August 2014. The end of the trail at Winfield.

I am a skeptic. I roll my eyes at the mention of ghosts or spirits, benevolent or otherwise. I do not believe much in gods, devils, guardian angels, and their ilk. I used to not believe in demons, either. But after my first DNF in last year’s Leadville 100, I have changed my mind. These little monsters are real. They’ve been with me ever since I cut off my wrist band in the medical tent at Winfield. They come in pairs, one sitting on each shoulder. Most of the time, they resemble ugly, ratlike creatures with pointy noses, long, hairless tails and screeching voices they use to assault my ears whenever I feel inadequate. “Quitter!” they scream, in stereo, or “Ex-runner!” When they yell at me like that, I argue with them. I yell back. I tell them I am still kicking. I remind them that have finished other races, including two other 100s since the DNF. I show them my silver buckle from Western States. Sometimes, I can shut them up that way, but not often.

If all they did was insult me, the DNF demons would be annoying, but not dangerous, like mosquitoes, or like athlete’s foot. But that’s not all they do. Their tactics can be more sophisticated, more manipulative. They disguise themselves. When I’m exhausted, or when an injury niggles, they put on kind, motherly masks and lower their voices. “Maybe you’re not cut out for 100 milers” they suggest, in a soothing tone. Or: “You’re 45 years old, maybe it’s time to retire from this silly sport.” Or: “It’s bad for your heart/knees/body part x anyway.”
Sometimes, when I feel particularly fragile or vulnerable, they whisper. A soothing, barely audible sound. “It’s ok to sleep in. You quit once, you can quit again. You don’t have to run. You have nothing to prove. You’re perfect the way you are. You can gain a few pounds and still look beautiful. Wouldn’t you rather watch television, like normal people?”
It feels good to hear these things. Like a caress, a blanket validation. I feel tempted to crawl into the cocoon of warmth and unconditional acceptance they offer. It takes me a while to figure out the false tones in these lines, the innuendo underneath the fuzzy, inviting surface. The hidden message, which, behind the nurturing facade, still remains a loud, screeching: “Quitter!”

So I run. An exorcism is “the act of driving out, or warding off, demons, or evil spirits, from persons, places, or things, which are believed to be possessed or infested by them.” Running is my exorcism. Whenever the demons start talking to me, I lace up my shoes. Often, the demons are  at their most active for the first slow miles, while I get my middle-aged self into gear, before my muscles are warmed up, before my stride feels smooth and easy, before my body begins to feel like a well-oiled machine. While I lumber along, while my joints creak, the evil spirits rise to the surface of my mind like carbonation in a can of soda. The bubbles of negativity come floating up from the murky depths of my subconscious. It’s uncomfortable. It’s tempting to turn around, to curl up in a comfy chair with a good novel for a couple of hours instead of slogging around in the wind, or the heat, or the cold. But on most days, about 30 minutes into my run, the demon-bubbles pop. They disappear into nothingness, leaving a blissful clarity in their wake. The grass looks greener, the sun shines brighter, life makes sense. I run happy, at least until fatigue sets in.

I know that this type of exorcism is temporary. The demons will return. Whenever I feel weak, old, insecure, or out of sorts, I can count on them and their seductive whisper. There is only one way to drive them out for good, and that is to finish Leadville this year. I hope to exorcise the demons permanently. I hope they will go back into the dark cave they crawled out of last year. I hope I never hear from them again once I reach that red carpet, once I cross that finish line, once I hug Merilee, once that medal hangs around my neck, once that buckle is on my belt. And yet, in a strange way, I will miss the evil DNF spirits: they, and their annoying comments, have motivated me for the last year to train harder than ever. Thank you, dear demons, for that. But I am determined to say good-bye to you sometime Sunday morning.

I hope to get there again this year: The Leadville finish line, 2013