Disaster at Uwharrie, and Silver Linings

I’ve never DNFed (for “did not finish,” reflected in the race results if you walked off the course for some reason) before. Lots of runners have, because of injury or illness or burnout or even getting lost. I almost did once, after a bad burnout at the Marine Corps Marathon a couple years ago following months of racing. I sat down on the curb at mile 17 and refused to go on, but Jackie Bergey- bless her heart- coaxed and prodded and half-dragged me through the rest, for which I will always be grateful.

And then, only 2 miles in to the Uwharrie Mountain Run 40 Miler, I jumped sideways- nimbly, I thought- to avoid getting my feet wet that early in the race. I heard some sort of awful pop and had to walk a few steps. I was pacing Jim, my friend Heather’s husband, for his first 40 (as she had done for mine), and he turned around and looked concerned. “I’m fine,” I told him. “It’s just twisted. I can run it off.” We ran by Heather, crewing for us, at the next aid station, and I yelled that I might need some motrin at the next stop. A couple miles later it became harder and harder to put weight on my left ankle, and it looked pretty swollen. I told Jim to go on ahead and promised I’d catch up with him. Before long, however, I was walking gingerly uphill and crab-crawling downhill, wincing in pain and afraid to examine the damage. One guy who passed me offered to carry me to the next aid station. Trail runners are the best.

At 8, the next time I saw Heather, she took one look at me and peeled off my sock. My ankle was black, and had swollen to the size of a softball. I could no longer walk. I checked my number out with the race volunteers, sat down on the ground, and sobbed. Heather eventually stuffed me into her old Chevy Blazer, which had been ferrying us and our wet socks and dirty clothes to and from trail runs for almost a decade and had years' worth of race numbers stuffed under the seats, and drove me to the nearest gas station. She came out with a six pack of beer and a bait bucket of ice, filled a nalgene with beer (at 9:30am), jammed my ankle into the ice, and told me she understood and I was welcome to cry, but we needed to catch Jim at the next stop.

I was numb, sad, and probably a little shocky. I threw up twice from the pain. Beer helped, and so did having a running buddy, who may not have been very sympathetic but who understood, with me.  Not only was this my first-ever DNF (no matter the reason, it still feels like quitting), I hadn’t done an ultra, or anything I was proud of for myself, since Seth got blown up. I hadn’t realized how much I had really needed this one, from a mental as well as a physical standpoint. Uwharrie had been my first ultra and held a special place in my heart. I had put a lot of things- like mountain runs- that I used to do, that were part of who I was, on the back burner for a long time. It occurred to me that I had built this race up to be a kind of “welcome back” statement for me. I was ready to get this part of my life back, and here was another crippling delay.

It all sort of hit me at once, sitting there in a lawn chair with my foot in a bait bucket of ice, watching other runners gut out my favorite race. I was crushed.  

When I was done wallowing in self-pity, having refocused on the hurting and abandoned Jim, Heather reminded me how lucky I was. I had done a lot of ultras on my own with no support crew. This would’ve been a miserable day indeed, without a warm car and dry clothes and that nalgene of beer.

 Seth showed up mid-afternoon, having spent a late night drinking with Brian, and whisked me away to the emergency room, concerned about a break.  We caused quite a stir at the civilian ER, a one-legged guy fireman carrying his wife through the door. Thankfully, civilian ERs move faster than Army ones, and we left a couple hours later with an inconclusive diagnosis and- you guessed it- motrin and crutches. I was still pretty miserable, but the crutches allowed us to enjoy the rest of the weekend with the Trimbles (including a very sore but victorious Jim) and Jackie and Kevin. Seth caught up with friends, Leslye made an appearance, Jackie and I made a mimosa-fueled Target run for old times’ sake, and Heather put on a killer Super Bowl spread.  It was a great time, minus the hobbling about, and reminded me how much I miss NC.

Back home after several sets of X-rays , an MRI, and countless hours in FBCH waiting rooms, the diagnosis is official: broken ankle and torn ligaments. Weeks and maybe months in a cast. No activity whatsoever for a long time (although Mom has some sort of crazy plan involving chair aerobics.) I hate hate hate being stuck on crutches and unable to carry things or do much, although Seth has been an absolute saint. Totally unprompted, he’s been doing chores, making dinner, and even went grocery shopping (which yielded a few interesting results.) Not only does this make me appreciate him even more- it’s nice knowing you have somebody you can count on to pick up your slack!- but it’s also made me think of his long journey back to mobility. I spent a lot of time worried about his infections and surgeries and pain and TBI, but I didn’t really take the time to think about just the general frustration of being unable to do what you’re used to being able to do. I can’t even carry my own coffee. It drives me nuts. Seth had many long months of that, and to some extent he must still struggle with it. And he does a much better job than I do of handling it without complaint.

So by way of silver linings, this whole thing- while disappointing and frustrating- is not a total loss if it helps us understand each other better, and appreciate each other more. I’m a terrible patient so I’m not sure if that’s what Seth is getting out of it, but I am.

Also, Mom has been feeling sorry for me and delivering food to the office. The pumpkin bread cheered me up significantly.

I cracked up last night as the Niemans spent our evening on the couch icing our various bum limbs. Life is funny, and we are learning to be grateful for every bump, bruise, and laugh. This has to be the photo of the week.