Cigarettes & Silhouettes

Running the Cancelled LOViT 100 Mile Trail Run

"You there, with the light!" a deep, southern voice rang out through the forest.

It was 5:20 a.m. and I had run 43 miles. I was squatting next to a mossy tree off to the right of the trail, ready to drop my drawers and re-water the Earth when my body clamped up at his call. I had been running through the (public) Lake Ouchita Vista mountains for a little over 13 hours and finally when I was just about to ... this forest dweller with his trigger-happy light bursts through the darkness. I groaned and stood up again.

"Hi," I called back.

"What are you doing!" he shouted.

"Running."

"What?"

"Running!"

"Now?!"

"Yeah!"

"That's the goddamn stupidest thing I ever heard!"

I didn't respond to this. Yeah, you don't have to tell me.

"Just wait till it gets light out, run then! You're wakin' everybody up!"

I refrained from reminding him that his barking dogs were the real instigators, as the right to bear arms is taken seriously in Arkansas, and settled for silently jogging on. Then I thumbed through my mental jukebox and worked on some choreography while I ran towards my parents and the dawn.

My bright idea had come to me six months earlier, when I had just returned to the United States after studying in Austria. I had a final semester left of my teaching studies, and completing it in my home state of Kansas would grant me an American teaching license. On paper, it was fine, and the paper itself was worth it, but I was heartsick to be away from the friends I had made at Uni. Sitting at a café in downtown Manhattan, Kansas, I watched the sky pout and rain pound the dreary windows, echoing my melancholy. Then inspiration hit me:

I need to do something hard.

The hardest thing I had ever done was an unintentional ultramarathon during the summer of 2016, when I signed up for a 20-mile trail race around Lake Perry and in a moment of inspiration (dangerous things) ran an extra ten-mile loop to make it a 50k. Since then, I had moved to Austria and my love for trail running increased as I bounced happily through the Graz Highlands. As I sat in the little café munching on a scone, I thought:

100 miles. I want to do that.

Nice.

I chose the LOViT (Lake Ouachita Vista Trail) 100-mile run in central Arkansas for three reasons:

First, it was a feasible 8-hour drive from where I lived in Kansas.

It was also February 23rd, which would give me five months to train. I was moving to Indonesia in April, so it was the perfect window.

Finally, it was advertised as being only for those with "ankles of steel... iron will."

I had neither "ankles of steel" nor "iron will," but I knew that if I signed up for this, I would make sure I developed both during training. For 22 weeks, I trained as hard as I could. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to get a run in before going off to student teach. I ran hundreds of hill repeats. I ran back-to-back weekend long runs. I did a 4x4x48 weekend (running 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours) twice in a row. Some of it was teeth-gritting chow, but it wasn't all work. I run really slow. That's why I had to get up so early. And most of the time, I looked forward to it. To empty out my mind, or disappear behind an audiobook—not to perform, not to look pretty, just to run around like a child ... this was heaven. I would come home after a frosty winter long run, draw a bath and let the blood drain from my increasingly ferrous ankles while happy endorphins flushed my system. What a privilege it is to run!

After 22 weeks of stumbling outside in tights and sweaters, finally—breathlessly—it was Friday, February 23rd.

—The Plan—

Friday:

5:00 a.m. - wake up, last-minute packing. Josie, border collie Mackenzie and parents drive eight hours to Mountain Harbor Resort, Arkansas.

2:30 p.m. - arrive, check in to the race

5:00 p.m. - begin the 100-mile race

Sunday:

3:00 a.m. - finish the race before the official cut-off time of 34 hours.

—What Happened—

5:00 a.m. - woke up, drove to Mountain Harbor Resort, Arkansas.

2:00 p.m. - received an email from the race directors: the Forest Park Service pulled the LOViT 2018 permit because of flooding on the trail and a damning weekend weather forecast. Race is canceled.

2:30 p.m. - arrived, checked in with the race directors. Yes, the race was cancelled. Tornadoes predicted, flooding storms, lots of rain.

2:40 p.m. - Josie goes to the car. The rest of the Rozells take a walk and leave her alone. Wet, blubbery, noisy sobs issue forth from the car.

2:45 p.m. - Josie gets out of the car. Shuffles over to parents and Kenz. Head down. Slumped.

2:47 p.m. - Josie: "So... now what? I can't just do the next one, I'm moving away soon."

2:47 p.m. - Parents: "Jos, the course is still marked. If you... wanted to do this anyway, we'd support you."

2:48 p.m. - Josie thinks for a second. Rallies. "F**K THE PARK SERVICE. Let's do this!"

We clambered back to the race directors, asked for directions, jacked some of the food, and met three other runners who were interested in joining me for a 20-mile leg. At 4:15 p.m., I took off with Robin, Rachel and Shannon.

A few miles in, and I already felt out of my depth. These three had flown in from Washington for the race and were veritable ultrarunning legends. Robin, for instance, was well on her way to running an ultra in every state. Rachel could do a 50-miler with no training. They were the kind of runners I imagined — and dreaded — running with: way, way more qualified than I. But as we ticked off mile after mile, my shoulders relaxed in their easy company. They might have been badass women, but they were not intimidating; rather they were kind and encouraging, open and friendly. As we became friends, the 20 miles passed with ease and laughter, ending before I knew it. At 10:30 p.m., they gave me tight hugs and excited "good luck!"s and I took off into the dark woods alone.

In my confidence, feeling totally refreshed, I looked forward to running on my own again. I could muddle through their stories and dream about new goals that our conversation inspired. It would be great!

Not to be.

Here comes the first low.

I got a scant mile away from everyone before all of the gears in my mind shattered.

Who says you can do this?

Who told you you were qualified?

We're sore.

Let's just stop.

Forget this. No one is expecting this of you.

The negative chatter was as heartbreaking as the race being canceled. I shook myself. Took in extra nutrition. I put in headphones and set the song "A Cigarette and a Silhouette" to repeat. Then I began counting, my special tactic for moments like these.

I counted from 0 to 50. At 50, I powerhiked until I got to 70. Then I counted to 100. Started over and counted to 50. Walked until 70. When it got too boring, I counted in German, seeing how far I could get before I forgot which number I was on.

If this memory only clings to me

I won't regret being blue

For I can forget with a cigarette and a silhouette of you.

I wasn't running 100 miles. I wasn't even running the 6 miles to my parents. I was playing a game with myself. Seeing how many times I could keep going when I desperately wanted to stop. I got to mile 26 and felt my throat grow thick when I saw my parents again. My mother had prepared sandwiches of avocado and honey on white bread for me, and spread out cold potatoes, Lara bars, pickles and cornbread so I could eat my fancy. This meticulous and loving preparation came from a woman who does not give a single flip about food. My dad had made me creamy coffee to warm up against the chilly winter night, knowing that my feet had been wet from the start. He rationed out a salt pill and coconut water for electrolytes. I couldn't have asked for a better crew: a selfless mother and a doctor of physiology, both now considerably sleep-deprived since I run so slowly. Even fluffy Mackenzie was doing her crew diligence, giving me big hugs and sloppy kisses. I had truly nothing better to do than to keep going.

"We'll see you in 4 miles Jos," my dad said.

There was no doubt in his mind. There was no question. They would see me in 4 miles.

Shoot, I thought. Guess 26 miles is too early to quit.

Refreshed, body and soul, I didn't feel so lonely anymore. Actually, I began to feel locked in, like I could do anything. I was in this crazy mood, skipping and designing stand-up comedy sets in my mind. Playing through the conversation I would have with my parents when I saw them next. Part of that was because I remembered: who else is doing this? ALL of those runners are more qualified than I am — faster and with more experience — and yet YOU are the crazy sonuvabitch out here doing this! And there was something special about running at night: my world was constrained to nothing farther than the beam from my headtorch. In the right frame of mind it was captivating, as if I were a single molecule shooting through an evolving Universe, destined for some great purpose.

All runners know that running happy is the best kind of running. They also know it doesn't last.

An hour and a sandwich later, my happiness began to fuzz at the edges. I was no longer a molecule, but rather a wet, miserly girl shuffling alone through a threatening forest in the middle of the night. Climbing up the back of Hickory Nut Mountain was not a pleasure. My mind started to glitch, and I couldn't reach triple digits in German. But a mile before I reached the top of the mountain, I saw a light shining down the trail in front of me. The mist in the light cast my father against the dark trees — for I can forget with a cigarette and a silhouette of you — and I felt another surge of energy. He powered up the last mile with me while I chatted his ear off, and when we got to the top, there was my sleepy mother holding out a peanut butter sandwich and some Pedialyte.

This swinging trend of highs and lows took me through the first night. In my growing weariness, I spent much of the time powerhiking. But where did I have to be? What race was I running anymore, except against my own fatigue? And with what better support! Without fail, either my sleep-deprived mother or sleep-deprived father would walk out to meet me, never complaining, never doubting that I could do this. So I ceased my hurry. Stopped thinking I had somewhere to be. That I had anything at all to prove. My parents took shifts throughout the night, only once leaving the car unlocked and a pre-made sandwich on the dash when they were too exhausted to both stay awake. I was on holiday, damn it, swishing through the gorgeous Lake Ouachita mountains of Arkansas in late winter.

I sang songs to myself. I counted aloud to 2,460. I went 4 miles. Then 4.5. Then 4. Then 6. Never 100. Just the next stretch.

I jogged towards peanut butter sandwiches and coconut water. I ran towards chocolate-covered banana chips and salt pills.

I plodded along for my faithful parents, for my snuggly wet dog. I welcomed every creek crossing for how badass it made me feel.

Then at mile 43 my body gave me the chance to poo and it was stripped from me by an angry southerner who chose—by his own accord mind you—to live in a public forest park and own sensitive dogs. When dawn broke over me like the first sip of IPA after a winter long-run, I had choreographed the first 4 songs of the renditions of Hamilton that floated in my mind, my obliques somewhat sore from the effort. I changed my socks for the first time at mile 50, which was rather pointless since they were soaked not half a mile later.

Around 6:30 a.m. on Saturday, the sky reopened and fresh thunderstorms shook the trees, lasting for the next 12 hours.

I came upon quite a few runners during the day. A wonderful woman named Tabatha Park, who had laid the course markers, was running the trail to see how it had all fared. She jogged over to me for a chat, and I told her I had been running since 4:30 p.m. with her blessed markers as guide.

"You're my hero!" she cried.

That felt really good.

At mile 59, a fast man in a yellow shirt and black compression socks passed me from behind. I had hit another low point and was listening to The Return of the King, and since I had headphones in, he scared the bejesus out of me. I had an unfortunately dramatic reaction to this, something like a shriek and then my right hand clutched at my heart. He looked back and smiled sadly, gesturing to my headphones. To this yellow-shirted black-socked man: I am sorry. That's all I thought about for the next 5 miles. How much I believe that trail running is better without headphones, just you and nature, and how rude it can be when runners are zoned out from the rest of the world on the trail. And while there's nothing wrong with needing something other than your own dastardly thoughts to listen to between your ears, we are all sharing the space. I hope you are reading this, O Fast Yellow-Shirt Man, so you can accept my apology.

From mile 62-75, thunder and psycho lightning dominated my world, and the extra swollen creek crossings made me feel so freaking cool. At each checkpoint, a parent and a pooch would walk out to herald me into Clif bars and avocado sandwiches. At mile 72, I was running back down Hickory Nut Mountain at the height of the storm, trees thrashing around and water pouring down the slope, uprooting rocks and making footing even trickier. Suddenly, I heard a hoot. It was Robin, Shannon and Rachel! Back for another run! They cheered me on as I clambered down the slippery mountain.

At mile 73, something within me "chunked" and I no longer felt any pain. I began to count and as I counted, I ran. Fast. Effortless. For the first time in hours and hours.

I ran effortlessly for the next 15 miles in absolute euphoria, until my right ankle ballooned and barred me from running more than a minute at a time. But I was at mile 88. For the first time, I felt true chills wash over me: I am going to run 100 miles.

I ran a minute. Walked a minute until my rusty ankle felt better. Ran another minute. Walked. Ran. Repeated until I reached my parents.

Jos: "Dad, I think I sprained something — I don't know why it feels like this."

Mom: "Want some pudding?"

Jos: "Yes, please spoon-feed that to me."

Dad: "It's okay, nothing is sprained. It's just sore. Stretch it out a bit and run until it feels numb."

Jos: "Swell. Banana?"

I took off again. Mile 90. The sun was out for the first time and setting liquid flame against the pruny sky. Mile freaking 90.

Then the sun set for the second time, and darkness crept into my soul. Darkness the depth of a black hole.

I hit mile 91.5 and suddenly 8.5 more miles translated into hours and hours. My ankle refused to grow numb, and every step I took reminded me how long it would take to go 8.5 miles. I got cold, really cold, until I was shivering, shaking and cursing this trail and every creek crossing I crashed my wrinkly feet into. Maybe it sounds crazy. Eight more miles! What's so hard anymore? But it felt like taking five Uni exams in a row and then coming upon the sixth exam. And by this time, you're broken in so many places you can't even hold the pencil.

You can train as much as you can handle. You can go as slow as you can bear. But at one point — and isn't it the point of doing these endurance races? — you will be more splintered than you have ever been before.

My dad came out to meet me at mile 92 and walked me into the second-to-last aid station.

"Dad, I don't know if I can finish this," I said, eyes down at the dark ground. I felt snapped in half, at every joint, at every fiber.

He didn't say anything for a minute. I couldn't bear to repeat myself, so I was quiet too.

"Jos, I can't imagine running 8 miles. I can't even run a 5k," he began. "But you can. You can do it. You've been doing it. You wake me up every morning at the butt-crack of dawn with your stomping around to go out for a run. 8 miles? That's not even a long run."

Doesn't feel so easy right now, I told him telepathically.

"That's because it isn't easy. That's because you don't do the easy things," he said. "You do the hard things. This is what you do."

God, this is the hardest thing I have ever done. These last 8 miles.

"When the race was cancelled, you were given a unique opportunity. You were given the chance to determine your future. You were handed the question: Who are you going to be? Are you going to be someone who gets sad when things don't work out? Because that's fair. The sadness is justified. Are you going to be someone who gets mad when things don't work out? Because that's fair, too. The anger is justified. Are you going to be someone who makes excuses? Blames someone? Quits early? Your excuses are justified. Quitting is justified. But that's not what you did. You said: I am going to choose to do it anyway. I am going to choose to not be justified. I am going to choose suffering because I also choose greatness."

Waterfall sobs peppered my shoulders until my jacket was nearly as saturated as my socks. I couldn't reply, had nothing to say, just let his confidence and reassurance fill in the cracks in my mind as I limped behind him. When we got to the car, my sleepy mother was waiting with dual fists of honey sandwiches and coffeecake.

"We will see you in 5 miles Jos," they said.

There was no doubt in their minds. There was no question. They would see in me in 5 miles. And then I would run another 3. And then I would be done.

Shoot, I thought. Guess 92 miles is too early to quit.

My elephant-ankles carried me back on the trail. I counted to 50. I walked to 70. I hobbled to 100. Repeat. Repeat. Head down. The pain is strong, I am strong, the pain and I are strong. Count to 50. Walk to 70. Hobble. Repeat. Strong. Strong. Strong. I am not dead yet. I am not going to die. Count. Walk. Hobble. Repeat. STRONG.

"STRONG!" I shouted at mile 93.

"STILL STRONG!" I shouted at mile 94.

"LESS STRONG!" I shouted at mile 95.

"THANK GOD!" I shouted at mile 96.5 as I saw my mother's light on the trail. I ran towards her with tears rolling down my cheeks.

At 97 miles, I was faced with two options: I could either run back down the stretch of trail that I had just come up and finish at Tompkin's Bend — which would technically put me at 101 miles — or I could run the half-mile ATV trail ahead of me back and forth until I got to 100. Easy choice. I was not going to run a single extra mile, that was for goddamn sure.

My parents ran with my shaking, hypothermic, completely trashed self back and forth until my watch read 99.9 miles.

They made me stop while my dad dashed to the car and grabbed a roll of toilet paper. My mother held the camera as my father stretched the roll across the trail and latched it to a metal stake.

I ran that mo'fo in, man.

31 hours.

38 minutes.

30 seconds.

New course record? Certainly not. But my parents—the race directors after all—awarded me with a toilet paper certificate reading: "LOViT 100 Mile Male and Female Champion."

Now that I was done, I could get in the car once I got to it, and I wasted no time in wrapping myself up tightly with a sleeping bag, as glorious as it was wet-dog odorous. We headed to our rental cabin to examine what nearly 32 hours of wet running will do to feet. It wasn't pretty.

I've got three things to say, and then I'll let you go.

Number one:

It doesn't have to be justified.

Number two:

We’re tougher than any of us believes. We just have to give ourselves opportunities to show it.

Number three:

I have the best damn parents in the world.

—For the Curious—

How I Won the Eating Contest:

Wonderbread and honey — 3 sandwiches
Avocado and bread — 3 sandwiches
Peanut butter and jelly — 2 sandwiches
Blueberry coffee cake — 3 portions
Cornbread and honey — 2 portions
Chocolate muffin — 1
Peanut butter cookies — 7
Chocolate pudding — 2 cups
Poptart (cherry, strawberry, blueberry) — 3 packets
Pickles — 2 handfuls
Potatoes — 1 handful
Bugles — 20 fingers
Pringles — 1 can
Oranges — 2
Bananas — 2
Lara Bar — 7
Clif Bar — 1
GU "salted caramel"— 6 sachets
Snickers Bar (halfway point reward) — 1

Liquids:

Water
Coconut water
Coffee
Heed "Cafe Latte"
Naked smoothie
Pedialyte
Scratch Labs emergency rehydration mix

Supplements:

Salt pills — 8
Excedrin