I’ve run one ultramarathon in my life. Fifty miles through the Grand Canyon. It’s called the Rim to Rim and it took me twelve hours to complete. I never stopped, never puked, never considered dropping out. Then I was done. This benzo detox is my biggest ultramarathon yet. It’s the Wasatch 100 of detoxes; oxygen deprived climbs and descents that trip you up, throw you off your feet, make you wonder if that next trip may be off a cliff.
Today is one of those days. I’m nearly at mile 50. I’ve been doing great, only a few trips, sore muscles, cranky and jittery from not eating enough food, but okay. It is 50 miles, after all. But today, I fell. Ran too hard. I can barely move. Can only get this metaphor out into the realm of the digital. This shit is hard. The rocks to the head are hard. The bruises, the surprise descents – they suck. But I’m sticking it out. I may be flat on my face, but I’m getting up soon and I’m gonna start running.
An offering, because I can barely lift my fingers. An article I wrote on ultramarathoning years ago. Good stuff. It’s called Running into Empty. That’s about right. I’m cleaning myself out, emptying the little bottle of pills. Running because, for me, there’s no other option.