Eva Runs Through It

Mark asked about my blog.  “It’s about comfort zones”, I told him.  “Do you have one?” he asked deadpan.  In the world of ultra-running, there are many things that can take me very uncomfortable.   It’s probably why I am drawn to it.   The night before a 100-mile race is always very lonely for me.   This is compounded when I am at a race site far from home and alone.   It makes me crave a hug…just a moment when I don’t have to be strong.   Not knowing anyone at the C+O Canal 100, made getting that hug out of reach, so I had to put on my big girl panties, suck it up, and take care of what needed to be done.   And, after having a good cry, something I usually reserve for the first few miles, that is what I did. I believe one of the reasons I have such an uncomfortable time before big races is that the race itself is so uncomfortable. I’ve heard it said many times that ultra-running is 90% in your head, and the rest is mental.  ...

I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve taken him to the Emergency Room…how many admissions…the surgeries…the spinal taps…the tests…all the diagnoses.   I do remember the ambulance ride he took, when his blood pressure and other vital signs were so low, that they told us to “prepare for any outcome”.      We weren’t told that he was a fighter, or that he was strong.   Repeatedly, we were told his limitations. Noah had a rough go, and it showed in his personality.   He was painfully shy.   Day after day, I would go to pick him up from school, and he would be at the “crying table” because he said he missed me.   He was afraid of everything.   As I sit in this hotel room now, listening to him sleeping soundly, I can hardly believe it is the same person.   Yesterday, we finished our rim to rim to rim (R2R2R) hike of the Grand Canyon. I didn’t want to take him.   I had planned on it being a solo trek, but he had other plans....

I remember running with Rog at Bond Lake.   We had hit the hills for the gazillionth time, and I wanted a break.   I could see the trails and suggested we move our torture session to some switchbacks.   Our conversation went something like this: R:   You’ll love it.   But, I’ll only take you if you promise me you won’t run there by yourself. E:   Rog, I know what I look like.   I can take care of myself.   I’ll be fine. R:   It won’t matter.   Just promise me E:   Do YOU run there by yourself? R:   Yes, but that’s different Such is the double standard for men and women runners.   Men simply don’t have to think about some of the things that women do when they spend hours and hours alone, in remote areas.   Although I’m sure personal safety crosses their mind, for me, as a woman, I can never let the threat of the Boogie Man wander far from the forefront of my thoughts. I never forget that the bars i...

When I finally got to the starting line of the Rock and Roll Marathon in Washington DC, I reached down and rubbed my thighs, and thought, ‘Okay legs….you know what to do…” My legs.   They aren’t pretty.   I simply don’t think of them in those terms.   They are hard…bruised…scarred…strong.   It is rare for me to have more than six toenails at any given time.   My own husband once remarked, that they are so muscular,   I look like a transvestite when I wear a skirt. But, oh the places those gams have taken me. I get up early, really earl, to run.   It’s my legs that get me out of bed, against all protests from my mind.   I talk to them before I close my eyes at night, “ok girls, tomorrow it’s a long one---hills”, and when my eyes open, they are ready,    mechanically taking me out the door.   On training runs, they run on auto-pilot.   They free my mind to wander…appreciate my surroundings…figure things out…empty. ...

If you’ve run with me, you’ll know that I don’t like starting lines.   I’ve learned to handle tapers, gear packing, and pre-race nutrition, but starting lines still give me apprehension.   If it’s a 100-mile race, that apprehension starts the night before.   I become introverted, pensive…okay, I’m a train wreck.   I’d like to say that once the race starts, that all is good, and off I go.   Again, my friends know to give me my space at the start.     I’ve learned not to implement my race plan until mile 4.   That’s when I come back to “me”, and finally get myself in my groove. I’ve noticed a certain pre-race energy.   There is almost always 20-30 minutes before a race, which you are standing around, just waiting to do your thing.   All racers are different, but many approach the start in similar manners.   Some size-up competitors, subtly (or not so) asking about previous race times.   Some recite their race resu...

Tuesday: I’m not getting sick.   I’m not getting sick Wednesday:   D ammit! It wasn’t a big sick; you should hear the convoluted way I blamed it on the chicken silo.   But, it was a sick that jepordized my ability to make it to the Beast starting line.    I didn’t know if I’d be up to running, but promised myself that if I did, I would embrace the opportunity to do what I truly love.  By Friday, all signs pointed to me making it to the starting line.   But, as fate goes, I made it...15 minutes after everyone else had already started.   DFL, but grateful to be there. Locking my keys in the car and the dash to get going threw me a bit off balance.   My friend Denise saw my discombobulation and hugged me.   Sometimes all I need is a hug to get back on track.    Okay…game on. I was grateful to be running.   I promised myself not to dwell on the obstacles put in front of me.   I would “embrace the suck”....

 It’s the big one for me.  It’s the toughest race I do, and I’ve been at the starting line for every event.  The problem is, I’ve not always found the finish line.  I’ve DNF’ed twice on the course, at the 100k (bears psyched me out) and the 100 miler (I took a beating and couldn’t find a way to recover).  According to my friend Nick, it's my unicorn. I’ve spent the last year, focused on getting this job done.   I worked my butt off with relentless training.   Yes, by building physical strength, but more importantly by building my mental toughness. Mark tells me that he knew I turned a corner one day, when I told him I no longer cared if I finished or not.   Oh, I WANTED a finish, but I wasn’t going to let a non-finish define me.   I knew I had trained as hard as I possibly could, and if I ddin’t find the finish line, it would be because of something very far out of my control.   He told me that my taper was the most serine he ha...