Skyline to the Sea 50k, I lived.

To say the week preceding the race was an emotional roller coaster would be an understatement. What I didn't know, was that it would be nothing compared to my experience out on the trail. I had said going in my goal was a sub 6 hour finish, and, unknowingly foreshadowing my race, I added, "but you never know what can happen out there."

My decision to run ultras came long before my actual ability to run them, so after collecting a couple years of trail running under my belt I finally felt ready to take the plunge. Skyline to the Sea came at just the right time providing a net downhill course with just over 3,000 ft of elevation gain. If you're not aware of the on again off again drama that ensued surrounding this race, refer to my previous post here.

Race morning, standing at the trail head with over 200 other runners, a collective feeling of gratitude hung in the warm air as Wendell counted us down to start. Spectators lined the street above us, and the runners erupted in cheers and applause as Wendell sent us on our way with his signature "Have fun out there!"

31 miles between us and the Sea.

I funneled down the single track and tried not to pound the downhills too hard so early to save my quads since there was a lot more coming. I was relaxed and running smoothly, maybe even smiling a little. I was chatting with the guy running behind me when we hit a downhill. I was cruising. My left foot hit the ground and rolled.

The guy behind me paused to ask if I was ok, I said yeah, but quickly realized I wasn't. I tried to take a couple of steps, but the pain was too great to put any weight on my foot. I stood on the side of the trail dumbfounded as runners passed by. I looked at my watch, we'd barely been running fifteen minutes. Is this it? Is this the story I'm going to have to tell? I had to DNF not even two miles in after all that happened to put this race on? Are you kidding me?! (insert a long string of expletives here) I calmed down and assessed the situation. I've never broken a bone before, but I was pretty sure nothing was broken, probably just a serious sprain. A minute or so later I began to hobble up the trail. When the hobbling became too frustrating I began to run. The pain was pretty much the same whether I was walking or running (the speed was pretty close too), so the new race strategy became to just keep going. Forget the sub 6 hour goal, just keep going. I didn't even want to look down at my ankle, but I could feel the swelling starting.

The first two aid stations had amazing volunteers that were clapping and smiling giving me the boost I needed. I didn't linger long at Waterman Gap, but I topped off the 1.5 liter bladder in my pack at China Grade because the day was really heating up. The ankle was holding up, mostly. By the time I got to Gazos Creek, something like mile 17 or 18, I refilled again and set off on a 4.5 mile loop that Wendell warned us would feel like 6. What he didn't tell us was that there was a big climb and very little tree cover. It was killer. I drank the entire 1.5 liters of water I had with me on that loop.

Shuffling back into Gazos Creek I was feeling pretty much done for. That's when, out of nowhere, Norbert appeared in front of me with the orange rubber band for my wrist to signify I'd completed the loop. "How was your loop?" he asked smiling. I held up my wrist and mumbled something about it trying to kill me. That orange rubber band felt like an Olympic Gold Medal at that moment. I refilled my pack again and sat down to get my bearings. I took a peek down and saw a bulge on the outside of my ankle. Time to get going! I set off down the trail with about 8.5 miles to go before the last aid station.

It was the longest 8.5 miles I have ever run in my entire life.

I don't remember where this was, but it's the only picture
I took out on the course. I think I said "YEAH RIGHT!"
out loud. My ankle really didn't appreciate this terrain.

This last 8.5 miles was when I reached my low point. I was starting to realize that time was ticking away a lot quicker than I was realizing, and that 8 hour cutoff suddenly became a threat. I didn't care if I finished last. It was the first time I had ever had that thought.

I ran out of water about 30 minutes before I finally reached the aid station, where one volunteer was waiting to tell us, you better hurry. I contemplated pushing through but ended up stopping to get a little splash of water and then ran out of there before zipping up my pack or putting it on. I can gut it out for this last mile and a half. I didn't come all this way to not make the cutoff. It was getting close, and then there was more climbing that slowed me down. There were a few girls in front of me who helped pull me along. I kept looking at my watch 7:50, 7:53, I could hear the finish but couldn't see anything. In a split second I believed I wasn't going to make it, and then I changed my mind. Anything over 8 hours was not an option.

I crossed the finish line in 7:55:15. I wasn't last but close to it, and I don't care. I'm proud. It was two hours longer than I expected to be out there, but it's about the journey, right? I found out I have more guts than I thought.

My first finisher's coaster, and my orange rubber band  from Norbert.

Thank you, ankle, now you can rest.