Undoing At Sulphur Springs

It feels like a tearing down of camp.  

A disbanding of the community.

It feels like years of effort washing out with the tide.

Someone sold me a yard sale jigsaw. A ziplock bag of edges and colours all askew.  I’m so stubborn that I have to see it through.  Maybe there’s a picture coming.  Maybe there are pieces missing. 

… an incomplete set

Still I am fixated on piecing it together.  It’s finding peace with that, that is overwhelming. 

I am stumbling in the light, bumping into things, tripping over things, jamming my toes against rocks I’ve known were there.  I am increasingly lost the more I am found.

I sent them away, my guides I mean,  I sent them packing.  Oh how I loved them.  Oh how I enjoyed their edits.  Oh how I miss their buffer.  My doing.  My choosing.  My footsteps in the light, in the blinding, blazing splattered light.

I’ve been struggling as to how best to tell this tale.  I’ve been rattling around with syllables and imagery of how best to describe barriers and obstacles.  Maybe, like my yard sale puzzle, the picture will appear clearly.

The grocery store plaza 800m from my door is under construction.  Upgrades. improvements.

Noise.  Commotion.  Distraction. Smells. People. Moving parts.

It feels inhuman to not be able to go make a bank deposit alone, to ‘elect’ to avoid that coffee shop for six months, to fear the next time I need tylenol from the drug store, to not eat the last apple because then you’d have to go buy more.

These are not things I can’t do.  These are things I currently can’t manage under the conditions set out in front of me by society at large.  

Why no guides?  

This is why.  

I need to tell the tale of how inaccessible the world is.  I need it to be persuasive.  I need it to be compelling.  I need change to be something worth fighting for.  I need to be heard.

That has to be my biggest fear; not being heard.  Disability should be heard. It deserves a place beyond a token card holder.  It deserves a voice.

Fear grows like a weed, like a fungus, like a wild thing. Fear of the unknown, fear of the misunderstood, fear of the lack of control.  This Vol State training has consumed me with that fear.  It bubbles and simmers on the back burner.  It spits and froths under the excess heat and stress.  Fear, I know your name.  I know your name more than I know my own.

Friday at 8pm we started running at Dundas Conservation Area.  Not quite dark, no longer bright.  Sulphur Springs officially begins exactly 10 hours after my first step.  Seems like an unfair advantage right?  Let me tell you, it felt more like extra punishment.  And I was there to embrace it all.  

The forest was sleeping and dark.  Steven kept me company.  Head light bobbing up and down in the dark beside me.  Silence between us. Company only.  Usually on a run I can anticipate his next step, feel his heart quickening before a hill, hear the inhale before a mouthful of descriptives were thrown out in order.  It nearly broke me, this silence.  No words.  No gestures.  Not even sure his socks were different colours.  Promised myself I wouldn’t look.  I don’t envy him, or the position I’ve put him in.  No one wants to put their loved one in danger.  No one wants to walk them to the door and say go on, go… No one wants to walk beside and SAY NOTHING when there are things to say, obstacles pending everywhere.  I had to get over myself pretty fast in the first few miles.  I wasn’t more than three feet away and wanted to scream “why are you doing this?”  “Don’t you love me anymore?”  

Yes he does.  So much so he could do this.  Remember I asked him to. Not sure that makes me a very nice person.  More on that later.

I broke the course up in my head into sections.  Maybe they make sense to you who have run this place?

The descent - Martin rd… the optimistic beginning

The gimme - everything until you cross the road, because honestly it was the easiest part

The new altitude - a few climbs that were added to keep us off the road.  This took away a portapot access point, added hills, showed me a jeep road looking trail that make my goosebumps tingle in barkley memories.

The Bruce - a warm hug for those that know her… the first escarpment sight.. the one everyone takes a picture of.

Aid station one - thank the heavens

The dive - Those incredibly technical steps down off the bruce into the ravine, and the root tiptoeing after, plus the climb.

The round about - Seriously who puts a roundabout in the woods? 

The new altitude take two - seems hillier this way

Two way traffic zone - after the road crossing

The blurry grass lollipop - the new last year edition.  This section hid the roots, played mayhem with my headlamp, made me cry. two hydrocut crossings, timing mats to trip on… and oh the way the sweet grass smells in the heat.

Last loop - the second turn off the trail you dam well know takes you to the lollipop. ITs like someone decided you hadn’t gave the climbing your best so here’s a second chance bitch… (Or second, or hundredth)

Aid station two - people who smelled better than me and who promise only 7 km to the end to the loop

the lollipop - Root dancing, bugs are the worst here. The trails feel older.  The ground doesn’t drain the same.  The stick, the round, the up and up and up those sisters, the lick that never seems to end, the down and down some more and the stick again.  Ending again in the root dancing and bugs

aid station once more

The ascent - one last fuck you before someone might offer you a freezie.

The first loop we got half way down the hill and Steven retreated to get his headlamp.  Geez, these ultra runners I tell you!  Everything went as planned.  Including the lump in my throat.  At the Dive the caution tape was before my memorized steps. They wanted us to use the old way down?  But I’ve never gone that way.  I’ve never walked those steps.  I’ve not… Fine.  Fuck you fine.  And then mud and slippery ground and Steven offering his hand.  “Go the other way the next time” he said …”let me help you” he said.  Oh Jesus… I can’t give in so close to the beginning?  One second of hand holding, one dart in my unguided run of the year, one million pounds of instant guilt.  More than anything, I want your help.  I think that’s what makes this whole journey to Vol State so incredibly frightening. 

At the Blurry grass section I had to ask Steven to run farther ahead.  His headlamp made the ground dance.  20 meters have never separated us on a run.  “Just here to keep the coyotes away baby” Stupid running.  But they were indeed out and prowling around.  As were owls, deer, skunks, raccoons, and Hooligans apparently. 

On our second loop 80% of the reflective markers had been removed or deliberately turned away so that they wouldn’t reflect oncoming light.  I cannot believe the people who did this thought it was, what funny? What if I’d gone alone?  It’s bad enough I can’t see the pink ribbons anywhere.  

On our third loop the sun came up on the lollipop.  And yes, it actually does take me that long to run 60 freaking km on unguided trail. I am so sick of defending my pace; it’s a nauseating insult to my soul.  People were beginning to staff the aid stations.  They were of course confused as to why we were out there.  I was happy to see them.  Happy to know my next solo loop wouldn’t be just me and the coyotes.

Loop four I took my poles, interpreting my steps by sound and resonance of taps.  I left Steven to nap.  I hoped Jennifer-Anne got some sleep as well, although from the size of her newly knitted blanket, I doubt if she got any.  People started popping up around me on the course.  Rounds of ‘good job’ ‘amazing’ ‘doing great’ … you racers, you’re the best alarm clock ever.  That voice in my head that you may never understand, answered each one of you with a ‘this isn’t great, I’m not great, I’m tired and barely moving, don’t kid yourself’.  The filter won over and I only allowed a “you too” to escape my lips.

This ultra running business can build you up.  It can move mountains in your soul.  It can change your life, if you let it.  

This ultra running business can tear you down.  It can bury you under avalanches in your soul.  It can change your world, if you let it.

All that stands between you and that… is a matter of belief.

Loop five I think was my longest loop.  I lost my running bounce and was hiking.  My foot was talking back.  I’d been taking a mental inventory of the aches and pains and NONE of them were worth stopping for.  None of them worth giving up, giving in for.  I found myself once again standing at the Dive.  It was then I realized my vertigo was winning.  Think I’d been ignoring it for a while.  The root steps I knew were there in front of me.  They had multiplied however, morphed into about a zillion dancing steps I couldn’t steady.  Runner noises from behind brought me back to the present, back to the place of knowing there was no other way out.  I took a step back and asked them to go first.  Said it was more difficult to have noise behind me on the descent.  Most went without question. One turned and asked if I needed help, if I could see the ledge.  Filter allowed me to say no I can’t see it, but I know it’s there.  Thank you, I’m fine.  Still I stood. 

Still I stood.  Tears stealing the day.  You can’t run 100 miles afraid of the one you might have trouble with.  Still the roots danced out of focus.  Five minutes? More?  I stood.  A few more friends came from behind and really wanted to help. That nearly broke me, as it meant they could see my struggle.  Graceful in an ultra I will never be.  Gratefully they too went on.

I took a picture.  I took a picture of the steps, then zoomed in on the image and used that memory to steady the roots in my view.  Closed my eyes and went down on my rear.  Fumbling in the light.  My only way, in the light.

Once at the bottom of that ravine, and over the bridge more roots and a climb to write home about only because of the angle of the dirt.  Another friend from behind, “How are you doing?” Please don’t ask that.  There is no question I’d like to answer less.  That ultra running stuff…

At the last aid station before the lollipop, I sat.  I sat and rubbed my feet, removing the stone that had wedged its way into my left heel, bruising it nicely for the memory.  I sat and listened to the people who said things like “you look so strong!” Someone sat beside me complaining of knee pain, saying he was done.  This is when I knew my vertigo would win.  As a Massage Therapist, I would have stopped my race and helped any other day.  I’ve never turned away a need before.  Instead?  I offered him tylenol.  That was good for a few guilt points.  

I texted Jennifer-Anne that I needed a break.  That I was trying to piece things back together.  Once I’d gathered, into the lollipop I went.  On my way back down Jennifer-Anne met me.  I think she most of all struggled with not telling me things.  We walked back to the start/finish to eat and regroup.

They fed me. They humoured me.  They let me change.  They sprayed me for the bugs. Too late I’d been their feast last loop.  There was so much noise in the base camp.  Incredibly loud chaos.  My head was spinning.  I think I left on loop six more to get away from the noise than to run.  

Loop six, what would be my last loop, I went entirely off the clock.  12 minutes to get to that section. 35 minutes to make that loop.  Aid station one I texted back that the vertigo wasn’t getting better, but that I was hopeful that darkened skies would settle it down.  I found my run again.  I knew it would come back.  It always does.  Wait for it.  It will.  I promise.

Run or no run, the earth was moving.  I could feel it rotating under my feet.  The dive was just as bad as the time before.  I had expected it.  Didn’t even look at the ground.  Checked my picture and went down on my rear again.  Every effort was for making it to the aid station before the lollipop so I could put my head lamp on there.  I almost didn’t make the self imposed cut off before dark.  

Aid station volunteers cheered when I arrived. Angels you are.  I can’t eat your food, but I love that you bring breath to the forest.  “See you in an hour!” they offered.  Um no… 2 maybe?  90 mins at least. 

Coming down the hill my third nose bleed of the race hit me, which did not help the vertigo, but man did the bugs love it.  Head lamps danced in the distance ahead of me which made me believe they were stars above.  I tried to look up and pull things into focus.  Perspective?  But every time I looked up everything went white.  Blasting glaring white.  Send me to the ground, hands in the dirt, bright white.  

My wonderful crew met me with medicine at the bottom of the road.  Because I knew it wasn’t safe to be out running anymore - even if my legs couldn’t care less if we did. we called it.  There was no rally.  There was never meant to be a buckle, having started some ten hours before the pack, even if I’d covered the entire 100 miles, I would have defiantly turned a buckle down.  

You know what there was though?  120km of unguided trail running.  More than 26 hours of unspoken roots and bumps and horse shit and ravines.  There was over 36 hours of awake time with no asleep on the side of the trail.  There was zero gastrointestinal upset.  There was intake of real food 100% of the time and, sorry aid station staff, proper digestion at nearly every pot.  There was supportive family and friends and strangers everywhere.  

That ultra running stuff batman… It can change you, if you let it.

Oh and my favourite line of the entire event goes to the one guy with (humour? balls?), who made me smile anyway… after seeing my “blind runner” bib on my back, came up beside me and said 

“You’re going the right way!”

why yes… yes I am…

Constant. Forward. Motion.

All In A Day's Work

Seventy-seven paces to the fire hydrant.  Two hundred meters to the lights. No advanced green. If you hold the cross walk button for five mississippi's it will beep.  Crossing the opposite direction, on the return trip from the bus home from work lands right at rush hour, and spasms of children running free from their educational cages all at once, in all the directions, in all the bubbles of noise.

Step down there.  Curb up there.  There's a drop off on the Tim Horton's side of the sidewalk beside the bus shelter.  Don't veer off.  Not even if the adolescent giants are hogging the entire sidewalk.  Hold your ground.  They will move.

They will move.  Surely they will share this space.  Dammit. Fine.  Step down into the drop off. Yep it's muddy.  Fucks sake.

Wait.  I don't have the next two steps memorized from here?  Fucks sake.

Merge lanes at this light.  Merge lanes and asshole coffee-aholics that think I can make eye contact with them through their car windows.  Panic rising.  Hands shaking.  Cane clicking on the ground in intervals that sound so.... controlled. So controlled in this ablest land of mayhem.

.... and that's just getting to work.

That's not running.  That's not trusting every footfall past the next.  That's not grand open spaces of adventure.  No sir, it's not.

That, my friend, is just life.

Don't mistake that for a plea for sympathy.  It's more of a gentle self reminder that life, this life, my life.... Is far from perfect.  But it's a life.  Delicate steps.  Delicate coordinated memorized steps.

Sometimes I run alone.  I like that.  Of course I have to convince my guides to run me that route a number of times first. Then I'll go back alone.  And if the weather changes, or the leaves grow, or the wind sweeps across the woods, or it's garbage day; I need to have them run me through it again.

And again.

To memorize it, to commit it to memory.  Every step, every nook, cranny, crack, root, rock, branch.  Just ask the people who guide for me.  When we are in the woods near my house, I give directions from the rear;

"You're going to come up upon some chunky roots under foot soon.  About ten paces past them, take a sharp right turn on the trail".

"Okay. yes here they are.. chunky roots.... and a right turn you said?"

"Yes, right"

"But that's a big hill?"

"That's correct"

People talk about running to zone out.  You know that thing?  That space?  That calm that over takes you?  Where nothing else can touch you?  You feel invincible?  Content?  In-the-zone?

That's great.  Good for flipping you....

Running only gives me a break from my 'every day' chaos of normal life, because I can't hold on to all of that 'stuff' while thinking about memorized steps, while interpreting your dialogue and descriptions about my next five steps, about my safety.  I'm not that good.  I have to focus.  I have to shut every thing else off.  I have to BE HERE NOW.

Try being that attentive for 24 hours straight.  Try.  Most of us can hardly make it through one dinner with family before glancing down at our phones for distraction.

Okay, in fairness, I'm being harsh.  I'm exhausted.  And totally by my own doing and choice.  No Sad Panda Points for this one baby.  Self induced...

.... as every Ultra is....

Remember?  You paid for this nonsense?  Fuck, you relished in it.  Let's be perfectly freaking honest right now; You're likely so sadistic you were lying in bed immobile from your last 'exposure' to the ultra world when you bloody well signed your life away for this one?

Right?

Okay.... moving on.

When you set up your race calendar for the year (oh no, don't you shy away from the screen now, I know you sit down in flipping November to think about your entire next year, you've likely submitting your work vacation days for the next 16 months to have the right weekends off)... you have your "A" races, your "Training" races, your "Goal" races, your "Family" races, your "Can't NOT do that one again" races...

I do this too.  Set up my list to serve my training purposes for the "A" race.  So what do you do when not one, BUT two of your "training" races go to shit?  Absolute literal shit?

Shakes the ground you stage your "A" race on right?

And I need to breathe.  Why do you run?  I run to feel like I can run.  It makes me happy to think that me running might in some strange twisted way, help you run.  I run to change the world.  I run to create space for Disability in Sport.  I run to try and inoculate myself against the harshness of the world in which the teenagers won't share the bloody sidewalk.  I run to feel brave.

I am not brave, let's be clear on that.

I'm also not the least bit fast.  I fight tooth and nail for every blasted cut off.  I crave the ability to browse UltraSignUp without the fear of finishing within the time line.  I sit around your post race camp fires like the outsider that squeaked in the back door.  I listen to your race banter and hope you don't notice that I'm under qualified to be there.  I keep showing up.  Rather quite lost most of the time.

Fucks sake, I get lost in bathrooms.

First thing I asked my friends to show me when we arrived at Three Days at the Fair was the bathrooms.  Goodness knows I should know where these are.  Let me describe this in my terms....

There's the start line.  Buildings on both sides. Cobble stone ground.  But random inlays in the orderly brick.  They fucked me up every time I crossed them.  Round patterns within the brick, taking my direction away, stealing any sense of finding I'd gathered.  Food on the left.  Lots of food on the left.  Oh the smells.  All the smells.   The start line itself was two cables.  Each end pinned down by an orange pylon.

Orange.  My favourite fucking colour.  Of all the colours I can't see clearly, orange in nearly every light, is completely invisible.  Why the fuck can't my ex be spray painted orange?  Because that's one thing I'd like to never see again.  But no, let's mark race courses with orange.  That sounds like an attention getting plan, right?

On the right is the timing screen.  Turns out I can read this from a few millimetres away in the dark. I hesitated to go over and look though, it gets addictive, knowing stuff. Besides "You make a better door than a window!" kept running in my head whenever I did.

Just up there's a wee right turn.  A few uphill slanted steps and garden like rocks on the right.  Don't veer right.  Don't pass anyone on the right.  If you miss the right, straight ahead are the bathrooms.  Bathrooms with two doors.  An entrance AND an exit.  OMG lost in the bathroom flash backs.

Why just last month I was running around an indoor track with my Steven and stopped in the loo.  Memorized the steps from the door to the stall.  Steps from the stall to the sink.  From the sink back to the door.  The door with no handle?  No handle?  OMG... There were two exit doors from that loo. But then taking them would put me where on the track?  How many steps off course?  How much in the way of the track team would I be?  OMG Lost in the flipping bathroom.  Someone please inform my Steven, that this, this right here, is who he intends on marrying.  For Fucks Sake.

Needless to say I did NOT exit the fairgrounds bathroom from the exit door.  Not once.

Okay right turn. Running in front of the loo. Garbage can on the left. The big kind with the lid.  Sharp left turn.  Or if you went straight in non chipped moments you could get to our site, to Robins car.  But then there was a divoty gravel driveway to navigate there.  It's a scary world batman.  One breath of running and another sharp right turn.  Don't veer right, there's a lip up on a interlocking brick step there.  But don't veer left on the right turn.  There's wooden barricades.  You know those triangle things?  Where the legs stick out WAY further than the tops?  Oh but you know, the top railing is super excited to meet your hip should you get too close.

Right this is the out and back strip.  Our tent is second on the right.  Camouflaged walls.  Hey as long as they're not orange.  Barricades all the way down this strip of road.  And at the end where you make the 180 degree turn left, two of them separated with a garbage can in the middle.  The toes of the first barricade are angled out a bit further.  And the edge of that garbage can is rather sticky.  Just saying.

Ok around the turn around corner and back down the road.  Do not turn to head back to the bathroom.  God knows what you'd have to step over.  Barricades continue straight.  It's just enough straight running to let you listen to the song in your ears.  Don't loose focus.  Right turn ahead.  Don't veer right. Drop off on the right.  And a misleading white arrow on the ground that if you follow specifically would have you run head first into a invisible fence.  Instead three steps left.  And a  white chain fence appears from no where on the right.  Twenty meters maybe?  Straight again.  Sharp left turn.  Optional gravel step off left.  I joked with Catherine as she zipped past me a hundred bazillion times, that's okay you're faster, I'm getting all the extra mileage going around that gravel spot.

OMG stop giggling to yourself and Turn LEFT NOW dammit.

I loved this strip.  Slight down hill.  Back side of the course.  Must be near a full km.  Okay I loved this strip minus the few trucks presumably transporting the chickens into their barn.  Minus the series of orange pylons that kept us left, that never seemed to stay still the entire 24 hours.  Sneaky little bastards were having their own party while I was running.  I swear.

Two garbage cans on the left along this strip.  Hey this was important to know.  Good places to barf and all.  Street lights.  No need for headlamps. Gentle turn left with the road.  More pylons.  Stupid left turn at the #8 gate.  Don't veer left.  Drop off.  Step down.  I tried to hit this each time with a left foot forward swing, so I could drop and hopefully jump over that spot.  Two breaths and a right at the stack of white horse fences.  Sharp left.  Optional grass section.  You go for it.  I'll be over here on the slight left, but not all the way left side of the gravel road.  Watch the left, there are pot holes there.  Don't pass left.  OMG there's three middle pot holes.  Merge right.  NOT THAT FAR RIGHT.  There's missing edge, like the spot where Catherines monster truck has chipped away the edge of my driveway.  Sharp right uphill turn. Barricades.  Garbage can.  Pylons.  Sensory overload...

Few meters of running and one left turn to avoid before finding that last left hand garbage can.  Turn left to come back around to the start line.  Two cables. Food smells.  And well, you get the idea.

And again.

And again.

For 24 hours.

Oh truth be told I was content to stop and sit down at 22 hours 13 minutes.

When we arrived Friday evening, the girls walked a loop with me.  Told me all the nooks and cranny's, fences and barricades.  First loop of the race, Robin ran with me.  Whispering sweet nothings in my ear about this step or that.  The thing about my memorized steps that always seems to surprise me; I can't memorize the moving parts.  People had been running for five days when we started.  Others for three.  Others for two.  And in our mix were marathoners.  Dammit they all refused to stand still.  The buggers.  Moving parts.

When I started running it was road racing.  Which I hate by the way.  Two much noise.  I used to pin bells on my guide runners shoes.  This helped me follow the right feet in the crowd.  The pack in this race was varying gate and shuffle.  Too many tempting sounds to follow.  We were blessed with a good 5 hours of overcast sky's.  I ran 'blind runner' bib on my back, but guideless along the memorized course.  Robin assured me she was only ever a mile away if I needed her.

Several things happened.

I couldn't handle the noise so plugged my music in. I let the moving parts move themselves.  I apologized in my head a number of times for bumping into them all.  I prayed they'd forgive my repeated clumsiness.

My tummy, which has been my biggest nemesis this year, revolted.  Revolted in flying fits and spurts of barf every which way and where.  As the day went on this made any attempts of a bouncy run step (which my legs seemed quite happy to do) impossible.

And the icing; The sun came out.

You may as well shoot me.  I kept thinking about the worse possible events here.  Like what if my flying spasms of barf happened in front of the food building?  What if I tripped off that gravel step down and knocked over the moving parts?  What if... What if... I failed.  What if ... I choose to fail?

Okay so here's the thing, the retreated sentiment of the day; I am only here as a training race.  Chosen specifically for the attempt at making my tummy digest and stabilize for 24 hours so I can trust it again.  But that goal was flushed down with the rice I had at four hours.  This unknown piece of fate that hangs around in the tear misted air around a "change of plans", leaves me heavy.  Here I am empty and angry.  Self induced, no Sad Panda Points, put myself exactly here on purpose.  Suffered the 12 hour tummy failure 8 hours early.  Ran a bit more anyway. And now?

And now?

Blazing brightness from every direction.  All the memorized bits and pieces, details of this step and that, and my head full of fear.

Then I did something I've never done.  And prayed it would help.  I began running with my white cane out.

Every turn, every obstacle I 'knew' was there, found me repeating to myself; I'm gonna die.  I'm not gonna die.  Is New Jersey a good place to die?  What are the death taxes like here?  OMG I'm gonna die.  Please please please don't die.

Someone touched my arm on the second loop with my cane out.  I unplugged my headphone to find Catherine "Do you need me?"... Of course I do!  I'm so glad you can't see me crying.  Every fibre of my everything wanted to cling to her TAKE ME WITH YOU! She came for a goal and was on track for it.

"No, I do not need you" But I do...but I do... but I ... Of for fucks sake run away faster.  As much as I loved her and her offer, ignorantly I jammed my headphone back in place. Hope she forgave my rudeness.

Robin found me too and asked.  I laughed and said I'm not dead yet.  Keep running.

Under-breath cursing, I ran a number of loops in the slow to set sun.  People say I swear a lot when I run.  I say you haven't met Catherine obviously.  But seriously, I spent $40,000 on a linguistic degree, figure I'm making use of the cost per swear rule with each curse.

Fucking sun.  Fucking Brightness.  FUCKING STUPID SELF IMPOSED ULTRA SUFFERING.....

I know y'all pray for the sunrise after the seemingly endless hours of lonely dark.  I love the dark batman.  Oh look!  I can see the timing screen.  Oh Look!  I can read the exit signs in the loo.  Oh look!  I can take the optional gravel L-cheater path to the left and NOT die.  Who knew?

Please, give me dark.  Endless hours of dark.

I did relent and nap.  Settled my tummy.  Well not entirely true.  Emptied my tummy and waited.  And faced the truth that this would yet again, not be a big number race.  Faced the truth that I would sink after.  I know that pattern.  Faced the fact that I'd have to face the fucking facts.  I came for what?  45 miles?

No.  I came to learn how to eat and survive a lot of running.  Also I had to pee.  And like hell I was going to cut back along the course, or worse, behind the car where I'd barfed about ten times, to get to the loo.  So I walked a loop to get to the bathroom.  On that loop I was discovered by Catherine.  "Movement is better than stillness" she sang as she flew past.  Oh fuck you too, I'm just going to the loo.

But I kept going.  And ate a few things.  Tentatively.  Anything over a swagger gate produced more endless threatening barf.  So as with the rest of my life, I did the best I could with what I had.

Darkness meant no cane, no blind runner bib, no music needed, no glasses.

Of course all things come to an end.  The night is no exception.

My "day" at the fair ended in a ridiculously low 65 miles.  Happily I can report fear did not win.  This time.

.... and no, I have not yet browsed Ultrasignup.   Maybe I'll take up full time knitting?  Or spray painting?

Oh but I hear my shoes calling me from down by the door.....

Foundations Of Self

Self designated, self designed, self imposed, self conscious, self transposed...

Selfish

But there's therapy there too, I think.

Today I'm denying question marks; let them be the forget-me-nots of another worry.

Self denial.  Oh I've lived there.  Self potential.  Self advocated.  That's a scary place to visit.

Self talk. It haunts me.  Especially when I run, when I plan a run, when I meet someone for a run, when I'm thinking about a run I had, a run I should have had, a race I could have run better, faster, more graceful.

In the dark, on the road, in the quiet, before you wake... I'm out there.  Running.  Jogging.  Shuffling. Moving.  Praying.  Don't let the dogs out.  Don't let the skunks wake up.  Don't let there be black ice blending into the shadows.  Don't let there be a lot of cars and their shiny lights.  Don't let the streets be empty either.  Don't let there be strangers, strange noises, strange sounds.

Don't give me another reason to stay home.

I don't need one.

Head lamp a-lit along the sidewalk I will stumble on hours later to take the bus to work.  Reflective vest, reflective bands, stand out, shout out, look here, watch out.  Such a contrast to the soul I tend to hide the rest of my day.  Hoping not to be noticed making mistakes while crossing the road, while squinting at price tags in the grocery store, while cutting the grass into crooked rows.  Memorized steps.

I know this route.  Self talk invades; it may have changed.  I know this way.  But it's rained since you've come.  I know this curb, that step, those garden gnomes, garbage cans (not people - don't say hi).  I missed that guard rail.  Over dodged that construction pylon.  Tripped up on the shadow following me.  My shadow.  Calm down.  It's just running.

Breath escapes me here.  Never have I uttered such a lie.

Who am I kidding?  Who is there to fool?  Stop unbalancing the only piece that makes any sense at all.  Finally helpful self talk.  Finally productive self judgment.

Finally, a sense of some kind of self.

It's never "just" a run.  Ever.

It can set you free, can make you step out of the everything holding you back.  It can make the world shine, it can set it aglow.  It can be the 'hard' thing to get you through all the other hard things.  It can be self defining. Yes...  It can be the reason to get up, the reason to go to bed, the reason to reach, to try, to train, to focus, to create that sense of... of... of..

selfishness....

Doesn't there have to be, by default, some selfishness to your sense of self..  Maybe...

I don't need another reason to stay home.  I have a million already.  No guide, no time, no dark hours, no good weather, no energy, no hope, no breath, no self belief, no sense of safety, no sense of my-self.

No; it's never "just" a run.  Do not take it for granted.  A step you take is a step from where you are, a step into who you are, who you want to be, who you trust you might be.

Today no question.  Today no doubt worth breeding.  Today, a run.

Tomorrow, a run.

Foundations of a self I might like to meet someday.

They say the gate is yellow

Flecks of paint along the metal rail, the gate I would not touch until it was time to cross it.  They say the gate is yellow.  Yellow like the colour of the feeling in my toes.  My intention was bigger than my strength.  They say the gate is yellow.  I’m not so sure.  When i finally did reach out to it, all I felt were flecks of paint clinging to a history I could not know.  A history hidden in the road beyond, embedded in the flesh and blood of many who charged bravely, willingly beyond, into the 'out there'.  

All I can do is follow.  All I can do is beg to be led.  All i can do is fight off the darkness that grips my heart and anchors me to the 'impossibilities' I’ve been forced to accept for what seems like ever.

I’ll stop. 

Full stop.  

Before we get too far, before you lose yourself in the park along the mountain ridge on the opposite side of the summit and off the map you’ve attempted to trace.  

I’ll stop.

I'll grant you the safety net to retreat back to camp, back to the waiting arms of the ones who love you, support you, and all your sense of adventure... the ones who pray the hardest when you set out. 

This is not your typical race recap.  And if that's your pleasure, please stop reading.  I can't give you Barkley secrets, I can't tell you how to enter, what a complete loop entails, or even what the famous chicken tastes like.  But here, in what follows, I can give you a little piece of my experience.  Eyes closed, here we go...

This race, this euphoric culmination of insane improbability, has called to me since the finishing of my very first trail race.  One of my new found cohorts in the ultra world posted their condolences.  Early 2013.  Condolences.  My constant reminder when I stand at any start line ... I chose this.  Condolences fit so well.  Being legally blind means a number of things.  Most typically, in the ultra trail genre, it means accepting that things will suck until a path is made to make a space for what disabled participation looks like.  The thing about ultra running.... it is the challenge that most people love; to reach beyond what we accept as possible.  

I can't count the number of emails I have sent to race directors asking to be allowed to participate in events.  The response has been overwhelmingly positive.  Coming from a world where I have lost job interviews when my disability is disclosed, my experience with acceptance in the ultra world is optimistic.  There have been some that will not flex any rule.  Not the pacer times, or the cut off times or what have you.  For the most part, I am most accepted on the trail.  Road racing tends to be the most difficult to navigate.  That's really okay with me.  My heart is lost there on the hillside, on some mystical single track, some blazed ridge off in the sunset.  My soul loves to tangle near the escarpments edge, where all disability buffers have fallen off and guard rails are as invisible as my next steps.

Why Barkley?  

Do you have a minute?  Can you take a minute?  This is difficult to explain.  With disability, comes expected failure.  Disability is the 'other', the lacking, the 'almost' but not quite normal.  It comes with expected failure.  It also comes with celebration of small success.  So here is this race, where everyone is expected to give until their guts bleed and still will most likely fail.  I can't honestly think of a place I fit in more.  

Can you imagine living your entire life under an expected failure umbrella? 

Barkley.  Because I can fail in good company.  

Barkley.  Because I am just stubborn enough to gather strength from that.

Barkley.  Because, dammit, it is the least likely place you'd ever expect to find disability.

Graciously, courageously, and under not illusion of grandeur, Race director Laz returned my email, saying yes I could have a guide and make an attempt.  But when the time came, I had no such willing party.  It seemed no one wanted to be responsible for the real potential of death of a blind girl.  Which I found funny.  They trust me to cross roads, navigate city transit, raise children, go to work, find the edge of the pool at the gym, chop and prepare dinner... all on my own.  But not climb mountains. Unwavering in my faith that the world will eventually come around to knowing that disability is more than just the space holder for the edges of your normal, I emailed Laz back to say I could not find a willing soul this year.  But most certainly he'd hear from me again.  

I went running with my Steven one Sunday afternoon.  He stopped mid stride, dove into the ditch and emerged with an abandoned license plate.  "You're going to need this"  he said.  It doesn't appear that way... was all I could think.  But Steven insisted I not give up direction on following my dream just because of hurdle. "It's not what you do" he said.  He packed the plate away in his pack and we carried on.  

By email I was introduced to a fellow who agreed to try guiding the Barkley.  If you stood at the yellow gate and counted this year, you'd have found there were 41 of us.  This gift, this chance, this space, completely unreal.  I owe so much to Laz for searching for a guide for me.  I owe so much more to the brave Christian who took on the challenge of guiding.

Imagine taking on something so dark and scary you know you'll come apart.  Knowing and still accepting that challenge as a gift, a chance, a place to stand your ground and, well, just simply, TRY.  Now back step.  Imagine taking that on and taking someone else's life in your hands at the same time.  This is exactly what Christian did.  The Barkley is no trail run.  It is no single track.  No mountain race.  It is struggle.  It is survival.  It is your worst possible fears served sweetly with a side of arsenic.  Neither Christian or I entered this challenge without that knowledge.  But truth be told, you just simply don't know the things you don't know.

Standing at the start line behind that supposed yellow gate, in such good company, my thoughts were simply "Well dam, open mouth, insert foot"  Now the world was watching.  This is my life's purpose; cause a stir, create awareness, make space.  This is the hardest thing I do... raised within the boundaries of the backdrop of "I can't" every breath is a dog fight of turning off that soundtrack and beating a new drum.  The thing is, here I was, like always, surrounded by 'real' runners.  Those who have actual athletic reasons to stand there.  I'm not the least bit fast, not the least bit strong, can't climb worth a dam.  My only strength is stubbornness.  I talk my way into these things and then find myself tangled in the actual issues of pulling them off.  

Not sure Christian believed me when I said I'd never been on a mountain before.  That set the tone for the next while.

So we climbed.  And climbed.  And climbed.  Go get yourself some tea.  I'll be here, stuck in the memory of that endless climb, watching the bobbing heads ahead disappear.  Ok that didn't take too long, I could only see them for about ten clear feet.  But I did get to hear them go.  They seemed to dissipate.  Like they were overtaking the mountain.  Gone gone gone ahead.  And me, one foot then the other.  Slow, painfully slow ascent.  The easiest one on the loop to start us off.  Up and up and up, to see the world from outside my lens. Up and up and up and voices in my head; shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't.  Up and up and up... touch the sky, touch the clouds.  Up to where the wind cares not what you see, what you feel, what you think.  Where the wind on one side of the mountain kisses your cheek and on the other slaps your ass so hard you fall over. Up where your echo dances away the thoughts of all your edges.  

I couldn't read a compass to save my life.  If I have any wisdom to depart in this mishmash of madness, it is this.  They should have tactile compasses.  Have you seen a braille watch?  Lift the glass that covers the watch face, and feel the arms?  Yes well, they should make a compass version.  I was cursing engineers everywhere for not inventing this for the entire race.

The thing about Barkley, one of the things about Barkley, you're bound to get lost.  And that's okay, expected actually.  I do not know any pair who did this quite as well as Christian and I did.  Let me jump ahead... At the end of the day; no that's wrong, at the end of the next day, we'd covered maybe 8 actual miles on the loop, and about 50 extra miles just to ensure how lost we were.  Don't kid yourself, I didn't go to do anything but stir the pot.  So in that right, I think it was a successful venture.

On the first off trail down the mountain, my trekking pole strap broke.  I love my poles. They make me feel safe, invincible, sturdy.  So here, some 2 hours in, was my first reminder that I am none of those things.  Repaired and down again.  Down and down again.  We reached a bench.  Now wait.  I'm new to all this.  Not a park bench.  A flatfish three foot wide grassy bit of the mountain.  An old mining bench?  Our instructions were to look for book one on this bench.  I was so happy.  Hell I'd just come off a mountain.  Two feet, level ground, knew exactly where I stood.  Neither here nor there,  Truth be told only half way down the mountain.  But two feet firmly planted.  Christian wasn't certain which direction the rock under which the book would be.  "You go left, I'll go right" and I strode off.  Pretty sure he was concerned.  Can you do that?  Your Steven might kill me if he knew.  "It's a bench. I promise to stop if my feet don't line up"  And besides... my Steven would have expected me to take off like that.  Looking under rocks was my next 30 minutes.  Rocks on the grassy bench, half way down (up?) a mountain.  Quick mom... turn off netflixs.  I'm certain this is the easy part. 

More diving into the unknown. Down and down and compass bearings.  Down and down and streams coming together.  Down and down and do you hear that?  More streams.  Instructions... if you've come down too far south, you'll see nothing.  No shit.  That, at least was a familiar feeling.  Somewhere along that stream edge I knew we were stuck.  If Jared and Gary hadn't lapped us coming to book two, we not have found it.  So then what do you do when you're at the bottom of the mountain?  Well if you're Laz sitting comfortably around a fire, chewing chicken... you'd plot a course up the yuckiest part of the next mountain.  

Headlamps on and climbing up and up.  In my pack, on my back, exactly enough supplies for 15-18 hours.  More than I'd ever carried.  It's just a mountain, or ten.  It's just stuff.  Up and up and up.  Can you hear the wind?  Less kissing now that the sun is gone, she is fierce and vindictive and all the voices of those who challenge my right to be here.  That wind, so cruel, so heartless, trying so hard to tear me apart.  To a high wall... I'm not a squirrel it turns out.  Around and up and up and up.  

wait...

I can't breathe.

wait...

Christian stopped. Waited and wondered what had changed.  I had no footing.  I had no grip.  I had nothing but fear and wind in my ears.  No sound of his feet.  The mountain was older than anything I'd ever dug my finger into.  It's history swelling up like a wrath I was not prepared for.  This forest, this place, this mountain edge... voices of past wanderers.  I am not hallucinating.  I'm not tired.  I am fearful.  They do not want company. Not here.  Wait.  Let me breathe.  Let me sink my feet into the ground with hope and lightness.  But no.  The wind would not relent.  And the climb continued.  

Book three in hand.  And down the other side of the mountain. Gratefully out of the wind.

Down and down and down again.  Round and round.  Not a soul breathing.  But water ahead. Water that washed my feet of every ache and tenderness.  Water through the mountain, like a gift from the heavens.  But cold feet get colder though the night.  Later we'd return to this ditch and tuck ourselves in that crevasse to stay warm and reread the map for the hundredth time.  Later I'd curse my were feet and shaking hands.  Later, so much later I would beg the skies to swallow me up, and take me whole.  Later I would think that heaven must be a warm place... because this hell, this hell I asked for was colder than death.  Unforgiving wind and lost on a map.  No tactile compass.  And poor Christian listening to me whine about being cold, while he shivered in a t-shirt.

I called it.  I said I quit.  Here, somewhere after book four, I knew there was a road.  It was supposed to take us back to camp.  We followed a 'road' for two hours of down.  Down and down the mountain.  The sun came up.  We warmed enough to speak again.  And knew we weren't going back to camp on this road.  So lost we couldn't even quit.  Laughing we turned around and climbed two more hours up and up.  Back to book four.  Back in a race no one knew we'd quit.  

May as well look for book 5 right?

The Mountains laughed at this.  They taunted and teased and dared our descent down the wrong summit.  Over here... this way... try this way... Hours ticked by.  Packs grew lighter.  That's okay though, the space the food took up was being recycled with more doubt.  Doubt... Again the Doubt... And then...

And then...

Army helicopters.  Two of them.  Circling above.  We'd been gone hours.  More than a day.  Our foggy brains took on the mob mentality that we were being searched for.  Perhaps my crew back at camp was too distraught with the knowledge that I couldn't have carried enough food to survive.  Perhaps Laz himself didn't want the blood of a blind girl on his yellow gate.  Peeling bits of blood and guts of those I do not know, splattered on that gate.  Quitters road is long indeed.

We went back to the water drop, the place where the riddled instructions told us there was a road out to camp.  The "RIGHT" road.  Again we failed to find this road.  We found ourselves at a fork where a jeep road intersected a gravel road.  Standing, compass reading, deciding; we heard a noise.  I turned to my guide, my companion, my new life long friend...

"Ready to be rescued?" 

A beat up old pick up truck came rumbling down the mountain we'd just been on.  After some discussion about how to return to camp, they asked if the choppers were for us.  "We think they might be"... They offered to drive us to the fire tower trail.  So in the back of the truck we hopped.  I did not hop... Clambered.  Heaved.  Heavy with the knowledge that now, there was no turning back.  We had officially DQ'd.  

We got comfortable.

That's not right.

I think Christian may have had a nap.  I, on the other hand, was nearly paralyzed.  Winding, turning, speeding gravel down the side of a mountain.  The one that had seemed so angry by foot, now seemed to growl as we retreated.  It yelled in my ears... Dammit Batgirl... you weren't supposed to give up.  Where are you going?  This is Barkley!  This is the test!  This is the end of all things and you quit?

... seriously.... you quit?

There was a can in the back of the truck. or a bucket.  With every turn I grasped on the edge of the bed and the bucket would slam a bit into my shins.  Quitter, it teased.  Quitter... it taunted.  QUITTER!!!  it bruised... down and down and around we drove.  All the things they say you can't do, batgirl... all of them... and this.  

Steadfast in my decision, even in heartbreak.  I knew we were hopelessly lost.  I knew I did not have enough food to carry on.  I knew... that in my effort, some now 29 hours of effort, there was still some message. 

The truck dropped us off at the highway pull off for the tower trail.  They said there were three trails.  One to the prison, one to the tower, one to the camp.  Somehow we took the one to the prison.  We stopped at the end and found ourselves half way on rat jaw climb.  I looked up.  I talked to my legs. I considered trying it.  But my race was done.  Officially done.  We retreated (again) and went to the tower.  Here, after what seemed like an endless climb, we found book 9; the braille book. Helicopters were still flying around.  In attempts to let them know we had been here and were alive I began searching for the page number that matched my bib.  This book, perfectly fitting to my situation, had no page numbers.  The pages were still attached from the braille printer. Little did I know, Laz's last minute instructions at the yellow gate, some 28 hours earlier, were to tear out a page... any page.  There was no point in my taking a page that didn't match my bib.  No one would know we'd been here.  I left some of my personals on the water table, thinking that one of my crew could place me having been there that way.  We sat on the grass, soaked up the sun.  I felt the warmth of hope and promise in the sky, it wasn't to be my day, but it was to be our saving grace.  Food nearly gone, water nearly empty and both of us too foggy to even refill while we sat there by the second water drop.  Almost as if dropping made us less deserving of it. 

Out of the game.

But, not out of the forest.  

This tower, marked the half way point on this years course.  Half way back to camp and still rather lost.  Breathing in and out, 28 hours later, and still just as confused. 

We decided to go back to the highway.  Hitchhike our way back to the camp. Before we rounded the corner there was a trail that led to the camp.  Some unknown distance along that candy ass trail were our people, sitting around a campfire, eating chicken, counting seconds.  Heart full of the knowledge that we'd have to face them... head full of the awareness that we were down to one working headlamp and still not clear on distance between here and there... we continued back to the highway. 

Running.

Running... 29 hours later.  Running.  And listening to Christian talk about pregnant trees and faces in the rocks.  Running and knowing that finding another well rested human being was the only way out.  Down and down. and down.. 

We ran into a couple on their way up.  Dam if they weren't hiking up the mountain faster than we were running down it.  Humbling to know just how slow the ultra shuffle is.  Please if you see anyone from this race, tell them bib 81 is alive?  Tell them we are headed back along the highway?  And in my head... tell my Steven I am sorry to have failed at this quest.

one step 

another

one step

misstep

another

walking again... and now along the highway.  No shoulders, white lines, crazy fast cars, movement, noise, chaos.

my nemesis.  This... this... this... culture, so developed for the abled, so focused around the things I cannot do, or not well anyway.  White lines, traffic, guard rails... shifting focus... maybe I'm sleeping.  Sloped roads.. shuffling feet.  Single goal...

be found

Then a car pulled over and asked if we needed a lift to camp.  Wait I know that voice.  I've heard that voice. But to be honest, I"d have taken a ride from Santa Claus if he'd pulled his sleigh up.  Yes... please.  A ride home.

Home.  I dread that.  Love that mountain side and all it's potential.  All it made clear.  All the hope it carried to allow other'abled participants to show up, take part, be accounted for.

The drive took 15 minutes.  I can't imagine having had to walk that.  The couple in the front tweeted out our picture of us to tell the world once and for all that we were in fact alive.  

When we reached camp, they weren't expecting us.  Oddly I felt they weren't looking for us either.  Once they saw us, everyone started yelling 'RUNNER'... no no I thought, we aren't running.  We drove here.  'RUNNER'... shhh...no no no...

they say the gate is yellow... of course, yellow in the sun is as invisible as your uncaught dreams.  

they say the gate is yellow... but all I felt were peeling bits of paint, history etched into the metal as much as the rock under my feet.  History or effort.  Bits and pieces of me all over the ground, fallen like last years foliage, trodden on by overstepping awareness for a race who's prestige was in it's unknowing.

they say the gate is yellow.... perhaps it is, but i remain skeptical and hopefully ever-present enough to always question that which 'they' say is true.

Thank you Barkley Family; for accepting this rather black sheep to your fire pit.  I am forever grateful.

much love,

rm