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)
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Old Pueblo 50 miler - Executive reader’s summary
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!
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.
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
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.
Monday, March 1, 2010
‘Twas the week before Old Pueblo…
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.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Perplexing Fast Runs
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?
- 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?
Monday, February 15, 2010
Hit me with your best shot… of tequila
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:
"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 3rd in his AG. And the post race pizza definitely hit the spot.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Faking it.
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?
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?
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