Brought Back Down to Earth

Two Mondays ago, March 12, I posted a photo on Facebook and Instagram that portrayed me on the trails above San Francisco, higher than the clouds, looking happy and invincible. Predictably, it generated lots of likes and flattering comments.

This is the story of what happened following that 50K, to give the full picture. I’m writing it partly as a reminder never to take these exultant, elevated, healthy highs for granted, because you just may fall on your ass.

Racing this stretch of the #marinheadlands always feels & looks dreamy. The sublime landscape belies how hard I was pushing here, approx 5 miles into @insidetrail’s #muc50K. I recall thinking during this stretch, “a marathon to go…this is just a training run, not a goal race, but I’m gonna train as hard as I can today.” Thx to @udhydrates for gear & @guenergylabs for energy 📷 by @chasquirunner who’s very generous to photograph runners & share the pics! #selfpropelled #guforit #saltyssquad #ultrarunning #marin #trailrunnerscompanion

A post shared by Sarah Lavender Smith (@sarahrunning) on Mar 12, 2018 at 1:12pm PDT

The High

No doubt, the Marin Ultra Challenge 50K felt fantastic. I last raced this event in 2016, as a buildup to the Western States 100. I approached this year’s MUC50K as a practice race and buildup to the April 28 Canyons 100K. This year, I did not treat the race seriously—meaning, I didn’t taper or rest properly, I didn’t focus much on it, I just wanted a good, hard long training run—and consequently, I didn’t expect to do as well as in 2016.

But I wondered, could I get close—like, 15 minutes close?—to my 2016 time? That question set up a goal for which I had to work extra hard to achieve, including running as fast as I could on the downhills. Nailed it! I finished in a not-too-shabby 5:17, compared to 5:03 in 2016, so I met my goal. Most importantly, I felt STRONG, relatively fast and cheerful on that course, which had a good deal of vert (6300 feet). I spent the next couple of days with a glow of confidence and optimism.

I’ve been consistently running at least 50 miles per week and am ready to increase my volume up toward 70. Canyons 100K and hard-core Colorado ultras, here I come!

During the two days following MUC50K, I had a feel-good 9-mile recovery run with my Running for a Better Oakland mentee, a 17-year-old named Trisha, and a blissful long trail ride on my horse, Cobalt.

Special post-ultra recovery run with my @rboakland mentee Tricia, who’s a junior at Oakland Tech high school. Neither she nor I could make the group’s training run yesterday, but Tricia cared about getting in a good run in preparation for the Oakland Half Marathon in 2 weeks. So we met up for a 9-mile steady run in the dense fog on the Bay Bridge path to Yerba Buena Island. I’m so glad to be a part of Running for a Better Oakland, and impressed by her and the other students developing better health, stamina and pursuing the half-marathon goal. In the process, the volunteers and mentors develop relationships that help the students talk about their lives and hopes for college and beyond. #oakland #running #kidsrunning #mentor

A post shared by Sarah Lavender Smith (@sarahrunning) on Mar 11, 2018 at 1:02pm PDT

The Comedown

The night following my long trail ride on Cobalt, my mood swings 180 degrees. I’m suffering exaggerated mood swings partly due to hormonal shifts, but mostly due to psychological triggers that open floodgates to anxiety. That day, a combination of things hit: First, an editor sends back my draft of a first-person essay embedded with critical comments and questions. She finds my story to be one big letdown and asks me to rework it. If I were writing on a regular basis, I could handle the critique, but I’m in a dry spell as a writer, using clichéd phrases like “dry spell” and not making time (until right now with this blog post) to craft paragraphs, so her negative review drains what little confidence and motivation I feel as a writer.

Coincidentally, that same afternoon, I get wrapped up in the film projects and writing of two creative luminaries in our sport, Billy Yang and Brendan Leonard, delighting in their work but also feeling a simmering depression and inferiority because I’m stalled on producing anything. I cook a big dinner (I’m loving cooking these days, by the way, perhaps a little too much), drink an extra glass of wine, fall asleep watching TV, then wake up just after 1 a.m. feeling dehydrated, sweaty (thanks to those darn hormonal night sweats) and stressed out.

The house. The house! It’s always on my mind these days, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build a dream home in Colorado. It’s a longer story for another time and space, but as friends know, we are building a home from scratch on our undeveloped parcel of land near Telluride, where we’ve lived the last couple of summers in an Airstream and canvas tent, and where we built a barn last year as a sort of warmup to the house. It’ll be a two-story, three-bedroom farmhouse. We break ground in about six weeks. We sent our builder up to Canada to spend six figures on harvesting and shipping reclaimed old wood so our new house will look old. (Is that crazy?) We’re making decisions about where the light switches on the inside and the spigots on the outside go. We recently closed on a seven-figure construction loan. So many decisions, so much debt. What if we get it wrong? How will we handle this summer of ever-present noisy construction crews?

To calm my mind, I reach for my phone to find something to read. Bad move. In my inbox, I receive the weekly e-newsletter of coach Mario Fraioli. Every week in the wee hours of Tuesday mornings, going on 123 weeks now, this highly respected running coach manages to publish a cerebral newsletter called The Morning Shakeout full of commentary on all the things he’s read and done throughout the week. I love it. But that night, I hate it, because as with Billy and Brendan, I compare myself to Mario and think, I can’t write or produce anything, and I suck.

I get out of bed, go downstairs to my office and feel frozen by negativity and anxiety, soothed only by my dog who lies on the couch, his head snuggled next to the keyboard on my lap. I try to write about what I’m experiencing and stall after these four sentences:

It’s painfully ironic that my “I suck” downward spiral was triggered by feelings that I can’t write or tell stories, and now I’m struggling to write about it, stuck in a suck-y loop. (note: “was triggered by” = passive voice = bad writing. Also, I am telling, not showing = bad writing.) I can’t even find the write words. LOL I wrote “write” instead of “right.”

(Don’t worry, I am laughing at those sentences now, almost two weeks later, as I “right” this.)

Out of the blue, “The Blerch” hits me. I go online to find and reread The Oatmeal’s brilliant graphic story, The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons I Run Long Distances, about his efforts to outrun an inner demon, “The Blerch,” which represents “all forms of gluttony, apathy and indifference that plague my life.” Then I feel better. I go back to sleep for about an hour.

Tuesday morning, March 13, it rains hard. I feel depleted from the bad night’s sleep, but the words of my first coach, Alphonzo Jackson, fill my head: “Any day you can run is a good day.” I could run. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t face reviewing the revised electrical plan for the house, I couldn’t do lots of other things on the to-do list, but I could run.

I drive to Redwood Regional Park and run an easy-pace six-mile loop. The rain feels cleansing. The normally crowded Sequoia Bayview Trail looks deserted, the redwoods standing like sentries in the mist. I feel so much better. I vow to stop comparing myself to others (or at least try). That’s why I had a good Marin Ultra Challenge 50K—I was doing my own thing and racing the clock, enjoying the camaraderie of others, not comparing myself to others or being uber-competitive with them.

At the end, I take a selfie, hoping it will capture a post-run glow, but instead I view it and think, I look so old and tired. But I talk back to that negative voice. I dare you, I tell my Blerch, to post that unflattering photo, and to feel OK about it. So I do.

Me, all natural, no filter, no makeup. I look tired because I am, and my wrinkles are deepening and eyes are drooping because I’m aging. I had insomnia provoked by some insecurities and anxieties (who doesn’t once in a while?). But my first coach told me, “Any day you can run is a good day,” and he’s right. So I got out in the downpour and had a soul-cleansing solo 6-miler, and I felt better and healthier afterward. #trailrunning #onlyasoldasyoufeel

A post shared by Sarah Lavender Smith (@sarahrunning) on Mar 13, 2018 at 10:56am PDT

Picking Myself Up and Dusting Off

After that run, in spite of being sleep deprived, I have a productive day. I take care of my coaching clients by checking in with them and updating their plans, and then I meet a lifelong friend whom I hadn’t seen in a couple of years for lunch. We’ve known each other since preschool, and now she’s turning 50; me, 49. When we were little, we dressed up for Halloween as aliens with square heads made from cardboard, and we dared each other to eat real live worms, and now here we are all grown up.

Kate is describing her job and her son’s baseball, I’m saying I can’t believe my baby girl turns 20 this week, and the fullness and wonder of the arc of life hits me (no doubt amplified by hormones and sleep deprivation). I feel tears spring to my eyes as we laugh about something having to do with our mothers, and I am reminded that happiness flows from relationships and experiences.

Kate and me in a snapshot from 1976, when I was 7, practicing needlepoint.

A few hours later, I change into dirty jeans, a dusty pullover and Ariat boots, inhaling the scent of residue from my horse and the stables. Horse hair, sweat, manure and alfalfa create a perfume that triggers memories from teenage years when I rode daily. I think about how the reactivation of my equestrian side, this time-consuming but fulfilling hobby that I took up again in November, creates a tradeoff that leaves less time for other pursuits, but it’s worth it. I am taking care of a horse for two hours on most days, and spending time and mental energy on the house-building plans, while also working as a coach and training for upcoming ultras, so I should cut myself slack for being less productive in other realms.

The house, the house! I also realize the Colorado land and our building project touches on issues related to identity, aging, family and values. Duh, that’s what I should be writing about. I make a commitment to start journaling about it, and then I get in our truck to drive the 15 minutes up to Skyline Boulevard in the Oakland hills, where Cobalt boards at Oakland City Stables.

Brendan Leonard, in his memoir Sixty Meters to Anywhere(which I read to prepare for this interview with him on UltraRunnerPodcast), fondly describes the focus that the sport of climbing demands. Other concerns and thoughts fall away as you become absorbed in your relationship to the rock you’re climbing. The risk of falling, and the unpredictability, are ever present. You manage (but can never eliminate) that risk through careful preparation and single-minded attention to the physical act.

I feel this way about riding a horse. When I run, my mind wanders, and I get lost in thought, which often triggers the best, clearest thinking all day. But when I ride, my thinking telescopes to what I’m doing with the horse, and how the horse is responding, not unlike how I imagine a climber feels when working on an ascent. Although riding does not satisfy me athletically the way running does, it feels mentally and physically therapeutic, almost like yoga.

I groom Cobalt and put a bareback pad, not the saddle, on his back. I like practicing bareback to enhance my balance and the connection to him. (For a fuller essay on how I’m training Cobalt to be my trail partner, check out the new special “DIRT” issue of Trail Runner magazine, which features my essay about riding and running with him.) Then I lead him to the arena to ride, because the trails are too muddy.

The magazine piece featuring Cobalt and me.

I warm up at the walk and trot, then transition into the canter. I feel Cobalt collected under me, his neck arched, his body bending on the circle, the reins light in my hands. My seat is balanced on the thin foam pad on his spine, my legs dangling without stirrups. My lower back gently rocks like a hinge to absorb the bounce. We are in synch as partners—until we’re not.

Accidents always happen in a split second, unexpectedly. That’s what makes it an accident. Cobalt hears a noise, or spots something in his field of vision, that frightens him. Perhaps it’s a wild turkey pecking in the grass near the arena, I’m not sure. He tucks his hindquarters under, throws his head up and bolts forward at the gallop, like a sprinter surging from starting blocks, and he literally runs out from under me. I fly off his back and fall about five feet to the ground.

I feel and hear the thud as my butt, back and shoulder absorb the fall. (For the record, I’m wearing a helmet, but it doesn’t touch dirt. As was the case every one of the countless times I fell off my horse when younger, I land on my backside and then roll on my side.) I lay still in the arena’s damp sand and catch my breath, feeling a wave of nausea from radiating pain. I open my eyes long enough to see Cobalt, who stands nearby looking down at me placidly, as if asking, “What happened?” Then I close my eyes and go through the patient assessment checklist from first aid. Head injury? Doubtful. Spine injury? Nah. I can clench my fists and move my feet. I lay there a little longer, then slowly sit up. No one is around to witness or help.

I wince when I turn my head, signaling whiplash. I feel as if I’ve fallen off a ladder and been rear-ended in a car, if such a combination could exist. I look at Cobalt, who stands nearby and seems to wait for me to tell him what to do next, and I like to think he looks apologetic.

Moving at a glacial pace, I stand up and shuffle over to the mounting block (the 3-foot-high structure with steps that some riders use to get on a horse; I normally swing my leg up from the ground). Cobalt follows me. My whole backside feels tingly and bruised.

“We gotta do this,” I tell myself and Cobalt as I reach for his reins and lead him closer to the mounting block. I make him stand next to it, and then I step up to the top of the block and put one leg over his back. Carefully, I slide into a sitting position on him.

“Good boy,” I tell him, stroking his neck, and we walk around the arena. I feel as if I might be sick from the pain and from being upset, so I breathe deeply to relax. I’m mad at myself for going bareback because I doubt I would have fallen from a saddle—but this closeness to the horse, I love. I grip his mane for security, because I don’t want to fall off again. After walking a few circles, I ride him back to the barn with the pain more dull than sharp, relieved partly by pride I feel for getting back on again.

Accepting Injury

For six days following the fall, I don’t run. I get physical therapy, soak in Epsom salt baths, and do everything I think to do to recover. My whiplashed neck and shoulders get better. But walking, especially downhill, hurts my butt and upper hamstring, especially on the left side, which is odd since I fell on my right side.

On Tuesday, March 20, one week following the accident, I meet The Rocket for a run around Lake Merritt, because (as detailed in this post) he’s the perfect companion for a comeback run and to make me feel better. Shaking his head and smiling, he tells me, “You’re stubborn!” as if it’s a compliment, and I reply, “Look who’s talking.”

I hope the movement and blood flow triggered by running will make me feel better, but the opposite happens. The pain escalates, and my backside numbs out. When I walk, I limp slightly, and then I feel sharp pain upon trying to run again.

I take the rest of the week off, my short-term goal being to get well enough to run the March 25 Oakland Half Marathon with Trisha, the teenager I’ve mentored through Running for a Better Oakland.

Which brings me to today, Saturday, March 24. I need a test run to see if I can do tomorrow’s half marathon. I twist Morgan’s arm to participate in a scavenger hunt, with our dog, planned as a school fundraiser by Richie Boulet (Magda Boulet’s husband). We go to our favorite local running store, Transports, and Richie hands out a list of clues to us and several teams of 12-year-olds. We’re one of the few adult teams.

During the next hour, we slowly jog around the Rockridge neighborhood of Oakland following clues and taking selfies when we find the secret spots. The humor is not lost on me that on this same morning, the masochistic ultra involving extreme orienteering, called the Barkley Marathons, has commenced, and some female ultrarunners I highly admire are suffering through unfathomable bad weather and quagmires, struggling to find hidden books along the way to tear out pages and prove they hit the spots—and here I am struggling to jog three miles around the neighborhood while getting to spots with clues such as, “The sushi restaurant where Christophe’s Burgers used to be.”

Morgan and me taking a selfie in front of the sushi place where Christophe’s Burgers used to be, part of scavenger hunt during which I limped and faced the fact that I’m undeniably injured.

Less than two miles in, my left glute spasms and locks up. I feel sharp pain and can barely run. Soon I’m limping, but I’m determined to follow the clues to find a 3-inch-tall gnome on Chabot Road and check off all the things on our scavenger-hunt list.

But I know, a mile in, that I’m truly, unambiguously injured. I conclude that the fall off the horse triggered a muscle strain or tear involving the glute muscles and piriformis, electrifying the nerves that run through my butt. I can’t run the half marathon tomorrow. I can barely walk.

I wave the white flag of surrender to my injury, and I arrange to have another Running for a Better Oakland volunteer run with my mentee.

I had planned to run approximately 60 miles this week, and I logged 6, limping. (sigh)

Acceptance of injury feels liberating, however. I am committing to get better. I likely will pull the plug on the April 28 Canyons 100K, so be it. I want to do all I can to be better for Colorado running—for Koop’s ultrarunning camp over Memorial Weekend, then the San Juan Solstice 50 in June and Ouray 100 in late July.

Having gone through these topsy-turvy two weeks, I feel at peace but have Tom Petty stuck in my head.

I’m learning to fly, around the clouds,
But what goes up must come down

I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings
Coming down is the hardest thing

Postscript Reminders

I’m coaching and co-guiding a new mountain-running camp near Ouray and Telluride this July 11 and September 23. Please check it out, contact me if you have questions, and spread the word! It’s gonna be great.

I would sincerely appreciate reviews on my Amazon page, if you have read The Trail Runner’s Companion. If you haven’t, please check it out, too!

I co-hosted a new episode of UltraRunnerPodcast featuring Scotty Mills. I really liked this interview, and the new feel-good music that goes with it. I hope you’ll listen.