From good to bad to severe - Jemez 50 miler.

Nathan, the night before the race and mere moments away from getting into bed: "Looks like the 50 miler is actually over eleven thousand feet of elevation gain.  The 50k is six thousand, and the half marathon is over three."

I didn't say anything.  I had thought 6000 was for the 50 miler, based off of Nathan previously reading aloud from the race's website, so I had twice as much climbing as originally thought.  That, after four weeks of suboptimal training.  I never made it to more than 25 miles, and that was many weeks ago thanks to late night travel around Easter, getting the flu a week later, and severe gastric rejection to an unremarkably small amount of cheese the week after that.  I felt the least prepared than for any other race before.  I didn't exactly sleep that well.  I had no idea that my training would not be the cause for an incomplete day.

The first 35 miles, per my Garmin that died after 8 hours.

Elevation profile, per my Garmin.

At the starting line the next morning I told myself to treat it as though I were running twice as far, hiking all the uphills unapologetically and just trying to move forward consistently.  I also wore my Hokas instead of leaving them in my drop bag as back up shoes.  Should I need to, I could downgrade to 50k mid-race.  While I know dropping is always an option, in my head it is not.  The only time I have ever dropped from a race was the CURE 50k that was five days after the Boston Marathon during what was my failure of a honeymoon.  I would take my time, eat and drink consistently, and take whatever strides needed to finish my day someway and somehow.

There was lots of runnable terrain, and while many elites would call a great portion of the race runnable I, a mere mortal, continued my plan of hiking up hills that I would run were this a mid-week run.  There are innumerable trails from just about about anywhere in Los Alamos, so we found ourselves skirting the backside of residential areas and even through land owned by the National Lab. Before hitting Camp May Road aid station (Mile 10.4) I connected with Matthew from Dallas.  He was a great trail companion.  The miles from there to the Ski lodge (18.6) wound up the backside of Pajarito Mountain, which tops off at something like 10,500 feet.

Having fun in the early miles.

During initial, gentler stages of the climb we wound in and out of the burn area that is now in stages of recovery.  Remnants of charcoal tree trunks stuck up or poked horizontally out from all the new growth, including thousands of waist high baby aspen trees with flowers and leafy bushes in between.  I'm always struck by the flourishing desert in New Mexico compared to the human-appropriated desert where I live in south central Colorado.  At the same time it was very interesting to see the changes.  I found numerous charcoal stripes on my hands and legs from brushing past the charred tree remnants still present.

A small telephone tower at the top of the gentler climbing turned out to be a false top out.  From there we banked left and started ascending steep jeep/access trails on the back side of skiing routes intermixed with some rolling mountain bike trails.  We passed the top of at least three ski lifts, eventually topping out where double black diamond ski routes began (Breathless and Precious).  Just on the other side and we descended what was probably a blue route.  Super steep, and much like Virgil Crest where the pace of descending (for someone like me) is not exactly momentous.  It leveled out into a fun downhill run with a handful more horizontal and downward traverses and we came to the Ski Lodge.  Swap out some Stinger chews, down potatoes and salt and watermelon, and I was off again.

In many ways I was visually reminded of Oregon and Pine to Palm, from the sustained climbs to the way trails were cut into the side of the mountains to the exposed sections.  Just swap out the pinon trees for giant ponderosas and other evergreens.  I found myself thoroughly entertained by the beauty of everywhere the race led. 

We climbed a bit, then hit some runnable stretches en route to Pipeline Road (21.4), where we had to decide to stay with 50mi or switch to 50k.  I was feeling good, and while others would pass during my steady uphill hiking they were usually caught quickly afterward.  So I stuck with the 50mi and turned left out of the aid station.

I saw a runner step off the edge of what looked, from a distance, like a cliff.  As I got closer I heard all kinds of noises and exclamations coming from the runners working their way down.  A volunteer standing watch by the edge said "You'll have to use your hands."  I nodded and laughed once I caught a real view.  I'm not sure what this stretch qualifies as.  No one stayed on their feet.  The occasional large rock stuck out, though mostly it was loose sand and rocks and debris that gave way with every other footstep.  We were laughing with each other the whole way.  I watched a guy below me slide out for a good ten feet and told him "Now you're just showing off."  Then I moved to the side to let the tumbling rocks go by from the guy above me.  It turned out to be really fun and a nice break from the regular quad-pounding monotony.

Whatever the rock shoot was, it led us down into the Valles Caldera with gentle rolling runnable hills along a jeep road.  Through the Vale Grande (25.4) aid station, and another mile or so and we turned onto what looked like a deer trail that led up the saddle between Pajarito and the next mountain west.  The trail quickly faded, following instead the orange markers as we bushwhacked our way up through elk territory.  I spent most of this section with Mark, who a few times followed a creek or something similar on a tangent until I called out to him to veer left.  The trail re-appeared once over the saddle, with a runable and gently downhill path through the canyon.

I could hear the next aid station coming up, Pajarito Canyon (31.4), and took my one and only digger.  Foot caught something small, and I just couldn't get my feet far enough forward to get underneath me.  I took one of my usual dancerly slides, which is always onto my right flank, mostly onto my hand and a tad onto my forearm.  Popped right up, walked about twenty steps while taking inventory, realized I managed to not bash my knee this time, and trotted on to the aid station.  Refilled my hydration bag, washed my hands and forearm, ate more watermelon and salt.

Just before leaving a volunteer said "We need to start making broth.  Another shit storm's heading in."  I followed his gaze and saw thick black clouds with a few very distant rumbles. 

Things started changing quickly.

Rolling hills in the next canyon over gave way to the second ascent of Pajarito Mountain along the same climb as before.  Only a half hour after leaving the last aid station the black clouds from afar were already overhead.  The rain started lightly.  I wondered if it meant just rain or if it meant thunderstorms, but the temperature was dropping fast regardless.  Mark pulled ahead.  We were all in tees and tank tops.  The rain grew.  Half of us pulled out jackets, though half had nothing but the thin shirt on their back.  I checked my Garmin - a blank face since hitting 8 hours, so it was about 1:00 pm.  I kept however much of my hands could be stuffed into the ends of my running jacket, which was not much.  I wished for my arm warmers that I had left behind in my drop bag.  I stopped eating because I didn't want to compromise my hands by attempting dexterity.  Occasionally I'd drink from my hydration bag, which before was by an eight-minute schedule but now was at whim for similar reasons of not exposing my hands just to look at my watch.  (I also wore my dependable Timex on the other wrist as a back up.  Too much?)

The entire area looked dramatically different than this morning, the charred and gray chunks more prominent amid gray-green undergrowth.  The trail takes switchbacks up overall but veers away from the false summit before a long slow arc brings you back.  The rain was now snow, my jacket and hat and clothes all saturated, my hands balled into icy fists.  By the time I hit the telephone tower on the false summit the snow was sticking easily.  I passed one guy in a tee shirt.  We exchanged remarkably pleasant inquiries considering the worsening conditions.  Came to the steeper jeep roads and intermingling trails, all slushy mud.  Looking ahead and behind I saw no one.  A little eery, but we had been here before so I knew the way.

Higher up still, passing the ski slopes one by one.  An inch of snow stuck across my chest and hydration hose, and a slushy ice sheet obscured my race number.  My cat left a nice sharp scratch diagonal across my thigh about five days earlier, and its scab/scar was a deep purple.  Snow fell fast enough that only one set of footprints were still visible ahead of me.  Hadn't expected this from the weather report this morning, that's for sure.  In the valley where we live the nearby 10,500 foot mountain (North Twin Mountains) get the same type of precipitation as on the valley floor.  I was sure it was only raining down in Los Alamos.  I had total tunnel vision, not allowing enough time or mental space to consider any option other than to move forward, completely focused on getting to the next aid station that was a mere two miles away, if even that far.  By the summit I had two inches on me, more accumulating on the ground.  I saw one guy start his descent as I made the traverse by the double black diamonds.  He only had a tee shirt, and no bag to help with any warmth.  I sincerely doubt my jacket made any difference since it is not a rain shell.  I also would probably be freaking out and desperate had we not been over this section of the course before.

I turned to finally head down, immediately sliding onto my rear with snow burning my legs.  This isn't even a 14er.  What the heck is all this?  Sticking to the side of the trail on the grass helped but the Hokas quickly became wide, snow logged platforms that left me with my own form of skiing and falling, once almost into the splits.  I chopped my heels into the ground for purchase, but the going was slow.  If I had insulated gloves then I could have tolerated a much speedier descent, but the icy fists were no good.  I wished my Garmin still had battery to capture just how much slower this summit had been compared to the first.  Eventually I came to the base of the steep hill and trotted whatever I could muster.  That mile and a half, which had been so fun to descend before, seemed to take forever.  Traverse across a slope, ess down between the trees, traverse, ess down, traverse, ess down....  The guy I passed at the summit was now passing me.  He gave a fake half smile of mutual sympathy.  I'm pretty sure I just gave a pathetic look.  Traverse, ess down, traverse.... I could finally hear people cheering for runner at the aid station.  A woman also caught up to me.  She had her arm warmers but had left her jacket.  Neither of us felt better off for our decision.

We reached the Ski Lodge (technically mile 38.6, but most GPS watches said closer to 40) and we both rushed to get our drop bags.  A volunteer offered hot broth.  I nodded emphatically.  Swapped out some of my Stinger chews and grabbed my arm warmers, thinking I could keep moving and stay warm enough.  Another volunteer saw my shaking before I realized it was happening.

"The women's bathroom is probably the warmest spot."

I took my arm warmers and went inside.  Three of us were standing beneath the hand driers trying to dry off and warm up.  My shakes got worse.  Managed to get the arm warmers on, though it didn't make a lick of difference.  A woman offered to dry my hat for me.  I declined, "It's not my head, its mostly my arms that are cold."  Only then did I look toward the mirror to see two inches of snow resting atop the brim of my hat.  I also saw just how badly I was shaking.

But if I made it over the high point through the damn cold and snow, doesn't that mean I could make it to the end?  Isn't it all downhill from here?  I didn't feel bad, only looked back because of the shakes.  After a good five minutes under the hand drier I felt like I had enough control to head back out.  As I did those runners clustered inside trying to figure out what to do all cheered me on.  "There's a real runner!"  I went back to where my drop bag was waiting.  Again the volunteer brought me broth.  But by the time I reached the tent, a mere thirty feet from the indoors bathrooms, my shaking was suddenly violent.  They tried to wrap an emergency blanket around me, but realized I needed to get back inside.  A woman led me in, and she looked terrified for me.  I had both hands on the cup of broth and yet had absolutely no control, arms shivering in good six-inch amplitude back and forth.  I knew then I should not go on, even though I wanted to.  That was a lousy feeling, but there is no good reasoning to put yourself as such great risk that would only mean risking the health of all the volunteers and rescue team that would have to come find you and haul you out. 

The volunteer sat me in a chair and helped me change into my spare tee, hoping something dry would help, and wrapped me in two blankets.  Still not much difference.  A man across the hall was shivering nearly as bad.  His wife was crewing for him, and he swapped out his wet tee shirt for a dry tee, two dry long sleeves, and an insulated jacket.  We nodded to each other, or at least I think it was a nod.  Neither of us could stop from the violent shaking.  I'd been in the aid station for at least twenty minutes, likely more, and nothing was getting better.   Everyone was trying to figure out what to do.  Everyone wanted to go on, but no one felt safe.

A man stepped inside and yelled out "They're calling the race."

It took a few repetitions of the phrase for it to really sink in.  It was nearly June and yet the race was called due to inclimate weather.  I couldn't put words together, but others around me did.  "Now I don't feel bad because it wasn't just me dropping out!"  It was also a very hard earned 40 miles.

Volunteers started calling out how many people they could take in their cars.  Took a few tries, since I still could not muster much in the way of language, but I knew I needed to get off the mountain so eventually shot up with my hand held high to catch a ride.  I got outside and could barely keep ahold of my drop bag and race bag.  A very nice runner headed to the same vehicle carried them for me.

Almost immediately as we came down off of Pajarito the surrounding area looked like the snow never happened.  Insult to injury.  And had we been on the paved road then it would have been no problem.  So it goes.  Even after the fifteen minute drive I was still shivering, though much smaller than before.

I worried that I'd need to call Nathan, and worried how to get warm in the mean time.  Thankfully he showed up early to the finish line unsure of whether I stuck out the 50 miler or had switched to the 50k.  He grabbed my bag of finish line clothes from the car - fleece, three shirts, down jacket, rain shell, wool knee high socks, dry shoes.  Finally I was warm.  Finally I could say a coherent sentence.

Just after I came out to meet Nathan the first woman crossed the finish line.  We inquired, and the first male finished in 8 hours 7 minutes, so just about when the rain got bad and my Garmin went dead.  I had been on track for 12 hours were it not for the snow, which after speaking with other runners appeared to be many folks' goal.  My stomach was fine from the run but the shivering put it over the edge, so we didn't hang around much longer.

By that evening the race director posted a weather graph from that day.  A squall came through just after noon.  It was 46 degrees in Los Alamos, but by usual extrapolations of -4.6 degrees for every extra 1000 feet of elevation then the temperature was easily below freezing on the summit.  I was only one of numerous runners with hypothermia, hence the decision to call the race.  Of the 150 or so people who started the 50 miler only 20 people finished, and only two of them were female.  The unfortunate part is those of us who were stopped mid-way still count as DNF, did not finish.  I just wish there was a way for Ultrasignup to mark that the race was called rather than leaving it off your record as they usually do for DNFs.

I'll just have to go back next year to finish it up.

The good side is I have much more confidence for the rest of my race plans for the year.  Things will work out, I'm not that far behind, and I'm not that crazy.

Cayuga Trails 50 race report

My first ultra of the year took place along the hills and gorges of Treman State Park just outside Ithaca, NY.  I signed up for two big reasons -- the timing was good to allow recovery from Boston, and although this was the inaugural year the race director, Ian Golden, is the same director who impressed me last year at Virgil Crest.  It also turned out to be a higher profile trail race than I expected, with iRunFar signing on to cover the race and a slew of elites/semi-elites vying for top ten.  That left me in the front-of-the-middle-pack, free to run my own race free from the pressures of those bounding up the hills ahead.

The Cayuga Trails 50 course is a double out-and-back with a few sections of a large lollipop or parallel routes.  That meant some interaction with the elites as they flew in the opposite direction, and some blind pursuit.  Ithaca's gorges include huge waterfalls flanked by stone stairs with nicely graded trails on the back side.  Essentially, we would run over and down two gorges before turning around to do them in reverse, then repeat for lap number two.  Originally the course was estimated at 6500 feet of total elevation gain.  Apparently someone did a training run along one loop of the course, and their Garmin touted 5000+ feet, which would have meant 10,000+ feet over the whole race.  And since Virgil Crest (my race report) was measured with the same National Geographic topo software as the original Cayuga estimates, Virgil Crest would then be closer to ~13,000 feet instead of its estimated 10,000.  No one knew for sure, but Garmin/NASA was assumed to be more correct.  Regardless, it promised to be a day of hills at some degree lesser intensity as Virgil Crest.  Another reason to run my own race.

So I toed the line with merely one goal: finish under 10 hours.

[All photos are by Nathan, using a manual focus lens on a digital camera body.]

Start line, with elites at the front.  I'm hidden half way back toward the shelter.

 Virgil Crest yielded 10:25, an improvement upon Bear Mountain (10:39) despite stomach cramps.  If this promised to be in some way less, then I was determined.  Speaking of stomach issues, I made sure I'd have eight salt pills per lap to steadily take every 30 to 60 minutes depending on how I felt.  Having quelled a stomach niggle during the NYC Half with a salt pill, I hoped any occurrence this time would yield a similar result.  And I carried all my own "food" (Clif bars and GU Chomps), pre-determining to only eat PB&J if warranted and to rely on straight up water.  Maybe it is superstitious to cut out electrolyte drink mix and oranges/watermelon/salty chips since I don't know what caused the abdominal evilness during Virgil, but I was airing on the side of controlled variables based on what worked during my informal 50k across the NJ/NY border a few weeks earlier.

The first hill began with forest road just shallow enough to cautiously run, leading to informal stairs made of railroad ties and then eventually to the famed rock stairs by Lucifer Falls.  I hiked the stairs and focused on minimizing strain on my calves, also not wanting to slide on slick rock so early in the race.  Then a little downhill, and we were at the Old Mill aid station.  I was surprised by trail quality.  This being the east coast, you assume knobby and uneven rocks underfoot for most of the way.  Aside from tree roots, the stairs, and purposefully downs logs (to dissuade mountain bikers, who are not permitted on these trails), the remaining tread was smoothed dirt, thin grass or a layer of cushy pine needles that make your knees feel some ten years younger.

Coming into Old Mill

Runners rounding Old Mill on their way out

 I had enough water and supplies so I went right past the first aid station.  This station wasn't far from the start, so Nathan and the rest of the crowd was there to cheer everyone through.  Seeing a supportive, smiling face never gets old.  (Have I mentioned before the wonderfulness of Nathan?  If not, take note now, and I'll leave out gushy stuff from here on out.)  Around the corner of the mill, and up for a short bit before a long and very fun descent.  You could really open up here, and without risk of going ass over teakettle like on the Virgil ski slopes.  From there you end up at Underpass (aid station 2).  Quick fill up of water, and off I went again.

Coast along a short stint of flat forest road, and then you meet the steepest ascent of the day.  Not horribly long, but steep enough that recent years of hikers have mangled the land from skidding out and they newly created switchbacks were marked off so no one would bypass.  The switchbacks were still at something of a 45 degree angle.  That was most definitely hiked.  Even the guy who won said he had to power hike a bit of it.  Over the top and you start to descend, again getting to open up your stride, leading to a creek crossing.  I honestly don't remember where the other two of there crossings occurred.  One tip toed over rocks with a few wet toes, one was ankle deep, and one was mostly just over the knees but with a few steps where you sink to mid-thigh.  You cross each creek four times thanks to the out-back-out-back format.

Anyways, after that creek came the mud flats.  Ian mentioned creating a mile of trail where one did not exist before, and I'm assuming this is the place.  On the first pass the mud was just a little tacky.  Second pass, and indents were all over.  Third pass and troughs crisscrossed the trail with scant foliage available for tread along the side.  Fourth pass was 6-inch deep troughs turning to active swamp, leaving you covered in goey viscous mud up to your ankles and doubling the weight of your already soaked shoes.  Once beyond the mud and through the grass field (gorgeous!) then its more forest road and such leading down to the bottom of the other gorge/waterfall to the Buttermilk aid station.

Buttermilk was the turnaround point, sending you up a different set of rock stairs to eventually regain the trail, mud flats and all, whence you came.  That which you flew down you must go up.  With the waxing and waning rain/slight sun/drizzle, even pass looked just enough different.  While power hiking up where I had so much fun previously going down, I overheard one runner asking "Does anyone recollect even going down this in the first place?"  The main exclusion that comes to mind on the return trip was the steep switchbacks, which was descended on parallel trails further north.  Going down the stairs was relatively okay, occasionally having enough room on the side to avoid the railroad tie stairs but otherwise keeping a high cadence and (just in case) high knees.  When I came down the forest road I again saw Nathan taking photos of runners.  He said something encouraging, then said "I'll see you at the shelter [the start/finish/turnaround].  I can take a shortcut."  Yea, yea, thanks for rubbing it in.

Nathan had my food bag ready to go.  More of the same -- my extra packet of salt tabs, more water, and now I started adding soda at the aid stations (Coke to be exact).

As I took off for lap two I saw Adam, a guy I met a few minutes beforehand who was running his first ultra.  He left the shelter headed for the parking lot, then realized he was running off to nowhere and turned to rejoin the course marked by pink flags in the ground.   I teased, "Thought you were packing up to head home!"  I get very excited when people go for a new race distance.  We chatted a bit, and he had some good questions about pacing my found habits (frequency of salt pills, types of "food," etc).   I got a bit ahead on part of the runable uphill, then he caught up on the stairs, but once the downhill hit he fell back again.

Soon thereafter I met Dan, and my roll reversed.  Dan had nine 100 milers under his belt, so I asked all sorts of questions about running through the night and sleep deprivation.  We got so caught up in it that we didn't realized we missed the turn leading downhill to Buttermilk until we were about a quarter mile beyond.  "I don't remember this lake from the first lap."  "But we're still on the white trail.  Did we miss it, or did the flags get pulled off?"  Luckily when we hightailed it back to the last flag we found the turn.  Not too bad to only add on a half mile when you went off course.  Often that could mean miles of random trail searching.  We became a little more silent at point and focused on using the downhill to regain some of the time we lost.

Dan finishing the descent to the start/finish shelter to finish lap one.

 I kept my aid station time slim, getting water and Coke and trekking off again.  Dan caught up about a half our later, and we ended up traversing the last hamstring threatening mud flat crossing together.  The thigh high dunk felt amazing by the last crossing.  I think we actually sang as we crossed.  Once at the Underpass he pulled over to pee and I headed out again.  I was still able to power hike the uphills, but I was starting to feel it.  I kept my salt pill intake, and tried my best to use my hips.  I saw others in the far vicinity, but was no longer working as a pair.  I wasn't seizing, my stomach was okay, my alien toenail babies were relatively okay.

Murphy's Law.  I let myself get too pleased about my progress.  Don't know what it was.  Tree root, perhaps?  At just after nine hours of racing I caught something with my left foot, smashing my next to last toenail and possibly my big toe as well.  Flung down to the ground with arms splayed and water bottle flying.  Still managed to land on the right side.  Why, or better yet how do I always land on the right side??  Pretty sure I let out a Charlie Brown-esque scream.  Immediately got up, got my bottle, wiped my muddy hands on my sweat soaked shorts, and started walking.  A woman had been leering in the background for a while, and now she passed.  "How are you doing?"  A common question that I ask anyone I see walking.  Did she see and/or hear my fall?  I managed a benign response.  "Oh, hanging in there.  We're getting close!"  "We sure are!"  Another minute or so, the jello legs faded and I was able to trot again.

Came into that aid station and immediately downed three cups of Coke and took another salt pill.  Keep the mind working, or at least try.  About three miles to the finish, per an aid volunteer.  Maybe he read my facial expression.  I gave them a hearty thanks, noting 40 minutes to finish the last three miles for my goal of ten hours.  I knew there was descent on the stairs and forest road, couldn't remember how much vertical variance in between.  These races tend to average twelve minute miles for someone like me, assuming you don't have an obstacle that really slows you down.  Time to go for broke.  Every downhill was now do or die.  Every uphill was to be run if possible, or if not then power hiked through any cramps or pain.  I kept looking down at my shoes, at the Beads of Courage attached with twist ties, currently being drug through 50 miles of mud so that they can encourage a little sweetheart like Abby through the scary parts of their treatment for severe and/or terminal diseases.  I thought of Dan Wheeless, who by sheer determination and calm tact managed to complete bike centuries with better form and consistency than those with six times as much riding per week of training under their belts.  If they can (or in Dan's case, could) get through genuinely painful moments, I can get through this.  One glance at those beads and that sure as hell shuts up the complaining part of your brain.

I've never run so much during an ultra before.  Down and down and down, not worried about stumbling anymore so much as just physically getting to the bottom as quick as I could.  The stairs gave way to railroad tie stairs, which gave way to trail an eventually to forest road.  I was suddenly aware of the amount of downhill and couldn't remember how much was there the first time.  Then, like magic, I saw Nathan's red rain shell, waiting at the same point.  A few pictures and he took off the for finish, shouting "Go for it.  She's only got thirty seconds on you."  That meant I was catching up, but I knew with a quarter mile to go I wouldn't be able to make up the deficit.  I still high-tailed it, opting for at least a strong finish.

Final descent to the finish.

9 hours 48 minutes.  Bingo.

Turns out that last girl to pass me who finished a mere 30 seconds ahead?  She was tenth.  Fall or not, had we not missed that turn then I might have even made ninth.  But, that's how trail racing goes.  And who could look badly on a race result thirty seven minutes better than your previous personal record?  But what was most amazing was knowing that, while I may have been glad to be done, I could have kept going.


And that, my friends, is how you re-kindle your motivation after a mottled spring.

Post-race toes.

Stats:

time:          9:48:15
avg pace:  11:42/mile
place:        11th female, 37th overall
race:          164 starters, 132 finishers (38 of which are female)
splits:

intake:      1 1/3  Clif bars
                 3 1/2  packs GU Chomps
                 11  salt pills
                 1/4  PB&J
                 ~5 liters of water
                 ~32 oz. Coke
                 1  big stumble, recovered
                 1  wipe out
                 3  black toenails (some re-bruised, 1 newly darkening still)
                 1  bruise outside right knee

Ski lift hills and stomach cramps - Virgil Crest 50 mile race report

Picture yourself standing at the bottom of a ski lift.  To see the top 1400 feet above (vertical feet, mind you) you have to shield your eyes from the sun as you crane your neck.  According to the course description on the website, Mars Hill technically averages a 14% grade that at times reaches 21%.  To your eyes, it looks like a 70 degree angle.  Since you somehow find challenges like this to be fun, you get to run up and down the backside of Mars Hill.  And bookending the loop of awesomeness is a similarly veined descent on road and an ascent on hiking trails running in parallel.  And - and - this encompasses the middle 10 or so miles of the outbound portion of the course, so you get to do it all over again backwards.

The upside is that you are only entered in the 50 mile race.  While you wallow in pain and stumble with cramps at the finish line, the 100 milers turn around and do the entire thing, out and back, again....

The full 50.2 mile course

Again, how's that for perspective?

There's almost no need to go into depth about the other sections of the course.  There were climbs and descents, tree roots and downed logs to hurdle.  Compared to any other east coast trail I have run on, it was decidedly less rocky and less technical.  There were occasional bouts of soft trail covered with luscious pine needles that make your legs feel 10 years younger and two hours fresher.  (Seriously.  I wanted to kiss the ground.)  The course is surrounded by green hills that feel like a warm blanket to those like me who are regularly trapped in an urban concrete jungle.  The entire race crew and collection of entrants are good people - happy to be there, happy to participate, understanding of how to help and how to mutually support.   

And so at about 8.5 miles into the race I found myself on the downhill section of road.  I tried to use the momentum and avoid a quad-bashing controlled descent, so I kept the cadence high and tried to avoid lingering too long on any footfall.  I regularly train on a nearby .3 mile hill of this grade.  This one kept descending for a total of 1.1 miles, then hooked up with a couple turns for another .4 miles of milder downhill leading to the next aid station.  I definitely felt it at the bottom, a little tingle throughout my legs.  Having learned a huge lesson from Traprock's festival of hamstring cramps secondary to inadequate salt intake, I was grateful to have packed and carried 8 salt tabs to supplement said stations.

Barely out of the aid station was the ski lift hill.  I took my two chunk of peanut butter and jelly so slowly nosh as I ascended.  No sense on blowing all your energy trying to ascend fast; rather, you must take care of yourself.  The tingle from the downhill became the odd sense I have not experienced since college at Iowa.  That was my last time I worked out in a gym, where if you are not careful with effort levels and angles on an elliptical you'll cut off blood flow to your feet and get the numb-tingles in your toes.  I developed the same response while marching up the ski lift hill. 

While I wouldn't call my training for this race perfect, I did have the Escarpment Trail Race to add a new mix of hills.  It is the same cumulative elevation gain of 10,000 feet though squeezed into 18 miles.  But on the Escarpment Trail, the grade is steeper and the terrain is rocky enough that, in effect, the course is a stairwell on steroids that requires use of handholds.  Here, it is a smooth incline aside from the bumbles of mud and grass heaps.  Not steep enough to use your hands (aside from on your thighs as Euro "hiking poles"), consistent enough that your ankle is on constant stretch or your calf is constantly in contraction depending on your ascent technique.  A few times I turned around to go up a dozen steps backwards just to take the pressure off for a few seconds.  Scott, the 100 miler ascending at my pace, gave a knowing smile.  That led to the first of a handful of nice conversations with fellow runners.

You turn the corner at the top and have a steep descent on a gravel road, again trying to not bash your quads too much now that your whole leg is on fire.  Then you ascend another steep section.  There's a couple of rolling stretches mixed with a couple of steeper ascents - a fancy way of saying I have no recollection of what happened during that stretch.  All I remember is a not-quite-but-almost hand-over-foot ascend up a mud hill.

Steadily a young woman in a pink tank top gained on me fast throughout the entire series of climbs.  Turned out to be Rachel, a 100 miler with whom I previously had a small chat during the benign initial section.  Every uphill she would power hike easier than I've ever seen before.  She was kicking ass and taking names.  But it still helped my confidence, because for all the distance she'd close on me during an ascend I could in turn recreate on descents.  It turned out to be a consistent parlay of order for the first 25 miles.  Rachel was so positive and full of youthful spirit that at a point I had to ask her age.  "Twenty four.  Yea, I'm older than I seem."  I told her it was more of a benefit than she realized.  She went on to describe that she absolutely loves hills to the point that she gets giddy.  And when she is further and further into a crazy long race she becomes deliriously giddy, apparently much to the dismay of we older (or, as in my case, "older") and more cynical folk.  We had a lot of fun joking about when we'd next pass each other.  And it was a blast to run for so long with another female.

But I digress.  After getting through the multitude of false top-outs you eventually make the long descent on the backside of the loop.  Your legs can't open up on this kind of grade.  Well, at least not if you are a mortal such as I am.  I tried instead to sit my butt back and keep a high foot cadence.  And breath between the winces and muscle twinges.  Eventually you make it back to the same aid station as before.  That whole loop mess?  4.2 miles in one hour.

I walked a short bit to let my legs breath while I stuffed my face.  Short, since the trail paralleling the loop is but a couple minutes away.  After the jarring introduction to the loop it all seems easier.  You simply use denial when it comes to knowing you'll do the loop in reverse at some point.  This section and the fifth section were when Rachel and I were together as much as the parlays would work out.  The fourth aid station had watermelon and oranges.  I moaned audibly as I inhaled.  As we closed in on the fifth aid station and turnaround point the rolling hills created a resultant downhill, so I pulled away from Rachel at some point.  Somewhere in there was a very big near fall, my left foot catching on something.  Not until I was within a mile or two did I see anyone on the return.  One guy told me that I was the second woman on the course.  For now, I thought.  Just keep moving.

I dunked a potato into a bowl of salt, smiling as I laboriously chewed and waved thanks as I left.  It felt like only a few minutes, though it may have been more, when I passed not just a few but a crew of folks still headed outward.  In that crew was Rachel in the lead, to whom I gave a hearty high five and a holler, and three other women amongst a handful of men.  You figure there's a train chasing you, but you don't expect a literal running train.  Eesh.  Just keep moving.  I also saw Elaine, who had a marvelous second wind and thus a second place finish at the Traprock 50k.  Realized to late for a high five, so we exchanged hollers.  A little scary to know who is tracking you down, but energizing at the same time.

A half hour later a woman in bright clothing suddenly appeared behind me.  I was trying to use the momentum but cautiously, knowing that the loop was out there waiting our return.  I let her by with some encouragement.  I decided to try to maintain third place.  I also saw my mother in-law's coworker who was doing his first 50 miler with little training secondary to a farming accident over the summer.  His wife managed to spot me before the start, so once I heard of his reasons for nervousness I had given all the practical advice I could think of.  He wasn't sure he'd finish, and yet he was maybe 4 miles from the turnaround.  Good stuff!  I was glad to see him still out there.

After the aid station of watermelon goodness at mile 30 the uphill started again.  I again hiked, hoping that my power hike would at least hold off the other women from the power train.  I actually hoped Rachel would catch up again, but I knew she had to spread her energy over twice the distance as I did.  She might have lingered at the aid station for good reasons.  You never know.  I saw a dude a ways up ahead who I recognized from a brief exchange earlier, and managed to slowly reel him in.  You focus your eye on them, add in a conscientious breathing pattern, feed off their pace to help your momentum, and then thank them as you pass.   As we exchanged sentiments about "hanging in there" I noticed a woman running - yes, running - up the hill behind us.  Sh*t balls.  As we crested and made our way through a few rolling hills I tucked in behind my conversation mate for a few minutes.  I hoped that she was blowing her steam by running and that my judicious hiking would win out in the end to maintain third.  Once the downhill started I let loose as much as the now goopy, mud slung, downhill and yet side slanted trail would let me.  I saw neither of them any time I looked back.  At some point on that descent was a 5+ foot slide down a mud incline.  Yahoo.

Eventually I passed the aid station.  Grabbed more peanut butter and jelly sections, and started the reverse of the loop.  Just as I got out of sight of the aid station I heard someone yell, "There's Heather!" followed by cheering.  Sh*t balls.  On this kind of a hill you can't judge, you can't force.  You just survive.  Just keep moving.  I saw another guy I recognized, Michael, up ahead.  He was not having a good time.  Once nearby we exchanged commiserations.  He told me to fight back for second place.  I laughed and said I was trying to simply hang on to third.  I kept hiking up around the bend (let's face it, "power" hiking is a relative term at this point...), only to hear Mike call out that Heather was indeed running up this hill too.  Sh*t.  Balls.  I grumbled something of a thanks for the heads up, let out a big sigh, and told myself to run the less severe inclines.

I held her off for a bit, but we were only half way up the climb and the grade got steep again.  (On the elevation graph, it's the hill leading up from mile 36.3.)  We eventually hit the dipsy-doodle hills on top, and as I gently began to jog along a momentarily flat/down stretch she finally matched me.

Me: "How the hell have you run up all these hills?!?"
Heather: "I don't know!"
Me: "Have you done many ultras before?"
Heather: "No.  Just road marathons.  This is my first ultra."
Me: "Dude..."

After a few beats of silence to let that sink in, the sadness of forfeiting a spot was immediately replaced by complete awe for her performance.  Both she and Rachel should do Sky Running events, where the races tend to go straight up significant mountains much like the ski lift hill but longer.

It was then that my stomach started to cramp - not my abdomen/intestines, not even an abdominal muscle.  My actual stomach.  Never experienced that before.  I was already periodically hiking my legs back to life.  Now I had to do the same for a visceral organ.  I tried pacing my breath, but this wasn't CO2 related.  I hunched over and stuck my fingertips as far under my left ribs as I could while still moving forward (your muscles don't just turn off, so I couldn't really get in there) and did my best to mobilize my stomach on the move.  I was able to take the sting off so long as I was on a flat section or an uphill.  Somehow running downhill was what aggravated things. 

Mike caught back up to me, and we began our own parlay that narrowed with each passing as we made our way through the remaining dipsy-doodles, alternating between my stomach and his hamstrings.  At one point Mike was ahead and no one was behind, so I took my only pee during the race at 7 hours 40 minutes in.  I managed to catch back up to Mike again.  Then Heather came running back towards us asking if we had missed the turn.  We reassured her that we were on course.  My mind sparked a glimmer of hope that maybe I could fight for third after all.  We found the turn off down the mud slide, which Heather had passed before turning around, and off she pranced while the downhill flared up my stomach again.  I think that glimmer of hope lasted a whole twenty seconds.  Reality check: just finish the damn race in one piece.  Right.

We hit the first of two big downhills on the loop.  It was harsh on the legs, but steep enough that the pace was still relatively slow and so by some good grace did not aggravate my stomach.  We turned to head up the last climb of the loop, spotting Heather just about to crest the top.  Mike: "She's still running."  Me: "Yup.  Friggin' Energizer Bunny."  She was even wearing a pink tank top.  Despite being out of ear shot I still wished her a finish just as strong.  Mike and I fell into step and opted for good conversation.  We were suffering, but we had a good time.  We didn't see Heather at all when we hit Mars Hill headed down.  And we probably looked, and sounded, ridiculous as we made our way down to the aid station. 

Heather was not too far ahead of us leaving the aid station, but I also knew that the road hill awaited us.  We did our best plod-along jog on the less severe incline, switching to a hike the moment we hit the base of the main drag.  Heather was still running.  Definitely the ultra shuffle, but definitely running.  Mike and I laughed and kept up the conversation.  Soon another guy popped up next to us.  Hadn't a clue where the hell he came from.  Apparently he had seen us and made an effort to catch up.  Safety in numbers.  We welcomed Ethan to our hobbling group.

Eventually we made it to the remaining section and a half of forest trail.  We ran as a group for a while.  Eventually Mike got a second wind, so Ethan and I cheered him on as he took off.  I had to walk a bit for my legs again after hurdling a handful of logs, so I then cheered on Ethan as he took off.  Bit by bit I made my way to the last aid station.  I picked out a potato chunk with high surface area and dunked it into as much salt as I could get.  The volunteers cheered for my salt acquisition methods, then laughed for a good minute as I stood motionless and moaned in my salty euphoria.  This is the delirium that comprises the latter chunk of ultras.  More watermelon, and off I trodded.

The last section was a blur.  Every five or ten minutes of shuffle-run was followed by at least a few minutes of hiking and poking at my stomach.  I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure no other females were coming from behind.  The only two who appeared were from the relay race, so they were actually running and were full of vigor and good wishes.  With about two miles to go I caught back up to Ethan, and the two lead 100 milers passed on their second outbound trip.  I gave them a big high five, and they reassured me that I was close.  What felt like a gently rolling nothingness at the start of the race became a slight downhill to the finish that wreaked havoc on my stomach.  I kept walking and poking.  Ethan eventually passed again.  Thankfully no one came from behind.  I managed to keep Ethan in my sight, and with a half mile to go I managed to shuffle-jog through the objections from my stomach, the idea of being done outweighing the pain.

After all that, would I do that race again?  Yes :)

Total time: 10 hours 25 minutes.  Fourth female, 13th overall out of just over 100 finishers.  Only 21 minutes behind the lead woman, and 9 minutes after the gazelle Heather.  Manage to best my Bear Mountain 50mi time despite the increase in elevation.  Mike finished just after her, rounding out the top 10 overall, Ethan just behind Mike and ahead of me.  Rachel came through at 10 hours 40 minutes, but in my stupor of recovery I missed getting to cheer on the start of her second half.  I saw Scott as he loaded up with food; he made it to the base of the ski slope loop for a total of ~60 miles but dropped at that point.  Better to take care of yourself when you need it.  And my mother-in-law's coworker Allen?  He finished in 14 hours 42 minutes.  Attaboy.

My full stats, as per the race results on the Virgil Crest Ultras website:

They still weighed about 2 pounds each the next morning.  And they smelled gloriously.  *Gag*

The plan

The plan:

7:30am-3:30pm:  Work.  Doing my damndest, yes damndest, to get out on time.

3:30pm-4:30pm:  Walk from work over to Fort Lee, NJ to pick up rental car.  (Waaaaay cheaper than Manhattan, folks!)

4:30pm-5:00pm:  Wait in line at rental car place.

5:00pm-9:00pm:  Drive to Cortland, NY.  Crossing fingers for no horizontal toll both traverses.

9:00pm:  Check into hotel

9:15pm:  Dinner, roll left butt and thigh on tennis ball, lay out stuff for tomorrow.  Maaaaybe shower.

10:30pm:  Sleep.  I hope...

3:30am:  Wake.  Coffee, food, dress, repack stuff.

4:30am:  Leave for Hope Lake Park.

5:00am:  Check in, get bib, apply copious amounts of Aquafore, use bathroom.

5:40am:  Get a little nervous.  Apply more copious amounts of Aquafore, eek out a last pre-performance pee.

6:00am-tba:  Run, hike, eat, run, hike, eat, run, hike, eat.  Virgin Crest 50 miler.  Hoping to finish in by 11 hours.

1-2 hours later:  Try to not cramp or fall asleep while driving the hour to mother-in-law's house.

Another 1-2 hours later:   Stumble into mother-in-law's house, try not to fall on one of a dozen possible cats, attempt to at least hit the couch if not a bed.  Sleeeeep.

And yet, knowing that ultras go however they choose regardless of careful planning means that I am excitedly awaiting tomorrow though not worried.  It'll be however it is.  What I am more worried about is the week after, wherein I transition from a Mon-Fri schedule to a Tue-Sat schedule.  I'll become the new Saturday point person.  There will be at least one other on that first Saturday to help me, but the whole setup process is different, and I'll be in charge of organizing all the weekend therapists who more often than not are from other areas of the hospital (such as outpatient - very, very different).

So apparently becoming the Saturday point person is scarier than running 50 miles with a cumulative 10,000ft of elevation gain.  Perspective is an interesting thing, isn't it?

TNF Bear Mountain race report - my first 50 miler

Whatever anxiety I had going into this race helped me prepare for a disaster that, thanks to a few key decisions, never struck.  The race was extremely well marked and aid stations had everything I could possibly need.  North Face puts their money and resources where their mouth is, a big benefit over what smaller races are able to achieve.  There was a lot to think about since this was my first 50 miler.  First the stats:

Time:  10:39:06
Place:  4th female, 54th overall
Race size:  234 total participants, 192 finishers (165 men, 27 women)

Pre-race intake:  1 coffee, 1 PB and honey sandwich, 1 package GU Chomps.
Fluid intake:  ~5.5 L GU Brew, ~24 oz. Pepsi, 8 oz. chicken broth.
Semi-solid and solid intake:  12 gels (GU and Roctane shots, 2 Clif Turbo shots), ~2 PB&Js, 1 Clif Mojo Bar, ~3 red B potatoes (cooked) dunked into a total equivalent of ~9-10 salt packets.

Bear Mountain/Harriman State Park is only about an hour's drive north into mainland New York without traffic.  At the same time, the race starts at 5:00 a.m. and requires taking a shuttle from Anthony Wayne parking lot no later than 4:15.  I opted for a hotel with a mere 10 minutes from the start.

First alarm at 3:00 a.m., second alarm at 3:15.  It was surprisingly easy to get up, probably thanks to a body already full of adrenaline.  Chugged a liter of water, then had coffee and breakfast while painting copious amounts of Body Glide all over necessary seams.  3:40, wake Nathan, get dressed.  3:50, out the door.  At the shuttle by 4:05 despite super dense fog, and at the start/finish line festival by 4:15.  Here's where I did all the little gear fiddling, the copious Aquafore application, and three bathroom trips (two thanks to coffee, one thanks to nerves).  

Suddenly its 5:00.  Off we go.

~30 min. after the start and I'm already halfway drenched in sweat.

Among the firsts experienced in this race was running in the dark with a headlamp.  Turned out to be much easier than I thought.  We only needed it for the first hour or so of the race when everyone is in big groups anyways, so your little beam of light is shared amongst other beams.  You still have to pick carefully whose trail line you are willing to follow, just like at any time -- some will lead you through solid foot placements and avoidance of sock drenching, others will slosh and stumble.  One guy announced his desire to pass by splashing me while hydroplaning and nearly taking me out.  "Oops.  On your right."

I slowly passed one female in the first few miles wearing pink booty shorts.  I do no begrudge tight shorts; I have to wear them because anything loose will chafe me someway, somehow, even on a short run.  But booty shorts?  How the hell do all other females get away with stuff like that and not chafe their inner thighs???  I. Don't. Get. It.  Despite my conversation with myself I did notice that she seemed steady and with a controlled pace.  I wondered if I'd see her later.  I kinda hoped I would - it is encouraging to see other females throughout the course and not just a bunch of guys.

Climbs were spread throughout the course though a good deal of it stacked early.  What with the fog that stuck around until 9 or 10 a.m. and lush green spring growth, visually it made for rather serene surroundings.  It also meant that whatever amount of rain occurred in the preceding days did not dry off.  My feet were wet by the first aid station (Anthony Wayne, mile 3.9) and continued to be so throughout the course.  I tried to rock-hop around much of the detectable water/mud to minimize the effects of maceration -- good idea in theory, unrealistic in practice.  Once I realized the slosh had disappeared from my toes I'd hit another swamp or bog or creek.  At least I tried.  Thick drops of sweat ran off the brim of my hat and my over-saturated shirt was starting to over-saturate my shorts.  After multiple attempts to wring out the shirt while wearing it I inevitably removed the pack and shirt to squeeze out a good couple ounces of fluid.  I debated whether to run without a shirt, but told myself that I'd like chafe on my back from the bag.

At the second aid station, Silvermine (mile 8.6), I went for two quarters of a PB&J.  I saw the two bowls of cooked potato slices and pondered the empty calories.  If I'm gonna eat starch, wouldn't I want something else with it [electrolytes, salts, protein, whatever]?   Then I saw a guy dunk the potato into a huge mound of salt.  OH OH OH MY GOODNESS THAT'S THE BEST INVENTION IN THE WORLD!!  I immediately joined him in a salty petit repast.  Each dunk would grab the equivalent to one fast food salt packet.  I thought back to the inner thigh cramps from Traprock that I knew were secondary to too little salt.  This, I was sure, was gonna be a deal breaker for helping me survive intact. 

I made a deal with myself at the beginning to use the wet, rocky, technical ascents and descents for control of my pace.  Last thing I wanted to add to The Old Ladies was an ACL tear from going too fast early in the race.  I think in the long run it worked to my advantage.  During the first third a group of a dozen or so of us had a continuous round robin of leaders depending on who was stronger at which terrain.  There were two or three europeans, perhaps french, who would bombast themselves down the slick and rocky descents like the one around mile 8.  I met a guy named Shane who had a similar slow descent for safety's sake.  As the frenchies stumbled and rolled by my head played out images of falling forward down stairs with resultant spinal cord injury.  "F***ing europeans."  I thought I mumbled in my head, turned out I said it loud enough for the guys around me to hear.  They all laughed.  After passing Arden Valley (mile 13.9) they started to fade back.  I like to think that my judicious descents were already paying off.

Not visible are the continuous drops of sweat reaped from my clothes. 

There were also boulder ascents at the crest of many climbs.  Some time between Arden Valley (mile 13.9) and Skannatati (mile 20.7) we hit a string of them, though at this point I was with a new crowd of mostly guys and one female.  At one in particular it was hard to tell where the trail went next.  Three guys fought their way straight up the rock face, huffing and puffing.  The other female stood there saying "I'm nowhere near as tall.  Do we really have to go straight over?"  I scanned right and left, saw some sort of a trail wrapping around the boulder to the left.  "I'm gonna check this out.  I'll let you know."  The guys were still grunting trying to get themselves over the rock, each blindly following those in front.  Sure enough, it was the easy (and marked) way to go.  "Over here!  WAY easier."  The female cried out "Oh thank goodness!" and I heard a different, more exhausted groan from the fellas.  Don't ever dawg genderized thought processes, people.  Hazzah!

When I rolled into Skannatati I was told I was third female.  "Seriously?"  "Ya sure are!"  Oh shit.  That was both super exciting and bad news -- since this was my first time doing anything over 31 miles I was guessing about my pace, going by rate of perceived exertion more than anything else.  This could mean its a slow year and I have a chance, or it could mean I'm gonna blow up soon.  Crap.

By the time I hit Camp Lanowa the internal debate as to whether or not to actually race was making me much more anxious than I wanted.  Again I was told that I was 3rd female, and I must admit that it feels really good to be on the receiving end of that for at least a few aid stations.  I tried not to think about it.  I ate two more PB&J quarters, two slices of potato with as much salt on it as I could get, washed it down with some Pepsi.  Then I ditched the pack (since this was an official drop bag site) -- it felt WONDERFUL to get that thing off my back, lightweight or not -- swapping it out for a Mojo bar and uber-caffeinated gels (for mentation's sake later in the race).

I like to keep my aid station stops as quick and streamlined as possible.  My mind was dead set on a clean pair of sock earlier in the race, though now that I had a good opportunity to change them out I realized that I'd get wet soon enough and it wouldn't make a difference.  Save the time, head on out.  On a whim I opted to chug some chicken broth on the way back out onto the course.  As the volunteer handed me the cup I saw Pink Booty Shorts girl sit down in a chair to fix her shoe.  Blast.  She's caught me.  The racing side of me had a little freak out.  I threw back the broth in a gulp and took off with a wave of thanks to the crew.

As I started the next stage I again found Shane.  We chatted a bit.  Gets hard to be truly chatty though once you hit this point.  He was starting to slow down.  Everyone goes through multiple highs and lows (physical and mental separately), and you absolutely must respect them.  I was in an okay patch and needed to keep up my momentum.  Not sure if Shane was in a rough patch, but he seemed to have slowed down.  I wished him well and slowly, in my best mid-race penguin waddle best, pulled away.

My head was still toying with what holding 3rd female did or did not mean.  I realized that it was too much to think about.  I needed to complete 20 more miles than I'd ever done before -- now was not the time to try to push things.  Now was the time to survive.  I had momentum, but that wasn't guaranteed to last.  Lo and behold, I turned around out of curiosity only to see Pink Booty Shorts girl headed my way.  She was having a genuinely good patch (or so it seemed from my point of view).  I was absolutely relieved.  I stepped aside to let her pass, gave her a big wave and a big smile, and wished her luck.  "You're taking over as 3rd female!  Keep it up!"  She smiled and trotted on.  I was again amazed that she wasn't running like a cowboy from inner thigh chafing.  I restarted my pace with a major load off my back.  The salty potatoes may have been the physiological deal breaker, but letting myself let go of 3rd place even before I was overtaken was the pinnacle psychological deal breaker.  The remaining ~20 miles were going to be my own experience at my own whim, and no unnecessary race stress was going to make me blow up.

An attempt to smile and give a thumbs-up to the camera.  I think the thumb made it.  The smile probably ended up more of a cringing sneer.

I think that was when I also realized why I so enjoy covering distances on my own two feet, though I'll spare you the philosophical stuff since this recount is long enough as it is.  (Fifty miles allow many, many more opportunities for self-reflection than one might think.) 

Soon I heard two guys who actually were ridiculously chatty.  I almost was irritated by the fact that they were able to be so damn chatty, but then I realized they were going my pace and were pretty funny.  I'll take humor any time I can get it!  If I remember their names correctly, Nick was the fellow racer and Eric was his pacer.  Camp Lanowa was the first opportunity for pacers to start, so Eric had sounded super fresh and upbeat because he actually was super fresh and upbeat.  Go figure.  Either way it was nice to have the company.

A good chunk of the course after mile 20 was pretty darn runable, with rolling forest roads much like those of the previous photo (the attempted smile).  There was also a long uphill climb on a road, which it seemed everyone else also walked.  I had parlayed back into contact with Nick and Eric.  I was in a bit of a concentrated mode to get up the hill with as little effort as possible (as though that was possible - hah!), but again I was glad for their banter.  After about 10 minutes it began to level off, at which point we restarted our penguin waddle.  Uphill may take more muscle power, but it at least reduces the leg pounding.  We all suddenly became acutely aware of a large SUV in oncoming traffic that had stopped in front of us.  Images of shot gun wielding and defensive upstate NY yokels flashed through my head.  "Um, why are they stopped?"  "Huh.  Um, dunno."  "Creeeeeeepy..."  Once within 50 feet Eric noted they had a video camera propped onto the side mirror.  Still creepy, I though.  For whatever reason my chosen response to the cameraman was to hold up the pinkie-index-thumb hand signal.  What does that actually mean, gnarly?  Rock on?  Whatever.  Waddle onward, ye sweaty salty fool.

There was another aid station in there, Tiorati (mile 34.2), and while I remember crossing it I don't remember much of what was around it aside from still being at the same pace as Nick and Eric.  Eventually we made it back to Anthony Wayne (mile 40.3), where our second drop bag was allowed.  I wasn't thinking about the view anymore.  I was thinking about keeping myself mentally stable.  I wanted the Mojo bar and the super-caffeinated gels in my bag.  And yet my bag wasn't there.  I stared at them all for a good minute while a volunteer checked under other bags for mine.  They were all lined up like they were supposed to be (in numerical order), but there were much fewer than I'd expected to see.  Turns out many of them were not forwarded correctly.  So.  Plan B, eat an extra salty potato and drink twice as much Pepsi.

I set out grumbling, not only in my head but also in my knees.  Anthony Wayne is a good sized parking lot, and we ran up the exit road for a bit before turning into the woods again.  For whatever reason my knees felt the pavement and simultaneously decided to complain.  Nothing debilitating, but an all around ache nonetheless.  For a moment I worried, then I realized that it was not patellofemoral or IT-band specific pain - just an all around ache.  Okay self, let's bargain.  Rocky technical hills: hike.  Rocky and wet regardless of incline: walk/rock hop.  Wait, I just reasoned with myself at mile 41 of a 50 mile race.  Is that possible?  My legs are still moving.  But I can't make the same central pattern generator argument with my mind.  Don't be a nerd, focus on moving forward.  Keep drinking, keep moving.

Nick and Eric were around there somewhere, I think slightly ahead for this jaunt.  Two others I had seen way back at the start had also caught up and were bounding ahead on good momentum.  We were no longer on the nice, smooth forest roads.  We were now back in rock and fallen branch laden swampy trails.  I was in a low stretch and let the merry men, who seemed to be okay, do as they may.  I threw back one of the super-caffeinated gels.  Eventually I started to feel okay, and we left the mucky swampy trail for a rocky hilly trail.  I wasn't saying much, but I'd caught back up to the boys.  Nick and Eric were okay, the other two were having another rough moment.  One, in fact, was puking just off the trail a few hundred feet short of the next aid station, Queensboro (mile 44.7).  With about one hundred feet to go was a runner wrapped in an emergency blanket escorted by three EMS folk.  He was at least on his feet, and was able to respond when I bid him to feel better.

I wanted this race in the bag.  I also knew that the next stage was the laterally tilted, super rocky, destroy your will stage that broke me last year.  I wanted out of this aid station quick.  I asked for broth while I ate my salty potatoe wedge.  Seemed like 2 minutes went by, when it was probably 20 seconds.  The volunteer warned "It's a little warm, so be careful."  I blew on it, tried one sip and searing pain when across my entire tongue as I spat it back out and nearly choked.  That wasn't warm, it was boiling.  And my tongue was burned.  Big time.

I was holding back tears but wanted the salty fluid, so asked for ice cubes to cool it down.  "Too hot?"  No sh*t, Sherlock.  What the f*** would I want a boiling hot cup of ANYTHING for?  To sit and sip while reading a book?  This is the END of a FRIGGIN' 50 MILE F***ING RACE.  I don't care if it is "palatable," I just want it chugable.  Seemed like five minutes went by (probably one minute), and she had carefully shook one lone ice cube into the cup.  She paused to chat with a fellow volunteer about something before cautiously trying to shake the next ice cube from the cup.  I should have been out of here three minutes ago.  Do NOT f*** with my transition times.  I am the only one who should be guilty of slowing me down.  She still wasn't finished.  I was fuming.  I wanted to be D.O.N.E.  F*** it.  I'm out.

I crossed the single mid-race timing platform and took off, mouth full of pain, wondering if I'd get blisters on my tongue, and one minor mishap away from going ballistic with tears.  Had they flowed, it would be been all out.  Nick and Eric were pretty close ahead; I'm rather certain their presence (read: not wanting to look like a fool) was the reason I held it together.  The anger fueled the fire enough that I took the momentum swing and passed them again.  I knew what was coming up, and I was very grateful to know exactly what to expect.

And yet, each section seemed a mere quarter of what it had seemed last year.  Was I that mentally foregone last year?  Did the tongue burning ironically decrease the terrains intensity?  I can honestly say nothing I have done has been as physically hard as this stage last year; was experience really the main factor for this?   Whatever.  I'll take it.  I even ended up singing made up songs to myself about rock hopping. 

I hit the very last aid station, 1777 (mile 47.2).  Refilled the water bottle.  Tongue was painful so opted against any more food.  Confirmed that Pink Booty Shorts girl was still holding strong in third (attaboy, girl!) and that I was still 4th.  From here on out I was smelling the barn, moaning and groaning all the way.  Pure desperation to be done.  But it was a fortified desperation, not a near-collapse desperation.  I literally ran as much as my penguin waddle could muster.  I hit the last downhill and used it for all its worth, moaning louder and louder with each step.  I was through the bridge tunnel and could hear the finish festival in the distance.  I think I actually managed a real run through the finish.  The chute was lined with cheering people.

DONE.  Ohthankgoodness I can finally SIT DOWN.

The feeling of standing still without any need to go anywhere felt downright weird.  I had my hands on my knees, scanning the crowd that was staring back blankly.  I had no idea what to do with myself after nearly 11 hours of moving forward.  Nathan called out from the side.  I stumbled over, put my head on his shoulder, and proceeded to cry.  He walked me a little ways over to our friends who ran the marathon relay with him, and I was still crying.  Took about five minutes to get it all out. 

Eventually I made it to the recovery ice bath, managed to stay in there a full 4 minutes before the burning became too bad.  Changed into dry, clean clothes, saw my feet for the first time.  You saw the picture of the shoes up above in the gear photo - at the time they had a mere 17 miles on them.  They now have 77 miles clocked and look like this...

Forgot to get a shot at the finish festival.  Pretty sure they weighed 4 times their normal weight due to mud and water.

...which produced feet looking like this...

Not too bad considering the amount of mud.  Aside from a few mildly tender toenails the bilateral third toe blisters were the extent of the damage.

Will had finished well.  I ended up finishing ahead of the french girl.  I had no food aversions following the race, and none of the painful hard palate reactions to food once we stopped for burgers on the way home.  There was some confusion as to which females had the podium.  Sportstats online listed Pink Booty Shorts girl, real name Ashley Kumlien, as 2nd and me as 3rd.  We knew that was incorrect.  Ashley said when she crossed the finish line that there was no mention of her earning 3rd like she was told.  In fact, the officials checking in bib numbers at aid stations told her she was 3rd female until the very last station said she was 4th.  She hadn't seen anyone pass her, but she did see other females around due to multiple races sharing the final stretch of the course.  At the awards ceremony the 2nd place female did not show.  Later I cross checked the names listed on the race's Facebook page with the Sportstats list, found both the 1st and 2nd place females listed by Sportstats as male.  Okay, so I guess I got 5th, but that still didn't jive with what I was told by officials at all the aid stations.  A few days ago the pictures were published online - Jocelyn, the supposed 2nd place female, is in fact male.  TNF also corrected the podium listing on their Facebook page.  So, 4th place for me. 

Sunday morning I was able to descend the stairs of our building reasonably well.  Sunday afternoon I was glad that I had immediately thrown everything touched in the race into the washing machine the moment we got home the night before.  I've walked to work throughout this week, but that's been it in terms of exercises.  Well, that and supporting Min to Max assist patients at work.  I'm glad we have a somewhat lighter caseload these days.  By Wednesday evening/Thursday morning my legs finally seemed their normal size, even with using compression socks all week at work and at home.  Sunday I may actually try a run, but I may not.  Will see how it goes.  I will enjoy getting back into it soon, though for now I am happily satisfied to have a week off.

Countdown to Bear Mtn has begun

For all of you watching the Derby tomorrow, don't forget to send positive vibes my way as well.  Race starts at 5:00 a.m. local time, and I'm guessing a 10+ hour total time to complete.  Apparently there is an Android and iPhone app available from Sportstats, which will report my time over the few on course check points and over the finish.  Not nearly as techy and accessible as the NYC Marathon, but most trail races (even those sponsored by TNF) are much, much smaller than such road races.

Picked up my bib and race swag yesterday.  I also gave them my two drop bags -- that is what made me a bit nervous.  The bag set at mile 27.7 has an extra set of clothes including capri running pants and an older pair of backup shoes in case chafing becomes enough of an issue, two Clif Mojo bars, and two Clif gels with lots of caffeine (meant to supplement the gels available in the race for an extra oomph of mentation support).  The bag for mile 40.3 has the same Mojo and gels plus some GU chews, extra Body Glide, and sport tape.  Did everything go to the mileage point at which I'll need it??  Did I remember everything?  Oh boy oh boy oh boy *bounce*bounce*bounce*  Quick, hand me a banjo (Sam's suggested distraction method)!

Today in Harriman State Park is rain, high of 78, low tonight of 58.  Tomorrow is a mere 20% chance of rain (meaning likely sunny skies), high of 70.  Could be worse.  Think soothing thoughts.  Banjos.  Kittehs behaving themselves.  Worse race parameters (i.e. 100-mile races).  The luxury of fun reading.

The kit (though I forgot the water bottle):

Apparently I run for team Blue Mismatch.  Hoping to get enough dirt/mud/salty sweat on me to make my unintentional color scheme a little less evident.  Or perhaps the winced look on my face will accomplish the same thing.

T-minus 22 hours 16 minutes....