Since this is a semi-invitational, here are some guidelines to help you determine if you are "invited", or, more aptly, not invited:
- If you are even the least bit worried or concerned about getting lost, don't come.
- If you have questions, don't come.
- If you need a crew, don't come.
- If you need toilet paper, don't come.
- If you expect to be pampered in any way shape or form, don't come.
- If you're a whiner, don't come.
- If you're a freeloader, don't come.
- If you're seeking fame and/or fortune, don't come.
- If you're thinking about writing a report about your experience at Wild Oak, don't come.*
- If you crave abuse, if you yearn for abuse, if you are addicted to abuse in any way shape or form (be it physical, mental, sexual, verbal, mathematical, artistic or whatevah), please send an request for entry!
- The above bullet point applies to abusees only. Abusers are not welcome. The only abuser allowed is the trail.
- If you don't like getting rained on, sleeted on, snowed on, or getting muddy while you grind out 25, 100, or 200 miles, don't come.
*We're all going to pretend we didn't see this one, got it?
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| All smiles on loop 1 of TWOT |
TWOT's that you say?
Built in 1979, The Wild Oak Trail is a 27 mile loop with 7,000 feet of ascent through the backcountry of George Washington National Forest in Virginia. In 1988, the legendary Dennis "Animal" Herr organized a 50 mile winter race on the TWOT. Since then, the race has grown to include 25+, 100+, and 200+ mile options, and has spawned a fall version known as "Hot TWOT" (the original one, naturally, is now colloquially known as "Cold TWOT"). On average, there are about two finishers of the Cold TWOT per year.
Like most races, I can't pinpoint when TWOT appeared on my radar. John Kelly's jaw dropping sub-24:00 performance in 2018 certainly brought it to national attention though. I had been thinking about running it for the past few years, when my buddy Nich Mamrak gave me the push I needed with a simple Instagram message:
@nchlsmmrk: Any interest in doing TWOT this February? I am applying and you were the first person that came to mind that might be interested, could car pool, etc. 112 miles, 28k climb
Folks, nothing gets me going quite like someone saying "I have a dumb idea and you're the first person that came to mind." I live for that shit.
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| TWOT 100 map and profile |
TWOT in tarnation am I doing with my life?
Having just Everested in 24 hours in typically chilly January weather, I was feeling confident that I could survive the winter conditions. Since TWOT was about 50 miles longer than the Everesting challenge, I figured 36 hours would be a good time goal to shoot for.
That confidence began to wane as Nich and I drove down to Virginia through a light drizzle, then a steady rain, then an outright downpour. The 200 mile race had started two days prior, and we followed the race's Twitter feed as each runner dropped out one by one, none even reaching the 100 mile mark.
These were veterans of the TWOT 100 who had tons of experience running long distances. What the hell was waiting for us on that course?
We got our answer as we drove into camp on race morning. The North River was lapping up at the sides of the road, swollen from the inch-and-a-half of rain that had fallen. We knew we had to cross the river once per loop and wondered aloud what that was going to be like.
We got to the start with enough time to take the most awkward starting line photo ever, and after a brief pump up speech, RD Antoinette Landragin released us into the wilderness.
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| 100 mile starters, left to right: Nich Mamrak, Pat Heine, Ryan Thorpe, Jeffrey Moore, Zachary Davis, Mike Zinn, and Barry Main |
Alone and loving it
The other runners took off up the first climb, but homeboy ain't about that life. I casually walked behind them, watching them to quickly disappear from view. I have run enough races over the years that I don't worry about how far ahead the other runners get. If things go well, most of them come back to me eventually.
The first climb of TWOT is the infamous Chestnut Ridge climb that Grindstone 100 runners know and love. It cumulatively climbs 3,350' over seven miles to the summit of Little Bald Knob (lol). I've done this climb four times during Grindstone and once in a training run, and it always sucks. There's just no way around that fact. The climb is punctuated by short steep downhill sections, so it's very difficult to get into a rhythm. Despite being on a ridge, the views are mostly obscured by trees.
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| The mist made things a bit more photogenic though |
Lately I've made a conscious effort to be more mindful of the positive aspects of my races, despite the fact that the word "mindful" makes me want to vomit. In that spirit, I tried to identify the silver linings of each obstacle that presented itself.
Silver lining #1: Every other climb in this loop is smaller.
I made it to the top of the climb without an issue, stopping myself once in a while to take some pictures while the conditions allowed. The summit ridge had some spots with impressive drop offs, and I made a mental note to not eat shit and fall off a cliff overnight.
The 2,000' descent to Camp Todd was on a steep but surprisingly smooth section of single track. Unfortunately, there were a dozen trees that had fallen across the trail over the winter.
Silver lining #2: Climbing over downed trees is kind of like stretching and is probably good for me... or something.
At the bottom, I found myself facing a very deep and fast moving North River. I was glad to have poles as I forded the freezing cold, thigh deep water.
Silver lining #3: I am now wide awake.
I made it through the water slowly but without an issue. Volunteer Eric was waiting for me at Camp Todd on the other side, and he greeted me with all the hospitality I've come to expect in semi-supported races: "What took you so long? We were starting to think you were dead!" Glad to see you too, friend.
I was carrying all the nutrition I needed for this loop, so I just refilled my water bottles and got back on the trail. Or rather, I sloshed uphill through an ankle deep river that had trail blazes on it. Yesterday's rain was apparently still making it's way off the mountains.
The climb up to Big Bald Knob (lol) was shorter but steeper than its predecessor. At 4,134', Big Bald Knob is - you guessed it - 200 feet shorter than Little Bald Knob. I relayed my confusion about this to the race organizers afterwards, and they explained that the words "big" and "little" refer to the size of the balds at the summit of each mountain and not to the height of the mountains themselves. I didn't see a bald on either of them, but I'll take their word for it.
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| One of the more easily negotiated downed trees on the course |
The descent from Big Bald was unremarkable except for a short section with a 30% grade. I made it to the bottom without blowing up my quads and considered that a victory. I refilled my bottles again at the road crossing and started the last climb of the loop: Hankey Mountain.
On an elevation profile, Hankey Mountain looks like an afterthought. It's almost a thousand feet shorter than the previous peaks, but it contains the steepest section of the loop: Chinscraper. Aptly named, the Chinscraper climbs 517' in just 0.38 miles for an average grade of 25% and a peak grade over 40%. It's steep enough that you can stand upright and almost touch the ground in front of you in certain spots.
Suffice it to say I didn't set any course records on this climb, but I did happen to see another runner for the first time all day. Jeff Moore, a finisher of many other difficult 100 mile races, was just ahead of me in 6th. It was too early to think about racing, but after 5 hours alone in the woods I figured it would be nice to have some company. I spent a few miles chasing him down a rolling jeep road, appreciative of the fact that he was leading me through a few crucial turns. I finally caught up as we began the final descent into camp, and we got to talking about the weather.
At this point I should mention that the weather had been mild all day with clouds in the morning and some glorious sunshine and 50+ degree temperatures in the afternoon. We were on track to finish this loop under 8 hours (well under my goal of 9 hours per loop), but with limited daylight in mid-February, it was already time to start planning for the night. The forecasts were calling for 20 degree temperatures in the valley with winds gusting to 30 mph. That meant that the wind chill at the summits could approach zero. Looking at the beautiful blue sky above us, it was hard to believe that conditions would deteriorate that much, but we decided we needed to be prepared.
We arrived in camp with 7:40 elapsed, which I consider a pretty solid 100 mile pace, but tied for last place. I spent about 10 minutes in camp making sure I had enough clothing to get through the first night loop. I don't usually like to stop that long, but with limited aid on the course it was important to make sure I had everything I needed.
Night Moves
The big question for this loop was what to do at the river crossing. The RD had told us that we had the option to cross at another spot further upstream where there were stones to hop across, but this added almost a mile to the loop and there was no guarantee that we would even keep our feet dry.
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| Last view for a while |
Ultimately, Jeff convinced me to take the longer route because at this time of day, falling in the freezing water would have almost certainly ended our races. We summited Little Bald together, and I got a bit ahead on the descent. I negotiated the downed trees without too much issue and made the hard right turn to the alternate river crossing. I was pleased to see that the stones were just above the waterline, and a few short jumps got me to the opposite bank in one piece.
Jeff caught back up as I was refilling my bottles at Camp Todd, but he needed to get some clothing out of his pack so I hit the trail ahead of him and unfortunately didn't see him again for the rest of the race. He would go on to finish in 40:25.
Silver lining #4: I'm no longer in last place.
As predicted, the cold weather rolled in, and I progressively added more warm layers. I've gotten pretty good at micromanaging my temperature in races, which, being that I'm a sweaty disgusting bastard, is highly important. First is a Buff around the neck, which always adds a surprising amount of warmth. Then one around the ears. Then gloves, then the waterproof mitten shells, and then finally my rain shell. I had a puffer jacket stowed in my pack in case of emergency but never felt the need to use it.
Armored against the increasingly hostile elements, I finished loop 2 in 8:25, which was fairly consistent with the previous loop considering the addition of an extra mile. I again kept this stop to just 10 minutes, getting some caffeine in my system and grabbing a few slices of bacon from Jose Cardenas, who was volunteering before running the midnight single loop: "Take some bacon. The meat sweats will keep you warm on the climb." I thanked him for the motivation, and he responded, "thank me by running fast!"
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| Race entry was food for the communal aid station and a bundle of firewood. The volunteers kept a fire burning at the start/finish all weekend! |
It was now after midnight, and the cold front was in full swing. The wind howled through the trees on Chestnut Ridge and bits of snow pelted my face. I went to take a sip of water and realized that the mouthpieces of both bottles were freezing. This problem was solved by putting my jacket on over my pack, which then created a new problem: I now had to take off my mittens and unzip my jacket whenever I needed any food or water. Ah, the joys of running in freezing weather!
I once again made the "smart" decision to detour around the deep river crossing. This plan was thrown back in my face when I slipped on an icy rock and plunged my left leg into water up to my knee. I also managed to bang my shin on another rock in the process, which - writing this ten weeks later - appears to have left a permanent mark.
Silver lining #5: Cold feet are great motivation to move fast.
I hobbled into the heated tent at Camp Todd feeling sorry for myself, but I was greeted by Pat and Zack who had both dropped out and were waiting for a ride. I tried to convince them to join me for the rest of the loop, but it was hard enough to convince myself to go back out. So I left and hit the climb up Big Bald, which was still a river but now had sections of fresh ice to keep things interesting.
I won't describe every twist and turn of this third loop, but the bottom line is that it was very cold and I gradually worked myself into a calorie deficit because of my reluctance to take off my jacket to access my food. When the sun came up midway through the loop, the weather started to warm and I slowly worked my way back out of that deficit. I made it through the loop in 9:15, which given the conditions, I'm very pleased with. I had passed Mike Zinn on the descent from Big Bald, which put me in third place out of the five runners remaining. Mike was looking tired but determined and would go on to finish in 41:40.
On the hunt
I spent a few extra minutes at my car getting calories and caffeine in my system. With 26:15 elapsed I headed out for my final lap. That gave me 9:45 to hit my time goal. By all accounts, Nich had solidified his hold on first place and was many hours ahead of me. I was happy just to avoid being lapped. I asked how far ahead the 2nd place runner was.
"Oh you're not going to catch him. He left an hour ago and looked great!" came the response from the RD and volunteers.
"Like hell I'm not!" was what I thought to myself, but I think I responded, "Okie dokie, thanks!" as I left camp.
I'm not usually very competitive, but on the other hand...
- I wanted to prove those volunteers wrong.
- I thought it would be cool for the two Warren County, NJ runners to finish 1st and 2nd (ok, Nich technically lives in NY now, but he grew up just a few towns over from me).
- I wanted to thank Jose and those same volunteers by running fast.
As I headed up Chestnut Ridge for the final time, a bald eagle took off from a tree and flew directly over my head. Patriotic AF. Now I had to chase down second place for America too.
Then something orange in the trail caught my attention. It was an orange peel. I figured the second place guy must have accidentally dropped it. Then a mile later I found another orange peel. Then another. Then another. Each one dropped in the middle of the trail. This was clearly deliberate.
That settles it. This litterbug fuck is going down!
If you're keeping track of my motivations to run fast, they were now: spite, camaraderie, gratitude, patriotism, and spite.
Silver lining #6: Spite is a great motivator.
I charged up Little Bald and ran the descent as quickly as possible. With the sun shining and the weather heating up, I made the decision to wade through the river one more time to save myself the extra mile. The cold water actually felt good on my tired legs. Plus now wading through the semi-frozen river on Big Bald wouldn't bother me.
Big Bald felt steeper than ever, but I hammered down the backside of it, running a pair of 13 and 12 minute miles for the first time in many hours. At the road crossing, I finally spotted him. Mister soon-to-be-third-place litterbug.
"Just how many oranges do you have with you?" I demanded.
"Um. I'm not carrying any oranges," he responded with some confusion.
After some discussion, it became clear that the orange peels were left by a single loop runner who had started with a backpack full of them. I don't want to name names, so we'll just call him Schmarty Schwinn. I politely asked Schmarty after the race not to litter in National Forests and he politely thanked me for informing him about proper race decorum. Just kidding, he threw a temper tantrum and made the world's laziest TWOT pun in retaliation. Eat a dick Schmarty. Eat all the dicks.
Regardless, I still had those four other reasons to run fast. I took off up the trail to Hankey Mountain with the other runner right on my heels. I stepped on the pedal harder and he stayed with me. We arrived at the base of Chin Scraper and it was time for me to make my move... except that he zipped right up the climb and left me in his dust. It became clear that I might have blown my wad too early in this loop, metaphorically speaking of course. My legs were not cooperating.
I arrived at the top panting and wheezing to find this runner waiting patiently.
"Hey man, do you want to run this in together?" he asked.
"Shit, yeah, I really do." I replied.
Silver lining #7: Running with other people is fun.
Mister soon-to-be-tied-for-second non-litterbug was actually named Barry. Barry is a remarkably cool dude. With no one close behind us and my sub-36 hour goal well in hand, we enjoyed a leisurely jog through the final ten miles of the course. We swapped stories and learned the sort of personal details about each other's lives that only come out after many hours of running on a trail. At one point, he also politely waited while I pooped behind a tree. Which was nice of him.
We arrived at the finish in 35:27:00, announcing "We are tied!" just so there was no confusion. I had suggested holding hands, but I guess our words were effective enough.
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| Me and Barry showing off our sweet 3D printed finisher trophies which are shaped like the course map |
Nich had finished many hours earlier, taking the win and setting the fastest Cold TWOT time by anyone not named John Kelly. His reward was having to sleep in the car for seven hours while Barry and I had our bonding session.
With the sun setting for the second time and the weather cooling again, it was time to head back to civilization and indulge in Virginia's finest cuisine: Waffle House and Cracker Barrel.
Thank you to the race directors Antoinette and Guy; to Eric, Jose, and the other volunteers; and to everyone who came out to race (not you, Schmarty). TWOT represents the perfect intersection of wilderness, community, and sadomasochism that I seek out in races. One of these days, I'd like to try the midnight single loop, but I don't know if my soul will ever be ready for another four loop effort.
Distance: 115.05 miles
Elevation: 28.805 feet
