Getting Mileage From Manifestation - Part 3

A Badass DNF

My feet probe the rocky terrain for stable ground. At one point, the mud sucks the shoe right off my foot. I am sidestepping poison oak and slipping my way across river rocks. The battle has raged for over 45 miles and nearly 14 hours. The steep ascents and steeper descents humble my thighs and calves. Trekking poles vault me forward, but the miles upon miles take the upper hand over my resolve. The singular focus to beat the cutoff times has overruled my emotions to this point. But when I realize I may not make the Driver’s Flat checkpoint cutoff time of 7:45pm, I feel the anxiety in my throat for a moment. I focus my mind, my eyes, my determination to keep moving forward. 

My heart pounds with battle resolve. Looking down on the river below, seeing the wild spring flow, hearing the noisy cascade of white froth rapids carving boulders, warrior heart says, “The war is not over yet.” And at the end of a thigh splitting descent down a rocky, twisting path, I have finally reached the level of the river. The sunset diffuses the horizon into the most  vibrant blend of pastel melon and peach. The river, raging and thrashing all day long from my thousand-foot view, is here in this deep canyon slot flowing with calm and peace. The water reflects the green tree wall around it as I descend into a silent sanctuary. My heart, beating furiously to overcome the rapid elevation changes, slows to a calm, steady beat. This section of trail is fairly flat and I’m mesmerized by the green translucent sheet that is now the slow flowing river. From my vantage point, I can actually see the river bottom and the million rocks of thousands of sizes and shapes. The green sheet rises and falls with each river breath, revealing then hiding the ever-changing river bed. And in the heat of battle, the river draws me to itself with a peaceful embrace. “Well done, well done” the river burbles. And in that moment, my heart, my tears, the river, the trees, grasses and rocks become one in silence, become one in love.

Rejuvenated by the mini silent retreat, I find the strength to climb the hill leading to Driver’s Flat, beating the cutoff time. My wife and friends greet me there, shocked and celebrating my miraculous acceleration of speed over the prior 9 miles to make this impossible cutoff time. They are lovingly pumping my body with a hot cup of noodles, refreshing my electrolytes, and assuring me that I look strong enough to make it to the end. They promise to cheer me across the finish line. I have 15 more miles until the end but I have another cutoff time to beat -- 8 miles under two and half hours. I laugh at the thought that I normally run 8 miles in less than an hour and a half, but this brutal trail is not normal and the time allotted might not be enough. The truth of my predicament holds me by the throat; the slower I go, the faster time slips away.

Shadows morph into darkness and my waist lamp highlights miles of rocks and roots. My arms, my shoulders are still strong, but I can only leverage my poles as fast as my legs can move me. My mind can only try to suppress the knifing pain in my thighs and calves. I try a late race strategy. Run for 30 seconds, walk for 30 seconds, run for 30, walk for 30 and think of nothing else but repeating the mantra sequence. The 30 on 30 off strategy lasts a short while as my mind fights the urge to walk longer and longer.

I hear two female voices coming up behind me. “Hi. We’re the sweepers.”

In my heart I hear, “Hi. We’ve come to take your soul.”

“You can make it if you pick up your pace now. You can’t walk it in, you won’t make it.” They’re trying their best to gently urge me to avoid a crushing disqualification.

Adrenaline gives me the temporary rush to catch up to three runners ahead of me. I warn them that the sweepers are behind me. Like startled deer, we forge ahead, poles rhythmically clacking the rocks as desperation fuels us. We plant each pole then push, plant then push, plant then push. We are trying frantically to gain a rhythm, to build momentum. Past miles, past climbs, past descents, mark the hours upon hours that we’ve fought the good fight.

But it has been a very long day and each of us is so, so tired. We have been on our feet for over 15 hours, clawing, battling, straining to keep on pace and now we are all balancing on the edge of the precipice using all of our mind/body resources to not fall into the pit of despair. The sweepers are runners also; it helps that they understand the panic, they’ve experienced the exasperated refusal to give in; “No, no, no!” 

We have until 10:15pm to make it to Mammoth Bar. Mammoth Bar is legendary as the last major aid station before the final 7 miles. It is the make-or-break moment, the reality of victory or defeat. The sweepers are doing their assignment. Push the remaining runners ahead and look for lost souls who are in need of attention. I found out that both of these women are nurses and that they were recruited for this task specifically for their ability to help someone in dire need. It is now past 10:00 and I can see the lights of Mammoth Bar looming in the distance–the much too-far-away distance. It’s pitch black except for our running lights. We’re all too tired to outrun the distance of our beams. None of us have enough speed left to do it, even if we had wanted to. The sweepers busy themselves with picking up the trail marking reflective streamers off the trees and rocks, leaving us to our destiny. 

I roll into Mammoth Bar and it is eerily silent. Aid stations are usually buzzing with excitement and giddy chatter from hyped up volunteers. The volunteers are looking away, stowing away the last of salty sweet goodies, the food of the gods after 50 miles. No one is cheering us, no one is talking to us, no one is looking at us.

The aid station captain approaches me, looking at my race bib attached to my shorts. She sees my name on the bottom line.

“I’m sorry, Steve, but you need to give me your number. I’m so, so sorry, but you missed the cutoff by two minutes. You gave it all you had. You should be so proud of yourself because I’m really proud of you.”

It’s 10:17pm and I started this journey at 5am. I’m too tired to try to summon the dexterity needed for safety pins so I gently rip the bib off my shorts and hand it to her. She holds it like a sacred relic, reassuring me, I’m more than a number. By this time, the sweepers arrive at the aid station. My adventure has officially ended at mile 58. And the two nurses do what they do best.

“You rocked it!”

“You dug deep!”

“You tried your best!”

“We are so very proud of you!”

Runners who volunteer at events like this are the best humankind has to offer. They get it, they totally get it. With trail ultramarathon experience comes genuine empathy and their congratulations and condolences are sincerely given and received. Since we have stopped moving, the other 10 disqualified runners, along with myself, are soon shivering in the cold night air. While we wait for the van to arrive to take us back into town, volunteers have started their cars in order to blast their heaters and they invite us to sit in them to stay warm. All of us accept the invitation. A woman sitting next to me tells me this is the third year in a row that she has failed to finish. I give her the best response I can at the moment. “That’s pretty badass.” I text my loving support crew and in my soul I feel their collective disappointment. My phone blasts their response; “Noooooooooo!”

I’m crossing the finish line in a van.

This is not my first and most likely not my last DNF.  A Did Not Finish is sometimes feared but  best viewed as a badge of courage, a purple heart; even the greatest runners today have earned DNFs. The more you race, the more you push your limits, the further into the unknown you go, it becomes a matter of when, not if, the DNF is earned.

One more runnerism: “It’s mind over matter. If your body don’t mind, it don’t matter.” In the immediate aftermath of a long physical ordeal like this, it doesn’t take long for the body to mind. 

It’s a 20-minute ride into town and when the van reaches its destination, I almost fall out of the front seat onto the ground. My stiff and painful legs barely support me and I question my life choices. The driver comes around and has to unbuckle and extract the runner in the backseat. He patiently offers his shoulder to support the battle-worn runner who practically falls out on top of him. He has to nearly carry him to the sidewalk. The driver bears his weight with gentleness, kindness, and compassion. He understands. He’s been there.

Folding my body into the backseat of my friend’s SUV to go back to our AirBnB is now an arduous task. Each bend is a thoughtful, braced-for-pain, physical challenge. Everyone in the car is a runner and they soften the DNF blow with kindness and empathy. My friend has turned on the heated backseat and my wife wraps a comforter around me, snuggling me closely. The car purrs, the heated seat embraces me with the most delicious enveloping heat, and we ride gently back to our rented house. I take stock of my emotions and I notice I am not wallowing in the depths of despair. Actually, I feel relieved and genuinely satisfied with my performance. All I want is a hot shower. All I want to do is sleep.

A friend who started the race with me, but unfortunately missed an earlier cutoff, turns to face me from the front seat. He’s grinning and nodding his head at me. He looks at me the way all runners do when we finish a run together. He gives me exactly what I need to hear.

“Dude, that was pretty badass.”

Yes. Yes it was.