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Royal Gorge Groove 50K

As soon as the race started, I felt myself settling in. I knew I had a very long day ahead of me, so I leaned into all the mental strategies I put in place before the race to combat my fears:

Fear: My longest long run of 15 miles (4+ hours) wasn’t long enough.

Strategy: Treat the race like a back-to-back training weekend. The course was perfectly set up for this with two loops. I told myself that the first loop, a 30K, was a Saturday training run. The second loop, a 20K, was Sunday training run. During my real training, I ran 15 miles on Saturday and 9 miles on Sunday. All I had to do was add 3 miles to each run while running it all in one day, and I could call myself a 50K finisher.

Fear: I would be last.

Strategy: Focus on myself. Get from one aid station to the next. Focus on what matters. Truthfully, I never fully let go of this fear. I went back and forth from not caring to caring too much. Logically, I know it doesn’t matter. I know that this fear is all ego-driven and rooted in a shame that should not exist. It’s directly connected to my fear of not being good enough and living in a culture where coming in last is perceived as an embarrassment. This fear is what kept me away from this goal for so long. My strategy was to be stronger than my fear.

Fear: I would mentally fall apart.

Strategy: Focus on what I can control. For me, my mental stability is entangled with how I’m feeling physically. When I feel like I’m falling apart, I fall apart. When I feel like I’m good, I’m good. I knew I was going to be fatigued, and I knew I would be pushing my body further than it had ever gone, but I didn’t want to get to the place where I was my own worst enemy. To feel my best, I had to give my body the fuel it needed. I focused on eating and drinking. I consumed 100 calories every 30 minutes. I wanted to finish off my flask of Skratch plus my flask of water by each aid station.

Instead of focusing on the finish line, I focused on aid stations. One aid station at a time. One win at a time.

Start Line to Dream Weaver Aid, Miles 0 – 2.6

These first few miles flew by. I had such a huge adrenaline rush from hitchhiking to the start line that I almost forgot I was there to run a 50K. I was surrounded by other runners. The temperatures were cold and welcoming. The fog was thick. The weather suggested snow was coming.

The first aid station was manned by Black Men Run Denver. They were everything I hoped to see at an aid station: enthusiastic, ready to help, and full of joy. The race felt real the moment I got there. I was running a 50K.

Dream Weaver to Tower Aid, Miles 2.6 – 7.3

I had studied the race map for months. This was going to be the biggest climb of the day. The race started at 6300 feet and topped out at 7100 feet. The tower aid station was as high as I would climb. I settled in and repeated those two words over and over as we climbed: settle in, settle in, settle in.

The higher we climbed, the colder it got. It felt like we were running through a cloud. The views of the gorge were nonexistent, but the snow beautifully covered the red rocks and cacti. It was a welcomed change from the muddy trails I was used to in Boulder.

With a mile to go until the next aid station, we approached a trailhead. There was an out-and-back section that we needed to complete, but then we had a choice to make. Did we continue up the trail or back down the way we came? We saw a handful of runners pass us going back down the trail, but when we got to the trailhead there was confusion among all the runners. Which way was the right way?

The out-and-back section gave me time to think. I had studied the map. While the signage was confusing, I knew I could figure it out. The out-and-back section also gave me the chance to see the guy who drove me to the start line. It was so nice to thank him in person without all my hysterics. When we returned to the trailhead, I felt confident we needed to continue heading up the trail. An aid station had to be close, and we didn’t see one on the climb up. The math and mileage didn’t add up to continue back the way we came. A half mile later we saw the next aid station.

There were quite a few runners with us at the aid station because of the confusion at the trailhead, Some had gone the wrong way and were back on track. Some were running the 30K or 20K race. Some were in the back of the 50K pack with us. The spirit of racing was very much alive at the aid station.

Tower to Canyon Rim Aid, Miles 7.3 – 11.7

Because the race also included a 30K and 20K race, and because the two courses shared some of the same trails, this part of the course felt a bit like playing Candy Land. Every intersection gave us a choice. 30K loop to the left, 20K loop to the right. While we were on our first loop, we had to pick the long way. It was energizing to know that when we came back through this section later in the day, we would get to take the shortcut.

While this section of the course brags about beautiful views, we didn’t catch a glimpse of them. The fog and mist were growing thicker. My ponytail was frozen. I had tunnel vision. Whether that was a result of the fog or my focus, I had one mission: get to the next aid station.

Canyon Rim to Start/Finish Aid, Miles 11.7 – 18.6

This section of the trail was beautiful. We were making our way back downhill, and the trail wandered along the side of the mountain. As we left the aid station, we had a glimpse of what was to come. The fog was lifting, and the views were coming into view. After mile 13, the first 50K runner passed us on his own second 20K loop. A few more front runners went by including the first and second female. It was amazing to feed off their energy. It felt good to cheer them on and to have them return the same encouragement.

As each leader in the race came and went, the fear that I was last tried to creep back in. There were a few spots along the trail where we could see behind us. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was last. I kept saying “I don’t know why I care.”

We would be repeating the entire section from the Canyon Rim aid station to the start/finish on our second loop. I was focused on memorizing this section to help me when I was tired later in the day. How big were the climbs? How far was the finish from the bridge? I wanted to equip myself with knowledge to fight against my fatigue.

As we made our way to the start/finish line for a practice finish, we saw the couple that drove us to the start line again. They honked and cheer from their car in the parking lot, and again I was filled with gratitude for making it to the race. My gratitude swelled when I saw my parents and Chet waiting for us. I was feeling so much better than expected. My confidence was growing.

I refilled my pack with fuel for the next loop while Chet filled my water bottles for me. We were in and out faster than I expected.

Start/Finish to Dream Weaver, Miles 18.6 – 20.9

I left my parents and Chet with high energy levels, but that quickly crashed when I realized I still had a 20K loop to go. It took a few minutes to get my head back in the game, but the men from Black Men Run Denver were exactly where I needed them. I heard their cheers before I saw them. As I approached their aid station, I was overwhelmed with gratitude – grateful to be there, grateful for this group of people who stayed to support me (one of the last runners), grateful to finally feel like I was going to finish a 50K. My eyes filled with tears when I saw them, and I kept saying “Thank you”. I wish I had hugged each one of them. They made me feel like I was winning the race.

Dream Weaver to Canyon Rim, Miles 20.9 – 24.1

Most of this section was different from the 30K loop. It was more technical than I expected. It was more climbing than I expected. My fatigue was kicking in. I was hungry and craving real food. I was starting to get a headache. Christian said he knew it was getting bad when I used his name in a sentence and said “Christian, I’m so tired.”

When I get tired on runs, my brain always does math. I calculate fractions and percentages. I create math problems based on miles. There were 7 aid stations on the course including the finish. I had already passed 5 of them. 5/7 of the aid stations were done. I was 71% done. There were 3 miles between these two aid stations. I had already run 1.5 miles since the last aid station. I was 50% of the way there. The entire race had 4200+ feet of climbing. I had climbed 3300 feet. I had 900 feet more to go. I had already climbed 80% of the course. This is what occupied my brain until I got to the aid station.

At the canyon aid station, we were greeted by another set of amazing volunteers. They celebrated our arrival. They filled my water bottles. They gave me the best PB&J I have ever had. They filled me back up with energy and optimism. I was going to finish this race.

Canyon Rim to Finish, Miles 24.1 – 31

Fueled by my PB&J and knowing my next stop was the finish line, my energy levels returned. My legs were fatigued and I was walking more than I was running, but my spirit was high. The math problems that occupied my brain were quickly replaced with two thoughts: Keep moving forward and I’m so proud of myself. Keep moving forward. I’m so proud of myself. Keep moving forward. I’m so proud of myself.

I was now at a place I had never been before. I was running further and longer than any run I’ve ever completed. With 3 miles to go, another runner approached us from behind. I instantly noticed it was Jamil Coury. Christian, oblivious that his favorite runner was behind him, asked if he wanted to pass us. Jamil said no. A few minutes later, I heard Christian say “oh shit.” I knew he finally realized who was running with us. They chatted, and I listened. It brought new energy to my run. I pushed myself to run more than walk.

Jamil asked if he could take some photos of us. He then asked if he could take a video of me and ask a few questions. My brain and my body welcomed the distraction. With less than a half mile to go, he told us he’d see us at the finish line.

We were in the final stretch. I could see my parents and Chet waving in the distance. I could see the finish line. The race announcer welcomed both me and Christian to our 50K finish, and the entire Aravaipa team cheered us in. As we crossed the finish line, I felt like I had won the race.

50K finisher.

Official finish time: 9:35:44.

2nd to last finisher.

Winner of my own race.

Getting there | My first 50K

In 2017, I signed up for my first 50K. After completing the New York City Marathon, I wanted something more. I wanted something different. I had been witnessing the joy my friends were experiencing on the trails, and I wanted in. I didn’t run a 50K that year. A torn hamstring derailed my training, and I dropped down to the 20K. Yamacraw 2018 wasn’t a 50K, but I fell in love with the trails. I fell in love with the community.

In 2019, I returned to Yamacraw for another 20K. As I watched friends cross the finish line of the 50K, I shrunk a little. I wanted to share that finish line with them, but the 20K destroyed me that day. There was no way I could do what they did.

2020 was 2020. While the trails were my therapy, dreaming of more slipped further away.

In 2021, Christian ran his first 50 miler. Running had always been mine, and I willingly took a back seat to prioritize his running. It was his turn.

In 2022, I printed off a “16 weeks to your first 50K” training plan. I didn’t make it far into the training cycle before I realized my goal race was the same weekend as Cole’s final high school rhythm project performance. I let the dream go again. Cole graduated high school, and Christian went on to run his first 100 miler.

Running has never been just running for me. My running has always been a reflection of my living. The less I dreamt of race goals, the more I felt myself shrinking. I spent years convincing myself that I was content running shorter distances. I told myself it worked better for our family. I told myself I was aging, gaining weight, and getting slower, so the shorter distances were better suited for me now. I told myself I wasn’t fast enough or strong enough to run a 50K on trails. The voice that loves to echo over and over in my head that says I’m not good enough had become too loud.

In 2023, I knew something had to change. We had hit a dead end in the life we were living. Instead of shrinking, it was time to expand. We quit vacationing in the mountains, and we made them our home. Colorado became home. Waking up every morning and seeing Longs Peak from our yard has brought me back to the place of dreaming.

But there is a difference between dreaming and doing. I don’t know when it happened, or how or why, but at some point, all those millions of reasons for not chasing the dream of running a 50K got quiet enough for me to recognize what I’ve always known. I’ve never wanted to live my life from the sidelines. I wanted to reclaim the dream that lived dormant inside of me for years. I wanted to run a 50K.

My training plan started on January 8th. I started a new job, based in Colorado, on January 9th. I knew that to be successful, to not let the voice that tells me I’m not enough takeover, I needed someone else to do the thinking for me. In my first call with my coach, Ryne, I mentioned that “this is probably the worst time to try for something new.” His response, “or it could be the best time,” set the tone for the entire training cycle.

Training through my first Colorado winter wasn’t easy. Training with my husband for the same race wasn’t easy. I rearranged runs due to heavy snow and freezing temperatures and high winds. I overcompensated for my mom guilt by paying Chet to babysit himself on long run mornings. I had meltdowns. I had doubts. I worried I wasn’t running far enough or fast enough. I wrestled with every single doubt that cemented itself in my psyche since I didn’t run the first 50K I signed up for in 2017, but I always showed up. Every time I showed up for a run, showed up for myself, I wanted it more.

As we got ready on race morning, our power started to flicker. By the time we left the house, the power was out. My dad said he would figure it out when he got back from dropping us off. My nerves were calm as we made our way down our long dirt driveway. Our tiny rental house was set on the Royal Gorge’s property, and the driveway was hidden behind a gate off the main road. As we approached the gate, it didn’t open. We reversed and attempted to trigger the sensor again with no luck. Christian hopped out of the car and jumped the gate to use the keypad. The gate didn’t open. The power was out! It was 30 minutes before the race started, and we were stuck behind a gate that wouldn’t open.

I’m not sure how long we were actually stuck. Christian called the facility manager, my dad stayed calm, and I lost my shit. I frantically waved at every car that drove by assuming everyone was driving to the race that was 2 miles away. At one point, I sobbed. I was going to miss the race. That voice that says I’m not good enough was going to win because the power was out. This was the moment I knew exactly how bad I wanted this for myself.

A truck slowed down on the main road and rolled down their windows. They were runners and thought I might need help. I stood in the middle of the road (YES! in oncoming traffic, loosing my shit) and begged them for a ride. The driver calmly reminded me I was standing in the way of traffic and told us to hop in. We grabbed our stuff and hopped in the back seat with their adorable dog who smothered us in kisses. I said thank you over and over again and tried to calm my nerves.

We made it to the start line just in time for me to release a few more tears. I have wanted this for so long, and I was so close to missing it again.

Maybe I wore myself out over the last 8 years.

Maybe the training cycle purged me of all my extreme doubts.

Maybe I exhausted myself in my meltdown on the side of the road.

Maybe I was finally ready.

When I finally lined up at the start line, I wanted it!

#finishtherun

This morning, I ran for Ahmaud Arbery. He was murdered one year ago by three men in Georgia while he was out for a run. The motive: his skin color made him look suspicious.

I often avoid speaking out or speaking up about the racist nature of our country. As I begin to speak, insecurity holds me back. Who am I to speak up? What value does my voice contribute? I doubt, and I remain silent.

Today as I ran 2.23 miles away from my home, I was surrounded by the dark. As a female, I have learned to fear running alone in the dark. Every step, every mile, is a practice of trust. I tell my insecurities to be quiet. I tell myself to stay aware, but to not be afraid. When a man passed me this morning, I told myself he is kind and greeted him with a smile. When a car slowed down behind me, I told myself they are being considerate and sharing the road. Over and over again, I tell myself to not be afraid.

Today as I ran 2.23 miles back home, I let myself imagine Ahmaud’s fear. I let myself imagine that my skin color wasn’t white. This time when a car passed me, I let my mind wander. What if they had a gun? What if they started following me?

When it came time for me to reflect on today’s run, I tossed words around in my mind over and over again. Who am I to speak up? What value does my voice contribute?

Fear and insecurity are one and the same. Fear and insecurity are what allow the racist nature of our country to continue. Who am I to speak up? I’ve been asking myself the wrong question. Who am I to not speak up? Silence is the greatest contributor to injustice. If I don’t speak up, who should? People who are victims of racism? Those who live with the fear every day? I am exactly who should speak up.

My words are clumsy, but my beliefs are strong. We have a problem in this country. Until those of us who aren’t impacted by it recognize its influence on everything in our country, nothing will change. Ahmaud Arbery should not be dead. Anyone who looks like him should be able to run down the street and not be afraid every time a white person approaches.

Today I ran. Today I donated. Today I decided that my words have value in this space because I am ordinary. I am the majority. I am just another middle class, middle aged, white woman. When the majority finally sees what the minority has experienced, our country will become a better place.

If you don’t see it yet, look again. Keep looking. Once you see it, it can be unseen. And if you think it doesn’t exist, start by looking inward. It is in all of us.

To learn more about 2.23 Foundation and run for Maud, click here.

Ritual.

Nearly one month into a new year, I am right where I always am in the beginning. Dusting off my blog, I am once again forcing myself to sit with myself — my thoughts, my words, my writing, my heart, my head. I had the opportunity to join Glennon Doyle on a Zoom chat in early January. She kicked off the chat with a beautiful description of life.

“We’re like snow globes: We spend all our time, energy, words, and money creating a flurry, trying not to know, making sure the snow doesn’t settle so we never have to face the fiery truth inside us — solid and unmoving… We keep ourselves shaken up because there are dragons in our center.”

Glennon Doyle, Untamed

She calls them dragons. I call them heart whispers. I have shaken up my life in such a furry that I have hid my fiery truth. Then 2020 happened. 2020 forced the snow to settle. The world stood still.

I miss myself.

I miss feeling wildly alive inside my own heart. I miss feeling awake. As I look forwards, I wonder what my words should capture. Should I sit here and write about how about the life got wildly off track? Should I share all the times I’ve felt joy and forced myself to look away? My life is good. I love my husband, my kids, and my career. Yet, something is missing.

I know exactly how I got here. I can tell you all the places I turned left instead of right. I can tell you about the speed bumps and the express lanes.

I miss myself.

I miss wandering.

I miss wondering.

I miss opening a book and becoming emotionally connected to every word on the page.

I miss mile after mile on the trail discussing what life means.

I also know exactly how to get back to the places I miss. It starts here. It starts with letting my words travel from my heart to my head, and it continues from my head to my hands. It starts with letting go of my words. I need to get them out of my body. I started this blog with one purpose. I was finding my breath. For years I lived an existence of holding my breath. As I documented each inhale and exhale, I brought myself back to life. Today I’m holding on to my inhales. I’ve taken a deep breath, and I’m afraid to exhale. I’m afraid to let my heart whispers travel from my heart to my head to my hands to my existence.

So here I am, listening to my heart whispers, knowing that the only way to experience the joy I crave is to create the ritual for myself that allows me to exhale.

Resign |Active vs. Passive

In an effort to stay engaged in my own practice of writing — writing for me, for my thoughts, for my clarity — I wistfully thought I’d sit down at the end of every day and jot down a few thoughts about what it meant to resign that day.

January 8th | feeling fragile isn’t a flaw. Being fragile isn’t bad. You don’t have to be and you shouldn’t be strong and brave and resilient ALL THE DAMN TIME. Resign and let yourself soften. Sink into the space of comfort. Let other people take care of you.

January 9th | Resign – Actively take action. Be resigned to – Passively interact with a moment. There is a distinct difference between these two-word variations. There is a time to resign. There is also a time to resign to something being true.

And then my (too soon to call it a) habit faded away.

January 22nd | Trust that you know yourself. Trust that you know things without having the knowledge to explain why. Trust that your vision is true.

In the 16 days since I’ve lived with this word, where I’ve tried to let my actions take shape around this word, I’ve observed a few things. This word doesn’t have a single definition. This word can be lived in so many ways.  It is a choice between being engaged or being passive. There is a place for both. It also takes a considerable amount of trust to resign your control over outcomes. It takes a lot of restraint to resign when the moment doesn’t serve you.

I have a post-it note on my desk. The message is simple:

What do you get by staying in it?

The statement was made in passing during a casual conversation, but it stopped me in my tracks. I wrote it down. I stuck it in a place I know I will always see it. I ask myself this question on a daily basis.

One of my kids is misbehaving. It can be exhausting to stick to the discipline. What do I get by staying in it? I get a whole heck of a lot. I gain a lot, and my children need me to stay in it no matter how exhausting it can be. They deserve to have a mom who stays in it. They are worth the fight. I resign to the fact that it will be exhausting.

A conflict arises with a friend. What do I get by staying in it? Nothing. Not one thing but hurt feelings and loneliness. Staying in it doesn’t serve me. I resign my hurt feelings and move on.

Active. Passive. Action. Letting go.

There is an ebb and flow to these definitions that I love. It feels settled and engaged. It feels intentional. It feels welcoming and exciting. It feels like living.

Last year I made the intention to enjoy the ordinary moments. I wanted to sink into life and love the day to day. This year’s intention seems to be the welcome mat to living that way.

I don’t know what it means to resign myself to the life I am living, but I do know that something inside me tells me this is exactly right for me.

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