Called Again (27 page)

Now, even though my shin splints were healed, I had lost the ability and desire to run. My running muscles had realigned themselves to support my hiking motion. And, more importantly, my thoughts had shifted, too. It was clear to me now that I did not
need
to run to set the record.

Looking back, it seemed that the shins splints were a sadistic blessing. The pain taught me to pace myself and kept me from running on the first half of the hike, and this reduced the risk of injuries or falls. It also made me rely on my hiking poles, which protected my joints from some of the pounding I asked my body to endure each day. In Maryland, I no longer believed that an inability to run was a disadvantage; if anything, my odds of setting the record
increased
once I realized that I could accomplish my goal just by hiking.

It was hard for our friends and critics to believe that we could cover our daily mileage without even an occasional jog. But beyond trying to escape the unwanted reporter in Pennsylvania, my gait never increased. A writer for
Runner's World
magazine kept calling
and asking Brew how much I was running, and Brew had to keep telling him, “She's not.” The reporter refused to believe him and pressed him for a percentage of miles that I was running each day.

Sometimes Brew would joke with me as I neared the car, “C'mon! Here we go. Five strides. You can do it! If you run you can have an article in
Runner's World.
I'll call the reporter and tell him right now that my wife just ran 0.001% of the Appalachian Trail.”

I couldn't help but laugh when Brew implored me to run. Then I would look at his smiling face and meet his knowing, confident gaze. Together we had taken ownership of this hike. We were no longer following someone else's footsteps. Brew was secure in his role as the crew chief, and I had proved to myself that I could set the record. We weren't operating the same way that Warren or Horton or Andrew had when they set the record. The men who had been my trail heroes and mentors were becoming my peers.

Our routine also did not involve following the precise schedule that Warren had left for us. Instead, we set daily goals each morning, but we always remained flexible. I would put in long, efficient, consistent days. And Brew would meet me as much as possible, help me focus on positive numbers, and solicit extra help along the way—lots of extra help. If one thing differentiated my hike from previous records, it was that we were receiving far more support.

There are many traditional aspects of backpacking that you don't experience on a record attempt. But one thing that seemed consistent was sharing intimate moments and building close friendships.

I depended on, appreciated, and cared for the people who I shared the trail with more on this hike than on any other. If Brew had not torn his ACL, we would not have asked for additional help, and we probably would not have been ahead of Andrew Thompson. Brew's injury, like mine, now seemed to be a blessing in disguise.

I needed old friends like Warren, Melissa, and New York Steve to make it through the difficult transition at the start of the trail. Dutch and Rambler reaffirmed the idea that offering support could be enjoyable for both parties. They also helped us survive the mid-Atlantic. Unfortunately, Brew and I knew that Rambler would be leaving us soon, and that Dutch would follow him within the week. I hated to see them go, but their impending departure coincided with the arrival of one of my favorite people.

From the moment we left Katahdin, I had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of David Horton.

Sharing the trail with David Horton is always a memorable experience, so I was elated when he arrived to help us.

He appeared on the heels of completing a 3,000-mile bike race along the Continental Divide Trail and was still worn-out from his adventure and nursing a bum knee. I knew that he was exhausted and hurt, but I didn't think it would matter. I still had Rambler and Dutch hiking with me for a few more days so I didn't need Horton nearly as much on the trail as at the road crossings. Horton was one of the best and most enthusiastic motivators that I had ever known. And I needed all the encouragement that I could get.

However, even Horton's encouragement couldn't change the high temperatures. Since we had reached Maryland, every moment of every day had been unbearably hot. The highs were in the upper nineties. I started pouring sweat the moment I stepped out of my tent and didn't stop until fifteen or sixteen hours later. My skin glistened with water and white salt crystals. For the first time in my life, I took sodium pills to try to keep my electrolytes balanced. But I still felt depleted. I also felt nauseous—really nauseous.

On our second day in Virginia, I encountered the “Roller-coaster,” a thirteen-mile stretch of trail with six steep climbs and six sudden descents. There was no level terrain in the Rollercoaster and no place to rest. Dutch and I hiked through this section during the hottest part of the day. It was the only time I hiked with him when I felt like the stronger half. The temperature was oppressive to me, and I had grown up in the South. For Dutch, coming from the mild climate of Northern Europe, the hot, heavy air was unbearable. It felt as if we were choking on it instead of breathing it. Toward the end of every climb, Dutch had to stop and bend over with his hands on his knees while I continued to stumble down the trail feeling as if I was going to throw up.

When we exited the Rollercoaster and reached the next road crossing, Dutch and I both collapsed.

Dutch turned to Brew and said, “Do you have any ice in the car that I could have?” It was the first time since joining us in Pennsylvania that Dutch had actually asked for something.

Brew dug into the cooler and handed a clear, frozen chunk to Dutch, who then held the dripping slab on the back of his neck as it melted.

In the meantime, I had taken off my shirt and was sitting in our camp chair in my sports bra and shorts. Rambler held a newspaper over my head to try and provide some shade.

Brew came over to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and asked, “Do you need anything?”

“Don't touch!” I gasped, and he quickly removed his hand.

It was still too hot for affection. Even my husband's gentle fingers seemed to burn my skin.

“I don't think I have ever seen you struggle so much with heat,” said Horton.

“That's because I've never felt heat like
this
before,” I replied.

I thought I knew heat, but that day in northern Virginia seemed to redefine the word. It was much worse than anything
I had experienced in the desert of Southern California or in Australia's bush country. It felt like I was competing in the Badwater Ultramarathon through Death Valley. Except that I knew after I finished this race, I would have to wake up and run it again tomorrow.

That night in our tent, I slept naked without my sleeping bag in an effort to stay cool. Brew was extremely receptive to my cooling technique, but unfortunately for him, not even the darkness brought relief. It was still too hot to touch.

The next morning I woke up, drank a protein drink and continued down the trail. The vanilla Ensure that I consumed at the tent seemed stuck between my throat and my chest. I wanted it to go down, but it wanted to come back up.

I took some deep breaths in an attempt to force the shake into my stomach, but it didn't work. The upchuck was imminent, and tears were welling up in the corner of my eyes.

“Keep it down,” I whispered. “Keep it down.”

I needed those calories and I hated—I mean
hated
—throwing up. Even when I was violently ill in Vermont, I told myself that at least it was diarrhea and not vomit. At home, my efforts to avoid puking always led me to cut off any food intake once nausea set in, but out here I
had
to keep eating.

Thankfully Horton was used to helping exhausted ultra-runners through such illnesses. At the next road he replaced my Clif Bar and fruit juice with doughnut holes and Powerade, and miraculously, the sugary snacks provided almost instant relief. Talk about alternative medicine!

When I stood up, I felt good enough to give Rambler a hug and say good-bye without worrying about leaving a present on his shirt. Brew and I thanked him profusely as he blushed and
rushed over to his car to end the praise. Then our short, scraggly thru-hiker friend left, just as quickly and unpretentiously as he had arrived.

I wished Rambler didn't have to leave, but I felt certain that I would hike with him again. Brew and I both agreed that Rambler had been the crew's MVH, or Most Valuable Hiker. He had come to the trail when we desperately needed help, he was always willing to hike—even at 4:45 a.m.—
and
he had brought Dutch. He also left Dutch, who was able to stay an additional three days. I planned to make the most of his remaining time with us. And together we entered into Shenandoah National Park.

Dutch and I started our stretch in silence, but as the doughnut holes and Powerade started to wear off, I immediately struck up a conversation to take my mind off my returning nausea.

“Dutch, what are you thinking about right now?” I demanded.

In his subtle voice, he responded, “Oh, I was just thinking about what I would do differently if I were the one trying to set the record.”

I laughed. This conversation was
definitely
going to take my mind off of my stomach.

“So, what would you do differently?” I inquired.

“Well, you like to eat protein in the morning. I would eat more carbohydrates like oatmeal and rice, and I would eat pasta during the day.”

“What about doughnut holes and Gatorade?”

“Ha. Yes, maybe if I were sick.”

“What else? Tell me more!”

“Well,” he said, “I think I would hike like you, not run. And I would want my girlfriend here to take care of me, like Brew is taking care of you. But she couldn't do all the planning and logistics that Brew does, so I would need other friends to help with that. Maybe you could help with that?”

“I'm in,” I replied. “So would you ever do it?”

“Maybe on a shorter trail,” he said. “I don't know that I would want to try for a record on something as long as this.”

Although it seemed unlikely that my friend from the Netherlands would ever come back to the states and try for an A.T. record, in my mind, I couldn't handpick a better candidate. And I meant what I had said; I would be the first to volunteer for his crew.

After giving so much to this record attempt, it made me realize that I
did
have a preference for who I would like to go after record attempts in the future.

HYOH is a common acronym on the trail. It stands for “Hike Your Own Hike,” and it is one of the most insincere statements that I've ever heard. Hikers use it the same way Southerners say “bless her heart.” It is just a gentle tagline at the end of an insult.

When I heard the phrase “hike your own hike,” it was usually preceded by one of the following statements: “You should never hike with a dog,” “females shouldn't hike alone,” “no one should carry more than thirty pounds in their pack,” “people with less than twenty pounds in their pack are crazy,” and my current favorite, “I don't agree with record attempts.”

I respected hikers who owned their opinions far more than those who finished their critique of my hike with a fake peace offering.

Forget HYOH. I now had a clear vision of the type of person I wanted to attempt records in the future. Ideally, it would be someone who had completed the A.T.
before
trying to set a record on it. I would also want someone like Dutch, who was extremely humble. He or she needed to respect the people who set records in the past. But most of all, I just wanted it to be someone who really loved the Appalachian Trail. I would hate it if the record was just something for someone to check off a list.

I was going after the record in a very different manner than Andrew did in 2005. I wasn't running nearly as much as Horton had when he set the mark in 1991, and I certainly wasn't as
numbers-focused as Warren had been when he established the record in the seventies. But I knew these three record holders, and I knew that they loved the trail. They were devoted to it before their record attempts, and they kept a relationship with it after they finished.