I just ran my first 50k.
It’s my third official ultra. My first was 50 miles at this time last year, Cactus Rose, and my second was 100k (or 62 miles) last January—Bandera.
Though no race goes *as planned,* overall I was pretty satisfied with my first two performances. I didn’t meet my goal time for either, but my goal times were at least a little ambitious, and I knew that. I was able to reframe around my successes and feel great, in the end, about those races.
I was ambitious about my goal time for this ultra too. I gave myself a couple of other reasonable scenarios to index from, so that my goal could remain flexible, allowing me to respond to whatever the day gave me. But I really didn’t anticipate failing to meet my “worst case scenario” goal.
Which is what happened.
At Cactus Rose, I ran a really consistent first 25 miles, then had a really rough spot for four miles before settling into an effort that I could work with for the remainder of the race.
Accounting for increased fitness, a less rugged course, cooler weather, and a stronger ultra mindset, I was very confident that 7:30 was only a time I’d hit if things went very wrong.
Again, considering that the Bandera course was not only much harder than the east Texas 50k course I was planning, but also twice the distance, I felt pretty strongly that 7:00 was a reasonable outside estimate at a 50k time for me. You, know, in case I wasn’t having a strong day.
I like to provide Patrick with approximate times of when I’ll be coming into aid, so I printed out a 6:00 hour chart (kind of my “WOW” goal; things could always go better than expected, right?) and a 6:30 chart, which I thought was more reasonable. He knew that 7:00 hours was possible too, but I didn’t even print that chart out.
I cannot tell you how disappointed I was to see my finish time after my fifth and final lap as nearly seven hours and thirty minutes. My official time? 7:28:30.
What went wrong?
My aid station stops were all very efficient. I got what I needed, and kept moving. I stopped to pee twice. My Garmin shows my total “idle” time for the entire 50k as three minutes and fifty-two seconds. Not even four minutes of stop time over four aid station stops, and two bathroom breaks—pretty impressive.
I’d charted what I needed, Patrick had my vest stocked and ready to go at each planned stop, and when I grabbed unplanned nutrition at the aid station table, I made my decisions quickly, then moved out.
That sub four minute aid station delay includes, by the way, the unplanned stop where I paused for a hydrocortisone application . . .
So here’s how the course worked:
We began at the yellow dot. This was the start and finish line, and the one aid station on course. One 10k lap consisted of two 5k loops. 50k runners ran the A loop first, the B loop second, and then repeated that sequence five times.
If a runner desired, they could stop every 5k at the aid station.
My race plan included the option to grab anything I needed every 5k, but carry enough hydration and nutrition for 10k, so that I only *needed* to stop when a vest switch was planned.
This “as needed” option came in handy following my second time around the A loop . . .
Yellow jackets.
I can’t even. I don’t think I can do the experience justice in writing. Let’s just summarize with this: I was NOT the only runner stung, and I was only average in terms of how many stings I sustained.
So add a quick hydrocortisone application to all of the parts I could access (I didn’t think it was worth it to remove my compression sock to treat the sting on my ankle.) and I’d say my aid station stops were pretty darn efficient.
So was it the yellow jacket incident?
I can’t know for sure how that affected the overall picture, but I really don’t think the stings slowed me down. I yelped in the moment, took stock of what my reactions were, noticed the pain, and just kept running. To be honest, I found the stings much more painful (and itchy!) that evening and over the next few days then when I was running.
I did get my period mid-race . . .
I felt it start somewhere after the yellow jacket incident. My first day is never super heavy, and though I knew I had a period product in my race bag with Patrick back at the start/finish line, I made the call to just free bleed. For the most part the menstruation was absorbed by my compression shorts; the small amount of blood dried onto my right thigh where my shorts stopped would barely be blinked at in an ultra community.
(In 2002, at the only road marathon I ever ran, I finished with blood on my inner thighs as well; but that time it was from chaffing. I remember one of my female friends asking if I needed a period product at the finish line because she was sure that my cycle had started during my run! Blood is blood, I guess.)
Honestly, I gave my period very little thought once I knew it was happening. I felt a small uterine cramp precisely one time. I’m just not sure that my period had much to do at all with my disappointing race result.
My hope for this race was to run the back half as strong as I ran the front. I’ve written about negative splits, and how much I enjoy this kind of racing strategy, but the longer the race the less likely it is to actually be able to execute on this approach—at least time-wise. It is possible to run the second half *stronger,* it’s just unlikely that you can actually run *faster.* So my goal was to run the first two to three laps conservatively, then hold steady (or slow down as minimally as possible) for the last two laps. The intent was to not slow down as much as the other racers out there.
I succeeded in running the first two laps conservatively. I was running within myself, keeping the effort fully aerobic, and feeling like I could run all day.
But somewhere in the third lap, I started to wane. In longer efforts, it’s totally normal to have lulls in the energy, so I didn’t worry too much, and kept at it.
And then I felt my left leg start to make noise. After my 100k last winter, I experienced IT band issues for a few weeks—it was that same kind of pain on the outside of my knee. Post 100k, this issue was resolved through strengthening my left glute and hip, and since then I’ve been very aware of when I need to cycle those strengthening exercises back into my weekly routine. The knee starts to whine, and I put a little extra love into that glute and hip, and it’s been very easy to manage since that initial flare up.
It took me by surprise, but I knew what it was.
My thoughts were: “I don’t want to DNF over IT band pain. I’ve got to get my glute and hip to do their jobs! “ So I very mindfully worked at *using* those muscles to keep moving, and I gradually felt the IT band submit. I did not deal with anymore knee pain for the rest of the race, but I did slow down significantly. And somewhere in lap four, my left quad started to give out. It would work, but I wasn’t able to flow downhill anymore—I began to shorten my stride and slow down whenever the terrain got steep. I’m pretty sure that my quad was filling in for work that my glute and hip were supposed to be doing.
The fourth lap was mental torture. I just could not believe how slowly I was covering each 5k segment. My hope of running a strong second half was dying a long and painful death.
As I began the fifth and final lap, I just felt done—emotionally. But I had everything I needed to finish: I wasn’t moving as quickly as I’d wanted to, but I was able to move. I reminded myself that the faster I finished the faster I’d be done. I looked at each pass on the course and reminded myself that it was my last chance to cover it well—just one more time around the A loop and I’d never see it again. And the same with the B loop.
Although I’m very disappointed by my result, I am very proud of how deep I dug on the final lap. I moved as fast as my body would allow—on that day, under those particular circumstances—and I did manage to cover the fifth lap a little quicker than the fourth one.
Based on my effort, I was honestly shocked at what my watch was reading as I neared the last mile of the last B loop—there is NO WAY that that last 5k took me over 45 minutes, right? Uh, actually, it totally did.
Effort: A+
Processing this kind of disappointment is so very challenging. I’m proud of my effort given the circumstances, but I’m still not happy with my result. It’s tricky. It’s one of those “both-and” situations. I’m both proud of my effort, and really disappointed by my race result.
My first two ultras were disappointing in a number of small ways. I didn’t meet my hoped for goal times. I didn’t handle every aid station stop the way I wished I would have. I would have like to place better, or run more of the downhills, or . . . the list is endless in these kinds of races.
But overall I felt successful, and despite disappointments, I was able to reframe.
Reframing can be super healthy—and absolutely the right thing to do in many circumstances.
So on the way home from east Texas last Saturday evening, I processed my big feelings with Patrick, let myself cry a little, and assumed that a few days of working through the race would yield all kinds of productive analysis. I was sure that in a few days I would successfully reframe.
But when I sat down to write my race report on Wednesday, the disappointment kept rushing in.
Sure, the yellow jacket stings are subsiding. (Finally! Phew!)
Sure, I’m seeing that I really need to assess and make a plan for my left IT band going forward. That’s a data point that is super helpful to have well in advance to my 100 mile attempt early next year—I’m glad to have learned this!
But reframing just didn’t feel right.
Sure, I am proud of that last lap effort.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not still very disappointed.
Still not even halfway through my race-report on Wednesday afternoon, I paused to go pick up my son from work. And I cried nearly the whole way there. Frustrated with the writing process. With the reframing process. Honestly, with my race. I let myself just feel that big feeling.
And wondered how I’d ever write this race report.
But is it any wonder that our favorite family therapist counseled my husband and I just that morning to embrace parenting from the “both-and” perspective?
It is absolutely okay for our kids to be excited about an upcoming event, AND sad that one of their best friends won’t be able to join them. Or to be frustrated with a “no” AND remember with gratitude all of the times their parents do say “yes.” It’s not helpful to try to erase or disclaim the sad or frustrated feelings—they’re real and legitimate! It is helpful to notice those ands.
So for me, this time, I’m disappointed.
And grateful, and proud.
Both-and.
Related Reading: Race Photos.