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.
I often set my blog entries to music and there was really no better selection this time around than some positive, old school Journey.
The Leadville Trail 100, a grueling 100 mile run, takes place every August in the mountains above Leadville, Colorado. Many start this race. Far fewer make it through to the red carpet and finish line within the 30 hour absolute time limit. Even if one is perfectly trained, there are so many things that have the potential to go wrong; illness, injury, and plain old exhaustion from what this race does to a runner. To that end, it's important for the runner to consider enlisting some pacers to help him or her in the second half of the race, and crew members who can perform the basics of making sure the runner has proper gear and nutrition, as well as provide encouragement, motivation, or a plain old kick in the butt if it's what is necessary.
I'd planned to be at the race in 2012 anyway, with several friends from Grand Junction signed up for the race when it sold out in early 2012. When my friend Ben texted last month, however, with the news that race founder Ken Chlouber himself had presented him with a gold coin...AKA a "golden ticket" that gave him entry into the sold-out race following his completion of the Leadville Trail Marathon, and would I please please consider pacing him, it became certain that I'd be going to the race to help a friend get to the finish line. Originally I was on only as a pacer. When I learned that he was going to do it crewless with just drop bags, I volunteered to crew until it was time for me to pace-still trying to keep it lowkey and simple-if that was reasonable to Ben. Ben was down with that, so I prepared to do the somewhat unusual combo of being sole crew member for 76 miles, and pacer for the last 24 miles. Silke, a friend of a friend with excellent running credentials would pace starting at 50 miles, and would also have her husband Ryan there to help. This was shaping up to be a good team effort even though some of us had never met.
We arrived in Leadville on Thursday night, not 100% sure what we were doing, but ready to see this thing through, drawing on what experiences we'd had to that point. Ben had never run 100 miles, nor had I. I did gain a lot of experience this summer on the support side of ultras, though, with the limited crewing stint at Western States, pacing at Hardrock, and as pure fan support/cheer at the Grand Mesa 100 for a couple of friends.
Ben, for his part, is also a very strong trail runner, and quietly self-driven. He's always got a smile on his face and is just "good people." Training is important for the runner, but optimism and self-belief when the going gets rough and everything hurts-that's equally important. He ran the 50-miler in Leadville following his surprise golden ticket registration, ending up high on the finisher list despite running it as more of a training exercise to build confidence and endurance for the LT100. Despite the lack of long-term planning, things were shaping up well.
On Friday, we hit up the packet pickup, scored his numbers, and attended the orientation meeting along with other friends, crew and pacers from Grand Junction.
We were still going to use drop bags, but I'd be getting the bags out prior to Ben's arrival at each aid station, readying items so that he could choose what he needed easily and head on his way. Some people bring in massive storage tubs on rollers and a full rig of towels, chairs, and other items to each aid station; it just made more sense for us to keep it simple, though. To that end, we made up bags, labeled them, discussed what would be good for each aid station, and packed them up.
Ben turned in pretty early that night. I spent a little time with friend Shannon, who would be crewing her husband Kevin, that evening, but also headed back to my van at a nearby campground pretty early. Soon, 3am was upon us. Ben had gotten a good 4-5 hours of sleep, and said he was pretty calm and relaxed during the wakeful time. Great-he hadn't been undone with stress and awake all night, so we were already off to a decent start. Soon we were at the start, ready to get the show on the road. And trails.
At 4am, the runners took off in a blur of headlamps down the road. It was quite the sight; an all-time high number of 800 starters ran by, including Ben and five other Grand Junction natives.
Once everyone had cleared out, I talked briefly to Elizabeth and Shannon. Shannon advised me that it would be kind of crazy at May Queen, the first aid station, at 13 miles. Runners would see it again at 88 miles. With that in mind I headed out quickly, and sure enough, it was a total zoo there. I was able to park Ben's truck off on the side of the road pretty easily, though, and made my way down to the aid station, gathering his drop bag and watching for him, and other runners coming through. Knowing friends would want updates, I started keeping a record of the times that friends came through, something I continued to do throughout the race, saving the info to a text and then shooting it out once Ben made it through each one.
Ben arrived to May Queen right on schedule at 6:15. He looked good, and didn't want to sit, which made sense. This was pretty early on. He asked about a handheld water bottle, which hadn't been sorted into the May Queen bag. No major catastrophe, though, as he had his pack with water. He was hoping for sunglasses, too, which were in the car somewhere. I made a mental note to find them for the next aid station. It was still dark now, so he'd wind up having to make do without the glasses for a bit. Soon he was off again, and I headed down the road to Fish Hatchery, the 23 mile and 76 mile aid station.
Here, it was the first truly social aid station. Many of the support teams skipped May Queen, but everybody was here. The sun was coming up, and the temperatures cool and pleasant.
Friends Kevin, Marty, and Chris came through, and then I knew it was time to start watching for Ben. I had no idea what had become of the handheld water bottle but found some sunglasses, and the hat I thought Ben wanted. He came through, and it turned out that I'd grabbed the wrong pair of sunglasses from the car. The hat, though, was a pretty nice desert hat that would keep sun off the face and neck. This was good enough, and he was still feeling great. I felt bad about the minor snafus but Ben wasn't dwelling on them. Still, I didn't want to have any more issues. He headed off down the road, and I got ready to move along to the aid station where I'd cheered and crewed briefly for friend Bryan last year-Twin Lakes.
It's a true party atmosphere at Twin Lakes. The runners hit this aid station at 40 miles, and again at mile 60 after their double trip over Hope Pass, so many crews and teams stay out here for a large portion of Saturday. I'd be meeting Silke and her husband Ryan here so that she could be introduced to her runner prior to picking him up to pace at 50 miles. Since Ryan would be heading to the Winfield aid station-one I'd been advised to avoid at all costs-with Silke, I would be able to have some down time. Silke, Ryan and I found one another pretty easily at Twin Lakes, and we hung out near the ridge that the runners bomb down by the aid station. I still could not find any sign of a handheld water bottle, but had fashioned hand-made ones with disposable bottles and duct tape.
I followed the now-familiar pattern of seeing Kevin, Marty, and Chris come in. I hadn't really anticipated using the other guys as markers, but it was helping out in terms of knowing when to be on alert for Ben to arrive. Soon I started seeing runners who had come through just before him at the previous two aid stations, and got the game face on. I'd found the correct sunglasses and hat, so I felt like I was in a good rhythm now and ready for a quick transition. Soon, we saw our runner bounding down the hill, looking relaxed and fluid, and only slightly off the pace for his somewhat aggressive first-timer goal. While "finishing" is typically the best first-timer goal at Leadville, I also know firsthand how important that can be the first time out to have a goal in mind. Ben wasn't rigid to this, but the sub-25 hour big belt buckle was in the back of his head if things went as perfectly as they could.
Silke and I ran up to Ben, greeted him, and then ran him through the aid station. As it had turned out, the "wrong" hat I'd given him at the previous aid station was great for the intense sun. We switched out the hats, and he took the correct glasses. I offered the homemade hand-held, but he opted to go without, keep using the pack, and headed off down the road. Things were definitely going more smoothly now, and nearing the halfway point, things were looking pretty good. There was still a LONG way to go, though.
Rather than just heading back to the campground and my van to nap, I stuck around Twin Lakes with some of the other GJ-area crews. Kevin's team had full costumes on, and soon they had me in Kevin's superman costume as well. He'd worn it on Halloween the year prior, a child's costume cut in half, lamenting that "I just wanted to be a ninja." I doubt I'd have been able to nap if I'd left, and this fun, casual down time suited me just as well in terms of staying relaxed and calmly focused on the rest of the race.
Ultrarunning legend Scott Jurek paced then-leader Tony Krupicka into the aid station, and afterward, we managed to get a picture with the down-to-earth and friendly guy who then posted the picture to his Twitter page. The police officers handling traffic on the road at Twin Lakes also pulled us aside for a photo-op.
I stayed until Kevin, who had gotten VERY sick coming over Hope Pass, made it in, and got back out after Shannon, Bryan and Elizabeth worked to get him feeling semi-human again. Ryan, Silke's husband, had texted me that Silke was now with Ben, and that he still looked good. I headed back to the campground, gathering up my things and changing clothes to get ready to pace the home stretch. I also stopped to get some real food. Even though we wouldn't be running fast and would likely be hiking from 76 miles to the finish, it was important that I take care of myself and stay well-fed and hydrated. I got a text saying that Ben and Silke were through Twin Lakes inbound. He was maybe an hour off that A-game time goal, and looked better than most according to Ryan.
I made it to Fish Hatchery late in the evening, and met Ryan right away-he was parked a mere two vehicles over from me. It was nice to be able to chat with him, and to also use his smartphone app that let him know where Silke was with Ben. They'd slowed down quite a bit but were still moving-excellent news, considering that he'd been up and over Hope Pass twice, and was entering the late stages of this thing.
I took a brief one-hour rest/lay down period, and that gave me a nice recharge. Kevin was in eventually, and looked markedly better than at Twin Lakes inbound, where he honestly looked ready to keel over and quit. This is where having crew and pacers is so important; they helped him to get back out there again, and somehow, he was back in this. Marty came through eventually, also looking better than he'd apparently been earlier, after coming off Hope Pass. Then came Chris, Jeff, and our friend Kirk, who has run this thing 17 times. I wasn't concerned, though-as long as Ben and Silke were still moving forward, it was all good. Soon, Ben and Silke were in, and Ben was still smiling. He was tired but still looked like a guy who believed and knew he'd make it to the finish line in Leadville. Heading up to the aid station tent, we got him the food and drink he'd need, took a quick team picture, and then Ben and I headed out, 76 miles into his race. It was close to 1am now.
As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, there was a great post from another ultrarunner on the Footfeathers blog about being an ultra pacer. It was comical, and all about art of balancing the runner's needs at any particular moment with the pacer's amped up energy and readiness. I wasn't sure if Ben would be talking, silent, wanting songs and jokes, or something else. As we headed down the road, I couldn't believe how chipper, positive, and super-conversational he was still able to be. He asked "Do you want to hear my new goal? 29 hours, 59 minutes (a minute ahead of the absolute cutoff)!" Reality had set in that it wasn't going to be sub-25 hours his first time out, and he was totally okay with it. I texted his sister Jessica to let her know that Ben looked good and that we were, in fact, telling "That's What She Said" jokes at that given moment. I also updated to Facebook so his mom Bea and others could follow along, before we started the big climb up Powerline. Heading down the road, we were at a brisk hiking pace. This was great-keep in mind, Ben had been moving since 4am. That's 21 hours.
Soon, we could hear some strange music in the woods that got closer and closer. Eventually, we passed a house where what could best be described as Mexican romance music was being blasted. We laughed our way past this absurd distraction, and then hit the trail for the long, steady climb up Powerline.
As the name suggests, this section of trail runs underneath a powerline and straight up the side of the mountain. We weren't hammering the trail, but somehow managed to pass quite a few teams as we climbed without even trying. Ben's a strong climber, and and we just kept a steady pace, admiring the starry night skies, and feeding off the wonderful energy of being out here in the quiet of the night, looking at the steady stream of head lamps moving up the mountain. There were several false summits and climbs, but Ben wasn't fazed. We moved in a calm, slow, steady hike up the hill, stopping for a brief recharge here or there, but really no stopping. Finally, we crested the high point of the trail-no more climbing! The stars were amazing. We looked up to admire them several times, and kept plugging away.
Heading down, we hit hardpack road, and Ben was quieter now. I was feeling oddly sleepy. There wasn't much technical to mess with here, and in a way, than was as mentally taxing as anything. I looked around to keep myself awake, but I sensed that the quiet was good and didn't run at the mouth. Soon, though, Ben was needing to stop and re-group regularly. It didn't worry me-I could only imagine how badly his body hurt, and how the lack of sleep was beginning to mess with the head. Ben started being very concerned about time, and what mile we were at on the course, and how soon we'd be to May Queen, the last aid station. It was SO close, yet so far away.
I assured him that we were making good time, and that it was okay to not know exactly what mile we were in at that given moment. He was worried about it in a way that he had not been until this point, though.
Walking slowly down the trail, I became aware that Ben had dropped back a bit, but I kept moving. As long as we were moving, even slowly-it was forward progress. All of a sudden, though, I heard Ben say "this seems awful silly for a belt buckle. I've gotta lay down." I turned around and he was down on the ground, laying down and looking up at the stars. One thing you want to avoid at all costs is your runner sitting or laying down late in the race, and if it happens, the pacer needs to get that runner up and moving as quickly as possible before it becomes an exercise in futililty. Instinctively, I said "you can look at the stars, but you NEED to stand up." There was a moment there when I didn't know if I was in for a fight, or if he'd get up easily. After a brief pause, he got up. We turned off the head lamps, looked at the starry skies again, and then I said something to the effect of okay, let's start moving again. His brief attempt to quit the race was over before it even started, and we continued to move down the road.
Soon, we hit the turn back onto trail. Fellow runner John Constan had described it as being steep and hard to see in the dark, but something you just have to go for without daintily stepping onto it. This change of scenery and step onto more challenging terrain was a welcome change. It required focus, and the variety of twists and turns provided a much needed shot of adrenaline. Here, in the dark, we came upon fellow Grand Junction runner Jeff, and chatted with him for a bit before moving past. The trail seemed to flow naturally, and I didn't have to look too hard for the glow sticks as it wound and curved past trees and over a few nice bridges/water crossings. We also passed a runner with an incredibly loud pack, blasting country music from some source within the pack. We couldn't tell if this was his music of choice, or something designed to be annoying and thus keep him awake. Regardless, we'd climbed up from the low point not too long ago, and this was good. The focus was on continuing to that May Queen aid station.
I told Ben that a brief 5-10 minute sit would be totally cool here, and great to re-charge; we just didn't want him sitting or getting too warm and comfortable beyond that. He was agreeable, and soon we could hear the distant sounds of the May Queen aid station with cheering aid station workers and crew.
Once again, I found myself on a road lined with cars in the dark, just like the morning prior. It was a small victory of sorts to make it here after that low point/laydown not too long ago. Ben chowed down on a nice bowl of potatoes and hung out near the space heater. I shoveled down some watermelon and ramen noodles, hit the port-a-johns, and grabbed what Ben needed from his drop bag. When I said it was about time to go, there were no arguments, and we moved out quite easily. Other runners were not faring so well, and a number had seemingly given up the fight to move forward, wrapped in blankets on cots. That was the last aid station; there was still a long way to go, but we were in the home stretch.
Moving down the road a bit, we eventually hopped onto the trail that would take us all the way around Turquoise Lake.
It's said that runners go through many stages over the course of 100 miles; it was unbelievable that now, after almost 90 miles, Ben was back to smiling and joking again. I threw out another "That's What She Said" joke to which Ben responded "WEEEAK! C'mon. You can do better." He was definitely back, confident, believing he was going to make it through. In that rough patch, he was trying to do running math, which every runner will tell you just doesn't work...this was especially so after 24 hours on foot. Ben was believing me now when I said he had this thing so long as he kept moving to the finish. Moving around the lake, he was even able to jog small sections, and whenever he wanted to do that, I went with it until he had to hike again.
As the sun began to rise, we marveled at how this was now the second sunrise he was seeing as a racer. The air was calm, and daylight on the lake was another welcome, beautiful sight.
I sent out another text as we came around the lake, updating friends and family that we were coming upon 95 miles and about to get off the trail from the lake and into the final stretch toward that finish line. It was starting to set in now that Ben WAS going to do this. He was going to finish. The exact time was up in the air but there was no question now that he would do it. It's sort of a cruel joke that while we weren't far from finish line, the actual course kind of meandered sideways along the perimeter of Leadville for a bit with some pretty good climbs. We started cracking with other teams about it being the Walking Dead moving toward the finish. Nobody was running, but everyone was feeding of that energy and knowledge that there were only a few more miles to cover.
The warm sun further energized us; it had gotten pretty cold overnight and this was a nice change. Checking in on my phone, I started reading Ben messages and well-wishes from Facebook; there, I read that his sister Jessica had made it there with his dog Leila, and would be waiting for us at 99 miles. We reached 98 miles and the smiles and good vibes were all around despite extreme fatigue and pain of covering that distance on foot. The tendons on the front of Ben's feet were just throbbing, and he hurt all over. When we climbed uphill, I tried to redirect toward thinking about how good it felt to stretch things out as we climbed. Sure, I knew this wouldn't change how bad he hurt, but anything that took his mind off it for a minute would help.
Then, we were there-99 miles.
(pic via Jessica Hauschulz)
Jessica appeared with Leila, instantly perking Ben up to see his sister and his dog. We continued down the road together, moving amongst slowly moving, but MOVING teams of runners and pacers. The excitement in the air was palpable. Soon, we could hear the finish line announcer in the distance.
Clearing the last big hill, we headed down the road and then started the final climb to the finish. Ben was going to do it. So many people had dropped already, and he didn't even know a month ago that he'd be here; nor did I. He'd tried to quit at 87 miles, almost losing the dream there. And now he was about to do something that few dream of doing or training for.
When that red carpet was in sight, we all started trotting toward it together, hearing "and please welcome Benjamin Hauschulz!" In that moment when he crossed, a crazy dream that a lot of logical types wouldn't have attempted was realized. Run 100 miles? Crazy. After officially training-albeit, with a strong base-for a month? No way. I nearly broke down then but managed to keep it together as the race director hung a finisher medal around his neck and hugged him warmly. It was one of those beautiful moments in life when someone's work, the struggle, the effort had all paid off, and the emotion of it was an incredible thing. Amongst a great group of trail running friends, Ben's an exceptionally positive light who is always a pleasure to be around, and run with. His finish here was an unlikely, wonderful moment. It's also a reminder to not shy away from challenges and golden opportunities. One never knows if and when they may come around again.
(Jessica, with Ben, 2012 Leadville Trail 100 finisher, official time, 28 hours, 20 minutes, 20 seconds)
(**With a finish rate this year of less than 50% of the starting field, great congratulations to all the Grand Junction area runners, who logged a 100% finish rate despite a variety of issues and challenges that could have easily ended their races: Marty, 24:05, 58th overall, Kevin, 24:23, 65th overall, Chris, 25:12, 83rd overall, Kirk, 27:07, 124th overall and 18TH FINISH AT LEADVILLE(!) with no DNFs, Ben, 28:20, 186th overall, and Jeff, 28:50, 238th overall. You ALL are beyond inspirational and motivating.**)
Last weekend, I had the incredible opportunity to travel to the Western States 100, the famed footrace on trails from Squaw Valley, California, to Auburn, California, to be on the race crew for Kami Semick, one of the best ultra runners in the world. I've been told that my posts are sometimes, er...a tad long. Rather than go that route of accounting blow-by-blow, I'm narrowing my photos down to the ten photos which, for me, best embody the spirit of the weekend. So, here they are in no particular order. I have a full album available to view here should one wish to view them.
Two weeks after my first ultra, I find myself wrapping up my traditional block of down time after a big race. This has been marked by lots of eating (and eating, and eating, and eating....), sleeping a bunch, and only a little bit of running. When I do run, it isn't for more than about an hour, and has been almost entirely on trails so that the legs can continue to recover well from the experience of over seven hours of running and power hiking. Oh, and I've been able to say "a drink out with the girls? Sure! I don't have to run tomorrow!" when I'd normally pick and choose around my running schedule. I do usually swing up 5-7 pounds during this time, and it's no exception now. As easy as it would be to obsess about this, and not being near race weight a month before Boston, I think it's actually the healthy place to be at the moment with plenty of time to trim it back off in the coming weeks.
The other activity that almost always occurs during this down time? Signing up for more races, of course. It's one of those things that really allows me to enjoy this down time-knowing that I will refocus on quality training and working hard again once I'm fully recovered. Despite the fact that I reached the end of 34 miles thinking "man, I don't know how people go longer than this," I've been bitten by the ultra bug and am scaling up to my first 50-miler this fall. Last week, I registered for a race called Run Rabbit Run. Part of me says "What the hell did I just do?", especially when I read passage like this on the race website:
"Runners Beware. Word of warning: This is not a beginner's run. You might find the uphills and downhills fairly steep. You will spend a lot of time at an altitude of nearly two miles. There may be snow. There may be rain. It may be wet, or windy, or then again, it may be hot. There may be wild animals out there, some of them a lot bigger and scarier than a rabbit."
I do remember feeling this way about the RedHot as well when I signed up, though. I survived that-heck, I didn't just survive, I really enjoyed it. I have no fantasies or delusions of this being a cake walk I can just will my way through, and know this is a tougher event with more extreme terrain (oh, and that extra 16 miles), but I also know I'm the only one limiting my success if I doom myself to fail at it before I even begin training. My thought is that with six months until the race, I have time to log the long, slow miles that will allow me to get through 50 miles.
This race is kind of special in that the late Jenna Gruben (my friends and I met this talented ultrarunner, and her friends from Steamboat the day she passed in a car accident on her return trip from the 2010 RedHot) was closely involved as a volunteer and winner of this event. I love the idea of running to keep her memory alive, and celebrate being out there to run because I can. My friend Jen, who also ran the 2010 RedHot, will be running as well so it will be fun to plan and plot as the event gets closer.
I've also registered for the Steamworks Half Marathon, a June race in Durango I've run twice before. (See race reports here and here.) The course is very rolly with an uphill finish, but there's a great pool party with local microwbrews and real food (not just bananas) awaiting runners at the finish who choose to take on this race.
I'll stay with my regional race roommate Ilana again, and am sort of hoping I can pull together a small group of Grand Junction runners to come down for this race. We have a lot of local people who travel all over the state for races, and I'm surprised this one isn't quite on the radar yet. The registration fee is a relative bargain if they gave you nothing, but the small field (300 runners), pretty yet challenging course and post-race extras make it a no-brainer for me.
Finally, I signed up for my fourth running of The Other Half Marathon in October. I have a special love for this race-it was my very first "long" race in 2007 as an adult onset runner and noob to the racing thing. Last year, it was my breakthrough race during which everything came together for me, nailing a challenging goal time on a beautiful day, and getting to share it with running friends who knew what a big deal that was for me. I don't know if I'll have another magic pixie dust day again like that, but this course definitely inspires and brings out the best in me.
So, the wallet's a lot lighter now. (Thank goodness that my local running club's events tend to be just a few dollars for members!) Nothing left to do but get out there and resume regular training in another week or two. The rest of my spring racing schedule awaits, with two trips to Moab this month, and some little road race in Massachusetts that they've been throwing for, oh, 115 years now. For now, though, it's been fun to kick back, relax, and enjoy the afterglow for a bit.
Once again, I found myself in Moab this weekend. Time for another adventure, but this was going to be WAY off the beaten path. I came down last year to run the Red Hot 33K in the snow, mud and other fun conditions, and still had a great day despite the conditions and my snail-like pace on the course. At the time I'd been considering the longer 55K course, but wound up bailing a few weeks out and downshifted, realizing that I was neither physically nor mentally ready for it at the time after minor injuries sidelined me early in the year.
Things are a bit different a year removed, though. I'm still slow on trails but my confidence and enjoyment are in a much different place.. The adoption of POSE running principles has made me more efficient (read...a LOT less tired, clumsy, and likely to wipe out). Hence, the trails are more fun in general. When I have more fun, I'm more relaxed, the heart rate is down and I can just keep going for a lot longer than I used to be able to run.
Despite a really bad couple of running weeks and stress leading up to the Red Hot, and seriously considering a downshift again to the 33K, I stayed on the entry list for the longer race. I was committed to getting through it even if I was the slowest person out there, and a friend and fellow runner nailed it a few days before the race in saying that I'd be kicking myself later if I didn't do the 55K this time. I was scared but chose to embrace the idea that it would be hard, but nothing I couldn't do. Still other running friends gave the great, obvious advice to remember that this was FUN-so get out there with the intent of enjoying myself. As a typically competitive person when it comes to my running, I can lose sight of the obvious, so it was good stuff to hear.
Friday night included a solo drive down to Moab, which might sound lame and boring, but wound up being kind of like a mini vacation when I am rarely child-free. I hit up the packet pickup, and laughed when the lady handing out the course maps asked me "55K? You look like you're running the 55K." I'm not sure what made her say that but whatever...I'll take the vote of confidence.
I had plans to meet some of my 24 hour relay teammates for dinner later in the evening but was so starved upon rolling into town that I immediately hit up Miguel's for enchiladas, rice, beans, and a margarita. A few hours later, I joined my teammates, their spouses and another local runner for Dinner Number Two. Yeah, I'm a running omnivore who eats anything not nailed down. Eating what I needed seemed to be the first thing I did right going into the next day.
After hanging out for a bit, I headed back to soak in the outdoor hot tub under the stars and full moon at my hotel. Usually this lulls me into a good sleep the night before the race, but the loud heater in my room coupled with the people having a deep, loud conversation in the next room well past midnight kept me tossing and turning for hours. When morning came I didn't think it was a good sign that I couldn't drag myself out of bed, but after a little coffee I started to feel kind of human. Once I was dressed and my Camelbak was packed up, I headed out to find a bite to eat with plans to get down to the race start (Gemini Bridges Trailhead) in time to leave my drop bag to be delivered to the aid station at mile 23.
Here was my screwup for the day. It turned out that my hotel didn't do breakfast in the winter/off season months. Fair enough. I headed down to the Love Muffin, thinking I could get a bite there. No such luck, they weren't open until seven o'clock. I wasn't going to run this thing with nothing in the belly, though, so I waited it out, grabbed a muffin when they opened, and headed down the road to the start just in time to miss the drop bag truck. Damn. Oh well-I figured I could just move a few of my ziplocked bags of spare socks, gloves, hats and other random small items to my pack.
As I stood around I felt kind of....not just kid of, but totally like an ultrarunning poser. There were some serious rock stars of the trail running world waiting around for the start, and here I was just hoping I could make it through in one piece.The mood was very chill, though, and conversation with other runners milling around was very relaxed. I talked to my son's teacher, who was running the 33K, and made small talk with some other ladies who sounded like they'd be bringing up the rear with me today. It was kind of reassuring to know there were others just out to have fun, not contending for big money and fabulous prizes.
It was extremely warm for February, but the wind was crazy and light rain falling felt like little wet BB gun pellets when it hit my face. The conditions were still far more appealing than what I remembered from the 33K last year, though, and I figured if this was the worst of it I could deal with it. I took my pre-race S-Caps packet o' stuff (it keeps me from cramping up and helps to avoid hyponatremia in an endurance event), guzzled some water and got ready with everyone else. Holy cow, here I am. No backing out now. When it was time to start, though, I was calm and didn't really have a worry in my head. The plan was to stay this way physically and mentally, run relaxed and enjoy. Soon we were off, and headed out on a 34 mile foot tour of the slick rock and red dirt of Moab. John, the husband of my 24-hour teammate Julie, was in the longer race too and said "Remember to have fun!" when he ran past at the start. Excellent advice that I intended to follow.
My plan for the day was simple. Run the easier and less technical sections at the fastest pace I could that still felt "comfortable," so to speak. With the steeper and more challenging stuff, I intended to avoid the power hike in favor of running in the old "Zero Gear." This meant I'd be landing with relaxed compression while lightly lifting the other foot, running as slowly as necessary but still running. When I first started doing this last fall, it felt very awkward. I felt like I was shuffling and couldn't possibly be more efficient this way. Now, I am amazed at how different and comparatively easier to hiking the effort feels and can't imagine doing it my old way. My other strategy was to break the course up into different segments to pick apart-the first ten miles, the next eight to the mandatory time cutoff (had to get there by 12:30), the marathon point (26.2), the last aid station (29 miles), and finally the last five mostly downhill miles.
The first five miles were really just a time for me to settle in and let the body warm up. Some days you have it, other days you feel terrible, and I was relieved that things felt pretty good despite a few weeks of crap running, stress, and a bad night of sleep. I made it to the turnoff for the 14 extra miles on the long course feeling, dare I say, GOOD. There had been some hard rain to the face in the early miles but it seemed to taper off. The wind, though, was a different story. It was the only thing that was less than awesome on race day. I just tucked my head down a bit whenever it got bad and moseyed along.
I'd been told that this 14 mile loop was the "easier" part of the course, and that I'd already covered the tougher section running the 33K last year. Kind of a double edged sword since the hard part would come later, but that assessment was pretty right on. There was a lot of up and down but it wasn't steep or extreme, and there were some views that blew my mind along the way. I believe I talked to most of the City of Fort Collins, Colorado while looping around in this area. It turns out that they'd brought about 40 runners down for this. That's what I love about this kind of race-everyone out there enjoying and sharing the experience. You will have to turn the head for this next video....sorry. My iPod video cam skills were lacking sometimes but it's worth it for the sweet view in this clip.
The wind was still whipping around and the rain was coming off and on, but with relatively warm temperatures it was still kind of refreshing. Last year, it had been very sunny but cold, and frankly, this felt better. The sun wasn't beating down on me and nothing on me was too hot or too cold. Constantly running kind of off-camber and leaning downhill to the right was a little awkward but not awful. When I arrived at the third aid station near the end of this 14 mile loop, I was thrilled to see that unless I lay down and did nothing for an hour, I would make that 18-something mile cutoff with ease. I fueled up on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, coke, and water before moving along, and passed the jeep where they were recording runners moving past the cutoff at around the 3:40 mark.
Now I was almost entirely by myself. We were pretty strung out near the back of the pack, with big gaps between runners. Occasionally, I'd overtake someone or a random runner would slide slowly past me, but there just wasn't much in the way of civilization out here. Reaching 20 miles, I was beginning to tire but wasn't hurting yet. It wasn't anything that broke my relaxation. When epic winds and dark skies moved in, and those little water drop bullets started slapping against me again, I felt as calm as I'd felt the entire race. The winds were brutal, the skies were dark, but I felt completely at peace in the middle of it all, and was feeling more and more confident that I'd be finishing with a smile on my face in a few hours.
When the marathon distance finally ticked away on the ol' Garmin around 5:45 or so, it was kind of anticlimactic. I hadn't been running a traditional road marathon pace so there was none of that feeling of impending glycogen depletion or hitting the wall-just the slow creep of fatigue, and when things started to hurt, it seemed like they'd eventually reach a point at which things didn't get any worse, and just went numb. By now my excitement was building even as I tired, knowing I was less than eight miles to the finish. Blue skies and sunshine made a brief appearance to mark the occasion.
I spent another mile or two by myself, with a few people in the distance behind me, and eventually found myself creeping up slowly behind another woman who was shuffling along slowly but steadily. When I reached her, we started chatting and just kind of kept chatting and moving along together. We were in just about the same place as far as pace and how we were feeling. Her name was Julia, and we seemed to also be very similar runners in being slower on the trails, but both a little faster on roads, and running Boston this year. It was her second time running the 55K, and she was also down here for relaxed, fun "me time" with kids back home.
I'm not sure if we were tired or if the flagging got a little bit sketchy here, but we went off-course for the one and only time of the day somewhere around 30 miles. We followed one flag toward a hill but then kept going up the hill. Only after cresting the hill did we realize that we'd overachieved, and should have turned right across the hill rather than climbing it. Whoops. Still, this wasn't a whopper of a mistake. It cost us two or three minutes. No big deal.
Now in our seventh hour of running, the feeling was sweeping me that this thing was in the bag. I'd be in the last fifty finishers, but didn't care. Somehow, I'd never reached the point at which the pain and fatigue was greater than my desire to keep moving along and do what I'd trained for today. There were now regular slow-shuffle/hike breaks but never did I reach the "shoot me, put me out of my misery" point. Making our final descent toward the finish area at the Poison Spider trailhead, the wind was really getting insane to the point of a full blown dust storm that stopped us dead in our tracks with about a mile to go. I felt like a wuss for stopping and turning my back against the gusts, but looking uphill I could see that the few other runners behind me were doing the exact same thing to avoid being blinded. It finally let up and we continued down to the finish.
I had my third wind to really finish this thing off now, and wanted to be done as quickly as possible. Right around 7:29, my Garmin decided it was done for the day and just shut off. NICE. Not a big deal but geez, it could have waited another ten minutes. I wound up pulling away from Julia just a bit, wanting to accelerate up with whatever was left and finish strong. Coming down the hill, I could see the finish area, and the few spectators lining the end of the course where whooping it up enthusiastically for those of us coming in. I had a smile on my face and soaked it all in as I finished, 34 miles and a few thousand feet of elevation change behind me in 7:38:06. This was roughly 2:30 after the winning open woman and 2:45 behind Masters/Overall winner (and Western States 100 Champ) Anita Ortiz, but I didn't care. I'd faced down my fear, ran it down and was now standing succesful on the other side.
