My Favorite DNF
The 2021 Badger Mountain Challenge 100
I started off 2020 determined to make a huge come-back. For about 18 months I had been spiraling into a major depressive episode and fighting to crawl back out of it. I was going to get back to a structured and fairly aggressive training routine; I was going to sign up for a bunch of races and crush every one of them; everything about my life was going to improve radically. I was going to kick ass. By early January, I had a full race calendar and was ramping up my mileage. In February I had a bit of a set-back, as a mysterious illness* knocked me out for a couple of weeks and lingered in various ways that made it really hard to run for several more, but by the beginning of March I was feeling better and excited to attack the first race on the roster: the Badger Mountain Challenge, in Richland, WA.
But then, COVID. A couple of weeks before starting time, the race was postponed from late March until late May. I shifted my focus to the upcoming Boston Marathon, in April, which was then cancelled, followed shortly by the May version of Badger, and eventually by every remaining race on my calendar. As we blundered our way through Year One of the pandemic, I maintained a reasonable level of training, always hopeful that things might start to resolve and the next race, maybe, would actually happen. By the end of the summer I was in pretty good shape and also coming out of my debilitating depression, but each upcoming race was cancelled. I tried to keep up the discipline with some silly personal challenges, but eventually I started losing my momentum and getting sloppy. I developed a nagging pain in my lower leg. And foot. And knee. And hip. And other leg, etc.
January 2021 found me hobbling around stiffly, yet still trying to log high mileage. In mid-February I finally went to the doctor, who told me I had fairly severe tendonitis in three tendons, including my right Achilles, and that the only remedy was to STOP RUNNING. Completely. For weeks. Having survived a full year of maintaining a reasonable level of conditioning — not to mention equanimity and optimism — I was extremely reluctant to give up my most dependable coping mechanism. However, I was convinced (after a period of denial, anger and bargaining) that the injury would continue in the wrong direction as long as I kept aggravating it, so I stopped…for a couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, the race director managed to get approval to hold the 2021 Badger Mountain race in late March. My doctor was not thrilled by my proposal that, now that the pain in my Achilles was not extreme enough to wake me up in the middle of the night, maybe in a couple of weeks I could just, you know…run 100 miles. But I had been able to trot a couple of miles here and there without pain; Richland is only a couple of hours drive from my house; and I was not going to get a refund or be able to defer my registration — the stakes, in other words, were low. I had nothing to lose, so figured I might as well show up and see how far I could get. I only had to promise the doctor that if anything started to really hurt, I would stop. I had never voluntarily dropped out of a race, though, and I had no idea what I would actually do if it came down to it, but I promised.
Registration was drive-thru. Around the side of Runner’s Soul in neighboring Kennewick, WA, a masked volunteer came to my car window to check my ID and hand me my race packet and swag. Very nice running shirt; even nicer hoodie; a few other goodies — better stuff than many a larger, more famous and way more expensive race. I then went into the store, where I talked to people and bought running shoes. Being there made me realize how long it had been since I was out and about, around other runners (or anyone, really, outside of my kids and a couple of their friends). It made me happy. Even if I didn’t toe the line in the morning, it was already worth the trip.
But toe the line I did. After a less than stellar night in a sketchy motel, I arrived in the parking lot of the Badger Mountain trailhead park about an hour before dawn. I reported for my pre-race check-in, delivered my drop bags to the appropriate collection spots and got ready to run. We had signed up beforehand for staggered starting waves of 10 people, to avoid anything like crowding. Daylight appeared as I made my way to the general vicinity of the starting line, where everyone hovered in socially-distanced anticipation to cheer on each wave of masked runners as they set out (masks required at aid stations only, not while running). My wave took off at 7:08.
The Badger Mountain Challenge is a two-day extravaganza that includes a 50-mile, a 55k and a 15k run in addition to the 100. The course starts and ends in the park: a 50-mile out-and-back that the 100-milers do twice. The race allows for 100-milers who have had enough to call it on their first return and be given an official finish to the 50. This option was a definite factor in my decision to come down here in spite of the likelihood of having problems with my leg: I figured it would probably sting less to come home with a medal and an official time in a 50-miler than with a DNF. But my general attitude heading up Badger Mountain at the start was that I may well not make it 50 miles, let alone 100.
The course goes up over Badger, then up over Candy Mountain, down through a culvert under a highway, along a mind-numbing expanse of vineyards and orchards, up and down a series of short but insanely steep inclines known as “the Jeep trails,” through a short stretch of town on paved roads, then up a steep climb to a ridge that we run along for a few miles before reaching the highest point and turning around. We then do almost the whole thing in reverse, back to the trailhead. Before this my only experience of 100-mile races were high-altitude ultras in the Colorado Rockies: courses that go far out of towns and into fairly remote wilderness. This one is right away distinguished by starting in relatively urban Richland, which along with Kennewick and Pasco make up what’s known as the Tri-Cities, a major population center on this side of the state. Southeast Washington is characterized by dry, rolling hills and ridges, a lot of agriculture and virtually no native trees. This means that from almost anywhere on this course one can see for miles around, and also that we’re exposed to high winds and whatever else the weather throws our way. From the beginning to all the way out on the ridge, I could see buildings and highways, houses and lights, radio towers, shopping centers and other signs of civilization. Never really leaving town gives this race a very different vibe from other ultras I’ve run.
I start off moving at a reasonable pace but being very solicitous of my Achilles and associated tendons. Badger is easy to get over. Candy is also an easy climb but a bit steeper on the other side, and then there is a long stretch of basically just running along a road. There’s a gradual incline, but it doesn’t feel like a significant climb. After the second aid station come the “endless vineyards,” and then around Mile 14 we come to Demoralizing Hill. I think spot is best described as a chasm: the gravel road goes along for miles more or less level, and then there is this abrupt plunge down about 60 feet — like the kind of cliff Wile E. Coyote is always running off and then dangling in midair for a moment before plummeting — and an immediate climb back up to where it seems should be the other side of a bridge. Thus begins the “Jeep trails.” Admittedly I do find this somewhat demoralizing: so far my tendons feel fine and I’ve been having a lovely day, but this — not so much the descent but the climb back up — seems specially designed to aggravate an injured Achilles.
I’m pleased to reach the bottom without sliding on my ass (it’s that steep). I’m fully delighted to reach the top of the other side without screaming pain of any kind. I do feel a twinge or two in my lower leg, but when I reach level ground and continue, the pain goes away immediately. No problem! This time, at least. Naturally, the Jeep trails continue with variations on the “chasm” theme: crazy steep descents and climbs on loose sandy gravel. Each time I expect the pain from climbing will linger, but it doesn’t. I’m not loving the course, but this is going better than expected.
After what seems much longer than it was, we emerge onto a road and continue up to the McBee Parking aid station at Mile 18.5. This is the only spot other than the trailhead where I could have a drop bag. It is also at the bottom of the longest, steepest ascent of the course : the McBee Climb. This is the part I’ve been most worried about. I take a few minutes to change my socks (those Jeep trails really get into your shoes) and set out for the moment of truth. I’m a fan of mountains and actually like climbing, normally, but with this specifically incline-sensitive injury I really don’t know what to expect from the much-hyped McBee.
While it’s the longest on the course, the McBee climb is less than a mile. It’s steep, but it’s not that bad at all. I do feel it in my Achilles, but as has so far been the case all day, once I reach the top the pain goes away. Running along the ridge turns out to be rockier and slower going than expected, but I reach the turn-around and head back with no problems. Instead of the way we came up, we go down via sloping single track that loops way out into a meadow and back to McBee Parking. I’ve now covered about 50k, I feel surprisingly good, and I’m starting to think that I may, in fact, run 100 miles today. I shift mental gears and start thinking about what I’m eating and wearing; planning to be out here for another 24-hours or so. My Achilles feels fine.
I’ve been going pretty slowly, almost entirely focused on whether this one part of my body hurts in a specific way. Now that it seems I might really be doing this, I start paying attention and assessing more generally. I have been eating pretty well; drinking plenty of fluids. My stomach is fine. I’m not tired. My head is clear. Considering the past year, and especially the past few months, this seems surprising, but there it is. I head back towards the vineyards feeling very optimistic. Given how cautious (that is, slow) I’ve been all day I’m unlikely to get back to the trailhead before dark, but I’m going to get as close as I can before sunset. The Jeep trails that I’ve been dreading turn out to be notably less awful going this direction. Going up the back side of Candy Mountain is, as expected, harder than climbing the other side, but it’s still not too bad.
It is fully dark well before I get back to Trailhead Park at almost 9:00 pm. For the past 10 miles I have been contemplating the big decision: play it safe, take the 50-mile finish and go home uninjured, with a medal, or turn around and do this whole thing again, hoping that my energy, my Achilles and everything else holds up for another 50 miles? I’m leaning one way and then the other — back and forth. Once I plunk myself into a chair and start sipping warm broth, being FINISHED seems like a very good idea. But…realistically I know myself well enough to know what I’m going to do here, and after changing my socks again (damn Jeep trails) and putting on more layers and grabbing more headlamp batteries, I drag myself back up Badger Mountain. This might get ugly, but I’m going to try to get myself a buckle.
It’s pretty up on Badger in the dark, with city lights spread in all directions down below. The steep side of Candy is much more treacherous in the dark, but I make it to the Jacob’s Road aid station with no real problems and start off through the vineyards. I’m starting to notice that even though this is pretty level trail my lower leg is aching a bit. Does it really HURT, though? I start to review what the doctor told me — which tendons are unhappy, where they connect and to what, and what to look out for. Mostly what I remember is him saying that if I let it get really inflamed and swollen, my Achilles could RUPTURE. Rupture is a hideous word to associate with any body part, and I have tried to put it right out of my mind, but now that I’m trudging along alone in the dark some 15 hours into this race I can’t stop hearing it in my head. RUPTURE. A rupture would be bad. Really bad. Catastrophic…
I suddenly notice that there are vineyards on both sides of me. The race director repeatedly said that we should always be sure that there are vineyards or orchards on one side only. Otherwise we’re off the course. The course description says the same thing. During the (online) pre-race meeting this repetition seemed ridiculous: the maps and descriptions and comments made it perfectly clear that we should stay along the edge of the vineyards the whole way, and the idea that someone would make a hard right or left and wander off down the rows seemed absurd. Why would anyone do that? It’s simple: vineyards on one side. Well…here I am, somewhere in a vineyard (or maybe an orchard — I don’t know). Off the course. It’s really dark and all these endless rows of trees (or vines?) and their braces are identical. I could be anywhere. It’s sometime after midnight and it’s creepy out here. I have no idea how long I’ve been going the wrong way, or how far off I am. I have a very strong impulse to guess and try to cut through in what seems like the right direction, but I think better of it, turn around, and go back exactly the way I came. Thankfully I’m not more than a half-mile off the course. But now I’m even farther behind, I’m flustered, my general Achilles area is kind of sore (injury-sore though?) and all too soon I am back at Demoralizing Hill.
I get to the bottom with no real problem and start back up. This particular ankle-flexing action distinctly burns. I try turning my foot to one side or the other to minimize the pull on my Achilles, but this is a damn steep climb and no angle seems to relieve the pressure. I try going backwards, which works somewhat better on the pain but is incredibly slow and awkward. My sense of triumph upon reaching the top is immediately crushed by the realization that it still hurts: my whole ankle area is burning. It’s going to take forever to get out of here.
The pain eases up as I go along, but soon there’s another steep down-and-up and the burning returns. I continue trying various angles and strides and backwards-walking and leaning heavily on my trekking poles, to no avail. I finally get to the Orchard aid station but I’m still assessing the situation and I keep going. I’m almost done with the Jeep trails, and remembering that these climbs were easier going the other direction…meaning that as far as steep Achilles-torturing inclines, I really have only the McBee Climb and then this side of Candy Mountain to go, and I’m done. There are a lot of miles and a bunch of smaller inclines, of course, but if the burning subsides on the easier sections….
That’s not happening, though. Not on level parts, not on declines, certainly not on even the most minor of inclines. The burning sensation has a pressure to it. Any attempt at even the slowest jog is excruciating, so now I’m walking, and slowly. Gingerly. Limping, really. I’m trying to consider how I feel otherwise: stomach still fine, head still clear, nothing else really hurts, still not all that tired. So my only problem — aside from this burning, building pressure and pain — is that it’s approaching 3 am and I’m barely moving. I have around 34 miles to go, but around 12 hours to do it, which should be plenty. This is doable! I can do this! If only my ankle didn’t feel like it’s about to explode.
That is, RUPTURE.
I emerge onto the bit of road that is the lowest spot on the course. McBee Parking is about half a mile from here, but uphill. I again resort to walking backwards as I make my way towards the aid station, wrestling with myself all the while: could I do the McBee climb backwards? If I walk slowly (backwards?) the entire rest of the race, could I finish in time? If I don’t take the weight off it and pack it in ice RIGHT NOW is my Achilles going to RUPTURE?
The correct decision seems painfully (PAINFULLY) obvious, but I refuse to admit it. Again, I have never voluntarily dropped out of a race, and I fear spending the rest of my days wallowing in regret and misery if I do it now — just wimp out, just quit. The pain is actually quite tolerable (these things are relative) and otherwise I feel pretty much fine. McBee Parking is Mile 68.5, which seems absurdly far into a race to give up. I can’t bring myself to make the call.
I hobble up to the aid station volunteers and ask to speak to the medical person (aid stations generally have someone on hand with at least some kind of medical training). A man comes forward and offers me a chair, and he sits down next to me while I explain my Achilles situation. I desperately want to elevate my foot, to relieve that damn pressure, but the thing immediately in front of me is a fire pit, and even though I’m cold, putting my ankle anywhere near the fire massively amplifies the burning sensation. Thankfully the medical man (I don’t remember what his credentials were, nor his name) lifts my foot to examine my leg. Even the gentlest of pinches along my Achilles or up my calf make me yelp. Someone sticks a big bag of ice under my ankle and it’s such a relief I almost cry. Somehow I’ve been wrapped in blankets.
I want Mr Medic to tell me what to do, but he very diplomatically says, “well, it’s your body, and I can’t tell you what to do.” And then, rather than any specific recommendation or diagnosis, he says this: “if you really screw up your Achilles, it will never be the same.” This idea — permanent damage — enhanced by the threat of RUPTURE, makes the decision for me, to say nothing of the fact that I’m in a chair wrapped in warm blankets by a fire with ice cooling my burning ankle after more than 20 hours on the trail. There are runners coming through who have completed the loop on McBee Ridge and are past Mile 80; they have the Jeep trails and vineyards and mountains ahead of them. I am done.
I thought that as soon as I said the words “I’m dropping,” I would feel terrible — like a loser, a quitter, a miserable failure. Like I’d let myself down in the worst way. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Instead, I’m elated — I had a really nice day! And I got more than 68 miles into this, which is so much farther than should have been possible! I’m also just enormously relieved. And sleepy. Someone brings me soup. I doze in my comfy chair by the fire, enjoying the lovely volunteers and muttering words of encouragement to passing runners. Around 4:30 a nice lady shows up in a car and drives me back to Trailhead Park, where I arrange a sleeping bag and pillows, curl up in the back seat of my car and go to sleep. I wake up around 9 and go up to the finish line for a little while to cheer people in, and then I head home.
I still expected misery and self-loathing to descend at any moment, but it never happened. When I thought about the race, I only thought of how great it was — finally, after more than a year with no races and no gatherings — to be out of the house, running a long way on a beautiful day surrounded by my ultra-running community. A few days later they posted race photos on the website. As I search through them, I’m struck by how almost every runner in every picture is smiling. This is true of my photos, too: in every shot, I look incredibly happy, even though my leg hurt and I went into the race virtually certain that I would crash and burn. The 2021 Badger Mountain Challenge was my seventh attempt at a 100-miler. Of the previous six tries I had managed exactly one official, buckle-winning finish. The remainder includes one finish that was beyond the final cutoff time, and four DNFs, all for missing cutoffs. This fifth DNF, though, was different: this time it was by choice and for good reason — an informed and correct decision. In this case, at least, that makes all the difference. This is by far my favorite DNF.
My Achilles was sore for a couple of days, and after a few more weeks of careful attention and light running it was fine. I have no doubt that had I tried to climb up to McBee Ridge and continue on to the finish, this would not be the case. I vividly remember that burning, about-to-explode feeling and can well believe that the tendon would have ruptured, or worse (if there IS worse), and that would have meant months of pain and medical procedures and may well have been the end of my life as a runner. Instead, I had a grand day out, had a chance to hone such ultra skills as planning drop bags and managing nutrition, got a full experience of the course (that, needless to say, I will go back to try again), and for once I made a sensible decision and felt good about it. Surprising as this is to me, I’m as proud of making the right call and dropping out as I would be of a buckle…which, since my legs remain intact and functional because of that decision, I still have the ability to go after.
*Very likely COVID — but at the time this was not a known thing to worry about or test for. I had no idea.
