P-P-P-PacRim!!

Usually I write up my races faster than this. Usually I am more proud than humbled, confident than unsure, empowered than weakened. That is not the case this time. Like everyone has kindly reminded me, I am completely aware that walking for 14 hours and pulling close to 34 miles out is not small feat. It took all of my courage and a lot more help from the people around me than ever before. And I’ve been working for days now to name this pit in my stomach, the reason why I don’t feel the way I want to or the way that my running peers say that I should. I’ve finally been able to get close: disappointment. A little regret. A little shame.

I was both pumped and terrified in the week leading up to PacRim. I knew I was going in less trained than I wanted, but my plan was to ‘go as far as I could’, following the advice of Anna. And on the advice of Rose, I set three goals: 1) do a 100k. 2) Do 50 miles. 3) Do a 50k and then a little farther so that I’d go farther than I’d gone before. It’s taken some doing but I’ve rid myself of any unease about walking during a race. Learning that the race is against myself and no one else has made that possible. So I figured I’d start walking, turn it into a trot if I could, and go until my legs fell off. It started out well. Pretty day—some serious downpours at first but the loop is gorgeous, around a section of the river going through Longview. I did the first loop with Rose and her friends. Then I separated, partly because of the shin splints that hit and partly because I knew that this was somewhat of a solo exercise. Mentally I was rocking it. At one point I texted Anna, ‘oh yeah, I can totally go 47 more miles!’ Even as I thought it I realized that in that moment I was realizing a new--albeit totally crazy!!--level of mental strength, and that made me proud.

Then we hit hour 3. I ignored the hot spots starting to flare up, ignored the pain on the bottom of my feet. ‘I can push through’, I thought. ‘Hell, I stared down a furious client on Wednesday and owned the 32 miles of Autumn Leaves’. So I pushed through. I slowed to walking; I slid up gravel pockets and picked my way down small gravel hills. And the more I pushed through, the worse I blistered. My legs were good. My abs were good. My chest and arms and mind were good. But my feet? My feet were falling apart. Hour 6 I gave in and sat down to take my shoes off. The damage was impressive. My right foot had a blister on the sole that covered about half of it. Blisters around my ankles, on my toes, on my heels, on my ankles. It was actually ridiculous. I remember looking at them and finally laughing. A couple of seasoned runners came over to help me patch them up. Putting my shoes back on made me cry just a little, it hurt so bad. But I did it, and got back out there. The two guys who had helped me continued to encourage me, smile, pat me on the back.

Around hour 7 (I think, although I'm not totally sure, it well could have been longer), Rose succumbed to her raging virus and ended up going home (although how she made it through 7 hours with a fever and aches and all the rest is beyond me—that woman is made of some kind of steel like I’ve never seen). Before she left, Andleeb arrived to get her and did a lap with me too. It was the most I laughed on the whole run! I don’t think I realized just how much Rose having to leave affected me, but around hour 10, Anna texted me to say ‘how you doing?’ and I burst into tears. Never ever have I cried in a race like that. And pretty much all the other times I’ve cried have been from pride and joy and exhaustion—but never desperation and discouragement. I desperately missed Anna, Liz, and Rose—my trifecta of awesome. Each time I came up the hill towards the start/finish and aid station, I thought to myself ‘ok, this is it’. But each time, I didn’t stop. I don’t know why. By that point there was no way I would make 100k, limping along at a blistering 25 mph pace; I also eventually abandoned the 50 miles thanks to stiff knees and cramping calves, due to slowing down, getting cold, and not keeping my salt up like I should’ve. But that 50k and then a little farther…I guess I just couldn’t abandon that. Plus…I really wanted the race pants! Had to do a 50k to get them…a little carrot for me.

Mile 25 started brutal. I was heading over the first bridge, right before the 1/4 mile mark, and a guy caught up with me. I’d seen him going at a steady, fast clip, so I was a little surprised. He asked me if I was ok and through the hysterical tears that had started, I said ‘yeah, I’m ok’. He laughed and said ‘are you sure?’ I laughed, he laughed, and with him by my side I made it through mile 25. After we came through the start/finish, I thanked him and encouraged him to go on ahead. I’ll never forget this. He looked me in the eye and said ‘I’m sticking with you as far as you want to go. If you want that 50k, I’ll be beside you every step from here on out’. The next 8 hurt so badly. I kept cramping up and wondering if everyone who was out there was looking at me thinking ‘Geez, she sure doesn’t belong here. What a rookie.’ That’s what I was thinking. But then there was Tim, keeping me smiling, reciting poems and spouting Jack Handy quotes, telling stories, reminding me that I could, in fact, do this. About mile 29 when we were at the aid station, he put his arms around me and gave me a great big hug. And there were the random runners patting me on the back, commiserating, checking in. There were the lap counting volunteer heroes who were full of cheers, the delightfully crotchety race director who offered me new feet, my friends afar who kept up the text messages, and there were Karen and Sarah, doing my last lap with me and Tim. They stayed a step ahead of us that whole loop, keeping me going. By the end I was walking slower than I’ve ever gone in a race. Every part of me hurt, and to my great chagrin I could still feel my feet but not my fingers. I crossed the start/finish line, and Tim, Sarah, and Karen stopped to let me go the last .2 on my own.

The packing up, changing in the car, long drive home are a blur. Mostly what I remember is getting home and sinking into bed with Max and Ruby draped around me. Oh, and the pants. The race pants are the shiz-nit. Even as I write they are keeping me toasty...and serving as a reminder to sign up for my next two races, not letting this one go to waste, so to speak.

But the more I write, the more I feel the disappointment, the shame, the wistfulness fade just a little. It was hard. And while I’m not thrilled with—or even proud of—how my body handled it, I’m pretty damn satisfied with how I rallied. But this one isn’t about me. It’s about the ultra-running community. When I needed them most, in the middle of the dark and cold night, they were there for me. I don’t know most of their names (although I’m betting I will see many of them at other timed races that I plan on entering), I don’t know where they live or what they do for work or what else they are passionate about. I don’t know how fast their miles are—but I do know that mine are slower—and they don’t seem to care. I find myself coming away from this race a little more solemn than before. I have, until now, been lucky enough to come away from my races feeling like I’ve reached and most times exceeded my goal, which as all of you know is a heady and powerful feeling. It has left me convinced that I can do anything, which in my line of work is an important confidence to have. PacRim reminded me of the necessity of reaching out to the people around me, asking for help and not being too proud or stupid to accept it. Once in a while I’ve been likened to a pony: ‘you’re strong and brave and smart, but sometimes you just have to say eat the damn carrot, pony!!’ This was a good reminder of the reality of setting high and hard goals for yourself: sometimes you need help.

More and more I see the need for strong communities in the world I inhabit. From the kids in foster care who need whole legions of support just to get to doctors’ appointments and graduate from middle school to new parents who need a hand with the laundry and someone to walk the baby for half an hour to grandparents who really need the neighbor to check in and bring groceries…the examples are endless. A term that pops up at work is ‘vicarious trauma’. There is so much that we are hurt by, even without us knowing it, and having strong sweet caring people around us lessens that trauma. I just hadn’t realized how much that need would carry over into my running, and how grateful I would be to find a community even stronger and more supportive than the one I had previously encountered. Tonight I am a little scraped up, a lot blistered, a little sore. I would do it again if had the chance. Hell, I will do it again! But getting back on that horse is going to take more work than I expected. Oh well…we all know I love a challenge!!