The Sound of the Gong - JFK Ultra by Atul Singh

 I was happy. It was 6:30 am, Nov 18th 2023 and I was there, at the starting line of JFK Ultra in Boonsboro, Maryland. That was the only promise I had made to myself for this race. That I will show up. There had been enough reasons to not to. But Gods of Ultramarathon held my hand through them and let me be there. I was grateful.

The shot rang in the air and all 1020 aspirants, on cue, started their slow march of madness. On the far side of the 50.2 miles, a round metal piece with a generic engraving of “Finisher”, was pulling them like the Ring did to Frodo. It had power over them that they couldn’t resist. It had had power over them way back, 3, 6 months ago when they lay in their beds but could not sleep. It’s madness corrupted them to change what they ate and how they lived their lives. Now they were in the vicinity of Mount Doom and the Metal’s power was palpable. They were gonna get to the other side and destroy their prior self. The self that wasn’t an Ultra athlete. And so they marched, small steps first, while in the crowd and then gentle running onto the road. The elites of-course took off like a bats out of hell and were already too far away. The “Elites”, they are always too far away. 

The course had 1,172 feet elevation gain in the first five miles. So a gentle jog or power walk was the way to go through this part. The first couple of miles on road and then the Appalachian Trail. That’s when the race really started. The cobwebs were shed by then, the instincts in heightened mode as it happens on any trail, the awareness lit up. The rocks and trees and the leaves on the ground are all my friends, I said to myself. But I need to preserve my legs for the full fifty, my mind chimed in. Let’s mule my way up these slopes. Strong and steady steps, like a mule, plop-plop. Then some flat trails and the mule becomes a horse. Trotting away, trot-trot, nice and steady. The Metal beckons, but survival governs. 

The organism was awake now. Consciousness beamed out like a flashlight on-to the path ahead. It also diffused all around holding the trees and leaves and all that was around, in a gentle embrace. Consciousness sits above our mind you see. It can do everything. May be, perhaps, it is everything. Mine lay enmeshed with that of the environment around me. It seeped into the Woods as the one of the Woods seeped into me. Or may be, it was all one anyway. I was just becoming aware of it. 

Is this the sound of the Gong after-all? 

A teacher cannot teach anything. He can point to truth but the student needs to know it himself. An apple tastes sweet, the teacher says. But the student needs to bite into the apple to know what apple tastes like. The sound of the Gong is like that too. It can be talked about, but it can’t be heard, except by oneself. 

Mule-mule, trot-trot, the march continues. Suddenly then, the path starts dropping, Gravity starts helping, the organism picks up pace, skipping from one rock to another, held up like in a spider web of entangled awareness of the forest, sliding down like water over the rocks and leaves. No effort is needed, no heaving and sighing..the body is relaxed, the legs are floating over the forest floor, hyper intense beam of awareness fixed on the path forward. As if a dog has a scent and it’s nose is leading him. The four legs or forty are just finding their placement with no effort. No more trot-trot, no more muling, just a flow. Just the Sound of the Gong. 

What is being alive really about? The food, the friends, the jobs to do and destinations to reach? The stuff to accumulate, the love to give and receive? Some sickness, some health, nations fighting, sports being played and watched. Is it all of it? Or none of it? May-be, May-be. Thats all I can know. A anemic May-be. 

The dog has scent, it’s in the zone. Slightest unconscious twitch of muscle and it picks one rock over another to tread upon. But it happens too quick for him to know or intervene. Something else is driving the body temple vehicle. All he knows is that he feels this oneness with it all. No Moon or Stars can be seen, but they are him. The trees and rocks, they are him. His steady breathing, his legs and feet and all the rest that are conspicuous in their complete absence at this moment. They too are him. It’s a primordial dance, of life and living playing out on the jungle floor. An ephemeral blip on the vast cosmic ocean of happenings. All of which counts, in that it happened, none of which counts in that matters not. What is life about?

The trails flattens out, the horse returns and then the mule. Some more plop-plop, some more trot-trot. Some more dog on a scent. Runners are passed, over 200 of them. It is a magical dance. Life is nothing if it isn’t this. And then the aid station, 3 hours have passed. He had started 15.5 miles ago. 

Next 25 miles is a pancake flat trail by the water. It’s breath-taking beauty only obscured progressively by the sounds of legs talking back. He reaches halfway mark, 25 miles, it is all good. It didn’t hurt so bad. Yet!

The next 15 is some mild, some muted conversation with oneself. Some discomfort in the belly, some achy legs, some resolve, some defeat. Some choices by design, to walk-run this part, some by force to walk a bit more before running again. Soon enough, the trail is over. It’s now 42 miles in, almost 10 hours have passed. Only eight more miles of rolling hills, on paved road left. It’s gonna get done. It always gets done. Keep reeling them in a mile at a time. Another aid station, some coke, some body retaliating against anything you put in. The muscling through, the backing off. But always moving. One step and another. Now it’s three miles left, now two. It’s gonna get done it always gets done. The sound of the finish line. A spurt of running. Slowing down again. No strength. Strength still left. Can see the lights. They are announcing names. Some adrenaline again. Last spurt. And they announce… Atul Singh… from Princeton Junction. The girl garlands the medal. And I am through. 

Through indeed. Is this the Sound of the Gong? They can talk about about it, but only you can hear it. Seems like it. May be, an anemic “May-be” is all he has, as he collapses on the grass. Happy!

Just as he had started.