Call it bad luck, misfortunate or perhaps it was karma, but it happened. Arriving in the Alps always comes with excitement. The towering mountains spark my imagination. The countless number of trails and the varying terrain make for seemingly endless possibilities. On the drive from Switzerland from France catch myself staring at the mountains thinking about moving through them, while feeling the power and beauty of nature. Unpacking was not a priority, pulling out the basics would be enough and would get me out on the trail sooner rather than later. I looked at the worn trail map I had purchased on one of my prior trips to France. Without much time I found a trail that was close by our chalet. A quick scan and I knew I would have numerous loops to pick from once I made it above tree line. After a very long climb up a pavement hill the road finally hit a dead end and a trail allowed for continued uphill progress. I fell into line with a man and women who had just parked their car. In conversation it was clear that none of us had an ultimate destination, just a starting direction and the desire to explore. The two were setting a pace that was a solid hiking pace for me so I asked if I could tagged along for a while. We gained about 2,000 feet of altitude before we said goodbye at a trail juncture.
I looked at my watch and kept climbing. I knew I shouldn’t go out too long the first day, but I also craved seeing what was yet to be revealed. After finally reaching a plateau I snapped a few photos, ate a syrup and folded my poles. I looked at all the options of trails and was hypnotized by the unknown trails that still lay in front of me. They called me, I wanted to continue further, climb higher although I convinced myself it was smart to turn around and leave them for another day.
I had twelve days before the start of the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB), so I knew I still had some days were I could work on quenching my desire for more. Down I went. As I worked my way downhill above tree line I enjoyed the views of the valley before entering what seemed to be a perfect tunnel of trees. I entered the tunnel fully encompassed by perfectly spaced trees. The straight single track eventually veered to the right. I took the switchback corner on the inside. I planted my right foot just like I seemingly always do, but it didn’t hold. It didn’t feel like it rolled, but rather like it completely folded. Before I hit the ground my ankle made a sound that I had never heard before and one that makes me cringe replying it in my mind. I was on the ground. I told myself to get up. I made it to my knees before even remembering to open my eyes. I told myself again, get up. I got upright and told myself to walk it off. Instead of walking it off I stood unevenly balanced feeling nauseous from the pain. I tried to convince myself it would be okay. I had rolled my ankles over before and they had been fine after a few minutes. I just had to move and it would be okay. I knew this time it was different, but I also didn’t want to accept that reality. I hobbled into a walk and then into a very ginger “run”. After getting back down the trail I immediately took off my shoe and sock to survey the damage. It actually didn’t look that bad. Again I tried to convince myself that maybe I would be okay. Within fifteen minutes that was a fleeting thought. It became harder and harder to walk and the swelling continued. I didn’t want to pull the panic alarm too quickly, but emailed my coach and PT for advice.
In the remaining days leading up to the UTMB I saw a physical therapist and tried to hold true to the standard protocol of R.I.C.E (rest, ice, compression, elevation). I took several days off completely from running and hiking. Then tried a few sessions of running easy terrain. I remained cautiously hopefully. I had done the training, I had the determination, but now I also had a set-back. Every morning before the race after waking up and still in bed I would horizontally reach my extremities out as far as possible. Over the years this has become a habit. It lets me know what is tight, and reminds me what I have injured before I put my feet on the ground and start my day. During this simple morning exercise I felt like my ankle was making positive progress. Then just a few days out from the race I felt like I took a step back. The healing just was not happening as fast any more, it appeared to have stalled out. With confirmation from the PT that I could race I got a final taping of my ankle the morning of the race. I tried not to overthink my ankle and tried to merely focus on my normal routine of getting ready for a race. The focus now was on executing. I kept reminding myself that I had done the work and I had the internal drive. With a throw away clear plastic poncho I made my way through the rain and crowded Chamonix streets to the start line. I just wanted to get moving and let the miles unfold. Familiar faces in the start carrel helped keep my race anxiety in check. Then once off the pavement and onto the river trail I I fell into stride with Kasie Lictag and Stephanie Howe. These two ladies are such amazing inspirations in all aspects of life. Within a few miles we made our way off the river trail and on to the streets of Les Houches. Here on the pavement of the main road the race course worked its way to the base of the first climb. I was keeping pace at an appropriate effort. I was oaky. Maybe this would work. Then a reminder of reality as I ascending maybe ten to twelve stairs out of a parking lot towards the ski area. It was pain in my ankle. Then as I moved from a moderate pitch into a steeper grade I was reminded I didn’t test my ankle prior to the race on much besides rolling. My left side was working far harder than my right side. I was already compensating and favoring. This became even more glaring on the first downhill when I was stutter stepping and doing a majority of the breaking with my uninjured side. I tried to focus on form. I tried to problem solve in my mind. How could I make this work? I had ninety plus miles left to cover over difficult terrain. I convinced myself to give it more time and not to over think it. Coming into the first big aid station at St. Garvis I committed to sticking to my race plan. I wasn’t throwing in the towel yet. I stopped and refill my soft flasks with water and drink mix. Then took off running back towards the darkness. I would see my crew just after the twenty mile mark. Give it more time, don’t give up easily and keep your head in it. Over the next miles my form continued to struggle, the only time I felt comfortable was on flat or at a slight grade. I wanted to cry, but for some reason I couldn’t. I continued to do my best in each moment. At one point I tripped, fell and got up before dusty the gravel off my hands. It was automatic, my brain was still telling my body to go. Then as I pulled into the chaotic first crew stop at Les Contamines my mom was there to greet me. I plopped my butt on a long bench before I buried my face in my hands. I told her what was going on. She tried to help me problem solve. We had come “to get shit done this year” and clearly things were not going well. I told her that I thought I had to stop, that I couldn’t see how this was going to work without paying a major price. I changed out of my wet top and into something dry so I would be ready no matter what my decision. I sat and sat. It was like I was a fly on the wall of the tent, observing all the runners, crews and race personal without actually being there. It all seemed surreal, but I was repeatedly brought back to reality by my mom asking me what my final decision was. I knew the right decision, but ultimately executing proved difficult. I told her I just needed a few more minutes. I took out my cold weather layer from my hydration pack, pulled it out of the ziplock bag and put it on. Together my mom and I casually walked out of the tent and proceed to the small ten by ten timing tent. In a monotone voice I asked if this was the correct place to drop. Nonchalantly the women pulled out scissors, cut off the scan tag on my bib and with the one affixed to my hydration pack. My decision was now finalized and official. There was no going back. Walking away there is always regret and question, you look for answers. People try to comfort and assure you, but it never seems to be that easy.
It has taken many weeks of healing for me to recognize how badly my ankle was actually injured. In retrospect it is hard for me to even understand how I toed the line thinking that finishing was a possibility. I train, I dream and the fire burns inside me even when things go wrong. Will I go back to UTMB again? That is a question I don’t have an answer to yet, as for now my focus remains on continued forward progress with my mind and body.