Eastern Trail FKT Race Report
Calais, Maine, is a tiny town set on the La Croix river, dividing the United States from Canada. Nearly 3,000 miles down the coast, the bustling island city of Key West, Florida marks the southernmost tip of the country. The East Coast Greenway, an on-and-off road route for walkers, bikers, and skiers, connects these two vastly different places, bringing the traveler from the easternmost point of the country to the southernmost; from sleepy, snow-covered communities that time has seemingly long forgotten to high-end tropical destinations brimming with modernity and class. Among the most popular sections of the East Coast Greenway is the Eastern Trail, a path connecting Bug Lighthouse in South Portland, Maine, to the Portsmouth, New Hampshire border. Spanning 12 coastal towns and over 65 miles, the route is composed of quiet trails along marshes, winding country roads, and greenbelt paths on the outskirts of larger cities. I have grown up running some part of the Eastern Trail nearly every day, pausing to take photos of Bug Light at sunrise or meeting friends at the trailhead in Scarborough to run past the marsh. But I never imagined running the whole thing at once. Well, maybe I did. In 2020, with widespread cancellations of races and events, the idea of setting speed records along popular trails, or ‘Fastest Known Times,’ as they are referred to in the running community, exploded in popularity. Here was a way to compete against others—and yourself—without the risks that came with gathering in large groups. An online database keeps track of these FKTs, and a dedicated band of regional editors meticulously vet each submission. The Eastern Trail was established as an FKT-eligible route in June of 2020, with a few men tackling the distance, first in 13:21, then 13:00, then 11:55 by the end of 2022. As the first woman to attempt the full distance, I not only hoped to establish a female time, but also break the overall record. My goal would be to finish in under 9 hours.
December is rarely regarded as a prime time for trail running in the Northeast. It goes without saying that routes are usually obstructed by snow, ice, or some combination of the two. This is where I got lucky. A rainstorm on December 23rd had washed away the small layer of snow blanketing southern Maine, and a series of unseasonably warm days melted any remaining traces. I chose to attempt the record at this time of year because there aren’t too many other events going on; no major marathons or trail races to circle on my calendar. Some runners might see this as an opportunity to kick back and take an off-season from an otherwise year-round sport. Not me. I need to compete frequently. Before the Eastern Trail, I had raced a marathon less than four weeks prior – an eternity. This run would be the perfect way to end a very successful 2022 – and keep me from going stir-crazy from a down period of racing.
Part of the fun of a long FKT is the planning (though some certainly would disagree). I spent hours looking over maps, researching watches, writing out a plan for fueling and hydration, and chatting with the men who had previously set records on the Eastern Trail. I also got a crew together, who would keep me on track navigationally, store the food and water I didn’t want to carry, drive me back to Bug Light after the run, and, most importantly, provide much-needed moral support and encouragement. I didn’t know Greg and Stephanie Lull very well – we had connected at a few races, and I knew they were both fixtures in the Maine running community – but a previous record holder, Greg Legier, recommended that I reach out to them for help, as they had crewed him during his record and knew the route well. They were immediately enthusiastic about my idea, selflessly willing to devote nearly a full day to help me complete my adventure. We decided on December 30th, a Friday, as the official date.
Throughout the week leading up to the effort, I found myself constantly second-guessing my decision. On Monday morning, I woke up, remembered the run was a mere four days away, and unleashed a string of f-bombs in my head. My back had been bothering me, so much so that my running was impacted and I popped multiple Ibuprofens each day. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach, and going from a lying to sitting position triggered spasms that made me wince. A nasty blister on my heel was another source of constant pain. I was full of excuses – but legitimate ones. I spent Thursday puttering around the house. I made lasagna, ate that lasagna, ate some Christmas maple candies, read a book, listened to podcasts about creepy cults – anything to occupy my mind. I usually sleep like a baby before a race. That night, I was a mess, waking for the last time at 2:15am. I numbly went through the motions of eating a peanut butter sandwich, packing my bag, and heading out into the predawn darkness. It was warm – almost 30 degrees – but I was chilly in my shorts and light jacket. I drove the five miles to Bug Light through darkened streets, Meghan Trainor’s “Made You Look” playing softly on the radio, which would, unfortunately, become the earworm of the day. I should listen to more motivational songs next time.
I pulled into the deserted Bug Light parking lot just before 4:40am, and the Lulls arrived minutes later. We assembled my gear in the back seat of their car and walked over to the lighthouse, the official starting line. Usually, I’ll warm up before a race – even before a 50-miler this fall, I still jogged for 10 minutes – but today, I wouldn’t risk wasting any energy. After snapping a few photos, I switched my headlamp on and set off at a comfortable effort. It was 4:53am. I planned to look at my watch infrequently, not obsessing over every mile split, but aiming to run around a 7:45 pace for as long as I could. At first, it was easy. I flew through the 5-mile South Portland Greenbelt path, darting across the route’s only busy road crossings (which, at this hour, weren’t so busy), took a sharp left onto Highland Avenue, and downed a UnTapped maple gel, with the Lulls cheering every few miles from their car. I was running under a 7:30 pace and feeling quick and bouncy but anxious. No sign of a bad back or painful heel. Thankfully. Adrenaline is one heck of a drug.
After 9 miles, I began the course’s first true off-road portion. Still dark, I watched my footing, careful to avoid potholes or rogue rocks. The trail, a wide, packed dirt path, is not technical by any means, but it was still ‘woodsy,’ with the ground frozen and hard. This is where I finally felt my nerves dissipate for the first time. As my watch beeped 11 miles, I was hit with a rush of adrenaline. I was going to smash these next 54 miles! We would all go out for pizza after! All this anxiousness and dread was going to end! I just had to keep doing what I’d been doing for the last 90 minutes and for dozens of miles each day in the weeks prior… putting one foot in front of the other.
Greg met me just over the border to Old Orchard Beach, where I grabbed a small, slightly stale peanut butter sandwich square that I’d prepared the night before and wrapped in tinfoil. Still on the trail, I had finally switched my headlamp off but now faced a new tripping risk: ice. Though the roads were clear of snow, this portion of the trail hadn’t quite melted, and the layer of ice was thick and slippery (yes, all ice is slippery, but having run on icy Maine roads for years, I can attest that this ice was slippery slippery). I tiptoed gingerly across the path, hugging the right shoulder, which seemed to be in better shape. There would be 50 or 100 yards of ice, followed by a clear portion, then another icy patch, on and on and on. My mantra for the day was “keep feeling good.” If it didn’t feel good, I slowed down. No use getting tired so early on. Eventually, I reached the trailhead at Thornton Academy in Saco, 18 miles in. Stephanie was cheering in the parking lot, and I grabbed an UnTapped gel and took a right to begin winding through the downtown. This is where the course shifted from pancake flat to slightly rolling. About a mile into town, I met up with Danny Mejia, the previous record holder, who had decided to join me for a few miles. Running with him was a nice distraction, even as I began to register the first hints of fatigue settling into my legs. We ran along the outskirts of town, through a small, wooded path past neighborhood backyards, and across a busy road (I relished a 7-second pause at the crosswalk). The route intersected with a trail for the second time, and Danny ran with me for another mile or so before turning around and heading back to his car. Through the woods, I saw the Lull’s car, with Greg and Stephanie clearly about to make their way towards me. I called out that I was passing by and didn’t need anything, and continued on. Stephanie later posted that they couldn’t even keep up with me in their car – ha! The next seven or so miles would be lonely, a flat stretch of trail with significant icy sections and the whir of the interstate that was just beyond sight. I stopped looking at my watch, afraid that the ice had slowed me significantly (looking back, it did not, and probably helped me pace myself!) I crossed the bridge over I-295 and headed into downtown Kennebunk.
By mile 30, I had covered 100% of the trail’s off-road portion and approximately 0% of the hills. The remaining 35 miles would be run on challenging, rolling country roads. I hit 50k (31.05 miles) in 4 hours even and ate another stale peanut butter square for good measure. I was feeling steady, increasingly tired but comfortable overall, however, not particularly thrilled about the prospect of running another 30+ miles. I couldn’t remember the route’s exact distance. Was it 68 miles? 66? I eventually decided it was 65.5, and asked Greg for clarification when I saw him next. He responded that the official distance was 65.3 miles. I felt a huge rush of relief. 65.3 miles, in my fatigue-loopy brain, was just so much better than 65.5. I wouldn’t have to run that extra 0.2 miles! Wahoo!
The Lulls drove just ahead of me, pulling over every mile or two to make sure I was on track. As I grew increasingly tired, I stopped shouting out what I needed for fuel and making Greg run over to me to hand it off. Instead, I would stop at their car, pull gels or UnTapped waffles or peanut butter squares from the back seat, and take a minute to chug water before continuing along. I was tired. This kinda sucked. But I was still hitting decent paces, just over 8 minute miles, mostly. My phone, stored in an armband, kept dinging, and I wondered who in the world was texting me. Miles 35-45 are somewhat of a blur. They slogged by, one after another, with an ever-increasing sense of dread. I might not be able to do this. What if I had a heart attack? My vision was getting blurry, and that awful “Made You Look” played on repeat in my head. By mile 45, I was absolutely fried. I was becoming increasingly quiet, muttering, “these last 20 miles are going to be tough.” They would be.
50 miles in 6 hours and 39 minutes. I was still averaging under an 8 minute pace, but that wouldn’t last much longer. I had become confined to shuffling along, feeling as though I was barely moving up the steep inclines that dotted the course. Mile 52 brought the bustling town center of Berwick (Berwick! Nearly there!) and, slogging up a hill outside of town, I passed an older gentleman walking his dog. “Go get your exercise,” he said as I went by. I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or simply a statement that I was exercising (I’m still a little bewildered, actually), but I responded with an exhausted “thanks.” As I coasted down a hill, I pulled out my phone, and, desperate for a pick-me-up, began reading text messages of encouragement from Greg Legier and Danny. I also logged onto Facebook, where Stephanie had been posting photos and updates throughout the day, and found a slew of positive comments from friends. I barely felt any different. This still sucked. Staring down at my phone, I suddenly got a good look at my fingers. Huh? They were swollen like sausages, puffy and fat. I noticed a tingling sensation in my arms. Yikes. That couldn’t be good (I later learned this can happen due to salt imbalance). On I went.
But by mile 55, there was no way I was finishing this thing. I had never felt such pain in my life. Well, not so much pain, just an absolutely overwhelming, all consuming fatigue that made every muscle scream in protest as I lifted my feet again and again. I was seriously going to have a heart attack and end up in the hospital. That always happens to people at the end of marathons, right? And I’d already run well over two marathons. I couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of 10 more miles. I was stopping every mile to chug water (I have never tasted anything so delicious as lukewarm berry Powerwater in my life), and felt my mind slipping into a very dark place very quickly. 55 miles was pretty darn good. People would still be proud of me. But. The Lulls had given up an entire day to make this happen. If for no other reason, I couldn’t disappoint them. I trucked on, miserable.
At mile 58, I made a game-changing decision. Barely able to run anymore, I started walking (“power hiking”) up the hills. Immediately, a wave of relief rushed over me. Walking felt so good. I could just walk forever. I could walk with all my might up those hills, pumping my arms like a middle-aged woman on a treadmill, then sprint down them as fast as my legs would allow me. My pace slowed, but it worked. Suddenly, I felt good. Running was still tough – I would start and my quads would scream, and I’d feel an electric shock go down my arms – but I mixed in such an embarrassingly large amount of walking that I didn’t mind. I counted down the last miles, running whenever I saw the Lulls’ car or encountered a flat section of road. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.
Cresting the top of a steep hill, I saw the Lulls talking to a woman who had come out of her house. “She’s running all the way to New Hampshire from South Portland. She’s been at it for 63 miles,” I heard Greg say. I smiled at the woman, “well, I was running, but now I’m walking a little bit too” I babbled, probably incoherently. As I power walked, I thought hard, and with more clarity than any other time that day. I’m completing this, but I’m certainly not finishing in style. There’s so much to work on, so much room to grow. Make it to the finish, then it’s back to the drawing board.
I managed to run the last two miles in 9 minutes each, speeding up to an 8:15 pace for the last 0.3 mile stretch. I usually get a little emotional at the end of a long race, tearing up and blubbering a bit when I sprint down the finish stretch, but not today. Running over Memorial Bridge, with families taking an early afternoon walk on either side of me, I felt relieved; elated; exhausted; numb. I stopped running when I reached the other side and paused my watch. It had taken me 9 hours, 12 minutes, and 8 seconds to complete the route, 2 hours and 43 minutes faster than the previous record holder. I held onto the bridge railing for dear life. It wasn’t the sub-9 hour day I had hoped for, or had been on pace to complete for over 58 miles. But it was a victory.
I didn’t sit down. I shuffled to the car, chatting with the Lulls and feeling 65.3 miles of endorphins wash over me. A few stretches to keep from turning stiff as a board, then I sat down in the backseat for the first time all day for the long drive home. We stopped for lunch in Kittery, but I couldn’t eat a thing. All of a sudden, I felt absolutely awful. I downed a lemonade in record time, praying that it was just a little dehydration and I wouldn’t throw up over the Lull’s car. Thankfully, I didn’t. I was so exuberant; so tired; not sure what to feel. When I arrived home over 12 hours after I’d left that morning, the first solid food I ate was a single truffle from the Christmas candy stash. That was a mistake. I spent the next half hour on my bedroom floor, curled up in a fetal position, ready to be sick. Then, finally, hours after I finished running, the nausea passed and I turned into a black hole for food, eating everything in sight, a ravenous hunger that would last for days.
It took me less than 12 hours to forget the pain and plan for my return. Though I set the overall speed record, I didn’t break 9 hours and ran a final seven miles that I am far from proud of. I hope to go back in the spring, chasing a better performance and more consistent day. But this run was solid, something to be happy about and build off of. I can’t wait for my next go.
