Run the Rock – 11/10/18

I registered and trained for the 2018 Run the Rock 50M at Smith Rock near Bend (I wanted to do this in 2017 but was injured) and when race day arrived, I waltzed up to the start line, hugged all my people good-bye, saying that I’d see them roughly 12 hours later, and shivered my way through the countdown. I was excited but nervous!

I started down the trail with my fellow runners, taking it easy, warming up (both my muscles and my bones – it was a very chilly November morning in the high desert). Over the bridges, up the first hills, up the first big climb, back and forth on the switchbacks, down the gravel roads, past the aid stations, the miles ticking away, my legs strong, the views generous.

I ran through a pasture, past a campground, and entered a gully, plodding along. And suddenly, around mile 18, I couldn’t see. My vision blurred and my eyes teared up. I was walking, wiping my face, wondering if it was the cold or my health or something else. A few of the 50K racers were passing me and I tried to pull myself together, suddenly and inexplicably hitting a mental wall. It felt like time was standing still and I desperately wanted to be anywhere else. I wandered into the last aid station of the course before the start/finish/2nd loop began, vision returning, and sent Jesse a simple text: “Just left AS at mile 21. Dropping at start line, mil 25. Please come get me. I can’t do this today.”

I was a mess for the last 4 miles, mentally. I’d run some and walk some. I let any runner approaching pass without hesitation, my head abashedly hung; and the runners coming at me were 50 milers on their second loop, hours ahead of me. I was too hot in the sun and too cold in the shade. It was here, I could feel it…my first DNF. And it sucked.

It sucked for those last miles, too mentally checked out to run. It sucked telling the race director I was done at mile 26. It sucked telling Jesse and John to take me home and doing the walk of shame to the car. It sucked losing my favorite headband, upending the drop bag I never touched in a feeble attempt to find it. It sucked having a friend text me about his strong finish and mustering energy to be happy for him, squeaking out congratulatory messages. And it always sucks to cry in the shower.

The next day I dropped Jesse and John off at the same starting line for their half marathon race. They both finished and had great races…and went home with finisher swag. Still devastated and feeling like a poser, I wanted to go home to Portland immediately if not sooner, draw the shades, and eat my feelings. I wanted to scrub my name from the event like I was never there.

I won’t know what happened to me that day. I was undertrained, sure, but I feel that way about every race. Was it the mental challenge of the lollipop? Was it the cold? Was it my anxiety about running in the dark for the last two hours or so? Was I too alone in this race? Had I outrun my love of running for the season?

I couldn’t talk about the race with anyone without bursting into tears (my sweet boss didn’t know whether to hug me or walk away from my emotional reaction). It’s been 4 months and after taking a brief break from racing and gently easing back into it, I can think about it now as any runner should: a DNF does not equal failure. Every runner has one on their record, even the pros. It was the right decision for me and my body that day. And I do have business being on those trails, at those starting lines, and wearing those race tees. I’m back in training and I have new races on the docket, new goals to reach, and new motivation for 2019. Last year I abstained…this year I conquer.