Ultramarathons and Other Hard Things

“I’m not too worried about it,” I said, sitting among friends after a fun night of trick-or-treating, enjoying a pre-ultra pizza. “I’ve done a marathon before, and I’m hiking this one—so, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Famous last words.

Last Saturday, I did my first ultramarathon—mostly walking, some running, all chaos.

It started as these things typically do: mad prep the day before, carb loading, bad night’s sleep, 4:15 a.m. wake up, coffee, overnight oats. Hourlong drive to the start. A hilarious moment that will stay just between my race buddy, Abi, and me.

There are a few signs the day would not go as planned. First, the start was on the beach. Any runner who has ever run on the beach knows that the beach is the absolute worst place to run. Sand is not your friend. It is unforgiving and prone to injury.

Next, my race number: 67. Six-seven! Was this good luck or bad? I still don’t know.

And finally: my overconfidence. I’ve got this, I thought. It’ll be fun, I thought.

The race was organized by SheUltra, founded by an inspiring human name Huw, who has stage 4 cancer and founded this race to make a difference. He envisioned supporting women’s cancers around the world, starting first in Wales and then moving to his first international destination in Portugal’s Algarve, where I live.

If you’re inspired by the SheUltra mission and want to support women’s cancer in Portugal, donate here.

As I looked around at the start, it struck me just how badass and fit all the women were. And to be surrounded by that many women, all happy, all excited for the day ahead—it was beautiful.

As the sun rose over the sea, Huw welcomed the group and a woman translated in Portuguese. We went through the rules, course instructions, paramedic information, and all the normal things before a race. Then, we counted down in Portuguese: dez, nove, oito, sete, seis, cinco, quatro, três, dois, um . . . and we were off!

As expected the first part of the race was absolutely brutal. The sand was sloped and soft, and we did about three or so miles out and back on the beach. I complained a lot, which is not my style. Eventually, we moved to a trail alongside the beach, and then—finally!—the end of the beach stretch.

Elated, I reached into my bag to take a photo. And that’s when I discovered my phone was gone.

I stopped, panicked, feeling through all the pockets of my hydration pack. My phone was definitively gone. I told my friend and apologized as I headed off in the opposite direction looking for my phone, calling back, “You don’t have to wait for me!”

“Of course I’ll wait!” she called back. I fast-walked, then ran, back along the trail and back along the beach. I searched the dirt, the sand. I asked passersby. Nothing. No phone anywhere to be seen.

I started to cry. I know, it’s just a phone—but it’s not, is it? I had Halloween photos I hadn’t synced yet. In fact, I wasn’t sure my iCloud was syncing properly and started to panic that I’d lose first-day-of-school photos and other memories. My Portuguese resident card was in the case of my phone, so I’d have to navigate the impossible bureaucracy here. I cried some more.

After backtracking about a mile and a half, I turned around and covered a different spot on the beach. I’d been walking mostly on soft sand, where the tide touched, and worried my phone was in the sea. Adrenaline pulsed through my body as I cried softly and looked some more.

Finally, I saw my friend. No luck for her either. She suggested I call my husband to mark my phone as lost and handed me her phone. While talking with him, his phone rang, he put me on hold, and when he came back, he said, “A woman just called and she found your phone!”

An amazing angel of a human found my phone, immediately accessed my emergency contact information stored on the phone, and called him. I got her number and we arranged for her to drop the phone at the finish of the race—such a kind gesture!

Adrenaline dropping and relief pouring over me, Abi and I set out to continue the race. Of course, I’d now done an extra three miles on top of the planned twenty-eight, and I was emotionally exhausted. Plus, the entire race was way ahead of us, so we were now on our own, unsupported.

We made our way off the beach and followed the pink ribbons, as instructed by the race coordinator. We spotted them veering clearly to the left and followed the marked road, when two police officers approached us and pointed the other direction. However, we thought they didn’t know we were doing the race, and they weren’t wearing any pink (which is what we had been told the organizers would be wearing), so we pointed at the ribbons. The police officers shrugged and we continued on.

Finally, we reached the first checkpoint! Amazing! We were tracking three extra miles, but that was fine—we would just overachieve.

“You’re early!” the volunteer said when we approached.

I laughed. “Right. So early!”

“No, really. You’re the first ones.”

“Isn’t this checkpoint one?” Abi asked.

“It’s checkpoint three.”

Abi and I looked at each other. Then we burst out laughing before explaining the whole saga to the volunteers. One volunteer went inside to help with my phone, which would be dropped off in a few hours, and the other went to talk with another volunteer, after I asked to be driven back to checkpoint one.

About fifteen minutes later, we were in a van, driving nearly twenty minutes to the correct checkpoint. We had two options: Go left and cut the race three miles short to catch up with everyone. Or go straight, complete a three mile loop, and finish the distance.

You’d better believe we went the distance.

So after all that: the lost phone, the panic, the wrong direction, the waiting, the van . . . we still had twenty miles to go.

TWENTY MILES.

But we did it. Every mile.

And it was hard and beautiful and all the things I expected it to be. What I wasn’t expecting is that hiking is so much harder than running. My poor feet!

As the rain started to fall lightly at the very end, Abi and I ran the last of the trail, the setting sun behind us, and the finish in sight. And the angel volunteers cheered and rang bells the moment they saw us coming down the road, for the entire ten or so minutes it took us to get down the street and onto the track for the last lap of the race and cross the finish line.

My first marathon took 4:09:30. My first ultra: 10:40:06.

It strikes me that this ultra was like any hard thing in life: writing a book, starting a business, overcoming adversity. You will get derailed, and you will have a choice: Do you quit? Do you take the easier route? Or do you lean all in and finish what you started?

I’m proud to say I finished what I started, in spite of the many, many reasons I had to quit.

And I’m even prouder to be part of something that does so much good for the community—to be surrounded by women, raising money for women’s cancer.

And next year, I’m adding the route to my Garmin and zipping my phone securely in my bag.

When have you had every reason to quit but finished anyway? Share with me in the comments. I read and reply to every comment and love hearing from you.

P.S. This is a genuinely human article. No AI was used to write this piece.