First 100 Mile Run

What's it like to run one hundred miles? Your feet hurt; that's the first thing that comes to mind. Your legs are tired, especially if you have never walked or run more than 50 miles, and even more so if you've only done a marathon. One hundred miles is a long freaking way. I mean, it's roughly the distance from Houston to College Station. The hardest part of completing a one-hundred-mile run is the tricks your mind decides to play. It's cruel; it's not the physical pain that makes you want to stop but the weakness in your mind. You think you trained the mind to become a stone fortress. Every training run, you work on building this wall, brick by brick, a fortress of mental fortitude so that when race day arrives, you're prepared. Still, nothing can really prepare you. At the start line, your brain's first thought is, "hell no." No human body truly knows what 100 miles is going to feel like. The average Joe runner never trains more than a marathon, so the idea of doing four more marathons is incomprehensible. Once you reach the 30-mile mark, your life looks a little better. You settle in, your feet keep a steady rhythm, and your brain gives in, just a little bit, to this novel idea, but it's biding its time before it plans its next revolt. Which happens around mile 60, and the next entry into your pain cave opens up. It's nice and narrow, a tiny entrance with no light and no friendly face. It's time to decide if you will take the less traveled road. Aches and pains start to become more evident. Your shoulders and neck feel tight; who knew your running vest would weigh so much. It doesn't help that it's been raining for the last 12 hours. 400 mg of Advil later, your body feels lighter. The muscle pains subside, and you forget about the pain in your feet. Who knew a runner's high could happen with the help of some over-the-counter medication! Not sure if this is the best thing to do, but it made us feel better. A friend came out to pace for miles 60-70. You wouldn't believe the difference a pacer could be until he was the only thing reminding you to keep running. Miles 70-87 were nothing but brutal. The rain was annoying and cold. The idea of sleep was all-encompassing, every bench looked like a bed, and it took all my strength not to sit down. Relentless forward motion was all I could think about. 4am was the worst. Getting back to the car took all my effort and will. I decided to take a nap in the Jeep. The pros took cat naps, so I rationalized that I could too. The intention was to take a 10-minute nap and then head back on the trail; however, that 10-minute nap became a 30-minute. At that moment, it felt like the best sleep of my life. I woke up debating whether to keep going or not. There were so many reasons to stop. JJ was asleep. The rain was not letting up. My feet hurt. My knees ached. What did I have to prove anyway? No one would criticize or disgrace what I accomplished. 87 miles was a lot, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. But, the idea of not finishing left a bitter taste in my mouth. Not finishing Leadville was not my choice; I was stopped because I was too slow in the mountains. Houston was my turf. There was absolutely no conceivable reason to quit. What's a little rain? And the pain was only temporary; it wasn't that bad, I told myself. I only had 13 miles left. I scarfed down a blueberry pop tart and threw on a dry shirt just to have something new to wear. I remember kissing JJ, and I opened the car door and started to run. Those next 3 miles were amazing, I felt like a new person, but the feeling didn't last long. The last 10 miles were vicious. The rain started again; the sky dumped buckets of water on my head. It was unyielding. I finally understood what flash floods meant; I ran in ankle-deep water on the trail. My shoes, waterlogged, felt like 10-pound cement blocks. Somehow my feet kept moving forward. Each mile brought me closer to home. I chipped away mile after mile. In the last mile, the rain fell harder. Rain was hitting me from all angles, and it felt like tiny little needles piercing my skin, but I felt light in my chest. I was going to do it. I was actually going to finish 100 miles in under 30 hours. A smile crept on my face. I thought I might shed some tears of relief, an emotional surge of happiness that would need to be freed, but no, I felt a profound source of joy and peace. I crossed my own finish line. An unofficial race. Totally unsupported. Truly, it was a major accomplishment. There are no words to accurately describe the immense pride I felt. My heart was happy. My first thought was of my pawpaw that I finished this for him, the man who never doubted my ability to do what most people think is impossible. The pain cave is never truly conquered. The goal is to dig deeper into that cave and see how far it goes. Life is hard, but running 100 miles makes life worth living because you get out what you put in. Completing 100 miles puts all your life worries in perspective. Nothing seems that bad once you finish that first 100. You may look the same on the outside once you finish a race like this, but deep down, you know the demons you conquered. Now you're standing on the other side, a stronger and more beautiful person, because you did what many thought impossible. But, really, nothing is impossible, and no goal is too big as long as you believe in yourself, persevere, and stay persistent.