A Sudden Change of Plans

“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.”    ~ Paulo Coelho

Coming into Winfield, mile 51

The first half of 2018 went quite well:  A BQ in Feb, an awesome, new for me, 50k in Moab in March, a death-march through the frigid monsoon of Boston, and then 10 days later a moderately successful run at the very challenging The Canyons 100k, collecting my 4th year lottery ticket for Western States.

That was the first half of the year. Now, what next? Well, another go at LT100, of course...Third time's a charm, or, third strike and you're out...
Well, Leadville 2018 did not go as hoped, and that repeating theme has me vexed, and leaves me, mid-August, with a gnawing dissatisfaction.

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How I hoped it would not end:

As we emerge from the trees at the base of the Hope Pass descent inbound, the lights from Twin Lakes look so close. I already know that those lights are where my race will end. I've been here before. This time feeling better and a bit closer to the cusp. But in the end, that matters little. I warn Peter that those shining beacons are not as close as they look and we still have the fun of crossing the icy cold river. I look north into the darkness, where I know the trail goes on past Twin Lakes up towards Mt. Elbert, where I should be right now, and I see head lamps bouncing up the steady climb. It's about 10:15 and I'm about a mile from Twin Lakes, but the cut-off is 10:00 p.m.. Why, I think to myself, are lights there now? No one should still be there at this time.

As we quickly walk through the damp chilled meadow, Peter and I talk about the adventures we've been on over the course of our almost 30 year relationship - but this one is new, at least for him, and new for me in that he is with me for the first time during an ultra. He has seen me in a way he probably never has before.

"Just so you know, I won't be trying this again. This is it. There are too many other things I want to do, and time is running out." I say as we jog slowly, side by side, the moon behind, illuminating Mt. Hope and the pass that looks so painfully beautiful from here.

We pass a couple parties coming out looking for their runners. It's well past 10 now, and we are minutes away from Twin Lakes. I watch as the headlamps continue bouncing their way up the three mile climb out of the aid station. So close and yet so far.

I learn later that the cut-off was extended to 10:15, which explains why I saw those light when they should not have been there. There is no way I could have known that, but something inside me wonders, what if? What if I had known? Would I have been able to make it? That's a question that I will never be able to answer.

As we run into Twin Lakes remaining crew clap and say "Good job runners". I laugh. I want to cry but I'm too defeated to cry. I'm just done. Done. Done with it all.

My daughter runs to me and gives me a hug and I hold her tight. I am so thankful to have her in my arms.

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To be honest, I did my best that day. One of the things about Leadville is that for those who need to be mindful of cutoffs there is no letting up for at least the first 63 miles. It is very hard to be pressing for 17 or 18 hours, knowing that you have no wiggle room, no time to let up. Keep pushing on. There is no time for lolly-gagging. This race was, and remains, the only race where I've had to think constantly about the time. I have no margin for error. But throughout the day I am frustrated with the logistics of this particular race: The number of runners, the singletrack sections that get bottled up, and the out and back course. All these can add to so many wasted minutes, minutes that add up for me. Thinking back, I easily lost 10-15 minutes around Turquoise Lake, another 5-10 leaving May Queen, then I'd estimate a good 20-30 minutes just covering the last section on Hope Pass above Hopeless aid station, caught behind two very long and very slow conga lines. Then dealing with traffic coming back up from Winfield. When I look at the GPS data and how I was moving at different points, I estimate losing at least an hour, and possibly more, just on the outbound 50 miles and this is not due to AS management, as I spent very little time at any AS and I made up a lot of time on sections that are more open.

Leadville is followed by some low and pessimistic days. I'm pretty confident I could finish this race, but I really feel that the traffic jams for the first 50 miles may be a deal killer for me. Could I somehow improve on this? I don't really know. A lot of it is not in my control, and trying to beat the crowds by going out much faster for the first 5 miles, seems a bad strategy as well.  But, if I pace well, only to be stuck behind folks who don't get that making cutoffs is not enough here, then that strategy fails as well.

It's a difficult situation and one I do not know how to resolve, except to move on.

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After Leadville the plan was to take the rest of the year basically for recovery: Just fun stuff, no pressure, except I still was on the wait list for the Barkley Fall Classic - But if I had finally completed LT100 then I could have let the rest of the year be what it would be. But running the Leadville 100k (with the added distance to and from Winfield, Twin Lake inbound is now at about 63 miles) is a bit of a crusher. This is the problem with DNFs: You've run a long way, and maybe it was a great adventure, perhaps you learn a lot, but you haven't actually done anything, except that you have. This is a tricky time because most runners don't believe that they "deserve" a rest, a recovery, a downtime.

One of the things I've been feeling all year is that I've lost a lot of speed. My focus for The Canyons is getting in as much weekly vert as I can, which I discover is super challenging during the winter. But with 15,000 feet of gain and 15,000 feet of loss over a 100k, I know that that is key to finishing. For Leadville I actually focus on the running - since most of Leadville is very runnable, and most don't train well (including myself in past years) for that instead focusing on the climbing. I also add in a LOT of heat training since the physiological adaptations for heat are very similar to those for altitude. But, running at the hottest times of day also slow me down. By August I feel slow, heavy, sloggy...

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And like that, I decide to completely shift gears. I've wanted to run Tunnel Hill 50 for several years, but it's never fit into my schedule. Suddenly it dawns on me that I can do it but that means pulling myself off the BFC waitlist. Right now I don't feel that what I need is more hill slogging, so I sign up for the Tunnel Hill 50 miler. This I hope to be a "fast" 50, something I love running and have been missing.

I give myself a couple weeks to recover from Leadville and I'm back at it, now reintroducing more tempos and timed pick-ups into the mix. I'm still slow, and that's hard to see, but each week I feel a little better.

Since January, I've been dealing with some breathing issues which I've never had before. At first the issues come and go and I don't really take note of them. But then they become more persistent. I finally email my doctor and she orders me an inhaler for exercise induced asthma. But it doesn't really help. All winter, spring and summer I deal with wheezing and shortness of breath, but it is not predictable. Finally during the Silver Rush 50, at about 12,000 feet, after a horrendous electrical storm hits a group of us circling around Ball Mountain, I am wheezing and hacking for the next 18 odd miles. On track for a 12ish hour finish and feeling good up to then, I drag my hacking self for the last third of the race into the finish at 13:42. The next day I email my doctor again, knowing that LT100 is out of the question if that happens again. She sends me in for a full pulmonary function test, which comes back normal. My theory is that I have chronic sinusitis, which is the root of things. She decides to give my theory a go, and I start daily nasal steroids, which seem to help within days. And with only one little bout prior to LT100 (during Chase the Moon 12 hr), things seem to be better.

Fast forward to three weeks before Tunnel Hill: I am suddenly, and for no discernible reason, wheezing and hacking again on every run, and for hours after every run: Fast, slow. Warm, cold. Windy, calm. Wet, dry. It does not matter. And with that, my "fast" 50 chances seem slim to none. I really have no interest in just running a 50. And, I consider dropping.

I try everything that first week: Sudafed, nasal steroids, homeopathic remedies, nasal irrigation, humidifies, everything I can think of to try. I have one really good run two weeks out. I've taken sudafed, my inhaler, and nasal steroids, and run my fastest run in months. I feel like myself again. I can breath! Of course, running and taking sudafed is NOT a good idea, and I know that. But, as it turns out, that doesn't matter, because that good run was not to be repeated.

So, about a week and a half out, I try to figure out what my options are.  On a whim, I email Steve Durbin, the RD for Tunnel Hill:

"I know both races are full, but I'm wondering if it's possible to switch from the 50 to the 100?"

He quickly responds:"Yes. I’m limited on the total number of runners. I’ll switch you." 

Oh shit, I think: "Let me check a few things before I commit"

"Sure. I can move you up as late as packet pick up on friday." 

What have I done? Why did I ask that? I'm not trained for a 100! I mull this over for a couple days. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking...this idea that popped randomly into my head, now has me clenched in its fist.

“It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.” ~ H.G. Wells

Well, I have no desire to just run a sub-par 50. That was not the goal here. So, if that's all that's possible, I don't want to do it. But, finishing the 100. That I could get excited about, even if it's also terrifying.

On Friday, one week before the race, I take a deep breath and hit "send":

"Okay. I'd like to switch from the 50 to the 100."

"I’ll switch you  

Thanks, Steve

See you soon"

Believe you can and you’re halfway there. ~ Theodore Roosevelt

The next week I spend stalking Weatherunderground, seeing with each passing day an increasingly frigid forecast, fretting over attire and logistics, and quieting intermittent panic attacks and WTF moments! 

Just before bed, the night before I leave, my leg milagro, which I've worn since receiving it at the Hideaway 50k in Sept 2017, breaks, falling to the ground. I hold few superstitions, but those I hold are strong. I tuck it into the zipped pocket of my Salomon vest. I can't run without it, but I fear this is some sort of portentous omen.

Friday morning I leave my silent, sleeping house at 3:30 am., almost miss my flight to St. Louis, drive two hours to Marion, IL, and collapse at the hotel, bleary eyed but unable to nap. It's only 1 p.m., but I'm just done. Sandra, who's running the marathon on Sunday, is due to arrive some time soon and I'll need to let her in, so I tell myself I will nap after. That never happens. We go to packet pick up, and then return to the hotel to eat and watch mindless TV. I usually try to find a Wholefoods to get a salad bar concoction of brown rice and tofu and veggies for my night-before dinner, but, I discover that the salad bar at 9 a.m. in St. Louis is mostly breakfast stuff and a few cold salads. A real "DUH" moment for me, but there certainly isn't a Wholefoods anywhere beyond St. Louis in this neck of the woods. So, I'm eating several mystery concoctions of cold pasta, potatoes, and under-cooked veggies.

We turn in kind of early, thanks to Sandra being good about these things, and...I actually sleep a bit, which is unusual the night before a 100.

We both wake up a few minutes before our alarms, and stumble down the hall to get our first cups of coffee. There is a 5:30 a.m. silent bustle of runners and hunters.

The forecast now is for a high of 35 degrees and a low in the teens. With sunset at about 4:45 and sunrise at 6:30, it's going to be a long, dark, cold night. Trying to plan to have everything I need at various points given these conditions is a bit nerve wracking. I am also worrying about my breathing. I have all the things I hope I will need, but if the wheezing hits I will just have to play it by ear. I hate having these uncontrollable concerns hanging over me.

We head off to the start in separate cars since Sandra will come back to sleep, and then drive back again to run the next morning. She follows me. I have no cell signal and though we made the half hour drive the evening before, I miss an exit, which I realize immediately. She exits. I see her calling but the signal won't allow me to answer. I do an illegal u-turn and gun it back to where I should be. She's stopped on the shoulder farther back. I stop, waving and blowing my horn until she sees me - and, we are back on track...I think. I choose to see this as my jinx for the day.

At the start area, runners are huddled in one small, somewhat heated building. Thank god for that building. It will be a life saver later. Abbie arrives ready to run her first 50 miler.

And we're sort of ready to go. And, we all just sort of start running, doing a loop around the park before heading south for the first 26 out and back miles.

I, optimistically, have shorts under my light Houdini pants. But those pants never come off until I trade that entire kit in for thick fleece pants, at 50 miles, for the icy cold night to come.

As the first mile beeps, we sing:
"99 bottle of beer on the wall, ♫
99 bottles of beer.
You take one down,
pass it around..." ♫
and then wait for the next mile to continue.
I will continue to do this into the wee hours, though I will lose count.

For the first 10+ miles out to Karnack, things tick along fine. Abbie and I run comfortably, chatting - I learned what a "slough" is as opposed to a "slew", and we catch up on kid doings and life - and so far my breathing is working fine.

As the sun rises higher, the trail glows orange, light filtering through the autumn leaves. It will not look like this the next time I come this way.

We come into Karnack and Sandra is there. Since she is not technically crewing, I was not sure when I would see her other than in Vienna which we will return to after this first 26 miles and then again at 50 miles. Abbie has a couple friends crewing for her, so they are also there.

Neither of us need anything at this point so we just continue on to the turnaround three more miles out.

By 12ish miles I am starting to think that I need to pace myself better. Tunnel Hill is a non-technical, fairly flat race. Most see this as "easy". But while the terrain may be easy, it is also very easy to run yourself into the ground early on. I keep reminding myself that I'm not running the 50. We hit the first turnaround and a bit later I decide to take a pit stop off the trail. I tell Abbie to go on. I'll catch up or I won't. I see her ahead for the next 2 miles, but I decide it's best not to try to catch up. That quick pee-stop, however, has initiated some throat stuff, which is how the coughing always starts. I get back to Karnack, at mile 16, and the coughing begins as we work to refill my bottles and restock my gels. It's just a little cough, but it's there. As I walk out of the aid station getting everything back where it belongs, I pull out my inhaler and give it a puff. For the first time ever, I actually feel it help. Soon I start running again. Now I decide that with each mile beep I will walk a tenth of a mile. I do this for the next 10 miles.

I return to Vienna and restock.

And then I head north for the next 24 mile out and back. The first nine miles is a steady, but modest, uphill. It's not hard, but nine miles of that is grinding. A few miles out, Zach Bitter flies by about to finish his first 50 on track for a 100 mile WR.

Just before the famous Tunnel, for which the race is named, I see Abbie walking ahead. I stop and walk with her. She's cold, nauseous, and pretty darn miserable. We're about 35 miles in, which is when things get really tough for a first 50.  We are about a mile from the Tunnel Hill AS, so I tell her to just get there, get some warm clothes and to just keep going. I start an easy jog as I see the tunnel appear.

The tall sandstone walls along the trail block out any sun, and it gets very damp and cold. Long ice-cycles hang from the cliffs above. This is going to be kind of creepy at night, I think to myself. I come into Tunnel Hill AS do a quick refuel, and head out for the last two miles to the turnaround. When I return to the AS I decide to change shoes. I love my light Altra Escalates but I trade them in for a bit more shoe, and though I don't need a trail shoe for this trail, my Lone Peaks are just what I want.

Abbie comes in just as I'm about to leave. After feeling like quitting 10 miles ago, she now has, 9.7 miles to go. Being under 10 is important at this point. I can't take it, having 59.7 to go. Laughing, I say "I have to leave now. I'm sure I'll see you shortly."

All day I've been thinking about the fact that I have to do this all again, but in the dark and alone. I also think about how the next time I'm here, I will be almost done. Then I will only have 9.7 miles left.

The trip back to Vienna is uneventful. Abbie passes me at some point and as the sun sinks it starts to get bitterly cold. With a couple miles to go, I can feel my core getting chilled. I need a complete clothing change in Vienna. Darkness hits just before I get to the AS and I reluctantly pull out the headlamp. I come into Vienna having run the first 50 miles in 10:38.

Sandra has my stuff in the small heated building which is buzzing with activity. Lots of runners mill around having finished their 50 and getting ready go go home, or go out for a celebratory beer. Abbie finishes about 8 minutes before me and she is heading out with her friends and her mom home (her mom lives not that far away). Everything in me wants to end this here. I whine that I want to leave too, somewhat in jest, but not. The race allows you to drop at 50 miles and get the 50 mile finish and buckle. The rate for 100 mile drops to 50 is deceptively high for this race since the stats don't reflect it as DNFs. Many 100 milers drop here. I remind myself that I did not come here for that. I dump my stuff in a small hallway and just strip down and change. I don't even care. Everything comes off. On goes: Fleece pants, Balega wool socks, gaiters, Smartwool quarter zip long sleeve shirt, light Patagonia puffy jacket (donated by Abbie), UD Ultra jacket over all of that, buff, wool double layer mittens, hat, headlamp, a charger to recharge my watch, refilled bottles, extra packets of Tailwind, gels (GUs, HUMA, and Honey Stingers), Honey Stinger waffles, and hand warmers. Lots and lots of handwarmers (thanks to Sandra). I go outside and head to the food tent and get a big bowl of noodle soup.

For the next 50 miles, soup will save me!

When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I reluctantly leave the warmth and cheery lights and human company of the tent and head toward the darkness beyond. I give Sandra a hug and tell her to go back to the hotel now and sleep. I'm good. She protests a bit but knows that I want to do this alone from here. And, she has her own race tomorrow.

This is when things really start getting grim. Everyone is just bundled up and plugging along. I jog, I walk, I jog, I walk. For the rest of the night it is a battle to maintain any body heat. Running is necessary to keep warm. At the AS five miles out, they have pancakes. OMG. Pancakes! Those pancakes are the best. I walk out with a handful and savor their homey warmth.

Onward, onward. I get to the turnaround, and say to myself, "I don't have to come back here again!" At Karnack inbound I have more soup, change my headlamp batteries, and head on. I start thinking about those pancakes. For the next five miles I think about those pancakes. My bottles are freezing up. I try to hold my mouth over the nozzles to warm them, but it's a loosing battle. It's so cold that pulling out a gel and actually eating it is a huge effort. I need to get to those pancakes. I need some Coke. I walk up to the aid station with happy anticipation. But there are no pancakes. They've run out of fuel. There's nothing left. No coke, no chips...no pancakes. I want to cry. The group of us standing there, a look of disbelief on our faces, are by no means even close to the last runners. There are runners hours behind us.

To note, the race does a phenomenal job managing a very difficult situation. These temps are record breaking for this area at this time of year, and they really rise to the occasion. This is the only chink in the armor all day and night. But, for me, it is a bad time for this to happen

I leave deflated. The next five miles are so, so, so long. I want to hope for soup in Vienna, but I'm afraid to risk that hope.

Then at long last the night lights up. I come into Vienna at mile 76ish. I grab my stuff, now covered in a layer of what almost appears to be rime ice, and head indoors. Inside is a scene of destruction. Runners are sprawled out, all over the floor. Some in sleeping bags, some curled up under jackets, some waiting for friends beneath electric blankets (brought in by the race). I try to keep my wits about me. The next 10 miles are going to be rough. There's an AS a little over 2 miles out, but then nothing besides some water jugs (which will probably be frozen) until the Tunnel Hill AS. I need to make sure I have everything I need for the cold hours to come. I so desperately do not want to go back out there, but I stuff those thoughts, get busy with the tasks at hand, and don't allow those electric blankets seduce me.

I take my dropbag back out, drop it with the others and head to the food tent. Thankfully there is still plenty of soup! A runner, who has just finished, is at the table, excitedly relating his story to his friends. One friend stands up and says "Dude, I still have 24 miles to go". Yeah, that's what I was going to say.  I refill my soup and leave the warmth and light behind and walk toward that mat that beckons the frigid darkness. I disappear into it, sipping soup and knowing that the next time I'm here will be a good time.

It's now that these types of courses are mentally tough for me. We're at about 19 hours in and some are coming in to finish. I say "great job" as each runner passes, but I hate them. No. That's not right. I don't hate them. I hate ME. I hate being me. I hate that I'm not them!! I just need to keep moving forward. Every step takes me closer to the last turnaround. And for the next 12 miles that's all I'm focused on. It's just a night and this night will pass. The question is, how will I let it pass?

This part of the race you see very few people. Occasionally you pass someone, or someone passes you. But it is very dark, and quiet, and bone-chilling cold. There are long stretches of nothing but darkness and the tunnel of light my headlamp provides. Time ceases to exist. It's just me and my footsteps, the cold, the fuel management, the breathing. I use my inhaler two more times during the night. Each time it, thankfully, keeps things at bay.

I get to the tunnel, and yes, it is a bit creepy at night, and then I see the light of the AS beckon through the darkness. All their coke is frozen solid. They have some strange ramen type soup, but it will have to do. The last two+ miles to the turn around are the worst, mentally, for me. It just never seems to come. "Where are the freaking lights!?!" Finally I see them. Two women sit in the dark, Christmas lights adorning their small tent. "You guys win for decoration." I tell them. We laugh, I take a sip of unfrozen coke, and then I turn around.

I turn around for the last time. I am finally heading home.

But as I pass through the Tunnel Hill AS for the last time, I am well aware that this is still not a done deal. Having suffered from Hypothermia in the past, I know how fast it can catch you. I've been cold now for hours, 14 hours to be exact. 14 hours of brutal cold following many hours of general cold, and it takes its toll. I know I haven't been fueling. Every time I eat, I have to expose skin, so there's a mental game to be played. Eat...freeze...eat...freeze. Which shall I pick now?  But I know I need to eat to keep generating heat. I need to eat so that I can occasionally run when I feel my core temperature drop dangerously low. Over the past several hours I've had moments where I have not been entirely lucid - several times, at bridges crossing steep ravines, I almost miss the bridge as the leave-covered trail blends in with the leave-covered grass in the darkness. These moments shake me as I look down at the drop just steps away.

As the sun begins to lighten the horizon, I look at my watch. My sub-24 hour hope died many miles ago. Spending 60+ (total) minutes redressing and reassessing at miles 50 and 76 did not help.  But had I not taken that time, things most likely would not end well. Doing the math about 6 miles from the finish, I decide that I want a time that starts with 25. That is all: 25-something. Just then the marathon runners begin to pass, going out toward the tunnel. Almost every single one of them cheers me on: "You're awesome", "You're amazing", "Great job!" I smile and weakly thank them, but they add a little pep-to-my-step. As I approach an underpass, a few miles from the finish, I see Sandra running towards me with a group of marathon runners. They all cheer me on and Sandra gives me a hug. "I will be there when you finish" I tell her.

From that point I just run. The last aid station is full of happy volunteers some of whom have not slept much. There is no way that I'm stopping now, but I call out, "Thank you volunteers for being out  here with us for this long and cold night!" They clap and cheer me on, tell me I look great, which is a lie, but I like it...

Many times, all through the day and more so through the night, I think of that sign, often held by cheering supporters: "Someday you won't be able to do this. This is not that day".  And that thought keeps me from stopping time and time again.

And as I near the finish, I am so thankful for this horrible night. I am thankful for getting through it. I am thankful for sharing some of this journey with friends. I am thankful for doing most of this alone. I am even thankful for it being harder than it should have been.

But, at this moment, I am most thankful for being done.

25:49:18.
PR
2020 WSER Lottery qualifier, #5

So while I was not trained to run 100 miles and I did not plan to run 100 miles, and the decision to try to do so was, in many ways, a bit foolhardy, somehow, in spite of it all, I managed to run 100 miles and I did that only because I wanted something. That something was simple and raw and real: I wanted to do what I thought I could not do but what I believed I could do.

Sometimes it's best to think less and believe more.

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” ~Roald Dahl

Fits-and-Starts: 2018

“We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.” ~Voltaire

I've been lying low for the past couple months. I've been trying to tend to myself, by myself, both in real life and in my virtual life online. It is not always beneficial to do this, but sometimes there is no energy left for anything besides getting through the day, caring for what needs must be cared for, and focusing on yourself and your family. Being in a profession that requires you to be there for others can be challenging at these times. It's hard not to feel very alone and isolated in a world excessively connected but in very superficial ways. And so I needed to take this time to hide under a rock, so to speak.

I started the year facing a bit of a heath scare. This time of year is particularily hard for such things because everyone around you is excited about the a new year and new goals, and all the exciting plans and adventures to be had. And here I sit wondering if I will be able to do any of the things I hoped for. 

I'm sure many of us have anxiety surrounding our own mortality. These hit us in the dark of night, feeling the moment of our non-existence. The briefness of life in the immenseness of it all hits me in the heart, and I gasp a bit as a gaping abyss yawns open to suck me in.  Existential angst. We run from it. We distract ourselves from it. We tell ourselves comforting stories, all to escape from the inevitable.

So, as you can easily see, I am prone to being sucked down that insidious rabbit hole of mortal annihilation.

These past few months I've seen many friends being diagnosed with, or succumb to, scary illnesses. Healthy active people riddled with cancer. For some the prognosis is grim. A friend's fit and seemingly healthy husband dies of a massive heart attack during a training run. Perhaps this is just the new reality for me at my age: You start to see your friends get sick, and some even die. This no longer becomes the strange and unfortunate exception, but more common. And you realize that you, like anyone else, are susceptible to the same fate, as much as you want to tell yourself that that won't happen to you.

“the very fact of the death of someone close to them aroused in all who heard about it, as always, a feeling of delight that he had died and they hadn't.” ~ Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

The Death of Ivan Ilych is a story of mortality and our natural response to its manifestations in others and the denial of own mortality. We separate ourselves from that which happens to others. When tragedy strikes, we find an explanation that explains away the fear. When someone survives, we thank the grace of God watching over and protecting. We always try to find some way to sooth our fears. But, pushing it all away, and denying this ultimate end can make us complacent about living. We lose days, months, years, not really living. 

So, at the end of last year some tests for one seemingly innocuous issue raised red flags for another much more serious problem. Thus began my resent trials. 

Waiting for the first test, an ultrasound, for several weeks over the holidays, while others are making merry, and a short, wonderful vacation with my family, all the time feeling the sword of Damocles hanging over my head, is not the most pleasant. I tried to put on a happy face and push fear aside as best I can. It's all probably just much ado about nothing, of course. But what if...It gnaws at me.

But an ultrasound isn't a big deal. I've had those before. Nothing to worry about, I reassure myself. But then the ultrasound indicates that more investigation is needed. This time a CT scan. Reading the email and the ultrasound report from my doctor, my heart sinks a bit into my stomach and begins beating a bit too fast. Wait time for the CT scan is almost three weeks. Three weeks to worry. Three weeks of wondering what might be going on inside my body. Again I am reassured by those around me that it's probably nothing. But what do they know? They need to say these things to me now.  I am by nature a worrier. But, I am also an optimist, but that can be tainted by hard reality, and the ever present: What if...

What if? "Prepare for the worst and hope for the best". How many times have I said that to myself these past couple months? Is it better to just hope for the best and not prepare for the worst? What good does it do to wonder and worry: Will I be here next year? None of us knows the answer to this, ever. Are all my plans for the year, for the rest of my life, for naught? What about my daughter? How do parents even deal with the thought of leaving a child behind? Of not knowing who they become?  There are some things you just never can prepare yourself for emotionally. It really was the waiting that was killing me. I hate waiting. I want to know and I want to respond. Sitting and doing nothing is utter torture for me.

Several weeks ago I posted on FB:

"When you must wait and wait and wait to find out whether you are or are not facing a mortal challenge, you vacillate between seeing it all as a wake up call, and at the same time hoping that the call has not come too late. Of course, in the big picture, we are all facing this mortal challenge though for some it is more imminent than for others. Don't wait too long to wake the F%&k up."

Is is a wake up call, or is it too late? 

So, this past Friday I went in for my CT scan. The nurse looks at me curiously, as he searches for a vein for the IV. 
"I probably should have had more water this morning. I ran 12 miles but have been drinking ever since." I say.
Nurse: "So is running how you keep so slim?" 
Me: "I guess." How is one supposed to respond to these inquiries?  
Nurse: "Most who come in here aren't."

His first attempt to get the IV in fail. He bandages up my arm and moves to the other arm. I suddenly feel a warmth running down my arm, look, and notice that my arm is bleeding all over the floor and my pants. 
"Are you on blood thinners?" the nurse asks.
"No!"

Being in the Imaging Department always takes my back to my mom's cancer. How she went from one day of normal life into a life consumed with doctors, and scans, and horrible caulky drinks, and radioactive this-and-that, and cold metal machines, and scary pictures, and debilitating treatments that take you to the brink of death in an effort to save you. I remember being with her, looking around at all the other patients, feeling for them, and at the same time fearing my own eventual mortality. And here I was, having my own scans and waiting for the results. 

Seeing the email notification from my doctor that afternoon, my heart races and my hands shake as I log in. 

"I'll send you the full report of the CT scan but everything is normal.
The changes on the ultrasound appear to be artifact and nothing else..."

Everything seen in the CT scan is "unremarkable".  
This is one time I welcome being "unremarkable"!

I still have one hurdle left to clear, but I'm feeling a bit better about things though the contrast dye has left me with a severe allergic reaction that has hijacked my training and, temporarily, my life, I can deal with that. 

I can say with certainly that this experience has changed me, even though it was much ado about nothing I did not have that prior knowledge, and so the effect on me is deep. The next time may not be much ado about nothing. Or, there may be no next time. Or, I could just drop dead one day. I will say that those who claim to 'understand' without ever having been through something like this probably don't even know what they can't understand, though I try to accept their reassurances and support. I know they mean well, but they really don't get it. 

And, I really don't get what it is to receive that news that things aren't good. For those who have been through or are going through the battle for their lives, I viscerally feel something for you that I never have before, though I thought I did. 

So now is the time to be happy about getting another chance at the Leadville 100, though I am terrified. I have the Phoenix Marathon, Boston, The Canyons 100k, all this spring. Everything else has been on hold for a couple months as I waited. Now is the time to start thinking about my year to come and the years I hope I will have after that. Now is the time to wake the F%&k up. And though I always feel that I have avoided sleepwalking through life, there's some new imperative worming into my consciousness. When I was told almost 10 years ago that I would never run again, I used that once I could run, to do all I could do with the time I had. Now this needs to be applied to my whole life, running and otherwise. 

As we live our precarious lives, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often oblivious of our fragility. Do what you can do when you can do it. It's the only time you have.

(playing with an Iris Murdoch quote, and I doubt she would approve so I will include the original - though mine is quite different in intent and meaning:

“As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragility.”~ Iris Murdoch)

How to Stop Digging a Hole

I've been in a funk since October. This isn't the first time I've felt like this but it is certainly the deepest and longest that I have ever felt so out of sorts. I have written nothing for months. Each morning I wake feeling existentially exhausted. Objectively I look at my life and think, "You've got it pretty darn good. Why are you so down?" But the objective facts and subjective feels just are not meshing for me right now. There are days I just want to quit everything. Give up. Start over...Crawl under a rock. Yet, I push on. But each day I feel that I am digging myself into an ever deeper hole, and the deeper I go the darker it gets. I feel that I've lost myself somewhere along the way, and I need to find my way back...

“The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss - an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. - is sure to be noticed." ~ Søren Kierkegaard  

One of the things I tell my athletes is that stress is stress. The body and mind can't differentiate between running/training stress and emotional/psychical stress. It is tempting to say that I am overtraining - the signs are there - poor sleep, depression, brain fog, poor recovery, crappy runs, etc. But training is not the issue. I've actually taken a nice bit of downtime from training since running Cuyamaca 100k in early October. My training has been lighter these past couple months than it has been for well over a year - and yet I am feeling flat and heavy. I was hoping that this down time would leave me raring to go, but, alas. Life is not just about running. If only it were so simple.

So here's the thing: It is hard to take care of yourself when you take care of so many others. It is hard to set boundaries and be there at the same time. Those who are in "helping" professions are often forced to hide their own challenges. 

This became ever so clear to me this week when I posted a couple things on Facebook concerning strangers lashing out at me in anger. Many responded in the following way: 

This time of year can be hard for some people...We should try to understand...Be kind. We all have battles...etc. 

And all I wanted to say was: Yeah. We do all have battles. I'm having a hard time too. Why am I always asked to understand. The loneliness of this world can consume you - I am forever told to be gracious. Help others. Be there 24/7. Go the extra mile. Give people the benefit of the doubt...Understand, understand, understand...it's all so mindful, and peaceful, and enlightened. And, it can be utter bullshit! 

But bullshit can make great compost - so, I am taking it - and I am going to use it. I can throw it in this hole and make some sweet garden soil...But it must cook first.

So, here I am.  A flawed individual, who needs more than just giving, giving, giving. My running is not what's caused my overtraining symptoms - and I am clearly suffering from overtraining - Rather, it's my inability to set boundaries - to know how to turn off the world which just wants more and more and more from me - that's at issue. It's my inability to ask for help and support when I need it. And, I have things going on in my life that few know about. It's stress I must stuff away, quietly. I lie in bed, and ruminate and worry, over and over and over - How am I going to fix this? It's all on me like the dark, heavy dirt falling on my head as I dig my hole ever deeper. 

This time of year is the hardest for those of us feeling this way because it is supposed to be a happy time. We are supposed to be happy, just like everyone else. But what if we aren't happy? Being told that I should understand how others feel when I am feeling like the life has been sucked out of life only heightens alienation and loneliness. Maybe they should try to understand me. maybe we all should try to understand each other, without assumptions about who does and does not deserve that understanding. 

So. What's the point of all this? Well, everyone says: If you need help, ask. But I'm not sure that's really sincere. Again, those in "helping professions" are often forced to stuff these things - but we feel this way too, though it is bad form (and possibly bad business) to say so. Very well. It may be, but we all have this one life. I have hit a breaking point and I am saying enough is enough. This is unsustainable.  

“The most common form of despair is not being who you are.”~ Søren Kierkegaard 

Yesterday I had lunch with my friend Carolina - I mentioned my funk and she asked: "How do deal with those?" For the first time I did not really have an answer. "I'm not really sure." I responded. "It usually just works itself out." But as I said this, I realized that this one is more serious. 

Later, thinking about it, I realized that I've had zero mental space for too long now. I no longer think about the interesting things I used to enjoy thinking about. I'm too exhausted to think. And, I'm too distracted to think. In today's world of pinging smartphones and buzzing Garmin notifications, who actually has a moment to think anymore? I'm sure some do, but I'm not one. 

Somehow I need to find my way back to myself. Part of that process, for me, is to do what I am doing here. In a world of facades and happy Facebook profiles, it may be oversharing. But this has always been my space to 'overshare' and I need to reclaim it. We have created a world where authenticity is frowned upon. It's poor taste. Unseemly. Weak. 

And my task for the remainder of the year is to dig myself out of this hole I've dug because if I don't it will bury me. If anyone else out there is feeling this way, I am with you. 

“The highest and most beautiful things in life are not to be heard about, nor read about, nor seen but, if one will, are to be lived.”~ Søren Kierkegaard 

One Last Chance

 “There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.” ~ Paulo Coelho

This will be short - not something usually said of anything I write - but I have a race to pack and plan for, and I leave tomorrow.

The past few weeks have been crammed to the brim with life: Lots of work, getting the kiddo set for her first ever sleep away multi-day school trip in the mountains, helping my mother who's 2000 miles away sort out buying a new house and moving out of the hotel she's been in since I first moved her at the beginning of July, dealing with a pressing legal issue, etc...Life has been a series of crazy, mind numbing and exhausting busy-ness.

On Monday I woke feeling that perhaps I was just ready to give up. Mentally I was drained dry.

"I really don't have to do this", I kept telling myself.

But this morning I sent my brave daughter off on her first ever sleep away trip. I won't share too much about this since this is her story, not mine, and I respect her privacy - but suffice it to say that she deals with some pretty intense anxiety issues - But recently she has faced some of these in ways that I admire more than I can express. She has surprised me with her courage and determination, even while I worry about the worst. And today I let her go and do her thing. I let her venture out onto her own journey to face her fears and to learn more about herself. And, as she walked off, I knew that I needed to do the same.

I have this little race on Saturday. This will be my last chance to get my WSER Lottery ticket. The pressure is on and I'm feeling the weight all too much. This will be my 3rd ticket, IF I make it. If I don't, then I must start all over. Starting over is something I'm not sure I can face...

This year has been rough for me. I have faced challenges that have crushed me...and I have managed to pull myself back up, time and again, and soldier on. But the fact remains that I am a changed person, both for good and bad, after all these challenges. Doubt seeps in through the cracks, newly formed, in my confidence.  And yet, I have also taken on new adventures that I may not have had I not fallen on my face a few times.

And so, for now I will focus on the positive and do my best. I will think of my daughter and myself, being fierce, because living life demands that.

Leadville 100: When Believing Just Isn't Enough

“I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.” ~ Thomas A. Edison

Sometimes something becomes a thing when you never intended it to become a thing. But then that unintentional thing grabs you and refuses to release its grip. Leadville was never a "dream" race for me, but then it morphed into something bigger than itself. Whether this is a good thing or an unfortunate thing remains to be seen.

Leadville 100: Take Two

It seems that all I ever post about these days are DNFs.  Between the DNFs is the insanity of balancing insufficient training, the obsessive self-employed working demands, parenting a fairly challenging child, dealing with a difficult aging parent, marriage survival, etc.

Somehow I am left with zero wiggle room. The house has gone to shit. The yard is a mess of weeds. I haven't written anything, or at least finished anything, since February (my last DNF). Is it all worth it when you find yourself time and again falling on your face? Right now I don't know the answer to this question - but the compulsion continues, unabated, even when all reason screams: "Stop this fucking shit. It's making you crazy!"

Ever since Black Canyon in February everything training-wise has been done for the sake of Leadville. I made the decision last year that if I got into Leadville this year then I would dedicate most of this year to proper training for that. Last year I went into Leadville woefully undertrained due to the recovery time I needed following Kettle Moraine 100. And so, I started organizing things in January.  My race schedule was pretty nuts this spring, at least for me, and that began in April:

✔️ First I ran the warm Boston Marathon (my 5th) where I managed a 5+ minute BQ (one of my worst cushions) by 2 seconds. I knew that this would be my one chance this year to get a BQ and though I was not marathon fit, I did the best I could do.
✔️ Two and a half weeks later I ran the Collegiate Peaks Trail Race 25 miler.
✔️ Two weeks later I ran the Colfax Marathon.
✔️ Two weeks after that I ran the Kettle Moraine 50k in horrendously muddy and HOT conditions setting a new AG course record.
✔️ Two weeks after that I ran the Leadville Marathon, an already challenging course, this year with 60 mph winds at 13,000 feet to keep everyone honest.
✔️ A couple weeks later I ran Chase The Moon 12hr night race where I stopped after 9 hours and change with about 42 miles (only stopping then because completing another loop in the allotted time was unlikely.)

Balancing training with work and family commitments (and some extra difficult family issues) during the spring and summer meant not having time for anything else. I did all I could do but also knew that I was still not doing enough and that was something I just had to accept. I watched as others trained the way I knew I should be training - Long weekends running in Leadville - high mountain/elevation runs week after week, while I ventured out from home doing what I could do without completely neglecting the rest of my life. As with most things that require 100% effort, giving 99% may not be enough. I reassured myself: Well, I am trained better than I was last year, so maybe there's some hope. I have NO doubt that I can run Leadville. The issue with Leadville is that 30 hours is very hard for that course. Add to that the demanding early cut-offs and this year ~2 added miles, and it becomes that much more challenging.

Every time Ken Chlouber rallies all the runners, chanting: "I commit, I will not quit", all I want to add is: "I won't quit, but I may not make a cutoff!"

But then, contrary to all you've worked for for months, shit happens. Some shit you can deal with. Some shit you attempt to deal with. Some shit turns into more shit. So much can happen during 100 miles. When you take that first step you really have no idea what awaits you.

Beginning 100 miles, on foot, is always a leap of faith.

“It is easy to make plans in this world; even a cat can do it; and when one is out in those remote oceans it is noticeable that a cat's plans and a man's are worth about the same.” ~ Mark Twain

August 18. 2017

Sandra and I leave for Leadville a little before 8 am because I want to get my daughter off to school before I leave (It matters). I need to be at packet pick up no later than 10 am. Leadville is about a two hour drive. Nothing like getting things off to an exciting start. Sandra hates being late. I always believe that I can do more than I can do in a given amount of time. That false belief (lots of empirical evidence against a belief I stubbornly hold on to) and an overly packed life means I am often running late. It's normal for me to be racing somewhere. Everywhere. So, as we make our way through the twisty roads to Leadville, Sandra's fingernails are firmly digging into the dashboard of the van. We're betting that the black pick up truck from Texas speed along with us is heading the same place. And we speed our way to town, passing lines of cars as if on the same team, and both pull up in front of packet pick up at 9:55 am. No problemo. Sandra is not amused.

We then find the cabin and our compatriots: Alex, Jim, and Jim. The freak is starting to settle in, but I try to keep it at bay. We all pile into a car and head off to the pre-race info meeting/pep rally.

photos @sandra wimer

Back to the cabin, finalize dropbags then off to town to grab something to eat and to drop off our dropbags. So, here's possibly the first mistake I make: I NEVER NEVER NEVER eat out the day before a big race. Why I do today is anybody's guess. I order the most innocuous sandwich possible: Grilled veggies and pesto on ciabatta bread.

As we walk back to the car, Sandra mentions that her fitbit just registered 10,000 steps. Shit. I need to get off my feet. I ran a 2 mile shakeout earlier, but all this time on my feet walking around town is not going to help me!
Back at the cabin I try to relax and lounge for the rest of the afternoon only rising to make my usually pre-race dinner though the allure of Jim's most excellent pancakes and homefries is strong.

August 19, 2017

Sleep does not choose to visit me this night. Unfortunately, over the last week my sleep has been poor as well. I rise at 3am feeling groggy and out of it. I hurriedly get dressed, drink coffee, fill my bottles and we are off into the darkness before my mind and body even knows what's happening.

The start area is a bustle of anxious, excited energy. Light floods the night sky. I visit the potties a couple times, give Sandra a hug and make my way to the start. Of course I haven't left myself enough time to back track and go around the fence that I was unaware of, so my day starts with my traditional fence scaling!

After some nervous start line chatter with strangers and compatriots, the National Anthem blasts through this quiet night lit up like New York City, and the gun sounds. We're off.

A couple days earlier I did my due diligence and actually figured out my goal paces and times for each segment of this race. This process was both comforting and overwhelming. Last year at this time seeing a goal of 25 minute miles I would have laughed at myself - I mean who couldn't do a 25 minute mile? Well, last year I got to gobble down some humble-pie and today I know all too well that the things that sound easy may actually be one of the hardest things you can ever do. Others, by the way, do not understand this. Telling someone who has not experienced this course that you can struggle maintaining a 25, 30, even 40 minute pace has them giggling behind their hand.

My trip out to and around Turquoise Lake goes as planned. My goal was to get to May Queen in 2:30 (11:06 pace) and I came in at 2:30:30 (11:09 pace). I gave myself 3 minutes to get in and out of MQ and we pretty much move along as planned. I grab fresh HEED, eat some food, grab my poles and head off for the climb up Sugarloaf. Ok good.

Trying to settle my stomach with Coke. The PB&J is not going down easy.

Problem is, I do not feel good. First, I've been having little crampy zingers in my left hamstring and calf. This is not at all normal for me this early in a race. I try to take in more fuel, as this usually resolves any cramps I do get. But my stomach is feeling off and everything I put into it causes a growing nausea. I have never, over decades running, had stomach issues on a run or during a race. My stomach has always been solid. So, I'm observing what's happening and trying to figure out what to do as this is all new to me. As we climb Sugarloaf I am taking it easy. I remember running parts of this last year, but today every time I try to run my stomach says NO!

I manage to run Powerline much better this year than last, but I am still feeling off. I've gone through all my liquids by the time we hit the road section (still a couple miles from Outward Bound) and the day is heating up fast thanks to a brilliant sunny, cloudless sky. As we round the turn past Fish Hatch I look at my watch and know that I am way off pace.

I come into Outward Bound drained and demoralized and 25 minutes behind my goal. Sandra gets me set with fresh bottles and gels and a mashed potato burrito for the road. I walk out into the meadow wondering what the hell is going on with me. I feel awful. I walk and nibble at the burrito eventually peeling away the tortilla, just trying to get some of the potato down. Eventually I can't take any more and chuck the remains. As we approach the road I muster a little jog and smile for the camera, but I feel like death. Through the coming miles I try to remind myself to smile even when I don't want to. I wish I could say that it helped. Maybe it did.

And so it goes all the way to Halfpipe. I walk, I run a few steps, my stomach revolts and so I must walk again. I look up at Hope and realize that today I may not make it there. I am so frustrated with what's going on. Why? Why today? I want to just give up. Habit pushes me forward.

I get to Halfpipe feeling like I've already missed the cutoff at Twin Lakes (TL). The reality, however, is that I am only a couple minutes off pace for this section. Of course I don't realize this, and I can't even think straight as my stomach cramps with every step as I head out to TL.

Here the wheels really come off and I honestly do not remember most of this next section. I know there is a climb here, but I don't remember it. I also know that this part of the trail has some of the most beautiful sections of the whole course. I have been so looking forward to running through the aspen cathedral. I try to run. I try to appreciate where I am. I try to take it all in. This is so runnable and beautiful. This is why I run trails. And the next second I am bent over, retching.

During this section I puke three times and feel like puking the entire time, so I stop taking my HEED as every sip repulses. I dump my bottles and refill with just water three miles outside of TL at the minimalist Mt. Elbert aid station. I figure that at this point, since I'm almost done having accepted the inevitable, there's really no need for more fuel. I know my day is done. A guy in pretty bad shape falls into a chair, and asks the volunteer how he's doing on time. She replies that he's fine and has another hour and a half to make the TL cutoff. Wait. What? That can't possibly be. I head down to TL drinking only water and my stomach starts settling down ever so slowly, but I can run for the first time in over 10 miles. As I descend toward town I reassess my chances for Hope.

Actually running into Twin Lakes

Sandra quickly comes to me. I tell her what's been going on. I come in with about a 43 minute cushion. Not anything near where I want to be but apparently I didn't lose any more time over that 14 miles than I had over Sugarloaf. It's all a blur to me but since I make the cutoff and my stomach feels marginally better I decide to continue.

Sandra and Jim tend to my feet (I've developed a blister on the side of my right heel), and as I sit trying to regain my composure, sucking down pickle juice, Sandra pulls out an envelop full of notes she has collected from friends. She reads these and I try to keep control of the tears welling up behind my eyes.  We gather the gear I need to take up Hope and I am quickly ushered out with an exit cushion of 30 minutes. I am encouraged by so many at TL. This is one of my fave AS as it really is a giant party and I see so many people I know. As Sandra and I cross out of TL I look up at Hope and say "But I don't want to go up there!!!" laughing at the absurdity of what I'm fixing to do given the state I'm in. Sandra immediately responds "No whining!" I trot off toward the swampy meadow to the encouragement of hoots and claps. I wonder what the hell I am doing.

Things go okay for a bit. I walk and jog though the meadow, slop through the shin deep jeep trail 'puddles' and hit the river, which is about mid-thigh deep and running strong. The cold water feels good as I glance up to the skies noting the dark, ominous clouds moving toward the pass. I joke to the volunteers, "Hey, can you redirect those somewhere else?"

For this section I'm aiming to maintain a 24-25ish pace and do that for the first 3 miles until my stomach decides to hit the skids again as I try to take in fuel. It seems that things settle down if I don't eat. As soon as I eat my stomach says NO. The nausea returns with a vengeance and makes it hard to drink but my lack of fuel, now going on 20+ miles, is just bad news. You can run with nausea, but you can't run without eating. But every attempt to eat brings more cramping. Along the way I see friends and Runners Roost team members. I get hugs, some walk along with me for a bit, others reassure me that I am still going for it.

I get to Hopeless AS with about 15 minutes to spare, drink some soup with noodles which is tolerable and grab a handful of pretzels. I dump my bottles again and refill with water. As I head up the last 500 feet to the summit I am moving at a glacial pace. Another woman who I've been yo-yoing with since after Halfpipe (and who also has been puking) is a switchback below me. We both take a few steps and stop. Take a few steps and stop. Repeat. This is agonizing for me. Climbing is my strength and I've done this pass a few times over the summer and each time I felt stronger. This trip up is just crushing me.

I crest the pass and this is where the timer is though the cut-off is lower at Hopeless. The fact that I hit this point after the cut-off now means that my crew has no idea which side I'm coming back down. But since I am still in the game I push on toward Winfield.

As I begin the decent my Roost Teammate Sean Wetstine is just cresting inbound, smiling as always and encouraging me to push on. I promise I'm trying but things are not going well. I continue down, and pass friends and teammates going up: Kaitlyn, Gina, Junko, Zack, Eric, Gary...They all encourage me to stay positive. I'm trying guys. I'm really trying...

The poundingly steep, loose downhill and dealing with the congo-lines of inbound runners makes this section slow going. At one point I almost fall nearly hitting my head on a boulder in a talus field as a large group of runners and pacers pass me going up. As I make my way down I thank every pacer who actually yields to me. They are the minority.

Once I hit the end of the major decent and head off for the 3-4 mile traverse of the mountain towards Winfield I find that I am out of pretzels which I have been sucking on the whole way down. My water is also low. I look at my watch and realize that I need to run to make the cutoff but the reality is that I have nothing left in the tank. I'm dizzy and drained and can barely maintain a 25 min pace where I should be doing 13-14. The extra distance this year is the final insult as I pass the cutoff down to the road that we took last year but this year must now do another climb before the final decent into Winfield.

The woman I've been yo-yoing with is now just ahead of me. We are the sad souls who everyone knows is done for. The inbound runners switch from saying "Great job. Keep going." to "Good effort." I pass several friends who are looking rough. I have been where they are and wish them the best but I also know that their chances are slim having just made the cutoff out of Winfield. Still, we all push on. None of us are quitting.

I round a turn and the woman ahead is now standing, looking out over the valley. Her significant other has come out to find her and is hugging her from behind. I stop and say "I'm sorry this day has turned out like this." We exchange some supportive words, and I continue on, giving her her grieving time.

Within a minute I see my husband come up the trail (along with my friend Lynette's son). Seeing him is almost too much. I am both relieved and defeated, and just bury my face in his shoulder and cry. I cry because I'm done. I cry because this has been such a hard day and the effort of it all releases in tears. We walk to Winfield as I tell my story of the day.

And so that's that. I make my way all the way to the aid station as Winfield begins returning to a ghost town. I hand over my wristband and my day is done. Lynette offers me a beer, fittingly called "Road Kill" and I sit shivering under a sleeping bag as we try to find a ride back to Twin Lakes or alternately catch a ride with Lynette, who has no idea where her runner, April, is. There are so many people milling around Winfield with no word of where their people are. Eventually we head to TL assuming that April was sent back after missing the Hope cutoff.

At TL I finally find Sandra and Aubrey (who was set to pace me from TL to MQ). Apparently Sandra has been beside herself, trying to find out where I am for hours. I was not listed on the DNF list but none of the officials could tell her where I was.  The fact that I was in pretty bad shape the last time she saw me was an added concern.

We head back to cabin, my stomach still in a state of revolt. I can eat nothing but some bread. I tell my story again to Katie, who was going to sleep and then pace me from MQ, and to my daughter, Sophia.

My daughter asks, as the night gets darker and colder, "Do you want to be out there?"
"Yes, sweetie. I do want to be out there."

But, once again, I will sleep when I would rather be running.

August 20, 2017

The next morning we head over to the finish for the final hour or so, cheering the last runners in.

It turns out that just 46% of starters finish this year. This race historically has a high DNF rate, but this year is higher than most. That, of course doesn't matter to me, but it's curious nonetheless.

For the second year in a row I am on the wrong side of the finish line. I think I can handle it. I put on a stoic face. I am crushed. But I am there and I so admire (and envy) those crossing that finish line.

“Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.” ~ Winston Churchill

Epitaph

Since walking into Winfield I have told this story dozens upon dozens of times - to friends, family, acquaintances, random people I see at the gym whose names I do not know, etc. The retelling at first helps, but then you just want it to stop.

At first I think that this one doesn't sting as much, after all, it was all out of my hands.
I am wrong.
It actually stings more.

At first I am okay with it all. I did all I could do. I did not quit though I wanted to so many times. I did nothing to cause my stomach issues - and the cause remaining a mystery. It just wasn't my day and unfortunately this day fell on a really important day for me.

But all that only goes so far and then you begin to wonder: Maybe this is just too hard for me. Others can do this but I just can't. I'm just not good enough.

I have never, in my 35+ years of running, ever, experienced a crisis of confidence this profound.

And so, now Leadville has become a thing for me. It has wormed its way into my being in a way I never could have foreseen. I'm really not sure what I will do about this just yet, but trying to push it away and pretend I'm okay isn't working either. Time will tell where this takes me...

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.” ~ Paulo Coelho

Black Canyon 100k: More and Less Than I Bargained For

“By seeking and blundering we learn.” ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

As February 18th, 2017, the day of the Black Canyon 100k, rapidly approached, a multitude of challenges began popping up. The first was a lingering cold which first appeared at the beginning of December, just as training was ramping up (since I decided to run this early December), but lingered in my lungs and sinuses nine weeks later. Second, which I wrote about a couple weeks ago (Time's-a-Tickin') came in the form of a nasty fall on the ice at the end of one of my best trail runs this winter. This, two weeks before race day. After trying to run with a busted up tailbone and sacrum, I made the decision to stop running for eight days - until the starters gun went off.  And then the final ominous sign came in the form of an unprecedented storm forecasted to bring over an inch and a half of rain to the already saturated desert and with that a last minute change of course.

The week leading up to the race consisted of a lot of swimming for the sake of my sanity, a multitude of visits to my chiropractor, sinus flushing and sudefed swallowing, and an over the top case of obsessive compulsive weather checking disorder (OCWCD). I installed four different weather apps and checked them desperately for some tiny signs of hope. I hemmed-and-hawed about whether to take the DNS and move on. I vacillated back and forth - weighing the pros and cons of pressing on with plans. The cons were clearly ahead on all counts but the passional ones. Ultimately rationality gave way to desire, and though I knew that the rational thing was to pull out, save the money, heal up completely, I could not let it go. I prepared for the worst and hoped for the best.

We land in Phoenix greeted by blue skies and mild temps. It's almost unimaginable that things will turn so dramatically so fast. I keep hoping as I tap Weather Underground...NOAA...Accuweather...All tell me that my empirically supported hopes are for naught. As the day progresses, the precipitation totals climb and spread across the entire day of the race.

We make the best of the two days of nice weather, freaking perfect weather, hiking and even visiting the zoo (and yes. I did walk too much!)

And then the alarm buzzes me awake at 5a.m.  I hear the rain coming down in the darkness outside. I drink some coffee, eat a bar, dress, gather my dropbags. We drive through dumping rain as we climb the 4000 feet to the start of the race 50 minutes away. Lightening flashes, brightening the still dark morning sky. We get to Mayer High School, I toss my bags on their designated piles sitting out in the rain and head into the gym which is packed with runners and others. I have enough time to pee and get my shoes on and then we are called out into the cold, dark, wetness onto the track for the start.

Keep in mind that I have not run a step in eight days and I actually have no idea how my tailbone/pelvis will feel. My husband takes a quick shot of me and then he and my daughter, still in her PJs, head for refuge in the car.

I wish Clare Gallagher (who's there to earn a Golden Ticket into Western States) good luck, and she wishes me good luck as I laugh nervously...and then there's the countdown and we're off. A lap around the track and then off through town on the muddy dirt roads.

Miracle of miracles, my tailbone/pelvis feels totally fine and I have not forgotten how to run, which given what I am about to face, is very good thing.

A couple miles in we leave the roads for the 'trail' which consists of a path through what appears to be a cow field.

The mud is as deep as I've ever seen, swallowing our shoes while adding what feels like, 15 pounds to each step. We slip and slide, side to side, looking for the best way through it. There is no "best way". This lasts for the first 7+ miles until we hit the Antelope Mesa aid station. The rain pours down on us but I find a few seconds of reprieve in the porto potty. From here, we head onto single track trail.

Thus far, I've 'met' two women (hard to know who you're talking to when you are covered from head to toe): Lynette and Mindy. During races like this, we develop these weird friendships and connections with total strangers. Sometimes they last well beyond the race. You learn a lot about people you are in close proximity to during ultras. You talk and get through tough parts together. It is one of the things I love about ultras.

This next section is the fastest part of the course going out since it's mostly sand, and though it's saturated and puddly, it's more runnable than the sticky, slippery, ankle deep mud.

We reach the mile 21.5, the Hidden Treasure Mine aid station where our first drop bags are. It's such a cluster because there's no place that's dry. Everyone's trying to change and restock inside the too small tent and smaller covered overhang. I do my best to change out of my sodden shirt, placing my drenched Houdini jacket back on saving the jacket packed away for the nighttime return trip. Everything is mud and water. As I peruse the AS goodies I start coughing a hard, painful cough. It's almost embarrassing, it sounds so awful. I'm afraid one of the medics patching up a woman's leg is going to question me - so I try to keep it on the down-low. I've had a cough, off and on, for a while, but it never felt like this and the tightness in my chest is worrying. As I leave the AS I take it very slow, trying to see if it will loosen up. After a mile or so, I feel okay, but still a little concerned.

And so we slog on. At this point I'm running with a group of guys. The trail has returned to mud and rocks. One guy is ahead of me and a bunch are close behind. I hate running in front of people because it messes with my ability to adjust to terrain. I mention, "Let me know if you want to get by" to the the footsteps behind me. "Nope. You're fine". But it never feels fine. At each uphill I catch up to the guy in front and then each downhill he pounds down, gaining ground...repeat...repeat...repeat. He asks several times if I want to go by, "Nope. You'll leave me in the dust on the downhill." The problem is that my funky knee/shin has started bothering me - the same pain I had at Kettle 100 and at Des Plaines 50 last year. At Kettle it hit around mile 45. At Des Plains it hit around 25. Now I am feeling it at 16. The constant ups and downs help, but I'm worried. This damn thing NEVER bothers me in training. It didn't bother me at Leadville. It's so unpredictable and no one can figure it out. This makes trail negotiation a little tricky than I'd like.

At this point I have seen many bloodied runners. Each bloody knee and muddy torso serves as a cautionary tale. By mile 20 I've had only one adrenaline rushing toe catch. Somewhere in mile 24 I go down, rolling a bit off the trail and down a slope, hitting my knee, thigh, cheekbone and the bone above my eye. I sit for a moment assessing the damage and cursing my stupidity as other runners trot by asking if I'm okay. I don't know if I'm okay. My cheek is throbbing and there blood running down my leg. Thankfully the next AS is just about a half mile away. As I jog on, I first think, "Oh screw this. I'm just done." But by the time I get to the Gloriana Mine AS I am determined to run the effing race. The medics see me coming and immediately take me into their tent. They clean me up, check for concussion signs and say I'm good to go, and that they don't want to see me again. There are drop bags here so I change my socks and shoes for the first time which almost feels luxurious.

From here it's 7+ miles to the turn around. The bummer about this alternate course is that it's a net drop of almost 4000 feet for the first 50k and the same gain for the second 50k (though some claim it is actually 6000 each way). As I leave the AS Mindy catches back up to me. I'm walking, trying to shake the stiffness out of me damaged body parts, and let her pass. I slowly start running again. I turn a corner, and see another woman I've been yo-yo-ing with sitting by the trail. I can see a deep gash in her hand and leg. I ask if I can help, but she says no. She hit her head hard and knows she is done and will go back to the aid station a half mile back. Once I get moving again I realize that my fall seems to have made my knee/shin thing go away. Bodies are so very weird.

And so we move on. The skies actually lighten up for about 2 hours giving a false hope that the worst is over.

I get to the turn around after a long long decent and turn to head back home. It's always a lift to make that turn, no longer moving farther away from where you want to go. Mindy and I have been yo-yo-ing some (she is better on the downhills and I'm feeling better on the ups) since mile 24. It's nice to have a friendly face around. As we make our way up the long climb I see few runners. About 3 miles into the climb I pass another woman in a red plastic poncho. I never get her name, but she will figure into the story from here on, and later...

I get back to Gloriana Mine (mile 37.7) grab my handheld Nathan light, a beanie, a couple gels, some cookies, PB&Js and head out. I see Mindy meeting up with her crew. All Smiles and cheer. I head out alone and for this whole stretch, between Gloriana Mine and Bumble Bee (42.2) I see no one. The low dark clouds move back in and in a blink the rain is pounding down again. It is torrential now and the wind starts picking up a bit. The last mile before hitting Bumble Bee is a challenge of what looks to be sandstone (or conglomerate) slabs of rock and rivers of water. The wind now is piercing. And as I jog into Bumble Bee I am feeling the first signs of hypothermia.

I get to the AS and find the tent chock-full of runners trying to warm themselves enough to get to the next AS. It's 7.5 miles to our next drop bags, but now it's dark and cold and drenching. My waterproof jacket is at that AS but I'm not sure I can make it to there. I'm talking with a woman who is equally concerned. Mindy comes into the tent followed by her crew with a bag of supplies. She has a plastic poncho and I jokingly ask, "I don't suppose you have another one of those?" She doesn't, but offers me a "Disney' heat sheet. I jump at it like a starving, desperate person grasping for something...anything. As I listen to the rain pounding down on the tent, I take my hydration vest off, wrap myself in the heat sheet and place the vest on top of that. I then wish all my compatriots well, and head out into the cold darkening skies.

I am still fine running if I can run, and I do run once I find the trail. Those 7+ miles seem to take an eternity as the darkness gets darker and the rain pours down harder. Three guys pass me and I stick with them for several miles. It's a party of two runners and a pacer and one runner isn't looking great, but they're soldering on.

We get to Hidden Treasure Mine (48.9 miles) and I grab my sodden dropbag. If Only I had a fresh, warm shirt, but the only shirt I have is the drenched one I left here at 12.5 miles. I grab my headlamp, change jackets, adding my waterproof Brooks jacket over my wet tech shirt, I change socks and shoes, now switching from Altra Superiors to PIs, suck down a lot of hot broth, burning my tongue but I don't honestly care. I'm talking to a woman named Betty who offers me another heat sheet. I almost don't take it, thinking I'm good - I have one. But I'm not at all good, and have the good sense to accept her generosity. As I sit there trying to get my shit together, I look at at row of runners, 6 or 7 of them, sitting behind the AS table. Their eyes are blank. They aren't there anymore. I look at them, probably too long, and I don't want to be them but I know I'm very close.

I set out for the last AS, 5+ miles away feeling okay but not great. I almost can't find the trail (this happens on several occasions and many runners did go off course). My donated Disney heat sheet has now been made into a skirt as my featherweight shorts are proving to be a liability. A little while later Mindy and her pacer are behind me. We talk for a bit. I thank her for saving my bacon with the heat sheet, and we run on. I don't want to hold them up and I also don't want to lose them but I ask if they want to pass, but they're okay and we run together for a while. At some point I let them pass and stick with them. Mindy is wearing a sparkly skirt which is easy to follow in the dark. She was smart enough to add pants under her skirt back at Bumble Bee. I lose contact with them for a while but as the wind increases, I catch back up to them.

At this point my watch has died, so I'm not sure how far we have to go to Antelope Mesa (mile 54.1), but we've been moving for what seems like hours. The wind picks up ferociously, like a train screaming through sodden desert. The rain is coming down sideways and I'm trying to figure out if it's turned to snow (which was predicted). My heat sheet skirt wraps around and clings to my legs making it impossible to run. I have no choice but to hold it up with both hands making running awkwardly and exposing my legs to the frigid winds. I attempt to open the extra heat sheet to wrap around my upper body just to see if I can calm my chattering teeth and recoup some body heat which seems to be gone for good.

At this point we've become a congo line of bedraggled runners, trudging our way toward the AS somewhere out in the darkness. We look like refugees fleeing some unknown, but horrendous, fate...

I finally see the glowing light of the tent off in the distance. I try to keep moving as fast as possible just to generate heat, but it's nearly impossible in these conditions. As I enter the tent, jam packed with runners and volunteers, I head for the double propane heater in a futile attempt to warm myself as the winds buffet the tent walls. I can not stop shaking. I ask for soup but my hands shake too violently for me to get it to my mouth. I try to settle my mind and get my bearings. It's about 9:20 pm. I have plenty of time to make the 12:00am WSER 17 hour cut off IF I can get moving now. But I'm in no shape to head out yet.

I know that the last 7 miles begins along an exposed ridge-line with very deep mud for the first 3-4 miles. Between the wind, the cold, the rain, the mud, and my foggy head I know that this could take a good chunk of time. The thought of being out there alone, in the condition I find myself now, strikes me as foolhardy.

Mindy's crew is getting her set to head back out. I want to stick with them, but I know I can't leave in this condition. One of her friends comes into the tent with two arm-fulls of coats - Big, fat, warm coats. I look at them longingly and think: "This is not the race to try to do alone. Not today." Mindy and her pacer head off into the cold darkness, but I stay behind huddled around the heater...

At this point there are 5 five of us considering our options. One woman, the woman in the red, plastic poncho who I've passed and who has passed me several dozen times over the last 20 or so miles, is in slightly better shape than me, but decides that she won't go on because she is confident that the sub-17 is out of reach given the trail conditions and her condition. She disappears with her sister for the car ride to the finish. I try to hold onto hope. I try to warm myself so that I can get going - I need to go now - but it's just not happening fast enough. My running body is not the problem right now - I can still run - but can I run in these conditions? And if I can't, what will happen to me out there?

This leaves myself and three other guys:
One is a local runner who has run this race several times.
Another is from Canada who has traveled a long way with high hopes.
The third is a 62 year-old from Oklahoma. He says: "This is probably my last chance for a WS lottery ticket. I ran Western States years ago. I wanted it to be my last 100." We try to cheer him up with stories of many runners older than him running WS. "Some can do it. I can't."

At some point I can see that I am running out of time. I weigh the risks of going for the finish for the sake of the finish. At that time, given how I feel, I decide that the risks are too great. Additionally I can't see keeping my family waiting until 3 am, if necessary. The volunteer asks if I am dropping. I nod, but say nothing, returning my gaze to the glowing heater.

We then wait another hour before someone can get out to bring us in...I am still hit with bouts of uncontrollable shaking.

As we drive back, I'm in the front seat. The heat is blasting. The driver asks:
"Are you number 225?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I was just talking to your husband."
"Really? I'm surprised he's there already."

As I walk into the bustling gym, Peter and Sophia spot me, wrapped in two heat sheets and covered in mud. They are all smiles and my daughter runs up and hugs me hard. They think I've finished. As I deliver the bad news, my husband tells me that they received an update from Ultrasignup hours ago that I had finished, 9th woman in 11:48. When they arrived they couldn't find me. The race had no idea where I was (though I was very careful to check into every aid station). No one knew where I was. My daughter was beside herself, upset that she would never see me again. They heard that many had gone off course and that there were exposed parts of the trail.

My daughter doesn't care that I DNFed. She just wants me.

I find my bag and see that there is a message from one of the race people asking me to call and another message from my husband asking where I am. I see a ton of messages congratulating me on an amazing race. I see Facebook threads where people are calling me: "badass", "amazing", "inspiring"...etc. Ugggggg. This is NOT helping.

As we drive the 50 miles back to the hotel my cough has returned with a vengeance - Deep, raspy and painful. It's midnight but I take a hot shower and get into bed, but I don't sleep.

In the dark I think about all the things I could have done...all the things I should have done:

1) I should have had better clothing options. I was under-prepared for this. I tend to run warm and have plenty of experience running in the cold and the wet - but nothing had prepared me for what happened after the sun went down.

2) I should have asked the other woman who dropped if she wanted to try to go together. Though she had crew, she also had no pacer. We were both scared to go out there alone. Together we might have made it.

3) Always ask for what you might need at an AS. They may just have what you need. After dropping, while waiting for the the ride back, a runner came in and asked if they had trash-bags. Sure enough they had an ample supply. For some time I had been eyeing the black Heftys full of trash, tempted to ask if I could empty one and use it. After sitting in the tent for an hour, seeing this trash-bag, draped over a runner heading out to finish, I just wanted to slap myself. I wanted to say, "Wait. I don't want to drop. I want to go.", but it was too late.

4) Try not to get sucked into what others are dealing with. It is very hard to make clear choices when everyone around you is in the same place. I should have already decided, before the race began, if just getting the finish mattered. At that time it didn't. It does now.

And all through the night, these thoughts drifted through my mind. I leave with nothing. Nothing but cuts, bruises, pounded muscles, aching lungs, and absolutely zero to show for it.

I cried a lot for the next couple days. I desperately looked for a race to redeem myself, but the options are few given that most are already full. I came to the uncomfortable realization that now all my eggs are in the Leadville basket - something that both terrifies me and motivates me. I really wish that things had gone differently, but I know I did my best at the time. Unfortunately my best was not good enough.

And since there is nothing I can do about that now I have only one reasonable option: Learn (again) from my mistakes and try to use these lessons to do better in the future. There's always something positive to take away from an experience.

“Failure is instructive. The person who really thinks learns quite as much from his failures as from his successes.” ~ John Dewey

(Photo credits: Many of the race shots were taken by MindyPrzeor)