The man’s hands tremble slightly upon his face, as he bows his body with arms on knees. There is no crying, no grimace of pain. Those have been shed over the long miles he has traveled. Sweat and salt-stained skin are his reward. And as he steadies himself upright, the last remnants of weakness abandon him.
The delicate combination of misguided exuberance, shiny awards, and celebration of a humbly accepted gift led me to ultrarunning. The latter is my impetus for running. All other elements prove less valuable and fall by the wayside, as pain is juxtaposed with spiritual awareness during a Saturday of fog and bright blue sky that was the Prairie Spirit Trail Fall Classic 50 Mile race.
Nervous energy battles with nature’s calm, dark morning as uniquely-crafted athletic bodies move toward the line. It is not the start, but the beginning of the end of months of training, procrastination, injury, and courage. Ten seconds of foreplay are more than enough before we plunge into what we believe we know, but are soon aware of which we know very little. There is no abstract thought to take my mind off what lies ahead. In fact, there is no focused thought at all. I spend five miles recalibrating for the unknown. It is foolish to jump into the ocean while wondering how to swim…unless you are a shark. Unfortunately, there are no mirrors for the shark to look into for confirmation – only nature’s assurance of an environment in which it belongs.
The light from my flashlight rebounds off the morning fog, but my legs pay no attention. Forward into the dark, I run alone. I am ill-prepared for the miles and pain awaiting me, but I am fully prepared to accept both. It is a concept easier said than done, as I will quickly discover. A mere fifteen miles after we start, a hiccup: my right knee begins to tighten, and then feel weak. It is not my foot, which was broke over a year ago. It is not my left knee, which was strained a few weeks ago. It is not my mental strength, which is regularly defeated. Something new…and unwelcomed.
Over the course of twelve additional miles I run with an altered gait, straying from a form as flexible as an oak tree. It hurts, to put it simply. It hurts badly. Aid stations provide the water with which I wash down the energy gel and salt tablet medicine. Apple provides the musical distraction. But none of this can overcome what I know lies ahead – untested pain. No, untested grit!
Through town and fields I run, just like everyone else. We are all on the same course, but with unique experiences, and toward unique ends. For some it is the finish line or a sticker on the car. For others, it is a battle with a private demon. For me, the end is unknown. Twenty-seven miles I ran to stand inside a building, to eat a snack and drink flat Coke. A warrior’s meal. But with a single step, my knee falters. Unbeknownst to the volunteers, I fall onto the bench. My mind is racing, determined to figure out a way to overcome what is a seemingly insurmountable obstacle…a leg that refuses to work. I am offered ibuprofen…I take four. And with an embarrassingly ugly limp, I return to the course.
Perspective is my enemy. But the enemy does not realize that while my body looks vanquished, my mind is hidden behind it, giving me strength that cannot be refuted. I grit my teeth, and I pray. Why I don’t pray for my knee to be healed, I don’t know. I pray to be a better person, to be the man God wants me to be. I pray for my family. I grit my teeth…and I just pray.
The man’s chin shakes and energy moves up from his feet and legs, past his hands and chest, and smashes into his face. The wave crests over the edge, and emotion floods into a new state of being. And he begins again.
It was only fifteen minutes ago I couldn’t walk. Now, I was running. There is no pain. There is humble joy. There is now a race! My hips begin to move in a way they have not before. If it was a dance, it would be laughable. This is not a dance, this is running. My head begins to bob back and forth and images of a Paula Radcliff appear. The form is ugly, unscripted, and strangely natural. With each step I feel strong…not stronger, but just strong. I don’t take credit for the transformation, for it was because of something much greater than me. Perhaps the medicine was the element, but God is the reason. I know people will discount my dramatics, saying the emotions of such a trial and tribulation cause a distortion of reality. I don’t care. I believe.
One might imagine the miles to just fly by, but for me they did not. Looking ahead on the Prairie Spirit Trail is like looking over Lake Michigan – you cannot see the other side, but you know it is there…somewhere…miles and miles away. I run now with greater ease of mind than I have in months. But now I run with purpose. I have been given a wonderful gift, the ability to run, and I intend to celebrate it. Over the immaculate trail, across a bridge, and past a farm house I continue to run. I am a hip-swiveling man! I keep reminding myself where I am place-wise does not matter. Finishing strong is what matters. It matters right up to the point where 2nd place is in my grasp.
Through a final aid station I take in more medicine and set off for the final seven miles. Time is against me. To finish less than eight hours will be decided now. I decide I don’t care…as much. No more music, no more daydreaming. Pure focus reigns supreme. Energy gels and water fuel my body, but faith fuels my resolve. I am running 50 miles today. I AM RUNNING 50 MILES!
The course has a little less than two miles to brutalize me with its pancake flat hills and bright blue sky. I am gently reminded of my knee again, nearly falling with pain. I grit my teeth and hobble back into a slow run. Again I stumble. But again I bear down, gather up all the anger and happiness, pain and ability, and run. Across the trail, turn the corner, under the bridge, past the back of a semi-trailer, over the concrete, and into view of those beautiful orange cones. I see a child sitting on a chair, ringing the warning bell…another runner has come home.
The man stands at the end, no different than when he started, but more aware of who he is. The purity to his new reality has already settled in, and a new balance must be struck. What might seem like bad timing, can be perfect timing. What might seem like bad luck, can be great luck. And what might seem like an absence of grace, can be grace manifested in both timing and luck.
“Get off my timing mat!” The words to begin a new chapter…
Notes: The Prairie Spirit Trail is a crushed limestone surface, impeccably maintained from Ottawa to Iola, Kansas. Epic Ultras hosted the Prairie Spirit Fall Classic 50 Mile race and is the premier ultrarunning event organization in the country.
