BARKLEY FALL CLASSIC
A Self-Propelled Journey into the Depths of Hell - And Back
My body’s physical protest nearly broke my pleading aspirations to push for the finish. Dehydrated, under fueled and parched, my mouth was dry, scratchy, and lacked of salivation. Caloric intake over the past 2+ hours was nonexistent, and I was fading. Upon reaching the race’s “Decision Point,” Laz prompted the question “Marathon or 50k.” I answered without hesitation but nearly regretted my choice soon after.
This is my story of the 2024 Barkley Fall Classic
My fitness going into this race was exceptionally high. In the previous 10 months I placed top-10 in four trail races and earned my first ever ultra win. I mention those successes here not to draw attention elsewhere, but to provide a bit more insight of just how hard BFC is, as it took everything within myself just to earn a finish at this 50km race.
The Barkley Fall Classic is a race like no other, traversing through unmarked terrain, unknown obstacles, and featuring an unfamiliar course that changes every year. We are provided the map the evening of, and subsequently forbidden use of our fancy GPS watches and cellphones. We must rely on our own internal body to gauge effort and pace and for course navigation.
My Barkley journey began uneventfully. I seeded myself in the top ~35 as we took off down the pavement - but that terrain didn’t last long. The steep, rugged “Candy Ass” trails of Frozen Head State Park are challenging, but not like anything I haven’t experienced. I had never been to Frozen Head previously, but was confident in my fitness during this initial warm up loop. I ran the sections that I could while minimizing my cardiac output as best I could without my HR monitor. Approaching the first aid station was welcoming after 1hr 45min.
This year’s course featured “the meat” of the Barkley much earlier than in years past. I was naive to think this was a good thing, as my optimism to just get it over with was eventually met with overwhelming physical desperation. Our first sacrificial bib-punch donation signaled our continuation. I mentally embraced the ‘suck’ of the Barkley and threw on my thick leather gloves in preparation for RAT JAW.
As if guarded during the offseason by an increasingly unstable trap door, a single step later my feet slid out and I careened uncontrollably down the 45° briar-filled slope. My feet regained traction for a split second, I popped myself back up but then immediately fell back into another slide. WHEW! At this point my perspective was still of excitement for the unknown and not yet dreading what remained. I picked myself up, a volunteer from above - now 20’ above - called out if I meant to do that. “Of course!” I muttered back with a pulsating lower-half.
My buck-45 pound frame struggled to pick its way through the 8’ tall briars as their beefy stocks and entangled webbings fought back towards my forward-progressing intentions. Blood seeped from my exposed arms and legs within the first 10 minutes as I thrashed through the thickets and thorns. Crouching and crawling on all fours became easier than fighting the forest standing. This ~2000 vertical-foot flesh-robbing descent was concluded in about 35 minutes as I butt-slid the final 30’ down into the prison grounds; concerned onlookers watched in disbelief.
The morning was heating up fast as we reached the prison break-in. My throbbing legs struggled to scale the 15’ ladder after such a cruel descent, but at least our first taste of Barkley was complete - clearly this was the wrong attitude.
The subsequent torture that followed demanded our respect and arrived with vengeance. A sharp right turn past a dried riverbed lead straight to an impending wall of doom. I hunkered down and clawed my way up on all fours referencing lessons from my last rock climbing class to haul myself over the jagged rocks. My first ‘rest’ came on the intermediate road crossing before we plummeted down the other side. A gentle inviting slope lured us to an edge like a snow-sport enthusiast approaching a giant park feature. Dropping off the lip I found myself in “skiers stance” and slid my way all the way down - definitely worthy of Black Diamond status.
AS2 refreshed us with ice coke which rejuvenated my trembling body. The aid-station volunteers here were amazing! But reversing this ridiculous rollercoaster of mayhem offered no reprieve. Now congested with two-way traffic, the out-of-control butt-sliders took turns with the methodical mountain climbers, careful to avoid collision and crashing down the couloir.
The backside ascent of Rat Jaw was precisely positioned during Satan’s Sauna - high temps this year reached 88°F but with a real-feel of 666. The briars reopened my already-sliced legs and arms and progress was agonizingly slow. The midway access point was scattered with war zone victims sprawled out in the direct sun. Sounds of vomiting echoed down from above - I trudged forward. After 75 minutes following the prison break-out, I arrived atop the mighty tower to receive another sacrificial bib punch. Cramps overwhelmed my lower-half as I struggled not to tumble down the narrow stairs.
Our first runnable descent was pure bliss - if I dare use such a word in such a venue. I used my technical downhill agility to surpass almost ten participants. Watch-less and now time-less (Rat Jaw had unfortunately claimed my only timekeeper) my body softened into a euphoric state. My eyelids closed briefly and flashbacks to my childhood times spent galloping around the playground flashed into view. This was a special treat, and briefly overcame my worsening acute agony.
I had reached the famous Yellow Gate after 6hrs 45min where a group of volunteers awaited to revive our suffering souls. A critical mistake at this exchange eventually led to my demise - forgetting to top off my bottles with more fluids. Rat Jaw had zapped my brain and nearly all of my remaining uphill power. On the subsequent climb that followed, I struggled to maintain a worthy power-hike. People passed by the pair as my sluggish feet shuffled along the switchbacks. I received an extra few ounces of water from a fellow racer - thank you Mario Zuniga - but it wasn’t long before my bottles went dry once again, and my race took a turn for the worst. Author’s note to re-read my opening paragraph.
After roughly 26 miles, participants reach a junction where we decide our fate: to finish our race here for a ‘Marathon’ or, if arrived ahead of 10 hours elapsed, may continue on for roughly 5 additional miles (this year ended up being ~10 more) to secure the 50k finish. Being just over 75 minutes ahead of this cutoff, as quickly as I was asked, I sealed my fate, turned left, and forged a river before arriving at the last aid station.
I guzzled water from the gallon jugs like a madman and thanked the volunteers for providing such needed relief. I began sweating again, topped off my bladder and hydration bottles and snagged a few solid calories. My mouth and stomach was restricted to bites the size of my fingernail at a time - and it took what felt like an hour just to finish a little 130-calorie Nutrigrain bar; I don’t think I’ve ever been as under-fueled for this long for any preceding race event, ever. For nearly 3 more agonizing hours I chased and leap-frogged bib #300 - Austin - as we each played to our own deteriorating strengths. The light was fading darker and without any sense of time I began doubting my completion of this loop before the final cutoff.
I had managed to avoid the few bees on this year’s course right up until the last descent when one aggressively stung me on the side of my head. It wouldn’t be Barkley without the bite, I suppose. My foggy, and deprived mind got even worse as my head throbbed and pounded. Austin poured some refreshing water on the sting for some temporary relief.
Eternity finally came to an end as I popped out on the road near camp. I hopped back into the woods for one more river crossing and gave the last remaining strength I had to maintain a running cadence through to the end. I crossed the final FINISH bib punch and exhaustingly grabbed the metal fencing for support. Deprived of so much for so long combined with my pulsating head made me dizzy and weak. But I finished - and the quest of the Barkley was finally put to rest.
402 entrants started this year’s BFC. Only 94 finished the ‘50k’ (23.4%) - the lowest in this race’s 11-year history. 145 managed a ‘marathon’ finish (36%) and 163 DNF’d (40.5%) having withdrawn prior to the Decision Point. I’m beyond proud to have earned 46th position having spent just over 12 hours on the course having no prior experience whatsoever.
My response to the classic question do you want to go back was initially “not having an immediate desire to return”, but now, after about a weeks-worth of reflecting and recovering, the allure of the unknown of future BFC courses is already itching under my skin. Or that might actually just be these remaining leftover Barkley battle scars. Time will tell, but for now, so long Barkley, until we meet again (maybe).
Thanks for the nice report Scott. Do you have any social network account to follow you or contact you?
Fantastic race report and amazing achievement!!