With just one month to go before the Orcas Island 25K I need
to step up my training; and right now I’m not talking about my physical game.
It’s the mental game. I don’t know where this particular blog will lead, but I’m
hoping by unpacking my fears in this venue, I’ll be a more confident lady by
January 25th. Here’s a little story to get things rolling.
Last February I did my first trail half marathon. I’ve done
many half marathons on the road and always with a friend. This half would be
different since it was on the trails, which means more rocks, stumps and dirt,
but also more beauty and serenity. Running a trail half is also different from
a road half in the way of support. Most road half marathons have aid stations
every couple of miles. The big events usually have water and sports drink every
mile or so and bathrooms to boot. Trail runners are a little more
earthy-crunchy in general and see little need for bathroom stops, bands and
cheerleading squads on every corner. There were only two aid stations for the
Half Marathon at the Kettles Run on Whidbey Island, (the trail race I am referring
to). However, each one was supplied with not just water and bandaids, but with
M&Ms, pretzels and even coca-cola! You are probably thinking-running and eating
M&Ms sign me up! I know what you mean, it was a perk.
Aside from this being my first trail half, this event was also
different because, though I was running with a group, I wasn’t hooked up with a
particular partner. I had run with the Dirty Girls and Dirty Dudes since the
previous November, but this was my first race with them. I wasn’t sure if we
would all stay together or if we would break into smaller groups. I never told anyone how much newness this event included, nor did I say I wanted or needed a partner. Sure enough, I lost the group right
at the start. I watched them all bounding away from me, traveling down
switchbacks and hills, down, down, down. A couple of the ladies had hot pink on
and I could see their colors in the distance, like a helium balloon journeying
into the clouds.
They hadn’t left me on purpose; in fact I’m not sure they even
knew I had fallen back. You see I have a terrible, almost phobic, fear of
downhill running. I hadn’t shared this. This fear, it doesn’t show up on nicely
paved roads, but in the trails things are different. I can best describe it as
a feeling of dizziness, trail-hill vertigo, and a complete mistrust of the laws
of the universe. I look down and can’t imagine not falling off the face of the
Earth. This is hardly a joke. I believe in science and gravity and such, yet I
don’t believe I won’t tumble down the hill or fall straight off the planet
plummeting nonstop through space and time.
The trail run was not just a half marathon, there were also
runners participating in a 10K, a 20 miler and a full marathon. Everyone
started on the same track and to the delight of most people, the start was all
downhill. The trail was single track at that time and people were just flying
down the hills. For racers who started behind me, they had to stop and wait for
me to slowly side-step down the hill. This was not okay for anyone, especially
me. The thought of holding up all of these runners and interfering with their
race caused me almost as much anxiety as the hills themselves. The only thing
that kept me from turning around was the knowledge that I couldn’t get past the
people on this single track to get back to the start.
I started pulling over whenever I could, trying not to cry. I
would let droves of people pass me. I watched my friends continue downhill
until eventually I lost sight of them. At last the trail widened and we started
an uphill climb. I noticed that most people were walking uphill and thought
this would be an opportunity to pass them and perhaps catch my friends. I ran
the first hill or two, but realized due to the steepness of the hill, I was
getting no further than the people who were walking. I was just using up more
energy. And of course, what goes up must come down, I soon was on the downhill
again. From time to time I would come across someone I knew. My friend David,
who was doing the 10K and who started behind me, talked me through a couple of downhills.
He had no idea how much his encouraging words were helping me, at the same
time, I don’t think he had any idea how truly frightened I was. Whenever I was alone, I would long to see someone I knew, to have a buddy, but when I saw people, I wasn't truly honest with them about my needs. At some point
on the straightaway I caught up to our coach and leader, Alexa. She asked how
things were going, I grumbled something, but again, I didn't share the
extent of my issues. Plus, we had met up on a straightaway and I may have been hopeful
that things would turn around. She was soon ahead of me and I didn’t have the
heart to ask her to wait. In a recent conversation she lamented, "I would have never left you at Kettles, if I knew how afraid you were." Of course I knew that all along, it's why I didn't tell her in the first place. I just crossed my fingers and hoped the hills were over.
The hills weren’t over though. The terrain changed, the
trails widened and got narrow again, the downhills were sometimes straight and
other times switchbacks. Still, it was hill, hill, hill. I later learned that there was never more than
a quarter of a mile of straightaway. In only a handful of miles the terrain had
changed from mossy, dirt trails under a canopy of old growth trees, to dry and
dusty conditions, similar to a desert. There was a steep downhill right around
this change and because of the dry, dusty ground, I couldn’t see any footholds.
It was in this time that I was passed by two senior citizens. They gave me a
curious look and then flew past me on the downhill. I am not proud, but I let
out a desperate plea to them. I can’t do
this, I said. I don’t know if I wanted them to place me on their false hips
and carry me down the hill or just call up encouraging words from the bottom. Instead
they gave me a half-hearted, “Yes you can.” And continued on their way. I am
almost sure they thought I was joking. I also caught up to a woman and was
sharing my woes with her. I just needed to say them out loud. She was nice at
first, but eventually said to me, “Why did you sign up for this anyway?” I
realized then my anxiety had turned into an all out pity party.
To make matters worse, I was wearing my Soleus watch that
day, which is similar to a Garmin and tracks mileage, speed and so on. I had
worn it the day before for a five mile run and had forgotten to reset it. When
I figured this out I thought I would just look at the distance and subtract
five miles to give me an accurate reading. However, somewhere along the line, I
started subtracting three miles in my mind, instead of five. That means for a
long time, I thought I was two miles further along than I was. Trail runs don’t
have mile markers and my only indication to where I was would be at the aid
stations. The first one was at mile six, but it didn’t show up until what I
thought was eight. This was due to faulty math. If you have ever run a distance
event and thought you were further along that you actually were, you can
understand the mental pain, no make that anguish, of finding out you had miles
and miles to go.
I kept wondering if in the end I would be the last person to
finish this half marathon, or if indeed I would finish at all. Would they have
to send the park rangers out to find me at some point as I’m curled in a ball
of fear under a cedar tree? The turning point for me may have been around mile
nine or ten, the last of the two aid stations. When I arrived there Alexa and
Kelly were just departing. Something about knowing that my friends were just a
little bit ahead of me-that they weren’t all waiting in the car for me and that
they were not going to miss that last ferry on my account-helped me through the
last miles. I remembered that I had my ipod shuffle with me, and while it is
generally frowned upon in the trail running community, I plugged that puppy in.
The worst of the downhills were finally behind me and I knew everything was
going to be okay.
I enjoyed the last few miles. Sometimes I would pop out my
headphones and chat with people along the way. I was upbeat again. I saw my
friend Kelly a couple of times, and we ran together for a little while. I ran
with someone who was doing the marathon, which meant he was going to have to do
this same course again a second time. He was in a little pain already at mile
twelve, so I babbled on in hopes of distracting him. I didn’t complain about
the uphills, though they were steep, because I was happy not to be heading down
again. I crossed the finish line strong. I would like to say that my strong
last miles and finish made up for my
feelings of despair along the way, but that’s not really true. What I did gain
from it though, was that I am capable of running a half marathon on my own, and
that I am strong even when I feel so weak.
I fear that Orcas, which has a much more challenging course,
will be a repeat of this or worse. I’m not sure I why I have decided to take on
this challenge. Maybe I’ll figure it out during the writing of this blog.
