From about mile seventy-four of the Run Rabbit Run 100 ultra event onward, I turned into a cranky, sullen two-year-old: I could barely talk, I walked a lot, I kept stopping to use the bathroom or eat more snacks. At aid stations, I would sit in a camp chair way too long, and my pace slowed to just under twenty-three minutes per mile. This turned Brody, my pacer, into a babysitter worried more with my survival than maintaining a performance metric.
What do you want to eat? Brody asked.
I’m not hungry, I muttered.
You have to eat something. You need calories.
I’m good. I’m not hungry.
You have to eat. What sounds good?
Nothing.
Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? Pancakes?
Pancakes.
Okay, pancakes.
Everything went this way. How do your feet feel? They’re fine. How about we take your shoes off and check? No. Sorry, I’m taking your shoes off and wiping your feet down, and we’re changing your socks. Okay.
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