A Roller Coaster JMTR 50K race - highlights

The Jemez Mountain Trail Run 50K unfurled exactly like a roller coaster for me. The course is a roller coaster - cranking slowly uphill, getting very high, swooping downhill, smoothly flying along wide easy trails and then being jarred by the rough terrain on a narrow trail hoping over downed trees. On top of that, I had placed big lofty expectations on myself. I'd trained for this race - mountain runs on Wednedsay nights, good tempo work, long runs - but I wasn't sure it'd be enough for me to finish under 8 hours. And so the race was a roller coaster for me mentally as well. 

You may think 8 hours is a cakewalk for a 50K. I mean, come on, that's 14:20 miles!!! Please, keep in mind that this race is at elevation (7000 ft to 10500 ft), it climbs ~7000 ft (and descends 7000 ft) over the course, and while it's advertised as a 50k, it actually is almost 2 miles long at 33.5 miles. Some describe it as the hardest 50K in the US.

If we ignore the fall I took at 1.5 miles in that resulted in covering me with fine black dust on one side, the first aid station came and went without issue, and I was right on track time-wise. I saw Amy and Sweet Baboo on the course - generally they are faster than me, but the pace felt fine so far. At the top of Guaje ridge, I was 4 minutes behind, but, not to worry, there's a downhill coming. At the Caballo base aid station, though, I was floored to find I had fallen further behind - now 23 minutes!!! I drew consolation on the climb up to the top of Caballo that the time goal for the base was just a guess, while the goal for the top of Caballo was based on last year. I focused, and climbed steadily, pushing a few sections. I caught up to a couple of guys - we were all hiking at this point. As I toyed with the idea of passing them, one guy - in basketball shorts - called over his shoulder in a very 'Bill&Ted's Excellent Adventure' voice, "Hey Kool- Aid, how's it goin'?"

I did look over my shoulder, but there wasn't anyone else he could possibly be addressing. I hoped he'd think the big pause was because I was breathing hard, because I really wasn't sure how to take this new nickname. Was he hoping I'd offer him a fakely fruity sugary beverage from some imaginary pitcher I was hauling up the mounatin? Was I quite a bit more bloated than I thought I was? Was my belly sloshing loudly as I ran? I considered my options....


and came up with: "OH YEAAAHHHHHH!"

before passing him and his buddy and wishing them luck. The red shirt and white arm coolers probably inspired this 'duuuude' to come up with the nickname... that or the altitude induced light-headedness....

I hit the top right on time, and took a fig newton as a reward. Excellent - I was thrilled to have caught back up, and I was excited to head downhill: the trail shoes I was wearing were perfect for the loose dry dirt and also the rocky downhills sections of the race. I sailed downhill, passing several more tentative people, and seeing all my friends looking happy and determined. I hit the base now 3 minutes ahead of schedule (!!!) and felt ready to tackle the next big climb. It seemed to take forever, cranking up this climb, but I hiked steadily and thought I was staying on track. At the Pipeline AS at about halfway, my stomach sunk to my shoes when I saw I was again 14 minutes behind. Disappointed and bewildered at how I lost so much time, I grabbed some food and dashed out of the AS.

This low point required a bit of self talk to climb out of. I reminded myself that last year I hit the upcoming Ski Area AS at 5:05. My time goal this year is 4:45. I might not make the goal, but I can still beat last year's time. I must make up some ground here if I'm to break eight. This section is smoooooooth. After the climbing, downhill, and more climbing, the trail through the forest on dirt and grass - not roots and rocks - is heaven. I got a barnacle through here - a guy latched on and followed me. I found myself starting to push - maybe a little too hard? Should I work this hard on this section? at this point in the race? I have several hours to go... He was right on my heels. Maybe if I move over, he'll go past me. hm. Nope. I stopped to let the barnacle go free, and he says, " oh, no come on - you're pace was perfect - keep going!" I begged off, using the excuse that I needed another electrolyte, and sent him off with a "good job."

At the aid station, I was sure that since I'd been pushed from behind I'd have caught up - I almost didn't look at my watch. When I did, I gulped my coke in a hurry and left. No bathroom stop for me, I was still 12 minutes behind the goal, though I was 8 minutes ahead of last year. As I hiked up the trail, I wondered if it was even worth hurrying at this point. I was dehydrated, hot, and tired. My neuroma hurt, my sciatic nerve was killing me, my hamstrings ached, and a nerve in my thumb would occaisonally send shooting pains up my arm. I could run it in not to terribly hard and still PR. It just might not be under 8. And suddenly that line of thinking just pissed me off. When do I think like that? Determined now not to settle for what was easy, I worked steadily into the pipeline AS.

The clock now read 5:38. (If I had thought through the math, I had 2:22 to make ~11 miles. It's mostly downhill. I can do that. But I didn't think that hard.) I only knew I needed ~29 minutes to do the last 1.9 miles out of the canyon. I darted out of the aid station on the heels of a couple I'd played leapfrog with the whole race. While downing a gel and some chips I told them about the two "surprise!" hills coming up and then the technical downhill miles. I passed them and pushed until I reached the single track trail, and then kept drinking and working to keep relaxed. Which sounds dumb, but is accurate nonetheless. I knew I had to keep working and not give up on this section. Last year, I stopped eating 1.5 hours from the finish "because I was close" and then used that as an excuse to not work too hard. After miles of forested somewhat technical downhill, you spill out onto Guaje ridge and hit the Aid station. I was looking for that aid station around every bend so that I could consult my watch, the final arbiter in the measure of my success in this race. At the table,  I looked - both resigned and determined - and saw that I was now only 5 minutes behind my time goal. It was 6:25.

I had to get to the Rendija canyon aid station 5.3 miles away of very technical rocky uneven downhill trail before 7:30. I can do this. Now, if ever, is the time to work, run hard and steady, save a little for the last 1.9 miles of uphill. More coke,  more chips, more gel, more water. I was on the clock, and I needed to make every minute count. On the exposed, burnt out ridge, the trail twists and turns over sunbaked slickrock with loose sand, rubble, boulders, and tree stumps interspersed. It's tricky, this section - I downhill best when I can turn off my active brain, and just ~~~go~~~ but at this point, after more than 6 hours of running, I felt the absolute necessity of not putting a foot wrong, of plotting out every step. The feet hurt, the ankles ache, the quads are tired - I felt like I couldn't afford to fall or stumble. Which is exactly the wrong way to go downhill fast. It's about trusting yourself and knowing that you'll absorb a small mistake (and not thinking about the consequences of a large mistake). The fine line of keeping your eyes on the trail and being watchful, but not watching every rock that you pass is tough to negotiate late in a race.

While focusing on the race car feeling that helps me smooth out, I heard approaching footsteps behind me. "let me know if you need to pass" I say. A loud moan comes from behind, "Oh, don't say that, nooooooo. Don't.. Don't do thaaaat to meeeee..." And the footsteps stop to a walk as I continue running. A little bemused, I run on thinking and not thinking, keeping the effort high. Ten minutes later, I hear more footsteps: "let me know if you need to pass," I say. And the voice comes again, "uhhhgh, no, don't... "

"oh, you again. Ok. we'll get there. Hope that jeep road comes soon, huh?"

*crickets and thudding footsteps of the whiny barnacle*

We twist and turn on down the ridge. As the slope shallows out, it's harder to keep pushing but I do anyway, knowing that I might just get my goal if I can keep working, for crying out loud. The footsteps behind sound a little erratic and heavy. Just before the jeep road, the footsteps fall back and I attack the jeep road alone. I'd forgotten how uneven, grooved, and steep the short jeep road section is. When I glance at my watch I see it's already after 7. I need to hustle to that aid station - where did the time go? As the route diverts us back to trail, I pick up the pace. Gotta fly. I run the short uphills, all of them. I run over the boulders and ledges. I desperately think only of running forward and not on how my quads almost gave out going up on that boulder. Not on the skidding as I round a switchback. No shuffling, we're running. Pick the knees up, use your glutes. Everything is tired, but I'm proud of how hard I'm working. The few people I pass give encouragement, and I return it - although a little breathlessly.

I see a sign. No, not one in the sky - a cardboard sign, with sharpie writing... oh I've got to be close to that aid station... yes! there it is. As my water bottle is being filled and the aid station people are trying to assess if I am in my right mind (or at least in control of enough of my faculties to keep moving), I steel myself and look at my watch. What is to be the outcome? Under 8 or over?

7:20

I turn back to the volunteers, suddenly very excited, thank them for helping, and say, " I've gotta go, I'm trying to break eight!" They must have been runners themselves, because they all knew exactly what I was talking about. They shouted, "it's less than 30 minutes to the finish if you keep moving - you can do it!" (I <3 those aid station volunteers!)
I'd love to say I bounded up the slope - but at least I was running. I was sure I would break 8 hours - I was happy, satisfied, and relieved.... After the tunnel, it occurred to me slowly that if I didn't dawdle I'd actually break 8 by more than a little bit. Cuz, you see, 7:20 plus 30 minutes is 7:50. I double checked the math a couple of times. Hey, that'd be nice. Really nice. ummmm, so, I guess I better RUN the rest of this. How much under will I get? no, strike that, how much under will I earn?  Only one way to find out. I picked it up, tried to empty the tank over the last mile. The stone staircase 1/4 mi from the end showed that I was not that stable on my feet anymore as I lurched up it grabbing on to the rocks. The finish line appeared, a party in full swing with the aroma of hamburgers, and I ran nearly all out to get there. And stopped my watch: 7:47.

7:47 - I feel like a real runner with that time. That's good! Good for 11th woman overall, too. A PR by 28 minutes.

I worked hard for that. It was hard, and it was easy, and hot, cold, smooth, rough, high and low all at once. But it was always fun. I think I should give this racing thing a few more tries!

Not Sure about this, but wish I was.

Jemez 50K is tomorrow. This is my 3rd time doing the 50K, and I'd really like to break 8 hours.

Last year, I went out too fast, and in my tiredness decided to take it easy the last 6 miles. I finished with an 8:15 and felt good about that - 15 min faster than the year before. Then a few days later, on reflection, I wished I had given more, stepped up and tried for those last 6 miles.

So now the race is dead ahead. My hips and hamstrings are really tight. I don't know what my training has been good for. Seems like I'm a little faster. Seems like I should do ok, but ... I just don't know about this, after all. I haven't been memorizing my goal splits, I don't have a plan.

Sometimes these pre-race posts are about setting the bar low for guaranteed success. Is this one of those? I don't know. I feel pretty wishy-washy. And this year, no KC to run with me and keep me honest. Time to be my own best running partner and coach.

So: the plan is to keep it easy to steady through the huge climb up Caballo. Reach the top at 3h 5 min. Move through the aid stations, stop only for water and coke. Keep eating through the last 6 miles. Hit Guaje ridge AS at 6:20 or so. Run the last mile like I stole something.

I feel better already.

Oh thank goodness.

I weeded the garden.

I balanced the checkbook.

I did yoga. FOUR TIMES.

I washed the dog.

I thought about giving up Coke again for awhile, but gave up on that.

I did some trail maintainance - took down some deadfalls, rebuilt a bridge with Co, trimmed back lots of brush, took out some stumps.

I watched TV. I read a book (re-read "The Count of Monte Cristo"). I read another book. (A dog's purpose.)

BUT I DID NOT RUN. (much)  For two interminably long weeks. I'd forgotten that Weekends actually lasted that long! Sure, I needed the time off. At first it didn't seem odd to not run and I happily crossed items off my dusty to do list. The three short easy runs I did the first week were sluggish, but enough to feel like I was still a runner. By week two, my 4 ersatz runs left a dull residue behind that colored the rest of the day. Some runners will talk about getting some snap back in their legs while resting - I wasn't feeling that, and I was starting to get darkly suspicious that this resting gig was going to make me lose the fitness I was hoping to build. I didn't feel like a runner anymore, I felt like a pretender. If disgruntled had a color, I was wearing it.

Tuesday of my first week back running = 2.5 mile Handicap Race. That's what I wanted, something to test how well the resting treated me. I should get a PR. After 2 weeks off, I should be totally ready for a little 2.5 mile race. I even stated my intention to try to PR to the guys, and GL offered to help by pacing me. Perfect. The temp was a little warm, maybe, but otherwise conditions were good. I told GL that the first mile had to be 7:10 or under, and I wanted to finish under 19 minutes. We started, and the pace immediately just felt incredibly hard. After the first mile in 6:57, I was toast.  Then came the hills. I didn't just have one fork in me, I was skewered from stem to stern - I was that done. I slouched across the line in 20:04. I was miserable, light headed, and dejected.

I came up with several explanations. I laughed about not being quite ready for that PR after all with the guys. I binned the excuses. It was what it was. The next few runs I completed with a slight air of resignation, and they were no better in terms of pace or feel. The next week's handicap run was even worse - and the next day I had set up to run up the mountain on Three Gun Springs trail with MB.

It sounds challenging and bad-ass, but I knew it was an out and back, MB would go ahead at his pace, and I could do whatever I could manage (or less) and it'd be fine. Plus, MB tells me that it's really only ~2.5 miles to the top. So no big deal.

About half way up - MB already out of sight ahead of me, I found a little "zone." Well, that's nice, I thought, in a patronizing tone. I can still run. Another half mile along I was still running, and my snark must have taken a wrong turn, because it was gone. Sunset was hastening down the mountain while I ran through forested sections. MB caught me, and I turned around. It was a great run, whether I deserved it or not.  

Thursday speed work went ok, and the Friday 9 miler felt pretty good, though I overheated a bit in the beginning. I was really preoccupied with my Saturday plans. I needed a long run with the ski hill in it to get ready for Jemez, so I planned on going from my house up the ski hill to the 10K trail and Osha spring loop for 20 miles. I wasn't going to have any company, but I was going to do this run. No bailing. That morning, I dawdled around, and finally kicked myself out the door at 11:30 in shorts and a t-shirt. The overcast sky happily meant I wouldn't need to reapply sunscreen. I brought the trimmers with me so I could do a little bush trimming on my route. The run became somewhat laughable as I got snowed on, sleeted on, and rained on while I postholed through scattered snow patches on the 10K trail trying not to think about being cold. I cut the route short as I had taken much too long, and skipped the Osha Spring loop. While short, slow, cold and wet, the run left me optimistic for no particularly good reason.

Sunday I was set to run easy with DP along the bosque - nice and flat. I took in some protein in the form of gnats during the 9 miles. It felt good, though I was a "miguel" to DP's "mark."  Later that evening, the goodness wrapped around me like swaddling. That was a great weekend of running. I did what I wanted to do, and it was good. So simple.

I have a race this weekend, so Monday's recovery run was kept strictly to a slow easy pace and route. And today, Tuesday's handicap race... I had toyed with the notion of running it hard, but decided against it to better save myself for the weekend.Which I told the guys - no PR attempt today.

"Every plan is good until the first shot is fired."

The guys were going easy too. Right out of the gate, I felt really, really good. I quickly decide to make this a fartlek run instead - run the first mile hard, then take a half mile easy, then do the last mile hard. So off I go, leaving the guys to their easy pace. I hear CS comment, "she is running fast today" followed by the sound of his approaching footsteps. Cool, company. We go through the first mile in 7:03, and the effort still feels easy and right. With CS there, looking at me, I push on - should be able to go 19:30, even if I fall apart.
The hills were hard - I lost some ground, and had to pick it back up. I got to the road, ~3/4 of a mile left in 13:18. "Dang" I said to CS, still next to me or just in front pulling me along. That was too slow. It takes me 6 minutes or more to run the last section, which meant a 19:18 today at best.  CS wasn't having any of that, though. And since I didn't have the breath to explain it, he kept pulling. It wasn't feeling so great anymore, now it just felt hard.

"Use the wind at your back"
"doing great"
"just 400 left, come on"
"200, time to sprint!"

I passed the tree stump in 19:07. A PR tie, but to me, it's as good as a PR, it's the confirmation I needed that maybe I just needed a little time to find that running groove again.

What comes after....

the Mt. Taylor Quadrathlon?
-a 50 mile race.

and after a 50 mile race?
- a Marathon.

And after the marathon?
-um, gosh, I don't know.

I think I've forgotten what recovery from races is supposed to look like. I had 2 weeks between racing the Quad and the Old Pueblo 50 miler. And then, 3 weeks after that, I ran the Bataan Memorial Death March Marathon. Though I kind of took 3 days off after each race, if you look at my weekly miles, it doesn't really show.

I had a lot of time to consider this practice of taking 72 hours off and then jumping back into things this weekend. A lot of time. About 7 hours, solo on the trails above Albuquerque, all told.

I found out that the Watermelon Run (20 miles, self supported, loosely organized trail run) was this past weekend. 1 week post-marathon. I told Bones on Thursday that I probably wasn't up for 20. (I was right.) I thought that I'd, you know, just start with the group, and turn around at some point. But maybe I'd feel good and do the whole thing. (*cough* *cough* IDIOT *cough*).

We started out a bit fast, with 4 or 5 others - about a 9 min mile pace, I think. Within 3 miles, I had dropped back, and Bones slowed with me. Another friend caught up and chatted with Bones - perfect. We were at the first water stop, so I told them to go on ahead. I wasn't feeling great - my stomach was cramping. I thought maybe I should turn around here. After the bathroom break and water stop, though, I felt better.

"Let's go to the rock slide."

        -but you know if you get to the rock slide, you might decide to keep going. Is that really the best thing?

"Oh, it's been a WEEK since my marathon. and I didn't even do that very fast. I feel better. Time to GO already."

I caught up to Judy - but she soon turned around. My legs were tired, so I hiked a lot. That's NORMAL. I'm going uphill. (but you've only come 6 miles.. ) ITS UPHILL. I FEEL FINE. 

So I got to the rock slide. The friend that had stayed with Bones passed me going the other way - he too turned around. Not being particularly sheep-like that day, I told him I was continuing on - he was glad I was feeling better. I AM FEELING BETTER - SHUT UP. (i didn't say anything...)

I paused at the edge of the rockslide.

(don't look at your garmin - you know you'll just have to do the whole thing if you see that you've come close to being halfway.... 

-you idiot, you looked.)

Oh come on, I'm at 9 miles. The snow/ice on the rockslide doesn't look so bad - see over there, I can walk on the edge and be on rock instead of snow and ice! Easy. Might as well keep going. Tra la laaaaa-

Mmmmm maybe I will put on my Yak Traks after all. It's slippery!  (you, my friend, are a genius. don't forget that.)

And then one of my Yak traks came off, and I didn't notice right away. Once I noticed, I turned back and looked for it for ~20 minutes, then gave up. And continued on, of course. I was almost through the rock slide. DUH! 'Sides, I wouldn't want to go downhill with only one Yak trak. That'd be suicide. (did I mention you are a genius?)

From the saddle to the tram station was clear, so I ran. Hey. Wow. My legs are really tired. Say, I wonder. I think... yes, I'm pretty sure.. I think maybe I've been missing the recovery thing. I used to take like 2 weeks off after a big event. huh. (silence) Oooo, look, another bathroom.

After the top tram station, the trail dives into the forested eastern side of the Sandias. And the trail is several feet deep in snow. It's tricky snow - the kind that has a crust on it so that 70% of the time, you can walk on top of the snow. But that other 30%, you punch through and sink up to your knee. This gets funny, and then gets tiring, and then, yes, then it gets a wee bit old. And it takes a lot of time to get through.

Ah well, nothing to do but continue on. So. That recovery period. I mean, TWO WEEKS?!? That's a lot of time. Was it just two weeks? I seem to remember some times I'd take longer than that even. (silence.) And what, exactly did I DO for that time off. Surely it can't have been nothing. (silence.) I don't really need that two weeks off. I recover quickly. I DO! 

hmmm. my legs are pretty tired. 

*Slip - slide - punch - teeter - totter - slip - step - slip*

Yeah, I knew I should have turned around. (ya think!!!!) Bones is going to laugh at me that I did the whole 20. I think maybe... Maybe I'll go back and look at some of my running books about post marathon recovery. That hard hill workout I planned for Wednesday, maybe I'll skip that. Yeah. And maybe I should tone down the speedwork on Thursday. Just for this next week....

I thought it a bit odd that noone had caught up to me on the trail - I was going pretty slowly. I even took the downhill Pino trail easy, as everything was tired and sore from the snow crossing. All in all, though, nothing hurt - it was just fatigue. I pulled into the parking lot, and was surprised that there was noone there. hmm. As I walk over to my car, the run leader pops out of her car. She had heard from Bones that I was turning around - but then she saw my car and got worried. I asked about the people I assumed were behind me - turns out they had turned around. So I was the last one off the mountain, and noone had known where I was for the last 2 hours. Ooops. I quickly explained, and she was really just relieved I wasn't lost.

I may not have been physically lost, but my training has been a little off track. Spending 7 hours on a run that probably should have taken me 5 or 6... yup, time to rest!

Old Pueblo 50 - revisitation

 Well, I’m one for 5 out of my predictions. I guess I’ll give up trying to read the crystal ball for friends.

What a different race this was for me over last year. I’ve experienced a step change in my approach to races that’s a result of a new level of self-confidence.  I’ve gone from packing a lot of stuff in drop bags and wondering if it’s enough to packing much smaller bags with less care and thinking that I probably would be fine without them. I don’t question whether I’ll finish 50 miles, and I know how uncomfortable I’ll be in the last half. I even look forward to getting to that point, because I know that it won’t likely get worse. All this was brought into focus this weekend because my friends were doing their first 50, and worrying about what I worried about last year.  But I can also see that there’s quite a stairwell in front of me – trying to race this distance instead of just finishing well will be another big change.

Bones and I started out together, planning to keep each other company. Unless he was too fast for me, I planned to stay with him the whole day, to see him tackle the 50. The predawn was perfect in temperature, chilling my arms while my engine kept my core warm. We covered the first 7 miles a tad faster I think than I did last year, and unfortunately my stomach just felt full and uncomfortable from the start. I think Bones was holding back a bit here, which is smart. We caught two racers in conversation around mile 6, one wearing Vibram 5fingers, and the other in the New Balance trail minimus shoes. Fresh and happy in the first hour of the race, I wondered how the rocky technical course would treat them.

Bones had heard multiple times my story about going off course, and we joked about not needing any bonus miles. The blue and white streamers marking the course were well placed. Soon we’re going up a ridge, following four or so others a few hundred feet in front. I’m just starting to think that I don’t remember this ridge, when they turn around and yell back to us that we must be off course.

Well, dang. There goes the prediction that I don’t do any bonus miles. We get back on course, and figure that we maybe did an extra mile. The jeep road rolls and falls into a dry stream bed before leading us to the mile 13 aid station.

We refill and take stock. The sun is out, warming the rocks, but the air temp is still cool. We’re doing fine, and now we get to climb up to Gunsight pass.  It seems a bit breezy as we climb the rolling course, but the forecast didn’t call for wind.

The forecasters are just as good at predictions as I am.

Shooting through the notch at the top of Gunsight, Bones confirms that I found this descent rocky and technical. Yes, and it hasn’t gotten better. I move through the rocks wishing for a bit more agility, and fairly soon Bones drops back. Rather suddenly actually, I think. Well, I didn’t hear a yelp, so I hope he didn’t hurt himself and is just being cautious. On I go… but my guts are less than thrilled. The wind is strong and mischievous, pushing us downhill one second then thrusting from the side the next. Soon I realize I am actually going to have to stop for a longer bathroom break. I walk to wait for Bones and tell him to go ahead; I just need to spend some time in the bushes. But when he catches me, he says, “well, I would have been quite a bit faster, except I had to pick up this camera that someone dropped…” and holds out my camera to me. Must have flown out of my pocket! I didn’t feel it go, but I was so glad to get it back!

We agree to meet at back up at the next aid station. After my bushwhacking, I try to push the downhill. We’ve turned now and the wind is less helpful, and I have a sinking feeling that we’re going to have a strong headwind uphill. My memory turns out to be quite faulty, as I thought I’d have two or three miles to the aid station of smooth jeep road to cruise down. It was actually only a mile. Bones is there, waiting for me, and I rush through the aid station only filling my water.

I tell him my feet are hurting already – a bit ruefully. I thought I might be pretty comfortable through mile 25 or so. He admits that his started aching at mile 13. Ok, then, on we go. The wind, oh the wind. It scoured and howled over the landscape and us. We bent forward, and faced it. Our pace turned from somewhat spritely to trudging. Bones would identify a runnable section, and we’d get 20 steps until the wind or a hill stopped us. I could have been dragging a 30 lb sled behind me for all the effort it was taking to move forward. A few times, the course markers seemed a bit lacking in frequency, although, to be fair, the fierce spiteful wind may have undone some of those carefully placed streamers.

To be honest, though, mile 25 came sooner than I expected. I ate some here, and took chips with me – my first serious intake of calories. I felt pretty good, although a little more tired than I would have liked. Most things ached a bit now, and I knew that after the next 5 or so miles, the achiness would level out. The canyon was full of the wind right in our faces for the climb that goes on for several miles. With only a few exclamations, Bones and I kept each other company pretty cheerfully.

We caught vibram 5finger guy who was run-hiking the climb pretty steadily. His feet were beat up and he wished he had another shoe option. As it was, he was all in with no place to hide – and no shoe changes available. He was still smiling, and had a good attitude, so I hoped he’d be ok.

The wind relented just before mile 29 - or rather, the course started to shield us, where Bones changed his shoes, and I used his sunscreen (life saver!).  Without the wind – now just a strong breeze on this part of the course – I was starting to feel pretty good. I was entering what I now recognize as perhaps my strong suit in races – the second half.  I lead during this trail section and was telling myself to go ahead and start pushing the pace a bit. But the wind had left a time bomb for us: Bones’s lungs were tight and painful. So we backed off. I don’t have experience with this, so we discussed what could be done – sit for a while to really let the HR come down, hike, get to the aid station and wait for a bit - and finally settle on back off the pace and see what happens. We get to the aid station, and Bones is really upbeat and positive. I think maybe things are resolving themselves. I didn’t notice that he didn’t eat much – unlike him at aid stations.

A half mile up the road or so, I realize that things have not gotten better – instead, without nutrition, maybe they’ve slipped a bit more. We hike while Bones eats and drinks to get back on track. We keep the effort easy, but steady. We round a corner, and two dogs come up to us. I greet them – they looked so cheerful. They don’t seem to want to be pet, but one decides to follow us. I look around for the owner – no one is around. After a little while, the dog still following, I give him the “go home” command. He wags his tail, and avoids my gaze. Oooookay. A mile or so later, I try to give him some water – but he doesn’t seem to want to take anything from me. Not even a potato chip. Another mile later – the dog ranging from 20 yards in front to 20 in back, I squirt water onto a rock with a divot for him to lick up. Which he does, finally, wagging his tail. I wish I had shared more with him. I look at our mileage on Mr. Garmin – we still have 2-3 to go to the aid station, but this dog isn’t giving up. And neither is Bones. I think he might be perking up, and he’s eating regularly (and still way more than me).  The technical rocky descents and streambeds aren’t fun for his feet or mine, but we start running more regularly on the downhills and flats. He managed the turn around all on his own, which I was grateful for as I wasn’t sure what I could suggest.  I have a lot to learn as a pacer.

Into mile 40, and I stop at a friendly looking couple who the dog has just run up to greet. I explain that he isn’t ours, and has just followed us for 6 miles – could they tie him up and see if the aid station captain can find the owner? The couple stared at me with surprise at first, and then quickly agreed to do what they could.

We fill our water tanks, and head out. It’s clear that I’ve missed on two more predictions – I just hope now that we’ll be able to finish before dark. As I think about that, I get a little concerned that we won’t make that. I don’t have a headlamp; although Bones does, I don’t fancy trying to share it as I know there are several rocky bits in the last section. We wonder how DP is doing, how she handled the tough wind on this really tough course. Bones, still upbeat, now thinks that maybe he’s doing better and is just tired. This is now as far as he’s ever run.  I get a bit suspicious along miles 41 and 42 that he could go a bit faster, and that is walking just a bit behind me no matter what pace I go. I slow down, he slows down.

Ok, so time to go a bit faster. And as we get onto the single track, I start running, and keep running. And so does he. Woot! This is the best section – fairly smooth, and close enough to smell the barn. We cruise through this section, and pass 5 or 6 people in the process. I shout encouragement over my shoulder and delight in the feeling of running – even on tired legs, running at mile 45 is conquer-the-world awesome. And really I felt quite good. We get into the last aid station, and Bones has the brainstorm of the day.  He hands his headlamp to a volunteer. “I think my friend might need this – can you get it to her?”  Even coming out of a low spot, he’s still thinking more about others than himself. I have a lot to learn.  We give them DP’s race number, and the aid station person is fabulous about it. How fabulous, we only find out much later.

We head out, and I believe I let out a “wahoooo!” only 5 miles to go. I’ve told Bones that in the last 5 or 6 miles, the last 10 percent of the race, you can really work hard. Go ahead and try to empty the tank, the end is so close. Many times I’ve found that I am simply in a pace rut, that with the right motivation, I have it in me to go a little faster. And this last section – it’s mostly single track. My favorite. I detail out the course to Bones. Still one good climb to a ridge, and then a descent, with the last bit through pretty meadows on smooth trail. We’re still running except for hills and stream crossings. The sun is low in the sky, and the temperature has returned to perfect. We cross the stream, and come to the road of my bonus miles of yesteryear. Which I point out to Bones. We cross it, following the markers mindfully, and leave it behind.  We run some of the climb, and walk the rest. I’m so glad we are doing this in the daylight. At the top of the ridge, I shift into a trot. Bones does too, and I’m mentally pulling him along, eager to see the finish with him. The trail stays on the red dirt and rock ridge for a mile or so, and then we hang a hard left onto more single track. When we get down to the meadows, I wait and get behind Bones, and talk him into the finish.

 “Here’s meadow #1 – there are three.”

“Half mile left”

“Meadow two – through the gate we go”

“This is it, if there weren’t trees over there, we’d be able to see the finish line.”

We emerged from the trees to the noise of the finish line, rowdy with those who have finished and started eating the burgers and soup the race has. Bones and I high five, and cross the line with big smiles. So it was 11:51, more than an hour past when I thought we might make it. The real reward for me was to be a part of Bones’ finish. To get to witness his tough spots and still enjoy every moment of the day together.

The postscript:
DP’s studly spouse finished in 10 hours, so he was kindly offering to get us food and anything else we needed. While we sat and enjoyed talking over the whole day, I heard the race director behind me say my name. I perk up, and turn “Hey, that’s me!” And she says, “well, congratulations, here you go! You’re first in your age group.” I’m stunned by that news, and then sock Bones in the arm to tell him how lucky I was.

The three of us cart a load of stuff to the car – and the volunteer that Bones handed his light to found us. She gave us the lowdown on DP, when she left mile 40, and that she had Bones’ light with her when she left. A quick discussion leads us to think she will finish around 9. So we settle in to wait in the warm comfort of the Kentucky Camp Cabin – complete with fire place and other runners to share the time. We see the 5finger guy finish, and cheer and eat, and eat and cheer. The crowds thin, and then disappear as 9 approaches. We hear there are half a dozen runners still out there. We all agree that running the last section in the dark would be so mentally tough. DP’s spouse heads down the trail, and a moment later, I hear him talking. A few lights appear, and it’s DP – running it in. The finish line people applaud and cheer almost as loudly as we do. And she smiled as she crossed the line.

Upcoming Old Pueblo 50 miler

Saturday's coming, alright. yep. There it is, only 2 days away. After a low before Bandera in Jan. and a high point after the Quad two weeks ago, I approach this race feeling pretty darn calm/neutral. I'm going to have fun! I'm going to run all day long, most likely with Bones. I'm going to get to see friends approach, start and finish a 50 mile race. (okay, so it's important to recognize that my neutral is "upbeat and happy.")

I predict:
Bones finishes in 10:30 or less. I hope to be with him.
I do not do any bonus miles (no 57 miler like last year.)
DP finishes in 12 hours.
I haven't run with DP's spouse, so I'll just take a guess at 10:00.

Oh, it is soooo easy to make predictions for other people! And fun, too.
Most of all, I'm excited to watch the day unfold with good friends, and to experience that feeling of "oh-shit-can-I-do-this?" and "well, dang, yes I can!" vicariously through them. I'm bringing a camera, too. :)

2011 Quadrathlon - bike/run/ski/snowshoe extravaganza!

I finally raced the Quad.

I'm glad the story is bigger than that, because, come on, that's a little boring.

My friend ES decided he wanted to do this race - a couple of years ago. This fall he decided that this was the year, and he trained. Watching him put in the work, and answering questions (should I ride my mountain bike? -No. Are there bathrooms on the course? -Yes) made the whole event more exciting. His first timer jitters gave ME first timers jitters! As the day got closer, he was more and more confident about finishing, and he was surprising himself with how fit he had gotten in a few months.

I was nervous. I put out a time goal, and I wasn't sure I had it in me. I didn't get to the Sandia Ski hill more than 4 times. I only got on my bike to do the Tramway and La Luz hills twice. TWICE! I had been running, thankfully, but still there were weeks that didn't have a whole lot of that either. I arrived in Grants on Friday, uncertain if I would be able to go 5:45 - my stated goal, or even if I would break 6 hours. But, I was resolved to try to race, and see where it got me.

The weather, being the one thing that we racers can't control, was the one item on everyone's lips. Windy. Rainy. No, REALLY WINDY. One thing that is a constant in this race is the headwind on the bike downhill; this year promised to set a new benchmark for nastiness. And another thing that is not so good for me - it was warm. Give me frigid any day, and I'm a happy camper. But, wind, rain, or warmth - didn't matter. I was resolved. Off we go.

The start of the bike is always fun. Most in this crowd have never biked in a crowd. The roadway has many potholes, seams, and cracks. Everyone is a little squirrely, most heading out faster than they should. In years past, there's been someone I know who is near my speed on the bike, but not this year. So I rolled along, and pretty quickly became aware of a nice little headwind. Dang - I thought we might at least get a tailwind on the way up to make me feel better about the headwind on the way down. I caught on to a group and we rotated leading for much of the way, until the last few miles I pulled ahead. I saw a yellow jersey in front of me. It looked like it could be ES! Really? I hadn't biked with him before. I decide to try and catch him, so I started working a little harder. The glimpses I'd get around each bend showed me I was gaining ground, but as I got within 50 yards, I realized it wasn't ES after all. Too bad, but I was happy with how the bike had gone, the only downside was that I had only eaten one cliffblock for 30 cal. And had drunk maybe 6 oz water. I worked hard, but was still ready to run. (and ski, and snowshoe...) I resolved to do a little better on the food front.

I got into transition having reviewed it in my mind several times, and with the help of the volunteer I felt like I managed to go pretty fast through it. I started slurping from my water bottle right away. After the first 1/2 mile, my legs settled in. I was moving right along. I passed a couple of people, had to retie my shoe, got passed by a few people. I started to notice something a bit different. Normally in this race, whether passing or being passed, we racers are encouraging each other. This year, though, at a faster pace, none of the women I passed or that passed me reciprocated or even acknowledged my encouragement. Really? So focused that they didn't hear me, I bet. That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. I did find some success on two other issues - I ate a gel, and I ran until the second cattle guard before taking a short walk break. Wahoo! On to the run-ski transition, still working hard, and still feeling pretty good.

I had a father and son help me through T2, and besides getting the right and left ski boot mixed up, they were a big help. I made sure to leave with my snowshoe backpack, and off I went. And.... promptly felt like I was going to have a very very sloooow ski ahead of me. Wow. My legs did not want to go up anymore. My muscles were ready to go AWOL. I backed off a bit. Really as much as I could without stopping, practically, just hoping that I'd find another groove. I got to the short flat spot and finally my effort and pace seemed to come back into alignment. My slow progress let me lose focus a little, but I don't feel like I lost too much time, even so. Soon, I was moving up heartbreak hill, trying to stay on the white patches in the midst of the bare grassy field. The sun was out, and the snow was slushy. I wondered how the downhill was going to be. No telling until I get there! And into the Ski-Snowshoe transition, T3.

I focused and tried to be efficient, removing my skins, getting into my snowshoes. I grabbed some water on the way out - I was thirsty and a bit hungry. While I was worried about this, I did what I could and kept moving. I ran all the way to the edge of the world for the first time ever. Brief glances at my watch along the race so far had me ahead of even my 5:45 predictions, but I could tell I was slowing down. The showshoe hike to the top is the hardest on tired legs. I was proud of myself, though, I didn't stop for rest breaks. I just kept moving, even though it was hard, and I couldn't see the top. The wind, always strong on the exposed S face seemed particularly strong today. I wondered about the downhill bike, but, No telling until I get there! And, finally, the top. I was ready to enjoy the downhill shoe through the trees in the soft snow - most of the time you can get a really nice glide going, and I can really move. It was not to be this time. The route was a mix of hardpack and soft, with huge divots that you could never be sure if you should avoid, or use to your advantage. They might be hard, and trip you up, or they might be soft and let you glide. Oh, and there were briars exposed this year that would grab onto your snowshoe cleats and not let go. Amidst all of that, the toe-box of my snowshoe got caught under the plastic of the snowshoe platform. So, between falling into divots and NOT RUNNING, I sat down and wrestled with my snowshoe for a minute. Not my best downhill shoe by a long shot. Ok, well, I had been ahead of my estimates, so hoped I had the time to spare and I kept my chin up. I ran along the packed section back to T3, and quickly changed back into my skis.

I look up, ready to move... and couldn't tell how to get out of transition. I mean, I knew where the course headed, but they routed us with poles and tape a bit differently. After a small wrong turn, I get out, and .... am surprised by how slushy the snow is. This might be better for me, not so fast and out of control. But I am poling a lot here, my arms are getting very tired. I get to the steeper sections, and still can't seem to pick up much speed. I'm actually looking for speed, that's how slow it felt. I still managed to fall, once, inconsequentially. I got up quickly and actually WAS mad at falling like my sis-in-law had told me to be, and pushed myself to go faster. I wasn't sure I could afford a super slow ski on top of the slow snowshoe. I was poling as hard as I could for the last section, and finally, finally got to the road with very tired, quivering arms, quads and hips. A few minutes later, I was in to the ski-run transition. I didn't dare look at my watch. I had set an alarm for 4h17m into the race. if I could get out of the ski-run transition before 4h17m, I thought I'd be able to finish in 5:45. Though the wind on the downhill bike might make that tough. I hurried through transition, thanking the volunteers the whole time, and got onto the downhill run.

YES! I love this section. It's steep, and the legs get set free. It's relaxing to just be able to run after the ski. I get about 4 minutes into the run, and my alarm goes off. Wahoo! I just need to keep pushing - I'm pretty tired, and it's hard - but I CAN still make 5:45. Doggedly I run the uphills, shortening my stride and accepting the pain. I take another gel - the first food I've had except two orange slices in ~2.5 hours, and drink all the water left in my bottle. I take an extra salt tab. I'm still thirsty. Gotta keep working. DD passes me 1/3 mile before the run/bike transition. We exchange encouragement. I think about sprinting into transition, but as I crest the hill overlooking the bikes, the wind pushes hard against me. I tuck my head and keep my steady pace, and try not to think about how tired I am. 

My bike is near the exit of the transition. The guy helping me was again, fantastic, holding things, and encouraging. He says the wind had come up stronger maybe 1/2 hour ago, although it had been blowing all day. I strap on my helmet, and face the last section. A glance at my watch shows that I have 47 minutes to get to the finish to make 5:45. I've done it faster than that, but without the wind. And I've done it slower than that, without the wind. Time to see what's left.

The first 2.5 miles are steep and winding. Typically I have to touch the brakes a few times to go around curves. This year, I am locked in my aerobars, only thinking once or twice about braking. The wind gusts push me around, and I ride at an angle to the road even when not going around a curve. At the bottom of the big climb, a wicked gust comes from the side and then from the front and robs me of all my speed. I ratchet down into an easier gear, and keep moving. The uphill protects us a bit from the headwind, and I find a groove that isn't too uncomfortable. But I know what's coming. About 30 ft from the crest, the wind comes howling over the top, fiercely whipping over my helmet and jersey. Just get over, just a little further... these little lies you tell yourself are really something, don't you think? It wasn't just a little further, I still had ~8 miles of the bike to go in the stiffest headwind I had ever been in. Anyway. I pick my speed back up from the dusty road. I shift back into my big chainring. I can't take it easy. I have to push. I can see that I'm only occasionally above 20 as I work past the jail, and I'm working hard, where normally I'm cruising at 27. Gusts accompanying the steady headwind slap me around, and pelt me with grit. I can see dust devils coming for me down the road. At first I try to hold my breath and close my eyes against the dirt. But the oxygen debt is just more than I can take, and I relent. I spit out grit after each devil whips over me. I'm working, focusing on making myself small in the face of the wind, and finding a gear that I can manage, but isn't slacking. I pass a couple of people, and I wonder - do I look that miserable? I spot the turn by the Smiths, and put my head down, and focus on the line. I work for several minutes, then look up, sure the turn must be right ..... dang, still 1/2 mile ahead. After the turn comes the first slight break - now the wind is cross, and not a headwind. I motor, feeling like I have to push now that I can - until I make the next turn, right back into the teeth of the wind. I do believe I groaned, although no-one could possibly have heard me. Ok, come on, head down, stay aero, WORK. I watch my speedometer drop - 12, 11, 10 mph. I stop looking and just work. I feel myself slow down and take another glance at my speed - 8!?! I must be starting up the little rise... that must be it. But when I glance up, that rise is still two blocks away. It's ok, almost there, doing great, geez this hurts. I get over the rise, and make the last turn. Without the wind in my face, I can't crawl across the line at 10 miles an hour! I kicked it in for the last few blocks, cranking hard and picking up speed.

The reward: as I got close to the line I see the time 5:45:5X.

Ok, it was worth it. Unbelievable. Racing is fun. I coasted jerkily over to the aid table at the finish, and grabbed water and an orange. I was tired, thirsty, and hungry. I look up to see DD laying on the covered bed of his truck, neatly tucked out of the wind. KC comes over too, and all the commiseration talk about the wind on the bike begins. I duck inside quickly, needing to see in print, in black and white my finishing time. There it is, 5:45:54 - and, it says I'm first in my age group, too. Something that means more to me, though, I'm the 8th woman across the line. Wow, not bad. I did it. I did that.

ES finishes with a smile, and can't stop talking over the race. I am so glad he had fun, and had a good day. I heard him say something about next year already!

And so, to end, Analysis Girl is going to poke her head out and take a look around.

 

	2008	2009	2010	Goal: 2011	Actual 2011
Bike up + T1	1:18:25	1:06:25	1:16:54	1:08	1:08:49
Run + T2	1:10:47	1:09:04	1:07:53	1:05	1:00:47
Ski	54:26	51:34	50:11	0:49	45:19
Snowshoe +T3	35:51	35:23	37:44	0:33	30:21
Snowshoe down	15:01	12:58	13:27	0:12	13:55
Ski down + T3'	33:56	32:51	31:47	0:30	29:17
Run down + T2'	53:58	51:31	48:08	0:48	45:22
Bike down + T1'	XXX	46:40	38:13	0:40	52.07
Finish Time		6:06:34	6:04:14	5:45	5:45:54

 

So on the way up, I was ahead of my time goal by 10 minutes. That's huge! the shoe down was 1 minute slow, which I can account for by the sitting down to fix the snowshoe, and the not great conditions. The ski down was my fastest yet, and I think with more practice I could even get to like this. The run down was also my fastest yet, so by the time I got on my bike, I was still more than 11 minutes ahead of my goal. Good thing I had the buffer to deal with the brutal conditions!

Female overall placings:

Bike up: 10th

Run up: 7th

Ski up: 13th

Shoe up: 9th

Shoe down: 6th

Ski down: 16th

Run down: 6th

Bike down: 6th

Where are easy improvements to be made? 

-> biking and skiing. CLEARLY. To be on the same level as my good events, I'd need to:
Bike up in 1:06
Ski up in 42 min
Ski down in 22 min

Which would save me 12 minutes. Ok, so next year? goal time 5:25.
Better start working!

Keeping fingers crossed

I'm not giving up on my 5:45 Mt. Taylor Quadrathlon race goal.

But I have made it harder on myself:

If only it was necessary to be able to fire an Ashe arrow across the board to hit an opponent in order to make my Quadrathlon goal, I'd be set. THAT I have been practicing until the wee hours of the morning. Very very wee hours.

I have however, given up some sleep in order to go to the ski hill and practice. Sunday's downhill adventure with KC was fantastic, enjoyable, beautiful. My confidence was at an all time high. There was no falling, only one slightly out-of-control, this-might-be-a-trainwreck moment that resolved itself. the whole experience was so good, that I thought a couple more runs would really set me up for a better than terrible race ski.

So, this morning, I head back to the ski area. It's closed Tues, so no worry about crowds, which, that's a good thing, right?

Except, then they don't groom the trails early either.

Because of the warm sunny weather, the runs were a slick, crusty, bumpy mess. But did I leave with my tail between my legs? NO. I went up. I came down. It was not a boost to my confidence. I fell.

Better go back tomorrow to see if I can find any sang-froid.

Quad 2011 Goals

The perennial winter race is almost here - the Mount Taylor Quadrathlon. I always write out time goals for this race, but I've never gone public. Time to buck that trend. Some historical perspective is necessary.


 

	2008	2009	2010	Goal: 2011
Bike up + T1	1:18:25	1:06:25	1:16:54	1:08
Run + T2	1:10:47	1:09:04	1:07:53	1:05
Ski	54:26	51:34	50:11	0:49
Snowshoe +T3	35:51	35:23	37:44	0:33
Snowshoe down	15:01	12:58	13:27	0:12
Ski down + T3'	33:56	32:51	31:47	0:30
Run down + T2'	53:58	51:31	48:08	0:48
Bike down + T1'	XXX	46:40	38:13	0:40
Finish Time		6:06:34	6:04:14	5:45

 

The bike up in 2009 had a nice stiff tailwind, which was missing in 2010 and replaced by my own rubbing brakepad. This year, we'll double check that wheel-cassette-brakepad triad before starting. hm, I guess that means a bike tune-up is necessary!

Run up in 1:05 should be do-able, I just need to focus. I'm a better runner than last year, but I also know that it's hard for me to push at this early stage in the race. It's a good goal.

Ski-up: this is just a keep-on keepin' on kinda thing, as is the snowshoe up. I'm hoping that the time difference will actually come from the ski-snowshoe transition which I historically dawdle through. 

Shoe down - just a little faster than last year - no shot this year is in the plans. 

Ski-down. The hard part. From talking with my sis-in-law, a former ski racer, I'm going to try to get mad. We'll see how it works for me. 

The run down and bike down numbers are a little squishy. On purpose. If other sections haven't gone well, I'll have to make up time on these last two parts. The number to look for - Leaving the ski-run transition in 4:17. Slower than that, and I will be working hard to make it up. 

I was in better bike shape last year, and had more ski-time on my legs. I'm going to be spending the next 3 weeks getting more of those things. That, and practicing the transitions, which sounds silly, but is really helpful. 

The sandia snowshoe went well last weekend - 1st in my ag, 2nd overall, and ~6 min faster than previously (final time 41:36). The course was really hard packed and fast though, so it isn't a fair comparison. The volunteers out on the race course kept telling me I was 1st woman OA, but they missed the slight, short haired woman who came in a couple of minutes in front of me in her winter gear. I doubt it would have made a difference to my time in any case. 

ES is doing the race for the first time - I'm having a blast talking it over with him. Bring it on, Quad!