My non-running friends often ask me what it feels like to run a 100-miler. They find it difficult to imagine. I find it difficult to describe. Oxymoronic phrases like “Everything hurts, but I love it!” create more confusion. I’ve been struggling to find a better way to get the message across. I think I found one.

Recently, I decided to try following a piece of advice I used to ignore. Since I started running, I have read and heard the phrase “Listen to your body” from magazine articles, podcasts, and trusted mentors. I never believed it. I know my body well enough to not trust its judgment. If I listened to my body, it would not move. On most days, it just wants to sit on the couch and stuff itself full of chocolate. But the overwhelming consensus among expert endurance coaches finally convinced me to give it a try. While running the Western States 100, I listened to my body from start to finish. This has done nothing to change my opinion about what it really wants, but I have to admit: it was interesting, more so than listening to music or eavesdropping on the conversations between other runners. I was surprised to find that “body” is the code name for a large cast of characters, each with a distinctive voice and personality. Of course I can’t transcribe 100 miles’ worth of what my body said. Also, some of it would be inappropriate for younger readers, since my body used some very colorful vocabulary. But a couple of excerpts  will give non-ultra runners a realistic impression of what’s going on.

For example, here’s what I overheard early in the race, around mile 16:

Legs:
We feel great. Could we go a little faster on this downhill?
Frontal Lobe:
Great attitude, guys, but let’s save some power for later.
Cerebellum:
Left, right, left, right, it’s so easy, left, right . . .
Eyes:
Pretty wildflowers! Sunshine through the Trees! Oh, and some rocks, too!
Cerebellum:
Don’t distract me . . . left, right, pick up feet over rocks, left, right . . .
Parietal Lobe:
So beautiful. I feel intense joy . . . so much happiness . . .
Legs:
We need a little more power down here, please.
Stomach:
What’s that? Mmmmm, another clif blok. Simple carbs, what a treat. Yessss. Yum.
Cerebellum:
Left, right, pick up feet. Left, right . . .
Frontal lobe:
Hey stomach, could you please release more sugar into the blood stream?
Stomach:
Almost almost done breaking down this clif blok. Ok, here we go!
Legs:
Thank you so much. That hit the spot. We can pick it up a little more.
Frontal lobe:
Great! Let’s catch up to this runner in front of us, shall we?
Cerebellum:

Left, right, quicker steps, left, right, pick up feet . . . .

The conversation was polite. Professional, even. However, by mile 85, the tone had changed completely:

Legs:
Look, we’re running on empty down here. Any chance of getting some glycogen?
Frontal lobe to stomach:
Hurry up, you slacker!
Cerebellum:
Left, right, pick up feet, left right . . . .
Stomach:
What did you just call me?
Frontal lobe:
Just do your job. I’ve got more important things to do than be on your case.
Stomach:
Oh? Like what?
Frontal lobe:
Like processing information. Like making sure we’re still on trail. I’ve got to focus, and I haven’t had any sleep. Shut up and digest, will you?
Stomach, in a whiny voice:
Fine. I quit. See if you miss me. Here is the last clif blok back. (Ejects slimy, greenish substance)
Legs :
Oh come on! You’ve got it easy compared to us.
Frontal lobe:
Right! Stop being such a drama queen!
Stomach:
Drama queen? I’m always working, without so much as a small token of appreciation. I don’t get a massage once a week, like a couple of legs I could mention . . .
Cerebellum:
I can’t focus with all this yelling . . . left, right, left . . . wait, what?
Stomach:
None of you cares about me. Nobody loves me. I quit. Bye.
Cerebellum:
. . . right, left, what else? I don’t remember. Right, left, left. No. Ooops.

(THUD)

Cerebellum:
Sorry about that. Pick up feet, now I remember.
Knees:
We’re bleeding! Ouch. Pain alarm . . .
Frontal lobe:
Assessing damage . . . It’s not so bad. Get moving again.
Legs:
Do we have to?
Frontal lobe:
Yes! Now, move!
Parietal lobe:
I feel hopeless and sad. (To eyes) Get ready to spill some tears.
Eyes:
Good idea. They will help with the dust. Here we go.
Frontal lobe ( exasperated):
Stop that! Now! This is a 100-mile race, not a B-grade soap opera. You there, legs, keep moving along!
Legs:
Noooooo! We’re tired. Can’t we rest here for another minute?
Stomach:
See if I care.
Frontal lobe:
Quit arguing with me. I’m the boss here. Stop!
Legs:
Stop? You mean we can stop?
Frontal lobe:
Not you! Get your sorry muscles in gear.
Liver, yawning:
Hey, guys, what’s with all this commotion? What’s going on? I’m trying to get some rest here.

Brain, legs, knees, all other parts. In unison:
SHUT UP!
Liver:
Whoa, easy. Peace, love and all that. Not my fault I have nothing to do. If I had some tequila to process, we’d all be more relaxed. Hey there Stomach, my man! I see you’re not doinganything either. That’s cool. Let’s just hang out and chill for a while . . .

Frontal lobe:
You ingrates! You idiots! You lazy freeloaders! (sobs in despair)
Legs:
Are we there yet?
Frontal lobe:
That’s it. I wish I could fire you. All of you! Look at Magda Boulet, now there’s a good team. But I’m stuck with you bunch of worthless morons on this trail in the middle of the night. . .
Stomach, in gloating tone:
I’m not gonna say I told you so.
Frontal lobe:
Quiet! You started this mess!

Stomach:

Did not!

Frontal Lobe:

Did too!

Eyes:
Hey, everyone, lights up ahead. Looks like an aid station.
Ears:
Confirmed — cheering, bells, music.
Parietal lobe:
Oh, it’s so beautiful. So . . . overwhelming. I feel so . . . I don’t know how. Intense. Tears,please . . . no, wait, let’s crack a smile.
Cerebellum:
Left, right, left, right, whoa!
Legs:
Oh, thank you!
Frontal lobe, (grumbling to itself)
Grrrrr. Calm down, I gotta calm down, or else we’ll DNF and then I have a ton of negative thoughts to deal with tomorrow. . . Ommmmmm. . . . Zen . . . .
(Aloud, in a friendler tone):
Look, you guys, I’m sorry. I get cranky, Too much pressure. Can we please just get along fora while longer? And keep moving?
Legs:
Not without fuel, we can’t. And maybe a teeny massage. . .
Frontal lobe:
No time for that sort of indulgent nonsense, sorry. Stomach, please. Listen to me. It maynot always come out right, but I really, really appreciate you.
Parietal lobe:
Without you, it’s difficult to be happy.
Stomach:
Sniff . . . . Really? You’re not just saying that?
Legs:
We are nothing without you.
Cerebellum:
Left, right. Yes, we need you. Left, right . . . no, wait. Not now. We’re at the aid station. Whoa. Sorry, my mistake.
Frontal lobe:
See? We all miss you. We all want you to come back.
Stomach:
Ok, I’ll join the team again. But no more clif bloks!
Everyone:
Deal!
Eyes:
How about something from this table? Fizzy coke, perhaps? And a bit of potato with salt.
Stomach, (grudgingly):
Fine.
Frontal lobe:
Ok, that’s enough dawdling. Let’s get on out of here.

So, my dear non-running friends, there you have it: the raw, uncut transcript of what goes on in the ultra runner’s body: Chaos, especially after mile 80. Are you ready to sign up for your first 100 yet?