We are starting our ultrarunning season early this year: Bandera, Texas, is the site of an exceptionally friendly, professionally organized, rocky, hilly, gnarly race ideal for couples with varying levels of masochism between them. David is running the 50k, while I repeat the loop for the 100k. The morning of January 12, 2013 is unseasonably warm, as well as unseasonably wet.  As we line up for the start, a drizzly fog hangs over the Texas Hill Country.  The landscape looks like a part of Tolkien’s middle earth, and the assembled fellowship of trail runners is huddled around the lodge, about to embark on an epic quest for the buckle of power.

Mighty wizard Joe Prusaitis says a few words of last-minute encouragement, and we’re off toward the mist-covered mountains.  The first couple of climbs offer none of the expected views as a reward, but the slightly surreal experience of watching the sunrise through a prism of drifting fog more than makes up for this.  I breeze through the first aid station, cheerfully staffed by volunteers dressed in superhero costumes.  All aid stations on this course are top notch operations, lovingly stocked with everything a runner might want, including mashed potatoes and positive energy.

Soon, I notice that my legs seem to be getting unusually heavy.  Our main enemy today is not an army of orcs.  No, it is something much more powerful and sinister: clumps of reddish mud have attached themselves to my shoes.  At every sharp rock, and every root, runners stop and scrape their feet.  The mud is persistent, though, and keep coming back.  It changes color periodically, from red to beige, from beige to dark brown, from dark brown to black, from black to tan.  Dry grass clings to the mud that clings to my shoes, with the result that they become wider in addition to taller.  I shuffle through the mud like I’m wearing large snowshoes.  I slip, slide, brace, rebalance, fall, get back up.  Others do the same. Everyone is pretty much covered in mud.  Coming from the high desert of New Mexico, I rarely get to experience mud in this quality or quantity.   I look ahead, look behind, and feel exhilarated: this is ultra running at its finest, a bunch of otherwise intelligent, grown up people playing in the mud all day long.  In addition, we have to contend with the various types of cactus along the trail.  The race website describes the Hill Country as “a place where everything cuts, bites, and stings.”  This is accurate.  Sotol and various other pointy plants draw blood, which mixes nicely with the mud on my legs.

I reach the lodge and am briefly tempted to drop down to the 50k.  Would Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn have done that? No, they finished.  And I’m halfway done already.  Off I go.  The afternoon brings some sun, and noticeably drier conditions, but by sunset, the moisture is back.  Thankfully, I only have about ten more miles to go.  Darkness falls, and the mist makes it difficult to see.  Soup at the Last Chance aid station feels like a magic potion. I negotiate the last few tricky climbs and descents over slippery rocks slowly, passing a limping runner who rolled his ankle. He declines my offer to walk together, and I continue, even more cautiously than before. The temperature drops, the wind picks up, and I put on my rain jacket for the last few lonely, technical miles.  This is a thing I love about ultras: the time spent alone in the dark, when all distractions are stripped away, when exhaustion sets in, and when everything boils down to a contest between the inner voice that says “why”? and the other inner voice that says “keep going, one foot in front of the other, that’s it!”.  Finally, I see lights, and a finish line. David hugs me.  Joe Prusaitis, the wizard who never sleeps, hands me the buckle.  Quest is fulfilled, in 12:27! I thank everyone in sight.  David has finished the 50k.  We are proud and happy, and deeply grateful to Joe, Joyce, and every single volunteer who sacrificed a weekend or more to make this experience possible.  We warm up for a while in the heated tent as other runners arrive.  This is one of my favorite events, and I already look forward to next year’s race.