Waiting for the Second Wind

Note: This was written in mid-November of 2023.

The other day, I found myself paging through an old training log from high school (back when I actually kept a paper training log!) Aside from marveling over how annoyingly fast I used to be (my current 21-year-old self couldn’t hold a candle to the mile repeat times I used to run sophomore or junior year), it struck me just how many thousands upon thousands of miles I’ve accumulated, most of them on the streets of Cape Elizabeth. Even after over 8 years of consistent running, I still cherish my favorite local routes: the 15 mile loop I ran every Sunday morning during summer cross country training, the trails around Gull Crest and Robinson Woods and Great Pond, the hills bordering Purpoodock Golf Course that I used to believe were practically mountains. Today, while I’m still considered extremely young in the ultra running community, I do have nearly a decade of training under my belt. It is because of this, I believe, that I was able to bounce back so quickly from multiple injuries this past spring and essentially pick up where I left off in training and racing.

The pain in my foot lingered into July. After all, I didn’t give myself much time truly off before insisting to my body that it was time to start training again. Running was uncomfortable, but things weren’t getting worse, so I pushed onwards. It was a dangerous game I played: How many miles would push me over the edge back into injury? My first week of running totaled over 70 miles; the next week over 100. Sometimes my hip pain would rear its ugly head, usually if I tried to run faster, reminding me of the fractures and tears that I wasn’t sure were fully healed. While I felt cautiously optimistic, there was an underlying sense of alarm that I could be headed right back to where I came from: injured and miserable. (See “The Mind of an Injury” for the whole story.)

But somehow, to my relief, I healed, even while pounding my legs 100+ miles a week. I found myself seeking out the trails as much as I could. It is impossible to explain the joy I got from pushing to the top of a big hill or mountain. In July, during a weekend trip to my favorite place in the world, Stowe, Vermont, I found myself laughing and crying all at once as I flew down Tabor Hill in the pouring rain, out of pain and free once again, no longer limited by my own body. 

I withdrew from the Vermont 100k in mid-July before it got canceled due to flooding. I knew my foot probably wasn’t ready for 62 miles at that point. My first race back was the Ragged 50k in early August, which served as the USATF 50k Trail Championships (don’t be fooled, it may have been billed as the national championships but, as a whole, it certainly wasn’t a national-championship caliber field. With absolutely no disrespect to my competitors, I know this because I know for a fact that I am not the 4th best 50k trail runner in America). Following the race, I set a goal for the fall. Starting my junior year of nursing school would prevent me from traveling to the stacked events I so wanted to compete in (the Grindstone 100k and JFK 50-miler, most notably), so instead, I decided that I would race regionally as much as possible, seeking to establish myself as the top ultrarunner in New England. Then, next year, I could start thinking about the bigger races–the Golden Ticket events and the UTMB World Series and the like. 

So I raced. At the Firebird 50-miler in late August, a training race, I scared myself when I noticed a familiar pain creep into my hip around mile 5. It increased over the next 20 miles then inconspicuously disappeared, never to be seen again. At the Megunticook 50k in early September, a strong women’s field had me running scared from the gun, but I pulled myself together and passed the leader at the mile 8 aid station, eventually winning by 40 minutes. Two weeks later, the Vermont 50 (which I almost didn’t even start due to car trouble and a staph infection…but that’s a whole other story) was an absolute dream race course–7 hours and 54 minutes of rolling hills and trails through the most beautiful farms and countryside. Though I dealt with nausea and heavy legs in the middle of the race, I found an amazing second wind in the final five miles that ended with an all-out sprint down the last mountain, winning again by about 40 minutes.

The weekend after Vermont, while out for a training run at Wildcat Mountain, I slipped on a steep, muddy patch. I think it was something like a 35% grade, and I fell back onto my butt, so it was a very light landing. However, when I instinctively put my hands behind me to catch my fall, I heard a “pop” in my sternum followed by immediate tightness. I finished the remaining 2 hours of the run, but the pain intensified right after I stopped. The next few days were rough. It hurt to take a deep breath, run, lift anything heavier than five pounds, or, worst of all, shift position when lying down. I decided to keep quiet about it–I’d spent enough time in doctor’s offices this spring–and thankfully, the pain started to decline after about a week. My next race, the following Saturday, was the Bradbury Bruiser 50k. I spent the better part of 5 hours slipping around in the mud (it had poured rain the night before, and for some reason I made the bright decision to wear my road trainers), chasing the lead male, who I never ended up seeing, but realized after finishing that I’d been less than 2 minutes behind. I never had a low moment, though I was terrified of falling on the technical terrain and hurting my chest more. The same was true two weeks later at the Farm to Farm 50k: No low moments. In fact, I only felt stronger in the latter half of the race, giving myself an out-loud pep talk in the final two miles. I ran 3:39:30, about 10 minutes faster than my “A+” goal. 

In early November, the Stone Cat 100k, which turned out to be over 110k, did have its share of ups and downs, but I managed to bounce back and run the fastest mile of the entire race at mile 68. As my second 100k, I was pleasantly surprised at how much my pacing and consistency improved. Last year, in my first go at the distance, my splits ranged from 7:20 to just under 14 minutes near the end. This time, I ran under 8 minutes only once, but my slowest mile was a tick over 11 minutes, all on much more difficult terrain. That confirmation of personal improvement was the most gratifying part of the race, more so than winning overall or establishing a course record (but those things were nice too!) 

I am really grateful that running has been going well. It is SO exciting to have big goals on the horizon, to feel strong and be able to challenge myself in unique ways. When I finish my run every day, the best part is saying to myself, “and I get to do it again tomorrow!” Running has been my tether to sanity in what has otherwise been a pretty difficult semester thus far. I have spent the past year-and-a-half enjoying school and looking forward to a career in nursing. However, this fall, as I began clinicals, I realized, to be blunt, that I kind of hated it. Nothing about the idea of becoming a nurse felt rewarding or exciting anymore. Instead, it felt terrifying. A few weeks ago, I told my mom that I couldn’t wait to finish school so I could forget about nursing and healthcare and start a job I would actually enjoy. I thought about switching my major, but decided it would be too much of a hassle, and everyone (including myself) would probably hate me for it. Every time I got too caught up in these thoughts, I would remind myself, “but running,” and immediately feel better. I wish I wasn’t so dependent on this sport, but it is what it is at the moment. 

Anyways, the other day, I realized why I was hating nursing school so much. It was because I felt, for the first time in a while, incompetent. I have always been a perfectionist, both as a runner and a student. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to simply memorize every last detail of my 19 pages of notes to prepare for an exam. Especially as I started to interact with actual patients during clinical and practice skills in lab, everything felt foreign and uncomfortable. I didn’t feel “good” at it, so I decided I didn’t like it. But that probably isn't the case. We like things we’re good at, right? And at the moment, I’m pretty lousy at nursing–but that’s ok because I’m only in my first semester of clinicals and have a long way to go. I don’t completely love it since realizing this, but I am more accepting of the fact that it’s hard and it’s going to continue to be hard. 

A theme of this season has been waiting for the second wind. In running, I’ve come to recognize it as my secret weapon. Until recently, I never pushed far enough to know it even existed. You have to run as hard as you can for as long as you can, suffer greatly, then come back from the worst pain and fatigue to realize there’s a whole other gear. This has become such a mental weapon as well. When I get to that place in a long run or race where I feel like I’ve done everything I can, I promise myself that the second wind is just around the corner–and it is. It’s that simple: You feel good for a while, then you don’t, then you do again. It is also worth noting that a large part of being able to access this second wind is better fueling. I have recently learned the power of actually taking in adequate calories while running. And I’m definitely not one to meticulously plan my nutrition. I prefer to fill my bottles with UnTapped drink mix or Gatorade, throw a few gels into the pockets, and rely on whatever’s at the aid stations. I used to be much more “careful,” refusing to take in anything but peanut butter and maple syrup. Now, I’ll eat cookies, candy (Swedish Fish for the win), soda, grilled cheeses, wraps, and plenty of peanut butter sandwiches. I eat more food early in the race, and, when my stomach turns on me, switch to liquids. But that’s going off on a tangent. Sort of.

Yet I don’t want to look back on this season with rose-colored glasses, only seeing one success after another. It’s easy to do that, and usually, it’s to my detriment (as in, I’ll compare my past self to my current one – ‘you’ll never be as good as you once were’). There were so many low moments that nobody sees when looking at race results or posts on Strava. Like before Megunticook, when I camped overnight in my car, waking up early on race morning to eat breakfast and realizing I’d forgotten a headlamp and the battery on my phone was low. I sat alone in the 4am darkness, eating a peanut butter sandwich in the back seat and feeling a deep loneliness and longing to just go home. Or spending the drive home from Stone Cat doubled over with nausea but unable to eat anything, wondering why on earth I put myself through something that feels so awful not only in the moment but also afterwards. Or the last 10 miles of Firebird, which I shuffled while crying and spitting up uncontrollably (I don’t puke during races. Instead, I spit up, like a big baby). For every euphoric summit or effortless long run, there are the days that I feel like my body is falling apart; the mornings where I wake up covered in a cold sweat, my heart racing and filled with dread at the thought of more miles. It’s easy to forget those times, overshadowed by the victorious moments that are the reason I love this sport so much, but they are ever present–the anxiety and constant self-doubt continuously reminding me that nothing I accomplish will ever be enough to quiet my mind. This season certainly hasn’t been one big high. Like the hills I run, it’s a thousand massive ups and downs. But mostly highs. 

The second wind, however, isn’t just an athletic phenomenon. Looking back, I can see evidence of it in so many areas of life. School, of course. The initial business of the semester carried me through the first few weeks, before I froze, decided I hated it all, and wanted to quit. The same thing happened when I started high school, and spent a frantic month trying to convince my parents to homeschool me. And when I lived on my own for the first time during a summer internship before college. In all of these situations, I have learned to ride out the low moment, knowing that the adjustment period is necessary to finding my groove. Because what I’ve noticed, especially in running, is that the second wind, unlike the first, doesn’t end. In my most recent race, I felt strong after 10 hours of running at a decent clip. What’s the limit? When does the second wind end–or does it? I hope to test that out in the coming season, pursuing longer and bigger races and goals. I am immensely grateful for my current health, the people around me, and my faith. Life is so much more than running, and it will take all I have to make sure my sport doesn’t become who I am.