Zion 100 Race Report (2014)

I’m a little hazy on the sequence of events which brought me to Utah and the Zion 100, but it had a little something to do with a challenge from Steve, the Old Goat RD.  I finished his race, The Chimera 100 this past November, but that was a kind of fever. I’d DNF’d a 50 miler on that course and it stuck in my craw.

Chimera hung in my head like a thousand lumens.  Late in that race when the breakdown moment came, I faltered in my self assessment that I was definitely going to fail. I was positive I wouldn’t finish, but I continued anyway, feeling like a loser. Failure, if it happened, would be pronounced by the sweepers… not delivered by me. It was the grandfatherly HAM operator at mile 70 something… I was miserably unhappy in the worst of my self doubt, absolutely sure I would fail, and the kindly HAMfather said: “Of course you’re going to finish this race! This race is your bitch!” And lo...so it was.  

But Zion?  Zion was a whim… well, kind of a whim… one that coincided with my 45th birthday. So I bit. Hard. Zion.  100 miles. No pacer. No crew.

Zion is about a seven hour drive from my home in southern California, but since I’m solo, I decide to fly to Vegas and  drive two hours to the race start in the Virgin/Springdale area.  Zion is only my second 100, and I’m not at all sure how I’m going to feel when it’s over.  The worst I’ve ever felt was after the Kodiak 50 miler, which left me a barely coherent sack of meaty pain.  Even the recollection causes agony.  I’ve given myself at least 24 hours to rest and recover before I hop back in the car to Vegas.  Surely, I hope, I’ll be fine by then.

Zion allows a drop bag at any and all aid stations.  I don’t want to confuse myself with so many options so I decide on just two drop bags.  My main bag is at Goosebump, which I’ll see three times during the race.  I pack a change of clothes, dry socks, batteries, headlamp, and extra nutrition in the form of Carbo Pro and two bottles of Ensure. I leave the second bag at Guacamole, the last aid station.  This turns out to be a superfluous drop.  I would have been better to figure a drop at Grafton Mesa, another spot, earlier in the race, that runners visit three times.  

It’s too late once I’ve packed up my drop bags and dropped them off at the pre-race check-in on Thursday night.  I realize, belatedly, that I’ve also drop-bagged the super spiffy Drymax socks I was planning to wear which leaves me with a standard issue set of athletic socks. I spend two minutes panicking and then decide it is what it is… NOT a tragedy.  I’ve got multiple options to change my socks once I get to my drop bag...at mile 42.

Weather is supposed to be overcast and cool, in the 50 - 60 degree range with some lower temps at night.  I’m a wimpy inland southern california runner with a low tolerance for being too chilly so I layer it up with a thin sport-tec long sleeve and a windbreaker. With the exception of late afternoon, when the sun briefly shines, I’m pretty comfortable - even with my windbreaker on.  When it’s hot, I zip it down.  I’m also interested in not burning my fair skin.  Sometime in the late afternoon a shirtless, tatted-up, paleo-guy gives me some light-hearted shit about wearing too many clothes, but about 10 minutes later the weather suddenly gets chilly again and he’s the one shivering.  So meh.  

I wore Hoka Stinson Evo Trail with a pair of regular Puma athletic socks  Unbelievably, to me, my feet feel “decent” throughout the race. so nothing gets changed out.  Pre race, the Hokas only had about 50 miles on them, but somewhere around mile 70, the  sole begins to disintegrate on both shoes,the rubber flapping and sometimes catching the rocks as I run.  My feet were fine, but the Hokas are ready for the trashbin by the time I got to the finish.  I’ll stick with my Salomons next time.

I carried a 22 oz Amphipod  which I tried to consistently  fill with my main nutrition Carbo Pro -  I measure out about 200 calories a bottle.  After 20 miles I’ve had trouble eating solid food, including gels.  Running also seems to curb my desire for anything sweet. Carbo Pro isn’t exactly tasteless but it’s close… I aim to take in a minimum of 150 calories an hour - especially in the first 30 miles.  

My mentor isn’t with me but she is zealous in her nutrition recommendations. She’d insist on 300 calories an hour.  I’ve never managed quite that, but I’ve found I do feel better if I stay in front of my nutrition so I make a point of hydrating and “eating” while I am fresh, especially since I know my appetite will wane significantly when the sun goes down.  I think about Steve’s admonishment to Old Goat runners to be smart about the beginning of a long race.  “You aren’t going to win it in the first 20 miles, but you might lose it.” Technically, he was talking about the rocky single track that takes up the first part of Chimera, but I think the advice works well for nutrition during an ultra.

I wear my Ultraspire Spry race vest which is fairly minimal. Due to a leak in the bladder I made a last minute replacement purchase of a 1.5 liter Camelbak bladder.  I refill it only twice.  I carry salts, Tums, extra packs of Carbo Pro and some back up gels.  I also take my phone and earbuds.  I keep my phone off for the most part but used it to call my husband and text my friends at some low points in the race.   

Early start is 4 am on Friday.  Since I’m an early morning runner regularly, and not the speediest rabbit in the field, I decide to go to go for the early start.  It seems like at least 30 of us had the same idea.  Rather than being a small affair, a whole crowd of us takes off into the early morning, headlamps blazing. The cutoff is 32 hours.  I’m not worried about making cutoffs, per se, but I also know, even as a noob, that things can go sideways in a long race.  I like the idea of a small cushion.

Race Start to Smith Mesa 7 and Sheeps Bridge 14

The beginning of the race has the infamous Flying Monkey rope thingamajig… about two miles in the trail turns from dirt track to the start of the mesa and runners have to scale about six feet of escarpment to continue onward and upward.   We all take turns grabbing the rope and walking up the wall to the trail.

It’s about here that I meet my newest ultra friend, Jen.  As a naturally introverted sort I’m always surprised that anyone wants to talk to me.  It’s not that I don’t want to chat necessarily, it’s just an area of personal anxiety.  No matter because Jen takes the conversation in hand and I am glad for her easy going company as we tackle the first of five mesa climbs.  The way up to Smith Mesa is a doozy and she’s a speedier hill climber than me so we connect for only a bit, but it turns out we meet several times in the race. Once at the top, it’s a quick singletrack to the aid station.  It’s still pre-dawn when we get there but a dedicated volunteer is still there to check off our numbers.  I grab an orange slice and take off down the dirt road.

The dirt road from the aid station winds it’s way down to jeep trail and then an old rutted road. I run down the mesa road, appreciating the sunrise as it flanks the mesa behind me, beside me, before me - heck, all around.  It’s one amazing sunrise. For those who’ve run the Avalon 50, this two miles isn’t unlike the last two miles of that race descent.  This one isn’t quite Avalon’s quad-kicker in terms of grade, but it’s steep rutted asphalt all the same.

Sheeps Bridge 14 to Virgin Dam 23

At Sheeps Bridge I am excited to see some friends waiting for their runners. The sight of  the Old Goat’s wife, Annie will make anybody happy, but another friend, John, is also waiting for his runner, Jody.  They’re a jubilant group that raises my spirits early on. I don’t have a crew but John steps up and takes my handheld, refilling it while I hit the porta potty.  I peruse the aid table and decide not to take anything, but he insists that I take a package of donuts.  I regret it for a second but it turns out those mini donuts are important sugar bombs at various points for the next 40 miles.

From Sheeps Bridge you fly into the middle of a John Ford western, running past mesas and through canyons with single track bordering the impossibly picturesque Virgin River. It’s gorgeous.  

At some point the elites catch up to the early starters like me.  I keep looking over my shoulder as they bear down on my position and then stand aside so they can whoosh by, watching as each one effortlessly puts solid distance between us in a matter of minutes.  They seem otherworldly in their skill and I’m glad for the rare opportunity to see them in their natural habitat in the first 20 miles.

Virgin Dam 23 to Goosebump 31

Runners are flying down this open dirt track undulating its way toward the mesa at Goosebump.  My new friend Jen and I continue to leap frog this portion of the race.  We run together for several miles and she confesses that she is not looking forward to the upcoming climb. I halfheartedly suggest that it will be fine, but she has a better idea.  She’s thinking about the upcoming wall in the worst possible way so that the reality will inevitably be better.  Hey, I think, that is a good idea!  

We get to the wall.  It’s quickly clear to me I wasn’t nearly pessimistic enough in my fantasy.  It's arduous and I struggle up this 1000 feet of vertical ascent on crumbly singletrack trail, remembering that I’ll have to descend it at mile 75.   Jen maintains a steady pace up the mesa wall while I have to stop periodically to catch my breath and let the better runners by.  Friends and family line the top portion of the mesa, cheering as runners make the last brutal feet of ascent to the Goosebump aid station.

Goosebump 31 to Gooseberry Point 35/36 and back to Goosebump 43

Goosebump is hopping.  We come back to this station three times so I’ve place my main drop bag here. I don’t need anything at this point so I set off down the mesa singletrack.  The views from the mesa are mind numbingly beautiful. I try taking some pictures and quickly decide it’s futile.  My skills don’t translate the landscape to digital image with even a tenth of the majesty of reality.  I guess that means I can focus on running. Vistas don’t get anymore sweeping or grand.  I’m enjoying the view but I’ve hit a slump.   Runners whoosh past me and I feel like I’m in over my head.  This is when the voices start: “This is really stupid. You don’t have the stamina, the focus, or the tenacity...” I listen to my mind chatter and carry on anyway.  I turn my phone on for a minute and  text a couple of my runner friends who immediately send their good vibes my way.  It doesn’t change my mood entirely but it does remind me that the people who give me daily inspiration are at home rooting for me all the way.  Time to get a move on.

Gooseberry Point is a tip point of a mesa and its views of the canyon and valleys are epic… a slip of the foot could lead one to an epic end as well.  This portion of the race is definitely not for the acrophobic.

The trail back to Goosebump is a fat lot of slickrock, which I find confusing, but I’m ready to almost run… not as quickly as I’d like, but at least the wind is returning to my sails.  About a mile from the aid station I fall in behind a row of runners.  The lead woman has a metronomic pace and I find myself lulled into their method which helps get me back to Goosebump.  I sit and rest for a minute. I refill my Carbo Pro, down an Ensure and grab my headlamp… but not batteries.  After a bathroom break … and Zion does the porta-john very well!  I’m off to the midpoint of the race.

Goosebump 43 to Grafton Mesa 49/54

The road to Grafton Mesa is wide open dirt road.  It’s dusty.  I’m not liking it but I’m running a slow even pace. On the way out several top runners are running back… including the eventual winner, Jeff Browning.  He’s finished with mile 68 and he’s loping past looking fresh.  Way to go, Jeff!  I’m happy to see the elites coming my way.  They look like special creatures, honed and fit, focused and methodical.  They all have a determined look and a sure stride, but they each still smile or wave acknowledgement to my lameo calls of “Way to Go!” I can’t believe a poseur like me gets to play in their sandbox.  I love that these incredible athletes are still humble and generous.  Ultimately I feel like my 30 + hour finish is helping to make Jeff Brownings 16 hour finish look even MORE impressive.  Some might suggest it makes my finish look LESS impressive, but why be negative? Way to go, mediocre me!  I do what I can.

The first run around Grafton Mesa you follow the GREEN FLAGS!  I did not make any mistakes here, but the sudden appearance of two colors of flagging (pink and green) caused some concern.  Luckily my friend John was at Grafton to chastise me for not leaving a drop bag here (DUMMY!  You come back here three times !!!) and to reinforce the edict to ONLY FOLLOW THE GREEN FLAGS.  It turned out to be a nice mesa with only a little bit of slickrock.  This portion was very runnable and I sort of zoned out in the late afternoon sun.

Grafton Mesa 54 to Eagle Crags 62

I’m trying to get to Eagle Crags before sundown.  The sky is an effervescent light show as the sun descends, and  I’m an emotional mess.  I don’t feel despondent.  I don’t feel like I have to quit.  I just feel uncontrollably emotional.  I feel overwhelmed and I can’t stop crying.  I assume my body is in some physiological wonderland that will pass, but it is hard to run while choking back tears.  I turn on my phone and call my husband who is a paragon of quiet restraint while I sob into the mouthpiece.   With the calm fortitude of a hostage negotiator he tries to talk me out of my mania.  He is unfazed by crying and tells me I’m doing great.  He’s so proud of me.  He can’t wait to congratulate  me in Vegas when this is done.  All of this just makes me heartbustingly more emotional but it’s also grounding.  He listens to me suffer for five minutes and says, “You need to focus on running. You’re just fine.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I’m determined to get a move on.  I’m worn down psychologically and physically.  The miles aren’t falling like I want them to.  This section turns out to be the longest six miles of the race, which turns out to be an entirely mental problem.  I expect the aid station to come up at any time.  Lights appear and my hopes rise… and one by one it turns out to be a house or a cabin… but not an aid station.  Finally, the climb up the long road in the pitch dark.  I know its a mile now and I also know I’ve got many hours before I see my drop bag and batteries again.  I trudge on in the dark, letting my eyes adjust.  I wait as long as I can before I turn the headlamp on.

The Eagle Crags aid station has a roaring fire and a warm tent.  I collapse into a chair and eat the most delicious berry gel smeared pancake I’ve (n)ever had in my life.   Retrospectively that sounds gross.  I won’t be preparing Sunday pancakes like that anytime in the future, but at the time it was fantastic.   

I’m not eager to leave the cuddly warm confines of the tent. The woman running the aid station is keeping tabs on me. She lets me sit for a couple of minutes and then she does that magic thing the best volunteers do - she tells me to get going.  She sits down on her haunches directly in front of me, tells me I look strong and I’m doing great and I need to go.  I can’t oversell how much that moment really mattered. It matters when another runner is really looking at you and giving honest feedback at the right time, like when you know the long night is ahead.  So I go, and I tell everyone I pass on the way in to get the pancake.

Eagle Crags 62 to Grafton Mesa 68

I feel somewhat renewed after my encounter with a pancake.  The eight miles back to Grafton doesn’t take quite as long as the six miles in to Eagle Crags. I’m passing a lot of runners still on their way in so I feel good about my position.  As the crowd thins out and the road toward the mesa gets longer, I’m glad to keep any runners in sight.  I’m not one to fear the dark, but this portion of the race feels lonely and deserted.  Just before you begin climbing the mesa, there’s a small old-timey graveyard with a few headstones.  I’ve managed to miss it, but I’ve caught up to a runner and his pacer who are joking about ghosts and skinwalkers, not my ideal conversation in the middle of the night.   I decide this is the right time to listen to the Bee Gees.  The climb up toward Grafton is steep but it seems like the top comes quickly.  Once there it’s just a few runnable miles to the aid station.

Grafton Mesa 68 to Goosbump 74

I can’t wait to get out of Grafton Mesa.  There are too many people and I can’t navigate the station well  enough to clearly focus on what I need to do next. The volunteer behind the aid table keeps asking me what I want and I keep looking at her blankly. What do I want?  The question seems impossibly complicated, almost existential.  She’s patient with the grim faced idiot runner standing in front of the table. Eventually she stops relying on me to be coherent and just hands me a cup of broth. I try to drink the broth but I’m cold and slightly uncertain as to what I need.  I don’t have a drop bag at Grafton and my headlamp and flashlight have to make it to Goosebump where I’ve left fresh batteries in my drop.  I’m ticked at my bad planning and hopeful that I can move quickly enough to keep my path from going dark.  I decide to use my headlamp and conserve my flashlight.   

My brain feels sluggish and I’m seized with doubt as I head out toward the dark road. Walking slowly, I have second thoughts and  turn toward a volunteer.

Me: So I follow the pink flags?

Volunteer: Yes, the pink flags.

Me: Are you sure?  I follow the pink flags?

Volunteer: Yes, just follow the pink flags. It’s a straight road.  You won’t get lost.

Me: So just follow the pink flags?

Volunteer (somehow not shrieking but patiently once again): Yes, you follow the pink flags.

Me: The pink ones?  I follow the pink ones?

Volunteer: (physically orienting me toward the road as he nods and waves me away) Go.

I’m still unsure about those pink(?) flags, but I go anyway.

I’m tired and out of sorts. I pass the time by actively scanning for course markers (the pink ones).  This is a return trip, but my confidence is waning.  Cars and trucks full of family, crew and pacers occasionally trundle by, kicking up huge clouds of dust.  Even when they driver is polite I find myself getting enraged at the choking plumes of dust.  Not only does the dirt settle in my mouth and throat, it also makes my headlamp unusable.  The light just reflects a dirty cloud haze in my face.  Thank goodness I’ve got a flashlight too.  And then I do it.  I miss the very clearly marked turn toward Goosebump.

In a peculiar sort of idiocy, I already know somehow that I have missed a turn.  The road is dark and there are no markers, which ought to be a sure sign.  I continue running, not wanting to turn around, dreading my mistake.  I let myself go on for a mile before the total lack of marking forces me to turn myself around.  I’m mad at myself but truly happy when I see the turn I should have taken.  It’s perfectly well marked.  In fact, along with shiny pink flagging,  it includes a giant wooden park sign directing people toward Goosebump.  Beware the zone, I tell myself.  You have to pay attention for at least a marathon’s worth of miles more.  

This portion is hard.  It’s just dirt road, easy to run, easy to navigate (if you pay attention) but the darkness and the cold, along with my mistake, play with my mind.  I’m focused on finding every course marker and berating myself for being an idiot.  Oh well, run for a slow count of 100 or more and then walk for 20.

When I finally get to the aid station I grab my batteries, change my jacket and look longingly at the fire ringed by cozy volunteers and resting runners.  I’m still not hungry but I grab the Ensure anyway.

Goosebump 74 to Guacamole 82

Mile 74 is the long awaited opportunity to descend 1000 vertical feet from the top of the  mesa to the bottom... in one mile… in the dark.  Shivering, I choke down 350 calories worth of strawberry flavored Ensure then get started. I flip on my little flashlight and get to descending/sliding down the side of the mesa to the safer two track trail at the bottom.  I hit the trail and start to run and almost simultaneously my headlamp goes to a shadowy gloom.  So with my flashlight in my teeth I pick batteries out of my race vest and refill the Petzl.  I stand back up and start running again.  In fact, I suddenly feel great.  It’s a strange moment of near euphoria.  I feel like I’ve suddenly come to life. The darkness keeps me focused on the light ahead of me and I just fall into a meditative running zone.  I feel like I could run forever and so I run without stopping, passing runner after runner.  Even faced with the last mesa climb on road, I feel energetic enough to continue trotting several miles up the hill until I finally see the lights of Guacamole.

Guacamole - Mile 82/Mile 91

Zion’s guacamole is the headlands of a mesa top.  I know what that means: undulating waves of slick rock. I make it to the Guacamole station somewhere around 4 in the morning and sit down in a chair.  I know that time is ticking down.  I say howdy to the folks who long ago left me in the dust at Eagle Crags, but now sit in the aid tent hunched and shivering while I rest.  

My friend Jen takes off with her pacer.  I watch them go and determine that I better follow suit if I want to get to the end of this thing.  Slickrock is hard, like running on boulders. It’s petrified sand waves turned rock with trail threaded here and there. To make it through the slickrock sections the RD has posted flags from point to point which help one stay to the trail, absent an actual trail. Just follow the flags, I tell myself.  

I run into veterans coming off this nine mile stretch. “It won't make any sense,” they say ominously.  “Just follow the flags!  Its a labyrinth, but you’ll get through!” The warnings feel  like vague promises but I run on...flag to flag, boulder to boulder.  And then, I feel the heat of a runner on my heel.  I stop and a dude with poles flashes by me.  He carries himself with such confidence I feel an immediate surge of energy.  I fall in behind him.  His pace compared to mine is electric and I stay close behind him  as we flow from rock face to trail in a truly confusing sequence of steps.  “I’m going to follow you,” I say.  He assents, and without slowing his rapid pace, tells me that he can’t run anymore.  Maybe not, but his pace is quick and even, so I give myself over to a better mind and faster feet.

I don’t know his name but his number is 165, it’s on his backpack.  The slickrock area of the mesa is so confusing that it’s almost impossible to not second guess ones trail choices.  I choose to put all my faith in 165 no matter what.  Early in our segment we hear voices shouting for help.  It turns out to be folks turned around on the trail.  We right them and continue moving.  

It takes just about three hours, nearly all in the dark, to clip through this portion of the race.  We run around rocks and boulders and off and around what must be the entire mesa top.  It turns out 165 is a navigator par excellance.  When he doesn’t run ultras he does adventure racing that includes orienteering.  Nothing confuses him for more than a second before he moves with swift decision to the next flag… or supposed next flag.  I stick to his heel because his instinct is always correct. I am unbelievably grateful to have found a guide.  

The hours flow by. We watch the sunrise over the valley and mesa, the kind where the clouds are striated a heavy black on top but a heavenly pink beneath.  It’s breathtaking, but we admire at a clip.  Not long after the sun shines, we suddenly see runners running.  That is, we see runners hoofing it like effortless gazelles as they begin their own journey around the mesa track.  “These people just woke up this morning,” 165 laughs.  “They’re 50K runners.” I suddenly feel a little more haggard but a whole lot better psychologically.  The end is near.  

We make our way to the aid station passing a runner who is limping his way to a possible DNF.  We try to be helpful and encouraging, but the runner is feeling a little despondent. My guide takes the matter in hand. “You can finish without toenails,” says 165.  Later, at the finish, those two come in together.  That 165 is a knight-errant.  At mile 82 he gave me the easiest nine miles of the race, and I don’t even say goodbye.

The last 9 miles: The slickrock is over.  It’s all downhill from here, right?  Famous last thoughts.  I “take off” down the mesa road.  The 50K runners are bounding by me at high speed, calling out congratulations and “good pace!”  I’m feeling a bit psyched out by their energy compared to my quickly ebbing abilities.  I feel sorry for myself until I see Ed the Jester on his way up the hill.  I know he just finished an ultra the weekend before.  He’s a happy, endurance joy machine.  I’m in awe.  He gives me a high five and I wish him well.  I spend a few moments feeling utter happiness about the beauty of Zion and my apparent ability to actually “run” a 100 miles. And then I get to the turn in the road which signals the end of down and the renewal of up.

My thoughts go dark. I feel exhausted.  G#dd@m that sadistic RD! What is with the diabolical conclusion to a hundred miles?  Holy smokes! If the dude didn’t present like such a laid back hippie with his beard and Birkenstocks, I swear I could imagine him rubbing his hands together with villainous triumph over the twisting trail end.  

So was it five miles or was it two, or three?  Reports varied.  This is what happens when you find yourself uselessly bargaining over the very clear mileage map with the volunteers.

Me at mile 95 (weeping and/or pleading): Is it really 5 miles?  

Various Volunteers: #1: Oh, it’s really more like 3 miles.

#2: It’s really 5, you’ll be fine.

# 3: I ran it yesterday.  It’s just 2 miles.  

#4: Suck it up, you’re almost done!  

Whatever the mileage, the terrain was rocky and up and then, alternatively, rocky and down.  At the top of the “last hill” the fragments of a trail took one down to a dirt road which quite unhelpfully turned away from the finish horizon.  At this point, I am not sucking it up.  I am shuffling angrily and shouting some verbal cannon shot a little too loudly for the locals.  Dogs bark and men say “Hey!” Whoops! Civilization! The end is really near! So I shut my mouth and stumble down the road into the sun.  The road finally makes the fated turn to cross the Virgin River at approximately mile 99.   As I emerge from the “river crossing” it occurs to me how absolutely awful my feet feel. The cloud descends. Thanks again, RD!  I hate you!

The last mile of Zion is rocky, rutted blacktop through the streets of Virgin to the finish at the town park.  My wet shoes and socks manage to highlight and exacerbate every possible pain in my feet, top and bottom. Squishing and squashing, I run the damn mile, passing a few shuffling troopers who kindly still give me a verbal high five.

The last 50 feet across grass to the finish line even gets me to squashily sprint.  Once I’m actually standing in the finish line tent selecting my buckle, my sour mood, facilitating a rather baroque fantasy that includes punching the RD, fades immediately.  The better runners are sprawled and seated along the finish line cheering in the later additions.  It’s sunny and beautiful outside, even glorious.  I’m happy to be done and certain I can’t wait to do it all again.  I even feel a glowing beneficence toward the RD. That was a damn good race, well thought, well marked and well supported.

The next day: My feet are ever expanding  edemic (sic)  flesh.  Sausages? More like the fluffy bun, I think.  It’s the day after my 30 hour tour of the grandiose mesas and vistas of Utah.  I’m actually walking around Las Vegas with my family.  My legs feel surprisingly springy and only a bit achy, but my feet have a kind of spongy quality best exhibited by the white puffs of fleshy dough spilling over the sides of the sandal straps.  

Hmm, I’m sure I can usually see the veins in my feet… just not today.  I don’t care. I’m feeling a subdued ecstasy.  I’m 45 today and the day before I completed my second 100 miles, solo. I have a continuous chant going through my brain pan: youdidityoudidityoudidityoudidit!  

Yeah!  I did it!

What it feels like to DNF

I’m having a breakdown moment.  It’s Thursday.  I’m in the McDonalds drive-thru hoping for some fast food redemption.  It’s not for food I love, it’s for food that will stuff a hole.  This requires a certain viscosity, a particular mouthfeel that has the power to stifle submarining sobs.  I don’t want to be nourished, I want to be emulsified.  I want every fat globule to create an oily flotilla for each ache and worry and fit of rage.

Fast forward.  It’s Wednesday night.  7:30.  I am using a child’s plastic fork to shovel a facsimile of mint chocolate chip ice cream into my mouth.  Its grainy fatless particles leave a frozen crystalline residue  on my lips each time I extract the fork from my mouth.  It is the function of ice cream but it is not its form. Still it does a nice job of icing the inflammation.

This should be a race report on the Old Goat 2013, not a litany of my cliched food pathologies, and yet every time I begin to think about the race, including my submission to an excruciating IT Band, somewhere between mile 33 and 34, food comes to mind.  

Food, say mental health experts, should never be used as a form of reward or punishment. But what more visceral indicator of shame, inclusion, or celebration than food?  Prisoner? Bread and water.  Excellent behavioral skills?  Have a cookie.  Victory mandates a feast wheras failure tastes like cardboard.

Food is meaningful. How can it not be?  When the 4x4 high clearance taxi deposited me back at the start/finish line of the Goat, the volunteers were an army of solicitous soldiers.  It was a happy atmosphere, a party and they were handing out hamburgers and beer, chili and snacks - all to sustain the incoming victorious runners.  I ate nothing.  And I ate nothing in no small part because I felt like I deserved nothing.  I had given up at mile 34. I had lost.  I wasn’t ravenously hungry either, but I did think I shouldn’t eat.  This food wasn’t for me.  That’s ridiculous, I know.  I knew it then, but still I couldn’t bring myself to eat and it felt like the correct response.  Pathology!  Maybe.  

As the weeks tick down from the the Old Goat and march toward other racing commitments I can’t stop thinking “run or don’t run?”  At a week and a half down I find myself indulging my least enlightening food interests uselessly hoping that excessive quantities of salt, fat and sugar will make it all better, while I ceaselessly contemplate the iliotibial band running down my right leg and its new centrality to my life.    As time continues its assault, I am suddenly and terribly afraid of further failure.  I am suddenly unsure of my ability to run, my propensity to endure.  I am suddenly giving myself over to a cascade of negativity that started with the decision to DNF.  I recognize this negativity is a complex mindgame.  In one sense it represents the real need to rest, to recover to regroup.  And it represents my fear of interrupting my training regime to do what is necessary. I watch my mileage wind down.  I watch hundreds of accumulated trail hours wash away from my training bank, like an underwater mortgage. No matter how much time banked, no matter how much training I’ve invested, it is no longer sufficient. I am now underwater facing the prospect of just as many miles and hours to reestablish my ability to well endure any ultra distance race.  I wonder how much, how soon, and when can I begin again?  Am I ready for Leona? No.  Can I possibly attempt Bishop?  We shall see. I don’t have months, I have weeks.  

Its been weeks now and my thoughts are more measured.  I spent three weeks not running at all. I spent three weeks thinking about what happened and what I'm going to do next time. I didn’t finish the race because I couldn’t continue to walk or run.  Even had I continued with my lurching side step, I would not have made the cutoff, but I would have done more damage to my body.  The previous two sentences are true.  I know they are true.  It still feels like failure.  And I won’t feel I’ve overcome it until I’ve successfully completed my next race.  In the meantime, I will occasionally indulge in satisfyingly chemical laden food-like substances.  I will keep cross-training, TRXing and getting those miles on my feet.  And I’m going to keep checking out all of the amazing women and men I know who continue to just go do what they do, whatever the challenge, setback or reward.

I’m still lucky.  At this moment, there is still a next time.

Paleo Fail

When eating an unsalted matzo constitutes a dietary fail, it’s pathetic. That thought popped into my head last Sunday morning as I found myself shoving the barest bite of a forbidden matzo into my mouth.

Honestly, it didn’t start with matzo. It started with an individually created masterpiece of a berry pie.  

Last Wednesday was a long work day of celebratory events. I made it through a luncheon, a reception and a dinner, but when it came to the dessert, I faltered.

There are some gastronomes who believe berries are best exalted in a crumble or a tart or clump or collapse.. or whathaveyou. And I admit that berries in such a form can be divine. I like them plain too, right off the vine. I also like pie and specifically the cozy, flaky wrap of crust encasing whatever the baker inserts in the center. Placed before me was a perfectly miniature berry pie in its own crisp crust with perfectly tart berries waiting inside. It was America on a porcelain plate. I reasoned that resistance was not only futile but perhaps even morally questionable. After all, can it be the better part of valor to resist the best American dessert invention ever? In any case it was just one fail. Just. One. Fail. One. No big deal.

I made it through Thursday while staffing a retreat at a great spa hotel. I was tough. I persevered. No cookies. No chips with the shrimp cocktail. No tortilla with my carne asada. No dessert. Just unrequited longing.

And then there was Friday.

Let me chronicle the slippery slope as best I remember. First it was the mint at the table during the conference session. My mouth was dry. My brain was on neutral. I put the mint in my mouth and instantly thought, “sugar!” and removed it immediately. But the pump was primed At lunch I bypassed the lasagna, the pesto pasta, the bread rolls and butter in favor of a heaping portion of green vegetable salad.... and the tomatoes. I carefully removed beautiful wedges from the tomato mozzarella salad. After all that goodness, I allowed myself to cheat with one small square of vanilla cake. And it was decent. I chastised myself for a moment and then decided to just let it go. Onward went the conference and onward went my descent into massive dietary failure.

I understand there has been some actual research into the declining experience of pleasure derived from the consumption of any desired food source. After the first bite, the relative merits of enjoyment begin to plummet with each subsequent bite. I’m too lazy to verify this sort of research myself, but I can tell you, anecdotally, that the fifth cookie tastes every bit as good as the first cookie.

This is what happened...for late afternoon the wait staff set down a bountiful plate of cookies. I love cookies. If I had walked away immediately or purposefully sat down on the other side of the room maybe all would not have been lost. But I have a habit of getting lost. I caved. I ate one. I ate another. I ate another. I made it through another two hours of important discussions and then I consumed three more. Because, THE HELL WITH IT! I’m ALL IN!

Yes, that last cookie, the sixth cookie, was still every bit as delicious as the first cookie, except for the now numbing sense of guilt and shame that was literally crumbling from my lips.

Let's see, dinner turned into angel hair pasta with a delicious vegetable meat sauce and two crusts of garlic bread.  Look, why turn back now?  How about lemon pound cake for dessert?  Yes, thank you.


Saturday was a sober day of reflective dietary contrition, although I did take two or three cold french fries off my daughter's lunch plate. 

Sunday morning though, my eldest son came tramping up the stairs wanting his scrambled egg chilaquiles. That’s fine, I’m a maternal version of a short order cook, but I had no tortillas. I had no more verde sauce.  I had no chips, no tortillas and nothing except matzo for texture, except how disgusting would that be? So I fried bacon and then fried the matzos in pig fat. Is there a special place in hell for people who fry matzos in pig fat?

It was the leftover matzo, the unfatted matzo that I shoved in my mouth and thought: Really? Really? You’re cheating on this anti-inflammatory bullshit with unsalted matzo? Yes, I was. This was just after I had absentmindedly shoved the crusts of bread I’d removed from my younger two children’s lunch sandwiches into my mouth. I’d made it through exactly half a mastication before spitting the 3-seeded oatnut crusts into the trash.

I attempted to regroup. I put the bread back into the cabinet and there it was right at eye level, a homemade peanut butter cookie. Yes, I ate it. And then I ate a fleur de sel caramel and then five more fleur de sel caramels, because F#@K IT.

But the end all, is what I’d been craving for the past two weeks, my breakfast favorite: greek yogurt, honey and granola. That requires more than a moments thoughtlessness, it requires assembly. I did it. And it was delicious. Should I go on to mention the ¼ length I chewed off of a Hello Kitty candy necklace my daughter left in plastic on the car seat? 

Here is the terrible truth, I am the absolute worst at sticking to anything. I am an inveterate cheater. I have great intentions. I do. I’ve somehow managed to accomplish many things in life, but giving up cookies is really really hard. And when I fail, god should I even continue to try? What a loser. I’m going to keep drinking my morning smoothie, the one my daughter has dubbed: the Green Swamp Smoothie. That’s going to be my punishment for the next 3 weeks. Or however long it takes to quit eating cookies.

Actually I think I’ll just go ahead and keep the cookies in my life. Time’s short.

This Me That is in Full Motion

My dad is old. His world is slowly being circumscribed by the circumstance of agedness and zealously (over)protective children. A few months ago his five children conspired to draw the circle even more tightly than perhaps he would have liked. After a short bout in the hospital, he moved to an assisted living facility rather than back to his home. While still fairly fit and able, the home he shared with his small dog was troublesome for a man suffering from many things including neuropathy in his legs. If there is little feeling below the kneecaps, how does one walk steadily over sidewalk curbs and down sloped lawn, across threshold bumps and over a never ending series of undulations from carpet to tile to concrete to grass to rocks to hard packed earth and asphalt? How does one avoid small dogs? He could, with some maneuvering, but not to the satisfaction of his children.

One day I stopped by his house after work. When my father didn’t answer the door, I went around by the back gate and came upon the old man uneasily balanced on a homemade sawhorse while wielding an electric hedge clipper against the spring onslaught of bottlebrush. There he swayed, an orange coil of extension cord snaking between his two feet. I set my jaw and watched, recalling the image of him simply walking across the living room to the kitchen, his body listing to the side, his feet a stumbling shuffle. At least for the moment he was standing in one place, even if it was on top of a rickety wooden sawhorse.

In the awkward way of grown children chastising a parent, I waited for a break in the clipping before making my presence known. I couldn’t muster anger. I simply said “Dad, what are you doing?” as if it wasn’t obvious that he was taking care of homeowners business like a responsible man does, like he does and always has. An unmanicured yard is a slippery slope - a direct negative trajectory out of respectable middle class values. It’s not so much that property values would be affected as core middle class American values would be discarded should he fail to keep up with the clearly delineated expectations and demands of home ownership. That this was the backyard mattered not at all.

He was irritated at my interruption and irritated at my request that he stop what he was doing immediately. I offered up my (not entirely willing) husband to complete the task. I reminded my dad about his legs that don’t work quite right while on solid surfaces. I observed that standing on a sawhorse waving an electric trimmer around was probably not the best idea at this point in his life. He did not like my observation. My sister did not like my observation, though her perspective was different than our dad’s.

And so the family began to conspire against his aged middle class masculine zealotry. We collected all of the power tools, of which he had many, being a former wood shop teacher. Anything with a blade was now verboten. We didn’t ask. We took. We borrowed without permission and never took them back. One of the brothers was forced to bear the brunt of our fathers repeated demands that this or that tool be returned. It hurt our brother to take the brunt of the blame when it was all of us who circled the wagons. 

I think our intentions were good. I think they are still good. Our father is not a sentimental man. He is the hardy sort who gripes but doesn’t complain. He goes with the program. He makes due with whatever circumstances he finds himself. And so at 86 a lifetimes work is now circling a different orbit.

I’m nearly 44, not so old, and yet not so far from old. I think a great deal about the narrowing of my father’s life. When I run, I think I am the closest thing to alive as I will ever be. I think the world is as wide and the possibilities are as expansive as I could ever imagine. I think this though I run a defined route on mostly well marked trails. But every time it looks different. Every time it feels different. And it is my own body, this me that is in full motion. The feeling of freedom is immeasurable though the circumstances are, of course, measurably circumscribed. 

And yet it is also the mountains that loom - mountains that have been part of my lived landscape for my entire life to date. Those mountains, these hills are as familiar and welcome as my mother’s face. I long for them when I’m absent even as I still long for her. These mountains and hills were part of my father’s landscape. San Gorgonio and the smaller Sand Hills were constant companions. He makes the best of it, but he can’t see them anymore. And somehow that loss seems the most difficult of all.

Home Run

Dixie runs like a gazelle. She does. I am always behind her so I am always in a position to notice how lightly she steps forward. Her form is upright. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her stride impossibly efficient and smooth, her cadence like a metronome. I feel, and look no doubt, like a lumbering donkey bringing up the rear. The ass. We travel up single track trails winding through the sand hills of Crafton up to the wider, rockier fire roads that lead to Zanja Peak. While I huff and lumber, I also try to imitate my elegant friend. I have to be quick about it because as we continue climbing Dixie continues her smooth upward trajectory while I begin losing speed. I try to copy her gait and at least her footfall. Even when I join her rhythm she is still going faster somehow. Once she is a ¼ mile ahead and I’m doing my best, at the very least I am still going forward.

The run comes to a brief halt at the crossroads on the Crafton trail. We’ve made it here from the fire road that leads back to the college; the Grape Street loop which winds down single track trails bordering Hwy 38, the so-called “38 special” and the single track down into the regional park trail. Where these converge is a ¼ mile single track climb to the peak.

There is always a moment of rest and decision at the juncture.

“Which way?” Dixie asks me. This is a rhetorical question.
I’m honest because I’m tired. “If its up to me, we’re going down the regional park trail,” I sigh. A trip down toward the park means just over a mile until we finish at our waiting cars. “But if you’re going up Zanja, then I’m following you,” I confess, even though that means another 3 miles. of variable terrain with a hill at the end. The run to the peak is a steady and steep single track climb of varying intensity. The last 50 meters I force myself to “power walk” rather than trudge, but Dixie runs, evenly and smoothly. She is exultant at the top. I make myself run the last 10 steep steps and touch the elevation marker with my toe. We spend a few minutes admiring the sweeping territorial view. The green inhabited valleys of Yucaipa, Redlands, Highland, San Bernardino and Riverside are bordered by a towering colony of saintly mountain ranges: The San Bernardino’s and San Gabriels stand in jagged motion to the north from west to east. Far to the east is the peak of San Jacinto, it’s famous escarpment the mountainous angel guarding the Coachella Valley. The Saddleback Range (does it have a saints name?) blocks our view to the west, but the Pacific Ocean lies just beyond, a mere 50 miles from where we now stand.


We’ve been here dozens of times. We rest briefly and then begin a swift single track descent down the Dump Trail, its switchbacks passing through manzanita, scrub oak and exposed grasses to a final ledge where someone has somehow dragged a welcome pair of heavy adirondack chairs, inviting a relaxed moment to admire the Yucaipa Valley below. From there the exposed red clay rock makes a steep descent to the base and then a steady incline through a sandy wash for the last ½ mile... my least favorite ½ mile. But this is my home run, 12.5 miles of inland chaparral. And Dixie is one of the home team. We will run this route and these hills and these miles again and again. 

Time Goal: Old Goats 50

So in preparation for a race, I like to set three goals.  The first goal is ambitious.  The second is possible.  The third is probable.  Since I've never done a 50 miler before, I'm not certain how to project my endurance.  Can I extrapolate from my two 50Ks?  I looked over the entrant list at Ultrasignup and got a bit of a jolt... apparently, it automatically seeds runners based on former finishing times.  I think.  I haven't actually done a ton (or any) research into how they set their projected finish rates, but here is what I found:

1. Top Time Goal: 11:05:52 (This is currently my projected time by the ultrasignup algorithm. I have a suspicion that this might be a little ambitious). I think because I’m a new runner I’m seeded above women, who, frankly, could pound me into sand. I can’t figure out any other possible reason why I’m sitting right behind Keira Henninger on the board. I’m looking over race results from women, somehow lower in the ranking, that have toed multiple race lines and finished numerous hundos. I am truly hoping that I can attain a small iota of even some of their accomplishments to even put me close to their league one day. Maybe the ultra-gods know something I don’t, but I have a feeling I’m about to have my ass handed to me by at least 20 fleet-footed women (uhm, possibly more) with nothing but time, dedication and experience behind their laces. How is that for confident?
2. UPDATE: Oh my god, this is terrible. After my Calico time was updated at Ultrasignup, I somehow went up in the standings. The freaking algorithm projects me finishing in 10:45:18. They have got to be kidding me right? Dear lord, my stomach hurts. Wait, my left quad hurts. And my right plantar hurts too. AGH!

Training like a wuss

It is 72 + hours after the Calico 50K before I lace up my running shoes again. This time I’m screaming down a paved street after sundown at what feels like a blistering pace, just about 8:25. My left quad is pulsing with every step, keeping company with my equally angry left knee. I am following Willem who is setting the pace. I know he is intending to push it. There are five of us in a tight group, headlamps blazing, moving together down Olive Avenue. Mike is pushing baby Mac in her tricked out stroller kit with blinking strobes. I am wishing hard I was in baby Mac’s place - just along for the ride. We run and chat. Kylie and Willem stake out the front. They are jogging and jawing away, making it look easy while I concentrate on not falling behind. We run and stare down drivers heading home from work not expecting to be confronted by a gang of reflective pedestrians on the serious move. I am trying to hold my body in check and get this 4 miles bagged. My brain is in command mode: “Just 4 miles, you wuss! Quit bellyaching and move your feet!” Coming into the home stretch, I pick up the pace and race it in. Kylie obliges me with an “uh oh, go for it.” Willem easily quashes any dreams of victory by streaking past me in double time. Dudes gotta win.

I am thinking about the state of my body and thinking about the state of my body for the long haul. After 4 miles, I’m in a relaxed euphoric state. If I only need 35 minutes to achieve bliss, what the hell am I doing messing around with the idea of ultras? My left quad is sore, making me adjust my gait. On the other hand, my feet feel decent and my tricky knee is only lodging minor complaints here and there. My right quad is ready to go, but the left one... ugh.

The truth is I was a little sore after finishing Calico, but much less sore than after finishing Ridgecrest. I take this as a good sign. I am battering my body into long haul submission. Soon I will sneak 50 miles past it and then 60 and by the time my body and I get to July 1, 100 miles will have passed under my feet (and probably thoroughly trashed by quads). This is my plan, anyway. I’m into my middle ages and trying to keep my body from concentrating on age by driving it into undiscovered countries. I’m trying to trick it into thinking we’re just site-seeing, just a little ultra-tourism, nothing to worry about about. Pay no attention to the race calendar. 50 miles, 5K... what’s a few hours difference? Hahahaha. I know. It’s my excuse for playing it a little lazy and not pushing too fast or too far when the equipment feels out of whack.... except for Wednesday nights when Willem sets the pace. It’s only 4 miles. Wuss.