It All Begins Here
If you grew up in the 70’s as I did, you may recall the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Richard Dreyfuss building a potato sculpture, the five-note tone signal, and the aliens who never really appear in the movie. As a moviegoer, you only ever saw their outline, backlit.
Close Encounters came back to me as I approached the aid station at mile 78 of the 2024 Tunnel Hill 100 in Vienna, Illinois. It was well after midnight and very dark — nothing but trees flanking the trail for miles and the sound of my shoes scuffling the dirt. Up ahead, a giant floodlight illuminated two figures from behind, their features obscured. They gradually morphed from aliens into my husband and son.
I had already “called” it. An injury flared at mile 30, stayed in the background for hours…then cruelly intensified around mile 65. I had asked my family to meet me at the next aid station. I was limping: one foot in front of the other in the little bubble of light created by my headlamp. The pace felt excruciatingly slow in those final miles; none of my tricks to make the time go by worked. My cousin, who had paced me through miles 40 to 60, came out into the cold and dark to walk me in.
The moment I stepped off the course I deflated like a balloon. Every bit of energy vanished. Overcome with nausea, I wobbled a few steps then dry heaved in the parking lot. My family got me into the car and we started back to the hotel in the pre-dawn.
It wasn’t until the plane ride home that I could finally reflect. It was hard not to be disappointed. The finish was not what I had envisioned. But at the same time I was already wondering, If my leg is not seriously injured, could I try this thing again? I needed to talk to my coach.
Let’s rewind. How did I get here? The idea caught hold during the pandemic. I was anxious, trapped in the house and filled with dread. I was working full-time as a doctor in a New York City hospital and needed something to dream about, something outside of the unrelenting disease updates, counts of COVID deaths, and sirens outside my apartment windows.
Having run consistently since my teens, I had worked my way up to marathons over the years and qualified for Boston. But I needed a goal — something truly audacious. I started researching my options. Not surprisingly, the internet had a lot to say. I also explored a few running podcasts (a few can be an embarrassingly high number) and drifted into the world of ultras.
What is an ultra? An ultramarathon is any distance beyond 26.2 miles. I had run several marathons where I was destroyed at the finish line, unable to take even one more step without my legs buckling under me. The concept of an ultra was difficult to comprehend. Given how much training marathons required and what the race dished out, how did people do this? I continued my research, reading books and magazines and listening to more podcasts. I quickly learned that “regular” people run and finish ultras all the time — including people my age and older. Well, that’s it, I thought. If they can do it, so can I.
For the first time in my life, I hired a coach. I had always relied on cookbook running plans and tried to hang on for dear life as the miles and the training racked up. But an ultra was a bigger, more complex goal. And, I was older. A coach could provide education and accountability in addition to workouts. There was a lot to learn.
My first coach taught me a lot, but we didn’t quite click. My second coach hit all the marks. She had deep expertise, humility, a sense of humor, and a running resume that blew my mind. She knew NYC and, having lived there herself, knew its challenges for endurance athletes. Importantly, she gave my age due consideration but didn’t consider it a barrier. Game on.
We started conservatively by preparing for a 50k (31.6 miles). I finished feeling strong; the race proved to be my gateway drug. More 50ks followed, then a 50-mile race, all the while learning, learning, learning. After a 50-mile finish at the Jackpot Ultras outside Las Vegas, I started to dream about a 100 miler. Some of you know this phenomenon: you finish a half and you immediately start dreaming of a full. OK, sure, this is sort of the same, you tell yourself, just a heck of a lot further.
Preparing for and participating in an ultra would require support. My husband was up for crewing, whole-heartedly behind my attempt to complete an extreme endurance event, having done them himself as a cyclist. My coach was up for taking it to the next level. I had already called her in tears at various points of training — exhausted, overheated, disappointed — you name it. She had been there for me with the right words, even-keeled support, and a plan. She had confidence I could do it and gave me the green light. I recruited my cousin, an Ironman finisher, to join us to help with logistics and pacing. When I told her about it, slightly trepidatious, wondering if she would think I had finally gone too far “for my age”, she was instantly all in and completely pumped. No turning back.
The training started. And grew. Along the way, I discovered an appetite for studying: advances in training protocols, use of wearables to inform progress and plans, nutrition, hydration, pacing, mental training, recovery, and tapering. Knowing physiology as a physician allowed me to leap frog into deep study quickly, and my experience as a researcher allowed me to critically evaluate what I was reading and hearing. I naturally gravitated to how what I was learning applied specifically to masters athletes — no surprise, I was living it.
It was deeply satisfying to defy age and gender norms by training hard for such a big goal without holding back, and I knew I would see Illinois again.
