The point I keep coming back to is that I learned a lot more about running and trying to run hard. I've gotten to be a better runner over the last two years. I tend to be really conservative - I go out slowly, and speed up only towards the end. In the last few months, I've been thinking that I've ridden that horse as far as it will go; if I want to continue to improve I will have to run at least a little closer to the edge. Not 100 yards away from it.
So that was one of my goals for Leadville this year. Push the envelope, and work hard even when it hurts. What does that mean? What will it feel like? If I'm hurting and manage to work 50% of the time, does that count? what about 25%? The other goals were easier to understand: I wanted to run under 25 hours. If that didn't happen I wanted to run faster than last time (27:19), and barring that, I just had to finish.
It's so much easier to target a number goal than a feeling. How can a feeling be quantified?
Since the course was lengthened ~3 miles at the last minute (bad form, Lifetime) I pushed the sub 25 to the back of my mind. Not likely, as I only thought I would barely make it on the old course. I did decide I wanted to try to make my predicted splits on the unchanged sections. So I was really happy to hit May Queen at 2:13 - 3 min. behind my prediction. The pace had felt easy, and the crowds were only mildly annoying on the single track around the lake. I felt good. It was fun, too, running into May Queen within sight of Ken. I saw Dad at the MQ exit, and dropped my headlamp and armies just as planned. Having Mom and Dad be part of my crew gave me a lot of motivation and confidence.
So, stage 1 - check.
I ran out of May Queen, and ran/hiked the colorado trail. Ken caught up to me here. I felt like I was working, but not too hard - just right. Ken ran away from me up Hagerman pass road, I kept a pace I thought was maybe a little too easy. I figured if I came in a little late to Fish, I'd just work a little on the road section. Once to the top of Sugarloaf, I started running down. It felt great, too. I started to go faster, really enjoying passing people, running hard and quickly navigating the rocky road. What a blast!
At the bottom, the paved road rolls towards Fish. And I could tell that my legs didn't feel right. Hm. Maybe they'll shake out. So I ran and hiked, letting the time goal for this section pass. I got to Fish in 2:00 - 5 min behind. So still pretty much on target... except now I was more concerned that my legs hadn't come around. My crew "Nascar-ed" me and kicked me out in no time flat, despite having to sprint back to the crew vehicle to pick something up - I was none the wiser. (Awesome crew!) I said to DP, "I think I'm going too fast for myself." To which she replied, "Yeah, Ken's just over there, so you might be." But we didn't have long to discuss it, and what would we say, anyway? Out on the road I went.
And after about a mile down the road, the "wrongness" became pretty obvious, and pretty specific. My quads were really sore. I had bombed down Sugarloaf too fast for myself. As I drank, ran and ate, I tried to think. What if I can't descend anymore? Maybe I better slow down now, will that mitigate the damage? I wonder if I'll be able to finish if I can't descend decently for the next 75 miles. Crap.
I met Mom and Dad at treeline, again glad to see them. I paused long enough to tell them that I was going to have to slow down. I saw Ken's crew, and told them that I'd gone out too fast and was going to slow down. But I thought to myself that it was already too late. My quads hurt. They weren't going to get better. I still wasn't sure what this meant for my race. I was anxious to get to the downhill into Twin Lakes, 11 miles away, to see if I could run downhill. I backed off the pace a little, and worried more when the rollers on the continental divide trail made my quads knot up painfully.
I'd love to say I was logical and thoughtful about what to do next. I wasn't. I just kept on. I ate. I drank. I tried not to think about my quads. About the next hill. About my pacers waiting to get out on the course with me. About having to give up on 25 for good. I could have actually acknowledged all those fears and come up with a plan, but instead they roiled inside me.
The downhill into Twin Lakes was painful and slow, which worried me even more. I get in to the aid station, and ES tells me I'm only 20 min. down - clearly the crew is still keeping that door open to sub 25. They change my shoes and switch my pack, and I tell them that I am slowing down, that my quads hurt, but I don't really tell them how bad it is. How bad it could be. I'm scared to disappoint them. I head out, and Bones walks with me for a bit - I tell him it'll be 4 hours for me to get to Winfield (35 min slower than planned). He says ok, but I still feel like I need a confessional, that I haven't been clear about the likelihood that I am falling apart.
I hike and jog to the river - I had planned to run this, but I let myself off the hook here. If I'd been paying attention, I might have noticed that I was still eating and drinking like a champ. Everything was going right - except for my quads. I had lots of time, I could only see the glass half empty, though, so I trudged to the river and waded across. I got myself to run on the other side, kind of with a "might as well" mentality. As I started the hike up, I thought - hey, maybe I'll be able to hike up fast, and it will make up for however slow I am going down! I did hike steadily, but people started passing me right and left. Ugh. I kept eating and drinking, kept moving, kept my steady pace. About 2/3 the way up, I started passing a few of those that had passed me, which was encouraging. I kept up with a guy from Iowa - we had a good conversation about nothing in particular. Maybe my going easy would fix things. It could happen, right? A magic recovery on the way up Hope Pass? Maybe I'd be able to go down fairly normally after taking it easy.
It was fun to see the llamas again, but I don't stop. No need, my crew has packed me with everything I could have wanted. I go over the top, and my small hopes of a recovery are dashed. The first step down knots up my quads. I pick my way down the mountain. Not even "pseudo-running" as Jean would say. I use my poles to ease my steps. Near the bottom, I think, "well, maybe it won't get any worse." But then I think that I had wanted to run with each of my pacers, I had wanted to work hard, I had told them to push me. And now, none of that was going to happen.
It's odd to think back about this. On the one hand, when actually thinking about my "condition" and the race I was pretty negative. And on the other hand, I was still having fun. I was looking for the other racers I knew, I was enjoying the scenery, I was enjoying running. I wasn't sure I was going to finish. I just didn't think about it and then it seemed my default happiness would take over.
That worked fairly well, until I came into Winfield and met my crew again. DP was there, all suited up and ready to pace. I had challenged her before the race, saying that "I will try to drop you going down Hope Pass!" I was going to let her down. Tears came to my eyes, and I was glad for my sunglasses to hide behind. I ate some, tried to drink an ensure, and confirmed with Bones that we were putting aside the 25 hour goal - I was ~50 minutes behind. I told them my quads were shot, that I didn't know how the rest of the downhills were going to go. I hurt. I felt more than a little stupid - gaining 3 minutes bombing down Sugarloaf, and then giving up who knows how much time on the rest of the course because of it. When DP signaled it was time to go, I was glad to get out of there - too emotional.
The hike up the backside of Hope was a bear. The new trail section wasn't wide. I was constantly dodging oncoming traffic. It was longer and not as runnable as well, adding about 25 minutes to my time each way I think. My triceps were starting to hurt from all the pole action. (It's a beautiful trail, and I think they should use it. However no race should lengthen a course by ~ 1 hour in the 3 days before said race begins.) Then back on the Sheephead Gulch trail, the steepness again slowed me to a crawl and wagon trains of runners passed me before I got to the top. (How on earth can I get to be that good at hiking uphill!!!?! more practice, I guess.) As we went, DP was the most excellent of pacers. She opened things, she kept me eating, she kept me positive "One foot in front of the other. you're doing great..." She appreciated the views and cracked jokes. And I could tell she was enjoying being out there. I began to think that my glass was half full. If I could make it down off of Hope without making my quads worse, then I could make it to the finish. Maybe I'd be able to run the flats and slight downhills. And I remembered Ken saying, "It's great to think that if you make it to Winfield in 12 hours, you can do 3 miles an hour until the finish and still make it well under the cutoff!" With DP saying, "you got this, you're doing it! you're kicking it's ass!" I started thinking about what I could do instead of what I couldn't.
Maybe I'd still try to drop her on the way down Hope after all.
At the top, she paused to take a picture and I was off like a rocket.
ok. I was off like... a stone skipping downhill.
I was off like ...a shot putter trying to run the 400 hurdles? It wasn't pretty or agile, but I could run a little. I put some time between us until Hopeless. There I got a volunteer to fill my water while I watered a tree. DP pulled in and I snagged some nutrition from her and told her I was going and would meet her at the river. She paused to take a picture of the llamas and fill her pack while I made my way down. I passed some people, and some passed me. Right away, my quads knotted up - ouch - but they didn't give out. I had no agility over the rocky rooty stuff and had to walk quite a bit. But they didn't get worse. I could do this. I could run, even though they hurt. I ran the flats to the river, and stood in the deepest section. I waited 3 min. and was just leaving when I saw DP approaching. Perfect timing! She caught up to me, and said that was the fastest she had ever downhilled - she was thrilled, and I was pretty happy too. I was convinced I could still run. Life was good. Painful, but good. I was going to finish.
At Twin, I ate the Burrito of the Gods - best thing I ate all day or night. Yum. (stomach still in the game - check!) The tray next to me held an open can of coke, beckoning sweetly to me. I didn't give it a second glance, even when I found out that the ONLY soda they had left at the aid station was Coke. *sigh* I took only 1 pole with me to help me run. It was necessary, both to unload my quads on downhills and for stability. Miki was practically bouncing with readiness. My crew changed my shoes and socks and even lubed my feet. Holy cow they were awesome.
With muscle cream on my quads and a couple of tylenol, we started off. Miki hadn't run on mountain trails in the dark, so we were looking forward to that. The hike up went pretty smoothly. We got to the trail before dark, and started jogging the flat spots. We passed NB here - we cheered each other on. It took hardly any time at all to get onto the continental divide trail. I really like running trails at night. My headlamp was perfect - I tried turning on my handheld light, but with a pole and my awkward form the light bobbed too much. What a difference on this section between this year and two years ago - I remembered the constant string of people between Twin and Half Pipe. This year - empty. We passed a couple of people, but there just wasn't anyone around us. We were making decent time, I could tell, even though I wasn't running fast. My quads were still a constant pain - maybe lessened by the tylenol. They still weren't getting worse though! And amazingly, chips and pop tarts still tasted great and went down easily. I had had enough of the lemon and vanilla Honey Stingers but the chocolate and plain versions were still tasty. I thanked my lucky stars for my iron stomach, and this wasn't the last time! About an hour down the trail, I was wishing I had the other half of that Burrito of the Gods, too. Man that was good. On we went. I may have gotten Miki to let me walk to eat, and walk to go up a slight rise, and for just a short break a few times, but she kept me moving really well just by being with me. She was relentless when it came to food and water though, and I know I would have gotten lazy without her there! It felt like we were out for a group run almost, instead of in the middle of a race. Once the tylenol started to wear off, the quad pain intensified after we came through Half Pipe. Oof. The flatter section here, 6 miles to Fish was hard. The run was more of a shuffle, and I had to take a few more breaks. I focused on landmarks, from one to the next, and tried to relax, but work; and accept but strive. As we got close to Fish, Miki and I discussed what I wanted - primarily food and more tylenol. I couldn't believe it when she told me that we were coming in right on target for that section - I had estimated 4 hours, and it took us 4:01. Wow! I almost couldn't process this information. Keep focusing on the task at hand. Which was.... more eating.
I got some broth at the AS. I sat to drink it, and was kind of taking my time. DP chivvies me out of the AS, not waiting for me to finish it, ignoring my sad puppy dog eyes. Ok, ok... out we go. ES was the next victim.. uh, friend signed up to take me back over Sugarloaf, the scene of the earlier crime against my quads. We head out, and I think the first thing he says to me is that he can't believe how coherent I still am. We walk mostly, and jog a little - I can tell he is a little concerned about my, ah, "running" form - he coaches me on my posture while being encouraging. Oh, I know it ain't pretty, but it is what it is after 76 miles. I wondered what he had seen that day - this was the first time to witness a 100 mile race. As we started up the hill, he points out a light of a runner just a little ahead of us - "I bet we can catch that person - let's go!" I don't usually use this motivation - I don't trust the person to stay caught! But we march on and the light gets closer. Closer.
Hey, wait a second.
I know that guy! At first I'm happy to see Ken, until I realize that he is in the middle of a bad, bad spell. And only at the very start of the climb. Oh boy. I look at JH - she's got the patient look about her that is ready to pace for a long stretch. I hesitated and looked at ES - there's nothing for us to do. I try to say something encouraging, and he responds. And we keep hiking. After a moment, ES starts talking, and he is a non-stop source of entertaining chatter - work, fun, running, encouragement - oh, here, eat this... He switches my headlamp batteries for me, and he doesn't make fun of me when I get taken in by the many false summits! What a guy! I'm feeling ok on the climb, really - my quads don't hurt going uphill (much) and I have some energy. The steep sections are hard, but not disheartening. Finally at the top, we try to run. Quickly I'm stopped by the rocky uneven footing. I have no agility whatsoever. I stumble a few times, trying to pick my way around the rocks, and finally give in to hiking downhill. ES takes it in stride - we look at the stars, we admire Leadville in the distance, and I talk more than I have perhaps all day. As we pass a runner, ES says something I can't hear, and all of a sudden he drops back. I run on alone for a minute until ES catches back up. Turns out that runner's partner decided to go a little faster, and took all of the spare lights/batteries. And that fellow's headlamp was dying. ES gave him our spare headlamp - absolutely the right thing to do. I was so glad he had had the presence of mind to ask the guy if he needed help. I can't imagine how stressful that would be, to have ~4 miles to go with a dying headlamp. (The runner (#744) did finish too!) Finally we get to Hagerman pass Road - the smooth downhill I've been dreaming of. I start running, but it isn't as wonderful as I remember it - oof my quads hurt. I try to relax and stride. ES tries to help, and coaches me to lift my kness - unfortunately, that is out of the question. But his next comment is right on the money - "Then shorten your stride or the inside of your knees will start hurting." (they already were!) I did as he suggested, and tried harder to lift my knees, and it did feel better. I tried to work, tried to work even though it hurt and I was tired. Focusing on that, we got to the trail. Another section I loved running in 2010. And another mild disappointment to find that I wasn't really going to be able to run here. The agility thing again - I just didn't have it. But ES told me we were making good time. And I knew that really, this section was going pretty well. He does point out with a chuckle that I was trying to run on the uneven trail, but that I walked across each of the 4 nice flat bridges. :)
We run down the road and into May Queen. The last section lays ahead. My stomach is still as right as rain. To Josh's amazement, I down a whole turkey and cheese tortilla roll, some sprite, watermelon, I tried a pancake but they were AWFUL - tasted like baking powder. I say goodbye to my pack, and take a bottle instead. And a pole. And more tylenol, though I don't think it's helping anymore. Then, Bones and I step out into the night.
13.5 miles isn't a short way to go. Especially at 3 in the morning, after already going ~90 miles. But that thought doesn't even occur to me. It doesn't really matter how far there is to go, there is only the matter of continuing to move. And I'm enjoying Bones' company. Not infrequently, a step or a descent makes my quads remind me that they are in pain. But there's nothing to be done about that. I walked the uphills. I ran some, and walked more - until we got to Tabor. Thank goodness for this little bit of coincidentally good planning. I had Bones lead here, and I told him he could run if he could match my shuffling pace. Turns out he could, and did... and by following him somehow I didn't need to walk as much. I had been letting myself go easy, when now I could tell I had more to give. I tell Bones he's doing perfect. And then a little later, I ask if he can go just a hair faster. I'm a little worried about this, but I do it anyway. And it was good. Not that it felt good - my quads hated me - but I was doing what I said I wanted to do - work, even when it didn't matter, when my time goal was out of sight, even when it hurt. I followed him down the steep rocky stretch - ouch. We got to the road, and it was starting to get light. Bones casually says to me, "You know, if we run I bet we can beat your time from two years ago."
"Let's do it."
I was working before, and now I decided that I could work harder. I could run and not stop. Bones had shown me that I could. I didn't look at my watch. Bones' cell chimed time after time - my crew trying to get a read on when I'd finish. Bones suggests we walk, but I say no and make the turn to parallel the train tracks at the base of the boulevard. (To be fair, Bones thought we had a big climb up a paved road instead of the turn onto the flat - or he never would have suggested it.) At the base of the boulevard, we do hike up the first rocky steep bit. I start running when it levels out a bit. I tell Bones that the middle of the boulevard is the second train tracks. I put down my head and make for those tracks. For a little while, the effort gets easier somehow - maybe I loosened up, I don't know. But the reprieve doesn't last, and at the rise at the second train tracks, I hike. Just after, I run again until we pass a group of people, maybe 3 runners and 3 pacers that are at the base of a steeper section. I run past them and try to keep going so I don't do the annoying "pass and stop" maneuver. A short way in front of them, I'm reduced to a hike, but I try to hike with purpose. Soon I see the aspens at the end of the boulevard, and I know I'm only a mile away. We run to the base of the hill by the pool, and then I know I'm hiking my last hike of this race.
The sky is flush with the colors of dawn, and the sun is threatening to peek over the mountains east of Leadville. I want to finish before it does - I didn't break 25, I didn't beat daylight, but I hold on to this next idea and start running again at the top of the hill. My crew is there to run with me - I was so glad to see them all and to remember how much they'd helped me. As we ran down, they joked about running a 6 min mile at the end of a 100 - so I sped up and grinned. I'm sure it was a blistering 9 min mile pace, but it was fun. I passed a couple of people, and thought about whether it was bad form to pass within 1K of the finish line. I reasoned that I was still within bounds, but I should not try to pass any more. One of the women I passed sprinted past me 30 yds from the finish - I slowed just enough to let them string the tape up again for me, ran down the red carpet and jumped over the line. (ouch)
I finished.
I beat the first ray of sunlight on Leadville.
I beat my previous time by 33 min, finishing in 26:46.
I worked; I got a little closer to the edge.
And when I look at my splits, really, I am surprised and pleased:
2010 goal 2012
MQ 2:23 2:10 2:13
FH 2:14 1:55 2:00
TL 3:26 3:10 3:20
Win 4:04* 3:25 4:01
TL 3:54* 3:25 4:16
FH 4:18 4:00 4:01
MQ 3:32 3:10 3:19
Finish 3:23 3:20 3:26
Over the last 40 miles, I was within 16 minutes of my goal time, even with my quads. The ratio of my first half to second half was 1.29 this year, two years ago it was 1.27. Pretty much the same - except that I have to remember all the dawdling in AS that I did in 2010 and did not do in 2012. My crew is to thank for that - and many other things.
What's not to be happy about?
and now, I believe it is on to Run Rabbit Run in Steamboat. Check it out!
