The heart is a bloom Shoots up through the stony ground There's no room No space to rent in this town
There's a little race in Moab in the spring that isn't so small anymore, but is still a favorite of mine. My friend Jen put this on my radar six years ago, and we ran the 33K together along with our third amigo Nick that year in snow and cold. I cursed the one-step-forward, two-slides-back in the snow on the slickrock. Then, I looked around at those gorgeous views, and that was it. People pay money to come here from all over the world. They jeep, they mountain bike, but I think there is truly no better way to see Moab than on foot.
After that first go 'round, I returned to run my first ultra a year later. It had been an annual yearly event, but something that was not in budget this year. I'd volunteered with my good friend Tom at the final aid station of another race Behind The Rocks, though, and had a complimentary entry into the RedHot for that gig. Signing up ages ago, I was excited to have earned a ticket back.
Training for long distances, though, has been slim. On the flip side, I've finally found the flow of where and when to squeeze in the runs in a post-divorce life. There were plenty of regular runs leading up to the RedHot, but none of them were very long. I did have a good run at our local fatass, the Bangs Canyon 30K, which has a long, steep climb to end the second half. Honestly, I knew that I was probably looking at my slowest time ever. I came down to the race with a certain amount of happiness...giddiness at where I am right now, and all the good things taking place.
I don't have a dream job but it pays the bills, and I get to utilize my talents reasonably well. I really love my little rental house, located on the edge of our local university, and in close proximity to all three schools my kids attend. My post-divorce dog who wound up being a cat. I would call him Awesome Cat, but he already came with the name of Schmink/Shpink. Being with my kids in a cozy space. And I (re)met someone, Andy, a barely-acquaintance from 18 years ago who came out (back) to Colorado from Oregon, and would then head over to Utah with me for this race weekend. Sometimes life unfolds in ways that could never be predicted, and it's just a pleasant surprise. It was truly exciting to take a race I love on my own, and get to share that experience.
Getting into Moab, it was clear that this was going to be one hot mofo. Everything felt very lowkey, though. I knew I'd be a back-of-the-packer. I embraced my well-restedness, though, and was relishing the knowledge that it was going to be a beautiful day by Moab standards out there. Andy and I picked up my packet from Jen on the way to the start, and it was almost anticlimatic when the start occurred. He was going to meet me out at aid station 1/3 when I returned to it at 17 miles. I'd slogged up that first hill in wind, rain, snow, and other conditions, but it was perfect out there today. Climbing the first hill, I took a good look around before riding the wave downhill and on to the split where the 33K and 55K divide took place. In my head, I realized I hadn't told Andy that when hiking, he needed to turn RIGHT to get to aid station 1 and 3. And, that the signs would probably be adjusted by the time he hiked through to direct 55K runners on to the remainder of the course. Damn, not much to do about that now.
You're on the road
But you've got no destination You're in the mud In the maze of her imagination
You love this town Even if that doesn't ring true You've been all over And it's been all over you
I had no Garmin, and no measurement of distance other than my own personal experience on the course. This was as good as gold; I wasn't worried about spotting flags at all on the first half of the course. I knew the loop, and to where we'd return. There was no haste in my step, and I turned around every so often to take in the view. Climbing to aid station number two, I did that fun "look down to the cars" and felt that satisfaction of climbing on my own two feet. Slower than molasses but it didn't matter. I'd managed to have a signal out there, and I got two brief calls out to Andy while climbing to let him know that I was on track, near the back of the pack where I expected to be, and trucking along right on schedule. I'd been a little concerned about not making the one and only time cutoff but was still easily ahead of that mark. Given that this was not going to be a PR kind of day, I was invigorated to feel this good.
Trotting down to aid station three, I was somehow smiling. Andy met up with me there, and he'd had a bit of an adventure already, taking a left turn at the fork, which had an arrow pointing that way for the 55K runners at that point (the 33K runners go the same way, and had already come and gone). He reached an aid station where they told him, nope, you need to go back and up that hill. I laughed/groaned at that, realizing only after I'd started running that I should've remembered and told him about the sign flipperoni, He was no worse for the wear, though, and it was the best thing ever to just talk and chat down that bigass hill, and reach the cutoff where I'd head on for the second half of the course. We said good-bye and I headed off to do my thing.
Last year, there was someone who took great delight in celebrating/laughing at what we like to do out here on the trails. There was a sign at the top of a long stretch of slickrock that said "You are NOT almost there. HA! HA! HA!" He or she drew a few swear words and rave reviews for the signage. This year, they'd upped the game. This is what greeted me before the most difficult part of the race course. Truly the most inspirational and motivational steaming pile of poo I've ever encountered trailside.
What you don't have you don't need it now What you don't know you can feel it somehow What you don't have you don't need it now Don't need it now Was a beautiful day
There's not much to say about the second half. The slickrock was a challenge, as always. I was surrounded by first-timers, and I spent the entire second half of the race moving along with a fella who just wanted to finish. We barely said two sentences to one another the entire time but we kept our eyes peeled for the pink and black flags in the areas on the course where they became a little challenging to track, and waved the other onward if one of us didn't spot the flag right away. After beginning the gazillionth slick rock climb, I exclaimed "I LOVE climbing slick rock. I LOVE IT!" He laughed at my jackassery and we kept plugging away. Sign Person kept it going with his/her passive-aggressive support and taunts.
They'd once again run out of my favorite race treat, Coke, by the time I hit aid station four. I just didn't have it in me to be care, and I guzzled the Sprite they still had available with great satisfaction. Then it was onward to aid station five, and the finish. I wasn't going to make it in by the time awards took place-something that happened only once before. My right IT band started twinging a bit around mile 30, but I found that hiking eliminated that twinge. In full Honey Badger mode, I truly didn't give a damn; there was never a point in the race when I thought I couldn't do it. This was a concern ahead of time, given my lack of long runs. I felt very light...not fast...but the steps weren't hard this year. Finishing the race multiple times prior, plus the Silver Rush 50 last summer, and my DNF at Leadville...this was progress to be able to just go out and run this sucker without thinking of 34 miles as something I could not complete. It wasn't the monstrously long thing I'd built it up to be in my head the first time around. It was just fun.
I made it in about 45 minutes slower than previous slowest effort, and almost 90 minutes slower than my best effort. Time didn't matter today. It was beautiful out there, with people who all shared the same interest in doing this shiznit, and enjoy moving from point to point on foot in beautiful country. I was all smiles, "enjoying the course," as the expression goes. I enjoyed that hug from Andy at the finish-he'd had his own fun hiking around, and a bit of an exciting wildlife encounter (key words are "bobcat" and "cave" and "growling") while I was running. I entered that post-race state of "Must.Eat.NOW," and off we went for the post-race stuffing of the face. It was a beautiful day; it eventually came to an end with me being too tired to consider the post-race festivities at Eddie McStiffs. I was well-intentioned but sound asleep at a ridiculously early hour. Sleep has been challenging for a long time, but running for a long time helps me to right those cycles as much as anything.
It's a week post-race and everything in the body feels pretty good. Oh, and I got into Leadville again. Taken a bit by surprise, expecting the race would be full with better and faster runners, I know I have to take my second chance at the 100 and go for it. That, too, will be a beautiful day; but for now I've got this one.
"These arms of mine were made for lifting up
And when I set things down again
I hope they are better than they were"
-Paper Bird, As I Am
"I will not just survive, I will be better than before."
-Vince DiCroce, as quoted on the back of a Leadville Marathon runner's shirt.
DiCroce, a former city attorney in Denver, recently passed away from a brain tumor. He ran more than 30 marathons and 7 Ironmans, most after his 2004 diagnosis.
I admit, I had a different song in mind all along for this race. Then, sometimes, another message comes through- loud, clear, timely, and meant for me. The above song popped up on shuffle as I drove past Turquoise Lake early Saturday morning to pick up my race packet. The "lover" in the song is definitely my mountains, and speaking to letting go of fear and the past could not have been more timely. I had also never heard of Vince DiCroce until the final moments waiting to start the Leadville Trail Marathon, where I read the above message on the back of a shirt, and saw repeatedly as I followed the man up the mountain who was wearing the shirt. I committed the quote to memory, and upon googling it when I returned to Grand Junction, learned that Mr. DiCroce was a kindred spirit to those of us who like to get out, live life and challenge ourselves despite the odds. So, this is my humble tale about trying to be better than before. Winds are blowing, the sky is clear
Let go of fear
And what's happened to you
The Leadville Trail Marathon, while I'd tried not to play it up in my head, was kind of a big deal to me this year. Leadville Trail 100 dreams went kaput pretty early last year, but this year, things have been different. My game plan has been one I've put together to point myself toward success in August, doing what I think is important for me to accomplish a finish in under thirty hours.
I abandoned speed work, the roads, and anything that would be a hindrance to reaching that goal. I took every opportunity I could to climb hills, and get more and more used to steep up and down terrain. In a perfect world I would have liked to have a higher mileage base, but I felt that I really was doing things better than I have done before. The mileage, right now, has been enough for this point in the game, so long as I continue to build and challenge myself. Still, I was very nervous. Yes, I'd run on the Grand Mesa, gone on long outings on the Fruita trails, done the gnarly Garfield Grumble and done another steep run up the backside of Garfield with my friend Cheryl. Would it be enough, though?Despite all that work, I am still much slower on trails than most of my friends. I don't know why, but no matter how hard I try I am not the same speed there as I am on roads.
I had at first thought I would go up solo, but late in the week, I chatted with my friend Butch about coming up to Leadville for some cool mountain air, and hanging out. Our friend Ernie was also going up, and offered space at the campground where he'd be staying. A plan had been hatched.
Friday night came, though, and I was a literal hot mess. It was 98 degrees when I got off work. I couldn't find anything I needed. I wasn't motivated to pack. And, despite an overwhelmingly high number of good days dealing with my new life situation, it wound up being one of those evenings when I had a total crying meltdown. I'm kind of ashamed to say that, but sometimes stuff just comes out. And, well, I think it was meant to be. I hit the shower to cool off, and felt like I'd pretty much purged any negative, pent-up energy I'd had going on. I picked up Butch, we headed to Leadville, found Ernie's campsite and pitched his tent at about 11pm. Despite the late hour I felt very mellow and relaxed. The skies were clear, the temperature perfect for sleeping in the mountains at night. I must have been awake for no more than 30 seconds before I was out like a light, and I did not wake up until I'd accomplished six good hours of coma-like sleep. For a gal who has trouble sleeping much of the time, this was great.
Waking up before my alarm, I took a stroll to the shore of Turquoise Lake, just steps from our campsite.
It brought back good memories of pacing my friend Ben around the lake in 2012, on his way to a finish in the LT 100. The sun had been rising on his second day of racing, and he was still going, having survived all the troubles of the night. I made packet pickup at 5:58, hit City On The Hill, the coffee shop, at 6 on the nose, and got my steaming hot caffeine just prior to the massive rush of runners piling in through the doors. This seemed to be a sign that this would be a good day; it was also a treat to be in here since it had been two years since my previous involvement in a Leadville race. I seemed to have the mojo and energy of it being MY first time to be the runner, not the support crew or pacer.
After the beverage I came back to camp, finding Ernie and Butch awake and ready to go. We rode into town for the start, and the skies were clear and blue. I managed to make it through the bathroom line just in time to join the massive throngs of Heavy Half and marathon runners with about two minutes to spare. Unlike my disastrous gastrointestinal issues at the Colorado Marathon, everything had thankfully, uh, come out just fine today. I was feeling good and ready to go.
As the race began, I felt free, happy, and in the moment. I'd made it here, and was going to enjoy this experience for all it was worth. As we started, I moved forward with the crowd, and was pleased that my lungs were not screaming. A mere mile in, I was talking with new friend Kate who had recently moved to Grand Junction, and was glad I could carry on a bit of a conversation. Soon, we reached the split where the Heavy Half-ers went straight ahead and we, the marathoners, turned right. This was the beginning of what I expected to be much more steep and straight uphill, but had more of a nice continuously rolling uphill feel. I had no grand plans to knock myself out today; this was about maintaining an honest effort, running as much as I could, and being present on the course. When a fellow runner said it was a privilege to be out here today, because not everybody could do such things, I knew what he meant. I kept moving ahead, looking around and appreciating where I was.
After hitting the first aid station, we reached a flat with gorgeous 360 degree views. I stopped to look around a bit and take a picture or two before continuing on.
This was the first time I really noticed the blowing winds. I debated staying in my short sleeves, and was really feeling "The Force" of my shirt...but decided that I did not want to get too cold and then try to warm myself out. I tugged my old Boston Marathon shirt out of my bag and it seemed to be just the ticket. Climbing up, up, up, I would chat with some of the now usual characters with whom I'd been sharing the trail. Soon, we saw the first Heavy Half-ers come flying through...Ewen North first, with another guy and a badass chick not more than a minute back. As a woman in the sport, this was exciting to see. We would learn later that she went on to finish third overall, and set a new course record for the ladies. Great stuff.
Now, it was time for more climbing. Again, no great speed on my part but I had not stopped once due to fatigue or a less-than-tough mental state. I was emboldened by feeling for once like I did not suck at climbing. It was, in a weird sense, relaxing and meditative. To quote Scott Jurek, "Sometimes you just do things." I just did what I needed to do here.
Reaching the last aid station before the final climb, I saw eventual winner Timmy Parr go blowing by. He'd stayed at our place for Desert R.A.T.S. in April and it was exciting to see him absolutely killing it; he'd had a tough day in the mud here two months prior. After passing through that aid station, I saw local Corey come flying through in 4th or 5th, and as I continued working my way to Mosquito Pass, I eventually saw new locals Sean, and then his wife Laura. I was further along than I expected when I saw all of these characters, and I just kept that momentum going.
In the last series of switchbacks, I was feeling pretty good. Relative to the racers I was with, I was able to push uphill as well as anyone, and challenged myself to give the most I had here. Finally, I could see that the summit was imminent. Upon reaching it, there were two people manning it. A kid bundled up in a sleeping bag and jacket, and..Ken Chlouber, Leadville Trail 100 founder! It took me a minute to figure it out, and when I did he was taking a picture for a runner. I asked if he wouldn't mind getting a quick one for me and he happily obliged, telling me it would be better if I stood by the sign to get it in the picture, adding "Honey, you're getting cold!" I assured him I was more than fine, and didn't mention that I was totally geeked to be in his presence. A very genuine interaction, and one that would have me grinning all the way down the mountain.
Heading downhill, it was decidedly colder and windier. the water flowing down from the top had increased and was now very muddy. My hat blew off as I ran a section with plowed snow next to the trail. I jumped up on it quickly and was able to retrieve the hat before another gust could pick it up and blow it away. The sky was no longer clear but I felt invigorated by Mother Nature making her presence known.
Another issue was causing me troubles now as well. I'd stepped hard on a rock a month or two back, and it had pressed up through the sole of my left foot against my cuboid bone. On the one downhill section on the climb in miles 5-8, it was causing me some grief. Now, I could really feel it. It did not require any debate in my head about what to do. I was going to protect it, and not hammer down like this was my big goal for the summer. I needed to be able to run the next weekend. I hated not hammering but I knew that to preserve my future races, I needed to not do anything super stupid today.
Moving along, the skies were darker at times, but there were also breaks of light. At one aid station, a volunteer asked if I had rain gear. Uh, no, I said. Just this shirt, but I do have hat and gloves. "It IS going to rain, he said. Put your gloves on if it comes." I was actually rather annoyed with him thinking I didn't know what I was doing, and somehow I had this feeling, in the certainty of his remark, that the rain was not going to come during my run. I politely let him know that I had been wearing the gloves the whole time anyway because my hands get cold easily, and that my long sleeved shirt was perfect for me for the last nine miles down the hill. I made a quick pit stop and continued onward.
Chatting with gals I'd been with the whole time, I hit what became the most challenging section of the course; miles 18-21. I'd been advised by veteran trail runner Bernie Boettcher to save something for this section, and I am so glad he offered this advice. This was the same territory covered in miles 5-8. Holy shit. This kind of hurt. Once again, though, I was surprised that I moved ahead of all the gals I was with, and never felt like the climb had the best of me. It more of a challenge for me to prove to the hill that I could handle it. Reaching the final aid station, I got a few more comments on my shirt, and I commented on how I'd been hoodwinked about this being a flat and fast course with a rock and roll band on every corner. I grabbed a handful of salty chips and got ready for the final descent. It was still windy but no rain had come.
Moving through the final miles, I was stoked. I was not in it to win it; far from it. I was in it as a first test to see if I was on track for my summer, and I believe I was passing this test. Heading down the last stretch of road to the finish, I just soaked up knowing that this was not the end of the line but a first big step of letting go of my fears of failure and just going for it. When I finished, my friend Butch was hollering like a madman and gave me a huge hug. This would've been a great solo journey, but it was super cool to share the finish with a friend who has a thing for the mountains as well, and knew what this day entailed for me.
The last few hours in Leadville involved dark skies, and high spirits as we cheered in the final runners. It was a thrill to encourage them on, and see them smile and fist pump upon coming through.
Some say Leadville has sold out or that it sucks. And, I hear it WAS kind of a mess at the 100 in 2013, but I was not there so I can't comment. Maybe that is their truth; it's not mine. This is where I first saw friend and neighbor Bryan finish the 100 in 2011, barely ahead of the cutoffs and with 15 minutes to spare at the finish. I watched my local friends go six for six the next year, and aided one of them along the way to that goal. Now it's my time, my goal, my race. I'm smart enough to know that I can't base success in August off a marathon in June but it was a huge positive step forward toward that. Getting ready to leave for Junction, Butch and I encountered a guy who was a LT100 finisher, and who had advice that had kind of swirled in my head, but not as he articulated it. "Just look at it as another day. Sometimes you'll feel bad in that day but it's just another day and it'll keep going on." He also added, "See you in August." I am actually starting to see myself there in August.
This was advice that was race-specific, but quite applicable to all I've been through lately. And, after the race, I did feel like I'd lifted my arms up and offered myself to the mountain, and had come out better than I was before. If I can just keep doing that-keep trying to be a little better than before-there is a strong chance I can keep it going to the finish of that race, in August, as I am, as I came to be.
All I am is a (wo)man...I want the world in my hands.
Actually, I'm far more simple than that; I like to spend time with my kids and friends, I like to run, and I like to live colorfully. Last year, I'd seen this groovy INKnBURN tech "sweater," which looked a heckuva lot like a real sweater. When winter rolled around this year, and the company came out with a smashing new red, white and blue tech sweater, I knew I had to have that. In a year full of challenges, just the simple act of putting on something that fun brings a smile to my face. You can't wear a running shirt that looks like an ugly Christmas sweater and not feel a bit of joy. Better yet, that joy is infectious, as it turns out.
I first got this year's tech sweater prior to the Rim Rock Marathon. I'd worn it for some training runs, and I was pleased that my INKnBURN holiday sweater was definitely cut for a woman. This has long been a pet peeve of mine-so many race shirts and running shirts seem to have a unisex design....AKA, fit like a potato sack. INKnBURN does a great job of making sure their products fit the athlete wearing them, whether he or she is 4'10", 6'5", long and lean, or proud Clydesdale or Athena. What I did not anticipate was all the talk about what I was wearing on the race course. That was quite amusing, and on a race day that was tough for me, I laughed to hear men whispering "yes, that's definitely a sweater," or have women ask to touch my clothing after the race. I take my running and training seriously, but I also take seriously that this is a joyful activity, first and foremost. This soon became my go-to item for winter running.
I wore it again for the Winter Sun 10K, which is normally a crisp and beautiful December race. This year, in the midst of freezing temperatures, snow coming down hard during the race, and laughing to myself at how absurd it was that we were all out in this weather, it felt like the perfect thing to be wearing as I tore down the bike path toward the finish at Moab's high school, snow falling all around, and frosted trees hanging above. I wore it to a free Monday night race put on by the host of the Footfeathers blog, which was to test a brand-new timing system, and ended at the Copper Club in Fruita, Colorado, with free beers. Mr. Footfeathers and the gal helping him out said they remembered my goofy sweater from Rim Rock, and I once again had folks ask to touch the fabric. It's pretty cool that the thing looks like a real sweater to the point that strangers ask to touch you. Well, it might be weird to some, but not to me if it's made someone smile or question what the heck I'm wearing.
(pre-race, rocking the sweater at second from left. and, why yes, that is a gong that we tote around to races.)
I've also worn it to my job. I work in the largest hospital between Denver and Salt Lake City, spending my mornings registering patients for a variety of procedures from basic lab work to CT scans, pet scans, MRIs, x-rays, and other things that nobody yells "heck yeah, I'm going to the hospital today!" over. In the afternoon, I'm registering folks at another location for physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech and other treatments that might not be the most fun thing in the world for the individual across the desk from me to be doing with their time. Surprisingly, I've gotten more compliments and laughs about it at work than anywhere. That's a pretty cool thing; I strive to be that first friendly contact who makes the whole process a little easier, and if I can take their mind off things for even a moment, it's a good thing.
I most recently wore my holiday tech sweater for what has become "my" annual tradition of running Serpent's Trail, my beloved local hill on the Colorado National Monument, on Christmas Eve. Each year, a few folks have joined me in festive attire to run or hike up and down the hill, and celebrate being outdoors. As mentioned early on, this has been a challenging year for me. But, it felt SO good to be out there, doing what I love to do, and remaining colorful and positive. It may sound cheesy....but, at the most difficult times, that's what has saved me. Getting a smile on your face, not taking yourself too seriously, and being a goofball may not bring about world peace, but it softens things. Lightens things up. Gets one in the mindset to seek positivity...and it often follows from there. Hope this gave you all a little joy and amusement, and some positivity to end 2013 carrying into a new year. Sometimes it's remembering to do the little things we love, and doing them joyfully and with humor, that makes the biggest difference.
Top of Serpent's Trail, 12/24/13
Wishing You And Yours Peace, Love, Health, and Good Humor in 2014.
(If you would like to try out some INKnBURN, first time customers may use the discount code "karahtoldme" for 15% off your first order. I bet you'll smile as much as I do when I get to wear their fun stuff)
Just knuckle down, buckle down, do it do it do it!
Last weekend marked the fifth time I headed two hours south for the Imogene Pass Run, a 17.1 mile race which begins at 7800 feet on the main drag in Ouray, climbs 10 miles to the summit of Imogene Pass at 13, 114 feet, and then descends 7.1 miles to the finish line in Telluride. The race has been a puzzle I'd failed to successfully solve in prior years. It's said that one's marathon time should be fairly equivalent to an Imogene finish time, and for many others, this is true. The best trail runners can hit this race even harder and faster than what they'd accomplish in a road marathon.
For me, as a stronger road runner, though, the race has been fraught with mishaps, spills, tentative feet on the mountain, and times 45 minutes to an hour slower than my best road marathon times. Each year, it was frustrating, to say the least. The only time I've ever broken down in tears after a race was at the finish of the 2010 Imogene Pass Run, when I'd hoped to finally break the four hour mark but wiped out, ripped flesh, side stitched, and gimped on in to the finish nearly 15 minutes slower than my 4:14 PR the year prior. I'd wanted so badly to do well, had a good training work ethic, and it was just so damn frustrating that I couldn't seem to make my feet as fast and steady here as I could nearly anywhere else.
This year, I came into the race in an oddly zen state of mind, feeling very confident about my chances. My year had been unlike any other in terms of running and training. While I have always logged time on trails, I hit new highs and extremes for time on feet, and didn't talk myself out of trying new things. My first 50-mile race on a hot day was a success, largely in part to trusting my training, and sticking to a very specific race day plan that was formulated with help from friends who had been there and done that.
Then, when the opportunity came-and kept coming-to play a part in pacing and crewing at 100 mile races, I smacked down that little voice in my head that said "these people are badasses, you don't belong there," and let the other voice that said "holy cow, what an awesome opportunity! DO IT!" prevail. It led to some of the most challenging, surreal, amazing, and satisfying moments running I've ever had. Suddenly, 17.1 over the mountain didn't seem so scary. And in daylight, after a good night's sleep-finally running it in under four hours seemed like child's play.
I'd also fully taken on a program of regular speed work in the past year, with my only non-trail runs being our two regularly occurring speed group workouts. These groups evolved into a very supportive network of friends, and I just got in the habit of showing up whether or not I was feeling it ahead of time. Those Facebook "Some E Cards" for runners that say "I really regret that run-said no runner, ever?" They totally apply to the speed work. Some of the workouts were really tough. I could feel them paying off, though. I was able to hit a 5K PR (a mark that had been unchanged for three years) over the summer, and felt like I could really power through rough patches better in races with the inclusion of some fast running. The week before the Imogene Pass Run, I placed in a trail race for the first time ever, coming in second at the 8-mile Mary's Loop race, and with a pretty big race PR. In that run, I was patient, ran my own race, hit my strong suit (downhill running) as hard as I could, while pushing myself to not be weak-willed and hike the second I was hurting on other portions of the course. It gave me confidence that I could do the same thing a week later.
When race week rolled around, I was just excited to get down to Ouray, where I would be staying in a house right by the start with a bunch of friends, some of whom were regular local training partners, and others from out-of-area but still people whose running exploits I was quite familiar. I'd picked up a ton of ideas about how I wanted to tackle the race, and had broken down the sections-Ouray to Upper Camp Bird (7.6 miles), Upper Camp Bird to Summit (10 miles), and Summit to Telluride into chunks with time goals attached. My "long runs" for the summer had basically been two 8-hour pacing gigs, and a half marathon race in Ouray, but these felt far more valueable to me than anything I'd done before. And general course familliarity-yeah, I had this. Going to bed Friday night, I didn't have that first-timer punchy nervousness, and was ready to log some quality R.E.M. sleep.
The next morning, I awoke refreshed, and pleased that it was cold but not freezing outside. We enterained one another in the kitchen of our house viewing the above video...Johnny Knoxville of Jackass fame on roller skates, getting pummeled by buffaloes. Maybe I'm part 12-year-old boy but it never stopped being hilarious, and I just kind of walked around singing it to myself without a care in the world.
With regard to the next decision after my morning coffee and jackassery in the kitchen, I needed to figure out what to wear. I've tended to bundle up a bit for this race, and bring every bit of advisable gear "just in case." Part of me used to think that "oh, it's just good protection in case I fall." And I'd wear very traditional, non-colorful (read-black) pants or shorts. But, this seemed like part of my problem in other years, so I knew I needed to change it up.
One might ask, so what? Who cares what you wear? Well, I like to dress very, very, colorfully at races otherwise. Color and comfort..my two main rules. Getting on neon pink compression socks and a fun running skirt that fit well always helped me get my game face on at other races. I realized that I'd never followed these rules at Imogene, and that I would certainly be faster and have better racing mojo if I did. I also needed to not preoccupy myself with the potential for falls, or dress differently than usual for it. So, I went with a colorful skirt that had super comfy compression shorts under, the shirt my friend Jana designed for a group of us in 2009 at this race with a runner cresting surreal pink and orange mountains, and a bright paisley hat from my new sponsor, Wizbang Hats (that cool story to be told another time). I'd initially donned a compression shirt under Jana's shirt but got rid of it when Marty, one of my fastest friends, said "you move faster if you're cold out there." Good logic and I went with it.
We all took a group shot
And then headed down to the starting line.
Notice Ilana also wore her cool shirt, as did our friend Jen (not pictured)...something that wasn't planned but seemed like good mojo again.
With the house so close to the starting line, we were only there for a few minutes before the race was underway. I never had time to get nervous nor was I feeling like I would've been nervous had we been standing around longer. The weather was perfect. I was cold but it was manageable and I knew I'd feel great once moving. The crowd was just HUGE. And that Roller Buffalo "You Can't Rollerskate In a Buffalo Herd" song seemed oddly appropriate between the herd of humans, and that to many, this race might seem about as appealing as, well, getting nailed by a herd of buffalo (and feel like it at times). It seemed like an all-time high number of runners had made it to the starting line, thanks in part to the bib transfer program this race has, likely coupled with dream weather conditions.
We were quickly off, and on our way. I'd lined up closer to the front than I ever had, but not right on the starting line. I still had very little room to move so I kind of found my line and stuck with it, vowing that I would NOT start hiking the second I felt a little uncomfortable. I reminded myself that every step running at a high cadence-even with tiny strides-would be a lot faster and more efficient than hiking. Right away, I was just not feeling great. My lungs felt a little tired and sluggish. Instead of resigning myself to a mentality of failure and "oh, it's gonna be another 4 1/2 hour trip," I adopted an attitude of patience, and laughed thinking of the Sh#t Ultrarunners Say video where the dude says he takes 30 miles to warm up anyway. Two miles went by just like that, and I was feeling less craptastic. I also did not feel anxious or discouraged that I'd blown the race already. My head was in the best place it'd ever been at Imogene and I moved along knowing that I could warm up, push some more, and perhaps hammer the downhill to make up for the slower start.
Coming along to Drinking Cup Curve, I was feeling a lot better, and really taking in the sights and sounds around me. I watched as a man walked over to the edge of the curve-a straight dropoff you wouldn't survive if you went over-and offered a very sincere "Namaste" to the mountain. I never knew what that word meant before taking up yoga. Now that I know that it means "The divine in me honors and recognizes the divine in you," I appreciated and felt the energy this dude put out there. The mountains don't care, you can get hurt, lost, hypothermic, and other things out here-but they are still these great, big, beautiful things that you just can't experience any better than in person, on foot, without aid of motorized transit. I picked up my step, and tried to always be conscious of using good form with short strides and a high turnover, and not allowing myself to break that to hike unless I absolutely felt like it was necessary.
You can't rollerskate in a buffalo herd,
You can't rollerskate in a buffalo herd,
You can't rollerskate in a buffalo herd,
But you can be happy if you mind to
Continuing up the trail, the crowd now somewhat thinned out with better room to move, I had that song on continuous loop in my head. I've had other songs in my head at this race that were never nearly as helpful. The mental image of Johnny Knoxville on roller skates, a disco ball, and getting hammered by the buffaloes just kept me going. I encountered my friend Jan, who was on her 20th run here. We'd been talking up going under four hours this year, and while she claims to not be all that fast, she's actually pretty excellent on mountain trails. When she picked it up from a hike and started running a steep section, I said, "OKAY...if you insist!" and laughed as I lulled myself from what I then realized was a comfortable hike I needed to push through.
Continuing on ahead past the Victorian house that was the former mine supervisor's house, I ran into my friend Jen, who was just not feeling great today. Up ahead I could see our friend Cheryl, who has a strong high school and college track background but newer to trail running, and doing her longest run ever today. I eventually moved past Jen, and didn't rush to catch up with Cheryl, instead just running my own race, and keeping my head on roller buffalo and high cadence. Hey, it's simple, but it works.
Around here, I saw my "favorite" people from last year. I rarely, if ever, complain about other runners at races, but I must say a few words about bibs 1363 and 1364-a man and woman with a long rope or tether of some sort between the two to pull the woman along. Someone commented to them "hey, is this the modern day equivalent of a Ball And Chain?" The woman in the duo joked that next year maybe they'd get kinky and have a dog collar and leash, or something to that effect. Me, on the other hand-I don't find it cute to break the rules or impede other runners they way they were. And, she's definitely not blind as an anonymous commenter on my blog last year claimed. I just knew I wanted to get past them and resist the urge to say something about breaking race rules that everybody else seemed to have no problem following. I guess I can thank them because I moved on ahead faster than I likely would have-I just didn't want to get stuck behind them and their behavior that wasn't cutesy to me at all.
Just a few minutes before Upper Camp Bird, I reached Cheryl, and we moved along together, talking intermittently. She was feeling good, and I was glad that as one of the two first-timers who was sort of hating me for encouraging this race the night prior, she was doing just fine today. I looked at my watch, at saw that I likely wasn't going to hit my goal of 1:45-1:50 to Upper Camp Bird. Rather than being discouraged, I was pretty excited that this would still be the earliest I'd ever made it there.
Then, rounding a corner after a climb, I remembered how short Garmins measure in the mountains, and was pretty ecstatic to hit that 7.6 mile aid station at 1:53. I'm a steady climber but generally slow, and this was not that far off the most aggressive goal I'd ever set for myself here. Some people were stopping for pictures, or stopping for no reason, and I advised Cheryl to just keep going and not stop unless she was really needing to make a gear adjustment or eat something there. She said "okay" with focus and went right on through. It's SO hard to get going once you stop at this point. If anything, it's better to save that for the summit if one wants to savor the moment and accomplishment. She was in a great zone so "keep on keepin' on" was for sure the way to go here. I moved a little past her and got ready to attack this final stretch to the summit. The air was thin but there was a huge shot of adrenaline to the system, knowing that the climb was 3/4 of the way behind me.
Now, I was really feeling the altitude. I think this was perhaps because I was moving faster than I ever had here, and pushing myself as much as I could. Between watching "Unbreakable," about the Western States 100, and watching other runners at 100 mile races, I'd decided that using my hands to push down the quads on steep climbs would be a good tactic. I did this and it just seemed to flow naturally. When I hit the couple of flat-ish sections, I was actually able to run them, inevitably followed by this weird woozy/high/rush of blood to the head feeling that would subside after 30 seconds or so. I remember coming to a near standstill near the summit, willing myself forward, the first few times out. I was moving far better today. Looking at my Garmin for the first time in a long time, I realized that no, I wasn't going to summit in my goal of 2:45, and probably have no shot of running under four hours total. Again, though, I was as unfazed as I'd ever been at Imogene about this. Yay! I'm going to summit faster than I ever have! And it feels awesome! That's where the head was.
Getting into the last stretch-that awesome line of ants marching to the summit-I started talking with the woman immediately ahead of me, who was from Durango. She was a mom of three with her youngest being under age one, and this was her first big run again after a c-section with that kiddo. Having gone emergency c-section with my son and repeat the last time out, we both agreed that this race was a LOT easier than recovering from major abdominal surgery while caring for a newborn. It was very cool to be taking these last few steps to the summit with another woman who just gets why I get out here to do this stuff, and likely does it for a lot of the same reasons-no explaining what all that crazy training is about. She hit the summit a step or two ahead of me, and then I crossed in 2:51, 18 minutes faster than the prior year and 9 faster than my best ascent ever. I realized that based on prior Imogenes, sub-4 was unlikely, but again, I just felt good to get up here faster than ever before. My goal now was a quality PR, and with that in mind, I walked through, drank half a cup of chicken broth, and headed out without lingering. It was time to knuckle down buckle down, do it do it do it.
As I took those first few strides from the summit, I felt great. I mean, bulletproof great. I've been pretty tentative in my steps here each time but I was running this time. Passing the camera dudes on the side of the hill, I did an impromptu fist pump and yelled "yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah!" as I ran past, something I never do at races. Certainly not this one. I bombed ahead a bit, and then realized that damn, my legs were a little jello-y. I backed off a bit but gone was that tentative bounce/put-on-the-brakes slide down the hill. I didn't turn into a head case and get cautious, just backed off as needed if I felt like I was getting a bit out of control going downhill. Sub-four was certainly out now but hey, I was passing a few people, and felt like I was setting up a pretty good race PR here.
About two miles down, I knew I was past that steepest section that gave me so much trouble two years prior when I yard saled in awesome fashion. I picked it up a bit. I felt like I was getting that pre-sidestitch sensation and though NO. NOT today. I backed off just a bit but the good downhill form was intact. I got that stride really small and the cadence high, trying to avoid jostling myself all over the place and hammering hard like I was trying to set a land speed record. Soon, and thankfully, that sensation passed. I was picking up steam, and passing lots of runners now. Vowing to use my Garmin for nothing more than checking my time at key locations, I did a quick look at 14 miles to see where I was.
Now, every runner will tell you to NEVER do running math. It just doesn't work. But, looking at my watch, with 5K to go, I realized-no way. I had time to go under four hours if I hammered all the way in to the finish with no letups, falls, or break in form. It was REALLY close but there was a chance. Every time I pushed myself in speed work when I just wanted to sit on the couch at home with a beer-that lightning storm at Hardrock when keeping calm and focused was the only choice-the disappointment I'd felt at this race before to fall short on my goal over and over-all those experiences were going to come into play in an all-out finish.
I picked things up, telling myself "It's only 5K. It's only 5K. You can push really hard for 5K." I was gathering steam and passing anyone I could. I was tired and starting to hurt but I knew that waiting another year to go under four hours if I hadn't pushed myself to my breaking point would be no good. I reached mile 15, checked my time, and saw that I'd need to hammer the last two miles harder than I ever had. I was also at that flattest point on the course, with the gentle downhill where I could fly with confidence, and that I did. It wasn't a matter of "can I pass that person?" It was "what the most efficient way to get past that little group?" This felt so bizarre, but I can't lie, it felt totally awesome.
Getting to mile 16, I checked my time again, and knew now that I would do it-I was going to run this sucker in under four hours! And I was still picking up steam. Now, I wanted to see how far under I could go. Unless I lay down on the trail, I had it in the bag. Like a blubbering idiot. and already on the verge of tears, I randomly told some runner whom I'm sure couldn't have cared less that I was going to finish under four hours here for the first time in five tries. I'm not sure what his reaction was because I was still cranking it up.
Finally, I could see all the people dotting the trail as it turned off to the steep, short couple of road blocks to the finish. I could see a 3:55 on the clock and just RAN. Like I never have before. I came flying through, saw my friend Elizabeth and few others, and went over, temporarily overcome with emotion that's rare for me-high or low-at the end of a race. Good thing I never really tried to develop some serious, badass runner chick persona. Because it wasn't this mushy chick crying with happiness over a time that's really, honestly, pretty easy for most trail runners to come by.
Since my very first race in 2007, there have been good days, bad days, average days, interesting days, learning experience days, and plain old in-the-crapper days at races. There have been a select, very few races that would make the cut as outstanding days at the races where preparation, race day strategy, execution, conditions, and experience all came together for a near-perfect day. This was one of them, and I think may top the list because it was on a trail, and not a road, where I have always felt so much more comfortable.
While my final time-3:56:04, and placement-24 out of 102 in age group, 153 out of 553 for all women, is nothing notable, it was a mega-leap forward for me after kind of stagnating at this race and on trails in general. I didn't have it in mind, either, but a few days later I remembered my secret thought that if I ever wanted to train for 100 miles, I wasn't going to let myself until I could do this short, hard effort in under four hours. Well, that day came. And now there are days coming that I won't fear, and will work toward with the belief that it's possible if I just put in the work and don't allow myself to quit when it's hard. You may not be able to roller skate in a buffalo herd, but you can be happy if you mind to. All you gotta do is put your mind to it. Just knuckle down, buckle down, do it do it do it.
When there's nowhere else to run Is there room for one more son One more son If you can hold on
If you can hold on, hold on
I did not intend to give this title an entry of epic proportion. This blog will be epic length, though, so I'll be indulgent and allow it to have double the Youtube entertainment value. If you're ready for an endurance read, pull up some chair and put your feet up. "All These Things That I've Done" was the song that I had in mind before the Desert R.A.T.S. 50-miler, and it still feels right on. The "The Hard Is What Makes It Great" quote from one of my all-time favorite movies, A League Of Their Own, entered my head after about 35 miles, and I'd be remiss if I did not include it as a central theme for the day.
I've raced a marathon every fall and spring since October 2008, plus a summer marathon in Missoula in 2010. In the beginning of my running days, I did like getting on the trails, and would hit the nearby Tabeguache Trail for hill training in a pretty setting. Trail running was free of time or distance to me. It became a way to run without worrying about my pace or any other unit of measure. I ran a few short distance trail races as a new runner, but primarily stuck to roads. I just knew I wasn't someone who could do things those ultrarunners did. Or so I'd convinced myself. I did get kind of intrigued when my friend Carol, one of the first runners I met, told me about her husband Carson running the 17.1 mile Imogene Pass Run, and thought, well, maybe. But if I do that, nothing longer. I can't do that longer stuff.
After signing up for my first Imogene and running it again the next year, my friend Jen put a new trail race in Moab called the RedHot on my radar. They had a 33K and 55K. After briefly dabbling with the idea of trying the 55K, I quickly reminded myself that this was TOO FAR for me. I wasn't someone with the trail legs or talent to pull off 55K. I ran the 33K instead, a little over 20 miles. It was really tough and I had moments of wondering why I'd signed up for this, slogging through snow and mud. It was amazing too. It felt like I was touching the sky, moving along on foot in the middle of nowhere. When I got to the end I couldn't believe I made it there on my own two feet. I had a celebratory beer with Jen and our friend Nick, feeling good about tackling something that was really hard for me.
In the next year, I resolved to give the RedHot 55K a go, even though I felt like a total ultra running poser in doing so. After all, I was a locally competent road runner who would plod along slowly, tripping over her feet and falling down all the time on trails. When I finished that first 55K, I was shocked and surprised that I'd gotten through it, this time in the rain and wind, without ever feeling terrible. Yes, I was exhausted, and the last few miles came down to the extreme physical and mental challenge of putting one foot in front of the other. I made the time cutoffs on the course and at the finish with plenty of time to spare, though. Here I was, a road runner with no business being out here, at the finish of 34 miles. It felt pretty damn good.
I want to stand up, I want to let go You know, you know - no you don't, you don't I want to shine on in the hearts of men I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand
By now, I was spending a lot more time on trails, even in the early mornings, when I used to think "oh, that's too dark and dangerous." My training partners and I found routes that were surprisingly runnable with a good head lamp, and pretty special and enjoyable in the dark. I signed up for my second RedHot 55K, this time with the goal of not just finishing, but taking off a chunk of time from the year prior. I got active with the Ultra Dogs, an informal Facebook group set up by my friend Mike from Olathe to help runners in our region with coordinating long trail runs and adventures. I was often the last or one of the last people in the train of runners on the trail, but nobody ever made me feel like a slowpoke, or a lesser runner. It was always about having a good time hitting trails with like-minded friends. Some of whom just so happened to have completed or even won major 100-mile races, and some of whom were brand-new to running long. I asked a lot of questions of the more experienced trail runners, and just listened to their stories about various racing experiences. I started thinking about a bigger spring race this time, and found myself believing I might be able to run 50 miles. I could do just as well do a road marathon and be very challenged by that, and go for a PR. I knew for sure that I could do that well, though. I needed to get outside my comfort zone this time, and do something I'd convinced myself for a long time was something I couldn't do, and not for people like me.
I truly expected, when I made public that idea to a small handful of local trail and ultra folks, to hear "oh, that's nice. But you should wait before tackling that." Or "That's a long way and you're not there yet." I was surprised that the feedback I received from everyone was uniformly some variation of "that's great! Do it if it's speaking to you!" I thought I could do it, yes...but I figured someone was going to be honest with me and bring me back to reality. I don't think of myself as someone who needs a ton of affirmation to do the things I want, but this affirmation it was possible was huge to me at the time.
So, once again, I went to the experienced ultra runners, and asked about various races. Things kept coming right back to the local Desert R.A.T.S. Trail Running Festival, held on the trails in Loma and Mack, Colorado, over a weekend in April. Here's the elevation chart for the first loop. On the second loop, runners head out and run it in the other direction.
and the course itself
I would be able to train the course, and sleep in my own bed the night before the race. There would be no travel expenses either, other than gas for the car. I would be as acclimated to the local weather and climate. The race director also had an unusual policy of allowing 50-milers to drop and get an official finish time in the 25-mile race if they couldn't, or didn't want to go back out. This was a funny double-edged sword. It was a relief to know that I could take this option if I was sick or hurting badly. I didn't want to plan on it, but everyone I'd spoken with told me how tough it was to head back out for a second counterclockwise loop after the first 25 miles.In the past, many 50-mile entrants have opted out, and taken that 25 mile finish time, unable to make themselves head back out. I knew this would be something important to prepare and train for-as important as logging the general miles to get ready for the race. With a lot of excitement and touch of wondering "What the hell am I thinking?" I signed up for the Desert R.A.T.S. (acronym for Run Across The Sand) 50-mile race.
Another head aches, another heart breaks I am so much older than I can take And my affection, well it comes and goes I need direction to perfection, no no no no
Throughout the winter and early spring, I was meticulous about time on feet on the weekends, almost always running long with my friend Sandra who was getting ready for her first ultra at the Moab RedHot, sometimes joining in with larger Ultra Dog groups, and other times as a pair or small group. I hit track every week, and did lots of shorter runs on Serpents Trail, the 1.75 mile stretch of curving, twisting trail at the base of the Colorado National Monument. RedHot day came and I had my strongest feeling run there, lopping more than half an hour off my time from the prior year. I headed back home from Moab, though, with some pain in my right IT band. I was a little discouraged but knew I needed to rest it in order to fully resume training. At the same time, there were life stresses building and wearing on me. I hit a bottoming out point one night when I tried to run, and couldn't. I left the track and tried going to yoga, but found that I was spent, exhausted, and feeling broken. I was doubting that I could be ready in time for 50 miles. Running and yoga friends helped me get out of my pity party fast, though. I realized I didn't have to be giving 200% all the time. Rest and recovery was good. Making the effort, even when the workouts sucked, was good. After some patchy, uneven training weeks, I found the trail again and made the most of the last month before Desert R.A.T.S.
My questions to more experienced running friends in the final pre-race weeks became more course- and race day-specific, and in turn, the answers helped me form a checklist of things to do and to keep in mind. All the guys who had finished the 50-miler uniformly agreed that it was not a course for minimal shoes. It was very rocky in places, and the feet would take a good beating regardless. Thus, I planned on my Newton trail shoes rather than my very flexible and grippy but minimal INOV8 trail shoes. Everyone said the second loop had the potential to be very hot, and to make sure I took the opportunity to train midday whenever possible. I also heard that people would hard-charge out on Moore Fun, the beginning of the first loop, and that if I was patient I'd reel them all back in. I was also warned to pace myself, and not be tempted to go out faster than planned just because 25-milers were hauling buns. And it went without saying that training on the course was to my advantage It all went onto my mental checklist for the race, and I found myself believing that I would finish 50 miles if I took all of this into account, and executed well. .Waiting for a cold winter, and heavy snow in Loma and Mack course that never came, I trained the course every weekend. Sometimes it felt okay, and once or twice it was so warm I didn't know how I'd manage on race day. I kept doing it, though, and trusted that this training was going to do it for me.
In the last week before the race, I got down to race day specifics. At the Six Hours of Serpents Trail two weeks prior, Marty had suggested that I try Perpetuem for fueling and nutrition. It covers all race day nutrition needs for a long endurance event, can be mixed easily with water, and most importantly, doesn't taste like butt. I've always hated gels, and this stuff was somewhat pleasant and drinkable.
The night before the race, we picked up packets and separated single scoops of white, powdery Perpetuem into individual sandwich baggies tied together with little rubber bands in some sort of operation that looked more like pre-sale coke dealing than anything else. No, really, officer, we're racing an ultramarathon in the desert tomorrow, and this is our fuel. I was kind of relieved to have a fueling strategy, and to not have to worry about eating random food. This would be everything I needed, and I wouldn't have my body diverting energy to food digestion, and possibly having some gastrointestinal distress to boot. I knew how much water to ask for in my Nathan pack at aid stations, would have them pour it in the flask so I could mix the drink.
I was still scrambling when I got home to make sure I had everything, but decided I was mostly there and that sleep was important. I headed off to bed and tried to get some shuteye. When I was almost asleep, I suddenly realized that with all my attention on the race, I'd forgotten to do my Friday cleaning at the yoga studio. I clean in trade for class credits and couldn't believe I'd forgotten to go down there. I punted on third down, figuring I would be awake early anyway, and could do it really fast in the morning.
Four a.m. came quickly, but I felt well-rested when I awoke. I headed down to Yoga Vinyassa, wondering if someone would think I was breaking in at that hour, and hoping that it wasn't one of those days that comes along every once in a great while when the place had been "well loved" the day prior. Thankfully, it was pretty clean in there, and I was able to do a good once-over quickly. I picked up Sarah, who was running the 25 and lives nearby. From there we headed out to the Loma/Mack parking lot where the race would begin. It was a zoo already but Sarah scouted out the million dollar parking spot where one could park, near a gate, but sat empty.
I located Marty, who had camped with his daughter Michaela in his van just a few feet away from the start, and threw some of my stuff for the changeover between laps one and two in it. I lathered up the sunscreen and bodyglide, and made sure I had everything I thought I needed. I saw several of the Ultra Dogs-Kirk, Jeff, John and Adam, who would be in the 50, and Jen, who was running 25 today. Ben would be running the 25 today after getting back from a month in Costa Rica less than 24 hours prior, and some of my friends had seen him, but I hadn't bumped into him yet. I figured I'd make my way to the starting area to get ready for the big show. It was cool but not cold at the 6:30am start. This was going to be a hot day.
Sooner than I expected, Reid, the race director counted off, and we were on our way. I relaxed, waiting for the crowd to start moving, and headed off down the road without any urgency to be at Moore Fun, the first portion of real trail, before most of the pack. Sure enough, when I reached the trail, there were some runners who were jockeying for position and calling "on your left!/passing on your right!" I would shift and let them pass. Tucking in behind a couple from Denver who was going about my pace, I settled into a comfortable rhythm. As warm as it was, it could've been hotter for sure. I chatted with the couple a little bit, and we traded the "must do" races we'd completed. Their next big race was the Pikes Peak Marathon-something wasn't on my to-do list, but very well could be in the future. I eventually felt warmed up enough to start moving slightly faster without overtaxing myself, wished them an enjoyable race, and eased on by, surprised that my familiarity with the course did indeed have me moving with a bit more ease than others who run my pace.
Cruising into the first aid station, I stopped long enough to let the course workers record my number, and continue on. After some thought and discussion with friends prior to the race, I'd decided that it would be best to keep my Nathan pack half-full, starting with 40 oz of water mixed with two scoops of Perpetuem rather than going out with a full pack and filling it to capacity every time I emptied it. I'd be refilling more frequently at aid stations, but would be able to run with less weight in the pack that way. I knew the pack wouldn't/shouldn't be empty at this point, so I continued on without any other fueling or hydration. I also had a handheld with water but was on orders to just use the Perpetuem, and hold off on water unless I really needed to have a little.
From the first aid station, the trail climbed up toward Mary's Loop, and I saw a lot of folks hiking already. I felt okay, and just ran very, very easy, with short strides and no real push. There was a guy named Steve from Boulder who seemed to be dialed in to the same pace as I, running most of the trail easily with some strategic fast hiking here and there. We chatted off and on through the next few miles, never far apart from one another. I did hike a few short sections but ran slowly for the most part. There were some runners, again, who seemed to be pushing it a bit, even if they were doing the 25, and hammering ahead only to slow down and hike. I kept a steady, even steady pace, and tried to find that sweet spot I thought I could maintain for a long time. Coming in to Pizza Overlook, just before dropping onto Steve's Loop, I did my first fuel refill. The aid station workers would greet us coming in, asking what we needed and how they could help. There wasn't any waiting or looking around for what I needed. I emptied what was left in my Nathan flask, since the Perpetuem can turn after a length of time, and it was hot, and then had the volunteer refill 40oz from her water pitcher. Here's where I made my one hydration error in hindsight, but I didn't realize it then. I should have added one bag/scoop per 20 ounces, but only put one in with my 40 ounces of water. Not realizing this, I went on my way with a watered down mix. There were four women with whom I kept leapfrogging. Every time they pushed ahead, I let them go, but they seemed to float back to me over and over.
I continued to feel good, and was able to run more or less all the way to the third aid station at the "Crossroads" without any unusual fatigue or attrition. I did hear others around me mention the heat once or twice, but it wasn't blistering yet, and felt pretty good to me. It had been far more hot out here on other runs, and an occasional breeze provided reprieve from the rising temperatures here and there. I've heard some debate recently about whether yoga is beneficial to running or not. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I can guarantee that I felt more acclimated to hotter temperatures from spending 75 minutes, several days a week, at 98-100 degrees doing heated power yoga. It's improved my focus an the way I move on trails as well. It was making a difference today for sure.
Coming in to the next aid station, I topped off another 20 ounces of water into my Nathan, and dropped another powdery bag of Perpetuem inside with the help of an aid station volunteer. I trotted out and continued on Steve's Loop toward Troy Built. I hadn't run this section until earlier in the winter with the Ultra Dogs, and it's one of my favorite stretches of trail, meandering and rolling gently uphill with the river below. The ascent is gradual and while one cannot become unfocused, it's a great place to let the eyes wander a little, and check out the scenery. I also had that catchy song "Somebody That I Used To Know" by Gotye enter my head, and just continue to play over and over on continuous repeat. Rather than being annoying, it was kind of nice and meditative. I'd heard it in a class at my girls' dance convention the prior weekend, played it many times over the course of the next week, and heard it again the night before the race during the Perpetuem baggie assembly effort. I suppose it's not surprising that the tune decided to take up residence in my brain today.
Getting over to Troy Built, and around Lyons Loop, it was getting warmer. I hit the Mile 19 aid station and did my now standard dumping out the last drops from my hydration pack, getting water added, and then adding mix. One of the Boulder ladies, wearing a St. George Ironman triathlon shirt, moved a bit ahead. Her friends were talking to themselves, saying they didn't have 50 miles in them today, but they were worried about their friend who was out for her first fifty, AND first ultra today. Dang. Some people really do like to go big or go home. I suggested that maybe they see how they feel at the end of the loop because there was still lots of time and distance before the end of the loop. We saw the first of the 50 mile frontrunners coming through in the next few miles. I saw local Jeff, who hollered "Hey Maude (after my Maude Lebowski Halloween costume)!" as he ran past. The Boulder girls asked "Oh, is your name Maude?" I laughed and explained that it wasn't but that I did a pretty excellent Halloween costume for a party with some running friends last fall.
On the way up, I passed Joel Arellano, a captain with the Grand Junction Fire Department who was fundraising for the Wounded Warrior Project and running the 25 miler in a 65 pound bomb suit. I couldn't even imagine...this was a steep hill and any extra weight sounded miserable. I said "Wow, I feel like a pansy now! Great job!" as I moved by.
Heading to Mack Ridge, it felt as if time was really flying now. It was getting warm now but the temperature still felt like it was rising gradually. I started mentally preparing to not stay too long at the start/finish line. I suppose I was a little tired because all of a sudden it became very concerning and important to me that I couldn't quite remember where I'd stuck my things for the transition between laps. Did I put everything in Marty's van? Did I leave some of my stuff in my van? Crap. I couldn't remember. Suddenly, the thought of "where did I leave my van keys? I don't remember where I left my van keys!" entered my head out of nowhere. For about five minutes, I drove myself nuts with thoughts of missing keys and missing gear. I eventually stopped this crazy thought cycle because it really didn't matter. I couldn't look for my stuff out here. I figured I'd run in, dig around for socks and a dry tech tee and head out. And I'm sure my keys were somewhere. If not, somebody would likely let me thumb a ride home.
As the trail descended, I saw a slew of runners, including Adam, John, and Kirk. When I yelled "Hey Kirk!" the woman in front of me, with whom I'd chatted for a bit, said "Kirk? As in Kirk Apt?" I said yes, that's the one. She said, "Oh, wow! He won Leadville the year I won Leadville!" She turned uphill and hollered "Kirk Apt!....Linda Lee! It's been a long time!" He greeted her back as we headed off in opposite directions. I asked Ms. Lee if she was going 50 miles today, and she said "Oh, no. No more 50s for me. Just 25s." You know...because you want to slow down and take in the scenery and "just" run 25s in your fifties.
Help me out Yeah, you know you got to help me out Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner You know you got to help me out
Coming down the hill from Mack Ridge to the frontage road, I could see some folks were already walking the hill on the road. It had been drilled into my head, and now out of force of habit in practice, I agree-run as slowly and with as short a stride as I needed rather than walking whenever possible. I knew as someone who would be one of the last ones to finish-if I finished-that I would run slowly here. I felt pretty good so there was no sense slowing for no good reason. As I came down the hill and then gradually uphill toward the end of the first 25 miles, I could see two people running in my general direction. As I got closer....is that....yes, it was! Bryan and Marty were coming down the road to meet me. Ah, friendly, familiar faces! When they got to me, they asked how I was feeling, if anything hurt/didn't hurt, etc., and asked how I wanted to do this time between laps. Did I want to get in and out as fast as possible, take some time, other? What I wanted to do was split the difference; not rush through in a hurry, but not stay too long either. I could see on the way in that the elapsed time on the clock was somewhere around 5:50. Right about where I hoped to be and thought I would be.
As we approached the start/finish, I was surprised to see that all my friends were there to cheer me in. I figured some of them might be around but this was totally unexpected and awesome to have a mobilized cheering/crewing station. Somebody put out a big cooler for me to sit on. Everyone was asking what I needed, how I was feeling. I had people rubbing my back, arms, legs, rubbing on sunscreen, getting my socks off and having someone cleaning the trail dust from them with a cool, wet washcloth that just felt heavenly at this point. My bag of extra gear was brought to me. I didn't have to get up off the cooler to do a thing. Bryan asked how/what to mix in my hydration pack and ran off with it. Shannon (I think it was Shannon) scored me some banana, and PB and J wrap. I finally saw Ben, whom I'd missed before the race. I asked about his 25 miles, and turned out he'd done some course detouring, as had several others. Grayson was there cracking jokes and being upbeat. Sarah, Angela, Jen, and Elizabeth were all there too, and Michaela was snapping away on the camera.
I said I was kind of hungry, to which Marty quickly and matter-of-factly replied "Then you're not drinking enough (Perpetuem). Did you pee yet?" No, I said, I had not. He took his wristwatch (I wasn't carrying one today), set it for two hours from then, gave it to me, and said to be disciplined about continuing to drink the Perpetuem-no water-until I did need to pee, and to drink everything in the pack before the alarm he'd set on the wristwatch. I was surprised because I thought I'd had enough to drink in total fluids. I wonder in hindsight if this had anything to do with my one watered down batch of Perpetuem. He doused my hat in cold water before giving it back to me as well. It wound up being fortuitous that I couldn't find my two favorite visors, and wound up going with a large, wide-brimmed white running cap. My head and scalp would've been fried without the full coverage today, even with sunscreen. I'd done a good job of lathering myself up for the first loop, and was red from the heat but not sunburned at all.
The peanut butter wrap was kind of grossing me out, so I chucked that. The bit of banana was okay, though, so I kept working on it. I was surprised that I didn't feel any desire to stop now. I had beaten it into my head that I could not and would not stop here, but figured I might be feeling more rough. I knew it was time to get out while the getting was good. Mike Barton had told me a story from one of his races about staying way too long and getting too comfortable at an aid station. I said thanks to everybody for being there, and headed back off down the gravel road to the trails.
Heading to the end of the road, I saw the couple I'd run with early in the race, coming down the hill and ready to head down the road to finish their 25 miles. They waved and the husband/boyfriend yelled "Ah! You made it back out! Good luck!" Climbing the hill, I tried to not think too deeply about the fact that it was getting really warm now, and I had to do this whole loop all over again. I thought about races like Imogene, where it all feels really hard, but everybody who wants to puts one foot in front of the other and makes it through. My mind wandered to "A League Of Their Own" when Geena Davis' Dottie leaves to go home to Oregon with her husband, saying "It just got too hard," and Tom Hanks' Jimmy Dugan tells her "It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." This resonated 300% with me today. From that same scene...this running thing gets inside me, like Jimmy tells Dottie in that scene. It IS what lights me up from the inside. I made my mind up to be patient, not get frustrated or down on myself, and keep moving one leg in front of the other.
Heading back up Mack Ridge, I saw the guy coming down in the 65 pound suit again. I think he'd wanted to be done by noon but he was going to be done, it appeared, which was great on a day like today. I had not seen Stephen from Boulder and wondered what happened to him. I hoped he was far ahead making good time. Getting to the top of Mack Ridge, I felt a little less intimidated by the task of loop two. I found that short stride again and ran, and soon I could see St. George Ironman girl ahead. One would think that the big, steep hill leading to the first aid station would feel good but I was having a bit of trouble controlling my running on something so steep. I kind of skittered, and hiked a few spots. I remember how bad it hurt to sprain my ankle last year, and how much of a bummer it was to not run. Soon it became less steep, and I trotted down into the aid station, having some oranges and checking to see how my Nathan pack looked. I was doing a good job of drinking it down, and was sort of feeling like I would need to pee soon. We topped it off and I added some more drink mix. I thanked the aid station workers and headed off again.
I encountered a few mountain bikers in this next section of climbing up from the aid station, and tried to alternate slow running with a fast hike on the steeps. Ironman Girl was always 1-3 minutes ahead of me, but I couldn't really see her on these curving trails. I hadn't seen a 25 miler in awhile, but along here I saw a guy who was walking slowly with a number pinned to him. "Do you have a few ounces of water to spare"?" he asked me with a look of desperation. I said "I have a full pack on my back, you can have all the water in my handheld," and dumped it into his empty small flask. I asked if he was okay; he said he was and I let him go on his way but was a little concerned. It wasn't warm anymore; it was plain 'ol hot now. I made sure to be disciplined about taking regular, consistent sips from my Nathan, whether I felt thirsty or not.
Winding back to Steve's Loop, I could see Ironman Girl again, and got a strong psychological boost to be off that lonely section and back above the river. Somebody I Used To Know kept playing on continuous repeat in the head, with the occasional "I Got Soul But I'm Not A Solider," from "All These Things That I've Done" by the Killers. The ironic hipsters in trucker caps may very well hate this song. I'm a 38-year-old mom with a minivan, I run ultras, and I find this song to be the perfect race day anthem, so they can suck it.
My legs had less spring here than the first time through but I had fun on this section. It's got some nice roll and flow to it; I took the opportunity to just play on the trail here. I looked down occasionally at the newly acquired wristwatch to make sure I was giving myself enough time to make all aid station cutoffs and finish. Things still looked decent. Every now and again, Ironman Girl and I would get close enough to converse a bit, see how the other was doing. We were both pacing very similarly and smartly (I thought). She could run a little faster than me, but was doing some strategic run/hike alternating, and didn't look hunched over or to be in any kind of trouble with the heat.
She got down to the 37 mile aid station just ahead of me, where we talked with aid station workers as we refueled and snacked on oranges. I mentioned that there was a guy who was not in awesome shape to whom I'd given all my water. Ironman Girl (who, keep in mind, was just slightly ahead of me), says with concern "*I* gave him water too!" The course workers were concerned as well, so we gave them a full description of the runner, though we did not have his bib number. When we headed back out, we were near one another for a bit, and approaching 38 miles or so, I asked, "So, are we good to make our cutoffs?" Ironman Girl said "Yes! We've got it! We're going to finish!" "Oh, awesome!" I replied, feeling my first little surge of emotion. I kept it in check, though, knowing I had to focus all the way in. The temperatures continued to climb and it was crucial that I not become dehydrated or cramp up late in the game. I was surprised that we were the only ones out here. There were folks with way more experience at this stuff than a couple of girls doing a 50-miler for the first time. I did not think that the "home field advantage" would make much of a difference before the race. It was becoming more and more apparent that it was huge to be able to run here in the warmest part of the state, on the trail, even if I wasn't doing it fast. Continuing to follow the trail, I meandered along the rim of the canyon, like I'd done many weekends to get from the trailhead down to Horsethief Bench (not part of the course today). When I turned the corner, I expected to see Ironman Girl, but didn't see her anywhere. I kept turning corners and switchbacks and still didn't see her. Oh s#it, I thought. Several of the guys had gone off-course in the 25 mile. I was pretty sure she'd taken a wrong turn when I didn't see her. There was no way she'd gone from looking great to crashing and burning off the trail somewhere.
Climbing up to the 40-41ish mile aid station, I let them know right away that I thought my running companion had wandered off-course. I had been fairly lost in my own running world but did remember seeing flags kind of going in two different directions. Just being local and knowing where I was supposed to go, I hadn't paid much attention to the other flagging, figuring it might be for the 5-mile or the half on Sunday. I was guessing after the fact that she went that way. My heart sunk because we were ahead of the cutoffs, but not by much. I didn't know, IF she was still feeling good and found the trail, whether or not she'd be able to finish in time now. There was one other guy here in the 50-miler, and we stood there for a minute or two, grabbing oranges that, in the words of Matthew Inman, who does the great online comic "The Oatmeal," "tasted like unicorn tears." Besides writing a hilarious comic, The Oatmeal guy is a runner as well, and did a great blog entry separate from the comic about running his first 50-miler last year. I'd highly recommend reading it whether you've raced a 50-miler or not. I guarantee a laugh or three. Anyway, those were the best damn oranges I'd ever had in my life. I found myself getting emotional again, knowing that it looked like I was going to make it 50 miles. I shut that stuff down, and headed out just a minute or two after the other guy at the aid station.
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
Now meandering on Mary's Loop, I had the "I Got Soul But I'm Not A Soldier" running over and over through my brain. I got a bit of a third wind, and was able to slowly run quite a bit of this section. I eventually caught up with the guy, who said he was from Sheridan, Wyoming, and having a tough time with the heat and rockiness of the course. Therefore, he was dialing back, being smart, and hiking at a pace that would allow him to to conserve what energy he had left and not trash himself. He said he had friends who came to race but dropped from the 50, and that it had been cold and snowy all winter where he lived with no opportunity to train in the heat. Dang. I was creeping along and getting tired but wasn't in the world of hurt so many others seemed to be in. I stifled that little bit of emotion that kept welling up, and decided to push a little bit down Mary's to the last aid station. We said "have a good run" to one another and I moved on.
At this point, I was transitioning into a different mental and physical state. Every step was becoming harder, and I was beginning to kick and catch my toes on rocks. I slowed down and hiked a bit but kept the pace up as much as I could, trying to scamper and be as light as I could on foot. I couldn't remember what the cutoff time was for that last aid station at the bottom of Moore Fun. I was a little confused now. Was I going to miss the cut at 44-45 miles? Shit. I didn't know. I was a little anxious now. I came off the single track trail and scrambled up the road to the aid station, where a whole table of aid workers still sat with all the necessary goodies. They asked what I needed and I asked "Did I make it? Did I make the last cutoff?" One of the guys said oh, yeah, you made it with plenty of time. For the first time, I let my guard down a little and had this fleeting moment of smiles and a happy tear or two. Or maybe dehydrated and confused smiles/tears. Or both.
I let them know again about Ironman Girl. They said "blond? White shirt?" I said YES! And they said YES...she'd found her way back to the course. Ah. I was really happy to hear this but didn't know where she was out there. The aid station workers had a ton of ice, so I filled my handheld with ice and water. The Nathan was good to go on Perpetuem, so I thanked them for being out there, and got moving. I was entering what felt like nothing at the beginning but would be the hardest part of the course on the way home.
I thought I had plenty of time left, but every step was becoming labored now, and man, was it rocky. There are a few sections where the trail runs straight up and then snakes straight down. Had I not run this before, I very easily could have gotten confused and stuck in an endless loop of the same up-and-down section of trail. I did have to stop for a second at one point, look at where I'd come, and confirm that I was still continuing forward on the trail. I could see a few runners ahead a few ridges. So I wasn't the only one way back here.
Yeah, you know you got to help me out Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner You know you got to help me out
Continuing to climb, I saw what looked like a person sitting on the ground. As I approached, I saw a guy in an Ironman hat and tech shirt with a woman next to him. This was about 46 miles. I was thinking, c'mon, man, get up! Get up! Don't sit! You're SO close! I asked if they needed any endurolytes/salt caps, since I had a few packets. "No, thanks," said the woman. "He's taken some already, just cramping up bad." Well, crap. It looked like this guy's day was done. I kept moving because I could feel myself losing the will to continue moving forward. I looked up once which was a bad idea. I got used to living in the space three feet in front of me. I was starting to feel really pathetic. I wanted to see some friendly faces. I was starting to get a little panicked that I was going to make it this far and run out of time before the course closed.
A few minutes later, as I trudged uphill, I looked up (I know, I wasn't supposed to do that) and saw the shadows of two men at the top of Mack Ridge. "KaRAAAAAAAAAAAH!" they shouted, and a whoop or two followed. Bryan and Marty! Oh, happy day. I was SO glad to see those guys. I was feeling pretty dead on my feet but pushed up the hill. Turning a corner near the top of the ridge, I could see them crouched in a bush but played like I didn't. They popped up, took a picture on my approach, and started running with me.
"How you feeling?" Tired. Sore. A little chilled, I said. "Did you pee?" Marty asked. Yes, I said. "Good. Because if you didn't, I was going to be pissed," he says. HA. Bryan told me that Elizabeth had some sort of liquid treat for me at the finish.I joked that I hoped it wasn't moonshine, but truly I didn't care what it was but in this fatigued and emotional state was touched by every bit of help or good vibes from my friends. They said they'd seen me coming across one of the other valleys from that vantage point and had been yelling at me. Did I hear them? No. I'm not sure if I was lost in my own world or their voices just didn't carry that far.
The guys weren't putting pressure on me to move faster as we continued on, but I was putting some on myself. I stumbled again several times, kicking rocks, and finally said apologetically "I need to hike a bit." They said hey, you're fine, don't force anything, just keep moving. I relaxed a bit, and scrambled as fast as I could. FINALLY....ah, there it was...the gate at the end of Moore Fun, leading out to the hill that leads to the frontage road and the finish.Coming down the hill, they said the van was parked there and they were going to drive on down to the finish, but made sure I was feeling okay and good to go before taking off. This was it. I was going to make it. What's strange is that I was so drained now that all that emotion that I expected to come pouring out of me wasn't there anymore. I was single-mindedly focused on getting down the road and crossing the finish.
Over and again, last call for sin While everyone's lost, the battle is won With all these things that I've done All these things that I've done If you can hold on If you can hold on
Heading down the gravel road, it was a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other operation. Some guys drove by slowly in a truck and yelled "looking good! Almost there!" I got some good comic relief when could see that the guys had stopped again down the road, and appeared to be helping someone with a flat bike tire. Soon, I was caught up to them and kind of gave Bryan a friendly "moving through!" pat on the back when I ran through where they'd stopped to help the guy. It seemed to be a quick fix, and they zipped down the road to finish. By now, I could see the big flags marking the start and finish area. This was it! I had it. I was going to be an official 50 miler finisher today. I looked at the clock ticking off in the 12:40:xx range and pushed in to the finish line. I was exhausted, drained, spent. And finished. The emotion I'd fought so hard to contain in the latter miles couldn't work its way out because I'd put it all out on the course. There was nothing left physically, emotionally, mentally. It felt so good to be fully and pleasantly drained.
Elizabeth gave me my liquid treat, which turned out to be a coconut water. I LOVE those things anyway but again....unicorn tears today. Ah. Forming basic sentences and putting out words was a challenge. So was walking. We moved over so I could sit in the back of the van, and Grayson scored me some sodas, which were the best damn sodas I've ever had in my life. I don't drink soda anymore but that coke on ice was pure bliss. We sat and I tried to speak and make conversation a little. Then, I heard the finish line announcers say that someone was coming. It really could only be one of two people-the guy from Wyoming, or maybe IronMan Girl if she'd really rallied late. I hobbled over to see who was coming. As she made her way toward the finish, I could see it was IronMan Girl! She was going to make it. I was almost as excited about her finish as I was about mine. She'd run a smart race with one mistake at a crucial juncture, and I thought that if I hadn't seen her by now I wasn't going to see her. It was awesome that she made it in, and was the last official finisher before the course closed.
What followed was a goofy hunt for my keys (I wasn't crazy...I'd really stashed them in a safe place where nobody could find them). After half an hour, I remembered that they were in the pocket of my sweatshirt with a rainbow-breathing T-Rex that nobody thought was mine, and thus had not been checked. From there, we went to the End Zone in Fruita, where I received my finisher plaque in the 50-mile, and those who had placed got hardware. Because there were so few female finishers, I had a default age group award...second in women 35-50. I felt kind of funny taking it, but I took it. Reid, the race director, said this was the lowest finisher rate they'd ever had in the 50-mile at Desert R.A.T.S., that numerous runners had been pulled off the 50-mile course for medical reasons, and that winning times were a lot slower than they'd been in other years due to the heat.
We got to hear Melody Fairchild talk about her running career, and how inspired she was by the ultra runners she met on the course during the race, among other things. One of the Boulder women who knew her came over with Melody afterward and said "Maude!" (HA. I guess that Halloween costume nickname is going to stick with some people more than my real name.) "I have someone for you to meet!" Melody hung out and talked with our group from Grand Junction for quite awhile, and I thought about how strange and cool it was to have someone who has stood on a world championship medal podium and won the national high school cross country championships just sitting here in a sports bar talking with us.
When the final results were published, I found out that the total number of finishers was 32, breaking down to 27 men and 5 women. Nineteen runners who started the second half of the 50-miler had a "DNF" (Did Not Finish) by their names. The number of 25-mile finishers was close to 200, indicating a likelihood that a good handful of 50-mile entrants decided to call it a day, take a finish time in the 25-mile, and not venture back out.
Duncan Callahan won the men's race, and Helen Cospolich was the first woman, crossing the finish in a bit over 9 1/2 hours. Another woman finished an hour later, and then the last three of us ladies finished in the last 45 minutes that the course was open. My running buddy Stephen from loop one, who had looked so good, paced so smart, had DNF'd in the second lap. The guy who was cramping up at 46 miles definitely didn't make it in either, according to the results. IronMan Girl was the last one in on one hot day in the desert in Western Colorado.
Since Saturday evening, I've found that I've got that "First 50-Miler PermaBuzz" thing going on. I feel blissed out, tired, my muscles don't really work, walking a straight line is a challenge, and I apologize to anyone who has attempted to hold a conversation since then. I asked Elizabeth if Bryan felt this way after his Desert R.A.T.S. 50-miler last year, and she said oh, yeah, he was out of it for a few days. So, at least I know this ADD/fried brain thing isn't unusual. On the upside, I am not in any pain, though I am quite sore all over. I made it to yoga on Monday evening, and only did things that stretched and challenged the muscles, stopping the second anything started to strain. It felt pretty good, and movement is starting to resemble that of a normal biped today.
If you've made it through this War and Peace length entry, thanks for taking the time to read. I don't want to bore people to death, but there was really so much to tell with the backstory leading in to the race, challenges I had along the way, and all the experiences of race day (some of which were left out here because that would be cruel and unusual to make this any longer for a reader). It was amazing, though. The brotherhood/sisterhood amongst those on the trail was something I can't quite put into words. I feel lucky that I got to experience it, and hope others who have that little pipe dream in the back of their heads will turn off the "I can't do it/That's not for me/It's too hard" switch, and turn on the "I want to try it. It's going to be hard but I can do it." The hard is what makes it great, and getting to experience the hard with all the other runners and my friends is something I'll never forget, and made for a truly amazing day.
