100 Miles of Trail
Vs.
24 Hours with an Infant
Marc Melville
11/15/10
The parallels between a 100-mile run and 24 hours with an infant are amazing. There is a feeding plan, multiple changing of clothes, monkey butt issues, chaffing issues, puking bouts, and pushing on through sleep-deprived perils.
Start (Infant)
An infant sleeps for potentially 20 hours every day the first week or two of life so you’ve been told. The start to your 24-hour shift is fairly, uneventful. She sleeps on the pack-n-play while you clean up the carnage from the morning festivities of breakfast, unfolded laundry, and pick up the latest editions of trash magazines that litter the floor. You are feeling good after a 4am wake up to sneak in a one-hour road run taunting the street sweeper and donut makers of the town. It seems as though this will go smoothly according to plan. The four movies you have rented are on display in order of priority for what you will watch first. Today is finally the day to kick back, relax and enjoy the films. Or is it?
Start (100 miles)
The 6am starting line has a festive, nonchalant, put-your-beer-down it’s time to run, atmosphere. The fact that 100 miles of will be covered over the next 24 hours is not even a remote concern. All smiles, Let’s get this party started! The air horn sounds signaling the start. Most of the field gives a little leg shake to start and conclude their pre-race stretching routine as they cross the starting line. Sometimes a little flatulence from the previous weeks worth of carbo-rich rice and beans escapes. Aahhh, that feels better, but try not to waste anymore of those carbs…A blistering 10-15minute/mile pace is established. The herd migrates towards the narrow trail into the woods and begins to funnel down into a single file line like beer in a bong at a collegiate Rugby party.
6am-Noon (Infant)
The baby is being fussy occasionally and making odd sounds coupled with grimacing faces, which are perceived to be cute and special, mid-morning. Change a soiled diaper; do a feeding every 2-3 hours, and then back to sleep she goes. Once she is asleep, it’s back to a day of leisure. Watch a movie, change and feed the baby. Watch a movie, change and feed the baby. Two movies down already. You think to yourself, Ahhh yeessss! I must be a natural, this is shaping up to be, and dare I say it, boring. She cries a little bit, so you pick her up and walk a few laps around the house and she sinks back into her burrito especial swaddle. Cooing and caressing the baby, you let her know that you are there and everything will be all right (keep telling yourself that).
6am-Noon (100 miles)
The first six hours fly by and are achieved at a relatively fast pace. The nerves rattling with adrenaline, forced you to go out harder than you probably should have. The climbs are a little more demanding then you anticipated but you are still in control and walking them as required. Body system checks begin to take place. A pace has been determined and you challenge yourself to keep it going. The heart rate and breathing are good, laboring on some climbs, but not enough to hire the lactic acid construction crews that will turn your legs into a pair of cement pillars. Nutrition and water intake are spot-on per the predicted pace and food consumption rate. The Go-Go juice alternated with water and solid foods seem to be working as planned to sustain energy levels. Combined, they form the perfect caloric log of which the body chops then, chars away for a long slow burn. Everything is going to plan.
Noon to 6pm (Infant)
It’s high noon and it’s time to treat yourself to some lunch for all the hard work you’ve done this morning. You have done some chores, changed a couple of diapers, two feedings, and watched two uninterrupted movies. Proud of yourself for having this baby thing down already, you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And because you are such a natural at keeping this baby calm, you throw on another layer of bread lathering it with honey creating a Shaggy and Scooby style double-decker PB & J & honey sandwich. Just before you engage your mouth on the double-decker goodness, the baby squeaks out a cute little waaah. Ok, ok, I’ll feed you first you say and let your sandwich masterpiece sit for a few minutes. Plucking her from the pack-n-play you realize another diaper change is in order first. Ok, I got this. Timing your self on the diaper change you set a personal best of the day. Two minutes flat. But now the soiled diaper cry turns into the baby-hungry cry. The lento nipple governs the flow of formula better than Clint Eastwood governs Carmel as this takes at least twenty minutes. Eventually, she stops slurping, burping, and spewing and falls back to sleep. The few minutes turns into an hour and the jelly/honey of your Michelangelo of a sandwich has saturated the layers of bread and your tall glass of chocolate milk in a frozen mug is now room temperature. No big deal, at least the baby is sleeping again. Approaching mid afternoon, lunch has turned into an afternoon snack and slightly detoured your agenda. You clean up, fold some more laundry, then try to rally the relaxation troops from your mind and reflect on the day so far. Overall, content with the first twelve hours, you do the math and realize she has been sleeping most of the day and this has you slightly concerned about the night shift.
Noon to 6pm (100 miles)
Still maintaining a pace and nutritional requirements as planned, things seem ok with all bodily systems. The afternoon sun begins changing from an adolescent source of light and burning energy into more of a serene setting full of patience and wisdom as it matures into dusk. Pain comes in sinusoidal waves but you have accepted certain levels of discomfort and are managing them. A toenail has broken off, digging and jabbing into your pinky toe. You could stop to perform some maintenance but you are afraid you will disrupt the biorhythms set in motion creating a physiological paradox that will unwind every strand of muscle fiber in your legs. There is a small beach of sand in your socks and each little granule has embedded itself into the ball of your foot. A small pebble has decided to take up residence nestling itself between your Achilles tendon and heel. Over the months of training you have built up a tolerance to pain like a frat boy has to alcohol, but a couple of rogue twinges in the hamstrings have you slightly concerned. HHhmmm, now that is a new sensation feeling the calves tighten up a bit. This could get interesting.
6pm-Midnight (Infant)
Six pm ticks by and a chicken potpie for dinner sounds like that will go good with a Bell’s Two Hearted Ale. Forty-five minutes in the oven is just enough time to have the Two Hearted as an appetizer. The baby is still snoozing on the pack-n-play centered in the living room, temporarily displacing the television as the focal point. Somewhat concerned because she hasn’t moved or made a peep in three hours, you sneak over and ensure that she is breathing and still has that healthy fleshy pink color. Mini-pants almost invisible to the childless eye are detected after some careful observation and the use of a small mirror under her nose to ensure it slightly fogs. A sigh of relief escapes your lungs and you decide to chew on one more Two Hearted Ale with your potpie. Alas, just as you are blowing on the spoonful of three hundred calories the baby begins squeaking. You look around and think, will somebody please oil that kid and laugh out loud at your own marginally funny humor. You scoop up the baby and begin the diaper changing and feeding ritual. Staring at your potpie as the piping hot gut bomb begins to cool without you. You begin to wonder if this was a coincidence or if she is planning these outbursts right before you take a bite. Your normal routine of changing, feeding, and rocking back to sleep is not working as quickly as it did earlier in the day. She is looking up and around so you talk to her in a strange high-pitched voice that you are not sure what language you are speaking, but it sounds pleasant enough. The infant just stares at you and sometimes her little eyes cross as if you are embarrassing her with your baby grammar. Another hour goes by and 47 laps around the house have been walked to no avail. She is still awake. The swing in the corner seems like a good idea. Buckling her in for safety, you turn on the swing, speed number one. Within minutes she is out. Pleased with your resourcefulness you re-heat the potpie, grab your Two Hearted ale, and sink into your favorite recliner to watch the feature presentation. The Day the Earth Stood Still (original 1954 version), looking forward to enjoying the Theremin incidentals. The sound of saucers landing can make anybody smile. Thinking about one more night capper of an ale, you reach past the last beer and grab a water, knowing that in a few hours you will need to tend to the baby for feeding, changing, burping, rocking, and re-swaddling. Preparing the baby’s nutrition for the dubious night hours, you must plan on a feeding every 2-3 hours. That equates to five, three ounce bottles pre-made that are, “locked and loaded” ready to add water. Around 11pm Klattu and Gort have warned Earth of its demise and gave us our ultimatum. You take another quick peek at the baby still asleep on the pack-n-play, to ensure she is still breathing. You shut off the movie and lay down on the couch snuggling up with the scotch plaid flannel blanket. With the lights off, you shamelessly make a move and spoon the voluptuous pair of decorative pillows. The inert pillows appreciate the affection and reciprocate in the form of feathered comfort, bordering on sexual. Soon your body succumbs to the early morning training session, a full day of chores and baby duties, and the sleep catalytic combination of food and beer.
6pm to Midnight (100 Miles)
Dusk creeps in and the sun begins to be devoured by the carbon loving conifers. They cast long-shadows from their swaying branches, fishing in the darkness for the dormant sleep monsters within your sub-conscious. Lights and batteries have been checked and handed to you by your quintessential support crew to ensure you can illuminate the trail creating your own bubble of a world. The nighttime single-track of this trail has been rumored to consume unworthy runners. You are running in that “sweet spot” at dusk, where everything feels right with the world. Legs feel good and there is no major pain to manage at this stage of the race. It’s as if the pain has been washed away like the tide retreating back to sea. You wish you could capture this moment and feel this good the rest of the night. Unfortunately, you know this is most likely the calm before the storm.
Midnight to 2am (Infant)
A stuttering wail snaps you from a pillow groping slumber. You squint to see that the clock on the wall says, 12:30am. The baby monitor is redlining and looks like a blinking red light at a four-way stop. It’s a blinding sight in the darkness and your pupils experience instant miosis. The crying outbursts are remarkably consistent and the irritating factor competes with the buzz of a 5am alarm going off on Monday morning. You almost prefer the buzzing and instant anger experienced from getting ripped from a sound sleep to go to work, as opposed to the percolating fury squawking from the monitor. You pull yourself up and stumble to the kitchen. Adding water to the locked and loaded three-ounce bottle, you concoct the first bottle of the night, shaken not stirred. Retrieving the baby from the pack-n-play, you fasten a bib around the baby’s bobbing head and shrugged shoulders. A cursory look around the room proves her little neck is still at large. You ask yourself, Did we leave it at the hospital?
Situating yourself and the baby in the rocking chair, you look down at her dependant little seven-pound body. Her mouth is wide open like a baby bird waiting for Mama to return with an unfortunate member of the segmented and slimy, Lumbricidae Family. Ahhh, the grand pecking order. The infant launches a succulent assault on the lento nipple, which is like sucking a Dairy Queen Blizzard through a red double barreled stirring straw for coffee. Rogue rivers of formula trickle down her developing chin and vanish into a crevasse between her head and chest. Tilting her head back to dry them up, you make a profound discovery, her neck!!
Midnight to 2am (100miles)
Midnight gongs by like it did on your grandma’s grandfather clock and a part in your brain wonders for whom the bell actually tolls. You begin humming the Metallica song “For Whom the Bell Tolls” and start a discussion in your head about why it’s called metal and can you really hum a heavy metal song? Suspended between looming exhaustion and unfortunate consciousness, you push on, desperately trying to fend off the sleep monsters snapping at your mind. Your apt pupils retreat into the back of your head searching your sizzling brain for that reason to crack your personal cache of fortitude and determination to help get you through the next six hours. Your perception forges the daytime familiar trail into an entirely new trail of bigger drops, longer climbs, tighter corners, and rogue trolls wandering the woods. Another stray thought inquires if you are on the right trail. You really start to question yourself, Is this a good idea? I am not having fun right now. I suck. I am not prepared for this endeavor. I wanna go home. Conquering the crux of the biggest climb, both trail and mental, you look down into the valley and see an array of lights and tents and can hear the race director mashing on his megaphone as runners come and go through the support crew alley. A temporary burst of reviving energy, and life, as you know it has been restored. You shuffle into pit row at 1am after a long lap of debating with yourself about continuing or quitting and putting your shoes in the closet next to Ryan Seacrests’ sexuality. Your quads feel like two slabs of pulled pork lathered in a southern yellow mystery sauce. The muscle fibers you are sure are beginning to peel away and fall off the bone. If it wasn’t for your skin restraining them, they would fall off leaving a trail for the wondering wolves to follow. An odd smell permeates your head and you believe it to be frying brain cells. A flashback to a 1980’s “this is your brain on drugs” commercial reminds you of fried eggs and then you hurl on the side of the trail. There goes my fuel for the next hour, you think as fifteen hours of gels and energy bars comes pouring out in liquid fashion.
2am to 4am (Infant)
In an attempt to deny the red LED lights of the baby monitor pulsating in your face for the second time tonight you reach over to hit the snooze button. Alas, baby monitors do not come equipped with a snooze button. Half asleep, you shuffle into the kitchen and record your “in” time on the log-sheet as you search for another bottle. Checking the last “out” time and doing the basic math, you calculate it has been about two hours. Each time you wake up is like another lap or is like making it to the next check point of the night. You grab the one-gallon jug of fluoride infused “water for infants” and poise it next to the bottle. Digging into the potted gold, you scoop the powder into the plastic bottle. Contemplating on how you could use this stuff for currency on the black market as it weighs in at about $1/ounce, you realize you forgot to add a plastic insert into the bottle and the three ounces of formula is in a nice $3 pile on the countertop. Minding the five-second rule and convincing yourself there is a sanitary difference between the floor and a countertop, you add the insert to the bottle and recycle the misplaced powder. Fetching the baby yet again this evening, you dim the lights and assume the position in the corner rocker.
She polished off three ounces and now it’s time for the burping process. Beginning by leaning her forward at a 45 deg angle with proper chin support, you tap gingerly and methodically on her back like it was a snare drum. The burps’ truancy forces you to put her through a baby gymnastics routine that Mary Lou Retton would be pressed to match. The consistent tapping on her back has advanced into a full on drum solo that would challenge the late John Bonham during a live performance of “Moby Dick”. She finally gives you a healthy belch of satisfaction. Flanking the foamy burp on the south side you watch as she portrays a few facial contortions, a micro grunt, and then a fowl smell surfaces. A seedy, expensive, mustard-esque material lurks inside her diaper. You roll out of the rocking chair and place her onto the changing table aka; “The Ring”. “Leeeetts’ get ready to Ruuummbbllee!” Her legs are recoiled like the teeth of a steel bear trap set and ready to spring. Her nomadic eyes are some type of decoy tactic distracting your focus as she unleashes a series of kicks to your forearm. When wrestling a diaper off a newborn it is sometimes necessary to perform the Figure Four Leg Lock not unlike the signature move of Greg “The Hammer” Valentine. There are legs and arms constantly flailing. As long as you have studied mid-80’s wrestling maneuvers and appropriate reversals, you will be fine. Once you finally get her to tap-out and submit you display the dirty diaper over your head signaling victory. You quickly dispose of it into the ingenious static Super Hero known as, Diaper Genie, as it looks on from the neutral corner. While you are boasting your little victory, she pees all over her onesy on the changing table just to let you know, it ain’t over bitch.
Now it is time for a, gloves off, sparring session in an attempt to put on the new diaper. She appears to be submissive, playing possum in the supine position. Her arms and legs are poised again in a defensive stance like an alert Bruce Lee. You go in to place the diaper under her butt and she counters by shooting a leg out bumping your arm. Retracting, you move to strap on the left side of the diaper. She counters again with a combo pair of left-right kicks. Faking right and going left, you successfully strap the right side of the diaper. This is beginning to feel like a sparring session with the classic Muk Yan Jong (wooden dummy) at a Wing Tsun dojo. You realize she only has two effective maneuvers and you develop the proper counters. Finally, you get the diaper and a clean onesy on her and retreat to the rocker in hopes to get her back to sleep quickly.
Rocking with the baby for about ten minutes, she is just about asleep, as you are as well, then another rumbling vibrates your leg. Looking down, you see her don an evil smile coupled with a bowel-shaking grunt. Before you can say don’t you dare…you hear the sound of some rather viscous mud squirting through a set of toes sloshing through a muddy pasture at Woodstock in 1969. The smell that complements the flatulent audio disobeys gravity as it floats towards your nose. It’s worse than the vilest of bathrooms at a Detroit underground punk rock venue that The Exploited might of played circa 1982.
You have been up for an hour, sparring with your infant already and then she goes and poops again, initiating yet more annoying crying. You really start to question yourself as you sit and mull over violent thoughts, “was this a good idea? I am not having fun right now. I am not cut out for this crap. I have not trained well for this. I suck.” You think about those meddling kids in their Mystery Machine and wish they could somehow help find your patience that has seemingly vanished into thin air.
Franticly looking for solace from anywhere, you realize it is under your nose and in your arms. The baby is wailing but she is wearing such nice soothing clothes. The cute little bears, butterflies, hearts, and Daisy’s, sewn into pastel colors of tranquility would bring a fur matting teardrop to the Grinch, prior to his heart growing epiphany.
By design, the serene innocence of baby clothes helps to protect the baby from you. You may find yourself talking to the little bears and smelling the Daisy’s. It begins to harvest your sanity, especially when they talk back or smell soothingly good. That is ok, nobody else will know (except me).
The pacifier is the only thing that will temporarily stop her crying. You agreed with your wife it is your duty tonight, but the devious side of you thinks about wheeling the bassinette down the hallway and into the master bedroom where your wife is sleeping in peace. You fantasize pulling the pacifier from the baby’s mouth like a pin from a grenade. Then pushing the soiled diapered baby into the bedroom and running for cover before the aural shrapnel explodes in barrage of annoying wails. Now that’s a stink bomb. Resisting actually doing that, her crying eventually subsides and you change her again and place her back in the pack-n-play. You go to log out your lap time and realize you have just spent over an hour getting mentally slapped around by an infant and it’s now after 4am. You are working on about four hours of sleep in two-hour bursts.
2am to 4am (100 miles)
The headlamp strapped to your head is beginning to feel like a boa constrictor attempting to squeeze its prey. Taking your mind off the trail for a second to adjust the elastic band you clip a camouflaged rock with your foot and begin to trip. Instinct takes over and you drop the shoulder to flow into a combat roll to help break the fall. Laying in the middle of the trail staring straight up into the trees you start to laugh like Carl Spackler in Caddyshack plotting his plan to kill the gopher. The psychotic laughing is a cover because you really want to cry. Now there is blood dripping from your knee, tears welling up in your eyes, encrusted vomit on the side of your cheek, a menacing gopher about and all you can think about is quitting. Retreating back to your affirmations and visualizations that were part of your training, you realize this is rock bottom. Then you tangetize and think; how ironic, because of a rock, I am at rock bottom…Wrangling the mind back a little closer to sanity, you remember one of the axioms and commitments you made to do this thing; Acceptance of temporary pain and misery. You begin to stand up and face the mental stone blocking the trail and your potential finish of this race. Like Jesus on a predawn Easter morning, you roll the stone aside and start walking down the trail shedding your skin of doubt. The walk turns to a trot, the trot turns to a jog, and soon to a run. Your pace is faster than it has been in hours and you feel completely resurrected.
4am to 6am (Infant)
Five am, and your eyes pop open and are staring at the baby monitor again. This time there is nothing but the quiet static sound of dead white noise. You have outflanked the wails on channel B! Did she just sleep for almost three hours in a row? You look around and hope that was an inner voice query. The baby is still sound asleep and looks very content still nestled in her baby wrap. The vengeful side of you smiles and considers going to wake up the baby from her precious slumber. However, you find enough sense in your memory bank to realize that you can afford to pay homage to the ole adage that says, ‘never wake a sleeping baby’. You get up, brew the java, and maybe even softly spin some early wax recordings of Lead Belly. You find yourself replacing “Where did you sleep last night” lyrics with, “Why didn’t you sleep all night”, as you stare at the trashed kitchen from last nights feedings. There are bottles, nipples, inserts, measuring scoops, caps, and spilled formula spread over the entire countertop. The only things missing are an Erlenmeyer flask and a Bunsen burner to round out a well-stocked collegiate level chemistry lab.
4am to 6am (100 miles)
A sunrise after twenty-two hours of running is truly amazing. You watch it crest over the horizon. The white cumulous sky vandals of the night scurry off and evaporate into the atmosphere. Feeling its warm penetrating rays exfoliate the night from your skin is a rejuvenating experience. The pains seem to evaporate like the morning dew and you are starting to feel good again. You are not sure which has more elevation gain, the course itself or the peaks and valleys you have been experiencing over the last 97 miles. It soon dawns on you that you only have a few more miles to go. Your entire body is starting to feel the affects of potentially poisonous protein by-products but your mind doesn’t seem to care. Acceptance is key. The end is near. About one mile to go and you feel an unexplainable force pulling you along the trail. You couldn’t stop if you wanted to. You pretend to be the Millennium Falcon getting sucked into the Death Star…the finish line is beaming out a tractor beam and you just sit back and go with it. All of a sudden reality slaps you in the face…and in the quads and calves and hamstrings, but more importantly you realize you have crossed the finish line and have stopped running. It takes a few minutes for your mind to catch up with your body as you stand there. Like sound trailing a high-flying jet, your body crosses the finish line first, then seconds later your mind catches up bringing the sound. The adaptation chemicals in your brain that have been fighting off different levels of pain and repeat attacks from lactic acid assault squads are now dissipating and your body begins to feel…..odd. Then, outflanking the pain center, the serotonin rallies from the war torn amino acids and other feel good chemicals pick up and you start to relish in the fact that the battle is over. Victory.
Conclusion
In both events, your brain takes you on a mind trip nobody is ever completely packed correctly for. Dealing with early morning hallucinations like; Are those really monkey’s frolicking in the trees eating banana’s with their feet, laughing? Or dealing with a colicky infant at 3am who is still wailing after a diaper change, feeding, and burping…… Whether it’s applying creams and ointments to avoid the monkey butt, situating the food and clothes for the night, or trying to avoid paying the mental toll of the trolls during the eerie hours of the night. Many, many, very odd and vicious thoughts cross your mind, especially during the witching hours.
Conquering a 100-mile beast or negotiating life in a sleep-deprived state due to a precious infant, are both very real experiences. They both may push you to sanity’s hairy edge where you may witness yesterday meeting tomorrow. This too shall pass, and when tomorrow becomes today, you can face it with the assurance that you have what it takes. You can do this.
