Somehow, I bounced back from my DNF at The Shoe 60K. I had another race to focus on: my first attempt to finish a 50 mile race. Rather than toeing the start line with zero information about the course, the race, and the experience, I searched out every bit of information I could about this little race in Bandera, Texas. I found out a number of things: It is all hills. It is incredible rocky. You will be running through cactus. It is self-supported. It is an incredible experience.
As the weeks wore on, I continued running, although without a planned training schedule. With new responsibilities at school, I simply couldn't commit myself to a specific training plan. I had to run when I was able and run the distances time allowed. I ran 4-5 times per week, with 15 miles on weekends. As race day approached, I thought it might be worthwhile to get in a longer distance for "time on your feet" experience. To this end, I met with a few fellow runners at the Forest Ridge Trail for a set-your-own-distance training run. Our aid stations were the trunks of our cars, as each loop on the trail was about 4-5 miles, perfect distance for the Cactus Rose experience. On top of this, the terrain we ran on was as similar to Cactus as could be found in Austin. I set out hoping to run 30-35 miles that day, but I started out with mistakes. I didn't eat enough over the course of the loops. I also didn't drink nearly enough water. Finally, I so quickly got behind on my electrolytes that, after twenty miles, I was seeing stars and finding it difficult to focus on a given point in space. I shut the training down at twenty miles and contented myself with this as my "long run." Cactus, here I come.
In between the "training runs," I read every article I could find on the distance and self-supported races. I began developing what I'd like in each of my drop bags: peanut butter, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trail mix, anti-inflammatories and salt pills, Lara bars, bananas, and small cans of Diet Dr. Pepper. Each was included for a different purpose: protein for sustained energy and slower digestion, sugars for quick energy, pain killers and electrolytes, easily-eaten foods, potassium, and, of course, caffeine. As race day closed in, I began assembling my drop bags, hoping I'd put together the perfect concoction for success at Cactus Rose. I also began packing my race equipment bag. I set everything out on my bed, double checking my "Race Packing List" to be sure I had everything I might possible need. Then I packed it all into my bag. I then unpacked, repacked, unpacked, and repacked again, searching for the most efficient packing possible. Before I knew it, race day was here.
As we approached Bandera, anxiety began to deepen. There was nothing more I could do. I couldn't fit in one more training run. I couldn't repack my drop bags, or my race equipment bag. This was it; do or die. I was somehow able to fall asleep that night, although I'm not sure how. The back of my truck really wasn't too comfortable, especially with the cold October air seeping in to the cabin. Shortly after closing my eyes, 4 a.m. was upon us. My bags had been dropped, my packet had been picked up, my bib pinned, my peanut butter and jelly eaten, and my caffeine slurped. It was time to start.
I nestled in within the other runners, looking for familiar faces to distract myself from the day I was staring down with wide eyes. As Joe sent us off, I looked toward my adrenaline to keep me moving. If I began to contemplate the entirety of the day, I knew things would begin to break down. As I'd told myself the main weeks prior: take it five miles at a time and five miles only. Once you finish the current five miles, then you can turn to the next. As I strode into the first aid station, I was still fresh and excited. I cheekily grabbed a Lara bar and trotted off into the continued darkness.
As the sun rose, I knew I'd made a good decision signing up for this race, if only for the incredible views from the tops of the hills. The expanse was breathtaking and I couldn't help screaming out, "I LIVE HERE! This is so beautiful!" Unfortunately, this enthusiasm, coupled with a Tom Petty dance party at Ice Cream Hill, would later come back to my detriment. I didn't care about that then, I was having a great time; this was my day, I was doing this and no one was going to tell me otherwise.
After the second aid station, the most difficult part of the course lay ahead of me: the steepest and longest climbs, as well as the patches of Sotol cactus. This difficulty would span miles 15 through 35, so I knew I needed to focus. The day began to wear on me and, as the sun began to rise, I had to focus more on each task. To my credit, I made it through the first twenty five miles with surprising strength and focus. In fact, I foolishly asked Joe if that was all he had before I set off for the final twenty five miles. During the course of the next 5-10 miles, I came to regret that comment greatly. Thankfully, he was at the aid station when I arrived, so I could tell him I'd recognized the gravity of what I was seeking to accomplish. I'd been reminded of one of the paramount rules of ultrarunning: respect the distance and respect the course. Each can chew you up and spit you out without a second glance.
At mile 30, I changed my shoes for more cushioning and left for the third to last aid station at mile 35. At mile 35, I changed my socks, added some bandaids to a few blisters, fueled, and grabbed a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, as my energy levels were lagging and needed quite the boost. Miles 35 through 40 were, quite honestly, a breeze. I didn't realize I'd finished the most challenging part of the course and was on the downhill toward the finish. As I came in to the 40 mile aid station, I was incredulous as I thought about how far I'd run that day: 40 miles! I seized on this excitement and, with Ben in tow, set off for the last aid station, where I knew I would find Olga who could push me in to the finish.
As I started shuffling, what I thought was a respectable run, I had no idea how the next few hours would unfold. About two miles later, my left IT band seized. I couldn't bend my knee without excruciating pain. Running was all but out of the question. Ben helped me stretch it out and remained patient as I dragged my leg, doing my best to maintain a pace faster than walking. Without our realizing, the sun was beginning to set. The temperatures were dropping.
I began to shiver and my teeth were audibly chattering. Night had set in and I hadn't crossed the finish. It was going to be a long night, especially since my IT band was showing no signs of relenting. Finally, we came into the aid station at mile 45, five miles away from the finish. Five miles. I was all but blown: I was colder than I could imagine, I was exhausted, and I didn't know how I could keep moving with all the pain in my knee. I relished in the Ramen soup I'd been handed, and eyed the hot chocolate down the line. Olga came over, asking what I needed. I told her how cold I was and asked her how I cold overcome the pain in my knee. Without a second thought, she grabbed her IT band strap, wrapped it around my thigh, and shoved some anti-inflammatories into my hand. She flitted off for a moment, giving me an opportunity to wrap my frozen hands around a cup of hot chocolate. I didn't even care when it sloshed onto my bare hands, I was so very cold. Before we set off for the final five miles, Olga got my attention: "The valleys are going to be extremely cold. Just keep moving. Take the descents carefully. Above all, don't start feeling sorry for yourself." I was blown away by her authority on the subject and was confident she knew I could finish. She shimmied out of her oversized jacket, wrapped it around me and offered one last bit of advice: "Eye of the tiger. Now, go!"
We were off. Olga's generosity and her advice had infused me with a new sense of purpose. My eyes were focused on the ground and my head was focused on the finish. The descents were excruciating and the night was unrelenting in its cold. But we kept moving. We just kept moving. At no point did the topic of quitting come up in conversation, although there wasn't much conversation to be had. Suddenly, we were at the fork; we were at the fork where runners split at the beginning of each loop, the direction depending on which loop they were beginning. I knew we were close. The trail flattened and turned into a meandering one through some trees. Shortly thereafter, we saw deep red lights. Were they the photographer? A car's taillights? It couldn't be the finish line clock, could it? It was. "Let's run," I said. To be frank, "run" is a relative term at this point. My feet weren't dragging and they weren't walking, but I'm not sure they were running either. I warned Ben of the impending tears once I crossed the finish. It had been a long day, and even longer past few hours, how could I not cry?
As the dings echoed once I crossed the finisher's mat, I was surprised to find those tears weren't so forthcoming. In fact, not even a knot formed in my throat. I collapsed into a chair and called Joe over. As it turned out, the jacket Olga had given me was his. I also wanted to give him her IT band strap to return to her. Finally, I asked him one question: "Why on earth did I choose this as my first 50 miler, Joe?" His response? "I was wondering that myself, Kim. But you did it, you did great." At that point, my finisher's medal was shoved into my hand: I'd finished. I'd run 50 miles.
Ben and I slowly made out way to the truck, where I found two wonderful surprises waiting for me: a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Jameson whiskey. I waited on the whiskey, as I knew my liver was already blown from the rest of the day. But we did pop the cork on the champagne for a bit of celebration. Considering it was already so late in the evening, it was a short celebration, however. We climbed into the car, turned the heat as high as it would go, and set off toward Austin.
The jostling of the truck lulled me into a gentle sleep on the ride back. I was simply too exhausted to take the time to reflect on the day quite yet. In fact, even today, six months later, is difficult for me to wrap my head around that day. I still get goosebumps when I think about it. I am proud of my perseverance, of my resolve to finish, and of the strength I found to do so. I learned so much about myself that day, lessons I have used in every single race I've run since.
Cactus Rose 50 Mile, Bandera, Texas
October 29, 2011
18:38:34
As the weeks wore on, I continued running, although without a planned training schedule. With new responsibilities at school, I simply couldn't commit myself to a specific training plan. I had to run when I was able and run the distances time allowed. I ran 4-5 times per week, with 15 miles on weekends. As race day approached, I thought it might be worthwhile to get in a longer distance for "time on your feet" experience. To this end, I met with a few fellow runners at the Forest Ridge Trail for a set-your-own-distance training run. Our aid stations were the trunks of our cars, as each loop on the trail was about 4-5 miles, perfect distance for the Cactus Rose experience. On top of this, the terrain we ran on was as similar to Cactus as could be found in Austin. I set out hoping to run 30-35 miles that day, but I started out with mistakes. I didn't eat enough over the course of the loops. I also didn't drink nearly enough water. Finally, I so quickly got behind on my electrolytes that, after twenty miles, I was seeing stars and finding it difficult to focus on a given point in space. I shut the training down at twenty miles and contented myself with this as my "long run." Cactus, here I come.
In between the "training runs," I read every article I could find on the distance and self-supported races. I began developing what I'd like in each of my drop bags: peanut butter, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trail mix, anti-inflammatories and salt pills, Lara bars, bananas, and small cans of Diet Dr. Pepper. Each was included for a different purpose: protein for sustained energy and slower digestion, sugars for quick energy, pain killers and electrolytes, easily-eaten foods, potassium, and, of course, caffeine. As race day closed in, I began assembling my drop bags, hoping I'd put together the perfect concoction for success at Cactus Rose. I also began packing my race equipment bag. I set everything out on my bed, double checking my "Race Packing List" to be sure I had everything I might possible need. Then I packed it all into my bag. I then unpacked, repacked, unpacked, and repacked again, searching for the most efficient packing possible. Before I knew it, race day was here.
As we approached Bandera, anxiety began to deepen. There was nothing more I could do. I couldn't fit in one more training run. I couldn't repack my drop bags, or my race equipment bag. This was it; do or die. I was somehow able to fall asleep that night, although I'm not sure how. The back of my truck really wasn't too comfortable, especially with the cold October air seeping in to the cabin. Shortly after closing my eyes, 4 a.m. was upon us. My bags had been dropped, my packet had been picked up, my bib pinned, my peanut butter and jelly eaten, and my caffeine slurped. It was time to start.
I nestled in within the other runners, looking for familiar faces to distract myself from the day I was staring down with wide eyes. As Joe sent us off, I looked toward my adrenaline to keep me moving. If I began to contemplate the entirety of the day, I knew things would begin to break down. As I'd told myself the main weeks prior: take it five miles at a time and five miles only. Once you finish the current five miles, then you can turn to the next. As I strode into the first aid station, I was still fresh and excited. I cheekily grabbed a Lara bar and trotted off into the continued darkness.
As the sun rose, I knew I'd made a good decision signing up for this race, if only for the incredible views from the tops of the hills. The expanse was breathtaking and I couldn't help screaming out, "I LIVE HERE! This is so beautiful!" Unfortunately, this enthusiasm, coupled with a Tom Petty dance party at Ice Cream Hill, would later come back to my detriment. I didn't care about that then, I was having a great time; this was my day, I was doing this and no one was going to tell me otherwise.
After the second aid station, the most difficult part of the course lay ahead of me: the steepest and longest climbs, as well as the patches of Sotol cactus. This difficulty would span miles 15 through 35, so I knew I needed to focus. The day began to wear on me and, as the sun began to rise, I had to focus more on each task. To my credit, I made it through the first twenty five miles with surprising strength and focus. In fact, I foolishly asked Joe if that was all he had before I set off for the final twenty five miles. During the course of the next 5-10 miles, I came to regret that comment greatly. Thankfully, he was at the aid station when I arrived, so I could tell him I'd recognized the gravity of what I was seeking to accomplish. I'd been reminded of one of the paramount rules of ultrarunning: respect the distance and respect the course. Each can chew you up and spit you out without a second glance.
At mile 30, I changed my shoes for more cushioning and left for the third to last aid station at mile 35. At mile 35, I changed my socks, added some bandaids to a few blisters, fueled, and grabbed a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, as my energy levels were lagging and needed quite the boost. Miles 35 through 40 were, quite honestly, a breeze. I didn't realize I'd finished the most challenging part of the course and was on the downhill toward the finish. As I came in to the 40 mile aid station, I was incredulous as I thought about how far I'd run that day: 40 miles! I seized on this excitement and, with Ben in tow, set off for the last aid station, where I knew I would find Olga who could push me in to the finish.
As I started shuffling, what I thought was a respectable run, I had no idea how the next few hours would unfold. About two miles later, my left IT band seized. I couldn't bend my knee without excruciating pain. Running was all but out of the question. Ben helped me stretch it out and remained patient as I dragged my leg, doing my best to maintain a pace faster than walking. Without our realizing, the sun was beginning to set. The temperatures were dropping.
I began to shiver and my teeth were audibly chattering. Night had set in and I hadn't crossed the finish. It was going to be a long night, especially since my IT band was showing no signs of relenting. Finally, we came into the aid station at mile 45, five miles away from the finish. Five miles. I was all but blown: I was colder than I could imagine, I was exhausted, and I didn't know how I could keep moving with all the pain in my knee. I relished in the Ramen soup I'd been handed, and eyed the hot chocolate down the line. Olga came over, asking what I needed. I told her how cold I was and asked her how I cold overcome the pain in my knee. Without a second thought, she grabbed her IT band strap, wrapped it around my thigh, and shoved some anti-inflammatories into my hand. She flitted off for a moment, giving me an opportunity to wrap my frozen hands around a cup of hot chocolate. I didn't even care when it sloshed onto my bare hands, I was so very cold. Before we set off for the final five miles, Olga got my attention: "The valleys are going to be extremely cold. Just keep moving. Take the descents carefully. Above all, don't start feeling sorry for yourself." I was blown away by her authority on the subject and was confident she knew I could finish. She shimmied out of her oversized jacket, wrapped it around me and offered one last bit of advice: "Eye of the tiger. Now, go!"
We were off. Olga's generosity and her advice had infused me with a new sense of purpose. My eyes were focused on the ground and my head was focused on the finish. The descents were excruciating and the night was unrelenting in its cold. But we kept moving. We just kept moving. At no point did the topic of quitting come up in conversation, although there wasn't much conversation to be had. Suddenly, we were at the fork; we were at the fork where runners split at the beginning of each loop, the direction depending on which loop they were beginning. I knew we were close. The trail flattened and turned into a meandering one through some trees. Shortly thereafter, we saw deep red lights. Were they the photographer? A car's taillights? It couldn't be the finish line clock, could it? It was. "Let's run," I said. To be frank, "run" is a relative term at this point. My feet weren't dragging and they weren't walking, but I'm not sure they were running either. I warned Ben of the impending tears once I crossed the finish. It had been a long day, and even longer past few hours, how could I not cry?
As the dings echoed once I crossed the finisher's mat, I was surprised to find those tears weren't so forthcoming. In fact, not even a knot formed in my throat. I collapsed into a chair and called Joe over. As it turned out, the jacket Olga had given me was his. I also wanted to give him her IT band strap to return to her. Finally, I asked him one question: "Why on earth did I choose this as my first 50 miler, Joe?" His response? "I was wondering that myself, Kim. But you did it, you did great." At that point, my finisher's medal was shoved into my hand: I'd finished. I'd run 50 miles.
Ben and I slowly made out way to the truck, where I found two wonderful surprises waiting for me: a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Jameson whiskey. I waited on the whiskey, as I knew my liver was already blown from the rest of the day. But we did pop the cork on the champagne for a bit of celebration. Considering it was already so late in the evening, it was a short celebration, however. We climbed into the car, turned the heat as high as it would go, and set off toward Austin.
The jostling of the truck lulled me into a gentle sleep on the ride back. I was simply too exhausted to take the time to reflect on the day quite yet. In fact, even today, six months later, is difficult for me to wrap my head around that day. I still get goosebumps when I think about it. I am proud of my perseverance, of my resolve to finish, and of the strength I found to do so. I learned so much about myself that day, lessons I have used in every single race I've run since.
Cactus Rose 50 Mile, Bandera, Texas
October 29, 2011
18:38:34
This brought memories, and I remember it like it was yesterday:) Congrats on so many adventures since!
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Olga! I will always remain so grateful for you that night, and every other race you've seen me through!
ReplyDelete