Time heals: the Carpe Diem/Carpe Noctem trail run
Time heals. I have a catalogue of aphorisms I pull from when I need a reminder that this is all part of the process. Lately, time heals has been my go-to salve.
Let’s travel back in time to a month ago when my body was in the grip of pain, from my back and hips to what I thought was a dislocated bone in my foot. There were a few nights I lay in bed, in discomfort, counting the days when I was meant to do the trail run event in Michigan for which I’d trained months. I made a promise to listen to my body, to rest, and hopefully recover enough to run strong. I told myself that time heals and to trust the process.
Cliches are so cringeworthy. This may start to read like a scripted Disney sports drama, but who doesn’t like a comeback story?
After three weeks of nursing my aches and pains with a cautious return to running, I found myself standing at the start line, ready to seize the day in my trail runners at Proud Lake State Park, Michigan, with a stoking elation ready to implode.
I signed up for the Carpe Diem/Carpe Noctem trail run by Trivium Racing early in the year when I sought a goal for my accumulating mileage. The concept was unique. You could run either 10 km or 21.1km in the morning, at night, or both. Participants received a medal for each event, and if you ran both day and night, your medals connected as one—a sun and a moon.
Race day always comes down to three essential elements: your training, your health, and the weather. Thankfully, on Saturday, April 6, the weather was cool and clear.
At 8:30 a.m., we were off, a mass of bodies funnelling into the narrow forest trail. The 10 km runners mixed with the half-marathoners. I bid my time as my body warmed up and became familiar with the rhythm of footfalls on a mix of dirt, mud, and sand. We ran along the edge of Proud Lake, and amid the drab browns of early spring were two swans glaring white against their surroundings.
Photo courtesy volunteers at Carpe Diem/Carpe Noctem Trail Run
For the first 4 km, I followed the horde of runners, finding my pace, avoiding the few muddy puddles, and being overly cautious if I made a pass on sloped shoulders. This is what I love about trail running: it’s technical. Body and mind are in sync to avoid rocks, branches, roots, and ditches.
Meanwhile, the daytime ambience was overcome by the vernal chorus of birdsong. There was a deep, artillery-like drumming from a pileated woodpecker that reverberated through the forest. The trill of the cardinal. At my feet, the furled blades of skunk cabbage poking through the undergrowth in the marsh.
From my catalogue of mantras, typically shorter, motivational words or phrases that I repeat for the mental game, I selected “run strong” for this race. Speed didn’t matter. I needed to finish the 21.1km in the morning and have enough juice for the 10 km in the evening.
Eventually, the crowd thinned, allowing me to make more strategic passes in bursts. Then, there were moments when I was alone. As I pushed myself and fatigued, I entered into the familiar race-day flow state. As I repeated the motions, I time-travelled. Each race recalls another, and I have no control over which memory awakens. At the Carpe Diem/Carpe Noctem race, I recalled a half marathon I did in Nagano, Japan, in 2011.
At the foot of Mount Ontake, in a rural village called Otaki, I ran a half marathon along the length of a narrow lake bordered by rolling hills decorated with autumn colours. I remember halfway through being surprised by my pace despite my complete lack of expectation to run a personal best. And that was exactly what I did. To date, I have yet to beat my barely sub-100-minute half marathon. My mantra then, according to my journal entry, was “What are you made of.” I came fifth in my age group, women under 39.
Maybe I recalled that race because when I pushed through the last five kilometres in Proud Lake State Park with a cranky right hip flexor, a tight calf, and tired lungs, I surprised myself once again. At the last bend, I could see the sky open between the trees and heard the distant pitch of cheering. I saw my love holding my camera and our little black dog as I crossed the finish line. I was nowhere near my 2011 time, but I beat my goal time by two minutes — lo and behold, I discovered I was third in my age category, women 30-39.
Elated. I still had 10 km to go.
We went back to our Airbnb to shower, and I recovered over the next eight hours before the night race. At one point, I could barely move my stiff legs. Fighting doubt, I ate leftover lobster ravioli, nursed my litre of coconut water, and did yoga in the sun, trusting the process. Time heals after all.
At 7 p.m., my partner and I stood at the start line to seize the night. I just wanted to survive, to get through the kms, and to receive the sun/moon medal I’d signed up for.
Right away, my body cooperated, already limbered up from the earlier exertion. Knowing I had only half the distance to run, I ran a little harder, laughing with my partner as we passed jokes, and he stopped for an Austin Power’s post-freeze-epic piss in the bush. We picked up our pace, chasing the sunset.
The evening ambience carried a cacophony of frogs croaking from the marsh.
We sprinted to the finish before the giant clock struck 1:00:00. Volunteers handed out medals, a puzzle-like sun and a moon that magnetized together. We ate cup noodles and drank a beer while listening to the late 90s, early 2000s playlist that had been blaring all day. I couldn’t help but feel a swell of Canadian pride when Avril’s “Sk8ter Boi” came on. Sitting on a park bench, watching the glow of headlamps cross the finish line, I revelled in the post-run bliss that struck twice in one day. The Carpe Diem/Carpe Noctem event had delivered, and so had I.
Time healed as it has before. I’ll store this experience as another example to unearth when I catch myself disbelieving. I know that if I exercise patience, I will mend. I may even be surprised by the outcome.
P.S. The total eclipse entry is coming up next. It’s an entirely different theme and deserves its own meditation.
Yours Truly,
Fearless Forty
