This
race started on August 27, 2017. While it was the day my name came off the
waitlist for Cuyamaca 100K, it was, more importantly, the day I started to find
my wings again. It was roughly 105 degrees on the exposed and steep terrain of
Mount Diablo. I summited Diablo twice during the brutal 50K, managing the most
climbing I have done in a 50K race, while easily clocking my hottest race ever.
It was a day when records were made for me, including my Personal Worst 50K, by
well over an hour. I even managed to be the 2nd female Overall in
the race, out of 2 (it seems my competitors dropped to more reasonable
distances given the conditions). But after things falling apart for me at
Canyons (a month with a clogged ear and 40 miles of pain up and down the
canyons did me in) and at Tahoe (asthma that I gave way to 70+ miles in), I
just needed something to prove to myself that I could still do this. The
logical test was seeing the weather forecast before Diablo 50K predicting
hellish temperatures and signing up to meet my nemesis head on.
I’ve been known to crumble in the
heat, to lose my confidence, to wilt. I needed to get some of my swagger back,
something sadly lacking in my running life for the better part of a year and a
half. I went to Diablo the last weekend
in August and I survived. I didn’t falter, I managed the smothering heat of the
day, the dust, the exposed trails. And I flourished despite a lack of ice on
course and hours of lukewarm fluids. I even passed a fair number of runners on
the back half to garner that OA placing. In the final miles down the mountain,
I trucked along, repeatedly playing Sinead O’Connor’s “Troy” on my phone. It’s
actually the only time I have played music on any trail race. And it was just the one song for roughly 2
miles. “I will rise, and I will return, the Phoenix from the flame.” After 8.5+
hours, this Phoenix was ready for Cuyamaca.
Cuyamaca 100K sits in the mountains
about an hour outside of San Diego at 4000-6500 ft of elevation. YouTube course
previews indicated I was in for exposed desert terrain and some technical
stretches. The total climb of the course did not have me concerned at just
under 9000 ft and would actually be the lowest of any 100K I have done (Miwok,
Quicksilver, Canyons) by a substantial amount. While October might signal
reasonable temperatures, the fact that I had registered for the race no doubt sent
the temperatures soaring. My track record for stumbling upon unseasonably warm
races is uncanny at this juncture: LAM ’16, Boston ’16, IM CdA ’16, Boston ’17,
Canyons ’17, TRT ’17. The high for the
day where I was staying in El Cajon was predicted to be around 95 degrees; the
mountains might be spared with highs in the mid to upper 80s. At least it was
no Diablo!
Going in to the race, I had one
simple goal: finish under 17 hours. I needed to pick up the Western States 100
qualifier to salvage five years of work and maintain my streak in the lottery.
I have had that seemingly simple goal previously this year, but my health had
other ideas at Canyons and TRT. I joined a bevy of last chancers needing the WS
qualifier at Cuyamaca. In fact, I think I only ran with one person all day who
was not a last chancer, as the qualifying window for WS 2018 will close in a
month. I was feeling comfortable in the days pre-race. I was fairly Zen about
the process and the outcome. Either I would get it done or I wouldn’t. If I
came up short, I could then choose to start up my quest for WS again next year
or I could have the freedom to finally let it go.
I had trained, two months since
Tahoe with long trail runs back to back with long road roads, solid volume with
many heat days. I was healthy, or as healthy as I may expect to be; a mild
cough creeped up due to my asthma in the pre-race week with extra doses of
albuterol taken to try to improve my lung capacity. After Canyons, I was ready
to step away from, or really, run away from this WS quest. After Tahoe, I was
just blue, but I wanted one last chance. Shortly before Cuyamaca, I registered
for my 2019 WS 100 qualifying race (Sean O’Brien 100K). I knew I would need
another qualifier after I completed Cuyamaca. My patience with the process was
returning, as well as the confidence that I could and would finish the race and
earn my ticket for States.
I had a pace chart for my race. The
goal was 16 hours; I figured I’d be optimistic, while giving myself an hour
buffer. Race morning was cold, feeling much cooler than the predicted low 50s.
The racers kept warm at Camp Cuyamaca in a school building. I donned my arm
sleeves (for cooling, but perfect too for the cold) and my gloves. We
congregated outside by the Start/Finish arch minutes before the 6:30 am race
start for quick instructions by the race director (which color ribbons to
follow for which of the 3 loops of the race). I wished Lorena and Rick well;
they would likely be running together. I also wished Caolan and her friend Gabe
well. I think Caolan was amused by my clothing choice: Kettle Moraine 100 shirt
and TRT 100 visor to start. Both races had been DNFs for me; there may just be
something therapeutic, or motivating, about wearing your failures. Light came earlier to Cuyamaca than home and
there was ample light as the race set off.
 |
| With Rick and Lorena before the swamp crossing: mile 0.25. |
We ran down a firetrail to start
our first of three loops, which would return us to the Start in 31+ miles. As
warned, within a quarter of a mile, there was a log jam as runners carefully
traversed a section of creek/swamp littered with unstable tree branches (the
only water crossing area for the whole race). I bid goodbye to Lorena and Rick
after the crossing and worked to settle in to my race. My pace starting out was
strong as the terrain was a runnable mix of non-technical single track and fire
roads through to the first aid station. I just went by effort, knowing it was
way too early to be concerned about pace. My left calf was seizing on me,
cramping, creating sharp digs of pain. This has become more standard than I
would care for, lasting its usual few miles, followed by the numbness in my
left foot. I remained calm, plodding along on the foot I couldn’t feel,
trusting my eyes to avoid a misstep. This usually passes within a few miles. Per
its usual pattern, I was fine by mile 5 or 6 with the left leg and foot finally
warmed up and again functional. My lungs also like to play the same game.
Patience. Patience.
I had two bracelets on my arm:
patience. gratitude. Patience for the pacing, patience for any challenges,
patience for the length of the day. Gratitude for the ability to be here in the
first place. Gratitude for the views I would experience. Gratitude for the
people I would meet along the journey. And the views? I expected desert. But this
was much prettier than just desert. The moon was present as daylight ascended,
the glowing white globe on the horizon to my right. There was decidedly more
vegetation than I had anticipated and it was more green (albeit shrubs and
bushes with minimal trees) than I had envisioned. I was pleasantly surprised
that my eyes would be tantalized along the way.
Just before the first aid station,
runners are coming my way and I realize it’s a quick out and back. I love this
element in ultras to be able to cheer on fellow runners. I get my greetings
flowing and fill myself up with the reciprocity. In to the first aid station,
Caolan is just ahead of me, but she goes to the side to the restroom maybe.
Kelly cheers me in- she is a friend of mutual friends who I often come across
during ultras. I grab some food as I refill my flask, dropping my electrolyte
powder in (Tailwind on course; I will not repeat the Canyons 2016 fiasco). I
grab some potatoes and am gone. I am consistent with eating on my own every
five miles, taking my power gel energy blasts (I’ve brought out the expired
final cola ones for this one!) and S-caps.
Mile 8.4 in 1:28 (10:28). (Note: I
wasn’t going that fast, but the course and aid stations all read longer than my
Garmin; the times listed are the official record.)
On the way out, I have my camera
ready as runners are going in. A short ways out, I catch some great photos of
Lorena and Rick as they run past and wish them well. Both look happy as
everyone should be at 1/8th of the way through. I then grab a
picture of Tyler (who I trained with during a prior Boston cycle) and half of
her friend Curt (who is recovering from a chainsaw to knee incident). Soon, I veer to the left to follow our detour
as we drop back on to single track. We hit the first stretch of technical
terrain with some rocks as we climb in serpentine fashion maintaining our conga
line formation. The effect of desert terrain is keenly felt as sharp bushes
scrape at my legs and as my hand starts weeping blood from some prickly bush I
have intruded upon. While it takes a while for the 6 miles to the next aid
station, the time is passing without incident, keeping my mind on patience and
maintaining an easy effort. We pop out at the next aid station and it is
becoming warm. I refill the pack with ice and water, fill my flask with
electrolyte powder and water, then put on my coolant towel. The next stretch is
9 miles up the largest climb of the race, so I fuel with candy and fruit and a
cookie that is too dry for my tastes. I
sponge off before heading out, soaking my arm sleeves in cold water. It is 9:13
am and we are in the desert.
Mile 14.2 in 2:43 (11:28 average;
12:55 section pace).
I know the next 9 miles might be
toughest of the day (they won’t be, but the whole course was new to me). There
is a long stretch of fire road that ascends. Caolan and I reconnect through
this stretch as I grab some photos while taking in the views. Caolan and I are
both in the third times a charm club (you know, 3rd WS qualifier
attempt in the year…). I know her from a rescue in the Kettle last year and
from getting me moving at Boston this year when I was enjoying a beer going up
Heartbreak Hill. Again, everything is much better than I could have anticipated
in terms of the scenery. I am grateful and sated. I try to eat some real food I
have brought with me (tortilla with hummus) but it is already too hot to be digestible.
I return to my fake food. Eventually, I am able to enjoy gummy bears in the
heat.
We meet up with a few other runners
as we climb the single-track miles to Cuyamaca Peak, gaining 2500 ft to crest
at 6500 ft. InknBurn shirt man is in the lead of this train. I start to chat
with Bing, who is from Houston and doing this for fun, I think? He had a
qualifier from Rocky Raccoon 100, had run Tahoe Rim Trail 50 (a reasonable
distance, in reflection), and was doing his first 100K (well you know, not in a
100 miler… oddly, he wasn’t the only one I met that day doing the same). We
agree at least this is not like the climb up Diamond Peak at TRT (grade, heat,
sand). The climb is actually very, very reasonable. Incredibly so, I would say.
It is gradual enough that we can maintain a decent pace hike. The views improve
as we continue to ascend and the miles pass with the gratitude of easy
conversation.
We reach a paved road and a kind
volunteer greets us with otter pops. They may be melted, but I am grateful for
the cool sugar syrup and for the gesture. I suck this down as I make my final
ascent to Cuyamaca Peak. Other runners are coming down, so the mutual
well-wishes also nourish my soul. There are signs of encouragement along the
way. Actual signs that spread smiles on my face. I grab a photo of my favorite:
“You are pretty fucking awesome. Keep that shit up.” Why, thank you! I think I
will! Volunteers start to run down from the peak, eager to grab our packs to
refill them or to otherwise preempt what needs we may have. One grabs my phone
and takes a series of pictures of me in the final feet to the top. My pack gets
refilled with ice and water and I eat some watermelon. I then pull to the side
to get items I need out of my pack. I take a few hits off my inhaler, trying to
do this every few hours to avoid a Tahoe repeat late in my day. I grab some
photos. I check in to my flight (the alarm went off and there was reception…).
I take advantage of the rare reception and post a photo and status update. I
have finished the hardest climb of the race at mile 23 and 5:21 in. I get a
sponge down on my way out of the aid station and head back down.
Mile 23.2 in 5:17 (13:39 average,
17:06 section pace).
I am in good spirits. I am filled
with the joy that spurs me to the trails, a joy I have struggled mightily to
find too many times this year. Cautious optimism is my friend. I am grateful. I
remain patient as I descend. I wish Tyler and the other runners well on their
way up. I turned off past popsicle man on to single track. There is some
technicality, as the path is littered with rocks. I take my time, run, slow,
run, slow. The views are clear and enriching. Eventually, the terrain shifts
again, becoming significantly more challenging. I encounter a series of varied
sized boulders. I am tip toeing through it, exercising the utmost patience. I
like my ankles and will need them for the rest of this journey. InknBurn shirt
man comes flying through. I comment about his daring; he is familiar with these
trails. I’m quite sure no level of familiarity will ever see me bounding from
one unstable rock to another the way some runners just glide through.
I feel as though I am on the
Lahaina Pali trail in Maui. I didn’t recognize that hike with my husband and
cousin in June as training for an ultra, but apparently it was. There are some
other runners that are gingerly taking their time through the boulders as well,
though many are more sure footed and easily pass by. As we are commenting upon
the terrain, a gal in front of me falls, scrapping up her knee and rivulets of
blood start descending her leg. Another runner cleans off her wound with some
squirts of his hydration pack. She is not concerned with the pain from the
fall, but rather with cramping as her leg takes the opportunity to complain
with the disruption. She requests salt; at least I can oblige and give her some
S caps before she continues on her way. I am even more patient through the
remainder of the boulders. This is decidedly much harder than the ascent to the
peak; it’s not always about vertical gain.
The path finally opens up back on
to fireroad. It is warm, but I go with the effort of the terrain and am back to
moving after a 24 minute mile. We have been warned about bulldozers that will
be on this section of the course. I find the bulldozer after posted warnings to
give them a wide berth. Fortunately, it is resting and the worker is taking a
break, so I can continue on. The earth through this section is ravaged with
piles of upturned bushes and dirt. At one point, I can appreciate the large
clearing that is being made on the mountainside which we are winding down. I am
unsure of the reason. Some of the hillside clearly speaks to the remains of
prior fires, short new vegetation in the midst of scattered charred tree
residues. The contrast provides stunning
views.
My pace picks up as I run towards
the next aid station, passing by day hikers in the park. I arrive and
volunteers are ready to go again! We are only a few miles from the
start/finish, so I just grab some food and refill my flask and rewet my coolant
towel. Kelly is cheering again and offering help. Tyler comes in behind me; she
looks well. I use a real bathroom in the park on my way out; being able to wash
my face and hands with running water is divine.
Mile 28.2 in 6:38 (14:06 average;
16:12 section pace).
I am back on single track. I stay
behind one runner for a while, but the pace is not quite right. I eventually
pass him. I am running strong, feeling good. It is warm, but I feel I am
modulating the heat. I do not feel controlled by it. My pacing is where I want
it to be. My watch notes the 50K mark in 7:21. My goal was around 7:30. I start prepping for what I will need to do as
I come in to the start/finish area. It comes up sooner than expected (I think
it should be around 31.6-31.8; the official marking will be more, but my watch
is barely over 31). I never complain about being early!
I grab my drop bag. Another
runner’s crew who are anxiously awaiting and worried about their brother offer
to help me; they get me a chair to sit on and refill my pack. The kindness of
strangers is immensely appreciated and helps move me along. I change my socks
and shoes after Run Goo to the feet. There were some hot points that I could
see developing in to blisters, so I decide on new shoes altogether, figuring
this next loop is only 12 miles if they don’t result in happier feet. I change
my shirt (Boston 2015 purple) and hat (Project Purple for my dad), apply
sunscreen and bodyglide. I refill my pack with food from my stash and refill
with electrolyte powder. I take some more solid food with me as the energy
blasts are becoming harder to digest in the growing heat of the early
afternoon. And I am off for loop 2!
Mile 32.3 in 7:23 (13:42 average,
10:58 section pace).
I am on to the blue loop, making my
way through the swamp that started the day. I pass by the guy from the prior aid station,
at least I assume it’s him; the challenges when people change their clothing.
He is now Boston guy. I guess we’re matching, though his garb should be 2014.
The terrain becomes a hike up. I haven’t studied this section of the course
much. All I know is it will be a 12 mile loop and gain about 1400 ft; obviously,
that says nothing of terrain. I am out on the loop around 2 pm. I take my time
as I climb up single-track with periodic rocks. Nothing horrible, yet I do
manage a stumble and a catch with my hand to add to the wounds of the day. The
heat is the greater offender. I am doing my best to conserve my energy and get
safely through this loop as I know that darkness and some cooling will mark my
final loop of the course.
 |
| Rhino's home. |
I am climbing and am then greeted
by an expanse to my right. It is an amazing savannah, some lush greenery that
is a striking contrast from what I have seen over the course of the prior 30
miles. I grab some photos and a selfie, posting a status update as I again have
reception. I think this is the sort of place a rhino could be quite content. At
the top of the hill, the path becomes a thin needle winding its way through a
large grassy field. I am in the midst of a Van Gogh picture all in hues of
yellow, the hay has just not yet been gathered. I can see runners in the
distance as we all slowly weave our way through the prairie. Preservation in
the openness of the day with the heat bearing down is key. I am pulled back to
the meadows of Kettle Moraine, such potentially oppressive beauty. I am
grateful I only have to manage the heat and the humidity is not in this desert.
 |
| Am I back in the Kettle? |
My stomach is becoming unhappy with
me. I had tried to eat some real food (a Cliff bar: the carrot cake is
fantastic) on the climb, but it is too dry and I cannot chew it, even while
chasing it down with ice water. I feel a bit queasy, a mixture between
impending nausea and imminent diarrhea. I know I need to be careful in what I
consume and tread that fine balance between getting enough nutrition and not so
much to render myself sick. I tolerate a few gummy bears before just focusing
on the task at hand. There are brief spurts of minute shade; I run or fast walk
through them to make up for the slowing pace in the brightness of daylight. My
mood remains steady though; I know this will pass.
The course continues to alternate
between very runnable terrain and technical stretches. It keeps me on my toes.
The views through this loop are completely different from the first loop and
nurture me. As I head to the one aid station on the loop, I am greeted by signs
of hunky men of the 1970s with quippy phrases, as well as promises of
nourishment in the no-drop Gator zone. I hang on to the sign that promised beer
(which I thought was prohibited in the park; turns out it is.) The volunteers
are again on the ball, cheerfully greeting the runners coming in. This aid
station is an oasis in the heat, set up with misting stations. They fill my
pack, again with lots of ice. I try my hand at real food: 4 small potatoes,
grapes, watermelon. So so very lovely! They are decidedly gracious hosts, as
have been all the incredible volunteers on course. These are the small things
that define and make a race a wonderful experience. I am grateful I can take in
the aid. Other runners seem to be fading here and are glued to the seats in the
misting tent. I have miles to go! I head out just before mile 40, popsicle in
hand, along with a bag of tangerine slices and grapes. I run/walk to ensure I
take in the nutrition.
Mile 40.3 in 9:35 (14:16 average,
16:30 section pace).
It remains hot, but my stomach
feels a bit better, and I have about 4 miles left until I return to the
Start/Finish. We turn to the right,
nearly U-turning on the course and there is another ascent. I take my time and
plod along. Eventually Caolan calls out from behind, confusing me as she was
ahead of me, while Gabe is just in front of me. She is frustrated as she veered
off course at the U-turn; added mileage is a challenge, never mind having it be
in the heat of the day. The three of us trudge up the hill, I try to stick with
them, but will eventually fall a bit back. Caolan finds her jet fuel and picks
it up to the Start/Finish line. I take my time and then find my legs to run in
to the aid station. On my way, my feet get wet going through the swamp for the
3rd time, solidifying that there will be no point to changing my
socks (as I will be back here in less than half a mile for the final time).
Runners are coming out on their 3rd loop and we greet. Curt is
looking solid as he heads out for his final loop.
In to the Start/Finish, I am
feeling good. I have about 6 hours for the final loop of 18 miles. This is mine
and the Finish Line is in sight. Well, it is quite visible, though I will have
to see it in a few more hours! Rick is there to greet me as I grab my drop bag.
I know that is not a good sign; he dropped after the first loop due to IT
issues. He seems at peace with the decision and is helpful in prepping me for
the final loop. He advises me that Lorena is about 45 minutes behind me, or was
when I left on loop 2. I ditch my hat and sunglasses. My light is already in my
pack, but there will still be another hour or before darkness. I don’t need any
food. I use the bathroom, another real one. My GI system continues to hold
steady, even though I know she is delicate. I bid my farewell to Rick and
happily sail off on the final lap.
Mile 45.1 in 10:52 (14:27 average,
16:02 section pace).
Through the swamp for the final
time, I follow the yellow ribbons this time. I pass Boston man and he makes a
comment about how I keep passing him, I promise this will be the last time. I head off through a field as the sun starts to
lower. I enter an area of reception and a text comes through from Tyler; she
dropped right after starting on loop 2 missing her infant son in her first
ultra back post-partum. She sends me encouragement for a strong finish and I
send her my hugs. I start to think I am lost as I haven’t seen yellow ribbons
in a bit, but I also don’t think there were alternative options. Eventually I
spot the ribbons again. Then they disappear again, with two routes possible,
neither of which is clearly marked. The way to my right seems wrong. I come
back and head to the left, by which time other runners have joined me. I
eventually see runners far, far on the horizon and then thankfully, another
yellow ribbon. Getting lost this late in the game is not on my agenda!
We drop on to a fireroad. I am
cognizant of trying to use the remaining daylight available, as I know I will
take my time once darkness descends. So, I run, between the gift of remaining
light and the runnable terrain. I run for a bit, then walk a few steps, then
run again. The legs are a bit tired, but nothing horrible. Through this
section, it is clear where we will drop back to the fireroad to head to the
finish. I store that visually as a motivator. There is the periodic fellow
runner. I will pass a gal in a red tank and black shorts, while I will be
passed by another gal and her pacer.
But mainly, I am in my head through
this section. My day has been spent on the task at hand, on navigating the
unfamiliar and at times technical terrain, on managing the heat and dust and
dirt of the day without having it impact my temperamental lungs. I may still be
16 miles from the finish, but I know the end is at hand and that I have
accomplished the goal. I let the emotions of that thought overwhelm me. I am
filled with relief. I let the tears roll. These are of pure joy. I finally
allow myself to feel all the pressure that sat at the foot of this race for me;
I feel the pressure as I simultaneously let it go. This was five years in the
making. Five years that became reduced to 17 hours in the desert. It’s so
precarious when you put it in those terms. When I think of all the struggles at
Canyons and at TRT, of all the wrong sort of tears I shed in those races and in
the months since. These are finally the emotions I wanted then; these are the
emotions you want in every ultra. Relief. Gratitude. I enjoy the final miles of
daylight. My heart is full. I no longer run in doubt or in fear.
Leaving the fireroad, there is a single-track
climb to greet the final minutes of daylight. I can’t quite catch the sunset as
it is beyond the mountain behind me. I grab a photo of the remaining pink in
the sky to mark my 50th mile. I am solo in the desert, out in the
darkness, and I am at peace. My GI system has slightly other ideas, but I move
on and the feelings fade, but they will ebb and flow for the remainder of the
race. Eventually I catch some light behind me. An eager runner states that she
has caught me and introduces herself. Katie had been chasing my light up the
hill for miles, using it as a marker and finds her own relief. She was the gal
I had passed earlier on the fireroad. She is a 2nd chancer here
after a harrowing day at Gorge that fell outside the WS qualifying time. She
learned from that experience to try to avoid being alone in the dark.
Mile 51.9 in 12:48 (14:47 average,
17:03 section pace).
We make it to the penultimate aid
station, again with eager volunteers on hand. I don’t need any refills, but do
happily accept some chicken broth as the night is starting to get cold. While
there, Caolan arrives in her Boston yellow. We all know it’s just a matter of
one step in front of the other now. I leave out with Katie and let her go after
a bit and then am joined by Caolan. We use the miles to catch up as we mostly
power-walk hike through the night. I want to see what this terrain looks like
during the day; I think we are on the Pacific Crest Trail. I can imagine the
beauty and the views through the darkness. In stretches, it seems as though we
are on top of the world. The moon appears, full and glowing red in the
distance. It is as perfect as is this night.
We eventually join up with another
runner who was also in the Kettle in 2016, embarking on his first “mountainous”
ultra. I guess it is compared with the Midwest, but these are not mountains for
me. The world is a small place with these intersections over the course of
ultras, all these commonalities in our journeys. I think about the races past.
I reflect on this course. Each race has its challenges; some favor our
strengths, while others cause us to battle and sometimes crumble under our
weaknesses. This is a race I would return to. Obviously, the positive
psychological sentiments make it a happy one for me. I have not had a down blue
moment, I have never felt defeated out here. I have just felt nourished. But
the beauty is becoming, I’m quite sure it’s not typically this hot, and I am
enjoying the mixture of runnable and technical. It’s challenging, but it will
not kill me. Canyons remains a beautiful beast, but maybe it’s not the beast
for me. Miwok, I think, is also this same mix as Cuyamaca. I’ll still leave Quicksilver
where I Iet her lie in 2015; this is harder but has more redeeming qualities.
Katie and crew catch up to us after
veering off course in the darkness of the night. We all move forward to the
final outpost. 7 miles to freedom and to the conclusion of what has finally
been a journey I want to be on. It’s a quick stop, get some more chicken broth
and a bit of banter. I have other places to be as I graciously move on. I stick
with Caolan and Kettle man for a minute and then drop back. I will savor these
final miles solo. I have become cognizant of the future and it beckons to me. I
have Marine Corps Marathon in two weeks and I’d like to give it its fair due. I
work to preserve what I can of my legs while being careful to do nothing stupid
in the final miles. It is pitch dark, I am in the desert, there are rocks to
watch for.
Mile 56.6 in 14:12 (15:04 average,
18:15 section pace).
I text Jim that I am less than 10K
from the finish and that I will be finishing and, without doubt. I send this
message as there is no cell service at the Finish and I am unsure how race
updates have been going. I actually think they are fairly accurate and frequent
as encouraging texts often come in short order after I traverse through a
station. It turns out this communication and the race status updates are as top
notch as everything else for the day. Every single aid station was recorded and
sent to ultralive.net.
I take the final miles, which
eventually become fireroad. I am being passed. People will ask how I am faring.
I smile in reply, state I am doing well, and encourage them in the closing
stretches. The night gets very cold in patches; I put on my gloves and
periodically run a short stretch to warm up. The moon is now on my left,
smaller but glowing yellow white. I’m pretty sure this is pure happiness.
I eventually find the fork in the
road I had noted 15 miles previously. I figure I have about a mile left as I
take the final right turn on the to fireroad. Permission to run is granted! I
pick up the pace. I run for a stretch, walk briefly, run. The legs are finally
feeling the miles of the day, but my soul is eager and propels me along. There
is happy banter with my fellow runners as we know we are making our goal. I see
the finish line by the school site and I take off for the final length. Through
and content. The race director puts the medal around my neck and I express my
gratitude for the scenery of the course, for the volunteers, and for the
opportunity (his waitlist policy put me here). 5 years and I am still in this
game! I will get in to Western when it is my turn to get in and that is enough.
I savor the moment, as “there is no other Troy for me to burn.” (Sinead
O’Connor)
63.3 miles in 16:07 (15:17 average;
17:00 section pace).
My final Garmin data: 61.97 miles
in 16:07:42 (15:37 pace). +8199 ft, -8038 ft.
Moving time 15:09:40 (14:41 pace).
7th in AG F40-49/ 16
finishers (10 drops).
19th female/35 finishers
(16 drops).
83rd OA/ 147 finishers
(115 under the WS qualifying time of 17 hours) (61 DNFs – 29%).
I go to
the community room and am congratulated by Rick and Lorena. They keenly
understand the meaning of this moment for me. I am joyful, but also concerned
that their days did not end as planned. Lorena dropped after the 2nd
loop due to vomiting and after weighing the risks of the remainder of the race.
I refuel on food. Eventually I find Caolan who finished a bit before me, we sit
on couch for a few last moments. Third times the charm for us. Hopefully it
never has to come to that again.
 |
| With Caolan post-race. |
For
once, I finished what I started. That task had never been so difficult prior to
the past year and change. I suppose it will never again be something that I
take for granted. In the days before TRT, my husband and I talked about how I just
needed one race to set me right. We also realized that going for that race in a
tough 100 miler was chancy at best. But I felt that at Cuyamaca. Mentally,
emotionally, physically, I was where I needed to be and I was able to stay
there for the whole 62 miles. I did not break down, but rather I took the
challenges as they came to me and patiently waited until they passed. I’m back
where I want to be. Patience and Gratitude.
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