I started walking. Then, I tried running. Last year, I signed myself up for a 5k. All the while, my left ankle seemed to be doing well. I was elated, even if it was only a 5k. It seemed that my short and sporadic training left my ankle feeling moderately OK.
After the 5k, I went back to hiking and photography. The ankle held up on some bigger outings, including a day trip through the Enchantments. My mind became curious, Can my body tolerate this, but more of this?
And so I began experimenting with some runs at various distances and paces. Not much happened. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t have to stop running. I just ran and I was elated.
And I began to dream again. Do I have any ultras left in this body?
I bought a book. I made a training schedule. I implemented a routine. I did research as to how to do my training well, better. And I ran. The ankle, for the most part, held up. At the end of last year, the dreaming got the better of me, choosing to sign up for five races in 2024 - The Gorge Waterfall 100k, The Beast of Big Creek, FatDog 120, Plain 100, and Coyote Wall 55k. I chose these races for various reasons, various appeals. This was the epitome of my excitement/stupidity. This all felt too good to be true. I like to think of myself as a human of action. I put my money where my dreams seemed to be going.
The base of my training would have to take place through the winter, and I did just that, surprising myself at my consistency. I ran in the rain, the cold, the snow, and the dark. So much running took place in the dark. I woke up at 4:30 am, then 4, then 3:45, finally 3:30, trying to accommodate longer runs on weekday mornings. I took on a plot of DNR land near our house on the weekends, aiming to run every road/trail confined between the asphalt loop circling it’s mass. I started a core workout, hoping to build strength, an effort to make running more palatable as the miles increased. I lived and breathed running. I felt renewed purpose. I enjoy being able to call myself a trail runner. My identity feels whole when I am running..
In March, I went on a photography trip to the deserts of Utah and Arizona. I did some running in between sunrises and sunsets. The Gorge Waterfall 100k would be two weeks after I got back. Miles weren’t an option. they were a necessity.
The last two days, we did two back-to-back hikes at the bottom of stunning canyons. I know sand can wreak havoc on my ankle, but it’s usually when I’m barefoot or in poorly supportive shoes. I came out of the last canyon on day 2 hobbled, ankle swollen, barely able to walk. I was so fixated on being able to squeeze in another run at Canyonlands National Park, that I took off early so as to squeeze in one more long run before driving home, back to Washington State.
I popped Tylenol as I drove, the ankle throbbing, no matter the position I tried while I drove. Walking was no better. I limped on and around some rocks for sunset, willing my ankle to relent this pain. It didn’t. In the morning, with the option of running off the table, I point the truck north and headed for In-n-Out, and ultimately, home.
I tried all I knew to do, but the pain persisted..for two months. I DNS’d the start of Gorge Waterfalls. Not only did running 60 miles feel impossible, I began to question everything - Is this possible? I was told to never run again. What am I doing? The questions rolled, relentless, all questioning the sanity of my exuberance in signing up for these runs in the first place. I had hoped I had another hundred in me. My shanty of confidence seemed to be crumbling before me.
In June, I started running again, tentative at first, but building. I did not want the summer to pass me by without laying down some routes. I had dream routes collecting cobwebs in my phone, and I wanted to go see the world on my own two legs.
The ankle hurt, but I pushed through. As the days progressed, I found myself doing big outings on Saturday, then, instead of being able to do a back-to-back long run on Sunday, I’d have to rest, the pain too much.
I focused on running what I could, and knocking off some dream routes as I was able. I circumnavigated Mt. St. Helens. The last six miles were painful. I did a big loop in Margaret’s Wilderness. I looped Upper Lena Lake to Lake of the Angels. I wanted mountain peaks, but only got one that day. The ankle screamed. I was able to run Beast of Big Creek with minimal discomfort. The 14 miles with 5000 feet of up, felt OK. I came in 17th out of 60ish humans. I felt encouraged. I skipped FatDog scheduled for the following weekend, unable to believe that my haphazard training would allow me to complete 120 miles. In honor of my skipped run, I teamed up with a friend to do the Issy Alps 50k. I thought we’d get done in 10 to 12 hours. It took me 14. The ankle started whining at the top of Tenerife - not ideal. By the we had descended Tenerife, summitted Si, and then started Si's descent the old questions resumed - What am I doing? This pain is too much. I decided to bag any further efforts and verbalized this to Abbie. She thought this was wise. I also knew that it would be wise to let this decision to sit for a day or two beyond the suffering of this effort. These spontaneous decisions are rarely the most informed ones.
I had to rest my swollen ankle for four days. Weight bearing was tender. The entire time I fought myself in my head, the desire to run battling against my apparent inability. Is it quitting, giving up, to stop when this pain exists? Am I being a pansy? Should I push through it or rest?
The waffling persisted, each day a new argument met with an old rebuttal. In my head, I am convinced my days of racing ultras are behind me. In my heart, I want a couple more.
Three weekends ago, I finally completed The Cushman 6, a route I had been sitting on for the last four years. This route is 23 miles, close to 12,000 feet of elevation, and rather remote, meaning I had to carry all my food and water from the get go. I got a break with a creek as I headed over to Mt. Rose. I felt fortunate. This route was a dream. Despite the cooler temps and overcast skies, I suffered solidly. I lost my route a couple of times, but persisted and finished. The ankle was pissed. I had seven or eight miles back to the truck on the flat gravel road and got 3.5 miles in before a passing human decided that I wasn’t OK. Her name is Vanessa. She circled back and offered me a ride, or just help in general. I must have looked miserable. I shared my fear of cougars with her - You’re welcome! - as we drove, and my immense thanks. She saved me at least another hour of hobbling about, feeling sorry for myself.
I feel such pride for these accomplishments. These successes feel wonderful, an odd satisfaction. I question why I choose this suffering, and I’m not sure I have a solid answer. There is beauty out there. I want to see all of it. I also have an aversion to dullness, repulsed by distraction, a wasting of my moments (even though I succumb to these distractions predictably). Running is my antidote to this pervasive, life-draining venom. I leave these trails with a weary body and a jubilant contentment.
Now, with only two days left between me and Plain 100, I am feeling the pressure I have self-inflicted. There is no way I can complete 100 miles as I am right now. I have chosen to put all my eggs in two baskets - a corticosteroid injection into my left ankle and the addition of orthotics. There is a lot hanging on these two interventions. I am still waffling, but the extremes of my negativity and optimism are far less extreme. I feel more committed to running it than I do DNSing another race. For me, as they all are, this won’t be a race, so much as a test of my own mental fortitude and ability. I am deciding to show up, start this race, and aim to complete the first 60-mile loop. This I can do, I think. I am not even thinking about the last 40 miles at this point. As with any run, the only magic is in choosing relentless forward progress. The only way this happens is one step at a time, and then realizing that there is no magic except in choosing not to quit. I don’t know if I’ll make the cut-offs, but I am going to try. If I can finish this ‘race’ I will be delighted, and possibly quite broken, but in a good way.
The waffling has to stop (but will it?). I need every cell in my body on board with this task. We’re going to complete it or go up in proverbial flames. I think I have learned to have fun either way. And I am taking with me the "motivational" videos of people I care about. I plan to use them as my secret weapon when all hope and delight and I are lost.
In the back of my mind I am looking forward to walking again, taking my camera out into the wilderness to sit and take in the wonder that I know is there. I will crawl out there if I have to. Wonder must be pursued, at any cost. This is all I know. This is all I want to know.
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