What story are you telling yourself?
On the Chuckanut 50K, hard races, and being kind to ourselves when we need it most.
I went to Bellingham for the first time last weekend to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday and to run the Chuckanut 50K (also my first time!). It was a tough race day for me, but such a glorious, fun, epic day and weekend.
I went in feeling laid back and slightly unprepared, as taper always makes me feel, but trusted that this is my normal, and races usually turn out well no matter what I think I’m feeling in the days leading up. (My sweet partner and #1 supporter reminded me Saturday morning over the phone that I “always feel sick before a race.” He’s not wrong.)
Unfortunately, though, I did not have such luck. 😅
It turned out to be a dig-deep kind of race—one of those where you feel like you’re chasing the run all day instead of being carried by it, fighting upstream against current instead of floating down joyously with it.
I honestly feel like I’ve had more than my fair share of “downstream” runs, where everything clicks, I’m in flow, and I end up basking in the joy and gratitude I feel for my body and mind. They’re incredible.
Anddddd… I’ve had very different runs. Runs where the mental chatter turns ugly and obnoxious, and the rose-colored glasses turn brown, and each mile is a battle.
This one was somewhere in between—moments of light and joy spattered against what felt like a backdrop of struggle. I think that’s because of the nature of ultras.
They are so long (some of them absurdly long), it’s almost impossible to only feel one way the entire time. That’s what I love so much about ultrarunning:
No matter what we feel in one moment, the next mile, stretch between aids, or long, relentless climb brings with it the chance for an entirely new experience.
The good, the bad, and the gnarly
Admittedly, I spent a good portion of the first half of the race undulating between feeling encouraged when I could push a bit harder and make up some time, and indulging the darker part of my brain that found entertainment in focusing on what was not going how I’d hoped.
Before too long, I had a running list of things that marred what “should have been” a perfect day:
I woke up regretting my 1/3 of a light beer the night before and hadn’t slept well.
The first six miles on flat ground, at what’s usually my easy pace, felt like a tempo run.
My hip adductors started cramping just over halfway in… I never cramp?!?!
I kept letting people pass me in order to find a sustainable pace; it started to get to me.
My IT band injury flared up again—BAD—after no pain my last four weeks of training. All I could think about was the 100 milers I have on the calendar this spring and summer. Am I done?
If it sounds like I was being a bit of a brat, I probably was. That’s not the full list – there are a few thoughts I’m too embarrassed to share 😉
I think maybe that’s what the “pain cave” is, at least for me. A gnarly, twisted, biased perspective on the trail in front of me—one that favors doubt, insecurity, and excuses.
I’ve run enough miles so deep in physical pain I feel a lump in my throat and choke back tears, and still had a smile on my face and joy in my bones because I was so full of gratitude and awe for the experience I was having.
This race didn’t come close to that level of physical suffering, but my mental status leaned toward defeat, rather than my usual cheerful sense of empowerment and strength—and the impact of our mind on our perception of a run is so freaking powerful.
But what I realized as I continued moving through the lush, sunlight-speckled forests of cedars and ferns, with glimpses of the Bellingham Bay through the leaves, was that my list of “goods and gratitudes” was a lot longer than my list of problems.
The weather was PERFECT—clear skies, sunshine, and 60* with a light breeze.
The aid stations had amazing food (Oreos, oranges, fig newtons, and PB&J rollups).
The spandex shorts I bravely (stupidly?) tried out on race-day didn’t chafe (!!!).
I got a full, perfect view of Mount Baker from the top of the ridge trail in the middle of the race. It was stunning.
The flowy, winding trails were such a cool change from what I’m used to in Montana, and I loved letting loose on the downhills early in the race.
While it was a different kind of technical, my high-alpine mountain running paid off on the singletrack sections, and I found myself passing a number of dudes by finding fast lines over slick rocks and tangles of roots – I felt badass!
I ran into my new friend Mariella at the top of Chinscraper (the last major climb of the race, on a very steep double-black diamond mountain bike trail) just before the final descent and had her company for the most brutal downhill section after my IT flared up.
My friends love me and show up for me*.
I remembered I had ibuprofen in my pack. By the time it kicked in, I was done descending and on to the final flat stretch, and I could jog again without too much pain.
Taylor Swift. I bring headphones to all my races just in case, but I’ve never even thought of actually using them… Until today. And it was great.
The final stretch back on the Interurban trail flew by. I’m not sure if it’s because I had Taylor’s company, or because Katrina had given me a boost, or because the ibuprofen started working, or because I knew I was going to finish and didn’t feel totally broken, but something shifted and I felt more steady than I had for most of the race. That section was a lot slower than I’d hoped it would be as I anticipated race-day, but I didn’t give a flying flip at that point. I crossed the finish line running, not far past six hours, and I was happy with that.
*I texted my running buddy Katrina Miller (whose husband, Hoka athlete Kris Brown, placed 3rd in the race) around mile 22 as I debated dropping to prevent further IT injury and said, “My IT band is fucked*. Idk what to do.” (*Sorry for the language, mom! This was real-time real pain and my race rock-bottom.)
Katrina called me two seconds later, heard the hurt—emotional and physical—in my voice, and gave me the permission I needed to finish. “Girl, you can walk it in if you have to!” gave me all I needed to keep moving with confidence—and, amazingly, to feel quite a bit better.
The story in our head… Is it true? Where are biases lurking?
The list of good is so long, and my narrative about the race being “so brutal” shifted almost as soon as I crossed the finish line. It may have been mostly Type 2 fun, but I think sometimes that’s just what we sign up for.
And for what it’s worth, I started my period Monday morning, less than 48 hours after finishing the race. I’m sure PMS and my luteal phase played a solid supporting role in the drama that went on in my head and body Saturday.
That was honestly a relief, because it gave me some sense of normalcy and understanding as to why I felt like garbage right from the start. (Some months are totally fine, and others, well, my uterus-having friends know that some months are not totally fine.)
I also went into Saturday without a solid game plan, and when I do that, I tend to push a little too much.
Half of me knew taking it really conservatively, using the race as a base-focused training run for the Canyons 100 Miler in six weeks, would be a great use of the day. The other half of me was excited knowing it’d be the most runnable 50K I’ve done yet (I’ve run—and loved—the Rut 50K twice) and wanted to see how fast I could do it.
Ally, the friend I ran Chuckanut with, and I chatted weeks before the race about our plans and estimated finish time, and we both figured it’d take us around 6.5 hours – in line with other training runs we’d done of similar distance and vert.
Ally had the day of her life and absolutely crushed, finishing in 5:42. I like to imagine her riding a rubber ducky raft, floating swiftly along with the current and yelling “Yeehaw!” as she sailed over roots and cruised up the climbs. I was so excited for and proud of her, because I know how good she felt and how much fun she had.
I spent the day swimming against the current – probably more so mentally than physically.
But once I knew I was going to finish, and the metaphoric clouds (the only clouds in sight) parted a bit, I realized that I was actually making great time. I ended up finishing in 6:10, averaging about a 12:15” pace—faster than any of my training runs with the same mileage to vert ratio. And that was with walk-hobbling every downhill from mile 20 on… Not too shabby for this middle-of-the-pack girl.
The call for compassion—YES, for ourselves
I think perhaps the toughest part of the day, aside from the very real leg cramps and unexpected IT band pain, was the narrative I very quickly began spinning in my head, less than a couple miles in.
I’m usually very good at recognizing when I’m not feeling it and pulling back a little to find my happy zone—both physical and mental. In fact, for me, the mental state usually follows the physical state. But today I wanted to keep pushing, knowing it’d be a battle.
And maybe this is what racing harder feels like, too. I’m learning every day.
I’ve tended to take it very conservatively in past, aiming just to finish healthily rather than attaching to any particular time or performance-based goal. This approach lends itself to a very enjoyable, partly Type 1 partly Type 2 experience, and helps me stay in a really positive headspace. People are usually shocked at how happy I am even 30, 40, or 70 miles into a brutal race.
I just love running!, I tell them. It’s true – I’m usually my most genuine happiest when I’m deep into an ultra.
But I’ve also put enough miles on to know that my headspace—and my affect, or outward emotional presence – is closely related to how hard I’m working and how long I have to sustain that.
I think keeping it very easy and conservative is a great approach—especially when tackling new distances or challenges, as I have been doing the last couple years.
But now that I have a number of ultras under my belt, I have a more reasonable baseline from which to create expectations and set exciting and inspiring goals.
I’ve found myself leaning into the push, feeling an alluring fire rather than daunting anxiety at the idea of seeing what I’m capable of, and I’ve enjoyed testing the line in races—finding the balance between too much and just enough.
This is something I’m starting to think about more deeply as I continue to run ultras, and want to push myself not just with the distance but also with pacing and performance. I do find it fun and empowering to compete with myself, and simply finishing is no longer the only exciting goal.
And that brings with it new pressures, new risks, and new challenges.
And countless new opportunities to lean even harder into self-compassion: in the moment when it hurts, and especially afterward when we’re assessing with a critical eye our performance.
The harder we choose to push ourselves, the greater the need for deep, radical self-compassion and love along the way. It may sound counterintuitive; “Won’t being too ‘nice’ to myself make me soft?”
Quite the opposite, my friend. Self-compassion is the medicine that helps us reach heights we never knew were possible. If you haven’t read any of Kristin Neff’s world-changing research and writing on self-compassion, it’s worth checking out.
Far from “making me soft,” as many fear giving themselves love may do, offering ourselves compassion and love daily can reinforce us, invigorate us, and bolster us to tackle challenges we’ve never dreamed of.
I was pretty hard on myself last Saturday when the race wasn’t going how I’d hoped it would—some of my dearest friends, and my therapist, have kindly let me know I tend to put inordinate pressure on myself, and I finally believe them. And, knowing myself now, I’m sure a lot of the mental shit-list could be blamed on my luteal phase taking over.
But at the end of the day, ultrarunning is about taking on the unexpected, navigating forward with grit and grace regardless of what’s thrown at us, and holding above all gratitude for the immense privilege it is to move through the mountains with reckless abandon for four, or 10, or 24, or 36 hours.
When my grit and grace start to be clouded by disappointment, frustration, and self-shaming, I aim—and sometimes succeed—to do these three things:
Recenter and focus on the present moment, not the chatter in my head.
Say something kind to myself, and give my body gratitude for what it’s doing, what it has already done, and what it may continue to do.
Move forward and repeat as necessary.
The control-freak perfectionist in me has a hard time accepting the ups and downs of life, and ultrarunning is the greatest medicine for that. Ultrarunning reminds us that life isn’t linear, it’s not simple, and it’s not always easy.
How awful would it be if it were?
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Thank you so much to the Chuckanut RD, volunteers, and Bellingham community for putting on such a truly epic race (seriously, I can’t wait to go run it again and hopefully have a totally stellar, magical day!). And thanks to Ally and Grace and all their beautiful friends for making me feel so at home in the beautiful PNW.
And thank you to anyone who’s read this far; to be honest with you, this blog was a bit of a grit-and-grind effort too and I’m just happy I didn’t DNF it ;)
Morgan
You are one of the most bad-ass'est of female-runner-fierce-tiger-poised people I know! As I read this, I can feel my chest burning with each oxygen deprived breath and also the burning from emotional struggle. I'm sitting here (8pm) wanting to go for a struggle-run to give myself the mental endurance training to get through the challenges of my day. Thank you Morgan!
Thank you for sharing your insights. I lean hard into the just finish- bliss and self-compassion but have never tried self-compassion and pushing myself. This gave me a lot to chew on- not just for running but for life!