It only took a second.
One moment, relentless forward motion at about 4 and-a-half miles per, then the foot smacks the rock, cleverly camouflaged by all the millions, billions and trillions of other rocks on the course.
Down I went, breaking my fall with both hands and my left knee, then rolling onto my back into leaves, weeds and more rocks.
Dennis Haig, who I was running with, stopped, worried, and asked if I was all right. "I wasn't going to leave you there to die," he told me, later.
I waved him off.
"Go," I said. "Save yourself!"
I was perfectly all right, except for two small cuts on the knee, but I'm a movie buff, and always wanted to say something like that.
Dennis, who has completed all 13 editions of Flatrock, laughed and gave me a hand up.
"Let's get out of here," I said, another line from the movies -- actually the most often-used movie line of all time, according to the Guiness Book of Film Facts & Feats.
We were about 17-and-a-half miles into the 13th running of the Flatrock 50k trail race, Sept. 29, on the Elk River hiking trails by Independence, Kan. in the southeast corner of the state.
The race started under clear skies at 7:30 a.m. Temps were in the low 60s, but it felt humid to me. Thirty-four of us toed the line, making nervous jokes and small talk. Most were vets, but a few, like me, were Flatrock first-timers, unsure what to expect.
Finding out didn't take long.
After a short stretch on road, then grass, we hit the trails.
RD Eric Steele, himself a Badwater alumnus, stood at the trailhead, chuckling fiendishly, advising all the runners to "say goodbye to the flat!"
But it's called FLATrock, I recall thinking. Is that just some cruel joke?
Yep.
From the first step, the course rocked and rolled. Uphill we marched in a long line bunched tightly together on rocky, rooty, stick-strewn trail that resembled the multiple rows of debris-encrusted teeth in a lamprey's mouth.
After about a mile-and-a-half, we passed Dave Dinkel, Olathe Running Club, walking stick in hand, heading in. Dave likes the course, but feels he isn't fast enough to participate in the race. So the night before, after the pre-race dinner, he strapped on a pack and a headlamp, and headed out to do the course by moonlight.
Dave also runs the Ridgeline aid station every year at the Heartland 100, Cassoday, Kan., second weekend in October, at miles 36 and 64.
Soon, the line broke into smaller groups. Up we went, then down. We clambered up rocky shelves, and lowered ourselves by our arms through crevices. We ran by spectacular overlooks atop limestone bluffs with great vistas of forest, field and river.
"This is Kansas?" I overheard one runner remark, obviously an out-of-stater.
I sensed we were running, where possible, through very scenic areas. But I didn't dare take my eyes off the trail to look. "If you look up you're going down," is the race's unofficial motto. I got news, though -- if you don't look up, you're going down anyway.
About 6 miles in, I was in front of about 4 or 5 other runners. The trail was grassy, and seemed runnable, so we were trying to make time. I heard a "whump" behind me, and stopped. The runner behind me had gone down.
The grass was just cover for more rocks.
The fallen runner was up again, bloodied but unbowed, and we continued. I noticed the trail was now sporting prickly pear cactus, but the runner had managed to avoid that indignity.
Down we went into deep ravines, and up again. Rocks grew everywhere. They were all sizes and shapes -- EXCEPT flat.
Just three or four weeks before, floodwater drowned much of the course. The water had receded, but left trails blanketed in driftwood. That is, where it left trails at all.
Fortunately, Dennis Haig was running with our small group. After 12 Flatrock finishes, he had a pretty good idea where the course went, trails or not. I can't count the times he kept me and others from adding extra miles to our race.
We lost him when he stopped to tie his shoelace, and I lost the others when I slowed down in between aid stations for some Hammer Gel and Perpetuem.
About two miles from the turn-around, I crossed paths with front-runner Kyle Amos, inbound, doing his second Flatrock. A Kansas City Trail Nerd, Kyle is one of the elite half-dozen runners to ever crack 5 hours on the course.
The next guy, Cody Jones, also a Trail Nerd, was about 20 minutes behind Kyle. Then no one, for what seemed a long time, until I crossed paths with Matt Becker, Kansas Ultrarunners Society, in third place, and looking like he was having a great time.
Then Dave Wakefield, going, I think for his 10th Flatrock finish. Dave, with Kyle, is another of the elites who has cracked 5, but not this day. Allergens on the course had triggered an asthma attack. He gamely battled on for both breath and miles, escorted part way by wife Jessica, though at less than his usual blazing pace.
Another fellow Trail Nerd and Kansas Ultrarunner Society member, Greg Burger, went by after that, with a few others chasing him. They never caught him.
Dennis had caught me, however, and we got into the turn-around aid station together. As a perpetual mid- and back-of-the packer, it astonished me to learn that Dennis and I were in 10th and 11th place leaving the station.
The news energized me, and after a brief walk out of the aid station, I sped up, Dennis and I taking turns leading.
Along riverbank and cliff-edge, up and down through treacherous, rocky defiles, through weeds and rocky ravines we raced, visions of a top-10 finish spurring me on.
Then a rock rudely wrenched the visions back down to earth, along with the rest of me. As Dennis pulled me up, I looked to see if there was blood. YES! There it was, trickling down my shin. Wow. Tough guy.
Despite the fall -- or maybe because of it -- I felt good and raced on. Dennis had problems, though. At the turnaround, he'd loaded his hydration pack with ice, on the theory it would melt in his pack and he'd have a constant supply of ice water.
He didn't count on the insulating properties of the pack though. The ice melted way too slowly, and soon he was out of water.
I gave him my bottle of HEED sports drink. He took a tentative sip and quickly handed it back. Some like the stuff; some don't. I offered water from my own pack, but Dennis thought if he walked a little and tried to break up the ice, he'd fix the problem.
I continued on alone, up and down over the rolling technical course. Dennis caught me right before the aid station. His break-the-ice plan hadn't worked, and thirst helped him run faster. We filled his pack with water at the aid station, and continued.
I have to hand it to those volunteers, by the way. Plenty of cold water, and the bananas and oranges I crave in ultras were there in abundance -- along with the best thing, in my opinion -- encouragement and personal attention.
We got it, then we got out, up a steep, rocky climb.
After awhile, Dennis fell behind, and I started catching those ahead. With everything I'd heard about Flatrock, much of it involving blood, sprains and dislocations, I originally hoped for a sub-8-hour finish.
Looking at my watch, though, I saw a sub-7 in the cards. The idea of a sub-7 on this course, with a top-10 finish, filled my young heart with wild glee. I redoubled my efforts, and in an instant found myself off-course with no Dennis to point me right.
The glee changed to "oy vey," as I envisioned runners by the score zipping on past while I backtracked and the clock ticked.
I found my way to where dreams of glory had blinded me to the trail markers, and continued a little more carefully.
At the last station four miles before the finish, I caught up to Stacey Harding from Wichita. Hadn't seen her since the turn-around, when she left as Dennis and I arrived.
Stacey left while I refilled my empty hydration pack, and Dennis trundled in.
I got out while Dennis refilled. A mile or so along the snakey trail, I caught up to Stacey. She was looking for the trail marker. We found it going down a steep rock shelf through brush, branches and weeds. We hopped down and continued, me leading. I asked her how she was doing, and she replied she had some pain in her right hip.
I would have liked to chat further, but with barely three miles to go, I smelled finish. I poured it on. I ran up inclines where I wanted to walk. I danced through narrow, twisty boulder-bordered defiles crowded with dense fields of jagged rock sticking up and out at every angle.
Hurting hip and all, Stacey stayed with me. Without pain, I'm sure she would have been long gone. I risked a glance at my watch. Sub-7 was still possible, but by no means a given.
Up, down, around, through, over, under, stumble, crunch, ow, would this fiendish trail never end?
Stacey's significant other waited for her by a natural fortress of giant boulders where the trail headed down and out, to the grass and road where we entered. She stopped briefly, and I tore on ahead. I zipped down the trail and burst out of the woods into the sun, the grass, and then the road. The flat asphalt surface felt unnatural and strange after the rigors of the rocks. But the finish was in sight and I went for it like sharks for chum.
I heard someone behind me, but didn't look back, just tried to push the pump. I left the asphalt road and hit the dirt road. There was the finish-line tent, the double rows of ribbons, and the clock, reading 6:52:09, everyone yelling and whooping, and Kyle, the race winner at about 5:20, clicking pics. No sooner had I caught my breath when I turned to see Stacey barreling in, and Dennis right behind her.
I stayed at the finish to yell and whoop and cheer as other runners blasted in.
I couldn't believe it when Eric told me I finished sixth, about 13 minutes behind Greg. It's the next day as I write, and I'm still grinning.
Sometimes, a back-of-the-pack finish is the best you can hope for. Sometimes you have to grit your teeth and bear the DNF. For me, and probably for a lot of ultrarunners, those days happen a little more often than we'd like.
Gotta have them, though. They make a good day all the sweeter.
--Gary "The Luddite" Henry, Sept. 30, 2007