The Black Forest 100K: Exercise Your Demons
Black Forest Ultra Origin Story
On November 17, 2017, David Walker and I sat down at Ottos Pub and Brewery in State College, started pouring beers, and also poured over Purple Lizard maps of the Pennsylvania Wilds.
This is usually how these things begin.
Not with a business plan. Not with a feasibility study. Not with a responsible conversation about whether anyone actually needs another ultramarathon. Certainly not with someone standing up and saying, “You know what this area really needs? A 100K that starts at midnight, has no pacers, no crews, no spectators, requires you to navigate much of the course yourself, and gives people 19 hours to figure out how to get themselves back to the finish.”
No.
We had beer.
We had maps.
And apparently, we had nothing else to do that evening.
Maps are dangerous.
Maps have a way of making terrible ideas look reasonable. On a map, a mountain is just a squiggly line. A contour line is merely a suggestion. A trail is a thin green line that looks perfectly innocent when you're sitting at a table with a beer in your hand.
Maps have a way of making terrible ideas look reasonable. On a map, a mountain is just a squiggly line. A contour line is merely a suggestion. A trail is a thin green line that looks perfectly innocent when you're sitting at a table with a beer in your hand. You don't see the rocks. You don't see the mud. You don't see the thousand-foot climbs. You don't see yourself at 3:17 in the morning, soaking wet, wondering why you trusted two guys with a Purple Lizard map.
You just see the line.
And if you stare at that line long enough, eventually you convince yourself that 64 miles through the Pennsylvania Wilds sounds perfectly manageable.
This was the beginning of the Black Forest Ultra.
So here we are.
On the surface, Black Forest may seem harsh, daunting, perhaps even diabolical. That is not entirely inaccurate. The current course is roughly 100+ kilometers with more than 13,400 feet of climbing. Some of the climbs gain more than 1,000 feet in less than a mile. The race begins at midnight, runners have 19 hours to finish, and there are no crews, no pacers and no spectators out on the course.
And because apparently we weren't comfortable with simply making the course difficult, we don't spoon-feed the runners through the entire thing with a string of brightly lit arrows. The night sections are marked with reflective flagging, but otherwise you need to navigate by following the blazes on the trees.
In other words, we apparently looked at one of Pennsylvania's most rugged trail systems and thought:
Yeah. Let's make this a race.
Then we added darkness.
And navigation.
And a time limit.
This is what happens when two people look at a map and fail to involve a third person whose primary responsibility is saying, “That's a terrible idea.”
[There was a third person there: Jeff Calvert, who neither questioned nor agreed with our shenanigans. He simply sat there and listened, presumably wondering how two grown men had been entrusted with maps and beer. He could have 68'ed the entire operation with one wise comment, but he never broke his silence. Maybe in an alternative universe, Jeff finally cleared his throat, said, “Guys, this is a terrible idea,” and we all went home, where we lived long, happy lives and never spent another weekend tracking exhausted people through the Pennsylvania Wilds.]
The Original Terrible Idea
Our first plan was considerably more ridiculous.
We would start and finish at Little Pine State Park—the same place that serves as home base for Eastern States 100—and send runners up Panther Run Trail, over Pesto Trail, and down Torbert. All three are infamous for their grades, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to introduce someone to a 100K.
You know, ease them into it.
From there, runners would slog up the Pine Creek Rail Trail to Slate Run, tackle the roughly 42-mile Black Forest Trail, and then return the way they came—back down the rail trail and over the same trails in reverse.
Essentially, we were going to make runners complete a giant out-and-back through some of the most miserable terrain we could find.
There are people who design race courses by asking, “How can we make this beautiful?” We apparently asked, “How can we make them regret having knees?”
There are people who design race courses by asking, “How can we make this beautiful?”
We apparently asked, “How can we make them regret having knees?”
I remember looking at the map, looking at the rail trail, looking at David, and saying, “Why don't we just eliminate the rail trail and take a baseball bat to their quads? We'd get the same result.”
I have never been particularly fond of rail trails in ultramarathons. They are flat, straight, relentlessly runnable and, after you've already been climbing mountains for several hours, somehow manage to feel like a punishment rather than a recovery. A runner can spend hours dreaming about getting onto a flat section, only to discover that the flat section is somehow psychologically worse than the mountain.
Ironically, my disdain for the rail trail would eventually become an evil bit of race-directing inspiration when I incorporated a long, mindless, energy-sucking stretch of rail trail into the Ironstone 100K.
Apparently, I don't waste resentment. I just repurpose it.
Eventually, we came to our senses… or at least a slightly less destructive version of insanity. We moved the start and finish to Hyner Run State Park and used the Donut Hole and T-Squared trails to connect runners to the Black Forest Trail.
The resulting course became a giant lollipop: a stem leading runners deep into the forest, followed by the Black Forest loop, and then the long journey back to where they started.
It was considerably more elegant than our original plan.
Although “elegant” is a generous word for anything involving 100 kilometers, 13,000-plus feet of climbing and a midnight start in the Pennsylvania Wilds.
Still, it worked.
Or at least it looked like it would work on the map.
Which, as we had already established, was a dangerous thing.
A Trail That Probably Should Have Been Left Alone
The Black Forest Trail is one of Pennsylvania's great wilderness trails, a roughly 42-mile loop through Sproul and Tiadaghton State Forest just west of Pine Creek Gorge that hikers widely consider one of the most difficult backpacking routes in the state. The route constantly drops into deep hallows and then climbs back up to high plateaus, often throwing 1,000-foot elevation changes at you in a single push.
It is rugged, remote and spectacular, with steep climbs, rocky footing, deep hollows and enough elevation change to make the phrase “just a little farther” an increasingly questionable statement. Most hikers approach the trail as a multi-day adventure.
We approached it as a race course.
And then we added another twenty-ish miles.
This is the part where a reasonable person might have stopped and asked, “Wait. If most people take several days to hike this thing, should we really be encouraging people to run it?”
Nobody asked that question.
Or, more accurately, someone probably did and was immediately distracted by a pretty map.
The result is a course that takes the already demanding Black Forest Trail experience and turns it into something considerably more ridiculous. The current race course is a giant lollipop, with more than 13,400 feet of climbing packed into approximately 64 miles. And because apparently 13,400 feet of climbing wasn't enough of a personality disorder, the direction of the course alternates from year to year, moving the majority of the climbing from one portion of the race to the other.
There are easier ways to spend a Sunday. We have simply chosen not to promote them.
This means you can't run Black Forest once, memorize the course and smugly show up the following year thinking you've got it all figured out.
Black Forest has a memory. And every other year, it changes its mind.
After the first few years (2021), we decided that the course should reverse direction every year. It seemed only fair. After all, why should anyone be allowed to become comfortable? Now, if you want to become truly familiar with Black Forest, you have to run it at least twice because just when you think you've figured out where everything is, we turn you around and make you learn it all over again.
It's less a course strategy than a long-term psychological experiment.
I can't tell you which direction is easier because that depends entirely on your strengths, weaknesses and personal definition of the word “easier.” There are a few things to consider. Do you prefer a race that is front-loaded with elevation, or would you rather save the big climbs for later, when your legs have already filed a formal complaint with management? Do you want to experience more of the elevation during daylight, when you can actually see what you're climbing, or would you prefer to encounter it in the middle of the night, when the headlamp conveniently conceals just how much more mountain remains?
These are important strategic decisions. Unfortunately, both choices are bad.
Ultimately, neither direction feels like a particularly good choice. That's the beauty of Black Forest. We give you two options, carefully analyze the course profile, allow you to make an informed decision and somehow both options leave you feeling like you've made the wrong one.
The scenery doesn't exactly make things easier. The course passes through pine plantations, towering hemlocks and red spruce, while climbing to overlooks that reveal the enormous erosion of the Northern Pennsylvania landscape. There are moments when the forest opens up and you can see for miles across the ridges and valleys of the Pennsylvania Wilds. These views are spectacular and are among the reasons people come here in the first place.
Of course, to enjoy those views, you first have to climb the mountain.
It's almost as if the region's tourism strategy is: Come see our beautiful vistas. They are at the top of that mountain. Good luck.
And then, because Pennsylvania has a particular talent for hiding its best scenery behind an unreasonable amount of vertical gain, you have to climb another one. It's almost as if the region's tourism strategy is: Come see our beautiful vistas. They are at the top of that mountain. Good luck.
The race was never intended to defeat you. Well... Not officially.
We always root for you to succeed.
We know that somewhere inside every person who signs up is the ability to do something they previously thought was impossible. Sometimes you discover that ability at mile 47. Sometimes you discover it at mile 58. And sometimes you discover it sitting on the side of a trail wondering why, exactly, you thought this was a good idea.
All three are legitimate forms of personal growth.
And if you happen to learn something about yourself along the way, that's even better.
What's in a Name?
David and I have always had a tendency to name things.
Not normal names. Not names that would help you understand what you're about to encounter.
Memorable names.
At Ironstone, we have Technical Difficulties, Ankle Graveyard, Fluffy Kitty, Hard Times and Not All Sunshine and Rainbows Trail. At Rock ’N The Knob, runners can experience Blister Blaster, I'll Nettle Do This Again and I Need a Sherpa, to name a few.
At first, David wanted to name each aid station at World's End after the various pubs from Edgar Wright's movie The World's End, but that homage escaped all but a few film buffs familiar with Wright's Three Flavours Cornetto trilogy. We quickly realized that most runners would have no idea what we were talking about. A clever reference is only clever if somebody gets it. We had one aid station captain, Jade, (who now is my co-RD at Eastern States) wondering out loud, “Why am I at an aid station called The Famous Cock?!”
These names serve a practical purpose. They give you something to blame.
When a runner reaches Ankle Graveyard at Ironstone, for example, there is no ambiguity about what might happen next. We have already warned you. If you didn't listen, that's between you and your ankles.
At Black Forest, however, David decided to take a more literary approach.
He wanted the aid stations to carry names from The Pilgrim's Progress, the famous 1678 Christian allegory by English preacher and writer John Bunyan. In the book, a traveler makes his way toward salvation while encountering obstacles, temptations, dangers and despair along the journey.
Which, when you think about it, is a remarkably appropriate literary reference for an ultramarathon. Because ultrarunning is basically The Pilgrim's Progress with electrolytes.
In Bunyan's story, the traveler encounters Hill Difficulty, which represents hardship and perseverance. It is a steep, arduous climb that tests the traveler's resolve and reminds him that the righteous path requires effort.
At Black Forest, Hill Difficulty has a somewhat less theological interpretation.
It is a hill.
It is difficult.
You're going up it.
Good luck with that.
Then there is By-Path Meadow, which represents compromise and temptation. It appears to be an easier, softer path running alongside the proper way, but eventually leads the traveler astray and leaves him trapped by Despair.
Again, this feels remarkably relevant to ultrarunning.
There is always a moment when some part of your brain says, You know what? We could just stop.
Maybe sit down for a minute.
Maybe take a nap.
Maybe call someone.
Maybe walk back to the wilderness and tell everyone you were abducted by a bear.
The problem with ultramarathons is that your brain becomes an excellent negotiator precisely when you are least capable of making sound decisions.
The problem with ultramarathons is that your brain becomes an excellent negotiator precisely when you are least capable of making sound decisions.
And then there is Damn Hollow which represents spiritual danger, despair and the deep pitfalls into which a traveler can fall when he loses his footing.
At Black Forest, we prefer to keep the theological interpretation open to debate.
The terrain, however, is quite clear.
Don't fall into the abyss.
It is hard to imagine a more appropriate literary reference for an ultramarathon. The Pilgrim's Progress is a story about a long and difficult journey through hardship, temptation and despair toward a distant destination.
So is Black Forest.
The primary difference is that Bunyan's protagonist didn't have to carry a hydration vest.
And somewhere around mile 48, after you've been awake all night, climbed thousands of feet, negotiated rocks and roots by headlamp, crossed streams and begun having philosophical disagreements with your own legs, the distinction between physical exhaustion and spiritual crisis becomes somewhat academic.
At that point, you're not entirely sure whether you're seeking salvation or just the next aid station.
Either way, keep moving.
The First Ridiculous Race
October 7th, 2018. The first Black Forest Ultra. Honestly, we had no idea what was going to happen when we turned a group of brave or possibly poorly informed people loose in the Pennsylvania Wilds at midnight. There is a certain amount of confidence required to put on your first ultramarathon, but there is also a certain amount of ignorance, and I'm still not entirely sure where one ended and the other began. Looking back, it was either an ambitious undertaking or a spectacularly elaborate way to discover what happens when you give a bunch of ultrarunners a bad idea and a headlamp.
The fog that night was extraordinary. It was the kind of fog where you could practically part the air in front of you with a breaststroke. The forest swallowed the light from the headlamps. As race directors, we had the comforting knowledge that we knew the course. Unfortunately, that knowledge didn't help much when the people actually running the course weren't where we expected them to be. We had radios, maps and a collection of volunteers strategically positioned throughout the wilderness, which gave us the illusion of being in control. Then we started watching the clock.
The cutoff for the first aid station was getting closer, and the radio remained strangely quiet. We asked for updates. Nothing. We asked again. Still nothing. No runners. At some point, the normal race-director concern began giving way to the kind of speculation that occurs when you've been awake too long and have sent people into the woods at midnight.
The cutoff for the first aid station was getting closer, and the radio remained strangely quiet. We asked for updates. Nothing. We asked again. Still nothing. No runners. At some point, the normal race-director concern began giving way to the kind of speculation that occurs when you've been awake too long and have sent people into the woods at midnight. Maybe they had taken a wrong turn and were now wandering toward the Dark Sky region. Maybe they had somehow descended into the West Branch of the Susquehanna and were headed toward Renovo, where they would be sentenced to create new lives for themselves as lumberjacks or auto body repairmen and women. Perhaps they had collectively decided that running an ultramarathon through the Pennsylvania Wilds in the middle of the night was a terrible idea and were currently sitting around a campfire discussing their life choices. Given the fog, the darkness and the general remoteness of the place, we eventually had to leave open the possibility that they had encountered the terrifying tentacle monster from The Mist or were abducted by UFOs. At that point, the race director's imagination is both your greatest enemy and your only source of entertainment.
Then, just minutes before the advertised cutoff, headlamps finally began appearing through the fog. One by one, runners emerged from the darkness and made their way into Aid Station 1. They were alive, they were moving, and, most importantly, they appeared to know where they were. I don't remember exactly what was said over the radio at that moment, but I do remember the enormous sense of relief that came with realizing that we had not, in fact, accidentally lost an entire ultramarathon somewhere in the Pennsylvania Wilds. For the first time that night, we could breathe a little easier.
That first race would eventually produce only nine finishers. To put that into perspective, today's Black Forest has established itself as one of the toughest 100Ks in the Northeast, while the 2018 inaugural field now feels almost like an 1800's expedition into lands unknown. Those nine people weren't just the first finishers; they were the inaugural class, the guinea pigs, and the brave souls who agreed to find out whether our map-based fever dream could actually be completed. They gave us the confidence that the race was possible, along with an enormous amount of information about what we had gotten right, what we had gotten wrong and what probably needed to be reconsidered before we did this again. We owe those nine people a tremendous debt of gratitude. And, if we're being completely honest, probably an apology as well.
And Then There Was the Ramen
The original Aid Station 2 plan was another example of David's particular brand of race-directing creativity. His idea was that the aid station would be unmanned and that the entire operation would essentially consist of a cooler full of Mason jars containing ramen. That was the plan. No cheerful volunteers, no elaborate aid-station spread, no one standing there asking how you were feeling or whether you needed anything. Just a bunch of Mason jars full of noodles sitting somewhere in the wilderness in the middle of the night, waiting for exhausted ultrarunners to wander out of the darkness and discover them.
So there I was, in the middle of the night, breaking bricks of ramen into Mason jars and filling them with boiling water that we had heated with a JetBoil stove. Even while I was doing it, I remember thinking that this had crossed some invisible line between “grassroots ultramarathon” and “two guys have completely lost their minds.” There is a strange moment in race directing when you step back from what you're doing and realize that, from the perspective of a normal person, none of this makes any sense whatsoever. A normal person would look at someone standing in the woods at 2 a.m. preparing dozens of Mason jars full of ramen and reasonably ask what wrong had happened to their life.
We were putting on a 100-kilometer trail race, that these people had been running since midnight, that they were somewhere deep in the Pennsylvania Wilds, and that eventually they were going to arrive at this particular spot and need noodles.
We would have had to explain that we were putting on a 100-kilometer trail race, that these people had been running since midnight, that they were somewhere deep in the Pennsylvania Wilds, and that eventually they were going to arrive at this particular spot and need noodles. At that point, the normal person would probably nod politely, take several steps backward and make a mental note to never accept an invitation from us to go camping.
The funny thing is that none of this seemed particularly strange to us at the time. You spend enough time around ultrarunning and eventually things that should sound completely insane begin to feel like perfectly reasonable logistical decisions. A midnight start? Makes sense. Sixty-four miles through the wilderness? Sure. No pacers or crews? Absolutely. Navigate through the darkness? Why not. Ramen in Mason jars? Umm, d’uh!
You only realize how ridiculous it is when you try to explain it to someone who isn't an ultrarunner.
And by then, of course, it is far too late.
The Black Forest Has Collected Some Stories
Over the years, Black Forest has accumulated the kind of stories that make a race more than a collection of miles, elevation profiles and finish times. These are the stories that don't show up in the results. The ones that happen somewhere between the trailhead and the finish line, usually in the middle of the night, when a runner has been awake for several hours and the race director has reached the point where the phrase “Well, I guess we'll see what happens” becomes an entirely reasonable operational strategy.
Every Black Forest has its own little adventure.
Here are a few of mine.
Stranger Danger
One of our volunteers, Patrick Sasche, was driving a white passenger van during the race, shuttling supplies around the course and transporting DNF runners back to race headquarters. At some point in the middle of the night, Patrick spotted a runner walking alone along a highway.
She was very obviously off course.
Patrick did what any responsible race volunteer would do. He pulled alongside her, rolled down the window and said something along the lines of, “Hello. I'm with the race. Do you need a ride back to Hyner Run?”
Perfectly reasonable question.
Unfortunately, Patrick was driving a white van. At night. And the runner had apparently retained every single childhood warning she'd ever received about strangers in vans.
There wasn't a sign on the side saying FREE CANDY INSIDE, but apparently that wasn't necessary. Decades of parental lectures had prepared her for exactly this moment. She politely declined the offer and insisted that she could walk the remaining 10 to 12 miles back to the start and finish.
Patrick, presumably, drove away wondering how he had somehow become the suspicious character in this story.
We think she eventually made it back. I say “think” because there are still some unanswered questions about that evening. Most notably, I occasionally see what appears to be a ghost wandering the roads wearing a hydration vest and a pair of Hokas.
Perhaps she made it. Perhaps she is still out there. Perhaps Black Forest simply keeps what it catches.
In retrospect, Patrick probably should have put a large sign on the van: NOT A MURDERER! ACTUALLY WITH THE RACE.
Although, to be fair, I'm not sure that would have helped.
[Note: The more I re-read my post, I think Patrick had rented a van from a person that usually rents vehicles to a school district. Patrick did have a sign on the vehicle that had "SCHOOL STUDENTS ONLY" on the front... which he then redacted a few letters to read: SCHOOL STUDENTS ONLY]
A Visit From Death
Speaking of Death...
Most years, we have The Grim Reaper (or at least a volunteer whose identity shall remain classified) wandering around the start area before the race. Cloaked in black and carrying the general demeanor of someone who has absolutely no interest in your race goals, he slowly wanders among the nervous runners and occasionally points at one of them with a long, bleached skeletal finger.
It's a lovely little pre-race tradition. Nothing settles the nerves before a 100K quite like Death himself selecting you from the crowd.
The conversations generally go something like this:
GRIM REAPER: How are you feeling?
RUNNER: Pretty good. A little nervous.
GRIM REAPER: You should be.
RUNNER: Why?
GRIM REAPER: You have 64 miles to live.
RUNNER: ...to live?
GRIM REAPER: That's what I said.
RUNNER: Did I just make a terrible mistake?
GRIM REAPER: [points up the mountain] Yes.
And sometimes Death doesn't say anything at all. He simply stands there. Watching. Runners check their packs. Adjust their headlamps. Talk nervously with friends. Perform those last-minute bathroom trips that become increasingly urgent as the start approaches.
And sometimes Death doesn't say anything at all. He simply stands there. Watching. Runners check their packs. Adjust their headlamps. Talk nervously with friends. Perform those last-minute bathroom trips that become increasingly urgent as the start approaches.
And Death watches.
Then, just before the start, he slowly raises that skeletal finger and points at someone. We don't know what that person did to deserve it.
We're not going to ask.
That is the sort of dark (get it? DARK) humor that comes naturally to race directors who has spent entirely too much time thinking about ways to make 100 kilometers through the Pennsylvania Wilds just a little more psychologically uncomfortable.
It's not cruelty. It's atmosphere. It's also considerably cheaper than hiring a therapist.
Besides, if you can't laugh about Death before the race, you're probably going to have a much harder time laughing about him somewhere around mile 55.
Then There Was the Wet Year
Every trail race eventually has one. The wet year. The year when the weather looks at the course and decides that, despite your best efforts, things simply aren't difficult enough. For Black Forest, that year was 2022.
The remnants of Hurricane Ian were sitting to our east, and I was watching the weather with the kind of misplaced confidence that comes from having absolutely no control over meteorology. At some point, with all the sincerity and conviction but had no concept how frontal system would interact with a tropical system works, I famously announced:
“I think the rain will end in 30 minutes.”
It did not. Thirty minutes came and went. Then another thirty. Then another.
Eventually, it became apparent that the rain had no intention whatsoever of honoring my meteorological expertise.
The storm stalled, and what was supposed to be a passing inconvenience turned into roughly eight hours of rain. The Black Forest Trail transformed from a rugged, difficult trail into something resembling a 100K-length creek system with occasional rocks and hills thrown in for variety.
Water poured down the mountains. The already numerous creek crossings became less of a trail feature and more of an upside down world of waterboarding. Runners spent hours discovering just how wet a human being can actually become while still technically being considered a dolphin.
And then there was the darkness. Because this is Black Forest, the rain wasn't happening conveniently at noon on a sunny afternoon. These people had started at midnight. They were navigating steep, technical terrain, swollen streams and miserable footing while much of the forest remained completely black around them.
Of roughly 70 starters, only 32 made it to the finish. Thirty-two.
The rest presumably decided that they had gathered sufficient data. That is one of the things about Black Forest. The course is difficult enough all by itself. It doesn't need much assistance. But weather simply gets invited to the party, looks around at what we've built and says: “You know what this needs?” More water.
And then it stays for eight hours.
That's Black Forest.
You start in the dark.
The forest is already there.
The weather may or may not cooperate.
Death is wandering around the start line.
A guy in a white van may offer you a ride.
And somewhere along the way, you're probably going to question every decision that brought you here.
Welcome to the Black Forest Ultra.
Ordinary Runners Doing Extraordinary Things
There is a tendency in ultrarunning to romanticize suffering.
We talk about conquering mountains, defeating demons, destroying courses and overcoming impossible odds. Sometimes the language gets so dramatic that you'd think everyone running an ultramarathon is like a character in Greek mythology who accidentally wandered into a Patagonia catalog.
That's not Black Forest.
Black Forest isn't about being superhuman. It's about being stubborn.
Black Forest isn't about being superhuman. It's about being stubborn.
You don't need to be an elite runner with quads carved from granite. You need to be willing to keep moving when the course stops rewarding you for doing so. You need patience, preparation and enough self-awareness to understand that the mountain does not care how impressive your training plan looked in May.
And you need to be comfortable being uncomfortable.
The current race requires a qualifying 50K within three years, because this isn't really an entry-level trail race. The organizers review applicants with the understanding that the terrain demands some previous experience.
That doesn't mean Black Forest is some sort of Barkley-style “nobody will ever finish” experiment. It isn't. People finish. Some finish remarkably fast. The course records are now downright silly.
Men's Course Record (Even Year) | Jesse Irwin | 12:57:03 | 2024 |
Women's Course Record (Even Year) | Rhoda Smoker | 14:33:50 | 2022 |
Men's Course Record (Odd Year) | Michael Heistand | 12:59:11 | 2023 |
Women's Course Record (Odd Year) | Justyna Wilson | 14:13:20 | 2023 |
The historical results also show that the race has evolved considerably from those nine finishers in 2018.
But finishing fast isn't really the point. The point is finishing. And sometimes the point is discovering that you didn't. Because a DNF isn't necessarily a failure. Sometimes it is information.
You find out what broke. You find out what you underestimated. You find out how your body responds to sleep deprivation, climbing, darkness, wet feet, hunger, cold, heat or the crushing realization that the hill you are currently climbing is apparently only the beginning of the hill you thought you had already climbed.
And then you get to decide what to do with that information.
Exercise Your Demons
There is a reason the race has embraced the phrase “Exercise Your Demons.”
In times past, dark forests were places of unknown dangers. You entered them knowing there were things you couldn't see, couldn't control and couldn't necessarily understand.
There is still something of that feeling in the Black Forest.
The canopy closes overhead. The trail disappears into darkness. Your headlamp creates a small, artificial world immediately in front of you while everything beyond it remains hidden.
You hear things.
Probably squirrels.
Maybe deer.
Occasionally something that sounds considerably larger than a squirrel.
Your mind begins filling in the blanks.
And eventually, somewhere out there in the darkness, the real demons begin to show up.
They aren't monsters.
They're doubt.
Fatigue.
Fear.
Regret.
The voice asking why you are doing this.
The voice reminding you that you could be sleeping.
The voice suggesting that a perfectly respectable life could be lived without voluntarily running 63 miles through the Pennsylvania Wilds in the middle of the night.
That voice may have a point.
But then you keep moving.
That's what Black Forest was always supposed to be.
Not a race designed to defeat you, but a place where you could confront yourself.
A place where ordinary runners could do extraordinary things.
A place where you could discover that the limits you thought were permanent were actually negotiable.
And perhaps that is why, after all these years, the race still feels like more than a difficult 100K.
It is a journey into the dark.
You enter not knowing exactly what you'll find.
You climb.
You stumble.
You get wet.
You get tired.
You question your decisions.
You laugh at things that probably aren't funny.
You eat ramen from a Mason jar.
You curse a hill.
You eventually see daylight.
And if you're lucky, somewhere along the way, you find a little bit of yourself that you didn't know was there.
The Black Forest is still out there.
The hills haven't gotten any smaller.
The rocks haven't gotten any softer.
The night hasn't gotten any brighter.
And the forest certainly hasn't apologized.
We wouldn't want it to.
Because there is beauty in the struggle.
There is something remarkable about voluntarily walking into a place that makes you uncomfortable and discovering that you can endure it.
So step into the wilds.
Exercise your demons.
Just don't expect them to make it easy for you.
They live there.
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