One Lap At A Time. Jillians recap of Indonesia’s first backyard ultra.

It’s finally fully dark on Gili T and I’m chasing Noah’s bike for the last hundred meters of a very long day. Under the multi-colored lanterns of this party island I get to relish in the best feeling of running, dashing through a finish line. Proud that I had kick in my legs at the end of a new distance PB, I jumped into an ocean that mocked me all day, Bintang in hand. I got about an hour to celebrate before I spent my night tossing and turning from sickness. I got an IV in the morning. I took a ferry back to Bali. I took a car back to Seseh. I ravaged a pistachio cinnamon bun. I slept like a rock. I called my mom. I got a two hour massage. I made leather journals with friends. All the while Phil Gore and Dan Camac were still running, two days later. Through flooded streets during stormy nights, and oppressive heat during shadeless days they were able to run 6.7km every hour for 49 more hours than me. Something too impressive to even relate to, as is the case I guess with most world champions.

When Noah and I signed up for the Gili T Backyard Ultra we did it mostly to get our bearings on these freshly popularized events, and to hopefully snag some new distance PBs. Running alongside world record holder Phil Gore at the time just seemed like a cool bonus, but ended up adding a lot of magic to our day. If you haven’t heard of BYUs, they are a last person standing race wherein you must complete one lap of a 6.7km loop, every hour. Starting on the hour. You can finish with 30 minutes or 30 seconds to spare but you have to be back on the line when the new hour starts or you’re out. I had set a goal of 100 km - 15 laps, and sensed I was a bit more at ease than those around me, maybe just grateful I wasn’t fighting against the clock in a sea of carbon plated killers. 15 of anything seemed doable. From the beginning it was most natural for me to finish each lap with 15-20 minutes left. Time to ice bath (this was game changing), refuel, massage, or chat shit with Noah’s crew. The heat that hit us mid-morning visibly took its toll on most, and saw me stuff my sports bra with ice - incidentally a handy little snack pack throughout my laps. Gummy bears, gu, and the occasional slice of bread were all my stomach had any tolerance for, and a mix of pocari sweat, redbull, and tailwind filled my flask. About halfway into my 100km journey, when the crowd had thinned considerably, I realized I was running a very different “race” than most. In that, I was running. Phil, Dan, and those in it for the longggg haul were employing a mixture of walking and running. A strategy to minimize fatigue. Not only understandable, but necessary if you want to be competitive. I just couldn’t bring myself, on totally flat land, to walk when I could run. Less out of ego but more out of enjoyment. It’s clear to me now what the 4 people who ended up besting me had in common: an agreement in their own minds to move until failure. Something I hadn’t thought to promise myself. When I was the first to finish laps 8-13 (a fact that couldn’t matter less in BYUs, and might actually be a negative) I realized I was seeking elements of racing that you can’t get in these events. As I started my 14th lap and mentioned to Phil that the next one would be my last he looked over and flatly stated “Why? You’re fresh, just take it one lap at a time.” Not quite fresh per se, I’d had two painful laps before that made me nervous, but also maybe, correctly, far from failure. My only reasoning was that I simply didn’t want to. That running to me is the joy I get from a body moving well, in sync with my playlist, a celebration of discipline’s rewards. And as Phil took off for a speedy 15th so he could get some time to nap after, I decided my last thrill would be to beat him on this lap - a paltry prize considering he would go on for days after, but quietly, and for myself, rewarding. Since then I have wondered if I should’ve stayed in and tried to best Maite, the winning female, who ran 4 more laps than me. I can’t say there isn’t a tiny bit of regret that lingers. Aware that the more I disregarded my body the more praise I’d have earned, an ugly truth I indulged in when I was younger. But my rule for running now is to listen to my why, and I know my motivating factors for competing longer, past my goal, would have been more outward than inward – which never seems to be a winning formula for me.

I’m sure Jerry wanted me to write more about the incredible time I had lapping Gili T – it was sincerely fun, and a cherished memory – but it was rather uneventful, I felt mostly confident from start to finish. A truer reflection would be that in the week since I’ve been ruminating a lot on these races. Thanks to my dad who in his retirement does nothing but read, golf and send me multi-paragraphed texts about the latest exploits of our Philadelphian sports teams, I happen to be reading a book called Pedestrianism. I've learned that these multi-day endurance tests are far from new. In 1809 Englishman Robert Barclay wagered that he could walk one mile every hour for one thousand consecutive hours – more than 41 days. A feat he went on to accomplish, despite costing him 14 kg of body weight. By the mid to late 1800s Pedestrianism was the biggest sport in America and England, bolstered by the public’s new found “leisure time” thanks to the Industrial Revolution. There was one other factor I found interesting. The author makes the case that the opportunities for recreation were scarce, and the desire for entertainment incredibly high… therefore thousands would watch two men walk on small tracks in large convention centers for days on end. Something that seemed absurd until I remembered the thrill I got from cheering Phil and Dan on once I finished. How I bemoaned leaving the island while they were still going, while I still had the chance to watch and marvel. And that really made me wonder if there are direct parallels to the explosion of ultra-endurance competitions now. Are we instead so oversaturated with entertainment that we crave substantive endeavors? Are we over entertained but under tested? At a time of hyper convenience, maybe something in us craves the catharsis of breaking down. Punishing ourselves when the world has gotten too soft to do it for us? Given that the demographics of these things are overwhelmingly white and male and middle aged, it makes you think. Or maybe it’s simply more novel, more dramatic, more primal. Whatever the case is, I hope the enigma of these events doesn’t downplay their danger. I like to think I’m a tough cookie and I was systemically unwell for a week afterwards. There seems to me a definite difference once you cross these 100km thresholds and brave into the waters of 100+ milers. To see Phil and Dan out there the next morning, any glamour is gone.. It’s just two men surviving and dissociating. The allure of “race day energy” nowhere to be found, I  was left really wondering what about this appealed to them. Surely I was getting more out of watching them than they were actually experiencing it -  fighting loop after loop. The gap between the beginning excitement and the finish line glory is disgustingly wide. 429 km in this case. Whatever their why, I know that the awe I love to feel towards my body at the end of these adventures was outweighed by the concern I had for it – which was a first. And in turn will keep me sticking to the slightly shorter stuff. However if you have to run consecutive loops, being on a tiny island with mushroom-fueled parties to your left, and turquoise waters to your right isn’t a bad shout. I  hope this event continues year after year, I’d very much recommend it to anyone who wants to test their stamina. And for the love of god I hope Phil and Dan have their gangrenous feet up somewhere, but I highly doubt it.