Snake girl

Before I left for Torreya, I pulled Shannon aside and told her a deep dark secret. For the first time, I was going to win a race. I felt good, my legs felt like springs. I had been resting more, training faster and harder, my arms were stronger and I wanted to win. I told her that I had put myself in a position of strength, that I wanted to capitalize on it.
Mike and I got to the forest a little bit late, but we arrived. The ranger looked at us and asked Mike how he was going to do in the race. I shrunk back behind him suddenly aware of how short I really was. He then proceeded to explain to us the recent copperhead infestation and my heart immediately sank in my chest. How, certain trails had to be shut down in the afternoon hours because of the danger. Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?
We made our way down to the camp site, I made a couple comments about confidence and the hills looking fairly benign. I kept my eyes on the trail, ready for one of those slithery demon serpents to rise out of a wood pile. A mile later, we set up our tent, attempted for a couple hours to build a fire, read a vanity fair magazine, and ate some pasta I had brought. I went to sleep excited, but not scared, for the morning to come. Oh how little did I know, how little did I know...
Every race is pretty much the same, pick up t-shirt, pin number, undress a little bit, hang around in the parking lot, and judge the other people based on their calf muscles. As I stuffed a dry bagel into my mouth and laced up my shoes, it became pretty evident that I was the youngest person there. A couple dudes in their forties chatted loudly about their exploits, most people had previous marathon t-shirts on. I stripped down to my shorts, revealing my own tight leg muscles, the tan line above my knee, the stamped 26.2 tattooed on my quad. I felt somewhere between a rookie and a runner. I respected those who sought to beat me, respected the amount of time these people had put into the sport. But when we lined up, and the gun went off, that was the last time I saw most of them.
Oh, so that's a cattle stop. There were bars across the trail that protected a deep trench. We ran down hills and up them, I vaulted over trees that were blocking the sugar sand path. I bounced from rock to rock across small trickling streams, and pulled on roots with my hands to lift my body over embankments that towered over me. This did not feel like Florida, I felt like a kid in the mountains. Like I did when my mom, Nancy, and I would go camping in North Carolina. Except this time I wasn't clutching my round midsection, wheezing on the way up. This time I was running 15.3 miles straight through it. I watched the man in front of me, where he stepped, I stepped. Small, powerful strides, but light foot steps. The man in front of him talked the whole time, and to say it was entertaining would be an understatement. I was thankful it was him, I didn't know if I could speak a word. My heart had begun to beat faster and I hear my breath rising in cadence. He yelled back to the small pack, "Run when you can, walk if you can't, stop if you have to!" We stayed together for a while, I'd say the first ten miles or so. So far no snakes, only giant mounds of dirt displaced by wild boar and holes to the center of the earth. I thought I saw bear tracks and instead of every snake trying to look like a root, this time, every root looked like a snake to me. I felt good, better than I had anticipated. But the climbs kept coming, and every time I'd reach a peak, a little part of my legs died. And I didn't realize it, until that water station in the woods and the missed turn that started the battle.