Never Say Never

Never Say Never

I’m about to do the thing I said I would never do. Run an ultra. I said the same about running a marathon but have completed six. 

I think most people prefer to hear how much you’ve suffered rather than how smoothly and effortless your race went.  Unless you’re a runner however, you could probably care less either way.

Although I have trained rigorously the past five months, nothing could have prepared me for what I am about to encounter. The weather has changed drastically overnight on the Oregon Coast. The warm sunshine is gone.  It is October 10, 2015 and Hurricane Oho has landed. Gusts of wind barely move the fog and it’s difficult to stand upright. It’s six degrees Celsius or 42.8 Fahrenheit for you Americans.

The huddle of shivering runners wait for the ten second countdown. There are barefoot runners, a bare-chested man, lots of beards and two super wiry young men who are out for gold. It appears I am the oldest one here except for another woman I met last night at the hotel who is also fifty - five.

I am dropped quickly from the lead group and find myself staggering between solo runners for the first five kilometres like a nomad lost in the desert.

Seventy kilometer headwinds pummel my face, filled with salty spray, torrential sidewise rain and sand. There is little motion forward. Staying upright is a constant battle.  The wind reverberates in my eardrums like a freight train. I’m gradually freezing from my toes up.

A handful of runner’s drift toward me, weaving through the wind and sand like a flock of birds. It’s mesmerizing to see other groups off in the distance doing the same. We plough through streams and tide pools of icy salt water. 

Arriving at the first aid station, my hands and feet are frozen. Shoes filled with soggy sand. My calves throb from nearly ninety minutes of beach running. 

I clean my feet of sand, to avoid blisters and spawning pearls between my toes, gather up my gear and head out for forty kilometers of trails. 

The crosswind knocks my ankles and knees together as I run along the short section of road, approaching Cape Perpetua Park. The trailhead progresses on an easy grade lined with ferns. Being out of the wind is a relief.  Thirteen hundred and eighty - seven metres of climbing begins. Endless switchbacks lead to an even longer, rocky, root covered path leading to the bluff overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean boiling with white caps and enormous crashing waves.

Ferocious gusts of wind pelt hail into my face the size of popcorn kernels. Microdermabrasion in its purest form.

I hear the panting breath of someone on my heels.  He catches up to me and introduces himself as Joe. We plod along through the forest talking about our dad’s, who we think may have known each other back in the 1950’s at the University of Oregon. Our random connection is as surreal as this race.

I emerge from the porto-pottie, to find Joe chatting with the volunteers, sheltered from the torrential downpour, eating chips. I want some chips too but my fingers are too frozen to pick them up.  

Off we go.  Back into the storm.

There is more up! Good Lord. My ass is developing new muscles with every step. My brain convinces my feet to keep moving. Everything in between is just maintaining.

I’m not sure where or when but Joe is out of sight by the time I arrive at the last aid station before the finish. I’m at thirty - three kilometres, exhausted and soaked through to my frozen bones. But there are real bathrooms! I press my face into the hot air dryer before heading back out into the bullshit, pissing rain & wind. I’m starting to feel delusional as the volunteers direct me back toward the trail.

The rain increases its eagerness to drown the Oregon Coast and me.

I head off, in what I hope is the right direction. Slogging along in my solitude, my mind relaxes.  I wonder if this is what drowning feels like?

Although the storm rages on, so does my internal drive to succeed. I smile out loud and keep going. This is life.

At the previous aid station, volunteers promised there were only two more kilometres up and then it was all downhill to the finish. 

The “promised”, downhill section approaches but it’s not looking the same as when I climbed it seven hours ago. The single-track switchbacks have become semi-raging rivers with tributaries. The path has been converted into a slippery, muddy, steep slope of death. 

I abandon my calculated fast descent and opt for a side to side shuffle, hop, slip and leap into the ferns kind of frantic approach. The hill is so steep that I can’t stop my momentum! Surfing on one foot, sliding a vertical metre down the slope, I barely catch my balance before crashing chest first into a gigantic cedar tree. 

There is screaming and laughter behind me. A mini caravan, of female runners have caught up and are following suit like a roller coaster of human dominos.

My quads scream in agony from the relentless downhill pounding. 

Jetting out of the trail onto the road like a torpedo, I’m on the home stretch. It’s so flat. I’m rewarded with a tailwind pushing me toward the finish. I really need to stop moving now. It feels like there are tacks in the soles of my feet.

Rounding the last turn, I see red flags lining the finish line. The rain has miraculously stopped and sun peaks through fluffy clouds. I’ve run fifty - kilometres in a hurricane without injury or worse. I’m exhausted and every part of my body aches but I’m so proud of what I’ve accomplished.

I speed up, aiming for a strong finish, only to bypass the finish chute landing in a gopher hole almost twisting my ankle. 

Insanely, I ponder the thought of running one hundred kilometers. I will never say never