A Wall I Will Not Hit

And how Alberto the alpaca saved my spirit

Hadrian’s Wall, UK

In all of my years of running, I’ve had the good fortune to remain injury-free for the most part. I have not signed up for a race that I had to skip because of injury, and for that I am grateful.

Enter my first ultramarathon, increase weights at the gym too fast, end up injured. Mix a hefty dose of frustration and distance runner impatience, prolong the recovery with every fledgling effort to get back on the road prematurely.

Finally escape from denial and visit the orthopedist, a runner himself, who states emphatically upon seeing the MRI, a tear in the soleus, “If you plan to run Sydney August 30th, you cannot run an ultramarathon on June 13th.”

Equivocating, I ask plaintively, “You said I can’t run, but can I walk?”

Quick pivot to Brooks, 8mm drop with Achilles supports, a pair of walking poles, a new strategy (much longer time that is), and my daughter, who has been training hard, is on board.

Disappointed, yes, but running Sydney, my 30th marathon, matters more, so I made my peace with it.

Then, just days before my flight to the UK where my daughter lives, my beloved dachshund, Boots, who would turn 18 on the day I return from the UK, was decidedly not well. We bundled him up, my husband and I, and our son, who was visiting from Brooklyn, insisted on coming along.

For anyone who understands the depth of love one has for one’s dog, know that this is amplified when virtually every waking moment and every moment of sleep is spent with him.

Sadly, Boots, like many an older dachshund, had a back injury that surgery could not correct, and so for four and a half years, he was my sidekick for my work as a tele-therapist, occasionally making an appearance during sessions for dog-loving clients.

Each day entailed diaper changes, bladder expression, stroller walks alongside our other, ambulatory dog, and sleeping side by side as he feared being alone, keenly aware of his paraplegic vulnerability.

The verdict, not wholly unexpected, cut like a knife. We opted to give him one more night, one more stroller walk, one more treat of his favorite black and white cookie from the bakery.

Later that day, the traveling vet was kind, understood as little conversation as humanly possible was best, my husband in the yard with our other dog, my son and I whispering into Boots’ floppy ears our love for him, my hands savoring every breath his little chest took.

Until there were no more.

I did not exhale, I did not raise my head until the vet exited silently, the air, the room so claustrophobic then.

I let out a cry of utter anguish as I held his limp body close to my heart, feeling his weight, his warmth, as if life had never left that tiny frame. I could not, would not let go and so rocked him back and forth for an hour, knowing once I lay him on his little bed wrapped in his favorite fuzzy blanket, the reality of this immeasurable loss would hit and could be denied no more.

The fog would not lift for the next 48 hours until I boarded the plane to the UK, transporting me physically and mentally away from the scene of the loss.

My daughter and I agreed not to talk in depth about our dog yet, and so we launched into logistics, traveling first to Newcastle by train to drop our luggage at a hotel, unwisely visiting the Newcastle Castle, which entailed rigorous winding climbs, and then a train to Carlisle for the start of the ultra.

The expo was tiny, held in a local hotel lobby, but while there, I grabbed knee and calf wraps to stabilize my injured left leg. The people there were all incredibly friendly, the runners and volunteers alike. It seemed to bode well.

The next morning, we arrived at Carlisle Castle to a sunny, but very windy day. Upon hearing the previous year’s race involved a steady rain for hours, we considered ourselves quite fortunate.

And then off we went, about 2,000 runners with gear tethered to our backs, embarking on a course along Hadrian’s wall, the farthest north Roman landmark built at the behest of the 2nd-century Emperor Hadrian.

Initially energized, I flew through the early miles, maintaining a good walking pace along the northern English countryside. But then, as we came to mile 24, we saw winding paths ascending rock-encrusted hillsides, going up and up. The winds were relentless, knocking me off the path several times despite my best efforts, desperately trying not to fall down the steep hillsides. At one point, I threw myself to the ground to avoid being knocked off by a strong gust at a precarious point.

My daughter and I somewhere around mile 25

After six grueling miles of rock scrambling and climbing ladders over rock walls, we had ascended over 4,100 feet by mile 30. Neither of us had anticipated what this would do to our time, not to mention our energy.

So as we appreciated the more stable ground over the next part of the course, much of the wind buffered by trees then, I told my daughter about our beloved dog’s last day, pouring out a grief I suppressed in deference to this event and the logistics involved, something we both needed, and we walked in silence for a time.

But as the miles behind me grew and the ones ahead lessened, much like the days, months, years of our lives, my grief became something else, a grief for a future I once envisioned and could no longer see on the route ahead.

I had my three kids in the ‘90s, at a time when we as a country seemed to be moving forward; we could get a job, a house, the government could balance a budget, marginalized groups were forcing their voices to be heard, we thought we would have an environmentally focused president.

But a confluence of more nefarious forces would alter that course, and what once held promise now seems too far away to reach, much like our finish line.

Fears for my older daughter living in an America I cannot recognize and does not respect her, and my younger daughter I once thought safely ensconced in London, now at the mercy of impending dark forces on that horizon as well.

And I will be leaving them soon, and I cannot protect them. I will be leaving them to a world increasingly chaotic and collectively anxious, and here I am living as if that optimism were not a mirage, my runs, my travel, once so life-affirming, now feeling pitifully futile and empty.

On we walked, passing mile 40, the winding uphill paths across farmland and into forests, and my injured left leg, wrapped and protected, felt just fine. The right, not so much. Whether it was simply time for the mirror injury I often find occurs, or the twists in the rock on that windy ascent, my right calf muscle was not good, and I was now feeling it with every step.

At mile 44, I had to make a judgment call. At nearly 9 p.m., with 26 miles to go at a slowed-down three miles an hour pace into increasing cold and darkness and empty roads, the damage to my right leg could be significant.

The volunteers at that checkpoint could not have been nicer. Our fellow passengers in the van that would drive us to the finish chatted about trying to get past mile 44, but this would not be their year either.

We were invited to cross the finish line, declined graciously (I can’t imagine the guy racing up that last hill in 14 hours would have appreciated the van passengers stepping in front of him), and were handed our medals anyway, something we did not expect, but were told 44 miles counts as completing an ultra.

Didn’t make me feel much better. I’ve never hit a wall in a marathon and feeling as raw as I was, this did not culminate in a catharsis I desperately needed.

But who travels to another country for a race and doesn’t tack on other sites to see, so on to Scotland for the Loch Ness monster (Nessie never materialized) and to stroll with the Scottish Alpacas.

Introduced to our strolling companions, Alberto and Rah, my daughter and I thoroughly enjoyed these wonderfully calming and gentle creatures whose greatest pleasures in life are snacking and chilling with their families. And as our guide told us, alpacas are unique in their quest to protect other baby animals from marauding foxes, protective universally, regardless of species.

Would that humans operated in such a fashion.

So the day following our failed quest to complete 70 miles, we consoled ourselves with our 70 kilometers instead and relished the tranquility of creatures that know no strife, no angst, no dread of a coming storm. And they cheered me like nothing else in that moment.

Alberto and Rah sharing their Alpaca bliss

The real endurance event is choosing simply to continue, to put one foot in front of the other again and again, even when there is no clear path in sight. Even when there are obstacles, even when you get blown off course.

Hadrian’s Wall may have shown me my limits that night, but Alberto showed me there needn’t be any if you’ve a mind to keep going.

I may not know when the finish line comes, but at least I know what won’t stop me. My children were born in a time of hope. I won’t give up on that now.

Always in our hearts, Boots 06/17/2008–06/08/2026