October 29, 2011

At 5 a.m. this morning, I began what would be a nearly 19 hour day.  With fifty miles of running ahead of me, I could get through it only by breaking it into five mile sections.  The first ten miles were spent running in the dark, which I love as it allows me to get lost in the joy of running.  Starting out from mile 10, the sun began to rise and the most beautiful part of the course lay ahead of me.  Making my way to the top of peak after peak, I lost my breath, not from the climb, but from the incredibly gorgeous views of the Texas hill country; I kept stammering to people: "We live here!  This is our state!  This is so amazing!"  Keeping my feet moving, I made it to mile 15, gulped some Dr. Pepper and scarfed a PB&J, and was off to tackle the most difficult terrain of the course.  My pace slowed considerably, but I came in to mile 20 with my mind focused on my goal for the day; a few minutes to take in more calories, refill my water, and pop some Advil and off I went.  I crossed the mat at mile 25 strong, smiling, and ready to head back out.  By the time I got to mile 30, my feet were screaming; I had to change into thicker soled shoes.  After seemingly endless climbs and descents, coupled with scraping sotol cacti, mile 35 was more than welcome:  I'd finished the hardest 20 miles of the entire day.  The rest should be a piece of cake, I thought to myself.  I began shuffling off to mile 40 with snacks in my pocket and a can of Dr. Pepper to keep me company.  When I came into mile 40, I found I'd made better pace than I had over the past fifteen or twenty miles, which bumped my confidence for the last ten.  Thankfully, Ben accompanied me for those last miles.  I began with a brisk pace, although not full speed, and was focused on continued movement.  However, about two miles or so into the final ten, my left ilotial band siezed and refused to allow me to move forward without significant pain.  We tried to stretch it without much success; thus, the only option was to hustle with a limp into the last aid station prior to the finish.  With the sun long since set, the temperatures had plummeted.  At the final aid station, I was given hot soup and cocoa for warmth, but they quickly cooled due to the freezing air.  A veteran endurance and trail runner, Olga, verbally coached me through the last five miles after giving me another jacket and an IT band strap:  "Those valleys are going to be freezing.  Don't stop moving and don't start feeling sorry for yourself.  Eye of the tiger.  Now go."  We were off on the final four and a half miles.  I significantly picked up the pace, refusing to think about how cold I was, how much pain I was in, and how far left we had to go.  All I knew was I was going to finish my first fifty mile race, one way or another.  Ascents were relatively simple, but descents were precarious, painful, and long.  Finally, I saw the loop split, where runners going out on additional loops for either the 50 mile race or the 100 mile race went left or right, which meant we were no more than a stone's throw from the finish.  At each curve of the path, I looked for lights through the trees, the finish line.  Within a few minutes, we saw some red lights through the trees.  We debated what they were: the photographer's gear?  Back lights of a car?  Reflectors?  As we got closer, I realized it was the clock at the finish line.  "Let's run," I said.  "Run" was a loose term, but I did pick up the pace, hobbling with my stiff left leg.  As I crossed the mat, I heard the multiple dings from the chip timing machine:  the multiple dings meant I was a finisher.  I let the phrase roll around in my head: a finisher.  I'd finished my first fifty mile race.  Although I'd planned on staying around for a bit to chat, commiserate, and celebrate, the cold was too biting, my knee was in too much pain, and my eyelids were too heavy.  We collected the rest of my gear, I popped some Tylenol PM, and off we sped to a warm shower and bed in Austin.