Indeed, I’ve limited my uncomfortable experience practice to finish the book this year, but this practice is one you must keep doing once it sinks into you.
As I’ve mentioned, what’s uncomfortable is quite personal. There’s plenty of people who’d fancy a 50 any given Sunday like Mitch Thrower, Ryan Alfred, Travis Steffen, and Matt Clifford. Though I’ve done 3 marathons (one that was a trail in Death Valley), I assumed this 50 miles one would be uncomfortable, to say the least.
It was. I did win 2nd in my age category, but I’m sure there were three of us in total. I didn’t have the energy to ask and figured ignorance is certainly bliss in glory, ha. Like a number of these uncomfortable experiences, I’ve found myself in a moment of thinking, “OH F. This is BEYOND the level I thought I signed up for.” There were about 100 runners, many whom have done 100-mile ultras and several 50 milers. Before the race and after chatting with a few of the old-timers, I realized this course was no joke. Not for novices, not for little, limber runners like me who are used to paved, wide roadways and combed, leafless trails. I imagine the old hats have a name for clueless newbies like me, similar to “sparkle ponies” at Burning Man. Whatever. I made it. Many parts were through paths just the size of your foot, through several grueling up hill sections, over knobby tree branches in the Muir forest, and over rocky sections where one misstep was a sprained ankle for certain. Though brutal, it was just beautiful. I have a real appreciation for NorCal scenery (and respect) like never before.
Motivation is a funny thing. Sometimes you get it when you compare yourself to others who are physically, tangibly “ahead of you” and think, “okay, I can surely beat THAT.” It’s a fun game to play while you’re out there for 11 hours. There’d be a guy at least double my age ahead of me with a little potbelly, and I’d think, “Okay. COME ON now,” and I’d eventually catch up to him. At the starting line, I was surveying the runners, a motley group of folks age 20 to 70, all shapes and sizes. There were the “serious” ones with their gear bags, strapped on gels, technical watches, and latest slick camelbacks or gear bag flaunted like the “it” Prada bag of the season at New York Fashion Week. There were the short, weathered ones looking like they just came from Burning Man, complete with rubber chickens, feather ribbon crap, and some tie-dye attire, obviously custom made. There were the brawn “bros,” in just tank tops and shorts, psyching each other up with, “Dude, dude. We like, totally, got this.”
I didn’t have a bag, just my water bottle, and a sweatshirt with a few zip pockets where I’d stuff peanut M&Ms in for mid-aid station motivation. “If you get to THAT hill, I’ll give you FIVE M&Ms,” and such is what I’d tell myself. I ate a lot of fucking M&Ms. My mental space was consumed on getting to the runner in front of me and to the next aid station. There were 11 aid stations, and I ticked them off one by one. Once I made it to the aid station after the halfway mark, I knew the 17 miles or so left were in the bag. At this point, I also played the game of "how many things can I be grateful for," and I came up with more than 90 things, including the fact that I could physically even attempt this course.
I came in right as the sun was setting, and it was stunning. Many runners were still out on the course and would be using headlamps until the close of the course at 11 pm. I made “no headlamp” part of my motivating mantra as well.
I can’t say I’d recommend such a grueling experience to anyone, but an ultra is a good test of grit, endurance, and determination. One of the older runners said, “You’ll get used to them! And then you’ll get ready for a 100 one.” I didn’t have the heart or breath to tell him this was a ONE TIME experience.