Tri's and Tribulations

GC double cross. Or rim2rim2rim, if you prefer

2012-02-09T08:35:00.000-08:00

I wasn't sure I wanted to write this out. It was a special experience for me in so many ways. Writing it down could reduce it to some kind of normal stature for a running trip. Just describing the canyon from standing still at the lip, holding my breath, peering down and across... words are inadequate. It's almost better to just go ahead and call it a ditch, so that by sarcasm the reader might be able understand the actual beauty and grandeur of the thing before you, the thing you can't bear to waste time trying to describe.

But writing is remembering, and a doorway to re-experiencing the things that have touched me. So, whether or not the effort is in any way complete or adequate, I think the prompt it may offer to bring the emotions, sights, sounds, and sensations back to me is the reason I want to write it down. This is bound to be long. Just warning you. I just want to set down the whole thing. This might take awhile.

I'd seen the Grand Canyon once before, with my parents and Co in 2005 I think. We hiked partway (1 mile?) down the Bright Angel Trail. I couldn't at the time really imagine trying to run down to the bottom and back up. It was hot. It was rocky. It was steep and there was mule poop to avoid. And - it was a LONG WAY to the bottom. I saw the signs that warn against such a trip, the dangers of dehydration and fatigue, and believed them. To the heart of myself, I thought you'd have to be an excellent hiker to do something like that. Mom joked that I'd rather be running the whole thing, and I exclaimed that, no, hiking was just fine by me. I threw it out to a few friends after returning that maybe we could hike down one day, and hike up the next. It is such an extraordinary place I couldn't help but want to experience it again, and in a different way. A few were interested, but most would have rather taken the mules, especially for the way up, so the proposal fizzled and was mostly forgotten.

So a year or two ago, Bones proposed a down and up trip - in a day. Wow, I was actually able to consider this. I'd done the Leadville 100, so it seemed possible. But preparations stalled, and it got put on hold. But it never left my mind. We talked about a rim2rim2rim trip too... Some others blogged about it, and a video was taken. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had to do this run. The drive to take on the challenge kept surfacing each time I'd think about new things I'd like to do. It was on that list I have in my head of, "Who in the world DOES things like this?!?" the sense of incredibility and possibility at the same time made my pulse quicken and my smile broaden no matter where I was or what I was doing.

An off-hand email comment to Ken, and not only was he as excited as I was, but we found a date that works and made a reservation. Really? Is it that easy? I guess it is. Why wait? And the anticipation built over the intervening weeks. A self supported Rim2Rim2Rim run of the Grand Canyon. Holy cow.

We got there the night before we wanted to start in time to see the canyon... excuse me, the Canyon, in daylight. Scouting the South Kaibab trailhead, the Canyon drew me to the very edge like a fluttering uncertain moth to a flame. I felt like a kid in a candy store, peering at all the treats behind the glass counter. I wanted to press my face against the glass, so to speak, to get as close as I could to the thing I'd come here to see, to do. My heart palpitated as I looked north... and down.. and then north again. To see the whole distance laid out on that canvas directly in front of you without barriers or safety nets, it's intimidating. For once, I had no choice but to think about, to visualize the whole distance at once. It's 42 miles. I'd done that distance before. It's 10,400 in total elevation gain (and an equal amount of loss, of course) and I'd done races with that much gain before also. But I never think about or try to picture the whole distance at once. To SEE 4600 elevation loss. To SEE 21 miles over to the North Rim, hazy but visible. To know I was going to go THERE and BACK AGAIN. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It was unbelievable that I was going to do this. That I thought I could do this. My heart didn't stop racing until I was well away (distance and time) from the edge and that view.

At the cafeteria for dinner, we spy three slightly tired looking fit people in running shoes. Turns out they had started from the north rim that morning, intending on doing R2R2R, but because they started a little late, spent a little time at the bottom at Phantom Ranch, and spent some time on the South Rim getting food, they decided not to try the return trip until the next day. I was a little amazed at their laissez faire attitude, and their willingness to waste time at each of those spots on the way out, but at least there was a room available for the night and they booked it. They assured us that we wouldn't need yak trax on the north rim (it was Nov. 11th, and they'd already gotten snow). Our own earlier scouting of the south rim assured us that the 100yds or so of trail with snow wouldn't be an issue, though it was a little slick. And they also confirmed water at cottonwood campground as well as Phantom Ranch. It was fun talking with them, and sharing the excitement of the trip. Armed with new knowledge, we set our alarms for 3:00 and hit the hay.

I resisted using my headlamp as we walked the quarter mile from the car to the trail head. Somehow, the light assaulted the quiet. The clouds kept the temperature warmer than the 35 we expected, but obscured the stars, and seemed to cloak and muffle the morning. At just about 4 on the dot, Ken and I exchanged excited glances, and I followed him down the path in the darkness. Our lights made holes in the blackness. From the day before I knew I was running through vista after vista; but now all that I could see was the red dirt path sloping steeply away from me cut across by log steps. Switchbacks appeared quickly out of nowhere, slowing us and redirecting our myopic course. I tried to picture where we might be on the landscape I'd seen the day before, but it was impossible. This was almost like I imagine caving to be. I had no sense of direction, only the sensation of running down endlessly. It felt like I was in a bubble - a few times I reached out to touch the cliff wall along side me just to reconnect to something solid. Running in the dark is a different kind of joy. It's solitude. It's close. It's the time to think of escape, full of the freedom to be or do anything. I could tell Ken was being very conservative; I kind of wanted to let loose a bit and fly. The thought of the view the day before and the intimidation I'd felt convinced me to trust his instincts and relax. Down, run-run-step, run-step, run, run, step. No rhythm. I felt like we'd been descending for hours. The descent is only ~6 miles on the S. Kaibab trail... surely we must be nearing the bottom. A grain of frustration - if the descent takes so much longer than I thought it should, what chance is there that I'll be able to "make up time" on the uphill where I'm weaker? I tried to glance at my Garmin, but can't catch a good look in the headlamp light bobbing as I run. Surely the dawn was coming? I looked for the horizon in search of a lightening bit of sky, but nothing. Finally a look at the Garmin showed the fact of our slow pace, and also reminded me to enjoy the ride, and not fixate on the small potatoes. Ken ran metronomically in front of me and I had fun matching his foot placement and watching him navigate. It was easy to imagine we were the only people awake. That thought brought the immediate burst of joy and giddiness - I was running the Grand Canyon with Ken. There was no place I'd rather be.

A tunnel carried us to the bridge, which could have been erected over an abyss of indeterminable depth in the darkness that still surrounded us. Could I finally see a little dawn? no. No, not yet. We ran along the flat trail bordering the river. When Phantom Ranch crawled out of the gloom, I realized I had no idea where, actually, the water was. I didn't know that the first building we came to, marked "Women" was a dorm not a bathroom. I was bewildered to find that door locked. What was I expecting, helpful volunteers to point the way? to pour me water? Big lighted neon signs? I laughed at myself. All was quiet, even in the middle of phantom ranch, as we filled our water and ate a little. Ken thought wistfully about a coffee, but the kitchen still looked to be closed.We found our trail to the north rim among the many paths to buildings and jogged off.

The next seven miles were along a river, barely uphill with some rollers. It was rocky now, as opposed to the (mostly red) dirt of the trail down. I really wanted dawn now. That strong want felt odd. I didn't feel that way at Leadville - what gives? I think I wanted to see what I was running through. I felt like I was missing it. I was tired of missing it. And, then I missed my footing. I went down like a hinge, hard and sudden without even time to windmill. I landed on my chin. Hard. On the bright side, I didn't skid. There was practically no broken skin, just a patch under my chin. I hadn't banged up my knees or jerked a hamstring. In fact, I felt fine. Ken, a little alarmed, insisted I sit for a bit. I didn't want to hold us up, or be a bother. Ken pointed out that striking my chin hard like that could cause a concussion. I protested, but sat for a few minutes anyway. Boy did I feel dumb - there really wasn't anything to trip over. I got up ready to go, and as I started to follow Ken again, I felt a little dizzy. (hm, guess I did hit my head a little hard.) It passed. The sound of the river kept us company, and 20 minutes down the trail, I could start to make out the cliff face on the other side, trees up ahead, and the sky. I tried turning off my light a few times too soon, but eventually the early light was good enough and I could put away the headlamp. Time to take stock - what was it like down here? Trees lined the river. Immense cliffs and boulders narrowed the sky to a strip right above our heads, still covered in clouds. Around every corner, the rocks formed shapes and angles that caught my eye. I looked up to my right, and wondered when we'd start to climb for real. A few times I thought we'd started, only to crest a small ridge and head down the other side. We came to cottonwood camp ground, but didn't need to stop for water - we did confirm it was on, though. The river sound pleasantly kept us company. Occasionally, we'd stop and point out something unusual. We took turns leading, and the miles quickly passed under our feet. Near Roaring springs, we passed the first person we'd seen on the trail. It was amazing to think we'd had this well known, popular, highly traveled national park trail to ourselves for so long. Roaring Springs itself was full of kids, it seemed like - maybe they'd camped the night before? We hiked straight on through, stopping to chat with those that asked where we'd been. I loved the astonished looks we got when we explained we were going from the south rim, up to the north rim, and back to the south rim all in one day. Almost without fail, the other hikers we saw wanted to chat, to share what they were up to and to find out what we were doing. I haven't experienced that sense of hiking community before. And normally I don't like to chat. I like to say hello and smile, and keep moving. But here, the discussion of routes, the sharing of the day made everything seem more real. I had witnesses now. People who had seen me out there in pursuit of this exciting and hard day. Each one was a valuable part of the experience and added to the joy.

We were well and truly on our way up now. The river dropped below us. The effort and rhythm of climbing seemed to have its own momentum and carried me along in Ken's wake. It was easy to slip inside of myself and relax. Almost like a rocking chair. My legs were working; something I could notice and appreciate like a birdsong or a warm breeze. Ken pulled me out of that trance to point out a beautiful high waterfall across the canyon. Once I'd stop to look once, I raised my head over and over again. Looking ahead, looking back. I couldn't tell exactly where we had come from that morning and kept looking for the vantage point that would show the south rim. The north rim was much different than I had expected - more like the east mountains near Albuquerque New Mexico with ponderosa pines, craggy red rock. It was larger than life, even close up. Looking up, I couldn't tell where exactly we were headed or how far it was to get there.

I wrestled the camera away from Ken to get these pictures.

We came to another bridge, unexpectedly, and this was spanning a deep chasm between canyon walls. We passed a spire connected to our path by a small saddle. The pull to see if I could climb out to the edge was only overcome because Ken was a turn ahead of me at that point. Maybe on the way down, I thought.

There was a tunnel on this rim also, and from the far side of it, I could now see what I thought might be the top edge of the rim. The gray rock face was striped - stained with black, red, and pink ribbons of color carried by runoff. Every so often, the trail would level out as it curved and carved its way along a rock face. The north rim seemed wetter. Yeah, wetter, muddy even. And then there was snow. And ice. Climbing now was more of an effort, I could feel my calves working, and I was breathing harder as we gained altitude. Every once and a while, I'd slip in the snow or ice, wasting a step. Ken climbed faster, and got further ahead. He'd stop to take a picture so I could catch up. I kept trying to step out of the way of the view, but somehow always ended up in the shot.

Soon we were entirely on snow and ice, stepping carefully and deliberately. I wrinkled my forehead wondering how that pack of three runners figured we wouldn't need yak trax coming down. Seemed treacherous to me. The snow cooled air was nice to climb through. I couldn't help but consult my watch as the top neared. We had gone through phantom ranch at a really slow time of ~1:40. Both Ken and I had tried to estimate our total time. I thought 11 hours was do-able. The Fastest Known Time for women had just been set around 9 hours, I thought adding a couple of hours was about right. Ken threw out 14 hours, which worried me. But, he rationalized, if something went wrong, we needed to plan in extra time so we'd finish before dark and have plenty of food and light. Starting at 4 AM, +14 hours, means finishing at 6 which is dusk. Still, Ken thought that 12 hours was a better estimate since we weren't racing. Which automatically made me want to do better than 12 hours whether or not I was enjoying the journey. Which I absolutely was. But Still.

It's a long way down... and across...

As we reached the top? 5:40. So 11 hours was not likely - we had a planned lemonade stop at Phantom Ranch for the way back + accumulated fatigue. But under 12 was definitely in the picture. Tee Hee!

Hiker from Milwaukee, WI

The hiker who reached the top just behind us turned out to be from Milwaukee. Small world! He'd been back country camping for 3 days, and was happy to take our picture:

So, we grinned at each other like two kids, and turned about to retrace our steps. Wow, half way. And now, we get to see it all in reverse - and really see it, too. Not in the darkness, Well, unless something went tragically wrong.

Let's Run!

My worry about the footing on the way down wasn't realized. I slipped a few times, but no more on the way up. There were grippy parts on the snow pack, and it wasn't an issue to run carefully on them. So we descended. And once we reached the rocky packed dirt, we went faster. It felt great to run after spending so long hiking. We got to the tunnel in a flash - I couldn't believe what had taken seemingly so long to climb could be reversed so quickly. I skipped for a few steps with happiness for being in a wonderful place, for being able to run through it, for the great company, for the mountains, trees and rocks, for the gratitude of having such a trail by which to experience it all. I told Ken about the spire and the saddle I wanted to explore. I neglected to mention that I kinda wanted to scale or climb around the spire. I thought I'd just hold that in my back pocket for now. The bridge also came more quickly than I expected. The memory of Matt Hart's ultrarunning video and the runner crossing the bridge came to mind, and then I had Coldplay's Viva la Vida in my head. Don't watch that video, it'll only infect you with the desire to run all the races I want to run.

At the saddle and spire - flummoxed.

At the spire, I crossed the saddle to it, but there doesn't seem to be a great way to climb up or around it. I figured I'd save that adventure for another time. I was looking forward to running along the flattish section near the river to Phantom Ranch, and pretty eager to see the rest of the canyon. I felt buoyed by the completion of the first half, so confident and happy about the trek so far. I slowed and let Ken get a little ahead of me so I could look around a little more. On a step pretty much like all the other steps I'd taken, I felt a sharp stabbing in my right calf. Ack. I'd never felt that before, but I stopped and stretched. Ken was out of sight already. Ow, that really hurt. I stretched and massaged, but the feeling only came back whenever I stepped. Worse when I ran. Ow.

Ooops.

Ow.

Vishnu Schist! Zoroaster Granite!

Well, I thought, it was probably a calf strain or something. I can walk. Running is pretty painful; but maybe it will be better on the flat or uphill parts to come. I'm more than 1/2 down to the bottom, and 17 miles from the end. Better catch up to Ken, who hopefully is waiting somewhere (probably with the camera out). At least the view couldn't be beat! As I spotted Ken, I really hoped that whatever this was would pass and we'd be able to keep going more normally. I didn't want to crawl out of the Canyon after dark. Phooey. I told Ken the sorry news, and we walked for awhile. I enjoyed the hike as much as I could - still great company, still great views. Eventually, though, I couldn't stand it. I wanted to run the darn thing. I wanted Ken to get to run. I thought about taking an ibuprofen, and decided to wait until I got to phantom ranch. But I didn't wait to start running. It wasn't fast, by any means, but it scratched the itch. The pain dulled a bit; the calf clenched painfully every time I stepped over something - which was frequent with the logs and rocks set into the path for water diversion. Running along the river wasn't quite as free and fun as I'd expected, but it was a joy to see the things we'd passed by in darkness. My brother Fred had told me to look for certain geologic formations - the Vishnu schist cutting through the Zoroaster granite. I thought the chances I'd be able to see this were slim to none, so I was tickled to see clear examples of this. I had Ken take several pictures to send to Fred. Which I haven't actually done yet, shame on me (but here's a picture to prove I did it!). Some formations fascinated me - one looked like fins of black rock standing on edge in the grass.

Getting the chance to admire and witness huge formations, intricate formations, visible weathering - it was not too hard to put the calf pain in a box and close the lid.

That's not to say the lid stayed on, but it was ok.

At phantom ranch, we met the three runners that had spent the night on the south rim - they were taking a leisurely day getting back to the north rim and were happy to see us. (one of them is missing in this picture - probably getting his lemonade!)

I popped some ibuprofen with my lemonade, which was quite tasty! I could tell Ken was getting antsy at the ranch. Sitting down in the middle of a run and taking a load off is anathema to him, so we headed out pretty quickly. That was fine by me; in case my calf got worse on the uphill, I wanted plenty of time to hike to the top without worrying about the onset of the darkness and the cold. It was certainly stiff after the 10 or so minutes at the ranch, no need to give it more time to freeze up completely!

We jogged to the bridge spanning the colorado river. On the way, we passed a woman standing off to the side facing the river. Just standing there, not moving. And then I realized she was watching something. I looked quickly to where she is looking, and perhaps 10 yards away was a deer grazing on some leaves. Totally unconcerned that three people were mesmerized by its eating habits, it went on munching until Ken and I couldn't see it any longer.

Over and over again on the way to the top, I had the same reoccurring thought: "Wow, this is what I was passing this morning in the dark? I was here less than eight hours ago?" I really enjoyed crossing the bridge and getting a good look up and down the river. The river that you can't really see from the top. And at the bottom, there isn't the feeling of amazing expanses of space that you have at the rim. For me it felt conversely hidden, secluded, very immediate. Red and black canyon walls isolate you on the path. There is only forward and backward to consider.

As we started heading up, I insisted that Ken go ahead of me - he'd been following me since my calf starting hurting. I wasn't moving quickly, and I didn't want to feel and pressure to try and go faster. I was so pleased that I had been able to run along the river, that my calf wasn't getting worse. I actually enjoy following - to me I feel less responsibility, and less watched. I could stop as I liked to look at the view that we ran through before. I liked watching Ken hike easily ahead of me - covering the ground and avoiding obstacles and seeming relaxed, too. I aspire to that.

I was still shuffling my feet so that the best leg would go over the obstacle - I probably resembled an elementary school kid trying to figure out the hurdles. Up we went, pausing every so often and never running out of exclamations on the scenery. Some of the flatter sections we actually ran - I was surprised, but though my calf clenched, it held up.

I love scrambling onto ledges and into nooks and crannies, and this hike was no exception - when the trail ran along side a carved out cave/niche with a hole in the roof, I had to climb up into it and have a look. I was having a blast. I couldn't believe we were on the final few miles of this adventure. It was incredible, and I wanted to soak it all in. The sun finally peaked out on us in the last 3 miles, lighting up the red rocks, highlighting the crevices, weathering, and angles of the rocks and rock faces that surrounded us at every turn. Looking back, we could see the trail we had descended and now climbed threading its way down into the canyon, disappearing and reappearing around the bends in the trail. No forest here on the south rim, and the contrast from the wetter ponderosa and pinion studded couldn't be ignored. Somehow that environmental difference made the scale of our day seem even larger.

Unlike along the river, I was having to work quite a bit on this climb, even with baby-ing my calf. We passed several groups. One pair, a father and daughter I think, we had seen on the way up the north rim. They were hiking Rim2Rim that day. The father was quite over-weight (which says nothing about how much hiking experience he had) and you could tell he was working very hard on the climb. He congratulated us on making such good time on the way back and we talked about how lucky we'd gotten with the weather. It was neat to see how proud the daughter was that her father was climbing the Grand Canyon. A little farther on, we ran into a group that had come partway down S. Kaibab and now was on their way back up. Just as I was passing them, a young teenage girl fell across my path, clutching her calf and yelling in pain. The kids around her didn't seem to know what to do. I remember getting calf cramps in HS track and not knowing what the heck was going on. So I told her she had to stretch the calf out to get it to release. I showed her how to use a nearby boulder to stretch, and stayed with her until it released. She was a little bewildered at this strange woman helping her, in running gear, sweaty and everything, but she was relieved once the pain went away. I told her it'd probably happen again before the top, and just to stretch it out when it did. This made me look up, to try to figure how long we had to go to the top. How much farther? I could tell the afternoon was wearing on; my watch read after 3.

I couldn't see where the trail met the top, so I kept moving. We came to the icy parts. They hadn't bothered us much on the way down. Now, with tired muscles and poor reaction times, I was bent double trying to stay upright and keep moving forward. Ken even got a picture. So close to the top, I was still admiring the view, but my focus was on the finish. I still wanted to beat 12. I passed more people. Ken was well ahead of me at this point; the steeper pitch (it seemed like) + the ice + my calf + my fatigue meant my pace was quite slow. I knew I was on the final switchbacks, and so kept moving forward. At last, I craned my head to look up, and there was Ken, at the end of the trail. What an amazing feeling, to complete something so incredible. A group was at the top, admiring the view. They asked what we'd done, and we explained. They were astonished - then again, so was I. It's hard to believe I did that. I was elated, and grateful, and tired. It had taken us 11:46 to finish. Not 11 hours, but less than 12. It was an excellent compromise.The post run meal + wine never tasted so good.

What happened to the rest of 2011?

2012-01-12T12:34:00.000-08:00

It blew up.

But the running was still good. Better than ever, actually. Not just faster - oh, yes, I did manage to get faster - but better too. The running has been all mine again, a great outlet for joy and frustration.

I feel like I don't really deserve the speed I've found. Or maybe it found me, I'm not sure. Maybe it was lurking there the whole time, waiting and watching from some dark alley. But for whatever reason it sprung itself on me this fall and is holding tight. I still don't think of myself as being able to do some of the things I've done.
I PR'd my 2.5 mile handicap by a minute.
I ran Run Rabbit Run 50 miler (on short notice with little specific training) and finished in 10:08. That's a 2 hour PR.
I ran a Rim-2-Rim-2-Rim Grand Canyon trip and got to experience that immense beautiful awesome ditch while doing my favorite thing. One of the best running experiences ever.
I ran the Rehoboth Beach Marathon in 3:27. That's a 26 minute PR. I qualified for Boston, something I thought would be really hard for me to do.
And in the first part of 2012, I ran the Bandera 100K in 13:20. The first 50K lap I did in 5:50, which is my 50K PR by ~18 minutes. And it's a PR on that course by 40 minutes.

So, as the repository for my running, I'm now up to date. I may come back and write race reports for myself, maybe not. All of those race experiences were stand outs, with great memories every single one. I can't believe how much fun this running faster thing is. I'm freer now to see running wholly in the way that I've only struggled to catch glimpses of before. The expression of being something small in the midst of something great, the wonder of being able, the honesty and un-pretentiousness of lacing my shoes.

Here's to more of that!

HR pacing

2012-01-12T12:01:00.000-08:00

I was as antsy to pace at Hardrock as I am for the races I actually run. Bones and I drove to Silverton Friday morning and watched what some might call an anticlimatic start. A few of the runners in front ran a few yards before they joined the rest of the field in power hiking up the first climb. To me, though, the start just built on the anticipation of the last week.

Despite wanting to see as much of the race as possible, Bones and I knew we'd likely get little sleep in the next 48 hours. So. Back to the hotel for another 3 hours of sleep. It's a precious commodity for crew!

We both had left our best raingear at home, like fools, and so we shopped for new rainjackets in Ouray. They had a decent selection, but at regular price, neither of us bought one. We thought we'd try to get away with our water resistant stuff, or borrow something if it was necessary. We spent the rest of the day scouting some of the trails in Ouray, specifically Bones's section coming down from Engineer. It was helpful to get a look at the markers on the side of the trail, and how closely they were spaced. We caught up to the rest of the crew, who had manned the Maggie Gulch AS earlier, and headed to Grouse Gulch together.

We set up our chairs, and settled in to wait, and watch the runners coming down the switchbacks on the grassy slope. It was sunny and cool. As it drew closer to the time we were to expect Ken and Neil, we started calling out when a runner came into view with a green or blue jacket. Judy would look through her camera - is that Ken's running style? Was Neil wearing calf sleeves? Over and over we would think that maybe it was them, only to see our mistake and start looking again. The estimated time passed - but soon, Neil came down - the relief in Judy's voice was plain. On his way out of the AS, Neil walked straight up to Kurt, stops in front of him, hand on hips, and says accusingly, "Coonrod! This is fucking HARD!"

The light was starting to fade a bit, and we saw Ken's characteristic stride. Everything was laid out, Jean and Kurt go to meet him at the road. It was clear from their expressions as they walked Ken to the AS that all was not well. Bones has been set to go the second Ken gets through the AS, but Kurt pulled him to the side and started explaining the facts of life. Ken had gotten too cold. His stomach had gone. He'd need to sit for a bit, get warm, and get some calories. Kurt looked especially worried. "He's come back before, but maybe not from this deep..."

This crew knew it's business. We can't get Ken warm outside the tent, so into the tent he went. I was not the only one to question whether he'd be able to continue. Not that he ever said one word of complaint, just a serious but dazed look, with an occasional slight smile thrown in - I think that was meant to be reassuring. Darkness fell, it started raining. I guessed Bones and I should have bought those rain jackets! He dug the spare crew rain jacket out. Great, now it's cold and wet and dark. After more than half an hour in the tent, Ken got up and prepped to leave. Bones' face revealed his anxiety about shepherding an already weary, nauseous runner over a high mountain in the rainy darkness. They strode off, one resolutely, the other with some fidgeting into the obscuring darkness, and I wondered how the next several hours would play out. Would Ken come back, as he had in so many other races? How would he manage the cold wet night after already getting too cold once before?

We packed up from Grouse in the dark, carrying chairs and bags and jackets, dodging raindrops. We headed to Ouray for some sleep in a hotel there for some of us, others would barely rest their eyes before jumping out of bed to meet Dennis or Neil. Ken and Bones were due to come in around 2, if their pace was ok, and Josh was to take over pacing. In the middle of the night, I heard Bones' voice and thought blearily that good, Ken's through, and Bones will get some sleep. I finally woke up around 7 am. To an empty hotel room, save Kurt's niece (still asleep) and his dogs. Who looked at me expectantly. They are unresponsive when I ask them ever so politely where the heck everyone has gone. I look for a note. nothing. I sent texts to everyone. Nothing. Finally I reluctantly texted Bones, not wanting to wake him early after a night of pacing. He filled me in on the rough night, slow progress though rain and cold. But Ken had made it to Ouray, and after a nap there, he had headed out with Josh - well behind his estimated time, but still moving, upbeat, and determined.

We rounded up the others and made the trek to Telluride. I drove: I had just been over this road from Telluride to Ouray twice the weekend before (failed hut trip). I skillfully avoided being pulled over for speeding this time. We ate at the grocery store deli, and got to the park just in time to see Kurt heading out - he let us know that Neil and Dennis were doing ok. So we set up to wait. So much of crewing is eating and waiting! Now the weather had cleared for the day - sun, a few light clouds, good temperatures. Runners and pacers were coming through steadily, until, sooner than I expected, we heard Ken and Josh. The hive of activity around Ken recommenced - food, sit down, drink, repack the bag, shoe change? (why bother?). We got the download from Josh - his spirits were good (aided perhaps by the spirits that Josh toasted him with) he was moving pretty well, he wasn't eating a lot, but he would eat when pressed. Richard paid close attention. Quickly, Ken was ready to go - which jacket, gloves, armies, more gels? more waffles? And they're off again. And we pack up the chairs, bags, jackets, and tromp through the sunny park and reload the truck. Off we go again to Chapman.

Bones and I talked over how the rest of the day will go, who will drive Alex to KT? -Bones will. There's a map. Somewhere. Time to eat the second half of the sandwich. Chapman wasn't necessary a crew access point. We could have crewed on the dirt road, but instead, knowing we'd have some time to wait, we carted stuff to the AS. In the rain, again. On crossing the small stream on the way there, I saw a few branches and a 2x6" that could be stacked into a bridge... So a bridge I made. Crossing that multiple times I was very happy not to have wet feet already. I took some video to keep myself occupied. I helped out the AS staff, handing out water, soup, cookies. Judy and Neil came through looking wet and tired, but determined also. After a few minutes, they were repacked and refueled and headed out. The rain lightened a bit before coming down harder again. The AS tent got pretty crowded with crew, pacers and a few runners that decided to hang out, rest, and miss some of the rain. When it cleared, and the sun reappeared, we spent time watching the mountainside. Occasionally we'd see tiny black spots crossing the few snow fields. I hiked back along the path a few times, until I saw Richard and Ken coming toward me. Ken was quiet and focused as Richard told me what he'd been eating, that he hadn't been talkative and struggled a bit with the last climb. Ken had broken his one remaining hiking pole (the other had broken earlier) crossing one of the snow fields on the way down from the pass. This Ken was quite different from the Telluride Ken - no laughing, just tired and focused on continuing to move. Richard told me he was planning to nap at the AS, and when we got there, he tromped right over to the corner of the AS that was padded with blankets, took off his pack and laid down and didn't stir for 15 minutes. Nervously, the boys asked Richard about the last section. We tried to keep our voices down. Finally I prepped myself to leave on my pacing section - 8 miles over Grant Swamp pass. I was so excited to have the chance to pace Ken, especially after the way the race had started out. We laid out all the gear he'd need to take, I packed a few baggies of chips and other things I might be able to talk him into eating. Given the pace over the last section, we calculated a new estimate for arrival at KT, probably 4 hours from when we left. I don't think he actually slept, but after the allotted time, Ken got to his feet and we strapped his gear to him. Since the first thing we had to do on leaving the AS was to ford a wide and knee deep creek, we didn't see the need in changing shoes or socks.

Ken took Richard's hiking pole, and we headed out. Once across the creek, Ken found the pole to be too heavy, or just not right. I called out to Richard on the other side of the creek, and tossed the pole to him. Like a girl. I thought the pole might not even make it the 20 yds across. I never have learned to throw NOT like a girl. I guess that's just not high on my to-do list.

I knew we'd be climbing for the next few miles. We found Ken a suitable walking stick along the path, and we climbed. I related the whole of the failed hut trip story to Ken, including the mice, the poor directions, the massive number of downed trees, the lost trail on the first day, the lost trail on the second day. (I hoped he wasn't getting worried about my ability to stay on trail!) He seemed content to listen, and between episodes we lapsed into friendly silence. The trail arced steadily up through the pine forest. The rain had released the tell-tale piney-woodsy scent into the cool air. As we got higher, we'd traverse open meadow sections, and be able to look at the mountains that Ken had already crossed in the 80+ miles he'd done to get here. It was unbelievable to see the scope splayed out around us in the sunset. A few broken clouds were now all that was left of the rain. Every few minutes I'd prompt him to eat a chip, or drink some water, though he seemed fully capable on his own. He told me about Josh on top of Virginus, about the scree we'd be climbing up ahead, and the reward of the view of Little Island Lake from the pass. Kris and his pacer caught up with us just on the edge of the last meadow before the scree field. We chatted while they shed jackets getting ready for some harder work. Now I could see why some think the markers need to be closer together. It became a little hard to spot them in the rocks, with hardly any trail connecting them. But with Kris leading the way, the job of trail spotting didn't fall to us, and we climbed. At the bottom of the steep scree field, I left a lot of space between Ken and I to make sure he didn't have to worry about sending rocks down on my head. The scree was wet from the rain, making it less loose. With only a few brief pauses of a second or two, we scrabbled our way to the top. Ken, on a mission, continued right down the path, but I had to stop for a look. The valley we had just climbed out of was caught in the gleaming yellow light of sunset. Little island lake was still partially frozen over on the other side of the pass. Mountains, 13 and 14 thousand feet high poked the horizon in 360 degrees. It was overwhelming, massive, beautiful. Being in the high places in colorado makes me feel the wonder and awe like nothing else.

I darted after Ken and caught up to him in time to get to do a little snow and mud glissade-ing on the way down. (That was so much fun!) It was starting to get dark now, and we still had a few miles to go before the KT AS. Ken was running. After 85 miles and probably 25,000 feet of climbing so far, he was still running. I was amazed, and couldn't slouch along if I wanted to keep up. The mud got slick and deep in a few spots. Stream crossings were frequent, and made sure our feet didn't dry out, until finally we came to a creek? river? that was thigh deep and fast. Several snags had fallen right where the trail met the creek, and made it hard in the dusky light to figure out the best point to cross. I went ahead, scouting. I stepped over a branch, and lost my footing, going up to my neck in the water before I grabbed a part of the snag and scrambled to my feet in the now waist deep section I was in. I turned around, and with adrenaline pumping through my system calmly told Ken (who was looking upstream for a place to cross and missed me almost getting washed away) "Don't come this way." Little did I know that Ken had also dunked himself looking for a way across. Upstream a little was a much better, shallower place to cross with the help of a few rocks and tree branches. On the other side, we started moving again. I realized a few troublesome issues: 1. it was getting colder. 2. I was now completely wet underneath my rainjacket. 3. I didn't have any spare clothes with me, and my pack was also completely wet. 4. Movement would be the best way to warm up and dry off, but I would stay with Ken no matter what. 5. It was starting to rain again.

As we jogged steadily down the muddy trail, I found that the effort was enough to keep me warm, and the AS was no more than a mile or 1.5 miles ahead, where our crew would be. Where dry clothes or at least a dry shirt would be. I didn't need to worry about me, but I did need to make sure that Ken was still eating, drinking and not getting cold. We dug out handwarmers for him, and kept moving. Darkness creeped in on us while still in a forested section, and the rain turned to sleet. The trail left the protection of the woods to a traverse of a steep grassy slope. Markers here were sparse, and I was keeping a close eye on the trail for any turns. In one section, Neither Ken nor I had seen any markers for a seemingly long time. I hadn't seen any potential ways for us to take a wrong turn, either. I went ahead though, and ran quickly through the sleet until I saw another marker.

"Oh good! still on the right path. I thought we'd be able to see the AS by now, but it must be just ahead. Hm. how to signal to Ken that he should keep coming this direction. wave my light? Do nothing, and maybe he'll just keep coming? hm."

I settled on shouting once or twice and waving my light about. Maybe not the right thing to do; once he got to me Ken wanted to know what all the light waving was about. oh well. We're still running, the trail is faint. I shined my light on every marker I saw to reassure us both that we are still on the right track. Finally, the AS lights were visible, and pretty near to us. The hill must shield the AS from view.
I was getting colder and colder now. My clothes hadn't dried out, so I was looking forward to the change of shirt. And, I thought, I had done a good job of pacing Ken through this section. No major mishaps (I still didn't know he had dunked himself in the creek) and he was moving really well. I wished I could have seen more of the course, but maybe next year I'd get in, or get to pace someone else. What an amazing event. I ran over what I needed to tell Alex, the next pacer, and what items Ken would need from his drop bags.

Pulling up to the AS, all I could see was a tarp set into the hill side with some chairs and a couple of propane heaters. No Alex. No Bones. "Is there another tent? Another section of the AS?" I asked one of the volunteers. "No, this is it. What can we get you?"
No Alex. no crew bags. No dry shirt or warmer gear. What we had was what we were going to use.

Spaghetti noodles sounded good to Ken so I got him some of those and settled him right in front of the propane heater. There's a blanket over one of the chairs, and I wrapped that over his legs. I took my jacket off and wrapped that around his shoulders for an extra layer, as I could tell he was cold. The cold wind cuts through my wet tech shirt like nothing! As he eats, we talk about what we should do. Alex was really looking forward to pacing (everyone loves to pace at HR), and we wanted to give him every opportunity to get there. I checked my watch - we were a little ahead of the 4 hour mark, but the crew still should have beaten us there. I remembered the directions, and how tired Bones was - I wondered (to myself) if they were lost. After talking it over, Ken decided to wait for 30 min for Alex. As I turned to get more noodles and soup for Ken, I couldn't help smiling to think that I might get to continue on, see more of the course, and get to see Ken finish. I tried to get some info on the next section from the AS volunteers. They did warn us that within 100 yds, we'd come to a high fast water crossing that was a little treacherous. After that, one long climb and that should be it. The sleet turned to rain, and then back again. I helped the AS volunteers prop up the tarp to empty it of pooled water. I refilled the baggies I'd taken out of Chapman with chips and cookies. I got another bag from the AS and filled it also. And I made sure to eat something too, now realizing I might be out here longer than I thought. I took stock of the resources we had left: food, batteries, lights, and handwarmers. I found some handwarmers in my pack, and got them ready. I had batteries for my lights, and Ken had spares for his too. I noted what extra gear Ken had in case he got cold again. I was wearing everything I had - a ls tech shirt, tights, gloves and with the rain jacket Ken had draped on his shoulders, that would have to be enough. We were in pretty good shape, I thought. Ken had gotten warmer by now and was chatting with Lance. I couldn't believe how upbeat he was, sitting in an AS, pacer for the next section not showing up, no crew bags to raid, and the current pacer didn't know the route for this final section. I hoped I wouldn't mess things up. I also hoped he wouldn't want to wait longer than the 30 min he planned, as I wasn't sure what the next section held, and I knew the clock was ticking. Lance went and looked for Alex, but came back with no sighting. Ken looked at his watch, and at me, and said, "we'd better go."

"Yup, let's go. We're ready. I have snacks, here's your pack." I got Ken suited back up, with all his shirts and jackets on, both of us with handwarmers and we headed out in to the wet cold night. We made the turn by the white truck, and came to the water crossing. It was deep and fast, but only a few steps across. Not bad. Of course, it meant that our shoes were wet again, but I had long since stopped caring about that. Ken probably didn't even think about it anymore. And after the crossing? well, more climbing, of course, through more water. We entered tree cover again, and the trail was occasionally more solid. The trees dripped in our lights. Ken talked, told me how he knew Lance, and Kris. As the trail went higher, it got wetter - at one point Ken lost a shoe to the mud. Without bending down, he quickly shoved his foot back where it had been, and pulled it from the mud with the shoe on it before I even had a chance to react. Soon afterwards, I saw Ken look at a rock on his left, and do a double take. He chuckled, "I won't even tell you what I thought that was." And later, he shook his head at some rocks. "I can't believe it." he said. "Must be kids. Teenagers. Come up and write on all these rocks. Isn't that something?" He points to some rocks, maybe granite, that have some hatching in the marbling of them. He's pretty insistent, but my imagination fails me, and I can only say, "I don't see any writing, Ken." Wow, I thought. Hallucinations. Seems pretty tame and harmless so far.

Trail markers guided us up and farther along, in and out of the trees, in a constantly waterlogged trail. Finally I could see we were nearing the top of something, and there were a few lights ahead of us. Wow, I thought - top of the last climb already?!? Pacing this section had been pretty easy after all. We should go down to an AS after this, and then the finish. The trail wound around a bit, but soon we were headed slightly downhill. I thought I could see some lights in the distance - must be the AS, I thought, and pointed it out to Ken. We were both cheered by the thought. We continued slightly down, and then... well. And then the trail turned up again. And continued up. I saw the lights I thought were an AS had disappeared. The markers started to get farther and farther apart again. I would sweep my lights back and forth, looking for a glint of reflective tape or metal. We were definitely going up now. I could see the shadowy form of the mountaintop in front of me, and what I hoped would actually be the top was not as near as I would have liked. I'd spot a marker, hike quickly to it. Turn and make sure Ken was still coming the right direction, then hunt for the next marker. I would shine the light on my back or the ground behind me to make it easy for Ken to see me. There was no trail over this grassy mountaintop. Tufts would turn your ankle while we hiked from marker to marker. It was slow, but we made steady progress. Ken would stop occasionally to rest on his stick - the one he originally picked up over 10 hours ago. At the top, we caught a little trail and followed it and the markers across the ridge, and then down into the next valley. Feeling so terrible that I had gotten our hopes up for the AS too early, I said only that we were "pretty close" to the AS now. Down we went, with a couple more chances at glissade-ing. The markers still weren't close together. Down, down... I haven't seen any markers in a little while. Worry clenched my heart. No, no no nonononononono. I can't have lost the trail now. Crap. "Ken wait here, I don't see any markers." I continued down a bit, and then concluded I've lost the trail. I headed back up, and told Ken we have to go back up to the last marker and go from there. Back up is the last place either of us wanted to go now. At least it wasn't raining anymore. I dashed ahead, and saw that after crossing a snowfield, I took us downhill, and there was a marker I missed directing us to the left. I called out, and Ken doesn't blame me, we just kept moving. Thankfully, the last AS popped into view. We both sat, just for a moment, and relaxed. Now we knew exactly how far we had to go (6.5 miles), the trail was downhill to Mineral Creek with a short climb after that. After getting something to eat, Ken's no dawdling law took effect and we're off again. We're energized to know how close we are to the finish. We caught up to Kris, who had gotten ahead of us while we waited at KT. Ken chatted for a bit, and then we pass. Ken was still moving really well, and we made good time down to the Creek. Compared to the crawling and uncertain uphill section between KT and Putnam, we were flying. At the creek, it was obviously fast, deep, and we'd have to be careful. A rope had been strung across to help. Ken, without waiting, said he'd go first to make sure it was safe. I'm thinking that perhaps that was my place, to make sure he's ok, but he can't hear my protests over the roar of the water. As he's 1/3 the way across, I hopped in. The shock of the cold took my breath, but holding on to the rope I made my way across. The creek yanked at my legs, not wanting to let me move perpendicular to the flow, barely yielding, tugged at my jacket. Without the rope, staying upright would have been more than just difficult.

Safely on the other side, in wet feet yet again (still?) we crossed the road - which made me think, "ah, just down there is Silverton, just a mile or so as the crow flies. Ken's doing great!" But we don't follow the road, oh no, we took an old jeep road up and around Silverton. Up is still not a direction either of us is too excited about. I kept looking for a trail breaking off the jeep road to the right, I could see the lights of Silverton through the trees. But the markers led us on and on. Until finally, we came to the right turn and entered the quiet streets of Silverton. Only another 1/2 mile, another few blocks. I was amazed by what I had seen of the course. Ken thanked me, and I thanked him for the adventure. More than I had bargained for, but just what I had wished for. We turned the corner and could see the finish line. The crew was all there, cheering. In the end I was lucky to get to see and experience 20 miles and 11 hours of the course. Amazing. After this, I will put my name in the hat for as long as I can still move forward.

A Roller Coaster JMTR 50K race - highlights

2011-05-31T15:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-05-20T13:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-04-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

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....

2011-04-04T16:16:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-08T09:32:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-03T12:45:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-02-21T14:31:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-15T12:48:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-27T13:18:00.000-08:00

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!

Bandera 50K Jan 8th 2011

2011-01-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

The whole point of entering this race for me was to get me back on track. Back into running. Back to running weight. Back into the easy form I had in mid summer, where nothing hurt. Motivation, inspiration, raison d’etre, this race was to be all of those things for me.

On these fronts, it was a total failure before it even started..

But, as JH said about one of her first races after Leadville 100, the race did bring out in stark relief the undeniable fact that I hadn’t been running.

After Leadville, I decided I deserved 3 weeks off from running. I still did run a little here and there, but my totals for those weeks were around 15 miles. But this was my first wrong turn – not taking the time off, but my attitude about it. I saw it as some kind of entitlement, a gift I had earned, or maybe something I was getting away with, and to hell with anything trying to stop me.

Where did that attitude come from? Since when was a break from running outside (during one of the most beautiful fall seasons in ABQ ever) a good thing?

But once the attitude gained a toe-hold, I refused to let it go. And the 3 week break stretched to 3 months. “It’s ok,” I thought, “my weekly 2.5 mile race times are still good. I’m losing a little fitness, but I can get it back. Besides, I’ve been traveling, and it’s hard to maintain a schedule. And my hips are still tight. And…” The litany of excuses kept me from really examining what was going on. I was listless.

Fast forward to Saturday. I had run a 22 miler at the end of Nov. and two 10 milers in December. And now I was heading out on a 31 mile course, undertrained, but at least well rested! I had entered thinking I might be able to finish in 6:10 or so, way back in October. But now, I only knew I’d finish. Though I desperately hoped I’d beat my time (7:01) from 2009, when this was my very first ultra. It would be great if I could squeak out a 6:20. I’d be really happy with anything around a 6:30, though, I decided. I felt a little disappointed at how I had maybe cheated myself out of a great race.

The first 10 miles are hilly, with lots of rocks and thankfully also pretty scenery. I just wanted to get through this section with a minimum of turned ankles. My left ankle was already stretched out and unhappy from turning it over and over again in Nov. and Dec. After running with KC and RT for the first few miles, I slowly pulled away as I followed a girl (“she’s my age,” I thought) and a guy. He was doing his first ultra. She had done this race as her first ultra after a couple of disastrous road marathon attempts. And, as they discussed races, her run history sounded a lot like mine. I learned that she had also done Leadville. Their pace was good for me. I then heard that she now was considering a Leadman attempt. Soon after that, they pulled off and stopped to admire a view.

I continued on. I wondered if the pair would pass me again as I got tired. A small seed of competitive-ness sent out shoots over the next 10 miles. “If LEADGIRL doesn’t pass me by Crossroads aid station at 21 miles, then I will do my best to not let her pass me.”

At 10 miles into the race, my feet hurt. My legs were tired. I’m sure I didn’t eat enough. In any case, I didn’t feel low in energy, I just felt like I was approaching my mileage expiration limit. The aid station at mile 15.5 came and went, without a sign of LEADGIRL. As I passed a guy around mile 16, he shouted – “way to go! go get ‘em! Turn on the afterburners, it’s time to give it all you’ve got!!”

Um, no, that would be the last 5 miles. Or maybe just the last 0.5 miles. I grinned.

In any race, after the halfway point is when I start passing people. Those who have gone out too fast, mostly. Even though I felt like I should stop, that my preparation wasn’t up for this run, I was still running past people. I brightened up a bit, as one after the other came into view, and I steadily ran them down. I couldn’t run with any intensity, but I was persistent. A couple of guys traded places with me, but I eventually left them behind too.

Crossroads aid station appeared through the mesquite brush. Ok, I guess I don’t have a thing to worry about. I’m feeling steady, and haven’t seen or heard that LEADGIRL. I’m doing fine, just fine. Coke please!

And as I stood there enjoying my second cup of coke, the LEADGIRL ran into the aid station.

Dang.

I gulped the coke, and left. I hoped that she hadn’t noticed me, that she wasn’t paying attention to the little competition I had built up in my brain. But now I had to do a little work. This 5 mile section comes after 10 miles of flat to rolling, rather smooth terrain that has lulled you into running along, not picking up your feet much. It is punctuated in the middle by three hills, rocky, and covered with nasty spiky stool plants.

If you don’t wake up, this section is also punctuated by curses as you stumble through rocks, ledges, ruts, and plants.

The first three miles are runnable. I tried to run, but I was tired. The coke sloshed in my belly. I didn’t want to pick up my feet, and I left a couple of German curses up there with the rocks. I heard a female voice echo behind me, laughing at something. Dang. I move a little faster. I’m starting to feel a little better when I hear behind me approaching footsteps as I climb the first hill. Crap.

The voice says, “You run like a GIRL!” It takes a moment before I convince myself that it is a male voice, that it is a voice I know, that it is, in fact, KC, who has caught me. Whew.

I let him go by, enjoying him tell me that he’s been really running since the halfway point, and it feels great. At first, I think maybe I’ll keep him in sight, but there is no chance of that going uphill. He is quickly gone. I pass 5 runners in the last 2 miles of this section, just hoping that LEADGIRL behind me is lulled into a slower pace by the slower runners. I try to spur myself on a bit. It's fun when I recognize the runners I'm passing as those who passed me at miles 3, 4, or 5 - and every one of the 5 runners I passed fell into that category. I stop hearing the female voice behind me. Is it a trick of the twisting trail, or has she dropped back?

I get to the 26.3 mile aid station (so 4.7 to go) and see DT spectating. I’m happy, I actually feel pretty good still. I kind of assumed that the wheels that were only rated for 15 miles would have come off by now, so I was pleasantly surprised. So pleased that I forgot about my little private competition, and didn’t watch for LEADGIRL.

As I left the aid station, I looked at my watch.

“Oh that is not good.” It read 5:32. I now wanted to finish under 6:30. I actually felt good enough, and that section had seem to go by so quickly, that I hoped, I thought, I expected my watch to read 5:10.

The next section has 2 miles of very slight uphill followed by a rather steep uphill mile. Then a nasty ledged 0.5 mile descent that I have never seen anyone run – everyone is inching down the rocky 2 feet high ledges to gritty slides on tired achy feet. Finally the last 1.2 miles is a gentle downhill on jeep road which is very runnable.

I consider myself weak on slight uphills, and weaker on steeper uphills. And now I needed to run them at a little better than 12:30 miles. That might sound awfully slow. And it is, really. But my garmin shows that after 26.3 miles, I was averaging 12:57 miles (with stops). So over that terrain, and at the end of the 31 miles, I’d have to do better than I had all race.

Ooops.

But I wanted it. I should be able to do this. It really isn’t fast at all. I ran the slight uphill, and pretended that it was flat, that I was just tired and needed to work harder. I saw people in front of me, and ran them down, always with a good job. I was still reduced to hiking the steeper parts. The gnarly descent wasn’t much faster.

Finally getting to the jeep road, I see I need to run less than 10 min miles to make it under 6:30. I didn’t remember the two ravines I had to climb down into and back out of. I tried to go faster, and found I could. The aid station at 30.5 miles showed up early according to Garmin, and I was relieved to think I probably had it in the bag. Unless the distance to the aid station is an approximation…. So I talk myself into running faster. Why not push it more, I’m almost there. Around the corner through the trees, I see a building. I am there!
In 6:28:57. I almost plow KC over at the finish line, as he had crossed 1.5 min in front of me.

Very pleased with how the last section went, I talk over the race with my friends. I look up, and not a minute after I’ve finished….

THAT LEADGIRL crosses the line. I clap for her, and congratulate her.

In the end, I think I got what I needed from Bandera, if not what I wanted. I feel energized to go out and run. Many goals remain even after I’ve finished 100 miles, but I can’t make them for free. JH was right, Bandera showed me that I truly haven’t been running. I didn’t “get” a 6:10. Because I didn’t earn it. It was still fun, and beautiful, and challenging. I still love running. So, all in all, an odd sort of success I feel good about.

Other things of note:
Oh, those dratted cedar/juniper trees. My allergies were killing me all weekend.Try taking Zyrtec before I get there.
The three hours of sleep I got Thursday night before the 6:35 am flight was not a wise choice.
The pepperoni pizza at the Kona Grill is too salty. Get something else next time.
Wearing 5fingers after the race felt really good.
Don't do the $15 race pasta dinner - since they've gotten larger and moved it to the senior center, the food is not great.
The River Oak Inn has repainted and cleaned up some. No more deer murals.
A handheld bottle is all that's needed.
A drop bag is nice to ditch clothing in, but not necessary.

Finish in 6:28:57. 18/54 women. 6/20 in AG. 90/189 overall.

If I want a chance at a prize, I'd need to run around 5:45.
Maybe.

Analysis Girl's take on LT100

2010-10-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

Analyzing the Leadville 100 trail run - it's more involved than a typical race. There’s quite a bit of data. There are many ways to slice and dice that data. There’s a little bit of luck that is intrinsic in the data, impossible to separate.

The big Mo picture:
Finish in 27:19:16. 142rd overall of 362 finishers, of 647 starters, of 797 entrants.
12th woman overall of 52 finishers, of 96 starters, of 120 entrants.
3rd in my age group of 16 finishers, of 29 starters, of 40 entrants. The 2nd woman in my AG was 2.5 hours ahead of me. The 4th woman was 15 minutes behind me. Clearly there is a big difference in ability and execution between 2nd and 3rd. A very bimodal distribution.

Ok, so even the big picture is complicated. But I was in the top 23% of women finishers, and top 40% overall.

I like comparing 1st half to 2nd half times. Very few people even split this race. Matt Carpenter did, when he set the course record. A handful of people have done it. This graph tells the story:

My first half (start to time leaving Winfield inbound) = 12:04
My second half (Winfield to finish) = 15:15
My ratio, then, is 1.27, right on the leading edge of the peak. 440 of the historical finishing runners had more even splits, 960 had less even. What does this mean? In the context of my condition during the race (good to excellent) and my condition afterwards (felt like I could have kept going) perhaps it means that (yet again) I was too conservative. Perhaps it means that I balanced my effort just right on the first half. Maybe it means nothing more than that my training prepared me well to resist exhaustion, and that my endurance was up to the task of moving forward for 27 hours.

The garmin data for the first half says:
Total time: 12:04
Moving time: 11:23

This story is not so rosy. 41 minutes of sitting still? In the first half? Um. That’s excessive. And this is before I started dawdling through the aid stations (twin lakes, fish hatchery, and may queen) on the way back. Which I DID. A LOT. Plus, I know that outbound at May queen the time was 30 seconds or less. Fish Hatchery more like 5 minutes. Pipeline and halfmoon – nothing. And I was quick through the Hopeless pass station, let’s say 2 minutes. Then let’s be generous, and give a minute for every bathroom break and the blister care = 7. So the bulk of that time, at least 27 minutes of it, has to be split between Twin Lakes and Winfield. I don’t think I was in Twin lakes more than 10 minutes. Apparently Winfield was just a wee bit distracting for me.
I would estimate that on the return trip, I spent at least 60 to 80 minutes in the aid stations. 15 for sure at Twin lakes, fish hatchery and may queen. Yowza.I'm glad I had the time to give away, or that amount of dawdling could have cost me the finish.

Anyway you look at that, it is a lot of time to give away. My middle name shall now be dawdle. (I have no regrets – this is just analysis.)

The devil and the details:
Let’s look at this by section.

I wish these splits had the AS times broken out. But they don’t . I don’t even know where the timing mat was – on the way into the AS, or on the way out? So the pace includes all the dawdling time.

For the first 40 miles, my estimates were close to right on (I didn’t know the distances between FH and HM, and HM and TL, but if those segment times are added together, I estimated 3:35 for FH to TL, and completed it in 3:36). Hope pass was not as hard as I thought it would be, so I started getting ahead on pass one, then on pass #2 I did even better and got further ahead.

During the night, I didn’t slow as much as I expected, and ran quite a bit of the distance. Feeling good made it easy to get further and further ahead of my estimations.

It’s interesting to see that on the inbound Fish Hatchery to May Queen section from midnight to 4 am, that I was keeping a pace only slightly faster than the Winfield to Twin Lakes section over hope pass, from mile 50 to 60.5. And that it was 8 minutes per mile slower than my outbound time. Yikes. Not unexpected at all in the dark, after 75 miles, but still, a lot to slip away.

And now, after putting this together after several weeks, I must publish it and MOVE ON for crying out loud.
I PR’d a 5K at the Pinto Bean fiesta – 7 weeks post Leadville. I PR’d my 2.5 mile weekly race this week. Recovery is well over. I’m looking for another 5K around thanksgiving in hopes of going ~20:30. Woot!

What Just Happened?

2010-09-03T12:56:00.000-07:00

my 2010 Leadville Trail 100 run

I woke at 12:17 AM to noises – my parents and M and K had arrived at the house. For once, the Ambien didn’t really help me get back to sleep. I tossed and turned and dozed a bit.

At 2:20, I gave up, got up and showered. I wasn’t planning on that, but since I was awake, I might as well be clean one last time before the race. Feeling calm, but rather unsteady, downstairs I went to have breakfast. K met me at the bottom with a big hello hug, and boy was I glad to see her. Then M, and Mom and Dad all came in to the kitchen with tired but strangely happy faces. I got to tell them all about my stressful day before, and we headed to the race start.

DP finally found me in the crowd, and attached the SPOT GPS device to my pack. I left my family and crew, and found my running friends in the start crowd. I could barely meet their eyes. What the heck was I doing there? This was no joke, what I had gotten myself into? Who was I kidding? I tried to grin, and remember how excited to start I had been on my Thursday run. I tried to start some good head-talk, but I could barely pay attention to myself. "Just start, and be smart. Relentless forward motion. You know you can do 57 miles, just see how the rest plays out. You’re not alone. Get ready to start your watch." I don’t remember anything that the race director Ken Chlouber said at the start line. I remember fellow runner K asking me exactly what that look was that I was giving him. (answer: panic, terror, insecurity.) I remember everyone else looking excited and oh so ready. And then we were off. Thank goodness.

I veered to the right so that Dad might spot me – I did see him and shouted, but not soon enough for him to get the picture he wanted. And then we’re off in the night. I moved back through the crowd to the center of the pack to try to find a friendly face. I soon saw R and J running together. I moved near them, said hello. R mentioned her goal time, and I quickly saw that I was being DUMB in running near them, and backed off. I hadn’t seen this part of the course, so I looked around a bit, but couldn’t make out much. Soon, behind me, I hear, “You run like a girl!” K is there, and I wonder if I am still severely out of place in the field. But he says that he’s taking it easy with SB and I on the way out. So I relax and follow him. The effort felt a little much, but I also still felt a little tense. So I just followed K and didn’t think. Soon we get behind a train of people behind a woman going a bit slow. The line moves past her slowly, and K gets a bit ahead of me. No biggie, time for a bathroom break. It’s starting to get light, and I’m amazed that I don’t mind AT ALL the line of runners, or the thought of all these runners crowding me. It doesn’t feel that way at all. I can only see maybe 10 runners around me. It feels more like a running group.

I prep myself for the aid station: two handfuls of food, one in mouth immediately, and a glass of powerade, and start walking. I beat K out of the aid station. I was speedy. We hit the aid station right at 2:23, which was right in my goal range of 2:20 to 2:28. Once we start on the Colo trail, I notice a groin muscle feels a little pulled. Everything else feels like I haven’t run more than a mile.Good, all systems are go!

We get behind someone K knows (he knows everyone) and we stay with her for the trail part. Once we hit the road, we move out a bit. We ran/walked the Hagerman pass road to the turn onto the power line road. That, I hiked. K hiked significantly faster. He said his Achilles was already bothering him, I wished there was something I could offer to help. He let me catch up to him on the top of the climb, and we ran down together. I checked my garmin a couple of times, and it seemed like we were doing about 8 min miles on the way down. Decent. Down we went, passing lots of people and exchanging hellos with those that had hiked past me on the way up.

To the road. Everything still felt good here. The people cheering at the road made me self conscious about what I was trying to do. They had more faith in me than I did, I thought at some points. Clouds of uncertainty seemed to be following me around. What’s going to happen next? How will I feel? How far will I get before I feel terrible? Never mind that, just on to the aid station. You feel great, so focus on that.

Mom and J follow me out of Fish Hatchery Aid Station

I was about 5 min ahead of schedule here. I think I was pretty quick here. Bones took my pack and filled it. I grabbed a glass of powerade at the aid station, that and the bar and two gels I’d had was it for nutrition so far. Bones gave me a look that said – work harder on that! Don’t let us down!

Mom was chasing me as she was in charge of suncreen - successfully, too!

My crew had a pb&j sandwich, I ate a quarter. I took the chips with me. I decided against taking the handheld with powerade. Before the race, I had requested it because I knew the next section would be hot. Salt and calories would be important. But I just didn’t want to carry it. Didn’t want to think about drinking it. (woop, woop, woop – stupidity alert here!) J, only a teenager, stops me and says with wisdom way beyond his years, you’ve got to at least take a drink from it. So, I chugged about 1/3 of the bottle to get him to leave me alone. Lucky for me.

And then I was off down the road. I ate a little more, then started running. K had left me behind at the aid station, and I assumed he was gone. I checked my watch and found I was running 8:30 on the slight downhill with no effort, and 9 or so on the flat with the same amount of ease.Ok, good so far.

At pipeline with T. Still smiling!

I ate a few chips, and then stopped. At pipeline, I saw T , T, and Maria, gave them a big grin and kept moving. I hadn’t seen SB since he passed me going up sugarloaf looking good. He surprised me now by passing me again with K, and then all of us staying close by each other on the jeep roads. It started to get a bit warm – I was dousing my arm coolers every so often. Halfmoon came and went quickly with just a water fill for me, a coke and some powerade. I ate a few more chips on the way out.

A little farther, and I began to notice my fingers resembled sausages , and that my stomach felt full. I took an extra endurolyte. I had been taking them every half hour. The sensation persisted, then got a little more pronounced. I was running with K at this point, SB was somewhere close behind us. Should I take more salt tabs? Fewer salt tabs? Unsure, I asked K. After asking me what the sodium level in endurolytes was, he gave me an s-cap. Ten minutes later, he gave me another. At the next half hour mark, he gave me one more, and then I noticed I was feeling better – no more sausage fingers. On his advice, I started taking 3-4 endurolytes an hour, instead of two. Crisis averted, thanks to a friend in the know! I’m pretty sure without him, I would have been in worse shape coming into Twin Lakes.

M and J helping me with shoe change #1

As it was, we hit Twin Lakes about 10 minutes early. I had warned my crew that if I was much early at all, that I was probably ruining my race. But I felt good, and there was nothing to do about it now. Bones found me, my Dad and father in law cheered as I came down the slope. Bones again filled my water pouch, I grabbed some coke, a mini milky way, some chips maybe, and exited the aid station to find my crew. I was so excited to be at Twin Lakes – I think they were a little surprised how happy and upbeat I was. Shoe change, sock change, more body glide, eat, detail what I had eaten (not much) eat a bologna sandwich, drink some water and set off. I almost left without my poles! I hiked out, knowing I had 15 minutes in the bank that would be well spent eating more food. So I ate my chips, drank my coke. I hiked all the way to the river eating, and was sure that this time, I wouldn’t see K again.

Off I go to climb Hope pass (just out of frame to the left)

I was sure I had totally blown my 15 minute buffer (although this was not even close to true). But arriving at the river, there he was soaking in the icy stream. I was happy to see him, but also wished that his Achilles wasn’t bugging him so he could have a good day out there. We crossed, then ran and hiked to the bottom of hope pass.

I wanted to believe that climbing Hope pass would feel like it had in training. I knew it would be slower, but I was just hoping I had enough oomph that it didn’t feel impossible, that I wouldn’t have to work too hard. I started up, and soon K was drawing away from me. It didn’t bother me – he’s a great climber. I kept at it, and found that it didn’t feel that much different from training. It was doable, and I felt that the other side would also be doable. The switchback portion felt like it lasted longer than I remember, but soon I was passing through the beautiful flowered meadows. I could now see K again up ahead, he was slowing a bit – I was catching him. Then, I could see what I had been anticipating for a year – the llamas. One made a little noise at me when I passed. They were a fuzzy, quiet, oblivious inspiration for some reason.

K was here, his Achilles really bothering him now. I grabbed something to drink and eat, and saw SB too. He said he was slowing down, but was still doing ok. I headed out quickly, trying very hard to be fast through the aid station. I was certain that my ascent was much slower than in training, and my gut told me that I HAD to make it to Winfield by 12:30 in order to be ok with the cutoffs on the way back. So I hustled. K headed out with me. I climbed steadily, and actually left him behind because of his lack of altitude training and heel pain. Finally at the top, I didn’t pause beyond a glance - I'd seen this view in training- and headed down. K is faster downhill; I knew he’d catch me. I caught up with another guy using poles. He was doing the Leadman competition. We watched a few people fly past us, and agreed that our pace was safer for our quads. At the end of the switchbacks, K caught me. I worked to stay with him. We came to the road together, and then he came to my rescue again. I had a blister forming, and he lent me his bodyglide. I sat on a rock in the shade, set my poles down, peeled off both shoes and socks. The blister wasn’t even pea sized yet, but the skin around it was irritated. Relief that it hadn’t gotten out of hand, I hurredly applied the bodyglide, reassembled socks and shoes, and headed down the road. Tim, the Leadman with poles, caught me on the road as I was eating some chips (trying to finish them before the aid station so I wouldn’t get scolded). Click click click… went his poles…. ACK! Where are my poles! I turned to see how far behind my my sitting place was, but it was already long out of sight. Tim thought I had stashed them on purpose, so I explained about my blister, feeling extremely lame. Here this guy had done all these races, and now it looked like I stashed my poles so I didn’t have to carry them an extra 2.5 miles.

I walked most of the road, jogging only a few times. But my walking pace was still 16 to 17 min/mile, so I was happy. To bolster that feeling, I did not feel like toast, I was ready to face the second half! AND I was still 10 minutes, or maybe a bit more, ahead of where I thought I’d be. Yahoo!

historical marker at Winfield ghost town

Dad at Winfield

Me hiking up the road to Winfield eating the last of my chips!

Bones caught me going into the aid station and took my water to be filled. Into the aid station, I weighed 2 pounds more than I did the day before. I grabbed some fruit and a coke, then Bones lead me to my crew. Here I was, feeling great, and here were all my friends, helping me out. I doesn’t get any better. I ate most of my bologna sandwich, more chips, more coke, and then it was time to go.

Blister check!

Mmmm, Coke!

I told Bones we had to watch for my poles on the way back, and I explained about the blister care. About ½ mi out from the aid station, he asks where my GPS spot was. Hmm? Turns out the small device that was supposed to be relaying my progress to my friends and family that weren’t with me had detached from my pack. Crap. Oh, well, I guess I ‘ll be replacing it. It seemed like an easy worry to let go, which was all to the good as I couldn’t see how I could do much about it now. We walked a good portion of the road to let the food I had eaten settle. We jogged for a bit, then started walking more looking closely at all the rocks on the side of the road for the one I had sat on an hour ago. “It was gray…” I said helplessly. But the day was coming up roses for me: we spotted my poles laying not 1 foot from the road, crossed carelessly next to a flatish rock. Wahoo!

The party didn’t last overly long – the turn onto the trail up hope pass stared me in the face, unblinking. Well, here’s the true test, I thought. Just make it over, slow and steady. Keep about 5% back, maybe a little more for the later miles. I had to convince myself to not try to stay on Bones’ heels, to just go my own pace. Several pairs of pacers and runners passed me. Many times they’d demur – oh no, you’re going just the right pace, we prefer to follow. But quickly with someone right on my heels, I’d be working harder, my breathing more labored, until finally I’d tell them to pass. Bones encouraged me to take a gel, to eat and drink – I tried to follow his directions. He kept me good company, telling me stories, and keeping my mind occupied especially when I couldn't talk. The section that seems to go straight up took a long time, but thankfully I was prepared for it and was patient. Finally the switchbacks came. At one point, near the treeline, Bones asks where the trail goes. I looked at him quizzically – the trail was as plain as the nose on his face, straight in front of him – so I said, straight in front of you. He chuckled, and after a couple of beats I realized I had missed something. Finally, after thinking over what he had said, I realized he wanted to know where the pass was on the horizon, and I pointed it out, a little abashed. Ah well.

Again, I was sure I was losing time on my prediction, but reminded myself to let it go, and just keep moving as easily as I could. I felt good, considering. No real problems, and how great is that? We got to the top and headed down to the Hopeless aid station. As we round the corner and the llamas come into view, I hear Bones admiring them. I put on more Vaseline here, as I worried about the downhill and my almost blister. They were out of coke, but the soup was good, and Bones got me out of there quickly. We jogged along, and made good time overall. At a bathroom break, I snagged some barbed wire, but other than a tear in my gaiter, I thought I was unscathed. Once we were down to the river flats, my legs weren’t too excited about the lack of gravitational assistance, but Bones had me walk/run, and then FORCED me to soak in the river for 3 minutes. Which felt awesome. Even the small muddy pools in the track on the other side felt good, though Bones laughed at me for just going through them instead of around when it was possible. Soon, when I knew we were close to the aid station, I told him what I wanted, and sent him ahead. I looked at my watch, and got a jolt of energy. I was half an hour ahead of schedule. No way! I felt great. I was running through the swamp at frickin’ mile 60, and I felt fabulous. Some onlookers gave me great encouragement here, and really got me excited. Just to be coming into Twin Lakes, which I had always pictured as the 2/3 of the way mark, and also a spot where I could be in a lot of pain, a lot of trouble - but instead I felt awesome, it just meant that I was doing Leadville right in some way. That I was succeeding.

I crossed the road into Twin Lakes with a huge smile, feeling like I was on top of the world. My crew found me, and exclaimed at how great I looked. Finally they convinced me to sit down, and start taking care of business. A shoe change, more to eat, a shirt change, amidst much talking and laughing. I got to talk to Co here on my mother in law’s phone, but I kept it brief, and he told me to go get ‘em. Maria was all suited up and ready to go, so my crew hustled me out of there. Even though I was ahead of schedule, by a lot, they didn’t let me linger. What a crew! I also told DP that, as good as I was feeling, I thought that I’d be early into all the other aid stations too, and that they should adjust the expected times.

I headed out with Maria holding ten things in her hands (and asking if there was anything else she could take) while I tried to down a cup of soup. The hike up the jeep road out of Twin Lakes wasn’t bad, at least, no worse than I expected. I took it slow, stopping occasionally to try to knock some of the noodles in the bottom of the cup into my mouth. I was keeping up with my salt tabs, and doing well with water. As we got to the trail turn off, I told Maria to go first, and we switched on our lights. The moon was coming up, full and bright, lighting up the scattered clouds. I hiked a big portion of this part, until the trail started going downhill. I love running on trails at night. I didn’t have a handheld flashlight with me, and I regretted it. Maria gave me hers, and I felt much more clear sighted. We leapfrogged with a pair of guys, the runner in good spirits but belching loudly at regular intervals. Which brought to mind Wacko, or should I say, the great Wakkarotti.

And then, the Yakko’s Nations of the World.

I ate a gel somewhere here, and had some chips. Soon we were descending the cut to the jeep road. Once there, running along, we came upon K. To whom I said, “You run like a girl!” We high-fived. His achilles was a non-stop painfest for him now. I told him I wanted to see him cross the finish line, and then we ran on. This section had occasional beautiful moonlit vistas of canyons and trees with mountains in the distance. The temperature was perfect, the surface was perfect, the company was great. We were passing people constantly, when one person we passed spoke up. “Is that Maria?” We had caught up to J, who had cracked a rib but was still soldiering through the tough course without being able to take a deep breath. “I wondered when you were going to catch me,” she said. After a bit of chatting, she took off. No really. Took off. All of a sudden, she sped up, her pacer went with her, and she left me in the dust.

Oh.

I have to admit that wasn’t a lot of fun. I was a little hard on myself for a while, but soon the aid station showed up, glowing in the darkness, offering coke and all things salty, sugary, warm and cold that a runner could want. I didn’t eat or drink much, but the coke I had was good. A look at my watch… I think we are even farther ahead of schedule. But, wait, is it 10 miles between Twin Lakes and Halfmoon II, or is it 6? I can’t remember, but I think it is 10. Maria can’t remember. We ask someone close by, they don’t know either. If it was six, then we are really slow. If it was 10, then we are making really good time. Which is it? Unable to figure it out, we head down the jeep road. Here I start to feel an ache in my left shin, just a little. It’s a little worse once we turn north on the pipeline road, just enough that picking up my toes to go over the ruts is hard. I direct Maria to the bridge to the west side of the jeep road, then thankfully we are on smooth pavement, and I can relax. I can definitely tell I’ve slowed down here. For reassurance, I ask Maria if the shuffling pace is faster than the walking pace. She says it is, and though I have my doubts, I keep running. Shuffling. On one of the walk breaks on the road to fish hatchery, I started to get a little cold. I had all my clothes on at this point, but wished I had a hat. Maria told me to use my buff – brilliant idea, except I don’t know how to make it into a hat – I need the diagrams to make it work. Instead, I pull it up so it now looks like a nun’s wimple, with just my face showing through. Maria just about fell over laughing, and I felt pretty silly. With that, my spirits up again, we headed up the road to Fish hatchery, now way way ahead of my projections. I just hoped DP would be there….

An SUV passes us on the road, then stops. DP’s voice carries through the darkness, “Margaret is that you?” I have no idea how they spotted me in the dark, but she and Bones gave us encouragement and headed to the aid station to set up. I was happy to know they were there, though I think they were a bit stressed out that they didn’t have much time. Here, I started to flat out ignore K’s advice, and I DAWDLED in the aid stations. I had oodles of time. I felt good. My crew told me I looked good and I believed them! I was excited for the next chunk, and also, I wanted to eat something here before the next big hill. Another cup of soup down the hatch. I think I ate something else here, too, but can’t really remember. Pretty soon my crew cottoned on to the fact that I was just sitting there, and DP hustled me out into the night. #805 checking out! At this point, I knew that I would finish. It didn’t matter what else the race had in store for me.

DP was the most motherly pacer I had, probably because I needed it. She let me hike to the turn up the sugarloaf hill, with one short bout of running downhill, before getting me to eat something. At this point, 20 hours of running, I really had to work up some enthusiasm for those gels. And not the quiet internal conversations, no this was full on, out loud, “oh boy! Strawberry banana. Mmmm. That’ll be good. Yum, strawberry banana. I like that. Tasty!” Hey, it worked for me. Going up sugarloaf, DP was easy on me. We went slowly so I could digest. The only prodding I got was to eat something, to drink something, but she left the pace to me. I took my shoe off to get a pebble out, I noticed a huge blister on the side of my toe, and a spot of blood at the base of my big toenail (painted Lickety Split Lime!) that seemed to mean that toenail wasn’t long for this world. Since the blister didn’t hurt at all, we decide to hold off on treating it until the aid station. As we got about half way up Sugarloaf, nature called. As I made my way back to the road, I hear someone coming up the path. Not footsteps, but groans, over and over again, steadily coming closer. A pure pit of human misery making their way in the dark. Maybe I should have waited and offered to help, but I couldn’t face it. I went faster uphill. We got to the top in 90 minutes, which matched the predictions I had made. So I had slowed down on this section, but I was ok with that. Still prodding me to eat, DP kept me company by teaching me a new alphabet based song. Which I think I caught on to by the time she got to ‘t’. Downhill before the Hagerman pass road was actually painful on my shin, lifting my toes to avoid the numerous rocks. We stopped once and DP rubbed it, but it didn’t really help for long. And it hurt equally to walk as to run… so might as well run. I asked DP whether the run was still faster than my walk, she said it was. The smooth Hagerman pass road was a relief, and we ran well down that, until we came to the turn off onto the Colorado trail. I asked to go first. It felt great to be back in the woods on a trail. I felt pretty great again in the cool of the night, the woods close around me. I forgot all about my shin, or maybe it just didn’t hurt anymore. Had DP given me a tylenol? I don't remember. DP took my water bottle to fill it, and I kept running. I focused on the path and tried to dance lightly over the rocks. First bridge. Keep running, keep running, feels so good – DP is somewhere behind me, I hear her say to someone I passed, “yeah, right? Who’s pacing who here? She’s doing great!” That gives me a lift. Second bridge, a glance at my watch – awesome, I’m still way ahead of schedule. She caught back up to me before the last bridge, and all too quickly we’re off the trail and running down the road to May Queen.

Me and crew at 4 AM looking at where my blister used to be

DP had a medic come to look at the blister, but it had popped going over sugarloaf, and looked completely normal. I ate, I got rid of a layer, drank some. I saw K’s son J, who told me no one ever looks this “with it” at May queen, much less happy. I felt great. I’d been moving forward for 24 hours.

Dawdling!

Talking and dawdling!

Only 13 miles left, much of it trail, what’s not to feel good about! I tried to dawdle, but didn’t get very long before Bones and DP forced me up and out of there. I heard them make K and M promise to make me eat, cross their hearts and hope to die.

K headed out with me, and she and I walked to the trail head while I finished eating something. I think. M had told me that K was a bit worried about keeping up with me at altitude. Once on the trail, we ran steadily. A couple of times I thought I heard her stumble, but she assured me she was fine. We kept passing people. We saw Ruthanne, who was suffering from nausea. I offered everything I could think of, and finally gave her a hug and told her to keep working, that she was doing great, the finish was close if she could keep it up. SB passed me – I gave him a big cheer. What a comeback! It didn’t take long to get to the boat ramp, and M subbed in for K. I kept K’s headlamp, though, as it was much better than mine. I couldn’t believe it. I was on the last 7 miles. Can that possibly be right? M sang an air force cadence with my name substituted into all the best places which got me giggling. In the half light of the approaching dawn we both hunted for the trail markers as we passed through campgrounds. I was still passing people consistently, I passed SB again. Then I came upon J, still running with her hurt rib. We exchanged encouragement, and then I eased by on the left, and continued running. I still felt good. Wasn’t life supposed to suck at some point during this 100 miles? Not that I was complaining! It all seemed so surreal, like maybe I hadn’t even started running yet. I couldn’t believe I was capable of doing what I was in the midst of doing. I kept shaking my head, and I don’t believe the smile ever left my face. M asked if I was going to jump over the finish line. I tested out a jump – I didn’t get much air, that’s for sure.

Once we got to the dirt road part, I knew it was just a few more miles. The race didn’t seem as long as it was supposed to seem. How in the world did I get this close to the end? Everyone on the course at this point was congratulating each other, encouraging them, extending friendship and well wishes to everyone around them. We knew we would finish. The end was within reach. The camaraderie buoyed those that were flagging, and pushed those that wanted to push. Some faces I passed had pain, relief, some amazement, but all showed a sense of thankfulness for the day and the current moment that is missing in everyday life.

M and I were still running, until we turned to go uphill on the boulevard. We mixed walking and running. The sun came over the hill in front of us as we were climbing and blinded us. We turned left, and the knowledge that it was just a mile to the end brought tears to my eyes. M spent the large part of our run telling me how amazing this was, how inspirational for him. It wasn’t until I crested the hill and could see and hear the finish line that I could internalize even a small part of that sentiment. I was still just me, but I was also finishing something I wasn’t sure I could do. Something really hard. I had a lot of luck over those 27 hours, and a lot of help, planning and preparation had gotten me here, too. The run to the red carpet was quick. I could hear my friends and family cheering. I stuck my tongue between my teeth so I could bite it against the tears, and I was smiling as wide as it was possible. And I did jump.

Post race dazzlement

I almost didn’t want to stop at the line. Didn’t want it to be over. But it was finished at 27h 19 minutes for me, and I got hugs from crew, friends and family. K told me that we were now square – I had paid in full my half of the Ironman – Leadville bargain. The medical guy came to take me off to be assessed, and he echoed Ken Chlouber, saying that I didn’t look like I had run at all. I was still up 2 pounds. Monsigneur medic proclaimed that I was just fine, in great condition without any more tests. I stayed to see J finish just a bit behind me, then we went to the coffee shop for mom and dad. I saw my crew off headed back to the ABQ. Although part of me wanted to see the finish, we went back to the house instead so I could shower. First, though, K and M emptied 4 bags of ice into the tub for my icebath.

Facing that tub might have been harder than several race sections. I was already cold, my body not able to self regulate temperature very well anymore. It was all I could do to sit in there for 10 minutes.

Post shower I tried to stay awake to talk with mom and dad, but soon I could tell my head was nodding. I bowed to the desire to sleep and took a 30 minute nap. After that, we headed to the awards ceremony. Unfortunately, mom and dad had to leave for the airport halfway through, and didn’t see the awards part. As M and K, and my in laws and I were sitting in the bleachers waiting for them to start calling names, M shows me a picture of the results. It looks like this:

Wait, what are all of those numbers in front of my name?
143 = overall placing. Really? Cool! That’s good for me… out of 781 entrants… who knows how many started… or finished….

12 = placing among women. What? I was the 12th woman across the line? Wow. I did well out there. Really well. awesome. I can’t believe it.

3 = place in my age group. NO WAY! REALLY? … I got an age group award at Leadville… my first 100… an award… Hee hee hee I love it when the fast people stay home! Unbelieveable!

I had finished so far ahead of anything that I expected to do. I was disbelieving of that time. I fully expected to finish in 29:XX. I texted DP and Bones. Wahooo! As if I wasn’t unhinged enough by finishing the race, then finishing well, and feeling well, trying to absorb further good luck in placing in my AG was just beyond me.

Mayor Merilee, Me, and RD Ken Chlouber

My belt buckle and award pan

Other fallout:

I didn’t end up losing a toenail after all. The barbed wire that I snagged between Winfield and Twin lakes just scratched my big toe.
My blisters faded into callouses and were a complete non-issue.
The soreness in my shin is actually the tendon that runs up the front of the leg from the big toe, and that remains sore a week post race, but not terrible.
The GPS Spot was found by some angel runner or pacer, and turned in to lost and found. Thank you to that good hearted person!

Murphy's pre race jitters

2010-08-31T16:44:00.000-07:00

The week prior to Leadville, let’s just say I was purposefully distracting myself from thinking about the race. I had proposals to write, reports to finish, relatives visiting, summer interns leaving, and all of these things I used to avoid nervous useless obsessing about the race.

I was still antsy
I still made a few lists
I still had some plans about how things should go

But I did not get out my gear bags. I did not set out nutrition to take. I left all that until later, as every time I thought about getting my bag packed for Colorado, I’ll admit it, I would tear up with fear and anticipation. How did I agree to this? (Maybe I felt a bit like K before the IM swim?) I don’t know that I can do this. But, just like Scarlett O’Hara, I just put it out of my mind – “Oh, I can't think about this now! I'll go crazy if I do! I'll think about it tomorrow… After all... tomorrow is another day!”

I made drop bags for my crew which kept me busy until 3 am Tuesday morning before Leadville. Then, I woke up at 7 and started packing. I packed and packed, and because I had no time to dwell on the future, I made it through the morning. I did forget my body glide, and had to return home to get it. But otherwise I did ok. While at work, I had no time to stop to consider where I was headed – project deadlines were steadily creeping closer. I left work later than planned, and headed to Espanola to rendezvous with Co at the hotel the production put him up at. Very nice, but I was a bit too tired and worn out to enjoy the surroundings.

Wednesday early, he woke and hugged me good luck. I slept in a bit, and then there was nothing left to do but drive up…

TO LEADVILLE.

A few solid hours of nothing to do but swim around in my own turbulent sea of anxiety. Luckily when I got to Leadville, there was a text waiting for me from K. Me, F, K, Geekgrl, and sweet baboo all went out for pizza. Then it was time to put a few finishing touches on the drop bags. Then bed. Thank goodness for friends. Thursday morning we ran up at Independence pass – finally a little release to all that nervous energy. It felt great, and I finally felt like I was all in one piece again not flying scattered between a thousand different points like a pinball.

Highs must necessarily be followed by lows, and once I moved into the rental house Thursday, I discovered that I was really alone. No phone. No cell phone. No internet. All by myself.

So I made cookies. And met friends for the LT pasta feed. And put together my gear bags, mostly. And then it was time for bed. –whew- I still had a whole day to go before the start, for crying out loud.

Got up, made blueberry crumble in which I added twice as much liquids as the recipe called for (I swear it was the fault of the house’s measuring cups – they were confusing). I kind of fixed it. The cookies were definitely better.

Went to medical check in, and waited for the pep rally. I was torn between wanting company, and not wanting anyone to see just how nervous I was. I am STRONG. I am independent. I am CAPABLE. *whimper*

The pep rally was interesting, the doc funny, and Ken was Ken, telling us to dig deep. Find a way to keep moving toward the finish. When he asked the newbies to stand, boy were there a lot of us. I learned there were 40 people in my age group – wow, ok.

Bones came to the crew meeting. Passing info to him, talking logistics, really calmed me down. I understood how this was going to work. It was going to work.

Back to the house to finish putting together the drop bags and gear bags. Norm and Jane show up to start cooking, and I try to leave to drop off the drop bags… no car keys. Anywhere. I looked everywhere, twice. I knew they were at the house – I had driven the car there. I looked everywhere again. I wanted to get this done so that when my in-laws arrived, I wasn’t still running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Finally after completing sweep #5 of the house and car and surround county, I walked up the stairs saying that I would take Jane up on her offer to let me borrow her car – and just about ran into my mother in law. After hugs, I confessed my sorry ability to keep track of keys, and Marv lent me the keys to the van. Off I went, dropped off the bags, checked in for my crew at the super 8, and was driving back before you knew it. Until I passed a cop. Who pulled out to follow me. And then switched on his lights. OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I wasn’t speeding, I didn’t think… so why….

Officer: “license, insurance and registration please, ma’am”
-oh great, I’m going to get ma’ammed through this whole thing, too-
Me: “Here’s my license and insurance, but.. this is my father in law’s cargo van, I don’t know where he keeps the registration… they drove out from Wisconsin, it’s packed full of their stuff. I could look if you want me to?”
He waves his hand – “no, that’s alright. I’ll be right back.”
Him; “Ma’am this registration is not coming up in my computer. You’ll want to have your father in law check that out.”
Me: “ok, I will. He’s very responsible, I can’t imagine he let it lapse.”
Him: “That’s fine, not why I stopped you. Ma’am, do you know why I stopped you?”
Me:“no Sir, I don’t.
Him: “well, I thought you might be drunk. You were all over the road back there!”
Me: “oh, ah, well, I don’t usually drive anything like this van, ah. I’m not used to how it handles. I didn’t realize… I’m not, ah, drunk. I’m very close now to home. ”
Him: “you were weaving all over your lane.”
Me: “ah, I, I’m sorry, I’ll be very careful on the way home, I promise!” (tried very hard to look respectable.)

He let me go, and I spent the next five miles trying to figure out a way to tell Marv about his registration without telling my in-laws that I got pulled over because the officer suspected I was drunk.

I got back to the house, and the pasta party is in full swing. I say hello to several friends, make my way over to Marv. I returned his keys and thanked him profusely for the loan. Then, quietly, “A cop stopped me. He said the registration didn’t come up for the van, so you’ll want to check that.” I thought that was good. The truth, you know, but not the whole truth. But then, Marv gets this horrified look on his face. “you got STOPPED? Oh I’m so sorry! It’s the special bicentennial WI plates, they don’t come up out of state. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe they stopped you for that. Are you ok? Did he give you a hard time? I’m so so sorry! I swear it is those plates. It is! I can go get you the registration if you want to see it!”

I hesitated. But I couldn’t let him feel so bad.

“No, no Marv, actually he stopped me because I weaved a couple of times going around a turn,” big sigh, “and he thought I might be drunk.”

They had the grace not to laugh.

The rest of the party was fun, the food was good, and I tried my best not to freak out about the missing car keys. Which my mom and dad, M and K were going to NEED the next day. Several friends could see through my very thin veneer of calm to the “OH MY GOD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO.” I had at least 5 people also go through the house, car and grounds. No luck. K told me not to worry about it – did I have a ride the next day to the race start. Yes. So forget it.

“OK BUT AFTER THE RACE WE AREN”T STATYING IN LEADVILLE I CAN’T LEAVE THE CAR HERE WE NEED IT HOW AM I GOING TO GET HOME CO’S GOING TO KILL ME.”

Thankfully, K figured out a plan involving K calling my neighbors that night when he got back to Leadville, my neighbors finding the spare key at the house, and fedex. I sat down. (It’s good to have friends.)

Bones corners me, and we sit down to more thoroughly go through the plan, my gear bags, my time estimates. Just as we are getting a handle on things, DP arrives. I give her a huge hug, and we go through it again. Change shoes here. Gear bags organized this way. Phone list. I warn that if I am ahead of schedule on the way out, that’s likely going to mean trouble. I thank them. Multiple times. And I mean it wholeheartedly.

The whole time, Jane and Norm have set up, cooked, served, and are now cleaning up. I can’t express how thankful I am to them for all of their work. Jane as a last ditch effort decides she will check my car one more time for my keys. To my great surprise and everlasting gratefulness, I hear a whoop from my car, and a jangle and Jane bounds up to the house holding my keys. The last vestige of tension loosens from my shoulders, and I give her a huge hug. It’s going to be fine. It will all work out.

Everyone leaves. I tidy up, leave a note for my parents and M and K. I set up for the morning. I look around at all the things I won’t see again in daylight until Sunday… because I am going for a run.

2010-08-10T17:16:00.000-07:00

hmm, let's see. What shall I write about today?
Funny, nothing particular springs to mind.
There must be something worth a line or two....

I'm going to ask for some Bill Bryson books for Christmas, I think. I really enjoyed a Walk in the Woods. Especially the description of Katz chucking everything off the side of the trail.

I should really read more.

Everyone says that, in a wistful but positively unhopeful tone of voice that says, "my intentions are good, and I have so many of them, I could probably pave your driveway, too."

Co is working on location for a while now, and so I'm left to my own devices. Which it turns out are to do bills, vacuum, dust, do the dishes, walk the dog, and clean the bathroom. When did my devices get so boring? For a word that looks a bit like devious, and a bit like vice, I am certainly playing it safe here. Hmm. if there is such a word as "device" why isn't there such a word as "invice"? I guess it is one of those faux lost pairs. I should look up what they are really called on the net. Bah, no luck. I'll have to ask my English professor Sis in Law.

What's really going on here, you ask?

LEADVILLE IS ONLY 10 DAYS AWAY AND I'M TAPERING AND I'M A LITTLE ANTSY!

Co is not even home to distract me. Dante, while companionable, is not cutting it.

I'm scheduled to only run 20 miles this week. I can't do it. I've already run 10, and I'm running tonight with J and M. And it's only TUESDAY. I think I'll try to hold myself to 30. 30 would still be considered tapering, right?

I ran a PR today in a race I have done 84 times. We run the same hilly jeep road course every Tuesday from my work. It's 2.5 miles long. Typical PR's are a handful of seconds because the race is so short; improvements are usually gradual. I beat my time by 45 sec. That's a lot. My time (19:07) actually resembles those of the other runners now.

I did the Socorro Chile Harvest sprint tri, and though hadn't swam or biked since May 1st, I was only 1 minute off last years time.

Even Mom noticed I was antsy on our telephone call. She said with a great amount of amusement and resignation in her voice, "You're going to have a hard time going back to running less after this race, aren't you?"

I didn't exactly answer.

Leadville Training Trip #2

2010-07-26T09:03:00.000-07:00

Fri: double crossing of Hope Pass [16.5 miles]
Sat.: DAY- Treeline(Pipeline) to Twin Lakes and back [24 miles]
NIGHT - Fish Hatchery (base of sugarloaf) to May Queen [9 miles]
Sun.: May Queen to Tabor Boat Ramp [9 miles]

Planning the weekend was more difficult with more people, but also waaaayyyyy more fun. Here are some pictures. I was really happy with how I felt all weekend. I ate and drank pretty well the entire time, I tried out a caffeine pill on the night run and it was fine, DP was a blast to run with through the dark, and all my gear worked as advertised - except I still haven't gotten the opportunity to try my rain jacket. Oh, and my headlamp went out.

The bonus came this morning when I added in my miles for the week on my log.
90.8 miles
Ninety FRICKIN' miles! Holy cow. I've wanted to put in a 90 mile week, just to see that I could do it. I didn't think I was going to get it in though. I'm bouncing in my chair like a 4 year old.

Traipsing through the wildflowers near the top of Hope Pass (Twin Lakes side)

Me climbing up the Winfield side of Hope Pass

At the top of Hope Pass

Taking advantage of the river crossing to Twin Lakes for an ice bath

What? our legs feel great!

After Saturday's run to Twin Lakes and back

Thirteen Thursday Thoughts

2010-07-22T15:47:00.000-07:00

1.)    I am hesitant to write in my blog lately, because that requires I VISIT my blog, and see the counter. Yeah, that one at the top of the page. That I put there. That I thought was funny. Avoidance is now my constant companion. I just keep thinking, “It’ll never be then.” Right? (tick, tick....)
2.)    I also am reluctant to write about my training… because it is going well. I think. I don’t want to jinx anything by putting it down into words. When did I become so superstitious? That is NOT like Analysis Girl at all.
3.)    But because this blog is really all about me, and right now I am all about running, that kinda means that if I’m not willing to write about running… well, you see the pickle I am in.
4.)    I have been terribly consistent in my training. More so that for any other endeavor by far. I have only missed a handful of scheduled miles over the last 3 months. My training log, which I color green for days that I do the scheduled workout and red for a missed workout, is almost completely green. Wow. I didn’t know I could do that. I’ve been saying that a lot lately. I’ll work out the percentage of completed workouts when the race is a week away to boost my confidence.
5.)    I got interviewed as a newbie ultrarunner for the Albuquerque Journal Fit section. It’ll come out in August. I hope I don’t come across like an ass. The only thing I said that I am concerned about how it will come across was in response to the question, “what worries you most – or what aspect do you worry about the race?” In reality, I think and mull over LOTS of things. I'm not a worry-wart, though. The only thing I worry about is, well, being paced. Yes, I worry about my pacers. I worry that we won’t get along. I worry that they won’t have fun. I worry that we won’t be able to communicate… mostly because I am terrible at it. So, that’s what I said, that I worry about my pacers, and how we’ll interact. I think she was shocked that I wasn’t worried about my stomach, the course, the time cutoffs. I guess I’m odd. And now I worry about what people will think about me worrying about my pacers. What a useless waste of energy.
6.)    I feel like I am getting slower. The facts don’t bear this out though. My speed work and tempo work show I am getting faster, a little. But I FEEL slower.
7.)    I’ve gone through several more shifts in perspective. First, now 30 mile runs followed by 10 to 20 mile runs the next day do not seem like a huge deal. THAT IS MORE MILEAGE THAN I USED TO PUT IN DURING AN ENTIRE WEEK. Ack, who does that? Oh, apparently I do. Huh.
8.)    Second, the ski hill doesn’t seem so bad. It’s kinda fun to go straight up. And then straight back down. And repeat.
9.)    Third, I have finally gotten more used to running in the heat. I ran in DC in 100 degrees and 9X% humidity, and it wasn’t that bad. I can’t believe I just wrote that.
10.)    Lastly, a 40 mile week was a welcome recovery week for me. Wow, what a load off! I barely ran at all. My legs got some bounce back, I slept well and tried not to overeat. However, in retrospect, 40 miles per week used to be a high mileage week. Sheesh.
11.)    My house is dirty and my garden has weeds. Big weeds. It wouldn’t bother me so much, but my brother, sister-in-law and two nieces are coming to stay for a couple of days next week. Guess I’ll be cleaning Sunday night when I get back from…
12.)    Leadville training trip #2. See, you maybe thought that last point wasn’t going to be running related. But it was. Friday: double cross that Hope Pass. Saturday: Twin lakes to Pipeline/Treeline during the day, then night run from near Fish Hatchery up over sugarloaf to the dam and back. Sunday, May Queen to the Tabor boat ramp and back. If this makes no sense to you, the take away message is that we’ll cover ~45 miles of the Leadville course. Woot!
13.)    One of my favorite parts about all of this running is the growing list of animals I have seen in the last few weeks: Marmot, black bear (twice, with growling huffing noises thrown in for fun), rattlesnakes, horny toads, porcupine, white tailed deer (one whole deer family – a doe, fawn and buck all together), Abert squirrels, burrowing owls, coyotes (lots), mule deer, garter snake, hummingbirds, and more. :) I love the trails.

A Leadville experience.

2010-07-10T20:49:00.000-07:00

6/20/2010
Dear Diary,

Today, Jean took me up to Leadville to train. She said on the first day we’d go from Halfmoon to Twin Lakes, with maybe a climb up to somewhere called Mt Elbert. After a little trouble finding the new route, we headed down the jeep roads. There were no markings or numbers on these forest roads, dear diary. Although Jean had never been on this new section, we did manage to take the right jeep road to the Colorado trail. We ran on the trail until suddenly we came to a paved road! We had missed a turn. A passing cyclist said it was 3 miles to Twin Lakes, but luckily, dear diary, it was only 1.5.

We filled up with water, and headed back to the Colorado Trail by the right route this time. It was steep! We got to the trail, and then we saw why we had missed the turn – it had logs put across it. We laughed, and kept going. The wrong way. Again. Before too long, Jean turned us around (I was getting a bit dizzy) and got us going in the right direction.

Part way along, she stopped and waited for me, then asked, “Do you want to run more, or hike?” I had already agreed to the Mt. Elbert (whatever that was) climb, so we started hiking up. And up. And up. We were already at 10,000 ft, dear diary, so how much farther could it really be? Then Jean says, “You know, Mt. Elbert is more than 14,000 ft high.”

“No, I didn’t know that. Of course it is.”

Actually, it was more like,

“No,” gasp, gasp, “I didn’t” gasp, gasp “know that.” Wheeze. “Of course” gasp “it is.”

“And,” says Jean, “It’s the highest peak in Colorado!”

The nice deaf man resting by the side of the trail mimed to me that the peak was too slippery to get to. But we went anyway. And this afternoon, I learned to posthole. There weren't any people at the top but us. We only saw a handful hiking up or down that day. Jean said that today, only the HARDCORE people made it to the top. She says now I can say I am HARDCORE as well as agile.

We saw several Marmots. The first thought he was an Adonis, and posed quite nicely with Jean. “I am too gorgeous, you must admire me.”

The next was pretending to be a rock. “I am a rock,” he said, “You do not see me.”

After summitting (my first fourteener – hey, it counts even if it was totally unintentional!) and signing the register, we headed down.

After reaching the Colorado trail, we realize we were both out of water with 5 miles to go.

I was thirsty, Jean was thirsty, but we ran. More than 9 hours and 28.5 miles after starting, we were standing by our car. Which I had left unlocked. Luckliy, dear diary, nothing was taken!

We ended the night with a plate of tilapia and pasta, followed by a starlit icy soak in the pond in the backyard. A perfect EXTREME SHEEP vacation.

The Hope Pass Double crossing

2010-07-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

I had TRIED to take it easy on (6/19) Saturday’s Pipeline to Twin Lakes to Mt Elbert to Pipeline loop. I really had. I tried to keep the effort low. But by the end of a 9.3 hour day of running and hiking up to 14,433 ft, with none of the 28.5 miles below 9000 ft, I was tired. My muscles had forgotten what glycogen looked like. I woke up in the middle of the night really hungry even though we had a big dinner. And a big snack before dinner. And a little snack before bed.I just hoped I'd recover enough to carry me over Hope Pass and back the next day.

Jean had found out from a friend that the high temperatures and voluminous snowpack this year had wiped out many of the bridges spanning the river between Twin lakes and Hope Pass. He directed us to one that was still crossable, just west of Willis Gulch. Out of curiosity, we stopped at Willis gulch, thinking maybe that bridge wouldn’t be underwater anymore. Instead, we found the bridge was split in two, and hanging off of the two banks. The water raged and frothed itself to a creamy white above it in the narrow canyon. The amount of water flowing under the bridge we did cross was dizzying.

Jean, mistress of trails for this Leadville weekend, quickly found the right trail, and then the right turn, and we were on the Colorado trail heading up to Hope Pass. Legs were tired, but not as bad as they were for the Caldera marathon! We caught the trail about 2 or 3 miles out from Twin Lakes, just at the bottom of the incline. The trail is a pleasure to climb (in training), a little rocky, a little rooty, not steep enough to make you stop. I used my trekking poles all the way up. They gave me a rhythm to lose myself in. The trail is wide enough for two people to walk side by side, if they like each other. In most places, one side was better footing than the other. It’s wooded in lodgepole pines, spruce, and aspen. For some of it, a river was just off the path. Before long, I was running across small meadows with wildflowers – reminded me of marsh marigolds and lupine from Wisconsin. The trail narrowed to one person wide up here, and was less rocky. Finally, I came to the last meadow, where Jean was waiting in the lee of a tree, and where the Llamas will be on race day. Oh, and the aid station, too. I sat and ate a bit.

Above us, we could see the trail between spotty snowfields leading up to Hope Pass through nothing but 0.7 miles of rocks. The wind whipped down the slope as we made our way to the pass. Jean borrowed a pole to get through the snowfields. It took 22 min to cross the distance to the pass.
Time to ascend Twin Lakes side: 1:53 (includes the rest break.)
Distance of climb = 2.7 miles
Elevation difference: 3270

The wind kept me from enjoying the view, and down the other side we ran. The first mile was totally runnable with my poles giving added purchase on the sandy surface in an open exposed terrain. After that, in the woods, the two or three rock slides slowed me to a walk with unstable rocks in all shapes and sizes. After 1.5 miles, the trail was so narrow that the undergrowth was grabbing my poles. For the last mile, the trail was so steep and slidy, that I couldn’t manage much of a run. This will be a challenge on race day, to give and get room on the trail to and from other runners. THIS side was not two people wide at any point. I found Jean at the bottom, and we ran to the road and turned around there (skipping the 2 miles to the race turn around at Winfield).
Time to descend Winfield side: 48 minutes
Distance: 2.6 miles
Elevation drop: 2675

On the way back up, the first mile was by far the hardest. The steep section here was steeper than the Twin Lakes side had been. I was trudging, and immediately lost sight of Jean. I stopped for 7 minutes, sat on a rock, ate my potato chips and drank. Finally, though, I started up again, still appreciating the poles I was using. My breathing was labored going up the Winfield side, something I hadn’t noticed on the twin lakes side. (I’m sure on race day, both sides will feel laborious.) I plodded and plodded. I stopped to catch my breath several times, and on each occasion it eluded me. Finally, as the woods began to thin, the trail eased its pitch just slightly, and I was able to hike with purpose. I even ran across one or two switchbacks. Close to the top, the fierce wind tugged relentlessly at my light carbon poles as I tried to plant them. I gave up on using both poles, and focused on only one with better luck.
Time to ascend Winfield side: 1:44 (includes the rest break)

The first .7 miles of rocks, snow, wind and grief were not fun, but soon over. I caught Jean napping in the lee of a different tree. Before I could do more than take a drink, she was up and running downhill. The poles were fantastic for descending on this wide, slightly more level trail. There were only a couple of rocky sections that were difficult to plant a pole in. Everywhere else, I got a boost because of them. After 20 minutes, my triceps were crying from all of the exercise. I will need to work on that! We turned off of this trail early, but it seems that it would have taken me 45 minutes to get back to where we started.

So… race day estimates? Who knows. Here's a stab in the dark.

3 miles from Twin Lakes to bottom of hope pass = 42 minutes
Ascent = 2 hours
Descent = 1 hour
Road to Winfield = 35 minutes
Total OB = 4:17

Return on road = 28 minutes
Ascent = 2.25 hours
Descent = 1 hour
3 miles to Twin lakes = 45 minutes
Total IB = 4:28

4th time is no walk in the park

2010-06-17T16:05:00.000-07:00

I didn’t set out with great expectations, I swear. But at one point, I turned to Bones and said, “This is not how I expected this to go.” And yet, the Run the Caldera Marathon 2010 may have been one of the best learning opportunities to date for me.

I anticipated finishing in about 5 hours, give or take, after running conservatively and easily, just letting my legs cover the distance. I love the locale of the race, so I was looking forward to seeing the meadow, and the wildflowers, hearing the streams. I was looking forward to being happy out there.

I did not get what I wanted. I guess we’ll see if I got what I needed.

We had to wait at the start for about 45 minutes, as lightning from a brief passing storm had started a small fire. The volunteer fire dept (THANK YOU VOLUNTEERS!) contained it quickly and we started.
My first thought: Wow, my legs are heavy.
Second thought: really really heavy.
Third: I’ve never felt my legs like this. Not even last week after running long with S. Baboo and then running longish with Kenbot the next day. Not even close.

Were small children hanging on to my legs and dragging their weight behind me? No. Had someone inserted lead into my shoes? Doubtful.

Am I really this tired? Huh. Guess so.

I plodded along, feeling like I had already run 20 or 30 miles even though we had just started. I hoped my legs would warm up and return to their normal peppy state…. But it was clear by mile 3 that I was hoping in vain. Lucky for me, Bones was running nearby, and selflessly decided to stay with me.

Normally, chatting or being chatted to while running tires me out. It can make me feel worse about how I’m doing even if I’m doing well, and can make me feel worse – even guilty – if I’m feeling bad. I’m not sure why. Maybe I assume that the person with me is having an easier time of it than I. Maybe it’s the difference between having to work to listen and understand someone, and being alone with my own thoughts. Which, while running I think about nothing in particular. Maybe it’s about having a witness, a fear of being judged.

But, that day, my head wasn’t a great place to be. It wasn’t happy, and it wasn’t thinking about nothing in particular. It was thinking that “I suck” and “At this rate, you’ll be out here all day” and “nobody else feels as bad as you do.” Chatting with Bones was enjoyable and a relief.

Lots of people passed us on the first climb that goes from 8000 to 10,000 ft. We walked just about the whole thing, except for one or two flatter spots. We did not pass a single person. We saw my friend Barry rejoin the trail – he had taken a wrong turn for an extra 2 miles. I thought that since I was going so slowly, I had an excellent opportunity to try taking in 2 gels an hour – in an attempt to get more calories. After gel #3, I abandoned that plan. No matter that I was walking, it was too much. Back to the drawing board on that one.

Got to the top (9.4 miles) in 1:54. “Waaaaait just a second here. That’s not really so bad. Do I still feel horrible?”
Yep.
"Huh.”

I couldn’t help but compare it to my times and splits from previous years:
    Top of climb    finish
2009    1:46        4:54
2008    1:55        5:13
2007    2:04        5:45

So it would seem like I was on track to ~5:13 finish. “No way. You’re too slow, it’ll be 6 hours.” We headed down the long descent. I couldn’t really relax into it, and my brain was definitely trying to convince me to walk.

“Ooo, that step kinda hurt. Don’t you think you should walk awhile? You know, just til it stops hurting? No?
...
How about we walk this little flattish spot. You can run when it gets steeper again. No?
...
Here’s an aid station. I know you’re wearing your hydration pack, but how about you stop for a coke. Some ginger ale?
...

Ah, the watch timer went off. Why not walk while you take your salt tab? You wouldn’t want to choke on it. Just a few steps…”

And on it went. I caved a few times. Especially when it came to the coke at the aid station. :0 After noting the time at the top, I checked our pace – my pace – as we went down and as we crossed the meadow of the caldera. Some 8:10s, 8:20s, 8:30s, 9s. Finally, I stopped looking at my watch – I just couldn’t stand the contradiction. I was feeling so awful, but the pace wasn’t reflecting just how awful I felt. Maybe the battery was dying. Whatever was going on, dwelling on it, trying to reason through it was frustrating. Better just to keep running, and walking the uphills. Forget the watch.

I checked with Bones a few times when I couldn’t stand it any longer, and he’d confirm that we were bound to finish just after 5, maybe 5:15 or 5:20. I couldn’t believe it. But mostly we talked about the Turkey factoid mile markers, the flowers, our training, Leadville, life. I knew I was slowing him down quite a bit. I offered him the chance to leave several times, but he declined. This is antithetical to me – I can definitely learn this generosity of spirit from Bones. For me, a race = goals. So it’s a big leap for me to see the value in setting aside any goals, and just keeping someone company that would appreciate it.

There weren’t any elk in the meadow as we passed through, just some cattle and horses in the distance. This year, the wind was blowing too much for the grasshoppers to be popping up from the ground like popcorn. It was so dry, the soil – aka volcanic ash – coated our legs. Bones made “poof-poof-poof” noises as sound effects as we stirred up clouds of dust with each step. I know the course pretty well, this being my fourth time, so I could tell Bones what was coming up. We had fun.

I felt no different at the end than I did at the start. Tired legs and achy feet. We crossed the line in 5:08, way faster than I had expected. Way happier with my day than I had expected, too. So I guess this serves as lesson 1 on how to run on tired legs. And lesson 1 on how to avoid the pit of despair in your own head. And maybe the preliminary lesson on how to run with friends.

Remedial Ultrarunning Summer School

2010-06-10T11:56:00.000-07:00

I include “remedial” in the title just in case you might think I was in some kind of advanced placement group. No.
Several teachers have been tag teaming the lessons. I can only assume that they find watching their pupil entertaining in some way, as these teachers are way overqualified.

So far, I have had several tough lessons. I shall enumerate:
1.)    Getting up early to run (all the teachers do this): It’s hot here. See #2. Best to run as early as possible. Weekends are no longer for sleeping in. No more Saturday mornings staying in bed until 7. I may have pouted a bit about this, but I’m not telling.

2.)    Running in the heat (Barry, Jim, Mike, Cedric, Tim, Matt): See #1. But, when the run is going to last 6 hours or more, the heat of the day will be a part of the run no matter what direction you take. Better to get used to running in the heat for shorter periods in the middle of the day. I may have dozed off in this lesson – it was warm and I was tired. But I heard something about blood plasma volume. And saunas? Or was that sofas, as in, you should stay seated on yours for the duration of the summer? Doubtful. Anyway, I think water is important.

3.)    Running and hiking up hills (Jean, Ken, Kurt, Kelly): Kelly’s favorite trail is short, and one of the steepest I’d been on until Jean showed me one of her favorites that required scrambling on all fours. The point here seems to be to go until you get to the top, but not necessarily by the most direct route. Ken instructed me to get some trekking poles, which seem useful on the way up. On the way down however, well… that’s another lesson (I hope). Kurt’s method of uphill training involves the ski hill. Repeating the hill over and over is encouraged. Or sometimes a stair climber. I don’t get this one yet. Maybe I should try it more than once?

4.)    Running downhills (Kurt, Jean, Brian): Once I manage to keep up with the instructors, I may learn something. Kurt got stuck behind me at the Jemez Mountain Trail Run, and he couldn’t stop moaning and groaning about my *ahem* downhill technique. I told you this was remedial summer school. Kurt did point out that the shoes I had been wearing were not up to the job.

5.)    Running at altitude (Jean): Mostly a demonstration lesson, as in, “This trail is at 10,000 ft. Now let’s run.”

6.)    Tripping (Brian): I couldn’t hear most of this lesson – Brian was running in front of me down the trail (he also conducted a downhill lesson). But the demonstrations were instructive. I managed a good fall with minimal damage that LOOKED bad. Which I guess is the point, to make others think you are tough? Like I said, I didn’t hear the finer points of this lesson. Brian seemed disappointed that there wasn’t more blood though. I’m not sure if he was serious. The next day, Ken seemed satisfied that I was making progress in this area, at least.

7.)    Nutrition and Weight loss (Nutritionist Kaylie): I thought I needed help with this one. I’d like to be about 120 at Leadville, and after Jemez I was 129, a few pounds over my typical weight. After two weeks of running 60 miles per week, uh, I’m down to 123. Ok then. Kaylie said that I can drink 2 cokes a day. Her only comments were that maybe I could eat more fruit, and take a multivitamin for crying out loud. The real challenge has been to finish running early enough in the evening so that I can eat something before I go to bed.

In the following weeks, we are going to cover:
8.)    Eating while running
9.)    Drinking while running
10.)    Running while tired - I think I'm getting the hang of this one on my own...
11.)    Running in the dark
12.)    Refueling post run
13.)    Aid station blitzes

I’ve heard the end of summer exam is a b!tch. :)

Wish fulfillment

2010-05-13T08:24:00.000-07:00

At IMSG, I did several things right. I stayed within myself on the bike so that I could do well in the run. I ate close to my target (1680 vs target of 2200 calories). I drank. I took Tums when my stomach was in question. I took Endurolytes every half hour as planned. I enjoyed my day in part because of these things.

But finishing in 14:38 tickled an itch that I can't reach - an itch to try to go so much faster than that. To race.

If swimming a whole 9 times, and biking 115 miles a week gets me a 14:38 on a hard course, what would serious training get me? I think this is a good future goal. You know, Post Leadville.

Of course, now that thought has occurred to me, I can't stop thinking about how much I'd like to race an Ironman. And the Quad too. And maybe a marathon, I bet I could best my 3:53 marathon time. Oooo, what about my 21:40 5K time?

And then at Jay Benson (Sprint distance Tri ) this past weekend, I was the runner for a relay team on a 3 mile course.... *poof*
I ran 20:21.

It's only 3 miles, not 3.1 (5K). But it was 1 week post IM, so my recovery was still in progress. If I add 0.1 miles on to that at the same pace, I'd have finished in 21:02. Wahoo! Plus, I beat all the other relay team runners, except for one. Double wahoo! It's not qualifying for Kona, but it's still cool.

The St. George postscript

2010-05-11T08:15:00.000-07:00

Post race, I was happy overall. The next day (Sunday) we had planned to go to Zion, but instead we ate Belgian waffles, retrieved our special needs bags, ate more, and Lorna and I went for a hike in Pioneer park, staying out maybe 2 hours. The park was well worth our attention with huge boulders and interesting formations. I couldn’t resist climbing up this:

We tracked a lizard and his insect prey. It was a fairly gentle hike. I was stiff but not sore. Which proves to me yet again that I have no idea how to push myself in a long race. I think I will try to learn this after Leadville – I accept that I might faceplant spectacularly, maybe several times. Any failures would be worth it to know that once at the finish line, I gave more than I thought I could, and every drop that I was capable of. I hope at the end of this year of “going long” I don’t feel regret about doing so slowly. Anyway, I digress. The hike really felt good, and I think helped me recover faster. I’m sure the pizza we had after also helped me recover!

Monday, Bones, Lorna and I headed off to Zion. I was happily looking forward to hiking “the Narrrows” the scene of so many mesmerizing red sandstone slot canyon pictures. Somehow in my excitement, I drove past the visitors center. The extra 6 miles I drove meant Bones and Lorna got to enjoy the tunnels and Checkerboard Mesa, where we stopped to turn around. I met some French people and spoke with them a bit which was nearly my favorite part of the day.Ca fait longtemps que j’ai parlais francais. Ca me fait du bien.

We made it back to the visitors center and to the magnificently efficient shuttles to take us into the park to our hike at the terminus of the route. Once there, we found that the Narrows was closed – the river was too full of run-off. Too bad, but we enjoyed the short 2 mile Riverwalk hike anyway.

Then, impressed by the shuttle operator’s description of Angel’s Landing, we decide to give that hike a try. Lorna and Bones, who broke a toe in the IM, both thought they were up for the strenuous hike. On the surface, it seems like no big deal. 5 miles round trip, 1500 ft elevation gain to the top. So why would it take 4-5 hours as the park guide says? The guide answers that question as well:

“Angels Landing is one of the world's great hikes - perhaps the best short adventure hike in any US national park. It provides amazing views of Zion Canyon. Physically, this hike isn't that challenging. Virtually anyone in average physical condition can make the trek. But it is mentally challenging because the final leg is very steep, with sheer drop-offs. Chains have been bolted to the cliff to provide secure handholds. People seriously afraid of heights should not attempt the final leg, but can still have a very enjoyable hike up to Scout Lookout.”

looking down the trail of switchbacks

We hike up to Scout lookout with a few pauses to catch our breaths, including a fun little scramble up to this hidey hole:

At Scout lookout, I really want to go for broke and head out to Angel’s Landing. Lorna and Bones turn back – his toe would not have appreciated the scramble that ensued. The final half mile directs hikers along a fingernail of cliff to steep, vertical trails where occasionally the trail is unclear on the sandstone. The chain lets me haul myself up. At one point, the trail is 2 feet across, with sharp drop offs to either side and an open view up and down the canyon from a fantastic height. It took a good 20-25 minutes to do that ½ mile.

the narrowest part of the trail

the trail goes up here, and then vertically to the right... there's a chain up there somewhere.

the view down canyon

the view off the point

the view up canyon

After enjoying the view and the experience at the point, I headed back. I scrambled back to Scout Lookout, and then ran down from there so that my friends wouldn’t have to wait long. Everything felt good to go – my legs didn’t complain, except to let me know that running in my hiking boots was not very comfortable.
To finish off our day, Bones drags us along an easy 0.6 mi trail to the lower emerald pool. Along the way we spot 3 deer and hear a turkey in the distance. Every third person we saw at the park that day was an ironman participant, it seemed. It was a fantastic, immense, beautiful day, although not very gentle on our bodies. I’m not entirely sure that we even know what that means…

Party at Ironman St. George

2010-05-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

Everything about this race week was over the top.

The drive out (Wed): wind gusts of 60-70 mph (some reported 99) and sandstorms as bad for visibility as any snowstorm I’d ever been in. I drove out alone, after Co stayed home to take care of our dog who came up lame the Sunday before we were to leave. After 10 hours of singing along to my i-pod, I was ready to be there, but instead I took the long route to Saint George Utah, going through Zion National Park. Imposing red rock formations sculpted by the wind and water to resemble intertwined muscle fibers, or checkerboards, or smooth banded surfaces waited around every corner. I couldn’t wait to get back to check it all out properly.

The house: large enough for the 10 of us (8 adults, two kids) with a strange assortment and layout of rooms and addons. The renter was uncommunicative and had me a little paranoid that he had run off with our money 2 weeks before the race – that’s a whole other story. But at $25/night per person, we weren’t complaining. And 3 blocks from T2 and the finish line meant we wouldn’t need to ferry athletes, gear, and bikes by car. Fabulous!

Dinner at twentyfive main café was a yummy “two fifteen” panini, quick, and perfect and we got to see the finish line and T2 being set up on our walk there. (oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!)

Course Recon: On Thursday, we dropped off gear, saw the expo, and got tattooed with our race numbers.

Deciding to save the swim for Friday, we grabbed lunch at the house, then went to drive the bike and run courses.

Bike- We’d already seen the first 21 miles of the bike on the way into Saint George, so this time we went right for the loop. To me, the loop had 4 parts. 1: through suburbs on decent streets. 2: on worn highway with lots of tar lines patching the cracks, slight uphill. 3: very bumpy chip seal, gradually more uphill with 3 significant hills – two short and steep, one long (1.5 mile) grind. 4: on smooth highway, nice downhill back to town. From the car, it looked very doable. A good challenging ride, no problem. I’ve done long rides with similar hills. I felt like I’d be able to pace this well and have a good run. I thought that my training could equal a 7:15 or 7:30 bike. I’ve only done 4 weeks of bike training (not including 2 taper weeks), averaging 115 miles per week, so I didn’t expect to go fast.

Run- Wow, this looked challenging. It looked like an ultrarun course – except on road, after a 2.4 mi swim, and a 112 mi bike. Nothing but hills (and great scenery). I remember saying that I almost wish I hadn’t seen the run course, as it looked so hilly and hard that I was thinking about how easy I was going to have to take the bike. Sherpa Steve went out and ran it for fun. I believe his words were: “That run course is someone’s idea of a cruel joke.” He said it with a devilish smile.

I couldn’t help but get excited though, as the race got closer. A hard run course just means that all the ultrarunning I’d been doing would really help keep my head in the right place. Plus, I had Go-Go Green toenail polish on, and Lickety split lime fingernail polish. I was pretty unstoppable!

Friday, after a short bike that confounded my ability to calibrate my powermeter – AGAIN

(%*^&*#$^&*#$) – I strapped on my wireless bike computer instead. We hauled our bikes and T1 bags out to Sand Hollow reservoir. DP nonchalantly suggested we skip the swim – “we don’t HAVE to swim in 58 deg water, really.” But, being the stubborn person I am, I think my response was something on the order of – “you don’t have to swim, but I’m going to. I’m heading down now.” Bones concurred, and DP followed all of us down. Ken and Kurt are there, having just finished their swim – they report on the chop we can see, and the cold that we can only imagine. Once in the wetsuit, I’m anxious to get in the water. I leave my fellow Outlaws behind, wade in, and take the plunge. It’s not bad. Of course, I have a legendary tolerance for cold. I swim easily to the first buoy, turn in to the chop and breaststroke to the next buoy to avoid swallowing each and every wave. Not a problem. In fact, smoother than I thought considering I haven’t swum in 2 weeks. Changing back into dry clothes was less smooth, involving a straight-jacket and full moon, but soon we were back at the house and prepping for guests!

Some Outlaws and Outlaw friends were staying at hotels, so we invited them over for grilled chicken and pork chops (done by Flamin’ Mo myself!) spaghetti by Lorna, Kurt and Ken brought salad, Paul da pilot brought fruit, and we had pie from the Veyo Pie Shop for desert. Excellent pie- I recommend the Veyo Volcano. And the mountain berry. And the boysenberry. Heck, it’s all good. The conversation must have been horribly dull for anyone not racing. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

8:30=Ambien time, and I’m off to bed. Race morning goes smoothly for me, but DP’s stomach was refusing to cooperate. I press her to take some Tums. We get to the buses a little later than planned.

Hugs with SWTrigal and Lorna, and we’re off to the reservoir in the dark. I’m calm, but excited, not too nervous. I check my tires, get through the port-a-potty line, and get into my wetsuit. I see Ken, and he’s all smiles. DP, however, is still waiting in the port-a-potty line. And waiting, and waiting. She looks like a deer in headlights, and asks me to find Michi and borrow some silicone earplugs as she doesn’t have any, and they prevent her from getting cold and dizzy in the water. I wander the whole transition area, but do not find her in the chaos. Ten minutes to race start, DP finally makes it to the change tent and starts to don her suit. I decide that although I am getting VERY VERY NERVOUS about making the start, that I want to stay with DP and get her there too. She begs me to find her some earplugs, so I ask the change tent if anyone has some spare silicone – and I luck out. A very nice racer splits her wad of silicone, and gives one half to me to give to DP. Two minutes to the start, and we start walking down on the rocky pavement. Hurry! Ouch. Hurry! Ouch. My feet don’t hit the water (where other athletes are 50 yds out treading water) before the gun goes off. (On the plus side, this meant I had a great view of the line of thrashing at the start line, and the start of the great washing machine that is the ironman swim.)

No warm up, and I can tell I am tight and anxious – not the way I planned it. So now it’s time to think about relaxing, long smooth strokes, and hopefully finding some feet. The first section seems to go so quickly. I found some good feet, but then lost them at the turn. I never found another pair that could sight or swim straight. I had put Aquaphor around my nose and on my lips, and this made my goggles leak a little. (Doh.) The next turn comes quickly, but the last turn buoy, at the end of a 1600 yd straight-away takes forever. I lose focus. I dawdle. I got hit and swam over, I got kicked in the chest by someone doing breast stroke. My shoulder starts hurting – like a rotator cuff hurt. Finally the last turn, and I think I recovered and swam a bit faster to get out of the water. 1:30:13 – ok, that was my estimate, so fine. I got what I deserved for only swimming 9 times before the IM (wow, I didn’t realize it was that bad). I struggle to get my wetsuit sleeves down, a volunteer has to help, then through the strippers to my bag. A volunteer hands it to me, but there’s no one to help me with my stuff. Keeping the sports bra and tri shorts on the whole time worked very well, but I still struggled a long time to get my bike jersey on. 9 minutes later, I’m out on my bike, munching on Fritos.

My bike went ok. I settled in during that first 21 miles to the start of the loop. The cover to my aero drink holder managed to slip out of my fingers on this section. (farfagnugen!) The cover is a flexible gel that has a slit in it, so that water from a squeeze bottle can be added to the aerobottle while riding. Without it, there’s a big gaping hole on the top of the aerobottle, so I spent the next half an hour getting splashed with water as I went over bumps. I finally finished the Fritos in my ziplock bag, which provided the solution. I tore off a part of the bag, and unscrewed the o-ring that used to hold the cover to the bottle, put the plastic over the bottle, and screwed the o-ring back on. Then I carefully poked a small hole through the plastic. Ta-Da! All fixed.

The surprise on the bike for me was how slow the chip seal section was. In aero position, it felt like my shoulders were resting on a vibrator. Not pleasant, either. Glances at my bike computer showed agonizingly slow speeds. Oh boy. “There’s a second loop… No. One thing at a time. Finish the first loop.” The three hills I had noticed in the car were harder than I expected. The gradual climbing on this chipseal was harder, too. Finally I hit the “Veyo wall” the long 1.5 mile hill, and spun up it in my 11-28. No problem. I grabbed my next bag of Fritos at special needs, and stood there drinking my mini coke for a minute. The subsequent downhill was fun, reaching speeds close to 50 mph. Wahoo! I love downhills, and was surprised to find that this felt like maybe a little too much. I had to remind myself to relax, trust my bike, and not use the brakes. Very quickly, I was on the start of the second loop where I saw our support crew cheering me on.

The second loop wasn’t as bad as I feared – I had no desire to quit, I just wanted to get to the run. It was, however, slower than the first. I lost focus and noodled along. I chatted with a few people that I had been riding near the whole time. I have to say, I didn’t see any drafting around me. People were being very good. I stopped for sunscreen at potty stop #3 (ugh, this takes forever) so with special needs I stopped 4 times. Too much! Getting to the Veyo wall again, I was near a guy in yellow who told me he wasn’t going to stay near me much longer, as he was going to have to walk. Walk? Up the hill? On the first lap, I saw 2-3 people walking. On the second lap, I was the only person I saw who rode up. Thank you 11-28. The second downhill was just as fun as the first. I was much more relaxed, even though we now had to deal with some cross winds. I was speeding down, holding a steady line moving out only to pass. Until at a change in the pavement, a girl in front of me, riding her brakes, swerved sharply left directly in front of me crossing the whole available lane. She didn’t look behind her, and was swerving to avoid a small rough patch (it was ride-able – I know, I rode over it on lap 1). I was closing fast, and as she started to swerve, I yelled – “NO – STAY RIGHT, STAY RIGHT!” I was so sure I was going to either take us both out or swerve in to the traffic lane and sacrifice myself. She pulled back to the right just in time. I had to take a few deep breaths before I could unclench my death grip on my aerobars. Too close. I saw our cheering section again (hi guys!!!) and went around the no-pass loop, to face a last unexpected hill. (oh come on. You’ve got to be kidding me.) Then, finally, thankfully, into transition at 7:52 for the bike. I had a volunteer (Cheryl) help me here, and she was wonderful. After changing shirts and socks, I was digging through my bag looking for my mini coke… and it WASN’T THERE. “awww.. dangit.”

Volunteer: “what are you looking for, honey?”
Me: “my coke... I guess I didn’t put it in here.”
Volunteer: “I can get you one, what kind do you want?”
Me - eyes wide in disbelief: “YOU ROCK!!! A regular coke. WOW. THANKS!”

And then in celebration, I sat there and drank half of it. My transition time reflected this, at 11 minutes. But, after a 7:52 bike, what did it matter? I probably wouldn’t finish the race under 15 hours at this point, what difference does a few minutes make?

I carried my bag of Fritos (which I hadn’t finished on the bike) and my coke out of T2, and walked quickly along. The crowd soon started smiling at this triathlete grinning from ear to ear with a coke in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. “How’s your lunch?” one asks. “mmmmm. It’s just a little snack,” I say. Lorna got a pic:

She said I was walking much better than Bones or Paul when they came out. I was so happy to be off the bike and starting the run, but the first order of business was to finish that coke. Mmmmm. *burp*

Once on Diagonal St. I started running, and didn’t look back. It felt great to run. I ran all but a few of the hills, and walked the aid stations. I kept myself cool with sponges and my arm coolers, enjoyed the view, thanked the volunteers, cheered on my fellow athletes. There was a live band near the park we went around at mile 5 that was pretty good. I passed Paul da pilot at the first aid station – he was starting his second loop. After mile 2 I saw the other Paul. Then trotting down a hill, I saw Bones and Kurt running together. Kurt looked amazing – I was so glad to see him running, and it was so cool of Bones to keep him company. We exchanged hugs – they told me to come get them, and we headed off in opposite directions. I reminded myself not to push the first out and back, to save a little. Soon, Ken comes running towards me, looking like he’s just out for a quick run.

This is fantastic. We run right up against red rock bluffs, overlooking all of St. George. You could hear Mike Reilly calling people in across the finish line at the farthest point out on the bluff. They’ve closed the road, so we have it all to ourselves. The volunteers are cheering at every point, and locals have come out to sit on the side and cheer loudly. The aid stations are clean and organized – no cups on the ground, all in the trash cans, and athletes seem to be trying their best not to litter. I took two gels, at mile 6 and mile 19, otherwise sticking to water, a few grapes, and a few sips of coke. The course rolls, and is interesting enough that I keep going to find out what’s around the next corner. On the way back I spot DP – she’s smiling and running – uphill! Gooooooo Pirate! It’s easy to be in a good mood out here. Not too hot, I’m passing people left and right. My stomach starts feeling a little sour, so at special needs I take some Tums powder, and that fixes it. *poof!* The second loop comes, and I can tell that I’m not going to have any serious problems. I do stop twice at port-a-potties, but I keep right on trucking. The glow stick man attempts to hand me a pink glow necklace “pink for the lady” he says, to which I say, “no pink! Please anything but pink!” I pass all my friends and they all appear to be doing great. Night falls just after mile 20 as I’m on the last leg back into town and the start line. The run was satisfying – after such a hard bike, to run the marathon (except for the steep hills) brought home a little bit how far my running has come. The volunteers cheer me through the darkness, I’m one of the few people running after mile 20, and I still have spring in my step and a smile on my face. I round the corner and see the finish two blocks away. The crowds are literally pressed against the sides of the chute, yelling and banging on the chute. The loudness surrounds you in a cave of sound. They hold out their hands, and I run down the chute giving high fives with Mike Reilly shouting out over the loudspeaker, “Margaret Welk, you are an Ironman!”

At the line, I jump into the air. Yes!

IronHappy

2010-04-23T13:53:00.000-07:00

I’m about to head out to St. George Utah for that ironman thing. There’s a lot going on. Work is incredibly nutso right now with multiple deadlines, inspections, and project leadership changes. IM friends seem to be freaking out left and right. About the bike course (hilly) the run course (hilly) and oh yeah, the swim in currently 58 deg water. It might rain. It’ll probably be windy.

To which I say, whateva. The harder the conditions, the less pressure there is. Sure my first and only IM I finished in 13:15. It was flat, and the swim was with the tide = super fast. So there is no sense thinking about bettering that time. A WAG gets me a 1:30 swim, a 7:15 bike, and a 5:15 run for 14 hours. A little over with transitions, more if something goes awry. That’s a long day – but the course is GORGEOUS!

I’ve never been to Utah, so even if I was just vacationing and not racing, I’d be spending all day outside anyway. Plus, the run is an out and back course that we do twice, so I’ll get to see everyone I know multiple times. It’ll be really motivating to see them as I run along. Our house is 3 blocks from the finish. And in close proximity to the bike and run courses, so spouses can spectate.

Bottom line – I’m excited!

The best parts about IM training is the Sudden Onset of Perceived Invincibility (SOPI) and the distillation of life down to just a few things.

SOPI – it’s awesome. All at once, for me somewhere about 4 weeks before the IM, I turn a corner in training, and nothing seems out of reach. Long run? No problem. ½ IM – easy. Multiple climbs up Tramway, Placitas, or Armoury hill? Piece of cake. Ride into the wind? Through the rain? In a snowstorm? Ask me to do anything – sure, I can do that. It’s a warm happy place to be, when everything I’ve set out for myself seems completely doable and within my reach. All I need to do is head out the door each day.

Which brings me to favorite thing #2: Ironways are messy. But after a month of training, all the urgent small stuff that crops up everyday suddenly becomes easy to ignore. My focus gets narrower. Sure, I see that my garden could use weeding. But it can wait. In the midst of training, only the important things and the training gets done. Everything else is urgent, but expendable. I can’t think of many other times when I’ve had that freedom to focus. Writing up and defending my dissertation. Hmmm. That’s it. It may not be pretty, but the distillation of life really brings into stark focus what your priorities are, and what kind of choices you make. Every day.

And, best of all, I can't wait for more Leadville training. Wahoooooo!

Signing up for Leadville - the musical

2010-04-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

It's a twisted little bee droning about in my head. Sometimes close at hand, and I can't hear anything else, and sometimes blending into the background. At some point several months ago I was driven to rewrite lyrics to this song:

SIGNING UP FOR LEADVILLE
You gotta help me out-
It’s all a blur that night-
Was there a napkin?
A yellow napkin
That I signed?

Kurt does an ironman tri
I kiss sanity goodbye
Spare me your freakin’
Long complaints about the pool

I want to hide out
Or get the hell out of town
Can’t be so gutless,
Remember what you told me-

Lace up your shoes
Get out on that trail now
That’s what you get for signing up for Leadville
Wake up before
The butt crack of dawn now
That’s what you get for signing up for Leadville

Why are my legs so tired?
At this rate I might get fired
I need a nap now
When is the next training run?

Don’t tell my mother
Cuz she’ll probably cry.
Can’t be a baby
Remember what you told me-

(chorus)

You got me into this
Convincing me I can
Telling me it’s not that bad
Send out an SOS

Refill my water
And get my butt on the trail
I’m not a baby,
Remember what you told me….

(chorus)

Old Pueblo 50 miler - Executive reader’s summary

2010-03-08T16:58:00.000-08:00

Cool air, no breeze, a cloudy pink and blue sunrise and I was running down the Arizona trail on the continental divide. Glee. That’s about the only word I can use to describe the fullness of heart and the smile on my face. I was gleeful.

The start had seemed to be stretched out and compressed all at once. A blur of motion and emotion too quick to register that snapped to reality with the (gun? Whistle? Horn?) that went off at “3” instead of after “1”.

But now, I thought, there’s plenty of time to look around and look inside. It’s all I’ve got for the next 12 hours. Over two hours in, we climb up to Gunsight pass. In the panoramic view, you could see what must have been Tucson in the distance. I was looking forward to bombing down from Gunsight Pass, and was stymied by the footing. It may have been a jeep road once, but the rocks, boulders and ruts had long ago claimed it for their own. We were finally let out on a slight downhill plain facing a snow-covered mountain.

This would be the last expansive view for awhile. Although I was moving conservatively (ok, let’s just call a spade a spade, I was moving slowly) the miles and time seemed to be flying by. What I thought was a ½ full hydration pack turned up empty at mile 36 with 4.5 miles to the next aid station. And no one around. The dozens of stream crossings tempted me, but I resisted drinking and waded through, cooling my feet instead. A kind runner gave me the last three swallows of water he had just ½ mile before the aid station – salvation. The volunteer at 40 asked how I was, and held out his hand and pulled me out of the stream crossing. Then he yelled up the embankment – “this young lady would like a drink!” Yes, I would. Maybe two.

Rehydrating, and back on the jeep road, I still felt great. At mile 43, my watch said I was averaging 12:40 miles, and I felt awesome. Only at this point did I really hold the whole distance in my mind and I felt so grateful, and still a little gleeful to be able to do this. There is no place on earth I would have rather been. Back to the Arizona trail for awhile, we ran through more streams and followed the curves of the hills to the last aid station. In and out, I’d found a groove and wanted to get right back to it. After ~1.5 miles, we’re back on a jeep road, and I’m running with Bob. We chat, and I look at my watch and think, “I can get under 11 hours. I feel great! Run!” And I did. I leave Bob and Annette behind. Down, down down the road. I see the meadows that Andrea told me about. Where’s the short uphill before the finish? Was that it? Ok, I’m at 50.9 miles. The finish should be right here! And my watch reads 10:30! Go ….

A horn sounds behind me. I wave, thinking about how awesome I feel. They pull up alongside, driver hanging out of her window. “You’re off course! You have to go back. About 3 miles, the trail heads off the road to the right up a hill!”
“#$&*%^#%*;^#**.“ deep breath. “Ok, thanks. I’m sorry. Thank you. Oh boy. Ok.”

The wind left my sails. I hate to admit it, but despair kept me company while I walked for a couple miles. Strangely, the thought that I’ll have done 56 or 57 miles when I finish is what pulls me through. That’s an accomplishment. Farther than I ever anticipated going on this day, when I wasn’t sure how 50 miles would go. And it’s been awesome. I’ve FELT awesome. I get back to the trail, and see the markers (plain as the nose on my face). I start running again, and now my only regret was that I let myself walk so much, that now I won’t break 12 hours. That’s what pouting will get you. The trail here is buttery smooth single track, the kind of trail that just begs you to move forward and gracefully takes in a bad step here or there without punishing you for it. The sun is setting, and I’m running through my favorite time of day – the golden hour where light and matter take on new characteristics, glowing and welcoming. Now I am running through gorgeous mountain meadows. And pretty quickly, there’s a building peeking out through the trees at the edge of the meadow. A few cheers, and then as I top the hill, more cheers, and I’m done. The group, who all finished long ago, listen to my story and are glad to see me. Smiling.

No matter the things that happened out on the trail, the feelings that stick are the ones of glee. And that’s the way I want it.

Old Pueblo: Blow-by Blow!

2010-03-08T16:43:00.000-08:00

This probably will read like a weather report, but I want to remember all the little things, and this is my repository.

K, J, and I drove down and met R at the Sonoita Inn in Sonoita, AZ (pronounced suh-noy-ta). The inn was really nice – looked like it might have been converted from a barn. The rooms had ranch names and branding marks to differentiate them. Many runners stayed there as it was so convenient to the race start – only a 20 minute drive. We ate at Viaggio Italiano. The food was really good, but the service was slow. I find out during dinner that the race is actually 51.25 miles, not 50. hm, add 12 minutes to my estimated time!

Drop bags, 4 of them, had chips (Fritos and Doritos), Coke (90 cal cans), drugs, wipes, and instant ice packs – just in case. And the one at mile 40 had my headlamp. I decided that I’d just parasite light from other runners at the start. Yeah, this strategy was questionable at the Ghost Town 38.5, but it seemed light enough to see at the start, so I went for it. We got to the start a little later than I wanted – totally my fault that we left the Inn 7 minutes late. We park, and walk the ¼ mile to the start area carrying our drop bags and finish bags. I could see alright at this point already, so I wasn’t worried. Start lines are always a little surreal to me at long events. Here, the ultra crowd, well, they’re a laid back bunch. No one is “toeing the line.” I don’t think anyone does a warmup. But the energy is still there, and time moves both quickly and slowly. My memories are like a few still shots with blanks in between. Drop the bags, check in, pick up our neat cloth and calico trimmed numbers. A trip to the one and only bathroom (?!?) and then a quick photo with the group, and the countdown: “5…4… 3 –BOOM-“ what happened to 2 and 1? Chuckling, we all head out.

I find myself next to Judy and Bill. Bill has done this race several times, and he tells me about his favorite parts. I try to take some pictures, but the night setting on my camera requires a tripod. Judy tells me she’ll point out the best places to take pictures, as she’s done the first 33 miles of this course already. Richard moves past us, and he seems in good spirits. We hit the AZ trail at mile 3 (Granite Mountain aid station) for 4 miles, and we haven’t spread out yet, so I’m in the back of a line of runners. We hike the uphills, and although I would go faster, I rein in my antsy-ness and take it easy. Patience isn’t my strong suit, but I’m working on it! I take a few pictures of the beautiful sunrise:

The view is something like NM, but there’s more yucca, and more grass. The course rolls up and down, hardly ever flat.

My watch beeped every 30 minutes to remind me to take an e-cap, and that worked very well. At one point, Judy is ahead of me and I’m alone. I feel so good, I’m suddenly seized with the urge to cheer. Instead I raise

my arms as if I could hug the sky. To be out here after training pretty well, after hurting my Achilles, after worrying about being hurt too much was a relief and a great joy. Soon, I catch back up to Judy and she’s chatting with a neighbor. I pass them and head into the 7 mile aid station at California Gulch. Just a few chips here, and a little coke, and I’m off. (I had taken my first gel a little before this.) Judy passes me while I stop for a bathroom break a little farther on, and I can see we’re going to be next to each other for awhile. Here we are running on jeep roads winding through canyons. I know soon we are going to be heading up to Gunsight pass, so I’m still being conservative. Everything feels great.

Wasp Canyon Mile 13 aid station, and I get a refill of water, nacho cheese Doritos, and a handful of m&m’s. I head out just behind a guy. We round a corner, and there’s a woman running toward us. She shakes her head a bit, and tells us we’re on the right track. But then, not 30 yds farther, the guy misses a turn. “Hey – hey – go right! Follow the markers!” he looks around, then looks at the markers heading off to his right, and grins and thanks me. Yup, no problem, we all look out for each other! Farther on, I see Judy 50 yds ahead. The course rolls, and I come to a Y – Judy and 3 friends went left, but I see a course marker on the ground to the right. It was really windy, so it could have blown over there… I stop. I look. I don’t see any other course markers. I head after Judy, thinking I’ll keep an eye out for the next marker, and call out if I don’t see one. Just then, Judy and her friends stop and look around – clearly looking for and not finding a marker. I signal that we should turn around, and when I get to the marker that was on the ground, I tie it back on a nearby tree. Whew! No going off course on this race! It’s long enough without any bonus miles! I grinned confidently.(cue ominous music here)

Going up to gunsight pass, the grade isn’t steep, but I walk/run it to conserve energy. I pass Judy when running, and she passes me when I walk or take pictures.

We gain in elevation, and get some really nice views. And then, I can see the notch that must be gunsight pass.

Amazing – I think we could see Tucson from here. Sorry about the wobbly nature of the video; I wish I had paused more and taken it slower at the top. Next time.

Now I am ready to bomb down – there should be a good elevation drop here! Unfortunately, the rocks, scree, and ruts had other ideas, and I picked my way down trying to make the most of a few clear spots. I pick up several pieces of trash here – a dropped gel, a pepsi can. I just want the course to look like we had never been here when the race is over. I’m definitely ready for it when the jeep road flattens a bit and we turn south. The road is much better condition, and running feels easy. We’re headed straight at a snow-covered mountain – and I’d remember that snow later in the race.

Before I know it, I’m at the mile 19 aid station - Helvetia. I didn’t fill my water here. I grabbed a cup of water, and a cup of coke. A few chips, and an orange slice. My stomach was feeling great. No problems whatsoever. I dropped the orange slice on the ground on the way out. Oops. The road continues down hill, and so I’m just cruising along enjoying myself. No one is close to me, and I feel nice and relaxed. The road turns and begins climbing slightly… and my Achilles starts hurting. A lot. Ouch. I stop and stretch. It still hurts. I start hiking, and worrying that it might be bad. I figure my best option is to keep going to the mile 25 aid station, and see how it goes. If it gets worse, I may be hiking the whole way. Which, since I am maintaining about a 16 min/mi pace hiking, isn’t bad. I take a gel while I walk. I hike about 2 miles, and it starts loosening up. I start run/walking, and it doesn’t complain much. I stretch a few more times. The pain is almost gone, and so I start running again, with no ill effects. Weird, but I’ll take it. I think maybe switching from pounding downhill to running uphill was hard on it and my calf muscle. Maybe. The wind has certainly kicked up, but it isn’t nearly as bad as we feared – no 30 mph gusts.

Several people passed me while I was walking, but I have no ego in this race. I want to finish. I want to finish under 12. Where I finish in the placing just doesn’t matter to me. I was behind the time estimates I made at this point that had me finishing in 11. That’s ok, really. And right now, I am so happy to be running again! Into the mile 25 aid station and my first drop bag. I was really looking forward to this – a can of coke and a bag of fritos. I fill my hydration pack 2/3 full. And I hike out, eating chips and drinking my coke. Yum. Now we are headed up a long climb. I take this from a bridge above a stream;
**pic coming**
And, there’s Judy with a friend!
**pic coming**

She’s made up time while I was hiking. We start the climb, and she power hikes strongly ahead of me and her friend. She’s really moving. Then, she starts dancing a little to her i-pod, which I didn’t get a picture of. Too bad! We’re all just out here having a good time! The climb flattens a bit, and we all catch up. I have found a groove, and as the climb increases again, I move ahead. My Achilles is silent, and I feel great again. As I close in on California gulch AS at mile 29, they’ve posted inspirational signs along the road:
“it never always gets worse”
“you are strong!” (stick figure pumping iron)
“you are inspiring!”
“you smell great!”
And:

Of course, I stopped to read! The first line made me laugh out loud. But then couldn’t wait to read the whole thing, so I took a picture, and kept running. At the aid station, I grab coke can #2, bag of Doritos, and down a cup of water. I do not refill. There’s a guy here sitting in a lawn chair watching us runners who tells me he designed the course, so I should blame him.
“The next part is really hard,” he says.
“Don’t tell me THAT! Tell me how pretty it is!” I say.
“well, it is pretty…”
I laugh, and I head out. I’m in such a great mood, nothing can spoil it. Back on single track – the AZ trail. It’s rocky, and I remember Bill telling me this morning that people trip on the rocks a lot. Unlike late in training runs, I’m not having any problems picking up my feet, and run most of this section, even though it’s uphill. A few times I stop myself, thinking that I’ve only done half the race, it isn’t time to go crazy yet. Not time to make myself work hard yet. My feet feel good, my legs feel good, let’s keep it that way. I catch several people in this 4 mile section that I think must have gone out a little fast. As I’m following one woman, I glance down to avoid a rock, and when I look back up, she’s flat on the ground. I run up to her, and help her up. She appears to have just skinned her palm, no other damage. She’s a bit shaken. I pick up her gel, and talk with her a little. She tells me she’s going to sit for a bit, that she’s ok, and that I should go on. She looks ok, so I do. I get into the Granite mountain AS at mile 33, and tell them that the runner in lavender behind me skinned her palm. I get my drop bag, and go to set it on the table… and I miss the table completely. The bag drops straight to the ground. The wind was blowing up the table cloth, and I misjudged where the table was. Whoops! And then I notice than my can of coke is hissing – it’s sprung a leak. RATS! I take my bag of Doritos from my drop bag, and grab a cup of coke, and leave – thanking the volunteers, of course. Without filling my hydration pack. (ominous music swells in the background!)

The course rolls through this section, so I hike and eat my chips and drink my coke. Poor substitute for a can – it wants to slosh. But, still – YUM. After finishing my coke, I go for some water. Hm, a little hard to get out of my pack. I must have closed the valve. I start running, and settle into my stride. I don’t remember a lot of great views here. I try for another drink of water. Turns out, it’s hard to get out of my pack because THERE’S NOTHING IN THERE.

Ooops.

So from mile 36 to 40.5, no water. Well, no water that I wanted to drink. At about 36, we started crossing streams. The first few, I got across without wetting my feet. Kind of fun, hopping from stone to stone. Then, no stones. Ok, well, I guess I get my feet wet. Ah! Cooling! Hm, my shoes are pretty heavy with all that water in them. Oh, another stream. And another… and another… Then, the jeep road is COVERED by the stream. And I remember the mountain covered in snow. More stream crossings. I finally catch up to someone about 1.5 from the aid station, but she only has Gatorade, which I’d rather not put in my pack. I thank her, and keep moving. I’m feeling a little thirsty, but I’m not too worried. I spot another runner ahead, and as I catch him, I ask if he has any water to spare. He did. He gave me his last three swallows – ah, much much better. I thank him profusely. He offers me some of his sports drink too, but the aid station should only be a few minutes away, so I decline. I’m starting to feel pretty warm at this point, and pretty tired. I hoped this was just the lack of fluid affecting me.

The aid station is across another stream, and a volunteer offers his hand as I navigate hopping from rock to rock.

“how are you? need anything?”
“I’m doing great! This course is fantastic! Well, except that I’ve been out of water for 40 mintues.”
“you’re doing awesome. – hey guys, this lady could use a drink!”

I fill up at the cave canyon 40 mile aid station, and down two cups of water. The volunteers are just fantastic, helping at every turn. I grab my coke from my drop bag, grab the fritos, and head out. I turn the wrong way out of the aid station, but before I get three steps, the awesome volunteers have called me back. Ooops! Thanks! I don’t open the coke right away, figuring I really need more water at this point. So I drink and walk up the inclined (not steep) road. Still maintaining a 16 to 17 min/mile hiking speed, so not bad. Pretty soon, I think I’m starting to feel better. I’ve been really good about my salt tabs, keeping with the every 30 min. I drink my coke and eat some chips. Everything seems good to go, so I start running. This was a little hard, after walking for so long. But I persisted, and soon the heavy legs went away, and I found my groove again. Yippee! I pass the guy that has been ahead of me since the aid station – he was walking too. Soon, though, he passes me back, grinning, and says that I guilted him into it. Well, good!

As the road tops out, and starts to head downhill, I pass more people as the footing is really rough. Rocky, boulder-y, almost as bad as gunsight pass. And now my feet are starting to ache a bit, which makes this tough. There are more stream crossings, too. Finally, Bob catches and passes me (just as I was grumbling about the stream crossing, actually.) and I decide to stay with him a bit. We talk over the course, but I don’t remember a lot of the conversation. He asks how far to the aid station, and I look at my Garmin – 1.5 miles. We run and run… we should have been there by now, my Garmin says 46.5… We’re on single track again, and it’s very runnable. Very nice after that gnarly downhill. Finally, we round a corner and Bob hears the aid station. Oh good. I grab some water, and a cookie – which I didn’t much like. The sweetness just hangs in my mouth.

I feel good, so I keep moving. Bob comes right with me. And we cross ANOTHER stream – I felt this was getting a bit old, honestly, but I keep it to myself, not wanting to verbalize a negative thought. Bob says he’s hurting, but I convince him he can do it, and he stays with me. We hit the jeep road together, and get to talking about the finish. We could finish under 11, I think. Wow. I’ve really made good time this last section. And I still feel really good. Sure, a bit achy, but nothing hurts, I can still run. Mile 48, and I CAN STILL RUN! Wow. So I start running. Bob drops back on a hill, and I’m by myself again, running past meadows, and making good time. “wait… have I seen a course marker?” I check behind me, and both Bob and Annette (who had done this race before) were still there, a few hundred yards back. “ok, I must be on track.” And I shut off my brain. Run run run! It felt so good! May watch said 50.8 miles, and 10:32 – I was going to finish under 10:45! I was unbelieveably happy, and focused.

*honk, honk* A truck is honking at Bob, and I hear what I think is the people inside offering him encouragement. “I’m next,” I think happily. Sure enough, I hear the truck behind me, and they honk. It’s the woman I’ve seen at each aid station – her husband was just behind me all day. I wave excitedly.

Them: “You’re off course! You have to go back!”
Me: “BLEEP”
Them: “It’s about 2.5 miles. The trail heads off to the right up a hill. You have to go back.”
Me: “ok. thanks. Ok.”

As they drive off, I just deflate. I sigh. I groan. I start walking back. Oh, but I was doing so well! And now I have to go back? How could I have missed the turn? How did we all miss it? Several groans. I’m pretty sure I hit all seven stages of grief in 10 minutes; Shock – check. Pain – check(or was that pain from running?). Anger – check. Depression - well, kind of. Adjustment – check. Reconstruction – check. Acceptance – check.

Soon after that, I started thinking that - hey, I’ll have done even more miles than I set out to. And the real purpose of this run was to see if I could go the distance. And I already have. So I’m really doing what I want to do in the end anyway. Sure, it isn’t what I thought it would be. But this run, this day is REALLY GOOD. So. Two more vehicles stopped to tell me more about what the turn off looked like, which was very helpful. I walked about 90% of the way back, and ran 10% - because I was a little dispirited. The sun was setting now. I hadn’t grabbed my light from my drop bag at 40 because I was doing so well time-wise – was this going to be a mistake? I spotted the turn, and looked at my watch. I wished I had run more of the way back, because I wasn’t going to be able to break 12 now.

As soon as I got on the trail, and there were other runners around me, I felt like running again. Running made me feel better, and it turned out that after climbing the hill, we entered onto really beautiful, smooth, buttery, graceful single track. The best we had seen all day. The setting sun gave off golden light, and the meadows I ran through were whispering their evening secrets to me. It was a perfect time to be running. I was lucky to be out there. Then, peeking through some trees at the far edge of the meadow, I see a building. A few people cheer as I get closer. A little hill – not even, a hillock – and there’s the finish line. K, R, J, N, K, are there, waiting and cheering me in. That was fantastic to see the group at the end like that.

Woot!

Everyone has already heard that I was off course. When I tell K I did 57 miles, he suggests we finish out a 100K, as I’m only 5 miles off. I say, ok, lets go! but let him off the hook with a grin. He tells me how the group finished (extremely well!!). I grab a hamburger and some chili. Since I went back and picked up the course where I left it, I still got a belt buckle for finishing – plus we all got cacti for finishing as well. Very cool. I made sure to tell the race director that I had a great time, and that the course was well marked and it was completely my fault for missing the turn. I also apologized to the woman who first told me I was off course for, ahem, being rude. She said she just knew I had to go back, that I wasn’t going to be climbing into her truck, because I had to finish.
So, 57 miles in 12hrs 10 minutes. What a fantastic race, and a great day.

‘Twas the week before Old Pueblo…

2010-03-01T13:00:00.001-08:00

So. Less than 5 days until my first 50 miler.

There's a steady feeling of anticipation following me around. I've started making lists (ok, really the list making started about 3 weeks ago, but now the lists have been refined), printing out directions, and I've thought about what gear I'll have. I'm looking forward to this race.

Consistency continues to dodge me in training. I feel justified in skipping several workouts when I was sick, and when I hurt myself. But justification is a poor foil for vague uncertainty. It seems awfully close to rationalization, and that seems too close to making excuses for comfort.

Talking with a friend over the weekend, it helps to be reminded that the feeling of not having done "enough" goes hand in hand with training for races. Even those that I consider to be very consistent and hard-working echo the thoughts I have. And it isn't that I don't think I can do this race – I do. I have almost no doubt that I'll finish, and finish happy. But without looking back over my training log, I'd tell you that I really haven't done enough. A few more miles, if I hadn't skipped those yoga sessions, well, the race would go better for me. So here the context of "enough" means enough to come close to my potential, or enough for me to be completely happy with the results and have no regrets. Enough would mean that at the end of the race, I would think "That was the best I could do, I did everything I could."

I suspect that these desirable thoughts are shining castles in the sky.

Actually taking the time to LOOK at my training log shows me that I did a lot more than I thought I had. Seven weeks ago was the Ghost Town 38.5 miler. Nice. That 29 mile run five weeks ago? That was good – did that in 5h18. The week after that my 19 mile run was slow and hard, but I probably wasn't recovered. Then the following week was the 6 hour workout that was the Quad. Well, geez, that seems like enough.

OP50 Goals:

Follow my plan – take it easy the first 33 miles and run the last 17 well. (Sheesh, did I just say easy, and 33 miles in one sentence?!??!)
Finish in daylight, under 12 hours. My goal at Leadville is to be at the 50 mi halfway point at 12 hours, so it'd be good to have a buffer on that!
Use this race to practice nutrition, gear, and pacing.
Fast, efficient aid station stops.
No Injuries.

Perplexing Fast Runs

2010-02-16T16:11:00.001-08:00

Every week I do a 2.5 mile tempo run on Tuesday with guys from work.

It's a handicapped run, meaning that we stagger our start times so that we should all finish at the same time. Since we're all scientists and engineers, of course we keep track of times, and have a complicated algorithm to calculate one's handicap. It's based on a weighted average of your all time average, your average over the last 5 runs, and your fastest time ever.

The formula is perplexing, but that isn't what has been itching at the corner of my mind lately.

Here it is. My fastest times seem to come on a Tuesday following a hard weekend.

On Tuesdays following an easy weekend, or a moderate weekend, my times are slower. I don't understand why this is the case.

For the last year, my ten best times are all this way. Sometimes, it is the Tuesday following a race. Most of the time, I have not taken Monday off. These good times are not grouped into a type of training – base, build, sharpen, taper, run focus, bike focus. They do not come after epic weekends – not after the IM, not after the Jemez 50K/SF century double.

Today, I had my third best time. (It isn't plotted yet.) But I just did the Quad on Saturday, and Sunday I rode my bike.

My fastest time came after my first IM race rehearsal weekend, in which I swam 4200 yds, biked 113 miles, and ran 7 miles.

What gives?

Possibilities:

Psychological:

I always feel like I am dogging it out there on Tuesday after a long training weekend. So maybe I push harder and ignore/discount the tiredness in my legs?

Maybe there is increased confidence from the hard work over the weekend? (I don't think so.)

Maybe the discomfort during the short hard tempo effort seems small compared to the long term discomfort of the weekend?

Physical:

I seem to recover quickly, so perhaps my short, high intensity engine is already replenished and maybe supercompensating from the weekend's hard work? (I doubt it – too quick, don't you think?)

Perhaps the hard weekends force me to hydrate and fuel adequately at least after the effort, so on the following Tuesday my body is more prepared?

Does this mean I'm not working hard enough on my hard weekends? Or does it just mean that the training is doing its job in making me faster?

Just an oddity that continues to surface. Any ideas?

Hit me with your best shot… of tequila

2010-02-15T13:55:00.001-08:00

Faking the quad (Mt Taylor Quadrathlon) :

Was not as easy as I anticipated.

Was a fun day out on the mountain

in gorgeous weather

with great friends.

Made me question my abilities, but in the end provided some confirmation of them.

Was a good chance to try something different!

Although I had decided, like K, to fake the quad and not train or taper for it specifically, I still hoped to be faster than last year. I'm in a lot better shape, so I hoped that would translate to a fast time for me even on a long training day. I was hoping for under 6 hours, and maybe, I thought, I'd get 5:45. But whatever happened, I was going to avoid racing hard.

We had awesome weather this year. Grants was 45 degrees during the day, and even on top of Mt. Taylor it couldn't have been below 10 degrees. Balmy, I tell you. This year I felt like a seasoned pro – all my quad gear (3 bags full) was still together from last year. I knew what gear worked. I switched my bike cassette to my race wheels, and I was ready to go! Plus, we had two people new to the quad in our group, A and L, and so offering them advice and rehashing the course brought some excitement to the day ahead.

The bike up is 13 miles. I felt fine starting off, just cruised easily, drafting off of others to avoid the headwind. As the course turned uphill, I felt like I was working a bit harder for the speed I was going than I would have expected. I began to wish I had done a little taper after all! I hoped I'd settle in and find my groove. To ease the workload I tried to switch to a lower gear around mile 5.

Snickety-snick snick- cha-ching- crickety-crickety snick snick cha-ching!

Uh oh. No getting in to my easiest two gears, it looks like. I guess I should have taken my bike for a spin after changing the cassette to my race wheels. Did I have this problem during Beach to Battleship? Hmm, I don't think I ever got into my lowest two gears on that flat course.

This is going to suck.

Maybe I should try it again…
snick snick Ka-ching- crickety-crickety snick snick snick cha-ching!

Nope.

Oh well, suck it up, buttercup. Onward and upward. My cadence was pretty slow, and I was mashing the pedals. The downhill part was a welcome relief! I shook out my legs a little. About mile 9, I thought I heard a hissing from my rear wheel. Pretty sure that I had a flat, I stopped to check. But the rear (and front) tire were fine. Back on the bike. My quads are definitely burning now. Mile 12… I still heard the hiss - I better get off and see if something is rubbing back there. Dismounting again, I actually look at the rear tire, and realize that it is mounted very crooked in the bike. Argh. So one brake was rubbing, and the cassette was at a bad angle to the derailleur.

Once the wheel was mounted right, I hopped back aboard, and finally was able to roll. With two additional gears, I caught several people on the last mile. One of them asked if I had solved my problem -he had offered to help as he passed me – and I explained what had been wrong. He commented on what a fortunate thing it was to catch it at this point. I agreed, but said it would have been awfully nice to figure it out a bit sooner on the way up!

Out of T1, B ran with me for a bit and told me that the road was clear ahead with some bare spots. It was icy enough that I was glad for my Yak trax, though they aggravated my neuroma on my left foot a little. I drafted behind a nice 6'2" guy as we still had a headwind. He was setting a good pace. My legs were quite tired from the bike. I took in a gel on the long uphill into T2. A and then L passed me on this section, making good time in on the run, his strong suit.

I was fairly efficient in transitions this year. And so, as I was about to head out, I noticed that my backpack was not among the stuff the volunteers had brought me. I asked for it, and faster than I could put on my gloves, they brought it and put in on my back. Awesome. I passed L just outside the transition area, and he seemed to be dreading the ski ahead. "just a hike with sticks on your feet! Let's go!"

As always, I saw a few people without skins on their skis. So much of the course is steep that they were herringbone-ing most of it. I felt for them, and gave them encouragement as I passed. I was way more tired than I expected. I used my arms to really push myself up the mountain. I caught up to A just after the meadow. His knee was in a lot of pain after he fell during the bike section. I stayed close to him for the remainder of the ski. Going up heartbreak I could tell I was just spent. I stopped several times. Once, A turned and saw me taking a break. I was a little embarrassed to be so tired – I was supposed to be this tough endurance runner! Sheesh, Ghost Town 38.5 wasn't this hard. And I'm not even halfway. Ah well, there's something to be learned from this, I'm sure. Keep moving forward.

Into T3, and there's DP. I was, well, a little grumpy. And yet, she gets a shot of me here that you'd never guess my mood from:

DP helps me with my skins, gets me some water, hands me some salt tabs. And off I go. A passes me. Pretty soon, I see K coming back. He offers a bit a sage advice, "If you take a shot at the Edge of the World, do it on the way down, not the way up. I had 'Hot Damn' and going up after that wasn't good." I near the Edge of the World, to a guy in a snowmobiling suit calling me by name.

"Margaret! Good to see you! Boy, you are just doing fantastic. Ahead of schedule."

Two other guys at a bar set up in the snow:

"Margaret, you are looking so good! You know, we really appreciate you coming out here and doing this race in the middle of your beauty pageant schedule. If you were walking the runway right now, you'd win for sure, you look amazing. Gorgeous."

"Can we get you something to drink? Water? Maybe some liquor?"

Aww, thanks. Water for now, boys.

DP passes me, doing the snowshoe leg for her team. She encourages me, shouting, "Come on! Come on baby! Almost there!" But I can't keep with her as the climb gets steeper. I see her top out, and then head down. Finally I get there. Man are my legs tired. I'm toasted. The volunteers say, "Margaret! DP says you're doing Leadville! She says you are one tough chick, and we can see it's true! You go, girl!"

(wow, it's like my own personal cheering section up here!) Despite my legs, that puts some pep in them and I start running downhill.

I figure I could use an excuse for what must be a slow-ish time, and decide a stop at the bar is definitely in order. 'Sides, I have to keep up with K, at least in spirit, since I can't do it in truth.

"Margaret! Back already! And still looking fresh as a daisy!"

Me: "ok, boys, hit me!"

Them: "What would you like? We have hot damn, Tequila, Jack Daniels… blah blah blah….."

Me: "I'm not much of a drinker. Give me a shot of whatever you want!" (this is putting it mildly. I've never had anything that they had on that bar.)

Them: "Well, now, you are doing so well, and looking so good, I'm pouring you a shot of tequila!"

Me: "sounds good – bottoms up!" (That's what you're supposed to say, right?)

This is my first shot of tequila ever, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to down it all at once. So down the hatch it goes. Huh, you know, they're not joking when they say it burns going down. I smack my lips for good effect, and hand the Dixie cup to the bar man. "Thanks boys!" (that comes out a little strangled. They get a good laugh out of that.)

I make sure to run off down the trail to make it look good, but once I'm out of sight of the bar, I walk a little. *cough* Well, I sure hope I don't experience that again on the way back up. A few deep breaths, and it's time to keep moving, even if my belly is on fire. I catch up to A. He says I'm looking good. "I'll be doing ok, as long as that shot of tequila stays down!" And it's into transition for the downhill ski.

DP helps me through transition again (you couldn't ask for a better friend) and she even gets a glass of water for me. Everything back in the backpack, and it's time to leave.

Since I'm not racing, I snowplow the whole thing. My hips start to ache pretty quickly, but there's nothing to do but keep going. Conditions are good for me – a little loose snow, no ice. I think this is the first year I didn't fall during the race. I didn't even come close. Towards the end, I finally bring my skis parallel and try to go a little faster. I'm afraid I actually was taking up so much of the trail that the fellow behind me couldn't pass. I tried to scoot to one side, but he stayed put. I apologized for it as we got to the road. I catch up to A again just before transition. His knee is hurting so much, he's not sure he will finish if it means walking the 5 miles down to the bikes.

Into T2'. B is there, waiting for his team mate. I try to find someone with ibuprofen for A, without luck. B helps me with my gear and in no time, I'm running down the road. I give my customary whoop of joy to be in running shoes moving downhill. Wahoo! I'm tired, but with the help of gravity, running is easy and smooth. What a great feeling. I think I took my second gel here. So with the Gatorade on my bike, and an orange slice along the way, I think that makes 250-300 calories. (not so good.) Oh wait, and the tequila. So maybe 350. J I passed several people on the run. I always seem to – my downhill running is just better than my uphill. I still never know when the end of the run section is near, so it's a beautiful surprise to top a hill and see the bike transition laid out in front of me.

Into T1'. I have 3 kids and a mom helping me through transition. One of the kids comments on my weird shoes – he thinks the yak trax are part of the shoe. I explain that no, they just stretch on over the shoe to give traction in the ice. The kids are so anxious to help, getting things from my bag, and putting away my running stuff. Just fantastic. They wish me luck as I head out, and I think – I don't need luck, I need speed!!

A quick look at my watch (the first of the day) and I confirm that I won't be finishing in 5:45, or under six. The time as I leave on the bike is 5 hours and 30 minutes. In fact, I'm going to have to work pretty hard to be faster than last year. Ok, well, let's go then! Thirteen miles, and 36 minutes to do it in. Glad it is downhill! I tear off, and am at top speed almost immediately. I brake once to go around a sharp curve, but then beg my beautiful bike for every ounce of speed it has. It delivered 50 mph for a short stretch, and then I'm pedaling to keep it in the 30s. The miles click off quickly. Seems like there's a crosswind this year, occasionally it shifts to a headwind, then back again. Up the hill, and my tired legs are not so impressed. But before I know it, I'm turning by the smiths, and working to keep my speed up over 20 mph. Through town the pavement isn't so smooth, so I'm out of my aerobars for the last mile. I cross the line at 6:04:14. Two minutes faster than last year! Woot! And pretty much all of that gain had to come from the downhill section.

(you know, it wouldn't be a race post from me without a little analysis…)

	2008	2009	2010
Bike up + T1	1:18:25	1:06:25	1:16:54 (ouch)
Run + T2	1:10:47	1:09:04	1:07:53
Ski	54:26	51:34	50:11
Snowshoe +T3	35:51	35:23	37:44
Snowshoe down	15:01	12:58	13:27 (the shot)
Ski down + T3'	33:56	32:51	31:47
Run down + T2'	53:58	51:31	48:08
Bike down + T1'	XXX bike crushed XXX	46:40	38:13
Finish Time		6:06:34	6:04:14

In the end, though I didn't break 6 hours, I had a great day. Both A and L finished, many stories were shared. Much bling was awarded. Owing to the paucity of competing females my age, and of course, though I don't like to mention, my innate awesome-ness, I took first in my AG. DP's team won, K won 3^rd in his AG. And the post race pizza definitely hit the spot.

Faking it.

2010-02-08T14:42:00.000-08:00

Faking it has gotten a bad rap. Who doesn’t think of Meg Ryan in a diner when they hear that phrase? And, come on, don’t we all want what she’s having?

Faking it has several benefits, really.
1.)    You get to enjoy the journey.
2.)    Plans and expectations get thrown out the window.
3.)    You can enjoy other people really going for it.
4.)    And, as in my case, sometimes you want to save yourself for other efforts down the line.

Yeah, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve decided to fake the Quad. Between my Achilles injury and the old Pueblo 50 miler coming up in 3.5 weeks, it’s probably wise. Take it easy, don’t do too much race specific training, treat it like a long training day, and enjoy the ride.

What did you think I meant?

Ghost Town 38.5

2010-01-21T12:17:00.000-08:00

My longest run to date, on my approach to Leadville.

It was pretty cool at the start, and really it stayed that way all day. We had some cloud cover during the day to protect us from the sun. I didn’t even put on my sunglasses until mile 20 or so. I ran with my giraffe Moeben sleeves and my new (thanks DP!) Buff the whole time. I had hurt my Achilles 4 weeks prior to the race, and had taken 3 weeks off to let it heal. My only important goal for this race was to finish un-injured. And the finishing part of that was optional, depending on how it went.

I opted to parasite light from other runners at the 6 a.m. start rather than carrying my own headlamp. It worked out, but probably only because Mark ran with me the first six miles. (translation – I got lucky.) Without a light, crossing the several cattle guards would have been asking for disaster. I didn’t think about the cattle guards. After about 40 minutes of running, light seeped into the hills, and we could see where we were going. About that same time, my Achilles started to hurt in protestation of running uphill on pavement – this is NOT GOOD. I kept quiet about it for a little while, trying to decide what I should do, and what I should say to Mark. I wanted to run with him for the day because he and I have the EXACT SAME long run pace and we have fun running together, but now I felt like I needed the freedom to take breaks and go slowly. After Steve drifted off up the road ahead of us, we met up with a woman, and she and Mark got to talking. At the Junction station, where we transition to dirt jeep road for 26 miles, I told Mark to go ahead without me. I was concerned that if he stayed with me, I’d get pulled along, and go faster/harder than I should with my Achilles hurting. Plus, I wanted him to have a good race, and not worry about me. I stopped. I stretched. I did some downward facing dog. Some spectators waiting for their runner complimented me on my giraffe patterned sleeves and gaiters. (hee hee!)

Louis Telles was at there at Junction Station, and it was nice to see someone I knew. I headed out, walking up the hill. I ate a gel. I stretched a couple more times, and it seemed like my calves were loosening up. I took some photos of the sunrise. Some of the gear I had brought with me was starting to get old. The “spibelt” which had 3 gels in it wasn’t adjusted quite right. The camera + water bottle was getting heavy to hold. The course at this point is rolling uphill, and the jeep road is well maintained. I was doing quite a bit of walking, but rather than feel disappointed in my speed, I felt good about sticking with my goal of not getting injured. Several people passed me. I let them go. I was hiking nearly as fast as some of them were running. I would catch some on each short downhill, too. Past the support parking, we started a long not-too-steep uphill. Soon we arrived at Stone hut aid station, where I left my camera in my drop bag. Too heavy for my arm. I ate a melon chunk, grabbed some fritos from my bag, and kept moving. I was also trying in this race to have quick aid stops. I tend to linger, and I’m trying to change that. Back to the jeep road for more uphill. Legs feel ok, although my hips are starting to ache a bit, as I don’t hike much. I can feel my Achilles, but there is no pain. Rounding a bend, a volunteer directed me to the Forest Spur Trail – a short out and back section. The trail is tricky to find at first, but then becomes clear. This is flat to gently uphill. There’s a stone arch about half way to the turn around, which was neat to see. I’m still walking quite a bit. I see Steve and then Mark at this point on their way back. Both of them look good, and Mark is running with someone new. I tell them my foot is still attached, and keep moving. Just before the turn around, there’s a very steep uphill to climb, covered in small shifting rocks. At the top is the spur turn around, and Sweet Baboo’s favorite aid station – an older gentleman with a white beard sitting and handing out water in front of a mine entrance. It was a fun scene. I stretched for awhile again, and explored the mine – it wasn’t too deep, with an interesting square entrance.Too bad I left my camera behind!

Back down the hill, I was behind a hesitant woman and had to wait until the trail leveled out a bit to pass her. Running feels really good, and everyone I see is smiling and enjoying their run through the woods in the mountains. We all exchange good jobs and nice mornings and looking goods. It’s only mile 14, this is the part of the race that everyone feels good! I run into DP right at the point where you can see the stone arch and cave entrance, and point them out to her. She looks good, and happy. Very cool to be able to share the day with friends.

Back on the main jeep road, I’m directed back up hill. I hike with Gil, a nice guy, for awhile. We get into Hilltop station, and I am in and out quickly after dropping my spibelt. Gil exits with me and we stay together for a little while, talking over tri’s and other races. He runs more of the uphills than I do, and then I pass him on the down hills. Then he stops running the uphills. After a long descent, I don’t see him any longer.
The course crossed the North Percha, the creek is low enough that hopping on stones gets me across without wetting my feet. (The pile of burning leaves set by the small homestead here here is not my favorite thing, and the smoke hangs in this valley.) From here, the jeep road is poorly maintained. Washed and rutted, and pretty uneven, the road is rolling more vigorously uphill. In several areas, the view is nice, showing the hilly country that surrounds us. Hike, hike, hike, the uphills. My hips aren’t aching anymore, everything seems to have settled into place for the day. At several points, I am so thankful that I am out here, breathing deeply. I stop when I want – to marvel at the thick trunked alligator juniper, to look at a creek, to listen to bird rustlings. And then I get to keep going. Running in the wilderness is marvelous and refreshing.

Finally I am on a steep uphill that I am sure will top out at the Vista station. It goes on for awhile, and the race leaders pass me bombing down on their way to the finish. At last, I spot the aid station and am greeted by Ed Heller. He says I’m doing pretty well. I feel pretty good, and stretch my Achilles while Ed tells me about the steep downhill and icy patches to come. I grab an Ensure and a handful of Doritos (yum!) and head out. Ed wasn’t kidding, the downhill is steep and filled with small loose rocks that slide out from underfoot. But I run down it anyway. At the bottom, I slide on an icy patch – nope, he wasn’t kidding about that either. The course is slightly rocky forest floor – some needles, some leaves, some rocks. Pretty nice to run on, and fairly flat. I should be seeing Mark around here. I see one guy that I know was ahead of Mark. Then a long gap… then one guy that I’m pretty sure was a ways behind Mark and several other runners. Ahead I see a few guys around a campfire. “That can’t be the turnaround/cave creek aid station… where’s Mark?” The scouts at the fire confirm that this is the turnaround. And they confirm that Mark has not been through yet.

Oh no, Mark’s off course.

I explain it to them, and figure that 1.) Mark’s a smart guy, he’ll figure it out, and 2.) I have no idea how to find him, and 3.) I’ve done what I can and alerted the volunteers that at least one person went off course. So I turn around and head back down the course, pointed toward the finish. I stop and adjust my race number, wondering all the time where Mark went off course, and where he is. About ½ mile after the turnaround, 6 or 7 runners are heading toward me with Mark in the middle. “Bonus miles?” I ask. “yup” he says, and they are running pretty quickly by me. I figure it will be no time at all until they catch me back up. I manage to drink about ½ my Ensure before I hit the hill. The treacherous uphill takes a bit to climb up, but I hike it steadily. At the top and Vista station, there’s DP again. I repeat Ed’s words of wisdom to me about the steep downhill and icy sections. We chat a little about Mark, and then I head out with a mini coke and Doritos in hand. (see first photo in the post.) My PhD professor used to give me grief for eating such food, but anything that sounds good to me during a long race I think is well deserved. I feel really good at this point. It’s mile 22.6, and I feel fresh, if that can be believed. So much hiking on the first half must be paying off. It occurs to me that I have only seen about 6 women in front of me. Hey that’s kind of cool! I catch a few people as I run downhill – chatting for awhile each time. There’s a woman in front of me, and she seems determined to stay away – she keeps looking back and taking off. This is fine with me, I was never in this race to compete. The Percha crossing comes really quickly. I find myself running between a couple of faces that are familiar now. We chat, and now that the course is more downhill than uphill, I’m running consistently and a very decent pace. I hike the uphill to Hilltop station, drop the empty can and swap the remainder of my Doritos for a handful of fritos. Yum. And I head out, still feeling excellent. The miles I’ve done are resting easily in my legs. I can’t believe it. My Achilles is not hurting. So I keep running. What a relief.

I catch up with Ed (tall Ed) and we talk about the race, how pretty it is. We talk over the other ultras we’ve done – he’s done the Jemez 50 mile, I’ve done the 50K there. I recommend the Caldera Marathon. He finds out I’ve signed up for Leadville, and turns out he’s done it, so we talk about that for awhile. At one point, he says we’re on pace to finish under 8 hours. To which I exclaim – no way! I hadn’t looked at my watch all day. After my Achilles started hurting at the beginning, I gave up on all time goals. But Ed was right, we we’re on track to beat even my most optimistic goal. Wahoo! On a flattish section, he decides to walk for a bit, so we wish each other luck. I have to struggle here not to turn around looking for Mark. I am sure he’s going to catch me, and the urge to look behind me to see if he’s there is hard to resist! I never look behind me in races to see who is there. It seems like a waste to me, I can only run my own race. I’m not competitive, so why get amped up over something I’m not going to do anything about? I do resist the urge, and finally come to peace with it. I hike up the hill between me and Stone Hut station, and catch first the woman that has been struggling to stay ahead (she was not talkative), and then Vernes on the way. We talk a bit about ultras compared to marathons. He bemoans the hills that remain. He and I have passed each other quite a bit in this last half – he going wildly downhill, and I passing him on the uphills. It’s the same here, I outpace him fairly quickly hiking. I tell him I’m sure I’ll see him again with all the downhills in front of us. Sure enough, on the descent into Stone Hut he catches me up just in time to complain about the short out and back to the aid station (1/10th of a mile). We come into the aid station together, I pick up my camera thinking I might want it at the end to get a picture of DP. I leave everything else, thinking that I haven’t eaten as much as I should have. But I still feel great, and now I am ready to get to the last road section.

I head out with Vern, and on the downhills he quickly leaves me behind with a “good luck’ exchange. The rollers here head downhill, and I’m able to run almost all of it, only walking a few uphill sections. It’s 3.3 miles to Junction station, and it goes by quickly. 30 miles goes by on my watch, and I still feel the best I have ever felt late in a race. No stomach problems, my legs and feet don’t ache deeply the way they sometimes do. Wow. I get passed by a fellow in black, who tells me we’re on the home stretch and we laugh. I roll into Junction Station and fill up my water bottle. I stop to stretch for several minutes and talk with Louie over the awesome course. I begin to think that maybe Mark isn’t going to catch me after all. Just as I am finishing up, Bobby Keogh and the competitive woman blow through the station and down the road. They look like they are moving pretty well – she must have gotten her second wind. I say goodbye to Louie and head out. Bobby starts to drop off the woman’s pace, and after a short bit (half a mile?) I catch up to him. We chat about where we’re from and he’s a bit surprised he hasn’t seen me at the races as he’s also from ABQ. We’ve really lucked out on weather, and we talk for half a mile or so. He was with the group that did the bonus miles. He mentions that the woman ahead of us has really come back – and she looks really strong in front of us about a quarter mile. She’s from Ohio, he says. He says he always dies on this section of road, that his wheels come off. We talk about compression tights, and soon catch up to Bill Hamm who at 82 (!!!) was running the double masters distance of 28. We both cheered him on, and then Bobby told me to finish strong, that I’m looking good, and dropped back.

Now, this is not my favorite section. Road is, well, a little boring, even in the ever changing landscape of the Gilas. I came to the bridge, which on the way out I had made a mental note that it was 4.5 to the finish. “Excellent!” I thought, “I can always run 4.5 miles. I’m really close!” (Leadville popped into my brain as the exception, but I banished the thought.) The woman ahead of me starts taking walk breaks. “I could walk…” I think. “But I don’t need to. Let’s just keep running. Hey, I’m doing a 9 min mile! That’s awesome for mile 35.” Slowly, I become certain that I am catching that woman ahead of me. It fires me up a bit. I’m surprised by that feeling. On one (slight) uphill part, I stop to take the above picture. Then, right back to running. As I catch up to her, I tell her we’re only 2.5 miles from the finish. The man in black is just 50 yds in front of her, and I quickly pass him too. Now I actually feel like I’m working, and I feel great. I can’t believe I’ve come 36 miles, that I feel great and am ready to run. After another half mile, a guy in red appears in front of me. He’s walk/running, and I think I’m going to catch him, too. Vernes is quite a ways in front of him, and I doubt I’ll pick him back up. I pass the guy in red, telling him “great job.” Now, I’m starting to feel it. Funny how working for only 30 minutes has tired me out, when I was going along all day feeling great. It’s a good lesson in effort expenditure. I check my watch several times. At some points, it almost feels like my legs are running of their own accord. That this is what they are meant to be doing, and they’ll keep moving no matter what I want. (a very similar feeling to what I experienced late in the bike at the Beach to Battleship Ironman.) A building appears – “oh good, Hillsboro has to be right here…” I’m still maintaining a good 9 minute mile pace, but I’m looking for that finish line. Round the next bend, I watch Vernes, still a good ways in front of me. At last, he angles off the road to the finish line. I allow myself, for the first time all day, to glance behind me. No one is close. I relax a bit and run into the finish, and am ecstatic to hear Susan say 7:44!

Wow. I estimated before I hurt my Achilles that I’d finish in 8:30, or 8:10 if it went well. After the injury and taking 3 weeks off, I thought maybe it would take me as long as 9 hours. So to come through so much faster than I expected was a huge boost. I ended up 8th woman overall. Even better, though my muscles were a bit achy as is expected, my Achilles didn’t hurt at all. That was much more important to me than finishing fast.

Post race, I thought it wise to ice my Achilles anyway, which I did. I talked the race over with Steve, who did fantastic. Bobby came over to me post race, and said he watched with awe at the way I ran the last 6 miles. “You just disappeared into the distance, you looked so strong!” That was nice to hear. He even did a kind of bow to me! I ate some soup, and was ready with my camera when Mark came in.

He quickly ate something, and then we headed back to the camper to shower and pack it up. We went back to the race site, but completely missed DP’s finish. We decided we wanted to get back to ABQ before 10, and reluctantly left before Geekgirl and Sweet Baboo’s finish and the post race barbeque. My only regret after a fantastic race, though it was a smart choice.

Crossed the crazy line

2010-01-14T10:30:00.000-08:00

Or maybe I’ve gone through the looking glass. I’ve always wanted to go as Alice for Halloween.

I think I’ve crossed the crazy line. Or, maybe I should say I’ve crossed MY crazy line. Everyone’s line placement is probably a little different.

I think the line was back there, back where I got conned, er, convinced to do Leadville. And then I convinced myself I could and should do it. I think that’s where that line was. I can’t really see it from here.

On the far side of the line, running a trail marathon with 2000 ft elevation gain at altitude (caldera marathon) became a run that I hoped to do pretty well in, but didn’t need to train for specifically. Geez, this is how I look at 5K races. Or, I should say, looked – on the other side of the crazy line. And now, this weekend, I’m running the Ghost town 38.5 – my longest run to date – and I’m not worried about the distance. I’m a little cautious and want to take it easy so as not to strain my Achilles again, but the distance seems like it will be fun, not hard. How can that be? How can I be at this place where running 38.5 miles seems natural? This disorientation, this sensation feels like when you’re climbing a long grade up. Instead of looking up regularly, you keep looking at the trail right in front of you. The trail looks the same, step after step, rocks, dirt, leaves – and you keep the same steady, maybe hypnotic, pace. Until, some unknown stimulus pulls your gaze from the trail, and you realize you’re at the top. And yet, looking down the long trail, it doesn’t seem like you actually covered that distance yourself. It’s bewildering, dizzying even.

I have done races that I still don’t really think I can do. That’s nuts, right? I’ve already done them, but I still have doubts about whether I can do them. The doubting part of me must still visit the other side of the crazy line.

I plot out a logical training progression – upping weekly mileage from my current 35 to 65 miles a week, and bumping up to 75 or 80 at least twice in the summer. Here a race, there a race, and every week speed work. And then add in some afternoon hikes up mountains. Maybe some sessions on a stair climber if I can find one.

Once I finish the schedule and look at it laid out before me, it’s clear. There is nothing about this schedule that is logical.

Except that it is, given that I want to finish Leadville. Crazy.

Co’s dream:
We’re still in the Florida Keys on our week vacation. He wakes up and decides to go for a walk – it’s hot, it’s humid, and he doesn’t see any lizards. When he gets back, I’m in the kitchen at the rental.

Looking like I’ve just been for a run.

So he asks – did you go for a run?

To which I reply off-handedly, “yeah, I did a marathon this morning, while you were out walking.”

Through the Gloaming under Watchful Eyes

2009-12-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Goal Setting

2009-12-04T15:52:00.000-08:00

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!

Why?

2009-11-24T14:16:00.000-08:00

Why do Ultraruns?
of any distance?

Because.

Need a better explanation? watch:

UltraRunning from Matt Hart on Vimeo.

Next up for me: GhostTown 38.5 mi run

Analysis girl’s Look at B2B

2009-11-20T15:01:00.000-08:00

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.