The sun is dropping over the mountain when I hear the coyotes. The song starts low and builds, so subtle that it takes a few seconds to realize it’s there, hovering at the edge of my mind. Ahead of me, I see my new friend Laurie stop. She turns to the sound, to the west, and stands to listen. I do the same. It’s one of those rare moments in life where I fully appreciate the present. I realize how incredibly lucky I am to share this sunset with the creatures of this island.

To the east, lights have sprung up in buildings across the water, casting golden lights on the lake that fail to compete with the intense last blaze of sunlight. The coyote song fades as the sun sinks and finally drops in a scarlet and gold finale.

I knew it would be difficult getting to the finish line of my first 50 mile race. What I didn’t realize, on the day that I took the leap and registered, was how hard it would be getting to the start line.

Training started fine. After running the St. George Marathon in the beginning of October, my husband B & I both ran the Antelope Island 50k a few weeks later. A mid-February 55k was also in the plan. The Moab Red Hot 33k/55k is one of my very favorite courses in the world, although this would be our first shot at the 55k course.

So. We maintained training through the holidays and started the new year with a solid plan.

Because we also run Spartan races, I try to maintain a baseline of overall fitness. I do a lot of burpees. I do a lot of pullups. But in early 2017 we started bouldering at a local climbing gym. We run together sometimes, B and I, but most of the time we run separately. Bouldering we only do together. It’s kind of our version of date night.

One fateful night… I turned from the climbing wall to see if B had witnessed my super awkward fall. He was sitting on the ground with one shoe off.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I just broke my foot.”

“It’s probably just twisted. Just give it a minute. Maybe you should stand up, walk it off.”

I practice denial on myself and others, but denial didn’t help this time. B had stepped back off the big mat that keeps us all from killing ourselves and stepped half on/half off a smaller mat. As his foot rolled he heard a sound like a branch snapping. I didn’t hear this or I probably wouldn’t have tried to get him to walk. I’m actually very glad I didn’t hear it. Some things you can never unhear.

As we headed to an instacare, reality started to sink in for both of us. Although I continued with my attempted denial, he had no doubt whatsoever that somewhere in that foot was a very broken bone. His certainty did convince me, eventually, even before the x-ray convinced me.

X-ray before

It’s a strange sensation when forward momentum is suddenly stopped by outside forces. Like some falls. There are falls that seem to be in slow motion, you trip, you fly through the air, you see what you’re going to hit, you have time to consider how much this will hurt. But some falls are not like that. Sometimes you’re running along just fine and a second later you’re belly down on the trail, looking around going “WTF?”. That’s what this whole broken foot thing was like.

Sitting in the instacare, we started talking about all the plans we had made, registrations we had already paid for, hotels already booked. We decided early on that the February run would have to go. I had no interest in leaving him in a hotel or hobbling at a cold finish line for the many hours that it would take me to complete a 55k. But the 50 miler…my heart was really set on that.

Then, sitting in the little waiting room, his eyes suddenly widened.

“Oh my God! Oh no!!!”

“What? What’s wrong?” I mean a lot of things, but clearly something new had just occurred to him.

“Salt Lake City!”

“Oh. No, that’s far enough out, right?”

Anyone that knows B knows that if he says “Salt Lake City” all together like that, he isn’t talking about the place, he’s talking about the marathon. The Salt Lake City Marathon is his streak event. He doesn’t miss it. At this point, he had completed the marathon 11 years in a row, and before that he’d competed in other Salt Lake City Marathon events for three years (5k, half marathon & bike tour). He’s one of a small handful of people that have competed in one of the events every year since the Salt Lake City Marathon started up fifteen years ago. My own attempted streak ended one year with a bout of bronchitis and I just wasn’t interested enough to continue once my streak was broken.

He had just over three months to heal and train for a road marathon. We both knew right then that couldn’t happen, especially after we saw the x-ray. But what I learned from his reaction was that missing the 50 miler wasn’t a great tragedy for him. Not like missing the marathon would be.

So I continued training. Not right away. First I helped him get through his surgery. A couple of screws are still in his foot, big enough to hold the bone together while it healed, small enough to not ever get in the way.

X-ray after

I started getting up early to get my runs in, sneaking out of the house like a thief in the night, back home and in the shower before B woke up. It was ridiculous really, I mean he always knew when and where I was running, I’m very safety conscious. I was just trying to keep it out of his line of sight. He hates getting up early, so although he missed running in a terrible way, he never wanted to do that. I just felt so bad for him that I localized it into a very personal guilt.

Eventually, I had to forget about protecting him from my blatant running. I had to get in longer runs, and he was on leave for a while. He has an active job that requires he go on medical calls. That’s not possible with crutches or a knee scooter.

Speaking of being on leave, I thought it was interesting (and SO like us) that we didn’t even think about the financial implications of his injury until long after all the running related implications. The trip to Moab couldn’t have happened anyway, considering our reduced income, and the race director of the Red Hot 55k/33k was kind enough to refund our entries due to the circumstances, as was the Buffalo Run director for B’s entry.

Anyway, I had to run longer, and there was NO WAY I was going to get up early enough to go farther than about 10 miles. We’d had a ton of snow and every long run I’d attempted had devolved into post-holing for half the planned distance. At best.

I had some adventures. On one “run”, exhausted from sinking to my knees each step, I had stopped on the trail, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath. I got that eerie feeling that I was being watched. I turned my head, and through the trees on the side of the trail I saw a moose staring me down, not five feet away. Of course I got out my phone and took pictures. I mean, you CAN’T really pass up that photo op, no matter the danger. That same trip I saw a momma moose with her calf. Apparently I’m pretty frightening, because they took off the opposite way, disappearing over a hilltop. I’ve heard some moose stories, and I consider myself lucky that both these stories had uneventful endings.

Side note you probably didn’t want to hear: When you get that uncomfortable feeling that you’re being watched, you’re almost certainly being watched. Sorry. You knew it was probably true.

So. Long trail runs not working. Travelling far enough to leave the snow behind not an option. I did some runs on the treadmill, but to be honest, I care enough about my soul to not crush it with too many treadmill miles. This left me with one choice… the dreaded pavement. So I recruited B to be my aid station. My longest run would be 30 miles. I plotted a course just over half of that on pavement, and planned to complete the miles on a canal road. At least that way I would be on dirt for part of the run. I was really under on miles at that point, and I decided this run would be make-it or break-it. If I didn’t get in this 30 miles, I would not be attempting the 50.

I started from the house and did the pavement section. When I got back home, B had a PB & J ready for me, along with some other snacks. I switched to my trail shoes and ate a bit. B gave me a time limit, so I got out of the house before he had to actually throw me out. I drove 5 minutes to a nearby canal road to finish up. I left half a sandwich in my car for later. My planned route would take me out about 4 miles and back, then 2 miles the other way and back, repeat until done, so I would be passing my car a couple of times. It was a good plan. But I didn’t know that most of the 4 mile section had been closed and was packed with deep snow. Usually the canal road will get some traffic. Usually the snow will be packed down and runnable.

This was not the case. I still completed the 4 miles out and the 4 miles back, but it was a flashback to all my post-holing runs of the year. It took FOREVER. So I confined the rest of my run to the two mile stretch going the other direction. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I’m not sure how many times. At an earlier point in the run I had considered trying to add a mile or two. You know, at least make it a 50k? But that thought disappeared. I just wanted to be done. I just wanted to stop running this same little section of dirt road, get in my car and go home.

As with so many things, it wasn’t as bad in hindsight as it seemed at the time. And I did it. Which meant I was now obligated to actually show up at the start line.

The Buffalo Run is a 100m, 50m and 50k event. The 100 mile runners start on Friday at noon. Everybody else starts on Saturday morning. Well, almost everybody else. Because the RD knows there are slower runners out there that can’t possibly make the cutoff for the 50 mile run, he has allowed the option of 50 mile runners starting at noon on Friday. By request only. I requested, of course, because I’m slow (but you already knew this).

I confess, starting at noon worried me. It was only March, so sundown comes pretty early. This meant I would likely be running mostly in the dark. I imagined my heart and spirit sinking with the sun, I imagined a long and sad time from sunset to the finish line.

I was so wrong. I underestimated the beauty of Antelope Island at night.

The hardest part of the 50 miles, for me, was the first 15 miles. The trails were all familiar, except for one awesome little out and back with an AMAZING view of the lake and mountains beyond. Maybe it was the familiarity that made it difficult, knowing exactly what climbs were ahead, knowing how far I still had to go. But it wasn’t only that spiritual struggle, it was definitely physical as well. My stomach decided early on that it really, really hated me. I tried things that usually work, a few sips of coke and little bites of salty things, but the nausea just grew. My hamstring became angry. Then it became REALLY angry. I texted my brother, who planned to join me later, asked him to bring ibuprofen. He didn’t reply. He might already be on the island, and if so, it was too late for shopping and cell service. At one high point, my phone dinged with a voicemail (cell service on Antelope Island is almost non-existent). The 12 year career that I once loved had become unbearable and I desperately needed to make a change. The voicemail was a job offer. I soared on that high for a while, but the rage and hate of my stomach and hamstring continued.

At exactly 12.5 miles, one quarter of the way (I was looking at my watch, which certainly contributed) I fell. I landed, elbow first, into a soft patch of moss. It shouldn’t have hurt, but the angle of the landing caused a knife of pain to shoot through my arm and shoulder into my neck. I felt an awful numbness in my face and hand and everywhere in between. Guess what my first thought was? Concern for my long term health? Nope. “Maybe I won’t be able to continue!!” That was my first thought, and the voice in my head that said it was not unhappy. The words were spoken with a hopeful glee.

But I was fine. The strange nervy pain disappeared pretty quickly. No quitting. Sorry, loser inner voice. I’m also happy to say that was probably my low point.

Around 15 miles in I approached an aid station that’s also the start/finish line. I could see my brother JC coming out to meet me. He had received my text, but he was already extremely prepared for anything that might be going wrong. I gave him my list of complaints. I don’t remember now, but I really hope I only told him about my hamstring and stomach, neither of which had improved. He gave me ibuprofen and listed off various drinks and foods that he had in his pack, all things that had helped him in the past. The only thing that sounded good was Spicy Hot V8. It shouldn’t have sounded good, not after 15 miles of nausea, but it did.

I sipped and walked with JC for about a mile. As we passed the aid station, I could hear my Jeep softly calling to me. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

I consider it a major victory that I was able to ignore that voice. But I was feeling better, my stomach had settled, my hamstring pain was easing, and JC’s presence had lifted me out of my low point. I left him with plans to see him at a future aid station, and at the 50k point, he would start pacing me.

A few miles later, at the next aid station, I was able to enjoy the treats that I usually love during these events. PB & J is my staple, with Swedish Fish, M&Ms… pickles? Okay, new favorite. My stomach troubles were gone. The volunteers checked with me to be sure I would be warm enough. The sun would drop before I reached the next aid station. I assured them that I was good now, and that I had warm clothes in a drop bag at the next stop.

The sun set, the dark settled in, stars shone above. I felt so good I almost couldn’t believe it. I was headed south now, and I would continue south until I picked JC up at the furthest point of the course. In between was one aid station. I added a layer of clothing and sent messages to my family via my SpotTracker (look it up, it’s pretty cool). JC hadn’t seen me come in, but noticed me just before I headed out.

“Are you good?” he asked.

“So good. So much better.”

And I left him to head south into the darkness.

At times a runner would pass heading back north, but I was mostly alone. The trail isn’t technical. On this section it’s mostly packed dirt, sometimes a bit sandy, so the risk of tripping in the dark was minimal. I kept my headlamp on high anyway, just in case. This was, in hindsight, not a great decision.

A mile away from the aid station where I would pick JC up to pace me, I ran out of water. I hadn’t filled my reservoir the whole run, because it was cool and it just didn’t seem like I would need it. It was still cool. I only had a mile to go, I wasn’t dying out in the desert, but I had to keep telling myself these things. I had to shut up the inner voice that was going to bring the whole entire body into panic mode.

I hate being out of water.

I reached JC and the next aid station without dying from thirst. We filled my reservoir and headed north. I told him to go in front and run slow. Then I watched him vanish in the distance.

No, not JC slow. Trail Snail slow. Big difference.

So I went ahead. It’s possible he was just walking behind me, I’m not sure. He’s close to a foot taller than me and that extra height is all leg. JC and I are just over a year apart (he’s the old one!!) and we were really close as kids. Pacing him in the past, and now having him pace me, has been fantastic. Especially at my pace, we carried on a conversation throughout the night. I don’t remember everything we talked about, but we pretty much talked about everything… our spouses, kids and grandkids, jobs and music.

We revisited the aid station where I had a drop bag and an extra light. I didn’t think I would need it. I had a spare headlamp in my pack, and although I hadn’t changed the batteries, it hadn’t been used much. So I didn’t take the extra light. Let me just pause to give unsolicited advice… faced with a similar circumstance, I recommend that you TAKE THE DAMN LIGHT!

I know, way too much foreshadowing. You’ve probably already guessed that my headlamp failed, although it did make it about 6 hours. My backup headlamp made it less than an hour. About the same time my second headlamp died, my watch died. I mean, that wouldn’t have helped with light, but it was super annoying and added to the feeling of complete equipment failure. At this point, my appreciation for my brother tripled, possibly quadrupled, when he handed me his spare flashlight.

Now we were on a part of the island completely unfamiliar to me. We wound along a trail climbing over rocks and boulders. The variety was nice, although a couple of times JC had to actually put his hand on my back so I didn’t just fall back into him. I was definitely feeling the miles at this point. I was getting kind of tippy and my leg muscles weren’t behaving normally.

In the middle of the rocky section, my new friend Laurie passed me for the last time. We’d been leapfrogging all day, but I wouldn’t be passing her again. At the end of the rocky section, my flashlight died. Fortunately, JC’s cheap little flashlight FROM WALMART made it through the night. Now we were on dirt roads and things were starting to look familiar. We were approaching the finish line for every event I’d done out here, but from a different angle. But sharing a flashlight worked fine, even though that last living flashlight was growing dangerously dim. I tried to run this last bit. I really tried, but a few loping steps at a time was all I had in me.

WE CROSSED THE FINISH LINE! I received the most beautiful mug I have ever seen in my life as my finisher’s medal. These events always come with a big heated tent at the start/finish line and a giant vat of chili. I wasn’t feeling up to chili, but JC had a bag of bacon in his pack and that sounded amazing. How old is this bacon? How long without refrigeration? Don’t care.

We took my Jeep to the south end of the island where JC had left his car and he headed home. I’d had the foresight to lay out a sleeping bag and pillow in the back of my car. Just before crawling into the back, I checked my phone. To my surprise, there was service at this end of the island. I sent a text to my family, letting them know I DID IT! But it was long before dawn and I didn’t expect a response. I was crawling into the sleeping bag when I received a congratulatory phone call from B. Then I curled into bed and slept.

I finished my first 50 mile event in a time that wouldn’t have even come close to the race cutoff times. Yep, I’m slow. There are more generous cutoff times for other 50 mile events, so that will be my next step. But running through the night gives a magical quality to my memories of this adventure. I had to swallow some pride to ask for the early start, but what if I hadn’t? What if pride had won? I would have missed one of the highlights of my life.

You may be wondering how things went for B. Don’t tell his surgeon, but he started the Salt Lake City Marathon with about two weeks of training. I don’t recommend this training plan, but I did trust him to listen to his body.

I haven’t run the Salt Lake City Marathon for a while, but I’m always there. First I run to a canyon that the runners pass through and I cheer for them. Then I run to the finish line. Near the finish line is a quaint little patisserie where I will have a flat white & a Kouign-Amann. Then I stand at the finish line and cheer some more.

This year I stood in the cold April sun with my daughter and her baby girl, and we watched B finish. It wasn’t his best time, but he didn’t care. He understood, just as I understood on that long, long day a month before, that you don’t have to be out there winning. You just have to be out there.



