|
|
FLRC Newsletter - December 2004 |
| I Crawled Within Myself | |
It all started about three months ago when Thaisa Way asked me if I would be interested in running the John F. Kennedy 50-mile race with her. Never in a million years would I of expected Thaisa to ask me this. I thought about it for a few minutes. I had always said I would run a 50 miler someday. Was this to be that day? Almost immediately, I asked my training partner in crime Becky Harman if she would ever consider a 50-mile run. Her answer: "Of course I would consider it." The seed had been sown. Becky, Thaisa, and I had planned on running the Mount Desert Island Marathon in October. We had agreed that we would postpone our decision until after the marathon. We had a wonderful trip to Bar Harbor, enjoyed a great run which only added water to the seed no-longer-dormant seed. We were in. Becky and Thaisa mentioned to Mary Wenck that we were going to run the 50. Mary had never done one, but the mention of us taking on the challenge sparked her interest as well.
Before we knew it, we had a team. The Finger Lakes Runners Club Women's Team. As such, we faced our first 50-miler together—separately but as one.
I entreated for advice from the local trail gods who have braved the distance: Joe Dabes, Jim Miner, and the infamous Lennie Tucker. The range of lore was as interesting as the range of personalities. I knew the suggestions all were right, but perhaps all wrong for me. This was going to be an adventure of one. I would have to crawl within myself to find out what I was made of and what would work for me.
Becky and I drove down to Thaisa's house in Tacoma Park after taking a side trip to the Hershey Factory along the way (sound familiar Sally, Phyllis, and Diane?), and we arrived Friday evening. Thaisa and her family opened their home to us. Saturday morning started early. We were out the door by 5:15 am to make the 7:00 start and the mandatory 6:30 am pre-race meeting. This is where we ran into Mary to wish each other well. The first two miles were predominately uphill. Thaisa and I were within touching distance of Becky. I told myself that if the entire racecourse was like this then I was not going to make it. We turned onto the Appalachian Trail. Parts were beautiful. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the rain from the night before had them stuck to the ground so you could see the terrain underneath. It was not long before I realized this was not a trail like our FLRC trails. This trail reminded me more of your typical New England trail with its rocky terrain. There were runnable sections, but they were not long or often. I love to run on trails. Trails that consist of dirt and pine needles—but, when it comes to rocks, I'm a baby. I am uncomfortable and awkward. I devoted 100% of my attention to the ground. I took a brief moment or two to notice my surroundings on the sections I could run. There was a heavy fog and mist in the air that added to the aura. It was serene yet haunting. After several miles of this, Thaisa and I lost contact with each other. However, I had made my plan ahead of time. I went into this race knowing that I would spend the entire day doing nothing else. This was my day. I had planned on spending between 2½ and 3 hours on the first 16 miles, which were on the hilly Appalachian Trail. I had planned on running a 4-hour marathon on the relatively flat C&O canal towpath and then just hold on for the last 8 miles, which were on rolling road. Whatever happened on those last 8 miles happened. Best-case scenario: I would run for 8 hours; worst case would be 10 hours.
I hit the C&O towpath after struggling on the trail. This is where I looked at my watch for the first time for this section, 2:59. I could not believe I was so close to my anticipated completion time. I filled my water bottle, grabbed a handful of M&M's and picked up the pace as I turned onto the towpath. It was flat. I could see forever in front on me. I had hoped I would feel fresh at this point and ready to attack. My legs were stiff and tired from holding back on the trail. I ran well—considering—and passed several others in the early miles. I stayed focused and anticipated every coming aid station, which were positioned between three and four miles apart. I enjoyed the sights of the Potomac River with all its power on my left and the sights of the canal, rock wall, and train tracks on my right. Dabes had said it was boring. It did seem like it would never end, but I was so focused on moving forward that I did not ever feel bored. The rocky cliffs and caves only added interest to the scenery.
As the miles passed, I found myself trading places repeatedly with the same few people. There were over 1000 people at the start, and yet I saw the same 10 or so for miles on end. There was a 5 am start for people who thought they would need more than 12 hours to finish. These wore a yellow number on their back. I passed the time by counting how many of them I could overtake. Thaisa and I met up again at the second aid station on the towpath. We had shared a few words at several aid stations, but somehow never managed to run together. She later told me she kept me in sight the entire 27 miles. I always felt her presence. I knew she was there. Sometimes it's enough to know someone is close without having the need run with them. Things were getting hard and ugly. Much earlier than I would have liked, I experienced a hard left side cramp. I used my hand to apply pressure to the cramp, and this helped to keep it manageable. I hoped the worst was over when the cramp subsided, only to be plagued by an experience I have never had before—and it was not pleasant. My left calf cramped suddenly. I had no clue what was going on. I've seen others in races experience leg cramps, but have never personally felt how painful it could be. I ran/limped through it. How could I go on? I had only run about 27 miles and still had 23 to go. This was insane even by my standards. I knew if I stopped running I would be done. So I hobbled through the cramp, and to my surprise after several minutes it subsided. I was so relieved—until it returned a second, third, fourth… time. Each time I ran through it, and each time it would go away. Just run I told myself. Just run. Lennie Tucker told me to keep moving forward. No matter what you do just keep moving. I remembered this and was determined to keep moving. I knew I could run 31 miles. I knew I could run 34 miles. But anything greater was unknown waters. David Weiss told me that miles 34–42 were the hardest. This was unknown territory, but if you made it to 42 you would know you would finish.
Time did not exist. It was all about moving forward. Staying focused, running, limping, moving. I ran from aid station to aid station. Wondering how close I was to the next one. I drank coke, water, and Poweraid. I ate M&M's, jelly beans, and even a third of a peanut butter sandwich on white bread (don't tell my kids). This was hard. I had no idea how well or not I was running. It hurt—but then again running the mile hurts or the marathon or the 50K. This was not worse. It just lasted longer. I crawled within myself knowing that I needed to find strength from within, knowing that there was no escape from the demons that my mind would force me to face. Thaisa and I met up again at the 42-mile aid station. This was the last point of the C&O towpath. This was beyond the beyonds. A place neither one of us had ventured before. We turned on the road together. I looked at my watch for a second time, 7:25. I ran the Canal towpath marathon in 4:25 not too far off of my goal pace. From this point on it was teamwork. We walked; we chose not to talk other than a comment here about this house, that stone wall, or that hairy cow—little was said. It was a walk/run. My mind was weaker than my body. The body said that I could still run, but the mind said, "Why?" The mile markers cruelly counted down at this point, 8, 7, 6. They were long rolling miles. We made it to the 46-mile mark where Thaisa's 14-year-old son Adrian meant up with us. Thaisa's husband had dropped him off earlier and then went on to the finish to cheer Becky in. Adrian had planned on running us in the last four miles. This kid was amazing. He has such a bright outlook and managed to lie very well by telling us how great we looked and how awesome we were. It was hard to believe. I made them walk more than they would of without me. I had told them to go along without me. My mind was losing the battle with my body. They made me keep going. When we ran, we ran well, and it felt doable. The problem was that my mind had had enough. I could not stay on task. I could not focus. I did not care if I ran or not. I knew I would finish even if it meant walking the last three miles. Quite frankly, I was ready to walk. With three miles to go it started to rain. I put on my polypro shirt, which I had worn tied around my waist since the fourth mile into the run. We continued to follow a walk/run pattern. The last aid station was at the two-mile mark, which was at the top of a small hill. Two teenage volunteers were standing at the crest. They said they had Poweraid, water, bananas, cookies, etc…. They asked if they could get us anything. In my state of discontentment I said, "I want drugs, I want a massage, and I want a cold beer." They looked at me with shock not knowing what to say. I than realized how miserable I was to them, so I turned around and yelled, "but I really appreciate your being here!" The one-mile-to-go sign was a welcome relief, until Adrian said, "Let's run the whole last mile in." I just looked at him and said NO. I had a bad attitude and knew it. The JFK is actually 50.2 miles long. It's that last 0.2 that zaps you. It was starting to get dark. We could hear the finish line announcer. We could see the end. We ran the last 400 meters in together, crossing the finish line as one. I could feel a wealth of emotions running through my body. I was close to tears from the pure joy of going beyond what I thought were my limits.
We meant up with Thaisa's family and found Becky. I took a warm shower still disbelieving that I had actually done it. I wanted to stay in that shower forever, but Becky helped reality sink in when she said I had to get out for the awards ceremony. We were sure our team had won the Women's team division—and this was one award we wanted to accept. When the race director handed us the trophy for "Overall Women's Team Champions," he told us that the team champion award for the oldest, largest, most prestigious ultra running event in the country was considered a coveted award. We proudly took it, knowing that we earned the right to be called team champions. After the award ceremony Thaisa, Becky, and I went out to wait for our forth teammate, Mary Wenck, who had not yet finished. We wanted to give her the support of her teammates as she completed her first 50 miler as well. Mary's finish was so inspiring to witness. We walked to the top of the incline to the finish in hopes of seeing her. It was dark, so all we could see were the shadow of runners as they were coming in. We saw someone who was clearly giving it everything she had. Then a car with its headlights on went past, only to reveal that the person we were watching was indeed Mary. She was tilted to her left side severely, but she was also moving forward. We cheered for her. We cried for her. We witnessed her personal strength. We ran her in the last 400 yards finishing the way we began: triumphantly as a team. Mary refused to let the medical team see to her needs. She said she was fine and that she wanted a picture of her and her team together. Running is usually such a personal sport. This day it was more than that. This day it was about four women pushing the envelope in a way none of them had ever done before, each one of us learning something about ourselves and each other along the way.
| Prev Article | Front Page | Next Article |