Aint Nothin Wrong with a DNF

Three years ago I had an amazing time at the Hellbender 100 in the mountains outside of Asheville, NC. That kind of race is my jam! Long, slow, unrelenting. 100 scenic mountain miles and over 20,000' of climbing? Hell yeah! The moment I finished, I knew I would be coming back, and it's not just because I was awarded a bottle of vodka at the finish line. I signed up for 2020, but yeah, we all know how that went. And out of an abundance of caution, the race was cancelled again in 2021.

By the time 2022 rolled around, I'd turned into a completely different runner. I no longer live within close proximity to the mountains. And in the last year, my focus on the Backyard format had transformed the way I'd been training. Then throw in trying to juggle a brand new side business (Long Haul), a full-time job, and parenting two young kids with my hard working spouse. At the end of it all, 2022 Chris is simply much different than 2019 Chris -- less mileage, more stress.

 

I'd run four 100 Mile trail races in 2019, but only one since. I was itching to get back into the mountains for a fun, tough 100 Miler. I knew I didn't have peak mountain fitness, but I ran for 84 friggin hours straight at Big's, so I figured I could, at the very least, casually stroll through Hellbender, enjoying the fantastic trails and scenery. And that was my plan. No hard racing, no stress, no worrying about a top place or solid finishing time. I just wanted to get out there and enjoy an amazing race with an amazing course, put on by an amazing race director and amazing volunteers. Simple.

 

But things didn't turn out that way. When, by all expectations, I should have been strolling to the finish of my umpteenth 100 miler, I was instead passed out in a cheap motel room 3 hours away. There were no broken bones, there was no heat exhaustion or hypothermia, nothing of the sort. My body just felt … empty. Depleted. Sluggish. Right from the start. So I quit. I gave up. I DNF'd.

I ran by this cool sign ... and then I quit

There's this underlying thread in ultrarunning, a machismo-fueled point of view, a finish-at-all-costs attitude. Many brag about having never DNF'd, others take pride in gutting it out through some genuinely sketchy conditions, and there are some who push their body so hard they spend post-race in the hospital. So much ego. I've never understood it. For 99.99% of us, running is a hobby, an enjoyable aside to the daily grind of normal life. It's not a war, or a deadly disease we must fight, it's supposed to be fun and freeing and enjoyable. And yes, at times it sucks, and there's a good deal of character-building to be had in gritting it out and overcoming obstacles. But there always needs to be an awareness of the difference between pushing yourself to achieve amazing things, and fighting against yourself.

 

I drove 10 hours to get to the race, battling a headache most of the day, then at bedtime I went into a migraine that nearly caused me to throw up. I maybe had 2 hours of restless sleep before waking up to pouring rain at 2:45am. Then it was time to get ready for the 4:30am start. Race morning adrenaline warded off the headache and provided me with about 90 minutes of decent running to begin the day. Through the pre-dawn rain, I led the race with a buddy, eventual 2nd place finisher Will Weidman. I was intentionally slow and collected. The objective: have fun, revel in the joy of a full day of mountain running. But by the 2 hour mark, that comfortable pace felt exhausting. I slowed. Still exhausted. I randomly lost my breath. Downhills were klunky and lumbering. I was walking flat sections of trail because I could not get my legs to propel my body forward. I was tripping over rocks and roots I had no business tripping over. 12 miles into a 100 mile race. If it had been halfway through the race, I might've muscled through -- maybe it would pass, just another race day obstacle to overcome. But I was hit with whole-body fatigue right from the start. Honestly, I felt hungover. It was clear that something was wrong. I probably could have powered through, spent a good deal more hiking than I'd wanted, and still finished in a somewhat respectable time. But at what cost? If this were an ordinary weekend long run, I would've skipped it and slept in, given the migraine. Or, if I were starting the run and felt sluggish and empty, I probably would've cut it short to focus on rest and recovery, to live another day.

 

There will always be another race waiting for us. Another chance to test our limits. Another opportunity to prove to ourselves we've put in the work and that we can do great things. To have staying-power in the sport that you love, you've got to listen to your body. Every race I've ever run, my wife has told me beforehand, without fail, "be safe, and listen to your body." I love ultra running, I love the trails, I love the grind, I love the process. 40 years from now, I want to be that old geezer, fighting cutoffs and loving every minute of it, showing those young whippersnappers how it's done. But I can't get there if I don't listen to my body, if I ignore it when it's clearly telling me that something isn't right.

 

After the first climb and descent, I just knew my day was over. I elected to lazily hike and jog the next climb and descent in the off-chance my body turned things around. And so I strolled into the aid station at Mile 33, after 5 hours of, quite simply, not feeling like myself, resigned to quit. I instinctively went to my drop bag and started pulling out nutrition for the next section of the race, then stopped, looked around somewhat confusedly, collapsed to the ground and sat for a moment, then leaned over and rested my head on the grass. It felt good to give up. It felt like the right thing to do.

 

Listen to your body! Are you injured? Do you need more recovery time? Did you bite off way more than you could chew? Know the difference between pushing yourself and fighting yourself. Do that and you'll have staying power. Perhaps I'll see you out there on the trails, 40 years from now, loving every minute of it!

Accepting Failure

Right now I should be over 75 miles into the Eastern States 100, moving my way up through the Top 10, but I'm sitting at home writing this post instead. For the first time in my life I Did Not Finish. I DNF'd, Dropped, Tapped Out, Threw in the Towel ... Failed. Two important questions come to mind. 1.) How did this happen; and more importantly, 2.) How can I learn from this and move forward?

In running, ultra running in particular, there's always some kind of adversity to overcome. Whether it be a sluggish day on the trails, a poor result, finding your way through the pain cave at Mile 80, a bad season, an injury, and yes, even a DNF. What's important in facing these obstacles is that we take the time to rationally assess them and to use them as a chance to learn and grow, so that we can move forward and face our future goals with more confidence and better preparation.

So, what in particular happened to me? And what lessons are there to be had?

Before the Race

Seven weeks before Eastern States, I had the best run of my life at Western States (race report here). It was The Perfect Day, one of the best days of my life, and it gave me a level of confidence in my running abilities that I'd been lacking for years. I made sure to recover carefully. I ran here and there, but always easy and with plenty of rest days. One thing I didn't do much of that I should have was STRETCHING. I'm notoriously inflexible and I fully admit to being lazy, resting on my laurels after States, and not taking the time to keep up the flexibility I worked hard for in the first half of the year.

Twenty One days after States, I went on my first long run: 3 hours of easy trails. It felt comfortable and I walked away from it knowing it was time to get back into my training. Still, I made sure to not overdo any of my runs. A few days later, on a whim I decided to hit the track and try my hand at 4x1600m to see if my speed-legs were back yet. The workout went about as well as I could expect. Nothing noteworthy occurred. But the next morning I had a tightness in my left hip ... the back of the ball of my femur was tender. I likely strained my gluteal tendon, but I'm not quite sure how. Oh yeah, full disclosure: I didn't stretch before those repeats! Full Disclosure #2: It was my first speed session in 3 months.  I can be an idiot sometimes.  So ... I was cautious and took a couple days off.

After some rest and then a pain-free run, I ran a local 50K as a hard long run. It wasn't an all out effort and I made sure to dial back in the latter miles and not overdo it -- it was hard convincing myself not to chase down First Place, only 30 seconds ahead of me with 5 miles to go, but I did, and it was the right thing to do. My hip felt a bit tight at times, but it was never limiting or painful. Never-the-less, I took a couple days off afterwards. More importantly, I started stretching and doing hip strengthening exercises every day.

My next week of running was 3 uneventful runs, followed by an entire weekend off. Then the hip pain returned, seemingly randomly, on a short Monday run. That began a stretch of 11 days with only 2 runs. And the second run was only a mile long, with stinging pain in the hip from the get-go. Suddenly, I was questioning my ability to complete Eastern States.

I did nothing but rest the 4 days before Eastern States...

Race Day

I had no pain in the 2 days before race day so I was cautiously optimistic. I toe'd the starting line feeling fresh and ready to take on a long day of running in sweltering heat and humidity on technical, cambered trails. It was go time!

Over an hour in, I was feeling good. I was in the Top 10, I wasn't working hard, the humidity didn't look to be an issue for me. I had tackled the first 2 climbs and descents with ease. More importantly ... NO HIP PAIN!

About 2 hours in, things started to change. My hip started to tighten ... then ache ... then sting. I was having to work to drive my knee, my stride was shortening, and I was having trouble pushing through my stride on steep climbs. Things were turning sour quickly. WHEN I would finish was now IF I would finish.

No one should be battling with stride problems 2 hours into a 100 miler! Ugh!

By 14 miles it had gotten even worse. My left leg felt like it was just being drug along for the ride, and worse, my hip was losing the ability to prevent lateral movement in my knee. I couldn't climb, the flats felt like I was running in water, and I was reduced to a hobble on the technical descents. I got passed by 3 runners like it was nothing, then another, and another. Then the hip problems started to infect the rest of my leg -- my hamstring started to feel weird, my knee started to stiffen, and the stabilizer muscles in my lower leg were occasionally feeling funny.

At this point it occurred to me that a finish would get me a coveted Buckle. I thought about it for a hot second ... and ... I didn't really care about this buckle. My first 100 -- Grindstone -- I would have done anything to finish, because of what it meant to snag my First Buckle. And Western States, well, that's self explanatory! But this race ... I just couldn't find the value in finishing at the cost of a potential serious injury. I had come to Eastern States not for a buckle, but to compete. I wanted to have fun out there, but hobbling and walking my way to a 30 hour finish, just for a buckle, seemed like a bad decision. My second Grindstone was 8 weeks away and I wasn't willing to potentially sacrifice a good showing there. IF I would finish became WHEN to throw in the towel.

For about a half hour I debated with myself. Do I try to make it to the halfway point? 25 miles? The next Aid Station? All the while, my stride kept devolving into a painful hobble. I made my way up to the Aid Station about 18 miles in, threw down my bottles, and hung my head in shame.

... But ... only a few minutes later I was over it. I had made the right call. This DNF wasn't a reflection of my fitness, it was the result of a weird kinetic chain problem that came out of nowhere (kind of...). Continuing on would've served no valuable purpose. It would've left me banged up and uncertain of how I'd be able to handle my Fall lineup.

For the first time in my life I wouldn't be crossing the finish line. And that's okay.

The DNF is official, now it's time to figure out how I can learn from this experience.

The Lessons

Stretching

I didn't stretch much at all for an entire month after Western States. If I was Gumby then maybe that'd be cool, but I'm not. I NEED TO STRETCH ... DAILY! I'm not a kid anymore, I need to take care of my body and that begins with making sure my muscles and tendons are long and flexible. It's probably not just coincidence that my failed hip is absurdly inflexible -- last year I had a PT gasp in horror at my left hip's limited range of motion.

Strength

I have a decent amount of strength, for a runner. But not necessarily in the ways that matter for a runner. I need to do all of those little tedious exercises to strengthen my core, my legs, and most importantly, my hips and glutes.

Picking My Training Battles

I run ultras. There a time and place for speed work, but I don't do it enough to be able to just jump into a random set of 4x1600s without risking injury. Speed work belongs in its own Training Block, and when I do speed work outside of that Training Block, I need to make sure I've at least been maintaining a speed session every week or so, that way my body isn't shocked by the effort. I can't just pop into speed work right after my multi-week recovery from a 100 mile race!

I Can't Race All The Time!

This spring I had 5 ultras and a marathon. Then I ran Western States. And for the rest of the year I had lined up Eastern States, Grindstone 100, Mountain Masochist 50M, another marathon, and Hellgate 100K (if Horton lets me in!). That's A LOT of racing. My body clearly can't handle that load AND still get in valuable Training Blocks. So for next year ... less racing and longer stretches of training.

What's Next?

Take these lessons to heart.

Head to a physical therapist.

Do whatever it takes to get to Grindstone healthy.