Truth be told, so much has happened since this race, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to find the time to sit down and write about it, but a month of craziness has passed and I found myself with a spare moment on a Friday night in the middle of a global pandemic, and it seemed like a good time to digest it. This race has actually turned into a sort of reference point for me. With days and weeks blending together, Antelope Canyon was the last thing I really did before the lockdowns began. As a matter of fact, the race itself nearly got cancelled as little as 30 minutes before the 100 milers lined up at the start, due to the Navajo Nation closing down native lands the night before. After everything it took to get to the start of the race for me, I am so grateful to those who chose to let us run it, because the experience was so very important to me and I would have been devastated to get so close, just to be turned away.
I was lucky enough to get the Friday before the race off work, and I left Tucson around 1:30 in the afternoon to head up to Page to get checked in at the Expo. Because of the worries surrounding the coronavirus, Vacation Races had very wisely decided to limit the expo to the night before the race, but that meant getting checked in and buying race merch all before 7pm that night. I made pretty good time getting to Page, and was able to pick up my race packet and sort out my drop bag all before 6:30pm. I have to admit, it felt strange going all the way up there on my own, as going into this way back in June of last year when I had signed up, I had expected to have a support crew coming with me, and never expected to be driving – and running – the race on my own. Due to the car accident I was in in December, my training halted 3 months before race day, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to run. I was so thankful to be cleared by my doctor on Thursday before the race, but I was certainly expecting to feel the nerves trying to take on 34 miles when I hadn’t run more than 5 or 6 miles in that long.
I checked into my Airbnb right around the corner from the start line around 7:30pm and I was surprised at how calm I was feeling. The last (and only) two races I had run had both been half marathons and I remembered the deep pit in my stomach the night before the races and how nauseous I had felt the whole day before. I was unable to eat or sleep and the nerves had kicked in so badly I hadn’t gotten to sleep much before 2 or 3AM the morning of the race, only to wake up at 5 to head to the start. Something was different though this time around. I dont know whether it was the fact that I had had to concentrate on the drive up, distracting me from what was coming, or the fact that I was approaching this race with a more relaxed attitude of ‘all I can do is give it a go’ after all the obstacles that had stood in my way since the accident. I have to admit I think it was almost a naivety as well, in the fact that I quite literally had no idea what to expect the next day, or whether I was capable of reaching the finish line, or what that kind of mileage would feel like, during and after the race. My simple approach of showing up at the start line and seeing what I could do left me feeling a strange sense of calm with little more than 8 hours to go until the start. I prepped my kit and my snacks and climbed into bed a little before 10pm, laying my head down to the sounds of Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter (a tactic I was hoping would keep me calm and send me to dreamland – thank goodness it worked like magic!).
I woke up on race day around 5:30AM. My start time was 7AM and I wanted to hit up Safeway to get some bagels and a couple more Clif Bars before heading over to the Amphitheatre where we would set off. Something I had not really thought about before that morning was what the weather was going to be like, and boy am I glad I didnt because it was WINDY, and I probably would’ve never showed up if I had read the weather report before heading to Page. Sitting in the parking lot in the dark before the race started, I could hear the wind ripping through the rocks, and picking up clouds of sand, sending the car swaying gently as I wondered what the hell I was getting myself into. Strangely enough, I still wasn’t feeling very nervous at this point and honestly was full to the brim of excitement, ready and raring to get going and give this thing a go of it. When you book a race like this so far in advance, you spend hours and weeks wondering what the day will be like – how you’ll feel, what the conditions will be like, whether you should wear leggings or shorts, how many snacks you’re going to carry, will you get left behind, will you reach the finish line – and by the time you get to race day, most of that has gone out the window and you just want to do the damn thing. Getting out of the car to fill up my water bottles had me reconsidering my clothing options and I hastily changed my short sleeve t-shirt out for a long sleeve to try to keep the biting wind at bay, whilst silently cursing my decision to not bring a windbreaker of some kind, assuming I would be able to suck up the cold at the start line and not have to use the drop bag.
When it was finally time to line up, it was an odd sight to see the crowd heavily dispersed, due to efforts with social distancing and more than ever the adrenaline started kicking in. The sun was just about making its way up at this point and when the gun went off, suddenly the wind didn’t seem so brutal, the air not so cold. All I could think was ‘THIS IS IT!’. I was grinning ear to ear those first few minutes running through the parking lot and over the road to the sandy path that would least us through the first miles of the race. That joy and excitement was short lived though, as I started to realise how much of an effect the terrain was going to have on the race. The sand was deep and soft, and most people had slowed down to a quick walk, as running or jogging seemed to be counterintuitive to energy reserves.
We carried along this sandy path for the first mile and a half until we reached Slickrock Aid Station. I met a lovely lady named Marta just before we reached Slickrock and after chatting briefly, we realised we were both running at around the same pace with the same general goal of finishing, and decided to become running companions for the rest of the race. We breezed through the first aid station, both keen to get to the next stop which was Horseshoe Bend and 4.7 miles. If you haven’t been to Lake Powell or Page before, the scenery out there is truly stunning, with vast desert landscapes reaching as far as the eye can see, but what most people come for – besides the intricate slotted corridors of Antelope Canyon – is Horseshoe Bend. Naturally carved into the rock by the ever flowing Colorado River, Horseshoe bend is overlooked from a rocky cliffside sitting approx 1000 feet over the river below, and gets its name from the distinctive shape it takes as it flows on its way. I had purposely avoided taking in this tourist hotspot up until this point, hoping that seeing Horseshoe for the first time during the race would put a pep in my step and provide me with motivation to keep going.
Once again, my tactics worked phenomenally, as my new friend Marta and I took turns taking pictures overlooking the massive river-bend, and shaking our heads in disbelief that places like this exist. This is truly one of those spots you will see online 100,000 times but you’ll never really appreciate until you’re stood right in front of it. After taking some time to soak it all in, Marta and I were back on our way, scrambling over the rough terrain of sand and slick rock, stopping many times to walk or scoot down the rocky shelves to head towards the next pink flag marking our route. I have to say, miles 5-7 were probably amongst the hardest in the race, for no reason other than the terrain was so uneven and slippery and we were forced to walk for most of it, watching our footing and regularly checking for the next markers to make sure we weren’t getting lost. I was having so much fun at this point still and had really settled into the excitement of the race, but it felt strange to walk so much at the beginning of the race and I realised very quickly that whatever race plan I had had was going to go out of the window very quickly with the landscape like it was. These interim miles before we hit the next aid station were long and slow and it felt more like a hike than any kind of running race, long distance or not. We lamented our vanishing race plans and justified our need to keep walking at this point instead of breaking into the half-run that many of our fellow competitors were doing, simply based on the fact that they didn’t seem to be getting much further than us but were using up energy that would be vital in the later stages of the race. When we finally crossed the road to Waterholes Aid Station, it would be an understatement to say that we were elated, having talked incessantly about our desire for some soda and some fruit when we got there, describing the intricate flavours and sensations of pineapple and watermelon, as well as ginger ale and sprite, during the miles leading up to it.
The other reason for excitement and Waterholes Aid station was the knowledge that the next segment of the race would take us through the slot canyons – the reason most of us had chosen to run Antelope Canyon specifically. Only the 50 and 100 mile courses take runners through the infamous Upper and Lower Antelope Canyons, but the 55k course does run through Waterholes Slot Canyons, a smaller and slightly shallower series of slot canyons winding through the wild desert rock on the way back up to the city of Page. By the time we had reached the slot canyons, we had been running for 12 miles, and although I was a little tired, I couldn’t believe how good my legs still felt and was stoked that I still hadn’t experienced any of the headaches I was so worried might ruin my race following my concussion. We spent a lot of time in the slots, taking in our surroundings, and snapping lots of pictures of the intricate patterns in the rocks, throwing the sand into the light rays and just generally experiencing this amazing section of the run. If there was one thing that I had set out to do during this race, it was to really enjoy it and soak it all in. It’s rare to get such unbridled access to these incredible places and I knew that the day would probably go by in a blur, so I wanted to really take the time to appreciate each moment of it, especially early on before the fatigue would start to cloud my thinking. Coming out of the slot canyons, we were faced with the steepest hill of sand I think I had ever seen (until mile 22) and we had a long trudge up it to break back onto the dirt road that would take us back to Horseshoe Aid Station for the second time around. I have to admit, when I started the race that morning, I had promised myself that I would be happy if I finished the 13.1 miles that would make up the half marathon (and qualify me for a medal) and if that was all I could manage, I would’ve had a good day. The next goal was completing 26.2, and with that finishing my first marathon distance, which would have culminated in a great day. My perfect-race-day-all-the-stars-aligned-someone-was-looking-over-me goal was to finish the full ultra distance of 34 miles. The road from the slot canyons to the Horseshoe Aid Station was flat enough in parts that we were able to get into a running rhythm for the first time and I was happy to check off my first goal on the way, spurring me on to the 16.7 mile marker back at Horseshoe Bend.
Some very friendly guys helped us refill our bottles and get some snacks on board during this brief break and I was definitely starting to feel my body fighting back a little bit at this point. I knew that the most technical part of the race was over at this point, and that gave me the little bit of confidence to go back out on our way and head to the next station. We found ourselves running back up the road we had run down from the start, taking us back up over the ridge and into the city, ready to do our final lap of Page before we hit the finish line. I will warn you now, if you ever plan to run this race, save some prayers for the hill leading up to Page Rim Aid Station. When I saw that hill of sand coming out of the distance, I have to admit I almost cried actual tears, and dragging my ass up it 15 minutes later was no different. This baby was a thigh burner, and the soft sand made every step you took half as efficient as it should have been, as you were losing distance as you gained it slipping through the sand. When we finally reached the top, I was happy to have run the furthest I’d run, ever, up until that point, and was starting to believe that I was actually going to have a chance at finishing the race. Now, I knew well enough that although we had reached the half-way point in mileage by the time we got to the Page Rim Aid station, the race was far less than half over. A fellow ultra-runner and podcast host who was following my race for his podcast, Becoming Ultra, had told me the week before the race that 26.2 was usually halfway in terms of effort, and that the last 10 miles would drag out and therefore to focus on that as the midway point. I have to admit, he was spot on, as despite our good spirits as we started on our lap around the town, we had no idea how quickly things would change.
I would say mile 24/25 was when I really started to feel the fatigue. My legs were aching with every step, my knees and hips were definitely protesting regardless of whether I stopped or started, and my mind was starting to struggle more to stay positive and conjure motivation, even though we kept trudging on. Marta and I found a rhythm of walking a bit and running a bit over these next few miles and the scenery, although beautiful, became less of a distraction and my thoughts became focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I don’t honestly remember much about these miles other than the sight of my feet moving along the ground and that they were literally the longest miles I’ve ever experienced. In one sense, I was excited that I was going to hit my second goal, and that I was going to run a marathon, but in another, I was so unsure of how I was going to do another 8 miles at this point, and every thought became focused on moving forward. I began counting to 100 forward and backwards and Marta and I’s chatter became less and less frequent. I was definitely holding her back at this point, and it’s safe to say that if she had not stuck it out with me at this point, I don’t know if I would have kept going. At minimum, I knew I had to at least make it back to the next station in order to drop out, and although my legs actually felt ok (they hurt but not enough to stop me running) I began to feel super nauseous around mile 27. We had still been running spouts of 13 and 14 minute miles at this point, but now with every step I took, my stomach was churning and I realised a little too late that I had not eaten anywhere near enough to replenish the calories I had been burning and I knew if I was going to complete the race, it was going to be a long and gruelling walk to the finish line.
The 5 miles between Powell Aid (27 miles) and getting back to Page Rim Aid (32.6 miles) were amongst the worst I have experienced. I recognise now that at this point, I was more in survival mode than race mode. So many negative thoughts were coursing through my head and the more exhausted I became, the more aggressively I plodded on, trying to ignore the nausea and the urge to stop or scream or cry ( I wasn’t sure which one might help). Marta and I had drifted further apart by this point and she was doing a downright stellar job of cheering me on and keeping me moving. I felt guilty and frustrated for slowing her down, but at the same time was worried about being left alone in these final stages. As the distance between us spread, I found myself breaking down into tears at multiple stages, frustrated that every corner we turned was a false one, and that there was no possible way the Page Rim Aid station could be this far away. Those miles were slow, torturous and emotional. My mental state was going between euphoria for getting this far and being so close to the end, to anger for how much everything hurt and how tired I was, to pure, plain exhaustion, which often left me dry sobbing and then shaking it off wondering how crazy I must look to onlookers. My mum, dad and aunt were texting me all through these later stages, and the pictures I had been sending of my smiling face were getting harder and harder to fake. The messages of support that were coming through filled me with pride and with motivation, but made me sob uncontrollably at the same time, which also made me feel sick. When we finally came around the corner to Page Rim Aid, I literally thought I might die. We had walked/ran over 30 miles by this point, and with less than 2 miles to go, I was quite sure I wasn’t going to make it. I sat in a chair at the aid station wondering if I was going to throw up, while Marta brought me pineapple and watermelon, and I remember sitting next to a guy who was running the 100 miler and his pacer, who looked on with sympathy and asked if I was OK. I replied that I felt very nauseous and thought I might throw up, to which the pacer enthusiastically told me, ‘Oh that’s totally normal, I threw up at my first ultra and it is basically a right of passage’. I couldn’t help but laugh at this guy and the huge smile on his face as they both assured me that I was so close and that it would all be over soon.
Begrudgingly, I stood up, hobbled back over to the trail and Marta and I began our descent down the giant sand hill from mile 22 to the finish line. I have to admit, I was not only nauseous at this point, but I was pretty dizzy too, unable to really focus my eyesight and not really able to coordinate my leg muscles as we tried to descend down the hill. My feet were slipping all over the place in the sand and I sort of stumbled and swayed down the hill while Marta ran on ahead. I spent most of the last minutes of the race willing Marta on, as I didn’t have the energy to catch up, but wanted so desperately for her to crush her finish. I was walking close to 27 minute miles in this last segment, and so many emotions were crashing over me as the finish came into view. Honestly, I still tear up thinking about seeing that platform in the rock, and the supporters off to the side telling me that I had made it, and just had to get across the staging. I had spent the past 8 miles telling myself I just had to keep moving forward and that eventually I would make it to the finish, but I don’t think I really let myself believe it until that moment. When I finally got up on that staging, I was able to pick up the pace and run the last few yards to cross the line, right into Marta’s smiling arms. I was so overcome with emotions at this point in time, but beyond anything, I was so grateful to see a familiar face cheering me home. It was hard not having friends and family there to share the moment with, but the circumstances leading up to the race meant that that was just how it ended up and I’m so proud of myself for running the race, on my own, anyway.
I spent the hours after the race sitting in my car in the parking lot waiting for the nausea to subside (the medical tent gave me a Zofran which quite literally saved my life and my stomach) and trying to let it all sink in. I started running just a year ago when I thought 13.1 miles was the furthest distance I would ever be able to achieve. I wondered, after that, if I could ever possibly reach a marathon distance, and I signed up for Antelope Canyon because I decided you had to reach for the things you were most scared of if you want to really live your life. My car accident in December almost derailed my plans of running this race, and surviving it, aside from the concussion, made me even more sure that this life is short and unpredictable. We have only limited moments that we are able to use to challenge ourselves and push the boundaries on what we think we are capable of, mind and body, and too often we think that tomorrow is promised and that ‘one day’ will be better that ‘today’. If my patients have taught me anything, it’s that the things we are most afraid of are the ones that shape us into stronger, more resilient versions of ourselves. The barriers we put up to excuse ourselves from the things that are hard, leave us living a life with less struggle, sure, but they also prevent us from ever overcoming those things and realising how much more we can be.
I really hope that if you’re reading this, you know that you can do anything you put your mind to. Yes, it may be hard work, and yes, at times it may feel like your dreams or your goals are too big, too scary and too unachievable. But part of the accomplishment is putting those goals out there, and facing them head on, accepting that you might fail, but at least you tried. More often than not, we talk ourselves out of our biggest goals before we even give them a shot, but I hope you learn from my experience that our bodies and minds are capable of far more than we can ever imagine. I hope that you find the strength to give those far-out goals a run for their money. I hope you inspire people with your bravery and I hope that you look in the mirror and see all that you can be. These are all things I didn’t expect to get out of this race, but am so glad that I did.
H x
The BackRoad Brit 
Beautiful pics and story…you helped to make that day a special one for me! Also you are one of the kindest, most genuine and toughest runners I have met! We made it thru a huge challenge… and came out smiling😆 so when are we doing our next Ultra…? Lol!
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