Back in high school, my cross-country coach would run this race across Tennessee by means of a path from Missouri to Georgia every year. At that time, I could only image how crazy someone would have to be to ever want to do that, in July no less. Then, one day in my junior year of college it suddenly occurred to me: that sounded like fun! It was that moment that I realized that I was included in the limited and minuscule portion of humanity that thought that running 314 miles across Tennessee in the heat and humidity of July was a good idea, and maybe even one of the select few from that category that considered such a proposition fun. I hear that’s how it begins for a lot of people. And once it sucks you in, you’re unlikely to ever shake the desire to trek mile after mile of that long white line.
And so, in July of 2020, I found myself on a bus with no AC, headed for Dorena Landing, Missouri, with roughly 60 other idiots just like me. The only difference being that a handful of them were crazy enough to have already done this in a previous year and had decided to try it again. And then there are the likes of John Price, Sherry Meador, Richard Westbrook and Diane Taylor Who collectively had completed this miserable trek 38 times between the four of them. What had I gotten myself into?
We arrived in Union City in a torrential down-pour, and after a night of very little sleep, we loaded up and rode the last few miles to the ferry. The starting line for the race is across the river, just up the hill from the ferry landing in Missouri. Instead of a starting gun, Lazarus Lake, or “Laz” lights a cigarette, and we all march back down the hill and board the ferry again. The real journey begins once the ferry lands back in Kentucky, but the race starts over here. Laz wouldn’t have it any other way. The brains behind races such as the Barkley Marathons, Big’s Backyard Ultra, Strolling Jim and many others, Laz takes great joy in seeing others push themselves to their limits.
For the next few days, the 66 of us that started the race became strung out over hundreds of miles of sweltering asphalt under the hot, summer sun. Many of us transitioned to traveling primarily at night to avoid the heat of the day. Still, it was miserably hot. Don’t even ask me about the humidity. By the time I made it to McKenzie and Huntingdon, all I wanted to do was quit. At Parkers Crossroads, the route passed over interstate 40 and I knew that home was only a couple hours away. Jan, the “meat wagon” lady (most everyone’s only hope to get a ride back to their car in Georgia should they decide to quit), asked me how I was feeling. I was honest. She responded with something along the lines of “get over it.”
I trudged on through Lexington and Parsons, promising myself that I would allow myself to quit at Linden. That was far enough into the race that it wouldn’t be too embarrassing. I arrived at Linden at the end of day four and suddenly, it got easier. Not easier as in “I’m no longer in pain and am suddenly able to jog briskly down the shoulder, picking daisies as I go,” but easier as in “I no longer feel an almost unobjectionable desire to fall in front of that oncoming eighteen-wheeler and wait for rabid armadillos to eat my rotting, mangled carcass.” In other words, life was good.
The days between Linden, Hohenwald, Columbia, and Shelbyville passed by in a blur. I was no longer constantly miserable, but simply in a state of constant discomfort punctuated by periods of extreme misery. Still, the miles passed quickly and I enjoyed the company of other fellow runners and the generosity of local “Road Angels.” The final stretches between Shelbyville, Manchester, and Monteagle were the most memorable. My body was finally becoming acclimated the daily mileage and the route transitioned from loud highways to smaller, country roads. Somewhere near Pelham, I even burst out into John Michael Montgomery’s “Sold” as I passed the sign indicating I was entering Grundy County. Those who lived nearby probably hated me. I think it was between 4 and 5 in the morning. By this point, I was truly enjoying the journey.
My final 41-mile push from Monteagle to Sand Mountain Georgia and “The Rock” saw the realization of my goals. I finished the race (goal one), I didn’t finish last (goal two), but I did so in 9 days, 2 hours, and 42 minutes, a little over a day shy of my goal of sub-eight. I still felt accomplished, this was, by far, the biggest physical challenge I had ever overcome. Of the 66 runners who had started the journey in Missouri over a week before, only 50 had finished in Georgia. Of those 50, I was number 44 and the youngest male finisher ever. At the end, all I wanted was a cheeseburger and somewhere to lay down. A gravel driveway would have done the trick. In fact, it had done the trick for the last week. I’m convinced that in all my journeys, I may never find gravel driveways as comfortable as the ones I found in the middle of the night in rural Tennessee beside that long, white line.
Full Race Report coming soon!
Mr. Goad in Shelbyville makes it a point to talk to every runner that passes by 
The generosity of complete strangers never ceases to amaze 
Almost made it… 
Had to go back to visit the Bench in daylight 
Just a few more miles… 
The final stretch 
The view from The Rock 
A welcome sight at 3am