Sometimes your best isn’t good enough. That is a tough lesson, no matter what your
age in life. I run with passion, joy and
intensity. The flip side to that
equation is that I take the failure to reach my goals very personally. The start to my dnf at Cascade Crest 100 this past weekend began 3
weeks ago. Although to be honest, it
really started last fall at the Bear.
The Bear on 9/28/12 was my first 100 mile run, ending the
day before my fortieth birthday. Many
people know this story. I took a hard
fall, hit my head on a rock and ran with a severe concussion, unbeknownst to me
at the time. This run turned into a bad
peyote trip of hallucinations, endless vomiting and a finish time ten minutes
within the course cutoff. It was a herculean
effort, and that effort cost me. The
following months were spent sleeping up to eighteen hours a day, my memory
shattered. It is not a time I like to
dwell upon. To this day, I can't say I’m
completely recovered. I feel proud of my
finish but know that isn’t a place I want to visit again. Not to mention the fact that I did not
perform anywhere near my best. I have
unfinished business with this 100 mile distance.
Fast forward to February 2013. At this point, I’m starting to climb out of
the post concussive syndrome, feeling like I can plan for races and train
again. I’d heard great reports regarding
Cascade Crest and was lucky to have my name selected in the lottery. Now I can put 8/24/13 on my calendar. I race, log many beautiful mountain miles, complete
the requisite hours of trail work and feel great.
Now I reach the weekend 3 weeks before the race. While training on the course, I fall. Thankfully, I did not hit my head, but ended
up with a few cracked ribs and a broken thumb.
It happens. Ironically, training
for these long distances has blessed me with no significant overuse
injuries. The tradeoff has been that
some of the falls we all take have resulted in more trauma based injuries. Like I said, it happens. You can’t go through life afraid of
falling. But the timing was unfortunate
from a racing point of view.
Cracked ribs hurt. A
lot. The days following the fall were
pretty miserable. Breathing hurt, I
couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t get comfortable even with a gut full of pain
pills. I was fortunate to have broken
the thumb in a spot that didn’t require surgery and could be stabilized in a
soft cast. Being right handed, I wasn’t
thrilled it was my right thumb as it put a damper on my daily life. But all things considered, not too bad. 1 week after my fall, I was feeling a lot
better. I could run a few miles and
while uncomfortable, it wasn’t horribly painful. I decided that if I had that much improvement
in a week, the race might still be in the cards.
I show up at the start line.
I know that the odds are not in my favor, but think I have a decent
chance. Saturday was a beautiful day,
perfect running weather for a 100. From
the beginning, the ribs were uncomfortable.
No surprise. I start off easy and
enjoy the company of all the wonderful people around me. I’m happy to be alive and able to participate
in such a cool event. Truly, I feel like
one of the luckiest people in the world.
The first 24 miles go by fairly smoothly in that tolerably uncomfortable
state.
Then the ribs go from uncomfortable back to miserable. Every step is jarring. My run form falls apart. I can’t breathe deeply. I hear a weird, wet sucking noise and stop to
inspect my hydration bladder and tubing.
Nope, not the bladder; it’s my lungs.
After the ribs went south, it was a cascade of problems. I became deeply nauseous. The jolting pain from my ribs triggered
retching which sent the ribs into spasms which resulted in more vomiting. Not a great combination. I try ginger and throw it up. I take an anti-nausea pill and throw that
up. I try to eat something, anything… You can guess where that’s going.
Next in line are my knees.
It becomes difficult to run then walk downhill. I don’t struggle with knee issues, so this was
a surprise. I imagine that my run form
is so off that my knees can’t take it.
Not to be left out, my right hand swells to grotesque proportions. I can’t say that it impeded my forward
progress, but it was not happy. At that
point, the voices in my head are talking over themselves. One set of voices is telling me to quit. “Who do you think you are?” they say. “You’re nobody. You’re not fast, why bother? You clearly can’t run these 100 milers.” Then the next set: “You’re doing great! See, you kept that last bite of potato
down. Whoops, maybe not. But you’ll get that next bit down. You can do this!” I turn on music to drown out the voices. The music bugs me and I turn it off.
Finally, I stop. The
moon is rising through a veil of clouds.
I can see the faint outline of jagged peaks. It is beautiful. Everything quiets and I think about
nothing. One voice speaks calmly and
clearly: “This isn’t working. Not today.”
I look at the moon and know that my day is over. I feel sad but peaceful. I make my slow way to the next aid station at
Ollalie Meadows, approximately 48 miles into the race. There is no drama at this point. More vomiting, yes, but I know what I need to
do. The incredible, kind volunteers take
care of me and radio ahead to the next aid station who alert my crew. They come, I pull out. I’m glad I tried, sad I couldn’t finish.
I think we all search for some experience of transcendence in
events like these. I can’t say if my
moment came or not. All I really have is
that voice in the moonlight. It’s not
the moment or message I wanted. But as the song says, “You can’t always get
what you want.” Unfortunately, that
clear voice is now gone and I doubt myself and my decision. I keep hearing the echo of the earlier chatter. It’s a mix of “you’re a failure, you can’t do
this,” with “get up, dust yourself off and try again.” I
know that the bigger the dream, the greater the chances of coming up
short. If you’re a dreamer, you must
accept the risk of disappointment. In
the meantime, I hear my own words from earlier:
“You can’t go through life afraid of falling.” Or failing.
And so the journey continues.
