March 3, 2012 - This was a proper adventure from start to finish.  My son
Keith and I headed south a couple days early - he to visit his brother and me
to race.  Heading through Tennessee we were hard pressed to stay
ahead of a line of tornadoes and mean thunderstorms that had swept across
Alabama, wrecking havoc throughout the central US.  Following local
forecasts and those of the National Weather Service on the radio it was a
real-life action drama that kept Keith transfixed.  By the time we crossed
the Georgia line they were recommending people traveling on I-75 to 
exit the highway and their cars to find safety in commercial structures
along the way.  Tornadoes ripped across the interstate less than an hour
after we had passed. As it was, being ahead of the storm, we only
experienced strong winds and a few raindrops as we sped beyond the 
forlorning skies behind us.  The aftermath of this powerful system would
leave three dozen people dead and immeasurable damage in its wake.

Before taking Keith to Alpharetta to his brother's place I stopped at Fort
Mountain State Park at race headquarters to pick up my race number and
get oriented with where I needed to be the next day.  The stormy weather
persisted after visiting with my son Matthew for a couple of hours.  More
tornadoes were closing in on the city of Atlanta early in the evening, so I
headed out at 7 p.m. amid an incredible light show at dusk to drive up to the
mountains where I would sleep in my car to await the start of the race
early the next morning.  With golf ball sized hail threatening I wanted
to get my car out of harm's way.  Tornadoes generally don't travel into the
mountains, so I felt it would be a better place to weather the storm, and it
was.  The night proved stormy, with wind and hard rain pounding the 
ridge top in the park, but I slept through it and arose early, rested and
ready to race.

The rain and wind were past, with the temperature at 45 degrees.  A small
group of perhaps fifty racers started casually to wind its way around the
lake on rolling park roads before hitting single track, taking a connector
trail that would lead us over to the Pinhoti Trail.  I started very conservatively,
without any hurry, running very relaxed and walking a lot more on the hills.
I had no concern over time for this one.  The sun was coming up and it 
looked like we had a beautiful sunny day ahead in the mountains.  Northern
Georgia's mountains are like most mountains up and down the Appalachian
chain - forever winding trails through deciduous forests, with lots of cool
overlook views and enough variety to keep things interesting.  Unlike many
other Appalachian trails, however, this one was not very rooty or rocky, so
presented little technical challenge.  Wading through calf-deep streams
caused my socks to wad up a bit, making my toes sore, but I didn't
sense any bothersome hot spots, so was able to keep rolling with just one
fall - smashing one finger and bloodying one knee, but nothing to interfere
with my momentum.

   

The pace was easy enough that conversation was comfortable.  Time
checks at the aid stations showed we were still averaging 5 mph, despite
a fair amount of climbing.  I chatted with a fellow who needed a pacer at
Leadville - Brett Malone - I told him I might be available and would be in touch
about that.  Lots of other interesting conversations with nice people.

   

I rolled into the 21-mile aid station in 4 hours, where I reloaded from my 
drop bag.  I had been running with a woman from Chattanooga named Dreama
Campbell, attempting to talk her out of dropping out because of a sore
calf.  Catching up with her after the aid station we socialized as we rolled
over the next four miles or so of the Pinoti Trail, just enjoying the beauty of
the woods and nice weather.  A mountain biker rode up the trail in a bit of
anxiety and told us we were way off the course, that he had already turned 
around five other people ahead of us also going the wrong way.  Going off
course by four and a half miles is upsetting, to say the least.  Running another
hour to get back on course was down right demotivating.  While I may have
made progress in talking Dreama into continuing the race to its conclusion,
our misdirection was a deal-killer.  Now she was certain she would drop and
I was not too excited about continuing either, especially since the course
headed straight uphill on a gravel road for several miles.  

   

I can run trails all day long and never get tired of it, but running roads during
a trail race is more than anti-climactic.  One of the aid station people drove 
down to where we had gotten off course to provide water for those who
had run the wrong way.  I was grateful as I had nearly exhausted my supply.
As it turned out, nearly a fourth of the field went the wrong way.  While we
ran an extra 8 to 9 miles, some people ahead of us put in up to an extra 12
miles.  Before making the wrong turn I was told I was in 12th place.  That
meant at least five other people were among the leaders of the race.  As
things played out it was apparent that some of the dozen other runners who
wasted a lot of time on the wrong trail were "pissed", to put it mildly.

Dreama and I didn't have an issue with it.  It was our fault, even though it was
clear that the race organizers were partly culpable.  We were enjoying our
day and weren't going to let it impact our attitude, but it was pretty clear that
instead of me convincing her to continue, I bought into her plan to stop,
even though I had no issues other than mild hypothermia after walking up
the road awhile.  We ran when the road was level, but finally resolved to just
walk as the road wound ever upward at a mentally discouraging rate.

Dreama didn't know where her husband Trey was, but when she found him she
was going to abandon.  Given the lack of traffic and general support this far
back into the mountains it could have presented a problem getting out for
someone who actually had to drop.  When her husband drove up the road
behind us, we didn't get into the car, but had him continue up the road to
scout for the aid station.  After two and a half miles he turned around without
finding an end to the climb, so we hopped into the car and called it a day after
about 32 miles and seven hours.

I didn't want to dnf, and I really didn't need to stop; all systems were go.  As
the course went we were still about seven miles from the turnaround at 50K,
straggling at the back of the pack.  I had lost my motivation, but had made a 
friend.  It had been a great day on beautiful trails, one I will remember for
a long time.  Walking another three miles up a dusty gravel road just didn't
excite me.  It wasn't worth a slow time in the books and a momento.  So, we
rode back to retrieve my drop bag, then back to our cars at the start, and
left the scene early, satisfied with the day's accomplishment, all things
considered.

With four other dnf's at ultras in the past year, all for better reasons than this
one, maybe I'm losing my desire.  Having to run slower for injury and age has
softened my resolve.  I love to adventure, but maybe have less patience to 
see some of these to the end.  I'm sensing my ultra days are drawing to a
close, mostly.  The hunger for adventure is always there.  I may have to
adjust my tactics and do more hiking and climbing, as well as shorter races to
accomplish the same thrill.  For a few minutes when we learned we had gone
off course, Dreama and I talked about maybe not turning around.  The trail
was fantastic; we'd have no support, but we'd still end up at the same place
that the race course would take us.  

Maybe it's time to get off the course I've been following in my own life
and continue forward without the support of organized racing !!!!!  Hmmm!