This is part 3 of a multipart blog series about one Team RunRunner’s, Vincent Rossi, cancer-filled ultramarathon. Catch up on part 1 and part 2.
The First Lap: A Challenge From Step One
Right from the start, this race was hard. My training leading up to the Rocky 50 had been entirely on the flat streets of Washington, D.C., and I had almost no trail running experience. Running with Chris the first five miles was invaluable. He taught me the power hike method for hills that I had read about, but never practiced.
Immediately, the hills took their toll, as did the heat. As a total newcomer to trail running, the most challenging part was the uneven ground and the tree roots. Oh, the tree roots. The Rocky Raccoon races are known for large pine tree roots on the trail: traps for tired runners. About 10 miles in, I tripped on a root and landed hard. The wind was knocked out of me. “Holy shit,” I thought. “Ok, my first fall.” I told myself iIt was part of the race, and then got up, brushed myself off, and started running again. It must have looked bad because runners around me stopped to check on me. “I’m good!” I yelled, stunned but not hurt.
Blood, Sweat, and Pee
Later in loop one, I stopped to pee and saw I was already peeing blood. It was a lot—my urine was dark red and thick. This blood was not from running; it began before the race: a sign that the cancer had spread to my kidneys. This, plus my abbreviated training build to this race, made understanding my fluid losses and hydration needs impossible. My right kidney ached: my cancer-filled ultramarathon continued. That was the area surgeons would soon inspect, and then possibly remove. I put thoughts of cancer aside and kept running.
At the end of the first loop, I had run 16.7 miles. In training, 16 miles was normal for me. I had been running about 50 miles per week. But this was different. The heat, hills, and uneven ground left me completely exhausted. “Oh fuck,” I thought. Finishing felt impossible after that first lap. I had promised myself I would not quit. I would push myself as far as possible, no matter what.
Before the race, Chris, who seemed worried he had gotten me into a dangerous situation, said, “Hey man, if you feel like you are hurting yourself, it’s just not worth it.” With my cancer history and new diagnosis, I knew today was my only chance. My future was uncertain, so I would push hard. I thought, “Hell, to die during an ultra would be more badass than dying on fentanyl in a hospital bed.” I smiled at Chris and said, “I think I am ready to do hard things.” Chris smiled nervously back. Two more 16.7-mile loops to go.
Lap Two: “Run the Mile You Are In”
Lap two was brutal. I had told my coach I wanted to suffer, and there’s no doubt my wish was granted! Despite refilling my ice bandana at each aid station, the Texas heat meant it quickly became a wet rag. I fell two more times, each time so suddenly and hard I did not even catch myself. One moment I was running, the next I was on the ground.
I chose not to show my mileage on my running watch; ultramarathon math would not help me right now! I feared that constantly seeing how much distance was left—like 40, 30, or 20 miles to go—would make me lose the mental battle, which I knew was key to staying in the race.
On the flight to Texas, I listened to an ultrarunning audiobook. The author warned about the dangers of ultrarunning math, instead advising runners to simply “run the mile that you are in.” Thinking about running another 30 miles could have broken me easily. During the second lap, this advice came to mind and became my race mantra. I felt a large blister on my right foot from sand in my shoe, but I was too tired to stop and empty it. “Run the mile that you are in,” I thought. My quad muscles began to shake with intense pain. For a moment, I thought, “How can I keep going for another 30 miles?” The mantra returned: “Run the mile you are in.”
Cancer, Caution, and Crew Stations
By the end of the second lap, I reached my crew station where my wife had my race vest ready and waiting. She had packed it with gels, trail mix, salt tablets, and hydration powder for my final lap. The first two laps were so hot that I had opted to run with a belt instead of a vest.
As I approached, my wife immediately saw I was in trouble. Due to cancer treatments, I had lost the ability to sweat and control my body temperature. For me, 83 degrees Fahrenheit felt like 120! I walked up to the five-gallon ice bucket my wife had also prepared, and put my arms in the ice water, trying to recover from near heat stroke. Chris was there and decided to stop after two laps and about 55 miles, since his main race, the Umstead 100, was coming up. Wisely, he did not want to hurt his performance.
I was a zombie. Chris talked to me and gave advice, but I do not think I heard anything he said. I struggled to stand. From what I had read about ultras, I knew sitting down was not a good idea. Finishing the second lap meant I had officially run an ultramarathon–beyond the 26.2 mile (42K) marathon distance. But my goal was 50 miles, not 33.4.
As if Rocky 50 wasn’t already challenging enough, then the nausea hit. I removed a handful of gels from my vest, knowing that if I ate one more, I would throw up. From then on, I would only drink water. I managed to give Chris what might have looked like a smile, unable to speak, and a fist bump on my way out.
The Final Lap
The third lap started. I had no idea how I would get through the next 16.7 miles. As we began, some of the 50K finishers clapped as I went back on the course. Race rules allowed a pacer for the last lap, and my wife joined me—she was my savior. She did the ultramarathon math for me and tried her best to keep me moving at a pace to finish. Before the race, our plan was for me to speed up on the last lap, maybe run a 9:30-minute mile. Now in real time, the thought of running that fast would have been funny if I was not so scared. My wife ran far ahead, then looked back to see me limping. “Oh man, I am in trouble,” I thought.
At one point, I sat to tie my shoe. An abdominal muscle cramped so badly the pain was unbearable. I screamed, surprising myself. My wife looked at me, very worried, but I got up and kept going. She knew the plan: keep me moving no matter what. “Run the mile that you are in,” I thought again.
It’s Me Against the Clock
Near the end of the last lap, with four miles to go, I started to believe I could finish this cancer-filled ultramarathon. But I did not want to get too confident. If my pace slowed or I fell again, I could miss the cutoff time. As we walked up a steep hill, my wife checked her watch. She turned to me and said, “Okay, we need to pick it up now.” Her tone scared me, though not as much as the thought of a DNF (did not finish). I had come so far, endured so much: it was now or never.
I dug deep, trying my best to keep up with my wife. She was jogging at a slow 12-minute mile pace, but for me, it felt like a sprint. My legs were completely raw, and both my feet were bleeding. But for a moment, the thought of crossing that finish line gave me goosebumps. Despite the pain, I felt a fleeting giddiness. I smiled through this new kind of pain.
About Vincent
Vincent Rossi is a father, husband, cancer survivor, and newly minted ultramarathoner! Check out Vincent’s website and Instagram @gnocchi_dinner. He continues to fundraise for the Bladder Cancer Advocacy Network (BCAN). Take a look at Vincent’s BCAN fundraising page here.
Part 4 of My Cancer-Filled Ultramarathon will be released soon.