Not the Day I Planned or Hoped
Disappointment, all in my head
I started an ultra last Saturday morning filled with relief and some pride that I made it there.
I showed up—healthy, trained, uninjured. I had driven nearly seven hours to Salt Lake City. I woke up at 3:45 a.m. to get ready, catch a shuttle to the start, check in. I deposited a gear bag full of clothing layers, plus an alternate pair of shoes and traction devices, at the aid station, not knowing what conditions or temperatures to expect as a winter storm blew through the Wasatch Mountains.
I gathered with a group of some 40 others—this being a relatively small event, with different wave starts—at 6 a.m. at the base of Grandeur Peak, still so dark that we needed headlamps. I took off slowly running, soon transitioning to hiking, up a steep slope, legs feeling fresh on the snow-packed trail. A layer of snow coated each and every branch in the forest, like a million white mustaches on a million upper lips, and the headlamp beam made the trailside snow drifts sparkle.
This homegrown ultra—the Running Up For Air, Grandeur Peak timed event with 24, 12, and 6-hour divisions—took place on the same day as the Olympic Marathon Trials in Orlando. I can’t imagine two events more different yet still connected on the spectrum of “long-distance running.” While elite marathoners blazed through 26.2 miles on a flat, hot, paved route near sea level, at around a 5-minute/mile pace, we ultrarunners in the Running Up for Air timed event trudged up and ran down a snow-covered high-altitude mountain, trying to achieve as many laps as possible within the time limit. The midpack runners’ pace averaged around 20 minutes/mile (with aid station stops factored in) because most of us hiked as much or more as we ran. Along the steepest part of the route, our hiking slowed so much that GPS watches registered the pace as standing still.
The route is a 3.1-mile trail that summits at about 8300 feet, revealing views of the Wasatch Range and Salt Lake City, although snow clouds obscured the views for most of the day. The trek to the top gains about 2700 feet on forested slopes where short stretches feel runnable, but most of the switchbacks on the way up prompt even the strongest runners to downshift to hiking. The narrow path of snow is mostly hard-packed, but stepping to the side to let others pass risks post-holing.
The final pitch to the summit features steps kicked into the snow on a slope that seems as steep as a ladder leaning against a wall. Hardy volunteers cheer from a minimal aid station at the top. After we reach them, we descend the summit on the backside, then rejoin the main trail. The hard-pack surface softens to slush by midday, turning parts of the trail into a slide with the consistency of a Slurpee.
Amazingly, some 45 participants started at 6 p.m. Friday and ran through the night, at times in white-out conditions in the storm, in the 24-hour division. Some moved zombie-like when I passed them in the morning, but many others seemed as perky as us 12-hour participants on our first lap. The event’s out-and-back route with a wide variety of paces made for two-way traffic, each of us politely passing each other and trying not to bump elbows or shoulders. We exchanged countless encouraging expressions of “good job” and “thank you” as we passed, which was nice but interrupted steady forward momentum.
All of us were there with a greater purpose to raise money and awareness for clean-air efforts in the region. It’s called “Running Up For Air” because Salt Lake City develops a thick, awful layer of brown pollution in wintertime due to an inversion layer that traps pollutants and creates a smoggy blanket over the city, making air quality unhealthy for outdoor recreation on many days. Runners in this event have raised over $23,000 so far this year to support nonprofits working on initiatives to keep the air quality in the healthy range. The Grandeur Peak event is the first in the Up for Air Series of similar wintertime mountain ultras that aim to raise $250,000 combined. I felt a bit guilty driving from Colorado to the race and back (even though my Subaru is relatively low emission), but I raised several hundred bucks for the nonprofit Utah Clean Energy.
A pedestrian effort?
I wish I could extend my auspicious beginning into a story of a high drama culminating in a personal victory, but truthfully I’ve been struggling to write about it because this race left me feeling strangely empty and disappointed (with myself, not with the event), as well as physically trashed. In contrast to the many incredible people around me—exceptional runners and volunteers in terms of athleticism, kindness, and quirkiness—I felt pedestrian. That became my word of the day, because I hiked more than ran and felt dull and tedious.
I know, it’s objectively ridiculous to feel ordinary while engaged in a daylong extreme effort that few would attempt, especially in the snow—even just one lap to the top and back down Grandeur Peak is a stout summer day hike—but compared to the others, especially the 24-hour frontrunners who kept cranking out the laps and running past me with greater skill on the downhill, I felt frustratingly average.
The nut graph of this race report might be: Ultramarathons test us in ways we can’t predict and trigger emotional responses we don’t always expect. Sometimes, showing up to start and finish what you set out to do are the most meaningful and memorable parts of an endurance event. It’s smart to have a backup goal when the window closes on your stretch goal. Attitude becomes everything. And, the trite old chestnut holds true that comparison is the thief of joy.
I knew what to expect because I participated in the 2020 version of the 12-hour event. Back then, I completed five laps in slightly over 10 hours, then dropped, calculating I didn’t have time or energy to fit in a sixth lap within the time limit. With that prior experience, I approached this year’s event with a stretch goal of doing six laps. If I could complete each lap in slightly under two hours, and spend five minutes or less at the main aid station each time, then I could do six laps in 12 hours.
The goal fired me up, and I knocked off the first lap in 1 hour, 48 minutes, spent just a few minutes refueling and filling my water bottle at the aid station, and got back on the trail feeling confident because I had a little extra cushion of time for the next laps. I powered up the uphill as well as I could.
But as is often the case in mountainous ultras, I struggled on the downhill while others soared. Even though I practiced my downhill skills on snowy slopes during the past two months, and even though I had trekking poles and traction devices to assist my balance and footing, I couldn’t run smoothly on the three miles down Grandeur Peak. Pain from inflammation flared on the second downhill lap and intensified on each subsequent one. My knees felt on fire. Several times, I rolled an ankle in the slippery snow. My lower back ached and stiffened, and I started running progressively more cautiously because I didn’t want to slip backwards and land on my tailbone.
Meanwhile, runners whom I had passed on the uphill passed me back repeatedly on the downhill. I watched with admiration and envy and they landed each foot with confidence, letting it slide in the snow rather than putting on the brakes, and I tried to copy their agility. But I sucked at it. Always have, always will. Discouragement settled over me like that polluted inversion layer.
I reached the end of the third lap just a minute or two before six hours, at 12 noon. I would need to turn around and start the fourth lap immediately to stay on track for my six-lap goal. I felt stress akin to taking a test, trying to fill in the bubble sheet before time’s up. But my stomach rumbled, my head felt light. I needed lunch.
I walked to the aid station and mentally closed the window on my stretch goal. I gratefully took some tater tots and a quesadilla that tasted warm and filling, but I glumly realized that I wouldn’t get to six laps. I’m slower than I was in 2020. In spite of my diligent training, I couldn’t compensate for a slower pace and poor downhill skills.
My mood turned dark as I left the aid station to start the fourth lap. I committed to do one more lap, but really, what’s the point? Even though I was fortified with food, and briskly hiking up the mountain felt better than slippy-sliding down it, I wanted to be done.
I knew to put on my self-coaching hat and tell myself all the right things—that I was doing relatively fine, that I should complete five laps for a 50K because I’d regret dropping at four, and that today’s hard effort will make me physically and mentally stronger for races later in the season. But not meeting my stretch goal and feeling frustrated on the downhill were major blows to my spirit.
It’s funny what eventually made me recommit to do my best with the time remaining. It wasn’t the cheerful people around me, not even the energetic volunteer Katie at the summit who I met here four years ago and who I admire as a fierce ultrarunner. Not even the race director Jared Campbell, who role modeled supreme tenacity and positivity as he logged 12 laps in the 24-hour division even while taking time off the trail to triage storm-related problems (putting chains on the tires of shuttle vans that got stuck, erecting a new aid station tent after the first tent collapsed under the weight of snow). Not even Jared’s cute daughters, ages 10 and 7, who happily logged some laps as if it’s no big deal to scamper up and down this peak.
No, what relit a spark of determination in me was a song, which made me think of a movie, which made me think of Tonya Harding. The song was Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain, which I remembered was in a scene in the awesome 2017 biopic I, Tonya. I flashed back on Margot Robbie’s captivating performance as Tonya and imagined being that scrappy, strong underdog. She wasn’t very pretty and wasn’t very graceful, but she performed and landed her jumps through sheer willpower and practice. She got it done. I, Tonya.
I decided to finish five laps as best and fast as I could, and I did, in 10 hours, 20 minutes—approximately 31 miles and almost 14,000 feet of climbing. I placed 14th overall in the 12-hour division (4th female). Those ahead of me got six or seven done. I am in awe of the superhuman lead guy, Mike Cappi, who fit in eight laps in just under 12 hours (results).
For the past three days, I’ve felt extra fatigued and painfully sore, still unable to walk up and down stairs normally. My knees feel fine, but my quads suffered extreme muscle breakdown from the pulling force and impact of all those downhill strides.
While I’m glad I finished without dropping out prematurely, and glad I took part in this special event, I’m struggling with malaise, a feeling of not-good-enough. This is entirely in my head, no one’s fault but my own, and I know I’ll get over it. I’m sharing it here because I know other athletes, especially us aging ones, experience it. I guess having a stretch goal backfired.
I realize, looking ahead to ultras this spring and summer—especially my primary goal, the Grand to Grand Ultra in September—I probably shouldn’t race my past self and past times. I need to mentally wipe the slate clean and approach these events with a beginner’s mindset. I need to set the bar a bit lower, not higher. Paradoxically, I may do better if I take it a little less seriously, and care a little less, and try to have a little more fun.
Want to lift my spirits? Then please consider a donation to my Running Up For Air fundraiser. Ten bucks or more from 10 additional donors each would be great. Many thanks to friends who already chipped in: Brian, Cary, Christina, Chuck, Katie, Sheila, Sophie, and Soon-Chul and Naomi.
Related post
This weekend is the highly anticipated Black Canyon 60K/100K in Arizona. I wrote about it last year and focused on pain management: How do you assess and cope with it? What’s normal versus harmful pain? How does pain differ from discomfort and fatigue? How can it be linked to both frustration and pleasure? If it’s all in your head, then shouldn’t you be able to control it? Is it even real or just a figment of the imagination? Some of the strategies I wrote about in that post helped me at the Running Up For Air ultra last weekend.
2nd master's finisher overall and first female master's finisher! Eleven years older than anyone who finished ahead of you! At an event that clearly self-screens for strong ability. I'd say that's an impressive performance. 62 yr old sending cheers from Maine.
Boy Sarah, I get it! I’m sorry you didn’t reach your stretch goal, but cut yourself some slack - those conditions were insane! This is the hard part about going back to events where we had success as younger athletes - if we’re just focused on numbers, like # of laps or finishing time, it’s easy to get down on ourselves and think we’re degrading. But look at it this way: you matched what you were able to do as a younger athlete and in worse conditions! That’s cause for some amount of joy. I suspect what’s really getting to you is your loss of interest and motivation during the event. That whole “what’s the point?” feeling. We can’t control when that feeling happens; all we can control is our response. And you responded by taking care of your need for food and then gutting it out and finishing what you started. Sounds pretty much like a win to me.