First, the good news: I DNF’d my 62-mile race at mile 48 because of an equipment malfunction. The waistlight that had been so reliable through many a prior ultra went kaput for no discernable reason. It’s possible that one of the times during this ultra that I tripped on an exposed root and faceplanted on the trail, the light broke my fall and broke itself in the process. Whatever the reason, I found myself in the woods of Huntsville, Texas, in the dark, caked with dirt and sweat, calorie deprived and exhausted, like some reality TV survival candidate without even a stupid bow drill to make fire.
I say this is the good news because here I am – obviously I made it. And the reason I made it is because people who participate in ultras, whether as runners or volunteers or crew to their crazy friends, cannot help being helpful, cannot resist providing aid, will cheer on everyone from the hardcore speedsters to the nervous nubes with the kind of genuine enthusiasm that lights even the darkest depths of my misanthropic soul. Sometimes literally.
As soon as I realized my light wasn’t working, I inched my way toward a cluster of tents festooned with Christmas lights and asked some shadowy figures where I was, counting on those shadows being people and not trees or bears. They were people. At first they thought I was suffering from the fog-brain that occurs in the mid-to-late stages of an ultra and gently told me “the trail is that way” and “there’s an aid station just a mile away.” I further explained: I needed my husband to bring me a backup for my dead light, so I needed to let him know where I was. They sprang into action: dropped him a pin, got me a Coke and some mandarin oranges, asked if I was cold and needed a blanket or a seat by their firepit while I waited. “I think I’ll stay here forever!” I thought excitedly. A lovely fantasy, but I had paid money for this suffer fest, so when Ken brought the replacement light, I thanked my benefactors and set off again.
Problem was I hadn’t charged the replacement the night before, given that I was counting on my go-to waistlight. (I can’t do headlights; my skull is an eggshell and anything tighter than a winter beanie gives me a headache.) After only another couple of miles, I found myself in darkness yet again. I stood there listening to the chirping frogs and wondering if any of them would invite me to their campfire. Probably not. The chirping meant they were only interested in each other. I sighed and waited for another benefactor to appear.
One did, of course, a guy with a waistlight like a tiny sun. He was walking, thank goodness, and not that fast, because otherwise I’d never be able to keep up and he’d feel compelled to slow down for me. Because no matter what, I knew this person was going to help me – and he did. I explained my situation and said I needed to get to the next section of trail close to the road so I could call my husband yet again. He not only welcomed my company but also knew the trail so well he could tell me exactly how far we had to go. He was doing the hundred miler, not just the 100k like I was (yeah, I said “just”), and had gotten to mile 82, and when I think about that, about how much he’d been through that day, I can’t believe how tolerant he was as I prattled on about running and mandarin oranges and frogs and all sorts of nonsense. I kept apologizing for holding him back and he kept assuring me he was quite happy to walk, especially since he was normally a slow walker and I was a decently fast one so I could keep him going. I don’t know if that was true but he had to be a pretty badass ultrarunner given how far along he was – and given that his previous race, the Uwharrie 100, boasts 19,000 feet of elevation gain, because running 100 miles is just too easy.
I got to a well-lit area on the road and once again thanked my most recent benefactor. This time, I knew my race was over; I had no more backups. Disappointing, but I’ve collected a lot of DNFs over my running career and I’ve weirdly come to prefer enjoyable failures to stressful successes. I had fun that day. The weather was sunny and mild, I had a good audiobook, the woods were pretty, and even though I only (yes, I said “only”) did about 48 miles, I could still eat a lot of food the next few days. And of course, my faith in humanity was restored. People are kind. The running community is awesome. Life is good.
Well, I should say momentarily restored. Because now we get to the bad news, which is not new news but ongoing. See, running is simple. Not easy (oh believe me), but simple. You do this thing you love even though you complain about it a lot. You keep doing it because every mile feels like a small victory. Then you pay a bunch of money to do a bunch of miles toward a big victory. People help you and cheer for you and you do the same for them, and there are slices of cold watermelon when it’s hot and steamy cups of ramen when it’s cold, and even when it’s an absolute slog of pain and suffering, you can’t wait to do it again. Running is simple; life is not. I can’t be so naive as to imagine that every member of the running community behaves the same way in the rest of their lives as they do at a race. Not all runners vote the same way. Not all runners share the same view of current events. Go on and call me a wet blanket and a spoilsport, but as we drove through Texas to get to and from the race, there were signs everywhere, literal and figurative, reminding us that anyone we met could be someone who said “they deserved it” and “both sides are at fault” and “why does everything have to be political?”
Running is simple; life is hard, and simplifying things to deal with the hardness doesn’t actually solve anything. I run these crazy races because I’m extraordinarily lucky. I have time to train, money to pay for shoes, and a serious but relatively benign addiction to endocannabinoids. But I can’t really claim that running has made me a markedly better person. I’ve made some of the best friends of my life through running, friends who also happen to be some of the greatest people I’ve ever known: people who are smart, who think deeply and critically, who check facts and assess sources, who care about the world and actively work to make it better. These people exist everywhere, not just in running. That said, people who think there’s nothing wrong with throwing children into holding pens and shooting unarmed or disarmed people in the face or head while defending proven rapists and pedophiles – these people exist everywhere too, including running, and even if it means being a killjoy, I can’t not think this. To do so seems grossly irresponsible. The running community is great, sure, but does this greatness transcend beyond the trails?
I don’t know. Maybe it could. If a running community can care for all its members, if a city can rally to support all its inhabitants – perhaps a nation can too? But there can’t be any maybe or perhaps about it; it must happen. This is one DNF we can't afford.
