6:30 AM
There are no unfaithful women in this house.
A lifestyle that my mom gave to my sister and I while we were growing up. She'd say it, flexing her bicep after doing a feat of strength that ordinary moms wouldn't dare, like dragging thousands of pounds of wet carpet up the basement steps and onto the front lawn after an unfortunate storm. My mom wasn't waiting for anyone to help her. She probably found your offer patronizing. She will do it herself.
Her two daughters? We became that motto and bravado. Toughness is a family value.
Do you want an origin story? This is where it all begins.
July 19, 2021, is a fast-forward. I'm 38 years old and in the best shape of my life. I'm waiting for the start of Badwater 135 as it's 114 degrees outside. Badwater is a 135-mile ultramarathon across Death Valley, California, home of the hottest temperature ever recorded on Earth.
I will have to endure both face-melting heat and merciless climbing to complete this race. The race begins at Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America, and ends at the portal of Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the Lower 48. The mountain climbs in Badwater account for over 20,000 feet of elevation gain and loss.
It's intense. That's kind of the point. That's my whole thing. I've been groomed since I was a child to value strength as currency. I want to know how much is in my account.
The Badwater experience starts at night. We're about to get clobbered with a low-lying, hazy brown cloud before we even hear the word "Go!" I've never seen anything like that before.
A haboob, you say? What is a haboob?
A dust storm? Heading in the right direction?
Cool. It's cool. It's super cool. Even perfect. Just like we drew it up, we ran headfirst into a natural disaster.
A haboob is a violent dust storm. Kelaine didn't know about it until she saw it.
I had trained for the heat and the hills, but how can you train for the weather you've never heard of? You're in it now, so it's too bad.
The start is supposed to be one of the easiest parts of the race because it is not a marathon. The pacing chart is thrown out the window by this haboob. It feels like being pulled backward by a set of invisible resistance bands, and these "easy, slow miles" are not so easy. My work rate is higher than I want it to be, but what else am I going to do? Stand still?
I have to power through it one step at a time and hope the fatigue doesn't catch up with me.
At about 12:30 a.m., the first wave of grogginess falls over me. I know I have to fight it because I haven't been running for five hours. Less time running would mean less time to sleep. It would be hard to sleep now that there are 115 miles, three mountain sections and two sunrises.
I didn't train for two years to be soft.
I tell myself to find it. I'm not talking about finding the next checkpoint, the road ahead of me, or even the hand connected to my arm. It's an accidental slogan that I've been using during the race. To stay awake, find the energy. Find the pace that works for you. You can find whatever it is inside that will keep you upright.
I don't know why I feel so tired. I was doing well at the checkpoint at the time. Maybe that haboob worked for me. Maybe it's because I've been awake for 17 hours. Maybe I need to suck it up.
I look behind me, hoping another runner will catch up to me, but it's just me and the white line on the side of the road. I can't see the mountains in the distance. The same mountains that make it feel like you're standing under a hair dryer trap the hot air here.
I think deserts are deserted, but I'm stricken by how quiet it is right now. The only noises I can hear are the whistling wind and the shuffling of my footsteps. I like this feeling. I feel like I'm breaking curfew. A small cone of light in front of me is enough to prevent me from turning an ankle or meandering off-road. Anything beyond this glowing orb is a mystery I won't solve until I run through it.
Kelaine weighed in at 129 pounds and set out on a journey that would take every ounce of determination she had.
People ask me why I run ultramarathons. Why would I choose that? Why do I want to suffer so much? 30 minutes of moderate exercise a week is not enough for me. A marathon? A 50-miler? A 100K? A 100 miler? Where does the madness end?
I don't know how to answer those questions. They seem more rhetorical than curious, as if the person grilling me has run out of ways to express their in awe, awe or disapproval.
I had to work at it because I learned early on that it was special. I didn't have height or cover-girl beauty because they require only routine maintenance. After puberty hit me, my body was no longer the fastest or the strongest. I knew I could out-effort everyone.
Division I scholarships require some mix of nature, nurture and divine intervention, but it will get you pretty damn far if you work hard. I hope the effort will get me somewhere in the vicinity of 135 miles.
I will press on.
To see how dark it is, I click off my lamp. The night sky is full of stars and it looks like someone shook glitter onto black construction paper. I signed up for this race because I wanted to drink it all in. To experience every feeling, every view, every moment. The low points are important.
I'm not alone in this fight. I have a support crew that will help me across the desert. I can see the emergency flasher lights of our van, which leapfrogs me every 2 miles along this journey. Four fairy godrunners are in that van, their job is to make sure that I don't die, disintegrate or drop from the race.
My crew. My people. My only source of support.
You can't just take four runners off the street and expect things to go smoothly. One of those dodos will inevitably end up excommunicated if you trust them with your darkest secrets. You have to find people who can handle long miles, sleep deprivation and extreme heat. You need people who will challenge you and hold you accountable, but who also understand that everybody has limits and that they'll be tested out here. You need people who can thrive in chaos.
It wasn't all smiles for Kelaine and her support crew, which included Kalie Demerjian, Jimmie Wilbourn, and crew chief Ricky Haro.
Ricky Haro is my crew chief. Ricky was my first choice. He and I have Badwater history, working together to crew Mosi Smith when he dropped at Mile 95 and again when he made it up that mountain for his personal best time.
Ricky is the big wheel who keeps us turning. He is my emotional support animal. Ricky is the most important person at this race. I'm toast without him.
Ricky is the most dangerous person you'll ever meet. He keeps a cool head and a low profile, but he has done two crossing of Death Valley, including once self-supported. "What does self-supported mean here?" A great question, gumshoe. It means Ricky went to the summit of Mount Whitney in the dog days of August with his own supplies. There was no crew, no van for naps or lugging around ice. He pushed his own water, food and sneakers up and down mountains for three days. He is a beast. Your crew chief wouldn't.
I went with my brother in the second slot. Since we met at Hood to Coast, a 200 mile team relay race in Oregon, we have been united. We both grew up in Texas, but we are almost the same person. I can't help myself because he never curses. He's a guy and I'm not. Otherwise, twins.
We were rivals at Hood to Coast, running the same sections of the course on opposite teams, and talking trash the whole time. The Air Force guys clowned Jimmie about the fact that he ran a faster first leg than I did. We had a rivalry and an unbreakable friendship, but I was beaten on the next two. The rest is history, since Jimmie joined my relay team. I'm pretty sure he's my patronus. I need his humor and fire to get across Death Valley.
I had never met either of them before I chose them to crew me at Badwater. I put feelers out into the universe, had a phone call with each of them to get a sense of their vibe and experience, and voil, because it's important to me to have more women in sports and strive toward the toughest races in ultra running. Teammates. It might seem like a high-stakes way to make friends, but here we are.
Kalie has brown hair and different colored eyes. She's too small, too demure, too passive for Badwater and you might think that. You would be the wrong person. Kalie is not loud. A small powerhouse. At just 24, she ran her first 100 miler fast enough to qualify for national championships. Kalie is an under appreciated characteristic for anyone with whom you're going to spend three days in a van. Everyone needs to shut up and run.
The last person to meet is the boundless energy of Brenna, who could have settled the Wild West. Minnesota is nice and bubbling over with excitement about even the most mundane aspects of this Badwater adventure. Do you need water? Watermelon? Is it candy watermelon? Just say the word and it will happen. She is prepared for whatever the desert throws at her. She'll carry whatever you need if you put it in her backpack.
I am dragging ass as I approach my support van at 1 a.m. I went to the concession stand in hopes of getting some Coca-Cola and some candy to perk me up. I never drink soda when I'm not running an ultra. When I retired from trick-or-treating in the sixth grade, I didn't care about candy at all. During an ultramarathon, it's all about high-cal foods that are easy to digest. Give me your packaged Pop Tarts that want to be eaten. It's like Buddy the Elf is your diet.
The sugar high hasn't hit yet. I asked Ricky and Jimmie to give me my headphones as a last-ditch effort.
There was a boom. We're back in this.
It's like the ghost of Whitney Houston is in my body. I want to dance with someone. I want to go to you. I am the queen of the night. I sing into the desert winds, belting out the high notes, and paying no attention to lizards or jackrabbits that might have been sleeping. It's an all-out party right now, though I can't see another runner for miles.
Fighting off that wave of grogginess gives me a rush of confidence that carries me for hours. "You have this, KC." In the second and third person, I address myself as if my mind and body are separate entities.
Kelaine had always held her own against the boys at school, and she still feels the burn of a fourth- grade spurn.
To run an ultramarathon, you have to listen to your body and deal with the issues it brings to your attention. You need to be able to solve big and small problems on the fly.
I'm likely to face every single one of those challenges during this race. This is what we trained for.
I started ramping up my mileage back in February. I've run a few 100 milers in my time, but we're talking about about 35% more miles under harder conditions. I had to start building my body and mind. I was running between 85 and 100 miles a week by the spring. I ran as far as I could before I started work because I didn't make any money from this hobby. Marketing puts food on the table for your girl to eat.
To keep up with my metabolism, I ate everything that wasn't nailed down. My muscles were in desperate need of a rest and I slept hard every night.
I love training that hard. The feeling of being broken down and rebuilt. The tank was emptied. People might say that less is more, but not me. I'm a more person. I want to go farther.
lacing up my sneakers and walking out the door is freedom. To think or not to think. To go where I want to go. To listen to nothing at all. It's my time.
I had slow days when my legs felt heavy. It was cold when the wind ripped at my face. There were no bad days. I was building toward something that gave me purpose. Something I'd already worked for, something that had denied me before. I didn't want this race to end without a fight.
That's right, team. I had trained for Badwater before, but this was the first time I made it to the start line.
I was one of the 100 runners selected to run Badwater. I trained the full cycle and just three days before the race I received an email from the race director telling me I had to leave.
Fri, Jun 26, 2020, 10:39 PM
2020 Badwater 135: Ceased.
What didn't ruin COVID in 2020? I spent all those hours of heat training, sitting in the car with my windows up and wearing six layers of sweats. It was still dark when they woke up. There are miles and worn-out sneakers. Those are all squats and deadlifts. And for what?
We did not get a refund. Not a credit for the next year. It was a big fat L.
I was angry. I was a living, breathing version of Michael Jordan. I wanted to take revenge. I used my vendetta as motivation for an entire year because I didn't want to let this race defeat me.
Kelaine's Badwater kit included everything from a head lamp to toe socks.
Being mad at the circumstances around the 2020 race cancellation should not be confused with the madness of heat training, which is both ridiculous and necessary.
It's more than the miles on your legs for a race like Badwater. It's getting your body acclimatized to extreme heat so it won't shut down or die. It's learning to differentiate between "WOW, this is miserable" and "I might be experiencing organ failure." It's typical, totally normal.
I wore sweatshirts and pants while running through the streets of Washington, D.C. in June, and I looked like a person who didn't know what season it was. I gave the Secret Service agents a thumbs-up, but they still looked at me with suspicion and confusion.
I spent an hour each morning in a sauna at the gym to train my body to process water more quickly as race day neared. I sat in the soft light and read the books. My heart rate went up as if I were doing interval training, but I was just sitting and roasting. I overcame every single person who stepped into that cedar box. This is my place of residence.
I turned off the air conditioning in my house, sorry to my partner, Josh. The good news is that our electric bill was almost nothing, the bad news is that it never got cooler than 84 degrees. I put on a hoodie, long pants, wool socks and slippers, closed the door to my home office, and blasted a space heater. I had to put my laptop in the fridge three times a day to keep it cool. Me? I was a constant sweat-ball, but otherwise functioning well. We do things for love.
When I reach the Stovepipe Wells checkpoint, it's 4:30 a.m. on Tuesday. The desert glows with pinks and purples and ambers as the sun rises.
I'm ready to smoke this section of the 17-mile climb to Towne Pass because I've already run for 8.5 hours. The temperature is going up.
Why is this so hard? I asked who was pacing me for the past 7 miles.
She says you're crushing it. "Look how much you've covered already."
Everything behind me is downhill when I turn around for the first time. It's a relief to know that it's not just fatigue that slows me down. This terrain is not a joke.
It's like a lightning strike when Kalie paces me for the rest of the climb at Mile 52. Straight energy. I can feel her excitement when she's nudging me on. She wants to leave. You can sense it. We've power hiked to the top of Towne Pass, the first of three mountain sections between me and the finish line.
Mile 58.7 is still feeling great. Almost 5,000 feet of elevation, earned step by step from below sea level, is about to evaporate as I bomb down the hills. I lean into the downward slope and careen through the steep switchbacks, focusing on my leg turnover. I don't need road signs to announce every 1,000 feet of descent, I can feel it as my knees grind like a molcajete. There is no sense fighting gravity. Even if it hurts, use that free speed.
Ricky runs toward the bottom of the mountain.
Jimmie is going to take you across the river. We're not going to stop the crew because I want them to get across the kill zone as fast as possible. It's going to be difficult, but you have this.
The next 7-mile section of straight road looks easy compared to the mountains behind it.
Don't kid yourself. You're on your way to the heart of the beast.
Kelaine's good mood evaporated on a desolate stretch in the valley.
I am sweating like a dad at the YMCA as I push through the valley with Jimmie. I was sprayed with cold water every few paces by Jimmie, who said it was Hurricane Harbor.
This is enjoyable. This could be fun. This is not enjoyable.
Dreams go to die in Panamint Valley. The temperature in the air is 114 degrees, but it's way hotter on the road. There is no cross-breeze in hell.
I feel like garbage. I want to stop running, but I have to stop sweating and melting into glass.
Poor Jimmie is nudging me with water. He's wearing long sleeves and pants for protection from the sun, and I'm wondering how he hasn't dried into a Slim Jim. A good friend. I'd be dead and picked over by coyotes if it weren't for Jimmie.
I can see the next checkpoint at the resort, but it's about a mile away. I see a road sign that ruins my life.
The resort is located 3 miles from Panama Springs.
I lose my mind. How? How am I only halfway through this? I am on a conveyor belt.
How is this taking so long? There are no answers in the valley. It is the closest thing to Azkaban prison I have ever experienced.
I curse the sky and scream at the sun like I'm the lead in a Shakespearean tragedy. I defy you!
I was alone with my angst for a few minutes after Jimmie crossed the road to replenish on water and ice. I just know that one of the four people in the van is going to say something nice when I look at it.
I've had the displeasure of striking out in a slow-pitch softball game, but I'm not proud of it. I don't want anyone to pat me on the back and tell me it's okay. It's not okay. It's a disgrace. Our state motto might as well be "cut the bulls---", since I was born in New Jersey. It offends me when people tell me I'm being nice or that I'm not.
I can survive the heat and sleep deprivation. I can't endure the fact that my crew is lying to me and trying to protect me from the fact that this is going to suck until I get from here to there using my own two feet.
I can't deal with the truth. I yelled across the road into the van before they had a chance.
"No one better tell me I'm doing a great job!"
They look at me as I walk past.
I made it across the sandy stretch of Hades and immediately took a nap in the van. My thighs are red from flash heating. I want to take my shorts off. The back of my sports bra feels like someone ripped off an angel's wings, which is appropriate for having been through hell.
I close my eyes, cover my face, and stretch out in the passenger seat.
The boys' attitudes changed in fourth grade. They had only ever thought of me as a teammate, an athlete or a competitor. I was the anchor in the sprint relay at Applegate School's elementary school field day. I was always one of the first people in class. I torched most of them in the mile run during the national physical fitness test because I loved sports more than those boys.
I didn't understand why Danny was yelling "girls can't play ball!" at me at recess, he had been my best friend since kindergarten. I was not invited to their birthday parties at Grand Slam USA.
At the age of 9, the boys in my class had finally soaked up that meathead. There is a narrative that boys are better at sports than girls. The messages had been in toy commercials, sports broadcasts, and history textbooks where boys and girls get to cheer for each other and bring water.
I was able to fend off that by competing. When my times and performances weren't enough to prove that I belonged in the game, it stung.
I didn't cry about it then or now. I don't get invited to play pickup. On the court and in the conversation, people see me as an undersized girl who doesn't belong on the field. It adds more fuel to the fire when women and girls are left out of sports. I'm burning up here.
Who gives a f--- is healthy? This is how I get rid of those feelings. I'm still in this race, trying to prove to people that they were wrong. I'm tougher than they will ever be. They will never beat me.
There are no women who are weak in this house.
It's an absolute revelation when I wake up. Unless you've been around toddlers recently, you might not know what a 30-minute nap can do.
Don't call it a comeback.
Ricky put an ice bandanna around my neck and put a towel over my head. We begin climbing the second mountain section after Kalie paces me.
You finally look like you're running Badwater! Ricky is in the race for 75 miles and 18 hours. It was about damn time.
We are cruising up the mountain and Kalie sprays water on me. I look back at the road behind me and the expanse of land I've covered on foot.
Mars? Earth? Kelaine Conochan asked, what difference does it make?
The landscape is similar to what you might find on Mars, with craggy rock faces, a sky without clouds, and questions of whether anything could sustain life here. Kalie and I talk about life and nihilism, and how freeing it is to believe that nothing matters. Fighter jets are flying through a common training area for military pilots.
It's like being in a movie. This is real life. My life. What is life?
We're at Father's Turnout at Mile 80.65 after I conquered another 8 miles. Sally McRae, who will win the women's race, left this parking lot crying. I'm pretty sure she's not the only one that had a lot of puke.
I feel strong but tired. I feel cooler now than I did last night.
Can I take this off? I want to offer Ricky the ice bandanna that has been tied around my neck for a thousand times. I don't want to carry the weight and I'm sick of being wet. You guys, the chafing. It's cruel.
He says that it's still over a hundred out. Death Valley really plays with you. It makes you think that it's warm.
The checkpoint is at Mile 90.6 on Tuesday. We are moving into the back stretch of the race after exiting Death Valley National Park. I've been running for almost 24 hours, but I still have another 45 miles to go before I can call it quits.
Time and space are meaningless. The sun and moon are both up. The landscape is the same, with desert to my left and a mountain to my right. There is a mountain range where I know there is a finish line. I have to get there.
"Get it."
The sun has been attacking me all day, but now she's trying a new tactic. The silent killer is the vampire. The darkness tells me that it's time to rest. I'm not done with this race.
I am a headless horseman. I'm not sure who's driving this thing, but my body continues to make progress, and I'm not sure who's in charge. Everything feels weird. I have never been drunk in my life.
I told my crew that I think I need a nap.
Ricky wants me to push to Mile 100. He's worried that if I sleep now, I'll lose ground and the runners behind me will leave me in the dust. The urge to sleep goes away when goals are important. I'm trying. I'm going to throw down these next 4 miles.
I told myself to find it. I don't have it right now. Resistance is pointless. Do I appreciate my team always nudging me on, believing I have it when I really don't?
The moment I get in the passenger seat, your girl is not happy. It was racked out. Unconscious. In 60 seconds. When Ricky wakes me up, I pop up like a golden brown slice of toast.
He says to start hunting. Only two runners have passed, and all I see are their vans. It's on.
Kelaine would often find the answer in a bottle of Coke.
The night gets darker and cooler as we get farther from Death Valley. The miles are a blur as fatigue sets in.
My body is no longer heat challenged, which means it's starting to perform other functions beyond cooling off the engines, as the temperature has dropped into the 70s. Everything I've eaten is being processed by my bicyle. I feel a little woozy when I eat.
I need calories. I can't make it another 20 miles on fumes and good intentions. Everything is a balance. Everything is not easy.
I signed up for this. I wanted this. I still want this.
I tell everyone that I'm taking a nap when I reach Mile 112 at 1:21 a.m. I say to wake me up. I might be asleep before my body hits the passenger seat. I'm telling you that 4 minutes later, Ricky wakes me up. Is that a micronap? Life-giving.
We arrived at the Lone Pine checkpoint before sunrise on Wednesday. The rest of the race is uphill, and I would love to think that finishing is a foregone conclusion. I have 13 miles and 5,000 feet of vert between me.
The final miles were torturous, with blisters and Chafing adding to the misery.
I think it's a good time for blisters to develop on my heels. The little motherf---ers know how to ruin a party.
You probably have a lot of great people in your life who will be there for you when you need them. If you don't have a Ricky, then you need to find one. Someone who will clean up your feet without any questions or complaints. True bravery.
I know it's a scene, even in my condition. My heels are out the door as I kneel across the passenger seat eating a Pop Tart. Ricky applied a sting that made me breathe like I was in labor. I prepared for the climb by putting on my third pair of shoes.
Ricky says you need to be obsessed with getting up the hills. He knows. He has been there. I'm locked in after the second he says it. No more talking. We have a job to do.
Good news. The ass and thighs were built for climbing and denim.
I will power hike up the next 3 miles, my heart rate is higher than it has been. The two of them encouraged me to swing my arms, telling me I look strong. I can't hold up a conversation. I nod along and keep going.
I hit the last checkpoint at Mile 131, and Kalie paces me to the finish. She says to keep going. Nothing else matters right now. Her small voice and quiet energy seem to come from me.
I'm angry. The person between me and the finish line is my enemy. I'm not just saying that to add drama. I'm about to lose it.
I'm gaining on the racers in front of me after we hit a series of steep switchbacks. I pass them on a turn, running in a burst that takes the wind out of me. I'm running on empty because the air is thin and the hills are steep. Between awake and asleep, alive and dead, here and gone, I'm in a state of confusion. My nutrition is in danger.
I don't want to wreck. I've come a long way.
"It's just a few more twists," he says to me when I ask how far I have to go.
I stare at him and say that's not helpful. It's as if he's denying me a refund and not my very good friend who flew all the way out to the middle of nowhere to support me. It is a personal attack if he does not know the precise distance from this point to the finish line. He's sabotaging me on purpose.
I'm yelling now. At my support crew. The four people who have kept me alive are the ones who care for blisters and bellyaches. I'm the worst.
You have to comprehend. I've been on my feet for 37 hours. I'm so tired that I don't have the cognitive function to regulate emotion, my mind is foggy, and my body is a disaster.
I want to cross the finish line in this race, I have less than a mile left. If I don't know how far I have to go, I won't have the legs to kick.
Then she came bounding over with a big smile on her face. Who could smile at a time like this? We're dying out here!
A woman is walking slowly. She says you can pass her. She knows I'm competitive. I'm past all of that.
I don't have the same relationship with Brenna as I have with Jimmie. I snapped at him.
"I don't care about anyone else right now."
I think I was referring to the woman up ahead, but with such a blanket statement and stank attitude, I can't be sure. I don't recall saying it. My crew can corroborate that I am possessed by an inner beast.
I saw the finish line and the woman talking to her crew as they approached the tape.
I love my crew, but I have a funny way of showing it. They get out of the van and run with me to the finish line. I leave. I have everything left, but it's maybe 100 meters. I cross the finish line not just jogging but running hard because I have some fast-twitch muscles ready to fire. I'm the sixth-fastest person and the fastest woman in that 4-mile stretch, when I look at the race data. Is that an excuse for being a zombie? Probably not. I'm sorry, but you're welcome for the memories.
After 37 hours and 37 minutes, a kick sent Kelaine to the finish line, but it didn't feel real until several hours later.
I'm not going to cry at the finish line. I don't think I'm overwhelmed. I don't feel anything other than wiped. After thanking my crew and taking some photos, I lie down on the pavement and close my eyes.
We did it. We did it.
It took me 37 hours, 37 minutes to get from start to finish, and I spent 64 minutes napping, at least 120 minutes singing and 25 minutes yelling irrational things at my crew. I polished off 4 liters of Coke, 11 packets of Pedialyte, a pineapple, a container of strawberries, two sweet potatoes, a cup of ramen, two packages of gummy watermelons, a jar of pickles, and two emergency McDonald's hash browns.
We spend about an hour at the finish line. I'm trying to eat a pancake but am fondling it. I put my head down on the picnic table and tried not to be crazy.
I take a shower and wash off the sweat, stink and dirt that make me feel like a girl raised by wolves. I scream as the hot water hits my skin. Well, fine, a lot. It's worth it to feel clean again. I take the most important two-hour nap of my life.
The five of us go to a sleepy cafe the next day. As the sun sets behind the mountain ridge, we retell the stories from this magical adventure.
That's when the dream starts to come true.
We are laughing our heads off as I start to feel a warm, proud glow because I didn't know that you could feel cathartic and giddy at the same time.
My crew helps me out with the things I missed while running. How angry I was, how hot and sweaty they were. The low points become the high points because we did what we came to do. We'll always remember them that way.
We did this thing.
I thought Badwater would show me how tough I am. This was not about that. Badwater doesn't test your strength. It's not a commercial.
People are breaking down when you're out there. Marching to the finish line with empty eyes. Puking and speaking in tongues.
Where do they get the strength to get back up?
I knew that the race would change me. I've done some hard things, but I've never seen myself on the other side of that line. Running Badwater was the only way I could get to the truth and ask questions I didn't know I had.
Are you ready to see what's inside? Do you really want to know who you are? When you have nothing else left, can you trust other people to hold you together? Do you want to respect someone when you poop in a bag next to them?
I left some of myself behind. Things I thought were there are now in a pile between Mile 90 and the finish line. I found new answers and new reasons. I know I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.
I remember listening to an episode of "Invisibilia" in which an anthropologist talked about his time studying the Ilongot tribe in the Philippines. A word, a feeling, that didn't have a direct translation from Ilongot to English was described by Rosaldo. It wasn't sadness, joy, fear or anger, but it could be all of those feelings attached to them. It was most closely translated to "high voltage."
It is difficult to describe Liget. I can relate to that.
It was like I had just experienced all of human emotion.
Both love and pain. Both terror and triumph. There is anger and affection.
It is a humble but invincible thing. It was close to dead but never more alive. And very sweaty.
It's scary to think of what might happen if I let go. I didn't have to be fearless to prove myself. I had to be less afraid.
I had to get used to being exposed to the possibility of failure. To the fear that I'm not tough enough. That the boys might have been right about me.
Adding a haboob while you're at it is a good idea. You may have to let it all in so you can let it go.
Badwater showed me that I am not defined by effort or toughness. It's my willingness to risk it all. My strength is my vulnerability.
I had to find it.
