Lean Horse 100: Life is hard, Running is easy

I clicked off my headlamp and looked at the swirling stars above. Then I leaned over the side of the trail and threw up. This had been going on for too many hours to count. And it didn't matter anyway. I was alive. Vomiting, but alive, and somehow I was managing to hang on.

Still heaving, I started moving again. It was cold enough that I could see my breath in the air, and I knew I couldn't stop for long. Movement was the thing that would keep me warm. All I had to think about was this step, and then the next one. I didn't even think about how far away the next aid station was, or the finish line. There was a simplicity to boiling everything down to practically...nothing. And in spite of all that had gone wrong, there were still so many things that were going right. I could honestly say that at this moment, I was happy. There was nowhere else I wanted to be and nothing else I wanted to be doing. Just this: right here, right now.

*****

Going into Lean Horse 100, I knew it was my best bet, or perhaps only bet, for finishing a race that was a hundred miler in its own right. I'd covered the distance once before, during 24 hours at Across the Years. But at my subsequent attempt-- Javelina Jundred last fall-- I found myself face down in the desert just 66 miles into the race, and I'd taken my first ever DNF.

One thing that gave me some confidence was that training had been much more consistent for Lean Horse. Which is to say, I had managed to stay injury free. I began increasing my mileage in January, slowly and steadily, and by March I staying strong with solid 50-60 mile weeks and no need to drop down. I did some higher intensity weeks--including pacing Rob overnight for the last 38 miles of Kettle Moraine 100, and a 44 mile solo trek (for my dyslexia charity run, maybe someday I'll write about that) in the thin air of the rugged Colorado Trail. During peak training week, I hit 90 miles for the first time in my life-- celebrating at the top of Hope Pass (also my first time running at over 12,000 feet of elevation) with Rob and Team Steph.

I was uninjured and reasonably well trained. Nothing in my work schedule prevented me from doing this. It was now or never. The problem was...did I really even want to attempt a hundred miles?

I kept thinking about all the reasons why I had quit Javelina, and I knew that nothing had changed. The emotional baggage that had caused me to panic in the desert-- still there. The unrelenting nausea and vomiting that takes hold of me sometime between 8 and 12 hours into a race-- I'm nowhere near to figuring that out. Even more than these factors, I also knew that I'd have to be prepared to run this race alone, with no pacer. We didn't have anyone to go with us, and we would have needed at least one other person to drive Rob to the check point (Lean Horse is an out and back course) and then take care of Will for the rest of the night so that Rob could pace me. I had absolutely no assurance I would be able to finish, and in fact, almost every reason to believe that the same thing that had happened at Javelina would happen at Lean Horse. I didn't know if I would ever be able to recover from a second DNF.

I think I reacted to this stress by turning off everything, and just remaining in this almost Zen, emotionless state during the weeks leading up to the race. I still felt an uncharacteristic lack of emotion as I methodically chewed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 4:30 on race morning, as I stood shivering on the start line watching the sun rise.

Start line (Photo by Rob)

Then all of a sudden, we were off. Wasn't there somebody once who said 100 miles is not that far? I figured I would disagree with him by the time this thing was done.

The race was on a rails-to-trails gravel path, which is basically my kind of turf. Not technical, no rocks or roots. There were supposedly "hills," but none of them were more than 4% grade. It's just that they might last for 10 miles at a time. Still, how hard could it be? Aid stations were like clockwork-- 5 to 6 miles apart, and Rob and Will were at every one.

5 miles down, 95 miles to go (Photo by Rob)

I think during the early part of the race, I mostly tried to avoid getting caught up with the 30-milers (it was also a 30, 50, and 100-mile relay event). I ate a watermelon shot-block about every mile, and I walked a little bit every two. I caught up with a 30-mile runner named Katie around mile 10 and stayed with her until we hit her turn around point at Hill City-- mile 15. She was great. She was just like me, and I wished we lived in the same town and could be running friends. We talked about our kids, and what a struggle it could be, but I stopped myself before I mentioned anything about what we'd been through during the past year. I think this had been my downfall at Javelina, when I was in the thick of it and started talking with another runner about how much it was killing me to pull my kid through dyslexia. I didn't go there this time-- I knew from Javelina that a hundred mile trail race is not a good place to fall into a panic attack and be unable to get yourself out.

This is not my new BFF Katie, but from approximately the same place. (Photo by Rob)

When I arrived at Hill City, I was ahead of schedule, behind on nutrition, and it was hot. Rob filled the tube sock of ice for me to put around my neck while I ate some bites of a vegan grilled cheese from my drop bag. I walked out of the aid station, on the only section of pavement the course had, as we took a bit of a jog through town to get back to the Mickelson Trail. I tried to memorize the details of the streets, and I wondered what it would look like when I came back through here in the dark at mile 85.

Pavement in Hill City, USA (Photo by Rob)

The heat was becoming more of a factor, and I finally understood why people had said you needed to be careful of the "hills" in this race. Even a mild grade feels taxing on the legs when it lasts for 10 miles. It is different than running steeper, but shorter hills, where your body gets a clear signal that you need a walk break. My legs were definitely sore, in a way that was somewhat alarming, by mile 25. I was also not handling the shot blocks and homemade grilled cheese so well anymore (that was the entirety of my nutrition plan). Swallowing pills made me gag, so at aid stations I began emptying the contents of an Endurolyte and a ginger capsule into a cup of ginger ale and then swigging down the cocktail. Not bad. The sweetness was unappealing though, and I didn't feel like eating solid food. I drank some lukewarm vegetable broth at mile 25 and this seemed to bring me back to life. Heading out of the aid station with purposeful strides, I thought, this was how I was going to make it. Vegetable broth would see me to the end.

See? This is me, hydrating, at mile 23 (Photo by Rob)

Mile 25, restored by broth (Photo by Rob)

The next 5 miles went by in a flash, which I don't think anyone was expecting. It was all downhill, at a very gentle grade, and I ran sub-10 minute miles the entire way without walk breaks or effort. The aid station at the end of that was the only time Rob and Will missed me during the entire race. I drank some more vegetable broth and got back on the trail.

The next 20 or so miles were roughly uphill, and while I don't remember suffering that much, I did slow considerably. I knew that if I was going to finish in under 24 hours, I'd need to make it to the 50 mile mark by at least 10 hours, to allow myself a good cushion. And by this point, I knew that wasn't going to happen. Eleven hours at the 50-mile turnaround seemed like a safer bet, and finishing the race at all was far more important than finishing it in sub-24.

Mile 43 (Photo by Rob)

There seemed to be a lot of carnage in the final 5-10 miles before the turn around point. I wasn't moving so great myself but was passing people left and right. Uphill, no shade, brutal sun. I took it slow, but by the time I got to the aid station at mile 49-ish, I felt legitimately bad. Rob tried to get me to eat all kinds of food, but I shook my head. I didn't even want broth anymore. I didn't want anything.

Runners were supposed to go out to the 50 mile mark, turn around, and then come back. I thought if I just walked that entire way, until I got back to the aid station again, surely my stomach would get under control. I'd be kissing 24 goodbye, but I'd be saving the race overall.

Walking did not help my stomach, so I ran once I hit the turn around and it was downhill back to the aid station. I couldn't fathom putting anything into my mouth as I got back there, now mile 51 for me. "Do I have time to walk it into the finish from here?" I asked. Rob seemed completely bewildered. By all respects, I appeared to be doing well. I was in the top 25 overall, I was the 3rd woman (of what... a dozen women in the entire race?), and a sub 24-hour finish was still well within my grasp.

I took some (vegan) chocolate chip cookies Rob had brought me from the van and drank a cup of coke. Rob raised his camera to take a picture of me, just as I vomited all over the side of the trail. There was a look of horror on his face that I could tell he was trying to mask with encouragement. I laughed and gave him two thumbs up. Throwing up was exactly what I had needed. I felt better than I had in at least 10 miles. I drank some water and nibbled on one of the cookies as I took off running. This wasn't the beginning of the end, I told myself. My stomach had just needed to be reset, and this had done the trick. Chocolate chip cookies would get me to the end. Everything was going to be fine.

This is not the beginning of the end, it's not. I refuse to let it be. (Photo by Rob)

Most of the first half of the race had been a gradual uphill. Which meant most of the second half was a gradual down. The weird thing is how effortless it felt to be running it. I was suddenly moving at a pretty good clip again, and it felt like nothing at all. This was an asset. Although my legs had hurt early on, they were totally fine now. And my stomach had just gotten reset. Rob had fixed me a baggie of 3 chocolate chip cookies before I left, and I told myself to eat all 3 of them before I got to the next aid station some 5 miles away.

I never ate the cookies.

In fact, I never ate anything else for the rest of the race.

I threw up a couple more times before I got to the next aid station. There would be this brief minute or two after each puke when I felt pretty good. So I'd drink water and whatever I had in my bottles (coke at this point, I think), and then I'd throw that up a couple miles later.

The mile 56 aid station went by, and I ate no more food. I kept thinking that I needed to walk--slowing down was surely the key to calming my stomach. But the gentle downhill grade made running feel easier than walking, and I didn't want to waste anymore time. So I ran.

Just before the mile 62 aid station, it was dark enough that I clicked on my headlamp. Good. Now it was time for some magic. No more sun boiling down on me. Surely now I would be able to eat.

But I couldn't. I pulled into the mile 62 aid station, my stomach a wreck. I'd also been visiting the port-a-potties at every aid station at least since the turn around point, but luckily, I'd never had to use the emergency ziplock baggie of TP in my pack. Even so, I didn't know what was wrong with me. I've puked in just about every ultra I've ever run, but this level of digestive distress was unprecedented even for me. I felt like I was running with the stomach flu.

Now that it was dark out, I was uncomfortably cold. I stripped off my sweaty singlet for a dry t-shirt and tried to come up with something, anything I thought I could eat. No luck. I went to the aid station table and surveyed my options. There was a sign above the table that said "WE HAVE PBR."

"Alright, can you hook me up?" I asked the volunteer.

Everyone cheered as he popped open a beer for me. It was disgusting, but somehow delicious. It was liquid that wasn't salty or sweet, and it had precious calories that might buy me a few miles. I thanked the volunteers and Rob and Will (who was dressed in his Harry Potter costume), and headed out of the aid station.

A mile later, I threw up PBR all over the side of trail.

It was probably around this time that I settled into a groove of run, walk, puke, run, walk, puke, and repeat and until I got to the next aid station. It wasn't that bad really. I began thinking back to when I had hyperemesis, and I had wished there was more than one word to describe "nausea." This wasn't the worst kind of nausea you could have. I'd mostly just feel this low grade queasiness, then puke, and then have a few minutes of relief before it started in again. It wasn't like the all consuming, overwhelming, blinding nausea I had felt during Javelina. This was something I could handle, and that was an asset.

I even started being able to time it so that I would puke shortly before reaching an aid station. This way, my brief window of consumption would occur while there was food available. I still couldn't eat, but by around mile 70, I told Rob, "Chocolate soy milk," and he ran to the van to get it while I went to the bathroom. He filled up my bottle, and I left the aid station thinking, chocolate soy milk will get me to the end. 30 miles to go.

There were glow sticks placed along the trail for about a mile preceding the next aid station, and it was very comforting to see them lighting the way and knowing that I wasn't completely alone in the woods. I think it was about 10:30pm when I got to the mile 75 aid station. Will was awake after a brief nap, and he was wearing his Harry Potter costume. "Follow the glow sticks, mom," he said helpfully, as Rob topped off my bottle with chocolate soy milk. I nodded and continued. It had been 25 miles since I'd eaten anything. I still had 25 miles to go. And for the most part, I was still running. How was this humanly possible? Would I be able to keep doing this until the finish?

The glow sticks dwindled outside of the aid station, but I didn't give in to the odd pang of sadness that brought me. Instead, I thought of Rogue One, when the characters were up against the impossible, and Jyn Erso gave them a pep talk that went something like, "We're going to take this chance, and the next, and we'll keep on taking our chances either until we succeed, or until all our chances are spent." Star Wars wisdom. This is what I would do. Once chance at a time, one step at a time. I had no idea how I was going to finish this, but I would keep on moving until I had no more chances left to spend.

Sleep monsters came out to get me as I forged ahead to mile 80. I listened to music and popped massive amounts of caffeinated Run Gum, but even that wasn't keeping me awake. Whenever I slowed to a walk, the Sleep Monsters whispered to me that I should close my eyes, that I should lie down on the side of the trail. They made my vision blur in front of me. Even bitterly cold and shaking, my breath white puffs of air in front of me, I couldn't stay awake. My legs weren't really sore, but my body was shutting down. I tried to keep running as much as I could, simply because that kept me more alert than walking.

Aside from the nausea and exhaustion, the biggest problem I'd had for most of the race was the constant feeling that I had to pee. At first, it made sense. When I'd stopped eating, I shifted to broth, coke, and ginger ale. More recently to chocolate soy milk. It was a lot of liquid, but I could barely make it 2 miles down the trail without stepping off into the woods to pee. It was growing increasingly uncomfortable at this point because it was so cold. And I had no idea where all that pee was coming from. I'd been vomiting for more than 30 miles, and it had been hours since I'd drank anything more than a few sips at a time. How did I have any liquid left in me? Was my body sucking it out of my muscles and organs? Was I dehydrating from within?

During the stretch from mile 80 to 85, things became truly difficult. My legs were still fine, but running made me so dizzy that I could barely do it. Walking helped anchor my feet to the ground, but it wasn't keeping me warm or awake. I welcomed the lights as I headed into Hill City and made my way to the aid station. Still 15 miles from the finish. It was so close but so far away. For the first time since this had begun, tears welled up in my eyes.

I have no idea how I'm going to do this

As Rob tried to fix a blister that had formed between my first and second toe, another runner and her pacer arrived at the aid station. I left before them, but I could see their headlamps behind me before too long. All I wanted, in the whole world, was to lie down on the side of the trail. There was nothing left in my body to burn, and I was so cold, and so desperately exhausted. Would I freeze to death if I just lay down? I stopped for a second to throw up bile. My stomach was empty because I hadn't even drunk anything in miles, but I still felt like I had to pee. I could not take one more step. I had to lie down, I absolutely had to lie down.

Then Carla and Javier, her pacer, caught up with me. "How are you doing?" Carla asked. I couldn't talk. Tears streamed down my face. She put both of her arms around me in a hug. "Come on," she said. "Walk with us."

And so I walked with them. They were both from Puerto Rico, and this was Carla's first 100 mile race. This was the first time she had ever been in a place so cold that her breath froze each time she exhaled. It felt better to be with Carla and to listen to her talk. I think things might have been easier for me if I'd had a pacer, but I also knew that the only thing that had gotten me this far was having Rob drive the van around to every aid station. When chocolate soymilk was the thing I wanted, he just went to the van fridge and got it for me. When I was too cold to function, he ran to the van and got an extra pair of his own pants for me to wear. Unbeknownst to me, he had also been driving around rural South Dakota looking for an all night grocery store that sold V8, because I had on several occasions asked for this at aid stations (and they didn't have any). Carla told me that I could stay with her after we got to the mile 89.9 aid station and we could keep walking together. But I shook my head. If Rob was there with the van (and I sincerely hoped he was), I was going to get inside, lie down, and go to sleep.

Sure enough, Rob was there. I hugged Carla one more time before she left, and I told Rob that if I was going to finish this race, I would absolutely have to get myself together. I had not been able to eat anything in almost 11 hours. I only had 10 miles left to cover, but my body was at its absolute limit. It was 4:30 in the morning, an hour left until sunrise, 7 hours and 30 minutes left on the clock.

We got in the van and he turned the heat on high. Will was sleeping in the back, and Rob and I both crawled into the bed in the front. My clothes were drenched in sweat, and I was so cold that I shook. I dry heaved twice into a basin, set my alarm for 40 minutes, and fell asleep.

I woke up just after 5 in the morning. I still felt cold and sick. I was desperate to get warm. Rob helped me find some other clothes to put on. I kept saying to him, "How am I going to go another 10 miles with no food?" Maybe it sounded like I was hysterical, but I meant it in a practical sense. Like, what are the procedures I need to undertake in order to accomplish this task? Lying down had not calmed my stomach. I felt even worse than before, with both nausea and hunger rising to excruciating levels. I took a single Ritz cracker out of a package on the counter and put it in my mouth. It might as well have been chalk or cardboard. My mouth wouldn't work to chew, my throat wouldn't work to swallow. I licked the salt off another cracker and took a sip of water. Then I stepped out of the van into a periwinkle world. The last stars faded, and the sun was just beginning to glimmer in the east. 6 and a half hours left on the clock. 10 miles to go. This was going to be hard, but so far from the hardest thing I've ever done that a comparison wouldn't even be possible. Life is hard, running easy.

It never even occurred to me not to get out of the van and do this. (Photo by Rob)

Step by step, each step closer to the finish. I never ran again, but I kept a decent clip, at under 20 minute miles. People occasionally caught up and passed me, giving me an encouraging word as they did. I was beyond speaking, beyond even moving my head. A thumbs up was the best I could manage. At last I reached the final aid station, and there were just 4 miles left. "It's all downhill from here," Rob said. I licked the salt off another Ritz cracker and resolutely shuffled ahead. Taking all my chances, until all my chances were spent.

Two miles from the finish, I started crying. This was the first time I actually considered that there was an end in sight, that I might even pull this off. All I had to do was stay vertical, keep moving. I hoped my legs wouldn't give out on me before the end.

Rob and Will were standing along the trail, just before the turn off to the high school track. "Is it still a half mile to go?" I whispered. "No," Rob replied. "You can see the finish from here." I covered my face and sobbed. Will took my other hand and led me to the track. All I had to do was make my way to the other side of it. Step by step, we did. 26 hours, 52 minutes, and 2 seconds after starting this thing, I finished.

Nothing I did in this race was anywhere near as hard as what he goes through EVERY SINGLE DAY as a dyslexic child in the US Education system.

All my gratitude goes to Rob and Will. I absolutely could not have done this without them being there for me all day, all night, and into the next morning. If they're willing to go through this again, I'm ready to sign up for next year.

Thanks for reading.

Kettle Moraine 100 Pacer Report!

I didn't think he would really want me to go with him.

When he'd first mentioned running the Kettle Moraine 100, barely more than a week earlier, he'd said his parents were planning on coming up. I'd told him that if his parents didn't mind watching Will all night, I could pace him.  Runners would loop back through the start/finish area (where we'd be parked in the van) after around 62 miles, and they were allowed to pick up a pacer before heading out again for the last 38 mile out-and-back. I could leave with him at mile 62, or I could run down the road for about a mile and a half and pick him up at a trailhead he'd pass by at mile 70. Or when he passed that same trailhead again on his way back at mile 93.

"Interesting," had been his reply. I saw his eyes considering these possibilities, but ultimately he'd said that he didn't think he'd need a pacer. He'd decided to run the race on the assumption that he'd be running it alone, but since I'd offered and it would seem to work out, he didn't completely discount the possibility. "Let's say it's not Plan A," he said. If everything was going according to plan, he didn't think he'd need me.

How often does everything go according to plan when you're running a hundred miler?

We took off for the midwest, and when we arrived in Illinois, we ran together a few times on trails near my parents' home. I'd forgotten what midwestern trails were like. Rooty and muddy with constant little 100 foot climbs and descents. The soft ground felt delicious under my feet, so unlike the rocks and slippery sand I've gotten used to in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Maybe if I'd never left the midwest, I'd have been a halfway decent trail runner. Even so, as I ran with him, I realized there was no way I'd ever be able to pace him in a hundred miler. I would never be able to keep up. He so much of a stronger runner than me that even at the tail end of a hundred miles, he would still undoubtedly be moving faster than me on the trail. If I were to go with him in the race, it would only be in the case of a dire emergency, such as, he'd have to be walking it in for the last 38 miles.

The night before the race I think I slept all of three hours, and he didn't sleep much more than that. It wasn't too long after the start of the race that thunderstorms began. This was real, midwestern rain, the kind that dumps buckets of water on you for hours at a time. We don't get this in the foothills. I kept my eye on the lightning, wondering how close it would have to be before they called the race.

My in-laws came to the park and we drove to the Scuppernog trailhead, where we saw Rob for the first time at mile 31, 5 hours into the race. The rain was slowing down. He looked strong and had me refill his bottles while he ate pickles. We got to see him there again about 6 miles later.

The rain finally stopped for good, but the afternoon consisted of running through shin deep mud in oppressive heat and humidity. We saw him for the final time at mile 47. He had slowed a tiny bit. The wheels were still on, but I could tell that he was standing at the precipice of insanity. It was so unbearably hot. And humid. He had loved running in the rain. But these conditions--these were not Rob's time to shine.

Crew chief Will hands Rob a tube sock of ice for his neck.

He had initially predicted that if all was going well, he would make it back to the start/finish area (mile 62, where we were parked) around 6 or 6:30pm. Based on how he'd looked at mile 47,  I didn't expect him until more like 7 or 8. I hoped he would just take it easy in the heat and wait for the cool of the evening to come.

At first I made no plans to get ready. After all, my pacing him was not Plan A. If he did come through at 6pm, then that would mean things were going well and he didn't need me. Only if he was delayed by several hours would it become more likely that he'd want me to step in.

But by about 5, I decided that the responsible thing to do was to be ready for anything. I loaded my pack with everything I could possibly need for a long night of running, and I ate a few bites of questionable vegan pizza that had been in the van fridge now for several days. Yuck, that was a bad idea. My in-laws watched Will while I lay down for about 20 or 30 minutes for a power nap. I knew there was no way I could run the whole night on only 3 hours of sleep.

I had only just gotten up when I heard my father-in-law say, "Here he comes!"

No way. It was nearly exactly 6pm.

He looked wrecked. He got fresh clothes out of his drop bag and came into the van to change, spewing mud everywhere. I could tell he was in a great deal of pain. It didn't seem like he was firing on all cylinders.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I asked, as we struggled with the gaiters on his mud soaked shoes.

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

His indecision was uncharacteristic.

"I don't care. I can do whatever. I'm ready to go with you now, or I can meet you at mile 70, or at mile 93."

He winced in pain as he tried to lift his foot off the ground.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. Come with me. If you want."

I sprang into action. I had not expected this. I had thought the most likely scenario would be that he declined, no matter what state he was in. The second most likely scenario would be him saying I could maybe meet up with him at mile 70, if I wanted. I knew he was disoriented and in pain, but things must be worse than I thought.

I ran out of the van to tell my in laws I was going with him and to make a final check that everything was in order to leave Will with them overnight. I hugged Will. I made sure I had my headlamp and spare batteries in my pack, along with plenty of water, electrolytes and food. Did I have enough caffeinated Run Gum to get me through the night? No time to get any more. Rob was ready to go.

As we passed through the aid station on our way out, a group of volunteers and spectators cheered. "Hundred mile runner, heading out!" the race director called as more cheers ensued. "You're the pacer?" he asked.

"I'm the pacer," I said, much like Bohdi repeated I'm the pilot in Rogue One.

The RD gave me two thumbs up. "Go get 'em," he called, or something similar to that. I felt like a celebrity amidst the cheers as we left the aid station and headed back out onto the single track.

The trail was smooth and seemed flat but maybe was slightly uphill. Rob walked. We moved quickly, but I could tell he was in a lot of pain by the way he put his hands on his hip flexors and limped every time there was a slight incline. His feet barely left the ground. The roots became doubly dangerous for him at a shuffle. I knew we were in for a long night.

I also knew that we would not mention the pain. I would not ask him how he was doing, I would not speak of his hip flexors or raw, blistered feet. We would be like Gary Robbins and Jared Campbell during the 2016 Barkley. We had a job to do, and we would get it done. There was no room to give pain any power.

Rob began running again, moving at a decent clip. The hip flexors begged to be acknowledged, but we ignored them.

I thought, if the entire trail is like this--mostly smooth and flat--it will be a breeze.

"This is the only part of the course where the trail is like this," Rob said to me, even though I hadn't asked.

"Oh." I wondered what the rest was like, then.

After the first tidbit, we got to a roller coaster section of constant short, steep up-and-downs. I could tell by his labored steps that Rob's hip flexor did not like this.

We buzzed through a couple of aid stations, pausing only to get Rob what he needed (pickles, banana, water) and then moving on.

"We're not even to the Ice Age trail yet," he mentioned at one point, which was the closest he ever came to a complaint.

"We'll be there soon," I said, even though I had no idea where it was.

Sure enough, we reached a point that runners called "Confusion Corner" and it was around there that we turned onto the Ice Age trail. Narrow, rocky, rooty, single track. Gone were the smooth roller coasters of the first section. This was legitimate gnarl. But it was Wisconsin gnarl, so if you fell, you weren't going to go tumbling off the mountain. And in spite of the ankle-busting roots that littered the trail, the soft-packed midwestern mud made the descents far easier for me than the slick, sandy trails I run at home.

Darkness was quickly approaching by this point, and we flicked on our headlamps. Things got significantly more difficult for me as we lost daylight. The trail was harder to see. I was glad that Rob was stopping to walk so much, because if he'd been on top of his game, there is no way I'd have been able to keep up with him. I had some moments of concern during this section. We were still fairly early into the night, but the run no longer felt easy for me. I mean, my legs were fine, it was just harder for me to move on the rugged terrain in the dark. I had this underlying paranoia that Rob was going so slowly just so I could keep up with him. I began to wonder who was pacing whom. I had to remember that it was me pacing Rob, and I was the one who had to be strong and alert, no matter what. I realized this might be the only time in my life I could do something like this. If he ever ran a rugged mountain hundred, he would be way too fast for me. And if he ever ran a more gentle hundred, like this one, chances were that he'd be having a better day and still moving too quickly for me to be of any help.

We finally got to another aid station about 14 miles out. It was lively and the volunteers were enthusiastic.

"Can I fill your pack for you?" A volunteer reached to help.

"I'm the pacer," I said, Bohdi-like.

"We help pacers too!" She smiled as she took my reservoir to fill it with water. I went to the food table and engulfed some chips and guacamole. I hadn't been taking care of myself very well on this run-- not even pausing to refill my soft-flasks with water and Nuun. I'd been focusing on Rob at each aid station, but I knew it wasn't sustainable if I let myself get into deficit.

Meanwhile, Rob sat down for the first time since we'd set out. His face was gray. He looked completely wrecked. I didn't acknowledge it. I got him some chips, banana, and pickles. He picked up his better headlamp and some caffeinated Run Gum before we left. Just 4 more miles to the turn around point. Just 4 more miles and we'd be halfway through the last leg. Just 4 more miles... and we'd still have 18 more miles to go after that. It seemed daunting even to me, and I hadn't been running since 6am.

I think few people on this earth can understand what it took for Rob to stand up from the chair and walk out of the aid station.

"I'm cold," he said as we began hiking up a steep hill.

This was bad, very bad. It was hot out.

We extracted his jacket from his pack and he put it on as we continued to walk. Climb up the hill, step over roots.

The race, in addition to being a hundred miler, was also a hundred mile relay, a 100K, a 50K and a 38 mile fun run. There were a lot of people out on the course. And a lot of them were significantly fresher than someone who had already been running all day. I started to get annoyed with the traffic at this point. But I was the pacer, and I had to stay strong. I didn't say anything.

This was the moment of the the race-- probably about 76 miles in for Rob-- that I could tell there was a real, significant possibility that the wheels were going to fall off. He felt terrible. He was exhausted. Thunder and lightning threatened again in the distance.

He wasn't even remotely close to the point at which I thought me might need to drop-- there was nothing severe going on with him, and he was still moving forward. But I was pretty sure that we'd be walking it in from here on out.

"Are you chewing the Run Gum yet?" I asked.

"No," he said, and fished for it in his pack. I took some of mine at the same time.

A few minutes later, we were running again.

We hit the turn around point and made our way back, reversing the direction we had just come. It had taken us 5 and a half hours to go 18 miles. It would take us at least that same amount to head back, and probably significantly more. It must have been around midnight when we hit the turnaround point. Initially I had thought that if everything was going according to plan and there were no significant difficulties, Rob might finish the race around 2am.  This was no longer Plan A.  The good news was that we had plenty of time left on the clock-- 12 hours until the race officially closed. We could walk every step of the way, even stop for a nap, and still make that. But we had only 6 hours left for a sub-24 hour finish. I wouldn't let myself think about it that much, because if I did, I would be able to see it quickly slipping out of our grasp. I hoped that Rob wasn't doing the math, because knowing what the odds were at this point might be the straw that broke him.

We walked. We got out of the way for the throngs of other runners we met. We didn't complain, we didn't talk. Relentless forward progress.

I was starting to feel pretty bad, so I managed to get down a ginger pill and salt tab. I was just hoping to make it back to that aid station where I'd gotten guacamole on the way out. My water was low again, and I was feeling seriously depleted.

Rob didn't sit down this time when we got there. He took some pickles and banana, while I threw down 2 cups of coke as quickly as I could and we headed out again. We weren't moving fast, but we didn't waste any time.

I could tell he was trying to force himself to rally. We'd been walking for a long time, but whenever we hit something that wasn't a rocky uphill, he would run, even if it was just for a few steps. On one of the gentler downhills, he ran the whole thing.

"You did so great on that!" I said, hoping it wasn't annoying. I reminded myself of Fezzik, from The Princess Bride, when he congratulated Westley for wriggling his finger after he'd been mostly dead.

Rob was able to run more and more. In fact, on the rugged descents, I was no longer keeping up. He would go on ahead, but I would catch him as soon as we hit an uphill again. He was coming back to life. I began to wonder if he would drop me-- certainly a very real possibility if he got a genuine second wind. I looked at my watch-- 3am. If I could just manage to keep him in my sight until we got to Confusion Corner again and I got onto the right trail to make it to the finish line, I think I'd be fine on my own. Anyway, less than 2 hours until it would be light enough that I could turn off my headlamp.

We got to the Bluff aid station and I didn't believe it. According to my watch, we still had over almost 10 miles to go, but the map showed Bluff 7.6 miles from the finish. I asked a volunteer, and she told me, yes, this is Bluff. We only had 7.6 more miles.

This changed everything.

We had been barely hanging on to the edges of 24 hour pace-- going by my assumption that my GPS was correct. But it must have been off a bit, what with all the trees. Now all of a sudden, 24 hours seemed a lot more likely. I checked the time. I can't remember exactly what my watch said, but I think we had around 2 and a half hours to go 7.6 miles.

Hang on, just hang on.

Rob was on the edge, and so was I. Nausea was taking hold, and I hadn't eaten in a while. I got a salt pill out of my pocket and tried to swallow it, but it came right back up on the trail, along with some of the aid station coke I'd just drunk. This was no good. I needed something to get rid of the nausea, but there was no way I would be able to swallow a ginger pill. I opened my last ginger capsule and poured the raw powder onto my tongue, then flushed it down with water. The burning in my mouth gave me something to think about besides the nausea for a while.

45 minutes later, we made it to the aid station that was just 5 miles out. It was almost light enough to turn off our headlamps. I guzzled more coke as we ran right on through the aid station. The volunteers cheered maniacally.  "Sub 24!!" The shouted.  We had an hour and 40 minutes to do it.

"Rob, do you think you can do 20 minute miles?" I asked. The last few miles had been close to 15 minute pace, which was quicker than we'd gone in quite some time. Rob's GPS had died a while ago, and I didn't know if he knew how close we were. I didn't know if knowing that would make it better or worse.

We had reached the point of the ultra where he occasionally groaned incoherently. "Roller coaster section coming up," he said.

"That won't be as hard as what you've already done," I assured. He seemed to dread the hills, even the downhills hurt now. But I didn't think the roller coaster would be as bad. Those hills were larger, but they were smooth. And it was the gnarl that was slowing him down because he was struggling so much to pick up his feet.

He seemed to be steeling himself for the roller coaster, preparing himself for the worst.

And then he smelled the barn.

The sky was indigo and lavender. We clicked off the headlamps, and he took off at a run. He never slowed down. He ran the uphills. We were banking time instead of losing it.

Three people passed us in the last two miles, but I think it was only one runner with his two pacers. Rob went with them, and I gave it everything I had to just barely keep up. My GPS clocked us at 8:20 pace uphill-- this was a massive recovery for someone who'd pulled a couple of 30 minute mile just a few hours ago.

At last, the finish was in sight. Rob reached out for my hand and said he wanted to cross the line together.

We did it.

He did it.

Sub 24.

Congratulations, Rob.

Thanks to my in-laws for watching Will and making all of this possible. Thanks for reading. 

Our Nausea

After the disaster that was Javelina, I thought I might have to give up running ultras.  It's been more than 4 years of this-- the nausea, the vomiting. It was no longer how I wanted to spend my life.

"We just need to get your stomach figured out," Rob insisted.

I wasn't as optimistic. All the reasonable, rational, realistic things have not worked. I don't know what else to do.  I wear anti-nausea wrist bands and take ginger pills, I've tried every possible electrolyte drink and tablet, I've tried gels and real food and liquid-only and high-fat. I feel completely out of ideas.

But Rob has approached this stomach-sorting thing as a kind of science. We'll continue to try different things until we find something that works.  We're not yet out of options.

On Sunday, I left to go run 20 some miles at Lory State Park, and Rob said I couldn't just do the same-old-same-old (Nuun and peanut butter pretzels, which hadn't worked for me during Javelina)-- I needed to make this run count by trying something different.  He suggested I give Tailwind another shot, because even though I have thrown it up before, in theory it seems to be the exact thing I need (a liquid source of calories and electrolytes). He said we could try diluting it a lot, so maybe the taste wouldn't bother me (yes, I think even the "unflavored" version tastes disgusting).

I grudgingly agreed.

I felt terrible from the get-go on that run (after many days of not sleeping or eating properly), and Tailwind did not make me feel any better.  It was all I could do to swallow that wretched stuff instead of gag it up or spit it out.  I don't understand why people like Tailwind.  It tastes exactly like the suero a pregnant Chilean girl gave me after I'd been throwing up for 2 weeks with The Vortex in Nicaragua.

I also took Endurolyte tabs during the run. For the past several years, I haven't taken any salt tabs at all, and Rob thought that this might be part of my problem. At Javelina, I took S!Caps, which are super concentrated, and maybe made the electrolyte imbalance worse. Endurolytes seemed like they would be a nice middle ground.

In addition to about 100 calories of Tailwind, I force fed myself ~500 calories of Wild Friends nut butter and peanut butter pretzels as I ran.  This is the most I've ever consumed during a slightly over 4 hour run, but still lower than the 200-250 calorie/hour recommendation that many ultra runners ascribe to. I've long since maintained that I can get by on 100 calories per hour (or less even). Rob doesn't believe this is true.

My legs held up fine during the run, but my stomach felt awful and my mind followed in a downward spiral. I swear that the Tailwind and Endurolytes induced nausea, because I wouldn't normally have been sick during a 20 mile run in cold weather.

I took a ginger pill after I got home just to survive, but the nausea returned later in the evening when Rob got the great idea to watch the "new" Jason Bourne movie that neither of us had seen yet. By just a couple of minutes into the movie, I was reaching for an emesis basin and wanting to gauge my eyes out I was so nauseous. It was like the time, more than 15 years ago, when my friend Jarrod had to carry me out of the theater during the Blair Witch Project because the shaky camera made me so sick.

I laid face-down on the couch and covered my head with a pillow, and Rob described the movie to me. "Now Jason Bourne has jumped into a car and is driving away," he said.

"What kind of a car, like a sedan?" I asked.

"Yes, a sedan. The bad guy has stolen a swat car and is chasing him."

"You mean the guy who was trying to kill him earlier?"

"Yes, that guy," Rob said.  "Now Jason has jumped the median and is driving the wrong way on a very busy street. The bad guy just plowed into 20 parked cars."

I felt like I was dying of nausea, but I laughed. This might be the only way I can watch movies, especially ones that involve a lot of shaky camera action. Movies make me sick all the time. From now on, I will just close my eyes and have Rob narrate.


via GIPHY

When the movie ended and I managed to drag myself up to bed, I was still musing about this nausea. Rob asked me if the way I felt when watching the Jason Bourne movie was the same way I felt when I get car sick. I said yes.  He asked if it was the same way I felt when I get sick while running a race.  I said yes, now suddenly connecting the dots in my head.

All of a sudden I realized-- what if it wasn't about getting behind on eating and drinking during a race and then messing up my electrolyte balance or running out of fuel? I had always assumed that I slacked off on nutrition and hydration first, and the nausea followed after.  But what if the nausea was what started it all off? What if I get motion sick just from running, and then my queasy stomach won't let me eat or drink anymore?

It started to make a whole lot of sense. I've suffered from severe motion sickness my entire life-- in boats, planes, trains, buses, and cars, even while riding a bike. It seems reasonable that whatever causes my motion sickness would be in play while I'm running as well-- especially on trails where I'm constantly watching the terrain undulate and the rocks and roots rise and fall beneath my eyes.  It makes sense that I felt even worse after dark at Javelina.  The heat was less of a factor, but the bobbing headlamp against the darkness of night kept me throwing up. Maybe it even makes sense that in almost every ultra I've ever done, the nausea hits me around the same time-- 7 to 8 hours into the race, or somewhere between mile 35 to 38.  Maybe my inner ear has the power to fight off the sensory onslaught of jagged terrain for that many hours, and then it just snaps.  At least, that is how it seemed to happen at Javelina. Everything was fine until all of a sudden *bam* the nausea slammed me without any warning, even though I thought I had been doing a relatively good job of eating and drinking. It was after the nausea hit me that I shut down on my nutrition and hydration.

So there it is, I think I've figured it out.  It's not about calories or electrolytes. It's just my motion sickness, for which there is no cure.

I'm trying not to feel abysmal about this, but I kind of do.

Rob asked if it would be possible to take motion sickness medication during ultras, like Dramamine, but this would not be a solution. To say that Dramamine makes me "drowsy" is a vast understatement. It makes me catatonic for days on end if I merely lick a tablet.  All of the various motion sickness products have the same side effect.  They do make a "non-drowsy" version of Dramamine, but it is just a ginger pill (less concentrated than the ginger pills I already take) with a gelatin coating. That wouldn't be an improvement, even if I was willing to consume gelatin (I'm not). I did think that my vegan ginger pills offered me some relief during Javelina, it was just that I stopped being able to take them because the capsule is so big and I would gag on it when I tried to swallow.  I've looked around to see if I can find any ginger supplement that concentrated (I'm talking 1,000mg of ginger here) in an easier to swallow version. I haven't been successful yet.  But what I did try today was actually opening up a capsule and dumping the powdered ginger into a glass of water. It didn't taste completely terrible. Granted, I wasn't currently nauseous, but I had no problem drinking it like that. The thing I am actively clinging to at the moment is that maybe I could empty a ginger capsule into my water bottle during an ultra, and possibly survive to the end without nausea. Or maybe there is something else out there for motion sickness that doesn't cause drowsiness, dizziness, blurred vision, etc, as a side effect. I guess I'll keep looking, or else, limit myself to races I can finish in 8 hours if I want to do it without getting sick.


via GIPHY

Thanks for reading.

Part 2: How I got off the boat at Javelina 100

Continued from Part 1: Selling my soul to get to Javelina.

I didn't come to Javelina 100 from a place of great strength. There were the preceding months of injury, and then, the wearing down of my soul as I fought to make this world (or at least the education system) a habitable place for my differently-abled child.

Of course, we all reach the start line having overcome obstacles. I don't think that mine were any more insurmountable than those that others faced. But I knew going into this that I had not handled it well. I was angry. I felt like I needed to own that emotion, that maybe it was a stage I needed to go through.  I hoped that my anger would be an asset in this race, that I could use it as a powerful fuel, and that I could just keep holding on to that razor thin edge instead of snapping and losing it entirely.

My knee hurt as we pulled into Phoenix, and my ankle hurt too.  But we found Christina in the parking lot of packet pick up, and at that moment, I knew everything would be okay, no matter what the outcome. She was the reason I was here, she was why I had gotten this far.

Thank you, Christina and Angela.

After a sleepless night, I was lucky to find Christina again at the start line in the dark of the pre-dawn morning, with about 600 of our closest friends.

Angela, you are with us too.

Christina, I meant to tell you something before the race and completely forgot: "This is your day."

I didn't even know when the race started.  I just noticed that all of a sudden Christina and I were moving and there was already at least a minute on the clock by the time we got there. I started my watch and ran about 10 steps.  Then we came to a complete stop. There were a lot of people ahead of us.

That moment at the start line when anything is possible.

The race started on a narrow trail, and because it was so crowded, the going was slow. The first mile took me over 18 minutes, which was about the same time when it got light enough to turn off my headlamp.

Christina and I stayed together in the congestion for a couple of miles. Then a woman passed me, flitting effortlessly up the trail. I decided I'd had enough of walking in the conga line. I went with her.

As I talked with my new friend, I relaxed a little. One thing I noticed (but cannot explain) was that all of a sudden, my knee didn't hurt anymore.  This was an asset.  I also noticed that once we got to the "technical" section, I actually didn't think it was so bad. Maybe living in the Rocky Mountains had done me some good after all. Asset.

But what I did notice was that my ankles hurt, both of them. The one that had been injured and the "good" one as well. I didn't know what to make of this, especially so early in the race.  I would have to find a way to make it manageable.

Around 10 miles in, we reached the halfway point of the loop and the aid station at Jackass Junction.  It was so crowded. I lost a lot of time standing in actual lines just to get a turn to refill my water, use the porta potty, find my drop bag, and get ice for the tube sock I was wearing around my neck as a cooling device. I took a salt pill and hoped the runners would start to spread out soon.

It was mostly downhill back to headquarters, and before I knew it, I had completed the first loop.

Drop bags at headquarters. 

Headquarters was crowded as well, but there was more space than at Jackass, plus I had Rob to help me navigate and get my things for me. He filled my pack and tube sock with ice, while I fumbled around my drop bag for ibuprofen. The pain in my left ankle was getting bad. I mean, it wasn't as bad as when the injury had first occurred a couple of weeks ago-- that had felt like an alien was trapped in my lower leg and trying to burn its way out with a red hot poker.  This wasn't to that point yet.  I stretched and rotated the ankle as I downed an ibuprofen.  I took another salt pill. I noticed again how terrifyingly hot it was becoming, so I took a ginger pill for good measure-- anything to keep the nausea at bay.  I guzzled 2 dixie cups of ginger ale, then loaded up on Fritos, salted potatoes, and more peanut butter pretzels.  It was time to go out for Loop 2.

I didn't invent the tube sock of ice around the neck, but I sure appreciate whoever suggested it. That was brilliant.  Also, apparently, I brushed shoulders with Rob Krar as I was exiting headquarters, but I didn't even know it. He wasn't running, he was there as either spectator or crew.

I noticed that on Loop 2, everyone was walking. It was hot, yes, probably nearing 100 degrees, and we were only about a quarter of the way into a hundred mile race, and we were going uphill.  But walking, really? Was it necessary? As the ibuprofen kicked in, I felt great. The salt and ginger were keeping my stomach at bay.  The caffeinated Nuun had given me wings.  I didn't want to walk.  That would make it take longer between aid stations, and refills of ice and ginger ale. It seemed better to just keep going.

I tried to do the best I could on hydration and nutrition.  The tube sock of ice was a life saver for keeping me cool, until two of the aid stations (each of them about 6-6.7 miles apart) were both out of ice. I felt bad for the volunteers, who looked at us apologetically, but seriously, I don't know how they managed to have any ice on this course throughout the day. It was so hot. We'd been lucky to have ice at all.  

I didn't notice that the heat was getting to me until I gagged on salt pill at Jackass around mile 32. I tried three times to get one down and never could. I eventually gave up and just kept moving.

By mile 37, I was nauseous.  The most important thing, I thought, was to get it under control and not panic.  But this was hard to do because my ankle hurt so bad. Negativity spiraled me downward.  I told myself to just hang on 5 more miles. Rob would be there at headquarters, and he would take care of me, and everything would be okay.

At headquarters, I gagged on two more salt pills. "Just put some water in your mouth and do this as fast as possible," Rob said. I managed it on my third try, but it felt like death and I started to cry.  I needed to eat but I couldn't eat. The best I could do was ginger ale.  I had covered just over 40 miles. How on earth was I going to go another 60?

Rob handed me my recharged headlamp, and I put it in my pack. The sun would set in 2, maybe 3 hours.  Then it would be cool, and the nausea would go away, and I would be able to make up for these lost calories.  All I had to do was finish Loop 3, and then Rob could pace me the last 40 miles.

I got some vegetable broth at the first aid station out. I knew it didn't have much in the way of calories, but at least I could keep it in, and maybe it would restore my electolytes enough so that I could eventually eat and drink again.

I ran with Carrie for a while, and Zach G. I felt better talking to them. I still hadn't eaten, but happy tears formed in the corners of my eyes. I had ridden the wave. I was going to make it.

I saw Christina and stopped to hug her. I was so proud of us for doing this, I was so happy.  Zach Bitter flew past us at that moment, on his way to winning the race and setting a new course record. He had smiled and told me "good job" each time he'd met me on the loops. He'd done that for every single participant out there, still managing to run around an 8 minute pace for a hundred miles.

Shortly after mile 50, it was dark enough that I turned on my headlamp. This is what I had been waiting for all day. It would be cool again, and I would be able to eat.

I walked into Jackass Junction, around mile 52, in the dark.  It was the "party" aid station. Volunteers wore costumes, there was music and lights.  A volunteer asked me what I wanted, and all of sudden, without warning, I burst into tears.  I can't eat, I told him. I haven't been able to eat since sometime before mile 37.  Liquid. Liquid calories, not sweet.

They handed me broth.  I sobbed and sobbed. A lady led me to a white tent, where I sat down on a chair and continued to sob.  Then I started to shake. The lady brought me some oranges and told me that had helped other people who had been nauseous and sitting in that chair.  I tried the oranges but they tasted so bitter to my nauseated tongue.  I stood up, I wobbled.  The lady told me she didn't mean to sound nagging, but she didn't think I should go back out on the trail.  I said I was fine, but I was sobbing. She got me a baggie for the oranges, and I left, clutching them and the dixie cup of broth.  I couldn't stop crying, but I headed back out onto the trail.

At mile 55, I puked for the first time.  It was dark, and I apologized to the people around me because even at this stage in the race, the trail was still crowded.  The nausea lifted for a few moments, and I knew I would have a little window of time to get some calories and electrolytes in me, hopefully turn this around. But what? Nothing I had with me sounded appealing.  I did the best I could.  A mile or two later, I puked again.

Eventually, I came to Coyote, the last aid station before headquarters.  I was sobbing again. I asked them, was there anything they could give me that would take away this nausea. I was losing my mind.  It had been more than 20 miles of this.  I had been subsisting on sips of broth and water that whole time.  I had 40 miles left to go.  I couldn't stop crying.  One of the volunteers asked if I wanted her to walk with me back to headquarters, some 3 or 4 miles away.  I shook my head. I said I could make it and went on.

People cheered for me as I came in, and I wanted to scream at them to shut up. I was dying, I didn't want to be cheered. Rob found me and got me a chair by my drop bag.  I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

"I don't want to have to quit," I told him.

Rob had on his headlamp to pace me, and we left from the aid station as I tried to take a couple of sips of ginger ale. I didn't know why we were doing this. There was no way I could make it to the end. I was angry that people kept telling me I had so much time left on the clock. 14 more hours to go 40 miles, they said.  It didn't matter. I couldn't see straight. I was so nauseated I thought I would die.

I don't know how long it took for us to get back up to the aid station at mile 66, but I knew that was the end for me. I didn't know how I would drop from there. I was terrified that I would end up just having to walk back to headquarters the way we'd come. 

I couldn't tell what Rob was thinking. Was he mad at me, was he annoyed? Did he think I was being a wimp and just needed to get my shit together? Was he disappointed that he had sacrificed so much for me to do this, and now I had completely fallen apart?  He kept telling me that I had plenty of time left. He had me lay down on a cot, and I think he thought I just needed to rest a while so I could feel better.  But I was way far past the gone. Lying there, not eating or drinking, wasn't going to bring me back.  I couldn't even walk another step.  My mind had snapped, and I knew I'd fallen off of that razor thin edge I'd been clinging to when I started this race.  All I wanted, in the whole world, was to get rid of this nausea.

I'm not sure how long we were at that aid station--an hour, maybe two? I started to get cold and shake again. One of the volunteers told me he felt so bad to see me suffering like this that he would just take me back to headquarters himself. I nodded and kept telling him I was so, so sorry. He got his truck and I climbed in. Another volunteer asked for my bib number, and I said "432." She radioed my number back to headquarters, and I guess that's how you drop a race.

I had plenty of time to think, as I talked to Christina the next morning, and then during the long drive home. I was messed up, for sure, but I have been messed up much worse in other ultras and still managed to finish. Maybe it was because I still had so much distance left to cover when the nausea hit.  If you get messed up at mile 37 of a 50 miler, you can gut it out to the end. Maybe you can't if the distance is 100 miles. At least, I couldn't.

When all was done, I'd gone about 8 hours on only a few dozen calories.  My body was shutting down.  If somehow, I'd managed get some fuel in me, I think I would have recovered instantly.  I just couldn't do it-- my mind was gone, my gut was gone, and I couldn't come up with the strength to power through any more.

If you've known me for longer than 5 minutes, chances are you've heard me talk about how I had Hyperemesis Gravidarum while I was pregnant with Will. This is not morning sickness.  This is puke until you almost die sickness.  I lost at least 10% of my body weight and couldn't work I was so sick. Once I realized that it wasn't going away the whole time I was pregnant, I didn't know how I was going to live through it.  I didn't know how I'd survive one more minute of it, much less 9 whole months. At 12 weeks, I was prescribed anti-emetic pills to stop the vomiting, which mostly worked, but they didn't do anything for the nausea.  It was terrifying.  I thought I would lose my mind, and there was no way out.  Not one for minute did that nausea ever leave me. 

It felt like all those times, when I lived on Ometepe Island and got seasick on the boat back to the mainland. I would white knuckle it through those boat rides, clutching the railing until my skin was thin and pale, and I would vomit into a trash can as Lake Nicaragua swirled violently around me.  I would hold on, just hold on, for an hour and a half, or maybe two, until the boat ride was over.

Hyperemesis was that same feeling, except the boat ride was much longer, and no matter how much I wanted off that boat, I was trapped.  There was nothing anybody could do.  

I thought of all this, as we drove home through Utah.

I thought, maybe I've never really gotten over that. Maybe I never will.  I don't know. During hyperemesis, I had no choice, I had no options. But during Javelina, I did.  I could take something I had worked so hard to get to, made so many sacrifices for, and I could throw it all away.  But in doing so, I could get off the boat.  And maybe that's what I needed to do.

Thanks for reading.