I think Paul Heckert (at least I think it was Paul, everything before the race is now a blur.) said it best as we stood around the van in the back of the Food City parking lot in Bristol: “111 miles doesn’t seem that bad, but don’t underestimate this race.” He was right. 111 miles really didn’t seem that bad. After all, I had spent the last two months on the trail, consistently pulling twenty plus mile days. And that was with a full pack on a mountainous trail. Surely a relatively flat walk along the shoulder of a major highway would seem easy. At the time, I was a true believer in the first part of his statement. The second part, however, barely registered in my brain.
My goal going into this race push myself to my limit. Yes, I know that’s the generic, baseline response for any race of this kind, but I felt different going into this one. At Vol State in 2020, I finished near the back of the field, with less than 22 hours left before the ten-day cutoff. Honestly, I felt like I still had something left in the tank, and ever since then, I have wondered what would have happened if I had really pushed myself to my limits: If I had spent less time in hotels, If I had pushed further through the heat and deeper into the night, if I had really pushed myself until I had nothing left to give. If we’re talking numbers, I was shooting for 48 hours. I’d done 40 miles in 12 hours before, and felt like that pace had been sustainable with some rest mixed in.
Saturday morning felt great. I walked and talked with a number of others at a brisk pace through the cool morning. And it was cool. Even as I broke out on my own at around 15 miles, the sky was still grey with a cool shroud of mist, and even though the humidity was probably well over 90%, when everything is already damp with a light breeze, it didn’t feel that bad. I reached Rutledge at mile 28 by lunchtime and stopped for a pizza and a two hour break. As a result of the dampness, I was beginning to have a few blisters on my left foot, but nothing major yet, so with three to four thousand calories worth of pizza packed into my digestive system, I set out once again.
My objective for that day was Rogersville, which would be roughly 60 miles. I knew, however, that if I were to make it that far, that I would arrive long after all businesses and restaurants were closed for the night, therefore, I was mentally prepared to fuel up in Bean Station, around mile 43, to make it all the way through until morning. By the time I reached Bean Station, though, things were starting to fall apart. The afternoon had cleared off slightly which had just meant more heat. I had also neglected hydration, and was now paying for it. Locating a bench on the front porch of closed-down clinic, I forced down a Subway sandwich and chugged three Gatorades and a half-gallon of water from the Walgreens next door. Soon, darkness had fallen and the Grainger County Sherriff, along with the Bean Station Police Department had been circling and eyeing me for some time. It was officially time to hit the road.
Pushing into the night, my digestive system began to protest and my left foot was sprouting blisters faster than a roadside armadillo attracts maggots. Crossing over several small arms of the headwaters of Cherokee Lake, I was officially spent. There was no way I was going to make it all the way into Rogersville. First, I attempted to stop at a storage building lot, thinking that I could hide out in one of the barns for a few hours, but I quickly made a U-turn when I spotted cameras and razor wire. Finally, I spotted a large pontoon boat under a carport. It was a good distance from the house, and there were no lights, cameras, or dogs that I could see. I spent four glorious hours sprawled out on the long, cushioned bench seat of that boat, before heading back out just before sunrise. I had covered 56 miles in the first 24 hours, a personal record.
Passing through Rogersville early Sunday morning, then trudging my way on toward Surgoinsville, the road seemed to stretch on forever. It was still cloudy, but the heat of the sun seemed to be breaking through that protective layer of haze just a little bit more than yesterday. Also, I was in a desert, at least with respect to roadside services. Basically, as the miles drug on, there were none. No gas stations, no stores, just the open, exposed shoulder of highway 11W. I finally stopped in Surgoinsville to eat a bag of Fritos that I had been carrying around for lunch, and it was there that the sky decided to open up on me. I was wet, it was humid, the rain seemed to provide no relief from the heat, my left foot had settled into a painful state of existence and I had severe chafing in places you don’t want severe chafing.
The road to Church Hill was a death march. I was miserable. I hadn’t seen any of the others on the road all day, but I had learned that a number of them had dropped from the race. That was not confidence inducing. I stopped for dinner at McDonalds and was ready to throw in the towel. I had a text completely typed out on my phone explaining to Jan, who was tracking us every twelve hours that I was calling Danny to pick me up and haul me back to my car. Suddenly, I got word that Beth had finished at just over 36 hours with what I believe is a new course record. If she could do that, surely I could trudge on for just a few more miles. I finally broke down that evening at the Kingsport Super 8 and got their last room. I was done, but I knew that if I rested, I would have a different outlook tomorrow. That’s the beauty of races of this length, you can stall out for twelve hours at a hotel without too much detriment to your standing in the actual race.
By morning, my blisters and chafing had improved significantly. I had about 23 miles left and it was raining, but that’s just a day on the trail. I had no doubt that I would be able to finish well inside 60 hours. I almost enjoyed the rain as I sped down the final stretch of 11W toward Bristol at what seemed like warp speed. Somehow, everything felt great. As I climbed the final hills into town, rain began to pour, but I was just ready to be done. I ended up reaching the end of highway 11W in 5th place in 58 hours and 7 minutes. This time, I could say without a doubt, that I had given it everything I had. I had driven myself to the brink of failure, and then recovered enough to finish.
Twenty of us had set out from Knoxville, and one had set out from Bristol in the opposite direction. Of those twenty-one, there were 9 DNFs, 9 northbound finishers, and the 1 southbound/reverse finisher. The remaining 2 were able to complete the 100 mile “Fun Run” within the 72 hour cutoff. Over those two and a half days, I learned a lot about myself and my ability, most notably that yes, I may have had a little bit left in the tank at the end of Vol State, but I’m now quite certain that I didn’t have near as much as I had feared. For me personally, things start to go downhill quick when I approach 24 straight hours of exertion. At the end of the day, I probably should have given more thought to the second part of Paul’s statement: “Don’t underestimate this race.” The Bloody 11W takes no prisoners, it shreds the skin from feet and gnaws the will to push on from the souls of those who dare tread along its shoulder. It is brutal, and at the same time, at least looking back on it, it is a glorious journey.
Thank you to each and every runner that I met out there. Y’all encouraged me and motivated me to keep pushing forward. Congratulations to every finisher, particularly Beth on an impressive effort for 1st place! Special thanks to Danny, Diane, and Jan, for making sure this race happened this year! I would say it was fun, but that’s not the right word to describe what we just went through!
