On foot and off the grid: What I learned from an ultra marathon

Musings from the trails of a multi-stage ultra marathon in Costa Rica (Feb 13–20, 2016) (some names omitted for privacy)

So it’s December 2014 and I’m at a dinner party graciously hosted by my friend, Robyn. I am on my second big glass of wine, enjoying an inspired, spirited conversation about adventure travel. Then Robyn poses a question that I didn’t realize at the time would eventually change my life. She asked, “Do you want to run the Coastal Challenge with me?”

This is hilarious because I am not a runner. In December 2014 I had never run more than a 5k and that performance was less than graceful. But Robyn, being the persuasive communicator that she is, weaves an amazing tale of beautiful landscapes in the exotic tropics of Costa Rica.

I’m intoxicated by the idea of bouncing around the natural world far from the traditional tourist experience. So on a whim, I shrug and say, “Sure!” There is a quick sparkle in her eye and something tells me I just did something… Shawna is at this same dinner party and is considering the same level of insanity that I am. We commit on the spot. But hey, there’s a year to train, I can always back out and it can’t be THAT hard, right? What the heck, I’ll just go for it.

In the year that followed, Robyn, Shawna and I complete a few 10ks and a few half marathons and a 50k. The three of us have so much fun planning, doing early training, sharing frustration with getting registered and experiencing some of the not so-fun parts. There is some hip pain, some knee pain and I discover a few ancient hidden secrets about my body alignment that is adjusted by a massage therapist genius named Mark Kendall. I stand taller now thanks to him.

Other adjustments happen as well. I trade Friday and Saturday nights of drinking whiskey with pals for early Saturday and Sunday morning runs. I gradually get stronger, faster and also have some informative setbacks. It is inspiring to see the issue, work to find the solutions and then put it in place. All a process. And little by little, bit by bit, I begin to consider and then actually believe — wow I may actually be able to do this…

Shawna is a super human with a travel, work and family schedule that is exhausting to simply see from afar much less do. She comes to the sobering reality this is not the right time in her life for this commitment and risk. We go from three to two. So it is Summer 2015 and Robyn’s friend, Julia, who lives in Maine has decided to join the team.

Julia and I initially met during a fateful trip to Green’s Island where I, by the grace of a higher power much larger than little ol’ me, had the chance to be in the company of a cadre of amazing women just as my yet-again-broken heart was going through a reparative process. Those strong, solid women set me straight in such a gentle way and Julia was one of my guiding lights during that experience. She is a golden goddess literally and figuratively. Pure sweetness, elegant beauty and a delightful sass that reveals itself with well-earned trust.

Back to the race… So we are again a group of three. Robyn wisely elicits the help of running coach and trainer, Richelle Criswell, who creates a benchmarked plan for the team. We check in weekly and support each other, share information, test equipment. Then it is December 2015 and Julia has a freak abdominal rupture requiring major surgery and an extended hospital stay. She’s out. Robyn and I caucus and decide to carry on, knowing Shawna, Richelle and Julia will be with us in spirit.

It’s mid-January, less than a month until the race and Julia’s back in! She may be ground crew support or may be walking a partial race or who knows but no matter what, she’s coming to Costa Rica. Robyn and I are stunned, inspired and a new energy begins to flow. Let’s do this!

It’s February 13, 2016. Robyn, Julia and I huddle in a modest hotel room at the Best Western Irazu in San Jose, Costa Rica. We craft our race plan, pledging to stay together no matter what. There are so many unknowns going into this but at least we can count on each other. We rush down to the tennis courts where they have set up a tent for a pre-race briefing. There are about 70 racers from all over the world, some are jet lagged but most of them look like absolute pros. I instantly feel like the kid who started a new school halfway through the year. GULP.

The adventure begins the next day at 3am when buses leave the hotel to transport us to the starting line several hours away. We start racing at 7am. The first day is 32k (20 miles). There are six total race days. The Expedition Category is 227k (140 miles) and the Adventure Category is a shorter version of the same course so 137k (85 miles). We’re committed to do the Expedition race. Holy moly, here we go…

DAY ONE: “From plantations to the hidden valley” 32k (20 miles) / 917 m (3,118 feet) total ascent

Mile 1: Pure adrenaline, total joy, in love with life and ready to start the biggest adventure of my life. I’m so excited to do this!

Mile 8: Pure pain, total hell and ready to admit that I am really in over my head. I don’t think I can do this. The heat is heavy, my pack loaded with 80+ ounces of water plus food and gear is heavy, my heart is heavy.

Mile 15: We all get a second wind and things are going better. No more palmetto plantations, there is finally some shaded trail. I’ve settled into my pack and it’s getting lighter as I suck down liquids. We hit a water station and had a 4-minute break. Hope is restoring. We run into a racer on the trail. J from El Paso is a cardiac surgeon who tells us how to lean on our trekking poles to avoid our blood pressure dropping. Good to know.

And bonus — it turns out we have a friend in common. It’s reassuring to know that even in the jungles of Costa Rica, it’s a small world after all. Then we meet up with M from Canada who is there on his honeymoon with his new wife, J. M missed the marker, took a wrong turn and ended up getting about 10k (6 miles) off track. He is hot, hurting and depressed. But we do our best to perk him up, distract him with tales of Texas and let him know he’s lucky to miss the marker because it means he gets to hang with us. Our group of three becomes four. I now have a new goal — get M to the finish line. And it is then that I discovered the first of five race mantras.

Mantra #1: Help others always and still run your own race.

We have to keep a quick pace to avoid getting to camp at dark. M keeps falling behind and so we check in about every ten minutes yelling down the trail, “M, you good?” To which he replies in his classic Canadian accent, “Oh yaah.”

Mile 20: Day 1 of 6 is done and it was so much harder than I could have ever imagined. The sun was intense and the hills were never ending. Our feet are constantly soaked in river crossings that can rise almost waist high. I’m covered in sweat, sunscreen and dirt. My muscles are strained and I’m completely exhausted. Thinking takes energy and more than I can manage. All I can process is what the BLEEP did I get myself into this time…

We pull into camp almost at dark. It is crowded, confusing and we missed the recovery meal. We are hot, pissy and exhausted but all around pretty solid. There is no time for complaining. We have to find our tent, set up our sleeping arrangements, get food, shower, get ready for the next day’s briefing, set up our race clothes for Day 2, pack gear. There’s a lot to do. I pull off my shoes and my feet look like a newborn baby — and not the pretty pink kind. The weird, ugly, purple-grey, shriveled, alien-looking kind. Yecccch.

We hobble to the outdoor kitchen that is set up to feed 70 ravenous racers and 30+ staff. An amazing logistical feat. Dinner is chicken, beef, rice and beans. Of course there is onions and garlic in everything (I have a sensitivity/allergy so when I consume onions or garlic, I puff up and knock out… not exactly convenient in the middle of an ultramarathon.) Dang.

At the end of dinner the race briefing begins. Tomorrow is 38k (23 miles) and a total climb of 1811 m (6,158 feet). Robyn very gingerly says, “You know, we can drop down to the Adventure Category if you want.” Julia and I exchange looks and within seconds agree — nope, we’re doing a full Day Two. Yes today was hard, but we did it and we can do this. Go team, go!

It’s 8:30pm and the three of us are rather snug in a rather warm tent. The locusts are deafening, there is lots of activity and it’s pretty clear that getting a good night’s sleep may be a bit of a challenge. But whatever, it’s fine. Then a horrible noise lifts over the camp — violent retching from the medic tent. I mean it’s ugly. Bad ugly. Julia bravely ventures to find out what’s happening. It’s M suffering from massive dehydration. He sounds so ill and I get scared. Sure this race so far has been physically hard but it’s a sobering reality that this is a really serious undertaking. Okay, the lesson is hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. I really don’t want to be like M…

DAY TWO: “Taste of the Rainforest” 38k (24 miles) /1,811 m (6, 158 feet) total ascent

Mile 0: Okay ready to begin again. Two huge hills and 38k. Breakfast is early and fast.

Mile 3: We begin the first climb and I hit a wall. I have no energy at all and it’s just the beginning. I’m completely overwhelmed but I just can’t quit. I can’t do that to Robyn and Julia who are bounding up the hills like bunnies. They are having so much fun and I’m struggling to get one heavy foot in front of the other. The terrain is really intense, incredibly steep and it occurs to me that one weary misstep and I’m tumbling down in a bad way. I quickly try to consume as many calories as possible, shoving organic fruit gummies in my mouth, downing electrolytes and trying to stay focused on just getting through this. I discover Mantra #2.

Mantra #2: Go slow and finish.

Robyn and Julia are amazing. They patiently wait at the top of each devastating climb. They don’t make fun of me when I finally break down and sob barely forming the words, “I’m so tired. I’m so so so tired.” Robyn starts singing me a song in full falsetto, “Walk like a man, talk like a man, oooooooooo.” Julia falls in line behind me even though I’m moving so slow and says, “We’re making a love sandwich, darlin’.” This combination of absolute support strangely starts to work. I will never in my life forget that kindness. I don’t often put myself in a situation where I have no choice but to rely on others and show that level of vulnerability. But that happened that day and that experience is deeply, deeply humbling.

Mile 6: Energy is stable. There is a bit of flat road, a good run past cows that are bellowing, monkeys are chanting, blue butterflies are everywhere and the landscape is amazing. I’m feeling good and am excited to discover Mantra #3.

Mantra #3: The hard part doesn’t last forever and neither does the easy part.

Then here comes the second climb. It is the mother of all hills. Never ending with unforgiving switchbacks. Just when I get to the top and pant, “phew, that was tough” the next ascent begins in the opposite direction. I curse those hills so violently to which they reply, “Hey, I didn’t ask you to be here. You chose this. I’m just being a big hill.” Right, right, right. I feel like a crazy person talking to a hill but it’s helpful in a very weird way. The three of us carry on.

Mile 12: So the sweeper is the last staff person on the trail who sticks with the last racers, pulling the pink marker ribbons off as he goes. Our sweeper on day two is a Costa Rican named Kevin. He keeps me company, teaches me new words in Spanish and helps me forget that five out of ten toes and the length of my right heel are blistered to oblivion. I feel like I’m hobbling on bloody stumps and every step is pain. I start to feel really defeated again. Robyn picks up on my malaise and mentions, “Day two is the anger day.” And she’s right. I feel so stupid for thinking I could actually do this. But I’m not going to get anywhere by being a sad sac. Time to move on… literally.

Mile 17: I’m in a bad way but Julia is worse. Her blisters are enormous covering her toes, her heels and the balls of her feet. But more importantly, the sun is baking her fierce. It turns out her German blood and 25 years in Maine is a dangerous combination with the Costa Rican sauna-like climate. There is no shade and no relief. It is the longest road in the world. Applying sunscreen is pointless as we sweat it off in seconds. The only thing we can do is cover with clothing. We drape Julia in a dress I’m using to stuff my pack (helps it fit better as the synch is too big.) She drapes a white bandana under her hat to shield the sun from her neck. I call it “Sheik Chic.”

Mile 20: We finally reach the last water station and we call it. Hitting the finish line means four more miles of unshaded beach on loose sand that threatens to turn our feet to mush. It’s too much. Julia is in full heat stroke and starting to get chills. Mantra #4 shows up.

Mantra #4: You have to ask for what you need.

We get the race crew to call a truck that brings us to camp. We arrive sheepishly and I cringe as we’re labeled on the race log as “did not finish” but I’m 100% confident that we made the right call. It was the only decision to make. I’m just so relieved that Day Two is over. M from Canada helps us lug our 50-pound plastic bins to our tent. Sweet guy. He looks revived after medics pumped him with an IV full of fluids and a full day’s rest at camp. He’s chatty and funny as hell, which helps lighten things a bit.

We pull off our horrible shoes to great relief, shower, get bandaged at the medic station (wow that hurts), get ice packs on Julia’s sunburn, recoup with carbs, re-hydrate and re-assess.

I’m so ready to give up. It really feels over. I’m done. Two days out of six. We have cell service so I text my husband, friends and family to let them know I’m okay but struggling. I begin to feel the wash of defeat. No matter how you spin it, what the reason is, how impossible the race is, the truth remains — I couldn’t do it. God that feels awful. I push the sucky feeling away and just concentrate on taking care of Julia. She’s still smiling but I can tell she feels just as beat as I am.

Robyn is ever present, solid and silent, waiting for us to come back to center. We sit in stillness outside of our tent. Robyn pauses for a bit and then looks each one of us in the eye and steadily, slowly says, “We will finish this.” I had not considered it a possibility. And for a split moment, I’m mad thinking “what the hell are you talking about?” but it flashes away fast. I trust Robyn. She knows what she is doing. She has run every desert in the world and has survived far worse.

I start a rapid conversion of questions to statements. She believes we can do it? She believes we can do it. We can do it? We can do it! Yes!!! We just have to drop to Adventure and we can reduce the mileage. It means that tomorrow instead of 44.6k (27.7 miles) we will have 21.1k (13 miles.) It’s just a half marathon! (And it occurs to me how insane this thought is.)

Hey, we can do this. I’m sure that some miraculous recovery will happen in our smelly, sweaty tent in the middle of the night. It’s amazing how resilient the human body is. And we know how to prepare now — I just have to eat A LOT. And I mean a LOT. Bleh. Who knew that eating as many carbs as I want would ever be a chore. So weird.

We hear the gossip at dinner that M is getting back in the Expedition race for Day Three. Robyn, Julia and I scoff with concern and agree he has no business out there. We know what Day Two looked like and it was real. REAL real. I seriously consider finding him to talk him out of racing tomorrow. But Robyn convinces me not to and so reveals Mantra #5:

Mantra #5: Everyone is running their own race. Be careful about thinking you know what is best for others. Reacting quickly to things you don’t fully understand is rarely a good thing.

I finish force feeding myself and go to bed. We pull the bins in the tent and Julia and I sleep with our feet on top to keep them elevated to minimize the swelling. Fun stuff but at least we’re horizontal. And it’s nighttime. Done.

DAY THREE: “Feel the coastal acid” 21.1k (13 miles)

It was a long painful night in a hot tent and a hard ground. But thanks to our new Adventure status we got to sleep in til 5:30am instead of the usual 3am. Total snooze button. I woke up amazingly refreshed. I dress for the day’s race, take a deep breath and shove my swollen feet into wet shoes. Uhhhhhhhhhh! Holy mother of bleepity bleep bleep bleeeep! Okay, I’m not dead. Let’s do this.

We begin with a steep — and I mean steep — descent. A normal person would think that downhill means easy street but nothing could be further from the truth. It’s a toe crusher with rocks everywhere followed by riveted grass tufted declines ripe for ankle twisting. There is no way to do it without using trekking poles. But as hard as the terrain is, the views are spectacular. Panoramic rolling green hills in every direction. It feels like we are in the absolute middle of nowhere and there is nowhere to go but down and down and down and down. It’s a descent of almost 1800 m (6,000 feet).

You can’t let your mind wander for more than a few seconds. My arches, reacting to two days of curling toes to avoid constant pounding are cramping and straining. I’m having a hard time but stay silent, trying to keep it together. Robyn intuitively stops, puts an arm around me and asks, “How ya doin’, kiddo?” The flash flood of tears come once again. It’s so much. It hurts so much. I just get a good cry in.

It’s then that I really realize that this whole experience — each moment of it — is a choice. I can dive into the pain and wallow in the negative with full justification. Or I can appreciate each moment for what it is — intense, awesome, amazing, gorgeous and absolutely life in motion. Okay deep breath and power on. When the pain thoughts start pushing in, I have a new chant, “This thought doesn’t help you. Replace it and keep moving.” And so that’s how it goes.

The hill finally ends (cue Mantra #3) and we run into A, an experienced ultra runner who placed 1st at Badwater, the queen of all ultra races. Ultra runners talk about races with great respect and this one takes the prize. It’s 135 miles starting in Death Valley around mid-July. Pure insanity.

A is a badass but she had been throwing up all night due to some mysterious stomach issue. Since she was and is unable to keep calories down, at this point in the race she is delirious and weaving on the trail. We talked with her, watered her down, coaxed her to sit in the shade for a bit and Robyn gave her the end of her trekking pole to literally pull her up the small hill. At least we had a good wide road and weren’t stuck in some godforsaken jungle climb or on a dangerous river rock bed.

Robyn, Julia and I quickly discuss a plan and decide that if we can keep her seated in the shade with a ton of water, we can power through to the next water station, alert the medics and send them in a truck to retrieve her. We feel good about this and leave her next to a tree. We have a big mission ahead of us and push through with every bit of strength to the next stop.

And as fast as we think we are going, the elite runners are now starting to catch us, whizzing by. Remember they started their day at Mile 0, climbed that bitch of a hill and have 23.5 more miles behind them than we do. These gazelle-like humans look like they are out for a morning jog, running so strong. It’s incredibly inspiring.

We wonder between us “are these men or machines?” And the women kick ass, too. The top male runner is Iain Don-Wauchope from South Africa and he is incredible. Gonzalo “Gonzo” Calisto from Ecuador is a sponsored athlete and probably the happiest person on the planet. “I just love this,” he says. The top woman racer is Ester Alvez from Portugal, a tiny little powerhouse who just kills it. All of the elite runner women are just amazing. At a river crossing where we’re submerged to refresh from the heat, an elite runner from Spain who is tracking in top place place reassures me, “This is the hardest ultra marathon I’ve ever done.” Okay so I’m not crazy.

And as they pass us, they leave some of their exceptional energy with us. While we’re cheering them, clapping and whistling as they pass, they have the grace and goodness to say, “Great work! Keep going!” Wow. I really get it that this is a very special community. Yes competitive, but completely unapologetically and so enthusiastically supportive. It’s wonderful. It doesn’t matter if you’re a champion with a thousand miles under your feet or a clumsy battered beginner like me. We’re all out here.

So we get to the aid station, alert the medics, our job is done. A will be fine. We will all be fine. Even though we’ve only gone about 9 miles, it’s still a hard, hot day and the last leg of the stage is through a tiny town, which means pounding pavement. Yech. Okay, let’s get on with it. Running, running, running, running which at this point is more like a combination of trotting and shuffling. And then Day Three is done. We collapse inside of the finish line on sweet cool grass waiting for 12 runners to finish so the bus can take the load to camp. About half an hour goes by and what do we see but A bobbing in the road, pushing through, with the Medics driving slowly next to her. She had refused to get in the truck and said she had to finish. I think, “This woman is absolutely nuts. I mean seriously.” I had already forgotten Mantra #5.

Day Three is done. We finish in three hours and there is still plenty of daylight left. The camp is lovely, on a beach lined with trees. I’m feeling really good. We have lots of time to rest, hydrate, tend to feet which are doing fine, lots of good food around and it was fun to visit with the other folks who are finishing early. Of course all of the elite runners are already at camp and everyone is in good spirits. As I visit with the others I began to form a new appreciation for this experience.

I learn that a male runner from Denver, who is a librarian, is there for his son, who committed suicide six months previous. The Coastal Challenge is part of his grieving process. He is running for him. I learn that another runner just found out that her mom has been diagnosed with a debilitating disease. She is running for her - quitting is simply not an option. She is not giving up on her mom and each step was a testament to that, no matter how hard it gets. Wow. Suddenly my stupid aching feet became much less important and humility rises in the rank of priority. Big lessons.

Then we hear that M just came in! WOAH he made it! But wait, there’s more… He was the last in the pack that day which meant he was with the sweeper. They got to an intense beach water crossing (I remember it well) with a mega current that unearthed a new truth. The sweeper couldn’t swim. He went down in the swell, went under and started drowning. M, exhausted and spent as he was, dove into the rushing water. He literally had to put the sweeper in the sleeper hold to keep him from kicking and fighting while also battling the raging current. He absolutely saved his life. Wow WOW. Now we know why he was compelled to be there. Another layer of respect for this experience emerges.

DAY FOUR: “Revenge of the Borucas” 35k (22 miles) / 2,054 m (6, 778 feet) total ascent

It’s about 4:30am and as Adventure Category racers we can take it a little slower in the mornings, carefully repacking our wretched-smelling clothes in our bins, outfitting our packs with new chews and salt tabs and equipment for the day’s terrain, taping our festering feet like prima ballerinas. It’s 5:30am when we hear “bus is boarding!” What the hell? We must have heard the load times wrong in our fog of exhaustion and emotion. All race briefings are in English followed by Spanish so it’s easy for details to get mixed up. But no matter. The bus is here, it’s leaving and we’re not on it. We fly into super sonic get ready mode, throw wet socks and gear into our bins while screaming, “WAIT! WAIT!” They didn’t. They leave us. We tell the staffers still in the camp and the bus ends up turning around which means the entire crew is delayed. We step into the bus with hung heads met by frustrated, frazzled racers. We made a mistake. We feel bad. But there’s no use in dwelling in it. As we repeat often, “It is what it is.”

Day Four is a haul. One big massive climb with incredible views, steep layers of jungle with paths so narrow you have to hold on to trees and vines to keep from falling. Rocks. Rocks and more rocks. We emerge from the jungle and end up on a working farm. A humongous turkey rushed us while a toothless, wrinkled farmer laughs and laughs. Ay que bueno! We see a mama sow and her eight pink piglets scurry across the road in disbelief as these crazy racers lumber towards them. So many funny moments.

A race like this brings you to the most remote areas that are normally out of access for most everyone on the earth. It is a real privilege to see this beautiful country this way — far from the resorts and Westernized vacation experience. REAL far.

The landscape is so breathtakingly beautiful with every color available. The beaches go from fine light sand to gritty rocky gravel. Sometimes the coast is lined with jagged rocks that absorb the constant crash of powerful waves and sometimes we’re running on a shore bed that is miles of round rocks larger than my fist. Not my favorite. Some of the rocks are cobalt blue, deep green, black and all of the landscape is just incredible.

The grass fields range from white and light green razor-like reeds to wheat colored stalks. The dirt inclines (and there are so dang many of them!) are sometimes the deepest red dirt, sometimes yellow as curry powder, and sometimes just a dusty old brown that makes me feel hot and dry just thinking about it. The jungle is thick with vines, trees, flowers of every kind. And always blue butterflies. Carpenter ants carrying their leaf loads that are bigger than their entire bodies. Sheesh and I think I’m tired?

The greatest feeling is being so immersed in that jungle, climbing, clawing and begging for a bit of blue sky. And then it comes. And then there are three more miles to climb. And then you emerge from it into a beach, a vista, a new adventure.

As varied as the landscape is, there is one undeniable truth. Rocks are not your friends. We have these crazy things called gators that are fabric sleeves (usually crazy colors and patterns) that hook to your shoelaces and Velcro to the back of your shoes. They have one purpose and that is to keep rocks out of your shoe. This is a very serious responsibility as one small rock or sand rubbing in your always-wet socks can be a big deal. A big painful deal. Our feet are constantly wet and covered with mud, which is the perfect invitation for a blister party. Massive, ugly, mother bleeping blisters. Yeah, got a few. Anyway….

While we’re on the subject of gear, trekking poles are absolutely essential. There are a couple of elite runners who don’t use them and this blows my mind. There is no way — NO WAY — that I could make it without them. Up hills, down hills, even on straight road, the stability and extra boost that can come from a well-placed pole feels like wind in your sails when you’re in a hard spot. When slipping and sliding down slick mud hills there is always a fear of losing a pole, which is why they come with straps that you loop around your wrists for dear life. I’d almost rather lose a toenail than a trekking pole. Seriously. And gloves. Biking gloves (or ridiculous Gold’s Gym weight lifting gloves like I have) are critical. Funny thing is the tan line leaves a weird little oval on the top of your hand. But who cares — vanity went out of the door around mile two of Day One. Add to the gear a visored hat, arm sleeves that can go up in full sun and down in hot (but canopied) jungle, massive amounts of sunscreen and moisture-wicking, two-ply socks. Shorts are cooler that running tights but expose you to poisonous, itchy leaves. It’s a tradeoff.

Your pack holds 60–80 ounces of water or diluted Gatorade that gets refilled at each water station (at least four times a day.) Plus snacks that can be jelly tabs, bars, waffles. A lot of the runners use Goo but I find it revolting and I’d rather use agave-nectar as a quick calorie boost. At the water stations there are always available salty and sweet snacks — peanuts, fresh pineapple and watermelon, cookies, crackers, anything you can shove in your face to fuel you fast. You cannot ever eat enough. It’s really annoying.

So food. The breakfast (served at 330am), lunch (which gets picked up at 4pm so if you can’t get to camp by then you’re out of luck) and dinner (served at 630) is usually a combination of eggs or meat, rice and beans, a salad and sometimes a steamed vegetable. Avoiding garlic and onions is a real challenge. But as with everything, you just have to find a way. The kitchen crew is as accommodating as they can be to me which is really, really, really kind. What they pull off three times a day is astounding.

Eating is no longer about pleasure — it is about survival and I have to do more of it than I ever wanted to. Oh and most importantly, salt tabs with caffeine save me each day thanks to the benevolent angel who is Julia. I call her my drug pusher and there are many funny (delirious) moments on the trail about this subject. I won’t embellish — some things are better left for the imagination.

Okay back to Day Four. It’s long. Around mile 8, I start to slow down and my foot arches are killing me. This isn’t good — there are many miles to go. Julia is still battling the heat and so I pop pills (don’t get nervous it’s just ibuprofen) and power on and on and on and on and on. We run into A. He’s Dutch and part of a British team, most of whom live in Malaysia and Thailand. He has only run a half marathon in his life and to top it off, was born with one of his feet facing the opposite direction which means he had many surgeries early in life and one calf is smaller than the other.

At this stage in the race, he and Julia are equally blistered. When we find him, he’s in bad shape and it’s time for our team effort. We pick him up, make sure he dunks in the river, rests and lets the cool water revive him (I’m convinced that two minutes in a rushing stream can fix just about anything.) It works and he comes back to life. He’s super fun, super smart, and we’re all re-energized. We FINALLY end the day. We’re exhausted and our night routine is set in motion. Day Five promises to be long. But we know the drill. We made it more than half way through and we’re so so so so alive.

Everything begins to blur together a bit and the real joy becomes talking with the racers and staff. We are all starting to reveal ourselves more now that we are emerging from survival mode. I learn that S from Canterbury, England, is a farrier, which means he shoes horses. He’s still in Expedition and running strong even though he humbly says he really feels the heat and miles of pain just like the rest of us. He is a lovely human being who is kind, considerate and helped us haul our bins when our feet can’t make it another step.

C, S’s older brother, is a super sweetheart and had to be wrapped in an aluminum blanket to fend off heat shock. He has a huge white handlebar mustache and is a weight lifter. He lost a toenail which, while incredibly painful, is an ultra runner’s right of passage. One I’d rather not pass, thank you, unless it means losing a trekking pole… He’s started to run with his son back home and shows me a glowing image of a proud papa and gloriously gifted young boy.

A from Colorado is one of the top female runners and she’s a machine with a wicked sense of humor. She taught English in Costa Rica years ago and has interesting tales of when it was less developed. K (remember A? K is her running buddy) has been doing ultras for more than 35 years. She shows up day one in a LOUD red white and blue running outfit. Oh and she says Coastal Challenge is the hardest races she’s ever done. E (who I affectionately nickname Cake since his real nickname is Qui Que pronounced “kee kay” — yeah, Cake) is from Barcelona by way of Peru. He’s young and chatty and has played soccer all of his life. He says this race is the most physically challenging thing he’s ever done. I notice a pattern. Yeah, this is hard. Okay moving on. And then there’s sweet A and her husband A from Columbia, who welcomes us all to Bogota where she has a bagel shop. Ummm yeah. A bagel shop in Bogota — well if anyone can make that work A can. She’s fierce and kind and always smiling.

And A — he is the leader of the crew of Brits who called their team “Too Stupid to Stop.” So great. He is former secret police in Malaysia where he fought sex trafficking and now runs a cybersecurity firm. He is sinking his life savings into a retreat haven in Thailand that does peaceful MMA and martial arts training. Oh and he has a 40,000 volume library. Yeah and he was the sole survivor out of his extended family when the island of Pipi was hit by the tsunami. He said 1,500 died and 1,500 lived. He wrote a book about it and it’s a best seller. He doesn’t believe in God anymore.

DAY FIVE: “Mists and Mangroves” 52k (32 miles) / 1,822 m (6,013 feet) total ascent

Day Five is its own sort of amazing. Beauty and humility. Pain and joy. Laughing and laughing. No crying this time. Heat heat heat. Cool water relief. Shade is the best blessing there is and it feels like a reward. I remember rocks are not my friends. The mangrove swamps are just so beautiful. Big tendrils of roots that look like dreadlocks search down into the murky water. Spooky beauty. Right before we hit the swamps we run into a woman from Canada who is sitting in the road and ready to give up. We can see she just needs a pep talk and is in no way near danger. We promise her a sing along to get her going. We soak in every water crossing. We chat and entertain. We sing songs from ABBA, South Pacific, show tunes, The Sound of Music, Grease, Bob Marley. Of course our tired brains are so blown we can only remember about four versus from each song. We slide and schlep through a terrific jungle for miles. Our Canadian friend is revived and so we speed up and keep going. And going. And going. To pass the time we start a chain story where each of us says a few lines and then passes the plot line to the next person. We end up weaving a tale about a group of cross-dressing monkeys who want to start a business and then eventually end up finding their zen in just being monkeys. Weird things happen when you run more than a 100 miles in five days.

Day Five ends after ten hours on the trail. JAYZUS. And the prize is that we camp at the most beautiful part of the journey — Drake’s Bay. The final beach run is breathtaking (and looooooooooong) and worth it. The waves are crashing against ink-black rocks. The views are spectacular. And the best news! We get to be there for two nights! No fast 3am shuffle to repack and gear up. We can kind of (if this is even possible) relax. It’s silly the things you celebrate at this point. We’re almost euphoric. One day left.

DAY SIX: Corcovado Victory Loop 23k (14 miles) / 584 m (1,927 feet) total ascent

On the final day, everyone runs, including staff. We wake up buoyant and then the reality hits. Oh yeah, there’s still more than a half marathon ahead of us. And it’s mostly beach. My arches and ankles are complete toast at this point and every step is painful. This is going to be a long, gorgeous day. Here we go. At one point we come across a tour boat docked with clean, perfumed, rotund passengers in Tommy Bahama shirts and pressed pastel blouses seated for a plated lunch under the trees. We watch their faces turn from delight to horror as this bunch of sweaty, foul-smelling, crazy looking runners come crashing out of the forest. We’re covered in bruises and blisters, bleeding and bright red from poison ivy and sunburn. I would have loved to have the energy to capture that in a photo. So so funny.

Five hours later the end — THE END — is in sight. The finish line looms down the longest beach of my life. And then it happens. I cross the finish line. Woah. It’s done. 120 miles of Costa Rican craziness and I did it.

Three hours later, A (the Dutch guy with the once-backward foot) makes it in — the final runner. He is delirious and his Brit team meets him at the start of the beach to help him make it through. The entire camp is on the beach, lined up before the finish line. Everyone is crying. Even the cook is crying.

The image of that team weaving down the beach, delivering A to a mass of more than a hundred cheering, crying, clapping people is the most human thing I have ever experienced. A true testament to spirit and endurance and joy and proof that really anything is possible.

Awards that night are sweet and simple. A fun moment happens when one plastic chair topples in the sand and produces a domino effect of upturned racers. Awesome. It’s a great chance to laugh and really take a moment to appreciate all of it — just soak it in. I am so blessed to have this experience and the cankles to go with it. Everything is swollen and tight and throbbing but it’s so exciting to know that it all happened. I know now what to do to improve. Strengthen my feet, stretch and work on speed. Doable. I can’t wait for the next one but I’ll start a little more humbly — 3 days instead of 6… Yeah crazy… Hey it just takes one foot in front of the other!

My real gratitude is to the team — a really big team that started with Robyn and extended to Julia and then extended again to race organizers, trainers, therapists, informants, believers. Even everyone who said, “this is crazy, what the hell are you doing?” and the natural fear that comes with taking on a physical challenge so far from what is “normal” for me or for the majority of the population of the Earth…

My sweet husband, Scott, who inherited this adventure pre-marriage, never wavered in his commitment to stand by. He watched cautiously and found comfort when I would adjust training and approaches based on reality. He saw that for me it’s not about proving, it’s about discovering, and he put that process ahead of his own. That man, I swear. True love. And my amazing family and friends — support+support+support at every level. Posters and pictures and cheers and messages and super good vibes. I’m just a chic doing some out-of the-comfort-zone stuff and only because I want to and I can. The result is that I feel so loved, so guided, so strong and damn lucky to have this life.

❤