From good to bad to severe - Jemez 50 miler.

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

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

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

Elevation profile, per my Garmin.

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

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

Having fun in the early miles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things started changing quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cayuga Trails 50 race report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming into Old Mill

Runners rounding Old Mill on their way out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final descent to the finish.

9 hours 48 minutes.  Bingo.

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


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

Post-race toes.

Stats:

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

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