The GNJR: Seven Lessons Learned

Besides having lots of fun and fulfilling a long standing goal, I learned a number of lessons on this run. A few of them are less than earth shattering. A couple of them, however, are heavy, or at least that is how I see it. And one of them I am sure you have never heard before. On the Great Noxapater Journey Run, I learned:

1. Coffee is important. The day I didn't have coffee, Day Two, was my toughest of the entire trip. I don't know that the absence of the bean was the full cause of my difficulties. I do believe it was a part of my lack of energy and inability to perform that day.

2. You can run and walk over 100 miles in five days and not lose weight. I didn't set out to shed pounds. I did, however, expect to drop one or two along the way. But I ate heartily whenever I got the chance because I was hungry and didn't want to bonk out on the road.

3. Closely related to number two is, you don't need the gazillion calories and tons of fluid everybody says you must have in order to do ultra-marathon distances. Yes, you need calories and fluid, but I have a definite stance on the Replenish vs Replace debate. In short, the Replace group says you must match calorie in for every calorie out and ounce for ounce on all the liquid lost through perspiration and respiration. They believe you must do this WHILE you complete your event or you are a novice and perform only at a fraction of your potential. That group, by the way, is represented primarily by people who are selling products to help you do exactly that. Smell it? Don't get me started here. I could go on for pages about all the hydration stuff alone. Let me just say, only certified sissies fall apart if they lose a few ounces of fluid that are not instantly replaced. In fact, much of the hydration mania that has dominated the headlines and literature for the past twenty-five years is not only unscientific (although it claims science), it is dangerous. A far greater risk than dehydration is hyponatremia (too much water, sometimes called water intoxication).
 
4. Confidence is overrated. Really. I feel sure I am the only person on earth who will say that. After my run, my son, Forrest, brought a book by Scott Jurek (if you don't know who he is, google him) to a family get-together. I picked it up and began to read. Almost instantly I came upon these words. "Racing ultras requires absolute confidence tempered with intense humility" (Eat and Run). He is, of course, talking about racing as opposed to just having fun like I was. But the point is, with a little effort, I could fill up a few hard drives with quotations and stories saying essentially the same thing. What I am about to say is anecdotal. But so is everything else you will ever read or hear about this subject. I attempted the Great Noxapater Journey Run in 2013 with 100% confidence I would complete day one. I had done a thirty-miler a few weeks earlier. How could I fail? Day two was the question in my mind at that time. How would my body respond the day ofter a long hard effort? To my utter shock and amazement, I failed on the very first day. No amount of belief or determination or toughness could have gotten me any farther down the road on the extremely painful stress fracture I had been struck by. Fast forward to 2015. I had 0% confidence I would even make the distance on the first day, much less the entire journey. I had developed symptoms of plantar fasciitus a few days before the run, and I was sure things would go from bad to worse. I made it. All. Five. Days. Throughout the journey, my confidence was like a Yo-Yo: up and down. My success was not dependent upon my confidence.

5. If confidence is overrated, what is the essential quality, the one that is not overrated? My answer to that is audacity. More important than confidence is audacity, the willingness to face down your fears and do battle with them. I have done that and failed. I have done that and succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. If you have a dream, don't stupidly believe that confidence will conquer all. But do have the audacity to try. Be willing to fail. Be willing to fail again after you fail the first time. Remember the old adage, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Life is not for sissies, and great challenges are not for the faint of heart. Only cowards have to be filled with confidence to begin the quest. Confidence is for cowards; audacity is for achievers.

6. Life is struggle. The old man at the cafe in Ackerman was right. Without struggle we don't fully live; we waste the gift God has placed in us; we cheat ourselves out of an essential part of our humanity. I think that is one of the reasons I feel compelled to set goals and train and fight to attain them. It's innate in the human condition. When our falleness and our environment separate us from this aspect of our DNA, we and those around us are the losers.

7.Never forget the importance of faith. I don't mean faith in faith as is preached from many popular pulpits today. That, in my opinion, borders on witchcraft. I don't mean faith in self which is the same thing as confidence. I mean faith in a personal God whose will is not always clear and whose ways are often beyond our ability to discern. Sometimes He gives and sometimes He withholds great favors, and sometimes we know not the reason for the gift or the withholding. On the Great Noxapater Journey Run, He gave to me greatly, and for that I am thankful.

The GNJR Day Five: The Denouement

My breath was visible in the cold air when I checked out of the Village Inn and started walking south on Church Street (Highway 15) at 8:00 o'clock Monday morning. Naturally, I was stiff and sore as I made my way towards my great-grandfather's grave site on day five of my journey. My mind went back to last night's fright. When I walked up to the motel, I was immediately impressed by all the cars I saw filling the parking lot. Well, I thought, this place must be a better than I had assumed. I was quickly disabused of that impression, however, after I entered the room.

Once inside my prized palace, I found out the place was in fact a dump. I had come an extra fifteen miles, some of it in the dark, so as not to stay at a rat-hole in Ackerman only to stay at a rat-hole in Louisville. I barely had my pack off when I heard loud, angry voices outside. And thumping. The room shook with the thumping. Then I noticed the door had been kicked in and only partially repaired. Who does that? The safety latch thingy had been broken off and not replaced. Holy crap, I thought.

I wedged a chair under the door, hoping to make it secure, turned the lights off, and peeked out the window where I saw what seemed to be unsavory activity that made me uncomfortable. OK, I was frightened, so frightened I thought I might not exit the room all night, even to eat. Finally, I did muster the courage to leave the room and walk the 100 feet to the restaurant for supper, which I enjoyed immensely. Also, the restaurant helped me relax a little but not totally. Then I went back to the room, took a bath, and put on my night-night clothes. After a little TV time, I crashed like an airplane with its wings shot off. 

Now, the next morning, I was free and safe but tired and weary. Day four had been a trip-long 30.54 miles with lots of running. Fortunately, it was not even a mile to the Masonic Cemetery where I walked straight to my great-grandparents' graves. There I shot a short, emotional video, said a prayer, and thanked them, George for his successful journey and Lou Ella for my name. She named all her sons after authors, my granddad after Zane Grey. I felt like my journey had reached its logical conclusion. This is where it should end, I thought, but I had already announced Noxapater as the ending point. So I left the graves and made my way back to Church Street.

George Henry Quinton's grave

On the way through Louisville, I passed the lot where my maternal grandmother's house sat. A business now occupies that piece of land, but in my mind's eye I could still see the large old house and the yard, front where I played football and back where I ate figs. A bit farther I came to another lot, this one empty, where my paternal grandmother and then an aunt and uncle lived before they all died in faith. The April 28, 2014 tornado took away the structure but it, like the business on the other lot, was powerless to sweep away the multitude of my memories. The Christmas gatherings and summer nights I slept there with Mamaw flooded my consciousness. I remember her putting a chamber pot in my room at night, but I never wondered why until I got much older. Her house had indoor plumbing, and the bathroom was only a few feet away. She would also dust the room with some kind of insecticide, probably DDT, that she manually pumped out of some type of sprayer I haven't seen since I was a boy.

When I got out of town, I realized the final leg of this journey was going to be a really slow one. It didn't matter. My brother-in-law, RT, was to pick me up at Aunt Mary's house around noon time. As long as I made it there by then. A couple of miles south on 15 brought me to Flower Ridge United Methodist Church where my paternal grandparents are buried along with some other kin folk. I stopped and visited the graves. I have never been much of a grave visitor, but as I have aged that has changed a bit.

Flower Ridge Cemetery

Highway 15 from Louisville to Noxapater has no shoulder and is heavily traveled. That made running difficult. My fatigue made running almost impossible. In fact, I only shuffled 1.7 miles on day five. It was just a slow, anticlimactic walk, and it took all morning for me to cover the 10+ miles to the little village. I was mightily relieved when I came to the city limits sign and knew my journey was almost over. Another half mile and I was at Aunt Mary's. I shot a short video outside and then went inside and hugged my aunt, the last of my dad's siblings. I took off my pack and shoes and sat down. RT arrived a bit later and we ate some lunch before he drove me home. I did not put shoes back on for the next twenty-seven hours and that was too soon.

Selfie at 100 miles.

Day Four: Personal Encounters

"Ok.. I'm here I think," the text said.

I went out the back door, placed my Garmin on the porch rail so it could pick up the satellites, and waved to the young man in the car. When he exited the auto I said, "I'll be right out," and went back inside, put on my pack, and rejoined my companion for the day.

Yes, I made it to French Camp on day three and was able to rent a room. Even though I had partly hoped to be homeless, when I crawled into the soft, warm bed inside the log cabin and heard the strong, cold wind howling outside the window, I was awfully relieved not to have to sleep in the woods.

Then the Facebook messages started. To make a short story long, somebody had seen me running on Highway 407. Somebody's fiancee saw a Facebook post. Somebody wanted to run with me, so the fiancee contacted me via Facebook on behalf of her boyfriend and here we were, two strangers about to spend the day together running from French Camp to Ackerman. 

We left at exactly 9:00 am. I had set the time that late to allow for the sun to penetrate the cold air with some warmth. In addition to the cold (26 degree low), I was worried our paces might not be compatible. I had been going for three days, and I'm not that fast when fresh. But right away he didn't seem to be bothered by my slow shuffle.

I could tell in nothing flat that he, James Bevis, was an introvert like me. You know what happens when two introverts get together. We talked each others ears off. I haven't said that many words in the last three years all combined. 

I was first surprised that he could run that slow and then surprised that he could run that far. James is a football player from Jackson, Tennessee who recently inked a scholarship with Mississippi State University. He's a big guy and big guys don't normally do distance running, but James does and like me he does it primarily for fun.

Unlike past starts, I did not walk a long way to slowly warm up but began shuffling as soon as our shoes hit Highway 413. We ran the flats and downhills and walked the uphills while quickly becoming proficient at working together to avoid traffic. Since 413 has no shoulder, one of us, James, would run ahead so we could shuffle the white line single file until the car passed.

I was surprised at how quickly we made it to Highway 12 where we turned north-east toward Ackerman. A couple of miles later, we stopped at the Dollar General Store in Weir. I needed Gatorade, had forgotten to pack a razor, and had lost my toothbrush. After purchasing the three needed items, we were back on the road.

James Bevis and me at the Ackerman sign.

Working with a partner made the time and distance pass much faster and easier than it does when one is alone. Not only that, but I actually ran a little faster and ran a lot more. My legs were feeling the best they had for the whole trip. Day three had been a 27.46 mile effort with the most running of the journey thus far. Yet the old legs still had some juice in them, not a lot but some.

We made it to Ackerman at 12:30 after covering 14.6 miles, much earlier and shorter than expected. We stopped at the intersection of Highways 12 and 15 to eat lunch. I didn't even get the name of the place, but I acquired a plate lunch there of turkey and dressing, butter beans, and mashed potatoes. Jame's fiancee, Samantha Leeanne, arrived to pick up my partner. He was apologetic about leaving, but it was OK. I had made a new friend under the most unlikeliest of circumstances, had enjoyed our run, and we agreed to get together during the Christmas holidays to do some seriously long ambulations.

Originally, I had planned to overnight in Ackerman, but since the day was so young and my legs still workable, I gave thoughtful consideration to going on to Louisville. That would cut day five down to about ten miles and get me home a day earlier which would make my wife happy. Besides all that, I had long recoiled over the idea of staying at the Ackerman Inn.

While I finished my lunch, I made the decision. I am going on, I thought. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see who touched me.

"I'm sorry," an elderly lady who walked with a cane in her right hand said. "I have to be very careful. I broke my hip. If I fall again, I don't know what will happen to me."

She then proceeded to tell me how active she had been and how she was attempting to come back from her injury and surgery. I had heard it all before; life has been putting this story before me over and over: the aged struggling with advancing years and the numerous challenges that presents. I saw it with my grandmother. I saw it with church members. I saw it with Dad. I see it with Mom and with current friends. Getting old is a difficult deal that being young does not prepare us for.

I didn't even get her name. She made her way to her table, and I got up to pay my bill and leave. On the way to the counter, an elderly man sitting in a booth with his wife looked me in the eye and said, "You understand."

"Sir?"

"You understand life."

"Yeah?" I answered with a strong question mark in my voice.

"Struggle. Life is struggle." He then proceeded to tell me how he had recently cleaned a yard, roofed a house, climbed a tree and sawed off a limb with a bucksaw. He is eighty-three years old and told me, "I don't want to live forever, but I want to live while I am alive." 

There was a passion in his eyes as well as his voice. I was beginning to understand what he was talking about.

"Are you on a bicycle?" he asked.

"On foot," I answered.

He asked the usual questions about when and where and then, "You're doing this for your health?" Everybody wants to know why. 

"My health. Adventure. Fitness. Goal setting. My great-grandfather." Then I told him about George Henry Quinton. His deep blue eyes filled with tears.

He shook my hand and said, "You call me if you need anything. Anything. Call me in the middle of the night if you have trouble."

"Thank you," I answered and walked away surprised once more by the power of that story.

After paying my tab, I went out into the sunshine and began a slow walk down Highway 15. I was alone again, and since I moved slowly to let my food digest, I had time and energy to think. Struggle. That's what I thought about.

I think the old man was right. Life is struggle. Even in the garden of Eden, Adam had a job. He worked. The Bible says, "And the LORD took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it" (Genesis 2:15). I don't know how hard Adam's work was. I do know it became much more difficult after the Fall when God cursed the ground and told Adam that "By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food" (Genesis 3:19).

Whether we like it or not, life is filled with struggle. We try to avoid it; we try to prepare for a life without it. Could it be that much of mankind's battles with depression, aimlessness, and anxiety have to do with a contemporary world that has removed too much struggle from our existence? Yes, I understand that sometimes depression is caused by those chemical things, neurotransmitters, in the brain. Or the lack thereof. Some would say it is always caused by those chemical things in the brain. But maybe the chemical things in the brain are the symptom or results of something else, some stress or distress, or something not in line with the way God made us.

Although I have had real struggle in my years and much of it, life is pretty easy right now. The most difficult thing I have to do is try to teach students of English to begin a paragraph with a topic sentence rather than a supporting one. I look at myself as blessed because now I am in a stage of life where I can create my own struggles and make those struggles my play instead of a necessity for my survival.

I stopped on the south side of Ackerman and took a picture in front of the sign to Louisville. Then I began to shuffle some. The legs were tired, and the play had turned into a struggle. But it was a struggle I chose and created. It was still play.

I played for a long time that afternoon. It was only 15 miles from south Ackerman to my destination, but I was moving pretty slowly. Despite my best efforts, darkness caught me some miles north of town. Finally, I came to the place where the old highway-- the one that we always drove in on when I was a kid-- parted from the new bypass, and I had to make a decision. Do I go the bypass route where the newer motels are, or do I go downtown and stay in an older place but one that puts me closer to my great-grandfather's grave? I chose the latter.

The temps fell with the setting of the sun and being reduced to a walk, I was having trouble generating enough body heat. I added clothes, zipped zippers higher, and wondered where downtown Louisville was.The road had no shoulder and when my flashlight went out, I found myself having to step off the pavement onto the ditch bank whenever a car passed to keep from being run over. With my feet being terribly sore, standing on the incline of the ditch was terribly uncomfortable. Where was town? I should be there already. Finally, I approached some stores and the road now had a sidewalk. I walked past a service station and then the Village Inn, an older motel on the south side of town, came into view. There was a Mexican restaurant at the motel, El Rodeo, and I thought, this is everything I need: a bath, a bed, and a meal. So I stopped and rented a room.

Then things got interesting.

Day Three: An Uncertain Conclusion

I woke, dressed, and limped to the motel office so I could check out. Then I limped to the Exxon Station next door, bought Gatorade, and poured it into my hydration bladder. After that, I limped to Huddle House for breakfast. It was 6:50 am when I sat in a booth facing east and looked out the window the direction I had planned to go. I pondered the impending doom and conclusion of my journey. My feet were terribly painful, but worse than that, my lower right calf was sore in a frightening way. There was no way I could make it to French Camp. The human body can't limp all day without something else breaking. I would call John Misterfeldt to pick me up, but before I did, I would walk a mile or two. I would cover some distance before I threw in the towel.

At least I had coffee, and I drank three cups to go along with the three over easy eggs I ate with the grits, sausage, and toast. I finished my meal, paid my bill, and went outside to face my failure. "Lord," I prayed, "at least help me get to Highway 407. Get me there, please." 

I then began to limp down the shoulder of the highway until I was able to turn onto the old 82, a less traveled road. Slowly, my body warmed and my pace improved. I was watching with interest the numbers on the Garmin and noticed the tempo, very slow at first, become quicker and quicker. A little over two miles later, I was at the intersection of Highways 51 and 407. "Thank you, Lord. Help me to get out of town, to the airport road. That won't be as embarrassing if I can make it out of town."

Amazingly, my feet didn't hurt anymore. I found that to be the pattern of the trip. Each day started with sore, painful feet, but a mile or two in and they felt OK. My calf, however, was still sore, worrisome. When I made it to the airport road, I prayed for God to help me make it to Vaiden Road. If I can get there, that will be some sort of victory. I shot a short video as I continued to walk along saying that The Great Noxapater Journey Run as turning into The Great Noxapater Journey Walk. 

But the calf was loosening, my limp was disappearing, and my confidence was starting to rise like the day's temperature. I topped a hill and thought, I can shuffle to the bottom. I did and when I got to the bottom I kept going. My legs felt fine, and I thought, I'm OK; I began to have fun again like I did on the first day. I made it to Vaiden Road, and then I prayed to get to Community Baptist Church which is on the west side of the Big Black River bottom. 


I got to the church at 11.53 miles, and since I had many more miles to go, I decided to take a break there. I stopped under their breezeway, hooked my phone to its charger, and plugged it in. I stretched my calves on the edge of the concrete slab then I lay down and ate a Cliff Bar.

When I left twenty minutes later, I was running and praying to get across the Big Black River bottom, which I did. The next goal was to stride into Poplar Creek. First, I had to climb the 1.1 mile hill that rises out of the river bottom back into the hills. I walked that whole thing. Although I was feeling confident now, I feared a run up that incline would put way too much pressure on my plantar fascia and calf. Not only that, but with all the miles I had come and still had to go, running up hills didn't make much sense.

Poplar Creek is a community, not an actual town. But is was a nice milestone for me, and I knew when I passed through it there would be precious few humans until I came to French Camp.

I made it several miles past Poplar Creek when I took a pull on my hydration tube and got only bubbles. I was out of Gatorade and had a long way to go before the day was done. I heard a four wheeler and some voices. Off the road to the right, I could see some campers on the other side of a line of trees. Deer camp, I thought.

"Hey," I hollered and crossed the road.

"Hey," someone yelled back.

"Can I have some water?"

"Yeah. Come on up."

I met Phil Lekner from Biloxi who was very interested in my journey. He was even more interested in how many deer I had seen, which I told him consisted only of a dead one strapped to the back of a four wheeler which was strapped to a utility trailer which was pulled by a truck. To make a short story long, I left with water in my hydration pack, a cold bottle of water in my hand, and a cold coke stuffed into my pack. 

Despite a chilly start, the day had been sunny and warm. But a cold front was moving in and the sky began to darken while the wind rose blowing the fall leaves over the road and into my face. I decided to drink the water and the coke before I resumed running, and while I walked along, I tried again to call the bed and breakfast at French Camp. I had been calling all morning and could not get them on the phone. I was beginning to think I might be homeless for the night. I know what you're thinking: why did you not have reservations already? Shoot me; I'm a procrastinator. 

The temps were predicted to make a major dip in the night,  to below freezing, and for a bit I became frightened at the prospects of being without shelter. Then I thought about my great-grand father. He was homeless for six months; I could survive being homeless for one night. The more I thought about it, however, the more exciting the idea of sleeping in the woods became. I could put on all the clothes I had packed and make my way to one of those pine thickets beside Highway 413 where I would get out of the wind. I'd gather a mound of pine straw and dig myself into the center of it. If I could get even a few hours of sleep, I should be able to move on in the night and generate enough body heat to stay warm.

As the sky continued to darken and the air began to chill, my spirits soared to their loftiest highs of the journey. A line from a movie came to mind which reminded me of another reason I do this sort of thing. In The Shawshank Redemption, when Morgan Freeman's character boards the bus for Mexico at the end of the film, he says, "I felt the excitement that only a free man can feel at the beginning of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain."

As I ran along towards French Camp, I felt the freedom of a little boy turned loose to play for the day. I was excited. I was happy.

The GNJR Day Two: Tears in my Chicken

The pole barn at Seldom Seen

I woke around 6:30 Friday morning to a cold house and an empty stomach. I had ferried some supplies out here Monday afternoon, and now I made my way downstairs to devour part of them and the others I would later load into my pack. I fixed breakfast, two sliced bananas mixed with a can of sardines in oil, and no I did not drain the oil but sopped it all up with the bananas. I then ate a Moon Pie and washed the dishes I used before going upstairs to get ready for the morning's launch. 

The first thing I did was work on my feet, applying tape, duct and kenisio, to critical areas. Then I begin to dress a little at a time. There was in no hurry since I was waiting for the sun to warm things some before I left. I wore my tights for the first time on the trip and put a couple of more layers on up top. I loaded the thirty-two ounces of Gatorade into my pack's hydration bladder and packed the extra Gu gels, Moon Pies, and protein bars I had stashed here for the remainder of the trip. That added probably three pounds to my load. Not good. That was one of the problems I had in 2013: my pack was way too heavy. Although I did not weigh my pack then, I did weigh it Thursday before I left: 11.4 pounds. Not too bad for a five day run. But now it was heavier. My appetite should remedy that, however.

I waited a while longer for the weather to warm, and then left Seldom Seen at a quarter till eight, on my journey for Winona. After making it to McCarley Road, I walked the first long hill leaving Wilson's place and then began my first run of the day going down the other side. I could tell right away it was going to be a tough day. My legs were spent from the start, and things would only get worse as the day progressed.

Fortunately, McCarley was much closer than I thought, and after only four miles, I was downtown, such as downtown is. Although my body felt bad, my brain felt good that I had reached the scene of my 2013 surrender when I was forced to take a ride back to Greenwood, unable to continue my journey. This time I was still in the game. I took a few photos and then headed onto the gravel road that leads eastward out of town.

Those roads between McCarley and Winona were the best ones I encountered on the whole trip. They are almost uninhabited, pretty flat with a hill thrown in here and there, and for several miles one follows the old abandoned C&G Railway line. This was only the second time I had been through here, the only other time being in my truck while scouting out a route to keep me off Highway 82.

One of the neat roads beside the
old C&G Railroad.

I saw precious little wildlife, but I did feel the solace of the silent woods as I wondered the road-trails among the trees which were awash with their fall colors. As the morning wore on, however, I became weary, very weary, maybe a result of a less than stellar night's sleep, or possibly the consequence of a lack of coffee. I normally drink a quart of the liquid bean per day. Seldom Seen had a coffee maker, filters, and coffee, but I didn't want to open a package of someone else's bean so I went without. I should have taken some out there with my groceries.

Two and a half hours into the morning, I checked my Garmin to discover I was walking along at 25:00 minutes per mile! That's grocery shopping pace, but it was all I could do. My feet were sore, my legs were dead, and my energy was low. A nap was all I wanted, fantasized about. 

I found a place in the road where the shade hit and some leaves lay making me think cars rarely rode over that spot. A good place to sleep, I thought, so I stopped and began to take off my pack. Then I had a faint inkling of how stupid it would appear to anyone who heard of me getting run over because I was asleep on the road. 

I should have opened that coffee.

I continued on for what seemed like days but in reality was only hours. Finally, I came to the paved road that runs parallel to I 55 and only a little ways north of Highway 82. I was at Winona. I checked my watch. It was only 1:30, too early to check into a motel. I made my way across 82 to Kentucky Fried Chicken where I ordered a three piece meal. The chicken, I surmised, would give me plenty of protein to repair my damaged muscles.

I sat down with my food and the profundity of my fatigue overwhelmed me. I thought about my great-grandfather who walked from Utah to Louisville, Mississippi when he was but a boy. He was a better man than I when he was only twelve years old. I lowered my head and put my left hand on my forehead to cover my eyes so no one would see me cry. I tried not to drip tears onto my chicken which I devoured with relish despite my highly emotional state.

After eating, I wearily wandered next door to the Magnolia Lodge where I checked myself in. Immediately, I removed my shoes, lanced some blisters, and took a long, warm bath. I put on my night-night clothes and crawled into the bed. I was asleep within seconds.

Tears and chicken were my lunch/supper.

I woke up about two and a half hours later. It was 5:00 pm. I spent the next five hours watching TV, taking naps, and eating protein bars one half at a time. The extra protein would help my damaged muscles recover. Eating one half of one every thirty minutes would give my body the ability to uptake all the amino acids. Or so I surmised. Somewhere around 10:00 o'clock, I slipped off into a sleep from which I am sure not even an F 5 tornado could have awakened me.

Distance for the day was 11.54 miles.

The GNJR Day One: Dogs and Bigfoot

The confidence, excitement, and eagerness that had been building inside me for months were all gone smashed like a wrecked ship and sunk by the rocks of pain, fear, and dread. The long-awaited Great Noxapater Journey Run was here, but my prospects for success had vanished like a thief in the night. Monday evening after a short run, I began to feel pain and soreness in my left heel. What?!?! I have had plantar fasciitis before. This meant doom, maybe months of it.

Selfie near the start on the
Yazoo River levee.

I took another short run Tuesday afternoon, felt more pain, and my anxiety level shot to a 15 on a scale of 1 to 10. I wanted to weep, my mood became somber, I became sullen and dark. For years, literally years, I had planned and trained to make this run, but injury almost always prevented me from starting. Finally, I was healthy enough to start in 2013, but went down in flames, failing on the very first day with a stress fracture. Now it was happening all over again: same song, new verse.

Wednesday I went home after work, tried to stay off my feet as much as possible, and pondered and prayed if I should even start the journey. My head told me no, don't do it, put everything on hold; but my heart pushed me out the door and at 11:58 Thursday morning on November 19th I begun what I fully believed would be another ill-fated attempt. I expected to have to be rescued on the first day, but something inside told me I had to try. Since my spirits were so low, I started with a slow walk to let my legs and feet gently warm up. It was a full three and a half miles later before I dared to switch to a slow shuffle. 

Surprisingly, everything felt good when I started running as I shuffled out Browning Road, over to the highway, and then east on the shoulder of 82. I prayed as I pounded the pavement and asked God to at least help me get to bottom of the hill. I ran to Valley Hill and then began a slow walk up the long incline while cars and eighteen wheelers whizzed by. As the mile numbers mounted, my confidence gradually rose like the temperature on a July morning.

As soon as I could, I crossed the four lanes of traffic to get to the old Highway 82, a quieter, gentler road more satisfying to my soul. When the old highway came to an end, just like I did in 2013, I opted to ambulate the longer but safer and more scenic Skating Rink Road. This year I found it just a pretty as I did twenty-three months ago, and I also found myself praying for God to give me day one, all of it.

Somewhere after the road turned gravel, I picked up two dogs who seemed determined to go the distance with me. I did nothing to encourage their company, having learned long ago that canines love to ramble with strangers. As we re-approached 82, which I would cross once more, I prayed the dogs would go home, but they seemed set to stay with me having the time of their lives. One was a large, light-tan cur-looking male of about 60 pounds; the other was a full-sized but smaller black, shaggy female of an estimated 35 pounds.

Much to my chagrin, we, the dogs and I, crossed the busy highway and spilled ourselves out onto Providence Road, a shady stretch of tree-lined gravel that leads to the old town of Carrollton. We were getting a long way from the dogs' home, and I began to worry more about them, if they could get home, would they be safe. I caught the big dog and found a phone number which I promptly called. The man who answered said he was on the other side of Eupora travelling the other way, but he would make a call to a friend in the area who maybe could pick up the dogs. 

Supper at Dixie's Cozy Kitchen.

Just before we came into Carrollton, my canine companions got into a fight with some local dogs. This caused me to worry even more because I wondered how they could possibly have the nerve to come back this way even if they knew the way home and wanted to go there. 

In Carrollton, the traffic was surprisingly heavy and the dogs were constantly in the road coming frighteningly close to being struck several times. We went past my brother-in-law's house where my niece, Cheyenne, a lass about twelve years of age, was outside holding a puppy, and the brown dog acted a little aggressive towards the innocent puppy sending my stress levels even higher. 

When we got a little farther down the road in front of Dixie's Cozy Kitchen, a woman wearing an apron ran out of the cafe and started calling the dogs by name. She was the friend the owner phoned. While we were scrambling about attempting to corral the dogs, a deputy sheriff rode up and stopped in the middle of the busy road.

"What's going on here?" he asked as if he had caught us red-handed committing a crime.

"We need some help," the woman in the apron yelled back at the office who responded by speeding away in his patrol car.

We caught the brown dog and locked him in the woman's SUV. She said she would take him home when she got off work. But the black one was still on the loose when I left about thirty-minutes later. I don't know how that story turned out. I went inside when the apron woman did and ordered a hamburger and fries, and drank three glasses of tea.

When I left the cafe, it was dark and the temperature had fallen from warm to what a Southern boy calls cold. I pulled some clothes out of my pack, put them on and began the last leg of my day's journey, the three miles to Wilson Carroll's Seldom Seen where I would sleep for the night. Since I had just eaten, I didn't attempt to run, but hiked in the dark the two plus miles to the turn and then the almost mile up the gravel road/drive.

Inside the house, I quickly shed my pack and shoes, lanced two blisters-- one on each foot-- and took a bath. I then put on my night-night clothes and went downstairs for some TV time, reflecting on the journey thus far. I left home with zero confidence in my prospects for success, but God gave me the day. I was grateful. Now I was thinking, maybe, just maybe with prayer and effort, I can pull this off.

I became groggy so I went upstairs to turn in for the night. Having come 23.1 miles, sleep should be no problem and I was in the twilight zone, fading fast, when my eyes opened wide at a startling sound.

Pop.

Pop. 

Pop.

Over and over and over and over.

It was loud, way too loud for a mouse or rat or whole heard of rats even. Something was downstairs causing chaos. And then while my heartbeat shook the soft bed I lay in, something outside let loose with what sounded like a Bigfoot call, you know how they do on the show Finding Bigfoot. "Are you kidding me?!?!?!" I thought. Then after a few seconds, the yell broke loose again.

I crept out of bed and retrieved the large folding knife I carry on long runs for protection, more concerned about what was inside the house than what was outside it. You know I felt threatened since I had the blade out. I sneaked to the door, down the hall to the stairway, and then nervously reached for the light switch afraid at the sight I was sure to see below. I expected to see something, maybe a cow having crashed through the wall and standing in the middle of the room or Bigfoot himself or a crew of thieves wearing ski masks and black gloves. But when I did flip on the switch what I saw was nothing, or nothing amiss. I could view the entire room except a small area directly under the stairs, and though I hate to admit it, I was too frightened to go down there and look under the stairs

I spent the night with my knife in my hand, the hall light on, and my face pointed towards the bedroom door. Though I yearned to roll over onto my left side, my normal sleeping position, I dared not do it.

Yeah, I'm a fraidy-cat.

The distance for the day.

Luvie's Short Report on The GNJR

By Luvie

Today I am writing fat boy's simple report on The Great Noxapater Journey Run. He says he will write a more detailed account later.

Day One: 23.1 miles from Greenwood to a little east of Carrollton

Day Two: 11.54 miles from a little east of Carrollton to Winona

Day Three: 27.46 miles from Winona to French Camp

Day Four: 30.52 miles from French Camp to Louisville

Day Five: 10.16 miles from Louisville to Noxapater

Total: 102.78.

Zane says he will compose a write up of each day's run. Not only that, but he says there will be a separate post about what he learned on this journey. Really? He vows it's true, that he made a new friend, had some personal encounters with strangers, did some deep thinking, and learned a lot about himself and life. I think he's just trying to justify his indulgence, but he promises it's true that he has some real lessons everyone needs to think about. He even says he now has something to say that no one has ever said before. Boy, what a boast. We'll see about that.

Meanwhile, since he came home he's been waddling around like a penguin claiming his feet are sore, and says his goal for the next twenty-four hours is to wear no shoes. He also promises to see how much coffee he can drink, how many naps he can take, and how much cat petting he can do in one day. We'll see about that too.

I am Luvie, and I wrote and approve of this blog post.

Countdown to The GNJR

It's Friday morning. Three guesses as to what I'm doing. No, I'm not writing a "Poot" story, though that is on my list. No, I am not dressing for a big run, though I do plan to shuffle some today. Yes, I am in bed with Jeff and Luvie, but Baby Kitty just skipped out on us. It is not raining, but the coffee is good, the house is cool, and I can pretend the weather is Eskimo cold on the outside. I'm comfortable, my computer beckons, and I yearn to write. Writing, it's what I do now instead of shooting stuff anymore.

Besides writing, running, and reading-- the three "Rs"-- I intend to start loading my pack for Thursday. That's the day, the long awaited rematch with The Great Noxapater Journey Run. The countdown has begun. I feel like a little boy waiting for Christmas. I have a list made out. Will Santa bring my dream? Two years ago he left me with ashes and switches. But this time around I have been good. Or at least a little better.

We are now within that time limit in which the weather forecasts actually means something. I learned long ago that a ten day forecast was about as reliable as a triathlon bicycle on a gravel road. It just doesn't work. The five day forecast is pretty accurate. Days six and seven are an educated guess. Days eight, nine, and ten are a pure guess. That's just my opinion, but I'm right. Thursday is now seven days away and the prediction is for a high of 64 degrees with morning showers. I can deal with that. By the way, The Weather Channel App on my phone now has a 15 day forecast. Are you kidding me? I even heard one meteorologist say, "Anything over seven days is witchcraft." Yes, although I don't believe in it, I catch myself taking a pee from time to time. I mean peek, I take a peek at that long-range weather guess on my phone.

Just now, Baby Kitty has jumped up on an end table across from the bed and Jeff is having a fit. He wants all the cats on the bed. So do I, but I have learned that "you don't always get what you want." At least we still have Luvie, who is snoring like an old man sleeping off a night of drinking with other old men. I find Luvie's snoring to be soothing and not annoying at all. Cat snoring is not as soothing as cat purring, but I will take what I can get.

Another thing I ought to do today is make a phone call to Seldom Seen and see if I can ferry out some supplies. I need to drop off some Gatorade, gels, Moon Pies, and breakfast foods. This will prevent me from having to carry all that in my pack on day one. Eating my first meal of the day there will save me from going back into town for breakfast the morning of day two. For me, backtracking on a long run is disturbing, disheartening, dangerous even. It drives me batty. 

Anyway, short story long, I am feeling the anticipation and that is a good thing. There is so much emotion in this for me, and the motivation for this adventure is multifaceted to the point that I don't fully understand it myself. That's OK. I'm done with trying to figure it all out. Now, I only desire to experience it. I want hours on the road alone with my thoughts. I yearn to stagger into the Masonite Cemetery in downtown Louisville and visit the graves of my great-grandfather and -mother. I want desperately to scratch this goal off my bucket list. It has been there a long long time.

Well, I have pretty much worn myself out typing, so I think I will take a nap now. Later, I will let you know how far I got today in making preparations for Thursday.

They Are Here Already

They strike only when an important athletic event approaches. Landfall can vary anywhere from one week to two weeks out, but sometimes it is as short as a day. My schedule seems to be one determining factor in when they strike if at all. In times of high activity, the growing anxiety doesn't have a chance to make its appearance until the EndangeredSwimmer stands face to face with the long-awaited event. At other times, they have mysteriously been missing, no-shows like many of the students I don't teach. Like a flubbed meteorological forecast, I have seen the times when never come to pass.

This time the nibbles of nerves have already begun, and like the contractions of a woman in labor, they are bound to grow stronger and more frequent as D-day approaches. Maybe the fact that D-day for this event has come and gone before and D-day turned out to be disaster day has caused my anxiety to be ratcheted up higher than normal. I came, I saw, and I was conquered in my initial match with The Great Noxapater Journey Run, walking on crutches for six full weeks after my first ill-fated attempt. What will this try hold?

November 19th at approximately 12:00 pm is my scheduled launch to once more leave my wife's house on West Monroe Avenue and begin shuffling towards Noxapater, approximately 117 miles away. I don't know what to expect, only that I am better trained and more experienced than I was in December of 2013. Still I am far from as trained as I would like to be, and I still have no experience with multi-day runs. I had intended to try one or two two-day runs, but who knows why I failed to pull that off.

I have already written about my reasons for doing this. Several times. Yet I feel compelled to reproduce once more as best I can my limited understanding of my own motivation. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I am working school registration now which means I am sitting in my office, and I just finished watching every YouTube video ever posted. Boy, that took a while. I posted one myself earlier today, so I just turned to the blog instead of that stack of papers that needs grading. Why oh why do I loathe grading as much as I do? I think it hurts my feelings to see how little of what I try to pass on to the students actually makes it into their skills sets. Be that as it may, I will tell you again why I am attempting to run for five days:

• I like physical challenges, ones that make me train hard over a long period of time.
• I like physical challenges that force me to think hard as well as train that way.
• I love goal setting, investing sweat and effort into the project for long periods of time with and end in mind. 
• I love the feeling I receive when I finally pull it off, that deep-seated satisfaction that is as real and tangible as the bulging set of keys in my pocket.
• I crave alone time, time to reflect and not reflect; time to think and not to think; time to just be and let nature seep herself into my soul at her own pace.
• I love adventure and my one-day adventure runs have been a delight that form part of that good place I can go to when life sends me scurrying for some solace.
• I am re-enacting my great-grandfather's epic journey from the Utah Territory to Louisville, Mississippi, a journey he made by foot in 1895 at the tender age of twelve. I plan to visit his and my great-grandmother's graves in downtown Louisville before making my way to Noxapater (population 472) where I will spend some time with my Aunt Mary and Uncle Paul.

Have I told you about my past experiences with making adventure trips to the Louisville/Noxapater area. I'll save that one because I work registration again tomorrow.

With the run a week and two days out, I am entering that span of reduced activity that leaves more time and more energy for the butterflies to circle my stomach and remind me that my mouth and keyboard have written checks my legs might not be able to cash. What else is new?

The Agenda

It is Saturday morning and things have finally slowed down a bit. We had revival at church the last three nights, and I was privileged to preach. I enjoyed the job tremendously, and it served me as a spiritual tune up, so to speak. But now, with the rain hitting the awnings outside our bedroom window, I am pecked at the computer, sipping coffee that tastes like it was made for a king, and wondering why my cats aren't relaxing with me.

Training wise, it's been a slack week, but that is OK because I needed a drop down cycle anyway. Starting Monday, however, I plan to see how many miles I can run in my last big training week before The Great Noxapater Journey Run, which is scheduled to begin November 19th. That is a Thursday, and I have to work that day, but I plan to leave a little early and hit the road by noon. For the first day, I have the modest goal of making it to Carrollton, MS. The plan, the agenda is as follows:

Day One: Greewood to Carrollton (approximately 25 miles)
Day Two: Carrollton to Winona (approximately 17 miles)
Day Three: Winona to French Camp (approximately 27 miles)
Day Four: French Camp to Ackerman (? 22-25 miles ?)
Day Five: Ackerman to Noxapater with a stop at George's grave in Louisville (25 miles)

Total: 117 miles, give or take ten.

I don't know all the distances, but I know roughly how far is is from town to town. The roads I run won't necessarily be the ones I travel by truck, so Google Maps is of no value here. I will know how far the trip is when I finish, unless I make another drive between now and then just to measure things.

I've worked out a couple of my logistical issues. One issue I had was where to stay in Ackerman. There is a motel there, but I once dropped in to get a phone number. The lobby was dimly lit and literally filled with furniture parts from floor to ceiling. Literally. The proprietor came from a back room and seemed irritated, agitated, and suspicious of me. His big brown bug eyes were frightening, and I glanced at his hands half expecting to see blood dripping from his fingers. I got the distinct impression that I had interrupted him from dismembering a human body in the back room from whence he came. When I left, he glared out at me from a window. He was so creepy that I became frightened while I drove away in my truck, and no I am not exaggerating, and no I am not writing this for Halloween. 

For two years I have tried unsuccessfully to secure lodging in the area from someplace other than the Ackerman Motel. Recently, I passed and noticed the place had been painted on the outside, and for the first time in over fifty years I saw they had guests. A family of ordinary-looking people were unpacking their car getting ready for a stay in downtown Ackerman. I decided then I might make it two in fifty plus years. I will still, however, be praying and looking for another way.

The second logistical issue that is solved is the ride home. In the past, I would have called Dad. The run ends at his sister's house. Since he passed, the issue of whom to call for help has come up several times. When my truck broke down a few months back, I pulled my phone out to call my old standby, Roger Hodge. To make a short story long, I cried the rest of the day. My go-to guy now is my brother-in-law, RT. He helped me cut the magnolia tree in our front yard and he has agreed to drive over and pick me up. He's a good man, and Luvie just climbed up on the bed with me. Let the relaxing begin.

The Buddy Bones Money Road Marathon

It's been a few weeks since Buddy and I did an adventure run. Friday, October 23, we didn't do one then either, but we did do a marathon. I figured I needed a full marathon distance at least once before The Great Noxapater Journey Run which is rapidly approaching. After this week, I have two more weeks of heavy training and then a two week taper period before I plan to launch on Thursday afternoon, November 19th. Since I was in save time mode, I decided not to make the drive to Carroll County, but launched instead from my front door, giving me more coffee and cat time before the long physical effort. Luvie loves Friday, and I hate leaving him before I give him enough affection to make him happy.

The weather was pretty much perfect, a tad warm, but I had rather have that than too cool anytime. The temp peaked at 83, but with a dew point of 62, an overcast sky coupled with a steady breeze, I felt as good as James Brown all day. Almost. I began with the idea of a three to one ratio, that is running three miles and walking one. I did this because I am not in full marathon condition yet and during the journey run I will need the physical and mental ability to start back running over and over after the legs have long lost their vigor.

As usual, a slow and steady decline marked my progress as I shuffled to Money, Mississippi and beyond by several miles, then turned and made my way back home. On the way, with the wind to my back, my shirt soaked with perspiration and I often daubed sweat off my face with a handkerchief. When I made the turn around at 13.15 miles and faced the wind, my shirt dried and my handkerchief stayed in my pocked. 

Ambulating home, I enjoyed the wind blowing leaves off the trees which are just now showing some real fall color. I stopped in Money long enough to snap some photos and pit stop at the fire department where I ate a Snickers, refilled my hydration pack, and lay down for a few minutes. 

The breakdown of the shuffle/hike went like this:
run- 3.02
walk- 1.0
run- 3.03
walk- 1.0
run- 3.11
walk- 1.0
run- 3.31
walk- 2.0
run- 3.36
walk- 1.0
run- 1.25
walk- 1.0
run- 2.27
total: 26.22 in  5:55:37 @13:33.

Not good, but not too bad for an old man out by himself. I did a marathon and no traffic was diverted, nobody had to give up a day volunteering, and no race director lost a year of life due to stress. And to make it all even better, I did not pay an entry fee. That's a win win; Buddy and I will do it again.

Pilgrimage II

I don't remember how I found out he died in Crenshaw, Mississippi. It hasn't even been that long since my discovery, and I didn't even know where Crenshaw was despite having spent my entire life in this state and despite the fact that map gazing is one of my favorite pastimes. I looked the town up on Google Maps.

To my surprise, Crenshaw lies in the Delta. It seemed odd to me for him to move to the flat lands after living in the hills. Few people do that, especially folks born in this state but raised elsewhere.

Maybe the alluvial plain that has been my home for fifty-nine years has impacted my psyche more than most people's. But I exaggerate not one bit to say that for me I feel like a visitor, and traveler, whenever I leave this little area of flat earth that measures 200 miles from south to north and is barely seventy miles across at its widest point. That widest point, by the way, is along Highway 82 where I live and which some people say is the best thing to ever come out of the Delta. The fact that Greenwood, my lifelong home, is a mere eight miles from the Carroll County hills, doesn't change the fact that when I leave the Delta I feel like I enter not a different state but a different country. Simply put, there is the Delta and then there is everywhere else.

I'm not bragging nor am I complaining, it's just that I have trouble understanding it myself, understanding how this topography can have had such an enduring influence on my thinking and feeling and outlook. To learn that George Henry Quinton moved from the Louisville area to the Delta and died here caused me to sit open mouthed and amazed. I drank coffee (closing my mouth long enough to swallow) cup after cup after cup, and pondered how it could have happened. Would anyone else respond the way I did? 

Basically, people born in the Delta leave as soon as they can. This has been going on for decades and all counties in our little subarea of the state are losing population. Few people move here although I know some who have. My dad was one who did, but of a brood of six boys, and a few girls he was the only one to move here doing so for a job. One of his sisters moved here with her husband, but when they got the chance, they left and now live in the great town of Noxapater where my upcoming journey run will end if I am successful. As soon as he could afford it, however, Dad purchased land in the nearby hills where the country boy in him, the hill boy, could find solace through hunting, gardening, fishing, and using an outdoor toilet.

One of my current friends was born in South Carolina and came here for a job with Viking Range Corporation. Viking brought in a lot of outsiders into the Delta, people who otherwise would have never even driven through this unique country. We, my friend and I, have never discussed this strange land we live in although I think I will broach the topic at my earliest opportunity.

After my discovery, I knew I had to go to Crenshaw. Since he died in 1951, the town no doubt has changed in ways I can never discover. It was one of the places Penny and I thought about going last Friday. But instead, we visited Louisville and found his, my great-grandfather's, grave. This Saturday, October 17th, we made the trip to his final town.

On the way, we drove over some of my old biking range where I pedaled literally hundreds of miles during my cycling craze of 2009-2010. We drove out Money Road, went east on Highway 8 and then north on Tippo Road to Highway 32 where we turned west and made our way to Highway 49. At Tutwiller, we hit Highway 3 and continued our journey north. When we drove through the town of Marks, we were on a road I had never ridden. It was typical Delta and it really does all look the same. Nevertheless, I still get a thrill out of seeing new sights even if they do look like ones I have seen before.

Penny asked my why he came to Crenshaw. I has no answer to her query only a couple of guesses. His second wife was a Pentecostal preacher. Maybe she took  church there. Another possibility is she had people in the area. Like so much of his story, all I have is the barest of an outline without the supporting details.

We drove through Sledge, the hometown of Country Music star Charlie Pride. When we approached Crenshaw, I saw something that made my new knowledge less puzzling. On our right, the hill line suddenly appeared and it looked like the hills and the Delta were on a collision course somewhere near the rusty water tower up ahead which signaled our destination. We drove into and through the tiny town ,which took only a minute or so to go all the way through and out the other side. We took special note of the old downtown buildings that would have been extant when George was here. The town, I learned from the Internet, has a current population of approximately 900 people. In George's day that was almost 800. 

We turned around, came back, and this time noted that the row of old downtown buildings was only about three blocks long. We turned onto Highway 310 which goes through all three blocks of the residential section and then enters the hills and makes a bee line to Como, another small town. The last street in Crenshaw runs at the very foot of the hills. My great-grandfather never left the hills after all. Now things made more sense.

I wish I had parked the truck and walked around a bit before driving out of town on 310. We should have strolled the sidewalk and looked more closely at the old buildings. If I am not mistaken, a few of them had occupants and a few of them were empty. The town, according to the Internet, hit its peak, in terms of population, during the early 1960s and, like most Delta towns, has been in slow decline ever since. Still the little hamlet had a little charm and I thought, I could be happy here. I hope George was.

I still don't know why he came here, but it doesn't seem so strange anymore. I'd like to see if I could get an address and find his last house. Maybe it still stands. To do that, I would have to find the Panola County Courthouse and ask questions. Be that as it may, in the last two weeks I have visited the last town he lived in, and I have visited his grave. Now it remains for me to reenact his epic journey which I plan to do in November. 

The training continues.

The planning proceeds. 

The dreaming never stops.