The inaugural Highlands trail Challenge 100k - blissfully technical

The road felt hard on the feet, a complete change from the soft ground mixed with angled rock making up the highlands ridge. Headlamp on full, normally it would illuminate the entire forest ahead like a motorcycle light. This time, it made the thick fog a fuzzy white, the ground below appear in 7-foot increments as I sprinted with the remaining energy I had to the finish nestled somewhere in the jungle of Norvin Green. It crossed my mind that along with my phone dying the headlamp would also. Was it 12:30AM, 1154? Or did I really lose track of time and it wasn't even 11 yet? I decided since I lost the watch I normally glance at every so often to see how many miles I've done so far, I'd just flow with the passage of time and leave forward progress and milestones to surprise. As it turned out, time did distort itself throughout the day, and wildly. 

Never though a bunch of trails I called my "home" would feel like another world, and this race did that. I was under the impression that the trail (I rarely study maps, so I downloaded it to my phone as recommended in case you go off trail) was following a route I've been doing solo for a decade, since going on day-long treks with friends to get "massive vert" and explore the hundreds of miles of trails within the Ramapo area.

Norvin Green and Ringwood are somewhat an anomaly in the New Jersey landscape, reminiscent of mountains once Himalayan in stature but whittled down to peaks just 700 feet tall or so, but still maintaining the steepness of the final 1/4 mile to reach the peak. The rocks, and they are plentiful, litter the trails, attempting to get into some kind of stride requires a solid concentration to avoid having to stop completely or flip the ankle into a wedge.

I thought I knew every rock and tree by name, the patterns of rising rivers, exactly the easiest way up a hill, the turns of the wildly meandering highlands Teal trail.

Turns out I was completely unaware of a section of the state park dubbed "Jungle Habitat". When you take a left of off skyline drive and go through the yellow barrier, you immediately wonder how long it has been since a parking lot the size of 3 jumbo Walmarts was repaved. There isn't a sign of oil, lines, and definitely no recharging stations.. it is cool to think you are watching the slow but really quick inevitable swallowing of human modified rock by encroaching weeds, moss, and eventually layers of soil. Cool to think that even plastic and styrofoam, although toxic in small amounts dissolved into the water supply, will turn into a harmless layer of carbon in 100,000 years some tens of meters deep.

First item of business, tackle the famous "Stonetown Circular" route. I knew this loop over years of studying its wild turns off of jeep roads by trying to do the loop in under two hours. Having it at the start of the 100k meant I could actually chill on the pace in the opposite direction I ussually go, which avoids the longest climbs. Chatted with some folks in the sunrise about Hokas of all topics. There should be a church of Hoka, because I get flyers and invites to events and pamphlets and I think someone came to my apartment selling Hokas once. As we rounded Stonetown, I felt awesome. Feeling awesome early on is no surprise, but everyone knows it has a shelf life. The longer the distance, especailly with lots of climbing and not to mention the energy expended in dodging rocks and uneven terrian, leads to a slower and slower recovery and eventual crash in energy. Although I've learned my crash-point over the years, it seems to hover right around the 62 mile mark, or about 16-18 hours into a slower running type of event like an ultra.

But I was going at a harder effort than I should have. Seeing the other distances' runners come toward me as the loop returned us back to the start at 17ish, is a giant boost of energy. Ussually I know nobody so all we do is say "G'job" "G'work" "bearverages ahead" "looking handsome today" "looks like a rough night" "can I borrow 5 bucks for gas, this was a bit further than I thought" or some combination thereof, but seeing friends attack the course on the shorter races was exciting - especially seeing some who signed up that morning. This boost of energy is like a shot of adrenaline early on, you feel as if you could maintain the pace all the way to the end and start fantasizing about setting a record or getting in before sunset (that was my dream time). But the mind plays tricks, likes to expend energy efficiently, and forcing oneself to move slower actually takes discipline which is a always a struggle. The mind simply doesn't have the built in ability to judge an 18 hour effort evenly without some conscious action.

So the second part, the out-and-back,

My story of the Tammany 10, 2022 version

 Every time I think of the very beginning of spring, the subtle transition from endless waiting for windshield heat to melt just enough of the ice to see 6 square inches of road in front to the first army of mosquitos impatiently waiting to be the first to strike, I think that before all this happens, I have to break winter completely by doing the Tammany 10.

Sometime around December I remember that “winter weight” (which I fully subscribe to, overindulgence in an exponential form) is always just temporary, and is actually a perfect opportunity to make you feel sluggish enough to spend the next couple of months slowly, weekend by weekend, attempting to adapt the body to increasing numbers of “Tammany laps”.

The Tammany lap is well known in a certain region of the northeast. Mt. Tammany, an odd shaped weathered remnant of a Himalayan peak from 100 million years ago, is actually on its final erosion and will be gone in a short geologic time. Today, it stands in contrast to the nearby rolling hills and farmland of the NJ/PA border. The trail leading to its peak is only a few feet off of the windy portion of route 80 that was bore out of the rock sloping down to the Delaware River. Just driving past Tammany and its sister Mt. Minsi on the other side gives you a momentary feeling of entering the Colorado Rockies, and that you passed a driving test of some kind.

A single ascent of the mountain is a tough endeavor for the average person (1100 foot of climbing in a mile and change, and much of it around boulders and up uneven steep passes, and due to the easy accessibility of the trailhead, many people pack the red trail up to the expansive peak overlooking the river and the valley (the distant highway sound contrasted with the silence of the mountain is eerie and you can feel both modern and ancient environments at the same time). The descent is equally tricky, anyone not used to dodging foot-sized pointy rocks will find themselves judging every step. A single loop back to the start could take 3 hours.

 

And that is why I am compelled to return to do 10 of these laps (plus the 5 trips to the other side of the highway, as this race is held partially on the Appalachian Trail the start/finish is safely tucked under a pavilion, perfect for Dennis to cook up perogoes and bacon and hang out at the end watching other finishers come in) every year in the hopes of having 10 Tammany 10’s completed one day. Since I always aim to finish in 10 hours or less, I have to run as much of it as I can, even uphill. I’m not talented enough to run up hills and make it look like running, it often takes the form of running but as slow as hiking, a habit I formed assuming I would one day be quick enough to make use of it.

With an average of 50 minutes per lap, you encounter a lot of hikers twice, even three times. They actually count the laps for you, but are almost always wrong. Sometimes they just stare at you. Sometimes they smell like weed. Sometimes there are so many in one group, that even if you tell them where you are going, half go left and half go right and create a corridor anyway (insert laughing emoji here). But my favorite groups are the ones that announce “RUNNER COMING” and the entire group of 10 all but dodges into the woods like there is an avalanche rolling down the hill. And they love us being there even though we maybe smell and probably look like we are completely spent and don’t really make much sense when talking. This year in particular some friends were parked at strategic locations and got many photos from the first two laps when the coffee and adrenaline was still fresh in the viens.

Every time I think of the very beginning of spring, the subtle transition from endless waiting for windshield heat to melt just enough of the ice to see 6 square inches of road in front to the first army of mosquitos impatiently waiting to be the first to strike, I think that before all this happens, I have to break winter completely by doing the Tammany 10.

Sometime around December I remember that “winter weight” (which I fully subscribe to, overindulgence in an exponential form) is always just temporary, and is actually a perfect opportunity to make you feel sluggish enough to spend the next couple of months slowly, weekend by weekend, attempting to adapt the body to increasing numbers of “Tammany laps”.

The Tammany lap is well known in a certain region of the northeast. Mt. Tammany, an odd shaped weathered remnant of a Himalayan peak from 100 million years ago, is actually on its final erosion and will be gone in a short geologic time. Today, it stands in contrast to the nearby rolling hills and farmland of the NJ/PA border. The trail leading to its peak is only a few feet off of the windy portion of route 80 that was bore out of the rock sloping down to the Delaware River. Just driving past Tammany and its sister Mt. Minsi on the other side gives you a momentary feeling of entering the Colorado Rockies, and that you passed a driving test of some kind.

A single ascent of the mountain is a tough endeavor for the average person (1100 foot of climbing in a mile and change, and much of it around boulders and up uneven steep passes, and due to the easy accessibility of the trailhead, many people pack the red trail up to the expansive peak overlooking the river and the valley (the distant highway sound contrasted with the silence of the mountain is eerie and you can feel both modern and ancient environments at the same time). The descent is equally tricky, anyone not used to dodging foot-sized pointy rocks will find themselves judging every step. A single loop back to the start could take 3 hours.

 

And that is why I am compelled to return to do 10 of these laps (plus the 5 trips to the other side of the highway, as this race is held partially on the Appalachian Trail the start/finish is safely tucked under a pavilion, perfect for Dennis to cook up perogoes and bacon and hang out at the end watching other finishers come in) every year in the hopes of having 10 Tammany 10’s completed one day. Since I always aim to finish in 10 hours or less, I have to run as much of it as I can, even uphill. I’m not talented enough to run up hills and make it look like running, it often takes the form of running but as slow as hiking, a habit I formed assuming I would one day be quick enough to make use of it.

With an average of 50 minutes per lap, you encounter a lot of hikers twice, even three times. They actually count the laps for you, but are almost always wrong. Sometimes they just stare at you. Sometimes they smell like weed. Sometimes there are so many in one group, that even if you tell them where you are going, half go left and half go right and create a corridor anyway (insert laughing emoji here). But my favorite groups are the ones that announce “RUNNER COMING” and the entire group of 10 all but dodges into the woods like there is an avalanche rolling down the hill. And they love us being there even though we maybe smell and probably look like we are completely spent and don’t really make much sense when talking. This year in particular some friends were parked at strategic locations and got many photos from the first two laps when the coffee and adrenaline was still fresh in the veins.