The Only Time I Hated my Garmin
The Only Time I Hated my Garmin
There I was; 34 years old and I’d never worn a watch. I’d also never done sport specific training that needed data. But then I found myself amidst my ⅓ life crisis (yes, the ⅓ life crisis a thing) where YOLO was my new motto, and I found myself a watch wearer.
As a serious mountain lover with a personality lying on the “extreme” end of the spectrum, I had wanted to run an ultramarathon for at least 5 years, but never got around to making the time. Technically, an ultramarathon is any race with a distance over 42km. Now, to the average person this may seem ridiculous, but to me, it sounded like just the challenge I had been looking for. I was enticed by the answers to the unknown; how hard could I push myself? How deep into the wilderness could I venture in just one day? While hiking and backpacking are my passions, there are limits to how far one can go in a day. Also, the hours of strategic planning required to book backcountry campsites on the most popular trails is an undertaking in itself, and I craved the ability to cover the trails in one day to avoid the reservation chaos.
Another push to join this particular race came from a friend who asked me, yearly, to join him for the Golden Ultra Stage Race. Every year I had some excuse, usually related to the scarcity of time. As a person who schedules and prioritizes exercise like it is a job, this excuse was total BS.I knew fully well that I could make my workouts run specific if I wanted to, so this year I said yes.
Now, other than wondering what's wrong with me, there are two things you might be thinking. First, what kind of person skips running a marathon and goes straight to ultra? Second, if you’re not training to “win”, do you really need to collect data from your watch?
To answer the first question, I knew that without a goal that pushed my limits and confidence, I wouldn’t have had the dedication to finish the training. In short: I scared myself into getting it done. Had I signed up for a regular marathon distance, I probably would have entered with an attitude of self-assurance and perhaps hubris; that I was reasonably fit already, and that I could always walk and finish in the given time. I needed to not only feel uncertain of my success, I also needed to be scared.
Regarding data collection, it’s important to mention that I am not a naturally athletic person. I work for every damn physical thing I do. If you learned a sport in one day, I guarantee it took me at least twice the time. This used to upset me, but now when I achieve an athletic goal, it gives me a heightened sense of accomplishment because I know how hard I worked for it. So for me, following an aggressive training plan was essential. I needed to know that I was doing enough of the right things, at the right times, in the right zones, or I’d have no chance of success. This brings me to the romantic coupling of my Garmin and I.
We met on a sunny day in May. My Garmin was slate in color with gorgeous rose gold accents; a Vivoactive3, the model with the music. Wow, I was in love. My watch accompanied me through all my days of training, both good and bad. The sunshine, the sleet, the solo runs, and the social runs. My watch told me everything I needed to know; my heart rate, cadence, elevation, and distance. Believe it or not, the watch even recorded my workouts and transferred all the data into Training Peaks for my coach to see. You techies might question why this would be anything special, but for this former luddite, it was all very new and exciting.
I started to rely on my watch to track my progress and let me know when I wasn’t in the right zone, or running at the right speed. I began to believe that my workouts didn’t count unless my Garmin was with me. Obsessive? Maybe; but I loved it.
Finally, the big weekend came- the Golden Ultra: Blood, Sweat & Tears. As the hiker I am, I cruised through the first day’s 5km of distance and 1100m of elevation fairly easily. As my loyal companion, my Garmin was there to monitor my heartbeat and tell me how much farther I had to climb.
The second day, the 55km/3600m day, was when everything went wrong. I was 45km into the route, and my beloved Garmin died. All my data from the day was gone. I had spent four long months training for this day, and now here I was, dataless. I couldn’t help but fixate on the idea that this run would never be viewed by anyone; not my coach, and not on Strava by the friends who follow me. My run wouldn't “count”! That was the moment I felt hatred for my Garmin. How could it leave me when I needed it the most? All the promises of long battery life, and it couldn’t even handle one of the most important 10 hours of our relationship. What. The. Hell. How I would survive this? I honestly wasn’t sure.
I spent the evening nursing my destroyed body and ruminating on my relationship with my Garmin. Was there even a point to continue wearing it when it gives up under pressure? Though uncertain, I plugged it in and would decide in the morning if I could forgive it and bring it to day 3 of the race.
When I awoke, I readied myself, but didn’t immediately reach for my Garmin as usual. My wrist felt naked and I didn’t like it. As I was leaving the chalet, a feeling of remorse washed over me and I snatched up the Garmin to bring along. Although I was mad, I still loved the watch and wanted it to be with me and track my last day. It had reliably been at my side for the four months leading up to the race, and I wasn’t ready to abandon it just yet. So, with tired and heavy legs, we slowly worked through day three, surely making our way through the 20km and 400m, together. We were back as a unit. The run complete, the data collected, and today it all counted, because everyone could see!
Since that race, my Garmin and I still spend our days together, collecting data and, of course, being incredibly punctual. That day of our spat, now seeming so far away, leaves me with one last question; what will happen when my next 10 hour day arrives?
By: Kate Hamilton
Edited by: Allison Flach