Having finished Cactus Rose, I decided to put another fifty mile race on my calendar. I knew Rocky Raccoon would be an easier course, so I could certainly finish the race with less drama and in less time. Further, my running had improved, I'd become faster, and I'd become more confident in my abilities. In fact, I finished the 3M half marathon a few weeks prior half an hour faster than my fateful experience last year. So, off to Huntsville we went.
Sadly, we approached race day with less race-related anxiety, with less planning, and with less training. On January 10, my father passed away after being hospitalized with shortness of breath less than a month prior. As Rocky was less than a month after his passing, it came as no surprise that I was less enthusiastic, less interested, and less invested in the entire endeavor. I decided to fake it. I'd told enough people about the race, I might as well go through with it.
As we drove up to the park, the skies were dumping an unimaginable amount of rain on us. As I made my way to the Lodge from my car to get my race packet, my shoes were quickly soaked. This became an incredible foreshadowing for how the rest of the short day would proceed. I kept up my "excitement," however. As the start time came closer, we waited out the rain in the car.
While I was hoping real excitement would materialize once the race began, I knew it was a lost cause as we crossed the line. I continued with the run, however, and it started surprisingly well. The course is largely flat, mostly littered with roots rather than rocks. The ground is padded with pine needles, making for a cushioned landing. Unfortunately, the course was also flooded in many places and had turned to mud on account of the rain. As I sloshed from aid station to aid station, any semblance of enthusiasm began to fade. In fact, as I set off from the last aid station in the first loop, everything crumbled. My energy flat lined. I began to shiver. And my irritability sky-rocketed. I strode into the start/finish turnaround pale, mute, and ready to go home.
I went home. I pulled off my timing chip and bib, turned them in, and went home. My heart simply wasn't in the race. I did not care if I finished. I did not care if I walked away without a medal. I simply didn't care one bit about what was going on. Explaining all of this to Joe, who encouraged me to keep going, I realized how correct of a decision it was. Compared to The Falls 60K, I was at the opposite end of the spectrum for this DNF. At The Falls 60K, I was heartbroken; in this instance, I was relieved. It was time for me to pack up and call it a day. So, I did.
To this day, I know this was the correct choice. I may have finished that first loop in record time for me, and I may have been fueling and hydrating damn near perfectly, but I wasn't there. And I didn't want to be there. I'm sure I could have finished, but I didn't care to and I am content with that decision. What I do know is I'll be out there next year, hopefully with a finish to speak of. I don't feel a need to conquer the course, but I do have a need to experience it in all of its glorious 50 miles.
Sadly, we approached race day with less race-related anxiety, with less planning, and with less training. On January 10, my father passed away after being hospitalized with shortness of breath less than a month prior. As Rocky was less than a month after his passing, it came as no surprise that I was less enthusiastic, less interested, and less invested in the entire endeavor. I decided to fake it. I'd told enough people about the race, I might as well go through with it.
As we drove up to the park, the skies were dumping an unimaginable amount of rain on us. As I made my way to the Lodge from my car to get my race packet, my shoes were quickly soaked. This became an incredible foreshadowing for how the rest of the short day would proceed. I kept up my "excitement," however. As the start time came closer, we waited out the rain in the car.
While I was hoping real excitement would materialize once the race began, I knew it was a lost cause as we crossed the line. I continued with the run, however, and it started surprisingly well. The course is largely flat, mostly littered with roots rather than rocks. The ground is padded with pine needles, making for a cushioned landing. Unfortunately, the course was also flooded in many places and had turned to mud on account of the rain. As I sloshed from aid station to aid station, any semblance of enthusiasm began to fade. In fact, as I set off from the last aid station in the first loop, everything crumbled. My energy flat lined. I began to shiver. And my irritability sky-rocketed. I strode into the start/finish turnaround pale, mute, and ready to go home.
I went home. I pulled off my timing chip and bib, turned them in, and went home. My heart simply wasn't in the race. I did not care if I finished. I did not care if I walked away without a medal. I simply didn't care one bit about what was going on. Explaining all of this to Joe, who encouraged me to keep going, I realized how correct of a decision it was. Compared to The Falls 60K, I was at the opposite end of the spectrum for this DNF. At The Falls 60K, I was heartbroken; in this instance, I was relieved. It was time for me to pack up and call it a day. So, I did.
To this day, I know this was the correct choice. I may have finished that first loop in record time for me, and I may have been fueling and hydrating damn near perfectly, but I wasn't there. And I didn't want to be there. I'm sure I could have finished, but I didn't care to and I am content with that decision. What I do know is I'll be out there next year, hopefully with a finish to speak of. I don't feel a need to conquer the course, but I do have a need to experience it in all of its glorious 50 miles.
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