Able. This all began with a stupid deal, made in a fit of irritability and pique directed at the low-hanging clouds and the drizzling white mist swirling around us, soaking through our clothes and shoes as we traversed the final miles of the Buffalo River Trail in northern Arkansas. I don't even remember most of the conversation - or lack thereof - other than at one point I burst out that if we managed to finish the trail by noon I would run a race. Torrey, one of those crazy people who run ultra-marathons for fun, immediately shot back that it would have to be at least a half-marathon, and it would have to be on a trail, not a road. Still wet, cold, and irritable, I agreed. When we finished that trail with four minutes to spare I wasn't thinking anything beyond being grateful that we'd reached the warm, dry interior of our car, and as the months went on I hoped Torrey had forgotten about our deal. I wasn't that lucky, however, and during our Colorado adventures last summer Torrey had the grace to remind me of our bargain in as tactful of a way as possible. Not being one to go back on my word, I began training when I got home at the end of August.
Five months later, what the fuck was I thinking played on repeat in my head as I walked from my car to the starting line for my first ever race. I definitely still would have been thinking those words regardless of what distance I was running, but they were especially poignant because for some stupid reason I had decided to go for broke and sign up for an ultra-marathon distance of 54K, or 33.55 miles. Did I mention it was my first race? The small handful of 5ks I did years ago where I walked the vast majority of the distance don't count, because I certainly wasn't timed for them, and I'm not even sure I received a race bib or finisher medal. I'd never ran a timed 5k, a 10k, a half-marathon, or a full marathon, but I'd spent the past five months working hard on my own to improve my distance endurance, and when I found a race close to home I jumped at the chance to go for it. I spent every weekend for a month training on the course trails at my local state park, learning the route and pushing my own limits up to 22 miles (or two of the three loops of the race course), because I'll be damned if I was going to give up.
The minute I walked up to the starting area I heard my named called over the PA system by the race director, asking me to come see him as soon as possible. Dread hit my chest and lodged in my throat, because I'm an extreme introvert and had absolutely hoped to avoid any sort of attention during this race. It would be just my luck that a hundred or so people would get to watch me walk over to the race director while I internally freaked out over what could possibly be wrong. When I reached him he smiled at me and reached out to touch my shoulder in what could only be a described as a bracing way as he explained to me as apologetically as possible what had happened. I burst out into full body laughter, the kind that hurts your stomach and makes your shoulders shake, the kind laced with just a little edge of hysteria, because raccoons decimating my drop bags overnight would happen only to me. I had carefully planned what I was going to put in my bags, which would go to each of the three aid stations on the course where I could grab a snack, some electrolyte tablets for my water, address any blisters that might have popped up, and otherwise support myself during the race. I had gone overkill, which I tend to do regardless, because the aid stations were all well-equipped for any needs a runner might have, but I had wanted to be prepared with my own stuff just in case. After learning my bags were next to useless, I knew I was going to be relying on the aid stations for most of my needs. The only thing I really cared about were the change of socks I knew I absolutely needed to have, and it was with no small amount of relief that we found my socks were spared from the raccoons' rampage.
So here's the thing: in previous posts I've discussed how good I am at avoiding things, of ignoring problems, of pushing it all down into the back of my mind and pretending it doesn't exist. I seem to be learning there is no end to the amount of shit I willingly ignore about myself, because it is only recently that I learned I've been having panic attacks for months and have been doing my utmost to ignore what my brain is putting my body through. I probably still wouldn't know if I hadn't had one in a therapy session, where it became difficult to breath and my hands were shaking and my throat was dry and I couldn't string words together and my shoulders and whole legs were tense, where I began sweating and alternating between rubbing my face and pinching my arms. All of which I had literally no idea I was doing until my counselor made me stop and breath, walked me through grounding exercises, then had me describe the physical symptoms of what I had just endured. I. Had. No. Idea. I still don't know all of my triggers, though now that I'm (mostly) aware I can pinpoint the thoughts or words that might induce one of my attacks. And being called to the front of a large crowd of people where I don't know a single person to be told my carefully prepared bags are worthless due to a freak occurrence should have sent me into a panic attack, but it didn't. For reasons I'm not sure I understand, the circumstances made me truly laugh instead, accepting it for what it was and moving on. Maybe it was because I was focused on the monumental task of finishing a 33 mile race instead of the little side details, or maybe it was because I expected a panic attack and was therefore prepared for one, but I surprised myself and stayed calm. I had my socks, the aid stations could provide the rest, now all I had to do was run.
I had this. I knew I did. I was well prepared, knew my body and, at least in this case, my mind. The first 11 mile loop all but flew by with my best pace yet, and it was with a certain amount of fondness that I looked forward to my favorite parts of the trail. Isn't that something, for me to realize I had favorite spots on a running trail, and when I reached them a tiny little smile crossed my face, even on my third and final loop. Not once did it cross my mind that I couldn't do it. Not once did that doubt leach into my head, even when I was tired and walking up the steepest hills. I knew I could do it, that no matter what, even if I had to crawl, I could finish that race. I had plenty of time, hours well into the night, but I knew I could finish before sunset. I wasn't overly concerned about my pace, just going at what I knew I could handle while always moving forward. I found a few people to run with here and there, before eventually either they or I would run on ahead, each of us determined to finish at our own pace. I was pleasantly surprised to see a few familiar faces, people who I'd seen and talked to and even ran with on training runs on that very course, and with just a passing fist bump or a "hey, you got this!" I felt my resolve grow. The hiking community in general, which I've been a part of for years, is usually very polite, exchanging hellos and little bits about the trail in passing; the running community, at least for this race, was so incredibly encouraging it kind of blew me away. Nearly every time I passed someone or someone passed me it was always accompanied by "way to go," "good job," "keep it up," or some other little phrase designed to keep the other person's spirits up. I can't speak for everyone, but I genuinely wanted everyone out there to do well, to be their best, and wanted them to finish their race. Very few people go out there looking to actually compete; most of us just want to go out and run for the sake of running, or for ourselves, or maybe to beat a personal record, or to run with friends.
Trail running wasn't a hard stretch for me, for someone who loves to hike and explore as much as I do, trail running is just a faster way of seeing more. It's the "faster" part that held me back from trying it, and it took an incentive in the form of my best friend making a dumb deal with me to get me to go for it. And there I was, at top form during the first two loops, feeling good and showing that with my pace. I slowed down on my third loop, which I expected, but I still felt good despite being tired. I kept pushing, though not as hard as I could have, content just to have begun the final loop knowing that I would finish it no matter what. Somehow I managed to keep my feet the entire race, and despite the few times I tripped over a rock or root I never went down, which is way more than I can say than during any of my training runs, where my shins and knees and hands still bear the scars of one too many falls. At one point or another during my passes through the aid stations, while scarfing down a cookie or pretzels or pickles or whatever else caught my eye, I had mentioned it was my first race to the volunteers. On my final loop they all remembered, and their encouragement to keep going and finish strong gave me that little extra boost I needed to do exactly that. While I didn't care how long it took me, or whether I would be dead last across the finish line, I had hoped and hoped that I might finish in under eight hours. I wouldn't even call it a goal, because I wasn't actively striving for it when I began; it was just something that would be nice if it happened. When my watch died just before the final aid station, with a little over three miles left to go, I let that hope go, not knowing if I could pace myself without some way of telling time. I did, however, ask the volunteers the time when I left on the last leg of the course; I had 45 minutes to make it to the finish line if I wanted to make it under eight hours. And I honestly wasn't sure that I could, but hot damn did I give it my best shot.
Crossing that final line with a grin on my face, with absolute relief that I had done it, that I had accomplished a task I had repeatedly told myself I was crazy for even considering, was one of the best feelings I've ever felt; it was the same feeling of overwhelming gratitude and relief and triumph that I feel when I summit a mountain, or when I crested the rim of the Grand Canyon after hiking across it, or when I see my car at the trail head after days of backpacking in the desert or the mountains. I didn't even look at the time when I crossed, too overwhelmed to make sense of anything more than the finisher medal in my hand and the applause and cheers from those at the finish line who didn't even know me but were happy for and proud of me for completing the race. It wasn't until later that night when I remembered to look up results online that I discovered I had finished my race in 7 hours, 58 minutes, and 37 seconds. Goal: met. With one minute twenty-three seconds to spare.
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