He loosens his grip, meets my eyes with his, and wishes me luck. “I can’t believe you’re about to run your birthday run!” he exclaims. “Yeah, dude… thanks for all the training miles. I’ll let you know how it goes,” I say, grinning, releasing myself from the hug. “I’ve got a plane to catch, and I still need coffee.”

It’s 4:45am, and we’ve just done a shakeout run. My flight is at 10am, but I have to drive three hours south to Dallas’ Love Field to catch it. I dash home, shower, and throw a bag together. Dash home, shower, throw a bag together. That’s indicative of my day, no matter what is on the horizon. It’s also why I show up to races with no socks or a battery-less headlamp.

Because my travel day is long, I chose a sweater and yoga pants. Once I win the war of pulling them over freshly showered legs, they’re the most sensible option for comfort whilst squirming about my airplane seat. I’m latching onto comfort in any manner available, as it would be days before my body feels soft, feels at ease again.

Because it was January and I’m in Oklahoma, I opted for fuzzy boots - cozy and with the added benefit of not having shoelaces. Inevitably, I’ll have forgotten to pull my hair down or remove my oversized watch, both of which are prime bomb-hiding areas, apparently, so laceless shoes are important timesavers at security. I’m not sure if this is a thing or an Adi thing, but fuzzy boots eliminate the need for socks - the fuzz offering the softness that socks would otherwise provide - and with a few drops of thieves oil on the inside, I can slip my feet inside and not worry about them becoming smelly.

Donning my thieves-coated fuzzy boots, I swoop up my bag, grab my half-drunk cup of coffee, and get in my car, caffeinated water droplets decorating both my mug and my pants. This is why I wear black.

I drive the three minutes downtown for a roadie - and a lid - before trekking south. It doesn’t take long before I’m reliably locked in I35 construction with two empty coffee cups, a blueberry-sized bladder, and no access to an exit. I know all of these are going to happen, as they’ve never not happened, yet I’m surprised, anyway. What fun it is to have every day be a brand, new one.

And so it goes. And so I go….

I get to Love Field, which is squarely in the center of Dallas - a peculiar discovery, both in its unusual location and in that I never knew that, despite having lived within three hours of Dallas for thirty years. Surely, Google is wrong, I thought for the last twenty miles of my drive. It wasn’t. Ninety minutes and a third cup of coffee later, I’m tucked into my seat, crossword in hand, watching others settling in around me.

I love Southwest flight attendants more than any other group of people. Not only do they control the bathroom, the beverage cart, and the societally unaware assholes, but they do it with unrivaled humor. I mean, what other collective can make learning how to save your own life should you find yourself careening thirty thousand feet downward fun?

“There may be fifty ways to leave your lover, but there are only a couple ways out of this airplane,” she remarks, just before gesturing to the safety exits. I spend the next four hours rotating between my crossword, my book, and my silent giggles at her dad jokes. “Make sure you have all of your belongings before exiting the plane. Any items left behind will be divided among our staff. Please don’t leave children or spouses.” This woman holds my corny, little heart in her hands.

My feet are unusually and consistently itchy as I head to baggage claim.

Only once have I rented a car and it be a “normal” one. This day was no exception. I take the keys from the agent and open the door to a powder blue clown car. There are moments that being only 5’1 is an advantage. Even this isn’t one of them. I cram my bags, my coffee cup, and my itchy feet inside and map my way to Land O’Lakes, Florida - the land of butter and alligators.

What in the mother of crap is up with my feet?!

****************

Aging doesn’t bother me. Plucking the relentless grey hairs that appear - particularly when you learn that grey hairs have no geographical boundaries - is a pain in the ass, but other than that, I’m totally cool with getting older. As the cliché goes, it’s better than the alternative. Everyone said that my tune would change when I turned forty, but people do have an unfortunate habit of projection. All of this to say, five years ago, I was on the cusp of turning forty, and I saw it as an opportunity to celebrate in a big way, inexorable grey hairs and all; and what better way to mark the milestone than to run some obscure 100 miler through the Florida swamps?

I had twenty-four weeks and a new pair of trail shoes, which felt like rock solid logic to give the Long Haul 100 my $200 and most valiant effort. I poured a glass of wine because it’s important to start celebrations early, hit the registration button, and mapped out a training schedule.

It’s worth noting that in those twenty-four weeks, I:

1) answered some stranger’s FB request for an early, early morning trail running partner
2) stalked him on FB to make sure he wasn’t a rapist or a puppy killer
3) met him at 4am to run trails at dark for the first time in my running life
4) learned that headlamps are important to stay upright and avoid tree collisions
5) learned what he looked like two weeks later, when we finally ran in the daylight
6) learned how fun it is to run in mud, particularly by headlamp
7) learned the importance of zipping your coat pockets when your keys are in them
7) accidentally won a 24 hour race
8) gave up my short-lived decaf stint
9) gave up dairy and eggs
10) actually followed a training plan from start to end

The last six months of my thirties were the best six months of my life, at that point. This is what happens when you embrace your own surprising physiology, lack of grace, and good coffee. I mean, I had a four year downhill run after my fortieth birthday, but that had nothing to do with the number itself.

****************

After checking into the hotel and scanning my bag for forgotten items, I took the powder blue clown car back into Tampa. To my delight, I only needed one glove (side note for anyone wondering: they don’t sell them that way, although they should, because what about those people who are down to one hand?) and a pair of trail shoes. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Who forgets to pack shoes for a race? Well, on occasion, this girl. I’ve done it twice, now, but on that day, it was a choice. I’d annihilated my previous pair during training, and rather than packing one more thing, I decided to just buy them when I got there.

Florida doesn’t sell trail shoes. Seriously.

I searched all of Tampa’s specialty running stores before moving on to big box chains before finally ending up at the mall. If someone were to say, “Hey Adi, name your ultimate hell,” I’d say it’s a toss-up between Walmart, any 5K race, and the mall. At this point, my race day foot-protection choices are fuzzy boots, flip flops, or the mall. And so I go…

I’m talking to the kid about what I need when I hear a man’s voice across the store. “Adi? Is that you?” I turn to see a diminutive man with unkempt hair and a chicken-leg stance flapping his arms and grinning. My friend and running legend, Bill Rodgers. He’s there as one of the presenters for a local marathon. We bear hug and keep each other company until the kid reappears, proudly handing me a pair of size 10 Hoka Cliftons to try on.

Some dipshit once said that the third time is the charm, and, ever the optimist, I didn’t bother telling him that I’d tried Hokas twice before with no luck. No…. with horrendous and literally painful luck. Negative luck, is what it was. I simply thanked him and asked if they were the only trail shoes in the store. “Well, these aren’t actually trail shoes. They’re a hybrid, and it’s the closest thing we’ve got. Trail shoes don’t really sell in this area.” Yep. That’s pretty clear.

I pay him, hug Bill again, and walk toward the clown car, unscorched and unscathed, feet itching like mad.

What the hell is this?

****************

‘I’m so sorry. I got a new phone, so I’m not sure whose number this is.’

That was my reply from Dr Tom when I text him a picture of my swollen, bright red, blister-covered feet, captioned: Help, please! I have 100 miles to run in thirty-six hours.

I love Dr. Tom more than many of my own relatives, and not just because he’s willing to offer emergency medical advice about feet from 1300 miles away. He is the man who drives 90 minutes from his hometown every week to volunteer medical services at a clinic. He is the type of man who will tell a stranger that his pool house bathroom is open if said stranger ever needs a pit stop on the run. He is the type of man who doesn’t look at a picture of aggressively red, bubbled up foot skin and say “hey, yeah… maybe don’t run that race, this weekend.” Okay, so he probably knew that his breath would be wasted with that last bit, but still… he’s a good man and an important member of the running community.

He’s also a fellow bibliophile, so there’s that.

After a quick phone call, he advised me to go in search of hydrocortisone and coat my feet with it every few hours. I was to wear two pair of thin socks during the race - the idea being one pair functioned like skin, and the second pair would take the brunt of the friction. I did. I was also to call him if it got worse before the race. I didn’t.

I had one hundred miles to run on a technical course through a muddy swamp. My feet were going to hurt, anyway.

****************

At 6:50am on January 16, 2016, I pull up to the Long Haul 100 start line wearing black shorts, a grey No Meat Athlete tank, one pink glove, one green gloves, two pair of socks with toes, and some not-really-trail-shoes that I hate. They hand me a yellow rubber bracelet and explain that after each loop, I’ll get a different color. This helps them know which of the five twenty-mile loops I’m on. It also helps me; or, it would help me if I bothered to see which color corresponded to which loop. Details…

The gun went off at 7am, and into the woods we went. I’ll spare you an actual race report and just leave you with the highlights. You’re welcome. In those hours, I:

1) Got lost on all five loops and ended up with nearly 106 miles
2) Held onto tree branches to get myself through the muddiest parts of the swamp
3) Tripped over an armadillo
4) Tripped over a headless water moccasin
5) Sat in the clown car at mile 80 for four hours, waiting out a lightning storm and tornado warnings, where I got so stiff that I…
6) Begged a volunteer to chop my legs off and let me use tree branches to finish the last lap. She said no.
7) Met one of my favorite people, Long Haul Betty, with whom I now camp each year in Leadville
8) Learned how much singing really bad songs with strangers improve really hard situations
8) Remembered the importance of noticing contentment
9) Remembered the importance of doing really fucking hard things
10) Remembered the importance of solitude
11) Remembered the importance of human connection
11) Remembered the importance of making a packing list

My trail running partner - the faceless, non-puppy killer from social media - text me as soon as I crossed the finish line. It read ‘Congrats on your finish! Happy birthday! Did you cry?’ It was a strange and amusing message, but that’s who he was: a strange and amusing man. I thanked him, drank a beer, and headed for the shower. Clean, caffeinated, and covered in biofreeze, I pulled out my laptop to offer a proper response. I knew what he was looking for. He wanted the story. He wanted intimate details, words that evidenced personal growth, actual emotion surrounding what I’d just done.

Five years ago, very few people could slip beneath the surface, him being one of them. That race cracked me, though, and this platform - this placeholder of my stories, if you will - has continued the erosion. I started typing.


No, I didn't cry. I think I shared enough tears with Long Haul Betty on the course. She’s great, and everyone should know her. Anyway, tears and goosebumps. We had such wild conversations. It was true trail talk - like the sort you have when you spend miles and miles on the dirt with someone. I'll tell you about her in person. It's interesting (there's that word again). I try to experience these emotions that are "normal" in some situations. I mean, I spend a lot of energy searching inside myself for them, just in case my self-taught habit of controlling and burying feelings that are attached to vulnerability is taking over. I did this with my birthday (as it turns out, I truly just don't care), and I did this for months leading up to the race, all the hours spent on those Florida trails, and for the nearly four hours I sat wet and shivering in the car while waiting for the thunderstorm to pass and tornado warnings to clear. Once the lightning stopped and it was only raining, I put my shoes back on, grabbed the pink bracelet signifying the last loop, and tried to make myself feel something more than stubborn. Don't misunderstand this. I was so happy, and I truly loved being in the woods alone for all those miles, but I didn't feel like I was experiencing 'normal' late-race feelings. Anyway, at this point, the trails were so muddy and full of puddles, and since they were so narrow, the only option was to trudge right through it while holding on to extended tree branches to stay upright, which was so fun! It was hard as shit, though, because my body was a little tired from navigating all the divots on the trails (I'll take giant roots and monster climbs over those constant fucking holes any day) and every once in a while I'd think about the open wounds on my feet and send a silent prayer to the trail gods to not let me get some sort of obscure infection.

Because my back-up headlamp battery inexplicably didn't charge enough and was dying, I used another racer's who had dropped for this last loop. His is a different model and is not strong enough for my poor night vision, so I had a hard time seeing. I was grateful to have it, but even more grateful when the sky started to lighten a few minutes before 7am. Not long after, the rain stopped, so I was able to take the headlamp off and pull the hood on my rain jacket down. The sun began to peek through what was left of the clouds, and it felt like a new day.... like the world was waking up. I suppose it was. I felt a fresh wave of calm - even though I never felt like the 'calm' had left - and my entire inside smiled. I had no interest in speeding up. I just wanted to hold on to this. That's another thing... Through the entire race, I never 'just wanted to finish.' I wasn't there to win or get through it. I was there to experience it. I made trail friends, had incredible conversations, joked with the volunteers, gave long head rubs to the dogs walking their owners, went the wrong way and backtracked (on every. single. loop.), enjoyed the silence, and made peace with being in my own head. Anyway, I was just so... something? Something good. Content. I was just so content, and when I saw something beautiful, I'd stop to take it in. Not long... just long enough to really see it, and then I'd keep moving forward. Even as I left AS2 for good, as I crossed the makeshift bridge for the last time, and finished the little stretch of pavement leading to the finish, I never felt the need to hurry. I just felt satisfied.

So have I cried? No. But am I still trying to force a 'normal' emotion that is clearly unnatural for me? I no longer feel the need to, and that is probably one of the best reasons to get on the trail. You get to trudge through yourself and find what's real, and then you find a way to reconcile all that’s swirling around in there.

I hit send and made more coffee.

****************

The next day, I packed everything but the Hokas, dropped off the powder blue clown car, and flew home wearing a flannel shirt, a skirt long enough to sit cross-legged in, and black flip flops with turquoise and yellow toe socks. So, if you’re wondering who brought sexy back, it was me. Again, you’re welcome.

A week later, I bumped into a friend in Sprouts’ produce section. I showed off my feet, still blistered, still red; but I’d run out of hydrocortisone, so the lack of shine made them notably less alarming. She disagreed. The conversation evolved organically, as conversations do, and somewhere we landed on essential oils. She’s well-versed in this holistic approach, and she believes in their healing powers. I believe they smell good. She mentioned thieves as “an oil that’s good for immunity, particularly for chest colds and flu.” “You need a carrier oil, though, because it’s a hot one and can burn your skin.”

Oh. My. God.

My feet! I always sprinkle thieves oil in my fuzzy boots because I don’t wear socks with them! I never considered consequences, though, because I never have them on for more than the time it takes me to drive to the studio. Also, I never considered consequences because it’s oil, for crying out loud, and Young Living tells you it’s safe to drink the stuff if you have a hankering, but that’s neither here nor there.

I called Dr. Tom. “Yep, Adi. Now that you say this, those are second degree burns on your feet. Hey, how did your race go?”