That time I didn’t do an ultramarathon

Iris johnston

Library specialist

I have long loved and admired Diana Nayad, the woman who swam unassisted from Havana to Key West at the age of 64. Like all endurance athletes, her skill is not to go fast, but to keep going. I identify with that. Tall and chubby all my life, I am no speedy sprinter. Drop me in the ocean or plop me on an elliptical, and I can entertain myself for hours. I go slow, but I keep going.

I’ve always wanted to see exactly how long I can keep going. Marathons don’t interest me; again, speed is a problem. Ultramarathons, on the other hand, vary not just in distance but in how participants complete them. Almost everyone attempting an ultra walks part of it. Some ultras are only walking, as with the One Day Hike (ODH), a pair of noncompetitive ultramarathons that follow a flat path along the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal. The 100km ultra begins in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, DC and goes all the way through Maryland to finish in Bolivar, West Virginia. I went with the “fun run,” which is 50km and begins at the midpoint of the 100km. You know – achievable, realistic goals are important.

Speaking of goals, this was the first one I had made for myself in a long time. I have a vague superstition that goals are somehow tempting fate, that planning for things only makes them less likely. But walking 50km (about 31 miles) requires preparation. I began preparing for the May 2019 ODH in October 2018. I got good sneakers, got in touch with a trainer, and put

together a schedule. I even enlisted a “buddy,” in the form of Brett, a fit soccer dude I’d known for over a decade. We’d gone on many long walks and supported each other during many stressful times. Part of me wanted to walk alone, but Brett was enthusiastic and pledged to cheer me on. Plus, he lived in DC, so I could sleep in his guest room the night before rather than in my car. I started with 2-hour walks around the Hills neighborhood, or 2 loops around Lake Scranton. This was only a little longer than I walked regularly. It was easy, even fun. By January I was ready to push myself and walked from my apartment near Zummo’s Cafe past Geisinger Commonwealth and Lackawanna County Courthouse, down Pittston Avenue, all the way to the CVS in Moosic. Then I changed my socks, turned around, and walked back to Zummo’s. The walk, a hair under 10 miles, took 5 hours and left me dumb with fatigue. 2 days later I did it again.

Athletes talk about the runner’s high, the endorphin rush. For me, the best I can admit to is a kind of rueful superiority, a smugness that I’ve done “what they think a fat girl can’t do.” During these long training walks, I was cranky. I’d snipe at my boyfriend – he couldn’t walk 6 hours on pavement all by himself!

“No, I could not,” he readily admitted, bewildered at what I wanted from him. I don’t know what I wanted, either. Validation? Marathons, lonely by nature, spit at your need for validation. Health? My feet ached so much I couldn’t wear work shoes, and by following my trainer’s advice to “Eat simple carbs! Don’t count them, just eat them!” I abandoned my diet and gained 35 pounds. Worst of all, I couldn’t sleep. I was obsessed with everything I needed to do to achieve my goal. Get past 12 miles. Get past sciatica, neuralgia, headaches. Get past the nagging worry that this isn’t fun, doesn’t make me happy, and doesn’t matter.

The weather warmed. I started training at Rickett’s Glenn State Park, up and down its gorgeous Falls Trail. The blessed cushioning dirt

helped me walk 18 miles a few days after maxing out at 12 on pavement. And although I was not alone- there are fewer pedestrians on Keyser Avenue than in the middle of the woods – I felt a pleasant solitude rather than loneliness. It was fun again.

Then the One Day Hike. Arriving in DC, something was immediately off. Brett had a work function and a housewarming the night before and was disappointed that I opted to stay in rather than come with him. In the morning he skipped breakfast. I sheepishly followed suit, knowing I’m prone to hypoglycemia but wanting to get back in sync with my friend.

As we drove to the ODH pick-up spot, Brett told me he had a goal of completing the walk in just under 8 hours, at a speed of 4 miles per hour. He said it like it was nothing. I stared at him. “I can’t walk that fast,” I said.

“You’ll be fine,” said someone who looked like my friend but was suddenly puffing his chest and grinning a little too wide. “Brett, my goal here isn’t even necessarily to finish, let alone finish at speed.”

“You’ll be fine.”

As we waited to begin, I looked at the other participants. Almost uniformly white and wealthylooking, they were also, every one of them, smaller than me. The few walkers who didn’t have the signature loose-limbed whippet body of a marathoner were slender. I felt enormous. I was enormous; despite what the trainer said, those 35 pounds were not all muscle. In a photo on the ODH website I look like a giant pile with a number bib tacked to it.

By mile two, Brett was chanting, “PICK it up, PICK it up, PICK UP the pace!” while other walkers streamed around us. I was going uncomfortably fast, and it wasn’t good enough. We slipped to the back of the crowd.

During mile four I had a panic attack. I sat, sobbing, while the fastest 100km walkers trickled past. When I finally got it together and apologized,

Brett said through clenched teeth, “I’m not angry. Stop it.” He caught up with an investment banker acquaintance while I plodded behind, sucking applesauce and feeling extremely sorry for myself. Then I felt a blister on my instep. Don’t ask me how it got there. Who ever heard of getting a blister on their instep?

I had a goal. The goal was to attend the 50km One Day Hike. To go as far as I could. At the first aid station I decided that “as far as I can go,” was six miles. The shame, the panic attack, and the new blister – despite my broken-in shoes and familiar socks- proved to be as much as I could handle. Brett kept walking, and I dropped out.

That’s the story of the time I didn’t do an ultramarathon. I could give you the silver linings, which I myself clung to in the months that followed. For example, walking a mile to work now is literally effortless. Scranton Running Co. made a forever client. I got to see the C&O Canal path, which is almost tropically fecund and full of black vultures you won’t see in NEPA. At the finish line I met Adaeze, a seasoned marathoner stuck volunteering thanks to a broken ankle. Passing Gatorade to finishers, I told my story and admitted that I was already annoyed with myself for quitting. Adaeze said, “you DNF’d,” or Did Not Finish, “right? That means you can’t get your distance officially confirmed. It doesn’t mean you can’t keep walking.”

A brilliant loophole. With cotton padding my blister and a new spring in my step, I walked backwards. From the finish line to the fifth aid station- the 24-mile mark for everyone else, but the 12-mile mark for me. Twelve miles had given me so much trouble in January and February. Now I felt tired, but not drained. I drank Gatorade and stared at the black vultures. Then I turned around and walked back to the finish line. My official distance for the 2019 ODH is Six miles, but in my heart I know I walked a little more than 18. I somehow managed to both fail and meet my goal. I just needed to be okay with it not looking the way I planned.