It's Not Supposed to be Comfortable

 "In the night, in the dark."

Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

"Comfort is a lie."

@WickedTrailRunning

I used to be tougher. Not 1970s-era, cotton shirt-and-leather shoes-wearing, nothing-but-water tough, but still. In 2013 I ran my second 50K, Ironmaster’s Challenge, in a beat-up pair of road shoes, and didn’t hesitate to fly down the rocky hills and scramble, carefree, over the looming towers of boulders. I used to happily head to the woods on rainy days and frolic blissfully for 20 or more miles with nothing but a couple of gels and some trail mix in my pockets. The wetter and muddier, the better. In 2019 I ran my first 100 miler, Old Dominion, and only fleetingly thought of quitting, despite a pounding headache, massive blisters, and climbs that threatened to make my heart beat right out of my body. Hell, I finished Laurel Highlands with a dying Energizer headlamp.

These days, it seems all it takes is one unpleasant human encounter, one strong gust of wind, one downpour, one stomachache, to make me slink back to the comfort of home. My once benevolent inner monologue is quicker to turn dark and destructive. Sweat pants, frozen pizza, and a warm cat have become much too tempting. I’ve officially not finished two out of three 100 milers, unless we’re counting the virtual events of 2020, which then makes it three out of four. In 2022 I withdrew my registration for both the Catoctin and Jarmans 50Ks simply because I was too scared to attempt either one. I have this exaggerated vision of myself at the C&O Canal 100 whining, “But I don’t want to run anymore,” before tearing off my bib and stamping my foot. It’s not too far from the truth.

My next attempt at 100 miles is in two days. I will want to quit. There will be cussing and whining and crying. There will be darkness, both literal and metaphorical, and I'm ready for it. I have a new arsenal of tools that I never would have considered five or ten years ago: an interval timer set to vibrate every five minutes to remind me to either walk or run; little cards with hand drawn borders and motivational quotes; and my most surprising tool, several audiobooks downloaded to my phone. If you know me, then you know I like my books to be the touchable, sniffable kind, but I can't read an actual book while running, and I think some disturbing Shirley Jackson stories just might distract me from my own mind at mile 80. 

My 33 year old self would laugh to see me preparing this way for a race, but I suppose that's because I was still innocent in the ultrarunning world. I hadn't yet experienced the simultaneous heartbreak and relief of dropping out of a race. It was all still new enough that I didn't have a past self to compete with. Does needing these tools now really make me less tough than I used to be or is it just part of the evolution of my running? A form of conditioning as I become more aware of the discomfort and suffering to come? Maybe having a little more help to get the job done has nothing to do with a waning of strength or endurance or determination. After all, no tool is magic, no matter how much I might wish for that at mile 90. Perhaps I’m actually tougher just for willingly putting myself through it again and again.