The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

Eightish-ish weeks in. The waiting continues. This is all a waiting game. Waiting to see if my heart can and will heal. Waiting to see if my life will look anything like what it always has looked like. Waiting to make plans. Waiting to dream again. Waiting for something, anything.

The worst part of all of this is the not knowing. I can't plan. I can't dream. I can't hope without the nagging feeling that I'm setting myself up for crushing disappointment. I am trying to make peace with being in the moment. I am trying to use this time to be present - to notice when my ego and striving desires take me away from now.

The "differential diagnosis" is currently "myocarditis" which is heart inflammation: 

"Myocarditis is a rare, sometimes fatal disease characterized by inflammation of the heart muscle. Although it is an important cause of dilated cardiomyopathy (enlarged weakened heart muscle that can’t pump well) worldwide, often progressing to heart failure and transplantation, myocarditis remains poorly understood and is often undiagnosed. Most cases of myocarditis result from a prior viral infection, although many other causes have been identified. The true incidence of myocarditis is unknown due to diagnostic difficulties...." 

"Although myocarditis is a relatively rare disease that in many cases resolves without further problems, the importance of recognition, early diagnosis and prompt treatment in high-risk individuals cannot be overstressed." ` The Myocarditis Foundtion

It's rare and often undiagnosed. It is the number one cause of sudden death in both children and adults. It can be caused by a virus (such as the flu) or bacteria, or environmental toxins, or an autoimmune response. It can happen to anyone and there's not much you can do to protect yourself. The actual number of cases is unknown since many die without ever being diagnosed while others spontaneously recover without even knowing it's happened. 

In my case it was discovered by accident. 

"The two most powerful warriors are patience and time." ~ Leo Tolstoy

So what am I doing? I'm resting. Well, that's resting compared to what I used to do. Am I still running? Yes. But quite a bit less and for the first time I am running according to HR, keeping my HR generally below 120. I am eating well and upping my natural anti-inflammatories. I have now been alcohol free for eight weeks, and feel great about that. In my situation ANY alcohol is a bad idea. I am taking some drugs (which I HATE!) to reduce stress on my heart and allow it to rest and heal. 

What's the prognosis? We have NO idea. I must continue to act as if my actions will make a difference but this is somewhat out of my hands. One of the frustrating issues in dealing with a heart condition is that often the answer is rest and time. Unlike cancer, you don't get to "fight" the little shit that's trying to kill you. Instead you have to do exactly the opposite - you must pull back. You must not fight. You must turn the other cheek. This "waiting game" is not generally how I deal with life. I've never been one to "avoid" problems - I deal with them head on. So I try to embrace the things I can do and then "inaction", resting, not "doing" becomes action.

The general consensus is that it takes 3-6 months to see how things are responding. So, I have pulled out of all my races through the first half of the year. Chances are good that 2019 will be a "rest" year for me and hopefully I can return to the life that I so want to live.

Yesterday I dropped out of the Boston Marathon. I was contemplating walking/jogging it. I could actually run it and I could run a decent time, even now. One of my goals was to run Boston for 10 consecutive years. I've run: '12,'14, '15, '16, '17, and '18. Notice that '13 is missing. That omission has bugged me ever since. That year I pulled out 10 days before the race due to a pelvic sprain I sustained during my last track session, doing a stupid thing. That year I also could have run but since I was pretty much in the best shape ever, I just didn't want to "jog" it. The money and the fact that I had my first 50k a couple months later convinced me that dropping was the best option. But that meant that my consecutive runs would be restarted at '14. After running 2014, the experience of being in Boston and running the year after the bombing was so overwhelming that I wanted to return "for as long as I can get in". So, here I am. My 7th Boston, 6th consecutive Boston will not be. Now, this may qualify as a major First World Problem, but we all do have a right to have our goals in life. I know it really doesn't matter and yet it does matter to me.

Many erroneously assume I am "injured". I haven't been injured in many years, actually since that sprain in 2013. And in fact now I see running injuries so differently - those complaining about stress fractures and tendinitis??? I try not to say "Hey. At least you aren't an "otherwise healthy" person with a heart condition that might kill you". As tough as tendinitis is, it ain't gonna kill you. I won't say these things to a suffering person, but I will think these things, as I believe most who have confronted their own mortality will. Some experiences dramatically change your perspective.

So for now I sit and wait. But I'm not "just" sitting - I am being present. Sometimes that means I cry and feel sad and sorry for myself as I see others signing up for races, getting exciting about the coming of spring and running cool races, etc. I cry because I want to live my life and I also just want to survive. I cry because I do not want to leave my husband and life partner so soon, and because I desperately want to see my daughter grow up. I cry because unless you have had to look your own mortality in the face, you can not begin to really understand. You can try, but it won't work. And that can be lonely. Others can say "You are going to be alright", but that's not how life always works. People die. I am no exception.

Other times I am grateful for this lesson. For this chance to refocus a bit - to perhaps reexamine my priorities. Of course I want it to turn out well. Regardless, I am not the same person I was a couple months ago. We never are, but some things accelerate change. I only hope to have the opportunity to continue to grow through all of this.

To be continued...

The Middle: The Ups and Downs of Sharing

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”  ~ Soren Kierkegaard

If you give away too much, you suffer a loss because "too much" implies more than you should give for your own well being. If you give too little, you may feel cut off from others. The balance is hard to find.

Over the past three weeks I have experienced everything from support and attempts to understand, to condemnation and writing me off as one of the walking dead. It's been hard, very hard. I'm angry as hell. I'm angry this is happening. I'm angry that people claim to "understand" when they can't possibly understand. And when I tell them this, they get defensive and dismiss my reaction. They attempt to tell me that I will be fine. Some wish to dismiss the truth of what this all might mean, for me (not for them because this shit will never happen to them). Some wish to use my situation as inspiration to do what they can do while they can do it - and that's great and it's something I've encouraged people to do since starting this blog in 2011 - so that's fantastic that they're doing it -  except for the inference (due to the timing of these constant proclamations) that I'm done for and fucked. It's great to inspire, but not at the cost of ones life. I guess no one listened before.

Maybe I'm just being sour about the whole thing. But, hey. I have a right to be pissed off at the wold right now.

On the other side there's the silence from some. Some just can't deal. I'm a pretty normal person. I'm healthy. I generally live my life with gusto and go after what I want. I take pretty good care of myself. I do things most others my age cannot even fathom. And yet, this is happening to me. We need to distance ourselves from such glaring examples of human mortality.

So, I've gone back and forth on this: Share...don't share...share...don't share.  The fact that I've shared so much, that I've exposed my soft vulnerable spots, and that some have taken the opportunity to poke or kick those vulnerable spots I chose to expose, well, that's just mean.

And I can't help but feel that some will follow along just to witness my downfall. There is the "watching the train wreck" impulse in many. They want to follow along. But it's like watching another crappy Netflix series.

I took a risk sharing as much as I did, and perhaps if things turn out well I will return and tell my story after the fact. But telling it while I'm going through it has proven dangerous and painful and eye opening in a very hard way. Yes, I've received a lot of support, and I thank those who offer it. But those who have chosen to be mean cut into a painful place that I hope no one out there has to discover in themselves.

“To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself.” ~ Soren Kierkegaard

So for now I will focus on me and those who are closest to me. I wanted to share my story only because I thought maybe someone else out there is like me, and maybe someone out there could learn from my example. But I guess I'm wrong.

To paraphrase Socrates, it is better to make yourself as good as possible rather than building yourself up by silencing, laughing at, and cutting down others. As Socrates faced his death, condemned for speaking awkward, uncomfortable truths, he warned those who condemned him: "[T]he easiest and noblest way is not to be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves" (Apology) It is better to stand for something and to say it, to use your life as an example, than to constantly shut down those who take the risk, speak out, and share their truth. Most, it seems, don't want to hear it.

Until later...

The Beginning: The Teacher Appears

“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.” ~ Arthur Conan Doyle

I stand waiting for my turn at check in, the imaging waiting room is packed on a Friday afternoon. The woman behind me, at least 10 years younger than me, is laboriously breathing in and out. In and out.  Out of the dozen siting in chairs, waiting for various scans, I'd estimate that about 90% of them look sick. Very sick. Some in wheelchairs. Some hooked up to oxygen canisters. Many with a glazed over, dazed look in their eyes. 

It is almost 3 p.m. and I have not been allowed to have any caffeine for the whole day. Now, I don't drink a lot of coffee. I have one not-so-large mug in the morning and that's it. But, take that away from me and I feel the withdrawal effects. Add to this not being able to eat for three hours (yes, I know that's not very long, but it is for me!), and I feel rather a mess. My head is throbbing and my blood sugar feels like it has bottomed out. 

A nurse approaches me asking me if I'm here for a TM stress test, and we make our way to the "nuclear medicine" side of things. She attaches a bunch of electrodes to my body, holding all the wires together with a belt fastened just a bit too tight around my belly (I hate things strapped to me when I run!) places the pesky O2 reader on my index finger - the doctor comes in, asks me a few questions and then informs the nurse, "This is going to take a while. We need to put her through the paces". He looks at me and says, "This could take 20 minutes. Are you okay with that?" "Sure" I respond. What are my choices? 

So we start at a fast walk, picking it up gradually. I am feeling just a bit out of sorts - lack of caffeine and low blood sugar is not a good combo for me. Add in the tail end of the flu and a still fairly compromised respiratory system, and things could get ugly fast. But things click along. Things speed up and the angle increases at distinct intervals. Every few minutes the nurse wraps my arm with the blood pressure sleeve as I try not to fall. God, this is tedious, I think to myself.  Due to all the straps attached, I have to run while holding into the front bar. The whole damn thing feels so awkward and unnatural. Meanwhile as I'm trying to keep my shit together the doctor is chit-chatting with me - talking about Leadville and the peaks he's bagged there, asking me questions that I can barely answer without completely falling flat on my face and becoming one of those pathetic YouTube TM fail videos...This is me, potentially!

So at some point I am gasping for air and the doc says "We'll be cutting things back in a minute" as I fight to keep it together for just one more minute. The TM slows, the angle drops, and I'm walking again. 

As the doctor enters data into the computer he comments, "This is what's called a "negative" test. You're in the top 1% for your sex and age, but given what you do, I'm surprised it's that low."

"Could that possibly be due to still recovering from the flu?" I ask.

"Absolutely. Make sure you tell the cardiologist that when you see him."

I leave, get more blood drawn and make my way home. Still with zero answers. Every test thus far, save the echo, has been negative or normal. Now I have to sit and wait another week for my appointment with the cardiologist. Waiting waiting waiting...

Over the past week I've continued to run. I'm keeping the pace easy. I'm wearing my heart rate monitor (something I rarely do). I'm keeping things at about 10 miles or less. Everything feels just fine. The juxtaposition of my echo results and my empirical experience is just so hard to reconcile.

“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.” ~C.S. Lewis

My date with the cardiologist is on Valentines Day. How appropriate. I get up early since I'm not sleeping well anyway and head out for an easy five miles with the dogs - just in case I'm told I can't run anymore, I want to get this run in. It is early and quiet. I hear a few meadowlarks bringing in a beautiful morning. It's a peaceful, wonderful, soul calming run. I try to take it all in. Just in case. 

“Anyone who has lost something they thought was theirs forever finally comes to realize that nothing really belongs to them.” ~ Paulo Coelho

Anxiously I wait in the small examination room. Dr. Drake knocks and walks in. I stand up, we shake hands and then sit back down. 

He asks, "So, where did this all start? What brought you here?"

"Do you mean, why did I have the echo?"

"Yes."

So I tell him the story: about the past year, possibly two, of coughing, which became more noticeable and bothersome over the past 10ish months. About the inhaler prescribed that seemed to do nothing...about the races and training runs where I had no issues...about the races and training runs where I was wheezing and hacking...the negative pulmonary function tests...the nasal steroids that seemed to help, until they didn't...about the symptoms when they happen...and that the echo was ordered just to "rule out" possible heart issues that might be the cause...I explained that I've never had heart pain or strange feelings...no fatigue...no water retention...and on and on. I tell him that the issues feel like they originate in my sinuses. But then the echo results came back...

We talk more about my running, and I admit that I am not very good at taking recovery time between big races probably because I tend to feel pretty good shortly after - Yes, some general fatigue and soreness, which I always allow time for, but never experiencing weird swelling or other typical issues that many other runners often claim to experience. And, in fact, I have remained uninjured through all of this for many many years.

He then looks at my record: 
"So you quit smoking in 1985 after just a few years of smoking."

"Yeah. College. I still ran though." 
He chuckles.

"How about alcohol?"

"So." I begin. "I think this has been an issue. Once I started looking at what "moderate" means I realized that moderate means a very small amount compared to what I thought it meant. To be honest, I've been thinking about this for several years, and wondering if I might be overdoing it, self-medicating to deal with stress - though that's just a lame excuse - but, yeah. When I actually started thinking about it, I realized that it's not been healthy in any sense - even though everyone around me would call it very moderate."

So, we dig into this some more. For my size, 5'5'' and 110 lbs, going beyond moderate and healthy is surprisingly easy. 

"With women in particular," He notes, "I would say the majority of these cardiomyopathy cases, have an alcohol component. I've had patients who had two glasses of wine a night and had cirrhosis of the liver. The question is: How large are those glasses, or even one glass?"

I joke about all the lame drinking memes out there and how they all just feed into the general acceptance of excess, and most of us don't even question it, or if we do, we fight to dismiss the thought as quickly as it enters our consciousness.

"Well, I've had no alcohol in two weeks, almost 3 really, and I can say one thing: I feel a gazillion times better even though I thought I felt good before - I actually didn't. And it's not just physical, it's psychological.  I've been working on letting things go and I think not drinking has helps with that as well."

He looks at me hard and asks: "So you just stopped after the echo results?"

"Yes. If this is the wake up call I had to have, then so be it. But I just really hope I can turn it around."

Sometimes a teacher appears, ready to teach you a lesson you may not realize you need to learn, only to come to understand that it's the most important lesson you've learned thus far. You may not welcome the teacher at first, but if you listen closely you will feel the deepest gratitude. Sometimes what can kill you can also save you. At least that's my hope.

He explains that he thinks, but can not be certain as time will tell how things respond, that this can be repaired, fixed, reversed.  He agrees with me that the heart issue is a red herring concerning the cough, and that it does indeed sound like a sinus issue. He explains that addressing the heart damage will take months, not weeks. I will need to be on a medication that blunts the effects of adrenaline on my heart, since in these cases the body sometimes over responds by demanding more of the heart when the heart needs to rest and recover. I need to monitor my blood pressure (which is quite low). And I need to wear my HRM when running and keep things very easy, 70% or below. He suggested no long races or runs for now. After I get settled on the medication, I will be hooked up to HR harness for 24 hours to see how things go during a typical day. After three months I will have another echo to see where things are. Then we will proceed as needed.

He explains: "I do think that alcohol is a factor here, along with possible chronic over-training (meaning that I train a lot over time, not that I over-train at any given time). And the combination may be the issue."

Of course, I want things to happen faster. Three months. Three months is not a lot in grand scheme of things, but still. It means no Boston this year. I was trying to get 10 consecutive years. This pretty much shoots that goal to shit. But, this is my life I'm dealing with. It also means that Miwok 100k is out. Plans to run Behind the Rocks 50k again, also out. 

But, all of this really doesn't matter. What matters is seeing my daughter grow up. What matters is maybe returning to health and running with a new approach to it all. What matters is growing old, I hope, with my husband. What matters is being here for my friends. What matters is the future, the real future, not just the next 3 months or 12 months, or 18 months. I will do anything for that amount of time, or more, if it means being given another chance. 

Now, all of this could amount to nothing. It is still possible that the cause is not what we think and that this is not reversible, and that thought terrifies me. But for now I choose to be hopeful and do everything in my power to give myself the best possible chance at getting my life back.

This Saturday I may cry because I'm not running Black Canyon 100k. On Patriots Day I will most certainly cry, missing what should be my 7th Boston. In May I will have to miss a race I have wanted to run for years. This all really really sucks. But if this is the teacher I need to have appear at this moment and this is the lesson I must learn, I also welcome it. 

To be continued...

Cracking My World Wide Open: A Cautionary Tale

"Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify." ~ Henry David Thoreau

It's funny how you start noticing things about the world around you that normally go unnoticed or just passed over and dismissed until something changes, and you become almost hypersensitive to that very thing. We live in a culture (the US, mostly) that idolizes "doingness". People love to boast about how much they can get done. How uber busy they are 24/7, go-go-go, do-do-do - getting shit done. This is the hero's journey in modern day America. In 1980s self-help speak, this was often referred to as living as a "human-doing". This is not "being".  We look to others who seem to "do it all" and place them on a pedestal of heroic valour. I constantly see folks on social media boast about how they wake up, off and running - doing all the things - and then crashing into bed and starting all over again the next morning - What matters most is all the doing. All that matters is getting shit done.

We work hard, we play hard, and then we sometimes party hard.

Perhaps I have succumbed to this way of thinking. I have goals and I know I don't have forever, so, it's now or never. But, somewhere along the way, I've become a human doing. Yes, I do enjoy my doings, but, there is more to life that doing and busy-ness.

Add to all the things we "choose" to do, those stresses we don't "choose", specifically, but deal with because we care about others. These are the kinds of stresses that are not really in our control: Concerns about one's children, dealing with an aging parent, etc. We can help, but we can't control the outcome. These "uncontrollable" stresses take the greatest toll of all. And some people have more deal with than others.

And sometimes existential uncertainty, slaps you in your oblivious face, wakes you up, in a cold sweat, and the question dawns on you: "What the F%ck am I doing?"

These things happen slowly, insidiously, over time. You don't even notice all the small steps that you are taking to a place you don't even want to be. Then you are there. You look back and wonder: "Am I living in a Talking Heads song???"

I am here to begin documenting something that I am choosing to share, to not live inside myself and my grief and my fear. This is part journaling and part sharing for the sake of others who may experience similiar things - things that can make someone feel alone, isolated, terrified, confused, defeated, regretful, sad...the list goes on forever.

Here is the beginning of this journey:
For the past year plus (I can't really remember when it all began) I've been dealing with some odd coughing issues, intermittently, usually mid-runs or after runs. It doesn't always happen and there seems to be no weather, season, distance, intensity correlation. In February 2018 I emailed my doctor because I found myself hacking for hours after a few runs and she prescribed me a rescue inhaler: "Sounds like you have exercise induce asthma". This based on no physical exam, or anything beyond that email.

And so things clicked along as I trained hard for The Canyons 100k. The issue was very hard to track or anticipate and I really couldn't tell whether the inhaler helped or not (note: I was also never told how to use the damn thing!!).

I made it through training with some odd but not alarming episodes.  Except for one run, out on the trails where I had to walk for about 3 miles to get things to settle down (that was a first and a bit scary because I was a bit far out for my own comfort), things were manageable. I ran through snow, and ice, and wind, up and down mountains, day after day. My aim for that cycle was to get 12,000-15,000 feet of gain per week, which, I learned, is damn hard during the winter!

I ran Behind the Rocks 50k in Moab: zero breathing issues
I made it through the monsoon of Boston 2018. No coughing. No issues.
Twelve days later I lined up for The Canyons 100k. It's a pretty tough course, with 15,000+ feet of gain and 15,000+ feet of loss. 
And, it kind of scared the shit out of me. I did have some breathing issues, but I managed them and finished the race with the time I needed for my 4th WSER qualifier.

After that I tried to recover so that I would be ready for Leadville 100 training. Did I allow myself enough recovery time? Probably not. I realize, in retrospect, that I was a bit burned out post-Canyons. This would bite me in the ass come July when I really needed to train and just didn't want to.

Go-go-go. Do-do-do.

Life is busy. Work is always there. Family demands are always there - And that right there should be a red flag: family "demands".  In some cases, concerning my not immediate family (mother) the demands are high and thankless. It can drain you dry. Just recently I did the math and realized that for the past 12 years, since my father passed, this has been a major source of uncontrollable stress that causes sleepless nights and anxiety. But what get's lost in the mix of all those "musts" are the things that bring one joy. Going for a hike with my daughter while not being barraged by my buzzing phone in my pocket. Watching a movie at night without people constantly pinging me  - needing me. Always needing me.

A Red Flag Waving: Three weeks ago I sit on the boardwalk at Mission beach, enjoying the biggest soft serve cone on the planet.

We are flying home that afternoon but I am still technically "on vacation". As I sit there enjoying the sights and sounds of the beach, and the warm sun shining on my winter starved skin, my phone keeps buzzing me. I glance at it from time to time. At some point , disgusted, I placed it face down on the step next me. We then get up, hit the arcade one last time, where my daughter finally wins that elusive stuffie from a claw machine on her first try (Yeesh. The trip is now a success :P  ). We return to the car, and head off to a used bookstore before a last museum stop and then the airport. Well, at some point I realize that I do not have my phone. I can't remember where I last had it, and honestly, I've never lost it before (and I travel a lot!). I keep seeing myself slap in, face down, on that concrete step. So, we make our way back to the beach. I have everything on that damn phone so losing it, while not the end of the world, would be a major pain in the tuckus. The phone is not where I left it. Uggggg. I ask at the ice cream stand if someone, by any chance, turned in a phone. The two young women looked at me oddly, then one says, "What does it look like?" Sure enough, they have it. I thank them emphatically. So grateful - but losing it also makes me aware of just how much I am tied to it, and how much stress that relationship-of-sorts costs me every waking hour.

I need to make a change.

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So, being driven and focused is great. Going after your goals and dreams, is commendable. Living a good life, however, is not just about all the doing-ness in it. It's not all about the accomplishments and the badassery that so many admire and try to emulate.

Sometimes it is better to do less than more.
Sometimes doing less is more.
Sometimes slow is better than fast.

Sometimes doing absolutely nothing, which is something, is better than doing anything else.

So, one way to manage stress, for me, is to run - to be out in nature, by myself, thinking through things and having the mental and physical space I need. This has been my go-to for decades. But when running also becomes a stress, something is seriously out of whack with the Zeitgiest.

So here enters the other insidious side of the "play hard, live large, and party happy along the way" culture I find myself immersed in: Drinking culture.

I've watched, observed, followed, and analyzed the curious juxtaposition of running and drinking (completely unscientific observations over time). It seems that the running population tends to weigh heavily on the hearty drinking side of the scale. We have 'beer runs'. We have 'beer miles'. We have beer after races even if it's only 10 in the morning. We have beer after long training runs. Most running social occasions and most races involve beer. We 'reward' ourselves with a drink. We deserve it. We read all the 'research' that backs up our view that beer (or wine, or pick your drink of choice) is good for us, always in moderation though. That's what we say. We share articles on FB proving that alcohol is in fact (it's a FACT, really!!) not only okay but good. And we cheer on the guy running 100 miles chugging a beer at every aid station.

Running and beer. Beer and running. They seem to just go together.

Group runs end at pubs.
Races end with beer.
Long training days - yeah, more beer.
A stressful day: God, I just need a glass of wine or a beer.
A good day: Have a beer to celebrate...etc.

We share the jokes:

And laugh it off. We share it all over the interwebs. Our friends cheer and chuckle. We encourage each other.

And one day becomes the next. It's just a glass here, and there, and then again, why not tonight - and, uggg, that call with mom has me ready to scream... I want to shut out the world and relax, for just a couple hours. Turn off my damn brain. Stop the stress.

The ultrarunning community tends to come down on two very opposite ends of the drinking spectrum: Those who are "sober" (usually former addicts) who have channeled their addictive personalities into running, and those who proudly share their excesses in both drinking and running. They "run to drink".  Most live upstanding lives - work, family, hard running, etc.  A lot of us believe that running allows us to  get away with sins that would kill our sedentary friends.

Well, it ain't so. 

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A Cautionary Tale: Where is this all taking me? Well, it has, I believe, taken me to a very scary place. A place I would love to help others avoid. If I can share my story, maybe it will help wake others up before it happens to them.

Last week, as I fought off the flu, I had to go in for an echocardiogram to rule out a cardiac cause for my ongoing coughing issues. Note: I am pretty functional. I ran a 100 miles in brutal conditions (with a PR) in November with minimal coughing. I've been training for the Black Canyon 100k since the end of November (again, was that adequate recovery???. Probably not!). I've had a couple pulmonary function tests and they have shown nothing. Well, the echo results, as the terrifying email reported, were "not good" per my doctor: "reduced cardiac function". This is called "heart failure". Yes. Heart fucking failure. Now, to be honest, that sounds a lot worse than it is, at least for now, but it is very serious stuff! It's also given the general name "cardiomyopathy". Google that and you will start to shake and cry and nash your teeth at the curses that the gods have bestowed on you. Your life will change in an instant and none of it will make any sense. You do not experience shortness of breath and decreases exercise tolerance. You do not experience leg and foot swelling. You do not experience any of the symptoms of heart failure, and yet...here you are. The organ you both value above all others and the organ you take for granted day in and day out, is not doing well. You receive the most jarring and unwelcome wake up call you can fathom.

The question is: Will this be what I need to save my own life? Or is it too late? Or, is this just bad luck and it's all out of my control?

There is such a thing are cardiac fatigue, but this is still a subject of much speculation. I do not have "athlete's heart". That could be good or bad. Who knows yet. But I am convinced that stress is killing me - I remember screaming this at my mother a year ago. She dismissed it as histrionics. I'm done with that. I'm a worrier - I need to learn how to let things go - that's in progress. AND I have been "self-medicating" via alcohol. I don't drink a lot, but it's too much. I've known this for a while but when you are entirely functional and dealing with life, it's easy to keep dismissing that little voice saying that something isn't right here. The truth is that "moderate" drinking, especially for women, amounts to much less than most actually drink. For a woman, cardiac alcohol toxicity is shockingly low. One pint of IPA (usually a higher alcohol %) is about a third to a half of a small woman's weekly allotment in the "moderate" zone.

Obviously we all need to make these choices for ourselves. It never occurred to me that I might be killing myself with my seemingly moderate consumption. My increasing reliance on it for "relaxation" was actually the most concerning for me - but had I looked a little deeper, I would have probably listened to that little voice sooner.

So, I still have many tests ahead of me. I had to pull out of Black Canyon 100k since the chance of dying right now is a bit high on the risk scale for me, and for now my running future is very up in the air, never mind my very life. I am still allowed to run. But I am choosing to take some non-structured time. If I feel like running, I run. I run as far as I want to, up to 10 miles which my doctor agrees is okay "for me". I am letting things go, or trying to. I am setting boundaries at work. I am trying to re-cultivate some of the things I enjoy that I've missed through all my driven busy-ness these past ten years. And, I have decided to stop drinking completely for some time to come. Perhaps for good. I don't know yet. 

I pray that my heart can be healed, can recover, and that I can return to the running I love. Our heart is the most important muscle in our body, and yet we treat our quads and hamstrings with much greater regard and concern and care. We feel them. When they are sore we rub them and rest them. But we don't feel the soreness in our hearts - we don't give them massages and warm baths. When we sleep, our hearts keep working. They never stop, until they do. Only then are they noticed.

I am sharing this only because I feel that I am not so unusual. I am like so many out there. We rarely learn from the experiences of others, but perhaps someone out there, who feels as I do, or did, will take heart and change course before it's too late.

Time will tell how this goes. My number one desire it to stay alive for as long as possible for my daughter. If it weren't for her, I believe I would feel differently about things.

To be continued - I hope...

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.

********************************************

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.

*************************

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.

********************************

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...

***********************************

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