Gratitude for step after step

On a whim, I signed up for a race that was a mere seven days away. A 6-hour timed race, it sounded so, well, short--at least compared to a 24-hour race. And why not? On race day I would be a month out from a 24-hour event and two weeks shy of a 25-mile mountain race. Even though my weekly mileage could hardly be called "training," a pavement run through a park seemed like a swell idea for the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Not wanting to make the 1:45 drive in the wee hours, an inexpensive hotel room the night before was the perfect way to relax with the Hallmark channel broadcasting predictable yet soul-soothing Christmas movies. I felt wonderfully relaxed and at ease, sleeping better than expected.

Lest you think this a typical race report, that is not my intent. That said, the facts are simple. It was a chilly 27 degrees at the start, never breaking 42 through race's end. The course was a 1.34 blacktopped ramble through an idyllic community park: playgrounds, duck pond, Little Leauge field, large pool, and even a rideable miniature train and track. The field of competitors was small (about 40) but there was an ever-increasing number of citizens walking dogs, exercising, and enjoying the holiday scenes set up
around the park.

My goal was as simple as the facts: keep moving for the duration, run smart, and be grateful for what I could do rather than what I used to be able to do. Oh, and one other thing: smile.

Given my training (or lack thereof), I knew my legs would take a pounding. Therefore, I was smart in being mindful of maintaining form with small, almost shuffling steps, shoulders back, and hips rotated slightly forward. My pace was guarded and conservative, chatting freely with friends on the first several laps. After that, I primarily ran solo, taking in the views, greeting puppies and people along the way. And yes, I smiled. A lot.

At the two-hour mark, I had covered a little over 11 miles. Could I maintain that pace for another four hours? So far, it felt fairly easy and the time short. I tried not to focus on a mileage goal but have to admit that a 50K in six hours would certainly be a nice accomplishment.

Within two more hours, 21 miles had been covered. I was a bit concerned when the lap keeper inquisitively asked on one of my passes through the start-finish, "What lap are you on?" My heart dropped along with any confidence I had that my laps were being accurately recorded. Oh well. I still had my Coros watch which has proved in the past to be fairly accurate. I continued on with the goal of being steady, smart, and smiling.

As time slipped away, I was pleasantly surprised that covering 31 miles was within reach. However, there could be no lolly-gagging. Pushing on the last couple of laps before time ran out, my heart rate rose along with the determination to finish well. Helen, a good friend caught me on the last lap, asking if I was in the lead. I honestly did not know. There was another girl who had passed me on one lap but I passed her back on the last lap. I had no idea where she was. But it was a choice to not allow myself to become distracted with that which I could not control. The only thing I could control was doing my best to the very end.

Helen pulled away a time or two, leaving me to catch up. Even on the final downhill to the finish, my freight train breathing was proof of how hard I was trying to get and stay even with her. We crossed the imaginary line between the cones shoulder to shoulder. It was 5:58 and change. Because I had promised myself to be in motion the entire time, I continued to walk until my watch struck 6:00. My mileage? 31.15.

I smiled and was pleased.

Awarded third place for the women, I added a cool plaque, medal, and running store gift certificate to my takeaways. But with results still not posted, I am unsure of the official standings and a little leery of their accuracy. Nevertheless, I can honestly say, "I really don't care." 

I am grateful for what I could do. By my watch, I covered 31.15 miles in six hours. I did my best with what I had to work with. I made smart decisions in terms of pace, hydration, and calories. I never had a slump, amazed at how quickly the time went by. I remained positive the whole race and actually enjoyed the process of putting one foot in front of the other.

It was a good day and I am better for it.

Still learning lessons after all those miles

 In the aftermath of my third 24-hour race, I am recoiling a bit. The phrase, "There is dignity in completion," written by ultrarunning great and philosopher, Sabrina Little, is running a circuitous route through my gray matter. I am bothered by it--and somewhat embarrassed--that I stopped approximately two hours and five minutes short of the 24-hour mark. Why? Why did I decide to bag the effort with time remaining on the clock? It's complicated but at the same time quite simple.

Sabrina also put digital pen to paper to say "Patience is the virtue of remaining in difficulty." If I understand that concept correctly, there is an embedded implication that not choosing to remain in the difficulty is a sign of impatience, a not-so-virtuous marker of sub-optimal character. So yikes. It's a little disconcerting to contemplate the extent of my failing. Here's the backstory.

With no pressure-producing cut-off designations, the timed races (eg. 24 hrs) hold a certain appeal as I get older and much, much slower. There is no possibility of being forced to stop at an aid station because of failure to arrive on time. And in fact, there is no expectation by race management of traversing an established number of miles. Rather, each runner gets to select their own pace and distance covered.

I went into this race with less than optimal training. In fact, I'm not sure my preparation (or lack thereof) even qualifies as training. The demands of my day job leave me chronically exhausted, spending 10-13 hours, sometimes more, seldom less, daily away from home. Understanding that lack of time is often an excuse, it is an unfortunate reality that impacts my desire and physical stamina.

Nonetheless, I was looking forward to a weekend away from my normal routine. I took a vacation day on either side of the weekend to revel in alone time. And of course, I would have plenty of solo time to reflect on significant (and not so significant) contemplations on Saturday and into Sunday as I circled the prescribed 2.25-mile loop over and over again.

By 8:00 AM Saturday I was on the way, along with 91 other participants in this inaugural event: the Greensprings 24 HR. Even with low miles coming into the race, the first several laps felt easy. It was rather surprising how quickly I was engulfed in a bubble of solitude, racers spreading out and friend groups chatting among themselves. I was content to be silent, gliding along smooth, wide trails dotted with planked footbridges constructed with seamless approaches and exits. 

The day warmed quickly into the mid-80s. With the exception of the 200-yard approach to and from the electronic timing pad, the course meandered through the forest, the tree canopy allowing only dappled sunlight to reach my shoulders. Along one arm of the rectangular-ish, clockwise course, houses could be seen not far from the course. How lucky those homeowners were living so close to these well-maintained trails! Then it was a right turn onto a short stretch before another right turn onto more of the same: sweet, wide trail and planked footbridges across low laying areas, this stretch sans houses.

 Once the trail hit a paved path, we took another turn to the right before merging onto a massive 20-foot wide elevated wooden bridge that disappeared around a corner some 400 yards ahead. We turned right again, before reaching the bridge's end. Now, a swamp appeared on either side, leading to another bridge, this one long, narrow, and winding. The runner was awarded with sweeping views of trees punctuating the surface, birds soaring overhead, and a cacophony of croaking and chirping. It was another right turn after the bridge and a mere football field length of trail before a turn to the left, climbing the only hill on the course, around a huge evergreen, and across the field to cross the timing mat.

As the day gave way to dusk, I was content to run some, walk some, counting steps to keep my mind occupied and feet moving. Two young women, always running side-by-side and looking effortless as they laughed their way down the trail, passed me like I was standing still. (In fact, they passed me ten times all together.) Nonetheless, they were kind and encouraging to this 66-year old runner, the three of us enjoying these brief but predictable interchanges. (For fear of a spoiler alert, they ended up with a little over 100 miles in the 24 hour period.)

As the clock struck midnight at the16-hour mark, smaller numbers of runners maintained their 2.25-mile trek. The race organization, in an effort to encourage participants of any experience level to tackle the course, had advertised special awards for significant milestones: 50 miles, 100K, 75 miles, and 100 miles. If the dwindling number of tents in the open field were any indication, more than a few runners chose to retire from their efforts, pleased with meeting personal goals.

Sometime in the wee hours, I found myself fighting the urge to close my eyes and give in to the serious head-bobbing and sleep-walking stagger. The remedy was to talk to God--out loud--about all sorts of things. Prayers of thanksgiving, protection and salvation for family and friends, and for wisdom and guidance escaped my lips and rose to the heavens. It was the personal revival I desperately needed.

Despite the uplift of spirit, my feet kept me grounded. I could feel significant blisters. But more than that, my orthopedically-impaired feet felt as though someone had taken a hammer to them. Additionally, the O'Dark 0400 hour brought on a disturbing sensation. A sharp, transient, but recurring twinge in my left chest ushered in some concern and prompted continued prayers for wisdom and good sense. Having heart disease, a stent for a partially occluded coronary artery, and an implanted loop recorder, there was reason to be suspect. The sharp pain was not new. I had felt it a few times in the last couple months. However, it was never really associated with other foreboding symptoms of shortness of breath, arm pain, and the proverbial elephant sitting on the chest. My theory was that the loop recorder implanted three years ago had migrated from its original position and was somehow responsible for what I was feeling. At least, that's where the pain seemed to be located. Still, I wasn't sure and didn't want to be stupid. It was a predicament that required deep thinking.

Unfortunately, the full moon that lit up the night failed to light up a clear solution as I continued my now long walk in the woods. Rather, I was conflicted, calculating the time of day and miles to go. I was over 50 miles and had eclipsed 100K as well. Should I stop now? No. I would continue. The least amount of miles I would accept was 75 come hell or high water. Less seemed too wimpy. The sharp pain continued to come and go but wasn't getting worse. Perhaps it was a good thing that my aching feet called out louder.

With decision made, I trudged on. Three well-placed benches coaxed me to spend an occasional half minute with feet off the ground. It was sweet but short-lived relief. Though I would get no where fast if I stayed longer, I relished my solitude in the darkness and the ever-present hoot owls sounding out their night-time songs. When I finally crossed the line marking 75.3 miles, the emotional struggle was as real as the physical. I hit my goal established when the mystery chest pain reared it's ugly head but fell short of the 85-90 mile mark I had secretly established prior to the race. What to do?

I was undoubtedly conflicted. I analyzed the positions of the other women with the timing guy. I was in 4th place with no chance of catching 3rd should I continue and no chance of 5th catching me even if I stopped. I had already gone further than any women north of 40 yrs old. I was in 10th position overall. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to stop. Or was it? Should I even care about my position in the race if I was just seeing how far I could go? Was I making a providentially prudent decision based on wisdom and sound judgement or one that merely removed me from my temporary suffering?

I eased into my chair near the sole aid station and drew in a deep breath. There was no twinging in my chest as I sat but my feet were incredibly painful. Glancing at the clock, even at a snail's pace I could end with at least 80 miles by the 24-hour mark. My mind was reeling. I didn't want to risk a heart attack, as improbable as I thought it to be. Shoot. Even David Horton, ultrarunning legend and now cyclist, recently had enough sense to get himself to the hospital when he had chest pain while riding his bike, though shortness of breath and heaviness accompanied his pain.Turns out, he was having a heart attack and ended up buying himself a stent. So, there was that to consider. It took me another five minutes to decide I would call it a day, smiling when I posed for my 75 mile award.

Let me be honest. I felt no dignity of completion. I choose to live no longer in my difficulty. I was not patient enough to take one more step followed by multiple more steps until the clock told me to stop.

We are often rewarded clarity in retrospect. I'm still waiting for that moment. But for now, I am leaning toward the conclusion that I should have continued until time ran out. Surely, for as much pain as my feet gave me, they would not have fallen off or been permanently injured had I continued. And, I honestly believe that the twinges in my chest were related to the position of the inserted device rather than an indication of ischemia and impending doom.

So what do I do now? Recovery has been very easy which makes me doubt my decision all the more. But there are no do-overs. The only option now is to accept my decision, understand it, and work on becoming more virtuous, willing to be patient enough to remain in difficulty.

Let there be dignity in completion next time around.

A box of memories

Who knew that a simple box found in the attic could produce such a flood of memories?

But there it was on the dining room, hauled down from the attic by my husband. The tape was brown with age and scribbled on the lid was the word "coins," indicative of what had been stored within. It had been decades since I laid eyes on that box.

Back in the day, we opened many of those Medtronic Intersept filtered cardiotomy reservoir boxes as we prepared for cardiopulmonary bypass. It was integral to providing safe and effective cardiovascular support for our patients back in the 1980s.

I miss those days when the rush of an emergency case sent boxes and packaging flying in every direction. I miss the camaraderie between members of our heart team that made our work smooth, efficient, and pleasant. I miss the constant effort to improve our practice through evidence-based research. And yet, here I am, not having slapped the wall plate to open wide those operating room doors for the last 17 years or so.

But as much as I miss all those things, my 25 years of clinical practice prepared me for what followed: teacher, athletic coach, athletic chaplain, mentor, career coach, consultant, author, and speaker.

I am reminded that my identity is not in WHAT I am. My identity rests in WHOSE I am. Each position is of equal importance because I must reimagine my work as "a mission of service to something beyond merely our own interests...thinking of work mainly as a means of self-fulfillment and self-realization slowly crushes a person...and undermines society itself." (From "Every Good Endeavor" by the late Timothy Keller)

I think fondly about my years inside chilly operating rooms, working in concert with a team of dedicated professionals. Nevertheless, from my years of experiencing many facets of life, it is now my joy to assist students, athletes, coaches, and business professionals in making the most of whatever their position happens to be because "no task is too small to hold the immense dignity of work given by God."

Signs

Those living out their teen years in the 60s and 70s will likely remember the hit song by The Five Man Electrical Band, “Signs.” Les Emmerson, lead singer, reportedly penned the words after a road trip on Route 66 in California. In essence, it was a protest against billboards planted along the freeway and signs touting “do this, don’t do that” rules and regulations. To say the song challenged current culture would be an understatement.

But is there value in signs? As a trail runner, I appreciate a well-placed sign that informs me of distance covered and distance that has yet to be conquered. Even when the news makes me hang my head at the enormous effort it will take, there is some level of comfort in knowing what to expect. Knowing lets me calculate time remaining, helps me manage fluid and calorie intake, and puts into perspective the additional effort needed to accomplish the task.

Similarly, signs can be valuable on a trip down the highway. I can gauge when and where to fill up the car or conversely, empty the bladder. If I get hungry, a sign tells me that food can be had at an exit 20 miles down the road. If a sudden storm identifies the need for replacement windshield wipers, a sign is likely to identify a Walmart. And of course, regarding speed limit signs as regulations rather than mere suggestions can save me from a ticket.

Are signs ever counter-productive or confusing? You bet they are! When a sign reads, GENUINE FAKE WATCHES, is that a good thing
or not? Or what about when a sign that instructs us to take opposite actions: STOP HERE. KEEP MOVING? Or, what if I am asked to perform a task that I am logistically unable to do given my circumstances. Hum. Perplexing, to say the least.

So, how do we deal with all these printed signs and directives? Do all signs hold the same level of importance? I don’t think so. 

Consider the other night when on a mountain run—at night—with a friend. The sign didn’t say travel on the trail was prohibited due to aggressive bear activity. We simply were not permitted to camp overnight. Since the sign was posted back in May when the bears were most active and there had been no trail talk of recent trouble, we proceeded as normal. I do not believe we were reckless or disobedient. What we were was prudent.

But why so much talk about signs? They are EVERYWHERE! We can’t escape them. Some can be vitally important to our safety and knowledge. And sure, some signs are silly and not thought out well. But here is the takeaway—at least for me. We must be discerning.

Discernment is a skill that needs to be honed in our daily lives far beyond reading signs. We need to consider what is not only true but expedient. What requires our attention and what does not. What edifies rather than is hurtful. We need to think about how our actions may set off a series of repercussions and consequences. We need to exhibit self-control and common sense. 

Signs or not, let discernment rule.  

100 miles and a buckle

True confessions.

The last 100-miler I successfully completed was in 2008 at the inaugural Grindstone, a rugged mountain race with a ton of climb and descent. Then and for the most part, I stopped trying. Running the long stuff was getting harder with each passing year. It was in 2021 that my Forest Gump moment of "I'm tired. I think I'll go home" caused me to pull out of Yeti 100 at mile 64. What a wuss.

Near the end of December 2022, I decided to give a 100 another go. My training partner and I picked a race that seemed like a good fit with a generous time limit. Last month I stopped 14 miles short of 100 miles at the rain and rock-ridden Greenbriar 100, a race erroneously touted as non-technical. 

Within a day of waddling through my front door after the race, I signed up for the C&O Canal 100 as my redemption, slated to be held a slim month after the Greenbriar event. I was sick and tired of failing to achieve a 100-mile completion and the acquisition of a big and bulky belt buckle, the traditional award given for the final step over the finish line. The way I figured, it was now or never. I had trained well over the winter. Why let those efforts go to waste?

Kim, my training partner eagerly agreed to be my crew and pacer. With a new Go-Pro in hand, she started recording the event before we even pulled out of her driveway. (Video here.) The predicted weather was not good, which proved true pulling into Camp Manidokan, the start, finish, and waypoints along the way. A leaking tent set up in the rain produced an insanely hilarious solution to ensure a chance at a good night's rest, described here. It was a soggy mess before we were sent off like a giant herd of turtles infiltrated by a select group of speedy cheetahs. 

Despite consistent training up through the Greenbriar race, I knew I would not be running the whole time. My relatively low volume of training and the recovery period after those hard 86 miles simply would not allow it. My motto became, "Run a little. Walk a lot." And it worked for the first 60-70 miles. In fact, one young woman with whom I played cat and mouse all day remarked that my methodology seemed to be very effective. She simply could not get away from me even though she was running a lot more than me. That made me smile and maybe even a little smug given that my ultra experience was likely greater in length than the number of years she had been alive. These youngsters!

There were only two aid stations where crews could meet runners. Kim, always prepared, awaited my arrival wherever possible. She assessed my needs, found the appropriate items, and orchestrated a smooth transition into the coming miles. And, she didn't even seem to mind when she had to handle my sweaty, gross clothes when an outfit swap was necessary. It was nice to see a kind face waiting for me to arrive, no matter what condition I was in.

As the miles piled up, so did the clouds. Though the majority of the day gifted us with pleasant temps and glimpses of sunny skies, it was concerning that forecasters reported incoming storms starting at about 11PM. But I had no power to make the rain come or go (although I did pray it would never come). Hence, all I could do was be intentional to take in the river views, the abandoned locks, and marvel at the toil of the men who dug out the canal by hand back in the 1700s.

Once I hit 70 miles, my run-walk strategy turned into a walk-walk plan. Kim joined me for these last 30 miles, filling me in with curious facts about the canal learned from an old guy in the area museum. I talked of the next section of trail, having traversed it all two times before. Even though we were not actually running, we made decent progress, taking a few minutes at aid stations in an attempt to intake palatable calories and fluids. There was no doubt I was getting tired, the miles taking a toll on my digestion and with hands beginning to swell likely due to an electrolyte imbalance. It was imperative that I get a handle on things and figure out the best way forward. I had gone through 50 miles in a little over 11 hours. I knew there was plenty of time to finish in the 30-hour cutoff even if I slowed down even more. Still, the feeling that I was stuck in a time warp getting nowhere fast was becoming disconcerting.

The first raindrops started to fall at about 3:45AM. Sporadic at first, the huge drops quickly turned into a curtain of wetness. We plodded on, thankful we both had waterproof jackets. The distance between aid stations seemed to grow as the rain became ever more intense. We kept walking, wishing first light to come sooner than later.

Daylight did come but the rain refused to give up. Inches-deep water pooled along the path. I was struggling more and more with fatigue, temperature regulation, and emotional breakdowns. I heard Kim ask me the same questions and suggest actions that I would have voiced had our roles been reversed. But I knew I was on the edge and had little ability to do more than I was already doing. A couple times all I could do was ugly cry while shuffling forward. I was shivering uncontrollably, teeth literally chattering non-stop. The miles covered relatively quickly earlier in the race now seemed unending. When would the misery end? 

There was no way I would not finish the race. I had invested too much to quit now. Finally, the last turn up the hill and into the camp finish line came into view. But adding insult to injury, the muddy lower trail was impossible for me to navigate alone given zero traction from the bottom of the road shoes I had switched into due to blisters. Kim took me by the hand to steady me as I grabbed for any branch or slim tree trunk I could find. But we made it up the hill, across some gravel, navigating the last push to the finish line ill-defined by a piece of orange marking tape laying across the grass. I stopped at the line, surprised that no race official was there to acknowledge my arrival, no matter how unspectacular. I heard Kim call out. "This is Rebekah. She just finished!" Then, from underneath a nearby canopy, a woman asked me to say my number and a gentleman in a florescent vest came forward to nonchalantly hand me a running cap and the silver belt buckle for which I had run 100 miles. Despondent tears turned to a smile and back into a few joyful tears as Kim took pictures.

It was over. The monkey was off my back. I had just completed a self-assigned big task. Now the priority became getting warm. As the hot water in the shower flowed over me, it washed away the accumulated dirt and grime. But my feelings of defeat and insignificance also found their way into the drain. By the mercy of God, He had allowed me to do something special. At 66 years old, I finished the race with two hours to spare. But more importantly, I finished with my mind and body intact, a friend by my side, and with much encouragement along the way.

Yes, I ran 100 miles for a buckle. . .and it was worth every step!

85.8 is not 100

It was supposed to be my comeback 100. Turns out, it wasn't. Again. (Heavy sigh)

I wrote some time ago about my Forest Gump moment at mile 64 of the Yeti 100. I quit, frustrated and tired. After 30 years of training and racing, I concluded that I had enough. I was done with ultras forever. That sentiment, however, didn't stick for very long.

So I discovered timed races, drawn specifically to the 24-hour format. With no cutoffs and a seemingly less competitive feel, I completed and wrote about two of those events in the last year. The Black Mountain Monster and Buffalo Mountain Endurance Run were my first attempts. I figured I would stick with that format for the remainder of my ultra career.

And then came Kim Weatherford.

I've known Kim, a women 25 years my younger, but never really spent much time with her before the end of last year. Kim did not start running until she joined a group from church in 2011. Those initial steps served to overcome inertia, building in intensity and duration in the next few years. She has built quite the running resume and has a goal of three 100 milers this year alone. Completely taken by mountain trails, her search for cabins tucked away in remote locations marks her real estate ponderings. Kim is kind and encouraging, almost beyond description.

Even though I warned her of being old, slow, and a lot more tentative on technical trails, Kim and I ventured out on a few training runs together and then a couple more. Before I knew it, she had talked me into signing up for the Greenbriar 100 near Boonsboro, MD. The website described the course as "NOT considered overall "technical" HOWEVER . . . there are two sections around 150 yards (each) that some MIGHT consider technical... the entire loop is 'runnable' with no steep or long climbs." With no intermediate cut-offs and a generous 33-hour limit, it sounded like an ideal re-entry race. Shoot. I went 80 miles in 23 hours before stopping at a 24-hour race because I couldn't breathe, walking a lot of it. (Turns out I had Covid.) I figured that if Greenbriar was similarly non-technical, going another 20 miles in 10 more hours would be no problem at all. Greenbriar sounded like the perfect race for me to check off a 100-mile finish in my 30s, 40s, 50s, and now 60s.

For months, I envisioned sauntering along smooth, forested trails under sunny skies and pleasant temps. But the forecast wasn't quite as encouraging. From the Friday morning of race day through Saturday night, the 90-99% chance of rain and temps in the 40s was not appealing in any way, shape, or form. Sure enough, the rain came down in buckets during breakfast Friday morning. By the time we made our way to the park for the 2 PM start, we were relieved that the rain had at least slowed.

Our group of 100 milers huddled under the protection of the aid station tent, listening to the animated race director, Kevin Sayers, offer final instructions. Again he said, "This course is NOT technical!" His words were encouraging and I was anxious to begin the journey. I knew if I stayed steady, controlled my emotions, and had no major mishap, that treasured buckle would find a place on a brand-new leather belt.

Within a short period of time, the use of "not technical" came into question. By the time I arrived back
at the start-finish of this 7.15-mile loop, I was convinced that one of two things happened: Either the RD was being facetious in his description or his perspective was radically different from mine. Big rocks. Little rocks. Pointy rocks. Ankle-busting loose rocks. Long, long sections of all varieties. Still, if I could maintain this pace for the next 13 loops, a 25-26 hour finish was in hand. That thought spurred me on despite the internal trepidation that sprouted in the deepest part of my gut.

The rain came and went as I trekked on. By loop 4, I almost hoped that I would break an ankle to give me a good reason not to carry on. That said, I felt I was in control of my emotions and had not gone into a dark place. It wasn't that I was struggling from a fitness or muscle standpoint. It was just becoming increasingly difficult to navigate all the technical bits. I even tried using my trekking poles but that seemed to require more total energy, offering diminishing returns with time. Hence, I continued on with just my little 'ol legs as support.

At the stroke of midnight, the 50-mile runners were released on their journey. I made sure to yield the trail by stepping aside when I heard a runner come up from behind. "Good morning," many offered cheerfully as they and their fresh legs cruised by. Sometimes I would jokingly yell out, "Showoff!" I figured it might put a smile on their face. While it was a bit disappointing to be passed, it was more discouraging being lapped by a few of the fast 100-miler guys. I simply podded on, running when I could and hiking when I must.

Sometime before the dawn broke I finished lap seven, the 50 mile mark. I think I remember the time on the clock reading 15:40. Whoa. That was so slow! I had spent several laps trying to predict my finish time and every prediction looked more bleak. Even if I didn't slow down for the last seven, I was looking at over 31 hours of slogging to the finish. I liked nothing about that prospect, especially when I had anticipated a finish significantly under 30 hours.

About the time a fresh pack of 50K runners started at 8 AM, the temperature dropped like a rock, the wind came up, and the rains (and a little sleet and snow) came down. Despite a waterproof jacket, the cold went deep into my bones. I wondered how those who had but shorts and a short sleeve shirt could survive. The inclines and declining trails quickly became rivers and any horizontal dirt became shoe-sucking, slipperier-than-a-sardine mud. To make matters worse, 25K runners responded to "Go" at 9 AM, multiplying the number of feet making the trails more treacherous. I tried my best to be cheerful when the short course runners went by, many making comments about how technical and rocky the trails were. I felt validated.

As trail conditions became more challenging and my travels difficult and slow over the next few loops, it became apparent that it would be impossible to complete 100 miles within the time limit without some miraculous restoration of my legs that could no longer be trusted to run. I now had a decision to make. Do I bag it or persist until I am told that my race was over? There were parts of the course that I came to hate. It would be nice to never have to traverse that ground again. On the other hand, I had no intention of an emotional quit like I had at Yeti. The decision made, laps 10, 11, and 12 were completed; not quickly, but completed nonetheless.

Another decision came after lap 12. Did I have enough time to do 13 and make it to 93 miles despite no chance at 100? Big decision. If I went out, I would be the last one out there, the race director and aid station would be committed to stay, and I would miss Kim's spectacular finish. I was conflicted but in the end, I decided to stop at 85.8 miles. No, it was not 100. I had failed once again to earn that buckle. But I had a great conversation with race organizers who were reconsidering if they had unintentionally misrepresented the course, and I documented my friend's finish.

I prepared, tried my best, dealt with circumstances beyond my control, and maintained, for the most part, a reasonable attitude. Of course, I am disappointed and even a little remorseful of not sucking it up for that penultimate 13th lap. However, I surprised myself with NOT swearing off future races, even the ones with cutoffs. I must be realistic in my choice of race, but I think I still have something left to give in the long, long races. It is no secret that I am not capable of being fast, but I can be steady. I have no desire to be pressured into competing in shorter races, but thanks to Kim, she has given me the gift of rekindled love of being in the mountains on early Saturday mornings. 

I am forever grateful. May we enjoy many more sunrises atop a mountain.