Telling myself I'm not a monster

This post is extremely personal.  While I first wrote these words to my husband, I realized that I need the support of everyone far and near to help me support my family.  Seeing scenarios like this almost daily in my work does nothing to ease the internal conflict.  Somehow putting things out into the universe, to my husband, then to a close friend, and now to you, helps me be honest with the clarity needed at a difficult time.

I am sitting awake in my hotel room at 1:00am after trying but failing to sleep. On Thursday my Grandma was in a car accident, spinning out and then rolling her Jeep on the ice.  Firefighters got her out, but she came out of it with just a small bruise on her shoulder, and checked out fully okay at the ER.  The next afternoon she was playing cards, then found down two hours later.  Massive stroke.  Was taken to Dubuque, IA, the closest hospital, and then transported to Iowa City.  I flew out Saturday afternoon.  Today, Sunday blending into Monday morning, was my first day with her and with my family.

It's harder tonight than it has been so far.  I think I stayed up too late in the first place and I'm now riding a mean second wind of emotions.  I flew out with the gut feeling that this was it, now or never, and that my Uncle would need help acting as the medical power of attorney since he is foreign as to interventions, their meaning, and the legality behind it all. Dad brought his copy of her paperwork, stating no interventions - do not resuscitate/do not intubate, no big tests, no antibiotics, no percutaneous endogastric tube or nasogastric tube for feeding.  Since she cannot swallow and has no mode for nutrition, reading that paper line by line with Uncle and Dad this morning made the gravity of the situation all too real.  But the task of assuring compliance with her wishes is suddenly making me feel like I am being preemptive, even though I know with all my heart that she does not want any bit of her current state.

I had a hard time leaving her at the hospital this afternoon. At 4:00pm or so she became tachycardia from 110-150 bpm and had elevated blood pressure of ~160/130.  This is the grandmother who had a pacemaker put in not many months ago. The nurse tried giving her a med by IV in a small dose to no effect, gave a bit more before we left.  A priest also came by upon request between med doses to forgive her of all sins.  uncle and Dad were ready to go for the day, more so Uncle.  Dad knows he has a pattern and respects that it is a part of his coping strategy.  It was almost like a time clock thing for him, in at 8 and out at 5. 

Mom, who was still KC in constant correspondence, had suggested verbalizing to her that we are there for support but it's okay for her to go, that we respect her wishes and seek to abide by them.  I might have held off until tomorrow were it not for the sinking feeling in my gut.  How do you tell your grandmother that you love her and want to follow her wishes without sounding like you are purposely pulling the plug??  I told her it was okay to go, that Grandpa and my Aunt M were waiting for her, because that is in line with her beliefs.  Grandma was more awake and looking at me as I said it and held her hand, but I didn't know if the tear from her eye was there before I started talking.  I found myself wishing for a cardiac complication that was clearly beyond acceptable treatment that could help solve the whole thing.  Every time my emotions swell my fingertips go numb for a second. 

I went to Target for a few things that hadn't fit on the plane or ended up being empty once Dad and uncle were at the hotel. I so very much needed New York City tonight, with constant lights blazing and wide sidewalks, just to roam for a few hours with the city chaos as a blanket.  Target is connected to a mall here.  I started wandering the mall only to immediately get denied by store closures. Back to Target, make myself buy dinner on the way, and back to the hotel.  Watched the late game, Pats at Indy, with Dad and Uncle.

At 10:15 I opted to retreat to my room to sleep, but instead found myself in front of the bathroom mirror.  For a half hour I looked myself in the eye repeating many words I already said today but will have to repeat tomorrow.  I needed to practice saying them, to reassure self that I am indeed saying the right things - that assuring all interventions be withheld is, in fact, not only her wishes but also the right thing to do.  Trying to reassure myself that I am not being a monster.  

And suddenly my heart sank thinking of my brother, helplessly stuck on the other side of the world.  His job sent him first to China and then to Australia.  He called when he woke, both of us in tears trying to figure out if he had a chance to make it in time to say goodbye.  Even though I know time tables are impossible to establish for death I had to ask the nurse and doctor for my brother's sake, because otherwise he probably couldn't forgive himself (or me) if he didn't at least try to make it work.  In reality, if a ticket was somehow available he probably would not get to the airport in time.  He almost immediately had to leave for northern Australia, basically going off the grid to another mine, and will be back to the Midwest on Thursday barring weather. My mirror conversation became me defending the question of a timeline as not stupid because of its purpose for Brother's peace of mind.  I was making up arguments with imaginary docs about something that won't be an issue tomorrow.  When I caught myself saying "Don't you fucking dare talk down to my family!" I realized what I had been doing unknowingly for the last half hour.  Time for bed.

When sleep didn't come I laid there wondering if the nurse would call Uncle if things changed, if we will walk in tomorrow to find her still snoring away like a true Irishwoman from a long line of snorers, or if she will pass overnight during one of the moments like this that it hits me so very hard.  I think the difficulty Dad and Uncle had making decisions during previous admissions is less for them since I am here, which was a major part of my decision to come so quickly.  But this is quite literally the hardest thing I have ever done.  Not only am I holding the finality of someone's life in my hand, she is my frail and helpless grandmother.  I don't know what I believe in when it comes to death, but to have signs of life around me helps remove the existential crisis and supplant it with the wonderment of reincarnation, of the principle of conservation of energy, of a continuing world that had an impact from your footprint.  I suddenly feel trapped by my hotel room, by the icy ground outside, by the single digit temperatures.  

My plan is to walk in the morning amid the college students, working my way around the town and campus before heading to the hospital.  I guess you could say to wander in the cold, so that as my face burns I can tell I am still alive and in reality.  To be surrounded by the familiar beeps and sounds and smells of a hospital, so familiar after two and a half years of working in acute care, but to not have access to her chart or the docs or equipment... It is a very confusing place to be.  

Music

Morning walks during the last month of Daylight Savings were solidly in the dark.  I was listening to music and looking up more often, with a sense of calm and of fun during my break from running.  No pressure, no training goals.  Monsoon season was also nearly gone, so few if any clouds existed.  Orion was to the southeast, the big dipper to the north, and thousands upon thousands of smaller starts filled in all the gaps between.  How many of these are visible because of minimal to no interference from human habitation, or does the thin air of elevation allow better vantage?  It is not as many as visible from the rural coast of eastern Nova Scotia, but otherwise it is the most to which I have ever been privy.  I though of Mrs. Barr's astronomy class during PEP (2nd or 3rd grade).  The green sheets with pictures of constellations.  The nightly moon calendar we were to fill out - I over appropriated the degree of each phase; Mom offered nightly discerning observation.  Three potential Ws also filled the pre-dawn sky, but I couldn't recall its name or which was correct, if any of them.  The particularly crisp mornings offered a thin film of the Milky Way.  And daily - daily! - I'd see at least one comet shooting across the sky, most often to the east. 

October brought my year anniversary of moving to rural Colorado.  Only now did I realize how much of that year was spent adjusting to the deeper cold, the huge difference made by the sun, and how to dress for the valley's easterly winds that give half of my runs a headwind and cause drool and snot to freeze in stripes and globs on my face.  I have also learned to trust the moon, to use its light instead of automatically defaulting to a headlamp even when a mere crescent.  (I still always wear a headlamp when on the road.)  I came to trust the moon so much its absence during Bear factored into my meltdown and my need for a human voice and presence. 

I had also trusted the simple sound of my environment since 2007.  While walking I often listened to talk radio news, but I was so conditioned to relative silence that the conscious act of packing my iPod as a backup for races like Bear was wasted.  Not once did I think of donning my ear buds, even upon suggestion from my husband.  In hindsight, October also became my experiment with music.  It was the exact playlist used for Bear and for Pine to Palm the year before (where I also never used music). 

That first walk with a soundtrack illustrated the power of tunes.  Half of them did not work, even when walking in the dark with my dog and within the safe proximity of a warm house filled with kittens and a spouse.  Being alone in the dark with a gaping sky can bring peaceful meditation but also existential questioning.  Albums that normally can fill in a day's gaps with artistic humanity, like Mumford and Sons, suddenly were being skipped, and skipped, and skipped.  Broken Social Scene for the most part survived except for its melancholy contextual interludes.  David Bowie was half good but half hokey.  All but two Bob Dylan songs became annoying.  Gnarles Barkley and Talking Heads became a refreshing relief.  I was itching for Sharon Jones and Raphael Saadiq, but my iPod Shuffle apparently like to focus on all the songs I wanted to skip.

After my month off I continued to use music while running, now with a parsed out playlist.  Running itself felt much more effortless than before, but the music perked up my pace even more so that easy runs were a minute faster per mile than September.  Since Daylight Savings ended my mornings have regained sunrises of prismatic morphology to add to my music.  It is a much different experience, even with wind chills already into single digits.  I think back to Bear and laugh at myself.  At least I know I can complete challenging tasks when cognitively fried.  The morning light will only stay for a month at the most, so I am enjoying it as much as I can before the dark also brings sub-zero temperatures that regulate me to a treadmill.

Yesterday marked two weeks of having returned to running.  I still used music, though it was hard to hear over the headwind.  While trotting along forest roads to the Natural Arch I heard a horn, turned to find an SUV filled with hunters, so moved over and exchanged waves as they passed.  Turns out they had been behind me for a third of a mile, slightly farther back but still honking to pass.  Nathan, attempting to run according to heart rate, started to sprint in attempt to catch up and alert me.  In my own defense I have only encountered perhaps five cars total on that road within the last year, and there was lots of shoulder room that would allow passage of anything but a little sedan.  But they may have been amused by the few times I jammed out with my arms, oblivious to their presence.

The Bear 100 Mile Endurance Run 2014 - Part II

Part I - start to mile 51.8

Mile 61 to 99

Mile 0 to 60

Mile 0 to 60

Mile 61 to 99

TONY GROVE (51.8) to FRANKLIN BASIN (61.5)

I slowly marched up the sparse and meadow-like hill.  The loose train that left before me was out of sight.  Every so often I’d hear people behind me, but could not see them despite the openness of the trail.  I was on my own through the rest of the climb through the trees to a long clearing on the other side of the ridge.  The sun was setting behind the clouds.  I was not pushing the pace while picking through all the rocks.  It was not a steep descent, but I wanted to save my headlamp battery until truly needed.  Amie and pacer jogged past again, chatty.  A handful more guys appeared.  Some passed me.  The clearing became a meadow spread along the base between two mountains, the trail skirting the right side while popping in/out of the woods.  In the blue dusk it was comforting to have a handful of bodies in the distance ahead as well as behind.  Headlamps would go on under tree cover, off in the open meadow. 

At a small crest in the meadow another guy caught up to me.  We had accordioned much earlier in the day but had not spent time at the same pace in order to chat, so I never learned his name.  We each stepped over the downed tree.  He was chatting lightly with the other guy he passed.  I was just about to say hello when I heard THWOMP. 

I know that sound.  Usually that’s me falling.  I passed to look back, and sure enough he was working his way back onto his feet.  “Okay, okay.  I’ll use the headlamp now.”  He said he was okay.  We both turned on our lights for good.

Here the trail started developing odd splits.  Was this only in my head because of the waning light?  Or were some of the trails actually creek beds?  I paused at one split with the guy who fell.  We each took a side to look for a marker, only to find they rejoined on the other side of a ground swell.  Small lightning flashes were visible on the horizon.

The trails became more technical and rocky the farther we descended through the trees for a handful more miles toward the next aid station.  Guy Who Fell slowly pulled away.  Some are much more confident with going at techy stuff and unconcerned if they fall.  I’d stumbled a good dozen times, once bashing my left big toe, but worked hard to stay on my feet.  Not sure why, but I really, REALLY did NOT want to fall.  I did not want to bash my knee(s) in the same place(s) that always break my fall.  But I think mentally the race had been enough of a trial without the added insult of a fall.

Once at the aid station it was decidedly dark.  I felt better than at Tony Grove, but in the back of my mind I was worried by how long it took to descend.  Nathan had my change of clothes laid out behind a parked trailer so that I was out of view of the aid station itself, though runners coming up the trail could possibly see.  I really didn’t care.  Nathan kept trying to help me not shine my headlamp on myself, but swapping out sport bras means you have to duck your head, especially when wearing a ball cap and headlamp.  I had another protein shake and asked for my ipod and extra headlamp batteries.  Sam offered the second headlamp I planned to use around my waist, but I cannot fathom anything across my abdomen at this point so decline.  Nathan unwound the ipod ear buds.  I didn’t want to wear them now; they were just back up in case I later needed a human voice.  He wound it back up into its ziplock and I tucked it into a pocket of my pack.  We also swapped Suuntos, since mine didn’t save my setting and lost power.  It shut off a mere one mile shy of the aid station.

Time check – only a 10 minute stop.  Last year my clothing change took a good 30-40 minutes.  This is good.  At least I was not wasting lots of time at the stations.

I was just about to check out.  “I’ll see you in two and a half hours,” said Nathan.

I cringed.  “Yea right.”  The boys had me write down estimated times for each section.  I had aired on the side of slightly generous times, and even those weren’t holding up now.

“You will.  I will see you in two and a half hours.”

“Not if the rain starts.”

Sam looked upward.  “It’s not all cloudy.  I see some stars.  Maybe it’ll hold off.”

I mentally sighed, knowing how much I bring the weather with me to races.  Time to check out.

FRANKLING BASIN (61.5) to LOGAN RIVER (69.5)

A half mile flat jog on open forest road led to a steep climb.  It took for-e-ver.  Random pink flags and reflective markers would appear every so often in a proximity that felt less leading-the-way and more along the lines of stumbled-upon confirmation markers.  The trees were dense, and the path made small zig-zags around boulders, large trunks and fallen logs.  Occasional grumble moos and wide set eyes would startle me from the nearby trees – cows out munching in the dark. 

I kept finding myself paused, trail marker glowing in my headlamp beam some 30 feet directly ahead but with a seeming split in the trail.  Many rejoined on the other side of an obstacle.  A couple times what seemed logical turned out to be a creek bed.  Second guessing myself had become the norm.  Why am I not seeing this well?  Another light caught up to me just as I was becoming truly confused.  I also had no idea how long the climb lasted, or what to expect at all this section.

Another reason P2P was so much easier: we had just shy of a full moon, not needing headlamps for whole sections at a time.  With the tree cover and clouds there was nothing.  Cresting the climb I looked at my watch – those three miles took 1h 20m, and that includes the “speedy” half mile jog from Franklin.  I shook it off and kept walking.  I still felt okay, considering.  Is my headlamp dimming?  Maybe it’ll last to the next aid station.

I caught a middle-aged guy who was also walking.  After passing he stayed on my tail for a bit.  I asked how he was doing. 

“Not good.”  Slight accent.  “I cannot eat or drink, so I am eating my muscles.”   My heart sank for him.  He was still moving, which was good. 

After a good ten minutes I finally felt ready to get on with it so started to jog.  A guy slowly caught up to me but then stayed in my wake.  The trail took a 140 degree turn to go slightly uphill, make a wide U, and curve back to a trail descending into the trees.  Before heading down I realized my battery was very much dying, and I didn’t trust myself to go downhill without my own light.  The guy offered to let me stay on his tail, but I still didn’t trust it.  He bounced down the trail. 

I glanced all around.  No other lights anywhere in sight, and still no moon.  Okay, Laura, do this right the first time.  New batteries in hand.  Open the case.  Fumbling.  Flipped the light over to try the other side.  Fumbling, worse.  Flipped it back.  Swear words.  Pause.  Big breath.  Start over.  Concentrated.  Finally opens.  Note battery arrangement when removing.  Put in correctly the first time.  Middle battery kept landing in the third slot.  Removed, retried.  Third slot.  Swear words, sounding desperate.  Finally in place.  Close lid tight.  The light worked.  Hot f*cking spit.  Only lost an entire five minutes with that bumbling routine.  Removed my shoulders from my ears and began the descent. 

The wheels were coming off.

A quarter mile into the trees I realized I had seen numerous potentials for the trail.  Is this right?  No confirmation marker.  Turned around, went back to last seen marker, started again, same path.  Still no confirmation marker.  Turned around.

Mental meltdown.  Everything changes. 

Don’t get lost.  I was crying and speaking out loud.  To no one.  Where the f*ck is the trail?  Where the f*ck is the trail marker?!?  Head starting to hurt from squeezing fluid out of my face so quickly.  I’m alone.  I DON’T WANT TO GET LOST. 

Two guys descend into the trees.  I choke it all back, stifle my heaving pitiful self, and turn forward on the trail.  I let them pass and jog behind.

Had I gone another fifty feet then I’d have found the marker without issue.  Tears involuntarily flow.  I’m furious with myself for being so unreasonable.  Nothing said to turn, so why would you have changed trails?  I had no logic at this point.  This was not my usual behavior.  I don’t get emotional like this during runs or races.  I maintain my self-pity-jog, trying to opt for stoic.  It’s not working. 

I have no recollection if I caught Mark and his pacer or if they caught me, but suddenly I had people going my speed.  I had voices and the presence of others.  Mark’s pacer is very chatty and very supportive, telling stories about running Bear in the snow the previous year as well as what to expect for this section, dictating mile by mile.  Turns out Mark and I were both having a rough time. 

“When you get to the lodge do NOT go inside and do NOT sit.  Everyone who sits ends up dropping.  It’s a grave site there.”  Oookay.  Point taken.

We hit the small creek crossings and the road to the aid station.  Slight downhill.  I jog.  Mark apparently lost his descending legs so I pull ahead, though not by much.  When I get to the aid station, which is without crew, I somehow hold things together. 

The volunteers offer grilled cheese and innumerable other solid foods.  I silently shake my head no.  All I want is broth.  A canopy covers the sitting area.  Mark arrives, makes a joke out of breaking his friend’s rule, sits in a chair and smiles.  Trying to make humor out of his discomfort. 

I glance at my watch.  Astronomically way off from Nathan’s comment of two and a half hours. 

I mention to a volunteer about the middle aged runner who couldn’t eat or drink, hoping he’d arrive sooner than later.  After my second cup of broth I leave.  I know I’m not in a good place, and I don’t want to extend my time any more than necessary.

LOGAN RIVER (69.5) to BEAVER MOUNTAIN/LODGE (75.8)

This time I ask what to expect.  “Six miles.  Three up and three down, but nothing as bad as what you just did.” 

I kept repeating his phrase in my head.  Three up and three down.  Three up and three down until you see Nathan and Sam. 

Just out of the aid station came the small river that was more like a creek.  A half dozen logs were piled up so runners didn’t have to wade unless they desired.  I cross with a chatty guy and his pacer Charity behind me, though once on the other side starting the uphill they march past and keep on going.  Mark and his pacer also catch up and pass.  “We’re pushing it since we’re not down-hilling very well.”  They power hike to some hundred feet ahead as I slam my left big toe into a rock for the second time.  Twelve or so stumbles but still no falls.

Still eating on schedule, but mental acuity slides away again.  My greatest need is a physical presence, not just a voice.  Doesn’t matter if I know them.  Doesn’t matter if they are interesting.  I need to offset the deep, unsettling feeling of being alone.  The rest of the uphill and the entirety of the downhill remains absent in my mind.  All I know is that the involuntary crying continued.  I do not miss any one person specifically; I do not feel sorry for myself; I am not overwhelmed or worried about finishing, because I know I have ample time to march myself to the finish no matter how slow.  I have no idea why my mind gives out.  It just does.

At the bottom of the descent a train of four happily trots by, moving well.  Two men and two woman.  Normal verbal exchange.  I try to minimize the terseness of my reply.  One woman yells out, “You’re doing great!”  I choke up.  She means well, and I spend the next few minutes futilely convincing myself of such.  It felt like adding insult to injury. 

Cars up ahead.  We turn alongside the road, small incline.  Watch check.  The two and a half hour section was turning into five hours.  It was pouring.  A passing truck didn’t move over, didn’t slow down.  The uncontrollable crying started again.  I walk the climb, watching the Happy Train of Four’s lights disappear in the distance.  How long is this climb?  Where the hell is the aid station?? 

Buildings appear in what was probably a mile later.  I am standing, heavy, at the entrance to the parking lot next to a reflective marker.  Unable to find the next.  Headlamp slowly scans back and forth. 

Woman calls out, “Keep going.  All the way down.”  Mustered a thanks.  Slow trudge through more parking, find a second building.  Again I stop, unclear of where to go.  Standing in the rain, scanning.  Feeling awfully alone despite cars parked all around and the occasional oblivious person walking around.

“Laura!”

I look over.  Sam and Nathan are standing to the side in the dark, waving their hands.  I can tell they are worried.

Nathan.  “How are you feeling?” 

I shake my head and drop my gaze, trudging past toward the light at the back of the building.  This is apparently the lodge.  Someone called it a yurt.  The tears are trying to push through; I’m fighting them back with every ounce of potential pride I might somehow retain. 

At the lodge/yurt entrance everyone is huddled under the small porch awning or packed inside, including the communications guys.  I hate that I have to enter a lit area to check in, wanting to avoid confrontation about my condition.  I go in, call out my number from afar, and immediately turn around to head outside.  It is boiling in there. 

Everyone on the stoop can hear my sniffles, the shaking in my voice.  They keep their heads down, avoiding eye contact.  The guys I sit next to moves over to give me more room.  With very few words I pull off my shoes, remove a safety pin from my bib, and pop the three quarters of an inch long blister on the lateral side of my left big toe.  There are at least six blisters on each foot, but this was the only one obstructing toe movement.  Someone I don’t know shines a weak light when they see what I’m doing.  It stings.  He offers a bandaid.  I decline.  It won’t stay in place anyways.  Remembering last year, I retie my shoes snug so they don’t move and I can pretend the blisters don’t exist. 

I stand, cringing but ignoring my feet.  My gloves are soaked so I take them of.  Change into a long sleeve shirt and put my rain jacket back on.  Ask for extra caffeinated gels.  Sip some broth. 

Still with eyes to the ground.  “What is the next section?”  Sam scrounges quickly for the reference sheet.  The silent guy sitting next to me pulls out a small laminated card with the elevation profile.  He gently points and describes our current location and what is to come.  A little down, lots of up, and some more down to the next crew station.  One non-crew aid on a flat spot mid-climb. 

Nathan.  “Do you want me to run with you to the end?”  He’s referring to the last fifteen.  I nod multiple times, still not looking up, the biggest communication I’ve managed during the whole pathetic exchange. 

Another point of pride maintenance to check myself out.  Stepped in just far enough, called it out, gave a weak wave goodbye to Sam and Nathan.  

BEAR MOUNTAIN/LODGE (75.8) to GIBSON BASIN (81.1)

Starting the next section was no less rocky.  I step away from the yurt but with no idea where to go.  The light rain picks up again.  Perfect.  People are standing around.  I have to ask where to go, and they point to the reflectors to the left where the tall grass starts.  I pull my hands into the cuffs of my sleeves.

Once away from the yurt there are a ton of reflectors, which is good because this is a fabricated non-trail through knee high willows.  My calf sleeves are already soaked from the runoff from the brush. 

The markers turn onto a gravel road, and then I see another left turn marker without anything afterward to confirm.  I hate this game.  Standing flat-footed, I look back to see two others coming up soon.  I am content to wait.  The nearly passed it until I called out.

“Do you know if this is actually a turn?”  They agree to how it appears, and we go back and forth four times only to be confused by two branches placed as though directing traffic but without anything logical following.  Two others are parallel on the road and did not turn off.  They say to continue on the road until a turn farther ahead. 

So starts the forest road ascent, which is super muddy with a deep V cut into the middle from runoff.  We slide with every step.  I kick off the clumps of mud every so often, but it collects just as fast. 

These two seem really nice.  His name is Ben, and he was the guy taking a “planned walking break” much earlier in the hot section.  Apparently he went out much too fast and blew up, so spent the rest of the time since “digging my way out.”  They are marching fast.  I’m not keeping up well, but when they get about two hundred feet away I realize that I need them.  Desperately.  I clench my jaw and hike as fast as I can, quelling the nerves that tell me I’m going to fall on my ass in the mud.  I also down two caffeineated gels.  Closing the distance.  Ben stops to tie his shoe and I pass through, marching at some four mph uphill, knowing I need accrue a buffer to stay with them.  Ben and his pacer are chatting the whole time.  They catch up and pass. I stub my left big toenail again, make myself keep climbing. 

Nearing the top of the four mile climb I thanked them for unknowingly helping me out.  We slip and slide our way along toward the open meadow atop the ridge.  I am only so capable though feel decidedly more alert than any time the last twenty miles.  The rain has eased off.

The aid station is a random couple of tables and two tents randomly in the middle of openness.  No stars, but the tree line set back at the edge of the meadow is faintly visible.  I down two cups of broth and head out.  I don’t want to stop long.  

GIBSON BASIN (81.8) to BEAVER CREEK (85.75)

One mile courses a muddy flat road.  I get fooled by four turn markers, meant more to prevent anyone from missing the actual turn once it appears.  We turn again into the woods for a moderate climb for a mile before descending for the rest of the section.  I only remember it as slow and appeared steeper than it probably was because of the amount of mud between the rocks.  I am granny-descending because I still don’t want to fall.  The three mile descent takes for.e.ver.

At the aid station I am feeling mentally numb.  Sam was wearing my gloves to warm and dry them for me.  I put on a second long sleeve, considering my real rain shell instead of my running shell (which, thankfully, is heavily water resistant and has helped astronomically – having learned my lesson the hard way during Jemez) but sticking with what had got me through so far.  Add an ear wrap on top of my ball cap.  New batteries in my headlamp, switched out by Sam because I’m a helpless toddler at this point.  Nathan gets ready.  I ask for however many caffeinated gels may be left over.  There’s only one extra left, but I still have two in my pocket.  I down two of them, hoping to perk up so Nathan does not kill me. 

BEAVER CREEK (85.75) to RANGER DIP (92.2)

We leave the station around 5:00am.  Almost immediately I fumble with my headlamp because it was unintentionally switched to the red light setting during the battery change.  My gloved finger slips off the button and I cannot get it to change back.  Nathan sees that I’m a half second from a major frustration freak out, grabs the light to whip it off my head, but it gets stuck under my jacket hood and around my tiny paintbrush pigtails.  There’s a lot of sputtering and swearing to get the hood and then headlamp off.  Nathan hasn’t used this feature before and cannot get it to switch over.  I take it back and managed to hold the button long enough for it to convert.  Big sigh.  I wonder if any aid station folks were entertained by that exchange, since we are only thirty feet away.

I have someone to talk to me as we start the four mile climb.  I’m trying to move consistently, which is nowhere near as fast as chasing Ben.  Nathan is being positive, even with my darkly sarcastic replies.  We wonder about Sam, who is navigating our Toyota Prius down muddy roads that were okay to ascend three hours ago but since then have been significantly chewed up through he rain and the other crews.  He’s crafty and young, and at least he’s going downhill.  He offered to try to get to Ranger Dip, but at this point I just need to finish and no extra gear is going to help.  Plus with the rain we doubt he’d make it.  He will meet us at the end. 

My GI system realizes it is morning, and regular routine or not I pull over to empty out.  I take it as a good sign that my body has not shut down. 

Back on the forest road I’m able to make jokes about my slow progress, and describing my meltdown out loud helps my outlook and takes the pressure off the remaining miles.  Nathan hikes to 50 feet in front, pauses, waits for me to catch up.  This repeats over and over again. 

We are but one mile in when the rain starts, something like 5:30am.  We are eager for the sunrise, but doubt it will be present until closer to seven o’clock if not later.  Lightning strikes behind us, thunder echoes with a two-second delay.  Climbing still, slowly.  We are between 8000 and 9000 feet, winding our way over the top of High Top.  Rain becomes a true thunderstorm with horizontal winds and what resembles pre-freezing rain.  Temperatures are probably in the mid to low thirties.  I am not freezing cold, but I’m not comfortable.  Every five seconds is a groan, as though this might help. 

Nathan remarks that if you look the right direction you can see a faint amount of light differentiating from the tree tops.  It takes another half hour before the blue dawn arrives.  We are still climbing.

“I don’t want to stop at the next aid station.  I want to keep moving to stay warm.”  Nathan looks doubtful but nods his head.  A few minutes later my left foot slips into a puddle and is soaked.  The rain somehow strengthens again.  I do not say it out loud, but I know we won’t keep warm on our own if the rain continues.  I’m still groaning with every fifth step.

Miraculously the summit exists, and the rain stops.  We have daylight, albeit with a thick layer of gray clouds that continue to look ominous.  On the other side is a liquid mud forest/ATV road with multiple trenches cut out by the rain.  No shoe can handle these circumstances with any decency, but the Hokas make matters worse with the enlarged footprint – the volume of mud they take on, the amount of hydroplaning that this creates.  A couple pairs of guys pass us.  They are willing to jog, willing to accept their feet sliding out from beneath them.  I look like I’ve never seen mud before in my life, but my quads are completely shot and I don’t care.  I cannot run downhill even if I wanted to.  We can see the aid station tents in the distance, but for me the descent is slower than the preceding ascent even as the declination levels out. 

At the aid station are two or three groups huddled around heaters.  I choose the heater under the tent.  We sit.  A volunteer asks if we are cold, and I tell her it’s just my hands.  My attitude is improving.  Little things like having planned clothes better than Jemez so that I’m in a fairly good state aside from my inability to run.  I hold my gloved hands up to the heater, every so often pull them back to let steam blow off.  Trying to dry them a big without removing them, because once off they’ll lose all heat and become useless icicles.  At least this way they are still benefitting my hands.  I realize Mark and his pacer are in this group as well, blankets wrapped around their shoulders and legs, their shirts across their lap.  They didn’t have rain gear and got soaked.  Mark does not look happy. 

Nathan and I ponder whether to stay a while or whether to take off.  Mark’s pacer encourages for them to leave, but when they assess their clothes it is like donning a cold wet swimsuit in winter.  I’m glad I didn’t remove anything.  I ask if anyone knows what is coming up.  Mark’s pacer describes a steep climb followed by mostly downhill on what is likely to be messy muddy access roads.  I look at Nathan, we nod, and decide that we just want to get it done. 

RANGER DIP (92.2) to FINISH (99.7)

The climb out of Ranger Dip is steep, muddy, technical.  My mind knows we are soon to finish so I am in a good mood and laughing at the goofiness of the climb. 

“Try going up like you’re on skis,” suggests Nathan, feet and knees winged open.  It works a fraction better.  A couple guys with trekking poles pass us.  Nathan sees a large stick and hands it to me to try.  It helps another fraction.  At least we are moving.  It is not that long of a climb, just super steep.  I wonder what it was like for the race leaders who undoubtedly made it through before the major rain.  They probably ran this hill.  Lucky bastards. 

Some two or three more miles are only modestly angled over the ridge.  I have three speed options remaining: walking, walking slightly faster, and a crouched granny shuffle on peg legs.  I have to ask Nathan if the granny shuffle is actually any faster than walking.  Apparently it is enough faster that it is worthwhile.  I am grateful that no one is around with a video camera.

The trail winds down out of the woods, and we see the hills leading down to the edge of Bear Lake.  Don’t know how many miles are left, but we are close.  The mud and clay stick horribly to the Hokas, creating four-inch wings off each side of my shoes.  Knocking them off makes no difference.  If this were snow we could mock-ski our way down, but this mud is too cakey.  Mark and his pacer pass again.  A couple other guys pass.  The muddy descent is a couple of miles of cautiously picking my way.  We are flanking a few houses, which is encouraging.  (Super duper expensive looking houses, mind you.)   A light rain starts.  Short uphill climb, then more descent to the gravel road.  Only two miles or so to go.

Between the flat road and knowing the finish is near I am able to jog, immensely impressed at my ten-minute mile pace.  Nathan’s watch, in perfect comedic timing, dies with a mile to go.  A quarter mile to go and we see a T intersection ahead.  Someone is standing, waiting.  Sam!  He points us to the left and notes where we cross the street to get to the finishing park.  I get to the crossing point and have to wait for a couple cars to pass.  One takes their sweet time, turns onto the road that is blocked off for runners.   I have a mere 100 feet remaining and I have to wait for this guy.  Over it.  Cross the street, use my best penguin jog as I make my way down the line.

28:34:29.  Good enough for a Grizzly Bear buckle (sub-30 hours), 9^th female (out of 41 who finished), and 56^th overall (out of 167). 

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Having covered 27 miles of Hardrock while helping clear the course last summer, I plainly see the HR board’s reasoning behind the specificity of qualifying races.  Someone could run Pine to Palm and be entirely unprepared.  Now that Bear threw everything that could go wrong at me, at the very least I know I can complete the course.  Lessons learned: use pacers, be selective as to choice of hills during training, be more protective of getting in the miles I need (difficult to do with a car commute!), continue refining shoe choice, and practice running with music. 

On that last point, Sam and Nathan said retrospectively they should have shoved my headphone in my ears at mile 75 when I arrived completely deflated.  I have not run with music for some ten years, only twice now (each hundred mile race) carried it as a back up that I never thought to use.  I don’t know if it would make a difference, but worthwhile to try. 

People keep asking if I’d do it again, assuming it is a once and done experience when it is that rough.  Well, I signed up for the Hardrock lottery one week later.  (My chances are a mere 0.05% because of multiple tickets, up from 0.01% chance last year.)



Photos forthcoming.

The Bear 100 mile Endurance Run 2014 - Part I

The Bear 100 was my second “race” at this distance, but the differences were dramatic from last year’s Pine to Palm (part I, part II, part III).  P2P was, in the end, more of a test of my tolerance of the distance.  Bear was a test of my tolerance to an actual mountain run, in the same way that all my races this year have been at altitude, with sustained climbs and descents, and much more trying than any previous trail races despite the east coast’s supremely technical terrain.  I had my own crew this time, composed of my husband Nathan and little brother Sam, but let’s just say all the challenges I managed to avoid last year came crashing down onto me in ultra running karma this year.

Map of the start to mile 60, per my Suunto.

Elevation profile and my pace (in blue) from start to mile 60, per my Suunto.  The tall blue peaks are aid stations.

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START to LOGAN PEAK (10.5)

We started at the edge of town along roads, climbing from the very beginning from 4800 to 8100 feet in 4 miles.  I recognized many from Hardrock at the race meeting the day before, whether now running Bear or crewing/pacing or volunteering.  I ran into Erich, who was in my course clearing group for Hardrock’s first 27 miles, while in line for the pre-race port-a-johns; I was certain that he was ahead and would do well.  Most were quiet on the climb, hiking along.  With the sunrise came beautiful and invigorating views of yellow aspen groves between lush and full pine; none of the scraggly, skinny, half dried pine that fills southern Colorado.  This was a hard course to keep your eyes moving forward.  

Guys around me started getting chatty.  They discussed last year where they had at least four inches of snow the whole race as well as sub-freezing temperatures overnight.  Kevin apparently ran P2P one week prior.  I asked him if the smoke from the northern California fires affected their breathing.  But then I asked why running P2P and Bear on back to back weekends seemed like a good idea.  His answer had something to do with previously DNF-ing at Bear, then finishing but not having a good race, and somehow running P2P was helping him prepare better.  (DNF = did not finish.)  His injury history matches his current ultra schedule in frequency and intensity. 

Then Kevin asked me “Why did they take Pine to Palm off the Hardrock list?”  This was news to me.  I pondered for a moment. 

“Well, we’re only a few miles in, but this seems more technical.  P2P has gentle long climbs on maintained gravel roads that mining trucks can traverse in the winter, and only a few of them are super steep or technical.  I bet that’s why.” 

Little did I know just how foretelling of an answer that was….

After cresting 8100 feet the course wove in a sawtooth over the Syncline South ridge.  Heading up Logan Peak (>8800 feet) I was marching along with Marcy and then with Jen.  Jen recognized me, and we realized it was from the Speedgoat 50k back in July.  Already this was the most time I’d spent in an ultra with just females.  That was neat. 

There was no crew at the aid station.  I don’t remember anything about it, though I probably ate a few watermelon chunks.

LOGAN PEAK (10.5) to LEATHAM HOLLOW (19.7)

After a bit more climbing we descended from 8800 to 5200 feet.  I ran basically the entire descent with Sara, who turns out to be a physiatrist (physical medicine & rehabilitation doctor) who works with athletes as well as a small rehab hospital.  I had fun comparing notes about the differences between urban and rural health care.  She has a relative in Crestone, CO, and previously considered Alamosa when looking for a job, but instead headed to Idaho.  I told her she was better off considering what and how she prefers to practice.

About a mile into the 7.5 mile descent we heard an ATV behind us.  A lot of the course is over shared trails/access roads, so off roaders and hunters are possibly out and about.  We heard them bottom out a half dozen times, slowly closing in on us while we picked our way through the rocks.  We didn’t want to turn around and take our eyes off the terrain, but eventually could hear them talking and we found a spot to pull over and let them pass.  They zoomed past, leaving a big cloud of dust.  Thanks for sharing the road, folks.  Later we saw hunters in an ATV climb a portion less rocky.  They looked very confused to see women wearing running shorts with numbers pinned to our fronts.  We waved and continued down into the canyon, past amazing sheer drop offs as the walls enclosed around us. 

Coming into the aid station we ended up in a small train of three women, though I don’t remember if she caught us or if we caught her.  Either way, the crowd gave cheers and rang cowbells for “The ladies!”  Seriously – I think many people are impressed when they see a female partaking in any athletic event, regardless of its difficulty. 

This was my first time seeing Nathan and Sam, who posted up before the actual aid station.  Sam refilled my hydration bag while Nathan squeezed a line of sunscreen on my arms.  “Can you rub it in?” I asked.  I just didn’t want it all over my hands for if/when I had to rub my eyes, because SPF 50 is not so comfy of an eye wash.  Nathan scrunched his nose and made his lotion face.  He hates lotion, of any kind, even if he direly needs it.  I have chased him around the house with sunscreen on my hands just to put a quick stripe on his face before a long day in the Colorado sun.  But, he was on crew duty and he knew it, so he kept the scrunched nose while rubbing it in with two fingers.  I stifled my smile.

Once set, off to the food table to stuff my face with watermelon with salt.  Sara introduced her husband quickly as they went off to her own station.  I checked out and headed on.  

LEATHAM HOLLOW (19.7) to RICHARD’S HOLLOW (22.5)

So far things had played out well, with happy hiking and downhill easy running.  Now it was starting to warm up.  It was gentle rolling forest roads through camp grounds and cattle.  It went pretty quick.  I walked some to let the watermelon settle, then kept to an easy trot.  This was a non-crew aid station.  More melon.  I kind of had to pee, but figured it was the false alarm that running can cause.  

RICHARD’S HOLLOW (22.5) to COWLEY CANYON (30)

Just before I left a volunteer warned me, “This section is very hot and exposed.”  The trail climbed through the woods.  One some switch backs I heard someone from behind.  Another female.  I let her pass.  Tried to place her, but had her name completely wrong.  Kristy.  She seemed perky and I wished her well.  Eventually it flattened into a climb that was difficult to visually perceive, a climb that sneaks up on you.  A stream essed along the trails side, and I pulled over three times to fill my hat with water and dunk it over my head multiple times.  I also caught myself waving to cows as I passed – something I do at home, since Corset Ranch cattle are all around areas I run (Del Norte Peak, Twin Mountains, Old Woman Creek).  I wondered if anyone saw me waving, probably questioning my judgment.  (Though, hard to question someone’s judgment when you meet them during an insane hundred mile run through the backcountry….)

After a couple miles I caught up with Kristy.  Her personally is great during an ultra.  Very positive, excited for life and its unknowns, willing to stick her neck out without worry.  Turns out she is from Aspen, CO, and works in environmental science research and education.  She married a guy from Long Island, so it was also fun to talk through some NYC things. 

The trail gave way to open forest road that led to a large gravel parking lot in an elevated canyon.  I pulled away from Kristy a bit while enjoying the downhill.  It seemed that she climbed faster, but I had the edge on descents.

This was the second aid station with crew.  A guy in an ATV was checking in runners on their way down, and Nathan was hanging out with him.  Nathan jogged into the aid station with me, giving me updates.  He thought I was fifth woman, assuming he saw them all.  Something like an hour behind the lead female.  He kept updating me, though I didn’t particularly care.  Either she (Anna Frost) was going to cream us all, or she was going to blow up late and I’d see her in an aid station. 

I stopped at the aid station to get more water in my hydration bag.  Two guys were filling it, one holding while the other poured the water.  I mowed down more melon with salt.  A side glance showed the two fellas having a ridiculously humorous and floundering attempt to close my hydration bag.  I had the bladder, a slide top, seated in my bag with the top twist tied to a loop at the top.  All they had to do was fold it over and slide it on.  A female volunteer saw me raise an eyebrow.   “They just don’t know what to do when they see a woman.”  Two hashes for my previous point. 

Eventually they got it done.  Checked out and trotted down to Nathan and Sam posted at the exit.  Sam swapped me a protein shake for my hydration bag.  I smiled at the bumbling male volunteers as he re-opened my hydration bag to add some drink mix.  I asked for more sunscreen on my neck and face, since we forgot those parts earlier. 

“Aw, Sam, weren’t you supposed to be on sunscreen duty?!” said Nathan. 

“Yea, well, she handed me the bag.” 

Groan.  But Nathan again dutifully smeared it in place.  This time I smiled.  

COWLEY CANYON (30) to RIGHT HAND FORK (37)

I walked the initial climb to settle my full stomach, giving myself a good ten minutes before deciding if/when to trot.  Two-ish miles up, followed by five-ish down to the next aid station.  The climb was enough, and in the sun, that I did not care.  Somewhat near the top I looked back to see Kristy. 

“There’s the mountain goat!  Thought you’d catch me.”  She laughed. 

We crested and continued together, continuing our conversation.  This is by far the most time I have ever, EVER spent with females during an ultra.  And I really liked that.  Kristy got so caught up in our conversation that she nearly plowed me over when I slowed to turn left and the gigantic white arrows and multiple pink flags.  The woods started to close in again during the descent to the aid station.  Two other females passed along this stretch, one with dark hair who was rather curt and impatient with us, another with a blonde bob who was nicer and seemed to be using an upswing in energy. 

At a point a sign noted the route in multiple directions.  I almost went right when we needed to do the out-and-back to actually hit the aid station.  Luckily Kristy knew to expect that.  Saw lots of guys and few women headed out (uphill) while we worked our way in (downhill).  They all looked hot.  We were next to a big creek.  I didn’t dunk, but I considered it. 

This was a small aid station, but one with crew.  I considered it more of a bonus crew point, assuming they could make it.  I mainly used it to grab a new chew pack and eat some watermelon.  The blonde bob, Amy, sighed loudly, “This cold watermelon hits the spot!”  I pointed at her and nodded, my mouth stuffed with melon myself.  Kristy came by the food table, and I gave her a high five.  Quick confirmation with Sam that I didn’t need much else, and I headed out.

RIGHT HAND FORK (37) to TEMPLE FORK (45)

Fifteen feet after checking out I stopped at the creek to dunk three hat-fulls over my head.  Euphoric.  I trotted less than a quarter mile and found another easily accessible spot.  Repeat dunking, enough that my shorts and calf sleeves are soaked and dripping.  Super euphoric. 

Trotting along again I looked up to see a certain member of the ultra running media who was also running Bear.  How the heck did he get ten minutes behind me?  I waved to him like everyone else.  He had dunked too.  Then but a minute later Erich, my tall and long legged friend from Hardrock course clearing, came through.  We exchanged quick encouragements and pats on the back.  He said his plan was to “take it super easy” during the first twenty miles, but this seemed a bit excessive for him.  He lives in the magical San Juans where all runs innately include long, steep climbs and descents, basically variations of the Hardrock course itself.  No reason for him to be that far back of me. 

Or I was going much too fast.  Hmm.  That would be bad.  Hmm….

Just before reaching the turn off at the base of the out-and-back I passed Amy and a man who looked pretty fresh but kind of irritated.  Maybe she picked up a pacer?  They seemed to be traveling together but not exactly happy with each other’s presence.  I asked how she was doing.  “Yea, well, not so good.” 

The trees fell away and forest road took a few ess curves heading up.  It was feeling much more like home.  Strong sun, dried up creek bed, and much more tan with scraggly dull green dots of trees along the rolling hills.  Occasionally a tree for momentary shady cover.  My pace slowed to a hike what with the heat.  I crossed a small wooden bridge over the absent creek and heard someone trotting behind me.  Turned out to be Erich. 

“How are you running this?  Aren’t you dying of heat?”  I asked. 

He agreed, and we hiked the rest of the uphill. Apparently he and the certain ultra media member and a few others were chatting when they got off trail for some two miles.  In doing so they went down a steep road and then had to climb back out of that road.  So technically Erich should have been four miles ahead of me.  Yup, he could do some good damage on a race like this.  But for now he said all goals were thrown away in lieu of finishing.  He thought if I kept up my pace that I would finish high for females.  I laughed.  If only I wouldn’t probably crash and burn to a certain degree.  Again, it was sarcastic humor that was a bit more ominously foreseeing than I thought.  But at the time being, Erich’s setback meant I had someone to talk to, which was nice.

The climb seemed as long as the others even though it was only four miles gaining perhaps 800 or 900 feet.  Super hot now.  At the top was a personless table covered with jugs of water.  I wanted to pour an entire jug over my head, but settled with two capfuls.  It was hard to take only a small amount and leave the rest for all those behind us.  On the way downhill we continued to jog together.  We turned onto a deer trail through ankle high willows to cut across a small canyon to the road on the other side. 

I kept seeing small streams but each time I paused to look closely they were stagnant, which means more apt to have cow crud of a multitude of sources festering away.  Then, mercifully, a big and fast flowing creek appeared.  We cross the wooden bridge and got as close as the road would come, cut off trail, and dunked ourselves silly.  The water was cold enough that five hatfuls gave me a little brain freeze.  We happily trotted along downhill.

We passed a decent handful of other runners, also slowed from the heat.  A middle-aged man who seemed uninvolved with the race saw us jog by, looked up surprised, and exclaimed, “That’s amazing!  Good job!” 

Erich was pretty sure he was talking to me.  “What am I, chopped meat?”  I told him my theory of being impressed by females for no good reason.  This could be a 10k and they’d still get excited. 

A second man exclaimed the same.  “Nicely done!  Way to go!” 

“Yup,” said Erich, “he was looking at you.” 

“It doesn’t take much.”

We passed a runner walking with his hands behind his back.  Asked if he was doing okay.  “Just taking a scheduled walking break.”  That’s actually rather smart. 

This aid station, Temple Fork, was rather chaotic.  Erich pulled over to his family’s car, saying he planned to stay a while and recoup.  I told Nathan and Sam to skip this station since they said the parking was bad and I would see them in another 6.5+ miles anyways.  I sprinkled salt onto honeydew wedges and devoured.  Probably ate the equivalent of half a melon. 

The volunteers were a little less race attuned, so when I asked what elevation profile to expect they had to look on each others’ shirts to figure it out.  “Three miles up and three miles down.  Not too bad.”  I checked out and turned to head out.

TEMPLE FORK (45) to TONY GROVE (51.8)

I turned, but then I realized I didn’t know where the course technically went.  I turned back to the same group with which I checked out.  They read my face.  “Down the parking lot, then cross the road by the cops.”  Kay.

That little parking lot was packed with cars on the sides and had a line of cars in queue waiting for some spot to magically open.  It was so tight I had to turn sideways to get through.  From the looks on their faces I’d guess they had been waiting a while.  Definitely glad I didn’t plan to see my crew here.

I thanked the cops as I crossed and jumped onto a little singletrack trail over a small meadow and then into the woods.  The climb wasn’t bad, but I felt the need to walk.  Legs felt a little stiff.  Nothing too bad, but definitely could use a walking pace for a while.

I heard someone on my tail at a decent clip.  Again it was Erich, this time with a youngster in tow.  Turned out to be his 21 year old son. 

“I thought you were going to stay there a while.”

“Yea, well, you know.”

I asked if they wanted to pass.  “Eh, doesn’t matter.  Whatever.  Sure.”  I let them by and realized I wasn’t in a good mood to keep up.  I wanted to, but legs needed time.  Climbed alone for a while and the trail steepened.  The certain ultra media man came hiking from behind.  He mentioned looking forward to a nap at mile 75.  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to wake up again.  He asked if this section was all up.  I told him what I knew, which wasn’t that much, but that supposedly a couple miles were downhill.

I wasn’t in a rough patch, but I wasn’t climbing fast. The “three miles up” sure seemed longer than that. 

The certain ultra media man, now about 200 feet ahead, turned to the view at our backs, arms wide and face arched upward  

“Wow.  It’s just… amazing.”  

Clouds were slowly rolling in with an early sunset palate, which made the rich colors that much more incredible. I realized I had stopped looking around, and wasn’t sure what to make of the it.  Eating too little?  No, I’ve been on schedule.  Hydration?  That’s been fine too.  Or at least I thought.  Another guy was slowly marching up behind me, though he didn’t catch me by the top like I expected.  As I tried to focus on the beauty of my surroundings it finally donned on me - the race's logo is an aspen leaf.  I am a genius.  Sheer.  Genius.

The trail turned to pine covered groomed trail with some rocky terrain.  I was descending slowly but still running, or jogging, or whatever one might call it at that point.  I just didn't want to fall.  I had fallen so many times already this year that I just did NOT want to fall again, not in this big of a race.  The trailing guy passed.  Amy and a couple others also passed.   I told her she looked good. 

“Thanks, but I’m actually cramping.”  That’s pretty darn good for cramping.

We went down a handful of switchbacks and swung over to the edge of a small lake, wrapping around to eventually land at Tony Grove aid station.  I started through the path straight ahead but was motioned to continue farther.  A few paths down a woman sat a cheered.  That looked like a good possibility, so I turned.  Half way down it a couple dozen people shouted at me to go to the end path.  Arms pinwheeled to help turn me around, feeling a little deflated. 

Someone yelled out in the distance, “Could somebody please mark that?!”

With a sigh I turned down the correct path at the teeny tiny sign with an arrow and officially checked in.  The sky was now gray, temperature starting to drop.  Nathan found me and led me to Sam and my stuff.  I plopped down into a chair.  The climb took a lot more out of me than expected.  Instead of “three up” and “three down” it was actually five miles and 2800 feet up before two miles down.  Whatever.  My own fault for forgetting the course map and forgetting to make myself a cheat sheet.  Think forward.  Nathan mentioned other running, like the lead female, didn’t look too good when they came through either.  That was some two or more hours ahead of me.  By my watch I reached the just-passed-halfway point in 11h 40m.  That was a hair faster than P2P, and yet I didn't feel nearly so good this time.  Maybe there was hope for my sub 25h finish, but I knew the reality that all time goals were out the window.  Just finish. 

I asked for a sock change.  I could feel similar blisters as to last year, and wanted to quiet them with a clean pair that I should have swapped out earlier.  Volunteers kept offering solid food; I kept stifling my nauseous face and shaking my head no.  Chugged half a Gatorade and had two cups of warm broth.  Opted to carry my rain jacket and gloves in my pack just in case the rain came early, threw on my arm warmers.  Asked Nathan to charge his Suunto GPS watch; I had set mine to 50-hour battery life, but none of the settings were saved and I only had a couple more hours left.  I looked up to see a loose train of a half dozen people continuing on.  Just my luck to probably set out alone again.  After another minute I slowly stood, groaning and stretching to stand erect.  Do not stay long.  Keep moving.  With another sigh I slowly walked to the check out and toward the next trail, silently pleading to the cloudy skies to hold off on rain a little longer.

Part II - mile 51.8 to the finish

Pictures forthcoming.