A toxic gloom invaded my every thought around late July.
I won’t try to explain it away. I won’t let myself minimize the darkness of that phase.
It hurt.
One day while scrolling on Facebook I saw an advertisement for the “Run the Red” ultramarathon through the Red Desert, which was set for Sept. 27.
Normal runners could sign up for a 30-kilometer (18.6 mile) version of the race, and stone-cold psychopaths could sign up for the 50k.
The ad cheered me.
How lovely, I thought, that humans run through the desert together in this state, where just the sight of rolling hills makes my feet ache for the earth.
And I realized – if seeing the ad made me so happy, how much more could training for the race cheer me? Or actually running in it?
I started training for the 30k.
Now, I’ve been a runner for 21 years, but I’d never raced a distance above a half marathon (13.1 miles) because of gut issues.
“Oh, that’s easy,” explained an ultrarunner who’s given a few pearls of wisdom for Cowboy State Daily stories over the years. “You’re dehydrated. Get one of those water pack vests.”
“One of those dorky vests the other racers are always wearing?” I countered.
“Yes…” he answered, probably amazed that I never wondered why the other runners would bother to don dorky vests in the first place.
I ordered one. I also ordered some salty-sugar sports drink powder to go into the 1.5-liter water pack.
Setting aside for a moment my red-blooded confusion at why we runners always measure things in kilometers and liters, I can honestly say: What a game changer.
But I still had to face the race ahead. Two days prior, I was hunting the ghosts of logistics.
What if the shuttle didn’t work and I couldn’t get to the start line? What if I got lost on the course? What if I puked everywhere?
But somehow my good cheer at the prospect of a bunch of vested folks running with goofy pained grins on their faces persisted.
I was excited.
Race day dawned. I drove to the finish line to wait for the shuttle to take me down to the starting point.
Reluctantly, I got out of my car to socialize with the other runners, rather than stay inside it and read my book. And it’s a good thing I did.
“Didn’t you hear? The shuttle’s broken down,” said a man.
“WHAT,” I blurted.
I scratched my head. So too did a gentle, female, mother-of-two marathoner from Laramie who stood next to me.
But we didn’t have to wait long. A couple of racers from Utah offered to give us a ride down to the start line.
(I later set up some contacts to give them a ride back down to their truck after the race, but I learned they found another ride all on their own.)
The start line hemmed a canyon’s edge overlooking the red, pink, tawny strata of the arid Red Desert.
I gasped.
The social gathering of 60-plus runners at that start line was unsurprisingly deferential.
Runners are often of a solitary, introverted type.
“Would it please you if I had your number?” I asked of my gentle new friend.
She considered. “Yes, I think it would.”
The other athletes marveled at my running sandals, but the sandals are nothing extraordinary. I simply enjoy minimalistic shoes.
No one shot a gun to signal the start. We all counted down from 10 together. Softly.
Then we loped into the hills.
What a thrill. The first race-third tumbled downhill, which grooved me into an exuberant pace behind a petite cross-country coach who wore bright blue shorts. She was my focal point for the first several miles - er - kilometers.
These race planners were realistic about runners, and how we’re overgrown kids.
We want to splash through rivers, crash through bushes and meet garter snakes.
“Run the Red” had us doing all those things.
At two-thirds through, we lost each other. The stretches between racers and landmarks grew sparser. The trail inclined more frequently.
My eyeballs dried out. I felt even lonelier than I usually prefer to feel while running.
I wanted to stop. Maybe a mountain lion would come put me out of my misery, I thought with a glimmer of hope.
Then came a male runner, 6-foot-4 in height, to pass me in a flurry of chatter.
“Woah nice sandals,” said he, adding, “I usually run in crocs."
I laughed, but I didn’t have the breath to ask if he was poking fun or being sincere. This race was set at nearly 8,000 feet elevation, and I only train at 5,000.
Maybe this chatty bro was from Laramie, I mused.
“My toes hurt in these,” the man continued.
I was a poor conversationalist.
He passed me and raced up the hill, effortless - like a charging bison.
In the bushes just outside of South Pass City, I got a few feet off track. Somehow I disbelieved that the green directional flags wanted me to vault bodily through two entangled bushes.
But they had, so when I found my way back to them, I did.
Then I finished. Ugly, gelatin-legged, swollen, confused. And delighted.
I didn’t vomit, but I wanted to. And if I had, even my barf attack would have been a joyful thing.
It’s enough that Wyoming's grandeur exists.
It’s just an added treasure that I got to run through it.
Clair McFarland can be reached at clair@cowboystatedaily.com.
