Yesterday I did a race called Outlast. The concept is simple: you run a 5K on the hour, every hour, for six hours. As long as you finish before the next hour starts, you can keep going.
I made it four laps.
I chose not to go out for the fifth.
My body said no more.
In true Colorado-weather fashion, it was 47 degrees for lap one, and by lap three it was pushing 80. By lap four, I was barely hanging on. I do not like running in the heat, let alone in direct sun with little to no shade.
It was technically a trail run, although a much easier trail than the half marathon I did a few weeks ago. There were still some mildly technical sections, but the course itself wasn’t really the story.
The experience—and the people—were.
The night before, I really didn’t want to participate at all. Waking up at 4:30 on a Saturday to pack a cooler for a six-hour run felt painful. But I did it anyway.
Once I got there, I was fine.
I quickly realized I was one of the only women there running completely solo. Everyone else seemed to have friends running with them or a support crew sitting nearby. Meanwhile, I had my cooler, my camping chair, and me.
On the first lap, it was freezing. The sun had just come up, the wind was blowing, and for part of the course we were running straight into it. It felt kind of terrible for a while, but eventually the morning started to warm up.
The first two laps were actually pretty reasonable.
On lap one, I was somewhere in the middle of the pack, with plenty of people behind me. By the second lap, I was second to last, with one man consistently behind me.
That held true for lap three, except now it was getting hot.
So. Damn. Hot.
The sun was directly overhead with almost no shade. I noticed one woman who had been solidly middle-of-the-pack during the first two rounds starting to fall back. By mile two of the third lap, I realized I was going to pass her.
I stopped to check on her.
She told me she was cramping really badly, and then she started to cry. Luckily, I had an energy gel and salt tabs with me, so I gave them to her.
She thanked me and then said, “I really wanted to make it to round four, but I don’t think I can.”
The man who had been consistently behind me said, “You’re doing great. You’ve got this!”
Then he and I kept going.
She still made it back to the finish before the hour was up.
We ran out to meet her. I brought her a frozen Gatorade from my cooler, and my new back-of-the-pack pal gave her a hug and a high-five as she crossed the line.
She decided not to go out for round four.
While I waited for the fourth round to start, another woman invited me to move my stuff under their tent so I could get out of the sun. It was such a simple, lovely gesture.
By then, it was around 85 degrees.
I went out for round four and almost immediately realized I could no longer maintain much of a jog.
It was just too damn hot.
My back-of-the-pack pal pulled ahead of me.
I was officially in last place.
And I didn’t really care.
I walked as quickly as I could and jogged when I could. At that point, the goal was simply to get back.
I made it with eight minutes to spare.
My back-of-the-pack pal was waiting at the finish line to give me a high-five. The woman I had helped earlier was sitting in her tent cheering for me.
I went to sit down before the next round.
And I knew.
There was absolutely no chance I was getting back out there.
I was depleted in a way that a Gatorade and an Uncrustable were not going to fix.
So I sat for a minute. I cheered as my back-of-the-pack pal headed out for round five. Then I packed up my things and walked to my car.
I sat in the air conditioning for a while and let myself recover before making the drive home.
My car happened to be parked right beside the final stretch of the course, so I stayed for a little while and watched people finish round five.
One man came in after just 17 minutes.
Seventeen.
Minutes.
The first few women finished around 23 minutes. One of them was clearly older than me, and for some reason, watching her felt incredibly inspiring.
I had wanted the big six-lap medal.
I had wanted to keep going.
But four laps was what my body had that day, and stopping was the right call.
Still, sitting there in my car watching those runners come through the finish line, I didn’t feel discouraged.
I felt curious.
Maybe next time, I told myself.
Maybe next time.
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