The end of the trail at Winfield.

I have never DNFd before, and I hope I don’t DNF ever again. It feels awful.
The letters DNF should be stamped across the back of my hand, for the world to see. I want to wear a T-shirt that says I QUIT in large, bold caps. And someone should tattoo LOSER on a conspicuous place of my body, like my forehead. Last year’s sub-25 hour Leadville buckle remains in my closet for now. I no longer feel buckle-worthy.

I know it was the right decision to DNF. But knowing something is very different from accepting it on an emotional level. My head and my heart are at odds with one another.

How could this happen?

It probably began with a transatlantic airplane trip on June 30. On these long -distance flights, gazillions of germs, viruses and other nasty little buggers circulate around and around the cabin for hours and hours. Getting sick afterward is something I’m familiar with.
I woke up on August 1st with an incredibly sore throat, a pounding headache, a fever, and lymph nodes that had swollen to grotesque proportions. My neck looked deformed, with a large lump protruding on its right side. I rested, drank tea, and took it easy for a few days. I used Vicks vapor rub. I consulted with the herbalist at the health food store. I took echinacea, and homeopathic remedies. I swallowed Vitamin C by the handful. I gargled with salt water. None of these tried and true methods worked this time around. By August 12, with Leadville only four days away, I seriously worried about not being able to run. I consulted with a couple of friends who work in the medical field. They said it sounded like strep or mono, and described, in great lurid detail, the potential for dire consequences of running Leadville if that were the case. I could develop permanent heart arrhythmia. I could rupture my spleen and die.
Leaving dead bodies on the trail is littering — a no-no for ultra runners. And having to haul my decomposing corpse back to New Mexico is not something my husband looked forward to. He said it would take ages to get rid of the smell in his car.
I promised to be smart. I promised to consult a doctor, in spite of my life-long phobia of doctors. After spending most of Tuesday afternoon sitting around waiting rooms at health clinics, reading outdated celebrity magazines, getting sneezed on, and for all I know picking up more assorted viruses, I finally got to explain my symptoms to a young woman in scrubs.
She proceeded to swab the back of my tongue with a wooden stick. I almost barfed on her. She told me I didn’t have strep, but sent a culture to the lab anyway to figure out what I might have. She gave me some pills and sent me home.

“Can I go for a little run if I feel better in a couple of days?”
“I don’t see why not.”

Reassured, I went home. My little run was set to begin at 4 am on Saturday. By Thursday morning, I did feel better. Not great, but better. I headed out to Leadville, where the air crackled with pre-race excitement. I checked in, packed my drop bags, and dropped them off. On Friday afternoon, when I had already decided on my race-day outfit, the doctor left a couple of urgent-sounding messages on my voicemail. I called her back.

“Your lab test came back. It’s positive for strep. I gave you the wrong pills. They will make the symptoms better, but they won’t kill the bugs.”
Like the guy in Monty Python’s Holy Grail who insists on not being dead yet, I disagreed.
“But I’m fine.”
“Maybe you feel better right now, but you need to be on a ten-day course of antibiotics. I’ll call it in to the pharmacy.”
“I’m, um, I’m out of town. I can’t pick them up until Monday.”
“Well, get them as soon as you can.”

What to do? I was ready to go. And I did feel more or less ok by then, mostly because I wanted to feel ok. The mind is a remarkable thing. I wanted to run. Maybe these pills worked on my strep infection, even if they didn’t on other people.
This phone call scared me into remembering all the dire warnings and gloomy predictions from people who know something about infectious diseases. I doubted the wisdom of starting. But the wheels of the race were moving. My number was pinned on my skirt, a point of no return. It was easier to go with the momentum than to resist it. So I lined up with everyone else at 4 a.m. and took off down 6th street into the dark unknown, hoping for the best.

The morning turned out to be gorgeous. I wanted to run well, and I I ran well for almost eight hours. I was close to my goal splits, climbing Hope Pass and had worked my way up to 8th female when my stomach stopped cooperating. Then my legs started cramping, which they never do. I was dizzy. I blamed the altitude. I’m normally a strong climber, and just a month ago, the succession of mountain passes while pacing at Hardrock didn’t bother me. My whole body did not feel like it normally does. More like hostile aliens had hijacked it. No, this wasn’t just altitude. Nothing improved on the trail to Winfield. Instead, my throat became sore again to the point where swallowing became an effort. My lymph nodes swelled up. My head was pounding.
All the dire warnings about running with a fever, or running with strep, swirled around in my head. By the time I got to Winfield, over 45 minutes off my goal time, I had made up my mind to do the sensible thing and turn in my number.
David agreed, and so did the doctor in the medical tent. I was done.

I collapsed on a chair, guzzled fluids, put my head between my knees, and felt sorry for myself. But while wallowing in a puddle of self-pity, I began to feel a little better. And as I felt a little better, I wanted to go back out there.
By the next morning, I was not so sure it was the correct decision. The DNF blues is worse than any strep infection.
Now, a week later, I’m still not sure whether I could have made it to the finish without suffering permanent bodily damage. Yes, my strep symptoms came back, but not in full force. This might be because I’m taking ten days’ worth of amoxicillin. But still, a part of me wonders: could I have gone on? Would I feel worse or better now if had?

I find it very difficult to be mature, or rational, or zen-like about this. I want to scream and cry and pout. I want to be irrational. I want to turn back the clock. But this is not likely to happen.
What can I learn from this miserable day?

Every ultra, and especially every 100, reveals hidden sides of who we really are. The experience of running past our physical limits will strip us raw. Once the pain and suffering has destroyed every last trace of our egos, every last bit of pretension, there is nothing left but our real, authentic core. Most of the time, this process reveals positive things. We find reserves we didn’t know we had. An untapped reservoir of strength and resilience. We truly are tougher than we think we are. And yes, we can do more than we think we can.
But Other times, what we glimpse deep inside ourselves is less pleasant. What I saw there, on the back side of Hope Pass, was naked fear. A scared and vulnerable little self, crouching, cowering, trembling. Not the tough chick I try to be. But a part of me nonetheless, a part I usually ignore.

I will get over the DNF blues. When I run another 100, at the latest. And I will emerge from this pit of misery a stronger,smarter ultra runner,both mentally and physically. I will not wait until three days before an important race to get medical help if I need it. I will listen to my body and not start races unless I’m truly fit. I will not be in denial.
“Fear is the gateway to a stronger me” — I forget who said this. But it will be my new mantra.