Lack of success is not the same thing as failure.
Alright, I've been having an awful time trying to write this post - hence the delay on my 100-miler update. Any of you who follow me or Life-Cise on Facebook know that I did not run 100 miles. I tried. Instead, I ran 80.
I'm not sure why this one has been so hard to write. Yes, since I've been back I've been wildly busy with LONG rehearsals, concerts, recording projects, and an MTV Unplugged appearance. But, that's just an excuse - surely there was a half hour somewhere in the last week and a half in which I could have written.
There's also the inevitable slump that follows a big challenge. I had some pretty intense recovery - sleeping a lot, eating and drinking, pampering and healing (mostly my poor, swollen, sore feet). And then there's the comedown from the mental excitement and nervousness before the race, and the focus during.
But there's something more, as well. I really wanted to figure out the why. I wanted a few days to recover and process what this all means to me. It was a crazy-huge challenge; it was my first race that I didn't finish - what does it all mean?
I'm still working on that. But in the mean time, here's my account of my race.
The rains had stopped by morning. The 150-milers had started the day before our race - in the rain. It had rained most of the day before and through much of the night. But the rains had stopped by morning for the start of our race.
I was up at 4am to get ready. We were at the start by 5:30 - my brother, my mom, and my dad. Racers and family nervously joked as they got ready. Silence would fall over the crowd as a few 150s came across the line, and continued yet another 10-mile loop. Silence, except for respectful applause and a few shouts of support and encouragement.
Check the pack one more time. Stand on line for the porta-potty. Pin on my number - 125. Talk with a reporter. Check the pack one more time.
We're off. Family and friends cheer.
The course is a 10-mile loop through the woods of McNaughton Park, just outside of Pekin, IL - my hometown. The loop begins with a downhill to a field. We round the field - about a mile - and head up a hill to pass near the Start/Finish again. We spread out into a long line during that first mile, each of us finding our own pace. As we climb up that first hill, we're greeted by a line of our people cheering us on. Then it's into the ravines. The next 4-5 miles are filled with steep hills, up and down through sharp ravines. One hill, Golf Hill, has a rope attached to help us pull ourselves up. Later in the race I will come to really enjoy that hill because it gives me a chance to use different muscles. I take high steps and pull myself up, using all my upper body strength. I keep picturing the old Batman shows with Batman and Robin walking up the side of a building, pulling on a rope. Unfortunately, that is not the end of the steep hills. Finally, we climb out of the steeps to another field, and the next aid station. We then pass along the other side of the field, past an old cemetery, to the Heaven's Gate loop. At the turn into Heaven's Gate (no, I don't know why it's called that, other than it's near the old cemetery), race directors have placed a sign, which I will pass each loop, that announces "Heaven's Gate" with an arrow. The thought enters my head that I have worked so very hard to avoid heaven's gate, and here I am running to it, again and again and again. I am amused at the thought. The final 2 miles are mostly flatter terrain, but still with some steep hills. Finally, we run through some bushes and emerge on the edge of a field, greeted by a homemade sign cheering on one of my running companions. We cross the field, pass a collection of tents, and run over the Start/Finish line.
And then we start another loop.
The rain returns sometime during the first loop - or was it the start of the second? It will continue to rain fairly steadily for about 6-7 hours. The trails, already muddy, become treacherous. There are downhills where every single person falls. Except for those who avoid falling by sitting down and simply sliding on their butts, trying to keep their feet in front of them. I nearly slide over the edge into one of the ravines. Others do the same. We offer a hand whenever we can, but mostly there is nothing we can do for each other. The uphills are even worse. There is nothing to hold onto. Uphills become a wall of slide marks in the mud, with signs of desperate clutches in the mud to keep from sliding back to the bottom and knocking down everyone behind.
Trails slide away. Wooden bridges feel like ice-skating rinks in the mud. On the first loop, I thought the early part of the course was the toughest with it's steep hills. As the day wears on, I change my thinking. The flatter sections of the later course become nearly impassable. Mud is so thick that even walking is difficult.
Into the afternoon, we all begin to talk nervously about certain sections of the trail. The 50-milers are hoping to be off the course by nightfall, but those of us running the 100 know we have a tough night ahead. Trails that are difficult during daylight will be scary and dangerous by headlamp.
Quickly, time ceases to pass in minutes and hours; it flows in miles. Distance becomes the measure of my day. As the miles stretch on, I begin to count only loops.
At the end of each loop, my brother, Mike, is waiting for me. And my parents. I am surprised to see them each time. I thought they would tire and go home, but they are still waiting. They seem to be enjoying the whole event. They chat with runners and with the others who are there to offer what support they can. On the trail, I meet runners who have been talking with my parents - "Oh, you're Julie. Great parents; I was just talking with them."
I have told my family they cannot question me about whether I should continue. They are only allowed to be there if they can encourage me. I worry that my mom will be a mother and worry about me. This is my first race with any support. I know how to run and keep myself motivated. I don't know how to manage anyone else if they express any doubts.
Each loop, Mike refills my pack as I eat something from the very well-stocked aid station. He checks with me to see if I need anything new in my pack or if I need any first aid. He tells me I'm doing great. My mom offers treats she's brought from home - chocolate cake and chicken broth. If she's worried, she never shows it. As I head out down the hill to the next loop, my parents cheer. The last words I hear are my mom saying, "Run, Julie!"
At the end of my 5th loop - 50 miles, I take a break. I change my soaking wet socks, dry my feet, and re-lube them. I put on a long-sleeved shirt for the night. And then I say goodbye and congratulations to some of the 50-milers who are now finished.
Night falls. The rain stopped a few hours ago. The trails are still muddy, but some of the steepest hills have dried enough to be slightly tacky instead of dangerously slick. Unfortunately, the flats are in even worse shape.
At first, people talk constantly, hoping to stave off the dark. Runners group up to find strength and support in numbers.
After a while I begin to grow more quiet. I separate from the groups, preferring to run on my own. I run a little more slowly and carefully now, but steady. The light from my headlamp flattens out the contours of the trail. I see only a few feet ahead as I launch into hills, not seeing what lies beyond my light. My eyes grow wider; I hear more intensely. I have begun my transition. I am shedding the skin of a person of the sun and becoming some creature of the night. I love running in the dark. I am frightened; I am exhilarated. I feel happy to see other runners on the trail, but feel oddly relieved when they or I pass and I continue alone.
By this point, time means nothing to me. I try to figure out how I'm doing - if I can finish by the cutoff. But I cannot figure it out. There is no deadline. There is no pace. There is only an expanse of darkness that is strangely comforting.
Time exists only in landmarks. Tree - I know this tree; it it time to pass this tree. Stream - it is the time of wading - again. This hill - I remember this hill; I must climb this hill before the loop is finished. Stream - it is time to be wet again. I no longer know how long a night is; I only know trees and hills and streams.
At the end of loop 7, I am resigned to not finishing. At my current pace I am sure I cannot finish by the cutoff. The condition of the trails is too difficult; I am too slow.
While refueling at the aid station, two women who I have run with for short periods on and off during the night come in. We chat as we eat. Laurie asks if we can still finish. I say I'm sure we cannot. She says we can if we run 3 hour loops. By this point, we have slowed to around 4 hours per loop. Bonnie says we should run together, help each other out, and simply run faster.
Bonnie leads out, taking a strong pace. She runs the field quickly. She still walks the steep hills, but as soon as it flattens out, she is running again. I keep with her, right on her shoulder.
Daylight breaks. I am exhilarated. Light has returned to the world and I am running. And I am running strong. I am running fast.
Until I cannot. At mile 7.5 of that loop, I suddenly and without warning cannot continue running. I slow to a walk and watch my companions disappear into the woods. I try to force myself to run, but my legs will not. It is as though I have run into a wall; I cannot go over or around it. So this is what people mean when they talk about "hitting the wall." This is a new experience for me. I have gotten tired; I have run out of steam. But I have not experienced this.
Of course, I still have 2.5 miles to go. I walk. Those 2 1/2 miles seem endless. The effort to walk out of the course feels equal to what I have expended during the entire rest of the race.
As soon as I stop running I begin to feel just how much my feet hurt. They are destroyed. They are shards of glass in my shoes.
I calculate the pace. We had been running a pace that would be a 3-hour loop. Over an hour faster than the previous several loops. In order to finish, we knew we would have to run hard. I had. Until I couldn't.
I know when I eventually finish that loop I am done. I will finish this loop. I will not finish this race.
Strangely, I am not upset. I have run the best race I could. I chose to take a risk and run all out instead of running a safe pace that would have given me another loop, but not a finish. And I ran out. I had nothing left. I gave everything I had.
Finally, I emerge from the bushes into the field, past the tents. I try to stride smartly - I will finish strongly. My brother runs out to meet me. I tell him I'm done.
And then I start to run. Well, more like a shuffle. But I run across the Finish.
80 miles.
Some of the young guys who have already finished encourage me to rest a little and eat some food, then continue. They tell me I can still finish.
But I know I am done. I tell the I ran all out on that loop, and I have nothing left. They respect that. I am happy with my race.
80 miles.
Julie
Alright, I've been having an awful time trying to write this post - hence the delay on my 100-miler update. Any of you who follow me or Life-Cise on Facebook know that I did not run 100 miles. I tried. Instead, I ran 80.
I'm not sure why this one has been so hard to write. Yes, since I've been back I've been wildly busy with LONG rehearsals, concerts, recording projects, and an MTV Unplugged appearance. But, that's just an excuse - surely there was a half hour somewhere in the last week and a half in which I could have written.
There's also the inevitable slump that follows a big challenge. I had some pretty intense recovery - sleeping a lot, eating and drinking, pampering and healing (mostly my poor, swollen, sore feet). And then there's the comedown from the mental excitement and nervousness before the race, and the focus during.
But there's something more, as well. I really wanted to figure out the why. I wanted a few days to recover and process what this all means to me. It was a crazy-huge challenge; it was my first race that I didn't finish - what does it all mean?
I'm still working on that. But in the mean time, here's my account of my race.
I was up at 4am to get ready. We were at the start by 5:30 - my brother, my mom, and my dad. Racers and family nervously joked as they got ready. Silence would fall over the crowd as a few 150s came across the line, and continued yet another 10-mile loop. Silence, except for respectful applause and a few shouts of support and encouragement.
Check the pack one more time. Stand on line for the porta-potty. Pin on my number - 125. Talk with a reporter. Check the pack one more time.
We're off. Family and friends cheer.
The course is a 10-mile loop through the woods of McNaughton Park, just outside of Pekin, IL - my hometown. The loop begins with a downhill to a field. We round the field - about a mile - and head up a hill to pass near the Start/Finish again. We spread out into a long line during that first mile, each of us finding our own pace. As we climb up that first hill, we're greeted by a line of our people cheering us on. Then it's into the ravines. The next 4-5 miles are filled with steep hills, up and down through sharp ravines. One hill, Golf Hill, has a rope attached to help us pull ourselves up. Later in the race I will come to really enjoy that hill because it gives me a chance to use different muscles. I take high steps and pull myself up, using all my upper body strength. I keep picturing the old Batman shows with Batman and Robin walking up the side of a building, pulling on a rope. Unfortunately, that is not the end of the steep hills. Finally, we climb out of the steeps to another field, and the next aid station. We then pass along the other side of the field, past an old cemetery, to the Heaven's Gate loop. At the turn into Heaven's Gate (no, I don't know why it's called that, other than it's near the old cemetery), race directors have placed a sign, which I will pass each loop, that announces "Heaven's Gate" with an arrow. The thought enters my head that I have worked so very hard to avoid heaven's gate, and here I am running to it, again and again and again. I am amused at the thought. The final 2 miles are mostly flatter terrain, but still with some steep hills. Finally, we run through some bushes and emerge on the edge of a field, greeted by a homemade sign cheering on one of my running companions. We cross the field, pass a collection of tents, and run over the Start/Finish line.
And then we start another loop.
Trails slide away. Wooden bridges feel like ice-skating rinks in the mud. On the first loop, I thought the early part of the course was the toughest with it's steep hills. As the day wears on, I change my thinking. The flatter sections of the later course become nearly impassable. Mud is so thick that even walking is difficult.
Into the afternoon, we all begin to talk nervously about certain sections of the trail. The 50-milers are hoping to be off the course by nightfall, but those of us running the 100 know we have a tough night ahead. Trails that are difficult during daylight will be scary and dangerous by headlamp.
Quickly, time ceases to pass in minutes and hours; it flows in miles. Distance becomes the measure of my day. As the miles stretch on, I begin to count only loops.
At the end of each loop, my brother, Mike, is waiting for me. And my parents. I am surprised to see them each time. I thought they would tire and go home, but they are still waiting. They seem to be enjoying the whole event. They chat with runners and with the others who are there to offer what support they can. On the trail, I meet runners who have been talking with my parents - "Oh, you're Julie. Great parents; I was just talking with them."
I have told my family they cannot question me about whether I should continue. They are only allowed to be there if they can encourage me. I worry that my mom will be a mother and worry about me. This is my first race with any support. I know how to run and keep myself motivated. I don't know how to manage anyone else if they express any doubts.
At the end of my 5th loop - 50 miles, I take a break. I change my soaking wet socks, dry my feet, and re-lube them. I put on a long-sleeved shirt for the night. And then I say goodbye and congratulations to some of the 50-milers who are now finished.
At first, people talk constantly, hoping to stave off the dark. Runners group up to find strength and support in numbers.
After a while I begin to grow more quiet. I separate from the groups, preferring to run on my own. I run a little more slowly and carefully now, but steady. The light from my headlamp flattens out the contours of the trail. I see only a few feet ahead as I launch into hills, not seeing what lies beyond my light. My eyes grow wider; I hear more intensely. I have begun my transition. I am shedding the skin of a person of the sun and becoming some creature of the night. I love running in the dark. I am frightened; I am exhilarated. I feel happy to see other runners on the trail, but feel oddly relieved when they or I pass and I continue alone.
By this point, time means nothing to me. I try to figure out how I'm doing - if I can finish by the cutoff. But I cannot figure it out. There is no deadline. There is no pace. There is only an expanse of darkness that is strangely comforting.
Time exists only in landmarks. Tree - I know this tree; it it time to pass this tree. Stream - it is the time of wading - again. This hill - I remember this hill; I must climb this hill before the loop is finished. Stream - it is time to be wet again. I no longer know how long a night is; I only know trees and hills and streams.
At the end of loop 7, I am resigned to not finishing. At my current pace I am sure I cannot finish by the cutoff. The condition of the trails is too difficult; I am too slow.
While refueling at the aid station, two women who I have run with for short periods on and off during the night come in. We chat as we eat. Laurie asks if we can still finish. I say I'm sure we cannot. She says we can if we run 3 hour loops. By this point, we have slowed to around 4 hours per loop. Bonnie says we should run together, help each other out, and simply run faster.
Bonnie leads out, taking a strong pace. She runs the field quickly. She still walks the steep hills, but as soon as it flattens out, she is running again. I keep with her, right on her shoulder.
Daylight breaks. I am exhilarated. Light has returned to the world and I am running. And I am running strong. I am running fast.
Until I cannot. At mile 7.5 of that loop, I suddenly and without warning cannot continue running. I slow to a walk and watch my companions disappear into the woods. I try to force myself to run, but my legs will not. It is as though I have run into a wall; I cannot go over or around it. So this is what people mean when they talk about "hitting the wall." This is a new experience for me. I have gotten tired; I have run out of steam. But I have not experienced this.
Of course, I still have 2.5 miles to go. I walk. Those 2 1/2 miles seem endless. The effort to walk out of the course feels equal to what I have expended during the entire rest of the race.
As soon as I stop running I begin to feel just how much my feet hurt. They are destroyed. They are shards of glass in my shoes.
I calculate the pace. We had been running a pace that would be a 3-hour loop. Over an hour faster than the previous several loops. In order to finish, we knew we would have to run hard. I had. Until I couldn't.
I know when I eventually finish that loop I am done. I will finish this loop. I will not finish this race.
Strangely, I am not upset. I have run the best race I could. I chose to take a risk and run all out instead of running a safe pace that would have given me another loop, but not a finish. And I ran out. I had nothing left. I gave everything I had.
Finally, I emerge from the bushes into the field, past the tents. I try to stride smartly - I will finish strongly. My brother runs out to meet me. I tell him I'm done.
And then I start to run. Well, more like a shuffle. But I run across the Finish.
80 miles.
Some of the young guys who have already finished encourage me to rest a little and eat some food, then continue. They tell me I can still finish.
But I know I am done. I tell the I ran all out on that loop, and I have nothing left. They respect that. I am happy with my race.
80 miles.
Julie
2 comments:
Wow, Julie, I'd like to just reach out and give you a hug. You listened to your body and gave it all you had. That's a victory no matter how many miles you completed. Congrats on the 80 miles and thanks for sharing about the experience.
Thanks, Nancy!
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