I have been unable for the past month plus now to figure out how to describe Boston. It went beyond my expectations in so many different ways, but every time somebody asks me how the race went I am not sure if I am supposed to simply say amazing, or if I am supposed to give details related to my own run. Most likely sane people care very little how somebody in the middle of the pack's race actually went . . . but, shocker, I am going to do a quick paragraph summary before actually talking about the experience of Boston 2014:
I went out as close to 3 hour pace as I could, and pretty much ran my planned splits till about mile 18-20 when things gradually ground to a halt. Ironically, it came as little surprise to me that my body/mind shut down in the final 10km - I felt it coming from early on in the day. Although I was able to maintain pace for the first half to 3/4s of the race, it was pretty clear from the outset that I was working harder than normal and my self talk was more negative than normal. My strategy then became one of simply trying to maintain pace as long as I could and see if my body/mind might bounce back in the later miles. No such luck. Not sure if my struggles were related to getting older, loss of fitness from being injured, loss of energy from having run harder than expected the month before at Antelope, having an off day, dehydration, playing too much prior to the race, or some such combination of said factors. In either case, I was able to hold on just enough to qualify for Boston next year and genuinely felt like I left what I had out on the road but missed my personal time goals by about a dozen minutes - and running goes on.
As far as the experience itself, Boston was in a class all its own. The crowds were amazing. The city was amazing. The stories were amazing. The simple fact that the race went on as grand as ever was amazing. And so here are a few of the images and or scenes that have stayed with me (and what I want to get down so that in a few years I can recollect them through the haze):
A crazy sort of silence as we walked downhill toward the starting corrals from the pre-race grouping area. I am not sure if other runners experienced this, or if I just ended up in a weird group, but it was an intense moment as a few thousand people walked together in relative stillness.
A boy standing in the crowd with his family cheering as loudly as possible and holding a sign that said, "Thank You - thanks for being here."
A phone conversation overheard the night before in which a mother talked about her daughter returning to all the places she had struggled to forget/remember from last year's race. Her daughter had been fine, had just finished her first Boston Marathon and was recovering in the medical tent when the bombs went off. The day and her memories completely changed in an instant, now she was back ready to run again.
The pre-race excitement Bostonians seemed to have in abundance this year. I got to hang out a good deal with Rick and Elizabeth (Alta friends who live in Boston most of the non-snow part of the year) before the race and it was so cool to hear their stories about the race, their strategies for watching on race day, and about the city in general. It gave the crowd a much more personal feel. I have to say in general the crowd this year was not only bigger than I remember from the other time I ran Boston, but also seemed more focused on the runners and the race - instead of the race simply being an excuse to party (which I completely understand and appreciate) it seemed like the race itself was the celebration. I am not quite sure how to put that into words, but I have never been in a race (road or trail) where there was such synergy between the participants and the audience. It was almost like the spectators themselves were actively participating in the race - this was of course nowhere more true than going through the Wellesley Tunnel of Sound.
The constantly shifting memorial(s) on Boylston street. The crowd's energy on Boylston street. The fact that reaching the finish line was a struggle this time round added something to this experience for me . . . I felt engulfed.
Sightseeing along the coast with my old man. He is the one who got me into running some 30+ years ago and it felt right touring around with him prior to this race in a whole assortment of venues my mom would have loved to visit - in fact, in retrospect, I am shocked this was my first time to Harvard Square since we had all done the east coast as a family trip years ago and the area around the campus would have certainly been my mom's kind of venue. (Note: I am trying hard to keep myself from pointing out how the PAC12 schools trump anything on the east coast in terms of not simply academics but also sports and lifestyle).
Hearing that Meb won the race upon finishing. I know it's silly-sentimental-foolish-patriotism but there was something genuinely cool about having an American winner and for that winner to be Meb downright unreal awesomeness.
All of the people who were running/walking different events after having been injured last year.
The courage showed by so many families to return to where they had been standing the year before to once again cheer on a bunch of screwballs running in short-shorts. In hindsight it's pretty easy to say how safe everything was going to be this year, but that doesn't mean fear couldn't have just as easily won out. I mean this with all sincerity and with a real push at trying to explain how such a simple act as standing along a race course carried so much more weight on this one day. It was just 100% awesome. On the plane ride out I met a person who was specifically heading back from SLC to be with her family for the week and stand in the same place she had every year since she was like 8 or some such thing and hand out orange slices.
Rushing to make my flight home, and then have it delayed. The beer on the plane - delicious.
In short, road races are fast, hectic events and often miss out on the personal touches that come on the trail; however, it was amazing to see so many people come out for such a silly thing as running. Thanks Boston.
Alright the cheese is over and now back to the trails . . .
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Boston Marathon Thoughts and Pre-flections
I am struggling with the concept of running . . . running shouldn't have to mean anything . . . we (all of us) should be allowed to run with the act meaning nothing . . . nothing beyond the physical-emotional release and joy that is running . . . but obviously that is not the case this week . . . running Boston will necessarily take on a different meaning this year . . . and I have been trying to figure out what that meaning is as I prepare to fly out east . . . or at least, what does running Boston mean for me this year - this time around?
"Did you hear what happened at Boston?"
"Don't tell me, I have the race recorded for later."
"No, it's not really about the race. You need to turn on the news."
And another moment in our world turned upside-down . . .
I am not one of those Boston people - you know the one's that run Boston every year and seem to live/breathe the course: they know their mile splits, they know when to expect the tunnel of sound called Wellesley, and they know where on the course heartbreak hill lies - but I did grow up aware of the Boston mystique. It was the marathon I always wanted to run as a kid, and a few years ago (2008) I got the chance to play out that childhood daydream. I didn't plan on returning: it was cool, goal accomplished, on to the next thing. But the mayhem of last year changed that for me. Something about last year's attack really hit me . . . hit me more personally than I might have expected.
Look, I tend to be pretty cynical and tend to emotionally distance myself from a lot of the stupid crap that goes on in this world, while simultaneously being fairly aware of how much stupid crap goes on around the world. I sometimes think our species is an evolutionary dead-end with violence being its chief fault: bomb this country, burn that village, kill this believer, desecrate that church. In the global cycle of humanity's violence Boston was unfortunately nothing all that out of the ordinary . . . but it struck me. It was not a distant enough event for me to rationalize away the images. It didn't simply feel like another piece of digitized news on the screen, it felt like an attack directed at people I knew.
In a world closer to the ideal, we would have all long ago joined a movement of pacifists and shut down the global industrial-military complex; stood as a human barrier on the border of one country or another putting an end to war as tanks were halted in their race from one flagged capital to the other. But instead we get caught up in simply trying to make it through life and the heroic notions of our childhood fade away. The adult infused wisdom that tells us the world will always be this way becomes our forgetful mantra. I would go so far as to say, it often feels like there is little/nothing we can do to fundamentally change the world for the better.
Last spring, I sat there watching the images of a joyful day thrown asunder wondering what in the world was wrong with our species. Are we destined to never move beyond this point in our global history? The point in our history that finds violence the answer to so many things? How long has this moment lasted? The entire 20th century? The past few millennium? Since Lucy?
And one of my students asked me, "Aren't you afraid to run Boston?"
It hadn't really occurred to me. I am more afraid to not run Boston than to run Boston. I am worried/scared that maybe the world really is changing. I want to return to childhood daydream's of peace and security. I grew up in the heart of the Cold War, as an American living on the western side of Germany's divided border, and strangely my childhood and the world around me felt more secure and peaceful than the one most of my students see as representing life today.
Sadly, running Boston isn't going to change the world. It's not going to stop the next terrorist attack or war from happening. It's not even my "A" race for this spring. I could simply continue sitting on my couch, or in a bar in Boston nursing the ankle I sprained at BoSho last weekend, and watch the race on teevee and the world would be just about identical. But instead, I will be lining up and chasing after another sub-3 . . . and yet I would suggest if ever time has meant nothing in a race to me this would be the one.
I simply want the chance to be out there on the course again, stating ever so simply/quietly that the world must become something different. The reason I want to run hard is because that is what Boston deserves. That is what the people who didn't get a chance to finish last year deserve. I need to suffer a little bit in that good-ole-fashion way that pushing yourself in a race lets you suffer. I try not to cry in public, but any starting line tears will be about trying to both remember and redefine what took place last year.
I am a runner. We are runners. And so I will run.
I am not one of those Boston people - you know the one's that run Boston every year and seem to live/breathe the course: they know their mile splits, they know when to expect the tunnel of sound called Wellesley, and they know where on the course heartbreak hill lies - but I did grow up aware of the Boston mystique. It was the marathon I always wanted to run as a kid, and a few years ago (2008) I got the chance to play out that childhood daydream. I didn't plan on returning: it was cool, goal accomplished, on to the next thing. But the mayhem of last year changed that for me. Something about last year's attack really hit me . . . hit me more personally than I might have expected.
Look, I tend to be pretty cynical and tend to emotionally distance myself from a lot of the stupid crap that goes on in this world, while simultaneously being fairly aware of how much stupid crap goes on around the world. I sometimes think our species is an evolutionary dead-end with violence being its chief fault: bomb this country, burn that village, kill this believer, desecrate that church. In the global cycle of humanity's violence Boston was unfortunately nothing all that out of the ordinary . . . but it struck me. It was not a distant enough event for me to rationalize away the images. It didn't simply feel like another piece of digitized news on the screen, it felt like an attack directed at people I knew.
In a world closer to the ideal, we would have all long ago joined a movement of pacifists and shut down the global industrial-military complex; stood as a human barrier on the border of one country or another putting an end to war as tanks were halted in their race from one flagged capital to the other. But instead we get caught up in simply trying to make it through life and the heroic notions of our childhood fade away. The adult infused wisdom that tells us the world will always be this way becomes our forgetful mantra. I would go so far as to say, it often feels like there is little/nothing we can do to fundamentally change the world for the better.
Last spring, I sat there watching the images of a joyful day thrown asunder wondering what in the world was wrong with our species. Are we destined to never move beyond this point in our global history? The point in our history that finds violence the answer to so many things? How long has this moment lasted? The entire 20th century? The past few millennium? Since Lucy?
And one of my students asked me, "Aren't you afraid to run Boston?"
It hadn't really occurred to me. I am more afraid to not run Boston than to run Boston. I am worried/scared that maybe the world really is changing. I want to return to childhood daydream's of peace and security. I grew up in the heart of the Cold War, as an American living on the western side of Germany's divided border, and strangely my childhood and the world around me felt more secure and peaceful than the one most of my students see as representing life today.
Sadly, running Boston isn't going to change the world. It's not going to stop the next terrorist attack or war from happening. It's not even my "A" race for this spring. I could simply continue sitting on my couch, or in a bar in Boston nursing the ankle I sprained at BoSho last weekend, and watch the race on teevee and the world would be just about identical. But instead, I will be lining up and chasing after another sub-3 . . . and yet I would suggest if ever time has meant nothing in a race to me this would be the one.
I simply want the chance to be out there on the course again, stating ever so simply/quietly that the world must become something different. The reason I want to run hard is because that is what Boston deserves. That is what the people who didn't get a chance to finish last year deserve. I need to suffer a little bit in that good-ole-fashion way that pushing yourself in a race lets you suffer. I try not to cry in public, but any starting line tears will be about trying to both remember and redefine what took place last year.
I am a runner. We are runners. And so I will run.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
BRYCE 100
Remember this moment! Do not forget this feeling! I need to figure out a way to remember exactly how shitty this feels. NO MORE POST-RACE AMNESIA. NO MORE POST-RACE EUPHORIA. Euphoria? Let's be honest -- the feeling after an ultra is typically different from the high sane people get after a marathon, it's more like exhausted relief followed by some bonding with a bunch of other weirdos over the suffering just experienced. Deal: get through the next 30-35 miles and you never-ever have to do this again. No Wasatch. No Whiteriver. No more running?! Just walk your ass to the finish line, throw away all your running gear, and take up a sensible hobby like brewing beer for the rest of the summer.
Help: I want to start by thanking both my pacer and crew. Pete and Cara were awesome. I say this with only a little shame, but this was one of those days that sans pacer, I would have probably bailed at some point. Actually, I know the exact point -- well, too be honest miles 60-75 are such a blur that I don't really know the point -- when I would have bailed. But the moment -- whenever and wherever it was -- came when I looked at Pete and said, "Do you think I should DNF?" Thankfully, he lied to me and said, "No way." I know he was lying because around mile 90 when things were going better and the question was no longer about finishing, but rather about how much of the lost time we could make up during the final miles, Pete told me there had been a few moments during the night when he kind of figured we were going to have to bail on finishing.
Course: Wild, rugged, and beautiful. Before the race (this is a brand new course) there had been some discussion and general confusion about how tough a course this was going to be -- in particular elevation numbers were bouncing all over the place from 18,000 to 26,000. I would suggest the best way to describe the difficulty and vertical in future course descriptions would be to simply say there is enough of both and to not worry about the actual numbers. I am guessing everyone that ran with some sort of GPS got different data when trying to track the vertical, so the truth might as well be told: the course goes up, it goes down, and it swings around. But in either case, the terrain was amazing. There were some epic desert moments as well as some solid mountain running periods; there were pretty tight sections of single-track and some faster pieces of dirt road that threw one into the mode of Fire on the Mountain's loneliness of the long distance runner. Maybe the best word to describe the sum of the whole would be variety.
First 50: Patient. Solid-pacing. Group running. Music. Consistent eating. I full-on enjoyed the first 50 miles and felt like I was running well and with a good amount of intelligence. One of the early highlights for me was running in a train of about 15-20 runners through some of the coolest single-track I have ever run on during a race. The course does an amazing job of letting you experience the rugged scenery of the Utah desert right from the start. The pace was perfect and I knew to a greater or lesser extent about a half dozen of the other people in the group, which made me feel both comfortable and silently social. Almost the entire way to the turnaround point at mile 50 went as well as any race can go with me simply stoked to take in the views and to run either solo listening to music or in a small group that included John and Matt from just north of here in good old northern Utah -- I have run with John at Squaw Peak a couple of times before.
Vomit: I threw up so many times between mile 50 and mile 75 that Pete and I sorta lost track, but there were at least 10 individual sessions (2-3 times per session) with the final one taking me momentarily over the edge. I don't think I cried, but I sure wanted to curl up in the fetal position and just pass out. My pre-race plan had involved ignoring all stomach issues and to just keep running. Not to stop in any aid stations and wallow about my tummy feeling sickly. Just keep choking down clifshots and everything will eventually work itself out. That was the plan and I was sticking to it. The fact that I was in the Top 10 at the turnaround added some stubbornness to this strategy. I was still running fairly well and didn't want to give up on a solid finishing time/place -- I even passed a couple of people on the return climb up to Pink Cliffs. The only problem was that more was coming out than was going in and the longer this continued the more trouble I was going to eventually be in . . . I don't remember which aid station finally saw Plan A thrown out the window and received the extended pleasure of my company, but I do remember it was dark and cold. It took a while, but Pete nursed me back to some semblance of sanity as I sipped on broth, nibbled away at potatoes, and ate some noodles. A fellow vegan even gave me some papaya enzyme pill to help the digestion process get started again -- he gave me his holistic assurance it was safe. My only thought as I swallowed was that worse case scenario the night might change completely if it weren't safe.
Death March: I wandered from aid station to aid station getting in whatever calories I could. Realizing that the pace we were moving at could mean a long-long trek ahead, I simply forced myself to forget we still had more than a marathon ahead. At one point, I swear to gawd 100 people passed us in the blink of an eye. Were we standing still? One-foot, one-foot.
Racing: When we left the Proctor Canyon Aid Station (mile 81) I fully intended to walk to the finish. Up-down. Technical. Easy. Who cared? It was going to be a long walk, but we were obviously going to finish. And then all of the sudden, we were running again. And not only running, we were actually starting to pass random stragglers here and there along the way. Strange moments of recognition caught before and shortly after the sunrise made it all the more special. We were all on the trail together: physically and emotionally raw to the world. What a most excellent experience shared with strangers and friends alike.
Data: 27th place. 26 hours 50ish minutes. And I now have 6 100 mile finishes. And 6 fancy belt buckles. No belt. But lots of cool buckles.
Help: I want to start by thanking both my pacer and crew. Pete and Cara were awesome. I say this with only a little shame, but this was one of those days that sans pacer, I would have probably bailed at some point. Actually, I know the exact point -- well, too be honest miles 60-75 are such a blur that I don't really know the point -- when I would have bailed. But the moment -- whenever and wherever it was -- came when I looked at Pete and said, "Do you think I should DNF?" Thankfully, he lied to me and said, "No way." I know he was lying because around mile 90 when things were going better and the question was no longer about finishing, but rather about how much of the lost time we could make up during the final miles, Pete told me there had been a few moments during the night when he kind of figured we were going to have to bail on finishing.
Course: Wild, rugged, and beautiful. Before the race (this is a brand new course) there had been some discussion and general confusion about how tough a course this was going to be -- in particular elevation numbers were bouncing all over the place from 18,000 to 26,000. I would suggest the best way to describe the difficulty and vertical in future course descriptions would be to simply say there is enough of both and to not worry about the actual numbers. I am guessing everyone that ran with some sort of GPS got different data when trying to track the vertical, so the truth might as well be told: the course goes up, it goes down, and it swings around. But in either case, the terrain was amazing. There were some epic desert moments as well as some solid mountain running periods; there were pretty tight sections of single-track and some faster pieces of dirt road that threw one into the mode of Fire on the Mountain's loneliness of the long distance runner. Maybe the best word to describe the sum of the whole would be variety.
First 50: Patient. Solid-pacing. Group running. Music. Consistent eating. I full-on enjoyed the first 50 miles and felt like I was running well and with a good amount of intelligence. One of the early highlights for me was running in a train of about 15-20 runners through some of the coolest single-track I have ever run on during a race. The course does an amazing job of letting you experience the rugged scenery of the Utah desert right from the start. The pace was perfect and I knew to a greater or lesser extent about a half dozen of the other people in the group, which made me feel both comfortable and silently social. Almost the entire way to the turnaround point at mile 50 went as well as any race can go with me simply stoked to take in the views and to run either solo listening to music or in a small group that included John and Matt from just north of here in good old northern Utah -- I have run with John at Squaw Peak a couple of times before.
Vomit: I threw up so many times between mile 50 and mile 75 that Pete and I sorta lost track, but there were at least 10 individual sessions (2-3 times per session) with the final one taking me momentarily over the edge. I don't think I cried, but I sure wanted to curl up in the fetal position and just pass out. My pre-race plan had involved ignoring all stomach issues and to just keep running. Not to stop in any aid stations and wallow about my tummy feeling sickly. Just keep choking down clifshots and everything will eventually work itself out. That was the plan and I was sticking to it. The fact that I was in the Top 10 at the turnaround added some stubbornness to this strategy. I was still running fairly well and didn't want to give up on a solid finishing time/place -- I even passed a couple of people on the return climb up to Pink Cliffs. The only problem was that more was coming out than was going in and the longer this continued the more trouble I was going to eventually be in . . . I don't remember which aid station finally saw Plan A thrown out the window and received the extended pleasure of my company, but I do remember it was dark and cold. It took a while, but Pete nursed me back to some semblance of sanity as I sipped on broth, nibbled away at potatoes, and ate some noodles. A fellow vegan even gave me some papaya enzyme pill to help the digestion process get started again -- he gave me his holistic assurance it was safe. My only thought as I swallowed was that worse case scenario the night might change completely if it weren't safe.
Death March: I wandered from aid station to aid station getting in whatever calories I could. Realizing that the pace we were moving at could mean a long-long trek ahead, I simply forced myself to forget we still had more than a marathon ahead. At one point, I swear to gawd 100 people passed us in the blink of an eye. Were we standing still? One-foot, one-foot.
Racing: When we left the Proctor Canyon Aid Station (mile 81) I fully intended to walk to the finish. Up-down. Technical. Easy. Who cared? It was going to be a long walk, but we were obviously going to finish. And then all of the sudden, we were running again. And not only running, we were actually starting to pass random stragglers here and there along the way. Strange moments of recognition caught before and shortly after the sunrise made it all the more special. We were all on the trail together: physically and emotionally raw to the world. What a most excellent experience shared with strangers and friends alike.
Data: 27th place. 26 hours 50ish minutes. And I now have 6 100 mile finishes. And 6 fancy belt buckles. No belt. But lots of cool buckles.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Spring: Up and Down
I am not sure how reliable my memory of previous springs stands up to reality, but I pretty much feel like this has been a tough one . . . injuries, being sick, and whininess have made the past six or seven weeks a roller coaster of pseudo-training, which wouldn't have me too freaked out except for the minor detail that the Bryce 100 is less than four weeks away . . .
In the early part of March, about 2 weeks before the Buffalo Run, the trail jumped up and tweaked my ankle while I was busy daydreaming about warmer weather -- I still had about 17 or 18 miles of running ahead of me and didn't feel like calling for help so I told myself that if I could run the rest of the way it would surely speed up the recovery process. Apparently my ankle did not agree with my "judgment call" and swelled up to the size of a bowling ball by the next morning -- bowling bowl might be an exaggeration, but suffice it to say I was pretty whiny and felt picked on by the running gods. I am not a fan of being injured. I bicycled, I rehabbed, I started running again. But in an effort to prove my world class intelligence, the night before Buffalo in an effort to make sure my ankle was going to be able to hold up for the full 50km I decided to run some technical trail with a bit of snow cover and eventually found myself hobbling back to the car . . . I was not as upbeat and positive the second time around -- Oh, why have you forsaken me!
A few weeks later, my running was finally coming back together. My confidence in foot placement and such was starting to return, and technical-vertical was rejoining my vocabulary . . . then a friend of mine gave me his bib for a road race . . . I know this kind of behavior is reprehensible, but I decided to run a local race for free. Let me explain my criminal behavior by explaining that I really did not have the money to spend for a last second registration and it was the weekend immediately following Boston and I needed to run something with other people and wasn't in any danger of accidentally winning some sorta age group award under the wrong name . . . well, the race proved to be a hypothermic experiment in drowning rats and I may have recovered with the wrong electrolytish beverage . . . so by the end of the week I was good and full-on sick, which has been lingering with me since . . .
On the other hand: the trails have been beautiful lately! I am whining about running, which means that life as a whole is going well and despite my general state of weariness with this cycle of training there have been some pretty solid moments of mountain time spent above the city. Struggling to get some good training in during the past couple of months has reminded me how lucky I am to simply be able to run and (knock-on-wood) I still have enough fitness and time to feel excited for Bryce . . .
In the early part of March, about 2 weeks before the Buffalo Run, the trail jumped up and tweaked my ankle while I was busy daydreaming about warmer weather -- I still had about 17 or 18 miles of running ahead of me and didn't feel like calling for help so I told myself that if I could run the rest of the way it would surely speed up the recovery process. Apparently my ankle did not agree with my "judgment call" and swelled up to the size of a bowling ball by the next morning -- bowling bowl might be an exaggeration, but suffice it to say I was pretty whiny and felt picked on by the running gods. I am not a fan of being injured. I bicycled, I rehabbed, I started running again. But in an effort to prove my world class intelligence, the night before Buffalo in an effort to make sure my ankle was going to be able to hold up for the full 50km I decided to run some technical trail with a bit of snow cover and eventually found myself hobbling back to the car . . . I was not as upbeat and positive the second time around -- Oh, why have you forsaken me!
A few weeks later, my running was finally coming back together. My confidence in foot placement and such was starting to return, and technical-vertical was rejoining my vocabulary . . . then a friend of mine gave me his bib for a road race . . . I know this kind of behavior is reprehensible, but I decided to run a local race for free. Let me explain my criminal behavior by explaining that I really did not have the money to spend for a last second registration and it was the weekend immediately following Boston and I needed to run something with other people and wasn't in any danger of accidentally winning some sorta age group award under the wrong name . . . well, the race proved to be a hypothermic experiment in drowning rats and I may have recovered with the wrong electrolytish beverage . . . so by the end of the week I was good and full-on sick, which has been lingering with me since . . .
On the other hand: the trails have been beautiful lately! I am whining about running, which means that life as a whole is going well and despite my general state of weariness with this cycle of training there have been some pretty solid moments of mountain time spent above the city. Struggling to get some good training in during the past couple of months has reminded me how lucky I am to simply be able to run and (knock-on-wood) I still have enough fitness and time to feel excited for Bryce . . .
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Reflections
At the end of December I wanted to take a few minutes to reflect on how my running had gone during 2012, but instead I procrastinated away all of January and am instead now fascinated by how pretty much wretched the winter has been for running in SLC. Smog, smog, and more smog.
We have been thrown into a perfect cycle of inversion style running this year, which seems to be all about running on snow and ice high enough in the foothills to avoid at least some of the bad air -- and ironically this means driving to trailheads and thus adding to the pollution levels in the name of getting some fresh air. I don't mean to sound whiny, but I have even gotten into the habit of running on a treadmill when the opportunity arises. Oh, world, please give me some wind to push all this gunk away.
Instead of reflecting on last year, and rather than continuing to grump about the reality of the past month, I am beginning to look forward to the next year of running. During the past few weeks my race plans have been shaped by a combination of lottery gets, lottery misses, and the fact that I can't surf the internet for more than about five minutes without looking at race calendars. In addition to running a handful of races, I am hoping to spend as much of the summer as possible in the high country. Ideally, I am going to spend the month of July running in the mountains of Colorado with my main goal being to not get struck by lightning.
Race Calendar:
Antelope Island 50km (March)
Double BoSho (April)
Bryce 100m (May-June)
Wasatch 100m (September)
Tentatively I am also thinking about running a 50 mile race toward the end of July -- perhaps the Grand Mesa 50 -- and may round out the year with a trail marathon in Moab.
P.S. It has once again occurred to me that I might be able to improve my running by reducing my beer drinking, but it has also once again occurred to me that it probably isn't worth it.
We have been thrown into a perfect cycle of inversion style running this year, which seems to be all about running on snow and ice high enough in the foothills to avoid at least some of the bad air -- and ironically this means driving to trailheads and thus adding to the pollution levels in the name of getting some fresh air. I don't mean to sound whiny, but I have even gotten into the habit of running on a treadmill when the opportunity arises. Oh, world, please give me some wind to push all this gunk away.
Instead of reflecting on last year, and rather than continuing to grump about the reality of the past month, I am beginning to look forward to the next year of running. During the past few weeks my race plans have been shaped by a combination of lottery gets, lottery misses, and the fact that I can't surf the internet for more than about five minutes without looking at race calendars. In addition to running a handful of races, I am hoping to spend as much of the summer as possible in the high country. Ideally, I am going to spend the month of July running in the mountains of Colorado with my main goal being to not get struck by lightning.
Race Calendar:
Antelope Island 50km (March)
Double BoSho (April)
Bryce 100m (May-June)
Wasatch 100m (September)
Tentatively I am also thinking about running a 50 mile race toward the end of July -- perhaps the Grand Mesa 50 -- and may round out the year with a trail marathon in Moab.
P.S. It has once again occurred to me that I might be able to improve my running by reducing my beer drinking, but it has also once again occurred to me that it probably isn't worth it.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
BEAR . . . the monkey is off my back . . .
WOW!
I am not sure mother nature could have worked things out any more perfectly for some pretty top notch scenery: fall colors at their peak, a full moon for the night hours, and the weather was downright perfect. Definite awesomeness . . .
Heading into this race, I pretty much had one goal -- finishing . . . I avoided all the normal temptations to create pace charts, figure out who else was there, do some speed/tempo work, and trained less than normal heading into the couple of months preceding race day . . . since the Black Hills in June I hadn't run more than 80 miles during any given week (hit 80 twice) and only had a couple of runs -- including El Vaquero -- that hit or went beyond the 30 mile mark . . . and as race excuses went, the week or two preceding had found me dealing with a cough and sore throat . . . hell, I only decided about a month ago to run this race for certain.
Anyhow, I went into the starting line way mellow and felt genuinely relaxed (kinda unusual for me when it comes to 100s since I tend to get myself too wound up and all gooey-eyed about the distance and the race, which is kinda silly for a middle of the pack runner anyhow). My relatively calm mood was probably helped by the fact that I missed the pre-race meeting and such because I worked late thursday night finishing up parent-teacher conferences at school . . . and boom the gun went off . . . oh, wait there was no gun . . . I think it was a more typical Bear 100 start, "You guys might want to start running now."
I had a lot of fun on the climb up to the first aid station at about mile 10 hanging out with a number of familiar faces from the Salt Lake area and just kinda enjoyed being in the mountains while my legs/body warmed up . . . shortly after the summit is when the basic story of the first 52 miles (Tony Grove Campground) started to get written as some decent running/hiking got mixed in with a lot of time dashing off towards the bathroom at pretty much any aid station, forest service campground, and/or trailhead toilet I could find along the way . . . I don't know if it was how the bug that had been traveling around inside me decided to manifest itself for the race or if it was something I ate but despite the toilet issues I thoroughly enjoyed the first half of the race and found myself at Tony Grove campground mentally fresh and pretty much smiling. The next 10 miles of running from Tony Grove to where I met my pacer Ed at mile 62 were equally awesome as the scenery continued to be lights out beautiful and I finally found myself able to simply run (despite being pretty conservative and not being too aware of pace, I actually think my time at Franklin -- mile 62 -- wouldn't be an entirely crazy way to shoot for a sub-24 on a different kind of day) . . . anyhow it was nice to meet up with Ed since I had spent most of the miles between 25 and 62 pretty much solo . . .
The night was pretty typical of a race gone rough: I had a hard time getting much of a pace going and seemed to cycle from bad to worse for most of the last 25 miles. I set a personal record by only throwing up twice (well at least only 2 cycles) mixed in with a little bit of dry heaving and was able to keep eating from time to time although strangely enough drinking water wasn't working as well. Despite the fact that my time for the night section might suggest otherwise, I was able to run a decent amount of the flats and most of the gradual downhills -- steeper sections were proving too much for my legs -- but I did find that whenever the pace started to pick up my stomach would get pretty sour and/or I would become dizzy . . . in fact I had a couple of dizzy spells that were a bit overwhelming and even took to sitting down from time to time when things became too swimmy. Anyhow the night was good-ole fashioned plug along running-hiking with existence being simplified to the next step forward and the mantra became make forward progress whenever possible. Yeah, in that sick twisted way memory fuzzes everything and despite my rational side reminding me otherwise, I kinda liked the darkness of the night both figuratively and descriptively.
But the highlight of the race came at about mile 98 when looking out at Bear Lake I took in the world around me and simply perceived as much of the pain and beauty as possible.
I am not sure mother nature could have worked things out any more perfectly for some pretty top notch scenery: fall colors at their peak, a full moon for the night hours, and the weather was downright perfect. Definite awesomeness . . .
Heading into this race, I pretty much had one goal -- finishing . . . I avoided all the normal temptations to create pace charts, figure out who else was there, do some speed/tempo work, and trained less than normal heading into the couple of months preceding race day . . . since the Black Hills in June I hadn't run more than 80 miles during any given week (hit 80 twice) and only had a couple of runs -- including El Vaquero -- that hit or went beyond the 30 mile mark . . . and as race excuses went, the week or two preceding had found me dealing with a cough and sore throat . . . hell, I only decided about a month ago to run this race for certain.
Anyhow, I went into the starting line way mellow and felt genuinely relaxed (kinda unusual for me when it comes to 100s since I tend to get myself too wound up and all gooey-eyed about the distance and the race, which is kinda silly for a middle of the pack runner anyhow). My relatively calm mood was probably helped by the fact that I missed the pre-race meeting and such because I worked late thursday night finishing up parent-teacher conferences at school . . . and boom the gun went off . . . oh, wait there was no gun . . . I think it was a more typical Bear 100 start, "You guys might want to start running now."
I had a lot of fun on the climb up to the first aid station at about mile 10 hanging out with a number of familiar faces from the Salt Lake area and just kinda enjoyed being in the mountains while my legs/body warmed up . . . shortly after the summit is when the basic story of the first 52 miles (Tony Grove Campground) started to get written as some decent running/hiking got mixed in with a lot of time dashing off towards the bathroom at pretty much any aid station, forest service campground, and/or trailhead toilet I could find along the way . . . I don't know if it was how the bug that had been traveling around inside me decided to manifest itself for the race or if it was something I ate but despite the toilet issues I thoroughly enjoyed the first half of the race and found myself at Tony Grove campground mentally fresh and pretty much smiling. The next 10 miles of running from Tony Grove to where I met my pacer Ed at mile 62 were equally awesome as the scenery continued to be lights out beautiful and I finally found myself able to simply run (despite being pretty conservative and not being too aware of pace, I actually think my time at Franklin -- mile 62 -- wouldn't be an entirely crazy way to shoot for a sub-24 on a different kind of day) . . . anyhow it was nice to meet up with Ed since I had spent most of the miles between 25 and 62 pretty much solo . . .
The night was pretty typical of a race gone rough: I had a hard time getting much of a pace going and seemed to cycle from bad to worse for most of the last 25 miles. I set a personal record by only throwing up twice (well at least only 2 cycles) mixed in with a little bit of dry heaving and was able to keep eating from time to time although strangely enough drinking water wasn't working as well. Despite the fact that my time for the night section might suggest otherwise, I was able to run a decent amount of the flats and most of the gradual downhills -- steeper sections were proving too much for my legs -- but I did find that whenever the pace started to pick up my stomach would get pretty sour and/or I would become dizzy . . . in fact I had a couple of dizzy spells that were a bit overwhelming and even took to sitting down from time to time when things became too swimmy. Anyhow the night was good-ole fashioned plug along running-hiking with existence being simplified to the next step forward and the mantra became make forward progress whenever possible. Yeah, in that sick twisted way memory fuzzes everything and despite my rational side reminding me otherwise, I kinda liked the darkness of the night both figuratively and descriptively.
But the highlight of the race came at about mile 98 when looking out at Bear Lake I took in the world around me and simply perceived as much of the pain and beauty as possible.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Mind
I wanted to jot down an idea about running and awareness before I lost it once again in the haze of my brain . . .
Perhaps I want to call this concept, the "emptiness" of consciousness. There are a few races (and of course training runs) in which my mind has been able to become more intimately connected to my body and escaped for at least a period of time the narrative of individual consciousness. It's almost like in the sensation of running (and realization of breath) my mind becomes temporarily aware of the whole. I remember experiencing this almost accidentally during the Salt Lake City marathon a few years ago, but the point of this entry is to explain the purposefulness of finding that (dare I say) zen kinda place during El Vaquero over the past weekend.
Early on in the race, I was way too inside my own head and wasn't letting myself enjoy the race as much as I wanted. In fact part of the spinning going on inside my head focused on the question: Why am I not enjoying this race more? I could see how beautiful everything was and wanted to enjoy it completely, but instead I was focusing on the miles ahead, the competition around me, the training both behind and in front of me, and finally the struggle of climbing and descending. If I couldn't get out of the "race" and into the experience of the mountains, why in the world was I here? Might as well be at home on the couch, or running on a treadmill somewhere . . .
Finally, I decided I wanted to experience the race differently and made a conscious decision to shut everything else out and simply focus on each step as it took place -- not the next step, this step. Well, not really each step, rather it was as if I focused on each breath. The inhale-exhale relationship of each breath became my necessary focus point. Lacking discipline, flexibility, and belief I am pathetic at things like yoga; however, I found myself swallowed up at this point in the race by the process of breathing (a concept I recall from my very limited, sporadic, half-hearted attempts at things like yoga. And through the act of consciously breathing, I discovered a wild awareness of the race going on around me. It was almost like I found myself running (and only running). There was nothing else going on in my consciousness. I wasn't daydreaming. I wasn't contemplating. I wasn't analyzing. I wasn't rejoicing. I wasn't complaining. I was simply running.
And through the act of running, I was experiencing the trail, the mountains, and ironically enough the race.
Don't get me wrong this section of the race didn't last forever -- can't really say when I went in and out of awareness -- but even when the feeling faded away there was a piece/peace remaining.
Perhaps I want to call this concept, the "emptiness" of consciousness. There are a few races (and of course training runs) in which my mind has been able to become more intimately connected to my body and escaped for at least a period of time the narrative of individual consciousness. It's almost like in the sensation of running (and realization of breath) my mind becomes temporarily aware of the whole. I remember experiencing this almost accidentally during the Salt Lake City marathon a few years ago, but the point of this entry is to explain the purposefulness of finding that (dare I say) zen kinda place during El Vaquero over the past weekend.
Early on in the race, I was way too inside my own head and wasn't letting myself enjoy the race as much as I wanted. In fact part of the spinning going on inside my head focused on the question: Why am I not enjoying this race more? I could see how beautiful everything was and wanted to enjoy it completely, but instead I was focusing on the miles ahead, the competition around me, the training both behind and in front of me, and finally the struggle of climbing and descending. If I couldn't get out of the "race" and into the experience of the mountains, why in the world was I here? Might as well be at home on the couch, or running on a treadmill somewhere . . .
Finally, I decided I wanted to experience the race differently and made a conscious decision to shut everything else out and simply focus on each step as it took place -- not the next step, this step. Well, not really each step, rather it was as if I focused on each breath. The inhale-exhale relationship of each breath became my necessary focus point. Lacking discipline, flexibility, and belief I am pathetic at things like yoga; however, I found myself swallowed up at this point in the race by the process of breathing (a concept I recall from my very limited, sporadic, half-hearted attempts at things like yoga. And through the act of consciously breathing, I discovered a wild awareness of the race going on around me. It was almost like I found myself running (and only running). There was nothing else going on in my consciousness. I wasn't daydreaming. I wasn't contemplating. I wasn't analyzing. I wasn't rejoicing. I wasn't complaining. I was simply running.
And through the act of running, I was experiencing the trail, the mountains, and ironically enough the race.
Don't get me wrong this section of the race didn't last forever -- can't really say when I went in and out of awareness -- but even when the feeling faded away there was a piece/peace remaining.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
El Vaquero Loco - 50km
Quick Results - 3rd place in just under 6 hours.
GREAT RUN! What a beautiful course! Wildflowers were in full color and the mountain scenery was world class awesome. I am not sure if I can remember a race with so much high quality running and so little in the way of junk running . . . this was the first time I had really done much more than travel through Wyoming's Star Valley and this gave me an entirely new appreciation for the area. It is definitely spectacular.
I felt like I had a good day out on the trails in terms of actually running, but what really stands out for me is how beautiful the whole day was -- waterfalls, snowfields, creeks, springs, mountains, lakes, glaciated valleys, and cool single track. Not sure it gets much better. Oh, yeah, on top of everything else the course was mostly runnable despite having almost 9,000 feet of climbing. Good times!
GREAT RUN! What a beautiful course! Wildflowers were in full color and the mountain scenery was world class awesome. I am not sure if I can remember a race with so much high quality running and so little in the way of junk running . . . this was the first time I had really done much more than travel through Wyoming's Star Valley and this gave me an entirely new appreciation for the area. It is definitely spectacular.
I felt like I had a good day out on the trails in terms of actually running, but what really stands out for me is how beautiful the whole day was -- waterfalls, snowfields, creeks, springs, mountains, lakes, glaciated valleys, and cool single track. Not sure it gets much better. Oh, yeah, on top of everything else the course was mostly runnable despite having almost 9,000 feet of climbing. Good times!
Grandeur Peak Sunset Run
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| Glancing back on the way to the summit - went up and down from Rattlesnake Gulch via Church Fork. |
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| Actually made the summit on time (well I had to hang out for a moment or two). |
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| The descent. |
Friday, July 13, 2012
A String Cheese Run . . .
The morning after seeing String Cheese Incident play up in Deer Valley, I decided the best way to return to Salt Lake would be via the trails . . . so after shaking out the cobwebs and attempting to rehydrate from a night of dancing, I made my way into the mountains.
I slowly worked my way through the ski area in search of a trail/service road that would connect me to the Mid-mountain trail that traverses pretty much the entirety of the Park City side of the Wasatch. My basic plan/idea was to run along the MMT until crossing over to either the Wasatch Crest or one of a couple of trails that seem to do a decent job of connecting upper Millcreek to the Canyons (no need to build any more chairlifts). About 6 or 7 miles into the MMT I came across a sign pointing me in the direction of the Wasatch Crest and was able to climb on a fairly mellow trail all the way to a point just beyond Scott's Pass. I hadn't been on this section of trail before, and think it would be a great way to work out some solid loops combining a decent chunk of the Wasatch 100 course with the Park City trail system . . . anyhow once I got on top of the crest it was pretty self explanatory running the rest of the way to Millcreek.
I ended up coming down via Baker Springs and into the Terraces picnic site in Millcreek -- this was basically a water-need determined decision so I could fill up at the spring after going a decent chunk of the way dry -- and found a pretty quick hitch-ride into town. In total I went just over 30 miles and was able to kind of plan out/scout a more demanding route for the future. Anyhow, this was a fun way to turn a concert into a bit of an adventure . . .
I slowly worked my way through the ski area in search of a trail/service road that would connect me to the Mid-mountain trail that traverses pretty much the entirety of the Park City side of the Wasatch. My basic plan/idea was to run along the MMT until crossing over to either the Wasatch Crest or one of a couple of trails that seem to do a decent job of connecting upper Millcreek to the Canyons (no need to build any more chairlifts). About 6 or 7 miles into the MMT I came across a sign pointing me in the direction of the Wasatch Crest and was able to climb on a fairly mellow trail all the way to a point just beyond Scott's Pass. I hadn't been on this section of trail before, and think it would be a great way to work out some solid loops combining a decent chunk of the Wasatch 100 course with the Park City trail system . . . anyhow once I got on top of the crest it was pretty self explanatory running the rest of the way to Millcreek.
I ended up coming down via Baker Springs and into the Terraces picnic site in Millcreek -- this was basically a water-need determined decision so I could fill up at the spring after going a decent chunk of the way dry -- and found a pretty quick hitch-ride into town. In total I went just over 30 miles and was able to kind of plan out/scout a more demanding route for the future. Anyhow, this was a fun way to turn a concert into a bit of an adventure . . .
Rejuvenation in the mountains of British Columbia
Spent about a week in northern Idaho and southern British Columbia running trails -- loads of vertical and new sights . . . this is what running is all about . . .
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Black Hills
the long and the short of it is that I had my second DNF at the 100 mile distance in a row - this makes 3 total (each one different, but each one a bummer) meaning that I am now 4 for 7 in finishing at this distance . . .
i suspect that the reason I run the 100 is that there is no guarantee on race day as to what will happen, but I need to get this distance figured out. I will be honest, I went through a couple of days of melodramatic depression about dropping out and even threw down a temporary retirement - as my wife would say, I have a tendency to be a drama queen . . . anyhow here is the report . . .
HOT, HOT, HOT! Temperatures were in the 90s and the humidity was higher than I have run in for a long time (I am sure by non-Utah standards the humidity was just fine) . . . but I felt like I handled the heat well. I drank early and often (half water and half elixir water), I grabbed ice whenever possible, dipped bananas in salt, slowed the pace and really didn't think the heat was causing me too much undo stress . . . I wonder . . .
The first section of the race went by without too much pace as I simply tried to keep myself moving at a slow enough pace to focus on a strong backside to the race (the only time the pace felt too fast was in the first 10 miles when everyone seemed to be in race mode already, but I purposely dropped off this pace as soon as I realized what was happening). During the first 30 miles I felt like I was climbing well, but without any hurry, and was doing well on both the flats and the downhills (too many of these miles were runnable and if I had been running the 50 mile race I would have probably run just about everything). I was trying my best to eat and drink -- I can't quite figure out what happened in terms of gels but I was putting them away and in reflection think I was eating too much (2 an hour plus other random stuff at aid stations).
As an example of how patient I was trying to be, I remember on two or three different occasions between miles 15 and 35 slowing my pace down despite having company and being able to keep up relatively comfortably with the people around me - the pace just seemed a little too aggressive given my main goal for the day (finishing) and the heat. Besides at least one or two people at aid stations told me I had already worked my way into the top 10 or thereabouts - this was a small race and a lot of people had already slowed to full on survival by mile 30.
The first issues I can remember having came as I moved toward the mile 38 aid station - I can remember feeling a little fatigued (nothing too weird for this point in the race though), but more importantly I remember having a stitch in my side. I can't remember the last time I had an actual stitch or cramp in my side when doing any kind of long run and I did think it was odd but just tried to run/work through it. I even slowed the pace down a bit more to make sure I was keeping things conservative enough for the day.
But all of the sudden, in the next couple of miles, everything went to complete nonsense: the stitch in my side returned more aggressively and with almost no warning I found myself throwing up what seemed like a gallon of water all at once. At first I thought this was going to be a quick one time event and felt relieved when the stitch in my side disappeared after throwing up. But I had lost a lot of water. I don't know if the water I had been drinking ever got into my system or had simply been hanging out in my stomach waiting for this moment, but in either case I found my race going downhill in a hurry. I would guess, I had lost over an hour or possibly even two hours worth of drinking water in this singular moment, which obviously on such a hot day wasn't the best possible result and tried to focus on rehydrating. I was able to start drinking again pretty easily and even ate another gel, but in time I ended up throwing up a couple more times and was never going to catch up in terms of hydration.
At mile 43 aid I took a few minutes to sit down, drink some coke, and try to get my head back in the game. I would have stayed here longer, but the guy sitting next to me was on an obvious tailspin toward dropping out and I felt uncomfortable sitting there so I left -- this was probably my first real mistake of the day. The next mistake came about 2 minutes later when I threw up again and started having abdominal and back spasms to the point of needing to sit on the side of the trail for a couple of minutes - I should have returned to the previous aid station right then and waited as long as it took to feel normal (well ultra marathon normal again) but was afraid that it would mean I was disqualified. I know some races disqualify you, if you return back to an aid station you have already left (others don't) and my guess in retrospect is that if I had been thinking clearly I would have simply asked before checking back in to the aid station. In either case, I hate going backwards. After regrouping a little bit, I decided I would simply walk (flat, down, up, whatever) until I felt better. Or until somebody caught up to me . . . I was shocked nobody caught me. And shocked nobody ever came at me from the opposite direction. I just kept walking. Unfortunately, it was a real struggle at this point to even drink water and my mind went into a tailspin. Obviously, I need to become mentally stronger. At one point, I started to wonder if the race had been cancelled and I was simply caught between aid stations with nobody else out on the trails . . . yeah, I was not functioning very well. Case in point, I had this moment of doubt about the trail - I hadn't seen a marker in a while but just kept going reminding myself that the course directions said there weren't "comfort" flags.
I am guessing I went off course by as much as a mile, although it was probably much less -- maybe only a half mile one-way. When I came to a road - definitely not part of the course - I considered hitching to the 50 mile turnaround where I could DQ myself. However, another runner made the same mistake a few minutes after me and we were able to walk back to where we had gone off course. I guess, part of me was still game for the fight. Part of me. I had some really strange moments on the trail between here and my eventual finish at the turnaround -- these moments lay somewhere between delirious and simply foolish. In either case, at mile fifty I sat down and started sipping liquids. I got sick again while sitting, but in retrospect think I should have been able to fight this down with a bit more sturdiness. I don't know how long I should have sat there trying to nurse myself back to health. I was worried about myself at this point. It scared me that water still wasn't settling without a fight and even soda didn't seem secure . . . I hadn't gone to the bathroom in a long time, maybe 4/5 hours (but I had gone a couple of times on the day) . . . anyhow I sat there for a while trying to regroup, but was unable to ever really start rehydrating.
When I got to the hotel, maybe 2 hours after officially leaving the race, I was finally able to start really getting liquids down -- orange juice seemed to do the trick -- and a while later I even ate some noodles and broth. Most importantly, I eventually went to the bathroom again and aside from spitting up some of the juice my stomach gradually returned to sanity.
Finally, the night was an adventure in cramping as my legs and feet kept freaking out to the point of sheer weirdness . . . ah, to fight another day.
In conclusion, I am still unsure what went wrong - I understand that I got dehydrated but this didn't seem to happen until my stomach blew up on me. I'm not sure why my stomach once again went on me, but wondering if it had to do with eating too much given the generally weak state of my stomach especially in the heat. And I still haven't figured out if I should have kept running or if I would have gotten into real trouble eventually . . .
i suspect that the reason I run the 100 is that there is no guarantee on race day as to what will happen, but I need to get this distance figured out. I will be honest, I went through a couple of days of melodramatic depression about dropping out and even threw down a temporary retirement - as my wife would say, I have a tendency to be a drama queen . . . anyhow here is the report . . .
HOT, HOT, HOT! Temperatures were in the 90s and the humidity was higher than I have run in for a long time (I am sure by non-Utah standards the humidity was just fine) . . . but I felt like I handled the heat well. I drank early and often (half water and half elixir water), I grabbed ice whenever possible, dipped bananas in salt, slowed the pace and really didn't think the heat was causing me too much undo stress . . . I wonder . . .
The first section of the race went by without too much pace as I simply tried to keep myself moving at a slow enough pace to focus on a strong backside to the race (the only time the pace felt too fast was in the first 10 miles when everyone seemed to be in race mode already, but I purposely dropped off this pace as soon as I realized what was happening). During the first 30 miles I felt like I was climbing well, but without any hurry, and was doing well on both the flats and the downhills (too many of these miles were runnable and if I had been running the 50 mile race I would have probably run just about everything). I was trying my best to eat and drink -- I can't quite figure out what happened in terms of gels but I was putting them away and in reflection think I was eating too much (2 an hour plus other random stuff at aid stations).
As an example of how patient I was trying to be, I remember on two or three different occasions between miles 15 and 35 slowing my pace down despite having company and being able to keep up relatively comfortably with the people around me - the pace just seemed a little too aggressive given my main goal for the day (finishing) and the heat. Besides at least one or two people at aid stations told me I had already worked my way into the top 10 or thereabouts - this was a small race and a lot of people had already slowed to full on survival by mile 30.
The first issues I can remember having came as I moved toward the mile 38 aid station - I can remember feeling a little fatigued (nothing too weird for this point in the race though), but more importantly I remember having a stitch in my side. I can't remember the last time I had an actual stitch or cramp in my side when doing any kind of long run and I did think it was odd but just tried to run/work through it. I even slowed the pace down a bit more to make sure I was keeping things conservative enough for the day.
But all of the sudden, in the next couple of miles, everything went to complete nonsense: the stitch in my side returned more aggressively and with almost no warning I found myself throwing up what seemed like a gallon of water all at once. At first I thought this was going to be a quick one time event and felt relieved when the stitch in my side disappeared after throwing up. But I had lost a lot of water. I don't know if the water I had been drinking ever got into my system or had simply been hanging out in my stomach waiting for this moment, but in either case I found my race going downhill in a hurry. I would guess, I had lost over an hour or possibly even two hours worth of drinking water in this singular moment, which obviously on such a hot day wasn't the best possible result and tried to focus on rehydrating. I was able to start drinking again pretty easily and even ate another gel, but in time I ended up throwing up a couple more times and was never going to catch up in terms of hydration.
At mile 43 aid I took a few minutes to sit down, drink some coke, and try to get my head back in the game. I would have stayed here longer, but the guy sitting next to me was on an obvious tailspin toward dropping out and I felt uncomfortable sitting there so I left -- this was probably my first real mistake of the day. The next mistake came about 2 minutes later when I threw up again and started having abdominal and back spasms to the point of needing to sit on the side of the trail for a couple of minutes - I should have returned to the previous aid station right then and waited as long as it took to feel normal (well ultra marathon normal again) but was afraid that it would mean I was disqualified. I know some races disqualify you, if you return back to an aid station you have already left (others don't) and my guess in retrospect is that if I had been thinking clearly I would have simply asked before checking back in to the aid station. In either case, I hate going backwards. After regrouping a little bit, I decided I would simply walk (flat, down, up, whatever) until I felt better. Or until somebody caught up to me . . . I was shocked nobody caught me. And shocked nobody ever came at me from the opposite direction. I just kept walking. Unfortunately, it was a real struggle at this point to even drink water and my mind went into a tailspin. Obviously, I need to become mentally stronger. At one point, I started to wonder if the race had been cancelled and I was simply caught between aid stations with nobody else out on the trails . . . yeah, I was not functioning very well. Case in point, I had this moment of doubt about the trail - I hadn't seen a marker in a while but just kept going reminding myself that the course directions said there weren't "comfort" flags.
I am guessing I went off course by as much as a mile, although it was probably much less -- maybe only a half mile one-way. When I came to a road - definitely not part of the course - I considered hitching to the 50 mile turnaround where I could DQ myself. However, another runner made the same mistake a few minutes after me and we were able to walk back to where we had gone off course. I guess, part of me was still game for the fight. Part of me. I had some really strange moments on the trail between here and my eventual finish at the turnaround -- these moments lay somewhere between delirious and simply foolish. In either case, at mile fifty I sat down and started sipping liquids. I got sick again while sitting, but in retrospect think I should have been able to fight this down with a bit more sturdiness. I don't know how long I should have sat there trying to nurse myself back to health. I was worried about myself at this point. It scared me that water still wasn't settling without a fight and even soda didn't seem secure . . . I hadn't gone to the bathroom in a long time, maybe 4/5 hours (but I had gone a couple of times on the day) . . . anyhow I sat there for a while trying to regroup, but was unable to ever really start rehydrating.
When I got to the hotel, maybe 2 hours after officially leaving the race, I was finally able to start really getting liquids down -- orange juice seemed to do the trick -- and a while later I even ate some noodles and broth. Most importantly, I eventually went to the bathroom again and aside from spitting up some of the juice my stomach gradually returned to sanity.
Finally, the night was an adventure in cramping as my legs and feet kept freaking out to the point of sheer weirdness . . . ah, to fight another day.
In conclusion, I am still unsure what went wrong - I understand that I got dehydrated but this didn't seem to happen until my stomach blew up on me. I'm not sure why my stomach once again went on me, but wondering if it had to do with eating too much given the generally weak state of my stomach especially in the heat. And I still haven't figured out if I should have kept running or if I would have gotten into real trouble eventually . . .
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Final Long Run Until BH100 . . .
Finished up 30 miles today (most of it with Brian, which provided a nice chance to catch up and get in some quality social time) . . . ran about 17/18 miles yesterday with a bit more vertical stress . . . and my legs are excited for taper time. I plan to taper for the next two weeks by dropping down to recovery mileage next week (about 60 miles) and then a pretty standard race week countdown -- like 6-5-4 or 5-4-3 . . . I have mentioned this before, but tapering is a stress for me; however, especially coming off of Squaw Peak and then running pretty solid miles all week this week, I know it is time to recuperate before heading to South Dakota.
Anyhow, the main thing I was trying to watch and/or keep track of this week was how well my legs would bounce back from SP50 and whether or not I could pull off a full week of training after running a bit harder than I planned last weekend . . . seems to have gone relatively well. I have had some general exhaustion all week, but was able to not only put in decent mileage but also got some good climbing in yesterday and did a modified tempo workout earlier in the week . . . so hopefully my body will use the next couple of weeks to recharge and my mind will keep from obsessing about racing and just enjoy having a bit of a break before being put to the test once again.
Anyhow, the main thing I was trying to watch and/or keep track of this week was how well my legs would bounce back from SP50 and whether or not I could pull off a full week of training after running a bit harder than I planned last weekend . . . seems to have gone relatively well. I have had some general exhaustion all week, but was able to not only put in decent mileage but also got some good climbing in yesterday and did a modified tempo workout earlier in the week . . . so hopefully my body will use the next couple of weeks to recharge and my mind will keep from obsessing about racing and just enjoy having a bit of a break before being put to the test once again.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Training Race?! or Race?!
Squaw Peak 50 Race Report . . . my intentions this past Saturday were to take it easy -- perhaps run a minute/mile or so off race pace and simply get some solid time on trail leading up to the Black Hills 100 which is in 3 weeks . . . well things went off plan somewhere on the way to Windy Pass . . .
The race started out fairly conservative for me as I found myself stuck behind a group moving up the climb to Hope Campground that were moving a little slower than I would've preferred be it training or racing. However, I remained patient and simply enjoyed the fact that I wasn't having to work too hard. It was a wonderful moment of single track imposed laziness. Skipping the first aid station, and passing this group without expending any extra energy, I was able to create a little space for myself and could start climbing at my own pace alternating between hiking and slow jogging on the way to the first real summit/pass. The first 7 or 8 miles of Squaw Peak include some of my favorite views anywhere in Utah -- the early morning light, the snowcapped mountains, the green valleys -- and I was able to soak it all in while letting my body slowly warm up. I had run fairly hard over the past few days and it was taking my legs a while to loosen up. And despite the slow pace, I wasn't necessarily in a place of joy early on in the race. In fact, I was actually starting to question my decision to train straight through this race and my legs kept asking me why in the world I had run alternating tempo miles on Wednesday night . . .
During the long descent toward Hobble Creek (once I worked through some GI issues) things started to loosen up and I kept surprising myself by recognizing a lot of familiar faces at aid stations -- it seemed like I would get to the aid stations just as people I expected to be further ahead of me at this point were just heading out of the stations -- guessing about a minute or two ahead of me. Anyhow, I told myself to be patient and simply enjoy the day in the mountains without getting caught up in the notion of racing (at least not this early -- Hobble Creek aid is now only about mile 20 so it was still early). By the time I got off the couple of miles of oven-baked pavement in hobble creek, I knew that once again a "training race" was turning into a race.
I was able to run with B.J. and John for a good chunk of the section leading to Little Valley, which I am certain had to be driving the two of them nuts since I have a tendency to alternate between jogging and walking on climbs more than most people which creates kind of a yo-yo pace. And it was especially necessary for me to jog the mellower sections of each climb because B.J. hikes like a beast and trying to hike that pace for too long would simply have destroyed me. Anyhow it was good to see both of them (last year we had chased one another around the course for a good 10-15 miles) and get a solid bit of social running time in during the middle of the race. Some pretty upbeat group running left me feeling relatively fresh as we reached the beginning of the Windy Pass climb where I accidentally pulled away from the pace everyone else was running. My first pseudo realization of how my race was going in terms of time came part way down the long (7 mile) descent from Windy when somebody told me the clock time -- ironically this made me run faster, because I couldn't figure out the math to make sure I was sub-10 and figured it best to just keep moving.
In either case -- this has definitely become one of those rambles -- I had a really good race (by my standards) and can't really understand why . . . shit, in complete avoidance of any kind of taper, I had actually run 10 miles in the heat of Friday afternoon finishing my run about 12 hours before Squaw Peak would kick off early Saturday morning. I do think that going into the race with no self imposed pressure helped me simply listen to my body and keep the pace totally sane . . . I never really felt taxed until I hit the last couple of miles and even felt like I was moving a little too slow in a couple of earlier sections. Part of it was simply having one of those days where everything worked, but I think a lot of it had to do with racing by not racing. I ate well, drank well, increased my electrolyte intake when it seemed necessary, and kept things pretty well balanced throughout the run. It would be great, if I could maintain the same level of common sense and luck while running in the Black Hills later this month.
9 hours 33 minutes for 6th place . . . this is a course PR by roughly a half hour and my best finish place wise by a couple of spots . . . it helped not getting lost (minus one little goof up on Windy - damn elk trails) and having the trail be almost entirely snow free this year. . . it was also my 3rd Top Ten finish at Squaw and continues a pretty nice streak of finishing in the Top Ten at the 50 mile distance . . . it helps of course to find races with only about 11 or 12 runners present . . .
The race started out fairly conservative for me as I found myself stuck behind a group moving up the climb to Hope Campground that were moving a little slower than I would've preferred be it training or racing. However, I remained patient and simply enjoyed the fact that I wasn't having to work too hard. It was a wonderful moment of single track imposed laziness. Skipping the first aid station, and passing this group without expending any extra energy, I was able to create a little space for myself and could start climbing at my own pace alternating between hiking and slow jogging on the way to the first real summit/pass. The first 7 or 8 miles of Squaw Peak include some of my favorite views anywhere in Utah -- the early morning light, the snowcapped mountains, the green valleys -- and I was able to soak it all in while letting my body slowly warm up. I had run fairly hard over the past few days and it was taking my legs a while to loosen up. And despite the slow pace, I wasn't necessarily in a place of joy early on in the race. In fact, I was actually starting to question my decision to train straight through this race and my legs kept asking me why in the world I had run alternating tempo miles on Wednesday night . . .
During the long descent toward Hobble Creek (once I worked through some GI issues) things started to loosen up and I kept surprising myself by recognizing a lot of familiar faces at aid stations -- it seemed like I would get to the aid stations just as people I expected to be further ahead of me at this point were just heading out of the stations -- guessing about a minute or two ahead of me. Anyhow, I told myself to be patient and simply enjoy the day in the mountains without getting caught up in the notion of racing (at least not this early -- Hobble Creek aid is now only about mile 20 so it was still early). By the time I got off the couple of miles of oven-baked pavement in hobble creek, I knew that once again a "training race" was turning into a race.
I was able to run with B.J. and John for a good chunk of the section leading to Little Valley, which I am certain had to be driving the two of them nuts since I have a tendency to alternate between jogging and walking on climbs more than most people which creates kind of a yo-yo pace. And it was especially necessary for me to jog the mellower sections of each climb because B.J. hikes like a beast and trying to hike that pace for too long would simply have destroyed me. Anyhow it was good to see both of them (last year we had chased one another around the course for a good 10-15 miles) and get a solid bit of social running time in during the middle of the race. Some pretty upbeat group running left me feeling relatively fresh as we reached the beginning of the Windy Pass climb where I accidentally pulled away from the pace everyone else was running. My first pseudo realization of how my race was going in terms of time came part way down the long (7 mile) descent from Windy when somebody told me the clock time -- ironically this made me run faster, because I couldn't figure out the math to make sure I was sub-10 and figured it best to just keep moving.
In either case -- this has definitely become one of those rambles -- I had a really good race (by my standards) and can't really understand why . . . shit, in complete avoidance of any kind of taper, I had actually run 10 miles in the heat of Friday afternoon finishing my run about 12 hours before Squaw Peak would kick off early Saturday morning. I do think that going into the race with no self imposed pressure helped me simply listen to my body and keep the pace totally sane . . . I never really felt taxed until I hit the last couple of miles and even felt like I was moving a little too slow in a couple of earlier sections. Part of it was simply having one of those days where everything worked, but I think a lot of it had to do with racing by not racing. I ate well, drank well, increased my electrolyte intake when it seemed necessary, and kept things pretty well balanced throughout the run. It would be great, if I could maintain the same level of common sense and luck while running in the Black Hills later this month.
9 hours 33 minutes for 6th place . . . this is a course PR by roughly a half hour and my best finish place wise by a couple of spots . . . it helped not getting lost (minus one little goof up on Windy - damn elk trails) and having the trail be almost entirely snow free this year. . . it was also my 3rd Top Ten finish at Squaw and continues a pretty nice streak of finishing in the Top Ten at the 50 mile distance . . . it helps of course to find races with only about 11 or 12 runners present . . .
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Peak Training
80 miles and somewhere between 14,000 and 16,000 vertical in 4 days . . . good times. Ironically today's relatively mellow run of 7 miles and 1,600 vertical was one of the most enjoyable runs of the cycle and recent memory. There was something that simply felt natural about today's run -- little/nothing in the way of thinking about pacing, drinking, eating, or route finding. I was simply running. The foothills were beautiful. Clouds, wind, rain in the distance, and everything turned ever green . . . just one of those days when everything came together despite the recent miles and tired legs. As I crested the ridge in City Creek, it felt like my body/mind forgot all the running of the past few days and simply wanted to be free and move without thought.
In other news, I am nervous about the BH100. After last fall's surrender at Bear, I am nervous about how my mind/body will react when the push truly gets to shove -- this is probably in reality why I have suddenly started writing again after a rather long hiatus (to clear my head). There is something amazing about the connection between training and racing. There is also something amazing about what seems to be the disconnect between the two. Recently, I have been looking back at running logs from the past couple years in an attempt to find clues pointing to good/bad race efforts. Not sure there is much rhyme/reason. Signs of burnout? Signs of overtraining? Signs of undertraining? Reading it all in hindsight, the signs are obvious. But in reality, I am not sure how the info would all read if the results had been different. I was surprised to see that before both Wasatch a couple-three years ago (caused because of injury) and Bear last year (caused by burnout?) there were unusual drops in my training followed by and/or connected to random periods of overly intense training. In contrast, my more typical training follows a fairly gradual increase in terms of overall mileage (with mini-recoveries thrown in from time to time) until reaching peak training about 3 weeks before the race followed by a taper that goes 80, 60, race week. Shocker: it seems that consistency might be the closest thing to a key for me.
In other news, I am nervous about the BH100. After last fall's surrender at Bear, I am nervous about how my mind/body will react when the push truly gets to shove -- this is probably in reality why I have suddenly started writing again after a rather long hiatus (to clear my head). There is something amazing about the connection between training and racing. There is also something amazing about what seems to be the disconnect between the two. Recently, I have been looking back at running logs from the past couple years in an attempt to find clues pointing to good/bad race efforts. Not sure there is much rhyme/reason. Signs of burnout? Signs of overtraining? Signs of undertraining? Reading it all in hindsight, the signs are obvious. But in reality, I am not sure how the info would all read if the results had been different. I was surprised to see that before both Wasatch a couple-three years ago (caused because of injury) and Bear last year (caused by burnout?) there were unusual drops in my training followed by and/or connected to random periods of overly intense training. In contrast, my more typical training follows a fairly gradual increase in terms of overall mileage (with mini-recoveries thrown in from time to time) until reaching peak training about 3 weeks before the race followed by a taper that goes 80, 60, race week. Shocker: it seems that consistency might be the closest thing to a key for me.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
hello?!
If you forget your password, it has obviously been a while since you wrote anything . . .
Training is in full swing for the Black Hills 100 coming up towards the end of June. Today I ran around 3500 vertical in about 17 miles as a kinda BH100 simulation. My thinking goes and/or went as such -- I need to get used to quick bursts of up-down activity and the course I ran today simulated this idea by including about 9 climbs and descents in a rather short amount of running (each climb consisted of roughly 300 to 400 vertical feet and was followed by a similar descent). Although the BH100 doesn't look massive in terms of big time climbs, the elevations seems to be ever-changing and I felt the need to at least somewhat mimic that idea today . . . in terms of getting ready for the Black Hills, too much of my everyday running probably consists of big climbs and/or descents that come natural to the terrain around here.
Training is in full swing for the Black Hills 100 coming up towards the end of June. Today I ran around 3500 vertical in about 17 miles as a kinda BH100 simulation. My thinking goes and/or went as such -- I need to get used to quick bursts of up-down activity and the course I ran today simulated this idea by including about 9 climbs and descents in a rather short amount of running (each climb consisted of roughly 300 to 400 vertical feet and was followed by a similar descent). Although the BH100 doesn't look massive in terms of big time climbs, the elevations seems to be ever-changing and I felt the need to at least somewhat mimic that idea today . . . in terms of getting ready for the Black Hills, too much of my everyday running probably consists of big climbs and/or descents that come natural to the terrain around here.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Coyote Call
Great foothill run on shoreline trail -- basically Hogle to City Creek and back with a couple of zig-zags thrown in for good measure. Admittedly I cheated today by sleeping in and avoiding any "chance" to break trail after the first (maybe second if you stretch the definition a bit) storm of the season . . .
I didn't hit the trails until this afternoon and figured my only real goal was to stay relatively consistent on the snow and ice . . . good times. Thanks to the number of people who spent the early hours doing all the hard work, the running ended up being quicker/easier than I expected with the trail being packed almost the entire way.
Highlights: amazing sunset and cool coyote moment.
As I turned on my headlamp -- just before the descent into dry fork -- a couple of coyote howls echoed from the hills surrounding and the necessity of returning home sent me running toward them with a bit of extra adrenaline -- a better kick that the mocha clifshot I had saved for the last few miles. The next mile and/or mile-and-a-half were an awesome combo of music playing on my ipod (deak kennedy's, velvet underground, and the dead came in succesion), coyote howls, a group of deer rushing out of the way, a singular star, and more typical nighttime views of my headlamp reflecting off the snow. Good times.
I felt like this was the first run that really tested me in terms of distance and effort over a sustained period since Bear . . . and I have been happy to see how quickly I have recovered since getting home. A good start to the training ahead . . .
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
January
I have been digging the running as of late . . . I am still throwing down relatively light mileage (47 last week, with a goal of about 50 this week) . . . but the time on trails has felt good. It may all be an illusion, but it seems like the average pace of my runs lately has been fairly strong . . .
The past couple of weeks has been filled with some of the best winter running I can remember since moving back to Salt Lake almost a decade ago. The trails are fairly dry and generally pretty fast for this time of year, which has meant I have been able to do a decent amount of climbing and at least some of it at a strong-consistent pace. In addition, despite the lack of storms moving through the area, the inversion has been survivable (typically there has been enough wind to clean things out every few days and although there has been some pollution there have been almost no red burn days --- YEAH!).
Two of the best runs since the New Year in terms of running at a good-solid pace include a PR on the "mountain lion" run that connects the steepest route up Mt. Van Cott with some Red Butte trails and a new Red Butte-Shoreline loop that I am using as a time trail/tempo course for the next few months in preparation for running in the Black Hills. The loop is right around 6 miles and has about 1000 feet of vertical which is relatively close to the vertical-ratio listed for the Black Hills race. Both of these runs gave me a chance to push the pace over a middle distance . . . In more traditional training, I ended up running through the Buffalo of Antelope Island the other day -- 16 miles with no food or water -- and ran about 15 miles in one of the few storms of the season along the shoreline trails with what turned into a group of about 6 runners . . .
The one thing missing from my training so far this season is long runs. I still haven't gone much beyond 20 miles and am trying to decide how long I can continue putting in mostly shorter runs . . .
This has been a ramble of thoughts, but it's one of those nights where I simply needed to push out some ideas/memories about the past couple of weeks. My general feeling is that the year has started off well -- knock on wood.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Back into training
Obviously it has been quite a while, since the last time I wrote. After Bear, I went into a bit of a forced hiatus from training as a result of achilles tendonitis. Ironically the injury seems to have had more to do with yoga than running -- during my post-Bear training cycle I was experimenting with adding variety to my overall exercise routine and either caused or aggravated the injury. My initial attempts at simply suffering through the pain seemed to only make running and even non-running time miserable. Eventually I surrendered to the inevitable and decided to take about 10-11 days completely off from running. After the complete break, I started my training at basically zero again . . . last week was my first week back at the 50 mile mark and included my first run since September at the 20+ distance. I think it's relatively fair to say that I am back in at least winter training mode although a bit behind where I have been the past couple of years in January (and definitely a couple pounds heavier than my normal December-January weight) . . . despite the general setbacks of October and November, December turned out to be a fairly good month of running in the sense that the trails are frighteningly clear of snow and I have been running on dirt more consistently than sometimes happens in the winter.
General Reflection on 2011: I would say that overall the year was one of my strongest years, if not my strongest year of racing. The fact that I DNFed at Bear puts a damper on all this nonsense, but I raced more during 2011 than any other year and in further reflection I kind of believe that part of what happened at Bear might have been an example of mental/physical burnout leading me to take impatient/unnecessary risks. Thankfully, the rest of the race season went fairly well with the highlight being the fact that I finished 3 - 50 mile races in the top 10 and completed Western States well under the 24hr mark. In addition to these races, I thought my improved time and finish at Speedgoat was a good sign that my mountain climbing is getting a bit stronger or at least more stubborn. Unfortunately the exhaustion of August and September (and the subsequent injury in October) were a bit of a downer, but thankfully the year ended on a high-note and I have been sincerely enjoying running again during the past few weeks.
Race Goals 2012: Still taking shape is the best way to explain my race schedule for this upcoming season. I am currently signed up for the Black Hills 100 and Squaw Peak 50 in June. I am considering a couple of other races (ideally one more 50 and one more 100), but am planning to race considerably less this year than last. I am also uncertain of what my exact goals will be in June since the two races are so close together -- kind of hoping to run SP50 strictly as a training run, then race BH100 relatively hard with the number one goal being to finish and only start worrying about pace/time/place in the latter stages of the race. Beyond racing, I am hoping to simply make sure that I keep my training at an enjoyable although relatively high level. Most importantly I want to make sure that after June, I give myself a solid amount of time for mental/physical recovery before racing again. In fact, I may leave my race schedule as empty as it currently stands until after June and then decide on a couple of additional races dependent on how I feel . . .
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