My body vibrates with excitement and nerves. Can I run 40 miles?
Matt, friend A., and I pull into Parc national des Hautes Georges in La Malbaie, Quebec.
A blow-up arch marks the start line.
At the car, I pull on my bulging running vest, filled with one liter of water and dozens of energy blocks, waffles, and syrup packets.
Matt and A. wish me luck. With nerves and excitement, I walk to the start line.
The front waves depart. I ready myself, shuffling up to the start line.
The countdown for my wave begins:
Dix. Neuf. Huit. Sept. Six. Cinq. Quatre. Trois. Deux. Un!
I am off!
People cheer. The sun shines. I jog easily. (This moment is captured in video above.)
Everything feels possible.
The trail exudes magic.
I run between tiny trees as people stand on small boulders to cheer us on. As I dip down, a mountain vista spreads out before me.
The sloping trail pulls me downward to the first stop;
I descend powerfully.
Ow! Suddenly, I feel a stinging on my inner leg.
I swat a bug away. I look down … at a wasp!
My inner leg throbs with pain.
A wasp sting on my leg with 39 miles to go? I think, Will I be okay?
I run in a snake of runners, with people behind and in front.
We come to a wide mud pit and neatly log-hop around it.
A runner flies up from behind and flings himself through the sloppy pit.
He yells, “Embrassez la boue!”
Embrace the mud!
I laugh. He’s right. Embrace the mud! Embrace the mess!
I quickly reach the Geai Bleu aid station, where I fill my hydration bladder with two liters of water.
I am on schedule. The Coyote aid station beckons.
Only 9.5 miles and 1,870 feet elevation gain to my next stop.
Up. Up. Up. I hike the uphills as planned.
However, the racers in front of me walk slowly
for the ups and the downs.
The racers move like we are on a midday stroll.
In this bottleneck, dozens of racers clog together.
I speak in English, “I feel like we are out for a gentle walk.”
“Can we pass?” a woman asks.
“I don’t know.” I respond.
Two women go for it, assertively pushing their way around the crowd. I watch them jealously. Then a man goes for it.
Trampling the moss, he skirts around the walkers on the narrow trail.
I eye him jealously and start running around the walkers, too.
I haven’t figure out the French translation yet of “I am passing on the left.”
“Je passe,” I declare. (I pass.)
I run past most of the line and catch up to the man. As he makes a move to pass the front two walkers who caused the bottleneck, I join him.
Gleefully, I steal away, at last able to run free.
Now, I make up for lost time.
As I run with other racers, I listen to their French conversations.
I understand only a few words.
Unlike English-based races, I cannot amuse myself with their stories because of my lack of comprehension.
In a foreign country, in a foreign language,
I want to learn the race etiquette.
How does one pass other racers in French?
How does one encourage other racers in French?
As I run, I pass the time by listening carefully as each person passes me.
“Je passe … gauche,” I hear. (I pass … left.)
I try my hand at passing.
Then, “Je passe à la gauche.” (I pass on the left.)
I listen again to the next runner.
Did they say just à gauche? I wonder.
Finally, I say, “Je passe à gauche,” as I pass.
I listen again to the next passerby,
“Je passe à gauche.”
I got it! I am nailing my français at mile 20.
Next, I listen for encouragement.
“Bon cours!” some say to me. (Have a good course!)
“Bon courage!” others say with heart. (You can do it, or Keep it up!)
Every runner talks to me in French.
An ultra-race and an ultra-French class, all in one.
I loved plants.
A unique UNESCO biosphere, Parc des Hautes Georges enchants me with little trees, moss carpets, and fairy-like ground plants.
I want to stop and be mesmerized by the plants, but I cannot.
I have to run. I stare at each fairy-plant; I wonder,
What is your name? What do you love? Will you be my friend?
Moss surrounds me as I climb uphill.
I want to touch it. I can no longer resist the pull of nature.
I pause, very briefly, and run my hand over the velvety moss. So soft.
Oh yes. I am in love with the plants.
I meet a new friend: N.
He’s from New Brunswick and speaks both English and French fluently.
I enjoying running and chatting with an Anglophone.
N. likes to run a race that is more than his age,
which is how he chose to run this 65K.
N. was the one friend I made that day.
On my long, impossible-feeling run,
I am no longer alone.
I pull ahead of N.
I feel unprepared for the rock mazes under my feet.
I pick my way through the labyrinth of stone.
I run where I can.
Like a mantra, my coach’s words ring through my mind.
On downhills, I repeated her wisdom to me:
lean forward and touch quickly.
Touch. Touch.
I use gravity to pull me down.
On the flat parts, I remembered my coach saying,
“Imagine yourself running strong.”
When I remember that,
I recall the physical feeling of running strong earlier in the week.
It empowers me to run more strongly.
As part of my race plan, I walk uphill and eat simultaneously.
That part feels like rest to me.
By the time I pull out of the woods onto the dirt road to Épervier,
I am flying high.
Endorphins fill my body as I power toward the aid station.
I am so glad that I did not sign up for the marathon only, I think.
I want to run 40 miles today,
or so my endorphins tell me ….
At Épervier, someone motions for me to hold my hands out.
I do as they spray water on them.
I see other people move their wet hands to their face to cool down.
I do the same.
I fill my reusable cups with Spark and chips.
I drink and eat while I walk. No time to slow.
When I am done, I stow my cups in my vest, and I run.
An hour ahead of planned pace, I have hope.
I only have 14 miles left. How hard could those miles be?
Why are there so many stinking rocks?
I feel demoralized by the incessant rocks.
My exhausted mind makes my feet dance around the boulders.
The IT band on the side of my knee
starts to hurt on the downhills.
My body feels like it is falling apart.
Every step of my jog takes intense effort.
The seams of my shorts rub my skin raw.
Ow.
Like mantras, I repeat the instructions of my coach.
All other thinking escapes my numbed mind.
Lean forward and touch quickly.
Imagine yourself running strongly.
I am only a body.
Touch. Touch.
Ow.
Pulling into the Näak aid station, my body moves me where I need to go.
I eat oranges and chips. I drink Spark.
I sit down on a folding chair mindlessly
and lather Squirrel Nut Butter onto my raw skin.
I make a deal with myself:
I let myself remain at the aid station for fifteen minutes.
At the end of that time, I have to move my body.
My brain and body feel foggy.
I try to feel human again in that brief break.
I have run for 8 hours and 19 minutes.
I still have nine miles and 1,638 feet of elevation gain left.
N comes in and we celebrate how far we come.
I wish him well, and he encourages me to press on.
And so, I do; my body stands up and moves.
Uphill: Why are the last miles uphill?
I power hike up the steepest hill of the race.
My legs feel tired; still, this section feels like a break from running.
I barely remember this section.
At the summit, I start my slow, sluggish run down.
Touch. Touch.
Ow.
By the time I pull into the Montagne Noire aid station,
I have run 9 hours and 55 minutes.
Someone has a spray bottle for me again.
I hold my hands out and feel the cool liquid coat my hands.
I move to place the cool liquid on my face again when I hear,
“Non! Non!”
A bunch of French words followed.
“I speak English,” I replied hazily.
“It’s to clean your hands!” The lady replied.
“Oh no!” I replied, looking at my hands, dazed.
The sanitizer now stings my face.
“The food is over there,” the lady responds, helpfully.
“Thank you,” I respond and I plod toward the snacks.
I take another 15-minute break here.
I have 4.5 miles left downhill.
I am an hour ahead of the race cut off.
I need to take care of myself, because my goal is to finish.
I eat, drink electrolytes, and lubricate the chafed parts of my body.
I don my headlamp as darkness is descending.
I am exhausted,
but what I want more than anything is to endure.
Help me to finish, I ask the universe.
N. pulls into the station.
We offer brief words of encouragement in English again.
It is nice not to be alone for a moment.
I treasure the feeling. Then I turn my face to the trail,
and run on.
My body hurts with each stride.
The world narrows around my headlamp.
My foggy mind focuses only on the next step.
I look for race markers
as the trail intersects with a gravel road.
A head lamp ahead of me bobs up and down in the opposite direction.
Did they miss the turn?
I call out to them, to warn them: Go this way.
They do not hear me.
I go straight ahead into the black night.
This is the right way, I think.
Suddenly, I am bereft of race markers.
I realize I am the one that is lost.
I go back to where I started.
I move in the direction of the bobbing headlamp.
I find a marker. The trail did take a sharp turn.
I turn into the woods.
A mud puddle covers the path, deep like a wading pool.
There is no away around.
What do I do?
Embrassez la boue!
Embrace the mud!
I run through the mud.
The dirty water covers my ankles and splashes my legs.
My shoes and socks are now soaked.
What can I do?
I embrace the mess.
My life constricts to the glow of my headlamp.
Time no longer exists.
My thoughts have stopped.
Light bobs, and my body slogs on.
At last, I noticed signs of civilization, a building here and there.
A marker indicates that there is only a kilometer to the finish.
A group of people catch up and begin to run beside me.
Un kilomètre! I shout joyfully to them in French.
“We are the champions, my friends!” They are singing in English.
“And we’ll keep on fighting till the end.
We are the champions. We are the champions …”
A race volunteer waves to us energetically as we pass by.
“Bon courage!” he cheers.
Maybe. Just maybe I can finish.
Water slops in my shoes.
Mud streaks my legs like I am a warrior: Warrior Joy.
I am one with my light, which tells me where to shuffle my body.
I am my light: light and my senses my only fuzzy awareness.
Suddenly, I feel the ground slope sharply beneath my feet
as I propel downhill. My body starts to run fast
as the trail opens to the final stretch. I can see the finish line.
People cheer loudly on both sides of me.
I reach the howling wolves, which mark the finish line.
I run through them. In 11 hours 23 minutes 28 seconds, I did it!
Matt and A. approach me,
congratulating me through the haze of my mind.
A. tries to hug me and I jump, as if I am startled that I still exist.
My thoughts arise jumbled and tangled.
I stay at the finish line, watching for N.,
but he is farther behind me than I thought.
After ten minutes of watching, it occurs to me to take care of myself.
I sit down with Matt. I drink and eat. He hands me a bag of clothes.
I go to the bathroom to change.
I put the layers of my clothes on wrong.
I have to stare at them for several long minutes.
Where does each piece of clothing go?
I look at the clothes like a puzzle
until I successfully dress myself at last.
As my victory lap, I claim my post-race food.
Shoveling food into my body,
I relax at last. I endured emotionally and physically.
I ran forty miles through the rugged Quebec mountains.
I am an ultra-marathoner.
I am now ready for my next year of life.
Thank you to the race volunteers and staff, my fellow racers, my loved ones, my coach, and the sacred who carried me through my adventure. My life is more beautiful because you are here.
Joy of the Journey 