Another Failure

Failure.  It’s such a harsh word.  Check it out. ( These definitions are from http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/dictionary?book=Dictionary&va=failure&x=16&y=17.)

1 a : omission of occurrence or performance; specifically : a failing to perform a duty or expected action b : a state of inability to perform a normal function …c : a fracturing or giving way under stress
2 a : lack of success…
3 a : a falling short : DEFICIENCY …b : DETERIORATION, DECAY
4 : one that has failed

 

Unfortunately, every single definition describes my 2005 performance at the Mountain Masochist Trail Run 50 Miler.         

I had such high hopes in July.  Extensive time away from home for my job throughout the spring and early summer severely limited my ability to train hard for the fall racing season.  But, after running a couple of days with David Horton on the Pacific Crest Trail, I returned home from Oregon with renewed vigor to train.  I was excited to think about time spent on Virginia trails, both by myself and with my running buddies.

Within a few days of walking back into my own home, I arranged a run with a great friend.  We planned on a 20 miler but cut it short when severe crotch chafing reduced my running mate to a ridiculous-looking, wide-legged waddle.  It was disappointing to not follow through with what we had planned.  My elaborate plans for increased training seemed thwarted on every turn as work demands remained relentless.  Even the forest itself seemed determined to stymie one particular solo run with more overgrown trail, spider webs and stinging nettle than can be pleasantly borne. Nevertheless, I remained cheerfully optimistic that I could once again feel like a real runner.

It was not to be.  Two weeks later, the symptoms of an ill-diagnosed health issue of three years ago (and lasting for a year and a half) reared its ugly head.  Most disturbing of those symptoms was the inability to run and breath at the same time.  Reduced to plodding, I had to stop and walk even the slightest hill, sometimes within a mere mile from  home.  At times, I would attribute it to the heat and humidity, hoping for a better tomorrow.  But, time and time again and despite my best efforts, tomorrow brought no improvement

As the weeks evaporated into days, I stood at the starting line of the MMTR on an unseasonably warm October morning.  Undoubtedly undertrained, I still anticipated that I could get through the race, slow but unharmed.  Pairing with a new found friend, the first seven miles went much better than expected.  Hope for the day, like the first spring flower emerging from the ground, made me smile inside.  But, in the time it took to tie my flopping shoestring, I looked up to see Tonya and others easily pull away from me.  Whoa!  Big time reality check.  I gathered what confidence was left and continued on my way.

Before long, I met up with a young runner from Toronto .  Relatively inexperienced as an ultrarunner, Michelle appeared eager to stick with me, walking when I walked and running when I ran.  It felt good to be able to describe the course, answer her questions and encourage her in her efforts.  It made me feel viable and useful at the prospect of sharing the day and helping her to realize her goal.  This was not to be.

Approaching the aid station at the 22 mile mark, it was as though a switch had been thrown.  What had been a comfortable pace now seemed very difficult.  My breathing became labored and my capacity to make the climb out of the aid station deteriorated.  I lost track of the number of people who passed me, trying instead to use all my experience to figure out a way to salvage the moment.  By the time I reached 27 miles, I could not run more than 25 yards without having to stop and walk.  Every inhale felt as though I was sucking air through a coffee stirrer.  The medical director tended to me, seeing me incapacitated in the same way three years prior.  Then, trying to regain my breath from a cot, I removed myself from the race, unable to go on.  Now, the pain and embarrassment of that withdraw coupled with the lure of a 10-time finisher’s jacket pushed me out of the aid station and pulled me unceremoniously up Buck Mountain.

I had hoped that things would get better on the long climb.  They did not.  I felt like a wounded gazelle just waiting for the cheetah to strike the fatal blow.  Even the downhill section from aid station 11 left me gasping for air.  I felt both the sting of tears on my cheeks and the sting of humiliation as more and more runners passed me by.  I wanted to hide the lettering on my shirt that read “Montrail Ultrarunning Team”.  By definition, I was supposed to be at least a decent runner.  Now, I could barely get myself to the next aid station and felt myself to be doing a great disservice to my sponsor.

I could feel the eyes of everyone in the next aid station turn to watch as I entered.  My husband, though concerned, wisely refrained from telling me to quit.  This had to be my decision.  40 minutes ahead of the cut-off time, I decided to make it into the next aid station on the slim chance that I would get better.  On that climb that seemed so arduous, I tried to calculate if I could walk the remaining 19 plus miles and still be under the 12 hour time limit.  I didn’t think I could.  By the time I got to “The Loop”, not having improved, I informed my husband that I was done.  I sat down on the ground, totally dejected.

Waiting for a friend to come out of the Loop , I watched a stream of runners go by.  I contemplated reneging on my withdraw to follow those runners into the Loop trail, once again taking up the challenge.  I must have flip-flopped my decision about 100 times in those 20 minutes.  However, when the time came to follow my husband back to the parked car, I removed my race number from my shorts.  I had failed the task and I wanted it to be as least obvious as possible.

Failing is horrible. Despite the medical cause, I still failed according to the definitions.:  Definition 1a- I failed to perform a duty and expected action (did not finish)  Definition 2a – a lack of success (did not finish) Definition 3a – I fell short (did not finish)  Definition 4 –One that has failed (did not finish).  On all accounts, I failed.  It hurts to fail.  Failing makes me cry.  Failing makes me feel horrible.  Failing makes my heart cry out, “Why me – again?”

Thank God that failing in a race does not imply a failed life. Look at Job, a wealthy, wise man of ancient day.  As God used him for show and tell, those watching the story unravel would surely have been inclined to scream “failure” at the top of their lungs.  A once admired man, Job found himself stripped of all his worldly positions, possessions and passions.  Yet, despite the accusations of wrong doing and speculation as to why Job was failing in life, this man never cursed God.  Though fraught with anguished soul and deepest sorrow, Job did not fail in his responsibilities to his Maker.

I am not suggesting that my recurring health issue and not finishing a race parallels Job’s difficulties.  However, I would propose that, although sounding rather cliché, difficulties can serve as the impetus for growth.  There is no progress without some discomfort.  Though people may see me as a failure, I will gather my resources, begin again a medical journey of inquisition, re-define goals and…sign up for the next race. 

Failure need not be permanent.

 

Rebekah Trittipoe

October 2005