Sunday, August 31, 2014

Creede Mountain Run, 22 miler

It didn't feel like I was racing yesterday until we were half way to Creede, Colorado.  This was after Nathan dutifully tried to figure where we were going - as though events in small towns in or just outside the valley give actual specifics.  There is a website, though it just says "Creede" and mentions that the race travels along Main Street within the first mile.  There are no stats for prior races, no description of where to park, and no such thing as a pre-race update whether by email, website, or on the equally slim Facebook page.  I had to search Google for ten minutes to find a map to guestimate my finish time.  We'd either see a sign leading the way once in town, or else we'd follow someone running gear until we found it.  Nathan sighed, resigned to go with the flow. 

Creede is an old mining town at 8850 feet.  It is only a few blocks wide by about a dozen blocks long, totaling 403 residents as of the 2010 census.  Still, it's little Main Street has more going on than our town that is at least four times as populated - a proper gear store, a modern bar/grill and at least four other restaurants as well as Creede Repertory Theatre.  The town keeps itself cute for tourists.  And the hills begin directly at the edges of town. 

Sure enough we found signs with an arrow directing us to a parking lot by the grocery store.  It is the same lot that was filled with funnel cakes, leather workers, hot dog stands and the like during the July 4th event.  An orange line was spray painted onto the road as the start.  Less than one hundred people lined up for the combo of three races (2, 12, and 22 miles).  A man wearing a sleeveless shirt, spandex shorts and Altra trail shoes and a young woman in a white tank top were working a few sprint warm up drills.  I usually prefer the old-runner warm up, which means I stood around taking in the morning light and pointed out the cute dogdogs to Nathan, who stood just off to the side.  He was signed up for the 12 miler, though was sidelined after his little accident last weekend.

The race took off south for two blocks, east for one block, then onto Main Street through the north end of town and onto gravel/forest access roads.  By the time we hit Main Street Sleeveless Guy and White Tanktop were both heading out of sight.  I waved at Nathan and trotted along.  Many kids were in the 2 miler, and a few boys didn't like it when some "old lady" passed them before they got to their turn-around at 1 mile.

Once north of town the ascent began.  From Creede's 8850 foot base we were to climb to 12,500 feet and then loop back down, basically one giant hill with a few little blips to mix things up. 

Race elevation and my pace, per my Suunto watch. 

The climbing started early through Willow Creek Canyon, old mining sites off to each side.  I chatted for a half mile with a guy named John from Colorado Springs who looked and indeed was ultra experienced with a few 50ks and 50 milers.  I didn't stay with him long, since everyone but me and one other guy were intent to "run" all these semi-steep hills.  I fell into my happy walking pattern, determined to not blow up early, and reasonably caught up to them on flatter stretches before dropping John.  Apparently we were somewhere on/between "The Pitch" and "Heartbreak Hill."  One woman in a pink tee shirt passed me.  Her legs looked marathon-esque, so I assumed she was a 22 miler as well.  But she was running a lot of those hills, all but an occasional 20 foot stretch here and there.  Impressive.  Wondered how long she and the others would keep it up.

The degree of incline eased by the fourth mile to what I consider reasonable for running.  I had bounced back and fourth with Tanner, for whom this was his first attempt at such a race.  He was without a bottle and without a watch, and his plan was to get to the cut-off spot quickly (had to reach 5.5 miles by 1h 30m in order to do the full 22 miles) and then ease off his pace.  I had flashbacks to my first half marathon, the Brooklyn Half, where I stupidly enough completed 9 miles within the first hour before I crashed and burned to total quad seizing by half way down Ocean Parkway en route to Coney Island.  I also met Rick, who seemed pretty fresh on the modest hills.  Tanner stopped at the aid station while Rick and I forged on.

Aid stations were every two to three miles, which seems ridiculously cushy compared to the long stints to which I am accustomed during ultras.  A bit more light climbing and we hit another station marking a left turn onto a short but steep climb.  I grabbed watermelon to eat along the way.  A little girl helping her mother called out "Why aren't you running?"  I laughed, thinking because we're not teenagers.  Rick called back "Because we can't!"  A bit over her head at that age to understand.

We rolled along while chatting.  He used to live in Creede and worked in one of the mines for two years.  Has a cabin or something in/near Telluride, so he was also there watching Hardrock back in July.  Currently living in Dallas for the last two years, so has been running with a group that is younger and faster in order to regain his own speed.  A large group of his family, up to 22 members previously though more like 12 this year, alternate between this race and a different race along a mountain pass.  His goal for an upcoming road marathon was 2h 55m.  I laughed at that idea - I SO want a sub-three hour marathon just once in my life, but I'm pretty sure I have lost a majority of my speed since running longer races and moving to 8000 feet.

With all the chatting I didn't realize how much my pace was probably a bit faster than it would have been otherwise.  Nothing crazy, but running with someone else can have its benefits.  Plus the race quickly became very spread out.  We saw the faintest hint of a lime green shirt a half to full mile ahead, no one visible behind.  I do almost all my training solo, so company is a huge pleasure.

Another aid station.  More watermelon.  I turned to head out and a volunteer mentioned "First woman!"

I was baffled.  "No way!  Not even a woman in a pink shirt?"  The volunteer had no idea who I was talking about.  So apparently she and White Tank Top were 12 milers.  And I was first female.  Interesting.

I thanked them and turned to begin "The Ladders."  Basically a steep climb for a good mile or more than necessitates hiking for nearly everyone.  After my back-to-back weekends volunteering at Hardrock and racing Speedgoat, the hills seemed pretty tame but I still stuck to a reasonable pace.  Rick had pulled ahead by a couple hundred feet.  He is at least 6' 2" with long legs.  He stayed within sight through the whole climb.  He probably could hear my numerous snot rockets too.  A few quick backward glances showed someone a half mile back.  Could not tell gender.  But, really, I didn't quite care.

The area at the turnaround was beautiful (mile 11, but my GPS watch said 10.5).  I'm not sure that it was truly above treeline or if the area was simply sparse.  Light reflects differently, colors have a different saturation, the air is more crisp.  I was suddenly dreaming of Hardrock course clearing that took place above treeline and Jemez's sub-treeline magic in the Valles Caldera.  Rick brought me back to reality when he called out good wishes and from the aid station above before he began the descent on the other side.  I waved back and continued marching.  This is apparently part of the continental divide, and I was surprised to remind myself that we topped out at 12,500 feet of altitude.  All those long runs on Del Norte Peak and similar areas at/above 10,000 feet seemed to have payed off.

I may have taken the initial descent a bit quickly, since my thighs felt it after only two miles.  We had a few sawtooth areas and one modest ascent, but otherwise we had lots of downhill left.  I narrowed the distance to Rick from a half to a quarter mile.  During sustained descents I can develop abdominal muscle cramps if my hydration/nutrition is off or if I allow fatigue to take over my form; so far I was still in control.  The area definitely felt reminiscent of the Valles Caldera I experienced during the Jemez 50 in Los Alamos.  These were semi-technical ATV type forest roads/trails, which made it much more fun than smooth and flat gravel/dirt roads.

Two more aid stations and I nearly caught Rick just as we began the one modest ascent.  He stretched his lead to a couple hundred feet by the time we hit the top.  I wasn't sure if that was actually the last uphill or not.  Next aid station volunteer offered the tease "All downhill from here."  I warily thanked him, since nearly all my racing experiences indicated that "all downhill" is never true.  I caught Rick again, and after we rejoined the 12 mile course he confirmed we were on the home stretch with three miles of descent remaining.  I had not before realized the streamers on the sticks were mile markers.  Per my watch I thought we had four and a half left - I'll take that math!   

We were rolling with descent speed.  In the distance I could see the town below.  Two miles to go and I started to really open up.  I hadn't used such a high cadence in months, but it was refreshing and fun.  I was pulling away from Rick, so I called out "You have the speed - you'd better catch me!"  He response didn't seem so confident, but with one mile to go he was within 30 feet as we caught his wife, who was walking the 12 mile course with their dogs.  I decided to really go for it.  Those last few miles had been sub-seven minute pace, and I was barely holding control what with increasing jello-quads.  At a point I looked back to see Rick about 300 feet behind me and surged on.  The course cut onto walking trails within the skirts of town with a dozen switchbacks before emptying onto the road.  One more corner, and there was the finish line.  Rick came through a couple minutes later.

3:43:42, 1st female, 4th overall.

Before you get crazy over the whole first female thing, know that only 27 finished the 22 miler out of the 32 who had signed up.  And only 7 of those finishers were female.  But!  They had times from the previous year listed on a board by the start/finish tent.  First woman last year was Diana Finkel - one of my idols of Hardrock badassery - who finished third overall but three minutes slower than my time.

I FINISHED FASTER THAN DIANA DID LAST YEAR.

It is a ridiculous comparison.  I climbed slowly then worked my ass off to make it up on the downhill, and I could not have held that up were the race longer.  Diana probably ran the race more consistently and would have kept her pace were the race longer.  And, notably, her ability to do so was proven at Jemez where she was the first female of the only 20 finishers since the rest of us were slow enough to get caught in the squall before the race was called.  Plus she ran Hardrock already last year, and I still have yet to complete my hundred.  Plus she'd blow me out of the water were we in head-to-head competition.

But if mathematicians can use calculus to prove that two equals one, then I can relish in fleeting self-smuggery that my time is faster than hers in one barely-on-the-radar race.  Just like I beat Ezra once in handball, caveats aside. 


Rick, with whom I spent 3/4 of the race.  Not sure who was pacing whom....





Last 22-mile finisher in 6h 15m - 83 years old!  He deservedly received a standing ovation.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

School of Hard Knocks

Today was my last big push in the lead-up to Bear.  The middle 25 miles were great what with timely and caring cloud cover.  The last five or six heated up pretty fast once I returned to the valley floor.  I even stopped with three miles left just to dump water over my head.  I mustered my way home, groaned my way through a long shower, enjoyed some watermelon on the stoop.  I began debating if I could stay awake or if I needed a nap.  And then the phone rang.

"Can you meet us on 15?  I cut myself with the chainsaw..." followed by some beeps and the call getting dropped.

Oh boy.

I was out the door in less than a minute, hoping he had his wallet and insurance card on his person.  I was rushing to meet them half way.  Felt bad for the guy enjoying the late afternoon sun on his porch, who now had a huge dusty plumb creeping toward his view. 

Nathan spent the afternoon up in Old Woman Creek cutting wood with our neighbors.  They were very nearly done cutting for the day when he did something (he does not remember what) and noticed a cut in his pants.  As he commented out loud something along the lines of "At least it was just my pant," then came the blood across his knee and down his leg.  They immediately figured it would need some attention and got him toward the truck.  Apparently Nathan was walking like normal, and D told him to not move his leg so he didn't cause more bleeding.  Since Nathan did the calling then it hopefully wasn't too bad, but bodies have their mysterious ways.

I caught them before they ever made it to County Road 15.  Nathan threw a peg leg out of the trunk and hobbled his way down.  No tourniquet.  It clotted on its own, from what others said.  Good sign.  The knee of his Carharts was torn open to avoid further irritation.  He managed to get into the car keeping his leg straight on its own, meaning he didn't sever tendon.  Another good sign.

"Do you think this means I won't get to race next weekend?"

I know I shot him the look, but whatever I muttered escapes me.  Probably better off that way.  There might have been an expletive.  

He continued to comment about the "inconvenience" of not getting to race and having to deal with an ER bill while I serially checked him for signs of shock.  (None to be found, another good sign).

En route to the ER.
After full wash-out and assessment, turns out there were two cuts to the same area.  Measured 6 cm x 1 cm wide and was about 1 cm deep.  Had the bar gone half to a full centimeter deeper then we'd have an orthopedic crises.  Or, had it been while really running the saw and not just during incidental post-cut movements then we might have been sent via hellicopter to Denver with a severed leg.  Lucky, lucky, lucky boy.

I remembered my mom's story about when my dad cut his palm while re-tiling the bathroom, opting to score and break a tile with his hand in lieu of a cutting gizmo.  Apparently when they opened the wound to check for fragments he fainted.  Nathan didn't even flinch or turn pale.  I was glad that after all this he still had his big boy pants on (metaphorically). 

I sat in a chair against the wall while they stitched him up.  He watched the whole thing, probably because it helped him prevent from jumping or twitching.  Not too much pain; he said he could feel everywhere before the Lidocaine, though I wonder if small sensory nerve branches were disrupted.  We shall find out in time.  If so, it will complement the portion of his proximal lateral thigh that lost it's feeling after too many encounters with competing teams' lacrosse sticks.



Eight stitches, prophylactic antibiotics, and a tetanus booster later we were on our way home.  We didn't even try to get his pants back on due to the need to keep the area sterile.  With such a small town and the ER positioned on the back side of the hospital, which is tucked into the side of Lookout Mountain on the far side of town, no one was around to see him walk out in his boxers. 

As stated by our neighbor, Lumberjack School of Hard Knocks.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Permanent press kitteh

The whole valley has been running on too few cylinders since the Supermoon started to form into its giant and bright self, but the end result has been everyone turning in endless circles rather than simply puttering to a stop.  The hospital census has been busting at the seams, and with many psychosocially complex cases.  I entered work on Monday to find eight evals to complete within four hours.  They take an average of one hour per eval when considering all the steps.  (Chart review, check with nurse, check with social work, find equipment needed, perform eval, find extra equipment like chair alarms, find and tell nurse updates, find and tell social work discharge plan/needs, ...and then finally document).  I had to call in backup and get three covered by other therapists when they had time in the afternoon, and luckily a couple ended up not needing PT. 

This morning got off to an odd start from the get-go.  Nathan had a work meeting in Colorado Springs all day and decided to wake up early to drive to/from the same day in lieu of staying at a hotel the night before.  To be at the meeting at 8 a.m. he had to wake up at 3:30.  To his credit, he did so without needing to be punched awake by me.  And he even ran the clothes drier an extra time.  I got up at my customary 4:20 a.m. and managed a brief and groggy exchange before he left at 4:35.  He is only up that early a few times a year for races, but seemed rather alert.  I was impressed.  If only he'd join me as an early riser more often.

And so at 5:15 I was in the bathroom prepping for my run.  Heard scratches from behind the washer/drier, muttered to myself about another mouse.  Last time Sadie actually ate the ENTIRE mouse while we were away for the day, only to then come home two days later to a bowel explosion of mouse body parts across the kitchen floor when it finally forced its way through the other end.  I didn't want to go through that again.  She is not a big cat to be pulling such shenanigans. 

The scratching then seemed louder, and not necessarily from the back corner of the room.  I glanced over again. 

Merus was inside the drier.  Door closed.  Pawing at the window.

See below.






Apparently when Nathan grabbed whatever he needed after the dry cycle Merus then jumped inside.  She was mostly happy to be in a pile of still-warm fresh laundry, but after being in there an hour she wanted to be pet.  Because what else would you want as a feline. 

At least he didn't re-start the drier.  And good thing I found her before leaving for an hour-plus run and then to work.

(And of course I had to take a photo while laughing uncontrollably before letting her out.)

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Needle in the butt

Last week one of my one o'clock patients cancelled, so I had an hour to spend tidying all the loose ends in my paperwork.  Half way through I realized one of my office mates was doing the same.  Casually I offered to let him practice dry needing on me if he ever needed, as he was recently certified in level 1 and needs to accrue practice hours before getting certified in level 2.  I figured he was finishing an evaluation from later, which takes a good amount of time on our computer program.  He jumped up.  "Sure!  Want to do it now?" 

I paused as the reality of my offer set in.  For me, that would mean needles in my butt - gluteus medius, glut minimus, piriformis, maybe even glut maximus.  I have a tailbone that has been fractured twice and is now tilted to the left, rotated to the right, and the tip is bent and re-fused at a 90 degree angle; the larger muscles of my hips often develop the mysterious "trigger points" that are something of a controversy within therapy. 

What are trigger points?  They feel like knots in the muscle upon palpation with thready or stringy muscle fibers above and below that are supposedly held on tension from the knot.  And yet when you press onto an area you are simultaneously pressing on hundreds of nerve endings, small blood vessels, and a significant amount of subcutaneous tissues and multiple fascial layers.  Trigger points cannot be found during cadaver dissections.  Who is to say you are palpating just muscle?  Further, muscles do not sense pressure or pain - nerves send signals to the brain, which then decides what it is feeling and to what intensity.  Pain and discomfort are interpretations. 

This was my first time being needled.  Not every state allows it - New York State does not so it never came up, but Colorado does.  I've had my colleagues needle certain patients who had areas of chronic problems that didn't respond completely to other treatments.  But this was my first time. 

When the needle goes in you barely feel it.  They are small needles, "dry" because there is no syringe attached.  It looks more like acupuncture for those familiar (though the technique is not acupuncture as it is not eastern medicine, does not use meridians, etc).  The size of the needle is determined by the tissues of the area being needled.  Sometimes they place needles and attach a small electrical stimulation unit that the patient can control.  Sometimes, like with me, they go for muscle twitching by pistoning or twisting the needle. 

The sensation definitely increases to an intensity just beyond that of getting a tattoo.  I had to tap my hand continuously on the therapy mat, since somehow this would prevent me from moving the area under treatment.  There were also some mild verbalizations on my part amid laughing at myself.  Laugh too hard and you'll move everything, so I had to stifle myself as well. 

Then WHAMO.  Your muscle twitches.  That stringy line of taught muscle fiber is in repeated spasm and the sensation of a cramp feels like it takes up half your body.  It isn't painful per say, but it is very peculiar and can be rather uncomfortable.  I yelped more than a few times.  The pistoning continues until the adequate muscle twitch is achieved, so the cramping goes on for what feels like five minutes but is probably about 10-15 seconds.  I also started mild sweating all over, a tiny sympathetic response (as in sympathetic nervous system, or what many know as "fight or flight" physiological response) that luckily did not go any further than that.  By now I was smacking the table with my eyes squeezed shut, probably sounding ridiculous to whoever was in the treatment room next door.  "Whoa whoa whoa whoa...."  My opposite knee was kicking, also feigning as help to hold still.  My colleague had to use his elbow on my back to make sure I didn't buck.  He needled three spots on my right hip/glut and two spots on the left.  A mere twenty minutes. 

At one point my colleague said "This is your ilium [hip bone].  Can you feel the tapping on your ilium?"

"Twitching!  All I feel is TWITCHING!"  Still smacking and kicking the table.  But as awful the process probably sounds, we were both also laughing.

One of my colleague's patients previously said he was "screaming like a little girl" when his pectoralis muscles were needled.  Those are super sensitive.  I cannot even imagine.  I planned to tell that patient that I was yelping most of the time, though I didn't go so far as to scream.

Afterward, the homunculus of my ass was gigantic.  Every step felt like little rockets were pushing their way out through the skin.  Flushing out the area with activity is recommended, so I hopped on a stationary bike and had the office staff send my next patient back to bike next to me once he arrived.  I explained to my patient why I'd be dancing the wiggle worm and rubbing my bum throughout the session so he wouldn't think I was crazy.  Supposedly the after effects wear off faster in those who are active.  Since I'm more active that just about all our patients (aside from an occasional Adams State U athlete) they were very curious how it would go for me. 

By the end of my second patient I stood up to walk her out of the clinic and realized I only felt the slightest, teeniest little pull on the lateral left hip.  The right hip had been more pronounced before treatment, hence it receiving three needles.  These spots have been there for years in fluctuating intensities that I try to keep under control by laying on a tennis ball or foam roller.  It was weird to suddenly not feel them.

So what exactly does the twitching achieve?  If nothing else, it gives a huge shot of sensation to the brain so that afterward the pesky little pulls probably don't even register anymore.  Does the "knot" go away?  It appears to.  If the brain no longer interprets danger in an area then it won't tell that muscle to contract.  Whatever the mechanism, I have not felt those areas on my two runs since. 

Just after the treatment my colleague said, "If people didn't improve afterward then no one would come back."

Damn straight they wouldn't.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Speedgoat 50k - reflections

July finally threw me into the training that I've needed for September's big race.  The focus was two back-to-back weeks of extensive elevation gain.  July 12th was volunteering at Hardrock, offering 10,000 feet of gain over 28 miles.  July 19th was Speedgoat 50k, held at Salt Lake City's Snowbird ski resort, with 12,000 feet of gain over 33.5 miles.

My Garmin's battery only lasts 8 hours tops, and this time it cut out after about 7:45.  I finished in 8h 11m 25s.  The course was supposedly 31.5 or so miles, and I thought my Garmin was making up stuff when it was 2 miles ahead of the aid station demarcations, but everyone I asked had the same data.  This was not a reason to complain.  It was only more evidence that my Garmin simply could no longer keep up. 

Missing: last 4.5 miles and the winding descent to the finish.

I treated the race like a training run.  Managed to progress from 125th to 100th to my eventual 87th place overall (17th female) as the climbing accumulated.  Some of it was quite steep, just shy of hand-over-foot and on loose terrain.  It was awesome.  The aid station volunteers were *amazing*.  I saw three others I met (one who helped clear the first section with me, one other volunteer, and a racer I sat next to during the awards ceremony) and four others I recognized from Hardrock the week before.  There's more than a little something special about the ultra community. 

Temporary tattoos of the race were given out before the start.  Guess where I failed to apply sunscreen. 

But the biggest benefit was the overall picture.  After living in a new part of the country for nine months and wondering if I was able to participate in my beloved hobby to the degree that I wished (longer work hours with an earlier start, car commute, etc), I finally got the proof that it works.  Nine months is a long time to wonder if you've shot yourself in the foot when considering your goal race.  I may not have logged the consistent higher mileage I had been last year (usually about 10 miles per week less) due to acclimating to altitude for a handful of months, but I was able to perform what I considered to be decent efforts along some hard courses.

The other big factor was that I did it myself.  As in no one accompanying me or crewing me, no one to drive when I was tired or exhausted, no one to help plan things.  It was all me - the long drives, the logistics, the actual mileage, the parsing through new social groups.  I very firmly belief that everyone should feel comfortable enough with themselves to get on a plane alone, to go to a movie alone, to operate as a single entity.  It had been quite a while for me, and these two consecutive weekend trips sure fulfilled that need.  With all the second guessing that was in the back of my mind, I needed something like this to solidify where I am within my own self, my progress, my goals.

So, in crude summary: It. Was. Awesome.