On the morning of November 11, I lined up with 60 or so other runners to race 50 miles around a desert mesa north of Fruita, Colorado. Fifty miles, in my opinion, is too far to run. My legs and feet have too many years of slogging locked into their muscle memory. They suffer from a deficit of grace and confidence. And they tend to stumble over themselves when presented with the most basic additions of obstacles and speed. I will never be a talented runner or even a proficient runner. But I am — for spiritual reasons unknown to me — a passionate runner. In October, I decided I wanted to relaunch my running journey and see where renewed zeal might take me. For reasons of logistics and convenience, I started here in Fruita.
The sharp predawn air was shockingly cold — 16 degrees, according to my car’s thermometer. I had dressed for something much warmer. Because I would be “running,” I wore the same outfit I’d wear if it was 80 degrees in the summer — a sun hoodie, three-quarter leggings, a ballcap, and a buff. I pulled a light down pullover and beanie out of my pack — these were supposed to be safety gear for the swiftly encroaching night, but they’d work just as well for the morning. The sliver moon climbed over the eastern horizon just minutes ahead of the still-hidden sun. The headlights of idling cars lit up the dusty plateau, with ochre sand and frosted grass sparkling in the artificial moonlight.
I stood near the back of the pack and shivered wildly. I was cold, but more than that, I was frightened. I’d endured two exhausting EMDR sessions with my therapist to try to quell this fear, but this work was only a start. Anniversaries tend to haunt me. I don’t know why. But in recent weeks, whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was the afternoon of Nov. 9, 2022, when I reached the summit and then the abyss of my running passion in a single split moment.
I was enjoying the training run of my life, flying down a trail at a rate that felt like it could be measured in parsecs. In the next fraction of a second, for reasons I don’t understand, I blinked and my face was mere inches from the rough, rocky ground. I must have tripped. I don’t remember tripping. I don’t remember anything about that fall beyond the terror of seeing a mottled rock up close, followed by crushing pain in my jaw and then my chest when the rock blipped into darkness. After six or eight weeks, my injuries had recovered. But fear and distrust persisted. Why did I fall? Why don’t I remember falling? It was as though my brain — rather than the usual suspect, my awkward body — had failed me. Whatever trust I had mustered in my running abilities over the years had shattered.
For the 2023 Kessel Run 50-miler, I had only one goal: Get to the end with no major splats. Finishing under the 14-hour cutoff would be a bonus. 12 hours seemed a best-case scenario, but even then, a long shot. I hadn’t experienced a “parsec” moment in running for more than a year.
On November 11, my friend Betsy went climbing with her daughter at Shelf Road, a remote area in the southcentral mountains of Colorado. All week she had been feeling “not too great,” but the mysterious illness seemed to tighten its grip on Saturday. She top-roped two routes and then belayed her daughter the rest of the day. The following day, she made it up one route before bowing out. From there, her physical condition unraveled quickly. She felt out of sorts. She leaned to one side while standing in place. She dropped things. It wasn’t like vertigo — it was something different, she told me.
“Loss of proprioception?” I offered. She considered this. She had never felt this thing — like she was piloting somebody else’s body and struggling to keep it in control. It makes sense that this unsettling sensation is foreign to her. She’s a brilliant climber.
Worsening symptoms prompted her to go to urgent care, where she was sent directly to the emergency room. An MRI revealed a large mass on the left side of her brain. In that fraction of a second, her world blipped to darkness and everything changed.
As morning sunlight lingered far over Lipan Wash, I struggled to find my rhythm. The first five miles of the Kessel Run crossed a number of drainages. The constant ups and downs caused me to sweat in my down pullover. I had to take it off to preserve its insulation. Temperatures were still well below freezing. My single thin layer seemed to do nothing for me. I was as good as naked in the frigid desert, flailing forward as my arms and legs stiffened to wooden pegs. My exposed skin burned scarlet with the cold. My water hose froze solid. My fingers became rigid and useless. I reached the first aid station and couldn’t even paw a snack off the table. I bent down to tie my shoes and ended up knuckling a loose loop to keep the shoelaces in place until my hands worked again — if they ever worked again. I laughed because cold weather activity is normally the one thing I can do well. Today was utterly failing even in this.
On Nov. 15, I drove out to Anschutz Medical Campus in Aurora to visit Betsy in her inpatient room. Her husband Josh was there, as was one of her climbing buddies, Nick. The mood in the room was light-hearted. Betsy was in good spirits, despite being virtually chained to her bed by alarms since she was a falling risk. A large purple blotch marked the spot on the side of her head where she was to have a biopsy performed as soon as the doctors could make space for her. They wouldn’t even need to shave her head, she remarked happily. We chatted for so long that I didn’t have time to drive home from Aurora before my work shift started at 3. I told Betsy I’d work downstairs in the cafeteria. Perhaps if she was up for it when I was done at 8, I could visit her once more.
At mile 8, Kessel Run launched up a long slog of a climb at a north-facing angle that kept runners in the morning shadows. Despite my desperation for self-generated warmth, my muscles were so stiff that I couldn’t climb well. I shambled upward and was caught by another woman, who was wisely still wearing her puffy jacket.
“How do even you train for something like this?” she wondered aloud as she passed. “Treadmill inclines aren’t this steep.”
“Stairmaster,” I replied. “I love the Stairmaster.” You wouldn’t know it by looking at me right now, I thought silently.
I looked over at the woman. I guessed she too was in her 40s, and instinctively eyed her warily. It’s so weird because I don’t even care about this sort of thing. Not really. But in the heat — or ice — of a race, I can’t help but size up my competition. By this I mean my own narrow definition of competition. That is, other women in my age group who are near my speed.
My Wednesday work shift dragged like never before. The hospital cafeteria was hot and crowded. The fact it was a hospital cafeteria haunted me. How does life come down to this? One day, you’re leading difficult climbing routes. The next day, you’re here, cast into an uncertainty so profound that you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever return to that rock wall, or even see a familiar tomorrow.
Betsy and I met in 2018. We both wanted to ride our bikes up Mount Evans, so a mutual friend introduced us. We both love bikepacking, Colorado mountains, Alaska, and the esoteric sport of winter fat biking. We became fast friends. We’re the same age, both born in 1979. Betsy has two children, an 11-year-old daughter and a 6-year-old son with Down Syndrome. Her busy family life and our introverted tendencies mean we don’t see each other all that frequently. But when we do get together for gravel rides or winter fat bike races or four-day Alaska backcountry trips, I feel a kindred connection. Betsy loves adventure and loves the outdoors in the way I love these things, passionately and generously with a streak of respectful trepidation.
Finally, 8 p.m. came and went. I texted Betsy to see if she was awake. She told me to come up, but when I walked in the door, her demeanor had completely changed. She was lying flat in bed, ashen-faced. Her eyes were puffy as though she’d been crying Her husband stood over her, also looking stricken. I exhaled and said softly, “How was your day?”
She told me she hadn’t been able to have a biopsy. Instead, she met the neurosurgeon. He gave her an overview that seemed more dire than the one she’d anticipated. She was to have surgery on Monday. The open-brain procedure would require her to remain conscious part of the time. It was just five days away, and there was nothing she could do until then but sit in this bed and wait. She asked me a question that revealed she was thinking deeply about getting her affairs in order. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I exhaled again.
“I’m sorry to bother you during such a vulnerable time,” I whispered. “I want to help. Anything. Anything at all.”
She indicated that what she needed now, most of all, was love and hope. A glimmer of hope. I pointed out all of the difficult climbing she’s competed in recent months. I reminded her that she took on the 200-kilometer Fat Pursuit and bivvied alone on top of the Continental Divide to wait out a disorienting blizzard. During our 100-mile Alaska bike trip last March, she was the one who charged ahead and broke trail through a thick layer of fresh powder.
“You can do hard things,” I said. “And of course, I don’t know what the future holds. Nobody does. This is what I finally realized after my Dad died. None of us have any guarantees. All we can do is embrace the unknown and charge into it with everything we have.”
While we spoke, Betsy transitioned from lying flat in her bed to sitting up straight. She raised her arms into the air. “Yes,” she exclaimed. “I can do this!”
We decided her mantra would be “Where’s the fire?” She needed to search for the fire — her day’s motivation — and harness it so she could charge ahead.
At mile 13, the Kessel Run crossed onto the high mesa. I wanted to put some distance on the woman, but the trail was a narrow and frequently rocky ribbon of singletrack. I remained terrified of falling and tried to be as deliberate as possible in my steps. The woman shadowed me for several miles. When I stopped to let her pass, she proclaimed, “No! You’re carrying me right now.”
Really? I am? I rarely hold a pace that is perfect for anybody else, so I usually run alone. But I didn’t object to a running companion. This was going to be a long day.
She continued shadowing me to the next aid station, where we met a couple of others: Jem, a 30-something software engineer from Denver, and Liv, a young Longmont resident with “a rom-com job” at a candle store. When Liv told us she was 24 years old, the woman and I both proclaimed, “We’re old enough to be your mother!” That’s when I learned the woman’s name: Shari, a 47-year-old former wildlife biologist turned software engineer who also lives in Boulder.
The four of us ran together for the next ten miles. In truth, we did a lot of walking. Everyone was feeling the crush of miles, and the conversation was riveting. We lost ourselves to the storytelling and settled into a comfortable stroll. I started to feel restless but didn’t want to leave my team.
“This is what it’s all about,” I thought. “Forging connections.” I was having a great time. And I was so distracted by the group that I hadn’t even thought about falling on my face in at least two hours! But I was also beginning to fret about the cutoff. After the “halfway” aid station at mile 28, I announced I was forging ahead. I hoped the team would follow.
I was able to visit Betsy again on Nov. 17, three days before her surgery. The nurses had finally given her permission to go for a walk on the hospital grounds, provided she took her walker and just-in-case wheelchair. She thought this was ridiculous. She was a strong athlete! But she agreed to these stipulations for the privilege of enjoying the gorgeous afternoon. It was 60 degrees under brilliant blue skies.
We made our way down the elevator and out the door with her parents-in-law, daughter, husband, and mother in tow. Betsy took deliberate steps behind her walker as I wobbled on my own legs. I’d had a terrible run on Thursday. I tried to do 10 miles on the same trail loop that took me down a year ago and sparked a brand new phobia. My head swirled and my stomach churned as I shambled around the loop, feeling like my face was about to hit the ground. Why did I feel so bad? I’d forgotten that the Kessel Run was just five days earlier. It was already a lifetime ago.
We reached the edge of the hospital grounds where I pointed to a park that was another block away. “It’s really nice over there,” I said. “There are benches and a pond and geese.”
Betsy didn’t know whether it was allowed but was determined to reach the park. I followed behind as she leaned dramatically to the right while making her way over a curb. I gasped as she seemed to nearly stumble.
“You’re leaning again,” Josh called out to her. I looked toward my friend, so strong and limber just a week ago, as she returned to deliberate steps across the crosswalk. I held my breath and looked away. A low haze hung over the horizon, shrouding the mountains in the distant West. Around us, desiccated brown leaves littered the ground. A scattering of crimson leaves still clung to several trees, like broken teeth on gnarled skeletons. The scene initially struck me as ugly, but then I thought, “No. It’s not ugly at all.” I looked back toward the hospital. Aurora. The city where I was born. It was beautiful in this light. It was beautiful always.
At mile 30, I charged ahead. Soon it was just me and Shari on the twisting, rocky trail high above Fruita’s northern desert. We continued chatting about life. I suggested exchanging phone numbers so we could continue to meet for runs in Boulder. I was bolstered by the presence of my new friend. We compared our recent injuries and I learned she had me beat by a large margin — she fractured her hip in a mountain bike crash in May and didn’t have it properly diagnosed for a month. She ran the Bolder Boulder 10K on a broken hip! It made my cracked ribs and bruised sternum sound pleasant in comparison.
The miles dragged on and the light began to fade. Cold air returned to the desert. We dropped down, down on a loose and gravelly moto trail. Golden cottonwood leaves fluttered in a stiffening breeze. I complained of the cold and Shari told me to run ahead if I needed to. “I promise, I’m doing the best that I can,” I replied.
Besty told her daughter to chase the geese away so she could sit down on a rock near the pond. “I’m so tired,” she said, looking back toward the hospital. “I don’t think I’ll make it back. I’m glad we brought the wheelchair.”
All of her energy was focused inward. There was nothing left even for a simple walk to the park. I sat down beside her. We quietly watched the geese on the pond for several minutes. I continued to look around, marveling at the beauty of this place. How do we fail to appreciate the depths of beauty and wonder that surrounds us at all times? I traveled all the way to Fruita and ran 50 miles just to experience everything that I already had right here.
Betsy seemed similarly at peace, smiling in the sunlight. Betsy’s husband and daughter went off the chase the geese. The parents had all stayed behind — we presumed to talk among themselves. We had just a few more quiet minutes before they returned. Betsy asked how she could frame this experience to better visualize what might lie ahead. She wanted a story she could tell to herself. She’s a woman after my own heart.
I started comparing her cancer journey to a race. But no, this was nothing like a race. A race is a choice. A race has a planned beginning and a definitive end. Races are easy like that. No, this was an expedition, a perilous journey through the Arctic wilderness where she had no choice but to keep going. She was grinding toward a crux, only to reach a new and harder crux. All she could do was focus on the next crux … the next Alaska cabin … the next storm. There, she’d assess the conditions, focus on her next destination, and keep going.
With five miles to go, I finally started to pull ahead … but not much. Shari told me she was digging deep but she was still right there. I admit I was feeling fantastic. My legs were still surprisingly nimble — a shock given my limited training. But then the sun set. Darkness enveloped the desert. I started to feel an alarming sense of vertigo. Relatively minor dropoffs pulled at me with their yawning darkness. The trail became an impossibly uneven ribbon of loose sand. I reminded myself that I had biked all of these trails — taken wheels to them at high speeds — and managed not to fall. But my faith had shattered. I reduced myself to crabwalking the short but steep rollercoaster descents.
Several people passed. I felt frustrated. I looked over my shoulder. I hoped to see a friendly headlamp letting me know that Shari was right behind me. There were other headlamps — many headlamps — snaking their way along the plateau. But none were close. Shari didn’t pass me again. I jogged as well as I could. I felt dizzy and heavy-footed. “Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall,” I wished to the universe.
Betsy’s surgery took place Nov. 20. She made it through. She made it through and recovered enough to type a few words. That much I know. I do not know much more than that. “It’s been a really, really tough day and I can’t seem to find the words,” she wrote today.
I think of her sitting at the edge of the pond in Aurora, smiling in the sunshine. And I cling to hope.
I finished the Kessel Run in 12:13. I was both pleased with and disappointed in my finish, as is always the case in these silly challenges we set for ourselves. I waited for Shari, who finished alongside Liv in 12:17. We hugged and laughed and promised to see each other again. My legs stiffened so much that I could barely hobble to the car. The cold clamped down like a weighted blanket. I took a deep breath of icy air and then exhaled a rush of emotions. I felt suddenly weightless, that intense release that comes when we can no longer hold our own heaviness.
I was so far away and had no idea that at that moment, my friend Betsy was in another corner of Colorado with a sudden, new heaviness — wondering why she wasn’t feeling well, wondering why her body suddenly didn’t feel like her own.
I love the way this story blends 2 stories together...so beautifully written.
Mark, from Lovely Ouray...currently headed south in the Rv, till I can wear shorts and t-shirts.
I am so impressed by the emotion, vulnerability, and pace of this story! Intertwining these two stories is *genius*. I love the way it invites me to appreciate the ability and strength displayed in the sections about running because I'm worried about Betsy's health and mortality in general in the others.