Whenever I finish a race, I ask Lena to capture the mood with her camera. It doesn’t matter if her photos reveal joy or heartbreak, exhilaration or exhaustion, as long as they’re honest and real. That’s how I ended up here, face down on all fours, just before I vomited everything that was left in my stomach.
At that point, some five and a half hours after I began the Pineland Trail Festival, the contents of my stomach consisted of nothing but water and the chalky remnants of the last Tums I valiantly tried to choke down after throwing up everything else an hour earlier.
“That’s just weakness leaving the body,” is how one young runner put it when he skirted around me while I was retching off to the side of the trail.
No, it was over a thousand calories worth of carbs and electrolytes that I had been diligently consuming throughout the race, following the game plan to perfection in my quest to run a complete 50K from start to finish. All that was gone, and so was I, completely wasted and spent with miles left to run.
If I could have dropped I would have DNF’d right there, puking my guts out in an open field, baking under a hot sun that was supposed to be tucked safely behind clouds. The rain that had been in the forecast all week was nowhere in sight.
Coming into the race I was worried about two things – the weather and my stomach – and both those fears were realized with a sudden force that stopped me in my tracks. “I guess that’s it,” I thought. “I’m done.”
Except I couldn’t stop because I had no idea how to get back without finishing the race. Another runner about my age came by and asked how I was doing.
“Well,” I said. “I just imploded and I’m trying to pick up the pieces.”
“Right there with you,” he responded, which made me feel better.
“Just a 5K left,” he added, and I stared at him blankly. “I didn’t say it would be an easy 5K.”
It was then that several pieces of ultra running wisdom floated through my brain: Nothing lasts forever, things always get better, and most importantly, puke and rally.
The rally started with baby steps and I felt a breeze on my shoulders that was soothing and reassuring. I looked at my watch and thought, “You know, I can probably still get a PR.”
It’s funny the way races start. Everyone backs off the start line, like they know they don’t belong near the front. Then the race starts, and they all surge to the front because they can’t help themselves. My instructions from Coach Avery were to wait it out, let them all go, and then pick them off one by one.
“That first half is going to be a real test of patience,” he said. “I’ll tell you right now, you’re going to watch people go flying by you and it’s going to suck a little bit. Know that you’re going to rip past people in the second half and it’s going to suck for them.”
I can’t attest to how much it sucked for them, but I know from experience how much it sucked for me because I’ve typically been one of those people who can’t help themselves in race. I go out too fast, completely convinced that I can handle the pace, only to fall apart in the second half while the patient ones fly by.
This time was different, and it was very cool to be on the right side of that equation. My legs felt amazing and the miles rolled by with shocking ease. It was the most fun I’ve ever had running an ultra.
It didn’t even take that long to start making up ground on the field because I started passing people around Mile 4. Bing, bing, bing, one after another until I had moved up 10 spots by the end of the first 25K lap.
Lena has her crew duties down to a science and I was in and out of the aid station in record time. Back out there for one more lap, confident that I was on pace for a career defining day.
A new PR was in the bag, and maybe a sub 5-hour race if everything broke right. I was completely dialed in on hydration, salt, and calories. All I had to do was stay on top of those needs and my body would do the rest.
It dawned on me pretty quickly that not everything was going to break right on the second lap. Even though I had remained patient, the miles were getting harder, not easier.
The main problem was that it was hot. Not as hot as last summer’s Catamount race, but hazy and humid with no relief in sight. The clouds offered token resistance to the sun’s rays that felt more and more debilitating.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, but I was determined to not suffer the same fate as I did at the Catamount when I lost my drive and will to compete. Time to settle down and refocus my goals.
Breaking five hours wasn’t in the cards, but I was still strong and still making up ground on the field. From a vantage point around Mile 20, I could see the next pack maybe a half mile ahead. This was the top five and I had no reason to believe I wouldn’t catch them soon too.
“The race starts at Mile 24,” I told myself, and I had no idea how prophetic that statement would be, because that was the point when my body started rejecting calories. The contents of a gel had barely touched my tongue when I spit it back out and began experiencing dry heaves. I’d have to make it to the end on water and will.
What I didn’t know was that all the calories I had already consumed would soon exit my stomach in a most gruesome fashion. Again, if I could have dropped, I probably would have left the race right there. Alas, I had no way of getting back on my own.
So, I started walking. Slowly, but deliberately until I was out of the field and back under the shady trees on the trail. I came upon a downhill and allowed muscle memory and gravity to take me down the slope. Then I realized I could still run the flats for short periods of time.
That was my pattern for the next hour. Run, walk, run, walk. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Run, walk, run walk.
I would love to be able to articulate what was happening in my brain during those final few miles, but I don’t have a clue. I was so far beyond rational thought that I was operating solely on instinct.
The miles passed slowly, until I was finally within range of the finish. I saw the two runners who passed me while I was vomiting. The young one who talked about weakness and the older one who knew it was about perseverance.
They were the only two of the 20 runners I passed that moved back in front, and while it would have been nice to catch them too, their presence really didn’t matter. There was just me and the finish line, which I crossed in 5 hours and 35 minutes. A new personal best and my first top-10 finish.
I’d like to say there was some sort of defining moment I can take from this race, but I don’t think there was anything more profound than simply not quitting. Sure, it would be nice to have a day where everything lines up perfectly, but life isn’t really like that. You deal with what’s in front of you, and give your best effort. That’s all anyone can ask.
Later on, when Lena and I were sitting on the deck of our rental staring out at a lake, she did that thing that married people do where she read my mind.
“You moved the needle, just not as much as you wanted,” she said, and I nodded. “But you did move the needle.”
Way to rally, Flanns!
You are legendary. And so is Lena. I’m sure there are things you question but at the end of the day, you did the damn thing and set a PR. Vomit or no vomit, it’s all there. And we are all SO DAMN PROUD OF YOU.
It’s funny, this makes me think of some people I regularly see on my runs. Three different groups of elderly people, out on their walks. At some point whenever I see them, which is several times a week, they’ll say to me “you know I wish I could do that.” My response is always the same and that’s this ,”You know, it’s just like anything in life. It’s (literally) just one foot in front of the other. So you are doing it, just a little differently. Maybe I should slow down.”
You put one foot in front of the other and nailed it. Just got there a little differently than you thought. Icon.