When I was in high school, I remember sitting on my bedroom floor, devouring the newest edition of Runner’s World. The main article was titled something along the lines of “Running like Hell” or something. The accompanying photo was a bit jarring, showing a handful of runners who appeared to be in their 50’s and 60’s who looked nothing like road runners. They looked gritty, scrappy, and lacked any kind of sheen that road runners have with their fancy new gear. Nothing was new. I remember that one woman was carrying a Discman, and I thought, well how far is one CD going to get you in a 100-mile race? The men had long beards and wore tube socks.
It was shocking to be opened up to this new world. I fell into it with each word. I’d heard of marathons for years, and couldn’t wait to run one. But I had never heard of running farther than a marathon. This was new. I loved the idea of pushing oneself, to see what else you could do. As time went on, more articles came out. A few editions later I read about a man named Scott Jurek. An ultra runner who also happened to be a vegan. At that time I was a vegetarian, and this inspired me to no end.
This long distance had a title now. An ultra-marathon. I started reading as much as I could about him and his races. Our family computer with dial-up internet (which was new at the time) didn’t generate any results for him. So each month I waited for Runner’s World to hit my mailbox, so I could scour it for any mention of this incredible ultramarathon athlete and cut out recipes and inspiration quotes. Something lit a fire in me when I read those articles. I knew I wanted to be like that. I wanted to do the unthinkable. The abnormal.
Two decades and a cross country move later, I ran my first ultramarathon, the Seashore Nature Trail 50k in Virginia Beach, Virginia. It was a day that I will remember for the rest of my life, and a day that did not just unfold on a whim. Every single minute and detail was meticulously planned with the utmost precision.
When I signed up for this ultramarathon, I did things wildly different than when I ran my marathons. I hired a coach to write my plans and tell me what to do. I ran with other people. I soaked in every piece of advice I could get from ultra runners. I wanted to use every resource I had.
Registration opened up July 1st, and in this race that was notorious for selling out, I set my alarm at midnight to be one of the first to sign up. Laptop charged, and credit card out, I secured a spot immediately and convinced two running friends to sign up with me.
My new coach broke me in by starting my ultramarathon training plan in July, in Virginia. It was miserable. I loathe running in the heat, and the humidity suffocated me. I dreaded every single run because I didn’t enjoy it. Normally running is fun for me. I mean, not every run is a spectacle of rainbows and unicorns, but for the most part, it feels good, clears my head, and I just love the feeling it brings. In the 90-100 degree summers, I dreaded my workouts every single day. My paces shot through the roof. My coach repeatedly said that the times don’t matter, and that to get to an ultramarathon finish line you need to just run consistently, no matter how slow.
Hiring a coach was the best decision I made. She wrote out specific plans based on how I felt. She would write out a plan and upload it into Final Surge which I then programmed into my Garmin. Of course, she pored over my stats, but she mostly wanted to know how I felt during the run. Was it easy or hard? Was I running too fast for an “easy” run? How was my nutrition? Every conversation she hurled questions at me like Nolan Ryan. And here’s the thing. I was honest with her. When I felt invincible, I told her. When I had horrible days and did not want to get out of bed, I told her. I completely leaned into the process of having a coach. This is hands down, what made me prepare for the race.
I was lucky enough to run with two other running buddies who also wanted to tackle the 50k distance, just over 31 miles. Every Saturday Cindy, Mira and I met up and ran at First Landing State Park, where the race would ultimately be held in December. Our goal was to run the course every weekend, so by the time we ran it on race day we would know every turn, every root, every obstacle we would face. In those summer months, our exploration of the terrain evolved into conquering it. Instead of hesitating at trail posts unsure of where to turn, we flew by them, knowing exactly where to go.
When the humidity started to drop, and the leaves started to fall, I felt like I was flying. I could breathe again. I could feel the wind. Mother Nature flipped the switch and I felt like I was alive.
The three of us ladies enjoyed our trail time and jokingly called it Girl Trail Therapy. We talked for hours covering topics spanning family to politics to pop culture and everything in between. The hours flew by. We all shared how much we cherished this time with each other. Saturday morning trail runs quickly became my favorite day of the week. It was almost a religious experience. We would arrive at dawn, and begin our run in the dusk. The fairytale-like Spanish moss would catch light in the most beautiful way. The shimmering water to the right of the sandy trail sparkled underneath the sun and it would rise. The eeriness of the Osmanthus Trail, with its technical twists and turns, spontaneous roots, and bridges beckoned us deeper into the dark swampy woods.
On each of these trails, we got stronger, and more prepared for our race. And while we were out there every weekend, my coach told us that we only needed to run 21 miles for our longest long run. We were skeptical but took advice from the person I Venmoed every month for advice. Our long runs were followed the next day with “short-long runs.” These were 8 – 10 mile runs, to get us to learn how to run on tired legs.
Before long we were feeling good and we were ready to just tackle the race. Gorgeous autumn leaves covered the trail, and we had to focus so much more energy on our footing. Two weeks out from race day, 10 miles into a 15-mile run, Mira went down. She tripped over a root and twisted her ankle. She broke it and had to drop out of the race. We were all devastated, but she told us she’d come out on race day and cheer us on anyway.
I woke up on race morning with a bit of nerves. Luckily, I had spent the two days prior packing every item I would ever need. I labeled sandwich bags with funny quotes and packed extra socks for when we would run through a river. I was all set. I did not need to be nervous. I was trained, and I was packed.
The weather was perfect when Cindy and I toed the start line. A little cold, which meant it would be nice and comfortable as we got started. The first 1.5 miles we ran a down and back route on the paved street before we reached the sandy Cape Henry trail. We had started all of our long runs like this. Running up the road, and onto Cape Henry. It was just how we always did it. The water sparkled as it always did. The Spanish moss suspended beautifully. It was how we had seen it dozens of times before. It was just as beautiful. This brought a feeling of calm over me, that we had run this what felt like a million times.
My nausea was ever present, and I felt ill. While we had trained the entire six months with our watches going off every 25 minutes to remind us to take a bite of something or drink something, I could not follow that schedule on this day. Cindy was clearly worried, but we just kept plugging along.
I knew it would be a long day already, and I worried what was to come if I couldn’t keep anything down. By mile 10, I hadn’t eaten anything, and took 2 Tums that ultimately came back up. After yakking on the side of the trail, my nausea was gone. Thank God! I focused on just drinking water, and trying to eat what I could. I had packed 2 sandwiches, 2 ziplocs of chips, 4 packs of blocks, peanut m&m’s and nuun. So far I had eaten a grand total of about 10 chips. Water had never tasted so good.
At the halfway point, we turned around and started on our second and final loop. We saw several people who appeared to be struggling. After passing them, we quietly checked in with each other, making sure we were okay. In an almost guilty fashion, we each said we felt great. This time around the trail the tides had come in. We ran through the knee-high water and quickly changed our socks to prevent any blisters from forming. We cracked up each time a runner paused to ask if we were okay. They didn’t ask me if I was okay when I was dry-heaving on the side of the trail – but when I was sitting down on a bench they asked how I felt. We thought that was hilarious.
When our watches hit 21 miles, we couldn’t believe how good we felt. I remember running our longest run ever – our 21 miler – and how I started to feel exhausted right at that moment. I was entirely surprised when on race day, I felt exhilarated. Mira and my fiance cheered us on at so many check points. When we saw them at this point we were cheering with excitement. We were having a blast, and both felt awesome. We kept saying, “we’re doing it!”
After hearing everyone whine about the dreaded technical Osmanthus Trail, we felt great for the 2nd time around. The hills felt hillier but overall, we felt great. A guy behind us struggled with his knee and ankle. He was clearly in the pain cave. We witnessed a few falls and offered to help each person. Again, we were grateful at how good we felt – both physically and mentally. I had anticipated facing some severe mental obstacles or moments where I wanted to quit. But it hadn’t happened yet.
We emerged from Osmanthus only to see our hilarious friend John emerge onto a trail. Decked out in running gear, he proudly announced that he would entertain us for a few miles. His comic relief and wildly inappropriate jokes carried us about 5 miles of fun.
By the time we hit the last aid station, I didn’t see Mira or my fiance. I smiled knowing that meant they were waiting for us at the finish line. At this point, we were straight up giddy. I envisioned Cindy and I holding hands and running over the finish line together, and she said, “Oh we are totally doing that!”. We kept getting emotional just a mile out from the finish saying, can you believe we are doing this?! We are doing this! Determined to remember this day, and the most perfect moments, she snapped a pic of us. We wanted to remember this moment forever. We were about to finish something great.
We bobbed and weaved through the sand and heard the volunteers and runners who already finished. We smiled, grabbed each other’s hands and emerged from the wild trail. Our hands in the air, I shouted and yelled, and Cindy ugly-cried. We ran over the finish line of a 31-mile race in 7 hours, 11 minutes and 52 seconds. We freaking did it. Volunteers handed us our medals, and we hugged each other. 6 months of preparation and a lifetime of dreams came to a head. I could not believe I had just run an ultramarathon.
My adrenaline was surging, and I felt so great. I hugged everyone who had already finished and wanted to find my fiance who no doubt still had the video rolling. I talked with someone who said he had a crap race, even though he smoked us. As we were talking, he nodded to a group of ladies who were approaching the finish line holding hands, crying, and he said, “after being so serious about it, this is a good reminder of what it’s all about.” I looked up and saw that the ladies who were crossing the finish line, women we saw every single weekend. We didn’t know any of their names, but we knew how dedicated they were. I started getting emotional just witnessing their finish.
All I kept saying was how surreal it was. Surreal that we were actually running in the race we had trained so hard for. Surreal that I was running an ultra after dreaming about doing one for so many years. I couldn’t believe that we had finally done it. I will never forget that day for the rest of my life and can’t wait to train for the next incredible race.
