Getting past the burnout – 2nd place at Redtail Ridge

This is a race report about the Redtail Ridge 50k at Lake Chabot, put on by the illustrious Inside Trail Running.

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On Saturday, at 8:05 a.m., I was sitting in a car in the parking lot of a park. My race started at 8:30. I hadn’t put on my shoes, and I hadn’t picked up my bib. I was not motivated or excited to run this race. I was feeling burnt out.

Last week, I posted a depressing call for help on a running message board. Here it is:

Hi runners,

I’m training for my 3rd 100-miler. Race is in early April. I’m running 28-30-milers almost every Saturday, plus whatever the training plan says for the other days. Between work and training for this race, I feel really burnt out – if I’m not working, I’m running, and there’s no time for anything else. I’m starting to dread my workouts [even non long-run days], and that hasn’t really happened before.

I haven’t felt this way when training for my past races, which I did primarily by running some 50s and 50ks [fun!] and then just running the race. This time around, training seems like an inescapable slog. I’m wondering if a) I’ve hit my limit of interest for the sport b) I’ve been overtraining or c) training is hard and I wasn’t doing it right before.

Help me out, guys – another four weekends of 30-mile Saturdays just seems daunting, miserable, and not worth it, but not doing the training seems like a bad option too.

Suffice to say, the last few weeks have been rough. I was tired, overwhelmed, and not excited to run. And in the car on Saturday morning, I wasn’t excited at the prospect of another run. It just seemed like so much work.

I thought about my options. I could either get out of the car and run the race. Or I could let Will run and go do literally anything else for five hours. Anything. I could go read a book or visit with friends or just wander around and explore the area. I was really grasping at any reason to not run this race.

But, ultimately, I was basically at the start line already, and I’d already paid. Two really uninspired reasons to run. So I got out of the car, picked up my bib, and started the race.

I’d run a couple of races in this park before, so the trails were familiar. The first few miles were along a lake – flat and forested, before we started a steep climb to the first aid station.

I wasn’t pushing it too hard at this point in the race. I’d gotten food poisoning on Thursday, so wasn’t sure how much energy I had in the tank. This race was also supposed to be a training run, so it was more about the miles and less about the speed. As such, I hadn’t tapered at all, and had run back-to-back ten-milers on Tuesday and Wednesday. I was moving slow, and I was okay with that, because I wasn’t motivated to run anyway.

That said, I was watching the color of the bibs around me. The 30k race had started at the same time as we had. They had green bibs instead of our yellow ones. Even though I wasn’t going for speed, I definitely looked at a racer’s bib color any time one passed me, which happened frequently, and hoped their bib was green. Runners going shorter distances should be running faster, so it doesn’t feel completely devastating when someone running a shorter distance scoots ahead. For a while, I didn’t see many yellow bibs at all, which was motivating.

After the second aid station, we ran along a rolling, wide dirt road in verdant green pastures. The trail was sloppy with mud from recent rain, made worse by the … generous … presents that grazing cows had left us along the way.

I took a quick pit-stop in the bushes and retied my shoes before the trail plunged back into the forest.

I hadn’t brought my watch on this race. Sometimes, looking at your distance during a race can be more depressing than helpful. At the beginning of the race, I felt like I had so much going against me mentally already. It didn’t seem worth it to add to the misery by knowing how many millions of miles I had left to go.

So, I’m guessing when I say it was somewhere around mile 10 when I picked up the pace a bit, for no reason other than it seemed like a good idea. At some point, I caught up to another runner, and fully intended to pass her, but she opened a conversation as we rounded a corner and stuck with me.

I’m really glad she did. We spent the next six or eight miles together. I learned about her running past [she used to live in Hopkinton, where the Boston Marathon starts!] and we chatted away a few hours of running.

I felt like I could have gone a little faster at this point, but I was more excited to have company and someone to talk to. Finding kindred spirits is one of my favorite parts of long races.

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My new friend and motivation for the middle stretch of the race

When we reached a downhill stretch, she and I parted ways; I’m a strong downhill runner and was feeling good.

The 50k course included all of the 30k course; we headed back to the start line with the 30k runners, then turned around and went out for another 12 miles after that.  As I headed back to the start line, I was feeling pretty good, energized by running with my new friend and excited by the prospect of running another 12 miles on the course. I would see her one more time on the course as I headed back out and she reached her finish line.

I like courses that have little stretches of out-and-back. Some runners don’t, because it can be demotivating to run in the opposite direction of where you’re ultimately headed, especially when part of that is at the start/finish line. However, I think  it’s fun to see the other runners on the course who are ahead or behind. It’s also an easy way to figure out how well you’re doing relative to other runners, because you can count who’s ahead of you. I hadn’t seen that many women with yellow bibs, and none that had passed me.

With just a few miles to the turn-around at the start, I started looking out for runners coming the other way. I saw one – she was moving pretty fast, and she was about 2-2.5 miles ahead of me. I saw one more, but she had made a wrong turn and wasn’t running the 50k anymore. And then … I reached the turnaround.  There weren’t any other women ahead of me.

I was in 2nd place.

And, even better, I was feeling good, both physically and mentally.

Neat. I turned around and took off, trying to widen the gap between myself and whoever was behind me. I quickly saw two women neck-in-neck, both 50k runners, about a mile behind me. So that meant I had to not lose a minute per mile to them, approximately, over the next 12 miles. It was 2nd place or 4th place.

I was glad I had left some gas in the tank, because the next few miles were back up that first hill again. I paced myself, running the hill where I could and taking walk breaks on the steep parts where I needed to, and made it to the first aid station in good shape.

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Cruising up a hill

There were three aid stations in this stretch, and I knew that if I made it to the 2nd one without getting passed, I could defend my position and sprint the last six miles to the finish. So the next few miles were somewhat anxiety-filled. Every walk-break, I was second-guessing whether or not I was wasting time by walking. This strategizing was kind of fun, too – not something I normally did in races, because normally I don’t compete for any meaningful prizes in races.

I made it to the 2nd aid station – another out-and-back – and hadn’t been passed yet. As I left the aid station, I saw one of the other women behind me. She was still about ten minutes back. I was pretty confident that she wouldn’t catch me, but I didn’t want to take any risks.

The last six miles were great. My legs had started to fatigue a little bit, but I knew I could go this last stretch without hitting the wall. These were the miles where I could feel my long runs paying off. I felt strong and prepared for the distance.

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Flying

After the last aid station, it was all downhill, and I flew all the way down to the lake. The last mile or so was little rolling hills along the lake, and I really pushed hard. At this point, it wasn’t because I was worried about getting passed, but because I was feeling good and I wanted to leave it all on the course. Will came back and ran with me for the last couple of minutes too, which was motivating and fun.

I crossed the finish line at 5:41, which was my 3rd fasted trail 50k time. And – I came in 2nd!

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Will pacing me to the finish

 

I had a really great time out on the course. I had been feeling really burnt out on running. A fun race – which turned into a competitive race – ended up being just the thing to get me back on track. Training for a 100-mile race is hard work, and it was nice to take a mental break and see some of that training pay dividends.

Sometimes we forget why we do the things we do, and it’s hard to get over the hump. This race helped to remind me about the reasons I run.

Running is a very multifaceted activity, and it draws people in for a variety of reasons. Some people love structured training, getting lost in the wilderness, racing competitively, or breaking PRs. As for me, I’ve always loved showing up to a race with no agenda, knowing that the time doesn’t matter, and also knowing that all I have to do is have a good time in nature. I don’t have to worry about the distance or about getting lost or about making sure I get home in time for something. All of that is taken care of, and all I have to do is relax into the trail, maybe make some friends, and appreciate being outdoors in a body I’ve worked hard to make strong.

 

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Swag. Bottom middle is the 1st-place age group medal, which is what they were giving out instead of 1st-2nd-3rd prizes. Also, what a great bib number.

 

Quick reminder: I’m still fundraising for the SF double marathon. Check it out: https://www.crowdrise.com/sanfranciscodoublema/fundraiser/brbrunning 

2015: Year in Review

2015 was a pretty good year for running. Here are some highlights:

Here’s a cool word cloud I made from all of my running posts from 2015.

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Thanks for a great year, 2015!

Moosalamoo 36-miler: Redefining “runnable” since 2012

This weekend, I visited my friend Patti, in Vermont, who I met on the trip to Antarctica in March. I came up to visit her, provide moral support for her first ultramarathon, and run this race as well. She’s a super enthusiastic, smart, strong woman, so it was a no-brainer to come up here and visit her – especially on such a momentous occasion as her first ultra.

When running a race in an unfamiliar location, there are a couple of key indicators to look for to help judge how difficult the course is. In the weeks leading up to the race, here are the things I looked at:

  • Fastest times. Faster times mean easier courses, and slower times mean harder courses – or not a lot of fast runners have run the race. Before yesterday, the fastest female finish time on this course was 6:52, which is pretty slow for a 36-mile race. So, either the course is ridiculously challenging, or the race is local enough that it doesn’t attract a lot of fast runners.
  • Elevation change. Lots of hills mean harder courses. I looked up the elevation profile for the course, and a race report from 2012 shared the below chart. It may look hilly, but it really isn’t that much relative to some of the more extreme ultras – the highest climb is just about 1,000 feet. I’d estimate that the total elevation change is somewhere in the 3,000-4,000 foot range, and 50k race on the West Coast regularly clock in around 5,000 – with five fewer miles. The elevation profile didn’t seem to justify the slow course record.

  • Weather. Hot, humid climates lead to slower times. Vermont is pretty wet, but it’s not as bad, as, say, Washington D.C. I didn’t think that weather would be the cause of the slower course records.

I assumed that the slow course record was just because it was a smaller race. Only 60 runners would compete in this year’s event, so probably it was just not a race that attracted lots of out-of-town runners looking to set personal records. Boy, was I wrong.

When I finished the race, I texted Will: “The course was easily the most frustrating, technically challenging, confusingly marked” that I’ve ever run.

5:45am selfie, just before our carpool to the start

Pre-race. Patti had been training for this race for a while, and she was very excited about it. Her house was full of race-oriented, motivational reminders. She’d written inspirational quotes on her bathroom mirror. A chalkboard in her kitchen proclaimed “Discipline. Consistency. Ultramarathon!” Her enthusiasm was contagious. The morning of the race, we left her house in high spirits to carpool with a friend of hers to the course.

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Patti’s inspirational chalkboard

We parked in a grassy field. Several runners had camped there the night before. After our race director, John, gave us some instructions, we listened to the national anthem. We faced a flagpole outside of a rustic inn. Our eclectic collection of athletes had attracted the attention of several guests, who stood on the front stoop of the inn, right behind the flagpole, giving us strange looks throughout our salute of the flag.

Pre-race briefing. I missed most of it due to liberal application of bug spray.

Immediately after the anthem ended, John said “Okay, start running!” With little further ceremony, the race began.

Climbing Moosalamoo. The first few miles were glorious. Blasting down a wide, pebbly road felt amazing. I’d tapered perfectly, my legs felt fresh, and the weather was great. I was leading the pack for a while, even keeping up with many of the 14-mile runners.

This aggressive pace (7:45) was part of a critical early race strategy. The race is named after Mount Moosalamoo, and after these wide roads, we’d be climbing to its summit. Patti’s friend, Erika, who we had carpooled with, had run the course before, and she let us in on a secret: the Moosalamoo climb was very narrow single-track. If you got stuck behind someone, you were there for a while – it wasn’t easy to pass.

The uphill grade wasn’t too bad, and the hill itself wasn’t very long. The main problem was the terrain – lots of rocks and roots. This was more than a sign of things to come; the course was extremely technically challenging, and this early section was no exception. I stumbled several times on this section, and on one rather nasty fall, I split open the palm of my left hand on a rock, knocked my knee, and bumped my hip pretty hard. Nothing show-stopping, although I wasted too much time at aid stations unsuccessfully trying to bandage my hand up. I ended up leaving it open and letting dirt act as a partial coagulant. Maybe not the best solution, but I figured the dirt was probably pretty clean and it was better than messing around with trying to cover it up artificially. I also recognize that this is ludicrous, ultrarunner-type justification for handling an injury and is zero percent of the time a best practice.

Out-and-back. After the first aid station, we had a small out-and-back – just under three miles. Out-and-back stretches are useful because you can see who’s ahead of you. It seemed like there were five or six women ahead of me, and they were anywhere from five to fifteen minutes ahead, so at that point, I was fairly sure I didn’t have a chance of catching them.

This section also included our first introduction to the mud. These were wide pools of quicksand-like slop. There was no way around them, and you were going to get dirty.

I ran through one particularly nasty swamp and felt a sucking at my right foot. Before I knew it, my foot had pulled free from the mud – without my shoe! I looked back into the mud, and there was no sign that a shoe was in there somewhere. It was just a vast puddle of uneven, wet dirt.

This had never happened to me before – the loss of a shoe in the mud – and it felt like a moment from a cartoon. I did the surprised-blink thing that cartoon animals do, then quickly evaluated my options. The only choice was to go in after it.

I stepped back to where I thought the shoe was and thrust my hand into the mud, up almost to my elbow. The shoe wasn’t immediately easy to find, so I dug around in there for a minute before catching a shoelace with my fingers. I tried unsuccessfully to yank it out, then moved my hand around to various parts of the shoe to try for a better angle. After a minute, it emerged with a sucking sound.

I scraped the goo out of the inside of the shoe, re-laced it, and kept going. That diversion probably cost me three of four minutes. “At least that was the last of the mud,” I thought to myself. I was so extraordinarily wrong.

This is definitely not a trail. The next few miles were uneventful, until we passed the half-way aid station. After running across a scenic dam, we descended onto a wide, pebbly trail, which abruptly came to a terminus at a mechanical box.

I looked around, confused – there was no obvious path to take from here, but there were definitely course markings on this mechanical box. I took a few steps towards the curtain of forest ahead of us, but that wasn’t a path.

To my right, seven-foot-tall swamp grass waved gently in the air. It would have been scenic – an unbroken, undulating plain of nature, except that hanging just over it, fluttering in the wind, was an orange course ribbon.

The only thing to do was head towards it.

The next mile or so was battling through this swamp grass on a slanted bank. On the high side was impenetrable forest, and on the low side was an even steeper bank with a river at the bottom. Seriously, though, there was no path here. We were legitimately bushwhacking through the underbrush, creating our own trail. There was no running through it.

At one point, I was so frustrated, and so sure this couldn’t be the right way, that I asked the woman behind me, “Have you run this race before?” She must have sensed my frustration, because she replied in kind, “No, and I don’t think I want to again.”

The loop. The next aid station was one we would see twice: once at mile 22, and once again at mile 31. Leaving the aid station, we made our way along a beautiful, soft, clear trail by a lake. My earlier anger evaporated, because this was gorgeous, and we could run it.

This period of bliss ended all too quickly; the trail turned right up Chandler Ridge. I wasn’t worried about it, because the elevation profile wasn’t offputting. However, these next four miles were really rough; the trail wasn’t even a little bit runnable.

From the facebook group: the race director claims the course is runnable. A race veteran replies with a tongue-in-cheek analysis. This maybe should have been a warning sign.

Roots crisscrossed the path like snakes. Every time I’d break into a trot, I’d inevitably trip after about three steps, no matter if we were going uphill or downhill. This was a really rough, disheartening section. I felt strong, but there was no way to break out and stretch my legs.

Direct excerpt from the course guide. There’s just so much danger going on here.

After we left the Chandler Ridge trail, there was an unmanned aid station, then a couple of miles of flag, clear single-track. I was still frustrated, but decided I was going to run the next few miles, no matter what. After a few minutes, I found that the trail was really good, and I still had a ton of energy, so I picked up the pace pretty substantially here.

I came into the 31-mile aid station excited to keep moving. I’d been on the course for about 7 hours. With five miles to go, I felt pretty confident that I could finish in under 8 hours if the trail was good.

Patti was at the same aid station, about to take off on the loop. I gave her a hug and headed out, feeling strong.

The last five miles. The first mile or so was on wide, dirt service road. It was amazing. I felt so strong here, flying up hills and letting my legs stretch out. It this was what the trail was like, it would be easy to finish in 8 hours.

My hopes were quickly dashed when the dreaded orange course markers appeared. Just before a hill, the course abruptly turned off of the delicious single-track service road and plunged back into the dense, wet forest, divided by a tiny little winding trail. So much for 8 hours.

In defense against mosquitoes, I had marinated my clothes in Deet the night before the race. I’d also lathered on more Deet – sunscreen-style, even though it was spray-on – just before the race started. However, by this point in the day, it had all sweated off. I was furious at the bugs as they tried to snack on me, but there was nothing to do but run faster.

Immediately on entering the forest again, we encountered more mud puddles. So many. As far as the eye could see, mud everywhere. There was no way to get through it quickly. Honestly, I also didn’t want to lose a shoe again, and picked my way around the mud puddles as best I could.

I was so disheartened at this point. I felt like I had so much gas left in my proverbial energy tank, but this ridiculous course had stymied my efforts over and over. There was no way to use it up. The course was just too technical.

A quarter of a mile before the last aid station, a large tree hung at about forehead height over the path. Some red plastic picnic plates were hanging on the tree – this was how John gave us directions. One of them said “It’s only ankle deep!”

What’s only ankle deep? Then I saw it.

More swamp grass. Towering above my head. And the grass was standing in ankle-deep water.

I didn’t even think twice at this point – the finish line was just a few miles away, and there was nothing that was going to get in my way. I plunged into it, made it to the other side, and blasted up the hill to the last aid station.

“Wow, women are doing good today,” the volunteer said, checking me off the list. “You need anything?”

“Send me home!”  I replied. “Which way?”

He pointed down a very wide, inviting service road. I grinned. Fast trail.

“Also,” he added, as I took off, “There’s definitely not another woman a minute ahead of you.”

Game on.

With just a few miles to go and forgiving trail, I pushed hard. I was running 9-10 minute miles at this point, which is really excellent this late in the game. I felt really strong.

I came around a corner, and saw my pursuit – a girl named Heather, who I’d chatted with earlier. She also knew Patti, and Heather had run the course several times before. I was tracking her down.

With 1.7 miles to the finish, I encountered another red plate with confusing directional instructions. I yelled into the brush to figure out where Heather was, then saw her behind me and to my right, up a hill. Tons of people got lost at this intersection. I was so glad to be trailing someone who lived in the area and knew the course well.

I caught up to her with about a mile and a half to go, and we picked up the pace. At one point, she said “This is all I’ve got – you go ahead if you want to!” I told her no way – we were going to blast into the finish together. She stuck with me.

We were hauling. It wasn’t competitive – we were supporting each other, urging each other to finish the race strong.

Finally – finally! We burst out of the forest and into a clearing. We could see the finish line, and raced down the hill and into the finishing chute together.

Hardware

Afterwards. Heather and I high-fived, and I found Erika, who had placed 3rd in the 14-mile race. Erika and I came in 4th and 5th respectively for women, and I came in first in my age group, with 8:14. Not bad.

I took a quick shower behind the building and reapplied more bug spray.

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The view from the start/finish. Also the view from the open-air showers. Not bad, Vermont.

Erika and I camped out for Patti, who had gotten lost due to poor course marking. After sending us a message effectively via carrier pigeon – there was no reception – she finished strong, having conquered an extremely, outrageously difficult course. I couldn’t be more impressed with her.

Antarctica was a strangely life-changing experience. I never would have come up to gorgeous Vermont, to take on this extremely difficult race, if it weren’t for meeting Patti on that trip. What a fun adventure, and one that is still paying dividends.

Patti, finishing her first ultra with a smile.

It was such a fun opportunity to get to support Patti during her first ultra, both in the days leading up to it and in the debrief afterwards. It made me reflect on my first ultra – also a 36-mile race, and extremely disheartening, as I was extremely under-trained and finished second-to-last. I’ve come a long way since then; as a veteran, I wanted to share some of the things I learned with Patti and make sure she didn’t think this ludicrous race was representative of all ultras.

This race has also given me a fire to push myself harder. This was a very challenging, borderline frustrating race, mainly due to how technical the course was. Clearly, the difficult trail conditions explain why the course record was so slow (although, both male and female runners broke the course record this year – a really stacked field!).

I have never felt so fresh at the end of a race before, and it just spoke to how much of the course was about technical ability rather than speed and strength. I’m a decent technical runner, having started on trails in Santa Cruz, but these trails definitely weren’t something I trained for. At the end, I felt like I had more energy in the tank, but looking back I don’t know where I would have used it. This was definitely not a “runnable” course.

After this race, I’m hungry for another challenge. I feel strong, and I want to see how fast I can go. Bring it on.

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At the start/finish, just after finishing. Check out that flat service road!

Morning-after breakfast with Patti. Matching penguin scarves, in honor of Antarctica!

A marathon on the coldest, iciest continent – Antarctica

Late afternoon sunlight in Antarctica

I just got back from what can only be described as one of the most epic escapades I’ve been privileged to undertake – a two-week expedition to the loneliest place on earth, where myself and about 150 others explored, adventured, and, of course, ran a marathon.

If the title didn’t give it away, we went to Antarctica.

[Warning – probably a long and rambling post. It was an awesome trip, and the marathon was just a small part of it. It will be hard to do it justice.]

Backstory. I first heard about the Seven Continents Club when I ran the Inca Trail Marathon in 2012. The club is for those who are in the process of running, or have completed, a marathon on every continent. Obviously, the most logistically challenging continent to run a race on is Antarctica. In 2012, I also learned that there’s a 3-5 year wait list to get on a voyage down there, so I put down a small deposit – I figured I’d decide to take that journey if, and when, the time came. Putting down the Antartica Marathon deposit was choosing more of an option to participate rather than a firm commitment to this outrageous expedition.

Since then, I’ve run races on two other continents: Australia and and Africa. Antarctica makes six (although my Europe marathon was a solo, unsupported run, so I’ll probably have to go back and do that one again).

When I finally got off the wait list for Antarctica, the timing couldn’t have been better: it overlapped with my school’s spring break, and I’d get to train through Philly’s miserable winter (that last part turned out to be especially helpful during the race).

Before the race. Two weeks ago, four hundred of us met up in Buenos Aires with our Marathon Tours organizers. We divided into two ships: The Akademik Ioffe, which left one day early and whose runners would race on March 9th, and my ship, the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, sister ship to the Ioffe, whose runners would race on March 10th. The results from the two days would be aggregated (important for later).

We had a few days in Buenos Aires – padding for those whose flights had been delayed – and a small group of us visited Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay for a day. That trip led to some shenanigans, such as a 20k training run in Uruguay which was actually only 1.5k. This silliness quickly solidified the friendship of this group of 9, and we affectionally named ourselves “The Colonials.”

The Colonial 9, atop the Uruguayan lighthouse

That day in Uruguay foreshadowed the depth of some of the friendships that would form over the course of the trip. Runners are a strange bunch, but there are some deep commonalities we have which makes it easy, and rewarding, to become fast friends with fellow running travelers.

The first two days were spent crossing the infamous Drake Passage. Many of us, myself included, spent significant time in our bunks attempting to avoid seasickness, with mixed success. We spent the time in-between getting to know each other, taking photos of the open ocean, and attending lectures on everything Antarctic, from penguins, to whales, to ice.

There was more than a little nervous energy onboard. Everyone was thinking about the race, and that manifested itself in a variety of ways. Most notably, we discussed every single aspect of the day-of race logistics ad nauseam. A couple of components were just unique enough that they made for interesting talking points. For example, we had to provide all of our own food and water during the race, and nothing could have a wrapper. Traditional food items, like Clif bars and Gus, were ruled out. Everyone had their own workaround, and we heard about all of them. I planned to use unwrapped Snickers bars shoved into a front pocket, operating under the assumption that they wouldn’t melt due to the frigid temperatures.

I was also not 100% convinced we’d even be running the race at all, so I was trying to avoid getting my hopes up too much. The entire lead up to the race was filled with weather warnings – inclement weather could cancel the race completely, and, in Antarctica, weather is not something you gamble with. I’d been reading the Ernest Shackleton story in my spare time, and, based on his harrowing 17-month survival experience stranded on the continent, I was more than convinced that the race should be called off in the case of poor weather. Nobody wants to get stuck ashore in Antarctica and forced to eat dog pemmican.

However, our first day ashore in Antartica – the day before the race – was amazing. We visited Half Moon Island, known for  its fur seals and chinstrap penguins. There’s also one, lone macaroni penguin – named Kenneth – who thinks he’s part of the chinstrap colony. The island itself was stunning – a little, white crescent surrounded by pounding, grey waves. It was our first taste of what Antarctic isolation is really about.

First shore day. The Vavilov is behind me

That day, the runners on the Ioffe were running their race. We learned that part of the course was drowned under about a foot of water due to melted snow, so they’d had to re-route, but they’d all made it safely back to the boat after running. That night, after our pre-race briefing, I removed myself from the rabble and anxiety – I didn’t want to discuss race-day nutrition for the 800th time – and went to bed early.

The race.

The official race map.

I woke up multiple times during the night. Just outside the porthole, massive snow flurries blinked in the dim deck lights. I kept trying to convince myself that it definitely wasn’t snow, but every time I woke up, it was definitely still snow, and it was piling up on the deck railings.

By the time we made our way to breakfast, it had stopped snowing, although the winds were holding steady at about 30 knots, with gusts to 35 knots. Even as we packed our dry-bags with warm clothes, filled up our water bottles, and donned our foul-weather gear for the boat ride over, I still wasn’t convinced they weren’t going to call it off due to weather.

We were aiming for a 9am start, which meant we had to start offloading 100 runners around 8am. Many of the Colonials were in a later boat – second or third-to-last. It seemed prudent not to wait in the cold for an hour.

The boats – called Zodiacs – were little rubber contraptions. During any expedition away from our ship, even if it was a very short trip to shore, each Zodiac carried ample extra fuel, enough food for all ~12 passengers for three days, and basic shelter supplies. We all wore lifejackets and waterproof foul-weather-gear at all times when on the Zodiacs. Again, no messing around down here.

On the boat ahead of us, a group of runners, including a family, were navigating the gangway down to a Zodiac. One woman was extremely terrified to step off of the ship and onto the gangway, which was shaking rather violently. She let her son and daughter escort her slowly down to the Zodiac, but the Zodiac was pitching and rolling on the choppy swells. I saw her reach a shaking hand out to cross from the gangway to the Zodiac, but she couldn’t take that step across onto the boat. She turned around and came back onboard the Vavilov. The Zodiac finished loading – without her – and took off for shore. (I found out later that she gave it another go, made it to shore, and finished the half marathon. The whole trip was full of inspirational stories like this).

Our trip over on the Zodiac took about 15 minutes, and the winds were fierce. We huddled together on the rubber seats, and I rubbed strategically-placed hand warmers to keep my fingers mobile. We all hoped that when we started moving, we’d warm up.

When we got to shore, we jumped out of the boat and into the freezing water, feet protected by rubber boots. We waded to shore and then up to the start line.

A couple of us at the start line

Even then, divesting of our foul-weather gear, we were still debating how many layers we should wear. I opted to trust my Philly training, and stripped down to just three layers: a long-sleeve shirt, a short-sleeve shirt, and a light jacket. I also had on running tights, a neck buff, a baseball-like hat to protect from any possible precipitation, a headband for ear warmth, and a warmer hat on top of that. I wore heavy ski gloves on my hands and tucked hand warmers into each one, and my normal trail shoes on my feet.

The start was anticlimactic (and I have never seen so many GoPros – mine included – recording it). Thom, our intrepid race director, counted us down from five, and we started trotting down the  muddy course.

The course would be a six-loop out-and-back course. Basically, we’d run 2.18 miles to a turn-around, then run back to the start, and do that six times. I tend to like loop courses, and I think this is because my powers of observation are pretty weak during a race – I’m discovering something new on every lap.

Just after the start

The first lap or two felt easy. The scenery was gorgeous at parts – the first mile or so was through the Russian and Chilean research bases, and after that we passed a glacial lake and ran right near the shore of the island, until we turned around at a Chinese research base. Despite how windy and overcast it was, it was very cool to be running past these towering mountains – in Antarctica!

I was powering up the hills and keeping pace with some runners that looked pretty fast to me. I didn’t think I had a chance of placing, but I do like to count how far back I am from the lead women … and after the first lap, there were only four women in front of me. My roommate, Erin, was in 3rd, and in 4th was another girl from Philly, named Taylor.

I was pretty sure I’d hit a wall at some point and fall back, so I didn’t think too much about it. However, at the end of lap 2, I was feeling pretty good – I’d been pacing off of another runner, and at the turn-around, he took a bit longer at the aid station than I did, so I kept going. The runner in 2nd had fallen back, which meant Erin was in 2nd now. Taylor, in 3rd, was just ahead of me … so I kept trotting along.

Even though I was keeping an eye on the competition, I, like most runners, was really just in it to finish. Because all of the runners knew each other by this point, the cheering throughout our short course was so enthusiastic and genuine. The course was only a few miles, so we saw our new friends frequently, and we all took the opportunity to encourage each other loudly, to the amusement of on-base researchers. They looked at us with what I like to imagine was admiration, but more likely confusion and worry for these crazy people who’d be out in these conditions.

Every so often, I would just appreciate how ludicrous the whole construct was – running a marathon on Antarctica is pretty crazy, when considered in the absolute. In my running career, it was also the race that I’d been thinking about for the longest – three years is a serious chunk of time, and this race was the culmination of that preparation.

Getting after it on the muddy trails.

Around lap 4, I was feeling a little fatigued, but Taylor was still just ahead, so I kept pushing. I passed her at one point, but then she passed me back, and I was pretty sure that was the end of things. It didn’t matter anyway – there was no way that, after combining our times with the other boat’s, the third-place person on our boat would also place overall.

However, I then passed her again, and with only 10k to go, I felt like I could maybe push it to the end and finish 3rd on my boat.

The next six miles were a slog. The hills were starting to feel steeper than before, and there were two short ones that I would walk for a quick recovery. The weather had also taken a turn for the worse, and it seemed like, no matter which direction we were heading, we were facing a stiff headwind. It had also started sleeting, and little particles of ice were now driving into any unexposed skin. I moved my buff up to cover my nose and mouth, but all that did was restrict my breathing, so I left it around my neck and faced the storm.

The last lap was rough. At the turnaround, with only 2 miles to go, I had my GoPro running. I crouched down to show off my favorite race sign – it said “Penguin Crossing” – and saw my Philly compatriot right behind me. I kicked it into gear and didn’t look back.

I felt like I was flying through the last two miles, although I’m sure it looked more like a limping slog than an Olympic sprint.

 

Running through the research bases.

The last 0.2 miles were up a shallow hill. I saw the 26-mile marker, and for some reason, turned around – I think I didn’t want to get passed at the last second. Taylor was right behind me! I turned back and sprinted to the finish line. She came in just a few seconds after me.

We high-fived and hugged it out, taking a finish-line photo (with Erin, who had finished 2nd and about 20 minutes ahead of Taylor and I. The first-place woman had already gotten back on a Zodiac and was headed for a hot shower). Taylor and I agreed that there was no way we’d be in contention for an overall podium spot, but we appreciated the competition.

After the finish

Volunteers bundled us into our foul-weather gear and back onto a Zodiac before we knew what was happening. My fingers, warm throughout the race, immediately became numb when I started handling zippers and velcro, and the Zodiac ride was pretty rough as a result.

After the race. That night, we learned that our boat had dominated the rankings. The men on Vavilov swept the top three spots, and the woman had grabbed the top two … and maybe the third! For the next twelve hours, I was constantly checking to see if they’d posted the results … and found out that a girl on the other boat beat me by two minutes. Very disappointing. I like to think that they had easier weather – it was very sunny! – but I know she also ran a great race.

The next several days were a combination of calm appreciation of our success and evening parties of wild, reckless abandon. Days ashore were happier and more relaxed. A few highlights:

  • A double-rainbow over icebergs.

What does it mean?

 

  • Quiet kayaking on reflective water (after a messy capsize due to inclement weather the day before).

I’m in that kayak on the right.

  • Whale watching – literally 20 feet from our boat – in the calm waters of Wilhelmina Bay on the last day.

Whale tail – so close to our Zodiac!

Whale next to a Zodiac

So peaceful and serene.

Epilogue. The whole experience was amazing. I focused here on the race because this is a blog about running, although, as mentioned, the race just became one part of a much broader, more epic adventure, which really deserves its own blog. Just like summer camp, we made memories and forged friendships that we’ll remember for a lifetime.

Antarctica is a pristine, unspoiled place. It is stark and isolated, and unlike anywhere else on earth. I am grateful that humanity was only able to reach it after developing an appreciation for preserving natural beauty – the continent is governed by a multinational research treaty – although I fear for the day that the lucrativeness of mineral rights overshadows this agreement.

The staff concluded our voyage with this quote:

Out here is where the magic happens, here in the quiet hills.
Here is where you have cried out with moans as deep as the earth.
Here is where you have found your long lost self that the madness took away.
So when you get back to those who talk loud in small rooms,
Remember that you have been to a place too beautiful for words.

-Anonymous

Here’s to the adventurers.

My favorite photo I took on this trip. Hi penguin!


Flap flap flap.

Want more Antarctica marathon?

1/3rd of a 24 hour run: thoughts on failure

Pre-race gear

On Dec 31st, I started running the San Francisco One-Day race. It’s a 24-hour race at Chrissy Field, with a great view of the Golden Gate bridge. Runners make ~1-mile loops around a lagoon from 9am on Dec 31st to 9am on Jan 1st, trying to log as many miles as they can.

My goal was to run 100 miles. I ended up running 40 before dropping out. I’ve never dropped out of a race before. It felt miserable. I felt like a failure, and like a quitter, and in some ways, I still do. It will probably take longer than the three days it’s been since the race to come to terms with dropping out.

The race itself: the course was beautiful. The light on the Golden Gate bridge was amazing to see in the morning, and at midday, and at sunset.

As for the running – the first five or ten miles were great. I was trotting along at a pretty good pace, keeping up with some of the top runners in the field. Between miles 10 and 20, I ran by myself, and I had some expected existential mini-crises: “Why are you doing this?” “Wouldn’t you rather be at home, petting the cats?”, but I kept up my pace. I finished 30 miles in six hours, which was right on track with my goal pace. I was also in 2nd or 3rd place for female runners at that point, which felt pretty good.

Around mile 34, my knee started hurting. Yes, that knee, and that same part. It was the injury that took me out for six months in 2012. Last time, it was caused by overuse, and by hitting the hills too hard, to quickly.

This course in SF was a flat course, but I knew what the problem was. I’d gone from running flat in Philadelphia to, before this race, running hills for a few weeks near by parents’ house in California, with no ramp-up time. I’d made the same mistake twice.

In a race, when some part of your body starts hurting, you try to do something differently for a bit. Walk half a lap, change your stride, strike with a different part of the foot, anything that might make the pain go away or allow your body to use different muscles for a bit. I tried a bunch of things, but the knee pain wasn’t getting better. I honestly didn’t expect it to. This particular pain wasn’t one you just worked through – it would just get worse.

I stayed on the course for another hour, mostly walking and occasionally jogging, giving the knee time to change it’s mind. I was hoping it would tell me “Just kidding! I was just messing with you. You can keep running.”

It wasn’t going to happen. Part of me knew it wasn’t going to, even though I was giving it time to stop hurting. I made it to 40 miles at around 8 hours, and dropped out. Spending the next 16 hours on the course, in pain, potentially damaging my knee irreparably, just didn’t seem like a good idea.

I took a shower at a friend’s place and immediately started driving back to Orange County.

The next 9 hours, as the clock turned to 2015, were spent alone in the dark, on the open road, or sleeping in the back seat of my car. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone.

I felt like a complete failure. I’d been looking forward to this race for so long – it had been a race I’d wanted to run for years. The idea of honoring my sport by finishing 2014 and starting 2015 with running seemed very symbolic. Now, I had to get over those sentimental notions. The calendar’s an arbitrary creation anyway.

I’m taking the next two weeks off from running, to let my knee – and the rest of my body – heal. After a year with 17 marathons/ultras, an average of ~50 miles per week, and almost 2,500 miles run in total, and crossing the 10,000 lifetime-mile threshold, it’s probably time to let my body recover for a bit.

However, I’ve had some time to reflect. Ultimately, this is an expected value calculation, where two outcomes were possible. In the first, I would have stayed on the course and finished the race; I most likely would have injured myself even further, which would mean being off of my feet for at least six months, and maybe much longer. In the second, which I chose, I stopped the race, take two weeks off, give my body time to recover, and get back to running slowly after that. Sounds better to me. While I’m not happy with the outcome in the short term, I know this was the right choice for the long term.

Handling this failure isn’t easy, but it’s also a good learning experience.

Also … I’m also now pretty sure I can run 100 miles in 24 hours. Running 40 miles in 8 hours is a pretty damn good start. I think I can do it again … and, next time, keep on running.

First, rest.

Check out the bridge in the background! This was our view all day.

Rocky 50K – Fun run through Philadelphia retracing the Rocky II montage

Today, I ran the Rocky 50k – an unsupported, unofficial race through Philadelphia that retraces Rocky’s training montage in Rocky II. Last year, a journalist wondered exactly how far Rocky went in his training run, and mapped it on Google Maps. The route came in at 30.6 miles – just a half mile short of a 50k. A local ultrarunner added a half mile to create a 50k course, then got people together for an unofficial race to run the route. When I learned about it last year (one day too late!) I knew I had to run it this year.

Despite a cease-and-desist letter from MGM claiming copyright infringement for use of the Rocky brand, the run somehow continued on for its second year, and that race took place today.

The route is pretty ridiculous in terms of its complexity. It’s also unmarked, which means there are no flags or chalk telling runners where to turn. For training, I ran a few of the legs beforehand; I wanted to make sure I knew where I was going on race day. This definitely helped get me psyched for the race – while running down Passayunk, a guy made the Rocky victory arms motion at me – and helped during race day, because I knew all but one of the turns without having to look at my awesome hand drawn map.

IMG_20141205_203853090

My awesome index-card, color-coded map. Definitely not gonna get lost with this!

The morning of the race, Will came with me to the start line. He’s training seriously for an actual, official marathon next weekend, so he wasn’t going to run this, although he would pace me for the last 11 miles.

I was surprised how many people showed up to the start – probably 60-70 runners were gathered on a random street corner in South Philadelphia, many of them clad in the classic grey-sweatsuit-and-red-headband garb of the montage. Runner’s World magazine was there to cover the event, too. Race organizer Rebecca counted down to the start with a “well, this isn’t very official, so … 3, 2, 1, go!” Everyone sort of stood around for a minute, then started running.

At the “Start line.” Check out the red headband!

The first part of the race was very social; runners were grouping together to navigate the course. There were a lot of ultrarunners running this race, which made me really excited – several guys had run a local 24-hour race this year, and one was in the lottery for Leadville 100. It’s hard to find other ultrarunners, and one sure-fire way to do it is, not surprisingly, running an ultra.

I dropped back from the group at mile 6 to use the restroom, then spent the next six miles tracking down runners ahead of me, mainly looking for someone to chat with. The first guy I passed had his headphones in and hadn’t been very talkative earlier, and the second guy I passed was planning to drop out at mile 15 (although his longest prior run was only 7 miles, so I had a lot of respect for him!). The next group I passed all seemed to know each other and weren’t super interested in talking.

I made my way down Broad Street, which was, fortunately, downhill. Ahead of me, I saw one figure wearing Rocky garb, and I followed his bobbing form through Center City. I caught up with him when he popped into a convenience store to pick up a drink, and realized it was one of the guys I’d been running with earlier, so we fell into step.

We rounded Washington and headed up 9th, which is where the famous scene of Rocky running down a vendor-filled street, past an on-fire trash can, takes place. The Runner’s World photographer had set up camp right near an actual on-fire trash can, and took pictures as we ran down the middle of the street. Street vendors were super excited, too – they had their arms up in Rocky-victory-pose when we ran by. It was fun to do this with someone who was actually dressed up as Rocky; in my green rain jacket, I wouldn’t have been recognizable as participating in a Rocky-themed run at all.

My running buddy dropped off at mile 15 – his house was nearby and he wanted to grab another drink (he did get back on the course – he wasn’t dropping out).

Meeting Will at mile ~20.

I knew Will was meeting me around mile 20, so, despite my aching hamstrings, I pushed on to one of the sketchier parts of the course, in northeast Philly. I had done one of my training runs in this area, because the route’s sort of tricky, so I knew what to expect.

Part of the course doubles back, and I saw a pack about ten minutes ahead of me. I finished that mini-loop and took off towards the Schuylkill, passing many other runners going the other direction. I knew they were only ten minutes behind me, so, even though there were no finisher medals, and no divisions, and no placing, that motivated me to keep moving.

I found Will exactly 3 hours after I started, which is also almost exactly when I said I would be there. He brought life-saving hydration, and we kept moving towards the river. Running down the river was non-eventful, because that’s my usual running route, so I knew what was coming. It started raining a bit, too. It was great to have Will pacing for this part, because it was pretty monotonous and I was feeling very tired. We passed by the Art Museum (where the steps are) and took off for a final loop through Center City.

The last several miles were to run through the city to the Delaware River along Chestnut, then back to the Art Museum along Arch. Running away from the finish line, through the city, was really tough for me – I was tired, and stopping at every intersection for traffic was really frustrating, especially in the rain. This is also the only time I almost made a wrong turn, but Will had fortunately memorized the route (and had it on his phone!) so we were safe.

Once we turned around and started heading back, I was feeling better, and the last three miles went by pretty quickly.

On the Rocky Steps, people frequently will run up them once and then do the Rocky Victory Dance. I always felt weird doing this without doing all the work from the montage beforehand, because part of what he’s celebrating is all of that time and effort he’s put into training. However, after running 31 miles, I felt like there was no better time to do the victory dance than today.

Victory!

Will took a video as I ran up the steps (fortunately, his microphone wasn’t good enough to catch my awesome/ridiculous self-motivational songs) and did the Rocky Victory Dance. The video is below!

Our attempt to jump in celebration of our finish.

There were a few others there who had finished right before me, and the Runner’s World photographer took a picture of us. He asked us if we could jump for a photo, and we all enthusiastically declared we could. After taking a couple of pictures, Will and I headed back down the steps. Will informed me that we all looked ridiculous attempting to jump and had barely left the ground.

While it wasn’t an official race, I did PR for my 50k time, with a 5:11 – not bad.

This was probably my favorite race that I’ve run on the East Coast since coming to Wharton. It had all of the things I like about running; it was fun, a little silly, very relaxed, friendly, social, and geographically exploratory. I liked seeing parts of Philly I hadn’t seen before, and I liked meeting other local ultrarunners. Wharton students don’t get outside of the “Wharton bubble” very frequently, and this was a cool opportunity to do just that.

Race Report: The Hardest Race I’ve Ever Run (Pine Creek 100-miler)

I ran my 2nd 100-mile race this weekend. It was the hardest race I’ve yet run, and in some ways, gave me a new appreciation for ultrarunning. I’d read a lot about some of the most difficult, trying parts of long races, but hadn’t really experienced the full extent of real challenges ultrarunners face until this race.

Background

Last year, Will and I ran something like seven road marathons. Road marathons aren’t my favorite; they’re usually painful due to the speed at which you have to run them and the pounding of the pavement, and they aren’t very scenic, especially in comparison to trail runs. I was getting burnt out on road marathons.

I convinced Will to sign up for a trail 100 with me.  He suggested the Pine Creek Challenge, which he’d run as his first 100. This race was a good fit for several reasons. It’s located in Pennsylvania, so it would be a good way to see a part of the state I hadn’t seen before and probably wouldn’t have the chance to see again for a while. It was also after summer (yet before classes really got going), so we’d have ample opportunity to train.

Leading up to the race, I ran lots of solo 30-mile unsupported training runs, as well as a 12-hour race and a 50-miler trail race. These were all great experiences, especially because they represented the best part of running to me – the adventure of trying something new. Also, none of them were road marathons.

After our internships ended, Will and I visited several national parks. We took on a lot of the more challenging, iconic hikes and runs, including Angel’s Landing in Zion, hiking from the Grand Canyon Rim to the Colorado River and back in a single day, and Half Dome, all in the name of training. We may have overdone it here – we probably should have left more time for lazy tapering in preparation for the 100 – but these opportunities and the scenery were too good to miss.

Leading up to the race, I felt I’d trained well, especially given the long work hours at my summer internship and the erratic travel schedule afterwards. I’d logged more than 1,200 miles in the six months leading up to the race, including ten marathon-or-longer distances. While I wasn’t “pumped up” for this 100, I felt ready.

The Race

Pine Creek Challenge is a 100 mile race on relatively flat, wide gravel trail in upstate Pennsylvania. The first 20 miles consisted of a five-mile stretch, which we ran out and back twice, finishing that portion at the start line. The next 80 miles were one long, 40-mile out-and-back – again, ending at the same place we started.

The weather forecast was questionable for the week leading up to the race, alternating between ridiculously humid and largely rainy with possible thunderstorms. I wasn’t concerned about the rain, as my last 100 took place almost exclusively during a deluge. I wasn’t concerned about the humidity either, as New York City had been pretty brutal to train in over the summer.

Part One – The Beginning

The start line (photo credit: Will)

We arrived at the start line around 5:15 in the morning. It was humid enough outside that I put on a bit of bug spray, and warm enough that I didn’t need a jacket. That should have been my first warning sign; the best weather conditions for races are ones where the temperature is just a bit below comfortable.

Will and I arranged our drop bags, which contained our gear that we could pick up at different aid stations, and headed to the start line. The race itself had 62 registered runners, which is pretty small, even for a 100.

As a result, the start line felt very informal and not at all crowded. A few people were sitting on the ground adjusting their shoes. When they played the national anthem, we all turned towards the flag; someone had inconveniently placed the port-o-potties between the start line and the flagpole, so runners would come out of the restroom, see everyone staring in their direction, get confused, then turn around and face the flag once they realized what was going on. Nobody was toeing the line; thirty seconds here was not going to make or break anyone’s race, and it’s very foolish to start out too strong on an ultra; you’ll burn out quick.

At about 6am, we started off. Will and I together for the first five miles; he was planning to hold back a bit so he didn’t burn out too early.  I was aiming for a sub-24 finish, but didn’t really have any strategy other than run at my usual pace for as much as I could.

The first five miles were mostly in the pre-dawn light. Some runners had headlamps. I opted not to wear mine, instead enjoying the tranquility of the morning.

As the sun came up, we were able to appreciate the beauty of the scenery. A light mist covered lush, green farms on either side; we’d occasionally run past cows or a mossy pond. When the mist lifted, the early morning sunlight pierced through the clouds, turning the whole landscape a dewey golden yellow color.

Part of the fun of out-and-back sections is seeing where other runners are along the course and how they’re doing. I was excited to see that three of the top five runners were female. It was fun seeing Will after he took off, too.

By mile 17 or so, I’d seen the same scenery three times and was ready for a change. I made it through the start-line aid station around mile 21, and at this point, I felt like the real race was beginning.

Part Two – Things I don’t Really Remember and Early Challenges

Somewhere on the course – it was pretty! (Photo credit: Will)

I’d be lying if I said I could accurately describe the next 8-10 miles and my state of mind. I know the scenery was pretty, because the trail had lots of trees making pretty tree arches and because I ran it on the way back. I know there was an aid station around mile 24, but I don’t remember it. I know the next aid station after that was 7.7 miles away, which was pretty far. I saw two horse-drawn covered wagons along the way, as well as several very happy Amish women on bicycles. This bridge fits in somehow, and it was very pretty.

A bridge we ran across. It looked a lot creepier at night. (Photo credit: Will)

 

I do remember being pretty happy to be in such a gorgeous area. The trees and the river nearby were really just beautiful.

After those 7.7 miles, we had another long stretch – 8.3 until the next aid station. I fell in with another runner from Philadelphia – he’d completed an Ironman (!) and was an all-around excellent athlete. We paced each other through that long stretch to mile 40.7 before splitting up. He looked like he was doing well, but said he was struggling; I think he dropped out at some point.

We were reaching the early afternoon, and the hottest part of the day. This is the first time I really started struggling, for two reasons: my GPS watch and, as mentioned, the heat.

One: I’d been relying on my GPS watch to determine my walk breaks. I soon realized I was getting grumpy, because the watch was demoralizing; seeing the distance kept reminding me how far I still had to go. I decided to change my strategy and take my walk breaks based on a technique I’d learned from one of my ultrarunning friends: counting your breaths. I would run for 100 breaths (about 400 steps) then walk for 20 breaths (about 80 steps), repeating as necessary and adding either to the run or walk portion if I wanted to. This allowed me to disconnect myself from the watch and be more in-tune with my body and with nature. Studies show that the fastest runners are not the ones who focus on their distance or their own bodies, but the scenery around them. Additionally, part of the reason I like trail running is the experience of immersing myself in my surroundings; it’s hard to do that when you’re constantly staring at a digital screen.

Two: the heat came in fast. I recognized what was happening before it fully hit; I’d experienced the same thing at the 12-hour race I ran in New York. That didn’t make it easier to handle. By mile 43, I was getting dizzy during my walk breaks; I didn’t get dizzy during the running parts, but I couldn’t just run through the heat – that would be disastrous.

At one point, I think around mile 44, I reached a man on a chair; I think he was taking race bib numbers, but it wasn’t really clear what his role was.  He said something horrible: “You’re almost at half way!”  I muttered “Thanks” and kept going. There’s really nothing worse than being reminded how much further you have to go.

About a minute later, I couldn’t take the heat anymore. I remembered reading the article about Tim Olsen, an elite ultrarunner who struggled at the Hardrock 100; at one point, he decided that laying down on a mattress in a pile of trash was a really excellent choice for taking a break. I took a page of out his book and just collapsed on the side of the trail, back to the gravel. It felt great.

Another runner passed me asking if I was okay – I was, and she seemed to believe me, so she continued on. I was up just a few moments later.

Around mile 45, it started pouring – torrential downpour. My kind of challenge. I was ecstatic. I felt revived, revitalized, and excited to be alive. I was happy to be running again. I felt strong.

Mile 46 brought an aid station, along with a lot of runners huddling under it. I grabbed a trash bag for rain protection (I ended up not using it, because it was till warm) and took off again.

The rain subsided pretty quickly, but the happiness I’d felt during it lasted for a few more miles.

I also knew that my pacers would be meeting me at mile 53; that thought buoyed me through the next stretch.

Part 3 – Running with Friends

When I saw my two pacers at the next crew station, I was so happy I almost started crying. I couldn’t believe I had friends who loved me so much that they’d drive four hours on their weekend to run in the middle of a forest – probably in the dark, and slowly – while I was most likely (read: definitely) a terrible conversationalist. I felt so honored and humbled – and I was really, really looking forward to running with them.

Christina joined me first. She initially was concerned that she wouldn’t be able to keep up with me for the 16 miles we’d talked about, but was quickly dissuaded of that notion when she saw how slowly I was going (I was probably running 13-14 minute miles at this point, which actually isn’t that bad for a 100 … but is very slow for any other time). She took me to the turnaround and back to mile 68. We had some pretty deep conversations – the kind you have when you’re out in the forest at stupid-o-clock in the dark and nobody is around.

Jess would pace me for the next 12 miles, up through about 80.5. These were really hard miles for me, and Jess was so supportive, even though it definitely could not have been fun for her. I was still awake and moving, but I was moving very slowly. I was starting to feel the effects of the earlier humidity, and I repeated my earlier trick of starfishing out on the gravel.

At my last 100, I’d almost run out of batteries for my headlamp a few times, which would have left me completely in the dark. After that experience, I developed a weird pathology about light, and Jess had to put up with my constant worrying about whether or not the flashlight we had would run out of batteries. I probably mentioned it something like 20 times. We found more batteries for the flashlight at an aid station, and at mile 80 I’d also have my headlamp – but on reflection, I realize this fixation was definitely symptomatic of having run 70+ miles.

I was terrified of what would happen at mile 80. Mile 80 was the start of some long, solo stretches (remember the 8.3 + 7.7?). It was going to be dark, and I was tired, and I’d be alone. I was really nervous about it.

Part 4 – The Darkest Part of the Race

Jess and Christina left at mile 80.5. I was so happy to have had friends on the trail with me for so long – it was so motivating. The rest was up to me.

I downed about 12 ounces of Diet Coke to wake me up and grabbed my jacket, extra headlamp batteries, and my iPod, and charged into the darkness. It was me, the forest, the trail, and the night.

The next three miles were amazing. I felt like I was running downhill, and I ran most of them with very few walk breaks. I was listening to really upbeat Australian folk music about dingos and emus, so I was pretty happy. Then I had to pee three times in thirty minutes, the caffeine wore off, and I was exhausted again. This is when it got bad.

At this point, I couldn’t even walk straight. I was zigzagging back and forth on my little rut of the trail, and I was I was resting on the gravel every two miles or so. Literally, that gravel was the most comfortable bed I could imagine. A woman on a bike pacing another runner passed me while I was on the ground – she somehow looked like an underwater octopus.

I got up after one rest, and behind me I saw a shadow. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but it was, in fact, another runner – he just wasn’t wearing his headlamp. He and I somehow fell into step together and made it to the next aid station.

From there, we only had 11 miles to go. We shambled back onto the trail.

I can’t begin to describe how hard the next 4 miles were. I was exhausted. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I’m sure I was sleep walking at some point. I had my first real hallucinatory experience; I saw 10-foot long shoes (they were trees), a two-story apartment complex (also trees), a huge covered bridge (still trees), a bunch of miniature footballs on the trail (leaves), a pile of white index cards that someone had drawn smiley faces on with red pen (leaves), and even the new iPhone 6, which wasn’t announced yet (leaves). The strangest part was seeing these things and knowing they weren’t real, but my body thinking they were. I gingerly stepped over the iPhone 6 so as not to crush it, even as I told my subconscious mind to make the vision go away.

I was also borderline hypothermic. I was wearing a long-sleeve jacket, but not a very heavy one. If we stopped for more than a few moments, I’d start shivering uncontrollably.

The last half-hour before the sun came up was the most miserable half-hour of running I have ever experienced. I am so, so thankful to have found this other runner; I know he was in just as bad of shape as I was, and I think we both felt better that we could look out for each other.

Physically, I wasn’t in any particular pain. My feet were fine, and my muscles and joints felt fine. I was just generally fatigued, and my body was confused that it still had to be awake.

When the sky finally lightened, my new running friend and I could not have been more thrilled.

I woke up immediately. My body felt like a new day had begun, and mentally, I felt awake and alert. Basic math skills returned somewhat (they’d literally been nonexistent earlier – we couldn’t do things like add 0.9 to 8.3. That was challenging).

We reached the final aid station at mile 96.5, and I was ready to take on those next 3.5 miles. My runner friend and I parted ways, and I took off.

I was thinking about just a few things over those last few miles:

  • How outrageously hard this race had been, and how I didn’t yet feel any sense of pride for having finished it, even though I knew at that point I would finish it. It had just been hard and miserable.
  • That Will was waiting for me at the finish line, and the faster I got there, the faster I could see him.
  • How fortunate I was to get to be immersed in nature on this adventure (and survive).
  • Bed and sleeping.

The same yellow glow from more than 24 hours ago was filling the farm valley. As I saw people beginning their Sunday morning, I thought about the fact that they’d had a whole cycle of life since the last time I’d passed through there – eating, drinking, seeing friends, sleeping, and waking up again – and I’d just been running the whole time.

The final turn back into the parking lot was surreal. It was simultaneously overwhelmingly emotional and also starkly apocalyptic. The 0.1 mile driveway to the finish line seemed long and empty. There was a car sharing the driveway with me, which was weird and anticlimactic after being on a trail for so long. Will was in our rental relaxing (he’d finished a few hours before me) – he waved out the window as I passed, then got out of the car to follow me to the finish line.

There were only about eight people at the finish line – all race coordinators who I didn’t know – and they seemed wholly separate from the experience I was going through as I crossed under the finishing arch. I was just happy to be done. They clapped and waved cowbells, but I didn’t really know them and they didn’t really know me, and it seemed sort of hollow.

I thanked them and smiled and turned around, limping back to Will, who hugged me. The race was over. I began shivering again as we walked back to the car.

Will and I at the finish line, just after I crossed it

Afterwards

It took me a couple of hours to write this, but it took a few days to really think and digest my thoughts about the race. I obviously struggled a lot during this race, and I’ll probably go back later and add more color about just how hard it was. I thought about dropping out basically nonstop, and, the weird part was, I didn’t think I’d even care that I hadn’t finished the race; I’d just be happy that the pain was over. I’d never felt that apathetic before.

But, you can only make the decision to drop out at aid stations, and somehow, whenever I was there, the thought didn’t even cross my mind.

62 people registered to run the 100-mile distance. 54 showed up at the start line. Only 37 finished (possibly less – that was the count when I arrived, and there were many people still on the course behind me).

I know I want to do another 100-mile race, and I know it may be as mentally challenging as this one. That scares me a little bit.

For now, I’m just enjoying relaxing and thinking about the shorter races I have coming up.