The Ultra

There’s a specific group of runners who come together every so often. They’re an unassuming group, humble in their simplicity. Looking at them from the outside, one may notice that they look a little out of sorts—hair a little too long, beat-up clothes, often in barefoot shoes or sandals—other than this they look pretty normal. Most carry water bottles in both hands and stash bananas in their fanny packs. They don’t carry Ipods or cell phones, and they’re not connected to heart rate monitors or GPS units. The sun begins to rise as the runners take off.

These runners don’t surge to the front of the pack. The trail forces them to run single file, which is preferable so as not to start too quickly and die later. We run, 75 of us, silently. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is stimulation enough without speech. Besides, we’ll need a laugh later this afternoon— to remind us that we love what we’re doing. So we run, hopping over stones, weaving around trees, climbing up boulders. They hike quickly up steep inclines, again, one at a time, and begin to run as they hit the top. One man stops to pull an older one up the face of a large boulder. It’s his dad’s birthday. His dad died last year and he’s hoping to run strong for his mom. Two ladies stop to take off their shoes and shake the sand out of their socks. One smiles as I continue the run, “Hey, don’t be shy to stop and admire at the top of Sugarloaf Mountain. This race is one of the beautiful ones…and we have thirty more miles to worry about speed.”  One of the fellas wearing sandals stubs his toes. He rubs dirt in the wound to clot the blood and continues on. Later, a 65-year-old lady will dig a band-aid and some disinfectant out of her fanny pack, which he takes with repetitive thanks.

Every five to seven miles we stop to refuel, volunteers and family members hand out water, granola bars, and chocolate milk.  While refueling, the runners stretch and delve into the lives of the others. Small talk seems trivial after traversing 20 miles together. These runners often ask the questions with no clear explanations…mostly “why” questions. One man designs office furniture. He’d like to run a vegan restaurant one day. A couple of old ladies, maybe 75, both lost their husbands last year. Running together carried them through. I told them that I’m not a birder, but I’ve been searching for this bird, the Hermit Thrush, all summer, simply because Walt Whitman used it in, “When Lilacs in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Whitman requests the Hermit sing for him as he can’t summon the words. It reminds me of Luke 19:40 when Jesus speaks of the disciples, “I tell you, if they keep quiet the stones will cry out.” Sometimes, knowing that God, if He wanted, could easily override my stumbling words and actions with His creation allows a greater freedom to live for Him without the fear of bringing Him humiliation. So I like to listen for this ever-elusive bird, Whitman’s chosen speaker—the one that he asks to cover his bumbling’s.

As we near the end of the run, the sun has risen and begun to set again over the surrounding lakes. We’re sheltered by the small Michigan mountains, nothing compared to most mountain ranges, but they’re our own little challenge, and the peaks have served to take our breath away more than a few times. The runners pour each other water and un-stash the remaining bananas, splitting the leftovers with runner opposite. Then, after the race, they slip into their cars, and set off in different directions, wishing one another good health, and hoping to meet again, sometime in the future when they reappear in some other woodsy area to, once again, traverse the landscape, quietly, one-by-one.