Saturday I drove to Gunnison to watch a couple kiddos from Adams State compete at the Rocky Mountain Athletic Conference indoor track and field championships. The main kiddo of interest had only one event thanks to a recent injury. He pointed out it was "a long drive for eight seconds" of watching the 60m hurdles go down. But it was my first time getting to watch a collegiate athlete perform after I've helped them return to sport. Totally worth it.
It was also the first track meet I have attended since the state finals of my senior year in high school. The memories flooded back. The D2 athletes all had much more codified preparation and routines, but they are just as apt to go too hard too fast and then get reeled in and passed by the pack. The no-long juvenile and yet still immature nerves! It was also impressive to see those who truly have a good head on their shoulders along with the physical capacity to back it up.
I wondered how many were there for the love of the sport versus as a way to fund their education. Sometimes a particular school has gaps in their training which are apparent, but the body language of runners can speak loudly. They all end up wanting the win or wanting to PR on the right day when in the moment. It's the daily/hourly commitment when off the track that speaks so greatly.
I always wonder how my track trajectory would have differed if my high school is a true distance program. The more I watch and learn, the more I wonder if I wasn't more suited for the mile. The irony is that I hated the mile in high school. I'm not sure if it was the distance itself or the fact that it was multiple laps and thus required many many multiple laps during practice. I didn't even really like the 800m, one of my main events, but my competitiveness made it meaningful anyways. There were hardly any others running the mile (particularly females aside from the occasional freshman who didn't stay the whole season) so that contributed to the lack of fun. That was what made the 4x400 so passionate for me - the team, the interactions, the strategy, knowing how you know your teammates, and the gut wrenching effort involved. But I was burned out by the end of senior year. I never once considered running for college as a remote possibility even though I likely could have.
Even so, my heart nearly pounded a hole through my sternum during those eight seconds and the minute beforehand thanks to someone's false start. And while the 10,000m on an outdoor track is probably THE most beautiful of running events, it was sole soothing to watch the 3000m. (I missed the 5000m, as it was Friday while I was at work.)
The track meet certainly took the sting out my my morning run, where at 14.87 into a 15 mile run I slipped on an unseen flake of ice beneath the snow while turning into the ranch. I belly-slid a la Superman but with a snow-filled face plant, hit both knees, and my right knee got cut up as the ice slashed my winter tights. Then as I looked up for dogdog sympathy I saw Luna dashing off into a field a quarter mile away, chasing what she thought was a fox or coyote but probably was her imagination. Bleeding, ego deflated, and with a dog that didn't care less. Just the day before I laughed when a colleague said they fell in the parking lot when their three-inch heels hit ice. My response: "Of course you did, idiot!" She fell gracefully into a large and poofy pile of snow and had coworkers to help her get up. I ended up with this:
Salida, Colorado, just north of the San Luis Valley in what is known as the Arkansas Valley (named for the Arkansas River), is known for its proximity to Monarch Ski Resort and for its kayaking community. The town is wedged at the base of hills, with its own town mountain marked with an "S" the same way Del Norte has Lookout Mountain marked with a "D." But where Del Norte's hills give way to more small foothills with few trails, Salida's quickly become an entire network of progressively bigger elevations that become the San Isabel National Forest. This was to be our first local race, a mere 1.5 hours from home. Since our race in Moab I integrated a lot more hill work thanks to the snow melt, so I was hopeful to have a better race. Or, at least, to not be so horrifically sore afterward.
Run Through Time Marathon course, per my Garmin (minus the first 1/2 mile)
Elevation profile, per my Garmin (minus the first 1/2 mile). Blue line = my pace.
The race starts just across the river and railroad tracks at the base of "S" mountain. Just ahead of us in the glob of a start was a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, two triathlon bottles strapped to his chest (it takes too much energy to pick up the bottle with your hands, so they have long straws so you barely have to turn your head to drink), and two trekking poles. The race commenced at 8:00am sharp, and but five seconds later the dude already dropped one trekking pole and caused backup while he tried to retrieve it and nearly tripped everyone around him.
The first couple miles are a loop around the base over dirt roads to help the pack spread out. There's a small climb at a half mile in, during which I realized my Garmin was not set to autolap every mile. I accidentally hit the interval setting instead, and in disabling the intervals it ended up restarting my time. Whatever. (So when looking at the elevation chart, know that I refer closer to the true mileage. The chart shows everything a half mile before it actually occurred.)
Suddenly some woman decked out in Salomon gear (read: expensive) wearing Salomon shoes 2-3 sizes too big went sprinting past in a panting fit. What the heck? The race just started, lady. A minute later she was pulled over to the side, hands on knees, huffing and puffing. I said to Nathan, "I know it shouldn't bother me, but I find that really annoying." Nathan agreed.
We wound over that first small hill, back down to the water's edge, and toward the "S" hill to ascend singletrack and begin the real race. Miss Salomon Specialness again sprinted past. I silently shook my head. Two guys just ahead of us pointed at her and chuckled. It was her all out sprint start that made us all react, because that's just downright dumb in a marathon with a supposed 4000feet each of climbing and descent. Once part way up "S" she was again pulled over, hands on her knees. Honey, its going to be a long morning....
The trail ascended with the town shrinking in our hind view. Once on the backside of "S" it winds up and down, in and out, along the waves of topography. Many parts remind me of the east coast but for the desert dryness and different flora. The weaving became repetitive, feeling like an M. C. Escher work in much the same way that part of Pine 2 Palm felt. That's just how mountains build. The east coast has less of that repetition since they are declining and crumbling mountains where it has all smoothed over. I felt good on these hills. Nathan did too. We were able to run the ups without feeling any rehash.
Photo by race photographer Russel O.
Photo by race photographer Russel O.
Mile 8 opened up to a full sized dirt road that was the big, long climb of the day. Steep enough to make things slow going and occasionally require walking stints, though just shallow enough to run (albeit slowly) and to fool you as to the severity of its actual grade. Per my Garmin, it varied from 5-15% grade. Here is where Nathan started to fall back, trying to preserve his stomach and ensure he could finish. A women slowly passed me midway. She asked if I ran Moab, and said she kept seeing me on and off throughout the first 20+ miles. I asked her name: Emily. She was moving well and I wished her a good race. Some guys passed me at the base, but I caught most of them by the lollipop turnaround at its climax. I wasn't very far behind Emily by the turnaround, and we exchanged a high five as I neared the turn and she was on her way back. Nathan started the lollipop as I neared the aid station at its base.
I paused to refill with water and dump another salt tab into my fluids. I had to get help to undo the capsule since my hands were cold enough to lose fine motor control. It only took about 30 seconds total at the station, but it was enough for Miss Salomon Specialness to pass. F***er. She was within easy sight as I began the second half of the race, and I knew I could catch her once we hit the upcoming downhills. In fact, I was looking forward to it. I wanted to finish in 4:20, and I hit half way right on target at ~2:10, though my new goal was simply to beat her.
I couldn't remember when the real downhill would start. The next four miles included another mile of steady ascent within 4 miles of snow and ice. It would have been slushy and muddy had the weather been 10 degrees warmer with sun, but the cloud cover and high in the 40s kept things pretty solid. I started walking the icy bits just to make sure I didn't wipe out. I passed a handful of guys. I usually wait until I know my pace will continue faster than theirs and until I have an open enough spot appropriate for passing. Once or twice I softly asked to pass only to then trip once in front. I apologized each time for being that jackass, wincing at the thought of Mr. Blue Wobble's similar shenanigans during last year's Escarpment. I ran a good 2 miles with one guy. Adrian, perhaps? I let him pass when I slipped a few extra times and decided more food and drink mix was needed.
Now the real descent began. I still felt good. We could see the next valley and peaks to the east. It was a beautiful view throughout the entire course. I kept reminding myself to keep my eyes on the trail to avoid tripping. I hit a 120 degree turn to the right that, per my Garmin, then descended at 21% on loose dirt and rocks that acted more like thick sand underfoot. I paused, knowing that two flags were posted to the right before the turn (indicating a rightward turn) but I did not see any confirmation flags afterward. Standing with feet in place, I turned my head back to scan for other flags I may have missed. I reasoned that I'd have seen others leading elsewhere, so turned my head around to continue on.
Without having stepped my footing gave way. SMACK. Right knee and right palm hit hard. I'm really good at this falling-while-running thing. My Garmin beeped completion of another mile on the way down. I stood up to walk it off like usual, but my leg would not accept any weight. That's when the flood gates opened, and all the stress of relocation and acclimating to a new place (both for me and for Nathan) came pouring out. Apparently I hobbled at a 56 minute per mile pace trying to get down off that hill, reasoning each step with myself that my knee was not showing signs of instability and that now was not the time for a mental breakdown. See the largest blue spike above.
It took five minutes for others to catch up from behind. One woman recognized me and asked if I was okay. By then I was at hobble jog pace, moving slowly on all rocky drops. My ankle was feeling it too, though I could not tell if it received a little twist when I fell or if it was secondary to a sensitive knee. A half mile later was an aid station. I thanked them for being there but didn't stop, didn't even give myself the option. The leg was slowly warming back up. I had stopped crying, but I felt very much on an emotional ledge. I had probably added a good 10 minutes to my total time. I knew that my previous goals were no longer reasonable, so I went into salvage mode to simply finish. I was much more cautious on the rocky downhills thanks to difficulty seeing depth and less confidence that I'd clear my foot properly.
The downhills kept on for a few more miles. I could see the tower at the top of "S" hill, so I knew we were somewhere within the finish. I just kept moving at whatever pace I could muster. Again the trail wove up and down, in and out. There was a modest sustained climb that I hiked. Eventually on the back side of "S" was the last aid station. "Just over two miles to go! Keep up that smile!" I realized I had smiled at them, trying to hide the melancholy I felt. I just wanted to be done, I wanted Nathan to be okay, and I wanted to can our plans for the day in Salida and instead simply go home.
The want to be done can do amazing things for one's progress. It helped that was mostly downhill along the switchbacks of "S." A little out and back along the waterfront, over the bridge, loop back under the bridge, and then pop out next door at the Steam Plant to finish.
4:26:34.
Less than one minute too slow to make the top three for my age category. Had I not fallen I'd at least have made 4:20 if not faster. So it goes.
The afternoon after. The real bruise started coming out this morning.
I hobbled to and from the car a few times to get warm clothes, water, a protein drink, etc, all the while watching for Nathan and desperately hoping to see him finish. Our car was parked in the lot on the "S" mountain side of the bridge, so I had full view of those coming down the mountain. I was cold, emotionally labile, and anxious for Nathan. I kept seeing black long sleeve shirts with black/gray shorts but it was the wrong bag, or the wrong hat, or the wrong movement patterns. As my nervousness escalated near levels from Moab Nathan finally appeared, walking down the last zig zag of "S." I moved close to the finish line and waited for him to get through the little out and back and get across the bridge. He finished with a drawn face, so I knew he was hurting, but he mustered the best jog to cross the finish line that his stomach would allow.
Nathan, finishing in ~5:20.
Nathan's stomach turned sour at mile 14 again, with florescent yellow puke the same color as during Moab. At least this time was not nearly so bad. We sat inside the Steam Plant during the awards ceremony. He had one more puke on the way to the car, but then made the hour and a half drive home without incident, probably because he fell asleep. Once home he stumbled into bed and slept for a good three hours, and managed to get in some juice and chips in the late evening without incident.
My female work colleagues cooed when they found out I had Valentine's
Day off, eye brows raised and hands flapping. I think I actually
snorted while laughing in reply. Were we to spend the weekend at some
couple's spa or hot springs or some place wearing matching robes and
surrounded by water features... undoubtedly we would be bored in about
five minutes. Instead we ignored the day, as we always do, while
traveling to a race. We were heading to Moab, Utah, heading west out of
the valley for the first time since moving here last fall.
Moab's
Red Hot 55k was our first race since relocating to Colorado. The lack
of trees means constant views of Utah's incredible landscape including
Arches National Park, the La Sal Mountains, Canyonlands National Park,
and the Colorado River while traversing terrain ranging from jeep roads,
sand filled jeep roads, and trails leading over giant rock structures
with slick rock. A third of runners wore Hokas,
the same uber-cushioned shoes I used during the latter two thirds of my
hundred miler last September. I noted this but did not fully interpret
the meaning behind their massive popularity at the time. Four thousand
cumulative feet of elevation gain and loss sounded fun and refreshing
despite knowing that I had but half my usual mileage and a quarter of my
usual climb/descent training. It was also the steepest field for a
trail or ultra that Nathan and I had ever been a part of, with easily a
dozen recognizable men and women.
Moab's Red Hot 55k elevation profile, per my Garmin 210
And, it was warm
enough that we wore SHORTS. Glow-in-the-dark white thighs were happily
on display by myself and others. That was a ridiculous treat.
Red
Hot started by ascending a mile long double wide jeep road on the edge
of a ridge. It was runable, and I cautiously kept a good clip until
just feeling plain silly and returned to my usual uphill hike that is
not that much appreciably slower than others' uphill run. The sun was
up already as the race started at 8:00 a.m., but the fresh morning sun
made for a beautiful multi-colored landscape across the already
watercolored rock. Then down we went into a canyon. I missed downhills
more than is sane, and so I let myself use gravity and momentum and
have fun with the descents so long as they were not super steep and
precarious.
My
legs could feel that they had little descent training, but overall felt
okay. My right rectus abdominis began to cramp from eccentrically
controlling my trunk, so as much as I had fun flying down the hill for a
mile I had to slow my pace and leg people go by. I tried slowing my
breath, but that almost made it worse. I then thought back to some
newer pain science research being used by fellow PTs, where adverse
breathing patterns cause altered CO2 levels in the body. But whereas
historically everyone pushed for belly breathing, this is often not
necessarily the case. CO2 levels can be both high or low, thus making
bodies excessively acidic or alkaline within a mere few minutes. Should
this be sustained, which it is for days/weeks/months for some people,
it can cause the unexplainable pain that continues when there may be no
other significant injury present. So I purposefully increased my rate
of respiration, and the cramps went away within the next minute.
Magic.
At some point we hit aid station (AS) 1. I don't
remember if this was in the canyon or after some initially steep
climbing again. Either before or after AS 1 we turned onto Metal Masher
Road, another jeep trail that slowly leads up to the top of the rim.
You do not realize the impact of the subtle uphill until it starts
accumulating and your legs feel heavy. Nathan was continually near or
close by through all these miles, which was the most we've spent
together in any race. It was fun to chat with another runner, saying
"Yes, my husband is also running -- there he is!" Another descent and
we hit AS 2 (mile 13), then ascended again to a dirt road that was
relatively flat called Arth's Pasture. Somewhere a few miles later
Nathan progressively fell off my pace. Without any trees around I could
turn around and wave at him from a modest distance away. AS 3 (mile
17) came and went. The real terrain then began to show itself as easy
trails gave way to steep climbs up broken rock. I had held something of
an 8:30 per mile average, which then dropped down to 12:00 per mile,
15:00 per mile, 18:00 per mile.... I arrived at AS 4 (mile 22) feeling a
bit of the miles but overall okay. I poured salt into my water
bottle. Salty water tasted wonderful.
Leaving
AS 4 I no longer had sight of Nathan. But an ultra friend I met during my first fifty miler in New York, Will, coincidentally moved to central CO within a few weeks of my
moving to the San Luis Valley. Will was also at Red Hot. We were able
to connect and chat prior to the race start. I figured he was up ahead
of me like he had been in previous races. In this section he caught up
to me, chatting with others along the way. We ran with two or three other women for a few miles, in a nice little supportive pack.
The boulders became huge rock
hills with substantial angles that were up to 20% grade per my Garmin. For the first few miles
of that section I definitely slowed on the climbs but then made up the
difference flying down the rock on descents. That was probably not the best choice, considering the unforgiving nature of rock and the length of the descents. By about mile 27 my quads
were demonstrably stiffening and my right foot was over the inversion
baseline of traversing hills horizontally. It became a full-on ultra
shuffle. Check out that elevation profile again and you'll understand why. I stayed
kinda-sorta-relatively with Will and the other ladies before
slowly puttering out. I came to the last aid station (AS 5, mile
28/29) after the others left.
A volunteer probably saw
my face before she said, "It's only five more miles from here, and its a
lot easier than what you just finished." I hoped she was right.
Thanking her, I began my trot after the others.
Without
trees I could see them between a quarter and half mile in front. I had
no pride maintain - I hiked every slight uphill and shuffled over the
few flats and downs. The size of the hills lessened and the trail
curved more, taking the others out of sight. About a mile after AS 5
began a series of time-carved drainage routes. Just as I was
contemplating my level of tiredness my right foot caught a lip and down I
went, splayed across the rock onto my right ankle, knee and elbow.
Pretty sure I gave some unintelligible grumble of a yelp. I made myself
get up and start walking immediately before the actuality of what
happened set in. It was similar to Cayuga Trails last June, where I
somehow pulled out the muscle memory of a dancerly body roll instead of
letting myself whip straight down. No open wounds except for
superficial scratches on my elbow. I scanned the surroundings,
surprised to find no other person around to see or hear it. Big
breath. Return to the shuffle. Just a few more to go.
The
trail changed from solid rock to sandy dirt on relatively flat jeep
trails again. Here I managed to shuffle past a few others in worse
state than I. With about a mile to go the trail started to finally
descend along the side of a ridge on the Poison Spider trail, winding
switch backs with music and cheering somewhere around the far corner.
It is always amazing what the knowledge of the finish, or as others call
"smelling the barn," can do for your form and pace. I sped (that's a
relative term here, people) along in eagerness to finish, passing
another few with broken quads along the way.
Much
like the near instant rigor mortus after Pine to Palm, I slowly hobbled
to my drop bag to get my coat and top layers. Warm weather or not,
once I finish my temperature plummets. I dutifully drank my protein
shake and refilled my water bottle. I found Will, who finished only a
few minutes before me, and we had a nice post-race chat. Then I went to
the finish line again and kept watch for Nathan.
After 45
minutes I still had not seen him. I took a very slow stroll through
the crowd, making sure I hadn't missed him at some point. Picked up a
small bowl of chilli with some corn bread. Was watching the finish line
from a distance when Will came up to me again.
"Where's the gift?!?"
"Mmm?" It was all I could reply with a mouthful of food.
"The Gift. You know Nathan's name means 'the gift', right?"
"I had no idea. I also have no idea where he is."
Will
saw the growing look of concern on my face and stood with me for a few
more minutes. He works Sundays, so he had start his drive home very
soon. We exchanged pleasantries once again and he took off.
I
took up post once again directly by the finish line. Soon I realized
another woman next to me was also nervously awaiting the arrival of her
husband. We joked about our hubbies' history of death marching
themselves to the finish despite having issues for the last 15+ miles of
a race. The joking became mutual delineation between the bizarre
running forms of those in the distance, trying to help each other pick
out if it was either husband. It was now nearly two hours after I had
finished, and the awards ceremony was commencing. The number of
finishers still coming across the line dwindled remarkably. I kept
telling myself to give him time, but something in my gut told me things
were not right. I checked my watch and decided five more minutes and I
would inquire with the folks running the finish line roster to see if he
had dropped at an aid station or if he was continuing on.
I
felt a tap on my shoulder, whipped around, and found Nathan standing
behind me with shoulders rounded and arms pinned to his sides. I
reflexively jumped into bear hug mode. He startled, mainly because he
had dropped due to unremitting nausea and vomiting. He made it to mile
22, dropped, had to wait an hour and a half for the station to close
down, then it took at least an hour for the off-road jeep to make it
down the same 30+ degree slopes we had trudged up to bring Nathan to the
finish. When I realized he was shivering I then gave him my down
jacket and declared it was time to go.
Nathan somehow
held it together on the shuttle ride to the start line and then in the
car ride back to the hotel. I dropped him off and went in search of
seltzer, ginger ale, unsweetened tea, and anything that might seem
appealing should his stomach calm and he then want food. Later I found
out he vomited upon entering the hotel room, barely making it to the
toilet. The rest of our evening was composed of watching whatever
television show that seemed interesting enough but had little movement,
slowly sipping fluids, eventually giving Nathan a bath since he could
not stand or sit on his own for more than 10 seconds (during which he
commented "Is this what its going to be like when we are ninety?"), and
then moments after returning to bed Nathan upchucking what little fluid
he'd had into the trash can I carefully placed next to the bed.
Mercifully he then fell asleep for the rest of the night. I stayed in
the second bed so that my turning would not jostle his stomach.
By
the next morning he had some gastric sensitivity but overall the nausea
was gone. A few pieces of bread upon waking then became an eleven
o'clock brunch in Durango while en route to home. His legs were fine
and barely felt having done 22 hard miles the day before. I was
hobbling without the ability to bend my knees, but very satisfyingly so.
I arrived to the quiet little station of Wagner Butte Trailhead at something like 2:00am. One girl (a volunteer or supporter or something) was huddled in a sleeping bag on a massage table in back, but otherwise they were awake and supportive just like the other aid stations. (Read: they were awesome.) While one guy refilled me bag another got me a big cup of broth. Solid food aside from fruit looked repulsive, so I didn't even try.
"There she is. Miss Consistent!." I turned to see a middle aged runner and his pacer. "You've been strong all day. How do you feel?"
"I actually feel okay. Just trying to keep moving."
"You're doing awesome, and it's only your first hundred!" Don't remind me, lest something go wrong....
Broth fetching volunteer. "Do you have a pacer?"
"I almost did, but it didn't work out. It's hard when coming from the east coast." They nodded in understanding.
I sipped my broth. It was almost stupid how good it tasted. I didn't hear what they said because I was enjoying the salty, warm deliciousness. I asked for another cup.
"...did you know she just left?" Volunteer.
"Hmm?" Forcing myself to be alert.
"Jenn just left here five minutes ago. She was here a while too." He was referring to Jenn Shelton, current women's record holder and sponsored runner. I had been nipping at her heels all race, mostly because she was having a rough time.
I paused with elevated eyebrows for a moment. Same deer in headlights moment, where my brain says Ooooohmygoodnesswhatif... while some little rational dwarf whispers in my ear a reminder that I have no business racing for anything more than the last half mile. "What's the next section like?"
Steepest climb of the day, a fuzzy description of a scramble that no one could define as either rock or just a super steep dirt/gravel hill but would require hand-over-foot, and steep downhill.
I nodded and continued to sip my second cup of broth, now with eyes diverted toward the watermelon in part to hide the look on my face of *maybe* getting lucky. Being at 80 miles made having twenty left seem like a piece of cake - less than a marathon, no biggie right? Still, that was only if I keep things under control. Plenty of big races I followed over the last year had elites drop in the last miles due to blowing up. First time. Just keep moving. Just finish. I focused on the fact that twenty miles is still twenty miles. At home that would mean getting over the George Washington Bridge, somewhere between Alpine Lookout and the ranger station at the north end of the Palisades park, and all the way back home. Perspective. Steady.
Time to keep moving. As I hit the trail head, the middle aged guy was right behind me.
For the first couple hundred feet of gain Larry, as I learned was his name, let me lead the pace. In that time his pacer divulged that P2P was his last of the "Larry Slam," meaning his fourth hundred mile race within 11 weeks. His summer of racing started with Western States - a very significant race that this year had temperatures over 100 degrees for most the time (even at night). As our trail widened it remained a steep enough incline that your heels don't contact anything. Not as bad as the black diamond ski lift in Virgil Crest, but a higher effort level than the hand-over-foot rock stairwell from Escarpment Trail.
I found myself grabbing a handful of soft tissue around the side of each hip to give a little mechanical relief. "Sorry guys, I'm not trying to be crass. My ass is burning!" I offered them to pass whenever they wanted.
"Oh no. I like your pace." Yet Larry was easily now shoulder to shoulder with me instead of behind. He gave me tidbits of advice, though notably it was on developing ultra running as a hobby rather than simply tips on completing the race at hand. By another two minutes later he was ten feet ahead.
"How are you climbing so well if this is your fourth hundred within eleven weeks?"
"Eh. I liked your pace better."
Too bad, dude. You're off to the races. Gotta respect the pace your body wants to produce, be it slow or fast, or when it changes gears on you. I kept marching on my own, focusing on making my steps "easy" rather than trying to power lunge. In a handful of spots I had hands-on-thighs in Euro pseudo-hiking-pole style. As the steep stuff gave way to a more sensibly steep incline (read: grass could grow along the sides of the trail) I heard the stead chatter of another pair slowly catching up to me. At least the pacer was chatting non-stop. Bounced around on all kinds of subjects. I didn't mind.
I offered to let them pass, but they were happy to stay in line as the trail had started to weave sideways with some small streams sneaking up amid rocky bits. I looked ridiculously uncoordinated, but I think my shenanigans gave them a heads-up and let them be calmer. I joined in on a little chatter. They were Mike and Matt, racer and pacer respectively. Both locals, both familiar with the trail to come.
In a burst of verbal participation, Mike commented "You know, we may have a chance to make 24 hours if we push it." I was back with hands-on-knees due to a sudden resurgence of steeper grade.
"NOW?!?" I gaped.
They laughed heartily. Thankfully.
Matt clarified "No no, on the descent. this pace is great. It'd be pushing the downhills to the finish. We can try, if you wanna hang with us."
I looked at my watch. Fuzzy math skills in the wee hours of the morning or not, I highly doubted we'd be able to make it. Were we at the peak, then yes. But we still had at least two miles to the peak, which would mean something like six minute mile pace for all downhills - ten miles' worth- to the finish. Seriously? I mumbled a few non-words that hopefully sounded more like "Hmm...."
Finally we hit a switchback that leveled off and came to the out-and-back point. Mile 83-ish? I couldn't remember. M&M jumped off course into the grass to stash some of their gear to make the flag ascent easier. I opted to just continue on and use flats (well, flatter than previous, at least) to make up a little ground. It was a lot rockier here, still with overall smooth trail but with larger rocks flanking the trail as it wove around and through. This section reminded me of back home.
The two miles out to the flag felt like much longer, though that could have been over-eager anticipation. The relative flat became uphill enough to hike, and I made sure I was power hiking. I was surprised at the number of headlamps I saw along that stretch. It was difficult to make out who was headed toward/away until they were within range, in part from my slight nearsighted eyes and part because of not wanting to look away from my little beam of guidance between the rocks. Smooth ground and all, to forgo the tiny zig zags would result in barking your shin on the corner of a rock (much pointier when geologically newer in time spent as that particular rock) or snagging your shirt on bush.
Somewhere in there, I think on the early side, I crossed paths with Queens Mike (friend from home) and his pacer Keila. Keila gave a standard Heygoodjobkeepgoingdoinggreat salutation. Mike, who gave a little wave but did not lift his head from his focus at Keila's back, said, "Be careful on the scramble up there." He was tucked in as though he were drafting on a bike. I learned later that he was falling asleep here and Keila was at times literally pulling him to the aid station.
Not too long later crossed paths with Jenn. She was chatting briefly with all she encountered. She was also pacer-less.
"How are you doing?" I asked. I was more concerned about her physically than I was about the "race." She had to be a good two or more miles ahead of me since I had yet to reach the peak and turn around.
"Not so good." She stood with arms hanging limp.
"Not puking again, I hope."
"No." Sounding tired.
"Do you need anything? I have stuff to spare."
"No. I'll be okay."
"Alright. Take care you yourself."
"Thanks. You too."
And off we parted in opposite directions. The little dwarf of reason was silent now, but tapping my shoulder occasionally. As before our pause, I kept as much speed to my power hike as I could muster.
Another seemingly long mile or two later (who can accurately tell distance after so many miles and during the wee hours of the morning like that?) and I reached the peak. No one had actually been able to describe this scramble. It was something of a 30 foot genuine rock scramble. As in large rocks and a few boulders were dropped in a pile atop the peak, and it was a simple climbing scramble that became more of a legitimate entry-level bouldering problem when using only a headlamp to see what you are doing. Everyone's lights were making circles or drawing squares as you rotated from limb to limb to find purchase, occasionally lighting the direction of your barn door (your sideways fall) to get your hand or foot onto a legitimate hold. A cheap and simple aluminum platform with side rails had been constructed at the top. Once in reach I grabbed onto a rail and worked my feet on the rock to get around the far end and onto the actual platform.
Were the sun up then I'd have the best view of the day, including Mount Shasta. Since it was night, it was an incredible 360 degree view of the stars. The moon was on overdrive. I stood for a moment to take it in. I swear there was a shooting star. Absolutely incredible.
But this time the dichotomy of existentialism and sheer, emotional beauty was out of reach. I am a training monkey. That means I have a supreme ability to keep moving through incredible odds without blinking and eye or second guessing. The body turns on and the mind turns off, at least when it comes to theoretical higher powers. So whereas during the day my flag grab allowed a nanosecond of feeding my soul, this one was interrupted by the dwarf whispering. What if...? I made myself look around, seeing all the constellations I learned in grade school and have since forgot. But then put my head down and returned to forward motion.
As I groaned through the squatting and lunging involved in down-climbing the scramble, Marshall (or someone very similar) was just heading up.
"So Jenn is crashing again."
Crap. This may be happening.
"Grrmmmrrmr." I know, classy. That's all I could muster while getting my butt onto the rock to ease my way down. I'd rather squat and feel it that take too daring a lunge and break something. Finishing in under 24 hours was definitely out of the picture, but maybe, just maybe, I could work my way up to second female. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.....
Head down, eyes darting back and forth as though it would help my depth perception, I began the descent to the out-and-back marker. With the rocks I didn't trust a run, so opted for as fast of a falling power hike I could muster. Arms flailed in my best Killian Jornet impression. Adrenaline starting to pump. Keep eating. Keep drinking. Keep stumbling forward.
I was surprised to hear a female voice at the out-back marker, standing and talking to a male runner. It was Jenn. Again we stood facing one another.
"How are you doing?" I asked. She slowed a lot. And it was readable in her body language.
"I'm... okay...."
"Are you bonking? You sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm just having... problems." Ominously vague.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries and I repeated my offer. Then, as we left that spot, something like mile 87, I was in front of Jenn Shelton. How is this possible? This is happening, right? Not a hallucination?
With that my right foot landed on a very soft patch of loose trail and I started to slide down off the trail into who knows what. Some sort of four-limbed flail and air surfing later and I overcompensated by going uphill before falling back down and landing on the trail. Net fall of zero, but absolutely ridiculous. I think I made some sort of guttural sound. Very likely some profanities were said. I stood for a moment to make sure I was on solid ground.
"Yea, it's pretty hairy in this section," Jenn warned.
"I'm noticing that. Whew."
From there I had to put thoughts of the "race" out of my mind and focus on my footing and my little beam of light. Back to my so-called controlled downhill speed hike. A little nerve racking since this was one of the steepest descents and had many successive and tight switchbacks. M&M caught up as the turns started to open up into a more pedestrian decline. I inquired as to how close Jenn was.
"Pretty close, actually. We just saw her."
Crap. Keep stumble-hiking. Another duo caught up. I asked the same.
"She's slowing down."
I sighed and forced myself to put it to rest and just keep moving as best I could. There was still over ten miles left, a tenth of the course, so no reason to blow it all right now. The effort involved with a particular distance was no longer matching up, so as much as I was (relatively) okay mentally and as good as I could be physically those few miles seemed to last for forever.
This time I saw the lights before I heard the bell.
-----------------------------
Miles 90-100.5:
I wanted only fruit dipped in salt, though Road 2060 aid station (mile 90) had neither. They offered all kinds of solid foods - pretzels, chips, semi-smores concoctions, even grilled cheese. Instead I had coke and ginger ale. The guy offered me salt pills. I said okay. He showed the two brand choices. I stood there for a solid 30 seconds, silently trying to figure out the difference. He raised an eyebrow and decided for me - the one with caffeine and a few things for mental acuity. They had chicken noodle soup, so I took some plain broth.
I sat on the edge of a camp chair, careful to not allow myself to lay back and sink too comfortably low. As I sipped my eyes darted to the point of exit from the woods. Solid black. Not even a flicker in the distance. Is she really that far back? M&M were there, Matt handing Mike all sorts of things with assignment to consume. I got antsy from a momentary surge in mathematical ability. Jenn was out there somewhere, but if I played my cards correctly I could make it in under 25 hours. Time to move on. I thanked the volunteers for being there. Told them I wished I could stomach the plethora they had available.
I power walked up the dirt road. Last time to walk off a belly of fluid. I tried to duplicate my best 4+ mph effort, as based on cadence. My stomach was feeling odd. Sent some encouraging thoughts to my GI. Five minutes later I pulled over for a pit stop, thankful that it actually worked. Back on the road and M&M caught up, managing some kind of penguin trot that I was still not able to mirror. I kept looking over my shoulder for a lone light that might be Jenn making an incredible come back. I saw nothing. In total I hiked/walked for a thirty minute stretch. Time to try running. Five minutes of trot, back to five minutes of power hike. Repeat. I noticed my headlamp is becoming very weak. I was not able to see all the reflectors well anymore (they were attached to all course markers), and I worried about missing the turn off onto the trail. The sun was sneaking up on the west coast but definitely was not there yet. I stopped and switched out batteries. Full power again. Time to trot.
The dirt road then started to angle down while essing over and over to the left. I looked at my watch - I could still do it. The trot slowly opened up into something of a run. I passed one guy who was walking. Things loosened up in to an actual penguin run. I passed another guy, again walking. More essing to the left - back on the M. C. Escher course.
I hit the trailhead at 6:24 a.m. by my watch. A sign noted a mere four miles to go. I was full tilt now, flying as fast as my legs would take me. Four miles becomes miniscule in one's head after so many other miles. The sunrise was now in full bloom, adding to my fuel.
I could see Ashland down below in the distance. It looked really far down for being only four miles of trail away. I felt like I was descending my weekly hill for repeats (Fort George Hill in Inwood, something of a 8 or 9% grad) but without a break. The trail started to level out. The town was closer. A handful of turns later and the trail hit pavement. I caught M&M for the last time. Mike was moving gingerly. I looked like I was about to pee my pants. Even the roads kept descending steeply down.
I almost balked at an intersection since I didn't see a flag. Laura, stop it. Don't lose your head now. Continue straight unless told otherwise. More descent. Legs flying. Repeated watch checks. Waved to the deer strolling along the sidewalk. More turns.
A parking lot entrance. I recognized the volunteer from earlier. He smiled and cheered, gave a big high five as I sailed past with a huge grin on my face. The big, purple Rogue Valley Runners banner.
24:55:32. Second female. Twentieth overall.
------------------------------
First hundred miler, first belt buckle, first "big" ultra. I loved every second of it. Never had a bad spell. Never needed music or some sort of distraction. On any other day Jenn Shelton would have blown me out of the water. Somehow, just this once, I capitalized on what for her was simply a bad day.
I have Julie, Melissa and Keila to thank for crewing me. I have stress-free accommodations via Queens Mike to thank. And this contingent of the ultra community proved itself light years beyond the normally supportive and welcoming nature of ultras I knew and expected. Maybe that's the nature of a hundred miler, maybe it was a west vs. east coast thing, maybe it was just this specific group. Regardless, I had a dozen watchful eyes on my the entire race, a form of supportive supervision and camaraderie. I had a lot of people looking out for me, whether I knew it or not. And the volunteers - it's not just handing you the cup you ask for. They knew how to help you make decisions or, if needed, make decisions for you. I felt like I had a little family out there, and I was actually sad that the race was over.
For five minutes after finishing I felt great. Julie and Melissa were there and gave me a big hug. The medical director checked in with me. Still a little hand and wrist swelling, but I last peed an hour ago. Should go down, just come see us if it doesn't. I walked the thirty feet to the car. Grabbed some clean(er) clothes out of the trunk. Turned to head in to the bathroom. All at once my legs turned to jello and yet were stiff as a board. Those last four miles? About 7:45 per mile pace. Mere minutes later I was hobbling like cowboy with malformed fracture healing.
That song in my head on the first climb was the same song looping at the finish. A bit of googling and I found it: Safe and Sound by the group Capital Cities.
This was my second go at Escarpment Trail, a 30k trail race in the Catskills with about 5000 feet each of altitude gain and descent. What a difference a year can make! Escarpment was one of my favorite races last year, and it was just as great this year even though half the field was comprised of first-timers - including Nathan. I also have the privilege of running two rainy Escarpments in a row.
Did you know that running in the rain is one of my favorite past-times? Magic happens in the rain. Meditative, calming, purposeful magic. I've had quite a string of races in the rain or inclimate weather. I hope they continue.
The start was slow, since the crowd of 200 has to wait their turn to enter the singletrack and cross the footbridge before ascending the first hill of the day. I took the time to say hello to Heather, who was last year's female winner. She flew down the steep and technical decline off of Blackhead, passed me as if she were a freight train and I were standing still. I told her I expected no less this year.
With a few more ultras under my belt and a lot more regular mileage this year, my ascent up the first hill was significantly more power hiking. Nathan told me the night before that I am always very conservative in races and that this time I should go for it. Knowing the climbs that awaited, and with my big goal race only a month and a half away, I couldn't help but fall into my usual ascending gear. As the switch-backs became more directly steep I was able to begin passing those who jogged their way past their anaerobic threshold. The few times I checked over my shoulder found Nathan within fifty yards each time.
We hit the first aid station at the top of the climb, a giant bolder with a three foot drop to the trail before winding back down. People were already falling and tripping over the endless rocks that make east coast trails so technical. The line of runners had slowed, especially as people took aid, so when three fells teetered toward the water and gatorade I crossed oblique to the continuing trail. Just at the edge I slipped. Both feet went at once, and I simply landed on the trail standing on my feet, with one hand on the shoulder of Green Singlet Guy. I thanked him, and started our way down.
The line of runners greatly compacted so that any technical drop meant waiting an extra 10-15 seconds before taking your turn. I started getting frustrated, though I reminded myself that I probably was not descending much faster over those same spots. I have improved with my descents though I don't have much access to this level of technical training, so granny-gear it was.
While squashed in yet another queue on a ledge I met Mr. Blue Tank as elbowed me to the side, claiming "Passing left." Seriously, where are you doing to go? He was bigger than me and so got past before I had a chance to knock some sense into him about maintaining safety and courtesy while passing. He tried the same crap with Green Singlet Guy who held ground, "Dude, you gotta wait until there's some place to go." Mr. Blue obliged with a petty "Aw, sorry man. Okay." F***er.
The traverse over the next two "smaller" ups/downs was a bit tedious thanks to Mr. Blue, whose Salomon Speedcross did no good for his stability. He kept running (well, more like when aerobics class routine rests while marching in place) uphill and slipped every fifth step, a handful of them falls. I just wanted to get away from him, but there wasn't much chance. Plus, in order to pass him I'd have to run the gauntlet that was Mr. Wobbly Blue. I prefer to stay positive during races, and he was most definitely detracting from the magic. A guy behind me murmured "He's gotta slow down. He's really gonna hurt himself."
As one of he climbs leveled off a volunteer/race supported was up in a tree counting off our current place. 70... 71... 72... 73... 5th female... 75... 76.... Wobble Poop and another guy exchanged huffy commends about four women being in front of them. They obviously wanted to sound macho like they could avoid getting "chicked." Too bad, f***ckers, they've already smoked you royally.
Suddenly from up ahead we heard yelling. "Bees! Bees! Ah! Bees!" The guys ahead slowed as they reached that point. My sentiments were echoed by the same guy behind me, "Just go through fast and leave them alone." Finally my turn, and I'm behind Weeble Wobble who, like clockwork, fell splat onto his side half way through the bee run and nearly took me out with him. He also managed to get stung along the way. I was at a standstill waiting for him to get up, opted to give a half hearted, "You okay? Got all your stuff still?" He mumbled "Yea..." and off we trotted again.
For the record, me: no actual falls, zero stings. Mr. Wobbly Blue Poophead Magic Killer: a dozen falls, at least one bee sting.
Just saying.
We survived the long, steep, technical descend and landed at the base of Blackhead. Wobble was, mercifully, somewhere out of my face. I realized now that Nathan was still within reach behind me. Way to go! That was a much nicer sentiment with which to begin the climb. Last year I had my hands on my knees the entire time, my pace slowed to a crawl, and I had to stop a few times briefly so as to exert a laborious sigh (because that helps in such times, right?). This year was dramatically different. I was itching to pass the guy in front of me, but his pace was steady enough for the first half that I kept right on his heels. Once his cadence started slowing I asked to sneak by when had a chance (politely!) and kept on trucking. By then I had lost Nathan. I felt it, but not like before. I felt steady. I wasn't speed climbing like the leaders, but my ascent was probably only 3/4 the time it took last year. Magic, salvaged from the doom of wobbleness.
The descent similarly required, for me, use of both hands on trees and to slide down on my butt for some of the drops. My wedding band kept catching along the way, so I removed it and tucked it inside the magnetically closed mini pocket on my hydration bag. (UltrAspire bags? Awesome.) I push myself to descend faster than usual, but it probably only qualifies as granny gear-gear-in-a-rush. I found myself nicely in pace with guys in blue and white tank who was running Escarpment for the 21st time. Should he run next year, that'll put him into the 400 mile club (enough races to accumulate 400 miles of this race). He's an awfully nice fellow to everyone, the type one often encounters at trail ultras. I now feel renewed hope for the human race. I also find out he lived in Auburn, NY for a bit, and he gets excited to hear than Nathan is from there too. We found out while chatting after the race that they had the same cross country coach, albeit many years between their tenures.
Out of nowhere came a female voice asking to pass. "It's about time!" I yelled. "Go for it!" Heather squealed with delight as she bombed past. Deja vu. Couldn't be happier to have anyone else pass me. Well, only were it Nathan, but that goes without saying.
Eventually we get to the bottom. I still felt some pep, and took off on my power hike to catch Heather on the ascent. This last climb has two false top-outs with runnable though rocky sections. You just have to assume continued climbing until you see the crashed plane. First timers, including myself last year, want to anticipate how they are doing and thus anticipate their progress toward the top. In this kind of race it leads to frustration more than anything else. Just assume up, and be pleasantly surprised when you suddenly top out and can course down. I passed a handful of guys on this climb, their pace slowed to a walk/hike from having lost their steam. I wondered how Nathan was doing. A few of the guys reported one or two females within the next couple hundred feet ahead. I lost my sprinting overdrive when I left high school track, but I started hoofing it on all terrain to the most I could sustain.
At what turned out to be about 100 yards before the plane I happily powered past Wobble for what would be the last time, so focused that the internal wobble-woes were gone and I simply smiled as I passed, and then found Heather. We exchanged supportive words, and I left her with "I gotta get as big of a buffer as I can. I know I'll see you soon!" The rest of the course was a handful of flat sections breaking up the one long descent to the finish. If flat or inclined I had definite advantage, but for declined Heather was guaranteed to catch up fast. She also reported the third female was just ahead and catchable. I don't think I've ever been so close to so many women vying for that third podium spot in a trail race before. Thankfully the needed effort is easier on an 18 mile race than with my usual distances.
A few flats and downs, and I saw the woman currently holding third place. She seemed to have faded. We exchanged a few nice words, and I took off knowing my position was nowhere near guaranteed. Still booking it on the flats, catching a few more guys in the process. Trying my best concerted effort on the technical drops but just not capable of doing nearly what is needed. The flat sections became narrow overlooks or ledges with twenty-plus foot drops off one side. Last year I walked these, opting for calm and steady progress to finish whole in lieu of speed. This year I went for it, Nathan's words echoing in my head. I slipped on one ledge, my left leg sliding off the edge and dangling as I landed - graciously - on bulky soft tissue areas instead of on my knees. Glad the ledge had no sideways slant, or else I'd have flown off course and would be stuck in the brush way down below. As I got up the guy ahead yelled "That just happened to me too!" and he wished me luck as I passed in continued fervor.
As expected, Heather caught me again while I was using both hands to help slide down on some four-plus foot drops. She was still encouraging, "You have lots more left than me. Go for it!" "I'm trying, really I am! You go for it, Miss Downhill!" I still tried, yo-yo-ing up on flats and falling back on declines, managing to stay within 50 feet. A supporter reported we were a tenth of a mile from the finish. I gave it my best "sprint," which is quite the comical scene these days.
I closed in was only about five seconds behind Heather, but ultimately finished fourth female and 49th overall in 4:20:44. That bested my time from last year by about seven and a half minutes, so cannot argue with that.
Nathan finished in just over 4:33, and had a bloody knee and elbow from taking four falls along the way.
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
