Tuesday, July 17, 2018

With a Little Help from my Friends (A TRT 100 Preview)


“I cheer so loudly for my friends who are racing that another spectator asks if I’m for hire, but you can’t put a price on that shit.”  -Julia Millon at Western States, 2017


On June 23rd of this year, while most of my running community from far and wide was gathered in my home town for Western States (a.k.a. “Statesmas” a.k.a. “The Big Dance”), I headed to a track in Claremont, CA. An entirely different slice of my running community - teammates and alumni of my college track team (Claremont-Mudd-Scripps) - were gathered at the track, not for a competition, but for a celebration. It was Coach Goldhammer’s 65th birthday.

I’ve talked often about how running connects me with other people, and Coach was the first one to teach me the importance of the running community. It was apparent in the crowd of athletes who showed up for the celebration, as well as in the many words of kindness and love we all had for Coach. So even though it was a bit painful turning down the opportunity to pace Jenelle at States and seeing so many friends go for their dreams that weekend, I knew I wanted to see Coach and reconnect with the track & field kids.

I’m ruminating on these things, I suppose, in that quiet search for the reason why I run. I mean, there are always a lot of reasons to run. But seriously, what’s the reason? Because it’s not to get faster; that clearly isn’t happening at the moment. And it’s not to “push my limits just to see how far I can take them,” which I used to claim as the reason. I’m just not doing a lot of pushing these days. Running can feel so utterly and completely unimportant. 

But something keeps pulling me out there, even if less often and at a slower pace.

The idea of community keeps rising up as the reason, which I wrote a bit about last summer. I don’t know that it’s entirely the answer either, but my running friends and the broader running community have lately felt more important than ever.


Devil's Oven Aid Station crew hauling supplies back down the trail, Castle Peak 100K 2017. It takes a village. (Naomi, Kysenya, Steve, Me.)


~

Twenty days before Coach’s birthday bash, I was in the middle of my last high-mileage training block for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100. Given that my spring training had more holes in it that the Pizzagate conspiracy theory, I knew it was a critical three weeks of training before I would begin my taper.

After experiencing a calf strain earlier in the week, I had taken a few days off, and was setting out on a solo 30 mile run from the house which would take me out the Donner Lake Rim Trail and along the PCT before looping home through Coldstream Canyon. About 20 yards down the trail, something snapped in my calf and I collapsed to the ground in pain. I knew it wouldn’t bear weight, and as I sat in the dirt, tears streaming down my face from both pain and fear, I saw my entire future as a runner laid out before me.

Clearly TRT 100 in six weeks was off the table - the injury was too serious. Failing to finish (or even start) both TRT and Miwok, meant I would be without a Western States qualifier this year, and my 5-year-lottery-loser ticket count would return to zero. I would probably be 55 or 60-years-old by the time I got in to the race, and fuck it, I don’t even really want to run States that much anyway. In fact, why even bother with running? There are so many other things I could be doing with my time. I’m totally over it. I hate running. I quit.

Just like that.

Here is the text exchange with Jamie and Jenelle the following morning:
This is what you call support from friends. Friends who have been there!


I didn’t even have to send a real cry for help, and my friends filled me back up full of hope. Okay, fine, maybe I won’t quit running just yet. Jenelle gave me a recommendation for a sports medicine doctor and told me about the anti-gravity treadmill at Truckee Physical Therapy that is open to the public. My friend Ann Marie squeezed me in for some massages. I went to physical therapy twice a week for three weeks, and I dusted my road bike off and went for some long rides. My calf has been black-and-blue for a month from all the soft tissue work.

In short: I didn’t run at all, but I didn’t quit running.

~

On May 29th, a week before the injury, I had two missed calls from Jenelle and a text message that said “Please call me when you have a minute.” I knew it must mean bad news, and I called her immediately. It wasn’t actually bad; it was horrible. I am grateful Jenelle didn’t bother with any pretense at cushioning a blow that could not possibly be cushioned before bursting through her tears, “Julia’s dead!”

We spent the next half-hour crying on the phone together trying to understand what happened to our friend and why, me slumped on the floor in the mudroom and Jenelle on a nighttime run through the woods because sometimes that is the only real option for handling overwhelming pain and grief.

This idea that we will never run with Julia again - never hear her laugh or make a snarky remark, never have her come up behind us on the downhill, hear the increasing volume of her footfalls beat a joyful tattoo on the dirt until she flies past us - it is painful and slow to digest. And that is nothing compared to the knowledge that she won’t get to run with anyone. Ever again. No running, no laughing or crying. No sharing anything. The reality of being 27-years-old and full of life one day, and then suddenly not. Not existing at all. It just feels so fucking unfair.

Julia, our medical officer, putting a runner's hip back into place at the Devil's Oven aid station during the 2017 Castle Peak 100K. I took this picture because I was so impressed with her ability to take charge of this person's pain, decide what needed to be done, and just do it. At 26-years-old, she projected skill and confidence that I struggle to find in myself at 44.

The Tahoe Rim Trail 100 is now three days away. In spite of a complete lack of serious training, I’ll be toeing the line. I keep trying to remind myself that I finished Hardrock after five weeks of barely running, so finishing this is definitely possible. The big difference though is that I had been in the best shape of my life just before that five weeks of illness in 2012. This time? Not so much. Not even close.

I’m trying to approach it as an adventure rather than a race. Finishing is a huge question mark, and time is not a factor. Except, of course, those cutoff times. Dr. Andy, who will be at Tunnel Creek all weekend, likened my attempt to the Dread Pirate Roberts, who, after being “mostly dead all day,” still managed to storm the castle successfully. I have no doubt that there will be plenty of “mostly dead” in my story, but I will accept whatever ending plays out, fairy tale or otherwise.


My sister is coming out to crew, and her presence at my hundred-mile races is starting to become mandatory. I’ve got a pacer who has promised to go the entire second half of the race with me, no matter how slow it is nor how poor my company. I’ve been trying to brace them both for the reality that this will be slower and with greater potential for problems than usual, but I think they get it. Because that’s just how this sport can be, and that’s how good friends are.


With my sister, Laura, before the start of the 2015 Superior 100.


The excitement I have about seeing friends out on the course is almost silly to explain. For a number of years, I’ve worked the night shift at the Tunnel Creek aid station, sometimes after running the 50M or 55K race during the day. It’s a great crew, and now I have a sense of relief knowing I will see them all out there, hopefully the full six times that 100 mile runners travel through TC.



A sampling of replies on my Facebook post stating that I would be running Saturday, but with very little training. All these comments are from Tunnel Creek volunteers.


This being essentially my hometown 100, I know I’ll see friends all over the course, not just at Tunnel Creek. I know that no matter how awful I look or how slow I’m moving, they will tell me I’m a rockstar. And I will totally, absolutely believe them. Ultrarunners are great at lying to each other, and to ourselves, if that’s what it takes to make it happen.

~

Last summer I paced my friend Donald for nearly 15 hours through the final 30 miles of the Hardrock 100. That may sound like a painfully slow walk, but from my perspective, it was awesome. For one, the mountains were incredible. And when you have told someone nearly a hundred times “yes, we are still on the course,” and “yes, I’m sure”; when you have sat in the dirt with them while they puked all over the wildflowers; when you have heard them wax poetic on the wonders of having an out-of-body experience at 2:00 AM on the trail (also known as sleepwalking, I’m thinking), you know that the whole thing really is just one grand and glorious adventure.



Chasing Donald through the wildflowers on Oscar's Pass during Hardrock.


Incidentally, Donald will be returning the favor by pacing me this weekend. While I hope not to be puking on the wildflowers, or on anything else for that matter, I will be delighted if I am upright, moving, and ahead of the cutoffs for the last 30 miles. Here is our text exchange from last week:




So either he does kind of know me, or he knows this is just how ultrarunning is. Probably both.

~

There is little left to do now but pack my drop bags and check the race-day forecast 20 or 30 more times. Jamie texted this morning with the news that she signed up for Javelina, and Jenelle and I both replied within a minute that we wanted to come. I’m already planning our theme costumes for the event. Maybe my sister will want to come out and help crew.

Ultimately I know that whether I finish TRT or not, if I never get into Western States, if I quit running and come back to it a hundred more times in my life, it is all precious. Trail running, like life, requires embracing the fear, the joy, the struggles, the teamwork. The feelings of failure and the feelings of triumph. The devastation and loss.

It makes sense, then, that we make some of our strongest connections with the people with whom we share these experiences. Without these friends and this community, I wouldn’t even be showing up on Saturday, and you sure as hell can’t put a price on that.



This is Julia crossing Volcano Creek on March 31, the last day Jenelle and I ever saw her. I love this photo because even though it is missing the broad Julia smile, she looks strong and determined. Those two words sum up a big piece of who she was and who we can all aspire to be. 


"Because when you keep showing up, at some point you'll see something you never considered to be possible. And you automatically beat anyone who didn't show up, including the version of yourself who could have tapped out."  - Julia Millon