Pine to Palm 100-mile Endurance Run 2013 - Part III

Part I - Miles 0-50
Part II - Miles 50-80

 

Miles 80-90

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.

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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.

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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.

 
Next stop:  Hardrock lottery :)

Pine to Palm 100-mile Endurance Run 2013 - Part II

Part I - Miles 0-50

Miles 50-66

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. 

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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.

Pine to Palm 100-mile Endurance Run 2013 - Part I

The Pine to Palm 100-mile Endurance Run travels through the Siskiyou Mountains from Williams to Ashland, Oregon.  During that time, runners tag three peaks near/above 7000 feet of altitude, amass 20,000 feet each of gain and descent, and even spend about a half mile in California.

Not the easiest first hundred, but easy and flat are not appealing to me.  I wanted a course I would enjoy, and southern Oregon exponentially went beyond my expectations.  But the unknown was how I would fare in my first hundred mile race.  Anything can happen, and its almost guaranteed that something will happen - no matter how well planned, how well trained, or how experienced one might be.  My longest race prior to this was fifty miles, and those experiences were not guaranteed to cross over when the distance is literally doubled and includes new elements such as running through the night.

So as I toed the line with 120-some others on race morning, I basically assumed that everything would go wrong.  But, critically, I one hundred percent knew that I was going to finish.  That was my main goal, and come hell or high water I was going to finish.  Period.

Since this was my first hundred miler, there's a lot to say about it.  Grab some tea and settle down, because this is a long one....

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Miles 0-15:

P2P starts by ascending for about 10 miles to reach the first big peak of the day.  Road gave way to dirt road for the first five miles.  The incline is low enough to be runnable, and yet present enough to make me balk and instead power hike.  I trotted to get ahead of the couple who were using their trekking poles (come on, already? Really?), but otherwise used the slow pace to focus on the incredible sunrise to our side. 

Five miles in we were greeted by Hal, pointing us onto the trail.  This, in the fresh dawn light, was where the run really started.  East coast trails are very technical - littered with rocks, lots of small twists and turns, more direct paths and lots of scrambling up rocky passes.  Think Escarpment.  In Oregon, trails are smooth cut-outs from the side of a sloping mountainside - smooth, covered with pine, and often in a series of switchbacks.  My old lady knees felt great.  I barely noticed when I miss-judged the size of a downed tree and cut the inside of my knee while trying to straddle instead of sitting and swinging my legs over. 

The course markings were very clear, though it was a bit of a trust experiment at first since I'm not used to so infrequent of course turns.  Once above 6000 feet (per a fellow runner with an altimeter watch) the trail made a sharp zig zag though a grassy patch before heading back under the cover of giant pines.  Five hundred markers had been set along the course, less frequent when staying on the same trail and more frequent before and after turns.  Some switchbacks had reassurance markers immediately after the turn, but this zig zag did not.  I couldn't remember how long ago I'd last seen a marker.  I stopped and looked around, debated back tracking to make sure.  But since I didn't remember a genuine trail crossing I opted to continue on.  It took about five minutes of running to encounter the next marker, and I was so relieved to not be lost in a new place that I high fived the marker after kissing my hand.  Note to self: don't leave a particular trail unless directed to do so, and it will be marked well when the turn comes.  

I hit the top out at 8:40am, or 2h40 into the day.  This wasn't even as wide of a view as I'd be privy to later, and yet it still blew the wide Texas sky out of the water.  No matter if day or night, the layers of mountains progress from clear and solid color to increasingly hazy and lighter in the distance, but all you can see to the horizon are more peaks.  Beautiful, and this was even with crass mid-morning light.  The altitude then occurred to me, and while I was breathing ever so slightly harder than normal I had otherwise felt no difference on the ascent with my pace.  I also realized I had a particular song stuck in my head all morning.  It was something I heard on the radio while in Oregon, thanks to staying with Michael (who I met last year during Virgil Crest) and his sisters (Julie and Melissa) who had the car radio set on a local pop station.  Surprisingly, my mind picked a pleasantly appropriate song for the race, and it looped continuously.

I began the descent and caught up with a Japanese runner who was maintaining a good pace that he called "nice and easy" despite still recovering from food poisoning three days prior.  Just after he warned me of the grade the trail started at an angle hard to control in attempt to save your quads.  We did what we could, mostly running it but trying to keep things feeling loose.

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Miles 15-28:

Trail met dirt road at the O'Brien Creek aid station.  Volunteers refilled my hydration pack with half Gu Brew/half water while I ate some pineapple and dunked cold creek water over my head from a bucket.  Just before leaving a volunteer came up to me.  "You know you are second female, right?" 

I looked at him like he was insane.  "You're joking.  You have to be."  He asked if I knew Jenn Shelton.  She lived in Oregon for many years, is a sponsored athlete, and held the women's record for P2P.  "I know of her, though don't know her personally.  Doesn't surprise me she's in front.  But, seriously, you're lying to me, right?"  He just laughed and wished me a good race as I left with wide eyes.

Second female?  I felt like I was going nicely slow and steady.  Was I actually pushing too hard and would regret it later?  How many females were even running P2P?  I have no business pushing the front, and I am more consistent if I don't have the pressure of a race on top of my effort.  I decided to pretend like I didn't hear it and go back to being blissfully unaware of the race aspect of the day. 

The next section was seven miles of downhill dirt road.  Good for an easy running pace, though most of it exposed to the sun.  Along the way I met Chris, who met his girlfriend running the NYC Marathon a few years ago and he's planning to do it again this November - wearing an "All American" costume that includes cutoff jean shorts and tube socks.  How he doesn't chafe is beyond me.  I also met Marshall, though I didn't find out his name for a while.  Instead I knew him as Nice-Guy-in-Manpris.  We chatted with all kinds of things, as runners do, boomeranging back and forth as we took turns with easy and moderate paces.  

The next aid station, Steamboat Ranch, fell where the downhill dirt road started to turn upward.  I was inhaling a giant slice of watermelon when Marshall arrived.  "You know, if Jenn starts puking it'll be all you."  

I grunted in reply.  Chris chimed in that I was moving well.  "For now," I replied.  "We'll see how things go after dark when I'm in completely new territory."  

Marshall.  "Well, she's puked before so it's likely she'll puke again."  

Hmm.  Noted.  And for now, ignored.  I downed some ginger ale, dunked a water filled hat over my head a couple more times, and started my power hike up the hill while I digested all the fruit. 

The fellas caught up in a few minutes in their trot.  Once my stomach had deflated to a reasonable size (i.e. could tolerate my hydration bag straps) I trotted as well, and our boomeranging continued as the road went down a while further and turned up once more.  In this section I also met Sean and Jebb.  Locals would drive by occasionally, as expected, and we'd breath dust for a minute until the breeze cleared things out.  A few times drivers were a safe distance away but didn't slow down, and once a driver came from behind and honked their presence though didn't give much space.  I found myself cleaning dust boogers out of my nose, and as a result I developed a small but mostly controllable bleed from my right nostril from the dry air made drier by dust.  I smeared the inside of my nose with aquafore in hopes that it would help.  Pretty soon we picked up another rail to head up for short bit and then down for another bit into the next aid station.

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Miles 28-39:

Seattle Bar is the first big aid station with crew access.  It also has the first of two major medical team posts.  Music blasting.  Hundreds of people cheering for entering runners.  Basically a big ultra party.  I was keeping cool about the cheering until a group of women started yelling "Go get 'em, girl!"  That got me smiling and my fists pumping.  

Julie and Melissa were crewing Michael and, graciously, crewed for me as well.  His friend Kayla was also acting as crew until she became his pacer later on.  They took my hydration bag for a refill while I weighed in.  I was 132 lbs at the race meeting the afternoon prior, and I was 128.5 now at mile 22.  Considering what is now understood about water loss, I was completely safe and could continue to drink fluids as I had been.  I ate some watermelon dipped in salt, potatoes dipped in salt, and for a moment entertained a triangle of PB&J though quickly tossed it as I realized solid food was not going down easy and therefore was not worth it.  Went back to fruit and fluids, including a half serving of a protein shake.  The ladies sprayed my neck and arms with sunscreen and helped me refill my pockets with chews.  I was pretty clumsy in directing them at Seattle Bar, but they still made the whole thing super easy.  

After a couple more dunks of water overhead and with a silly grin on my face I turned to check out with the volunteers.  Turned out it was Meghan Argoblast, an incredible mainstay in ultra running who still kicks ass in her early 50s.  Dude.  Meghan wished me well and helped point me in the right direction.  Dude.  Awesome.

The next section began with singletrack switchbacks for about a half hour.  I had met John earlier, but this was my first real conversation with him.  He's done a handful of full Ironman races.  I commented on his strong ascending skills as he quickly out-hiked me.  "Stubborn and sturdy.  That's all." 

Then came the exposed ridge.  The course still slowly gains more elevation but with only pockets of shade.  It was mid-day, the sun strong overhead, temperatures in the 90s.  I was grateful for the sunscreen, but still felt like I was being toasted.  Any bit of shade felt at least 15 degrees cooler than in the sun.  I ran on the few flat stretches but still hiked the shallower climbs.  I left Seattle Bar with two liters of fluid, and I allowed myself to drink more than before because I felt thirsty enough and the dry weather could sort out any temporary overhydration during the afternoon - I figured it was a safer bet to work it out later than to intake too little now.  I passed a half dozen guys who were climbing slowly.  They all were carrying two bottles, yet they all ran out of water with at a couple miles to go.  I offered each of them what I had, though they all preferred to just continue slowly.  

By the time I reached the next aid station I had only about 250mL left in my bag.  My hands and wrists were also a bit swollen.  Stein Butte, mile 33, was small though incredibly memorable thanks to the heat.  I arrived to find a guy with long curly orange hair and find Jenn Shelton sitting in chairs, Jenn flexed forward and holding a half dozen stacked cups.  I asked if she was okay.  She described something of a puke fest from the heat, and was staying at the aid station to try and keep down fluids.  I refilled my bag, drank ginger ale. 

Then there was the bucket of euphoria.  I reached for the giant sponge to squeeze overhead, but the volunteer said to let her help so that they could conserve water.  She pressed it onto my chest, onto the back of my neck, and overhead.  Cold water ran down the entirety of me.  I stood there, stock still with my eyes closed, in love.  I am very happily married, but I was about ready to propose marriage to this woman right then and there.  And I mean lifelong glory.  It felt that good.  I wanted to live in that bucket.  Somehow I managed to whisper a groan and a sincere "Thank you," and forced myself to continue on.  

While I walked off my fluid filled belly, I decided to remove my wedding band should my swelling hands become problematic.  It took a few minutes of pumping a fist overhead to drain it enough, and I still had to use spit to get it over my knuckle. I tucked it away in my bag's little magnetic storage pocket, just like during Escarpment.  With this trend developing, next time I'll just take it off before the start.

Then thoughts of Jenn crept into my head again.  I really didn't want the pressure of first female, because I didn't want it to alter my decision-making.  I ran into John again, and used the conversation to distract me from the issue.  Just before the downhill started I pulled over to take care of some business as John continued on.  Once back on the trail I met another local fella.  He commented that I was doing well.  

I replied, "I'm pretty sure Jenn can push through a lot, so I'm assuming she's either going to pass soon or once it cools off."

"She did the same thing last year, puking from the heat, and then came back to win and get course record once the sun went down." 

Not even five minutes after turning off the dirt road and onto the trail, here came Jenn bounding away.  "There she is!  Rock it!"  Even with her puke fest, she barely flitted over the rocks and sped past us.  I had hoped that at least someone else was ahead that I wasn't told about, but now at least Jenn was in front and I could relax and focus on one step at a time.  

This downhill was fun.  Back in the shade, enough to gets the legs opened up but not too steep.  Still stayed on the careful side.  Caught up to John again, who was being cautious with his quads.  My own thighs were starting to feel it when the trail leveled off, so I kept the pace easy as the course wound through a half mile of campsite in California and turned back into Oregon to the next aid station.

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Miles 39-50:

Squaw Lake, mile 39, was the second crew access and thus another party.  The ladies came up to check on me, and as I started taking off my bag Kayla said I had three mile loop around the lake and would return to the same station.  I had enough water, so decided to save all aid station stuff until after the loop and told them I'd want to change shoes and have another 1/2 serving of protein shake.  I checked in with the official, yelling my bib number with both hands held to the sky.  We could circle the lake in either direction, he said.  So I took off to more cheers.  

I and most others took the lake counter clockwise, mostly because what I thought was the route for a clockwise loop could also have been a side trail and I wasn't sure.  Here I met Gordo.  Half way through a flag was placed indicating a turn, but there were two paths that could be interpreted as correct.  We tried the first, which led to a picnic site.  "This doesn't seem right.  Let's go back."  

Gordo shouted "Bonus!"  I think we only added a quarter mile of distance total, negligible considering the task at hand.  Once back on the loop we re-connected with John and Marshall.  I tried to waddle-trot up the barely-there incline while looping back toward the aid station, but it felt goofy enough that I decided to power walk.  

Back at Squaw Lake I got a pack refill, downed the protein shake, and changed shoes.  I had been using my tried and true Montrail Rogue Racers, but after that little extra feeling on the last downhill I figured it would behoove me to switch to the my Old Lady Knees friendly backups - Hoka Bondi Bs.  I kept my same socks, since I only had one backup pair and wanted to save those for my full clothing change at mile 65, though I did add more aquafore to all needed areas of my toes and feet.  A blister had been forming under my right fourth toe.  Once changed I could feel it and others a little raw.  I told myself that after a few minutes the feeling would fade and decided to not worry.  A couple pieces of banana, some ginger ale, and time to check out with the official guy. 

Without my asking, he told me that Jenn had left about ten minutes before but that one woman was way out ahead.  The idea of third was not so scary to maintain.  No other woman had come in yet.  As I started to trot out of the station, in came the next woman.  I gave her a big smile an a high five.  She was something like thirty minutes behind me, so I felt okay.  I saw Chris again, gave him a high five too.  

Then I hit a fork and stopped.  Did we come in from the right or the left?  A spectator said people were going up to the left.  I though to the right looked more intuitive.  Gordo came up and also paused.  Another guy said very confidently that people were going left.  So we went left.  Fifty feet later we encountered who I think may have been Craig Thornley, the race director of the Western States Endurance Run (one of the biggest and oldest hundreds in the states).  

He looked at us seriously.  "Are you finished?"  

"With the loop around the lake, yes." 

"But are you dropping?"

What??  "No no no!  Continuing!  People directed us up this way." 

He re-directed us to the right fork, and told us to follow the road down to the right.  

Gordo.  "Bonus!"  

Once we back-tracked to the fork I noted that I now saw the white arrows that I somehow missed before.  I turned to wave another thanks to Man-I-Think-Was-Craig, and he was already smiling at my commend.  Ultra humor.  

I walked a big on the downhill dirt road to repack my bag, since there were so many chews stuffed into the pockets that I couldn't breath.  My hands were still swollen, though not any worse.  The ladies passed by in the car en route to the next crew station, another little boost of encouragement.  Once re-packed I started my trot, which felt sooooo much smother in my mega-cushioned shoes.  I caught back up to Gordo and passed him, as he was starting to move gingerly.  The road turned up and I hiked again.  

Just before picking up the next trail I heard a quick cadence behind me.  It was Sideshow Bob. 

"How are you running up this hill?" I asked.  

"I get little breaks.  I run to the next person in front of me, then I get a break while we chat.  Then I run to the next person."  

He asked if this was my first P2P.  "Yup."  Was this my first 100?  "Yup." 

"Me too!"  Big high five.

Once on the trail I continued to hike up while Sideshow Bob picked up a run again.  After a bit the trail turned to the right and followed along the side of a ridge.  With the curvature of the ridge and the seemingly repeating pattern of foliage, it felt like we were either spiraling slowly up the mountain or stuck in an M. C. Escher work.  The main reassurance was the occasional flag on a different type of bush than before.  During this stretch I started to feel a tiny niggle in my stomach, so I walked while adding a salt tab to my fluids.  Within a few minutes this helped dramatically.  I don't know if its the taste of salt, or if its the actual concentration of salt in my stomach, but that solved it for me.  More and more Escher pseudo-loops, and eventually came to a dirt road that led up to the halfway point.