What am I doing here? Becoming an ultra-marathoner

I knew that running my first ultramarathon would give me plenty of material to write about. I could post on mindset and overcoming hardships. I could describe how in the lowest of lows, with pain searing through my right leg, I dug deep and carried on. Instead, I want to talk about how on the steppes of Kazakhstan, in the midst of a gruelling 100km ultramarathon, I found out an obvious truth: the only way to stop feeling like a fraud is to stop thinking like a fraud.

I arrived in Almaty airport before the rest of the race participants. As runner after runner appeared through arrivals: lean, long-limbed and energetic, already in groups of friends, my self-doubt intensified, “WHAT AM I DOING HERE? I don’t belong”. I was a fraud, a misfit, a fake.

In uncharacteristic impetuousness, I had signed up for the 100km ultramarathon only 5 weeks before. The furthest training run I completed was a half-marathon that resulted in Achilles tendonitis. I was woefully ill-prepared. I had all the gear and no idea. But I had prepared myself for such doubts, I had to remind myself that I was ready to come last. I had signed up to push my mindset to the limits, to see what my body could do and feel some freedom from my roles of mother, wife, employee. I was running my own race, no one else’s. Well, that had been the theory 5 weeks ago.

On the coach to the camp and as we bundled into our yurts, my fears intensified. Runners swapped stories about previous races, views from ridges and toenails lost. The following morning, jostling at the start, there was an air of confidence. I slunk to the back. 

And then we were off. It was happening, we were running. And by running, I couldn’t escape it. I was one of them.

Hardly able to run, I crawled into camp at the end of the day after 43km, close to last place, I was almost in tears. I didn’t know how I would make it to the rudimentary long-drop, let alone run another marathon the next day and a half marathon the day after. That night, over a bowl of heavy noodles, I found myself talking about my feet, the awe-inspiring plain I had navigated alone and how I had lost the markers at one point and stumbled on piles of goat skeletons. 

Day 2 took me to a new low physically and mentally. But it also rewarded me with dramatic ridges and breathtaking mountains. Comfortably in last place with light fading, I hobbled into camp accompanied by cheers as though I’d won. Ultra runners are the best of people: the fastest showing admiration for the endurance of the slowest.

I collapsed into the yurt that I shared with 4 other women, strangers to me until two nights before. These women, shattered and fighting their own internal battles from their races and a lack of sleep on the freezing floor of the yurt, rallied around me. They brought me tea, sorted out a leg massage, made me eat, proffered first aid kits. Their humour and kindness injected me with resilience and a sense of belonging.

Day 3 dawned wet and cold after a disrupted night, our yurt leaking and damaged in the wind. I silently hoped the race would be cancelled, it would surely be too dangerous on the rocky ridges. But no, ultramarathoners are hardcore. And I was one of them. I strapped up my leg as best I could and accepted that the race would go on. On that final day there were wonderful undulating sections where I could run, the rain brought out contrasting colours on the mountains and the prospect of finishing, having a shower and sleeping in a bed lifted everyone’s spirits. Oh and Wifi: 3 days without Google and WhatsApp were hard!

As I saw the camp on my final descent, the tears flowed. I had done it. The misfit had done a 100km ultramarathon. I was one of them. Crossing the finish, my yurt-mates were there to greet me and celebrate this shared experience. Jocelyn, doing her first ultra, her first marathon, on paper maybe more of a misfit than even me, had won the women’s race. Louise and Becky, unrelentingly cheerful, were not far behind her. Carinne had overcome intense pain to finish.

These ordinary women with their extraordinary resilience, kindness, and humour, showed me I was one of them.

All views are my own.