the quiet place

 This is the quiet place. 

Where there is nothing but space and air and no passage of time, where Peace and Grief battle. Peace stands, silent and patient, while Grief rages and fights and throws punches. Grief is not a fair fighter. He hits low, high, he scratches and claws. Peace waits. It is a gentle, understanding, biding of time. Grief will grow tired. His arms will fall. Then Peace will hold out his arms and the two will meet and become one until all that is left is Peace. 

This is the quiet place. 

We never want people that we love to go. We always want them, selfishly, to stay. 

Glynn Pettus. She will not be forgotten. She loved me when I felt unloved. She wrote letters to me every week when I was in college and sent me money for my ice cream fund, so that I could walk over to Hardees and get a scoop of moose tracks. She gave the best hugs. No one left her house hungry. She was sharp and smart and sarcastic. She said words like, "fanny," and "fiddlesticks." She was an expert at making people feel welcomed and wanted. Her life was layered and well lived. She shopped too much and gave too much and drove my Grandaddy a little bit crazy. Her grip on reality started to slip when he began his descent into dementia, and I want to believe that now they are together and she'll never again have to ask, "Where's Edward?"

She was beautiful, skin like a rose petal and always scented with Oil of Olay. Her hands were spotted and aged from years of dish water, cotton picking, and endless washing from hours spent in the kitchen. The best way to clean a kitchen floor was on your hands and knees and she had the most extensive collection of Precious Moments that I have ever seen. She loved beautiful things. 

The things she said, in that sweet southern drawl, "Lord have mercy!" That gentle chuckle, followed by, "Well, honey..." or, "Bless your heart." She had the gift of southern gentility, the ability to convey that you are an absolute idiot but also utterly loved. 

She was a lady. I have been called a, "nice lady." I am not a nice lady. My grandmother was the very definition of a lady. She commanded respect and carried herself with dignity and she was adored. I adored her. 

I have pieces of her, her cookbooks filled with her slanted scrawl. She was so self conscious about her handwriting, but I loved reading it. I have the cards she sent, the letters she wrote. 

I hate that she is gone, but I love that she was here. I have missed her for a long time, since she started losing herself to Alzheimer's. The cord is finally cut, and it was time. 

To those that took the time to read this, thank you. Take a moment for me, say her name, make her real. 

stay

 Sometimes I can see my energy. I know what it feels like, what it looks like, how it sounds. 

My energy is cold heat, ever burning, never warming. It burns with passion and flame and my spirit writhes, but it is silent. Inside there is a scream. Released, it will tear its way out, ripping through soul and body and there will be blood. I dance in the flame, as it consumes me and is one with me. The fire burns within and without, but my spirit is cold. 

One beat. Two beats. Breath in. Breath out. Oxygen tingles all the way into my fingertips and and toes, seeps into the strands of my hair. I am alive, but we are all dying. Death will not be cheated, only postponed. 

It comes ugly and slowly. It takes privileges that we failed to recognize as such. It is taking my father. Death is playing dirty. 

This year has brought so much loss. 

I am asking politely, as politely as I can, addressing Death as a lady would a gentleman:

Please. Please don't take him yet. Please let him stay. Just stay. Stop hurting him and let him linger. He is needed and we are not done. This journey has more miles. 

How can a cold, silent flame burn so relentlessly? On and on, it burns. Call me, text me, give me news. I feel my skin crack open like a cicada shedding it's skin in a painful rebirth. I break apart, but am still whole. I am enrobed in flame and it consumes, but I do not burn up. My mouth opens, and I cry, but there is no sound. This is grieving, this is the pre-mourning. This is the knowing and the unknowing, the awareness of the inevitable, the inability to see beyond the next hour. 

Just stay. Please don't go. Let's have the coffee we always said we would share. Teach me your wisdom. Teach me (more) how to create beautiful things out of ugly, commonplace, raw materials. Laugh with me more. Be well. 

Just

stay.

in a tree

what if

we lived

in a tree?

the strongest branches underneath, 

as strong as anything a man could build

but flexible

giving and swaying with the wind and storms

the branches above,

a canopy

green umbrella,

shelter from the rain

light filtering,

turning the atmosphere green and soft

what if we lived in a tree

everyday rejoicing in a new leaf, 

a small new beginning 

the sky above, the earth beneath

and we, in the middle

what if we lived in a tree

ate the fruit of our neighbors

but only what friendly branches offered up,

never taking more than the earth gifted

would our troubles climb our tree

or would they sit at the bottom and howl

like a mongrel dog 

waiting for us to come down

could we stay

forever

in our tree

sunrise

and sunset

in love with the wind 

gusts softened by the kind leaves

never angry, always softly caressing 

creeping between leaves and branches

to come visit us

in our tree

zee floppy dark bird

Anxiety is a big floppy dark bird that flies behind me, always. It seems ridiculous that he (yes, my anxiety is gender specific) should be swift because he is so large and lacking in grace.

And yet, he flies.
He catches me on the uphills and wraps his wings around me. He does not have feathers. He is a being clothed in darkness and velvet that smothers. His wings compress my chest and cover my face and his darkness sinks into my mind. The ability to breathe is gone. My heart races away from me. The darkness catches me.

I feel like I used to be unstoppable. Reading back on old blog entries and remembering how I used to run circles around an airfield at 4pm, in the middle of the summer, with the heat index sitting at 110, pushing a stroller containing a child that almost broke me. The stress that was present in those days was overwhelming at best. I feel so much weaker now, and I struggle to understand how I stood up underneath all that weight. I used to run so fast, anxiety couldn't catch me until I stopped. Now I am fallible and weak and not fast enough to outrun it.

I'm so confused by this anomaly. Those were such hard days, those early stroller days with Sam. Getting up at 4:45 to run on the treadmill in the early hours. Another run later in the day. Everything was regimented. My life was broken up into segments of predictability and battle. I didn't have time to dwell on how I felt, I just kept going. Molly's schoolwork got done. Sam was defined by the all consuming hope of him eating and drinking. Those were the days when he still threw up constantly. Baby blankets went with us everywhere, to soak up the mess that was inevitable. He did not speak. He was so far behind developmentally. Molly was on a competitive gymnastics team. My husband worked from dark to dark and got one weekend off every three weeks. I did it all and I held it together. I made cloth napkins and hung our clothes to dry on a clothesline because it was better for the environment. All our meals were homemade. My husband ate on a different schedule because he worked late, so I always prepared a plate for him that was waiting in the fridge for him when he got home. My kids got minimal screen time. We read books and played. We ran errands and they went with me everywhere. During the 4+ years we lived in North Carolina, as far as I can recall, we never had a babysitter. It just never came up. I never went out at night. My friendships were defined by children.
All these things. I did and did and did. Are they anything? Do they count? Are they just chasing the wind?
My son devours books now. I taught him to read. He read voraciously, but talks of almost nothing but video games. He tells me how many games he plays over the weekend, when he is not with me. The child that couldn't watch an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, or get through Monsters Inc without hiding behind the couch to avoid the conflict and stress, he now watches Clone Wars.

I poured myself into Molly from the beginning and it was joyful. She was my best little friend, from South Carolina to Alaska to North Carolina to Indiana to Hawaii. She was conversation and sunshine and light and fun. She is the reason I bought my first Bob and started running outdoors in Alaska, avoiding the main streets because I didn't want anyone to see me wearing shorts. We saw marmots and moose and avoided bears when we smelled or heard them. We saw Denali in the distance and climbed small paved mountains. We joined a Mom's running group and I traded strollers with moms that pushed doubles and did hill repeats because I didn't mind the pain. I wanted to push harder and feel it hurt. I taught Molly to read when she was six. She went from being illiterate to reading chapter books in less than six months. Stroller running became a different experience. Loads of books, contained in a plastic bubble stretched over the stroller so they wouldn't fall out when we crossed streets. Molly was a dance. She was stubborn and refused to eat and fell asleep on her broccoli when I told her that she couldn't leave the table until she had eaten. I could make her cry just by looking at her and she was incapable of telling me a lie.

Sam was equal parts fragility and iron.
He was cuddly, happy to snuggle in a rocking chair for hours. I gave him parts of me that I did not know that I had. He brought elemental things to the surface. He stripped the skin from my bones, the sanity from my mind and left me raw and then clawed at me. I stood between him and death. Death taunted me on one side and he struggled on the other and my brain broke. I became a shadow person, just functioning, carrying on from one task to the next, crashing at the end of the day, then getting up and repeating the process. One of the biggest challenges of parenting, in my opinion, is being nice. Just- being nice. Anyone can function on minimal sleep. Not everyone can sleep for only four hours nightly and still be nice. Eventually, it wears you down and you want to cut a bitch. If you have small children, you don't cut anyone, you just get really angry at bad drivers and drink an obscene amount of coffee.
With Sam, everything was broken down into small incremental bits. Things that I took for granted with Molly were celebrated as milestones.
I gave Sam everything that I had left and more. I have no regrets. Except for that one time when I accidentally overdosed him on heparin. I regret that.

My life is a snowglobe, turned upside down and shaken. All these things that I have done- teaching my children math and how to read, all the things they have seen and the stories we have told and lived- what are they worth now? There is no mental rest. There is only transition and questions.
"What will you be?"
"What will you do?"

Why is anxiety catching me now?

Is it
the divorce
the pandemic
the quarantine
protests
racial tension and the desire to show love, but not knowing how
the uncertainty about my future
        a job
           finances
              child support back payments that are still floating around somewhere
                 

?

It's probably just the unbearable lightness of being.

There is so much going on in the world right now. I am struggling to balance it all, to properly mentally allocate priority to all the different things going on. I feel like I'm being pulled in so many directions right now, to care about so many things, and I do care.

This season of thought, time, and isolation, equally defined by inactivity and revolution, it is bringing memories to the surface and causing me to examine myself. I'm studying who I am and what has built me, these blocks of life experience.

I look at my hands, and they are old. My brain is tired and my emotions are weary and worn out. My limits are set lower. My tolerance for manipulation is gone. I crave real things. This is why I love the trails and the ridges and the waterfalls and the mountains. These things are real and hard, soft and green. They cut and heal.

Anxiety, I am tired of you. Fly away, dark bird. Drown and dissolve. 

the problem of consent

The problem of consent.

What is no?

 "This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please." Are these statements the same as, "No," and should they be respected as such? If you don't claw a man's face or back or draw blood, is it still no?



What about silence? What if you're in a group situation where close quarters are necessary and unavoidable and touching happens and someone's ass gets grabbed and,
"Haha, sorry, my bad.."
"Haha, no worries, it happens..."

But then it happens again.
How many whoopsies does it take to equal intention? When does an accidental touch become an assault? He, "didn't mean to," but her ass still got grabbed and she still feels violated. It was an accident, and as a female, with the inborn auto response to apologize, step out of the way, and say please, when does one stop forgiving the accidental offense?

What is the appropriate response for a minor and is it the same as that of an adult?

We tell girls to stand up for themselves and self advocate. Do not tolerate being disrespected or inappropriately touched. Who do you tell?
-authority figures
-coaches
-teachers
-parents

Is it worth it? There are several possible outcomes to speaking out regarding suspected inappropriate touching. Tell an authority figure, preferably a female. That's sound advice, unless there aren't female authority figures available. There is always the possibility that you will not be believed. You speak out, tell your side and- Congratulations, you are now a pariah. You will lose your friends, your self respect. Your friends will be forced to choose sides. Did he really do it? Is she lying to get attention? She's lying, what a dramatic dirty whore. Or: he's a pervert and that reputation will follow him as long as he remains in the social vicinity. There are no winners when a bad thing happens, even if the person in the wrong is reprimanded and correctly disciplined. The damage is already done. Speaking out regarding sexual assault or harassment is not simple. The rules are not clear cut or easily defined. If you don't speak, there is always the possibility that the male in question will continue his inappropriate behavior, with you or with others. By not speaking, are you paving the way for another Brock Turner? White male privilege is power. Do you risk sacrificing your self respect, invite the questions, the awkward conversations, the disruption to your life, all just in case the guy that ruined part of you decides to ruin part of someone else? The possibility that he will reform or be punished enough to change his attitude and actions is tenuous at best. He won't change. You will just be another name in the paperwork, if it gets far enough for paperwork. At the very most, one day he might end up serving three months, get out on good behavior, and his people will mourn the time lost. All that potential, that future wasted, just because he made a mistake.

I search myself and turn inward to try and understand what it would take for me to reach out and consciously touch someone without consent. I cannot lift my hand far enough. I cannot imagine reaching into someone's personal space and grabbing their body, just because I want to.

 I want, I will. I want, I must. I see it. It is my right to touch it.

What happens to a person's brain, that it becomes bent and broken and perverted to the point that they believe they may violate someone's body just because- They. Want. It.
This uninvited intimacy that ruins real intimacy.


I drank too much. He drank, but I don't know how much. I only knew his first name. He was a friend of a friend. I don't remember how I ended up in a bed with him, I only remember him being on top of me. He was a lot bigger than me and I couldn't push him off. I said all those things:

"This isn't working. We should stop. Just stop. Please."

He did not stop. I drove myself home later. My self esteem was so shattered, I couldn't openly accuse him. I talked to my manager at work and lost my job because they could/would not continue to employ a lying whore.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong things. For years, I believed, that due to those facts, what happened was my fault. I shouldn't have been there. If I hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened.
On the flip side, he could have gotten off of me and let me walk away. That would have been a good choice.
Was drinking Jager shots as good as a non-verbal consent? Did my bloodstream consent when the alcohol hit and slowed me down and made me easier to manipulate? Did I get what I deserved because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Nearly 20 years are gone between now and that short chapter in my life, but it was formative.
I did tell people. I tried. I got two types of responses:
- Shit happens, what can you do?
- You're a lying whore.
Even now, it's difficult for me to type the word and say what it really was.

What are the critical learning points? Men are usually bigger and stronger. As women, we are typically physically disadvantaged. Saying NO doesn't guarantee an appropriate response in return.
I cannot speak for an entire gender and I don't have everything figured out. I know what I will tell my daughter. Don't go to a party alone, even if you know the person hosting. Keep your girls close. Squad goals = safety. Go with your girls, leave with your girls, no girl left behind. If it comes down to it, be dramatic. Yell, scream, use your nails. Leave him with memories of you that he will never forget. Be the crazy bitch in the story he tells his friends the next day. Tell your girls how it went down so that you retain validity. Whether you take it further than that is a personal decision that is highly individual. There are no hard and fast rules, each situation is case by case. You can say he touched you, he can say he didn't. If he maintains that he didn't touch you, it becomes a judgement call. Do you want to live with that, the division of public opinion about who is right and who is lying? Are you strong enough in spirit and confidence that you can stay unbroken while under scrutiny? Will it hurt you more to accuse or more to stay silent?

The rule of consent when it comes to uninvited touch: Don't touch a woman unless she's okay with it. Don't touch a man unless he's okay with it.
This is a simple basic standard of normal and healthy human contact. If you have to sneak a touch, make it seem like an accident, you need to work on your life. The man that grabs and brags is a pathetic excuse for a human.

I'm so sad for the man that is not man enough to merit consensual touch. What a lonely piece of human trash, this person that has to reach out and touch something that isn't his to touch, especially when he knows the consent to touch would never be granted. He wanted, so he took anyway. Stop stealing. Work on yourself. Be better. Women are not the sum total of their bodies and appearance. We aren't toys to be played with, squeezed until we squeak. Dogs play with squeaky toys. Real men do not. Stop encouraging this mentality of inevitability, the inevitability of sexual violation. If it didn't happen to you, it's happened to at least one of your friends. I believe the state of the world is only deteriorating. People are moving away from relationships and keeping sex and intimacy separate. It will get worse. If sex is not about intimacy, it is a a physical act just like rock climbing or boxing or running or biking. The depersonalization of sex makes it easier to justify thoughtlessness about the act itself.
She's not a person, just a nice piece of ass.

This desperate life

Today I cleaned out my email. I went from 160 unread messages to 0. As I hit the tiny trashcan emblem and methodically cleared away the unopened messages from 2020.. 2019... 2018.... 2017

I saw the evolution of a changing life.

I am gripped by my loss.

Messages from FRG, baseball teams, potluck dinners, church groups, running groups, race confirmations, deployment reunion photos, swim team updates

It is all gone

My life is different.

There is no FRG. I am not a military wife anymore. There are no baseball team updates, soccer team updates, swim team updates. We left the swim team we were members of for almost two years and then quarantine hit us, so we have no ties to any teams, anywhere. We left the church that we attended for almost two years, and at which I helped lead AWANA weekly. As far as I know, we were not missed. Race confirmations? Quarantine. Running groups? Quarantine. I have little motivation to run at the moment and even less to be around people. Deployment reunion photos? That is a life that is done.

I have to find a new purpose and build it around my goals and that is something I have never done before now. I am completely overwhelmed by this new pressure that has been born:

What are you going do? What career fits your skills? (What skills?) What are you majoring in?

I don't know what I'm good at, where my skills lie. I was raised to be a good wife and mother, and I slayed. No regrets. Hot meals everyday, unless they were cold on purpose. Birthdays celebrated, milestones acknowledged, laundry done (folded, ironed if needed, put away, not left in piles), dishes done, house neat. Family first, me last.

Now the priorities are all jumbled. Family first, me first? Kids first always, me second? Me first, kids first. I am no longer adequate. I cannot meet the needs of the people that surround me. Financial security is gone, future is uncertain and indeterminate.

There was a plan, but looking back, I don't know if I was the one with the plan or if the plan belonged to "we," or "us," or if it just became: an evolution of expectation born of decisions forced or made out of obligation.

Being a family in the military is a unique experience. The lie of choice and control- pick your next duty station, find a suitable house, it's your choice! The reality is, you have very little control over where the military sends you. As if Crayola said, "You may have any color crayons you would like! You may choose from blue, yellow, or red!" When choices are limited, there is safety. There is frustration. "We don't want any of these! Red, blue, yellow. Fort Bragg, Fort Rucker, Fort Bliss. We don't like these choices!"
In the end, you choose. Blue is ok. We choose blue. You are given yellow instead. Yellow works, we can work with yellow. You go where you are assigned. Find a home. The myth of control reasserts! We can choose where to live! So exciting! Anywhere we like! On base or off base? We choose on base! So convenient! So easy, financially! We choose on base!
Housing office: "Here are your options. You may choose one of these two homes. You may not see the inside until after the lease is signed. You have 24 hours to decide, or the home will be offered to someone else." That seems wrong and strips us of our individuality and control.
We choose off base! Easy. Find a rental that is available NOW because our household goods are being held in storage and we only have two weeks of paid TLA and then we are out of money. There are three rentals available. One is over budget. One is too far from base. One is smaller than any house we have lived in yet and will require immediate downsizing. The first two rented while we were trying to decide, so house number three wins.

The safety of the scarcity model. That myth of control is so comforting. I wrapped it around myself like a warm blanket. I learned to adapt and evolve, the Darwinist lifestyle of the military spouse. There was the security of all expenses paid healthcare, COLA, housing allowance, military discounts, commissary access, paychecks on the first and the fifteenth, like clockwork.

It is gone. I never took it for granted. I appreciated it always. I do not regret letting it go.

What I miss:

Stroller running. Not just pushing a kid in a stroller, but the life that went with it. Get up, make breakfast, do laundry, clean house, go for a run, maybe end at a park and have a snack. The lifestyle of the stay at home mom. It's so much easier to build a life around other people than around yourself.

Meal prep.
Kid's sports.
Dinners like clockwork.
Quick grocery store runs.
Solo runs during swim practice.
Runs with Sam on his bike.
Being stressed because our schedule is so full of activities.
Predictability.
The absolute absence of looking inward.

The absolute absence of looking inward.
That is what I miss the most.
I had a secure identity. I was a wife and a mother. I am still a mother.
But now I have to just be me and I am uncomfortable.
I have never been best friends with myself. I don't know how my skills translate to a career, to financial independence.
I have never had career goals, or had interests that lay beyond holding my family together.
I have regressed 17 years.
Figure out what you want to be when you grow up.
This decision has been on hold since I was a sophomore in college.
Now I'm a sophomore in college once again, a rising junior in the fall. It is time to decide what I want to be! It's so exciting! I can be anything I want! The scarcity model, with all it's safety and security and limited choice is gone. The options are limitless and terrifying.

"So exciting! It's like a blank slate! I can do anything!"

My future is a blank slate, but I am not. My slate has been written on and erased. Indelible marks remain: my children, my memories (many repressed), my trauma, my children's trauma. The shadows of my choices that will never disappear, these remain. Like chalk stains on a worn out chalkboard. Or ink that stains a whiteboard that has seen too much use. I don't know how to write over these marks. I don't know how to start over at 37. I don't know how to decide what direction my life should go or what I want to be when I grow up. I thought I knew.

Now I know that I don't know anything. I don't know what to do or who to be. My identity has shifted and nothing feels safe.
I had predictability and order. For 16 years, my life had a rhythm and a beat and I danced.
It is gone.
No regrets.

I will allow myself this mourning, of a life lost. The fear of the unknown is paralyzing. The hope of new beginnings has worn thin and I am already tired. I am good at following directions, devastatingly bad at writing them for myself.

Play me a new song, and I will dance. Teach me new words, and I will sing.

Now I have to learn to write my own music, but all I hear is silence.
I have to find my own beat, but my timing is lost.
I would write lyrics, but my poetry is dissonant.

Perhaps, if I am very quiet
The music will play
The beat will begin
The words will form
And a new life will be born
Out of this brokenness

Broken Toe 50K

Race recap!!!
FUN FUN FUN.

My first 50K (Run Woodstock) was so awesomely fun and amazing and my recovery post run was surprisingly quick and relatively painless. So I figured, what’s better than ONE 50K? TWO 50Ks!!
We had one weekend available in October, so I did an online search for ultras in the area, including multiple states. The goal was to find something fairly close- within a 3 hour drive- that was on our available weekend and that was located in a state in which I’ve never raced. The last qualification is not a difficult one to meet. Currently, the only states filled in on my run board are: NC, SC, IN, AK, and MI. Our weekends were completely booked except for the weekend of the 21st of October. We have swim meets on our calendar and we are currently preparing to move to Hawaii. So there’s a lot going on. I found a race in Ohio called the Broken Toe, and it fit all our criteria. It was also really small- capped at 50 runners for the 50K and 25 for the 25K. It was inexpensive ($45 I think?) and began in a random park not far from Dayton.

My training for this race consisted of running as much as possible and as far as possible and trying not to injure myself. Before I ran Woodstock I tried some new shoes and they caused something that feels suspiciously like sesamoiditis. I was concerned going into Woodstock that this would affect my run, but trails do not bother or aggravate this issue. Pavement running causes increased inflammation in my toes, but trail running doesn’t seem to bother them at all. This is really great news for my racing plans, and really terrible news for my training. In order to run unpaved trails, I have to drive, and I really don't have time to drive to a trail and also run a trail.#homeschoolmomlife. There isn’t anything in my surrounding area that is unpaved and suitable for running. There are tons of paved trails and sidewalks, navigatable shoulders, etc, but zero unpaved trails. So my training for the Broken Toe was tricky. I pushed Sam for pretty much all my pre race runs. I find that stroller running is excellent prep work for trail running, if I can’t get to an actual trail. If I can push a 75-80 lb stroller uphill and downhill for sustained distances, running up a trail without it is cake. The joints of my big toes were pretty inflamed by the time I hit taper week, and I was just hoping that the rest prior to the race would be enough to earn me a successful finish at Broken Toe, and even more optimistically, that I wouldn’t end up with stress fractures in my feet.

Going into race weekend, I felt pretty good, but my head was not in the game. We are preparing for a huge move- from Indiana to Hawaii- and quite honestly, we are heartbroken over it. We love Indiana and moving is rough on all of us.

We were all excited to explore a little bit of Ohio. We’d never been there before, except in passing through on the highway en route to Indiana. We booked a hotel room outside of Dayton and drove to Harveysburg to do recon on the park area. Once we figured out where everything was located, we went to find food. Waynesville is near Harveysburg and there is very little there- a few restaurants and lots of antique shops. The town is completely adorable. We ate at Stone House Tavern and we loved it. Very affordable and a nice range of menu choices. I had a teriyaki mushroom burger and it was Delicious. Two thumbs up. The architecture in Waynesville was delightful. During my race, my family walked around the downtown area. Great regret was expressed that we didn’t stay at the bed and breakfast there. :)

Exterior of the Stone House Tavern

Stone House Tavern: where the sandwiches are bigger than your head.

One of the stipulations we have on traveling is that the hotel in which we stay MUST have a pool. This keeps the 7 year old happy. The kids swam after dinner and then we crashed. I always have a hard time sleeping in unfamiliar places, and that combined with pre race adrenaline did not lead me to expect a full night of sleep. The night before Woodstock I got about 90 minutes of sleep, so my hopes weren’t high! I got more than I expected, so I actually felt really rested when I got up Saturday morning. Race start was at 8, the park was thirty minutes away, and I wasn’t sure what to expect, so we left at 7. We arrived at the park around 7:30. It was dark, cold, and very no frills. But the sunrise was spectacular.

I grabbed my bib and went to find a portapottie. When I got back, my husband told me, "They are drawing a line on the road for the start. With chalk."

We started the race from the park and ran down the road to the trailhead. I had a pretty good idea that this was primarily a local race, and I think that ended up being accurate.

Chalk start line. Worked out just fine.

Most of the people seemed to know each other, and quite a few seemed familiar with the trail itself. I didn't know anyone and had no concept of what to expect of the trail. I ended up behind two older dudes and a couple of women that were bffs. They set a really nice pace and seemed to know where they were going, so I just matched their pace and hung on. The folks in front of me kept up a running stream of conversation and that kept me entertained for the first 12 miles or so. One of the ladies had adopted a Maine Coone and thanks both to my 7 year old's voracious interest in non-fiction, and to our public library, I knew exactly what a Maine Coone was. I became a little intimidated because one of the women in front of me was a very experienced ultra runner. There was discussion about all the races she had run, the 50s, the 100s, the race she recently ran with a fractured foot. In retrospect, I shouldn't have felt intimidated because I was keeping up with them just fine. I lost the company at the 12 mile aid station (It may have been the 8 mile aid station. I can't recall. There weren't mile markers to indicate distance, and I wasn't checking my GPS at this point.) because the temps had risen and I took some time to take off my hydration pack and shed a layer. This was a tough trail and I saw no reason to rush or hurry. When I rush, my risk of making mistakes skyrockets, so I figured it was in my best interest to take things at an easy pace.

Aid station. I was attempting to be as colorful as possible. Lacking a flare orange hat, I went with a bright bandana instead.

After this aid station, I found myself alone for quite a while. It was kind of a relief, because I was more free to set my own pace.

The biggest issues I had with this race:
- the fear of being lost
- the terrain

The trail was not adequately marked for someone that was completely unfamiliar with it. For someone local, I'm sure it was perfectly ok. The rule of thumb was, "orange flags will always be on your right." I came upon several spots where I had to choose a right or left turn- and there were flags on both right and left sides of the trail. So. Many. Flags. At one point, I went completely off trail and didn't realize it until I ended up in a dried up lake bed and the trail had disappeared. Fortunately, I hadn't gotten too far off course, so backtracking wasn't a problem. Much later, I had to choose right fork or left fork. I had no idea- there were flags on the right side of both trails- so I just picked one and then spent the next several minutes running and questioning myself. So I just stopped and waited for someone to catch up with me. I knew there were people behind me, and I figured that maybe one of them might know which trail was correct. And if not, we'd be lost together.
The terrain was hard on me. The trail was beautiful; I stopped several times to take photos because I knew I would hate myself later if I didn't. I did not photograph the hardest parts. I was too focused on not falling down.

There were a lot of very steep ascents and descents that I found impossible to run. I had to slow down and carefully make my way. I ran where I could, but it was slow going because there was a layer of leaves covering most of the trail. There were long sections of trail that were rutted with tree roots, and sections that were covered with river rocks. I couldn't see them because they were under the leaves, so I rolled my ankles several times and banged my toes up a lot. (Race was very appropriately named.)

Equally unflattering and realistic photo. My face says,"Concentrating so hard. Must not trip and fall down."

I kept waiting for the aid station with the portapottie. The race info had said that there were two portapotties, and that we should, "Plan accordingly." When I got to the halfway point- the 16 mile aid station- I asked, "Where's the portapottie?" The answer came, "There are no portapotties." Fair enough. I guess I misunderstand the race info- they meant there were two portapotties at the PARK for pre race use. When they said, "Plan accordingly," they meant, "Bring TP."
Lesson learned. *insert thumbs up like Fonzie.*
After I left the 16 mile aid station, I started hearing gunshots more frequently. It's hunting season and the park was open to hunting while we were running. I didn't love that, but I was wearing an orange shirt and I figured that we all have to go sometime and there was a really good chance I wouldn't get shot. I passed a few people- one guy I passed twice. The second time I passed him, I was honestly confused and said, "How am I passing you again? You didn't pass me!" It seems he thought I was insinuating that he was cheating- which I wasn't- but his loud protestations awakened a suspicion that had not existed prior. I didn't assume he had cheated, I actually assumed that I had once again taken a wrong turn and gone off course.
When I reached the final aid station, around mile 23, the volunteers told me that I was currently in third place for the women. I thought they must be kidding because I felt like I was moving so slow.
After the last aid station I started checking my GPS every mile or so, because I was concerned I was going the wrong way. I realized that the race route was a series of loops and was comprised of about three different trail routes. The race organizers had planned a route that looped around and crossed and recrossed the same route several times.

Finished race route. I gave up trying to make sense of my route or direction.

Elevation like wow. 

All things considered, my splits weren't terrible. It just felt tedious and slow. 

It's taken me about a week to organize my thoughts about this race. The two 50Ks that I've run have been so altogether different. Woodstock was very blingy and flashy with fully stocked aid stations every four miles, volunteers with cow bells and enthusiastic cheering. Broken Toe was the polar opposite with minimal aid and minimal information. I don't know what's standard for ultras- or if there is a standard. They may all be different. Two races isn't enough to form an opinion on what's "normal." Broken Toe felt like a "real" ultra, in that it was hard as heck and I felt wasted at the end, physically and psychologically. I expect to feel beat down after running 31 miles. I look forward to having more basis for comparison, as to whether other ultras will be hard like Woodstock, where the primary challenge lay in actually completing the distance, or hard like Broken Toe, which was hard mentally (fear of being lost or shot) and extremely challenging physically. Broken Toe was so much harder for me than Woodstock that when I finished, I was left with a sense of what felt very akin to failure. 

Cheer squad keeping it 100. Best sight in the world was coming up the hill at the finish and seeing these guys at the top of it

I felt pretty good at the finish, with the exception of the ache in my feet. Fortunately, nobody stepped on my toes. My feet look stellar in the photo, but I'm a slow bruiser and I have a couple of toe nails that are changing color, even now. The thing that really killed were the muscles in my lower left shin. That part of my body took all the impact when I repeatedly rolled my ankle. I was so fortunate to finish without a stress fracture. Walking down stairs or down hill has been a challenge this week, but I took a solid four days of rest and that seemed to do the trick. It took me about 48 hours to completely rehydrate. I emptied my hydration pack and refilled my handheld three or four times while I was running, but by the time the race was over the temps were in the 70s and the humidity was high. Fluid loss was high. 

During the race I went through two Honey Stinger waffles and three Nuun tablets, one of which was Nuun Energy with a bit of caffeine. I finished up second for the women, and tenth overall, with a time of 7 hours, 10 minutes. The second place finish is based on my deduction, as I was in third at the final aid station, and then passed a woman between that aid station and the finish line. As far as the posted results, I appear to be in second place for the women, as long as female dogs are not included in the results. A canine named Maeby finished before me, and I truly hope that dog had a giant treat and an epic nap following her run. I would have liked to finish in under 7 hours, and I could have, if I hadn't gotten lost or stopped to wait around and check my location. Or if I hadn't taken so much time at the aid stations... so much room for second guessing in retrospect. All things considered, I'm so grateful for a healthy finish and that I didn't have to be rescued. I feel like such a newbie in the ultra community, which is appropriate, since it's exactly what I am. I have to remind myself frequently that the only way to obtain experience is just to DO THE THINGS and that everybody starts from somewhere. No one starts off at threat level Expert. I learned a lot from this race experience and I'm so thrilled that I had the opportunity to participate.
I'm currently plotting and conniving, trying to figure out if I can fit one more ultra in before we fly to Hawaii... maybe get one more state marked off my race map. I'm not sure if I can manage another ultra less than 30 days after Broken Toe, but mentally it seems like a great idea.
One lesson learned from this ultra: Donuts are always a good idea after finishing a 50K. :)