Running through the Fog to Clarity

I was running in a westward direction, a faint sliver of orange hue could be seen through the trees on the distant horizon.  As I crossed a paved road, the final signs of the day quickly faded into the night and a never before experienced circumstance quickly consumed my thoughts.  Why did everything look so foggy?  It was as if I was wearing a pair of glasses covered in a faint tint of milky opaqueness.  The occasional reflective ribbons marking the trail were so bright that they were blinding and encapsulated in bright halos. What the hell was going on?

The few weeks leading up to the race were full of vivid dreams filled with anxiety filled nightmares. Mostly about not being able to find my way to the first aid station due to a train derailment.  Or, leading the race just a mile from the finish while I tried hopelessly to coax one of the runner's crew to give me the correct directions on the unmarked course.  I had never felt so much anxiety going into a race.  Maybe, it had to do with how well I trained, how honest I was with myself in training, only missing a few runs due to a bad virus that lasted a week during one of my peak weeks.  This was to be my last 100 mile race.  A means to put an exclamation point on this year's hard work and honest effort in training.  Why can't I discern the rocks from the leaves, or the boggy trail sections from hard ground?

I lay on the couch this evening, running scenarios through my head, conveniently forgetting about the inability to clearly see details on the trail.  Even the very powerful headlamp I wore couldn't cut through the "fog".  In fact, it had a similar effect of using bright headlamps while driving a car down a foggy highway.  My legs were slightly sore, but nothing concerning.  I expected this, I planned on this, I knew I must accept the discomfort and continue to run.  Running downhill wasn't an option on the treacherous trail, flat sections magnified my insecurity of face planting unexpectedly, running uphill at mile 65 was my only option to salvage the lack of forward progress--and so I ran uphill.

When I first began ultrarunning, my goal was to, eventually, run Western States.  Through various selection process changes ("2x Loser" rule, after I became a 2x Loser, being replaced with a lottery system), the goal was extended beyond my original expectations.  And, so, I bided my time by running more races and requalifying for the lottery each year. Last year, I purposefully didn't run a qualifier and made peace with the race.  Running Western States makes you no less of a trail runner than someone who hasn't run Boston.  No more than a mountain climber who has never sumitted Everest.  Or a backpacker that has never through-hiked the PCT or AT.  Somewhere along the way, I believe, I lost my way, my purpose, the motivation for running long distance races, namely 100 milers.  Maybe, once I get to the 6/10's of a mile road section leading into the aid station, I'll be able to run.

Over the past few years, I've struggled with running 100 milers.  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, my conscience was telling me I had to become successful at the distance to be validated as, not only a runner, but a person.  "Walking it in" isn't in my nature and I quit many races when that was the only choice.  Putting the human body through the stressors of 100 miles isn't healthy.  I find it abusive to the body.  No amount of discussion will change my mind.  From a psychological viewpoint, there seems to be a certain level of codependent cycle in the sport.  I see no "fun" in running 100 miles and it doesn't validate who I am as a person.  It doesn't make an individual superior to those that run lesser distances or even those who don't run at all.  Before you know it, you can spend many years chasing after a fools errand--"maybe if just did 'x' next time, I'll have a better race", "if I don't run these distances anymore who will be my friends?", "there's a race coming up and all my friends will be there, I need to sign up so I don't miss out on all the 'fun' ".

One thing is certain, however.  It has taught me what is important in life--my family, friends, relationships, hobbies, and the search for improving oneself as an individual--enlightenment, if you will.  The fog is getting thicker and now that I'm on the road section, my most trusted headlamp with fresh batteries in it is flickering and randomly dimming.  If it goes out, I'll just listen to my footfalls and if I hear leaves, I'll know I'm not on the road.

What will others think if I don't finish this race on my third attempt?  Why should I care?  This is my race, my life, my time, my reasons.  The voice quietens...

As I arrived within sight of the aid station, the volunteers began banging on pots and pans and ringing a cowbell, but I continued to walk, unmotivated.  The closer I got the the aid station, the more blinding the lights became.  Once there, I, litererally could only make out the silouettes of the several volunteers as I held my hand up in front of my face to block the blinding lights. And there was one gigantic halo surround the entire aid station.  I told them I could not see details and that my vision was cloudy and worsening.  One man looked at my eyes from afar and said there was a whitish haze on my eyes.  For the first time in 76 miles, I sat down.

It's time to break the cycle and it's far from easy.  There is ego involved.  The voice inside my head telling me "if only...".  Running 100 miles isn't my strength and I've tired of trying to convince myself, otherwise.  It's not easy and will be a process.  But, I'm grateful for the life lessons it has taught me in the process.  It is much more important to focus on the things in life that matter and bring me satisfaction.  Those recent weekend mornings during my taper when Olga and I, instead of dragging ourselves out of bed for a long run, went to a local coffee shop, sat outside under a big Oak tree, talked and watched the sunrise. A lot of life has passed chasing after these so-called running goals and it's time to begin enjoying the simple things, not necessarily "again", but with a renewed perspective.

I approached the cabin and saw the lights were on, meaning Olga was there.  I walked up to the door opened it and stuck my head inside, "please don't hate me...".  It was warm inside where Olga was sitting on the bed in her PJs.  She looked warmly at me and, in that instant, I knew everything would be ok.  Together, we have a life together and a great one at that, and, without the interference of an endeavor which has torn at us in recent years.  The best part of that weekend was a hot shower and a full night's sleep.  And, when I awoke the next morning, my vision had, finally, returned.  Again, it's the simple things and nothing else matters...