That time I ran an ultra-marathon: Positivity Challenge #1

This was the farthest I'd ever run in my life, and I still had 20 miles left to go. And I could barely move my legs.

This was me 8 hours earlier, kissing my wife at 6:30 in the morning at the start of the Devil Mountain 50/50:

Those 8 hours had been long, but I had thought all was well. I'd run about 30 miles (50 km), and ascended (and descended) about 4500 vertical feet. That's right, over 1.3 km straight up and down. I'd had my share of minor pain in my knee, but at the most recent aid station I'd gotten a bit of massage and I was feeling relatively good.

My strategy for the race was simple:

1. Don't run too fast, because that uses up energy
2. Don't get lost
3. Drink a lot of water
4. Eat a lot of food

That last bullet point is crucial. Every 8 miles or so, the race organizers had set up an aid station with big coolers of water and huge piles of fruit and other energy food. I figured if I forced myself to eat at least 200 calories at each station, I'd probably manage to stay ahead of my energy needs and everything would be fine. Unfortunately, at Aid Station #4 (about 26 miles in), I was in a rush to get back on the course, and I forgot to stuff my pockets with food.

And that brings us back to the present. Almost 30 miles finished, 20 left to go. No food. And a miserably-hot, steep, evil hill to climb. This is the course's elevation profile, and I've marked with a red dot the approximate place I ran out of food:

I was still 600 vertical feet and maybe 5 or 6 miles short of Aid Station #5, where I'd be able to get food and replenish my energy reserves, and possibly quit if necessary.

So how bad is it to run out of food in this situation? I'm sure this is a little bit different for everybody, but for my body, it felt a little bit like dying. I completely stopped running, because I physically couldn't. I plodded along, each step a conscious effort. My brain wasn't working very well either, and my vision seemed to narrow to a small blurry tunnel. All I wanted to do was get to Aid #5, collapse into a heap, and quit this insanity.

I also knew that I was nearing the cutoff time - if you're on the course too long, they kick you out of the race so that they don't have to send Search & Rescue after you to haul you out of the woods.

Fast-forward to Aid #5. Somehow, I fought through my mental fog and my jellified legs and made it there. Someone put me down in a chair and started stuffing my face with energy gels, gummies, fruit, whatever seemed like it would inject my blood with life-giving glucose. I don't know how long I sat there - maybe 20 minutes? And suddenly, a bit of life started creeping back into my body.

The next section of the course was the easiest - just a quick little 5-mile out-and-back to a spectacular vista point, and it was all flat. No climbing. I knew I could do it, even if I simply walked. I was absolutely sure that once I finished that easy 5-mile stretch that I'd quit the race. So I started walking, glad that at least I'd make it to the vista before I quit.

And then a funny thing happened. I found a short stretch of downhill, and I ran it. The speed of that short bit of running infected me. The next time the course flattened out again, I ran once more - and felt stronger. I found that if I carefully modulated my speed according to the track's slope, I could spend more than half my time at a respectable jog. All the while, that food I'd eaten was being absorbed into my blood stream and was literally making me stronger.

By the time I got back to Aid #5, I was running considerably more than I was walking, and I started thinking I might be able to finish the course! My brother was running the race an hour ahead of me, and when he had passed Aid #5 for the last time, he'd told my family there not to let me quit. Somehow, he knew I could finish, and he certainly knew that I'd never forgive myself for quitting.

So, with my dad running alongside me to pace me and make sure I ate enough, I set off through the wilderness to finish the race. Let me explain what I was up against: I'd just run over 36 miles, so I had at least 14 miles left to run (over a half-marathon). The first 8 of these miles were through one of the toughest parts of the course, where I first had to run down nearly 1000 vertical feet, then back up another 1300 vertical feet. Steep and arduous.

Running where I could, walking where I had to, I kept on. I just kept on pushing. I knew I couldn't stop - there wasn't really any option to stop. There weren't any roads where I was running, so if I got stuck I'd probably be going on on horseback, or even spending the night out in the middle of nowhere. And somehow, I made it to Aid #7 - the last aid station. My dad was spent by then, but I was absolutely thrilled that my wife would pick up where he left off and run the last 6 miles of the course with me to get me to the finish line.

Running on now in the dark, I finished the race, my lovely wife keeping pace beside me. Here is me coming in to the finish line:

My final time was over 15 hours, and I was one of the last people on the course, but I finished!

For those curious about verifying these things, here is a link to the race results; you can find my result under the name Philip Brown. I placed 24th out of 26 men, 34th of 37 overall. Not fast, not flashy, but I finished it.