Kodiak 100

I spent six months preparing for Kodiak 100, and one thing I was not prepared for was the emotional toll this event had on my body and soul post-race. A friend of mine calls it the "Big Event Hangover." It is the difficulty of processing the mental and emotional perceptions of the race. It has been laborious to wrap my mind around what happened; I am struggling to put it into words. What is serving me is knowing there is no right or wrong in emotionally and mentally recovering; it's just me. Those words have been the most encouraging (Thanks, John). 

I will not give you a "race recap"; it sounds cheap and overplayed. I will provide you with an account of my adventure. Best read in a quiet space, a space where you find peace and intimacy. 

On August 19th, 2022, I embarked on a once-in-a-lifetime experience, a 100miles on the wonderous trails of Big Bear Lake. 

 I was on the trail for more than 24 hours. It seems like such a long time. A long time without sleep, a long time without a solid meal, a long time without using an actual toilet. And honestly, it was all a blur. 

The vivid memories that have left an imprint on my heart are the saint-like qualities of the individuals who surrounded me. These angels selflessly took on the task of caring for me for more than 24 hours. Mike, Marc, and Cheryl made up my crew, with Mike appointed "Crew Chief." They changed my shoes, massaged my legs, fed me, and clothed me. They kept me safe and helped me move with purpose. They reinforced my strength with encouraging words and cowbell, lots of cowbells. When I stopped to vomit, they held my hair back, metaphorically speaking. 

Rim Nordic Mile 25 - So It Began

Shortly after mile 25, I was overcome with nausea; the world was spinning, and my stomach twisted into knots. My mouth salivated with the urge to vomit. And it took all of me to keep it together. I felt as if I was fighting with my body, chanting to myself, "I can, I will, I must." My heart sank, knowing I would not receive any aid from my crew until mile 55. I had 30 miles to troubleshoot on my own.

So, what happened? Not a fucking clue. I didn't have time to list all the reasons that may have caused the sickness. Every attempt to run caused more pressure between my eyes and vomit to rise in my throat. I walked; I walked with purpose to the next aid station. As I neared Hanna Flats, mile 38.6, aid station, I saw a familiar face. My friend Brian, another angel. He became my security blanket until I reached mile 55. I told him how I felt, and there was no remorse, just expressions of encouragement. "We got this," he said as if we had become a team. 

We entered Hanna Flats together and marched forward to Van Dusen mile, 47.2. I knew I would be safe if I kept him within my sights; he checked in on me. I moved in his shadow, walked when he walked, and ran when he ran. 

During these long miles, I had thrown up four times, and at each aid station, I had only been able to stomach broth and ginger ale. I never contemplated quitting or throwing in the towel; in all honesty, it never once crossed my mind. All that was clear to me was getting from A to B. 

The sky had gone from blue to a masterpiece of orange; slowly, the colors dimmed, and the night sky was glowing with headlamps. 

I wish I could say I felt better as the night fell, but I didn't. I had no sense of time and was in a meditative state. My eyes focused on the rocky terrain. I tried to keep my spirits up by practicing gratitude, and when I heard the cowbell in the distance, a weight was lifted from my chest. I whispered, "I fucking did it," a smile curled on my lips. I crossed the highway, surging to my crew. I shouted at them an apology, "I am so..." but they cut me off. Instead, they locked me in their arms, smiled, and quickly went to work on alleviating my pain. 

Peace and reassurance came over me that everything would "be okay."

 I get emotional thinking about this because I've never met anyone so selfless. I was experiencing compassion, community, and love. I couldn't help, but question am I worthy of their love and support. It was clear that my goals became theirs; it was this unspeakable agreement; they had my back and would do everything in their power to help me achieve my goal. 

The Pacer

Before I continue, you should know that being a pacer is an honor; it's a selfless act. It is an intimate experience shared between two extraordinary people in a moment of vulnerability. 

 I had three pacers Evelyn, Hannah, and Edgar. Each is very different in pacing, but the commonality is their heart of gold. 

Leaving Cushenbury with Evelyn at my side, we shuffled to mile 67.2, Sugarloaf. She drew my attention towards the night sky to take my mind off the sickness. Magic happened as I saw a shooting star, and gratitude fell over me. Evelyn said, "look, you get to do this; your body is doing this." 

As we entered the Burns Cayon aid station, a woman shouted, "La Dirección." Her cowbell and cheers sent excitement into my bones. Thank you so much for lifting my spirits. 

Nausea continued as we persisted in the dark, Evelyn stopping to feed me every so often. We climbed what felt like boulders until we made it to the road. It was a sign our time together was coming to an end. 

We reached Sugarloaf(1) mile 67.2. Hannah and I shared the sunrise descending. I still regret not taking a moment to pause and admire the sign of a new day. The climb to the peak was frustrating; I was hallucinating badly. I saw cars in trees and pirates. I began sleepwalking and, like a child asking every quarter mile, "are we there yet." I trusted her to keep me safe, and she did more than that. Hannah reminded me that I could do hard things; despite my sickness, I am a badass. When we made it onto the fire road, she stopped me. Stand there, and I'm going to take your picture she said. I protested no. But the words that came next changed my mind immediately. Hannah said, "Let me take your picture, or you'll regret it." So I stood there, eyes closed, smiling, holding myself up with my trekking poles. 

Sugarloaf (2) Mile 81. 4 - My Heart Must Go On

Arriving at Sugarloaf (2), my heart swooned with the cowbell sound, the sun warming my face, and Hannah patting me on the back comforted me. We had survived the night. I sat down as my crew spoon-fed me Ramen noodles. I felt dizzy, more nauseous than before, my arms shaky and weak from using my trekking poles. Every attempt to lift them took more energy than I was willing to expend. My crew worked on refilling my vest, stuffing it with calories. But Edgar was meticulously rearranging everything they put in. He replaced items from my pockets, picking and choosing. 

All that remained in this journey was 18.6 miles. Although I've only known Edgar briefly, I felt I'd known him my entire life. I took comfort knowing I could trust him, and my heart knew I was in good hands. I rambled about all and nothing at the same time. He held space for my tears and hiked alongside me. Then, as we approached the last crew-accessible aid station, I joked, "who put this hill here." Trying to show there was still a little life in me. 

 Skyfern, mile 87.7, I remember my crew smiling, joking, and excited looks on their face. We were getting close; I felt their energy. They had done everything in their power to get me to this milestone, and I was so fucking proud of them. I glowed in gratitude; my heart melted. 

I told myself, "Melissa, we can do this; hang on a bit longer."

My feet burned on the way down to Seven Oaks; I felt like Sisyphus, the descent never-ending, then it happened.

Edgar asked me something that was like nails on a chalkboard. 

What would you tell little Melissa? This question is a massive part of my "Why."

When we reached Grandview mile 96.1, a man said, "Melissa Perez?!" I said yes. "You are the number two woman." My friend, Jenny, buttered me with compliments and said, "you are the number two woman" It didn't mean much to me until we hit the last 3.8 miles. 

On the last stretch home, Edgar causally checked his phone; he looked up, and at that moment, a firm decision was made for me. 

We were done hiking; why? Because the third woman was 20 minutes behind me. It took ALL of me not to throw up on myself; it took every ounce of heart and grit. When my feet touched the paved road, I fought back the tears—a vision of little Melissa greeting me at the finish line. In the background, I heard the crowd roar and the ringing sound of the cowbells.

 I. Was. Home. 

The strength came from my why, a letter to little me. 

Little Melissa, WE did that. WE are Worthy and Deserving of ALL of the beautiful things and experiences that challenge us to grow. Little Melissa, although we struggle to celebrate our accomplishments, no one can take away the hard work and hours we put into chasing our dreams, no matter how silly they seem. 

To those who rang their cowbells for me, sent me messages, and encouraged me along the way, thank you for believing in me. I hope you know you are destined for great things, and I am always ringing my cowbell for you.

Happy Trails!

Quote of the Week: “I want to be in the arena. I want to be brave with my life. And when we make the choice to dare greatly, we sign up to get our asses kicked. We can choose courage or we can choose comfort, but we can’t have both. Not at the same time.” - Brene Brown

Song of the Week: The Struts - Could Have Been Me