I know something that will make you sweat. It will make you feel like you just might be dead already or at least lost somewhere in the Twilight Zone. It may make you vomit. It will require hundreds of hours of your life that you just “don’t have time for.” And it will likely be one of those things you look back on as “the best thing I’ve ever done.” Run an ultramarathon.
What, you ask, is that? A marathon? No, it’s a marathon plus. Not 26 miles, but 50 or 100 kilometers, meaning 31 or 62 miles. Not only that, but it will be run on trails that wind up and down mountains, not on paved roads. Those of you unfamiliar with the concept are probably thinking, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Ok, I’m with you. Really. Most people say they can’t or don’t even want to try to run 3 miles. I was one of those people. I AM one of those people again today. But somehow a friend convinced me to try. I have no idea what went through my head that said running 50 kilometers up and down mountainsides seemed like a good idea. My only guess is that I had to know what it would feel like. So I spread that same message to you: it is the most interesting set of chemicals you can possibly release in your head, and with only one life to live, how can you not experience this incredible high just to see what it’s like? I mean, if you become addicted, how bad can it be? It’s healthy, socially acceptable, and fantastically empowering. Now, really, how many addictions can you say that about?
Training
The training started with regular runs of about 3 miles around a local park, the neighborhood, the track. When I felt I could do that regularly and without stopping, I seriously upped the ante. I went on a 7 mile trail run with a regular marathon-runner friend. I emphasized I was really not in her kind of shape. I insisted we go slooowwly. She agreed, and miraculously, I didn’t die. My lungs burned, but I could still breathe at the end. And when I could stand upright again, I realized I had an infusion of absolute joy in my head. Everybody smiled. I smiled. The world was bright and the sounds of little songbirds filled my ears. I had caught the runner’s flu of rose-colored glasses through which every molecule was first tainted to look perfect.
So I tried for the next tier. I ran on a trail. Yes, I realized, there would be hills. I had to describe it differently to myself because
my emotions were instantly reared back to the first time I had heard about my cohort ranger running his trail chores. I thought he was either superman or absolutely insane. Wasn’t backpacking enough? No, this guy ran the 15 miles to the cabin to drop off a couple of days of food. And I could never compete for my boss’ admiration if it took me 2 days, not 7 hours, to do this task. So long-distance trail running rang a shrill alarm which replaced the songbirds in my ears. In order to get my brain behind this task I had to call this run a simple adventure. I convinced myself that this was a way to be able to see more during a day in the woods. And somehow this worked: I got out onto the trail and ran.
I put on good shoes, comfortable clothes, backed a very light camelback backpack with a lunch, lots of water, and my ten essentials in case something happened. I ran. And I ran. And I ran some more.
Whenever it felt like uphill (which frankly was often, and probably not always very objective), I allowed myself to jog or even walk. As long as I was moving forward, I figured it counted.
Mind Shifting
Slowly, the endless miles imperceptibly shifted from brutal torture to glory. I found myself no longer thinking about the burn, or about the miles, or about anything at all. The long-standing drone of my regular (but very fast) heartbeat became a form of meditation, and even it was now distancing into the background. I noticed the air was cool enough to counteract the heat I was producing. The ground had some give to it, nicer than asphalt on my feet. Then the colors began to pop out of the originally bland background of a fall day. It seemed the trees were waving me on with gold and burgundy flags. The songbirds even began to chime in again, cheering “You go, girl! You’re a superstar!” A smile began to conquer the wince that had been pasted across my face.
And then I saw movement that was not produced by my own transgression of the wide landscape. There was a herd of wild goat off to my right, interrupting their dinner to evaluate the danger of my passing. This was rather funny: I was hardly able to consider any task other than moving forward, and then only because now I had hit the monotonous groove and had I thought much about it, I would have surely not been able to do even this. Yet it was also supremely sublime. Staring while I ran, I felt lighter, like I had been lifted by a cloud, the way one may describe flying in a dream. Lucid dreaming, if you will. As we continued our respective activities, but attuned to each other, I felt unadulterated awe. I could only wonder if some of them had never seen one of my kind, as I had never seen one of them before, and were left with that same feeling of wonder. Perhaps I made a mark on one of those yearling goats the way that they had made a mark on me.
I finished the route on empty, but so full of excitement that I could burst. I can only say that I was eager to try this again. I ran more frequently and for longer distances. I ran to places I would not have seen any other way: off-the-beaten-track places, wonders too far for the weekend backpack trip; spaces in my mind that never had doorways before. I ran and ran to prepare for the ultramarathon in one sense, but the motivation came from the adventures I may have during any training run. Even though I never would have said I was “ready,” ultimately the day of the race came.
The Race
First of all, you really should know that I am not a morning person. Not even a bit. So the 7 am start time was daunting enough. I had to rise at a time beyond comprehension to get a good breakfast, make sure I was all packed, and drive to the starting line 45 minutes up into the hills. Somehow, I got there and in relatively good form.
After I signed in and got a number, I stood in the milling crowd making small talk to distract from the obligation I had just made. I didn’t want to fully consider that I had just contracted my body to run 50 kilometers through the trails of Washington forest. You know the slogan: “Just Do It.”
The gun fired, and we were off. I had adrenaline running now, and had to slow myself from an initial sprint. Well, the competitive runners in the front wouldn’t call it even remotely a sprint, but their version of slow and steady was a full on run to me. We ran and ran, first as a loose group. Only after they got out of sight and trail rhythms of my own kicked in did I find I was running steadily enough to finish – I hoped. Hills came up fast to greet me. I took it slow.
A photographer snapped action shots of each of us as we crested a small rise, and this was perhaps the last time I tried to run uphill, but the shot – the proof I did this – was worth the effort. Snack tables appeared around corners every 7 miles or so. I ate whatever they had to offer, grabbing snacks I would continue to munch on over the next mile or so. (This is when I realized my body had begun to adapt: I was able, quite literally, to eat and run at the same time.)
After some time of running the meditative state began. I no longer thought about the miles I had run, or had yet to run. I stopped thinking. The path continued into an infinite distance, and I was just gliding along, lost in the pattern of my own footfalls. Mile after mile after mile after mile continued without much notice. And then I emerged. I found myself in my favorite habitat: the subalpine rock zone. Enthralled, I skipped along the rock faces, smiling despite the drizzle that had begun to conceal the open views.
Misstep
Lost in my drone zone, I neglected to see the rock field as a hazard. One moment, I was prancing across the boulders. The next, I lay sprawled on them. I quickly came back into reality to discuss the situation amongst all the parts of myself. “I’m hurt.” “How badly?” “Can I stand up?” “Ok, good.” “Can I walk?” “Ouch!” “Breathe now.” “How far to the next check station?” “How far back to the last one?” “Can I go forward?” “Yes, I can go forward, I’ll just go slowly and see how it goes.”
And so it went. I stumbled forward along the trail with a broken tailbone. I walked much more frequently than I had been, and I was okay with that. And still, the stillness of thought overtook my mind until I was quiet and clear again. I passed trees and vistas; I mentally logged the miles. Thinking about nothing at all but my moving body, I avoided thinking about the pain of it all.
It is recommended by spiritual sages that we find this state. A form of zen: a wholeness and a nothingness all at once. While it was functional given my situation, still I found myself observing this achievement as a lofty accomplishment. I thought too soon, or too smugly, for in this state, I fell into the Twilight Zone. I never saw the 25 mile mark. I kept running, waiting for this marker. Did that squirrel run by again? Is this deja vu? How many more miles should I bother to run? Am I stuck here forever? This obsessive thought circled round my mind for interminable additional miles. Finally, another runner came up behind me. I stopped outright to let him pass and blurted: “do you know how many miles we’re at?” He kindly answered me, a saint breaking me out of Dante’s Purgatory, “I’m guessing we’ve got about 2 to go.” The glory that accompanied this statement for me was profound.
A new light shone on my situation. I was nearly out. I could do this. We chatted off and on to the finish line. We pushed ourselves and each other through gentle banter. We would finish!
The end of an ultramarathon has a magnificence like nothing I’ve experienced. The faces of those that greet you are mainly other very tired runners. And they press on to you the feeling of accomplishment until it grabs hold and shakes you to the bone: you did it! Would I do it again? Absolutely.
For a while I ran pretty regularly, still exploring the nearby terrain throughout the fall. By the following spring, I had 
developed other interests, and found myself spending time in different ways. But to this day, I have days where I would like to rearrange my life significantly to get back into that rhythm, losing myself in the void of the long run. The only legitimate excuse I have for myself to not go out and run is that at least I know what it feels like. And until you’ve tried it, you can’t fully capture what a powerful memory that is.
About the author: Karen Bicchieri has extensive experience writing, researching, and editing on various topics from ecosystem management to applied metaphysics. She recently retired from institutional employment as Sustainability Coordinator. Now she’s finding pleasure and sanity in the installation of native gardens and in pursuing her interest in enjoying the universe and meeting people. Read more from this author
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