It seemed hard to think back on 2013 without bringing back some of the melancholic events of the spring and then the freight train of moving west that was the fall. I am in a happier and less stressful place now, with thoughts of the last year quickly expanding to the last eight years living in NYC. An act of closure, I suppose. What follows, then, is a conglomeration of those eight years and the weaving path that eventually led me to the present day.
Home:
7 months in Astoria
3.5 years Harlem 123rd St.
1 year Hamilton Heights 152nd St.
1 year Harlem 127th St.
2 years Hamilton Heights 147th St.
Work:
2 years as receptionist/office assistant at an Upper East Side pilates studio
3 months (when very first moved to town) as receptionist in icky financial district gym
6 months intern at the Village Voice, working under the dance editor Elizabeth Zimmer
3 years teaching group yoga classes
6 years as private yoga instructor for really great people
2.5 years working outdoor retail at Eastern Mountain Sports
1.5 years developing an actual profession as a physical therapist
Ran:
Distances progressing from 4 mile fun runs to official 5k to half marathon, marathon, 50k, 50 mile, and eventually 100 insane miles
Central Park in Manhattan, Astoria Park in Queens, Van Cortland Park in the Bronx
Hill reps on Tiemann Place in Morningside Heights, Fort George Hill in Inwood, Queensboro Bridge, Williamsburg Bridge
Circumferential around Manhattan at/below 125th St.
This was when I was dumb about how to run and overdid things, running the 20 miles on Easter the day after breaking up with my ex William. I was never so happy to see the AMC Magic Johnson Theater before and nearly kissed the ground but for my inability to bend at that point. The result was some two to three years off from running.
The Brooklyn 1/2 Marathon, Bronx 1/2 Marathon (my favorite, and has since been turned into a 10 miler), Staten Island 1/2 Marathon
New Year's Eve 4 miler in Central Park that starts at midnight for four years in a row.
Through all five boroughs in the NYC Marathon. Through Philly the year the NYC Marathon was cancelled.
Over all major and many minor bridges in the boroughs: George Washington Bridge, Qboro, Billyburg, Triboro Bridge, Manhattan Bridge, Brooklyn Bridge, Verrazano Bridge, Madison Ave Bridge, Henry Hudson Bridge, 138th St. Bridge
Through the woods of northern New Jersey (the Long Path, which will always be dear to me), Harriman State Park and Bear Mountain, the Hudson Highlands including Breakneck Ridge and Beacon, the hills of northern Connecticut (I surely didn't know they were there before that), Catskills and their magnificent hills, Finger Lakes including hills of Virgil and Ithaca, and small town 10 miler around a lake for the 4th of July that I somehow won in what was a comparatively very slow year. This last year I traveled for a big race for the first time, to Oregon's Siskiyou Mountains.
From home in Hamilton Heights to the greater New Jersey/New York border and back.
Biked:
Averaged 80-120 miles per week during the five years I commuted by bicycle.
Commuting, would travel Harlem to/from Queens (teach yoga), Brooklyn (climbing), Tribeca (community college pre-requisites), Soho (work), and everywhere in between.
Holidays in town became circumferential around Manhattan, the full 35 miles.
NYC Century around the outside perimeter of all that is considered part of the NYC five borough area, including the southern border of Brooklyn and the eastern border of Queens.
NYC to Montauk at the eastern end of Long Island (only 100 of the total 130 miles due to time cut-offs thanks to some less aware group members, if you recall reading that post)
NYC to Nyack in upstate New York.
Across the entire state of Iowa from Sioux City to Quad Cities.
For me, the longest walks include Harlem to La Guardia airport, Queens; to Long Island University in downtown Brooklyn; and to Fort Lee, NJ.
Notable Places:
St. John the Divine, episcopal church in Morningside Heights
Women's Monument a couple miles from the NY/NJ state line along the Long Path
Grant's Tomb and Memorial
Toast, our local burger joint
Kula Yoga
Cafe Amrita, Hungarian Pastry Shop
Spring Street Brewery in Soho, Dead Poet in the Upper West Side
Two Boots Pizza
Union Square farmer's market
Experiences:
MTA transit strike for three days while I lived in Queens.
Holding a human heart in my hands for 30 consecutive minutes. Because its so friggin cool.
Being at the LGBT pride parade mere days after gay marriage was approved by NY State.
Seeing my favorite radio programs live: A Prairie Home Companion, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me
Hurricane Sandy
Boston Marathon
Being recognized as from KC by a guy who ran out of a bar when he saw me wearing Tim's old All American Indoor Sports soccer uniform tee shirt. This, after only meeting two other people from MO the entire time I lived in NYC.
Curb picking a solid oak end table from 96th and Lexington. Not wanting to wait for subway transfers due to time of night, knowing the unlikelihood of being manageable on a cross town bus, and being too cheap to pay for a cab. So I walked it all the way home to Manhattan Ave and 123rd.
Shoveling and chopping snow/ice from a handball court because we wanted to play that much. The parks dept. folks even helped us.
Having a guy hit on me at 116th St. in Harlem, only to have him continue to follow and talk with me until I reached the school security entrance down on 25th St. in Kip's Bay.
Seeing a crowd of cyclists standing nervously in a group to protect a cyclist already down in Central Park. There was more than a lot of blood from his head injury. The stain was still there three weeks later when I had a race in the park.
Biking through East Harlem on the way home from school when a gun shot goes off about twenty feet to my right. I didn't recognize what it was, but the kids near the street sure did. I followed their cue and got the heck outta there.
The Blessing of the Bikes, where yearly St. John the Divine invites commuters and weekend warriors alike to enter the hall with their two wheeled steeds. Those that died while on a bike are named (a much larger list than it should be), followed by blessings and holy water sprinkled over those in attendance.
Harlem absolutely flooded by thousands and thousands of people around the Apollo Theater when Micheal Jackson died, and around the state building on 125th when President Obama was first elected.
Biking to school down 5th Avenue in midtown, only to find myself riding alongside Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's motorcade.
Earning a doctorate degree, which required two years of prerequisites and three years of graduate school.
Getting married in our own ragtag way at Grant's Tomb, and being glad after all that we included our immediate family.
Trekking kittehs on the subway to vet visits. Merus got lots of rides thanks to gingivitis and two rounds of tooth extractions. I still have the teeth from the second round.
Bad Cat's ever growing list of things she eats:
Spinach, kale including the stalk, brussel sprout, cabbage, cilantro, alfalfa
Carrot, potato, bell pepper, squash, jalapeno, broccoli
Avocado, apple, pomegranate, mango, watermelon
Beans, refried beans, hummus, nut butter
Popcorn, potato chips, corn chips, bread, pretzels, cereal, pizza, gingerbread, pecan pie, peanut butter drop cookies, apple crisp
Note: these are not given to her, they are things she has eaten because she steals them regardless of whether we stepped away or simply turned our head away for a half second. We really do not try to poison our cats.
The only things she will not eat: coffee, orange/citrus, raw onions (only if en masse; if mixed with other things, then she will still eat it), tomatoes (again, only if solo)
To compare, the list of what Merus eats: beans, avocado.
Here's a fun video from when we still lived in NYC. Notice that Sadie is afraid of oranges, but okay with an avocado being hurled her way. (And forgive the orientation fail of the third section.):
Nathan and I are spending the holidays sorta kinda ranch sitting. All others from the ranch are out of town from anywhere between 3 days and over 3 weeks, depending. One usual ranch worker is around to take care of cattle needs. Everything else falls to Nathan and I: four empty houses (keeping wood stoves burning, and preventing pipes from freezing), four dogs (two uber friendly, one friendly to people but basically aloof, and one nervous wreck), two cats (one gives literal hugs while cleaning your face for you, the other is a bountiful kitten), eight chickens (stinky and quick little buggers), and innumerable plants.
Our Christmas looked something like this:
Chicken coop. Stinky.
Chicken frenzy.
Nathan with chicken feed.
The runaway. "They don't walk on snow, so they don't go far." Took ten minutes of chasing it around to get it back in. It walked all over the snow. Oh the taste of freedom...
Playing fetch with Luna and Nina after a Christmas Eve afternoon walk.
Blue bird Christmas Eve.
Mushroom bolognese, our Christmas Eve dinner.
Bad Cat pretending to be Good Cat on Christmas morning.
Nina, eagerly awaiting anything on our stoop.
Surviving the 5 minute car trip to Lookout Mountain in town for an hour's trudge through the snow and hills. (They did much better on the return trip once tired from chasing a dozen deer, *grumble*)
Post-run second breakfast on Christmas - huevos rancheros, made with eggs laid the day before. They were satisfying enough that we didn't even want real dinner later one. (I also blame all the chocolate we ate. Mom sent the whole bag of Reese's. You know that will get eaten all at once.)
It has to happen at some point in order to qualify as a true holiday.
Sunset on a Christmas late afternoon walk with the dog dogs. Before this, I accidentally threw Luna's ball atop one of he sheds and had to climb up to retrieve. Then I accidentally threw the ball into the stream bank and lost it for real. Luckily Luna is easily distractable.
Full moons around here bring strings of nights where you could practically read by moonlight. After a few 8pm walks or trots around the ranch with a friend, we decided to hold dinner up at their cabin by Old Women's Creek on the official full moon evening. The sole purpose was for the walk out of the woods. We took two vehicles since the "road" becomes more ATV appropriate in a handful of spots, so I left my Subaru three miles away at the last known accessible fork. We piled into the mega SUV to make our way up to the cabin. On return, the mega SUV left with the two kids who were definitely up past their bed times. It was past mine as well, for the third or fourth night in a row, but the full immersion was definitely worth it.
It is high cattle drive season around here. All the cattle has been/is being brought back in chunks from the foothills and up in the mountains. The family has owned and operated the ranch for over 100 years, and has always maintained natural raised, grass fed beef, herded by horse and foot and directing traffic.
Last Tuesday, during my first week of work at the new job, I turned off the main strip onto our county road, headed north, only to find the turn-off blocked. Cattle were heading south before turning into a field opposite the ranch homestead, and vehicles lined the homestead entrance to keep the herd flowing into the correct gate. I offered to go the back route (off road passage that sneaks along the river), but there was enough of a break in the herd that they could move the vehicles and let me through.
It is incredibly intriguing to watch these beasts ranging 600 to 1200 pounds lumber down the road in parade. Their heads bob with every step. Awkward moos trill high and low, occasionally gruff. They all poop without blinking, without pausing, without even lifting their tail half the time. Anyone who works in a hospital accrues new poop stories every day, no matter your intended interaction with a patient. So as I see the poop flying I can only think it a strange version of continence, where there is absolutely no regard for how it comes out, where it comes out, and what other body parts it may cover in the mean time. But I digress.
Yesterday, late afternoon, I stepped outside intending to check the oil level of my car. I heard the peculiarly shrill mooing from afar, so looked into the field. All the cattle were pinned in the northeast corner, acting somewhat chaotic. Then I saw the latest parade as it turned the corner onto our road. I immediately dropped the oil bottle on the ground, ran inside to grab my camera, and ran down the homestead drive to get video of the drive. I got within 50 feet of road when the lead cow reached the turn-off, and I stopped dead once realizing the drive led them into the open (read: non-fenced) section of field by the homestead drive.
If they got confused as to where to go, then they could head straight toward me. Davy said the cattle know the ranch and are happy to return, but does that mean they are also happy to comply with the drive home or are they as irritated as their anti-tonal moo choir sounds? They piled into the open field and immediately bottle-necked. Tracy, on horse, swept back and forth trying to keep them moving together. I had no idea where they were supposed to be going. All the cattle in abutting fields raced alongside the fences next to the herd. "Where are you going? Am I supposed to go to? You are running - we are running!"
Davy's father, who used to operate the ranch and still helps out a bit, was on foot. His attempts to keep them moving were also futile. As the number of cattle in one spot grew, they filled the field over to the edge of the homestead, which luckily had a fence. They kept turning toward the homestead road, and Davy's father kept shooing them the other way.
"He's got so many cattle. It's crazy!"
Apparently the goal was to use a different gate than usual to enter the field just south of the homestead. To get to it, the cattle had to cross the open field diagonally. Cows, it seems, do not understand once the self-evident tunnel of only forward movement gives way to open ended geometry. For those of you reflecting on the simple nature of the cow brain, don't think so fast. It is also exactly what happens to runners if a course is not flagged or blocked off to the nth degree. Just ask those who missed a turn off during a trail race because they followed others and stopped looking for the dozens of florescent flags leading them the other way.
To make matters worse, the cattle already inside the destination field were just as riled up. They saw the open gate and tried to exit to be with their newly returned brethren in the chaotic field. The gate? Now clogged with cattle all wedged together.
Whoa, Nelly.
At that point I decided to retreat so that my presence did not become a liability. Not sure which gate they used, but within the next twenty minutes all the cattle were finally in the intended pasture.
I kept laughing at the ordeal for the rest of the night, especially thinking of the cows fenced in just north of the homestead road. There are two particular sienna brown cows with white faces who are always very curious. They maintained their faces behind a post as though it made them invisible while they watched me take my pictures. Not even a bottleneck and pandemonium finish to the drive could deter their peek-a-boo.
I started work this week. It took some fine tuning and a couple of frustrating days to figure out how to integrate running into my work week. I'm used to full time meaning that therapists are at work for 8 hours total, with a half hour for lunch resulting in 7.5 hours on the clock per day. Here therapists are scheduled 8-5 with a full hour for lunch, so that means getting 8 hours of pay but being at work for 9 hours total. That, plus the 45 minute commute each way... makes for much longer than expected. Its actually less time for the commute (and more consistent) than when I was in grad school either cycling or taking the subway. Just means I have to get up between 4:15 and 4:30 - which, for those of you who don't already know, is okay by me. Were I to try and run after work, I'd be a very unhappy trudge of a sloth with no motivation.
Thankfully my coworkers are great, the facility is informal but professional, and I actually enjoy being at work. The patients are all nice people too. I worried that they'd be nervous or upset by the change in therapist, but they are all good people.
So within this first week of trying out the new schedule I had a handful of other fun occurrences.
Monday morning, orientation day, I awoke to Merus meowing and jumping around in the bathroom by the washer and drier. She never ignores when food is being prepped. I turned the corner, threw on the light, and there she was sitting proudly with a mouse dangling from her mouth. She looked up and meowed without letting go. In my two and a half years with these worms Merus has only watched Sadie with interest as she hunts, never participated. Apparently she was just waiting for the big game.
I flipped into mama mode and worried about her chewing on it and hurting her poor gums (her wet food is always mashed with water into more of a liquid) and grabbed a bucket nearby. She didn't want to let it go, but when she did it scurried under the drier and likely back to whence it came. I wasn't fast enough to throw the bucket over the top like I had hoped. No idea what Merus would have done with it had I not been around. It has not returned since.
Speaking of hunters, Sadie has entertained herself royally by hunting and eating countless flies each day. We seriously do not know where the flies spontaneously come from, but I am getting very good with my fly swatter technique. Merus just jumps and swats at them, enjoying the hunt now that she is a huntress. Sadie probably eats at least a half dozen a day, sometimes three times that much. On Tuesday I arrived home to Sadie sheepishly tucked up behind a chair, a nervous look on her face. Looked across the room and found a puddle of puke. Fluid was all clear, but there were probably two dozen fly bodies and innumerable separated wings all mushed together. Doesn't slow her down from eating more. She does not puke often (this was probably her seventh puke in two and a half years), but she always hits an easily cleanable floor away from any and all objects. Figure that - the Bad Cat is neat when it comes to bodily functions. Like the time she peed in the trash can after I stupidly removed one of their litter boxes.
After two days of wanting to run but being denied by improperly judging my schedule, Wednesday I was bound and determined. Tuesday evening I was so pissed off that I was yelling at the cats "Who cares about these big cats, anyways? And when are they even actually in the area? F*** it, I'm gonna do the loop in the morning with a headlamp and that's how its going to be." A couple hours later I cooled off to some sense of reason and decided to look up info on mountain lions. *Sigh* Okay, cautiousness is good. So I instead did repeats up and down the stretch of our road north of the Rio Grande bridge. It's just about a mile long one way, so I did 3/4 mile intervals with the last 1/4 mile as recovery jog before turning around.
It is incredibly dark all around when there is absolutely no competing light. I could have run easily using just the moonlight, but used my headlamp so I could sweep for glowing eyes. The cattle drives are increasingly bringing the 500 cows and couple hundred yearlings back to lots on/next to the ranch, so the road is flanked by cows the entire stretch behind barbed wire fences. Only a few spots are there trees, otherwise it is basically open. Still, I swept. That first mile I probably looked like I was headbanging sideways (but without hair for effect). Cow eyes are wide set, and they stay stock still and barely blink, curiously eying you yet not moving. A skitter - I stopped to assess, though it was only a raccoon climbing a tree. Those eyes bobble like a baby learning to keep its head up straight while sitting. As the eyes became more of a pattern I swept more slowly, less frequently. In my last mile I was a quarter mile from the bridge when I heard lots of splashing and saw eight pairs of eyes moving fast. I froze. So did the sloshing. Then six of them leaped over the barbed wire fence and continued bounding across the road to the next grass lot. The other two stayed still in the water. Deer. I turned back to give them time to cross and be with their herd. No other trick eyes after that.
This morning I decided one pretend daredevil run per week was enough for now, so I drove into town early to use the hospital's wellness center. I figure that during January and February there will be plenty of opportunity for treadmill time when bad weather hits, so why not go ahead and see if treadmill running was as foul as I remembered. I decided to use it for hill training, since that's what I miss most about mid-week runs are my hill repeats. I dropped the speed to something that seemed logical compared to previous runs and considering the altitude, upped the incline to 12%. Whoa, Nelly! Dropped the speed some more. A little more. Toughed it out for half the time I expected, then dropped the incline to 7%. Kept it a little more reasonable from then on out. I decidedly miss downhill running, though. Especially when I made such an effort to learn how to run downhill to avoid pain back in the days when my knees were cranky. I take pride in that. And I miss it. If only treadmills could handle that (affordably). But at least I got some energy out before the day started.
Woke up to a couple inches of snow, enough to cover everything completely, and dense fog so that I could not see the hay bales fifty feet away. I was worried since both my new mattress set and actual internet were to arrive today. But then the sun came up. By a half hour later I could see a figment of the outline of the horse stables. An hour still, and had full visibility in the valley with fog covering the foothills and beyond. A little later I looked up - mountains still covered - to then look back five minutes later and they were in full, unobstructed view. I took a walk in the sun with but speckles of sjow left. By the time the mattress guys arrived at 11:30 it looked as though nothing had happened at all.
The internet guy? No show. And no call either. F***er. He had a window from 1:00-5:00, so I tried to be reasonable and give him the full opportunity to show. At exactly 5:00 I called the local intermediary that was to do the installation. Voicemail kicks in because they close at 5:00. I left a not so nice message about waisting my time. It will be repeated in excess tomorrow morning.
I've been listening to ESPN radio on my phone in lieu of TV or internet. If all goes according to plan, a new mattress set is to arrive Wednesday morning followed by internet that afternoon. The ranch house is slowly coming together.
Sadie eats an average of eight bugs per day. Merus has multiple nap locations and, thankfully, does not try to nap beneath the wood stove. Nathan is back in NYC finishing his last month of work.
I'm finding ways to spend my time. Like picking up a camera again. Sad that my film cameras are in storage in upstate NY, but I'm not sure where I could get mt film developed anyways. Plus this place basically takes pictures for you.
After over eight years living in NYC, and in a flurry of recent events, I now live in south cental Colorado. Forgive the scarcity of posts regarding the transition, as we still do not yet have internet. I am instead pecking out this post on my phone.
We live in the San Luis Valley, the highest alpine desert in the world. The valley is also deceivingly wide. Locals describe the area like a tea cup. The county and valley seat is Alamosa, population somewhere between 8500 and 10,000, which is the tea cup's saucer. That is where I will work in a mix of inpatient and outpatient settings at the San Luis Valley Medical Center. It is coldest in Alamosa, often rivaling parts of Alaska and the quasi-Canadian Adirondacks of NY with winter lows to -40º due to the "low" elevation of 7500 feet.
Originally Nathan and I expected to live in Alamosa, using weekends for excursions to the fun mountains at the edge of the teacup - there are, I believe, nine mountains reaching at/over 14'000 feet (aka 14ers) and many more lower peaks accessible to the valley.
Then I went for a run in Alamosa during our 3-day whirlwind search for housing. I barely made it four and a half miles. The valley is FLAT, so much so that mother nature rivals the best civil engineers for its widespread accuracy. In short, I hated it. The town is proud of its cross country team, which always wins thanks to thorough altitude training. Me? I have no interest in flat and fast racing. That's not why I run. Accessing incredible locations by foot, exchanging energy with mother nature (who always has a sense of humor!), creating that warm bubble of everything-is-right-with-the-world amid a cold winter run, the challenge of hills and terrain ... that is why I run. I was not sure how I would withstand the fact that I had significantly better hill training opportunities in NYC than in this Colorado valley.
So while waiting for return calls for a few more apartments, we decided to pass time by taking the 45 minute trip to Del Norte, a town of 1500(?) that sits at the tea cup's curve. Think of it as the valley's western edge of the foothills, at 8000' elevation. Welcoming you to the town is Lookout Mountain, a small peak of (I'm guessing here) 8500-9000 that immediately abuts the south end of town. It even had a white D on its side. Per locals, Del Norte stayed about twenty degrees warmer than Alamosa on those cold nights, since the super cold air tends to sink down into the saucer instead.
We expected to have lunch there and maybe hit an antique store or two. As I exited the car I realized we parked in front of a realtor. Why not? We inquired for shits and giggles, but they only do sales, and they directed us just around the corner to a realtor who rents. Lisa was very personable, and before we knew it we were off viewing a rental house on a ranch just outside of town.
Three hours later, we signed the lease.
Three bedroom farm house (functionally more like two), one bath, rather clean well water, propane tank for cooking and hot water, heated only wood stove. It has a doorless garage, so at least our vehicle will be decently covered. A mere couple hundred yards from the super friendly ranch owner (it has been in his family for multiple
That D mini-mountain is now my local training ground. I've been on it twice already for over an hour each time, and it was profoundly rejuvenating. There's even a local vegan friendly cafe on the west side of town (Peace Food Cafe, part of The Organic Peddler), and a micro-brewery (Three Barrel Brewery, I think it is called?). Instead of trudging through the week and driving all over to make up the difference on weekends, we now have a great version as our homestead. On weekends, we are a mere 10ish miles from Penitente Canyon, and can run from our house once we figure out what is public land and what is private. (And once the government decides it needs to function again and federal lands open up again.)
Since integrating photos is not the same on the phone app of blogger, here's what you will see below:
- Bedroom window view to the west.
- Bedroom window view the next day, with snow.
- My hearty breakfast at Peace Food Cafe.
- Day 1 in the house's project: stacking a cord of wood, completed by me while Nathan and our rancher landlord wete inside waxing philosophical (sharing notes, not adversely!).
- Sadie and Nathan checking out a bird.
- Merus, warming up to her new abode. Why my kittehs love sinks I still do not understand.
I arrived to the quiet little station of Wagner Butte Trailhead at something like 2:00am. One girl (a volunteer or supporter or something) was huddled in a sleeping bag on a massage table in back, but otherwise they were awake and supportive just like the other aid stations. (Read: they were awesome.) While one guy refilled me bag another got me a big cup of broth. Solid food aside from fruit looked repulsive, so I didn't even try.
"There she is. Miss Consistent!." I turned to see a middle aged runner and his pacer. "You've been strong all day. How do you feel?"
"I actually feel okay. Just trying to keep moving."
"You're doing awesome, and it's only your first hundred!" Don't remind me, lest something go wrong....
Broth fetching volunteer. "Do you have a pacer?"
"I almost did, but it didn't work out. It's hard when coming from the east coast." They nodded in understanding.
I sipped my broth. It was almost stupid how good it tasted. I didn't hear what they said because I was enjoying the salty, warm deliciousness. I asked for another cup.
"...did you know she just left?" Volunteer.
"Hmm?" Forcing myself to be alert.
"Jenn just left here five minutes ago. She was here a while too." He was referring to Jenn Shelton, current women's record holder and sponsored runner. I had been nipping at her heels all race, mostly because she was having a rough time.
I paused with elevated eyebrows for a moment. Same deer in headlights moment, where my brain says Ooooohmygoodnesswhatif... while some little rational dwarf whispers in my ear a reminder that I have no business racing for anything more than the last half mile. "What's the next section like?"
Steepest climb of the day, a fuzzy description of a scramble that no one could define as either rock or just a super steep dirt/gravel hill but would require hand-over-foot, and steep downhill.
I nodded and continued to sip my second cup of broth, now with eyes diverted toward the watermelon in part to hide the look on my face of *maybe* getting lucky. Being at 80 miles made having twenty left seem like a piece of cake - less than a marathon, no biggie right? Still, that was only if I keep things under control. Plenty of big races I followed over the last year had elites drop in the last miles due to blowing up. First time. Just keep moving. Just finish. I focused on the fact that twenty miles is still twenty miles. At home that would mean getting over the George Washington Bridge, somewhere between Alpine Lookout and the ranger station at the north end of the Palisades park, and all the way back home. Perspective. Steady.
Time to keep moving. As I hit the trail head, the middle aged guy was right behind me.
For the first couple hundred feet of gain Larry, as I learned was his name, let me lead the pace. In that time his pacer divulged that P2P was his last of the "Larry Slam," meaning his fourth hundred mile race within 11 weeks. His summer of racing started with Western States - a very significant race that this year had temperatures over 100 degrees for most the time (even at night). As our trail widened it remained a steep enough incline that your heels don't contact anything. Not as bad as the black diamond ski lift in Virgil Crest, but a higher effort level than the hand-over-foot rock stairwell from Escarpment Trail.
I found myself grabbing a handful of soft tissue around the side of each hip to give a little mechanical relief. "Sorry guys, I'm not trying to be crass. My ass is burning!" I offered them to pass whenever they wanted.
"Oh no. I like your pace." Yet Larry was easily now shoulder to shoulder with me instead of behind. He gave me tidbits of advice, though notably it was on developing ultra running as a hobby rather than simply tips on completing the race at hand. By another two minutes later he was ten feet ahead.
"How are you climbing so well if this is your fourth hundred within eleven weeks?"
"Eh. I liked your pace better."
Too bad, dude. You're off to the races. Gotta respect the pace your body wants to produce, be it slow or fast, or when it changes gears on you. I kept marching on my own, focusing on making my steps "easy" rather than trying to power lunge. In a handful of spots I had hands-on-thighs in Euro pseudo-hiking-pole style. As the steep stuff gave way to a more sensibly steep incline (read: grass could grow along the sides of the trail) I heard the stead chatter of another pair slowly catching up to me. At least the pacer was chatting non-stop. Bounced around on all kinds of subjects. I didn't mind.
I offered to let them pass, but they were happy to stay in line as the trail had started to weave sideways with some small streams sneaking up amid rocky bits. I looked ridiculously uncoordinated, but I think my shenanigans gave them a heads-up and let them be calmer. I joined in on a little chatter. They were Mike and Matt, racer and pacer respectively. Both locals, both familiar with the trail to come.
In a burst of verbal participation, Mike commented "You know, we may have a chance to make 24 hours if we push it." I was back with hands-on-knees due to a sudden resurgence of steeper grade.
"NOW?!?" I gaped.
They laughed heartily. Thankfully.
Matt clarified "No no, on the descent. this pace is great. It'd be pushing the downhills to the finish. We can try, if you wanna hang with us."
I looked at my watch. Fuzzy math skills in the wee hours of the morning or not, I highly doubted we'd be able to make it. Were we at the peak, then yes. But we still had at least two miles to the peak, which would mean something like six minute mile pace for all downhills - ten miles' worth- to the finish. Seriously? I mumbled a few non-words that hopefully sounded more like "Hmm...."
Finally we hit a switchback that leveled off and came to the out-and-back point. Mile 83-ish? I couldn't remember. M&M jumped off course into the grass to stash some of their gear to make the flag ascent easier. I opted to just continue on and use flats (well, flatter than previous, at least) to make up a little ground. It was a lot rockier here, still with overall smooth trail but with larger rocks flanking the trail as it wove around and through. This section reminded me of back home.
The two miles out to the flag felt like much longer, though that could have been over-eager anticipation. The relative flat became uphill enough to hike, and I made sure I was power hiking. I was surprised at the number of headlamps I saw along that stretch. It was difficult to make out who was headed toward/away until they were within range, in part from my slight nearsighted eyes and part because of not wanting to look away from my little beam of guidance between the rocks. Smooth ground and all, to forgo the tiny zig zags would result in barking your shin on the corner of a rock (much pointier when geologically newer in time spent as that particular rock) or snagging your shirt on bush.
Somewhere in there, I think on the early side, I crossed paths with Queens Mike (friend from home) and his pacer Keila. Keila gave a standard Heygoodjobkeepgoingdoinggreat salutation. Mike, who gave a little wave but did not lift his head from his focus at Keila's back, said, "Be careful on the scramble up there." He was tucked in as though he were drafting on a bike. I learned later that he was falling asleep here and Keila was at times literally pulling him to the aid station.
Not too long later crossed paths with Jenn. She was chatting briefly with all she encountered. She was also pacer-less.
"How are you doing?" I asked. I was more concerned about her physically than I was about the "race." She had to be a good two or more miles ahead of me since I had yet to reach the peak and turn around.
"Not so good." She stood with arms hanging limp.
"Not puking again, I hope."
"No." Sounding tired.
"Do you need anything? I have stuff to spare."
"No. I'll be okay."
"Alright. Take care you yourself."
"Thanks. You too."
And off we parted in opposite directions. The little dwarf of reason was silent now, but tapping my shoulder occasionally. As before our pause, I kept as much speed to my power hike as I could muster.
Another seemingly long mile or two later (who can accurately tell distance after so many miles and during the wee hours of the morning like that?) and I reached the peak. No one had actually been able to describe this scramble. It was something of a 30 foot genuine rock scramble. As in large rocks and a few boulders were dropped in a pile atop the peak, and it was a simple climbing scramble that became more of a legitimate entry-level bouldering problem when using only a headlamp to see what you are doing. Everyone's lights were making circles or drawing squares as you rotated from limb to limb to find purchase, occasionally lighting the direction of your barn door (your sideways fall) to get your hand or foot onto a legitimate hold. A cheap and simple aluminum platform with side rails had been constructed at the top. Once in reach I grabbed onto a rail and worked my feet on the rock to get around the far end and onto the actual platform.
Were the sun up then I'd have the best view of the day, including Mount Shasta. Since it was night, it was an incredible 360 degree view of the stars. The moon was on overdrive. I stood for a moment to take it in. I swear there was a shooting star. Absolutely incredible.
But this time the dichotomy of existentialism and sheer, emotional beauty was out of reach. I am a training monkey. That means I have a supreme ability to keep moving through incredible odds without blinking and eye or second guessing. The body turns on and the mind turns off, at least when it comes to theoretical higher powers. So whereas during the day my flag grab allowed a nanosecond of feeding my soul, this one was interrupted by the dwarf whispering. What if...? I made myself look around, seeing all the constellations I learned in grade school and have since forgot. But then put my head down and returned to forward motion.
As I groaned through the squatting and lunging involved in down-climbing the scramble, Marshall (or someone very similar) was just heading up.
"So Jenn is crashing again."
Crap. This may be happening.
"Grrmmmrrmr." I know, classy. That's all I could muster while getting my butt onto the rock to ease my way down. I'd rather squat and feel it that take too daring a lunge and break something. Finishing in under 24 hours was definitely out of the picture, but maybe, just maybe, I could work my way up to second female. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.....
Head down, eyes darting back and forth as though it would help my depth perception, I began the descent to the out-and-back marker. With the rocks I didn't trust a run, so opted for as fast of a falling power hike I could muster. Arms flailed in my best Killian Jornet impression. Adrenaline starting to pump. Keep eating. Keep drinking. Keep stumbling forward.
I was surprised to hear a female voice at the out-back marker, standing and talking to a male runner. It was Jenn. Again we stood facing one another.
"How are you doing?" I asked. She slowed a lot. And it was readable in her body language.
"I'm... okay...."
"Are you bonking? You sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm just having... problems." Ominously vague.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries and I repeated my offer. Then, as we left that spot, something like mile 87, I was in front of Jenn Shelton. How is this possible? This is happening, right? Not a hallucination?
With that my right foot landed on a very soft patch of loose trail and I started to slide down off the trail into who knows what. Some sort of four-limbed flail and air surfing later and I overcompensated by going uphill before falling back down and landing on the trail. Net fall of zero, but absolutely ridiculous. I think I made some sort of guttural sound. Very likely some profanities were said. I stood for a moment to make sure I was on solid ground.
"Yea, it's pretty hairy in this section," Jenn warned.
"I'm noticing that. Whew."
From there I had to put thoughts of the "race" out of my mind and focus on my footing and my little beam of light. Back to my so-called controlled downhill speed hike. A little nerve racking since this was one of the steepest descents and had many successive and tight switchbacks. M&M caught up as the turns started to open up into a more pedestrian decline. I inquired as to how close Jenn was.
"Pretty close, actually. We just saw her."
Crap. Keep stumble-hiking. Another duo caught up. I asked the same.
"She's slowing down."
I sighed and forced myself to put it to rest and just keep moving as best I could. There was still over ten miles left, a tenth of the course, so no reason to blow it all right now. The effort involved with a particular distance was no longer matching up, so as much as I was (relatively) okay mentally and as good as I could be physically those few miles seemed to last for forever.
This time I saw the lights before I heard the bell.
-----------------------------
Miles 90-100.5:
I wanted only fruit dipped in salt, though Road 2060 aid station (mile 90) had neither. They offered all kinds of solid foods - pretzels, chips, semi-smores concoctions, even grilled cheese. Instead I had coke and ginger ale. The guy offered me salt pills. I said okay. He showed the two brand choices. I stood there for a solid 30 seconds, silently trying to figure out the difference. He raised an eyebrow and decided for me - the one with caffeine and a few things for mental acuity. They had chicken noodle soup, so I took some plain broth.
I sat on the edge of a camp chair, careful to not allow myself to lay back and sink too comfortably low. As I sipped my eyes darted to the point of exit from the woods. Solid black. Not even a flicker in the distance. Is she really that far back? M&M were there, Matt handing Mike all sorts of things with assignment to consume. I got antsy from a momentary surge in mathematical ability. Jenn was out there somewhere, but if I played my cards correctly I could make it in under 25 hours. Time to move on. I thanked the volunteers for being there. Told them I wished I could stomach the plethora they had available.
I power walked up the dirt road. Last time to walk off a belly of fluid. I tried to duplicate my best 4+ mph effort, as based on cadence. My stomach was feeling odd. Sent some encouraging thoughts to my GI. Five minutes later I pulled over for a pit stop, thankful that it actually worked. Back on the road and M&M caught up, managing some kind of penguin trot that I was still not able to mirror. I kept looking over my shoulder for a lone light that might be Jenn making an incredible come back. I saw nothing. In total I hiked/walked for a thirty minute stretch. Time to try running. Five minutes of trot, back to five minutes of power hike. Repeat. I noticed my headlamp is becoming very weak. I was not able to see all the reflectors well anymore (they were attached to all course markers), and I worried about missing the turn off onto the trail. The sun was sneaking up on the west coast but definitely was not there yet. I stopped and switched out batteries. Full power again. Time to trot.
The dirt road then started to angle down while essing over and over to the left. I looked at my watch - I could still do it. The trot slowly opened up into something of a run. I passed one guy who was walking. Things loosened up in to an actual penguin run. I passed another guy, again walking. More essing to the left - back on the M. C. Escher course.
I hit the trailhead at 6:24 a.m. by my watch. A sign noted a mere four miles to go. I was full tilt now, flying as fast as my legs would take me. Four miles becomes miniscule in one's head after so many other miles. The sunrise was now in full bloom, adding to my fuel.
I could see Ashland down below in the distance. It looked really far down for being only four miles of trail away. I felt like I was descending my weekly hill for repeats (Fort George Hill in Inwood, something of a 8 or 9% grad) but without a break. The trail started to level out. The town was closer. A handful of turns later and the trail hit pavement. I caught M&M for the last time. Mike was moving gingerly. I looked like I was about to pee my pants. Even the roads kept descending steeply down.
I almost balked at an intersection since I didn't see a flag. Laura, stop it. Don't lose your head now. Continue straight unless told otherwise. More descent. Legs flying. Repeated watch checks. Waved to the deer strolling along the sidewalk. More turns.
A parking lot entrance. I recognized the volunteer from earlier. He smiled and cheered, gave a big high five as I sailed past with a huge grin on my face. The big, purple Rogue Valley Runners banner.
24:55:32. Second female. Twentieth overall.
------------------------------
First hundred miler, first belt buckle, first "big" ultra. I loved every second of it. Never had a bad spell. Never needed music or some sort of distraction. On any other day Jenn Shelton would have blown me out of the water. Somehow, just this once, I capitalized on what for her was simply a bad day.
I have Julie, Melissa and Keila to thank for crewing me. I have stress-free accommodations via Queens Mike to thank. And this contingent of the ultra community proved itself light years beyond the normally supportive and welcoming nature of ultras I knew and expected. Maybe that's the nature of a hundred miler, maybe it was a west vs. east coast thing, maybe it was just this specific group. Regardless, I had a dozen watchful eyes on my the entire race, a form of supportive supervision and camaraderie. I had a lot of people looking out for me, whether I knew it or not. And the volunteers - it's not just handing you the cup you ask for. They knew how to help you make decisions or, if needed, make decisions for you. I felt like I had a little family out there, and I was actually sad that the race was over.
For five minutes after finishing I felt great. Julie and Melissa were there and gave me a big hug. The medical director checked in with me. Still a little hand and wrist swelling, but I last peed an hour ago. Should go down, just come see us if it doesn't. I walked the thirty feet to the car. Grabbed some clean(er) clothes out of the trunk. Turned to head in to the bathroom. All at once my legs turned to jello and yet were stiff as a board. Those last four miles? About 7:45 per mile pace. Mere minutes later I was hobbling like cowboy with malformed fracture healing.
That song in my head on the first climb was the same song looping at the finish. A bit of googling and I found it: Safe and Sound by the group Capital Cities.
I
came into Hanley Gap #1 knowing that the heat of the day was behind us
and yet very aware that I was nearing foreign territory. Julie, Melissa
and Keila (wonderful crew for Mike and I) made it up to check on Mike
since he had some rough patches earlier, even though this was not a crew
access point. I walked over to the aid table. They had a plate full
of honeydew. I ate a piece, and it was the best tasting thing all day.
I starting eating piece after piece in rapid succession, throwing in
some watermelon dipped in salt for good measure.
When I
looked up from my melon euphoria I then noticed a woman standing there
in a cat costume. The others were in cat costumes too. They didn't
blink an eye. I asked how long til the next aid, and they informed me
that this was to be the first flag grab on the top of Squaw Peak before
returning to this aid station. So I paused my noshing and started
hiking up the dirt road hill that I also then saw. Oblivious until
necessary, I suppose.
I started climbing at 5:40pm.
The climb was not the steepest of the day, but it was a doozy that would
gain something like 700 feet within one mile. Earlier I was able to
maintain something of a 4 mph power hike while on hills. I was hoping
to maintain as close to 3 mph as I could.
Five minutes
in, before the first switchback, Mike came down the hill with his
flag. It was the first I had seen him all day. I asked how he felt.
He blew through his lips and shook his head. "Had some really low
points earlier." How to put this nicely.... Mike is something of a
delicate guy when it comes to heat and certain obstacles. The day
before the race he perseverated on how walking through 90 degree heat
for ten minutes may be a test of how the heat would feel during the
race, and he spent a lot of time trying out and pondering the use of a
cooling neck wrap. So considering that he was moving fine and the rest
of his facial expression read that he was fine, I wasn't going to worry
about him.
Ten minutes into the climb at a switchback I
then met Jenn Shelton again on her way down. "You look better," I told
her. "I hope the puking as stopped."
"Thanks! Feeling much better."
It was fun to be trailing someone as known and established as Jenn. And yet, she wasn't getting that far ahead of me. She must be taking her time at many of the aid station, since that would negate some of her faster pace.
Another guy I recognized was next, saying "You're very close." I took his words with a grain of salt. Never say "close" or a specific distance to someone unless they actually
are within a spitting distance or the legitimate distance you are
telling them. In previous races I've had people tell me "It's all
downhill from here" when it was half uphill, and I've had people tell me
"Just one more mile" that ended up the longest lasting mile ever that
took a half hour at running pace. Here the switchbacks continued with
increasing frequency while subsequently steeper than the last.
Then,
magically, I rounded the corner to the fire watch tower. I reached for
one of a hundred flags stuck in the ground, and as my hand grasp around
the flimsy wire my watch changed to exactly 6:00pm - exactly 12 hours
into my race. There, at 5000 feet with a 360 degree view of the
mountains in southern Oregon, I stood at the invisible line demarcating
fifty one miles, the farthest I had traveled before. I swear time slows
to 1/1000th of a frame per second during moments like these, an
incredible existential awareness of your tiny, mortal being while agape
at the raw world around you.
I took stock. Everything
had been great so far. My stomach was holding up, my legs
were holding up, my blisters had faded from feeling, and my mind was
calm and still functioning. I had assumed everything would go wrong,
yet thus far nothing really had. The sun would be setting soon, and
with this very next step I would plunge into another fifty miles of
unknown. One more long breath of reassurance. Time to get moving.
Like in a dream, you body slowly shifts onto one leg while the other
floats through molasses thick air, a momentary free fall before that
first foot connects once again to the ground and you fall out of the
mini-dimension and back into a hyper-aware reality.
As I
tried to make my descent as ache free as possible (it was a rather
significant downhill at that point!), the same song looped through my
head again. I realized I was humming a song I didn't actually know
aside from subconsciously. Down the switchbacks, then finally getting
to jog with gravity in the last stretch back to the aid station.
I
dropped my flag into the box and made a beeline for the honeydew. How
many miles again til the next aid? Eight. Kay. Soda, honeydew,
watermelon, honeydew. I checked out with Miss Kitty Kat, and started my
post-aid digestive walk.
The entire next section was
old dirt road, ascending in just enough of a grade that kept walking
even after my stomach deflated. Sideshow Bob trotted past again, and we
exchanged another set of pleasantries. This became one of many quiet
sections. I knew that by running my own pace I'd like be by myself for
much of the time, but usually there is the boomerang effect from
earlier. This far in it seemed to separate much more. It stayed quiet
enough that I could pull over for a pee without having to trek too far
off course. After a few miles the road angled while also turning down
enough to trot. The sun was also starting to set. I felt a little
tired, hoped I could stay awake without issue.
Then up
again, with a few road switchbacks. The sky by now was a brilliant
orange turning to pink over purple and blue neighboring mountains. A
couple guys were within view behind me. I kept turning mid-stride,
completely distracted by the changing display of atmospheric grandeur.
We just don't get that on the east coast. And the higher we ascended
the wider it became as pink morphed into a blue-gray cloak.
Photo by Timothy James, taken from Facebook
The
last inkling of light remained as I reached Squaw Creek Gap, mile 60.
They had a bucket with sponges, so I used one to wipe off the gritty
salt, sunscreen, and dust that was covering my arms, neck and face.
Amazing how big of a difference that feels. Half banana, two cups of
coke, and a really nice gentleman and I started the steeper dirt road
ascent to the biggest peak of the day.
I kept turning during our hike-and-chat, holding my arms wide and exclaiming "Isn't that amazing??" The stars came out, with more constellations fit into one sky view than I remembered possible. They were all bright.
No competing light from cities to stifle the view. And as you looked
to the horizon you saw one long zig zag of the slowest shooting stars
ever. At least that's how it looked. They were actually the runners in
front of us, little twinkle lights a few miles away leading us
forward. Suddenly there was also context to where the rest of the race
community was dispersed, with the minutes between people now of visible
measure. Music then wafted in, a peculiar mix broadcast down the
mountainside from the aid station to keep runners moving.
The
old dirt road got rather choppy as we neared the bend of the last
switchback. I wondered how cars like our crew were faring with all the
ditches and random large rocks. After we turned for the last mile to
the aid station, we saw a few runners headed out to the next stretch.
Some were wearing down sweaters, but most were bundled somehow. With a
half mile to go Keila recognized me, Mike hot on her heels. And as we
rounded that last hill and turn I had to shield my ears from the
speakers. I had a brief flashback to Boston with the Welesley girls,
though relieved to open my eyes and see a group of ultra geeks clustered
under a few tents instead of a mile-long blockade of screaming girls.
------------------------
Miles 66-80
We
arrived at Dutchman Peak at 7400 feet. The sun was long gone, the moon
was super bright despite being at only three quarters, and a thick
blanket of stars encircled unobscured to all directions. Were it day
still then it would have held the best view of the course. Dutchman
used to be another flag grab, but this year the party was held entirely
at the peak, a little island of commotion surrounded by the night. This
was the last big aid station with crew and the first point where pacers
can join in, so there was an extra buzz of excitement.
Most
runners spent a little time here. I changed clothes completely even
though most of my clothes had dried as the day cooled the sun went
down. I think my sport bra was still a tad damp, but more so my entire
wardrobe from the day could stand up on its own from all the salty
sweat. I caught a whiff of my feet while removing my socks - that
almost blew me over. A volunteer and Julie just laughed, since they
were far enough to avoid the olfactory attack. I added another layer of
Aquafore to every possible body part. The Melissa re-pinned my bib
onto my bag, Julie handed me another protein shake. I wanted fruit but
was getting chilled; temperatures drop by some thirty degrees overnight
in Oregon, a far change from the ~15 degree difference in the concrete
jungle of NYC. When Melissa said they had broth my eyes doubled in
size. It is silly how good something like broth tastes at that point. I
had a second cup and put on my jacket since I was starting to shiver.
Photo by Timothy James, taken from Facebook
I
stood up, going through a mental rundown of my gear since this was my
last time seeing Julie and Melissa until the race finish. A volunteer
helping keep track of racers' times turned and saw me shivering.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. Once I get moving I'll heat up again."
"You have a pacer, right?"
"Nope."
Grand
pause from Mr. Volunteer. He blinked a few times while pondering a
shivering runner out alone in the wee hours of the morning.
"Are you dry?"
"Yes. I changed everything, right down to sport bra and socks."
"Do you have gloves?"
"No, but I have arm warmers I can use as gloves, and I have an extra head wrap too."
"Are you moving okay?"
"Yes.
I promise that I usually can't use this jacket unless it is below
twenty degrees. Give me ten minutes and I'll probably take it off
again."
He did not look convinced.
Marshall stood up from a chair three feet away. "Hey, Laura. Heading out?"
"Yes!"
"Sweet, let's do it!"
"Oh
wait, batteries!" Marshall had put on earbuds until he realized he'd
have a partner. It reminded me to grab my own iPod shuffle, which I
brought in case I was alone overnight and needed a human voice, and my
extra headlamp batteries.
Mr. Volunteer breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. He was okay with letting me go. Had Marshall not been there he may have let me go under more persuasion,
but he may have made me wait until warmed up or until an extra pacer
showed up looking for someone to run with. I thanked Julie and Melissa,
thanked the volunteers, and we checked out with the official clipboard
guy with a hoot and a holler and fists pumping overhead.
We
backtracked down the old dirt road for at least a mile down to the
parking lot just past our original switchback, then turned left for a
jaunt down another dirt road. Just before the turn onto the Pacific
Coast Trail I pulled over to take care of some business behind some
trees. Marshall went ahead assuming I'd catch up to him soon. I wasn't
so sure. Did I just sign away my only companion for the night? From
how things were getting spaced out, I sure wondered.
The
single track of the PCT is very fun, especially after so much dirt road
the last 18-ish miles. The day's trails were straighter cuts into the
mountainside aside from the switchbacks. The PCT seems older, with all
the winding up and down while essing side to side. I'm pretty sure this
trail would have been the prettiest for me had I been able to see more
than just what my headlamp would highlight, since wild grasses abut the
edges. Why I love the aesthetic of wild grasses so much is beyond me,
but I do. Something about the patterns, the way it moves a whole
pieces, and the swishy sound in the wind. I paused to re-tie my shoes,
feeling like I was overzealous at the aid station when expecting
downhill. I paused again to remove my jacket, as expected. Then two
minutes later I saw a headlamp stop and turn sideways up ahead.
Marshall was paused on a rock to tend blisters, told me to go ahead.
This
entire section is about nine miles long. The PCT as a whole descends a
bit, though stays above 6000 feet, and has a fair amount of variance
along the way. I kept my headlamp beam on high, but felt relaxed thanks
to the quality of Oregon trails. Were this Escarpment or the Bear
Mountain course then I'd probably be much slower.
Just
after crossing a road I came upon a salmon light (heading the opposite
way). It was Yassine Diboune again, wearing running gear and carrying a
substantial flashlight. Keeping lookout for runners in distress?
Going to post up at road crossing? Regardless, he's such a nice guy.
Gave lots of encouragement. I asked how far through the section we
were. He guessed four and a half miles, about halfway there. "There's
lots of downhill and runnable parts the rest of the way." Awesome.
So
turns out that Yassine's beta is based on his elite/semi-elite
capabilities. From the time I left him, the trail kept rising enough
that I kept power hiking. I wondered what the hell he was talking about, but a half hour later I realized that this is
runnable for him. As much as people shake their heads in amazement
while hearing about a 100-mile race, this was when I shook my head while
thinking about running so much more of the course than I had so far.
To
the left was a sheer drop from the trail. A few times I paused to
shine my light down and see what it was like. Popped another bunch of
chews with caffeine to keep my wits about me. I passed a pair of guys
who pulled over for some reason, but they seemed in good spirits and
were chatting away. Eventually the trail turned down. I trotted as
best as I could, trying to use momentum to help me loosen up. Another
section where you feel more like a runner and the decline is modest
enough to feel good. As it leveled off another salmon light approached
me. It was a woman in regular clothes.
"Did you pass any runners in distress?"
I paused, worried about those I had seen. "No. A few moving slow, but they seemed okay."
"Okay.
Thanks." With that she moved on. I hoped that was just a curious
inquiry rather than an attempt to track down someone who needed help. I
did my own mental checklist. Still moving decently. Stomach okay.
Mind okay. In fact, that same song from the morning (the one I didn't
even really know) was still looping through even with all the music from
Dutchman to replace it. GU Chomps and Honey Stinger chew intake was
slightly more frequent than before but consistent, and my drinking was consistent. Hand were more normal looking, just a hair of swelling now.
I
heard the cowbell before I saw the lights. I don't remember much about
Long John Saddle, mile 74, because I was so distracted by the sky. We
came out from the woods and onto a dirt road again, the moon and stars
even brighter than before. A volunteer explained the next section,
slight uphill on dirt road that very large industrial trucks could
manage year round. That didn't give me much confidence, but I
appreciated his zeal. I had some ginger ale and a few pieces of fruit.
Or something like that. And with the road heading ever so slightly up I
used my same hike-off-the-belly as before.
I tried
to keep my pace at what felt like 4mph. During training I only run four
days per week; the other three days are walking up and down hills on
the way to/from work. I only had muscle memory of effort and cadence to
gauge since I wore my basic, everyday Timex rather than my Garmin (the
battery lasts 8h max). A couple pairs of fellas passed while I hiked.
Sean and his pacer. Another guy I recognized and his pacer. So far I
was okay with being pacer-less. Hadn't even considered the iPod, thanks
to the random devil's dream in my mental stereo.
The road
turned down and I began my trot/run/penguin waddle. Awkward for the
first hundred feet or so, then starts to feel better. I passed each of
the pairs, who were taking their own turns to walk. I probably could
have turned off my headlamp and run by the moon since we were on dirt
road, but I was worried about my tendency to trip over nothing and the
few cars that passed en route to the next aid. The air alternated
through warm and cool pockets. I ended up taking out my arm sleeves
though keeping them doubled over on my forearms. At a later turn of the
road I thought I saw a bright light coming from high up in the trees.
Aid station? Did they hang a camp lantern from up high? Would be easy
to do by throwing a rope over a branch, but it was impressively high.
After the turn the light seemed to switch to the opposite side from what
I had thought. Maybe the station is further away than I thought?
Another turn, and the lantern became the moon and it moved over the road
straight ahead. Ooookay. Does that count as my one hallucination? I
ate another bunch of chews while tipping my hat to the Cheshire Cat.
Again, I heard the cow bell before I saw the light of Wagner Butte, mile 80.
