Jacks 50k and the DNF

DNF = Did Not Finish

I earned my first DNF in Jacks 50k. I've done a lot of reflecting in the week since the race. My thoughts and feelings have traveled from "I'm done with ultra running" to "Which race is next?" I've hated the sport for it's stupid brutality (Who in their right minds goes out and runs for hours on end? For FUN?). I've mourned the finish that I should have had (How could I train for 5 months and NOT complete the race?) I've made peace with the knowledge that, like every tragedy in literature and real life, my ego was my Achilles heel. 

Jacks 50k caught my attention as I was beginning a search for my birthday race. Then I heard Dawn Lisenby, the race director, interviewed on the East Coast Trail and Ultra Running Podcast, and her story of memorializing her brother by holding this race yearly to raise funds for a scholarship drew me in. 

All photos thanks to Kylie Rhoads

The race is on the lovely Mala Compra Greenway Trail in Palm Coast, Florida. From the packet pick-up to my time on the course, the race had a vibe that really felt like home. The short jog up the beach at the start was beautiful and a warning that it was going to be a long day. The trails were typical Florida trails-- a mixture of flat and very runnable, to Florida mountain bike trail hilly-- lots of little ups and downs and technical with toe-grabbing, ankle-twisting roots. 

Respect the Distance

One of the most important rules of running is to always take the distance seriously. My first error was to be too nonchalant about this race. My first ultramarathon was the Grand Canyon 50k. I was terrified of both the distance, the climate, and the elevation. My second ultra was The Dunes 50 miler. I trained hard for each race, doing both speed work and hill work. In both races, I started slow and ran steady. 

For Jacks, I said more than once, "Oh, it's just a 50k." And while that statement alone is benevolent, it carries with it a flippancy that summarized my attitude. I didn't give much thought to my drop bag, pacing, or fueling strategy. I went in a little too cocky, having placed first in that Dunes 50 mile and some smaller 4 hour races. 

I approached the start intent on earning a podium spot. I started fast, too worried about the runners around me. Second female from the start, I checked often to see if I could see the women behind me or the one ahead. It was quite warm. 

At the end of the first loop (about 9 miles in), I picked up extra fuel, thinking I'd do the second loop and not stop at my drop bag or the aid station-- more concerned about speed than caring for my body. I was already feeling a little off; I just couldn't seem to find my stride or my rhythm. I was still too worried about where the other women were. 

At the end of the second loop, I grabbed about 6 grapes and a pickle spear. Checking my watch I noted the time, so I knew when to eat next. Not even comprehending that the 50ish calories I had just consumed was not real fuel and that I needed far more due to the effort and heat. Halfway through, the wheels were falling off. I stopped at the aid station and threw down some Tailwind (a carb and electrolyte mix). I refilled my water, again not comprehending that the 4 oz or so of water was not nearly enough to replenish all that I was sweating out. 

As the third lap began, I was passed again and again. People were flying by. I needed to speed up. And I began feeling the first twinges of my leg muscles warning me that cramping was soon to follow if I didn't do something soon. I drank a little water and slowed to a walk. At this point I was drinking a swallow or two, then trying to run a little, but mostly walking. I walked a lot. Knowing I was in trouble, I tried to eat a little. 

I hated it. I didn't want to keep going. I didn't know why I had ever signed up for the race. Why would people do this for fun? It wasn't fun. It was pure misery. I was trying to calculate how long it would take me to finish the loop, never mind the race. I kept walking. Then, all of a sudden I just couldn't go any more. Literally, everything in me decided to leave at once. I needed to sit. To lie down. To just stop. When I did, just to emphasize that my race was done, my calf cramped harder than I've ever experienced. I screamed in pain and scared a mountain biker to death. I texted my husband, sent him my location, drank the remainder of my water, and waited to be able to stand again. I hobbled to the car and was driven back to the start/finish. 

It was only hours later, after refueling, rehydrating, and rehashing the miles, that I realized I had eaten only about 400 calories and drank only about 8 oz of water in 20 miles and 4 1/2 hours of running. Not even close to being enough. AND I had been carrying everything I needed to succeed. My body and brain had bonked and bonked hard. I knew better. Shoot, it had just happened to me at The Dunes in April. 

I'm not done. I really thought I was. Even afterwards, after a soak in the jacuzzi and eating pizza at the Mellow Mushroom, I talked to my husband about how I was done. I didn't have anything to prove anymore. I felt released. Finished. Satisfied. But I'm not. I can't imagine not running long. Escaping the sidewalks and work and people to hit the trails on an occasional long race weekend. I just love it.