Emily Articulated: 100 miles

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

I was introduced to ultramarathoning by my older sister Britt. She was living in Boulder, Colo., and, per the seeming citywide requirement to be either a professional athlete or in pursuit of becoming one, got into extreme endurance.

It was the middle of the 2010s, when the glamour of these events — day(s)-long, mountainous running competitions — was enhanced by the comparatively rudimentary ways in which they were completed. Gear then considered “cutting edge” is crude now, and all we knew about fueling (taking in calories and fluids) could fit in a thimble of today’s understanding.

When Britt signed up for a 100-mile run, it felt like the most insane thing a person could do. I’d be her pacer, tasked with running alongside her in the later miles, reminding her to eat and keeping her on course.

Britt’s leap to ultras, although mind-bending to me at the time, wasn’t surprising. She’d turned to endurance during other periods of our lives, too. After our mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic and liver cancer, she’d spend hours at the gym, buoyed by having somewhere to go; by having something that felt productive while we paused our lives in an attempt to pause time. (Coincidentally, those were the same instincts that drove me to a Pentecostal church for my short stint with extreme Christianity — but that’s a story for another time.)

So when she decided to dedicate her attempt at running 100 miles through Talladega National Forest in Tennessee to our mom, whose own finish line was far too short, it made perfect sense. Because “whys” matter.

This was the first lesson I gleaned from my sister’s experience: When you’re about to ask your body and mind to take you places they’ve never been, there should be a powerful reason into which you dig your claws of resolve.

The next lesson was that getting behind on calories, sodium and/or fluids is a recipe for disaster. Her race went smoothly until it didn’t. In endurance events, we use the term “bonking” as a cute summary of a body revolting against the effort — puking, cramping, diarrhea or, in my sister’s case, hallucination.

As I shepherded her through the dense, foggy darkness of the forest at mile 70+, she saw monsters between the trees, our headlamps refracting against the film of their eyes. I sang broken choruses of Top 40 songs to keep her (and me) from fear, and wondered whether in-race insanity could stick. I had no idea how she’d go another 30 miles.

But eventually, she did.

More than a decade later, I found myself toeing my own 100-mile starting line: The Yeti 100, traversing a long stretch of crushed limestone on Washington’s Snoqualmie Pass. It was my second attempt; the first thwarted by pre-race illness in what I now dub my COVID 100K.

This time, I was healthier in more ways than one. The journey felt like it would be more spiritual than physical and was preceded by months of mental and emotional work. If countless hours of therapy can be distilled into a single revelation, it was this: What I resist, persists.

I needed to learn how to experience discomfort with acceptance and curiosity instead of self-criticism or future-casting. Feelings happen, but the stories I wrote about those feelings were what I could change.

When fear bubbled up in relation to my run, I asked what I was actually afraid of. I realized pain didn’t scare me, the anticipation of shame did — of people learning I couldn’t do what I set out to do.

But that unraveled quickly. Most people were unlikely to know or care; and, if they did, their opinions of me weren’t my business.

Then I thought maybe I was afraid of learning that I couldn’t persevere when things got tough. But that fell apart upon inspection, too. My life has presented ample challenges — a turbulent childhood, an eating disorder, the unexpected loss of my mom to cancer, the expected loss of my dad to alcoholism. I’d experienced all of it and was still brave enough to pursue hard things; continuous acts of unglamorous perseverance.

Which led to my breakthrough: Running 100 miles — or failing in my attempt — was nothing to fear because it would change nothing about me. My “why” became a safe, contained arena to practice being the kind of person I wanted to be, not just when things were going well, but when they weren’t.

Something is bound to go awry over the course of 100 miles (cut to me projectile vomiting after too big a gulp of water at Mile 64). But I could practice meeting those challenges with acceptance, curiosity and humor — because seriously, how ridiculous.

And I did it.

I finished the day with far more highs than lows, surrounded by loved ones generous enough to shepherd me on my own journey. I laughed a lot (and, shockingly, didn’t cry), finishing six hours ahead of my goal time in 17 hours and 55 minutes. I even managed to be the first female across the finish line.

But all the pride I feel is in knowing none of it affected who I am. My 100-mile run was a celebration of all the wins I’d already achieved, rather than something to prove. The prize I’ll cherish more than my finisher buckle is knowing I’ve grown so much, and that I’m also totally unchanged.

And that’s exactly as it should be.