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.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
A Roller Coaster JMTR 50K race - highlights
The Jemez Mountain Trail Run 50K unfurled exactly like a roller coaster for me. The course is a roller coaster - cranking slowly uphill, getting very high, swooping downhill, smoothly flying along wide easy trails and then being jarred by the rough terrain on a narrow trail hoping over downed trees. On top of that, I had placed big lofty expectations on myself. I'd trained for this race - mountain runs on Wednedsay nights, good tempo work, long runs - but I wasn't sure it'd be enough for me to finish under 8 hours. And so the race was a roller coaster for me mentally as well.
You may think 8 hours is a cakewalk for a 50K. I mean, come on, that's 14:20 miles!!! Please, keep in mind that this race is at elevation (7000 ft to 10500 ft), it climbs ~7000 ft (and descends 7000 ft) over the course, and while it's advertised as a 50k, it actually is almost 2 miles long at 33.5 miles. Some describe it as the hardest 50K in the US.
If we ignore the fall I took at 1.5 miles in that resulted in covering me with fine black dust on one side, the first aid station came and went without issue, and I was right on track time-wise. I saw Amy and Sweet Baboo on the course - generally they are faster than me, but the pace felt fine so far. At the top of Guaje ridge, I was 4 minutes behind, but, not to worry, there's a downhill coming. At the Caballo base aid station, though, I was floored to find I had fallen further behind - now 23 minutes!!! I drew consolation on the climb up to the top of Caballo that the time goal for the base was just a guess, while the goal for the top of Caballo was based on last year. I focused, and climbed steadily, pushing a few sections. I caught up to a couple of guys - we were all hiking at this point. As I toyed with the idea of passing them, one guy - in basketball shorts - called over his shoulder in a very 'Bill&Ted's Excellent Adventure' voice, "Hey Kool- Aid, how's it goin'?"
I did look over my shoulder, but there wasn't anyone else he could possibly be addressing. I hoped he'd think the big pause was because I was breathing hard, because I really wasn't sure how to take this new nickname. Was he hoping I'd offer him a fakely fruity sugary beverage from some imaginary pitcher I was hauling up the mounatin? Was I quite a bit more bloated than I thought I was? Was my belly sloshing loudly as I ran? I considered my options....
and came up with: "OH YEAAAHHHHHH!"
before passing him and his buddy and wishing them luck. The red shirt and white arm coolers probably inspired this 'duuuude' to come up with the nickname... that or the altitude induced light-headedness....
I hit the top right on time, and took a fig newton as a reward. Excellent - I was thrilled to have caught back up, and I was excited to head downhill: the trail shoes I was wearing were perfect for the loose dry dirt and also the rocky downhills sections of the race. I sailed downhill, passing several more tentative people, and seeing all my friends looking happy and determined. I hit the base now 3 minutes ahead of schedule (!!!) and felt ready to tackle the next big climb. It seemed to take forever, cranking up this climb, but I hiked steadily and thought I was staying on track. At the Pipeline AS at about halfway, my stomach sunk to my shoes when I saw I was again 14 minutes behind. Disappointed and bewildered at how I lost so much time, I grabbed some food and dashed out of the AS.
This low point required a bit of self talk to climb out of. I reminded myself that last year I hit the upcoming Ski Area AS at 5:05. My time goal this year is 4:45. I might not make the goal, but I can still beat last year's time. I must make up some ground here if I'm to break eight. This section is smoooooooth. After the climbing, downhill, and more climbing, the trail through the forest on dirt and grass - not roots and rocks - is heaven. I got a barnacle through here - a guy latched on and followed me. I found myself starting to push - maybe a little too hard? Should I work this hard on this section? at this point in the race? I have several hours to go... He was right on my heels. Maybe if I move over, he'll go past me. hm. Nope. I stopped to let the barnacle go free, and he says, " oh, no come on - you're pace was perfect - keep going!" I begged off, using the excuse that I needed another electrolyte, and sent him off with a "good job."
At the aid station, I was sure that since I'd been pushed from behind I'd have caught up - I almost didn't look at my watch. When I did, I gulped my coke in a hurry and left. No bathroom stop for me, I was still 12 minutes behind the goal, though I was 8 minutes ahead of last year. As I hiked up the trail, I wondered if it was even worth hurrying at this point. I was dehydrated, hot, and tired. My neuroma hurt, my sciatic nerve was killing me, my hamstrings ached, and a nerve in my thumb would occaisonally send shooting pains up my arm. I could run it in not to terribly hard and still PR. It just might not be under 8. And suddenly that line of thinking just pissed me off. When do I think like that? Determined now not to settle for what was easy, I worked steadily into the pipeline AS.
The clock now read 5:38. (If I had thought through the math, I had 2:22 to make ~11 miles. It's mostly downhill. I can do that. But I didn't think that hard.) I only knew I needed ~29 minutes to do the last 1.9 miles out of the canyon. I darted out of the aid station on the heels of a couple I'd played leapfrog with the whole race. While downing a gel and some chips I told them about the two "surprise!" hills coming up and then the technical downhill miles. I passed them and pushed until I reached the single track trail, and then kept drinking and working to keep relaxed. Which sounds dumb, but is accurate nonetheless. I knew I had to keep working and not give up on this section. Last year, I stopped eating 1.5 hours from the finish "because I was close" and then used that as an excuse to not work too hard. After miles of forested somewhat technical downhill, you spill out onto Guaje ridge and hit the Aid station. I was looking for that aid station around every bend so that I could consult my watch, the final arbiter in the measure of my success in this race. At the table, I looked - both resigned and determined - and saw that I was now only 5 minutes behind my time goal. It was 6:25.
I had to get to the Rendija canyon aid station 5.3 miles away of very technical rocky uneven downhill trail before 7:30. I can do this. Now, if ever, is the time to work, run hard and steady, save a little for the last 1.9 miles of uphill. More coke, more chips, more gel, more water. I was on the clock, and I needed to make every minute count. On the exposed, burnt out ridge, the trail twists and turns over sunbaked slickrock with loose sand, rubble, boulders, and tree stumps interspersed. It's tricky, this section - I downhill best when I can turn off my active brain, and just ~~~go~~~ but at this point, after more than 6 hours of running, I felt the absolute necessity of not putting a foot wrong, of plotting out every step. The feet hurt, the ankles ache, the quads are tired - I felt like I couldn't afford to fall or stumble. Which is exactly the wrong way to go downhill fast. It's about trusting yourself and knowing that you'll absorb a small mistake (and not thinking about the consequences of a large mistake). The fine line of keeping your eyes on the trail and being watchful, but not watching every rock that you pass is tough to negotiate late in a race.
While focusing on the race car feeling that helps me smooth out, I heard approaching footsteps behind me. "let me know if you need to pass" I say. A loud moan comes from behind, "Oh, don't say that, nooooooo. Don't.. Don't do thaaaat to meeeee..." And the footsteps stop to a walk as I continue running. A little bemused, I run on thinking and not thinking, keeping the effort high. Ten minutes later, I hear more footsteps: "let me know if you need to pass," I say. And the voice comes again, "uhhhgh, no, don't... "
"oh, you again. Ok. we'll get there. Hope that jeep road comes soon, huh?"
*crickets and thudding footsteps of the whiny barnacle*
We twist and turn on down the ridge. As the slope shallows out, it's harder to keep pushing but I do anyway, knowing that I might just get my goal if I can keep working, for crying out loud. The footsteps behind sound a little erratic and heavy. Just before the jeep road, the footsteps fall back and I attack the jeep road alone. I'd forgotten how uneven, grooved, and steep the short jeep road section is. When I glance at my watch I see it's already after 7. I need to hustle to that aid station - where did the time go? As the route diverts us back to trail, I pick up the pace. Gotta fly. I run the short uphills, all of them. I run over the boulders and ledges. I desperately think only of running forward and not on how my quads almost gave out going up on that boulder. Not on the skidding as I round a switchback. No shuffling, we're running. Pick the knees up, use your glutes. Everything is tired, but I'm proud of how hard I'm working. The few people I pass give encouragement, and I return it - although a little breathlessly.
I see a sign. No, not one in the sky - a cardboard sign, with sharpie writing... oh I've got to be close to that aid station... yes! there it is. As my water bottle is being filled and the aid station people are trying to assess if I am in my right mind (or at least in control of enough of my faculties to keep moving), I steel myself and look at my watch. What is to be the outcome? Under 8 or over?
7:20
I turn back to the volunteers, suddenly very excited, thank them for helping, and say, " I've gotta go, I'm trying to break eight!" They must have been runners themselves, because they all knew exactly what I was talking about. They shouted, "it's less than 30 minutes to the finish if you keep moving - you can do it!" (I <3 those aid station volunteers!)
I'd love to say I bounded up the slope - but at least I was running. I was sure I would break 8 hours - I was happy, satisfied, and relieved.... After the tunnel, it occurred to me slowly that if I didn't dawdle I'd actually break 8 by more than a little bit. Cuz, you see, 7:20 plus 30 minutes is 7:50. I double checked the math a couple of times. Hey, that'd be nice. Really nice. ummmm, so, I guess I better RUN the rest of this. How much under will I get? no, strike that, how much under will I earn? Only one way to find out. I picked it up, tried to empty the tank over the last mile. The stone staircase 1/4 mi from the end showed that I was not that stable on my feet anymore as I lurched up it grabbing on to the rocks. The finish line appeared, a party in full swing with the aroma of hamburgers, and I ran nearly all out to get there. And stopped my watch: 7:47.
7:47 - I feel like a real runner with that time. That's good! Good for 11th woman overall, too. A PR by 28 minutes.
I worked hard for that. It was hard, and it was easy, and hot, cold, smooth, rough, high and low all at once. But it was always fun. I think I should give this racing thing a few more tries!
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!
Friday, May 20, 2011
Not Sure about this, but wish I was.
Jemez 50K is tomorrow. This is my 3rd time doing the 50K, and I'd really like to break 8 hours.
Last year, I went out too fast, and in my tiredness decided to take it easy the last 6 miles. I finished with an 8:15 and felt good about that - 15 min faster than the year before. Then a few days later, on reflection, I wished I had given more, stepped up and tried for those last 6 miles.
So now the race is dead ahead. My hips and hamstrings are really tight. I don't know what my training has been good for. Seems like I'm a little faster. Seems like I should do ok, but ... I just don't know about this, after all. I haven't been memorizing my goal splits, I don't have a plan.
Sometimes these pre-race posts are about setting the bar low for guaranteed success. Is this one of those? I don't know. I feel pretty wishy-washy. And this year, no KC to run with me and keep me honest. Time to be my own best running partner and coach.
So: the plan is to keep it easy to steady through the huge climb up Caballo. Reach the top at 3h 5 min. Move through the aid stations, stop only for water and coke. Keep eating through the last 6 miles. Hit Guaje ridge AS at 6:20 or so. Run the last mile like I stole something.
I feel better already.
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.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Oh thank goodness.
I weeded the garden.
I balanced the checkbook.
I did yoga. FOUR TIMES.
I washed the dog.
I thought about giving up Coke again for awhile, but gave up on that.
I did some trail maintainance - took down some deadfalls, rebuilt a bridge with Co, trimmed back lots of brush, took out some stumps.
I watched TV. I read a book (re-read "The Count of Monte Cristo"). I read another book. (A dog's purpose.)
BUT I DID NOT RUN. (much) For two interminably long weeks. I'd forgotten that Weekends actually lasted that long! Sure, I needed the time off. At first it didn't seem odd to not run and I happily crossed items off my dusty to do list. The three short easy runs I did the first week were sluggish, but enough to feel like I was still a runner. By week two, my 4 ersatz runs left a dull residue behind that colored the rest of the day. Some runners will talk about getting some snap back in their legs while resting - I wasn't feeling that, and I was starting to get darkly suspicious that this resting gig was going to make me lose the fitness I was hoping to build. I didn't feel like a runner anymore, I felt like a pretender. If disgruntled had a color, I was wearing it.
Tuesday of my first week back running = 2.5 mile Handicap Race. That's what I wanted, something to test how well the resting treated me. I should get a PR. After 2 weeks off, I should be totally ready for a little 2.5 mile race. I even stated my intention to try to PR to the guys, and GL offered to help by pacing me. Perfect. The temp was a little warm, maybe, but otherwise conditions were good. I told GL that the first mile had to be 7:10 or under, and I wanted to finish under 19 minutes. We started, and the pace immediately just felt incredibly hard. After the first mile in 6:57, I was toast. Then came the hills. I didn't just have one fork in me, I was skewered from stem to stern - I was that done. I slouched across the line in 20:04. I was miserable, light headed, and dejected.
I came up with several explanations. I laughed about not being quite ready for that PR after all with the guys. I binned the excuses. It was what it was. The next few runs I completed with a slight air of resignation, and they were no better in terms of pace or feel. The next week's handicap run was even worse - and the next day I had set up to run up the mountain on Three Gun Springs trail with MB.
It sounds challenging and bad-ass, but I knew it was an out and back, MB would go ahead at his pace, and I could do whatever I could manage (or less) and it'd be fine. Plus, MB tells me that it's really only ~2.5 miles to the top. So no big deal.
About half way up - MB already out of sight ahead of me, I found a little "zone." Well, that's nice, I thought, in a patronizing tone. I can still run. Another half mile along I was still running, and my snark must have taken a wrong turn, because it was gone. Sunset was hastening down the mountain while I ran through forested sections. MB caught me, and I turned around. It was a great run, whether I deserved it or not.
Thursday speed work went ok, and the Friday 9 miler felt pretty good, though I overheated a bit in the beginning. I was really preoccupied with my Saturday plans. I needed a long run with the ski hill in it to get ready for Jemez, so I planned on going from my house up the ski hill to the 10K trail and Osha spring loop for 20 miles. I wasn't going to have any company, but I was going to do this run. No bailing. That morning, I dawdled around, and finally kicked myself out the door at 11:30 in shorts and a t-shirt. The overcast sky happily meant I wouldn't need to reapply sunscreen. I brought the trimmers with me so I could do a little bush trimming on my route. The run became somewhat laughable as I got snowed on, sleeted on, and rained on while I postholed through scattered snow patches on the 10K trail trying not to think about being cold. I cut the route short as I had taken much too long, and skipped the Osha Spring loop. While short, slow, cold and wet, the run left me optimistic for no particularly good reason.
Sunday I was set to run easy with DP along the bosque - nice and flat. I took in some protein in the form of gnats during the 9 miles. It felt good, though I was a "miguel" to DP's "mark." Later that evening, the goodness wrapped around me like swaddling. That was a great weekend of running. I did what I wanted to do, and it was good. So simple.
I have a race this weekend, so Monday's recovery run was kept strictly to a slow easy pace and route. And today, Tuesday's handicap race... I had toyed with the notion of running it hard, but decided against it to better save myself for the weekend.Which I told the guys - no PR attempt today.
"Every plan is good until the first shot is fired."
The guys were going easy too. Right out of the gate, I felt really, really good. I quickly decide to make this a fartlek run instead - run the first mile hard, then take a half mile easy, then do the last mile hard. So off I go, leaving the guys to their easy pace. I hear CS comment, "she is running fast today" followed by the sound of his approaching footsteps. Cool, company. We go through the first mile in 7:03, and the effort still feels easy and right. With CS there, looking at me, I push on - should be able to go 19:30, even if I fall apart.
The hills were hard - I lost some ground, and had to pick it back up. I got to the road, ~3/4 of a mile left in 13:18. "Dang" I said to CS, still next to me or just in front pulling me along. That was too slow. It takes me 6 minutes or more to run the last section, which meant a 19:18 today at best. CS wasn't having any of that, though. And since I didn't have the breath to explain it, he kept pulling. It wasn't feeling so great anymore, now it just felt hard.
"Use the wind at your back"
"doing great"
"just 400 left, come on"
"200, time to sprint!"
I passed the tree stump in 19:07. A PR tie, but to me, it's as good as a PR, it's the confirmation I needed that maybe I just needed a little time to find that running groove again.
I balanced the checkbook.
I did yoga. FOUR TIMES.
I washed the dog.
I did some trail maintainance - took down some deadfalls, rebuilt a bridge with Co, trimmed back lots of brush, took out some stumps.
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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
What comes after....
the Mt. Taylor Quadrathlon?
-a 50 mile race.
and after a 50 mile race?
- a Marathon.
And after the marathon?
-um, gosh, I don't know.
I think I've forgotten what recovery from races is supposed to look like. I had 2 weeks between racing the Quad and the Old Pueblo 50 miler. And then, 3 weeks after that, I ran the Bataan Memorial Death March Marathon. Though I kind of took 3 days off after each race, if you look at my weekly miles, it doesn't really show.
I had a lot of time to consider this practice of taking 72 hours off and then jumping back into things this weekend. A lot of time. About 7 hours, solo on the trails above Albuquerque, all told.
I found out that the Watermelon Run (20 miles, self supported, loosely organized trail run) was this past weekend. 1 week post-marathon. I told Bones on Thursday that I probably wasn't up for 20. (I was right.) I thought that I'd, you know, just start with the group, and turn around at some point. But maybe I'd feel good and do the whole thing. (*cough* *cough* IDIOT *cough*).
We started out a bit fast, with 4 or 5 others - about a 9 min mile pace, I think. Within 3 miles, I had dropped back, and Bones slowed with me. Another friend caught up and chatted with Bones - perfect. We were at the first water stop, so I told them to go on ahead. I wasn't feeling great - my stomach was cramping. I thought maybe I should turn around here. After the bathroom break and water stop, though, I felt better.
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.
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.
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!
-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-
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!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Old Pueblo 50 - revisitation
Well, I’m one for 5 out of my predictions. I guess I’ll give up trying to read the crystal ball for friends.
What a different race this was for me over last year. I’ve experienced a step change in my approach to races that’s a result of a new level of self-confidence. I’ve gone from packing a lot of stuff in drop bags and wondering if it’s enough to packing much smaller bags with less care and thinking that I probably would be fine without them. I don’t question whether I’ll finish 50 miles, and I know how uncomfortable I’ll be in the last half. I even look forward to getting to that point, because I know that it won’t likely get worse. All this was brought into focus this weekend because my friends were doing their first 50, and worrying about what I worried about last year. But I can also see that there’s quite a stairwell in front of me – trying to race this distance instead of just finishing well will be another big change.
Bones and I started out together, planning to keep each other company. Unless he was too fast for me, I planned to stay with him the whole day, to see him tackle the 50. The predawn was perfect in temperature, chilling my arms while my engine kept my core warm. We covered the first 7 miles a tad faster I think than I did last year, and unfortunately my stomach just felt full and uncomfortable from the start. I think Bones was holding back a bit here, which is smart. We caught two racers in conversation around mile 6, one wearing Vibram 5fingers, and the other in the New Balance trail minimus shoes. Fresh and happy in the first hour of the race, I wondered how the rocky technical course would treat them.
Bones had heard multiple times my story about going off course, and we joked about not needing any bonus miles. The blue and white streamers marking the course were well placed. Soon we’re going up a ridge, following four or so others a few hundred feet in front. I’m just starting to think that I don’t remember this ridge, when they turn around and yell back to us that we must be off course.
Well, dang. There goes the prediction that I don’t do any bonus miles. We get back on course, and figure that we maybe did an extra mile. The jeep road rolls and falls into a dry stream bed before leading us to the mile 13 aid station.
We refill and take stock. The sun is out, warming the rocks, but the air temp is still cool. We’re doing fine, and now we get to climb up to Gunsight pass. It seems a bit breezy as we climb the rolling course, but the forecast didn’t call for wind.
The forecasters are just as good at predictions as I am.
Shooting through the notch at the top of Gunsight, Bones confirms that I found this descent rocky and technical. Yes, and it hasn’t gotten better. I move through the rocks wishing for a bit more agility, and fairly soon Bones drops back. Rather suddenly actually, I think. Well, I didn’t hear a yelp, so I hope he didn’t hurt himself and is just being cautious. On I go… but my guts are less than thrilled. The wind is strong and mischievous, pushing us downhill one second then thrusting from the side the next. Soon I realize I am actually going to have to stop for a longer bathroom break. I walk to wait for Bones and tell him to go ahead; I just need to spend some time in the bushes. But when he catches me, he says, “well, I would have been quite a bit faster, except I had to pick up this camera that someone dropped…” and holds out my camera to me. Must have flown out of my pocket! I didn’t feel it go, but I was so glad to get it back!
We agree to meet at back up at the next aid station. After my bushwhacking, I try to push the downhill. We’ve turned now and the wind is less helpful, and I have a sinking feeling that we’re going to have a strong headwind uphill. My memory turns out to be quite faulty, as I thought I’d have two or three miles to the aid station of smooth jeep road to cruise down. It was actually only a mile. Bones is there, waiting for me, and I rush through the aid station only filling my water.
I tell him my feet are hurting already – a bit ruefully. I thought I might be pretty comfortable through mile 25 or so. He admits that his started aching at mile 13. Ok, then, on we go. The wind, oh the wind. It scoured and howled over the landscape and us. We bent forward, and faced it. Our pace turned from somewhat spritely to trudging. Bones would identify a runnable section, and we’d get 20 steps until the wind or a hill stopped us. I could have been dragging a 30 lb sled behind me for all the effort it was taking to move forward. A few times, the course markers seemed a bit lacking in frequency, although, to be fair, the fierce spiteful wind may have undone some of those carefully placed streamers.
To be honest, though, mile 25 came sooner than I expected. I ate some here, and took chips with me – my first serious intake of calories. I felt pretty good, although a little more tired than I would have liked. Most things ached a bit now, and I knew that after the next 5 or so miles, the achiness would level out. The canyon was full of the wind right in our faces for the climb that goes on for several miles. With only a few exclamations, Bones and I kept each other company pretty cheerfully.
We caught vibram 5finger guy who was run-hiking the climb pretty steadily. His feet were beat up and he wished he had another shoe option. As it was, he was all in with no place to hide – and no shoe changes available. He was still smiling, and had a good attitude, so I hoped he’d be ok.
The wind relented just before mile 29 - or rather, the course started to shield us, where Bones changed his shoes, and I used his sunscreen (life saver!). Without the wind – now just a strong breeze on this part of the course – I was starting to feel pretty good. I was entering what I now recognize as perhaps my strong suit in races – the second half. I lead during this trail section and was telling myself to go ahead and start pushing the pace a bit. But the wind had left a time bomb for us: Bones’s lungs were tight and painful. So we backed off. I don’t have experience with this, so we discussed what could be done – sit for a while to really let the HR come down, hike, get to the aid station and wait for a bit - and finally settle on back off the pace and see what happens. We get to the aid station, and Bones is really upbeat and positive. I think maybe things are resolving themselves. I didn’t notice that he didn’t eat much – unlike him at aid stations.
A half mile up the road or so, I realize that things have not gotten better – instead, without nutrition, maybe they’ve slipped a bit more. We hike while Bones eats and drinks to get back on track. We keep the effort easy, but steady. We round a corner, and two dogs come up to us. I greet them – they looked so cheerful. They don’t seem to want to be pet, but one decides to follow us. I look around for the owner – no one is around. After a little while, the dog still following, I give him the “go home” command. He wags his tail, and avoids my gaze. Oooookay. A mile or so later, I try to give him some water – but he doesn’t seem to want to take anything from me. Not even a potato chip. Another mile later – the dog ranging from 20 yards in front to 20 in back, I squirt water onto a rock with a divot for him to lick up. Which he does, finally, wagging his tail. I wish I had shared more with him. I look at our mileage on Mr. Garmin – we still have 2-3 to go to the aid station, but this dog isn’t giving up. And neither is Bones. I think he might be perking up, and he’s eating regularly (and still way more than me). The technical rocky descents and streambeds aren’t fun for his feet or mine, but we start running more regularly on the downhills and flats. He managed the turn around all on his own, which I was grateful for as I wasn’t sure what I could suggest. I have a lot to learn as a pacer.
Into mile 40, and I stop at a friendly looking couple who the dog has just run up to greet. I explain that he isn’t ours, and has just followed us for 6 miles – could they tie him up and see if the aid station captain can find the owner? The couple stared at me with surprise at first, and then quickly agreed to do what they could.
We fill our water tanks, and head out. It’s clear that I’ve missed on two more predictions – I just hope now that we’ll be able to finish before dark. As I think about that, I get a little concerned that we won’t make that. I don’t have a headlamp; although Bones does, I don’t fancy trying to share it as I know there are several rocky bits in the last section. We wonder how DP is doing, how she handled the tough wind on this really tough course. Bones, still upbeat, now thinks that maybe he’s doing better and is just tired. This is now as far as he’s ever run. I get a bit suspicious along miles 41 and 42 that he could go a bit faster, and that is walking just a bit behind me no matter what pace I go. I slow down, he slows down.
Ok, so time to go a bit faster. And as we get onto the single track, I start running, and keep running. And so does he. Woot! This is the best section – fairly smooth, and close enough to smell the barn. We cruise through this section, and pass 5 or 6 people in the process. I shout encouragement over my shoulder and delight in the feeling of running – even on tired legs, running at mile 45 is conquer-the-world awesome. And really I felt quite good. We get into the last aid station, and Bones has the brainstorm of the day. He hands his headlamp to a volunteer. “I think my friend might need this – can you get it to her?” Even coming out of a low spot, he’s still thinking more about others than himself. I have a lot to learn. We give them DP’s race number, and the aid station person is fabulous about it. How fabulous, we only find out much later.
We head out, and I believe I let out a “wahoooo!” only 5 miles to go. I’ve told Bones that in the last 5 or 6 miles, the last 10 percent of the race, you can really work hard. Go ahead and try to empty the tank, the end is so close. Many times I’ve found that I am simply in a pace rut, that with the right motivation, I have it in me to go a little faster. And this last section – it’s mostly single track. My favorite. I detail out the course to Bones. Still one good climb to a ridge, and then a descent, with the last bit through pretty meadows on smooth trail. We’re still running except for hills and stream crossings. The sun is low in the sky, and the temperature has returned to perfect. We cross the stream, and come to the road of my bonus miles of yesteryear. Which I point out to Bones. We cross it, following the markers mindfully, and leave it behind. We run some of the climb, and walk the rest. I’m so glad we are doing this in the daylight. At the top of the ridge, I shift into a trot. Bones does too, and I’m mentally pulling him along, eager to see the finish with him. The trail stays on the red dirt and rock ridge for a mile or so, and then we hang a hard left onto more single track. When we get down to the meadows, I wait and get behind Bones, and talk him into the finish.
“Here’s meadow #1 – there are three.”
“Half mile left”
“Meadow two – through the gate we go”
“This is it, if there weren’t trees over there, we’d be able to see the finish line.”
We emerged from the trees to the noise of the finish line, rowdy with those who have finished and started eating the burgers and soup the race has. Bones and I high five, and cross the line with big smiles. So it was 11:51, more than an hour past when I thought we might make it. The real reward for me was to be a part of Bones’ finish. To get to witness his tough spots and still enjoy every moment of the day together.
The postscript:
DP’s studly spouse finished in 10 hours, so he was kindly offering to get us food and anything else we needed. While we sat and enjoyed talking over the whole day, I heard the race director behind me say my name. I perk up, and turn “Hey, that’s me!” And she says, “well, congratulations, here you go! You’re first in your age group.” I’m stunned by that news, and then sock Bones in the arm to tell him how lucky I was.
The three of us cart a load of stuff to the car – and the volunteer that Bones handed his light to found us. She gave us the lowdown on DP, when she left mile 40, and that she had Bones’ light with her when she left. A quick discussion leads us to think she will finish around 9. So we settle in to wait in the warm comfort of the Kentucky Camp Cabin – complete with fire place and other runners to share the time. We see the 5finger guy finish, and cheer and eat, and eat and cheer. The crowds thin, and then disappear as 9 approaches. We hear there are half a dozen runners still out there. We all agree that running the last section in the dark would be so mentally tough. DP’s spouse heads down the trail, and a moment later, I hear him talking. A few lights appear, and it’s DP – running it in. The finish line people applaud and cheer almost as loudly as we do. And she smiled as she crossed the line.
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.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Upcoming Old Pueblo 50 miler
Saturday's coming, alright. yep. There it is, only 2 days away. After a low before Bandera in Jan. and a high point after the Quad two weeks ago, I approach this race feeling pretty darn calm/neutral. I'm going to have fun! I'm going to run all day long, most likely with Bones. I'm going to get to see friends approach, start and finish a 50 mile race. (okay, so it's important to recognize that my neutral is "upbeat and happy.")
I predict:
Bones finishes in 10:30 or less. I hope to be with him.
I do not do any bonus miles (no 57 miler like last year.)
DP finishes in 12 hours.
I haven't run with DP's spouse, so I'll just take a guess at 10:00.
Oh, it is soooo easy to make predictions for other people! And fun, too.
Most of all, I'm excited to watch the day unfold with good friends, and to experience that feeling of "oh-shit-can-I-do-this?" and "well, dang, yes I can!" vicariously through them. I'm bringing a camera, too. :)
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. :)
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