Brazos Bend 100: a Note on Not Finishing

The cold sat in my ribcage, aggravated with my heavy breaths. Smoke billowed from my mouth and nostrils as I sucked in and blew out the cold and damaging air. My right foot drug. I would push it ahead with my right hand to slightly in front of my center of gravity, then push off of my left foot to pivot forward. Every once in a while I would hit a rock and cry out in pain or become frustrated reaching even a small incline, as it made the laborious process that much more challenging. 

When I would cry out from the pain, Jessy would stop and turn. While I would be doubled over and catching my breath, she would count to ten. At ten, I would straighten up and we would continue forward. 

This awkward and painful march took us over the final seven miles of my fourth of six loops at the Brazos Bend 100. I signed up for this December race one night this past summer. I was sitting in a camping chair in my kitchen looking at races and drinking a margarita while Jessy stirred vegetables in a pan for tacos. I had been considering doing the 100 mile distance for a few months after falling in love with Ultra Running and the culture that goes with it. I wanted to test my body against one of the communities highest revered challenges.

In the Ultra community, running a “Hundo” or hundred mile distance is a typical goal, and one that takes many runners a few tries to complete. Once done, many runners do several others and turn it into a lifestyle. Outside of the ultra community, most people are so far from even fathoming this feat, they fail to care, even a little. 

This has been a fascinating piece of my journey with Ultras. I remember last year around this time, I completed the Dallas half marathon. I was proud of my two hour finish and told some friends who all congratulated me, asked questions and conversed about it. When telling those same friends of my journey over thirty-, forty-, and sixty-mile distances, their eyes glaze over and the conversation moves on. 

And now, it is a cold December night. I have retreated to a tent full of strangers who were kind to offer a blanket and chair. I covered myself and tried to stop shivering. My hip flexors were rigid and pain radiated despite my bent over position in the chair. With every shiver and convulsive chill, the pain was shocking how it travelled quickly down my legs and into my core. I began to spasm in my calves from dehydration and cold tears sat on my cheeks. 

My journey to this moment began with a margarita in a camping chair and has taken me on some intense highs and lows. In October, I travelled to Togo, Africa, experiencing the third world for the first time. While abroad, I met amazing people and formed friendships that will last forever. We visited fair trade production sites and volunteered at a local village, constructing a school. I was drawn to how joyful the Togolese were, despite their hard circumstances. 

After Togo, I met Jessy in Paris and we spent four days touring the city of Love. We walked everywhere, experiencing amazing food, outstanding architecture, and letting the city engulf us with beauty and culture. We flew home, only to load up the car and travel north to Talequah, Oklahoma, where Jessy would be making her second Hundo attempt. 

On the jeep roads of the Pumkpin Hollar Hundred race, I found a new piece of myself. I ran the 50k distance that Saturday morning, the second day I was back in America and then was going to pace Jessy on her final loop through the night. I was mentally overwhelmed from my travels out of Africa, through Paris, and now in a park in central Oklahoma wearing running shoes and pushing my bodies limits. Jessy and I were both jet lagged and exhausted.

I finished the 50k with an age group award despite mental and physical frustration throughout the run. Afterward, I tried to sleep but my mind was still racing over everything I had experienced across the ocean. Jessy ran into her own troubles earlier than expected on her run and the weather was bringing horrendous rain, hail and tornado-like conditions. I followed her out as pacer on her second loop, wanting to be there for her. 

Unfortunately, I learned the hard way, that a pacer must be in control of their mind and body before even thinking of helping an ailing runner. I was exhausted, distracted and my body hurt. 

The loop was 29 miles and over that 29 miles, I tried my hardest to guide her and assist her plight, but instead I failed to eat at aide stations, swerved along the trail from blurred vision and spent much of the time hallucinating. (I was quite convinced there were broken toys littered along both sides of the trail. There were not.)

I did follow the first rule of pacing though, and that is that never let the runner know that things are going wrong. I stayed with her and tried to make her laugh and tell her stories from Africa. I did Togolese dances for her and we yelled at the rain, laughed at the hail, and marveled at the lightening. I finished one loop with her, then Jessy went out for one more, moving strongly and powerfully to her first 100-mile finish. 

That was October. In November, I was signed up for the Dino Valley 100k. This would be my last big push to prep for the Brazos Bend 100. I was still in a mentally weird state thinking myself a failure for my poor pacing, my mind stuck with the culture and people I was a part of in Africa, and also adjusting to life in my own home. 

Jessy and I lived together with her two children, ages five and nine. The three of them bring so much joy to my life. Waking up to bare little feet running on hard wood floors, alarms for school, or tiny humans trying to sneak the remote, or iPad or halloween candy from the room is also a new lifestyle and experience. Having the little ones around creates daily challenges, especially when considering training and recovery. No matter the circumstances though, the needs of my new little tribe supersede whatever may be written on any training plan. 

As I towed the start at Dino Valley, despite feeling undertrained, I was excited to run. The park was beautiful and the course was a gorgeous jaunt through magnificent woody scenery. There was difficult terrain, lots of climbing, and a variety of pathways. Over rivers, sand, rocks and roots, I ran my way to my first 100k finish with a second place female victory in hand. 

I boasted about this victory, but was congratulated much more for my energy and smile than for the completion of course. I love to run, and it shows. I try to bring positive energy with me to every race and people feel that. Though tired, hungry, sweating or cold, when I am running I am smiling because I am happy. 

But at this moment, I don't think I was smiling. Jessy had joined me under the tent and was watching me shiver. We made a plan to go lay down in the car where I had a sub zero mummy-style sleeping bag. We were going to zip up and rest for one hour and then try to go out on the course again. I wanted to finish, and as it was still only 16 hours into the race, I had plenty of time to try and recover. 

I limped and carried my leg over the 200 yards to the car. I stumbled twice before collapsing into the passenger seat. Jessy lay behind me and wrapped her arms around me, covering me and wishing my pain away. 

When I woke an hour later, my friend Keith had arrived in the park and was coming to provide some moral support. He jumped in the car and began to assess the situation. It was now 1:00 am and the temperature was below freezing. I was wet with sweat, wearing all the layers I had, and still could not lift my right leg without assistance. 

“Well.. You can finish if you want to, but it will suck and it will break your body down even more.”

“Yea… but I really want to.”

“You have to work still. Do you think finishing will put you out for a while.”

“Yea…… but I still want to finish…”

“You’re signed up for another 100 in February, Correct?”

“Yea…. Finishing this was partly training for that.”

“If you do this, will your body be healed and ready for another push in two months?”

“No.”

Keith told us stories from his night at work as a Houston Police Officer. Jessy told him of her own arrival to the park. I was hurting, and knew I would be racing daylight so was bundling up for my fourth loop to go alone. She ran up seconds before I ran out, literally just in time to go out and pace me. 

After a few moments more they both checked in with me again, 

“Okay, what do you want to do?”

My mind was floating and everything seemed slow. I saw images from Togo, of happy and proud Africans showing proud displays of their lives farming small swaths of land or expertly picking, cleaning and slicing coconuts. Ingenious designs of lean to shelters for homes and beautiful patterned clothing all made by hand. I remembered how it felt to feel tired and helpless on the jeep trails in Oklahoma while pacing Jessy, but also the joy that exuded from her when she crossed her finish line. I remembered all the kind volunteers from Dino Valley complimenting the huge smile I wore while running that challenging course.

Then I let my mind float to the trails that lay ahead this night. I needed another two loops through freezing temperatures. Day would not break for another six hours, so the majority of those two loops would be in pitch dark. I was still shivering and my hip remained locked, so I would have to finish the distance at a slow pace, possibly limping the entire time. There was no joy in that.

I started the race thinking a finish would be tough, but almost inevitable. I had travelled the world, I had finished and been placing in races all year, I was at my peak fitness despite several life obstacles. The journey to a 100 mile finish was tougher than any of those other obstacles I had faced. You can move through so many things in life and find yourself on the other side, for better or for worse, but I realized getting that finish, it is an endurance deal longer than just one race.

I did not go back out for the final loops. I did not finish Brazos Bend 100. I am still on my 100 mile journey. And I now know nothing is inevitable and it will always be tough. In February, I will tow another start and seek another finish. If there, too, my body breaks down or my mental state fails me, I will make the choice to continue or not. But, no matter what, my journey will not stop.