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Bear Mountain 50
Bear Mountain, NY
52.0mi, +7000ft
8:47:49, 12th (out of 183)

“He screwed us!” fumes Glenn as he jerks the car to a halt, jumps out, and trots to the bagel shop front door. It is locked and nobody’s inside. He bangs on the glass a few times with his fist — just in case. A Newark police cruiser rolls by, seemingly unaware of the crime in progress. Glenn sprints back to the car where the rest of us watch in silence, dumbfounded. He jumps in, slams the door, punches the gas, and we tear off down the empty avenue into the night.

It is 2:30am and Max, the store’s owner, has botched the exchange. He shall pay dearly… but later.

Don't deprive a northern NJ ultrarunner of his salt bagel.

In just two hours, Glenn, Stephen, Chris and I will begin running the Bear Mountain 50; but we will do so without fresh salt bagels to propel us up and down the rugged trails of Harriman Park. We fly up the parkway in silence, knowing our outcome on this day now looks grim.

We arrive with plenty of prep time, and at 5:00am we assimilate with the pack of runners gathering in the dark, dewy field beneath a giant, inflatable, red race banner. It looks like a giant, dormant bouncy castle belonging to the North Face. A cool mist lingers overhead, blocking any sign of a supposed full moon. The race director shouts a few inaudible words into a megaphone and without delay, we’re underway: a mass of several hundred bobbing headlamps, breathing heavily, and crunching gravel underfoot.

Just before the start of the Bear Mountain 50.

I never seem to remember much from the first few miles of any race, but I’m immediately struck by the footing as we hit single track: it’s extremely tricky and requires intent focus to negotiate. Much of the course consists of a series of steep climbs and drops strewn with slippery boulders, wet leaves, gnarled roots and soggy bogs. Apparently the “switchback” is a rather modern innovation. Any advantage training at altitude may have provided me must’ve been marginal. Trail running in New England is a whole different beast — both tough and humbling!

Much of the trail looks like this, often steeper.

About an hour in the sky grows light. I shed my lamp at an aid station and find myself amidst a quartet moving over a series of rocky knolls with impressive speed. Unsure of my ability to hold this pace for 45 more miles, I ease off and let the others slip ahead. My lungs don’t burn; I simply haven’t the agility in my legs to move so quickly over such technical trail. A larger pack leads further ahead, just out of sight.

At 10 miles, I make a quick pit stop allowing another runner to catch me. He passes, and I jump back on the trail to tag along, and initiate friendly conversation. For the next few hours, Chad Denning and I get to know each other like old friends. We share stories, wisdom, and fond memories of races past. His pace feels perfect, so I simply latch on and follow as we overtake scores of early casualties: regretful runners who charged out too fast, including the trio with whom I ran the first few miles. Chad is a smart, experienced runner, so I decide to stick with him as long as I can. The miles melt by.

Cruising one of the route's gentler stretches.

Other than some subtle tightness in my hip flexors, I encounter few issues through 40 miles at our steady pace. At last, my stomach decides it’s had enough gel, so I swap fuels, triggering another pit stop. Chad slips away and I carry on alone for the remainder of the runl; but the hard part is over with — we’ve passed other runners all day and I’m happy with the way it’s played out. I’m perfectly content grinding out the last 10 miles alone.

I cross the finish line with a solid kick in a time of 8:47, good enough for 12th overall in this rather stout field. My dad, who flew in on a whim from a business trip to Detroit, finishes the trail marathon and joins me as we enjoy the spoils of the post-race festival and await my uncle Glenn’s arrival. Glenn crosses at just over 12 hours, beaming with excitement: at age 50 he’s finished his first 50-miler. The man seems to be defying age, running faster and farther each year. So, Glenn, which 100-miler are you thinking about?

Me, Glenn, and Scott (my dad) sipping on post-race beer.

Don't buy Balega socks -- this is what happened on their first use!

I didn’t fly out and win the race. I didn’t even come close. But in retrospect, that wasn’t really the intent. Sure, I’d have liked to vie for a podium finish but it became clear early on that would not be feasible. Flying to New York for the Bear Mountain 50 justified a trip east to spend time with family. Following the run, I spent the past week dropping in on relatives all over New Jersey, making trips to Delaware, New York City, Boston, and even dragging a few old friends for a hike up in the White Mountains (hence why this post has taken so long for me to write).

Glenn, Dad and I are already discussing our next ultramarathon get together — I can’t wait.