Cowboy Hazel

Note: This was written Sunday evening, but I haven't been able to post it until now because I've been in the Black Hills of South Dakota without internet access.

For the first time ever yesterday, I didn't finish a race that I started. I dropped out of the Lean Horse 100 just after mile 47. I fell apart pretty bad just after mile 30, but my amazing crew did what I had asked them to do and wouldn't let me quit. But, finally, we all realized that it just wasn't in the cards for me to finish and despite the arguments from the very enthusiastic aid station volunteer, I officially dropped out just over nine hours into the run.

There are plenty of excuses I could cite: my lungs were acting up and I was coughing and I was having trouble breathing, I had bruised my heel badly a few days before the race and it was hurting significantly even before the run started, I wasn't used to the altitude of 4,000-5,000 feet, the 90-plus degree temperature was frying me, I still hadn't fully recovered from being sick and didn't have full energy, I hadn't gotten in the quality training runs I wanted to over the summer, etc., etc. But I realized even before I made the final decision to stop running, that others had overcome much more difficult challenges than those I was facing and had finished much more difficult runs. They have a special something that keeps them running through the night after everything starts hurting. I thought I had that. But now, I don't know.

We woke up at five o'clock this morning and I said to Helen, "Holy crap, I would probably still be out there running if I hadn't thrown in the towel. I can't even begin to imagine being out there right now. I don't want to be out there." We went back to sleep, woke up a few hours later and then had a leisurely breakfast with my parents before going off to tour Mount Rushmore and then driving by huge herds of buffalo. If I had pushed myself beyond my limits, that would have never happened; I'd be lying in bed all day, even more sore and beat up than I was.

So, I learned a lot yesterday, both about running and about me as a person. I think that I was letting myself get carried away by these grand ambitions and had lost sight of the reason that I was running – the simple love of running. I want to go back to just running for the sake of it and not having all these races planned all the time. I'll still run NYC and Philadelphia this fall, but I'm not going to do Yonkers and I'm going to do very few, if any, shorter races. I just want to run.

And, I've realized that the 50 mile distance is much more my style than the longer ultras. I like pushing myself hard, but I really don't want to push myself to the limits. Maybe I did a year ago, or two years ago, but not now. I think a lot of what enticed me to those crazy distances before was the desire to escape reality through pain. But now that my reality is good, maybe I don't need that escape anymore? Or, in other words, I think I'm 50 miles crazy but not 100 miles crazy...

So, what does that mean about Badwater? I don't know. I'm not ready to give up on that dream yet. I need more time to figure this all out. I don't think that this one DNF is going to scare me away from longer races forever, but it is definitely going to create a pause. I need to be sure that I'm ready for them before I try to tackle them. I knew going into yesterday that I wasn't prepared for a 100 and that I should drop to the 50, but I let my pride get in the way of my reason and I paid the price.

I've just been writing about big picture emotions. I guess I should say a few words about the race itself.

If you're going to try to run a hundred miles, you might as well do it someplace beautiful. I got that part right. I've never been up here to South Dakota before and I am completely blown away by the natural beauty. And, you should be lucky enough to have as amazing a crew as I did. Helen and I flew out to Denver where we met with my parents and drove up. The three of them had bright blue t-shirts that read "RJR Pit Crew." My little sister, who was hoping to be able to make it up too but couldn't because of work had designed them. Everyone in my crew was amazing – At every aid station they would have whatever type of food I'd ask for (they even went and bought me cheeseburgers when I thought that sounded good) and would send me off with I love you's. One of the hardest parts of quitting was feeling like I had let them down. I made sure to make sure they all understood that they had done everything that they were supposed to do, though, and that the failure was on me, not them.

We started out in the town of Hot Springs just after sunrise and headed out along a gentle creek. The 50K and 50 mile races started with us, so there were a few quick runners who charged ahead, but most of us leisurely rambled along. I did a good job of keeping my pace in check and walking on the uphills. Because of congestion and worries about too much dust on the road, they asked that we not meet our crews until the third aid station at mile 16. When I got there, I was feeling really good. I told them about the lung issues, but other than that, I was actually feeling better than before I'd started running. They gave me food and I finally got on the Mickelson Trail that the majority of the run was on.

Pumped up from seeing them and realizing that I was still feeling good, I took off a little too quick but reigned myself in quickly. My Garmin battery was going out so I switched to Helen's at mile 24 and she later informed me that I had averaged 10:22 per mile up to that point. A little quicker than I should have been going, perhaps, but I don't feel that it was too bad considering that it was still the cool morning.

At 24, I first started complaining that I was getting into trouble. But, I still didn't have any doubts about finishing. I just resolved to slow down a bit and keep eating and drinking as much as possible to try to conserve my strength in the heat.

By mile 30, things were getting a little worse. I told Helen for the first time that I was worried about finishing. My legs were really getting sore and some serious muscle fatigue was setting in. I had to take an extended walk break uphill, but then ran the two miles into the aid station at mile 35 pretty hard. There, my crew realized that I was in trouble. They were all trying to keep my spirits up and were forcing me to eat and drink. And we saw a strong looking runner have to drop out because of a knee issue.

Shortly after leaving there, a woman who I had chatted with earlier and who had complete a double crossing of Badwater, passed me and gave an enthusiastic, "How's it going New York? ...You can do it." And then, a couple minutes later, an older runner ran up to me then stopped to walk a while and tell me how to fashion a Badwater bandana with ice around my neck and that I should get my crew to get one for me. I appreciated the encouragement and tried to internalize it, but I still couldn't force myself to run up the giant hill facing me. I kept walking, baking in the sun, and trying not to drink too much of my water, knowing that I wouldn't get any more for six miles.

Helen met me about a mile before the next aid station, which was at mile 40. She gave me a cheeseburger that I'd asked for and forced me to eat a couple bites of it and to drink a bunch of water. I told her I wanted to quit, but she wouldn't let me. Finally, we made a deal that I would make it to the next aid station and that if I still felt as horrible as I did then, I could quit and she would know that I was being sincere. When we reached the aid station together, I stopped and sat down for the first time all day and my dad changed my shoes. That ended up being a mistake, as the new ones almost immediately caused blisters. I ate a ton of jelly beans and started walking up the giant hill again.

About a mile later, I crested the hill and started running down the other side. I knew that most of the way back was going to be downhill and I wanted to see if I could manage to hobble down it. Doing the math, I realized that I would probably hit the turnaround at about 10 hours, and so that I could slow down considerably on the way back and still get the sub-24-hour buckle. But, I couldn't run downhill. I did for about a mile-and-a-half (which gave Helen a false sense of hope), but then the wheels completely fell off and it was all I could do to just keep walking. It wasn't even walking fast, but just sort of stumbling along. I was getting dizzy and sick to my stomach and I knew that there was no way that I was finishing.

By the time I got to the aid station at mile 47 (which was supposed to be at 45), I had pretty much decided that I was done, but I laid on the bench for a long time with ice on my neck, trying to recover, before making the decision official. It was tough, saying those words, that I was quitting. I had been thinking about this race, this goal for so long, and here it was disappearing.

So, now, I just need to take a step back and figure out what to do next. I think I have already, in a lot of ways. I don't have any real regrets about yesterday. True, part of me wishes I had dropped down to the 50-miler, but then I would have always wondered, "What if...?" I don't think that failing was a result of mistakes that were made yesterday but, instead, from a lack of preparation (partly because of events outside my control) leading up to the race. Someday, I may decide to tackle the challenge of a hundred mile race and, if I do, I will definitely go into it better prepared. But, then again, that may have been my first and last attempt. I really don't know right now. Time will tell...