Dance with the Devil
Despite a horrific musical ability, for both playing any kind of instrument and most especially for singing, I have always felt deeply connected to music for the lyricism and poetic nature that can encapsulate personal emotion, the setting of a particular environment, or even the entire movement of a generation. For me, both sound, sight, and scent are complexly intertwined where each elicits the other. Every time I hear a Taylor Swift song, I can also hear the laughs and top of lung belts of my college girlfriends, see the glittery sequences of dresses cut too short and high heels too high, and smell the warmth of hair straighteners and curling irons mixed with a (now) unfathomable amount of hair products. Whenever the leaves start to change, the cooler air sweeps in, and the smell of fall is in the air, I’m immediately transported to moments crossing the pedestrian bridge across the Tippecanoe River as I walked from my apartment in Lafayette, Indiana to Purdue’s campus as a graduate student, with the melodic and moody rhythm of The Civil Wars ringing in my ears. The list of these connections between time, space, and scent in my life is seemingly infinite.
A week out from the most daunting physical task, perhaps of my running career thus far, a song I’ve known for years lodged itself deep in my brain, connecting itself to my emotions and my physical being. Maybe it was the figurative emergence from the dark into the light, or the notion of being able to stand atop a pile of rubble and just let every emotion slip into the forgettable depths behind you, or simply the mention of the Devil. Either way, as I ran around in circles in my final days leading up to a Fastest Known Time (FKT) attempt on the Devil’s Path in the Catskills of NY, Shake It Out by Florence + the Machine ran around in circles in my head.
'Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me
Looking for heaven, for the devil in me
My main goal for the year had been the Superior 50 Miler, put on by Rocksteady Running in Northern Minnesota. It is an event, place, and community I’ve developed strong ties to over the past few years having run the Superior Spring 50k, volunteered at the Superior Fall 100 miler, and most recently having paced a friend at the 100 miler last fall. I was most looking forward to experiencing the three elements the event identifies itself by: rugged, relentless, and remote. The Superior 50 Miler, like a large majority of races this year, was ultimately cancelled.
I’m not even sure why, or when, I narrowed in on doing the Devil’s Path, but it was almost certainly with the pursuit of something rugged, relentless, and remote in mind.
The Devil’s Path is a 24 mile route of red blazes, most commonly traversed from east to west. It is considered one of the most challenging hikes in the country and has been called the most dangerous and toughest hike in the East (although, challenging as it may be, I do think there are a few more dangerous and more difficult). There is one road crossing (which is actually a lot for the Catskills). The route has between 8,000 and 9,000 feet of elevation gain, climbing over five Catskill High Peaks (peaks over 3500’), but it’s not the climbing that makes this route such a beast, it’s the descents, most of which are simply piles of rocks and boulders where there are almost always at least three wrong ways to go and never a right way..
It’s always darkest before the dawn
Throughout the spring and the summer, I put in serious time in the mountains. Each weekend, I would seek to balance the mental strain and inherent immobility of my new desk job as an economist with the physical ferocity of hours navigating technical terrain in remote locations. The Catskill Mountains had become my escape as COVID upended every other element of our lives, personally, locally, and nationally. I ran trails I’d run dozens of times but I also sought out new routes and new places. Almost always, against my own instincts, I ran alone. I hit some climbs hard and took risks on sketchy descents begging my feet to move on instinct, but mostly, I moved at a relaxed effort, not ready to leave each present moment for the one that came next. Not quite ready for the leaves to bud and then not quite ready for the leaves to fall. The days and the runs were never long enough and the cuts, scrapes, falls, and bruises were never painful enough to make me think twice about doing it all over again the following weekend.
I can see no way, I can see no way
And all of the ghouls come out to play
And every demon wants his pound of flesh
Unlike races, which happen once a year, on a predetermined date, FKTs stand alone. They are, generally, individualistic and open to an attempt from anyone at any time. In this way, when attempting an FKT you are running in first place, scared of being caught, and running in second place, working to close the gap, all at the same time. There is no race day tactical strategy of cueing off nearby competitors, there is only pushing yourself as fast as you can possibly go either chasing the ghosts of past attempts or running from the ghosts of future attempts.
For nearly the entire summer leading up to my attempt, which I had planned for September 20th, I had no idea just how fast the ghost I would end up chasing would be.
In my mind, I had settled on the fact that I could reasonably complete the Devil’s Path between 6:15 and 6:45, a time estimate that was in large part based on several training runs I had done on the Devil’s Path through the end of August and my general estimate of my overall trail fitness at the time. It would put me in the range of about 2 hours faster than the listed FKTs (both supported and unsupported).
But, the problem with a mental commitment to a certain time is that it can confine you to boundaries of your own making. There is a delicate line between hubris and self-belief. Hubris can leave a runner chasing a (currently) physically unrealistic goal from the start, almost certainly lending themselves a terrible race or FKT attempt, while self-belief has the ability to elevate you higher than what you may believe you are capable of achieving. Trails, especially technical trails with sharp changes in elevation, tend to complicate this balance; every inch of every mile is so unique that a per mile pace is utterly useless, forcing you to develop an internal monitor of effort as automatic and essential as the beat of one’s heart.
The more I repeated the “ultimate” goal of 6:15, the more I really believed it: “wouldn’t that be amazing?” And I believed it would be, until, I didn’t, which happened when, on Labor Day, just two weeks before I had my attempt planned, another woman, Charlotte Winkler, ran 5:33:51. In that moment, 6:15 on the Devil’s Path was no longer an amazing feat, and anything close to 5:30 was seemingly impossible.
The emotions were tumultuous. I felt inspired by Charlotte’s talent and grit and in absolute awe of her accomplishment, arms open wide to congratulate her. At the same time, I already felt defeated, capable of surrendering without even putting up a fight. The fists of imposter syndrome pounded on my skull, loudly, there to remind me, as they have for my entire life, that I’d put myself somewhere that I didn't belong.
And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't
Well what the hell I'm gonna let it happen to me
At that point, I questioned whether or not I should even run the Devil’s Path. There were several other seemingly more attainable FKTs in a reasonable radius that had also piqued my interest. Ultimately, it was the answer to the question: “Does it sound like a meaningful experience if there were no clocks or places?” that set me straight. Yes. It would still be the culmination of a summer’s long project, one that made me stronger and less fearful, and one that brought ten times more joy than it did pain. Even if I wouldn’t run the fastest known time, I could still run my fastest known time.
And I've been a fool and I've been blind
I'm always dragging that horse around
Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground
Thankfully, as much as the mind can become beholden to the confines we create for it, it also has a great ability to forget and to do mental gymnastics. With each day that passed in September, I forgot, just a little bit, how hard the Devil’s Path is and I found ways to make up minutes and seconds all along the route from the comfort of my own home -- “if I can have a fast mile going across Plateau, then I can make up a minute or two”. Slowly, I lowered my own time goal closer and closer to 5:30.
A week out from the attempt, I was already rationalizing how I could run 5:45 on a perfect day. Then, the night before, in my journal, alongside my preparation notes for the following day, I wrote: “I am more than capable of 5:25.”
And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope
It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat
FKTs generally offer little, if any, fanfare. The starting line is rather ominous and lonely. There is no announcer, no music playing, no other contenders. At Prediger Road, where my journey on the Devil’s Path would begin, it was just me, a trunk full of kettlebells for a pre-run warm-up, some strangers sleeping in their cars, and my husband, who oscillated between trying to sleep in our car and very quietly taking videos from inside the car, questioning the sanity of my actions outside.
Just before 7am, the fading green tunnel of summer that lined the trail into the woods began to let light poke through. With temperatures in the mid-30s, I could see my breath, that is, when I remembered to breathe as a slight apprehension swirled inside my central nervous system. Then, at the hour, minute, and second of my own choosing, like taking a plunge from a cliff into a pool of water below, I held my breath once more and took off.
You actually spend the majority of the first two miles of the Devil’s Path heading east; the only time on the whole trail you’ll do so. It feels counterintuitive running away from your end point. These first two miles, however, also offer some of the most runnable terrain of the day. Relatively flat, it’s a good place to open up a bit -- also counterintuitive to a general racing strategy of starting off easy, leaving gas in the tank for later. But I did it anyway.
A little under two miles, you intersect and turn right onto the Overlook Trail, a wide, and very runnable, trail that ascends from Platte Clove Road to the Overlook Fire Tower. It is, however, a tease, as you only spend about one tenth of a mile on its faster surface before the red blazes lead you west for roughly 22 more miles. As soon as you turn right back onto the Devil’s Path, you begin to climb.
It doesn’t take long for the climbing to make my legs feel slightly heavy. My thoughts are consumed with assessing each moment. Every muscle twitch and beat of the heart is registered; a sixth sense that only athletes know. Is that a tightness in my calf? How is my breathing? Is it time to eat something? Engage the glutes. For now, I stave off any feelings of doubt.
The first four peaks are relentless. A series of false summits and technical rock that demand engagement of every limb and muscle to both go up and down, which will ultimately leave my arms and core sore for a week after this attempt is over. Just before the first peak, Indian Head, there is a lookout. I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the horizon, but not so far that I depart from the narrow trail that skirts the edge of a cliff. It’s truly magnificent and for that moment, I feel as though I am on top of the world.
Indian Head is my first “check point”. While I’ve committed to focusing on me and my effort, I am also, inevitably, aware of what I’m chasing, a product of an academic background and professional career built on studying numbers. Just under 50 minutes; one minute ahead.
There are three more peaks to cover in the next 3 miles: Twin Mountain South Summit, Twin Mountain, and Sugarloaf. It takes me nearly an hour to get through all three, more than three times what it would take me to cover the same distance on the road. The grade of these climbs and descents are mind-boggling, generally around 20-30% and at times 45%. Gravity seems to be stronger here than on other parts of the planet.
I make it to Mink Hollow in 1:54. One minute behind. Up next is Plateau. Plateau offers those who dance with the Devil great rewards but first you must climb 1200’ in less than a mile. On the way up, there is a spring that you hardly have to step off the trail for. Its water is cold and refreshing. I refill one of two half liter soft flask filter bottles I have on me. A large flat rock and a lookout facing east with sweeping views of where you’ve been marks the end of the climb and for the next two miles you are gifted a relatively flat and straight tabletop to run on through the soft pine forest that grows there. For the first time in nearly 2 hours, I’m running with a steady and uninterrupted cadence, and more importantly, my mind gets a break from memorizing complex rock patterns and governing how my feet will land on them. However, 20 minutes later, I’m back, plummeting down impossibly steep trails. This time, dropping 1600’ in less than a mile.
Half-way. Tied.
One of my biggest fears for the day was having to wait for a car to cross Route 214. Thankfully, there are none and I zip across the road through the Devil’s Tombstone Campground, bypassing the opportunity to refill my water at the spigot located there.
Just two big climbs left. I can feel myself slipping. Doubt begins to hover but doesn’t fully penetrate my thoughts. I’m halfway in terms of distance and, ideally, more than halfway in terms of time, but I feel so tired. My legs are heavy and I’m moving a lot slower than I did on my training run here. I’ve also run out of water, which isn’t a big deal since it’s cool and I know I’ll make it to the next refill location before desperation sets in, but still, it could have been avoided with a quick stop at the campground. I hike a lot more than I’d like to but still try to run a few steps here and there. Thankfully, unlike the first half of the route, the descents on the second half are much more runnable, which is great if you still feel like you can run. When I reach the top and begin the next descent, my body responds; mind and my feet are still connecting without much effort.
This descent leads you to Diamond Notch Falls, which is one of the most beautiful spots along the Devil’s Path. A large creek flows and cascades over the infamous Catskill rock. No time for gawking today though, the creek serves solely as a, now, very much needed water stop. Bottles filled and ready for the last climb. 3 minutes ahead.
At some point during a long run like this, your brain shuts off most function. All that is left is survival. Memory is only good if it’s muscle memory. And as soon as I start climbing West Kill I forget if I was 3 minutes ahead or 3 minutes behind. All I can remember is the number 3 and I’m too tired to try and do the math. I’m convinced I’m actually 3 minutes behind and it makes me push a little harder. The burning in my legs and lungs is deeper than I’ve ever known. Confident I’ll bounce back once I hit the peak, I treat the second mile of this climb like it’s my last mile of the day. At the top, I’m depleted, but as soon as I’m going downhill, I find another wind.
Just over 4 miles and 45 minutes later, I barrel out of the woods and into the small parking lot to both some familiar and some strange faces, in a total time of 5:29:34.
And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
So shake him off
One of the questions I was often asked after the fact was “when did you know you had it [the FKT]”? In reality, the answer to the question is actually how I knew I had it, to which the answer is beyond numbers and stats, and is rather how I felt as I began to work my way from the final peak to the end of the path. I had entered the most sought after and elusive of states that runners can experience: flow state.
Calm and relaxed, every step became perfect. I moved so smoothly through the obstacles that I could have just as easily been on my couch at home visualizing the experience. As my body flowed over the trail, simultaneously, my thoughts, worries, fears, and insecurities rolled off my back and blew away with the wind. I was present. I was exactly where I belonged: outside, on a trail in the mountains, and on a journey that I had curated for myself. I had shaken the Devil and had the greatest dance of my life.
The bolded sections of this piece are lyrics from Shake it Out by Florence + the Machine. They are not in the same order as the song.