Table Rock Ultra Race Report
My first ultramarathon!!
A quick note: I ran this race in September 2018. The majority of this was written within a week of finishing the race, but I just never finished writing and editing it. Two years later it’s COVID time and I’m stuck at home, so I’m finishing up deserted projects (like blog posts). Sorry for the delay, and I hope you can still find some modicum of enjoyment from this!
How do I describe running 31 miles in the mountains? The fact that I’m struggling to describe it tells me one thing: it’s a lot to process.
I remember the race in snippets, like scenes from a dream: a long line of runners streaking across a field in blue pre-dawn light, the angry buzz of perturbed yellow jackets, gravel roads that continue for miles, swollen mountain streams, the arduous climb to the summit, the thrill of the technical downhill, the smell of cookies and bananas and PB&J, and the final grueling miles in the late afternoon heat.
“Thirty-one miles is a montage of pain and stubbornness.”
Thirty-one miles is a montage of pain and stubbornness.
I went into the race feeling like I was breaking all the unspoken rules of running: I was going straight from half marathons to ultramarathons (I skipped the regular ol’ marathon). I bought new gear before the race. I bought new nutrition to try. Yes, yes, I broke all the race day rules, but as I told my friends, “It doesn’t really matter. I’m going to run all day in the mountains. I’m going to chafe. I’m going to hurt. So I might as well embrace the pain.”
There’s a certain flavor of pain related to running in the mountains: it’s a meditative sort of pain that cleanses you and makes you stronger — something I’ve often experienced backpacking in the mountains, only distilled a little differently, like drinking gin instead of whiskey.
Packet pick-up for the Table Rock Ultra 50K at Catawba Brewing Company in downtown Morganton was a low-key affair: bib, pins, race t-shirt, and socks were all handed out from a pop-up table on the patio. Several runners were lounging around the patio with beers, but I didn’t imbibe; beer doesn’t sit well with me on the best of days and we still needed to grab dinner and set up our camp for the night.
McCrae and I found a large contingent of runners at an Italian restaurant called Maria’s. Between local residents and kids filling their plates from the pizza buffet and runners carb-loading with spaghetti and other pasta, it was too loud for conversation, so McCrae and I did some research on local trails. While I would be racing on Saturday, McCrae would go mountain biking, so he checked trail closures at Kerr Scott and Kitsuma while I pored over the race route on Trail Run Project.
The race starts and finishes at Steele Creek Family Campground, where many runners (myself included) camped overnight before and after the race. We would run through part of the campground until we reached a forest service road and then run a counterclockwise loop of gravel roads and singletrack trails, with a few side trips to aid stations and the Table Rock summit. The Table Rock summit would be achieved via the Mountains-to-Sea Trail: a god-awful steep climb of 1454 feet gained in a little less than 2 miles. That section was going to suck.
“1454 feet gained in a little less than 2 miles. That section was going to suck.”
With the course roughly outlined in my mind and a belly full of calzone, McCrae and I headed to the Steele Family Campground to set up our tent. In the dark. Fortunately some friends had saved us a spot to camp and after we all ate a sliver of pre-race cookie cake, I was sufficiently prepped for the race and hit the sack for an early morning and a very long day.
That morning was a blur: chug some UCAN! Make some oatmeal! Finish prepping your hydration pack and drop bag! Bathroom! Check-in! Runners were lined up and the announcements had started while I was still agonizing over whether or not to bring certain things (first aid kit? Picky bar? Water filter??). I was nervous and probably snippier than I should have been to McCrae (sorry love!) and, worst of all, I was still debating my race strategy.
“Race day strategy: Freak out, don’t sleep the night before, go out too fast, panic that I won’t make the time cut-off, spend way too much time at aid stations, and eat all the food.”
In one of my running groups on Facebook we had a thread about training and racing plans for Table Rock and I snarkily explained my race strategy as: “OMG OMG IT’S AN ULTRA! Freak out, don't sleep the night before, go out too fast, panic that I won’t make the time cut-off, spend way too much time at aid stations, and eat all the food. Plus lose a sock and freak out over not following LNT (because of said sock), maybe get lost, run out of water, not worry because I’ll have my back-up filter and then realize I didn’t ever pack it in the new pack, and get a glorious sunburn.”
Okay, so that was the sarcastic race day plan. As for an actual race plan though, I was at a total loss. I knew a couple friends were planning to run together at a slightly easier pace with a safe finishing time. And on the one hand it might be fun to run with them — the camaraderie, the mid-race selfies, the encouragement over rough miles would all be a boon. But at the same time I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I did the race entirely on my own terms, on my own motivation, at my own pace? What would happen if I really pushed myself? How would I fare with the mountains? How would I feel in those unfamiliar miles?
I had just finished handing off the final items to McCrae and was scanning the crowd for my friends as the announcer said something about how some creek was currently a river post-hurricane, when I saw someone waving at me. Shannon! Shannon was also in one of my run clubs and I’d run a few trail runs with her over the summer, although she’s generally much faster than me. She knew I’d been debating my race strategy leading up to the race, and when she caught my eye she waved me over.
“Liz!” she said, “Come run with me!”
And that was that. My race strategy had been made for me and I would be pushing the pace. I laughed a little to myself: my snarky Facebook post about going out too fast would probably be close to the truth, but I didn’t have any more time to think about it because the announcer had stopped talking and a few chords plucked from a banjo meant the race was on!
All at once more than 200 runners took off under a blue START arch, through the campground, over Steele Creek, and across a field while the dewy grass slapped at our shoes. I briefly heard someone call my name and I turned to wave, and then Shannon urged me on, into the pale blue dawn and into the mountains.
Start photo for the 30K (since the 50K started in darkness), but you get the gist. Photo courtesy of White Blaze Marketing.
Since the race started at 7am we had 17 minutes of running before the sun rose, though in the mountains sunrise can be an approximation based on whether or not you are in a mountain’s shadow. All I knew that morning though was how iridescently blue and violet the sky was, how colorful the dew-heavy meadow was, how brightly the big stalks of goldenrod shone, and how excited the runners were as they streaked through light fog. I wanted a picture, but I didn’t dare stop to pull out my phone and slow our pace, and we were nearly a mile and a half along the course and plunging into the woods before the sun peeked over the horizon.
It was somewhat hard for me to keep up with Shannon, but it seemed to be the right level of hard: I felt the effort, but could still chat a little, and every few minutes I mentally double-checked, “Can I sustain this for another 30 miles? For another 29.5 miles?” And for a while there, the answer was “Yes. Yes, I can do this!”
“Creek?! That’s not a creek! [C]reeks in Durham are more like trickles among a few big damp rocks. This thing ahead of me wasn’t a creek, no! It was…I don’t even know what it was.”
At mile 2.5 we had our first creek crossing and I stared at it despairingly. Creek?! That’s not a creek! I knew there would be creek crossings along the course so I’d forced myself to be confident on crossings during training runs, but creeks in Durham are more like trickles among a few big damp rocks. This thing ahead of me wasn’t a creek, no! It was…I don’t even know what it was. Crick, creek, stream, river, it was something more than a creek. more than a stream, and less than a river. It was wide with sandy banks and well-worn boulders and looked like it would normally be ankle-deep water, but that day it was thigh-deep.
First stream crossing. Yeah. “Stream.”
Pre-stream crossing with Shannon
“Why do I keep doing these races a week after a hurricane when the water is high?” I groaned inwardly. I was also reticent to get my feet soaked just three miles into the race.
“I’m going to take my shoes off,” a man behind me said.
“Ooh, that’s a good idea, me too,” Shannon said and sat down to peel off her shoes and socks. I looked down at my feet with my muddy shoes and the gaiters that I hadn’t even bothered to velcro onto my shoes, and I decided I might as well embrace the suck and get my feet a little (a lot) wet.
“Go on!” Shannon urged me when she saw me hesitate, and then I plunged into the water, fortunately still hyped up with adrenaline and therefore immune to the cold.
Charging up the steep slope in heavy, sopping shoes was counter to my instincts; I wanted to stop and swap out socks immediately, but I knew I had more creek crossings ahead of me. I wondered too if I should wait for Shannon, but I knew she was faster than me and could easily catch me, and so I kept going until I got to the first aid station.
Here I was a little confused about what to do — it was an aid station and this was an ultra. Which meant I should stop and refuel. Except I didn’t feel like I needed to stop. But shouldn’t I? And if I did stop, how long should I stop? Should I wait for Shannon? Puzzled I took a small cup of ginger ale and lingered a minute to see what the other runners would do. A few runners came up to the aid station and briefly paused and then there was Shannon, bobbing along in her lavender tank.
“Did you wait for me?” she asked and I wasn’t sure if she was pleased to see me or if she was scolding me for waiting.
“Well, I got a ginger ale, and then you were there. I really haven’t been here long.”
“Oh okay,” Shannon said and gulped something that a volunteer handed to her, and then we were off again, up a bit of gravel road that eventually fizzled to wild singletrack. Here we crossed multiple creeks and at one point even the trail seemed like a creek: I tried to avoid the standing water in the center and skirt along the edges of the trail, but eventually it all gave way to sucking mud and and it was better to just slog through the center than get slapped in the face by rhododendron. Up and down, up and down, here the switchbacks started to get interesting until we got to Steels Creek Falls and for a moment I really regretted bringing my phone.
“There was so much extra water in the falls from the recent hurricane that traversing the top of the falls was off-limits. Instead, we would cross at the base of the falls. ”
Selfie with Shannon at the big stream crossing
Steels Creek Falls. Note: NOT MY PHOTO — looks like it’s Brandon Thrower’s photo; I pulled this from the Trail Run Project route that’s linked/embedded in the blog. Supposedly some years if the water isn’t too bad you can cross at the top of the falls, but the water levels were super high when we did the race so we crossed at the bottom of the falls
There was so much extra water in the falls from the recent hurricane that traversing the top of the falls was off-limits. Instead, we would cross at the base of the falls. The water closest to the bank was a nice, calm pothole — a perfect little swimming hole, I thought, if only I didn’t have my phone on me. I skirted the swimming hole easily enough, but getting past the large boulder in the middle of the stream was more difficult. The boulder was big enough to generate a large eddy, and between the eddy and the pothole there was one gap where the water rushed through. The gap was just shoulder’s width, but it was chest-high and seemed to be the only spot where the water was flowing and the current looked strong enough to warrant caution. I immediately went into climbing mode, gripping hard into some crimps on the boulder. Shannon had a better idea though: she offered a stabilizing hand to the woman in front of her and then to me, and I offered a hand to the man behind me and he offered his hand to the runner behind him so that we made a human chain across the falls, pulling each other against the strength of the current. And so, in an instant, the crossing was done.
I started losing sight of Shannon shortly after that though. She easily scrambled up some rocky sections where other runners faltered, skirting past a yellow jacket’s nest that some front-runner had the misfortune of kicking. Yellow jackets buzzed angrily, but I slipped by unstung and settled into a quick but casual pace, dashing through more creek crossings and scrambling over some boulders.
By now a few speedy runners had started to catch us, and I assumed (correctly) that they were the front-runners of the 30K. While I felt good about my own performance so far, I felt a twinge of jealousy for these mountain goats who could run up the steep inclines, and fostered a faint hope that I might still catch up to Shannon at some point.
Perhaps catching Shannon was a vain and delusional idea, but I felt energized when I caught sight of her leaving the aid station as I approached it. We cheered each other and then I grinned when I looked up and realized this was an aid station worked by several North Durham Runner’s Club members. Derek, the race director of the Rabid Squirrel, was checking in with runners while Anna and Margot exclaimed, “Hey! I know you!” and hugged me while plying me with chocolate chip cookies (you know I couldn’t refuse!) Once again, I wasn’t really sure how long to spend at the aid station; I felt good to keep going, but it also felt great to stop and chat, and also express some sympathy for the two guys wrapped in blankets puking their guts out.
““Bee stings,” I heard someone say, and I quickly remembered the angry swarm of yellow jackets.”
“Bee stings,” I heard someone say, and I quickly remembered the angry swarm of yellow jackets.
“Ooooh,” I said, “Are you allergic? Got any Epi-Pens?”
No, they weren’t allergic, or at least had never been allergic before. And so no, they carried no Epi-Pens. The aid station volunteers included a doctor and the affected runners had been given Benadryl. Someone had called an ambulance and I felt awful for those runners, that’s some bad luck. While I was at the aid station though the two runners stopped puking and were wanly smiling at the other runners coming in, making the best of a bad situation.
I ran into some familiar faces coming up to the aid station as I left, and it felt good to see friends old and new cheer each other on, and the extra hype carried me down the gravel hill so I fairly flew through miles 11 and 12.
But after a bit of running on the gravel road it started to feel like my feet were being pounded by meat tenderizers and I was looking forward to getting back onto singletrack.
Finally to my vast relief I arrived at the aid station at around 16.5 miles and I turned right onto the Mountains-to-Sea Trail up to the summit. A sign said, “To Table Rock Parking 1.4 miles" and I knew this would be the hardest climb on the course. The trail curled upwards, skywards, and I began to climb.
It was fairly rough going and required quite a few punctuated stops as I worked to control my effort and breath and heart rate. On each of those short breather breaks I looked out over the tangle of greenery and my heart pounded in my ears until I willed myself onward, over dirt and roots and rocks.
The route was well-marked with this flagging.
I am generally a good hiker on steep inclines, if only because I’m incredibly stubborn. But this was a good challenge; rhododendron and pine roots were often exposed and were clearly vital to making sure the whole mountainside didn’t erode in one swift steep slide. But I reminded myself that I’d climbed harder trails. There was the muddy overgrown thorny steep scramble up Slickrock Creek in Joyce-Kilmer the year before with a hefty backpack that was harder. And then there was the time I accidentally went mountaineering at Rocky Mountain National Park that summer; this Table Rock summit trail was definitely easier than that. But that didn’t make the hike any easier in the moment, and I tried to imagine tackling it as an MST thru-hiker with a heavy backpack. But then again, those MST thru-hikers would typically be going downhill, not up. I tried not to be jealous; I’d be going downhill on the trail soon enough myself, and sure enough I frequently had to step aside on the trail for the faster runners who’d already hit the summit and were barreling back down the trail.
And then, just as I thought the uphill slog would never end, the trees gave way to rock scrambles and I topped out at the summit. A photographer was there to capture the bliss of the summit push, and several runners had paused to enjoy the scenery, to take in a GU, and to tend to various aches and pains. Some runners stripped their wet socks off their feet, laid them out on the rock for a moment to dry, and put on a fresh pair. I just goofily kinda smiled. I was getting close to hitting max distance for me; the longest training run I did leading up to this race was twenty miles. I would soon be in literal and figurative unfamiliar territory, and my brain cells and attention span were starting to suffer.
Official race photo approaching the summit of Table Rock! Courtesy of White Blaze Marketing.
At the summit of Table Rock!
Lol hey Heather (one of these runners in this photo is an acquaintance of mine, though we’d just met at the time)
I didn’t linger long at the summit (okay, my selfies clearly indicate otherwise, but trust me, I wasn’t there long); the view was beautiful, but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time available and I was eager to get going. I skipped down the rocks back to the hiking trail and popped by the parking lot aid station for a popsicle, ignoring the fact that I’d clearly taken the hard way to the summit. The drop bags were available here at mile 20 and I considered changing socks or shoes, but I felt good and figured it would be best not to mess with a good thing. So I grabbed a GU, refilled my water, and headed on my way.
The 1.4 miles back down the mountain were a mix of speedy and slow; I’m pretty good at technical downhill, though I still have to pick my way through really rocky sections or narrow parts of the trail. I ran into my friend Derek who was sweeping and seemed to be having a grand ol’ time, but seeing him sweeping startled me into picking up some speed. I wasn’t thrilled about turning onto the gravel forest service road again, but it wasn’t long before we turned onto a bit of singletrack once more. This singletrack was glorious! Rolling terrain, just technical enough to make it interesting but not so fast that you couldn’t fly! I felt good for these miles and overtook several people. I just remember soft brown trail, pine needles and leaves, gentle shadows in the late summer heat, the smell of the forest understory — that musty and nutty smell of leaves decaying into good rich earth — and the feeling of being invincible and fast even though my leg muscles were screaming. My quads in particular were burning from all the downhill stretches; I thought they might shear straight off my femur, that my skin was the only thing holding muscle and bone and tendon together, but I pushed through.
I was disappointed when I found myself on gravel road again. It cut past several campsites and I trudged up and down rolling hills, a little envious of the people sitting on camp chairs and grilling hot dogs over campfires. This was the worst part of the race; I just wanted to be done. My feet were sore and with all the campers staring at me I felt like the dirtiest, smelliest, slowest parade of one. I scowled at myself, and made myself eat something to try to perk up.
“There is just something about bananas that smells so gosh-darned good at mile 24 of a mountain race.”
I was so happy when I hit the next aid station. Grilled cheese! Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! Bananas! There is just something about bananas that smells so gosh-darned good at mile 24 of a mountain race. You don’t really appreciate its mushy, wet, potassium-rich goodness until it feels like your legs are about to fall off and your mouth is too dry and tired for you to even chew. Mmmm bananas!
I almost left the aid station going in the wrong direction but fortunately someone called me back and sent me the right way — a turn past a barrier and onto some trail that was sometimes singletrack, sometimes doubletrack. This was the bit of trail that we’d come up that morning, so it was good to come back on some vaguely familiar terrain.
And to be quite honest, at this point my brain cells were starved (all the oxygen and glucose were going to my leg muscles, not that icky useless grey matter), so all I remember is the sense of late afternoon summer haze. Wiping sweat from my brow. Cajoling myself to run when I could (which, to be honest, wasn’t often). At this point I was utterly alone; nobody had passed me and I hadn’t passed anyone else for over an hour. I got back to the chest-high creek crossing and paused a moment to get my wits about me; it would be no good to plunge in brainless and alone and get swept away. But oh gosh that chilly water felt so good on my legs! Like a mid-race ice bath, courtesy of Mother Nature.
I loped through scrubby trail and fields back towards the camp. Goldenrod and golden hour glowed together in one gleaming haze. One foot in front of the other. Just put one foot in front of the other. At this point I wasn’t even thinking words, it was just the concept of “keep going” that drove me forward.
“At this point I wasn’t even thinking words, it was just the concept of “keep going” that drove me forward. ”
Someone came running past me and shouted something, and I pushed myself to limp ahead. And then suddenly there was the sound of a creek, of cheers on the other bank. A bridge! A bright green field and a blue finishing arch! Run run run!
My finisher pictures look like I’m a dying cow (ugh), but whatever, I just ran 31 miles! (Well, 32 and some by my watch. Pro tip: Never trust your watch on trail runs. Watches lie.) Though at some point as I ran into the finish I heard someone say, “Dang, if you’re running that fast at the finish you didn’t push yourself hard enough on the rest of the course!” (Which…thanks? I guess you were trying to be encouraging and say I looked strong or I could go harder next time? I dunno, that comment still sits weird with me.)
Oof. Not my best angle.
Oof. Not my best look. But I believe in honesty/authenticity rather than faking it. And apparently this is what I look like when I finish running 32 miles in the mountains ::sigh::
My official finish time was 9:08:03. Not too shabby for my first ultra.
By this time though, the beer was gone (no big deal since I’m not much of a beer drinker), but more disastrously the taco bar was picked over (oh no!) by faster runners and the 30K racers. I wasn’t last, but I was the latter half of the 50K participants, so it was a little disappointing there was nothing left, but in a way I didn’t really expect much at the finish line; I just wanted to sit down. And maybe have a soda. Yes, a Sprite would be AMAZING, thank you!
I hobbled to the bridge to soak my legs in the creek and cheer on the rest of the racers as they approached the finish. Sprite can in one hand, toes in a mountain stream, I was living the dream.
Table Rock Ultras race swag! (Plus my muddy trail shoes)
Mmmm look at all that beautiful mud!
Race Recap
Course - By the Numbers
31 miles (though my Strava recording says 32 miles). One big mountain summit. There’s about 11.5 miles of gravel road, 7 miles of doubletrack trail, and 12.5 miles of singletrack trail. Ish.
Total elevation gain (officially) is 5,700' for the 50K, but I got over 6,500’ vert according to Strava. The highest point on the 50k course is Table Rock Mountain at around 4000’ elevation. A good chunk of the elevation gain is all at once: there’s about 1,500’ gain in less than two miles as you haul up the steep side of Table Rock mountain, which is a slog but the views are so rewarding! (Just ignore the parking lot on the other side of the summit.) Several creek crossings, some of them pretty big. Aid stations about every 5 miles. Generous cut-off times, but some challenging terrain means you’ll work for those times.
Course Summary
The views and features along the course were all excellent. Personally I would have preferred fewer miles on gravel roads and more singletrack, but you work with what you’ve got and Brandon’s races tend to focus on getting you to and from interesting places (like the summit of Table Rock) so I appreciate that. (And talking with other runners who are more into road races, they actually appreciated so many miles on gravel road. So I guess it’s just your personal preference.) One of the creek crossings is pretty big (when I did the race right after a hurricane it was waist to chest high water, though I hear it’s usually more thigh to waist high), so either leave your phone at home or have a waterproof bag handy. There are a couple rock scrambles and steep bits, so be comfortable with that, nothing too crazy though. Wildlife considerations: low risk of bears or other fun/interesting mammals, but do beware of bees/yellow jackets.
Support and General Info
Brandon Thrower (Tanawha Adventures) does a great job as race director: his races are well organized and thoughtful. The aid stations were all great and generously stocked with the usual ultra fare — snack items (including trail mix, potato chips, goldfish, bananas, oranges, etc.) plus some PB&J sammies and one aid station had grilled cheese, mmm! Cupless race, so bring your cup or just expect to refill your flasks/bladders directly. Beer and food are at the finish if you are not a mid- to back-of-the-pack runner (those darn fast people and 30K racers picked it over before I got there, darn it).
Perks and Swag: Free race pics courtesy of White Blaze Marketing (thanks!) are a nice touch. The option to camp out before and after the race at Steele Creek Park and Family Campground is totally worth it (yes, there’s hot water at the bathhouse!). Packet pick-up at Catawba Brewing is easy breezy and included a unisex race t-shirt (cotton, but the nice soft kind) and technical socks (FitSok no-show). Finisher swag was a waffle hoodie (unisex slim fit), no medal (oh come on, you don’t need more medals probably…even if it is your first ultra, lol)
Maria’s is a solid pre-race dinner option for Italian food carb-loading (no official pre-race dinner).
Official website: https://www.tablerockultras.com/
Overall it was a fun race! Great views, good course, well-organized, and chill vibes. I might not run this again because I’d prefer to focus on more singletrack and technical stuff, but I’d definitely recommend this race to anyone considering it! (I’d definitely consider going back to volunteer here! Great atmosphere.)
Official Course from Trail Run Project:
Quick note: It looks like since I did this race in 2018 (counterclockwise loop) they now do the loop in reverse (clockwise loop) so you’ve got the big climb to the summit of Table Rock early in the race instead of later. Otherwise the course is the same.
My Strava Recording:
Nifty Official Promo Video from Tanawha Adventures (Brandon Thrower, RD):
So! What do you think? Have you run Table Rock Ultra before? Or is this a race you’d consider in the future? Let me know in the comments!
Tips and tricks to prevent your water from freezing during your run or hike adventure during cold winter