Tuscazoar 50 race report: The struggle bus to confidence
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| At the starting line of Tuscazoar 50 Mile. |
I’ve never experienced pain that made me want to quit an ultramarathon until Tuscazoar 50.
Every ultrarunner will have the experience at some point. I was lucky enough to have evaded that terrible, soul-crushing feeling for more than two years.
Pain is expected in an ultramarathon. It’s not supposed to be comfortable or easy. It’s supposed to hurt. It will hurt. There’s no way to escape the pain.
But pain that pushes you to the point of “I can’t bear this anymore” shouldn’t be ignored. Knowing if you should succumb to the pain or to tell it to buzz off can be more unbearable than the pain itself.
I was at the point of “can I push or should I listen to my foot?” around mile 31 of Tuscazoar 50.
I’ve not run a race like Tuscazoar 50. Most of the ultras I’ve done have had lots of hills and elevation change. I enjoy the hills, and often loathe boring, flat runs. This race had both: hills and flats--and I was not prepared for the jarring change.
I chose this race because it's held where my husband, Ty, grew up. I've only been to his hometown once. After he asked if there were ultras in Ohio, I found this one. He was both surprised and excited that there was an ultra where he grew up, so I knew I had to register for the race.
The race consists of two 25 mile loops. The first 14 miles of the loop include some runnable trail and a straight, flat gravel road. After you destroy your hip flexors on the flats, you get to enjoy the rolling hills of Zoar, Ohio.
I started out too fast, as expected. I was putting down 10 minute miles on the flat sections. I knew I was going too fast, but I didn’t care at the time. The weather was amazing, and I felt great. Food was going down good and I was drinking plenty of electrolytes and fluids.
It’s hard to not feel unstoppable with overcast skies, low humidity and temps around 65 degrees.
Things were going great until I twisted my left foot. I didn’t think much of it, and kept running. By mile 25, my foot was talking to me. I had one more loop, but this nagging anxiety about my foot was at the back of my mind.
I told Ty my foot was hurting, but that I wasn’t too worried about it, except that it hadn’t hurt like this before.
Some foot pain is to be expected during an ultramarathon. You’re willingly turning your feet into ground beef, so they’re going to hurt. They’re going to get sore and achy, but pain that makes your brow furrow is different.
I started my second, and final loop. About two miles into the second loop, my foot really began to throb. Then it started to swell. I could feel it swelling in my shoe as I ran, my foot seemingly getting bigger with every step.
With each throbbing step, my mental capacity to ignore the pain dissolved more and more. Four miles into my second loop, I was in full meltdown mode. My thoughts were racing into all kinds of crazy places. Thoughts like “I’m an imposter,” “I’m not a real ultrarunner,” “Maybe I’m not cut out for running far,” “I’ll never reach my goal of running 100 miles.”
Soon my slow run/hike became a slow walk. I was walking at about a 24 min/mile pace. I made it to the next aid station, refilled my bottles and continued on my death march to mile 34. I called Ty crying about my foot, talking about wanting to drop and all my anxiety about not knowing if I should quit before I further injured my foot or to just push through.
Why so nervous about a sore foot, Anna? Here’s why: About 8 years ago, I got plantar fasciitis in both of my feet. It was an advanced case. I was unable to walk without significant pain and was completely unable to run. It took months of rehab, steroids and tape to get me back to running.
As I was deathmarching my way to mile 34, all I could think about was those terrible days of pain. I was so afraid of facing acute plantar fasciitis again that I was ready to throw in the towel at the slightest hint of pain in the bottom of my foot.
I made it to the aid station, where Ty removed my socks and shoes and looked at my feet. The left one was swollen and extremely tender. I was holding back tears as he pressed his thumbs into the bottom of my foot.
The aid station workers brought me an energy gel, some snacks and water. Another worker refilled my bottles while Ty kept massaging my foot. Ty kept talking to me and trying to convince me to get off the bench I was laying on. He wasn't going to let me lay there in my misery and he definitely wasn't going to let me quit.
As I lay there anticipating the horrible shame of quitting a race I drove across the country to run, a new trail friend walked up. I had run a few miles with him earlier in the race. (I’m sorry I forgot your name. I remember you were from Cleveland. I might have quit without you).
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, almost with a scoff. I explained the issue, and he responded with “well, are you going to finish? You’ve only got 16 miles to go” with another scoff.
His scoff annoyed me, but it also sparked a fire in my belly. I was going to finish this race if I had to crawl to the finish line.
The aid station worker offered me ibuprofen, which I initially refused. I’ve only heard bad stories about kidney failure and acute stomach distress caused by NSAIDS taken during ultras. He finally convinced me to take three. Ty convinced me to take my trekking poles with me and run to the next aid station. The deal was: I had to run to the next aid station, then I could make a decision about quitting or not.
I swallowed the pills and my worries about my kidneys. They would have to hang in there for the next few hours.
Kidneys be damned, I was feeling great after about 30 minutes. The ibuprofen hit my veins and I felt free. While my foot still hurt, and was still swollen, the ibuprofen took the pain level down to a bearable level.
My personality came back to me and soon I was chatting and laughing with other runners. I hadn’t been chatty for hours, so I was happy to feel up to talking again.
Soon I was trotting along with my poles and making up big time. I moved so fast that I beat Ty to the next aid station and had to wait for him to arrive with my headlamp, which I would need for the last 11 miles. I wouldn’t see him again until the finish line.
The look on his face when he saw me smiling and joking with other runners can only be described as pure confusion and disillusionment.
“You’re good? You’re not hurting?” he asked with eyebrows raised.
“Ibuprofen is a wonderful substance!” I said with more enthusiasm than necessary. The delirium of running 40 miles was beginning to set in, and my slap happy enthusiasm about anti-inflammatory drugs was showing it.
Those last 11 miles were difficult, but hot food at the last two aid stations kept me smiling. Speaking of aid stations, Tuscazoar had the best food selection of any ultra I’ve run. There was the usual ultrarunning fare of PB&J, bacon and grilled cheese. There were also vegan and gluten free options including gluten free crackers, watermelon, grapes, oranges and my new favorite running snack: snow cones and hummus triangles.
It was hard to choose a favorite aid station at this race. Every one of them was fully stocked. If I had to choose a favorite, it would be the aid station on the hilly portion of the course. It was wedding themed, complete with bridal march music, flowers, an arch, and a veil and tophat for runners to wear to pose under the arch.
My favorite feature of the aid station was a unicorn/grim reaper blow up. I asked the workers if it represented a darker narrative on marriage. She laughed and said "we decided that if ultrarunning is anything, it's the marriage of a unicorn and the grim reaper." I couldn't agree more.
The best part of the aid station? Every aid station worker was wearing a dress. Even the men. There’s something hilarious about having a man in a dress fetch you some Mountain Dew. I laughed more than I should have.
After struggling up those last few climbs at the end of the race, I finally made it to the finish line. I crossed the finish line absolutely thrilled that I made it to the end after nearly quitting a few hours before.
Once I crossed, the race director came up to me and congratulated me. Then, he handed me a bottle of maple syrup that said “2nd place female - age 20-29.” I looked at the bottle confused.
The race was my slowest 50 miler yet. I am not proud of the time, but I am proud of the finish. Yet here I was holding an age group award.
There were only two women in my age group running the 50 mile race. I’m not upset. This by-default age group award was my reward for pushing through my most challenging (but easiest on paper) race to date.
Most people would assume that facing an issue like an old injury flare-up during a race means something went wrong. I think it means things went right. The flare-up gave me an opportunity to practice my problem-solving and my discernment. This race, I think, has prepared me for longer distances more than all the other mostly “smooth sailing” races I’ve completed.
I’ll be taking a few months of down time to focus on my strength and flexibility instead of logging big miles. I have some big goals for 2022, and I want to be strong, healthy and ready to push the boundary even farther.
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