I had slept well for my first trail race until a massive crack of thunder jolted me awake at 2 AM on race day. As I listened to the rain pour down on my quaint bed-and-breakfast, I groaned, knowing I would be running 25 kilometers of mud-soaked trails.
The day did not disappoint. And at least the rain gods gave us a morning reprieve for a relatively dry race.
How We Got Here
You couldn't catch me running two years before this race, even if my life depended on it. Sure, I would run my 400m intervals for cross-training, and I'd trot out my two miles for the annual Murph workout, but I despised running. I'm a cyclist. I don't run.
Then, in the summer of 2023, I ran my first sprint triathlon, which ended with a four-mile run. I survived, and maybe I didn't hate running as much as I thought. A year later, I ran the same triathlon at a faster pace.
My niece married into a family that runs a Thanksgiving turkey trot, so I was conscripted for my first 5k road race in 2023 and again on Thanksgiving 2024. I completed the 2024 Turkey Trot in 23 minutes flat, at a 7:20/mile pace, surprising even myself.
I also ran my first half marathon in December 2024, the St. Jude Half Marathon in Memphis, completing the race in 1:57:07. I became a reformed anti-runner.
Many of my 13.1 friends were also running this mythical Sylamore 25k Race that I had heard so much about, and they recruited me to join them. I figured a 25k was just about 3 more miles than a half marathon, so it couldn't be that difficult. Plus, it was on trails in the Ozarks.
I bought new trail running shoes and a hydration pack, and I got a taste of running on uneven terrain. There was lots of tripping over exposed roots and plenty of cursing at the rocks. I even trained during a historic snowstorm that dumped 5 inches of snow on Memphis. After training in various conditions, I thought I was fully prepared for this race.
I'd soon learn that no amount of training can prepare you for the rigors of this race.
Over The Muddy Hills and Through the Rivers
I got to start line 20 minutes before the start to attempt some stretches, but I was already overstimulated from breakfast and coffee (cinnamon rolls and oatmeal, if you must know). I can't say I was nervous, but I was pretty overwhelmed by the sounds of race day. The gun went off, and we hit the road.
After a mile of pavement, the pack arrived at Sylamore Creek, a swift river that soaked us from our waist down. The river crossing is a diamond feature of the race, and as a person drawn to water (I love to swim), it was a highlight for me. I was also grateful for the body glide and the merino wool socks to wick away moisture; otherwise, I'd be running on gnarly blisters.
We kept a nice ~13:00/mi as we ran to the first aid station 5.5 miles into the race, where salted sweet potatoes, cookies, and gummy bears awaited us. Those first five miles weren't horrible, and the trails were in pretty good shape.
Once we left the aid station, we started a 400-foot climb over the next mile, only to descend the other side of the mountain through ankle-deep mud. There wasn't much I could do other than patiently take my time to cross the mud. Once we reached the hill's bottom, the trail flattened out, and we hit the turnaround point. About face, we immediately ran back up the muddy mountain to begin the journey back to the aid station for more salted sweet potatoes.
I do love salted sweet potatoes. A lot.
The vibes on this muddy climb were immaculate. Since this was an out-and-back trail, runners supported each other as we crossed paths. Unlike the St. Jude Half Marathon, Sylamore boasted no spectators to cheer us on, no hooligans holding cheeky signs, no St. Jude's patients to fist bump us. Sylamore 25k is an ad hoc community that supports itself on race day; we were our best and only cheerleaders.
I saw many friends from home on the trails that day: friends from my gym, my cycling community, and even one of my clients ran the trails with me. Each smiling face was a boost for me.
Hitting the Wall.
Once we left the aid station, there were 5.5 miles left to run, and I was feeling good (he thought) and staying on pace (he attempted), until I hit mile 13.3. At that exact moment, my ankles and my hips were screaming, "Jimmy, what in the actual fuck are you doing? You can take a hike."
So, I enjoyed a leisurely hike for 2.5 miles until I returned to the river crossing. The only award waiting for me was a finisher's pint glass and the privilege of crossing the finish line. There was no need to risk my health for anything more than that. Hiking this leg of the race allowed me to enjoy the rugged scenery surrounding me, mainly in silence and solitude. The faster runners had already crossed the finish line; I was well ahead of the slower racers.
It was humbling when the 50k leader passed me - imagine running twice my distance and lapping me with only a one-hour head start. I hope that man is well.
I dipped into the river for the second time, relishing in the coolness of the water rushing over my aching legs. The weather gods decided I needed one final test because as soon as I popped out of the river, the skies dumped rain on me. At this point, with one mile remaining in the race, I was just angry and in so much pain. So I did what any self-respecting endurance athlete does at this moment: I shut off all my feelings, ignored my pain, and jogged my way to the finish line in the middle of a rain storm.
I finished in 4:13:41.
I couldn't register the taste of the bacon cheeseburger I ordered at the restaurant hosting the race.
Wisdom from the Trail
If I gained one thing from this race, it was to learn my limits. Over the last two years of my fitness journey, I've added longer distances and achieved faster paces in all my events, and after every event, I wanted to go faster or longer.
Not so with this trail race. I logged 16.8 miles on that trail, and no part of me wants to add the remaining 9.4 miles to make it a full marathon. I sure as hell don't want to run a 50K.
My friends told me I could run those distances if I wanted, but I don't want to push myself like that. It wouldn't prove anything to me.
Much of life is finding out who you are not so you can express the more authentic version of yourself.
I thrive as a choral singer and a collaborative pianist. I enjoy small choral ensembles of 6-12 voices, and I seek out these musical projects. I have no desire to be a concert pianist or sing in a large, symphonic chorus.
I've found a similar limit to my athletics: A gran fondo (63k) on the bike is exhilarating to me; an imperial century (100 miles) is a profound challenge. I look forward to running my next half marathon and repeating Sylamore 25k next year; I don't want to do anything longer than that. I'm pushing myself to run in an Olympic triathlon in April, but I don't need to run a half-Ironman or a full Ironman.
Now that the trails have taught me my limits, I'm eager to explore the endless possibilities within. Can I run this same race faster next year? Can I find better training patterns? I intend to find out.
My trail running shoes are still in the bathtub, where I washed them out three weeks after the race. I'll lace them up again soon enough.