Redefining Redemption
Expansive view from the Leadville Marathon course during training.
The 2024 Leadville Marathon was part of my reinvention as a trail running mom. I toed the start line of “the hardest marathon in the country” fifteen months postpartum, ready to push the boundaries of my new identity. The uphill start and high elevation immediately rattled my confidence. By the time I reached the halfway point I was hands-on-knees sobbing. Runners streamed by me as I descended 13,150 foot Mosquito Pass, leaving me in the dust as they bounced down the scree. I was surprised at how easy it was for the tears to come, how little I cared that people were seeing this high alpine breakdown. I wasn’t just crying about the race, I was crying about everything. I was fatigued from months of nightly infant wakeups, overwhelmed with constant to-do lists, frustrated that I was always cutting my training short to get to the next thing. My best efforts didn’t feel good enough in my day-to-day life, and now the same was true for racing.
Mentally broken but physically intact, I muscled through the rest of the marathon. I resisted the urge to smash the ceramic finisher’s mug on the pavement after I crossed the finish line. No high fives, water, snacks, smiles, or joy. The tantrum raging in my head didn’t dissipate on my walk back to the Airbnb, the drive home, or even in the days after the race. 5th in my age group? I was embarrassed. 25th female? I didn’t deserve to call myself a trail runner. Bitter and disappointed, I vowed to quit doing trail races altogether. I didn’t need another public display of my inadequate running abilities.
Yet when registration opened for 2025, I signed up. I couldn’t let that marathon get the best of me. I would be more prepared. Strive to be better. Fitter. Faster. I ran trails earlier in the season, did more epic long runs, dialed in my nutrition, and even went up to Leadville for a long run to inhale the thin air. It was a given: I would get my redemption, show that race who was boss, and maybe even be one of “the fast people.” I was prepared, motivated, and confident.
I planned to run by feel and maintain a sustainably high effort rather than study my previous splits and overthink my pacing. When I reached Mosquito Pass I was in good spirits, and descended the pass in a positive headspace. I didn’t feel the same crushing midrace disappointment that drove me to tears last year; this felt different. I listened to my body, worked my nutrition plan, and stayed in control. I was well prepared, so I didn’t have to force it.
In the last few miles, I let myself do the math and faced the reality of being far behind pace. It was too late to panic, and I had nothing more to give, so I stayed committed to the grind. Despite my best efforts during training and on race day, I crossed the finish line 20 minutes slower than 2024. 5th place in my age group sounded like a fantasy. 25th overall would have been a colossal achievement. One would think I’d be despondent and burn my Salomons but, despite being disappointed, I didn’t want to disengage. I gobbled up watermelon as I congratulated a woman who passed me in the last few miles. I commiserated with my trail buddy about the difficulty of the race but wasn’t self deprecating. I stuck around for the awards ceremony to enter the lottery for the 100 miler, then immediately started thinking about other races when I didn’t get in.
I thought redemption would be in the form of running faster and placing higher, but it turns out that I got my redemption by not letting a few hours on the dirt rattle my identity. It’s almost poetic, as though the Universe and the marathon conspired so I could see how little my performance mattered, that I’m more than who I am when I pin on a bib. Trail running is more to me than racing. It’s predawn coffee, trailhead chit chat, and dirty sock lines. Shredded quads, burning lungs, and midrun wildflower photos that don’t do the real thing justice. Races are waypoints, not glassy reflections of hundreds of miles of work.
Unshackling my enjoyment of trail running from performance metrics will take time, but it’s a process helped along by both aging and becoming a mom. Gracefully accepting the results of whatever training I can manage within the time and energy constraints of my current life is a gift I can give myself. Being ashamed or dissatisfied with my best effort does a disservice to the work that I am doing, and I’m allowed to enjoy an experience even if I’m not stoked about how the outcome stacks up against others or my former self. The confidence that comes with avoiding the whirlwind of comparison has been the redemption I didn’t know I needed.