Bristow Trail Run 10M – 02/01/20

Writing about things from “The Before Times” seems like a lifetime ago. Back when there was routine travel, triage at work, going out to concerts and bars…and trail races. I was signed up for the Bristow Trail Run 10 miler with a friend and on the morning of race day, she said she wasn’t going to make it. I was running this event through another blog I write for so I couldn’t cancel, so I drove the 2+ hours by myself to run a very muddy race. It was drizzling off and on that morning, but for the most part the rain held off. But for an early season trail run, I knew it would be slow going in the muck (and I strategically wore shorts for that reason).

It was a loop course of a hair over 5 miles, so participants could pick from a 50k, a 25k, 10 miler, or 5 miler. The 50K racers were already on course when I showed up and as I made my way to the port-a-potty I spotted a familiar face coming into the aid station – my coach was running (and winning) the 50K! I ran over and gave her a quick hug (remember hugging!?) and she was off again! Because it was a loop, I knew I’d see her out there. I had really missed working with her since I ended my ultra training after Rio.

In addition to my coach, I also saw a local race director running alongside her and later saw two other local race directors! Sometimes the running community feels very small and tight knit –  and it was great to catch up with my kindred spirits in the wild.

Finally on course, it was just a quick jaunt to skirt the meadow and we spilled out onto the slick singletrack. It was a slip-n-slide and any trail shoe touting superior traction in the mud was given a run for its money!

The course was beautiful and basically dead flat so I found that I was actually running at a quicker clip than I thought I would be. While the course map looks like a curlicue lollipop out and back, it was impeccably marked and staffed, so there was no room for confusion.

There were a few good stretches of absolute chaos in the mud. The kind where you throw your arms out for balance and [half] joke that you threw your back out in the process! The kind where, maybe the 3rd time you go through, you walk it. Otherwise, the trail was wonderfully runnable, soft, and gorgeous. There were sections by the water and sections in the water! There were 3 good “puddles”, about shin-deep, right in a row. Splash, splash, splash! The first time through I was in a line of people and we all just ran right through without hesitation, high-stepping, and leaning into the inevitable wet shoe scenario. The second time around I was alone and though I ran right through again, the water seemed colder! With the mud settled, I’m sure that was true!

The miles flew by and because of the loop-style course, I was seeing my coach and others I knew throughout the morning on course. There were periods where I felt the nice solitude of trail running and other moments of solidarity with other runners around me – it was fun to strike up a conversation and find out who was in which distance, since there were dizzying numbers coming and going! Eventually I was on the home stretch to the finish and looked forward to seeing just how muddy my legs would be!

I was pleased with my race, given it was my first trail race since Rio in November. I was grateful my Achilles held up enough for me to race and to, quite literally, get my feet wet!

I changed my wet clothes at the car and went back to the finish line to see my coach come in. After we chatted for a few minutes, we both headed for our respective homes with a couple hours of driving for each. Later that night, inspired by her and the other race director who told me about her new 100 miler for this year, I became obsessed with running it and my coach was back to filling in a spreadsheet for my masochism.

Zion National Park – 01/24-27/20

Our time in Zion feels like a lifetime ago. My writing has been at a standstill. Not for lack of time, mind you, but because the amount of bandwidth I have to blog about past adventures is next to zero. My friend from the much more adventurous site, Will Run for Whisky, said it exactly perfect:

You may have noticed things have been a bit quiet on the blog. The big reason is that in the face of a global pandemic and an (overdue) societal focus on systemic racism, it felt colossally insensitive to publish posts about adventures and whisky like everything was normal. (Whatever normal even means anymore.)  However, I also realized that in the face of daily news doomscrolling, some non-pandemic content might be a welcome, temporary respite. And that during this time of isolation, it might be a way to feel connected to others through something that is not a dystopian nightmare.

In an attempt to not lose a complete year before posting again, here’s what I remember from my birthday trip to Las Vegas…back in January!

I had to visit a client who had been moved to Las Vegas and the timing worked out that I could sneak in the trip on my birthday, tacking on a few extra days and bringing Jesse along with me. He had never been to Vegas and neither of us had been to Zion National Park, just 2.5 hours from the city, so we made a long weekend out of it.

We were on different flights into Vegas, so I arrived first, picked up our rental car, then Jesse, and we immediately drove out to see the Hoover Dam, since we had some extra time. We did a quick tour of inside the dam, and just enjoyed being in the desert warmth.

We made our way back to the city and I dropped Jesse off at a coffee shop while I went to visit my client. Afterward, we made our way to Springdale, the cute little town at the entrance to Zion. We found a dive-y sports bar that was basically the only restaurant open and grabbed a quick dinner. In the morning, we slept in and popped into a tiny cafe for breakfast before making our way into the park. The plan was to run up Angel’s Landing and then just wander around to enjoy the sights.

Angel’s Landing is lauded as a “must-do”, bucket-list, adrenaline-inducing type of hike. It has steep switchbacks and eventually, to finish the hike to the top, there are chains for handholds and it is narrow, steep, and harrowing. It’s just an out and back, around 5.5 miles, and took us just over 2 hours to run / hike it. Although it’s not exactly easy, I would not rank this even in the top 10 most difficult or dangerous hikes I’ve done. But it was certainly beautiful. My favorite was, of course, running down Walter’s Wiggles – the iconic tight switchbacks.

After our Angel’s Landing adventure, we grabbed lunch at a restaurant in the park (remember going to restaurants!?) and then drove to another part of the park and hiked the Riverside Walk – a flat path through the canyon. It was truly grandiose; the red rock towering above, the streaks through the walls. There was so much to look at. At the end of the path, there were people emerging from the river wearing what looked like half-wet suits and funny shoes. After a few groups emerged, we had to ask: what’s this? “The Narrows” we were told. “The best hike you’ll ever do.” So we gathered some information, did some hemming and hawing, drove up to a high point in the park to watch the sunset (and see some sheep), then made it to town to reserve our gear for The Narrows the next day.

In the morning, Jesse didn’t feel very well and was having stomach issues. I asked if it was maybe the yogurt we had for breakfast or perhaps the bar food from the night before, but it was hard to tell. He was still keen to do the hike and we started early to get a good parking spot (and to ensure we could be back to Vegas at a decent hour to take in some of the city highlights before our flight the next day). We suited up, re-walked Riverside and at the end, entered the water.

We were doing the “Bottom Up” version, just an out and back for the day. With no particular view point or landmark as our destination, we were just out there to see what we could see. There were moments when we were hiking on rocks and sand, but for the most part we were in the water, up to knees, thighs, waist, and at a few points, chest deep. The water was about 43° F / 6° C. We were bundled up under the wetsuits; neither of us getting too hot or too cold. The air temperature was around 65° F / 18° C, which is ideal.

We made our way through “Wall Street”, the most narrow part of the canyon, and just pressed on until we finally reached a rock that was too tricky to navigate. We would have needed to get completely wet to get around, but since we had made it a pretty good distance, we made this our turnaround point.

On the way back, we took a small detour down a side canyon after hearing there was a waterfall. We didn’t venture far enough to find it, but it added some additional scenery.

We ended up at about 13 miles in just shy of 5 hours and it was spectacular.

We returned our gear and made our 2.5 hour journey back to Vegas. On the drive, Jesse was feeling ill again. It had sort of subsided during the hike, but back in the car, he was feeling pretty bad. We just went straight to the room to shower and change for some sightseeing (much to my chagrin, we could see Trump Tower from our room). To celebrate my birthday, I wanted to go for a fancy dinner and wander along the Strip, taking in the Bellagio fountains and just the larger-than-life Vegas vibe.

We walked the couple of blocks from the MGM Grand to Bellagio (note: “a couple of blocks” can easily take 20-30 minutes) and arrived to watch the fountain show. I could tell Jesse wasn’t feeling well and I said we could go back. He tried really hard not to let his stomach spoil the night so we popped into the Bellagio to see the Chihuly glass and the famous chocolate fountain before he couldn’t stand it anymore. We walked back to MGM and my “fancy birthday dinner” ended up being overpriced Mod Pizza in the room. Jesse promptly fell asleep and I stayed up late watching reruns of Friends.

In the morning, the alarms went off and we got up to pack for our early flight. Almost immediately, Jesse began sweating profusely and ended up bent over in extreme agony. He couldn’t breathe properly and his hands and arms were shaking. I was researching the nearest Urgent Care, where the closest emergency room was, and finally how to get an ambulance to our hotel. The nearest ER was just a 5 minute drive, so I concluded that I would take him myself. I always remember those internet threads saying Lyft is cheaper than an ambulance! I aborted packing, grabbed phonekeyswallet and led him by the elbow through what I was beginning to believe was the world’s largest hotel and casino, and out to the car. Just a quick exit, a left turn, and two rights and we’d be with a doctor. He was in complete agony and I was trying my best to be a grown up. And then…

…like a fool, I couldn’t get us out of the parking garage. I didn’t have the parking ticket, I tried to ring for service, I tried to troubleshoot how to get around the security arm, and finally was yelled at by another driver coming the other way. Still trying my best not to panic and also to comfort my “patient” that I had everything under control, I remember him mumbling “I’ll just walk there myself” and tried to open the door while I was driving! I re-parked the car and guided Jesse to the Lyft platform (after confusingly re-entering the hotel and being re-directed by another guest…doin’ my best here!).

Finally we were in our ride and on our way! The music was loud and Jesse was delirious. I remember saying to the driver “He isn’t feeling very well, would you mind turning down the volume?” and he realized he was driving us to the ER, apologizing profusely. I got Jesse checked in, signed more paperwork than we did to buy a house, and soon he was in a bed in a dark room with IVs and shots and people in PPE attending to him. His diagnosis: a kidney stone. It was unclear how long it was going to take to pass and really the more important question was: could he fly home? We were told it could take up to 2 weeks to pass and we surely weren’t going to stay in Vegas for even one more night.

I could come and go as I pleased but was invited to “rest” in their upstairs waiting room, which had food, drinks, and WiFi. The drama over, I now had to sort out the rest of the pending issues. But my first phone call was to my Mom (“did I adult the right way!?”). I texted with Alaska Airlines to say we wouldn’t be on the plane and called the rental car company to extend our reservation. I checked in on Jesse and then walked back to the hotel (again, a 5 min drive = 25 minute walk) to get all of the stuff we abandoned before checking out.

I was able to sort out the parking garage exit strategy and then got a text from Jesse that he had been discharged and had walked about a mile from the ER to Walgreens to get his prescription! Oh, good grief. I drove to get him and he was told he was cleared to fly, it just might be quite uncomfortable, so we decided to return the car and hang out at the airport to see if we could grab a flight home. It was not a pleasant journey; we had to pull over for what I can only describe as an “episode”, where the stone was on the move and Jesse was in intense pain. Similar to labor contractions, they’d painfully come and go. The flight was short and I hoped he’d be able to avoid having one mid-air.

We returned the car, took the shuttle, and I schmoozed the Alaska Airlines woman with our Wisconsin-residing commonality, apologetic charm, and paperwork from the hospital showing that had, indeed, been at the ER that morning. She changed our flight for free and we were able to get home that same day. I was grateful for her.

That night, finally home, after more “episodes” and a middle-of-the-night call to the emergency nurse hotline I was basically told “this is what turns a boy into a man” and to give him more ibuprofen. A few days later, it passed and it was like it never happened.

All I can say is thank f**k none of this happened 6 miles into a slot canyon.

Holiday Half 5K – 12/8/19

Once again, I’ve fallen 4 months behind in my blogging. It’s a strange time right now, sitting on my couch, dog snoring beside me, addicted to the news of COVID-19. All events, running races included, have been canceled. Schools are closed. Courts are closed. Restaurants and bars are shuttered, unless they do takeout or delivery. Grocery stores are being emptied daily. “Social distancing” and examples of such have taken over social media. And all I want to do is reminisce about Christmas!

I was signed up to run the half marathon but I was still feeling pretty beat up from my hundo nearly 2 months prior. My cardiovascular system was out of whack. My Achilles still hurt. My calves were still tight. I hadn’t trained for a half marathon and quite frankly, just wasn’t going to be able to.

Jesse, John, Naomi, Louie, Patrick, Nichole…everyone who was anyone was doing this race. It was such a festive morning – costumes, jingle bells, red and green – everywhere! The pre-race festivities include coffee and donuts, fire pits and hot chocolate stations; it was a chilly morning but bearable. I saw everyone else off for their half and I hung back until my race – my tiny 5K – took off.

While this first half of this little course was pretty industrial, after the aid station (featuring gingerbread cookies!) the course turned back onto the Daimler campus, running along the path parallel to the Willamette River, which gave beautiful views of the water, downtown Portland, and the Fremont Bridge.

I was going at a decent clip, considering how I feeling, and by mile 2 I was pretty over it. I was glad I decided to drop to the shortest race, despite my ego. I crossed the finish line and made my way to the hot chocolate station and waited for my people.

They came in pretty close to one another in the sea of other runners and at that point, everyone was ready for brunch! We hobbled up the hill to the neighborhood where the car was parked, quickly changed into warmer clothes, and sat in the cutest brunch spot in NE Portland.

A solid morning.

Rio Del Lago 100M – 11/2/19

“As a person, I wanted to inhabit that distance of expectation versus reality. I wanted to be a walking fucking delight.” – Devin Kelly

*Disclaimer: this post contains f-bombs and other obscenities. I do not mean offense, it’s just that distance running is hard and sometimes there’s just no better word than a swear word to convey the sentiment of the moment. So just a fucking heads up on that.

Expand this section to read the lengthy personal lead up to the race. Or continue reading below for just the running bit!

After my DNF at Mountain Lakes (ML) in September, I had a roller coaster of emotions, but for the most part, I was sad. Not a I’ve-suffered-great-loss kind of sadness, but an aching sorrow of having all my hard work end in failure. My body was tired and I couldn’t really regulate my emotions, so I would cry at the still-fresh race memories. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of wonderful memories from the months of training and the many hours during the race, but the process of getting “over it” couldn’t begin soon enough.

I have two wonderful girlfriends in Seattle and we had a little conference call / race recap and, like everyone, they filled my ears, heart, soul, and brain with nothing but love and support. But what I didn’t expect to come out of it was inspiration. Sybil said they had another runner friend who had a DNF from ML in 2017 and wrote a blog post about it. When we got off the phone, she sent me the link and I read it right away. The writer explained the entire race experience, and the DNF experience, in all the words and sentiments and feelings I couldn’t articulate. The post was also filled with f-bombs and emotion. Frustration mixed with happy memories. I cried while reading it, not only from my own race, but for theirs, too. I got to the end and the blog “suggested” the next post, which was their subsequent finish of the Javelina Jundred that same year, just a month later. I sat up straighter in my chair and devoured it. And then,

“He got an idea. An awful idea. The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea. ‘I know just what to do.’”

I went straight to the Javelina website; there were spots left! However, it just just one week after we’d be back from Germany and I didn’t think I could recover from ML and international travel and be successful at finishing 100 miles. So I scoured Ultra Signup. And the PNW running calendar. And eventually the nationwide running calendar. And I called my coach and talked and strategized and were troubleshooting and finally we settled on one. She was easily on board and we updated my training log, I emailed the race director to apply my trail work volunteer hours from ML to this one and I registered. I’d be running Rio Del Lago 100M (RDL) on November 2nd in California. It was 6 weeks from my ML weekend and I was excited about running again. The sorrow was fading.

I sent a text to John, hoping he wasn’t too traumatized from pacing me at ML. “Hey John, have plans for the weekend of 11/2?” Turns out he was running his own race that weekend; a local favorite, the invariably gorgeous Silver Falls, but didn’t hesitate to skip it for an adventure in Folsom.

I sent Dan a screenshot of my registration, hoping his Little House on the Prairie disease had passed. He was more than keen and booked a flight from Denver. Things were already looking up.

I was browsing flights and panicking about arrival and departure times, especially because race weekend would fall on the Daylight Saving Time change; but the race wouldn’t be honoring it until the event ended, which complicated planning, even though it’s only an hour. Jesse sweetly suggested that we would drive. *Duh*. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about making my gear flight-friendly and we wouldn’t have to rent a car. Sacramento (Folsom, technically) is only 9 hours from Portland, so it’d be quite easy. Though I didn’t want to do it all in one day the day before race day, and with mandatory packet pickup on Friday, we’d have to leave mid-day on Thursday. Which was Halloween. I was feeling more and more guilty that John would have to miss his race and Halloween! Good grief, I owe him so much. But the planning was coming together.

We went to Germany and I relaxed. My training plan was easy – it was recovery. I had a few miles to do here and there, but mostly it was just “run if you can. Don’t if you can’t.” Now that’s my kind of training plan! When we returned, I had a small block of “heavy” miles and then taper. Really, ML had just become my long training run. And good practice for what not to do. I was feeling ready. My DNF no longer bothered me.

I updated my spreadsheets with my projected best-mid-worst case times, accounting for time spent at aid stations this go ‘round. I sent off planning emails and booked our AirBnB. My Mom would be driving down from Idaho, bringing my sister this time. My Dad couldn’t make it for this one, and neither could Jan, but their love was felt nonetheless. I didn’t really tell my work what I was up to, but just took the days off. If I didn’t finish it, I didn’t want to recap with them again.

I worked in the morning on Halloween and then we took off mid-day. My sweet friend Naomi would once again be watching RileyDog (and John’s dog Clyde, too, this time), so we gave the pups some head pats and hit the road, making a quick stop for road trip foods, and headed south. We booked a room in a random-ass town just over the border in California and got there around 10 PM. Just before, though, in Ashland, we were hungry and debated between the 24 hour Denny’s or the closes-at-9-PM-but-it’s-already-8:45-PM Elmer’s. We made the dick move and went to Elmer’s. We were treated to wet carpet and a window meth dance, but it was still better than Denny’s.

The AirBnB was a funny experience, with a composting toilet in the corner and the “real” bathroom in the “main” house. But it was warm, comfortable, and cheap. In the light of day, the town left a bit to be desired. But we left early and it didn’t matter at all.

We rolled into Folsom and went straight to packet pickup. Dan met us there and I went to check in while my boys picked up their pacer bibs. “Hi, I’m here to pick up my packet,” I told the volunteer. He replied with a question “For the Rio Del Lago 100 miler?” I felt like he punched me in the stomach. Did I not look like I could do it? Did my sweater, skirt, and Kate Spade scream “non-runner”, while everyone else was in tech tees and sneakers? My imposter syndrome overwhelmed me and I suppressed my bitchy response; Dan was suddenly at my side and that made me feel better. “Yup!” I said excitedly, knowing the man probably didn’t mean anything by it (or even know he did anything) and I was just projecting. He gave me my bib (#253) and my swag. I walked over to the merch table and lusted after the grey-blue and white RDL hat. “Not until you finish” I said to myself, again, remembering the ML coaster I had wanted. I hadn’t earned it. I hadn’t earned shit.

We drove to the AirBnB to check in and unload (it was right across from Jan Park, so I pleased she could be there in spirit…and in park form!). I didn’t have a code for the door so I messaged our host while the boys unloaded literally everything from the car and dropped it by the front door. We waited a few minutes and got no response. I tried to call the host but there was no answer. I sent him a regular text message and still no response. After another few minutes, we hauled everything back to the car and decided to go grocery shopping while we waited. We hit up a Safeway just a few minutes away and bought stuff to make a spaghetti dinner, have a decent breakfast in the morning, for me to make proper food for the race the next day, and generic snacks. I remember paying and then trying to take everything to the car and the wheels on the cart locked up! In a fit of hilarious frustration, John lifted the back and Dan lifted the front and they carried the cart full of groceries to the car in an epic “fuck you, Safeway” fashion. It was the best.

We finally got a code from the host and we headed back to the house, where my sister and Mom had just arrived. Again, because it was just Halloween, the neighbors next door had some decorations out: skeletons in the front yard. “Still waiting for the code from their host, it seems” I joked.

The house was basic, but we’d only be there one night. My mom and sister could use it Saturday night, too, and I enjoyed how close it was to the start/finish. Every aspect of this race, logistically, was easier than ML. ML had the allure of remote, forested running, where this felt basically like city running, but for the crew, this was all much more attainable.

I got to work putting together my running pack, gear boxes, and deciding on shoes and clothes for the morning. The first 18 miles of the course are on a paved pedestrian path and I agonized over whether to wear my road shoes for that section and change, or just stick with my trail shoes for the entirety. My coach advised me to go trail for the whole thing and to only change if it was broken. I eventually did not take her advice and started with shorts and a t-shirt, my ultralight jacket, and road shoes.

My sister laid out on my bed while I put my gear together. We weren’t really talking, she was just watching. I was hemming and hawing over this and that, but moving quickly. At some point she said “how do you know how to do this?”. My gut response was “I don’t.” but I didn’t say that. I think my response was “Oh, this is all pretty standard” which is as bullshit of a non-answer as you can get. But I was struggling with my confidence already and it seemed as if that was more of an answer to myself than to her.

In the kitchen, John had made us a wonderful pasta dinner, complete with salad and garlic bread (even though the kitchen was barely equipped with anything needed to make any of that). Also, it was Friday night, and the finale of The Great British Baking Show was on Netflix! I couldn’t wait to watch and I made everyone sit with me for my hour long, delightfully pure show. No one argued, but they clearly weren’t that interested. I’m pretty sure John watched exactly 1 minute and then tuned out and I think Dan went back to Safeway at one point. *GBBO Spoiler*: Steph royally messed up her bakes and David won. I cried for Steph but was happy for David. Alice…well, her hair was too long for her to be trusted anyway.

After dinner, I attempted to make some of my own food for the race. I knew I couldn’t survive on energy chews and watermelon, and had really only trained with spaghetti on one paltry 18 miler. So just about everything I would have would be new. I made avocado and turkey wraps and also some Stove Top stuffing. I took some of the leftover spaghetti as well. I didn’t want Nuun this time and John offered me his Tailwind, so I filled a bottle with that. I was willing and eager to have anything with high calories. I wanted sodium and carbs. Less sugar. All of these things I was trying for the first time on race day, which is a huge running no-no. I would have to trust that my usually non-sensitive stomach would remain for this big effort.

Rio Del Lago 100M (RDL) had a 5 AM start, with a race briefing at 4:30 and it was a 20 minute drive from our rental. Everyone’s alarms went off early and I had a bagel with butter for breakfast. We headed to Beal’s Point, the starting line, and easily parked. I stood in line for the bathroom for about 2 seconds and then we just hung out at the start line. It was so easy.

Mountain Lakes (ML) had just over 160 runners and Rio had 343. It seemed like much less at the starting line. Our race briefing was really just advice; of particular note was the recommendation to run the first 18 miles at the pace you’d want to be running the last 18 miles. In other words, take it slow and save your legs. Not bad advice but I was assuming I’d be at a slow shuffle in the last 18 miles and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to bank some time. I hugged Jesse, John, Dan, my mom, and my sister. I’d see them soon, but here we go again, right? Headlamps on and we were off. My imposter syndrome rose up again and I thought, “No offense to me or anything but what the fuck am I actually doing?”

“Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.” – Chuck Close

There were enough runners and streetlights that I didn’t actually turn on my headlamp. The pavement was nice and it was easy to find a good pace. Dan told me earlier that it takes energy to talk to people, so I kept to myself. I’d listen to other conversations and not chime in. It wasn’t like me not to make friends during a race, but I was here with a task. I had a job to do. I was all business this time.

There was a woman in a red t-shirt near me at the starting line and she seemed calm and experienced, chatting with other runners about their training and their racing. At some point on this paved stretch I was behind her and tried to keep pace. Maybe 10-15 minutes of this and I felt like I wasn’t going to be able to sustain it, so I backed off the pace and she pulled away. We went over a bridge and a woman came running up next to me and complimented my ultralight jacket (and I thought of a conversation I had with friend back in Oregon about why women bring up clothes as a segway into dialogue? I just want to yell “yeah, yeah, I got it at REI now what book are you reading and which Democratic primary candidate do you think is least controversial?? Be interesting!” I obviously didn’t do this; that would seem crazy. I accepted her compliment and we spent 30 or so strides talking about my jacket). I do not remember her name, but I should, because I remember it being quite unique. We ran together for a while and I mainly let her talk. I do not remember a thing she said to me. Except that she was hoping to finish in under 27 hours. It was too early (in the day and in the race) to do that sort of calculating for myself but I hoped I would see her again, hours later, doing well. Spoiler: I did not. After the aid station, she took off at a run while I walked and ate.

The aid stations were generically stocked: chips, potatoes, GU, electrolyte drink, Coke. I wanted to save the Coke again for nightfall and I took time to eat a good amount. That was priority here. Eat early and often. I had pretzels, PB&J, a few chips, and a handful of potatoes. Nothing sweet. I was admittedly really enjoying my Tailwind from John (the ‘Naked Unflavored’ flavor); it was delicious and keeping me going. Noted.

I fast walked until I digested but made sure to only spend seconds, not minutes, lingering. I needed to bank time while I could. I was careful to not be speedy or competitive here, but still found I was all over the board with pace: some 10:30s, some 8:somethings. Yikes.
We reached our first decent climb around mile 10; up to a view of the dam, and the sunrise. It was pretty spectacular, I must admit.

I had been running near a guy in a red visor (Michael Li, I later learned) and he was good pacing. He is a running coach and knew the course. I let him tell me all about it. I can’t remember if he pulled away or if I did, but soon I was near a guy in a yellow shirt who works for a company that makes fitness equipment. He told me about his recent finish at Moab and I was in awe. He wasn’t exactly humble about it, but he wasn’t bragging either. I couldn’t tell. We passed another aid station (more potatoes, more pretzels, more PB&J for me) and then I ducked off to use the boat ramp restroom, hoping that would save some time at Beal’s Point once we arrived. Eventually I caught up to yellow shirt guy again – we were kind of leap frogging – and he said he could tell that I would finish Rio. He could feel it in my aura. At the time I was simultaneously grateful for his confidence in me and annoyed at the assumption, given how confident I was feeling at ML. Only the miles would tell me as the hours fell away.

Eventually back on the path we went out on, I could start to recognize where we were. It was weird, being in a hundo, and passing by fast food joints, gas stations, large intersections. It didn’t feel like a trail run at all. We could see Folsom Prison and I didn’t have the fear of cougars as I did at ML; I had the fear of escapees! Both irrational and unlikely encounters, but my anxiety never lets me forget that I am mortal.

I could see Dan at the corner and I whipped out my empty bottle: “Can I please have more Tailwind?” He didn’t take it from me and instead asked how I was feeling. I saw the race director also on the corner and it occurred to me that I had to run around the parking lot along the water before the proper aid station so if Dan helped me there, I could be disqualified. Lucky he was aware before I was! We checked in for 20 seconds and he took off to the crew as I made my way around.

I passed the checkpoint and found my crew with all my crap set up nicely under a tree. The sun was up now and I could feel it was warm now. I changed into my trail shoes (well, actually, someone else put them on me) and stripped off my jacket. I threw on my hat and sunglasses, a bit of sunscreen, and my sister handed me my bag of Stove Top. Jesse frantically looked for a fork while I, mouth full already, popped globs of sticky stuffing into my mouth like popcorn. “This is fine, babe. I don’t need it. I’m ready to go, anyway.” A new bottle of Tailwind, water topped off, and I was back on course. Back at it: 18 miles down, 82 to go. I’d see them again in just 4.5 miles.

These 4.5 miles were a little bit the worst. We were on trails at least, but I very much felt like it was a facade. We passed people out for their morning walks with their dogs (“Oh, are you running a marathon?”), and kids on bikes. We were in the backyards of folks who owned horses and could see the roads leading to their homes. There were people sunbathing on balconies perched above us and every now and then, someone would wave at us. It was the most ‘urban’ trail race I’d ever done. I was looking forward to the more remote miles out near Auburn and Cool.

We ascended some flowy singletrack and I realized this was the mountain bike area we were warned about. One runner early on said it would be closed to cyclists this morning but either that was false or the cyclists ignored any closures because I was dodging downhillers pretty consistently. Getting my bearings and trying to decide who had the right of way, I did a sanity check with the course markings and indeed, this was where I was supposed to be. Great.

It was short-lived and I caught a guy who said we were at the beginning of the famed “Meat Grinder” section…I mean, the ‘rock garden’. This is supposed to be the most technical, slow-going part of the course. I had been hearing and reading about it in the days prior and it had me nervous. The only way around it was through it.

Soon, I popped up onto a straight, easy section and I could see the aid station. A man in a white dress / nightgown wearing a Trail Sisters hat approached me and I knew: this guy belongs with me. It was Dan, grinning ear to ear. “What are you wearing?” I foolishly asked. For some reason my mouth said those simple words even though my head was clear and full of witty banter for him. The other spectators laughed and I tried to act like it was the most normal thing in the world – like, of course my crew member is in a nightgown! I went on to explain that I couldn’t stop singing Feliz Navidad and that I had forgotten the rest of the words. He looked at me like I just told him I had forgotten how to count to ten or sing the alphabet or something. “You mean, “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas..those are literally the only two lines in the song!” I blamed the heat. He directed me to the crew spot and Jesse had made me a little Cup Noodles. “They’re not really warm anymore” he said, but I was already slurping them up. The salty broth, the carb-y fake noodles…wonderful. Another Tailwind fill up and I was ready to head out again. No lingering here! Dan jogged with me out and I told him if that section truly was the Meat Grinder, these Californians are wimps!

I learned that was not the Meat Grinder, but eventually we did go through it and I didn’t even notice. It was slightly more rocky than what we had just covered, but I wouldn’t say it was particularly noteworthy. So for anyone reading this as a preview to RDL 2020 or beyond, don’t let anyone scare you!

I listened to a man explain his role as a cop to a woman who was trying hard to be polite and responsive, but was focusing her energy on running. I met a woman from Washington State, Leavenworth, and that was all we said, really. I met a guy from Not Too Far Away, CA and he said if he’d had his phone on him, he would have dropped by now and would be home napping. He hung out behind me for maybe 2 miles and we chit chatted about running and mountain biking, his kids, Oregon vs. California, and who knows what else. Eventually he said he wanted to pass by me and thanked me for saving his race. I tried to look him up in the results later but don’t know his last name – there were 3 people with his first name; I hope he was one of the 2 finishers and not the DNF.

There were 9.5 miles between the last aid station (Granite Beach) and the next (Horseshoe Bar) and that might have been the longest 9.5 miles of my life. It was hot and seemed to take ages. It was a lot of rollers so quick running, then slow hiking and not a lot of room for momentum. At one frustrating point, a guy I had been leap frogging with (but never interacted with) caught me as I stopped on a corner to regroup. “How you going?” he asked. “It’s fucking hot out here.” I think was my reply. “I know!? Where the hell is the aid station? You got water?” he asked back. We were both fine, but over this section. Feeling his struggle matched up with mine was helpful. It’s those little moments of solidarity that can be the spark that you need to proceed. Maybe that’s what I provided for the nap guy earlier. I hope so.

We had to work for that aid station; it was at the top of a short but steep climb and was I ever grateful. I passed it up, beelining for the Porta Potty. A woman offered me an ice water soak as I walked by and I told her I’d be back. Indeed I was and the sponge to the head was incredibly refreshing! I went back to the food tent and took in more potatoes, more PB&J, and some orange slices. I asked a volunteer for some sunscreen and she frantically searched and searched, coming up empty handed. “Probably good to have, I’m so sorry!” she told me. Shrug. A man just came in and brought out his course map and asked for the time, which I gave to him. He was so pleased that he was ahead of his projected arrival and my spirits were lifted! He was in such a happy mood it was infectious. I gave him kudos, took another icy sponge soak to the head, and headed out. Just 3 miles to Rattlesnake Bar and my crew.

I caught my Leavenworth friend again and kept pace with her for a while from a distance. I could definitely recognize myself feeling down again as the heat wore on me. I had to walk some of this section; I was getting actively sad. I drank water like it was bottomless. I emptied my Tailwind. To quote, in part, comedienne Emily Heller “my brain is like a radio DJ who doesn’t take requests. It’ll be like ‘coming up next, we have a full hour of just the first verse of Mambo No. 5, followed by an imaginary argument with someone you love!”” Except instead of Mambo No. 5 it’s Feliz Navidad and replace the argument with emotionally and dramatically quitting your job (that you, in reality, love and don’t want to leave). I choked back tears and then got mad for feeling so awful at only the 55K mark. I needed to rein in my brain. I was ahead of my own projected times and feeling physically OK, so what was my problem? I couldn’t pinpoint it, but I knew I’d have to pull myself out of it somehow.

Finally I saw the volunteer pointing us down a very steep hill to the aid station. I didn’t trust the tread on my shoes to even keep me upright so it was a delicate tip toe down there. This aid station felt busy, but Dan caught me right away, as he had been. I nearly burst into tears when he asked how I was doing. I couldn’t explain what I needed so it was impossible for him to help me. I couldn’t tell if he could tell. I just asked him “Do I need to check in here?” “DO RUNNERS NEED TO CHECK IN HERE!?!?!?!” he shouted at the volunteer tent not 1 second after I finished saying it. “No”, someone calmly replied. I laughed at his assertiveness. I would have waited at the table to be acknowledged and gingerly squeaked out my question, where he boldly demanded “my runner needs something!” and my attitude was turned around. I sat in a chair here and told everyone I just needed a minute. I let the feelings and tears I was holding in go, as all the love and support I needed could be felt just inches away. I’m going to name those feelings ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ because where did they come from and where did they go? “It’s really fucking hot out there.” I finally offered. Dan produced a bandana filled with ice for me to take and it felt amazing. “Can I have more Tailwind?” I felt awful using all of John’s nutrition and he said he was out of the ‘Naked’ flavor but had berry with caffeine. I’ll take it.

I felt better now. It was six miles to the next aid station and then a short paved section to where I could pick up my first pacer at Overlook. I let my bad energy fuel me back up that hill and onto the course.

I don’t remember the miles to Cardiac aid station. Literally zero recollection. Was it pretty? Was it difficult? Was I happy or sad? Those miles and memories are gone.

Cardiac aid station featured men in coconut bras and grass skirts. I grabbed food quickly and had another sponge soak, then left in a hurry. It was 3.5 miles of paved up and I was in a mood for power hiking. Poles aren’t permitted in RDL so I pretended; arms at 90 degrees and swinging. I overheard two men talking about Oregon races and I joined for a quick minute, offering advice on ML and the NUT 100K. And then I took off. I passed a lot of people here; head down, legs churning. Eventually I came upon a woman and her dog out for a walk and she wanted to know all about the race…but I really didn’t want to be the one to tell her. I gave her a brief recap of what the heck we were doing (she was amazed by us all) and then bid her farewell. Her Boxer dog was cute, but I was on a roll and feeling good!

“Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.” – Edith Wharton

The pavement felt easy, even though it was a decent uphill. It was fast going and I was easily ahead of schedule. I was excited to have my pacers available from here on out and would have company through the night; any anxiousness about dark running that I felt from ML was gone. Even though I wasn’t yet halfway done, I thought about the card my sweet friend Melissa sent to me earlier in the week, along with copious amounts of my favorite chews, and she simply wrote “You got this” over and over inside. I pictured the card, the colorful paper, her scribbly handwriting and said it over and over like she did: “You got this”. And soon I was at the top of the hill, the clock staring at me, Jesse was there to greet me. I was kicking this race square in the teeth like I was told to do. Later, I realized I even had a 50K and 50M PR set in during this race. I was smashing it. (Side note: in their downtime while was I was out there working hard, my crew was off at some cafe having tea and crumpets! Ha!)

Reaching Overlook, I passed up the food and went straight for my crew setup. I wanted a new shirt and bra, my current ones wet from all the ice, and I’d need my headlamp again, preparing for the night hours. But first, the bathroom. My Mom walked with me here and it felt powerful to be in such a focused mode, so in my element, that I could tell she didn’t recognize me. We found the bathroom and there was a line of 1,000 women. Scanning, like a robot, I spotted the Porta Potties and we power walked over there. No line. But also no toilet paper. “Mom, when she is finished next to me, will you see if there is any toilet paper in there?” The woman next to me answered flatly, “there isn’t.” I found this funny! My Mom offered to get me some but I wanted to just get going and I declined. We walked back over to the crew and I had my sister spray my sides with Glide – the chafing from my bra was painful, but only when I drew my attention to it. Feeling fresher, I walked back over to the food tent and had a few more potatoes and then was ready to hit the trail. A quick photo and Dan and I took off.

I’ve known Dan for years but prior to RDL, I had only met him in person twice. For the first time in 2017 after Pikes Peak and for the second time just a few months prior at his own hundo at Leadville. I talk to him all the time and he’s one of my biggest fans, but it was funny to think he was about to run a marathon with me, in the dark, and we had never actually run together before. Not a single step.

He was stoked to be on course. He was on these same trails a few months earlier pacing his buddy at Western States and he wanted the No Hands Bridge experience this time. No problem. He was a ball of energy, running ahead to take photos, hanging back to take photos, chatting away.

I was happy to have Dan’s pacing experience, his strong running background, and his general happy demeanor for this overnight section. I told him I had been all business and hadn’t really taken a lot of photos and asked him to get some good ones. He was all about it. A few miles in, we saw the first place guy coming at us. “He looks rough”, Dan commented. Not long after, we saw the second place guy. “He’ll catch him. He looks great.” Dan said again. I didn’t disagree, but apparently Dan knew the second guy and was confident he would win it. He wasn’t wrong.

I don’t remember a lot of the time we spent getting to No Hands. At one point, we could see the bridge before us and I asked “Is that it” and before I could even finish the sentence Dan said “NOPE!” He explained that the bigger bridge was not No Hands. I was suddenly less enamored with it. The bigger one was clearly more impressive. He pretended to be offended. We got to No Hands and he stopped to take photos and I took off. I sprinted across that god damn bridge. Or, at least it felt like it. Dan obviously caught me easily and he said it was fun to try to outpace the pacer!

A quick pit stop at the aid station (mile 48.5) (“I don’t want these bananas yet, but will in like, 2 miles. Can you carry them?” and the banana hand was born.) and we climbed out of there. And then descended, crossed the road, interrupted a wedding photo sesh, and I had to use the bathroom. Luckily there was a huge, clean Porta Potty and I seized the opportunity to sit down. I took a deep breath and then meandered back to my pacer and the long road still ahead. “I can’t really see, can you take my hat?” and it disappeared. “The ice is cooling me down too much, can you take this bandana back?” and it disappeared. “Can you text John about my pants?” “Can you text John about my gloves?” “Can you text John about my hand warmers?” I was needy and felt like I hadn’t really thought anything through and was making last minute, panicked requests. Dan obliged to everything I needed without question or hesitation.

There were 10.5 miles between No Hands and Auburn Lakes aid station. We were leap frogging with a couple of runners and their pacers and I was quiet. Dan was ahead of me and he was quiet, too. We were just working. I didn’t feel anything. We were just on the move.

The trail turned runnable and we jogged along. Still quiet. It was easy going and I was grateful for company, even if it was just his presence. The miles were endless here. We hit the 10.5 mile mark and there was no sign of the aid station. I didn’t need it, per se, but to have those checkpoints was a sign of progress and I was getting pissed that we weren’t making any. Was I really going that slowly? I thought back to the section between Granite Beach and Horseshoe and it didn’t seem so long now. Even Dan was getting confused as to why we hadn’t hit it yet. It. went. on. for. ev. er.

Finally we dropped down into the aid station and it was tiny and crowded. It’s always such a mind fuck to see so many runners there when you had felt incredibly alone just moments before. I used the bathroom again here and got some broth and other foods. I was ready to go and Dan was still chowing down. I wanted to keep moving and had to remind myself that he was out here, running and working hard, and obviously deserved and needed to fuel as well. I had just been used to zooming in and out of the non-crew aids all these hours!

We walked a bit from the aid station and then pulled over again to put on warm gear. I pulled my long-sleeved merino out of my pack and it was wet from the ice bandana dripping earlier. “It’ll dry” I thought and threw it on, layering my ultralight over it. Dan geared up too and we took off again. Not 5 minutes later, I was shivering. I could feel my ML failure daring me to continue and I made Dan stop again. He had Jesse’s extra base layer for me and I switched to that, giving him my lucky pink, but wet, top. The dry Baffin felt amazing and I internally gave myself a gold star for making a good choice here. The flats and downs we jogged but I was going slow and not really generating heat, so I’d put my jacket hood up and zip myself in to save the warmth. At any hill, I’d overheat and to avoid sweating and getting wet, I’d unzip and throw off the hood to cool down. It was a constant, up down up down, but it worked. I maintained a good temperature and had my system in place.

Dan and I weren’t really talking. I was out in front and his headlamp shone from behind, which was helpful. Some people passed us in through here and while deflating, I tried to focus on my own race and effort. At some point Dan very bluntly said “You’re hiking faster than you’re running, so let’s just stick with that.” Ouch. I knew he wasn’t wrong, though. Running did not seem sustainable, so I power hiked.

At some point, Dan was leading and we were going at an OK pace. Some of the climbs were steep, but luckily short-lived. Dan would call out obstacles for me: “Small mud patch here” or “watch these rocks”. Two guys passed us and just after they went by Dan turned and said “big log to step over right here…oh nevermind, we’re turning here” and we rounded a corner to head up a brutal little pitch. He quickly realized those two guys had gone straight, over the log! He called out to them and pointed out the course marking and they quickly turned around, oh-so-grateful! That’s what pacers are for…fresh eyes and minds to keep us all on track..in every way.

There was a difficult, narrow trail section in here somewhere and we encountered a male racer and his female pacer – I don’t have a lot of memory about what was going on, but I remember the guy struggling and the woman waiting for him frequently. Did they go ahead of us? Did we pass them? All I remember were the digging deep grunts and moans from the runner in pain.

I was getting some decent 2nd, 3rd, 4th winds going up these hills and it felt good to power hike them. Eventually I felt like jogging again and pretty soon we were at the next aid station. They had quesadillas here and Dan was in heaven. I passed, wary of the cheese. I saw a guy I recognized from a few hours earlier and we exchanged pleasantries and brief updates and then Dan and I carried on.

I was so confused about where we were. I knew we were on course but I couldn’t really figure out why we weren’t seeing the front pack runners. Dan explained to me at least 4 times where we would pop back out onto the recognizable course, but my brain just wasn’t comprehending what he was saying.

Finally, we descended into No Hands and it was a bit of a party! This is where I exchanged John for Dan. We were at mile 70.5, it was just after midnight, and we had some hills to climb.

John and I left No Hands at a very slow trot. John was fresh and it was easy to chat with him, laughing at the beeping timing mat, stopping briefly to check in with another runner, clearly in pain from a blister, and genuinely enjoying the trail at this point. I was continuing my hood-up-on-the-flats-hood-down-on-the-hills routine and John asked if I wanted him to take my jacket, not realizing what I was doing. “No way, I have this temperature thing figured out!” I joked. John was adequately versed in my temperature regulation from ML so mainly his tasks were 1) keep me moving, and 2) keep me warm.

At some point, I did start to get chilly and John produced another layer for me, which helped immensely. I remember leading the two of us and he made the same comment as Dan, but in a less pointed way: “If you wanted to save some energy here, we can just hike; the speed’s about the same”. Hint taken – I was running slow! And, though not at him, my rage haze returned and I was suddenly able to power up those hills. Maybe it was short lived but I felt like I could hike like that for hours more (it was just as well, I was clearly going to have to).

“Running is real and relatively simple…but it ain’t easy.” – Mark Will-Weber

We were passed by a lot of faster racers on this stretch. I remember one particularly well-lit runner + pacer combo. She had her entire torso covered in LED lights and I was amazed (i.e. jealous) at how much visibility she brought to the trails. She quickly passed us and disappeared. I knew I was moving slowly, and had slowed down considerably from my earlier miles, but was still doing OK for a finish. I gave myself bonus points for still feeling good and [mostly] happy, too!

We climbed up to the Overlook AS (mile 74.5) and I was chilly enough to need to change into my longer bottoms. The boys held up blankets right there in the middle of the action and I stripped off my shorts, pulled up my capris, and then quickly swapped my bib over. I could feel a blister on my left little toe, but thought “it’s not bothering me, so I won’t “fix” it.”

From here it was the 3-ish miles of steep descent on the paved road into Cardiac. I limped down the initial steep trail and onto the road and told John I wanted to do ¼ mile walk to ¾ mile jog. I think? We did our walk, then started our jog. My calves were aching at this point and I had to really talk myself into the running times, but I was genuinely enjoying these miles, except for all the grass that was in my pants from my gear change – I had neglected to remember that the grass would stick to my socks (and subsequently the inside of my pants when I put them on) so I spent a good 30 minutes of running plucking greenery from inside my capris. *face palm* Sorry for any awkwardness, John!

Another pacer + runner combo passed us on this downhill and I swore the racer was the tallest person I’ve ever met. Not long after they soared by did my blister pop. “Fuuuck”, I said, stepping to the side of the road. I remember sighing deeply and trying to troubleshoot in my head what to do. I knew it was less than a mile to the next aid station but I didn’t want a blister to form on top of the blister, so I told John we’d walk it in. I walked on my heel and really was tempted to just walk in my sock without a shoe at that point. Desperate to avoid any more pain, it was a very slow aid station approach.

We arrived and I made a pit stop in the bathroom while John went to ask for blister supplies. When I emerged, I was told they had antiseptic wipes, band-aids, and duct tape. No moleskin or proper blister care. With the tone of I-take-no-responsbility-for-this-situation, the volunteer dismissively asked John “you’ll take care of this?”. Of course. I sat down, peeled off my shoe and sock, and John, without hesitation, question, or disgust, wiped my dirty, dusty, blistered foot off with a wet wipe and I fought back a scream from the pain of the alcohol. “You’re the worst doctor ever!” I [very rudely but jokingly] told him! He wrapped my piggie toe in a band-aid, then duct tape, and I got my sock and shoe back on. The pain was different, but just as bad as before. At least I knew it was protected from getting worse. I limped out of the aid station after eating a few potatoes and told him “just give me a few minutes to get used to this new normal” and indeed, I did.

“The race always hurts. Expect it to hurt. You don’t train so that it doesn’t hurt. You train so you can tolerate it.” – Mike Rowland

Cardiac was mile 78 and every step from there was a distance PR for me, which I held on to as something to be proud of while we finished off John’s pacing duties. We dropped into Rattlesnake Bar (mile 83.5) – I had a much slower descent coming down this time than hours before! – and I was so surprised to see my mom and sister hanging out with Jesse and Dan! It was something like 2:30 AM and I couldn’t believe they were out there! It really was the moments, the gestures, the efforts like these from my crew that kept me going.

There was a proper medical tent at Rattlesnake and I opted not to pursue further blister treatment here. Though it was tempting, I didn’t want to waste more time on my toe issue. Jesse was ready to go and after doing some quick runner math, I felt at ease – I was 1.5 hours ahead of the cutoff and feeling good. I mentioned to him how calm I felt and he reminded me that the time had changed for Daylight Saving. “Yeah, but my watch didn’t”. He again pointed out that indeed it had and confirmed the time on his phone. I was confused, then instantly panicked. I was only 30 MINUTES ahead of the cutoff!? That was worrisome. We had to get going. Except I couldn’t will my legs to move any faster than they were. This was a problem.

I wasn’t having any serious issues except general fatigue and stiffness, so Jesse and I were able to actually cover some ground without any hysteria, unlike ML. The problem was that every 90 seconds or so, he’d praise me for my efforts. While I know his intention was good and his support was meant to be positive, it made me feel a lot of pressure and I had to tell him to stop. He knew immediately what I meant and he said “Oh yeah, Dan said that talking takes energy. We don’t have to talk.” and we both went silent. I lead and he followed, and I looked at my watch every 15 seconds, paranoid about missing the cutoff.

We got to Horseshoe Bar (mile 86.5, where I had needed sunscreen the day before) and we were in and out quickly. We descended and had to tackle the 9.5 miles to the next aid station, through the alleged Meat Grinder.

I do not remember much about this stretch, except that I was stressed. The sun was rising, but I couldn’t accurately gauge how much ground we had covered, how many miles we had to go, how long it would take us, or how I would make it to the finish line before the 30 hour cutoff to get my belt buckle. It took forever. Jesse asked if anything looked familiar and nothing did, which stressed me out even more. My left calf was really starting to hurt (from walking on my heel with John earlier). At one point it occurred to me that I was overheating and I knew if I removed a layer I could move faster so we stopped to do just that. I felt the relieving morning air on my torso after taking off a top layer and tried to use that refresh to reset my mind and take stock of my situation.

“The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.” – Tucker Max

Soon, we could hear the announcer at the aid station and I recognized the boat ramp area where I knew it would be; but the course markers were leading us away from it. Confused and angry, I power hiked. Jesse told me we had another 4+ miles to get there and I argued that there was no way that could be true. “If that’s true, I will definitely not make the cutoff. That cannot be true!” I demanded. He was adamant. The last 5 miles had then taken hours and I was so discouraged. I pat myself on the back now for not crying about it and continuing to move forward – I was so close to that buckle, I had to keep trying, even if realistically the timing wouldn’t allow it.

Two women were walking on the trail toward us and I asked them how far we were from the aid station (I had no idea if they were part of the race or even knew there was a race happening, but I took a gamble they’d have the information I desperately wanted) and they responded “less than two miles!”. I could have kissed them both!

The trail wrapped and curled and switchbacked up to a viewpoint and then descended in the same fashion, still leading away from the boat launch, away from the aid station announcer. I tried to work out in my head how long “less than 2 miles” would take but just accepted that it was what it was. I just kept turning my legs over.

And then I had to use the bathroom. Urgently. Juuuuuust great. The announcer was getting louder and I resisted the urge to pop off into the bushes. I could hear her encouraging words “Runners! If you can hear me out on the course, just keep moving! You will buckle!” (Jesse and I laughed at this. As runners, we knew what ‘buckle’ meant in this context, but it was still an ominous line!)

We emerged from the trees and could properly see the Granite Beach aid station just 50 yards away; I followed the sidewalk instead of cutting across the parking lot to eliminate any risk of “cutting course” and the announcer greeted me kindly as I crossed the timing mat. Instead of thanking her I just said “where’s the bathroom?” and she sweetly, not into the microphone, said “of course, just there!” and pointed to the nice facilities across the grass. Jesse ran ahead to the food table to gather up some rice / broth / potatoes for me while I used the bathroom. We met up again a few minutes later and just kept going. Just 4 miles to the finish.

Two guys had been not too far behind us and with my bathroom break, they caught up. Apparently we missed the turn through the fence to get back on course and they, returning the favor from Dan earlier, shouted to us to backtrack. Instantly I recognized the course on the other side and could smell the barn at this point.

We walked while I ate and one guy, seemingly not a racer, was walking uncomfortably close to me and I was getting annoyed. I shot Jesse an inquisitive look trying to convey “please help” but it was lost on him. Eventually I just stopped to try to get some distance and the man either got the hint or carried on more quickly without my slow pace near him and he eventually turned off course and we didn’t see him again.

“OK, just up through the mountain biking trails, then through the horse pasture part, across the dam, and then the finish line!” I was still checking my watch constantly, not sure how my left calf was going to hold up for 4 miles to get me there, but at this point I knew I would finish, even if I didn’t get the buckle. I had accepted that.

But we didn’t enter the mountain bike area at all and I was so confused about where we were. We crossed the road that I remembered but then we were near some very large and beautiful homes and I had no recollection of anything. And suddenly there were so many other racers near us. We were alone for so long, where did they all come from?

At one trail intersection, a man standing on the corner pointed down the path and said “just 1.5 miles to go!”. Is that even true? Seems like it should be more. Is he even part of the race? Was he even talking to me? I wanted it to be true, but it just didn’t seem like we had already gone 2.5 miles.

We climbed up a giant mountain (i.e. a small hill) and I recognized the large gravel corner. We dropped down again, and I remembered the switchbacks from when the girl with the impressive quad tattoo passed me on the way up yesterday morning. My calf was seized up and I was limping, but I tried to run anyway. I knew we were close. Even at this snail’s pace, it could only be about 12 more minutes before I hit the finish line.

“In a sprint, if you don’t have perfect form, you’re doomed. The ultra distance forgives injury, fatigue, bad form, and illness. A bear with determination will defeat a dreamy gazelle every time.” Scott Jurek

We emerged from the trees, the last inches of trail behind us, and spilled out onto the dam. Dan and John were there waiting, along with a volunteer. I tried to quote Andy from Parks & Rec and told the volunteer “Running sucks and everything hurts!” and everyone laughed, including myself. I could see the finish line and I blinked back all the emotions I was feeling as we started to walk across the dam. Dan took photos and I don’t remember what we talked about in those minutes. I looked at my watch for the 700 millionth time and said “We can get sub 29.5 hours, let’s jog it in.”

We turned the corner, reached the grass, and the announcer called me in by name. We crossed the finish line and I turned to hug Jesse and all my crew as I let the tears roll. I was handed my sweet, sweet finisher’s buckle, a small child put a medal around my neck, and I limped to my mom and sister. I was crying from calf pain, from exhaustion, from elation, and from immense gratitude. I ran 100+ miles, with 9,200+ feet of climbing in 29:28:12. And I was delighted.

My crew pointed me to a chair and, though I had sat quite a lot throughout the entire thing, I could stay this time. I knew there was no rush now. We had to check out of our AirBnB by noon but because we could now acknowledge the time change, we had many hours. Like every other race, I wasn’t immediately hungry after so I just sat and recapped my last 16.5 miles with Jesse for everyone. Dan ran to the merch tent and bought me literally every single piece of Rio Del Lago swag they had to offer, so I now have a sweatshirt, a long-sleeved tee, a tech tee, a water bottle, a pint glass, magnets, a handkerchief with the course map, that beautiful white and gray/blue hat, a finisher’s medal, and my invaluable buckle.

Jesse bought me two smoothies from the smoothie truck and I had my pick – mango or berry. Both!

I ripped off my shoes and socks and my feet were as disgusting as ever, but now also featured duct tape.

I closed my eyes and tipped my face up to the warm sun, my mind empty save for the happiness. I could hear the cheers of the other runners still coming in and I was thrilled for them.

You can see my race photos here and all my race stats here.

Eventually I was ready to go. I was ready to sleep. I planted my feet firmly on the ground and tried to stand and it was interesting how it just wasn’t going to happen. The receptors in my legs straight up denied the command from my brain. I laughed and my sister lifted me from the chair and the pain was so great that I winced and my eyes leaked. Dan suggested I visit the medical tent (where they offered me a bag of ice and nothing more) so I mustered a “thanks anyway” and we left.

I hobbled, attached to my sister, to the parking lot for curbside pickup and we drove the 20 minutes to the rental. It was all I could do to step on that leg. It was so interesting how once I was done with the race, my legs were done with me. The momentum was over and they’d had enough. It was the most painful shower I’d ever taken. I collapsed on the bed while Jesse showered and I fell asleep for those 5-6 minutes. It was enough of a nap to keep me awake through our Italian lunch.

I still couldn’t eat and just had a bowl of soup, enjoying my crew. While it wasn’t a very large restaurant, the women’s bathroom was on the other side of the dining room and so I just used the men’s, which was adjacent to our table. It was the largest bathroom I’d ever been in and that memory makes me laugh.

It was sad to part ways with everyone after lunch. I wanted to stay in that post-race mode, with all of them, for one more day. But it was Sunday and we had to begin our drive home as did my mom and sister, and Dan had a flight to catch. My sister put me in the car after we all said goodbye and ignoring any sort of road rules, I laid out in the back seat and turned on my phone to send everyone the good news!

Unlike ML, RDL had runner tracking (all those timing mats sent my times to the internet so people could check up on me). Apparently, unbeknownst to me or my crew, some of the later mileage mats did not register my arrivals properly and many of my people feared I had DNF’d again as the hours passed without an update. They received notice of my finish, to their surprise and relief, but it was touch and go there for a while.

Jesse, John, and I stopped off in Mt. Shasta to cut our trip in half [insert memories from Black Bear Diner, continental breakfasts, and morning “hiking” on Shasta here]. Otherwise I was sleeping and recovering in the backseat.

“Who are you after you finish something this magnificent – in constructing it you have also journeyed through it, to the other side. On one end there was who you were before you went underground, and on the other end a new person steps out into the light. The up-top world must be so ordinary compared to the miracle beneath, the miracle you made with your sweat and blood. The secret triumph you keep in your heart.” – Colson Whitehead

It would be days before my calf allowed me to walk properly again; I even borrowed a pair of crutches just in case. As I write this, it’s been exactly 6 weeks since I crossed the finish line and my calf is healed, but my Achilles has become angry in its stead.

I am still cardiovascularly recovering as well, which I knew to expect, but not really understanding what that felt like. And emotionally, it’s been a rollercoaster. But I am proud of my finish, but know that I couldn’t have done it without my crew:

1. • Dan, the experienced, extroverted, smart, goofy, badass runner from Colorado, who reminds me that running 100s is epic; even in a world where someone has always done something bigger and better, he reminds me that I am strong. In a hundred, you live a lifetime in a day and I couldn’t imagine living a lifetime without having him there. Having him there was like winning the Great British Baking Show.

1. • John is the second smartest person I know and one of my very favorite friends. He is the best, kindest, hardest working person on the planet and every adventure, big or small, that I’m on, I want John to be there. He is funny, witty, calm, moderated, reasonable, and dependable. He is the Ron Swanson to my Leslie Knope. He has saved me 1,000 times over in both running and non-running situations and I owe him a million unspoken favors. He was paramount in my success at RDL and ⅓ of my buckle belongs to him.

• • Jesse, my whole heart, my favorite adventure buddy, my life love. He always gets the “not fun” version of me but is the best suited to handle it. He’s real when I’m off base, he’s calm when I’m panicking, he pushes me when I’m struggling, he normalizes impossible ventures, and says nothing when “I’mma I’mma I’mma do my thang.” He’s just simply there, ready to go, when I need him, without question and without fail. How I got so lucky, I’ll never know.

Germany – 10/4-14/19

I have a really good friend, Scott, who gives us cheap deals on flights and this trip to Germany was basically a steal. Jesse has some extended family in rural Bavaria and has visited one family’s farm a couple years ago – I couldn’t wait to meet them, see the farm, and of course, be in Germany!

Our timing was such that we were able to catch the last bit of Oktoberfest in Munich as well. We flew over on Thursday, spent Friday catching up on sleep and being lazy (and also snuck in a run).

On Saturday we met up with Jesse’s sister, Hanna. She arrived mid-afternoon so we peeked in at Oktoberfest (in the rain!) before picking her up at the train station (and also walked around the alpine museum). We were lucky to have a family friend, who lives in Munich, as our tour guide and expert in tow! We spent the evening at Oktoberfest, eating all the pretzels and chicken, drinking all the German beer (or for me, spezi), and enjoying a lovely ride on the Ferris Wheel.

On Sunday we drove to the farm in Haidlfing and enjoyed a wonderful Bavarian feast with the family! It was so special to be welcomed in such a warm way by 20+ people!

We spent a few days here and enjoyed visiting the small towns, riding ponies, playing with puppies, learning German with the little kids and teaching English to the older kids, and just being around family in such a beautiful spot.

Jesse has family from both his Grandma and Grandpa’s side of the family in the area, so it was really nice to be able to spend some time with both. Everyone is so lovely and interesting and funny and made it very difficult to leave!

But, as it always does, the days flew by and soon Jesse, Hanna, and I were driving over to Austria for a few days. I wanted to see Hallstatt, a gorgeous mountain town, and to check off another European country while we were so close. It was everything I dreamt it would be. And while Hallstatt was touristy, just driving around the smaller hamlets was enough to satiate me.

One of the highlights was a particularly rainy day where we ran to the shore for a photo then aborted our hiking plans and instead had the most delicious lunch with an incredibly moody view, and then picked up our hiking plans around the lake after.

A second highlight and funny memory was trying to find said lakeside hike and ending up at a random woodshed where a man wielding an ax was not too happy to see us tourists coming up his road! (And also this sweet photo of Jesse and me, wherein Jesse basically threw me to the ground to escape an oncoming car!)

Eventually we made our way back to Germany, stopping off at the gorgeous Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castles. We spent the day wandering around and had tours in both, eventually ending up at our last minute AirBnB – a barn in the middle of nowhere. But I have to say, the fresh cow’s milk for breakfast was fantastic!

The next day, we made our way north to Ulm and climbed the 700+ stairs to the top of the world’s tallest steeple for a view of the classic red roofs of the city. We continued on to Rothenberg to walk the wall, eventually landing in Nuremberg with our beloved aunt.

The next day, Jesse and Hanna explored downtown Nuremberg while I snuck in a 13 mile run. It was quite possibly the slowest 13 miles, as I met up with them for lunch, walked around a bit, and enjoyed all the sights! Running is my favorite way to explore the city. And I never tire of Nuremberg.

We ended our trip with a lovely Greek dinner and all went our separate ways in the morning; Jesse and I driving down to Munich for our flight home and Hanna taking the train to Frankfurt to catch hers.

We had a really great catch up with family and also packed in some good sightseeing. As always, it’s never enough time, though.

Mountain Lakes 100M – DNF (9/21-22/19)

We all dream of winning the lottery; we make fictional plans about taking monthly payments or the big lump sum, who we’d buy a house for, where we’d go first on vacation, which luxury car we’d now own. How much easier life would be if we won.

Back in February, I won the lottery but it made my life much harder. It was a lottery with pretty good odds and with Jesse by my side, I burst into tears when my name was called. I won the lottery to run the Mountain Lakes 100 miler in September. Not exactly something I can buy my mom a house with, but life-changing nonetheless. In a room full of other trail runners (the real ones with long beards and dirty fingernails, drinking beers and wearing trucker hats) I had imposter syndrome stronger than ever. The race director handed me a hat of my own and my body filled with panic. I wanted to run 100 miles and I wanted Mountain Lakes to be the event where I did it, but the only thing I could think was “how am I going to do this?”.

Keep reading at your own risk. It’s lengthy! The TL;DR version: Running 100 miles is hard – enjoy these pretty photos.

I’ve muscled through some tough 50ks, made it through a 50 miler (though last year’s DNF be damned), and like to think I can be a committed and successful runner at any longer distance as a result. But as my friend prepared for Leadville (see my last post) and I saw his high mileage weeks and trips to the gym, I knew this beast was bigger than just “eh, get in some trail miles as often as you can, you’ll be fine”. I scoured the depths of the internet for training plans that didn’t require me to straight up quit my job to run full-time and researched where to put strength days in relation to speed days in relation to hill work in relation to long runs in relation to rest days. Turns out, the internet doesn’t have such a formula. No one posted anything of the like. Page 404: Not Found. So I hired a coach. Not the kind who stands on the sidelines of the track with a stopwatch in hand yelling “GO FASTER!” or the kind who watches my stride saying “you’re heel striking too much”, but the kind who would put together a training plan that worked with my exact life. I told her when I was out of town and she adjusted my mileage. I told her I’m tired on day 2 instead of day 1 after a long run and she swapped them (or not, telling me I have to get used to running on tired legs). I got horribly sick and instead of lacing up anyway, she told me to rest and get better. She is the absolute best at not only at being a coach, but also a friend. As a mother who also has a non-running job, she recognizes the stress of real life and how running sometimes needs to take a backseat. While I would sometimes skip the mid-week shorties, I vowed to never miss a long run or back to backs. And she saw no problem with that. (She is also a very badass runner who has done many hundos, often winning them outright, so I trusted every word she wrote.)

As my previous posts explain, I spent all summer running. There were no mountain biking trips, no days in a kayak. There were no new “hiking” routes; it had to be runnable. I filled my water bottles every weekend, stocked up on energy gels, and downloaded podcasts. I ran alone and with friends, with Jesse and John, in the heat and the rain, in the morning and at night. I researched headlamps and dark running and came to terms with the idea that I probably wouldn’t be attacked by a cougar on course (the only way I came to terms with that was by knowing I’d have pacers with me in the dark, which was also something I had to research how to facilitate).

I made spreadsheets and studied the aid stations. I knew the cutoffs and the elevation profile. Jesse and I went out and did a course preview for intel on the trail and how to get there (this was invaluable: it was a 2 hour drive from home down a very pot hole-y dirt road). I sent emails to my crew with driving directions and links and plans.

Three days before race day, one of my two pacers (D “the Leadville-man” Z) sent me a text saying “I am at the hospital with rheumatic fever, which is some Little House on the Prairie bullshit”. Basically, he was horribly sick and couldn’t fly from Colorado, let alone run his 25-mile section. I had a mild panic attack but then thought “Well *IIIII* don’t have rheumatic fever…this is fine. He’ll be fine and I’ll be fine. John took Jesse’s pacing spot and Jesse took DZ’s. No problem.

The day before, Friday, was a very stressful work day. I intended to leave at noon and go home to prep my race gear, go grocery shopping then make a hearty dinner, and just relax. But one of my teen clients was in crisis mode and I care about her very much so I went to a meeting with her at her foster placement and talked to her caseworker, staying until around 6 PM. I fought traffic home and frantically got my gear together while my parents, who lovingly drove over from Idaho, made dinner. It wasn’t stressful but it was a deviation from the plan and my Type A personality doesn’t particularly care for that. This is fine. I’ll be fine. No problem.

All of this is to say: after months of training, both running and in strength classes, on tired legs, in the dark, for long hours, finally race day was here. I was inspired and, honestly, feeling calm. I was ready.

In the morning my crew arrived punctually, and we were out the door at 5 AM. With an 8 AM race start, the two hour drive would put us there with plenty of time to park, pick up my packet, use the port-a-potty, hear the race briefing, and not stress. And that’s exactly what happened. Mt. Jefferson in the morning sunlight was spectacular. Olallie Lake was just stunning. The buzz of the 150-something runners, some veteran 100 milers, some first timers like me, was extra special that morning. The weather was a perfect pocket of crisp in the morning, warm-but-not-hot in the afternoon, and chilly-but-not-cold for the evening. The rain would hold off until afternoon on Sunday. The trails would be soft but not muddy. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.

We were all surprised with a free pair of Nike trail shoes and other logo’d goodies. I really wanted to buy a Mountain Lakes coaster but it would have to wait until I crossed the finish line. I hadn’t earned any swag just yet! I positioned myself mid-pack and soon we were off at a slow jog. The trick with distance is to start slow and then taper. And really this initial jog was just for show for our spectators; there was a slight uphill and we all walked immediately. There would be plenty of time for running.

The course was sort of dog-bone shaped – the start/finish line was at Olallie Lake Resort, and we made a 26 mile loop to the south on a variety of trails, including the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), coming back to Olallie and taking the PCT up to Mt. Hood and doing a loop around Timothy Lake, then returning on the PCT to Olallie to finish. A nice mix of familiarity with some fresh trails, and of course making the aid stations easy to remember as sort of check points to mentally get you through.

We were on singletrack almost immediately so the herd didn’t thin too much for the first couple of miles. This first loop is what Jesse and I had previewed a couple of weeks earlier and I knew it to be the most technical (as well as having a lovely 6+ miles of fast downhill) so I was in no hurry to trash my legs. The views were incredible and I was happy, chatting away with anyone and everyone. I found myself running near to two women from Idaho and they were eating Arby’s Roast Beef sandwiches already! They had no crew and were just going to rely on their drop bags in an effort to qualify for Western States (the big Kahuna of 100 milers in the US..also the first ever 100 miler. It’s a long shot to get in their lottery, but first you need to complete a qualifying race. Mountain Lakes is such a race.) I laughed at their sandwiches and listened to some of their advice: 1) Don’t sit down near a heater; 2) Don’t quit in the dark; 3) Just keep moving. One of them stopped for a bathroom break and I carried on, determined to run my own race.

I saw my crew for the first time around mile 12 and picked up my poles from them, as I had one of the biggest climbs of the race coming up. The day was warming up and I was fueling on my Nuun electrolyte drink, a small PB&J, some Oreos, and a couple of energy chews, like I’d practiced. It was tempting to stay and tell them all about how things were going but I needed to bank some time. I’d see them again in a few hours back at Olallie.

The climb was as brutal as I remember and I was slooooow. I tried not to get discouraged but I was moving so slowly that there was no one around me. People would pass from behind moving at a good clip and I had to wonder if I was making any progress. Eventually I spilled back out onto the PCT and could jog a little more but was a little nervous I was actually off course. Eventually I crossed paths with two female hikers and I had to ask “have you seen other runners?”. They assured me I was not far behind two guys. Feeling a bit better, I reminded myself that it was still early and that of course I was still on course. I was seeing the markers! This course was so well marked, it’d be really quite difficult to lose your way. I needed to regain my confidence. I was barely ¼ of the way done.

I rolled through the aid station and emptied my Nuun bottle – it was tasting pretty gross and too sweet. I re-filled with Ginger Ale, trying to save the Coke for the night running when I’d need the caffeine. It was a cruise-y downhill on a forestry road so I enjoyed the jog. Back around Olallie Lake and onto the road seemed to take forever. It was slightly uphill and I walked it in with another runner I’d caught up to. We weren’t really speaking, but we came in together and he sat down next to my crew and devoured a quesadilla!

My coach made the trip up to see me at this aid station. She gave me some words of wisdom and encouragement and again I was tempted to hang out for a while and tell them everything. I took some watermelon and another PB&J from the aid station and trotted off. I wouldn’t see my coach or my parents again until the end and I felt a little sadness heading off onto the PCT knowing I wouldn’t see them until tomorrow.

Two runners (seemingly a couple?) came up behind me quickly, powered up a hill talking about sandwiches and then disappeared. After a few minutes, I ducked into the bushes to pee and two runners passed. Where are all of these runners coming from? Was I really moving that slowly? I was still happy, enjoying the luxurious trail and the forest, trying not to fixate on how slow and alone I felt. Eventually I could see another runner (hiker? we were both just hiking) ahead of me and soon I passed him. We exchanged a few words about the race but mostly just kept on keeping on. I didn’t gain much ground after I passed and we stayed a good distance apart but I could hear his poles clicking with each step behind me and that admittedly brought me a lot of comfort during that 3 mile section.

I descended into another aid station where I could see my crew. Jesse, John, and Jan stood in the cold waiting. Waiting for ages, with my race gear, to see me for only a few minutes. Knowing from Leadville what that felt like, I have an infinite amount of gratefulness and love for them all. Leaving them here meant I wouldn’t see them again for 25 miles, so I grabbed some cold weather layers and my headlamp, and I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous about the inevitable darkness.

I took off again and uneventfully made it through the 8 mile stretch to the Pinheads aid station (mile 37-ish). Here they had some different food (Nutella and trail butter on a tortilla) and the woman behind the table asked how I was doing. “I’m a little nervous about running by myself in the dark”, I admitted to her. “Some runners left here honestly about 2 minutes ago. A big group of them. You can catch them!” she responded. I grabbed some tortillas and thanked her, taking off in hopes of catching some runners I could at least be near until mile 55 when I picked up my pacer.

It took a good mile or so, but I caught them. It was the couple who passed me talking about sandwiches after Olallie Lake! They were in the midst of a strange argument as I approached, standing in the middle of the trail, the man shaking the woman by her shoulders. Being a strong feminist, I was immediately outraged. Being an introvert and completely unequipped to do any arguing myself, I was tempted to mind my own business. “Everything OK?” I gently inquired. “Yes, we’re just have a little tiff”, the man replied. I squeezed around them, dubious, but carried on. They immediately jumped in behind me, the woman first, and the man demanding that she lead “just 5 minutes out in front. Just like this, this is great!” “Just FIVE minutes, you promise!?” she asked. Bizarre. I tried to tune them out, but was grateful for some company with the setting sun.

On a quick downhill, I tried to pick up some speed to get a little distance from their peculiar conversations (hot tubs and Warm Springs and bikinis…what was happening???). I came upon the man with the poles from earlier! Relieved to have someone else to talk to, he slipped in between the couple and me and we continued to listen (“Ok, we’re going to ‘round this corner and I need you to look up and see Mt. Hood before we descend on the switchbacks!” was another such demand). Somehow we picked up two more runners and they all insisted that my pace was ideal and I led the pack for a couple of miles. We came into the next aid station (mile 45-ish), which was brilliantly Halloween-themed. The couple took off and we strategically stayed behind to give some distance. We lingered a few minutes here and then, headlamps blazing, trotted on down the trail.

Some minutes went by and I really needed to use the bathroom. Not wanting to lose my running buddies, I said “I’m just going to take a quick pit stop but will catch up”, hoping I could indeed find them again. Troy (pole guy, I learned) said he’d stop, too, and my heart soared. Headlamps off, we both headed off into the bushes and reconvened on the trail, just the two of us now.

Chatting about everything and nothing, not chatting sometimes, working hard on a particularly grueling (and somehow forgotten) climb, I was so thankful for his company. It was his first 100 miler as well and we shared training stories, the night time battle strategies coming up ahead, and eventually started seeing the top runners coming at us, already headed back toward the finish, clearly hours ahead of us. It became a game: who has a pacer? Who is happy? Who makes it look easy and who is feeling miserable?

At some point we came upon another runner, on his knees on the side of the trail, dropping every cuss word in the book. His headlamp died. We helped dig out spare batteries but those weren’t working either and he ran with us for a little while to use our lights. We came into the next aid station and he got some fresh and working batteries and took off without us.

Troy and I were a team at this point and it was unspoken that we’d make it to Clackamas Ranger Station (where our first pacers awaited) together. He helped dig my layers out of my pack; I waited while he drank broth and filled his bottles. I wouldn’t have to endure a moment in the dark by myself. I remained happy.

The miles clicked by with Troy, my anxiety waning. At some point we saw a figure on the side of the trail…”Headlamp guy?”, Troy asked. I pointed my headlamp at the body and then quickly away. “Nope!” I responded and then he saw what I saw. We passed with only a nod. The woman from the Weird Couple, pants down, mid-poop, just next to the trail. I had a lot of issues with this but my main question was: where did the guy go? We never saw him and never saw her again.

Soon, we could see where the trail spilled onto the road and Troy’s son met him here. It was a short jaunt up to the aid station and we went our separate ways here. I found my crew and swapped my shorts for pants (big thanks to Jan for holding up my modesty blanket!), had some bacon, grilled cheese, and broth, then John and I took off into the night toward the lake. He took off too fast and I laughed, both of us new at this! “John! I’m walking all the hills and anything technical, and *slowly* running the flats and downs. Why don’t I go in front to give you a feel for the pace and then we’ll switch?”. Agreed.

We came upon a girl with a dim headlamp and stomach issues. I gave her some of my Pepto Bismol and invited her to run with us. She couldn’t keep up and I felt bad losing her, but my own time was ticking away and I knew I’d only get slower. She dropped at the next aid station. Here was where I found quesadilla guy from many miles / hours ago at Olallie Lake. He was hurting and slow. I invited him to run with us. He couldn’t keep up and I felt bad losing him. He ended up dropping, too, I learned.

This section around Olallie Lake was 15 miles with two aid stations in between. We hit the first one easily and I was happy, alert, and chatty. I had some more broth and though I was starting to feel a little bit stiff, I was good. Still strong. About a mile out after the aid station I was hit with an immediate and unexpected chill. I was just instantly cold. I put on another layer and tried to carry on, but eventually I was constantly mentioning to John that I was cold. He literally gave me the shirt off his back but it didn’t help. I could tell it was a cold from the inside, not the outside. We walked and I swung my arms, trying to generate some body heat. I tried to power hike the hills (I was out in front at this point, my pace so variable) but I started seeing things in the dark (is that a raccoon-like animal? Why is there a tent on the trail?) and I had to have John go ahead again. But being in back, I started falling asleep while I was moving, opening my eyes to find that I was stumbling off course. Leaning on my poles to close my eyes, I tried to keep it together and just keep moving. Somehow, eventually, we hit the Timothy Dam aid station and as soon as the volunteer asked for my number, I burst into tears. She directed me to the food table and another volunteer said in the most maternal, loving voice: “Would you like some broth?” I could only slowly nod, like a shy toddler. Yet another volunteer pulled me to the grilled cheese sandwiches and made me eat 3 squares. They refilled my bottles while I cried. I stood in front of the heater and felt a little better, a little warmer, with the broth and salty food. The volunteer encouraged me to eat one more thing, which I did, and then I told John I was ready. I quickly peed in the woods again and got my second wind. At this point, I was racing a cutoff.

“John, what mile are we at?” It was easier to keep track on his fresh watch at this point. I knew it was a 15 mile section so he could say a number and I could do that easy math. I asked him every hour and he’d respond with only ¼ mile more than before! OK OK, I asked him every few minutes, but that last 3.5 miles took ages! He politely and unemotionally answered me every time I asked but in hindsight, I’m sure I was a horrible runner to pace. Needy, whiny, a little hysterical, and eventually concerned and alert.

We came into the Ranger Station at a trot and I quickly got to work layering up. Jesse would take me from here (mile 70) to mile 96. I beat the cutoff by only 20 minutes and I knew I had a climb back up to the next aid station so I was eager to get going. (I later learned that Troy dropped here due to IT band issues. In fact, 45 runners did not finish this race.)

Back on the road, back to the trailhead where I left Troy so long ago, and climbing climbing up the beautiful trail. It was still dark but I could somehow recognize where we were. Jesse and I chatted away; I was finally able to tell him about how the race was going. But eventually, once again, I was unexpectedly and instantly cold. I turned to Jesse to tell him and he said “Just keep moving, try to get warm”. It was only a couple more miles to the aid station where I could eat again and get a second wind like before. Plus, the sun would be up soon, which would feel warmer. Just a couple more miles.

Eventually it hit me that it wasn’t just a couple more miles. It was nearly 30 more miles. I had another 50K ahead of me to the finish line. It would take me at least 9 hours at this stage in the game. A full work day of running left. And I was so cold. How? How would I be able to do it? I asked Jesse, hysterically, how I could do it? Again, in hindsight, he knew it was over for me and but kindly didn’t tell me that at the time. He just told me to keep moving and that I just had to get to the next aid station. He gave me his hat and another merino layer. I was so cold. I was crying and so sad; overwhelmed and worried. He just held me there on the trail while I tried to pull myself together. And through some miracle, we got to the aid station.

I sat down and the aid station angels wrapped me in a space blanket. They put hand warmers down my arms and pointed the heater at me. They gave me broth and coffee and bacon and pierogis and let me cry. I was still so cold so I went into the warming tent, which I wanted to avoid because it’s a sure fire way to end your race – it’s important not to get comfortable. A guy and his pacer were in there napping; dropped due to injury hours before. The downside of this aid station is that if you drop, it is not crew accessible and you have to wait until last runner comes through and they break down the station to take you back.

I do not know how long I was in there but I never did get warm. I even wrapped up in a sleeping bag and remained very cold. After some amount of time, a volunteer stuck her head in and told me that the course sweeper had arrived and I needed to decide if I was going to continue. It was 5 miles to the next aid station and I was tempted to go. But Jesse told me it wasn’t smart and that it would soon start raining, which would only make things worse. I had to tell her that I was officially dropping and the silver lining was that the sun was up. All those miles and hours ago that woman told me not to drop in the dark and indeed, I didn’t. However, the belt buckle I’d get for finishing was erased from the equation. If I wanted it, I’d have to start again. I was at mile 75 and I’d have to begin again at zero. And I wouldn’t get to buy the coaster. And I had no idea how to tell my parents because neither I nor they had cell service. But I turned on my phone and tried to get a message out anyway. It said ‘sent’ but I had no idea if they’d receive it. We rode with the volunteers back to the aid station and then rode with the other dropped runner from there to where John and Jan would be waiting to pick up Jesse. They were asleep in the car and awoke as we rolled up. I stepped out of the vehicle and Jan and I both burst into tears. She hugged me and just said “I’m so sorry.” They knew it was over then, too.

*Pre-and-post-race portraits

I cried all the way to the finish, where we were hoping to find my parents. The race directors had a beautiful breakfast available for the runners but I couldn’t bring myself to look at the finish line. I stayed in the car while Jesse told them I dropped and tried to find my parents. The RDs said they would watch for them too (they knew who to look for because they recognized my parents’ Vizsla dog!).

We knew they stayed the night at Detroit Lake so we were going to drive in that direction and hoped to pass them on the road. About ½ mile from the finish line, we crossed paths! That was lucky. I hopped in their car and told them everything.

We went our separate ways and I felt horrible, for many reasons, but because they, and Jan, and John, and Jesse had all committed so much to me that weekend and I couldn’t get it done. I felt embarrassed. And all I could do was cry. And text everyone who was waiting that I had to drop, which felt awful. I had to tell my coach that I didn’t make it. I had to tell DZ, thinking that if he’d flown all the way out, he would have only made it 5 miserable miles with me. I felt like such a failure.

We went for brunch at one of my favorite spots in Oregon City and tried to talk about other things. I hobbled to and from the car, which is always funny and makes everyone else laugh, so I felt a little emotional relief. I did, after all, set a distance PR for myself! I could recognize that 75 miles is still a long way and I should be proud of that. But it was only 75% of the way. That is only a “C” on the American grading scale! Not even a C+! It’s only average.

We got home and everyone unpacked the car and then took off right away, acknowledging my need to process and likely wanting to get on with their weekends. I took a scalding shower, and then a boiling bath, and eventually crawled into bed. It took until the next morning for me to feel warm again.

It’s amazing who rallies around you when you fail. The supportive texts, emails, social media posts and messages, the phone calls. The friends who buy you a drink and don’t make you talk about it. The friends who buy you a pizza and remind you that 75 miles is a long f*&^ing way. And it’s interesting how defensive I could get at the well-intentioned-but-inadvertently-mean messages (“I could never do that!” Yes, well, I couldn’t either, apparently.) and I had to start to regulate my emotions around it. I had a goal and I failed; that happens sometimes. To quote Beyonce: “You can work super hard and give everything you have…and still lose.” It was a DNF and that sucks but it’s OK. I’m out there trying and learning and challenging myself doing something I love. I wasn’t immediately excellent when I was new to running and these longer distances are exactly the same: new.

What went wrong became obvious: I didn’t eat enough. I asked my body to do a lot for a long time and eventually it said “you aren’t repaying this favor and we’re simply not going to do this for you anymore”. Which is fair. Like I said, I can muscle through a 50K drinking minimally and eating virtually nothing, but that’s just not reasonable at this distance. A square of PB&J and a few watermelon slices every few hours isn’t going to get me to the finish line. I needed more calories, plain and simple. Rolling through the aid stations thinking “eh, none of this looks good” and telling my crew “I feel good, I don’t need any of that” (and them letting me get away with it) was the beginning of the end. That’s clear to me now.

What went right? Luckily, a lot of things!

• I didn’t have stomach issues! I anticipated feeling queasy as the miles wore on and the more solid foods settled, but I never once felt like throwing up, or even close.
• I didn’t get injured! My feet were golden, my legs were strong, my hips and back / shoulders were fine. I was tired, of course, and sore, sure, but nothing to set me back.
• I didn’t have any shoe / sock issues! I wish I had worn my gaiters and I stopped to empty my socks a few times, but no bothersome blisters! I don’t really have those issues when running, but again, at that mileage, it can be something that takes out a runner easily and I’m so glad that wasn’t the case for me.
• I didn’t get eaten by a cougar! I didn’t see one, or really think about it once I synced up with Troy. We didn’t see any wildlife really, except the occasional gray mouse, scrambling across the trail in my headlamp beam.
• I was happy – even when I was struggling, I didn’t close up or become angry or frustrated. And I really did enjoy the race, despite the ending I had.
• One of the most helpful moments in my grief was arriving, by car, at Clackamas Ranger Station, me draped in a sleeping bag, eyes puffy from sleep deprivation and tears, when Jesse’s friend and local running hero paused a moment from his volunteer duties, looked at me and flippantly and said “Sorry to hear about your DNF. I have dropped out of a lot of hundreds. It happens.” He then proceeded to carry on with his tasks as if it was no big deal. At the time I knew it both was and wasn’t. And now, writing this recap two months later, I know he’s absolutely right and would give any first time hundred miler DNF-er the same sentiment with the hope that they see that, too.

Running reminds me that I am capable of difficult things. And getting to these longer distances combines the difficulty of physical things, along with difficult mental things. It’s a curious way to learn about yourself; to strip yourself down to a much more raw version and expose more of what you’re truly made of, instead of what you made yourself to be. But if you’ve done it right, it’s a little bit of both.

Leadville – 8/15-20/19

Once upon a time, back in January of this year, a good friend of mine entered the lottery for Leadville (a really epic hundred mile trail run in Colorado, notorious for being run at high altitude and the infamous Hope Pass crossing). As luck would have it, on his very first try, his name was drawn. His first hundred miler would be a tough one.

As the months flew by, remaining training days becoming finite, crews are assembled, plans are made, spreadsheets are updated, and for me, flights are booked. I had two good reasons to witness this epic event: 1) support for my friend in his crazy endeavor and 2) see what a proper endurance run takes. I was particularly curious about how to fight those overnight demons. Not only how my friend would do it, but how everyone would handle it. Reading race reports after the fact is all lies – the truth comes out at 3 AM, the clock ticking, legs are heavy and eyelids heavier…how does one will themself to continue into the wee hours of the morning? I couldn’t wait to see.

I flew to Denver Thursday night, meeting up with my friend and fellow crew member, Melissa. We headed out to Leadville on Friday (after a very intense in-home work out session with her personal trainer!) for the night-before prepping, as Saturday morning was going to be an early start. We tried to sneak out for a little run in Buena Vista to shake out the legs, but heading toward the mountain we had a crazy headwind and turning around we had crazy rain, so we got in about 2 very slow miles. Running at over 10,000 feet was already difficult, no need to push it!

The next morning, alarms are going off at 2 AM, cherry pie and avocado breakfasts are devoured, and after a last minute gear check, we’re on the road to the starting line. Leadville is a small town but the electricity from this event, even at that ungodly hour, had the town buzzing. Over 850 runners + crew members + spectators + volunteers + race coordinators congregated in the center of town, headlamps blazing, starting their journeys. It was incredibly intense. Once the runners took off, the crew members scrambled to their cars to get to the first accessible aid station (for the runners it was only 13 miles, so it’d be quick). Melissa and I rushed to the car and then sat in traffic…fuming. Eventually we turned off the car, turned up the Britney Spears, ate a bit more breakfast, and walked the mile+ to the point where we could catch our runner [insert memory about Mike backing up traffic here!].

The logistics of this race leave a lot to be desired and throughout the whole weekend we were constantly infuriated / baffled / inconvenienced / irate / confused about how things were handled. Trying to keep these stressors away from our runner, our solidarity and our exchanged looks of indignation kept us laughing. At the end of the day, we endured what we had to to get our runner across the finish line and our inconveniences were nothing compared to his effort out on course.

We raced from aid station to aid station, bringing gear and exchanging clothes and food items as needed. Finally we landed at Twin Lakes and set up camp for the next 10 hours or so. Traffic was so awful we had to park about 2 miles away and through the course of the day I made that trip about 3 times. This was not acceptable for the pacers to do on top of their running duties later so I lamented the fact that we didn’t have a bike to use!

Twin Lakes was the epicenter of the race. The runners ran right through town, twice, so it’s customary to hang out all day and spectate. On the way out, they have the infamous Hope Pass looming, hit the turnaround spot at Winfield and pick up their pacers, come back down Hope Pass and make the 40-ish mile trek back the way they came to the finish. To see the top runners sprint through was amazing. To see our guy cruise by filled us all with elation. To see the back of the pack racers digging deep and getting it done was truly inspirational. It was such a fun spot to chill and making new friends who were waiting for their runners to either come through the first time or the second was a highlight. Oh, and did I mention the incredible views? I was able to even sneak in a little 5 mile run of my own.

[Insert the madness about pacers waiting 2+ hours in line for shuttles here]. [Insert memory of an old woman asking Melissa about our team shirts here!]

Night falls and the real race begins. Melissa was on pacing duty out of Twin so I was on driving duty. I made it in her car to the next exchange point and tried to stay warm and rest for a few minutes. I took a camp chair out to the course to find and hang out with his next pacer, but in the dark with headlamps, it was impossible to find anyone I recognized. Freezing, I went back to sit in the car and a few minutes later received a text alert that DZ had just crossed the timing mat. I dropped everything and sprinted – a near miss! We chatted for just a minute but he needed to keep moving, so we gave our supportive statements and he was off again.

By this time, it was nearly midnight. We drove around to the next aid station and had about two hours before we expected him to roll through, so we again tried to keep warm and to get a little sleep. With no luck on either front, we eventually bundled up and went out to the aid station to wait. About 30 seconds after we found a spot to watch for him he came slogging through – another near miss! It was 3:30 AM. DZ was tired. He looked at me and said in the most defeated tone “I just want to go home.” I pointed down the course and said “Right this way, buddy. Just 13 miles to go”. He was fading and we got him moving again. Those demons…he was fighting.

Melissa and I drove back to Leadville and got prime parking. Our plan was to again, try to get a minute of sleep, then run down the course to catch DZ and run back in with him. The sun was coming up and it was almost over. It was a gorgeous morning and the town started to come alive again. We caught him about a 1.5 miles out and he was all smiles; he could smell the barn. He had done it and done it well and that was sinking in. The new day brought him a new energy and that 3:30 AM struggle was forgotten. Eventually more and more of his friends surrounded us and we marched him across the finish in triumph. Twenty-seven hours and 16 minutes of epic effort and we were all completely stoked for him!

A few minutes in the warming tent and we went off to find some food. One breakfast joint was full so we just popped into a cafe for a quick bagel and race recap. With our rental check-out time looming, we all parted ways and I drove DZ back for a shower / power nap and to pack up everyone else’s stuff and check out. He headed back to Denver with his ride and I returned to Leadville to retrieve Melissa. The bagel was hours ago at this point and we popped into a real treat of a dive bar for quite possibly the best burger I’ve ever eaten.

We made our way through the traffic back to Denver and spent the evening recapping the weekend and headed to bed early (crewing is hard work!). The next day was packed with a morning run through Denver’s Washington Park [insert memory about Strava awards here]:

We then met up with DZ for brunch and after saying my final goodbye, Melissa and I took a trip up to Mt. Evans to see the view from 14,285 feet (followed by lunch at Beau Jo’s):

Then back to Denver for a screening of Free Solo at the incredible Red Rocks Amphitheater. I had an early morning flight on Tuesday and we packed it in. It was such fun, memorable weekend; a definite highlight of the summer. “They just don’t make a better group of people than the people I know.”

Iceland – 7/6-16/19

A trip to Iceland, or to be more specific, the Laugavegur 55K in Iceland, had been on my to-do list since our trip to Vermont. I met a woman mid-race and she was going that next summer and I had such intense FOMO (fear of missing out) that the entire adventure shot to the top of the bucket list. And then we bought a house and didn’t go. And then we missed registration and didn’t go. And this year, the minute registration opened, we were signed up, booking flights, and planning a trip. Simultaneously my favorite and least favorite task.

Invariably keen, our adventure friend John signed up and planned to join us as well. It would be his first ultra (besides the masochism that is relaying as an ultra team) and I was so excited for him. We spent the spring and summer training and exploring, as my last post shows, spent the 4th of July packing, and flew from Portland on July 5th.

It was an easy, 8-hour direct flight on Icelandair and we arrived mid-morning at KEF. We picked up our rental car, found some food, and sat on the water waking up and soaking in the landscape. It wasn’t cold out, but certainly wasn’t warm. It was overcast and we all immediately noticed the lack of trees. With a 6 hour drive to the fjords looming, we hit the road and drove. (And by ‘we’, I mean Jesse and John. Apparently I slept in the backseat and missed all the Icelandic horses.)

Our itinerary was to spend 6 days in the West Fjords, far, far away from the Ring Road. The Ring Road is highway that circles Iceland in its entirety and has all the highlights tourists want; the big-name waterfalls and hot pools, easily accessible beaches and hiking tracks, and the quaint villages with dramatic views. Of course we wanted to see all of that, but at peak tourist season, it’ll have to wait. We wanted proper adventure with a sprinkling of relaxing. So off the beaten path we went.

Our AirBnB was a mountain cabin on the side of a hill. Literally. White with a blue roof, you could see it across the fjord driving in…barely. With a steep, overgrown driveway, we dodged sheep with our little rental car and found our way inside. Small and basic, but cozy and perfect. It was about 5 minutes from the fishing village of Súðavík (which was really only residential and a post office…maybe one bar/restaurant but we didn’t go) and about 20 minutes from Ísafjörður, a larger town where cruise ships from Europe would dock periodically. We found two grocery stores, a gas station, an information office, some restaurants, a post office, and even a brewery here.

The thing I completely forgot about Iceland in July is that there are about 23.5 hours of daylight. It seriously never gets dark and it’s hard to distinguish 11 PM from 3 AM from 9 AM. Even with blackout curtains, it is difficult to remind yourself to go to bed when it looks like noon outside. So our first night, due to time changes and jet lag and wanting a general sense of “sitting still for a minute”, we all were relaxing when we realized the power had gone out! The boys had a look around the house and found nothing “breaker box” looking, so we contacted the host. “Oh yeah, it’s out in the whole town” he replied. Luckily we didn’t need lights!

This post would be unbearably long if I detailed each day with our highs and lows and funny anecdotes and “guess you had to be there” moments. I’ll just share some of my favorite photos and give a brief race recap and end with “Iceland was great – you should go!”

Jesse & John went for a hike just outside the cabin. I could [kind of] see them from the window!

One of my favorite things about staying out of town was the copious amounts of sheep that lived near our cabin (we also saw some whales from our kitchen window one morning). They would just clomp around on the deck, so unassuming.

We all went did the Klofningsheiði Hike (in between the valley and then to the top, overlooking the next fjord over; ~9 miles). Insert memories about swans, church trailheads, and one-eyed dogs here! The funny thing about these hiking tracks is that they aren’t very well marked but it doesn’t really matter – if you can see where you want to go, just walk toward it! You can’t really get lost in Iceland.

The next day we took a boat from Ísafjörður to the Hornstrandir Nature Reserve. The only way to access it is by boat, so we were dropped off at Látrabás and hiked about 11 miles to Hesteyri. We had a bit on the beach and then straight up and over a ridge. It was swampy and unbearably bug-y. Eventually we were out of the face-swatting territory and on the beach on the other side. Here, we skipped rocks for the better part of an hour, laughing and being genuinely relaxed.

The “old doctor’s house” at Hesteyri is the only food on the reserve so we had pancakes and hot chocolate at the end and waited for our boat to take us back, while listening to the Germans play the guitar in their Icelandic sweaters! Back in town, we found a local brewery for a quick flight of beers and some hardfish (fish jerky, essentially).

The day following, Jesse and John went for a short kayak (“here’s Siggi’s business card…”) in Flateyri while I just hung out at a coffee shop. Given race day was approaching and I’m a very inefficient kayaker, I decided to save my energy and skip this activity.

The day after that, we went for a horse ride. They are tiny horses and the scenery was beautiful. Apparently I’m an experienced rider and got the “challenging” horse, Jesse had the bullheaded mare, and John had the “bro”. Where do you pay for the horse ride? At the coffee shop, of course! We then stalked the Arctic Fox Centre, played on the bouncy trampoline thing, and said good-bye the next morning. Off to Reykjavik!

On the drive out of the West Fjords, we stopped off at the massive Dynjandi waterfall (and also at the coffee shop where the Germans bought their Icelandic sweaters to purchase a few of our own!).

We made it in time for packet pickup and after some confusing moments of “do we need to give them stuff here!?”, we found our next AirBnB (and gave the cats their daily pâté), went to the Viking restaurant for dinner (funny, but mediocre food), then went to bed early. Our shuttle was leaving at 4:30 AM!

(This photo was taken at 3:25 AM!)

We made the shuttle, rode for about 2 hours and had our quick 30 minute breakfast / bathroom rush, then finished off the 4 hour drive to the start line. The race is on the wondrous Laugavegur trail, which is in the Icelandic highlands and down the infamous “F roads” – i.e. require high ground clearance and 4-wheel drive to navigate. You can see our buses were set up to ford rivers and traverse the rutted gravel roads!

The race was a point-to-point, so logistically it was challenging to organize. It was a mad rush at the start line, but eventually Jesse took off in his ‘green’ wave and then John and I in blue just a few minutes later. It started with a steep and technical up, but the views were so incredible and other-worldly, it was easy to forget how hard you were working and how far there was yet to go.

The miles clicked away as we passed snow fields and hot springs, lava rock, and sulphur pools. There were alps in the distance, and glaciers, and rock formations that look like they were straight out of a movie. It was seriously breathtaking. There were a couple of river crossings (yes, it was cold!) and after 32 miles / 8 hours and 45 minutes, John and I reached the finish line (to find Jesse super sick and puking). We were quickly ushered into a tent where we found our clean clothes, wandered naked through the crowd to the shower (and then back again), grabbed some post-race food, and settled in for the 3 hour shuttle ride home.

We had just two more days, really, in Iceland after the race. We did some exploring in downtown Reykjavik (the cinnamon rolls at Braud really are worth the trip), and then decided to drive out to some of the “highlight” spots in the south region, hitting the Gullfoss waterfall, Kerid crater, and the Geysir. These spots, while beautiful, were overcrowded and difficult to enjoy.

We had to tickets to the comedy show “How to Become Icelandic in 60 Minutes”, which really is a must-see if visiting, not only for the comedy but also because it is held in the beautiful Harpa Conference Hall, which itself is worth seeing. And to wind things down, we went out to a fancy dinner – John’s only request of us the entire trip was that he get to eat some puffin. So we found some “puffin in a jar” and it was delicious.

Eventually we packed our bags, went to Costco (to fuel up but also because why not?), returned the rental car, and caught our flight home. This was one of those really, truly memorable trips and I am endlessly lucky to have such great adventure partners. I’d be happy living in Iceland, but for now, maybe I can convince Jesse to return semi-regularly?

Summer Running…

…had me a blast!

Anyone else sing that to the tune of “Summer Lovin'” from Grease? Just me? Great.

Anyway, it’s been an intense summer of logging all the miles: checking out new trails, clocking miles on old favorites, inviting new friends, going solo, in the morning, in the evening, in the dark, and in the gym. ALL the times. I’m looking forward to the upcoming rainy runs, but here are some good pictures from the last few months:

Up on Mt. Hood with our good friends John & Rachel, we did this 17-ish mile run/hike up to Kinzel Lake in mid-May. It was a hilly SOB, but no one was eaten by a cougar, so we’ll call it a win.

This was over Memorial Weekend in rural Idaho. A solo 20 miler from my parents’ house, around and down, ending up at my sister’s house. This was a dig-deep kind of run.

Two weeks after running the Wild Outback 50K, we gathered John & Rachel again for another 17-ish miler in Tillamook State Forest. Gales Creek is one of my favorites in the area. It’s gorgeous and less-traveled. It’s also a deceiving challenge.

Once again featuring John & Rachel, this was just a week after Tillamook Forest (I was feeling a bit more recovered at this point) and we headed out to Mt. St. Helens for a really epic run. This may be my favorite training run of the summer. We did just over 20 miles on one of the most scenic trails…I wanted to stop at every turn for photos (and everyone let me, honestly). This was such a fun day!

These photos are a tiny taste of our trip to Iceland in July. Stay tuned for a proper post on that one!

This was another good day, just Jesse & me the first weekend in August. Out on the Pacific Crest Trail, we managed a 20+ mile loop, getting lost, getting sick, and all the lakes were seen!

This was another Jesse-and-me trip to Southern Oregon, where we stayed in a cabin on the river and ran along the Umpqua Trail. It was a quick, fun getaway and a chance to explore another scenic running spot!

This was in Colorado in mid-August. I flew out for a friend’s race – more on that later! (These were running at about 10,000 feet. It was a difficult struggle for this sea-level runner!)

A mere two days after Colorado, Jesse and I were back in Idaho at a fire lookout tower. No running was done here (I panicked and did my 24 miles in Portland the day before), but these views were too gorgeous not to include.

The top left is running in Coeur d’Alene with our friend and his Kid-O. The top right is a training session in Forest Park in the dark. The bottom two are from a recent run in Forest Park – another dig-deep run where I felt horrible and wanted to be anywhere else.

There are still a few weeks of summer running to be had, but I’d say we did pretty well already. No wonder I’m exhausted!

Wild Outback 50K+ – 06/08/2019

I did not know Oregon had an Outback, but indeed, in Southern Oregon, there is a Scenic Byway that leads you through the high desert, dotted with lakes, tiny towns, and spotty cell service. It’s a far cry from the lush, green forests of Portland and is different even to the Bend/Sisters area. Jesse & I enjoyed exploring it at the inaugural Wild Outback 50K back in June.

If we could be more organized, we would have arrived a day or two early to sort out a camping spot, explore the little town of Paisley, unplug, and relax before race day. I always have the best of intentions, but invariably it’s a scramble to get out of town and we rolled into the campground on Friday night just before 10 PM (thoroughly missing the spaghetti dinner and pre-race packet pickup) and were very lucky to find a spot. We backed in, set up the Subaru (fittingly, an Outback in the Outback) for sleeping, and caught a few hours of rest.

This race is a point-to-point so there was a shuttle bus from the finish line just up the road. I left Jesse behind to do his own exploring, as he wasn’t racing this day, and enjoyed the hour-ish ride to the start line. On the drive up, we spotted a pronghorn, which was exciting, but ended up being the only notable wildlife I saw all day. The buses dropped us off in a grassy lot, somewhere south of where we started. All of us runners timidly peeled off layers (it was a cool, sub 40 F morning!) and threw our gear in the race director’s vehicle, then gathered around for our race briefing. We were told the course was a long 50K and to expect a 34-mile day. After some playful teasing about the cold, the directors sent us off a few minutes early.

We started to climb right away and we all found our places easily. I secured my position near the back (I’m not a strong climber) and settled in. The climb was short-lived and we began a breezy descent into AS1. Gorgeously soft singletrack in the trees rolled underfoot, the miles ticked by, as did the endless wildflowers to start off the race scenery. The course ran along the Fremont National Rec Trail and was simple to follow. Aid station #1 came quickly and I was in and out, grabbing a few slices of watermelon for the road.

The next section was clearly a cattle trail. The cattle guards gave it away up front, but then the double track confirmed and I have to say, if it had been a rainy day, that section would be a sloppy, muddy effort! Luckily we had dry ground and it was rut-hopping uphill for a while. It was ankle-twisting territory but the views were really fantastic.

It was this section where I found my group. Other runners, similarly-paced, willing to chat in solidarity, pseudo-pacing, getting each other through. There were 5 of us, leap-frogging over the miles when photo stops and varying strengths allowed for passing. Up and up we climbed, out of the trees, nothing but singletrack and incredible vistas (and a brief snow patch), the lookout tower destination looming, marking the high point of the course.

I took up the caboose of the group at this point and was certain I was going to be DFL (dead f***ing last) for the day. I was running (er, hiking) strong, but the field was small with only 64 runners. I came into AS3, the final, and was pleased to find bacon and my group members. A volunteer checked off my bib number on their clipboard and said “Great! Waiting on only 9 more!”. Confused, I clarified that I was not, in fact, DFL. I was surprised, as I hadn’t seen anyone behind me in the distance all day. We later learned that not a single runner dropped, which is awesome!

I could feel I was getting sunburned. Obviously exposure + altitude runs that risk and though I was wearing a long-sleeved merino top and shorts, I forgot my hat and my forehead felt warm. I was happy with my gear choices, but took advantage of the spray sunscreen quickly on my face and legs, and headed off down the home stretch. From here, it was 7-ish miles of downhill to the finish. Not gradual downhill, but steep, fast, and flow-y. My favorite.

I ran these last miles alone. Some of it through the trees, some through meadows, with some small water crossings, and at one point a sign that told me I was now in “Cat Canyon” (where I began to sing out loud, like a fool, but just in case). Around mile 32, it dawned on me that the finish line is a bridge over the river and that I was still very high up. I passed an orange flag (“yup, still on course..?”) and wondered where the heck the river was. As if he’d been summoned, a random man running at me stopped and said “You’re nearly there, about 20 minutes out!”. Thinking that he’d been running uphill, maybe I could get it done in 18. I picked up the pace. I heard a whoosh and wondered if that was the water, the wind, or a car. A woman and a young boy were hiking toward me and she said “Really, it’s JUST down there, you’re nearly done!” The boy proceeded to ask me questions about the color of my tent and where I camped and I had to politely tell him I needed to get going. I jetted down a few switchbacks and then I could see the bridge, I could see Jesse, and I could see the finish line. Done!

High-fives all around, all smiles, finisher’s medal adorned, and I was ready for my flip flops and a cold Coke. There was an impressive burrito bar, but that would have to wait, as my stomach was still churning. I dug around in the cooler for a can of carbonated anything, passing up the beers, and then caught up with my running buddies, all of whom had finished ahead of me.

This race has an elevation gain of ~4,800 ft and loss of ~5,700 ft and is at an average elevation of 6,000 ft, topping out at just over 7,000 ft.

The race was on Saturday and it was tempting to camp that night and enjoy the Outback; we’d come all that way, after all. Alas, it was early enough and to get a jump start on the 5.5 hour trek back to Portland, we headed toward Bend. With Jesse driving and me recapping the race in the passenger seat, we were climbing up a decent grade and I suddenly felt very ill. A quick pullover, I tried to puke but I had nothing in my stomach. The brief stop of the car made me feel a bit better and I knew if we got to Bend and got some food in me, I’d start to come around. When we did finally stop, the smell of a greasy burger enticed me, but it was a bad call. I should know better…3 bites and the rest went in the garbage. The fries were perfect, though! Shrug.

You can see photos my finisher photos here, here, and here!