I took a quick break and headed back out with Ben. Jason wanted me to sleep, but I knew I didn’t have time. I put on warm clothes, likely chugged a Red Bull, put a rain jacket on despite there being NO RAIN IN THE FORECAST. I REPEAT. NO RAIN IN THE FORECAST. Multiple crew members had checked. So I took the rain jacket off. Traded it in for a TERREX puffy jacket and Turtle Fur beanie. The logic: if I am taking dirt naps, I want to be cozy.

 

Ben flawlessly got me through a nice chunk of trail what felt like not too long ago, I was confident we’d get through this long stretch smoothly. I hadn’t scouted this section, and gravely underestimated what 22.6 miles up and over Glastenbury Mountain would entail. But that wasn’t what ended things…

 

Navigating moving across the boulders scattered throughout the trail was feeling impossible again. I asked Ben to give me a demo. Hoping that by watching his legs, my legs would remember how to work. “Trust your instincts,” he said. I liked that. I’ll use that. You’re a mountain lion. Move like one. Trust your instincts. It helped. 

 

At some point not too deep into the section, Ben turns to me and says something along the lines of, “I hate to be the one telling you this, but you’re not going to get the FKT.” THEN WHY ARE YOU EVEN TELLING ME THIS?! (I’m sorry Ben, I have sooo much appreciation for you and am so grateful for what you did for me out there, but this SENT ME.) My blood was boiling. I think my response was something along the lines of, “Ben. You don’t know me.” I took the lead and started moving at what felt like a faster more focused pace. I found the switch. Time to flip it.

 

I heard thunder in the distance. Nah, the forecast was clear. It can’t be. I was exhausted. I knew if there was going to be a dirt nap during this section, it needed to be while it was still dry. “Give me two minutes.” I said as I laid down on some rocks and leaves. It’s crazy how comfortable the ground is when you’re nearly dead. As I hopped up from the two minutes the rain started to fall. What the fuck. It was honestly the most rejuvenating dirt nap of my dirt napping experience, and I was so proud of myself for doing it before entering what was about to be possibly actual hell.

 

I prepared for this.

 

During one of my training runs this summer, we were met with pink lightning, flash flooding, the works. Vermont got destroyed by record breaking rainfall summer of 2023. It was hard to witness locals losing their homes and businesses from the insane weather. During that training run, we turned around. Ended it early. The van was parked on a road that could have easily ended up closed off at the bridge we crossed to get there, that wasn’t worth risking. I asked Jason and Coach Martin after that training run, “What do I do if I encounter a storm like this during the FKT attempt?” The consensus: keep going. “What if I am putting my pacer at risk?” The consensus: let them make that decision for themselves. Shelter if you have to. It sounds harsh, but remember what I said about being selfish?

 

I turned my music up all of the way. I didn’t want to hear what Ben had to say (again, sorry Ben). I didn’t want to hear the thunder. Even though we were only maybe four miles in(?), turning back wasn’t an option. I took the lead. It was PELTING rain. Lightning cracked, strobe lights in my peripherals. The trail became a river. I’ve trained for this. I kept reminding myself of that as I let my lizard brain power me forward.

 

Eventually my phone died. No more music to mask the horror. The storm rumbled through the night. Flooding neighboring towns. I stayed in it. The sun will come out. The sun will shine, it will warm me up. There will be sun soon.

 

The sun never came. The sky faded from black to dark gray. Hmm… I guess it is trying? I thought to myself optimistically. It never really felt like a new day, but instead some kind of doom and gloom purgatory of frozen time.

 

Not to mention, I was craving another dirt nap. But I was soaked. I mean, you could probably ring out my armpit hair at this point. There is a shelter less than two miles ahead. I wanted to get there for my nap. I tried. The world was closing in around me. I was starting to black out while inching forward. OPEN YOUR EYES SHELBY! I would, and then the darkness would cave in again. It was like I had a vignette photo adjustment toggle that was short circuiting behind my corneas. I’d open them, it’d close in. I’d move forward until I tripped. It wasn’t going to work like this. I needed to make the decision to risk getting cold taking a soggy dirt nap, or falling on my face. I took the risk. 

 

When Ben woke me up two minutes later I was cold. I don’t think I was shivering, but I was cold enough that I was audibly whispering to my body, “Please warm up, please get warmer.” It forced me to move with more intention. “COME ON BODY!” I begged with every step, “WARM UP!”. I prayed that someone in the shelter up ahead would have a dry fleece jacket, or ANYTHING that could get me out of at least one layer of wet clothes. Something that might help my body regulate temperature and allow me to keep going safely along my business.

 

By the time I made it to Goddard Shelter through the storm (I am pretty sure it was just after 7am), I had roughly 5 hours to cover 24.3 miles and still nab the FKT by a minute or two. A 12:21 minute per mile pace would be needed. While some may say this pace is impossible on this terrain, this deep into a race effort, I would have LOVED to be in a better place to prove them wrong. Having ran my final 24 miles of The Speed Project Solo with an 8:32 average pace, I know, as adidas would say… “Impossible is nothing.” The “less than a marathon” mindset is extremely powerful.

 

My clock hadn’t run out yet, and I was determined not to stop until it did…

 

 

DAY 6 - Always take warm drinks from strangers 🍵 (maybe…)

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Note: I never wanted to be on the trail into the 6th day. 5 days 2 hours 37 minutes is the current standing FKT by the incredible Alyssa Godesky. I wanted under 5 days badly. I am very capable of finishing this trail under 5 days. This is a lesson in how the small things add up.

 

Time crept into the hours of the 6th day while I was wearing a stranger’s clothes, under a stranger’s sleeping gear, with a stranger’s warm water bottle pressed against my skin, in a shelter ten miles away from my crew. Taco Cat and Blackstrap (epic trail names, right?) were thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail in (large) sections. There were what felt like a ton of people at Goddard Shelter (maybe eight at the max moment, hands down the most people I had seen at a shelter all summer). Everyone got screwed by the rain. Everyone expressed how it wasn’t on the radar. The clouds opened up several more times while I was sitting in that shelter. Absolutely dumping. Dumping at a rate that you’d feel uncomfortable driving in it on the highway— you know that feeling? 

 

Black Strap was a Wilderness First Responder. She wasn’t going to let me keep going. Ben knew better too. I wasn’t warming up. The weather wasn’t changing. It was a real bust. It was a legitimate safety issue. My spirits were popped but something inside me was really accepting of it all. Everything that got me to this point was a part of the experience I was hoping to create for myself. If I was standing at the Southern Terminus celebrating or sitting in that shelter taking warm drinks from strangers, the journey that got me there was what I envisioned throughout all of the planning and training. Weird. “What is a finish line?” I asked myself. And while my “finish line” wasn’t what I wanted it to be, while I had failed at this grand mission that I had blurted out to the world that I was GOING to do, I was proud of the experience that I created. Pissed that I failed at getting the FKT. Pissed that I had to call it less than a marathon from the finish… and absolutely not looking forward to the 6.5 mile hike out. (Yup, 6.5, because my friends are outlaws and found a way to cut 3.5 miles off of my trek to civilization… thank you Carl. 😉)

 

Back to the warm drinks.

 

Taco Cat had a fanny pack that he proudly wore on the front. I think this is where his barista magic was coming from. These two were so accommodating. Their presence sort of took over the shelter, like it was their bed and breakfast and I was a guest passing through. Taco Cat made me a series of warm drinks, that I was happy to consume (despite how uncomfortable getting up to pee was). They were as follows:

 

1. A coffee creation of sorts with a semi-clumpy white coconut creamer floating around in the top.

2. A matcha latte. Not the Starbucks kind.

3. A spicy chai tea concoction with bits of herbs floating around it.

4. A warm turmeric drink.

 

Jason arrived while the warm turmeric drink was being crafted. He arrived in pure Jason-fashion, freaked out, hyped up, exclaiming how water bottles had flown out of his pack while he was nabbing Strava cups rushing up to rescue me with dry clothes. At this point, I honestly felt fine. Better than when he had last seen me at least.

 

The turmeric drink is brought over. “Do you like turmeric? It’s great for inflammation,” explains Taco Cat. “Yeah, yeah, I can handle turmeric. Thank you!” I take the drink and bring it to my mouth. My nose catching a whiff of the unique smell, sending signals to my stomach, my body is short circuiting, I feel my face getting flush. Am I going to puke? Omg, I am going to puke. I am in the middle of a shelter, wrapped in [someone else’s] blankets, I just traveled 250 miles on foot, I wasn’t able to move anywhere fast. I hold the puke back for a second. I feel the panic in my eyes. I lost it. All of those carefully concocted hot drinks, right there, in one big upchuck onto the floor of Goddard Shelter. An exorcism. A demon leaving my body. But that wasn’t the worst of it… my entire body went into an uncontrollable panic. I was hyperventilating. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!” Inside, I knew that me being able to say that I couldn’t breathe, meant that I probably could. But I couldn’t figure out how to. Going unconscious in that shelter probably would have meant death. A LifeStar rescue. Jason was ready to give me CPR. God, I didn’t want that. Black Strap came over and put her hands on my shoulders. I’m sitting up, staring into her eyes. “Breathe, breathe Shelby. You can do it.” My eyes are so locked into hers, I don’t know what I was trying to find in there, I’m not sure I’ve ever looked that deeply into someone. I found it in me to breathe. I’m so embarrassed. “Wow. That was weird.” (I can only imagine what I said.) I’m not sure what caused this insane reaction. An adrenaline dump? It was horrifying.

 

It was time to put on my own clothes and GTFO of Goddard Shelter.

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It wasn't perfect.

It was chaotic.

It was fun.

It was raw.

It was personal.

It was me.