Slouched in a fold out chair, head rested back, I stare into a sunset that will never set. Beautiful reds and purples fill the sky with color.
Race staff and my father enter in the mosquito net tent with me to have a talk. "You diverted off course," she said. The gravel road I came down wasn't the course. There was a 7 mile stretch along the Alaska pipeline I missed. My father later told me my facial expression sunk to a new low after hearing that news. Tony, an ultra runner friend who has ran with me during Susitna 100, said to me, "ask about your options." I am so grateful to hear those words. Maybe there is still a chance I'm in this? But would I be able to accept the conditions to continue this race, I still have 30 miles left.
"If you want to continue the race, I'll drive you back to the last water station where you took a wrong turn. Or you can continue to finish and see what the officials decide."
I put my share of miles in, I thought. It just wasn't the same miles as everyone else did. I was about to leave check station 2 and I asked one last time about the route. "Around four miles down on the gravel road you'll take a left", I recalled hearing from a staff member. "You'll see it, it's well marked," he reassured me. I only have myself to blame, why didn't I ask more questions? Is there a land mark or is there a street name? I recalled the first fourty miles were well marked. But what the official and myself didn't know was the race markers were a lot closer then four miles and the markers had been blown down due to the construction around the area.
I sat there for another 15 minutes still slouched in my chair thinking of my next move. This wasn't an easy decision. I struggled with my faith in this religion I call running. Should I scratch? How would a post DNF (did not finsh) race-breakfast taste? Would the conversation between my Dad and I be talk of the race and it's impossibility? Would I miss out on that meaningful talk a father has with his son about overcoming obstacles and challenges. What would this mean to me if I didn't finish? I asked myself.
Could I just contiune on, willing to accept whatever the race officials decided? But how would I feel crossing the finish line, I thought. I haven't completed the same course everyone else endured! I have a lot invested in this, there's no room for a maybe completed, maybe not.
Without a response, no gesture, I sat still. Continuing to look at the sunset that would never go down. My father sat next to me and understood my situation. He said, "I know this has been a tough race, and I know finishing the Alaska Slam means a lot to you. Take your time and rest and see how you feel."
I gave him a head nod and asked for some cup of noodles. I couldn't really express anything but simple words.
I was hit with amazement how easy it was to eat the cup of noodles. After filling my pack up with more water I felt ready as I was gonna be, to do this next seven miles.
I gave a half-hearted wave and a smile to the truck as I headed on the trail. I turned on the music and powered through. I told Dad 7 miles in my condition might take me three hours. But I ran it in an hour and half. Following the pipeline trail the sky was clear and beautiful. They say you can experience an entire life running a hundred miles. I felt like I was being reborn during that 7 miles. I arrived back to the 70 mile check point to wake up the volunteer campers and my Dad.
The last 30 miles was about beating off the mosquito's. John Nagel, an ultra friend told me that "mosquito's can fly to 3 miles per hour." These must of been tough Fairbanks mosquitoes because they not only were faster but relentless.
When I approached the finsh line my Dad and volunteers were eager to see my arrival. The nurse gave me zolfran to help with the nausea. I still threw up the hot dog I scarfed down, but after the second round of zolfran I was able to keep food down.
After twelve hours of good sleep, Dad and I had breakfast. Over hearty meals and coffee we shared more then conversation. We shared something different then what a normal father and son would share. Thirty two hours my Dad was there to help me over came the obstacles and hardship I was experiencing. I love you Dad.
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