I've only done one ultra run, and it was an accident. A marathon is 26.2 miles, an ultra is technically anything longer than that. About two years ago I signed up for a marathon, a nice, friendly trail run. Since it was a net-downhill point-to-point run, I thought my odds of finishing were pretty good. I asked a coach for help and never missed a training day. The day of the race was a little hot, but my coach had prepared me: at every aid station I should add ice to not only my hydration pack, but also my sports bra.
Since the female record for this marathon is about 4 hours, I estimated my best possible finish should be around 6 hours. About 150 runners started the race, half were 50K (31.1 miles) ultra runners, the other half were marathoners, like me. In races like these, the running pack thins out after the first three miles or so; at the 15-mile mark all the ultra runners took a spur to pick up mileage, leaving the marathoners until just before the finish. To this point I'd enjoyed the camaraderie of several other runners, all of whom left to do the ultra. I waived goodbye and good luck, and felt a little sad I hadn't signed up for the ultra so I could stay with my new friends. A mile or two after the split, I was pretty alone on the trail; by mile 22 I hadn't seen another runner for an hour. It was hard to keep my head game positive, and my right quad had started to cramp. At mile 23 I stopped at a tiny aid station for salt and ice. I told myself, "Only 3.2 more miles. A 5K. Easy-peasy. I got this." I was grossly behind schedule. The heat and a few off-trail hygiene breaks (it was Day One of Shark Week) had cost me nearly an hour.
After another 30 minutes of quad-pounding-stumble-running a man passed me going the opposite direction. Dressed in cargo shorts and sandals he waved, pointed to my bib number, and said, "Where's the race?" So, so slowly, I shuffled to a stop. That was a good question. Where was the race? I heard cheers and cowbells off to my right... way off to my right. My stomach dropped. I had made a wrong turn. If I kept going straight I'd be at the finish line in less than half a mile, but from the wrong side. I would get a DNF. None of this would count. Slowly, I turned around, punched my cramping thigh and cried all the way back to the junction.
There's something about physical fatigue that takes a mental toll. I'm sure there are research papers written on it that would give insight into the physiologically bizarre mental darkness that results from extended physical exertion. I've read about a gazillion blog posts and listened to a dozen podcasts where distance runners describe the mental grit necessary to finish some crazy distance races. Most of these people are running 100 milers across Death Valley or something equally insane. They have a reason to hallucinate and question everything they've ever done in their lives. I was just running down (and up and down) a really, really long hill. For six hours. Big friggin deal. But fatigue is fatigue, and I was knackered. Realizing I'd made a wrong turn was more than disappointing, it was devastating. Extra-salty tears trickled down my face.
Once on the right trail again, I found a few grains of fortitude hidden in the corners of my mind. I decided I was going to finish well. No tears. No swearing. Just one foot in front of the other as fast as I could muster. Three more miles. I could do this.
As I came down the last bit of hill, I saw Sandy waiving. She yelled and the rest of my family joined her, waiving, cheering and smiling. I hurt everywhere, but seeing them gave me the energy I needed to run (shuffle) across the finish line. 28.8 miles. As I stumbled to the finisher's table to collect my medal I thought, "I totally could have done a 50K today."
A week after that race I finally finished my bachelor's degree. A few months after graduation I moved to Alabama to start a Ph.D. program. I tried to keep up running. I thought 20 miles a week would be doable. It wasn't. Bit by bit the program chewed away all my "extra" time. I barely got 10 miles a week. I rarely went climbing or picked up a drawing pencil. I didn't eat well, I didn't sleep enough. My old depression companions reappeared. As if from the outside, I watched their reawakening and my self-diminishment with growing concern. I expressed my concerns to my mentor, who simply said, "Well, grad school is hard."
Right. Grad school is hard. People make sacrifices. Just one foot in front of the other. Punch those quads, just keep going.
Less than a year in, I realized I wasn't going to finish.
When athletes don't finish a race, they get a DNF: Did Not Finish. It doesn't matter when they stop the race, at mile 1 or mile 26 or mile 90. Unsurprisingly, the DNF rate goes up as the race gets longer or harder. In a big-city, flat-road marathon, the DNF rate is pretty low, maybe only 5-15%, depending on weather. Add hills or trails to that race, and up to 20% don't finish. Turn that trail race into a 100M, and you'll see as many as 40% of runners drop out. 40%! We're talking people who have trained for this sort of nonsense. These people can run 50 miles as a mid-week training run. But the day of the race, something just goes sideways (heat, cold, a broken ankle) and it's a big, fat DNF.
For Ph.D. students in biological research, the DNF rate is around 50%. We're talking about people who have trained for this sort of nonsense. People like me. We know how to work, to study, to commit, to do hard things. Still, half of us don't make it. Something just goes sideways...
I've been listening to DNF, a podcast hosted by Zoe Rom. I happened into it a few weeks ago, just before graduation. In one afternoon I plowed through all available podcasts while weeding in the front yard. I listened to Zoe's interview with David Roche (an ultra runner, coach and really delightful human) twice. "What if we celebrated a good quit the way we celebrated a big win?"
David says, "Take those failures... and instead of pushing them away, try to turn around and give them a big hug instead..."
Zoe says, "Sometimes being bad at something brings you closer to the thing you're really good at."
Two weeks ago I graduated with a M.S. in biology. I've spent my time since graduation running, working in the yard, sewing and drawing. Already I feel myself coming back to me. I'm not sure yet whether my Ph.D. experience was a DNF, a failure, or just an idea that got me on the road to where I was really headed in the first place. I think I need a little more time before I'll want to hug this good quit or celebrate it like a big win, though I do think that time is soon in coming. In the mean time, I've started some new projects. In August I'll start an M.A.Ed. in secondary education; in October I'll run another marathon. Maybe I'll eventually get to that ultra.
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Skyline to the Sea Marathon and 50K course. Red means I ran that section of trail >5 times, purple >3 times, dark blue 2-3 times, light blue 1 time. I ran around 100 miles worth of training runs on this trail before the actual marathon.
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