It was a childhood dream come true.
I heard about this race when I was just a teenager… at my first dance, in fact. I had begrudgingly agreed to go to the stupid event, with a young man I didn't care for but didn't have the heart to hurt his feelings. It wasn't long before I had dumped my date when I heard a group of old runners talking about their glory days. Forget my date. These guys had real wisdom.
I heard the words for the first time from the mouth of a chaperone—Pikes. Peak. Marathon. Having just finished my first marathon at 16, I was all ears. I could not imagine a marathon taking 8+ hours to complete. Must be some hell of a race. Running to the top of a mountain and then back down again, my heart fluttered. Someday. Someday. Fast forward 20 years…
It took me months to sell the hair-brained idea to Jenni. I sent her pictures of the mountain every day for about four weeks, she was resistant at first, but I knew she would come around. Slow and steady wins the race. Eventually, I brainwashed her, and she embraced the goal herself. Like a couple of nerds, we stayed huddled around our commuter screens the very second the race opened to secure a spot. It was the 60th anniversary of the event, and there was sure to be mad dash to the sign-up line. Somehow, we held our mouths just right and were both able to register.
Several months and hundreds of miles later, we gathered around with the other crazies who spent money to torture themselves. We were nervous. I was not feeling fully recovered from my last run, and I was a bit uncertain of myself. A middle-aged man next to us sensed our anxiety, leaned over, and asked, "First time?" We nodded but weren't really in the mood for small talk. He had run the race over a dozen times and offered up jewels of friendly advice, "touch the rocks when you get to the top so that you won't pass out. It orientates your brain." But most importantly, "don't go out like an asshole," he offered up with a knowing smile. And then the gun shot off and the time for words was over.
“Don't go out like an asshole.”
I chanted it to myself repeatedly the first few miles as we fought our way through town and up the first hill of the race. I suspected this was not an event that spared much mercy on arrogance.
It was not long before we were trapped in a long line of 100s of runners trying to make their way up a narrow trail. Frustrated, we kicked ourselves for listening to the asshole advice. I bet the assholes had a better place in the conga line. The whole event felt more claustrophobic than I had initially imagined. I began to worry about finding a private spot to squat should I need one. The timing of mother nature played the cruelest of jokes on me, and I knew I would have to change a tampon at some point. In my opinion, women in such a position should receive two medals if they finish any race. But we all endure the particular little torment which man can understand with silent suffering and contentment.
Jenni and I settled into a steady pace and listened to stories from other runners to pass the time. Pikes does not allow headphones for racers. It seemed like an annoying rule until you were on the trail, and then you recognize you could have it no other way. The first several hours of the race passed quickly, and before we knew it, we had made Bar Camp at 10,000 feet. Much to my excitement, we discovered an enclosed bathroom stop. The spirits of the racers were still high. We enjoyed each other's company and the variety of snacks the race organizers hiked in for us.
Somewhere between Bar Camp and A-Frame, I started to develop a more profound respect and fear of the mountain as self-doubt began to creep in. Jenni became increasingly agitated as we began to feel the effects of the thinning air. It was apparent the other racers felt it too, the joyful banter slowly ceased. If you glanced at your GPS, it would not appear that you had much ground to cover to make it to the top. However, the progressively rough trail and diminishing oxygen painted a much different story.
At this point, Jenni seemed just downright pissed off at me. I started to feel some twinge of guilt for pressuring her into the race. Jenni does not typically curse, but her oxygen-deprived brain started to heave repeated obscenities right at me. Until today, our friendship felt comparable to a rubber band you could stretch apart repeatedly and watch spring right back together. I wondered if this mountain had finally pulled us far enough we would snap apart.
Now my only hope for our relationship rested between the layers of a cookie. Jenni was a sucker for Oreos, not the ridiculous flavored ones, but the good old fashion originals with the perfect ratio of crème filling to chocolate wafer. I surprised her with a little tiny package of them to carry in her pack the night before the race. They were for the celebration at for the top, if circumstances allowed us to make it that far. In the miles to come, I placed all my confidence for restoring our friendship in the little pack of Oreos. If she made it to the top of the mountain and ate her cookies, she might remember she loved me.
We do not often separate in a race—running across the finish line of more than a dozen marathons almost stride for stride—but sometimes there comes a moment when you must preserve the 'I' to save the 'we.' If either of us hoped to finish, we knew we had each had to run our own race. She screamed at me, "just go…" and slowly I climbed away from her.
I met another man who was a frequent participator in the event. "First time?" he asked in a similar tone as the racer from the morning. It must have been somehow painted on my forehead. I flashed back to my first and only half iron man, where the race director felt it appropriate to write, 'V' for virgin in black sharpie marker if you were a first-time competitor. The label was meant to generate additional TLC from the race volunteers and spectators, but mostly it just brought about shame. I was sure the sharpie marker virgin tattoo was not still visible, but somehow these veterans could see it. I began to wonder if finishing the race would change me in some way others would recognize.
To my surprise, the man did not shame me. We hiked hard together for a few miles, where he offered as much encouragement and advice as he could. Runners are much more of a community than triathletes. He assured me the worst was yet to come. "Those last three miles after you hit A-Frame are a marathon all in themselves," but it was not meant to be a taunt, just a warning to brace for impact.
He was more than right. I hit A-Frame (nearly 12,000 ft) with a faint layer of optimism still intact, but all of it quickly washed away soon after leaving camp. From my reading, I learned the miles ahead might take runners, on average, up to 30 minutes per mile. I was soon painfully aware I was on track for just that. One might have navigated the course quicker, but uphill traffic yields to downhill traffic. So—not being an asshole who earned a respectable spot in line—we were cursed to spend a fair amount of time fighting for our right to take a step—all the while struggling to find our breath.
All the thoughts and worries of life which seemed so pertinent to me hours before grew gradually grew dim. I had not many thoughts left to hold onto. The faces of the people I loved most in life flashed before me—my children, my dearest friends, my husband. Oh, how I longed to see my husband…he would be waiting for me at the summit.
We were married now for more than 13 years, long enough I understood it was difficult to balance the I vs. we, long enough I could now catch a glimpse of the enormity of the covenant we had entered together. We had come through so many trials, and the future promised us many more. For years I could afford to focus heavily on myself, my career, my dreams, and goals. I somehow had the time and energy to focus on the I and still have plenty of space left to pour into him as we worked to balance the we. The equilibrium had shifted—now it felt impossible to juggle my career, his ambitions, our two children, a dog, a cat, four rabbits, and aging parents in any graceful way. Truthfully, these days, I felt we were spending more energy plotting our independent courses than trying to cover ground together. I was ever so slowly becoming irrelevant. But the most dangerous things happen slowly, in a way you might never even notice.
Somehow, I now understood through this self-inflicted torture so many things that were not evident before. If you run far enough, there is a moment when it feels as if your soul secedes from your flesh when you are offered a chance to stand outside of yourself, and at this moment, I recognized I still loved my husband.
I cannot even speculate what the final moments of my life might be like. I might not have the capacity or time to process thought. But if by chance I do, I believe there is a real possibility I might find this same handful of relationships being in my last conscious thoughts. Even if my husband wasn't standing next to me, there was a good chance if something happened to me that very day his face would be the last to flash through my mind. It was a love worth the fight. I knew that now , and I just had to make it to the top to tell him. I began to use the last of my thoughts to concentrate on what I might say when we saw each other.
The trail was narrow, rocky, and steep. I joined a group of four 'runners' (at this point we weren't fooling anyone, 'hikers' was a better term.) We hiked many of the remaining miles together. The line went, woman, man, woman, man with me in the middle. The woman in front had on a pair of colorful compression socks, which went almost to her knees. The man in front of me wore a burgundy shirt with yellow lettering on the back, though my brain could not process reading the words, it just felt like too much effort. His hands were swollen, and yet he wore a wedding ring, which I worried might affect his circulation. The man behind me I could hardly identify, but I felt his arms around me many times. Once, I turned my head too quickly and began to faint in the wrong direction, and he bear-hugged me as I went down and saved me from falling off a cliff. "Pass out towards the mountain, k?" I nodded but could not reply. Mental note…I would need to pass out better next time. The four of us formed a tight line, holding on to each other as necessary to pause for the relentless downhill traffic to pass. With each runner who flew by, you were reminded how far back in the line you were. It was an insult to injury.
Somewhere along the way, all but one word of language melted away. For as many of us as there were, it was an almost eerie silence broken only by the sound of tiny mountain hail now hitting the ground, or the shout out of a downhill runner, or the word F*** cried out in an array of different pitches. Being raised as I was, I was familiar with the F-word functioning as a noun, verb, or adjective, but I had yet to see it be used in this sense. This was a F*** usage that was almost a heart cry. When all the other words of man seemed to fail, this one remained as the only descriptor of the current circumstance, the single call out for help which would suffice. I never thought I would see the day when the F-word was almost a prayer.
Some kind spectator dumped a large bag of starbursts on a giant rock a few miles from the top. I spotted a red one—my son's favorite color—and quickly grabbed it. My mother-in-law had volunteered to take him up the mountain in the cog train. If we timed it just right, I might see him… another happy thought. I would now have a gift to offer him — a very sweaty and slightly mushed red starburst. I closed my fist around the starburst and kept going.
The burgundy shirt man started to sway gently back and forth. I noticed his swollen hands were now almost the color of his shirt, with his wedding ring finger slightly darker. It was not long before he went down on a rock. I could offer him nothing, not even a word, but I put my hand on his knee as I passed in a gesture of support.
The clouds were rolling in, the attitude of the volunteers changed, and they were all edgy on their radios. I was worried they would call the race and send us down the mountain. If I was forced to turn back, I am not sure I would ever get over it. I think I would rather be struck by lightning and die. I let out a silent prayer that we were all allowed to finish and pushed myself to move as fast as possible.
The half-mile to the top was the hardest of the race. Every step was a fight, and the traffic on the trail was honestly next to ridiculous. I began to shiver hard. At the bottom of the mountain, the temperature was in the 90s, but we would later learn towards the top was under freezing, and I was wet with sweat and light precipitation. I took the advice from the man at the start of the race, touching every rock I could with an open palm as they stood tall around me, to my surprise, it helped a bit.
After what seemed like an eternity, I climbed over the last rock to see my husband's smiling face standing near the turn-around at the top. I could not hold back the tears. All the words I spent hours composing words in my head would fail me, and I was not able to locate a single one of them. I fell into his arms. As it turns out, I missed my son and but continued to hold the starburst in my hand tightly. The mushed morsel of red sugar would have to make the return trip now… Jenni's mom's smile faded and was replaced with an expression of deep concern when she realized we were not together. I tried to reassure her with my limited words, but my anxiety was almost too much to bear. As joyful as the moment was, we did not have the luxury of a lengthy reunion. I still had to make my way down the mountain as quickly as possible.
I headed back down; now, it was my turn to speed past the uphill traffic. The downhill trek was faster yet much scarier than I envisioned. When you are climbing up, you lean towards the earth; coming down was another story, and as the rocks moved beneath my feet, I was suddenly aware of how high we were. We were back to running again, but runners were falling all around me. It would not matter how fast I might be able to run down the mountain—if I had a broken leg—I was confident it would wreck my race time. I made a mental note to slow down and be sure of my footing.
I passed a water stop, and I knew I was running low. I reluctantly stopped for supplies. The volunteer asked me to open my pack, and we both realized with great concern that I was unable to work my fingers to unzip my bag. He reassured me and did all the work. He was also worried about my shaking. Somehow, though I was freezing in a tank top, I never processed that I should stop to put on a jacket. I could not have done it if not for his help, and he helped me zip up and sent me on my way with encouraging words.
I passed Jenni on the trail, making her way to the top. She was not as far behind me as I feared. I told her I would wait for her, but she yelled at me again and refused to make eye contact. I thought once more of the power of Oreos…
At this point, I settled into a steady rhythm of descent, always mindful of the ground beneath my feet. Downhills, for some reason, were still more difficult for me, and an old knee injury reminded me of every step. For the first time in the race, I was alone, and I was not a fan. I started to doubt myself while my mind replayed a persistent melody of self-pity, which took all of me to overlook.
The weather cleared, and after some time passed, I heard, 'Texas' screamed out in a very recognizable voice. My eyes filled with tears again for the second time. Early in the event, all the racers began to identify each other by their home state or country since people from across the globe had gathered today on the mountain. Since Jenni moved to Arkansas, I earned the nickname 'Texas' early on, and it stuck. She caught me, and we hugged.
"This race is a bitch," she smiled — no argument from me.
Jenni has always been a significantly better downhill runner than I am, and today proved no different. She is surefooted, with a confident stride, and is content to let herself fall faster than I am comfortable. I knew I would need her in the miles to come.
We made our way down the mountain and passed once more the rest stop where I could stumble in to change a tampon. Jenni was content to wait by the container of salted grapes. We were committed to not losing each other again. Jenni regained her sense of humor with the increase of oxygen. She shot a sub pair grape across the trail and into the trash cash with impressive accuracy, which caught the eye of an attendant.
"Wow, incredible shot!"
She smiled and responded, "Yeah, I work-out."
We left the volunteers rolling with laughter as we found our pace again. After a few miles, we looked up and saw a medic station offering first aid for wounded athletes. The trail widened, and we both began to brag that we had not fallen yet during the race. And just like that, Jenni went down hard right in front of the medics. Power of suggestion, I suppose. We laughed it off, and for a brief second, I felt somehow immune—everyone falls they say—well, not me. As if on cue, I too found myself eating a handful of dirt. Well, I guess we both get to play bloody bingo…nice.
We passed another yellow PPM sign with an arrow.
Jenni is annoyed, "we have been passing those damn things all day. What the hell does PPM stand for?" I realized she was serious. The things this race can do to your mind are unbelievable…
"I'm going to go out on a limb… I think maybe PPM stands for Pikes Peak Marathon," I said, trying not to laugh.
"Oh, damn."
We checked our watches and did some quick math. We were not anywhere near our goal, but it was time to readjust. If we could run the next six miles at a 10-minute pace, we could finish the race with an hour to spare before cut-off. Six ten-minute miles, usually nothing, but after today all bets were off.
Somehow, we found it within us. The miles we struggled to climb quickly ticked by on the descent. We ran the last six miles stride for stride. Thankful for all the lessons learned in suffering, I crossed the finish line of the Pikes Peak Marathon in perfect sync with my best friend, just as it should be.
