An Unnatural Athlete

Have you ever fallen into the trap of comparing yourself with other runners? I know I have. Especially lately. 

I am, by nature, a competitive person, so it’s only natural I would push myself to be as fast or faster than those around me. I find most successful runners are this way, and I suppose if they weren’t, they wouldn’t see much performance improvement. So, we must conclude that a bit of a competitive nature is a good thing, right? But how can you find that line between pushing yourself, and engaging in needless mental abuse? 

I was recently on a group run with a couple of great people. I really enjoy these folks, and we were in a beautiful forest on a great day. The problem? They’re both faster runners than me. I could tell they were dialing down their pace to try to accommodate me, but I was still always a few paces behind them, trying to catch up.

Some of my absolute favorite running friends
in the Lynn Woods on my birthday 2020.

While on group runs, I sometimes find myself reverting back to thinking like a seventh grader: “If my legs were as long as his, everything would be easier…” Or, “If I was as naturally thin as her I’d be able to lay down those fast miles…” I know this is immature and a gross oversimplification. I know I’m being stupid, but sometimes I can’t stop. Sometimes I feel like no matter how hard I work (and trust me, I work really hard), it’s never enough and I’m still just so slow. Some runs, I fight for every.single.mile. And when you run ultra distances, that’s a lot of fighting. In my lowest moments, I wonder if it’s like this for all runners, or just me. Is the fact that it’s so hard an indication that I’m just not a runner and I should stop torturing myself? Am I really too short? Are my thighs just too thick and will never stop chafing? Are my feet just too flat? 

Group run through a 
Moroccan canyon.

I also wonder if I should continue running ultra distances. Over the last few years, since starting running ultras, I have really slowed down my pace. I used to be mid to upper level-pack, sometimes even sneaking in an age group placement in local 5K’s and 10K’s. But now, I’m bottom of the pack. I find that I’m usually one of the last people to finish an ultra. Sometimes I think - is this just not my distance? Should I focus more on shorter distances and try to be faster? But I always come back to one fact - for some reason, the ultra distances are what I really WANT to do. The thought of running shorter distances just doesn’t excite me. And the whole point of this thing is fun right? 

In the end, I have realized that even with my short stature and flat feet, I do have one key trait of an ultra runner. I am able to see a problem, remove the emotion from the situation, and reveal the solution. I do sometimes need a moment to just be sad about my difficulties, but then I am able to flip and focus on a solution and positive outcome. For example, while driving home from that group run with the faster runners, I continued to wonder what it would be like to be a tall, lean, natural athlete who had run since high school. Then I thought, that runner today also told me she has a tendency to go out too fast in ultras, and burn out after only about 20 miles. She said she tends to do a few loops and then quit because she’s “had enough”. The thought of that surprised me. I really couldn’t imagine quitting just because I was tired and didn’t want to continue. As running doesn’t always come naturally or easy to me, I have been through some real struggles. I know how to suffer. I know how to feel like absolute shit and choose to keep going. To have a true suffer fest. I also can’t imagine blowing through beginning miles too quickly. I’m freaking slow so I can’t possibly go out gangbusters and go too fast at the beginning of a race. So in some ways, being a slow, unnatural runner has propelled me forward to complete more, longer ultras. I must, therefore, ask myself if I REALLY want to be like someone else? To be a natural, tall, lean athlete? Or do I just want to be like me?

The group from my running trip to Morocco in 2019 (with Run the World Adventures). Abdu from Morocco, Pablo from Costa Brava, Spain,  Jane from CA, Tony from the UK, Markus from Austria, Dan from CA, me, Brahim from Morocco, and Christina from Switzerland.

Riverlands 100 Race Report

Riverlands 100 Race Report

Standing on my X and waiting to start

The Riverlands 100 was simultaneously more difficult, more inspiring, more moving, more miserable and more life changing than I ever imagined. Before I dive into the nitty gritty of my personal experience, in case you’re reading this to decide if YOU want to do this race, I’ll give you my impressions of it up front. You can’t find better people than at Trail Monsters Running. This race is put on by the best of the best and I’d highly recommend it. It’s super small which is awesome. The trails aren’t crowded, and even the fastest runners are kind and generous with their smiles and “good jobs.” The course is well marked and everything is super well organized. Cut off’s and other rules are well communicated, and I felt safe and well taken care of. 5 out of 5 stars to Race Directors Valerie and Mindy and all the other volunteers. My heartfelt thanks will never be enough for how hard they worked for this race. The course is really difficult - if you’re a slower runner like me looking to do your first 100, there may be better race choices for you. There’s a lot of elevation gain (14,000 feet), and the trails are very technical. The course is gorgeous, and you spend VERY little time on roads and most of your time on beautiful single or double track. 

Also, before I jump in, special thanks are due to my husband extraordinaire Kevin Hayden, my kiddo’s Sully and Lizzy, my brother-in-law Ryan, my sister and my parents, my pacers and crew Jeremy and Rob, my coach Scott Traer, my PT Shira Dragun, my neighbors for always cheering me on, my coworkers for their sweet messages, my Lynn Woods pals for their never-ending support, my nighttime running partners Manny, Natasha, and Steve, and all my friends for their encouragement. Photo creds go to Rob and Jeremy.

*******

Race ready - walking to the start and posing for a quick pic with the best crew evah -
Jeremy and Rob

The race started at 6 am, with great weather. My crew, Rob and Jeremy, had set up my own aid station at the start/finish line. As we lined up to get started, I felt nervous and excited, but mostly just ready to go. I had trained for this for almost a year, so I just wanted to get the show on the road already! The race only had about 60 runners in the 100 mile race, and then a handful of relay teams also running a version of the 100 broken into 5 legs of 20 miles each. The relay runners shared some of our route, but were mostly on a different course. I have been told the relay course was less technical with less elevation gain.

The course was a 25 mile out and back, which we would run 4 times. Simple enough right? Hmmm… There was an aid station about 10K (6.2 Miles) out, called Middle Earth, and another in another 10K, called Conant Road. At Conant Road, we turned around and headed back to run another (approximately) 12.5 miles, hitting Middle Earth Aid Station again. We would then run 6.2 miles to the start line, attend to anything we needed with our crew, and head back out.

Ascent (or descent) to the ridge near Middle Earth 
  

This means that each part of the course was visited eight times. Each uphill climb four times, and then that same downhill the other way four times. Anyone who has run a trail ultra knows that, downhills can be just as slow, difficult, and dangerous as uphills. Especially when they’re steep and technical, as was the case at Riverlands. Every stream or muddy bog was crossed not once, but eight times. In hindsight, I realize this race was not the best choice for my first 100. 14,000 elevation gain plus super technical trails including mud and a total of about 15-20 river crossing (where you do get your feet wet especially as the race goes on and you get tired), was not easy. I knew it was going to be tough and I knew might not finish. But knowing it and doing it can be two very different things.

As I have many friends who aren’t ultra runners, I have had a lot questions over the last week about how these races work. So I’ll answer a few here. The #1 question has been: Do you sleep? The answer is no. I have heard of some runners stopping for a quick nap during an ultra, but for me, I’m not a fast enough runner to be able to do that and still finish the race in time. For Riverlands, we started at 6 am, ran all day, all night, and most of the next day too. I don’t believe there were any runners who took naps during this race. Question #2: Do you eat? Yes, absolutely! Training your gut to eat while running is one of the most important aspects of training for an ultra. My goal was to take in 250 calories an hour while running. I ate every 30 minutes, and I had tailwind in my water, which is a powder with calories and nutrients. I carried water in my running pack, along with snacks and my emergency gear. I would also get food and water at the aid stations. Some examples of the food I ate during the race were: Huma gels, Ritz peanut butter crackers, Smuckers uncrustable sandwiches, bacon (yes, I did, at 3 am), coffee, coca-cola (a lot), cheese quesadillas, oranges, beef broth, ramen noodles, mountain dew, snickers bars and cheez-its. Although most ultra runners eat very healthy from day to day (for example, leading up to a race I typically stop drinking alcohol at all and try to eat as much lean protein and vegetables as possible), on race day we’re looking for high calorie, high sugar, and when we need it, caffeine. Question #3: Do you run trails at night? Yes. Although I have had a considerable amount of practice running at night, I haven’t done a lot of such technical trails as Riverlands at night, and I’ve never run ALL night. The experience of watching dusk fall, then watching the moon rise, then hearing the coyotes go bonkers all night, and then, at about 4:30, hearing the forest start to wake up around me to finally bloom into full morning sunshine, all while running, is rather trippy. I wore a headlamp, and carried a small, very strong hand held flashlight. I carried extra batteries in case of emergency. Another important factor was that at mile 50, just as dusk was falling, I picked up my pacer, Rob.  A pacer is a magical unicorn of a person who keeps you on course, keeps you running at the right pace, makes sure you keep fueling, listens to you cry, and makes sure you don’t fall of a cliff. Rob ran miles 50-100 with me. He’s my guardian angel. Another difficulty of running at night can be the temperature drop. Although it was 60 degrees during the day May 8, after nightfall it dropped to near freezing, so we all had to layer up to prepare for that. Luckily I love running in the cold so it didn’t bother me. Many people ask Aren’t you afraid of running in the woods at night? And the answer is honestly, no. I’ve never been afraid of running in the woods, really at any time of day or night. I am more afraid of running some streets at night than in the woods. Last question: Do you stop to go to the bathroom? Yes, I do. A lot. I do it all in the woods. It ain’t pretty, but whatever.

So anyway, I ran most of loop 1 with a new friend named Harry. Making new friends at races is super fun and you meet the coolest people! The biggest problem I faced during this loop was that I could feel my feet were already getting torn up. They got wet in the mud and I could feel blisters forming already. Unfortunately I had to spend 20-30 minutes at the base station after the first loop getting my feet worked

Trying to fix my feet after loop 1

on by Rob and Jeremy.

I felt better as I headed out for loop 2. But I was by myself this whole loop, which was difficult. The most I had ever run was 52 miles, so I was nervous to reach 50 and know I was only half way there. I tried to focus on just moving from aid station to aid station. My strategy to spend as little time as possible at each station worked well - the volunteers said I was the most efficient ultra runner stopping at aid stations they had ever seen! I did have my first vomit session at about mile 40, but it wasn't bad and a little puke is normal for me.

Rob and I headed out for loop 3 and it felt awesome to have company. Night was falling and I was excited to pass my PR of 52 miles. I was also relieved for the withdrawal of the mosquitos that had plagued the runners all day. It was extremely difficult to navigate some parts of the course in the dark. There were dangerous river crossings, but the most treacherous section was descending the ridge. Right before Middle Earth, there was a large climb up to a ridge, and then you had to descend down over the course of about 40 stone steps. The steps were rocks stacked against the cliff, so they only had a wall on one side, and the other side dropped straight off. Not only was it the middle of the night, but I had been running for 14 hours and was physically and mentally depleted. What a rush though! I did have a breakdown at about 2:00 in the morning. I cried and said to Rob, “I just don’t think I can do this. No matter what I do, no matter how I try in everything in my life, it’s never enough. I’m never good enough.” I realized that this moment, right there, was the essence of the ultra race. It strips you down to your very bones and shows you your greatest weaknesses and your greatest strengths. I realized that I have always felt that my very best is not enough. That I am not enough. Sometimes we can't really understand or define our demons until we are tested and broken down.

Leaving for loop 2

 If we can’t define our weaknesses, we can’t work to try to conquer them. By putting oneself through a suffer-fest like an ultra, we are able to find these weaknesses. To find ultra.

I persevered. The wonderful Rob helped me through it. He promised me I’d feel better once I finished loop 3, and saw the sun again.

I knew that after loop 3, I faced the first big cut-off of the race. My one goal for this race was to finish. I knew that I would be riding the cut-offs to the wire based on my 50 mile race time. But I didn’t know how stressful that would be. I had to be LEAVING the start line for loop 4 by 6:30 am. If I didn’t, they’d pull me and my race would be over. I hated the thought of getting to 75 miles only to be told I was done. My kids were coming with Kevin to see me finish later that day. I could NOT let them see mom fail. Not today, not ever. I needed them to know that you can chase your dreams, apply yourself to a goal, and win the day. No matter how old you are, no matter how short you are, how chubby you feel, how aged, no matter your gender, no matter your natural athletic ability. No matter what. But in addition to needing it for them, I needed it for me. I needed to know I could do these things. I wanted to have no regrets. I wanted to finish this race for me. As we got closer to finishing loop 3, I knew we were going to cut it close. Rob texted Jeremy what I needed, so he’d be ready and meet me right at the starting line so I could turn around and GO as quickly as possible. Because as soon I made this cutoff (God willing) there was another one in 4 hours to contend with. As I closed in on mile 73, I grabbed a large stick to help me move faster. It seemed to help, so Rob suggested we have Jeremy grab one of his alpine poles for me to use on loop 4. I mumbled something unintelligible in response. My headlamp was making my head ache and I was desperate to take it off, and to stop holding my flashlight. I kept thinking - I look so ridiculous - why is my mouth hanging open and my eye lids are half closed? Why am I shuffling along like a geriatric zombie? My neck and shoulders ached, and I only felt relief when I stretched my neck up in an odd ostrich-like impression and flopped my hands at my thighs while running. Needless to say, I was very un-Jennifer like. I also puked again somewhere in loop 3, but I can't remember where.  I didn't complain to Rob - I don't like to complain. It just seems like a waste of energy.

We pulled into the start line at 6:20 am. I dropped my headlamp and flashlight in the dirt, gave Jeremy my pack for a water refill, grabbed a mountain dew, and turned right around. By this time everyone knew my name, and everyone was yelling “Go Jennifer!” “You go girl!” “Don’t stop, keep going!” Jeremy, a very experienced ultra runner and salt-of-the-earth individual, walked with me as I drank my soda and he said kindly, “I don’t want to be a jerk, but I need to be honest with you. You need to find a way to somehow cut one hour off your last loop time. I want to be honest - I don’t know if that’s possible.” I was silent as I contemplated. I knew inside that I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t. I wanted my kids to see my finish. For them, and for me, I wouldn’t stop. I told him, while weeping, “Whether I finish within the time limit or not, I’m running 100 miles today. They’re going to have to drag me off the course to stop me. I DON’T QUIT. I WILL NEVER QUIT.” I have never felt more powerful or strong than I did in that moment. I knew that it would take a small miracle to make it to the next cutoff in time. But I was going to do it or die trying.

Mile 80

I had to reach Conant Road in another four hours (12.8 miles, 20K). Something to understand about trail running, and ultra running too, is that paces are slower than road running. The pace depends upon the trail conditions. Myself for example: I can currently run a road 5K at about 9 minute miles. My PR 5K time is 24 minutes about 4 years ago. But on trails, I run untechnical, easy trails at about 10 minutes per mile, and technical about 12-13 minutes per mile. But that’s at a distance up to about a marathon. Above a marathon, or what’s known as an ultra, I’m much slower (and so is every runner, no matter now elite). Additionally, the vast majority of runners do a LOT of walking or very slow shuffle-running in the last 25 miles or so of a 100 mile race. From everything I have read and heard, the last loop is going to be pretty slow. People have said to me that of the last 25-30 miles, they only ran about 5. But for me, I realized I was going to have to RUN this last loop. That was an extremely daunting task. Not only was I mentally and physically spent, but honestly, I was in last place in the race. I was the slowest freaking person out there. And now I was supposed to RUN? But I put on my big girl panties and did it (not really, I didn’t really change my panties because, that would be too painful due to my extreme chafing in that region of my body and because, well, I just didn’t have the time). I put in my headphones for the first time in the race. I turned on my music. And I RAN. I ran up the hills I had walked up in loops 1-3. At one point I thought to myself, I’ve traversed 80 miles in the last 24 plus hours, and I am running like a goddess. I felt like a million dollars. My smile was real. We climbed up to the ridge and then I hopped down those stone steps for THE LAST TIME. I pulled into Middle Earth aid station at exactly 8:30 am and heard the cheers of the volunteers screaming my name. I saw their faces. I know they thought - damn she is fucking booking it. Go mama go! 

I knew I only had two hours to make it 6.2 miles. An almost impossible feat for me. Rob stayed right behind me and told me that if he passed me, I was going too slow. He yelled at me. He yelled kind of a lot, and as much as I love him, at moments I hated him. But he was doing his job. I know it wasn’t easy for him. I know he worked REALLY hard. I will never be able to repay him.

As we neared Conant Road, we passed runners coming towards us and asked them how much further. When they said one mile and I looked at my watch, I yelled at Rob “This is happening! This is FUCKING HAPPENING! I AM GOING TO DO THIS!” and I didn’t yell it in an elated cheerleader kind of way. I yelled it like a crazed sumo wrestler. Poor Rob.

Closer and Closer. Rob started yelling at me - THREE MINUTES, COME ON DON’T STOP RUNNING! I kept going. It was so hard. The hardest thing I have ever done (yes including two natural childbirths). TWO MINUTES….COME ON JENNIFER I CAN SEE IT I CAN SEE THE AID STATION! I ran up to Conant Road at 10:29. I yelled I’M HERE!!! Then I turned right around kept going. On my way back I passed another guy who I didn’t even know had been behind me. I yelled at hime (still channeling a crazed sumo wrestler) something along the lines of YOU’VE GOT THIS YOU CAN DO IT! and then I forced him to give me a fist pump. I think it got pretty weird, I’m not sure. His dad was following behind him. This darling man said to me, “You’ve got this Jennifer, you’re going to make it sweetheart, I just know it.” I will never forget what he said to me. Some things just stick with you, and I saw the best of humanity in that guy that day. Sadly, Rob later told me that runner didn’t make the cutoff, and they put him on an ATV to drive him back. They wouldn’t allow him to keep going. It was strange for me to think that, that could have been me. I was glad I wasn’t on that ATV. But mostly, I felt so bad for that poor kid and his dad.

I tried to keep running. Rob kept yelling at me. I knew I only had 3.5 hours to make it 12.2 miles. My mind spun around. I knew that if I

Rob and Jeremy at mile 76

pushed myself to do what I had just done on the first half of the loop, I’d likely end up in the hospital. I knew I was on the very brink of my physical ability. I also reasoned that, I had made the only two published hard cutoffs - 6:30 am and 10:30 am. According to their rules, they couldn’t pull me from the course. If I finished after 32 hours (2 pm), I wouldn’t get a buckle, wouldn’t get my finisher sweatshirt, wouldn’t have cheering crowds to watch me finish. But I’d have my kids and my husband there to see me, on mothers day. And I’d have run 100 miles. I knew in my heart that my only two goals were to 1) run 100 miles, and 2) for my kids to see me do it.

As I said, ultras teach you about yourself. It’s almost like a near death experience that teaches you what you value, what you really want from life, how you need to improve and what you need to do to get there. In the middle of the night in the Maine woods, I saw with a clarity I have never before experienced that I am wracked with insecurities. I feel like I will never be good enough, and I care far too much what people think about me. I also learned the only thing I wanted, when my mind turned to fantasizing about release from my current agony, was to be with my family. Now, on the morning of the second day, I knew that for me, to finish beyond the cutoff time and to BE OK with that was more of a win than to earn a buckle. To know that this race was for me, not for anyone else. Not to make me look a certain way to others, but to make me feel a certain way, to know inside myself that I was enough. I told Rob that I wasn’t going to be able to run the whole last 12 miles. That I wasn't going to finish in time. But that was ok. This race was a 10 out of 10 for me. This was a win. I was going to finish 100 miles, and I was going to have no regrets.  I told him that if I pushed myself too hard to finish by 2:00, I’d end up in the hospital, and I couldn’t do that to my kids and husband. They had all already sacrificed so much for me to be here at this race. I needed to be with them for mothers day, and that was my priority, not finishing within a certain time.

I also felt that, over the last year, we have seen terrible things in our country and our world. I have lost a friend to COVID-19. People are dying every day. I feel fortunate just to be able to do a silly thing like run a race. More fortunate than I ever have before. In the face of the sadness and fear we are living through, gratitude for what we can do is more powerful than regret for missteps.

Rob texted my family and Jeremy to let them know my projected finish time. Rob and Jeremy worried the race may still close the course and force me to get off the trails, but I argued that these were public trails and I’d go off course on other trails if I had to. I was finishing. 

Don’t misunderstand. The last 12 miles were not easy. Torture. Discipline. So hard. I wanted to curl up under a rock and just die at least 47 times. I started making ridiculous and irrational bargains with myself. Maybe I could just start bushwhacking through the trees to shorten my trip? Maybe I could cut off my feet and just crawl? Maybe, I could climb a tree to see how much further I had to go? Sticks started to move like snakes. I started to think trees were bears. At one point, I told Rob I had seen a beaver in the river. In hindsight, I think there was no beaver. And I’m pretty sure Rob knew it. 

The miles slowly winded down. I got to Middle Earth at 12:30. They cheered but said to me - “you’re going to have to really book it to get to the finish in time.” I said, with tears streaming down my face, “I’m not going to make it by 2:00, and that’s ok. I have two little kids, one with autism, and they need to see mommy finish on mothers day. I have only two goals - to run 100 miles and for them to see me. I don’t need a buckle or anything else. I just need to be with my babies on mothers day. All I want is them right now.” They were four men manning the aid station, and they all joined me in my tears. They said “You go girl, you go see those babies, and you’re a badass.” About a quarter mile from the aid station, the quesadilla I had grabbed at the aid station stuck in my throat, and I had a really bad puking spree. It was definitely the worst I've had while running. But I kept moving while puking, which is key for me. No matter what I'm doing, I do it while moving.

The last 6.2 miles was interminably long. I just knew someone had gone out there and moved the flags to make the course longer. There

Jeremy serving as crew chief at my own
personal aid station

was NO way this was the same course as earlier. Finally we reached the last stretch of gravel ATV road which I knew signified the last 1.5 miles or so. I began to try to move faster. We crested the final hill, then started down. Then finally, after an unacceptably long wait, I saw, at the bottom of the hill, the turnoff to the parking lot, where the finish line waited. One of the volunteers from the Middle Earth aid station was at the bottom. He raised his arms and yelled GO JENNIFER!!! He ran up to me and Rob and trotted along with us. I began to weep. I mean ugly, ugly gorilla-at-the-zoo weeping. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that. Gasping and smiling and snotting all the way. In that moment I felt not only what I had done over the last 33 hours, but what we’ve all done over the last 14 months. The sacrifice, the fear, the despair. Watching my sons’ social skills wain and behavior lapse because he wasn’t able to be in school and wasn’t getting the services he needed. Trying to teach my daughter to read and write and do math, when I had no idea what I was doing and I knew I was failing. Crying myself to sleep because we were all suffering and I couldn’t decide if I should send them back to school or not. Worrying my parents would get sick and I wouldn't be able to be there with them. My own inability to work because I was home educating two children on IEP’s, one with serious neurological differences. The process of explaining to Sully that he has autism, and what that means. The one constant I’ve had, beyond love from my family, was running. The one thing I had to grab onto for me was training for this race. And I had done it. I had not allowed myself to quit. Even though I wanted to, and honestly others probably wanted me to, I didn’t. And my kids got to see that. I pulled around the corner and saw them and Kevin. In an odd way, I couldn’t believe they were there. There, in that now mostly empty parking lot, a whole lifetime had transpired for me over the last 33 hours. I had grown as a person ten-fold, and suffered beyond my imagination. Yet the world had continued to turn, and here they were. My daughter ran up to me and crossed the finish line with me. I hope that she knows a woman can be stronger at 38 years old than 20. I hope she knows a woman’s strength and worth has NOTHING to do with her appearance. I hope she knows everything she needs is inside of her, not in the opinions of others. I hope she knows that life will challenge her, push her down and make her cry, but she can get back up. I hope she knows the most important thing: just keep going.

Finished. Finally.

So that’s my story and I’m grateful for it. I learned more and gained more as a person than I would have if I had ran 100 miles in 32 hours. I am a better person after last weekend. But I know I will continue to be challenged by life, motherhood and my physical pursuits. My only aim is to keep showing up, keep trying, to hold myself to my own standards, and to not succumb to what I think I SHOULD be, but focus on what I WANT to be.

~Jennifer

Since returning home, I found out the Race Directors awarded me their award saved to give out for special efforts. I was awarded a quart glass jug of Maine maple syrup. Winning!

One Year Ago Today

One year ago today, my son Sully was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. At the time, I saw the diagnosis process as difficult, frustrating and scary. But now, one year later, we have the gifts of perspective and knowledge, and I am grateful we persevered and got the answers Sully needed.

Kevin's fair complexion and naturally youthful
looks successfully mask the utter exhaustion
felt in this photo.

Our journey to diagnosis started very soon after Sully was born. I worried about autism since almost the very beginning. I just always had a feeling something wasn’t right. Sully was a difficult baby. He screamed almost non-stop and was constantly sick. Most of my memories from his infancy involve my feelings of inadequacy, exhaustion, and fear. By the time he was nine months old, Sully had had so many ear infections that it was impossible to keep an accurate count. We tried everything to keep from having surgery, but at 10 months old Sully had his first operation for ear tube placement. I have always reminded myself that we are lucky because Sully hasn’t had serious illnesses or surgeries – my heart goes out to families battling pediatric cancer and other terrible conditions. But the first four years of Sully’s life did seem like unending parade of ailments and doctors’ appointments. He was constantly using a nebulizer to be able to breath due to pediatric asthma, and regularly saw an asthma specialist. He developed strabismus, which means his eyes started crossing. He’s been seeing a pediatric ophthalmologist since he was six months old and wears corrective lenses to keep his eyes straight. By the time he was five, Sully had had six surgeries on his ears and adenoids. Due to the chronic ear infections, he had hearing loss and his language was delayed. He sees an ENT and hearing specialist and used Early Intervention services until three years old.

As Sully grew, I began to worry more and more about his social and behavioral development. Activities like music and swim classes or birthday parties, which other parents seemed to enjoy with their children, were stressful for us. Sully would refuse to participate and have meltdowns. People kept telling me it would get easier, but it never did. They said, when he turns four it’s a big turning point, the behavior will get better. Four came and went, and things didn’t get easier. Then it was five, but no change. As a mother, sometimes I wanted to tear my hair out. I couldn’t understand why everyone else seemed to have control of their lives and their kids, but I just couldn’t seem to make it work. The hardest part was that no one seemed to be listening to me when I tried to express concerns. The pediatricians brushed my questions off. They said he has great eye contact, he speaks well, and the hand and leg flapping is just a tick that will go away. But it didn’t go away. The truth is that any given doctor, provider, or even teacher sees a child a very small percentage of their day-to-day life. They only see a snapshot of who a kid really is. I never could understand why my opinion seemed to be discredited, just because I wasn’t a medical professional or an educator. In hindsight, I wish I had stood as more of an advocate for my son earlier. I learned too late that I needed to advocate more strongly for him and trust my intuition as his mother.

Credit: Victoria Dosch Photography

Finally, I found a therapist to work with Sully to help with his anxiety and social issues. She seemed to see what I was seeing, and recommended we take Sully to see a neurologist. I talked to the pediatrician and put my foot down – they needed to submit the referral. They sent me to a neurologist nearby, and I called and called many times, but they never answered or returned my call. I then asked the pediatrician to send me somewhere else, which they did, and I had a similar experience. Then, I asked local mothers for recommendations and narrowed it down to the pediatric neurologist I wanted to see at North Shore Medical Center. Once I got the referral and called the office, we got in to see her pretty quickly. We went in for the appointment and filled out a bunch of paperwork, and Sully and I met together with the doctor. Sully was distracted and I didn’t really feel the appointment was that useful. However, the Dr. did say she wanted Sully referred to the department upstairs that would do the full testing which lasted over the course of two appointments, for a total of about five hours. She told me she thought Sully had some sort of anxiety disorder, but she didn’t feel he was on the autism spectrum.

As soon as the appointment was over, I got the necessary paperwork from the receptionist and filled it out right there to get Sully on the wait list for testing. Lizzy and Sully tore apart the waiting room while I filled out a monotony of the same questions I felt like I had been filling out since Sully was born – does your child have difficulty expressing his/her feelings? Does he/she maintain eye contact when speaking to you?

Anyway, then I waited a couple months. Didn’t hear anything. So I called. They had NO RECORD OF MY KID. They had lost the paperwork. AWESOME! I filled out the paperwork again. This time, I copied it before I gave it back to them. Right after I sent it I called again to make sure they had received. Yes, they had the paperwork.

So I waited again. Didn’t hear anything. Called again. Oh, we’re missing such and such form.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME???

All in, we were on the wait list for eight months for testing. Eight months? To me that makes no sense. That’s eight months we’ll never get back. Those eight months in school for Sully were awful. We didn’t know what was wrong, we didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t get Sully the services he needed, as he didn’t have a diagnosis and didn’t qualify.

Once we got the call and got scheduled with the doctor, things progressed more quickly. First, my husband and I met with the Dr. to discuss how the testing would work. Then, two separate testing days were scheduled for Sully. The staff and doctors were very nice and we had a good experience. Sully seemed to do well on both days of testing. After the two days of tests, we scheduled another time with the Dr. for just my husband and me to talk over the results.

I remember when the Dr. said, I’ve given Sully the diagnosis of Level I Autism with a secondary diagnosis of general anxiety. I remember feeling very calm. It was like her words went right through my like vapor. What had she just said? What? WHAT? I listened and took careful notes. I nodded and asked questions, but I felt numb all over.

After the meeting concluded I asked for directions to the restroom. I remember going into the small quiet bathroom and thinking to myself, wow, that just happened. The thing I’ve been dreading for five years, the thing I’ve desperately needed more information about, but simultaneously desperately did NOT want to hear, I just heard.

But I was surprised by how devastated I did not feel. Having someone tell you your child has autism does not change what you see when you look at your child. Sully was the same to me, I loved him just the same. I didn’t feel any different. I had often wondered and worried that some day a Dr. would tell me there was something wrong with my child. I had imagined I would feel devastated – that I would go home and cry and want to retreat from life. But when it did happen, I didn’t feel that way at all. I remember standing in that little green bathroom, and thinking, now it all makes sense. A small part of me wanted to run out and scream SEE I AM NOT CRAZY, THIS HAS BEEN REALLY FUCKING HARD! A small part of me felt relieved. I had often felt broken as a mother, like I was incapable. I felt like I couldn’t handle my child, and I hadn’t realized that was because he needed to be handled differently than many other children. Because everyone had brushed off my concerns for so long, I thought the fault was with me as a mother.

Once you receive an autism diagnosis, it’s difficult to know exactly what to do from there. When the doctor diagnosed him, I wanted to begin a concrete plan of action. I asked the Dr. what to do from here – she suggested social skills groups, therapy, and to begin working on the IEP with the school. I asked if there would be any follow up appointments with her, and she very kindly said no. So we said goodbye and I’ve not seen her since. Very strange in many ways…

After the diagnosis, we didn’t want anyone to see Sully differently. Kevin and I took several weeks to tell anyone. We worried that once people heard “autism,” they’d think there was something wrong with Sully. Or that they’d believe he couldn’t do certain things because of his diagnosis. I didn’t want autism to be a “crutch”. I knew there were a lot of common misconceptions about ASD, and I wanted to protect my baby from that. I worried that if his friends’ parents found out he had ASD, he wouldn’t get invited to birthday parties and playdates, or that people would treat him differently. But over the last year, I’ve realized that part of the responsibility for changing that perception lies with me. By talking about our experiences, I hope to change the misconceptions and improve the stigma around ASD.

I was obviously very frustrated by how long it had taken to get the diagnosis. I’m not really into regrets – I like to learn from mistakes and try to grow. Instead of looking back and regretting, I try to look forward and learn. But I do truly regret not pushing for more answers earlier for Sully. He didn’t get a diagnosis until he was five years old, even though many children can be diagnosed at three. In those two years, he missed out on valuable services that could have made life a lot easier for us all.

I would say that I can’t believe it’s been a year since Sully’s diagnosis, but that wouldn’t be true. It feels like it’s been longer than a year because he’s grown and changed so much. I was so fearful to get a diagnosis. But in reality, it has set us free and opened so many doors for Sully to excel. Thanks to his IEP and excellent teachers, he has the help and support he needs at school to succeed. He’s doing wonderfully, loves math and reading, and has many friends at school. As parents, we feel like we understand Sully better.

As I said, I like to keep moving forward and improving myself and the lives of my family. As I look to the future, I know that Sully has a full and bright life ahead of him, and that the last year is only the beginning of his beautiful and unique story.

Credit: Victoria Dosch Photography

9 days

So here we are – 9 days until the Boston Marathon. 

Last Saturday, I headed out for my last long run before the start of my taper – 20 miles. My team mates had run the Hop21 the week before, from the starting line at Hopkinton to the top of Heartbreak Hill in Newton. I ran with them, but per my physical therapist’s orders, I stopped after 16 miles. My plan was to peak the next weekend. It wasn’t easy to drop out of the Hop after only 16 miles, but after 16 miles I felt reasonably good, like I could have kept running, so ending on a high note was nice. I felt excited for the following week.

Team Flutie before the Hop21

I decided to head back into Boston for my 20 miler so I could run it on the course. My teammates run most Saturdays from Copley on the course, then turn around and run back. I planned to run with them, but just go further than the others. 10 miles out to Wellesley, then turn around and run back, up Heartbreak Hill and back to Copley Square. I wanted to experience those blasted hills I’ve heard so much about.

I guess it is only fitting that my longest run of my training was a complete disaster, because this whole training experience has really just been a disaster. I ran from the finish line backwards on the course, which means I ran uphill for six miles. But I felt ok. As I reached the Johnny Kelley statue and snapped my picture, my teammates started to turn around and head back. While I was

Last Saturday at mile 7

running, I reflected on how difficult it has been for me to see my teammates succeeding, healthily running, improving themselves, and looking forward to their impending marathon finishes. I have struggled for the last three months. After tearing my quad Jan. 12, I took six weeks off running. I struggle with depression and anxiety, and running is a big part of managing it. So as a result, my depression flared up as well as my physical injury. Then once I got back to running, I found that although my stamina was ok, (thanks to a whole lot of lap swimming) my body was certainly not healed. It seemed the quad tear had healed with scar tissue pulling on my knee. Whenever I ran, I had real pain in my knee, as well as in my quad and shin. Because of this, my pace had slowed way down, and my overall pace was slowed down more by the need to utilize run/walk intervals.

I have been under the care of numerous doctors and specialists, including my physical therapist, acupuncturist, chiropractor, and orthopedist. I’ve had all the tests, xrays and scans and have the OK from all these individuals to keep running. Over a week ago I visited Newton Wellesley hospital where a leading surgeon gave me a cortisone injection in my knee. I hoped this would solve enough of the pain to get me through my training and enable me to complete the marathon. But alas, the injection has done nothing, and I am in just as much pain as before.

One of the great things about being a part of the Charity Teams group (which is about 300 runners comprised of different Boston Marathon charity teams), is that there is a ton of support. Facebook groups, group runs etc. But when you’re injured, and you either can’t run at all or can’t run as well as you’re used to, the FOMO can be intense. I’m embarrassed to say that I have suffered from some serious jealousy. I haven’t been able to participate in many group workouts, and when I have, I’ve been isolated due to my pace. My teammates are wonderfully kind and supportive, but I feel like I’m weighing them down. In hindsight, I realize that I retreated further away, trying not to check the Facebook group page, and not wanting to attend group events, because it honestly just hurt so much to be around healthy runners.

Last Saturday, as I started to run by myself and the aid stations ran out, I realized it was the first warm(ish) day of the season. It was pushing 60 degrees, and when you’re used to training in 10 degree weather, you feel it. I also had chosen not to run with my Camelbak, instead using my hydration belt with two small six ounce bottles. I had learned the previous week that Cambelbaks are not allowed in the marathon, which makes perfect sense as they are a security threat. Anyway, I was surprised by how quickly I was going through water, and how hungry I was. Luckily I found a water fountain in front of someone’s house (oh Newton, I love you), and ate a Huma gel pack, but as I turned at the Newton Fire Station at mile 9, I still started to feel really crappy. 

I had felt exhausted going into the run, due to an intensely stressful few weeks at work and in my personal life. I’ve come to realize that I just have a stressful job and that’s not going to change, and in general I handle it well. But over the last month I’ve been crumpling a bit under pressure and am truly struggling to balance everything. There’s also a lot of strain trying to keep up with my kids, their activities, and school requirements. I haven’t been sleeping well and wake up exhausted with headaches. This morning, I woke up to find my left eye swollen and red. I know it’s partially due to my swim goggles which irritate the skin around my eye, but still - I look like Quasimodo. Awesome.

Members of the Flutie Team before our run last Saturday

Anyway…

My knee had been hurting during the whole run, but it always hurts and I’m usually able to manage the pain. My PT has been teaching me how to tell the difference between manageable and unmanageable pain, and so far I had made it work. But as I headed into mile 10, I started to really worry I couldn’t do this. Yet I continued. I’ve never cut a run short, and I couldn’t even wrap my mind around the concept of not finishing. I would finish – that was it.

I turned around at mile 10 and headed back. Past the firehouse and a right turn to start the Newton Hills. Hill one – done. Hill two and three, complete. Then I started up Hill four – Heartbreak. I was feeling like absolute shit. I was in so much pain in my knee that I thought I was going to throw up. I ran up Heartbreak, but then tried to go down the other side. My body just wouldn’t let me. My knee gave out and I fell. I got up and walked a bit, then tried again. Fell again. I knew I had to stop. If I kept going, I would do real damage and not be able to run the actual marathon.

I collapsed on the front steps of a Chestnut Hill mansion and wept, clutching my leg in agony and fighting nausea from the pain. I ordered an uber, but soon after I stood up and said dammit, I just cannot quit. I cancelled the uber and started running again. I fell again. The tiny rational part of my runner’s brain said, enough Jennifer. Just stop. Sometimes the right thing to do is to quit. I called another Uber. Eric in a grey Hyundai Sonata came and picked me up. I kept my earbuds in so Eric in the grey Hyundai Sonata would not talk to me. I knew that if Eric in the grey Hyundai Sonata tried small talk with me, I might just throttle him.

So that’s the story of my final long run. 15 miles. The worst run ever. I texted my PT and she told me she felt confident it had only happened because of the extreme uphills I had put my knee through, and that on the actual course I would be ok. Plus, I needed to change my fueling scheme, and would likely not be as run down physically and mentally on marathon Monday. We’d also incorporate some new exercises to further strengthen my quad and knee, and I’d rest during my taper and all would be ok. Another project was to focus on form, so that as I tired, my form would not be affected causing more pain. I thought she was nuts.

After everything I’ve been through, I finally felt defeated. I wanted to quit. I’ve raised the money, no one can take that away from me, who really cares if I put my body through this? The whole point of my running is supposed to be to have fun. I usually really enjoy running. I mean I love it, a lot. But I haven’t enjoyed much of my running over the last six weeks. I mean, I guess, I haven’t enjoyed it at all. It’s been miserable. It’s been really miserable.

So I went home. I cried, I showered, cried, ate, cried, and I slept. I rested. I saw my PT on Monday and again on Wednesday. I cried. I swam, I rested. Finally, I did start to feel a lot better. My PT is a gem and she really helped as she walked me through what had happened. She checked my quad and it was not re-torn as I had feared. She instructed me to run four miles Wednesday night, which I did. It was ok – I had pain in the knee, but it was a lot better.

Over the last week I’ve done some serious thinking about if I even want to do this race. People tell me that I can crawl across the finish line if I have to. But what I’ve realized about myself is – although I really do respect people who crawl to the finish, it’s just not me. I’m not sure I’m a person who can crawl across the finish. I’m a runner, not a crawler. My gut reaction has also been that I don’t like to toe the starting line of a race I’m so unsure I can finish. The possibility of a DNF is really hard for me to swallow. However, through my contemplation, I’ve come to realize that, whether we know it or not, every race we start has a possibility of ending unfinished. What about the mighty Deena Kastor in the 2008 Beijing Olympics – a favorite to win, and after only three miles, her foot broke and she was forced to withdraw. Deena was at the peak of her physical and mental strength, and had no idea there was anything wrong with her foot. Yet it happened. Isn’t this a metaphor for life? We really just don’t know what is going to happen. But if we just give up, how can we possibly find joy in anything? 

At my saddest moments, my mind turns to the 2013 Boston Marathon. All those people who trained for five months and woke up on Patriots Day anticipating their own Boylston moment, but were forced to DNF because of a terrorist attack. And of course the three people who died and hundreds who were injured. Those poor people would love to be me with a superficial injury to my knee. If my biggest problem is whether I can finish some silly race, I guess I’m pretty fortunate.

Making the choice to train and run a marathon is certainly a monumental and unique endeavor. But in ways I did not anticipate, the stakes are much higher with the Boston Marathon than the other two marathons I have run. Obviously it’s hard to get into, everyone knows that. Either you qualify or you go through the arduous process of being accepted to a charity team, and then raising all the money. But beyond that, I find the experience of Boston to be very exposed. I feel like everyone is watching. Anyone can look up your bib and track you. My parents and my mother in law are all visiting to watch me run. Even my coworkers will even be coming to the finish line, and my teammates will be there too. The other day at my community center, someone I don’t know told me “good luck with the marathon!” 150 people have donated to my fundraiser, bringing in over $11,000. When you think about it, running something like Boston is amazing in ways many people don’t initially realize. For a non-elite athlete with a job and a family to voluntary put him or herself out there, with such a high probability of failure, is amazing. To voluntarily walk up to the start line is almost like shouting “Hey, millions of people watching, I might fall, I might break bones, I literally might SHIT MY PANTS, but I’m putting myself out there for a good cause, to try to accomplish something great, so here I go!” In today’s world where we’re all pretending to be smarter, more confident and more successful than we really are, subjecting oneself to that kind of vulnerability is absolutely incredible.

Sully last Sunday at Preston Beach

So there it is. It’s been hard for me – I went from being able to run 10 miles at an 8:30 pace to struggling to do 15 at 11:00. I’m not sure if my body will hold up for the marathon, but I guess I’m going to try.

9 days ya’ll. 9 days until I either finish the Boston Marathon, or drink like 10 margaritas and pass out. Or maybe both? I’ve got options…

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