Burning River: A Love Story in Three Parts (2009)
Last year, it was about breezes and watermelon. This year it was about mud, perseverance, Galileo, and the Velveteen Rabbit. Don't try to figure it out. Just gear up for one of Star's long emails and trust that it's makes sense at the end.
So yeah, I had some goals going in. Some of those goals were quite reasonable. Some of those goals were partly for the wrong reasons. Luckily, by race day, I had been talked out of the goals for the wrong reasons by some very good friends and had my head on straight.I wanted to break 22 hours. Badly. It meant shaving 1:15 off last year's time. I knew that I lost over 30 minutes last year to "excessive time spent at aid stations." I was hoping that experience, and a strong spring and summer on the trails, would account for the other 45 minutes. After all, Burning River 2008 was only the sixth time I had ever run on trails. I planned. I warned Robin that I loved her but that I was going to move through most of the aid stations fast. Last year, I stood around and gabbed at aid stations when I needed to get in heavy calories; this year, I had pre-packaged plastic baggies that contained sandwich and chips or cookies and chips, and I took the bags on the road with me, eating on the uphills. I had a couple of empty baggies with me for non-crew aid stations; I would fill them up with grapes or watermelon and get out. I can't tell you how many aid station volunteers I amused when I would pull a watermelon rind out of my sports bra. It's trails - leave no trace and carry it out. And the truth is, after I ate the watermelon, the rind was still really cold and felt really good in my shirt in the heat of the day. Weird, but whatever works. (I guess there always is a story about watermelon with me.)
Race morning dawned with a slight chill that didn't last, and for me, nausea and a misbehaved hamstring. We'll credit the nausea to the 2:30 am wake-up call, and the achy hamstring to the drive up.
Darris did it!!! He conserved! He went out slow! He ran with the entire first 12 miles with me, exactly as planned! He went to the bathroom 7 times and I tried to be upbeat while also trying to figure out how I was going to run this thing with a sour stomach and a hamstring gone bad at mile 6.
Darris left me. We got onto the trail. I took a wrong step into a bit of grass divet, and like magic, the hamstring popped into place. One down, one to go. I spent the next 5 miles reminding myself to go excruciatingly, painfully slow, and hit the third aid station 16 minutes up on plan. Naughty. I got some grapes and did a little margarita salt. Ten minutes later, the nausea was gone. I reminded myself to go even slower. I came upon Dave, a cool cat we've run with at Mohican several times, who looks at me says "Are you out too fast, or am I really that slow today?"
Wow. We've had our laughs about it since, but how does one take that?
Well, I decided to take it as a warning. I got to the fourth aid station a total of 21 minutes up, an improvement over my previous attempt, but still moving too fast ahead of the plan. I went to a run/walk ratio of 3:1. It was excruciating. I HATE run/walk. I don't have a problem with others doing it, I just don't enjoy it. I hate watching my watch, and I hate starting to run again. But I also hate falling apart in races, and I was going too fast. I would not be up much more than that same 21 minutes for the next 50 miles.
The Towpath going into Station Road Bridge (miles 34 and 40) was hot, and I felt like I was taking a beating on the road sections. I had the time, so I walked most of the Towpath itself, and ran the Carriage Loop section, which is a great 3.5 mile loop of trail. Miles 40 - 53 are good, hilly trail, so I was able to ease off the run/walk and go to more standard trail running and simply walk the zero-gravity hills. I spent a great couple of loops with Katie, a cool girl from Atlanta, but lost her at an aid station. I really wanted to wait for her company, but I had to go. I got to mile 53 feeling mentally and physically better than I had all day.
On the Brandywine Loop, I had the pleasure of meeting Jenny Chow and Nathan Echols. Jenny and Nathan turn 100 milers over like we do marathons, with Jenny either winning or going top 3 in most of them. Jenny immediately radiated the warmth and energy that ultrarunners are famous for, and she and Nathan could not have been more gracious in dealing with my rookie questions about different courses, recovery, training, etc. Perhaps that was because Nathan mentioned how cool it was that my father and I both ran ultras ... when of course, the "father" he was referring to was Darris. Hey, it happens.
But on to the fun parts. I. FEEL. GREAT. I am up exactly 30 minutes, now heading into mile 70, where I pick up my pacer and have company for the rest of the night. I was due to enter the Happy Days aid station between 7:21 and 7:51 pm. I enter at 7:18 pm. I am tired, but mentally sound. Haven't taken any ibuprofen yet and still able to hold off. Most of all, I was excited to finally have some company, as this year, I had run the majority of the race alone.
Happy Days was a huge high. For me, that's the end of the first part of the race. Getting to Happy Days in good shape and on target boded extremely well for me. I had followed my plan to the letter. I did not get greedy with time, even though I felt, for the majority of the day, that I could go faster. I let women pass me throughout the day and didn't let myself freak out about it. I ate what I was supposed to eat when I was supposed to eat it whether I wanted to or not. I was ready to race this thing in.
Pine Hollow was next at 75. Pine Hollow is where I fell apart last year. I crashed hard, and George did a masterful job of pulling me out of it, kicking and screaming the whole way. (Me, not George.) This was different. It seemed like I felt stronger every step. So strong, in fact, that I had to keep reminding Bret to slow me down. Last year, I took myfirst ibuprofen here. This year, I pushed it off again to Covered Bridge.
Here's how it was going to go down from there. The stretch from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge is a longer, tougher one. Once you get to Covered Bridge, you do a treacherous, hellacious loop on a horse trail, where you get bathed in a mixture of mud and horse shit while climbing some of the steepest hills on the course. Except for that part, the Perkins Loop is short (only about 4.4 miles), and actually quite runnable. We were going to take it really easy from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge. I had built in extra time for the Perkins Loop, because the condition of the trail can severely impact the pace, and we were going to chill on that where we needed to and run what was runnable. I was going to take my ibuprofen at the start of the loop to give it time to kick in for the last 15 miles. The last 15 miles are about 7 road and 6 trail and I was going to race the sucker in. With the time I already had in the bank, plus the fact that I felt strong and knew I had heavily padded the back end of my pace chart, I was shooting for 21:15. I was on pace for 21:29, firmly breaking my 22 hour goal.
And that stretch from Pine Hollow to the Covered Bridge is where we took the wrong turn.
The first three miles were uneventful but for the onset of "sleepy Star." Sleepy Star likes to run with her eyes closed and think about naps in the grass. Sleepy Star let Bret know that we were going to need to keep her caffeinated (and salted) for the remainder of the race. We hit the Wetmore trail parking lot and turned left - yes, boys and girls, those were bike trail arrows on the ground, NOT lime course markings. (Lime is like chalk, also white.) Sleepy Star remembered that there were some road sections coming, but Shakespeare also says, "know thyself." I am not good with directions; I am not good with landmarks. I don't remember well where I've been before, especially after running 77 miles and being in dire need of caffeine. We had four tasks at Covered Bridge that we kept repeating: coffee, donut, ibuprofen, rocks out of shoes. Coffee, donut, ibuprofen, rocks out of shoes. Up the hill we went; the hill that I had confused with the one that comes directly AFTER Covered Bridge, not before. At about 7 minutes, Bret remarks that there are no course markings. He asks me if this looks familiar. Okay, know thyself. I NEVER know if it looks familiar. Ever. It is simply not a strength of mine. I don't know if it looks familiar in the daylight. When I haven't been up since 2:30 am. When I haven't run 77 miles. When I'm not in dire need of caffeine. When I'm not laser-focused on coffee. Donut. Ibuprofen. Rocks out of shoes.
At ten minutes, I decide we need to turn around. This is a cardinal rule of ultrarunning. No course marking for ten minutes, turn around. Return to last marking. Reassess. It's okay, I think. Even if we are off course, I was 30 minutes up going in; I've only lost 20. My eyes are heavy but my legs are not. Bret reminds me that we went the only way we could. There have been no pie plates, no arrows, no lime. We're wasting so much time to go back, he says. It's such a risk. I vaguely recall a section of the Buckeye Trail that is on road where the telephone poles and trees are marked. I want him to be right. I don't want to be off course. I'm tired and easily convinced. I should have said more. I should have said that even if it was a risk, it was my race, and I wanted to turn back. I didn't.
Ultrarunners have pacers for a lot of reasons. Company. An extra set of eyes in the dark. A push to keep you honest when you're just wimping out. To make the decisions that you're too tired and ragged to make. Between the two of us, one of us should have seen the correct course marking, even though the pie plate had been turned around at a vertical angle. But as the runner, the one who knows the rules, I still should have turned back. The last 40 minutes of this detour were my fault, and a that's hard pill to swallow. I can wax poetical about how tired I was; how bad I am with directions; how much I missed the reflective streamers in the trees this year; how much I wish there had been a straight lime arrow pointing across the street - but I should have spoken up. More. More often. Louder and more insistently. I didn't. Don't just know thyself; trust thy inner voice.
It's a long story from there. Blessedly, someone who had volunteered earlier in the day saw us, alerted us that we were off course, and had a cell phone. We reached who we needed to reach and I got the dreaded news - 3 miles off course; no stake out; no rides; no cutting the course to the aid station since I would still have the right number of miles. The only way to avoid a disqualifier was to run those 3 miles back to the point of departure and pick up the original course.
In that moment, I felt nothing but the most exquisitely painful silence. I had executed the perfect race. I had been getting stronger by the minute. I was well on target to exceed my finish time goal. I had been METHODICAL. And in that moment, it all did that "poofy" thing where it goes up in smoke.
Because there were other goals. Those other goals that I had been talked out of had been becoming more and more realistic. You see, I finished in fifth place last year. And while my first goal was to finish healthy, and my "B" goal was to break 22 hours, I really, really wanted to improve my finish place. I wanted to finish higher. But why I wanted to finish higher was what was wrong.
I am blessed to have some pretty amazing runners in my life to look up to. My own husband is a talent to be reckoned with; my brother-in-law a well respected masters runner; and the guys they run around and train with have generally showered, napped and eaten before I get to the finish line. And I'm good. I know I'm "good." But I felt this inexplicable need to prove something to them. To make them proud. To make them know how tough I am, that I take this pretty seriously too, that I'm a girl who can suck it up without whining and that's going to push it as far as it goes. Yeah, I wanted to move up a couple places. I wanted to go top three.
But the women's field this year was stacked. Amazing women. Names that won't mean anything to most reading this, but Connie Gardner. Dawn Malone, who busted out a win on her FIRST hundred. Michelle Bischel. Jenny Chow. Some tough masters women and some other hard core girls from Ontario. Days before the race, I got put in my place by my friend Chris, who reminded me that a top three finish in a "gimme" field was NOT the same as busting out the race of my life and finishing lower in a stronger field. He reminded me that people are more impressed by how you run your race than where you finish it. I would have a few hours to think about how I was going to run my race after that detour.
We made it to Covered Bridge. When we reached Covered Bridge, I had gone from a 21:29 projected finish to a little over a 23 hours finish. We had added over 6 miles and over an hour to my time. Word travels quickly. My crew and the volunteers were on me like ants on that donut I had been waiting for. Robin was first; then my friend Tanya, the head of the Covered Bridge aid station. Both were like a balm for my soul, and though I have little memory of that first time through the station, I know that I was a mangled mess of nerves and emotion. I knew I could blow it off at that point. My total race distance was going to be 107.2 miles if I went on to the finish. I knew I could loaf and piss and moan and pretty much walk it in and still break 24 - a hell of a performance for a 100 mile trail run, let alone 107 - but who really cared? My feet had been wet all day, despite several sock changes, and had deep fissures and hurt like a bitch. The adrenaline rush of being lost and getting back was gone. And that's when I found out what kind of ultrarunner I really am. Because the problem - the amazingly wonderful problem - was that I still cared. I REALLY still cared.
All those thoughts happened in a split second. Robin was first; then my friend Tanya. Tanya asked me what I needed first. And now I started speaking up. I told her that I needed her to tell me that I could still do this. And she hugged my disgusting, wet, smelly little body and told me I WOULD still do this, and I would do it well. Everyone jumped into action. Within five minutes of Bret and I finally getting to Covered Bridge, I had eaten the donut, drank a stranger's coffee (another story, another time, when in Rome), changed my socks, and got my ass back on the trail for what is often the toughest loop of the course. Yes, I forgot the ibuprofen, but an aid station volunteer chased us down with it. Bless all volunteers.
I killed that muddy horseshitty loop. It was so damn muddy that at one point, I was out of BOTH shoes and Bret and I were engaged in some bizarre muddy game of Twister to get them back on. That loop was more relentless than ever. There is nothing like repeatedly shoving a blistered foot back into a tight shoe. But it was no longer a match for me. Darris and Damon had left me a message in lime. I knew I had everything I needed.
We got back to Covered Bridge. Tanya gave me more socks since I was out. You will never know a community like ultrarunners. Rob Powell, who introduced Darris and I to our now beloved Mohican trails, decided I was dawdling. I have heard from Michelle what Rob can be like when he sees a runner start acting stupid. "Can you eat that on the trail?" he asked, while pretty much forcing my shoes back on me. I don't think my first response was to his liking, because he said something along the lines of "suck it down" and I knew I better getting moving. Off we went. Covered Bridge to O'Neil Woods; O'Neil Woods to Merriman; Merriman to Memorial. Robin, Letha, Bob and Grant were relentless, moving almost as fast as I was in their cars to keep up with me. I ran every single aching, rocky, rooted, muddy, pounding, painful STEP from that point on. My feet were on fire, my heart was breaking, and I was actually a little worried about Bret, because there was this sneaky voice in my head telling me that he might not have run more than 31 miles before, and he was going to end up doing 37 that night, and I was working on adrenaline and really moving. I checked on him. It was okay. I was so grateful for the company, the fall of footsteps behind me, the not being alone with it all. What happened and how we got there didn't matter - he was there, a soldier with me and for my cause, rooting me on in spite of going on a pretty unexpected run of his own. I think I might have put the "fast forward" on him, and if I did, he was a hell of a trooper. When the downpour started on the Towpath, I looked down at my watch. 21:09. Pretty damn close to what I think could have happened that night. But coincidences are just our way of making sense of the senseless. Damon stood there, in the pouring rain, having come back to check on me after finishing with Darris. He didn't care what place I was in. Bret told me we had a mile to go on the Towpath. I was sucking on fumes for air and literally running on empty. I made myself sing "Galileo" in my head twice. Without skipping or speeding up any of the lyrics. It's long been one of my "comfort" songs. The mile ended. Maria and her crew had ORANGE SODA. After a day of Coke and Mountain Dew, it was like discovering liquid crack for the first time. Bret told me that we were on track for 22:50 if we walked Glen's Trail as planned.
The last loop is notoriously sketchy. Glen's Trail starts the last 1.5 miles of the race. It's technical, rooty and rocky. And narrow. About 4 feet wide with about a 200 foot drop off into the Cuyahoga River. When I told Bret we were going to run it, he was skeptical at best. We ran it. And he pushed the hell out of me during the sprint down Front Street.
My goal had been to break 22. After the detour, with roughy 18 miles to go, I was an hour over that goal. I got 27 of those minutes back, finishing in 22:33. It was not the race I planned, but on that day, it was the race I ran. And in those last 18 miles, I ran the life out of myself.
That's where we go back to those split second thoughts at Covered Bridge. I had to make a decision, and I had to make it fast, and I had to commit to it beyond the shadow of a doubt when I was mentally and emotionally destroyed. And in that moment, and in all of the moments that have followed, I have been struck not by my strength, but by my grace. I allowed myself one moment of doubt. ONE. I asked Tanya to tell me that I could still do this. Though I knew it, I had to hear it. After that, it was done. There was no time for anger, pity, sob stories, why me's, or should've, would've, could've. I not only had to keep running; I had to run fast. I had to salvage that part of me and that part of my race that was left. Instead of feeling there no reason to keep going, I knew there was every race to keep going. And at 21:09, it rained and I sang an old song in my head that's pulled me through worse than going off course at a 100 miler.
For 77 miles, I ran the race of my life. For 6 miles, I ran the wrong race. And for 18 miles after that, I ran my heart and soul out. I ran out the grief and the frustration, the maybe-I'm-not-good-enough-and-strong-enough-and-fast-enoughs. I ran out every step of every training run, every nagging ache and pain, every 100 mile week I've ended as a zombie, every breathless hill climb, every bit of searing lactic acid on the bike, every lesson I've taught by ultrarunners and every lesson I've tried to share. I didn't have an inch to give, and fate, faith and providence had collided to ensure that I had just enough left in my legs and heart (some lent by others in that dark night) to do what had to be done. As I started slurring my words up Uhler Street and forcing down that last disgusting gel, I remembered, dimly, one of my graduate classes in Early American Literature and that the Calvinists had some definition of "perseverance" that had something to do with grace. I've since looked it up. The definition is "to continue forward in grace." I pray that is how I did what I did; gracefully, with a spirit of acceptance, and free of ego, pride or blame.
I learned on Sunday morning that I finished fourth woman. I also learned that without our detour, I would have been second. It is a coincidence, of course, that I learned this when it no longer carried any meaning for me. I spent a couple of weeks thinking that the clock and a finishing rank would define my race. Ultimately, neither the clock nor the rank reflected the race I truly ran, and the lesson is far more priceless than the time or the place might ever be. I have always held myself to higher standards than I would ever hold others; not only did I live up to them, I redefined what they mean to me - and what they mean about me.
I've only been on the trails for a year and a half, and they teach me over and over again. I'm not so far advanced a human that I haven't teared up a couple of times, or gotten stuck in that moment with the lime a couple of times. But I'm good. I'm really good. I'm so damn good that I pulled out "The Velveteen Rabbit" today. It's paraphrased a little bit. If you don't know the story, it's about an old beat up stuffed animal learning a lifelesson. I know, a little weird. But trust me on it.
*******
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day. "Does it mean having things thatbuzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you.
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly,except to people who don't understand."
***********
I ran the race of my life on Saturday. Thanks for being the people in my life that understand.
So yeah, I had some goals going in. Some of those goals were quite reasonable. Some of those goals were partly for the wrong reasons. Luckily, by race day, I had been talked out of the goals for the wrong reasons by some very good friends and had my head on straight.I wanted to break 22 hours. Badly. It meant shaving 1:15 off last year's time. I knew that I lost over 30 minutes last year to "excessive time spent at aid stations." I was hoping that experience, and a strong spring and summer on the trails, would account for the other 45 minutes. After all, Burning River 2008 was only the sixth time I had ever run on trails. I planned. I warned Robin that I loved her but that I was going to move through most of the aid stations fast. Last year, I stood around and gabbed at aid stations when I needed to get in heavy calories; this year, I had pre-packaged plastic baggies that contained sandwich and chips or cookies and chips, and I took the bags on the road with me, eating on the uphills. I had a couple of empty baggies with me for non-crew aid stations; I would fill them up with grapes or watermelon and get out. I can't tell you how many aid station volunteers I amused when I would pull a watermelon rind out of my sports bra. It's trails - leave no trace and carry it out. And the truth is, after I ate the watermelon, the rind was still really cold and felt really good in my shirt in the heat of the day. Weird, but whatever works. (I guess there always is a story about watermelon with me.)
Race morning dawned with a slight chill that didn't last, and for me, nausea and a misbehaved hamstring. We'll credit the nausea to the 2:30 am wake-up call, and the achy hamstring to the drive up.
Darris did it!!! He conserved! He went out slow! He ran with the entire first 12 miles with me, exactly as planned! He went to the bathroom 7 times and I tried to be upbeat while also trying to figure out how I was going to run this thing with a sour stomach and a hamstring gone bad at mile 6.
Darris left me. We got onto the trail. I took a wrong step into a bit of grass divet, and like magic, the hamstring popped into place. One down, one to go. I spent the next 5 miles reminding myself to go excruciatingly, painfully slow, and hit the third aid station 16 minutes up on plan. Naughty. I got some grapes and did a little margarita salt. Ten minutes later, the nausea was gone. I reminded myself to go even slower. I came upon Dave, a cool cat we've run with at Mohican several times, who looks at me says "Are you out too fast, or am I really that slow today?"
Wow. We've had our laughs about it since, but how does one take that?
Well, I decided to take it as a warning. I got to the fourth aid station a total of 21 minutes up, an improvement over my previous attempt, but still moving too fast ahead of the plan. I went to a run/walk ratio of 3:1. It was excruciating. I HATE run/walk. I don't have a problem with others doing it, I just don't enjoy it. I hate watching my watch, and I hate starting to run again. But I also hate falling apart in races, and I was going too fast. I would not be up much more than that same 21 minutes for the next 50 miles.
The Towpath going into Station Road Bridge (miles 34 and 40) was hot, and I felt like I was taking a beating on the road sections. I had the time, so I walked most of the Towpath itself, and ran the Carriage Loop section, which is a great 3.5 mile loop of trail. Miles 40 - 53 are good, hilly trail, so I was able to ease off the run/walk and go to more standard trail running and simply walk the zero-gravity hills. I spent a great couple of loops with Katie, a cool girl from Atlanta, but lost her at an aid station. I really wanted to wait for her company, but I had to go. I got to mile 53 feeling mentally and physically better than I had all day.
On the Brandywine Loop, I had the pleasure of meeting Jenny Chow and Nathan Echols. Jenny and Nathan turn 100 milers over like we do marathons, with Jenny either winning or going top 3 in most of them. Jenny immediately radiated the warmth and energy that ultrarunners are famous for, and she and Nathan could not have been more gracious in dealing with my rookie questions about different courses, recovery, training, etc. Perhaps that was because Nathan mentioned how cool it was that my father and I both ran ultras ... when of course, the "father" he was referring to was Darris. Hey, it happens.
But on to the fun parts. I. FEEL. GREAT. I am up exactly 30 minutes, now heading into mile 70, where I pick up my pacer and have company for the rest of the night. I was due to enter the Happy Days aid station between 7:21 and 7:51 pm. I enter at 7:18 pm. I am tired, but mentally sound. Haven't taken any ibuprofen yet and still able to hold off. Most of all, I was excited to finally have some company, as this year, I had run the majority of the race alone.
Happy Days was a huge high. For me, that's the end of the first part of the race. Getting to Happy Days in good shape and on target boded extremely well for me. I had followed my plan to the letter. I did not get greedy with time, even though I felt, for the majority of the day, that I could go faster. I let women pass me throughout the day and didn't let myself freak out about it. I ate what I was supposed to eat when I was supposed to eat it whether I wanted to or not. I was ready to race this thing in.
Pine Hollow was next at 75. Pine Hollow is where I fell apart last year. I crashed hard, and George did a masterful job of pulling me out of it, kicking and screaming the whole way. (Me, not George.) This was different. It seemed like I felt stronger every step. So strong, in fact, that I had to keep reminding Bret to slow me down. Last year, I took myfirst ibuprofen here. This year, I pushed it off again to Covered Bridge.
Here's how it was going to go down from there. The stretch from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge is a longer, tougher one. Once you get to Covered Bridge, you do a treacherous, hellacious loop on a horse trail, where you get bathed in a mixture of mud and horse shit while climbing some of the steepest hills on the course. Except for that part, the Perkins Loop is short (only about 4.4 miles), and actually quite runnable. We were going to take it really easy from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge. I had built in extra time for the Perkins Loop, because the condition of the trail can severely impact the pace, and we were going to chill on that where we needed to and run what was runnable. I was going to take my ibuprofen at the start of the loop to give it time to kick in for the last 15 miles. The last 15 miles are about 7 road and 6 trail and I was going to race the sucker in. With the time I already had in the bank, plus the fact that I felt strong and knew I had heavily padded the back end of my pace chart, I was shooting for 21:15. I was on pace for 21:29, firmly breaking my 22 hour goal.
And that stretch from Pine Hollow to the Covered Bridge is where we took the wrong turn.
The first three miles were uneventful but for the onset of "sleepy Star." Sleepy Star likes to run with her eyes closed and think about naps in the grass. Sleepy Star let Bret know that we were going to need to keep her caffeinated (and salted) for the remainder of the race. We hit the Wetmore trail parking lot and turned left - yes, boys and girls, those were bike trail arrows on the ground, NOT lime course markings. (Lime is like chalk, also white.) Sleepy Star remembered that there were some road sections coming, but Shakespeare also says, "know thyself." I am not good with directions; I am not good with landmarks. I don't remember well where I've been before, especially after running 77 miles and being in dire need of caffeine. We had four tasks at Covered Bridge that we kept repeating: coffee, donut, ibuprofen, rocks out of shoes. Coffee, donut, ibuprofen, rocks out of shoes. Up the hill we went; the hill that I had confused with the one that comes directly AFTER Covered Bridge, not before. At about 7 minutes, Bret remarks that there are no course markings. He asks me if this looks familiar. Okay, know thyself. I NEVER know if it looks familiar. Ever. It is simply not a strength of mine. I don't know if it looks familiar in the daylight. When I haven't been up since 2:30 am. When I haven't run 77 miles. When I'm not in dire need of caffeine. When I'm not laser-focused on coffee. Donut. Ibuprofen. Rocks out of shoes.
At ten minutes, I decide we need to turn around. This is a cardinal rule of ultrarunning. No course marking for ten minutes, turn around. Return to last marking. Reassess. It's okay, I think. Even if we are off course, I was 30 minutes up going in; I've only lost 20. My eyes are heavy but my legs are not. Bret reminds me that we went the only way we could. There have been no pie plates, no arrows, no lime. We're wasting so much time to go back, he says. It's such a risk. I vaguely recall a section of the Buckeye Trail that is on road where the telephone poles and trees are marked. I want him to be right. I don't want to be off course. I'm tired and easily convinced. I should have said more. I should have said that even if it was a risk, it was my race, and I wanted to turn back. I didn't.
Ultrarunners have pacers for a lot of reasons. Company. An extra set of eyes in the dark. A push to keep you honest when you're just wimping out. To make the decisions that you're too tired and ragged to make. Between the two of us, one of us should have seen the correct course marking, even though the pie plate had been turned around at a vertical angle. But as the runner, the one who knows the rules, I still should have turned back. The last 40 minutes of this detour were my fault, and a that's hard pill to swallow. I can wax poetical about how tired I was; how bad I am with directions; how much I missed the reflective streamers in the trees this year; how much I wish there had been a straight lime arrow pointing across the street - but I should have spoken up. More. More often. Louder and more insistently. I didn't. Don't just know thyself; trust thy inner voice.
It's a long story from there. Blessedly, someone who had volunteered earlier in the day saw us, alerted us that we were off course, and had a cell phone. We reached who we needed to reach and I got the dreaded news - 3 miles off course; no stake out; no rides; no cutting the course to the aid station since I would still have the right number of miles. The only way to avoid a disqualifier was to run those 3 miles back to the point of departure and pick up the original course.
In that moment, I felt nothing but the most exquisitely painful silence. I had executed the perfect race. I had been getting stronger by the minute. I was well on target to exceed my finish time goal. I had been METHODICAL. And in that moment, it all did that "poofy" thing where it goes up in smoke.
Because there were other goals. Those other goals that I had been talked out of had been becoming more and more realistic. You see, I finished in fifth place last year. And while my first goal was to finish healthy, and my "B" goal was to break 22 hours, I really, really wanted to improve my finish place. I wanted to finish higher. But why I wanted to finish higher was what was wrong.
I am blessed to have some pretty amazing runners in my life to look up to. My own husband is a talent to be reckoned with; my brother-in-law a well respected masters runner; and the guys they run around and train with have generally showered, napped and eaten before I get to the finish line. And I'm good. I know I'm "good." But I felt this inexplicable need to prove something to them. To make them proud. To make them know how tough I am, that I take this pretty seriously too, that I'm a girl who can suck it up without whining and that's going to push it as far as it goes. Yeah, I wanted to move up a couple places. I wanted to go top three.
But the women's field this year was stacked. Amazing women. Names that won't mean anything to most reading this, but Connie Gardner. Dawn Malone, who busted out a win on her FIRST hundred. Michelle Bischel. Jenny Chow. Some tough masters women and some other hard core girls from Ontario. Days before the race, I got put in my place by my friend Chris, who reminded me that a top three finish in a "gimme" field was NOT the same as busting out the race of my life and finishing lower in a stronger field. He reminded me that people are more impressed by how you run your race than where you finish it. I would have a few hours to think about how I was going to run my race after that detour.
We made it to Covered Bridge. When we reached Covered Bridge, I had gone from a 21:29 projected finish to a little over a 23 hours finish. We had added over 6 miles and over an hour to my time. Word travels quickly. My crew and the volunteers were on me like ants on that donut I had been waiting for. Robin was first; then my friend Tanya, the head of the Covered Bridge aid station. Both were like a balm for my soul, and though I have little memory of that first time through the station, I know that I was a mangled mess of nerves and emotion. I knew I could blow it off at that point. My total race distance was going to be 107.2 miles if I went on to the finish. I knew I could loaf and piss and moan and pretty much walk it in and still break 24 - a hell of a performance for a 100 mile trail run, let alone 107 - but who really cared? My feet had been wet all day, despite several sock changes, and had deep fissures and hurt like a bitch. The adrenaline rush of being lost and getting back was gone. And that's when I found out what kind of ultrarunner I really am. Because the problem - the amazingly wonderful problem - was that I still cared. I REALLY still cared.
All those thoughts happened in a split second. Robin was first; then my friend Tanya. Tanya asked me what I needed first. And now I started speaking up. I told her that I needed her to tell me that I could still do this. And she hugged my disgusting, wet, smelly little body and told me I WOULD still do this, and I would do it well. Everyone jumped into action. Within five minutes of Bret and I finally getting to Covered Bridge, I had eaten the donut, drank a stranger's coffee (another story, another time, when in Rome), changed my socks, and got my ass back on the trail for what is often the toughest loop of the course. Yes, I forgot the ibuprofen, but an aid station volunteer chased us down with it. Bless all volunteers.
I killed that muddy horseshitty loop. It was so damn muddy that at one point, I was out of BOTH shoes and Bret and I were engaged in some bizarre muddy game of Twister to get them back on. That loop was more relentless than ever. There is nothing like repeatedly shoving a blistered foot back into a tight shoe. But it was no longer a match for me. Darris and Damon had left me a message in lime. I knew I had everything I needed.
We got back to Covered Bridge. Tanya gave me more socks since I was out. You will never know a community like ultrarunners. Rob Powell, who introduced Darris and I to our now beloved Mohican trails, decided I was dawdling. I have heard from Michelle what Rob can be like when he sees a runner start acting stupid. "Can you eat that on the trail?" he asked, while pretty much forcing my shoes back on me. I don't think my first response was to his liking, because he said something along the lines of "suck it down" and I knew I better getting moving. Off we went. Covered Bridge to O'Neil Woods; O'Neil Woods to Merriman; Merriman to Memorial. Robin, Letha, Bob and Grant were relentless, moving almost as fast as I was in their cars to keep up with me. I ran every single aching, rocky, rooted, muddy, pounding, painful STEP from that point on. My feet were on fire, my heart was breaking, and I was actually a little worried about Bret, because there was this sneaky voice in my head telling me that he might not have run more than 31 miles before, and he was going to end up doing 37 that night, and I was working on adrenaline and really moving. I checked on him. It was okay. I was so grateful for the company, the fall of footsteps behind me, the not being alone with it all. What happened and how we got there didn't matter - he was there, a soldier with me and for my cause, rooting me on in spite of going on a pretty unexpected run of his own. I think I might have put the "fast forward" on him, and if I did, he was a hell of a trooper. When the downpour started on the Towpath, I looked down at my watch. 21:09. Pretty damn close to what I think could have happened that night. But coincidences are just our way of making sense of the senseless. Damon stood there, in the pouring rain, having come back to check on me after finishing with Darris. He didn't care what place I was in. Bret told me we had a mile to go on the Towpath. I was sucking on fumes for air and literally running on empty. I made myself sing "Galileo" in my head twice. Without skipping or speeding up any of the lyrics. It's long been one of my "comfort" songs. The mile ended. Maria and her crew had ORANGE SODA. After a day of Coke and Mountain Dew, it was like discovering liquid crack for the first time. Bret told me that we were on track for 22:50 if we walked Glen's Trail as planned.
The last loop is notoriously sketchy. Glen's Trail starts the last 1.5 miles of the race. It's technical, rooty and rocky. And narrow. About 4 feet wide with about a 200 foot drop off into the Cuyahoga River. When I told Bret we were going to run it, he was skeptical at best. We ran it. And he pushed the hell out of me during the sprint down Front Street.
My goal had been to break 22. After the detour, with roughy 18 miles to go, I was an hour over that goal. I got 27 of those minutes back, finishing in 22:33. It was not the race I planned, but on that day, it was the race I ran. And in those last 18 miles, I ran the life out of myself.
That's where we go back to those split second thoughts at Covered Bridge. I had to make a decision, and I had to make it fast, and I had to commit to it beyond the shadow of a doubt when I was mentally and emotionally destroyed. And in that moment, and in all of the moments that have followed, I have been struck not by my strength, but by my grace. I allowed myself one moment of doubt. ONE. I asked Tanya to tell me that I could still do this. Though I knew it, I had to hear it. After that, it was done. There was no time for anger, pity, sob stories, why me's, or should've, would've, could've. I not only had to keep running; I had to run fast. I had to salvage that part of me and that part of my race that was left. Instead of feeling there no reason to keep going, I knew there was every race to keep going. And at 21:09, it rained and I sang an old song in my head that's pulled me through worse than going off course at a 100 miler.
For 77 miles, I ran the race of my life. For 6 miles, I ran the wrong race. And for 18 miles after that, I ran my heart and soul out. I ran out the grief and the frustration, the maybe-I'm-not-good-enough-and-strong-enough-and-fast-enoughs. I ran out every step of every training run, every nagging ache and pain, every 100 mile week I've ended as a zombie, every breathless hill climb, every bit of searing lactic acid on the bike, every lesson I've taught by ultrarunners and every lesson I've tried to share. I didn't have an inch to give, and fate, faith and providence had collided to ensure that I had just enough left in my legs and heart (some lent by others in that dark night) to do what had to be done. As I started slurring my words up Uhler Street and forcing down that last disgusting gel, I remembered, dimly, one of my graduate classes in Early American Literature and that the Calvinists had some definition of "perseverance" that had something to do with grace. I've since looked it up. The definition is "to continue forward in grace." I pray that is how I did what I did; gracefully, with a spirit of acceptance, and free of ego, pride or blame.
I learned on Sunday morning that I finished fourth woman. I also learned that without our detour, I would have been second. It is a coincidence, of course, that I learned this when it no longer carried any meaning for me. I spent a couple of weeks thinking that the clock and a finishing rank would define my race. Ultimately, neither the clock nor the rank reflected the race I truly ran, and the lesson is far more priceless than the time or the place might ever be. I have always held myself to higher standards than I would ever hold others; not only did I live up to them, I redefined what they mean to me - and what they mean about me.
I've only been on the trails for a year and a half, and they teach me over and over again. I'm not so far advanced a human that I haven't teared up a couple of times, or gotten stuck in that moment with the lime a couple of times. But I'm good. I'm really good. I'm so damn good that I pulled out "The Velveteen Rabbit" today. It's paraphrased a little bit. If you don't know the story, it's about an old beat up stuffed animal learning a lifelesson. I know, a little weird. But trust me on it.
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"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day. "Does it mean having things thatbuzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you.
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly,except to people who don't understand."
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I ran the race of my life on Saturday. Thanks for being the people in my life that understand.
Congrats! Great post, looked strong when you ran past me on the towpath.
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