Working Off the Turkey in the Mountains of Kentucky

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter about one of my first trail runs, in Harlan, Kentucky, November 24, 2007. I've done two marathons and three ultras since I ran this course, which makes me want to return to it. (Photo by Sarah Tsiang)

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, I ran the hardest race I’ve ever run. In a nutshell, I simply ran a ragged race and got my butt whooped by the Appalachians.

I was going to be in Kentucky for Thanksgiving, so I investigated to find out whether or not there were any trail runs nearby. I was feeling pretty good about how my running season was going in this, my third season of running with the club.

I did better than I expected in several local trail races, and religiously ran the Tuesday fun runs and Thursday trail runs with the Buffalos all summer long. So I signed up for the Mountain Masters 16-Mile Trail Run in Harlan, Kentucky. I aspire to someday do a trail marathon, but not having trained enough to do one this year, this distance seemed perfect.

There was one thing that gnawed at me. I read the following comment on the race website: “… a hill ceases being a hill and becomes a mountain when you can reach out in front of you and touch the ground in front of you...” Okay, so there will be hills. Well, here’s how it went.

I got up before dawn to drive southeast from Richmond, where I was staying. The wide expanses of the bluegrass turned into the mountains of coal mining country near the Cumberland Gap, close to the Virginia and Tennessee borders. From a shopping mall, we piled into a yellow school bus for a lumbering 20-minute ride up switchbacks to the Little Shepherd trailhead.

The trail runs about 14 miles along a 2,000-foot ridgeline on Pine Mountain. Almost everyone had to drop trow’ to relieve themselves before starting the race, which was a new experience for me. It was 24 degrees, with a dusting of snow, and practically no leaves on the trees.

After being warned about the dreaded Mile 12 and told by the race director that someone had already checked the route for bears, we were off. We could expect aid stations about every four miles. It was uphill right off the bat.

The trail was mostly dirt and gravel road, and we immediately spread out. When I got to Mile 2, I couldn’t believe it was only Mile 2. The hills started to bug me right away. On top of the ridge, the scenery was beautiful, although you could see some scarring from mining. These were not the molehills of east central Illinois. These were huge—steep and long!

At mile 8, I’m thinking: “This is the last run of my running career. The next time the race truck comes by, I’m going to ride it and get a DNF. I don’t care.” An aid station came just in time, however, and I had the boost of learning that I was not the last person on the course.

I began to walk up the steeper pitches. At around mile 11, the trail started to go down…way down. This was the sign that the infamous Kingdom Come hill was coming up. A little jaunt down a highway, and there it was, at the entrance of the state park.

That part of the trail was actually paved. Good, I thought, good traction—no wet leaves hiding the rock. But even walking, I was pausing every 10 steps. At the top, I laughed. At the next aid station, I was congratulated and told that there were no more hills after that.

I was in the home stretch, and knew I was going to make it. They lied. There were at least two more hills, of the variety of those earlier in the race. But after having the life sucked out of me at Kingdom Come (what a great name), they loomed large.

The finish line was finally in sight. I saw other runners, and my family was there. In one last bit of cruelty, you had to run past the finish and do another quarter mile or so and turn back. Even within that short distance, even knowing I was almost done, I was reduced to walking. It must have been the five-degree incline that did it.

A finisher’s medal was hung around my neck, and I went back on the bus, where I had some newfound friends. I don’t know what my time was, but back at the mall, I got a beautiful clay candleholder (made locally) for coming in second in my age group. I also received a fleece jacket as a door prize.

It took me a week after that to get back on my horse and run again. I am now beginning to think that maybe I had a good time and that I should give it another go next year. The race was very well organized, and everyone was incredibly friendly. This race is only three years old, and I was the first person from Illinois to run it. I hope more of us do.

Before this race, I had it in my head that 16 miles is not that long of a distance, hills or no. But 16 miles of trail is not just 16 miles. It’s 16 miles of this trail, on this day. It’s like I never tire of running the same Mahomet trail every week. The trail is never the same on a given day, and neither am I.