The Tarawera Ultramarathon 50K ends on the rocky Hotwater Beach, not far outside Rotorua, on New Zealand’s North Island. After 7 hours, 59 minutes and 17 seconds of near-solitary running, the cheering crowds along that final narrow track are disorienting but welcome, and I focus carefully on each step as I navigate the rugged terrain, climbing the final steep, but brief, hill to the finish line.
Upon crossing, I immediately enter the open arms of a cheerfully costumed race official. Crowds are cheering, music is playing, but after 8 hours of constant and demanding physical activity, the refuge of an embrace that envelops my entire being is exactly what I need - no matter that it’s from a complete stranger. I exhale deeply, sinking into the comfort, and time stands still as we hold on for a few seconds more. He asks how I feel, and I answer honestly, smiling - I feel great, wonderful in fact. The course was challenging, but I am content with my performance. “You did very well,” he says, placing the finisher’s medal around my neck, evaporating the seclusion of our private moment. I notice my best friend and travel buddy standing closely by, moving in to offer her own congratulations before leading me to find dry clothes and a warm meal.
In actuality, while my performance at the Tarawera 50K was strong and consistent, with only a few minutes’ down time to refuel, it was also my slowest 50K pace to date. With 5,643 feet of uphill climbing - more than any other race I’ve completed - I knew it would be challenging. But the mythical destination that is New Zealand, and its landscape that is like something from a fantasy world, fueled my curiosity to participate. I wasn’t disappointed - the course wound through a towering redwood forest, across vast expanses of sheep-dotted farmland, over several fences (who saw those coming?!), and its many hill climbs offered gorgeous views of the expansive Tarawera Lake.
Just over a year earlier, I signed up for my first ultramarathon (the Patagonia International Marathon 60K), motivated by a quest to achieve something audacious - to see exactly how far I could run and still feel good. It was to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so I trained as perfectly as I could, and was, amazingly, the first woman to finish. That accomplishment felt very good, and I decided to maintain a high mileage lifestyle for as long as it kept serving me.
Since then, I’ve completed 4 subsequent 50K races, including the Tarawera, pounding a path to self discovery, making personal strides that had nothing to do with pace or finishing time. The determination that drove me to complete ultra after ultra in quick succession over the past year was as much about testing (ok, pushing) my limits as it was about following my passion. Learning to run through rain and snow, over frozen earth and through ice-cold streams provided perspective and patience. Experiencing a low blood sugar bonk because I failed to sufficiently fuel taught me to respect my body’s signals, and view doing so as an investment, rather than liability. Training alone in the woods for hours at a time taught me to rely on myself in the most fundamental ways and to make calculated decisions quickly. And though ultrarunning can appear to be a solitary sport, ultrarunners look out for each other and are quick to create community among complete strangers. Meeting and racing with runners of all ages and stages of life has been both humbling and satisfying. Those lessons and experiences have given me strength, confidence and perspective that will forever be a part of who I am.
I wouldn’t trade my first 5 ultras, or their impact on my life, for anything. I completed them because I was driven to achieve things I’d never even contemplated before, and because some part of me needed to know that I had the toughness it took to do so. And over time, the pressure of training to pass my own tests has fallen away, and the possibility of chasing experiences purely out of desire has replaced them.
When I crossed the Tarawera 50K finish line and melted into the arms of that complete stranger, I knew in my heart that the test I’d somewhat subconsciously set just one year earlier was no longer of consequence. Whatever I’d been trying to prove to myself about my physical ability, stamina, toughness and grit, had been done. I will continue to run distance, and am strongly considering the possibility of conquering a 50 miler in the near future, but I know I’ll do so only when my body is ready for the challenge, when my mind has sufficiently relaxed from the pressures of training, and when the passion in my heart will rest for nothing else.
Standing at a finish line on a remote beach in one of the world’s most beautiful places, the feeling that enveloped me just as reassuringly as that hug was one that surprised and pleased me - it was the confidence of closure, and the excitement of finding out what’s next.