Run Rabbit Run 100, 2013

Our problem is that inside us there’s a mind going, “Impossible, impossible, impossible. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” We have to banish that mind from this solar system. Anything is possible; everything is possible. Sometimes you feel that your dreams are impossible, but they’re not. Human beings have great potential; they can do anything. The power of the mind is incredible, limitless.

                                                                                                                    --Lama Yeshe.

 

I knew that if I started that I had to finish. I didn’t want to DNF for a second time at Run Rabbit Run 100 miler – that would seem like a habit. That first DNF last year – I could rationalize it. I hadn’t recovered from Leadville 4 weeks earlier. I registered as a Hare, when I was really a Tortoise. The course was nearly 109 miles, not 100. So to get timed out… It still belongs to me – I could have found a way to run when I walked instead. I could have planned better. But the DNF doesn’t feel like a condemnation of my ability to finish every 100 miler. Just that one, that day.       

But I didn’t want to do that again. Ever.

I took two weeks off from running before this year’s race to try to allow my foot to heal. I’d developed what I think is Tarsal Tunnel Syndrome – like carpal tunnel, but in my foot. It hurts. With sometimes shooting pain up my ankle. It didn’t go away, although I wasn’t limping on race day.

The race starts at the base of the beautiful Steamboat ski area – low wispy clouds clung to the slopes halfway up. The overnight rain enhanced green of the trees and grasses practically glowed. What a perfect morning to sit on a deck with a warm cup of something that isn’t coffee…. Ok, sure, also a perfect morning to go for a run. The only problem with the magnificence of the view was that it made it impossible to forget that straight from the start line, we were going to go directly up the steepest vertical on that ski hill. “And,” Fred the RD reminds us, ”your friends and family can ride the gondola and see you just before the top!” 

So, not only are we going to climb this thing, but we’d better do it with a smile because people were watching.   

I estimated 1:30 to the top, and got there in 1:42. That’s ok, it wouldn’t have been smart to work harder. My foot hurt. That’s the last time I’ll mention that, and just trust that you’ll remember that it hurt the entire time. The route up did a few switchbacks on a trail through some woods, and then went straight up under the gondola. Ooof. At the gondola station, we diverted on to the road for the final couple of miles. Sweat dripped off my nose, and I smiled. 

After the Mt. Werner AS, we rolled gently down and up and down to Long Lake. Off and on I joined with other runners for a stretch, meeting Eric with his stuffed turtle, Katie, and a fellow from Telluride that worked at a ski boot shop – Bootdoctors, as was emblazoned on the back of his shirt.

I ate a few turkey wraps and an Oreo at Long Lake, thanked them, and left. I was feeling like I shouldn’t waste any time, that I needed to budget very carefully so that I would finish this year, no matter what. Down Fish Creek trail I went. The top of this trail is flat-out gorgeous. Runnable meadows, soft trail skirting ponds and then Fish Creek burbling next you. The roar of a waterfall builds until the trail takes you right next to it – take a look over your shoulder for that view framed in aspen and evergreens. The trail, after having sucked you in and lulled you into relaxing, takes a rocky turn for the last 4 miles down. Down. Dancing and stepping, trying not to turn an ankle or land awkwardly, I keep trying to rein in the speed because, look folks, it’s only mile 16, and we’ve a ways to go yet.

I meet a fellow that spent some time in Amsterdam. Paul? 

Richard, a friend of mine, was also running this race. He passed me going up Mt. Werner. The two of us ended up sharing a crew – our friends Vicki and Albert, Betsy, Greg, and my husband Ken. At the bottom of Fish Creek Falls, Albert and Ken were waiting and cheering for me – Vicki was pacing Richard from this point across town to the Olympian. Ken walked me through the AS – I was so happy to see them. Off I went – 4 more miles of downhill on road, across the highway, and then the Olympian AS. 

I remembered parts of this next section. I thought – ok hard climb, then rolling nice trail down (totally runnable), then a couple gravel road miles (should be runnable), then the Beall Trail. This Beall trail section had me completely frustrated last year. I kept waiting for it to go up, and it never really did. But I walked in anticipation of it going up, and wasted a ton of time. 

So this year – hard climb. People passed me. I’m not in great climbing shape right now, so not unexpected. Ah, the Lane of Pain. Yup, still painful. Huh, water stop is not where it should be, but no matter. Oh good, the trail. Everything had stiffened up, but after a few minutes, I was running and having fun. This year I could enjoy the views, beautiful grassy slopes, mountains in the background under darkening skies… oh. Those are rain clouds. Hey, they’re getting thicker. And I’m getting wet. It’s not a downpour though, and my windbreaker does an adequate job of keeping me comfortable. No need to break out the trash bag. Into the Cow Creek AS, and Albert is there. He takes my picture, gets my pack filled with water and tells me that Richard is going great before he sends me on my way. It stops raining – wahoo!

Ok, I ran most of the road, but it was not as easily runnable as I remembered. It looked like it should be easily runnable…. I was getting tired. Hrmph – it’s only mile 32. Out of the blue, my calf knots up painfully. Dang it. I stopped and stretched several times, but couldn’t get it to relax. Up the Beall trail I go. “Ah but this year, I have you figured out, Beall trail.” 

Or so I thought. It climbed a little for the first 2 miles, then it’s more level as it traces the contours of the lush mountain. It winds in and out of aspen, leaves tickling each other in the breeze, and pines, and… blueberries! I stopped and picked a few. They didn’t taste exactly like blueberries, but well, after eating several gus and waffles, I didn’t think my palette was quite right. They were sweet, and I enjoyed finding them. “Alright,” I think, “now the trail comes to the top of this ridge right here, and we run into the gravel road again, and I head down.”  I’m confident, and even though my calf is still knotted up, I’m running ok. At the top of the ridge… the trail continues along the contour of the mountain. “Ok, next ridge. Yeah, this was a little soon. But I know I’m close.”  A funny misstep, and now my knee joins my calf in a pain duet. The next ridge – finally. But the trail meets no road. And so it goes, for maybe another 3 ridges. I give up on the Beall trail, and just to spite it I walk. If it isn’t going to cooperate and meet up with that road, fine then, I’m just going to walk, you stupid trail. After a little bit of this self pity, I eat a waffle and feel a little better. I run-walk, and try not to think about whether or not I am close to getting to the road. This zen strategy is usually where I live, but dang if it wasn’t really hard to find my way there right then. 

The Beall trail did meet the road. And I did run down the Lane of Pain (thinking about the Sting song for part of it). As I approached the Olympian again, I was sorry I had let the Beall trail get the better of me AGAIN. 

And I was forced to let my people know that all was not quite peachy keen. For the calf, Betsy worked a little icy-hot into it, and Ken got me some Power Ice (electrolyte ice pops). It was great to see them again – the balm of friendship was more important than the other remedies at that point. Greg had made it after all through the flooding in Boulder, all prepped to pace me the last 29 miles. They also had a very tasty burrito for me! Best crew ever. 

Betsy and I headed down the road, to start our 23 mile section together. Soon, the first Hare runs by us. So smooth and strong, how I wish I would look during a 5 mile run. At this point, we were ~43 miles in. Betsy starts skipping backwards so she can keep an eye out for the next Hare, and soon enough Karl Meltzer comes by with a runner right on his shoulder. Such a neat aspect to this race, to share the road briefly in the midpoint with the eventual winner, to see them putting out effort.

Betsy kept up a good conversation about her time in Steamboat. She asked if I’d seen any wildlife, which I hadn’t but I mentioned the blueberries I’d eaten. She paused. Asked how tall the bush was. “That was a Sarvis berry – we don’t have blueberries here.”  I was almost afraid to ask the obvious next question – were the berries edible, or was I about to get 10 kinds of sick from eating these blueberry imitating sarvis berries?  “oh, yes, they’re edible. Funny thing about that name, on the USGS survey, there was a service road that the berries grew on. So lots of people now call them service berries instead of sarvis berries…”

We got to fish creek falls trailhead right at dusk, ate and drank, and plunged into the shadowy trail. Up we went, pretty steadily. I wish I had been able to keep up with Betsy a little better, but she swore she didn’t mind. “Eating? Drinking?” she asked, keeping me on track. We ran the short flat/downhill spot, and crossed the bridge.  Soon we got to the meadows – the smooth trail was a pleasure to trot along. Suddenly I remember I wanted to warn Betsy – there was an upcoming stream crossing that meant wet feet – at least for me. There were some rocks partially submerged, but in the dark balancing on them would be tricky, I told her. In the next forested section, all of a sudden Betsy was off the trail – “go ahead” she said. So, ok… Next I hear some wood snapping. Betsy come trotting back past me, carrying two walking sticks – “Maybe we’ll keep your feet dry after all!”  What a quick thinking and resourceful pacer! And it worked too. I was slowing down, despite the help – the pain in my calf had been joined by a throbbing pain in my hamstring near the knee. Things were getting darker, my friends, and I don’t really mean the sky. Into the Long lake AS we went – I ate, wishing I’d kept the rest of that burrito. The AS personnel here were on top of everything. A blanket for my lap, some ramen, some turkey wraps… After a shoe change, shirt change and handwarmers, I was ready to head out.

Oh that knee was stiff. It did not want to bend, and it didn’t like impact. The night was cool, but not cold – really perfect for running. I just wished I could do more of that! I wasn’t sleepy, though, which I counted as a bonus. More hiking than running on this section. Oh well. This is the only section of the race I will never know what the scenery looks like – even the hares go through it in the dark. The moon was beautiful, though, just about a perfect half moon. Clouds surrounded it at times, making cotton-candy pink colors and swirls in the night sky. Nearly two hours later, we pull into Summit Lake AS. We didn’t stay long, I didn’t think there was anything that could really be done for my pain, so now it was all about budgeting time, so that if I had to walk the entire way from mile 65 in, I could. As we get up to leave, Nick in the chair next to me gets up too. We’d been leapfrogging each other since Cow Creek (mile 30 ish). “Mind if I tag along?”  And Besty says, “no, come on, let’s go – together we’ll get down faster.”  

The company may have meant the time passed quicker, but there was nothing speedy about my descent. I knew this road was flattish but rocky at first, and then descended more and more as we got close to the AS at Dry Lake. I remembered last year, being frustrated and down, looking at all the runners coming up the road as I headed down to where I knew they would time me out. We hiked and trotted, with Nick and Betsy pulling ahead of me, then me yo-yoing back to them or them waiting for me. Over and over. I heard snippets of their conversation. I started to have to focus all my energy on ignoring the pain, and controlling my footfalls. Not too sharp. Make sure everything’s in line. All you have to do Margaret, is make it to the next AS. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, you can finish like this. Keep moving. Eat something. Drink. It doesn’t hurt… The monotony of the road merged with the monotony of the soliloquy in my head. They were the same, one not existing without the other, each a cause of the other. I tried to keep alongside Nick and Betsy as they chatted, but it was too much. 

So many sections of this race must go through a time-space dilation. The Beall trail. Long Lake to Summit Lake. And now Summit Lake to Dry Lake. With Betsy there, she could tell how far away we were, and it was a given that I’d trust her and ignore the foreverness of this road. 

We started seeing Hares emerging from the darkness, running faster up the road than I was moving down. First a handful of men, and then the first woman. Some seemed to be trudging. We cheered them all. 

Finally, a sharp uphill, with lights at the top. We had made it to Dry Lake. 

Ken took one look at my walk – “what’s going on?”  I told him I didn’t know how much running there would be for the next 37 miles. My knee was swollen – I didn’t even have to tell him what hurt. The calf was a distant pain compared to the hamstring. Never have I had so many issues! Phooey. Dry Lake seemed to be humming with activity. I know I was asked if I needed anything, but with all of my crew there and my brain a little preoccupied, all that activity existed under a fog of war to me. Ken got me a knee sleeve. I ate. And we left. 

The knee sleeve helped – a little compression, and I could ignore the pain better. Enough to run. So we ran down the smooth trail, mostly. That is, it was mostly smooth, and I mostly ran, both. With Ken behind me, telling me the news of the day, I felt encouraged. I figured I’d ride this until it stopped. Who knew how long it would last. My muscles weren’t that fatigued, as I really hadn’t been using them. Ken cheered me on, and I was stubbornly happy to be running. This trail is amazing, bridges crossing back and forth over spring creek, the sound of the water and the smell of fall vegetation. Vicki and Richard counted the bridges – there are 15. A few rocky sections break up the trail, but they don’t last. Mostly, the trail is smooth and widens as it goes down. Ken told me how the other tortoise women were doing. Did he say I was in fourth? I didn’t have the heart to tell him how little this mattered. It was only mile 65. I was having a hard time moving, and was only running because the trail was nice and he was behind me. Neither thing was bound to last, and soon I’d be cheering on runners as they passed me. Places don’t matter. All I could do was keep moving forward, and that was enough. Richard was still doing well, and we saw him with Vicki as we got closer to the AS coming the other way. It was great to see him, moving well and seeming cheerful.  The running down continued, and I started to think it could last. The Spring Creek Ponds AS couldn’t come fast enough for me, and when it did I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Another check point.

The downhill had gone well, thanks to the knee brace. The uphill started, and the pain returned. Nope. Not good. Hike. Run when you can. It doesn’t hurt… I was too sleepy now, this wasn’t working. I told Ken to lead me, thinking that following his feet would help. Instead I fell behind and was isolated in the dark. Switching from running to walking and vice versa was incredibly painful, but I wasn’t strong enough to run the whole thing. I started weaving and seeing double with sleepiness. I need a caffeine tab.  … more weaving… I need... I need a caffeine tab. 

OK, STOP. I NEED A CAFFEINE TAB! 

When the thought finally coalesced in a cohesive sentence, I told Ken. As I swung my pack around to get it out, he told me to take an Ibuprofen, too. “You need something to take the edge off the pain so you can move better. Take one.”  I didn’t want to, I’ve never needed one before. “You will do better, feel better – take one.” So I did. (Caveat – my kidneys were working fine, and I was not dehydrated. I felt safe taking it in this case.)

A small moment on the trail, but a huge effect on the rest of my run. About 10 minutes later, I was feeling more awake, and the pain was less. I ran as much of the rest of the uphill as I could. Ken’s encouragement bolstered my courage. The distance seemed to pass so quickly, I couldn’t believe it when we rounded the bend and the AS was there. I had all but given in to the inevitability that I would be walking, slowly and painfully, the last 35 miles. But here I was, running. And I felt better than I had in 25 miles. It’s an amazing and wonderful thing about an event that lasts so long. There are many, many opportunities for ‘things’ to happen. Both good and bad. Turning points can happen for the most dejected runner and to the runner flying high. Experience is gold out there, but so is vigilance, patience, and obstinacy. Some measure of wild and violent insistence, a spark of joyful naivete, and a part of calm acceptance. The formula is different for everyone, maybe even for every race it must be discovered and proven again. 

Greg was here, and ready to go. And thankfully, marvelously, miraculously, so was I. I told him the plan was to hike up the road to the top, and then run on the trail as much as we could all the way in. I think I may have grinned. 

The road up was less monotonous – Greg and I spent most of it catching up. He told me about the flooding in Boulder and his adventure in getting to Steamboat. His mountain biking, graduate school… I filled him in as best I could on what was going on in ABQ. Before long, I could turn off my light – and found that Greg had already been hiking without his. Not daylight yet, the shadowy tree forms bordering the road glided past us as we hiked uphill.  When daylight did come, it brought with it sparkling blue skies ahead, with a few small harmless clouds over a valley to our right of bright green and gold trees and grasses. It also brought us to the top, a return to Summit Lake AS where they had pancakes! And Sausages! (I had both, and a lot more food as well.) I took my time here, actually brushed my teeth which felt very refreshing, reviewed my clothing choices, and made sure I was set for the last 22 miles. A look to the west showed heavy dark clouds. “Greg, do I bring my good slightly heavier rain jacket, or stick with my light water resistant one, with a trashbag backup?” We risked it. 

As we left the AS tent, it started to rain, but not heavily. It soon gave up any ambitions of becoming a downpour. The Wyoming trail under our feet went uphill to start, giving us a great view of Summit Lake over our left shoulders. Soon it turned into my favorite part of the run. It twisted and turned, taking us slightly downhill. Meadows appeared through tree-framed windows to each side. Small lakes waited silently to be admired. We passed bogs, and open understory alpine forests on a nice soft dirt trail, sometimes a two track, sometimes single. We ran. Sometimes I followed Greg, being drawn on by his smooth footsteps – he stayed the perfect distance in front of me, never too far or too close. 

Always boosting my spirits with “great work, that was a good stretch,” and pointing out mud spots or downed trees, we ran to Long Lake. I was feeling more confident. Until I wasn’t. I started to flag more easily. I switched to hiking on the slight uphills sooner. I was quieter. I see these things now in hind sight. In the moment I was only thinking of reaching Long Lake, of drinking. Of taking a salt tab when my watch went off. We got to the trail intersection. The AS just felt close. Greg asks what I’ll need when we get there – not much really – and then says, “you should take another caffeine tab when we get there.” And only then do I see the signs that he has spotted. “Yep.”

What a lift it was to roll in to that AS. I had been anticipating the last Long Lake Aid Station since the race started in a lot of ways – I was about to enter the home stretch. I took a caffeine pill, and smiled at the AS person helping me. “You are so perky, I love it!” She said.  I felt great. 

I turned, and I was surprised to see Richard sitting there in a chair. At first, I was so happy to see someone I knew, and then, “wait, what are you doing here?”  His legs were finished, he said. Albert was piling food next to him, telling him to eat. He said they just hurt. Oh, could I relate to that. “Take an ibuprofen,” I told him. I knew he usually took one for the last 6 miles, so I knew he had one on him. “Take it now, you’ll feel better and be able to run.” He looked doubtful. Tired. I worried he was at the end of his rope. I kept encouraging him. Albert was there, taking care of everything. Greg had filled my pack, and I had eaten… it was time to go. I had seen a woman leave shortly after I arrived at the AS. I wondered…

Greg caught up to me on the trail, and handed me a pancake. “I think that woman left the AS because she saw me – you know?” Greg agreed, gave me a high five, and then told me to go get her. We ran most of the next 6.8 miles, passing her and 6-8 other people. Getting closer to the end, I was willing to work, to breathe harder than I had been only a few miles ago. At some points on this section, I may have even run a mile without stopping at all. Not so easy after 90 miles! Greg kept on firing me up, “you’ve got this Margaret. -You rocked that last section. -You’re crushing it.” I fed on that. One of the guys we passed said he was trying to break 30 hours. I looked at my watch and thought that would be really tough to make. 

Cruising along, Greg tells me, “you’ll never guess who’s coming...” At first I thought – that woman! She got a second wind! And then, no… it’s GOTTA be Richard! And it was. He came rolling through, looking just great. He had taken the Ibuprofen, and was killing it. Albert waved and said, “Look at this guy!”  I gave a big whoop and kept moving. I was so glad to see him recovered, and it looked like he was enjoying himself again – that’s the way you want to finish a 100. I ran out of water – Greg filled my hand held from his pack. (I found out later that he also was out after that. I never suspected. What a great pacer!) 

I knew this section had an uphill at the end, but I still was surprised by how long the trail went, skirting around a ridge and following below it for what seemed like MILES. I kept looking up through the trees – where is the saddle? I’ve gotta be close… where is it, where is it, where is it… It took a supreme force of will to tell myself to stop anticipating (and getting frustrated) and just move forward. It doesn’t matter where the AS is, it matters that I am putting one foot in front of the other, that I am putting forth effort. Again and again in this race it was a battle in my head between “What I wanted or thought SHOULD BE” and “what actually is, and being happy with it.”

Finally, finally. The last AS. Richard was already through. I didn’t even want to stop. Greg filled my pack partway, I grabbed a little food, and we left. As we were leaving, Greg says, “We have 1:15 to get under 30 hours. That’s 11 minute miles, Margaret. Downhill. You wanna go for it?” 

Oh, I wanted to. but… But I was afraid to try and fail. Thinking about working hard through the pain for another hour…  And I was already going to make the goal I had set for myself – to finish, hopefully under 32 hours. That negativity sitting on my shoulder encouraged me to seek comfort. I’d done enough. No one cared if I finished under 30.

“I don’t think I have it in me, Greg. Let’s just go.”

I didn’t look at him to see how he took that. I started jogging down. It was so steep at the top. We passed a woman – must be a 50 miler, I thought – and a few others. I was going a little faster now, but only because braking was so hard. But I could do this. I could go faster. 

Screw that little devil on my shoulder. Let’s go for it. I lifted my knees. Greg was right next to me. The descent became less steep – a perfect pitch to actually run. So we did. I lengthened my stride, oh that hurt, and it felt good too. To run fast, to change the stride from the forever shuffle felt like I was cracking apart a shell that had encased me. (Ow.) Greg: “we’re going faster than a 9 minute mile. Keep it up Margaret. We’ve got this.”  He’s pretty quick on the draw even after 7 hours and 23 miles. He could see – I had the bit in my teeth, and I was working for it. I opened a gel and took bits over the next 4 miles. I kept trying to push the pace. Gotta keep working. I want that under 30. I want to work this last section. These were the final miles. Working hard here, on a downhill, was the best effort investment. I wanted it. Greg kept urging me on, “You’re making me work. Way to go.”

The route split from the road, crossing a steep ski run. Just as Greg was warning me about footing, my downhill foot slid out from under me. “Ooof.” I scrambled up, paused, but nothing seemed broken – let’s keep moving. Back on the road again, I struggled to recover that fast pace. Gotta move, lengthen that stride, pick up your knees. Following Greg, I came up on his heels, “Go faster Greg.” 

“Faster? You rock, way to make me work. Dig Deep. You’ve got this!” I smiled.

We turned left, and a volunteer said 1 mile to go. I didn’t believe her, I knew I couldn’t trust that. It was flatter now, and I was working as hard as I could. If she was right, though, my watch said I’d be under 30… Don’t think about that, just move. The next spectator 4 minutes down the road said, “Just under 1 mile, way to go!” See, you can never believe the shouts of “almost there!” 

Every time my pace slowed, or we came to a slight uphill, Greg was ready with encouragement. Believable encouragement! More than once that small devil on my shoulder (who apparently was carrying a piano – he was heavy) told me I could slow down, that it didn’t matter, I didn’t need to care about a few minutes or seconds one way or the other. Between Greg’s encouragement and just knowing that I could run faster, and that it would be over soon, I could ignore the devil and still carry his damn piano. 

Running along the base of the ski area, we rounded a corner and there was the finish. I found a little extra speed. Up the five steps, and there was Fred waiting for his hug at the finish. I couldn’t believe it. I sobbed a little, so relieved, so glad to be done. I had done it, through so much pain. I stopped my watch – another unbelievable thing: 29:44. I had finished under 30. No way. I may have sworn. I didn’t quit, even when it was hard and painful and I thought I wouldn’t run another step. Even though my foot had hurt every step for nearly 30 hours. I wasn’t defined by last year’s DNF. Ken was there, Albert, Vicki, Richard. I was overcome. I was so lucky.

Through the brain fog, I hear Fred say something, and he raised his hands in praise. What? “You’re the first woman Tortoise!” I looked at Ken, disbelieving. “No, that can’t be…  Really?” They weren't lying to me. I had passed the 3 women in front of me between hitting bottom at Dry Lake and the finish.I have never worked so hard, for so long. And in the war of attrition of the RRR100 tortoise division, that was enough to win. 

Unbelievable.

The Stats:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ate:

18 oreos

3 whole turkey and cheese/cream cheese wraps (~15 pieces)

3 pancakes

1 sausage

1/3 burrito

Slice watermelon

Muffin (lemon pecan)

Brownie

Chips

Fritos

20 oz gatorade

5 Power Ice freeze electrolyte things

1 bowl ramen

A bit of mashed potatoes

4 gus

3.5 bars

11 waffles

   (holy cow.)

Re-awakening to the Quad

I first heard of the Mt. Taylor Quadrathlon when I was still a grad student at Northwestern. I had done a few triathlons, one half ironman, and my ambition to race more of these and faster was burning bright. It didn't hurt that this activity drew me out of the lab nearly every day. Anticipating the move to a new job in ABQ, I was looking for events and groups in the area. The Mt. Taylor quadrathlon  -not a tri, and not just a run- was the first event that popped up. Search engines were less refined and less manipulated by advertisers at that point, and the web was smaller.

I remember leaning in to my computer screen, eyes gleaming, and thinking, "that's COOL. I'm going to do that."

When I started running with the ABQ road runners, I met a few who had done the race. I pumped them for information, not even knowing at that point where Grants, NM was, or how tall Mt. Taylor was.

I've now done the race 6 times, including the time my bike was run over.

This race sneaks up on me. It's after the fall marathon push. I like to do the Bandera 50K in early January - which gets me out running but also clouds my vision to this race in mid February. By the time I've run and recovered from Bandera, I have 3 weeks to train for the Quad.

Something about this year, post race, has grabbed my attention and imagination again.

Yeah, yeah, there's always the - "boy, if I trained for this race I would have been faster/had more fun/won an award/gotten a PR....  That happens for lots of races. But after this year's quad - well, I hope it's different.

I'm incredibly pleased with how fast I went this year. I hadn't been on my bike but 13 miles in the last 6 months. I'd only been running, and I've felt like my running had taken a hit. Skiing was nigh impossible on the Sandias for lack of snow, and I always need that downhill training on my cross country skies. I hadn't been on my snowshoes but once in the lead up to the race. At least I was pretty sure they worked. This year, I was openly hoping for a white-out year - a really intense experience that would double as a reason for a slow time. But race day had blue skies, no wind, and plenty of snow on the ground. The best conditions I think I've ever seen out there. So I went out and had fun.

On the bike up, finally for the first time in my 6 tries at this race I caught the wheel of someone slightly faster than I. I drafted all the way to mile 9 or 10. I felt good all the way up - what a difference a draft makes. The guy tried to speed up a few times to drop me, I think, but I held on. If he had tried slowing to let me go around, I would have pulled, but he didn't, so I didn't. Transition was easy - since it was decent temperature, there was less gear to mess with.

I beat Kurt out of the transition and started running with my screw shoes. He caught me about a mile up the road, and we ran together most of the way. He was taking it easy, and I didn't want to work so hard that the ski up would be a chore, so we hiked a little from the cattle guard up - where Erik passed us, running fast! I knew Erik was gunning for a PR so I cheered him on.

Into the run/ski transition and it was unlike any other quad transition, unfortunately. Normally characterized by stellar and numerous volunteers that bring you your gear and usher you to an empty bench, this time I was left standing - no bench space. And I was left calling out my number - "number 30? Anyone have gear for #30?" It took a while to get my gear, and although the helpful volunteer tried to squeeze me onto a bench, I determined that getting another competitor to scooch over would take too much time and energy. So I took off shoes and put on ski boots standing up. Thanking the volunteers, triple checking that I had my snowshoes, poles, gloves... and I was off.

I am definitley getting better at these transitions. Even though Kurt's stuff was there for him, I beat him out of transition again. Of course, he easily caught me on the skis a few minutes out of transition, so it's really not a big advantage. He stayed with me for a few minutes, then moved on, just efficiently using his poles to climb. Erik caught me a little later, but I kept him in sight. As always, a few unknowing souls were on skate skis without skins trying to climb up Mt. Taylor. Oh the misery. They slide back 1/2 the distance of each step. Two took off their skies and hiked, which I believe is against the rules. I told one, a young guy in a ski suit and nice gear, to keep working - he gave me a look of such bewildering horror through his sweaty face that I truly felt sorry for him. He hadn't yet reached heartbreak hill. Maybe next year I stash my kicker skins in my bag marked with my race number so I can help at least one person. Oh, wait.. I want to be competitive next year. right.

On to the snow shoes. I run to the edge of the world, passing Erik. I feel about as expected - tired, and thinking the final climb is going to be rough. I could have hiked some to the edge of the world to make the hike a little better, but, nah. Even just having fun, you have to have some goals. On the climb, Erik catches and passes me, and Kurt passes me going down the other way. Kind of fun to be all so close together! I round the top and head down. Although I was within 30 seconds of Erik at the top, he has disappeared down the mountain out of sight. At the edge of the world I stop for a stiff drink - apple berry brandy I believe - then continue running the flat part. Where I catch Erik again - odd - but he tells me later he had gone so fast on the steep part that the flatter section made him hike sometimes.

Usually the shoe/ski transition is the longest for me, but this time, I'm efficient. Before I know it, I'm skiing down to the saddle. The snow is good, groomed but not icy. This is the most technical section, and I struggle with it. The newish soft snow keeps my speed slow, which means I don't snowplow for most of the run - unusual! Awesome! I could even look around a little, I was so comfortable. I fell once, as I caught an edge on seemingly nothing. I popped up and kept going (after letting two guys right on my tail pass me). Normally that fazes me and I slow way down, but this time I was able to keep moving ok. I still snowplowed more than I'd like, but I was happy with how it went. Erik was right with me coming into the run ski transition. Where again I was left calling out my number. They must not have had as many volunteers there as usual. Once I made the change to my screw shoes, I was out of there - right in step with Erik.

Or at least half in step with Erik. He had taken a bad crash on the skis and whacked his head. And he was limping a little. He said he was ok, and he was moving alright. The call of the downhill run pulled me away and I started cruising down the icy road. With the screw shoes I could totally ignore the surface and I flew past several others that were tip toe-ing down the icy snow covered road. Wahoooo! Before I could really think about it I made the left turn and then was facing the few hills between me and transition. Nice.

Into the run/bike transition and I was almost done. I hadn't eaten much - a snickers, an orange, a waffle I think... and I was starting to feel a little crampy. No salt tabs. I know better. I got on the bike knowing that I could coast for a little while, and was so happy. I worked at keeping my 28 mph for as long as possible into town - all my muscles cramping in succession - shin, hip, calf, arch - but at least they didn't go at it all at once. The routing through town was BUMPY but mercifully short. Crossing the line is always fun, and this time I just hoped that I didn't cramp as I tried to dismount and fall over. I didn't.

What's amazing to me is that I feel like other than the food and salt, I didn't make many tactical errors. And even without specifically training, I finished in 5:35 and was 3rd in my AG. That's only 14 min. off my PR.


So here goes the analysis:

	2008	2009	2010	2011
Bike up + T1	1:18:25	1:06:25	1:16:54	1:08:49	1:12:16
Run + T2	1:10:47	1:09:04	1:07:53	1:00:47	0:59:22
Ski	54:26	51:34	50:11	0:45:19	42:00
Snowshoe +T3	35:51	35:23	37:44	0:30:21	26:20
Snowshoe down	15:01	12:58	13:27	0:13:55	10:51
Ski down + T3'	33:56	32:51	31:47	0:29:17	32:17
Run down + T2'	53:58	51:31	48:08	0:45:22	42:04
Bike down + T1'	XXX	46:40	38:13	0:52:07	36.04
Finish Time		6:06:34	6:04:14	5:45:54	5:21:10

This year:
bike up: 1:12:40
run up:   1:06:39
ski up: 46:59
Shoe up: 29:33
Shoe down: 11:57
Ski down: 26:46
run down: 43:56
bike down: 37:02
Total: 5:35:28

Ok, so I lost time over last year on the run, ski and snow shoe up. I was about equal on the others, except the ski down this year I was 6 min faster.

To break 5 hours, which I think is doable if I train hard, and that means not training for Bandera 50K, I have to:

bike up: 1:00
run up: 56
Ski up: 41
shoe up: 26 - 3:03 hours up
shoe down: 11
ski down: 23
run down 41
bike down 35

total:  4:53

Most of the time comes from the bike up. Then the ski down. Do able, if I train.

lets go!

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Run Rabbit Run 100

Wow, what a tough race.

Nothing about the 50 mile last year prepared me for this course. My only solace is that the front runners also expected to finish 3-4 hours sooner than they did. Well, that and the fact that less than half of the hares that signed up made it through. I was in extremely good company.

What possessed me to sign up as a hare? Good question. Honestly, I thought I could finish the 100 miler in less than 29 hours, the original hare cutoff. It was at lower altitude than Leadville, at least, some of it was.... And I wanted to support the race - it's a neat format. I did not think I was going to win any $$, I just wanted to pad the women's field a little. Let me explain. Fred's little race, Run Rabbit Run 100 starts the self-proclaimed tortoises at 8 am (pretty civil start time, eh?) and then the hares start at 1:00 pm. Five hours after the tortoises - but everyone had the same finish line cutoff. The hares were running for serious prize money - 10K each for the male and female winners, and reduced amounts 5 deep. Pretty cool, except as race day got closer, there weren't many female hares. Fred hinted he might only go 3 deep on the women's side. So I thought, heck, why not? I can finish before the cutoff. And seeing a mid pack runner in there might stir some others to give it a shot. Besides, it'll be fun to sleep in and then get to catch and run through some of the tortoises perhaps.

I have to say, it was odd to have to wait around to start until 1. I couldn't figure out what I should eat, when I should eat it... And then, the nerves had plenty of time to build while I was waiting around.

From the middle of the first climb, I realized I would be chasing my predicted splits all day. We went straight up the ski hill. Bushwacking under the gondolas. Straight up.  Ups are something I need more practice at - I hadn't gotten any practice in between Leadville and now. Pretty quickly I was bringing up the rear. I expected that, though, so I kept chugging. And chugging. Holy cow this is a long ski hill. Oh good, the gondola station. What, another climb just like that? ...ok....
My calves were burning, I was sweating like crazy. At least the other runners had beat the trail down for me a little. Finally at the second gondola station, the course joined the road, which now meant I had the luxury of switchbacks to the top of the mountain, instead of a beeline. Really, I was thankful. Truly.

I had tried to take that first section easy, but after 6 miles, my legs felt like they'd done 30. Ooof. I think I use my calves too much as I climb, and not my glutes... something to work on. I tripped and fell 3 times on the slight rolling downhill 6 miles to the second aid station. I just hoped my calves wouldn't feel any worse. It was so pretty up there that I mostly didn't mind.The aspens were bright yellow against the dark evergreen background, yellow flowers dotted the mountainsides, blue sky topped it all off. The trail to Long Lake is rolling, with a few roots to make things interesting. After the AS, the first 2 miles of fish creek falls trail was gorgeous and runnable - gentle turns, slight downhill and flat, through glowing green meadows and a backdrop of evergreens and yellow aspen. I still hadn't recovered from that climb, but I was running at least. The falls continually next to the trail forced me to stop and admire at least twice, the sounds keeping me company throughout those miles. The trail then became technical and rocky, more downhill with switchbacks, until finally I hit the road. I thought I'd dislike this part - pavement and all - but the smooth easy running made it fun.

Through the high school AS, through town and to the Olympian AS. Ken was there waiting for Richard - he cheered me on. I was trying to be quick through the AS's - I knew I had to be to make cutoffs, and I didn't have a dedicated crew to help. As I was leaving the Olympian at 6 pm, I realized I didn't have any food on me. I hiked back down the ski hill - luckily only a short way. Ken gave me two waffles out of his pack, and off I went again. Ok, we are going to tackle this climb, and then as it gets dark, we are going to love running some trails.

Wait. Dark....

I don't have a headlamp! Back to the AS. I run in, and explain to Ken I need my drop bag as I look around wildly.

Wait. Drop bag...

I don't have a drop bag here, it's at the previous AS 0.9 miles back. With my lights - three of them.

It's at this point that I start realizing how smooth having a crew makes things. And how from a psychological stress point of view, being a crewed runner is so much easier than being a runner's crew. Facing the miles ahead falls on the shoulders of the runner, but keeping the runner able to face those miles is an undefined challenge to the thoughtfulness, organization, and creativity of the crew for hours and hours.

Luckily, I did have a crew at this AS. Ken, still waiting to pace IV. As I despaired over the thought of running back to my drop bag, he hands me his headlamp and says he'll grab my light from my bag as he and IV pass through the high school AS. 

Third time's the charm. I head up the ski hill, so steep that I use my hands and feet at some points.





Running (ok, hiking) up the road at the top of the ski hill as night falls, I greet runners coming down with encouragement. I switch on my headlamp, and it glints off the rocks. The glints flicker - no wait, they BLINK. And blink again - a small rodent? as I get closer the blinks launch upward and swirl, spiraling off into the velvet sky. Not a rodent - a bird? Ten steps later, two pink glints in the road again, blink then loop smoothly and dart up and away. A third time, and I could swear it was the same bird over and over, leading me down the road. What was this avian guide? I slowed my pace to soften the crunch of gravel, sought the smooth areas of the road. I held my breath hoping that no runners would come from the other direction to spoil the moment and spook my guide. Two pink glints in the road. I turned my head slightly so only the edge of my light would catch the bird. Slowly a low mottled gray shape took form, the neckless profile and headshape - a nighthawk. I've seen them in flight, and heard their reedy "neeep" call as they hunt mosquitos, but I had never seen one. I stopped and resolved to remember the feeling of discovery, the wonder of sharing just a moment with another creature, to see the world through it's eyes. A final blink, spiraling off into the air, weightless and gone, and I was alone again.

I was alone for much of the rest of my race. The next 15 miles pass steadily if not quickly. I love running downhill, though I am slowed by lack of agility and a few roots. The Beall trail comes, and I found it tricksy. I expected to hit a steep section to take me to the top of the ridge, but instead it winds up then down over and through, never steep. Always runnable, but thinking it will turn steep I walk most of it. And here I start learning that instead of running for what I think the trail will be, I should run the pace for the trail that I am on. I reach the road downhill, and realize that I've wasted time, valuable time on false expectations. What other lessons will I have to learn? I pass several people going down, now catching some tortoises and a hare or two. Chatting with K D'onofrio was fun as we headed to the Olympian AS.

I barely pause here - no drop bag, remember? and head to the high school, catching WM on the way.

Here I have to stop. I was getting cold, and the night was just starting. I put on my ls, and forget to put my ss Jemez mtn trail run shirt in my bag, losing it forever. If anyone finds a women's small royal blue Jemez Mtn Trail run shirt, I will pay you good $$ for it. It was my favorite shirt. Seriously.

Jacket over top, gloves, but I leave the handwarmers behind, thinking I am tougher than that. The AS volunteers watch me from a distance wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags. I change the batteries in a flashlight, and a volunteer steps up to lend me her light. I ask her to fill my water, then get some broth before heading into the night, with the kind encouraging words of the volunteers fading into the stillness.

And then returning because I had forgotten to bring any food with me. Again.

I am about to find out how tough I am, alone with the cold dark night. stretching out in front of me, eclipsed only by the number of miles left for my feet to trod. The road to Fish Creek Falls trail passes quickly, and I pass a couple of tortoises - it wasn't what I imagined the rear of the field to be, the quietness some parts desperation, resignation, determination, and even some peacefulness. I start some positive self talk as I hike up the steepish rocky trail, trying to mimic DPB on hope pass at Leadville - you're doing it, you've got this, one step at a time... but the words sound a little hollow and a pale reflection of my pacer's enthusiasm. My mind goes to other thoughts and recalling the wonderful miles spent with friends keeps me company as I climb past waterfall after waterfall crashing through the dark expanse. I don't want to, but I make myself run when the trail levels out. My feet ache - I meant to change into more comfortable shoes at the HS, but by mistake I had put the shoes in the drop bag that was still ahead of me. My feet are beat up. Toughen up, though, we are only at mile 45. My teeth chatter and force me to keep running when the trail is flat. I let out a croak of excitement when my light catches a handwarmer on the ground! The excitement drains out of me when I pick it up and only feel a cold chill soaking through my gloves. Run more. I need to get to the AS to layer on more clothes and change my shoes. After my other AS gaffes, I make a mantra of the things I need: another shirt first. Change my shoes. Eat something warm if they have it.  Get rid of trash (including cold handwarmer). Pick up more food. More water. Subconsciously in there I think, get warm. I'll get warm there. I'll be able to stop, and I'll get warm. I'm shivering and running and still enjoying the twists and turns, the frost on the grass blades glimmering diamond-like in my (Ken's) light.

Closer to the AS, I can feel it pulling me, and I focus on running all the way there. All the way. Shirt. Shoes. Eat. (warm.) Water.

I get there, and the volunteers take care of me - chair, blanket, drop bag, pancakes, broth. I take off my jacket to put on another shirt, and my uncontrollable shivering makes it hard to get my hands in the sleeves. Jacket back on, quickly now... Ok, pancakes before they get cold... can't get them to my mouth - no fork just a spoon to use and now it's a NASA test of hand-eye-mouth coordination, the shaking hands threaten to launch each dollar size pancake balanced precariously on plastic spoon through the icy air, my mouth agape straining like a baby bird to get the worm and swallow it whole without complaining. No pancakes were lost as a result of my race. 

I consider not changing my shoes to avoid the cold - my feet are cold and numb already. I discard that idea as a dangerous lazy mistake, knowing that my feet are not tough enough anymore for the Inov8 bare bones shoes.  I wish for crew, but start tackling the laces myself with cold thick fingers. Shoe off, quick now, other shoe on before the cold sinks deeper. Both shoes done, time for broth. The warmth seems so good. My chair rattling with my shivering, I know I'm staying here too long. I can't warm up here, I need to move. Don't forget to pack food. Water. Ok, you have to leave now. Don't think just do.

My cold fuzzy brain says it's ok to walk to digest your food and get the muscles moving again. An hour passes, but it both takes an eternity and passes so quickly it can't be noticed. My eyes cross, and with wonderment I realize I'm sleepy. I've never gotten sleepy before. I'm still so cold and shivering. Finally I think about the cold problem and tell myself to run to get warm. It works. Without a pacer though, I stop to walk at the slightest amount of adversity. Then have to work to make myself run again. I don't see the pattern, and it plays out over and over again without a conscious brain to talk me through it. Finally it starts getting light, and I realize I've been walking for most of the last 2 hours. I have to run this flat section.

At the Summit Lake AS, I look at my watch, and try to deny the time I see there. I leave quickly, embarrassed and with a creeping sense of finality. I run down the hill. Run. I have to run. Will I see Ken and IV? IV had a knee issue and was worried about dropping. Every runner I see in the distance I hope will be them. Runner after runner passes me, they encourage me. The encouragement almost makes the reality worse, but I try to only think about running. Still no IV. Where are they? Did they have a problem? They have to be coming up. I hold onto the thought of seeing them, turn after turn on the downhill gravel road. Aspens catch the morning light and I know that the beauty will last beyond this moment. I have to run, but sometimes I walk, head down. Where are they? Will I see them at the AS? I try to use the anticipation, and to keep looking forward. My legs are fine, my feet hurt but it is bearable - the clock is relentless. Finally. Yes, it's them. They're moving well. I hope not to see sympathy in their eyes and smile firmly as I find out how IV is doing. I soak in the big hug from Ken, then tell them to get after it and keep moving. I wait another 10 minutes before checking my watch, and receiving the bad news waiting for me there. Maybe they won't cut me, maybe they won't enforce the cutoff. I hold on to that faint hope and run. Now asking how far to the AS, and running harder - I can run harder, which only makes the negative self talk more strident - I should have been doing this all along....

At the AS I get a refill of water and am only thinking of getting out of there. As the AS volunteer hands me my full pack, he catches my eye and says quietly, "You know the cutoff at the High School is 9:30 am."

"yes" (is this how this happens? my mind skitters, not accepting yet.)

"It is now 9:15."

"yeah." I can't meet his sympathetic eyes, and turn to putting my pack together.

"ok, so we are going to cut you here."

"ok. Can I just run down to the HS? It'll be easier to get back to my hotel from there, catch a ride, I want to get to my drop bag. I can just run down there, you can cut me here." I don't like the waiver in my voice.

Pause. "Ok. Are you alright to run down? Do you feel ok?"

"yeah, I'm good."    I just want to be on the trail again alone to vent the shame of failure, to find my equilibrium, to hide my tears. I know in the scheme of things, this is a small, small matter. All my defenses down, my emotions take me like a leaf in the capricious wind.

"You did 62 miles, that's quite an accomplishment. You should be proud." 

"100K - it's not nothing. Thanks for everything, for volunteering. It was great. Thanks."

I try to look energetic heading off down the trail. I'm not proud. I want to explain - I should have been a tortoise, I would have made it if I'd signed up as a tortoise! I want to keep going, but I know I can't do that to Fred, I've always said I wouldn't make volunteers stay beyond when they're supposed to go home just to be selfish and finish a race. Some runners heading up still offer encouragement. I shake my head but cheer them on, wishing I was them, willing them forward. I dwell on where I could have worked harder, the mistakes I made, my foolishness.

The rest of the story is happier - the mayor of steamboat (no -  he corrected me, the president of the city council) caught up to me and ran down, bringing me out of my funk with tales of other running adventures, dogs, steamboat peculiarities. Also driving me to my hotel once I had checked in with  the solo High School AS volunteer, who I'd forced to wait for me by insisting on running down. I apologized for being selfish and making her wait. She smiled and said that there were still a couple others on their way down too. I thanked her profusely for putting up with us.

I showered and got to the finish line in time to see the winners cross. (I tried to hitch hike there from the hotel, but no one picked me up.) IV went on to finish it also, looking so happy at the line, I was so proud of him for facing that tough course as his first 100.



I have so much respect now for those that run 100's without crew or pacers. I think I have to try this again. I didn't realize the focus I'd need.

I can see in hind sight the difference all the prep for Leadville (both times) made for the race. Knowing the course and what to expect would have been golden especially when going it alone.

I think I would actually like an ipod for the night section if I don't have a pacer - something to else to pay attention to. I normally love spending time in my head, but in the night it was not an interesting place to be.

I was unprepared for running through the night alone. I needed to take another layer with me, and the handwarmers that I was "too tough" to need. Set  pride aside for a moment and keep in mind the worst case scenario.

Don't eat a large breakfast, then a large brunch before running at 1 pm. A normal breakfast, and a normal brunch is probably more appropriate.

Fish creek falls is rocky, and hard on my feet - sturdier trail shoes would have been nice.

This race has seriously steep long hard climbs. Some of the downhills are technical and hard to run. The course is a little convoluted, but takes runners on some really fantastic trails. I wished several times for more "confidence markers" on the course. Studying the race map kept me on course the entire time without problem, but many got off course. It was longer than stated - that isn't unusual for 100 mile races, just expect it. I gets very cold up at 10,000 feet at night, and the AS were not in enclosed shelters except summit lake. The yellow markers were hard to see, but I trust that the race will change those for next year. Not all the volunteers knew what to do, but when asked they were more than willing to help. Overall, I enjoyed the race, at least, the part I got to do. I'm ready to go back and try it again.