The Real Deal on Tahoe

Warning: this is long, unlike my usual posts.  I make a vigilant effort to keep my blogs short and readable, but I didn’t want to spare you this experience in print.

It’s amazing to watch the thoughts come and go, and to try and channel them onto screen in between being grossly underslept and hungry days after the biggest physical challenge (to date) of my life.  One (almost) full week later and back at home, back to work and back to “life”, I am still adjusting.  My body feels great and I’ve done an awesome job at letting her rest and rebalance, but my nervous system is still not quite where I want it (heart rate is still up, sleeping still isn’t ideal, emotionally I still feel a bit imbalanced) and my hunger cues and wants aren’t normalized – yet.  I’m distracted by some puffiness in my body, trying to reboot itself one week after thousands of microtraumas occurred internally.  It’s easy to prepare for an event because you have a date on the calendar and know that it is coming, but it’s not as easy once it’s over, even if it’s temporary.  I am vulnerable, sensitive, and distracted.  I am distracted by my attachment to things I’m reading online and taking personally, trying to find my cocoon of spiritual centeredness while also celebrating with people around me that I do and do not know.

I digressed.  Tahoe was insane.  Mike and I got there on Tuesday mid-morning, which meant we left Baltimore very early and took 8+ hours to get across the country.  Weather for the first few days was perfect: 70’s during the day, 50’s-60’s at night.  We drove to Yosemite, went on a few hikes, took paddleboards out on the Lake, ate food, walked into and around town, went to the venue on Friday to pick up my packet and see the sights and then it was go time.

To say I was nervous is an understatement, and my nerves were coming out sideways.  I was taking things that weren’t even happening extremely personally, feeling burdensome and annoying and borderline insane.  Here was a guy who flew across the country with me, treating me to most of it (as he always does), and my mind was telling me that he doesn’t enjoy my company?  Please – LAUGH OUT LOUD!  But it’s how the mind works: it convinces you that what you are feeling and thinking is real, bleeds into assumptions based on those thoughts and feelings and then somewhere down the line, if you don’t catch it or let it go, it turns into its own monster and you watch yourself turn into a ridiculous child. 

My heart rate continued to rise throughout the week, which could’ve been any number of variables: flying across the country, time change, weird sleep changes, getting up too early too soon, elevation and altitude, nerves, stress – whatever.  In the end, it really doesn’t matter, but I was focusing on this and letting it bother me.  If it wasn’t my rising heart rate, I am certain that it would’ve been something else (like if I was tapering perfectly enough in a mountainous area I had never explored).  I was also mildly (read: very) stressed that I didn’t have 100% control over my food.  Now, this was a choice that I made when we got there.  We went grocery shopping for staples (breakfast and snacks for me), but not for lunch or dinner.  Typically, I make most of my meals and pack them, but I wanted to be more flexible and open given that I wasn’t alone, and I was in a new place.  For me, that shit sucks.  It’s hard, uncomfortable, worrisome and enormous growth for me.  It’s hard for me to not know what I’m eating exactly, especially heading into an event where I knew my body would need every available energy source possible (that is not code for eat like a glutton wherever and whenever possible, but to top off glycogen stores with clean carbohydrates a week leading up to the event).  It may seem trivial to many, but to someone who is banking on the food they’re absorbing to be useful and the best for an enormous undertaking in a few days while also in recovery from having a non-existent relationship with food, it was hard.  But I did it, and I put my faith in my body and myself and in God that I didn’t get all of the way to Tahoe to eat a few meals out and without measuring or cooking to blow up in a race.

Race day: I had been hawking the weather for weeks, watching it get colder and colder over that weekend.  And when I say colder and colder, I mean we went from 60’s at night to 30’s overnight, with the same wind that brought in the front.  I was prepared and I asked people I trusted that had done this many times and listened to them.  My tendency is to overdress which then makes you sweat and catch a chill, so I trusted that I’d be warm enough and the terror of the potential for hypothermia kept me moving.  I trusted that I would be able to handle the weather, that despite my resistance to cold anything, I did used to work outside in all seasons for a living.  I had also done hard things in winter, run in the snow and ice, and survived.  I added in short cold showers a few weeks ago and hadn’t died yet.

I got up at 4 AM to race at 6:15. I wanted breakfast 2 hours prior and time to empty the tank and get to the venue to drop off my transition bin and be ready to go.  Mike took a little video of me before the race, where I am pretty much speechless because I was so scared.  I had tears in my eyes facing the unknown: I had never raced in these conditions (cold, having to get into the colder water somewhere on course multiple times, never in this long of an event or this big, started that early in the dark, etc.).  I was afraid of my mind.  I was afraid I was going to fail.  I was afraid I was going to disappoint myself.  And that’s when it started to hit me.

I can’t disappoint myself if I show up and give it all I’ve got.  I can’t fail if I give my best effort and stay present for that effort – I am not a failure if I can’t do every obstacle presented.  I am not a failure if I cry, have to walk, can’t run the entire 31 miles on the mountain or shit myself.  I’m just not.  Leading up to the event I read a lot of positive books focusing on mindset, learned more about the science of endurance sports and channeled my attention to only those online that had insightful things to say.  The things I took with me came from both personal relationships and people I’ve never met.  I took to heart to not “should” myself at any point – there was no thinking I “should” be doing something differently, there was only acting.  I took to heart that there was no looking left or right at anyone else and remaining focused on myself and my own effort.  I took to heart to stay present out there on the course, and to me that meant not only being grateful for the opportunity to do this at all, but to hone in on the moment itself and not faulter. 

And before I toed the line, Mike said the perfect thing to me and that was to be patient.  He knows me best, and he knows I am not patient – with myself, with my performance, with other people, and often with life.  He knows I did the work and he knows I can do it, so him reminding me to just be patient was exactly what I needed to hear.  (His same knowing came afterward when he seemed the least excited about my win, to later learn he was not as enthusiastic because he wasn’t surprised at all.  He was there for the training efforts.  He was there for the practice with all things edible.  He was there for the 7:30 bedtimes on Friday, the double workouts on Monday, the grip training and the waddling through the unimaginable blister that plagued me mid-summer.)  Little did we know that my usual slow-to-warm-up-self would take about 4 miles to get in the game, all of which were up hill to start with lots of walls to tackle first.  Little did we know I’d have to power hike a lot of the beginning just to get my legs pumping and warm.  Little did we know that I’d have to fail an obstacle that normally is alright for me because they changed the backboard material on it, for me to do burpees and finally warm up that way.  Who knew burpees were a blessing!

And that’s how it went: not once did I let my attention go.  We started out and I barely lifted my head for the next 9 ½ hours.  I start slow, always.  I can push myself a little bit early, but this was not the time to do that.  I knew I needed to be strategic about how hard I went and when, so I allowed my legs the time they needed to stop feeling like blocks of concrete before I forced running when it wasn’t entirely necessary.  If I wasn’t running, I was hiking with conviction.  Every obstacle I approached I did what I knew to do.  I have seen most obstacles now several times, despite my infrequent race appearances.  One by one I stayed focused: over each wall, through the far apart and ascending monkey bars, the spear, the other hanging rigs that I tried like hell but sometimes fall off.  Every time I did burpees I didn’t pause – I just did 1 at a time until I hit 30, and then onward I went.  Not once was I the only one doing burpees, so my mind couldn’t bear the excuse that I was alone and terrible.  Another thing I committed to was being kind to myself for the duration of the race – if I failed an obstacle, it wasn’t a personal attack on Alison, it was simply a matter of likely exhaustion, technical deficiency or just how it fuckin’ went that day.  Staying present and positive was a game changer, because I usually don’t do both, at least not for the duration.

As we climbed higher, the wind got more serious, and by serious, I mean that it was hard to see, and it almost blew me over several times.  People had said it was windy at the top, but I couldn’t possibly know what they were talking about until I got there.  Every carry I did I never stopped – I marched step by step, regardless of how small, and went downhill as fast as I could without sacrificing my soundness.  I knew the pain of the carry (which is often overwhelming) was temporary, and that if I just kept going it would be over that much faster and even more temporary.  The kiss of death is to drop what you’re carrying and take a break – it stops your momentum, gives you an out and your mind starts to convince you that you can’t just finish the job.  But you can.  And so for all 6 carries: 2 buckets, an extra sandbag to plate, 2 sandbags and a farmers carry, I never stopped once.  I made up a lot of time here because most people do stop.  I just kept marching, focusing on it being over soon and kept my eyes in front of me.  I went around people that sat down or were too slow and just kept trucking.

I knew we were going to have a swim.  I prayed for it to be cold enough for them to close it, but they didn’t.  It was in the 40’s all day and the winds were incredible (making it low 30’s), but we still went into the water.  I put my windbreaker back on before we got in so I could run like hell as soon as I got out, knowing that was the only chance of survival and not getting cold.  People were stripping down and putting clothes in bags, but I knew I had no time for that.  I put my life jacket on and in I went, ready to hurt.  The guy in front of me was so slow I could envision drowning him, but that wouldn’t be very fair and so I just willed myself to go wide and around him and kept going.  The swim was short, but even in the minute or two I was in there I started to panic.  I could feel my legs slowing down involuntarily, my life jacket around my throat constricting my breathing and I was scared.  But I wasn’t alone.  I just kept moving and talked to myself out loud.  As soon as I got out, I started running.  Out loud I just kept repeating “you are OK, you are OK, you are OK”.  I was so incredibly proud of myself for even getting in there in the first place, that I knew I’d eventually warm up if I just kept moving.  And I did.

And back down the mountain we went.  I am not great downhill – it scares me.  I also have a day job that requires the use of my brain and hopefully a presentable face, so I am aware that any missteps could result in a much bigger problem than just that day.  So down I went, and steady I stayed.  No matter how annoyed and tired my quads were, I stayed on my forefoot and made choppy steps all the way down, around every turn, over every rock.  I paid attention to every step and just kept a rhythm.  I wasn’t flying, but I was keeping steady.  I have learned (and read) that it’s not who goes the fastest, but who slows down the least.  And I wasn’t slowing down.  I had my watch on keeping track of both mileage and time, but I couldn’t see it unless I pulled my sleeves up or mitten down.  I could feel the vibration every time I hit a mile, but I never looked to see.  I would check on the time here and there for fueling purposes only: every 30 minutes or as close as I could, I’d take in fuel.  I packed enough gels and bars for 7 hours on the mountain and am so grateful I had a variety to choose from.  I used to not fuel during races – I ran my first freaking marathon with no extra fuel!  I had electrolytes, but that’s simply not enough if you want to stay on top of your game.  Not once did I know how long I had been out there or what time it was.  I just used my watch to eat and because I started in the start corral with a gel, and every 30 minutes after no matter what, I never hit a wall.

It was amazing.  Not once did I feel like I couldn’t handle what was happening.  Not once did I feel like I couldn’t keep going at the pace I was sustaining.  Not once did I question my sanity or reasons for being there or ability to continue.  Not once did I stutter or feel tired or let my mind convince me I couldn’t do what I was doing in that moment.  Whenever I’d venture forward to an obstacle I was nervous about, I’d reel myself back in and stay where I was: on a hill, around a turn, wherever.  Whenever I’d go backward and replay an error or a triumph, I’d again reel it back in and stay where I was.  Leading into the race my hips and groin were really bothering me and it was making me nervous.  The Monday before the race I could hardly run downhill, but by the time the race came I was fine.  That’s why we taper and fuel and rest.  During the race my hips and groin never barked once.  I didn’t get a single blister.  My hands didn’t rip.

Not once did I have any idea that I was the leading woman in age group.  Most ultras had their jerseys visible, but mine was underneath my jacket despite my egos want for everyone to know who I was.  I would announce myself as I approached other racers moving more slowly that I was coming and wanting to pass, and the courtesy and respect every single racer showed the “Ultra coming on your left!” was undeniably amazing.  I cried in gratitude and awe at what I was doing because it wasn’t that long ago that I remember being those other racers, in agony and suffering wondering how they were going to finish one lap and seeing Ultras fly by them on their second.  It didn’t compute for me.  It still almost doesn’t, except now that Ultra was me.  I was the one flying by on their left.  I was the one lapping hundreds of people on my second lap.  All because I just kept going.  All because I refused to wander.  All because I put in the work and believed in myself and asked God to guide me every single step of the way.

I prayed throughout the entire race.  For those that do not know me: I am not religious.  I do not attend church and I do not believe in a certain named deity in the sky.  I do believe, though, that we are connected energetically to a source much wiser, much greater, and much more loving and kinder that wants us to succeed and to be our best selves.  I do believe that I am protected, guided, and nurtured so long as I take the next right action and do my best to show up and take care of myself and be of service to others.  And so I prayed to this energy the entirety of the race – I prayed for positivity.  I prayed for ability.  I prayed for strength.  I prayed for humility.   I prayed for presence of mind.  I prayed for the willingness to take care of myself and to spare my ego when I’d get to obstacles surrounded by spectators, that if my body was too tired I’d take the burpees and not put on a show.  I also prayed that I’d try my damn hardest to do what I could and not let go until it was forced. 

And that’s exactly what I did.  And even then, I did 270 burpees.  Even then, I couldn’t climb the rope the second time – my legs had nothing left.  Even then, I opted for burpees instead of this gnarly and soul-sucking awkward obstacle called “The Box” because although I had done it fine the first time, I just didn’t have it in me the second.  Even then, I came off the monkey bars in between some other twisting metal contraptions despite getting all of the other monkey bars (moving and not) on course.  Even then, I hugged the volunteer when he told me I didn’t have to swim a second time as I approached with tears in my eyes ready to fight.  Even then, I stayed on that mountain when the snow came and the lightning struck the top.  Even then, I peed myself twice just to keep moving.  Even then, I ran in and out of the transition area with my new pack, putting on the leader bib not knowing that it meant I was actually leading.  My ego said, “get your ass moving now!!!!” but my soundness said, “you didn’t get this bib by doing that” and stayed the course.

I made a lot of “friends” on course, and I always do.  Because I will always congratulate you for being out there, because I know how hard it is to get started.  Because I will always high five you or fist bump you, because I know how lonely it can be to run by yourself.  Because I will always crack jokes and be funny, because I know how much it hurts sometimes.  Because I will always ask if you’re OK, because I know how captivating the mind can be when you’re on the ground and suffering.  Because I will always hug you just for finishing, because showing up to contest yourself in conditions like we had is worth at least a hug, if not a whole lot more.  Because I will always tell you to keep going and that you can do it, no matter how big the sign in your brain says you cannot.  Because I will always tell you that you have more in the tank, because you do.  Because I will always smile at the camera and at fellow racers (so long as I’m not going downhill and going to fall), because that is where we connect.  Because we don’t connect on the podium in 1^st place by ourselves – we connect together in the effort and the drama that is beating ourselves and showing up at all.

I don’t think it’s struck me yet, just exactly what I’ve done.  I’ve never showed up this prepared.  I’ve never fed myself in order to perform, regardless of how I feel.  I’ve never been so present for the duration of anything in my entire life, except a few rides back in the day on my horses that required every ounce of myself and my mind.  I’ve never believed in myself that I could best my best effort and prove myself wrong.  I’ve never stayed true to the commitment to not to let my mind fuck me and ruin it for me, sabotaging my dreams and letting the disease tell me “see, you knew you couldn’t”.

And so, I did it.  And not only did I finish my first Ultra Beast – 31 miles, 70 obstacles, 9500 feet of elevation, a snowstorm with lightning (that shut some of the final obstacles down), but I won.  Not only did I get first for my age group, but I was the first female (of all age groupers) overall.  Not only did I get that, but I would’ve been top 6 in elite.  WHAT!  I say it again (and again …) because it’s surreal.  Me?  Professional saleswoman by day, dog mom by afternoon, girlfriend in between and recovering woman at all times – me?  I won something I never thought I could even finish.  I won something I wasn’t even going to do a few weeks ago because I was cowering to my fear and to my merciless mind telling me that I couldn’t.

Just that morning I was comparing the size of my full hydration pack with 7 hours’ worth of fuel to everyone else’s small pack.  Just that morning I was looking around at all of the different bodies.  Just the day before I was doubting my ability to post, judging my body for not being small or fit enough or having a certain look.  And just like that, in the course of less than 10 hours, I blew those fucking messages to bits.  Not once during that race did I doubt the size of my hydration pack or my fuel sources as I passed person by person, lying on the side in cramps.  Not once during that race did I worry about my love handles or my stomach, as I passed person by person on every carry.  Not once during that race did I think that I didn’t belong, all the way up until the finish.

In fact, and with no arrogance, it really wasn’t that hard for me.  Because I was ready.  Because I did the work.  Because I took care of myself.  Because I believed.  Because I got out of my own way.  And in getting out of the way, the lifelong narrative that has plagued me that I am “not enough”, “not worthy”, “different (in a negative way)”, “incapable”, “too fat”, “too slow”, “too …” insert anything appropriate according to the day has been proved wrong.  I can no longer say that my body cannot handle an effort I assign it.  I can no longer say that I don’t know how to take care of myself.  I can no longer say that it’s too cold, I’m too scared, or it’s too hard.  I can no longer say that I’m unable.  I can no longer say that you have to look a certain way to produce a certain result.  I can no longer say that I’m too slow or not talented enough.  I can no longer say that it won’t happen for me.

Because it did.  And I can.  And I will.

And I bet you can, and you will, too.