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HOME >>
Kings of the Mountains
Kings of the Mountains
By Ryan Wallace
Reprinted from © Southern Living Magazine, September 2007
The start and finish lines are more than 200 miles apart - connected by a roller coaster of memories.
Iıve been awake for 26 hours, and Iım jogging along a narrow country road somewhere north of Burnsville. My teammates have gone ahead to the next checkpoint to rest. One of them waits for me to finish so he can start again. More than 50 miles from the finish line, we are in last place. As my right leg starts to cramp, my tired mind tries to piece together how I got here. One of our runners took a wrong turn about 130 miles ago. But that was only the beginning.
You Want Me To Do What?
When someone asks you to run a 208-mile race, the carrot at the end of the stick better be large and delicious. Fortunately for my editor, I have a hard time saying "no" to outlandish adventures - even one that involves running up and down mountains on zero sleep with nine perfectly good strangers. This is a brief and unjust summation of the Blue Ridge Relay.
The relay race in question begins just over the border in Virginia near the base of Mount Rogers. Only a few miles pass before the course crosses into the Tar Heel State and roller coasters its way through the mountains to downtown Asheville. The meandering path has been broken into 36 predetermined legs of varying lengths and difficulties - from a 2 1/2 -mile downhill stroll to stretch of road that climbs 1,400 feet in 6 1/2 miles.
A team, fielding between 4 and 12 runners, must follow and rotate in a set order once the race begins and usually splits into two groups that travel in vans or SUVs that leap frog each other through the course. The ideal scenario, of course, would be a full squad with each person running 3 legs that cover an average total distance of about 17 miles.
Southern Stride
My team has 10 runners, all with enough math skills to quickly figure out that some of us will need to run 4 legs. I know I am with the right crew when I learn the team name - Southern Stride. Our ragtag bunch includes a few lawyers, a CEO, a financial analyst, a contractor, a marketing manager, a Hollywood actor, and a writer. We hail from across the South - Tennessee, Georgia, Virginia, and Alabama. None of us are elite athletes; all of us are a little crazy. For the most part, we do fairly normal things on a daily basis. But weıve come to conquer the abnormal.
The Stories We Can Tell
At the starting line, race coordinator Ken Sevensky, warns us to be on the lookout for mountain lions and bears along the course.
You better believe that his words of warning race through my mind during my second leg, a lonely midnight jaunt down a dark, deserted highway. Wearing a reflective vest, two flashing clip lights, and a runner's headlamp, I'm lit up like a Vegas slot machine. The equipment ensures my safety, but in my head I resemble a shiny morsel of goodness to a large and curious animal lurking in the woods. Needless to say, I record my fastest time during this segment.
Stories like these abound. When we arenıt running, we cram, five each, into smelly SUVs, survive on peanut butter sandwiches and Gatorade, and exchange war stories with other teams at the exchange zones. We watch the sun set behind Grandfather Mountain before we run over it. We jog along the scenic New River and then jump in it to cool off.
A seemingly endless string of Christmas-tree farms becomes the official backdrop of the race. Small mountain towns become inviting oases. Linville's Pixie Motor Inn serves as an impromptu team headquarters, long enough to shower and to repack the vehicles. At Fabio's restaurant in Newland, we managed to refuel with a pasta dinner. Desperate to rest our eyes and our bodies, we curl up in sleeping bags on the front porch of Mt. Carmel Baptist Church, just outside of Spruce Pine - but not long enough to sleep.
Falling Back
We also take a wrong turn. It happens early, and it is an honest mistake.
One of our fastest guys misses a sign and veers off course. By the time we backtrack and correct ourselves, my team is a full 45-minutes off the pace.
At this fateful stumbling block, less than 25 miles into the race, the real competition starts for team Southern Stride. Gradually, reality creeps in, and our goals shift. When the race started, we wanted to beat as many of the other 34 teams as possible. After the wrong turn, we hope to beat at least one. Physical and mental fatigue take over, making enemies of our battered bodies. Just finishing will be a monumental victory. The miles get longer, and the hills get steeper. And as we creep toward the finish line, the crowds at each exchange zone get smaller. The other teams slowly leave us behind.
Pretty soon, the only person waiting for us at each checkpoint is the volunteer in charge of logging each teamıs time. In between these tradeoffs when we are alone, the temptation to cheat permeates through the group. We toy with the idea of picking up our runners driving them to within a half mile of each exchange, and then dropping them off to run the rest of the way to the checkpoint. But we resist this urge on several occasions.
Then it happens. In the middle of the night on a foggy road, Dave Waddell finds himself facing the third steep hill of his leg. He begins to walkshoulders hunched, head down, and his body leaning into the hill as if he were walking into a gale force wind. It's painful to watch. We creep along with him in the truck and utter failing words of encouragement. Finally, someone opens the door. We tell Dave to get in, and offer to drive him to the top of the hill. No one will think less of him. No shame. Without raising his head, he mumbles a refusal. "No, Iım walking up this mountain," he says.
We follow Dave up the hill. By the time we reach the top, without any discussion, we all know that none of our runners would be driven through any part of the course. If it takes us three days, we are going to finish every mile on footno cutting corners.
Worst is First
A massive dump truck blows past and shoves aside a wall of wind that nearly topples me into a ditch. Traffic is picking up, so I know that Iım almost to Burnsville. That thought, along with the adrenaline rush that comes from getting grazed by a large truck, gives me a boost of energy, and my cramping legs manage to carry me all 8 miles uphill to the checkpoint. My determined teammates cover the final legs until Captain Reggie, escorted by members of Southern Stride, crosses the finish line in 35th place - 1 hour and 24 minutes behind 34th place, more than 11 hours behind the winners.
It takes us nearly 34 hours to cover 208 miles. We congratulate each other with big smiles and high fives, talking about what a blast we just had. The pain and misery that engulfed us just a few hours earlier suddenly becomes a pleasant memory that we will tell over and over again. As the top three finishers are announced at the awards ceremony and walk up together to accept their medals, I sit back and watch with the members of Southern Stride and realize how good it feels to be on a winning team.
Building a Race
The first Blue Ridge Relay was in 2005, but planning for it started two years earlier. To create the course, Ken Sevensky, a craftsman from Fleetwood, secured permission from seven municipalities, seven county sheriff departments, and the state highway patrol, among others. He also approached a long list of churches, schools, and local business to serve as exchange zones. Park staff, church members, youth groups, and local high school and college students volunteered to man the exchange zones.
"I wanted to bring this kind of relay to the Southeast and to share the beauty of the place that I call home," Ken says. "I wanted runners of all abilities to experience the relay, the mountains, and our wonderful communities."
For more information visit www.blueridgerelay.com.
© Southern Living, Inc. September 2007. Used with permission.
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