Saturday, 3:24am - 23 hours elapsed
I walked into the Curtis Creek Campground aid station at mile 80, hours behind schedule. I was tired, sore, nauseous, and - for some reason - hiccuping uncontrollably.
"That -hic!- whole section was -hic!- bullshit," I informed my crew.
I collapsed into a camp chair and pondered how best to unfuck myself, while I held my breath in a desperate attempt to cure my hiccups.
I still had to complete a 4,000 foot climb and descent to get to the finish.
What the hell is a Hellbender?
Established in 2018, the Hellbender 100 is a rugged trail race in highest mountain range of the Eastern US. With multiple summit elevations over 6,000 feet and valleys under 2,000 feet, the Black Mountain Range is uniquely capable of offering the kind of massive sustained climbs and descents that are typically only found in western mountain races like Hardrock or Wasatch.
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| View of the Black Mountains from The Pinnacle Photo from hellbender100.com |
With five separate climbs of 3,000 feet or more, and many smaller climbs in between, Hellbender boasts an impressive 26,000 feet of total ascent. Adding to the difficulty is the heat and humidity of North Carolina in the spring. As ultramarathon aficionado Walter Handloser said, "It's almost as if someone took a Colorado race and wrapped it in a southern skin. Then deep fried it."
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| Hellbender 100 race map |
The race starts in the small western NC town of Old Fort and climbs north into Pisgah National Forest, where it makes three loops before returning back to Old Fort.
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| Hellbender 100 profile |
The climbing and technical terrain is heavily front loaded, i.e. the highest and rockiest peaks are primarily in the first half of the race, which led me to believe that I could possibly negative split if I ran a smart race (spoiler: I didn't).
Okay, but what actually is a Hellbender?
Despite sounding like a Dungeons and Dragons character, a hellbender is a rare giant salamander found in parts of Appalachia.
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| A wild Photo by Ryan Wagner |
This magnificent beast is also affectionately known as the snot otter, lasagna lizard, mud-devil, or grampus. So kudos to the organizers for choosing the most badass of these monikers for their race. I don't think I would feel nearly as cool running the Snot Otter 100.
The Pinnacle of the Race
After an 11 hour drive to NC and not nearly enough sleep, I found myself standing under a starting banner in a rural Boy Scout camp. With an understated "okay, go" from RD Aaron Saft, we were off into the darkness.
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| Start of the Hellbender 100 Photo by White Blaze Marketing |
I started at the back of the pack and watched as dozens of headlamps disappeared into the darkness ahead of me. I settled into an easy trot and found myself side by side with Billy Richards and Walter Handloser, who are both attempting to set the record for most 100 mile races completed in a calendar year. Let me tell you there is nothing more humbling than finding out that your "A Race" for the spring is just number 13 out of 50 for these guys.
Nevertheless, it was comforting to find myself in their company since these two know how to pace 100 miles better than just about anyone on the planet. Consequently, when we found ourselves dead fucking last at mile four, I didn't worry too much about it.
At mile 5, the course began it's first climb, a 7 mile 4,000 foot ascent of The Pinnacle. Unfortunately, any momentum we had was shattered a quarter mile in, as a massive train crossing stopped us in our tracks for a full two minutes.
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| To be completely honest, this is not ideal |
Although two minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of a 24+ hour race, it's difficult to be patient in situations like this. I joked to the other runners that if I finished in 24:02, I was going to be pissed. Thankfully I would miss my time goal by much much more than that.
Despite the sun peaking over the mountains in the distance, the temperature dropped steadily as we climbed, and the wind became more intense on the exposed Heartbreak Ridge Trail. The weather reports had shown a chance of thunderstorms all day, and I stopped to put on a long sleeve shirt. Hypothermia is one of the leading causes for DNFs in ultramarathons, and I wasn't about to take any chances this early in the race.
I passed the time by talking to other runners about random things. I picked Walter's brain about the upcoming Ouray 100. I thanked Billy for making my frequent racing look pretty reasonable by comparison. An XOSKIN ambassador told me way too damn much about the gear he was wearing. That kind of stuff.
The last few pitches of the climb grew increasingly steep and technical, which was a sign of things to come. With a final 500 foot push, we summitted The Pinnacle, an island of rock overlooking a foggy green landscape.
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| View from The Pinnacle on a clear day Photo by HikeWNC |
The wind was brisk, and I only stopped for a moment to appreciate the view before heading back for the tree line. I checked in at the Blue Ridge Parkway just below the summit in 57th place of the 81 starters. The descent was a rocky, muddy, slippery mess, but it was made much more tolerable by the company of two badass ladies: Lee Conner and Michelle McLellan. Lee was running her third ultra in three weeks and Michelle had just paced her husband for 50 miles the previous weekend. Clearly I'm not the only trail runner that has issues with moderation.
Despite their lack of rest, these ladies pushed the pace on the descent, and we dropped a handful of 9 and 10 minute miles, which is pretty quick for me in a 100 mile race. Lee occasionally ran backwards or sideways so she could talk to me more easily while she ran. The general format of our conversation was:
Lee: Hey Ryan!
Me: Yeah?
Lee: Have you ever thought of running [race XYZ]?
Me: Maybe some day...
Lee: You should do it! It's great because [many legitimate reasons].
Needless to say, my bucket list of races has now doubled after spending a quarter of this race with these women.
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| "Thick thighs save lives" —Alex Thorpe Photo by Vasu Mandava |
After a two hour long 4,000' descent, we reached the Curtis Creek Campground aid station for the first time. It was now 10am, and the weather was starting to heat up, while the humidity from the storm clouds overhead made the air sticky and oppressive. I downed a few cups of the most delicious strawberry avocado smoothie I've ever had (mental note for future races), refilled my water bottles, and got back on the trail.
Meeting Mrs. Snook and Mr. Mitchell
Lee and Michelle were in and out of the aid station faster than me, which was impressive since I like to treat aid stations like a NASCAR pit stop. I caught back up to them at the trail head. Immediately I was thankful to have their company again as we began a 3,000 foot climb of the Snook's Nose Trail.
The first mile of Snook's Nose gains 1,063 feet. But it's actually much steeper than that since there are a handful of flat sections mixed into this ascent. The footing was muddy and slick, and I leaned heavily onto my trekking poles for extra traction. This single mile took 29 minutes, and it felt even slower. The trail "leveled off" after this and only gained 725 feet in the following mile, and eventually we found ourselves passing the increasingly higher summits of Snook's Nose, Laurel Knob, and Green Knob.
The ladies bombed down the jeep road descent to Neal's Creek aid station, and I happily let them go. I pulled into the aid station in 38th place, feeling a little warm but otherwise not too damaged from the first two massive climbs. I met my crew for the first time here, which consisted of my mom and mother-in-law. I was more than an hour behind the schedule that I had given them, so I made a point of assuring them that I felt fine. The terrain was just more difficult than I had anticipated.
Back on the trail, we were faced with - you guessed it! - another huge climb. This time it was a 3,500 foot ascent of the Mt. Mitchell Trail to its namesake summit. Once again, I was relieved to have the company of Lee and Michelle to pass the time during this 2+ hour climb. An early highlight was Michelle's story about meeting some random guy at a race and bragging to him that she had finished 3rd at the Barkley Fall Classic. The guy would turn out to be John Kelly (of Barkley Marathons fame), although apparently he was very impressed by her podium finish.
The other highlight of the climb was when I got enough cell reception for a quick phone call to Alex, who was working back in NJ. I let her know that I was doing well but was way behind my time estimates. Getting to talk to her was great for my mental state and helped keep my mind off the ever increasing heat (and the fact that I was working just a little too hard on this climb).
After a few hours straight of 20+ minute miles, we reached the summit of Mount Mitchell, snapped a few photos of each other, and headed down to the aid station just below the summit. I inhaled an avocado wrap (another mental note here for future races), gulped down as much water as my stomach could handle, and got back on the trail for a wild traverse of the Black Mountain Crest Trail.
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| Easing into Neal's Creek Photo by Valerie Thorpe |
The ladies bombed down the jeep road descent to Neal's Creek aid station, and I happily let them go. I pulled into the aid station in 38th place, feeling a little warm but otherwise not too damaged from the first two massive climbs. I met my crew for the first time here, which consisted of my mom and mother-in-law. I was more than an hour behind the schedule that I had given them, so I made a point of assuring them that I felt fine. The terrain was just more difficult than I had anticipated.
Back on the trail, we were faced with - you guessed it! - another huge climb. This time it was a 3,500 foot ascent of the Mt. Mitchell Trail to its namesake summit. Once again, I was relieved to have the company of Lee and Michelle to pass the time during this 2+ hour climb. An early highlight was Michelle's story about meeting some random guy at a race and bragging to him that she had finished 3rd at the Barkley Fall Classic. The guy would turn out to be John Kelly (of Barkley Marathons fame), although apparently he was very impressed by her podium finish.
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| Hazy view from the Mt. Mitchell Trail |
The other highlight of the climb was when I got enough cell reception for a quick phone call to Alex, who was working back in NJ. I let her know that I was doing well but was way behind my time estimates. Getting to talk to her was great for my mental state and helped keep my mind off the ever increasing heat (and the fact that I was working just a little too hard on this climb).
After a few hours straight of 20+ minute miles, we reached the summit of Mount Mitchell, snapped a few photos of each other, and headed down to the aid station just below the summit. I inhaled an avocado wrap (another mental note here for future races), gulped down as much water as my stomach could handle, and got back on the trail for a wild traverse of the Black Mountain Crest Trail.
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| View from the summit of Mt. Mitchell |
The Black Mountain Crest Trail had a distinctly Catskill-like quality, which made me feel right at home but did not make the terrain any easier. The footing was extremely rocky, steep, and damp, and often required the use of all four limbs. The trail eschewed the use of switchbacks, essentially drawing a straight line between each of the highest summits in the Black Mountain range. Some of the particularly steep pitches had fixed ropes to aid hikers, and I made liberal use of these and any other handholds available to me.
The ridge was blanketed by an ancient and dense spruce-fir forest, which retained the moisture evaporating from the ground just as effectively as it held out the rays of the sun. The summit clearings occasionally offered brief vistas into the distance, but the view was mostly the beautifully dark primeval forest.
In just over three miles of trail, we had climbed and descended seven of the highest peaks on the east coast: Mt. Mitchell, Mt. Craig, Big Tom, Balsam Cone, Cattail Peak, and Potato Hill. Then it was time for a brutally steep and rocky descent on the Colbert Ridge Trail, which is perhaps best known as one of the signature descents in the Quest for the Crest 50K.
It took a full 90 quad-killing minutes to reach the bottom of this 3,500 foot drop. I had gone just 15 miles since the last time I had seen my crew, but that section had taken well over 5 hours. With 13+ hours elapsed and over 15,000 feet of elevation gained in the first half of the race, I felt like I had just completed Manitou's Revenge, but I still had another 50 miles of running ahead of me. I had moved up to 21st place, using the technical descent to my advantage and passing a few other runners at aid stations.
It was at this aid station that the first of several strange things happened to my body. As I was fiddling with my watch, the tip of my thumb randomly started to bleed. I hadn't cut it on anything, but blood was gushing out fast enough that droplets were falling on my gear as I sorted through it. As far as I can figure, the skin was just so waterlogged and/or raw from using trekking poles that it split open. Weird. But not the weirdest thing that would happen to me before the end of the race.
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| Billy Richards at the start of the Black Mountain Crest Trail Photo by White Blaze Marketing |
The ridge was blanketed by an ancient and dense spruce-fir forest, which retained the moisture evaporating from the ground just as effectively as it held out the rays of the sun. The summit clearings occasionally offered brief vistas into the distance, but the view was mostly the beautifully dark primeval forest.
In just over three miles of trail, we had climbed and descended seven of the highest peaks on the east coast: Mt. Mitchell, Mt. Craig, Big Tom, Balsam Cone, Cattail Peak, and Potato Hill. Then it was time for a brutally steep and rocky descent on the Colbert Ridge Trail, which is perhaps best known as one of the signature descents in the Quest for the Crest 50K.
It took a full 90 quad-killing minutes to reach the bottom of this 3,500 foot drop. I had gone just 15 miles since the last time I had seen my crew, but that section had taken well over 5 hours. With 13+ hours elapsed and over 15,000 feet of elevation gained in the first half of the race, I felt like I had just completed Manitou's Revenge, but I still had another 50 miles of running ahead of me. I had moved up to 21st place, using the technical descent to my advantage and passing a few other runners at aid stations.
It was at this aid station that the first of several strange things happened to my body. As I was fiddling with my watch, the tip of my thumb randomly started to bleed. I hadn't cut it on anything, but blood was gushing out fast enough that droplets were falling on my gear as I sorted through it. As far as I can figure, the skin was just so waterlogged and/or raw from using trekking poles that it split open. Weird. But not the weirdest thing that would happen to me before the end of the race.
Bumbling on Buncombe
While the Black Mountain Crest Trail was difficult because of its lack of switchbacks, the Buncombe Horse Trail suffered from the exact opposite issue. Or rather, I suffered from it. This climb was 5 miles of switchback hell. Here is my GPS track from two miles of the climb.
Some of these switchbacks felt like they were four steps long. Step, step, step, step, turn, step, step, step step, turn, and repeat until dizzy. At one point, I stopped to take a picture just so I had something different to do. Here you go:
At least we had sort-of-a-view of the sunset.
At the top of the climb, we were rewarded with... muddy and waterlogged ATV trails. Seriously, fuck this whole trail.
Despite several miles of flat terrain after the climb, the footing was so soggy that it was impossible to run. I slogged along at a pace barely faster than a walk. Thankfully this traverse from hell was broken up by an aid station staffed by an amazing group of ladies who had hiked in a giant bowl of bacon! This was a nice little mental and physical boost since my Tailwind nutrition was starting to disagree with my stomach after 16+ hours of running, and I needed calories badly.
The descent was slow and unmemorable, except that I ran into Walter again. He was taking his time, unwilling to push too hard and jeopardize his next 37 (!) upcoming 100 mile races. Unfortunately, he passed me on a small uphill, and that would be the last I saw of him in the race.
I arrived at Neal's Creek aid station for the second time, now in 16th place. It was nice to see my mom and mother-in-law after such a frustrating section of the course. I sat for a few minutes to talk to them and collect myself, but apparently I was still quick enough for another crew to comment that I looked like a man on a mission.
Then it was back out for a "short" 1,000 foot climb and a few "rolling hills" until I would see them again.
The "rolling hills" after this would turn out to be a nightmarish series of 30% grade climbs and descents on a ridge line known as the Leadmine Trail. Each one was about 100-200 feet high, which turned out to be just short enough to completely kill any rhythm I could establish. My quads screamed on every descent, and my lungs couldn't keep up on the climbs. I was falling apart.
After what seemed like an eternity on this three mile section of godforsaken trail, I began the gentle descent down to Curtis Creek Campground. Unfortunately, this is where my body began to stage a full scale rebellion. For the first time in my life, I got the hiccups while running a race. And not just gentle funny little hiccups. These were violent to the point where I could barely keep the contents of my stomach in place. I tried to hold my breath to get rid of them, but my oxygen starved brain threatened to shut down. Not wanting to pass out on a remote trail, I slowly walked into the aid station.
I was greeted with cheers and bright lights, but my enthusiasm for this adventure was fading.
"That -hic!- whole section was -hic!- bullshit," I informed my crew.
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| Buncombe Horse Trail map |
Some of these switchbacks felt like they were four steps long. Step, step, step, step, turn, step, step, step step, turn, and repeat until dizzy. At one point, I stopped to take a picture just so I had something different to do. Here you go:
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| Sunset from the Buncombe Horse Trail |
At least we had sort-of-a-view of the sunset.
At the top of the climb, we were rewarded with... muddy and waterlogged ATV trails. Seriously, fuck this whole trail.
Despite several miles of flat terrain after the climb, the footing was so soggy that it was impossible to run. I slogged along at a pace barely faster than a walk. Thankfully this traverse from hell was broken up by an aid station staffed by an amazing group of ladies who had hiked in a giant bowl of bacon! This was a nice little mental and physical boost since my Tailwind nutrition was starting to disagree with my stomach after 16+ hours of running, and I needed calories badly.
The descent was slow and unmemorable, except that I ran into Walter again. He was taking his time, unwilling to push too hard and jeopardize his next 37 (!) upcoming 100 mile races. Unfortunately, he passed me on a small uphill, and that would be the last I saw of him in the race.
I arrived at Neal's Creek aid station for the second time, now in 16th place. It was nice to see my mom and mother-in-law after such a frustrating section of the course. I sat for a few minutes to talk to them and collect myself, but apparently I was still quick enough for another crew to comment that I looked like a man on a mission.
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| A cool shot from earlier in the day Photo by White Blaze Marketing |
Then it was back out for a "short" 1,000 foot climb and a few "rolling hills" until I would see them again.
Lead Legs on Leadmine
I realized half way up the "short" climb that I was running out of steam. My calorie deficit was starting to catch up with me. At the top, we crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway, and I sat down on a rock and chatted with a course marshal while I nursed an energy gel, desperately trying to add some fuel to my sputtering engine.The "rolling hills" after this would turn out to be a nightmarish series of 30% grade climbs and descents on a ridge line known as the Leadmine Trail. Each one was about 100-200 feet high, which turned out to be just short enough to completely kill any rhythm I could establish. My quads screamed on every descent, and my lungs couldn't keep up on the climbs. I was falling apart.
After what seemed like an eternity on this three mile section of godforsaken trail, I began the gentle descent down to Curtis Creek Campground. Unfortunately, this is where my body began to stage a full scale rebellion. For the first time in my life, I got the hiccups while running a race. And not just gentle funny little hiccups. These were violent to the point where I could barely keep the contents of my stomach in place. I tried to hold my breath to get rid of them, but my oxygen starved brain threatened to shut down. Not wanting to pass out on a remote trail, I slowly walked into the aid station.
I was greeted with cheers and bright lights, but my enthusiasm for this adventure was fading.
"That -hic!- whole section was -hic!- bullshit," I informed my crew.
I collapsed into a camp chair and pondered how best to unfuck myself, while I held my breath in a desperate attempt to cure my hiccups.
Once they subsided, I tried to eat anything and everything that was offered to me. Soda? Yes please! Pizza rolls? Why the hell not? Another strawberry avocado smoothie? Now we're talking!
I stayed in that seat for a full 10 minutes, which probably beats my previous record by a factor of two. By the time I got up, my stomach was full and my quads and hamstrings had completely seized up. I shambled back onto the trail looking so zombie-like that my mom considered throwing me in the car and ending my race for me. Ah, a mother's love!
I found a nice flat rock in the middle of the trail, sat down with my head on my arms, and promptly fell into a deep sleep. The sounds of the nearby river faded away, and I even had a short dream.
"Hey, are you okay?"
It was my human alarm clock working to perfection. I had been asleep for probably 30 seconds, and I actually woke up feeling a little refreshed. I'll make another mental note of that for future races.
The two of us slogged on together in silence for the next few miles. I got ahead of him briefly, but had to stop and sit down when my hiccups returned. My body was clearly using every weapon at its disposal to tell me it wanted to stop moving.
With 27 hours elapsed in the race I reached the top of the final climb beneath the summit of Bald Knob. The sun had risen on the second day of the race, and all that remained was a 3,000 foot descent on Heartbreak Ridge, following the initial climb of the race.
I downed another energy gel and willed my legs to start running after four solid hours of hiking uphill. They responded slowly and painfully, but they responded nonetheless. A 14 minute first mile gave way to an 11 minute second mile and then another one.
All of a sudden, I was legitimately moving well for the first time in hours. Apparently, even after 27 hours of running I'm still able to magically pull a fast downhill finish out of thin air. I passed the handful of runners who had just passed me on the previous climb, and then I picked off a couple more for good measure.
With a half mile to go, I put my foot on the gas... and promptly lost sight of any trail markers. Had I made a wrong turn in my enthusiastic descent? I backtracked a quarter mile to the last intersection and spotted a pink ribbon just before the turn but nothing after it. Which way was I supposed to go? I followed the other trail for a few hundred feet but didn't see any markers there either.
Well screw it, might as well pick a direction, I thought as I retraced my steps in the initial direction I had gone. Finally I spotted a ribbon ahead, and just beyond it was the finish line. I ran across with a big smile on my face despite the anticlimactic final mile. I was finally done!
My final time was 28:45:26, which was almost four hours slower than my goal but still good enough for 14th place.
Once they subsided, I tried to eat anything and everything that was offered to me. Soda? Yes please! Pizza rolls? Why the hell not? Another strawberry avocado smoothie? Now we're talking!
I stayed in that seat for a full 10 minutes, which probably beats my previous record by a factor of two. By the time I got up, my stomach was full and my quads and hamstrings had completely seized up. I shambled back onto the trail looking so zombie-like that my mom considered throwing me in the car and ending my race for me. Ah, a mother's love!
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| Shambling into an aid station late in the race Photo by Vasu Mandava |
Happiness is a warm rock
The next four hours of climbing (that hurts to type) were not pretty. A quarter of the way up, I started to fall asleep while hiking. I couldn't keep my eyes open, and I started to veer from one side of the gravel road to the other. I spotted another runner behind me and decided that I would get some sleep and that he would be my alarm.I found a nice flat rock in the middle of the trail, sat down with my head on my arms, and promptly fell into a deep sleep. The sounds of the nearby river faded away, and I even had a short dream.
"Hey, are you okay?"
It was my human alarm clock working to perfection. I had been asleep for probably 30 seconds, and I actually woke up feeling a little refreshed. I'll make another mental note of that for future races.
The two of us slogged on together in silence for the next few miles. I got ahead of him briefly, but had to stop and sit down when my hiccups returned. My body was clearly using every weapon at its disposal to tell me it wanted to stop moving.
With 27 hours elapsed in the race I reached the top of the final climb beneath the summit of Bald Knob. The sun had risen on the second day of the race, and all that remained was a 3,000 foot descent on Heartbreak Ridge, following the initial climb of the race.
I downed another energy gel and willed my legs to start running after four solid hours of hiking uphill. They responded slowly and painfully, but they responded nonetheless. A 14 minute first mile gave way to an 11 minute second mile and then another one.
All of a sudden, I was legitimately moving well for the first time in hours. Apparently, even after 27 hours of running I'm still able to magically pull a fast downhill finish out of thin air. I passed the handful of runners who had just passed me on the previous climb, and then I picked off a couple more for good measure.
With a half mile to go, I put my foot on the gas... and promptly lost sight of any trail markers. Had I made a wrong turn in my enthusiastic descent? I backtracked a quarter mile to the last intersection and spotted a pink ribbon just before the turn but nothing after it. Which way was I supposed to go? I followed the other trail for a few hundred feet but didn't see any markers there either.
Well screw it, might as well pick a direction, I thought as I retraced my steps in the initial direction I had gone. Finally I spotted a ribbon ahead, and just beyond it was the finish line. I ran across with a big smile on my face despite the anticlimactic final mile. I was finally done!
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| Last few steps of the Hellbender 100 |
My final time was 28:45:26, which was almost four hours slower than my goal but still good enough for 14th place.
Closing Thoughts
I cannot thank my mom and Julie enough for taking four days out of their very busy lives to support me at this race. You ladies were a huge reason why I was able to finish this monstrous race! I would also like to thank Aaron Saft and the other race organizers for designing and implementing such an audacious event.
The Hellbender 100 is a beautiful and brutally difficult race. Talking to Aaron after the race, he was proud of the amount of technical terrain that they had packed into 100 miles of trail. With some time to think about it, I'm glad that this race challenged me as much as it did. I learned how to dig myself out of some unique situations that I have never faced at a race before (random bleeding, hiccups, sleep deprivation, nutritional deficit). And in keeping with my theme for the year, I spent more time on this course than in any other race in my life.
I was initially disappointed with my time until I looked up the results. Had I finished in my anticipated 25 hours I would have been fourth overall, which was probably too ambitious given my lackluster training during the winter and spring. That being said, I would love to go back and give this race a more honest effort next year. With better training, better race day execution, and a little bit of luck, I think I could negative split this race some day (that's a lot of talk from someone who ran a five hour positive split!).
So take notice, Black Mountains: I intend to come back next year with my A Game. Better bring yours too!
