Ultra running has its challenges. It’s a jungle out there. Not literally, at least not here in the high desert of New Mexico, but metaphorically, when trying to determine what food to eat and what not to eat.

In my teens, healthy eating was not something I thought much about. I grew up in Germany, where bread, rolls, and pastries beckon from bakeries everywhere and chocolate comes in so many varieties that it takes up an entire aisle in any supermarket. When I moved to the Southwestern US at age 19, I missed these treats, but quickly learned to appreciate other sources of empty carbs.

During my twenties and thirties, I watched my weight but not my well-being. The number on my scale was much more of an incentive to avoid artery-clogging fried creations like mozzarella sticks or onion rings served with bowls of additional fat in the form of ranch dressing. In 1995, fat-free cookies, and fat-free salad dressings were everywhere. I lived on fat-free pretzel sticks and gummy bears. My career involved working long hours on horseback. A physical job meant that I burned a ton of calories, and never really had a weight problem. I thought I was healthy because my clothing size stayed a 4, but my diet would make anyone who knows anything about nutrition recoil in horror. The more sugar I ate, the more I craved. I once survived an entire horse show weekend on a family-size bag of Swedish Fish.

Now, I’m much older and maybe just a tiny bit smarter. I didn’t seriously start running until I turned forty. I never thought of myself as a runner until I podiumed at an ultra for the first time. But looking in the mirror and seeing an athlete meant reforming my disordered eating habits. Athletes don’t nibble a few baby carrots at lunch and then scarf down half a pound of twizzlers while driving home. Athletes don’t starve themselves until dinnertime just so they can indulge in a double serving of chocolate brownie hidden underneath a mound of whipped cream. Athletes eat to help their hard-working muscles perform better. I started reading Michael Pollan, Matt Fitzgerald and Phil Maffetone. I also started reading labels and listening to my body. I was surprised to find out that a Venti White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks has more calories than a large bowl of oatmeal and fruit, or that a handful of nuts (full of fat!) would keep me satisfied for much longer than a candy bar. And so I changed my ways, at least a little. I went on a sugar detox for three weeks, which stabilized my energy levels. I found out, to my surprise, that a banana with some greek yogurt, cocoa powder and cinnamon would satisfy my sweet tooth as much as a handful of Hershey’s Kisses. A light bulb went on in my head. Epiphany time.

The reformed me tries to nourish her body with healthy, nutrient-packed foods. No refined sugar, no processed stuff with weird chemical ingredients, no . . . ok, a few . . . well, ok, on most days not too many refined grains. One glass of wine with dinner. Well, ok. Sometimes more than one. But on the plus side, I now drink a concoction of apple cider vinegar and lemon juice every morning. I serve it to myself in a martini glass to make it look more appealing. It tastes so awful that it must be good for me. I hope it makes up for the second glass of wine at dinner, or the extra hunk of sourdough bread. I try to eat lots of green veggies because everyone — i.e. followers of paleo, vegan, low-carb, raw food and other diets — agree that they’re magic shaped into leaves. At times, I write down everything I eat. These pages sometimes read like the diet journal of a dedicated athlete, someone serious about eating for optimal health and performance rather than fleeting enjoyment:

“Breakfast: half a cup oatmeal (cooked with water), dash of cinnamon, banana, unsweetened coffee with half and half.Lunch: salad, boiled egg, chickpeas. Dinner: grilled chicken breast, veggies, quinoa. Calories: 1728. Servings of fruit and veggies: ten.”

On days like that, I feel virtuous, Righteous. Resisting the siren call of empty carbs and comfort foods full of added colors, flavors, and trans-fats is easy. My nutrition halo glows in a serene but not ostentatious shade of gold as I glide past the chocolate display at Walgreens from where Mr. Lindt and Ms. Godiva call my name in seductive tones. Take that, middle-aged spread. I’m smarter than you!
Other times, like on many long-run days, my log reads like an excerpt from Bridget Jones’ diary, which means it’s more embarrassing, but also much more entertaining:

“Miles run — 20. Calories consumed: lost count after second glass of Pinot Grigio and third slice of pizza, but well before I opened the container of Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Sutra. Likely more than calories burned.”

The struggle is an ongoing one. Almost every day has its little success moments, and its setbacks. Though the taste of kale still makes me shudder, I now actually like spinach, cooked with a little olive oil and garlic. l. At the supermarket, I make an effort to walk past the candy aisle, like a horse with blinders. When I do wander in, I reach for dark chocolate instead of Sour Patch Kids. Small victories.

Compared to many of my ultra friends, I still treat my body more like a theme park than like a temple. I don’t share the sentiment that carbs and gluten are villains. Though I’ve tried, I can’t follow the paleo diet, or any low-carb diet. No grains, no pasta, and no potatoes make me cranky, to the point where I say things I later — i.e. once I’ve eaten some carbs — regret deeply. The people in my life deserve better than the kind of person I become without carbs.
Good bread is not something I’m willing to give up. But at least I’m more conscious of what I put on top of it. I have replaced Nutella with all-natural almond butter.

And yes, there are times when I backslide severely, like when I run-commute without taking any food along for a post-run snack. Once my glycogen stores are depleted, I resort to — and I’m not proud of this — scavenging at work. Desperation leads to lower standards. No candy jar on anyone’s desk is safe from my roving fingers. I’ve been known to beg my colleagues in a whiny voice for any granola bars or breath mints their purses might contain. I’ve contemplated snatching baggies of half-eaten animal crackers and fruit roll-ups from their hungry children, especially from those who can’t speak coherently yet. I’ve learned that a handful of leftover fortune cookies can be a feast, and that a seemingly empty jar of peanut butter (ok, it was already in the trash can) will yield one more spoonful if you scrape diligently enough. And yet, I haven’t learned to keep a few emergency Clif Bars for such occasions in my desk drawer.

All the rules change, of course, while actually running an ultra. Paradoxically, I know I should eat candy-like things like clif bloks, but find it difficult. My husband, whose trail name should be Ultrapanza, has no such issues. He views aid stations as all-you-can-eat buffets and consumes everything on the table, without regret. Pizza? With pepperoni? At mile 45? The thought alone makes me dry heave, but David will accept everything an aid station has to offer, including beer. Or tequila shots. The lucky man has never barfed during an ultra. Rumor has it that some women feel penis envy. Stomach envy is much more common among female ultra runners.
So, unlike David, I don’t eat that much while I run, or immediately after finishing. But a few hours later, it’s a different story. The funny thing is, my paleo/low carb/gluten free friends get off their saintly clouds and join me. Allen (aka Mr. Paleo) and Rachael (who normally leaves the bun on her plate when she eats a grilled chicken sandwich) ran the Bryce Canyon with me, a gorgeous but tough, relentlessly hilly course without a level spot anywhere. The host hotel is Ruby’s Inn, a large, touristy place with a large, touristy buffet restaurant. After finishing, showering, doctoring our injuries, and napping, we hobbled over there to refuel.

We inhaled the wholesome aroma of frying grease that wafted through the swinging doors. The dining crowd consisted of overweight tourists and a smattering of scruffy, emaciated ultra runners barely visible behind enormous mounds of sausage, scrambled eggs, and bacon glistening with saturated fat. We piled our plates high with similar items, adding ham slices, chicken drumsticks, hash browns, biscuits, and elbow macaroni smothered in bright orange cheese. The lone token vegetable was limp broccoli swimming in gravy. We sighed in contentment as we worked our way through this feast that we washed down with red wine that tasted like an exquisite French vintage. We wondered aloud how the exquisite vintage had found its way into Ruby’s Inn, or – an even bigger mystery – the Gallo jug on our table. We complimented the crispness of the bacon, the fluffiness of the scrambled eggs from the industrial-sized metal containers, the velvety consistency of the bright orange cheese. We felt protein rushing back into our depleted muscles, and sodium back into our bloodstreams. We agreed that this was a gourmet meal, possibly the best one we had ever eaten.

In retrospect, this seems a bit unlikely. And on normal days, when I righteously munch my spinach and kale, orange cheese (ok, it was more likely hydrogenated vegetable oil combined with some carcinogenic artificial color) would not look, or taste, appealing. But I still remember their amazing flavor and texture on that particular Sunday morning. Particularly while run-commuting without an emergency Clif bar in my desk drawer.