confidence – UnleashTheDuff

September 15, 2019

The Peace Within the Struggle

The North Face Endurance Challenge: Wisconsin 50M – 7:45:11

Hello. Hi. Buongiorno. Good morning. Good afternoon. CIAO. How are you my friends?! What’s new with you? It’s been a minute (and then some). I hope you’re well. I hope you’re more successful at keeping up with your writing goals than I am. So much has happened between now and my last post. Rather than try to play catch up, I can sprinkle in some updates throughout the next few posts. Which I promise will be more regular and not just entirely dependent on my racing! Having said that – yesterday was a big day. A (Type II) fun day. One of those rare days where I smash a lofty goal and surprise myself at the same. A day where the universe conspires perfect weather, a previous night of ACTUALLY getting some sleep on an overnight shift, and a previous weekend of inspiring runs at the Superior 100 to help me get my dehydrated and undertrained ass from zero to 50 miles in a time I was damn proud of. Now, this is not a distance that’s new to me. But two years ago I was much more prepared, ran on as flat of a route as you can going for 50 miles, and was pushed only by completion. There is nothing that pushes the mind and the body like racing. Two years ago it hurt, but yesterday was suffering. In the good way 😀

I fell asleep about 10pm, got up at 3am, dipped a Cliff bar in an almond/cashew/chia/flax seed spread (thank you Holly Reiland and your Costco membership), guzzled some coffee, zombie drove 40 minutes to the start and found myself in front of the brightest flash camera known to humankind 5 minutes before the start of a 5am race. And my ridiculously stupid ass is still finding a way to smile.

But let’s back it up a little more. This last year of running has been met with some heavy training, breathroughs in fitness, but overall, a lot of frustration. I was knocked out of this race last year after coming off a fantastically fun mountain trail marathon in Colorado Springs at Pike’s Peak. I thought I was all set and ready to go for TCM Marathon weekend to bounce back into racing a month later, but those injuries cropped back up in a big way. A month or so of recovery and I was back-in-business with Boston training. And, as if predestined by some malevolent force in the cosmos, a similar ankle injury perked up to knock me out of that race too. Needless to say I was disappointed. Especially considering that I’d made it the last three years of consistent running without more than a sprained ankle. And that from just being careless! So, rinse and repeat, I scaled back the mileage, again chalked it up to overtraining and too many hills, and got ready to start my first medical school rotation in May (gasp!). I had made the adjustments of actually warming up before ALL runs, putting some strength training in the weight room, and drawing the alphabet with my toes for quite literally hours a day in an effort to strengthen these seemingly weakened tendons. And, once again, things got better. And the malicious sin wave of destiny threw my IPOS (injured piece of shit for those less familiar with the running lexicon) back onto the bike and out of the running shoes for a THIRD TIME IN LESS THAN A YEAR, this time with plantars fasciitis. And even then I was finding a way to get hurt! A spill on my bike in late July trying emulate a long run meant that not only did running hurt, but the vice-clamp headache and nausea of a concussion made just living a challenging. Being me is weird.

Time trials on 5 year old, $200 bike are unsafe as it is. But put that bike underneath a foolhardy and treacherously untalented injured-runner-turned-cyclist and you have a recipe for disaster. The moral of the story is to always, always wear your helmet. Someone like me has only precious few brain cells to spare, and they aren’t worth being transected by the road or by the bumper of a moving van (or in my case, both). Though that flimsy helmet will do nothing to save you from a month of horribly painful showers. Such is life.

This time, however, the variables had been narrowed to all but one. The one variable I thought absolutely I was immune to having to deal with. Shoes. As much as I loved Altras, they did not love me back. I tossed them for some Hokas and like magic, the ankle pain, plantars fasc, and everything else disappeared. And I was back to running as far and as fast as board studying would allow. Some late mornings meant I didn’t get to the trails as often as I wanted, and a small overuse pain (legitimately overuse pain, I know the difference now) meant a slightly earlier taper and shorter long runs than I needed to feel confident going into yesterday’s 50 miler. That, and working 6p-8a shifts the entire week preceding on my OBGYN rotation meant absolutely chaotic sleep. I might have slept 20 hours between Monday-Friday before the race. For some of you 4 hours a night might be plenty – for me that is barely more than a week’s worth of naps.

I seem always to miss at least one thing in preparation…for every single thing that I do. Leaving to the grocery store? Forget my wallet. Going to a friend’s house to exchange some baked goods? Forget the actual baked goods. Heading out for a shift at the hospital on my bike and in my running shorts? Forget to pack UNDERWEAR in my backpack. Fully admitting to you all that I have inadvertently gone commando in scrubs. Yesterday was no exception. Jersey, shorts, shoes, socks, nutrition, all packed and ready to go. Even brought my headlamp…but forgot to check the batteries. For almost two hours I had never been so scared to fall on my face in my life. Just something to stow away mentally for next year. Hopefully remembering that doesn’t displace another key item. Here’s looking at you ‘Murica shorts.

But having not raced since March (a 10 mile tune-up before Boston that made me VERY confident of my abilities to do well out there…before the aforementioned injuries), I’d be damned if something like a little grad school was getting in the way of me heading out to Milwaukee. So I ran the 8.5 miles home on Friday morning from the hospital, showered, breakfast, hit the road for the 5 hour trek to Milwaukee, hit the sac, and woke up a few hours later to make it happen. I really didn’t know what to expect. I had run 50 miles before, but that was almost two years ago, and bum flat on the urban roads. I hadn’t run more than 20 miles in over 6 months. I hadn’t been on ANY trail in at least a month. But for everything I felt uncertain about, there were things I KNEW without a doubt. I knew I had friends who had just run 100 miles on the Superior Hiking Trail in the face of completely stupid elevation change and terrain. I knew that I myself was no stranger to suffering, and overcoming said suffering. And I also had a goal. To finish in less than 8 hours. For no other reason than it sounded more difficult than anything I’d ever done, but just in reach enough to try. As it turned out, as it always turns out in a race, someone’s trying to do the same thing you are. I’m lucky I found a few of those folks along the way.

Everything actually started pretty well – despite the fact that I was half blind for a few hours due to bad preparation. Even past 20 miles I felt well energized. Like I could keep up that pace all day. However, it wouldn’t take too long after hitting the turnaround just how weak my climbing legs are. A 70+ mile/week marathon roadrunner making a swan dive into even a moderately hilly ultra meant searing quad pain at every incline. The pre-race and early race smile had mostly been replaced by an exasperated and destitute grimace that was too dumb, hungry, and thirsty for the next aid-station coke to give-up.

The first of my newfound friends I found along the first half of the course. A wise ultrarunner a few years my senior, and with much more trail and ultra experience than me, provided wonderful conversation fodder along the sunny horse trails and cool, canopied paths within the state park. Our conversations rambled from admiring the beautiful weather, divulging our own paths into the sport, and our shared cynicism of the overzealous 22 year old who’d left us in the dust early in the race (he did NOT slow down like we predicted, and went onto to take 3rd). We paced each other all the way through the halfway point, where it would be my turn to let my unjustified ego take the reins and pull ahead.

This did not help me.

Running up those steep hills was relatively easy the first time around. But realizing the pain of doing them twice 30 miles into the race is something you just don’t anticipate when you’re as undertrained and foolish as me. I was going just fast enough to maintain an uncomfortable pace when I caught the next man in front of me. With over 20 miles to go I was not about to drop this pacer, lest I end up in a crumpled heap on the side of a trail begging for another handful of pretzels and some ice cold mountain dew.

This experienced ultrarunner and 50 miler beast was my damn guardian angel through the last half of the race. There’s no way I would have been smart enough to walk up the hills, and not a chance I’d have had the motivation to keep going by myself for 4 more hours. Another man trying to break 8 hours and with his help we crushed it. There’s always power in numbers folks.

Once again I found myself trading introductions (albeit with a much more subdued attitude and far less words), exchanging some minor life details (and perhaps a few major ones, I honestly don’t remember), and cheering on and congratulating not only the marathoners and 50k folks, but a few of the 50 miler racers we would trade spots over the next 15-20 miles. Even with the inspiration of my friends, the camaraderie on the course, and my quiet, burning desire to achieve my goals, the last 1/3 of this race, right up until the last aid station en route to the finish, was touch-and-go. Although the morning started perfectly, at 55 degrees and not a cloud in sight, things were warming up. And so was I. I was drinking 32 oz water every 3ish miles, as well as some coke at every aid station, and I was still completely dehydrated. In medical school we talk about innumerable ways in which the kidneys can receive damage, but ultrarunning is not on that list. Peeing painfully hot, brown liquid immediately after the race meant that I had to assimilate my medical knowledge into some guesses as to what in the terrifying hell was going on in my body. Accumulation of uncleared lactate from low glucose stores that was now acidifying my body (and therefore my pee)? Renal hypoperfusion due to blood shunting to my trashed quads in an attempt to eliminate waste products? Who knows. Simply put, I needed more fluid than I could have ever imagined. Put that on the list of things to not forget for next year…

After almost two marathons worth of running, seeing the finish line from a mile away still gives you some kind of 2nd (or probably at this point, 11th) wind. I’m normally pretty emotional at finish lines but the extreme dehydration and no less than a pound of salty pretzels ruminating in my intestines made anything other than moving almost impossible. Just the way I wanted to finish.

But through all that pain and exhaustion, thinking I might just pass out if I had to hit another uphill, the words of a fellow racer (and now course record holder and ultimate badass) Justin Grunewald came to my mind. If you don’t know the man, him and his wife’s story is heartbreaking and inspiring. I remember reading one ofhis post a few months back that described his wife’s battle with cancer. Buried in that post was a quote I wrote down immediately – ‘It’s okay to suffer, it’s not okay to give up.’ I’m not sure a day goes by when those words don’t resonate with me. From menial tasks like not wanting to take out the trash when its full, or folding clothes, to the physical and mental demands of studying medicine or racing an ultra, the mantra is a manifestation of everything it means to not only run, and race, but to experience life. Life is an endless serious of obstacles that are wrought with uncomfortable, dark, tiring moments that cloud our judgement and strangle our will and motivation. That’s okay. Suffering is the overall foundation to peace and contentedness. Happiness doesn’t exist in spite of suffering, it’s because of it. But only when you persevere. Only when you don’t give up. To be able to send my well wishes to the owner of this quote a few seconds before the gun went off emblazoned those words deeply into my mind for the next 8 hours. They would reemerge, tacitly, in my head, at the foot of each hill as I trudged, bent over, gasping for air, knowing that not giving up was the secret to finding that peace.

I had a conversation with my best friend just a week ago that best summarizes this winding recapitulation of yesterday’s events. In essence, it was a rejection of the notion that anything we do in this life is truly ‘on our own.’ Or, that anything we do on our own is made vastly more efficient and more rewarding with the spirit of others with us. I’m no more responsible for achieving my goal yesterday than my friends generously hosting me the night before and after (and for the pedialite post-race that was next-level recovery). Nor would I have even imagined myself being able to do this without inspiration from the likes of the world renowned and local ultrarunners that give sustenance to the idea of, ‘Why not me?’ There is no doubt I would have found a way to suffer AND give up had it not been for my compatriots on the course with wisdom and pacing, and I wouldn’t have made it even a fifth of the race without each and every volunteer to help along the way. Yes, it was ‘my’ two feet that finished, but the ability to do so is credited entirely to every friend, colleague, and faraway inspiration who exude such devotion and serve as such powerful examples as to act as a proverbial springboard into a level of self-confidence I cannot achieve on my own. Each footstrike along the trail is given to those whom I’ve learned from, and continue to learn from. Especially when it hurts. Because at the other end of the hurt, at the crest of the hill, at the end of the treeline, is peace. Is the downhill. Is a finish line. So long as you don’t give up.

‘Til next time everyone!

June 6, 2018

Precariously Positive with Patient Practice

I think it’s high time for another un-earthing of old journal entries.

Last week at November Project was the week of wonder. 5 days, 5 workouts, 1 badass group of people doing work every morning. How fitting that the middle of the week gave us an opportunity to throw-down our toughest workout in the early morning summer sun. ‘The Messenger,’ as it’s called, is exactly one half-hour of running up, and down, the deceivingly treacherous hill at Gold Medal Park. Up and down thirty times – your rest period dependent only on how fast you can get up and down to the other side. It’s not terribly difficult to understand how one might be making this face during the fourth iteration, knowing you got a long 26 minutes to go:

When I run now, I embody just about everything I hated about runners when I was in high school. Could these guys look any more ridiculous with 1” inseam shorts? What the fuck is the point of a hat if you’re just going to wear it backwards? Could you possibly show anymore skin? And yeah, we get it, you run. Does every shirt you own have to have one iteration or another of the word ‘run’ on it? The answer to all of those questions, of course, is swag. Yes – Ryan Duff wears swag and he wants you to know about it. And if you’ve never run in high inseams, a running tank, and a backwards cap, then have you ever actually been running?

But it’s not all bad. It’s not just suffering. It would be kind of pointless if there was no means justifying the end, right? And for myself, well I don’t even need to wait that long. In the heart of all these workouts, it’s everything I can do not to exude every ounce of leftover energy from the previous repeat by heaping on encouragement to everyone else coming down the hill.

I often fail.

So much so, that for the second time since my induction into November Project I was bestowed the Positivity Award. Sometimes in this life, it does pay to be an obnoxiously enthusiastic asshole. I’ll take what I can get. Represented by a miniature bat etched with the group name and the tribe’s city, being a recipient of the award allows me to reflect on what my relationship with positivity is, and how that’s changed over the years.

I am not a photogenic person. I’m not able to take myself serious, and as evidenced in the previous picture even when I’m not posing for a picture, my already limited aesthetic value plummets with physical exertion. I embrace it though. I’m what some people call ‘extra’. I call do it what makes me happy. ‘Extra’ happy, even.

One way that that is made easier is by having a journal to reflect back on – and compare the content of my writing then (a terrible place mentally/emotionally/spiritually) to now (a work in progress, but MUCH better). I am not naturally a ‘positive’ person. At least not internally. External manifestation of this is reclusion and isolation. A feeling of wanting to be alone. This is a pretty natural state for someone who would be considered an ‘introvert,’ but when that label becomes a crutch to cling to bad, ingrained habits, well, the results speak for themselves. I spiraled into my own proverbial well of self-loathing and pity, enamoring myself in my own sorrow until I convinced myself that solitude and melancholy were just fundamental attributes of my personality. Unchanging, and destined to the defining characteristics of my soul until the passing of my physical presence in this world.

Pretty fucking grim, yeah?

Well, believe it or not, that’s where my headspace was not long ago! And look, I can prove it! Read on for some insight into the most authentic, only slightly abridged (out of respect for peeps’ privacy) details of my thought process from that time. Below are small excerpts of a few journal entries I’ve selected that should give some insight into just how, well, not positive it all was for me. This one comes from a journal entry the day after a night I shared with one of my best friends. Names are changed, some omissions made for clarity (but the content is unchanged/unedited!), and I bolded some text for emphasis:

Tuesday August 17^th, 2015

Anna came over and we watched movies and talked literally until I could not keep my eyes open anymore. I’m not sure I have met somebody else who shares almost exactly the same sentiments toward their father as I do my mother…I know I haven’t had that kind of meaningful interaction with another person in a long time. Probably (rather, definitely) any other guy in my situation would have come to the conclusion that they are attracted to and interested in dating (or with most men I know/hear about, fucking) her. Whether it is because I am stubborn in keeping my word or because I’m determined to fulfill this vision of myself as a ‘loner,’ or because I’m truly not interested, I won’t be in a romantic relationship with Anna…I don’t think of myself as attractive and would be horrified to think of people seeing me not fully clothed, due to sheer embarrassment…I can’t imagine having to divulge the inner workings of my mind to another person again. And above all of the reasons I have already given there is something inside that pushes me to isolation so strongly that I am most happiest in seclusion. Perhaps it was the two years that I lived in solitude at the U that has made me so terrified about what other people think?

And then just a few days later:

Thursday August 20^th, 2015

…It’s interesting that many of the new people I have met from work think of me as someone who has got it all figured out. I truly don’t myself as any more than a below average person who can’t find the discipline to succeed. I am absolutely baffled at how much other people can stay organized and happy, how others can make things happen for themselves. How they can find what really motivates them. I miss the confidence I had in myself, and would frankly give just about anything to have it back.

OO! And this encapsulating snippet right here:

Tuesday November 11^th, 2015

…as I have stated many times, it is not a life I’m destined for. Solitude is the end-game for me, no doubt.

Alright, last one. This comes from an entry in which I was pushing myself to write stuff I hadn’t yet had the courage to put to paper. It comes from a conversation I had with a friend in which I came home feeling guilty that I was still holding onto intimate parts of my life when my friend was willing to share so much with me. I even lied to their face when they asked me straight up ‘Did you have an eating disorder?’ I plainly said no. Unconcerned with how terribly I lied. I was so afraid of myself that it was just enough to turn the conversation in another direction. But I managed to work the courage to spit out on paper, and now, 2 years later, I’m here to share it with you. It gets a little dark – bear with me:

But here is a list of things I have divulged to almost no one (and some things that have never been divulged)…we’ll start with me. No, Anna, I have not been fortunate enough to escape the clutches of eating disorder. Not anorexia, but disordered and binge-eating, you betcha. Suicidal ideation: You know I hadn’t really even thought of it as an issue at all, or even as a terribly sad thing, until recently. I imagined it all of the time actually, but in my childhood it was more me not getting the love of my life, or playing a martyr, or something. Now it has grown up a little and I see it more as an actual means to an end, especially since the binge-eating.

Time, effort, and practice are excellent modalities for change. And I mean BIG change. As I paged through entries of my old journal looking for the snippets that I could use to contrast my headspace now to then, I was honestly amazed at how much negativity I carried with me. I regret not writing and journaling more during those years in college where things were bad, just so I would have an even better understanding of how low things had gotten. To the point of giving credence to thoughts of self-harm? Maybe I would have put down on paper the times when I bounced a knife up and down on my forearm, just imagining how easy it would be to press down a little bit harder. And contemplating suicide? For me, well, that’s pretty fucking far down the hole. But just like physical training, and studying and learning, that journey from self-hate to self-love takes practice. It takes effort. It takes patience. It takes time. I talk about some of those things more in my best friend’s podcast – I encourage you to listen to it. Take a break from reading this (and thank you so fucking much for making it this far – I truly appreciate it) and put this podcast on 1.5x speed. I think you’ll learn a little!

Okay, where are we at? Positivity – yeah. Alright, let’s end this with two things. Firstly, I want to give you an example of what my journal entries look like now. I assure you that thoughts of self-harm and suicide are in the past. Let’s take a look! This comes from the end of the first week of 2018. The week following my epic 50 mile run, my return to NP, to Mill City, and the start of second semester of grad school. Names are different, content’s the same, bolded text for emphasis. Let’s take a look at what practicing mindfulness for a few years did for me:

Sunday January 7^th, 2018

Let’s maybe put this week into perspective (not just write a bunch of fucking events). I have been more honest, open, and insightful than I have in my entire life combined. I have told people things I at one point thought I never would, or could. I talked with Beth about how terrified I was when I thought I was never going to give up binging. And maybe 2 months ago, that would have simply been impossible to mention…I surround myself with those I can confide in- those who take a true interest in my life. Those who love life, and the people in it, and love to laugh and share positive experiences. They love to learn, grow, and connect. Not complain, stagnate, and isolate…I love life again. I let myself give and receive intimacy…I’m allowing myself to be vulnerable, but feeling absolutely free, strong, and empowered every time I share my story. I’m admitting all of my faults, and maintaining humility on the (few, if any) proudful accomplishments in my life. I continue to grow stronger everyday – physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. Freeing myself of that disgusting, consuming habit is the single greast, defining moment of my life so far. I’ll use it to spread as much love and knowledge as possible. ‘Til next time!

I think you’ll notice a difference in tone. And it’s not exclusive to this entry. I’m not going to tell you that everyday of my life is some cherry-blossom, bed-of-roses, self-loving, fairy-tale. I am a person like any other – I still struggle with my body-confidence. And my self-confidence. I receive compliments about as well as I can swim (I could drown in a kitty pool). I’m not an enlightened individual by any means. But I practice being positive. Not just to others, but to myself too (although the former is wickedly easier for me). But that’s why they call it practice. I had to do some dirty, internal work. And I continue to have to do to that. I have to meditate. I have to sit with those nasty, hateful thoughts, and learn to be comfortable being uncomfortable. And I have to embrace the positive aspects of who I am more tightly when I recognize them. But like I said, the results speak for themselves. What you’ve read in this post is the contrast between what it’s like to be a slave to self-deprecation, and what it’s like to be fighting for self-gratitude.

Those are my thoughts on positivity. Hopefully I’ve elucidated that it’s not some magical millennial buzzword that hipsters throw around when they’re getting stoned. It’s a real damn thing that really damn changes how you think, feel, and act. Get out there and get some for yourself.