My Running Journey

I am three miles in, scrambling up a hill. The morning is quiet, the sky overhead a bright blue. There is not a soul around. I run a few steps forward out of a shady patch of trees and into the sun.

I take a deep breath, gazing at the meadow in front of me and the foothill beyond it. Up ahead there are two Canadian geese wandering slowly across the trail.

And there, on the next ridge over—I see her.

At first, I think she is a fox but as she moves down over a rocky ledge, I can tell she is a bobcat. Stout body, pointed ears, movements nimble and quiet. I watch her move. Then, she stops.

She looks across the clearing at me.

I am surprised to find that I don’t feel a single ounce of fear, only wonder.

We observe each other, both completely still. My breath is heavy from the running and my heart rate is elevated yet a peaceful feeling washes over me.

I smile, taking in this moment. Wow. Thank you. She looks toward me, and toward the geese, then turns to go, moving silently into the trees.

I take another deep breath, feeling how my body has come alive and how I’ve dropped completely into it. Here now. Legs strong. Breath alive.

I feel a surge of inspiration and decide to keep running.

It is an early Saturday morning in Upper Bidwell Park in Chico, California, and my goal is to cover eight miles. I am only a few miles in, but this encounter with the bobcat has ignited something in me.

Maybe I could go for a half marathon today?

The thought goes off in my head, a flash of inspiration I can’t ignore.

This would be my first half marathon. My longest run to date.

With no race. No finish line or medal.

Just me, out in the park, feeling inspired by a bobcat.

A flurry of excitement courses through my body as I navigate over the rocky trail.

Can I do this?

Should I?

Wait, how long is a half marathon again?

Without thinking too hard about it, I just keep going.

I visualize the bobcat, thinking about the way she must run all the time without questioning it, the way her body is designed to move.

You can do this, I tell myself. Just go for it. You’re already this far in.

I follow the trail I’m on as far as it goes, stopping at the end to take a few pictures of the colorful wildflowers.

On the lap back, I am smiling the whole way down the hill, feeling powerful and excited. I smile at the strangers I pass, secretly wanting to tell them what I’m up to. It is thrilling knowing I am about to create a new personal record, just for the fun of it.

At one point an older couple cheers me on. “You look like you’re going far!” the man says to me. I nod and smile and keep going.

I pace myself. Or try to.

I’m mid-run, completing a new distance, and don’t really know what I’m doing, but I keep pushing forward.

I imagine calling my brother after the run, telling him I’ve finished my first half. Years ago, we were in a routine of running together, training for a half marathon that I never ended up racing. My brother had taught me how to hold back a bit, how to plan the run so I had the endurance to get through the whole thing.

And now here I am—no actual race bib on, just out on a Saturday morning by myself, stacking up the miles. I want to say that I have run a half marathon, all 13.1 miles. I picture all the stickers I’ve seen on the cars and water bottles of distance runners, declaring their mileage—13.1, 26.2, 50…

A half marathon is the starting place to longer runs, and this feels like the confidence boost I need to get there some day.

If I can go 13.1, how much farther can I go?

These kinds of distances, aren’t they what make you a real runner?

I check my watch at eleven miles and start calculating how much farther there is to go.

One mile left, Rachel, you’ve got this, I think. Wait.

I pull out my phone and search “half marathon distance” and laugh when I remember that it’s 13.1, not 12.1 miles.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe some part of me wants to quit early and is looking for a shortcut.

I realize I have another mile to go but there’s no way in hell I’m giving up now.

Not with how far I’ve come.

Not with how beautiful that bobcat was.

Not with how effortlessly she moves out here, and how she inspired me.

My legs feel heavy. My mind wants me to stop.

I decide to run laps around Horseshoe Lake, the body of water near where I started this run.

I know there is a banana waiting for me in the car and that I can stop any time if I really need to.

My legs are burning, an unfamiliar tenderness along my hamstrings and behind my knees. It hurts, but in a doable way, a way I feel curious about.

Having come so far, I know I’m not going to quit.

Quitting would mean starting over next time, having to run miles one through twelve all over again, a task I don’t want to think about doing.

And so I plod around the lake, tired but happy, checking my watch every quarter mile or so, ready for it to end.

I hear my watch beep as I hit 13.1 and can’t help but smile. I reach my arms out to either side, pretending I’m crossing a finish line that’s not there.

On my watch, the screen flashes congratulations at me. Longest run! it says, with little confetti graphics sparkling behind the numbers. Half marathon. There is a small icon of a medal.

I walk to the car and sit down to eat the banana. Everything feels like slow motion.

I crank the AC and feel some pain settling into my legs. My mind is elated, my body heavy, my heart alive.

When I get home, I feel weird and shaky walking up the driveway. My calves cry out at the incline and feel tender as I go up the stairs. My body is throbbing and feels a bit uneasy, my feet, legs, and lower back all a dull ache.

Even though my body feels out of whack, I am as proud as I am tired.

I lie down on my yoga mat in the middle of the living room and wonder to myself, Is this normal? How long are my legs going to feel like this?

The pain sucks, but not that much, especially now that it is over.

I love this. I love that I have just run a half marathon without planning to beforehand. I love that I surprised myself and reached my goal. How when it was over, the way everything slowed down.

Later, after eating a bunch of pad Thai and soaking my sore legs in a cold ice bath and putting on my compression socks, I decide to remember this day forever. I pull out my phone and type in the calendar, Bobcat Half Marathon. I set the recurrence to once a year, a reminder to commemorate what feels like my first real race, even though it was just me against me out there.

Who does that? I laugh to myself. Who runs a half marathon randomly, alone?

I do, apparently.

It was my first taste of distance running, and I was hooked.

***

Running has torn me apart, but it has also stitched me back together.

Running was an identity shift for me—a claiming of my strength.

The hours and miles I’ve spent on trails have changed me. I’m convinced that the mental resilience I built becoming an ultrarunner is what gave me the courage and fortitude to trust myself enough to move to Utah and start over. But there are still questions I ruminate on, that I turn over and over in my mind. Questions I’ve asked while renegotiating my relationship with running and with my body.

What was I escaping?

What was I chasing?

How has running shaped me, and what do I want to do with it now?

***

First light.

The sound of the crickets and frogs singing good morning.

My shoes crunching on the trail.

The little bit of dust in the air.

The way the horizon starts to glow with amber.

The feeling of each footstep moving me forward. My heartbeat comes alive, the breath comes alive, energy begins to move.

This rhythm within me, how it holds an immense and steady power.

***

Mid-summer in Chico, California, I wake to smoky skies. The smell hits me when I take my dog outside first thing in the morning.

The sky is an orange-gray color and I am immediately angry.

The air feels thick and like I could choke on it.

Again? I think, shaking my head.

I am restless, feeling like a tiger in a cage.

I arrange for my neighbors to watch my dog for a few days, book a one-night stay at a resort I can barely afford, and hop in the car. As I speed down the highway towards Santa Cruz, it takes hours but slowly the blue sky emerges again, and my mood lightens.

I arrive at the resort and follow a windy road through the eucalyptus trees, rolling my window down to take a deep breath.

Clicking “book now” for the room here felt like a rush of freedom. Fuck it, I had thought. Initially I was trying to convince myself to go somewhere cheaper, to talk myself into being okay with an average experience. But this place called to me. On their website when I read that the property was nestled on three hundred acres and had nature trails, I knew that’s where I wanted to stay. I needed this. I needed to get away, to have an adventure. Nothing was going to stop me.

Checking in feels good. The staff are friendly and chatty, asking several times if there’s anything else I need as they hand over the room keycard.

I park, carry my backpack in, and quickly look around the quaint room. Sliding the balcony door open, I walk out onto the creaky wooden deck, surrounded by the fresh scent of the eucalyptus trees.

I take a few breaths, taking it all in.

Yes, I think to myself. Okay, you made it. What now?

I sit for a moment, planning my next moves. I want a run, then to head into town for Thai food and a quick visit to the beach.

A few moments later, a thought hits me that feels like relief. It feels like it’s come from somewhere deeper down in me, maybe somewhere outside of me. My guides whispering in my ear.

Freedom is always within reach. I smile under the eucalyptus trees, leaning back into the sound of the papery leaves rustling together.

I lace up my shoes.

Walk through the parking lot to the dirt trail. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A familiar and comforting sound underfoot.

I stare up at the redwood trees, their trunks like giant statues.

Freedom is always within reach. The whisper emerges again. At this moment, it feels like reassurance that my trip here was the right choice.

Years later, I’ll hear the thought again and realize I’m able to find it without running away at all. Freedom within your heart is how the thought will sound then.

But for now, I can breathe.

I can run again.

So I do.

***

I had done this before—run away to escape the smoke. One summer earlier, after a big wildfire, except that time I found a dog-friendly Airbnb last minute and high-tailed it to the California/Oregon border.

When we finally got out of the car, I sat on a park bench under a dense group of tall redwoods and ate the lunch I’d packed in my cooler.

I stared up at the tall trees, watching the light fall through the twiggy branches. The cedar color of the bark. The deep shade, soft ground. I walked my dog slowly around in the park, exhausted from the long drive, taking in the damp air. My heart beat steadily in my chest but something in me felt like I should be moving faster, doing more, getting more out of this experience.

Sometimes, even after running away from the smoke that was bothering me so much, I still felt like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin.

***

Sunday, May 2, 2021: The Tillamook Burn 50K

My 50K race took place in early May near Portland, Oregon, out in the Tillamook Forest.

I made a long weekend of the race experience, enjoying every moment of my solo trip. I flew up Friday then spent the day Saturday settling in and grounding myself before the run on Sunday.

The morning of the Tillamook Burn, my friend Alex and I met up at the starting line and waited together with one of the slower waves of runners. I watched as others warmed up and stretched and packed their vests. I felt excited, curious, and nervous as hell.

There was a palpable energy that morning. People pacing around, the excitement of the announcer’s voice over the microphone, the red numbers on the clock near the starting line ticking down.

I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach. Am I doing this right? Will I finish the race? Am I really up for this? I loved the rush of energy but also wished I could calm my heart rate a bit. After a few minutes of waiting around, we were off.

The first mile was a winding path through the beautiful bright green trees. Then, starting mile two we were climbing steep mountain terrain. The rugged ascent felt never ending and I was sweating profusely, overdressed in my jacket. Near the top, I ditched it and Alex let me pack it in his backpack.

Already in a slightly funky headspace, I felt undertrained. I thought of all my runs back in Chico, how flat they’d been. Those trails included a thousand feet of gain on any given run, sometimes more like only five hundred feet. The Tillamook Burn 50K course took me through seven thousand feet of ascent and descent, which, once I was in it, felt a bit like hell.

The race website describes the course like this:

The trails are quite hilly with a generally soft dirt surface offering great footing, although there are some technical sections with rocks and roots, as well as some long climbs and descents. Runners will cross many small rushing streams, pass by multiple waterfalls, enjoy miles and miles of remote creekside trail and some nice territorial views.

Accurate.

It was beautiful.

But it was also rugged—especially to a newer runner like me.

That first climb felt like an “Oh shit, what have I gotten myself into?!” moment. My sunglasses were fogging up in the chilly air, so I couldn’t see well. The course was more difficult than I expected, for sure. Plus, my stomach was wrong; it felt like I could hardly eat. I slurped down Tailwind from my pack but shook my head no thank you when the aid station volunteers offered me real food snacks like little sandwiches or quarter-pieces of banana. Later, during the second half of the race, I found myself wishing I’d been able to eat.

But, despite all the struggles, there I was—traversing the route I’d dreamed of for a year. Meeting cool people. Smiling at the other runners, feeling the excitement and energy of the course.

One of my favorite interactions was with a pair of women from Colorado. The one woman was turning fifty and had gifted herself this 50K as a birthday experience. Wow, I thought. What a cool way to celebrate turning fifty. I wondered what it would feel like to be out running like this in my fifties. I cruised with them for a bit, glad to have company for one of the steep downhills. I tried not to think too hard, just letting my legs follow in their footsteps.

I reached the halfway point feeling excited and uplifted. I remember hearing lots of cowbells ringing and the joy of the spray from a little waterfall where they had the midway aid station. Dappled light fell through the trees as I drank some water and tried not to worry about the remaining fifteen miles I had to go.

The second half of the run was a bit of a blur.

At one point I was completely alone, slowly making my way up a steep incline. I started to cry, half from the pain and half from how proud of myself I was. My right hip flexor and quad burned. My left ankle felt taxed, but I could tell it was going to make it through. I made peace with the realization that many of these final miles would be a hike instead of a run.

I remember the joy of the final aid station where I snagged a cold half of a banana and two packets of fruit snacks. They felt like the best food I’d ever tasted. It was around this point that I reconnected with one of the women I’d seen earlier. I was grateful for the chance to chat with her through the last few miles, a welcome distraction from the pain. By that point, the downhills actually hurt more than going uphill.

The finish line felt surreal.

I pressed the button on my watch to end the run and watched as it flashed a message to me. “Longest Run! 30.52 miles,” it said.

I asked my new friend to take a photo of me with the finish line in the background. I smiled, thankful for the journey I had just been on. Exhausted and relieved, I grabbed my “medal,” a beautiful wooden emblem carved with the twisted tree stump that is the logo for the Tillamook Burn race.

The cutoff had been nine hours.

I finished in eight hours, thirty-five minutes.

There were ten people behind me on the course. It was raw. It was perfect.

The farther away from the race I got, the less I cared about how long it took me to cover that course—and the more it meant to me that I was simply willing to give it a go.

On my way back to the hotel, I picked up an order of pad Thai and several bags of ice for an ice bath. I let the cold envelop me. The ice bath gave a constricting feeling—numbing, bare, immediate—a welcome contrast to the inflammation pumping through my body.

I took deep breaths and texted my family and friends about what I had just done, mostly at a loss for words. It was hard to capture what that moment felt like to me, what it had meant to me… there was so much passion and accomplishment behind what I had done, yet a slight feeling of it being unfinished somehow.

I spent the evening winding down from the surge of energy that had just coursed through my body, taking it all in. That night I slept restless, my body hot and vibrating, my legs fidgety. I was about to discover my first real case of post-race blues, the inevitable letdown that comes after such a big event.

I felt the physical exhaustion and depletion, an aching need to rehydrate and refuel. My brain was sluggish, the edges of my perception blurred. Decision-making felt slow and hazy, but I managed to get home from the trip without any issues.

I remember eating a lot. Sleeping as much as I could once I got home.

Swimming, letting my legs recover without the weight of gravity on them.

Drinking green smoothies.

Hiking the trails I’d trained on.

I remember one day going for a slow walk on the levy across from my house, the sound of the gravel crunching under my shoes, a welcome, familiar sound. I was grateful that my body was recovering quickly. Four days post-race, I went for a short, slow run; the flat terrain felt comforting and though my legs were heavy, it was a relief.

In the weeks to follow, I felt a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. I remember feeling low, lower than expected. I was uncertain and a little confused. I researched recovering from an ultra and how it affects your mood and hormones, realizing mine were in the process of resetting to baseline. I remember texting a friend with a ton more running experience than me, asking her if she’d felt this way. “It’s normal,” she said. I groaned, wanting it to be over, wanting to feel normal again.

But what was normal now?

I felt a bit lost. I had poured so much of myself into the miles leading up to that moment and now it was over.

What’s next? I wondered. What now?

In all the months of training leading up to it, it felt like that race should be a pinnacle experience—a peak moment of wonder and accomplishment—but honestly, it wasn’t.

That race made me realize how fully I love training days. Average runs. Runs I’ve done a hundred times.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade my first Tillamook Burn race for anything. I learned so much from it, gained a sense of accomplishment like I’d never felt before.

But even after that run, something inside of me still felt like something was missing.

***

Sunday, May 30, 2021: The Iron Cowboy Conquer 100 in Utah

The next big running event I was a part of changed my life immensely. It was, in many ways, the experience I’d hoped for with the 50K but had failed to find.

It was carefree, light-hearted, spontaneous.

It was fun.

It was a unique experience of being social and meeting new people from all over the world.

It was zero pressure—no sign-up or race bib. Just a chance to get out there and cover some miles.

It made me feel free.

During Memorial Day weekend 2021, I took a spur-of-the-moment trip to Utah to participate in Day 91 of James Lawrence’s Conquer 100. James is an endurance athlete known as the Iron Cowboy who holds a bunch of world records. From March to June 2021, he took on an insane challenge: complete 100 triathlons in 100 consecutive days.

One of the wildest (and in my opinion, coolest) parts was that members from the community and around the world could join in. Anyone who wanted could show up at the course and complete a triathlon (or any part of it) alongside James and his inspiring team.

I heard about the event through social media and decided I wanted to walk one of the marathons. So off I went.

I packed up my car, booked the hotel, drove all day. The next afternoon, I watched the Instagram story to see which location to show up to and at what time.

I ended up meeting so many amazing people that day! I had a brief conversation with James and could feel the intensity and focus of his energy. While we were talking, he stared straight ahead through his sunglasses, concentrated on the task at hand. He moved forward with a steady pace, unflinching, only smiling now and then as he talked about the experience of the Conquer 100.

At one point that day, I overheard him telling the story of the 153-mile run from Athens to Sparta called the Road to Sparta.

I felt inspired by his tenacity and determination, inspired by the energy of the group around us.

I chatted with this “wingman” Casey, one of two men who were with James the whole time on his journey. I met Rich Roll, another ultra-athlete who runs a famous podcast that I absolutely love. I got to chat with Rich about his book, his journey in fitness, and his excitement being there to support a friend.

I met people from all over the world who had come out to join Day 91, some of them completing their first triathlon, others their first marathon.

We walked for hours and hours in the hot sun, eating popsicles along the way, the impressive, craggy Wasatch front ridgeline around us. I looked at the mountains with awe, breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful that I could do something like this.

We all crossed the finish line together.

James turned to the crowd that had gathered for a picture and shared these words, which I still have saved on my phone, and which I’ll never forget.

“Good, bad, or indifferent,” he said, “You guys are all on a journey. And wherever you are right now in your journey right now is beautiful. And there’s lessons to be learned, good, bad, or ugly. Take some time. Stop. Forgive yourself for your past. Stop worrying so much about the future because tomorrow is not guaranteed. Just take a minute and appreciate where you are right now.

My favorite finish line is number 91 because that’s exactly where I am right now. My favorite finish crowd is you guys right now, because you’re with me right here, right now. Tomorrow will be my favorite finish line, when I get there. But right now it’s you guys, so thank you so much for the continued support and the love.”

It was wild, an experience I’ll never forget.

A day that felt incredibly inspiring and empowering.

A day that began pulling me towards the next chapter of my life: Utah.

***

Things shifted after the move.

I ran harder, and up way bigger hills, until I needed a real break.

Thanksgiving Day 2021 I ran my best half marathon, from a technical standpoint. The air was freezing, and my legs just wanted to go. I scored my fastest time, loving every second of the race—the clear, bright air, the view of the mountains, the funny little signs posted along the way listing out what participants were grateful for. At mile twelve, I read the sign that said, “I’m grateful this run is almost over!” and laughed at how I agreed with the sentiment. I crossed the finish line with twitches in my calf muscles. Every ounce of effort I could give burned up during that race. I felt proud and happy when it was over.

My new routine after moving to Utah also included running hill repeats in my neighborhood.

One weekend, I linked together a spontaneous ten-miler from my home to Ensign Peak and back, one of my favorite runs ever.

Just like in California, I continued to find that average training days were equally as meaningful to me as crossing a finish line for an official race.

That ten-miler alone was as satisfying as completing the Antelope Island half marathon, where I survived mosquito bites and saw the beautiful rolling hills and buffalo in the distance.

To me, a race is special, but so is lacing up my shoes and letting the day take me wherever it takes me.

In spring of 2022, I ran the Ragnar Relay with a team of friends and my partner (now my husband). Ragnar Zion was one of the most challenging and rewarding running events I’ve participated in. It was a totally different ballgame passing the baton among team members, each of us contributing sections of the race to the overall outcome. We crossed the finish line together after my last lap around the course, and I smiled and stood in front of a big fan, exhausted and a bit overheated. We shared hugs and laughed about far we had just gone.

Day and night running in the heat and the cold, each person completing three different laps, for over sixteen miles. I felt held, supported, and carried by the energy of the team, grateful for the chance to participate.

Slowly over the last few years since my move to Utah, my running practice has shifted, taken a break, then re-emerged differently. Moving here has shifted my pace overall.

I knew subconsciously coming to Utah that my training needed to change in order to support my changing body. I needed a new, slower way of being, a focus on deep rest and recovery, and for a while—a break from running altogether.

***

Running is a practice that teaches me to be at peace with unanswered questions.

To welcome the not knowing.

To enjoy the curve ahead on the trail and wondering with curiosity what’s around the bend.

Running has helped me trust the process of growing stronger. It has helped me learn to let things unfold naturally.

To let myself be grateful, however many miles I’m going, however fast or slow.

Themes of my running experiences:
Obsession. Wild ambition.
Restlessness. Tiger in a cage.
Control. Discipline.
Consistency.
The power of letting go.
The power of taking baby steps.
Learning how to slow down.
Savoring the moment.
My tendency to rush.
The value of pausing, taking it all in.
Presence.
Power.
Observation.
Gratitude.
Seeing the details.
Taking one step at a time.
Connecting with nature.
Receiving from nature.
Inner rhythms. Release.
Chasing. Running from.
Acceptance.
Running toward.
Being.
Rest.