So, I've been running a lot lately. I started getting up at 5:00am and running with a group of multi-marathoners. After a few mornings talking with them, I started to feel like quite a loser that the longest I had ever raced (other than the Ragnar relay) was a 10K. Running a marathon has always been one of my lifetime goals. But after running a 15-mile training run one Saturday, I decided a half marathon was a more appropriate goal for this year. The plan was to run the Sojo Half Marathon on September 25. It was a perfect course: a gradual downhill descent from Copperton Park to the Jordan River trail in South Jordan. It ran right passed my high school coach's house and across many of the cross country training runs of those days, and also right passed my sister's backyard.
Race day was beautiful. We took buses to Copperton before sunrise. I saw my cousin Jenny who I have completely lost touch with and we chatted a little before the race to calm each other's nerves. The beginning of the race was wonderful. My only race strategy, however, was not to go out too fast, which was, of course, exactly what I did. Because I didn't have a GPS watch, I didn't realize I was running 6:49 pace until the end of mile two. I felt like I slowed down the next few miles, but then as I hit my split at end of mile four, I realized I had actually sped up slightly. I found this older man who was trying to hit 7:15 pace like me, so we stuck together for the next few miles. But he is apparently no better at pacing than I am and we still went sub-7:00. By the half-way mark, I knew I had to slow down and was actually starting to feel somewhat fatigued already. I had just taken sips of water at the first few aid stations, barely breaking stride. I started to slow down a little more at the stations and get a little more water in me.
Each mile got much harder. As I started to count down the miles, I really started to wonder how I was ever going to finish. With two miles to go, my body started to completely check out. It was screaming at me to stop running, but somehow my will to finish screamed louder. I dropped way off my splits and started walking through the aid stations. I suddenly felt really hot; my mouth really dry; my body completely wasted. I started seeing and hearing strange things (the psychology world would refer to this as hallucinating): the finish-line time clock, my high school coach, my college coach...everyone looking more disappointed at my poor performance. My thoughts became more negative and fuzzy. With one mile to go, I started to stagger and some race volunteers told me I really should pull out, that I looked ill. I told them I had to finish, but they stayed with me. That last mile felt like a lifetime (it was actually a grueling 24 minutes). I don't remember coming onto the homestretch, but apparently Ryan saw me and raced out to meet me and supported me through the finish line, where I fell to the ground unconscious.
The next hour was a haze of endless questions, wrenching nausea, and indescribable pain. Although I tried to convince the medics I was perfectly fine, I found myself in the back of an ambulance headed for the ER. I was completely disoriented and my body felt detached from my head. My body didn't move correctly; my voice was all wrong; the race seemed years ago. I asked my diagnosis. Dehydration. Was that really all? I had never felt worse in my life, or more scared. I felt like I was dying.
Well, to make a long story shorter and sum it up, after 4 1/2 hours in the ER, four liters of fluid, an EKG, and a battery of labs and questions, they finally said my labs had improved enough that I could go home. By then, I had come back to myself, somewhat, and knew who I was again. I went home and was still very nauseated and weak for many hours into the evening. But I was alive and that's all that mattered. I sure gave my parents and Ryan (and myself) quite a scare.
So, I've been asking myself what is to be learned from this crazy experience, besides the obvious of DRINK A LOT OF FLUIDS when you're running in the scorching heat. But the real lesson is that I need to pace myself, not just in running, but in all parts of my life. What's the point of a great start when you have nothing to give when it really matters? Too often in my life, I find myself pushing myself to my limits and then crashing, trying to fit way too much into each day or week. It seems pretty obvious that I cannot be everything and do everything I want to today, but bit by bit I can hopefully build a life
I can be proud of. I also need to take better advantage of the aid stations (family, friends, and especially God), not just when I realize I am struggling, but throughout this race of life. Years ago, my high school seminary teacher directed me to a scripture that had a profound effect upon me, and I think it definitely applies: "...Let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith..." (Hebrews 12:1-2).
I have also thought a lot about death. It has never been something real to me until this race. I'm not sure how serious my condition really was, but I know that without the good care I received, I would have been in serious trouble. How terribly fragile our bodies are! A measly 13-mile run in the heat and I totally lost myself physically and mentally. That's pretty frightening. I feel like I have been given the opportunity to see my life with new eyes. I see my family, especially my husband and my kids, with much better clarity. Am I living every day I have with them to its fullest? Do those closest to me know how much I love them? I'd like to think that this experience has been somewhat of a gift. Although I am not at all looking forward to my outrageous medical bills, I figure it is a small price to pay if I actually learn something meaningful and live a little better as a result.
For the unabridged (even longer) and slightly more personal version of this story, click
here.