Catoctin Mountain / Brooks I.D. (Inspire Daily)

The view from Hog Rock, the highest overlook we could find on trail during a morning trail run on Catoctin Mountain in western Maryland.

A total loss. That's the way I would describe trail running on Maryland's Eastern Shore in the thick of summer. Wicked black flies, rampant poison ivy, and stealthy ticks, are just a few of the reasons you want to steer clear of some of the best fall, winter, spring running spots, including our mecca, Tuckahoe State Park.

When my feet aren't running on trails, they are waiting and plotting the next time they can shoot down single track or quick-step a downhill. That's the enthusiasm I took with me on a recent family trip to Catoctin Mountain Park and Cunningham Falls State Park in Thurmont, Maryland.

Trail running wasn't the reason for the trip, but Andrew Southworth and I had designs on waking up early one morning and exploring the falls, going as high up Catoctin as we could figure, and getting our bearings with a mountain scamper. I use the term mountain as a relative term--big by Eastern Shore standards, a hill by New England/western NC standards, and we won't compare west coast.

Andrew Southworth adeptly points out Cunningham Falls behind him.

Overindulgence coupled with sleepless kids in WPA-era cabins is not the best way to get ready for an early morning run on unfamiliar terrain. But Andrew and I were determined and happy, if dazed and confused and took off from the Misty Mount Cabins, map and NUUN-infused water in hand.

We circumnavigated a ranging loop that connected the park's Falls Nature Trail to Cunningham Falls, then turned us up the mountain to Hog Rock (1610 ft), shot us around to the Blue Ridge Summit Overlook (1520ft), and then rolled us down mostly downhill single track to connect us back to the park road to the cabins.

Unlike Tuckahoe, rocks far outnumbered roots, the climbing was serious, and the downhills could have landed you stranded with a misstep. In short, our 6-ish mile loop with a good bit of climb and descent, was a blast. One that should become part of a Rise Up Runner group run this fall. A seemingly unknown trail running playground, only about a two-hour drive from Easton.

Brooks - "Inspire Daily" Program

The best partnerships, and the only kind I am looking for in my running adventures, are those that benefit both parties. In my case, I run in Brooks running shoes. I've set my personal record times for 10 miles, half-marathon, and marathon wearing Brooks Adrenaline GTS's. And my Brooks Cascadia 2's carried my fresh then weary legs over the 50 miles of Appalachian Trail, C&O Canal Towpath, then winding country roads to finish the JFK 50-miler. I run in Brooks because they fit my feet best and I dig what they are about as a company.

I was interested when I heard about the Brooks I.D. (Inspire Daily) program, where Brooks invites non-elite runners who are active in their running communities, whose running and activities inspire others (or aim to), to apply to become part of a team of Brooks ambassadors, spreading the company's mojo (or in Brooks's case, MoGo, BioMogo, to be exact), and evangelizing to the running masses. In exchange, Brooks I.D. runners get sweet discounts on shoes, apparel, etc., help test new gear, and get networked in to the other I.D. runners.

I went from interested to psyched when I applied and was accepted as a new Brooks I.D. runner. Now I get to work with a company with whom I was aligning myself already and of whose brand I am a fan. My adventures in distance and trail running, with writing, and hanging with the Rise Up Runners, connect with the shoes that are already on my feet. Pretty cool.

Next up? Looking for some new trails for fall RUR road trips. Figuring out what races I can get on the fall schedule. And enjoying early morning runs as the weather gets (a little) cooler. Stay tuned...

(How the Hell Did I Wind Up as the) Anchor Man

After a tag from Michael "Wood Frog" Keene, Valliant begins the final 19.8 miles of the Vermont 50-mile relay from Dugdale's aid station.

I was supposed to run the middle section. Until some re-routing switched leg distances, and the final leg went from 16 miles to nearly 20. I had logged the most miles, I tend to run like a madman on the downhills, which were most plentiful on the last leg, and so I ended up running the anchor leg of this beast.

If you want to boost your runner's ego (at least at first), run the final leg of a relay, where most of the runners are running the full 50 miles themselves and already have 30 miles of brutal hills on their legs. It's a bit unfair. And as your passing runners on the trail, and they are out of breath, shaking their heads at your fresh legs and spring in your step, and congratulating you on doing such a great job, you can only reply, "Nah, I'm just running the relay...you've gone A LOT farther than I have."

One of the great things about trail running though, is everyone is out there for themselves, and to be out there, and they still cheer you on with a smile and words of encouragement.

My leg of the Vermont 50 was the most challenging, most scenic, and most fun terrain I have run on. From rolling hard-packed dirt roads, to tree-lined climbs, to roller-coaster downhills, and switchbacks, I was a kid running in the woods and playing in the mud. I never got bugs in my teeth, but did smile pretty much the whole way.

I ran most of the way by myself, encountering many frustrated mountain bikers, pushing their bikes up hills and moving to let unencumbered runners climb past. And the aforementioned full 50-milers, working their way forward toward the finish. In ultras and long trail runs, aid stations are always an oasis/smorgasbord, with good eats and encouragement. Along the VT 50 trail, there is also a porch/deck party going on, with rabid mountain folk cheering runners and bikers, offering water (and beer to some) and judging form. I rated a "9.4" giving a good pace up the switchback, and loud cheers and laughter for an MC Hamma-like spin on the trail right in front of the deck (even funnier since the spin almost aimed me off the trail and into the foliage!)

As we were waiting for Katherine Binder to get to Skunk Hollow to set Keene in motion, I took a picture of a guy whose whole demeanor and impressive beard caught my attention.

The easy-ambling, long striding bearded mountain runner. As it turned out, 25 or so miles later, we ran in sight of each other for a good stretch of the last several miles of the course.

Running on through the woods, through streams, and up hills, I took in the scene, trying to be an actual part of the surroundings--to breathe it all in, even while beginning to tire. I kept a good pace up, even slowly running uphill roads and climbs most were walking. I started to have a bit of cat-and-mouse going with a guy who Keene's wife Carita and I pointed out earlier in the race--the archetypal bearded mountain runner. Watching him run (generally away from me), made my running feel both easier and more clumsy. Everyone has seen those runners who seem to run effortlessly along the trails (sort of like Landy) without putting out energy.

After running up a long dirt road, I caught up to him on some winding singletrack and downhill sections. After trailing him for a bit, he said, "Just tell me if you want to pass." He was running a pace that felt good, so I hung back and traded a couple comments. He then pointed out a row of tapped maple trees, with a system of clear rubber tubing connecting each tap and dripping to a common barrel. "See that? That's American ingenuity for you." Funny thing, I wouldn't have noticed it at all, or thought about what it was if he hadn't pointed it out. Now it's one of the sharper memories from the run.

My feet felt light and downhill legs felt fresh, so I asked to pass and scooted by. I'd see him again later.

A problem I tend to have during longer distance trail runs, is that I have too much fun. I run and enjoy the course, and don't pay enough attention to nutrition or hydration. I was carrying a hand-held water bottle, which I started with with NUUN, and added a tablet here or there at an aid station with water. I ate three Honey Stinger gels during the run, and a half of a banana. But I had no S-Caps (hadn't been using them during the last parts of my training runs), didn't take in enough calories for a body that isn't acclimated to running hills, and went for too long without drinking enough, just having fun running.

I passed through three aid stations during my leg, and walked in to the last one, which meant 4.5 miles to the finish, starting to fade fast. As I walked up to the table, I saw Kate Porter, the product designer at Ibex, who told Keene about the race, and ultimately got us up there. Kate was also running the relay and had started her team's final leg 10 minutes before Keene arrived. I had closed a 10-minute gap in about 15 miles. We chatted a bit and I set out ahead, feeling a familiar, unwelcome twinge in the legs and queasy running stomach.

I kept moving across fields and down singletrack, and in about a mile or so, my calves started cramping. Occasionally I was able to talk them down and visualize oxygen and blood flowing freely through them (please!), but they would come back to me, and I'd come to a tough uphill, where having to walk actually helped me out.

Then came the mud. Two sections of shoe-losing, ankle-deep suction mud, which created 10 pound shoes coming out of every sink hole. When we hit the second, longer section of mud-hopping, I joked with another runner that I had just manged to run my shoes clean. We slipped and high stepped through the section.

With probably two miles to go, Kate caught back up to me and asked how I was doing. "Ehhh, alright, except for the wicked calf cramps!" She asked if I wanted her to stick around, but I told her I'd get through it fine and to run her race.

As we came across a field and into a last wooded stretch, race volunteers had decorated the woods with plastic skeletons and signs like "Have you ever asked why you are doing this?" Which was shortly answered by another, "Because you can!" The next sign to come across was a hand-written sign that said "1 Mile to go!"

I couldn't get my calves to let go, but could make them run brief sections, then hop-step to others. The course finishes by zig-zagging you up a mountain, slowly, through the woods, only to send you down a ski run at the Mt. Ascutney Ski Resort (that's what it's there for after all!). With a sign that said "1/2 mile to go!" we had started the sidelong descent.

It was then that the bearded mountain runner re-appeared. I hadn't seen him since the last aid station, but he came quickly by me and said, "Way to go, man. You're almost there...seriously!" (since you can hear spectators at road races telling you the same thing with 6 miles to go).

Words of encouragement, the proximity of the finish line, and downhill gravity threw me down the grassy slope, passing more cautious runners as we got to the chute and in the winding chute as well. I spotted Keene and Carita cheering, then saw Robin further down, slapped her a high five and said hey to Rob and Katherine, with a half smile, half grimace, as my calves were completely bolt knotted and each pounding step hurt like hell.


Pain is irrelevant, and even enjoyable, when (and only when, perhaps) crossing the finish line. They had hay bails at the bottom of the chute to stop any overzealous mountain bikers who came screaming down the mountain, and I was thankful I didn't need the bails myself. I hobbled out of the chute, and was congratulated and knighted with a medal by race volunteers. I grabbed two more for Mike and Katherine and waited with the volunteers for the rest of the RUR crew to cruise down.

Our finishing time was just over 9 hours, which was good enough for 3rd overall relay team out of 13 teams. Full results and splits can be found here. Of that, Katherine was roughly 2:22 for the first leg, Keene 3 hours for the second, with me at 3:38 or so for the last section, and I told Robin between 3 and 4 hours. I moved well enough before cramping to still pull that off.

The next couple hours were spent reminiscing the various legs and wonders of the course, the folks we encountered, ducking under tents to dodge spot downpours, enjoying Harpoon I.P.A., a cookout, live band, and more laid back and happy people, kids, and dogs than we could count.

So our RUR relay Vermont adventure is in the books, but still fresh on the brain and in the legs. Finishing a race of any distance, I don't generally want to think about running. But within a couple hours, I knew I'd love to come back and try some or all of it again. Awesome volunteers, organization, course, and a high energy, highly effective race director. I highly recommend making a trip to Vermont next September, whether for a relay (smart), 50K (teetering on the brink), or 50 miler (cashews). Who knows, next year, maybe we'll have two Rise Up teams!

Robin is thinking, "Uumm...yeah, he is sweaty, muddy, and kind of stinks...do I have to get that close to him?" ;)

A Personal "Epic"

The little-known Mason-Dixon Trail is fertile ground for an epic adventure and an upcoming article...(map from the Mason-Dixon Trail website).

Last fall, the question of the season was whether I/we could run 50 miles. The JFK 50-Miler was on the docket for Mike Keene, Stephen Bardsley, and I--the first 50-mile run for either of us, and we had something to prove, to try, to shoot for.

This year, a scheduling conflict has kept me from having a go at a tougher 50-Miler: The Mountain Masochist 50. In a sadistic way, I was looking forward to that challenge, but honestly, I don't really miss having a daunting race approaching for the fall (by daunting, I mean one that there may be some serious questions as to whether I can even finish under the cut-offs). What I do miss is having an epic adventure to get psyched for and have at.

Don't get me wrong--Keene, Katherine Binder, and I are training for a 50-mile relay, the Vermont 50, for which I somehow became the recipient of the longest, hilliest leg :)--22 miles of tough Vermont mountain climbs and descents. I don't take that lightly at all, it's pretty well a mountain marathon, in a beautiful state that I've never run in. I am very much looking forward to it. But running a 50-mile relay doesn't seem to have the same inherent questions that a solo 50-miler does.

Yet there are ultra marathons all over the world, attracting thousands of runners. And as cool as it is to see what people are accomplishing in races, I am more intrigued by those folks, and those adventures, that aren't races at all, but "personal epics," like Matt Hart mapping and completing a circumnavigation of the Tetons. Perhaps this fall, it's not a big race, but a self-chartered (charted) adventure where the real prize lies.

I have two young daughters and a wife who works. I don't have sponsors, a lofty budget, or a ton of free time to make a month, or even week long trek. We're talking a couple days, easy driving distance to start, and self-supported. Luckily, there are nearby epic playgrounds all around us. Here are a few that intrigue me for fastpacking/trail running, two days, one-overnight:

The Mason-Dixon Trail - 190-ish miles, of scenic, regional (and national) history. There are ultras held in and around this trail in the spring and summer, the terrain is varied and beautiful, and fall would be the optimal time to enjoy it. Not a lot of folks even know this trail exists (I didn't). I can tell you, whether or not this ends up as a fall trek, getting to know and write about this trail is going to be a project/goal of mine. In this case, I'm thinking just a section, not (yet) a thru-hike.

Assateague Island - 38-miles from tip-to-tip, and already slated as an open Rise Up Runners "challenge." Fall camping on Assateague is phenomenal (and much less buggy than summer!) and it would be great fun to complete another issued challenge :)

Black Forest Trail - a 42-mile loop in Pennsylvania that looks and sounds simply beautiful and challenging. Another trail I know very little about, but am drooling over the thought of two 20+ mile days and an overnight and new and storied terrain.

These are personal challenges, in three epic settings, each of which I hope to enjoy/complete/experience, say in the next year. This fall, it is a matter of time. The weekend of November 14 - 16 has presented itself as available for adventure and a great time of year to step up to one of these treks. Or maybe there is another playground...er...setting that no one has brought up yet?

Fall has always been my favorite time of year. Cooler weather, changing colors, football season, and new challenges. What does this fall hold? What do you think?

Return to Tuckahoe

Mike Keene running to the sun on the Tuckahoe Valley Trail.

I have not been shot at trail running at Tuckahoe State Park. I have, however, had to cut a route short to avoid been driven by scent hounds. And being shot at wouldn't necessarily dissuade me from going back--Tuckahoe is the promise land for trail running on Maryland's Eastern Shore. It's a rolling network of singletrack, horse trails, creek crossings, and as many hills as you will find in the land of flat farm and forest acreage.

Yesterday (2/24), Mike Keene and I made our first return there since running the Holiday Lake 50K++. We carved out a 10-mile route that included the Tuckahoe Valley Trail, Creekside Cliff, and Pee Wees Trail, with a minimal road stretch to get back to the lake and the truck. It was roughly 30 degrees, with winds from 10-20 mph, giving us a functional temperature of 20 degrees. We left Easton at 6:00am, and took in the bulk of the sunrise on the trail. No wildlife encounters--though I have come across everything from fox, deer, a startled and disgruntled raccoon, and one morning, what had to be the fastest land turkey on Delmarva.

Our return to the trails also represented a first for me: hauling a digital camera along for the run to get some pictures. This was all-in-all a successful endeavor, though new batteries will be on the pre-run checklist next time.

Tuckahoe has been our main training grounds for Holiday Lake and will be as well for the JFK 50-miler in November. It is also, simply put, the best place to run on the Eastern Shore (I am willing to modify that statement if someone can point me to somewhere comparable). I first discovered the park about 14 years ago as a mountain biking destination, then forgot about it until a couple years ago when the trail running hobo jumped the thru-train to the soul. Since then, I have mapped out routes from 4 to 20 miles, either solo, or dragging dog, friend, or family out there whenever possible.

If you are inspired to take a trip out there, I recommend parking by the lake, and building your route off the 4.5-mile (from point-to-point) Tuckahoe Valley Trail, which connects to most all the other trails. Creekside Cliff (1.25 miles), Little Florida (1.75 miles), and Pee Wees Trail (1.6 miles) are all exceptional. Adkins Arboretum is located next to the park, and some of the Tuckahoe Valley Trail has shared stretches with the Arboretum.

Tuckahoe is a managed hunting area, which seems an interesting concept for a system of trails widely used by horse riders, mountain bikers, dog walkers, and runners, but checking hunting seasons for the Shore makes it fairly easy to avoid noisy, heart-racing run-ins. And if you are just jones-ing, and willing to take your chances with hunter run-ins (as I have done) the cautionary bright-colored apparel (neon orange preferred) can serve as your yellow brick road.

Holiday Lake 50K++

Two miles to go at the Holiday Lake 50K++, photo by Andrew Wilds Photography.

“The Reason I Run” (quoting another HL runner)
By Michael Valliant

I know I am having a good run when there is ice in my beard. We aren’t a mile into the Holiday Lake 50K++ trail race in Appomattox, Virginia, when I smile, noting that that indicator is in place. This same semi-masochistic enjoyment is likely a part of what got me to sign up for my first ultra-marathon.

Starting at 6:30am on February 10, the temperature is 14 degrees, and the outlook is dark. There are more than 250 runners signed up and we all corral ourselves through the starting gate and push up a paved hill, following the guidance of those runners who are wielding flashlights.

Turning off onto winding single-track, the line of runners snakes through the woods with mild road-blocking at turns, quick descents and climbs. The first aesthetic epiphany comes on a turn out of the woods and across a longish foot bridge over the lake, with a nice drop of rushing water crashing beneath us before climbing wooden stairs and winding back through the woods.

This stretch is right along Holiday Lake, which now has fog lifting off the frozen surface. It’s a good idea not to spend too much time taking in the view, as a couple stretches will drop you 15-20 feet into the drink from a rocky misstep.

After more singletrack and some forest road, we check in at the first aid station, where I opt not to grab anything since my water bottle still has its share of Gatorade and I am a few gels on the rich side and feel on stride with pace and nutrition/hydration. We turn hard left and I let my legs go down a good stretch of downhill gravel road. It feels great to fall down it, until I think about the fact that—with the course being a loop around the lake, and then retracing the same loop backwards—I am going to see this hill again from the bottom, when I am much less inclined to have good legs.

On the descent, I see and start to catch my training partner who, as I am, is from Maryland’s Eastern Shore, where you will find more people with the last name “Hill,” than you will ever see elevation above sea level. We are from the land of flat farmland, plentiful rivers, creeks, and the Chesapeake Bay, where only Tuckahoe State Park will give trail runners any rolling terrain.

Coming up a rolling incline, we emerge from a stretch of woods into an open pine area, headed north, northwest, with the sunrise coming up over the east. Melissa, a fellow Maryland trail runner, with whom I had fallen in stride, says to a group of us, “This is why I run!” She has spoken for the bunch of us.

We later catch up with my fellow Eastern Shoreman, Mike Keene, and a new aquaintence, Todd from Pittsburgh, who, like Melissa, has a number of ultras, including 50-milers under their belts. Perspectives from all the runners I meet over the weekend are hugely helpful.

Everything is plodding along a-pace as we check into aid station # 3, at the 9-mile mark, which I hit at 90 minutes, spot-on. I am pleased, as this is my pie-and-chips-in-the-sky pace for the race.

A small bridge and a log, each a hair downstream from stream crossings enable the packs I was running with to keep mostly dry feet on the first loop (I would lack the energy or wherewithal to care on the way back and just trounced through the crossings the second time through).

After aid station #4, we fall into a single-file line through the woods, five runners deep, and hit a cadence that feels like boot camp. I point this similarity out, and Melissa from Maryland deftly points out (with a laugh) that there is nobody standing over us or barking at us to make us do this! Looking back, perhaps race director David Horton has cameras and loud speakers in the trees to bark at slack runners.

It’s at this time when the frontrunners of the race begin to pass us on their return loop. They are flying and inspiring and receive cheers from all of us.

Between aid station #4 and the turnaround, we start to hear an odd, but beautiful song from the lake as the ice cracks and melts. That sound, along with the sunrise, has taken residence in my being. Of course, I did posit later that it could have been the croak of the giant playground frog on the lake, which would have been memorable for different reasons.

We begin to pass an increasing number of runners in this last stretch; all are gracious, encouraging, and fast on their return. The grind is just starting to get to me as we reach the half-way turn-around point. We check in at about the 2:55 range, which I am happy with, but get the feeling I will not maintain. I ditch the Outdoor Research jacket I started the race in, which was perfect, but has become too warm, change to a lighter baselayer and zip up a Patagonia Houdini, which works well for the return loop. I fill my water bottle and grab some pretzels and M&Ms.

Gear is about the only thing that goes well for me on loop two. Before I reach the second incarnation of aid station #4, intense cramps set in on both of my quads and into my calves. This has happened to me before on my longest runs, but I was hoping they wouldn’t hit today until mile 25 or so, not mile 18. I walk through the cramps and run until they return.

About this time, my stomach turns sour and protests the thought of any more gels. It begrudgingly agrees to pretzels and a few M&Ms at aid stations as I encounter them. So I’ve got recurring muscle cramps and a stomach on strike against nutrition and hydration. Other than that, things are great!

I fall into and out of several great people on the trail—fellow sufferers in many cases, working through issues, beating down their own demons. I feel like crap, but I am enjoying the effort and the people, and the spirit of both. I never consider stopping, though I am not moving fast by any standard.

The last cut-off point comes and goes, and the enthusiastic volunteer informs me I am 45 minutes to the good, which is encouraging news. My favorite crutch to lean on for the loop home are the bright orange course markers—I pick one a good space ahead and make a goal to run to it before succumbing to a quad-cramped stumble. I can understand how easy a “Best Blood” award can be had; letting go on a downhill when my legs aren’t working well could easily bill me as a human slinky.

The aid station volunteers are both a source of nourishment and encouragement. They welcome us, grab and fill water bottles, and broadcast the ever-decreasing number of miles to the end. After checking through the last aid station at 6:05 hours in, calf cramps are an issue, and the final 3.5 miles of singletrack are tough, but fun.

Emerging from the woods, I hit the pavement, which Horton has been gracious enough to give to us as a downhill to finish. On my way to the finish, I pass some of the folks who gave me support and conversation, as they are heading to their cars, and each throws out knowing congratulations. I pass through the finish line at 6:48:00, managing some time before the 7:30 cutoff. I have just finished my first ultra-marathon.

Trails are my preferred terrain and a source of soulful sustenance. Having said that, by necessity and background, I have run more roads and competed in more road races. My road times in distances from 10K to 20 miles range between 8 and 9-minute miles. I have some work to do to acclimate to hill country. I have to dial in my nutrition—eat and drink more—and figure out how to ward off leg cramps. During the second half of Holiday Lake, I was most looking forward to the race being done. The days after the race, I look forward to more time on the trail; to figuring out how to run a better race; and to my next ultra marathon goal: 50 miles at the JFK 50 in November.