Success and failure are both difficult to endure. Along with success comes drugs, divorce, fornication, bullying, travel, meditation, medication, depression, neurosis, and suicide. With failure comes failure.
- Joseph Heller
Many times I have lamented my decisions, prefaced with the
words, “What was I thinking?” Much to my chagrin, I wonder why I cannot learn
without making mistakes, rather than make the mistake first and from the pain and
failure rise up like a phoenix from the ashes. Yes, it is a beautiful entrance
to rise from failure. Movies and books are sold by the millions on the subject.
But no one notices the man who does the right thing the first time, graced with
foresight even in prolonged moments of vague uncertainty.
And then comes failure beyond our control, like lung cancer
to a grandmother who never tasted a cigarette. A victim of simple bad luck, bad
timing, and the manifestation of irrelevant mistakes lending to inexplicable
demise of something that could have been. It is an overly and irreverent
encapsulation of missed opportunity, buffeted with tales of inventors and
architects who failed 1000 times, and old Chinese proverbs.
This is what the stomach flu does to a runner. It makes him
crazy.
On March 28, 2015, EPIC Ultras hosted the 3rd
annual Prairie Spirit Trail 100. It was to be my first race at the distance. I purposefully
did not claim it as my first attempt, as the word implies a chance to not
succeed. Just as a hand either holds the pen or drops the pen, there is no
attempt. In the early morning hour of 6 am, Eric Steele (RD) sent us into the
darkness just as the rain began to softly fall to the ground. The course takes
a quick 1 mile out-and-back before leaving the town of Ottawa on the Prairie
Spirit Trail, a rails-to-trails path stretching for over 50 miles south.
One runner jumped to the front of the pack, and soon was
separated from us with only a faint flicker of his handheld lamp in a matter of
minutes. I fell into place behind 3 runners for a brief bit, but after feeling
the pace was too slow, began moving towards a rhythm and pace I felt was more
comfortable for me. Soon, I found myself alone. Familiar. Typical.
I had planned to commit each hour to someone I loved. The
first hour was to be for my wife. I planned to continue this for the entire
race as motivation, and as a means to ground my personal desire for achievement
with the things in life that really are more important. It is hypocritical, but
I felt justified in the practice. Smooth and steady I ran, using the first two
aid stations as my breakfast, and then second breakfast. It has been my plan to
eat real food in this race, rather than subside on GU alone. So I ate oranges,
bananas, and Nutella on tortilla. No coke or candy though…I gave it up for
Lent.
As I ran through the first 25 miles, I felt as if I had only
run 10. I was loose, easy, and calm. Well, maybe not calm, as the actual event
of running 100 miles had been replicated in my head on nearly every run since
November. I experienced no pain in my legs, arms, or head. This was already
shaping up to the day I had actually dreamed of for months.
The Garnett train depot served as the nearly-marathon mark
for the outbound portion of my trip. As I ran inside, as we had been strictly
told we must, or face the wrath of a very tall, bald man who could certainly do
damage to a runner the size of myself…but I digress. My water was refilled,
food was presented, and a hand gently gave me a business card and zip-tie (for
the aid station). Then in the most casual tone, I heard it. The lead runner was
dropping. I was struck! It meant I was the lead runner now. But really, it
meant someone much faster, more trained, more talented, and more deserving
couldn’t go on. I was sad for him, genuinely. It is a hard thing to see someone
wrecked like that. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like.
Until about 1 mile later…
…when all the food, the water, the GU, and quite possibly
the greasy fish fillet, broccoli, and whatever else I ate the night before was forcefully
projected from my stomach, burned past my throat, and out of my mouth and nose.
What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened? I hadn’t thrown up in years. Although, I
remember it with more disdain than being dumped on prom night, or kicked in the
nuts, or really all of my middle- and
high-school years. I continued running, executing my flawless natural blow of
vomit remnants from my nose.
Wait, you are running?
I think I have something else for you. Oh, there it is! Oranges and bile. Yes,
that looks nice in the grass.
Vomiting again? I immediately evaluated what I had been
doing for the last 24 hours that could garner such a horrible experience. I
determined it had to be the fact I was eating real food during a race…something
I have never done before. Yes, everyone who claims to be an expert says never
try something new on race day. But eating real food instead of just GU isn’t
new…I do it every day…not when I run, of course.
As I continued past Garnett, and after the second trail
deposit by my stomach, I began to quickly feel my muscles lock up. I was
cramping already. Way, way, way too early for this. Now I was getting mad. I
was in the best running shape of my life. I had trained better than I ever had
before. To get cramps this early simply made no sense. I contemplated the
vomiting had removed some hydration and salt from my body, but surely I had
enough natural fuel to run at least another 15 miles without calories.
Apparently not. I purposefully slowed down, but running slower seemed to
consume more energy. In fact, I was working harder at this pace than I should
be. Something was going wrong. Something was very wrong AT MILE 30 IN A 100
MILE RACE.
And then the demon jumped on my back.
Into the 35 mile aid station, I quickly strode over to the
food table. I ate oranges, bananas, and a cup of potato soup. Now, I am a connoisseur
of potato soup. And this soup was pretty freaking awesome. I especially liked
the larger pieces of ham…that was unexpected surprise. Out of the aid station,
I ran, only to Groundhog Day the events of the post-25 mile aid station. Vomit
and more vomit. And more importantly, I was cramping so badly in places I have
never cramped, I could only manage a quick walk. I was exhausted.
For seven miles I walked. Seven long miles of shame. Runner
after runner passed. A couple stopped to walk with me. They were all gracious,
and when they were done, sped up on their way to their reward. I vaguely
remember a couple asking how I was doing. I told them I wasn’t able to keep
anything down. One offered to walk with me to the aid station. I never got his
name, but for someone to extend such kindness to a complete stranger, even if
it didn’t seem like much to him, meant quite a lot to me. I find joy in seeing
people treat others with kindness. It’s not something we see much of lately in
our society. But in an ultra, you see it.
Perhaps more people should run ultras.
Just prior to reaching Colony aid station, near mile 41, I
had decided my day was over. No calories, no salt, no fat means no running. I
was in disbelief. It was considerably worse than a 16 year old being dumped on
prom, because that kid can raise his finger, say “Fuck you”, and go on about
his life. The same things were being said to me, but this time, I was the
speaker and audience.
Now, during my long walk of shame, I was doing some math. I
knew my dad would be there at a certain time. Now, if I stopped now, I would be
lying there for 2 hours feeling like shit. Or, maybe I could get to the
turnaround, be forced to run into Colony at 61 miles, and then maybe there
would be a chance to regroup. But as soon as I saw the food, I knew.
In my head, I repeated one word over and over. Can you guess
what it was?
Two hours later, my dad arrived to claim me. He had come to
crew me into my first 100 mile finish. Instead, he was driving a very bad
smelling son home. Well, we did require an emergency pit stop at Sonic, where I
occupied a very nasty, cold, uncomfortable bathroom for an hour. And the rest
of it is just a normal flu story.
So why dare write about a failed 100 mile race, ending after
only 41 miles? I don’t want sympathy, or even empathy. I thrive on being
independently strong. I don’t care what anyone says or does. But in this case,
I do. I am sad from failure. And for a person with depression, it sucks. I am
embarrassed. I am pissed. And I feel I let down a lot of people, who probably
don’t feel I let them down at all. I am devastated my daughter thinks it was
her fault I got sick. And I feel badly for my dad wasting his time all
afternoon. So I write this for therapy…and because I enjoy writing (not
editing, but writing).
Oh, and the reason everything went haywire…I got the stomach
flu the night before, unbeknownst to me. My youngest daughter puked early at
night, and my oldest daughter puked Saturday morning. So, it really was a
simple matter of bad luck and bad timing.
Shit happens. And so does vomit.
And that demon, it loves a good failure. I guess I will just
have to find a way to kick that goblin fucker to the ditch.
-M
