Cocodona 250: A Big, Scary Adventure

Meditating on Performance over Result

I headed into Cocodona 250 feeling excited and calmly confident. I was fit, I had a great mental strategy, amazing crew and pacers, and covered myself in trout tattoos. I was ready to show up and give it all I had. I knew the women’s field was incredibly deep, but hoped I could sneak into the top 5 women, maybe higher. Instead, I ended up fighting for every step to the finish line and learned the true meaning of Performance vs Result. Did I hope for a better result (time/placement?) sure. Did I give a performance I am incredibly proud of? Even bigger YES.

For this race I had one goal: I want to see what I am capable of. I wasn’t stressed about people passing me or trying to make moves on others. I just ran along, checking in with myself, “Is this an effort I’m proud to be making? Yes. Am I having fun? Yes. Ok, great, just keep moving forward.”

The hail started on my climb up to Lane Mountain. I hurried to get out my phone to capture the unique moment of getting hailed on during Cocodona. And then the hail lasted about 10-15 more minutes, there was no need to rush.

The sun was peeking back out when I got to the aid station and downed some warm oatmeal before cruising down the road to Crown King Aid. My crew was dialed and had everything waiting for me, I felt great. I drank a protein shake, some hot tea, and took one bite of a veggie burger that didn’t hit right (was this my earliest sign of too much sodium?) I had taken some salt pills earlier in the morning to stay ahead of sweating in the sun…

Leaving Crown King I climbed steadily, full stomach and full heart. Once we hit the downhill I just cruised along, sharing some miles with Sarah Ostaszewski. I felt solid, we were running smart and enjoying the stunning views of day one. Some rain showers came and went, I left my raincoat on and never felt too hot. (Another early warning sign?)

The sun went down and I felt chilled, but ok. Once I hit the road into Kamp Kipa I saw a runner up ahead. No way….But I’d know that gait anywhere. What the hell was Jeff doing leaning on a stick so big it could have been a tree?

“You ok?” I asked, running up beside him.

“I am not good.” He shook his head “But you look great, you need to run, you’re gonna do amazing.”

“I can take a second. What’s going on?”

“My back hurts, my head hurts, I’m sick. But you gotta keep going.”

“Do you want a cough drop?”

“No, I’m ok.”

“Ok. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

With a quick hug I left Jeff behind, I knew in my heart he meant it, there was no way he would want whatever was happening to him to impact my race. I hoped he’d sleep somewhere soon and continue on to finish, as we had plenty of time.

I breezed through the next two aid stations, but missed a turn heading into Whiskey Row. Someone had taken down the flags and in my focus to find somewhere to use the bathroom before another runner caught up with me again, I went too far down hill and had to hike a half mile back up at least. Ugh! I refocused on my mantras, "I accept reality. I find creative solutions. I adjust expectations.” With my phone out, I got back on track, took some deep breaths, and made it into Whiskey Row still ahead of schedule.

It was drizzling and I felt tired, but it was close to midnight, so it made sense. I felt like I wanted to sleep there, but the plan was to sleep at Fain Ranch and I’d made a big point of having people follow my sleep plan to a T. We taped up some toes and I headed back out—in shorts. The medic who taped up my feet did suggest I put on pants, but I felt warm coming to Whiskey Row, so I figured I’d be fine (I was wrong.)

With Chad, my pacer, I chatted a bit as we made our way through the Granite Dells. I kept stopping to go to the bathroom, but I often have to pee more when it’s cold so I didn’t think much of it. We finally hit some smoother road and logged solid miles. I was happy and surprised to see Sophie and Wyatt waiting for me at Iron King. I ate some food, downed ginger ale, and headed out towards Fain Ranch and sleep. The field crossing was nothing but sucky, dragging mud. We walked on through the rain into a misty morning.

I suppose I was wet and cold, but didn’t think much of it until I laid down to sleep at Fain Ranch and instantly started shivering uncontrollably. They said they heated up the RV for me, but the tiny space heater barely made a dent in what I was feeling. I did my best to lay down and sleep for 30 minutes, but it felt like no time at all until the crew opened the door. Here, I take all the blame. I should have gotten up and said, “I’m shaking, I can’t sleep. We need to try again with a different set up.” But I thought I was tough, I was still on a good pace and it was barely 24 hours in, I would be fine. Again, I was wrong.

Brendan and I left Fain Ranch, (me still in shorts, I’ve just been trying to chronicle my layers to myself for future learnings.) I learned that Jeff had come in and left before I woke up (heck yes!) We walked and chatted across the muddy field, hit the road, then the climb up Mingus. Having done this section the year before pacing Jeff, I knew it was actually a pretty manageable climb. I was hungry, and I thought I had eaten everything in my pack (I forgot to check a side pocket). Then I got a little cold. Then I got hit with something I couldn’t explain. I had never felt this way before. It was as if, all of a sudden, I was looking at the ground through the wrong side of binoculars. I looked up at Brendan and said, “Something is really wrong.”

We called my coach. Was it dehydration? Not enough sodium? Not enough nutrition? I became really tired, not just ultra “wow sleeping would be nice” but “you need to lay down on that rock and go to bed now” tired. What was happening? I got chills up and down my body. Why? I was tougher than this. I do well at endurance events. Surely I could make it a few miles up a mountain.

Upon arriving at Mingus I changed clothes fully and sat down to eat. Once again, shivering uncontrollably. Nothing tasted good, nothing was helping, I drank some water and sat by the fire. I started to cry. I just felt awful and I had no idea why.

We stood up to leave, Wyatt ready to take me into Jerome, and I almost said, “Wait. Stop. I feel really terrible, I need to sleep.” But I let myself be carried out of Mingus. After all, moving forward is what usually helps in these events, not wallowing in your pain.

Chatting with the livestream helped bring me somewhat back to life, maybe moving forward was the right idea. Then it started raining again. I was cold. I was tired. I couldn’t focus. At one point I had the horrible thought that I was back at Divide 200 and the last 8 months were nothing but a hallucination. We jogged what we could on my unsteady legs in the river of mud that had appeared. I told Wyatt I really needed to change clothes at Jerome, maybe sleep, maybe a hot shower.

Then we got the news that Jerome wasn’t heavily crewed, I would have to go 8 more miles into Dead Horse before any of that could happen. I almost lost it, but I took a deep breath, remembered my mantras, “I accept reality. I am persistent.”

I changed in Jerome and ate the most amazing cinnamon roll waffle combo before taking off with Sophie towards Dead Horse. The section was more runnable and it was nice to pretend we were on our usual weekly run. We chatted the whole way down. I was back in shorts and a rain jacket, I remember because the river crossing didn’t get my pants wet. Finally arriving at Dead Horse I crawled into bed with hot rice and tea and slept a solid hour. I didn’t feel excited about leaving, but the plan was an hour, so we carried on. I also was hoping to turn this around soon and get back on my pacing goals, I could still finish well if I just kept moving. So I made myself leave.

Back with Chad we did move well for a few miles, talking and making our way under the cold, starry sky. Then, everything went woozy again. It was so hard to explain the feeling. I just could’t focus on anything. The trail, my pace, a goal, nothing. We called my spots psychologist at 1am—who amazingly answered (Resolve Mental Performance 10/10). We chatted it through. I just needed to just focus on my goals: What am I capable of, and how can I make the boat move faster?

One part of my brain really understood this. Right. I’m here to run, I’m here for an adventure. The other part was just….not there. I locked in as best I could, but kept stumbling around. Finally, I took a 2 minute dirt nap and started moving somewhat better.

Deer Pass was a sight for sore eyes. I ate some there, though not loving anything salty (and this fact still didn’t penetrate). I was so tired. Everyone had been sleeping a lot, I needed 30 min. I woke up, somewhat refreshed, and headed towards Sedona with Brendan. The sky was a mix of clouds and sun, a cool breeze meeting us. We jogged for a few miles and then, once again, I became delirious. I lost myself. I sat on a rock and told Brendan flatly, “I don’t exist.” I could not focus on the trail, I could not move fast, my legs were unresponsive. (this despite more coffee and caffeinated gels than I’ve ever had!)

Brendan told me at one point, “This is a nice downhill, let’s jog.” Jog? What is jog? I thought about it. I didn’t know anymore. My legs couldn’t respond to the command. “I’m not here.” I said, “I’m really trying to try, but I’m not here.”

Now I was getting frustrated. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I am a pretty good 200 mile racer and I know the biggest difference comes from jogging when you’d rather be walking. It’s going to hurt either way, might as well hurt in a jog and be done faster. But this was beyond fatigue, beyond the bounds of the earth. I crawled along, struggling to find anything to try. Snacks? Water? What did I need?

“I’m a ghost.”

We finally made it the water station before the descent into Sedona. Brendan told me we had to pick up the pace or we wouldn’t have enough food. I downed a half liter of water, the sun came out, and I said, “Wow. I feel better. Let’s run.” So we did, pretty much all the way into Sedona. What had made the difference? The water? The warmth? We had already begun to hypothesize that I had been hypothermic. I don’t blame either of my coaches for not thinking of this, who thinks hypothermia at Cocodona? Maybe I should have talked to the medics at Mingus, but I just figured I was a little cold and a little tired and could walk it off.

We got into Sedona mid day. I ate lots and sat in the sun with my parka on. I felt better, but still so sleepy. We discussed it, should I sleep here …or not? I was in no position to think clearly. We all thought maybe the issue last time was stopping and sleeping at Deer Pass, perhaps I should take advantage of the daylight and this good energy and keep going.

Deep down, this felt risky to me. But I was there to find my limits and take risks. Why should I need to sleep again when I’d already slept about 90 min? Let’s risk it. Wyatt and I headed out of town and I stopped to go to the bathroom again. I was peeing a lot and I still wasn’t sure why. The urine seemed clear, I was eating and drinking ok, did I maybe have too much salt? How could I tell?

Well, as we got closer to the river, then begun the climb up to the Hangover trail, all I could tell was that I absolutely should have slept at Sedona. The whole world was fuzzy and far away. I kept stopping for fear of passing out, I was hyperventilating. I was off planet somewhere far away from the body that was trying to climb uphill.

I took a 30 min dirt nap (I asked for 20, Wyatt gave me 30 when he saw my face buried in dirt so fast asleep I didn’t stir when he wiped it off my lips.) I felt better and powered on through the next several miles. Ok, maybe I just needed to sleep.

Then the cold and tired came back on. This was Arizona, why was I cold? I scrambled on all fours to the top of the Hangover trail, chatting to Scott Rokis and joking that I probably looked even worse than when he saw me before. Wyatt and I began to make our way along the narrow single track when I sat down in the shadows. I was hot, I was cold, I couldn’t get control of my breathing, I was crying.

“This is just really frustrating. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to be pushing. I’m trying to try. I know my legs are good. My fitness is good. I just can’t move. I can’t focus. I’m lost. I don’t exist. What is going on? I feel so weak. I’m just a weak loser.”

Wyatt cried with me, “You are not weak. You are still moving. We can do this. Everyone is different. You got this. We can get there.” Like many of pacers throughout the race, he let me hold his hand for a while as we walked along. I needed something that would keep tethered to the earth beneath my feet.

We plodded along, but I was just exhausted, more tired than I’d ever felt. I needed to sleep again. As we slowly crawled along the slick rock, every runner that came by asked if we were ok and what we needed. Having run at of water an hour or so before, I asked for water. The pacer for runner #100 gave us an entire soft flask (Thank you, whoever you are!) This community is nothing short of amazing. We got so many offers of help and words of encouragement. Thank you to all of you who came by! <3

Wyatt told me we just needed to get to the trees and we would find a place for me to rest. I sagged, I legitimately didn’t know if I could make it that far. This whole adventure was starting to feel like a lesson in delayed gratification. Tired at Whiskey Row? Sleep at Fain Ranch. Cold at Jerome? Cross a river to Dead Horse. At least the sunset was stunning from high on the red rocks around Sedona.

And finally, luckily, we found a place I could crash. Another 20 min nap helped, but no water, no food (that I wanted to eat without water) and in the darkness of our headlamps it was a stumble across the rest of the slick rock. I was really trying my best, as I did the whole race, to freaking FOCUS and move well, with intention. But my brain just wouldn’t get on board with my body. There was no focus to be found.

Wyatt sat me down a rock and looked at me, “We are all here to get you to the finish. I believe you can do it. The one thing we have is an abundance of time. But…we are starting to get medically concerned about you. We might need to call someone to bring us water from the water station at least.”

“Will that get me pulled from the course?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not getting pulled from the race because I’m thirsty and hungry, that’s fucking dumb.”

I stood up and put renewed effort into our climb up the road to Foxboro aid station. From some reserve I didn’t know I had, some sliver of focus got me scared straight and up the hill faster than I would have guessed.

Arriving at Foxboro I ate a ton, more lucid than I had been in a day. I crawled into the back of the rental car and slept for an hour, got up and went to the bathroom, then slept another hour plus. I finally felt a little better, a little more like myself.

I jogged, ran, and power hiked into Munds, getting warmer as the sun rose. I felt back from the dead. We did a quick turn around and Sophie and I headed out towards Kelly Canyon with the Star Wars soundtrack blaring. I was back in shorts and a thin long sleeve….I put my hat back on. The wind felt cold. I was getting sleepy again. I wanted so desperately to curl up I was walking in the fetal position and Sophie kept telling me to open my arms and get some nice full breaths. The hyperventilating of shallow breaths was a constant this race, my pacers kept reminding me to take deep breaths and get control of my breathing.

The main thing I remember about Munds > Kelly Canyon > Ft. Tuthill is that I asked Sophie for gossip so I had something to focus on. Although I knew none of the people being discussed, it did help me move faster. We made ok time on that section, but once again I was fighting collapse every ten minutes. I would walk or jog and feel my brain slide out of the back of my head:

I’m going to collapse.

You ARE NOT going to collapse

I’m going to collapse.

You are NOT going to collapse

I’m going to collapse.

You are not going to collapse

And on and on went the fight in my head. I kept moving, somehow, even if not very fast. I knew by this point my arbitrary time goal was well gone, any hope of making a move were off the table. But I could still cling to the fact that my goal was mine and it was being met—I was seeing what I was capable of in very tough circumstances.

Sophie showed me a video of Jeff finishing and I got a little motivation to move a little faster. I am seeing what I am capable of. I am proud of the effort I am making.

A lightsaber battle greeted me at Ft. Tuthill and it was awesome. At least we were still managing to have fun (I think… although my pacers may be traumatized). I slept another hour, woke up and ate more, staring at myself in the mirror. My face was puffy, my eyes glazed. I needed to leave this aid station.

Sophie came to ask me if how I felt about leaving, this was the second pacer-less section. “I’m scared.” I said honestly. I’ve never been scared in an ultra before. I still felt weak, but I also felt like I was giving up or not pushing hard enough. Though I really had nothing left to give and the thought of going 16 miles on my own was scary.

“Ok, get some more sleep, we can try again soon. There’s no rush.”

I slept another 30 minutes or so and then felt mostly refreshed and able to carry on. I passed the medical inspection, got hugs from friends, and put in my hype music to get me all the way to Walnut Canyon. A few miles later, at the corner of a road crossing stood a woman. She called out, “Who is that? Go Allison!” I crossed the street and she said, “My husband and I live just up the street, we wanted to come cheer people on.” I burst into tears, not my first of the race, and she gave me a big hug.

I could do this. I even felt ok enough to test a little jog. The jogging felt fine on my legs, but risky to my head and heart, like I would burn up any energy and collapse again. I decided even if it felt weak, the smart move was to hike consistently until the next aid station. I couldn’t go out of my mind in the dark woods alone.

Walnut Canyon arrived before I expected it, which was nice, and after a quick stop, I ran over to Wildcat Hill with Chad, keeping my music pumping. At Wildcat I wanted to change my shorts, but unfortunately wasn’t able to (starting your period mid rainy 200 mile is an experience I was ok with once, twice I can’t recommend.)

I was feeling really tired again and I wanted to advocate for sleep. But Wyatt held my hands and told me, “We are almost there, we are just going up and over Elden. We got this.” I believed him and apparently we made good time for the first two miles out of the aid station (that’s where it always seemed to fall apart) before I was once again fighting with myself to not collapse on the side of the trail.

Finally, though, I admitted the only thing that would help was a 5 minute nap. (The funny part is I insisted to my crew at the start I shouldn’t be allowed to dirt nap, I was fine with very little sleep, at least make me get to an aid station. Well, you can’t plan everything.)

After the nap I was able to climb Elden fairly quickly, I always knew the descent would be slow, but I got down ok until I almost face planted off a rock. Wyatt made take another nap, but now the sun was up, it was getting hot, and I was stuck in fleece lined tights and out of water for the 3rd time in the race. Trinity Heights was still a mile away.

The mantra for my last five miles of Cocodona became “I’m here. And I’m fighting. I’m HERE and I’m FIGHTING” as I struggled to even jog the nice trail out of Buffalo park. The sights and sounds of the city greeted us, the little girl on a bike squeaking “good job” as I went by.

I’m here. I’m fighting. I’m here. I’m fighting. I’m here. I’m fighting. I’m here. I’m fighting.

I wanted to be proud of my performance, even if the result was less than I might have hoped. I could be proud if I put as much effort in as I had at even given time. Sometimes that was a drunken wander, reaching out for pacers hands so I didn’t walk off trail. Sometimes it was a decent jog into downtown Flagstaff.

My pacers and Jeff met me at the corner and we made it downhill and across the finish line in one piece. If you had asked me at the halfway point of the Hangover trail if I would have made it, I would have felt there was a 50/50 chance. But I kept hearing Jeff’s voice “You owe it out of respect for the course. If you have time, you should finish.” I had time. I finished.

Maybe my result could have been better/faster/higher, but my performance was the absolute best I could give on the day(s). I have no doubts or regrets about that.

Looking back, it seems likely I was dealing with a combination of both hypothermia and hypernatremia (taking in not that much more sodium than normal, but sweating much less is what caused this I guess.) The symptoms of both can cause confusion and delirium, which I had in spades. Hypothermia can cause tiredness. Hypernatremia could explain my lack of appetite for most usual aid station food (which is often salty) and frequent urination.

Every race and every adventure is a chance to learn new lessons. I would never have guessed heading into Cocodona that hypothermia would have been a factor for myself (or anyone). I’ve never struggled with hypernatremia either, so why would I be objectively looking for those symptoms at mile 200? Put more succinctly by Jeff, “You seem to be beating yourself up for not solving a problem you’ve never had to solve before.”

Because I did wish for a better result, I was frustrated at points on the course and disappointed at moments after that I didn’t make difference choices or stop to analyze what was happening. But I can honestly say myself and my crew made the choices we thought were best in every moment. Some things you have to live through to learn from.

I’m still so grateful for every mile of the course. I see why people do it year after year. The volunteers are so amazing, the locals get invested and bring so much hype, and the ultra running community is truly one of the best and most supportive sporting places in the world.

While driving home, Jeff gave me a shift at the wheel so he could sleep. We were heading towards my friend Ali’s house, who was out of town but letting us crash at her place in Salt Lake City. I know Ali through Sarah, who I met through Matt Daniels when we were his athletes. I became instant friends with Sarah after pacing her for 50 miles of Run Rabbit. I realized we would get into town late and needed food, so I asked if she should could order us takeout to Ali’s place. She said, “No problem, I’m on it.”

This is what the ultra running space is about. Not course records or brand deals or even belt buckles. It’s about knowing you have friends who will make sure you are fed and housed for the night at the drop of a hat. It’s about seeing what you are capable of, even in the darkest moments when you feel you can’t possibly go on. It’s about going hunting for limits and finding out you are limitless.

To my crew, Dan and Rosa, thank you for letting me trash your RV with muddy feet and legs. Your generosity does not go unnoticed!

To Chad, thank you for keeping me engaged with conversation and a reminder of my mantras “Fuck it, we ball!”

To Sophie, thank you for being the best crew chief and most gossip ready pacer, I am so grateful we got to share some stories and miles together.

To Brendan, thank you for letting me sleep on your lap and believing me right away when I said something was wrong.

To Wyatt, thank you for holding my hands through many tears and helping me get out of the darkness.

I love you all!