BAR 302

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BAR #301 | Shouse Hobble

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I came into this one with a heel that’s been giving me nothing by heartache and pain for six straight weeks. I shut things down for the two weeks prior — ice, red-light therapy, all the responsible adult stuff — hoping for a miracle.

Race morning, I was hopeful. Foot felt better than usual with that first step out of bed. But after the lollipop journey up to Sanders Mound, the pain kicked in early at mile 1.5. By miles 5-7 I was reduced to a walk/limp combo that looked like I was the unholy offspring of a wounded pirate and a low-budget pimp. At Land’s End, mile 7, I sat, crushed peanut M&Ms, pounded a Coke, and mentally accepted the DNF. Even lined up a ride out with another runner who had sprained his ankle. 

But as we hobbled toward the parking lot, I felt a little better in the heal and my internal Goggins started up...

GOGGINS: The most important conversations you’ll ever have are the ones you’ll have with yourself.
ME: Then, what are you doing here. Leave and let me talk to myself.
GOGGINS: You can’t hurt me.
ME: Seriously?
GOGGINS: The only way to grow is to suffer.
ME: Get out, Goggins! Out! Well I mean, it should be bearable once I make it to the Blue trail. And there are plenty of “out” points on this course. A drop to 25k > DNF.

I turned around went back to Lands End and continued on with the course. It wasn’t heroic. It was slow. The 25K runners kept passing me. “You okay?” Yep. I kept it moving, limping my way to the turnaround and back on blue, just grinding. Leaving Land’s End the second time, I figured if I could get down that hill, the momentum would keep me going. Then the 50k runners started lapping me. “You okay?” Yep.

At Lake Henry, Chris Foster came out, saw the state I was in, and asked what I needed. I asked if he had a beer — he did. Boulevard Wheat never tasted so strategic. Peter told me I didn’t look so hot. AND Gerry offered me a ride — and when Gerry offers you a graceful exit, you know you’re looking destroyed. I declined, took my beer and a Nutter Butter, and shuffled the final two miles to the finish fueled by stubbornness and sugar.

Thinking in terms like “half marathon,” should a 25k be called a half 50k? Or a half ultra? Nah, it’s a 25k! And while a 25k isn’t what I planned, finishing that on a day when quitting made perfect sense felt like a win. The heel is still angry, the heart is disappointed, but the spirit is emboldened.

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Todd Chandler

Sanders Saunter 25k (drop from 50k)

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BAR 302

Planar Work

Core Drills

BAR #301 | Shouse Hobble

Hot Thunder

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