When a Dream Turns into a Nightmare

Trail Mix Mind Games - Episode 1

Welcome to the first edition of Trail Mix Mind Games – a (TBD-part) series about the mental tricks and mantras that can work wonders through lows, doubts, and the toughest miles. This is not an SEO-y, click-me type piece on the “12 best ways to build mental strength,” but rather, a (sometimes meandering) story about a hard moment on the run (or hike or ski or (insert sport here)) and a tale of how my brain helped me through it.

We were talking about reincarnation as we ran through the first shades of summer. The lilac petals of Jacob’s Ladder and the yellow bursts of alpine buttercup. The grass that was growing greener by the day. Winter’s ice surrendering to sapphire pools. The sun, a lemon ripening in the sky.

“I want to come back as a Pole Creek elk,” my friend said.

The idea of that afterlife gave me an immediate sense of peace.

The Pole Creek elk are some of my favorite creatures in the San Juans. They could star in any alpine fairytale.

I’ve seen them napping on lingering snowfields that cling to northern slopes. And drinking from the creek that meanders through the grassy valley. Running on the ridges of the rolling hills that stand guard over the meadows below.

Even when I don’t see them, I see them.

Hoof prints tattooed in the mud. Chalky bones stripped down by mountain lions. Piles of droppings that I wish my dog understood were for exit only.

When I run through Pole Creek, I am surrounded by reminders that I am a visitor in their home.

“More elk than people,” is my standard run report. Probably because it’s too far from a road that doesn’t require a vehicle with enough clearance to hurdle a large ungulate. And it’s a more subdued beauty than some of the flashier vistas in Southwest Colorado. It’s not high on the list of must-see or must-instagram destinations, which I’m sure the elk appreciate as much as I do.

But while it might not top any greatest hits lists, to me, Pole Creek is a dream.

At least, most of the time.

Pole Creek can also be a nightmare, when you run through it during Hardrock.

You hit Pole Creek around mile 80 on a clockwise year. And unlike the majority of the Hardrock course, where the elevation profile reads like an extra spiky EKG chart, Pole Creek is relatively flat and runnable. Instead of asking you to scale a wall masquerading as a mountain, it invites you to frolic through meadows and bound through tunnels of wildflowers.

If you have legs, you can do some powerful moving through casa de elk.

But it’s hard to have legs at mile 80 of a 102.5-mile run, especially a 102.5-mile run packed with a million wall-mountains along the way.

Like, when I hit Pole Creek during Hardrock last July as the second day’s sun was warming up the sky. I would not have described the state of my legs as “good.” Or, “strong” or even “moderately not terrible.”

They were pummeled by the miles and the mountains and the moving straight through the night. My thighs felt like they’d hosted an all-night dance-a-thon for every hoof in the county. They did not want to run through Pole Creek. They wanted to find a nice elk friend so they could hitch a ride to the finish line.

After I crested the climb up past Cataract Lake, I looked at the trail ahead and saw nothing but totally and completely runnable ground stretching into the horizon.

There was just one problem: running sounded as appealing as an elk dung burger.

So, I started shuffling down the trail at an effort that was more “browsing the candy aisle” than “competitive run.” One foot trudging in front of the other like I was moving through ankle-deep mud.

I looked down at my legs and all I could think was, “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

I’d poured so much of myself into my Hardrock training and I wanted to have a run that honored everything I’d put into it. I didn’t want to look back on my race and know I could have done better, but wasn’t willing to push myself through the hardest parts.

I didn’t want to be haunted by the moments when I had to choose between digging and backing off and picked Option B.

And I knew that walking through the flatter stretches of Pole Creek would come back to do some serious haunting. I’d walked most of Pole Creek (or, like, all of it) during my last clockwise run and I’d promised myself I would run more this time around.

But there I was, breaking that promise with every step. I could practically hear the flat trail sighing, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”

So, I gave myself the best pep talk I had in me after a sleepless night:

“Just because you don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean you can’t do it, Emily.”

I looked down at my legs and repeated those words to them, like I was telling a toddler to eat her broccoli. Or a freelance writer to file her taxes on April 15^th.

“Just because you don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean you can’t do it.”

It wasn’t going to win the Nobel Prize for run mantras, but I couldn’t argue with it. I’d done exactly that on many other runs - kept going through something I didn’t particularly feel like doing.

I sucked in a deep breath and started running.

My first few steps were clunky and hard and as enjoyable as filing taxes. But my legs verified that, they could, in fact, run. Even if I didn’t want to. Even if it felt terrible. Even if I’d rather be prying elk droppings from Dilly’s jaws.

So, I ran and I ran and I ran. Repeating those words nearly every single step. There was power in acknowledging my reality and how I felt, in saying, “you’re right, this is hard,” and also reminding myself, “but you can do hard.”

That mantra turned into my rally cry for the rest of Hardrock. It was so simple, yet so effective. I couldn’t hide from the truth of it.

Whenever I was looking down the barrel of runnable trail or a chunky descent, I’d take a deep breath and repeat: “Just because you don’t want to, doesn’t mean you can’t.”

Or, another variation of it: “Just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean you’re not capable.”

And then I would run. Or run stronger. Because the reality was, I could do it. And I just needed to keep reminding myself of that indisputable fact, so my “you can do it” cheer was louder than the “BUT I DON’T WANT TO” wailing inside of me.

As I ran through Pole Creek, with that mantra on repeat, I’d like to believe my elk friends were watching me shuffle by. They probably noticed I looked a little less blissed-out than I normally do. I imagined them calling to me, “Are you okay? We think you’re doing great. But if you’re dying, you’re welcome to come hang out here.”

Now, I’d love to hear: What pep talk have you given yourself through something hard (running or otherwise!) that was surprisingly effective?