The Field Ran Out Before I Did.

I was walking—no, borderline crawling—at a 25-minute mile. Questioning my will to live. What were my options? I was in the middle of a fucking field. I could either keep moving forward or literally become part of the landscape.

I moved forward.

Seventy-year-olds trotted past me yelling, “Great job!” “You’re doing great!” All the while, I’m thinking, Fuck you. I’m going to die here, but actually mumbling some version of, “Thanks, you too!”

But then the field ran out before I did.

There was the dirt road. Only a mile left. All downhill.

How did I get here?

Well, two weeks prior, I impulsively signed up for a trail half marathon with over 1,700 feet of elevation gain. I’m in Colorado, mind you, so that’s in addition to already being close to 6,000 feet above sea level—and even higher in the mountains where I was running.

I had been listening to audiobooks about ultramarathons, and the whole thing was interesting to me. Plus, this event was close to my brother and only 13 miles. A great intro to ultras, right? I’d run 10 road miles recently and did great. There was a six-hour limit. No problem! Plus, it was near my brother, so I could take the kids and it would be a nice little family trip.

It was perfect.

The hotel was literally walking distance from the start of the race. A quick, but cold, 10-minute walk. I walked over, got my bib, and truly felt like a fish out of water. I looked around and realized this was so different from your typical road race. There was also a 50K and 33K happening, and those races were starting earlier. There was a 10K and 5K, too.

I was so nervous.

The race director was prepping us at the start line, telling us how to find the route. This made me even more nervous. What if I got lost?

I’ll just make sure I have my eyes on someone the whole time, I thought.

Quickly, the horn blew, we were off, and I realized I was definitely going to be one of the slowest.

Six hours. Just finish before six hours.

For a while, I stayed at the same pace as another woman. A very positive, upbeat woman who just kept saying, “We’re doing great! This is only for us. We don’t need to worry about anything else.”

We made it through the first grassy field.

What the fuck is up with running on grass, by the way? It’s as difficult as sand, except that it also hides holes and divots that can break your damn ankles.

I digress…

When we finally got to a dirt road, I was so excited. At least you could see the rocks and roots that might break your ankle.

But then I realized we were going up.

Between miles two and six, there was a 1,500-foot climb. It was rough. I mostly power hiked. I was frequently passed at this point, and this is when I started losing sight of my new friend.

Once we hit the summit, it was literally all downhill, which was surprisingly more challenging than going up. This is when I lost her. I was afraid of falling, my quads were screaming, and I stepped on enough loose rocks that rolled under my feet to really make me slow down.

When I got to the bottom, I was alone. Not a single runner in sight.

The trail was not marked well. Was I supposed to go straight? Was I supposed to go back the way I came?

I stood there for a while, hoping someone would come by. No one did, so I made the choice to go back the way I came. I made it back to the first/third checkpoint and realized I should have gone straight and curved down.

The guys at the aid station were so kind.

“Hey, it’s basically the same distance. At least you’re out here having fun. So many people have done that today. No worries! Keep going!”

Perfect.

I kept going.

As I got closer, I could hear the announcer at the finish line.

Holy shit, I’d done it. I made it.

I looked at my watch.

Only 10 miles.

Shit.

Did I really mess up that badly by going the wrong way? I could see the finish line now, and regardless, I was grateful.

Then I saw people turning to go up this other hill. I thought it was only the 33K runners.

Poor bastards, I thought. Glad I don’t have to do that.

Then I got to the signage.

Fuck.

I did have to do that.

I paused for a second. There are no more checkpoints. The finish is right there. I’m exhausted. I could just go to the finish…

But no. My integrity won out.

I’ll do the damn three-mile loop.

Fucking fine.

I was tired, but I was still okay. I had water. It was great.

Little did I know, it was all uphill with another 300 feet of elevation gain.

I kept going.

The views were incredible. It felt like an enchanted forest in some places. I started slowing. I saw where the loop ended as people were coming out of this field.

Great, I thought. That’s not so bad.

As I summited yet another hill and started to come down, I suddenly felt completely drained. I slowed to a walk. A few times, I looked at my watch and I was literally walking at a 28-minute pace.

I tried to trot occasionally. A slow jog.

But I just couldn’t.

Then I got to the fucking field.

This fucker wouldn’t end.

And again, I was on grass. I hated running on the grass. Every time I thought I saw the fence coming into view, the trail would curve slightly.

God dammit.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to quit.

What the hell was I going to do, though?

I had to just keep going. I’m literally on a mountain in the middle of a fucking field. I had to just keep pushing forward.

And I did.

I finally made it out of that godforsaken field and onto the dirt with only a mile left. I made it back to the point where I could hear the cheers from the finish line.

I started to trot.

Then I slowed again.

Never fucking mind. Just walk. You’re just trying to finish this thing.

I crossed the finish line.

The lady kept telling me to smile for a picture. I literally couldn’t. I couldn’t even muster a victory pose. I’m pretty sure my head was down in the picture.

I hobbled to the aid station, grabbed some water and watermelon, and realized I had the 10-minute walk back to my hotel.

Fuck.

My husband was at the store with the kids in town. There was no rescue.

I was forced into my walk, which somehow felt even longer than before. I slowly limped my way back to the hotel, toes screaming in my shoes, begging to be free.

I made it.

And then I realized there were two flights of stairs…

And no elevator.

God dammit.

Once I reached the room, my husband and kids had just gotten back. I sat in a chair and started crying. I was so tired. Everything hurt.

I mustered the energy to shower. Then we went to lunch. By some miracle, when we got back, both kids and I fell asleep for two hours.

Less than 24 hours after the race, I was examining my life.

I wasn’t ready for this race, but I did it anyway.

I finished.

Things got incredibly painful and difficult, but I kept going. I moved forward. One slow step at a time, I moved forward.

I had to.

And somewhere out there, I realized something I think I had been trying to understand through all those books I’d been listening to:

I don’t have to actually feel strong to keep going.

The field ran out before I did.