Mountain Man Steve

Simplicity

2012-01-29T10:18:00.000-08:00

The town of International Falls has been informed of the race (though the start day is wrong)

It may seem a bit odd a title for a post about a race that has me pulling a sled filled with a gear that includes a -40 sleeping bag, a stove to melt snow, 1000s of calories of food and clothing options to deal with a variety of weather conditions. However, there is a certain simplicity of purpose that comes with participating in events that require a degree of self-sufficiency.

I'm looking forward to being out on the trail for the better part of 3 days, my main focus simply moving forward, eating and staying warm. Given the current weather forcasts, that last is going to be much less of a concern than in most years. The latest upates call for the coldest temps only in the teens with highs dipping up above 30. In some ways that can complicate things a bit more than sub-zero temps where all that matterss is warmth. If it dips above freezing, it can mean slushy snow and the potential for rain. It also means that I will need to figure out the right balance of layers to keep from building up too much heat and sweating.

My sled is all packed, though I'll still make some minor adjustments today. I ditched some of my wamest clothing options, but I am still probably keeping more than I need. My Gore-Tex jacket and thicker rain/snow paints may stay in the sled the whole time, but if the wind kicks up or the icy-rain mentioned in some of the reports comes to fruition then I may need to swap some of my planned outer-layers. Also, I can't bring myself to dispense with my expedition-class down jacket. Even if it is 20+ degrees at night, that can still be damn cold if you're standing still. It may also allow me to take a nap in one of the trail shelters without pulling out my monster sleeping bag.

No matter what, it is going to be an adventure, life ditilled down to its necessities. I'll have my SPOT tracking device on so people can follow along (link is below). I just need to remember to reset it every 24 hours so nobody thinks I was eaten by wolves. I have until 7pm on Wednesday to finish the race. With any luck I will finish the race earlier in the day though I expect to take at a minimum 50 hours to find my way from International Falls to Tower, Minnesota.

SPOT link here

And now...

2012-01-21T08:52:00.000-08:00

...for something completely the same.

Ah, January, the time of year when amateur athletes everywhere review their accomplishments over the past year and lay down their plans for the coming one. Why should I be any different?

Last year was such a major life transition (our second son off to college, selling the house, moving across the bay, leaving my job in the corporate world for an independent consulting company) that its almost insane how many and the caliber of races I ran. Something had to give and the whole idea of training sort of fell by the wayside. For the first time in 5 years, I ran fewer than 2,000 total miles, coming up just short with 1,946. However, I set a PR in terms of the number of those miles that were run in races at 932. That's nearly half my total miles!

I started last year with my first foray into winter racing, running a snowshoe race as prep for the epic Susitna 100. I ended the year with a couple of international events at TDG and Racing the Planet: Nepal (both of which I owe completed reports). I ran five 100-mile races, one 200-mile race and a 130-mile, 6 day stage race. I went into many of these, over-raced and under-trained, but once again, managed to finish everything that I started, though not always in the best of condition. It was a banner year in some ways and a bit unsettling in others. This year will be a bit different.

On paper, it may look like I am planning a repeat of last year if you look at the few events I have confirmed on my schedule. In fact, the bookends appear as slightly more extreme versions of last year's events. I head to International Falls, MN in 5 days for the Arrowhead 135. 35 miles longer than Susitna, significantly more hills and the potential for just as much cold. Considering it took me nearly 37 hours to finish "The Su", it is a safe assumption that this will take at least 2 full days with the possibility for a 60 hour finish. As it has been all over the lower-48 states, winter has been fairly tame in Minnesota thus far and one of the concerns for the event was a lack of snow. Things have started looking up (so to speak) recently, with significant snowfall and a number of sub-zero temps (a seasonal low of -26F thus far). It's still too early to tell what race day may bring, but it is certainly going to bring a challenge for this California racer.

The other event confirmed for the end of August is La Petite Trotte à Léon. This is sort of the "big brother" race of the famous UTMB. For UTMB's 166km (~103mi) distance and 9500m (~31,000ft) of climbing, PTL offers up a total 290km (~180mi) and 22,000m (~72,500ft) of mind-bending ascent! It is slightly less on both counts than the Tor des Geants that I completed last year, but with 12 fewer hours allowed. Oh, and there are no course markings and no aid stations along the way. You get a map and a GPS to find your own way around those rugged mountains through 3 separate countries. You can purchase food (and rest) at refugios along the way, but no other assistance of any kind is allowed. Travel is in teams of 2 or 3. Based on our success sticking together at TdG, Harry and I will be attempting this as team "Quit is a 4-letter Word". My good buddy, Beat will be out there on a team of his own as will Chris Marolf, whom I haven't seen since he moved back to Switzerland. It promises to be the most epic event I have ever attempted. The best part of it all? It's not really a race as they only track twho classifications: "finished" and "not finished". I can't wait!

I basically have very little else on my plate at this point except I am going back to the SBER 100 in Santa Barbara. I am limited both by finances and time to focusing on more local events. However, I waffled too long to get into San Diego 100 and I have no intention of repeating at TRT 100 after last year's race. Right now I am thinking that I want to focus on more self-supported efforts and am hoping to spend some significant time up in the Sierras above Tahoe and Yosemite this summer. In other words, my plan right now is to actually train for the major event on my schedule.

I hope everyone else out there has exciting and inspiring events on their schedule. Happy running!

Seriously?

2012-01-15T07:51:00.000-08:00

The Epiphany Run is an annual tradition here in the Bay Area commemorating Ultrarunning Magazine editor John Medincamp's birthday. It is a traditional Fat Ass style run with no bibs, course markings or even an official start time. You take a map, go at your own time, choose the distance you want to run and then write it down when you are done. It's a good way to jump-start the season, kick your training into gear and see lots of familiar faces in the process. That was my plan.

I wasn't going into this into this in the best condition. I'd done little running since Nepal, fought off a cold and was operating on reduced calorie intake since New Years in an attempt to send those holiday pounds back from whence they came. The 5am wakeup call after a poor night of sleep didn't help either. All pre-run excuses aside, I was still excited upon meeting Harry and Martina at the Park-n-Ride anticipating a fun day on the trails. I'd try to ignore the fact that the Arrowhead 135 was looming on my calendar only a few short weeks away.

Evidence of having fun along the way (photo courtesy of Martina Koldewey)

Fun. That was the order of the day and a beautiful day it was, perhaps even too beautiful if that's possible. By the time I reached the turnaround at the Chabot Marina a little after 9am, the sun was warming the air and I was already sweating much more than expected. An hour and a half later, along the exposed ridge, I was starting to cramp. I bummed a salt tab off another runner since I hadn't brought any of my own. The temps were probably just reaching low 60s, but for the remainder of the run back to Skyline Gate, I felt as though I was in a mid-summer run. On the final climb, I was hot, dehydrated and even dry heaved once. This was pretty much the antithesis of training for a race across snow-covered trails in northern Minnesota.

I stopped at 25 miles, foregoing the ultra distance to keep my cramping legs from getting worse. It's pretty paltry as a longest run before such a serious undertaking, but if my experience at Susitna last year is any indication, running for 5 miles straight in those frozen conditions will be more than I'll do. With the extremely mild December and no snow in the mountains, race-specific training has been impossible. With the arctic air being hogged far north of the border all month, Minnesota hadn't seen much snow either. I was beginning to think that I'd be dragging a sled across the grass for 135 miles. The new year has seen snow and a few sub-zero temps reaching International Falls, so things are looking up, so to speak. It looks like I'll be heading in under-trained and ill-prepared, just like I like it.

Out from under

2011-12-18T07:13:00.000-08:00

Immediately upon return from Nepal I was tossed into the throws of work and the holidays. While its only been 2 weeks, it seems ages have passed since the trip. Blogging and running generally go hand-in-hand with me and I've had neither time nor focus for either. However, I have finally imported and sorted my photos from the trip and I'm committing myself to just a single post covering only the very highest of highlights. My TdG report still sits in draft and I've other thoughts to share before 2011 comes to close. At least I have started to think about training more consistently and its a good thing since my next planned adventure is only 6 weeks away!

Nepal

2011-11-28T00:54:00.001-08:00

There is much to be said about the race and the entire experience of the week surrounding it. Pictures will be uploaded and a report written. I don't know that any of it can begin to convey what I have felt at times being in this place. Despite the obvious struggle to retain its values as its fate intermingles with the developed world, there is, in both its people and its natural beauty, a certain character to Nepal that stands apart from any place else I have been. Perhaps the best I can do to explain is to share a thought I had upon first seeing it's awe inspiring peaks. I've been an avowed atheist since the age of 13, but I'm fairly certain that were I ever to find religion it would be here at the foot of the Himalayas.

namaste

Waking up in Kathmandu

2011-11-17T17:21:00.001-08:00

I'd intended to have completed my TdG race report before this trip, but here I sit in our hotel room in Nepal after a 15-1/2 hour flight followed by a 12-hour layover in Hong Kong and another 5-1/2 hour flight to Nepal. Unfortunately, the other statistic for the trip thus far is a grand total of around 5 hours sleep in the last 48. We've an internal flight to Pokhara today and another day before race check-in; 2 before the start. It's a foggy morning so there isn't much to see outside our hotel window save for a great mass of noisy birds that appear to be playing out a scene from Hitchcock's famous film. All is being made right with the consumption of my morning caffeine and I'm looking forward to the coming adventure.

I won't have internet access once we are out at the campground, but I believe you can follow the race in some form at the event website:

Racing the Planet: Nepal

Given my lack of training and the 24+lb pack I'll be carrying, my goal is for just finishing, enjoying and taking in the scenery. The camera will be in hand.

Darkest before dawn

2011-10-30T09:17:00.000-07:00

Top of the relatively easy Col Lazoney (only 2700ft climbing) on a nice warm day.

We came into Gressoney feeling good, maybe even too good. The term "loopy" comes to mind. We'd made it through the dreaded "section 4" and managed a little sleep in Niel before completing a short climb in the heat of the day. This was followed by a long gradual downhill where we got in a bit of running and I even took time to soak my legs in a creek. Conversation died down as we strolled along the road happily approaching the 200K mark, our trekking poles scratching along the pavement. Harry started tapping his in time. Tap....tap....tap, tap, tap. I joined in watching Harry fall into a march, bobbing his head. The silliness continued to grow, culminating with Harry planting his poles at his sides and kicking up his heels as if performing a jig. We both burst into laughter and I regretting not whipping out my camera to video it as there is no way our other friends would be able to properly envision the scene.

Baby lamb during our relaxing descent

The goal was to shoot for 2 hours sleep. Harry wanted to clean up, but I headed straight for the cots after eating. Within 40 minutes I was wide awake. I tried futilely for another 15 minutes, but it was useless. Harry was sleeping soundly and I didn't want to wake him. However, I knew laying around for an hour was not going to do me any good. I tried to explain that I could go on ahead and we would most certainly meet up later, but Harry would have none of it. He'd do with only an hour. We headed out just before sunset feeling mostly OK.

Just as we we were leaving town there was an intersection along the path with no course markings. In retrospect, it was probably quite obvious which was the correct way, but we hadn't quite fully gathered our diminishing wits so were overcautious. We stopped to check the map and our GPS programs. As we stood there, we noticed a couple of blonde women walking towards us from the opposite direction, one wearing a race number. It was all a bit confusing in our stunted state so we didn't recognize that it was Anne from Alaska along with Jill. I'm sure Jill thought we were completely out of it. When she told us of the steep section ahead, we tried to explain that we weren't too worried if it was "only steep" (i.e. not "steep and covered in boulders" or "steep and lined muddy" or...). I think the poorly executed humor was lost.

The course took us through some town that seemed deserted before starting the climb. Of course, the climbing was steep as promised, but nothing too extraordinary for the course. At Alpenzu we enjoyed cappuccinos before heading over Col Pinter in the dark. The climb was unremarkable, but the descent was another of those that began steep and then seemed to stretch for ever before reaching the next checkpoint. We were tired and planned another nap once we reached Refugio Crest. Of course, this made the section seem even longer. It didn't help that upon arriving, the check-in and sleeping quarters were separated by a bit of distance. At any rate, we had a decent little sleep followed by more cappuccino.

Looking tired at the top of Pinter

"What goes up, must come down." However, at TDG it always seems to go up again first. The short section (up and) down into Saint Jacques was tedious. We didn't stay long, but it was clear the race was taking its toll on many as we saw people being taped up and patched up here. The sun was about to rise and we'd another climb in front of us. Travelling along a stream in a protected valley at dawn, the temperature plummeted. Layer upon layer went on as I bundled up for the first time since the initial rain storm on day 1.

Wasn't I just too warm yesterday?

Gran Tournalin was one of the most magnificent refugios. Large and accommodating, they offered a bit more than the standard race fare. After eating Harry and I both leaned back in our booth and dozed off for a few minutes on the wooden benches. It was just enough to feel refreshed and ready to brave the cold again. Like night and day, the minute we exited the shade of the peak, the layers were stripped off on the climb up Col di Nana.

Wasn't I just too cold a few minutes ago?

A brief descent...

another col...

and we were headed into Valtournenche...

...the second to last "Life Station."

For some reason, my memory of this place is a bit hazy. I don't think we slept as we headed up the next climb again during the hottest part of the day. It wasn't difficult, though I lagged a bit behind Harry here. In fact, he somehow managed to walk right past the first checkpoint causing much confusion and unnecessary stress when he informed the volunteers at the next stop.

After the initial climb, this section remained up high with short climbs over minor passes. Initially I'd been very concerned about the extended time above 8000ft, but we were quite acclimated by this point. I was also worried about a repeat of section 4, but it turned out to be quite nice here with plenty of easy trail. We managed most of it before sunset allowing us to enjoy the amazing vistas.

Part of Monte Rosa, I believe

Matterhorn from the Italian side

It was a bit warm.

Harry and the high, alpine cows

Sunset is coming.

We began the long drop into Close in the dark. Not only did it begin with one of the steepest descents on course, but the trail consisted of soft, loose gravel that slid beneath our feet at every step. We proceeded more by sliding than anything and remaining upright became a challenge. Indeed, I failed to do so on at least one occasion. I did't feel anything significant at the time, but I believe this is where the tightness in the front part of my lower leg was exacerbated into something much more. The steepness and loose dirt eventually subsided. It was replaced instead by a sudden lack of ribbons over a wet, marshy field. We'd been warned of the cows propensity to eat ribbons and had actually witnessed some of it on the high sections. I guess they had been through this field before heading up.

After wandering about for a while, Harry and I each pulled out our phones that contained the program Beat had written for just such an occasion. It found our location on the GPS, overlayed it on a map of the course and indicated where we were with respect to the proper path. Brilliant! In fact, we'd probably of gotten back on route even quicker, but we were joined by a couple of Hungarian racers. Explaining the situation to them took as much time as finding the next marker.

We entered Close on a short climb as the trail dropped below the level of town before reaching it. We were tired and a bit grumpy. We should have slept there. We only saw two beds in the checkpoint and, for some reason, I got it in my head to be closer to the top of the next pass before sleeping. Despite the fact that the volunteers weren't sure of the facilities at the next stop and despite the fact that we passed a big tent that seemed to have more cots in it and despite Harry's question as to whether we might be making a mistake, I pushed on. We walked like zombies up the steep climb through the woods. Stumbling and falling asleep on our feet. We didn't talk much, but I could feel Harry's frustration growing along with my own guilt.

Bruson L'Arp was little more than a small camp around a fire. There was a single tent setup for sleeping and it was pretty full. The bottom of the tent seemed to be lined with some sort of corrugated tin. Wrapped in nothing but our jackets we tossed and turned for an hour. The worst "sleep" of the entire race was no way to end an already difficult night. Upon waking one of the Hungarians, a young lady I'd seen since day one, was sitting in the chair in the tent. I hadn't witnessed her taking a single picture on the course, but for some reason the sight of Harry and I in that horrible state moved her to record the moment. In broken English she uttered, "You guys can sleep anywhere."

At the top of the climb, I made my own record of my condition at the time. It wasn't pretty.

However, it was morning, we were moving and headed into Ollomont: the final of the major "life station" checkpoints and a name I'd set in my mind. After that, it was "only" 50K to the finish. For the first time in days the end actually seemed conceivable, but the challenges were far from over. With one last look at the sun rising over the valley, we crossed the pass and headed down.

Undefeated

2011-10-15T13:20:00.000-07:00

"Aaaarrrghh!!!!"

I slammed my trekking poles to the ground, little concern over whether they might crash splintering to pieces. After hopping around on my good, left leg, I settled onto a boulder by the side of the trail completely deflated. My inability to travel downhill without pain had mounted an ever-increasing frustration. The strain in the front of my calf was aggrevated most with my foot pointed downwards and there was pretty much no other way to navigate these steep descents. Catching my toe on a rock and pulling it back simply put me over the edge. Though, in truth, the frustration was worse than the pain.

---

For days, I'd dreamt of this final descent. With so little runnable terrain and having held back on the few sections there were, I'd kept plenty reserve in my legs for the final push. Unfortunately, things hadn't quite worked out as I'd imagined. Apparently, if you train running downhills all the time, your legs may not be prepared for walking it. The breaking motion required to descend slopes much steeper than just about anything on my local trails did me in. One section, in particular, was so steep and the dirt so loose that we were basically skiing down it. I slipped onto my ass which is when I believe I strained my anterior tibialis. This was the descent after Col Vessanez, a long downhill and the beginning of our worst night of the race due to a bad decision on my part. That story will have to wait.

The next day we made it to Ollomont, the final "life base" (a major checkpoint with extra support and a large area set up with cots for sleeping). After a quick meal we intended a solid 2 hours sleep, but too much noise and activity allowed Harry and I only about an hour each. It was noon and, upon awaking, we discovered that Martina, Harry's girlfriend, had not only snuck treats into our drop bags, but had also shown up to see us off on the final section of the race. This lifted our spirits a bit. We gathered ourselves and prepared for the final 50K. Matina walked with us up the initial climb, but quickly realized that, at this point, Harry and I had pretty much lost the ability to communicate with anyone but each other. Frankly, I'm not even sure it qualified as communication. It was mostly single words and phrases referring to things that had happened over the previous 5 days eliciting grunts, groans or giggles from us both.

Starting on the final stretch should have brought more excitement, but we had become so accustomed to ignoring anything beyond the immediate challenge in front of us that all emotions were fairly tempered. Besides, those last 30 miles would take almost an entire day. For my part, I was also starting to realize that the pain in the front of my leg was more than just "tightness". The climb up Col Champillon was steep, like all the others, but relatively free of supplementary challenges. The descent likewise. However, it was here that my leg started to become a problem. I could jog a little on the smoother sections, but walking brought pain with each step. Still, Harry and I made good time on this section and stayed ahead of the various groups with whom we'd been constantly trading positions on the climbs and descents.

After the small checkpoint at the base of the hill, the elevation profile showed a long, relatively gradual descent into Saint-Rhemy--the last stop before the final climb of the race. Exhaustion was catching up with us both so we found a nice grassy plot next to a stream above a farmhouse just off trail. It was warm and, laying there, we felt like a couple hikers simply lounging in the mountains enjoying a lazy afternoon. We dozed off for 20 minutes of some of the best sleep all week. There were miles still to go and what showed as a very easy downhill on the map would, of course, begin with more climbing. In fact the profile just seemed plain wrong on this section. The uphill went on much longer than expected, the final downhill was steeper than shown and the checkpoint itself had been moved further outside town than the previous year. After so many days we were quite blase about such minor annoyances. However, my leg was really beginning to hurt.

Arriving at the checkpoint, I asked if there was a medic around while Harry hit the food table. I'd heard good things about the medical help at TdG, but there wasn't much to be done for a simple muscle strain other than trying to relieve the pain so I could manage the final stretch. With less than 20 miles remaining in a 200+ mile race, I was prepared to crawl if I had to. Some ointment, a little ice, a couple of anti-inflammatories and I was ready to go, at least mentally. I went back outside to the food table to find Harry sitting at the bench with his head on the table and his eyes closed.

The right thing to do would have been to take a break and sleep. They had a large, quiet room filled with cots. The next stop would be minimal support with sleeping space on the floor and we were unlikely to make it past that without a rest. The problem was that I just couldn't do it. I told Harry to go get some sleep while I ate. I contemplated trying to convince him again to stay and catch me later, but I knew he wouldn't have it. I didn't want a repeat of the previous night. I also knew that it was exactly what I was leading us into when I woke Harry after 20 minutes. I'd just managed to summon the resolve to push forward on my leg and stopping at this point wasn't an option for me. I offered Harry one last shot to stay and sleep. As expected, we started up the long, last climb together.

Merdeux sat just below the final pass of the course, little more than a shed. Harry and I tossed fitfully on the cold, wood floor in what seemed to be a storage room. When the only other occupant left, freeing up the sole foam pad, I was willing to let Harry have it, but he insisted we share. Head to toe on the tiny cushion, we slept. Another racer arrived after around 40 minutes to find water had spilled on the floor. I gave him the canvas tarp I was using as a blanket and left Harry to hopefully get some better rest. Beyond the initial 5 hours stint where my usual light-sleeping habit failed me, I hadn't gone more than an hour straight without waking. I was anxious to get going on my bum leg, but wanted Harry to get as much rest as possible because, either way, I knew what was in store for me. I sat in the hut drinking tea and talking to one of the volunteers who told me stories of his visits to America in broken English.

Col Malatra stood around 9600ft. We moved well up this final climb with only one small incident where a large group of Italians we'd let pass decided to stop for a photo, holding up a string of us on the rocky, technical section lined with ropes. I could hear Harry cursing beneath his breath as he stood there, but I simply pushed through unwilling to delay my inevitable painful descent. As we headed down the other side, Harry's cursing was drown out by my own as the pain in my leg increased with every downward step, reaching its apex when my toe caught that rock.

---

All manner of negative thought went through my head as I sat there on the boulder. I still had little doubt that I'd finish the race, but I felt betrayed by my own body at a point where I should have been savoring every moment. Harry walked over to me and put up his hand for a high-five. "That was the last climb. We've got this thing done!" I had to smile. Not only was he right, but the role-reversal of Harry reminding me to get over my defeatist attitude forced me to laugh at myself. The pain was worse, but I was moving again.

Eventually, Harry went ahead to the refugio to see if he could find some pain killers for me. Though we'd stuck through so much over the previous days, I was actually glad for him to go. Not only did I feel like I was holding him back on some of the most runnable trails we'd seen in days, but I really needed to focus all of my energy internally. It was taking everything I had to ignore the shock that went up my leg each time my foot hit the ground. The extra effort further fueled the tiredness that inevitably hits me just before sunrise. I would need one final nap at the checkpoint encouraging Harry to go on. Finishing on my own was fine by me.

Nothing can take away from the camaraderie that Harry and I shared over the course of this race. But, even together, there's a personal aspect to pushing oneself through these type of challenges that's ever present. Having those final miles on my own to reflect simply punctuated the entire experience.

Besides, it's not like we didn't celebrate at the finish!

I had just enough strength left to grab Harry and lift him off the ground.

Emerging

2011-09-23T20:22:00.000-07:00

As I hobbled towards the finish on my increasingly lame right leg, the morning sun was just beginning to illuminate the Mont Blanc massif. Clouds moved in and a light drizzle fell. Some magic European pain relievers had kept my strained tibialis at bay for over an hour, but, approaching the final checkpoint, I could feel it re-emerging just in time for the final steep descent into Courmayeur. Despite spending nearly every moment of the past 5 days together, I'd encouraged Harry to go ahead to the finish from Rifugio Bonatti. Not only would my diminished downhill pace have been excruciating since he was feeling good, but I needed one last nap to gather strength before the last stretch. Imagining Harry cruising towards the finish made me smile and helped distract me from the less than optimal final miles.

I crossed the finish line in just under 6 days (143 hours and change); my elation tempered with relief. Still, I've never been happier at the completion of an event and I gave Harry a huge bear hug when I saw him. Looking back, it was hard to comprehend how we'd managed to get ourselves through the course. It still is. Many memories are a jumble and there are gaps where I can't quite piece things together even with the help of my photos. I suppose that's to be expected with not much more than 8 hours sleep for the week and only 5 of any significant quality. Furthermore, there are certain memories--highs as well as lows--that simply fade everything else into the backdrop.

It's been nearly a week since finishing the Tor des Geants and my nights are still filled with dreams of ascending and descending steep rocky trails. Looking back, the race seems alternately to have been one, extremely long day and a trek that lasted months. There were sections where we imagined dragging our tattered bodies through a war-zone (minus the bullets) and others were it seemed we were simply out on a casual (albeit quite extended) hike. Mostly, we were simply struck by two very contrasting sensations: how incredibly difficult the terrain was to traverse and how amazingly beautiful the surroundings were to be in.

Rather than a traditional race report, I am going to try and piece together as much as I can in a series of posts. Working backwards, I'll try to cover the key features and events for each of the sections. While the race itself is broken up by the major "life stations" and then by checkpoints in between these, I will follow a structure that maps more closely to the physical and emotional states that Harry and I navigated as much as we did the course itself.

Not from the race, but our preparation the week before. It's one of my favorites and how I choose to remember The Alps

And now...

2011-09-10T03:21:00.000-07:00

...for something completely frightening.

200 miles of trail. 80,000ft of climbing. A challenge equal to the amazing beauty of the Italian Alps.

Follow along here: http://www.tordesgeants.it/tdg

DNDNF

2011-09-10T01:58:00.000-07:00

My closest call yet.

I realize I'm tempting fate in writing this, but after 19 100-milers and 60+ Ultra-marathons in total, I still remain without a single DNF (Did Not Finish). I'm well aware that a significant portion of this streak is attributable to luck and at least as much to an unwillingness to push myself too hard. In the end, I guess my only true talent is an unwavering ability to trudge through whatever amount of pain and misery a given race may throw at me. At some point, that simply won't be enough. At Tahoe, it nearly wasn't.

Entering the race, my mindset and physical conditioning were far from optimal. With a 5am start and much of the race above 8000ft, it was far from an ideal setup for me. Then there was my less than optimal experience running the 50 mile version of this event back in 2007. I guess 4 years is long enough to forget since the one thing I do recall from that race is thinking that I would never want to do 2 loops of the course. Yet, here I was about to do just that only on a slightly modified route that promised even more climbing.

Snow in July

I hung back with Jill and Beat during the early miles trying to keep things easy. Jill was undertaking her first "running" 100 miler (she'd finished Susitna in February) and Beat was taking things especially slow since he'd signed up for some crazy race in the French Alps just 10 days after TRT. With 5 pee breaks in the first 10 miles, it was clear my body was not in top form for this race. I tried to distract myself with the inspiring views and precarious-yet-fun snow fields during the early miles. However, by Red House loop, I was already hitting my first low.

Not feeling great coming out of the loop

I always tell myself to ignore any bad spell that comes in the first 4 hours as it has little to do with the rest of the race. Even so, the encouraging words from friends doing the 50 miler did not bouy my spirit as I made the steep climb out of the loop. I was hopeful that pushing past the 4 hour zone would bring me back around, but I also knew I was entering the dreaded "8500 foot" zone. My low dragged on. Harry, starting an hour later in the 50, caught up to me when I was pretty much at rock bottom. While I was unable to convince him that this might be my first drop, I said that maybe I would just end up DFL (Dead F***ing Last). I must have been pretty bad because he looked at me as though it might be a reasonable expectation.

The views offered little help at this point

I thought that if I could just hold it together until the descent to Squaw Peak Lodge, I might recover, but there was a lot of rolling terrain before the descent. I don't usually have major issues going up to altitude, but sustained time at or above 8500ft seems to just drag on me. Somewhere along this section, I devised this little chart in my head to help me deal with it:

Elevation	Downhill	Flat trail	Gradual uphill	Steep uphill
below 8000ft	Run	Run	Shuffle*	Walk
8000-8500ft	Run	Shuffle*	Walk	Walk
above 8500ft	Run	Walk	Walk	Walk

*Monitor breathing and heart-rate and walk if necessary

I don't know whether the plan itself worked or whether it was the distraction of the mental exercise, but I made it down to the lodge and felt OK. After a short break and a popsicle, I was ready to take on the massive climb up the ski slope...or so I thought. I had caught up with Jill, so at least my misery had company. The climb started innocuously enough, but as soon as we turned the corner around the lift, the full-on 35% incline presented itself. The slope was unrelentingly steep with multiple false peaks. The only consolation was the amazing view of Lake Tahoe that only improved with each gasping rest I took. Jill is a much better climber so I couldn't quite keep up with her, but I was surprised that more people didn't pass me as I slogged my to the top.

Steep!

Once at the peak, I knew we had mostly downhill in front of us save for the climb to Snow Valley Peak (high point of the course). This was the same place where I'd made my recovery during the 50 miler 4 years prior so my spirits we looking up. Upon arriving back at Red House I was already feeling better and even looking forward to the snow fields on the way to Hobart. They were very slushy at this point. As I made a "but-slide" down a particularly steep and slippery slope, I promised myself to grab my trekking poles for the return trip at night.

Before I knew it, I was on the climb to Snow Valley with my mind set on the long downhill beyond. As I've said before, climbing up and over a peak is not usually an issue. Besides, the Eagle Scouts manning this aid station had laid out humorous signs all along the final mile to keep us distracted. They also ran one of the best aid stations I've ever experienced. The Sorbet was especially appreciated, but I did not dally.

The downhill was everything I remembered, but I held back knowing that I'd another half race to go. The generally frustrating last 2 miles of flat to the start/finish area wasn't as bad as I had imagined. My spirits were lifted. I was, as always looking forward to the night. Harry, Martina and Beat were all waiting at the aid station. I came in and sat down filled with smiles. Harry commented on how surprising my recovery was. In fact, I had apparently looked so bad that an accidental call to my wife had created an unnecessary level of concern. Nothing a happy call home couldn't fix.

After stuffing my face and gathering my night gear I was back underway. I headed out alongside a couple whom I had met coming into the aid station. However, they took a break in the first 1/2 mile due to some stomach issues leaving me alone in the dark; my favorite way to travel. I don't recall what thoughts filled my head, but I was enjoying myself immensly.

I knew the section to the first aid station was relatively long, but I didn't recall the exact path as my emotional universe was a quite different from the one through which I travelled in the morning. When a came upon a somewhat confusing intersection it should have given me pause, but there was a large reflective arrow on a sign pointing right so I went right and didn't give it much thought. As I ascended higher and higher through the woods, somewhere back in my conscious was the scratching knowledge that this wasn't right. I've gone off course in a handfull of races and its always the same. It's not the inital mistake, but the tendency to continue on beligerantly pushing doubt to the back of my mind against mounting evidence that has continued to elude me.

As I stood at the top of snowfield staring at one of the little yellow signs set by the scounts, I let out an audible "FUCK!" In truth, I'd known it for some time as there shouldn't have been any snow on the section at all, but I needed the blatent evidence to slap me out of my mental momentum. I was about a mile from the aid station, but the wrong one. I considered continuing there to fill my bladder, but I knew that would be the end of my race. I turned and headed down. By the time I arrived at the correct aid station, I'd gone an extra 4.5 miles only to realize that I had been but a few hundred yards away when I made the wrong turn. As I stood there coming to grips with this realization, the last runner in the race came in. I'd already made my decision to finish the race, but I'd never been at the back before. Chasing cutoffs was a brand new experience.

I made it to Tunnel Creak and put all thoughts out of mind in order to complete the dreaded Red House Loop once again. Arriving back at the aid station I was informed of where I stood. It was nearly 4:00am. The cuttoff at Squaw Valley Peak, they told me, was 7:15am. I had my doubts. In fact, as I headed up the climb to the next aid station--the same spot where I'd had my low the previous morning--I was prepared to just give up the chase, hang out and make my way down to the lodge to end my race. For better or worse, when I arrived, nobody was there. The station was unmanned. I continued.

The long section above 8500ft was not so bad this time. Whether due to the cool, dense night air or some other factor, I made my way towards the descent with relative ease. Just as the trail began heading down I came across Jill sitting on a tree stump in the dim light of the early morning. She looked dejected. Her feet were shot. I was ready to invite her to join me on the long stroll to end our races together, but then she told me the cuttoff was 7:45. She knew her feet weren't up for the task, but encouraged me that I should have no problem. I tried to offer some words, but my spark was already ignighted and I started to push.

As I hit the road at the bottom, Beat was there. "Dude, the cuttoff is 7:35am, you better hurry!" He trotted along side me and I informed him about Jill, but he seemed to already know. We arrived at the aid station 10 minutes before cuttoff. I sucked down a latte, grabbed some other snacks and headed up the monster climb for one last push. I knew if I could make it to the peak without blowing up, I could mount a comeback. I conquered the ascent with continuous steps folllowed by rests. I ignored everything else save the progress below my feet. Eventually, I could see the top of the ski lift. At the peak, I rested breifly gathering the my energy for the final 18 miles.

The remainder of the race was somewhat anti-climatic. I'd gained 15 minutes on the cutoff by Tunnel Creek. Nobody behind me had made it so I was followed by the race sweep to Hobart and then onto the climb (my third) up to Snow Valley Peak. I caught another runner there and stuck with him until the descent after the aid station. On the final downhill, I caught and passed another runner. I finished in 3rd to last with nearly an hour to spare.

At the finish, Beat uttered the now classic line "Steve, you are both the toughest and dumbest person I know."

Humourous though it is, the epithet has sort of stuck in my craw. I've given myself numerous mental "standing orders" to try and avoid such situations. Reminded myself that if there is ever the slightest doubt, I should turn around, go back, and check. However, when I am out there I seem only able to move in a forward direction. Perhaps this perstence--misguided though it occasionally may be--is the same trait responsible for my tendency to always finish what I begin. So much have I trained myself to ignore the doubts, questions and concerns bubbling up from my sub-conscious that I sometimes end up missing those intended to keep me from going wrong. In the grand scheme of things, I guess it's a pretty good trade-off to make. That is, as they say, until it isn't.

Intents

2011-09-08T09:14:00.000-07:00

I've a TRT race report half constructed and another finish at Headlands Hundred with no report even in mind. As I sit here typing this in Courmayeur, Italy it is difficult to focus any mental energy on these recent accomplishments. My personal life has undergone a voluntary upheaval in the past few months, but even that is being pushed to the background as I prepare myself mentally for the biggest physical challenge of my life. The Tor des Geants begins in less than 3 days.

The brief recap of our trip so far is that we arrived on Saturday, the 3rd and went to Chamonix, France to spend a couple of days before heading here. After checking into our apartment we headed up for a hike on the first part of the course to stay up in a Refugio for two nights. This gave us a taste of the terrain. It is so far beyond any race in the US that it is difficult to fathom. Our 16 mile trek included well over 8000 feet of climbing. If you can imagine that, then imagine that it only represents 8% of the course we will attempt cover beginning on Sunday.

The only thing that may make it even remotely endurable is that the beauty of the Alps is an equal match to their ruggedness.

Here's a very small taste:

Portents

2011-07-15T21:22:00.000-07:00

Being a native Californian, tornadoes are not exactly a natural source of analogies for me. However, I have visited areas frequented by such weather patterns and seen one actual twister with my own eyes. There seems no better symbol than those dark skies and thick air preceding such phenomenon to convey a sense of the foreboding. I am in the midst of some major life changes at the moment and while I believe the end result will be a positive outcome, it does feel a bit like a gathering storm at the moment. Between meeting with Realtors, coordinating contractors and packing up the last 10 years of our life, its strange to think that the potential of running a 100 miles overnight through the mountains this weekend, may be the only thing to provide a sense of normalcy. The timing suck, but my wife is supportive, understanding that I probably need this now more than ever and, perhaps, also a bit happy to have me out of the house where I sometimes get in the way as much as I help.

So, here I am in Tahoe while the whirlwind continues back home. This will certainly continue my downward trend in terms of entering 100s with a lack of preparation. I haven't run a step in nearly two weeks, my weight is up, I'm physically tired and mentally exhausted. I'm telling myself that it is good training for my 200 miler in September, but my only real hope is to have a good race and finish. I haven't had time to report on San Diego, but it didn't go great. The trails were beautiful and the race organization top notch, but it was warmer than I was prepared for and an early race over exuberance caught up with me and did my stomach in. I still enjoyed much of the event and managed to keep my spirits up at the end enough to cross the line in a playful 27:27:27.

We shall see what tomorrow brings me. I am expecting it to bring great trails, amazing views and a bit of inspiration during a very stressful time.

After Mile 70

2011-06-09T10:29:00.000-07:00

I signed up for the Santa Barbara Endurance Race 100 miler mainly because of the advertised 30,000+ft if elevation gain and the need to start some serious climb training towards my big end-of-summer goal. After one of the wettest winters in recent California history forced the RD to modify the course mere weeks before the start, I was a little concerned. When the new course included nearly a marathon's worth of road running, I became a bit bummed. However, I reminded myself that 100 miles is still 100 miles and even if it had far less than the advertised ascent, it would be a good launching pad for my series of summer races.

I guess I could handle 25 miles of road if it all included views like this

My plans were further altered when Beat backed out of the race due to a nagging Achilles after finishing his 3rd 100-miler this year at the grueling White Mountains race in Fairbanks, AK (go figure). Some solo time sounded good to me anyways so I headed out of work early Wednesday to stay at our place in Arroyo Grande and then down to the pre-race meeting at Rancho Oso on Thursday. A quirky, but enthusiastic RD, a very cool start/finish venue and an assortment of participants ranging from ultra-elite runner Geoff Roes to the big, smiling Ken Michal with his "All Day" motto and shirt logo, set the tone for this low-key 100-miler.

The early Friday start was preceded by a ceremonial blessing by a member of the local Chumash tribe just before sunrise. We then set off, up the initial climb via the only single track on the course. I'd mapped the route online and followed it a few times via Google Earth, but it's still difficult to get a sense of the steepness. The single track dumped onto the long, gradual--far too runnable--firetrail up to the road. Making it to the initial aid station in an hour and 15 was definitely ahead of pace. While I tried to take it easier along the road to the next aid station, I still arrived at mile 10 right at 2 hours, staring at a long descent down another gradual firetrail to the reservoir.

Being a natural downhiller,I knew I couldn't exactly slow down on this section, but since I generally run at "gravity's pace" I would at least be able to take it easy since it was far from steep. I met up with a few other runners on this section, first a young guy named Mike from Sacramento and then Tiffany Guerra from LA who was the lead woman. Near the bottom we hooked up with another group of guys and we all headed up the short climb before the turnaround together as the leaders came through. Geoff made some comment about not expecting to see a "pack" in this race. We laughed. I commented back to him that this wasn't going to be the best training for his goal race at UTMB. I figured our little pack wouldn't last. I was pretty sure we were all going out too fast and hitting the 20 mile mark in 3:45 was all the confirmation I needed. I swore I would take it easier on the climb back up.

I arrived at the top in 6-1/2 hour for 50K. That did was a bit of a slower pace,, but it was still a pace for a (completely unreasonable) 21 hour finish. The next 6 miles were back on road. My hips began complaining and I began questioning whether I had blown up before even mile 40. Luckily, the asphalt didn't last long. The promised, rugged dirt road at its end immediately loosened my hips, my legs and my head after a brief descent. Right about mile 40 the climbing started. Given how moderate the initial terrain had been, even if the course went straight up to the turnaround from here, there was no way we were going to accumulate a total of 30,000ft. It didn't go straight up, but it did become significantly steeper.

I fell back in with Mike and Tiffany over the next several miles. It was far from lock-step as Tiffany was quite a the climber, but I could catch up on the interspersed downhills in the early miles. Mike was closer to my pace being only a slightly better climber and keeping nearly my pace on the descents. We chatted a bit. He was fairly new to 100 milers. When talk turned to finishing times, I told him it was far to early to be thinking about that. The race doesn't start until after mile 70. I then regaled him of all my worst 100 mile experiences each of which had degraded north of mile 70.

The three of us exited the Vista Peak aid station together en route to the final 7 miles before the turnaround. At the bottom of the first descent, Geoff Roes came by on his way back. Friendly guy that he is, he stopped to give us some advice to make sure we had plenty of water for the next section. He had drained a full 40oz on his way out. I said I was fine, but probably should have thought a bit deeper on the subject. The day was getting warm and if Geoff had drained 40, I would need at least all of the 50 I had in my bladder. Not that I would have gone back to the aid station and filled up further, but I might have conserved a bit more or simply have taken this as a word of caution that the hardest part of the trail was to come.

If the entire course had been anything like the final stretch to Divide Peak, this would have been a very different race. It's easy to see how the original planned course might have been the beast we all expected. The trails became progressively steeper and more rugged as we approached the peak. Tiffany marched up the first steep climb not to be seen again for until the turnaround. Mike eventually dropped me too as the hills started to weigh on me. Serious doubts began to creep into my psyche about the effects of my early exuberance.

As the climbs reached their pinnacle of steepness, I drained both the last of my water and my energy reserves. I was seriously bonking and moving up the hills at a snail's pace. At one point I just stopped and sat on a rock. I became upset with myself for having mismanaged my early race so poorly. I resigned to just shuffle it into the aid station and take some time to recover. As I headed up the final climb, Mike and Tiffany came down. I was surprised I hadn't been overtaken by more people.

The excited (and slightly inebriated) volunteers were all abuzz at the aid station. I muttered something about needing to "gather myself", took a seat and asked for soup. As I slurped my chicken noodle, I worked on getting my head straight. The good thing about having experience at the distance is that I knew I had plenty of time to recover. A check of the watch showed that I had arrived at the half way point in less than 11-1/4 hours. Given that the bulk of the climbing was already done, I was still on sub-24 pace, though I had no intention of chasing that goal. I resolved to stay until 11:30 race time. However, as soon as others began arriving, I realized I was already feeling better and decided to get off my butt and head out on the rocky trails.

We weren't the only ones enjoying these rough dirt roads.

Once I hit those technical downhills, it didn't take long for my spirits to lift. It also didn't take long for me to catch back up with Mike. When he complimented me on my recovery, I responded that "I don't know why I ever fret the climbs in the first place." Caught up in my enthusiasm, he began flying down the steeps alongside me and eventually we caught up with Tiffany. When she commented that we were going to leave her in our dust, I joked that I was just trying to "crush Mike's quads before mile 70." For the time being, we pushed each other to keep a good pace. We probably didn't have enough time to make it all the way to the road, but the final miles would be fairly smooth climbing so optimizing daylight to get through the rocky sections was a good plan.

It was certainly dark by the time I reached the road, but I always like to hold off on my flashlight for as long as possible. I turned it on just before entering the aid station at the 100K mark and 14:30 into my race. Mike caught up and I knew he would be leading me out given that he had full crew and was picking up a pacer. Tiffany also came in and out as I was prepping for the night and hoping (unsuccessfully) to take care of some minor GI issues. I figured I was going to be slower along the paved section. It was time to put the brain in "auto" and wake it up at the 70 mile point. For the most part, it went as planned other than a very strong wind sweeping across the ridge. I ended up skipping the intermediate unmanned station and arriving at Angostura Pass on empty.

Tiffany had already passed through and Mike was just leaving when I came in. I took my time knowing the 10 miles of downhill ahead would suite me. I caught up with Mike fairly quickly as he and his pacer had slowed to a walk. He said he was just taking a break. I really hoped my earlier joke hadn't turned prophetic. I cruised through this section catching one other struggling runner near the bottom before the turnaround. I was feeling less than perfect and with 20 miles to go, the 5 remaining hours to break 24 seemed a tall order. I hadn't come to the event in either racing condition or mindset. However, I knew I'd kick myself for my fast pace early in the race if I didn't at least try to finish strong.

On the return I passed Tiffany, but was caught and passed shortly thereafter by another runner who had obviously managed his energy better than I had. A short downhill was coming up and I decided it was just the incentive I needed to kick up the effort level. I leaned forward, picked up my feet and got going. Halfway down the slope, I felt it drop. The minor GI blockage I'd been dealing with all day came to a sudden and urgent resolution. Details will be spared, but the next 15 minutes or so was spent in the bushes with the only conclusion being that you can never have too many Handi-Wipes in a trail race.

Under a mix of relief and discomfort, I made my way up to the next aid station where I hit the porta-john for a final check to assure all was in order. I also learned at this aid station that Mike had dropped from the race. He said his legs were shot. I hate being right about it, but I did warn him about mile 70. I bid him farewell and wished him a strong recovery for his future endeavors as he took a ride out. I made descent time on the climb to the ridge bringing my total climbing time to just over 3 hours even with my diversions. Tiffany was just leaving as I came in. I thought she might be able to breach 24 if she really pushed the final 10 miles. I had no such intention.

"I'm gonna just take my time here so I'm not even tempted to chase sub-24," I told the volunteers with a smile as I stopped to survey the snack table. In truth it was hard not to do the math in my head, knowing that the final 8 miles was almost completely downhill and knowing I could probably make 10 minute miles going down even this late in the race. I decided not to chase the goal, but just see how close I could get without too hard a push. So, when I was handed my filled pack, I put it on, grabbed a few items from the table and headed out.

It wasn't more than a few steps before I felt it. Water running down my back. I stopped, took the pack off, checked the lid and put it back on. More water. I headed back to the checkpoint for a full inspection to find that the bladder had already leaked significantly and the pack was soaked as was my shirt. The next 15 minutes were spent sitting in a chair, under blankets trying to warm back up. Luckily I had an extra shirt and a handheld bottle in my drop bag. I probably should have listened to my own statement when I came into the aid station.

I eventually got back underway and made it to the final stretch of dirt road right around sunrise. With all time pressure off, the final 5-6 miles of gradual, winding downhill was eminently enjoyable. I passed Tiffany near the top as she was having some challenges with the downhills at this point. As light spread over the valley, I maintained a leisurely 10-11 minute pace. As I approached the final miles the speedy 50K, 50mile and 100K runners began passing on their way up offering encouraging words. As always seems the case in 100 miles, you need one final challenge before the finish. For some reason I didn't recall the final mile having so much climbing in it or being so long when I ran it on fresh legs the previous morning.

I crossed the finish line right around 24 hours and 40 minutes. Keeping with the low-key nature of the event, the ranch was empty and quiet. I had to seek someone out in order to report my finish time. I congratulated Mauricio Puerto (the runner who passed me in the night) on his strong finish and sub-24 result. I then waited for Tiffany to come in and congratulated her for being first female before heading to the back of my Jeep for a nice nap. Full results are on UltraSignup. Geoff Roes knocked this thing off in 16-1/2 without even trying. 8 hours back, I took 6th place. It was a good event. I'd probably run it differently if I did it again, but there are no regrets about any aspect of the race as it was.

Once again, I've finished my report just in time for my next big race. San Diego 100 is this in two days. Other than one big weekend where I followed Mission Peak hill repeats by 53 miles of road biking and running the Ohlone 50K on consecutive days, my training has been essentially non-existent. I've no major goals of racing this one either, but it is rumored a relatively moderate course so the challenge will be again not to go out too hard. Regardless, 6 weeks later, I am more than ready for another 100 miles of fun and adventure.

Look for me out there, somewhere after mile 70.

Being Schooled

2011-04-28T11:32:00.000-07:00

Since this race report is going to take me some time to complete and since the posts will end up in reverse order from the event time table, I thought I would publish a TOC.

Table of Contents

"A Parable of Sorts..."

"First lessons"

"Learning to learn"

"Serious lessons"

"Slow learner"

"Night classes"

"Study time"

"Final Lessons"

"Lessons Learned"

Being Schooled (lessons learned)

2011-04-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

Post-race

Lesson 19: Looking back is looking forward

I've heard ultrarunning likened to banging one's head against a wall. It doesn't really make sense and most of us aren't totally clear exactly why we do it, but it feels so good when you finally stop. After the finish, I checked into the headquarters cabin and let them know I was done. I congratulated Jamshid on a great finish and headed over to the racer's cabin. Most everyone inside was asleep so I changed clothes in the dark, laid out my sleeping bag and crawled in. I don't think I've ever fallen to sleep quite so quickly in my life. I awoke about an hour later to relieve my bladder and then again after a few hours when Jill and Beat arrived. The remaining hours were spent in blissful slumber until the sun came up.

Bleary-eyed racers began to awake around the cabin and there was Hernan sitting up in one of the beds. We smiled in recognition and congratulations. Brief conversations were shared about the race, but it was clear everyone was still a bit out of it. Eventually, all but Jill, Beat and me headed out. We were waiting for word about Danni when the final racer, a skier, came into the cabin. She said she had spent some time with Danni and had seen her at Flathorn. Apparently, she had accepted a ride to the final checkpoint after deciding her race was over. We would have to wait around for a while to find out what the plan was for getting her out.

I was in no hurry. I felt good and, after putting on my warm jacket, was enjoying simply ambling around the area. We ate a huge breakfast at the cafe and then I stood outside for a while thinking and reflecting. It seems disingenuous to call the experience "indescribable" after having written so many words about it. But, at the end of these epic events, it's always difficult to characterize the jumble of emotions I feel. In this case it was something like a deep sense of satisfaction coupled with a longing for more given all I'd learned. There was no grumbling or swearing off the race. My thoughts were filled with sled designs and better gear management, the desire for longer adventures and a sense of anticipation for the plans I had in the coming year. Clearly, these harsh lessons had not left me no wiser.

I imagine that anyone who has read this entire report (assuming such exists) is hoping that what I've ultimately learned has something to do with brevity and economy of language. I might say that I'll never write a report this long again, but I've said that before about shorter ones so I think my credibility on such matters is shot. Certainly, two months is a long time to take, but it has given me some insight into why I enjoy writing these. Obviously, a blog is not a private journal. Having an audience, for what feels like a personal indulgence, bears similarity to the reason for running races. It's motivation to finish. In writing, I get to put myself mentally back out there and hang onto the experience. However, if I never complete it, then I can't make the shift from reflection to anticipation. Planning the next big adventure is at least as satisfying as reliving the last.

Lesson 20: Always leave them smiling

There is no "Lesson 20".

Being Schooled (final lessons)

2011-04-28T09:51:00.000-07:00

Flathorn - Finish

Lesson 16: It's all uphill in the snow

Being in a hurry can make you stupid. It had warmed up during the day and I had been moving well so I'd taken off my mittens on the final stretch to the checkpoint. I discovered only one upon arrival. I tried not to fret about it. I had the cabin to myself so I rushed around, trying to efficiently take care of business. The first thing I did was to take off my top layers and put them near the stove. While laying out my mid-layer, I waved it too close and it touched the little window. The fabric immediately clung to the hot glass and melting a few nice big holes in my shirt.

I should have recognized this as the first sign my brain wasn't running on all cylinders, but, once again, I just rolled with it. I ate some of the wonderful gumbo, filled my water bladder and stuffed a few more random food items in my mouth, preparing for the final 16 miles. Even though I'd walked through the deep snow to get there, I forgot to grab a change of socks just as I'd done here on my way out. There must be something about Flathorn. Before leaving, I asked the volunteer working the checkpoint about the course. She assured me it was almost completely flat. A little over a mile along the lake then a short climb up to the "faultline" which was a straight shot to the finish.

I headed out in good spirits despite my mistakes, happy to be back on the trail before sundown. I'd decided to mentally split the final stretch into 4 mile sections. I would check my GPS only after I'd covered what felt like a significant distance. I was excited to discover how quickly the first couple miles passed, moving off the lake, through the small moguls and onto the faultline. I'm sure by most standards--including my usual non-snow filled ones--this section would be considered flat. In truth, the entire 16 miles only climbed around 650ft. However, the trail was as straight as could be. I could see for miles in front of me and all I saw was a long, gradual uphill dotted with occasional clusters of trees on either side, only slightly breaking the monotony.

I began selecting trees way off in the distance, trying to guess how far away they were. I then would refuse to look at my GPS until I arrived at the chosen destination. Inevitably, the distance covered would end up significantly less than I had estimated and, inevitably, even more of the long, straight, gradually uphill trail would reveal itself in front of me. By the time I'd covered 2 miles of this terrain to complete my initial 4 mile block, I'd given up. I couldn't stare up at the trail anymore. The more I watched it, the more I felt like I was simply climbing and climbing. Looking up only occasionally was no better as each glance would present a new false summit. I resolved to simply stare down at the snow. The snow had a mind of its own.

Lesson 17: You can be scared without feeling scared

My brain was numb. I knew I was hallucinating. Usually upon realizing my mind is playing tricks on me, the simple knowledge is enough to right my eyes and reveal the reality of the situation. Snow is weird. It doesn't seem to play by the same rules as other elements. Everywhere I looked, every bump, every indentation, appeared as an elaborate 3 dimensional sculpture. It was as if the ground had been littered with little globes each containing a tiny scene captured within. Some looked like cartoons of animals or caricatures of people. Others appeared as detailed and intricate carvings worthy to sit alongside Rodin's best work. After a time it actually became entertaining, like watching a show. It helped the miles pass, but did nothing for my pace.

I noticed a light approaching behind me. It wasn't moving fast enough to be a snowmobile or even a bike, but it was going at a good clip. When it came close enough, I realized it was a runner...actually running! It was Jamshid. As he passed, I offered words of encouragement and attempted to pick up my own pace a bit. I didn't have it in me. It seemed my body was following my mind down its gradual path of degradation. I became aware of how slow I'd been moving. I left Flathorn with the thought that maybe I could cover the final miles in 5 hours to make 36. Half way through, it was clear that was far out of reach. Racing against time--any time--is often a good motivator for me near the end of a race. It was becoming clear that in the final miles of the Susitna 100 I would be racing against something else entirely.

Night fell and it became cold. I could feel that my simple liner gloves inside the shell mittens were not as effective as the fleece I'd worn before. I could also tell my socks needed a change. Stopping seemed distasteful so I tried to pick up the pace again. It helped only slightly. I was wishing I could summon the feeling I'd carried with me through most of this race, just enjoying being out there, touring across the snow. It seemed impossible given this trail's incessant consistency. Then, my wish was granted. A marker indicated a right turn that headed downhill. It descended sharply and turned. I was running. I was happy. I thought that if the trail would continue like this, I could manage it without problem. Unfortunately, it wouldn't.

After about a mile the trail headed sharply up. It was still seemed better than the constant gradual ascent, but at the top of the climb, it turned right onto far too familiar terrain. I looked back left and my heart sunk. This was the same wide path I'd been on. It was like waking from a dream within a dream only to find myself trapped back in the original nightmare from which I thought I'd escaped. There'd been a dark mood growing within me before I'd left this road and now it returned. As I continued slowly onward I felt something looming over me. It wasn't the distinct feeling of an imagined presence following me on the trail at night. That I'd had before; I could shake it off. This was more like some cloudy phantom tugging at the back of my consciousness, refusing to go away. I was also becoming quite cold. I needed to do something about my fingers and toes, but I couldn't convince myself to stop.

A snowmobile drove up alongside and asked how I was. I immediately said "fine" as the mere sight of him made me feel as if I'd just exhaled. A short ways father, he stopped to help another racer up the road: Jamshid. In the presence of others, I was able to finally realize that ignoring my cold digits was no longer an option. I stopped and unzipped my bag. I put on my VBL gloves before undoing my shoes, but they were too big and awkward so I had to work barehanded. I first tried my expedition socks, but couldn't make them work so I tore them off and went for the VBL socks and wool overs. All this messing with gear was taking too long. I could feel the tips of my fingers tingling. They felt as if they were burning. I scrambled, but tried to stay focused. My socks weren't sitting right, I didn't know if the gloves would work, but I had to get moving. I stuffed my old things back in the duffel, zipped it, latched my belt and began dragging my sled as fast as I could go.

The first thing I noticed was my breath, those short, staccato puffs. I was hyperventilating. I tried to slow it down as my body warmed up. Getting my breathing under control, I noticed all the tension in my body starting to relax. I finally realized what had been following me this past miles and, in awareness, hoped to put it to rest. The sneaking spectre of fear had finally apparated into outright panic. Panic, I could handle; I could deal with it head on. I started through my mental checklist. First, keep moving. Watch the trail. Stay warm. Drink. Do I need to eat? Keep moving...

Lesson 18: Forgetting all I'd learned

The road!

A sign at an intersection indicated I was to cross and head alongside the road. I recognized this. I was back at Ayshire for the final 3 miles. I was so happy that I think I let down my guard. While it was much more packed down than it had been when we started the race, it was still far from a fast trail. It also seemed to include much more climbing than it had descent when I'd headed down it a day and a half before. I'd still an hour to go, but 37 was my new number. I was motivated. Focus, however, was another story.

Now that I had conquered fear, exhaustion and its evil twin, sleepiness, had stepped in to fill the void. Not a mile into this trail and I could feel myself beginning to stumble. My hallucinations were in full force as well. Along with the small shapes at my feet, the large piles of snow alongside the trail appeared as giant bodies laying prone in various intertwined positions. Further down the path my headlamp put on a show of its own. I started to see colors. I'd approach what appeared to be walls comprised of various shades of stone only to recognize them as mere shadows of grey against the white snow. I might have found it interesting had I been capable of composing a single coherent thought.

My brain had turned to scrambled eggs. Cognition was a distant memory. Snippets, phrases and half-formed ideas floated around in my mind. I shook my head to keep myself awake. I knew I was almost there. I just had to keep going a little longer, but somehow, that knowledge worked against me, providing a sense of release when constraint was what I needed most. At some point I seemed to lose where I was and then...I was out!

I came too as soon as I hit the snow on the side of the trail. I had never fallen asleep on my feet like that before. It was enough of a shock to bring me immediately to my senses. I got up and started running. I committed to run to the finish. At some point I'd accidentally paused my GPS so I had no idea exactly how far it was. It didn't matter. I pushed and then pushed some more. One more hill and I could see the turn up ahead. I think someone came by on a bike and told me I was almost there, but I'm not really sure. All I recall is "sprinting" down that final hill into an empty lot in the middle of nowhere and crossing the finish line.

I was done.

Being Schooled (study time)

2011-04-27T08:54:00.000-07:00

Luce's - Flathorn

Lesson 14: Necessities are anything but bare

Back at Luce's tired faces filled the room. All seemed to be moving slowly. Day was breaking. The fire was going. I was hungry. Other than during the freezing wind the previous evening, I'd been eating pretty well throughout the race. I'd consumed both of my frozen snickers, eaten through my various gummy candies, all my turkey jerky, even finished off my Hammer Solids. Unlike other races, I never felt even the slightest stomach discomfort. Even right after scarfing down a bunch of food at once, there was no sense of heaviness. I don't know whether from the lack of jostling due to a slower pace or simply another side-effect of the cold, but it seemed my body would process as much food as I could stuff into it. In fact, the one thing I regretted was not eating more during my previous visit to Luce's.

After sorting myself out in the lodge, I was about to order a nice big plate of spaghetti when I saw someone carrying one filled with eggs, sausage and pancakes. It wasn't listed on the white-board, but apparently they had a breakfast special that included all this along with orange juice and a bowl of fruit for only $10! I had a 20 left in my pack so I offered to buy for Hernan as well. Breakfast never tasted so good. It felt as if my digestive system was running on overdrive. I imagined the food converting instantaneously to warmth and energy reviving me as the glycogen-filled blood moved through me. Sitting in the cabin watching the sun rise over the Yetna river mad it easy to let oneself be lulled into a sense of complacency. I could picture myself simply sitting by the window staring at the peaceful white terrain all day.

Shortly, activity in the cabin began picking up. The Iron Dog snowmobile race would be running across the river before heading up to Nome and Luce's was a popular place from which to watch. We decided that we'd better get going before we'd have to share our trail with machines traveling 90mph heading in the opposite direction.

Lesson 15: A day can pass in the blink of an eye

When I headed out of Luce's it was still quite early in the morning, but by the time I would arrive at Alexander Lake it seemed the day was already gone. Sunday was a beautiful day and I retained a sense of it along with a few specific memories. However, it was one of those periods--not uncommon in a long race--when it felt as though I moved past time rather than through it. Hernan and I stuck together for the bulk of this section and talked more than we had over the previous 24 hours. For the most part, our pace was rather leisurely, but the miles seemed to pass rather swiftly.

While we'd managed to get off the Yetna before the main race pack came through, we couldn't avoid the dozens of spectators riding to and fro. For some reason, it seemed that whenever we found a descent line in the snow, a rider would come through and turn it to mush. The river was a mile wide in parts and I couldn't figure out why they insisted on sharing the tiny section of firm snow on which we were trying to travel. I spent a lot of time staring down, looking for solid bike tracks. It was at this time that I noticed certain tire patterns appeared as a series of words. I tried to make out what each of the 4 letters sequences was supposed to spell: "SPAK", "PLUT", "DOFT", etc. None of it made any sense. Eventually, rather slowly, I realized that these couldn't be actual words as the pattern didn't repeat. There were far too many unique "words" for one rotation of a tire. It was clear my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I kept looking as I found it somewhat entertaining.

My mind in something of a trance-like state, we were standing at the base of the Wall of Death in no time. Making it up The Wall turned out to be much more of a challenge than going down had been the day before. About half way up, I had to dig my gloves into the snow to keep from sliding backwards. However, once at the top and moving again, Hernan and I were through the woods without incident finding ourselves quickly back on the Dismal Swamp. We picked up the pace a bit knowing that Flathorn was approaching. A little ways before the end of the swamp, Hernan said he needed to make a pit stop. I decided to keep going as I was now feeling some drive to get to the final section and have this race done. I pushed on.

The next few miles were nearly the first were I actually recall being "in a hurry". I decided that I wanted to finish this race on my own. This meant either putting a gap between myself and Hernan or let him go on ahead of me. His need for an off trail excursion gave helped make the decision for me. I walked fast and shuffled along the next couple miles then out onto the lake. I was focused and moving well, carefully picking my line in the snow in front of my feet. Before I knew it, I was approaching the end of the lake. I stopped and looked to my left realizing that the entrance to the checkpoint was behind me. I'm not sure how I missed a marked turn out in the middle of a large expanse of frozen lake. I guess that's what happens when you become lax in your studies.

Post-holing across the snow, I cursed at myself. Here I was approaching the final miles, forgetting one of the most first lessons I'd learned in doing any long-distance events. Don't finish your race before its done!

Being Schooled (night classes)

2011-04-21T05:55:00.000-07:00

Alexander - Luce's

Lesson 12: The incentive of other's demise

The checkpoint at Alexander Lake was like a triage tent. When I opened the door to the cabin the first thing that struck me was the quiet. The single room was filled with people, but most were either laying in beds or sitting in stunned silence. It was required to have your sleeping bag checked here to assure you hadn't swapped it out before the race. The volunteer working here spoke in hushed tones as she checked bags and checked up on sleeping racers. There wasn't much in terms of aid here, but I did get some hot soup and sat down by the fire after removing my layers. I looked around the room at all the folks in various states of disrepair and realized that I was actually feeling quite good.

While I sat one runner had started to head out and then returned to the cabin after collapsing in the snow. The checkpoint woman helped him into the last remaining bunk. Not long after that Jamshid entered the cabin and started complaining about his vision. He didn't have any goggles and was worried he might have damaged his eyes in the cold. I was feeling enormously fortunate as I sucked down a second cup of soup. I decided not to waste too much time here. Seeing all these people and then learning there was another tent with even more people sleeping provided me motivation to get a move on.

I'm not an extraordinarily competitive person when it comes to these type of events, but I am aware that it is supposed to be a race. Nonetheless, I always experience a slight twinge of guilt at how other's ill fate can inspire me to positive feelings about my own situation. I wouldn't say it was anything as base as smugness. Though some of the people I'd seen were the same ones I'd noticed going out "hard" in the early miles, running up slopes. It's not that I felt an air of superiority because I am always well aware how much luck is involved in keeping oneself healthy during an event such as this. Besides, I had certainly made my share of mistakes along the course any one of which could have ended my race curled up in a cabin. I think that it mainly serves as a reaffirmation. Seeing others in a bad state reminds me that I'm doing relatively well. So, no matter how low I might feel, I should just get on with the race.

Lesson 13: There's cold and then there's...

I hitched up my sled and set my sights back towards Luce's as I headed onto the dragging snow. Within the first mile I saw Beat, Jill and then Danni all heading towards the checkpoint looking well and in seemingly good spirits. This was one of the shortest sections, but it was the dead of night and I wasn't moving especially fast. I could feel the fatigue growing within me. I knew that the dawn would eventually revive me, but I had a few more hours of darkness until then. I was also aware that the time just before sunrise was generally the coldest of the day. Being sleepy was not making me feel any warmer.

I saw a light moving up ahead. I figured it was probably Hernan so I hustled to catch up. I don't know that the running gait moved me any faster, but it did seem to warm me up a bit. It seemed strange to run for warmth rather than for time. However, it turned out to be a very useful technique. I added an addition to something I'd learned earlier in the race. Sometimes walking is faster than running, but sometimes you run anyway. Apart from building up a bit of heat in my body, it also helped keep me awake. My mind had started to drift and the monotony of slowly trudging through the snow made it worse.

I caught up to Hernan and asked if he minded some company. Feeling a bit tired himself, he welcomed it. I don't know that we said more than a few words to one another along this section, but it was nice to have someone else to share the cold, dark hours. We took turns leading through, seeking out the narrow lines of packed snow created by bike tires. Whether following or leading, having someone with me on the trail helped me maintain lucidity. It did nothing, however, to keep me warm. I was pretty much in full kit short of digging out my giant down jacket. However, even with 3 layers on my hands, I could still feel the chill coming through to my fingers.

We descended back onto the river just as the sky began to lighten. With only a couple miles remaining to the checkpoint, we picked up the pace. It was unbelievably cold so moving faster was a welcome change on multiple counts. By the time we arrived, I was more than a little ready for a break. I didn't check the thermometer on the way in, but by the time we would leave at 8am it would still read -10. Given its more sheltered location and the fact that the air had warmed significantly by then, the temperature on course the previous night was easily 20-below.

Being Schooled (slow learner)

2011-04-09T08:58:00.000-07:00

Luce's - Alexander

Lesson 10: These are no mere checkpoints

I checked into the cabin, stripped layers off to remove my pack and sat at the large wooden table. Word was that it was at least 10 below zero without even calculating in the 20-mph wind chill. I was a bit shook up. Wandering in those conditions with only the minimal light of my small backup headlamp and my face exposed to the elements was just plain dumb. I tried fiddling with my main headlamp, but was feeling a bit light-headed. I'd actually done pretty well with calories throughout the day, having dipped into my stash a few times and eaten my fill at Flathorn. However, anything that slowed, let alone stopped movement in the last couple hours had not been an option in my mind. I was obviously near empty. Someone handed me a cupcake or something sweet and I ate it in one bite. Feeling somewhat revived, I gathered up my clothes and headed over to the fire.

They call the small cabins along the course simply "checkpoints", but that does little to describe the atmosphere within. Luce's is a working lodge that serves mainly ice-fishermen and snowmobilers. Coming in from that frozen world outside, the term "refuge" came immediately to mind. Warm and inviting, I could see why someone might want to spend a nice winter week in this place. While the previous stop seemed like a traditional aid-station, this place was an actual business so food was only available for purchase. Most people seemed to be opting for the big plate of spaghetti, but I wasn't sure if it would sit well given how I felt at the time. I ordered a large hot chocolate and a basket of fries then sat down and tried to warm up while I waited for them to be prepared.

Hernan had arrived and we sat near the stove together chatting. I was having some difficulty getting warm, but the hot food and drink were helping. I'd grabbed a few things from my sled and was changing my socks while trying to dry out my feet and shoes. The many trips off-trail had gathered snow on them. While the dry snow mainly just gathered on top, as soon as I came into the checkpoint it melted wetting my feet. I'd retrieved a few items from my sled and after changing socks I swapped the batteries in my big headlamp which solved the problem. Apparently, I'd drained them before the race. I began slowing putting myself back together, orienting myself towards a mindset for heading back out.

Making quick time in and out of the checkpoints seemed not only impractical, but undesirable. I wanted to make sure to minimize gear mistakes going forward. I also wanted to shore up my confidence. Spending time in the cabins was simply a part of this race. Jamshid, whom had run this race numerous times past, was here and informed me there was a sauna available to racers. Coming up on an hour since my arrival, the potential for an even greater time suck was a dangerous proposition. However, I came up with a plan to get myself out the door. Just as I was putting it into action, my friends arrived. They too looked a little worse for wear. With their food orders arriving as I was heading out, I knew I'd be seeing them all again.

I geared completely up, face mask, headlamp and all. Carrying only my outer-shell mittens in my hands, I headed out the door. Instead of going right for my sled, I took a left and headed into the sauna. Five minutes: that was enough time to completely warm my core without starting a sweat. I headed over to my sled and attached it as quickly as possible. I could feel the heat trapped in my layers and was determined to keep moving in order to retain as much of it as possible. The mental image of myself as a little insulated stove helped warm my spirits. I headed onto the river with an attitude much improved over the one with which I had arrived.

Lesson 11: There's something called "noglide"

The wind had died down, but it was no less cold. There were three more miles along the river and then some gradual climbing up to the swamp that leads to Alexander Lake. I'd seen a few bikers heading home on my way into Luce's, but the bulk of the returners passed by on this section. I was glad for the 4"-wide, packed-down tracks they were leaving in the snow. The night is always slower moving in an ultra, but I felt like I was downright dragging. Apparently, when snow is very dry and very cold, there is no "glide" to it. I'd learned this from a skier at Luce's who was explaining why most of them had already dropped from the race. Without the ability to glide across the snow, they were relegated to walking with skis on their feet. For me, it simply felt as if the "pig" attached to my hips was digging in its heels.

I've said it a dozen times before: I love being out on the trails at night. Susitna after dark was nothing short of magical. With a bright lamp now on my head, I could also look around and enjoy the environment. The sky was a bit hazy with a soft glow of light to the south hinting at the far-off existence of civilization. As much as I wanted to take in every bit of this, I also longed to be at the next checkpoint which, beyond the halfway mark. It's always with a small amount of regret that I employ the dissociative mind-tricks necessary to make it through certain parts of these long events. However, I know that to stay completely in the present, perceiving the full passage of time, would likely spoil my mood and taint the entire experience. As I often do, I went "inside myself" and let the hours disappear only occasionally mindful of myself and my surroundings.

Despite slow moving, the twelve miles to Alexander passed relatively quickly. Yet, I retained a definite feeling for the atmosphere as well as memories of distinct moments along the path. The lead runner passed by not long after coming onto the swamp. A few more went by within the next hour. The only other people I saw along this section were the row of snowmobiles parked at the spot where the route takes a sharp left. They pointed the proper direction and let me know it was around 4 miles to the checkpoint. That would be over an hour at my pace, but I was feeling good. Along the way, one of the snowmobiles came flying by. Apparently, a runner hit some difficulties and was bivy-ed alongside the trail waiting for an evac.

The final stretch found me in good spirits. As I approached the cabin, I had a renewed sense of confidence. Over half the course was done and I still felt strong even if my pace was slow. Watching the guy end his race on the back of the snowmobile, I felt bad for him. However, the sight also made me aware of how well I was doing. This was a serious race where dropping required an airplane ride out and I was still on my feet, moving well, heading into mile 53.

Being Schooled (serious lessons)

2011-04-06T09:32:00.000-07:00

Flathorn - Luce's

Lesson 6: There's always someone

A couple of miles outside the first checkpoint we dropped onto an offshoot of Flathorn Lake. While trying to figure out just what the heck the ice fishermen were doing, another sled-puller came up alongside me. We chatted. His name was Hernan. He was from Argentina, but living in Florida. I guess coming up to Alaska for a winter race from California wasn't so far fetched. It occurred to me he was only the second person with whom I had shared more than a few words during the race so far. It's not that people were less friendly, or so focused and competitive, it just seemed that you tend to talk less in the cold. I'd later learn that when it gets very cold, you don't talk at all.

Hernan and I would end up crossing back and forth as well as spending quite a bit of time together during the race. It's not uncommon, in long races, that I end up finding someone whose pace is close enough to mine to act as motivation, companionship or simply a life-line moving along in the distance ahead or behind me. Hernan moved on ahead just before we reached the checkpoint and I stopped to take some pictures of the lawn gnomes they'd set up in the snow. This was the intersection where the 50K race headed back to the start (as would we in another day or so). I shuffled over to the checkpoint, my mind abuzz with all the new information I'd been trying to stuff into it during these first 21 miles. I felt as if I was barely learning just how much I still had to learn.

I saw Hernan at the top of the hill as I dropped my sled which encouraged me to hustle on up, forgetting the change of socks I'd been reminding myself to grab. I'd been told to plan on spending a bit of time at the checkpoints warming up, changing clothes, and getting one's self together. Forgetting to grab essentials from my duffel was a pretty big rookie move. I'll give myself the excuse that the cutoff to the first aid station seemed a bit tight for a race that allowed 48 hours to finish. Arriving in just under 6 hours, I only had an hour buffer going in and would spend half an hour getting out.

Changing socks back down by my sled posed challenging and Hernan headed off on the next section ahead of me. It gave me a chance to say hello to Beat, Jill and Danni as they came in together. Perhaps, in retrospect, finding a more experienced person to glom onto would have been the wiser move, but I prefer to make my mistakes and learn on my own so I trotted out across the lake to catch up with my new friend. I set my mind on Luce's, the next checkpoint, as I wanted to be at that 40+ mile point. There's something comforting about having an ultra-marathon distance under the feet. These long events always involve some amount of pain, but after a certain point it seems the pain stops getting worse.

Lesson 7: Sometimes walking is faster, even on flat ground

Across the lake, through some woods and it was onto Dismal Swamp where I finally caught up to Hernan. It's interesting to look at the Susitna course via "satellite view" on Google Maps because most of it is under water during the warmer months. Given how much of the area is covered in forest, I suppose it makes sense that frozen lakes, rivers and swamps would be the most obvious pathways along which to set trail in winter. This particular swamp didn't seem nearly as bad as its name would imply, but I'd heard that in past races it's been beset with heavy wind or frozen fog. In our case, it was just long, barren and slow. About the only features here were some scraggly, dead-looking brush and a view of Denali that could just be made out far in the distance.

Hernan and I shuffled along silently, exchanging positions from time to time in order to take turns leading a weaving pattern along the snow in search of the best line. This constant search for a path of packed down snow was a trend that would be followed for much of the race. It's amazing what a difference the slightest change in snow consistency can make on one's effort and pace. I'm not sure the source of the mental imagery, but it was here that I first began to think of the gear sitting in my sled as simply "the pig." Though I think "boat anchor" might have painted a better image. I was running, or so I felt. I was making running-like motions, but could scarcely keep a 17 minute per mile pace on a trail as flat as a sidewalk.

About halfway across the swamp a couple whom I'd seen in the cabin caught up and trailed along behind us. When they shuffled past, I decided to stick behind them jokingly asking, "is drafting allowed?" A short while later they decided the extra effort was being wasted and dropped to a walk. I figured they knew what they were doing and followed suite. The wisdom of this move became immediately evident as walking felt significantly easier.

I thought to imagine myself in a mountain race power hiking up a steep slope. My pace picked up. Suddenly, I found myself moving along the snow at a good clip. It felt solid. It felt good. I glanced down at my GPS and saw that I was approaching 15 minute miles. The first thing that popped into my head was simply, "what manner of place is this where walking is faster than running on flat ground?" After giving it a bit deeper thought I realized what was happening. Whilst "running" I was exerting more pressure with each step. Just enough, in fact, to break through the top crust of hard, frozen snow. Walking, even at a good pace, kept me moving along this surface. Pondering this strange new discovery, I eventually came to another realization. I had left behind the group in which I'd been travelling. I was on my own.

Lesson 8: There are measures of silence

As I moved off the swamp and through a final section of rolling, mogul-ridden woods, I decided some alone time was warranted. I kept up my pace and played the little mind-game of remaining out of eyesight from those behind me. At the end of the woods is a short, but steep downhill quaintly called "Wall of Death". Like the Dismal Swamp, its name seemed misleading especially since it led onto the broad expanse of the Susitna river. I'd been told that the going along the river would be easier especially as the evening temps dropped and the surface hardened up. I was looking forward to it. Twilight was setting in and shuffling along the frozen river with no one in sight, I felt beset by solitude on all sides.

I often seek out these solitary moments during ultras when the silence of my surroundings helps induce a similar inner state. My mind can best be described as a rather noisy place. When not directed towards some specific task, my thoughts tend to be distracted, harried, even erratic. The busy world in which we live does little to quell this constant mental dialog. I like to think that running helps me deal with the trials of modern life, reduces stress by providing time to organize and analyze my thoughts. And during my weekly training runs, it often does. But, these grand adventures serve more as escape than solution. Stripped to the bare necessities of eating, drinking and staying warm, life becomes both simple and frightening. Yet, I find a certain sense of calm in the singular focus on continual motion.

Cold, dry air slows the speed of sound, the silence further amplified by the starkness of the landscape. My mind wanders. but there's a certain clarity to it. The vast quiet of the space and the constant forward movement lend a sense of direction and control reflected by a singular voice within my head. I can almost hear it speaking aloud in my head. It's a level of lucidity I achieve only at rare moments when all the background noise has faded away.

Lesson 9: It doesn't matter how good your gear if you don't use it

My little reverie ends abruptly when the two lead bikers come passing through. Less than 8-1/2 hours into my race and they're already on the homestretch, yet still looking like they're just out for a leisurely ride. It makes me painfully aware of how much further I have to go. I also notice that the sun is in the midst of its slow descent and the temperature is beginning to drop. It would have been a good time to take stock and prepare for the coming nightfall. I knew that I was headed towards a big swing left at a spot named "Scary Tree" (though its actually devoid of any such tree). From there it's a straight shot and 8 miles to the next checkpoint at Luce's Lodge. I fixed my mind on that goal. I decided to wait until after the turn to regroup. This was a mistake.

Winter days may be shorter up north, but they seem to fade with a certain reluctance as dusk lingers into dark. I could tell I was loosing light, but didn't feel any urgency to dig out my headlamp. It was starting to get cold and I occupied myself with the various options for covering my face with the fleece buff. Eventually, I grabbed my jacket from the sled, but passed again on retrieving the light not wanting to make a full stop. Perhaps I was under the illusion that I could make it to the checkpoint in time. It wasn't until I wandered off path into deeper snow that I finally came to my senses. I stopped, zipped my jacket up and began searching through my disorganized duffel.

I'd bought a fancy new headlamp for Susitna. It was much brighter than I needed for a snow-covered race, but specifically designed for extreme conditions. It was also more complicated with a remote battery pack, adjustable beam and a variety of settings. It also didn't work. After some frustration getting it opened, I checked that the batteries were in correctly. I tried turning them around. I fiddled with it in various ways. Finally, I cursed myself for not double checking it right before the race, shoved it in my pocket and grabbed my small backup lamp. I was starting to feel a chill in my body and there was a growing headwind. I needed to get moving.

Unlike heat, there isn't much one can do to adapt the human body for the cold. It really come down to having the proper gear and using it properly. My small headlamp was dim and insufficient. The wind picked up. In my frustration over the headlamp, I'd failed to retrieve either my face mask or my goggles which had been packed for this exact situation. I doggedly marched on. Pulling the buff further in front of my face, I wrapped the headlamp around the hood of my jacket to keep it snug and set my gaze straight down towards the snow to block the wind. Meandering in the poor visibility, I kept wandering off the firm line into deep snow. This did little to help my situation. I told myself that frustration and rough weather didn't mix.

Steeling a glance forward, I could see lights in the distance. I continued on, hopefully. Forging into a bitterly cold wind, I felt I was finally getting a taste of real Alaskan weather. I also felt a small question tugging at the back of my mind. My stubbornness often gets me through these long events, would the same land me in trouble now that the situations was more serious? As I approached the lights, I realized they were not from the checkpoint, but two other races stopped along the trail. I checked my GPS and estimated about 2 miles to go. I let the them know as I passed. Encouraged that I was "close" I continued pushing forward.

Heading into a 20-mph freezing wind, 2 miles would take more than 40 minutes. After finally reaching the checkpoint and dragging my sled up the hill to the lodge, I stood there for a moment berating myself over poor preparation and decision making. The buff was completely frozen around my face and I could now feel the cold air biting at my skin. How stupid to leave it exposed in the much harsher conditions out on the river.

The checkpoint volunteer who recorded my number told me, "get inside, you can come back and retrieve stuff from your sled once you warm up."

I obeyed.

Being Schooled (learning to learn)

2011-03-31T10:26:00.000-07:00

Start - Flathorn

Lesson 3: You just can't tell the weather in Alaska. In fact, you can't tell it anything!

A week before the race, forecasts called for a little snow leading up to and then clearing with temps in the low-20s on race day. This sounded about perfect to me even with the usual 10-degree drop or so on the remote sections of the course at night. Then, at the pre-race meeting, there was talk of epic snowfall and we watched the white stuff coming down all day Friday in Anchorage. We heard moans and groans from bikers at the local REI as they contemplated how much pushing would be required. We debated the need for snowshoes. Finally, word at the start was that much of the course hadn't seen any snow at all. The forecast was for clear skies the whole way which meant sunny days and frigid nights. I had no point of reference for any of this. I'd just experienced my first sub-zero temps, the sun was shining, I was freezing, and wearing more layers of clothing than I'd ever thrown on my body. Heading out, the weather and trail conditions, occupied my mind, but the course had plenty new experiences in store for me ahead.

The course goes roughly thus: along a road, through the woods, across a swamp, to a lake, another swamp, along a couple rivers and then a final swamp to the turnaround where you do it in reverse, with some variation at the end. Of course, its all frozen solid and covered in snow. But, as I learned, snow comes in seemingly endless varieties. While I lack the experience to discern subtle differences, it was easy enough to tell that the quality of snow was going to be a major factor in this race. The deep, fluffy stuff in the initial miles were wrecking havoc with bikers as they futilely attempted to ride only to slide off and have to push before trying again. The narrow trail alongside the road became quite crowded making it also difficult for the skiers who needed a bit more space. Those of us on foot faired a somewhat better and I passed quite a few if only to keep myself moving. Still, it was no simple stroll and I would have preferred a more even effort at the start of the race. It did, however, manage to warm me up and I was able to remove my gore-tex jacket top layer.

After about 3 miles alongside Ayreshire Rd., we cut across it and onto a different road. Wide and packed-down, it was better for everyone. The bikes took off immediately, disappearing down the road, for the most part, not to be seen again until heading in the opposite direction. The skiers pulled away more slowly, but they at least looked to be skiing now as opposed to walking with planks on their feet. While, it was clear that the weather and conditions have different implications for each chosen mode of transport, the impact to those of us on foot seemed to be less dramatic overall. Hard pack or deep snow, sunny skies or brutal storm, I realized that my pace on this course was going to fall within a certain general range: slow. I decided to "run" along this road just because I could. I took it easy trying to conserve energy, but still felt I was moving at a better pace than my GPS seemed to let on. Of course, I had no idea at the time that this would constitute my sole sub-14 minute mile of the entire race. As we turned off the road and into the woods, I knew I had a lot to learn.

Lesson 4: The sled does what the sled wants.

The next section of the course consisted of rolling hills and seemingly endless moguls. The moguls would become a major source of frustration. They are created by snowmobiles, but, then, so are the trails. It was the very definition of a mixed blessing. It's strange how things that hurt in the early part of an ultra will dissipate as the hours drag on. I commonly experience certain foot and leg twinges early on. In this race, my hips would be added to that equation as the sled tugged and pulled at them in new and uncomfortable ways. I remember my gluteus feeling sore and numb in the initial miles. Later in the race I don't recall thinking about my butt at all. Perhaps because there were bigger things occupying my mind. The challenge of the moguls helped take my mind off some of these early pains.

Here's the problem with moguls. As I crested a mogul, the sled would still be dragging up the slope. Then as I headed down the other side, picking up a little speed, it would tug the sled up and over the peak. So the sled would get a nice tug as it headed down the mogul just as I started up the next mogul. The momentum of the sled picking up speed coming down as I slow down heading up would thrust forward the PVC poles attached at my sides. Momentarily free from the weight of the sled (or even slightly assisted by it's nudging my hips forward), I would get a couple of good steps in near the top of the mogul just as the sled would lose its momentum on the upslope and begin sliding back. My legs pushing uphill, 40lbs of sled pulling downhill in the opposite direction, the poles would yank back just as my hips pushed forward on the waste belt. It all became rather annoying.

Basically, that's all a very long-winded way of saying that the system had too much play. I eventually took to grabbing onto the poles as I headed over moguls in order to minimize the impact. I also used this technique heading down longer hills, though in that case the issue had more to do with lateral flexion and the sled's tendency to want to slide down alongside rather than behind me. I learned to try and head where I thought the sled would want to go rather than where I might have desired. I was starting to understand why many of the more experienced racers had sleds attached directly to their back with stiff poles. With some padding and a good dampening system the minor pressure on the back could more than be made up for by increased control. I spent a lot of time contemplating better sled designs. I also fantasized a bit about riding the sled and being towed by a pack of dogs like the mushers who were out practicing along this section.

Lesson 5: Venting

The information on the Susitna 100 race website warns not only of the potential for extreme cold, but for wide variations in temperature as well. I don't know what the reading might have been mid-day with the sun reflecting off the snow, but by the time I reached the famous Nome Sign, I was feeling warm. Dealing with the cold is mainly a matter of having and using the right gear. Having no true field test, I had concerns a plenty about my gear, but a bigger concern was my propensity to sweat. Nothing is more dangerous in a race like this than working up a good sweat and then super-cooling that moisture close to your skin. I'm told its the fast path to hypothermia.

I'd been given both the advice to keep cool enough not to sweat as well as to just continue sweating in order to stay warm. Seemingly contrary, they are actually both excellent pieces of advice, but, once again, my lack of experience simply added them as two more items on my long list of things to figure out on the go. The one piece of advice I did take to heart was about layering. Following is the complete list of clothing that I wore for most of the race. (warning: blatant brand pimping to follow): smartwool toe socks (liners), smartwool socks (over), Brooks Adrenaline ASR shoes, Outdoor Research Gore-tex gaitors, Brooks Windbreif boxers, Brooks Infiniti tights, Brooks Wind Pants, Brooks Equilibrium baselayer, Brooks Run vest, Ultimate Direction Wasp hydration pack, Brooks HVAC 1/2-zip, Brooks microfleece, fleece Buff, Brooks fleece beenie. Seirus Thermalux liner gloves, Outdoor Research Meteor Mitts fleece liners. And that's just what I wore during the day! I had my Outdoor Research Mentor jacket strapped to my duffel with the Meteor Mitts, a Seirus facemask and a Mountain Hardware windstopper fleece hat and numerous changes of socks all inside. There was still more gear in the bag, but most went unused during the race. It seems like a long list written out like that, but being able to modify layers on the fly turned out to be critical.

Venting is a concept with which I'm familiar. In California it's almost never as cold as it looks outside. In fact, the times when it appears rain is eminent, can often be the warmest. So I have experience knowing when to expose my wrists, hands, neck, ears or head to cool myself down if I've overdressed for conditions. In Alaska, I was glad to discover the same principles to apply, only--like most things--to a greater extent. It was almost as if I could feel the heat draining from my body through the exposed parts of my skin. My first line of defense was, as usual, my wrists. Pulling up my fleece to expose the mid-weight layer was often enough. Next I would flip open the top of my fleece mittens to expose my liner gloves. After that I would expose a bit of ear beneath my hat or unzip my outer layer to let some air onto my neck. In the middle of the day it was warm enough, that I actually had my fleece around my waste, mittens tucked into my belt, shirt zipped down and face exposed. Of course, that didn't last long.

I was reminded that it was still below freezing outside when my drink tube became exposed. I had followed Jill's advice to wear my pack below some layers, but it only took short contact with the elements to turn the water in the tube to ice. Luckily, I had also followed her advice not to cover the tube with insulation allowing me to see where it had froze. With some careful chewing, I was able to break up the ice and get water flowing again. I think there are, at least, a few more lessons in there somewhere. However, for the time being, I was satisfied with the knowledge that I seemed to be figuring things out.

Being Schooled (first lessons)

2011-03-30T13:09:00.000-07:00

All races, especially the very long ones, present learning opportunities. A race like Susitna is more akin to a post-graduate exam. With the added complication that you're expected to apply what you've learned immediately because not only finishing, but possibly even surviving may depend on it. With my limited time in the snow and a complete lack of experience with extreme cold temperatures, I have never felt less prepared before a race. Certainly, I did my homework and I was perhaps more comfortable with the distance than many, but in terms of first-hand knowledge of how my body and my gear would handle the conditions, it was going to be on-the-fly lessons of trial and (hopefully not too much) error.

Pre-race:

Lesson 1: -10 is cold; -17 even colder

If I felt unprepared heading into this race, the emotion reached its pinnacle shortly before the start. Driving towards Point McKenzie the temperature gauge in the rear-view mirror of our rental car crept continuously lower. It hovered around 10-below as we parked the truck, jumped out and immediately headed up to the store for some breakfast. This wasn't simply a little colder than anything I had experienced before, it was significant. I had run in 75F temps just the previous weekend! I'm certain my nervousness sat visibly on my face as we ate. I was quite glad when it was time to head back to the truck for final preparations. Movement and action were a good distraction from the torment of my overactive imagination.

It didn't seem possible, but down at the truck it felt even colder than before. Attempting to sort myself out was proving most difficult. 9am seemed to be accelerating towards us. I skipped the idea of trying to wax my sled as I struggled with my gaiters having almost forgotten them until the last moment. Everything seemed slightly harder in the cold and I could feel a tiny panic creeping into my psyche as I watched people heading to the start line. I managed to pull it together, focusing on level breathing as I snapped into my sled and started up the hill. Strangely, I noticed that the hyperventilated pattern of my breaths actually made me feel better, even a tad warmer. Perhaps panic serves an added purpose in the extreme cold.

Much later in the race, I would hear a couple of locals talking about the weather at the start. Upon learning that it had been around -17, one of them said, "I thought so. I knew it was colder than -10. I could feel that stinging in my cheeks." Apparently, Alaskans learn to discern the subtle variations of what I would simply call "really damn cold!"

Lesson 2: Misery loves company, but fear demands it

I've stated before how I often enjoy being alone late in these sorts of events, living in my own mental world, finding random sources of motivation to move me towards that final destination. At the end of this race, I'd be in a whole other universe, but at the start it was a different story. Seeing the rows of racers--first bikes, then skiers and, finally, those of us on foot--gave me my first bit of calm. There's something reassuring in knowing that at least a handful or two of other people are willing to undertake a challenge most would consider somewhere between inane and insane. Even though I knew many of those around me had significantly more experience with these conditions, it stood as a visual demonstration that it could be done.

I relaxed and tried to take in the scene. Other than a few aggressive looking bikers up front, everyone seemed fairly casual. In a race that may take some almost two full days to complete, the start is far too early a place to begin to panic. There was time and enough for that to come. I took pictures, watched the front bikes take off followed by a jumble of various racers behind them. I was enjoying it so much that I had to remind myself at one point that I was supposed to be a part of this spectacle. I fell in about midway into the "runners" (at this point anyways) and took a look around as we headed uphill. I marveled at what an amazing place this was to be. To think, we hadn't even gone anywhere yet!

A Parable....of sorts

2011-03-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

The young initiate, returning from his journey, arrived in the remote village from which he'd left. Dropping his rucksack, he sat down before his master.]

Master:

How were your travels? Did you see all you wanted to see? Was it as everything you had hoped?

Initiate:

Indeed.

Master:

Then tell me of your long walk, what you learned and your plans for the future.

Initiate:

Well, I first traveled to the jungle to view the very heart of nature itself. It is a warm and bountiful place, teaming with all manner of varied life. Some so seemingly alien and bizarre as to make one wonder in awe at the uniqueness of our own. Pondering the path we've ascended through the millennia from that swamp can provide many a lesson.

Next, I crossed the desert. Hot and dry, it seemed both desolate and uninhabitable. Yet, there too I found life. Hiding under every unturned stone, clinging to bits of moisture, thriving in the shadows, it has adapted to a world beneath the unforgiving sun. I learned that life can endure even the harshest of conditions. Study there too, would be filled with enlightened discovery.

I then climbed the mountains to survey the full array of the land. What a marvel our planet is when seen from on high. From grassy planes, to deep forests to sand-swept beaches reaching into the sea, one could fill multiple lifetimes with lessons studying the variety it has to offer.

Finally, I headed North into the tundra. It was cold and bleak, a vast, quiet land most inhospitable to life. I discovered that survival there is tenuous, but possible. The feeling of being alone in such a harsh environment can run so deep that often one's own mind poses as much danger as the threat of freezing.

Master:

And, what of the cities?

Initiate:

Ah, the cities! They are truly a wonder to behold, the height of human achievement. Such comfort and security have they made that one can certainly understand the allure. Despite the ignorance and poverty that exists in the world, what people have built when they come together gives such hope. And, yet, I cannot escape the conclusion that most would be better off were they to spent more time visiting the jungles, deserts and mountains of the world, heeding the lessons those wild places have to teach.

Master:

Very true. But why not the tundra?

Initiate:

I do not think most people are prepared to survive there.

Master:

Because it is too cold?

Initiate:

No, because it is too lonely. I think they would be frightened by the sound of their own thoughts.

Master:

So this is where you wish to establish your school?

[Surprised as always at the astuteness of his master, the initiated paused before answering for he had only just come to this conclusion himself]

Initiate:

Yes...I will place it deep within the frozen north. The desire to reach such a desolate place may attract very few students, but the journey itself--with one's inner voice as sole companion--will be all the lesson they require. For travel across that land offers learning with every step.

Susitna?

I realize this page is supposed to be occupied by a race report rather than the above little story that will undoubtedly have some of my friends uttering "wtf?" I wrote the above in the days following the Susitna 100 as way to entertain myself as I tried to organize my thoughts and searched for a theme to my report. I hit on the idea of a series of lessons. Beyond simply being one of the longest and most arduous physical challenges I've yet undertaken, the race was also one of the greatest learning experiences I've had during such an adventure.

Ultimately all learning is self-learning. If we fail to relate and apply a lesson to our own lives then I'm not sure it can really be called a lesson learned. With 8 lessons and less than 40 miles described so far, I think I'm learning something equally important about my writing. While I've still managed to finish every race I've begun, I'm close to posting a DNF on (yet another) race report. I believe the problem lies in my approach. If I've learned anything about finishing 100-milers it's not to try and take on the whole thing in a go. Breaking it into shorter section, at least mentally, makes covering such full distance much more manageable. It also provides points for reflection and adjustment.

One of the reason for taking so long to finish race reports is that I tend to want it all complete, edited and perfected before I share; I'm a bit compulsive that way. However, that's not how the races are run. The other reason is that I like to savor the telling, reliving the journey as I write. Clearly, these two goals, taken together, can work against ever getting the thing done. So, I'm going to meter out this report over the coming weeks starting with the parts I've already written. Either lesson by lesson or section by section, posting it in parts will, I think, work as incentive. Once I hit that "publish" button I'll have to face myself standing there, in the middle of the page, out on some frozen river, waiting to finish.

Please wait a moment...

2011-02-22T01:06:00.000-08:00

36 hours and 56 minutes. That's quite a lot of time for which to make a complete accounting. While I attempt to wrap my brain around everything that I went through during that time, you can read Jill's initial recap or peruse the race results and ponder what sort of event has initial finishers completing it on bicycles, Saturday evening, a bit more than 11 hours and the final one crossing on skis, Monday morning, nearly 47 hours after leaving the start.

Over the cliff

2011-02-18T22:18:00.000-08:00

[ Follow me here ]

Last night was the pre-race meeting and gear check. If there was any residual question that Susitna requires a significant more preparation than your standard 100-miler, they were answered there. Giving a credit card to cover potential evacuation costs, showing your sleeping bag was rated for at least 20-below, having your 3000 emergency calories examined and then weighing your minimal gear to assure it was over 15-lbs, went well beyond the standard "sign your name and pick up your bib" requirement of most pre-race check-ins.

Gear check

Once the laborious registration process was complete, it was time for the RD presentation. A self-described pessimist, his deliver of the weather forecast was somewhat ominous. Apparently, a storm was moving in and expected to dump a large load of snow that night and all day Friday. His expectations of what this meant for the race were presented quite dryly in his initial slide.

While most people took this omen with a grain of salt, the weather turned out to live up to expectations.

At least 4" dropped overnight and it snowed throughout the day

I had initially thought the race began on Friday. Luckily, this was wrong and, in retrospect, it couldn't have been otherwise. Friday before Susitna is reserved for all the necessary last-minute activities including shopping for important necessities such as better gaiters, vacillating back and forth on whether to bring the snowshoes or not (they're coming), experiencing all of the varying shades and subtleties of the stages of panic, and, most important of all, making all of the final preparations to your sled and gear set-up. This last, took most of the afternoon.

In the end, our sleds could not possibly have looked more distinct from one another. Each one expressing, perhaps not so much our individual personalities, but certainly our approach to preparing for this race.

Beat's Sled: The Craftsman
Beat experimented with a number of different designs for his sled coming up with his own unique ideas on what constituted a good approach and building it himself by hand. His final version was tweaked based on his training. It rides a bit high, but he assures that it is both stable and low friction. It certainly demonstrates the care he put into both the conception and construction.

Bike handlebars and kids skiis - who'd of thought?

Jill's Sled: The Pro
Jill's sled is not only race proven, but has actually won this race and still holds the course record in the foot division. It's only fitting that the one of us with the most experience both with racing in Alaska and with Susitna specifically should be trailing this beauty. While this is Jill's first time tackling the race on foot, none would ever guess based on the slick cart that will be following her every move.

A sled built for speed

Danni's Sled: Psychedelic Snow Blower
While the design is one of the most common, consisting of the same kids toboggan and ropes-through-PVC poles that I will be utilizing, Danni put her own unique touch on this classic. A trip to the craft store and some creative use of Velcro took it from basic to beautiful. 1968 may have been the summer of love, but for Danni's sled, 2011 is the winter of love.

She called it The Clown design: it's certainly the most fun!

My Sled: Homebrew
While I purchased the standard kit from the race, I put the pieces together myself and experimented with a few different options. Yes its raw, sure it looks thrown together and held up by plastic and bungee cords, but, like a first experimental batch of beer, it will get the job done. I think.

Duffel, straps, some plastic, what more do you need?

Pimpin' that Brooks logo!

After admiring our handiwork, we took our loads out for test spins along the street.

Beat with a big grin

Danni strikes a pose

Jill going for broke

Finally, a last parting shot of all four of us. Next photo I take will be at the start.

Here we go!

Precipice

2011-02-18T09:09:00.000-08:00

The Siamese twins of trepidation and anticipation finally made their appearance as they’re apt to do before the start of a new adventure. Staring at the array of equipment strewn across my living room floor–10,000 calories of food, a sleeping system sufficient to survive at 40-below, clothing comprising a dozen different layering options, satellite tracker, GPS watches, med kit, various tools, and supplies including those needed to attach it all to a sled that will be dragged across the snow for 100 miles–the realization was finally sinking in. Fear and excitement continued to grow as I busily stuffed the bulk of my gear into a duffel and then packed it all into an even larger duffel for the next morning’s flight. When I’d finally convinced myself that I couldn’t possibly need anything more for this race and, in truth, that I’d already packed far too much, I grab one last article of clothing and shove it into the bag. When all is done, I reflect on the reason those seemingly apposing emotions are sprung from the same seed: the feeling I’ve no idea what I’m doing.

A decade and a half ago I switched my main pass-time from mountain biking to running due, in part, to the greater simplicity and reduced gear required of the sport. Since I didn’t participate in really long-distance events at the time, that notion seems a bit silly right now. However, the idea of expedition-style rides had always held a an attraction. I remember reading about an event called the Iditabike and seeing pictures of the hardened men and women facing the Alaskan winter along the famed Iditarod Trail on specialized snow bikes equipped with double-wide tires and loaded to the hilt with gear. It seemed such a romantic idea and totally out of reach at the time. Years later as I’d gotten into trail and then ultra-distance running, I remember watching “Running on the Sun”, the documentary about the Badwater 135 race. I was fascinated by the idea of an extreme event made even more so by the very conditions in which its run, but the combination of running on roads and the excruciating heat just wasn’t my thing. I remember thinking, and perhaps even verbalizing, “I’d rather do that race up in Alaska.”

Susitna has been on my short list of “must do” 100-milers for a while, but one that I always kept as “in the future.” However, it took but a mere suggestion from Beat for me to sign up. I didn’t give it much more thought until winter rolled around. My running hit its normal seasonal low; more so this year due to a heavy work schedule and some hectic situations at home. I’ve tried to hit the snow as much as possible, but the weather hasn’t always contributed. I’ve done my homework on gear and tactics, but having no experience with sub-0 temperatures, how prepared can I really be? I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that a guy who’s grown up in the warm embrace of California’s temperate climate has no business attempting a winter race in Alaska. Then again, if I only attempted that which I knew I could complete then what would I be doing in this sport in the first place.

So, undertrained, unprepared and over-packed, standing on the verge of a new adventure, I head north.

Snow Report

2011-02-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

Living in California's Bay Area makes training for a winter race in Alaska a rather dicey proposition. This past weekend we saw temperatures in the mid-70s. It is the literal middle of winter!

I've tried to head up to the snow in the mountains as much as possible taking a few trips to Tahoe and one to Yosemite. However, it seems that every time I go, the sun follows. My initial trip to Tahoe was after the first major storm of the season at the end of November. My first snowshoe trip ended in my running shorts as temperatures climbed into the 50s during the afternoon.

I had the week off work between X-mas and New Years. With the promise of a winter storm on its way I headed back up to spend a few days. My first day saw some great snow, but temps around 40 with beautiful sunny skies.

Snowshoing at Tahoe Donner in (unfortunately) lovely weather

The next morning in Reno, I managed a run in weather just cold enough to test out my tights. I then headed up to Mt. Rose to try some back-country snowshoeing. While more hiking than running, it was a blast. I was "lucky" enough to be hit by the initial front of a blizzard on my way back to the car. In fact, I had to resort to my GPS to even find my car in the white out conditions. As I drove down to Incline Village, the storm began to build.

The brunt of the storm hit on my drive to the lake

I was hopeful for a very chilly morning the next day and anxious to test out my newly purchased Kahtoola Microspikes. The spikes were amazing, but the only other accomplishment was validating what it felt like to run overdressed for the conditions. It was perhaps in the low 30s, but I think I was dressed for much cooler. The problem, of course, is that I have no idea HOW much.

The storm dropped quite a bit of snow, but it turned out to be a better test for my new SUV than my cold weather running gear.

New Grand Cherokee gets its first taste of snow...

...and handles it just like a Jeep should!

As it turns out, the day after a left, the mercury plummeted into single digits...alas.

After another incredible, but warm snow weekend in Yosemite, I decided that perhaps I should try an entirely different state. I also needed to get in at least one run of at least 30 miles before my 100 so I was overjoyed to discover an event that looked to accomplish both goals while providing a brand new challenge. The folks who put on the Squaw Peak 50 Mile Trail Run and Kat'cina Mosa 100k in Utah have also been hosting a Snowshoe race for the past 4 years. Sponosored by Kahtoola, the race includes a 5K, 10K, 25K, marathon and a 50K. It sounded like just what I needed. My limited experience on snowshoes told me that this would definitely be a bit more of a workout than your normal 50K run.

Apparently, the full name for the event is the Kahtoola Wasatch Winter Bigfoot Snowshoe Festival though the RD just referred to it as the Bigfoot Snowshoe race and many of the fee handouts followed that theme. The race consisted of multiple loops comprised of a 10K loop around what, in summer, would be a golf course and a 5K loop that utilizes some of the final trails followed by the Wasatch Front 100. The area where the race is held was quite beautiful, especially in the snow, but a dead camera battery meant that it would be sans-photos for me.

Despite significant snowfall the week prior, upon my arrival the sun was shining and the weather report for Saturday morning looked all too familiar. The start would be nice and cold in the 20s, but the afternoon was set to warm up to around 40. Once again, I would not be testing my gear or my ability to handle cold temps. At least I'd be getting in some good miles and a significant ultra-marathon level effort.

The 50K would be made up of laps run in the following order: 10K, 5K, 10K, 10K, 5K, 10K. The longer golf-course loop was a wide XC-ski path with about 7-800ft of climbing. Between the extra effort of the shoes and a starting elevation of close to 6000ft, I had to force myself to slow in the early miles as I could feel the extra effort. Eventually, I relaxed and passed a few people before settling into a position that I would hold for most of the race. The 10K loop was not difficult, but even on the first lap it was clear that the "big climb" was going to be a slushy mess as the course warmed up. I finished just under 1:08 for the lap. I knew this was going to be anything but a negative-split race.

The 5K loop was on a single-track path through the woods with around 1000ft of climbing. While certainly more difficult going, it was also much more beautiful and enjoyable. However, when they say "single-track snowshoe trail" it is to be taken literally. The path was at least 6" deep and barely wide enough for both my shoes side-by-side. When the lead racers came down the hill as I was heading up, I had to basically dive into the deep snow on the side of the trail to make way. As a side note, those guys were flying!

During the second 10K loop, I could tell things were going to continue to be more difficult both physically and mentally as the day continued. It took me over 10 minutes longer to complete and as I came into the start area, the lead 50K runner was right with me. Half way through the race and I was already lapped! The guy mentioned that he wasn't really a runner, but did snowshoe all winter. This would be his first time going further than a marathon. However, I heard someone say that he had beaten the 25K course record on his split. As I watched him head out for his final 15K, I was amazed. He may not have been a runner, but he moved faster on snowshoes than I could without them.

I motivated myself on my next lap with the promise of a change of socks at the 35K mark. I hadn't worn my overboots and a couple of off-trail excursions on the downhill of the 5K loop had left my feet quite wet. Another 6 minutes added to this loop split as exhaustion and sticky snow began to take their toll. With warmer feet, I headed into the 5K loop and focused on just enjoying the final mountain trip before one last slog around the golf course. I passed a number of marathoners during this loop as they had only has a single 12K loop between their 2 5Ks.

With a final lap to go I was at 5:41 and change. I would have had to run better than my second 10K lap to break 7 hours so I decided not to push. Besides, I knew the big climb was going to by going uphill in sand. Still, I pushed a bit to keep it at a solid effort finishing at 7 hours and 11 minutes for 4th place in the 50K race. It significantly harder than a 50K trail run. Despite the time, I felt more like I would after a solid 50-miler. Happy to be finished I took off my cold wet clothes to go sit by the fire inside.

I learned that the winner had crushed the course record finishing the 50K in 5:09:53. I had been prepared to be an hour behind the leader, but 2 hours! I then learned that the guy was actually 50 years old to boot. An inspiring performance and, as he sat down to chat, a very low-key, humble guy. Had I not noticed the crest on his jacket I would never have known he was a member of the US National Snowshoe Team. OK, truth is, I didn't even know such a thing existed until I saw it, but it was clear to me what sort of effort it took to make the team.

Despite the less than perfect conditions for Susitna prep, snowshoeing has been a great way to stay fit and motivated during the winter months. I'm not sure if I would return to this particular race again, but certainly plan to keep the sport on as part of my winter regimen even after my race up north.

Getting to The Point

2011-01-30T09:52:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Martina Koldewey

The snow scrunching beneath my feet barely audible above laboured breath, I round the corner to Washburn Point. I arrive just in time to catch the first layer of alpine glow dusting the roof of Half Dome. I failed to stop here on my way down to the ski hut the previous day. I was in training mode, pulling a sled attached to my waste for the 2-1/2 hour, 10.5 mile trip from Badger Pass to Glacier Point. I enjoyed the scenery as I went, but, not wanting to interrupt my rhythm, took little pause. Even so, I decide to pass this view once more and continue my morning's run a bit further before stopping.

"Indescribable" may be a cliché, but an apt one to express the views from Glacier Point. Riddled with crowds of noisy tourists during the peak summer months, in winter the famous overlook presents a stark silence. Waterfalls and other natural sounds can be heard clearly rising up through the valley's chilled air. I didn't even know a winter trip was possible, let alone that one could stay here. The Glacier Point Ski Hut is a special place in its own right with hut master Bernie making the stay even more memorable by being both excellent host and entertaining conversationalist. However, it's the locale that steals the show. Despite a warm comfortable bed near the fire, I found myself tempted to sleep out under the stars.

There were only eight guests total the night we stayed which helped add to the restful feel of the setting. Even so, when I awoke in the darkness of Monday morning, I knew that I wanted some time completely alone in this place. I quietly crept about the cabin gathering clothing, shoes and my flashlight then went outside and donned my microspikes for a short run up the hill. It felt good not to be towing a sled up the gradual climb from the hut. It allowed me to focus on all the sensations this environment had to offer: the feel of soft snow beneath my feet, the sounds of winter birds awakening and the slow rise of dawn over distant peaks.

I didn't have any specific destination in mind when I headed out, but the two-mile point seemed a good turnaround. I stopped to take a break. There were no dramatic views or inspiring overlooks here, only the tip of a buried road sign that served as a reminder to summer drivers they were approaching the final curvy descent to their destination. Wholly unremarkable, except that, to me, right then, it was perfect. In the middle of what was now a ski path, between some nondescript woods and a snow covered hillside, I took off my hat and just stood there. Looking around, I tried to let the silence of the place envelop me. Not so much lost in deep thought or reflection, I simply appreciated a moment of quiet in what has been a remarkably noisy time for both my inner and outer worlds.

Eventually, I headed back, stopping at Washburn Point for a its particular view before arriving back at the cabin to the smell of fresh brewed coffee. I poured myself a cup and took it outside to sit on a snow-covered rock attempting to imprint a sense of my surroundings onto my permanent memory for future visits. After breakfast, everyone packed up. I loaded up the Pulk and prepared for the trip back out. As much as I needed the peace and relaxation of this trip, its secondary purpose as training for Susitna was equally as important. I decided to see if I could make the return trip in less time than the trip in. Martina donned her skiis and headed out in front, pausing a few times during the early miles to capture me in action.

Martina definitely deserves a special thanks for this weekend trip. She arranged it and then re-arranged it when our original planned group of six dwindled down to three and then just the two of us. I never would have known of this wonderful place had she not suggested it. However, now that I do, I will definitely be back.

to not have been yet was

2010-10-20T09:46:00.000-07:00

The singular focus on base necessities that is required to finish an ultra can often blind us to the more subtle hints and clues laid bare around us. A sort of tunnel-vision pervades one's thinking in the days leading up to—not to mention during—the event which can result in poor decision making on anything not blatantly directed towards the goal at hand. This monomaniacal perspective will eventually catch up with you: sometimes in the middle of a race, sometimes near the finish and, occasionally, before you've even started. I should not have started the Bear 100.

The Bear is a race worthy of an epic tale, but I'm afraid I won't be giving one. This won't be a detailed report of either the events proceeding or most of the run itself. Suffice it to say that, like the night before Massanutten, it was an instance of neglected aspects of my non-running life making a last minute wake-up call both literally and figuratively. Sleepless, constipated and sporting an achy lower-back, I began the race with my head completely someplace else. An early attempt to engage me in conversation was met only with, "sorry, not really talkative right now...I guess I'm a bit more thinkative."

The first half was fairly unpleasant. Perhaps, some sort of cosmic justice applied. I'd gone in with a 30 hour goal, but really had no gumption to get after it. I was probably still mostly on target when I came upon Harry after nightfall. However, it only took a few words from him to convince me otherwise. He was struggling, having a bit of altitude trouble. This gave me something outside my own skull on which to focus. I decided to stick with him and together we decided to just make the most of it. Bear was Harry's makeup race for a cancelled UTMB earlier in the summer so he was just hoping to enjoy the time on the trail.

From there on we vowed to take our time. It was a commitment we had no trouble living up to, especially at the aid stations. When we reached Beaver Lodge, a toasty warm cabin, we hung out for nearly 1/2 an hour. At the next stop it was just before sunrise and about 20 degrees. We sat by the campfire. I even took a nap since I'd been falling asleep on my feet coming up the hill. When the sun came up we tried to absorb the warmth, but never pushed the pace. The last two climbs promised to be brutal topping out over 9K feet. It was the "one foot after the other" pace the whole way. For all my troubles early on I actually had no issues with the elevation, but I also wasn't anxious to test it being more than happy to follow Harry's lead.

In general, Harry is a much better climber than me, but I know from my own experiences that when altitude troubles hit, there isn't much you can do except get through it. We made it over the final climb and there was a long descent to the bottom. I figured I would try to push Harry some here because he deserved a bit of a race after all he'd been through. Besides, even when the original finishing goal is given up, there's always the drive to be "done with it." We took the downhills at a good clip, not quite my usual reckless abandon, but we made good time and passed a number of people.

On the road at the bottom we caught up to Dan with whom we'd run through the night. The three of us stuck together on the final road to the finish, crossing that way as well. Considering how much time we'd wasted—some from necessity and some pure folly—our 31:34 was not so far off. A reasonable, if not spectacular, time for three guys living at sea level.

In the end, I felt I'd managed to make something of the race, found some meaning in the experience beyond the shoulda's and coulda's. I was glad to have finished with Harry since I was the one who convinced him (gave him no choice really) to sign up for the race after his disappointment in Europe. This is the second race that I've finished side-by-side with a good friend and, while it wasn't a case of pushing each other to the finish like at Bighorn, it was satisfying in its own right.

A Little Plain

2010-10-03T22:07:00.000-07:00

My toenails have almost fully grown back.

This can only mean one thing. It’s time for another 100 mile run in the mountains. Of course, with that comes the inevitable: planning, preparation and–in my case–finally writing up the report from my previous 100 mile race.

-----

The Swan Crest 100 was a special event: a first time race and the first 100 miler held in Montana. By design, it promised to be a very low-key event. Even so, it was not without a bit of prerace controversy that nearly kept it from starting. It had something to do with wilderness, bears and a certain individual’s belief that he should be the one to designate how others enjoy a shared natural resource. I won’t go into the details here except to add the following disclaimer:

No grizzlies were harmed in the writing of this race report.

To understand Swan Crest it might be best to first compare it to 3 of its neighboring 100-mile races all of which I have been privileged to complete.

Like Bighorn, Swan Crest is a true mountain 100. Elevations topping 8000 feet, vistas of far-off peaks and weather patterns capable of dropping a storm at a moment’s notice, all contribute to the sense of remoteness that this race shares with its neighbor to the southeast in Wyoming. Both mud and snow were present here too, though significantly less of both. Finally, each of the two has their unique wildlife concerns, Moose at Bighorn and the aforementioned grizzlies here. While we had to watch a mandatory “bear safety” video before the race and carry pepper spray throughout, there were no actual encounters; in fact, no sightings whatsoever. While the concept of meeting one of the great bears is frightening, in reality, Moose encounters are far more likely and more dangerous. Personally I was quit happy that the most dangerous animal with which I actually had to contend was the pesky mosquito.

Swan Crest also seems to share a few of the characteristics that make Cascade Crest such a unique event. However, in a state whose motto begins with the word ‘Big”, the challenges are just a tad larger. The overgrown trails are grown quite a bit more over –right over my head in places. There was a section traveling right on top of the un-cleared remains of an avalanche field that makes the famous “trail through hell” seem like a paved road. And then, there are the downed trees. Cascade has a few, but parts of the Swan Crest are a veritable obstacle course. Climbing over, crawling under or navigating through trees that appeared to have only recently crashed across the trail, this course takes more out of you than the simple analysis of distance and elevation change would imply.

Then there is Plain. This particular comparison was made right in the race pamphlet. The existence of course markings, aid stations and drop bags clearly makes Swan Crest a bit less a matter of self-reliance. However, with sections of 26, 24 and 14 miles between checkpoints, the necessity to take water from the course and the need to consult the map at numerous points, the comparison was not unwarranted. Even the initial gradual climb up gravel road brought back memories of its closest neighbor. One could treat this race as good training or a warm-up for the one in Eastern Washington. In fact, that was pretty much my thought going into it.

Despite the comparisons and similarities, Swan Crest stands on its own. Like all great races it has a particular identity expressing the uniqueness of the land in which it is run – a certain “trail terroir”, if you will. Traversing the entire ridge that bears its name, this race gives the participants a taste of what the area has to offer: wild and beautiful, rugged and remote. Yet, despite all its challenges you are constantly reminded that the ridge along which you are travelling is but a taste, a mere hint at what Northwest Montana has to offer.

-----

Since I'm sitting in my hotel room in Logan, UT with 10-1/2 hours to go before the start of The Bear 100, I am going to take a bit of a cop-out on finishing this race report. I remembered to take my camera along with me for a change. So, I'm going to let the photos do most of the talking.

Beat and I traveled to Montana together and rented a cabin in Columbia Falls. Not only was it a quaint little place to stay, it was also the location of the race finish. Since Swan Crest is a point-to-point race, the shuttle picked us up here in the morning for to drive to the start.

Our Cabin

The start of the race was near Swan Lake, about an hour's drive away. The shuttle got us there early so we muddled about, chatting with other runners in the cold morning, waiting for the race to start.

Jon Burg was the other Bay Area local running the race

Looking around at the start, I had another Déjà vu moment from Plain. I definitely felt like one of the least fit people there. As Beat put it the day before at the pre-race meeting, "geez, we're the fat people here."

Panorama of the 50 runners waiting at the start

Eventually we hit the road for about a mile before taking a left and beginning the gradual grind up the gravel double-wide.

Long gravel road

Some nice views along the way

For my last comparison to Plain (I promise), Beat and I started the race near the back of the pack. I was hopeful that the strategy would work out as well as it had there.

Beat and I stuck together in the early miles

Pretty easy going

After about 10 miles, we finally arrived at the first aid station. It was a beautiful morning and I was ready to take on some single-track. At least, I thought I was ready. Little did I know that "single-track" in Montana means pretty much no track.

Apologies to the lady in the photo, this is only intended to show the aid station

About as much trail as I was going to see for a while

For a little perspective, my head is just over Beat's shoulder

I began to feel more than a little intimidated when I could see neither my feet nor the sky above my head. Overgrowth is one thing, but being completely enveloped was something altogether new. On top of that, the lower brambles seemed a bit predatory or at least playful. About a dozen times, they snagged my laces and de-knotted them.

OK, so two but shots is probably going overboard, but there's a story here

As the shrubbery on steroids gave way, we breathed a short sigh of relief. This only because we were blissfully unaware that up ahead it had all been crushed beneath a mass of avalanche-downed trees. We came upon the first fallen tree and Beat worked his way gingerly over it. Impatiently, and perhaps a bit showy, I hopped up on top and over both him and the tree. I'm not sure what name he called me, but it was all in good fun.

The fun was about to end

Hopping over one tree like a youthful sprite is fine, but after the next tree, and the next, it grew a bit old. Then tree turned into trees until the ground completely disappeared and we found ourselves navigating over a virtual canopy of branches, brush and logs.

Trail? What trail?

Those red flags are the trail!

Exhausting doesn't even begin to describe it.

I never thought I would be so happy to see the overgrowth again.

After what seemed hours, we were finally on a real trail. Switchbacking up the hill, the mountains unveiled themselves. In truth, they were probably there all along, but I hadn't set my eyes above waste-level for some time.

Ahhh, mountains.

In fact, there was beauty all around both near and far. One just had to look.

Finally, upon reaching the ledge, we caught a slight downhill. Beat was a bit behind me at this point, but I'd no idea how far.

Catching a glimpse of the other side was the first reminder that we were indeed in "the mountains." The gathering clouds made clear their intention.

The second aid station, mile 19, was at the end of an out-and-back along a narrow ridge. It rolled and meandered offering views of distant peaks for distraction.

Shortly, the rain fell. I put on my light jacket and took a photo of what could be the first in a series of fashion shots for my favorite piece of gear, The Buff.

First rain, let it fall where may

The aid station was just the other side of some woods at the end of the ridge. I made good time in and out as it was raining more stiffly and I was getting a bit cold. Not a quarter mile on, Beat was heading the other direction and looking good. We both remarked how much the avalanche section had taken out of us.

Looking like a happy camper at mile 19

Back out along the ridge we'd just traveled, but things always look a little different in the opposite direction.

The ridge is narrow in parts

The rain stopped, the sun came out, it got warm and it was time for fashion shot #2. Pull up The Buff and let it dangle back Pirate-style.

This was the beginning of the first of the "long sections" without aid. It was also the longest such section at a little over 24 miles. The aid station volunteers told us that there was plenty of water on the course. What they didn't tell us was that most of it was in the first 10 miles. By the time I reached the snow banks, I'd drunk most of what I'd filled from streams.

Snow bank in the distance

At the snow bank

Looking back from where I'd just come I could see Beat

I ended up filling my water bottle from the snow. Unfortunately, one of the advantages of the insulated bottle became a disadvantage here. The snow did not easily melt!

Swan Crest pass through an awe-inspiring variety of terrain. One minute we were in a wide open meadow, the next snow, then fields of flowers followed by a burnt-out forest. Each had its charms. Unfortunately, none of them had any large flowing bodies of water.

Summer is like spring in these mountains

More snow

Looking back again

Another field in bloom

Water, but not near

Gratuitous Buff fashion shot - sweat band mode!

Rock-filled section

Burnt forest

These were all over

Return to lush, overgrown trail

Another ridge with great views

I distracted myself with taking photos, but I estimated it had been around 12 miles since I'd filled my water. I was totally dry. Unfortunately, I had in my head that the section was 2 miles shorter than actual. This is the excuse I give for automatically taking a left at a Y when the marker seemed right in the middle. I knew there was a split coming up and I knew it was a left.

There's always a point after taking a wrong turn when a voice in the back of your head tells you "this isn't right" and you think you should maybe go back to check. I need to learn to listen to this voice. The trail I was on narrowed to the point of a mere deer path. It then went over and through some brush. Normally this would give me bigger pause, but having run through the avalanche field, it seemed par for the course (except for the lack of markers). Once the trail disappeared altogether, I knew it was the wrong way.

Back on the right path, I was even more thirsty than ever. I took a photo.

Nice shot, eh?

Another 1/2 mile or so, I met up with another runner. We cursed and commiserated the absence of water. Right around the next turn was a stream. I filled, drank and filled again ignoring the flying pests that took interest whenever I stopped for more than a few seconds.

With water comes happy

I felt much better, but there was still that matter of the under-estimated distance. I figured to be at the aid station shortly so I passed the next couple of streams and ran out again. As the climb started, my hydration dipped further. Thirsty, cranky and tired, I took a random spill onto my right side. You can only imagine how happy I was to finally reach the aid station at Six Mile Junction.

Very welcome faces after a long journey

I took a bit of time here, assuring recovery. Once I felt well enough, I pushed myself on as there was just a short 3 miles to the peak and back before I would return. Feeling good, I pushed the climb.

Red-faced at the peak

Peak Panarama

Feeling great, I bombed back down. Somewhere close to the aid station I saw Beat. He wasn't having a great day, stating he didn't feel good, he was heading to the peak carrying his water bladder in his hand. I told him head recover and then continued down. I was anxious to start the big descent before dark.

With 6 mostly-downhill miles, this next section to Quintonkon was expected to be fairly fast. I thought I might make it by nightfall. I was wrong.

The downhill went pretty quick at least the initial "free flow" descent. I recall a section of wide gradual downhill and then a rather sizable river. I didn't see any ribbon across the river, but there was really no other place to go so I made my way. This lead to a short path to a road. The route headed up the road. Guess work and hope would put the aid station not too far off.

The road seemed to go on and on. There was no evidence of any campground or other obvious location where an aid station might be. After a couple of more miles, I could hear something off in the distance. Slowly, the noises and then light grew closer. The aid station was here.

It turns out they had to move it a couple of miles further along the road making it 8 miles. I gave Brad, the RD, a bit of good natured ribbing. However, it sounded like some people took it a bit more seriously. It's funny, I don't quite understand how someone could be upset about 2 extra miles on a 6 mile section after having route that has sections of 24, 22 and 14 miles.

At any rate, I was surprised to find Jon Burg here waiting for me. A much faster runner (and walker), I didn't expect to see him after the start. Everyone has their lows and his came while running with the above referenced complainers who dropped at this station. Jon and I headed out to tackle the 14+ miles together. With an initial climb and a nighttime descent, it promised to be a long go. It was nice to have a bit of company.

Obligatory night photo somewhere round mile 55

I felt good at the start, but I had yet to have my real low and I could feel fatigue kicking in. Jon let me take the lead at first, which worked OK since it let me set the pace. He is a very strident walker (excuse the pun) as I learned pacing him at a race last year. I worked to keep a good clip and we made a bit of time on a couple of runners ahead of us. It turns out that they were both Statistics professors at a local university. Jon is an actuary. I felt woefully out of place.

I'm not sure if it was just normal fatigue or pushing up the gradual climb, but my energy was waning. I let Jon go in front and shortly thereafter told him I was gonna have to take a break. I sat to try and gather my head for a second and then continued at my own pace. I was definitely getting tired as I was having trouble focusing my eyes on the trail and was weaving a bit.

I finally decided to sit for a little longer and try something new. I sat on a rock and closed my eyes. I let my mind wander the drift. I faded. I woke when my flashlight hit the ground.

According to my watch it had been perhaps a few minutes, 5 at most. However, when I stood up and headed out, my eyes were focused, my head was clear and I was moving much better. I always enjoy the night and this one was no exception. The stars were out.

I promised my wife I'd look at the stars. They were wonderful. Shortly, though the moon became jealous and came to outshine them. Later the moon would be overshadowed by the clouds obscuring show. I occupied myself with this play in the sky.

Not that it shows, but the moon and clouds put on quite a show

I felt good, but the night section is always a bit strange. So many things come and go through your mind that in reflection your never sure which was thought and which random association. I recall a rocky ridge and the view of many lights below. Mostly, I remember enjoying it immensely. Eventually there was a long descent to the aid station.

Of this, I have no idea. I must have thought I saw something.

The next aid station was the only time we came out of the mountains during the race. Mile 70 is always a telling point in a 100-miler and I was feeling good. I didn't waste time at Broken Leg because I knew the next 8 miles was a lot of road and would seem longer than it was.

I set my mind on auto-pilot and marched from dirt road to paved to dirt again. The last couple of miles began the ascent that would follow after the next aid station. Strawberry Trail would be our last major climb though it was also the beginning of our last long section without aid.

Morning was breaking at this aid station and I asked about the weather forecast. I should have known better when they told me it was supposed to be warm in the morning and showers in the late afternoon. We were in the mountains after-all. I dropped all my warm and rain gear in my drop bag reasoning that it would just incentize me to finish before late afternoon. I also should have known better than to try and reason anything the second day of an overnight race.

The initial climb was a grind, but at least it was over in a few miles. I felt fine and was ready to enjoy the sights and sounds of a second day on the trail.

OK, maybe I was just a wee bit tired as well

The overgrowth was back...

...so was all the natural beauty

I'm not sure when it started, but I do recall still being dry at this one confusing intersection. It was just a drizzle at first, but the sound of thunder in the distance was a clear indicator. You can't see the rain coming down in this series of pictures, but you can definitely see the muddy trail in the last one.

Perhaps you can see the wet and cold permeating my Buff and my normally upbeat persona.

To put it bluntly, it started dumping and I was freezing. I ran. I ran hard. I ran harder than I ever would have were I not trying to escape the rain and stay warm. I suppose I have that. The mud didn't help, but I had already dealt with much worse at Bighorn.

The good thing about being in the mountains for a summer shower is that it is generally short lived. I knew it would let up eventually and it did. The rain turned to mist and as the sun came out we were running in a dense fog.

The ever-changing mountain climate

I doubt the snow is fresh, but the cold rain certainly didn't melt it.

The sun eventually burned off the fog. The promised-heat was going to show up after all, only out of order from the storm.

My running-crazed in the rain took a big chunk of time out of this 22 mile section. However, I wasn't exactly sure how much. There was a lot of talk about the final downhill and how "treacherous" it was. 5 miles of steep descent switchbacking down the mountain. I was so looking forward to it.

Having not studied the course, I believed that once I reached the ridge where I could see the town below, that the descent would not be far. Well, I could see that I was on the ridge.

When I arrived at what appeared to be the apex, I took one last panorama. The peaks of Glacier National Park to the East and Columbia Falls to the West. I was ready to fly down this mountain.

From that point on, every slight downhill slope was, to me, the start of the path down. Over and over I repeated the cycle of excitement and disappointment. Had I taken a moment to look at the hills in front of me, I would have realized that the trail wasn't about to descend until the near the final peak. Part of the beauty of this course is that it travels the distance of a visible ridge line.

Of course, the descent did arrive after awhile and i was so ready for it. I let it fly. Fast downhills at the end of long races are one of my favorite things on the planet. This, I have to say, was one of the best. Not only was it steep enough to just "let go," the switchbacks were wide enough to bank without slowing down. I can't imagine how fun it would be to run this while fresh.

I really should have committed more of the profile to memory. I had this idea in my head that the downhill ended right at the aid station. When the switchbacks stopped I expected a short ride down the more gradual grade to the break before the final 2 miles. One last dip and I ran right through a wide creak before a short uphill. Just a bump before some further descent.

When another uphill came, I was a bit annoyed, but still believed it would be brief. It continued up. It went around a curve and then up some more. I stopped. This was ridiculous! I'd gone up a couple hundred more feet and I could see we still had plenty of descent before being at the level of the town. I won't repeat the curse words here, but suffice to say, I said them all.

I took the rest of the trail easy realizing that I had no clue how long it actually was to the aid station. A change of perspective can do wonders. Once I stopped expecting, I was upon it in short order. At this point, I was very much ready to be done.

One thing I have learned from running 100 mile trail races is that nearly all of them end on the road. Whether its 1 mile of road or 5, it always seems long. The end of Swan Crest isn't long, but it does seem to wander a bit. I had a vague idea where the finish was, but really was pretty unaware. It was hot, the road was long, I took it slow.

I had no real time goals at this point. 30 hours and 31 had both come and gone. 31-1/2 didn't seem worth the effort so I just trotted on in for 31:34.

It was great to be done. It was a wonderful event. I took a shower, took a rest and then took a short nap. When I awoke, the BBQ was just getting underway and friends were starting to come in. The field was sparse and spread out. I actually finished top-10, but only 20 people total finished the race. Beat came in 34+ and just under 35 Jon Burg finished. I was surprised by this last as I didn't remember passing him. It turns out that Jon took the very long course with a long detour in the midst of an already-long section. I give him special kudos for continuing on to finish when the short path would have been to head back after finding the trail again.

Swan Crest is an adventure. Low key and filled with challenges. Minimal aid, trail obstacles, difficult course tracking, all part of the package. A highly recommended and highly successful first running.

Finally, when it comes right down to it, there is absolutely nothing Plain about this race.

En Route

2010-08-16T19:35:00.000-07:00

My time and mental energy have lately been consumed by work. I have, however, managed a few necessary excursions and maintained my commitment to attempt my third 100 in as many months.

On the 4^th of July, I ran a 15K on roads in San Diego. It was actually the first time I have raced on roads in years. 9.3 miles is an unusual distance, but it was just long enough for me to treat as speed training for longer distances. I set the goal of going out easy and coming in strong. I started at bit over 8’s, finished below 7’s with a 7:23 average: just enough push to leave me feeling satisfied two weeks after my last 100.

A few weeks later I finished the Headlands Marathon (4:44) as my final long run towards my next 100. I opted out of the 50 miler since my body has been feeling the effects of both my long races and of the long periods sitting at my desk. Two weeks further of minimal running–call it a taper–and I’m sitting on a plane heading to Montana for the Swan Crest 100. I’ve given so little thought to this race that I don’t really know what to expect. However, as I head into this next adventure, my mind is finally turning back to Bighorn

…

The bandage is wrapped so as to hold my foot in a perfectly neutral position, neither compressing nor stretching the Achilles tendon. With a bit of work, I can come close to a 20 minute/mile walking pace on the relatively flat road. Mentally, it’s disheartening, limping along these last 5 miles, being passed by everyone I had just flown by on the final downhill. The race as a whole hadn’t really gone too well either with altitude issues and other challenges ending my sub-30hr goal. I had, however, still held out hopes for a strong finish, but now even that had gone by the side of the proverbial road.

This scene from the final stretch of my 2008 Bighorn 100 race still played through my mind as I headed back to Sheridan. I was looking for redemption from that race as well as from my more recent struggles at Massanutten. Bighorn was my first true mountain 100 and my first real experience slogging it out for a “just finish” goal. Returning, I had my mind set on replacing the image of those final miles with a better one. I wanted to run a strong race overall, sub-30 would be great, but mostly I just wanted to run to the finish.

Respite

Beyond just the running, I was also looking forward to enjoying a weekend in the mountains of Wyoming. Bighorn still stands as the most beautiful race I’ve done. When I ran it in ’08 the route had to be altered due to heavy snow at the turnaround. Not only did this mean that I hadn’t experienced the full course, but the sections of the Little Bighorn Canyon that I did see were completely in the dark. I was excited about having the full Bighorn experience.

Beat and Harry were joining me on this trip. With the early Thursday arrival and late Friday morning start time, it almost felt like three friends simply enjoying a nice vacation. We checked out the funky little downtown, hung out in our hotel room, shared some good conversation and, generally, just laughed a lot. More than the race itself, this sense of “getting away” was just what I needed. Spending the next day (and night) trotting along through some of the most gorgeous land in the country seemed a bonus.

Dramatic

That’s the only word to describe the impression one gets upon that first turn down the Tongue River Canyon and heading up the rolling single-track. I’d forgotten how beautiful it was. I’d also forgotten my camera back in the hotel room. I remember turning and telling someone, “you know, the one downside of this course is that it’s so beautiful, you just want to stop and setup camp alongside the trail.” It really is that stunning.

The views are quickly replaced with a distraction of a different sort as we make our way up the first major climb. Around 4000ft of ascent up and over 7800ft elevation is what Bighorn offers as an initial wake-up call. I was focused on taking things easy in the early miles, running a bit behind my two friends and focusing on keeping an even keel. However, the first downhill over the ridge made quick work of that. I think a let out a big “whoop!” as I dropped down the descent towards our first aid station.

Exuberance

Shortly after the Upper Sheep stop we crested the road and headed down onto single track. So excited I was to be flying back downhill that I barely heard the “Hey Steve!” up above me. Looking up I could see the trail of runners along the road that included Harry and Beat. Ah well, getting my wrong turn out of the way early in the race wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. That is, if I could keep it to just one.

I remembered the rolling jeep roads of the next section, grinding slowly up and down, leading to the big aid station at Dry Fork. I caught up with the guys at the stop then took off before them knowing I would lead the way on the steep downhill only to meet up on the following climb. I was hoping to continue along together for a while, but my stomach had a different plan. Just 15 minutes in the bushes and I wouldn’t see the two of them again for quite some time.

Remote

Cow’s Camp is sort of the separation point at Bighorn. You literally pass through a gate after this aid station, but more significantly, you enter the area that lends the “wild” to the “wild & scenic” motto. The narrow trail winding its way through the hills and into the woods with views of far off peaks was my first feeling of really being “out there” two years ago. Cow’s Camp is also where you are “welcomed back” the next morning with the smell of fresh cooked bacon and the smiling faces of fresh 50K runners. I had a long night ahead of me before that. For now my main task was to relax and try to take it all in.

The spectacular views of this section are accompanied by relatively easy trail and followed by a rewarding, downhill. At 20+ miles in I was feeling pretty good. As I exited the woods after Bear Camp, just before the steep descent, I stopped for my first view of the Little Bighorn River Canyon. Sheer carved canyon walls topped with the most interesting rock formations; I had to kick-start myself to get going down the hill. While the early course was relatively dry, there was plenty of mud on this descent: a hint of things to come. I managed to smack my head nicely, using a tree branch for breaking. Perhaps another hint to which I should have paid attention.

Serious

I was surprised to find Harry and Beat at Footbridge when I arrived. They looked well into their preparations so I asked for my drop bag immediately hoping to make good time in and out of the station. The tales of the upper course were beginning to drift down. Mud and cold were to be expected. I threw some of my warmer clothes in my pack and headed out shortly after Beat. Harry was still sitting. He wasn’t talking. A serious expression covered his face. I don’t know what was in his head, but the impression stuck with me as I out towards the race’s peak.

I didn’t know if I would be able to keep up with Beat over this next section. We were in for a long gradual uphill, climbing from around 4500 to nearly 9000 ft over the next 17 miles. It was time to focus on maintaining a level effort, to stop worrying about the entire distance, time to look around and enjoy the landscape. It was time to take another wrong turn. With night falling and mud thickening, I walked right past a sign post and into nowhere. The trail disappeared and I stood in what was basically a marsh. Looking around, I saw a trail of lights off to my left. I cut back cross-country to the proper trail; my feet were soaked and, given what was ahead, unlikely to dry up the rest of the night.

Muck

I took a few slips in the mud heading to the next aid station and wasn’t in the best of moods upon arrival so I was very happy to find Beat waiting there. While the sloppy mud leading here had been a pain, the story for the top of the climb was much worse. Apparently, it was one vast, frozen swamp. We headed out together and I told tale of my wrong turn giving Beat another opportunity to let me know what an idiot I was. Laughing at my stupidity made us both feel better. It was a good time to have a partner.

There was no exaggeration about the conditions up top. Reminiscent of a scene from Lord of the Rings, we tread carefully along shallow ridges winding between marsh ponds. I don’t know how much it really helped to try and stay along the marked path. It just seemed to take more time in a vain attempt to keep dry feet. Knowing Harry’s particular distaste for mud we both remarked that it was good he wasn’t with us. Smiling, we could hear his cursing voice inside our heads. However, we were also both a bit worried about him as–being the better climber–he should have caught us long ago. We eventually reached the peak and headed down through snowfields to the aid station.

Porcupine

So inviting was the ranger station with its big roaring fire, people mulling about and warm mountain cabin that we were going to have to fight the temptation of staying too long. Inside was packed with people with an atmosphere a bit like a triage tent; runners in various states of disrepair being tended to by extremely helpful volunteers. I can only imagine how I looked at that point. Since I was never too cold and I wanted to move efficiently back down to Footbridge, I dumped some of my warm clothes. I just accepted that my feet were going to be wet for a long while so I didn’t even bother taking off my shoes.

Beat made sure I resisted the campfire as he led the way out and up the hill through the snow. We were following a couple of women ahead of us for maybe a ½ mile before we realized we were off course. At least this time I couldn’t be to blame. Rushing to get back on track filled us with enough ire to make it efficiently up the (proper) climb. On the other side, we just stomped right through the middle of the marsh accepting the futility of following anything but a straight line. We stuck mostly together or would meet up at aid stations. I fell behind once as I foolishly tried to run the sloppy descents in my normal fashion resulting in a few spectacular near misses and one less-than-spectacular dump in the mud.

Daybreak

The rest of the night was mostly a blur. One good thing about a mid-July 100 in more northerly latitudes is that the night isn’t very long. Daylight came just as we reached the final rolling stretch of trail leading back to Footbridge. Anticipation made this section take longer than expected, but both Beat and I were happy to be back at the big aid station. We never did see Harry during the night. I decided to take a little time here, mentally preparing for the rest of the course. This is where Bighorn can get a bit long. Footbridge on the return is 2/3 done, but considering all you go through to get there, it feels as if the finish should be much closer.

I took on a change of socks and headed out knowing that Beat would likely drop me on the steep climb known as “The Wall.” From my previous experience, I knew I was in for a serious grind. Grinds are best spent heads down. It wasn’t long before I watched Beat disappear up the climb. Perhaps I’d catch him on a downhill later, perhaps not. I set my eyes to the ground and just focused on making it to the ridge. The next section was one I would just have to “get through.” It was morning. My thoughts were at Cow’s Camp.

Bacon

I’m not sure if you can really smell the bacon cooking on your way in, but you can certainly imagine it. This was the first place I ever tried bacon during a race and, I have to say, it is brilliant. When I arrived at Cow’s Camp, was so happy be there I chomped down three pieces of bacon immediately. Then I wanted something sweet so I grabbed a couple of Oreos. Then I grabbed another piece of bacon and an Oreo, wrapped the bacon around it and popped it in my mouth as I set out. Sweet, salty, fatty…brilliant! I headed up the road.

As I struggled to keep up with the mid-to-back of the pack 50K runners I felt slow, tired and more than a bit grungy. I tried to engage a few of the clean, chipper runners around me, but my focus wasn’t there. It’s a long 6 miles from Cow Camp to Dry Fork, but the difference between being 24 and 18 miles from the finish is huge. From Dry Fork, I could visualize the path to the finish. Beat and I joined back up here and essentially agreed to stick together to the end. Rolling roads to Upper Sheep and then a short steep climb were all that lay between us and the big downhill.

Again

Heading up the last short, but steep climb known as “The Haul” I had another reminiscence of my last trip here. I felt good here two years ago just before bombing down the hill only to strain my Achilles jumping over a creek at the bottom. I thought maybe I should take it easy this time. I thought about playing it safe. I thought better. You need to be true to yourself and I never feel more “me” during a race than when flying down a steep hill at breakneck pace on my way to the finish.

Beat crested the ridge just before me and headed down. I paused at the top to catch my breath, and then followed. I cruised down the initial fireroad until the left turn where it becomes steep. I considered briefly keeping my speed under control. But, as I passed by Beat, I decided to just lean forward and let go. From there on, it was all out at whatever pace the terrain dictated. I’ve no idea how fast I was going, but I do know that I held off one of the top 50-mile runners who came up behind me for a while. Once the grade became a bit more moderate I had to step aside. I pushed a bit on the rolling trail into Lower Sheep arriving breathless and grinning from ear to ear. Filled with the joy of my reckless abandon and happy to still be intact, I turned to see Beat arrive not a minute behind me.

All

“Nice job, dude!” I congratulated Beat on his own crushing downhill. Doing the mental math, we both quickly realized that, not only was sub-30 in the bag, but breaking 29 hours was a possibility. We made haste and agreed to push each other to the finish. While the final 7 miles of the course show as a net downhill, there’s a lot of rolling terrain and short climbs. None of these seemed to be found in my memory from the previous morning. Eventually, the trail gave way to road and it was time to erase something else from my memory.

I would not be limping to the final miles this time. Of course, that doesn’t mean they would be without struggle. The road is dusty, hot, and long. And, no matter what the course description says, the road is also, at least slightly, uphill. I’m sure if viewed at another time I would see it different, but all I seem to recall is fighting against that gradual incline. After a mile or so it was clear that Beat had a bit more left in his legs than I did. I encouraged him to go ahead. He refused vowing to push me to the finish after I pulled him down the hill.

28:47

I did my best to impersonate a runner as I cross the finish line alongside Beat. It was more than I had hoped for. My redemption was complete.

The rest of the afternoon was spent relaxing in the park, savoring our accomplishment and waiting. Pride turned to concern. At first we figured Harry had dropped and was sleeping soundly back at the hotel. We eventually figured he was still out there. Martina was covering the same course in the 50-mile so we thought they might have met up and stuck together. As the afternoon went on we figured they had better be together. After many a false alarm we finally spotted them making their turn into the park. Martina’s running form is normally quite distinct, but I recognized Harry’s first this time. That special trot at the end of an epic: not a run to the finish, but just “to be finished.” I’d used it myself just one month prior.

...

I started this report while en route to my next 100 mile race. That's now complete and I'm still behind a report. However, since I have trouble focusing on writing race reports when I'm not in running mode I had to go and sign up for yet another 100 for motivation. But, more on that later...

Terms with conditions

2010-07-06T09:33:00.000-07:00

Well overdue full MMT report

---

Recovery from Massanutten took longer than usual, both physically and mentally. I really didn’t feel my body was back in full swing until running my next race at the Mt. Diablo 50K, three weeks later. It was the first truly warm weekend in the Bay Area which promised the usual hot temps heading up the mountain. Perhaps having been bested by the heat at MMT helped me out since I ended up having a relatively good race. In fact, due mainly to others suffering or dropping out from the conditions, I placed much better than expected.

Emotionally, things were taking even longer. Coming to terms with my finish was proving difficult. It’s not that I’m so performance driven as to be overly upset with my actual finish time and it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d slogged to the end of a long race. Whether out of sheer bullheaded stubbornness or a prideful unwillingness to quit, I should have at least been able to find some small joy in crossing the finish line. Instead, I felt only relief that it was over. In retrospect, I think it was a result of the low mental state I’d allowed myself to get stuck in, walking those long final miles. The self-doubts, the lingering questions, the specters of epics past whispering retractions in my ear, all worked to further degrade my sleep and calorie depraved brain.

It started out as do most such adventures with an appropriate mix of cautious optimism and fear. I’d come up with a fairly aggressive time goal to test my fitness, but reminded myself that big summer plans didn’t allow me to kill myself chasing splits in this first major race. When I stopped on the way to the Friday race check-in and felt the thick hot air flow in through the door of my rental car, I should have tossed any thoughts of a strong finish right then and there. Humid 90s were certainly not something for which the unusually cool west coast spring had prepared me. Just walking around, dropping my bags, chatting with the surprising number of people whom I knew at my first race on the other side of the country, I was sweating profusely. However, after returning to my hotel, clouds and a cooling breeze had moved in.

My renewed hopefulness went unexamined as other concerns came rushing in from home. Some work “emergency” had me on the phone sitting outside the hotel – the only place I had coverage – until about 9:30pm. Any hopes of taking advantage of my late-afternoon (PST time) energy lull and get some early sleep, were shot. In fact, by the time my 3:30am wakeup call came round for the start at 5, I think I’d have managed all of 2 hours sleep. As I drove the winding roads to the start, my only hope was that the good rest I’d managed two nights previous would be enough to make up for how out of sorts my body felt.

Stressed, sleepless and constipated, weren’t exactly how I had imagined feeling at the beginning of the race. Furthermore, the forecast for mid-80 temperatures weren’t going to help matters either. Nonetheless, I started out well. I took things very easy in the early miles along the fireroad. I walked many of the slight inclines, watched plenty of people pass me and enjoyed some time getting caught up with Olga. As we left the road and entered the first climb, I continued my moderate pace. In previous years, this climb up Short Mountain came much later in the course and I heard many a tale about how much easier it was to be taking this section early on.

We hit a few short downhills at the top of the climb and I was eager to test myself on these super rocky, technical trails. I passed a few folks and had one near miss trying to stop quickly coming up on a slower party. While I managed not to hit ground as I slid along the leaves, it was my first hint that it wasn’t the rocks that were the true source of this place’s well-deserved reputation. After a bit, I caught up with Andy Kumeda who I know is typically a fast started so I was probably being a bit over enthusiastic. Still, I knew a big downhill was ahead leading to the Edinburg Gap aid station so I wasn’t too concerned.

Andy caught me on the next climb out of Edinburg and then I him on the downhill after the peak. We stuck together for a while after that, departing and rejoining depending to which of our relative strengths the course played. I pulled over to empty my bladder letting Andy go ahead and it was quite some time before I caught him again at an aid station. My explanation for where I went was quite simply to show him my cuts and bruises. Very shortly after we parted, I had set back out along the relatively flat terrain. I let my mind wander for only the briefest passage of time and immediately found myself down on the rocks.

I would have 3 such falls in the coming miles. Handling technical downhill only to trip on flatter trail, is nothing new for me. However, Massanutten raised the stakes quite a bit. There really was no place along these trails where it was safe to let down the guard. The flat sections and uphill sections required the same diligence as anything heading down. For me, it seemed they required an even more concerted effort. Time and again, I would fly down a big hill and my natural tendency was to automatically relax my focus only to be reminded by the rocky course of what a dangerous habit it was. I, literally, had to tell myself over and over in my head to “focus, focus, focus” as I moved along these trails. At times it became stressful and it was certainly one of the least enjoyable aspects of those early miles even though my race seemed to be going quite well.

I hit the 32 mile aid station at Elizabeth Furnace more than 45 minutes ahead of my set split. While the heat was picking up, I continued to feel good and continued to stay on the sharp side of the pace chart. A couple of days before the race, I’d been asked what it is I think about during a 100 miles. Normally, the answer would be almost anything and everything. In this race – and especially in these most technical early miles – all thoughts were diverted to watching my feet. This over-focus on my every step is why I don’t have a particularly strong recollection of the miles leading up to Habron Gap. It also might help explain why I continued to gain time on my plans.

I don’t want to belabor the point, but not being able to really look around and enjoy the course, I was actually happy to be heading out onto the road. Hebron Gap, mile 53, was a major checkpoint for my status. I was 1 hour and 15 minutes ahead of schedule. If ever there was a point in this race for a wakeup call, that was it. But, the lies we tell ourselves at the half-way point aren’t the ones we need to hear much later in the race. I was feeling great.

I knew the conditions had taken their toll, I knew my pace was too fast; I told myself I had it under control. The next section was a long one starting with a steep grind of a climb. Trying to conserve energy on a steep climb is a bit of a lost cause. I could feel the heat built up in my body. Cooling down at night has always been an issue for me in these races. I tried squirting with occasional water on my head, neck, back, even directly on my stomach. I slowed. I promised myself to spend more time at the next aid station.

There’s a saying amongst those that run 100-mile races that the 100K and not the 50-mile point is nearer halfway. Camp Roosevelt was at mile 63. I was happy to be there. It would have been a good place to spend some extra time, to cool down, recoup, and prepare for the night. However, MMT has a sort of consolation prize that they give to those who drop out at this point in the race. They call it the Visitor’s Award. I didn’t want to be a “visitor.” I pulled out the miniaturized copy of the course profile I’d printed out. The next section was about 5 ½ miles with one sizeable climb. It gave me slight pause, but the idea of being closer to mile 70 held a significant lure.

I tried to cool down as much as I could; I poured ice in my Buff and grabbed some more to munch along the way. I marched out onto the next trail. Night was descending and there were rumors floating round about cooling temperatures – perhaps even some rain. Hiking up yet another rocky, tree-covered ascent, I felt none of it. I don’t remember a lot about this section. I remember the night and realizing that it was actually easier to see the rocks by flashlight than through the sun’s scattered rays from the canopy above. I remember trying to cool myself with equal amounts of water dripped on my shirt as in my mouth. Mostly, though, I remember being OK.

I arrived at Gap Creek pretty much intact.

Mile 68.7 and I am only 16:20 into my race. Ten hours to go 33 miles. It still seemed within reason. I was feeling pretty good, but what is it I've said before about 100-milers? "Nothing you do in any shorter race can prepare you for what may happen after mile 70." However, the night always brings a renewed sense of wonder for me and I still held hope that the promised cool night temps would sweep in to offer a bit of respite

My only real concerns at the time were trying to cool down and a bit of constipation. Shortly after leaving the aid station, the course turned onto a gravel road. I decided to duck into the trees on the right side to see if I could take care of at least one of my worries. With little success, I popped out a short while later and continued on down the road. I was feeling good on the easy, rolling, non-technical terrain. I didn't see any course markings, but since I hadn't seen any side trails, I figured there was no need.

After a while, it occurred to me that someone should have caught up given my little break. I started to get worried and did my first of three stupid things; I sped up. Since I was feeling strong, my thinking was that I would either be putting some time in the bank that I could use on the upcoming climb or it would help me find out sooner if I'd missed a turn. When I first entered the road, there was another runner ahead of me. Surely he would be heading back by now if we were on the wrong path. I put my worries aside and kept pushing.

The road ended. No flagging. No reflective strips. No trail, just a dead end. I won't commit into writing all the various curse words, but, believe me, I said them all. At that point I did my second stupid thing. I ran back, hard. I did check my GPS so I could see how many bonus miles I was logging. When I reached the missed trail-head it had been 1.8 miles from the end of the road –3.6 for the round trip. To add insult to injury, the trail was exactly on the opposite side of the road from where I’d ducked into the trees. What kind of dumb luck was that? And, speaking of dumb, I then went on to complete my trio of stupid things; I continued pushing the pace as I headed out onto this trail.

Once I reached the climb, I was forced to slow down allowing a couple of runners to pass me and providing me opportunity to regale with my tale of stupidity. I eventually hooked onto a couple of them and made it to the Visitor's Center aid station, mile 77. Despite what the official chart says, I actually did those 12 miles (should have been 8.4) at an 18:20 pace. According to my calculations I still believed I could target something in the 27 hour range. So, I went ahead and topped off all my stupid acts with one final display. I sucked down an Ensure, took some caffeine, ate bit more and then grabbed some chips to go for the steep climb to come.

My stomach was sloshing and I still felt warm despite the cooler temps, but I pressed on. Given what I’d been through and the food, I should have let digestion take its course. This peak was the top one of the course and I had visions of mostly downhill for the final 20 miles. The climbing became difficult and a few people passed me as I stopped for a couple of breathers. I was feeling a little dizzy. After clearing the rockiest section and heading onto a bit wider trail, I checked my elevation to see that I was nearly done with the hill. I stopped once more to catch my breath before the final push.

That's when it hit me.

I went from hands on my knees, to on my hands and knees. First, retching, then gagging, then vomiting my guts out. I know there were at least a few people who got to enjoy the display as I answered the "you alright?" question more than once. After--I'm not sure how long--I finally got the convulsions to settle, but I had gone from being too warm to now shivering and chattering teeth. I got up and put on my jacket and headed up the trail. In shades of Western States, anything beyond a slow walking pace sent me right back over the edge.

I sat down on the side of the trail. Then, I lay down and closed my eyes. As if to punctuate my condition, it began to rain. Wallowing in self-pity, I knew my race was over. I eventually got to my feet and started the slow slog to the next aid station, the beginning of a longer, slower slog to come. My "race" was over, but the epic had just begun.

The rest of the night is mostly lost in a haze of dizziness, nausea and convulsions in response to even the smallest exertion of effort. It really was a repeat of last year’s Western States, only worse. I do recall arriving at Bird Knob and trying futilely to get some small bit of food down. I remember being back on the side of the trail starting down the first hill. I remember throwing up half a Gu. I also remember thinking how long the remainder of the night was going to be if I had to walk the entire downhill section at a pace slow enough to keep my stomach from revolt.

Somehow, I made it to the next aid station. I can only piece together the path from the evidence, but things must have degraded pretty badly. I was, surprisingly, still only 1 hour 15 over pace at Bird Knob. That had stretched to 2:25 at Picnic Area. As I sat covered in a Mylar blanket trying to see if the salt and fat from a few nibbles of bacon would settle, I pondered why in the world I would want to go on. It was 8.5 miles to Gap Creek, back where my whole ordeal had started. I knew if I made it to mile 95.4 that I would force myself to finish the race no matter what. However, the time and effort it would take to make it there seemed totally unfathomable to my calorie starved brain sitting miserably at the 86.9 mile marker. I sat for quite some time.

Nearly four hours. That is both how long it was until I arrived at the next aid station as well as how far I was off my pace chart once I was there. My pace chart seemed a distant fantasy of a past life at that point. Though they did nothing to help my stomach overall, I found that ginger candies would stay put. I took some more ginger and managed a bit of soup here. I was in no big hurry to leave Gap Creek as the volunteers were taking such good care of me. I wanted to see if there was any last chance of salvaging my stomach for those final miles. Numerous people came and went as I sat watching myself slip further back in the pack. I knew this was a trend that would continue as I trudged it “on in” so I eventually just came to terms with it and headed out.

As I headed back up the bit of trail that I’d missed the night before, I shared my tale with a few fellow travelers trying to smile at the misdeed and all that followed. The story just felt stale. I put my head down and focused on just getting through the final miles. I had one small glimmer of hope at getting it done sooner during the first bit of downhill. Alas, it was short-lived as my stomach immediately let me know that the final payment for my transgressions would be doled out to the bitter end.

Like so many 100 mile races, Massanutten’s last miles are road miles – long, arduous road.

If earlier in the race I had been pining to be able to think or just let my mind wander, I now had opportunity aplenty. In fact, I had too much of it. I’d struggled through the final miles of a race before. Bighorn came to mind. However, in that case, I was hobbled by a strained Achilles and managed to maintain sufficient motivation to go as fast as pain would allow. Here, I was down with a complete inability to push. What’s worse, I allowed my emotional state to follow down the deteriorating path of my physical condition. Whether from exhaustion, lack of calories, self-reproach or some combination of all these, I completely lost touch with any sense of motivation.

I kept moving forward because I had no other direction to go. I had no interest in talking to passing runners. At this point, my story just sounded like so much excuse. I hadn’t run a tough 70 miles only to push myself over the edge. I had run a stupid race; fooling myself into thinking I had ability beyond my means. I was a 30-hour finisher arrogating himself into running a 26 hour pace. Past and future doubts came creeping into my psyche. Western States, C2M, and every other finish off the mark were evidence of my self-deception. And what of my future plans? Redemption at Bighorn, three 100s in three months, repeat at Plain, another PR at Javelina: what was I thinking?

All perspective was gone. The final single track trail – a victory lap for some – was simply one last slap in the face for me. Crossing the finish, I felt only relief to be done. I don’t know that anybody has look as dejected as I upon accomplishing such a challenging task. I felt a tiny bit better, cheering in other runners though talking about my own race still rung hollow. I couldn’t really eat yet and I had to make it back to Dulles, so I opted out of the awards ceremony.

I drove back to town and stopped at the frozen custard stand before heading onto the freeway. As the first swallow of cool, sweetness reached my stomach, a sliver of light penetrated my gloomy outlook. It’s not that I felt any better about my race, but it was the first hint of knowing that I eventually would.

---

Massanutten is a unique event. While I didn’t quite approach it as one should a new experience, I can, at least now, embrace what it had to offer. Much like living at sea level and taking on my first race at significant altitude, coming from the west coast, and tackling this race presented many new challenges. From the time difference to the early start to the weather to all the inherent difficulties of the course itself, every aspect holds a lesson. I’m not sure if I’ll return for a repeat attempt any time soon, but I will certainly look back over this one many times in the coming years.

Coming Attractions

2010-05-17T06:18:00.000-07:00

I hope to write a full report next weekend, but wanted to get the highlights (or lowlights) out while still fresh. If you don't like spoilers then you'll have to wait, but the results are already posted including my personal splits. From those splits, you can clearly see that something happened between the Gap Creek and Visitor Center aid stations. However, the real story started just below Bird Knob.

Despite being totally unprepared for the warm temperatures and, especially, the humidity, I was running well. Oh, I'd taken a few spills; nothing out of the ordinary from what I was told. The super technical trails were a blast on the downhills, but on this course, you can't just let your mind wander once it levels out. On the plane, I'd put together some splits for a 26 hour finish. It seemed aggressive, but Beat had finished this race in 26:22 so I wanted to see what it would look like. I certainly wasn't planning to kill myself for the time goal given my 2 upcoming 100's in the next two months.

I didn't think much about time until Habron Gap, just before mile 50. I was supposed to arrive around 6pm. I was an hour-fifteen early. I took it easy on the next long section as I could feel the heat build-up in my core. I still ended up at the next aid station an hour ahead of schedule. I iced myself a bit and then tried to take it easy some more on the way to Gap Creek, hoping that the promised cool night temps would sweep in to offer a bit of respite.

Mile 68.7 and I am only 16:20 into my race. Ten hours to go 33 miles. It still seemed within reason. I was feeling pretty good, but what is it I've said before about 100-milers? "Nothing you do in any shorter race can prepare you for what may happen after mile 70."

My only real concerns at the time were trying to cool down and a bit of constipation. Shortly after leaving the aid station, the course turned onto a gravel road. I decided to duck into the trees on the right side to see if I could take care of at least one of my worries. With little success, I continued on down the road. I was feeling good on the easy, rolling, non-technical terrain. I didn't see any course markings, but since I hadn't seen any side trails, I figured there was no need. After a while, it occurred to me that someone should have caught up given my little break. I started to get worried and did a stupid thing; I sped up. Since I was feeling strong, my thinking was that I would either be putting some time in the bank that would come out on the upcoming climb or it would help me find out sooner if I'd missed a turn. When I entered the road, there was another runner ahead of me. Surely he would be heading back by now if we were on the wrong path.

The road ended. No flaggings, no reflective strips, no trail, just a dead end. I won't put the curse words here in writing, but, believe me, I said them all. I then did another stupid thing. I ran back. I checked my GPS so I could see how many bonus miles I was logging. When I reached the trail head it had been 1.8 miles from the end of the road (3.6 round trip). The trail was exactly on the opposite side of the road from where I had ducked into the trees. What kind of dumb luck was that? And, speaking of dumb, I continued to push the pace as I headed out on this trail.

Once I reached the climb, I was forced to slow up allowing a couple of runners to pass me and allowing me to regale in my stupidity. I eventually hooked onto a couple of them and made it to the Visitor's Center aid station, mile 77, mostly in tact. Despite what the official chart says, I actually did those 12 miles (should have been 8.4) at an 18:20 pace. According to my calculations I still thought I could target something in the 27 hour range. So, I went ahead and topped off all my stupid acts with one final display. I sucked down an Ensure, took some caffeine, ate some and then grabbed some chips to go for the steep climb to come.

My stomach was sloshing and I still felt warm despite the cooler temps, but I pressed on. The climbing was becoming difficult and a few people passed me as I took a couple of breathers, feeling a little dizzy. After clearing the rockiest section and heading onto a bit wider trail, I checked my elevation to see that I was nearly done with the climbing. I stopped once more to catch my breath before the final push. That's when it hit me.

I went from hands on my knees, to on my hands and knees...retching, then gagging, then vomiting my guts out. I know there were at least a few people who got to enjoy my display as I answered the "you alright?" question more than once. After--I'm not sure how long--I finally got the convulsions to settle, but I had gone from being too warm to now shivering and chattering teeth. I got up and put on my jacket and headed up the trail. In shades of Western States, anything beyond a slow walking pace sent me right back over the edge.

I sat down on the side of the trail, then I laid down and closed my eyes. As if to punctuate my condition, it started to rain. Wallowing in self-pity, I knew my race was over. I eventually got to my feet and started the slow slog to the next aid station, the beginning of a longer, slower slog to come. My "race" was over, but the epic had just begun...

Black Rose for my taper

2010-05-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

I’m not the biggest fan of the whole back-to-back weekend long runs. I prefer one big push followed by sweet spoils savored in a day of rest. However, this year's build-up has been all about more consistent running and a reduction of "zero" days (only 4 total in April and 2 of those were before/after our 100K effort). Thus, when the suggestion for dual long runs for the coming Saturday and Sunday was shot across the ether by friends, I thought it sounded like the perfect way to top off my last week before tapering for Massanutten.

Black

All weekend runs begin with a strong dose of caffeine and chin-wagging. The caffeine is the host's responsibility; we each supply our own fuel for the bull session--a sort of BYOBS, if you will. Saturday's plan was to start from Beat's place. Beat makes an excellent cappuccino. The intent was to head through Ranch San Antonio up and over Black Mountain. Heather came over from Modesto to join us on this trip. As well as being a Black Mountain virgin, she was also nursing a chronic leg injury. Or, rather, she wasn't nursing it though she probably should have been. Either way, it was all the excuse we needed to temper our plans which had grown more ambitious over email exchanges throughout the week. That is the usual trend: leading up to the weekend, the mileage goals wax large, then, we meet in the morning and exchange our excuses for doing something a bit more moderate with final adjustments being made out on the trail.

The original goal was to repeat the start of our 100K route from the previous weekend. Instead, we took the more direct route up and agreed to decide on a final distance after reaching the peak. Upon seeing Heather limp off the singletrack, it was agreed that she and Martina would head immediately back after Black Mountain while Harry, Beat and I would continue on to Page Mill Road to get in at least 20. The rest of the run was fairly uneventful except that Harry was complaining of not feeling well – some stomach distress. Apparently, in Harry-speak this means that he will push the pace up the hills. I figured it was my last big weekend so I worked to keep up and then took the lead as we headed back downhill. It was a nice warm day bringing hope that the much-belated California warm season might finally be on its way.

I continued to push all the way back, arriving alone at Beat's apartment. I called upstairs expecting Heather and Martina to have arrived well ahead. No answer. This was unfortunate as they had Beat's keys. As Harry and then Beat arrived, we began to worry. We were also all a bit toasted from the 21 miles of warm-weather running with a bit less fluid than required. Luckily, a call to Martina verified that they were fine and on their way back thanks to a ride from a friend. Heather was expectedly bummed especially knowing that she was going to have to suffer stern words from the lot of us, most of which were various expressions of "rest, rest and more rest." Sometimes a person's innate toughness tends to work against her.

Rose

Sunday, the coffee was my responsibility. We were going to head out to Sonol and see how close to Rose Peak we could make it before turning around. Since Harry and I ended up turning back around ¼ mile short of the top on our trip earlier this year, I was focused on getting there. In order to better our chances, I offered that we should take the shortcut fireroad from Backpacker’s Camp on the return. That would also allow us a dip in the water at “Little Yosemite” on a day that was expected to be a bit warmer than the last.

In her usual fashion, Martina insisted that Harry, Beat and I go on ahead of her. The plan was to turn around after about 2½ hours of running regardless of how far we had gone. Inspirations were waning so after Backpacker’s we started to separate, going each at our own pace. Harry took his normal position up front as we climbed the initial hills. I managed to catch up to him on a short downhill during the mostly-uphill route to the peak. On this final long run, I decided another day of pushing the pace was warranted.

I felt pretty strong on the climbs so I turned my hike into more of a shuffle. A cool breeze sweeping the hills fueled me to press on. The more I pushed, it seemed, the better I felt. Not long and had surprisingly dropped Harry. We had discussed turning back just before the steep downhill that marks the beginning of the final grind up to Rose. However, by the time I arrived there I was committed to the full trip. Since I was going to be missing the Ohlone 50K the week after Massanutten, I knew this would be my last opportunity to summit for a while.

I could see Harry arrive at our agreed turnaround from across the vale. I tried to beckon him on, but he waved me off. A few more hills and I could see Beat arrive to meet him. It appeared he was up for the final trip, but I was not in a waiting mode. It was one of those rare days where I felt I could climb forever. I was either hitting my stride in training or simply peaking 2-weeks too soon for my race. Only time would tell. I figured I’d hit the peak and then meet Beat on the return. My made it at 2:15 in. When we met, Beat convinced me to join him on a second trip up which we timed right on target for our original goal of a 2:30 turnaround.

The trip down, I led us a bit astray trying to take an alternate route which caused us to have to crawl under a couple fences and shoot across some private land. After that, I had a blast cruising back down the route we came up. I caught Martina just after the camp heading to the fireroad. A mile later we found Harry waiting for us under a nice shady tree. We played in the water for a bit and then all headed back to finish up together. I came out with 19.5 miles for the day, 40 total for the weekend and 75 weekly miles to top out my 100-mile buildup. I felt good.

Taper

With a satisfying final weekend, I was mentally ready for a nice easy week. I just played it by ear and came up around 30 miles. Work was extremely busy and it was very tight taking this time off. The past week has been a mad rush to tie up loose ends. I guess the advantage is that it has kept my mind completely off the race, helping to minimize that dreaded “taper madness”. The down side is that the lackadaisical spell that always seems to settle in the final few days before a big event has been even further pronounced. As I sit typing this on the plane, I’m not even sure of all that I threw into my bag late last night. My shoes, a pair of socks, shorts, shirt and two water bottles are all safely in a sack above my head. My checked luggage is basically one big armful of “here’s what I usually bring to a 100” thrown into a duffel.

I guess I’ll stare at the map and elevation chart for a while to try and get my head in the game. In the end, I guess it doesn’t really matter because it’s all about being out there. Sure, my obsessive nature loves the process of visualizing the race, estimating splits, and analyzing past results. However, more than anything else, I enjoy most the experience of figuring it out on the course, making adjustments and taking whatever the day has to offer.

50/50

2010-05-02T19:34:00.000-07:00

The days until my first 100-miler of 2010 ticking down and I hadn't a single run over 50K. I generally like to peak with a 50 miler in the final month leading up to a 100. Poor scheduling conspired with a bit of bad luck to have me facing April without opportunity to cover such distance in an organized event. I skipped the Miwok lottery altogether this year, but was excited about finally being able to fit the Diablo 50 in my schedule. Unfortunately, by the time I learned that the event had been cancelled due to state budget cuts, my scramble to find another local 50 miler of substance was too late. The Lake Sonoma 50 had filled both race and wait-list before I even checked the website. I briefly considered either American River or Ruth Anderson, but all that road left me feeling uninspired. That's when I hit on the idea of a Skyline-to-the-Sea double.

My original idea was to drive out to the race-finish at Waddell Beach in the wee hours of the morning and then make my way up to the start following the main trail. When I tried to recruit friends Harry and Beat to join along in my little adventure, they suggested another idea. Beat lives in Los Altos a couple of miles from a trailhead that could easily be used as a starting point to link a series of trails and bring us to the race start. It wasn't long before a route was devised and plans were firmed up. We settled on the goal of completing a full 50K in advance of the race start. Harry wasn't quite "all in" for this plan, but with three people, only two have to really agree on the route if everyone is going to stick together. While I agree that hitting the big, round 100K number was ultimately arbitrary and offered no significant training effect over slightly shorter mileage, it did offer a bit of field leveling amongst the three of us. Harry is definitely faster than Beat and I, but the difference tends to diminish over greater distances. Besides, we thought it would be funny to be able to answer anyone who asked one of us during the race whether we were running our first 50K with: "no, it's my second...today!"

Roll forward to the night before the race when Harry and I show up early at Beat's with the ill thought out plan to try and catch a few hours sleep before our agreed upon 1:30am start. I'm pretty sure that I almost, sort of, dozed off for at least a couple of minutes before it was time to get up. With the addition of sleep deprivation, it appeared that this might offer some additional training effect for a 100 miler beyond just the miles. Beat brewed up a couple of rounds of double-espresso laden cappuccinos for each of us before heading out. The wisdom of that particular choice would be questioned shortly after hitting the trails, but nothing about this little stunt of ours had anything to do with wisdom in the first place. Add jitters and frequent bio-breaks to the list of the evening's festivities.

We had a couple of offers from other local ultrarunners to join our party, but we opted to keep it small both for logistic reasons and due to the fact that the first park through which we would travel was technically not open at the time of our entrance. Now some may question the morality and/or legality of traipsing through a county park in the middle the night that has signs clearly posted that it closes at sunset. I really don't want to dwell on this point, but you need to understand that I had the powerful tool of rationalization on my side. Sure one could point out that the intent of the posting clearly implied that the park was not actually open again until after the next sunrise. But the sign we ran past contained no mention of any sort of rising, it only said "sunset" and 2:00 in the morning is long, long before the sun would set on Sunday; it wouldn't even rise for another 4 hours.

We kept the flashlights off and nearly tip-toed along the first couple miles of fire-road. Not only were the trails of this park the closest we would be to civilization, but we intended to get a good portion of our miles done here by traversing a particularly non-linear route and even including an extra loop in the mix. By the time we passed out of this park, topped out over our highest point and hit the water stop, we had already covered nearly 17 miles. Not much longer and the sun came up, Shortly thereafter we acquired the ridge, crossing the Skyline Blvd. with about 10 miles to remaining of our planned distance. We were still feeling relatively good, but I think the lure of having the first part of our run complete and getting a little rest was starting to hit us. There were many options for cutting it short or making the run longer on the trails through the Skyline Ridge, Long Ridge and Saratoga Gap preserves. It became a sort of game that consisted of pitting our waning motivation against our best estimates of time and distance remaining. In the end we settled on one extra detour of about 3/4 mile and finished at the race just about a klick over 30 miles. Close enough to 50K for commercial grade GPS.

Timing-wise, our arrival at the check-in couldn't have been better. It took us just under 7 hours for the run which gave us a 1/2 hour before race start--just enough for a rest, but not too much. We even beat the bus by a few minutes so we didn't have to stand in line to get our numbers. Harry's girlfriend Martina was kind enough to bring us some extra snacks and we even convinced Sarah, the RD, to allow us each a can of coke before they headed off to the aid station. Standing around, socializing before the race we all felt good. Heck, we even looked pretty good considering.

(picture courtesy of Rick Gaston)

The hardest part was actually the last few minutes before "go" as legs were begging to stiffen. We lined further back than would normally have us, but didn't have to try too hard to take it out easy the first few miles. I focused on relaxing and just accept the slow moving "conga line" even on the downhills. However, about 3 miles in, on a steep section, I couldn't take it any more and shot past a row of people in my normal, nearly out-of-control fashion. I figured I would pay for it later. However, for most of the first half of the race, I still felt pretty good. I walked more uphills than I might have were I fresh, but I was having a great day.

Coming through the first section of the infamous Gazos Loop, I was a little less happy. The constant rollers combined with a lot of mud in this section added to my mental psych-out of knowing that I would be repeating it after another 5 miles or so. However, once I made it through the aid station and joked with all the friendly faces about how this "seemed like a good idea last night," I actually felt better. The big climb actually went fine as a just put my head down and resigned myself to just walk it at my own pace after Harry went ahead. Neither of us had seen Beat in some time, though he was chatting with some woman last I saw so he didn't seem in a major hurry.

The climb was not as bad as I expected, and before I knew it, I was heading down the steep descent to catch back up with Harry. We entered the aid station around the same time, but I wanted to get back out and up the last climb before the long descent to the Berry Creek Falls. I figured Harry would catch me going up, but I somehow mad it to the crossover first. From there, it was trails I know and love leading down, down, down to the creek. Over the creek, I knew a slog lay in wait. The final miles, while still downhill overall, were all on fireroad that was basically flat with some little ups-and-downs. I remembered how this section seemed to take a long time when I ran the race two years before so I tried to stay in the right mindset. The toughest part was about 5 miles out when I realized that, by this time two years ago, I was just finishing the race.

In an attempt to distract, I started a few conversations during those final miles, but most people were focused on the finish. It was hard to motivate myself with a time goal given that I was over 55 miles into a 31 mile race. After the final aid station they told me it was only a mile and a half. I saw that I could finish the official race in under 6 hours and that gave me just enough of a target to push through to the finish. I was especially happy to discover that the finish line had been moved a bit closer this year in order to have a nicer locale. I came in at 5:56, finishing the two runs in 12:54. Even with the total a mile or so short, I was more than satisfied.

In the end, I think it was a great training run. Starting at night and running through sunrise helped simulate the mental challenge faced in a 100 miler. Dozing off in the back of Martina's car (thank you for making the whole thing possible!), I definitely felt like I'd finished a one. Even though we often say that 100K--and not 50miles--is actually half of a 100 miler, this run with nearly 12,000ft of climbing and more than that of descent, certainly felt like more than half way.

Surprising

2010-03-28T21:01:00.000-07:00

I didn't know what to expect from the Diablo Trail Challenge 50K. Despite it probably being the race closest to where I grew up, I was almost completely unfamiliar with most of the trails. It started in Round Valley, a preserve that didn't exist until after I graduated high school. It then travels through Morgan Territory Preserve-- which I'd run in a couple of times--before heading onto Mt. Diablo proper. Last year was the first for this race and I knew a few people who ran the inaugural event. However, the weather and trail conditions were such a major factor during the first running, that both their tales and the results were a bit misleading.

I stayed at my parent's house in Concord. I only had a 10 minute drive to get to the race. Unfortunately, I thought it was longer so I had a bit of a wait for the bus. No big deal. It wasn't too long until it showed up, loaded us all on and headed out for the long drive to the start. The first part of the drive was very reminiscent since it was basically the bus ride I took home from school every day from age 10 to 17. However, the start was much further down Marsh Creek road. The nice thing about a point-to-point course is that you really get a sense of the full distance you will be running.

It was a bit chilly at the start, but we could already tell it was going to be a great day. I mulled around chatting with friends and meeting new people, sporting my, very-identifiable, new Brooks ID uniform. You gotta love how the fluorescent sticks out in a trail race!

photo courtesy of Brazen Racing

We didn't have too long to wait before the start and we were all off and running.

photo courtesy of Chihping Fu

In his usual style, Chihping raced ahead so he could turn back and snap photos of us all.

photo courtesy of Chihping Fu

A few initial ups and downs helped spread out the field. After ripping a couple of the short, steep downhills (because I can't help myself), I settled into a nice easy pace for the early miles. There were a few descent hills and then came the first big climb, about 1500ft in 2.5 miles. I worked on my power-hiking pace and it didn't feel so bad. I even managed to pass a few people. I am hoping to improve my climbing this year, especially my walking pace. I remember watching some people running the early hills and reminding myself of the math. I was walking these hills not much over 17 minutes per mile and could probably run them around 15. However, if I reserve the climbing legs I will still be able to shuffle the later hills at a similar pace, but if I don't they will turn into slogs of well over 20 minute miles, easily making up for any early hill speed.

The really nice thing about this race for me is that there were some nice long downhill sections were I could let myself go. I was really enjoying these sections even though the trail was pretty beat up with hoof-holes from the cows and the wet winter. It allowed me to move up through the pack a bit as I think they slowed me less than they did other folks. I also seemed to really be enjoying myself.

photo courtesy of Brazen Racing

I really tried to take the time to look around and enjoy the amazing day and excellent scenery of this race. There were a lot of new faces here including quite a few first timers--many making typical rookie mistakes. I ended up giving one woman half of the water from one of my bottles when because she only had one for the long 7+ mile stretch between aid. I spent some time chatting with a guy named Dan who is in States this year and was starting to ramp up his miles. Before we knew it we were coming into the half-way aid station.

photo courtesy of Brazen Racing

A few friends were there volunteering and it was good to have a brief chat before heading for the next climb up onto the Diablo trails. Most of the climbs seemed fairly gradual and so I focused on keeping a solid, maintainable pace. As we went through three hours, I tried to take advantage of the rolling single-track. I also took advantage of a few peoples early race mistakes as there I passed a number of people who were definitely starting to slow.

Approaching the 23 mile aid station, I had passed a number of people and felt like I had opened a bit of a gap on some of the downhills. However, just as my bottle had been filled and I was enjoying a bit of grazing at the food table, a runner I hadn't seen all race came cresting the previous hill. Jim Winne handed me my bottles and told me not to let "that guy" catch me. I guess it was time to race. We were back out on big fire roads with more rollers. It was time to push a bit as I looked back and saw that the guy behind me hadn't wasted any time in the aid station as well.

I made my time on the downhills and even passed one more guy who seemed to be having difficulty on them. However, once we reached the flats and a few more climbs, it was clear that he was far from dead yet. There was a bit more single track before the final aid station, but none of the downhill was steep enough for me to let fly. In fact, coming into this aid station, running uphill, I could see the runner I'd passed working hard too.

photo courtesy of Brazen Racing

Lucky for me, after this aid station there were a couple more short climbs and then a big descent after which I wouldn't have a pretty good gap. Heading down the hills, I saw a red shirt a few switch backs below me. I recognized it as a guy from UC Berkeley with whom I had run for a bit early in the race. I thought it might be fun to try and catch him, but there was little chance of an overtake since the final couple miles were relatively flat. I had no illusions of keeping up with a young whippet on that sort of terrain. It didn't matter anyway because he saw me coming and having seen my downhill pace, worked hard to assure that we wouldn't meet again until after the finish.

At this point, my focus was more on the numbers than the runners even though I had been told, incredulously, that I was in 5th place. I was more interested in breaking 5:30. When I looked at the race, I figured 6:30 would be a reasonable time for me. However, the elevation gain on the site is high by nearly 1000ft by my estimate and I was also having a pretty good day. I was pushing the pace as best I could, making my way through the many creek crossings in the final miles.

"A mile and a half to go," I was told. I glanced at my watch and saw that I would have to do that in just about 12-1/2 minutes. OK, 8 minute mile it was and no slowing for the creeks!

photo courtesy of Brazen Racing

With less than a mile to go, I felt like I had it. I was on pace. Then, just one little climb. It was nothing really, less than a quarter-mile long. But, it was enough to slow me down when I had no margin for error. I started to sprint for the finish as soon as I saw it, but quickly saw the clock next to it tick over to 5:30. I crossed the line about 10 seconds later. I smiled. It's a good feeling to race the final miles even if you just miss a goal.

In the end, I felt surprisingly well and had a very surprising finish. 5th place is probably about as good a result as I'll see this year so I have nothing but good memories for this race.

Go Short

2010-03-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

I guess only someone who run's ultras would think of an 18.6 mile race as short. My intent last Saturday was to run the Sequoia 50K. But, this is basketball season and my son's high school team is in the regional playoffs. His game for Saturday was scheduled for 2:45pm. It didn't take too much math to realize that I would have to break the course record and PR by over an hour at the 50K distance to run that race and make it to his game. Needless to say, I didn't quite feel up to the task.

After a quick email to the RD, I was able to drop my registration down to the 30K distance. With an 8:30am start, I figured I could finish between 3 and 3-1/2 hours and still have plenty of time to shower and clean up before heading down to San Jose. The only problem was that I really hadn't raced a distance less than 50K in a long time. I was wondering how I should pace myself. I was also wondering about the fact that in an ultra, I generally feel pretty bad somewhere around the 3 to 3-1/2 hour zone.

I figured that if I could stick with some 50K runner who would normally be a bit faster than me, I would be at the right pace. Luckily, Harry was signed up for the full distance and he is not only faster than me, but also a good friend. Race morning was clear, but major rains had dumped the night before so it was going to be another muddy race for 2010. Harry and I started a bit far back in the field, but passed a number of people running up some of the early hills. Running hard uphill early in a race was definitely not something I would not have done in a longer event.

Harry and I stuck together through the initial miles through Joaquin Miller Park, but after the course enters Redwood there is a nice steep downhill on which I knew I would loose him though the mud did keep me a bit in check. I expected him to catch me again on either the next uphill or the rolling section of French Trail, but either he wasn't having a great day or I was pushing hard. It turned out to be a bit of both.

I decided to see what I could do and worked my way up a bit, passing people on the downhills and trying to hang on to them on the ups. I ended up coming upon one guy that I couldn't pass downhill. He wasn't that great going uphill, but on the downs he was actually out pacing me. He even dropped me on the Golden Spike trail which I alway considered myself to have "wired." I've always known there were better downhill runners than me further up in the field. The interesting thing was that he wasn't that much better a climber than me. I guess others are just as lopsided in their abilities as I am, only faster at both.

When we reached the flats, I caught up with this guy and we chatted a bit. He was doing the 50K so had I ordered the full meal deal, I would unlikely be seeing him at this point in the race. It turns out that he was doing his first ultra. It also turned out that he was closer to my son's age than mine. I also learned that we went to the same college only separated by a decade or so. I didn't stick with him on the way back as I was just focused on getting the race done and seeing if I could keep the pace.

Running in the mud is actually much worse on the uphill. I could feel that extra bit of effort with every step climbing up to the West Ridge. Had I known at the time how close I would finish to 3 hours, maybe I would have pushed a bit hard once we reached it. I was already pretty far outside my comfort zone and, being an ultrarunner, I have sort of installed a permanent governor on my ability to push into the red zone before the final miles of a race, my inner voice echoing "not yet, not yet" inside my head.

From the final aid station it was just two miles to the finish, but I was already pretty sure a sub-3 was not going to happen since I knew the trails pretty well. I took a little breather on the climb up out of Redwood to let myself focus on the final downhills. I knew the descent down Cinderella was going to be a blast. At this point in the race, we'd already caught up with many of the 20K runners. I think I scared a few of them on my way down muddy technical trail. I wanted to believe that I could still break 3 hours. Unfortunately, I knew the final rolling bit of trail after the downhill was just long enough to keep that from a reality.

I watched 3 hours go by just as I was heading up towards the final little hill. My hamstrings were feeling it and there was no reason to push to the limit at this point. I was plenty satisfied with coming in just under 3:02. Finishing 15th was certainly better than I had expected at the start. I did get a tiny bit of excitement before learning my final place. When I finished they had only put up the first 10 finishers. There were only 2 others listed ahead of me in the Men's 40-49 category! I thought there was a chance that it was younger field given the shorter distance. Alas, 3 of the 4 people posted next ahead of me were all in my same age group. Oh well, back to my mid-packer ultrarunning status.

Sliding into first base

2010-02-21T12:37:00.000-08:00

A start. An actual start. That's how I felt driving home last weekend after the Los Gatos Overgrown Trail Marathon. That fatass event topped off a week of 67 miles. Having run 15 the previous day from Mission Peak to Sonol and back, the marathon was a nice finale. I was quite satisfied having finished the 26.6 miles (and 6000ft of climbing) in just under 5 hours. My hip was not so happy on Monday after a weekend total of 10,000ft up and down, but I still managed a nice little recovery run to loosen up and some time on the foam roller. Tuesday, unfortunately, I awoke with a scratchy throat. Always some fits to go with those starts.

Luckily, I wasn't down too long. I eked out a meager 15 miles during the week and then got out for 10 miles of steep hill repeats with Harry and Beat yesterday. Today I sit inside snuggled in a lack of motivation, watching the rain fall outside. I really should get in at least 5 miles, but it's too easy to comfort myself with reassurances that I shouldn't push it based on how I felt this morning. I did sign up for the Sequoia 50K next weekend. So I am, at least, guaranteed more miles next week.

It's funny, I seem to be more paranoid of injury, illness and whatnot this time of year than when closer to my goal races. If I have my fitness where I want it and am laid up for a week or so, I know that it is just a matter of recovery to get back on track. However, if I am put out during my buildup period, I start worrying about failing to get into shape in the first place. I'm not sure if the analogy holds, but it's sort of like sliding into first base. Risking too much on a play so early in the game doesn't make sense. Well, it sounds good anyway.

Mudside 50K

2010-02-10T09:00:00.000-08:00

A muddy mess! A sloppy, slippery, beautiful, muddy mess. That pretty much describes the Woodside 50K course that I ran last weekend. I signed up pretty late in the game based on my son having a game that night in a city not far from the park where the race is held. Besides, I wanted to start upping my weekly mileage and it is always so much easier to commit to a long run when you've already shelled out the cash.

The weather, like my schedule, had been sporadic the week leading up to the race. However, Saturday was calling for showers. The rain started almost right on schedule with my pulling into the parking lot in the morning. After check-in I mulled around, caught up with a few friends and tried to stay warm before the start. It wasn't raining hard so I stuck with my super-lightweight Brooks LSD jacket.

While it was my first time running this event, I had run most of the trails aside from the section through Wunderlich Park. Being on the peninsula, these its a beautiful course run through big redwood trees. It's probably a good race for a first-timer as well since it has less climbing than many PCTR events (4500ft in the 50K), its not very technical (some of the trails are essentially paved) and it doesn't have multiple loops.

Personally, I didn't have any intention to race this thing hard, but wanted to push myself a little bit and get in a brisk run. Less than 5000ft of climbing for me generally means I should be able to finish in the low-5 hour range. I thought something around a 5:15 would be a good target, but the weather was not calculated into that estimate. I tried to take it easy at the start, but in truth, probably should have held back a bit longer. The climb up to Skyline is so gradual and runnable that its hard to take it too easy.

I enjoyed the new section to the turnaround loop down into Wunderlich, but my calves were pretty tight on the climb back out. The cold wet weather wasn't helping and was probably sweating more than I realized since it was so cool. I took an extra salt at the aid station and looked forward to the final downhill even though it not being "real trail" didn't play completely to my strengths. First, though, I had to get through the rolling Skyline trail. I'd run this a number of times and it can seem long. I was hoping to just go on autopilot, but the trail was much worse than on the trip out. Not only had it been raining the whole time, but, between the 35K and 50K, a couple hundred runners had run through it. I went ankle deep a couple of times.

Eventually I made it through and was actually not to bummed about the "paved" trail. I took every advantage of the downhill I could, passing a number of runners including a couple of 50K racers who I thought had dropped me on the previous climb. The final stretch is actually on road and it seemed to be much longer than I remembered. The 5:15 time went slipping on by so I set my targets on 5:20 to keep myself motivated. I ended up a little under 5:19 which was actually good enough for a top-20 finish probably with some help from the no-shows.

Running your first race is always good motivation for the upcoming season. I did a nice 6 mile recovery run the next day to top the mileage above 50 for the week. Sunday was also the Hardrock 100 lottery. My chances of being selected were pretty slim, but I was both hopeful and worried about the prospect. The laws of statistics held true and I was placed #74 on the wait list; basically, no chance I will get in unless over half the accepted runners decides not to run. I guess the good news is that I don't have to spend all my vacation days acclimating for the race.

I hadn't given too much thought to what I would do in exchange. I'd been considering perhaps a long through-hike. I've thought a lot about doing Bighorn 100 again (and finishing without having to limp the final miles). There were also a number of new races including an intriguing run in Montana called Swan Crest. Harry and Beat agreed to join me for Bighorn, but then Beat started talking about doing both. I should know better than to listen to him. When he sent me the note about having to carry bear spray and the mandatory watching of a video about what to do in the event you meet up with a grizzly bear, I was hooked. The 24 mile section without aid and the initial 4000ft climb were just gravy.

In my exuberance, I failed to check the calendar. I've just committed to run five 100 mile races in less than a 6 month span. I realize there are those out there who do much, much more, but I'm not generally one to race again too soon after a big event. The only good news is that the shortest time between is 5 weeks. I guess that's what I get for hanging out with a guy who is training for a 200 mile race in the Italian Alps this fall. I'm sure he'll be trying to get me to add something in August during our next run.

Run Together

2010-01-31T20:08:00.001-08:00

I do most of my training runs solo. In fact, outside of races, I almost never run with other people. With a relatively sparse race schedule this year, I've a desire to change this situation a bit. I don't have what one would call a particularly rich social life--never have. About the closest I come is when Harry, Beat and I get together for dinner in order tell tales and generally BS after one of us has run a big race. Hanging out with two guys equally as running-obsessed and only slightly less anti-social than me probably isn't what most people would call progress in terms of my interpersonal development. I will admit that it is a bit funny that, since all we do is talk about running, it never occurred to us to just plan these outings around an actual run. When Harry recently suggested the idea in an email, it was sort of an enlightened moment of "duh!"

With Beat up north in Berkeley and Harry in the south bay, we decided the first group run would be near my place. After spending a week rehabilitating a sore hip from running Mission Peak during the previous storm, I decided that, after the recent rains, a different locale would be a better choice. I settled on Pleasanton Ridge due to it's facing the east-rising sun, easy planning due to the water access on the trail and the fact that it would be new trails for my two friends. In short, we had a great run. With Beat only two weeks out from his finish at the HURT 100, the pace was slower than I would have done along and that's a good thing since I usually end up going harder than I should when alone. We ran a little over 14 miles and conversation ran well beyond run, ranging from the latest technology to American colloquial malapropisms to the epistemological basis for the non-belief in God.

Post run, we headed out for lunch and then back to my place for some hand-brewed coffee and a bit more conversion before parting to our respective lives. Retrospect says that both the idea and execution were good. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to start a running club or anything, but it is nice to step outside my reclusive ways every now and then. We will plan further runs together. It's good motivation and good training.

Shhh...

2010-01-17T20:58:00.000-08:00

Impatience trumped frugality and I couldn't wait for my Brooks ID discount in order to try this new shoe. Besides, it was quite different from what I normally run in so I needed to try them on first. Green Silence: the name sounds like a super hero--some sort eco-ninja perhaps. The shoe's name comes from the post-consumer and biodegradable material used in its construction. While I'm probably one of the last to jump on the whole "green" bandwagon, something about these shoes attracted me and I'd been anticipating their arrival since I'd first learned of them.

I have odd-shaped feet, but Brook's Adrenaline shoes in EE width seem to accommodate my overly wide forefoot with mismatched, narrow heel. I was skeptical about trying a shoe that didn't come in width sizing. I was pleasantly surprised. Going up a half-size in order to compensate for width has, in past, resulted in slippage either just in the back or of my whole foot within the shoe. However, the unique design and lacing pattern of the Green Silence seemed to wrap my foot and eliminate the slipping. There was also an extra eye-hole to help secure my heel. Happy with the fit, I made the purchase. Thanks Don and Gillian!

Of course, the real test would be on the run. The soles of these shoes are almost completely flat so their use would be relegated to roads and relatively smooth trails. My plan for the day called for 4 miles of road and 6 on soft dirt and gravel paths. I was happy to find that my custom orthotics fit the shoes just fine without altering their extremely light and flexible they feel. Overall, the shoes performed great and I experienced no pain in either my feet or joints during the run. This was especially surprising because previous attempts to use a more neutral shoe caused some knee pain on my right side.

For someone used to a "support" shoe, it seems a little strange that this "racing flat" would work better than a shoe which originated as a spin off of my usual model. I haven't run enough in these to come to any solid conclusions, but I believe it has to do with the midsole height. The Green Silence has the lowest midsole (18mm heel, 10mm toe) as well as the smallest heel-to-toe ratio (8mm offset) of any shoe in Brook's line. Though I have no science to back this up, its possible this low-to-the-ground design doesn't give my foot as much space to overpronate through its range of motion. Having less cushioning also keeps me from striking too hard on my heel. It felt a little bit like barefoot running.

I've done a bit of barefoot running and also used the Vibram Fivefingers in the past. While nice training tools, I doubt I will ever dispense with my trusted running shoes. Going barefoot does help toughen the feet and works all those supporting muscles. However, when I run sans shoes for more than 5-6 miles or for a few days in a row, my calves become incredibly tight. It's possible that I just need to build up more slowly, but my training is so time-limited as it is that I don't need any more reasons to limit my mileage. With the Green Silence I felt similar to how I feel after about 3-4 miles running barefoot when, actually, I'd run much longer than that.

In the end, I guess that one fact pretty much says it all: I had planned only 10 miles for the day, but ran more than 12 simply because it felt good and I wanted to keep going.

Back and Forth

2010-01-03T16:25:00.001-08:00

This is the part of the story where I;m supposed to wax poetically over the previous year's accomplishments and then blather on excitedly about plans for the new year. I finished off the final week of 2009 or the first week of 2010--whichever you like better--with the Epiphany Run, a fat ass run based loosely around the birthday of Ultrarunning Magazine editor John Medinger. Finishing the run with a little over 50K due to my own creative course creation, I then topped off my week with a short recovery run the next day giving me 76 miles. I definitely felt like I was in the flow of training, but my over-enthusiasm created some back issues the following week ending in less than 35 miles. The back is better, but training is still sporadic. However, mentally, I am in the right mode so plans is underway.

I'm only going to say a few words about last year; if I let myself think too much on it, I know there is far too much to say. In short, from a running perspective, it was my most accomplished year yet. As with the previous year, I finished 4 100-milers. Each of these races represented a milestone of one sort or another.

Looking back, here is how they stack up in my mind:

Coyote Two Moons
This was a repeat race for me and one that I didn't really need to repeat for any reason other than where it fell in the year and the fact that a couple of good friends were going. The course is tough, but the format of going through two nights makes it a bit ridiculous. It ended up being my most epic event yet. Starting at 11pm, I had about 8 good hours before I started feeling bad. The second day and night was one long continuous deterioration--physical, mental and emotional. The last few climbs were arduous and I kept telling myself and others that I was going to drop at the next aid station. Looking back, I still can't figure out what kept me moving through the night except maybe that my mind was too addled to come up with a convincing reason to stop. It's the closest I have come to a DNF yet. It made me realize that, for better or worse, I am unlikely to quit a race unless I am physically unable.

Western States
What can be said about this race that hasn't already been said. Like most people, this is the first 100 miler I ever learned about. I'd thought about it for years. I had good confidence in finishing, it being my 8th 100, but I really wanted to go for the gold--or silver as it were. I had a plan and I was totally on it, at least for 60-70 miles. After that, it became more about getting the mark on the checklist. I loved the idea of such a classic event with its history, but, ultimately, it wasn't really the type of race that moves my spirit. I enjoyed the early mountain miles much more than the more famous sections with big packed aid stations.

Plain
I don't recall exactly when I first learned of Plain. However, I do recall that it captured my imagination immediately. The adventure, rather than the competitive, aspect of ultras is what attracted me the most. The idea of traveling 100 miles under one's own power intrigued me, being able to do so while carrying all one's own necessities, drinking from mountain streams, following an unmarked course, that was a whole other level of self-reliance. I'd intended to write more about this race, but life got busy. All I can say is that it retains a distinct position in my memory. I'm sure there are plenty of low points whitewashed by time, but no other race has given me such a feeling of belinging out there.

Javelina
I've spilled more words on this race than any other. It being a loop course and my most repeated 100, the 15.4 miles of this races main trail is as familiar to me as anything I run. This familiarity presents both a level of comfort as well as a certain pressure to perform. I've managed to beat my previous results upon each return, but I've no idea how long I can keep that up. I plan to return for at least 5 finishes. if I can keep my streak of sub-24s alive, perhaps I'll keep going.

That's about all I have to say about last year. This year is, again, focused around the 100 milers; perhaps even more so. It's not that I've lost any respect for the shorter distances. In fact, I often find them tougher; feeling the need to push myself much more than in a 100. I'm never going to be competitive in them and I'm not getting any younger either. The real motivation, however, has more to do with limited time and a desire to focus on events that fill my spirit with a sense of renewal. On that slightly melodramatic note, my plans for this year will again are really only set for the beginning of the year.

The first is a quest for a new experience. I have entered and been chosen in the lottery for the Massanuttan Mountain Trails 100. Any race on the east coast would represent new territory for me. This race has a reputation for toughness; a toughness very different from the mountain altitude or steep climbs that mark the hardest races in the west. Extremely technical trails and rocks galore will be the new order of the day.

Next, is another lottery, but with a fairly slim chance of selection. I will find out about Hardrock 100 next month. This is still the only race that really scares me. I haven't traditionally done well at altitude, suffering in anything above 8500ft. Elevations up above 10K are completely new territory for me. If I am selected, I will need to acclimate properly and it will still be a risky proposition. This race will be my new challenge. I am still thinking about what I might do in its stead in the likely event that I find July open in my schedule. I am thinking about some sort of fast pack, a long solo trek, perhaps.

I plan to finish the year with both Plain and Javelina again. Plain, because I want to see if I can repeat that most singular experience. Javelina, for all the reasons I mentioned before. I will fill in with other races as opportunity permits. I am also going to try to add in more long self-supported runs. I rarely go much beyond 25 miles in my training runs, but I'd really like to plan some 30+ milers of my own design.

That's it. Nothing particularly special this year, but a gradual progression, I think. There is a certain transition underway, but right now I'm not looking that far ahead.

Jump Start

2009-12-30T18:59:00.000-08:00

Today's 16.5 miles marks five days straight running--first time in a few months--the past 4 all on trails covering 47.7 miles and over 9500ft of climbing. It's a little early, but I am going to declare this my first official week of 2010 training. I'll probably do something easy tomorrow and then take Friday off before the weekend. I'm not sure what I'll do this weekend. If I'm feeling ambitious on Saturday morning the Epiphany Run will mark the first official unofficial ultra of the new year. I mainly just want to log a good week of miles to start off the new year.

Today's run was one of those rare sampling of new trails. While looking for someplace to run before doing some errands over in Palo Alto, I discovered the existence of the Bay-to-Ridge Trail. It's an interesting idea even if it does require a start and initial miles on pavement. Once the path reaches Arastrodero Preserve it's pretty much all trail to Skyline Ridge. As a future project, I think doing a "Bay to the Beach" run continuing on from Skyline Ridge through Long Ridge and Saratoga Gap open spaces to link up with the Skyline-to-the-Sea trail would be pretty cool. I was slightly less ambitious today starting in Arastrodero and continuing up through Foothills preserve to Los Trancos. I'd run in this last park before, but the rest of the trails were all new to me.

Arastrodero is mostly open grasslands with wide smooth paths. There are some nice looking single track, but all were closed due to muddy conditions. Foothills is a true gem, but is only open to the public via Arastrodero. It has some excellent winding trails leading gradually up to the ridge through deep tree cover. Very nice. I had a great time on this extremely runnable trails. I took it pretty easy, however, since I had done Mission Peak the day before. I will definitely have to sample these places out some more as there were many side trails leading off in all directions and it isn't too bad a drive since it is right off Hwy 280. Best of all, the experience of cruising along new trails having to force myself to turn around and head back was just what I needed to rejuvenate my passion for running trails in the new year.

Happy New Year everyone!

Perspiration's Inspiration

2009-12-13T15:35:00.000-08:00

94. That is the sum total running miles I logged during the month of November. I'm over 100 for December thus far, but not by much. I always take some down time at the end of the year to recover both physically and mentally. This year has been a bit more "down" than normal. A busier usual life on both the personal and professional front has conspired with the usual holiday hubbub to leave almost no time for any weekday running. Well, that, and a near complete lack of desire.

After Javelina, I was trying to figure out what to do with the following month. Given that last year I spent the two months after this race rehabilitating a torn calf muscle, I definitely planned to take it very easy. I didn't want to take the month totally off from running; however, I wanted whatever running I decided to do to be about something. Perhaps I would dig up the heartrate monitor and limit myself to only very easy runs. Maybe I would only run when I could to a trailhead. In the end, I decided it was to be about inspiration; I would run only when I was inspired to do so whether it be by some interesting route, a new trail or just the return of the internal desire to move my feet.

I did force myself to take a full week off. Even though my legs felt better than they had after the previous year's race, I didn't want to tempt fate. The following Saturday, my first inspiration run came to me. Eschewing my watch, I placed my personal journal in my pack, put it on my back and headed out the door. The legs felt heavy, but I just kept them at a very slow pace. I was headed towards the Mission Peak trailhead, given myself permission to walk the whole way back if necessary. I headed up the trail taking the immediate right fork towards the less populated route. I headed up the Horse Heaven single track, but went off trail upon topping the first hill. There, on a rock overlooking the Bay, I took off my pack and sat. I spent the better part of the afternoon enjoying the view and writing. I had no concern for time and decided that I should go without my watch for the remainder of the month. Eventually I shuffled on home.

The next day I had a very odd inspiration, if you can even call it that. I hopped on the treadmill for 2-1/2 miles while watching a football game. I think I mainly just wanted to loosen my legs up after the previous day's run. The next weekend I had to wait for my wife to finish some work and so I went on a "run of opportunity" around the bay trail in Foster City. It ended up turning into a bit of impromptu speedwork as I kept pushing more and more as I ran along the flat path. I had no idea of the pace since I was without watch. The next day's inspiration had me putting the GPS watch back on the wrist, but not for myself. I was planning to visit my parents for dinner, but wanted to get a run in first. Upon learning that they would be watching my niece and nephew, I invited my sister's 10-year old son to join me on his bike. We traveled the flat, paved paths that run throughout Contra Costa County traveling a full 24 miles in about 4 hours. We had a great time stopping for ice cream at the turnaround point. I was glad I brought the watch because I knew the return trip would be filled with questions of "how far?" and "how long?"

The third weekend of the month consisted of just a couple of mid-length road runs that would normally be considered quite uninspiring. However, in each case I simply ran when the impetus struck. The final weekend was, perhaps, a bit more interesting. Having the Friday after Thanksgiving off, I headed down to Grant Park in San Jose. I hadn't run there in a long time, but it was a favorite destination back when I used to mountain bike. With a bit of rain in forecast, I found the park nearly empty. I saw one set of hikers as I headed out and then had the entire 13+ miles of trail completely to myself for the rest of the afternoon. Saturday I did a little 4 mile shakedown and then headed up Mission on Sunday for one of my favorite routes looping around the back side and heading out to Monument before heading over the Peak on the return.

The monthly miles may have been small, but every one was quality.

I'd intended to kick things back into training mode once December hit, but a continued busy schedule along with my old nemesis called "inertia" has kept that from happening. I started off with a descent week of 47 miles including a 23+ mile long run starting in Redwood City and going up to Skyline Blvd which was followed by 12+ miles the next day at Purisima Creek. Unfortunately, once the holiday's got into full swing the only thing that's gotten much of a workout is my liver. I do have this entire week off so I am going to make an effort to get on the trails every day. I'm also going to write a second blog entry this week ruminating on the past year's accomplishments and the coming one's goals.