I have run quite a few marathons. I consistently find some pressing reason to sign up for something so absurd, as if I need some higher-level purpose to help me rationalize the whole ordeal. Honestly, its compulsive—this need to have something in front of me to run towards. I am not confident I can trust myself to look out over an empty calendar.
This race was no exception. November is not an enjoyable time of year for me. I am supposed to wake up and move on, but as the days get darker and dreary, so does my spirit.
Being a November race, I have had my eye on the Moab Trail Marathon for several years. I was registered for it the prior year but delayed my registration for last-minute enrollment in an international art class. This year I was determined to make the starting line.
Early on, I sold my husband on this ridiculous event. Between our kids and work and sports and parents, time was moving faster and faster. Work paths were leading us both in different directions, and we had settled into playing zone defense to manage our kids and their busy schedules. It was becoming increasingly easy to see ourselves more as business partners then as mates. Shared suffering brings people together, so we decided to commit to training for and running this race as partners.
Four months of training runs later, and we find ourselves shivering together at the start line. Moab Marathon is not a street race—meaning you cannot discard extra clothing as you heat up—so you had to commit to carrying anything for wanted to wear at the start for the next 26.2 miles. The start is taking off in waves that roll across the line seven minutes apart to spread out the traffic on the trail. We are in wave 5, meaning we shiver longer and start the race closer to the back of the pack.
As we huddle together, I know this race is more than just about bringing us closer together. For me, it is about understanding my fear of heights and maintaining control of my emotions as I push myself past the borders of my comfort zone. The course climbs, descends, and overlooks the edge of drops I am trying not to think about.
When our wave rolls across the start, we instantly find ourselves running in deep sand, which seeps into the sides of our shoes and spills over the backs. I’m not a minute into the race before I regret not wearing gaiters. The sand covers a layer of solid rock that is firmly embedded into the ground. For this, I am relieved, as the rocks in Missouri are often slick, loosely planted, and covered in a layer of moss and wet leaves. My feet glide faster and faster over the rock I am learning to trust, and I am comforted by the thought of running on solid ground.
Patrick is quickly ahead of me, and I worry he is heading out of the gate too fast. It is easy to allow yourself to be swept away by the flood of adrenaline at the start of an event. I am struggling to hold onto his pace, and several racers take their place between us. We all form a tight line for a while, the whole gang running Patrick's line, with me holding firmly onto the back. I am slightly annoyed and concerned at what is to come, and I am fearful it is not possible to maintain this pace for the remainder of the race but make peace with the idea of running swiftly through everything we can. Early on, I find myself missing Jenni. It has been a long time since I ran a race without her, and I am just not sure about handling this without her goofy, encouraging, pain in the ass by my side.
It is not long before we all begin to climb, and our line breaks down. As we navigate the rock ahead, there is no clear-cut path to the top, so we each find our own way. We are less than 6 miles in, and I am surprised to realize how much I am already climbing with my hands. I give thanks for my gloves and recognize they may serve a dual purpose.
We climb a steep rock for several miles, still slightly shivering in the cool of the morning. I am anxious for the sun to break over the mesas, heat the ground, and reflect back at me. Ever so slowly, the light breaches the rock and pierces the shade. Now it feels as if we are running beams of light, and it's all a kind of beautiful I cannot use words to explain. As the harsh light hits the ground, steam gently lifts from the rockface and suspends in the air. As we run the sun, the shivering slowly gives way to sweating, but the warmth is short-lived. We make our way back into the shade, only now slightly damp, and find ourselves trembling cold again. We run like this for miles, jogging light beam to light beam.
Still battling to hold onto Patrick's longer stride, I find my mind tempted to rest in a darker place. Negative thoughts begin to buildup, though at first, I attempt not to acknowledge them. Then all at once the dam breaks and they rush past full force.
'He should be free to run his own race.'
'You do nothing but hold him back.'
'It's better for you both if you just separate.'
'You should end this now, while you still respect each other, and agree to each run your own pace.'
The thoughts hit relentlessly, one after another. There is often that moment in a race when you realize it is a more intense commitment than you initially bargained for, marriage is no different.
We keep climbing the light. But the glory of the top of the rock is short-lived, and as quickly as we earned it, we give it all away. The descent is steep, and I am again shocked to recognize still how much I am using my hands. The ledge we are running becomes narrower and narrower with an unobstructed view of the canyon below us. When I registered for this race, it was an honest attempt to overcome my fear of heights. Something I have tried to come to terms with and failed many times before.
I have a close friend in Australia who visited us for ten days this summer. We worked together to hang an art show where I found myself balancing on a tall ladder for hours on end. The heights conversation came up, and through her counsel, I developed a new understanding of fear.
"Fear is not real, you know," she would say in her beautiful accent. "Fear is something you create in your mind, then submit to."
She was right. I am not quick to trust any of my other emotions. Why should I submit to fear? This race was no longer about overcoming my fear of heights; it was now about never building fear at all. In theory, it was easy to talk about, but it took more than a little focus to keep my mind from constructing paralyzing fear as I quickly navigated a thin footpath on the edge of a cliff.
I thought to myself it would help if I never acknowledged relativity. "I am running fast, up high, on a narrow edge of a cliff face." (Example of relative thinking – the spirit of comparison is often dangerous.) I could not afford to place my position in relation to these rocks. I had to guard my mind against such thoughts. In all honesty, there was no other way safely out of this. Instead, I changed my thinking slowly, "I am running." "These are rocks." I would not allow us to be in relation to each other. Then I kicked it up a notch and dropped the whole idea of running. I figured the only way to determine I was running at all was to measure myself against the passing rocks. So, I finally dropped it too. Gradually, it became "I am," and "they are," and ever so slowly, I was at peace. And then for a moment, I was totally free. Gliding effortlessly—I just was. I felt like I was flying and found myself enjoying the rocks, and I would like to think they enjoyed me.
I was jolted back into this reality when the woman in the dark glasses behind me stumbled, cried out, and then recovered. She ran another fifty yards and stumbled again. And now it was clear she did not trust herself, and suddenly we were both back on the edge of a cliff. She became emotional and stumbled a third time. It was at this moment I had a new revelation about fear—it was contagious.
We both fought through it, and the sight of my husband reassured me. The narrow ledge doubled back on itself, and we found our way down several steep switchbacks marked with orange flags. There was not a trail at all anymore, just orange flags tied to rocks, and we would each make our way to them one at a time. To lower yourself to the next switchback, you would plant your hands on each side of the rocks, then cautiously do a dip, lowering yourself until you were fully extended before dropping to the next level.
My confidence was building with every drop, and suddenly all the thoughts of separating from my husband were utterly ridiculous. I was thankful for a partner. He was brave enough to make all the drops first, then gentleman enough to turn around, prepared to lend a hand to me if I found myself needing it. We were a team again, working together to find the best route, making our way swiftly down.
We found ourselves at the end of a long line of people. Then waited anxiously on the ledge for what was to come. "I am, and they are," I tried to comfort myself as I overlooked the edge. Several race officials attended this area of the descent to reduce the risk of failing. There were two paths down, and we lined up for the one which felt right for us. When it was our turn, I climbed out onto the rock overhang and tried to find my footing. Patrick went first.
The rock ledge was solid, too smooth, and too steep. Runners had to slide their footing down it before they jumped off to another narrow ledge several feet beneath them, and the whole thing was overhanging what felt like a thousand-foot drop into a canyon. I was committed to not building fear, but as I slid out over the rock, I started to feel something paralyzing welling up in me.
My husband must have sensed it and yelled, "Hey, look at me…"
Then his voice changed from a request to a command, "Chels, look at me. Jump to me."
I re-positioned—locked eyes with him—then jumped off a freaking cliff with a narrow landing zone.
I felt empowered, and the adrenaline surge carried me the next few miles. Certainly, nothing could be more complicated than the miles we just covered. I let myself be swept away in hope.
The miles pass in a blur. We did an incredible climb up to mile 16, and I find myself using my hands again, enjoying views you can only earn with sweat equity, all the while making a conscious effort to keep from building fear. Patrick pulls away from me again, and I struggled to keep sight of him.
We drop into a valley, and the trail disappeared. We scan for the well placed, orange flags, and stayed alert. We ran through rocks, which slowly got taller and taller beside us as we made our way through a short slot canyon. My pack gets stuck on a rock wall as I tried to shimmy through, and honestly, I wished the whole damn thing would have just ripped off because my back hurt.
We ran past a man who is 78 years old, racing for a national championship title. I know we were in a hurry, but I find myself wanting to talk with him. I tell him he is a badass, and he asks if he can use me as a reference. We encourage each other for as long as we can, and then it is clear we must pull away from him.
As we were pulling away, he hollered out, "Hey, want to know the secret to being awesome?”
"Yeah, of course!"
"Stay alive. And keep running. Your competition might drop out of the race."
It sounded like solid advice to me. I might not be the best, but I certainly would put 'stubborn with endurance' at the top of my list of qualities. Maybe it was not about winning for either of us. Perhaps it was about enduring, and we just needed to wait out the competition.
We ran through rest stops, and I find myself concerned about Patrick. He doesn't seem to understand the danger of these necessary, welcomed, but risky stops. I began to rush him through them and discouraged him from standing still or sitting down. Twenty-three miles in, and we were both feeling surprisingly energetic. But in the obstacles to come, shit hit the fan.
As I admitted to myself I was growing tired, my mind wandered to New Mexico and the friend we planned to visit when this whole race was behind us. Without warning, I was ambushed by thoughts of being done and getting to Santa Fe. They were dangerous thoughts considering the circumstances, and I needed to keep focused on planning my where my feet would strike the ground next, so I pushed them from my mind.
We work our way down another steep drop. There is a woman in front of me being exceedingly vocal about her fear, and we find ourselves trapped behind her. She is yelling out and asking others to join her in her reality. She cries out every drop, groaning and asking, "Is anyone else afraid?" I have already learned today fear is contagious. I wish I could comfort her, but I know she is a threat to me, and I need to get away. I looked out over the ledge at the deep green color of the water in the river. I refused to put this river or these rocks into context — not today. I won't let myself stand in fear with you, my friend… I refused to acknowledge her due to self-preservation. For a second, I feel like I am a terrible person. But then, if fear was contagious, perhaps so too was courage. Maybe I was helping her by moving steadily forward.
At what I think was around twenty-four miles, we come to the edge of mesa with a ladder leaning against it. I am annoyed. The pictures of last year's race showed a ladder bolted to the wall. This one looked a little short, and when we climb it and stand on the top, there are still several feet of rock to free climb before you hurl yourself over the ledge. I handled it reasonably well, and I decided I am more powerful when I stand outside of fear.
We ran until we come to a rock overhang with a few hand lines. The stream of participants built up again, and we wait on the edge for our turn on the ropes. I encouraged Patrick to go first but instantly regretted it. When it was my turn, I handled the first rope well. But when I tried to switch lines, I found I could no longer guard my mind against fear and exhaustion to focus on the task at hand. I made my way through the second rope, but as I rounded the corner where a big rock overhang forced you more uncomfortably out on the ledge, I came to a dead halt.
The man behind me was patient. Of course, it would have done him little good to be angry. Neither one of us was going anywhere until he talked me off that ledge. We did it together, and he gave me short instructions, which I followed one step at a time.
"Put your foot here."
"Walkout farther."
"Keep your rope tight."
"Watch your head."
And soon, it was time for me to let go of the line and make my way to the last knotted, vertical rope we would use to climb to the next tier of the rock. My husband and my kids' rock climb, but I like to keep both feet on the ground. I pulled myself up the knots in the rope and lay into the rock in an effort not to panic. I could feel the tears coming, and by the time I made it to the top, there was no stopping them. I let myself shake and cry for a minute or so at the top of the climb until I could get my head around finishing the race. Two more miles and we could drive to Santa Fe.
I am surprised at how many obstacles—and how much sand—was packed into those last few miles of the run. There was one final hand line to help you down a significant smooth rock drop. We turned around backward and walked down the rock as we lowered ourselves to where we could run again.
The last mile was relatively flat, and they handed out cold beer at mile twenty-six, right before you did your last steep climb to finish the race. The finish line did not come into view until you pulled yourself over the last rock edge, and then it was a welcomed sight steps away.
I came across the line in perfect sync with my husband and after a few cold drinks and a couple of cheese quesadillas, reflected upon the lessons I learned this race.
Fear is something we build ourselves. Like other emotions, you cannot always trust it, and as it turns out, it just might be contagious.
Love, on the other hand, you can trust. Though it might sometimes require more endurance than you initially bargained for, it is worth the investment. Marriage is indeed a long, challenging, unpredictable trail, and at times it seems more logical to go it alone. But I know now when I am tired, the path is narrow, steep, and emotions are running high, I am grateful to reach for my husband's outstretched hand—before I cautiously lower myself over the edge of a cliff.
