Western States was an amazing experience. And it isn't finished, even now over a month after the race to Placer High School. It began much earlier than 5 AM on June 29, 2019. As far back as when I was in seventh grade. But for now, we'll go back to July 2012.
July 2012. On Friday the 13th, my ex filed for divorce, and I signed for the papers that afternoon right before heading to run my first ultra, the Cuyamaca 50k. It was only a couple hours west of where I lived in Yuma, AZ on the way to San Diego. I had no idea what I was doing. It was hard. I got lost towards the end. It was hot. It took over five and a half hours!!! I was covered in dust/dirt with the infamous dirt tan line above my ankles. But I had so much fun. I WAS HOOKED. With nowhere to go, I stuck around after the race to eat pizza and met other runners. As is expected from me, I had more than my fair share of pizza. It was almost as fun as the race itself. I was hurting and needed that community. They were there for me in ways they'll never know. I camped another night there and woke up to a neighbor camper talking in Hungarian. That was AWESOME. Another neighbor camper came over sometime over the weekend, and we got talking. He and his wife were so kind. He had just started running long distances, but hadn't run an ultra yet. We agreed to meet up later that week since I was going to be in San Diego for training for work anyway. Even though I was beyond sore, I had a blast just a few days later running some trails with him and some of his friends. They invited me yet again to another workout that week. So I went and had more fun doing a track workout. This week was crucial for my mental health. My world was changing, drastically. With the pending divorce, we were also going to move to Virginia a month later for a new job. Some of the racers and this camper and his friend helped me move forward. Running helped me move forward, and it kept me alive.
My new job in Virginia was a nice break from the 60+ hour work weeks in Yuma, but the bosses quickly made my already-hellish life even more hellish. Somehow though, I just kept going forward. I found another 50k race a few hours away. I ran the New River 50k in a smoking fast 3:37 finishing in second place. That weekend further lifted my spirits. Throughout this difficult time, nightmares were common. It was hard to focus. But somehow I managed to find sobriety through running and frequent 12-step meetings. I connected with other addicts and runners, with church leaders. I found support groups for both the addiction and for transgender. I found a therapist and started hormone treatment. All of that support somehow got me through.
Then I met Heather. I wasn't looking for romance. I just wanted to have fun dating, get my mind off the hell I was going through with my ex and her fiancé. But Heather and I instantly connected. As corny as it sounds, fate brought us together.
But what does all of this have to do with Western States? Well, those two runners from San Diego talked about one day running Western States together. I thought the idea was crazy. I had read "Born to Run" and had no desire to run 100 miles. And I didn't know what this "Western States" race was all about anyway. But then, I happened to run a 50-mile race that was a qualifier for Western States. The race was the weekend before our wedding in early June 2013. But since it was a qualifier for States, I put my name in the lottery anyway later that year.
The next year, they removed all the 50-mile qualifier races since they had so many runners entering the lottery. So, I bit the bullet, and ran a 100-mile race, the Massanutten Mountain Trails 100 Mile Run in May 2014, a month after I ran Boston for the first time setting a PR of 2:52:10 that still stands (it was a BLAST!!). I finished the 100-mile race. Not finishing never even occurred to me. So the last 30-40 miles were a slogfest, a death march to the extreme. At the half-way mark, I was on pace to finish in about 20 hours. But then after mile 60-ish, I pretty much died and walked most of the last 40 miles. My pacer was super patient, gently nudging me along.
. . . to be continued . . . (I hope)
