For the love (and fear) of ultras
It's race week. š„³ This Friday, I toe the line at the Canyons 100 Mile Endurance Runāand I am feeling it ALL!
At this time, in just four days, Iāll be on course at the Canyons Endurance Runs 100 Mile race. (!!!!!!!!!!)
Iāve felt uncontainable joy and excitement at taking on this journey, along with pride and gratitude for my body and what itās done to allow me to even contemplate doing so.
I cried a little bit on my run yesterday when I thought about 2017 Morgan watching ultrarunning videos on YouTube, totally starstruck at the insane idea of running 100 miles. If only she knew!
Iām also feeling the stomach-turning butterflies of fear, uncertainty, and doubt. āWhat if?ās abound, and my taper-tired mind scours every dark corner for evidence of impending doom.
Thereās one particular experience that feels oddly profound, if silly, and highlights the bodily anticipation I feel as I prepare to take on 100 miles. And itās not in the brutal miles of the longest training run, or in considering how to avoid nausea-inducing blisters covering my feet.
It happens in the middle of the night, in the days, weeks, and even months leading into the race, when I am forced to make my way downstairs to the bathroom and pee. š
As I sit on the toilet at 2:00 or 3:00am, with sleepy eyes and every fiber of my being counting the seconds til I can crawl back into my bed, it dawns on me that at this same vulnerable hour in the not too distant future, I will be running.
My body recoils against the idea of being anywhere other than the comfort of my bed at such an hour. Especially on a cold, maybe muddy, very dark trail.
This happened in the lead-up to my first 100, the Bighorn Trail Run 100, last summer, and I remember feeling genuinely scared at how impossible it seemedāin my mid-sleep stuporāto race all through the night when I could barely stand leaving bed to pee.
But the funny thing is, the night ended up being one of my favorite parts of Bighorn.
Not the second half of it, where I was stopping every 20 minutes to š© behind a bush after learning the hard way that fiber is not my friend, but thatās a story for another time.
I did love the early part of the night, though, where to my great surprise the fatigue hadnāt set in (it didnāt set in until the sunrise came, actually). I came in to Jaws, the halfway aid station at mile 50, just past midnight with more energy and confidence than I ever could have imagined.
I felt strong, encouraged, and elated to be on the trail at that time of day that was new to me, and it reinforced the understandingāon every level of my beingāthat I was doing something previously unimaginable.
It was magic.
I have had a couple of those daunting midnight pees in this taper, too, but I welcome them as familiar friends, reminding me that Iām doing something wildly unimaginableāuntil Iām actually doing it.
I donāt know why, but those moments just stand out like little poems in my mind, and I wanted to share them in case they resonate with any of you.
***
Besides those midnight moments, I mostly feel confident as I imagine stepping into this race. The doubt and uncertainty that lingered after Chuckanut have mostly faded, replaced by a belly fire of strength, joy, and hunger to take on this challenge of 100 miles again.
The only nagging fear in my mind is whether my knee will hold up and allow me to make that finish line. Itās the first time Iāve gone into a race with any semblance of an injury, and itās been hard.
If you follow me on Instagram or Strava, or read my last blog on the Chuckanut 50K, you might know that Iāve had some IT band issues off and on this spring.
It began in the last few laps of the RUFA 12-Hour race here in Missoula (where I ended up climbing a total of 16,000ā over 34 miles). But I wasnāt too worried when, after a week of rest, it seemed fine. I trained for Chuckanut with zero pain and hit the start line totally unconcerned about my knee.
Then it flared up really badly at mile 20. It brought me to tears, not so much because of the physical pain (though it was quite bad), but more the emotional shock and disappointment. I thought Iād fully recovered, after weeks of big training without even a whisper of pain. It blindsided me and rocked my confidence.
In the same moment I started to wonder whether Iād be able to finish Chuckanut, I also started to doubt whether Canyons would happen at all.
But thanks to encouragement from a friend, and some ibuprofen, I was okay with time and finished strong.
Another week of rest, and everything felt 100% fine again. I implemented additional PT that I learned from some of the race staff, and I trained hard and smart in my final build for Canyons, peaking with a 28-mile run then 12 more the following day. I had no pain at all.
That was two weeks ago. That last big effort gave me so much confidence in my bodyās healing and resiliency, and I entered taper exuding gratitude and excitement.
Iām still feeling those positive emotions, but theyāre accompanied by the āWhat if?ās.
What if my knee flares up again? What if it happens early in the race, and itās bad? What if I canāt finish? What if I have to drop, for the first time ever?
I havenāt dropped from a race before, but I know that will be part of my journey as a runner.
Itās like the old saying about riding horses: āIf you havenāt fallen off, you probably havenāt ridden enough.ā (Was that just something I came up with to make myself feel better about being a wild child and riding recklessly all over the Georgia hills? I donāt think so. I believe thereās truth to it.)
Iād just like it to not be this race. (Says the runner before every single race.)
I was also scared about the things I couldnāt control as I prepared for Bighorn last summer. I remember being in that letting-go period that is taper, after having done all that I possibly could to prepare, and thinking to myself:
What if something totally unpredictable and unavoidable derails my race? What if I sprain my ankle and canāt continue? Or a storm forces the RD to stop us?
It was my inner self fearing the loss of this thing Iād worked so hard for and looked forward to for so long, because of some potentiality outside of my control. I thought that if only I could control the variables, I could ensure Iād achieve this huge goal I had willingly and vulnerably placed so much love into.
I feel the same now going into Canyons.
And while fearing the flare-up of a past injury feels slightly more valid than other ātaper tantrumā type fears, which anyone whoās raced has felt, it still comes from the same core place:
Knowing that, at the end of the day, I cannot control everything that might happen during this race.
I feel fitter than I ever have. Iāve put a whole year of work and experience on my legs since Bighorn, including multiple ultras. Iāve raced hard and become more familiar with my edges. And I want it so badly. Even after a spring so busy it made me question if I had it in me.
I really, really want it. In part because Iād like to run UTMB one day soon, and also because I crave the incomparable feeling of collapsing at the finish line in dead-exhausted bliss. I want it for a lot of reasons, and I will be disappointed if I have to dropābecause of my knee, or any other reason.
And that is a vulnerable thing to tell others, let alone to admit to myself.
But you know what?
Ultrarunning is about facing the unknown, and welcoming it with tired legs and open arms. If we could control every step, it really wouldnāt be the life-changing endeavor that we love it for being.
Sally McRae (@yellowrunner) posted this recently about heading into the Cocodona 250, and it was as if she was speaking right to my soul, reminding me of what I know deep down:
Ultrarunning isnāt an outcome, or a singular race, or a goal. It is an ongoing, forever practiceāwith ourselves, our bodies, and our hearts.
For me, ultrarunning is the opportunity to continuously choose love, and gratitude, and compassionāfor myself and for the world around meāno matter how hard things get.
Itās the chance to go with ourselves into an experience so deep, so profound, so mystical, that it forces us to choose how we will relate to ourselves when it matters most. What will the dialogue be, and how will we hold our inner child when the suffering begins?
What healing and harmony awaits us if we choose love and patience instead of brute force and aggression?
That doesnāt mean we canāt take lessons from bad days, and aim to be better next time, but it means we wonāt berate ourselves for the things beyond our control (and weāll be willing to acknowledge and accept what is and isnāt within our control).
And Iāve done what is in my control.
Iāve trained the best way I know how. Iāve given myself love and gratitude for the journey to this point. Iāve rested when I should, and Iāve pushed where I need to. Iāve done my PT (not perfectly, but well enough), tried to eat well and enough always, and taken time to reflect and honor my experiences.
And I will relinquish control, anxiety, and worry about whatās to come. I will choose curiosity, gratitude, and peace. I will honor the journey for the journey.
And I will give everything I have. Every last drop.
I cannot wait to put on my shoes, pin on my bib, cinch up my vest, lather the sunscreen, and step up to that start line. And I cannot wait to meet myself out there, in the unknown, and come out the other side.
I donāt know if thereās a live tracking option, but you can probably find updates on the Canyons Endurance Runs Instagram. If you want to follow along, or send some positive wishes/energy/prayers my way Friday and/or Saturday, I welcome you with an open heart.
I believe in the power of collective love and intention, and I am carrying my community with me into this journey!
I love you all, and Iām grateful for your love of me.
Morgan
April 24, 2023
I also have a race coming up, and this was just what I needed to read today. I can so relate to the bathroom thing! I think you have the right attitude, have fun out there!