The forest is the best place to cry

I could see my breath fogging the beam of light from my headlamp, further clouding what I could see of the rocks beneath me.

*THUNK*

“Grrrr.. Dangit that hurt.” Except I didn’t say “dangit.” That was what felt like the hundredth time I stubbed my toe on a rock during this stupid race called “Blood Rock 50K.”

I limped on, wondering if I even had toe nails anymore.

Then I started to cry, not because I was in pain or because this was stupid, but because my life is crazy. I never would have imagined I would find myself at the top of a ridge at Oak Mountain State Park with 29 of 33 miles on my legs. I never thought I would ever run 50 miles and be happy about it or daydream about one day finishing a 100 mile race.

I felt so dead but also so alive. To me, this feeling I had while struggling my way to the finish is peak euphoria.

I’ve been to this place before,like at mile 44.5 of Rebecca Mountain 50 mile when I even cussed in front of my mom because I was so frustrated and disoriented.

Even as I cussed and spat in disgust at the awful, twisty, 7-mile spaghetti loop I had just finished, I felt alive. As I left that aid station to head to the finish, I started crying. Like, sobbing. I was flooded with thoughts of all the hot summer days I spent suffering in the woods, all the ways this journey had changed me.

On Nov. 23, as I climbed the yellow/white connector about mile 29 of Blood Rock 50K, I felt that same euphoric dead-ness. And I cried. Again, I was flooded with thoughts, reminders of life and what the woods has given me.

If you’ve never cried in the woods, you’re not really living. The woods is truly the best place to cry about anything.

Running, especially trail running, has become a way for me to escape the stress of life and a way to process it. It’s also afforded me many lonely hours in the woods to cry about, you know, whatever I feel like crying about.

Sometimes crying alone spilled into crying in front of complete strangers. Yes. You heard me. If you’ve never shared your deepest secrets with a complete stranger during an ultramarathon, you’re not really an ultra runner.

Back to reality. I briefly stopped running (errr… stumbling?) to lean on my trekking poles.

“It can’t be more than three miles. You can run three miles, Anna. Anyone can run three miles.” I was less than an hour from finishing Blood Rock 50K, my third 50K and fourth ultramarathon so far this year.

So I started running as fast as my legs would move me. My clumsy feet would trip over at least 10 more invisible rocks before I finished.

Blood Rock 50K was the hardest race I’ve ever done. But when I finished, I didn’t cry like I did when I finished Mount Cheaha 50K. I had already cried it all out on the trails.

When I wasn’t staring at my clumsy feet maneuvering the rocky white trail, I could see the city lights shining to my left, a reminder of life away from the woods.

While the hours I spend training for these stupid races do absorb a lot of my time outside of work, I’ve really begun to crave it. Sometimes I crave a good 5-6 hour day in the woods, where I have room to run and to laugh and to roll in the mud like a 7-year-old if I please. Where I can cry about the insanity that is life. Where there are no deadlines or emails or bills or laundry to wash.

“Time to get it done, Anna. Your mom is waiting.” 

The thought of my mom, who finished the 25K four hours before, patiently waiting for me to finish made me tear up. Not everyone has supportive family members who will wait in the woods for hours, only to see you for a few minutes before you bound off into the darkness again.

She’s gotten into trail running and I’m so glad she’s enjoying it. 

Then I thought of my dad, who got me into running 10 years ago. I’ll never forget our first run together. I made it a little less than a mile before I had to walk, but that was OK. He let me walk and I finished that short run.

Those short runs would turn into early morning runs where we would challenge each other to a sprint to the finish. We’re both too competitive for our own good. Those runs with my dad became more than just something to do. It became a lifestyle and remains a lifestyle for me.

We’ll be running the Rocket City Marathon together this weekend (Dec. 14, 2019).

Thinking of Dec. 14 reminded me that my wedding anniversary with Ty is Dec. 12. We’ll be married four years this year. Then came the avalanche of thoughts about our relationship. All the things we’ve been through. All the changes we’ve endured. Moving three times in less than a year, all the job changes. Seeing Ty get clean and find a new normal outside of drugs. It’s been nuts. We should write a book.

I love him so much. I’m so proud of him. Our relationship is not a normal one, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then, I thought of my grandfathers--who both died in their 60s from cancer when I was young.

It’s funny how pushing your body to its limits brings out emotions and thoughts you keep hidden. Maybe it’s the loneliness of trail running? Maybe it’s all the free time to think. Whatever it is, this isn’t the first time I’ve cried in the woods about stuff I never cry about.

My mom’s father, Bob, died when I was 2 years old. He was 64 years old. I wasn’t old enough to understand death at the time, so I never really mourned his death. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I never got to know him. I hear stories from family, yes, but I never got to really talk to him.

I know he loved to sing and whistle and that he had a great sense of humor. And he was a Mississippi State fan.

A person stolen by cancer. A relationship I was never able to have because of cancer.

I thought of my dad’s father, Gene. He died when I was 13. He was 69. Because I was older, I had more of a relationship with him, but I was still just 13 when he left us.

Around my senior year of high school I really started thinking of him more. I wished he could see me graduate. Then, when I finished college and got married, I wished he could be there too. On my wedding day, I carried one of his handkerchiefs with me down the aisle. It was tied around my bouquet.

I’ve had multiple dreams about him. In these dreams, he’s still alive. Usually my dream goes something like this: He and my grandmother come to Birmingham to visit. He sits in the big recliner in my living room and we talk about LA Dodger baseball. He’s usually either wearing a Dodger hoodie or an Alabama football shirt.

These dreams bothered me at first. Now, I welcome them. I talk to Ty about him. I always talk about how I wish he could have met him. If anyone, Ty is the person who could appreciate Popa’s dry sense of humor.

One day Ty told me, “Maybe he’s not here on earth anymore, but he’s still here with you. Maybe he never left.”

That conversation usually transitions into Ty talking about his grandfather, Jan. He also died from cancer in his 60s. Ty was an adult when he died, but still caught in the mess of recovering from his addictions.

He never got to see Ty get clean and find a new normal outside of drugs. He didn’t get to attend our wedding.

Every time we get together, Ty’s mom and grandmother tell the most hilarious stories about Jan. He was a goof, the life of the party and loved to do crazy stuff like ramping a dirt bike over a fire. He rode and built motorcycles. He lived wide-open.

Ty spent many days with him learning how to work on cars and motorcycles. Ty still changes his own brakes (and mine).

Those conversations with Ty’s family always go the same way. “I wish you could have met him, Anna.”

Another person ripped from us by cancer.

As I thought of all these men in me and Ty’s lives taken by cancer, hot tears spilled down my cheeks, warming my cold face. They were angry tears.

I’ll never find a cure for cancer or understand why people have to get sick or why life is so cruel, but at least I get to cry about it. Our lives are not unique. So many other families endure similar (and worse) illness and death. It’s part of life. Just because it’s part of life doesn’t mean you can’t be upset.

I dried my tears with my gloves and kept going. I had to be close to Shakelford Peak.

I finally started painfully making my way down toward Tranquility Lake. There, along with my mom, was more than a dozen people, friends, waiting to cheer me to the finish.

More tears.

Finding your “inner circle” is really hard in your 20s. So many job and life changes happen during this decade of life. While my inner circle is still extremely small, I have a wealth of friends in the Birmingham Ultra Trail Society.

These people welcomed me when I had zero clue what I was doing. Now, I have several friends who know exactly what I need at a race.

Andrea Austin, who won the Southeastern Trail Series, was at the last aid station of the race. When I realized I had a major headlamp problem and would have to wait to find more batteries, she wrapped me in a blanket to stay warm.

We stood there in that blanket and talked about how stupid this race is. I think she could tell that the headlamp issue really messed with my head. She knew I needed a warm hug and some mutual commiseration to keep my mind from jumping ship.

Jonathan Croy, upon seeing me enter the aid station, shoved a cheese quesadilla and hash browns at me, saying “here, eat this.”

I didn’t feel like eating at that point, but he knew I needed to eat. How great is that?

Ultra trail running has given me so much. I’m more confident in my judgment, in my body and in my mind.

2019 has been a transformative year for me. It’s taught me to love who I am. It’s also taught me that life is hard, but that’s it’s OK. Most importantly, I’ve learned that the woods is really the best place to cry about it all.

You should try it.