By Lori Mitchener
Remember that warmth of standing just a smidge too close to the campfire? You know, that warmth which almost sears your tender exposed skin, but you linger because it keeps the mosquitoes away. The air just inches away will feel cool and eventually cold in an instant. Perhaps it is just me, but there is something about that campfire warmth and the way it almost burns you but keeps luring you in. There you are, holding onto the trust that it won’t permanently damage you. After all, you could step away at any moment into the cool summer evening.
How long did you stand there? Did the warmth seduce you to inch closer and make you wonder, “How much can I endure?” Did you recognize when the warmth became heat capable of burning you? Athletes ask that of ourselves frequently. How much can I endure? Am I holding my feet too close to the fire? Preparing for the Badwater 135 in the time of COVID felt a lot like standing next to the campfire.
I had the blessing and the curse of knowing I would have entry to the 2020 Badwater 135 in May of 2019. Most athletes find out in January of the year they are to race; those that win Badwater, The Brazil 135, or The Keys 100 are automatically accepted into the race. Lucky me, I knew for 14 months that I had the honor of holding my feet to the fire in anticipation of toeing the line in the basin on July 6th, 2020. My life took a backseat to Badwater for 406 days.
Donning full winter running gear in hot yoga and inferno hot pilates for six to eight hours a week was typical. Average monthly mileage of 300 was the rule, not the exception. To be honest, except the layers, that routine isn’t really out of the norm for me over the past five years. We are runners, so we run. We run through snow, uphill, downhill, with friends, solo, on a treadmill, in a costume. Yup, we run. So, the stats are boring. It was the mindset that shifted. How many more could I add? How close to the fire could I get without burnout or injury? That question, balanced with respect for the need to push, dominated my thoughts. Everything was about Badwater. I even had to miss the Millinocket Marathon in preparation for Badwater.
Then, the world went crazy. Australia burned uncontrollably in January, locusts literally started swarming in February, and of course, then in March, life, as we knew it, stopped….. sort of… unless you’re running Badwater. Driving to Baltimore to pick up my middle kiddo at college in the early stages of lockdown, when police were barricading the exits off of I-95 in New Rochelle, New York, forced me to realize this pandemic was a big deal. Stay home. Wear a mask if you must go out. Schools closed for the academic year. The stock market crashed, rebounded, and is crashing again. Zoom is life. Yemeni women and children bore and continue to bear the brunt of unspeakable horror as the world continues to ignore them. Racial injustice may actually be dealt with after protracted protests. Every event canceled. Yet Badwater endured. Badwater remained at the forefront. Every day, in the midst of a reality that felt like the latest Netflix apocalyptic drop, I prepared for the world’s toughest foot race. Make no mistake; the honor of this endeavor is one I would do again in an instant.
And that’s a good thing. Friday evening, June 26th, I took my phone out of the Ziploc bag that protected it from my sweat and turned off airplane mode. I lay on my deck post run, while the perspiration that had pooled in my sauna suit gently sloshed around as I attempted to get “comfortable.” The heat felt from standing just a smidge too close to the fire radiated all over. I could endure this. I could withstand the heat I generated from running in winter clothes and a sauna suit. Despite training through a pandemic, I held my feet to the fire with ten days to go. Except I don’t get to… this year.
Once liberated from airplane mode, my phone had a Facebook message, a text, and a voicemail from a crew member. I didn’t need to call him back; I knew. In a pool of my own sweat, a voice on the other end of the phone said the race wasn’t going to happen. The cancellation email was coming, but they wanted me to hear it from a friend first.
“That right there, that is the greatest gift of running. The care and support we offer to the friends we make along the way.”
That right there, that is the greatest gift of running. The care and support we offer to the friends we make along the way. You can hold yourself so close to the fire that everything else fades away, and still, your friends will support and understand the journey. They will also be the first ones there when you do everything right, telling you, “Great job, and you get to do it all again, July 21st, 2021.” Of course I will. That’s what I do. That’s what we all do when we have the right “murder of crows” around us.
About the Author
Lori Mitchener is always a mother of three and an environmental science professor when she’s not out running. She lives on the North Shore of Boston.
