A tour of Del Norte Peak

So far this spring has granted me seven summits of North Twin Mtn (10,500 ft), with lots of steep ups and downs to get there, and one of Del Norte Peak (12,300 ft) for longer durations at lower grades.  I still want to explore trails closer to Wolf Creek, but a series of events have made routes accessible from home more desirable.  This became an opportunity to run my own marathon on the DN Peak's forest roads before bushwhacking to the top.

Just after leaving the parking lot:

An ATV type road forks off at the two mile mark.  They are still pretty muddy and wet.  Follow the road as it turns left:

Up a steeper segment, then get views of the neighboring valley including Blue Ridge and North/South Twin, and start to get views of the Sangre de Cristos on the opposite side of the valley:

Once the road turns south again you hit what I call the "4-mile cattle guard."  During the summer the cattle from our ranch are hanging out on one side or the other of here at ~9500 ft:

The road starts flanking the actual ridge as it continues to ascend at 2-12% grades.  Coming up on 7.2 miles is the turn off that allows a longer approach but also a western (read: snowless) ascent.  Turn before the "7-mile cattle guard", now at 10,500 ft:

The grades of ascent are numerically the same but feel greater because there's less variance, but after another good mile there's a downhill piece that lets your legs get their feeling back.  It also brings a glimpse at the northern face of Del Norte Peak:

The bottom of the hill navigates through a logging area.  I never have figured out if this is commercial or part of the burn protection, but there have been downed trees hanging around here even since last year when Nathan and I last made a full summit and took this route:

Another look on the inside of the bend.  Currently at 10,700 ft:

A bit more climbing as you travel west, then the road flattens for a couple miles while passing what can be camp sites or areas for folks (like us with permits) to collect wood.  At 11.5 miles, after wondering for some time if you blew right on past the peak, is the initial turn towards the summit.  Now at 11,000 ft, there's lots of mud and swampy areas due to continued melt and runoff:

I stayed on the road for something like a quarter mile, maybe a half mile.  Now you are getting closer, 11,300 ft:

And at some point you just have to decide to turn off and bushwhack.  Just keep the top in your view and climb straight up:

The trees begin to thin as you work your way up and increasing incline:

And now the real work begins - 20-45% grades per my GPS watch.  Above tree line is always awesome.  Just over a half mile and another thousand feet of gain remaining:

This was during one of the 45% grade sections.  Eye on the prize while trying to beat the clouds and weather:

I beat the clouds by about a minute, so my proof-of-summit shot meant I stood with my head at the base of a cloud.  13-ish miles completed.  Here is looking east.  

There's a glass jar with multiple registers, pencils, and a few odds and ends left by previous summiters.  Someone also stowed a tequila bottle amongst the rocks, but that is long ago consumed:

Clouds start to thicken, so time to descend.  Looking to whence I came, to retrace my steps back to the bottom:

After retracing my steps and getting back to the logging areas thunder starts to roll in to the south.  I'm in the clear before any lightning chance has sprouted.  Hey, I was just up there:

The long downhill also means less effort and more looking around.  Saw a bunch of cow prints, but also a few elk who had crossed the road between the 4- and 7-mile cattle guards.  Lightning was starting to strike back by the peak, so I didn't longer long:

Below the 4-mile cattle guard, a glimpse at the baby aspen trees filling in areas of burn recovery.  There were much more ashen stumps visible last year:

Once back at the parking lot I had a solid 26 miles, so I went ahead with the silly loop around the lot for an even marathon of 26.2.  Total ascent was just shy of 5000 ft of gain.  Satisfying and peaceful day.

Creede Mountain Run, 22 miler

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

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

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

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

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

Race elevation and my pace, per my Suunto watch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I FINISHED FASTER THAN DIANA DID LAST YEAR.

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

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

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

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

Speedgoat 50k - reflections

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salida's Run Through Time Marathon - race report

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.

Moab's Red Hot 55k - our anti-Valentine's Day race report

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.

Time: 5 hours 50 minutes 49 seconds.
21st female, 98th overall

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.

Sunset over Wolf Creek Pass, from our drive home

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

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

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

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

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

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Miles 0-15:

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

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

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

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

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

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Miles 15-28:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Miles 28-39:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Miles 39-50:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With the loop around the lake, yes." 

"But are you dropping?"

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

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

Gordo.  "Bonus!"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me too!"  Big high five.

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