Burning River 2011: This is Not a Love Song
I've always kind of had a love affair with Burning River. My emails and blogs about her read like love letters from the start. Even that first year, the year I unexpectedly paced Darris, she took my breath away. I thought she was crazy, cruel, brutal and insane; of course I couldn't wait to see her again.
Last year, the first year I had an "official" blog up and running, I posted my past three race reports that had gone out by email. I even called it "a love story in three parts." I then proceeded to add yet another lovingly crafted ode to her.
This is not a love song.
***
The morning was beautiful. I didn't miss either of the alarms. I was in bed at 8 and had slept reasonably from a little before 9 pm until the 2:45 am call. Jay and I connected in the lobby and headed to the buses. I had the pleasure of reconnecting with Alex Nemet on the ride over, who just happened to be in the seat across from me, and Jay and I shared some meaningless pre-race small talk. Yes, Jay, I realize it's "just running," but then again, how much is there to say when standing on the abyss of yet another 100 miles?
As we watched everyone mill about at the start at Squire's Castle, I was one of the first to declare that standing for an extra hour didn't make a lot of sense to me. Jay, Michelle, Michael and I set up shop on a piece of pavement and sat ourselves down. We cycled through bathroom breaks and last minute preparations (like me adjusting and re-pinning my race number 42 different times) before it was finally time to head to the field. Thankfully, I bumped into Courtney and Rachel at the very last minute and was able to spend a minute with each of them before the start.
I was so ready. And finally, finally, it was time. There was an official noise of some sort, and we were running through a dewy field.
***
It was warm and humid and the road stretch to Polo Field was so long.
It was warm and humid and I was sweating and glistening and plotting.
The women had taken off as soon as we hit the road, hoards of them. I knew I had a plan, a pace chart, a goal that had nothing to do with the first nine miles.
It was warm, but it was gray and foggy and dark. I began to wonder if it was going to be overcast. I began to wonder if this was as warm as it would get. I began to wonder what the race would look like if the fog didn't burn off; if it was humid but cool and I was just letting them all go.
Patience, grasshopper.
I reminded myself of what I saw at Buckeye Trail; reminded myself that there weren't so many people so much faster than me, just a lot of people who go out a lot faster than me.
But you're racing this year, I said. It's different this time.
Patience, I shouted at myself.
I settled into the thick fog and came upon Radames Colon, comfortably jogging the pace I needed to be at. We chatted amiably almost to the field, my beloved trails finally in sight.
I was about three minutes ahead of my pace chart; not perfect, but not egregious. I took my first gel on the crunching gravel path that led to the real trails.
And I took a huge, comforting, deep breath of the woods.
I sighed.
I took another deep, woodsy breath.
"Okay, baby," I said to her. "It's just you and me now."
The fog was thick and heavy and the sky still gray, but the temperature ... was manageable? It was! Maybe we wouldn't melt today after all. Maybe, just maybe, Mother Nature had decided to smile upon us. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't going to be a Badwater primer after all.
It was just me and the trails, and I was in heaven.
I was working the plan, and the plan was working for me.
I was getting to the aid stations just a little too early, reminding myself to slow down, that the real work came later.
I came upon a family hiking in the woods, and the father told the son that I was one of those people running 100 miles. He asked if I wouldn't get bored. Maybe you should sing 100 bottles of beer on the wall, he said.
I made it to 91, and decided that was way more boring.
I was actually trying to run alone, and kind of frustrated when I saw other runners. I didn't mind brief small talk, some pleasantries, a question or two about the course. But I was just so comfortable and happy and content being alone out there. Working the plan and watching it come together. Seeing it come together. Clockwork. It was just coming together like clockwork. A few twinges in a hamstring here or there, but otherwise, it was sheer perfection. It was happening. I couldn't believe, coming up to Alexander Road, that I was already closing in on the first 50K.
I had an actual pang of sadness that a third of Burning River day was already over.
It seemed as if I had merely blinked, and I was on the towpath stretch heading to Station Road Bridge. I felt amazing. I had a little time in the bank, and the sun had come out after all, so I allowed myself a couple of brief walk breaks, just to conserve.
That's when I saw it.
There was a bright blue cloudless sky, a gloriously bright yellow sun shining down. It was a few minutes before 11 am, and that thick fog was no more.
And I felt it, felt it on my shoulders, on the tip of my nose.
It was a little warm after all.
But no matter, I thought. I was dead on, ten minutes up on my pace chart at mile 33, feeling strong, inspired, centered and controlled. I was hungry for my first real food and ready for my first Coke. Not tired, but certainly ready for a nice sugar/caffeine combo punch after 33 miles.
Darris and Robin were there, cheering and prepared. I had been worried that Darris was too nervous about this whole thing to actually have a good time, and I had kind of called that one right. I could tell from the start how afraid he was he would "mess something up," and even though I was upbeat and trying to engage him in conversation and see how he was doing, he was hyperfocused. It was cute and sweet, but I felt so bad because I wanted him to have fun. I thought about how many times I tried to tell him that the world wouldn't stop and my race wouldn't end if we missed something or did something out of order. Robin focused on sponging me down, stuffing my food into my pockets, sending me on my way.
And that was kind of it.
I left feeling great, but I had overfilled the baggies and there was too much weight in my shirt. I stopped at the last trash bag leaving the aid station, got some volume out of the baggies, and finally got back into my rhythm.
I was really excited about the next part of the course, heading to the Ottawa checkpoint. I was about to run the Buckeye Trail 50K portion of the race, a section of trail I have run countless times and know like the back of my hand. It's familiar, comfortable, and a little bit challenging. I had given myself comfortable 12 minute miles; I was ready to settle in with a good friend and get my climb on. It was getting pretty hot on the road section heading out of Station Bridge, so I dipped into the margarita salt a couple of times to keep my electrolytes honest.
Ugh. Just like that, and I wasn't feeling the love.
I tried to feel sorry for myself for about 30 seconds, then did a reality check.
Star. You just ran 35 miles. You feel a little tired? Surprise, surprise.
Star. This is the exact same place you had your first crash at Umstead. Things turned out pretty damn well there, didn't they?
Star. You just ate your first solid food in six hours. Blood is going to your stomach. You feel a little sluggish? Hmmm, wonder why?
Star. Remember that cloudless blue sky and that bright yellow sun you noted recently? Ye-ah.
Quit your bitching, girl.
All the while running, remaining on pace, actually, hitting the split for that section on the money. Even passing a couple of women.
Time's up for that.
So after performing that quick little maintenance check on my attitude problem, I realized that there was only one real issue currently at play.
It was getting damn hot out there. And that whole theory that it's not quite as hot in the woods doesn't play quite as well when the humidity is busy wrapping itself around you like a blanket at the same time.
My heart rate was starting to spike a little, my legs were getting achy, and my turnover on the flats wasn't what it had been an hour ago.
I can't say I was struggling. But I certainly wasn't cruising anymore either.
I climbed, I pushed, I drank. I kept a mental eye on what was going on. I lost about a minute getting from Ottawa to Snowville, but I kept my game together. My mind flashed back to an email exchange with Jay earlier in the week.
"I'm ready to run a different race, but I'm glad to know I have the late-game talent in the bag if I need it ... survive the heat and then make a run for it around 7 pm ..."
Running, climbing, running.
Nick Billock, too, had put up a beautiful post about Burning River. My mind flashed back to the most moving part of that post, the words I had decided to carry with me.
"Though silence may be heard, voices scream inside. Control the conversation, grab it around its neck. These are your trails, this is your night."
Control the conversation.
Climbing, running, climbing.
STOP.
(Running, climbing, running).
Nothing is wrong, Star. You're on pace. You've passed three women since Station Bridge. It's just hot. You're okay. And if you lose a little here, you lose a little here. You knew this could happen. You had a plan. Plan the work, work the plan. Chill, relax, calm down.
Look, Star. I know you want top three. I know, I know. I know you want second. I know you want 19. I know, I know, I know.
But it's mile 46, Star. This temper tantrum has to stop.
Climbing, running, climbing.
"Miles 40 to 70 will be the hardest," Jay wrote ...
I took a deep, fragrant, woodsy breath. It was damp this time, thick with humidity, but still fragrant. Lush. Beautiful.
"It's just you and me," I said.
And we went back to having fun. I lovingly recalled sharing these trails with the boys last year, thought about Darris, Darrin, Adam and Steve, leaving their footprints there for me to find this year when I needed them most. I thought about Jay covering this ground hours before, about the fun I'd shared with Hope, Brandon and Melissa on these same trails just two short weeks ago. I hollered at the top of the Piano Keys; I looked at my watch and realized I would still be almost ten minutes up on my pace chart going in to Boston Store.
I was on Boston Mills Road, running hard. I had an unbelievable reception. It was the first time a whole crew of my friends from Columbus had come to see me, and the boost it gave me was so much greater than I had imagined. Darrin had a blue Arctic Freeze for me, and I spent thirty heavenly seconds freezing my throat and chugging like a mad woman. Darris, seemingly calmer now, handed off the oranges as my water bottle was filled, and I mentally prepared myself for towpath hell. There was little consolation in the Boston loop being shorter, as the road sections were intact.
I would be shocked to learn post-race that I was too fast on this section. If only I had known.
Because I was running USATF, there was no GPS option. I had been working harder to maintain 12:00 pace on the past two sections, so maintained that effort level on the loop. The cooling effect of the sponge down and the Arctic Freeze must have worked, as I averaged 11:35's for this loop at the same effort level.
But the problems were real now, and I wasn't just being a baby.
Out onto the exposed towpath for 1.5 miles before hitting the trail. I was getting fried like a piece of bacon. I had long ago lost sight of how much I was sweating; my entire outfit (what there was of it) had been soaked through since Polo Field. It wasn't about being wet; I was simply getting fried.
And a right hand turn onto a steep half mile climb on a tar covered road. Nary a tree. Nary a breeze. Heat radiating off of the pavement, baking my feet and calves. Heat beating down from above, frying my shoulders and nose. Heat. Just ... heat.
Off the road, onto the trail for the loop to the Stanford Hostel.
You could cut the humidity with a knife.
I knew I had solid food coming. I was not enthused.
Out of the trail, and into the field. Just another mile or so back to Boston.
Exposed. Hot. Sun.
System error.
This wasn't whining. This wasn't a temper tantrum. This time, things were getting a little blurry around the edges. My heartbeat went haywire. Not that controlled, working hard, pulsating heartbeat that I spend so much time with, but a scary, rapid, "I'm too hot, this is too much, I need you to stop," kind of thing. A "mommy, I really don't feel good" kind of thing.
This was a bit of a bigger problem. Actually, I was worried I was in a lot of trouble for a couple of minutes. And there was no way I was giving in.
I had a plan.
I ran back into Boston to cheering friends, volunteers and spectators. I had to find a way to let Darris and Robin know things were going a bit haywire, but I wasn't quite ready to set off alarms. Robin, who's crewed me for four years now, would later tell me she knew exactly how sick I was anyhow, because she had never seen me look like that before.
"Okay," I said, "so here's what's going on. I'm in control, I'm not in trouble, but I'm getting way too warm. We're going to slow everything down here. I'm taking about five minutes and we're going to find a way to get me cold."
I start chugging Coke. Then I see the Arctic Freeze. I chug that. This is part one of the routine.
I start sponging down my arms and chest with the sponges in the bucket of ice water.
Then I chug Coke. I chug Arctic Freeze. I chug Coke. I chug Arctic Freeze.
I look up and see Damon, Wendy and Katharine.
"You think I'm crazy?" I ask Katharine. She's being shy. She probably thinks Aunt Star is crazy.
I chug and chug and chug. I start stuffing my shirt with ice cubes.
Robin goes to work on the back. We're packing my shirt like I'm a human cooler.
I chug and chug and chug.
"You're still great on time, Star," Darrin says. "You've still got about six minutes."
I know exactly where those six minutes are about to go, but I stay upbeat for my friends.
It's been three and a half minutes.
I chug.
Darris starts taking my garbage, handing me my supplies, my turkey sandwich. Someone squeezes one last icy sponge over my shoulder blades and I start shivering.
"It worked!" I think. And I know it's time to go.
I thank the friends and take off down the path. Hoping. Praying. Gambling.
Hot. Exposed. Sun.
I would later learn that it was over 90 degrees for a good part of the afternoon.
I look at my watch. It's been less than two minutes. I'm dry as a bone and overheating. The rapid, erratic heartbeat starts up again and in that same split second, my stomach declares war.
"You fool," I think, suddenly realizing how much sugar I just pummeled myself with in four flat minutes.
I dart into the woods and lose my stomach.
I slow it all down again.
Star. Technically, you are not in trouble. You're overheated and you're nauseous. That's not game over, you just need to fix this. So how do we fix this?
I realize there is still cold ice in the front and back of my shirt. I am at an absolute loss. I am overheating like a cheap car engine with ice literally pressed to my chest.
If you were out there, you know the special kind of reward that comes from running in wet shorts for 12 hours. As several of us joked at the finish, it changes the landscape of things a bit.
The melting ice in the back of my shirt starts dribbling down my back. All the way down my back. Right. To. The. Chafing.
"Damn it!" I scream.
I am falling apart at the seams. I'm hot, I'm confused, I'm nauseous, I'm stinging in the goods and nothing is going my way.
And there is nothing in front of me but another mile plus of hot, exposed, burning towpath.
Control the conversation. Work the plan. Adapt and adjust. Cooperate.
"Honey," I say to myself. I take a quick glance to make sure no one is around and start talking to myself out loud.
"You have to get this under control. Time is not important right now. Forget the pace chart, forget 19 hours, just restore equilibrium."
I'm walking, and I'm cursing myself for it.
"Look. You're going to have to walk. If you don't walk now, you're just going to keep spiking your heart and you might not recover. You can't do that blurry vision again, that's not cool."
I'm walking, and I hate it.
"Look, this isn't a choice right now. If you want to finish this race, you're going to have to get yourself under control. If you can't handle walking, then just run back to Boston, because you're going to end up dropping somewhere if you don't get this fixed."
Someone's coming up behind me. Shit. I haven't gotten passed in ages.
"It's a hot one," he says.
I respond dejectedly.
"Yeah, I realized back there I'm just going to have to walk for awhile, wait for it to cool down," he says. "I hate letting people go, but I'm gambling that they'll work themselves too hard in the heat and come back in the night."
He's like some kind of angel or something.
We walk together, talk a bit. Neither one of us wants to be walking.
He's wearing a USATF number as well. I feel even better, because I know he knows what's at stake.
I start talking to him a bit more about my day, tell him I lost my stomach, tell him I feel foolish because things were going so well and I usually do so well and I just don't know if I can recover this year. He says similar things, and I'm walking a bit faster than him.
"I'm Pete, by the way," he says.
"I'm Star," I say. "Now I don't have to call you 'Cooper' in my head, since that's what your bib says."
"Nice to meet you, Star," he says. "And by the way, your cheeks aren't nearly as red as they were a mile ago."
"Thanks," I say. I'm moving ahead a bit. "Hang in there, Pete," I say. "Stay smart."
"You too," he says.
And I move ahead, still walking, but revived by the exchange, the reinforcement, the shared conversation. Somehow, hearing Pete say out loud the things I was trying to say in my head made them better. In those blistering miles we walked, he helped me believe. Not believe that it would be okay, but believe that I was doing the best thing for my race. I've never been the girl that walks, and I will always be grateful that the first time I was, I didn't have to walk alone.
It's time to try a little running. It doesn't work. I start dry heaving as soon as I try, and the only pace I can maintain is almost comparable to the walk.
We are fighting, and it is painful.
It's not just my stomach and I fighting, but Burning River and I.
We are fighting, and it hurts.
***
I continue on to Pine Lane, and there is no joy. There is no fun. There is no celebration of the training, of the halfway point, of the day.
Instead, there is heat, there is nausea, and now there's a headache to boot.
This is work. This is hard. I am digging and it's too soon to dig. I don't dig this early, damn it.
God, please. My legs are okay, if we could just get my stomach settled I could run. I could run.
I try, because I have to try. And right away, dry heaving and the rapid, erratic heartbeat.
And then I stop caring. It doesn't look like a run, but damn it, we're going.
I knew from all my time on this course that I was getting close to the aid station after the water crossing. I settled down inside, reflected on the course, made some decisions.
I had a tough section coming to Happy Days, with yet another round of exposed road. I figured if I could even pull off a run-walk on this I might be able to maintain position. From Happy Days, my favorite sections of the course were ahead: Pine Hollow, Covered Bridge, and then the race to the finish.
I am a strong second half runner. I was really not that far off my pace chart. Could I rally? And if I rallied, did I have enough left, mentally and physically, to bring "second half Star" out to play?
I would try.
I was having the most trouble on the flats, which was odd. The climbs weren't bothering me, I was able to nail the downhills, and I was still enjoying the rollers. I would not be angry. I would get to Pine Hollow, try some salted watermelon, switch to water only instead of Gatorade (no more sugar), and see if we couldn't right this ship. It had been a long five miles from Boston, but ...
Why the hell was a runner coming towards me?
"Don't worry," he yelled, "I know it looks weird."
I kept jogging at my pathetic little pace. It had been a long five miles from Boston, but ...
Another one.
Pete came up behind me.
More runners came at us.
"Course change!" they yelled. "They'll tell you at the aid station."
No way. Please, dear God, tell me we are not going to have to climb OUT of Pine Lane.
More runners.
"Son of a b*@ch," I think in my head. "So much for knowing the course."
And then I see them. One. Two. Three.
Crystal. Michelle. Christine. Very close together, and no more than two miles ahead of me, maybe less.
I think of that damnable Chumbawamba song. I know I won't be able to get it out of my head now, but I decide it may be a fitting tribute to how this day is going. I get knocked down, but I get up again, no you're never going to keep me down ...
I get up again. It involves dry heaving and all the rest, but those women stoke the waning flames, and I resume my current excuse for "running."
I get to the aid station, they re-direct me, I grab watermelon, I head back out, and I see the green poster board sign. "6.8 miles to Happy Days."
NO, NO, NO, I think. It's 5.5 miles to Happy Days. Right? Right?
Too bad. Off we go.
I let it settle, just like Steve did at Western States, and I start running.
I'm running! It's hot, it's still so hot, but I'm running!
I run the rollers and the downhills. I hike the uphills and I establish a new routine for the flats. I run until my heartrate spikes. I walk thirty or so seconds until it calms back down. Then I run again until it spikes. The running sections get longer and longer, and when I finally hit the ridiculous road sections to Happy Days - hot, burning and exposed - I am able to keep running with only the shortest of breaks.
I come upon Pete.
"Can I tell you a story?" he asks.
"Of course."
I don't remember it exactly, but the jist of the story was that since we had last separated, he had passed two men in his USATF age group. I responded that I had sighted three women on the turnaround, not out of reach.
I also realize that this is the last time I'll see Pete today.
"Good luck, Pete," I say, as my run pulls me ahead.
"Stay calm," he says.
I do.
I reach Happy Days and begin to tell Robin, Darrin and Darris about the course change. I was really telling them because I thought it had extended the section by 1.3 miles, and I wanted them to know that I wasn't falling apart as badly as it looked, that I had actually run an extra mile and half. They shut me up, tell me it doesn't matter anymore, drop it and keep moving. Darris asks me if I'm eating. I tell him I'm nauseous but I'm doing what I can. He gives me my oranges and I head off to Pine Lane.
It's starting to come back together. It's not perfect, but it's better. My head is better, my legs are better, my spirit is better. My stomach, however, is not better, and now I realize that I just put oranges (read: acid) on a sick tummy.
Luckily, I am not punished too severely for this faux pas.
I follow the new plan of hiking uphills, pounding downhills, running rollers and walking flats only enough to keep my heartbeat from spiking.
In spite of all these things that have passed, I pass two women.
Though the pace chart is a mess from the extra mile and the walk from Boston to Pine Lane, it takes me only three and a half minutes longer than plan to cover the long seven miles from Happy Days to Pine Hollow. I even make the effort to run the downhill at Sound of Music.
Darris hands me my last sandwich and I say no.
You're not even taking your gels, he said. I've been checking the pocket in the handheld. You have to eat, he says.
I'm trying, I say. I'm eating at the aid stations (somewhat true). I just don't want to throw up.
I head out. I realize that he's right, and even though I don't want to throw up, I won't be able to run thirty more miles on sips of Coke and bites of salted watermelon.
On the first uphill on the Salt Run Loop, I take a deep breath and force down a gel, gagging the entire time. Then I wait for it to come up.
It doesn't, but I wish it would. Resume dry heaving.
I push, as pushing is at the moment.
Come on, Star, I think. This is just 3.3 miles. Quick. Short. Push.
And there goes the stomach.
"DAMN IT!" I scream.
I really believed I had it back.
I fight back the tears as I go crashing back to square one. Nausea. Dry heaving. Rapid, erratic heartbeat.
I fought. I fought so hard, all the way from Boston to Happy Days. For almost 13 miles, I fought, and fought, and fought, and I really believed I had won. I thought I had it back. I was running. My pace was picking up. I was at least holding my stomach at bay. I had adapted, adjusted. Was maybe even on the road to recovery. And I took that damn gel and it all went haywire all over again.
But I knew I couldn't run 30 more miles on sips of Coke and watermelon.
It was just past seven o'clock at night and it was still 88 degrees outside.
We would do chicken broth - with noodles - and Coke from here on in. No sandwiches, no chips, no trail mix, no gels. Crackers! Oh, crackers. Tears come to my eyes again as I flash on Western States, Steve and Catra, and my pocketful of crackers. I would try, I would try, I would try.
In terms of pace, the loop was a disaster. It is hard to believe that I was actually running, running enough to spike my heart, when my splits were close to 14's.
I got back to the aid station, did my best to smile for Leigh with the camera, and returned to my blessed crew.
At this point, I actually knew I was in deep shit. And I could not have been surrounded by a more perfect set of people.
I had Darris, and Robin, and Darrin. I had Stevie-Z and Michael. I had people who knew me, people who had had bad days, and people who had struggled with even worse guts than mine. And I knew, in spite of it all, that they would find a way to get me out of there.
I started at the beginning, and turned in my pace chart.
"Okay," I said to Darris. "I need you to take this, because it's no longer relevant. From now on, I'm running the best race I can under the circumstances. I don't know what that means, but this is useless."
"I'm getting sick again," I said. "I need someone to get me chicken broth and ginger ale while I change my socks."
Darrin took off.
Michael asked if I wanted to try some ginger. I've never gone to ginger, so I was a bit nervous. I asked if it was ginger chews; it was actually ginger straight out of a spice bottle.
"Do you chew it, do you suck on it?" I asked. I just didn't know.
Darris, who loves ginger, tried some. "Oh, it's sweet," he said. Like candy. You'll like it.
That gave me a brain wave; I remembered reading somewhere in some race report about someone using a mix of half water, half ginger ale to settle a bad stomach. I asked Darris to dump the Gatorade and change my handheld to ice with the ginger ale/water mixture.
Michael loaded up a baggie with ginger while Darrin came back with the soup and Darris fixed up the handheld.
"It's cold," Darrin said of the soup. "You might want to look at it first," he said, sounding skeptical.
Yeah. That wasn't going to work.
I was getting dizzy now, and I knew I was in a brand new place.
"Well," I said, "there's a first time for everything," and I sat down on the grate.
"Do you want a chair," Robin asked?
"No."
I still knew the difference between bad and tragic, and I was still getting out of that aid station in five minutes or less.
"It's just ... it's the HEAT," I said. "I've never been here in the light before. I've had to run so many exposed sections that I've never run in the heat of the day before."
They understood. They knew what I had been trying to do, knew even that I was here, at Pine Hollow, hours before I had ever been in the past. I didn't need to say more, and for once, I didn’t.
"Crackers!" I shouted. "Saltines. I can do saltines."
Michael ran to get saltines, but they didn't have any.
Someone said to try a potato. The mere thought of a potato made me want to vomit. Darris demanded that I eat. I received, and accepted, a baggie of salted potatoes.
I write descriptively, but all these things took a mere four minutes.
"Well, that's enough feeling sorry for myself," I said, and I stood up, and I headed out.
As I headed out, I heard Darris screaming, saw him chasing me down the hill.
"Your headlamp!" he shouted, as I took it in defeat.
I was supposed to get to Covered Bridge before dark. This was a huge deal to me. I had really wanted to get there before dark. I had so wanted to get there before dark.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too," I said, as my stomach collapsed and I ran into the woods to lose it again.
He waited for me, and grabbed my hand before I headed back to the course.
"You know I'm going to have to walk again," I said.
"Star, you're still doing great," he said.
I headed into the woods, and a darkness far deeper than the one that night would bring.
***
I was going to have to walk from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge. I had just lost my stomach - again - I was nauseous - again - I was cramping up, the gel had made me sick and it was still 80 something friggin' degrees out and I was chafed in ways I shall not discuss.
I started with the chafing, after I came upon a guy in the woods discretely trying to fix himself up.
Control the conversation, I thought.
I tried my first piece of ginger and immediately spit it out. I hate ginger.
I'm walking, and I'm cursing myself for it.
I try running a gentle downhill and start dry heaving and retching.
So I'm walking, and I hate it.
And I know that I can't run 26 more miles on ... what have I even eaten lately? ... and suddenly I think the potatoes might maybe taste kind of good. Like an unfried French fry, right?
I take a potato out of the bag and take a solid sized bite out of it.
And it is raw.
Raw.
And I am gagging and retching and dry heaving. Just the thought of the fact that it's raw brings on another burpy/gaggy combo thing.
"DAMN IT!" I scream, and this time, I barely fight back the tears.
I spit the potato out and put the rest of the baggie in my back pocket.
And there, somewhere around mile 76, I officially give up.
***
"What did I do wrong?" I asked.
I still don't know who I was asking. God? Myself? My stomach? The course? The sun that was sinking but somehow just as blinding?
"This sucks," I thought.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound tough. "I am OVER you."
Who was I over? Myself? The race? My pipe dreams of being a bad ass? Fine. FINE. It's true, I thought. Here it is, in print, on paper, for posterity. IN WRITING.
I don't just run these for the accomplishment. I don't just run these for belt buckles and shirts. I realized the year that I came back from the extra six miles that I had an outside chance at being kind of good at this. And I LIKE being kind of good at this. I'm competitive, and I want to know who's going to be there, and I want to know what I have to do to run faster than them.
I can't yet say I run these to win. But I expect myself to run them fast. Noticeably fast.
And this year, I worked my ass off. I had worked harder than I had ever worked, I was more ready than I had ever been, and I honestly wasn't planning to settle for anything short of top three.
I wrote my pace chart for 19:19, with the hopes that "second half Star" would haul my ass to a sub-19 in those last 20 miles.
It wasn't going to happen. Even if my stomach turned around, I was running out of real estate.
I was bargaining, bargaining. Arguing with myself, and arguing with her, her being Burning River. I was angry with her, disillusioned by her. I just couldn't believe it was ending this way. After all these years, after all that work, here I was - second half Star, dumb and disillusioned enough to actually envision herself a contender - walking. Walking to the damn Covered Bridge.
Star (to self): It's going to take a long time to get over this.
Petulant silence.
Star: Who did you think you were, anyway? This is exactly what you get for that ego. You've said for weeks that you knew something could go wrong, you knew "anything could happen out there," you knew that you could be the one to get sick, to go down, to be the unexpected drop. What was it all about? Lip service? Cause here it is. Here you are. You got fried by the heat, something went awry with your nutrition or your stomach, maybe it's all three, but you are MESSED UP. It ain't gonna be you today, baby.
Indulgent Star: But I don't care. I DON'T CARE. It's just not worth feeling this bad for this long.
Scrappy Star: Don't you do this. Don't you dare.
Indulgent Star: Please, please. I'm sick, and I'm tired, and I'm tired of being sick, and I'm bored, and this sucks, and I have FOUGHT and I have FOUGHT and I have FOUGHT and it just isn't going to work today. PLEASE!
Scrappy Star: You will not do this. Not here. Not on Wetmore.
Indulgent Star: Fine, so I'll walk? Wow, what fun! I'll walk 25 damn miles to the finish, and I'll get 22-something, and everyone will clap and say "oh, wow, Star you're great," and I'll know that I'm a coward, and I gave up on the way to stupid Wetmore, and my stupid legs won't even be sore tomorrow, and I'll walk around the awards ceremony like a fraud, bending my knees like nothing ever happened? Hell no. I'm sick, and I'm sick of being sick, and I'm sick enough to drop, and I'm doing it at Covered Bridge.
Scrappy Star: So you've done everything?
Indulgent Star: Yes. Yes, I swear. Besides, I can't even eat enough to get me through anymore.
Scrappy Star: True, true. And you've thought about the car ride home tomorrow?
(Original) Star: Oh for the love of God, ENOUGH already. Your time is NOT bad. Your time is not going to be BAD if you end up having to walk the rest of the way. What are you going to learn from this? ARE you going to learn from this? Do you quit when it's not your day to be the rock star? Do you quit when it's not your day to be the hero? You got Umstead; you got the scrappy finish after the extra six miles a few years ago. You really think your friends are going to stop respecting you because you couldn't deliver the sucker punch this time? Be disappointed in you over a couple of digits? Yeah, sure, little lady. You, the one that wrote that sappy ass posting to your girls about "my love for you is so much greater than anything a clock or a finish line could say?" You, the one that so convincingly explained to Courtney why she should run the USATF race instead of the general one? All that bs about soul searching and strength and courage and finding yourself? You're really ready for this, tough girl? The big DNF? All over a couple of digits?
Indulgent Star: No, no it's not about that! I'm just so tired of feeling so bad. I'm so lonely, I'm so tired, I've dug so much today I'm downright hollow. I can't dig anymore because there's nothing more THERE. Don't you understand? I'm just out of strength today.
(Original) Star: Aren't a lot of people? Wasn't your dad? Didn't Rick just lose his wife? Sorry, but this is just running. And you're going to throw away all that work to act like a spoiled brat that isn't getting her way today? Choke down some food, drink your damn coffee at the bridge, and run a real 100 for once. None of this "I played around for 80 miles and decided to blow out the tubes at the end" bullshit. See what you've got when the tubes are blown out and you have to keep going. Come on, I dare you. I dare you to finally feel one of these.
Indulgent Star: I really don't know how much more there is.
(Original) Star: Then I guess it's time to find out.
***
You may be in a time warp at this point; in reality, only about ten minutes had passed since I left Darris and set foot to trail from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge. I decided I would try taking the ginger like aspirin since the flavor was so foul, and chased two pieces with watered down ginger ale.
It stayed. I tried another sip of the beverage.
I silently thanked the stranger who had written it down somewhere.
I unzipped the pocket on my handheld, took out the razz Clif Shot.
"I know you're not going to like this," I said out loud, "but I'm doing it for your own good."
It took about three minutes for the burping and retching to stop, and I knew I had to get to the Covered Bridge before dark.
I would almost make it. There were sections I had to walk to calm my stomach, but there were a couple of sections that were actually cool(er), and though it was dusk when I reached the cornfields at Bolanz ("Corn!" I shouted), it was light enough that I could see. For the first year ever, I could see the divets and holes in the single track beside the cornfield, and I was able to save my ankles the beating they've taken there so many times before. I had to turn on my headlamp about ten minutes out from Covered Bridge, a small defeat, but the dusk provided enough light that I was able to just carry it in my hand to light the sections I was unsure of, a small victory.
A man met me not long after the railroad tracks, telling me Covered Bridge was not far ahead.
"About how far would you say?" I called back.
"Five minutes?" he said. "Maybe faster the way you're moving."
He will never know what that simple exchange did for me.
I ran onto the Covered Bridge into the collective warmth of Darris, Robin, Tanya, Rob Powell, Terri and Mark Lemke. Darris and Robin looked at me, tried to assess where we were at. We were all, after all, in new territory.
"I'm not going to lay down and play dead," I said, with the best smirk I could muster. I would later learn that this phrase would be thrown back and forth throughout the night.
Darris got me my iced coffee and my donut and I went straight back out. I knew the donut and coffee were an absolutely ridiculously lethal idea, but at that point ...
Rachel. I was headed out on the loop, and Rachel was coming back in. She looked amazing. Strong, focused, determined. Bad ass.
Rachel was running second place and was a woman on a mission.
I was trying to pull the scraps of my race back together, and face to face with a dear friend, a friend I had shared so many miles and experiences with ... and a friend who was running the race that I had dreamed about.
And I understood now, after my long conversation with myself on my way here, that it was Rachel's day to be the rock star. Rachel's day to be the hero.
And you have to be one of us to understand that nothing in the world could have made me happier than getting to see her have that day. True, genuine happiness.
And you also have to be one of us to understand why on earth, in the middle of all of this, we would stop in our tracks, hug each other, and say "I love you."
Rachel would tell me the next day that I had no idea how much she needed that hug right then.
Me too, Rachel.
Back to the coffee.
Yeah, it was like battery acid on my stomach, but it tasted soooo good.
I shared the donut with the bats. A bite for me, a bite for them. A bite for me, a bite for them. I saw five this year. I love the sound their wings make. I know I should be a little bit of afraid of them, maybe grossed out by them, but I'm not. I'm very cool with my bat brothers and sisters.
Perkins was difficult this year. I am used to hitting Perkins fired up and on a mission. I think, in the past, this has led to a false impression of the topography. Good Lord, I finally understood Perkins this year. You couldn't have convinced me we weren't at altitude on those climbs, in a mud wrestling pit through the muck, at Barkley when I was bushwacking through some of the fallen branches, tree trunks and trail paraphernalia. "Where the hell is the runnable part?" I kept thinking. "Don't I usually tell people that parts of this are actually runnable?"
Yeah, I'm crazy like that.
So I'm hiking, and retching, and dry heaving here and there, and there's finally this wicked steep downhill and I pretend I'm Stevie-Z at Western States when he ran away from me. I was certainly not as fast as him, but surprisingly, it was enough to get me moving again.
I'm running again. Not the slow run-jog-just going to make it happen thing I had been doing earlier in the day, but running. Moving. I revel in it. I look up at the stars. I wonder if maybe, just maybe, an hour is all I'll lose. After all, I think, I do pad the chart pretty heavily on the back end. And after this long, long day, I was still only an hour late to Covered Bridge. Can I hold on? Can I ...
It's not possible. Is that what I think it is?
No, there's no way. The day was too far gone. And my fits, and my temper tantrums, and my stomach and the heat. And the blurred vision, and the brief visions, and the conversations and the rationalizations and the excuses and the justifications and the compromises.
By the time I reached the Covered Bridge, I was okay with it, and I didn't care anymore. I was going to run, I was going to use everything I possibly could, but I knew I was just getting to the finish today. I had known that I had to make peace with just getting to the finish today, and with that being okay today. And I had.
But I also had experience. And strength born of that experience. And though "second half Star" wasn't looking as glamorous as she has in the past, she was pulling her weight the very best that she could. And late on the Perkins Loop, against what had seemed like all odds for so many miles, she moved into third place.
I felt badly doing it, and offered Chris my encouragement on the way by. She put down an incredible performance for her first 100, and we will be duly frightened of her in the future.
But I did what I had to do convincingly, and from then on, I was all in.
I flew through the night and came tearing back onto the bridge.
"I moved into third seventeen minutes ago," I said, "so I'm taking everything on the road." Robin handed me my soup; Darris handed me a new water bottle and checked that I had gels. Fifteen seconds, tops, and I was gone.
Two minutes up the hill, I realized we had forgotten my Advil for the second time. I was supposed to get it the first time through Covered Bridge ... I had meant to remind them when I got back to Covered Bridge ...
"It looks like we'll be having a natural childbirth," I thought sarcastically, as my right IT band made itself known right on cue.
Soon after, I made the startling discovery that my pulverized feet actually felt better when I was running. So I got to alternate between different kinds of pain. I was running quite well again, but still had to hike the steepest uphills and the more technical sections in the woods. When I did that, my feet would scream in agony; when I ran, my quads and IT band were on fire. I began chanting "Advil, Advil, Advil, Advil" to myself so I wouldn't forget at Merriman.
I asked for the water/ginger ale mix at O'Neil Woods, but got straight ginger ale. The sugar made mye stomach go haywire but I was seriously past caring at that point. As I approached the first stretch of towpath, that would include Botzum, I announced to myself that this would be the toughest thing I had done yet today, but there would be no walking for the next 2.5 miles to Merriman. There was some swearing at my IT band, but no walking.
I saw Robin and Darris for the last time, along with Mike Nicholson, mini-Rad and some others. I got my Advil, a top-off of the water/ginger mix and some chicken broth to go. I was allowed to walk long enough to get the broth down, and it was back to work. The broth did not sit well and the umpteenth round of dry heaving and retching began. It was the slowest progress I've made on the three mile stretch of towpath from Merriman to Memorial to date, but I did not give in. When I saw the "one mile to Memorial" marker, I turned the ipod on in my head and made serious work of it. (Thanks, Gaga). Two miles were long, but damn was I proud of that last one.
One more ginger-water.
One more gel.
One more section, and the Advil had finally kicked in.
My watch read 19:30, and at the very least, I had achieved my compromise goal. If everything went to hell again and I had to walk the last five miles, I would still break 21 hours. I would have a PR on the course, maybe even the Blackford family best.
But I hadn't come this far to settle for the compromise goal, and even if I had to crawl, I would get it. So I decided right then and there, choking that gel down as I headed up Uhler, that I was going to spend those last five miles reducing myself to a crawl. Come hell or high water, vomit or collapse, tree trunk or staircase, I was putting everything, every single ounce of every single thing I hadn't been able to use that day, into those last five miles. I was going to play, I was going to hurt, I was going to celebrate.
I was done compromising.
My heart rate was skyrocketing, but finally, in the right way. I flew down the road to the Chuckery. Flew onto the turn by the Signal Tree. Flew down the single track along the river.
The river. I was flying along the river. My legs were loose, spongy after the Advil. I was breathing in deep, full breaths of the night air. I was flying along the river.
She was rushing and babbling beside me.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she said.
"I don't understand then, why?"
"I was just in a bad mood today. I woke up feeling hot and humid and way too sunny and I took it out on you. I didn't do it to be cruel, you were just there and that's how it happened today. It really wasn't you."
"I tried to be good. I thought I was smart, I was patient, I tried to stay cool. I really tried everything today."
"Star, you were good. You were great. Why are you always so hard on yourself?"
"I don't know. I still have things to figure out."
"Stop being so mad at yourself."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I just thought it was going to be so different."
"You have to stop punishing yourself."
"It wasn't a punishment."
"You know you're not over it yet."
"I might not ever be over it."
"You loved this before you couldn't have a baby. You can't use it as punishment because you can't."
"That's NOT what I did."
"Just be careful, Star. Because you haven't done anything wrong."
"I won't let you make me cry tonight."
"Are we going to be okay?"
"Yeah. We're going to be okay."
***
I staggered up the stairs. How many were there? 200 over all the different sets?
I staggered between staircases like a zombie.
I pushed.
I saw the electrical towers, my body screaming at me, screaming at me to stop. Taunting me, that I had walked so many times earlier, why couldn't I do it now? Please, Star, just one step? Just one walking step? I'm so tired, I'm flailing, gasping, pounding, aching, hurting.
Nope.
I'm looking for the lights on the Front Street, and all I see are towers. More and more towers. Flailing, gasping, pounding.
Lights.
Left hand turn.
Climb.
Run.
RUN.
Sheraton.
No. No crying. Not yet.
Clock.
Cheering.
Stop.
***
I really wasn't sure I would see the finish line this year. This was my fifth 100 miler, but the first one where the finish was ever in doubt.
I thought I had suffered in my previous 100's. I was wrong. I'd merely had some rough patches. Kevin O'Grady, you were right. I get it now.
Darris got cheated, having to crew for me this year. Even though I tried to be tough and put on a brave face at the aid stations, I know it couldn't have been fun. Darris, you were amazing out there. If you were worried, I never knew, and that was perhaps the greatest gift you could have given me. I never once felt as if you were frustrated with me or didn't believe in me.
Darris and Robin were waiting for me at the finish. I was in tears before I crossed the line, and they just kept coming. After gathering them into a tight hug, I announced that I needed to lay down, right there, on the pavement, immediately. Somehow, Robin got me wrapped in some blankets, and they helped me stagger over to the steps next to Rachel.
We were stretched out like corpses on the steps, wet, clammy and mummified in our blankets.
Rachel and I placed second and third, respectively, in the open race and the national championships. Rachel ran a blistering time of 19:36, and I followed behind not too much later in 20:17.
I could not be more proud or happy for either one of us. Nor could I be any more certain that both of our performances were profoundly impacted by the love, support and unwavering belief of the men in our lives, not just during the race, but each and every day we have together.
I stretched out on the stairs beside Rachel, looking up at the stars, and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I had done everything I could. When I would look at my final split later that morning, I would be in shock.
9:48.
That's the number. That's how far I'm able to go.
I averaged 9:48 per mile from miles 96 to 100.8. And that included almost 200 stairs. 200 stairs after 100 miles.
9:48.
That's the only number I ever need to know.
And I have never been more proud of any race I've run.
***
Darris had a much easier time getting to sleep in those early morning hours. I was sick, of course, and this time, not even able to suck on Skittles. So I pondered. I would say I tossed and turned, but it would be a lie, as movement was pretty much restricted to turning my head to the left or the right on the pillow. Anything else required far too much energy.
I heard her calling me, one last time.
"Don't go to bed mad at me."
"I stopped being mad a long time ago. I could never stay mad at you for that long."
"You said some pretty mean things out there."
"Yeah, well, you did some pretty mean things out there."
"So you'll still come back next year?"
"I can't promise that right now. You really messed me up this time. But you're still my girl."
"You really earned it this time."
"I know."
"I made you work for it this time."
"That's an understatement."
"You were ready. It was time."
"I never knew it could hurt like that."
"Now you do. And next time, you'll be ready."
"I can't go there yet."
"I know."
"This isn't a love song."
"I know. Good night, Star."
"Good night, Burning River. I love you too."
Last year, the first year I had an "official" blog up and running, I posted my past three race reports that had gone out by email. I even called it "a love story in three parts." I then proceeded to add yet another lovingly crafted ode to her.
This is not a love song.
***
The morning was beautiful. I didn't miss either of the alarms. I was in bed at 8 and had slept reasonably from a little before 9 pm until the 2:45 am call. Jay and I connected in the lobby and headed to the buses. I had the pleasure of reconnecting with Alex Nemet on the ride over, who just happened to be in the seat across from me, and Jay and I shared some meaningless pre-race small talk. Yes, Jay, I realize it's "just running," but then again, how much is there to say when standing on the abyss of yet another 100 miles?
As we watched everyone mill about at the start at Squire's Castle, I was one of the first to declare that standing for an extra hour didn't make a lot of sense to me. Jay, Michelle, Michael and I set up shop on a piece of pavement and sat ourselves down. We cycled through bathroom breaks and last minute preparations (like me adjusting and re-pinning my race number 42 different times) before it was finally time to head to the field. Thankfully, I bumped into Courtney and Rachel at the very last minute and was able to spend a minute with each of them before the start.
I was so ready. And finally, finally, it was time. There was an official noise of some sort, and we were running through a dewy field.
***
It was warm and humid and the road stretch to Polo Field was so long.
It was warm and humid and I was sweating and glistening and plotting.
The women had taken off as soon as we hit the road, hoards of them. I knew I had a plan, a pace chart, a goal that had nothing to do with the first nine miles.
It was warm, but it was gray and foggy and dark. I began to wonder if it was going to be overcast. I began to wonder if this was as warm as it would get. I began to wonder what the race would look like if the fog didn't burn off; if it was humid but cool and I was just letting them all go.
Patience, grasshopper.
I reminded myself of what I saw at Buckeye Trail; reminded myself that there weren't so many people so much faster than me, just a lot of people who go out a lot faster than me.
But you're racing this year, I said. It's different this time.
Patience, I shouted at myself.
I settled into the thick fog and came upon Radames Colon, comfortably jogging the pace I needed to be at. We chatted amiably almost to the field, my beloved trails finally in sight.
I was about three minutes ahead of my pace chart; not perfect, but not egregious. I took my first gel on the crunching gravel path that led to the real trails.
And I took a huge, comforting, deep breath of the woods.
I sighed.
I took another deep, woodsy breath.
"Okay, baby," I said to her. "It's just you and me now."
The fog was thick and heavy and the sky still gray, but the temperature ... was manageable? It was! Maybe we wouldn't melt today after all. Maybe, just maybe, Mother Nature had decided to smile upon us. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't going to be a Badwater primer after all.
It was just me and the trails, and I was in heaven.
I was working the plan, and the plan was working for me.
I was getting to the aid stations just a little too early, reminding myself to slow down, that the real work came later.
I came upon a family hiking in the woods, and the father told the son that I was one of those people running 100 miles. He asked if I wouldn't get bored. Maybe you should sing 100 bottles of beer on the wall, he said.
I made it to 91, and decided that was way more boring.
I was actually trying to run alone, and kind of frustrated when I saw other runners. I didn't mind brief small talk, some pleasantries, a question or two about the course. But I was just so comfortable and happy and content being alone out there. Working the plan and watching it come together. Seeing it come together. Clockwork. It was just coming together like clockwork. A few twinges in a hamstring here or there, but otherwise, it was sheer perfection. It was happening. I couldn't believe, coming up to Alexander Road, that I was already closing in on the first 50K.
I had an actual pang of sadness that a third of Burning River day was already over.
It seemed as if I had merely blinked, and I was on the towpath stretch heading to Station Road Bridge. I felt amazing. I had a little time in the bank, and the sun had come out after all, so I allowed myself a couple of brief walk breaks, just to conserve.
That's when I saw it.
There was a bright blue cloudless sky, a gloriously bright yellow sun shining down. It was a few minutes before 11 am, and that thick fog was no more.
And I felt it, felt it on my shoulders, on the tip of my nose.
It was a little warm after all.
But no matter, I thought. I was dead on, ten minutes up on my pace chart at mile 33, feeling strong, inspired, centered and controlled. I was hungry for my first real food and ready for my first Coke. Not tired, but certainly ready for a nice sugar/caffeine combo punch after 33 miles.
Darris and Robin were there, cheering and prepared. I had been worried that Darris was too nervous about this whole thing to actually have a good time, and I had kind of called that one right. I could tell from the start how afraid he was he would "mess something up," and even though I was upbeat and trying to engage him in conversation and see how he was doing, he was hyperfocused. It was cute and sweet, but I felt so bad because I wanted him to have fun. I thought about how many times I tried to tell him that the world wouldn't stop and my race wouldn't end if we missed something or did something out of order. Robin focused on sponging me down, stuffing my food into my pockets, sending me on my way.
And that was kind of it.
I left feeling great, but I had overfilled the baggies and there was too much weight in my shirt. I stopped at the last trash bag leaving the aid station, got some volume out of the baggies, and finally got back into my rhythm.
I was really excited about the next part of the course, heading to the Ottawa checkpoint. I was about to run the Buckeye Trail 50K portion of the race, a section of trail I have run countless times and know like the back of my hand. It's familiar, comfortable, and a little bit challenging. I had given myself comfortable 12 minute miles; I was ready to settle in with a good friend and get my climb on. It was getting pretty hot on the road section heading out of Station Bridge, so I dipped into the margarita salt a couple of times to keep my electrolytes honest.
Ugh. Just like that, and I wasn't feeling the love.
I tried to feel sorry for myself for about 30 seconds, then did a reality check.
Star. You just ran 35 miles. You feel a little tired? Surprise, surprise.
Star. This is the exact same place you had your first crash at Umstead. Things turned out pretty damn well there, didn't they?
Star. You just ate your first solid food in six hours. Blood is going to your stomach. You feel a little sluggish? Hmmm, wonder why?
Star. Remember that cloudless blue sky and that bright yellow sun you noted recently? Ye-ah.
Quit your bitching, girl.
All the while running, remaining on pace, actually, hitting the split for that section on the money. Even passing a couple of women.
Time's up for that.
So after performing that quick little maintenance check on my attitude problem, I realized that there was only one real issue currently at play.
It was getting damn hot out there. And that whole theory that it's not quite as hot in the woods doesn't play quite as well when the humidity is busy wrapping itself around you like a blanket at the same time.
My heart rate was starting to spike a little, my legs were getting achy, and my turnover on the flats wasn't what it had been an hour ago.
I can't say I was struggling. But I certainly wasn't cruising anymore either.
I climbed, I pushed, I drank. I kept a mental eye on what was going on. I lost about a minute getting from Ottawa to Snowville, but I kept my game together. My mind flashed back to an email exchange with Jay earlier in the week.
"I'm ready to run a different race, but I'm glad to know I have the late-game talent in the bag if I need it ... survive the heat and then make a run for it around 7 pm ..."
Running, climbing, running.
Nick Billock, too, had put up a beautiful post about Burning River. My mind flashed back to the most moving part of that post, the words I had decided to carry with me.
"Though silence may be heard, voices scream inside. Control the conversation, grab it around its neck. These are your trails, this is your night."
Control the conversation.
Climbing, running, climbing.
STOP.
(Running, climbing, running).
Nothing is wrong, Star. You're on pace. You've passed three women since Station Bridge. It's just hot. You're okay. And if you lose a little here, you lose a little here. You knew this could happen. You had a plan. Plan the work, work the plan. Chill, relax, calm down.
Look, Star. I know you want top three. I know, I know. I know you want second. I know you want 19. I know, I know, I know.
But it's mile 46, Star. This temper tantrum has to stop.
Climbing, running, climbing.
"Miles 40 to 70 will be the hardest," Jay wrote ...
I took a deep, fragrant, woodsy breath. It was damp this time, thick with humidity, but still fragrant. Lush. Beautiful.
"It's just you and me," I said.
And we went back to having fun. I lovingly recalled sharing these trails with the boys last year, thought about Darris, Darrin, Adam and Steve, leaving their footprints there for me to find this year when I needed them most. I thought about Jay covering this ground hours before, about the fun I'd shared with Hope, Brandon and Melissa on these same trails just two short weeks ago. I hollered at the top of the Piano Keys; I looked at my watch and realized I would still be almost ten minutes up on my pace chart going in to Boston Store.
I was on Boston Mills Road, running hard. I had an unbelievable reception. It was the first time a whole crew of my friends from Columbus had come to see me, and the boost it gave me was so much greater than I had imagined. Darrin had a blue Arctic Freeze for me, and I spent thirty heavenly seconds freezing my throat and chugging like a mad woman. Darris, seemingly calmer now, handed off the oranges as my water bottle was filled, and I mentally prepared myself for towpath hell. There was little consolation in the Boston loop being shorter, as the road sections were intact.
I would be shocked to learn post-race that I was too fast on this section. If only I had known.
Because I was running USATF, there was no GPS option. I had been working harder to maintain 12:00 pace on the past two sections, so maintained that effort level on the loop. The cooling effect of the sponge down and the Arctic Freeze must have worked, as I averaged 11:35's for this loop at the same effort level.
But the problems were real now, and I wasn't just being a baby.
Out onto the exposed towpath for 1.5 miles before hitting the trail. I was getting fried like a piece of bacon. I had long ago lost sight of how much I was sweating; my entire outfit (what there was of it) had been soaked through since Polo Field. It wasn't about being wet; I was simply getting fried.
And a right hand turn onto a steep half mile climb on a tar covered road. Nary a tree. Nary a breeze. Heat radiating off of the pavement, baking my feet and calves. Heat beating down from above, frying my shoulders and nose. Heat. Just ... heat.
Off the road, onto the trail for the loop to the Stanford Hostel.
You could cut the humidity with a knife.
I knew I had solid food coming. I was not enthused.
Out of the trail, and into the field. Just another mile or so back to Boston.
Exposed. Hot. Sun.
System error.
This wasn't whining. This wasn't a temper tantrum. This time, things were getting a little blurry around the edges. My heartbeat went haywire. Not that controlled, working hard, pulsating heartbeat that I spend so much time with, but a scary, rapid, "I'm too hot, this is too much, I need you to stop," kind of thing. A "mommy, I really don't feel good" kind of thing.
This was a bit of a bigger problem. Actually, I was worried I was in a lot of trouble for a couple of minutes. And there was no way I was giving in.
I had a plan.
I ran back into Boston to cheering friends, volunteers and spectators. I had to find a way to let Darris and Robin know things were going a bit haywire, but I wasn't quite ready to set off alarms. Robin, who's crewed me for four years now, would later tell me she knew exactly how sick I was anyhow, because she had never seen me look like that before.
"Okay," I said, "so here's what's going on. I'm in control, I'm not in trouble, but I'm getting way too warm. We're going to slow everything down here. I'm taking about five minutes and we're going to find a way to get me cold."
I start chugging Coke. Then I see the Arctic Freeze. I chug that. This is part one of the routine.
I start sponging down my arms and chest with the sponges in the bucket of ice water.
Then I chug Coke. I chug Arctic Freeze. I chug Coke. I chug Arctic Freeze.
I look up and see Damon, Wendy and Katharine.
"You think I'm crazy?" I ask Katharine. She's being shy. She probably thinks Aunt Star is crazy.
I chug and chug and chug. I start stuffing my shirt with ice cubes.
Robin goes to work on the back. We're packing my shirt like I'm a human cooler.
I chug and chug and chug.
"You're still great on time, Star," Darrin says. "You've still got about six minutes."
I know exactly where those six minutes are about to go, but I stay upbeat for my friends.
It's been three and a half minutes.
I chug.
Darris starts taking my garbage, handing me my supplies, my turkey sandwich. Someone squeezes one last icy sponge over my shoulder blades and I start shivering.
"It worked!" I think. And I know it's time to go.
I thank the friends and take off down the path. Hoping. Praying. Gambling.
Hot. Exposed. Sun.
I would later learn that it was over 90 degrees for a good part of the afternoon.
I look at my watch. It's been less than two minutes. I'm dry as a bone and overheating. The rapid, erratic heartbeat starts up again and in that same split second, my stomach declares war.
"You fool," I think, suddenly realizing how much sugar I just pummeled myself with in four flat minutes.
I dart into the woods and lose my stomach.
I slow it all down again.
Star. Technically, you are not in trouble. You're overheated and you're nauseous. That's not game over, you just need to fix this. So how do we fix this?
I realize there is still cold ice in the front and back of my shirt. I am at an absolute loss. I am overheating like a cheap car engine with ice literally pressed to my chest.
If you were out there, you know the special kind of reward that comes from running in wet shorts for 12 hours. As several of us joked at the finish, it changes the landscape of things a bit.
The melting ice in the back of my shirt starts dribbling down my back. All the way down my back. Right. To. The. Chafing.
"Damn it!" I scream.
I am falling apart at the seams. I'm hot, I'm confused, I'm nauseous, I'm stinging in the goods and nothing is going my way.
And there is nothing in front of me but another mile plus of hot, exposed, burning towpath.
Control the conversation. Work the plan. Adapt and adjust. Cooperate.
"Honey," I say to myself. I take a quick glance to make sure no one is around and start talking to myself out loud.
"You have to get this under control. Time is not important right now. Forget the pace chart, forget 19 hours, just restore equilibrium."
I'm walking, and I'm cursing myself for it.
"Look. You're going to have to walk. If you don't walk now, you're just going to keep spiking your heart and you might not recover. You can't do that blurry vision again, that's not cool."
I'm walking, and I hate it.
"Look, this isn't a choice right now. If you want to finish this race, you're going to have to get yourself under control. If you can't handle walking, then just run back to Boston, because you're going to end up dropping somewhere if you don't get this fixed."
Someone's coming up behind me. Shit. I haven't gotten passed in ages.
"It's a hot one," he says.
I respond dejectedly.
"Yeah, I realized back there I'm just going to have to walk for awhile, wait for it to cool down," he says. "I hate letting people go, but I'm gambling that they'll work themselves too hard in the heat and come back in the night."
He's like some kind of angel or something.
We walk together, talk a bit. Neither one of us wants to be walking.
He's wearing a USATF number as well. I feel even better, because I know he knows what's at stake.
I start talking to him a bit more about my day, tell him I lost my stomach, tell him I feel foolish because things were going so well and I usually do so well and I just don't know if I can recover this year. He says similar things, and I'm walking a bit faster than him.
"I'm Pete, by the way," he says.
"I'm Star," I say. "Now I don't have to call you 'Cooper' in my head, since that's what your bib says."
"Nice to meet you, Star," he says. "And by the way, your cheeks aren't nearly as red as they were a mile ago."
"Thanks," I say. I'm moving ahead a bit. "Hang in there, Pete," I say. "Stay smart."
"You too," he says.
And I move ahead, still walking, but revived by the exchange, the reinforcement, the shared conversation. Somehow, hearing Pete say out loud the things I was trying to say in my head made them better. In those blistering miles we walked, he helped me believe. Not believe that it would be okay, but believe that I was doing the best thing for my race. I've never been the girl that walks, and I will always be grateful that the first time I was, I didn't have to walk alone.
It's time to try a little running. It doesn't work. I start dry heaving as soon as I try, and the only pace I can maintain is almost comparable to the walk.
We are fighting, and it is painful.
It's not just my stomach and I fighting, but Burning River and I.
We are fighting, and it hurts.
***
I continue on to Pine Lane, and there is no joy. There is no fun. There is no celebration of the training, of the halfway point, of the day.
Instead, there is heat, there is nausea, and now there's a headache to boot.
This is work. This is hard. I am digging and it's too soon to dig. I don't dig this early, damn it.
God, please. My legs are okay, if we could just get my stomach settled I could run. I could run.
I try, because I have to try. And right away, dry heaving and the rapid, erratic heartbeat.
And then I stop caring. It doesn't look like a run, but damn it, we're going.
I knew from all my time on this course that I was getting close to the aid station after the water crossing. I settled down inside, reflected on the course, made some decisions.
I had a tough section coming to Happy Days, with yet another round of exposed road. I figured if I could even pull off a run-walk on this I might be able to maintain position. From Happy Days, my favorite sections of the course were ahead: Pine Hollow, Covered Bridge, and then the race to the finish.
I am a strong second half runner. I was really not that far off my pace chart. Could I rally? And if I rallied, did I have enough left, mentally and physically, to bring "second half Star" out to play?
I would try.
I was having the most trouble on the flats, which was odd. The climbs weren't bothering me, I was able to nail the downhills, and I was still enjoying the rollers. I would not be angry. I would get to Pine Hollow, try some salted watermelon, switch to water only instead of Gatorade (no more sugar), and see if we couldn't right this ship. It had been a long five miles from Boston, but ...
Why the hell was a runner coming towards me?
"Don't worry," he yelled, "I know it looks weird."
I kept jogging at my pathetic little pace. It had been a long five miles from Boston, but ...
Another one.
Pete came up behind me.
More runners came at us.
"Course change!" they yelled. "They'll tell you at the aid station."
No way. Please, dear God, tell me we are not going to have to climb OUT of Pine Lane.
More runners.
"Son of a b*@ch," I think in my head. "So much for knowing the course."
And then I see them. One. Two. Three.
Crystal. Michelle. Christine. Very close together, and no more than two miles ahead of me, maybe less.
I think of that damnable Chumbawamba song. I know I won't be able to get it out of my head now, but I decide it may be a fitting tribute to how this day is going. I get knocked down, but I get up again, no you're never going to keep me down ...
I get up again. It involves dry heaving and all the rest, but those women stoke the waning flames, and I resume my current excuse for "running."
I get to the aid station, they re-direct me, I grab watermelon, I head back out, and I see the green poster board sign. "6.8 miles to Happy Days."
NO, NO, NO, I think. It's 5.5 miles to Happy Days. Right? Right?
Too bad. Off we go.
I let it settle, just like Steve did at Western States, and I start running.
I'm running! It's hot, it's still so hot, but I'm running!
I run the rollers and the downhills. I hike the uphills and I establish a new routine for the flats. I run until my heartrate spikes. I walk thirty or so seconds until it calms back down. Then I run again until it spikes. The running sections get longer and longer, and when I finally hit the ridiculous road sections to Happy Days - hot, burning and exposed - I am able to keep running with only the shortest of breaks.
I come upon Pete.
"Can I tell you a story?" he asks.
"Of course."
I don't remember it exactly, but the jist of the story was that since we had last separated, he had passed two men in his USATF age group. I responded that I had sighted three women on the turnaround, not out of reach.
I also realize that this is the last time I'll see Pete today.
"Good luck, Pete," I say, as my run pulls me ahead.
"Stay calm," he says.
I do.
I reach Happy Days and begin to tell Robin, Darrin and Darris about the course change. I was really telling them because I thought it had extended the section by 1.3 miles, and I wanted them to know that I wasn't falling apart as badly as it looked, that I had actually run an extra mile and half. They shut me up, tell me it doesn't matter anymore, drop it and keep moving. Darris asks me if I'm eating. I tell him I'm nauseous but I'm doing what I can. He gives me my oranges and I head off to Pine Lane.
It's starting to come back together. It's not perfect, but it's better. My head is better, my legs are better, my spirit is better. My stomach, however, is not better, and now I realize that I just put oranges (read: acid) on a sick tummy.
Luckily, I am not punished too severely for this faux pas.
I follow the new plan of hiking uphills, pounding downhills, running rollers and walking flats only enough to keep my heartbeat from spiking.
In spite of all these things that have passed, I pass two women.
Though the pace chart is a mess from the extra mile and the walk from Boston to Pine Lane, it takes me only three and a half minutes longer than plan to cover the long seven miles from Happy Days to Pine Hollow. I even make the effort to run the downhill at Sound of Music.
Darris hands me my last sandwich and I say no.
You're not even taking your gels, he said. I've been checking the pocket in the handheld. You have to eat, he says.
I'm trying, I say. I'm eating at the aid stations (somewhat true). I just don't want to throw up.
I head out. I realize that he's right, and even though I don't want to throw up, I won't be able to run thirty more miles on sips of Coke and bites of salted watermelon.
On the first uphill on the Salt Run Loop, I take a deep breath and force down a gel, gagging the entire time. Then I wait for it to come up.
It doesn't, but I wish it would. Resume dry heaving.
I push, as pushing is at the moment.
Come on, Star, I think. This is just 3.3 miles. Quick. Short. Push.
And there goes the stomach.
"DAMN IT!" I scream.
I really believed I had it back.
I fight back the tears as I go crashing back to square one. Nausea. Dry heaving. Rapid, erratic heartbeat.
I fought. I fought so hard, all the way from Boston to Happy Days. For almost 13 miles, I fought, and fought, and fought, and I really believed I had won. I thought I had it back. I was running. My pace was picking up. I was at least holding my stomach at bay. I had adapted, adjusted. Was maybe even on the road to recovery. And I took that damn gel and it all went haywire all over again.
But I knew I couldn't run 30 more miles on sips of Coke and watermelon.
It was just past seven o'clock at night and it was still 88 degrees outside.
We would do chicken broth - with noodles - and Coke from here on in. No sandwiches, no chips, no trail mix, no gels. Crackers! Oh, crackers. Tears come to my eyes again as I flash on Western States, Steve and Catra, and my pocketful of crackers. I would try, I would try, I would try.
In terms of pace, the loop was a disaster. It is hard to believe that I was actually running, running enough to spike my heart, when my splits were close to 14's.
I got back to the aid station, did my best to smile for Leigh with the camera, and returned to my blessed crew.
At this point, I actually knew I was in deep shit. And I could not have been surrounded by a more perfect set of people.
I had Darris, and Robin, and Darrin. I had Stevie-Z and Michael. I had people who knew me, people who had had bad days, and people who had struggled with even worse guts than mine. And I knew, in spite of it all, that they would find a way to get me out of there.
I started at the beginning, and turned in my pace chart.
"Okay," I said to Darris. "I need you to take this, because it's no longer relevant. From now on, I'm running the best race I can under the circumstances. I don't know what that means, but this is useless."
"I'm getting sick again," I said. "I need someone to get me chicken broth and ginger ale while I change my socks."
Darrin took off.
Michael asked if I wanted to try some ginger. I've never gone to ginger, so I was a bit nervous. I asked if it was ginger chews; it was actually ginger straight out of a spice bottle.
"Do you chew it, do you suck on it?" I asked. I just didn't know.
Darris, who loves ginger, tried some. "Oh, it's sweet," he said. Like candy. You'll like it.
That gave me a brain wave; I remembered reading somewhere in some race report about someone using a mix of half water, half ginger ale to settle a bad stomach. I asked Darris to dump the Gatorade and change my handheld to ice with the ginger ale/water mixture.
Michael loaded up a baggie with ginger while Darrin came back with the soup and Darris fixed up the handheld.
"It's cold," Darrin said of the soup. "You might want to look at it first," he said, sounding skeptical.
Yeah. That wasn't going to work.
I was getting dizzy now, and I knew I was in a brand new place.
"Well," I said, "there's a first time for everything," and I sat down on the grate.
"Do you want a chair," Robin asked?
"No."
I still knew the difference between bad and tragic, and I was still getting out of that aid station in five minutes or less.
"It's just ... it's the HEAT," I said. "I've never been here in the light before. I've had to run so many exposed sections that I've never run in the heat of the day before."
They understood. They knew what I had been trying to do, knew even that I was here, at Pine Hollow, hours before I had ever been in the past. I didn't need to say more, and for once, I didn’t.
"Crackers!" I shouted. "Saltines. I can do saltines."
Michael ran to get saltines, but they didn't have any.
Someone said to try a potato. The mere thought of a potato made me want to vomit. Darris demanded that I eat. I received, and accepted, a baggie of salted potatoes.
I write descriptively, but all these things took a mere four minutes.
"Well, that's enough feeling sorry for myself," I said, and I stood up, and I headed out.
As I headed out, I heard Darris screaming, saw him chasing me down the hill.
"Your headlamp!" he shouted, as I took it in defeat.
I was supposed to get to Covered Bridge before dark. This was a huge deal to me. I had really wanted to get there before dark. I had so wanted to get there before dark.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too," I said, as my stomach collapsed and I ran into the woods to lose it again.
He waited for me, and grabbed my hand before I headed back to the course.
"You know I'm going to have to walk again," I said.
"Star, you're still doing great," he said.
I headed into the woods, and a darkness far deeper than the one that night would bring.
***
I was going to have to walk from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge. I had just lost my stomach - again - I was nauseous - again - I was cramping up, the gel had made me sick and it was still 80 something friggin' degrees out and I was chafed in ways I shall not discuss.
I started with the chafing, after I came upon a guy in the woods discretely trying to fix himself up.
Control the conversation, I thought.
I tried my first piece of ginger and immediately spit it out. I hate ginger.
I'm walking, and I'm cursing myself for it.
I try running a gentle downhill and start dry heaving and retching.
So I'm walking, and I hate it.
And I know that I can't run 26 more miles on ... what have I even eaten lately? ... and suddenly I think the potatoes might maybe taste kind of good. Like an unfried French fry, right?
I take a potato out of the bag and take a solid sized bite out of it.
And it is raw.
Raw.
And I am gagging and retching and dry heaving. Just the thought of the fact that it's raw brings on another burpy/gaggy combo thing.
"DAMN IT!" I scream, and this time, I barely fight back the tears.
I spit the potato out and put the rest of the baggie in my back pocket.
And there, somewhere around mile 76, I officially give up.
***
"What did I do wrong?" I asked.
I still don't know who I was asking. God? Myself? My stomach? The course? The sun that was sinking but somehow just as blinding?
"This sucks," I thought.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound tough. "I am OVER you."
Who was I over? Myself? The race? My pipe dreams of being a bad ass? Fine. FINE. It's true, I thought. Here it is, in print, on paper, for posterity. IN WRITING.
I don't just run these for the accomplishment. I don't just run these for belt buckles and shirts. I realized the year that I came back from the extra six miles that I had an outside chance at being kind of good at this. And I LIKE being kind of good at this. I'm competitive, and I want to know who's going to be there, and I want to know what I have to do to run faster than them.
I can't yet say I run these to win. But I expect myself to run them fast. Noticeably fast.
And this year, I worked my ass off. I had worked harder than I had ever worked, I was more ready than I had ever been, and I honestly wasn't planning to settle for anything short of top three.
I wrote my pace chart for 19:19, with the hopes that "second half Star" would haul my ass to a sub-19 in those last 20 miles.
It wasn't going to happen. Even if my stomach turned around, I was running out of real estate.
I was bargaining, bargaining. Arguing with myself, and arguing with her, her being Burning River. I was angry with her, disillusioned by her. I just couldn't believe it was ending this way. After all these years, after all that work, here I was - second half Star, dumb and disillusioned enough to actually envision herself a contender - walking. Walking to the damn Covered Bridge.
Star (to self): It's going to take a long time to get over this.
Petulant silence.
Star: Who did you think you were, anyway? This is exactly what you get for that ego. You've said for weeks that you knew something could go wrong, you knew "anything could happen out there," you knew that you could be the one to get sick, to go down, to be the unexpected drop. What was it all about? Lip service? Cause here it is. Here you are. You got fried by the heat, something went awry with your nutrition or your stomach, maybe it's all three, but you are MESSED UP. It ain't gonna be you today, baby.
Indulgent Star: But I don't care. I DON'T CARE. It's just not worth feeling this bad for this long.
Scrappy Star: Don't you do this. Don't you dare.
Indulgent Star: Please, please. I'm sick, and I'm tired, and I'm tired of being sick, and I'm bored, and this sucks, and I have FOUGHT and I have FOUGHT and I have FOUGHT and it just isn't going to work today. PLEASE!
Scrappy Star: You will not do this. Not here. Not on Wetmore.
Indulgent Star: Fine, so I'll walk? Wow, what fun! I'll walk 25 damn miles to the finish, and I'll get 22-something, and everyone will clap and say "oh, wow, Star you're great," and I'll know that I'm a coward, and I gave up on the way to stupid Wetmore, and my stupid legs won't even be sore tomorrow, and I'll walk around the awards ceremony like a fraud, bending my knees like nothing ever happened? Hell no. I'm sick, and I'm sick of being sick, and I'm sick enough to drop, and I'm doing it at Covered Bridge.
Scrappy Star: So you've done everything?
Indulgent Star: Yes. Yes, I swear. Besides, I can't even eat enough to get me through anymore.
Scrappy Star: True, true. And you've thought about the car ride home tomorrow?
(Original) Star: Oh for the love of God, ENOUGH already. Your time is NOT bad. Your time is not going to be BAD if you end up having to walk the rest of the way. What are you going to learn from this? ARE you going to learn from this? Do you quit when it's not your day to be the rock star? Do you quit when it's not your day to be the hero? You got Umstead; you got the scrappy finish after the extra six miles a few years ago. You really think your friends are going to stop respecting you because you couldn't deliver the sucker punch this time? Be disappointed in you over a couple of digits? Yeah, sure, little lady. You, the one that wrote that sappy ass posting to your girls about "my love for you is so much greater than anything a clock or a finish line could say?" You, the one that so convincingly explained to Courtney why she should run the USATF race instead of the general one? All that bs about soul searching and strength and courage and finding yourself? You're really ready for this, tough girl? The big DNF? All over a couple of digits?
Indulgent Star: No, no it's not about that! I'm just so tired of feeling so bad. I'm so lonely, I'm so tired, I've dug so much today I'm downright hollow. I can't dig anymore because there's nothing more THERE. Don't you understand? I'm just out of strength today.
(Original) Star: Aren't a lot of people? Wasn't your dad? Didn't Rick just lose his wife? Sorry, but this is just running. And you're going to throw away all that work to act like a spoiled brat that isn't getting her way today? Choke down some food, drink your damn coffee at the bridge, and run a real 100 for once. None of this "I played around for 80 miles and decided to blow out the tubes at the end" bullshit. See what you've got when the tubes are blown out and you have to keep going. Come on, I dare you. I dare you to finally feel one of these.
Indulgent Star: I really don't know how much more there is.
(Original) Star: Then I guess it's time to find out.
***
You may be in a time warp at this point; in reality, only about ten minutes had passed since I left Darris and set foot to trail from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge. I decided I would try taking the ginger like aspirin since the flavor was so foul, and chased two pieces with watered down ginger ale.
It stayed. I tried another sip of the beverage.
I silently thanked the stranger who had written it down somewhere.
I unzipped the pocket on my handheld, took out the razz Clif Shot.
"I know you're not going to like this," I said out loud, "but I'm doing it for your own good."
It took about three minutes for the burping and retching to stop, and I knew I had to get to the Covered Bridge before dark.
I would almost make it. There were sections I had to walk to calm my stomach, but there were a couple of sections that were actually cool(er), and though it was dusk when I reached the cornfields at Bolanz ("Corn!" I shouted), it was light enough that I could see. For the first year ever, I could see the divets and holes in the single track beside the cornfield, and I was able to save my ankles the beating they've taken there so many times before. I had to turn on my headlamp about ten minutes out from Covered Bridge, a small defeat, but the dusk provided enough light that I was able to just carry it in my hand to light the sections I was unsure of, a small victory.
A man met me not long after the railroad tracks, telling me Covered Bridge was not far ahead.
"About how far would you say?" I called back.
"Five minutes?" he said. "Maybe faster the way you're moving."
He will never know what that simple exchange did for me.
I ran onto the Covered Bridge into the collective warmth of Darris, Robin, Tanya, Rob Powell, Terri and Mark Lemke. Darris and Robin looked at me, tried to assess where we were at. We were all, after all, in new territory.
"I'm not going to lay down and play dead," I said, with the best smirk I could muster. I would later learn that this phrase would be thrown back and forth throughout the night.
Darris got me my iced coffee and my donut and I went straight back out. I knew the donut and coffee were an absolutely ridiculously lethal idea, but at that point ...
Rachel. I was headed out on the loop, and Rachel was coming back in. She looked amazing. Strong, focused, determined. Bad ass.
Rachel was running second place and was a woman on a mission.
I was trying to pull the scraps of my race back together, and face to face with a dear friend, a friend I had shared so many miles and experiences with ... and a friend who was running the race that I had dreamed about.
And I understood now, after my long conversation with myself on my way here, that it was Rachel's day to be the rock star. Rachel's day to be the hero.
And you have to be one of us to understand that nothing in the world could have made me happier than getting to see her have that day. True, genuine happiness.
And you also have to be one of us to understand why on earth, in the middle of all of this, we would stop in our tracks, hug each other, and say "I love you."
Rachel would tell me the next day that I had no idea how much she needed that hug right then.
Me too, Rachel.
Back to the coffee.
Yeah, it was like battery acid on my stomach, but it tasted soooo good.
I shared the donut with the bats. A bite for me, a bite for them. A bite for me, a bite for them. I saw five this year. I love the sound their wings make. I know I should be a little bit of afraid of them, maybe grossed out by them, but I'm not. I'm very cool with my bat brothers and sisters.
Perkins was difficult this year. I am used to hitting Perkins fired up and on a mission. I think, in the past, this has led to a false impression of the topography. Good Lord, I finally understood Perkins this year. You couldn't have convinced me we weren't at altitude on those climbs, in a mud wrestling pit through the muck, at Barkley when I was bushwacking through some of the fallen branches, tree trunks and trail paraphernalia. "Where the hell is the runnable part?" I kept thinking. "Don't I usually tell people that parts of this are actually runnable?"
Yeah, I'm crazy like that.
So I'm hiking, and retching, and dry heaving here and there, and there's finally this wicked steep downhill and I pretend I'm Stevie-Z at Western States when he ran away from me. I was certainly not as fast as him, but surprisingly, it was enough to get me moving again.
I'm running again. Not the slow run-jog-just going to make it happen thing I had been doing earlier in the day, but running. Moving. I revel in it. I look up at the stars. I wonder if maybe, just maybe, an hour is all I'll lose. After all, I think, I do pad the chart pretty heavily on the back end. And after this long, long day, I was still only an hour late to Covered Bridge. Can I hold on? Can I ...
It's not possible. Is that what I think it is?
No, there's no way. The day was too far gone. And my fits, and my temper tantrums, and my stomach and the heat. And the blurred vision, and the brief visions, and the conversations and the rationalizations and the excuses and the justifications and the compromises.
By the time I reached the Covered Bridge, I was okay with it, and I didn't care anymore. I was going to run, I was going to use everything I possibly could, but I knew I was just getting to the finish today. I had known that I had to make peace with just getting to the finish today, and with that being okay today. And I had.
But I also had experience. And strength born of that experience. And though "second half Star" wasn't looking as glamorous as she has in the past, she was pulling her weight the very best that she could. And late on the Perkins Loop, against what had seemed like all odds for so many miles, she moved into third place.
I felt badly doing it, and offered Chris my encouragement on the way by. She put down an incredible performance for her first 100, and we will be duly frightened of her in the future.
But I did what I had to do convincingly, and from then on, I was all in.
I flew through the night and came tearing back onto the bridge.
"I moved into third seventeen minutes ago," I said, "so I'm taking everything on the road." Robin handed me my soup; Darris handed me a new water bottle and checked that I had gels. Fifteen seconds, tops, and I was gone.
Two minutes up the hill, I realized we had forgotten my Advil for the second time. I was supposed to get it the first time through Covered Bridge ... I had meant to remind them when I got back to Covered Bridge ...
"It looks like we'll be having a natural childbirth," I thought sarcastically, as my right IT band made itself known right on cue.
Soon after, I made the startling discovery that my pulverized feet actually felt better when I was running. So I got to alternate between different kinds of pain. I was running quite well again, but still had to hike the steepest uphills and the more technical sections in the woods. When I did that, my feet would scream in agony; when I ran, my quads and IT band were on fire. I began chanting "Advil, Advil, Advil, Advil" to myself so I wouldn't forget at Merriman.
I asked for the water/ginger ale mix at O'Neil Woods, but got straight ginger ale. The sugar made mye stomach go haywire but I was seriously past caring at that point. As I approached the first stretch of towpath, that would include Botzum, I announced to myself that this would be the toughest thing I had done yet today, but there would be no walking for the next 2.5 miles to Merriman. There was some swearing at my IT band, but no walking.
I saw Robin and Darris for the last time, along with Mike Nicholson, mini-Rad and some others. I got my Advil, a top-off of the water/ginger mix and some chicken broth to go. I was allowed to walk long enough to get the broth down, and it was back to work. The broth did not sit well and the umpteenth round of dry heaving and retching began. It was the slowest progress I've made on the three mile stretch of towpath from Merriman to Memorial to date, but I did not give in. When I saw the "one mile to Memorial" marker, I turned the ipod on in my head and made serious work of it. (Thanks, Gaga). Two miles were long, but damn was I proud of that last one.
One more ginger-water.
One more gel.
One more section, and the Advil had finally kicked in.
My watch read 19:30, and at the very least, I had achieved my compromise goal. If everything went to hell again and I had to walk the last five miles, I would still break 21 hours. I would have a PR on the course, maybe even the Blackford family best.
But I hadn't come this far to settle for the compromise goal, and even if I had to crawl, I would get it. So I decided right then and there, choking that gel down as I headed up Uhler, that I was going to spend those last five miles reducing myself to a crawl. Come hell or high water, vomit or collapse, tree trunk or staircase, I was putting everything, every single ounce of every single thing I hadn't been able to use that day, into those last five miles. I was going to play, I was going to hurt, I was going to celebrate.
I was done compromising.
My heart rate was skyrocketing, but finally, in the right way. I flew down the road to the Chuckery. Flew onto the turn by the Signal Tree. Flew down the single track along the river.
The river. I was flying along the river. My legs were loose, spongy after the Advil. I was breathing in deep, full breaths of the night air. I was flying along the river.
She was rushing and babbling beside me.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she said.
"I don't understand then, why?"
"I was just in a bad mood today. I woke up feeling hot and humid and way too sunny and I took it out on you. I didn't do it to be cruel, you were just there and that's how it happened today. It really wasn't you."
"I tried to be good. I thought I was smart, I was patient, I tried to stay cool. I really tried everything today."
"Star, you were good. You were great. Why are you always so hard on yourself?"
"I don't know. I still have things to figure out."
"Stop being so mad at yourself."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I just thought it was going to be so different."
"You have to stop punishing yourself."
"It wasn't a punishment."
"You know you're not over it yet."
"I might not ever be over it."
"You loved this before you couldn't have a baby. You can't use it as punishment because you can't."
"That's NOT what I did."
"Just be careful, Star. Because you haven't done anything wrong."
"I won't let you make me cry tonight."
"Are we going to be okay?"
"Yeah. We're going to be okay."
***
I staggered up the stairs. How many were there? 200 over all the different sets?
I staggered between staircases like a zombie.
I pushed.
I saw the electrical towers, my body screaming at me, screaming at me to stop. Taunting me, that I had walked so many times earlier, why couldn't I do it now? Please, Star, just one step? Just one walking step? I'm so tired, I'm flailing, gasping, pounding, aching, hurting.
Nope.
I'm looking for the lights on the Front Street, and all I see are towers. More and more towers. Flailing, gasping, pounding.
Lights.
Left hand turn.
Climb.
Run.
RUN.
Sheraton.
No. No crying. Not yet.
Clock.
Cheering.
Stop.
***
I really wasn't sure I would see the finish line this year. This was my fifth 100 miler, but the first one where the finish was ever in doubt.
I thought I had suffered in my previous 100's. I was wrong. I'd merely had some rough patches. Kevin O'Grady, you were right. I get it now.
Darris got cheated, having to crew for me this year. Even though I tried to be tough and put on a brave face at the aid stations, I know it couldn't have been fun. Darris, you were amazing out there. If you were worried, I never knew, and that was perhaps the greatest gift you could have given me. I never once felt as if you were frustrated with me or didn't believe in me.
Darris and Robin were waiting for me at the finish. I was in tears before I crossed the line, and they just kept coming. After gathering them into a tight hug, I announced that I needed to lay down, right there, on the pavement, immediately. Somehow, Robin got me wrapped in some blankets, and they helped me stagger over to the steps next to Rachel.
We were stretched out like corpses on the steps, wet, clammy and mummified in our blankets.
Rachel and I placed second and third, respectively, in the open race and the national championships. Rachel ran a blistering time of 19:36, and I followed behind not too much later in 20:17.
I could not be more proud or happy for either one of us. Nor could I be any more certain that both of our performances were profoundly impacted by the love, support and unwavering belief of the men in our lives, not just during the race, but each and every day we have together.
I stretched out on the stairs beside Rachel, looking up at the stars, and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I had done everything I could. When I would look at my final split later that morning, I would be in shock.
9:48.
That's the number. That's how far I'm able to go.
I averaged 9:48 per mile from miles 96 to 100.8. And that included almost 200 stairs. 200 stairs after 100 miles.
9:48.
That's the only number I ever need to know.
And I have never been more proud of any race I've run.
***
Darris had a much easier time getting to sleep in those early morning hours. I was sick, of course, and this time, not even able to suck on Skittles. So I pondered. I would say I tossed and turned, but it would be a lie, as movement was pretty much restricted to turning my head to the left or the right on the pillow. Anything else required far too much energy.
I heard her calling me, one last time.
"Don't go to bed mad at me."
"I stopped being mad a long time ago. I could never stay mad at you for that long."
"You said some pretty mean things out there."
"Yeah, well, you did some pretty mean things out there."
"So you'll still come back next year?"
"I can't promise that right now. You really messed me up this time. But you're still my girl."
"You really earned it this time."
"I know."
"I made you work for it this time."
"That's an understatement."
"You were ready. It was time."
"I never knew it could hurt like that."
"Now you do. And next time, you'll be ready."
"I can't go there yet."
"I know."
"This isn't a love song."
"I know. Good night, Star."
"Good night, Burning River. I love you too."
Star, you may be even a better writer than a runner. I was so engaged in this report, start to finish. Wow!
ReplyDeleteYou capture your races so eloquently Star. I am so glad you pulled through on such a tough day and performed so well. To those of us watching from the sidelines you would never have realized your struggle. I think in time this will be remembered as one of your finest performances. You really crushed it despite all the stomach issues.
ReplyDeleteAnd I had no doubt you would be top three long before the start.
You have no idea how much I needed this post. When things get tough at Ironman (and in my life), I'm going to remember this. Thank you Star for coming back into my life right at the right time.
ReplyDeleteSo amazing!
ReplyDelete