Tuesday night softball. Crack. A ball is hit to the gap between center and left field. It is going to drop for sure. I speed towards it. The centerfielder does to. It is going to hit between us and roll. There is no way I can get to it in time. But then again, maybe I can. I shout, “Mine!” and dive just as the centerfielder extends. We collide in a hit worthy of ESPN highlights. The problem: I cannot walk.
Throw on top of that a cold and dead legs from the 35 miler the week before and you have the most unideal setting for a 50 miler. Days of icing and motrin left me still unable to run but the walk moved from a crutch to a hobble, and finally a limp by race morning. I had never been so uninspired for a run. I didn’t pack a GU, baby powder the feet, or Vaseline the bad areas. I just walked to the line 2 minutes before the gun, resolved to run to the end of the dirt road and back. I hobbled my way up the road in complete pain, head down, disappointed that I would DNF another race out of stupid circumstances. But at the road I resolved to go to the first aid station and back. At 6 miles, I figured I could make a lap of 25 miles out of it. At the end of the lap, I just kept going.
The first 25 miles of the race went fairly well for a wounded guy. I kept it slow, promising to learn the pace of the ultra. I ate and hydrated along the most beautiful course I have run. The Colorado River snaked through red-rock canons with green mountains and tall mesas. It was inspiring. When I rolled into the finish line of 25 miles, my buddy Michael cheered me in. He was shocked when I said I was going for it.
Miles later that would prove to be a costly decision. After descending for several miles to the start/finish, runners headed up to the top of the mesa immediately. Luckily, my time was spent chatting with an elite mountain biker running his first 50. We climbed for a while and left the 50K aid station in good spirits. But around 34 miles, I fell behind on a climb and really began to struggle. I was out of water and the heat was building. Instead of clouds and rain like the forecast predicted, we had a hot sun baking us every step of the run. It was hard to tell if my current problems were related to not having enough water or under training. I had been carrying a Camelbak all day. I had done long runs. I wasn’t sure why I was struggling so badly after starting so conservatively. I limped over every rock and was limited to running no more than 50 meters at a time. A team of mountain bikers stopped and let me take a few pulls from their Camelbak and gave me Gu to eat. What felt like an hour later, I jogged in to the aid station and sucked down 40oz of water.
The next 3+ miles were bliss. I was hauling, running nearly the whole stretch. It was the ultimate runner’s high and I had made 41 miles. But leaving the aid station started 3 miles of pain which took far longer than is acceptable. For 44 miles I had favored my right leg and every other part of my body was screaming at me. At the last aid station, a man was sitting down and another was leaving. It was odd to see runners after having not seen anyone for 20 miles. But they both left before I could refuel. The kind volunteer told me it was just a 10k to go and that was nothing! I laughed and looked at the road, then 1000ft. to the top of the mesa and back to the road. If the run were down that road, I told him, it would be no problem. After clipping on my pack my parting words were, “If sitting in this chair were finishing, I’d be the winner.” Then I was off.
Words cannot capture the misery and pain of the next 2 hours. The hike to the summit were the most painful three miles of my career. When the knot in my calf subsided, the nausea started. When that faded, the quads barked. I hated every step. But not as much as I hated the downs. Every switchback was torture, every rock a wall. Then I got off trail, and let me assure you that scrambling down a 50ft slope at 47 miles isn’t a great idea on legs that cannot break. When I finally hit the road, I nearly stopped, feeling as if that were the finish line and the rest was a formality.
But the worst pain was the foot. Every step for 7 hours placed a rock perfectly in the middle of my foot, and pain radiated through my leg. It was like being pricked with a pin once per second for an entire work day. I was going insane from the repeated stabbing. It was the worst feeling in running I have ever had.
Upon crossing the finish line, Brooks greeted me, amazed since he figured I wouldn’t have gone back out (considering he had about 5 miles on me at the turnaround). We talked while resting in chairs and munching on pizza. I was more proud of that finish than of any other single day event in my life. All things being equal:
Could I have finished in the top 10? Yes
Could I have run a PR? Yes
Could I have quit? Yes
But I didn’t. And that’s the only possibility that mattered.
Throw on top of that a cold and dead legs from the 35 miler the week before and you have the most unideal setting for a 50 miler. Days of icing and motrin left me still unable to run but the walk moved from a crutch to a hobble, and finally a limp by race morning. I had never been so uninspired for a run. I didn’t pack a GU, baby powder the feet, or Vaseline the bad areas. I just walked to the line 2 minutes before the gun, resolved to run to the end of the dirt road and back. I hobbled my way up the road in complete pain, head down, disappointed that I would DNF another race out of stupid circumstances. But at the road I resolved to go to the first aid station and back. At 6 miles, I figured I could make a lap of 25 miles out of it. At the end of the lap, I just kept going.
The first 25 miles of the race went fairly well for a wounded guy. I kept it slow, promising to learn the pace of the ultra. I ate and hydrated along the most beautiful course I have run. The Colorado River snaked through red-rock canons with green mountains and tall mesas. It was inspiring. When I rolled into the finish line of 25 miles, my buddy Michael cheered me in. He was shocked when I said I was going for it.
Miles later that would prove to be a costly decision. After descending for several miles to the start/finish, runners headed up to the top of the mesa immediately. Luckily, my time was spent chatting with an elite mountain biker running his first 50. We climbed for a while and left the 50K aid station in good spirits. But around 34 miles, I fell behind on a climb and really began to struggle. I was out of water and the heat was building. Instead of clouds and rain like the forecast predicted, we had a hot sun baking us every step of the run. It was hard to tell if my current problems were related to not having enough water or under training. I had been carrying a Camelbak all day. I had done long runs. I wasn’t sure why I was struggling so badly after starting so conservatively. I limped over every rock and was limited to running no more than 50 meters at a time. A team of mountain bikers stopped and let me take a few pulls from their Camelbak and gave me Gu to eat. What felt like an hour later, I jogged in to the aid station and sucked down 40oz of water.
The next 3+ miles were bliss. I was hauling, running nearly the whole stretch. It was the ultimate runner’s high and I had made 41 miles. But leaving the aid station started 3 miles of pain which took far longer than is acceptable. For 44 miles I had favored my right leg and every other part of my body was screaming at me. At the last aid station, a man was sitting down and another was leaving. It was odd to see runners after having not seen anyone for 20 miles. But they both left before I could refuel. The kind volunteer told me it was just a 10k to go and that was nothing! I laughed and looked at the road, then 1000ft. to the top of the mesa and back to the road. If the run were down that road, I told him, it would be no problem. After clipping on my pack my parting words were, “If sitting in this chair were finishing, I’d be the winner.” Then I was off.
Words cannot capture the misery and pain of the next 2 hours. The hike to the summit were the most painful three miles of my career. When the knot in my calf subsided, the nausea started. When that faded, the quads barked. I hated every step. But not as much as I hated the downs. Every switchback was torture, every rock a wall. Then I got off trail, and let me assure you that scrambling down a 50ft slope at 47 miles isn’t a great idea on legs that cannot break. When I finally hit the road, I nearly stopped, feeling as if that were the finish line and the rest was a formality.
But the worst pain was the foot. Every step for 7 hours placed a rock perfectly in the middle of my foot, and pain radiated through my leg. It was like being pricked with a pin once per second for an entire work day. I was going insane from the repeated stabbing. It was the worst feeling in running I have ever had.
Upon crossing the finish line, Brooks greeted me, amazed since he figured I wouldn’t have gone back out (considering he had about 5 miles on me at the turnaround). We talked while resting in chairs and munching on pizza. I was more proud of that finish than of any other single day event in my life. All things being equal:
Could I have finished in the top 10? Yes
Could I have run a PR? Yes
Could I have quit? Yes
But I didn’t. And that’s the only possibility that mattered.
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