There’s no climbing in this post. Unless, for some reason, you want to hear more than I want to tell about what it took to get me out of bed Monday morning. Although I’m a climber who runs, not a runner, not even a runner who climbs, lately I’ve been doing more running than climbing. Sunday was the culmination of that reversal.

I’ve done a few road races, mostly half marathons, but an ultra-marathon trail race calls for a different mindset. An ultra is not about style–it’s about survival. “At this point, I just want to finish,” some guy said to me at around four hours and forty-five minutes. “No duh,” I would have answered, if I’d had that kind of energy.

The first thing I had to learn about running a trail race was that it was going to take a lot longer than I thought. Although I’ve never run a marathon, I optimistically believe I could do one in under four hours. The 50K I was running was only five miles longer than a marathon. I worked that out to be 4 1/2 hours. (My math is as weak as my dreams are big.) The first clue that I was off by a little was the results from previous years. If I finished in 4:30 I was going to win. Even for my inflated ego, that seemed unlikely. The second clue was the incredulous look on Steve’s face. He gently readjusted my expectations to six hours.

Six hours??? How on God’s green earth was I going to run for six hours straight? Now for the second lesson: I wasn’t. Steve started teaching me about walking the hills, and boy did I enjoy that. At least, once I got over the guilt. At first I felt terribly like I was “cheating.” My goals for my first half marathon had been a) to finish and b) to run the whole the race. Now for my first ultra-marathon I was planning ahead to fail.

The day after the race a friend asked me if I finished and I said, “sure.” Then she asked if I ran the whole thing and I laughed and said, “no.” I can’t spell the noise she made, but it’s that drawn out, sympathetic “oh/aw” sound that comes right before “what a shame.” I didn’t mind. Now I knew better. At an ultra-marathon, everyone is walking the hills: it’s just a question of what you call a hill. And, as I told Steve afterwards, there were a lot more hills on that second lap.

I didn’t just walk the hills. There were places where I flat out walked. And there were places where I ran because if I didn’t I was going to be taking a 50 kilometer hike. I didn’t run negative splits. I didn’t finish strong. I ran the last mile because I was afraid Steve was going to lap me, except for this one spot with a hill. I walked the hill. And I did good. I did great. I finished in 5:33, only three minutes off my secret, very-hopeful goal time and at the same pace I’d run 21 miles only a few weeks before.

5:33 is good. Walking the hills is good. Walking some of the other stuff is good too, because finishing is amazing. Sunlight filtered through leaves is good, and running downhill into the shade, and rest stops with cold Gatorade and fresh oranges. Crossing a finish line to find a friend waiting can bring tears to your eyes and sitting down after five and a half hours on your feet is so good you don’t want it to end. Volunteers and spectators and runners who are running with you, not against you, are what love means; pride in someone else’s finish can top your own.

What’s a good way spend a long weekend? You could hole up in a B&B and shop for antiques or splay your body across the sand and let the waves lull you to sleep. You could go climbing–three days of perfect weather on warm rock–or crank up the radio and the barbecue in the backyard with some friends. Or you could share one of the most grueling days of your life with someone who makes you smile.

Did you have a good Memorial Day weekend? I did.

Steve’s Pineland Farms Trail Race blog entry