When I was diagnosed with breast cancer 10 years ago, it was hard for me to think too much about reaching 2011. The enormity of long-term survival seemed just too massive to grasp - so far beyond my reach that I couldn't conceive how I would do it.
At the time, I never used the term "survivor". I wasn't really sure what the term meant, but was pretty sure it wasn't me. I was just a girl who happened to have cancer. I was much more likely to think of myself as Cancer Girl than Survivor - Cancer Girl, getting on with her life as best she could.
Since the hugeness of my challenge could leave me feeling helpless, instead I focused on manageable steps. "Survival" was too amorphous. I needed concrete action. With my doctors, I made a plan. I kept my eyes focused on the few steps right in front of me: tomorrow shop for post-chemo food, Tuesday chemo, Wednesday rest, next week scans, January radiation.... I desperately wanted to survive, but these steps were small enough that I could wrap my head around them. I understood how to do each of these things and knew each one was within my power.
Amazingly the years continued to pass, but I remained Cancer Girl in my mind. When you have a high risk of recurrence it's hard to ever feel like you are past it.
And then, suddenly, I reached 10 years - CELEBRATE!! I still am not really sure how I got here, but here is where I am. While I spent 10 years concentrating on the next step, time was passing and I was getting ever closer to that amorphous, elusive goal - I was surviving. And when I look back on the last 10 years, I am overwhelmed by the herculean effort to get here.
So when I thought of doing something big to mark this milestone, I wanted it to be something of equivalent (but less potentially lethal) magnitude. Going from a complete recreational, occasional runner to running the North Face Bear Mountain 50-Mile Endurance Challenge - one of the harder 50-mile races in the East - in less than a year seemed like just the perfect kind of crazy, herculean task.
I spent the last 8 months ticking off steps and mileposts, doing my best to stay focused on the next step. And suddenly, it was race day.
We arrived early to get ready for the 5am start. We checked in, ate a little, I had to pee, drank some more, peed again, oh...and peed yet again. We chatted with strangers - these other crazies out in the wee hours of the morning to run 50 miles through the woods. Then it was time to line up, headlamps on. I was nervous and excited just to be there on the starting line...and we were off.
It was slow going at first. There were around 200 people trying to navigate the rocky trail, illuminated only by our headlamps. Once we reached somewhat more level ground, I noticed that the sky was lightening as the sun began it's ascent across the Hudson river. Slowly, blue gave way to golden. I turned off my headlamp and tried to take in as much of the beautiful early morning views as I could while keeping an eye on the trail.
At that point, I didn't care at all about the outcome. I was here! This was my goal, and I was here - I was running. And then I realized I was running well. My pace was faster than I expected and I was feeling great...so keep going, Julie.
I ran when I could (which turned out to be most of the time), walked when I needed to, and even crawled on all fours on a few of the steepest sections. At some point during the really hard, technical section between mile 10 and 20, I began to think that just maybe I could make the first hard cutoff at mile 20. (There were 2 hard cutoffs: at 20 & 34 miles. If you didn't make those aid stations by a certain time, you were done with the race.) ....Wow, how cool would that be if I made the first cutoff?! So I ran a little faster.
There were some brutal sections. I took a nose dive, but no serious damage was done. My nose just kissed the rocks. Others were not so lucky. At the aid stations I saw runners being taped up or icing injuries while waiting for transports back to the medical tent at the finish. Along the trail I passed runners bruised and bloodied, but struggling onward.
A young guy in a red t-shirt appeared before me, carrying water up the trail to runners who might need it (there were a lot of open, rocky areas in full sun in that section). He said the cutoff was a half mile ahead and there was 15 minutes until cutoff. I made the first cutoff....how cool!
It wasn't until I had made the first cutoff that I began to think about the second cutoff. The next section was a mix of easier trails and wildly steep hills. Shortly after leaving the next aid station my GPS watch died. I knew it would happen; it has only about 8 hours of battery life. What I didn't expect was how much I would miss it once it was gone. I was running totally blind in terms of my pace and distance. And with each step, my desire to make the next cutoff grew. I definitely struggled in that section. There was a long uphill section on the road in full sun. There were some slippery, muddy sections. I had the company of other runners for some of it, but for long sections I was alone. In some ways, this may have been the hardest part of the race for me. I was unsure of my pace, and was filled with doubts about how well I could continue, but I knew I wanted to make the second cutoff. Finally, I could hear voices. I had made it in time.
I had fought hard for that cutoff! But as I left the aid station, I was excited for what came next. It was all mysterious to me - I had never run more than 36 miles. Each step was a new record for me, totally new territory for my body.
And then an amazing thing happened. I started feeling stronger. I started speeding up. Yes, this section of trail was easier, but I was picking up my pace, running harder, and still feeling good. I started passing people. Heading into the aid station at mile 40, I felt great!
At that point, I knew I could finish the race - all 50 miles. It would be tight as far as making the final cutoff of 14 hours, but I would finish. As I left the aid station and headed back into the woods, I started to cry. Suddenly, I wanted the finish so badly! I wanted an official finish time!
I had been very conscious during the race of staying hydrated and fueled - not an easy task on a 50-mile run. It takes a lot of work because much of the time, your body doesn't really feel like eating or drinking. But it's super important to stay on top of it because it's so hard to make up a deficit. In the mid-section of the race, the aid stations were about 6-7 miles apart, and much of the time we were running in the mid-day sun. I was feeling pretty parched, but realized I had been fairly successful at rehydrating when I had to pee around mile 43. And I would just like to point out what an advantage men have at this - squatting to pee after running 43 miles is not easy!
The second-to-last aid station was right near my house, at the top of my street, just 5.3 miles from the finish. My brother told me later that when he saw my split posted from that station, he quickly started calculating whether I could make it within the cutoff. He realized it would be agonizingly close. As did I. I left the aid station knowing that I had to run the next section, which included what might be the toughest climb of the course, faster than I had ever done it. And I had no watch to monitor my progress. I just ran. I ran as fast as I could. I walked the steep hills. I pushed myself up toward Timp Pass. And I pushed myself down the rocky stream bed on the other side, stumbling, but not falling.
I was approaching the final aid station. Some of the volunteers had spread out down the trail to cheer on the final runners. A woman, who I imagine might have been a high school basketball coach, looked at her watch and started yelling at me to run faster. "You can make it but you have to run! It's close, but you can do it! Run! Faster! Faster! Run to those orange cones. Look at those cones, don't take your eyes off those cones. Now run! Faster - run!" And I did what she said. I ran as fast as I could.
At the aid station someone refilled my water bottle. I didn't eat, I just wanted to run. I asked time - I had a little less than 45 minutes and 2.8 miles. I just had to run 15 minute miles. That's perfectly doable, but this was at the end of 50 miles - could I run 15 minute miles now?
I was off on the final leg of the race. I ran, and I ran fast. I ran as fast as I could move. I suddenly realized how useful those early morning speed drills had been. Here I was at the end of 50 miles and my body recognized what this was - time to sprint! I ran almost all of the hills in that final section. There were a few I had to walk. But that just made me run that much faster once I crested the top. I kept pushing myself to go faster. I just thought how stupid it would be to miss the cutoff by half a minute because I ran a comfortable pace.
I wanted this now! When I started, I didn't really care about the outcome. I just wanted to try, to make the attempt, to have an adventure. And it was a glorious adventure - all of it - the training, the people I met, the start, the race. Throughout most of the day, I had felt such joy. I was happy!
But now, I wanted to finish in less than 14 hours. I wanted it. With every step, I could
feel the finish. I pushed myself harder than I ever imagined possible. I wanted to leave nothing in reserve. If I had to crawl across the finish line, fine - I would know that I tried with everything I had.
As hard as I was pushing, I also marveled at my body. I was amazed that I could run this fast at the end of this race....Wow - these are my legs and they are strong! How wild that I have the heart, lungs, and legs to run this hard! My body is amazing!
And then the tunnel where I had come through almost 14 hours before, and the parking lot, and the finish!
I wanted to take a picture or video of the finish as I ran across, but I couldn't spare the energy to get out my phone. All I cared about was crossing the line - I still didn't know whether I had made it in time. I had, with time to spare. My time was 13 hours, 47 minutes. My pace for those last 3 miles was about 11:30 mins. per mile. That's faster than I have ever run any trails. That's faster than I thought I was capable of running trails. And that was at the end of 50 miles.
At this point, I would like to profusely thank all the organizers and volunteers - there was a whole army of them to make this event happen - you were all amazing!
And I want to thank my coach, Neil Cook at Asphalt Green. Neil pushed me, taught me, encouraged me, always in the spirit of fun. Through vomit-inducing speed drills and long runs of distances I was sure I could never do, Neil got me ready to run. And he always did it with a sense of joy. Thank you, Neil.
Unlike shorter races, where athletes' struggles and joys play out in milliseconds, often in front of family, friends, and cheering crowds, ultra runners' struggles take place over the course of hours, mostly alone. That's why most of the other runners will freely offer encouragement when they come across a runner going through a rough moment - they all know what it's like - they've all experienced it. They know the pain, the fear, the tears, the despair. They all also know the joy. And they know what it's like to face all fo that out there all alone. We recognize that in each other, not so unlike cancer survivors. We know we can't take away the struggle for others, and we know that we all experience surviving in our own way, but we recognize and understand the struggle. And we wish for some moments of joy in the mix.
I marvel at surviving and being healthy for 10 years, and I marvel at running 50 miles. I'm still not really sure how either happened. With both, I just concentrated on what was right in front of me - the next step. And suddenly there it was - the finish line. Except that the finish line isn't the end of it; it's just the start of the next thing. But that's kind of the point, isn't it? So I eagerly look forward to the next 10 years and the next race....you know I already have some ideas in mind.
Julie
