Measured in mettle: Oman by UTMB

Two weeks after the race as I write this, and I’m still finding it tough to put into words. Oman by UTMB was a wickedly tough and wickedly beautiful race. It was to be our race of the year.

But this race didn’t go as planned.

It just wasn’t my day. Actually, it was preceded by many other days that I wouldn’t describe as my best either. After weeks of fighting a lingering cough, I set off on this adventure with a bag full of medicine and an uncertain diagnosis. It was hard not to feel nervous. But there was no way I would abandon plans for our first trip to Oman.

I couldn’t deny my worries, but I wasn’t going to let them get the best of me. Dutifully swallowing each packet of prescribed pills, I took it easy in the days leading up to the race, figuring I’d get over it. I almost never get sick, so I thought a little medicine and a couple of days of downtime in Muscat would cure me.

We were staying close to the Gulf of Oman, and it seemed like the perfect place for a few leisurely days. I’d really looked forward to playing in a new sea. As it turned out, I could not stay upright long enough for a swim or a game of catch. It was unsettling and uncharacteristic. I had to enjoy this new sea from a reclining position on a beach chair (eyes closed, mostly).

I continued to promise myself I would kick this thing, whatever it was, by the time our three days in Muscat were up. But as we boarded a bus to Nizwa, I knew I was still not well.

Nobody gets to race day without incident. I bolstered myself by remembering all the times when strange or unusual circumstances set the stage for a great race. There was our noisy home-stay in Indonesia before our incredible Ijen race. And there was our last minute flight to Kazakhstan and a sleep in a frosty tent prior to a terrific time racing the Tengri Ultra. The work snafu that nearly derailed our Trans Jeju plans, and the injury I got immediately before the DMZ 50k.

Plus, despite my mystery illness, I was possibly better prepared than I’d ever been for a race. I’d been working with a coach for six months. Our training had taken us to mountains that challenged me, physically and mentally – and we’d logged a lot of time on our feet and on the road.

I knew it would be tough to take on Oman by UTMB in my current state. To be fair, I knew it would be really tough to do this difficult race in any state. But I also thought I had the training and the enthusiasm to maybe, just maybe, make it work. I had to try.

A bright beginning

After napping all day, on the evening of November 29th, we arrived at the start line of Oman by UTMB. There were tents offering free food and several live cultural performances. The crowd was a colorful swirl of runners from all over the world mixed in with the striking white robes of the locals.

Then, at 7:30 pm, 400 participants toed the line for this special first edition race. Although I still felt tired and short of breath, I was also excited! Kent and I started just as we’d planned: quick, but conservative. The first 13 kilometers were flat and led us on a loop among the traditional buildings of the town and through a plantation. We moved along at a decent clip, not really needing our headlamps under the streetlights.

One of our goals had been to run swiftly enough that we wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of any cutoff times. On the flip side, I didn’t want us to be setting any speed records either. So we were both really happy when we reached the first check point in 1:30, a comfortable hour before the cutoff.

In the next section, the character of the race completely changed. We left the flat, easy running below as we started to climb up the steep side of a deep wadi (valley). It was thrilling and challenging, but I’d expected both. We passed a few folks and began a strong ascent into the dark.  I kept my focus on the movement of my feet in the small circle of light cast by my headlamp.

On a few switchbacks, I could see a tail of headlamps following me, and a moving line going on ahead. The moon was up, and it cast a pale light on the vertical wadi walls. This gave me a sense of the enormity of what I was doing, and I felt so happy to be deep in this rugged landscape.

For a long while, it felt like we were miles from anywhere. There were nothing but mountain above and below; no little lights besides the twinkling of the stars. But suddenly, we heard a rumbling overhead. It was disorienting, and we spent a few moments wondering why we’d never considered the possibility of encountering an avalanche.

It turned out it was just a work crew and several road-building machines! We had reached CP2, which was a proper village, way up high on the cliffs! We were briefly immersed in civilization again – albeit a small one – as we stopped for water and bananas. Friendly volunteers praised our efforts so far and encouraged us onward.

The next section was a short but steep jaunt up a dirt road. Although the terrain was much simpler than the thin, rocky trails of the wadi behind us, it was not easy going. We kept our trekking poles out to maintain a rapid hiking pace. 

The trail between CP3 and CP4 was reputed to be one of the most dangerous and exposed sections. So I felt a little nervous as we  began our climb. Maybe it was the cover of darkness or our experience on similar types of climbs, but this part didn’t feel nearly as tricky to me as the first climb up the wadi. I felt confident and strong, and we moved swiftly.

Nearing the top, we were once again surprised by bright lights. This time, the lights belonged to a massive crane towering above us. But when we reached the plateau where it stood, it no longer seemed so strange. There was a paved road on the top, connecting the lights of several villages.

After a quick stop at the next aid station, we continued. From there, the terrain was undulating; we were constantly dropping and climbing. But now I could devote a little bit more of my focus to looking around. The stars were incredibly bright and hung low overhead. Not for the first time, I realized we were in some serious mountains. After all, we were running 2000 meters nearer the sky!

Checkpoint 5 was a friendly little oasis. There was hot soup available, the volunteers asked after everyone’s well-being and a little crowd had assembled around the creature comforts on offer under the tents. Both Kent and I had started to feel a little chilled now that our initial climb was complete, so we donned our jackets here.

Then we ran on, feeling strong and mostly healthy, on the road leading to CP6 and beyond.

The highs and lows of the middle

The problems began on the gently rolling road approaching CP7. We’d expected to gain some speed on this easy section. But neither of us could stop peeing. This was especially strange for me as I’m almost always dehydrated on long runs. It a little freaky, but we just took it easy for a few kilometers; walking as we took salt tabs and ate, in the hopes of balancing out eventually.

As we made our way towards the aid station, the temperature continued to drop. This was a rough time for me, as frustration turned to anxiety. I was moving slowly, and I felt nauseous and slightly breathless. But it was just a low point, and I kept reminding myself of that. I could recover.  Bad moments are inevitable and don’t need to spell disaster.

I took a break and sat down at CP7, but not for long. Kent led us down a steep ravine, and then up again. As we climbed some of the rockiest, most technical terrain we’d ever experienced, the sky began to lighten. And so did my mood! I could look around for the first time, and what I saw was awe-inspiring.

By sunrise, we were on a cliff overlooking a dramatic valley. All of the difficulties that I’d experienced up to that point seemed to evaporate in the sherbet shades of the most beautiful dawn I’ve ever seen. Clouds drifted up from below as the tops of the desert peaks were painted red and gold. I couldn’t help but pause to take it all in.

Newly invigorated, we zipped into the CP8. Here we took a bit of a breakfast break, indulging in fruit, granola and, of course, Dr. Coke. In addition, I took the opportunity to enjoy a lovely lean against a big rock.

We made our way through the next section completely in the light, which was a refreshing change. The spectacular scenery continued, and I was delighted to be moving through it. I wondered if the elites and faster runners had missed this view in the dark. We were uniquely lucky, I felt. 

The going should have been easy on the flat plateau. But I couldn’t summon much more than a driven hike. I tried to stay focused on the beauty of my surroundings and that lucky feeling. The landscape could give me the joy I needed, if I could provide the momentum to move through it.

At first, the terrain was simple enough: our trail followed the edge of a cliff across a rocky plateau. Then, it disappeared. It dropped over the edge of an impossibly steep cliff. The wadi in front of me was a narrower version of the Grand Canyon: vertical rock walls that plunged so far down that I couldn’t see the bottom.

Standing at the top, it seemed impossible that any being without wings could descend here. Still crazier was the ascent: I could just make out a thin trail. It was just a few inches of rock, clinging at an angle to the edge of the sheer cliffs above a vertiginous drop.

My heart pounding in my chest, I took my first steps along the very edge of the cliff. To my relief, the switchbacks were not as exposed as I thought. I could see the next level about a meter below – but not the bend after that. It was some of the headiest descending I’d ever done. For all our experience climbing Korea’s steep mountains, I’d never done anything like this.  Once again, I was reminded that we were dealing with serious mountains.

At first, I clung to my poles for balance and support as we descended cautiously. After a few switchbacks, I began to feel more comfortable and we made smoother progress.

At the bottom of the wadi, big boulders and a few pools of water separated the two cliffs. The vertical rock wall behind us cast a cooling shadow, but we couldn’t linger. It was time to climb.

This was not nearly as perilous as it had looked from the opposite side. At least, it didn’t feel that way. It was certainly exposed: there was nothing on my right for the whole climb except a massive drop. But climbing always feels good to me. My body can work harder than my mind, washing out the anxiety in a rush of endorphins.

I felt tired starting the ascent, but I remembered that we’d already covered nearly 50 kilometers and run through the night. The sun shone down mercilessly, and I was quickly slick with sweat.

But as I pushed myself, I started to struggle in earnest. My heart rate rose, and kept rising. Already breathing heavily, soon I was gasping for air. I began to feel fear creeping back into my mind. What if my muscles failed me here? A stumble could cause an injury, but a fall could be fatal. There was no room for error.

Kent was climbing above me, and he shouted encouragement if I got more than a few meters behind. He reminded me that we were close to the cutoff time for the next aid station. So I pushed myself as hard as I could, and I hammered up the ascent without pausing, breathless with exertion.

At the crest was a paved road, and a volunteer waving us towards the CP10 tents a few meters further on. We made it with 20 minutes to spare!

But once there, I collapsed in the shade, completely spent. I began to shiver uncontrollably as Kent brought me cups of coke and bite-sized snacks. I’d been so eager to reach this resting point, but I couldn’t relax. So I gathered my poles and bag again, and suggested we set off.

The next section of trail meandered slowly downhill, but I found that I couldn’t run it. I was getting winded walking downhill. Other walkers began to pass us by, quickly disappearing into the landscape.

This is bad, I thought. But could it be just another rough patch? Maybe I could outrun it if I was patient enough.

A few more sights and a tough decision

We descended on the lost villages trail at a leisurely pace, as though we were out for nothing but a stroll. We admired the old buildings built into the cliffside and the wild feeling of being alone in this deep valley. I ate and drank and practiced patience.

But every time I attempted a run, I’d start coughing and lose my breath. Exertion, combined with a rising anxiety about my lack thereof, made my heart pound in my chest. I slowed back down and tried to enjoy the view.

But time was ticking away, and there was nothing I could do.

At CP11,  volunteers told us that we’d reached an unofficial checkpoint, and they didn’t think we should go on. A small group of runners who had reached the aid station before us were arguing for permission to proceed.

A tense 10 minutes passed while we stood around listening to the discussion. In the end, the officials allowed everyone to continue. And so Kent and I found ourselves watching the last group of runners move away slowly, small in the vast landscape.

Frozen in place, we were now in DFL position for the first time. We had permission to go on, but should we? One of the most remote parts of the course lay between us and CP12, including a difficult section involving fixed ropes. I wanted to try. But was it safe to keep trying?

Maybe not. The decision came down to me and my assessment of myself in that critical moment. There was a strong likelihood that we would not make the next cutoff time. But more importantly, would I be putting us at risk in the attempt?

If I weakened, I’d have to rely still more heavily on Kent, putting him at risk. No one would be coming behind us to help out. And if I slipped or stumbled, I might need rescuing – putting still others at risk.

And yet, I couldn’t write off the possibility that I might improve eventually. It wasn’t impossible that I’d catch my breath and gain my strength back at some point. But we were running out of time – and still not running.

We stopped. It was a relief to sag into a chair and catch my breath – and utterly devastating. The volunteers arranged a series of rides for us, back down the mountain we’d run up – just less than 24 hours and a little more than 75 kilometers before.

This time, we would have no shiny medals to mark the completion of a race. But I could measure some success in my mettle. It wasn’t enough for this course on this day, but we sure had an adventure out there. And I’m one experience closer to being a better version of myself.

Lessons learned

Sometimes you win and sometimes you learn. 

I learned that racing while sick has a multiplier effect on every challenge. Maybe the lesson is not to race ill. But if I could do it all over again, I don’t know would have or could have done anything differently. I had to try. Considering how poorly I felt before we began, I was proud of pushing myself.

But, I also learned that I still have a lot to learn when it comes to big mountains. I underestimated the magnitude of this challenge. This challenge required much more of me than I had to give.

I learned more about my body and my gear. This was my first time running in the desert, so was it an experiment. The balance of hydration and electrolytes was trickier than I expected. I doubled the weight of my usual race pack, and although there were successes, I also think I’d do a few things differently with my stuff next time.

I think the most valuable lesson that I’m still learning is to love what you have. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking about what you may have lost. For a while, I was inconsolable about how our last race of the year had gone. But there’s a lot to love, too.

I love that I got to experience this first edition course. Now the beautiful country of Oman is on my radar! One day, we’ll come back. 

I love that I have a kind and strong team/life-mate. I’m very lucky to share this passion with Kent. Our combined strengths and interests have already taken us on many adventures, and the future promises many more.

I love the strength and self-knowledge I’ve gained through running ultras. This may not have been my best performance, but I can feel good about having given it my all. I was strong enough to start and test my limits against a massive challenge, but smart enough to stop before I put myself or others at risk.

And, I get to keep doing what I love, with the one I love. It’s the end of the season, but this is just the beginning.

Want to join us at next year’s Oman by UTMB? Keep an eye on this site for information and registration.