I am 65 years old and still running ultras – I just wish it were faster. Sometimes, as the runners of the last pack in a race disappear behind on the trail, my ego will protest, and I want to wave my old running journal at them and shout, “Look here! I was a decent runner once. I ran 5k in 17:30 and 10k in 38 minutes. And I ran a half-marathon in 90 minutes!” But then I recall the words of Bruce Springsteen’s song, Glory Days, “Well, the time slips away. Leaves you with nothing, mister, but boring stories of glory days.”
Even a few years ago, I wasn’t at the back of the pack and still found myself passing younger runners. By then, I had moved on from road to trail races in British Columbia, finding something special in the many hours that it took to complete tough runs like the Squamish 50. The trails weren’t easy, but I was making the cutoffs with enough time left to appreciate the views, the camaraderie of other runners and volunteers, and even the solitude that comes from being in the mountains.
But age creeps up on all of us and sometimes, even pounces. Out of nowhere, what went from a dull throb deep in my right hip began to sharpen with each step until my hip and lower back locked up. I was able to walk but only with a crooked limp, and when I looked into the mirror one day, I was startled to see myself looking physically discombobulated, lopsided and well, old.
After an X-ray, the doctor called to explain that I had severe osteoarthritis with bone spurs. I would need a hip replacement. His matter-of-fact and seemingly final prognosis on my running future left me stunned and in tears. But if running teaches us anything, it is persistence, determination and comfort with discomfort. Three years later, I am still running on the same hip, thanks to an outstanding physiotherapist and the magic of artificial joint lubricants.
Arthritis, unfortunately, has a way of showing up uninvited. After two years of decent running, the past winter was another six months of pain and limping. But runners don’t give up, right? Over the next few months, I went from painkillers to get out the door for 20-minute walk/runs to an 18k and then a 25k trail race, a 50k ultra and then another. I finished dead last in each of them and crossed the finish line with the sweepers in both 50ks. I suppose I might have been discouraged or embarrassed. Instead, running offered me important lessons: humility and appreciation.
The celebration that ensues when crossing a finish line in last place speaks to the wonderful people who make up the world of running. In one race, a team of volunteers had already taken down the finish line banner and scrambled to line up orange pylons so I could still cross a line to their cheers and high-fives. There was no medal, but finishing with such encouragement and appreciation far exceeded anything shiny. Besides, how many people can say they got their very own improvised finish line? Turns out, being last comes with its own kind of VIP treatment.
Some might think entering a 100k after running these shorter races would be foolish, if not delusional. Maybe so, but I am also appreciative that running might be taken away from me anytime in the coming years. And because I have always wanted to run through the day into dusk, through the night, and into the morning, I had signed up for the Fat Dog 100k with over 4,350 meters (14,270 feet) of climbing.
For a change, I did make the cutoffs and did not finish dead last (though close to it). I did run through the night and into the morning, and I earned the ultrarunning “badge” by finishing with two black toenails. But I also had an advantage this time – I was quickly left behind by the other 100k runners and ran much of the course with those completing the 120-mile course.
It is incredibly hard not to be inspired when one is just trying to keep up with, and often being passed by, runners who have already put in 80 more miles than you. In the end, what mattered most wasn’t how far behind I was, but being able to have the simple privilege of running with people who had incredible spirit and endurance – sharing the same trail, the same night sky and the same determination to reach the finish line.
I cannot say that I like aging or finishing dead last or making sure of generous cutoffs before I sign up for a race, but running also hasn’t stopped offering many life lessons. This year, it taught me about humility – about showing up when I know I may well finish last, about accepting the cheers and showing gratitude to wonderful volunteers when they patiently wait for me to finally cross the finish line and about respecting and thanking an aging body and arthritic hip for what it can still do rather than resenting it for what it cannot.