DNF

Lost Turkey Marathon

We hit the road late, so I knew it would be a long drive. We arrived at the campsite close to midnight. Put our tent up in epic time. Enough to get maybe 3.5 hours of sleep. Alarms on our phone buzzed over and over until finally we started moving. Still, our timing was impeccable. We picked up our packets at 5am. On the bus to the starting area at 6:00. I slept on the ride, but it wasn’t enough. The race started at 7:30. 

The very first mile was extremely technical. Already my foot began to complain. But it wasn’t just my foot that worried me. Right from the start I lacked energy. I hoped it was just due to lack of sleep, and I’d start to feel more energetic once I got moving and I really woke up. But my body was just not having it. I felt like I was at the end of a marathon. Sluggish. Slow. Running on empty. Except it was only 3 miles in. I know the terrain didn’t help; it was a lot of uphill the first few miles. I started to get frustrated. Stopped to stretch as a couple of runners passed me by. I knew I was letting my mind get the best of me, but I couldn’t help it. I was already alone. I kept stopping to walk, but I didn’t want to. I turned off once in the wrong direction but didn’t go too far off the trail. I finally arrived to the first aid station just around 9 miles. And told them I might drop out. 

The organizer said that it was only a few miles to the next aid station, and even there I would then have to wait until all the runners finished so they could drive me back. She was trying to push me to continue, I knew, which I appreciated. A runner herself, she knew my mind was playing tricks on me. She said the next section was mild, and the volunteers assured me I was fine for time, told me to ‘just take it aid station to aid station’. Which is exactly how to do it when running an ultra. But I know my body, and I knew today was not happening. I managed to saunter through the next few miles but it was already in my head that I was going to stop. Every time I took a break to walk and resumed running I felt miserable. I wasn’t enjoying the run at all. Which I realized completely defeated the purpose of doing this. 

Running for me has always been therapeutic. I enjoy it. I need it. Sure, there are times I struggle, but I didn’t really want to today. Didn’t want to spend another 3½ hours fighting to get through a race. Didn’t have it in me. My mind kept thinking about the second half of the race, realizing how I’d have to hike for miles uphill, and I had no desire to do that. I probably could have forced it, but why? Partly I think I am over-trained, I’ve been logging too many miles recently without sufficient rest. I was physically lethargic. But the rest was mental. I started to worry about the 50-miler in 4 weeks where I knew I would have these same struggles. It was scaring me. I didn’t want to go through it twice, and so close to the 50. I just did not want to be running any more today. 

I arrived at the 13.1-mile aid station, and immediately told them I was done. I didn’t want to argue with anyone or have the friendly volunteers try to convince me I could go on. I walked off to the side and let myself cry for a minute. I was frustrated and disappointed in myself. Worried. Nervous. It was the first time I have ever dropped out of a race. Although I knew it was right for me, I hated doing it. But I have to let it go. It’s just one run. There have been many before, and I know there will be many more to come. I will be okay.

Committee meeting

My committee meeting was days away. I was sick and run down. The night before the Rehoboth Marathon I started to feel that all-too-familiar tickle in my throat, knowing a cold was coming on. Only 6 days before this marathon I ran one in Florence, Italy. Probably not the best idea I’ve ever had. And I’ve been known to have some pretty bad ideas. Flying to Europe and back in a span of 4 days was much harder than I had anticipated. And of course, I ran a marathon the day before flying home. I mean, when my brother suggested we run in Florence when I came to visit I had to agree. Just like when my friend asked me to run Rehoboth with her the following week. Seemed reasonable. The plane ride put a lot of pressure on my back, and it was hurting more than it had been since it was herniated. But still, I was glad I was there. I was in a much better place than I had been merely a week ago. The morning of the race I decided not to wear a watch. I didn’t want to focus on my time; I just wanted to enjoy the nice scenic run through the quiet beach town of Delaware. In early December. Which is exactly what I did.

The course had been changed from previous years, and it was far more beautiful. The temperature was ideal and the rain held off. I started off, slowly. I knew I wasn’t setting any records, and that was fine. I met a woman named Jackie. She too was running slowly, a few weeks out from the JFK 50. We chatted for about 5 or 6 miles. We talked about ultras. About our running partners. About our kids. She was wearing a watch, which I heard buzz at the 13.1 mile mark, but she didn’t want to look either. I left her slightly after the halfway point, and didn’t find her again after that, although I looked for her in the tent after the race. Somewhere between miles 16-17 I met Ira. She told me how she always struggled around that point. I helped her through those few miles. She helped me get to the finish. She said her husband, who ran the half, was meeting her at Mile 20 with a Diet Coke. I briefly thought of that soda as I passed Mile 20, although I didn’t see her. And then, just around Mile 22, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Ira, with her husband alongside her. She handed me what was left of her soda. I couldn’t believe she thought of me, and I was touched. She was pacing well in those last miles, and I kept her in my sight. We remained close right up until the very last stretch end, when I briefly stopped to stretch my cramping legs. I finished in 4:13, a few hundred meters behind Ira. Not a particularly fast race. But a good one.

And so here I was, just days before my committee meeting, and I couldn't start my work until I went for a run. Despite the cold that sunk into my chest, keeping me up at night coughing. Despite the physical abuse I put my body through over the last few weeks. Maybe it’s an addiction. Maybe it’s just what I need. I took my inhaler, and hit the trails.

Right. This happened.

Post race

Rehoboth Beach Seashore Marathon. 3 years running.

Twentieth marathon

Nothing like your 20^th marathon to humble the shit out of you. That thought started running through my mind as early as mile 10. It didn’t matter how many countless times before I’ve run this distance. My body wouldn’t cooperate. It was a fight right from the start, and I knew it. This race was entirely mental, from beginning to end. Completing it was a testament to how tough I’ve become.

This was my second attempt at my 20^th marathon. I was planning to run Long Island this past May. But the morning of that race I could barely make it out of my bed, let alone run a single step. I wanted to will away the severe sciatica shooting down my leg like bolts of lighting. But I couldn't. I became a slave to narcotics, nerve medication, and muscle relaxants. I couldn't run, which for me was worse than the pain. A few weeks into physical therapy I began running again, slowly but surely finding my footing. Until I felt more like myself. I added back mileage week after week, mostly pain-free. And ran the Baker Ultra in August, the second of the series.

The weeks between Baker and Cape Cod weren’t easy. My body was slow. Tired from the havoc I wreaked while running 50 miles. I was run-down and at the same time trying to build back up to marathon shape. I didn’t listen to my body.  I didn’t give myself the time to rest. To recover. And the pressure of trying to get enough data to publish- soon- was equally draining. The stress took a toll on both my mental well-being as well as my physical health. I came down with a cold that lingered in my system for weeks. My ears filled with fluid, which I could hear sloshing around in my head. My chest was tight, asthmatic. I couldn’t sleep. Three weeks before the marathon I headed out to for a 20 miler on an otherwise extremely busy weekend with the kids. Just over two miles in, still on Old Country Road, I broke down. Instead of just cutting it short I completed the run I set out to do, knowing full well that I shouldn’t have. I badly needed a break but refused to give it to myself. It was like I wasn’t able to stop pushing.

My taper didn’t feel like a taper. Usually I start to feel antsy; full of so much energy I barely know what to do with myself. Wanting to run but forcing myself not to. Not this time. I had no desire to run. I was tired, worn out. My body was trying to recover from the last few months of unrelenting abuse. And instead of taking it easy, I used that time to work harder. My thesis work has become center stage; taking so much mental energy I practically have nothing left, all the rest is then spent on the kids. I should have known going into it I wasn’t ready.

Beginning the race I actually felt fine, but my stomach was bothering me the night before. And as I began running, it aggravated me more and more. I was cramping so badly at times that even after the race I couldn’t eat for hours, overcome with nausea. The hills were harder than I remembered. At mile 10 I had to stop and stretch. I remember thinking, “That’s it, I’m done”.  Not a good feeling so early in a marathon. I trudged on, my pace continuously slowing. Yet I never thought about stopping, about quitting. I just kept going. At Mile 15, I remember telling Serena that I was having a bad race, but would finish, just slower than anticipated.  Which was my feeling throughout. I’ve felt worse during races, even during training runs. I knew I could do it. And I knew it would be a struggle.

I don't remember as much of the race as I would like. I know it was beautiful at points, gorgeous views of the ocean. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer day, slightly chilly with the sun shining brightly. No wind to speak of. What I remember most distinctly was how I just kept pushing myself. Running. Walking. Stretching my cramping legs. But continuously moving forward. Somehow I found the internal strength to continue. And by the end, I had given everything. No, it was not my best run, by far. But for four hours and 20 minutes, I fought. I pushed away my demons. I pushed myself. So at 26.2 miles, 16 miles after my race had ended, I was really done. And as I struggled to catch my breath, the tears flowed. I wasn’t upset; I was just drained- physically and mentally, and those emotions poured out of me. And despite it all, I was proud of myself. Twenty marathons in the last 6 years. And every one of them a lesson in its own right. Each one its own struggle in many different ways. This one reminding me, once again, how humbling this distance is. How humbling life can be. I can’t take anything for granted; I will always have to work for it, work at it. And I always will.

Pre-run stretching

My butt :)

Enjoyed spectating

No words necessary 

My 20th marathon

Baker Ultra

Ultras are a lot like childbirth. Somehow you forget all the pain involved once it’s far enough removed. You remember what was amazing about the outcome. The experience as a whole, and what you got out of it. And then you decide to do it again. I’m hoping that will happen next year. For the 50 miler, that is.

The day was cooler than last year. Dark clouds in the sky. A beautiful day to be trail-running. Other than the mud. So. Much. Mud. Not even a half-mile in and my feet were soaked. They stayed that way for the next 10 hours or so. I changed my socks once around mile 12, only to immediately step into another river. I didn’t bother with dry socks again until I was off the trail. I felt the blisters between my toes start to swell up. 

The early miles were amazing. The woods were cloaked in a dense fog. It was overcast, and remained that way throughout most of the day. The yellow blazes on the trees glowed brightly, in stark contrast to the darkness that enveloped us. The trail was wet from heavy rain overnight. The rocks were slippery, the mud was deep. And heavy on my feet. I enjoyed the different feel of the Pennsylvania terrain. It felt good to be somewhere new, somewhere different. Trails that I hadn’t already run hundreds of times before.

It’s easy to forget the beginning miles of an ultramarathon. They feel easy, as if you can run forever. You are light on your feet. And able to appreciate the beauty that surrounds you. I ran alongside another mom of three, Katie, for several miles early on. Tara and I decided before the race we would run our own paces this year- it was too long a run to try and stick together the whole time, we made that mistake last year. Although we separated early, we continued to find each other. Eventually, the two of us fell into stride, as if we were on one of our long training runs together.

Coming out of the woods and closing in on 25 miles was my weakest point of the race. I had just spent the last couple of miles hiking directly- or at least it felt that way- uphill. Inevitably, thoughts of failure began flooding my mind: ‘I don’t know how I can do this’ ‘I’m only halfway and it’s 6 ½ hours’ ‘I don’t think I can finish, I might as well stop now’. I tried to push them down, playing mental games with myself. 5 more miles until 30. Then 5 more and it’s 35. 40 is almost there. 45 is the home stretch…. It wasn’t helping. Tara said to me to just take it one aid station at a time. Even that didn’t seem possible. So I tried my best shut my brain off and just move my feet forward. The cowbells ringing me into each aid station were so welcoming.

So much of the day is a blur; a long day of running all jumbled in my mind. I distinctly remember one aid station with a man sitting down and vomiting in a garbage can. A runner who veered off course. We yelled after him, but he was too far ahead to hear. I felt bad, knowing he would be adding on precious miles. But there was no way my legs could carry me fast enough to catch him. I remember walking up a long hill that resembled a ski lift. Thinking how insane it was, how ridiculously steep. Wondering why there were more uphills than downhills. Following the endless yellow-and sometimes yellow and blue- blazes, hour after hour, glad for the confirmation that I was still on course. Using a zip line to cross a river. I remember how my ears filled with fluid and I could barely hear until I popped them time and time again.

And then the nausea kicked in. I think it was around mile 30. Anything I ate made me feel worse. A small potato with salt. A piece of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A banana. My body wasn’t having it. I tried to continue to drink, knowing I was already somewhat dehydrated; I stopped peeing long ago. The last time it hurt so much because of how chafed I was, so I was almost grateful I didn't have to go. I don’t remember how I got through most of the remaining miles. We switched over to road and it just seemed never-ending. I kept waiting for the ‘rails to trails’, the last 8 miles of the run, which I was told was soft gravel.  But once I turned on there the miles seemed endless. Walk, then run. Walk, then run. I was finding it harder and harder to pick up running, and told Tara I would jog slowly as she walked and ran at a pace that was too fast for me. I plodded on. Not thinking of anything other than making it through until the end. I remember the last two aid stations. Taking a grape. A gulp of soda. The volunteers telling me I looked great, not like someone who almost ran 50 miles. I’m not sure if they were just saying that to make me feel better. At the very last stop, one of the volunteers felt my clammy, wet arm, and startled, said I was so cold. There was nothing left to keep my body temperature up. I was done. And there were 2.7 miles left.

It’s funny how long less than 5 kilometers can be. Especially after you’ve spent the last 12 ½ hours running. The miles seem to stretch on. I knew the end was near, so I just kept moving. Ignoring the blister on my left toe that already popped. Ignoring how awful my body felt. Just trying to get closer to the YMCA, where we boarded the bus so many hours ago. The last mile we ran. One tiny hill left that was so very humbling. And finally, finally- it was over. I finished with Tara, in just over 13 ¼ hours. And I wanted to collapse.

Chairs were set up outside, along with food that seemed as unappetizing as the mud I spent the day running through. I ate a sugarcoated donut. Maybe not the best idea.  As soon as I sat down, I knew I needed to be horizontal. I walked inside the YMCA to rest on a couch while Tara went to the car for the clothes, my body trembling. The thought of getting up to shower was daunting. The nausea washed over me, and I didn’t think I could make it down the stairs without vomiting. I grabbed a garbage pail, started dry heaving. When I eventually made it down the steps to the shower, I almost wished I hadn’t. When I took off my shorts, I realized I was bleeding. From the chafing between my legs. I stepped gingerly under the water; just wanting to wash off the mud and stink that covered me. But the water stung so badly I was reduced to tears. I was barely able to stand up in the shower, crying in pain, ready to vomit. The last time I remember being in so much pain was after my C-section. My legs wouldn’t hold me upright. I couldn’t eat a thing. I got into bed at the hotel and laid there, motionless, for most of the night.

Its funny how some people, after finding out how long it took me to finish, seem unimpressed. Somehow imply that walking during the race reduces the feat. It’s like I have to defend myself. My pace. That I was actually running. That trail miles are not nearly the same as road miles. That I had to stop to eat. Or pee. Or change my socks. That it was hot. Humid. Muddy. Or I got lost. That I managed to finish a run that only 53 others completed in less than 14 hours. I know what I accomplished. I know that I ran until my body was entirely depleted. That I had to push through my own demons not just to run that day, but to run every day leading up to it. To wake up early every weekend to go for long runs. To find the mental energy to run a handful of miles during weeks when I completely lacked motivation. But I pushed myself, as I always do. And I did it. No one can take that away from me.

So by this time next year, I hope to have completed the third section of the trail to earn my “rolling pin”. The difficulties of that day will fade away, and I will remember what I achieved. And will do it again. In the same way I can barely remember how much my body hurt after giving birth. Both times. But all that matters is what I have now. 

At the start of the race

50 miles... what???

Oops, forgot to stop my watch

Thank you, Brooks PureGrit3

I've earned the right to wear this

Two out of three sections complete

Cape May

Ocean Drive Marathon, Cape May, New Jersey. March 30, 2014. This marathon was a true testament to a winter that wouldn’t relent. It was first predicted to hover around 52 degrees, a pleasant spring day. But the impending storm was slower moving than originally anticipated, and the forecast now called for rain on Sunday. Designated as a scenic, point-to-point course, it was all in one direction, so therefore entirely dependent on which way the wind was blowing.

The morning of the race was fairly ideal. The race began at 9:00 am, and our hotel was less than a mile from the starting line. It was nice not to have to wake up extremely early or have to rush- we had time for a leisurely breakfast with other runners. Walking down Ocean Drive, it looked like both the rain and wind were holding off. There was a slight mist, and a heavy dense fog, but still fairly good for running. I started off quickly, around 8:30 minute per mile. I was worried about maintaining that speed over the entire marathon, but I continued to feel comfortable at that pace, and I knew my winter training was paying off.

Around mile 4, I passed by Tara, and she told me my Mom said hi. At the hotel bar the evening before she heard a song that reminded her of her father- and I told her how the song ‘Crazy’ by Gnarles Barkley always made me think of my mother. I would think back to the days when she used to call me all the time, several times a day, sometimes for no reason at all, and eventually I set my phone’s ringtone to that song. When she told me she heard the song on her iPod, my eyes welled up with tears.

Around miles 14-15 I was still feeling good and pretty confident that I would be able to break 3:50, maybe even better depending how well I could hold up. And suddenly everything changed. Just after mile 16, the wind picked up, and we were running directly into it: a strong, heavy, unrelenting wind. It was like we were running through an enormous wind tunnel- no matter how hard I pushed it seemed like I wasn’t going anywhere. I kept looking at my Garmin, seeing my mile times increase. 9:15, 9:30, 9:48… So I stopped worrying about the time, and just tucked my head down and pushed on. I didn’t think, I just ran- I knew I could be running faster, but I was conscious of the wind holding me back. I took each mile one at a time, hoping for some relief, but it never came. In the very last mile, the skies opened up. As I ran along the boardwalk, I could see the finish line in the distance through the rain, and I gave it whatever I had left. And somehow, it was enough to PR. 3:55:29. Despite whatever was thrown at me- I managed to pull through. This marathon was, in every way, a perfect depiction of the winter of 2014.

Tara and I think alike

I did it!

Wineglass

Chinese fire drill. Dovid pulled off the highway and stopped at a stop sign. He wanted to quickly switch spots so I could take over the driving. But as we stepped out of the car, our cramping legs immediately reminded us of the 26.2 miles we just ran a couple of hours ago. We stumbled slowly around the car, laughing hysterically at what had to be the slowest Chinese fire drill in the history of Chinese fire drills.

It was an unseasonably warm October day. We arrived in Corning with enough time to pick up our bibs, our wineglass and cheap champagne, and walk around town a bit. But my head had been pounding all morning. I hadn’t gotten much sleep all week, preparing for Friday’s lab meeting. And the heat wasn't helping. Dovid was also not feeling great, so we decided to see a movie before getting dinner. Sitting in a cool theatre watching Sandra Bullock in outer space turned out to be the perfect choice. We ate at Olive Garden, and headed to the Mark Twain Motel, a classy joint about 25 minutes from the start of the race.

In the morning, the sky was damp with a heavy fog. We stopped off at Dunkin’ Donuts and headed to Corning to catch the shuttle. Sitting on the school bus to the start in Bath, NY, Dovid and I talked about the last time he raced the Wineglass Marathon. Five years ago, two days after my mother had the Whipple procedure, or clinically called a pancreatoduodenectomy, an involved operation that removes a portion of the pancreas, duodenum, gallbladder and part of the bile duct because of pancreatic cancer. This surgery ultimately destroyed the remainder and quality of her life. He almost skipped the race entirely. But our dad told him he should go- so he did, setting a PR of 3:09 and qualifying for Boston.

I started off quickly, there was a light rain and I felt good. I had not raced in a long time, and my legs wanted to move fast. The 50-miler was just 6 weeks ago, and it took some time for the fatigue to pass, and I had not really put in any fast long runs. But I still pushed it in the first half, around 1:55. Soon after that it got difficult for me. My legs began to cramp- both hamstrings and quadriceps. The downhill course was getting to me. I was also emotionally spent. Besides the lack of sleep, I had an enormous amount of stress at home with the kids. The first month and a half of school was difficult, broken up with days off for holidays, and my babysitter wasn't managing well with the three kids and homework. Things were far from calm at home, which only added to my overall frustration level. I felt my body slowing down, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. It got hotter and more humid outside, and the sun poked its head in and out.

I was glad I pilfered some salt from Dovid in the hotel room that morning. My hands were clammy. Not sure why, maybe lack of glucose? I ate some more Honey Stingers, but nothing seemed to ease the cramping. I had to stop and stretch several times. The mundane course was depressing, and worsened along with my mood. I felt the distance as it passed, mile for mile. We ran alongside a highway for a while, and there were long stretches of flat, endless road that seemed to go on forever. At one point, we passed through a cemetery, and I wondered how Dovid felt the last time he ran it. Closing in on the finish, we ran through a small, desolate town with a few people standing outside cheering. I wished then that I was running in the woods, alone, not having a few strangers on the street cheering for me. I needed to connect to the earth, not just run through some random town with a bunch of other people.  I felt so miserable during that last stretch. I just wanted to stop.

At last, I turned onto the main street, and finally, finally, saw the finish line. My time was 4:09:34, but I didn’t care all that much. I just wanted the race to be over. After I crossed the finish line, I saw Dovid right by the chicken broth. I don't know what came over me, but I burst into tears. Sobbing in his arms, he said, ‘it must be a Fein tradition to cry at Marathon finish lines’. He had done the same to me at the end of the Philadelphia marathon, a year after our mother died. After her death, he could not run for a very long time, and that was the first race he was able to do. I saw him finish that race, and did not realize until he broke down in my arms how difficult it was for him to run it. He needed to run that race like I needed to race Corning. Whether it helped me run from my stress or added to it. Whether it hurt my body or helped it. But now, revisiting the muscle aches that that linger for days after the marathon, I remember why I do this.