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.

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.

I run

I run

I run to ease my stress.

I run to make my thoughts stop flying.

I run to think.

I run until my body can no longer move.

And then I run further.

I run when I’m depressed.

When I’m angry.

Anxious.

Frustrated.

I run when I don’t want to.

Sometimes I just go, not feeling anything, and something happens.

I feel uplifted.

I want to run forever.

I run when I am injured.

I run to recover.

I run alone.

I run with my friend.

I talk when I run.

I run in silence.

I run with music.

I run to the sounds of the wind rustling through the trees and my footsteps on the dirt. I run when the temperatures soar and the sun beats down.

I run when the humidity chafes every corner of my body.

I run in the rain.

In the snow.

I force myself to wake up early to run.

I run when I am tired.

I run to energize myself.

I run until my energy is depleted.

I run fast.

I run so slowly I can barely call it running.

I run because I can.

Because sometimes I don’t know what else to do.

I run to have peace.

To maintain balance.

I run because running gives me strength.

I run.