In writing fiction, characters bloom at the intersection of time and place. Situate a character at the end of his or her rope, and what happens next is the story. The same holds true in large part for our lives, and perhaps in ultra-marathons, it’s the expedited version.
The Sonoran Desert. Late October. Halloween looming. Costumed runners and crew all around. A long, meandering trail with canyons and sandy washes. Rocks everywhere, some small enough to snuggle into your shoes and prick your toes, others large enough to cripple your feet if kicked at just the right angle. Coyotes howling at dusk. Sparkling stars spotting the night sky, like a giant connect-the-dots mural. Cacti soaring all around, some reaching over ten feet, others hunched over, like old men. Add to it pit stops along the way, complete with pumping music, joyful volunteers reaching out to help you fill up water bottles, endless candy and food options to snack on, and you have entered the world of Javelina Jundred 100, an ultra-marathon race that’s reminiscent of a Hunter S. Thompson novel.
This was my eighth year out on the JJ100 course, with six finishes and my seventh run in 2018 resulting in a Did Not Finish (DNF). Last year, my quitters’ attitude, a deviation from my norm, had gotten the best of me. By mile 20, with two miles to go before I completed the first loop, I was mentally done. With the race, with 100 milers, with running – you name it, and I was done. I had resolved that there were so many more important things I had to do with my time, that I was simply and unapologetically done with devoting time and energy to clocking miles and running races. Every possible excuse passed through me: I worked too much, I was worn out, I had nothing to prove. Then there were the other elements to running long races: I was tired. I wanted to rest during the weekend, hang out with my friends, be a normal person. There was also the undeniable fact that no one in the world – including me – cared if I finished another race. But as I was nearing the 80-mile mark and coming in for my fourth loop, a strange thing happened. Suddenly, I wanted to keep going. All the drama and excuses I had assured myself of, were vanishing, and a voice in me was clear: I had to finish the race. After all, I had flown out to Arizona for the specific goal of running and finishing the race. What else did I have to do all weekend, but run? Beyond that, I was not a quitter. Sure, an imposter appearing as quitter showed up for me at times, but it wasn’t who I was at my core.
So, when I came in some 20-30 minutes past the 24- hour cut off necessary to go out on my final and fifth loop, I was devastated. I tried to convince the race director to let me keep going, but no dice. The rules were the rules. I had missed the cutoff. There was no going back out on the course for the final twenty miles to finish up what should have been my seventh JJ100.
Somehow, I survived. The emotional and mental shock subsided. I stayed on and supported friends who were still out on the course as they finished. I felt bad about my DNF, but not too bad. What was done, was done. I was okay to share and acknowledge my failure. I didn’t view myself as any less of an athlete – or at least a week later, I didn’t. I just had a bad day, and one thing led to another, and I lost too much time to make it up. Did I plan to come back the next year and right my wrong? No. I was okay to move on. I had done my time out in the desert over the years and didn’t necessarily need to go back and redeem myself. So, when I signed up a few weeks prior to JJ 100 in 2019, I surprised myself. It was an impulse of sorts. I was out in Tahoe City in September, and I thought, I should run JJ100. When I went to Ultra Signup, the race was listed as sold out. I opted to join the waitlist, and within 24 hours, I was in and set with a tent rental, cot and all.
There is something to settling in for the long haul. It doesn’t mean it’s easy, it just means you are committed and will get it done. Along the way, you have to be strategic. You have to know when to push, and when to conserve. You have to get ahead of the problems – because the problems will come. The week prior to JJ100 was hectic with work and travel as always. It is often hard for me to get my head around the fact that after a tough work week, I am going to take a flight out west, lose a night of sleep, run a difficult race, then take the redeye back east and head into work and likely spend the week traveling for work. Who would do such a thing? And why? Especially after so many years of running races, what could the allure possibly be?
And yet, the allure is there. While I cannot always articulate it prior, nor the first 90 miles of a race, with ten miles left to go, it becomes clear to me. I am an overachiever who wants to tackle it all, from my aggressive to-do lists, to seeing the world. Races force me to disengage. To let go, to deal with ambiguity in a foreign way. Because while I topically know I can finish a race, deep inside, where my insecurities and vulnerabilities dwell, I never really know if I have it in me to finish a race, and I always have to dig so far and so deep to find that element of my being which can turn everything else off and focus on the road in front of me. I have to remember to take deep breaths, and commit to the here and now, and tap into the element of me who loves nature, who loves the time and space to look around, to feel, to move. I am a free-flowing adventurer at heart, but in my day to day, I am a doer and driver, and if there’s a quicker route, I aim to take it. But in races, I follow the prescribed route. And sometimes it is and rocky and sandy and challenging, and while I often long to stop, rest, let go, in races, the clock is ticking, and my heart is beating, and I have to trust, to believe, to know that if I can just keep going, keep moving, keep accepting, I’ll reach a finish line which leads me to the next chapter of my life. And in that next chapter, nothing is known, everything is new, and there is a freedom because I will have passed through hardship and pain and somehow melded my body and mind and soul in a way that assures me that anything is possible if I just maintain that union within me.
For this race, my mantra was simple: run when you can, walk when you must. Whenever I would catch myself walking, I would ask myself if I could run, and 90% of the time, I could! I was light and gentle with myself throughout. I was always clear it was a choice. I didn’t beat myself up – I just let myself be. There were lows – extreme lows around mile 20. I believe that our bodies and minds have memories unto themselves. Just as I fell apart in 2018 around mile 20, this year was more of the same. Suddenly, my head was splitting. I was nauseous. I felt dizzy, like I may pass out. I tried to focus on my breathing, my water intake. At mile 22, when I completed the first loop, I was sure that I was going to have to stop. I was already dry heaving and my headache was severe. I could not imagine being able to move forward, but I opted to drink some coke, take acetaminophen, and head back out onto the course, walking. I could walk as long as I needed to, until I started to feel myself come around. Then I remembered to use a Drip Drop, and once that started to ease up my symptoms, I used another Drip Drop. Around two hours later, my death march loosened into a slow jog, and then I was on my way. It was a powerful reminder to me about the ability of our bodies to transition if we honor whatever we are feeling in the moment. After that downward slope, there were still some lows, but a lot more highs. I remembered that it doesn’t always get worse, and often, it gets better. I took time during each lap to talk to people. I took time for me, which sounds odd during a race, but I didn’t feel the need to be constantly on and chatting, and it helped me to stay focused on how I was feeling and what I needed to keep going.
Throughout the race, I took it all in. The mountains, the serenity of the desert landscape, but mostly, I felt. The dry, scorching heat; the cool breezes that made the heat bearable and pleasant. The rocks as they twisted my ankles this way and that. The smoothness of the sand on the uphill’s and downhills, too. I spent a lot of the race inward, but I wasn’t lost in thought. I needed a recharge. I needed my time in nature. I needed to be a part of instead of creating the situation. I needed to think about what I needed, and coming upon those aid stations, that’s what I did: I plotted my needs. Soda, salt, sweet, and items to grab from my drop bag. The good cheer, the upbeat attitude of the aid station volunteers, of the runners, their pacers, of their crews back at Javelina Jeadquarters – none of it was lost on me. The frenetic happiness of the race filtered through my being. I never forgot how lucky I was, I am, to be part of such an energizing, driven, and supportive group of human beings.
Unlike other years out in the desert, this year, I didn’t spend the race thinking about my mom. I miss her always, but more often than not now, I feel her in me in the things I do or say or my attitude. Sometimes now, when I catch my reflection, I see her in me, too. I don’t know if as we grow older, it’s inevitable that we grow into our parents, but it’s happening. She was always outspoken, but deeply sensitive too, and if I can be a bit of that person, I’ll take it. My mother was able to stand up for what she believed in, while remaining empathetic and good natured to others, too. And most of all, my mother laughed a lot. She loved life, which was why it was so hard for her to leave it, and why she hung on for so long. So, I made an aim this race to have fun, to take in the good times, to smile at everyone and remember that it was my choice to be out there, which meant I couldn’t hold any grudges, and certainly no complaining. It was my choice to spend my weekend out on that course, partaking in the JJ100 trail party.
I was clear out there that it wasn’t just me taking on the battle, but so many circumstances in my life that enabled me to. People at work who want me to succeed in anything I do; my dad, who always cheers me on from near and far; and friends who know how hectic my life is and instead of saying, “maybe sit it out, you really need a break,” say things like, “go for it.” From cat sitters, to building concierge’s who manage things for me in my always-on-the-go-life, I never take it for granted how lucky I am to have the support of so many people so that I get to do the things I want to do. But the other side is training. Discipline. Commitment. Because while you may get a free pass to finish one or two races by winging it, to finish dozens and dozens of races, you need to put in the work, get up at 4:30 am to squeeze in the run, and so on. For those of us who work, family, race, we know the drill. Training doesn’t happen unless we implement it in our daily schedule.
There was never a doubt for me that I was going to finish the race once my sick bout passed within the first few hours. I was going to finish the race this year, because I came out to Arizona to complete my seventh JJ100. I was going to finish the race this year, because it doesn’t suit me well to leave things undone when I am healthy and strong and mentally capable of getting something done. I was going to finish the race, because I am ready to get to the next chapter of my life, and sometimes, it’s hard for me to do that when I have unfinished business. I was going to finish the race, because I am learning that hard things are okay. That they are indications that I am striving, that I am growing, and that I am made up of so much more than I may realize on any given day. Hard things teach me not that I am hard, but that I am vulnerable and accepting, and a fighter, come what may. At this intersection of time and place, I was able to see my character for who and what it was: a girl who had come a long way, but likely still had a long way to go.
I crossed the finish line this year in 29 hours and nine minutes. There were no tears, no true sense of victory, no sense of utter joy. Rather, I felt gratitude – deep and pure gratitude for the desert, for the race staff and volunteers for hosting us, for all that I have learned along the way, and that I get to keep going.
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