Training on Empty: Chapter 21

Chapter 21 – Regret

“When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us.” – Alexander Graham Bell.

There are those who live with no regrets. I, on the other hand, envy those people who can let go and accept the choices they have made. My life is filled with regret, bad decisions, missed opportunity and unfulfilled destiny. Change is something I don’t handle well, so even when the universe screams at me that something needs to change, I hang on and resist it as if my very life depends on it. It may be true that my decisions have made me who I am today, but I often sit and wonder what would have happened if I had done things differently. Often, I look not at how far I have come and how much I have overcome, but at how far I have fallen.

When I returned to Boulder, I was bombarded with round two of recruitment letters and calls. Word had leaked out that I was leaving BYU and offers of full-ride scholarships came rushing to my doorstep. I sometimes think that I might have become the runner I wanted to be had I stayed at Brigham Young University or headed to Colorado State or even some other unknown school instead of agreeing to attend the University of Colorado. Despite all the hard-to-resist full-ride offers from out-of-state schools, I declined. My choice was made and my fate was sealed. I accepted a half-scholarship at the University of Colorado. Had I known that my running career would stumble so harshly thereafter, I never would have returned to Boulder.

My first year at the University of Colorado was a redshirt year. I was allowed to work out with the team and compete as an unattached athlete, but could not score for the team. For most of the year I trained on my own. An agreement was made between my new coach and my former high-school coach that I would be following my high-school coach’s workouts but would occasionally work out with the college team. This arrangement worked well. My knee had healed from the surgery and by the time summer arrived, I started training for a second attempt at the Pikes Peak Ascent. I was stronger than ever and felt great when running. I set new records in training runs and in several mountain races, including the Vail Hill Climb. Both my coach and I knew that my old record was coming down that year, and I was the one most likely to break it. I established myself as a mountain runner like none other that year, but just a few weeks before the big race, disaster struck. I ended up with Giardia, a parasite that ends up living in the intestines and eventually causes vomiting, diarrhea and cramps.

I remember the day it happened so vividly. My coach and I were out on a training run. While we were waiting at the top of one of the mountain passes for the other runners to join us, he suggested I drink some water. I was very thirsty, but hoping to share a sip of Kristen’s water, as she always ran with as much equipment as she could possibly carry, including a camera, a miniature container of Kleenex and extra water for everyone. My mom had told me to never ever drink water from an outside source, even if it was at altitude, but my coach insisted it was coming from a spring and couldn’t possibly be contaminated. I hesitated and then took a few small sips. Better to avoid getting dehydrated, I thought. I accidentally got a bit of sediment in my mouth and quickly spit it out.

A few weeks later, I ran a trail race in Winter Park, Colorado. Although I won, I was not feeling well at all. Later that night, my parents rushed me to the emergency room, as I was dry-heaving after having vomited everything possible from my stomach. I was so sick that all I could think of was someone putting me out of my misery. I didn’t care how they did it; even a shotgun seemed an okay option. Upon my arrival, the emergency-room nurse told me I needed an intravenous line to help with re-hydration. In addition, she informed me that an injection of some drug would help ease the nausea I was experiencing. Then she roughly turned me over and plunged a needle into my backside, much too high, and hit my sciatic nerve. My leg shook and I felt an odd, almost electric sensation. My running career flashed before my eyes, but I was too sick to respond. I spent one miserable night in the hospital, wishing the nausea and pain would end, and returned home early the next morning, feeling shaky and weak but not suffering nearly as much.

Miraculously, I recovered in two short weeks by eating mostly white rice and well-cooked eggs. Knowing I had my big race coming up, I took only a few days completely off. I eased back into running with a short three-mile jog and quickly resumed my full training load. With just two weeks before the Pikes Peak race, I reclaimed my territory by unofficially becoming the first person to run the entire way up Mt. Elbert, the tallest peak in Colorado and the second-highest peak in the lower 48 states. It worried me that my right side was still sore from the shot, and my energy levels were erratic and unpredictable. In the week before the race I was looking visibly drawn, but I was committed to running as I didn’t want to let my coach or myself down.

On the day of the race I woke up tired. I tried to make the best of it and warm up with a good attitude, but when the gun went off I knew I was in trouble. My legs felt like lead from the start, and I was struggling before we even hit the trail one mile into the race. By the time I got above timberline I was limping. I looked at my watch: 2:40. The record was broken and I still had a good 10 minutes to go. I crossed the finish line with blood on my shirt from excessive chafing of my nipples and a limp so severe it had caused my entire right side to go numb. In addition, my left Achilles tendon was sore from compensating. I was too tired to let my full emotions go, so I sighed and headed straight for the medical tent, where officials gave me ice for my sore tendon, a blanket to keep me warm and a congratulatory pat on the back for finishing the race.

With no time or place to shower, my friend Kristen and I headed back home. We drove the two-hour trip trying to convince ourselves that despite the bad weather and disappointing finishes, we were better off for having run the race. We made it to the top and that’s what counted, at least we hoped. Trying to explain this to my coach might be another story, but for the time being, we were surprisingly satisfied. By the time I arrived home the blood and sweat on my shirt had adhered to my skin. I was exhausted and starving. I eased myself into a warm bath, fully clothed, and allowed the water to dissolve the blood sticking to my skin. I was finally able to remove my shirt and bra and wash myself fully. After dinner I was so tired I fell asleep on the carpet where I had been watching TV.

I was afraid to tell my coach about the race. Though he claimed he understood, I could hear the disappointment in his voice as I broke the news over the phone. Then, after several days of rest, something so bizarre and upsetting happened that I still have trouble comprehending it. He called me to a meeting and basically told me I was a head case and uncoachable. I didn’t understand. I had just run so well that summer, setting records and winning races. I mean sure, I blew the last race, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. Being in the hospital a few weeks before any event is not what I consider good preparation. I was so hurt by his words that I don’t even remember what I said or how I responded. I know I did my best to stand strong and remain calm. I ran home conflicted and sad, with tears welling up in my eyes. Cross-country was just around the corner and I was on my own. I wasn’t about to risk yet another injury in a program that was known to be based on too much speed work and too much mileage. As much as I wanted to stay away from overtraining, it was far too easy to get lost in the competition of who could do more when everyone around me was doing just that. What could have been the perfect time for me to regroup and take a legitimate shot at a solid running career ended up being a pivotal point in which I instead took a nose dive into the land of inadequacy and illness.

Mountain running with my coach.

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Training on Empty: Chapter 13 (Possible TW)

Possible trigger warning with mention of behaviors.

Chapter 13 – Over the Edge

“The sudden disappointment of a hope leaves a scar which the ultimate fulfillment of that hope never entirely removes.” – Thomas Hardy

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

In the aftermath of setting a new record at the Pikes Peak Ascent, I experienced both the highest high and the lowest low of my life. I read in the local papers that my coach was quoted as saying that I could have run faster if I had not started out too fast. I was convinced he was disappointed in me. What I failed to see in that same article was that he had also stated that I was quite possibly the best female mountain runner in the world at the time. Somehow I missed the positive statements and focused only on the negative or what I perceived as negative. Years later when I reread the article I was shocked that I didn’t remember the incredible compliment he had given me.

After putting 110 percent of my blood, sweat and tears into something and reaching my goal, I had no idea what to do next. Where do you go and what do you do after you have reached what seemed impossible? The thought that I would have to train harder sank into me like a stone to the bottom of the sea. How could I possibly train harder than what even I was beginning to sense was already too much? To me, improvement and moving forward meant only one thing – more training. Never once did I consider training more intelligently or efficiently or in some way differently instead of simply increasing the time and effort I spent working out.

I never went to a dance when I was in high school. I stopped socializing early in my first year on the cross-country team after a late night out when a few of us who had gone to a concert were a bit off the pace in our workout the next day. Our coach told us that we needed to ask ourselves what was most important to us. For me, of course, running was at the top of the list, and my coach’s statement clearly implied that if I wanted to be good runner, I should not stay out late. As a result, I further isolated myself from my friends and peers, and this in turn catalyzed an increase in the obsessive behaviors I was beginning to show – behaviors that, while unquestionably odd, I was convinced would help me become a better runner.

My rituals were becoming patently bizarre and, as is typical of obsessive-compulsives, included lots of counting: my steps, the number of sips of water I drank, the number of times I entered and left a room. In addition, I was obsessed with the times of day at which I ate. I could only eat at certain times of the day despite the fact that I would wake up late at night with my stomach growling for food. I would often dream of eating or missing a workout, my two biggest fears. Like many anorexics, I grew to love cooking because it was a way to eat vicariously by serving food to others. I got all the pleasure of the food’s aroma and aesthetics without the added calories. I longed to be carefree enough to indulge, but I wouldn't ever allow myself to do so. I imagined myself going out to a restaurant and ordering a normal meal or eating a big fat slice of cheesecake, knowing these scenarios were pure fantasy. I felt trapped and limited, but I experienced a tiny bit of satisfaction in knowing that I was in control of what I ate.

From the time I was young, my mom had always made home-cooked meals. They were not what I would call gourmet, but on special occasions and holidays she would go all-out and the whole family would sit down to dine. I loved watching activities in the kitchen, my mom fluttering around checking the oven temperature and stirring what was steaming in the pots on the stove. However, I reacted poorly to the tension in the air that accompanied these family get-togethers. As with most other families, we often got into arguments or slightly harsh banter during holidays and general get-togethers. I tended to assume guilt for anything that didn’t go according to plan, even if it had nothing or little to do with me. For example, on one Thanksgiving my mom kept reminding everyone not to open the oven door, because the racks had been put on backward and the pies cooking inside were bound to slide straight out unless the procedure was carefully executed. My brother forgot and opened the door as I was standing there, and the hot pumpkin pie slid right out onto my feet. Of course, much chaos ensued and lots of yelling occurred. I decided the entire thing was my fault, because I had worn sandals, not the covered shoes my mom had told me to wear earlier. The pink burns on my feet and legs were minor, but my guilt ran deep. Fortunately, and to the relief of the family, the apple pie was still intact and salvaged for our dessert.

Later, when I became anorexic, I realized that Thanksgiving is an anorexic’s nightmare. In fact, many holidays are. While most people spend the day giving thanks (in theory, anyway) and eating large mounds of food, I spent it trying to figure out a way to avoid the confrontation I'd face when I pushed away the food on my plate instead of eating it. For me, an excessively long run before any holiday meal often solved the problem. That way I felt less guilty about picking at the food on my plate.

Despite some trauma around meal times as a child, I grew up loving to cook. It became such an escape for me I even considered becoming a chef. Often I would make elaborate meals for others. Desserts were what I loved to make most. Our family had always been big into desserts. When I was little I remembered that dinner was just a distraction until the dessert cart rolled into view. I also remembered that with an alcoholic father, meal times were often chaotic and embarrassing, especially when eating out at restaurants. Though I did eat ice cream, I rarely allowed myself to eat outside a select rotation of predetermined meals. Instead, I would create rich, decadent desserts for contests and for other people. I won a few chocolate-baking contests and spent hours and hours perusing cookbooks and cooking magazines, imagining what it would be like to try some of the pictured dishes. I could spend the majority of the day in the kitchen, immersed in baking, and let go of some of the feelings of stress and guilt I often experienced. However, as much as I loved to cook, it was no substitute for running.

After the Pikes Peak race, with cross-country season just a month away, my coach told me to take a week off. I was heading into my junior year with hopes of winning the state meet, and I was frantic at the thought of resting, knowing that my daily routine would be disrupted. My body was tired, but my mind was overly active and I was becoming agitated. I rode my bike to ease some of the tension of complete rest and ran a little so I wouldn’t forget how to run in a week. I was so thoroughly tired of this tedious lifestyle that I wished I would get hit by a car, yet even when given permission to have a break, I couldn’t do it. I just wouldn’t allow myself the rest I craved; I couldn’t even take a full week off at the request of my coach, a man I respected and trusted at the time.

After another undefeated regular season with a few course records in place, I entered the state meet with confidence. Somewhere along the crazy route of compulsive running, I had emerged an intense competitor. Though I was meek and kind off the track, I was fiery and wild in competition, often making extremely bold moves like darting to the far outside to pass people on the track or leading races into full headwinds. My goal was not only to win but to push myself as hard as I could. Even if I was in the lead, I wouldn’t allow my pace to slow. I won the state meet and soon afterward became the first Colorado girl to ever qualify for the national championship in cross-country.

The national race took place in San Diego, California. I was shocked when, at a welcome dinner and presentation featuring PattiSue Plumer as the guest speaker, I walked into a room of 31 other girls just like me. All of us had dreams of the Olympics or various other running titles. Some, like Suzy Favor (now Suzy Hamilton) did go on to reach the Olympics. I was sad at the thought that I wasn’t anything special here. However, I offered myself some comfort knowing that none of these girls were the kind of mountain runner I was. The big difference with Suzy was that she seemed to be having fun. While the rest of us wore serious expressions, Suzy seemed to be able to enjoy the moment. A trip to Sea World was included as part of the pre-race activities for those of us who had qualified for nationals, and it was Suzy who led the rest of our team through the rain to see the sights. Everybody else seemed to be conserving energy before the big race, afraid to let loose, but Suzy was all for seeing the sights while she was there. I felt overly aware that I was much more a loner than many of the others, opting to stay in my hotel room instead of joining the others on the beach on the last night there, something I regret now. I wish I had been able to be more outgoing back then.

The race was intense and I fell into last place from the start. I worked my way up to the middle of the pack by passing as many girls as possible in what I considered to be a short and exceptionally fast race. I wasn’t exactly happy with the 15th place finish, but I also knew that 5k was not my best distance. I didn't have the leg speed that these other girls had. Despite my middle-of-the-pack performance, I figured and hoped that with yet more training I could improve and possibly even win the next year. I paid great attention to the speech that the winner gave after her race, when she described how her strategy was to keep pushing the pace up and over the hills instead of relaxing into a slower pace at the top. I imagined how it would feel to be giving a similar speech after winning a big race. I wanted to be in her shoes.

I was heading into the winter with even more determination than before to train harder. Then, while I was on a trail run with my coach, out of the blue he dropped a bomb. He flat-out said that I was out of control. He gave me an ultimatum: Either I take a break and train according to his plan or I was off the team. That was it. There was no talk of compromise or ideas on how to help me do as he demanded; it was an either-or situation. What could I do? I was hurt and felt rejected. In addition, I was already deep into my routine and unable to retreat, so I took the “I’ll show you” road and decided to train on my own.

For my coach, there came a point where he knew I was lying about my training and eating. He was forced to step back and throw his hands in the air, because there was nothing he could do. I was so headstrong that I couldn’t fully appreciate his concern for my health and his worrying that I was overtraining. I was convinced he was using reverse psychology in order to motivate me to train harder when, in reality, he was trying to prevent me from getting another injury or illness. At one point the following year he agreed with my parents that I should see a counselor, which I did for several months, but before then I was determined to do things my way. I assume that my coach always had my best interests at heart, or at minimum wanted me to continue to run well, but because I was so caught up in my illness, I couldn’t see that. I continually focused on random comments, not just from him but from others around me, that supported my distorted thinking. Anything that didn’t fall into my warped sense of reality, I either discarded or ignored outright. That said, it was difficult to get anyone to understand that I needed help resting. The training I could handle, but I wanted someone to hold my hand through the resting phase, something most athletes are not taught. For some athletes, dealing with uncomfortable feelings that arise during between-season breaks can be the hardest part of training. I simply did not know how to do it, and nobody was willing to help me weather the storms created in my head whenever I had to rest.

I spent the next few weeks building up my mileage on an increasingly sore foot. My limp was visible, but didn’t come close to stopping my training of up to 90 miles a week plus biking, one swim session and weight training. I felt so lost at the time, but was convinced that my only option was to run more. Eventually, the continual strain on my pelvis from the improper landing of my sore foot caused my pubic bone to fracture. In the middle of a run, I felt a shooting pain so intense I thought someone was stabbing me. Rather than stop, though, I hobbled the rest of the five miles back to school. I continued to train, wrapping my entire pelvis in ace bandages to lessen the severe pain. I could hardly walk down the stairs at school, yet I refused to stop running. The pain was terrible and often I would cry on my runs. Eventually, after much arguing, I allowed my parents to take me to see a doctor. The fracture was no hairline mark on the x-ray. Instead, it was a big fat line right there on my bone that was approaching a full break.

The news hit me like a freight train: If I didn’t stop, I might never run again. I tried desperately to quit running, but I was a mess and couldn’t make it through the day. I lost focus in school and spent most of my days crying. Even when I did attend class, I couldn’t concentrate. I was terrified to eat, and when I did eat, I cried out of fear of gaining weight. Finally, my parents decided I needed help. They took me out of school and put in a mental hospital for teenagers. On my first day there, the other kids and I sat in a circle and introduced ourselves and stated why we were there. Most of the kids were experimenting with drugs, having trouble at home or stealing things, many of the very things I had been doing at age 13. When my turn came, I thought how strange the situation was and almost had to laugh, because my response seemed so silly: “My name is Lize and I can’t stop running.”

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