The Bear 100, My first (decided) DNF

 Given the Covid Crisis and the shutdowns of all the things; school, offices, restaurants,races, fun and normalcy, in general, I was both surprised and excited that the Bear 100 was a go. The weather, typically a hodge podge of WTF and all four seasons, I thought there was no way they could support a race where indoor shelter deemed a must at times. But, the weather was perfect,  the RD and the committee put on a stellar race, and by the time we left for Logan on Thursday afternoon, i was busting with excitement for the weekends journey and celebration thereafter. 

4 of us, Eve, Jen, Cheryl, and I, headed north. We checked in, we dropped our drop bags, we had a wonderful dinner outside by the river, and went to the hotel for final prep and sleep. Easy breezy morning, slightly scattered start, but all the calm, cool, and collected feelings of the Bear and of the acceptance of the long days ahead were present. 

I have been processing my DNF out there, for 3 weeks now...I was moving well. I was off my goal time, but w/out crew for day 1 (Covid precautions) I tried and succeeded getting myself whole and on top of all the things like electrolytes, water, food, gels, to Cheryl at Temple Fork. I inhaled a lot of dust on the dirt road heading into there, mile 45. Truck after truck kicking up the ground and no way around it. This is where the beginning to my end started, I believe. But we moved well to mile 52, Tony Grove. Half way. But before we reached there, I began to have extremely labored breathing on the climbs. My heart would beat very fast and the drowning feeling of not being able to take a deep breath began. It got worse leaving Franklin, mile 63ish. I puked, which is No big deal. It was the breathing. Perhaps my muscles were not getting the oxygen they needed from the hours of labored breathing(?) I don't know, but I can tell you when we hit the rocky road to Logan River, my quads were all but seized. The downhill was a joke, I couldn't even trot. What was happening? The climb out of Logan was soul crushing. I walked slowly behind Cheryl, contemplating what was going on. I can't hike without a panicked heart and lack of breath. I couldn't trot the downhill, as my muscles would not contract and the pain was stark and sharp. I had taken so much Ibuprofen already. I had puffed on my inhaler more times than I should have. I have salted, I have ate, Cheryl just gave me tailwind, and chews 2 at a time. I had cried. i had asked her to let me stop right there, 3 or 4 miles from Aid..I was falling apart. Why?

What was happening? I have been here before. I have hurt before, I have befallen at some point to this distance many times, and yet always found a way to climb out on top. That's one of the things I love about the 100 mile. But, I was broken as the beautiful sunrise was swept by a threatening rain cloud that stayed away. 

What else can I do? I have to stop. And then Jill came up behind us on the road in her car. Just about a mile to Beaver Lodge aid. Some words were said, I felt like I was bent over. I heard coffee and cream of wheat. Here it comes, the tears, the shaking, the faces of my friends sunk to my level of head hanging down, changing my socks, cream of wheat, coffee, washing my feet. My head was spinning, my eyes burning from dust and tears, my body shaking. I see Betsy packing my vest. "I can't" i say. "i can't breathe". Everyone moving in the direction that will get me out of this chair, as we do , as we hope, as we anticipated for months and months.

And so we left, onward from mile 76. A brief feeling of relief as we slowly walked. Betsy was fresh and smiling and optimistic as she is. Yet, I am still wondering what I was doing. Where could I stop? I know what's coming, I don't think I can do it this time. 

What is happening? Why is this happening. How do I have nothing left to give? I have been trying to turn this around for so many miles. So many hours. People were passing me left and right. The hike to Gibson felt insurmountable with every step. The basin ridge cold and painful. Hot then cold, hot then cold, shivering then pulling at my zipper with such urgency as i thought I would suffocate. Betsy can I sit, I think I am going to pass out. Breathe..slowly...We keep walking. "I think I just had a panic attack". "We can sit at Beaver Creek, just another mile or so. Quads revolted and seized, i tread as lightly as I could and stiff as a board, down the steep rocky descent into mile 85, the campground. 

I sat and ate, oatmeal I think... dirt covered watermelon, and grapes. As Betsy pulled out a McDonald's hamburger and breakfast burrito from her bra, a roar of laughter from the volunteers pushed a slight smile across my face and a thought? (Don't all pacers do that?) We had been here so many times together, sometimes me in the chair, sometimes Betsy. I looked my friend in the eye who was loading up my vest to march onward, and I said "Betsy, i can't". We sat for a few more minutes, maybe 15, and then I signed my race away. 

It wasn't until the morning came, that my lungs really showed how much of a beaten they had taken, and my quads with newly bursted blood vessels were still agonizing and stiff. All levels of nutrients and electrolytes felt wrong and yet nothing outweighed or stung more than dropping from the race. Don't let me get it twisted, regret is not the word, but disappointment is. I burst into tears as I entered my house. "I'm sorry I couldn't get it done", I said to my daughters....

In the weeks that have passed, I first eagerly waited for registration to open for 2021. Hoping that the anticipation of redemption would be enough to kill the nightly re-enacting in dreams of this years race. Just a drop in that bucket, however. The chatter and reserving a house for next years race, also a drop in that bucket. The opening up about it to Betsy and Jen yesterday on the trail was a couple more drops to help fill that mucky bucket.  And, as the weeks come and go, as the humility helps mold the lessons learned, I expect that bucket to be full and fresh again. 

To my daughters on a night shortly after the Bear; "You can do big things, and sometimes they work out, sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don't. Sometimes it's not your day or your moment. But keep trying and then keep trying again and again and again..and again."