Who knows who will ever read this. There is a part of me
that hopes it is many. And there is a larger part of me that is scared to death
because I have no idea where this is going.
Listen to your body. Listen to your heart. And make sure you
listen to your voice as it says words you’ve buried deep within yourself for
far too long.
Sometimes the training, while faltering at times, comes
together. The nutrition is right, the time has been put in. But on race
morning, the ends don’t all quite match up or meet, and you’re left on the side
of the trail hoping your legs stay under you, and you’ve got enough left to get
to the next aid station.
I wanted to hope I was tough enough. I wanted to hope that
the hills I climbed when I only had 4 hours of sleep and about 60 miles on my
legs from the week prior had calloused me in a way I could only dream. I wanted to hope those mornings, when I would
have rather hit my snooze button, but instead slipped on my dirty shoes, and
created blisters on my heels because I went just a mile more, would have all
kept me going past a point of pain and hurt.
There is a pain runners really don’t talk about though. We
can all discuss the agony that is climbing a two-mile long ascent that never
ceases and causes everything to burn and ache, even still for days after. We
can talk about pushing past the point of exhaustion and fatigue to hit that
second, third, maybe even fourth wind.
But no one talks about the heartache.
I tried to push. And I kept trying. I was lucky enough to
sing in the woods with one of my best friends, she kept me going. I was lucky
enough to hear the words of encouragement from those I admire for their
strength and courage. I was lucky enough to stay standing through 16.7 miles
before my legs just wouldn’t stand up anymore. And I was lucky enough to hold
on until I got home to really let my emotions crumble and break and let it all
come out.
This summer was one of my most difficult summers. I
struggled. More than I thought I would be able to handle. And I had a break
down or two. But I had running. I went into the woods and I ran deliberately,
purposefully, and I left my heart on so many trails and roads. I ran myself
into the ground.
This summer was hard. I worked. A lot. I slept a little. I
was in the car after miles run to get to work on time through three hours of
traffic from home to my new home. I missed a lot of time in that car; way too
much time thinking and creating in my head scenarios to worry. But I had to be
tough. If I made it to the finish line, it would all be ok.
Struggle is a word I don’t want to throw around lightly. And
I don’t even want to say it, as it tastes like vinegar on my lips when I even
write it out on the page. I feel weak just admitting that I have problems. That
I don’t have my life handled the way I would like to. But I am making strides.
Literally and figuratively.
Unfortunately for me, it caught me on the day that I wanted
most to go right. The day I had hoped would be.
I tried to do everything the same. It had worked before.
Same meals, same socks, same hair-do. If I had a constant, I wouldn’t be as
worried about the variables: Was my training enough? Should I have gone another
mile that one day in the rain? Or should I have stopped earlier?
Through four miles, I felt off and was having a hard time
getting a rhythm. But I was with a group of strong women whom I one day hope to
run a little farther with. Through four miles I was hanging on and making plans
in my head on what course of action to take, and still positive I could keep
going, but would have to adjust the race plan. And then I found myself hands on
my knees, gasping for air between awful feelings of nausea, pain, and my whole
plan out the window.
I saw a friend, and I tried to be positive, but it was obvious
on my face that I was not doing well.
“Just have a great day in the woods, Meegs.”
Positive. Get your mind positive, I thought as I rounded
onto the bridge and hoping for relief.
The cheers from the volunteers gave me a boost, and I tried
to sink the feeling of my stomach churning deeper down and out of my body. If
only you could do that.
My legs gave me a little more as I gulped down some
electrolytes and tried to keep myself from burping. But just another mile or so
I saw myself turning and spitting most of that back up and out. It was like I
was floating back and forth, in body to out of body. Quickly, and all at once,
my legs lost everything. I felt weak in the knees, and not the exciting kind
when you see your crush ahead and smile your way. No, this was going to be a
long run. Luckily I had some food with me, and I had gotten electrolyte drink
at the aid station. There was still enough. As long as I could keep getting it
into my system I would be able to keep going. Probably not my smartest thought
ever. I got my legs moving forward. I tried to keep the momentum, tried to
think positively. I started praying. And I just kept praying; every prayer I
ever learned in grade school, every prayer said at Friday mass, every worship
song that came to mind.
Where feet may fail
and fear surrounds me.
I asked my Grandpa for help. I remembered the pictures that
line my walls of his smiling face; I remembered the time he taught me how to
swing a golf club, pitch a baseball, and cast a fishing pole. I remembered the
time I held his hand as he struggled for breath. And all I wanted was his hand
to hold as I was struggling with mine.
I passed through Aid 2 feeling less than adequate, but with
all intentions to finish. My heart was hurting, my eyes were blurry, and I
still was having a hard time keeping nutrients. I got to a really low point. A
point I honestly don’t remember. Things became fuzzy. Life was hazy and blurry.
All I was trying to do was enjoy a day in the woods. I just wanted to get to
the next aid station. I wanted to see my friends. I wanted to stop hurting.
“Buck up Buttercup!!”
It came from behind me, and I smiled, choking back tears.
“What do you need?”
I didn’t want to ask for help. I didn’t want to admit I
needed it. But more importantly I didn’t even know what I needed.
“I don’t know. I can’t… I don’t know.”
“You’re tough as nails girl.”
We sang. We yelled cheerful thoughts, and I choked back
everything I had until she rounded a corner. I was so happy to see her,
striving and thriving through a quick-footed section of the course. I would see
her at the finish. Somehow.
I was asked by others if I was ok, and told that if I were
going to fall I was to yell really loudly.
I promised as much.
An eternity went by and I saw no one I recognized at the
next aid station as I stumbled in.
“Are you ok?”
That is an awful question to ask anyone, especially at the
halfway mark of an ultra-marathon.
How did I even answer this? I filled my water bottle with
more electrolytes, and stepped off the trail and sat down on the ground. And I
just cried. I let it all fall onto that dirt road in the middle of the woods.
And they let me do it.
Volunteers came and checked on me, got me into a chair,
wrapped me into a sweatshirt. A really cute paramedic came and checked on me.
He offered to give me a ride to the finish. But I wouldn’t be able to leave for
a while. Then someone I had only met the night before offered to give me a
ride. He held my hand as we walked to the car, and told me he understood
everything I was feeling. And I could say whatever I wanted.
So I helped him crew for his wife for the rest of the race.
I stood on shaky legs, holding it all together just for a little longer. I
watched an inspiration come through the aid stations and race herself, and
fight through the tough times. She looked at me and I could see the sadness in
her face as she realized for me that I would not be finishing. She walked over
and hugged me.
“You’ve got this lady.”
Her husband ran with her across the bridge, I followed
behind, wrapping the sweatshirt closer to me. Even on a ninety degree day I was
chilled and tired. As I got to the end of the bridge I saw a man in a color I
recognized. I had seen it for many runs over the summer, and it was a most
welcome sight.
He raised his arms above his head and waved.
“I found you!”
He reached his arms around me, one underneath my arm,
picking me up as I just fell into him. I started crying again, and I said I was
sorry.
“I know the feeling.”
I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. And that was
ok. He helped me back to the car, and I just kept trying to stay strong. I told
him what I remembered and what was happening. He got me back to the finish and
we found our friends.
The woman I admire most grabbed me and squeezed so tight. I
was so happy for her, and I wish I had been able to see her finish. I wish I
could have been there for her, just as she was for me.
Let it flow.
We tried to talk it all out. And I tried not to cry in front
of everyone. They checked on me as I was trying to eat. Finally the only thing
that sat somewhat all right was Cherry Garcia ice cream. Luckily, ice cream is
my love language.
We swam, we ate. I was quiet. And just tried to think and
get myself back.
I sat through all the texts the next day, asking how it all
went. I had to answer back and tell them I had to drop out. I got back much
love. Much affection. And I have plans to come back stronger.
It is hard to sift through the pieces and figure out things
that went wrong. Maybe it didn’t go wrong, but it just didn’t come together. It
is hard to work so hard, put in so many hours, and see it slip right out of
your hands and into the woods. The woods you wanted to have fun in. Life hits,
goals get pushed, and sometimes you just have to realize you’re tougher than
that.
I wouldn’t have come out of the woods had it not been for
friends; had it not been for their hands on mine, their jokes with dinner, and
the knowledge of finding the best avocado in store.
I’m trying to sleep. I am trying to write. I am trying.
I’ll be there. And I’ll come back stronger.
“Chin up, girl. You’ll be back.”
Thank you. Everyone. From Race Directors, to friends, to volunteers,
and to my friends who became a family this weekend.
On to more adventures.
Listen to your body. Believe in yourself and all you are
capable of. Trust that you are going to be all right.
Life lessons I learned during a rough race.
But it was a weekend in the woods, so it turned out just
fine.
