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.

Baker Trail Ultra

Baker Trail Ultra. 50 Miles. August 24, 2013. We left later than we should have on Friday afternoon. It was partly my fault, partly Tara’s.  I called her house when I left work, it was an hour after I planned, but she was out picking up her son. She didn’t come back for another 45 minutes, and so we first headed out at 3:30 in the afternoon to head to the race, a barn located somewhere north of Pittsburgh, PA.

The GPS said it was a 6-hour drive, but it was close to midnight by the time we arrived. She drove the last leg, as I was falling asleep. When we pulled into the farm, it was quiet. Cars were parked in a line, and people were sleeping in their tents, so we couldn’t set up our own like we had planned. We decided we might as well sleep in my car, since we had to be up in 4 hours. After a restless few hours of tossing and turning, I woke up to go to the bathroom, and the phone alarm went off. 4 am.

We ate our cold oatmeal while we walked down the road to the barn to pick up our bibs and shirts. The bus was leaving at 5:10 to shuttle the runners to the start, so we quickly got dressed and began tossing together our drop bags. As we rushed around, deciding what should go into each bag, a man walked by to tell us the bus was leaving in five minutes, so in our haste, we both neglected to fill our Camelbaks, figuring we could fill them at the start. Bad idea.

It was an hour bus-ride to the start, and I started to get nervous. My thoughts filtered back to the 50k I ran earlier this year, remembering how difficult it was for me. Emotionally and physically. I knew I was better prepared for this, and not injured- but still, I was getting upset. I dozed off as we drove, which helped. When we arrived at the starting area, we realized there was no water, a problem for me since I knew I needed to hydrate well, and the first aid station was 6 miles away. Already my mouth was dry. I asked around until I found one of the organizers who had a couple of extra bottles. Thank goodness.

The race began. The weather was nice in the morning. Overcast and cool. The first quarter of the run was trail. Some technical. A 40-foot rope climb. And mud. A lot of mud. It had rained during the night. It was slippery. There was one steep ravine which we needed to scale up, it was hard to grip the rocks and gather my footing. But it was fun, really. I barely noticed the first few hours go by. 

I changed my socks. Twice. I wrapped my toes with duct tape to prevent blisters from forming. I ate potatoes with salt, M&M’s, peanut butter and honey sandwiches. As the day progressed, it warmed up, probably to about 80. I was hydrating well, taking in salt, Honey Stinger’s and Gu’s, and feeling okay. Tara, on the other hand, was not. She always has a harder time in the heat than I do, and we were in full sunlight for most of the time at this point, out of the trail and on the road. We stayed together, longer than we should have, and I started getting frustrated: she couldn’t run when I wanted to, and she was pushing herself when I was running. On a downhill, she stopped to vomit on the side of the road. After that, we decided it was time to go our separate ways, so she could gather herself and I could run at my own pace. I felt bad leaving her at first, but it was better to run alone. I pushed ahead, but I wasn't moving as fast as I thought I was, because we met up once again at the next aid station.

It was closing in on the evening, and I debated if I should take my headlamp from my dropbag at the aid station. I still had plenty of time before dark, and the rest of the race was on the road. I figured I’d be fine. Tara and I headed out from the aid station together, this time with another ultrarunner whom Tara had been talking to earlier. Since she had run this race 5 times before, neither of us were paying close attention to the trail-blazes, until the woman noticed we hadn’t seen one in at least 5 minutes. We turned around, and the detour probably took 15 minutes extra, but it was already getting towards evening, and I started to worry I wouldn’t be back before dark. I pushed on a bit faster, leaving Tara behind, this time for good.

Fast is a relative term during the last 10 miles of a 50 miler, but at the very least I ran the majority of those 10 miles. Which was amazing. I felt good. I just moved . I thought. I was happy to be alone. I never crashed. I’m sure it helped that I had several slow walking miles earlier in the day, but I just plodded on, passing several people in the later miles. A few Amish children waved to me. At the very last aid station they put a reflector on me. Two miles left. Those last two miles seemed to drag on. Every barn I saw I thought was the end. And then finally, it was. 13 hours and 11 minutes later. The sun was setting. I bounded down the hill to the finish line. I was done.