Metro and Nova readers, that’s about 450 miles southwest of the nation’s capitol and around 30 miles southwest of Charlotte, North Carolina. This area is all part of the wonderful piedmont region between the Atlantic Coastal Plain and the Appalachian Mountains, characterized by a mountainous terrain, rolling hills, and a few flat areas in the valleys. What this meant for the race itself is that runners will face 26.2 miles of rolling hills and some not-so-rolling hills that I would classify more as steep inclines [read: effing big hills].

Dammit.

Living in Arlington, Virginia one is never short of hills to train on for a hilly course. With Great Falls, Difficult Run, and the Potomac Heritage trails nearby I felt like I had the tools to get ready for Kings Mountain. With the assistance of my good friends Alex, Josh, Alicia, and Bethany, many Saturday mornings were spent hoofing up huge hills, dashing down dangerous descents, and wading in waist deep water to ice down thoroughly thrashed thighs. Every time I ran with these narcissists I doubted my will to race at Kings Mountain. I felt like I was always chasing, but they pulled me along.

As the race drew closer Jared and I began to break down how we thought the race would go. Last year’s winner crossed the finish line in just under 3hr37. Typically, you see marathon winners breaking the tape in times well under three hours, with most being in the 2:20-2:40 range depending on the field size, talent level, and elevation profile. A finish time just over three and a half hours led us to believe that yes, the hills were just that challenging. Last March I finished Shamrock marathon in Virginia Beach, VA in 3:24 (on a flat course), so I my goal was somewhere around a 3:35 finish. In all reality, I was just going to draft off of Jared and let him pull me as far as I could go before stopping off in Bonktown.

We headed down to South Carolina on Friday morning to arrive on site in time for a relaxed jog on part of the course the night before. Just driving to the course afforded us a small preview the first (and last) few miles of our impending adventure through the park. The humidity was well over 70 percent while temperatures remained in the mid 70s. After a brief twenty minutes we were sweaty and winded. Saturday was going to be tough. I grabbed my race packet, race t-shirt, and headed in for the night.

Staying true to southern hospitality, the parents of one of the race directors put us up for the night and even made us a huge pasta dinner. I hesitated at the thought of dessert, but figured, "what the hell," and indulged myself in a few scoops of ice cream anyway. Unlike last weekend, after completing my night-before rituals of laying out my nutrition, pinning my bib on my singlet, and planning out my nutrition schedule I went right to bed and fell asleep without any trouble. Driving 9 hours does that to you.

Morning

Jefferson getting the party started

Fog enveloped everything. A giant sphere of light was trying to make its way through the mist, and broken light scattered across the fields as we drove to the state park. The morning was a brisk 58 degrees when we arrived on site. Cars already filled the parking lot near the start line and racers were making themselves busy with their own pre-race rituals. Sadly, no one was wearing a tu-tu or dressed up as Superman. By 7:30 it was in the low 60s and I could feel the humidity rising. Even though it was cool at the moment, that would change within the hour and I'd be sweating like a nun in a cucumber field. Now, remembering how running singlets can morph into a sandpaper-like material once they're wet, I decided to run sans shirt and keep my nips from being worn down to little red nubs. 

Race

It was time to toe the line. Jefferson counted down over the bull horn and we were off. Jared and I trotted alongside one each other, and Brandon, another teammate from Adventure Geek Racing, pulled up with us. We coasted along the gently sloping asphalt in the front pack for the first few hundred yards and watched about 15 men jump out in front setting a fast pace; but we didn't respond. Instead we smiled, because we knew we'd be passing them around the next bend. And we did. The front six were setting the pace at well under seven minutes per mile, but Jared, Brandon, and I were content rounding out places 7, 8, and 9 for the first few miles. Number 6 fell off around mile four, and the next pair of men were only a few hundred yards away. Jared and I pulled away from Brandon and were able to catch the pair at mile five as the first climb slowed them down. Rolf, a businessman from Germany, and James, a young chemistry teacher. By this point, the three leaders were well out of sight.

The four of us pressed the pace around 7:05/mile on top of a slightly damp dirt and gravel mix for the next few miles as we made small talk and got to know each other a bit. I mean, what else was there to do? Run? Jared and James discussed Jared's challenge and I quietly trotted along in the front, trying not to slip in the wet dirt or roll an ankle on the rocks. A little later James asked me if I was Jared's pacer, and I just laughed a little, but the thought had crossed my mind - pace for Jared, make sure no one passes him. The two of them talked without difficulty as I struggled for every breath. Yep, I was going to get dropped, wasn't I.

"Gel-ing already, T?"

Like a boss.

My first Rocatne gel, right around mile 8, was a must if I was going to hold pace with those two. We sailed down hills at breakneck speeds, shelling our thighs, and clamored up the inclines with wincing faces as the temperature rose into the low seventies. At the aid stations we would ask how far ahead the leaders were, and we never got any good answers, but we talked about how we could catch them. At mile 11 Jared and I upped the tempo slightly and dropped James. Wayland, Jefferson's dad, dropped off our personal water bottles at the aide station at mile 12, mine being a concentrated mix of EFS to replace all the electrolytes I was planning on leaking during the first half. Once in hand, it was time to refuel. It was funny how the volunteers knew exactly who to hand the bottles to, but Weyland told me later he instructed the girls at the aide station to look for the red-head with no shirt running with a guy sporting a beard.

We're sexy and we know it.

At the half way mark I looked at my watch and it read just over 13.1 miles and 1:31 for the time (ha!). That was a half marathon PR right there. I noticed the woods had opened up and now sunlight beat down on us, hotter and hotter with every step. Picture, now, a number of rustic homes placed every half mile or so, with dogs the size of a football and some as big as horses at every single residence. Really. What the hell? Why are there so many friggin' dogs, and why are they chasing us? I think that's what we call incentive to keep moving. Fortunately, a mile or so later our backdrop was replaced again with more quiet, rolling fields off in the distance and more trees to shield my gingery complexion from all the UV rays.

With rusty cars and weeping willows
Keepin' watch out in the yard
Just a snapshot of down home Dixie
Could be anywhere you are...

All the way up to mile 15 we expected the course to be tolerable, but were warned that 15-20 were especially tough. Oh, how true that was, too. We saw Wayland again at the mile 16 aide station and we asked how far ahead the leaders were. 10 minutes? 9, he said. And they were looking rough. Jared and I exchanged a quick glance at each other, grabbed a cup of water, and I watched our pace drop again.

As we shuffled up the hills I didn't even recognize that we'd passed mile 17 since I was distracted by the one Clif Shot Block that Jared offered me. This is why I can't eat gummy things when I run. I use up so much of my focus trying to get that stuff out of my teeth that I stop paying attention to everything else around me! Before I knew it we were already arriving at the aide station at mile 18. No volunteers. Just a lonely table with two coolers and a stack of cups. Slowing down I grabbed a cup, pushed the button which leaked out a rush of tepid, orange Gatorade, which at this point didn't phase me. With that and a squirt of water I found myself turning, doing the my best power walk or a few steps, and transitioned back into a laboured run.

Ah, Jared is still refueling. I better keep moving before he runs me down. I worked my way up the next incline and enjoyed the silence of the road. Hey wait a minute. Why can I only hear my footfall? I turned my head slightly to the side to hear a little better for any noises that would come from behind. A quick glance informed me that I was on my own at this point.

Crap. There's no way I'm going to push myself now. How am I going to pace? I need someone here to be competitive with! Damn you type A personality! Also, damn you race course. Just because.

What do you do if your pacing partner dropped?

Mile 20 came, and with it came my second (and final) gel, a cup of water, and some welcomed shade. Around a bend the my course merged with another road at the start of an incline (I did say this course was hilly, right?), where a number of cyclists were rolling by. Turning onto the new road I caught up with one of the struggling cyclists and she laughed at herself that I was running past her.

"Are you serious?? 8.3 miles per hour, champ!" She laughed a bit more and rose out of the saddle to leave me in the dust.

I think I made some sounds at her, which could be loosely translated to: Thanks! You're doing quite well, if I may say so myself. Cheerio!

More miles came and went, seeing no one else but cyclists screaming past me. I was so tired, and struggling to hold on to any resembling respectable pace. Over the course of the last 23 miles I had experienced a number of sensations. The runners high, excitement, confusion, serenity, suffering. But what I felt during the 23rd mile was something I hadn't expected. Hunger. No, no, not like a rumble in my tummy, something else. Out in front of me was the third place runner, maybe 3 minutes ahead. He'd disappear around every bend, but I was coming down fast on him.

The last aide station was at mile 24, where runners would begin an out-and-back before turning down a rolling road to the finish. Cindy, the mother of one of the race owners and my host from the night before, handed me my last drink before I began my chase. The second place runner was already on his way back, shouted some encouraging words at me but I hadn't enough control of my words to reciprocate. We passed by each other while he was on his way back from the turnaround, and I tried to press harder to get there. When I turned and made my way back to the home stretch it knew there was no chance of catching him. Now the only thing on my mind was, how far behind me was the next person? My answer was far, and it was Jared (thank goodness).

"You got this. It's all yours!"

Thanks, Jared. Really. That's what I needed to hear.

The finish was on an incline, adding insult to injury. Jefferson, you're a bastard.

I'm not relieved I'm at the finish line. I'm
thinking about how much I hate Jefferson.

I came across the line and fell down. Stick a fork in me, I was done. Some nice folks picked me up off the ground and stood me on my feet and I made my way over to the food table to bring myself back to life. A box of Girl Scout cookies and a Tall Boy later I felt like a million Deutsche marks! Kristen came over and told me my finishing time and overall place.

3:04:26. Fourth overall.

1st place AG. Now, for something
to drink out of it...

"Great shot, kid! Now don't get cocky!"

She's staring right at me.













That also secured a first place age group podium to go along with my 20 minute PR. Huzzah! My first hardware of the year. I also have to say, the finisher medal was awesome, and we got some sweet-ass arm warmers.

Sweet-ass arm warmers.

Jared came in a few minutes after me, a blistering 3:11 and change for his marathon debut, and 5th overall. Holy smokes. For his first marathon. FIRST!

As I sit here, I'm surrounded
By these priceless memories
I don't have to think about it
There's no place I'd rather be

Our trip to the southern lands was a great success. We both placed high, learned a lot, and came home with a lot of great stories. It was so nice to get to enjoy a small race in a remote place with beautiful people. I'm looking forward to coming back again.

Sweet southern comfort, carry on...


Now, it's time to rest, recover, and begin looking forward to the next race. I'll be focusing on my Ironman training from here on out, so no more foot races until after August.

Hope you enjoyed!

Always thank your volunteers.