The shadows in the Valley dance away from the light, and within the shadows live ghosts and monsters.
And so, near the end of October, my crucible began: 5 weekends in a row of races and competitions. I had been anticipating it, dear reader, and you as well if you’ve been following. If not, then along the ever changing path I will catch you up…
The first weekend of five was the Spartan Beast. The 3rd of the Spartan Races and the longest. 13+ miles up and down dry and rocky hills in and out creek beds with broken limestone and 30+ obstacles along the way.
The Saturday before the race I did a 3 hour run and completed the farthest distance. I posted my times on Social Media. Someone commented “Who or what are you running from?” I know it was in jest, but as soon as I read it my brain thought of 50 things that would answer that question. I am running from something, or maybe toward, I don’t know anymore.
The last time I completed the Spartan Trifecta I felt like I was carrying an emotional weight. Physically, part of my routine to prepare was running 2 miles with a 20lbs vest. I thought the vest would improve my stamina, help my running times when I wasn’t carrying the weight. I wrote a blog called ‘The Weights We Carry’ where I expressed the fear and uncertainty of the life of my unborn daughter who I thought about when I ran. But now, 5 years later, my daughter is healthy and well. It’s me who needs some work. I feel like I’m no longer carrying anything. I’ve put some things down, left them by the wayside and now I’m running from them. Those weights, people, obligations, relationships, wait for me as they watch me fade into the distance, wondering if I’ll come back for them the same person as before, or will I have changed.
The things I’m running from, the things I do to escape have turned me into something or someone I didn’t expect, but now I am only realizing this. The climax of my journey started with a 13 mile obstacle race in the northern borders of the Texas Hill Country: The Spartan Beast.
The week leading up to the race, I dreamt of getting attacked by a crocodile. I had sleep paralysis dreams where someone I know comes into my darkened room but I can’t move. I used to have dreams where I was being chased by an invisible monster, but it never caught me. Now the monsters in my dreams I can see and I can’t outrun them.
The Monday before the Beast, I ran a 5K 30 seconds faster than ever before. In the following days, I worked out at bootcamp. I drove to my dingy hotel room Friday night so I didn’t have a several hour trip the morning before the race. On the way, in the darkness of the country roads, I thought about the ghosts who were following me. I imagined them flowing above my car, no matter how fast I would go they stayed by my side. Speed is no consequence to the dead.
The morning of the race I was reminded of the last one 5 years before, but this time the weather was warm and the ground parched. I had messaged the widow of my friend Will who passed away last year. She said to say hello to him as I ran. The last time I saw him was on the Beast course 5 years ago. I wanted to look for him, I wanted to see him, his broad shoulders lumbering ahead of me as I caught up to him like last time.
The Beast was everything I thought it would be, but less mud since we were in a drought. I did my best, ran almost the whole time. However, I ripped my hand open about mile 6. Blood was dripping from between my fingers. The same thing happened to me at the Spartan Super 10K in March, but this time it was much worse.
Doubt began to fill my mind. How often do people not finish the races? I figured if I could not do an obstacle I could just do the penalty burpees and move on. My running was strong, maybe I could still beat my old time despite the injury.
Which I did. And I did see people who weren’t going to finish. People passed out along the trail supervised by medical staff. People in tears grabbing their ankles awaiting a 4 wheel drive souped up golf cart. Some people didn’t finish, but I wasn’t going to let my injury stop me.
There were obstacles I skipped because I knew my hand wouldn’t let me complete them. So I ran, did burpees, didn’t let the obstacle of my injured hand slow me down.
And then I finished 45 mins faster than 5 years ago. Despite the hand injury and the missed obstacles, I still finished faster. I chalked it up to the run training and the pre-preparedness. A part of me is disappointed I didn’t get to try out some of the obstacles, or complete them. But at the end of the day I asked myself what would it take for me to be satisfied? Complete all the obstacles? Finish in the top ten?
I finished in the top 9% of my age group, completed 45 mins faster than last time, I did what I could as best I could. I should be satisfied.
I did not see the ghost of my friend Will, not because I missed him, not because I wasn’t looking, but because he is dead. The dead show themselves in different ways, not the ways we want.
After the finish line, after the metal, the free snacks and drinks, my body began seizing, as it does every time the race is over. The adrenaline fades, the pains increase, the high comes down and you face the pain you’ve been accumulating. I was again reminded of the last time I ran the race. The emotion built up, the uncertainty of my future. I fought the tears last time but a few squeezed out of the sides of my eyes.
This time I felt that familiar tightness in my head, the dryness in my throat not from the race. But I swallowed it. My ordeal was far from over. It was not the time to mourn, or celebrate with emotion. It was time to conserve, to plan, to continue looking forward. I spent the night alone in my hotel and in my pain, fading in and out of exhaustion. I still had a long way to go dear reader…but the rest of my tale is a story for another day.
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