So slow and steady (my usual running pace) was what I did for the three hours and four minutes I was out running. Each 12.5K lap was an even 1:32, with no dawdling at aid stations and only one pee break. I walked up the (many) hills and then ran down the other side and, of course, running when it was flat. I tried so hard to appreciate how gorgeous the trails were and how awesome and friendly all of the racers and volunteers were. But over my head the entire time hung a dark cloud, feeling grouchy and sorry for myself that I was fantastically outclassed by the talent out on the trails that day. Ultra runners around me were talking about their plans for the
Canadian Death Race,
Massanutten 100 Mile Race or were conservatively running the 25K because they were injured. Even when I crossed the finish line, I should have been happy — instead I just wanted to keep running to keep the negative voices quiet; the voices that told me that I didn’t belong with these runners. While eating my post-race veggie dog and looking at the results, I felt even worse — not only did I come in 9th last, but a full hour slower than the winning woman.