Called Again (20 page)

We also identified two ways that Melissa could maximize her assistance on the trail. The first was that she could “mule” me on the stretches we hiked together. “Muling” is an ultra-running term that describes a support crew member carrying the food and supplies of someone who is running a race. Although I had barely noticed the weight of my daypack when I started the trail in Maine, five hundred miles later, those extra five pounds felt more like fifty.

Melissa also started planning her days so she would have enough energy left to hike the last section of the day with me, which meant I would have company in the dark. The rocks and technical trail in Maine and New Hampshire had shattered my confidence for walking past dusk. But when Melissa was with me, all I had to do was point my headlamp at her shoes and follow her feet.

The night after Warren left, I came into camp at 9:30 p.m. right behind Melissa. And as soon as Brew saw us, he started whooping
and hollering victory cries into the night air. He handed us our freeze-dried dinners, then began his debrief.

“Great job, girls! I didn't think you two would get here before ten. You arrived thirty minutes early, which means you averaged over three and a half miles per hour.”

“No more numbers,” I said.

I was still recovering from the steady stream of numbers that Warren had presented at every road crossing in Maine.

“I agree, no more
negative
numbers,” said Brew. “From this point on, we are only going to talk about positive numbers.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, what is your purpose for being out here?” he asked.

I hesitated. We had talked about this a lot before we started the trail. For me, the main point of coming back to the trail wasn't to set a record; it was to do my best. I wanted to know what my best was, and I believed that it was good enough to obtain the overall record.

Finally, I looked up at Brew's headlamp, which made it seem like his words were coming from the mouth of a Cyclops. “I want to do my best,” I said.

“That's right. You want to do your best. And from now on, that is our focus. The only time we will mention numbers is when they are helpful and encouraging.”

“Like what?” All I had heard since the beginning was how I was falling behind, so I didn't know what encouraging numbers Brew was talking about.

“I was hoping you would ask,” said the Cyclops. “How many days faster than your 2008 hike do you have to travel to set the overall record?”

“Ten.”

“That's right. And in 2008, after two weeks, you were just reaching Hanover. Now, you are almost in Massachusetts and you have already gained roughly three and a half days.”

The corner of my mouth lifted slightly.

“There's more,” said Brew. “How many miles per day did you average in 2008?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Right now, you are already averaging forty-two- miles per day, and at this point three years ago, you were only averaging thirty-four miles. To set the record, you need to average eight more miles per day than you did three years ago. And that's exactly what you're doing!”

Now both sides of my lips curled. I was out here to do my best, and so far, I had given the trail every ounce of my being. For the first time in two weeks, I was more proud of what I had accomplished than worried about what was to come.

The next day, Brew continued to use positive numbers to motivate me. I came to my first road crossing after an exhausting slog through ankle-deep mud, then I collapsed in the folding chair beside the car.

I looked at him incredulously when he immediately shoved a 1,000-plus calorie meal in my direction. I was so tired from walking that the last thing I had the energy to do was eat. But coming to a road crossing did not mean that I got to have a break. It meant that I would have ten or fifteen minutes to ingest as many calories as possible and to load up the daypack before I could continue down the trail.

I started taking large bites of a deli wrap, washing each mouthful down with gulps of chocolate milk.

“Guess how many miles Andrew Thompson did through this stretch of trail?” asked Brew.

“How many?”

“Thirty-nine. Andrew only did thirty-nine miles here. You should really be able to gain some ground here today.”

Without letting my anger or frustration show, I stared straight at Brew, and after taking another swig of milk, I calmly asked, “Do you want to know why Andy only did thirty-nine miles on this stretch?”

“Why?”

Then, in a less-calm voice, I barked, “Because this section is hard as shit! Don't you think if he could have gone farther than thirty-nine miles, he would have?”

Brew looked at me and tried to appear compassionate for a moment before breaking down in laughter. I laughed too. He was used to my honesty, but my potty mouth was a new development, and it still caught us both off-guard.

Before this hike, I hadn't used bad words much. But now that I was on the trail, they had started to make sense. Ever since the first week of this hike, I had been peppering my roadside reports with cursing because I needed something far more offensive than my normal vocabulary to express how much I was suffering.

That said, I decided I might never use swear words again after the summer because I didn't want to devalue the deep, consuming pain I was experiencing right now.

I finished my wrap, chips, cookie, and chocolate milk; changed socks and shoes; doctored my shins with pre-wrap and athletic tape; and was back on the trail in sixteen and a half minutes. The break lasted a little longer than I'd wanted, but I valued the extra ninety seconds with my husband. I wouldn't see him for another sixteen miles. And past that road crossing, Melissa would help me pack in all of my overnight gear so that I could try to hike more than thirty-nine miles and gain a lead on Andrew, even though this section was, in my own words, hard as shit.

In Maine and New Hampshire, I hardly ever thought of Andrew (except for that damn perfect smile he flashed hiking up Mount Washington). In those two states, it was all about survival. But now that I was in the Green Mountains, it felt like I was racing the current record holder. We had his itinerary, and I knew where he had started and finished every day. At this point, our averages were very similar. So on a day like today, I almost felt like if I looked over my shoulder, I would see him. Occasionally, when I spotted a day hiker ahead of me, I would pretend it was Andrew and then speed up to pass him.

It was strange how someone who was never a part of our record attempt made his presence felt almost every day. Sometimes, Brew and I would try to vilify Andrew and his crew chief, JB. We talked smack, pretending that they had somehow offended us and were horrible people who ran puppy mills and meth labs. But the problem was, we knew that wasn't true. Andrew and JB had never been anything but gracious—and that made wanting to beat their time more difficult.

Brew and I had talked with Andrew and JB at several of David Horton's trail races. I always felt like there was an aura around them. They were the “cool kids.” They looked cool, dressed cool, they wore cool hats cocked to the side, and they had cool girlfriends. In fact, sometimes the races weren't cool enough for them, so they made them even cooler.

Instead of simply running the fifty-plus-mile Mountain Mas-ochist with three hundred other runners, Andrew and JB decided to start twelve hours early and run the course in the opposite direction in the dark, then compete with all the other runners as they retraced the course in the daylight!

When I was at a race with Andrew and JB, they always took time to encourage me in my trail pursuits. I usually responded the same way a thirteen-year-old would respond to Justin Bieber, with flushed cheeks and mumbled words. Brew would make fun of me, but he was equally impressed with the two of them. At one
particular ultra-race, he deserted me after the first mile because he had struck up a conversation with Andrew. And I didn't see him again for another forty-nine miles. What a traitor!

There was no denying that we were both in awe of Andrew and JB. As hard as we tried, there was nothing we could find to dislike about them. In fact, if anything, the past two weeks had heightened our esteem.

It amazed me that Andrew was able to come back to the trail and try this three separate times before setting the record. After the past fourteen days, I knew that—regardless of the outcome— I would never again try for the overall record.

Moreover, I couldn't believe that JB had crewed for Andrew so successfully. Brew had taken an oath in front of God, our friends, and our families to support me in sickness and bad times, and I
still
barely convinced him to crew me. JB didn't owe Andrew anything. Yet, he remained committed to him on three separate record attempts—and there wasn't even any sex involved! Their dedication and their record was becoming more and more impressive with every step I took.

My first day in Massachusetts, I made it to a road crossing by mid-morning and was staring at Andrew's printed-out blog from his 2005 record hike when it finally clicked. I realized that Andrew Thompson's initials were literally A.T. I wasn't just competing against Andrew; I was battling fate!

I called out to my husband as he was busy refilling my water bottles. “What are we doing out here trying to beat someone whose initials are the same as the trail's?”

Without skipping a beat, he responded, “Well, honey, his initials may be A.T., but your maiden name is Pharr. So there's no reason you can't go all the way.”

Good point.
I belong. I belong. I belong.
I still had to remind (and sometimes convince) myself on a daily basis that I was right where I was supposed to be.

The entire concept of a trail record appealed to so few that I wondered if it
was
fate that brought would-be record setters to the trail. I wondered if, in fact, the trail had called us by name.

Each day I was feeling more and more like I was supposed to be out here. I had never felt a stronger sense of purpose. Even though the outcome remained uncertain, I was convinced that it was my job to wake up each morning at 4:45 a.m. and hike as far and as fast as I could, allowing myself to rest only after the sun went down. And this sense of purpose gave me a newfound freedom and joy. I may not have been in control, but I trusted that I was where I belonged.

The less difficult terrain of Massachusetts and Connecticut had allowed my shin splints to continue to heal, and accruing a few forty-five- to fifty-mile days bolstered my confidence. Now that I was in New York where the road crossings were becoming more frequent, I was feeling even better.

When I came out at NY County Road 20, I sat down in our camp chair and propped my feet on the back bumper of the Highlander. Brew passed me a cannoli and chocolate milk from a bakery in nearby Pawling, and I started working on my pastry while Brew began to reorganize my pack.

“How was the last stretch?” he asked.

“Good,” I mumbled with my mouth full of whipped cream and chocolate. “I passed the Dover Oak.”

“Oh, yeah? I might try to walk in and see it. It's close to the road, right?”

“Super close.”

“And it's worth it?” Brew asked as he wiped a chocolate sprinkle off my nose.

“Definitely.”