I just came across this email I sent to friends a decade ago, a couple days after I ran a 50K ultramarathon race in Upstate New York. It is hard to believe that I was once a person who could run for so many hours straight, without vomiting. For the past two years, I have barely been able to manage a light jog because of chronic lower back pain. I finally had an MRI of my spine taken earlier this year and discovered all sorts of arthritis and degenerative discs. But my doctor says I should still be able to run. More recently I figured out a lot of the pain has had to with working at home while sitting in an attractive but ergonomically incorrect chair (duh). The thing I didn't point out in my email, and which is so key, is that I went through a lot to cross that finish line. Not just in the training, but in my personal life as well.
Last week I read this quote from "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" (I have not read the full book yet), and it deeply resonated with me: "To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. Here’s where things grow." So I am going to try to start running — and writing — again. Again.
Sent: Monday, July 8, 2013 4:21 AM
Subject: Re: my 50K
Here is a long, boring synopsis of what happened. Please skip to the last few paragraphs if you just want to get down to business.
Like I said, I really didn't know what to expect. The course was 33 challenging miles through a forest, with a bonus 1292-feet climb for each of the two loops. I did some math and figured, if I ran super strong with no issues, maybe I'd make it in just under eight hours. But given the heat, humidity, my inexperience with racing (the last race I trained for was a 5K when I was in high school x-country), and let us not forget the vomit-factor, I estimated possibly nine hours, maybe more. My goal, mostly, was to not hit the dreaded "wall" and to not let anyone see me throw up. If there's no witnesses, it didn't happen, right?
At 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, a full hour and a half before the start, a man came through the campsite, bellowing our wake up call while ringing a cowbell. This was not pleasant. It had rained a bit overnight, which helped cool things down, but as I pulled myself together, it was still warm and very humid. I had slept roughly 30 minutes due to an ill-placed slope under my sleeping bag and spent quite a bit of time peering into the firefly-sparked darkness, listening to hooting owls, thinking about Yoda and the surrounding energy field that binds all living things. I actually think the exhaustion worked to my benefit as I didn’t have enough energy to get nervous about the impending challenge.
Typically, the best strategy for running ultras as a beginner is to start conservatively. Zandy, an amazing ultrarunner whom I had keenly observed for so long and had given me invaluable tips throughout my training — not to mention whose fault it was that I had even signed up inspired me to race, pointed out that the course would be single track for much of it, so it might help to not get stuck behind in the field of 150 or so runners. His advice made perfect sense, especially since I hate crowds. So when they said go, I took off. And as soon as we got on the single track, I slowed way the f down.
I love trail running, and this course was ideal. From the beginning, we were climbing, a steady, gradual incline. Some runners like the interval run/walk approach, say 10 minutes running, one minute walking. But I lose track of time too easily, so I stuck to the “run the flats/downhills, walk the uphills” method. It feels more instinctual to me, to just go with what the terrain gives you — not entirely unlike with the ocean and surfing, actually. So I welcomed the uphills, which gave me a chance to “rest,” and made up time by staying loose and letting gravity pull me on the downhills. Fearlessly bounding down hills is thrilling.
Inside the shaded forest and out across expansive cow fields, there were moments during the race where I would just break out into a stupid grin because it was so lush and beautiful. It was the course of my dreams; ups, downs, switchbacks, all on lovely, soft earth — oftentimes sticky, goopy mud. I know many runners accustomed to road racing complained about this after, but I didn’t mind. It just made things more interesting. At points, I literally got the chills from being so excited. This may also have just been a symptom of dehydration.
When I finished the first loop (~16.5 miles) and ran through the campsite, I was elated. My time: 3:07. Half way done and still feeling good. No vomit, no upset stomach. Then about four miles later, sudden cramping. I had become dehydrated (I made four pit stops on during the race, like full-on, due to all the medjool dates and nuts I was feeding on. And pee should not be the color mine was.) So at the next aid station, I downed four cups of water and refilled my 12 oz. water bottle. Belly distended, this is the closest I came to throwing up, BUT I DIDN’T.
At this point I started making calculations again. By the time I reached the third aid station, I was about six miles into my last loop. When I hit the fifth station, I had just completed my first marathon distance. Again, I did my best imitation of a mad hatter. I only had seven miles left — not bad! It was equidistant to a loop around my Central Park training grounds. I pushed on, even though I was starting to feel it, and it finally occurred to me, if I could run these seven miles in 1:15, which was normal during training, I might finish this whole thing in seven hours! I began to “jack rabbit” — spotting a marker/runner, tracking it like a bunny to keep going, and then picking them off. I passed several men, at least some who I later found out were seasoned ultrarunners. This was not unpleasant. But then the last 2.7 miles came, mostly uphill, and I just couldn’t move fast enough. I wanted to stop. I was all alone, and there was no sight of the finish line as that 1:15 came and went. I cursed in profound disappointment. But I pushed and kept going. A couple minutes later, I turned the corner and holy crap, the finish line was just ahead. I broke into a dead sprint and flew through looking like a deranged beauty queen. Thirty-three miles, somehow, completed. That’s when I turned to a random spectator and asked if they knew what time I had finished. The guy answered, “It’s right there, in giant red numbers.” I looked up and was in disbelief: 6:32:20.
For all the bragging I’ve done in my life about how good I am at math, I fucking added wrong.
For all the bragging I’ve done in my life about how good I am at math, I fucking added wrong.
Overall, I placed 14th in a field of just over 100 runners.
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