Boris and Charlotte Getting Busy: Training in the Dark
When I ran my first 100-miler in 2024, I was basically a babe in the woods. I was totally innocent. I had a terrific coach, but you know how you don’t know how something will go until you’re actually there, experiencing it for the first time? That was me.
Runners talk during long races, and during that particular race, I met a woman early on who also intended to run the 100. “Have you done this before?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said. “Did you finish?” I asked. “No.” I was surprised; she looked strong. “What happened?” I asked. “I wasn’t mentally prepared for the amount of time in the dark,” she said matter-of-factly. “I didn't know how to handle it.”
I made a mental note. Even though the race is in November and it’s a known fact that it gets dark at five o'clock that time of year, I had only thought about running in daylight. It had crossed my mind, Oh, it'll be dark, but I hadn’t really thought about what it means to run in the dark for 12 or 14 hours because I’d never done it. Who stays out all night running on a trail in the middle of the woods on purpose? Why would you do something like that? You wouldn't, unless you’re running an ultra.
There wasn’t much I could do with her intel at that moment. I had a headlamp, and a backup headlamp. Good enough, I figured, as the sun slid toward the horizon.
I had a pacer for the first 20 miles after twilight. Shadows lengthened as I ran with a few other people here and there, and then it was dark. Really dark. Country dark, as I like to say living in New York City.
That’s when I realized that running in the dark is challenging on a whole new level. My mind began to wander, worrying about what was scuttling along the edges of the trail. I began focusing on negative thoughts and the inevitable aches and pains. And as you know —everybody knows—the middle of the night is when your negative thoughts are the absolute nuttiest and the hardest to deal with.
Throw in fatigue, the unfamiliarity of the course, self-doubt; it all started adding up. There was no one to talk to and soon minor fears and annoyances grew in my mind; issues that were not actually problematic turned into big deals. I began to feel intense pain in my lower leg. My running turned to limping. I started going downhill—literally and figuratively—and did not finish.
But, after a few weeks of catastrophizing about a minor injury, a medical assessment to ease said catastrophizing, and talking to my coach, I decided to try again.
So, this year, as I started training for a 100-miler a second time, I realized I needed a better plan. What, specifically, am I going to do about the dark? How am I going to get ready for this?
In New York City, it's never really that dark. Even if you're in Central Park at 2 a.m. it's not scary dark because there are lights everywhere. But in some parts of upstate New York, it is no-joke pitch black at night. We were recently on vacation in the Finger Lakes, and I found a trail that was similar to the upcoming course — a smooth path with few roots. All right, this is where you’re going to practice, I told myself. You’re going to run in the dark by yourself, for hours, and you’re going to deal with it.
First things first. My husband and I did recon during the day. I wanted to be familiar with the trail before running it in the dark. We walked and biked a good section of it. But I also realized that just starting in the dark wasn't going to be good enough because I wouldn’t be tired enough. Knowing what I know about how much fatigue messes with your mind, I wanted to simulate race conditions as best I could: I needed to be tired by the time night fell.
Without totally exhausting myself, I would need to get in a good run before the sun set. My total running time would be five hours.
Training day. I practiced my pace, my nutrition, and got myself a little bit worn out by running for two hours in the late afternoon. Then it started to get dark. I put on my new system: a clip-on light that attached to my running vest. I had used a headlamp given to me by my daughter during the first race, but the orb of light had been too small, and dim, and the bouncing lamp had given me a massive headache.
My coach recommended the new system and I held my old headlamp in my hand and used it like a flashlight for an added sense of security.
The plan was for my husband to follow me on his bike as darkness fell and I adjusted. He went back and forth in front of me and behind me for about an hour. Then it was go time. All right, this is it. I'm good. I feel fine. It’s time for me to run alone.
He went back to the car to scroll on his phone and wait for me to finish. There were a few other straggling cyclists at first, and then nobody. Zero. Zilch. Sometimes people are scary. Sometimes no people are scary. Both situations can be scary. I was alone, and it was very dark. Country dark. No streetlights, no signposts, nothing. I was in the trees with no visual field beyond that which my two lights afforded me.
Earlier during my run, I had seen animals. I saw what looked like a groundhog and maybe what looked like a badger. I'm not going to say for sure that’s what I saw because again, I live in New York City, so who knows. But I saw what I thought was a groundhog and what I thought was a badger. I also saw bunnies (adorbs), lots of birds, and a few deer. And I thought, Okay, Davis, what you’ve seen is all that's out here. No mountain lions, no Sasquatch, no Jason, no Freddie. What you have out here is a Beatrix Potter situation. You're good. These are just friendly, well not friendly exactly, but you know, harmless animals that don't want anything to do with you. When they see you coming, they’re going to run away. You're not going to be attacked by a badger. Or a groundhog.
This mantra helped calm my mind. I continued to remind myself that nocturnal critters were nothing scary as I ran.
In the final 45 minutes, my mind started playing tricks on me. I heard scurrying in the bushes. What's that? And it got a little spooky because apparently spiders get busy after dark. There were all these spider webs on the trail that hadn’t been there before. They would get in my hair and float across my neck and I had to keep wiping them off my arms. I kept talking to myself. Boris and Charlotte are out here getting busy. Spider webs are okay. Happy early Halloween. I'm good. Spider webs are not bad, just wipe them off and keep going.
I got used to them.
And then my mind started playing tricks on me for real. I would hear something in the woods and feel a wave of anxiety that I couldn’t shake. Rustle, rustle. Oh, c’mon now. What the hell is that?
I knew it was time to enact the final portion of my plan: music. I had saved my playlist for when things got tough, and as running was getting harder with each passing minute, I slipped on the headphones. Well hello there, Nirvana. It wasn’t so loud that I couldn’t hear if a car was coming, but it was loud enough to drown out the sound of zombies emerging from the peat moss. I could block out the scary sounds and focus on my breathing and my pace.
After five hours of running alone through the woods, with three of those in the dark (did I mention it was dark?), I rolled up to my husband waiting for me in the car and was done. I finished strong and felt good. It was a total confidence builder. I had been able to work through my fears and uncertainty and was thrilled that everything had gone according to plan.
I still have more to do. I want to get back out there and do another night run at some point, and I will.
Key takeaways:
See your course during the day so you familiarize yourself with the trail surface, the wildlife, and the overall conditions. Know what to expect.
Have somebody out there with you initially as you adjust to the darkness but then try to go it alone.
Practice using your lighting system in the dark for hours: know if it’s going to work for you and have a back up.
Have a plan (for me it was music) for when things get tough: I see you Boris and Charlotte.
