So I’m training for a couple ultra-marathons coming up very soon—far sooner than I let myself realize. Tonight’s training was supposed to be 3ish hours, hoping for 4 hours. I didn’t get to the trail until about 5:30pm (in mid-October when the sun goes down earlier than I'm used to). Normally I train in the morning or midday, depending on not very many important factors. Basically, I haven’t trained for any nighttime running, and probably won’t need much for how short these ultras will be.
Despite the hoped length of the run, I decide to take my headlamp and warm shirt with me just in case. I planned to be back at the car after 2 hours so I could get more water if I needed, and to send a text message home to say that I haven’t been eaten by any bears. Heh.
The light is good at 6pm. Fellow trail users are friendly and courteous. The leaves are turning lovely shades of yellow, orange and red. It is cool enough to want extra clothing, but warm enough that I will not need them for quite some time. It is a good evening to be running.
Somewhere around 45 minutes into my run I see a pickup truck below me on a road. It is a park service truck and it is stopping where it’s at. It might be stopping so that the rangers can tell me to go home because the park closes at dusk. I will not be stopping my run at dusk. I am a runner. I was also a US Marine. I am not afraid of the dark, and I am quite familiar with these trails. I run on, but not far. I actually think I just heard growling, or a squirrel, or sticks banging1. I actually wonder if the truck was trying to locate a bear. A few seconds of wondering, with a little light left and plenty of grit and determination, and I’m running again.
It’s been about an hour and there is significantly less light. I really do know these trails but I stop and pull out my headlamp because I’ve got nothing to prove by trying to run in the dark. Or at least I haven’t seen anyone for a few miles to prove it to. I’ve selected a place to turn around that’s about another ½ hour on; this should get me a solid 3 hour run, after which I can run a couple out-and backs closer to the car if I really need to and feel like it.
About ten minutes later it is quite dark and I decide to turn around. This is not because I’m scared of the dark. This is not because I am afraid I’ll hurt myself. No, no. It is simply smarter to run closer to the car when it is this dark. I decide that it will be just as well if I take up the rest of my run in the morning. And so I set off along the dark and dreary path.
I still have my watch running and I am still checking it from time to time, but despite this I’m not very aware of the passage of time anymore. I am, however, very aware of the rocks on the ground. The squirrels have gotten louder and I am lonely. I am not bothered by the dark, but I am bothered by how lonely it is. Not scared, just unnerved. I am fortunate that a group of cyclists have converged with my trail. As long as I can see them, I feel comforted. So I run faster despite the growing dark, despite the distortion from my headlamp. Even for how slow they are riding in the evening, they are still riding faster than me and they eventually disappear. And I am left alone again.
At this point the monologues in my head have started. Bravery. Bravery versus stupidity. It is not courageous or brave, I am telling my future sons, to break into these creepy, abandoned houses on the side of the trail here simply to show that you can overcome fear or prove to your buddies that you are not a coward. Bravery is when you do something dangerous that you didn’t want to do, but you did it in order to help someone else. You still feel scared when you are brave, you just ignore the fear.
I am running in the dark. I am not brave. I am not being modest about it. I am simply stupid.
There is no more light at all at whatever pm it is now. There are no more fellow trail users. The leaves have turned to eerie shades of dark, darker and abysmally black. My breath is now steaming out of my mouth as though some foul creature were in front of me. I do not want my warm shirt; I want a cup of hot cocoa. It is an awful night to be running. I am not so much unnerved at being alone. I am scared of the dark. I want to be home.
The trees are no longer standing straight up, but are leaning inward above me, their branches reaching out at me just beyond the edge of the trail. The deer’s teeth are growing into fangs and I am less sure of the path. Twice I have to stop to make sure if I am still on the trail. Another cyclist passes and life is good. I am confident for another five minutes. Just long enough to last until I emerge from the forest to run along the edge of a couple farms. The air is sweet outside the forest. The trail is clear and the light is a little better. I love running at night. I revel in the solitude.
All too soon the trail leads back into the forest for the last 10 minutes. The last mile of my run. It is dark again but I know this section of the trail better than any other. I have been scanning the trees overhead and the bushes alongside me to see if there are eyes looking back at me, reflected in my dim lamp-light. Only once have I seen a deer since it got dark and it did not stay in sight for more than a flitting moment. My attention to the trees has cost me a bloody toenail and a few splashes in the puddles but that’s autumn running. I can laugh this off.
Suddenly the trail winds a strange direction. I’m not heading toward the road anymore. Do I hear the cyclists loading their bikes onto their cars? I’m not sure. The trail is definitely petering out into a track, as opposed to the wide, rocky path that I’m used to. I have chosen a different fork in the trail than the one I normally take. The usual one has a larger stream crossing and I don’t feel like slipping on the rocks or trudging through the stream. And isn’t water where animals congregate? Maybe that’s just on the nature programs but I chose the other fork anyway. Why. Why now. There haven’t been any other little trails that I could have gotten off on but I’m definitely heading out to another part of the park where I don’t want to be. Or was there another trail back there a ways . . . ?
I’m not worried about that anymore because I can see a pair of eyes reflected back at me a little ways off the trail. They’re not blinking. They’re staring. Silly, it’s probably just one of the trail signs reflecting back at me. In the shape of two small eyes. But there aren’t any trail signs on this part of the trail. And they just blinked. “Hey, is that somebody over there?” Please answer. Well, I’ll just pick up one of these rocks to throw at it. That should scare off this thing--it's probably a deer. Wait, how can there be no rocks on a trail that has been covered in rocks for over 2 hours of my run? Here’s a stick I can throw. More like balsa wood. Who puts stick-shaped pieces of balsa wood on the trail? It doesn’t fly very far. And the eyes don’t move.
I try sliding up and down the trail a couple feet to see if I can catch a glimpse of the animal. But with my dim lamplight I just can't see anything. But it’s off the trail anyways so I’m just going to go ahead, slowly. As I start walking, the animal seems to have disappeared. I can’t tell if it’s hiding now or if it has moved, but the trail has suddenly turned right back to where the eyes were. Now what. After several moments of thoughtlessly considering what I should do, I notice that the eyes are now further away. So I bravely creep forward a little further. Or is that stupidly? I’m barely aware that the trail has opened up again and is a bit more familiar. This is little comfort as the eyes stay still while I clap my hands and then throw another stick that floats like a paper airplane. Can this really be happening this close to the car?
Another eternally long minute or so passes and the eyes disappear again. The trail is definitely—how many times have I used this word tonight only to find out how utterly devoid of meaning it is for me??—heading where I think it should, and away from the eyes. From the deer, I’m sure. Quite sure. But do deer hunt like velociraptors? While I’m watching this one, are there others closing in alongside me ready to disembowel me with their predator-developed 2-inch long . . . deer hoof? This thought isn’t even funny at this point. I’m running for it. Full speed, up the hill, I’m not that tired, it won’t follow me quickly enough because I’ll catch it off guard. And I won’t look back because if I don’t then it can’t follow me. Whatever. Just run.
The adrenaline courses through my body as I race up the hill. 2 hours of running tonight and I’m not the least bit tired as I expel large puffs of mist from my mouth. Well, actually it kind of hurts and I’m not so sure that was adrenaline. Fear, definitely. But probably not adrenaline. Then I hear it. I stop and turn, and see the eyes again as it comes to an abrupt stop bounding through the forest towards me. This is a mountain lion. In a forest in the middle of an urban environment. A mountain lion that is bounding through the forest? I have no idea what it is. I still can’t see anything but the eyes. Raptors are smart enough to know to stay at the edge of your light. They know that Petzel headlamps that were manufactured 3 years ago have a luminous range of about 40 feet. It knows to stand exactly 41 feet away. Maybe it’s an error with the conversion from the metric system. Strange thoughts creep into your mind when you’re scared.
The Marine in me comes alive. I shout with all the authority that I ever had, loud enough that anyone close by can hear me. Loud enough that the eyes disappear and bound away. Or skulk. Ya. I’ll say it skulked away when I retell this story. Skulked away quickly. The Marine is gone now and I find myself racing down the trail again. This is the home stretch and I can see my own car and the cars passing by on the country road. All the trails have converged now and I would normally walk this last, very short stretch to cool down. But I do not stop running until I get to my car. I unlock the car, turn off my light and start stretching as another car passes by me. The leaves following in its wake look and sound like animals running towards me. I stop stretching and jump into my car. I lock all the doors—can deer evolve enough to open car door handles? Clever girl. It’s still not funny.
I hate running at night. And I am scared of the dark.
Footnotes:
1 Don't worry, this is only supposed to make sense to a few people.
