Baker Lake 50k

The first 15.5 miles reminded me of why I run.

I felt like a ghost, moving swiftly and smoothly. One leg after the other, one breath after another, a well oiled machine moving efficiently beneath towering conifers. I was aware of every rock and root on the trail, placing my feet exactly where they were supposed to go, every step.
It felt fast.

The weather was perfect–moody pacific northwest. The dark greens, blues, and browns felt bright against a grey scale of clouds shifting above us. The temperatures were cool. It kept my instincts heightened and reinforced my focus.

Katy and I were leading a group of six or seven other runners during the first half of the race. We were cruising at about 10-minute miles, running together with quiet concentration. Occasional whoops and short conversations interrupted the constant patter of feet and sounds of our bodies pushing themselves — strong exhales, occasional coughs.

The trail wandered and turned, rose and fell, ebbed and flowed, and we went with it.

At the aid station, I refilled water, snacked on pretzels, and started to feel what would foreshadow the second half of the race for me — my legs were heavy.

Leaving the halfway point I told Katy to run ahead — she seemed to be lighter on her feet and looked able to continue the pace. I needed to recollect and relearn how to run.

The first couple miles were slow, with some walking. Things were hurting –my calf in particular kept cramping up. Then, on a welcome stretch of downhill, I got a second wind. It literally felt like wind.
I let loose, once again letting instinct guide my feet to land and balance me as I rushed down the trail. I slowed and walked the steep sections, but defaulted to a quick pace as soon as the grade eased.
This lasted for a triumphant five miles.

The next eight were another story. As the muscles in my calf spasmed, twisted, and screeched, I felt my body make futile adjustments to try and battle the pain and keep moving. Suddenly, the race entered the stage in which it was now a mental challenge. Whereas before I was able to turn off my mind as my legs moved me forward, now my mind was willing my body to make each step. I was fighting a battle of willpower to keep my legs churning out distance.

The race had thinned out, and I was finding myself more and more alone on the trail. I would occasionally pass by runners who seemed to moving slower, though in better shape than I. I was occasionally being passed by runners who seemed to be moving so effortlessly that I thought my mind was playing tricks on me: “This could be you!”

Those same dark greens, blues, and darks from the first half now seemed gloomier, darker, more menacing. I was in the woods, I had miles to go, I had to keep moving.

The aid station at mile 25.5 was an attempt at reinvigorating myself. I shook out my legs and made a couple feeble attempts at jokes with other exhausted runners. Only one guy went by that didn’t look totally spent. Why do we do this ourselves again?

After filling up my water, I took off again, reentering the mental battle arena. I imagined myself as a captain of a doomed ship in a storm, with my muscles the overworked, stubborn, beat-up sailors. I felt like I had to orchestrate every movement, give explicit instructions to each muscle, motivate every sinew and tendon to work together and complete a stride. My breathing was hard and audible. I kept repeating to myself that it was ok to walk, and tried to convince myself to run as much as I could.

After another 4 miles, I came out of the woods and onto the forest road leading to the finish. Suddenly I realized how far I had come. I had run about 30 miles at this point. The last 15 were hours of difficult mental conversations between myself and my body. I had willed myself to move, nonstop, for longer and further than I ever had before. I was dirty, sweaty, gritty, and my legs were burning with lactic acid.
A few excruciating minutes later, the Baker Lake dam and the finish line came into sight.

Horns, clapping, and cheers from the volunteers and new friends began to register in my mind. The tunnel vision of battling pain and forcing each step were fading as I shook hands with the race director, grabbed a medal, and walked over to give Katy a hug. Elation swept over us. She fought her own battle and came in 12 minutes prior to me.

We sat down, started to stretch, and ate burger after burger; chugged beer after beer. We stayed and cheered the other finishing runners for the next four hours, and as my body relaxed and began to heal, I felt the elation of completing a goal that had felt so out of reach. A few months ago, an ultra seemed impossible. Almost ludicrous.

Now, here I was–done with my first 50k, sipping a beer, and reflecting on the vitality I was feeling after overcoming one of the harder physical and mental challenges I’ve faced. It left me feeling invincible and mortal at the same time.

Shoes and a medal.

Takao Suzuki Photo – http://www.runners.photos/Running/Baker-Lake-50k-10-04-2014/

After the race. Much-needed beers in hand.