I don’t often claim to be a writer or a runner, though I have done both in some capacity for as far back as I can remember. I use both outlets to organize my thoughts, to manage my mind, to maintain positive mental health. They have always been tools I implement to return to myself, not pillars of my actual identity. I think this has been a vital distinction.
In March of this year I took a gamble on myself and signed up for my first ultra race. The Telluride Mountain Run (TMR) promised to take me over forty extremely technical and steep miles through the San Juan Mountains with 14,000 vertical feet of elevation gain, running to altitudes of over 13,000 feet on exposed ridgelines and rocky summits. “THIS IS NOT AN EVENT FOR BEGINNERS,” the website warned. I was naive enough to pull the trigger anyway, and smart enough to know I needed to get down to business immediately.
Spring off-season found me running warm and windy trails in Flagstaff and snow dusted fire roads in the eastern Sierras. I started off slow and awkward, combating extra winter weight and the heavy sadness of my solo-ness; a return to adventuring on my own after four years of partnership. The freedom to move back to the mountains came at a cost, and although I knew it was the right decision, the very best decision, it fractured my spirit. All the insecurities, the feelings of being too much and not enough, flooded into the absence. I fought to keep my May miles free from feelings of lacking, of overwhelm, and instead tried to land somewhere in the healthy spectrum between. Exploring brand new trails and novel views made this easier; soft light spilling through the canopy, the potency of pine on the breeze, the exquisite smallness of once again being cradled in these massive mountains.
One foot in front of the other carried me through to June and I arrived at summer’s doorstep armed with info from a stack of borrowed ultra-running books, new trail shoes, a budding relationship with my hydration vest, and a very solid crush on a friend. The former, all of which would contribute to building my confidence as a runner, and the last would find its way into those pointy dark corners that keep a person up at night. These unrequited emotions became enmeshed in a story I believed about myself, and would continue to wrestle for most of the summer:
My company is desirable, but I am not good enough to date.
If I were a “real runner” he would want [to run with] me.
The mind is a complicated master and long distance running lends itself to an unparalleled quantity of alone time with your inner workings. While I had mentally prepared for potential injury and problem solved ways to avoid triggering old disordered eating patterns, this lie, this blazing feeling of not being good enough, blindsided me with its voracity.
But I kept showing up.
I kept putting in the work.
I ran uphill. I ran downhill. I ran in the rain. I ran in the sunshine. I ran in hailstorms and beat down heat. I ran after long days at work. I ran in the early hours of the morning. I ran while embracing the ridiculous beauty of these mountains. I ran while choking through tears and loneliness. I ran. But I didn’t run away.
There is nothing sexy about long distance running. It’s messy and sweaty and possibly bloody. There’s snot and spit and sometimes vomit. There’s dirt and tears and a tiredness that comes from the depths. But there is also overwhelming joy. Running strips everything away and leaves you bare. It turns suffering into resilience. Nothing is different, but everything has changed.
On August 27th I took my months and miles of training and trying to the start line. In the weeks leading up to TMR I had put some metaphorical distance between myself and my favored friend, and on race day there was also a literal ocean. I was determined for this to be “my” run. No one else’s. It wasn’t a race. Another vital distinction. I had nothing to prove. There was nothing to win. There was nothing to lose. The entire point was to be present. To stay curious. To let myself be changed.
Running by headlamp was surprisingly comforting. Enveloped in darkness save for my bubble of light, the sparkling glitter of rocky quartz, and the glowing, bouncing orbs of fellow runners up in the distance. The sun crept above the horizon and the silhouette of the San Juans struck a jagged crack across the sky; stark black against an ombre of the palest blue to the darkest indigo. Bridal Veil Basin ushered me into the sunshine. First light on my skin and a long stretch of downhill warmed me and welcomed me all the way into the first aid station.
A friendly face and a snarky comment goes a long way at 11.5 miles in. My friend/family Sean is always good for both. There are no words to convey my gratitude for the time he took to show up and cheer me on and relay updates to other friends for the entirety of the day. I spent the whole summer thinking I wouldn’t have that, and the difference that it made is immeasurable.
The next section of the course commenced with the familiar Ajax ascent and the reward for my efforts was a 1.5 mile traverse between Telluride Peak and Imogene Pass; sun drenched, blue sky views in every and all directions. The ridgeline was extremely exposed, but the rocky footing felt familiar and comfortable. Unfortunately, exertion at elevations above 13,000 feet often make me dizzy and I spent the stretch of downhill to the Tomboy Aid Station lightheaded and off my game. Greeted by my neighbor, Rebecca with big hugs, words of encouragement, and a swig of gingerale, I donned dry socks and a smile as I took off towards Mendota Pass.
As I rounded a bend I encountered a man resting on a rock, phone in hand. When I inquired if he was okay he cheerfully replied that he was merely answering a work email, arranging to guide a man up Wilson Peak on Monday. We quickly put it together that we shared mutual friends and he joined me in the charge up the next big climb. Somewhere along the way he mentioned that he was basically doing this run off-the-couch and wasn’t sure if he was going to finish. When I asked him if he would be okay with that, he casually replied, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” And right then, a long string of expectations I had woven together for myself instantly unraveled. “How do I get to that place?” I asked him. And he looked over at me with a questioning glance that must only come from being so at home in that place of peace that you don’t even know there is anywhere else to be.
Head down, hands on hips, I continued to climb. A summer of summits had prepared me for that feeling of impermanence. I am in pain now, but there is always potential for change. “Just keep going. No feeling is final.” Cresting another ridgeline and pointing it down dusty single track towards Liberty Bell Aid Station, I realized my lightheadedness had subsided and the flow of oxygen at this lovely altitude made me feel lighter than I had felt all day. Gravity did its good deed and delivered me to Mile 22 at 2:22pm to the delightful sounds of Caamp’s By and By streaming from the aid station. Fucking Portal! The angels of the aid station refilled my water bottles, I forced down one measly square of PB&J, rubbed my fiery toes into submission, and took off again into the late afternoon.
When I was originally contemplating signing up for TMR I waffled between the 24-Miler and the 40-Miler. For five years I had been wondering to myself, “What If?” but it took a gentle nudging to stick to my guns with the longer distance instead of trying to waitlist and drop down as last minute cancellations made space available. The miles between 22 and 24 ended up being the strongest and most excited I felt all day. I would have regretted not pushing myself past that looming question. Even though I went on to time out at the last aid station, a mere two switch backs below the cutoff, with only 28.5 of the total 40 miles under my belt, it was still the farthest I had ever carried myself on my own two feet. As I stood panting at the top of Bridal Veil Falls, I overheard one of the volunteers on the radio confirm to the finish line, that #299 would not be continuing. I burst into tears.
I’m learning that long distance running is a lot of words of encouragement and hugs from strangers. It’s learning that even if you feel lonely, you are never really alone. It’s about expecting to encounter the unexpected. Pivot. Pirouette. Propel yourself forward by whatever means possible. One foot in front of the other.
I ran down from that last aid station to Sean’s van parked in the lot. Running is how I decompress. And even though I was tired and disappointed, under-caloried, and smelled “amazing” due to said running, I still wanted to run a little more. When we descended the last switchback Sean looked at his watch, “Thirty-one miles. Congratulations on your first 50k!”
Nothing is different.
But everything has changed.