Anatomy of a DNF
I had been worried. Worried that I had been working on a fibular stress fracture in my right leg. I hadn't told anyone about it but had done the research. I had all the symptoms supporting the diagnosis. I decided to head to Ohio anyway and hope for the best. This was to be a special run with my brother. It was to be his first 100-mile finish. I need not have worried about the leg.
I left early Friday morning for the long drive to the Mohican State Forest where the race was being held. It was a glorious day, even cool enough to wear a jacket for a time as I sped through the countryside in my little Miata convertible. As the day wore on, I thought about putting the top up to get out of the sun. But, since I had on sunscreen and drank lots of fluid, I figured I'd enjoy the wind-blown look for a little longer.
Upon arriving at the busy campground, host to the start and finish, I found my quite, wooded campsite and happily set up camp. My brother, John, had not yet arrived with his crewman, Chris, and daughter, Hannah. With tent pitched, I grabbed my phone to check messages. I listened to my husband's strained voice falter as he spoke. "Caleb called and it's not good news." My heart stopped.
Caleb has been at Navy basic training since mid-May and has excelled. He has fully embraced the training and scored perfectly on tests. He has been at the top of his division. Now, another physical for the guys in the nuclear engineering program was given. A doctor said he had a very mild case of psoriasis on his scalp. For that, he was immediately removed from his division and the Navy is processing his discharge from the military. End of discussion. How could this be? How could this be?
With trembling fingers, I called Gary. As he filled me in on the details, another phone rang in the background. "Let me take care of this situation," Gary said. I had a sickening feeling. It must be Seth. It was. Last week, Seth's Mac Book was destroyed with an unfortunate encounter with moisture. A photographer without a computer is like a cook without a stove. Now the news was that his professional camera and expensive lens had been stolen. No insurance. That is like a cook without the entire kitchen.
Within just a few moments, the stupid race lost its appeal. No draw at all. I wanted to get in my car and run home to cry on my husband's shoulder. I knew it wouldn't help but it would make me feel better. I felt so lonely, so isolated, so helpless sitting on that rustic picnic table. Lord, I cried out, what are you trying to do? What are your trying to teach us? I lost my appetite. I felt sick. I cried.
In time and still waiting for John to arrive, I drove to the pre-race dinner. In my arms I carried a box of new books that I hoped to sell. But the place was a zoo and not conducive to such things. I looked for familiar faces and saw none. With dinner behind schedule, I chose to hide in a corner and charge my now-dying phone. I wished there to be a plug for me as well.
My brother and company arrived and showed me love and sympathy. At their urging, I stood in line for the few rotini noodles that remained along with a little bit of salad. I drank one glass of whatever it was. That was my tasteless and meager dinner. The pre-race briefing that followed was just as disappointing, my disposition perhaps clouding my judgment. There didn't seem to be a lot of substance or helpful course information. We slipped out before the crowd.
Back at camp, I tried to think through drop bags. I couldn't focus. It was like wallowing in mud. Eventually, I decided on two bags for aid stations inaccessible to crew. Just a pair of socks and a different shirt. I mindlessly filled my hydration pack making sure to carry plenty of electrolytes. I was sure to need them. I brushed my teeth and drank a little bit of water before retreating to my tent.
Alone again, I cried out to God. I wondered how Caleb must be feeling, isolated from his division, his promising career being yanked out from under him.. . . and just when he had found his passion and started to excel. And Seth, my goodness. . .the lessons he has had to learn in the past few weeks. I ached for my boys; ached so hard it hurt. What more could go wrong? Drunk, arguing couples, yelling and screaming. That's what. Besides my mother's angst, the racous outside my tent and down the hollow robbed me of much needed sleep. I figure I restlessly slept for 30 minutes.
John and I took to the start line. Someone said "go" so we did. I took small sips of my electrolyte drink often. I knew I had to if I was to survive the predicted heat and humidity. At about six miles, we stopped briefly to pee. I was surprised. I could only produce a trickle and it was nearly brown. Uh-oh. At mile 11, I felt my left calf quiver. Double uh-oh. I upped my drinking and chewed on more electrolyte blocks.
John and I talked as we ran, catching up on family news and events that get lost when living miles apart. We enjoyed seeing our crew and appreciated what they did for us. I ate what I could and tried to drink substantial amounts of fluid when we saw them and at other aid stations. The 23 miles of road, some exposed to the sun, found me having to draw up to a walk with increasing cramping after short distances of running. It was in the 90s with equal humidity.
I looked forward to the crew-inaccessible aid stations with hopes of a variety of food and cold, cold drink. I was disappointed more times than not. I pulled out every trick in the book to get a handle on my fluid and food intake. My pee continued to get darker and the drips minimal. I was worried. A knife-like pain was in my distended stomach. I puked about ten times in succession and for the moment, felt better. Maybe I could pull this out after all.
At 52 miles, we met our crew. I sat so I didn't fall. I was so hot yet had chill bumps. I forced myself to drink, made easier with ice availability. The standard chips, pretzels, some chocolate chip cookies, and a few PB&J sandwiches had no appeal. But, when Chris handed me an apple, it tasted great-especially when I added some peanut butter. I took more electrolytes before heading across the road and down the other side.
Within the next mile or two, I noticed that the cramping in my calves, hanstrings, hands, and even my chest muscles was subsiding. We ran for extended periods of time. My legs even felt strong. It looked like I finally got my electrolytes levels worthy of muscle function. And yet, I struggled still to eat or drink, gagging every time. Pulling into the next aid station, I entertained them with throwing up whatever was left in my stomach. It was like I was renting the food; not using it. I was sad and distraught. I sobbed, little wussy girl that I was.
The miles seemed to be so long. The tank was empty. My gut hurt with the impact of downhill running. Back at the start/finish, which was also mile 65, the only thing I could think about was quitting and getting a shower to relieve the pain in my privates. I could not bear to think about struggling on in this 102 mile race. I know that things don't always get worse and found that to be true when my cramping went away. Still, I had not been able to eat, drink, and keep down much of anything for the last 32 miles. My pee was scant and dark yellow, the agonizing sting indicative of acidity-induced chaffing.Why should I think anything would change for the next 37?
Then, there was my brother. He had been letting me lead. I was jealous of the way he was able to eat and drink and even envied his clear, frequent, and copious amounts of urine. Yes, we had thirteen hours to do 37 miles. Should be so easy. But still, if my tank was empty and I never rebounded, I could easily ruin his buckle quest. I was tired. I was distraught. If I tried to go on, my failure might induce his. I apologized for my weakness and watched him run off into the darkness.
At 28:01 into the race, my brother and his daughter crossed the line. Tears poured out of his eyes as he ran into my arms. Hannah cried as well, looking at him and saying, "Happy Father's Day." John was exhausted, his feet a mess. But he did it. I could not have been more proud.
As I looked around the finish line, I revisited the "what ifs." What if I kept going? What if I suddenly found the magic bullet and cured my stomach? What if I could have embraced another dozen hours of pain and persistence to achieve the finish line, those hours so insignificant in the context of a lifetime? I guess I'll never know. With final good-byes, I got in my car, turned on the air conditioning to escape the heat, and started the long journey home.
Postscript:
Though I feel like a failure, there are lessons to be learned. First, I likely went into the race dehydrated. That, I should have anticipated and fixed. Second, despite all the experience in the world and trying to do the right thing, sometimes the body just doesn't cooperate. Third, you have to be totally engaged mentally. 100-milers take a 100% commitment: mind, body, and soul. I don't think I was there. The stress of knowing Caleb (and Seth's) situation weighed heavily. The significance of fighting on to complete the last third of the race seemed unimportant in the big picture. Now, should I have been able to set that aside since there was nothing I could do to "fix" things? Probably. Would it have been wise continue all things considered? Unknown.
As I watched finishers take the final steps, I wondered how many thought "no way" at some point during the race yet continued on. Maybe I should have let John go on and then continued my own race behind him. That way, he would not have felt obligated to stay with me and I could have tested my outer limits. But alas, my surmising does little good now. I came home, tail tucked, another DNF in the history books.
By the way, Caleb sits alone awaiting a final decision from the Navy. He is asking for a second opinion since a dermatologist that saw him in his high school years said it was merely a form of dermatitis. (The two look the same.) Three days of ointment application has cleared up all symptoms. There will likely be an appeal. This is one fight we cannot give up.
I left early Friday morning for the long drive to the Mohican State Forest where the race was being held. It was a glorious day, even cool enough to wear a jacket for a time as I sped through the countryside in my little Miata convertible. As the day wore on, I thought about putting the top up to get out of the sun. But, since I had on sunscreen and drank lots of fluid, I figured I'd enjoy the wind-blown look for a little longer.
Upon arriving at the busy campground, host to the start and finish, I found my quite, wooded campsite and happily set up camp. My brother, John, had not yet arrived with his crewman, Chris, and daughter, Hannah. With tent pitched, I grabbed my phone to check messages. I listened to my husband's strained voice falter as he spoke. "Caleb called and it's not good news." My heart stopped.Caleb has been at Navy basic training since mid-May and has excelled. He has fully embraced the training and scored perfectly on tests. He has been at the top of his division. Now, another physical for the guys in the nuclear engineering program was given. A doctor said he had a very mild case of psoriasis on his scalp. For that, he was immediately removed from his division and the Navy is processing his discharge from the military. End of discussion. How could this be? How could this be?
With trembling fingers, I called Gary. As he filled me in on the details, another phone rang in the background. "Let me take care of this situation," Gary said. I had a sickening feeling. It must be Seth. It was. Last week, Seth's Mac Book was destroyed with an unfortunate encounter with moisture. A photographer without a computer is like a cook without a stove. Now the news was that his professional camera and expensive lens had been stolen. No insurance. That is like a cook without the entire kitchen.
Within just a few moments, the stupid race lost its appeal. No draw at all. I wanted to get in my car and run home to cry on my husband's shoulder. I knew it wouldn't help but it would make me feel better. I felt so lonely, so isolated, so helpless sitting on that rustic picnic table. Lord, I cried out, what are you trying to do? What are your trying to teach us? I lost my appetite. I felt sick. I cried.
In time and still waiting for John to arrive, I drove to the pre-race dinner. In my arms I carried a box of new books that I hoped to sell. But the place was a zoo and not conducive to such things. I looked for familiar faces and saw none. With dinner behind schedule, I chose to hide in a corner and charge my now-dying phone. I wished there to be a plug for me as well.
My brother and company arrived and showed me love and sympathy. At their urging, I stood in line for the few rotini noodles that remained along with a little bit of salad. I drank one glass of whatever it was. That was my tasteless and meager dinner. The pre-race briefing that followed was just as disappointing, my disposition perhaps clouding my judgment. There didn't seem to be a lot of substance or helpful course information. We slipped out before the crowd.
Back at camp, I tried to think through drop bags. I couldn't focus. It was like wallowing in mud. Eventually, I decided on two bags for aid stations inaccessible to crew. Just a pair of socks and a different shirt. I mindlessly filled my hydration pack making sure to carry plenty of electrolytes. I was sure to need them. I brushed my teeth and drank a little bit of water before retreating to my tent.
Alone again, I cried out to God. I wondered how Caleb must be feeling, isolated from his division, his promising career being yanked out from under him.. . . and just when he had found his passion and started to excel. And Seth, my goodness. . .the lessons he has had to learn in the past few weeks. I ached for my boys; ached so hard it hurt. What more could go wrong? Drunk, arguing couples, yelling and screaming. That's what. Besides my mother's angst, the racous outside my tent and down the hollow robbed me of much needed sleep. I figure I restlessly slept for 30 minutes.
John and I took to the start line. Someone said "go" so we did. I took small sips of my electrolyte drink often. I knew I had to if I was to survive the predicted heat and humidity. At about six miles, we stopped briefly to pee. I was surprised. I could only produce a trickle and it was nearly brown. Uh-oh. At mile 11, I felt my left calf quiver. Double uh-oh. I upped my drinking and chewed on more electrolyte blocks.
John and I talked as we ran, catching up on family news and events that get lost when living miles apart. We enjoyed seeing our crew and appreciated what they did for us. I ate what I could and tried to drink substantial amounts of fluid when we saw them and at other aid stations. The 23 miles of road, some exposed to the sun, found me having to draw up to a walk with increasing cramping after short distances of running. It was in the 90s with equal humidity.
I looked forward to the crew-inaccessible aid stations with hopes of a variety of food and cold, cold drink. I was disappointed more times than not. I pulled out every trick in the book to get a handle on my fluid and food intake. My pee continued to get darker and the drips minimal. I was worried. A knife-like pain was in my distended stomach. I puked about ten times in succession and for the moment, felt better. Maybe I could pull this out after all.
At 52 miles, we met our crew. I sat so I didn't fall. I was so hot yet had chill bumps. I forced myself to drink, made easier with ice availability. The standard chips, pretzels, some chocolate chip cookies, and a few PB&J sandwiches had no appeal. But, when Chris handed me an apple, it tasted great-especially when I added some peanut butter. I took more electrolytes before heading across the road and down the other side.
Within the next mile or two, I noticed that the cramping in my calves, hanstrings, hands, and even my chest muscles was subsiding. We ran for extended periods of time. My legs even felt strong. It looked like I finally got my electrolytes levels worthy of muscle function. And yet, I struggled still to eat or drink, gagging every time. Pulling into the next aid station, I entertained them with throwing up whatever was left in my stomach. It was like I was renting the food; not using it. I was sad and distraught. I sobbed, little wussy girl that I was.
The miles seemed to be so long. The tank was empty. My gut hurt with the impact of downhill running. Back at the start/finish, which was also mile 65, the only thing I could think about was quitting and getting a shower to relieve the pain in my privates. I could not bear to think about struggling on in this 102 mile race. I know that things don't always get worse and found that to be true when my cramping went away. Still, I had not been able to eat, drink, and keep down much of anything for the last 32 miles. My pee was scant and dark yellow, the agonizing sting indicative of acidity-induced chaffing.Why should I think anything would change for the next 37?
Then, there was my brother. He had been letting me lead. I was jealous of the way he was able to eat and drink and even envied his clear, frequent, and copious amounts of urine. Yes, we had thirteen hours to do 37 miles. Should be so easy. But still, if my tank was empty and I never rebounded, I could easily ruin his buckle quest. I was tired. I was distraught. If I tried to go on, my failure might induce his. I apologized for my weakness and watched him run off into the darkness.
At 28:01 into the race, my brother and his daughter crossed the line. Tears poured out of his eyes as he ran into my arms. Hannah cried as well, looking at him and saying, "Happy Father's Day." John was exhausted, his feet a mess. But he did it. I could not have been more proud.
As I looked around the finish line, I revisited the "what ifs." What if I kept going? What if I suddenly found the magic bullet and cured my stomach? What if I could have embraced another dozen hours of pain and persistence to achieve the finish line, those hours so insignificant in the context of a lifetime? I guess I'll never know. With final good-byes, I got in my car, turned on the air conditioning to escape the heat, and started the long journey home.
Postscript:
Though I feel like a failure, there are lessons to be learned. First, I likely went into the race dehydrated. That, I should have anticipated and fixed. Second, despite all the experience in the world and trying to do the right thing, sometimes the body just doesn't cooperate. Third, you have to be totally engaged mentally. 100-milers take a 100% commitment: mind, body, and soul. I don't think I was there. The stress of knowing Caleb (and Seth's) situation weighed heavily. The significance of fighting on to complete the last third of the race seemed unimportant in the big picture. Now, should I have been able to set that aside since there was nothing I could do to "fix" things? Probably. Would it have been wise continue all things considered? Unknown.
As I watched finishers take the final steps, I wondered how many thought "no way" at some point during the race yet continued on. Maybe I should have let John go on and then continued my own race behind him. That way, he would not have felt obligated to stay with me and I could have tested my outer limits. But alas, my surmising does little good now. I came home, tail tucked, another DNF in the history books.
By the way, Caleb sits alone awaiting a final decision from the Navy. He is asking for a second opinion since a dermatologist that saw him in his high school years said it was merely a form of dermatitis. (The two look the same.) Three days of ointment application has cleared up all symptoms. There will likely be an appeal. This is one fight we cannot give up.
Comments
Outside pressures can play havock on a 100 mile performance. In your situation real life situations had an impact. Those things are so much more important than finishing another race. There will be other races, but time and thoughts about your family can never be made up. You survived this thing healthy so that you will be able to accept the challenge another day. You helped John achieve his goal of finishing his first 100 miler. Both Caleb and Seth knew where your mind and heart were at that time when they needed comfort.
Thanks for your prayers and friendship!
You are one gutsy gal. I agree with your post script and believe you did the smart thing pulling out when you did. With the dynamic variables as they were, you did the right thing AND were still there to be a blessing to your brother and niece. I admire your courage to even attempt the race with such adversity.
My prayers are with the family. The Lord can (& will) work these things out for His glory and the boys benefit too. Glad you made it back safely. Me & the XC team need you this summer! I might have been mad at you had you gone all 100 miles and ended up in the hospital for awhile:-) Cu soon.
TTFN, Heffe'
Love you lots,
Beth Mayberry
Heffe- thanks again for your thoughts and prayers on our behalf.
Thanks for sharing! You gave it your all, mentally and physically. You battled onward in a situation that many not dare even try so hold that head high, be proud and think of it as a learning experience and that fact you'll battle onward another day. I for one, appreciate your insight and lessons learned. I also pray things work out for Caleb. I spent 23 yrs in the Air Force and learned that perseverance is key, getting the second opinion is prudent......hope things work out!
Rick