Cancelled: An Itch To Run

SPEAKER_01 0:02

Hi, welcome to Exploits of a Nobody. I'm Andre. Here, I share stories adapted from my journals about trail running, sobriety, recovery, and just about anything else life throws at me. This is what I call Rough Draft Radio. If something in here sounds familiar, maybe you've been there too, or maybe you're still there now. Either way, I'm glad you're here. And just a heads up, this episode includes cursing. When a race gets canceled, it's easy to think, okay, well, it's just a race, nobody another. But you've spent months training, making plans, thinking about that finish line in the journey, and then suddenly, it's all fucking gone. What are you supposed to do with all that? We flew into Portland late morning on a Wednesday. I was running the Oregon Cascades 100 and Bend. We thought it'd be fun to make this a quick family vacation. We checked into a small downtown Portland hotel room. Dropping our bags, we got comfortable. After a day of traveling, I was ready for a rest. Shoes off, I sunk into the bed, double-checking the time of the virtual pre-race briefing. Four months ago, I was lying in bed after a double hernia repair, my body protesting even the thought of moving, with sudden, deep, aching pains through my abdomen. I logged into the live pre-race briefing on Facebook. I was excited to run this race. It was fire season in the high desert of Oregon, and the race had been canceled last year due to forest fires. The live stream hadn't started yet. Five minutes and then ten minutes late. I was preparing to just watch later after it was over. Then the live stream footage sputtered as the figures moved in a sporadic way. The footage smoothed out and the race directors came to life. After welcoming everyone, they explained the fires were burning nearby and air quality was worsening. We want the race to happen as much as you all. There's still a few days with rain in the forecast, and anything could happen. Many of our volunteers live in the affected areas, and we don't want them to be out here volunteering while they're worrying about whether their house is burning down. With any luck, it would rain. Put out the fires, clear the air, and the race would continue as planned. We'll send an email update no later than Thursday afternoon. I tried not to worry. Later that evening, an email from the race organizers appeared. We've made the difficult decision to cancel the 2026 Oregon Cascades 100 mile and 50 mile races. Really? Fuck, that was fast. My wife looked at me. What's wrong? The race is canceled. She looked at me in surprise. What? Yeah, fires are burning in the area. I'm so sorry, she said. Staring at the phone, I thought, what were the fucking odds? Two years in a row? A familiar feeling rushed through me. I thought back to when the Leadville 100 had been canceled three months early in 2020 due to COVID. I was so excited to run that race. And I had said the same thing then. Can't they just wait a little longer? Now what was I going to do? We were in Oregon for five days. The disappointment and loss of purpose swallowed me whole in that small hotel room. Everything I'd been working towards for the past four months, gone. I'm sorry, my wife told me. Should we still go to Bend? No, I don't want to go anymore. The fires are burning and the air quality is horrible. Okay, we need to find another hotel. She reminded me that we had reserved this hotel for one night. We'd have to find a new hotel, and she wasn't sure how easy that would be now with the weekend approaching. Maybe we should just cut our losses and go home, I said. Wait, I wonder if there are any races in the general area, I thought. Luckily, my wife found another hotel, and I wondered if I'd be as lucky finding another race. As I searched, I thought about my options. Dude, just go home and run. Where? Lone Star Hiking Trail. I'll run the whole fucking thing alone. You can't do that. There's no one to help. Well, I'll just drive around and drop water like I've done before. The thought of running a hundred miles back in the Texas summer heat and humidity didn't sound fun. Dude, just stay here. It's cooler and everything's paid for. There were no races in the general area. So I began searching return flights home. And as far as I was concerned, at that point, there was no reason to stay if I wasn't running. That had been the whole point of coming to Portland in the first place. Now I felt defeated and I just wanted to go home. An extra $700 just to fly home fucking early? The room suddenly felt even smaller. My wife heard me talking to myself. She looked at me and offered, Well, you've always wanted to visit Portland. Let's just stay and make it a vacation. If I just stayed and made it a vacation, it would eat at me. I'd be thinking of running the whole time. But I knew my wife was right. I lay there staring at nothing, feeling anxious as I pondered what to do in my mind. Man, I have all this fucking training. I need to do something or I'm gonna go nuts. Dude, no one cares whether you run or not. Just enjoy the break. Now, if you've ever experienced a cancel race, you know the feeling of disappointment and unfinished business. It leaves an emptiness and it creates an itch. And there's an urge to still run and use the fitness and energy you developed. I just needed to run. And at this point, I didn't care if it was pavement, trail, or a mix. I wanted a point-to-point or an out and back course that I could easily access. And yeah, I was still being picky. I wondered if there was an easily accessible route there. And in fact, there was. Most of it was a paved bike lane. Another part was a narrow canyon road that lacked a shoulder, busy with tourist traffic. Running that road during the day would be stressful, but running the unlit road at night with traffic was out of the question. I needed another option. I searched Strava and the All Trails app looking for a trail system with the distance and accessibility to run 100 miles. I'm in Oregon with wilderness in every direction. There's gotta be something here. I found the Wildwood Trail, a 30-mile point-to-point trail through a local mountain range in Portland. It would make for a 60-mile out and back course. Best part was it started near a hotel, and it had plenty of easy access points for drop bags. The other 40 miles would be run at night on another trail. I told my wife I had found where I was going to run. That sounds good. My wife didn't like the idea of me running all night on a trail with no support. Remember your last hundred miler? Running at night you were struggling, hallucinating, but you had the benefit of race volunteers and aid stations. Do you really want to do this run? Yes, I want to do the entire distance. That's what we came here for. But the race was cancelled. Why not just run a shorter distance? I thought about that for a while. Why not run a shorter distance? I'd been doing self-supported runs on local trails for years, but this was a different type of challenge. Planning aid stations in an area and on a trail I knew nothing about. I kind of felt like a race director. I got to plan the course and aid stations, I set the rules and the start and finish time. But there were no timing mats, volunteers, crowds, or other runners, expectations, or even a finisher buckle. Just a casual day run while on vacation. We spent half a Friday exploring the Oregon coast. But the whole time I felt anxious about my run. I really did try to relax and enjoy the beach with my family, but my mind was just it was fucking somewhere else. Planning my run and where to place drop bags. I had a very short time to figure out the trail system and locate exact locations for water drops. It was beginning to fucking stress me out. I couldn't even enjoy the beach or the drive. I rushed us back to Portland that afternoon. I dropped everyone off at the hotel and then went to the grocery store. There was no time to waste. I moved quickly buying water and snacks for the trail. I would carry all the food I needed for 30 miles, and my family would meet me at the turnaround with the same amount to get me back to the start. I had a two-liter bladder, and I would have to find accessible trailheads to drop water bottles. I knew that I could go at least 10 to 12 miles on two liters. Returning to the hotel, I spread everything out and began organizing drop bags. What wait, what? Where where's my salt? I rummaged through everything. Oh no, no, no, fuck no. There's no way I forgot my fucking salt. I had forgot to pack my element packets. I left them on the refrigerator at home. Now I had no electrolytes. What the fuck am I going to do now? I went online to see if there were any stores in the area where I could purchase electrolyte packets. The only place that had them in stock was a Target over 10 miles away. I felt a little relief. As long as I made it to the target before it closed, I'd be okay. I had a general idea of where to drop water, but now I had to locate the exact spots. The trail system was an 80-mile complex that included the Wildwood Trail as the main artery and a variety of side trails branching out in every direction. After multiple Google searches, I found maps online as I looked for trailheads with my family. I told them they didn't have to go with me, and my wife said she wanted to go so she could see where I would be stopping. The kids didn't want to be in the car driving around any longer than they had to. We decided that it would be an adventure exploring the local mountains. We followed the directions to the address of the first trailhead. I slowed to turn down an almost unmarked country lane. Where is it? There was no trailhead anywhere. It's supposed to be right here. We drove a little further. Nothing. I went online and Googled the coordinates of the trailhead. In Google Maps, the coordinates took us right to the trailhead a mile further down the main road. We drove up another backcountry lane that ended at a gate and a trailhead sign. Cross trail fire road access one. This would be my first drop bag. We were at the top of a fire road that wound down and out of sight. The main trail shouldn't be too far away, I thought. Time was flying with two more trailheads to find. I didn't have time to walk down the fire road to locate the trail. I'm sure it's right around the bend somewhere. I found a place to hide the three liter water bottle. Man, I hope I can find this again tomorrow. I came back up to the trail where the car was parked. All right, done. I felt like I was chasing daylight rather than planning drop bags. Alright, guys, let's find the next one. After a day of driving and an afternoon of uncertainty, I was exhausted. This was not how I wanted to spend the day before a race. I'm usually lying in bed off my feet watching cartoons and relaxing. I had to remind myself, man, this isn't a race. You can start whenever you want. Now we had to find dinner. We drove in the direction of the target that had my electrolytes. I really hope they have them in stock. I grabbed two boxes of electrolytes and then we had dinner. We finally got back to the hotel around 10.30 p.m. The plan was to start at 5 a.m., one hour before sunrise. I set my alarm. I laid there in bed exhausted, wide awake. I've never been able to sleep the night before a race. Why am I doing this if I don't have to? Why am I getting up so early? You aren't racing. There's no rush, dude. And it won't be official, and who the fuck cares, anyways? Do you really want to get up at 5 a.m.? Yes? Well, eh, I don't know. The truth was, I had adopted a bad habit over the past year. I enjoyed waking up and having coffee and watching cartoons on weekends. Running mid and then I would go and run midday or late in the afternoon. This made waking up early really fucking difficult. I changed the alarm to six a.m. No rush. I'll have all day. I want to sleep. And of course, I woke up at 5 a.m. without the alarm. I laid there hoping to fall back asleep. Just one more hour. I rolled over. The alarm sounded at 6 a.m. I gathered my gear, I made a cup of coffee, ate a few pastries, and asked my wife to drive me over to the trailhead. The Arboretum parking lot was cold, windy, quiet, and empty. The opposite of a race hub. And I still had no idea where the trailhead started. We sat in the car and discussed details. Text me at each rest stop so I can track your progress, my wife said. I will. What time do you think you'll reach the turnaround? Well, I should reach the turnaro I should be there between 1 and 2 p.m. Can you bring me a fizzy water, please? Yes. You want anything special to eat? Uh, I can't think of anything right now. Surprise me. I dropped a bottle of water in the bushes near the car. This parking lot would be the 100K Aid station. I waved goodbye and walked in the direction of the trailhead. Unfamiliar with the area, I began running. I looked for anything that referenced the wild wood trail. I knew it was marked with blue diamonds and signs, but I wasn't seeing anything. Frustrated, I had to stop numerous times to find my way. Where is it? After a few wrong turns, I found the blue diamonds accompanied by an occasional sign stating the trail name. Man, fuck, this is gonna throw my day off. It's okay. I have all day to run. I soon found my pace and made my way to the first water drop nine miles away. The trail was absolutely beautiful. It wound under a thick shaded canopy of lush pine trees. I wanted to run at my normal pace. Dude, don't go too fast. We have a long way to go. I was moving easy and almost effortless in the cool morning air. Dude, this is so fucking awesome. It's hard to believe that four months ago you had a double hernia repair. God, that feels like a lifetime ago. The pressure had been developing in my groin for some time. The pressure became a sharp pain as I began strength training for this race. I remember the day at the gym. I was starting dead bugs. I extended my right leg and my left arm, and a sharp pain stabbed my groin. Holy fuck! What was that? I called my doctor. An ultrasound revealed that I had not one, but two hernia. Yeah, yeah, okay, but when can I run again? Being a runner, you're probably really good at listening to your body, the doctor said. So I'd take it easy. Your body's gonna need to recover. The pain that followed was some of the worst I had ever felt. I realized just how much work our core does. It was so sore I couldn't even roll over in bed. It took effort to stand up and sit down. Every movement caused severe pain. I realized how much I took running for granted. I don't think I would ever complain about running again. Seven miles blew by. The trail was alive with people walking, hiking, and running. I shook my bladder. The first water drop should be coming up soon. Man, it's getting low. I had two miles to the aid station. I hope this trail connects where I dropped water. Well, if you run out of water, you'll have to quit or get your family to find you and bring water. I'm not going to make them do that. I don't need that stress. As I ran up a short ascent, I came to an opening with a picnic bench. Trails went off in three directions, but nothing about this looked familiar. Man, my water should be here somewhere. I remember dropping my water off near a trailhead at a gated gravel road. Looking around, I saw a sign stating this was Cross Trail Fire Road Access 1. Oh, I remember that name. That's where I dropped the water at the trailhead. So my water drop should be at the top of that fire road. I began running. The trail went uphill. Man, where is it? I kept I kept going uphill, and I finally slowed to a walk. I was looking for any clue. I walked along the road looking for where I hid my water. Every bush looked the same. I searched all the bushes. Man, I hope no one found it. After some looking, I found the bottle.

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Thank God.

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I ran back down to the picnic bench with my water bottle, refilling my bladder. The next water stops 15 miles away. Alright, I hope I can make this last. I stashed the bottle nearby for the return trip. It was warming up a bit now. I hope the trail stays covered. This section was much busier than the previous section. Seeing people was a refreshing change. I caught up to a runner trotting along wearing a rimmed hat. On your left. I waved as I passed. My water was beginning to run low again, but because it was cooler, I wasn't sweating as much as I did in the humidity of Southeast Texas. All I kept thinking about was running a hundred miles and what I still needed to do. Dude, don't worry about that. Think about the next water drop. How far off the trail is that next bottle of water? I reached behind my back and shook my bladder. It was draining quicker than I had planned. You've only gone twenty four miles. Dude, don't start this. There's no rush. Just run. Thank God. I was almost out of water. I don't I hope I don't have to go too far off the trail to get the water. I reached a busy trailhead, but nothing looked familiar. What trail what trailhead is this? Man, why didn't I drop water here? I looked around for a side trail. I saw a sign pointing toward another trailhead. I had a feeling it was down there somewhere. I walked down the trail looking for any familiar sign. Where did I put it? But I had forgotten where I hid the water. Frustrated, I kept looking. Where the fuck is it? I began stressing out. One bush after another, no water. I looked in every bush until I finally found it under a vaguely familiar looking bush. I walked down to the parking lot at the bottom of the trail and sat down. I felt more tired than I normally would at this point in a run. I drank directly from the bottle before refilling my empty bladder. I texted my wife. I'm five miles away. I hid the bottle in an easier spot near the trail. Fuck, what a waste of time. Dude, why are you taking this so seriously? It's just a fun run, dude. But I knew I was somewhere else in my head. The turnaround now was so close. Now I just wanted to get there so I could rest for a bit. I was back to planning the race in my head again as I ran. The first 60 miles will be easy. But I wasn't sure about the last 40 miles. I didn't have enough time to plan that properly. It's where I would need the most support. Dude, don't worry about that right now. Just get to the turnaround. I was debating what to do again. Focus on the next five miles. That's all that matters right now. Hey, you could get a sub-24-hour 100-miler here. No one else will be doing it. I rationalized stopping at 60 miles. I don't need to do 100 miles. Yeah, there's no expectation, dude. Stop thinking about it. But I couldn't let it go. I was two miles away from the turnaround. I texted my wife again. I'm almost there. She texted me back. There's a large group of people here with signs. I think there are a few other runners here from your cancelled race.

SPEAKER_00 27:09

Huh.

SPEAKER_01 27:10

So there are other runners out here doing the same trail. I ran a little faster. A couple were running toward me. He looked vaguely familiar. It's the runner I passed earlier with the rimmed hat. How the fuck did he get ahead of me? I don't remember him passing me. Maybe he passed when I stopped at the second water drop. I smiled and waved. Hey man. Hi. Hey, you running out and back? I asked him. Yeah, my race was canceled due to a fire. Let me guess. Cascades one hundred? Yeah, he answered. Hey, me too. You still trying for a hundred? I asked. I had to do something with all this fitness and training. I didn't want to let it go to waste. Man, I was thinking the same thing. And then he went on. I'm planning to run a service road later tonight for the final forty miles. Dude, me too. I couldn't believe someone else was thinking the same way. And then his partner spoke up. Hey, we'll have an aid station set up at the trail. We'd be happy to share all we have with you. Really? That's awesome, thanks, I said, feeling like a problem had just been solved. Have a great run. Maybe I'll see you guys later, I told him as I ran off. You see, you've been worrying about the support for the forty mile segment, and now you have it. It's really weird how things just work out sometimes. I felt a little less tired and picked up my pace. You see, you're not the only one. Two women ran toward me. I waved. Hi. Are you all here from the canceled race? Yeah, we're here to run the Cascades fifty miler, but it was cancelled due to a forest fire, so we're running a hundred K. No shit, me too. I was supposed to run the hundred miler. Well, good luck with that, they told me. You too, I said as they ran off. I saw my wife and daughter ahead waiting for me on the trail. We hugged and walked for a bit, chatting about all the runners. I think the crowd was here for two women runners, she told me. Their families were here. Oh, that's cool, I said. We chatted a bit more. I said I'd see them in a bit. I was going to run ahead to the end. The trail ended on the side of a quiet road with a trail information sign and a few empty cars. Not the exciting aid station or race hub energy, but what was I really expecting? I grabbed my drop bag and sat down. I took off my shoes and let my feet air out. My family my family came up the trail. My daughter sat next to me while my wife brought me a fizzy water. You need anything else? No, I just want to sit and rest. I sat for a while drinking the water. I think I'll be good with 60 miles. I don't need to run 100 miles, I thought. It's weird how quickly the mind can shift when there's no expectation on the line. I was so certain of running 100 miles, but now I was questioning the plan. Dude, it's not a race. But was it? I had put so much pressure on myself to find an alternative to fill the gap left from the canceled race. Now I was stressing whether to cut it short or not, and what that said about me as a runner, and as a person who does hard things. I reloaded all the food I needed for the return trip back. How are you feeling? My wife asked. I don't know if I'm gonna do the whole hundred miles. I don't think it's a good idea to run after dark with no support, she added. Deep down, I like the idea of running 100 miles, but I think I had already made up my mind, and I felt like I was failing. But the race was canceled. I didn't have to be here running, but I chose to do this. I had already won by being out here in the first place. Why couldn't I be happy with finishing 60 miles later that evening? I was putting immense pressure on myself to finish this run when I should have been enjoying the opportunity to be running on such a beautiful trail in cooler weather. The perfectionist in me, the people pleaser, the storyteller wanted to have an epic story of look at me, my race was canceled and I still ran a self-supported hunter miler. And honestly, who the fuck cared? I'd feel accomplished, feel the finisher's high, and then the high would crash, and I'd feel down again and go looking for the next race. The next aid station was five miles away. I tried to drink as little as I could. I knew my water was limited for the trip back, but I knew this late and do a run, I'm not sipping, I'm guzzling. I could hear cars again. At the next water drop, I retrieved my bottle. The remaining water filled my bladder about three-quarters of the way full.

unknown 32:54

Fuck.

SPEAKER_01 32:55

I have 15 miles to run on reduced water. Man, we're gonna have to be careful. Man, the next aid station doesn't have a full bottle either. Stop. Don't worry about that until you get there. I was starting to feel tired again. I was feeling mentally exhausted debating whether to run 100 miles and whether I would have enough water to even finish the day. Maybe we'll run out of water. And then we'd have to quit or wait for our family to bring some. Come on, you'd sit there waiting for your family to bring you water or pick you up, and in that time you would have made it to the next aid station. Dude, just keep running. The trail was empty now except for the occasional hiker. Maybe there'll be a leftover water bottle at a trailhead. Just run. But what about a hundred miles? Let's worry about that when we get back to the start. But the longer I ran, the more the idea of continuing felt fucking miserable. Long shadows were stretching over the trail as the sun got lower, and all that mattered was getting to the finish before sunset. I looked at my watch. Well, we're still on track for a 13 and a half hour finish to PR the 100K distance. I made it to the next aid station where the bench was. My bladder was nearly empty. I had been drinking conservatively. I sat down for a moment and refilled my bladder. Once again, I didn't have enough water to fill the bladder. Okay, nine miles. All I kept thinking about was how much more I had to run, trying to convince myself to let it go. I can't believe I'm still thinking about this shit. Dude, you don't have to run it. I really don't want to run anymore. Dude, you're nine miles away and then you can stop. I almost forgot to text my wife. I pulled out the phone and let her know I had nine miles left. How are you doing? She asked. I'm fine. I don't think I'm gonna make it before sunset. That's okay. It's just a run. You don't have to finish it, she told me. Soon I'd be losing light. I had my headlamp ready. Run as long as you can before you need light. Parts of the trail began to look familiar again. I started anticipating landmarks, thinking the next one would be just around the bend, but I round the corner and nothing. Damn, I thought I was closer than that. I'd keep running, convinced I'd cover another mile or two. I'd check my watch. Half a mile? Fuck. The miles dragged on. I just wanted to be done. I felt like the trail kept going, pulling me further away from the end. It was getting dark now. I'm not doing a hundred miles. I'm fucking done. I don't want to run in the dark. But but you love running in the dark. I just don't want to run anymore. Are you sure? Yeah, I'm done, I thought. I stopped to walk, pulling my phone from my waistbelt. Come on, man. Don't call her. Just finish it up. Put the phone away. You got this. I hesitated for a moment. Okay, let's run a few more miles. Why do you want to stop anyways? Just finish the 60 miles like you told yourself. I shook my bladder on my back. I started running again. Darkness was taking over the trail. I stopped again, this time to get my headlamp. I really don't want to run anymore. Text her. It's okay. This isn't a race. There's nothing to prove. I stopped to walk again and pulled out my phone. I texted my wife. I'm done. Can you get me in the next trailhead? I kept watching my phone for a response. A few moments passed. Without a response, I put the phone away and kept running. I pulled the phone out again to check. Still no response. Man, you may just have to finish it. I hesitated putting the phone away, running with it in my hand. Her text illuminated the screen. Is everything okay? Yeah, I'm done. I don't need to run anymore. She called me. Everything okay? Where are you? I'm fine. I'm about a mile away from the witch's castle. That's an old stone graffiti covered structure near the trailhead. I'm done running. Okay, are you sure? she asked. Yeah, I'm sure. Meet me at the parking lot at the Audubon Society House. Okay, she said. I put the phone away and picked up the pace. Can't you go just a little farther? No, I'm done. I'm okay with not hitting sixty miles at this point. But you can keep going. Message her back and tell her to never mind. I thought about running the last few miles in the dark. No, I'm done. I ran past the old witch's castle and up the hill to the empty, quiet trailhead. No one was waiting for me. Just passing cars, passing on the mountain road in the fading light. I walked over to the Autobahn Society house and sat down. I shed my gear and waited for my family. Dude, it's just a few more miles. In the time you'll wait here, you could cover half that distance. Just keep running. I had already sat down convincing myself it was done. I'm okay with 55 miles. But then why does this feel like a fucking DNF?

SPEAKER_00 39:38

Hmm.

SPEAKER_01 39:40

I wonder if that other runner finished his hundred-mile effort. If this episode meant something to you, or you know someone who you think should hear it, please like, share, and comment wherever you get your podcasts. And until next time, happy trails.