Marquette Mountain Rocket Hill Climb

Last Wednesday, my friend Amber sent me a link to six-hour competition on Saturday where racers compete to complete the most laps from the bottom to the top of Marquette Mountain. My immediate response was, That sounds horrible, of course I want to do it! and signed up within 30 minutes. This is the story of how I won the competition and ran up Marquette Mountain 16 times, setting a new course record. It's a story about how I maintained resilience and what I learned from the experience.

The challenge of the race started the night before, which I spent at my parent's house in Marquette. When I arrived, I noticed that my parents seemed a little bit off, and that's when it hit me.

"How is Juliet doing?" I asked. Juliet was my childhood dog and, at 15, had been losing more and more control over her body.

The look on their faces told me everything. Juliet had passed peacefully in my father's arms earlier that week. Of course I was sad, but Juliet had rarely been able to relax, and I was glad she was finally able to rest.

She'd lived a wonderful life. Before we adopted her, she was physically abused and seldom allowed outside of her kennel. Luckily she found her way to us, and eventually she came to trust us and lived a beautiful life full of hiking and canoeing adventures.

I then had a conversation with my mother that I'm glad I had, but it left me looking forward to the opportunity to use my body in a way that makes me feel strong. That day I'd listened to a podcast about a man with Treacher Collins Syndrome, a genetic disorder that affects the bones and tissue in the face and can lead to health issues. The man, named Jono, was abandoned by his birth parents because of his appearance and was fortunately adopted by a nurturing and supportive mother, which reminded me of Juliet.

But as I listened to the podcast, I was profoundly moved and on the verge of tears because I was comparing and contrasting my own experience having an appearance-altering deformity with his. I was profoundly happy for Jono that he was surrounded by friends who accepted him from a young age, while mourning the fact that I didn't find that until I was in my twenties. He talked about feeling fundamentally unattractive, which I've written about previously, and the rewarding feeling of finally finding people who love him for who he is. And most importantly, he talked about going through an incredibly dark period of self-loathing, and coming out of it with such a deep sense of love and compassion for himself and others like him. I relate to that profoundly.

I was telling my mom about all of this, and it reminded me of a moment that occured a decade ago. Unlike Jono, my birth defect can be hidden easily, meaning that people assume I'm able-bodied and will say things they wouldn't otherwise, such as "I hate how small my boobs are, no one will ever love me!" Girl, at least you have normal looking boobs. It's is a blessing and a curse.

When I was in sixth grade chorus class, my teacher broke down in tears and told us that her daughter, about my age now, had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I can't even begin to imagine the cacophony of emotions my teacher, her daughter, and their family must have felt. But what struck me was that the part that my teacher seemed the most devastated about was the fact that her daughter might lose her breasts. I stood there, sad for my teacher but also confused and scared, because as I was moving through puberty and my body was developing, only one of my breasts was growing. My choral teacher didn't know it, but I was living out her fears for her daughter. Seeing how devastating the loss of her daughter's breasts was really stuck with me. It reinforced that I was living a nightmare worth crying over.

I was trying to explain these confusing feelings to my mother, and she told me "Well, I've certainly cried many times about your birth defect." She's said that she would do anything to trade places with me and take away that mental pain my birth defect must cause me. She was worried, and rightfully so. But, the experience of being the person that is the center of pity and worry, it's difficult to describe, and I'm still working through that.

I went to bed that night with a heavy heart, prepared to confront my demons the next day.

Rest In Peace Juliet

The race started at 10am in the pouring rain. The small group seemed like really great people and I was excited to spend the next six agonizing hours with them. I crossed the starting line smiling, and then we immediately headed uphill. My game plan was to start easy; I'd talked to last year's winner and he told me that whether I burn out early or pace myself, I will have no energy left at the end. There is basically no way to have anything left at the end no matter how you strategize. I wasn't competitive at first; I'd left behind my phone and a watch so I couldn't distract myself with music, or podcasts, or even the time.

In the beginning I was easily able to find strength in my tender heart. I thought about how Juliet was so fierce. She was only a pug, but accompanied us on daunting adventures and was never afraid to pick a fight with a dog bigger than her. Juliet had even died before and came back. She'd drowned, and my mother had resuscitated her with CPR. My mom joked that if any dog was going to survive the euthanasia medicine, it would be Jules. I ran for our old girl, knowing she would be proud of me. And I ran for my younger self who needed so much strength to make it through my teenage years, not only facing regular teenage problems but severe body dysmorphia and bullying.

I'd thought maybe I'd talk to a fellow racer about these things but I didn't want to bum anyone out, and I was afraid that speaking my thoughts into existence would cause me to fall apart.

My attitude was remarkably positive for the first ten laps. Every time I passed by the aid station at the bottom, I would say something like "This is the funnest day ever!" or "I'm still warming up!" I was diligent in fueling and hydrating myself while taking minimal breaks. I refused to feel sadness in my body. As the pain and fatigue started to seep in, my brain ran funny Eric Mays moments to keep me entertained and distracted. (The late Eric Mays was a member of the Flint City Council who spoke out against the water crisis but was known for his belligerent and hilarious methods of communication.) All this mental work was paying off, because around lap eleven, the race director asked "Did you know you are in second place?" Being surrounded by incredible ultra-endurace athletes, I hadn't imagined this scenario in my wildest dreams. He also told me that the guy in first, a fit 26-year-old who had hiked the entire Appalachian trail, wasn't sure if he could maintain his pace. I knew I was doing decently, I'd lapped quite a few people and was on my way to lapping last year's winner, but this was a surprise.

One lap later, I passed the leader while he was in the bathroom, making the remaining two hours of the competition a chase. As the competition became more stressful and fatigue and joint pain amplified, my positive attitude disintegrated.

The very ideas that gave me strength at the beginning of this competition now made me want to cry. It was raining for most of the race, making the trail slick, wet, and muddy. This meant your feet were slipping on the uphills, and you had to try your hardest to stay on your feet on the downhills. By this point, my feet were wrinkly from the moisture but I couldn't even feel them. Running down a rocky downhill ski trail got really old after awhile, and on my last few laps I was afraid my knees would give out, my quads over-worked to exhaustion. Fortunately I wasn't feeling many sharp pains, but tolerating a deep, consistent, aching pain while physically exerting myself for so many hours made me want to throw up. But I didn't have time to throw up or cry if I wanted to win.

Oh, the power in being fully tuned in with your body and moving through the pain anyways!

When I couldn't find strength in my stories, I found it in my family who came to visit me, other competitors, and the race volunteers. When I finally lapped the older gentleman who'd won last year, he was genuinely excited for me, and the volunteer we met at the very top of the mountain gave me pep talks. I could tell that my rival was slowly gaining on me again, and I couldn't afford to take any long breaks or slack in any way. I have no idea how I finished the final two laps considering how much pain I was in, but I'm glad I did, because when I crested Marquette Mountain for the sixteenth time, second place was only a couple minutes behind me. I had won!

I got to walk down the ski hill the final time with last year's winner, both of us having broken the record he set last year. This should be expected, but I'm glad that none of my male competitors took it too personally that they just got beat by a 22 year old woman who's never even ran a marathon, at least they didn't make it too obvious. I ended up racing about 24 miles and 8,000 feet in those six hours, through rain, through mud, through bugs, and through heat. The nice thing about these longer races is that the physical advantage that men have over women diminishes and competition becomes more co-ed. These races aren't just about physical strength and stamina, but your capacity to push through suffering and stay alert to your body's needs.

A great group of people

In hindsight, I can see where I had a competitive advantage in this race. The other competitors were mostly ultra-marathon runners, running over 30 miles on trails in one go. One woman I talked to has even run a 100 mile race! Meanwhile, I had spent the past few months training for a 5k! My training has consisted of short, intense, hilly intervals, strength training, and the occasional long hike. Prior to this race, I figured that the experience couldn't be that much different from when I hiked 100 miles of the North Country Trail, and I wasn't even wearing a backpack this time! The hill we were hiking was so steep, I'm sure leg strength I've done were massively helpful. Additionally, my time in high school as a nordic skier taught me that it is essential to swing my arms to propel myself uphill; I utilized this technique so much during the race that my arms were sore afterwards! And finally, I had a lot to race for. Spending six hours locked in a pain chamber with no escape or distractions reminded me of what I'm made of and what I came from, and that felt really good. With a heavy heart comes a strong mind.

I'm so incredibly grateful for this racing experience; it was a win that I needed in a time of uncertainty over what I am doing with my life. This is one aspect of my life that I know feels right.

That night, to celebrate, my mom and I went to a new Mexican restaurant in Marquette called La Cantina. I wore a dress that was flattering, but did nothing to hide my missing breast. I wore it out and felt beautiful. Afterwards we met some family friends at Blackrocks Brewery and yes, I was too tired to care when people would sneak a confused glance at my chest when they were talking to me but more importantly, I've spiritually developed to a point where I'm not scared anymore. I know my worth, and my confidence allows me to live in dignity in the body that God has given me. Maybe that's the most rewarding part of this whole story.

Beauty and a Beast