DNF

DNF. It's an ugly little acronym in the running world, that stands for "did not finish". Everyone gets them in ultraruns. You know you're going to have one, and more likely several if you do a lot of races, but you still cringe at the thought. All of the time and training, and it comes down to one day - one day and a possible DNF. Ryan now knows how it feels. He was looking great, feeling everyone's prayers for him, and then pain started to creep into the tendons on the front of his ankles. It started around 52, and was full blown shortly after. It took him 9 hours and 20 minutes to do the first 50 and then 5 hours to do the next 13. His dad and I were waiting for him at the aid station at 63.7 miles. A runner came in and told me how much Ryan was hurting. It was an agonizing wait after that. I was grieving inside, as the reality of the situation set in. I wanted so badly to see Ryan reach his goal. I felt anxiety over what to say to him. Finally, someone at the aid station asked for #101's wife. I ran over, and he said that Ryan had told another runner coming in that he was hurting and needed help. The aid station worker said that I could drive up there and walk back with him. He advised me to keep him going and bring him into the aid station so they could assess the damage and see if he could go on. Ryan's dad drove me up there, and I got out and walked with him. He was hurting and clinging to a picture of Scout. I can't describe how hard it was to walk next to Ryan in that state. He was breaking, already broken, actually, and I was supposed to keep him on his feet. I was amazingly calm, strong and together. I walked him into the aid station. It must have been everyone's prayers for me to be the kind of support Ryan needed, because I usually cry very easily, especially at the thought of my family hurting. Instead, I felt focused and ready to do whatever he needed. We tried to patch him up, but the damage was too much. Everyone who saw him thought he looked great, good skin color, not tired, well hydrated, but the ankles were toast. With reluctance, he said he was done and asked for his wristband to be cut. The guy who did it winced as he squeezed the scissors, recalling the times he's had it done to him. We loaded Ryan in the car and drove home.

This morning when Garrett woke up, I told him that Daddy was done running. He started crying, "But I wanted to finish with him." I told him that Daddy didn't finish because he got hurt. He asked if other people got hurt, and I told him they did. He asked if everyone got hurt. I said no, that some people were still running and finishing the race. "That makes me happy," he said sweetly.

So, it's over. Ryan made it to 63.7 miles, farther than he's ever gone - 100K, not 100 miles. Ryan didn't meet his goal yesterday. We knew it would happen one day. I was hoping it wouldn't be this day, but it was. I actually think it was good for him. If you know Ryan very well, you know that he's good at almost anything he tries, maybe not the best, but he usually doesn't fail. In fact, he hates the thought of failure and tries to avoid it at all costs. It's a rare experience for him. As much as it hurts to say it, this is something Ryan needed to experience. Would I have rather seen him cross that finish line? Of course, but DNF doesn't feel like Ryan or I imagined it would. We both feel proud. We had a great time. He did what he could. He ran a great 50. He didn't reach his goal, and he's actually happy today. He was happy last night. That's not Ryan ... or maybe it is now.

DNF. Ugly, but a little easier to say now.