So the plan was to run at 11:30, right after a morning meeting. But, an errand popped up that needed to be done. What errand? Well, ok, I had run out of coke and needed to buy a 12 pack. Or three. Yes, yes, I know, I was giving it up, but I fell off that wagon. Now I’m striving for one a day. Don’t ask me how that’s going.
So I postponed my run until 2, reasoning that I could eat lunch with a coke, work, then take a break.
It was one of those afternoons. All of a sudden, I realize it’s 3. And I have to start an experiment. Arrgh. I finally stepped out the back door at 3:55. The sun is shining, but I know that 10 miles starting at 3:55 means I’ll be finishing in near dark.
I have a nice hilly 10 mile route at work that goes up into the four hills area all on jeep road. For most of it, selective perception lets me believe I am in an almost remote area, the best kind of running. These jeep roads are seldom traveled. Undisturbed snow from two nights ago lies hidden in the shadows of the juniper that cross the road. I run through it and wonder if the jeep patrols will see my tracks. The hillside glows softly yellow as the sun starts to set. My shadow, running in front of me as I head east, has grown extra long legs.
Ahead I see a golden shape move across the road. A coyote, I think. It’s about 150 yds in front of me, but I hope that I’ll see it again, that it will pause off the jeep road so I can get a good look. I try to run softly, though I don’t really know if I am trying to sneak up on it. I keep my head straight forward, while trying to scan the right side of the road for the coyote. “Maybe,” I think, “if I pretend not to see it, it won’t get nervous and run off.”
Scanning.
Scanning.
Scan… ooo movement!
There he is, a good sized coyote in full view not more than 15yds from me.
And he has a friend.
And another… oh my.
Six coyotes within 30 yds, some sitting, some standing, all are looking at me. One takes a few steps to turn towards me, but they all seem calm. Well, this I didn’t expect. I see as I come abreast of them that they stand on a little trail heading south. I watch them openly now, knowing that the pack is not about to be skittish of one little human. They are gorgeous, all golden in the setting sunlight, with gray markings.
I run on – and they don’t move. I hit the meat of the route – the “Thacker hills” we call them. Several steep up (and even a few down) slopes. As I hit the midpoint of the run, the sunset starts in earnest. I am running in the shade of a foothill and I notice that nightfall has a sharp chill bite in these December days. The facets of the buildings downtown reflect the setting sun, glittering in the bright light. The mountains behind me turn pink. I turn downhill, still feeling fine. Contrasted against the deep blue sky, a few slips of clouds hang over the San Mateo mountains in the west and catch the sunlight, turning them brilliant yellow on one edge, and fading to pink on the opposite edge. Sunbeams that poke through the clouds make rays of yellow against the blue sky, and the blue deepens, deepens, as the sunset lasts.
Just as I am idly wondering if the coyotes might still be in the same spot, I see them. I only see five as I run by. They are motionless as before, settling in, perhaps. Their heads turn to watch me as I run by, just enjoying the show. In the shade of the slope, they are but gray forms, without definition. The world slowly loses its color. The clouds now stand out in flame orange, matched only by the color on the rim of the horizon. Mount Talyor, backlit in the west, stands gray sentry over the landscape. However brilliant the sunset, the path now appears dark and barely readable. The last mile I know well, so I run unconcernedly, smiling and replaying the encounters and the vistas of the last 1:40.
It’s a fun distraction. I’m thinking more about trying to get in my workouts and my miles again – distilled thankfully down to one sport –running. “What’s next?” is a familiar and comfortable conversation starter while out on the trails. With the discussion of the upcoming races though, comes the urge to figure out how I think I might do. And with the next two races, my longest yet – 38.5 mi Ghost Town, and Old Pueblo 50, this urge to figure out how I might do is a bit compulsive.
Ghost town, I don’t know. The trails look really technical. When they actually resemble trails. There will be lots of rock scrambling. I’m not sure this will be so very runnable. The distance would suggest to me maybe 7.5 hours if it was flat trail – I’m basing this on Palo Duro 50K (31 miles) in 6:04. An additional 7.5 miles run at 12 min/mi pace is 1.5 hours. But… with the hills and scrambling… I've seen pictures of the trail in places, and let's just say the trail looks like a suggestion, rather than a guide. This photo doesn't do it justice. In this terrain, the forecast becomes more a sort of fortelling. My gut says it won’t be harder than the Jemez mountain 50K.
Mo’s bundle of intestines guesses: 8:30
Looking at previous results may be a more sure route to an accurate estimate. I generally make it in time to finish in the top half of the field, both men and women. At Palo Duro, I was 41st out of 121. But at Jemez Mountain 50K, I was 44th out of 96. So, very nicely, the wonderfully verbose RD of the GT 38.5 has stats listed on her website. Analysis girl, having found a kindred spirit in this one respect, might make her some cookies. Half the field finished in 8:35 in 2007, 8:40 in 2008, and 8:04 in 2009. The 2010 course will be a 2007 course redux.
Analysis girl votes: 8:35
But I feel I can maybe go faster. Mo’s shy but confident heart bets: 8:10
Old Pueblo 50 M Predictions for Old Pueblo 50 miler involve more data from previous results, but also more guessing in that is it MUCH farther than I have run before. It’s hilly, on technical-ish trail. Might be hot. But it is at lower altitude. And I am training on hills, some.
Mo's Gut’s hard goal: 11:15
Mo's Gut’s medium goal: 12:00
If we say I’ll be in the top half, I’ll finish around 11:30. If we look at just women and use my palo duro placing as a guide, I’ll finish in 11:30. Ok, then.
Analysis girl votes: 11:30
But I really just want to be under 12 hours. It’s an unknown distance. Under 12 hours sounds good. That’s how fast I want to do the first 50 in Leadville, though that course is much tougher. Still, 12 hours is a good place to start.
Mo’s calculating, careful mind: 12:00
Right now, having given a little thought to the races, I just want to go run. I’m coming off of two weeks of making 100% of my workouts (with a little rescheduling of 5 miles for the snow yesterday), and it feels like a really good place to be. It’s nice to have the urge to get out there, to go see the trails and visit the soft quiet places. Off I go!
The problem is, when you judge every accomplishment relative to your own accomplishments, you can never have an outstanding accomplishment. Never. By definition. “I did it, so it must not be that hard.”
I could consider my achievement of an ironman finish relative to the general population. I am one of few people (say 65,000 – 25 IM brand races with 2200 people each, plus non IM brand races.) who this year will complete an Ironman. Out of a world population of 6.9 billion, I am definitely one of the few. I can look at my performance relative to the field. I was mid-pack. Both in my AG (9/16) and overall amongst women 54/103. In my AG, I was 7th on the swim, 9th on the bike, and 6th on the run.
But is that helpful? Was the race faster than most? Where was I on the bell curve of times in each respective discipline? Were others “racing” or “doing” this race? Was I racing or doing?
Well, let’s find out! The overall winner among females finished in 10:16:09. The last female finisher came in at 16:56:19. The cutoff is 17 hours. The histogram of finishing times has me finishing right where that big peak is. In fact, each discipline shows me finishing in the middle of the pack, with the bike + T1 of 7 hours on the dot putting me just a little behind the curve. The fastest female time was just over an hour slower than the time put in by a pro at IM FL. So I’d say she was racing.
My main goal was to finish, and finish feeling good. I did. I ran 4 days after the race, and felt 90%. I was not racing, I was doing. The secondary time goals I had were to break 14 hours, and if things went well to break 13:30. And if it went really, really well, I’d get under 13 hours. But since I had no idea what I was in for, these goals were like imaginary numbers. I worried before the race, because I missed 29% of my workouts in the 12 weeks leading up to the race. Here’s a pic of my log. See all the crossed out red entries? Yeah, I didn’t do those workouts. I missed more than 50% of my swim workouts. Ooops. And the last 5 weeks were worse than average, I skipped 16 workouts of 40, or 40% of the workouts. Given that the last two weeks are taper weeks with reduced workouts anyway, this pretty much sucketh. I still have a lesson to learn about consistency. I think the solution might involve waking up earlier. That, or becoming unemployed and a hermit.
In the end, the test was easier than I anticipated. I waited patiently for the hammer to fall, but it didn’t.
I have to decide on my own whether this is an accomplishment to be proud of, or just a check mark, or a failure. And that’s ok. For me, the race was a success. There is more to an achievement than a relative place or finishing time; there’s the sense of satisfaction in the culmination of efforts, even inconsistent efforts, over a long period of time. Turning to face a challenge, a piece of the unknown and standing tall. Maybe leaning into the wind, even, like Red Spicer. Repeatedly having left the comfort of couch and warm bed and dinner table to prepare. Having started the race with hope but no expectation.
Driving a cargo van full of 12 bikes for 2.5 days across the country might seem like a poor choice for the pre-ironman taper, but my muscles didn’t mind much. We left Monday morning at 8:30. Tuesday morning I ran in Little Rock, Arkansas – just to keep loose. And to keep the ants in my pants from taking control. The sidewalks in the neighborhood, where they existed, were leaf covered, cracked, and heaved. The small houses were weathered, with equally sad plastic patio furniture set askew on the porch, and some had remnants of Halloween decorations. The kids on the sidewalk stared, but smiled when I said hello. I ran easily about 3 or 4 miles – found a school with an asphalt track and did two laps before turning around. My legs felt sluggish, not surprising considering the previous day’s 12 hour confinement. I didn’t run Wednesday morning, eager to get to the rental house. Co was also ready to exit the van for a few days.
The house had a great, large kitchen and dining area – plenty of room for all of us (15 people) to congregate. The bedrooms were nothing special – the bed Co and I chose was a little hard, and the 70’s bathrooms were in need of a style makeover, but were clean and decent to use. But the decks and beach access were the stars of the house. A crow’s nest on the roof offered an unimpeded view of the ocean, and even the second floor deck provided a great ocean view. The sounds of waves rolling up the beach were very relaxing. A path, perhaps 100 yds long, led directly from house to beach. Ahh.
We unpacked our things, and went to The Dockside for dinner. The crab dip was creamy and flavorful, with large chunks of crab meat, and the shrimp was fresh. The crabcake we both agreed tasted more like a stuffing with crab in it, than a crabcake. The accompanying sweet potato fries were EXCELLENT.
Debi, Hartley, Mark, Lorna, Miguel and Lorraine arrived shortly after we were got back to the house. Mark, Naomi, Jane, Tim, and Orlando arrived later that evening. Thursday, we decided to go for a swim in the intracoastal waterway. We headed out against the receding tide – I couldn’t decide if I was just sluggish, had lost all my recently rediscovered swim mojo, or if the tide was really that strong. When we turned around it was obvious – we all felt like we had propellers strapped to our backs. The swim was going to feel like cheating!
Then, off to the packet pick up, expo, and athlete dinner. Where Mark and Jane shopped, Co and I stood around (I did pick up a hat) and I almost lost my purse. Now, obvious nerves were gripping our group. The Outlaw Pack posse (aka sherpas) made plans for dropping us off in the AM, meeting the outlaws doing the Half IM at the end, loading out bikes back in the van, and other necessary, mundane, and complicated details for getting everyone and everything where it needed to be at the right time. We athletes talked over our bags for each transition area in minute detail and our special needs bags located at the mid point of the bike and run courses. Packing them took me about an hour, and I still did some things not quite right. I had complete clothes changes for each event. I didn’t put body glide in the T2 bag, and I wish I had. I forgot to put on my Zensah calf sleeves on the run.
Friday I got up for a quick run on the beach – about 4 miles, I think. I saw a dead jellyfish – about the size of a football. I picked some shells, and ended the run by darting into the crashing waves until the water was waist deep. Ahh. Co and I wanted to go see a plantation (tourist activity). Michael, Michi, and Jane went to the pre race meeting. Thanks to the other Outlaws’ flexibility, we got bikes and people to T1 to drop off the bikes and bags, and still had time to make our tour. Co and I then went out to eat at the Bluewater restaurant which had good seafood.
We got back to the house in time for some good conversation, and got to bed relatively early.
Co dropped us off at T1, saint that he is, at 5:00 am. We took a trolley to the swim start while it was still dark. Arriving in the cool predawn, we found some benches and chatted with other racers. The horizon blushed red as time passed. A return racer told us that we could count on a slight tailwind for the way back into town, which we all thought was excellent news. Checking our watches prompted us to struggle into our wetsuits, drop our pre race bags in the bins, and walk to the start. I quickly latched on to Mark at the bag drop, not wanting to be alone in the minutes before the start. The sand froze our feet during the 500 yd walk to the start area, so the water felt balmy. Tim and Mark convinced me that a short swim was necessary both to get water into the suit and allow it to warm up, but also to take the edge off. It was a good thing. Then, too quickly, we were hastened out of the water by the start officials. Standing at the line was a surreal rush of people and noise, and at the same time feeling separate from myself. Numbness spread up from my feet and threatened to weaken my knees. Few things around me looked solid or real. I stayed at Mark and Tim’s shoulder. Finally, the RD’s started some music, and nodding my head in time to Eminem’s “Lose yourself” grounded me in the moment, pulled me out of my anxious head. Final hugs all around, and unhelpful welling of tears behind my goggles, and we were off.
Soon the business of swimming was my entire reality. I seeded myself in the middle of everything. I’m not bothered by a little pushing in the beginning. I focused on pulling, and a high catch. I caught a few mouthfuls of the salty water during the swim, and had to breaststroke while I gagged a bit. I sat on the trail of a few feet and was enjoying myself, swimming easily. The buoys didn’t seem to be in a straight line, so sighting was difficult. Soon, though, I was making the left hand turn, and angling toward what I hoped was the swim finish line on a dock with 4 ladders leading up out of the water. I angled for the first ladder, and as I got close the tide pushed me past it quite authoratively. I went for the second ladder, and missed that too. I pulled hard, and caught the third ladder with a bit of a giggle – I hadn’t anticipated having to fight the tide to get out of the water. Next to me, a guy whooped, yelling, “out of the water in 58 minutes!”
That’s about 20 minutes faster than I expected. Yahoo! Then it was on to the strippers, then a brief pause under the showers to rinse off the salt. T1 was a good 300 yds down the street, so off I trotted holding the wetsuit in one hand and my goggles and cap in the other. The pavement was rough and cold. I saw several macho guys hunching their shoulders and lifting their arms while trying to pick a smooth path – they looked as if they were tip-toeing through tulips. I chugged on past, wearing a big grin. Just before I made the turn into T1, I hear, “GO WIFE” and there’s Co cheering for me. My grin got a little bigger, and I floated into the changing tent.
There weren’t personal volunteers to help athletes dress, so I upended my bag and started to sort through what I needed. Pulling on dry clothes while wet took several minutes. I opted to leave off the compression calf sleeves and stick them in my jersey pocket for the run. I did put on my arm warmers, though I wasn’t sure I needed them. I ran out to my bike, turned on my garmin and watch timer, and set off.
I was counting on my power meter to keep me from going out too hard at first, and then later to keep me pushing rather than losing focus. I could only laugh when, on my way out of transition, the power meter flashed the message, “Battery test… BAD” Ok, no power meter. Well, this will be a challenge to see how I pace myself. The course was advertised as pancake flat. It was flat, but there were several overpasses and rises, enough to keep me from falling asleep. The first aid station was supposed to be at mile 25, and I was eagerly awaiting the chance to use the port a potties. Mile 25 came and went. 26… 27… 28… “you gotta be kidding me.” 29… “if it’s not around this bend, I am going for a tree.” Then finally at mile 30 it appeared among the trees and green of NC. I’m glad there wasn’t too much of a line, or I still would have watered a tree. Then back on the bike. My bike training had been really poor over the last 4 weeks, only biking 3 times. And, at about mile 40, I knew my bum was not bike ready. Oh well. In addition, my shoulder and neck had a terrible crick in them, and it was very uncomfortable to be in the aero position. I stayed there as much as I could stand, about 60% of the time. At mile 50 or so, a message marked on the pavement read, “Giant Chicken Crossing!” Wha???
I looked over to the right, and there was a GIANT white chicken made of plastic, with a hunting hat on. On I went. I stopped 3 times on the bike, and tried to keep taking in calories. I managed 900 calories over 6.75 hours, with my goal being 1600. Ooops. But I could tell that was all my stomach wanted. I would have been able to eat something salty, but the only offering was pretzels, which I don’t like. The last 40 miles were into a headwind, and I was starting to struggle with discomfort (shoulder and bum) and frustration at facing a headwind where I expected a tail wind to be. At this point, it felt as if my legs were moving of their own accord, while my mind just wanted to stop and get off the bike. I thought positive thoughts, and that was helpful. I passed a few people, and kept my speed. Finally the turn, and the battleship loomed ahead of me in the river. Co and Lorna spotted me and cheered loudly. Woot! Done with the bike.
I handed my bike to a volunteer (thanks!) and slipped into the changing tent. Another complete change of clothes, easier now that I’m not wet. But I forget to put on the calf sleeves, and I have no body glide in my bag. Ooops. Naomi is in the tent, and we grouse a bit about the headwind. And out I go, onto the run. Co is there again, and I give him a big smile, and start running
I’ve been worried about THE RUN all day. I was very conservative on the bike to make sure I “had enough” for the run. I had to guess at being conservative, thanks to the dead battery in my powermeter, had to guess at what speed I was going, but I tried to focus on how good I was still feeling. My pace initially settles in at 9:20 to 9:30, which is a bit fast; my legs felt, if not exactly fresh, then as tired as if I had only been standing for awhile. So I decide to walk the aid stations to keep me relaxed. I see Debi, Michael, Hartley and Orlando in the first two miles giving them a big cheer and high five. It was 3 in the afternoon, the temp was in the mid sixties. I kept my arm coolers soaked, and was very comfortable. At mile 3.5, I see Mark and Miguel, then a bit later I see Tim. At mile 7.5 I see Naomi, and mile 8.5 I see Jane. What a lift to see all the Outlaws out on the course! At mile 9 I feel a hot spot on my foot, and stop at an aid station for Vaseline. About that same time, my stomach starts to express mild dissatisfaction with my choice of intake for the day. I decide some water for awhile would be prudent. After another mile, my stomach is not worse, but still not settled, I began to suspect that too much liquid and not enough solid food is the culprit. I ate some animal crackers. Then an orange slice. Still no better, but not worse either. I was starting to feel bloated, now too. I went for more coke. At mile 13.1 I am back within steps of the finish line, and my run special needs bag. It’s officially dusk now, and I was really pleased that I had finished the first out and back in the daylight. Now the second out and back in dusk might look different and I wouldn’t get bored. The hotspot on my foot was still nagging, so I whipped out the body glide, sat down, and slathered both feet with it. I probably spent at least 5 minutes doing this, but foot issues can really derail a race. (right, Tim?) As I turned my back on the battleship and headed out for my last lap, I choked up a bit, realizing that I had no question about whether I was going to be able to finish this race.
Some of the volunteers at the corners now were cheering determinedly and out of a sense of duty. The soft, barely heard cheers from fellow athletes was more heartfelt, more meaningful. The shared experience of the day put us in an inclusive group. I was still going. They were still going. We had done a lot so far. There was more to do. I again saw Mark at mile 16.5, then Miguel, then Tim. I made up a little time on them. I wonder if Naomi has gotten closer to me? It’s full dark now. The street lamps are a bit too far apart, but the glow from the aid stations can be seen ½ mile away. The cobblestones in the middle part of the out and back force me to pick up my feet, and the awkward camber of the street highlights the tired feeling in my feet and ankles. But I’m still running, and it feels easier than at mile 25 of a 50K run. Will it get harder? I’m maintaining a faster pace than anyone around me, which gives me a boost. I should be able to estimate my finish time now, I think. Let’s see. “An hour for the swim. My garmin at the end of the bike showed 7:50. So add the swim. That’s.. uh, um. 8:50. My first out and back was 2:30. But I spent some time with my special need bag.. maybe round that to 9 hours, and if I maintain this pace, well…”
I tried to consult my Garmin again, but the periodic spots of light provided by the street lamps only showed me a confused jumble of numbers. I pressed a button, looking for the back light, and accidently got into a menu screen. How do I get out of the menu screen? Does that mean I somehow interrupted the Garmin from recording. Aargh. How do I get out of the menu screen? Hm. Think. No, I’m sure its still recording. I think I press this button… wait for a street light… YES! Back to the main screen. Now, about estimating my finish time. I could stop… but I didn’t want to stop. So, I added in my head. And, my math skills at 11 hours of moving were not up to the task. I double added the swim, and convinced myself that even if I even split the run, I wouldn’t make it under 14 hours. *sigh* I would have liked to finish under 14. Dang. I walked up the next hill. I took an extra walk break. Let it go, I told myself. Come on, no matter what my time was, it was a PR, and I was still running and felt pretty good. I’ll just maintain this easy pace, and cruise on in. I see Naomi, and then not far behind her is Jane. Back through downtown Wilmington and the cobblestones. I hear surprise in the cheering voices now – “Go 173, THAT’s running, you make it look easy. Go Girl!” My stomach still hasn’t settled, but I’m two miles from the finish, so I ignore it. I walk the uphills. Just passed the last aid station, I walk up the final hill – a bridge – into the face of oncoming cars. Two guys jog up and pass me, but I keep my own pace. At the top, I start running down. Running and I free my legs from the imposed slow pace, or try to free them, and they don’t complain too much. I catch up to the guys, exchanging words again, and I decide to keep moving. My first ironman. I come up to the run special needs area – still others are leaving again into the dark, and I yell encouragement. The volunteers here ask if I am finishing. Yes, yes I am. I am finishing. And then there’s Co, running along side me, giggling a little, and telling me, “c’mon, let’s go!” I round the corner, with a big grin, I tell him that this is as fast as this train is going right now. He exits and I go towards the chute. I blink a few times, looking at the timing clock. It says 13:14… but… really? 13?
And then I’m through. I’m done. With my medal and space blanket around me, I find Co waiting for me at the exit area. “How do you feel?”
“I feel great! I felt great all day! Wow. I finished in 13:15! Or was it 13:18.. whatever, that’s great!”
Mark comes up, “See, I told you you’d be under 14. No problem!”
“wow, I can’t believe it.”
I think I tried to explain my miscalculation… no telling how that actually came across. After several hugs, the other outlaws go back to see Naomi and Jane finish. Co herds me to the food tents. I stop 20 ft away, and look. “I just want to stand here for a minute with a little less fuss and noise. What do they have?” After a minute or two, I decide to go for some pizza. I’m still too hot, though the night air is chilly. After a few bites of pizza, I spy a pile of ice on the grass 30 ft away. I watch it for awhile. No, it is clearly no-one’s ice. It’s a big pile. Standing up, I tell Co what I’m going to do. He guards my pizza. I unfurl my space blanket over the ice. And plop myself in the center of it. Hah! IM ice bath accomplished! While I sit very pleased with myself, an 8 yr old girl walks past. She sees me… then does a double take. Her jaw drops. She almost drops her plate of pizza. I can just see the thought going through her head. “THAT woman is sitting in a pile of ICE. Why would she do that? She’s SMILING. She must be crazy.”
Why, yes, little girl, I’m sure most of my friends would agree with you. But I ask you, who was able to do an ironman, and then hop over the cement walls later that evening? Hm?
Thanks to all the outlaws for being such great training partners, and especially thanks to our sherpas: Lorna, Lorraine, and Co for getting us and all of our stuff through the day in one piece with many words of encouragement!
I’m not sure when Mom started playing the guitar. Before I came along, that’s for sure. Her parents weren’t particularly musically inclined, I don’t think. I’d guess it was in college.
I remember singing a lot as a family. Not the performance kind of singing, in front of the church or other group, although that happened sometimes, but just-a-part-of-the-day singing. What I’d learn later was folk music. We sang the blessing before dinner. We sang in the car on longish trips. Mom & Dad would take my brother and I to song circles where people would congregate for an afternoon or evening – in a house, in the Gnu Deli restaurant in Eau Claire where a cold bottle of sarsaparilla was a favorite fizzy treat, or around a campfire – some would bring instruments, and some just their voices. We’d sing songs we knew, and learned songs we didn’t. We’d sing in rounds or choruses. Sometimes only a few would know the song, and the rest would listen, tapping their foot, maybe shaking maracas in time. Some, like mom, were good enough to pick up the chorus after a verse or two, and suddenly what was a one or two person melody would blossom into melody and harmony and would grow to include us all.
Mom always wrote music, too. I thought almost all the songs we sang together were ones that she wrote. I even told my kindergarten class in that matter-of-fact voice of a know–it-all child that my mom wrote the song (a girl scout camp favorite) “The other day… I met a bear… a great big bear… a way out there…” I was perplexed to find out later from her that she hadn’t. There were good times – hearing my dad’s bass rumble from the driver’s seat mix with mom’s alto, or at home with dad on the auto-harp and mom playing the guitar.
I spent my pre-teen and teen years disliking everything that Mom liked. It’s practically required of teenage girls that resemble their mothers. I rolled my eyes at folk music – hid in my room during song circles.
Now, some 20 years later, I tried to show some interest and pride in my mom’s hobby. It occurred to me during our weekly phone conversations that while I wish my parents would take an interest in my athletic hobbies – even though they never really have in the past – that I was just as disconnected from my mom’s musical pursuits. And then she told me in passing about the CD she was in the process of recording.
This time, I waded into the conversation, and asked about the songs she was including. After getting over no small amount of startlement, she told me of her plans for gathering a chorus for a few songs, and a friend with a violin for another, and working up one last song to be included. “You know,” she said, “I have about 180 songs. My voice isn’t getting any younger. I should really do a Christmas album too.”
How did she write 180 songs, and I had no clue? How many of those songs would I recognize as hers? Probably about 30. She never mentions the writing of these in her annual Christmas poem. She doesn’t mention them in our weekly phone conversations. I do hope that she shares her struggles and triumphs with tempos, chords and lyrics with her singing buddies.
So when she mentioned a few weeks later that she wasn’t sure who to ask to sing in the chorus with her on a song, I took a deep breath – and volunteered. “Well, Mom, if you have troubles getting a bunch of people, I could fly up and sing with you. No pressure,” here I was half hoping she would not find this appealing, “I don’t NEED to, but if you want… if it would help…”
It took no small amount of finagling our schedules – around hay fever season, her sore shoulder, my training – but last weekend I went up.
I paced K from mile 76 to mile 86.5 of the Leadville 100 mile Trail Run this past weekend. It was fantastic. Which window on the race should I choose to show you? The picturesque scenery? – it was.
The race itself? Anton Krupicka challenged the course record all day, only to drop at 78 miles. Read about it here (no, really – it’s good!). Timmy Parr won in 17hr27min. Lynette Clemons won the women’s race in 20hr58min. The organization of the race, the inner workings of the crew? Complicated and impressive. The state of our runners throughout the race? Well, there were ups and downs, and I’m pretty sure they were tired at the end. Each of these is a long story. Some of them aren’t really mine to tell.
What struck me about Leadville at the end of the race was the people. The racers. Some, maybe even half, were people like me. Oh, not our people. No, all of them are talented runners. They win overall awards, they set course records – they are talented. Maybe about half the field at Leadville were talented runners. But the rest? The rest were more like me. We’re decent runners, sometimes winning age group awards – especially the women as there are few of us at races. Mostly we don’t win, though. We’re in the top ~30% at races. We train hard, but not as hard as the talented runners. You can’t tell a talented runner from a decent runner by looking – yes, the scrawny arms help, but there are some slow looking fast people, and some fast looking slow people out there. But combine the appearance with the stride and with their focus, and you can make a good guess. There were two people I knew that finished to whom I could relate – no guessing necessary. One finished in 29:50 – she beat me by one minute at the Bandera 50K. The other finished in 27:43 – I beat him at Bandera by 16 minutes. These are people that run like me. It’s not as simple as, “well, if they finished, I’ll finish.” But it does mean that finishing is within my reach. I CAN do it, if I train hard and if the day goes well.
Part of the race that surprised (and haunts) me is the engagement of the RD with the spectators and the runners. Ken Chlouber holds a pep rally for the runners at 4 am – 24hrs before the start of the race. He fires them up, and makes them promise, to swear that they will not quit – they will finish this race. He sends off the race the next day with yet more words of encouragement, and a shotgun. Then, at the finish line as the 30 hour cutoff comes nigh, he turns to the spectators. He points down the course to a hill 1K away that cuts off the view of the course. He explains that runners cresting that hill have to make it to the tape before 30:00. That the runner that crosses the line one-one hundredth of a second over 30 hours will not be an official finisher. Their hard work over the last 30 hours, and over the months and years preceeding this day will not earn them a finish. Then he tells us spectators to make some noise and bring ‘em in. And we did. And runners kept cresting that damn hill, singly and in groups, and we yelled and clapped and stamped, telling them they had to hurry. Hurry, after almost 30 hours, or you won’t make it. They kept coming, even after we were certain that those runners cresting the hill were not going to make it. Yet your heart couldn’t help wanting them to get there. Until finally, Ken Chlouber raised his shotgun again and fired, ending the race at 30 hours on the dot, with runners a mere block away looking him in the eye. I wasn’t the only one to shed a few tears for those runners who were so close.
Two hours later, Ken held the awards ceremony. And he spoke to those that missed the cutoff. “I want all of those who didn’t finish to stand up. I want to talk to you. Two days ago, you stood amongst your fellow competitors, and you made a promise. You promised to finish this race, not to give up, not to fail. Yesterday, you started the Race Across the Sky, and today, you did not finish. The relentless climbs, the heat, the distance, they prevented you from finishing. But you did not fail. That’s right, you can come back, yes, you can – come back and finish what you started. We’ll see you next year.”
If you want to watch live drama, come to Leadville next year.
Oh sweet nectar of the gods, it is time. Time for me to pass over your glistening red can, to forget the sweet sound of popping you open, to ignore the allure of the effervescence on my tongue. This sudden shift is not you, no, it’s me. You are still as wonderful as you have always been – well, except for that nasty switch from sugar to HFCS. But I don’t hold that against you, really I don’t. It was a long time ago. It’s me. I need to make a change.
If it makes you feel any better – it won’t be easy for me. No, as I drink water or chocolate milk, I’ll be thinking of you. How well you complement my homemade salsa, my spicy barbeque pizza, and Co’s shrimp enchiladas. Be happy for me though – what I’m doing is better for me. I’ll actually get close to my RDA of calcium, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t be dehydrated all the time.
So, this is goodbye, for now… you’ll always be in my heart, if not my stomach.
Last night, we had a Leadville planning get together, for pacers, runners, and people who wanted to watch the madness. The race is next weekend. I'm pacing K from Fish Hatchery to May Queen.
The room was filled with people that have done the race, and people that have started but not finished. Most people have done some of both – that is, started the race say 10 times, and finished the race 5 times.
So word has spread that little ole me is going to sign up for Leadville. I signed the napkin. I got a lot of feedback on that decision last night, direct and indirect. I think I mostly appreciate the unwillingness of these runners to blow sunshine up my @$$. And maybe they even have insight into my psyche that a little doubt, a little skepticism can be a powerful propellant. Or most likely, they are just being completely honest. (I prefer the thought that they are giving me motivation.) They want to make sure I know what it will take to make a serious attempt. Because that’s all anyone can do for this race, it seems: come to the starting line prepared to make a serious attempt. They agreed that I would make it to the 50 mile point. After that, training and preparation will help, but it was said over and over again, that anything can happen to cut short the race – for anyone. (Can this be true? Do we all need a little magic to make it to the end? Analysis Girl is a little dismayed that there is no chart, no data, no agent-based computer model that will clearly illuminate the sure path to finishing Leadville.)
K has said that my slow cruising speed needs to get faster. (I think this is true. Makes sense: I’ll have to hold my slow, easy pace a long, long time. The faster that pace is, the better. Also, these runners that have finished this race…. Well, they’re all much faster than I am. So it would be wise to get faster. Plus, I think in training to go the distance, I will get faster. I got faster while training for Jemez 50K. Guess what? Work works.) Tools: * Tempo runs * Uptempo longish runs * Long run * Hills (Stair-climber counts!)
K (the other K) has advised that really I just need to train to run the first forty miles. Then just survive the second half. (I think this is a road to disaster for me. First, it almost gives me permission not to train as hard. Second, this method bets that my determination will get me to finish the race. I can be very stubborn, but I don’t want to bet on this alone. Then, there would be 18 hours of pain and discomfort over the last half of the race that I think will be worse than if I train to get faster. I don’t have any experience on how well I can keep moving through that kind of pain. And I know the last half of the race, I’ll be running scared – in fear of not making the cut offs. I accept that finishing this race will entail plenty of pain and discomfort, no matter the method. )
J gave me great advice I think. And that is to treat everything as training. Just train. Do plenty of 50Ks, and run them as training runs. Recovery will be fast, and just keep training. J’s longest training run was 42 miles. On her advice, I’ll do Bandera 50K in Jan 2010, and then the Rocky Raccoon 50 miler in Feb.
In actuality, after the planning meeting, I think K’s advice, and K’s advice are similar. I’m never going to attempt 100 mi in training. I’m only going to train up to 40 mi or so. So doesn’t that mean I am only training for the first 40 miles? And I know that in training more, I’ll get faster. And I know that no matter how fast I get, only my determination will get me through the last (painful) half. So, onward and upward! Just train.
I think my penchant for planning (nice alliteration, huh?) will be the way I make it. I already have a general pacing plan – it will get more detailed. I’ll plan out the aid stops, solutions to likely problems, and a few motivating ideals I can hold onto late in the race.
The struggle for me will be to take all the good advice and distill it down to what will help me. Also, the constant sticking point for me, is accepting advice from people I know are worlds faster than I am, and yet trusting that it still applies to me. This is tough.
So I get home, and try to work some of this through with Co.
Me: “This is going to be really hard for me.”
Co: “What is?”
Me: “Finishing. Just finishing.”
Co: “Well, duh. You knew that. I knew that. It’s one hundred miles. ”
Me: “Yeah. But I think that I can run 100 miles, it’s the cutoff… Only 30 hours. It’s going to be really hard for me to make that cutoff.”
Co: “So, what – you’re not going to do it now? Because you don’t know if you can make it?”
Me: “No. I’m going to do it.”
Co: “I know – next year, while you’re out there, I’ll hand you my ipod, and you can listen to Stephen King’s “The Long Walk.” I’m sure that will keep you going!”
I’m all for exaggeration, especially when used to impress others. A good fish story is, well, GOOD. I’m a better listener than story teller, so I appreciate embellishment and amplification as important devices to add color and heighten suspense.
But I find it's best not to believe your own fish stories, ya know what I mean? When your own story telling devices start to freak you out, it’s time to get a good grounding in the truth.
Fine, so when you’re telling friends about the race you’re about to do, fine, go ahead, tell them how far, the elevation change, the horrible sun and no shade. Elicit gasps of disbelief from them as you recount the feat you are about to undertake. Willingly. In fact, you’re paying for the privilege. Fine. But I gotta put a big ol’ firewall between that hyperbole and how I approach training for said race.
Let’s take a hard look at IM St. George for example. Here’s the bike profile:
And I think, gee, that’s a big ol’ hill right there, and, uh, I get to ride up it twice. Should I be worried about this hill? DP and Geekgrl seem a tad freaked out. but… but… It’s at lower altitude than we are (3000 ft, to my 7000 ft). Is this hill going to make me miss the cutoff?? Will I have to walk my bike up it??? Ack!!!
Shift gears into “analysis girl.” I should wear a mask, maybe. Ooo, do my colored lab safety glasses count?
Thankfully, handy dandy web tools exists that will let me map routes and tell me elevation points. Map my ride, and USATF are good. Plus, for comparison routes that I’ve ridden, I can make use of my Garmin Forerunner GPS data. (oh boy oh boy oh boy, I love data.) All I need is distance between points and elevation at each point.
Here is a graph of 3 routes I have done around ABQ and let’s compare them to the hill at IM St. George (Route 4), grâce á USAFT mapping. Route 1:Smiths on Central and Tramway through the canyon to the Triangle grocery. Route 2: Smiths through the canyon to the top of 337 (aka S 14). Route 3:Tramway from I 25 up past the casino to the tram.
I can tell you from experience that Route 3 is the steepest, and I’ve always thought the other two were comparable.
Survey says?
Ok, IM StG = totally doable. Yes, it’s a hill. Yes, I will ride it twice, and it’s long – but there are flattish spots. It is not, NOT I say, not harder than hills I ride all the time. (The % grade I calculated was from the last two points which is the steepest section only - though it is still an average over those 15 miles.) The trick will be to ride it at a level that still allows me to have a good run afterwards.
And, while we’re at it, it’s pretty clear why I’m sucking wind all the way up Tramway, even though it's only 6 miles.
I love this race. Loved it the first time, when I was much slower and it was all new. When I carried a camera with me, and took pictures the whole way, and didn’t mind that the camera (attached to my fuel belt) banged on my hip the whole time and gave me a huge bruise the next day.
Loved it the second year when it was hot but still pretty, I knew what to expect, and went faster. DP’s kids thought I was a dude as I was running down the jeep road to their aid station at mile 19. Loved that I ran 30 minutes faster than the previous year, and actually set my marathon PR by 7 minutes at this race which was incredibly tough for me.
Loved it this year. Loved feeling like I actually RAN it. Did that first mountain get less steep? Then the hill at 20 - still hard, but I remember its mythical stature from previous years, and this year it seemed a little… diminished. (The hill at 22 was still unhappy-making.) Loved having friends at the race doing it for the first time, loved carpooling with them and talking over the run. Loved that I ran 20 minutes faster than last year, and loved that it is such a small race that I finished second woman overall. This race is still gorgeous, even when running a little harder.
Run the Caldera Marathon, June 13th, 2009 26.2 miles, at 8000 ft elevation, with more than 2100 ft elevation gain over the course.
I got up very early (3:50) to make it to DP’s by 4:50 am. Bones joined DP, DP’s spouse, and I for the drive up in DP’s very spacious SUV. We left just after 5. This is the first time I didn’t drive, and getting to watch the scenery was really nice. We met GeekGrl and S. Baboo to caravan up from Bernalillo. We got there at 6:25 for a 7:30 start – early in my book, but there were a lot of people I hadn’t seen in awhile, so the time passed quickly. For once, I was the one in the know, having done the course twice before. I made sure to mention the killer hills late in the course at mile 20 and 22, roughly – they are easy to miss in the elevation profile as they are short compared to the mountain you climb early in the race, but very steep. I also extolled on the virtues of the cattle trough full of cold water at the finish. Very refreshing for tired legs.
As is my wont as a scientist/runner/type A, I wrote out several time scenarios. Would you like to see them? No? Too bad. 2007 finish: 5:45 2008 finish: 5:13 I wanted this year to finish under 5 hours. It had been 4 weeks since the Jemez 50K/SF100 weekend, and I was feeling recovered. Mostly. I hadn’t done any long runs since then, so I wasn’t sure about the state of my endurance.
Best case time: 4:45 This would mean running everything except small portions, and running 9 minute miles on the flat-to-rolling bits. At altitudes around 9000 ft. Very hard : 4:55 a tad more walking, and 9.5 min/mi Hard: 5:01 Moderate: 5:07 Do-able: 5:11
The small field of 48 grouped near the start with only a few overly intense souls toeing the start line. The rest of us hung around in the general vicinity. We started off with an air horn. Isn’t that a bit of overkill with less than 50 runners? Couldn’t you just yell, “GO”? The caldera had gotten rain in the week before the race, just enough to keep too much of the fine soil from being raised into a cloud of black dust by our tromping feet. It was cool and overcast, with chance of thunderstorms later in the day. Good running weather. I started near Bones. Since his goal was to finish well but comfortably, I thought I might beat him. (It’s helpful when the competition isn’t feeling competitive…) He’s speedy, and I know he’s faster over short distances. Plus, I thought he’d set a good controlled pace for the first 3 – 4 miles that are roughly downhill. Which he did. But did I stay with him? No. I was feeling pretty good. At one point, he said something to the effect of, “we’re doing 9 min miles – that’s too fast, Mo!” And I think I said, “I know, but I can’t help it.” And he had found someone to chat with. Since I wasn’t feeling like talking, I think we were both happier that I went off alone. I was sinking into the rhythm of running and breathing, looking and being. At mile three, the course turned uphill, gently at first. (I skipped the first aid station. My watch beeped every 30 min to remind me to take an e-cap or gel and water.) I kept running uphill, feeling good but slowing my pace down to 12 min miles. DP’s spouse started walking here to conserve energy, and I passed him. There was a guy ahead of me that kept about that pace, and I used him to keep me going. I caught him at mile 5, and we exchanged hellos, but not much more. There’s several streams that run through this area, some of them sulfur-y, but they provide nice background noise to get lost in. A few guys passed me after mile 7, I let them go as I thought following them would make me work too hard. As it was, I got to mile 10 (highest mark on the course) at 1:51… which was 2 minutes AHEAD of the BEST POSSIBLE time I had calculated. Ooops. I hoped I hadn’t spent too much on that climb – only time would tell. I took the next two miles easy, stopped and stretched twice, and tried to settle into a good pace. I ended up keeping about 9.5 min/mi down, with some parts at 10 – this is slower than I anticipated. The downhill is rutted and has some rocks, and I found it hard to get a rhythm. I could tell I was pretty tired. My calves were tight; I wished I had worn my compression socks. At the aid stations I was now refilling my water bottle (I drank 6 oz every three miles. I ate three gels over the course, and 2 e-caps an hour) and occasionally drinking some coke. At mile marker 15, my garmin said 14.5 miles, and it now looked like I wouldn’t finish under 5. I found it hard to enjoy the view coming down the mountain to the jeep road across the caldera as much as usual. I wondered if Mark and Steve were about to catch me after I wasted all that energy on the climb. I followed the road and it turned into the wind. I was getting hot here, so I doused my arm coolers with water. The simple fact of having cold arms (plus the scenery) shook me out of my disappointment. I decided to keep working. I could still beat my time from last year. So what if it wasn’t going to be easy? So what if it wasn’t a cake walk, wasn’t obvious, wasn’t a given, like some of my other races this year? The harder I had to work for it, the more I could enjoy it. So. I found I could run a little faster, and the need for discipline melted away. It’s so easy to talk myself into a corner, like the present is all that’s possible. The first step out of that corner is hard, but after that…
I wasn’t breaking any speed records here, but I picked my pace back up to 9.5 min miles and kept it steady. I caught a couple of the guys that had passed me going uphill. The rolling hills just before mile 20 caught me off guard, and I walked them at first. Then I ran as a guy I had just passed caught me. I “power-hiked” up the hill at mile 20, ran down it, and hiked up the next one. The volunteers here tell me I’m the 2nd woman! Woot! I think my exact words were, “No way!” I caught that guy again, and left him at the aid station. Then running downhill, my calves started to cramp. (The aid stations were a little shy on salty food selection, several only had pretzels which I don’t like.) Crap. So I get to the bottom and find a rock to stretch on. It took awhile to get them stretched out, and that guy passed me again (and he nicely asked if I was ok), I kept stretching until I felt them loosen. Better to resolve the problem now that to keep fighting it the last 5 miles. My garmin was about ¾ of a mile behind the mile markers at this point. I started running again, and I felt much better. Well, ok, my feet were achy and all the stabilizer muscles in my feet and ankles were tired, but I felt ok. I caught up to that guy again, and just kept him 20 yds in front of me. It’s mentally easier for me to follow someone than to feel pushed from behind. At the aid station at mile 23, I took some cherry coke. Blech. It was all they had. At this point, knowing the course was a huge benefit to me. I knew it was largely downhill from here, with a few flat sections and bumps. I did, however, start to let myself believe the mile markers instead of my garmin. Believing them meant that I would finish in 4:45, and that made me a bit too happy to be realistic. It did keep me focused… until after mile marker 25. Because all the miles since mile 13 were marked short, mile 25 was long. Really long. So although the aid station volunteer said there was only 1.5 miles to go, it was more like 2. I pushed the pace a little here, thinking I was close, and then it slowly sunk in as I ran, and ran, that I should trust my garmin. I passed the guy I’d been tracking for the last 5 miles at mile 25, and kept going. Finally I saw the clearing with our cars in it through the trees, and then the finish line. I couldn’t make out the numbers on the clock from across the field and I couldn’t look at my watch because the footing was so uneven. As I got close, I saw it read 4:5X and I was so happy I had kept it together.
My final time was 4:54:54. Kurt was there cheering, and he told me he thought I was second woman also. I was more excited to tell him that I finished 20 minutes faster than last year. I talked over the run with Ruthanne, who did fantastic, and went straight to the cattle trough. The one filled with cool water to soak my feet and calves, and wash off the dirt. The one I told all my friends about.
It was empty! The huge container of water was sitting right next to it on the trailer, but there was no hose. *sigh* I was disappointed, and I wished I hadn’t talked up that aspect of the race quite so loudly to my friends.
It took a little while for my calves to loosen up and my feet to feel less achy after the race. As second woman, I was supposed to receive a decorated plate. Unfortunately, they were not there to be given away, so the race organizers took our addresses. I did get 1st in my age group and so got a painted tile for that, which is nice. Shortly after I finished, I saw DP’s spouse cross the line, and then Bones and S. Baboo. I walked back up the trail maybe ½ mile with DP’s spouse to cheer her on, and run in with her.
The ride back was pleasantly spent recounting the tough parts, the pretty parts, and everything in between. And post race, I got called crazy freakin’ fast. I have no delusions about how fast I am, but it’s nice to hear other triathletes call me fast.
And now I get a break from racing, from testing myself for a little while. Time to enjoy training again. Time to get back in the pool after an 11 month hiatus.
And days later, at mile 93 of 103 mile bike ride during Big Weekend while I was drinking a Coke, the unmasking:
Wolf: "And next year, Mo will do this whole thing on foot - with a mountain pass thrown in!!"
Really, the only thing that saved the wolf from the great and terrible wrath of Mo turning his bicycle into a pretzel was that I still had a Coke in my hand.
I drove up Friday taking about 2:15 to get to Los Alamos. Check in was easy, I got number 685 – nice and divisible by five, with numbers that are in my birthdate. I might be a closet numerologist. The pasta feed was unremarkable. At the course talk we were reminded that many people have gotten lost in previous years (and I was one of them during the ½ marathon last year!).
The North Road Inn was nice – we had three bedrooms, and a kitchen/living area. Not fancy schmancy, but really perfect for our needs. Amy, Jane and Steve went out for dinner, eschewing the pasta and Ragu. While waiting for them to get back to the inn, Ken, Josh and I played a little “oh Heck.” Tough to play with three people, we all ended up with terrible scores, with Ken winning by a lot. Tim came in and packed his camelbak for the next day. I had made up possible time scenarios – three of them, but I felt they might all be too ambitious (8 hrs, 8.5 hrs, 9:10). Ken gave me some estimates on when he’d reach certain points, so I tried to add an appropriate number of hours onto his times, then compared that to my time estimates. My gut said I might finish in about 10 hours. To stay on that target I thought I should reach the top of Caballo (11.9 mi) in 3:30, then the ski lodge (19.8 mi) in 6 hours. Then the finish in 10 hrs. I thought I could remember these targets no matter how tired I was.
Before the race weekend I put a lot of importance on how I would do in the 50K. If I couldn’t finish in around 9 hours (please at least under 10…), I didn’t see how I’d be able to finish Leadville, even with a year and a half to work on it. I’ve been running a lot and loving it, but if I haven’t gotten any faster, any more endurance… I’d have to lower my sights a bit. Maybe change how I’ve been training. On the other hand, I thought – how cool! Try something that will be beautiful and challenging. Do it with friends. See what happens. No matter the outcome, no matter what the clock says, what my GPS says, being out there can feel amazing, like I am a part of the whole course. Let’s go! I can’t really say which half was louder….
About 9 pm, Jane, Steve and Amy return, we all talk over what we’ll wear, food we’ll carry, weather, the course… And I take an Ambien and head to bed. The ambien ensured that I fell asleep readily enough, but it doesn’t exactly KEEP me asleep. I woke up a few times, but all in all, I got more and better sleep than I usually do.
Wake (5:00). Dress. Oatmeal. Coke. Pack up the car. Steve rides over with me. Although tempted, I did not subject Steve to any Mo Karaoke. Check-in. Wait 20 minutes.
Start.
I seeded myself to the middle back. This is a funky course that covers a lot of ground – not just a simple out and back. The first 6.4 miles were part of the ½ marathon course last year. We climbed up to Guaje ridge – I was still with people at this point. 43 minutes to Mitchel trail head ahead of schedule. The climb to the ridge, I hiked. I knew I had lots of climbing ahead, so I held it steady. I reached the ridge at 1:35, right on schedule.
After Guaje ridge, we went down a treacherous trail, loose scree, narrow with a steep drop to one side, uneven surfaces. I thought I’d be picking up speed here, but after I put a foot wrong and my leg shot out from under me I lost my nerve. So, I cautiously descended. At the bottom, we followed a stream up the canyon. It was gorgeous down there – Golden Pea flowers bobbed near the flowing water. And it was quiet in a way – closed in, blanketed by the sound of the water. Soft trail underfoot (though still uneven) wound up the canyon, crossing the water at five points or so. The stream was wide enough I had to jump each time – which makes me feel like a kid. At one point the trail leads to an iron ladder to the side of a 12 ft tall cement holding wall over which the water fell. In my time estimates, I underestimated how I’d handle the gradual climb here up the canyon – I hiked quite a bit. I tried to dodge the feeling of uncertainty in how I was doing by enjoying the surroundings.
I reached the base of Caballo, ate and drank, filled my water bottles, and started up. (I did very well on nutrition and hydration on this race.) The climb was hard. I was with a group of 6 or so to start, but soon we broke up each going our own pace. It was hard work, but that was to be expected. There were runners headed down on the same path, and I see Tim on the 50 mile course – he looked like he was concentrating pretty hard. Not too much farther up, Ken comes shooting down the trail and he tells me to be careful coming down because the footing is loose. He looked good, relaxed and efficient. Lucky dog. A little while later (which, when climbing slowly, seems like an eternity) Jean runs down toward me, with Maria just off her shoulder. Wow, they look great. Then Amy comes down, and not far behind her is Steve, who tells me I’m not far from the top. And you know what? He wasn’t lying. It’s a pet peeve of mine that people tell me I’m not far, and then it turns out their definition of not far, and my definition of not far are NOWHERE near the same thing. Of course, the tricky thing about “not far” is that it depends on how good or bad I’m feeling. The worse off I am, the shorter my definition of not far actually is. This does make it a bit difficult for others to pinpoint, I concede. I reach the top, and it’s nippy up there! The volunteers are wrapped in sleeping bags. Admire the view, and around the cone I go, back down the mountain. I check my watch, and I was right on target – 3:30. “I guess it will take me 10 hours,” I think. *sigh* On the downhill I start to feel better, and I move downhill well, passing several people, maybe 8.
I had really examined the course profile, so when I reached the bottom of Caballo and the aid station volunteer said, “there, you’re done climbing! The rest is downhill.” - I knew he was oh-so-wrong. In fact, the next non-unsubstantial climb started almost immediately past the aid station. My climbing muscles were tired, but I plugged and chugged, hiked up the switchbacks. People ahead of me were starting to slow down. At the top, I started jogging immediately. After 30 seconds or so, the legs feel weak, like I should stop, but I don’t. I know that feeling will pass if I keep jogging. It does. I passed more people now, as they continued walking. My legs felt tired, but still ok – no cramps, I was still moving pretty easily. I reached pipeline in a running groove. Drank some coke – 2 cups. Water, tried a boiled potato, ate something salty. I didn’t really dig the boiled potato. But my stomach didn’t care too much and it handled everything I threw down my gullet. Maybe I paused here too long, as some of the guys I passed got to the station and headed out before I did. So, right, Ken says this isn’t a sight-seeing trip, so let’s go. I’m running, but most aren’t anymore. Some give me envious looks as I pass them. I feel good. Just 3 miles to the ski lodge, and I suddenly think that I’m getting ahead of schedule. That fuels me. This section was fun – I had been here 2 times in the winter skiing and it was a kick to suddenly be somewhere that was both familiar, and unfamiliar with all the snow gone. I saw Amy, and then Steve on this section as they are headed back to pipeline. This section is great to run on – wooded and rolling, wide trails. Before I know it, I’m at the ski lodge, and they cheer as I run in. ok, that’s a bit odd – but I’m happy to be there, so maybe the cheering is for my big smile. I hit the aid station at 5:25, ahead of schedule.Wahoo!
MMmmm, ham and cheese wrap. More coke. More water, Gatorade, etc. Bathroom – I’m dehydrated, despite the cool weather and my drinking like a fish. *sigh* More water. More sunscreen. And I head out leaving the station feeling great at 5:33. Awesome! Let’s get back to pipeline and then get down to the finish. I thought maybe I’d have problems running back to pipeline – it’s slightly uphill. But I ran it, passing more people. Ran passed the photographer, and though he didn’t get a picture of it, I was smiling. Maybe it was on the inside. Pipeline aid station shows up really quickly. Fuel, fuel, fuel.
I follow the sign out of pipeline down a jeep road, and …
There’s a big hill down the road. It looks like a wall. The course profile indicated some rolling hills, but this was more. It was intimidating. I pass this guy, and he asks me how much longer I think it will be. It’s now 6:15 hrs in, and we have 11 miles to go. Normally, I’d say two hours, or less as it’s mostly downhill. It won’t be that easy though, as the hill in front of us suggests. I tell him 2.5 hrs and keep moving. And now, I start telling myself to pay attention. It’s here that people get lost, missing turns. No bonus miles this year. Keep looking for the course flags. I round a corner on the jeep road, and see another wall. I may have groaned. But shortly there after, I see course markings directing me to another forest single track trail. Another very run-able section, and I love it still – feeling my legs moving, listening to the wind in the aspens. There’s no one in sight now. I enjoy the solitude.
The course flags are placed far apart here, and I get nervous at a few points. I haven’t seen any other trails to follow, but if I were to miss a turn, I wouldn’t see the other trail. Every flag I see is a little pat on my back. I arrive back at the Guaje ridge station, where I get more sunscreen, more water, more fuel. I’m getting a little tired of fuel at this point. Nothing is particularly good. Not that it’s bad, it’s just not good. And now my feet are definitely tired, and hot. Five miles to the next aid station, and only seven miles to the finish. Resolutely, downhill I go. This section is down a rocky ridge, with several downed trees to climb over. It’s exposed, and the sun is out. I get a little warm, but I don’t feel like drinking anymore. I do some anyway. I’m back on a portion of the course I’ve seen before. It was on this section that I got lost last year. I came to that spot and this time, I took the path most traveled by!
I see someone now in the distance. I think I can catch him. Pushing a little, I am catching him – then he looks back, sees me, and takes off. The trail undulates, and he’s walking the hills while I keep running. A perfect scenario to keep my head where it should be. I pass him, and figure I still have a mile to go to the aid station. As I get close, I see a sign, striped red and white that reads, “Naughty!” Stopping in my tracks I wonder if I’ve gotten off course again. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t it read, “wrong way” or something? Hm. I keep going, and see another sign that reads, “or NICE?” colored in red and green. Ok, this must mean the aid station is close, and I am on the right track. I get there, and they tell me how good I look (and I actually believe them – I must be delusional). Their station is Christmas themed. It’s funny. I spend little time here, thinking – I’m just 2 miles from the finish. It’s just past 8 hours. I can do this under 9! I remember this section from last year, and it was hard – I was toast after doing 6 bonus miles, and it’s a little uphill. This year, though, I ran most of it. And I felt great about it. I almost stepped on a snake, too, but that’s beside the point. I was not toast. I was still running. My feet hurt (and my neuroma had bothered on and off the whole race) but it hurt no more to run than to walk. And the discomfort wasn’t that bad. I finally got to the road, and the finish line. Where they actually did tell me I could stop now. After 8:37. That’s flippin’ fantastic.
Post race, I hear how everyone else did, see Amy’s war wounds, hear that Keri came in second overall by only 6 minutes and won the women’s race. Everyone did great. I am so happy that I ran the second half of the race, relieved and disbelieving that I finished as fast as I did feeling as good as I did. I came in 13th woman, of 36, and 44th overall of 96.
And then I headed home to sleep and get up to bike the Santa Fe Century on Sunday.
Santa Fe Century, 103 miles:
I had trouble sleeping, but I got out of bed on time, and on the road. I thought I’d arrive at 6:50, and be ready to go at 7 as we had all planned, but there was a line of cars waiting to park at the start area. After finding Jane, Mark, and Chris, getting ready, it was 7:30 by the time we headed out. Ooops. Opposite from Saturday, I’m pretty confident in my ability to finish this 103 mi ride. I may need to draft quite a bit, but I’ll do it.
We started with all the Outlaws, but they pretty quickly left me, Jane, Ken, Amy and Chris behind. We enjoyed the downhill road out of Santa Fe, and felt like we were rolling along just fine. I was tired, and felt like I should concentrate on conserving my energy until the last 20 miles, after Galisteo. The first couple of climbs showed me that completing this day was going to be no joke. My legs had no zip, no power. To boot, my stomach just would not settle down. I had to keep eating and drinking, even so. Here’s the reality: on Saturday, I burned 3500 calories just running, plus my regular metabolic expenditure of 1400 or so. I probably consumed 2400 calories that day – I couldn’t really eat anything that evening when I got home. That’s about 2500 in the hole. I had lost more than 4 pounds on Saturday. Today, I would burn about 2500 cycling, plus the daily 1400. With probably most of the muscle glycogen gone from the day before, whatever I couldn’t supply through eating would come from metabolized muscle and fat. So, I felt nauseous, and drank Gatorade, water, and ate chex mix, PB&J sandwiches, melon chunks (ugh, don’t think about chunks…) anyway. About mile 30, my bike started making alarming creaking noises from the handlebar area.
We got to Heartbreak Hill which Ken and Amy had not been up before. Amy thought it didn’t look so bad! Heading up, I was feeling a bit grumpy because of my bike, and my stomach and maybe because I was tired and had low blood sugar. Which made me stubborn. Very stubborn. I decided to climb HH without traversing, without stopping. About halfway up, Jane’s telling me to go ahead and traverse a little, there’s no traffic. I think I grunted. She might have been a little alarmed at how hard I was breathing. But I held out to the top. Maybe a dumb way to spend my muscle energy, but it was a nice boost to me psycologically. Surprisingly, shortly after Heartbreak hill my stomach started to feel better.
When we turned north, I was really starting to get tired. My morale was pretty low. Chris, Amy, and Ken kind of drift off ahead. I turned to Jane and she absolutely pulled me through. Literally. I sucked her wheel from Stanley to Galisteo, letting her go a couple of times on inclines only to catch her on the downhills. She was awesome. She tried to make conversation, and she did keep me entertained, but I wasn’t able to hold up my end of the bargain very well. And as we got close to Galisteo, we caught up to Amy and Ken. Thanks, Jane. You rock.
And here, I became famous. It was all about the socks. My compression socks were white, and knee high. Picture that with my black spandex bike shorts, and my shrek bike jersey. I was stylin’. (ha.) However, some of my fellow bikers couldn’t decide whether I was wearing tube socks, or was trying to dress like a catholic school girl. I had no idea of the confusion I was causing until at the Galisteo station, 20 miles from the finish, when a couple of guys asked me, “so, what’s with the socks?” Apparently, it took them 80 miles to screw up their courage. So I explained that they were compression socks. “Oh, like Tor Bjorn at the Ironman?” one guy says. I nod. They all nod and start asking me whether I think they work, do I like them, do I do triathlons… So, if you want some extra attention, wear compression socks to non-running, non-triathlon events. I’m just sayin’.
After Galisteo, it was only 12 miles or so to the coke stop. The aid station with a gas station next door where I could buy a coke. I had been talking about this all day. A Large Coke. Jane and I sang a little song about how much our butts hurt. Because they really did. A lot. Amy was struggling a bit at this point, I stayed with her for a while. Then Jane joined us. As we headed to the last climb, I felt like I needed to go my own pace… and I could taste that coke. I road into that gas station, completely bypassing the aid station, and bought a huge fountain coke. Actually, Ken bought it for me – he said I looked so happy holding that coke. I paid it forward when Amy came up, giving her cash to buy her very own coke. I understand the importance of a good Coke fix. I think they should sponsor me.
Our team of five had a little miscommunication here, as Ken and Amy wanted to get back (Jean and Josh had been waiting for hours for them) they went ahead. Jane, Chris and I, once we were convinced they had gone ahead (and I had finished my huge coke), we cruised in those final miles. I was feeling much better after the coke infusion, and we really motored.
And with that, my big weekend was over. I’m surprised that I did it. When I write out on paper that I ran 33.2 miles then the next day rode my bike 103 miles, I still shake my head. I’m doing it now.
I'm 36, and in the last two years I've finished a lifelong goal of doing an ironman race. Two actually. And I finished something I thought was impossible, the Leadville 100 Trail Run. Now what do I do with myself?
I keep my head straight forward, while trying to scan the right side of the road for the coyote. “Maybe,” I think, “if I pretend not to see it, it won’t get nervous and run off.”
