I trained enough. I was thoughtful in my gradual build up. Roughly halfway through my training leading up to the Oregon Cascades 100, I started to think I might be able to pull this off. It was also about that time when I started visualizing different parts of the race. What would the anticipation feel like at the start? What would my body crave at mile 75? How would I treat my family/crew along the way? What would be my mental state at the finish line? The answer to this last question is where I was off by a long shot.
The start was exciting, and I really enjoyed talking to other runners about their experiences. Once we were off, I could tell we were moving a lot faster than we should have. Coming up on some moderate hills, I’d look ahead and think, Why are we walking? This is completely runnable. Right, runnable in a 50k maybe, but over 100 miles it adds up. I finished the first half in about 11 hours. Of course, my mind starts to think about the end: Could I run a sub-24 hour in my first 100-miler at age 52? I didn’t see why not. The math was adding up.
It was an unusually cold weekend for the central Cascades with temperatures dipping into the 30s at night, and I really enjoyed running in the dark. It was then, though, I realized I probably wasn’t getting in enough calories. Not only did I need calories for the running effort, but also the extra fuel for keeping warm. Hot broth was my savior.
Running into Sisters, Oregon, on Sunday morning and seeing the finish line at the middle school was incredible. During all my training runs where I thought about finishing, I fully anticipated completely breaking down in tears of joy, relief, tiredeness – all of it. I was wrong. After crossing the finish line, I hugged my family. I felt joy, but what I didn’t see coming was an odd emptiness. I spent so much time logging miles and answering questions about the race, that it had been my focus for much of the year. Now that I was done, all I could think about was the empty space going forward. Much of the seven months leading up to the race had been consumed by training and planning.
I knew I should stay present. I knew I should savor the moment. But I couldn’t ignore the emptiness. It’s as if the race had become a part of who I was and now that it was done, a part of me was now gone.
If you’re wondering, I did put my name in for another 100-miler next summer, the day after I finished, and no, I didn’t finish in sub-24 hours. My time was 28:20—during the race, my math hadn’t been mathing when considering the elevation gain, cold temperatures and over-exertion in the first 50 miles.
Here’s to all my fellow trail runners who have already discovered that it’s okay to fall in love with the process even more than the event, while embracing the highs and lows of ultrarunning.