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.

2012 Leadville Trail 100 Run

It's a mixed bag. I could write about all the great stuff, and it would be OBVIOUS that the race was a success. I could write out the negative stuff, and it would be clear that I didn't do what I set out to do. Both are true.

The point I keep coming back to is that I learned a lot more about running and trying to run hard. I've gotten to be a better runner over the last two years. I tend to be really conservative - I go out slowly, and speed up only towards the end. In the last few months, I've been thinking that I've ridden that horse as far as it will go; if I want to continue to improve I will have to run at least a little closer to the edge. Not 100 yards away from it.

So that was one of my goals for Leadville this year. Push the envelope, and work hard even when it hurts. What does that mean? What will it feel like? If I'm hurting and manage to work 50% of the time, does that count? what about 25%?   The other goals were easier to understand: I wanted to run under 25 hours. If that didn't happen I wanted to run faster than last time (27:19), and barring that, I just had to finish.

It's so much easier to target a number goal than a feeling. How can a feeling be quantified?

Since the course was lengthened ~3 miles at the last minute (bad form, Lifetime) I pushed the sub 25 to the back of my mind. Not likely, as I only thought I would barely make it on the old course. I did decide I wanted to try to make my predicted splits on the unchanged sections. So I was really happy to hit May Queen at 2:13 - 3 min. behind my prediction. The pace had felt easy, and the crowds were only mildly annoying on the single track around the lake. I felt good. It was fun, too, running into May Queen within sight of Ken. I saw Dad at the MQ exit, and dropped my headlamp and armies just as planned. Having Mom and Dad be part of my crew gave me a lot of motivation and confidence.

So, stage 1 - check.

I ran out of May Queen, and ran/hiked the colorado trail. Ken caught up to me here. I felt like I was working, but not too hard - just right. Ken ran away from me up Hagerman pass road, I kept a pace I thought was maybe a little too easy. I figured if I came in a little late to Fish, I'd just work a little on the road section. Once to the top of Sugarloaf, I started running down. It felt great, too. I started to go faster, really enjoying passing people, running hard and quickly navigating the rocky road. What a blast!

At the bottom, the paved road rolls towards Fish. And I could tell that my legs didn't feel right. Hm. Maybe they'll shake out. So I ran and hiked, letting the time goal for this section pass. I got to Fish in 2:00 - 5 min behind. So still pretty much on target... except now I was more concerned that my legs hadn't come around. My crew "Nascar-ed" me and kicked me out in no time flat, despite having to sprint back to the crew vehicle to pick something up - I was none the wiser. (Awesome crew!) I said to DP, "I think I'm going too fast for myself." To which she replied, "Yeah, Ken's just over there, so you might be." But we didn't have long to discuss it, and what would we say, anyway? Out on the road I went.

And after about a mile down the road, the "wrongness" became pretty obvious, and pretty specific. My quads were really sore. I had bombed down Sugarloaf too fast for myself. As I drank, ran and ate, I tried to think. What if I can't descend anymore? Maybe I better slow down now, will that mitigate the damage? I wonder if I'll be able to finish if I can't descend decently for the next 75 miles. Crap.

I met Mom and Dad at treeline, again glad to see them. I paused long enough to tell them that I was going to have to slow down. I saw Ken's crew, and told them that I'd gone out too fast and was going to slow down. But I thought to myself that it was already too late. My quads hurt. They weren't going to get better. I still wasn't sure what this meant for my race. I was anxious to get to the downhill into Twin Lakes, 11 miles away, to see if I could run downhill. I backed off the pace a little, and  worried more when the rollers on the continental divide trail made my quads knot up painfully.

I'd love to say I was logical and thoughtful about what to do next. I wasn't. I just kept on. I ate. I drank. I tried not to think about my quads. About the next hill. About my pacers waiting to get out on the course with me. About having to give up on 25 for good. I could have actually acknowledged all those fears and come up with a plan, but instead they roiled inside me.

The downhill into Twin Lakes was painful and slow, which worried me even more. I get in to the aid station, and ES tells me I'm only 20 min. down - clearly the crew is still keeping that door open to sub 25. They change my shoes and switch my pack, and I tell them that I am slowing down, that my quads hurt, but I don't really tell them how bad it is. How bad it could be. I'm scared to disappoint them. I head out, and Bones walks with me for a bit - I tell him it'll be 4 hours for me to get to Winfield (35 min slower than planned). He says ok, but I still feel like I need a confessional, that I haven't been clear about the likelihood that I am falling apart.

I hike and jog to the river - I had planned to run this, but I let myself off the hook here. If I'd been paying attention, I might have noticed that I was still eating and drinking like a champ. Everything was going right - except for my quads. I had lots of time, I could only see the glass half empty, though, so I trudged to the river and waded across. I got myself to run on the other side, kind of with a "might as well" mentality. As I started the hike up, I thought - hey, maybe I'll be able to hike up fast, and it will make up for however slow I am going down! I did hike steadily, but people started passing me right and left. Ugh. I kept eating and drinking, kept moving, kept my steady pace. About 2/3 the way up, I started passing a few of those that had passed me, which was encouraging. I kept up with a guy from Iowa - we had a good conversation about nothing in particular. Maybe my going easy would fix things. It could happen, right? A magic recovery on the way up Hope Pass? Maybe I'd be able to go down fairly normally after taking it easy.

It was fun to see the llamas again, but I don't stop. No need, my crew has packed me with everything I could have wanted. I go over the top, and my small hopes of a recovery are dashed. The first step down knots up my quads. I pick my way down the mountain. Not even "pseudo-running" as Jean would say. I use my poles to ease my steps. Near the bottom, I think, "well, maybe it won't get any worse." But then I think that I had wanted to run with each of my pacers, I had wanted to work hard, I had told them to push me. And now, none of that was going to happen.

It's odd to think back about this. On the one hand, when actually thinking about my "condition" and the race I was pretty negative. And on the other hand, I was still having fun. I was looking for the other racers I knew, I was enjoying the scenery, I was enjoying running. I wasn't sure I was going to finish. I just didn't think about it and then it seemed my default happiness would take over.

That worked fairly well, until I came into Winfield and met my crew again. DP was there, all suited up and ready to pace. I had challenged her before the race, saying that "I will try to drop you going down Hope Pass!" I was going to let her down. Tears came to my eyes, and I was glad for my sunglasses to hide behind. I ate some, tried to drink an ensure, and confirmed with Bones that we were putting aside the 25 hour goal - I was ~50 minutes behind. I told them my quads were shot, that I didn't know how the rest of the downhills were going to go. I hurt. I felt more than a little stupid - gaining 3 minutes bombing down Sugarloaf, and then giving up who knows how much time on the rest of the course because of it. When DP signaled it was time to go, I was glad to get out of there - too emotional.

The hike up the backside of Hope was a bear. The new trail section wasn't wide. I was constantly dodging oncoming traffic. It was longer and not as runnable as well, adding about 25 minutes to my time each way I think. My triceps were starting to hurt from all the pole action. (It's a beautiful trail, and I think they should use it. However no race should lengthen a course by ~ 1 hour in the 3 days before said race begins.) Then back on the Sheephead Gulch trail, the steepness again slowed me to a crawl and wagon trains of runners passed me before I got to the top. (How on earth can I get to be that good at hiking uphill!!!?! more practice, I guess.) As we went, DP was the most excellent of pacers. She opened things, she kept me eating,  she kept me positive "One foot in front of the other. you're doing great..."  She appreciated the views and cracked jokes. And I could tell she was enjoying being out there. I began to think that my glass was half full. If I could make it down off of Hope without making my quads worse, then I could make it to the finish. Maybe I'd be able to run the flats and slight downhills. And I remembered Ken saying, "It's great to think that if you make it to Winfield in 12 hours, you can do 3 miles an hour until the finish and still make it well under the cutoff!"  With DP saying, "you got this, you're doing it! you're kicking it's ass!" I started thinking about what I could do instead of what I couldn't.

Maybe I'd still try to drop her on the way down Hope after all.

At the top, she paused to take a picture and I was off like a rocket.

ok. I was off like... a stone skipping downhill.

I was off like ...a shot putter trying to run the 400 hurdles? It wasn't pretty or agile, but I could run a little. I put some time between us until Hopeless. There I got a volunteer to fill my water while I watered a tree. DP pulled in and I snagged some nutrition from her and told her I was going and would meet her at the river. She paused to take a picture of the llamas and fill her pack while I made my way down. I passed some people, and some passed me. Right away, my quads knotted up - ouch - but they didn't give out. I had no agility over the rocky rooty stuff and had to walk quite a bit. But they didn't get worse. I could do this. I could run, even though they hurt. I ran the flats to the river, and stood in the deepest section. I waited 3 min. and was just leaving when I saw DP approaching. Perfect timing! She caught up to me, and said that was the fastest she had ever downhilled - she was thrilled, and I was pretty happy too. I was convinced I could still run. Life was good. Painful, but good. I was going to finish.

At Twin, I ate the Burrito of the Gods - best thing I ate all day or night. Yum. (stomach still in the game - check!) The tray next to me held an open can of coke, beckoning sweetly to me. I didn't give it a second glance, even when I found out that the ONLY soda they had left at the aid station was Coke. *sigh*  I took only 1 pole with me to help me run. It was necessary, both to unload my quads on downhills and for stability. Miki was practically bouncing with readiness. My crew changed my shoes and socks and even lubed my feet. Holy cow they were awesome. 

With muscle cream on my quads and a couple of tylenol, we started off. Miki hadn't run on mountain trails in the dark, so we were looking forward to that. The hike up went pretty smoothly. We got to the trail before dark, and started jogging the flat spots. We passed NB here - we cheered each other on. It took hardly any time at all to get onto the continental divide trail. I really like running trails at night. My headlamp was perfect - I tried turning on my handheld light, but with a pole and my awkward form the light bobbed too much. What a difference on this section between this year and two years ago - I remembered the constant string of people between Twin and Half Pipe. This year - empty. We passed a couple of people, but there just wasn't anyone around us. We were making decent time, I could tell, even though I wasn't running fast. My quads were still a constant pain - maybe lessened by the tylenol. They still weren't getting worse though! And amazingly, chips and pop tarts still tasted great and went down easily. I had had enough of the lemon and vanilla Honey Stingers but the chocolate and plain versions were still tasty. I thanked my lucky stars for my iron stomach, and this wasn't the last time! About an hour down the trail, I was wishing I had the other half of that Burrito of the Gods, too. Man that was good. On we went. I may have gotten Miki to let me walk to eat, and walk to go up a slight rise, and for just a short break a few times, but she kept me moving really well just by being with me. She was relentless when it came to food and water though, and I know I would have gotten lazy without her there! It felt like we were out for a group run almost, instead of in the middle of a race. Once the tylenol started to wear off, the quad pain intensified after we came through Half Pipe. Oof. The flatter section here, 6 miles to Fish was hard. The run was more of a shuffle, and I had to take a few more breaks. I focused on landmarks, from one to the next, and tried to relax, but work; and accept but strive. As we got close to Fish, Miki and I discussed what I wanted - primarily food and more tylenol.  I couldn't believe it when she told me that we were coming in right on target for that section - I had estimated 4 hours, and it took us 4:01. Wow! I almost couldn't process this information. Keep focusing on the task at hand. Which was.... more eating.

I got some broth at the AS. I sat to drink it, and was kind of taking my time. DP chivvies me out of the AS, not waiting for me to finish it, ignoring my sad puppy dog eyes. Ok, ok... out we go. ES was the next victim.. uh, friend signed up to take me back over Sugarloaf, the scene of the earlier crime against my quads. We head out, and I think the first thing he says to me is that he can't believe how coherent I still am. We walk mostly, and jog a little - I can tell he is a little concerned about my, ah, "running" form - he coaches me on my posture while being encouraging. Oh, I know it ain't pretty, but it is what it is after 76 miles. I wondered what he had seen that day - this was the first time to witness a 100 mile race. As we started up the hill, he points out a light of a runner just a little ahead of us - "I bet  we can catch that person - let's go!" I don't usually use this motivation - I don't trust the person to stay caught! But we march on and the light gets closer. Closer.

Hey, wait a second.

I know that guy! At first I'm happy to see Ken, until I realize that he is in the middle of a bad, bad spell. And only at the very start of the climb. Oh boy. I look at JH - she's got the patient look about her that is ready to pace for a long stretch. I hesitated and looked at ES - there's nothing for us to do. I try to say something encouraging, and he responds. And we keep hiking. After a moment, ES starts talking, and he is a non-stop source of entertaining chatter - work, fun, running, encouragement - oh, here, eat this... He switches my headlamp batteries for me, and he doesn't make fun of me when I get taken in by the many false summits! What a guy! I'm feeling ok on the climb, really - my quads don't hurt going uphill (much) and I have some energy. The steep sections are hard, but not disheartening. Finally at the top, we try to run. Quickly I'm stopped by the rocky uneven footing. I have no agility whatsoever. I stumble a few times, trying to pick my way around the rocks, and finally give in to hiking downhill. ES takes it in stride - we look at the stars, we admire Leadville in the distance, and I talk more than I have perhaps all day. As we pass a runner, ES says something I can't hear, and all of a sudden he drops back. I run on alone for a minute until ES catches back up. Turns out that runner's partner decided to go a little faster, and took all of the spare lights/batteries. And that fellow's headlamp was dying. ES gave him our spare headlamp - absolutely the right thing to do. I was so glad he had had the presence of mind to ask the guy if he needed help. I can't imagine how stressful that would be, to have ~4 miles to go with a dying headlamp. (The runner (#744) did finish too!) Finally we get to Hagerman pass Road - the smooth downhill I've been dreaming of. I start running, but it isn't as wonderful as I remember it - oof my quads hurt. I try to relax and stride. ES tries to help, and coaches me to lift my kness - unfortunately, that is out of the question. But his next comment is right on the money - "Then shorten your stride or the inside of your knees will start hurting." (they already were!) I did as he suggested, and tried harder to lift my knees, and it did feel better. I tried to work, tried to work even though it hurt and I was tired. Focusing on that, we got to the trail. Another section I loved running in 2010. And another mild disappointment to find that I wasn't really going to be able to run here. The agility thing again - I just didn't have it. But ES told me we were making good time. And I knew that really, this section was going pretty well. He does point out with a chuckle that I was trying to run on the uneven trail, but that I walked across each of the 4 nice flat bridges. :)

We run down the road and into May Queen. The last section lays ahead. My stomach is still as right as rain. To Josh's amazement, I down a whole turkey and cheese tortilla roll, some sprite, watermelon, I tried a pancake but they were AWFUL - tasted like baking powder. I say goodbye to my pack, and take a bottle instead. And a pole. And more tylenol, though I don't think it's helping anymore. Then, Bones and I step out into the night.

13.5 miles isn't a short way to go. Especially at 3 in the morning, after already going ~90 miles. But that thought doesn't even occur to me. It doesn't really matter how far there is to go, there is only the matter of continuing to move. And I'm enjoying Bones' company. Not infrequently, a step or a descent makes my quads remind me that they are in pain. But there's nothing to be done about that. I walked the uphills. I ran some, and walked more - until we got to Tabor. Thank goodness for this little bit of coincidentally good planning. I had Bones lead here, and I told him he could run if he could match my shuffling pace. Turns out he could, and did... and by following him somehow I didn't need to walk as much. I had been letting myself go easy, when now I could tell I had more to give. I tell Bones he's doing perfect. And then a little later, I ask if he can go just a hair faster. I'm a little worried about this, but I do it anyway. And it was good. Not that it felt good - my quads hated me - but I was doing what I said I wanted to do - work, even when it didn't matter, when my time goal was out of sight, even when it hurt. I followed him down the steep rocky stretch - ouch. We got to the road, and it was starting to get light. Bones casually says to me, "You know, if we run I bet we can beat your time from two years ago."

"Let's do it."

I was working before, and now I decided that I could work harder. I could run and not stop. Bones had shown me that I could. I didn't look at my watch. Bones' cell chimed time after time - my crew trying to get a read on when I'd finish. Bones suggests we walk, but I say no and make the turn to parallel the train tracks at the base of the boulevard. (To be fair, Bones thought we had a big climb up a paved road instead of the turn onto the flat - or he never would have suggested it.) At the base of the boulevard, we do hike up the first rocky steep bit. I start running when it levels out a bit. I tell Bones that the middle of the boulevard is the second train tracks. I put down my head and make for those tracks. For a little while, the effort gets easier somehow - maybe I loosened up, I don't know. But the reprieve doesn't last, and at the rise at the second train tracks, I hike. Just after, I run again until we pass a group of people, maybe 3 runners and 3 pacers that are at the base of a steeper section. I run past them and try to keep going so I don't do the annoying "pass and stop" maneuver. A short way in front of them, I'm reduced to a hike, but I try to hike with purpose. Soon I see the aspens at the end of the boulevard, and I know I'm only a mile away. We run to the base of the hill by the pool, and then I know I'm hiking my last hike of this race.

The sky is flush with the colors of dawn, and the sun is threatening to peek over the mountains east of Leadville. I want to finish before it does - I didn't break 25, I didn't beat daylight, but I hold on to this next idea and start running again at the top of the hill. My crew is there to run with me - I was so glad to see them all and to remember how much they'd helped me. As we ran down, they joked about running a 6 min mile at the end of a 100 - so I sped up and grinned. I'm sure it was a blistering 9 min mile pace, but it was fun. I passed a couple of people, and thought about whether it was bad form to pass within 1K of the finish line. I reasoned that I was still within bounds, but I should not try to pass any more. One of the women I passed sprinted past me 30 yds from the finish - I slowed just enough to let them string the tape up again for me, ran down the red carpet and jumped over the line. (ouch)

I finished.
I beat the first ray of sunlight on Leadville.
I beat my previous time by 33 min, finishing in 26:46.
I worked; I got a little closer to the edge.


And when I look at my splits, really, I am surprised and pleased:
                 2010         goal         2012
MQ           2:23         2:10          2:13
FH            2:14          1:55         2:00
TL            3:26          3:10         3:20    
Win          4:04*        3:25         4:01
TL            3:54*        3:25         4:16
FH            4:18          4:00         4:01
MQ           3:32          3:10         3:19
Finish        3:23         3:20         3:26

Over the last 40 miles, I was within 16 minutes of my goal time, even with my quads. The ratio of my first half to second half was 1.29 this year, two years ago it was 1.27. Pretty much the same - except that I have to remember all the dawdling in AS that I did in 2010 and did not do in 2012. My crew is to thank for that - and many other things.

What's not to be happy about?

and now, I believe it is on to Run Rabbit Run in Steamboat. Check it out!

Maraton Alpino Madrileño

The best thing to do after running an easy and enjoyable and faster than expected trail marathon, is to go to another country and run another one the next weekend. I have friends that do this all the time... Baaaaah!

This was my hypothesis, so it was necessary to test it out. And what better race to target than a race that is considered the hardest marathon around, and that calls it's finishers "survivors" - the Maraton Alpino Madrileño just north of Madrid Spain.

I just wish I spoke more Spanish.

After spending a few days in Madrid, we drove to Cercedilla to check in and sleep. The first climb of the course hunkers just outside of town, waiting for the dawn's assault of runners.

There was so much to do before leaving on this trip, that I didn't look at the course map, the course profile, I didn't memorize the aid stations... Basically, I just took Ken's word for it that it was hard. Really hard. A flat marathon takes me 3:30, and a hard mountain marathon took me 4:39 the week before, so.... I had no idea. Ken suggested 7ish hours. From the race map we got in our packets, it looked like there was aid every 3-6 kilometers. Um, that's a lot of aid - every 2-4 miles. I guess it must be hard.

I'd forgotten salt tabs, and so set about finding the next best thing - a super magnesium electrolyte shot at the race expo, and green olives. If I was going to be out there 7+ hours, I would need something!

Going into the unknown with this race was freeing. It was definitely a case of ignorance is bliss. The list of things I knew was finite:

I was sure I could finish - eventually. Ken even assured me I wouldn't be last when I asked.
The race was approximately marathon in length, give or take a mile.
There were mountains - number uncertain.
I had enough food with me to be ok for 8 hours. I had enough water for 2 hours.There were aid stations.
I was ready to have fun, to keep my eyes wide open, and to run.

Again I had no expectations. There was one out-and back section of ~2 miles early on - I hoped to see Ken there. That was it.

The DJ got us rounded into the start corral - to enter we had to scan our rather large and annoying wrist cards. I was excited to start, and happy to be there to share it with such a wonderful partner.

 The count down, and then the gun, and we trotted out of the corral. We quickly left the streets behind and started up a trail. A wide single track at first, then narrowing a little. The thought suddenly entered my head that maybe this was a little nutty. I was in Spain, I didn't really speak the language, so communication might be a little tricky. There were only 3 people I knew here - one in the race ahead of me somewhere. And two teenagers in the half marathon that started an hour later. No real way to get ahold of any of them. I didn't bring their phone numbers with me. I laughed at that half-empty way of looking at the world - almost everyone here seemed to speak english. I could understand most Spanish, especially written. I could ask for water and other aid station foods. And it was a well organized race. Pretty obvious what I was doing and where I was going, no need for a long discourse on philosophy. If I needed help, I was pretty sure I could pantomine what I needed, and I was pretty sure such a long standing race would have resources in case of emergency. And the RD had met Ken several times. What, really, was there to worry about? Other than my funny accent?

I was surprised by how not alone I was. Usually climbs readily spread out the field... but this field of 370 I stayed in a long line of people for a long time. We came to streams, and most waited patiently in a line to cross hopping from boulder to boulder. After the first stream, I went around the line and found my own boulders, passing a half dozen people each time. I hiked and ran, and felt really good. The marathon the week before didn't weigh on my legs. The single track wound up, rolling slightly, crossing streams, weaving through green meadows, around great gnarled oaks and small pines. We passed through the edge of the small town of Puerto de Navacerrada, and then started climbing for real.

Straight up the ski hill. I didn't feel like I'd trained right for this. On my plan, I intended to do ski hill repeats in prep for Leadville. I haven't done any yet. Those would have been perfect training for this race. At least I had been pretty consistent with the hill repeat workout - 10x1 min up one of the steepest trail hills around. I knew from what Ken had said, and my review of the map and profile from the night before that I'd be doing a lot of climbing, so I kept it steady without pushing too hard. The trail was pretty nasty - loose dirt and loose rock in a lot of places. Certain to provide lots of enjoyment when we get to descend on this at mile 20 ish. A few people passed me, and I passed one or two. Mostly, we  were sorted out but we were still together. People in front of me, people behind me, even after 6 miles.

I was having a blast! really!

We duck off the climb to the left, and start going down through a rocky meadow trail. At the AS, they swipe our little wristcards. It's had to find a groove here, but I pass a few more people whose groove is worse than mine. Down down down, into a pine forest with a nicer trail, down to Cotos. The Aid station is at the base of a ski resort, and they stop me to swipe my wrist card too. I took a couple of the liquid glucose sticks they had here. I thought I'd bring them back for Bones and Dreadpirate as curiosity items. They were just clear liquid in an orange plastic sleeve, about 2 Tbsps. No real flavor. Which I only found out because the helpful AS volunteers had already opened the glucose sleeves, and so I found glucose running down my hands from the two I took. Sorry Bones, Pirate, no euro-glucose for you!

And where do you go from the base of the ski area? Up, of course. I tucked in behind someone, and we hiked steadily to the top. He tripped at one point, but I couldn't come up with how to say "are you ok?" in Spanish, so I just said, stupidly, "Oohh!" About 20 paces later, I tripped, and he says, "Esta bien?" I was, and now I knew what to say if it happened again. Near the top the trail turned rocky again, with slabs of rock dotting the meadow, some loose, some not. On the out and back section I kept an eye peeled for Ken, until I hear, "Hola Guapa!" and I say "Hola Guapo!" It's good to see him and it looks like he's having fun running down the tricky mountainside. He tells me it's 5 min to the turnaround, so I start moving a little faster to get to the downhill quicker! At the Turnaround AS, they ask my number. I respond in French. Ooops. Then correct myself and say it in Spanish. Apparently my accent has given it away though, as the volunteers respond and cheer me on in English. Oh well, at least I'm trying! Soon after, the guys who were running near me at the AS start up a conversation in English too. They were really nice, and inquisitive - had I just come for the race? Where in the US was I from? One of them had a friend in NY that they had visited for a month.

The views from the tops of these mountains were fantastic. You felt like you were in the middle of nowhere. The mountains were not high, but green, and covered in a carpet of yellow flowers. We circle back to the base of the ski area, where crowds of people cheer us all on like we are racing for something really important. They yell at me, saying "venga chica, venga guapa, animo!" It was so fun, and totally different to have a cheering crowd at an ultrarun.

After a short road section, we duck onto some single track. It rolls at first, and I pass several people as the trail angles up. Soon I'm hiking as fast as I can paralleling a stream underneath sandy rocks. I pass a few more people - I think they must have started out too fast. I feel remarkably fresh and the work feels really good. I look up, and see where the trail tops out, then put my head down and work for it. Getting there, the AS is just off to the right, so I head that direction... and my eyes raise up and up following course markers that get lost in the STEEP BOULDER FIELD runners are now scaling.

really.

I laugh, and jog up to the base of this impossibility, and start scrambling using hands and feet to climb boulders that are table sized to VW bug sized. After a few seconds I stop brushing my hands off after I use them because I never stop using them. I have never done this in a race before. I manage to pass a few more people here. I just feel good. Sure, I'm getting tired, but this is so much fun, to be out here and moving. I'm all smiles. Once at the top, I start pseudo-running again, picking my way across the rocky ridge. I see I have another gentle climb ahead, and then I tell myself - it's all downhill! Except, when I get to the rounded hill top, there's another rounded hill top that runners are heading up. Dang. But away I go, happy to go a little downhill before doing more uphill running. I hiked much of that last hill, actually, my legs were feeling heavy.

I was really looking forward to descending the ski hill that we had first climbed up. Until I got there. The loose rocks and dirt had me skidding and sliding and tip-toeing down in my shoes-that-are-not-at-all-good-trail-shoes. A few people bombed past me here - I was jealous. Soon enough I came to the paved part, and picked up speed. I looked at my watch when I got back to the small town of Puerto de Navacerrada. Hey! I think I'm going to beat 7 hours!

Awesome, lets keep moving! And I did, running all the way to the finish. What a relief to cross the streams without a line of people. How great to cruise down this single track alone and feeling good. This section seems compressed to me, before I know it, I'm at the edge of town, straining to run up a small grade, and then rounding the corner. Done!

I finished, or survived, in 6:27 or so. Ken finished feeling great well ahead of me, and was there at the finish. All the little differences make running a race in a different country feel fresh and exciting. It was so much fun to rehash the race with Ken and the boys, remember all the people I talked to and all the surprises.

Maraton Alpino Madrileno: Highly recommended!