I’ve been struggling with sleep. This morning—a whole week after my IMTUF DNF—I woke up far earlier than I intended to on a Saturday, and proceeded to struggle with which combination of duvet and sheet I needed to regulate my temperature. I’d already woken in the wee hours to crack our sliding door, and turn on the fan that sits atop a crate there—ready for just such an occasion.
Unfortunately it’s not just post-race week that I battle temperature dysregulation. This particular conflict with my body has been off and on for more than five years now—perimenopause and I are still seeking peace in our relationship. But that’s another story.
In *this* story, with the fan funneling cool morning air across my linen sheet, I noticed that it was still dark, closed my eyes, and attempted to quiet my mind—willing my body back to sleep. I need this sleep. My central nervous system still needs to reset, and sleep is crucial for this aspect of recovery. I check my body battery score on my Garmin. Only sixty-three? Ugh. My mind already engaged and thinking about the various commitments my Saturday holds, I give up trying to sleep, and oochie away from the fan and toward Patrick across our bed.
We don’t usually snuggle in the mornings. We both value sleep, and we each have our own morning routines, which sometimes overlap, and sometimes do not. But I was feeling dysregulated enough to need human connection, and I knew it was close enough to when he’d be getting up anyway to disrupt his sleep. A little while after nestling into him, I can sense that he’s awake.
We chat a little about the things on my mind. He snoozes briefly again.
When he wakes up, he says, “I just dreamed that you finished IMTUF ten minutes before the cut off—after DNF-ing.”
This is not a regulating statement for me at the moment. Though I’d been thinking about my struggle to sleep, my IMTUF performance actually wasn’t among the life stresses I’d been mulling over this morning. “UGH!” I tense my body and wield my hand like a hammer on the bed to express my angst.
To be fair, Patrick can’t control what he dreams. He also didn’t expect the relaying of this dream to have this particular effect on me.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to happen!” I wail. “I really think that that’s a totally possible scenario, and I wish I’d done it!” My mind whirls.
“I think so too,” he assures me, “I find the dream *encouraging,* though.”
Patrick really does believe in me.
I believe in me too, honestly.
I know I have a 100 mile finish in me. I think I might even have an IMTUF 100 finish in me as well.
Directly following my DNF, I wasn’t sure. The cut-offs were so tight. Maybe this race isn’t for people like me—female, middle of the pack runners. Maybe I need to find another hundred miler to chase after. I’m not getting any younger, and with each passing year, it’s hard to say exactly when or how much my average pace will naturally slow down.
During the race I met and ran with a female athlete who hired Jer, the race director of IMTUF, to coach her. I found it fascinating to chat with her about her training and her relationship to Jer—especially since we both timed out at the same checkpoint, just shy of 50 miles.
When we reconnected the next morning, I was eager to hear if she’d talked to her coach yet. “Yeah, Jer hugged me and told me that it usually takes about three tries,” she confided.
I have so many mixed feelings about this statement. By her testimony, it’s clear that Jer is an excellent and dedicated coach. It’s clear that he totally believes in her. But it’s also clear, post race anyway, that he wasn’t completely surprised that she didn’t make the cut-offs on her first try.
The cutoffs are aggressive. I *knew* that going into this race. The three aid stations I made it through were challenging times to clock on those sections of course.
This is by design.
There was no one huddled with us at North Crestline waiting for transport that night who hadn’t put in the work. But each of us were officially out of IMTUF contention because we arrived too late to the aid station. At the time, most of the runners there were discussing other “more reasonable” 100 mile races in the greater Pacific North West that they might turn their sights toward. In that place and time, I’m pretty sure that none of us felt like IMTUF’s cut-offs were attainable.
A few hours later, through a series of HAM radio communications, and a couple of vehicle transfers, I made it down the bumpy service road from the North Crestline aid station to my crew. Patrick, Jenna, and Matt were eager and relieved—it was after 2:00 a.m.—since they hadn’t actually heard from me since 10:50 p.m. when I called Patrick from a high point on the course.
North Crestline was a pretty inconvenient place to pull out from IMTUF.
It’s one of the un-crewed aid stations. The aid station itself is well-stocked, and well-manned by volunteers, but due to the rugged nature of the long service road to get there, the race doesn’t allow personal crew. In fact, even after the cut-off, they were only letting a few vehicles up. I rode in the back of a truck bed for part of the drive, until met by another racer’s crew—who *had* been allowed passage—who then gave me a ride the rest of the way down in the comfort of an actual seat in their warmed SUV. No one in the car had service, so they graciously drove me to the most likely place that Patrick and my crew were waiting . . . which turned out to be a great guess!
I climbed out of their vehicle—thanking them one last time—passed my pack and poles and drop bag to Patrick and Jenna, looked at Matt and joked, “Ready to run?” I was in great spirits, but I’m sure I didn’t *look* ready to run. Having cooled down significantly after sitting at aid for a few hours, I was wrapped from the waist down in an emergency foil blanket, and had my puffy and big gloves (from my drop bag, thankfully!) over my running kit. My mind was still rearing to go, but I knew that my body had already started to shift out of go-all-night-mode.
It made me wish that I’d played my hand differently.
Obviously, if I’d been able to arrive at North Crestline twenty-five minutes earlier that would have been most ideal. Had I have moved more aggressively through this section with a more clear understanding of the actual miles—versus theoretical miles—still to go in the time allotted, I could have made it. This attempt, though, lacked a full picture of exactly how long the Crestline section of course was. This is a problem to be solved in another year.
But even having officially DNF’ed, I had the option to leave that aid station on foot to be united with my crew. It was seven-ish miles to the next aid station, Upper Payette Lake, where they were waiting, and where I had my first pacer on board. With the support of a crew and pacers for the rest of the course, I could have continued moving—unofficially.
I fully believe that if I’d made the North Crestline cut-off, but *not* made the Upper Payette cut-off, that with the encouragement and belief of Patrick, Jenna, and Matt, it would have been a no-brainer: Let’s just do this thing. So what if it takes me 38 hours instead of 36?! I do not need an official finish time or silver belt buckle to tell me that I am tough.
Though the aid station attendant at North Crestline was discouraging me to move forward on foot, she would have *allowed* me to. Again, I wish I had. I was moving well, feeling great, and didn’t have any desire to stop when I rolled in. In fact, even though I could see the time on my watch and knew I’d missed the cut off by a fair margin, I still asked if there was any chance I could continue. It took a few minutes to have the reality of not making the cut off set in.
My running partner—the athlete that Jer coaches—understood that reality far before I did. She’d run this section of the course previously as a long run, and she was spelling it out for me miles before we reached North Crestline. We just don’t have enough time left to make it there.
The distance on my watch, though, told me that the aid station was coming up soon. If we hustle we can do this. Eventually I hurried on ahead to *just try.* This strategy could have worked if I’d put on the hustle a few miles earlier. As I crested a hill, no aid station in sight, and looked at my watch reading 10:50, I called Patrick to tell him I was five minutes past the cut-off.
He asked how many miles my watch was reading.
“47.5.”
“You’ve got to be right there, babe. The race didn’t start *exactly* at six this morning, I’ve seen some aid stations give lenience. Go!”
My intention in calling him was to make a plan B. In other words, can we run this race unofficially? Is the crew up for that? Is my first pacer game? But Patrick was still holding out hope for plan A, so I just started moving. Ten minutes later, fifteen minutes later, there was still no aid station in sight. North Crestline is officially documented as mile 47.3, but my Garmin said 49.2 when I rolled in. I couldn’t report or process any of this with my crew, though, because as Patrick told me to “just go,” I lost the last bit of service I’d see on the Crestline.
I understand why I was still feeling optimistic about the cut-off time.
And *now* I understand why my racing companion was not feeling optimistic about that time.
(I took this video while logging solo miles on Crestline, before I was concerned at all about making the next cut-off!)
In retrospect I’d approach that section with more purpose, for sure! This is a big take-away for future attempts.
My only curiosity for this attempt is: What if I had executed plan B?
What if I’d stayed on course—despite my unofficial status—and met my crew at the next checkpoint, reset, then picked up Matt as my pacer? I had pacers lined up for the rest of the course. What if, with their help, I could make up some time? How close could I get to the 36 hour cut off?
These questions are unanswered.
I didn’t continue after my DNF.
The rest of the weekend was honestly a blast. I had fun hanging with my crew, watching 100 mile finishes, and getting to pep talk a friend at the start line of the IMTUF 20 on Sunday morning. It was a beautiful day.
And I wasn’t as trashed as I’ve been after some other ultras. Wow, my body was ready for this!
By Monday morning, although I wasn’t suffering from much muscle soreness at all, I was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation, and struggling to get my central nervous system back on-line. It’s normal for me to not sleep well for a few nights after a race, so I’ve come to accept this slow return to normal life and training as a part of the ultra recovery process.
Recovery week can be its own ultramarathon. After my first, I wondered if my legs would recover at all. I looked at my feet and wondered how long it would take for the blisters to go away, and when I’d feel like I could do the stairs without assistance.
This time, my feet look and feel pristine. My quads and hip flexors felt a little sore on days one and two. Then I was good. But my central nervous system? What a mess. So much exhaustion without the ability to sleep is not my favorite combination.
I spent the entirety of Monday on my laptop. First I dug into the data of IMTUF: Cut off times, paces, and finisher stats. This is doable. The question is: Do I throw my next year of training into it? Or save it for another year while I go get another “more reasonable” 100 miler under my belt? I researched the “more reasonable” 100 milers. So many options. But do I need to wait for another training block? I was ready to run 100 miles this weekend. What will it take to get my body ready to use *this* training block to accomplish that?
There’s a race in Indiana in a few weekends. Could I be ready for that? What would it take to get there?
Travel logistics and race entry would be kind of an investment—and not one we planned for.
“What about a self-created 100 mile course here in the foothills?” one of my pacers suggested over text message.
I shared the idea with another pacer and a crew member . . . If I want to do it, they’re in! I have the support I need to do this.
I went for a 5k yesterday, and it was fine. But my legs feeling fine for a three mile jog around my neighborhood does not equal my body being ready for a hundred miles soon.
So it’s going to be up to my recovery—maybe I’ll put together my own 100 mile course for THIS SEASON. But maybe I won’t.
I’m itching to prove what I already know. I can run 100 miles in one go.
Do I need to prove it this fall?
IMTUF was so much fun. I’m sad I didn’t get to finish the course, but I’m also really glad that I had the weekend I had. Maybe part of that weekend is what gives me that little extra umph to plan and execute a home-town 100 mile effort in a few weeks?
Or maybe I don’t need to prove anything externally this season.
I’m not sure.
Either way, though, my body is going to have a big say in whatever direction I go.
Perhaps this isn’t a decision I should be making in a sleep-deprived state anyway.
I have faith in you! Hope you can get the sleep and recovery you need- come out east for a race sometime- plenty of mountains for you here!! I hear you about the temp regulation too… ugh!