DNF - Yankee Springs Winter Challenge 50-Miler

My alarm went off at 4:00 a.m.

I rolled over to shut it off. I yawned and swallowed. Sore throat?? You have got to be kidding…

This is how the Yankee Springs Winter Challenge adventure began. 

 I’ll go ahead and rip the Band-Aid off; I didn’t finish this race either. That’s two in a row. I know, I know… You’re wondering two things. First, why would I attempt another 50-miler only three weeks after failing the last one? Second, why on earth would I choose a winter trail race in Michigan? In January?!? These are, indeed, good questions. It may be wise to answer those before we recap my frigid escapade in the frozen north.

Let’s tackle the first one. Why two tough races and distances so close together? Well, last spring, I “accidentally” ended up completing three 50-mile runs in three months. This gave me the bright idea I could do more. Back in 2020, I signed up for my first 50 which would have been the Cayuga Trails 50 in New York in May. It was cancelled due to COVID and rescheduled to July, but I couldn’t make it. So, I signed up for the Croom Fool’s 50 in November 2020 here in Florida. It was also postponed due to COVID, but a new date wasn’t chosen right away. I decided to run a 50 on my own on the original Croom race date in November. I completed it, but it wasn’t an official race. From there, I went about choosing an actual race and landed on the Belmonte 50 in Virginia in March. Since I have no common sense, I went ahead and signed up for Cayuga Trails in May also. As luck would have it, the Croom race was rescheduled in between the two. 

Well then.

I went on and completed all three, much to my amazement. I didn’t actually expect to finish the Croom race but somehow made it through after the tough finish at Belmonte. I figured that I would just show up, run as much as I could and DNF my way right out of it. But I ended up getting it done anyway. After finishing the third race, Cayuga, I was feeling really proud of myself. I had stuck to my training plans fairly well from November 2020 to March 2021 and was surprised and excited that I was able to pull off those three big efforts. Logically, in the warped minds of people who run long distances in the woods for fun, it made perfect sense to level up. I decided I would try to do six 50-milers in six months. When I made this decision, I was better trained and in a better place in life. 

The second question is far more ridiculous to answer. Why, oh why, Michigan in winter? If you’ve been following my journey for any length of time, you know that I love to push my limits. I like signing up for runs that are on terrain that I can’t replicate very well here in Florida. I want to try new things, see new places, test my moxie. And test it, I do. I had never run in the snow, had never been to Michigan, and what really suckered me in was the promise of a snow globe as the finisher award. Doesn’t everyone want one of those?

Back to the Yankee Springs Winter Challenge. 

This race would have been number two of the six in six months. I had already botched the first of six at Lookout Mountain. I figured that if I made it at Yankee Springs, then I would consider finding a replacement for Lookout and schedule something into May or June. If I didn’t, then I would reevaluate my plans altogether.

I had taken the day off Friday to give myself plenty of time to prepare. I wanted to reduce the stress of travel and give myself a good shot at completion. Other than my flight getting bumped up a few hours in departure time, everything went smoothly as far as the journey to Grand Rapids. There were no delays, no lengthy lines, no issues from point A to point B. So far so good. Until I woke up on Saturday morning. 

At that first sharp pain at 4:00 a.m., I instinctually knew there was going to be trouble. I was already feeling some anxiety about this race since I’d blown up on the last one, but this was now an added obstacle. There was at least one student in my class with a head cold, so I had a hunch that was the source of my new problem. I went ahead and finished preparing my gear, food, and drop bag. I had run with a cold before, but it was a half marathon several years ago. I actually felt better on that day when I was running than when I wasn’t. I tried to keep that in my mind as I drove the half hour to the race start.

Depending on which source you used, the temperature at the start was anywhere between 7 and 13 degrees actual, with a “feels like” of anywhere between 1 and 4. All I knew was that it was COLD. I picked up my bib, shirt, and snow globe prior to the race start. I didn’t open the box to see the globe. I didn’t want to know what it looked like until the run was over. I sat in the rental car for the next half hour finishing up breakfast, pinning on my bib, and putting on my running shoes which now donned some sheet metal screws for traction. I’d read that was how you can cheaply and effectively add some grip to your shoes. When in Rome, you do as the Romans. When in Michigan snow, you do as runners in the snow do. I guess? My screw placement was not ideal. I’d made the decision to use the screws the night before and struggled a bit to get the screws into my shoes with the $1.18 hand screwdriver I picked up at Lowe’s. I couldn’t get them to go into the harder part of the tread, so I had to settle for the in between spots that were softer.

 At 5:55 a.m., I left the warm cocoon of the car and walked the 40 yards to the start. Assembled were about 18 fools, bundled with headlamps blazing and positive spirits. I immediately felt concern. This is it? This small group? I don’t actually get nervous about much in life, but I definitely felt it in those brief moments. I was about to head off in freezing temperatures, in the dark, on a wooded trail I had never stepped foot on before, in the snow, with new gear, and would likely end up alone sooner rather than later because I am slow. When the race director said, “Who’s ready to do something stupid?” I whole heartedly agreed in my little Florida mind that this was, in fact, stupid.

 Off we went. I positioned myself towards the back of our little pack. No sense in getting in everyone’s way, I thought. We were to follow the yellow flags for the first 5k loop. Then, after passing back by the start/finish area, we would then follow the orange flags for the 25k loop three times. I had a buff around my neck and pulled up over my mouth and nose because that’s what most of the other runners were doing. When in Rome…you get the idea. But only a few minutes into the run, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I pulled it up and pulled it down over and over for the first mile, thinking that’s what I was “supposed” to do, but finally gave up. I just couldn’t get my breath right and find any rhythm. It was difficult enough for me to navigate the snowy trail in the dark without the added bonus of feeling like I wanted to throw up or pass out. I left the buff down, and by the 5k mark I was feeling better. Somewhere in that first 5k, I was also feeling hot. I stopped to take off my outer jacket. With so many layers on, my Garmin was a speedbump in the process. I had on gloves, a base layer top, a mid-layer top, a thin jacket and a thicker outer jacket. 

At some point, I put the outer jacket back on. Also, at some point, my tugging and pulling and adjusting somehow stopped my Garmin. I didn’t realize it had stopped until I was out on the 25k loop. Now, I had no idea how far I had gone, no idea of pace, and no idea how much further until the first aid station. By then, I was definitely all alone. Only two runners were behind me from what I could gather; everyone else was well ahead. I decided to wait to restart Garmin until I started the next 25k loop. I thought that it would be better to just wait until a logical point so that calculating remaining miles would be easier. I would later find out that Garmin had stopped about one mile into the run. I would also regret this restart decision as the first 25k loop wore on.

 It stayed dark for nearly two hours. After the struggles through the first 5k, and the lack of reference from my Garmin, I was already feeling apprehensive about the miles ahead. How long would it be before it’s light? How long until the aid station? What would the aid station have? Am I moving fast enough? Should I try to go faster? Will my throat get worse?

I plodded along trying to keep the chickens out of my head. I knew that in moments like these, dark, cold, unsure, and alone, that it is easy to succumb to negative thinking. It is easy to give in to that inner voice that tells you that you can’t, or that you shouldn’t. It is easy to allow the echoes of other people’s voices creep in, the ones that tell you that what you’re trying is crazy (and they actually mean it), or that it’s not wise to try what you’re trying (because they assume they know better for you).

I finally made it to the first aid station. They told me at that point, I was about 7 or so miles into the run, including the 5k section. This is when I should have restarted my Garmin so that I would have had a reference point and sense of progress. But for some reason, I didn’t. My throat was becoming increasingly sore. The dry, frigid air was making it worse. My nose was running, likely faster than my legs were, and the constant nasal drip from both the cold in my head and the cold in the air weren’t helping the situation.

 I carried on, trying to stay focused simply on completing the loop. Run the mile you’re in, they say. The trail was beautiful, to be sure. It was repetitive, of course, as everything was blanketed in soft, powdery white snow. But I didn’t mind. Running on snowy trails was what I’d hoped for and man did I get it. 

Eventually I finished the first 25k loop and arrived back at the start/finish area where I could access my drop bag. The race organizers had made the decision not to serve hot foods due to COVID restrictions and guidance, so I decided to bring a stout Thermos along in the hopes to avoid a fueling bonk like in the last race. I made some instant ramen in my hotel room that morning and to my delight, it was still warm nearly six hours later. I repacked some Tailwind bottles and a few snacks as a kind volunteer helped pour a cup of noodley goodness to go.

 I restarted Garmin. Based on miles covered and time of day, I estimated that I was pulling somewhere around a 15:00-15:30 pace overall. I was going to need to pick things up a bit if I was to make the cutoff for the last loop at 3:30 p.m. Much of the 25k loop was runnable, so I figured after some warm food that I would be renewed and get back some time. I assumed that my battles in the first 5k were responsible for my slow progress, and that with Garmin helping me keep track I could do better. 

 But as the miles wore on, I was becoming worn down. My throat started to feel like tiny knives were jabbing from within, and those packed snow ‘runnable’ trails were wearing on my shins and ankles. I learned that packed snow feels a little bit like concrete, and I hadn’t been running much road surface at all in the last few months. I was used to other kinds of leg pain in a race, but this was different, unusual, and worrisome. My nose, however, was doing a fine job running, and although that ramen coated and soothed my throat and soul for a mile or two, its effects soon faded away too. One of the screws in my left shoe was pounding at the bottom of my toe, having worked its way in deeper than originally placed. Every time I needed something from inside my pack, rather than just the front pockets, it was cumbersome to retrieve. My pack was in between my jackets to prevent things from freezing. This meant I had to stop and remove my outer jacket when I needed something from inside the pack. I wasted time and precious heat with each retrieval. I arrived at the first aid station with these negative thoughts swirling in my mind. When I came back through to the aid station after a short two-mile loop, I asked the volunteer to help me remove the rogue screw. My race had begun to unravel.

After leaving the aid station, I started doing the math.  I needed to get back to start the third and final loop by 3:00 p.m., not the 3:30 p.m. cutoff, if I wanted a chance at finishing the whole thing. I knew I would get slower on the final loop. Darkness would set back in and the temperatures would start dropping back down. If I couldn’t maintain a 15:30 pace now and for the remainder of this loop, then I wouldn’t get back by 3:00 p.m. It was possible, still, for me to make it back to the start/finish by 3:30 p.m. if I really pushed and focused. But if I didn’t make it back until right at 3:30 p.m., then I would be hard-pressed to finish the last loop at the 16:30 or so pace I would need to complete the run by the final cutoff at 8:00 p.m.

By the time I arrived at the second aid station on the loop, where the volunteers cheered and greeted me with a, “Hey Florida! Welcome back!”, I had given up. The pain in my throat, the strange pain in my legs, and the fatigue of sickness had won. I wasn’t going to make it. And if I did, I was risking bigger injury to my legs and maybe even the rest of me by pushing my body under the stress of sickness. My dream-big goal of six in six was already gone. Was it worth the risks now to attempt a finish? For what? The Florida girl in me was also worried about safety. I would inevitably become slower as they day wore on. Night would fall. Temperatures would drop. How much slower will I be moving? Will I be putting myself into a dangerous situation, being out in the freezing weather, likely last on the course and alone, in the darkness? It seemed that my fears had won this round.

I left the second aid station disheartened. The volunteers there had been kind, understanding, and they agreed, too, that injury would not be worth it in the end. I trusted their local perspective. The two men at the aid station cheered me on, “Go Florida!”, as I left and headed back down the trail. I trudged, I walked, and I occasionally shuffled sort-of-kind-of like a run when I felt like it. I hoped that someone at the third and final aid station would have a pick-up truck that would take me back to the start.

 I pouted and scowled at myself a few more miles before I finally made it to the last aid station. From there, it was only three miles to the start/finish. I exchanged niceties with the volunteers, all of us with the understanding that my race was already over. They offered food and said encouragingly, it’s only a 5k back, anyone out here can do a 5k. I took that as a cue that I shouldn’t ask for a ride. If you’re going to go ultra, you’ve got to get yourself back on your own. I took a bag of chips and set off. 

 Eventually, near 4:00 p.m., I arrived back at the start/finish area. I chatted with the race directors a bit, exchanged a few short stories about experiences in other places, had a few laughs, and left with a better sense of peace than I had been feeling a few hours before. This was not the experience I’d hoped for. I knew it would be difficult, challenging and new, but I had hoped for fun. I had hoped for excitement. I wanted to feel like a Smurf in the springtime, skipping along through the woods singing, “Fa-LA-la-la-la-la, la-luh-la-la-LAAAA!” Not exactly how it all went down.

As I sit at home from work today, Monday, with my head full of snot, reflecting on my weekend adventure, I am still hopeful. Disappointed? Yes, yet again, I am. But at this moment, it is clearer to me than before that not achieving the dream-big goal was not because the dream was too big. It is because the dream-big goal was not for right now. The timing is off. The differences between last spring and now are what made me capable then and not capable now. Perhaps even getting this head cold is the universe’s way of saying, “Hold up a minute, there, sunshine, not yet.” I needed to have recognized this when I struggled through the Georgia Jewel back in September.

Do I believe that I could train enough to complete six 50-mile runs in six months? Yes, I believe that I can. Is it any crazier a goal than someone completing 7 marathons on 7 continents in 7 days? 40 marathons in 40 days? 7 Ironman events in 7 days? A 240-mile single-event race? The woman currently going for the Guinness record of 95 marathons in 95 days? Is it harder to believe or accept my goal because I don’t look like a runner, or because I am so slow, or because I have such limited experience?

Before I left the hotel yesterday morning, I opened the snow globe box. I shook the little globe and watched the snow swirl around. I figured it wasn’t going to make it through security. I took a picture and packed it back in its box. Just like my dream-big goal. The TSA agent at the airport did the same. He opened the box, told me that because they couldn’t accurately measure the liquid inside, that it couldn’t pass through. He suggested I put it in checked baggage. I told him I didn’t have any checked baggage. He wrapped the globe back up and packed it back in its box. Just like my dream-big goal. He put the box in a tray and said to the agent monitoring the screen that it was a voluntary surrender. I pushed my belongings down the belt.

 As I started to walk towards the metal detector, he asked me again, “Are you sure?” 

I said, “Yeah, I didn’t earn it this time. But I will.”