Marathon PhD: 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.