tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4747709366718957492024-03-17T00:15:05.736-07:00Breaking and Excellent PointsI always go big. I never go home. Things often get weird.katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-37795488755691895392016-09-19T17:28:00.001-07:002016-09-19T17:28:31.528-07:00Inspirational Quotes<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Guys, I’m not one for quotes. I just want to get it out of
the way now that I personally believe that basing an entire work of writing
upon someone else’s quote is, while effective, usually pretty lazy, and it’s
not a literary device that I like to rely on. Don’t get me wrong – I love me a
piece of perfectly written prose, and I’ll occasionally pepper one into my
writing or display one in a prominent position for inspiration, such as this
brilliance above my monitor at work:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The point is, I’m more of a fan of dissecting inspirational
quotes and poking holes in them, versus posting them in a pretty font on
Instagram. Let's take the phrase, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“you are limitless,” </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">for example. I mean, that sounds fantastic, and
it’s certainly a great mindset for the arbitrary boundaries we place upon
ourselves. But is it true? No, I’m sorry to report, but you are, in fact, “limited.” By
genetics. And by a huge variety of outside circumstances. I’ve come to believe
that a blind faith in one’s limitless potential can be absolutely bone crushing when results don’t echo effort level. Completely ignoring the reality of boundaries creates an atmosphere of expectation
and entitlement. F</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">or
me, recognizing and accepting limits is crucial to taking a more realistic
approach to everything I do and being more satisfied with the effort itself,
regardless of the outcome. In this case, a</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> more reasonable approach might be to recognize the boundaries and then try to overcome them anyway.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So how I’d change the quote to be more inspirational
for my personal mindset is this:</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I swear, if I see someone posting this on Instagram out of context...</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While this practice of destroying everyone’s favorite quotes
may seem a bit cynical, I’ve actually found it to be pretty therapeutic in
trying to focus my own mindset with regards to both running and life. It’s
helping me transition from a place where more is always better, and everything
is all in, all the time. If that sounds fucking exhausting, let me assure you,
it is. And that’s where I find myself these days. But the imperative thing is
that I’ve noticed it, and I’m taking active steps to get my brain in control
before I destroy myself. Checking myself before I begin wrecking myself, if you
will. That’s a quote in which there are no holes to poke.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So there’s this Bukowski one that I see all the time, and it
goes: <i>“Find what you love and let it kill you.” </i>It’s usually attached to the
context of pursuing one’s greatest passion, and it’s really a lovely way to
express obsession, to be honest. But what if what is killing you isn’t actually
the “thing” itself, but all the other things that go into it? Like blind faith,
his cousin, blind ambition, can be extremely dangerous. Nothing is ever
singular in focus, and when we refuse to not only recognize but give attention
to the myriad of connections that make a certain event happen, (good or bad,)
we’re operating in a state of disservice to self and surroundings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">‘Ole Bukowski certainly did love a lot of things – his work,
his drink, his women – and he definitely pursued all with a fervor that could
have killed him. But what I find most intriguing about his oft-quoted quote, is
that in the sequel on his gravestone, he simply says, <i>“don’t try.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So how in the hell do you do something with
such a passion that it could kill you, but give no fucks in the process? That
is precisely what I’m trying to do here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Gosh, that sounds like an overly deep and dramatic reason
for deciding not to run a race next week. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bukowski?
Really?!</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> But don’t worry, it gets way deeper than that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, I had two 100-milers planned this year: the Hardrock
Hundred in July and The Bear 100 in September. I won’t be starting either of
them, and neither for the typical reasons, nor any reasons I’ve ever
encountered. Hardrock was my dream race, and Bear was to be a redemption run*. I
entered the year excited to train hard and achieve shit. It was a good place to
be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>*I dropped at mile 75 from
hypothermia in 2013.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By Spring, I found myself fully in the throes of planning
and crafting my own wedding, working 15+ hour days, but still training,
training, training. Admittedly not as many miles as I’d hoped, but I became a
hero in my own mind for how well I was “balancing” it all. This balance was not
achieved by giving 33.333333333333% equally across items, but rather with 110%
effort to each. Which if you are saying is statistically impossible, I KNOW.
AND THEREIN LIES THE PROBLEM.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I finally arrived in Silverton, two-and-a-half weeks
out from The Big One, the overwhelming emotion prevailing was not excitement or
readiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was relief. I had somehow
gotten through it all, and not just survived, but thrived. Everyone had a
wonderful time at our wedding and appreciated each of my time-sucking details*.
I had a new TV spot on air and a desk full of shiny advertising awards. My
quads looked like I had been climbing straight up mountains for a few months, because
I had been climbing straight up mountains for a few months. Hardrock was to be
my reward for putting my head down and getting it all done. Somewhere along the
way, I had decided that running Hardrock was the singular thing that made it
all worth it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>*For an example detail, I
handmade a unique gift for each of our guests. We had over 100 guests. There
were many steps involved.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course, by now you know that I didn’t actually get to run
Hardrock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a historical first, drawn
at #5 on the Never Started waitlist, I never got bumped to the list of
entrants. And to make it all a little more dramatic, I was standing on the
starting line, dressed out, ready to go when the clock struck 5:45am race
morning. Someone hadn’t shown up and was given 30 seconds to check in. In what
was arguably the cruelest twist of fate of all twists of fates ever, my dream
died with 20 seconds to spare. I had sacrificed all my vacation days for this.
I sacrificed a honeymoon. I sacrificed a week of tapering in the beautiful San
Juans when I could have been running. I probably sacrificed a few things I
shouldn’t have, and I felt pretty foolish, to be honest. I was finally standing
on my most coveted starting line, prepared, ready and with pure adrenaline
coursing through my veins. Just like the other runners. I was finally a part.
But the reality was that in a mere second, the pack began the journey, and I
remained still. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fortunately, I was in a beautiful place, with my favorite
people and there were still 147 other runners who were out there running,
battling and altogether Hardrocking. So I dried my tears, and went out for a
great time cheering on top of Grant Swamp, drinking beers in Ouray, pacing all
night, drinking a few more beers, and watching finishers. As I have for the
past 6 years at Hardrock, I had an amazing time. And before I knew it, I was
back at my desk, working long hours and hoping I would just find my running
spark again the next week so I could take advantage of my altitude training and
get to work for The Bear. I thought I was fine, because while I went all in for
Hardrock, I always knew that there was a chance I wouldn’t get to run. I had a
backup plan with a September 100. And when it all went down, I never felt “crushed”
or “devastated” or all the other words people tried to ascribe to my being. Just
because I’ve been obsessed with the race for almost a decade doesn’t mean that
I deserved to run it any more than anyone else. So while I was disappointed, I
wasn’t angry. In fact, I was surprisingly optimistic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJULkFmZ8DYsDeFXwiOwMvvwTUtVJpFWcSALcAHmliWOMc_vUM3yy2NlDXlZ9PQI_d3_4DJb_d58nJZtBYbuCUXls_5ssMbH8H8urfoP_QM-QFQKhJNqq5CIdnS8lbPIOUWkP5oMmB1Wc/s1600/13730813_873783903415_5703374698647858505_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJULkFmZ8DYsDeFXwiOwMvvwTUtVJpFWcSALcAHmliWOMc_vUM3yy2NlDXlZ9PQI_d3_4DJb_d58nJZtBYbuCUXls_5ssMbH8H8urfoP_QM-QFQKhJNqq5CIdnS8lbPIOUWkP5oMmB1Wc/s400/13730813_873783903415_5703374698647858505_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If I had run Hardrock, I wouldn't have been doing this. And this was awesome.<br />photo: Gina Lucrezi</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the spark never really came. An unexpected opportunity
arose to jump into the Angeles Crest 100, the only other race that has the same
kind of power over me that Hardrock does. Although I was hesitant, Dom and I
decided I should go for it. And I failed hard. My legs and lungs felt amazing,
and I was running extremely well – but from the first gel, my stomach was unexplainably
off. I ended up puking for many, many hours and finally dropped at mile 42. I
was still puking, had started peeing blood and despite the heat, was absolutely
freezing cold.* This just sent me deeper down the hole and grasping even harder
to get out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>*Fun sidenote: I just discovered
that I was using some protein powder that expired in 2014. I don’t know for
sure that this is what did it, but at least I now know that protein powder can
expire.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For my next trick, I decided that I was going to go run the
entire High Sierra Trail, because I always said that if I didn’t get to run
Hardrock that’s what I was going to do. It was awesome, but again (but
unrelated), I ended up puking halfway through and didn’t keep any calories down
for over 12 hours.* Somewhere in the middle of the Sierra backcountry, I sat
down on a log and completely melted. I wasn’t going to run long anymore. No
more races. No more adventures. Nothing. Of course, once I finally was able to
keep food down, via a fortunate opening and dinner at Bearpaw Meadow, the
“never” aspect of those statements was recanted. But there was still something true
at the core of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>*Another puking sidenote: I
suspected that it might have been a yerba mate shot that did it. I took another
yerba shot in a recent race and puked immediately. These things have been my
liquid gold in races for years, so I am horribly disappointed.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_ML56Dem1H5l9_rUrWsq_FtSv5x_lB-qEQf9Kw-Kbe5ETsosQ1wa_0PAv86-6xOGQtDL5IKX6fdAwc4GMtZAmOd0fwFNI0R2uTJ9MS2XTkaf10DAs2_k6V_r3EGuAK_6HTacThwaWCk/s1600/13958012_10104159143390260_2141252720511478261_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_ML56Dem1H5l9_rUrWsq_FtSv5x_lB-qEQf9Kw-Kbe5ETsosQ1wa_0PAv86-6xOGQtDL5IKX6fdAwc4GMtZAmOd0fwFNI0R2uTJ9MS2XTkaf10DAs2_k6V_r3EGuAK_6HTacThwaWCk/s320/13958012_10104159143390260_2141252720511478261_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>72 miles across the High Sierra. We can just pick up and do something like this any weekend. <br />Life ain't so bad.</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWNIwUPNB8brF5UU4rEobj9QokwoCtYQW2sJ3mH_3NGP5XGOfvk-p4qrZxcOErzcPW7rn69ITVdn5sXyDYA95vEjSfG-YgtWDOH_SjwV71U6tOUxUaKq9SEJwXmehNRoSlJjjBIhUAEcQ/s1600/14102644_10104169576382460_5799472064234196989_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWNIwUPNB8brF5UU4rEobj9QokwoCtYQW2sJ3mH_3NGP5XGOfvk-p4qrZxcOErzcPW7rn69ITVdn5sXyDYA95vEjSfG-YgtWDOH_SjwV71U6tOUxUaKq9SEJwXmehNRoSlJjjBIhUAEcQ/s400/14102644_10104169576382460_5799472064234196989_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>It sure is beautiful. But remember, it tried to kill me.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At this point, I knew that I was still very capable of running
100 miles. Even decently well. And I loved getting out for adventures on the
weekends. But during the week, I just couldn’t get myself out of bed before
work to train. I’d wake up to the alarm and immediately be paralyzed by the
overwhelming thoughts of how much I had to do that day, and how there would be
even more asked of me and I’d fall further and further behind and I still had
nothing to show for it. (Besides a shiny new husband, but you know what I
mean.) And so most days, I’d bury my head and hide until the very last minute I
had to get out and head to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So it
wasn’t really running that I was avoiding, per say. Once I was on my bike and on the way
to the office, I always wished I could just ride to a
trailhead then and there. And so I’d make a pact with myself that I’d go after
work. This worked on occasion. But more often than not, I’d work too late, come
home, crack a beer and go hide in my cave. I started reading a lot, not
necessarily for enjoyment, but to distract me from the obligations of my own
life. That’s when I realized I had a problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My friend and
coworker Bob used to always tell me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“see
Katie, the problem is that you tried.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was usually in reference to some piece of creative that I had spent
an inordinate amount of time on, fought for and/or had completely decimated by
someone else involved in the process. And while it seems all a bit dark and
fatalist, there is an important bit of truth in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often our greatest strength is also our
greatest weakness. And often we can’t recognize it, because it is usually
serving us so well that we don’t see all the tiny ways it is simultaneously
destroying us. <i>Killing us.</i> My husband is probably one of the most optimistic
people I know and doesn’t have a cynical bone in his body, but expressed a
similar sentiment to Bob. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Katie, the
problem is that you just care so much.” </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And it’s true. I do. About my goals. About my work. About my
obligations. About every single person in my life and what they think of me and
whether I am affecting them in a positive or negative way. About hand-making
every single guest to our wedding a gift and stressing every day about how I
still haven’t written thank-you notes and the internet says that is super rude
of me and how it’s going to take forever because I can’t just write a scripted
note to each person and sign it and I definitely can’t have Dom help because
his handwriting is atrocious and that I know that I should let it go but I won’t
because I secretly love writing letters. About how I’m perceived. About every
word I speak. About my actions. About everything I’m doing. About everything
I’m not doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And maybe, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just maybe,</i>
I cared a little too much about Hardrock. Of course, that’s the rub, because caring
is exactly what got me to the starting line, confident in my ability to
complete the hardest challenge of my life. But what happens when the rug comes
out from underneath? What happens when you don’t even get to try?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To be honest, I don’t think I ever really gave myself the
chance to process what transpired and assess my own mental state. Usually when
you either don’t start or don’t finish a race, there is some very tangible
reason why. You overtrained, you undertrained, you got injured, a life event
occurred, nature occurred, you had complications during the race, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone saying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“no”</i> 15 minutes before your dream race is a very new experience.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>*For the record, Dale did not
actually say no. He gave me a hug.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I buried it. NEXT GOAL. Furthermore, I pretty much
refused to talk about any of it, for fear of how I might come across. It is
human nature to view things through our own perception. And by most people’s
perception, I must be heartbroken about the whole thing, so it would only make
sense that I speak from a place of anger and jealousy. I have spoken and posted
very little about my experiences this summer, but even those drew weird,
fruit-themed accusations of sour grapes and cherry picking. While these
interactions were few and far between, they only made me feel even weirder and
guiltier about the emotions I was experiencing about not getting to try at one
goal and failing at the next. And the emotions about having emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OF COURSE, I REALIZED IT WAS JUST A RACE. OF
COURSE, I REALIZED THERE WERE WAY MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN THE WORLD. OF
COURSE, I WAS GRATEFUL FOR WHAT I HAVE. OF COURSE, IT WAS NOT THAT BIG OF A
DEAL.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But of course, it also wasn’t about running anymore, was
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been fully aware of my tendency
to overcommit and my seemingly inability to successfully balance the various
aspects of my life for some time now. But I’ve also always, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> been praised for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Wow, you really do it all! </i>And though it has
always been a source of pride, it has also been a source of guilt. I joked
about giving 110% to three different areas of my life, the the reality is that
I wasn’t even giving each 33.33333%. I was giving each about 30% and there was
a wasted 10% of sheer exhaustion. My wedding was a blast, but I felt tired and
crappy the whole weekend. You can see it in my eyes in our photos. At my job,
I’ve been putting in the work but haven’t been playing the game. You have to do
both to have anything to show for it in the corporate world. Instead I just
feel jaded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I show my husband
unconditional love every day, but I’m not doing a very good job of building a
home with him. I have piles of old clothes and gear that I’ve been promising to
get rid of for years. I own an old cabin with him that needs work. And I don’t
have time for any of it. When it comes to running, well… we’ve already
discussed how completely off-kilter I am there, so let’s not beat a dead horse,
right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A few weekends ago, I headed out to complete a route in the
San Gabriels I’ve had my eye on for a long time. It involved cross-country
travel, unknown, very seldom traveled areas, some Class 3 climbing, a ton of
vert and represented a pretty bad idea. Nevertheless, I headed out into the
morning with a friend to see what we could see. It was harder and slower than
expected, but for the first time in a great long while, I really enjoyed every
bit of it. Both the beauty and the suffering. I started to talk myself back
into running 100 miles in a few weeks and told myself I’d book all the travel
arrangements the next day while recovering. I was BACK, baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeVWqesGV_lkQ_2ua0ZFeJcV1Rh_h_uR7i8ntZ6QGU37eC-vdM9aOGfhXtRlKPQESnRfrDJ41FrvYDTGtK3eWpIKXFikXsw-Sg86cMwuuCDFZDwjRiFK0uRL2AhDQsPAJdlkogKURECU/s1600/14241415_10104196500017280_6471375246578106011_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeVWqesGV_lkQ_2ua0ZFeJcV1Rh_h_uR7i8ntZ6QGU37eC-vdM9aOGfhXtRlKPQESnRfrDJ41FrvYDTGtK3eWpIKXFikXsw-Sg86cMwuuCDFZDwjRiFK0uRL2AhDQsPAJdlkogKURECU/s400/14241415_10104196500017280_6471375246578106011_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I mean, come ON. This view was going to leave me with the feeling of <br />invincibility, whether I liked it or not.</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But then as I laid in the sun, completely covered in cuts,
bruises, bites and the rashes of two different poisonous plants, I knew that it
still didn’t feel right. I gave myself until Tuesday to decide, but I already
knew my answer. While at Hardrock, I didn’t get to make the choice not to run,
for The Bear, I still had the chance. For the first time in my life, I
willfully took myself out of the race before it even started. Healing my
compulsory behaviors isn’t going to come from one of the most compulsive
activities on the planet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So for now, I’m going to work on finding a way to care
enough but less; the proper amounts of fucks to give, if you will. On a macro
level, I understand that it is all meaningless. What is running compared to
REAL events and problems of the world, right? But on a micro level, it’s
exactly how I deal with that horrifying fact. Running ultras is my feeble attempt
to add meaning and structure to an otherwise chaotic and inconsequential
existence. I realize how extremely dark and cynical that sounds, but it’s
actually quite the opposite if you think about it. It’s how things matter to
me, even when they don’t matter in the grand scheme. It’s how I get a glimpse
into a feeling of connectivity with the world, when the scientific reality is
that to the world, I am but a blip who will eventually return to dust. At my
high school graduation, when I was but a wee naïve laddess, I spoke about how
there is always a focus on finding the meaning <i>OF</i> life, when it seemed to me,
like we should be focusing on just putting meaning <i>IN</i> our life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure that I really knew what in the
hell I was talking about at 18 years of age, but I now see that I was on the
brink of a deeper understanding on where I needed to keep my focus in order to
stay generally happy in life. I mean, I royally fucked that up for some number
of years in my 20s, but I think I’m coming back around to that idea now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That’s why it’s so hard for me not to run The Bear. Running
100 miles is always a journey for both my body and mind, and I always feel
fulfilled while and after doing so. No other distance can do it for me quite
like that. It’s hard for me to say no to trying. Especially when there’s a good
chance it could be a decent if not great race for me. It’s hard not to care,
when caring is exactly what makes me feel whole. But the deal is, until I can
get a goddamned grip, I have no business doing so. I know I’ll be better for it
in the long run, and my running will stay as a positive addition to my life
rather than an unsatisfied compulsion for feeling like I’m enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’m not running Bear 100, and instead I’m
going to work on this cool thing I learned:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>You don’t have to care so deeply that it defines you. This
notion is romanticized, but if you do, it will fucking destroy you.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In other words (to keep this thing epigraphical), as my dad has been telling me for years - </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDr4NKf19uLsPJDWOEXIuCaIoJuUhjX_GmCkLwLOFO2UqGAqKk8DPB58wvcR67Wutw5lBbG3jnhFr0MpvEwapvCG84N01xEz1LEehfdtPf0KM76ctzjqglvmIqhJ4_UgpPmXQUFNHLKGc/s1600/dadQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDr4NKf19uLsPJDWOEXIuCaIoJuUhjX_GmCkLwLOFO2UqGAqKk8DPB58wvcR67Wutw5lBbG3jnhFr0MpvEwapvCG84N01xEz1LEehfdtPf0KM76ctzjqglvmIqhJ4_UgpPmXQUFNHLKGc/s320/dadQuote.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I should def start an Instagram of these things.</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here’s to a beautiful
Fall of 50ks, adventures, a second wedding, fixing up our home, volunteering,
loving my husband, and being ok with saying no.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>ADDENDUM: </b>Guys, it’s
working. I decided to go forth with a skyrace style 50k for which we already
had travel booked, but truly approached it as a sightseeing adventure. It never
once felt like a race, because deep in my heart, I didn’t want it to be. And as
it turns out, it was probably one of my best efforts ever. (My goal is to write
more on this in a separate post, because the awesomeness that was Ultra Santa
Fe, and Santa Fe in general, deserves more than just a little mention.) This
past weekend we erected some scaffolding at the cabin, and successfully built,
wired and installed recessed lighting, plus we bought a wood pellet burning
stove! While I won’t be running 100 miles at The Bear in a few days, I will,
instead, be beginning a massive insulation project where I get to use power
tools. Also, I have written two thank-you notes, it took way too much time, and
I have no regrets. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com121tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-47430422046362044672016-03-28T21:47:00.001-07:002016-03-28T21:47:20.349-07:00The Georgia Death Race<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When going into a race undertrained, the mind passes through
three distinct phases. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first is the harsh realization of the general state of
things, and even worse, that there’s not a gosh darn thing you can do about it.
At this stage, the best idea seems to be to just back away quietly. Cancel
plans. Stay in bed. Be responsible. You know this is the logical thing to do,
and you congratulate yourself on being so smart and mature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then the second stage hits. This is the fantasy portion,
with a heavy focus on delusions of grandeur. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe the lack of miles in training has left you fresh? Maybe you’ll
actually run </i>better<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> this way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Further evidence is found in vindicating
every single thing you did in the last two months that was even moderately good
and how it all applies to the task at hand. You find yourself saying things
like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“that run was only 15 miles, but
there was an AXE involved.”</i> This stage is actually really fun, because it
mainly consists of telling yourself how fantastic you are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoa3nMrlZfvhHPBfhx1M7TdjMOyt5sFJPyVJ1GTHQXSJyJTrPdCzlHtTqZn5kP3IvttbHLSyLZmkIZG-ZMPPcTVKAbMi89I3mxhZpFLNdRLHOPCcRFI_-fks8_8ONnrUodDwN-oqimSZw/s1600/12841358_10103745120605240_8119123059485128524_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoa3nMrlZfvhHPBfhx1M7TdjMOyt5sFJPyVJ1GTHQXSJyJTrPdCzlHtTqZn5kP3IvttbHLSyLZmkIZG-ZMPPcTVKAbMi89I3mxhZpFLNdRLHOPCcRFI_-fks8_8ONnrUodDwN-oqimSZw/s400/12841358_10103745120605240_8119123059485128524_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Axe-based things.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, while it’s good that you’re now focusing on what you </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">have</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> done, rather than what you haven’t,
in some circles, that’s also described as over-rationalizing. And when the fog of
self-importance clears, and you begin to understand that’s what you’re actually
doing, the final stage hits.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This stage
could best be described as </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Fuck it.”</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
In other words, you just pack up what you got, sashay out the door and proceed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is how I found myself sitting in the conference room of
the Amicalola Lodge last Friday evening, watching people receive snakes from
the backpack of an Army Ranger. We were told this was to help us conquer our
fears. Apparently there was a lot to be dreaded in running from Vogel State
Park back to Amicalola – 68 miles through the Northern Georgia Appalacians, as
the t-shirt stated. Which was actually more like 70 if you asked someone, and
in reality was more like 72 if you consulted a GPS. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also the race very clearly had the word “Death”
in the title. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Undeterred, at 8am, I, along with over 200 other souls left
a lake in the woods and went to work on the old mountains. The air was heavy
and sticky, with the afternoon’s storm clouds hanging low. Within a few miles,
I was already drenched in sweat, but a delightful breeze kept me quite
comfortable. I knew that even if the miles eventually caught up to me, at the
very least, I was going to have a few hours of flow and happiness out there. I
could tell from the start it was going to be a good day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Straight away, I watched the lead pack of ladies fade off
into the distance, like a majestic pack of steeds. They were chasing a Western
States Golden Ticket, four of them for only two spots. While it would have been
a blast to mix it up with the thoroughbreds for awhile, and pushing just a
little harder would have allowed me to do so, I knew that I was not a horse in
this battle today. If I had any hope of finishing this thing in one piece, it
was absolutely imperative that I made all of my own choices in relation to myself
and myself alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought a lot about the legendary Diana Finkel out there,
and her seemingly singular focus on one race year in and year out. I can’t say
if it is her calculated plan, but from the outside, it appears that she runs a
few spring races pretty chill compared to what she unleashes every July in the
San Juans. I’ve seen it firsthand – she picks tough races, starts off closer to
mid-pack and just runs consistent as hell throughout the day. And while she
always finishes close to (or at) the top, it’s nothing compared to the insane
performances she throws down at Hardrock. I can’t help but think she’s got her
eye on the prize from the moment the clock strikes midnight on the new year.
And boy do I want her prize.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once the pack began to spread out, I found myself going back
and forth with a handful of characters. There was an Atlanta local with a
fantastic beard who gave me intel on what to expect throughout the course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were two women, and a couple other
dudes – definitely a motley crue of sizes and ages. What they all had in
common, however, was that they were absolutely crushing me while hiking the
steep uphills. By this point, we had reached the famed Duncan Ridge, and it was
all playing out as billed. Straight up, straight down, up and over, do it
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d actually fully expected to be
destroyed by some locals on this kind of stuff. But what I didn’t expect was
how well I was taking the downhills, by comparison. They were rocky and steep,
sometimes muddy, and sometimes following the Missouri-style “trail by braille” –
with a layer of leaves obscuring the rocks and roots underneath. What this
meant was that we all kept jostling for position for hours on endThis was a bit
difficult on the narrow trails, so in some cases, I found myself putting on the
brakes, rather than deal with it. It really didn’t bother me at all, though,
because I was honestly just thankful to be feeling pretty good while I was
tackling the most difficult part of the course. To make matters awesome, the
sun was finding a way to break through the deep indigo clouds every now and
again, casting spotlights on the green valleys below. While the forest all kind
of looked the same to me, at least it was a beautiful and familiar same. It
reminded me a lot of the trails of my home state – the Ozark Mountains of
Missouri.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOB1F-eBSB-xU2NZPdoWkAfIwfTO_sv76NA24iuQPrTyK_pA9t2O2YWZt674A87UMz-kPBw6aQ1Yk9QpB8qN8st5g0ahhhi-dfnLkhiQOAfwA4DW7mSKGJEMdsf6L7TNJ6yDAob88POgk/s1600/1599330_10100939392736341_5134613780830010022_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOB1F-eBSB-xU2NZPdoWkAfIwfTO_sv76NA24iuQPrTyK_pA9t2O2YWZt674A87UMz-kPBw6aQ1Yk9QpB8qN8st5g0ahhhi-dfnLkhiQOAfwA4DW7mSKGJEMdsf6L7TNJ6yDAob88POgk/s320/1599330_10100939392736341_5134613780830010022_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't actually terrible!<br />(photo: Dom)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I chose the Georgia Death Race specifically for Hardrock
training. While not at altitude, the 20,000’ of vertical ascent in
68-or-70-or-72 miles seemed like a good thing to tackle in March, since I wasn’t
going to be running up over 13,000’ anywhere anyway. I knew there would be a
significant amount of hiking involved, and I knew it would be difficult – plus I’d
always wanted to run an East Coast ultra. There were also other reasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hit another extremely steep up and for the first time, I
actually stopped to catch my breath halfway up. My heart was about to leap out
of my chest, and my lower back was killing me. My legs felt great, but I
wondered how much more of this I could take before I fried myself from the
inside. I had done so much hiking in my training – so I was surprised it was
having this effect. Another reason I signed up for GDR was that it seemed to
favor a gritty climber over a pure runner. And since I consider myself much
more tough than talented, I figured this might be a good fit for me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You figured wrong, Katie. You figured wrong.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But just like that we hit another downhill, and this one really
went down for awhile. Eventually, I turned off on the one indicated
out-and-back of the course, which would take me down to the next aid, plus give
me a chance to see how the battle royale was ensuing. My main focus, however,
was attempting to stay in the moment and enjoy the nice cruise down. Because in
this case, what goes down must come up. And this was going to suck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Actually though, it didn’t really suck at all. Perhaps it
was discovering that I was actually only minutes behind the chase pack of
ladies. Or perhaps it was hearing from the bearded Atlantan that I’d just
completed the Dragon’s Spine portion of the course. And most likely it was
filling my little soft flask with Coke. But the point is that I started running
sections of the climb back out. A few weeks prior, I had found myself running
with my friend Marshall, who had completed last year’s edition of the Cruel
Jewel 100. He regaled me with tales of this Dragon’s Spine bullshit, where he
claims he walked every step for 20 miles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I realize that this was during the later
stages of a 100-mile race, I was still pretty apprehensive about arriving to
this section. And yet here, I’d completed it before I even knew it had begun!
Rejoice!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next aid had me finally seeing Dominic – now 28 miles
into the dang thing. The sun had begun to really heat things up, and I was
happy to get a full dousing as well as sit and stretch my hips a bit as I
refilled my pack for another 20 miles without crew. There was a chance it could
be dark by that point, so I threw in some extra caffeination and treats,
figuring if the moment of undertrained truth came, it was likely going to happen
somewhere in the next 5-6 hours. I wanted to give myself a fighting chance. And
maybe something that tasted like candy, so I would be less sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jUFf4nbEpyaO82vLJpkO0qUuZGXU_fQdEZ9e122L4CKP8o71yTplffrswMkG4kfa8rCM8f27dew_vWAE6nWBbtYMeQSRH9n8Nw0r9vGFo3Zfa0DgHnyDhwgMvLLfK2WsHqk1ZkT5b1c/s1600/IMG_7448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jUFf4nbEpyaO82vLJpkO0qUuZGXU_fQdEZ9e122L4CKP8o71yTplffrswMkG4kfa8rCM8f27dew_vWAE6nWBbtYMeQSRH9n8Nw0r9vGFo3Zfa0DgHnyDhwgMvLLfK2WsHqk1ZkT5b1c/s320/IMG_7448.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtmrMxjyVHueQlbqr8sKlcoVeOKO6xit-TJFNHEoQUSlyXGP7tR0DHy7YU5HfeoOLR3mSvWPzXAe63EH_v00toN72rspAla57f7FD_8KfkFZMg5un9AXwwUXLeZ8ef_Wi7fko0PZD7HcM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-28+at+9.07.54+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtmrMxjyVHueQlbqr8sKlcoVeOKO6xit-TJFNHEoQUSlyXGP7tR0DHy7YU5HfeoOLR3mSvWPzXAe63EH_v00toN72rspAla57f7FD_8KfkFZMg5un9AXwwUXLeZ8ef_Wi7fko0PZD7HcM/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-03-28+at+9.07.54+PM.png" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(faces: me)<br />(photos: Dom)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What this meant was that my pack was again, quite heavy. 1.5
liters of water, a small flask of Coke, 6 hours of calories, plus all the
required gear including the railroad spike. Did I mention we had to carry a
railroad spike the whole way? We did. It was weird, and I was into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hiking hard out of the aid in the heat, plus
a belly full of protein recovery drink to digest was the perfect recipe for instant
sensations of crappiness. Legs good. Stomach wonky. I understood what was
happening though, and focused on getting the caffeine from the Coke down to try
to speed up the digestion. Salt was burning my eyes. The same folks were
catching up to me and passing me, this time what seemed for good. Was this the
classic ‘first phase of discomfort,’ which I experience in every long race
somewhere between mile 30-40, but which always passes? Or was this the way it
was now going to be? It was hard to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Initial discomfort always leads to questions of why I am running.
Now, it’s never because I want to stop, rather more of an existential thing
that I can never quite come up with a good enough answer for. Today, instead of
trying to answer it, I let my mind wander to the thoughts of others. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I became very sure that they, too, had these feelings
and so I thought it proper to give them a name. The Way DTs. The
Why-Are-You-Doing-This moments. Subconsciously, I found myself talking another
imaginary runner down from these thoughts, and in the process, talked myself
down as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was if the trail sensed a change of chapters at that very
moment, which obviously necessitated a change of scenery. The sound of loud,
rushing water gave way to fleeting glimpses of a river through the trees. I
suddenly remembered I had been promised a swinging bridge of sorts, and for
whatever reason, this excited me greatly. I motored down to the water to see
what I could discover. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What I discovered was awesome. Tourists moved to the side as
I bounded across the bouncing bridge, giggling gleefully to myself. On the
other side, some dude offered me moonshine. And then the heavens opened up, the
wind howled, and it freaking POURED. I started running, and I didn’t stop. I
felt everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here I was, having had the worst flu of my adult life only
weeks prior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I was, with admittedly
undertrained legs but what I was realizing was an extremely well-trained
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was so far from where I’d been
not too long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place every run was
a chance to push as hard as I could. Every race was a battle to prove myself. And
yet every single day was an utter disappointment. For a generally happy person,
that’s a pretty shitty way to live your life, let me tell you what. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rain eventually abated, but my renewed sense of stoke
did not. At this point, I had cranked some Marshall Tucker Band, and was
bordering on D-Bo level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The MOST stoked
person I know. I sang every other word as I went to work running every step,
both up and down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing hurt. Nothing
mattered. I was fully and wholly in it. The flow I had forseen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unsurprisingly, I started catching various groups of
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first, it was the folks I’d
been jockeying with earlier on Duncan Ridge – I told them I’d see them later as
I passed, but I had an unshakable feeling that I wouldn’t. Then it was others,
whom I hadn’t seen all day – and people who looked way faster than I. I tried
really hard to doubt myself, but I couldn’t. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ride me a Southbound…. All the way to Georgia, now… ‘till the train
run out of track.” </i>Yes guys, that’s my plan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, I hit a gravel road and soon after, another aid
station. Just as unexpected as my 40-miles-but-fresh-legs was the knowledge
that I’d be running this same rolling road all the way to the next crew spot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, while I’m normally a total slut for
singletrack, the ability to open my stride on the road was melting all the
tension away from my lower back and hamstrings. So I was elated with the news.
As such, I filled up with more Coke and set about getting to Dom again before
dark. I had told him that if I reached him there before nighttime, that would
mean I was doing way better than expected. This was clearly going to happen,
and I was overjoyed, as I’m sure was he. Crewing at 2am is the worst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The race had officially turn into a runner’s race at this
juncture, and the most confusing thing in the world to me was that I was now
excelling in the part that would normally be my downfall. I had hiked hard, yet
been supremely outhiked in the first 30. I spent the majority of the first half
of the race in 8<sup>th</sup>-10<sup>th</sup> place for the women, back in the
60s overall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I was cruising the
groomed road and and most of the folks I passed were walking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I rolled up to my last refill with Dom, and we did another
big protein reboot. I didn’t want to drink it, knowing how I felt the last
time, but knew I needed to, again – remembering how renewed my legs felt once
it digested. I threw in extra caffeine, extra solid food, and plenty more
VFuels – which were the one thing I was loving all day. At each juncture, I had
eaten every single one of them in my pack, with a heavy emphasis on the Peach
Cobbler flavor. Because, Georgia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxCod_UFH3l9H6Fn9pBIKAvcZnfvmPcDH9zCCtiQoF2e4JqnHbpII4XM9voJ5Th1MxAk8-__qLSlXEDLJvk5hmmOmm3kmkyvsEUEbun3IzUGsQDb_MVbj18wUwzswzlctFwzYpWh9D2E/s1600/1560389_10100942419775131_5153967190647057120_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxCod_UFH3l9H6Fn9pBIKAvcZnfvmPcDH9zCCtiQoF2e4JqnHbpII4XM9voJ5Th1MxAk8-__qLSlXEDLJvk5hmmOmm3kmkyvsEUEbun3IzUGsQDb_MVbj18wUwzswzlctFwzYpWh9D2E/s320/1560389_10100942419775131_5153967190647057120_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being a runner in the runner's race portion.<br />(photo: Dom)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwOi27Tat8Z6KawNSaB4EVIzr7ec0XPISm_X1-Zmppp_mZ1ZKOd130mO7GWgPKjUxDOX1U7HHlgLPfYzWZVx-wHtPtLGO0Xfcr9ajM85ZoXp3IWcZlit8dhjn0w_WGjNg4r6B-je1zBA/s1600/1506_10100940160482771_8643548882832695390_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwOi27Tat8Z6KawNSaB4EVIzr7ec0XPISm_X1-Zmppp_mZ1ZKOd130mO7GWgPKjUxDOX1U7HHlgLPfYzWZVx-wHtPtLGO0Xfcr9ajM85ZoXp3IWcZlit8dhjn0w_WGjNg4r6B-je1zBA/s320/1506_10100940160482771_8643548882832695390_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vsFlO1FRGCU0mgExTOaNPVFV1DbX_TDY8L_peMc4FVL4swuLoiEfueLTGNO87hlrxo5ET8RXJuh_tGBbXrVM71zHlbiyow3DtyaDEGJCSbl0_Y-7nKd7zx2WKgerYOXoCG3icMIj1jg/s1600/IMG_7502-2.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vsFlO1FRGCU0mgExTOaNPVFV1DbX_TDY8L_peMc4FVL4swuLoiEfueLTGNO87hlrxo5ET8RXJuh_tGBbXrVM71zHlbiyow3DtyaDEGJCSbl0_Y-7nKd7zx2WKgerYOXoCG3icMIj1jg/s320/IMG_7502-2.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Samesies!</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Also, did I mention I gave myself a Death Day for my Birthday? HOW DID I NOT </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">LEAD WITH THAT JOKE? </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Heading out into the evening, Dom ran alongside and talked
tactical things with me – like, not getting cold, remembering to eat solid
food, and keeping my general wits about me. He was happy to see that I was
doing so well up to this point, better than expected by both of us, but also
knew that there was almost a marathon to go and I hadn’t even run a marathon in
distance yet in 2016. We were both acutely aware that there was still plenty of
time for shit to go haywire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hit a lake just as the light was beginning to change, and
stopped for a moment to soak it in. Whatever happened tonight, I had done so
much more than I ever expected, and I knew I could take the pain of a few
miserable hours if need be. During the “Fuck it” stage of my pre-race
mentality, (which you can recall was the third and final phase), I began to get
the feeling that I could at least finish the thing. That was now increasingly
seeming like a reality, and I felt really, really proud of myself. I set about
getting to the next aid station before dark. I later discovered that I was now
catching people that were at one time an hour or more ahead of me. I was legitimately
Diana Finkel-ing this thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rest of the race was pretty uneventful, to be honest. My
stomach never really recovered from the last round of protein – probably because
I started running pretty hard, so I felt a little shitty for the rest of the
evening. At one point, I started running on a concrete road, which was actually
a backwoods highway to a very, backwoods community and if there was ever any
doubt about my body’s ability to produce cortisol and adrenaline, said doubt
was now officially vanquished. For starters, I didn’t really know how long I
was going to be on this thing, so I kept wondering if I had missed a turnoff.
For seconds, a kid told me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“you gotta go
all the way up the mountain. GOOD LUCK.”</i> which seems sweet, but he said it
in a super ominous tone. And for thirds, this lady in an SUV pulled a U-ey
going like 40 miles-per-hour and almost slammed into me. Her husband, or guy or
whomever was standing on the corner and basically told me she was drunk and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“gotta watch out for her – she’s crazy,</i>”
despite the very apparent fact that he was also drunk. And crazy. Of all the
things I’ve ever encountered while running in the mountains, this immediately
became the worst. There was actually a very good chance of getting hit by a
drunk driver out here. It was concerning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the last roller of Take-Your-Life-Into-Your-Own-Hands Road,
I caught up to Nicklaus Combs from Boulder, who was to be my compatriot for the
rest of the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unsurprisingly, he
knew Dom, or knew <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OF</i> him, which meant
he had seen my run bun in a great number of Instagrams and could see me
approaching. He, too, was happy to have some company and we began to work
together on the rest of the climb up the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We continued to reel people in, and eventually caught one of
the last women I’d remembered seeing pass me early on. At the last aid station,
they had told me I was in fifth, which meant that someone had dropped. I now
knew it was one of the four women vying for the Western States spot, and I knew
how badly at least three of them wanted it. My heart went out to whomever that
might be, but from what I’d heard, it had been a proper battle for most of the
day, so I hoped said lady was now resting with a beer and the knowledge that
she’d given it a very good fight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nicklaus and I kept it up all the way to Amicalola. My
stomach was officially jacked and I’d decided to just rely on a drip of Coke
for the last few hours unless it became apparent that I would need some major
calories. I had one VFuel left amongst my arsenal of solids, and I knew that
was all I could stomach if it came down to it. The last two aid stations
require 9+ mile sections between them, so at the last I made my final move:
stuffing my pack with Ritz crackers and downing the Yerba Maté shot that had
been jabbing me in the ribs for the last few hours. I knew there was a chance
it could wreck my stomach, but also, I didn’t want to carry it anymore and it
was $4, so I didn’t want to throw it away. This constitutes the biggest risk I
took for the day, and it was mainly based on economics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Running with a new friend for the last few hours really
added to the experience for me. There was no focus on legs or self or place or
really anything other than getting to the end. We chatted about our upcoming
weddings, life, and all sorts of things. We waited for each other to take
bathroom breaks. He pulled me on the uphill hikes. I pulled him on the
downs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before long, we were reaching the
lodge and the descent to the Amicalola Visitor’s Center. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first</i> descent, that is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, this is where Run Bum goes from some fun heckling about
how we’re all going to die, and making us take the hardest route at all times,
and being #sorrynotsorry and whatnot, to just being plain mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You literally get within yards of the finish
line, and instead of collapsing across it in a blaze of relief and glory, you
turn right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>YOU FUCKING TURN RIGHT.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then you run up a trail to the base of 600 stairs that climb
straight up the waterfall. There is even a sign that says, “Very Strenuous.”
And if you are me, your heart goes absolutely haywire and you repeatedly
exclaim up to Nicklaus, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This isn’t good,
man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Iiiii’m going to puuuuuuuke.” </i>But
then you eventually reach the top, and you look out on the land like you are
Simba or some shit and everything the light touches is yours. Only it’s dark,
so it’s not, but you still FEEL that way. And that’s what’s important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKcYWi0KUDzZv1kvdorD_Yqtnxv9itqr0OCDZILvoFR1fUpIpxNoh03oyAHIsRTWozqg4ogp_fllLW7Qkl6Xuwa6WrhzYOJvHfIML8p-LNvsQcq1MF5yT4xG4qJ8X6BDgVvg2RgWagoE/s1600/IMG_7385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKcYWi0KUDzZv1kvdorD_Yqtnxv9itqr0OCDZILvoFR1fUpIpxNoh03oyAHIsRTWozqg4ogp_fllLW7Qkl6Xuwa6WrhzYOJvHfIML8p-LNvsQcq1MF5yT4xG4qJ8X6BDgVvg2RgWagoE/s320/IMG_7385.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amicalola Falls, as depicted by the painting hanging in my parents' bedroom since 1980.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xEINTvJ8jWzpSPHzL6uaMW5jO_hGzyRNli1kAmc3qmzXUYGdn5tsbZTEOz-2E-L7QhCX7nTjl9iWselsTTQdkBaDshdPkhaNQnaSdPyrSoN0yUjiuvVMOMNPxhJ8U6HvkR11zWqKZvk/s1600/falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xEINTvJ8jWzpSPHzL6uaMW5jO_hGzyRNli1kAmc3qmzXUYGdn5tsbZTEOz-2E-L7QhCX7nTjl9iWselsTTQdkBaDshdPkhaNQnaSdPyrSoN0yUjiuvVMOMNPxhJ8U6HvkR11zWqKZvk/s320/falls.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amicalola Falls, as depicted by Dom's calves.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we headed into the final descent, I chuckled to myself.
Yet another reason I’d chosen this race is that it was more than 100k but less
than 100 miles. I’ve been saying for awhile that my ideal distance would be a
race of 78 miles, and now here I was, not exactly wishing for more miles, but
knowing that if I had them, I’d continue to get relatively stronger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>72 just wasn’t quite long enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But like I said, I was perfectly fine with it being over.
Now. For the Bum’s final trick, he made us cross a freezing creek rather than
use the perfectly good bridge, but honestly at that point I was too out of my
mind on an exhaustion/endorphin trip to find it anything other than a
completely acceptable request. Nicklaus and I crossed together in 15:52, before
midnight, in exactly the timeframe I thought possible if I had a good day and
ran a smart race. We exchanged our rusty railroad spikes for new, also rusty railroad
spikes, but these were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">engraved</i>. The
one that made the journey on my back was now laid to rest in a coffin, where I
immediately noticed not many others resided. I ended up in my very favorite
position – 4<sup>th</sup> – for the women, and 19<sup>th</sup> overall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seemed like a pretty good day for someone who
was convinced she was horribly undertrained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m thinking it was definitely the axe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs5GntU52qv1_OpwuPT2Yc1A_VZKQbykPGzA8oseBEqgIoDTuDLUUi6KqjRernRGWgtcKNSI7MYbsWau2Ox1O3wp3688q9Ayk6WrOKKU0wfcpaevf_LH0vNy-mGwAkAIPICTSQNbKtNhM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-28+at+9.07.22+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs5GntU52qv1_OpwuPT2Yc1A_VZKQbykPGzA8oseBEqgIoDTuDLUUi6KqjRernRGWgtcKNSI7MYbsWau2Ox1O3wp3688q9Ayk6WrOKKU0wfcpaevf_LH0vNy-mGwAkAIPICTSQNbKtNhM/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-03-28+at+9.07.22+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dom celebrating the death of Katie DeSplinter. The next race, I'll be a Grossman.<br />(photo: Ashley Walsh for EastUltra)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: start;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>NERD ALERT THINGS:</u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shoes: New Balance Vazee Summit, aka the best shoe of all
time<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Socks: Injinji Snow OTC. Very stylish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pack:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nathan Vapor
Airess – my new fave<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuel:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>VFuel, Coke, 1
Picky Bar, Recovery mix, and 2 Ritz crackers. Just 2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Headlamp: Petzl NAO<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shades: Didn’t wear any on my eyes, but I wore Julbos on my
heart.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenStzmetzPm8olMRDWmBlCiVSrf1jC_a4AY6jud2ndACPYMETfRXYYtZF6v959T_0reIaX2MrAXpHJvLDIJ5Qg60rcu4NlluVKD_v829po4_QtcnQcjE65mMxWZxMrp7schj1eay38j8/s1600/IMG_7440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenStzmetzPm8olMRDWmBlCiVSrf1jC_a4AY6jud2ndACPYMETfRXYYtZF6v959T_0reIaX2MrAXpHJvLDIJ5Qg60rcu4NlluVKD_v829po4_QtcnQcjE65mMxWZxMrp7schj1eay38j8/s320/IMG_7440.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIk-eAsMKxUlcVqc642p1tM5E01ZV-rFX3PA9lieYqLfRfjexFjZvbG7A_Iou5VRXnKOzMCrqxPAhB8iliGkKCrGAuqA9Ybfw8vGuvQbrehUwgfCIq-bNwWl1g9T3lyODkjywliVVWNtg/s1600/FullSizeRender-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIk-eAsMKxUlcVqc642p1tM5E01ZV-rFX3PA9lieYqLfRfjexFjZvbG7A_Iou5VRXnKOzMCrqxPAhB8iliGkKCrGAuqA9Ybfw8vGuvQbrehUwgfCIq-bNwWl1g9T3lyODkjywliVVWNtg/s320/FullSizeRender-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recovery items.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>Thank you, Mr. Run Bum for an absolutely fantastic race that we will for sure be back to do again. Georgia is good people. Thanks for having us!</b></i></span></div>
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com53tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-20349720290865969872015-04-09T21:55:00.000-07:002015-04-09T21:56:54.598-07:00On Waterfalls and Wine<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How is it April already? How
have we already had Daylight Savings Time? How did I turn 32? Did I do my taxes
correctly? Can we please have just one more snow storm? <i>Is Lake Sonoma already this weekend?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Turns out, the answer is
yes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean, I did all the things
I planned on doing leading up to this race. Namely, continuing to keep my
mileage conservative and focusing on a few speed workouts a week. And lots of
snow running for strength and general stoke level. I also did some things I
didn’t originally plan on doing but then planned at the last minute. One of
these things was my parents coming out to visit our cabin last weekend, which
was of course, fantastic. Another of these things was running the Gorge
Waterfalls 50k less than two weeks ago. Here’s how that went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_JD-s5EizGEcjM9kmEQAwYh0H6dgxKdxUlY7ij5Nj5liW1qvm-2cI8Dw4OrIucQH81GQXPRGc5iaNx6b7EWfENsKYjkW4TdTADE7MuC9Ly3xb_5AUr1k2WmzwqVNW1zuXK61rYAd-MM/s1600/11051863_10100805071083011_4367835867850142425_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_JD-s5EizGEcjM9kmEQAwYh0H6dgxKdxUlY7ij5Nj5liW1qvm-2cI8Dw4OrIucQH81GQXPRGc5iaNx6b7EWfENsKYjkW4TdTADE7MuC9Ly3xb_5AUr1k2WmzwqVNW1zuXK61rYAd-MM/s1600/11051863_10100805071083011_4367835867850142425_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing my pops around the high country section of AC.<br />
(photo: Dominic Grossman)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be clear, the only reason
why I ran the race was because I bought Dom and I flights to Portland so he
could give a Western States ticket another shot in the 100k. Then James (Varner, of <a href="http://www.rainshadowrunning.com/" target="_blank">Rainshadow Running</a>) asked
if I wanted to run the 50 since I was coming all the way up there, and I said
ok. It was only later that I realized March 29<sup>th</sup> is only two weeks
before April 11<sup>th</sup>. THEY ARE TWO DIFFERENT MONTHS, PEOPLE. HOW WAS I
SUPPOSED TO KNOW? It was also after I realized that this year, the 100k would
be first, i.e. on Saturday, and once again, I’d be relegated to a day of
crewing in the cold rain before my own race. Only this year, it would also be
twice as long. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because I generally think I
can just kind of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“ehhh, it’s fine”</i> my
way through just about anything, I found myself saddling up to pace an ailing
Dom through the last 13 miles of the 100k. I was wearing five coats at the
time, which should tell you a lot about the temperature and the dampness when
one had been standing outside since roughly 3:30am. I had already decided that
I would not go through with the race the next morning, since it was only
supposed to be a training run for Sonoma anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then, I saw a lot of
waterfalls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I woke up the next morning
before the alarm, realizing that I felt perfectly 100% fine and that I needed
to go run at least 20 miles anyway. And like I said, <i>waterfalls</i>. Also, someone needed to avenge the wrong
bestowed upon us after less than one hour in Portland. Said wrong being a
busted out rental car window and the theft of my bookbag full of gear… ipod,
nice headphones, brand new Julbo sunglasses, a book they wouldn’t understand,
my PMR hat, other stuff and about $15 worth of tampons. If you’re wondering,
the answer is yes. I did report that last one to the cops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So yeah. Sunday. Gun goes
off and I’m out for a run on an absolutely gorgeous day in the Columbia River
Gorge. It’s everything I remember from last year (<a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2014/04/fresh-start-gorge-waterfalls-100k-finish.html" target="_blank">when I did the 100k</a>) – rocky,
wet, very good smelling and everything is extremely green. I tuck in behind the
first two women and feel fantastic for about five miles. And then I feel
TERRIBLE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My legs are dead. And I’m
not at all surprised. The week before, I ran only 51 miles but climbed over
18,000 feet, including a 13 mile run with 7k of ups. And then there was
yesterday, when I was on my feet in the cold for over 13 hours, three of which
were spent running, including the biggest climb of the course. Oh well, just
five more miles of pushing and then I get to relax for the middle 10. That was
the workout I had created for myself – 10 hard-ish, 10 easy, last 12 hard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I came into the first aid
station in third or fourth – all of the lead women were a scant 30 seconds
apart. I left in fifth or sixth and had no ambition whatsoever of catching back
up and passing. TRAINING RUN. IF YOU SAY IT IS ONE, YOU BETTER ACT LIKE IT.
There was going to be no labeling a race as a training run on Strava, when in
truth you actually raced it full-out and won the damn thing. Kind of like
labeling a 6 mile run at 7 minute pace as “recovery.” WE DON’T DO THESE THINGS, KATIE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A mile out of the aid, I
backed it off and tried to settle into a more comfortable cruising pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also tried to enjoy myself, but that was
just not happening. At first, quite a few folks passed me, but finally I had
the trail to myself. That’s really all I wanted. To be alone with the forest
and to sing to myself. It’s a simple life I lead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’d see Dom one more time, so
if I wanted to call it a day and not burn up my legs, I easily could. But then
I also realized I really didn’t feel like my legs were hurting at all – they
were just really heavy. The last 13 were fresh in my memory, and I knew I could
get it done no problem. Besides, I should really finish my workout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Coming into Yeon, I knew I’d
get to run under Elowah Falls, which is the best part of the entire course in
my opinion. And I shit you not, that thing gave me LIFE. First of all, look at
it:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9PcSdRjsFc4D66Ny6Z1cN7Iva_XJ80MrhKzIeuxCUHwKxaZ5rCLw3Kh2XBB4u0a6Qq4TpklkHk8_POn0mCJuru5rNiWLLLzbueLnLUFKPBPUCWN0N9-KMlPl-CB0GiKNfrzoWNDsmQtY/s1600/DrewSmith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9PcSdRjsFc4D66Ny6Z1cN7Iva_XJ80MrhKzIeuxCUHwKxaZ5rCLw3Kh2XBB4u0a6Qq4TpklkHk8_POn0mCJuru5rNiWLLLzbueLnLUFKPBPUCWN0N9-KMlPl-CB0GiKNfrzoWNDsmQtY/s1600/DrewSmith.jpg" height="400" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(photo: Drew Smith)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, that’s me straight up
frolicking over a bridge under a Narnia-level waterfall.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not even going to question how I
miraculously felt like a million bones, because why would I? That waterfall
clearly has mystic powers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other mystic powers were
in the form of Dom, an above-the-knee leg rub from Denise Bourassa and a few
sips of Yerba Maté. I tried to push off slowly from the aid station, but I
couldn’t help dig into the road and take flight. I suddently felt fantastic.
Dare I say, the best I had felt all day. Nay, the best I felt all weekend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I caught a few guys on the
road section. I caught a few more on the next climb. On the next, I caught a
lady. This became a theme – some were folks that passed me when I chilled
things out in the middle 10, others were people I’d never seen. They were all
quite confused why I was the happiest person in the forest, after having run
20+ miles of ups and downs and rocks and rocks, but I knew. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I knew.</i> It was that Elowah Falls and
it’s damn sorcery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before the final aid station,
I knew I’d get to swing under Ponytail Falls and this excited me greatly. You
guys. You run <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">behind</i> a waterfall. Not
exactly something you do every day. I decided to do it every day of this
weekend though – here’s a picture I took while pacing Dom:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9yF5OKcXoOt-uV45BBkGcZ20mGR_3aUL8OSFOQCTMx4B_ggf-zw7mxib1H7fWpRRuovwK_Hd2PWn71D_x85ZWE9kJZLMkpTdsGSFdtdScpgOvWztPgD5ZsvT36MHSl0lmHpgKIuShxyE/s1600/10302120_10102988456141890_3564895816150309255_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9yF5OKcXoOt-uV45BBkGcZ20mGR_3aUL8OSFOQCTMx4B_ggf-zw7mxib1H7fWpRRuovwK_Hd2PWn71D_x85ZWE9kJZLMkpTdsGSFdtdScpgOvWztPgD5ZsvT36MHSl0lmHpgKIuShxyE/s1600/10302120_10102988456141890_3564895816150309255_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even when it hurts the worst. You're here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, here's another picture of Dom I made into a meme and put on Instagram. I tried to be overtly obvious it was a joke with my expert hashtagging, but I failed. The bitchez found this very #inspiring.</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHG71tGgCSG3ha6sXG_VgdL476Q6ySjAJQhNLlz9Dq3rAeUZyt9r1U42Cni-m1mBZLkGsmFcGzKks406F0q3_4UxxI16tU_2tkWC_bHT_2hGGZftkiBRc8RnHbA1H_-Owr-uzjb8VWkl4/s1600/domstagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHG71tGgCSG3ha6sXG_VgdL476Q6ySjAJQhNLlz9Dq3rAeUZyt9r1U42Cni-m1mBZLkGsmFcGzKks406F0q3_4UxxI16tU_2tkWC_bHT_2hGGZftkiBRc8RnHbA1H_-Owr-uzjb8VWkl4/s1600/domstagram.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#domstagram</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, I pulled up to the final aid station and ensured Tropical John I wasn’t
ruining myself for his race in two weeks. Coke and a smile, and I was off to
the non-race races. <i>Yay waterfalls! Yay running! Yay life!</i> My greetings to
fellow runners were a far cry from Dom’s the day before. When he was telling
people that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kT3FxQRFCA4" target="_blank">“sometimes you just have to drink the hot, frothy bowl of horse piss.”</a> Michelle Yates may say that she was creeped out, but we assure you it
was the inspiration for her to seize the W.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last big climb, and I
decided I would run the whole thing. It’s 1500’ in less than 2 miles up
concrete switchbacks laden with awkward tourists. Who are mostly laden with
children, canes, large photo equipment and strollers. Nothing hurt. I could do
this forever. I charged down the trail on the other side, then plinko’d my way
down the additional set of concrete switchbacks. I was so out of my mind and
high on endorphins that I actually started doing spin moves at each of the
corners. I no longer questioned whether I had felt this good all weekend, but
rather if I had ever felt this good ever in the history of my existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then it was over. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Waaaa-waaaa.) </i>I finished feeling like I
could keep going like that indefinitely, which made me feel really great about that
race coming up I mentioned at the beginning. I ended up finishing fifth woman,
only a few minutes back of third and fourth and having caught three ladies in
the last eight miles. Not that any of that mattered, but it totally mattered
because I like to avenge my Ultrasignup ranking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for Portland, I didn’t
get any of my stolen stuff back, I’m awaiting a nice bill from Hertz, I sat in
a soaking pool for a few hours at McMenamin’s and drank too many beers before
Dom drove us to the airport. I woke up Monday not feeling too hot and spent the
entire week with a wicked head cold. No running. Max sleeping. Luckily, I’m
feeling much better now and actually looking quite forward to Saturday. The
great thing about being sick is that when you become un-sick you feel fucking
invincible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5KofS0SU09w45rb45JtpaxH3xSmfP5Yj9_D3HZYZCGPB_aHpMWaD0_Z2Q44jxkHGbWg1-z9KVxLGgqCKp-n9Y2P_3I4sY9XKns3lAHxlpnXen5wDoirqFgKowBHkCXcxX-rjm4eGKpo/s1600/photo+2+(2).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5KofS0SU09w45rb45JtpaxH3xSmfP5Yj9_D3HZYZCGPB_aHpMWaD0_Z2Q44jxkHGbWg1-z9KVxLGgqCKp-n9Y2P_3I4sY9XKns3lAHxlpnXen5wDoirqFgKowBHkCXcxX-rjm4eGKpo/s1600/photo+2+(2).jpeg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">BTW, these are the 2015 New Balance kits - pretty snazzy, right? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I DID have matching sunglasses, but you know... thugs.<br />(Photo: Denise Bourassa)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Going into Lake Sonoma, I
don’t kid myself thinking I have the capability to run with the talent level
there. Holy moly, <a href="http://www.irunfar.com/2015/04/2015-lake-sonoma-50-mile-womens-preview.html" target="_blank">TJ’s assembled himself one hell of a crowd!</a> That said, I’m
ready to play things fast and loose and have a good go on the ‘easiest’ 50 mile
course I will have ever run. I’m also ready to drink wine when it’s all said
and done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other thing I’m
definitely ready for is to kick things into high gear and go rogue for the
summer. After this race, I won’t be found on a starting line until August 1<sup>st</sup>’s
Angeles Crest 100. My fourth battle with the beast, and my singular focus for
the year. I’ve kept the mileage quite low in the beginning of the year, and the
results have been great. My health is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally</i>
back on track and my stoke level for both racing and training is very, very
high. I’ll take a few weeks to chill after Sonoma, including a forced week
entirely off from running due to a minor surgery I’m having. I’ll have
stitches. On my vagina. I’ll be fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Then.</i> It’s on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Follow along <a href="http://www.ultralive.net/ls50/webcast.php" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://www.irunfar.com/2015/04/2015-lake-sonoma-50-mile-live-coverage.html" target="_blank">here</a>
on Saturday. Or follow Dom’s feeds – he’ll be sitting this one out to get his
body back in order and crewing me instead! Everyone please cheer him on. </span></div>
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-27286126535426527212015-02-23T21:29:00.000-08:002015-02-24T09:36:08.279-08:00Ice Quest 2015: The Black Canyon 100k<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s a funny thing about
these ultramarathon affairs. Right now, I sit here quite sure that I am in the
worst pain I’ve ever felt after a race, although I’m also quite sure it’s
definitely not. And that’s the thing. I can never really remember exactly how
it feels after completing one of these ordeals – the memory loss will begin
tomorrow, in fact.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ll have no recollection
of the sensation save these empty words I’m writing. So imagine how far removed
I was after not racing for six whole months.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s probably why I kind
of like how terrible I feel. It’s earned pain, which I
realize sounds totally sick, but y’all know exactly what I’m talking about. You
did it to yourself. You actually pushed yourself so hard and so far into an
uncomfortable place that your legs feel like they will explode if you don’t
keep them elevated. It kind of hurts to take a deep breath. A large event such
as preparing and eating a frozen pizza requires an immediate nap. <i>Oh, how I’ve
missed this.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Black Canyon 100k was
never supposed to be a “breakout” race or golden ticket bid or any such things.
It was entered solely to make me feel the exact way I’ve described above. But
somehow along the way, it became a lot of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very unexpected things. Things of the awesome
variety.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The day started in utter
relief that I’d actually made it to the starting line and felt well rested
enough to actually complete 62 miles of running. It had been weeks since I’d
had a decent night’s sleep, thanks to some bad timing of big projects at work
and traveling for a friend’s wedding the weekend before. By Thursday, I was
ready to throw in the towel on the trip to Arizona, but was bolstered by my
friend <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20pBb9_jTr0" target="_blank">Liza’s 15:34 at Rocky Raccoon</a> a few weeks ago on very little sleep and
Dom’s willingness to drive the entire way and let me relax. Plus, I heard
Michelle Yates was about to kick my butt after having a baby a scant three
months ago. There’s no way she was getting any more sleep than I was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKw0DHH2bJXpKU6R9iZo6RzllyRs8HdRgcr_J4L79bJMVXoi0k439y1nqTmodxZGUQPXU3DG03logEOETkHEeOkdYCrWbEZBpZXT1cgtby5dDTSf9fz3nGR5DwlPCvBLfI4v_YrPjPM8A/s1600/1459758_10102890356803750_7521001959323596431_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKw0DHH2bJXpKU6R9iZo6RzllyRs8HdRgcr_J4L79bJMVXoi0k439y1nqTmodxZGUQPXU3DG03logEOETkHEeOkdYCrWbEZBpZXT1cgtby5dDTSf9fz3nGR5DwlPCvBLfI4v_YrPjPM8A/s1600/1459758_10102890356803750_7521001959323596431_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yogi tea, please don't fail me.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The race itself began in
typical Aravaipa fashion: a cool morning, beautiful desert sunrise, and Dave
James without a shirt, sprinting away from the pack in the first 400 meters. I
circled around the track myself and headed onto the dirt road in a nice little pack of
fantastic ladies, including the likes of Kaci Licktieg, Angela Shartel, Leslie
Howlett and Gina Lucrezi. We could see Michelle and Caroline Boller taking
things out a bit harder up ahead, but no one here seemed too concerned with
giving chase. Instead, we all chatted (Angela listened) as the miles easily clicked off, and for the first
time in a race I found myself in my perfect dream scenario. I always get so
jealous of the lead packs of guys all bro-ing it up and cracking jokes in the
early miles, but it seems like the women are always fewer in number and more
spread out. Not today! I was actually having a really good time, and just hoped
I could keep up. Not for race placement, but rather so I could keep having fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We all blew right through
the first aid station and stayed together through the next, as well. Now not
even 9:00 in the morning, things were already heating up and I was glad I had
indicated I’d need two bottles of ice cold water from here on out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, Dom had misread the sheet and
only had one bottle of lukewarm water available, so I slowed down to grab a
second bottle. Also lukewarm. I was really frustrated leaving the aid station,
as I feared he might be more concerned with making a video than he was with
getting me what I needed. But now that I knew what to expect, I decided I’d
treat him like a drop bag. As long as my stuff was physically there, I could
take care of myself and he could have fun out in the desert. I immediately
regretted telling him he was no longer my Valentine and promised myself that
I’d apologize at mile 18. He’d given up his entire weekend to be out here, and
if he wanted to make a damn video, he should be allowed to make a damn video. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Leaving the aid station,
most of our little pack took turns taking a pee break, so we all splintered a
bit. I let Angela lead me back up to Kaci and Gina, but when she continued to
push ahead, I knew the jig was up on our hang time. I once ran with Angela at
noon on a hot summer day in San Diego, on trails similar to what we were now
traversing. She had been up all night at a tequila tasting, thrown up a couple
times, and she still completely destroyed me. So basically, my bets were on
her. I predicted top 2 right then and there. Even still, our pace had quickened
and all chatting had ceased. While no one was really “racing” yet, so to speak,
the heat was dictating silence and focus. I told myself that if they dropped
the pace any lower, I would have to let them go or risk completely blowing up
in the first half of the race. This was disappointing, but is exactly what I
had expected from this talented group. I was just stoked that I’d been able to
run with them for almost 20 miles, and was actually feeling like it was easy.
Now I just hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself by dropping too far behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1R1t5mRz6Dx7mE4PblSVdudTF9bkXeGzlPsrpSKQxLjnt6eCqnnrnNxzM6BChDdR0EJ2WTKNdO1gakA-KPpG4Mspgt1oQqi4MPtivN_ESzc4nhALbQJdOuf9uZXvNBP6pgw2ohI2TNU0/s1600/bc100k_bretsarnquist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1R1t5mRz6Dx7mE4PblSVdudTF9bkXeGzlPsrpSKQxLjnt6eCqnnrnNxzM6BChDdR0EJ2WTKNdO1gakA-KPpG4Mspgt1oQqi4MPtivN_ESzc4nhALbQJdOuf9uZXvNBP6pgw2ohI2TNU0/s1600/bc100k_bretsarnquist.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Thoroughly enjoying the early miles.<br />(photo: Bret Sarnquist of <a href="http://www.longrunnutrition.com/" target="_blank">Long Run Nutrition</a>)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My bearded Valentine felt
pretty bad about the last aid station mishap, so he had everything laid out perfectly
and ready to go. And there was ice. Even still, I took a moment to breathe and
really assess what I’d need for the next section rather than blow right
through. Honestly, this is how it should be – I always do better when I take
care of myself and call the shots – all I needed to do was be willing to stop
for a few extra seconds and make some decisions. As such, I left the aid
station last, but had all the food and water I needed plus a bandana to fill
with ice at the next stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kaci and
Angela were now out of sight, and I watched Gina disappear up the climb as I
fell into a hike-run alongside none other than Scotty Mills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, the thing you should
know about Scotty Mills is that he is ridiculous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every. freaking. race. he comes out of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nowhere</i> and goes blowing by me like it’s
nothing in the last third of whatever distance we’re tackling. He even does it
when I’m pacing someone else, and it’s surely witchcraft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today, it was only mile 20, and I could
tell I’d be losing him soon, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I surmised
this was the part where I’d start getting passed and increasingly embarrassed
that I “couldn’t hang.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugh</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Only, I didn’t get passed. I
could feel that I’d slowed down a bit, but I was running alone and was
maintaining the same distance from the guy in front of me. It was now
officially hot as hell out there, and I knew that I’d just have to focus on
doing the best I could do. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">See if we can
go a little faster…. oh, what’s that?.... you’re going to explode?... okay, back
it off…. just keep going... keep.... going...<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr. Peter Coury greeted me
at the Gloriana Mine aid, where I procured the ice I had been seeking and
continued on my journey. At the next stop, I’d be halfway done and that seemed
pretty great. Although, that also seemed pretty terrible because I was starting
to feel quite horrid and like I said, I wasn’t even halfway done. Thoughts
crept in, as they always do. The ones that say, <i>“this is an awful lot to ask of
any respectable human, and there is absolutely no reason why you have to keep
doing this. If it had been normal February temperatures, sure. But this? This
is dumb.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, that’s what
separates someone who signs up for this shit from normal society. There actually
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> something worthwhile in carrying
on, even if you can’t explain it in a tangible fashion. We’re not going to quit
just because it’s an option available to us; we’re not respectable humans. And
so, with my fellow animals, I pressed on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hot. Orange. Gel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another down the hatch.
Another round of puking in my mouth just a little bit. It was high noon and I
was absolutely baking out there. The pity party was all set up with card tables
and festive bunting, so I knew I had to do something right quick if I had any
chance of keeping this race a positive experience in my life. Everyone’s always
talking about this “gratitude” thing, so I figured I’d try that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Truth is, I was already
feeling it. After a particularly rough few weeks of working long hours,
traveling for events and way too much time in front of a screen, it felt
amazing to finally be putting my own needs first for the better part of a day.
Even if it were turning into a sufferfest of sorts, it was MY sufferfest. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mine.</i> My sole purpose in life had become
not exploding and getting to places where ice existed, and this is literally
all I thought about for the better part of four hours. Three more miles to the
aid station. <i>They have ice there. Ice for me. I want the ice.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the time I hit the
halfway point at Soap Creek, I was really scared of how much further my
condition might deteriorate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
running. But I was not running near as fast as I had been in the first 20
miles. To make matters frustrating, it wasn’t my legs or my general energy
level that was prohibiting me from moving more expeditiously. Every time I
would drop my pace a bit, my heart rate would shoot through the roof and I’d
feel all explodey on account of the heat. So I’d hike four or five steps and continue on again. This
became my routine for the better part of the afternoon, and luckily, it was
working. I caught one dude, then another on a particularly rocky and technical
downhill section. I chose a road shoe for the race – the New Balance 1400v2 -
and if I were to do it again, I’m not sure if I would or wouldn’t have made the
same choice. There were sections like the aforementioned where I very much
would have enjoyed a rock plate, but overall, my feet felt really good, and I
appreciated the little bit of extra cushioning for all the downhill. For
whatever reason, the 1400 fits my foot better than anything on the planet, so
I’ll always choose it when I can, despite it’s designation as a road shoe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The journey to Black Canyon
City was going longer than anticipated, but I was bolstered by the memory of
some dude telling me there would be a water crossing before this aid station. And
also by the fact that I was about to embark on what was billed as the worst
section of the race. That may sound weird, but I rationalized that once I was
finished with that hellish section, I’d be at mile 45, which meant there was
officially no throwing in the towel. For some arbitrary reason, I’ve decided
that anything under 20 miles is a reasonable distance to cover, even if one is
relegated to walking. So up and down I went, over another bump – the majority
of the net loss was now over, and we were now hitting rollers for the rest of
the way. Luckily, at the end of the next bump was that water crossing I had
heard about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly scurried down to
the shallow river and jumped right in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mind you, the water only went up to my ankles and was actually kind of
warm, but <i>hoo boy </i>did it feel good! I doused everything – my face, my cotton
shirt, my Buff and my hair. You think my run bun is just for style, but you are
wrong! That mound of hair can hold water better than a camel’s hump, and I’ll
be damned if it doesn’t feel like heaven to have it trickling down the back of
my neck when I’m facing 90+ degree temps in a hot, exposed desert with no shade
and no escape. In February. When one hasn’t faced a 90+ degree day, nor been in
a desert for like six months. This was our struggle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cooling down allowed me to
run the next climb pretty decently, and I could see that I was gaining on a few
more men up ahead. The second of which was a particularly salt encrusted figure
in all black technical fabric. Since my ipod had lasted all but an hour with
all the water I was pouring on myself, I was really happy to learn that he was
quite chatty and before long, we had reached yet another stream in which to
douse ourselves. My mood improved greatly as we talked and ran our way to the
fork indicating an out-and-back to the mile 36.5 aid station. And ice. I’m
supremely grateful to Scott from Chicago for the most excellent company, beer
recommendations and general positivity at a very crucial moment in the
degradation of my fragile psyche. The only unfortunate point of this portion of
the race was rolling up on a walking Kaci with a walking Zac Marion – both
indicating that things besides the race course were going south. My heart went
out to them, as I’ve certainly been in that position a few times. (Spoiler
alert: I was glad to hear they both made smart decisions and are now on the
mend.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Closing in on the aid
station, I saw Gina heading out with her pacer followed by the indomitable
Scotty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sure they had put more
time on me than this, but I guess the heat had slowed everyone down a bit.
Either way, I needed to take care of some business in the aid, so I was overjoyed
when Dom ushered me over to a yoga mat in the shade and a cooler full of
delicious, ice cold beverages. I took down a solid bottle of PowerBar Recovery
mix and chased it with some lime sparkling water. SO. GOOD. More ice
everywhere. Lots of lube applied with no shame. And it was best I be going. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Leaving for the fork, I saw the
woman in braids who had been stalking me at the last few aid stations – always
entering as I left, clearly maintaining the same distance from behind. Now in
fifth and over halfway through the ordeal, I decided I wasn’t willing to accept
any place lower than that and that I’d do whatever need be to keep my lead. It
wasn’t going to be easy, but it had to be done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back alone on the trail, I
tried to focus on the positive and began audibly assuring myself of a variety
of things:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’re ok, Katie. You’re ok.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your legs don’t even hurt right now!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’re beasting these climbs.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The chaffing is not… actually… that bad.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You are so smart to wear a cotton shirt and bring
your little ice bandana. SO SMART.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re
getting an excellent tan right now.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All of these self
compliments were actually working wonders, and I set my sights on reeling in
the man in blue up ahead. Mile after mile, we wound our way up and down and
around and round – I couldn’t tell if I was gaining, but I definitely wasn’t
losing ground. I used fixed points to compare my distance from him relative to
the distance of Braids behind to ensure she wasn’t catching up. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just run the climb harder than everyone
else. Don’t hike when they do. You’ll pull away.</i> The big river crossing
came and went, with again, a baptismal dunk and soak. And now I was on the
biggest climb of the course, but I was running! Perhaps I had simply beaten my
body into submission, because it was still hot as blue blazes and I was only
getting stronger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before long, I noticed an
extremely fit hiker ambling down towards me on the trail, noting this was the
first of that variety I’d seen. This was mountain biking country, and besides
us runners, that was all I’d seen out here. As the figure drew closer, I
realized that this was not a hiker either. This was Michelle Yates, and she was
heading back to the aid station. A hard fall had left her bloodied and I could
see the pain in her face as she made her way down. I couldn’t even imagine her
disappointment in having to drop this far into the race, and it being her first
race back post-partum. I felt extremely compelled to give her a hug, but I
don’t really know her so I thought it might be weird and/or might hurt all of
her bloody areas. So I settled on well wishes from a safe, full arm’s length distance
and continued up the climb. Now in fourth place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point, as you could
imagine, thoughts began to swirl. I knew Caroline was way out in front, and I
knew Angela was probably having a heydey with this heat and these San
Diego-esque trails. What I didn’t know was where Gina might be, or what might
happen in the last 15 miles. Interestingly enough, my mind was no longer
concerned about what was behind – I was solely focused on decreasing gaps
ahead. It’s almost as if I’d stopped considering that anyone even had the
ability to catch me. I was now in control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is how it came to be
that I passed the man in blue in the Cottonwood Gulch aid station and didn’t
even realize it. And how I never saw Braids again, nor did I even look for her.
My main concern at this point was that this aid station in the middle of
nowhere after the longest, hottest stretch of trail was quickly running out of
the one thing in life I desired. My dear, sweet ice. I was rationed a mere three cubes per bottle
and two for my bandana, all of which had melted before they ever had a chance
to chill a thing. Instead, I soaked my shirt in (warm) water so that at least
the breeze I created when running would have a mild cooling effect. I wondered
how in the world they could be out of ice in the front of the pack, when I
realized the hikers I’d been passing were actually 50k runners. Those fools had
stolen all our ice only 15 miles into their race! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I immediately felt horrible for everyone else
that still had yet to come through this spot, dreaming of the sweet relief I
had been denied. The only solace was that many of them would be coming through
here at sunset or dark, and the need for water in it’s solid form might have
diminished by that point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, knowing
Jamil, he probably already had a resupply coming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Addiitonal solace came not
too far later, when we crossed the river again. Only this time, I didn’t stop.
I could see figures not too far ahead, hiking up the next climb and one was
unmistakable. It was Scotty! I splashed my face and hair as I moved through the
shallow water, took a deep breath and went to work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnsbw-5jEX0th3axSzJ8fTEev-t_kyDAMMt4bx9KrG98y6mDvAOwqyPzwbXsU95Zly_XA0KZe88ln1FtbrEqdkujKY1lcFRzHWmDHpDe5pyuPbSvZBVPChJi-DvtrtLyTThRYzrHkLv4A/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-02-23+at+8.37.28+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnsbw-5jEX0th3axSzJ8fTEev-t_kyDAMMt4bx9KrG98y6mDvAOwqyPzwbXsU95Zly_XA0KZe88ln1FtbrEqdkujKY1lcFRzHWmDHpDe5pyuPbSvZBVPChJi-DvtrtLyTThRYzrHkLv4A/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-02-23+at+8.37.28+PM.png" height="400" width="303" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The glorious river that provided bouts of short-lived reprieve. And phalli.<br />(photo: Jamil Coury)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last time I’d seen
Scotty and his pacer, they were only a few steps behind Gina and hers. Which
meant there was a chance I could be closing in. Closing in on the third place
spot in a field so stacked it wasn’t even worth mentioning my name. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Right.</i> Additionally, if I was close to
third, how close was I to second? In other words, how close was I to a Montrail
Cup spot into Western States? The answer didn’t matter. The mere fact that it
was even on the table was more than I’d ever imagined possible of myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Speaking of that Western
States thing, what was I going to do if that opportunity actually matriculated?
My goal for the year was Angeles Crest, and this race I was currently running
was chosen as the first stepping stone in my quest. Sure, I could run both. But
with only five weeks between the two, my AC would undoubtedly suffer. So what
the heck would I do if I caught up to Gina? I knew it was her goal to go back
to States and get her revenge. Seeing that I had the same feelings towards AC,
I really wanted her to get a spot. The question was, if I declined it, would it
roll down? Or would we just run together to the end like two majestic ponies
and forge a lifelong friendship sealed in hardship, struggle and salt tabs?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whatever it took, I would
make sure Gina got that spot. That’s what I decided. And that’s if it were even
available. I had no idea where Angela was in relation to us, but I had a
feeling she was doing just fine out there. In fact, it was more probable that
she was closing in on Caroline, and I was equally happy for her to be nabbing
the ticket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regardless of the way things
were to shake out, the good news is that the heat was finally abating. Ever so
slightly, but Lord knows I’d take it! I still felt pretty good, save some
Charlie-horse level cramping in my right hamstring on the uphills. I downed two
Saltsticks in the hopes it would help, and vowed to be careful with it. No way
was I going to strain a hammy in February. For the next three miles, I
choreographed a really great dance routine to the song I had stuck in my head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I know you’ve got a little
life in you yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know you’ve got a lot
of strength left.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kate Bush's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkeCNeHcmXY" target="_blank">“This Woman’s Work,” as performed by Maxwell.</a> I
was choreographing the dance of my struggle. And the best part is that when
it’s in my head, I can pretend that I can still lift my leg up to my ear and
nail a perfect grand jeté without ripping my groin in two. Those were the days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just as I was entering my
requisite fouetté sequence, I caught a glimpse of a red tent in the distance.
Mile 50 was here! All I needed was a quick chug of recovery mix, switch my
bottles, two swipes of lube and down a Yerba Maté shot on my way out. I planned
for 60 seconds tops, and then Dom and I would charge to the finish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4DC8WYFBzz3_xm84SPCM9anx07pa2w7XEEG78S3zI36vy11HzUkK7tIXwzdKy5Up3iJ4DdAiVhROQsbUiigeySya6JUUig3GUaiJJQo0dYFXOQGlgdAfkNSBW6YnnnT5uTMxmJGbqiw/s1600/10330407_10100789437218401_6611192679572460487_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4DC8WYFBzz3_xm84SPCM9anx07pa2w7XEEG78S3zI36vy11HzUkK7tIXwzdKy5Up3iJ4DdAiVhROQsbUiigeySya6JUUig3GUaiJJQo0dYFXOQGlgdAfkNSBW6YnnnT5uTMxmJGbqiw/s1600/10330407_10100789437218401_6611192679572460487_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Life in the desert.<br />(photo: Dominic Grossman)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, I was back to
the drop bag situation. I didn’t know it at the time, but Gina had just left
and Dom had been helping out and videoing her rather than getting ready to run
with me. So when I came in, he needed to change and I had to fend for myself.
No big deal, but my one minute turned into two or three right quick.
Additionally, I didn’t do any of the things I said I would because I allowed
the situation to stress me out too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I really need to work on that. I left in a huff, telling him to
catch up if he wanted and to bring a headlamp just in case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course he was coming. I turned around to see him frolicking towards me wearing my
3-inch split shorts. The only things Dom needed to bring to Phoenix were
running shoes, shorts and a headlamp. One out of three ain’t bad. Making the
best of the situation, he agreed to wear my shorts and since I was running
well, we shouldn’t need a headlamp. He put mine on just in case, knowing that
if worst came to worst, we could light our way off the one beam. It was my new
Petzl Nao, and I’ll be damned if that isn’t the brightest lamp I’ve ever seen!
I have no idea why I waited so long to upgrade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having the man in ladies
shorts along to pace was wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
heat continued to melt away, and we chatted and sang as we clicked off the
first few miles. I’d been passing 50k-ers for some time now, and up ahead we
were gaining on Scotty and his pacer. I was hoping we’d catch up soon and maybe
we could all run together for awhile. Well, soon came <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> soon as we crested a hill to find them stopped dead at an
intersection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>It’s not marked.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What should we do?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a minute or so of
debate, we all agreed if felt most logical to take the right and keep
heading South, even though we were entirely unsure. The course often wound back
and forth in all directions, so it was really hard to say what was correct. We
began nervously hiking uphill as Dom tried to call Jamil on his cell phone. No
dice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This wasn’t right.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The course had been so well
marked – both the right way and the wrong way.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Had someone vandalized it?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually we reached a
turnoff back onto the Black Canyon Trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For a moment, all was calm and we began the steep hike up another hill.
But this was too steep. Way steeper than anything we’d climbed. Additionally,
the trail was super faint and extremely rugged. Dom got a hold of our friend
Andy back in LA and had him pull up a map on his computer. I ran smack into a
cactus. Scotty called the whole situation “disappointing.” I called it a lot of
different things, mostly of which were four letters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This is definitely not
right.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>We’ve already been at this
for ten minutes. If we’re going to turn around, we better do it now. My soul can't handle being out here for an extra hour.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dom and Andy were having a
hard time deciphering each other. I was growing desparate. I couldn’t believe
I’d run this good of a race, and now here we were, hiking around an overgrown
hill, bleeding and lost forever. If we kept going and happened upon the trail
later, I’d have to take a DNF. No freaking way. We had to turn around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sensing the tear that was
just about to fall, Scotty’s pacer suggested that we top out on the climb to
see if we could make any sense of the situation. And that’s when we saw it. A
single orange marker swaying in the breeze. I took off running straight up the
hill where we hit another trail, also named Black Canyon. This was it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Looking down, we could see
the intersection we’d missed and it linked up with the beta from Andy in LA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d gone all the way out, around, up and
over rather than just taking a right hand turn just a few yards down the hill.
All said and done, Scotty estimated we’d added a good half mile, and looking
back at my Strava, I had a 20 minute mile in there. Apparently others had
missed the same turn, and speaking with Jamil afterwards, he knew exactly where
we’d gone astray. Oh well, at least we were back on track.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The adrenaline from time
lost propelled me forward, and soon we could no longer see our compatriots. For
our next trick, we ran very quickly through a gully because bullets where
whizzing over our heads. Yes, bullets. Oddly, I wasn’t too concerned at the
time because my brain was no longer processing information that didn’t directly
pertain to me reaching the finish line. But Dom was. And he didn’t like it one
bit. Turns out it was just hunters practicing shots out into the desert, but
they were shooting in our direction, and they likely couldn’t see us. Of all
the obstacles to take me out on this blazing hot, rocky, challenging day, I’d
never have bet the one to have been a bullet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvt30T4fP_OqMlNP6dMmGQGb5w2HwdkLtPv8PT937xIEeLmHKVdrxouacMrWsvhXk6lIqtpK3kFftsnV05zN1miQRFMHZpxlt6pqaJEOAMcdCV75c1resGovZkMHweAiCSAxkc7a1xH4/s1600/10991378_10100790479050561_5664291182574774573_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvt30T4fP_OqMlNP6dMmGQGb5w2HwdkLtPv8PT937xIEeLmHKVdrxouacMrWsvhXk6lIqtpK3kFftsnV05zN1miQRFMHZpxlt6pqaJEOAMcdCV75c1resGovZkMHweAiCSAxkc7a1xH4/s1600/10991378_10100790479050561_5664291182574774573_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did you know there is a such thing as a Saguaro Forest? Like, a legit forest of cacti?<br />Well, here is what one of those looks like.<br />(photo: Dominic Grossman)</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Luckily it wasn’t, and we
eventually hit the final aid station. Surpisingly, it was Mr. Peter Coury out
there again, and man was it a joy to see a familiar face! He quickly filled my
bottle and let us know it was only four miles until victory. And four miles
really didn’t seem that far. I was already halfway up the hill when I heard Dom
inquire as to where the next woman was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Only about five minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stopped dead in my tracks
and turned around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What? Really?! Are you sure?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other woman at the aid
station confirmed. I was only five minutes back, give or take. I couldn’t
believe it! I’d wasted so much time when I was lost – how was I still so
close?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And furthermore, could I catch
up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dom indicated that I had
less than an hour to still break 12 hours, and that seemed like a good goal. I
vowed to run my absolute hardest, and if it was enough it would be enough.
That’s all I could do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Soon thereafter, the sky
erupted into a beautiful desert sunset that grew more and more beautiful with each
step. First muted pinks, and blues which gave way to fiery oranges and deep
purples. The giant saguaros silhouetted against the colorful display was one
for the memory books. And the trail even widened and smoothed out enough to let
me enjoy it without risking a faceplant. So you see? Perfect timing. Lost or
no, it was all supposed to be just as it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQdbi5ZcqfJiUJCYO4BwD1l77OXpd58x_eRXwF4AilFMv6GVGBmfB5JuDG1adp2niXEtedXjd1yaWArCnV-YIXYvW2KjWI-NOTKIWS17WIYRD4GD_KBzWnlnQ6KHs5dFXghaJJcB1qLA/s1600/IMG_6648.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQdbi5ZcqfJiUJCYO4BwD1l77OXpd58x_eRXwF4AilFMv6GVGBmfB5JuDG1adp2niXEtedXjd1yaWArCnV-YIXYvW2KjWI-NOTKIWS17WIYRD4GD_KBzWnlnQ6KHs5dFXghaJJcB1qLA/s1600/IMG_6648.jpeg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Not too shabby, eh?<br />(photo: Dom)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMi7kq011lCko2Hdwkt6JgMQoKWz5MVTWdPgIKNl9aaOuPpujXeKozS3QEUggJ5clI3ZLASC78bcMKwjzh74mqjHQCKRH_dYi5tmm7r_ejFbMhecN5Mt8KIPA8xsgq7-4sjItKSiYasn4/s1600/B932V9TCQAAqEuE+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMi7kq011lCko2Hdwkt6JgMQoKWz5MVTWdPgIKNl9aaOuPpujXeKozS3QEUggJ5clI3ZLASC78bcMKwjzh74mqjHQCKRH_dYi5tmm7r_ejFbMhecN5Mt8KIPA8xsgq7-4sjItKSiYasn4/s1600/B932V9TCQAAqEuE+2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you sir, may you have another? (Yes.)<br />(photo: more Dom)</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOUAlP1uz7NCMfbXClgk_UL2l5ga5cYKOMzLVAxxmwGpfpeef_ixYhese11o0rOIHuMXDIwDg9Q9oYazHNBaCbRxEs2KOjHMgjECDy7emBXRV5uqx_CNHAh10u7c-U_GU1OhEPNQOmvA/s1600/IMG_6650.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOUAlP1uz7NCMfbXClgk_UL2l5ga5cYKOMzLVAxxmwGpfpeef_ixYhese11o0rOIHuMXDIwDg9Q9oYazHNBaCbRxEs2KOjHMgjECDy7emBXRV5uqx_CNHAh10u7c-U_GU1OhEPNQOmvA/s1600/IMG_6650.jpeg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>And one more, for good measure.<br />(photo: freaking Dom, aka Mr. Brilliant With The Perfect Moments)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the light faded away, Dom
clicked on the lamp for the last mile+, doing his best to stay to my right or
left and not cast shadows. I was so thankful we’d “just-in-cased” because this
was just the case. I would have been reduced to a walk in multiple sections
without it. Poor Dom was out there jumping cacti in women’s split shorts just
trying to get me home. What a Valentine!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Up one more climb, and there
it was. The lights of the finish, which indicated pizza, beer and no longer
running. Freaking score. We heard cheers erupt, and realized that we really had
been gaining – I’d almost caught whomever that was. Well, good. It means I ran
hard. Just as I’d planned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I trotted across the line,
smiling wide and so happy to be done with 62 miles of running with nothing
really hurting all that bad. Angela was standing there to give me a big hug and
Caroline too. And there was Gina, bent over and still breathing hard. What had
just happened?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqWUC5rbQb6qYjrsuBU8qJJmDxoL9zSLI9fktogYd0i6CJwpCoy9YV17BtLa21Qin7h60iSSEqmodet-1zvkgZ2FQJUTpzvWndBGNchQvLwvqxPxFoizjJhVq7JMGRRsY2ANwAxnbIqG8/s1600/usl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqWUC5rbQb6qYjrsuBU8qJJmDxoL9zSLI9fktogYd0i6CJwpCoy9YV17BtLa21Qin7h60iSSEqmodet-1zvkgZ2FQJUTpzvWndBGNchQvLwvqxPxFoizjJhVq7JMGRRsY2ANwAxnbIqG8/s1600/usl.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fin.<br />(photo: <a href="http://www.usl.tv/" target="_blank">Ultra Sports Live TV</a>)</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, from what I could
tell, what had just happened was that I had run the exact race I said I would.
Pushing hard throughout the day, calling upon my hill and speed work and not
stressing over my traditionally lower mileage weeks. And I’d gotten fourth
place! I would have been happy with top ten in this field. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently, things were even
more interesting though. The cheers I’d seen right before my finish were for
Gina, so I’d missed third by mere minutes. Also, Angela had decided to decline
her Western States ticket, as like me, she was already mentally focused on
another summer 100 (Cruel Jewel. Yikes!) So Gina was going to get to go to
States after all!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man, this had all
worked out splendidly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And for me, the fact that I
was only minutes away from that ticket was all I needed. Pam Smith recently
wrote an i<a href="http://theturtlepath.blogspot.com/2015/01/on-sponsorships.html" target="_blank">nteresting article on sponsorships</a> and how there’s more that goes
into them than just being fast and racing well. It’s totally true, and it’s
something I’ve known for awhile because I’m a direct benefactor. Truth is,
I’m often ashamed to admit that I have any sponsors, because I’m afraid of the
<i>“she’s not even that good”s</i> that I know exist. I was truthfully horrified when
asked to give an interview for USLTV before the race. I’m fully aware of why I
have the relationships I do, and I definitely think I contribute in other ways
to these companies. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to feel like my running
ability is increasingly more of one of those contributions. Maybe this finish
would do something to prove to everyone that I actually deserved the support I
was getting. More importantly, maybe I was proving it to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for the what-ifs: what if
I wouldn’t have gotten lost, what if I would have known I was so close to
third, etc. etc. – let’s be honest here. I have a feeling if I would have
rolled up on Gina at any point, she would have suddenly found herself extremely
“motivated.” Homegirl ran a 16-something 5k, so Lord knows she had the speed to
drop me. Perhaps getting lost allowed us both to finish the race a little less
stressed and a little more enjoying the sunset. No regrets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the end of the day, I got
exactly what I’d wanted out of the experience and learned a thing or two along
the way. I’d wondered what it would be like to run 100 kilometers in a desert.
Turns out it was exactly like running 100 kilometers in a desert. I likened the
entire experience to a Gushers fruit snack. Solid start. Solid finish. Pretty liquid
in the middle. But on the whole, a pretty delicious experience. Thanks to Jamil, Peter & Patti Coury, all the volunteers and <a href="http://aravaiparunning.com/" target="_blank">Aravaipa Running </a>for a top notch race, and to everyone I shared trail miles
with out there!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course, thanks to
New Balance, Injinji and PowerBar for the continued support as I continue to
explore of what I’m capable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Here's the nerd alert gear list:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shoes: New Balance 1400v2</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Socks: <a href="http://www.injinji.com/trail-midweight-mini-crew.html" target="_blank">Injinji Trail 2.0</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuel: 30-ish PowerBar PowerGels, PowerBar Recovery Mix, Coke, SaltStick</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparel: New Balance Elite Split Shorts, Cut Up Cotton T-Shirt, Buff, cotton bandanas</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hydration: Amphipod handhelds</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Timing: Suunto Ambit2</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sunscreen: not enough</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdJYBsHuWobJY5p1bDb9XgmhFEFgRMn-A70wGQHfb-IhuZ6GH8DfS1UNk5kVW6DFRWxm9EjNAlSwXrPMDxWrSCfLlL8r0dqSyCRBZY7Hb3bnI5hwkbc-yRaPOAa49P3Ss3xU7onNf1yg/s1600/B932V9TCQAAqEuE+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdJYBsHuWobJY5p1bDb9XgmhFEFgRMn-A70wGQHfb-IhuZ6GH8DfS1UNk5kVW6DFRWxm9EjNAlSwXrPMDxWrSCfLlL8r0dqSyCRBZY7Hb3bnI5hwkbc-yRaPOAa49P3Ss3xU7onNf1yg/s1600/B932V9TCQAAqEuE+2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">More of Dom's beautiful imagery.</span></i></td></tr>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But wait, we’re not done!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the race, I sat around
enjoying the fine company until Dom was able to procure a ride back to the mile
50 aid station. From there, we were going to drive to a friend’s for beers,
food and general relaxing. Long story short, Dom bottomed out our car in the
dark and became very concerned that we might not make it back to LA if we
allowed it to sit overnight. So, he threw me and a blanket in and we spent the
remainder of our romantic Valentine’s Day date with him driving until 2am and
me writhing in pain. My post race meal was beef jerky and gas station cheese.
Washed down with a Perrier to class things up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s love, people. Happy
Valentine’s Day, indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Other things:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ultra Sport Live TV's pre-race interview:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8MtOEKm5zSc" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dom's Totally-Redeemed-Himself-From-The-Second-Aid-Station-Mishap Video:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bHU2iQ1kVtk" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-86343218782657648142014-08-13T12:15:00.003-07:002014-08-13T12:15:41.673-07:00AC100 Round 3: Point DeSplinter<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Are you serious?!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, I was as serious as they come. I wanted that silver
buckle more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world. Which is probably why Dom had to ask that
question race morning, 3:45 am. At that
point, I was puking up my entire breakfast in the sink, and he still needed to
brush his teeth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The remaining hour and fifteen were spent in abject terror,
requiring numerous hugs and positive affirmations. In short, I WAS FREAKING OUT, MAN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLyvjalO1syyqevsXgZIUpJ0ZLJpyULWzuoPWP7YjkMR_tp4E7sVPRvAW18EzYqqUAaZw6pZZZEHKkUHGHBBl0DLhUaojvYmz4CgAlymPHogLFWYsX7eh4HRlbd4fcGrvbwHaEf3gd2g/s1600/52178_10203168204065017_3421701706434532057_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLyvjalO1syyqevsXgZIUpJ0ZLJpyULWzuoPWP7YjkMR_tp4E7sVPRvAW18EzYqqUAaZw6pZZZEHKkUHGHBBl0DLhUaojvYmz4CgAlymPHogLFWYsX7eh4HRlbd4fcGrvbwHaEf3gd2g/s1600/52178_10203168204065017_3421701706434532057_o.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Totally calm and collected.<br />
(photo: Ivan Buzik)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1UDXjreLQ1nzTMx-yyNGvtcBuIQ5t5kj1mO1UnQMhYguDY9Nnlo3E0EEcq-vbgSsVD_0zwx3LSpRZdlCL6AizjoGr-Sdc0byy3g7dlXjGqna3xjbQ1jJDN66LggNxnw00hW0aWR84z8/s1600/10505147_10152625496848832_1847983173530673981_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1UDXjreLQ1nzTMx-yyNGvtcBuIQ5t5kj1mO1UnQMhYguDY9Nnlo3E0EEcq-vbgSsVD_0zwx3LSpRZdlCL6AizjoGr-Sdc0byy3g7dlXjGqna3xjbQ1jJDN66LggNxnw00hW0aWR84z8/s1600/10505147_10152625496848832_1847983173530673981_o.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I required extensive hugs from women who know better than I.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgyu-N7p8xPYvkkdiL3jl_MO_qz-NAHSwF7m-wMac5rIxFxYupYcfG3VBck_feGpo17RBFxNFaiyE3DtJfKZEPPqzngJ5IBnmCyeuyEj1zgbfwPd31qRF4T9R0BwQ8BsTovqkKTGanZU/s1600/10553947_10203168248306123_6119781688411768030_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgyu-N7p8xPYvkkdiL3jl_MO_qz-NAHSwF7m-wMac5rIxFxYupYcfG3VBck_feGpo17RBFxNFaiyE3DtJfKZEPPqzngJ5IBnmCyeuyEj1zgbfwPd31qRF4T9R0BwQ8BsTovqkKTGanZU/s1600/10553947_10203168248306123_6119781688411768030_o.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DO NOT LET GO OF ME.<br />
(photo: Ivan Buzik)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fortunately, we finally got on with the damn thing and I by
the time I turned on Acorn street, I already felt remarkably better.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I settled into a nice rhythm of alternating
jogging and hiking up the road to the trail, watching most of my friends speed
off in front.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was not at all bothered
by this, nor was I when numerous folks continued streaming past me on the Acorn
climb.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Halfway up, I looked down at my
watch and realized I was on pace to reach the top in around 50 minutes total.
Knowing that there is a severe difference in how I feel between a 55 minute
split and a 1 hour split, I had vowed to not step foot on the PCT even a minute
under an hour.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hit the top in exactly
that – a minute under, feeling totally fresh and unfazed.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love the section of PCT between the Acorn intersection and
Inspiration Point, which was to be our first aid station. It rolls along between 7 – 8,000’, in and out
of the pines and through remarkable sections of old, barren trees. The views of the desert, Mt. Baldy and the
pending climb up Baden-Powell are superb.
Especially at sunrise. And
especially when enjoyed with friends. I
spent some time cruising with my good pal and PT, <a href="http://www.nanohiker.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Michael Chamoun</a>, fresh off a
Western States Finish and Iceland Traverse and we joked but were entirely serious
about getting a Hardrock qualifier at all costs. He moved along and I was soon caught by <a href="http://inspiredrunning.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">JimmyDean Freeman</a>, now on his fourth 100 of the summer in his pursuit to complete
The Last Great Race. Knowing about my
sub-24 hour goal, he confided his plans to push for the same if the opportunity
presented itself. We continued on
together all the way to the aid station, commending ourselves on our
conservative pace and how it would pay dividends later. Seeing that Jimmy would normally be of the
opinion that I tend to perhaps “overwork” myself until I just physically shut
down, the fact that he called me “smart” was extremely reassuring. I felt
pretty pleased with myself when I rolled into Inspiration at exactly the time I
knew was a very mellow day for me – two hours on the nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsD8tK-NFlMT4RhrWTUEqoFZPV_ZpVtlLBmPvjYdVI1aZ3IJ1YBF9iI3XGyzg1hUJcJ_1noWiFtfJpMLG-pO8Q0iWwDYE0LRfQHrx-BTNOrFd5nmorcHXedKdYZamByBrjQDnQFdriTIM/s1600/10492148_625142928000_1891077650969397998_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsD8tK-NFlMT4RhrWTUEqoFZPV_ZpVtlLBmPvjYdVI1aZ3IJ1YBF9iI3XGyzg1hUJcJ_1noWiFtfJpMLG-pO8Q0iWwDYE0LRfQHrx-BTNOrFd5nmorcHXedKdYZamByBrjQDnQFdriTIM/s1600/10492148_625142928000_1891077650969397998_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inspiration Point Fantasy<br />
(photo: Kyle Robinson)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shortly after the aid, Jimmy also moved along, and I
continued just doing my thing. Running
easy, hiking a little here and there, preparing myself for the next long
climb. I caught up to a few folks who I
was surprised that were out ahead of me, but again, had faith in the numbers I
knew so well. I was doing really great,
and I felt like I had done nothing. A
quick switch into a pack, a chug of PowerBar Recovery at Vincent Gap, and I was
already on the climb to the highest point of the course – 9,300’. </span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjad0O-STPyM-YNX3Oo-56w5qH7yUO5yAAPbOPqlaeKn34nTttPfS_meqr6w6XbyQZY3DUaqdz-r44uhW0PTZDbHL6s7uaxHhzDelj_6gb5YyuWthHHWjN_3Z3e5Bv6fWlELlKpFEZVhic/s1600/10306318_810428415655632_634750194340630175_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjad0O-STPyM-YNX3Oo-56w5qH7yUO5yAAPbOPqlaeKn34nTttPfS_meqr6w6XbyQZY3DUaqdz-r44uhW0PTZDbHL6s7uaxHhzDelj_6gb5YyuWthHHWjN_3Z3e5Bv6fWlELlKpFEZVhic/s1600/10306318_810428415655632_634750194340630175_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad preparing to put my pack on upside down. He's an engineer, folks.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Early on, I shuffled most of the flatter switchbacks, but
eventually settled into a nice hike and stuck with it. I reached Lamel Springs with Jack Cheng in tow and
realized I’d be at the top long before my 75-85 minute window of deemed acceptability. (Jack Cheng say 65. Jack Cheng no lie.) So
again, I backed off the pace a bit and as no surprise, a few more folks caught
up. Fellow Brentwoodian <a href="http://idiprunner.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kelley Puckett</a>,
passed me right before the top, followed shortly by Amelia
Valinsky-Fillapow. Amelia and I
continued on to the top together – her refusing to pass on account that she
<i>“shouldn’t be running with me.”</i> We caught up to Kelley, who said the same
thing. I told them they were being
ridiculous – we were going a perfect pace and if they, too, didn’t feel like
they were pushing too hard right now that all was 100% right with the
world. Because it totally was. Amelia stayed with me through my favorite
part of the entire course – the traverse over to Hawkins and then the drop
off the other side heading towards Windy Gap.
It was a beautiful morning with some great cloud cover, and I suppose
that carried me down a bit harder. Kelley
dropped off and Amelia dropped back a bit as I caught up to Diana
Treister. Diana promptly took off and I
signaled back to Amelia that her rhino* was now in sight. Two 40+-year-olds
kicking my ass – the least I could do was encourage the competition! I caught
back up to Diana and local legend, Rob McNair, about a mile out of Islip and
rolled with them to the aid station for my first medical weigh in.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*Important note: I am not calling Diana a rhino, but rather referencing Ken's award for the first 40+ year old finisher. It is a statue of a rhino and it is very heavy.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All was good, and I left a bit after Amelia and Diana who
were charging. My stomach was a bit wonky and I felt no need to chase, so I
settled into a nice power hike for most of the way up.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Again, looking at my watch I saw perfectly
great splits, despite how slow I was feeling compared to my surroundings.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was a bit slower than the previous year and
the 24-hour split from the site – but the interesting thing about that to me is
that in the high country, the 24-hour time is very close to the 22-hour time.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which means by those splits, I should slow
down drastically after mile 37.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was
the exact OPPOSITE of my plan, as I am of the opinion that Cloudburst to
Shortcut is the most underrated section of the entire course.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everyone talks about how difficult the high
country is and how brutal the last 25 and it’s two climbs are. But no one
mentions how easy it is to blow the nicest running of the course.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Leaving Cloudburst, you can seriously motor,
even in the heat, if you have legs.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If
you show up to the party needing to recover, you’re going to lose 2+ minutes
per mile for at least the next 15.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That,
my friends, is a lot of time.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG15sm4JrFhu1-aGmfcazPE1zlk8JJcGXDWO2qLKHnG4kuV29bL8jyXiwcugK0EU8w6HZPqQ_7g0b3GDsDJL9GoviFK4GwT61kXTU8vZflkdmoY2QMAyjLZKu6KiKRRGEuK8txGJLeRU/s1600/10448563_757914170935297_9032529283309672569_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG15sm4JrFhu1-aGmfcazPE1zlk8JJcGXDWO2qLKHnG4kuV29bL8jyXiwcugK0EU8w6HZPqQ_7g0b3GDsDJL9GoviFK4GwT61kXTU8vZflkdmoY2QMAyjLZKu6KiKRRGEuK8txGJLeRU/s1600/10448563_757914170935297_9032529283309672569_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some seriously fucked up girl scouting.<br />
(photo: Rony Sanchez crew)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Coming down the backside of Williamson, all I could think
about was chugging sparkling water and how glorious the resulting burping would
be. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was not disappointed.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All the pressure in my sternum
released, and I actually felt excited to go have a visit with my nemesis: Cooper
Canyon.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That bully was not going to
steal my lunch today!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I headed off
the road section and down into ‘ole Coop, I thought about last year and how
euphoric I felt flying through the high country.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This year, I didn’t feel bad by any means,
but I’d yet to feel any extreme highs. I knew that the extreme lows were bound
to come at some point, so I was really hoping for the counterbalance here.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No dice on that, so I continued my whatever-mode
down to the bottom of the canyon and began the first of three climbs out,
legitimately praying with every step. Before I knew it, I had escaped the place
where no air moves and the site of "the great puking of 2012."</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hal was waiting for us at the turnoff to the
PCT, and I excitedly told him I hadn’t thrown up yet.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m sure he was as thrilled as I.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What happened next, though, was even <i>more</i> exciting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You guys, I got a chill. As we climbed part II of the escape del cañón, the clouds held firm and the wind kicked up. I was wearing a cotton shirt, which I had
soaked to the gills and the air moving across felt like a legitimate air
conditioner unit. Also notable – there was
still a little ice left in my bandana.
This was the best Cooper Canyon day ever! As I began the third and final climb, I
finally got the beginnings of that emotional high I was looking for. I was in the section I feared worst and felt
the best I had felt all day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>You guys, I didn’t puke down there!!!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I met my crew (mom and dad) and Monica with nothing but smiles. I would not be needing the ten minutes I had
planned on at Cloudburst to get my shit together. My shit was already very well assembled. And now it was time to go to work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I’ll see you in less than an hour!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_n_q4Z4b9SnYGOBQ_QbjbOdE3Xcc8-npERgmbakX_-n3fqjYSyWuSlOnpw3fzyl3zdWF9xlLJ5u-7Ify9tAhbJhxvylb2wz2KUxQP7TgXAzsj5cNVr74Xo8NqLLvp0LfAHswEbhKoeA/s1600/10556881_10152625501683832_1652116338841070263_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_n_q4Z4b9SnYGOBQ_QbjbOdE3Xcc8-npERgmbakX_-n3fqjYSyWuSlOnpw3fzyl3zdWF9xlLJ5u-7Ify9tAhbJhxvylb2wz2KUxQP7TgXAzsj5cNVr74Xo8NqLLvp0LfAHswEbhKoeA/s1600/10556881_10152625501683832_1652116338841070263_o.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You guys, my mom is wearing a fleece.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I saw them in 50.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But
not before a few of the more memorable moments on the trail.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First off, I felt like I was flying, so that
was supremely awesome.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had planned on
exactly this moment, and I was fucking executing.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was an unreal feeling.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then I almost ran into a motorcycle.
<i>Whaaaaaa?</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">True story.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pulled up to a year-old crash site of an
unfortunate soul, only to discover a new crash, consisting of an entire motorcycle
(save a few pieces littered down the hillside). I suddenly remembered the
chopper I had seen as I climbed out of Cooper, and up the embankment I could
see emergency vehicles still on the road.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bike was still warm.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wouldn’t
that be weird if I had seen the guy crash onto the trail right in front of me?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What the heck would I do?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, turns out, my friend <a href="http://awolfunleashed.blogspot.com/2014/08/2014-angeles-crest-endurance-run.html" target="_blank">David Villalobos</a> was faced with
that exact reality, when he discovered an unconscious body laying across the
trail. He instinctually ran straight up
the embankment to alert passerby and ensure the man was found and cared
for. A few other friends were held up
for a bit as they airlifted him out.
Always an adventure on Highway 2, let me tell you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I continued on past the wreckage, crossed the highway and
before long started seeing friends up ahead.
Jack Cheng and <a href="http://howiestern.wordpress.com/2014/08/12/angeles-crest-2014-dips-moo/" target="_blank">Howie Stern</a> were across the canyon and it wasn’t long
before I caught up. Howie was starting
to feel the pain of making out with the Hardrock only three weeks prior, and I
was supremely glad to have only run 42 of it with him. We chatted a bit, and I was glad that he felt
good enough to get a finish on this one.
I moved along, not doubting for one moment that he would see it
through. Shortly thereafter, I rolled up
on Diana and we entered poodle-land together, and then the aid station. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvnPNcHmJYeXZjIgm21idcDAHDXySV1WNYkESsmXtxkD4gJl2wg7bZj60VQHK_msoDiczlRtQnno-NLJLQ6bqyJZxujK9-6nRSkx432r0lDfGvGgDQ1wW9QW9Al8ofqduKcK9reixh3c/s1600/10551685_10152625501933832_7037183127777739232_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvnPNcHmJYeXZjIgm21idcDAHDXySV1WNYkESsmXtxkD4gJl2wg7bZj60VQHK_msoDiczlRtQnno-NLJLQ6bqyJZxujK9-6nRSkx432r0lDfGvGgDQ1wW9QW9Al8ofqduKcK9reixh3c/s1600/10551685_10152625501933832_7037183127777739232_o.jpg" height="400" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoom in on my face. You're welcome.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As had become customary, I sat for two-ish minutes while
consuming various combinations of avocado, PowerBar recovery mix, sparkling
water and soda.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I marveled at how
disgustingly dirty I had become, so I at least wiped my face.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then I moved on alone, jamming the tunes,
dodging the poodle and getting myself to Mt Hilyer faster than ever before.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This was the jam of the day, for sure. Yukimi was killing me!</i></span><br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/134444684&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pictured: Jack Cheng</span></i><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Looking back, this may have been one of the sections that
got me into some trouble. I remember
pulling up to the Hilyer aid station having pretty full waterbottles, only
requiring a top off of ice. In additional
retrospect, I had actually been concerned since Baden-Powell about my lack of
urination, so I really should have been on that shit. At this point, I’d been running for 11 hours
and had only peed once. I felt fine, but... uhhhh... that is not so good. I started taking in
a bit of caffeine in the hopes that my endocrines would find it encouraging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Either way, my legs were fantastic and bombed down through
the weirdo rocks to Chilao. I was making
great time, and sub-24 was still officially on. Doing the math, I realized I’d likely get to
Chantry around 10, which meant I would have to work hard for it, but I was
actually excited for those moments. I
wanted to know what it felt like to put everything on the line for the climb up
Upper Winter Creek, rather than just survive it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pulling into the aid, I noticed Keira Henninger sitting in a
chair. I wanted to see what was wrong,
but was magically whisked away to my chair and accouterments. Just like Hilyer, I felt elated to take care
of a few things and get on with it after only a few minutes. Last year, I had spent over 30 minutes at
each trying to figure out why my stomach was so distended, my urine so peach
and my kidneys in so much pain. This
year, I was motoring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dbX8-H9BalOy2aih4cXu1hnRlEIkC-wxji-1hGaQ8B68iVqCEFBSIma4PN-ZVYoqi6J6kf8awPOPcmalP51Vz5W45vRhLrYAiS1imY26ZVW9FaYaYUFDPD-4tzCG4K1D5cn0ckfABrg/s1600/10339414_757961500930564_1660239773748862268_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dbX8-H9BalOy2aih4cXu1hnRlEIkC-wxji-1hGaQ8B68iVqCEFBSIma4PN-ZVYoqi6J6kf8awPOPcmalP51Vz5W45vRhLrYAiS1imY26ZVW9FaYaYUFDPD-4tzCG4K1D5cn0ckfABrg/s1600/10339414_757961500930564_1660239773748862268_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#44 OUT!<br />
(photo: Rony Sanchez crew)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I left the aid station with Keira and her pacer behind, but
lost them soon after.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began to wonder
if I might see Amelia soon, but quelled my excitement, save I do something
stupid.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Laying it on the line was last
20-mile stuff.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For now, I still needed
to bide my time.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Besides, even if I had
tried to push here, the poodle wasn’t going to let me.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pulled my Buff down over my face as I went
through the particularly infested burn areas, the nasty toxins irritating my
lungs and making it a bit difficult to breathe.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just get through Charlton, I told myself, and things will get
better.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poodle-land adventures are
almost over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then. Then, the
weirdest thing in the history of my involvement with the Angeles Crest 100
happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It started out as a bit of thunder, which I first mistook
for part of a song in my iPod. It
developed into a few light drops of water, which I then mistook for a leaky
handheld. But before long, it was
undeniable. <i>IT WAS FREAKING
RAINING!</i> Glory, glory hallelujah praise
be to everything. Mind you, I was still
sweating bullets in the humidity, but my oh my was this a treat. The pain that had begun to set into my lower
back and hamstrings suddenly melted away and I flew out of Charlton and down
the final decent to the creek under a beautiful sky of greys and blacks. Howie and I had joked about how great it would be if it rained or hailed at AC after our particularly intense experience at Hardrock, and I imagined he was having a good laugh himself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With a third of the final climb to go, I
spotted a teenage girl up ahead fidgeting with her camel bak.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Hmmm, I wonder what she’s doing out here
alone?</i> I thought.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Maybe someone’s
daughter out exploring some of the course?</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then suddenly I remembered Amelia telling me her daughter was going
to pace her on this section.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then I
wondered if this meant I might have caught Amelia?!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">AND THEN I SAW AMELIA.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We entered the Shortcut aid station together, and I realized
I was about to move into second place. This
was exactly what I had dreamed about, because second to Pam Smith actually
equals winning first place in my book.
I’d even thought it might happen somewhere between Shortcut and Chantry. They’re really onto something with this “power
of visualization” thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So Shortcut was the most party-ist of party aid stations in
my book. I was actually surprised to
look back and see I only spent 3 minutes here, because I really didn’t want to
leave on the account of all my friends surrounding my chair and telling me how
great I was. Case in point:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYl6H8YPaE0WkOueX5LMjUhNpeXIdAWksVd_Jsnaw5xLyaVJA6doKlJA_PKztD40p-RpYDDb6-O3qzCtGkCxKaEkvu7us66TA72oLf_Hg_7V32eoxSZ2otqWrdiUPrmL3Tk7y0_QkAkeM/s1600/10534505_10100256198298683_1460118732766243128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYl6H8YPaE0WkOueX5LMjUhNpeXIdAWksVd_Jsnaw5xLyaVJA6doKlJA_PKztD40p-RpYDDb6-O3qzCtGkCxKaEkvu7us66TA72oLf_Hg_7V32eoxSZ2otqWrdiUPrmL3Tk7y0_QkAkeM/s1600/10534505_10100256198298683_1460118732766243128_n.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey everyone! Come see how great I look!<br />
(photo: Chandra Farnham)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://ultrarunnerrn.blogspot.com/2014/08/my-heart-wasnt-in-it-literally.html" target="_blank">Chris Price</a> had ventured over here, after his race ended due
to some scary heart palpitation shit.
<a href="http://jaymeburtis.photoshelter.com/portfolio" target="_blank">Jayme Burtis</a> was taking some epic photos of the men’s and women’s
leaders (which now included me!) Megan
was there, which meant Chamoun was still rocking. Kate grabbed my ass,
probably. And best of all, Marshall had arrived, which meant he would be at
Chantry to pace and could help my mom navigate the Beyonce and Jay-z traffic
ensuing below. This was a great relief
for me. I grabbed my pops and we set out
for the river below, as <a href="http://gingerrunner.com/" target="_blank">Ethan</a> yelled for the millionth time that he loved my shorts. Gingers love ginger things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2n1Rxjao9TKjJe9ky9jLIxayhvqWsoUEgyfl6WADNMFxFEw2XaVSDmHv5hmA-bEUgrMdNBIG1c5epPA6BA7Fdcyja4ZC-iynHbtzOdaIlXE-4pZWM1k81avMmPKu8g2hweiLgYyhyphenhyphenyKk/s1600/10544198_10152625505293832_8817628707451328362_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2n1Rxjao9TKjJe9ky9jLIxayhvqWsoUEgyfl6WADNMFxFEw2XaVSDmHv5hmA-bEUgrMdNBIG1c5epPA6BA7Fdcyja4ZC-iynHbtzOdaIlXE-4pZWM1k81avMmPKu8g2hweiLgYyhyphenhyphenyKk/s1600/10544198_10152625505293832_8817628707451328362_o.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mile 60.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We passed Amelia and her pacer only minutes out of the aid
station, so now it was official. I
couldn’t believe how great I felt! This
was really going to happen! Sub-24 and 2<sup>nd</sup>
place. There was nothing that could stop
me now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We reached the bottom of the long fire-road decent in 50
minutes, and without yet turning on our headlamps. This was so good. My dad filled me in on the race up front. Now, Ruperto had pulled in the lead again and
Dom was chasing, as per last year. I was
confident he’d catch him and pull out the win, and this drove me up the steep
sections of the climb up to Newcombs. My
back and hamstrings were really starting to holler on the steeper sections, and
I realized this would now be my struggle for the remainder of the race. Upper Winter Creek was going to hurt like the
dickens, but knowing that now was somehow comforting. If I could still run downhill like I had
been, the suffering would mainly be confined to those 3.5 miles. The climb up to Sam Merrill was much more
forgiving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the sky darkened and we climbed higher, we were treated
to one hell of a sunset. The display of
fiery reds, neon pinks and oranges was really just top notch. Dad was confused where the trickle of
headlamps across the canyon were headed and I informed him they were on the
decent we’d just completed. I wasn’t
kidding when I said we were running mountains, and he now had a fun story to
tell his friends. We finally turned our
lamps on ourselves just before the radio towers signaling our impending arrival
at Newcombs aid station, mile 68. Two
other lamps caught up and I discovered Ricardo Ramirez of all people! Dude runs a 2:31 marathon and rules the roads
of LA, so you could imagine my surprise.
Turns out, he hadn’t had the chance to train very specifically for this
race, so my hat was officially off to how well he was gutting this thing out. Smiling, chatting and just floating up the
hill. If he was in any sort of real
pain, he had me fooled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYfnuA4EhegwYpMQIzfBzGCqAGC3mvrJEDr8vyBrOIKxO9MftaxPzKKhLsyh43KcMmleW95WRUIes0gdfhavovNtjZMSqNJcjgP43TGD7NASu5VaNyznkgHGxEMR6jUysrKapilhZS4EY/s1600/10519231_625145867110_8676547539009491418_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYfnuA4EhegwYpMQIzfBzGCqAGC3mvrJEDr8vyBrOIKxO9MftaxPzKKhLsyh43KcMmleW95WRUIes0gdfhavovNtjZMSqNJcjgP43TGD7NASu5VaNyznkgHGxEMR6jUysrKapilhZS4EY/s1600/10519231_625145867110_8676547539009491418_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SoCal's finest.<br />
(photo: Kyle Robinson)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I took a few extra minutes at Newcombs to stretch my back
and hammies while getting in some non-gel calories. The new rule was that two gels between
something non-gel was acceptable to all systems. A third gel without a break was soul
crushing. I downed a bunch of Mountain
Dew in the hopes it would help me pee, as I was still concerned about
that. I’d downed two full bottles of water
in less than two hours, but still… nothing.
<i>Oh well, time to be moving on.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad and I passed a few more runners out of the aid station,
as we shuffled the flat-ish traverse. I was beginning
to officially feel the pain of running 100 miles in the mountains, but it still
was nothing sufficient enough to keep me from my goal. Looking at my watch, I thought it might be
ten after ten before I reached Chantry Flats.
If this was the case, I could still get in before 5am. I’d have to keep my shit together here, and
then push.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It actually began to rain more substantially, and my
thoughts went back to Chamoun. I forgot
to mention that we passed him and his pacer Steve on the climb and that he was passed out on the side of the trail, I shit you not. Steve told us to let him sleep, so we did,
but I now wondered if he was getting too chilly.
I sincerely hoped he was moving. How weird
that I was worrying about people getting <i>COLD</i> at AC! Yep, this was a precious gift of a year that
had been given to me, and I needed to make the most of it. And now that I finally had to pee, I knew it
would be done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I bent down beneath the tender pines and inched my short orange shorts to the side, I fully expected a huge clear stream to come flying forth
from my nether regions. What I
received was neither huge nor clear, but rather a short little trickle that seemed
a bit dark, if not peach in color. I
hopped back on the trail, unfazed, thinking that of course the first one would
be a little weird. <i> It had been hours
since I peed! And the peachy tone was
probably just the reflection of my headlamp off my orange shorts! </i> The next one would be the pee of my
dreams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We continued down, down, down into the depths of Santa Anita
canyon. I chatted about the topography
as dad marveled at some of the sheer drops, which I had never really noticed.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>That would be bad if you fell here, huh?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Yeah, you just don’t fall.... </i></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh hey, I have to pee again!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Again, I bent down to the side of the trail, happy that my
caffeination had worked and my systems were charging. As the stream came out deep, dark red, I
truly could not believe it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Dad, this is very bad.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What is?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>My pee is the color of legit blood. Like not, a little blood in my pee, but just
I cut my finger and blood is coming out blood.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What does that mean?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>It means bad.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Feeling otherwise unscathed, I ran a little faster
down the trail and my mind began turning.
<i>What in the actual fuck had happened to me? How could this be? Oh good, I have to pee again – maybe it was
just a weird fluke. Nope. Not a fluke at all – this is actual blood
coming out of my urethra. I think what I really need is to go sit down on that tree and completely melt
down. Smack yourself in the face a few
times. Good. Scream some choice obscenities. Fantastic. Now we can move along.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started reasoning with my dad (myself) on why I was <i>peeeerfectly</i> ok. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>It’s not brown. It’s red.
That is not renal failure, so I’ve got that going for me. I have no pain in my kidneys. My legs actually feel fine, save having run
72 miles at this point. I can legitimately
get myself the next 2.5 miles to Chantry flats and the medical director. I will not perish out here. Additionally, I can then go straight to the
hospital and get an IV before anything gets to the dialysis state. My kidneys are going to be ok! I am going to be ok! I am really sad that my race is going to end
here, but at least I won’t put myself into renal crisis. I’ve caught it way before that.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By a mile out, the survival mode had turned to even more
reasoning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>You know… since it’s not
brown, I may actually be ok to continue.
If the medical guy says I can, I think I’ll go ahead and finish. But of course, if he tells me to go to the
hospital, we’ll get in the car and go. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Amazingly, my dad thought this was a great plan and said as long as I
talked to the doctors, he’d be cool with whatever they said. So I just tried to enjoy the last climb with
him up to the aid station. He was
officially worked, and that made me feel ok about the last section, despite the
last half hour of insanity and despite the fact that Keira had re-passed us
while I was in crisis-mode. We topped
out to a particularly frenetic Chantry Flats and I was ushered onto a scale,
now in third place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I need to talk to the medical director.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Why?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I am peeing dark, red blood and I don’t think that is a good
thing.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>No it’s not. Come
over here.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the second year in a row, I found myself face-to-face
with Nick Nudell, head of the Ultra Medical Team, discussing the contents of my bladder. And for the second year in a row, I offered to give
him a cup of my discolored pee, which he was all too excited to receive. My friend Mari, whose race had ended early,
followed me to the bathroom where I proceeded to produce two fingers of Merlot
out of my vagina. Mari took one look and
her face turned solemn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>No Katie. You must
not go on.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then I handed it to Nick, and he said the four words every girl wants to hear (with regards to her urine):<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Well, it’s not brown.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nick proceeded to recount basically the exact rationale I
had presented to my dad back on the trail.
Onlookers gawked at the Styrofoam cup and looked at me like I was nuts
for even considering proceeding. To
emphasize my point at just how fine I was in other regards, I asked Nick if
he’d like to punch me in the kidneys. He
did not oblige.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I went over to my chair and began preparing for the night,
as the folks around me discussed rhabdo and other scary ultrarunning
things. I knew my body, and I knew I was
capable of proceeding. I want to be very
clear here that if anyone in medical had expressed a concern about me
continuing the race, I would have stopped immediately. But the only people that were expressing
concern of this matter were periphery.
Nick’s team and my crew were on board with getting me out of there by
trail. I knew the signs to look for, and
if any presented themselves, I would drop immediately – even if that was at the
last aid station with only 4.5 miles to go.
But for now, I had to try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdD_vBh-NV0BnL6KkkNGBRCD6VxHcFjfRDF80yWGBzjgSkoWOcyQrN8hh2z_ZPMDbAVLHx5NUlWYd-I1ekdDrhYUFSuoixgDG4moTWIAne3Ssm_9YdRJGAmz-IBBXxzdcFZhW56bi90o/s1600/10496075_757966290930085_1876633192437168136_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdD_vBh-NV0BnL6KkkNGBRCD6VxHcFjfRDF80yWGBzjgSkoWOcyQrN8hh2z_ZPMDbAVLHx5NUlWYd-I1ekdDrhYUFSuoixgDG4moTWIAne3Ssm_9YdRJGAmz-IBBXxzdcFZhW56bi90o/s1600/10496075_757966290930085_1876633192437168136_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Marshall and my shitty bladder - heading out of 75.<br />
(photo: Rony Sanchez)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Marshall suited up, I grabbed a pack full of delicious water
and we began hiking out of mile 75 and onto the last un-crewable quarter of the
race. The first 2.5 miles are gentle,
and I tried to run where I could, knowing that the next 3.5 might very well
kill me. And they very nearly did. I kept moving forward, but I was suddenly
staggering and having difficulty moving upwards with any power. My legs and lower back were screaming. The headlamps began passing every now and
again. I saw people I’d seen earlier,
and some I’d never seen all day. Shit
was unraveling and I was unable to respond.
We eventually reached the bench, where I sat for a few minutes and tried
to choke down the Stinger waffle I stole from my dad. As I gazed down at the city lights below, I
wondered if I really was having this much trouble or if I was just too scared
to push my limits on account of the delicate pee situation. Looking at my watch, sub-24 was now
officially a wash and I’d moved into fourth.
As we continued on the last stretch up to the toll road, I just hoped
I’d have the ability to run decently downhill to Idlehour. If I could still do that, I could still
salvage something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, my body was completely locked up and running
downhill was very painful for the first time during the race. I did my best, but had to take breaks. I started having to sit in order to ingest a
gel, otherwise I would throw it up in my mouth and have to re-swallow it. In short, things had really gone awry. Again, I wondered if I had still been in attack mode, rather than "survive and do not hurt myself" mode if I would have been able to get down quicker. Also, Beyonce and Jay-Z were playing a
concert at the Rose Bowl and I could not fathom that people were drinking and
dancing and probably singing <i>“my body’s too bootylicious”</i> at that very moment. I
could see the flashing lights below. They did not know my struggle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We eventually rolled into Idlehour aid station, mile 85, and
the site of "the official shutdown of 2013."
I felt remarkably better and proficient, and was even able to keep some
broth and pretzels down. At least I could ride the high of making it out on my own two feet this time. I had originally planned to
take a single ibuprofen here if my legs were hurting, but of course I wouldn’t
be doing that considering my situation. <i>
Just as well</i>, I thought. <i> The pain
is the pain for everyone – why miss out on the fun?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Marshall was amazing at keeping me engaged in conversation
and my mind off of the severe mind fuck this all had become. When my thoughts wandered, I first became
very sad for what had transpired and then angry at myself and my inability to
push any harder. But every time, my
final thoughts lied in gratitude and relief that I was still able to move
forward. The very worst thing would have
been if I had been medically pulled back at Chantry. If I had DNF'd AC for the second time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The climb up to Sam Merril was at least better than Upper
Winter Creek on account of the gentler grade and I was able to move at least a
tad more consistently. It was still dark
when I reached the top, so that was also encouraging. The first year I ran AC, I had reached this
aid station in the blazing heat of the second morning, only to find a jug of
warm water and hot watermelon with flies all over it. My pacer and I raided the drop bags of
friends who had already passed in order to make it down to Millard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE75kb64zt-GuhIPiwxLjXI9AS1as1wyEaJ3tWBEggQyY-SdJou3vm8bfFmBPvJHuvXfgLOzAtafxOrC4BVyB2Jmfqk5iUeu4zfrFsYzsJSfFjtd3Q6qo2koAlojNRmmBjS8I9TVswPU/s1600/Beyonce-Watermelon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE75kb64zt-GuhIPiwxLjXI9AS1as1wyEaJ3tWBEggQyY-SdJou3vm8bfFmBPvJHuvXfgLOzAtafxOrC4BVyB2Jmfqk5iUeu4zfrFsYzsJSfFjtd3Q6qo2koAlojNRmmBjS8I9TVswPU/s1600/Beyonce-Watermelon.jpg" height="228" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bey and I likely had similar expressions at this point in the night. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On this evening, Sam Merril was filled with other warriors
who were battling their own failed attempts at a silver buckle. Balmore Flores had trouble early on – I
passed him coming down Baden-Powell almost an entire day ago – but here he was,
charging to the finish in what was still a PR on the course. Colin Cooley, who had previously finished AC
in under 24-hours was now resorting to shoving ice down his compression socks
to keep some piece of his leg in tact and functioning. He had to walk every step of the downhill
from there on out. And here I was, still
pissing blood and just praying I could at least walk it in if we came to that. We all soldiered on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’d run the next section to Millard enough times in training
this year to not hate it so damn much, and this served me well. Section by section, we clicked it off. I wasn’t moving fast by any means, but hey, I
was also not dejected and walking. I got
passed by yet another woman. I was now
in fifth. It was no longer a race. I just enjoyed Marshall’s company, the
stillness of the early morning and tried not to whimper too much. I told him that I no longer had any desire to
be doing this, but not to worry, that I most assuredly was gonna.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj88d84xmBSTQzJqz9qrefKrumWhLXMH_y4FcAalRlwLnfWap26AQhzAZ25sphT5LfsNHqa4caWovbIwMkQQdEySrh4ChZ-XTOKd9xw9jADh0t3cem5-DDixTJFEtlHAVjGOer3vaxgc/s1600/sunset_sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj88d84xmBSTQzJqz9qrefKrumWhLXMH_y4FcAalRlwLnfWap26AQhzAZ25sphT5LfsNHqa4caWovbIwMkQQdEySrh4ChZ-XTOKd9xw9jADh0t3cem5-DDixTJFEtlHAVjGOer3vaxgc/s1600/sunset_sunrise.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh Pasadena, you are still so far away.<br />
(photo: Marshall Howland, pacer supreme)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we arrived at Millard, I finally knew I was going to
physically be able to complete the race.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Slowing down a bit had put less stress on my body and we’d moved from a
cabernet to a nice rosé in urine department.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a humid, cloudy morning and I doused myself yet again to stay as
cool as possible.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One more bottle of ice
water should get me to Loma Alta Park in one piece.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we rounded the bend out of the aid station, I heard
cheers coming in. It was then that I
informed Marshall that I was not going to be passed anymore on this particular day. It was only 4.5 miles, and I really just couldn’t
deal with it anymore – it was too depressing. I guess this dog still had a little fight left. We finished the last climb on the fire road and began winding
through the Arroyo, trotting along at an unimpressive but “agile” pace. That was Marshall’s word and it somehow made
me feel better. Then, with only two
miles to go, some dude goes literally FLYING past me. I immediately decided that he didn’t count,
on the basis that he was ridiculous. That was, until I saw Kelley from Baden-Powell a
switchback or two up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Nope nope nope.... nope.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I took off. I
don’t know why, but I just could NOT be caught one more time. I figured 20 minutes of pushing wasn’t going
to be enough to send me to the hospital, so I might as well just go for
it. Lo and behold, I started passing
people again! The “ridiculous” dude, a
few others, Ricardo, and my friend Rafferty from back around Sam Merrill. They smiled and cheered me on, I winced and
grunted my interpretation of <i>“good job! Almost there!”</i> Before long, I was staring down the final
climb up to the streets of Altadena.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Fuck it.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ran every step to the top, where my dad happened to be walking up to meet us. He jumped and cheered. I held my
hand up, which in my head, meant, <i>“thanks! Almost done!” </i>The three of us headed down Altadena Drive –
I was legitimately running as hard as I could, and pure adrenaline coursed
through my veins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9hmgQKgynZNIwbbryQmW16uTGuYfoapyoNSOeHfjctMF7CgNtkw4QeyWAvmTGE96FYQY7eIpw54Q5W3Z3RcYUpWui4WgVBsUAydgTG0HtyooATdJZ8ynb9-izgoRqlbqNtJJev6Ma-RU/s1600/finish_push.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9hmgQKgynZNIwbbryQmW16uTGuYfoapyoNSOeHfjctMF7CgNtkw4QeyWAvmTGE96FYQY7eIpw54Q5W3Z3RcYUpWui4WgVBsUAydgTG0HtyooATdJZ8ynb9-izgoRqlbqNtJJev6Ma-RU/s1600/finish_push.jpg" height="223" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I get to lay down soon.<br />
(photo: Marshall Howland)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And that was it. The
park came into view, and I rounded the corner.
I saw Dom waiting under the banner with his arms outstretched and I
began to cry. I wanted a hug, but I also
really wanted to lie in the fetal position immediately. I was having an existential crisis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5rUfpdLZGUrEN8ztg1h7mSkLjqSP057t7nY6weRQzkJio3eqCo6bVGHSVf45xuys2WOwXTfr8cbeGT6R2NC0E0GZTVrhMERSMsS7XjuAgySmosodIoCqg5JWMR_5mEtBHNnad9Rvc2k/s1600/10339340_10203916249002554_2404893606246317383_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5rUfpdLZGUrEN8ztg1h7mSkLjqSP057t7nY6weRQzkJio3eqCo6bVGHSVf45xuys2WOwXTfr8cbeGT6R2NC0E0GZTVrhMERSMsS7XjuAgySmosodIoCqg5JWMR_5mEtBHNnad9Rvc2k/s1600/10339340_10203916249002554_2404893606246317383_o.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love you, but I also love the ground!<br />
(photo: Cynthia Zarate)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had no idea what time it was, where I could go to be most
comfortable or what the fuck had actually just happened. Uncle Hal pulled me up off the ground. I
tried to die in a chair. I eventually went and laid on a cot while poor
Marshall got in his car and drove to work.
My mom fed me a grilled cheese, and Dom came by every 25 minutes or so to
encourage me to go take a shower. I
didn’t want to do that because then I’d be alone for the first time since my
body shut down on me. I was scared of
what I might think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2hdqjOj0cf_GKtdgnAOP8di1vaKww74RWwbW7PI6Rc7IHyXAPd44114u73Qu56FLa2cEEJw8Tczp6za5YWesY2nz6V5WDn95Skxo24Ce0kEHSGG6XBpt7Lh44zAuYPKmS0kdwn9-F5o/s1600/10446198_10152625510533832_4345616335511534382_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2hdqjOj0cf_GKtdgnAOP8di1vaKww74RWwbW7PI6Rc7IHyXAPd44114u73Qu56FLa2cEEJw8Tczp6za5YWesY2nz6V5WDn95Skxo24Ce0kEHSGG6XBpt7Lh44zAuYPKmS0kdwn9-F5o/s1600/10446198_10152625510533832_4345616335511534382_o.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Hal was proud of me. Better than a hunk of metal in ANY color.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95CqbvhkgmMfWyV0pXAXhhmWCoSmlXYS_1f8LwiNw6uDXjGuc1L4mzUkGGrrGk-QFYzMbeloyBU5lZTJwGUM8OeKMBUq8NnDp6HHaYRHzWb99Gv12MKIHORQjxZYKCingW7H8teueNz4/s1600/10535558_10152625510633832_2085861873000071239_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95CqbvhkgmMfWyV0pXAXhhmWCoSmlXYS_1f8LwiNw6uDXjGuc1L4mzUkGGrrGk-QFYzMbeloyBU5lZTJwGUM8OeKMBUq8NnDp6HHaYRHzWb99Gv12MKIHORQjxZYKCingW7H8teueNz4/s1600/10535558_10152625510633832_2085861873000071239_o.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I imagine childbirth will be like. Only less painful.<br />
(photo: Chris Gaggia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fortunately, when the time came for me to shower things were
a-ok. For starters, the pain from my
chaffing was actually not any worse than the pain of simply standing, so it
didn’t turn all<i> Psycho</i> in a Pasadena-area Holiday Inn. Secondly, I was mainly filled with relief
that I had been able to finish, so the dissenting thoughts were easily
quelled. I had run a damn near perfect
race for 75 miles, which seemed like a pretty good improvement. Looking back, I’d actually run the race the
exact same way if I could do it all over again.
The only thing that lingered was the possibility that maybe I should
have been able to keep pushing for the last 25, and that maybe my mind had used
the bloody urine as an excuse to back off the intensity. Maybe I had been unreasonably scared about
running hard in that situation, and maybe there was nothing to worry about.
Maybe that’s just what it took for me to get that elusive silver buckle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_39FnjVrofTmvKV-5ecTt11I3gHGuKt1K6PS5uwomz1-AlxjBDYioYsjbjleraQpDT4QCGyMwNO68I4Bf6fyEErrK1_veycstIhpmk8ukydbYX8Fh6iT_2DULmiI76kq-1HR2lohUC2g/s1600/1075359_10203167604050017_727233136347937198_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_39FnjVrofTmvKV-5ecTt11I3gHGuKt1K6PS5uwomz1-AlxjBDYioYsjbjleraQpDT4QCGyMwNO68I4Bf6fyEErrK1_veycstIhpmk8ukydbYX8Fh6iT_2DULmiI76kq-1HR2lohUC2g/s1600/1075359_10203167604050017_727233136347937198_o.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hal said that "never giving up" is what it's all about, and I have to agree. This was a very happy moment.<br />
(photo: Ivan Buzik)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the urging of <a href="http://ultramedicalteam.org/" target="_blank">Nick from medical</a>, I went to the doctor a
few days later for a urine and blood test.
At this point, the what-ifs were officially stomped out with a diagnosis
of rhabdomyolisis. I could barely
believe it. How in the actual hell had
this happened? I was very well trained,
had taken no ibuprofen and actually ran pretty comfortably all day. This was basically the weirdest thing
ever. My doctor, of course, wanted to
know why I didn’t just stop running when this happened, but as we talked
through it, she also supported the idea that with no kidney pain, no excessive
leg pain and no coca-cola urine, I had not been doing any serious damage to
myself. By backing off the stress level,
I very well may have saved myself from entering the danger zone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I share this not because I think I’m some sort of badass for
pissing blood and finishing a race with rhabdo, but rather because there is
nary a story of rhabdo that does not end with dialysis. Apparently, a mild case is actually not a
huge deal – unless you let it become one. And you <i>can</i> have a bit of rhabdo for reasons other than pushing way too hard or abusing NSAIDs. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I took care of myself out there at the first signs of serious distress – slowing down, drinking more - and treated
my body with respect. The result was not
perfect, by any means, but I have the blood work to prove completely normal
kidney function. Despite rhabdomyolisis. The only thing any of us can conclude is that
I may have been dehydrated in the humid conditions. I’ll focus on drinking more in the
future. And that’s it. I'm sad that this happened, but am glad that I did exactly what I did for the remainder of the race. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">27:30:43. Another bronze buckle. Fifth place. A 3+ hour PR on the AC course. My first 100 mile finish in 21 months. Clear
pee. There’s not a whole lot I can
complain about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dJ32XWgxXTLjUVx74IZBlyvJUXAnknqui9VP7oWZMsSMkfgqfzuwJqm38qq3-uVEpcxg3IWhYhPpCnqiFo5vlKdCrRMlsyU6tSvQNDHenvjYddl7bzzBNSE5UmHVpDBlEigmmAy-Xy0/s1600/10325713_810428688988938_2282664714688661361_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dJ32XWgxXTLjUVx74IZBlyvJUXAnknqui9VP7oWZMsSMkfgqfzuwJqm38qq3-uVEpcxg3IWhYhPpCnqiFo5vlKdCrRMlsyU6tSvQNDHenvjYddl7bzzBNSE5UmHVpDBlEigmmAy-Xy0/s1600/10325713_810428688988938_2282664714688661361_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shared agony. Shared happiness.<br />
(photo: Joan DeSplinter)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">SHOES: modified New
Balance 110v2<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">SOCKS: Injinji Trail
2.0 – no blisters, but should have work the mini-crew length for the debris
situation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">FUEL: PowerGel (over
50 of them!), PowerBar Recovery Mix, avocado, soda, sparkling water, broth,
Pringles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ELECTROLYTES: a few
SaltStick<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">POST RACE BREW:
Golden Road Grapefruit Saison<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THANK YOUS: Mom and
Dad, Marshall, Momica, Hillary for the incredible shirts, New Balance, Injinji,
PowerBar and every single friend out on the course and at the aid station. That was really freaking fun and I think we
should all do it again next year. Also, BIG thanks to Nick and the Ultra Medical Team from both me and my family. I owe my finish to your knowledge and help out there.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQCOs3Z680K0cyh06u-yhlPEgcRr-IvteOr0qFEj3qYErixycMltg0kvfRGlWclQauLAZ5crjMiRgHbAE5Bcimz5cYchtcYOiSNchfZ46DQLDUa80gKS53D8Rfzu1OCbqIDGn2liC1Dtg/s1600/10464255_328950150604816_8409587600228781023_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQCOs3Z680K0cyh06u-yhlPEgcRr-IvteOr0qFEj3qYErixycMltg0kvfRGlWclQauLAZ5crjMiRgHbAE5Bcimz5cYchtcYOiSNchfZ46DQLDUa80gKS53D8Rfzu1OCbqIDGn2liC1Dtg/s1600/10464255_328950150604816_8409587600228781023_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aaaand all is back to normal.<br />
(photo: Elan Lieber)</td></tr>
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<!--EndFragment-->katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-64316385344087978552014-07-31T17:01:00.001-07:002014-07-31T17:01:19.719-07:00Ready or not. It's here.<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So… hey. This blog still exists. I forgot too! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Actually, I didn’t forget and the truth is not that I haven’t had time. It’s that I haven’t made it a priority with the time I have had. We’ve basically been going full throttle since May (and my last entry) and now here I am only a few days away from my big goal of the year – the elusive Angeles Crest 100. This is my attempt to figure out where all the time went and answer the burning question everyone has been asking:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>So, are you ready?</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jesus. Stop asking that. I beg of you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We left off with a win at the Bishop 50 miler, which I felt pretty good about. It was a great test of my ability to push hard just for the sake of pushing hard. There was no one around, but I was intently focused on making it hurt as the temperature soared and the miles drug on. I closed hard, hoping to break 9 hours on the challenging course, but turns out it was a few miles long and I had to take 30-60 seconds at each aid to completely douse myself, save I explode in the exposed desert. I was very happy with the effort, felt recovered after a few days and then headed up to Auburn for the Western States Memorial Day Training Weekend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u><b>FOOT PROBLEMS</b></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is where things momentarily unraveled. 75 miles in three days less than a week after a hard 50 is not a good idea. I say that now. I would say that before, actually. But when faced with the task at hand, I remained entirely resolute that this was the best idea in the whole world. The first 32 mile day was splendid, and I received reassurance from my friend Chris Price who had just run (won) the 100k at Bishop and was doing the same thing. The second day, my foot started to hurt a bit, which was weird, but by the start of day 3 I felt fine. By mile 10 of day 3, however, my foot hurt so bad that I had to stop multiple times just to take weight off of it. I immediately feared the worst.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I couldn’t even walk correctly for three days, so naturally, I decided to just run on it. This technique didn’t work. I started seeing Nano PT immediately and we began treating a strained peroneus brevis. This little asshole put a serious dent in my mileage, but luckily I could still do my Hot Yoga Barre classes, spend time in the ‘ole Hypoxico and not let myself go to total shit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>SHADOW OF THE GIANTS 50K</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A week later, I found myself limping to the starting line of the Shadow of the Giants 50k, fully expecting to drop after 10 miles. I wouldn’t have even started, but it was a matter of the heart – Dom and I’s 5-year anniversary of him tricking me into dating him – and I at least wanted to run a few miles. However, I found myself over halfway through before I finally admitted that I was having issues. At this point there was no convenient way to drop, so I figured I may as well run it in. I talked myself into slowing down, relinquishing my lead and generally not caring. This worked, but my calf was seizing like the dickens. For my last trick, I got lost a half mile from the finish and then my whole leg seized up so bad that I had to sit down only yards from the finish. 3 people passed me, and I was rendered useless. Somehow, I still got the thing done under 5 hours, so that seemed ok.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TQPCHTyyBfRJRRT1RgoPmnhLQ80-18iD4-bo51vyxL6tcOofNZVBpnXmBQBEx66eck_kz-OqD6697imjffG43urIqFkqgWj3nur2ESgvqAws6ZG2DDum2L1w5aAek1in8JHBadTfWWk/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TQPCHTyyBfRJRRT1RgoPmnhLQ80-18iD4-bo51vyxL6tcOofNZVBpnXmBQBEx66eck_kz-OqD6697imjffG43urIqFkqgWj3nur2ESgvqAws6ZG2DDum2L1w5aAek1in8JHBadTfWWk/s1600/photo.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Limping around the Panorama Trail - First Date looms in the background</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>EVERYTHING IS LOST</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The following week I had planned on hiking up in the Sierras in preparation for San Juan Solstice, but I still couldn’t walk very well. So I did a bunch of heat training and watched the entire first season of Orange is the New Black while sitting at 13,000’ in the Hypoxico. I felt powerless. And also pissed that my trip to the San Juans was kind of expensive and non-refundable. At any rate, I got on the plane a few days later and hoped for a miracle.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiM3dTxxqhX57te8VoR_ZJYQpcZr8y2co2mPTuG-RF3yZaxI3Z09vKU0M1zOHMMoGSu8yGxgLI76qT3Zt2gqu-h7RgFcxCyTMttr8gqky6CtRutOwpPJT6p_nWh_vD8GhnG4ZcAYSh6Y/s1600/10394485_10102263636136990_4157309432690297538_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiM3dTxxqhX57te8VoR_ZJYQpcZr8y2co2mPTuG-RF3yZaxI3Z09vKU0M1zOHMMoGSu8yGxgLI76qT3Zt2gqu-h7RgFcxCyTMttr8gqky6CtRutOwpPJT6p_nWh_vD8GhnG4ZcAYSh6Y/s1600/10394485_10102263636136990_4157309432690297538_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I get it Piper. I, too, am trapped in a prison.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>SAN JUAN SOLSTICE 50 MILE</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I really hoped I hadn’t wasted said miracle on the rental car upgrade I received in Gunnison. And as I stood on the starting line in Lake City, my foot still hurting, I was most certain that I had. Even if the drasted thing held up, I would surely perish above 12,000’. I hadn’t run that high all year and honestly had not been to Baldy since the winter. This is the part where I begin forgetting all of the great training that has happened this year and focusing on how terrible I am. These voices swirled as I huffed my way up the first major climb – other runners streaming by like I was standing still. Oh, I forgot the best part – less than an hour in, I fell into one of the numerous “creek” crossings (read: raging rivers) and soaked myself to the bone. Two other runners plucked me out by my pack before I was swept downstream. EXCITEMENT! My entire body was numb for the next three hours. MORE EXCITEMENT!!!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZycwj3CamKrjGVN4sZ6YRtgTeMKkt6n9ZW4388zlVm1qLyTyRoTyI11y9YYYNZUxAekb8dGUh3tmOTfugUBM23pylNjuGjIkoRHIresk8GpbFshfrmClxl13AmZoMvZWwlchk_z4Lt4/s1600/David+Eitemiller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZycwj3CamKrjGVN4sZ6YRtgTeMKkt6n9ZW4388zlVm1qLyTyRoTyI11y9YYYNZUxAekb8dGUh3tmOTfugUBM23pylNjuGjIkoRHIresk8GpbFshfrmClxl13AmZoMvZWwlchk_z4Lt4/s1600/David+Eitemiller.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sampling of the views up around 13,000'<br />(photo: David Eitemiller)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Luckily, things improved from then on out and I went to serious work on the second climb up to 13k. I passed a ton of folks and started feeling pretty good about things, save the girl cramps I was inconveniently experiencing. It was about this point that I also noticed that my foot really didn’t hurt. Weird! But just as the joy is giveth, the joy is taken, stomped upon and locked away never to be seen again. The results of only sitting in a tent above 12,000’ – not actually trying to run- began rearing it’s ugly, but expected head. I was now to run 12 miles up above this altitude and the effect of staying at such a height expressed itself as the most severe lightheadedness I’d ever felt. I was dizzy as hell and expected to navigate tricky snowfields with not even a handheld to self-arrest should I falter (as if that would have worked anyway, but that was the dude behind me’s plan). I walked a LOT. I added at least an hour onto my total time, if not more. I was not dejected, however, because my brain did not know how to feel feelings. It only knew to keep moving, keep eating and get the fuck to tree line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess I looked shitty enough that they tried to hold me at the Divide aid station, right as a wicked storm blew in. I was having none of that, so I poured some Mountain Dew into some cold soupy “mashed potatoes” and threw it down the ‘ole hatch, saying <i>“I am fine now that I have Mountain Dew! Toodles!”</i> Basically, I just avoided eye contact so that I could leave. Sure enough, within 10 minutes and as I approached tree line, I felt MUCH better. So much so that I decided to run as hard as I could on the way in. My legs actually didn’t hurt at all. Which is code for, of course they hurt – I had just run 30-something miles in the mountains, but not enough to affect my gait. I threw on some tunes, attacked the last major climb and then flew on down to town. I ended up feeling really satisfied about the whole thing, and REALLY happy my foot was now cured. By running 50 miles in the mountains. Over extremely shitty terrain. Makes sense to me!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>WESTERN STATES</u></b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYns5xOwcxOTVlX5YHR5k5sKEIn9BYAVwAMbKxJXbcf9-erawYcU61E0Rc6dDv9S6jNSyfX91qkJ_XURghfweYR2Id-wf44XHzyqUA1Bz5M1ns2nnK3vdmCbRavTYShUyMURzn2qQuco/s1600/10393808_10102333395553560_5983261729881077188_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYns5xOwcxOTVlX5YHR5k5sKEIn9BYAVwAMbKxJXbcf9-erawYcU61E0Rc6dDv9S6jNSyfX91qkJ_XURghfweYR2Id-wf44XHzyqUA1Bz5M1ns2nnK3vdmCbRavTYShUyMURzn2qQuco/s1600/10393808_10102333395553560_5983261729881077188_n.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ultimate selfie.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the race I drove 3 and a half hours to Telluride and went to the famous Bluegrass Festival the following day. Worth it. Then I woke up early for another run, drove 3 hours back to Gunnison and flew back to LA. I worked for 3 days, and then drove to Tahoe for Western States, procuring a speeding ticket in the process. I didn’t get much running in, but did get to pace Dom for the last bit of his race, which turned into a nice little speed workout (no joke). Maybe this was all for the best considering my last mountain race to Western States related outing. <i> Foot = good.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><u>HARDROCK/SAN JUAN QUEST</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I went back to LA for four more days of work and then drove all night to Silverton, CO for a 10-day training vacation. Dom had to recover, but I hit it hard - running for 4-6 hours a day up high. Of course, I made the mistake of checking the interwebs when I was in town and immediately became convinced that everyone else was training harder than me and that I was a complete loser. You see, 4 hours in the San Juans may only represent 8-10 miles, when accounting for the long ascents, snow fields and occasional items requiring a rope. Luckily I had a 20 mile day on tap, and then 42 miles pacing my friend Howie at Hardrock. The 20 mile day was incredibly intense – filled with route-finding, constant rain and hail, lightning on the ridge and eventually encountering no way to get through Putnam Basin to the Bear Creek trail and me running to Molas instead. Dom drove from town to pick me up, as I regaled him with tales of learned techniques for surviving and keeping all my fingers. This involved punching myself in the boob to get a gel out of my pack’s pocket, procuring it from the ground with my knuckles and then using my teeth to saw it open. I then clasped and released my hands like you do when you are having blood drawn for the entire duration of my run. To this day, I have no idea why I didn’t wear my nicer gloves.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyzcYHC4O71v03sFza8FwtEAou_FpyjrklWihJnsGkdAIj76K1ACSaTwMUD9HXSGaDu1WjvNB4RDNn2zbEwc7v4-O-7D8qKNdKjMJ63yye4woRl34oWmCg2BQ2qv5bUO0T6paMdXyXRKI/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyzcYHC4O71v03sFza8FwtEAou_FpyjrklWihJnsGkdAIj76K1ACSaTwMUD9HXSGaDu1WjvNB4RDNn2zbEwc7v4-O-7D8qKNdKjMJ63yye4woRl34oWmCg2BQ2qv5bUO0T6paMdXyXRKI/s1600/photo-1.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post-holing our way up Virginius. Long, difficult day, also with shitty gloves.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The highlight of my trip, unsurprisingly, was Hardrock 2014 and one of the hardest races of my life. Mind you, I was not actually IN the race and I only ran 42 miles of the specified 100. But that shit was bananas. After crewing all day and not sleeping, I found myself heading out of Grouse around 12:30am directly into a very bad storm. I was wearing shorts and regretting that among many choices, especially after tending to a bewildered Billy Simpson – fresh off a hypothermic battle royale with Engineer Pass. Howie gave me an out, but there was no way in hell I was going to wimp out and go back to the warm car. This would be fun! </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3Yap9K91Wuo-jH8Ikzz9LR5jsvbsOXn51orNOv1qDCIiEr_5OO5U8AnZyGbVpSrwcMUM9425UCfNG1pUssTfBdmfK0oC3XzN8Lp1NJUhBxPKJLZw74jaGK8LYw4hg2jYXD_OA1sQOXI/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3Yap9K91Wuo-jH8Ikzz9LR5jsvbsOXn51orNOv1qDCIiEr_5OO5U8AnZyGbVpSrwcMUM9425UCfNG1pUssTfBdmfK0oC3XzN8Lp1NJUhBxPKJLZw74jaGK8LYw4hg2jYXD_OA1sQOXI/s1600/photo.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You guys. This is Billy. We're not fucking around here.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We made our way up over Handies (14k) under a full moon. Which was under a thick layer of clouds. Which were spewing rain and hail upon our fragile souls. I ate all of the gels in my pack in an attempt to stay warm/awake. Yes, all of the gels I had planned to carry for 42 miles – I shit you not. Coming down the backside, Howie was concerned about how much he’d slowed down, but I was convinced it was just the fact that it was like 3 in the morning and anyone would be tired as hell at that hour. I surely was. I was tripping all over the place because I couldn’t keep my eyes open.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Burrows Park aid finally came, and we ate and drank to our hearts’ content. As we left, there was finally a hint of light in the sky and the next part was some super easy cruising on a fire road. Sure enough, life got way better – honestly, for both of us. Howie even convinced me to eat flowers. Things were fantastic through Sherman and all the way up to Cataract Lake-ish, when silly Howie thought he had lost the ability to run. I made him eat a protein bar, which he then informed me he was allergic to, and this helped slightly. At some point, I fell in a raging creek (theme of the San Juans) and soaked myself and all my layers, which was great for what lie ahead. I began eating everything of fat and protein content at the aid stations – hard boiled eggs, avocados, turkey sandwiches (4 of them at Maggie’s) and pumpkin pie – in an attempt to gain body fat right on the spot and insulate myself for the unrelenting storms. Shit proceeded to get very intense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somewhere up on Maggie Pass, little Howie got his wings. I didn’t quite see this sacred gift bestowed, as there were ice pellets firing down from the sky and I couldn’t even see the course markers, let alone a goddam miracle. People were hiding under rocks, I was hiding under my own arm and we were all communicating by screaming at the tops of our respective lungs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>HEY GUYS, THERE’S ROOM UNDER HERE IF YOU WANT TO COME UNDER!</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>FUCK NO! THAT IS A VERY BAD IDEA! WE ARE GOING OVER THE PASS NOW!</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And suddenly, I found myself having difficulty keeping up. Howie was a man possessed and I tried to burn the whole scene in my memory to call upon on some unnamed switchback on Upper Winter Creek. The infamous mile 75 climb of the Angeles Crest 100. AKA nowhere near as bad as this shit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>HEY HOWIE! POLE CREEK IS OUR CHANTRY! WE JUST HAVE TO CLIMB UP TO SAM MERRILL AND WE’RE HOME FREEEEE! </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Clash of thunder.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Hail comes down harder.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I am sorry, Lord, for suggesting we might come out of this thing alive.)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywGjXSeWUnyOuobXTPY5nuSNXtWS9MiRTqlJKrm6J-Bxk9zd_XL1vn6u9bca7_nbTabSt_sbNdnpih7zaL-sUkuUFG3gj4sIXFaRRn8RtMFLzulnwnCzoImYmIq_Ziu6f0XKfTn45qJ0/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjywGjXSeWUnyOuobXTPY5nuSNXtWS9MiRTqlJKrm6J-Bxk9zd_XL1vn6u9bca7_nbTabSt_sbNdnpih7zaL-sUkuUFG3gj4sIXFaRRn8RtMFLzulnwnCzoImYmIq_Ziu6f0XKfTn45qJ0/s1600/photo-1.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A slight pause from the wrath. (Also pictured: more wrath looming ahead.)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Only here, the climb up to Sam Merril was a 2700’ ascent in only a mile and a half, AKA a motherfucking wall. Now 91 miles in, Stern-o dropped my ass… left literally crawling up to the top in yet another storm. (Thank goodness I could still downhill.) I can’t imagine how happy he was to top out and see Silverton far below, but I think I now have a better idea than ever before. We finished up a few hours later – Stern with a shiny new Hardrock PR and 6th finish. Me with a shiny new appreciation for what it takes to be a Hardrocker and really, just an all around tough runner. It was an amazing experience and I’m forever grateful to Howie for letting me pace him the last two years. I certainly learned a thing or twelve.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcb4XfhoiLfTNb-DJ-2oVKe6KC0KsBVh45J3XwojCyKVj7ILh2bX0rAqKfL8KmzXqD_BezVaL4bBu_IUyVl-A_fgk42nbHXgG2_OEaFGEmhVufnFo7Lh_N1aJA23vTpQhZEF_yU8tONJg/s1600/10550855_727649020632413_5654264259604375563_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcb4XfhoiLfTNb-DJ-2oVKe6KC0KsBVh45J3XwojCyKVj7ILh2bX0rAqKfL8KmzXqD_BezVaL4bBu_IUyVl-A_fgk42nbHXgG2_OEaFGEmhVufnFo7Lh_N1aJA23vTpQhZEF_yU8tONJg/s1600/10550855_727649020632413_5654264259604375563_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Howie Stern - 6 time finisher; also running AC </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, the real question is: will any of those twelve things help me at AC, which as I mentioned is only a day and a half away? Your guess is as good as mine. I definitely worked on my hiking game more this year than ever before, and spent a lot more time running hard up very high. My first workout back from CO turned into hill repeats that felt like an out-of-body experience, so that seemed good. I ran Vincent Gap to Cloudburst two weekends ago and it literally felt like nothing. As in, I ran easy and finished feeling like I’d done nothing. I jogged up Baden-Powell talking the entire way. It was weird.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yet here I sit with the overwhelming feeling that I haven’t done enough. My mileage is not where it was last year. My consistency was all jacked up with races. Races that went well – but still. Races require adequate rest, as I’ve learned the hard way, so I’ve made it to this day feeling healthy but questioning everything. I try to remind myself that this is the way it goes heading into the major goal race of the year, particularly when that goal race is a mountain 100 miler. So many things can happen. So many things WILL happen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve run faster this year. I’ve done more 30+ mile runs than before, and they don’t feel like 30+ mile runs. I’ve finished all of my races. I’ve finished all of my races feeling strong at the end and able to push hard. Most of my runs I’ve felt OK to <i>BEST DAY EVER!</i>; with the absolute miserable suffer-fests few and far between. Usually by this point in the affair, I have more shitty runs than good ones. So maybe I <i>have</i> learned something. Maybe the right thing to do was build my base and really high mileage in the first part of the year and then sharpen with races and hard workouts. All signs in my body are pointing to yes, and yet…. I just don’t know. I’ve never done it this way before.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve trained the entire year by feel. I’ve raced every single race by feel. I’ve fueled by feel. I’ve slept by feel. And it’s all worked out really, really well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But do I <i>feel</i> ready for the Angeles Crest 100 this weekend?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like I said, let’s stop asking that question. The only thing I honestly feel right now is everything.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWWXpeGT0Xv0D0XWgulJqByH7ZNhC0wtG9UriSMRu96C1HRzFCsLKxbPWw6hp9XiW7gp2m55c6XLm9BKvvm_LTnIxA9tKIJIDdtIxSVViMhLpqDi_czBT3G4sjMY50npDsg3jPqKvZsY/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWWXpeGT0Xv0D0XWgulJqByH7ZNhC0wtG9UriSMRu96C1HRzFCsLKxbPWw6hp9XiW7gp2m55c6XLm9BKvvm_LTnIxA9tKIJIDdtIxSVViMhLpqDi_czBT3G4sjMY50npDsg3jPqKvZsY/s1600/photo.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haha, guys. Remember when the course looked like this?</td></tr>
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katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-11020743287024719642014-05-21T21:47:00.002-07:002014-05-21T21:47:53.701-07:00Racing a Race: Bishop High Sierra 50 Mile<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was running down the trail one Thursday morning, when Guillaume turned to me and said, <i>“you know, I was looking at the video from Gorge Waterfalls and you didn’t really look like you were trying.”</i> I thought this was a pretty good compliment, until he continued, <i>“I think you could have gone a lot harder.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The weekend before the Bishop High Sierra 50 miler, I was finishing up a quick and easy 15 on the AC course, when I ran into the Three Amigos. I justified my low miles with the admission that I was racing in six days and just going to “see what happens.” This was apparently not the correct answer. What I was supposed to say was that I was racing and I was going to win.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">None of this was all too new, as I live with a man who tells me things like this all the time. As such, I realized something had to be done very quickly. Because none of these fools thought I was actually racing my races.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uW2Ld86yF7YEm7uWseoSmyTXpAWI6MZL_FDwkhBOopA_Ibosv1YiBwrowp4v8Oq6jICK2yizl3Fu1obGWld5BIZ2tZW_PVgOF8-QPr8Vk60YnR6i1XTL4ncXL1T-KZK3_4ITdyTAze8/s1600/10325706_10154209307240707_4094608369322013603_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uW2Ld86yF7YEm7uWseoSmyTXpAWI6MZL_FDwkhBOopA_Ibosv1YiBwrowp4v8Oq6jICK2yizl3Fu1obGWld5BIZ2tZW_PVgOF8-QPr8Vk60YnR6i1XTL4ncXL1T-KZK3_4ITdyTAze8/s1600/10325706_10154209307240707_4094608369322013603_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how I feel, both today, and every day of my life.<br />(Photo: Dominic Grossman)<br />(Extremely accurate enhancement: Ethan Newberry)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is how I found myself ten miles in and a third of the way up a 4500’ climb, huffing and puffing my way through the BHS50. And how five miles later, I was still running uphill, not letting myself hike and wondering where in the hell the 50k runners would turn around. This remained elusive for so long because, turns out, I was actually ahead of most all of the 50k runners. Was this a bad idea? <i>“Not so!”</i> says the me who had something to prove to five very specific men. I pressed on to the high point of the course, 9,000 and something feet. Still running.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqyZ_JNEhHFWvC86jTtSRJR0APOlTGHYonvMtIODuoMekpMW-DsNNG4KwGAGtnFV7EjZP5ukRFo_8OyMnsESoHjABt9oY9UiCFTU7t86oE95RP1im28vutEYItfTUGcdqvnwlNXEERgY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-05-21+at+3.18.18+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqyZ_JNEhHFWvC86jTtSRJR0APOlTGHYonvMtIODuoMekpMW-DsNNG4KwGAGtnFV7EjZP5ukRFo_8OyMnsESoHjABt9oY9UiCFTU7t86oE95RP1im28vutEYItfTUGcdqvnwlNXEERgY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-05-21+at+3.18.18+PM.png" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steven Evers and I sharing some early morning miles. Steven is a sophomore <br />in high school, folks. Zero jokes - kid's legit.<br />(Photo: <a href="http://www.seanmalone.photography/Bishop-High-Sierra-Ultra-Marat" target="_blank">Sean Malone</a>)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My hips were really hurting, on account of the sandy, gradual Jeep road. I was sinking into the terrain and losing power, wondering if I’d be completely blown out by the top. That said, I was thanking my lucky stars that a nice cloud cover was rolling in and giving us some reprieve from the rising heat. I’d spent a week in the 98 degree sweat-box that was my unairconditioned apartment during a LA heat wave and there was really only so much more I could take. The night before the race – camping at 4500’ – was the most sleep I’d had in a week.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nick Lachey in the house.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was a mile or so of downhill around mile 15-ish, and to my delight, my legs opened right up. It was just what I needed to push up the last climb to the overlook. I caught up to my friend Howie, which seemed like possibly a bad idea, but I reasoned he’d catch right back up on the downhill. I passed a few others and caught up to Ethan Veneklasen at the top, who I also didn’t expect to be anywhere near. All of these things frightened me greatly, but nevertheless, I turned around and bombed back downhill. I had to have a good story for Guillaume.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I rolled along alone the next ten miles, I decided to rock some tunes for “enhancement.” I usually don’t listen to music in races, but I was in a generally good mood and thought I might like to sing a bit. This was a really, really good idea because it was really, really fun. The snow capped Sierras were gorgeous, there was a fun hurdling section of downed trees, and I wasn’t finding the climbs to be all that difficult. Admittedly, I was having some stomach issues – stopping three times to use the facilities (bushes) in the first 30 – but was saved by the advanced planning of Tums in all my drop bags. Also, the stomach situation was not hindered at all by the consumption of PowerGels or recovery drink, so I figured it was merely a by-product of running hard at altitude. I pressed on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pounded it with Mr. Prizzle as he flew by, leading the 100k and the entire race. Others came and went, but not many at all. Not nearly as many as I’d expected. But one was a girl with a 50k bib and she was flying… albeit no longer on the 50k course. This is the interesting thing about the BHS ultras. At any time you can switch the distance you are running, so you never really know what’s going on (if you care about that sort of thing.) As such, I concluded that she had decided to bump up to the 50 mile and was absolutely kicking my ass. However, when I saw my friend Sada (100k) on the Bishop Creek Lodge turnaround, she said this flying mystery woman hadn’t done the Edison loop (that loop being 6 miles with a good 1000 ft of climb to over 9,000 ft). I was confused by the whole thing, but there was honestly nothing I could do about it. I was doing my very best, so if someone else’s best was better, so be it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Around this time, I began to notice that the clouds were burning off and it was getting warmer and warmer. Keep in mind, I was still at 8,000 ft. If it was hot up here… oh my, I didn’t even want to think about it.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, Nick. No.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I started back on the rolling section of the course, I thought back to when I had run this race three years ago. I’d been running decently well up until this point, when I began hiking most of the uphills, pretty much dead. By the time I hit the long descent to town, I was puking and actually dead. Part of me choosing the 50 mile over the 100k distance was having the comparison factor and hopefully seeing how much I had improved in the last few years. The other part is that there is not one iota of me that in any way desires to do an out-and-back on a lame-o dusty fireroad when I’m less than 2 miles from the finish and beer. I have priorities, people. <i>Anyway</i>, I reasoned that part of that improvement should be that I had the ability to run these climbs at altitude, in the heat, after 30 miles. That’s what I’d need to do at August's Angeles Crest 100, so that’s what I best be doing now. What I was also doing now, was breathing like a fat man on a stair master and I'll be damned if I didn't keep that up for the rest of the race. The other thing I'd be keeping up is passing people. All the yo-yoing with other runners officially ceased at this moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is precisely why I was startled to catch a red shirt in my peripheral, steadily approaching from behind. Man or woman, friend or foe – I could not discern, so I just put my head back down and ran. I was actually quite surprised at how good my legs felt and how strong I was taking the downhills. I’ve been dealing with a bit of turf toe the entire year and a little ITB for the past few weeks, but was feeling none of it now. Dom would really be proud of me, I thought. But I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him today, as he was off adventuring on Paiute Pass and hadn’t made it back down to the course in time. I’d have held out a 40% chance if he’d told me he’d definitely see me, but given that the last thing he’d said to me at the start was <i>“don’t hold your breath,”</i> I knew my chances were exactly -15%. At least I’d be able to tell him how well I’d just pushed up this hill, I thought, as I stole one more glance at the advancing red dot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>DOM!!!!</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My heart grew so happy as I realized it really was, *<i>blink blink*,</i> my favorite human and he was coming to see me. Before long, he trotted up beside me, smiling and sure enough, complimenting me on my pace. Apparently he’d made it down to the Intake 2 aid station thinking he’d be surprising me shortly, only to find out I was long gone. He’d been chasing me for the last 4 miles, and I wasn’t exactly running slow. Considering I’d had a good 5-10 minute lead, homeboy was putting down some good splits, and retrospectively, I’m happy I helped him get that mini-speed workout in. He asked if I was winning, and I told him I couldn’t be sure. He thought he’d seen the mystery 50k runner I spoke of sitting back at Intake 2, but I trusted nothing at this point. The heat began it’s attack.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey! Everything is still going so well!<br />(Photo: Dominic Grossman)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now around mile 37, we were still up right under 8,000’ and we were going to descend all the way down to 4,400’. Things were going to get worse and that was a fact. Dom insisted I start dousing myself with water, but it wasn’t long before I was doing this without command. The lower we got, the less I was able to speak and the more labored my breath became. I was running hard, but my legs said faster! We can go faster! However, every time I tried to drop down below 7/7:30-ish, I felt as if I would hyperventilate and was forced to dial it back. Checking my watch, it looked as if I may go sub-9 on this course, which would be incredible for me. This excited me greatly.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whee! I am running in the mountains!<br />(Photo: Dominic Grossman)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I hit what I thought was the second to last aid station and doused myself with sponges, I inquired on the exact mileage to the last. <i>“3.7 to the next, then 3.7 to go!” </i> No, no, no – there should only be 5-ish miles left. You’re saying 7.5. I can’t do 7.5 in the time allotted to me. I can’t break 9 hours if this is true.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man, did this ever take the wind out of my sails. I was trapped in this high desert, where fun was evaporating quicker than my sweat. And hotter, still…. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>“I’ve entered a deep pain cave and will no longer speak.”</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was the last thing I said to Dom. Accordingly, he simply moved a bit ahead of me and kept the pace. I kept my eyes on his back and literally thought of nothing. Just run. You wanted this heat. You asked for it. It will be worse at AC. Just go.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We reached a small creek and Dom bent down to splash me, as I was now fully hyperventilating. A few dousings and I was back at it, but my silent focus was finally broken by a scream.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“Ants! ANTS!!!!!”</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently Dom had kneeled on an ant hill and an entire army of stinging red little jerks was now making its way up his shorts. I couldn’t help but laugh, as I left him there, dancing around like a maniac. He’d be fine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What was not fine was this next part of the course. Anyone who ran that shit knows exactly what I’m talking about, but for those of you who weren’t so fortunate to experience your own private hell last Saturday, allow me to elaborate:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were on this Jeep road, which suddenly turned very wide. The downhill grade first flattened, and then turned ever so slightly upward. The dusty surface turned almost white and the glare from the sun made me squint, even behind my sunglasses. The heat was literally burning my skin, the crest of the hill blocked the view, and the only assumption one could make was that we were now doomed to this endeavor for the rest of our existence. At least that would be short, because we were all certainly going to die here. I passed two or three more 50k runners, but could no longer offer any auditory encouragement – partly because of my breathing, mainly because I couldn’t actually be sure that we were going to make it out of here and I didn’t want to be doling out false hope. As such, I resorted to a hearty thumbs-up to my fellow compatriots, battling against what I have since dubbed, “Dumb Road.”</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dom takes a moment for a selfie on Dumb Road. I die a little more inside.<br />(Selfie: Dominic "The King" Grossman)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the grace of god, I did somehow turn off the drasted thing and reached the final aid station. This greatly restored my faith in my ability to not die, and I now focused on getting myself a shiny 50 mile PR. Another dousing, one last PowerGel, some cold Coke, a little puking in my mouth, and I was off!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dom called my Dad about a mile from the finish, as he would soon lose service and we wanted to find out how he did in his trail marathon back in Missouri. In the cool, tree-covered forest. Probably not containing a road that tried to kill him. He happily reported that he had finished despite some wicked cramping and cheered me on. This was the final push I needed to finish strong.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we pulled into the campground, now only a half mile from the official end, my heart began to hurt quite badly. Not in the “that poor kitty only has one leg” sort of way, but more like, “is this… <i>heart attack?</i>” I agreed with Dom that I should probably slow down a bit and just jog it in rather than risk it. “It” being exploding. I crossed the line in 9:19 – a 12 minute PR for the distance. I don’t know what that says for my previous attempts, as this course was much harder and higher and hotter... and just generally not something one should be PR-ing on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe Guillaume was onto something.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fin.<br />(Photo: Dominic Grossman)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things you should know:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">SHOES: New Balance 1400v2</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">SOCKS: Injinji Trail 2.0</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">SUNGLASSES: New Balance Retro Fresh</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">NUTRITION: PowerGels + 3 servings of PowerBar Recovery Mix; Ice Water & Coke from aid stations</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>FAVORITE SONG OF THE DAY: </b> “Bandida” by Audra Mae</span><br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/133628749&color=ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_artwork=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>FAVORITE SECTION OF THE DAY: </b> The aspen-lined trails between McGee Creek and the Edison Loop</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>FAVORITE BEER OF THE DAY: </b> Mammoth Brewing Co. Double Nut Porter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>FAVORITE MOMENT OF THE DAY:</b> Coming back to watch Geoff finish the 100k and wishing he had pizza. We actually had pizza. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you to Tim Stahler and <a href="http://insidetrail.com/" target="_blank">Inside Trail</a>. Taking over a race with this kind of history is no small endeavor and you definitely stepped up to the task. The race was great, the post-race was delightful and the combination of a beer stein and framed photo of the Sierras in the fall is the best prize I’ve ever received. I've also never received both a pint glass AND a stein in the same gesture, but I believe you may have me pegged.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh yeah, that reminds me – I DID actually win the 50 mile race, despite the fact that I was still unsure when I crossed. I was fourth overall, as well, but that’s only because <a href="http://runningmegleg.com/2014/05/21/bishop-high-sierra-100k-2014/" target="_blank">The Queen</a> ran the 100k instead. I’m definitely more confident in my abilities, but I’m not delusional. :)</span><br />
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katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-88556929404924988212014-04-15T15:59:00.000-07:002014-04-15T15:59:23.064-07:00Fresh Start: A Gorge Waterfalls 100k Finish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I grunted my way up the final climb of the Gorge Waterfalls 100k, all I could think about was how weird it would be that in less than 24 hours, I would just be at work. As in, sitting at my desk at a computer. As in, 989 miles south and not surrounded by moss covered trees and rushing waterfalls. What was I supposed to do? Just… </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">work?</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Weekends in the mountains are weird like that. And a three-day weekend that involves a plane ticket, two races and a soaking pool that you could consume alcohol in was enough to make me forget a lot of things. Namely that I had any life outside of three dudes, an extremely green forest and a shit ton of rain.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Did I remember my swim suit or am I wearing my underwear? The world may never know.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Portland, Oregon was the destination and while the race was chosen mainly as an excuse to sight-see a place I’d never been, there was actually quite a bit riding on it for me. I hadn’t raced in six months, since I dropped from the Bear 100 at mile 75 thanks to some unfixable hypothermia. Actually, it had been almost a full year since I finished a race – Zane Grey, where I walked the last 17 miles, rendering it hardly a finish at all. Truth is, I’ve been battling some health issues with my kidneys and adrenals for the past year and a half. I haven’t talked or written much about it, which is probably because I haven’t wanted to look back at it all. The only thing that has kept me pushing forward and positive is the belief that things had to turn around at some point. And so I toed the line on Sunday with the sincere hope that this would be the day to end the curse.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Benson State Rec Area: Excited as one can possibly be at 3:58am.<br />Photo: <a href="http://paulnelson.smugmug.com/" target="_blank">Paul Nelson</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Starting at 4am was a fun challenge. Mainly because waking up at 2:30am is an absolutely awful experience that should be required of no one, but also because running over slick rocks in the pitch black forest with mist swirling in your headlamp and making you feel as if you’re high on Nyquil is quite difficult. Perhaps dangerous, even. Nevertheless, I settled into a nice little pace and just tried to enjoy the morning. I honestly don’t think I could have gone much faster if I were only running the 50k… or even a 5k for that matter. At least not downhill, in the dark. Next to a cliff. That would send me over a waterfall. Obviously, other people were, so I guess I need to work on living more dangerously.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>You can feel it in the air: today is a great day to finish something. <br />Maybe that's actually rain, but whatever man.<br />Photo: <a href="http://paulnelson.smugmug.com/" target="_blank">Paul Nelson</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other challenge of the morning was getting out of my head that I might be getting sick. I had spent Friday walking around rainy Portland and Saturday out crewing Dom and Andy in the 50k (again, with the rain), and perhaps unsurprisingly, my throat had begun to tickle the night prior. Now, it was kind of burning. I had also eaten nothing but a PowerBar, an apple and a few graham crackers for the entire morning and afternoon the day before, partly because I was out at the 50k but mainly because I am an idiot. I tried to console myself with the fact that I ate two dinners, but there really was no contest that I had made poor decisions. I prayed that 31 is still considered young enough to escape facing consequences for not taking care of oneself.*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*Sidenote: I have been legitimately sick with a head cold ever since the race. REGRET NOTHING.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I guess I would find that out soon enough, but for now, things were looking to be on the up and up. The first 12 miles clicked right by, as every step required my utmost concentration and attention. There were four of us of the female variety running basically together – a woman in orange right in front of me – two that I could identify as women by voice right behind. I had no way of knowing where that put us in the grand scheme of things, but the chick in front looked fast, so I felt good about myself. Not that I cared... but I probably cared.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We hit the 2 or 3 mile road section (does it matter?) and something super weird happened. I began passing people. One… two… three… four… I think by the end of it, I’d passed a good six folks and dropped the pair behind me. Not the woman in orange, though. She took OFF and it was one of those <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NoI0eGH4RB0" target="_blank">I’m not even mad, I’m impressed</a></i> things. You see, I was wearing one of those new-fangled GPS watch-a-majigs, which I’d never used before (additional example of my questionable decision-making skills) and it used its witchcraft to tell me I was clocking 7:50 pace uphill. Maybe that’s not so weird for you speedy folks, but that is SUPER weird for 'ole mountain legs over here. I will definitely remember to do a 12 mile warmup before my next 5k. Which will be never.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was excited for this next section, as I knew roaring Elowah Falls was waiting for me less than a mile out of the aid station. And now, after almost 2 1/2 hours, there was just enough light in the sky that I could actually begin the sight-seeing portion of my adventure, which as you recall, was the main point of entering this race. Dom is probably confused by this statement, as my behavior at the first aid station indicated anything but tourism as my chosen activity. I suppose snapping, <i>“WHERE IS MY BOTTLE?”</i> or more specifically, <i>“YOU HAD ONE F***ING JOB.”*</i> would indicate that I may be in the world championships of waterfall running. But I assure you this was not the case, at least not to my knowledge. I mean, this would definitely be the place to hold such a thing, were it a thing, but even then my behavior would be questionable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*Sorry, Dom.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2in8hIYQy2xJ18fSLfrnlbIlpolCjT8ajFJd-HUfJvHFdcUlb6BpgfhjpYFTOZn_lyjngSD3UkKQnfY3ErlUMFJlCFDU-J3lbDJBcEmpIEUcZ-aRoPVCY5oAAl6a5wf1ANFMcLh7olw/s1600/elowah1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2in8hIYQy2xJ18fSLfrnlbIlpolCjT8ajFJd-HUfJvHFdcUlb6BpgfhjpYFTOZn_lyjngSD3UkKQnfY3ErlUMFJlCFDU-J3lbDJBcEmpIEUcZ-aRoPVCY5oAAl6a5wf1ANFMcLh7olw/s1600/elowah1.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>ELOWAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (Yes, we run across the bridge.)<br />Photo: by me, during the 50k</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, now that I’ve indicated that I may have been a little into the race aspect of the event, I’ll let you know how that was going. The answer is, quite well, thank you for asking. I settled into a nice, comfortable pace, which consisted of running everything, climb or no. I caught back up to the still unknown woman in orange and stayed within 20 seconds of her throughout the next 9 mile section, pulling further and further away from the folks I had left the last aid station with. The PowerGels were going down every 20-30 minutes and my energy felt great. I guess one might say I was officially enjoying myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pulled into Cascade Locks, mile 21, needing to drop my headlamp, change out my handheld and drink my PowerBar Recovery Mix. I did exactly one of these things. Leaving the aid, I felt thankful that my friend Andy was there with my bottle, immediately frustrated I'd forgotten to take off my headlamp and entirely convinced that I would never rely on Dom to crew me at an ultra ever again.* In retrospect, this seems quite dramatic, given the fact that I wasn’t supposed to be racing, but you know what they say: we women never say what we mean.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*Again, sorry Dom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Given the absolutely glorious scenery surrounding me, I forgot about my rage in a matter of seconds. You guys, there was SO MUCH MOSS. The Columbia River Gorge is now officially the greenest place I’ve ever been, and I loved it. I love the way green glows in the sunlight. I love the way green smells. I loved the on and off rain that kept the green glistening. I really loved all the sections of green rocks, even despite the challenges they posed underfoot. Before long I had reached another waterfall (yawn) and began picking my way up another climb. I also began to realize where yet another challenge of this course may come, in addition to the technicality and cumulative elevation change. It was all 100% runnable. I was nearing the turnaround point, and there was nary a spot I’d hiked on the way out and nary a one I’d noted as a possibility on the way back. Straight running this amount of miles was likely going to take its toll at some point, and I tried to start mentally preparing for that moment and how I'd work through it. To distract my mind from pending doom, I made bets with myself on when I thought I’d see the leaders pass on their way back. 5 hours I thought… 5:15 maybe – I wondered if it were even possible for anyone to break 10 hours, given the 50k times the day before. Either way I’d owe myself a beer, and I never shirk on my debts.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsz-LwG4YKh5XxZax0T0zxQu8DKeznAFp1sXLEkT5_8B5SDiRh6JSviRlSi-jVw9NCGm3KvMj8Lgwi-kOGnxyHVcIIm7vPk0AXNFO5pjSowQTxS7KpJD6mgpkEBVelZ3UqEQsX-Gwf1w/s1600/yeon_kt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsz-LwG4YKh5XxZax0T0zxQu8DKeznAFp1sXLEkT5_8B5SDiRh6JSviRlSi-jVw9NCGm3KvMj8Lgwi-kOGnxyHVcIIm7vPk0AXNFO5pjSowQTxS7KpJD6mgpkEBVelZ3UqEQsX-Gwf1w/s1600/yeon_kt.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Proof of green-ness.#nofilter #blessed #thighgap<br />Photo: Kimberly Teshima</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now around 9:30am, the mist and clouds began to break a bit and I was actually getting some sporadic sunlight through the trees. The entire place gained yet another depth of beauty, and the forest sparkled as if it had been coated with glitter. Just as I was enjoying a particularly magnificent view of the striated cliffs across the canyon, I heard a very familiar <i>“caw!”</i> It sounded like Dom, but if it were Dom that would mean he was probably running with Guillaume. And that would mean Guillaume was leading the race. And that would certainly be possible, but really? <i>Could it be?</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was. Guillaume came tearing down the next switchback like a furious freight train, excuse me - <i>like the delightful Paris Metro,</i> and I threw out my hand for a quick high-five. I immediately regretted this decision due to my limited but adequate understanding of velocity, and quickly pulled my hand back to ease the blow. <i>ALLEZ! ALLEZ!</i>... and he was off. I was filled with pride for my friend, and motivated to do what I do every Tuesday morning - just try to stay as close as I can to the guys.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<i>Oh, hey panda…</i>” said a voice, trotting back up the trail. Dom decided he would run with me to the next aid station, and I decided I would not be mad at him for failing at the first two. He still had three chances. I’d been running by myself pretty much all day, so I wasn’t quite sure if I actually wanted any company, but then again – running with Dom is usually quite fun. Sure enough, we began chatting away and my good day was magnified – we began passing people again, and were sure to give everyone a unique compliment, above and beyond the standard “<i>lookin’ good.</i>” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<i>Those shorts really compliment your ass.</i>” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<i>Hey, cool hat, bro!</i>” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<i>Dom, why don’t you grow a REAL beard, like his?</i>”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That last one made us a new friend. We passed a ferociously bearded Josh Fuller from Seattle, but within a few minutes he and his manly face-fro settled right back in with us. For the remainder of our journey to Wyeth, the two men talked about drops and stack heights and the 110v2 (turns out Josh shared our experience of working at a running store) and I sang a wicked mash-up I’d created of Pharrell’s “Hunter” and “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. They were also successful at photo bombing all of my G-Tach and Paul Nelson specials. See below:</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6LyXKpMcUfATiCWQr5ExOx9CmJfuJf8AO632a0B8Nq4LRBd5-S0emzdJUXbY_cvJYsZPOfuYXiUP73fIE-eB3HEViz5AW8FoAxpiDDQH1rPpvx7Y2nqN9U3seQ5fKXbGAdcmCSLr0wU/s1600/photobomb1_gt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6LyXKpMcUfATiCWQr5ExOx9CmJfuJf8AO632a0B8Nq4LRBd5-S0emzdJUXbY_cvJYsZPOfuYXiUP73fIE-eB3HEViz5AW8FoAxpiDDQH1rPpvx7Y2nqN9U3seQ5fKXbGAdcmCSLr0wU/s1600/photobomb1_gt.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Dom steals my thunder and my outfits.<br />Photo: <a href="http://www.tachifoto.net/" target="_blank">Glenn Tachiyama</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivasDWXLgckbVYupSM3Otgaq8kGBGe02wGop8afC-e709eucF7aOfJb2qYmztlTHgNncqxGULBHls_th-INYD6Sv3MiobQ3wXDgUHFYLnd5oafW1rrCXmnEcS8IOfCez9w3i_89Tcjgvw/s1600/photobomb2_pn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivasDWXLgckbVYupSM3Otgaq8kGBGe02wGop8afC-e709eucF7aOfJb2qYmztlTHgNncqxGULBHls_th-INYD6Sv3MiobQ3wXDgUHFYLnd5oafW1rrCXmnEcS8IOfCez9w3i_89Tcjgvw/s1600/photobomb2_pn.jpg" height="195" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Josh gives the bro-hand on the Bridge to Terabithia IRL.<br />Photo: <a href="http://paulnelson.smugmug.com/" target="_blank">Paul Nelson</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We passed a few more folks, including the woman in orange, and I hit the turnaround to find Andy, his charming new mustache and my bottle of PowerBar Recovery. It tasted like better muscles. I had long since given up finishing under 12 hours, but now that I was halfway at 6, I thought maybe I could still get it done under 13. Not that it really mattered, but with how rough this course was and how not fresh I’d gone in, I would consider it a wild success. Accordingly, I was dead set on quickly taking care of business and getting out of there. However, Dom jumped into the porta-potty and told me to, and I quote, <i>“take my time” </i>because he needed to go to the bathroom. HE IS THE WORST AT CREWING. OHMYGOD. I told him I was leaving immediately, so he cheered for me from the throne, and I, once again, took off without dropping my headlamp. This time, I took the extra 20 seconds to head back and finally get rid of the darn thing. Jeeze Louise. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzreDOLmjSGmhcWTqnLIjzYylyGvvD8TGtOA1o3At8czadhGFNzNfAdDZjVr7YpzrK8-x4r0ialCuht6WpxM6yA4U9sIelYEu9QUyWWzLv8H78qItxsTijGp2c5OtCWFuopcH-5ZxuKw/s1600/turnaround_pn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzreDOLmjSGmhcWTqnLIjzYylyGvvD8TGtOA1o3At8czadhGFNzNfAdDZjVr7YpzrK8-x4r0ialCuht6WpxM6yA4U9sIelYEu9QUyWWzLv8H78qItxsTijGp2c5OtCWFuopcH-5ZxuKw/s1600/turnaround_pn.jpg" height="640" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The most perfect product placement-y photo of all times - can you spot the 3 logos of my 3 awesome sponsors? Hint: Suunto is not one of them.<br />Photo: <a href="http://paulnelson.smugmug.com/" target="_blank">Paul Nelson</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back on the trail, I was excited to figure out where exactly I was in the mix of things. I had honestly been surprised to hear that I was only in fourth place – I thought passing the last woman had moved me into second or third. The first two ladies seemed unattainable, unless something drastic happened (which I would never wish for); but third seemed to only have five minutes on me. That could be made up over 31 miles for sure – Dom had made up way more time than that in the last 6 miles of the 50k the day prior (super proud of him). It seemed as if I had 4 or 5 minutes on the woman I passed and maybe 10 or 11 on the next. I marveled at the fact that all of us were up with the top of the field – there really weren’t that many men in front of us and that made me quite excited. I love seeing a cadre of strong women towards the front, and I was really loving being a part of that for once. It had certainly been a long time…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt like I was still running quite well, but all of the sudden I caught another runner in my peripheral. Awww man, I was about to lose my game-day record of passing-not-passed. (Another arbitrary game I made up. Additional beers were wagered.) Turns out it was Dom, and it now made sense why he had used the bathroom while I was in the aid station. I wasn’t aware that he planned to go back out on the course, but fortunately, his training goals would be to my benefit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next 8 miles were super, super fun. We sang. We laughed. We savored the amazing scenery. I ate. He fell. Our friends smiled and high-fived as we crossed paths on the out-and-back. What Dom lacks in aid station organization, he certainly makes up for in my absolute favorite company. All sins were officially forgiven and mentally, I was solid. I told Dom I'd continue to run at this semi-comfortable pace until the last aid station and then push it in hard for the last 10-12. This seemed reasonable, since my legs seemed to be holding up just fine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What was not exactly holding up any longer were my eyelids. The rigors of awakening at 2:30 am were upon me, but fortunately so was a package of PocketFuel Cold Brew Coffee (Thanks, Tim!). A zing asketh; a zing receiveth. Said zing carried me right into the Cascade Locks aid station, where I was boisterously greeted by Billy, <i>GINGER!</i> and Kimberly. I took down some more recovery mix, switched to a stocked bottle and headed out, now having only a third of the race to go and still only 5 minutes back of third. Even if something awful happened, I knew I could gut out 21 miles. Doing my best to ensure that the awful would not descend, I asked Dom to leave my loaded handheld at the last aid station, knowing full well he thought he could get to the finish to see Guillaume AND get back in time to crew me. They say ultrarunning is all about learning from your mistakes, but I take it one step further. I also learn from others.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Dom demonstrating a request perfectly executed. 1 out of 5 ain't bad.<br />Photo: Billy Yang</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few miles out of the aid station, it finally hit. My legs, specifically my quads, were beginning to hurt and I knew my pace was waning. This was driven home when the guy in yellow I’d been gaining on was suddenly putting time on me, and out of nowhere, I had company from behind. The good news of this was that I finally had the opportunity to meet the mysterious woman in orange I’d been either slightly following or slightly leading the entire race – a speedy chick from Seattle, Rhea George. We chatted for a few minutes about the course, where we were from and how it was her first 100k, but I pulled ahead again on the next descent. I found this weird, as I had been admiring her flat and downhill running for the first half of the race, thinking I’d definitely fall back on the latter half. Before long, I had also caught the man in yellow and next thing I knew I was running even harder than before. I no longer noticed any significant pain in my legs and instead, I started pushing harder. I passed another runner, and another. I ran so hard down a muddy descent that I slid into a tree and broke my handheld. I got up and did it again, this time ripping my jacket. I flew across the bridge at Elowah Falls and was blasted by a gust of mist, soaking me completely. I grunted my way up the next, steeper climb – not feeling the need to hike at all. I passed another. I flew down to Yeon with the intent to chug recovery mix and then hammer the last 12.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Hey guys, remember Elowah Falls?<br />Photo: me, during the 50k</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Approaching the aid, it became immediately apparent that neither Dom nor Andy were there. This fact could clearly be seen across my face, as the volunteers greeted me with, <i>“you must be Katie.”</i> There was my mixed bottle and fortunately, a new handheld to replace the broken one I was carrying like a football. I’d nicknamed myself Randy Moss on account of the… well… moss. I’m hilarious.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even though the road section had been kind to me, I was not looking forward to it this time. It did, indeed, hurt, but remarkably I was still holding an 8 min/mi pace or better. I reeled in two more runners, and looking back on the long stretch, I couldn’t see any of the folks I’d passed. I was still gaining, and I really believed I could catch third if I kept this up. I hadn’t lost any time in the last section, despite my low period, so I was particularly encouraged. And there, right before the turnoff to the trail, she came into view.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Only problem was that "she" was pacing a dude – not in the race. So I pressed on, reasoning that if I just ran a bit faster than I/we had been, I would make up the time. I pressed a little harder, catching yet another runner. Invigorated, I reached a twisting descent and pressed harder still. By the time I ran down to the final aid station, I was completely sure that I would hear that third had just left. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“Five minutes."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Really?<i> </i> I guess it hadn’t occurred to me that maybe third was trying to catch second and was unknowingly mirroring my every surge. I had no idea what was going on up there, so I just resorted to what I always do: not worry about it. Besides, there were a lot of waterfalls in this section that I had missed in the dark morning and I WAS on a sight-seeing tour after all. There were a lot of other folks out sight-seeing as well, and I marveled at how accommodating they were to moving aside in a pretty rapid fashion and allowing me on through. I had honestly assumed I was going to need to rely on my finely tuned hiker-dodging skills, forged on the switchbacks of Chantry Flats, but they were rendered useless. Dear Oregon: you’s good people.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEah-sW9CX0i4gkBF1R55RKWT7BIq3-DoW9OHAfD1xVWzck28JzHmIjKx-8jUXuRcYcRRmAGD9TqgNl5Wl3rVTQ6LlTpw9cMbcFDC8QndHM-RxoKDu75d3JATnrB7pUb7awr4pcsJxQ-0/s1600/ponytail_gtach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEah-sW9CX0i4gkBF1R55RKWT7BIq3-DoW9OHAfD1xVWzck28JzHmIjKx-8jUXuRcYcRRmAGD9TqgNl5Wl3rVTQ6LlTpw9cMbcFDC8QndHM-RxoKDu75d3JATnrB7pUb7awr4pcsJxQ-0/s1600/ponytail_gtach.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This happened.<br />Photo: <a href="http://www.tachifoto.net/" target="_blank">Glenn Tachiyama</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88zHGITKCQTV6kGz8zFsp7tnky-t1TqD0fp_Zy8Aes9i0pb-uz5kmdGCRd_S4Vt5JFY7sSdqnuWu5h6-eTLXaOyMdMQBqiH1-U3SksQJKrbGPQdR6CY7S3CQIuUj48N1zTL8mg3ztIGk/s1600/inrace_pn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88zHGITKCQTV6kGz8zFsp7tnky-t1TqD0fp_Zy8Aes9i0pb-uz5kmdGCRd_S4Vt5JFY7sSdqnuWu5h6-eTLXaOyMdMQBqiH1-U3SksQJKrbGPQdR6CY7S3CQIuUj48N1zTL8mg3ztIGk/s1600/inrace_pn.jpg" height="217" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sight-seeing, not racing, REMEMBER?<br />Photo: <a href="http://paulnelson.smugmug.com/" target="_blank">Paul Nelson</a></span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And just like that, the last obstacle of the day was upon me. A steep ass climb followed by a steep descent on… <i><a href="http://www.dramabutton.com/" target="_blank">duh duh duuuuuhhhhhh….</a></i> pavement. This was officially my last shot at making it hurt worse than anyone else and hoping it was enough. As such, I decided I was going to run the entire climb, but it wasn't long before I realized I was on the knife edge of completely blowing up. Getting to the top a little faster but having to run much slower on the way down wasn't going to help anyone*, so I changed my tactics. Alternating running and power hiking was much more efficient, and I still felt like there was a good chance I could be moving faster than those ahead or behind. And even if I weren't, who really cared, right? This is precisely how it came to be that on a rainy Sunday in late March, I found myself grunting my way up a hill in Oregon and wondering how it was possible that I would simply be at work in LA in a mere 18 hours. My brain relinquished the whole hunter mentality and instead waxed poetic for the remainder of the race.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*me</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You guys, I was going to <i>finish</i>. For the first time in over a year, m</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">y body had not failed me. I took care of myself, I pushed when I could and for once, that was enough to complete the task at hand. And not just as a long training day as planned - I had actually</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> put together a pretty gosh durn good season opener. This, with no specific build for the race as a goal, and no tapering, save for cutting back on the vert a bit. This also with a sprained big toe (no joke) which created pain on flexion and a nagging spot in my arch for the entire duration of the race. Without realizing it was happening until the last 20 minutes of a 12+ hour day, I had run a pretty perfect race. Happiness literally engulfed me.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj9iKWgOo3OgvyjeRqidQmq7G6p0P3dL8njb1kPnmMpcpJCENo_MaHAvdSvYUyVepeq14QLKEN2M2rBBvHIg87d5EizmboNK3kVGouxi_lrNs4Q-gs6GN06M2XrmvLz2bNUstLdYPXbkE/s1600/mult_gt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj9iKWgOo3OgvyjeRqidQmq7G6p0P3dL8njb1kPnmMpcpJCENo_MaHAvdSvYUyVepeq14QLKEN2M2rBBvHIg87d5EizmboNK3kVGouxi_lrNs4Q-gs6GN06M2XrmvLz2bNUstLdYPXbkE/s1600/mult_gt.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I look pretty serious here, but regret nothing, as it resulted in a very legit looking G-Tach special.<br />Photo: <a href="http://www.tachifoto.net/" target="_blank">Glenn Tachiyama</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I began the paved descent, I could see the numerous switchbacks below. There was a guy and his pacer only two down from me, but no other runner in sight. At this point, I realized my fate was pretty much sealed, but nevertheless, I pushed it in. My sorcerer's watch had long since died*, so I had no idea where I was at on time, but I figured there was a slight chance I could pull off a 100k PR on a non-PR course. That seemed like a good idea with regards to my self-esteem.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*Note to self: learn how to use fancy watch</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Down, down, down, crossing the tourist stop in front of the famed Multnomah Falls… covered in mud, a little blood and breathing hard. Down the bike path, past a couple taking wedding photos. Along the highway, dodging trash. A left turn, and I was there. High-fiving James at 12:37. An 11 minute PR on a race scheduled entirely as a fun building block. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the official end to a very unfortunate curse.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmS4QUzqcQQn7imUaxxzkGm4dgHCKT0mAkDZY5JAFajsM5iFFIgHqyy4cEfcGAthmAJK3VL4tzFahMpXg258z11GK9dk3o21zi9EnK_3mpp59HT_HyJsmQDyTIqxurtbGwGQZjRl2vWg/s1600/multnomah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmS4QUzqcQQn7imUaxxzkGm4dgHCKT0mAkDZY5JAFajsM5iFFIgHqyy4cEfcGAthmAJK3VL4tzFahMpXg258z11GK9dk3o21zi9EnK_3mpp59HT_HyJsmQDyTIqxurtbGwGQZjRl2vWg/s1600/multnomah.jpg" height="640" width="452" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The famed Multnomah Falls/mile 61<br />Photo: me, during the 50k, when I almost missed Dom... shhhhhh:)</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSUEm0c_Pnyy-Xz45Ca_bXyg1EKt0w_d8404B54rZaLXuP7ex4g6c515hRZTQ4GZjlSGVIUww6npBA1JTu0mb1jEeXVeXFWBe8Szc0NieWT795_M0DgvtrEKNTx6dB-VgwY3s5KlKGNU/s1600/finishfalls_dg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSUEm0c_Pnyy-Xz45Ca_bXyg1EKt0w_d8404B54rZaLXuP7ex4g6c515hRZTQ4GZjlSGVIUww6npBA1JTu0mb1jEeXVeXFWBe8Szc0NieWT795_M0DgvtrEKNTx6dB-VgwY3s5KlKGNU/s1600/finishfalls_dg.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Leaving the wonderland; heading for a beer.<br />Photo: Dominic Grossman</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_o7f0cY0GZ7aiV88Jb2BOzcThaqkcjmjMRTuvg3UeJOIeh7wdLqY8wDzf12cYyPkc_VUGUHjJhIVwK9c6yx2sjr-NXduJJPAgv_zlGvJw3boMDTfBlbD530yPw3C-ylL-9nE8FDU2qQ/s1600/finishfive_by.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_o7f0cY0GZ7aiV88Jb2BOzcThaqkcjmjMRTuvg3UeJOIeh7wdLqY8wDzf12cYyPkc_VUGUHjJhIVwK9c6yx2sjr-NXduJJPAgv_zlGvJw3boMDTfBlbD530yPw3C-ylL-9nE8FDU2qQ/s1600/finishfive_by.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The official breaking of the curse.<br />Photo: Billy Yang</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>TECHNICAL DETAILS:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">Shoes:</span> <a href="http://www.newbalance.com/Minimus-1010v2-Trail/WT1010-V2,default,pd.html?dwvar_WT1010-V2_color=Blue_with_Lime%20Green_and_Diva%20Pink&start=2&q=1010v2&cgid=50008" target="_blank">NB 1010v2</a> – perfect choice; also worn by men’s winner, Guillaume Calmettes (in women's purple, nonetheless)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">Socks:</span> <a href="http://www.injinji.com/shop/compression/compression-otc.html" target="_blank">Injinji Compression</a> (mainly for avoiding poison oak)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">Fuel:</span> Breakfast of <a href="http://www.powerbar.com/Products/powerbar-proteinplus-20g-chcolate-crisp" target="_blank">PowerBar Protein Plus bar</a> + <a href="http://guayaki.com/" target="_blank">Yerba Maté</a>, then 25-30 <a href="http://www.powerbar.com/products/powergel-orange-dream" target="_blank">PowerBar PowerGels</a> + a serving of <a href="http://www.powerbar.com/Products/recovery-sports-drink-mix-orange" target="_blank">PowerBar Recovery Mix</a> every 10-20 miles. Also used one <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1342278025/cold-brew-coffee-readyto-go" target="_blank">PocketFuel Cold Brew Coffee</a> shot, and had a few small cups of Coke and Ginger Ale. ZERO BONKS. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">Experiment:</span> I tried taking a 24-hr PPI (Prevacid OTC) before the race to hopefully help with the puking problem I have. It worked! My stomach felt great, my digestion was fantastic, and I only puked in my mouth a little a couple times, but it didn’t even bother me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">New Gear:</span> <a href="http://www.suunto.com/Products/sports-watches/Suunto-Ambit2/Suunto-Ambit2-Black/" target="_blank">Suunto Ambit 2</a>. Haven’t ran with a GPS unit in years and didn’t even know how to use it, but I think I like it. I may even join Strava… time will tell.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>POST RACE:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I finished feeling relatively in tact – actually wishing the race was 70 miles. That would have been an ideal distance for me. Couple cuts, no bruises, no injuries, no new poison oak, no chaffage. Broken handheld and torn jacket are the only casualties. Legs are feeling good; but unfortunately I caught a wicked cold that has been making training really awful. Looking forward to ramping up to a nice block of training of 3-4 weeks over 100 miles, then a short step back and racing Bishop High Sierra. While I really like the 100k distance, I’ll probably stick to the 50 mile, as the out and back on a jeep road is super boring. I have standards, people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THANK YOU <a href="http://rainshadow-running.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">RAINSHADOW RUNNING</a> FOR AN AMAZING DAY!!!!!!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THANK YOU NANO PT (aka MICHAEL CHAMOUN) FOR HELPING ME WITH MY WEIRDO BIG TOE INJURY!!!!!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA3-DGCRafeUlD8MYwfnGPI1ZAOr58EpocGn6xCVQV-ync0w5m-SLCz8RqKqnNYP_qWfUQ1yECMrhWsmMpW1vQywuQi46mHZCMw-3ntqY9vHtY4Z80ash9_d9_3Q6qVsQPnrWcvZWfv20/s1600/dance1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA3-DGCRafeUlD8MYwfnGPI1ZAOr58EpocGn6xCVQV-ync0w5m-SLCz8RqKqnNYP_qWfUQ1yECMrhWsmMpW1vQywuQi46mHZCMw-3ntqY9vHtY4Z80ash9_d9_3Q6qVsQPnrWcvZWfv20/s1600/dance1.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Eating wood-fired pizza, drinking local brews and dancing to The Pine Hearts. <a href="http://rainshadow-running.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">James</a> knows how to put on a race!<br />Photo: Andy Pearson</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9ejGA8vjzIiA-TV0ipbWkX45icev_vcB1NTYw2J2PwTWTwS7zm7pN2XUlMI-C3deNCZl7k9WKGXSpS3dbxchwEHCTlMGP2ny_becMQTqiu1xm9NjErqpKgMBtyH-7cWlvRbTS72HQBE/s1600/dance2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9ejGA8vjzIiA-TV0ipbWkX45icev_vcB1NTYw2J2PwTWTwS7zm7pN2XUlMI-C3deNCZl7k9WKGXSpS3dbxchwEHCTlMGP2ny_becMQTqiu1xm9NjErqpKgMBtyH-7cWlvRbTS72HQBE/s1600/dance2.jpg" height="330" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh wait, this one is better.<br />Photo: Andy Pearson</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>CONGRATS:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To New Balance, PowerBar and Injinji trifecta teammates - <a href="http://www.newbalance.com/Brandy-Erholtz/outdoor_ambassadors_erholtz,default,pg.html" target="_blank">Brandy Erholtz</a> who won the women's 50k only 6 months after giving birth; and <a href="http://www.dominicgrossman.com/" target="_blank">Dominic Grossman</a> 3rd in the men's 50k during his 7th straight week of training over 100 miles/week. Y'all are nuts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To my fellow Southern California compadres: <a href="http://gcalmettes.github.io/" target="_blank">Guillaume Calmettes</a>, entering beast mode supreme and winning the 100k, Dave for an amazing first 100k, <a href="http://www.larunner.com/" target="_blank">Billy</a> and <a href="http://gingerrunner.com/" target="_blank">Ethan</a> for great 50ks, <a href="http://ievenranthisfar.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Andy</a> for conquering your asshole achilles and 50k-ing it, and Pedro for gutting out the 100k. 100% finishing rate on a course that claimed a great and many souls. Proud 'a ya!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8cenAiJpHPXPb34BVhEjf0yfP4mSBBTMKuoB8SICHxru_7C7rS1h9He7_FswA6mdACbwNkUa892M8KT3FUgUd9RqNNa1RHZLOEqHsIygWIU2m1g8KmNlXSCCGKISyWHYtLSy-p6sKp8/s1600/dom&andy_post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8cenAiJpHPXPb34BVhEjf0yfP4mSBBTMKuoB8SICHxru_7C7rS1h9He7_FswA6mdACbwNkUa892M8KT3FUgUd9RqNNa1RHZLOEqHsIygWIU2m1g8KmNlXSCCGKISyWHYtLSy-p6sKp8/s1600/dom&andy_post.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Dom and Andy after the 50k/the last known photo of Andy's "injury beard."</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, if you did not get enough waterfall-ness via photo, I highly encourage you to watch this video from Ethan Newberry, aka <a href="http://gingerrunner.com/" target="_blank">The Ginger Runner</a>:</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/-YxYPpsP0fA" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<br />katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-68959297490930594992013-09-25T20:37:00.000-07:002013-09-25T20:37:43.062-07:00The Bench<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wiped the sweat from my brow as I reached the final
switchback. A minute more and I had
reached the clearing, 5.5 miles and 3500’ from the place I’d started, but still
a long way from where I wanted to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I walked over to the bench to sit for a moment. It was a brilliant, sunny afternoon here on
the last day of summer in Southern California – the kind of day that makes you
so happy to just be here, that I decided I’d do just that. Just be here for a few more moments. I fought back the tears once… twice… and then
it was no use.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It had been exactly seven weeks, and oh, say, 12 hours since
I’d been here last. It was dark then,
and the city lights twinkled below. Like
today, it had been quiet and still, and a soft breeze might blow every now and
again. It had been a point of coming to
a certain peace and understanding about what was to come. But unfortunately, that was not an
understanding I was too thrilled to receive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On that evening, I had pulled myself up and continued on the trail to the toll road and then down to the mile 85 aid station of the Angeles Crest
100, where I’d drop from the race. Drop,
as in, not finish. I’d done everything I
could in preparation for that day, and was more confident in myself and my
training than ever before. But looking
back, regardless of the circumstances that eventually brought about the DNF,
did I really believe in myself? Well… I
don’t know. But I do know that
confidence is not belief. Belief is a
whole other animal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of believing,
largely due to a beer-fueled conversation I had with the winner of said Angeles
Crest 100 and new women’s course record holder, Angela Shartel. She told me definitively that the real difference
between past races and this now present “race of her life” was not her
training, preparation, nutrition, insert any idea you may have here. It was simply the fact that for the first
time in her life, she really believed she could do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Naturally, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching in the
past month plus since the race, and have considered this theme often. DO I BELIEVE IN MYSELF? Do I believe I can do a certain thing? Specifically, right now, do I believe that I
can run 24-26 hours at The Bear 100 this Friday, as I’ve arbitrarily stated is
my goal. Well, if I could run up that
climb just now and it felt easy – that’s all I’ll have to do repetitively for
the duration of the 100 mile course.
That seems reasonable, so yes, I think I can do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">BUT DO YOU BELIEVE?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, I had a really good base going into AC, I recovered
well, and I’ve put in some 10-11 hour days in the Sierras. My mileage hasn’t been as high as my 100-130
mile weeks for AC, but I’ve been running by feel and think I’m in decent
shape. I’m not injured, so I’ve got that
going for me, I’ve been just fine at higher altitudes than Bear will be at, and
<i>holy shit this is my exact problem.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only way I’m going to believe in myself is if I have
proof.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There, on the Bench of Understanding, I received my second
and final dose of clarity for the summer of 2013. I didn’t truly believe in myself, because I
needed proof to do that. And how can you
have proof of something you haven’t yet experienced? My perfect race, my defining moment was my
Santa Claus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mind you, I stopped believing in Santa when I was in
kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN. Jenni Dawson said her mom told her he didn’t
exist and that was all that I needed to hear.
There would be no convincing by my heartbroken parents – it was all too
plausible to my feeble mind that they did really love me enough to by me all
those presents. If they bought a house
and a car, they could certainly buy me a Nintendo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Likewise, there are way too many things that could go wrong
and way too many better runners to ever allow me to be the fastest or
first. Just as I needed to see Santa’s
jolly ass in my fireplace to believe he really delivered a sleigh full of
presents to the entire world in one night; I’ve been searching for that thing
that will prove I can run at a level to which I am satisfied. Only problem is, that “thing” isn’t really as
tangible as a fat man in red in my living room.
And the “level to which I am satisfied” isn’t a question of
existence. It’s more of a general
feeling of worth and contentment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ahhh, we’re talking about greater themes here then, aren’t
we? Perhaps this was less like elves and
the Easter Bunny and a hell of a lot more serious. How do we have faith in each other in our
daily relationships? How do we believe
in our gods? I can KNOW how I was
created and born, because I have scientific evidence. Proof.
Therefore I am fully confident I arrived via uterus rather than a stork,
in the same way I am confident I am physically able to run 100 miles in the
mountains based on the concrete facts of the work I have put in. But to <i>believe</i> in my ability to perform at my
very best, to transcend both the physical and mental that will allow me to
truly reach that sort of runner’s nirvana, well that’s like believing in a god
I’ve never seen. Sometimes there is no
proof. And that’s exactly why belief
creates so much power.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So how does one begin to believe in a thing? I guess the better question is, why? The more I’ve considered it, the more I begin
to think that it’s as simple as just wanting it bad enough. Of course, no amount of wanting the sky to be
green just because it is my favorite color is going to make me believe the blue
sky has changed. But that’s not exactly
as crazy as it sounds. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why does someone believe there is a deity that controls the sun? </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why does someone
believe that a man rose from the dead after three days in a tomb?</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why does someone believe they will be
reincarnated? Why does someone believe that Elvis lives?</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because they need these things to be
true.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Their very existence has come to
depend on it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By that token, maybe it has to be a truly meaningful and
worthwhile thing to develop any belief in it.
For me, maybe time is just too arbitrary of a thing – maybe what stirs
me deep down in my core isn’t a specific time, record or win. In fact, I know it’s not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So if it is not running 24-26 hours at The Bear this
weekend, then what is it? What is it
that I truly WANT out of all this madness?
Upon closer examination, I’m realizing that all a 23:59:59 would bring
me is more proof of something greater. So I peer closer. All things considered and all weakness bared,
I think the one thing that is honestly holding me back from the ability to run
the race I want is a lack of ability to effectively manage the pain. Sure, most would argue that I have a pretty
high threshold based on some past events like, oh say, running 100 miles with a
yucca spike in my knee. But this is
beyond that sort of physicality. I’m
talking about that kind of pain that ultimately shakes you to your core and
makes you question everything. The kind
that can only come somewhere between mile 80-90 in a 100 mile ultramarathon. I
don’t want to just survive that pain anymore.
I need to welcome it and happily bring more of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And what would that bring me? Ultimately, strength. True transcendence of the mind and body. My religion.
My faith. My connection with the
world. The same things most anyone else
is looking for, really. It’s just that
I’ve never gone far enough over the edge to really, honestly have to believe I
am strong enough to survive. Perhaps we are all willing to go to a certain level to accept an un-provable truth. And I guess I'm just one of those people who most often has to take things a little too far.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a person like me, it would seem that true “belief” comes only when there is no other
option. When you have to do a certain
thing so much that it becomes inconceivable that you will not. And maybe THAT’S why I’m going to Utah on
Friday. To test my soul to the point
where my only option is to believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Weakness bared. Weakness beared. I go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So there I was, on the last day of summer, 3500’ above and a
hell of a long way from the place I’d started.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-81451848726904367412013-08-27T21:05:00.001-07:002013-08-27T21:05:50.995-07:00What Happened at Angeles Crest<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve read enough inspirational quotes to know that I am not
defined by my failures. And therein lies my problem.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The 2013 Angeles Crest 100 was, by all accounts, to be <i>my</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And on and off for about 75 miles, by all accounts, it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I arrived to the starting line healthy,
well trained and as calm as I’ve ever been before the inevitable storm that is
running 100 miles through the mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I flew, weightless, through the high country, memories of the countless
miles I’d logged on these very trails rushing by me in a blur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through Guffy Campground, my weekend
home, over Baden-Powell in one of my fastest splits ever, screaming down
Williamson singing Fleetwood Mac at the top of my lungs – in a race, yes,
nevertheless in a race with no one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwF6SbR-GZ142-RYe9nIoDVm94PIVYNZl0ENVXIuW7sUjKppqToay4qsU5vVDRVGSDw_94QbqJ-j4FDfGq1_w5vyHMDucbMeh9Cs5Pw_2Qoqluoa4jp6dyoB1VsepSr0FkM3_1DHj5jI/s1600/1119829_10200761947750113_535425730_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKwF6SbR-GZ142-RYe9nIoDVm94PIVYNZl0ENVXIuW7sUjKppqToay4qsU5vVDRVGSDw_94QbqJ-j4FDfGq1_w5vyHMDucbMeh9Cs5Pw_2Qoqluoa4jp6dyoB1VsepSr0FkM3_1DHj5jI/s320/1119829_10200761947750113_535425730_o.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wrightwood 4:30am, 8/3/13: One of us will go on to win the race; the other will<br />
do something else. You can hardly tell how this is going to pan out.<br />
(photo: Ivan Buzik)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsSpnlUZiuY0rtHR6uLhihA-35GIQRsvRJyyZAyae6g96om6MVEvN3s2ejeiF2_Tcx-2CPNvXTmpP5eHNXTBZpKY3Qp-z0q376fM1fBjz6OMg0loAaTm0xm9iz6YLqowJxpy_m1AYsa-E/s1600/893314_10151528903942691_1767406836_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsSpnlUZiuY0rtHR6uLhihA-35GIQRsvRJyyZAyae6g96om6MVEvN3s2ejeiF2_Tcx-2CPNvXTmpP5eHNXTBZpKY3Qp-z0q376fM1fBjz6OMg0loAaTm0xm9iz6YLqowJxpy_m1AYsa-E/s320/893314_10151528903942691_1767406836_o.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's cool, I checked the Urban Outfitters catalog, and 90s Jurek <br />
shirts are totally "in."<br />
(photo: Mike Epler)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8GVPU15s8Yw9cAHYteXRfZcIVzSipWi1qPC8QmAl4_bSiCZXQTaHHJjKI9tO2rQIfb1DceBFYAYzeTxDDhv1OztsYc7Ikw1ks16FUuK6gkwMV4zQxSOPcHOxCSr1Ey_k0J-K_HIWUrY/s1600/1006030_10101716204379495_1190959461_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8GVPU15s8Yw9cAHYteXRfZcIVzSipWi1qPC8QmAl4_bSiCZXQTaHHJjKI9tO2rQIfb1DceBFYAYzeTxDDhv1OztsYc7Ikw1ks16FUuK6gkwMV4zQxSOPcHOxCSr1Ey_k0J-K_HIWUrY/s320/1006030_10101716204379495_1190959461_n.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inspiration Point mi 9.5. Mom and Pops on point.<br />
(photo: Natalie Kintz)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt8B5Sl4x1MvQPYYY1b-agByhVd3TI_MYMFBIJp2aEMqX81JRK_nryLg5GHX73py9vTMNwiqmnmb_RqNivpDrzOGAX56WSXVld6ulIz9_4K1cAR3ETdHXI75SVz6qmy0z6wSOGWXV97s/s1600/IP.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLyH5WliwBFpHnotxTAt4aPnBn6cQaQqBql-Wgbxfmv6sw8m9WOy20sDnmFK4g93RjBzzgnqraicaYEXwDjsO9AzoEvpOUFn2UvEtHar3jpRuDEsuQo5Z_rd-Q6EPm1ubz_qB2BxPPx0/s1600/1097739_10100256082246029_906424228_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLyH5WliwBFpHnotxTAt4aPnBn6cQaQqBql-Wgbxfmv6sw8m9WOy20sDnmFK4g93RjBzzgnqraicaYEXwDjsO9AzoEvpOUFn2UvEtHar3jpRuDEsuQo5Z_rd-Q6EPm1ubz_qB2BxPPx0/s320/1097739_10100256082246029_906424228_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Don't mind me, just having the race of my life here...<br />
(photo: Natalie Kintz)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnSqvzQ2sK2KLF3WOwdiKhAyZdw7SHoLOofsGYND03sekM3bahR0JRHNz7xYAHIGWwgfk4nakC-ItYnltnATNM_cKUt50_SM-cOF9KdvknY1JvBXIwT2aL2hkomcTsAGVAYzyQsLvkQkU/s1600/IP.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnSqvzQ2sK2KLF3WOwdiKhAyZdw7SHoLOofsGYND03sekM3bahR0JRHNz7xYAHIGWwgfk4nakC-ItYnltnATNM_cKUt50_SM-cOF9KdvknY1JvBXIwT2aL2hkomcTsAGVAYzyQsLvkQkU/s320/IP.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(photo: Kevin DeSplinter)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I left Eagle’s Roost, I marveled at how poppy my legs
felt on the road detour leading to Buckhorn.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fresh.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not like
I’d just run a 6:30 50k at altitude up and over mountains in the beginning of a
100 mile race.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was where I knew I could be, yet almost a full
hour ahead of where I thought I’d likely be.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you had offered me a lottery-free entry to Hardrock to wipe the smile
off my face, I simply wouldn’t have been able.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnfDT0lJpdYgVCbr84xgLPAIUPwpkbIaCO7xrlhkzZwppUJCGBWX44PwyvDKr2SbXrXpYrWWA_HCIGFZOCntXLJxMfRyMLWauuZwchiq_wre0VyagosqioLN_dwS7c0CtRqDhdBGK3dw/s1600/jayme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnfDT0lJpdYgVCbr84xgLPAIUPwpkbIaCO7xrlhkzZwppUJCGBWX44PwyvDKr2SbXrXpYrWWA_HCIGFZOCntXLJxMfRyMLWauuZwchiq_wre0VyagosqioLN_dwS7c0CtRqDhdBGK3dw/s400/jayme.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stomping up Baden-Powell in one of my fastest splits ever - including training runs where <br />there would not be an additional 75 to run after. <br />(photo: Jayme Burtis)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61vp2PCuziUCzHTq1mNNdkOp8tniQd4oJwuntU0wv7EQra6JoEUZCZaJmeTJUzwQaNlK99NlNe8NHVXLfHUA4tXvFQd4pU2vrC7hdAAgwH1eh5ialvgd5xZPgE3qKeCbBhde2paBUahQ/s1600/1078911_10151779104732970_1286550104_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61vp2PCuziUCzHTq1mNNdkOp8tniQd4oJwuntU0wv7EQra6JoEUZCZaJmeTJUzwQaNlK99NlNe8NHVXLfHUA4tXvFQd4pU2vrC7hdAAgwH1eh5ialvgd5xZPgE3qKeCbBhde2paBUahQ/s400/1078911_10151779104732970_1286550104_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Williamson. 5:30 in; marathon complete. BTW, this is not a marathon.<br />
(photo: Jack Cheng)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Heading down into Cooper Canyon, my stomach began to feel a
little sloshy, but nothing too weird.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’d taken in a lot of liquid to account for the heat and was up on
calories, so if I needed to chill on consumption for a bit, I would
survive.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I alternated running and
hiking when the air became heavy and stagnant and celebrated as I passed the
point where I puked two years ago.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perhaps that pissed the forest off, because maybe 20 minutes later, I
was dry heaving into the bushes. #ACDontCare.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That continued on and off for the remainder of the section,
only producing actual vomit once.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even still, I figured I was getting through the worst of it, and after
recharging at Cloudburst, I’d be on my merry way.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaM9FUfqRAd3AestJJcr2Jg8djGsEFHPzEaabvdzcQj0U9j3RSSgpqMSEjrcky_pNFy_ybBE6cPxxL5_jxug4T4K7IY2YgfXt9yvjvHxEn_yj66xbSfu4bX-F5avYAY3EKiEfmV0yU784/s1600/islip.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaM9FUfqRAd3AestJJcr2Jg8djGsEFHPzEaabvdzcQj0U9j3RSSgpqMSEjrcky_pNFy_ybBE6cPxxL5_jxug4T4K7IY2YgfXt9yvjvHxEn_yj66xbSfu4bX-F5avYAY3EKiEfmV0yU784/s320/islip.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fatty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiy0zNeJOzQi2F7s6-XSOt06hXPSK-7qCYEWVmxMP_HOfvlBef4BTH7RlT715uFw-pNHpAbCpDyg8fYPjCSijXi27nBYViUvlD7Ia7ZzKP6EIc0EOCq4CPXJ6Vp3DVgfCqofD7fxOY1bw/s1600/buckhorn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiy0zNeJOzQi2F7s6-XSOt06hXPSK-7qCYEWVmxMP_HOfvlBef4BTH7RlT715uFw-pNHpAbCpDyg8fYPjCSijXi27nBYViUvlD7Ia7ZzKP6EIc0EOCq4CPXJ6Vp3DVgfCqofD7fxOY1bw/s320/buckhorn.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3 mile road detour. Thanks, frogs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sure enough, 13 minutes at Cloudburst seemed to have done
the trick.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I floated down the
trail to Three Points, stomach still sour, but just trying to focus on using my
amazing feeling legs to get me back on track for my sub-24 hour finish.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That defining moment I was so
desperately seeking.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Right before the aid station, I grabbed a tree to pee and
saw stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The liquid coming out
was a dark reddish-amber and my whole body cramped as I forced it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I downed the rest of my water right
then and there and came in committed to ingesting more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I had been drinking enough,
but I was clearly dehydrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d
need a change of plans.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNsfxqScXpebsMOakPrZqT8PlDVl-0IdUSj7si43PJRo8N-1DIuCcOi3lnAvor9xVY_e7XsbhoOSNqhXkjmDHEFwgEdcevH0ChYSuYSd-J_nTuSc6blq5rHFh32oLEW8cfBSJgxnicRyE/s1600/1003349_10100598590257241_579890245_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNsfxqScXpebsMOakPrZqT8PlDVl-0IdUSj7si43PJRo8N-1DIuCcOi3lnAvor9xVY_e7XsbhoOSNqhXkjmDHEFwgEdcevH0ChYSuYSd-J_nTuSc6blq5rHFh32oLEW8cfBSJgxnicRyE/s320/1003349_10100598590257241_579890245_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're talking Culture Amber Ale status - third from the left, and also delicious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I left with a bottle of ice water for help, a bottle of
Sprite for calories and a sparkle in my eye – for I was going to turn this race
right back around and get that silver buckle.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did not doubt that for one single second.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Had I really expected that this day
would go off without a hitch?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did
I now expect that there would not be more difficult obstacles to overcome
through the night?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For chrissakes,
my legs still felt brand new and that was a freaking GIFT.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was time for comeback of the century.*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*SPOILER ALERT: Jamil Coury’s 2013 Hardrock Performance is still
safe. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I bottomed out on the trail section and began climbing the gradual road up Mt. Hilyer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not feeling as if I needed to walk, I resolved that I’d relieve my full
bladder and then push to the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could make up a lot of time here and easily be back on track by
Chilao, stomach be damned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, as I bent down by a bush, my vision darkened and my knees
buckled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sharp pain shot through
my abdomen and up through my chest – nothing came from my bladder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a deep breath and tried again,
as I have never felt such a strong urge to urinate in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, I fell over, shorts around
my ankles, tears in my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
panicked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not knowing what else to do, I began walking up the hill,
counting down the twists and turns to the aid station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to get there, and someone had to
help me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking down, I
discovered a horribly distended stomach, which at least in part explained the
lack of urination and dehydration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was fueling and hydrating, but I wasn’t processing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lucky for me, Marisol Martinez was swiftly moving up behind
me and as she caught up, could instantly sense my current state of terror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gave me some sort of fizzing
tablet, citing that it was Mexican and I shouldn’t worry about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking Mexican drugs seemed like a
reasonable decision at this point, so I took it down and enjoyed her heartfelt hug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I watched her hike off ahead, I
marveled at her instantaneous willingness to slow down for a few minutes to
help me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her kindness would be
repeated, but unparalleled as the day wore on, even once contrasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A single smile was drawn as I lie in
trouble at the aid station. I only mention that unfortunate moment to heighten
just how important it was what Marisol did for me and how special the lot of
ultrarunners are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, it is
human nature to be excited for any chance to succeed, to move up a place, to be
closer to the best, and hence, I do not blame the smiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I celebrate the honest empathy
that was shown to me, even by those who were battling their own problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enter: the puking H’ard Cohen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just as the empathy is taketh, the
empathy is giveth.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The volunteers ushered me into the Mt. Hilyer aid station, as I choked back some pretzels and tears of disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no medical personnel there, but they got on the
radio to Chilao for some advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My first task was to try and pee in a cup, which after blacking out on
Mt. Hilyer, I was obviously wildly excited about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The good news is that it wasn’t as dark as before, but the bad news was
that it still hurt like hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, they asked me if I could still get myself to Chilao and that
was definitely affirmative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell,
I didn’t even have to walk – my legs could RUN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I resolved to get to Chilao as quickly as possible, as I had
now been sitting at Mt. Hilyer for a half hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sub-24 was now a wash, but if I could get my system back to
processing, I could still salvage a 25-26 hour finish, which I’d be more than
okay with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran the entire
way feeling like my bladder would explode, but didn’t dare squat down and deal
with the dizziness and shanking of the stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Per radio’ed orders, I downed at least 20 ounces of water in
the 50 minutes it took me to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bowman was waiting for me at the trail and I began filling him in on the
madness and insisted that he look at the Honey Boo
Boo situation that was happening above my shorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew Adam had been there
before – legs feeling great, mind resolved, but stuck with a system that would
not process for an unbeknownst reason. Also, he went to KU, so he can likely relate to Miss Boo's family activities and education level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We decided that I would simply sit at Chilao for as long as it took to
get my shit together, and then I would continue on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would come around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could still make a comeback and run a decent time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoauaM7kL9nnd78P7hgcDvEn9BXTAPeeJspHDqrF4f9ZCedIP768HP01lF6nt_a5G-lQUubiaxtlR2-CciXZwNR5QWnMCfLos9nLThsWkiNj69wAQPaNijMvK7N6oCwqEfJwkte0oeso/s1600/tumblr_mbvu1fJX5Q1ree3e8o2_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoauaM7kL9nnd78P7hgcDvEn9BXTAPeeJspHDqrF4f9ZCedIP768HP01lF6nt_a5G-lQUubiaxtlR2-CciXZwNR5QWnMCfLos9nLThsWkiNj69wAQPaNijMvK7N6oCwqEfJwkte0oeso/s320/tumblr_mbvu1fJX5Q1ree3e8o2_500.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This is what I'm gonna show the judges." i.e. the medical team.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I was ushered onto the scale, I was convinced that
everyone would see how much weight I was holding in my distended stomach, but
instead, I was down three pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Very strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, as if
it weren’t enough for the medical director to get a radio description of my
pee, I had to do it again so he could see for himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, blinding pain, and again only a
drizzle of liquid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But again, it
was a little less dark than before and actually, not of concern to medical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the full bladder and pain both
in my abdomen and back, they saw no reason why I should not go on if I could
deal with the pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The theory was
that I had stressed out my system and the tube connecting my bladder to my
kidneys was inflamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would
create both pain in the kidney area and the inability to pee, as the hole to relief
was now very small due to the inflammation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blood in my urine likely came from when I was dehydrated
after puking and then my bladder walls were rubbing together.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9AK5jgvFIKK9HR7YQv-QdI6WUbT4OV4IXMtZYLg8mOlPNWIz3rsX7mWZBYDJj68R0slaBtFc_TG0skCsWDG-adGi2gwpe4N3yy2P6qXTODBLMEmgZhyHK8fp_tpkQqiepAzel8Z0XHU/s1600/rivals.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9AK5jgvFIKK9HR7YQv-QdI6WUbT4OV4IXMtZYLg8mOlPNWIz3rsX7mWZBYDJj68R0slaBtFc_TG0skCsWDG-adGi2gwpe4N3yy2P6qXTODBLMEmgZhyHK8fp_tpkQqiepAzel8Z0XHU/s320/rivals.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Something you'll likely never see again<br />in your lifetime.<br />(photo: Kevin DeSplinter, against his<br />better judgement & at risk of familial<br />disownment.)<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This actually made a whole hell of a lot of sense to me, as I’ve been suffering from kidney problems on and off for the entire last
year (more on that some other time).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When my kidneys are jacked, my entire body is jacked – mentally fuzzy,
dizzy and legs completely fried – basically dead man walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this case, I still felt amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sir, no way it could be my
kidneys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, accepting this
reality meant that I could leave the aid station and keep running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, inflamed tube thingy it was! In full disclosure, there was no part of me whatsoever that wanted to stop the race, but I also was not willing to risk serious kidney damage for a buckle. As I told the medical director, dialysis is expensive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, the best part about actually leaving Chilao was that my dad
was going to be pacing me for this section. Honestly, not getting to run with
him might have been the hardest part had I been pulled from the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We headed off into the golden light of
the late afternoon sun and set about getting things back in order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been reluctant to take an
ibuprofen at the advice of medical, having never taken it during a race and
still not fully convinced my kidneys were entirely unaffected, but I have to
admit, it definitely dulled the sharp pains in my abdomen and back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The downhill jarring was no longer
excruciating and I must note that I ran this next section faster than Dom. He <i>might</i> have been having some breathing issues, but facts are facts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2FbP1zFTSonhMi4s164DaPhIiTgve5e-Sn4b-SwLeZyBZyCOVzROzS6m9jiKl2-HJQJjlB0S3aJWlu6w4qtsRmS2Q3ghe77vTrs4WoThn4okk5-XgjDgCkaLD5P7PKI2-paqC5f3RpSA/s1600/IMG_3053.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2FbP1zFTSonhMi4s164DaPhIiTgve5e-Sn4b-SwLeZyBZyCOVzROzS6m9jiKl2-HJQJjlB0S3aJWlu6w4qtsRmS2Q3ghe77vTrs4WoThn4okk5-XgjDgCkaLD5P7PKI2-paqC5f3RpSA/s320/IMG_3053.jpeg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">M-I-Z .... P-E-E (please.)<br />(photo: Joan DeSplinter)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mentally was a bit of a different story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was fully engaged and committed, no
doubt, but I’ll tell you here what I told him then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around continuing
to push as hard as I would for the goal, when the goal was no longer
attainable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had I been tired or
had my legs been blown out from running too hard, I’d have had to accept that I
had simply pushed beyond my ability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No shame in that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was some freak system
shutdown thing that I had done everything to prevent and then correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was playing by the rules, but the
powers that be certainly were not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What had I done to deserve this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d worked so hard for this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d been through enough “learning experience” races already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I deserved to have my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My defining moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I had long before decided that was
going to be TODAY.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah, but then the sky turned pink and the clouds turned
purple and I could feel the beautiful light dancing on my cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>In the stillness of remembering what
you had… What you lost…, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Stevie Nicks
persisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All morning I had
repeated the mantra, “stay in the moment. Just stay in the moment.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could do that now, perhaps I could
be happy. </span><i>What you had... What you lost...</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Shortcut, I had promised both to my dad and to myself
that I was just going to have fun with the rest of this race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had friends to run with and since my
legs felt so great, we’d have a grand old time catching other runners and
flying along the trails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d
likely look back on the race with a twinge of sadness, but for now I was going
to be okay with it and just keep moving forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Free life lessons, folks.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elan was stoked to accompany me for the next 16 miles, and I
was actually quite excited that we could have a good run together, rather than
a “Katie ran too hard and blew up” suffer-fest at mile 60.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, we dug into the 5 mile
fireroad descent that is normally the bane of my existence with fervor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened my stride as we talked the
entire way down to the river, completely forgetting about the race and my
disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And miracle of all
miracles – I started peeing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
back on pale ale status, perhaps even approaching blonde and I wasn’t blacking
out when trying to squeeze it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Improvements.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Newcombs (mi 69) came and went – now that I wasn’t pushing a time goal, I was
okay with taking a few minutes to sit, get some soup and crackers in and try to
keep my system relaxed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I talked
to my parents and Monica on the screen they had set up and they filled me in on
the drama that was Ruperto catching Dom at Chantry and the ensuing battle
royale for the win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least I
wasn’t dealing with that shit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOxardQ9ruygYP9vZ6huJqI2TMM2OCELtkGiSqDV6kZiwKHLHQFMjNtCqnG2RuCnALlqGS6Z4qTyA5Rv5lR64WMiZnP4qq0l669a7fZFbIoN-fD4DnQGhyphenhyphengyHNPUYbKKo_a1RztZUd7w/s1600/shortcut.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOxardQ9ruygYP9vZ6huJqI2TMM2OCELtkGiSqDV6kZiwKHLHQFMjNtCqnG2RuCnALlqGS6Z4qTyA5Rv5lR64WMiZnP4qq0l669a7fZFbIoN-fD4DnQGhyphenhyphengyHNPUYbKKo_a1RztZUd7w/s320/shortcut.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After running a faster split from Chilao to<br />Shortcut than Dom. I don't even know<br />what is happening anymore.<br />(photo: Joan DeSplinter)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elan and I kept a good pace on the technical trail down Mt.
Wilson – nothing remarkable, but definitely something I could be happy with
considering my last bout with ‘ole Sturdevant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two years ago, I had been limping down to Chantry with my
poor pal, Maruoka; basically rocking two kneecaps on my left knee. This was definitely
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About a mile and a half
from the aid station, we saw two headlamps coming towards us on the trail and
soon discovered Chris Price and Josh Nordell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I hadn’t noticed, Ashley was apparently on a cot up
at Newcombs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we pushed on, my
heart sank for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, I’d been
so wrapped up in my own misfortune and deservedness of a good race that I’d
failed to consider that others were dealing with the same or maybe worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ashley is one of the most talented
runners in the country, and I could only imagine her disappointment at having
had to drop at Western States 6 weeks ago and now what seemed to be an
inevitable drop here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d also
received word that Jorge Pacheco and Tommy Nielson were additional casualties
down at Chantry – again, two runners who I respect the hell out of and
personally know have put in a ton of hard work for this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This day that just wasn’t panning out
for any of us.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of my goals for AC is always to get through Chantry (mile 75) before Dom reaches the finish, but today I hoped that was not the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I saw the lights ahead, I realized
he’d need to beat me out of the aid station to break 19 hours and as such, this was the first
thing I asked as I was ushered onto the scale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But before I could get an answer, a little panic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was now up seven pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you remember correctly, less than 25 miles ago, I had been down 3
with a distended belly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I was
peeing again, but had somehow gained a whopping TEN POUNDS in the last 5 ½
hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweet baby Jesus.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now for some additional panic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, Bowman (who was to be my pacer for the final no
crew access 26 miles) had gotten cell service on the way to Chantry, only to
discover his wife, Carol, was in the ER with a serious allergic reaction to
some antibiotics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, he’d
needed to get over there. And obviously, I’ll take a pause from the story here
to let you know she is perfectly alive and well – I saw her with my own two
eyes and hugged her with my own two arms the very next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom informed me that Kevin would be
my new pacer, and I became very concerned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You see, Kevin is my dad’s name, and Kevin had already run 7 miles with
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kevin had been concerned about
his ability to run 16, as it was in the mountains with a bit of elevation and
he could not train properly for this feat of athletic prowess in St. Louis,
Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I was deeply
touched at this selfless act Kevin was willing to subject himself to for his
ailing daughter, I sincerely doubted Kevin’s ability to go an additional 26 miles
over two more major mountains on technical trails in the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fortunately for all, they were talking about Kevin Chan.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so, after downing some soup, protein bar and Coke and
hearing that Dom had not yet finished but had been lengthening the gap between
him and Ruperto, we left the aid station, not doubting for a moment that I
would see this thing through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
ran where I could and hiked where I couldn’t – all was going as well as it
possibly could be on a 3700’ climb at mile 76.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, it just wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stomach rose, I began dry heaving and the next thing I
knew I was puking uncontrollably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All the food and all the water I had been ingesting, sans processing–
gone.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At first, there was elation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stomach was suddenly free from the confines of cramping
and the rise and fall of what I can only assume was battery acid and warm,
spoiled milk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran the rest of
the way to the turnoff for Upper Winter Creek, where I knew I’d need to
immediately start replacing what I’d just lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggled with a gel, but got it down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stomach immediately wretched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drinking or eating anything was only
making the situation worse, yet I knew I wouldn’t even make it to the next aid
station, much less the finish, if I didn’t keep the calories coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was beginning to get extremely sleepy
as a result of the deficit, but was reluctant to take any real caffeine, lest
it upset my stomach even worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually however, I deemed that it really couldn’t get any worse, so I
took down a yerba maté shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
was clearly mistaken, as evidenced by a new episode of dry heaving.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The climb was slow going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every 10-20 minutes, I’d sit down on a log and choke down a
gel in 4-5 parts, praying that it would process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But none of them were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing was getting to my muscles, so my legs were glycogen-depleted and
heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing was going to my
brain, so I was dizzy, sleepy and increasingly hopeless. It was all just
sitting there in my stomach and chest – it was honestly<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=474770936671895749" name="_GoBack"></a>
to the point where I was adding up the money I was wasting with performance
food that wasn’t doing anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We eventually got to the bench and I sat down in a moment of true
despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to cry, but I
didn’t even have the strength for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So I just looked out over the city below, let the breeze blow across my
face and began to let go.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJYORDL0fcdREwkdOlxWGSN7CNlcg2BAYWcSdsUyD7Wrr1AGxjq3cUPKpsvbUSpZHvost5Lj-xj3Oh3sKM5Ys4gC0aVKHrV1uxnTlfs_m8jD9mecSUcaVJFkDfAo1vUQtmGm9LnW4JIk/s1600/1097740_10151528990752691_847028921_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJYORDL0fcdREwkdOlxWGSN7CNlcg2BAYWcSdsUyD7Wrr1AGxjq3cUPKpsvbUSpZHvost5Lj-xj3Oh3sKM5Ys4gC0aVKHrV1uxnTlfs_m8jD9mecSUcaVJFkDfAo1vUQtmGm9LnW4JIk/s320/1097740_10151528990752691_847028921_o.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, remember this girl? Yeah, me neither.<br />(photo: Mike Epler, Islip, 50+ miles ago)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We continued up to the toll road, where I decided that if I
could run, I could feasibly get myself to the finish line.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I couldn’t, I could maybe still
get there as well, but deep in my heart, I just wasn’t willing to do that.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’d completed this race before,
dragging a broken body to a 30+ hour finish.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was nothing in me that possessed any desire to do that
again and seriously mess up my body in the process, as I was legitimately scared about what was going on.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the first time in my
life, simply finishing would not be enough.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I felt like a fucking coward.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I frantically tried to run to dispel these dissenting
thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To prove to myself that
I was the fighter everyone thought I was and that pride could never get the
best of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m not a
hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stomach wretched, my
abdomen seized, my kidneys ached, my entire body was shutting down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running made everything remarkably
worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More puking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh God, please just let this end.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Right before the aid station, I discovered Dom and my names
written in the dirt and the tears finally came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Idlehour was run by friends and they were a) going to do
everything in their power to get me to leave that aid station; and b) were
going to be horribly disappointed in my having given up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, I was ushered into a
chair, handed some warm salt water and Tums and told under no circumstances
would my bracelet be cut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I buried
my head in the blanket and began to sob uncontrollably.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sat for over an hour and soon thereafter a hint of light
graced the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been
watching friends come and go and a few times tried to talk myself into getting
up and walking it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be
courageous and tough like them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I thought about the other names in the dirt - the other friends who would have given anything to continue this race but had been cut off at a previous aid station. I still had plenty of time. I could drag my ass home. I was so utterly confused.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaUmHmkHJOHVWhf6wwjCk277p-ufJ4yIOhbJxgxiW26QGtAm5o2mOTicV2dleiAIoc0S0_MG7YbUCkgISjiGhG0DaSdRbhaJYkuFYVN-GXo5Y3yfbOB9x2eMEpXoOkDp4qyX44jiy4DY/s1600/1097781_10151779116057970_1329362787_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaUmHmkHJOHVWhf6wwjCk277p-ufJ4yIOhbJxgxiW26QGtAm5o2mOTicV2dleiAIoc0S0_MG7YbUCkgISjiGhG0DaSdRbhaJYkuFYVN-GXo5Y3yfbOB9x2eMEpXoOkDp4qyX44jiy4DY/s320/1097781_10151779116057970_1329362787_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scene of the crime. Flanked by two finishers.<br />(photo: Jack Cheng)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instantly, I could no longer stand to be here – still
technically a part of this race.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
had to go somewhere, and my choices were either 5 miles down the toll road to
the city or 7 to the next aid station.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stood up, took a deep breath and that’s when it happened – the moment
I knew everything in my body was officially over.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Guys, I shit myself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No joke. I had now lost control of my bladder, kidneys, stomach,
legs, mind, eyesight and well… the one thing you never want to lose control of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was horrific.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I knew I was done in the most epic way possible.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Luckily, my friends took extreme pity on me and gave me a
ride down to the city (I sat on a garbage bag).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next
thing I knew, I was lying on the floor of the shower listening to Dom recount
his victorious race, unable to feel anything any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was almost as if I was in shock, unable to mentally
process that I had really just DNF’d Angeles Crest at mile 85.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>My race.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The race that was going so well until it wasn’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cried a lot in the days after the event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disbelief turned to anger, anger turned
to sadness and honestly, while sadness has greatly dissipated, it is still very
much a part of my conscious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While
I was still peeing blood on Sunday, I was confident I had done the right thing,
but once my body began feeling better, I was flooded with doubt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did I do wrong?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What could I have done differently?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could I have safely kept going?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Truth is, I don’t know and I physically can’t care
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AC100 2013 is over.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In the wake of it all, it's not so much the DNF that is bothering me, in as much as that I am still left searching </span>and pushing and
praying for that one magical day when it all comes together. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You see, the failure itself did not define me. But did I choose to fail when I felt like I already had? Am I not as tough as I thought I was? And more importantly - am I still running and racing for the right reasons, or have I defined myself in a new category where it is acceptable to drop when you're not having a good race? I wasn't medically pulled. I wasn't even advised not to go on. The choice was all mine. Sure, I pushed through some serious shit with a great attitude from mile 35 to mile 85, that much I <i>know</i>. But mile 85 wasn't the finish. AND I'M NOT A QUITTER.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or am I?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">***</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regardless of outcome, I must thank a few folks for sharing the day with me: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom, Dad & Bowman for a long weekend of crewing</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad & Elan for some most excellent pacing</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Momica for the endless support, no matter the outcome</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">New Balance (1010s and 890s)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Injinji (Trail 2.0. Blisters 0.0) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hal, Ken & the awesome volunteers</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tiffany & Trey for talking me through one of the harder moments of my life</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and finally,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kevin Chan - who did not sign up for that shit, and most assuredly had a less than idyllic Saturday night/Sunday Morning. I owe you, bro. Holy hell, do I owe you.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2ZpXWyfNdqJs60BxNJPHEdFk50qWeknhYTtMycuwtae9ncUK_7i0JlzLje7m6fKElm68SffsVKilfpsnJfj9Y75yBs_jsmfYzk6xXUBMFeRQMLk1SyHKY7AF_Pv9OUw-bbjWMaoGIIY/s1600/finish.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2ZpXWyfNdqJs60BxNJPHEdFk50qWeknhYTtMycuwtae9ncUK_7i0JlzLje7m6fKElm68SffsVKilfpsnJfj9Y75yBs_jsmfYzk6xXUBMFeRQMLk1SyHKY7AF_Pv9OUw-bbjWMaoGIIY/s320/finish.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to training for 2014. (<i>sigh.</i>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-10079984263334909972013-01-31T11:11:00.001-08:002013-01-31T11:36:57.907-08:00Connection Isn't a Buzzword: The Lost Art of Respect (and Basic Humanity)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am 29 years old, and that means a few things.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At one point, I seriously rocked shoulder pads. I have a
profound respect for all things 1980. There was a time when Matchbox 20 was my
favorite band. I had to wait until
2006 to see the Cards win a World Championship. Unfortunately, I’ll be 30 in a
month in a half. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And most notably, I went through high school without a cell
phone and college without Facebook.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I going to go on a rant here? That is not the intention, but probably yes. Will I seriously date myself in the
process? In that case, allow me to
break out my rickety old man pants.
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4aEQI4wpevY99s07UZGliKV_tnKXlXBWj3DYoldi7DU6zm-h_egMeyTCuR4RXbSX31Dz_KemB2X5TFRCy-5ksrg9BYl7BJp3M_vb6lvDZBi0IpvM_WPfZZp7XnxaA-NiQOggwi3ItCzE/s1600/oldmanpants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4aEQI4wpevY99s07UZGliKV_tnKXlXBWj3DYoldi7DU6zm-h_egMeyTCuR4RXbSX31Dz_KemB2X5TFRCy-5ksrg9BYl7BJp3M_vb6lvDZBi0IpvM_WPfZZp7XnxaA-NiQOggwi3ItCzE/s400/oldmanpants.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is a photo I took of Dom.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is a definite situation at hand, and I’d like to sum
it all up by stating that <b>people don’t know how to treat people anymore. </b> And while ultrarunning certainly
attracts the exception to that statement and comprise the majority of my
friends and acquaintances associated with the sport, the whole thing is growing
beyond anyone’s control. People
have actually heard of running 100 miles in the mountains. People have actually seen pictures of
Killian and Tony K or Ellie and Anna in magazines. And people certainly have something to say about it.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Good. Great.
Awesome, actually! Opinions
are always welcome, different viewpoints are encouraged, and healthy debate is
what drives us all towards progress.
But all too often, I encounter legitimate bashing, trashing and smashing,
which always elicits the same response from me, <i>“I mean, WHO SAYS THAT?!”</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I myself have been a victim of backhanded trash talking
online; I’ve been misrepresented, misquoted and misinterpreted. And while it sucks, it’s nothing
compared to what the real stars of our sport are going through. Have you ever perused the comments on
<a href="http://www.irunfar.com/" target="_blank">irunfar</a> (before Bryon or Meghan get to them and enforce that shit)? Worse yet, have you ever heard of
letsrun? It’s insane. Absolutely insane.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know what else is insane? Having a coffee with someone whose nose is buried in their
phone the entire time, and possibly even answers a phone call.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know what else is insane? Being more concerned about “checking in” to where you are,
rather than checking it out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know what ELSE is insane? Finding out your only brother is engaged on Facebook.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is my point:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/n93HrRfw4lg?rel=0" width="420"></iframe></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What J Timbs and I are trying to say is, GET OFF YOUR ####ING
iPHONE! No, but what I’m really
trying to say is: Ayo, I am a person who exists and has feelings and emotions
and appreciates real human connection.
My Facebook contains images of me, not me. My Twitter handle is only a very millifraction of the
thoughts consuming my actual, tangible brain. My blog is just some shit I wanted to remember and write
about. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unless we have physically met, spoken and hugged, you don’t
know me. I don’t know you. But
when we do, please realize that you are sharing a moment with me, in real
physical form. Please do not value
a photo on Instagram over the minutes of my time I am giving you. Please join me in living in the moment,
rather than documenting it. Please
question me, get to know me, rather than think you have me all figured out
based on one sentence you read somewhere online. Please learn how to be human again.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In your speak, OMG I’m not LOLing here. U srsly need to
stop.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz94DuBY4UHjQkVJw69jRY6z5FCyzjQNKmiUpv-_nIp6XqXXWQJmKVPKo5fSCTyBSC2OL7veWeiU7pD-QA-thZPN31eSEf25QoqDemLnSgoD5t7Au_S7DZPl1kqt5pVVCKGkIOCjkAB_Y/s1600/level42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz94DuBY4UHjQkVJw69jRY6z5FCyzjQNKmiUpv-_nIp6XqXXWQJmKVPKo5fSCTyBSC2OL7veWeiU7pD-QA-thZPN31eSEf25QoqDemLnSgoD5t7Au_S7DZPl1kqt5pVVCKGkIOCjkAB_Y/s400/level42.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here’s my theory on this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am part of a very distinct nano-generation who has gone
through the two periods of life most responsible for social development having
to complete said development entirely face to face. Computers weren’t even “a thing” until the end of middle
school, and all I really remember about that is breaking a fucking axle when I
was trying to ford the river EVERY. TIME.
The internet wasn’t really rocking until high school, and even that was
dial-up and everyone knew the CD-Rom encyclopedia you got when you bought a
Hewlett-Packard was better for research anyway. My junior year, I bought a pager so that I could type
55378008 to my friends (hint: look at that upside down); although I soon
realized it really just served as a tracking device for my parents. I got a cell phone for Christmas my
senior year, but don’t get too excited.
It’s greatest feature was “Snake.”
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Point is, if you wanted to meet with your friends, you had
to get on the phone or (gasp!) walk to their houses and make legitimate
plans. You spent time
together. When you went out, you
saved your photos preciously because you only had so many before the film ran
out, and it cost money to develop.
You shared time together, rather than sharing the evidence. You were only friends with people you
had legitimately met and had contact with.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Furthermore, if you didn’t like someone, there was a whole
host of things you could do to make their life miserable, including, but not
limited to: getting in a fight, TPing
their house, passing notes making fun of them or making them sit alone at
lunch. All of these are terrible,
no doubt, but the reach only went so far.
There was no, say, network of billions worldwide that could get in on
“the fun.” And if you wanted to
say something, for all intents and purposes, you had to say it to their face…
or at least to a face that would inevitably tell the intended face. And you had to use YOUR name and YOUR
likeness. There was no sk8ergrl to
hide behind.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I took that neon green Nokia, to which I’d glued little tiny
rhinestones to the buttons, off to college with me and it was certainly helpful
for making plans and calling home for free. (Family Plan FTW).
Mind you, you still had to CALL me if you wanted to make plans. Text messaging was like 20 cents per
and there was no way I was paying for that shit. While I eventually upgraded to a color screen flip variety,
I never owned a phone with internet capabilities. Besides, all I’d use that for would be to check game scores,
but instead I just asked someone.
Anyone. (Gasp!) <i>a stranger</i>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By senior year, Gmail came out and I was beginning to use
that a little more regularly for things beyond school, work and applying for
jobs. It became a legitimate way
to inform people of happenings and I was part of many an “email chain.” Here was born my disdain for the Reply
All. I believe it was this year
that I also signed up for a MySpace account, although I had no idea why I was
doing it and found the whole thing quite creepy. Then when Facebook came out only a few months later, my mind
was blown. Why do I need all this
shit? </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Subsequently, I went through what is arguably the most
important “coming into one’s own” phase of my life, solely interacting with
people face to face. If I didn’t
know the answer to something, I asked a person. I had to leave my room if I wanted to “connect” and “make
friends.” I took a few photos here
and there. I documented things I
wanted to remember by hand in a scrapbook. And the rest of my time was spent living my life. I never had a smartphone, I never
texted, I found the new social networks to be creepy and Chat Rooms were for
losers.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sure, many folks my age have jumped head first into the new
age of digital connection and have no qualms nor questions about how the way
they behave as a fundamental human being has changed. Many folks older have done the same. But I am in a weird place. On one hand, I love the way Facebook
and Twitter and my iPhone and the likes have allowed me to stay in touch with
family and friends. I love the way
it allows me to share my passion for ultrarunning with people all over the
country. I love how it helps me
get my writing out to the masses.
I honestly have no idea how I ever survived without the Google Maps
App. <i>I work at a digital ad
agency, for chrissakes. </i>But on the other hand, it deeply angers me when someone
pays more attention to their phone than the person in front of them. I hate being put on call waiting. I have a limit on how far our
conversation can go via text, and I’ll never understand why when I eventually
just call you, you don’t answer and then send me a text asking why I
called. I honestly think about
every single image and every single word I tweet, post or otherwise share. Will someone possibly interpret it the
wrong way? Could it be hurtful or
negatively affect someone else? Is
it my best grammar or is it the most effective way to say that? Why am I even posting this anyway? I honestly let every single letter and
every little pixel sit in the queue before I hit send, and I often edit or
delete entirely. In short, I think
about what I’m saying because I deeply understand that once I put it out there,
I’m never fully getting it back.
And my reach is now further and deeper than I ever could have imagined. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sad part is, I honestly believe that Social Networking
has become such an integral part of most of our lives that people don’t even
think twice, and they certainly don’t analyze it all the way I have. While I am appalled at groups of
college girls around a table, all on their iPhones, they likely don’t find it
rude because it’s just the way things are now. While I find it horribly strange that the brother of mine
shares news of engagement and arrival in St. Louis on Facebook (before calling
my dad and I who were waiting at the airport to pick him up), he likely sees it
as a great tool for communication.
And for all intents and purposes, it worked, and at the end of the day,
my happiness at either situation was not adversely affected. But my fear is that people are not
taking the time to fully understand the implications of their opinions not
being shared solely with the person.
When you write on a wall or leave a comment, it’s seen and interpreted
by many others. And it’s
documented FOREVER. If only the
entire world had a <a href="http://www.irunfar.com/about-irunfar/contributors" target="_blank">Bryon and Meghan</a>, but alas, it doesn’t. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Act accordingly.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">***</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you, yourself, believe that you may have lost a bit of
touch with your humanity or need a refresher course on what it means to be a
truly good person, I’d invite you to take 19 minutes of your day to listen to
this. It’s Bob Costas’s eulogy at
Stan Musial’s funeral, who was not only one of the greatest baseball players to
ever live, but considered one of the all time greatest men by those that knew
him and the city that loved him deeply.
I love this, in particular:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“(Thanks to Stan) We understood that it’s more important to
be appreciated than to be glorified; to be respected than to be celebrated; to
be understood and loved than to be idolized; and that friendship is more
important than fame.” –Bobby C</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In this case, let’s stay in touch on Facebook, please tweet
your race updates, we’ll all share beautiful, inspiring photos of mountains we
should all climb. I’ll continue to
write this blog, you continue to write yours and comments are always
welcome. Text me, bro. But for the love of all things holy, look
up. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Understand that it’s more important to be regarded than to
be retweeted; to be legitimately well liked rather than “liked”; to go actually
hang out than to go viral; and that friendship can never be truly formed by
clicking a button.</b></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NnYTfEG5bCk?rel=0" width="560"></iframe><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>RIP.</i></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>More on RESPECT:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://www.jenbenna.com/?p=642" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jen Benna on Respecting Yourself</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://inspiredrunning.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-lost-art-of-respect-lessons-from.html" target="_blank">Jimmy Dean Freeman's Suggestions for Practicing the Art of Respect </a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.lizahoward.com/2013/01/lost-art-respect/" target="_blank">Liza Howard Respecting the Battery Life of Her Phone, Among Other Things</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://runmoretalkless.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-lost-art-of-respect.html" target="_blank">Olga King Being Downright Respectable</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nathan Coury</span><br />
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-30566652651953329912013-01-16T11:02:00.002-08:002013-01-17T10:30:10.753-08:00My Brain Used to Hate Me: The Freedom in Confronting Your Own Story<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last time I hooked up with Jimmy’s posse for a
<a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2012/12/im-selfish-bitch-and-youre-amazing.html" target="_blank">syncroblog topic</a>, I talked a lot about losing some things (people, interests,
etc.) from my pre-ultrarunning self.
I spoke of the guilt I feel for this and perhaps positioned them as things
I miss, and to a certain degree this is fact. But the truth is, I like myself better this way. I get more out of life, and the people
and opportunities it has created are something I never would have
imagined.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are a lot of great stories out there about how running, and more particularly ultrarunning have saved a lot of great folks from the likes of addiction, depression, unhealthy habits and the works. For me, the reason why I have the things I mentioned above is because ultrarunning saved me from the worst kind of beast I could ever imagine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To demonstrate, I give you my own story of how I got into distance
running and my best attempt at brevity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started running cross-country and track in high school –
4’s and 8’s were my jam; I thought cross-country was WAAAAAY too long. <i>Five kilometers?! </i> For the birds. I suppose it was telling that the one
thing I really loved about cross-country were the “nature runs” – days where we
ran on trails. Anyway, eventually
the competitiveness and pressure got to me, culminating in being tripped on my
last big race my senior year and not going to state. My world had basically ended, and I now think I have a good
reason why – but I’ll save that for the dramatic reveal. That’s how these blog things work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For my next trick, I quit running forever – which basically
meant that I still ran, but only to make sure I could drink beer and still look
good in my sequin half tops (I was on my college dance team – the University of
Missouri Golden Girls). In retrospect,
I still looked pretty awful, but I think that was more related to wearing sequins
and boots from the 70s. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, I met a boy, as many of us do in our sororal
days, and eventually that boy “broke my heart” –as many of them also do. Towards the end of that “relationship,”
I began searching for something else to make me feel great and wonderful and
all of that shit, so naturally, I chose running a marathon. I’d show him and I’d show
everyone. I’d also pass out on the
Katy Trail out in McBaine, due to my lack of knowledge on eating or drinking on
a 20 mile run in 105 degree heat and humidity steaming up from the river – but
well, that was all part of the process I guess.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A week after the marathon, I was arrested for a DUI. A few weeks later, I discovered said
boy with another girl in his bed.
Within a few weeks of that, I was full on depressed. There are a million details surrounding
that, but they are all inconsequential, considering that I believe I now know
why I sought out all of those activities and relationships and the running I
had now fully turned to.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The need for validation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I loved running track, because I loved the way I felt when I
won. When I was “the best” on any
given day. I cracked under that
very pressure to be the best when it became quite certain that I wasn’t the
“absolute best” and likely never would be. After that, life became a coping game of discovering that I
really wasn’t the best at anything and that all the hard work in the world
wasn’t going to change that. I had
believed in my heart that I could be anything, <i>everything</i>, and I was crushed to
discover that by comparison, I felt to be nothing. Of course, I had no idea at the time, but suffice it to say
that I had the general feeling of sucking at life.*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*I feel the need to add that this came ENTIRELY from within, and no one else was making me feel this way. I had probably the most supportive parents and family anyone could ask for and a lot of great friends who thought I was perfectly wonderful the way that I was.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hence came the need to find things to validate me. To make me feel that I was enough and I
was the most desirable in just one aspect of my life. <i> Just one, dammit.
</i>That was dancing – and I failed.
That was my college boyfriend – and I failed. So for awhile, I drank to forget. Mind you, I don’t actually think I drank anymore than any
college kid – probably less – but my point is that I don’t really think my
penchant for going out and boozing was just to have fun. In fact, I think there is a much deeper
reason why many collegiates party hard, including, but not limited to alcohol,
drugs and sex (but not rock and roll – rock and roll is always a good idea) –
even though they’d think you were some crazy psych major if you ever mentioned
it to them at the time. Myself
included.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some point along my short stint in depression, but after
a long four years of self-hatred and self-doubt, I came to a realization that to this day I credit as the
switch for all future self-discovery.
So much so that I have a tattoo on my right wrist to serve as a constant
reminder. It was simply this:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You always have a choice. ALWAYS.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What that meant at the time was that I was actively choosing
to be miserable. I had become
comfortable playing the victim and was too scared to try anything else, just to
likely fail at “being the best” yet again. Also during this time I started to run a lot more, partly
because my driving privileges had been revoked, but mainly because I really,
truly loved it. The farther and
harder I went, the more “validated” I felt. And I now fully understand why. The goals I was setting were related to me and me
alone. <i>I’ve never run this far
before! I’ve never run this many
miles in a week! I’ve never run up
that many hills without walking! </i>I
had no one to compare myself to, and that was a beautiful, beautiful thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, again, I didn’t know that at the time, which is
why I continued to struggle with that lack of true belief in and satisfaction
with myself for the next seven years or so. I moved to Los Angeles and toiled to prove myself as a
writer and develop my career in creative advertising. I had been “one of the best” in my graduating class, but now
I was just a small fish in a very, very big pond. And there were sharks in this pond. Lots of ‘em. I didn’t date much, and chalked that up to not being pretty
or interesting enough for someone to be interested in. I was a girl from Missouri <i>in LA</i>, for
chrissakes. I did continue
running, however, and really was enjoying this marathon thing. Being “the best” was so far off my radar that just finishing and improving my time was fulfilling
and worthwhile. In a way, running
was what really kept me together and hopeful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah, but eventually, I happened upon something more than a
marathon – something farther and harder – and of course, that seemed like the
natural progression for my self-worth meter. An ultramarathon.
I had to try this and I had to complete this. A 50k, a 50miler… 100 freaking miles! I did them all, and I felt wonderfully
whole upon each finish. I DID
IT. And that was enough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only problem is, that I was kind of good at it. I was finishing towards the top, and
naturally that competitive drive kicked in – if I could be the almost best on
my first try, I could definitely be the very best with some more training! This was wonderful! I had found my calling.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, now, just doing my best and finishing
was no longer enough. My sophomore
race in every distance went exactly horribly. I finished feeling ashamed and angry at myself, rather than
happy and accomplished. For the
next few years, I never really felt satisfied. These feeling persisted in both my professional and personal
life as well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until 2012.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began the year recovering from <a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2011/12/desplintered.html" target="_blank">knee surgery</a>, so being “the
best” was again, so far removed from my reality it wasn’t even funny. That said, I went ahead and signed up for races – mainly
because I had entered my name in some lotteries before the surgery – but still,
I moved forward with just training the best that I could. I had missed being physically able to
run all day, and the act of simply doing that was enough. <i>Yes, it was enough. </i> I had grown to love running in the
mountains to that degree.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So here’s where I tell you how I had a year of setbacks, but
mentally forged on and learned to be okay with that, right? Well… not exactly. My first race back was a 50k in March, and<a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2012/03/malibu-creek-50k-return.html" target="_blank"> I won</a>. Then I set a <a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2012/03/wise-lessons-from-old-goats.html" target="_blank">50 mile PR</a> on
one of the toughest courses in the country. There was also a <a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2012/07/clouds-were-lined-with-silver-my.html" target="_blank">100 mile PR</a> and a <a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2012/11/my-ozark-trail-105.html" target="_blank">100 mile win and course record</a>. In between all of this
there was a kidney infection, a calf strain, a bout of giardia and some extreme
adrenal fatigue. So what the freaking
freak, right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, if you look back at any of my race reports from last
year, you’ll discover a common theme in that dramatic reveal I spoke of (which
I’m getting to now, brevity again failed). In each and
every race, I’d only set goals relative to myself. I approached each and every race as a first, and I ran as if
I was alone in the mountains, rather than surrounded by hundreds either in
front of or behind me. I did what
I set out to do and I was happy in its truest form. That brand of validation came from within. Which I now understand is the only
place from which it may truly exist.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also in 2012, my relationship bloomed into the most
wonderful, amazing partnership I’ve ever known. Whomever “they” are, they say that you have to learn to love
yourself before you can love anyone else.
While I hate all things cliché, this has become one of the truest things
I have ever known. No other person
or thing was ever going to fill that hole I had, and until I patched that shit
myself, all I was giving anyone was a broken piece of crap. Now, I’m literally brimming with love
so much so that my hugs can be lethal.
I will literally squeeze the shit out of you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What’s left is that I feel confident in my friendships. I feel confident in my career, although I’ll freely admit, I could stand to change some things in 2013 on that front. My life is not perfect and I’m
certainly not the best ultrarunner, copywriter, cook or looking chick on the
planet. But I’ll be damned if I’m
not the best I’ve ever been. And
while I have an innate drive to achieve more, which is the very thing that
likely caused the previous demise of my own self-worth, I now understand how to
harness that power and use it for good rather than evil. And here’s how I know that at 29 years
of age, I finally get it: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those wins I spoke of - the days where I was "the best?" </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They didn't feel any different.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqVa1DDu18Ua0I_uGwDuKyc6vQBo5WCRd9dSALFHJfw67hXm5mL7yPVFjCoGCFdtyARQf-ir5Gndrq9rkdRzHNrOBg4iW50fnWC3hwOClhS3GJc-IzoiiPTpy56WfIY0UZJhhs5YxvXI/s1600/737870_10100540304901561_455463141_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqVa1DDu18Ua0I_uGwDuKyc6vQBo5WCRd9dSALFHJfw67hXm5mL7yPVFjCoGCFdtyARQf-ir5Gndrq9rkdRzHNrOBg4iW50fnWC3hwOClhS3GJc-IzoiiPTpy56WfIY0UZJhhs5YxvXI/s400/737870_10100540304901561_455463141_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br />This photo represents me escaping the confines of my own twisted and fucked up brain.<br />(taken by a dude who has experienced this fully)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">MORE MIND TRAVELS, FOR YOUR PLEASURE:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://inspiredrunning.blogspot.com/2013/01/ones-truest-freedom-breaking-chains-of.html" target="_blank">"History of Jimmy" Lesson</a> <i>- Jimmy Dean Freeman</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.nathancoury.com/blog/2013/01/16/the-freedom-in-confronting-your-own-story" target="_blank">Nathan's Journey of 22 Years</a> <i>- Nathan Coury</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://ashwalsh.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/why-you-frontn/" target="_blank">Ashley Ain't Frontin'</a> - <i>Ashley Walsh</i></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-8483591189768561372013-01-08T16:54:00.002-08:002013-01-08T16:54:44.245-08:00Math and Goal Setting: Things I am now good at!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">According to Dr. Anders Ericsson, it takes 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to become an expert at something.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">1</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By my imprecise, handwritten in a notebook calculations, I spent about 642 hours running this year. At this rate, it will take me 15 full years to get any good at this thing, and since I've only been at it hard for 3 1/2 years plus another few of marathon running and 4 years of high school track and cross-country, I'd figure I have at least another 9-10 years to go. By contrast, working 40+ hours a week in Advertising has me acing this shit in only 5 years, which means I was an expert over a year ago. If you are wondering if this fact is effective in getting you a raise, the answer is no.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Ahhhh, a life well spent.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Seriously though, the reason I even bring this up is because everyone is posting all these mileage totals and averages and other such forms of mathematics, and I can no longer hide the fact that I, too, have calculated my shit. And given that I did this all by hand, including full on long division <i>in my head</i>, I'm quite proud. Not necessarily of the numbers. But of my solid scholarly effort. My pops always said calculators and computers were for the weak.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkPPFAKCqhNOy8jtV2sRcCk0nm7roE_uuLAkTFPTt51HhapwpH_XqdJXbhb_AjFYt4P7rq9ySPXJJVFZE2iqnXZSGb7fKF9n0wbtJ2HAfU00GeebB9bYbvwW0cd0wk-KU7UUNgL2a5VA/s1600/logs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkPPFAKCqhNOy8jtV2sRcCk0nm7roE_uuLAkTFPTt51HhapwpH_XqdJXbhb_AjFYt4P7rq9ySPXJJVFZE2iqnXZSGb7fKF9n0wbtJ2HAfU00GeebB9bYbvwW0cd0wk-KU7UUNgL2a5VA/s400/logs.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Put it on Pinterest, bitches.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Truth is, the numbers and trends were pretty much what I expected. I hit it hard in the first half of the year, racking up a solid 1,700 miles and averaging 14,000 feet of climb per week - even with tapers and recovery weeks factored in. Given that I was simultaneously rehabbing my knee from surgery, this seems pretty good. And then the second half of the year hit, which was, how do you say... <i>unimpressive</i>. Given all the crazy health problems (kidneys, adrenals and a bout of giardia) I was having at the end of the summer/early fall I'm actually surprised I still snuck a few good months and a successful race in there. Going into that one (OT100), I honestly was concerned about my ability to even run a full 100 miles. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for the numbers, let's just say that I definitely negative split my year.</span>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said, here's my favorite stat (because yes, I totally nerded out with an entire notebook filled with raw data at my disposal): A full month of my year was spent running and cross-training. I don't know why, but I really like the sound of that. I'm also NOT going to do the math on working... ugh, yes I am. It's like three months. Gross. Which leads me to wonder, what in the world was I doing those other 8 months? Eww, probably a lot of it was sleeping. Like 4 months! Of just lying around doing nothing! OHMYGOD I NEED TO STOP.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said, 2012 held some great stuff as well, so I'll spend the next two sentences reflecting on that. I won a 50k in March that I decided to do the day before with a knee still not fully healed from surgery, I ran a faster time at Miwok than the last time I ran it, despite the fact that it was a harder and longer course and even though I consider it my worst race of the year. I also ran a 50 mile PR on the hardest course I've ever done (Old Goats), still with a bum knee and only 6 days after running the LA marathon with my dad. As for the hundos, I got my silver buckle at Western States, breaking 24 hours for the first time, and then won and set a course record at the Ozark Trail 103.1. There, I actually ran 105 miles, so that is officially the longest I've ever run in one stretch. Okay, that was actually four sentences.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was also some great non-performance by me, but still running stuff, like the aforementioned r<a href="http://breakingexcellent.blogspot.com/2012/03/prequel-sequel-la-marathon-2012.html" target="_blank">unning of the marathon with my old man</a> (his first), the week in Silverton and pacing Dom at Hardrock, finally pacing my girl, Kate, at AC100 like I always was supposed to (damn you Station Fire of 2009!), and pacing my hero, Suzanna, to a course record at Chimera100. Probably my favorite thing of 2012 though was all the time we spent exploring the Eastern Sierras - including my first Whitney ascent (6 days before Western States) and my first backpacking trip (the Evolution Loop with Dom and Chamoun). Then there was also the first annual Team RWB Trail Running Camp, which was amazing to be a part of. To summarize, here are some fun photos of me basking in other people's glory:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpa6VMwP2eB8Y-ymEDhmiX5hFQhSvoyhQFcUYdfAGAm959cs-pdLCzfbOKBjGZZjjJLhwxU6RFwHpLqK4sGansCUvVrWeCxRu2cJVWEO_J-sAbIYbfmrk1Mk6hz6BO0EYQcoxC82Uh73g/s1600/Dom+Ouray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpa6VMwP2eB8Y-ymEDhmiX5hFQhSvoyhQFcUYdfAGAm959cs-pdLCzfbOKBjGZZjjJLhwxU6RFwHpLqK4sGansCUvVrWeCxRu2cJVWEO_J-sAbIYbfmrk1Mk6hz6BO0EYQcoxC82Uh73g/s400/Dom+Ouray.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hardrock</i> - photo: Steve Lewis, <i>Durango Herald</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoDv6TgnQoFXwQe3pjAZ8Z-4B14X3rroO3CTtifYOckfixD583CradGVxG0wFq91E57ZgHqlod0qiVz_Rte4IjFzGIbzp0JE8Ocbs4-BiHLgTLJbfn0SjlmNZFDD4MvZ9bMmioC3AEio/s1600/Kate+AC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoDv6TgnQoFXwQe3pjAZ8Z-4B14X3rroO3CTtifYOckfixD583CradGVxG0wFq91E57ZgHqlod0qiVz_Rte4IjFzGIbzp0JE8Ocbs4-BiHLgTLJbfn0SjlmNZFDD4MvZ9bMmioC3AEio/s400/Kate+AC.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Angeles Crest - </i>photo: Silvia Elena Beckmann</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDx09mji_oUo1Q9sJBVhvtN2Q5cJDhyphenhyphennyzuObxIei1OQ_5mRThS4QJoHR0b74Y8WH1FpHZOqTi1bjuaymM7DQpBu1RkIL6TqcWAR-tRrRMU45qGnWvxlwnBUYzVB-NbNxdmoVw5ahbew/s1600/Suz+Chimera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDx09mji_oUo1Q9sJBVhvtN2Q5cJDhyphenhyphennyzuObxIei1OQ_5mRThS4QJoHR0b74Y8WH1FpHZOqTi1bjuaymM7DQpBu1RkIL6TqcWAR-tRrRMU45qGnWvxlwnBUYzVB-NbNxdmoVw5ahbew/s400/Suz+Chimera.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chimera 100 - </i>photo: Dom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJii1_jsdCCdUsPBndJT-xWB9Wq5YGmQMAYvwLj2dXe1ruyvFvCbdwNpGbddCQ-_P0mURzQL4LkC7YwzMaiUoPbZmOgiml_mHGDSYzKirxBRYGCJYZmIUa1H5rzOtbsZ0IJaRaCTEH6E/s1600/Mon+TNF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJii1_jsdCCdUsPBndJT-xWB9Wq5YGmQMAYvwLj2dXe1ruyvFvCbdwNpGbddCQ-_P0mURzQL4LkC7YwzMaiUoPbZmOgiml_mHGDSYzKirxBRYGCJYZmIUa1H5rzOtbsZ0IJaRaCTEH6E/s400/Mon+TNF.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Monica's 1st Ultra at TNF50k - </i>photo: someone using my camera</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now comes the part where I tell you about my big goals for 2013 and how excited I am to approach them with great fervor now that the calendar year has risen anew! But first, a story:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'Twas the night before the new year, and Dom and I were napping in the Volvo. We planned to rise at 10:45pm for an 11pm departure from Red Box to the top of Mt. Wilson. The road was iced over, we were wearing a million layers and carrying a large bottle of Chimay and the gate at the observatory would undoubtedly be locked, meaning our location for celebration was uncertain and needing to be determined before the clock struck midnight. An hour to climb about 1,000 feet in 4.5 miles and deal with all the above seemed reasonable, plus cushion, so at 11:05pm I remained unfazed by Dom's unreadiness to embark.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we finally left 20 minutes later, I was concerned. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We now had 35 minutes to get to the top and my legs were sufficiently wrecked from snowshoeing all day without snowshoes. Dom attempted to combat this by telling me he thought it was only like 3 miles to the top, which is cute that he thinks I don't understand all the maps I own. It's also cute that he thinks the experiences of showing up to the starting line of Old Goats this year as the gun was going off or having to literally run to the airport with all my baggage to make our flight to Missouri are forgotten. I don't let Dom determine departure times, but in this case, he was dead set on finding his headlamp and at the end of the day... ahem, year... my main concern was being together.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfai7t_fh6oEz9bNwP6KoHtenWsSwLc-jOZl7sqq7lwZlMssmpTXF87jTSCSisGiOJ5iJA2HEb29M249nhMmF9qZa0dskfYQCMbTG5W-BU4qn4QNgb8gTKOfhfmwEOzDArB3VgiTl749U/s1600/snowshoe+mcgee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfai7t_fh6oEz9bNwP6KoHtenWsSwLc-jOZl7sqq7lwZlMssmpTXF87jTSCSisGiOJ5iJA2HEb29M249nhMmF9qZa0dskfYQCMbTG5W-BU4qn4QNgb8gTKOfhfmwEOzDArB3VgiTl749U/s400/snowshoe+mcgee.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dom's gear choice for fresh, deep powder: snowshoes</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfkH8Z4i11fGNEP4E0eIDpPE70wLa2Rhnn06bRmoAJ3M0WPtzKeny9iI61gAI-1EX6rwYWHU0nVPysWuIN3HOMZe4g3dRx9OOe-6EEnrby8Jtq2qQmbEAdXyAqe6qI-KESFhWyTPGK7EI/s1600/Glitter!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfkH8Z4i11fGNEP4E0eIDpPE70wLa2Rhnn06bRmoAJ3M0WPtzKeny9iI61gAI-1EX6rwYWHU0nVPysWuIN3HOMZe4g3dRx9OOe-6EEnrby8Jtq2qQmbEAdXyAqe6qI-KESFhWyTPGK7EI/s400/Glitter!.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My gear choice for fresh, deep powder: Z-poles... for making glitter!</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But for now, my main concern was getting my stiff, puffy jacketed ass to the top of that mountain. When I thought of our new year's celebration together, I had imagined us casually arriving at the summit, popping some champagne and copious amounts of laughter. Instead, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was sweating through all the layers I was wearing and my legs were on fire. There was copious amounts of swearing. When we hit the saddle at Mt. Lowe Road, we only had 15 minutes to get to the top.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Should we just wait here at the saddle?</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>No! I said I was going to be on the top of this mountain at midnight and I'm not about to stop just because you couldn't find your headlamp WHICH YOU'RE NOT EVEN USING BY THE WAY!</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so we carried on this way, myself in a great deal of pain and even Dom himself not exactly having an easy time. He encouraged me, I told him I hated him and our romantic New Year's Eve tryst continued blissfully up Mt. Wilson Road. Three minutes... two... one...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't even really recall midnight, as I was too busy trying to breathe. We'd reached the final turn when the clock ran out and we stopped to acknowledge the moment before walking the final quarter mile to the top. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then my legs gave out and I found myself lying on my back, looking at the icy clear sky and crying. I'd run as hard as I could, but I didn't make it. <i> My first goal of the year, and I didn't freaking make it. </i> Also, I felt like I was going to puke.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dom thought this all wildly amusing and fun. He was failing to recognize the horrible omen that had just been cast for 2013, and instead was focusing on getting himself out of trouble for causing the late start and the obvious demise of my year. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here are a few examples of his failed attempts:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>We ran into the New Year! That's exactly what we wanted to be doing; not standing still!</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Running hard is an omen for all the great training ahead!</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This is just like Western States! Robie Point, panda! Robie Point!</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And my personal fave, the ever dramatic:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>We are supposed to be uncomfortable because that's how we live our lives.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No Dom, you live in Orange County and I live in Brentwood. <i>Fucking Brentwood.</i> We have to find uncomfortable things because our daily lives, by definition, are too comfortable. That said, running and camping on a 28 degree evening to celebrate New Year's rather than dressed up and drinking at a party in the city was as far as I had hoped to go.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"But we didn't make it to the top!" </i>I pleaded.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then Dom on the rebuttal, "<i>Well is 2013 the end goal here? Or are we going to keep going and keep getting faster and stronger for years to come?"</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well.... shit. That actually makes sense.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chim-pagne for all people that didn't pass out!</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, as much as I want to sit here and tell you about all my wondrous goals for 2013, I can't. Because the reality is that my real, true goals extend far beyond this year. Future shit. It's intense. Now, while I obviously have some short-term items on the block this year, my point is that I'm not going to make those singular items my absolute focus. They're more of a progress meter, and I certainly don't expect to reach my absolute maximum human potential as an ultrarunner this year. And that's a pretty generally hopeful thing when you think about it. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPHUl-f-Tz4x4qZrbXDeEme4hz8XTkfYDocJH-6DQusdZiVqPjysqVlbZq3e3l02QX6i0c2ymMNsbHDZN-WfHgWqQCf540gTQ8tLBrDKOJRPXRwrpMkIwzfdSdHybdZeCdx2aiWjqxyY/s1600/AC+dreamin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPHUl-f-Tz4x4qZrbXDeEme4hz8XTkfYDocJH-6DQusdZiVqPjysqVlbZq3e3l02QX6i0c2ymMNsbHDZN-WfHgWqQCf540gTQ8tLBrDKOJRPXRwrpMkIwzfdSdHybdZeCdx2aiWjqxyY/s400/AC+dreamin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Requisite "contemplating future goals" photo</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The best thing I learned from the last three years of training is NOT to get all jazz-ma-tazzed and sparkly eyed in January. Because when I'm behaving like a love-sick schoolgirl, I get CRUSHED like a love-sick schoolgirl. And no amounts of MASH is gonna fix that shit.* Point being is that for the last three years I have started a log of my training on January 1st and begun filling it with little scribbles like <i>27 miles</i>, or <i>26,000 feet on the week</i>, or <i>fastest split eva!</i> (I'm just kidding. I don't ever write ever as eva. Ever.) Then, by oh say, end of February, early March, I start noticing things like, <i>really tired today. SO weird!</i> or a f<i>elt sluggish up the climb</i> or <i>slept 13 hours and ate ALL OF THE THINGS</i>. By the end of the year, I abandon the log entirely, because I can't bear to look at the breakdown.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*</i></span><a href="http://www.bored.com/playmash/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>You can still try though.</i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i> You're welcome.</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, maybe it's my old age speaking... I'll be 30 in a few months, so that means I'll be even smarter ... (and also will simultaneously own a house, be out of debt and a mother of two, according to beliefs retained from childhood), but anyway - maybe I'm starting to learn something here. Could it be that I might have overdone it a bit in those first few months of the year? Never! But probably, yes. So might it be wise to show a little reserve here in the fledgeling days of the new year? And will I actually do that?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, that's the plan. More specifics on that: a) I actually finished my 2012 log all the way through, and b) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I registered for a few early season races. Now, this makes me entirely uneasy, because I want to feel like I'm on my A game for every race and I can assure you that this will not be the case come February. BUT, these races will certainly ensure</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> that I don't fall into some psycho ass training block where I derive great joy out of beating myself into submission for two months and then much to my dismay, encounter just that. Instead, I'll have to remain calm, collected and obey a gradual ramp up to my year. For example, I only ran 65 miles on the first week of 2013... as opposed to the usual, oh say, 90. I know that if I jump right into 90+ mile weeks with over 20k of ups, I'll be toast come the Ray Miller 50 miler on February 2nd. Then I'll also require a longer recovery, taking away from training for The Three Days of Syllamo Stage Race in mid-March, which is supposed to be prime training for Zane Grey 50 miler at the end of April. And so shall go the rest of the year... By May and June, 90+ mile and closer to 30k vertical weeks should be more appropriate and a perfect block heading into my favorite race in all the land: the Angeles Crest 100.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gosh, this all looks so good on paper!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0b_8fnq2hhkcAlIYvnFUk2PmIv0jnlOao1jf4hQP8fm9LODSU1FqH8N4vgp8QMtlL5uVv1R8XbEF4DbsfT_AbJnbkUb-uIlj5YOJrZa2BpkPK0mq5g4EBN6YYNB6ETI7zP2wGNw28GU/s1600/fridays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0b_8fnq2hhkcAlIYvnFUk2PmIv0jnlOao1jf4hQP8fm9LODSU1FqH8N4vgp8QMtlL5uVv1R8XbEF4DbsfT_AbJnbkUb-uIlj5YOJrZa2BpkPK0mq5g4EBN6YYNB6ETI7zP2wGNw28GU/s320/fridays.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. A</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, as for the implementation phase, welp, wish me some luck. So far so good, and we're already 0.019th of the way through the year! The fortunate news is that if I need some motivation or clarity, I need only look back to this past, largely successful year of wins and PRs and achieving my goals in races. You know why 2012 went so well for me? Because I was as patient as whatever is the exact opposite of me sitting in traffic on Friday evening. (Fig. A) Having surgery on my knee lowered my expectations, and as a result, the amount of pressure I put on myself to BE GREAT. <i>RIGHT NOW.</i> Instead it was all about just being at least a little bit greater than I was before I fell into the yucca. And not falling into any more yuccas. To demonstrate, I'd like to show you my aforementioned mathematical skills:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Me > Everyone in the World </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">≠ The Goal</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Me > Old Me = The Goal</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pretty simple, huh?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This should be attainable, considering that I'm starting 2013 off in a much better place than last. In other words, I can actually run without limping. I took a good break after Ozark in November, only running when I felt like it and no intense workouts for almost 2 full months. The result is maintaining a decent base, but kicking shit off uninjured and free of plants, save a little bit of random, non-dibilitating plantar and some purple poodle on my eyelids. (I can still see. It just looks like I'm wearing pink eyeshadow. Permanently.) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In summation, my focus for 2013 all goes back to the whole would you rather win one specific race or continue improving at racing in general for years to come? And since I'm told that the answer cannot be both, I'm going to have to go with B. <i>Cheers to that.</i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMNmzOd62NXNCwE-xFR9jDd1vmUGaRbn1jCKZqKokOP01IqFeZm5j6yRRNf83t9YZzmmaiHVPGAri8GffyC9rv1vm99bXOrKUB0qbLcgtmJpM3TkyA_3Zrxk9720XnzM25lKm33tiz8DM/s1600/rose+bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMNmzOd62NXNCwE-xFR9jDd1vmUGaRbn1jCKZqKokOP01IqFeZm5j6yRRNf83t9YZzmmaiHVPGAri8GffyC9rv1vm99bXOrKUB0qbLcgtmJpM3TkyA_3Zrxk9720XnzM25lKm33tiz8DM/s400/rose+bowl.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enjoying the nose hemorrhage seats for the Rose Bowl</span></i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFuTuCcYAhrl8WGYuF1yYx0R-TJ-_wrLpxkj-AhZKITsPVmUCF1BURAgCoozQd8aUTdwu0E94B_mSwSz85Z463TKYj7g8jkwuHonA2K6XFpKyfJzR5VrEOC31gtYXLUtjDFBAou_T0Wk/s1600/big+trees+chilao.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFuTuCcYAhrl8WGYuF1yYx0R-TJ-_wrLpxkj-AhZKITsPVmUCF1BURAgCoozQd8aUTdwu0E94B_mSwSz85Z463TKYj7g8jkwuHonA2K6XFpKyfJzR5VrEOC31gtYXLUtjDFBAou_T0Wk/s320/big+trees+chilao.jpg" width="238" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNM99jtfFcAKfzUr7hnhoVD93_CgspoaAEB5CxNkj7vqRw7CdRuTwKNf0osX1H9gHTWM7wRJYP7akZ_GtuzuAVCMvV5nm_cBAX9S0Xism_LGloKRwK_nI1A3mmAkQr5ly9UnhdrfpgTeU/s1600/Snow+Attack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNM99jtfFcAKfzUr7hnhoVD93_CgspoaAEB5CxNkj7vqRw7CdRuTwKNf0osX1H9gHTWM7wRJYP7akZ_GtuzuAVCMvV5nm_cBAX9S0Xism_LGloKRwK_nI1A3mmAkQr5ly9UnhdrfpgTeU/s320/Snow+Attack.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kicking off the winter training something proper-like</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In other news:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="font-family: Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did I forgive Dom for the New Year incident? Mostly.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I at peace with how I spent my midnight? Now that I can breathe, yes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Can I inflict the same pain unto Dom which was inflicted unto me? Unfortunately, no.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But do I know people who can? Absolutely, yes.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3M-onhFwg_s4H9S5VP1tEC3SWZ1vfVcwpw0RNPvwJJTt7dRwlksSkyqQ5haYzq0NSn-tOZ08Jx_1_vi1BVQPwUh13SXW4nOewjygih1qrte-cPdg3NLOXo4KOeXX6U5HzQyKrE2JvRyI/s1600/PYUTT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3M-onhFwg_s4H9S5VP1tEC3SWZ1vfVcwpw0RNPvwJJTt7dRwlksSkyqQ5haYzq0NSn-tOZ08Jx_1_vi1BVQPwUh13SXW4nOewjygih1qrte-cPdg3NLOXo4KOeXX6U5HzQyKrE2JvRyI/s400/PYUTT.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Watch yo' back, man.</i></td></tr>
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<br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_342908083"></span><span id="goog_342908084"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">1. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Google it or read the book </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Outliers"</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> by Malcolm Gladwell.</span></span></div>
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-32461823835284658922012-12-07T08:58:00.000-08:002012-12-07T09:43:06.640-08:00I'm a Selfish Bitch and You're an Amazing Friend: The Unspoken Fallout of Pandora's Race<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>How does a person come to the idea to run 100 miles?</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Wait. You've done this before?</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the conversation just kind of goes downhill from there.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the reality is, these are in fact, very good questions that I would very much like to answer. The only trouble being, I think you'll find the summation of my response to be wholly and dreadfully uninspired. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I heard about it. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Someone told me it was possible. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I did it. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I liked it. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I did it again.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If only it were indeed that cut and dry. But the truth is, that while simple, the whole thing was kind of life altering, and I'm not exaggerating in the slightest bit. Anyone who knows me <i><b>now</b></i> would tend to define me by my running and my "outdoor lifestyle." <i>Define me. </i> Woah. Those are heavy words we're playing with. And anyone who knew me <b><i>then</i></b> would likely say I've <i><b>become</b></i> obsessed. Interesting concepts. Let's explore, shall we?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To start, a bit of background on how I "got into" ultrarunning: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Way back in vintage 2006, I was looking for trail races and stumbled across a 50 mile run in Montana requiring you to carry a can of bear mace. At this time, I didn't even carry a water bottle, so this seemed pretty wild. Officially intrigued, I then learned that a 50 mile race was part of this subsect of things they called ultramarathons, which also included races of 100 miles and even 135 miles through Death Valley. <i>Death F*ing Valley.</i> I jokingly wrote a blog on my MySpace page, and that was that.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward to a few years later, when a 21-year-old kid began working at the running store where I spent my weekends shlepping Brooks Beasts. I was subsidizing my life as a single woman in LA on a junior advertising creative's salary, so working 7 days a week was all the rage. Anyway, this freaking kid had just run 50 kilometers, was about to run 50 miles, and would be running 100 miles the following month. His ultimate goal was to run the Badwater Ultramarathon. That freaking Death Valley race. Who did he think he was, anyway?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, turns out his name was Dom Grossman. And it turns out he'd eventually steal my heart, but that's a different story. Actually, not entirely. You see, Dom and I met at a transitory time in both of our lives. A time where we went from whatever it was we used to be to what we are now, which is dirty, trail loving, vertical obsessed mountain ultra runners who constantly battle life in the big city with life on the run and can't imagine our world any other way. I'll let him tell <a href="http://dominicgrossman.blogspot.com/2012/12/synchroblog-pandoras-race-dangers-and.html" target="_blank">his story</a>, but for me, that involved a major shift in priorities and lifestyle. Now, here's the thing: it wasn't like I woke up one day and said, I'm going to stop doing things A and B and start doing thing C instead. It was a semi but not really gradual process and actually, a quite natural transition. Because after all, (and I'd of had no way of knowing this at the time,) my "think I'll try this" activity was about to become an all encompassing ordeal. The ripples it created were the things that now make me the most happy.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some point along the six month journey from deciding I may as well run a 50k to completing my first 100 miler, I remember taking a good look around and being left with the general sense of <i>woah.</i> I mean, I hardly recognized my own Facebook page. I constantly caught myself bringing up some sort of adventure in conversations, kind of like how you always seem to have a story that involves that boy you like. Events and activities that used to excite me greatly were now boring or skipped entirely. I wondered if people were annoyed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No doubt, certain folks were. My newfound and honest unwillingness for "nightlife" and hanging out was first seen as personal, and then the invites just kind of stopped entirely. I didn't notice it then, but I haven't talked to most of the people I associated with on a daily basis in 2009 since, well, 2009. So, was I becoming a hermit and replacing all my free time with running? <i>Hardly!</i> I found a great community of trail runners on the Westside of LA which only expanded with each event I ran, crewed or volunteered at. I soon found that I had more in common with a 53-year-old woman from British Columbia who I might see once a year than people I had known my whole life. It was weird, and it was kind of awesome.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, back to that Facebook thing I casually mentioned. While I may not have noticed how my life was changing, here before me was a perfectly visual, time stamped log of my world from then to now. My previous witty and often self-deprecating posts were replaced with training questions to the masses, race updates on friends, and the photos... my God, the photos. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLgBtCh3w5T89nvvFOgEux3XXzahM9os5MOjbktbzQhwMR9obIC8z0O7OD5gTBi7cYfXNzS5HbEzPXx4dATHwvQ0XnnP37iR45cXjdbNEauDcQoyH4L2OJ7ZDzl5BPpLGyTNl9z60M2o/s1600/352_87947180127_6987_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLgBtCh3w5T89nvvFOgEux3XXzahM9os5MOjbktbzQhwMR9obIC8z0O7OD5gTBi7cYfXNzS5HbEzPXx4dATHwvQ0XnnP37iR45cXjdbNEauDcQoyH4L2OJ7ZDzl5BPpLGyTNl9z60M2o/s400/352_87947180127_6987_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fall of '08, right when #MyLife began to change. Also, I left my credit card at the bar.<br />(Sidenote: these amazing women are all still very DEAR friends of mine, even though all of our Facebook feeds have changed to include things like mom stuff, being a showgirl in Vegas stuff, new friends and new cities stuff and running 100 milers stuff.)</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iDsppYljcYFgP1JXD-6OY2RCwfOi3_InAi3lLtwmKJBHl-gpRU-9Xj_BxpwMwbTTxuw_EmYODOJepISnGKIcTUED7TuVloy_dKEASUJieFX7j3ZLUKXkDskH6Hqbxhc24nACo-rrfhs/s1600/247769_470014429687165_1867380015_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iDsppYljcYFgP1JXD-6OY2RCwfOi3_InAi3lLtwmKJBHl-gpRU-9Xj_BxpwMwbTTxuw_EmYODOJepISnGKIcTUED7TuVloy_dKEASUJieFX7j3ZLUKXkDskH6Hqbxhc24nACo-rrfhs/s400/247769_470014429687165_1867380015_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fall of '12, equally as sexy</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I talked less and less about my job, going out, new outfits and new projects. And I talked less and less with my real life friends and more and more with the trail running community. I suddenly had nothing to say to someone I'd known my whole life and too much to fit in one wall post to a person I'd met once, at a race 5 months ago. At first, I looked at it all and honestly felt bad about it. <i>Ashamed.</i> It was like that time in middle school where Caitlin and Jodi boycotted my birthday party because I'd invited a few "popular" girls, which clearly meant I was ditching my "real" friends. I'd throw a cynical quip about life in there every now and again and I made damn sure to take a photo every time I had makeup on. I tried to match mountain photos and baby bump photos like for like. But it wasn't enough. Ultrarunning had consumed my little sector of the internet. Ultrarunning had consumed my life.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next came the rebuttal and the comfort with it all being OK. You see, we take photos of things we do and things we love. Which is why you rarely see photos of people sitting at their desk in front of a computer, or tweets like "Killing it at the office today. #CorporateLife." Unless someone actually works at an awesome place that they are proud of, in which case, I say congratulations. Or they're being really sarcastic. Anyway, point being, that I don't post very many photos of myself out on a Friday night, because I don't go out on Friday nights. I drive to the mountains and set up a tent and the lighting is not conducive for an iPhone. I'm not hiding anything. I'm just posting what I do, just like the other billion people on Facebook are.* I can only assume that the concern derives from the fact that I used to participate more frequently in this typical lifestyle and perhaps it seems as if I've "given it up" on account of becoming obsessed with something else. And I guess I kind of have. But for me, this is no different than when someone begins tweeting nothing but kid stuff because their kid is clearly the most awesome kid that has ever lived. No doubt they've given up a fair amount of their pre-kid lives, but I remain unconcerned because I can literally feel the happiness exuding from each and every post. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*real stat. google it.</span> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Change is wonderful.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjke2-xEzhK7c3psC1izJJGq6rc6jI2eE_eNjdkgvrM0tkev4LIn6fDkphtrpmghVunuqK8PjjeKPB_yo0hI60xBgASIaIUAFXYVGpyAuA-CzQwykXJ-F08FjiuTWPcTcVRNu4X1DhfqGw/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-12-06+at+4.27.27+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjke2-xEzhK7c3psC1izJJGq6rc6jI2eE_eNjdkgvrM0tkev4LIn6fDkphtrpmghVunuqK8PjjeKPB_yo0hI60xBgASIaIUAFXYVGpyAuA-CzQwykXJ-F08FjiuTWPcTcVRNu4X1DhfqGw/s320/Screen+shot+2012-12-06+at+4.27.27+PM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You post photos of this.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJYqgehsU8cnu702HIQqhLy-8ADM_9t0PIXbzmOqg7Y4RNs3wzf-Nwg4Fwa-5rEle2OQJi4UHdNBg5qOIpPpSmlGovNTQf6t8YFRUsoIHj-01mK2FWxP6oBQmO9giHljhUJC58y17f8is/s1600/251856_10100934319867450_854623232_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJYqgehsU8cnu702HIQqhLy-8ADM_9t0PIXbzmOqg7Y4RNs3wzf-Nwg4Fwa-5rEle2OQJi4UHdNBg5qOIpPpSmlGovNTQf6t8YFRUsoIHj-01mK2FWxP6oBQmO9giHljhUJC58y17f8is/s320/251856_10100934319867450_854623232_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I post photos of this.<br /><br />Whatevs.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah yes, but I have admitted to feeling guilty. I still do right now. This all stems from the underlying reasons why my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/katiedeSplinter" target="_blank">"personal advertisement site"</a> has become what it is today. You don't see me dressed up and drinking champagne at weddings, because I can't afford to travel to them on account of traveling to races. You rarely see me at home with my family, because I use my vacation time for training and racing. My only contribution to group shots of various gatherings of friends is a <i>"wish I could've made it!"</i> comment. I feel torn, because these people are all still extremely important to me, and when something has to give, I often take advantage of their unconditional love and friendship. The aforementioned whom have judged my transition and/or failed to connect with it, have long since faded away. Those who understand without understanding, who are happy because I'm happy are the ones who I'm affecting.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And my career. What happened to that? The whole reason I moved to LA after college was to work at the top ad agencies in the world and climb my way to copywriting glory. Superbowl ads, billboards in Times Square - I was destined for it! But somewhere along the line of opportunities, I made a deliberate decision that shocked the shit out of myself. I no longer wanted to work at the Chiats and Saatchis and Wiedens and Crispins. I wanted to work at a small place where I could generally like what I do for 8 hours a day, and use my "enough" paycheck to fund my lifestyle of camping and racing. Somewhere this had become much more important than a Clio. Do any of you outside the industry actually know what that is? ...No? <i>Exactly.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And do any of you outside of ultrarunning know what the drop is on my NB1010s, why it matters or what the hell a NB1010 is in the first place? Touché. If you're not into ultrarunning, you're probably not reading this blog. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Point of this, is that while I love my life and I love the focus and purpose running 100 mile races has given it, it is not without sacrifice. As with anything. My brother stays undoubtedly closer to my family, despite the fact he is in the Marine Corps. My niece looks remarkably different every time I see her, and my grandparents look older. I'm meeting my friends' kids when they're three, not when they're born. I don't know about that girl you're dating and chances are, you'll break up before I ever do. I won't be home for Thanksgiving. I'll never be anyone's Maid of Honor. <i>I'm sorry, I can't make it. </i>God, I'm really, really sorry.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Because running ultras is selfish as fuck.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know this. I struggle with this. And yet, I'm perfectly unwilling to change it. If you're doubting me and think that it can't be any more selfish than any other hobby or passion someone pursues, just take a look at any 100 mile race. 3 or 4 people dedicating 2-3 full days to cater to my every whim. I'm too manic and fragile to make decisions the day before, so they'll also have to deal with that. I'm running for a good 24 hours or so, and they just drive around for hours (no sleeping!), only to see me for 30 seconds and hand me a water bottle stuffed with gels. They may even get sweaty clothes thrown at them. Then, <i>then</i> one of these lucky individuals will get the pleasure of "running" 20-30 miles with me as I'm completely beat up and struggling through the darkest hours of the early morning. I'll also probably yell at them or cry. They will not receive a medal for running a marathon or longer. By contrast, I will be told how awesome I am for days and weeks to come, and they themselves will join in on this.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, that's the tangible effect, but what you aren't seeing are all the ways I've prioritized that race above other things in my life, many of which I've touched upon above. While my family is number one, taking the time to visit more than once or twice a year is not. While my old friends are dear to me, taking the time to meet up for drinks isn't available. While my boyfriend is both my rock and my joy, we go our separate ways to train each weekend and I'm too exhausted to make him dinner when he's also exhausted, so we eat frozen pizza. I haven't entirely made peace with all this, and I don't know if I ever will. But it all stems from the natural prioritization of my life since I started running ultramarathons. I'm telling you this, because I am only able to live honestly, and this is honest.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Recently, this happened:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I received a message from someone I don't know, but apparently follows my Facebook feed. He chastised me for being <i>fake</i> and suggested that I <i>grow up and do something in life besides running.</i> Of course, my defenses ran through the list at the beginning of this post - I don't post about work because no one posts about work; I don't write about mundane things in life like shopping and eating, because I'm uninspired to bore you; I don't discuss politics, because I don't find online to be a suitable place;I don't share things about my kids, because I don't have them yet; and I don't post photos of cats, because frankly, I'm not into cats. And while, like you, I think this dude is a total douche and largely out of line, you can't blame a man for forming an opinion based on what he sees. Sharing said opinion might not have been the best option, but nevertheless, perhaps more of the world does see me as a selfish poser who needs to use my college degree to get a bigger career and my healthy uterus to get a gaggle of babies, STAT.* Perhaps to a lesser degree, folks that keep their opinions to themselves might agree that I'm throwing my life away and assigning my values incorrectly. Perhaps even you runners out there think it's stupid to pursue something in which I may never be good enough to get to the point where my involvement is seen as acceptable (I'm talking pro shit here). Probably, to some extent, you all are right.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*NOTE: I'm quite sure gaggle is the wrong word here. </i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or maybe it's even worse. Maybe that selfish ultrarunner in me is assuming that you actually care. Maybe I've just flaked, skipped or said no too many times and you no longer even consider me. Maybe we've lost that connection we once had for good. And it's all my fucking fault.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said, <b>I made a choice.</b> I decided to run 100 miles, and then I decided to do it again. Every year, I'll sign up for another few and train harder. I'll go to the mountains with Dom every weekend and we'll take a billion photos and likely post them online. My profile picture will reflect this. I might flake on that holiday party. I'll probably miss your wedding. I'll try to make up for the guilt I feel by volunteering, helping others and occasionally attending a reunion or meeting for birthday drinks. I'll do everything I can to be everything I can to you, my friends, my family, my love. And this is the way it's going to be, because it's the only honest way I know.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm still your dear friend.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm still your loving daughter.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm still your devoted employee.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I am an ultrarunner. This is my plight.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Summation:</i></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFvwbvc4-hEdFO6rkXyqB1d7OMtnsyPTCEzaUMTcCryNMk9XMFk_R0L1_18oipaaw2cP14CkbObbRrTrCu05k3yUq4t_-6QNRovEtdCGSInRgm8G5OXvQM27ue_xItFJN-6VkyFCRNX4/s1600/314_619159477440_2693_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFvwbvc4-hEdFO6rkXyqB1d7OMtnsyPTCEzaUMTcCryNMk9XMFk_R0L1_18oipaaw2cP14CkbObbRrTrCu05k3yUq4t_-6QNRovEtdCGSInRgm8G5OXvQM27ue_xItFJN-6VkyFCRNX4/s400/314_619159477440_2693_n.jpg" width="194" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdubCcT6f0sFugPC29KHEiuBg62_9psJAmr-sFygJyB5D9SmQ4zVO_c2_q5vBwy2dCasI8fLPTNyQO05vkkLGriWDLSJWwMY4qNa6xbfK8q8XqajcTeSGjsNeAK7HhwY91vGbBDLp638/s1600/487045_10101085677021500_1996144270_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdubCcT6f0sFugPC29KHEiuBg62_9psJAmr-sFygJyB5D9SmQ4zVO_c2_q5vBwy2dCasI8fLPTNyQO05vkkLGriWDLSJWwMY4qNa6xbfK8q8XqajcTeSGjsNeAK7HhwY91vGbBDLp638/s400/487045_10101085677021500_1996144270_n.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You're welcome.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What Other 100 Mile Runners have to say about "Pandora's Race" and the evils it may bring:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://amysproston.blogspot.com/2012/12/pandoras-race-getting-sucked-into-ultra.html" target="_blank">Amy Sproston's Similar Experience</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://dominicgrossman.blogspot.com/2012/12/synchroblog-pandoras-race-dangers-and.html" target="_blank">Dominic Grossman's Take on it</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.jenbenna.com/?p=573" target="_blank">Jen Benna's Thoughts on the Matter</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://inspiredrunning.blogspot.com/2012/12/syncro-blog-pandoras-race-danger-of.html" target="_blank">Jimmy Dean Freeman's Warning/Encouragement</a></span></div>
katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-69407546420036190642012-11-26T22:01:00.000-08:002012-11-26T22:01:15.595-08:00My Ozark Trail 105<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well Katie (self), you have two choices here. Either get it over with and let her pass you, or get over yourself and make sure she never does." </span></b></span></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfhw3OmQrzB8iEKu5NKXq6ibE76lnNpsZHv96HzEZNVEwLn0EZ1FMkgyJ4cmtL40cbGa6tcrgz9zvgDqBm5TqTCPBQBf6dPp1vyZUte_ZsG6ai4OXaJdoPSrsFIzZRKrjvmDfZEhLh7c/s1600/morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfhw3OmQrzB8iEKu5NKXq6ibE76lnNpsZHv96HzEZNVEwLn0EZ1FMkgyJ4cmtL40cbGa6tcrgz9zvgDqBm5TqTCPBQBf6dPp1vyZUte_ZsG6ai4OXaJdoPSrsFIzZRKrjvmDfZEhLh7c/s400/morning.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Waiting...<br />(photo: Todd Rowe)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At 5:54 am CST <s>last Saturday </s>a few Saturdays ago*, I stood shivering on the side of an old dirt road wondering how things were going to go. Would it take me forever to warm up or would I float on adrenaline for the first hour or so? Would I hit a rough patch early? Would I succumb to the rock and root land mines of the course and be forced out? Would I be able to mentally push through the inevitable pain that I was now only minutes away from bringing on?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*I'm timely.</span></i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGHqx-CFp5Svy57CCakiaGoqwNheym-EV0Tifm4vR6QR7gzCRcJ9gnLfQwSz9xTXLkQyv-txMb8heJgqFmBmlzFrD7ndLm8v6oNBNA4eYxFpoX9cNd0u7iBOG7qGYdSHMAziBe0fcYXI/s1600/start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGHqx-CFp5Svy57CCakiaGoqwNheym-EV0Tifm4vR6QR7gzCRcJ9gnLfQwSz9xTXLkQyv-txMb8heJgqFmBmlzFrD7ndLm8v6oNBNA4eYxFpoX9cNd0u7iBOG7qGYdSHMAziBe0fcYXI/s400/start.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Unknowingly taking the lead from the wire.<br />(photo: Chris Wristen)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, I could never really know the answers to these questions, no matter how well or underprepared I was. And I suppose</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> that's a great part of the reason why we do these things. Every step is one into the unknown - a fleeting moment where anything, <i>ANYTHING</i> can happen. Each holds a choice, the summation of which will determine what has been accomplished. Though I could never know how big or how small, I was ready to accomplish something on the Ozark Trail. And so I took my first step...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And fell.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, not really, but the stumbling began from the get-go, which fortunately, I was prepared for given my previous experience on the Ozark "Trail." To be honest, I was actually pleasantly surprised with its relative condition, and to the joy of my ankles, a few sections in the first, dark miles were even cleared of leaves. Just to negate this however, I soon realized that we had electrically taped my headlamp into a position where I could not angle it down, so I basically just ran on feel and hoped for the best. I later discovered that I forgot to pick up said lamp from the mile 8 drop box, which I'm obviously really sad about. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13H0oAx6COZ1yTgxlF5crQJ6ZoPUpUEcgwkYE7-9xe9YAesdeH9XeVk7AMbLJV4k9nNyShyphenhyphenTbo9C2xkOMldKXw_BsNEb1gzJYjii5DEuos7V0fd4XODe-k-0qWcDEoelxh3wifqvp7sk/s1600/todd+rowe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13H0oAx6COZ1yTgxlF5crQJ6ZoPUpUEcgwkYE7-9xe9YAesdeH9XeVk7AMbLJV4k9nNyShyphenhyphenTbo9C2xkOMldKXw_BsNEb1gzJYjii5DEuos7V0fd4XODe-k-0qWcDEoelxh3wifqvp7sk/s400/todd+rowe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The dark hollows of the early morn.<br />(photo: Todd Rowe)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sun began to come up after about an hour of darkness and I found myself entirely alone already. I had no idea of knowing how many folks were ahead of me, but I felt like I was moving well and was happy to finally just be running, rather than entertaining the myriad of thoughts on how this thing might play out. Now that I was <i>IN</i> it, I was impossibly happy and razor focused on the task at hand. Quick steps, lift those feet, eat, drink and enjoy.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMdI83nUSN88pHhfKMyKySW4kDVuVVlGcIZ3AuELiJ6bxFcVeymtS11D45iZhkZmeAgTqmBZ6WNXhAoTg0c_x0R1Sl2RP8wJUN4nd9YMMVUF3I9KbwehV0biiPJNpqXtRPqg7ErRO-l8/s1600/sutton_approach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMdI83nUSN88pHhfKMyKySW4kDVuVVlGcIZ3AuELiJ6bxFcVeymtS11D45iZhkZmeAgTqmBZ6WNXhAoTg0c_x0R1Sl2RP8wJUN4nd9YMMVUF3I9KbwehV0biiPJNpqXtRPqg7ErRO-l8/s320/sutton_approach.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>First XX into Sutton Bluff<br />(photo: Chris Wristen)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ran through the first aid station (Grasshopper - mi 8) and did a little math on when I thought I'd arrive at Sutton Bluff (17.something) - the first time I'd see my crew. I was mostly solo, only sharing a few minutes here and there with various guys as they either passed or I passed them - all of us still settling into a pace. I had my first and only real wipeout of the race in these first few hours, coming away with only a cut on my hip where I rolled. By the time I got to the aid station, I heard there had already been much worse coming in, and there weren't that many people ahead of me, so that's certainly saying something. Apparently none of those people were women either, which was also saying something: I had been and was now leading the race. This took me by surprise, as I figured at least one of the shadows leaping off into the darkness had an extra X chromosome, but nope. Until me, it was all Ys.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbKDG8sbtLqcX0E-aua7rOQqij3fPIEHoK4GErfDl0IP8urAe36fEyp4y7LX3z1Gis0UPQfaDZxdvimU0mtljW3ko44jOG47URtCn67D_VmKcyxSoOSzlMXDbERWNJ0pGn65GgQcRr14/s1600/sutton_chips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbKDG8sbtLqcX0E-aua7rOQqij3fPIEHoK4GErfDl0IP8urAe36fEyp4y7LX3z1Gis0UPQfaDZxdvimU0mtljW3ko44jOG47URtCn67D_VmKcyxSoOSzlMXDbERWNJ0pGn65GgQcRr14/s400/sutton_chips.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Once you pop, you can't stop.<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I like to move very efficiently through the aid stations, so I was a little flustered when the exact things I needed per Excel chart (yep.) weren't sitting out. That said, I know that is <i>totally</i> diva, so I tried to just quickly tear through my bookbag while requesting that my old man shove handfuls of Pringles in my mouth. <i>Ahhh... just like the old days. </i> I stripped off my long-sleeve, gloves and beanie, threw my 2 oz. jacket into my shorts and grabbed a Buff to hold back my hair, rather than take the time to run bun it. Another handful of chips for the road and I was out of there, asking Dom to please apologize to my family for my tearing in and out and barking orders. I sincerely hoped they wouldn't take it offensively and understand that when it comes to aid stations, In-N-Out is the game changer. Just call me <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3014/2761958818_f9bff2be0a_o.jpg" target="_blank">double-double</a>.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8lad1OPZR8Flv71-_s7xWmqwZMuNlQAzdp16dw7oOIPlhwJjAXX4Iz0_pZ1Rj_URgM5GbUbuI4KJ7gq-TK-2-AOdZKB_28rBU4WsGASD-4Xm7KhIzi4_wDS-v3doX7giz22FGwEYAz4/s1600/happy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8lad1OPZR8Flv71-_s7xWmqwZMuNlQAzdp16dw7oOIPlhwJjAXX4Iz0_pZ1Rj_URgM5GbUbuI4KJ7gq-TK-2-AOdZKB_28rBU4WsGASD-4Xm7KhIzi4_wDS-v3doX7giz22FGwEYAz4/s400/happy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A five-minute friend on the way into mile 17ish. Immediately followed by many more hours alone.<br />(photo: Todd Rowe)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As per usual, I got a huge boost from the extra food, energy and love and tore right into the next section of trail. I wouldn't see my crew again until mile 43.something, so I knew that I would undoubtedly start to feel the effects of running 100 miles before I'd get the relief of the aforementioned. With nothing to do but move forward, I again estimated my arrival to the next aid and just focused on keeping the same pace - as it was a good one, thus far. The weather was warmer than I had anticipated, and I thoroughly enjoyed flying through the woods in only a singlet and splits. Especially since I knew some 12 hours later I'd be a popsicle. No two ways around it. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stillwell Hollow (23) came and went, right on pace, as did Johnson Hollow (28.2). I was still largely alone, save the mix-tape mashup in my head, but I figured it just as well. I spend most of my long runs solo, as I can't keep up with Dom and most of the folks who join us are of the similar elite variety, so I actually felt quite at home. Speaking of training, I was thoroughly enjoying the Ozark hills, which weren't near as steep or high as my San Gabriels and entirely runnable. I was also thanking myself for the trips out to the Eastern Sierras and 10+ mile downhill sections filled with talus, snow, ice, boulders and all sorts of other things that could break my ankles. Charging them definitely toughened me up and gave me the confidence to continue attacking the downs, despite the land mines. Granted, I was stubbing toes like you wouldn't believe, but the point is that muscularly speaking (is that a word?), I was doing alright, save a bit of unsurprising tightness settling into my hip flexors. I definitely owe that to both training on technical terrain and the thrice a week ballet/yoga in a heated room that has done wonders for my core strength and stabilization muscles. Secondarily, I owe it to my perfect shoe choice: the New Balance 1010 in a narrow width, which gave me the flexibility to move with the trail, rather than against it, a rock plate and just enough "amp" underfoot to cushion the blow. As you'll soon find out, it is the first minimal shoe I've run a full 100 miles in, and that makes me <i>really </i>happy, because I hate taking the time to switch pairs.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIdpf3dkV7V7x6Q0ALJ29X9jq7waUYwyfj4olqPgYEMMkom3oFjEewAOa4so72OhndwV8lwnZpNTf-qhppEP2zZCOnuqagybyNv-xV037fYWyKnLSG_F8ZrQBLXzVQ_kY7Ku8ZZuM6MFE/s1600/leaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIdpf3dkV7V7x6Q0ALJ29X9jq7waUYwyfj4olqPgYEMMkom3oFjEewAOa4so72OhndwV8lwnZpNTf-qhppEP2zZCOnuqagybyNv-xV037fYWyKnLSG_F8ZrQBLXzVQ_kY7Ku8ZZuM6MFE/s400/leaves.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ozark "Trail"<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All that being said, I'd moved into the point of the race where one inevitably starts to feel like maybe they've been running for awhile, and just maybe that isn't the most ideal thing according to one's legs. For me, that's usually about 30 miles and it's nothing big - it just reminds me that running 100 miles is hard and there is an amount of pain to be expected. Then, somewhere between mile 30 and mile 40, I somehow come to the realization that the pain doesn't matter - it's not getting any better or any worse, so I render it irrelevant.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To my delight, I realized that I'd already accepted and dismissed the pain by the time I reached mile 34.8 - Gunstock Hollow (don't you just love these aid station names?) I rolled up happily, in stride with another fellow, Larry - who I'd been going back and forth with for most of the race thus far. Again, I quickly took care of business and moved out, unable to shake <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXuCgD4cbHs" target="_blank">the scene from Wayne's World</a> involving a gun rack, thanks to the aforementioned moniker. <i>A gun rack... a gun rack? I don't even own *a* gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack. What am I gonna do with a gun rack? </i>If this seems weird, let me assure you that I had <i>plenty</i> of time to think about whatever the hell I wanted. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Larry fell in behind me soon after the aid station and decided to stick there for awhile if I didn't mind. I certainly didn't, and so we ran this way for a few miles - myself leading the charge. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trail was remarkably easy to follow, despite all the leaves being down - there were a ton of fixed OT markers and race ribbons, and as I'd heard, you could immediately tell if you'd gone off track due to the ground getting remarkably softer. As such, I was horrified when I popped out on a road only to discover no markings and no discernible way to go. Larry went left and I went right - I saw nothing and immediately sensed I was going the wrong way. Larry found an OT marker on the tree to the left, and so we went that way, even though I was horribly surprised at the lack of flagging, given the fact that it had been so painstakingly marked up until this point. Larry said he remembered something in the briefing about running down a road for a half mile or mile or so - but I felt very sure that this happened later in the race, after mile 68 and when I'd have a pacer. Nevertheless, we continued to run down the road for about 3/4 of a mile before my gut got the best of me. We were seeing fixed OT markers, but I knew in my heart that this was not right. As such, I decided to go back to where the trail popped out and backtrack until I saw flagging - no matter how far back that may be.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjuHlJkDLuCgBgfxKUrbzwXbojsfEvtd47QvMZMayAIxRxLWuaACa549JZe1pU5y2fwXOkCNaGtIfIab8zdx7w7OK_C3NaviH_ZvskhgwnfhpiVB4S6gm0Qnwn4QEvUxOReHyZpoyfHfc/s1600/bypass+mikemac356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjuHlJkDLuCgBgfxKUrbzwXbojsfEvtd47QvMZMayAIxRxLWuaACa549JZe1pU5y2fwXOkCNaGtIfIab8zdx7w7OK_C3NaviH_ZvskhgwnfhpiVB4S6gm0Qnwn4QEvUxOReHyZpoyfHfc/s320/bypass+mikemac356.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Site of wrong doing.<br />(photo: Michael McElmeel)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The smooth surface of the dirt road allowed me to open my stride a bit, and combined with the anxiety I felt, I was back to the turn fairly quickly. I hopped back across the creek and up a little hill and BOOM. There were my flags. And lo and behold, there was a sharp left turn that I had missed, along with a sign pointing foot traffic to the left and a trail bypass straight ahead (which explained the OT markers). I yelled back to Larry before continuing on, cursing myself for losing a good 20 minutes at least, adding on a few miles and likely having lost my lead in the race. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>How could I have done such a stupid, stupid thing? </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I tried to console myself that these things often happen in 100 mile trail races in remote, unfamiliar areas; but all I could do was chastise myself for ruining my damn near perfect race thus far.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Larry soon caught up and apologized profusely for distracting me with talking - as he had piped up right at the very moment we had missed the turn - myself looking back to address him. I, of course, assured him that there were no apologies needed - that I was in charge of my own race and I was the one that made the mistake. While I knew that what I said was true, it did honestly take me a few miles to not be angry at the situation and to fully be ok with the reality that I was the only one to blame for the missed turn. Nevertheless, I knew that things would only get worse if I didn't focus on keeping the calories and water flowing and the best thing that I could do now was simply run strong into the aid station and then move efficiently through.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Maybe it wasn't that bad? Maybe the road had actually given my legs the little break they needed to get some snap back? Maybe I was now running faster because of the adrenaline? All I knew was that I was going to have to find a way to make that 20 minutes up - to make it as irrelevant as the pain - and the first step in that was depriving myself of the quick butterfly hip stretch I'd been fantasizing about for the last 10 miles or so. Punishing myself for being bad somehow helped.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHX2PP6Jd6sch2v5DE0egRAGyIshJjkCG0HKU2b40Bncj73KpnTsixGoW7JkfT2C-vt_Yy7MTvid60pWDg2_7ndeGWsXVo8cwTSNSJ5hYehByYzcWyPaMJdLA2SRQK_yu7Wpr4m0bgR7Y/s1600/into_brookscrk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHX2PP6Jd6sch2v5DE0egRAGyIshJjkCG0HKU2b40Bncj73KpnTsixGoW7JkfT2C-vt_Yy7MTvid60pWDg2_7ndeGWsXVo8cwTSNSJ5hYehByYzcWyPaMJdLA2SRQK_yu7Wpr4m0bgR7Y/s400/into_brookscrk.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mile 43, with 45 miles on the ole legs.<br />(photo: Jim Stroup)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Did I get caught?"</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I yelled out as I descended upon Brooks Creek (mile 43.2). </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"What?? No! You're still first woman,"</i> Dom assured me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OK, showtime. Give me that protein bar. Let me shove it down my throat as I rudely ask for things with my mouth full. You there, untangle my iPod cord and attach it to my sweaty ass! Where's the green shirt? In the car? I have one in my next drop - I'll be fine. Yes I'm sure, I just want to get out of here. I lost time - I have to get going before I get caught. Chug Gatorade. Switch sweaty Buff. Drop sunglasses. GO. <i>"I love you too, mom. I'm sorry I'm an asshole."</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And with that, I was back on the trail moving towards the halfway point and having a hard time believing that I'd already have to be picking up a light from my drop bag in only 9 miles. I'd inevitably slow down a bit in the dark, and so I aimed to get as many more miles in before the sun disappeared. Unfortunately, that was looking to be sooner than later, as some dark late afternoon clouds were rolling in - hopefully not of the rain variety. Not being able to do a damn thing about it either way, I decided to throw my tunes on for a few hours and just click off a couple sections with a little company. At this point, I could reach the halfway point around 11 hours, which would be fan-freaking-tastic.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvq3MvYlGctANlsjSilvAAWUKiabLCsm3YcgMYKB4uywGBZTLob2_tY5HgQiaZ4_ebaQO5s_rsNT8RWHCXCMMA5NoGkio-ann-iXNUpTsSctOcNn-jxtJl5cCRXYTl3dAz3EueEGgUns/s1600/leaving_bc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvq3MvYlGctANlsjSilvAAWUKiabLCsm3YcgMYKB4uywGBZTLob2_tY5HgQiaZ4_ebaQO5s_rsNT8RWHCXCMMA5NoGkio-ann-iXNUpTsSctOcNn-jxtJl5cCRXYTl3dAz3EueEGgUns/s400/leaving_bc.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is basically what my entire day looked like.<br />(photo: Dom; Brooks Creek)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And as it was. I came into Highway DD right on time and even to some nice folks who knew my name, friends of my college sorority pledge mom* (who just ran her first marathon - Go Megan!) Ahhh Missouri... it really is just like <i>Cheers! </i> I pulled on the long-sleeve out of my drop bag and commended myself on such a perfect execution of timing and clothing placement. A far departure from my mistakes back in 2010. Mistakes that lead to hypothermia by the next aid station and an eventual first ever DNF. Accordingly, I thought twice about leaving behind the tights and extra jacket, but knew I'd be fine with the way I was still moving. As I finished up preparing for evening, I thought about inquiring as to how far the next woman might be behind me, but then reasoned that such knowledge wouldn't serve much of a purpose. If I was running as well as I possibly could, what would be would be, and I might as well just get on with it. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*Yes, I was in a sorority. And for the record, I loved it. KKG.</span></i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTvRmVSCNXN43cICcDfZz30ZkVUKkANb8MiVwjeYfrtMpC5mWDi92O3u5dRkqv1zks3KzdxjInOdZZZoknZv7WIWXVMfpp_OySKs1eaX6KO7iS4eJQuEbJAFCGCPoOiCZnD2rMT5E8AKc/s1600/DD_volunteer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTvRmVSCNXN43cICcDfZz30ZkVUKkANb8MiVwjeYfrtMpC5mWDi92O3u5dRkqv1zks3KzdxjInOdZZZoknZv7WIWXVMfpp_OySKs1eaX6KO7iS4eJQuEbJAFCGCPoOiCZnD2rMT5E8AKc/s400/DD_volunteer.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hwy DD help from a wizard! (Whom I later found<br />out is named Colleen.)<br />(photo: Chris Wristen)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Catching the sunset through the trees at the top of hills was one of the highlights of the day. The dark cloud layer had separated for just a small expanse, and here the light shone the brightest red, like a ribbon of electricity. The bluffs to the opposite side caught the Ozark's version of alpenglow - illuminating the array of colors in the tree tops and setting them afire. Of course, I couldn't really get a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>great</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> look, as I didn't dare look away from the mess of a trail; point being that despite that fact, the insane beauty of my surroundings was never lost. This had truly been a wonderful day of running. Let's just hope the night might bring some of the same.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It had escaped me to check on the mileage to the next aid station, but I figured it must be something around 8ish to Martin Road, as I remembered it was 9ish to Hazel Creek. Based on my steady pace thus far, I reasoned that the section should take me somewhere between 1:30 and 1:40, give or take, and so I set about getting as much of it done before the darkness hit. Due to the clouds, there was actually a lot of time spent in that weird twilighty phase where it's not quite dark, but things just get kind of fuzzy. Combined with the never changing scenery and twisty, curvy, never really know where you are-y nature of the course, it was all making me a little dizzy. I took a few more walk breaks than normal to account for this and started looking forward to a shot of Coke at the upcoming aid - my first caffeine of the day.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1:30 came and went, as did 1:40 - and I began to attempt some meaningless math with too many unknown variables in my head. <i>The last aid was at mile A, so I have B miles to get to the next aid at mile C, which should take me X minutes. </i> <i>Solve for X.</i> It was dark now, I was alone - having elected not to take a pacer yet - and I was starting to get really confused. Knowing the limitations a career in creative advertising has afforded me, I was sure to employ two engineers for the available pacing positions. But first, I'd have to run B - D + Y miles.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It had been nearly two full hours by the time I pulled up to Martin Road (mi 59), and sure enough, I'd only gone 8.5 miles. Grabbing the much needed Coke and some potatoes, but feeling largely in tact, I sincerely wondered how this could be. It didn't seem like there had been any more hills than normal, though I couldn't really know for certain, so why was I slowing down? Unsurprisingly, two headlamps appeared entering the aid station and 'twas confirmed that I had indeed slowed down on this last section. As they came into the light, I realized that one of the figures was noticeably shorter, curvier and pony-tailed. The jig was up. I had been caught.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first thought that registered was simply, <i>GET OUT OF HERE NOW! </i> I heard her ask for a cup of soup, so I grabbed another potato* and did just that, all but sprinting away as I shoved the life giving tuber in my face. In my head it was very intimidating, but in reality, I'm sure it was all quite Jack Torrance. Now a few yards out of the aid station and completely high out of my mind on adrenaline, both my legs and my mind ran hard. <i>How could I lead the race for 60 miles, only to be passed in the night? When would it actually happen and how long had she stayed at the aid station? Was she still there? Was I moving that much slower or had she been there all along? </i> If she hadn't caught me in the 20 mile detour, I must have been moving way better earlier in the day than I was now.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*I honestly almost Dan Quayled that. For shame.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then came the consolation: <i>She's more talented than you; it was only a matter of time. Who were you to think you could come out here and just WIN a 100 mile race? You don't win 100 mile races. She was just biding her time all this way and now she's going to crush you. You may as well just get it over with and let her pass. </i> These were my honest thoughts.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And now for my next thought:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>No.</b></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know where exactly it came from, but a deep competitive drive - one I haven't felt since maybe high school - took hold, and I ran harder. For the past 11 years, it had honestly been okay to not be the best on any given day of running. That secret part of me who had actually been relieved when I was tripped out of my final qualifying race had gone from a very remote, hidden away place and manifested into a sort of mantra that held a grip on my adulthood racing. It wasn't so much that I didn't care. I was <i>afraid</i> to care. Honest to God afraid of my potential and what kind of pressure it might put on my running. I wasn't about to let it destroy my enjoyment of the sport again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But instead of panicking me in this moment, the drive invigorated me. My legs took flight, and I bounded down the increasingly difficult trail with an ease I had not felt all day. I had come too far to let it go now. And if I lost by 20 minutes or less (the amount of time I'd lost in my earlier detour), I'd be as angry at myself had I given up in the last 7 miles of Western and come in a minute or two over the 24-hour mark. That hadn't been a question, and neither was this. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I decided right then and there that I would not be beat. Not today.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I passed one guy, then another, allowing a quick look over my shoulder every now and again. Periodically, I'd catch a reflective marker and think I was being caught, which only spurred me to run harder. At some point during the 9.5 mile stretch, I realized that this was where my race had unraveled in my previous attempt. No doubt, the temperature had dropped rapidly, but I was moving so well that I even had to unzip my 2.7 oz. jacket. I was not going to go hypothermic tonight, and I was going to finish this damn thing. Furthermore, I was going to WIN. There would be no doubt about any of that. I considered rocking some Ke$ha to further my world domination goals, but erred on the side of keeping myself focused and undistracted for the task at hand. Which was running a faster pace than I'd run all day, on an increasingly deteriorating trail, in the pitch black. No problemo, dude. It was, how they say, <i>ON</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I crossed the final, wide, previously death-inducing creek, I knew I was almost at the aid station. There hadn't been another light in sight and I aimed to keep it that way. As I approached the hum of the generator, I attempted to yell out to alert my crew, but my plans were thwarted with trail lung having officially settled in. As such, I spilled out onto the road in what I like to call a productive panic. I knew exactly what I needed, and there would be not a second spared for anything else. If mom wanted a hug, she was going to have to do it on the run.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My pace was good enough on the last section that I surprised my crew, but luckily they had my bag out of the car and were already sitting out in the cold, waiting for me to roll in. That couldn't have been pleasant, so I heartily thank them for that. I quickly mowed down most of a Clif Builder Bar and washed it down with a much needed Yerba Maté shot and proceeded to march right out of there. Here, the aid station where I'd planned to take the time to sit, regroup, possibly redress and make sure I was prepared for the brutal hours to come, and I had spent a minute or two tops. Mom and Laura manned my bag, Dom shouted out to make sure I didn't want any more clothes and Mitch tried to find my dad, who had realized at precisely the moment I decided to leave that he had forgot to grab his headlamp out of the car. The moment may have manifested as a blur to anyone who encountered it, but I was hyper-aware of every little detail - to this day, being able to recount the taste of the combination of protein bar and maté*, the exact route into and out of the aid station, the glow of the lights, the hum of the generator, the feeling of the cold air in my nose as I inhaled. I was fully and gloriously IN it. Though I didn't know it then, b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">y the time I left, I had already put 16 minutes on the other woman.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*Yum!</span></i></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVokSowks67kCiHnZL6xIt61WRbevzp_FmiS79MhVe6l5WxN-2SYHgYMxyA0KNvyEcKP05WQpSuCLd4FrLBFogc0S-CaEP5yPNOnzoqQ2AtX3EOuJ-uLSN54lpPLQTfaH0pYcrD542sw/s1600/roflbot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVokSowks67kCiHnZL6xIt61WRbevzp_FmiS79MhVe6l5WxN-2SYHgYMxyA0KNvyEcKP05WQpSuCLd4FrLBFogc0S-CaEP5yPNOnzoqQ2AtX3EOuJ-uLSN54lpPLQTfaH0pYcrD542sw/s400/roflbot.jpg" width="300" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad quickly joined, and we left on a terror; myself excitedly chattering about getting caught and the subsequent hammer dropping. I felt incredible, and after having run alone basically all day, was extremely happy to have someone to express said credulousness to. I had run almost every step between the last two aid stations, and my plan was to continue this way. I realized that if I had put over 20 minutes on any other woman before, that I could do it again and I had a pretty good idea on how I was going to do it. Earlier, I had been running most every hill - even when others were walking. But somewhere in that bad section I had at dusk, my assault on all which was vertical had lessened. If I was then largely</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> hiking them thar hills, was I really doing any better than anyone else? Probably not, I reasoned. And such, this was to be my secret to securing a victory.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We moved swiftly through the first mile, where two years prior dad had walked faithfully behind as I struggled to regain control of my hypothermia wrecked body. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had collapsed once, twice and finally a third time, from which I never recovered. Dad pointed out the exact spot, and I got a little charge moving right past. <i>Not tonight! To the Huzzah!</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I kept the pace, again running most every step, and immensely enjoying the company. We chattered on as the miles clicked by, only interrupted every now and again by a large thud.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad fell to the ground multiple times in this 12 mile section, which as it turns out, was more than I fell in the entire 105 miles. I also kicked up a branch which hit him directly in the nuts and the hilarity was not lost on me, even in my psycho 70 mile daze. I'd feel bad about this, but he kept following every incident with an, <i>"I'm really glad to be here,"</i> and I don't believe in the concept of saying untrue things just to appease the situation. I mean </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>nobody</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> does that, especially when pacing a runner in a 100 mile race. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Eventually, we spotted the glow of the aid station on the hill, but it was the darndest thing. We kept winding towards and then away from it, but never seemed to be getting any closer. <i>It was so bright though!</i> Dad began to think it was a deer stand, which in retrospect, I don't know why they'd have it lit up, so that makes no sense to me. But at that time, my deductive reasoning skills weren't exactly at an all time high, which is probably why I failed to identify the freaking moon. THE MOON. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not too long after the lunar incident, we popped out onto the dirt road and ran the short section into the aid station (which felt positively heavenly, by the way.) I thought I had seen headlamps off in the hollow, so I was dead set on moving in and out as quickly as possible, ensuring that I'd already be back on the trail by the time anyone arrived. As such, I took to squatting down at the backside of the tent, away from the road and ravenously shoving potatoes and Coke down my throat, hyper aware of every movement and sound. I had now lead the race for over 75 miles and I intended to do everything in my power to keep it that way. Experience running, crewing and volunteering at these things had lead me to firmly believe that a hell of a lot of time could be made up by being efficient with the aid stations - especially in the latter stages of the race. I say efficient, because "fast" isn't always the answer - sometimes there are things one needs to take care of, and if neglected, it can be the death of you. So my mantra is more like: <i>handle yo' shit and get out.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once I did just that, dad and I kept things quiet so we could hear any cheers that might signify someone entering the aid station. We never heard anything, which may or may not have been accurate due to the ever-present leaf crunching. As such, the paranoia continued and I just tried to keep covering as much ground as possible before the wheels came off. I knew I was now entering that danger zone, and having survived relatively unscathed up until this point, there was a strong possibility the eventual breakdown could be epic.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the race, I kept telling people that said breakdown started to take hold around mile 80, to which my dad would always immediately reply, <i>"It was </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>mile 79."</i> I guess I made quite the impression on him. You see, u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">p until this point, I had been effectively managing my own time and calories, but now all the numbers were starting to fade together, and I relied heavily on dad's knowledge of the space-time continuum. Also notable was that every rock and branch were now on a mission to attack and sabotage me and no one else. It was personal, and I had something to say about it. Most of which was four letters. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My brother is the Marine in the family, but you never would have been able to tell by my mouth for the next two miles into Berryman.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mile 81.5 - just a little more than 20 miles to go - and I finally sat down for a few minutes. I needed major calories and major caffeine if I were to get back to the Katie of the first 17 hours, rather than the angry shell of a woman that had replaced her in the last. Furthermore, I knew Dom was very much excited by this whole prospect of me being competitive and winning a race, and I wanted to show him a good time out there. So mashed potatoes with instant coffee gravy it was! Midnight snack of champions. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had immensely enjoyed my time on the trails with dad, but now I was excited for some hours with 'ole Dom. I couldn't wait to hear how his day was, how he liked my home state so far and if he now could correctly identify the difference between Missouri and Missourah. I was happy to see no lights on the half mile or so overlapping in and out of the aid station, but knew that the dark hours were a comin' for me and I'd have to keep my shit largely in tact if I wanted to pull this out. When finally asked if I'd like to know the distance I had on second, I happily obliged and learned of my 16 minute gain into Hazel Creek (68) and my now 25+ as of the radios from Pigeon Roost (75). Of course, that means absolutely nothing with over 20 miles to go, so I knew I still had to work HARD. The difference was that I'd now come to peace with the whole thing - as long as I was doing my best in every single moment, I'd have no regrets, even if I was eventually caught.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We moved along at a decent clip towards Billy's Branch, my only concern being that my stomach was now kind of wrecked. It had flared up a bit towards the end of my section with dad, but a few quick pit stops had kept me out of too much distress. But now, my system was operating in high gear and anything going in felt a bit rumbly. Also, now for the second time at the end of a 100, I was peeing like crazy! As before (Western States,) I'd been on top of my fluids and electrolytes all day - drinking only to thirst and with nothing looking too puffy - but now I was needing to pee every 3-4 miles. I'm still trying to figure out exactly why this could be, because let me tell you, it's freaking annoying.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The section into Billy's (mile 89) was lasting a lot longer than advertised, and a few miles out my attitude began to shift once again. My entire being was hurting (as was to be expected), and I honestly had no concept of where I was. <i>In life.</i> It was all just trees and leaves and rocks and darkness. Is this a metaphor for something bigger? I don't even know. I finally started to get cold, as well, which really didn't help matters too much. My yucca knee, in particular, tends to ache when the temperatures drop, and tonight was no exception. Luckily, Dom knows just what to do and kept me focused on "getting there when we get there," and nothing more. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We eventually got "there," and again, I sat for a few moments to get down some soup, potatoes and coffee. Much to his chagrin, Dom had discovered that not only had I failed to drink all of my Vitargo, but I was half-assing the gels as well. To this day I maintain that I had no idea on the gels and hypothesize that they were simply starting to freeze and therefore were harder to squeeze completely out. Either way, he had some surprises in store to make absolutely certain this would not happen again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I learned of the first surprise about ten minutes out of the aid station, when Dom suggisted that I take a drink of my Vitargo. Note, I did say <i>suggisted</i> there, not suggested. Suggested + Insisted = Suggisted. In other words, not being a dick, but also not taking no for an answer - just the way I like my pacers. So I take a drink and lo and behold, I feel like I'm sipping a freaking Mike & Ike. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Dom, this tates like... candy. I'm confused. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Oh, that's because I put Mountain Dew in it.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh! Great! Just what I wanted. But I didn't complain - I drank that shit like I was Tara Reid and continued to party. I ran, I hurt, I peed, I yelled at rocks - that was pretty much the gist of the next section.* <i>Taradise.</i> Dom now required a visual check on all gel packets and I started to learn of the correlation between my complaints and his requests for me to eat. Inspiration to keep my mouth shut.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">*Also applicable to previous reference.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Knowing that this next section of trail was supposedly 7 miles, I became overwhelmed with the simple task of progress. Earlier in the day, I had actually enjoyed having the aid stations further apart than normal, as it gave me less places where I had to slow down and become distracted with anything other than simply moving forward. But here, in the latter stages of the race, I was missing them something fierce and desperately seeking that distraction. To make matters worse, I knew that it was still another 7 to go from the last aid station. The thought of it all made my head spin, and visions of climbing in the back of the car at Henpeck - mile 96.3 went all sugar plum on me. I always thought that if I was leading a 100 mile race, I would be all determined and high on life in the last 10 miles, but let me assure you, this was not the case. I wanted it all to be over just as bad as anyone else. 100 miles is still 100 miles, no matter how fast or slow you run it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, and by the way, this was now going to be <i>105</i> miles - and that simple bit of math was not lost on me. I had conveniently misplaced the ability to manage time between feedings, but I always knew how long I would have to go if it were only 100 miles proper and if I had not taken the 2 mile detour. I made sure Dom was aware of this fact as well. In return, Dom made me eat more gel. This relationship was not working in my favor. In addition, Dom cared not where we were (as he didn't really know either), but continuously reminded me that the distance to the next aid station did not matter in the grand scheme of things. Each step was one step closer, and that's all I needed to concern myself with.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine my joy when we realized we were already upon the next and final aid station! I was seriously so excited that I completely forgot how bad I wanted to quit. Instead, I grabbed all the clothes I could - tights, a primaloft half-zip and a shell - despite Dom's warnings that it was overkill. (It was.) I knew the only thing at this point that could take me down was the ever-dropping temperatures, and I was not about to let that happen. I would rather be sweating the entire way and carrying a little extra weight than go hypothermic in the last few hours and ruin my first ever 100 mile win. I downed some coffee and broth, alternately chatting with my family and the volunteers. They reported that the next woman was at least 45 minutes behind me as of mile 80, but I had no idea what could have happened in the last 16 miles and what was about to in the last 7. I'd have to keep pushing as hard as I could if I wanted to see this thing through, and given how sufficiently wrecked my legs felt from 20-something hours of leaves and rocks and generally tense running, that was going to be no picnic. Nevertheless, I finally took the time to dispense a few hugs to my awesome crew, and Dom and I headed back out into the night.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People, there is no sugar coating it: these last 7 miles were kind of awful. The tights had helped a bit with the aching knees, but I had reached a point where it did actually feel better to walk than run. So I hiked a lot in this last section. Back at mile 80-ish, I had kind of figured coming in under 24 hours was gone, even though I had a good 5 1/2 hours to do so. Even though I still felt relatively strong, the amount that I slowed down trying to navigate the trail in the dark was just too extreme. To make that even more difficult, a thick, damp fog had rolled in, which made focusing on anything besides the step in front of you impossible. As such, I kept my head down and Dom scanned for reflective markers. I yelped in pain from the million and somethingth toe stub; Dom calmly told me how proud he was of me and that we'd be there soon enough. Such went the last, dark, painful miles, so you can see how thankful I was to have him there.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things I actually remember from this section:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not understanding the values of numbers, yet mysteriously being fully able to calculate 2 miles out of the aid station to prove that had the course been 100 miles instead of 103 and had I not run 2 extra miles that I would have come in well under the 24-hour mark. My mom always said I have "selective hearing," so I guess that specialized talent extends to my mathematical abilities as well. Don't be jealous.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The fog in my headlamp making me super dizzy and imagining that had I read or watched the <i>Twilight</i> series, this would be what the setting looked like. Move over, KStew! </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some point, Larry from the earlier getting lost debacle catching up and refusing to pass me, even though he easily could have. Instead, he ran/hiked with Dom and I all the way to the finish and insisted I finished ahead of him. So be it known: my 10th overall really should have been 11th, as Larry was closing strong, but chose to hike it in with us.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In retrospect, feeling horrified of my four-letter outbursts and occasional sobs in the last few miles. Larry was a nice guy, and so was his wife whom I later met - and I feel like a total other four-letter word for being so crass and generally unpleasant.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Feeling completely lost and utterly helpless.</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trail wound and wound - up and down and to nowhere in particular. I was going legitimately mad. Dom prodded me to keep pushing, lest I get caught in the final mile of the race. <i>Please, I need this to be over.</i> Finally, we reached a clearing and could see the faint glow of Bass River Resort in the distance. And finally, I felt like I had a tangible place to go.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, for one last kick in the nuts (which I suppose I deserved as payback for the one I gave to dad), the course would not take us directly to the beaconing lights. Instead, they lead us around the property in some sort of f'd up promenade thing, only no one was watching and it all seemed ridiculously unnecessary given that the race was already way over 100 miles long. Even with the end now in sight, I was begging every god I ever learned about in my religious studies courses (freaking Journalism and it's overabundance of mandatory humanities) for the whole thing to just be done with. I want so very badly to tell you how much I enjoyed my "victory lap" of my first 100 mile win, but that was simply not the case. I was seriously hating life and the only thing I cared about was sitting down. OK, less than a quarter mile to go...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next, I decided to fall one last time. Then I almost got kicked in the face by a horse. Alright Katie, now you can finish.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zahES0dw2TjJZZzvNLR6wKXVSmzZXu8mz406qH7WqAGADki0Pv-JzbtDra4UClYuyPBNMxQYmFvscUhd-sdXU2R7i6dNDiEh3LWGQvbAaVyyzPoK7TpRsE8hqHj_Aj7XlXtuoFWXemA/s1600/finish_wrecked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zahES0dw2TjJZZzvNLR6wKXVSmzZXu8mz406qH7WqAGADki0Pv-JzbtDra4UClYuyPBNMxQYmFvscUhd-sdXU2R7i6dNDiEh3LWGQvbAaVyyzPoK7TpRsE8hqHj_Aj7XlXtuoFWXemA/s400/finish_wrecked.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Being attractive.<br />(photo: Chris Wristen)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't filled with emotion. There was no burning sense of pride. I ran straight through that finish line, into the tent and sat down in silence. I had won and apparently set a course record, but I couldn't really process these facts. My eyes were so foggy that I couldn't see. My stomach was in such knots that I wanted to puke. My legs hurt so bad that I wanted to cease to exist. But I was smiling alright.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the end of the day - or should I say, day + 1:10 - my only feelings about the whole experience were that it had been a great, enjoyable day of running, followed by a night of really fun and exhilarating racing, followed by an early morning of overcoming pain and challenge. I loved it and had run my very hardest in every moment - no regrets. That is what brought the satisfaction to me - not the buckle, plaque or admiration from anyone else (though of course, that was all wonderful and appreciated.) The satisfaction lied in the way I had navigated and negotiated the course, the way I had remained focused on getting the most out of every step and monitoring my calorie intake. The way I had pushed to counter the lost time off course, and the way I had worked to find the positives in the situation. The way I pushed the negative thoughts out of my mind when the race was on, and the way I believed in myself utterly. The way I took everything I've learned in the past 3 1/2 years of ultrarunning and probably a lot more from life, including four 100 mile finishes and one Ozark Trail DNF, and applied it almost perfectly. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It just so happened that it was all good enough for a win. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9gHBRQui-j7f-9CHji1w_YrpTVKjW1s1zU2yMBIViV0iN9D0WDoGWTGhyNYv3wCOcMEaUXean7lSrv9HHvNZLGbJy0KYHJ9kdKkr2vs0-TBsL3hBs_gqVHYCwAwbnnwsSHYp789mqh8/s1600/finish_fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9gHBRQui-j7f-9CHji1w_YrpTVKjW1s1zU2yMBIViV0iN9D0WDoGWTGhyNYv3wCOcMEaUXean7lSrv9HHvNZLGbJy0KYHJ9kdKkr2vs0-TBsL3hBs_gqVHYCwAwbnnwsSHYp789mqh8/s400/finish_fire.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Satisfied. Wrecked... but satisfied.<br />(photo: Dom; OT100 finish)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>ENDNOTE: </b> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Huge thank-you to the amazing cast of characters that made up my Missourah crew.</i></span><br />
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Aunt Laura</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> - You were there with me then, and I'm so glad you were there for this retribution. I have no idea why you wanted to come hang out in the woods all day and all night not once, but TWICE, but I'm so glad you did. Thanks for being my "stupidest" relative. :)</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Mom</b> - Every girl needs her mom, and a 100 mile race is no exception, <i>especially</i> when it's all said and done. Mom hugs are the best kind. And only mom mysteriously has a much needed hair dryer in the backwoods of Missouri.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Mr. Mitch</b> - Most encounters with you involve hurting the next day. Usually this is related to beer, but today was a new chapter. Thank you so much for taking an interest in this crazy, selfish thing I do and being an awesome part of the experience.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Dad</b> - I am SO glad we got a do-over on this, and it meant the world to me for you to pace me those 12 miles. I'm sorry for being so crazy and manic and kicking sticks into your junk, but know this: it could have been worse. Also, you should sign up for a 50k.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Dom</b> - When I think about the fact that you were willing to give up 4 days, including 2 vacation days, to fly to Missouri on your own dime, sit around in the woods with my family and no one else you know, help me all day and then walk/run at a pace that it is ridiculously slow for you through the darkest and tiredest part of the night, and THEN let me have the window seat on the plane AND carry my bag while we walked from the airport to the cars a mile away, I feel a bit overwhelmed. I'd think you were certifiably nuts if it weren't for the fact that I'd do the exact same thing for you x 10. Minus the whole being faster than you part.</span></li>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cZnZv2-hlnD3oYFB-nFhDQJPQRuTwubLpj2fWaHf3oW08pZ5lnG_87nNTKPq-pvsnMv3tylCzxP-kR6ZJAWD3Oz4b7sPFSmPPGAM0H4gqZ8XjGTE3V7qsIQNU6dABMha6WeSjpX8EL4/s1600/super_crew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cZnZv2-hlnD3oYFB-nFhDQJPQRuTwubLpj2fWaHf3oW08pZ5lnG_87nNTKPq-pvsnMv3tylCzxP-kR6ZJAWD3Oz4b7sPFSmPPGAM0H4gqZ8XjGTE3V7qsIQNU6dABMha6WeSjpX8EL4/s400/super_crew.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hometown Super Crew: Mr. Mitch, Aunt Laura, Mama Joan, Dom & Pops. Also pictured: drasted leaf and drasted rock, buckle & awesome plaque to remind me of home.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next thank-you goes to New Balance for the support and perfect shoe to tackle the Ozark Trail - the 1010. Also to Injinji for another blister free day, this time in a single pair of Xcelerator toe socks.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And finally, a HUGE thank you to the volunteers and RDs Paul and Stuart for a completely awesome race. Well organized, well marked, well stocked AND point-to-point - ya can't ask for more. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh843bD6O_OQENZjBDTYkICbn_fetepjdQ26ioNY6B5rrn-Enh6fhlyTJ1ZJmj15WQOYICHlAqmxyhAnKsIPz8Nq7hkj37KJIRwfGXAaf4Jkd364GHYb4NSfaPEbYkSve8yyJuAX_-9Us/s1600/plaque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh843bD6O_OQENZjBDTYkICbn_fetepjdQ26ioNY6B5rrn-Enh6fhlyTJ1ZJmj15WQOYICHlAqmxyhAnKsIPz8Nq7hkj37KJIRwfGXAaf4Jkd364GHYb4NSfaPEbYkSve8yyJuAX_-9Us/s400/plaque.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm most impressed with how good my hair looks here.<br />(photo: Mom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-67135601009985206302012-10-31T14:07:00.001-07:002012-10-31T15:33:43.308-07:00Off to Missourah<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_sZDG813KHZnEqFQPCxQx2AHtIW5xTPUxJg1rXt0UfgxQW45RG30_5_d_Go_MrdXmyzyk50YJIATMcdHmGnBBVKMcE38HnzJlLOo0XWHHDCcVNMuP_xl6IuXGOJSagsgZvHYgLgVgBI/s1600/fall+course.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_sZDG813KHZnEqFQPCxQx2AHtIW5xTPUxJg1rXt0UfgxQW45RG30_5_d_Go_MrdXmyzyk50YJIATMcdHmGnBBVKMcE38HnzJlLOo0XWHHDCcVNMuP_xl6IuXGOJSagsgZvHYgLgVgBI/s320/fall+course.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ozarks in the Fall. Home Sweet Home.<br />(<a href="http://www.facebook.com/OzarkTrail100?fref=ts" target="_blank">OT100 Facebook Page</a>)</i></td></tr>
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The simple fact that I will be running 100 miles on Saturday (103 proper) has finally settled into my brain, so I reasoned it was time to gather a few thoughts before I take off. If for nothing more than to laugh at when things inevitably stray from the plan. Because they always do.</div>
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The poison of choice will be the Ozark Trail 100 in Southeast Missouri, and it's no secret this will not be my first drink. Said elixir just about killed me back in 2010, when the weather took a turn as the sun went down and hypothermia set in. It was my first ever DNF and to be honest, it took a long time for me to get over it. Here's what I had to say about it, via the race report I could never bring myself to finish:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>If a race actually brought me to my knees and would not allow me to finish, you know it was hard. Shit, I was 100% positive </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>getting up and turning around to walk back to the aid station was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my whole life. </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><i> Unfortunately, ending the race did not end my fiercest challenge. Instead, it was only the beginning of the true toughest test of </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>my life: learning to accept my human limitations, and becoming open to seeing the outcome as anything but a failure.</i></span></div>
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Jeeeeze. Bring on the dramatics. For real though, I say that now - after I've DNF'd two additional races (both 50ks at the first aid station, by the way) and have generally settled the f*** down with regards to my competitive drive and need to control everything, but I assure that it was all quite horrible when it happened. Listen to me, all acting like two years has garnered me a decade of experience and wisdom, but honestly it does kind of feel that way. </div>
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The things I've learned are not only tangible and tactical, such as switching my headlamp batteries in the middle of the night, relying on liquid calories and aid station food in the cold when my gel freezes and packing every warm piece of everything I own in my Hwy DD drop bag.* But I've also I would say earned, rather than learned, some serious peace of mind with regards to getting through a 100 mile race. For starters, I ran Angeles Crest with spikes jabbing my patellar tendon the whole way and pain that had me gasping for breath - and I finished. If I can run through that, I can pretty much run through anything. At Western States this year, I discovered that running a little bit harder in the last 20 miles is really no different than just trying to move forward at all, at any rate, so I might as well keep pushing the pace. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>*That's the place where shit got real last time. I had to go over 9 miles through waist high stream crossings to the next crew point in shorts and a long-sleeve t-shirt. It was 17 degrees in the hollows. It was not good.</i></span></div>
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Getting even deeper still, I've learned to place my self assessments not in relation to other people but rather in relation to myself. By no surprise, this keeps me in a much better mental state throughout the ordeal, as well as prevents me from doing something truly stupid. Or in other cases, not pushing where I know I can. I remember last time I ran the race, a gentleman scoffed and scolded me for running all the uphills. Accordingly, I started hiking - now just barely hanging onto a 24-hr pace. I realized much later that it had been wholly stupid not to run while I could, and given that the course was covered in hidden land-mine rocks - that would've been the uphills, followed by weird, hoppy dance-like maneuvers on the downs. I run in the San Gabriels and Eastern Sierras for chrissakes. Two of the steepest ranges in North America. Of course I can run up the hills.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Them thar hills</i></td></tr>
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Shall we peel another layer? So the other thing I've got going for me is that I am in a largely better place in life, generally speaking. Two years ago was basically a bunch of turmoil with work, finances and relationships - all things I was fighting to fix, all of which was absorbing every ounce of my energy and patience. I had thought a 100 mile run through the woods would be just what I needed to clear my head, but as it turns out, it only added another layer to the problem. The whole,<i> "Why am I not good enough for ANYTHING?!" </i>game crept in something fierce and was compounded as I lie on my back in the leaves somewhere around mile 70, officially unable to move. </div>
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BUT, my dad scooped me up and all but carried me back to the nearest aid station. I eventually warmed up, got some rest and survived. And lo and behold, over the next few months, pretty much everything started to get better. In fact, the last year of my life has truly been one of the best ever - not for any specific monumental event - but rather simply the comfort and trust I have felt in EVERYTHING. Some things have worked out, some have not, and some I have been wholly indifferent to - but through it all, life has just flowed right along, and I've been happy for would I estimate to be 98.2% of it. If I can extend that ratio to the race on Saturday, I should be in damn fine place.</div>
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Now, as for the less ethereal, feel-goody aspects of my preparedness for this race… I'm going to be honest. Shit hasn't been ideal. What I mean by this is that my plan when registering was that I'd recover from Western States and then start hitting it hard mid-July, building on the supreme shape I felt I was in and my best 100 to date. This was all going well through a great week in Silverton for Hardrock, and then my world came crashing down. I ended up really sick and exhausted for the better part of two months - only finally starting to get things rolling in September. This was all likely related to a kidney infection and some antibiotics that seriously f'd up my system, but more on that in a later post.<br />
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Here's the thing though - while it was hard being a bit slower and doing a little less mileage at first, at some point between now and then, I suddenly realized how awesome and strong I felt. I was running faster and higher; I completed some extremely long and challenging days; I re-graduated to the heavier weights in my cross-training. And best part? I wasn't injured, overworked or tired. I was on some sort of an upswing, if you will.</div>
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Recently, I sat down and crunched the numbers in my training log - you know, the numbers I would write down but refuse to add up, lest I dive headfirst into a horrible "why can't I run as much as I used to" depression. To my surprise, they weren't too far off from what I consider one of my best months leading up to Western States. Because I haven't been racing, I've been able to build up some real, quality miles and vert, and lo and behold - the training was actually there. I'm still having a bit of trouble believing it was enough, but hell, that happens even when I'm hitting 100 mi+ weeks. Which, btw, I did have one of those in there without even realizing it.</div>
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So I guess what I'm saying is that I feel good. My body is rested and uninjured and my mind is finally up to the task of running for a day and night or so through the Mark Twain National Forest. I valued rest and recovery almost even more than the training itself, and the result is a body that's truly chomping at the bit to get out there and tear into the trails. On Saturday, I ran 11 miles up over 8,000 feet with a couple K of climb in there and felt like I was on a 5 mile stroll along the beach. Last night, I felt electric as I ran a few "easy" miles around town, only to discover I'd been clipping off 6:30 miles. I have so much energy in the evenings, it's hard to contain myself even with an addicting book*. I do, however, still feel like I weigh 200 pounds - so I guess all signs point to taper in full effect. Dom's probably been wise to leave me to my lonesome, but that will be inescapable when we meet at LAX tomorrow. Praying for his sake the emotional warfare portion of the fun doesn't take hold between now and then.</div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(*"Wild" by Cheryl Strayed - def worth your time)</span></i></div>
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All this aside, arguably the best part about running the Ozark Trail 100 this Saturday is that I get to go HOME. I get to hang out with my mom and dad, snuggle with the most awesome bulldog ever - Miss Stella, eat my grandma's pies, drink some Schafly Pumpkin Ale, get a way-better-than-LA haircut from Cherie, run through the crunch of a midwestern fall and bury myself in the most comfortable couch in all of the land when I'm done. It will be glorious, and even better yet, I get to share it all with Dom! He's never been back to Missouri with me and I'm so excited to show him all of the things I love about my hometown in my favorite season to spend there. You's in fo' some fun, California Boy!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMba62zLXxmzFrKugr90TC5Xuqjb4EUiT43ocTWkFREMHBbMhcC4Xba41Jo3XUWZn3tjbuGP_LTFoIdfyTRkp6B0voSNh3ySP6_5OysbWpJG_CQIZYBxSmdJzZIzwxtnIpA5mq1Z39jFc/s1600/ozark-trail-marker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMba62zLXxmzFrKugr90TC5Xuqjb4EUiT43ocTWkFREMHBbMhcC4Xba41Jo3XUWZn3tjbuGP_LTFoIdfyTRkp6B0voSNh3ySP6_5OysbWpJG_CQIZYBxSmdJzZIzwxtnIpA5mq1Z39jFc/s320/ozark-trail-marker.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fit for crunching.<br />(</i><a href="http://missouri-hiking.com/ozark-trail/ozark-trail.htm" target="_blank"><i>Missouri Hiking</i></a><i>)</i></td></tr>
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There is going to be some in-race tracking of sorts this year - though I wouldn't rely on that too much. If you were wondering if we'll be in the freaking styx, the answer is yes. No cell service, no towns, no nuthin'…. but trees, leaves, rocks, roots and hills. All of which should add up to a good challenge of what they say is 15k of gain over a nasty surface that you can't see, due to all the leaves on the ground. <b>Yee-haw. </b> Thank goodness for my pops, who knows the area well thanks to camping, fishing and float trips and has a general sense of direction and timeliness which can be trusted. Having him there to take care of my crew and ensure they survive in the wilderness (Joan) and get to where they need to be (Dom) is a giant relief. Plus Mr. Mitch will be there for comic relief and Aunt Laura will be there for the much needed F bombs. Feral pigs, bald eagles and possible meth labs will add to the charm. It's going to be a backwoods party for the ages.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://gifsoup.com/view/3771439/missouri-missourah.html" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://gifsoup.com/imager.php?id=3771439&t=o" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is real, people.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://ot100stats.yolasite.com/" target="_blank">Here's the tracking.</a></div>
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Planning on tackling the thing in the <a href="http://www.newbalance.com/Minimus-1010-Trail/WT1010,default,pd.html?dwvar_WT1010_color=Baja%20Blue_with_Orange&start=2&cgid=201200" target="_blank">New Balance 1010s</a> (which come in a 2A!), which I think should be a good blend of providing a little bit of protection, while still being flexible and minimal enough to let me feel the trail and not crack an ankle. <a href="http://www.injinjistore.com/Merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=IS&Product_Code=TPCMPSN&Category_Code=" target="_blank">Injinji Ex-Celerator</a> socks should help keep me from tweaking my calves in the cold morning and I'll also be trying something new with nutrition. I've been using <a href="http://www.genr8speed.com/endurance/vitargo.php" target="_blank">GENR8 Vitargo</a> and <a href="http://shop.nuun.com/strawberry-lemonade" target="_blank">Nuun</a> for the past month or so, and it's been a great departure from eating so many damn gels. Of course, I've still got shit-tons of those as they are basically fool-proof for me, but I'm going to try and rely on liquid a bit more, given that it could be very cold and also fumbling with gel packets on super technical terrain = disaster.</div>
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Weather could be anything from hot and humid to thunderstorms to freezing temps - though it's looking like the cloud cover could keep things from getting too unbearable. Either way, I've got Goretex and Primaloft coming out my ears as well as the recent experience of running 40 miles in the hail, rain and wind of the 2012 Western States Apocalypse… all in a 3 oz. Minimus jacket. So I think what I'm trying to say is <i>I'm pretty much good.</i></div>
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Final thing (lay off me - I'm tapering and disjointed): technically the farthest I've run is 101.5 miles - never 103, so I'm looking forward to a new PR regardless. </div>
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Oh, one more thing: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NdkW76tUFKUzG2bjkjixWGDHZXeIQ1NHUcW7cKZXcLOQJDz3WpRvTfvSMLNfyS_qNKdvJ08Nc5BxB3CZsile24R3U3Ocbpr75rcIIjp57iLo-EZK3hqqFyWiD7-ynZSZdx0b-8wka_c/s1600/panda.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NdkW76tUFKUzG2bjkjixWGDHZXeIQ1NHUcW7cKZXcLOQJDz3WpRvTfvSMLNfyS_qNKdvJ08Nc5BxB3CZsile24R3U3Ocbpr75rcIIjp57iLo-EZK3hqqFyWiD7-ynZSZdx0b-8wka_c/s320/panda.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Happy Halloween. I'm a panda.</i></td></tr>
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OK seriously - bye.</div>
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katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-6197060019312396782012-10-22T17:05:00.002-07:002012-10-22T17:09:45.592-07:00Earned Confidence<br />
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I love the mountains. In particular, I love high, steep backcountry - lungs burning, legs screaming, weather a brewin', rocks flying - that's the shit I live for. Key emphasis on the word, <i><b>"live."</b></i> This is decidedly why I am paralyzingly afraid of/have no interest in the sport of climbing. Videos of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlIQzWnxOLI" target="_blank">Alex Honnol</a>d legitimately make my pee pee hurt. Mad respect, but no thank you.</div>
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So, as you can imagine, when Dom suggested we take the Mountaineer's Route up Whitney yesterday, I naturally jumped right in. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2kGzF3xxJ6mU9Ng3cqFssdm6_KrwmFyb5ECLLnBYrsMo1S8UH46mNHZm8fMDAVhMSzoKET-3z6frNfmDp8mNNNPkNE0CNDntsfcKJ6xX36tUYKPKUjF5c_mf-ghzegNdW2rS_6NgR4M/s1600/sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2kGzF3xxJ6mU9Ng3cqFssdm6_KrwmFyb5ECLLnBYrsMo1S8UH46mNHZm8fMDAVhMSzoKET-3z6frNfmDp8mNNNPkNE0CNDntsfcKJ6xX36tUYKPKUjF5c_mf-ghzegNdW2rS_6NgR4M/s320/sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I had read about the route, but Class 3… Class 4… blah, blah, blah. It's all just words until I really get out there and understand what it means on my own terms. The internet is awesome for information, but I also understand how it fulfills the human need to over dramatize and aggrandize pretty much everything, including mountains. <i>Especially</i> <i>mountains</i>. I figured it was high time for me to get out there and make a decision about the relative difficulty and danger for myself. If I got too uncomfortable, I would simply turn around. Simple as that.</div>
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Interestingly enough, through narrow, exposed traverses, hands and knees climbing, steep, slick slabs, boulder fields and scree scrambles, snow and ice - I never did turn around. A few times I got a little wiggy - but I simply took a deep breath, made a calculated choice and moved forward. <i>Confidently</i>. And as I learned throughout the day, that's really what it's all about.</div>
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Class 3, on my terms, now means this: Don't be an idiot. But also, don't slip. So in my book, Class 3 is something that definitely puts me a bit out of my comfort zone, but that I am 100% confident in handling. In the light. In the summer/early fall. Solo, but preferably with a friend.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhqymNlpFrHv5mwl-pZs16fJrCCSOcmEzdqBvM3_ume9zGRZqKKeV3Plvm9Y8kLET18JOI-vn6JDqVwWLvE6cNLlKmF79Y7i3qaBmHghWF7FF7j1irKi8sWPTGPfYoppzQ02k0S6w108/s1600/Ebersbachers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhqymNlpFrHv5mwl-pZs16fJrCCSOcmEzdqBvM3_ume9zGRZqKKeV3Plvm9Y8kLET18JOI-vn6JDqVwWLvE6cNLlKmF79Y7i3qaBmHghWF7FF7j1irKi8sWPTGPfYoppzQ02k0S6w108/s320/Ebersbachers.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>9800' up, but it's all in the 6" between<br />your ears.</i></td></tr>
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On Sunday morning, I had to negotiate the Ebersbacher Ledges alone. I was comfortably uncomfortable, if that makes any sense at all. What I mean is this: the narrowness and sheer drops were just heady enough to make me slow down, pay attention and take careful steps. Doing so, I realized I was in no real danger whatsoever and this gave me the confidence to proceed. I recalled a conversation I had with Joe Grant at Hardrock this year concerning <a href="http://www.alpine-works.com/2012/06/reveries-on-kieners/" target="_blank">these photos</a> taken on Kiener's Route up Long's Peak in CO (a route I almost accidentally took last June before being discouraged by some climbers around Chasm Lake). He explained that there was, in fact, adequate room to cross without roping into the wall - you just had to take careful steps. Those photos scared me almost as much as the Honnold videos and I took no comfort in Joe's explanation, as it was something I did not yet understand. After crossing the Ebersbachers, I think that maybe now I do. And as silly as it may sound, I'm actually really proud of myself for approaching this fear with a logical head and fully and wholly conquering it. Just as with anything in life, I cannot be convinced of anything. I must experience, embrace and decide for myself. F you Internet.</div>
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Though I considered turning around, in anticipation of how much worse the route might get - I pressed on to Lower Boyscout Lake, at least wanting to get the view of the peaks. To my delight, I found Dom there waiting for me, having decided we would continue together. I felt the apprehension melt away as we picked our way up snow covered rocks and pushed over step slabs of slick granite. The views were sensational and I was immediately glad I'd chosen to step out of my comfortable world of established trails meant for "soft, succulent people" and into this new universe afforded me by "well-seasoned limbs." That's a Muir reference, look it up.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnhOj_u7pJ-0QXXh-tDtYYIVFmZ5F4QKV-o8E7jwGz6yhJkQpA4d1CdBpNeKWB3iuUIj23TCxdwl_5hmd47b8tabcXoDIeGLwjoxBq_7LY17HisDKtdMRG-6KpFCOhC1sRi0bAWQF6Sg/s1600/lwr+boyscout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnhOj_u7pJ-0QXXh-tDtYYIVFmZ5F4QKV-o8E7jwGz6yhJkQpA4d1CdBpNeKWB3iuUIj23TCxdwl_5hmd47b8tabcXoDIeGLwjoxBq_7LY17HisDKtdMRG-6KpFCOhC1sRi0bAWQF6Sg/s320/lwr+boyscout.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>View from Lower Boyscout Lake. Slabs to the left, Keeler Needles and Whitney peeking out right of center.</i></td></tr>
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Dom and I had been warned that a summit might not be possible/safe without winter climbing gear, due to some ice in the chute, and as we approached Iceberg Lake, 'twas confirmed. Two groups had abandoned attempts even WITH the proper gear, and as such, I had already decided I would not be pushing to the summit. If Dom had his mind set to it, I would wait at the lake for him to watch and confirm his safety, but seeing how late it was getting/the first clouds of the predicted storm now on the horizon, he decided to leave it for another day as well. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSZ_MAPTVFVGbxdmSGU8KkVPal2JUhSUxO87lGqwZ0zQ17GFcBRd1GnLYBr3WYWyePjgGAp8n1NrVJuxnRmxUuntq_5zD9GXgIjMpdsrabgtqIJhfgG1sZRoIo52P_i2jkobb7s1Un70/s1600/mountaineers+route.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPSZ_MAPTVFVGbxdmSGU8KkVPal2JUhSUxO87lGqwZ0zQ17GFcBRd1GnLYBr3WYWyePjgGAp8n1NrVJuxnRmxUuntq_5zD9GXgIjMpdsrabgtqIJhfgG1sZRoIo52P_i2jkobb7s1Un70/s320/mountaineers+route.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Route to the summit is Class 3 up the chute to the right to the notch. Then a bit of Class 3-4 to the top.</i></td></tr>
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We quick-footed our way down the talus and slabs - Dom forging his own line, and me carefully picking out cairns - as the late afternoon glow filled the valley. We got off route more than a few times, eventually finding our way with only a few obstacles. Exhibit A was some wet granite on a steep slope - but moving quickly had me across easily. Exhibit B was some snow packed down to ice on a rocky section of trail/boulder downclimbing - but carefully choosing each step had me down without a problem. Exhibit C was the worst - momentarily taking the wrong way down the Ebersbachers - but a quick look around found a cairn, a route, and just like that - the worst was over. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9hRaCcAbtbGg4Ek2wALLE8iIzZ8zTDWFyXIyZsT1i3P1rUgwtUo5NjHgj6bz8YQ-3jZynn_pP9HR_5rGgz2_xZ2RnjR7W9t5jxAawes8GEtV_QN9MHyFILP7FiIwO8syQ8XiMr_PJHU/s1600/descent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9hRaCcAbtbGg4Ek2wALLE8iIzZ8zTDWFyXIyZsT1i3P1rUgwtUo5NjHgj6bz8YQ-3jZynn_pP9HR_5rGgz2_xZ2RnjR7W9t5jxAawes8GEtV_QN9MHyFILP7FiIwO8syQ8XiMr_PJHU/s320/descent.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Talus stompin'</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikk10mIcuEIIbDhNsp2g9B0kDL49uWhRnHmVNr8_dZZdRunoYKWljCOBepXyeon6SbmlAc3OZOJ8Aq7iZrRHMWtBPHW-XUXzFVQJ4cmZ3ygNG9YYazFW51hm9VH3F7-9YE7nlBkGQV0fI/s1600/down+slab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikk10mIcuEIIbDhNsp2g9B0kDL49uWhRnHmVNr8_dZZdRunoYKWljCOBepXyeon6SbmlAc3OZOJ8Aq7iZrRHMWtBPHW-XUXzFVQJ4cmZ3ygNG9YYazFW51hm9VH3F7-9YE7nlBkGQV0fI/s320/down+slab.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Heading down the slabs - Lower Boyscout basking in the Sierra glow</i></td></tr>
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As the route spilled out onto the "succulent" main trail, Dom opened his legs and sped off. I hung back, casually running down a wide, soft span of carpet and finally allowing my mind to relax. I was proud of what I'd overcome and accomplished for the day, but I couldn't help but wonder: What if we'd tried to ascend the chute and gotten stuck? What if the storm had blown in and covered the granite in water? Or worse, what if it had frozen? Oh god…. what if there had been ICE on the Ebersbachers? What if when Dom had jumped down a ledge, he'd been unable to climb back over to the correct route? </div>
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And then I realized - none of these things had happened, because we paid attention to our surroundings, the time of day, the weather and stayed true to our respective abilities. Just as I always do in the mountains. Nothing is ever entirely predictable, but being wholly in tune with one's surroundings, and more, fully understanding the possible implications of one small shift in time, weather, etc. makes all the difference. And those implications are very specific to each individual. While Dom may have been able to go further and still get down before dark or climb back up the ledge, I would not have - which is why I made my own decisions up there. Though we made and often make different choices, we're both always safe. I'm learning to trust that more and more. And maybe, just maybe, I can learn to trust that while Alex Honnold's choices are pretty much the exact opposite of mine, maybe he's safe too.*</div>
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<i>(*Side Note: Earlier this year, I struck up an aid station conversation with a guy out crewing his girlfriend, myself crewing Dom. He said we were all "crazy" for running this far. Only after the race did Dom inform me that the Alex i was talking to was the Alex that made stomach turn one YouTube video at a time. Super nice guy -but I made sure to tell him he incited a fear in me greater than Satan himself.)</i></div>
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For me, for now, I am confident in my feet and I am confident in my hands. If I can have one of these two things firmly planted, I am ready to party - no matter what (or what's not) going on around me. The minute I have to trust a rope, an axe or any other object to function properly is the minute I lose that confidence. Bungee jumping, legitimate rock climbing even mountain biking… not for me. As Dom pointed out, I even have a problem trusting a car sometimes, because well, it's not my hands physically cranking the engine or physically grasping the brakes. I was honestly more comfortable hanging from a tree wedged in a crack on a sheer face of granite than I was driving down the 5. That said, just as I've learned to accept my Jeep's ability to get me from Lone Pine to Los Angeles without a hitch and trust that the risk of a crash, engine problem or fat tire is worth the reward of getting me to the most glorious range of mountains I know; so might I someday learn to trust a rope and caribiner to get me to a peak I could otherwise not reach. But that trust has to be learned and earned. Without it, even the best gear or most powerful machine is utterly worthless. And so I move forward, step by baby Class 3 step.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Did I mention how fabulous the Sierras are right now?</i></td></tr>
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AFTERWORD:</div>
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Now, I realize having said all this, there are undoubtedly two camps on either side of my Sunday Adventure. There's the <i>"Seriously? Whitney Mountaineer's Route is a joke and I can't believe she's making this big of a deal about it</i>" group. This would likely include the majority of the Sierra climbers and many runners I know, probably even Dom. This definitely includes the old man at the portals who told us about running straight up the slabs and taking his son out there for a summit in the dark… without lamps. These are the folks that I feel downright silly around sometimes. I call myself a lover of mountains, but I'm admittedly too afraid to experience the same "edge."</div>
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Ha! But then there's also the, <i>"Seriously? Get the fuck down from there right fucking now" </i>folks. (Hi Mom and everyone I work with.) These people can't believe I would go running all day in the mountains alone. They cringe when they hear stories of getting stuck out in the dark with no light. Many believe I'm taking unnecessary risks, though in the aforementioned examples and many more of being temporarily lost, dehydrated, sick or facing extreme heat or cold; I can honestly say I've been fully confident in my abilities and never truly feared for my life. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>All day solo affair up and down Shepherd's Pass - 10/20<br />Feet happily on the ground.</i></td></tr>
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Again, it all comes back to that theory of relative safety and only knowing what is possible by self-discovery. If we make choices based on those principles, combined with a true understanding of our environment - no one else can judge. If we don't, well… there are the stories you hear of that create all the judgement in the first place. </div>
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One of my favorite things to Google is "survival stories," although ironically, I often encounter the opposite of survival. One subject that comes up more often than any other is Everest, and as no surprise, many of those tales don't end so well. Recently, I was struck by one particular article which criticized certain adventure outfitters for making anything accessible if one has the time and money. In my 29 years of life, I've undoubtedly learned that nothing creates a false sense of entitlement like money and power; and in no place is that more dangerous than a remote, high altitude peak, completely exposed to the elements. No amount of money can create an understanding of a wind shift, the strength to continue another 20 miles with no food or water or the skill to route find in zero visibility. These and more necessary SURVIVAL skills can only be garnered through hard work and experience - which leads to confidence. Entitlement is not confidence. Know the difference.</div>
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I do. And on any given day, on any given run - be it my hundred and somethingth loop of Mt. Wilson or trying a new, Class 2-3 route up a 14,000+ peak - I never, NEVER feel entitled to a summit. In any given moment, I am taking stock of the terrain, the weather, the time, water sources, topo lines and often most importantly, the other people I am with or meeting. (i.e. Dom). At what point past dark will he call a ranger or come looking for me, potentially putting himself in danger… I do know that answer.</div>
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So I guess my whole point is that no matter which camp you are in, I am not afraid to tell you that I am fully proud of and confident in what I did yesterday. I learned a lot about my abilities, knowledge and decision making skills in the wilderness, and experienced the rewards of my fitness, strength and abilities. All the while, I was acutely aware of my personal limitations, relative to me and me alone, and therefore stayed 100% SAFE the entire way up and down. It was extremely fulfilling and entirely beautiful. </div>
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I can pretty much guarantee taking this route many times in the future, and I look forward to it. And as my skills and abilities progress, I can't wait to see what other "hell fucking no's" become "seems reasonable's." In the mountains and in myself, it can all be summarized by one thing and one thing only:</div>
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<b>RESPECT.</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A "seems reasonable" up icy Shepherd's Pass @ 12,000'</i></td></tr>
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<i>*I'd be an asshat not to mention the fact that a certain oft-bearded, always smiling man has an awful lot to do with encouraging my confidence and teaching me necessary skills required for safely enjoying the places I love most. Unicorn, you make my life better in so, SO many ways and I am forever grateful.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-C7XWaoB57qH162UQRMVR6iOkCFbJMV2BLeZTzQWM9DCyTH1eu7-RExmn_PYR-UtAbcVZQY4Ez8ii1RZTLqxHr2xH49orK9uQSJKnzgyPVfRUFJVvLbbp8v5kN9gJf344zzvUOHBcMzw/s1600/wild+love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-C7XWaoB57qH162UQRMVR6iOkCFbJMV2BLeZTzQWM9DCyTH1eu7-RExmn_PYR-UtAbcVZQY4Ez8ii1RZTLqxHr2xH49orK9uQSJKnzgyPVfRUFJVvLbbp8v5kN9gJf344zzvUOHBcMzw/s320/wild+love.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-66592877875640622682012-07-03T16:21:00.000-07:002012-07-05T09:11:55.642-07:00The Clouds Were Lined With Silver: My Western States 100<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZlHk6efW0hIzNrvhzBSGByRnWH8IVQ5BCkKZeBXv-Awhb-tOCW_rtig9SyQNW1iXsqLuTOdA4UdTtpVHEMwqfzNWqujmFPEqlfrEw78QmKKCeCwYcxRVKn6K38yWpSwvNB_2RuZUTD0/s1600/16-finish+larry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZlHk6efW0hIzNrvhzBSGByRnWH8IVQ5BCkKZeBXv-Awhb-tOCW_rtig9SyQNW1iXsqLuTOdA4UdTtpVHEMwqfzNWqujmFPEqlfrEw78QmKKCeCwYcxRVKn6K38yWpSwvNB_2RuZUTD0/s320/16-finish+larry.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">If you're a fan of brevity, just take a look at the picture above and move on, lest you waste a good 20-30 minutes of your life. It says everything: I finished. I was happy. Oftentimes, I was quite cold.<br />(Official Finisher's Photo by Larry Gassan)</span></i></span></td></tr>
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Western States was so interesting!</div>
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I say this for a few reasons, highlighted here, expanded upon throughout the course of the race report:</div>
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1. It was absolutely freezing for the first 40 miles, including wind, rain, hail and general hypothermic conditions. </div>
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2. I did not look at my watch all day and ran entirely on feel. It just so happened that this was an extremely steady pace. Who would've thought running exactly in tune with your own body could be so fortuitous?</div>
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3. I never really lost myself in the experience or had the <i>"holy shit, this is Western States!</i>" moments. I remained resolutely focused on every turn, rock and breath for an entire day. It was all business.</div>
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Here's the business….</div>
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So, it all started with an earthquake. In hindsight, this was highly appropriate, as the theme of the race could easily have been "let's shake things up, shall we?" For reals. The changing conditions and resulting issues required constant adaptation throughout the race, and I'm happy to say that I was able to do that. Actually I'm very proud of that.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb75n0_y6uFqEdiNZQDSylfPSEY7jAGAKdMJku5asIF_-EbHkphx7ppKNqsHUdj7YgjV9beGXJrP9-Iqlp8DDlQX7qgA7KOf0GQmgtmZFFnKsjJKYWxzrzQTBsuh8_VJDX47IS9SGeCq4/s1600/1-prep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb75n0_y6uFqEdiNZQDSylfPSEY7jAGAKdMJku5asIF_-EbHkphx7ppKNqsHUdj7YgjV9beGXJrP9-Iqlp8DDlQX7qgA7KOf0GQmgtmZFFnKsjJKYWxzrzQTBsuh8_VJDX47IS9SGeCq4/s320/1-prep.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Freaking CarboPro. Freaking Dom.</span></i></span></td></tr>
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Now, if you're in Squaw the few days before the race, it's impossible not to soak up the energy, swallow the hype and get a little bit cray cray. Hell, it's the same flavor of Kool-Aid that got me into this 100 mile mess back in 2009 - I'd never seen one before and then took one down less than 4 months later, coming in just a hair over the 24 hour mark. Despite the frenzy (which is beautifully magic in it's own regard, by the way), I remained calm, collected and really just excited to get going already. Running into friends from all over the country, either running, pacing or crewing, the same question persisted, "what's your time goal?"</div>
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Now, in theory, the answer to that is that I didn't have one. Time is completely arbitrary when you've never run a certain course - and even if you have it's going to be different because there will be new conditions (especially relevant here) and you'll be in a new general state of fitness. So my answer was always "I just want to run the best I can in every single section - whatever time that may be."</div>
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That said, I truly believed I could break the 24 hour mark and earn myself a silver buckle - no matter what the day had in store for me. I believed it down to my core and I simply could not imagine that it would be any other way. And so I set off on my journey at 5 am on Saturday, June 23rd in pursuit of what was possible.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><u>SECTION 1: HIGH COUNTRY HYPOTHERMIA-FEST</u></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">The Twitching Hour: Squaw Valley - 5am<br />(photo: June Caseria)</span></i></td></tr>
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Leaving the roaring crowd in Squaw, I immediately thought, <i>"wow. this isn't so bad." </i>You see, they had forecasted freezing temps in the days leading up to the race. Days that I was already in Squaw, without my cold weather gear. I was wearing shorts and my Minimus jacket and I was just fine - even a little warm, maybe. </div>
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Then I turned a corner, (right before the dead tree if you know where I'm talking about,) and shit got real. The wind howled, rain began to mist. Before long, I couldn't feel my face. The higher I climbed, the worse it got. The rain turned to hail and pelted me in the face. I put down my sunglasses in an attempt to shield my eyes and they completely frosted and fogged over. I couldn't see what I was doing or where I was going - I just kept pushing up. Surely it had to get better when I got over the pass.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoE_BdOM4i5f5uumvhqNjLlpMJ0Gr6FKF2rNzJoPpQQCEvcnctEfbPjECDxtyP2EemWC7tPIQRUUcBX3gAx6Hx2P7CTrnnDj1fS7gqvP6YMCvWLb2eaaABkj9cCmYIfURDXOv5R2BoqO4/s1600/3-cougar+rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoE_BdOM4i5f5uumvhqNjLlpMJ0Gr6FKF2rNzJoPpQQCEvcnctEfbPjECDxtyP2EemWC7tPIQRUUcBX3gAx6Hx2P7CTrnnDj1fS7gqvP6YMCvWLb2eaaABkj9cCmYIfURDXOv5R2BoqO4/s320/3-cougar+rock.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>29-yr-old Cougar at Cougar Rock - sampling of conditions<br />(photo: Facchino Photography)</i></span></span></td></tr>
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I made it over and the wind continued to howl - driving the freezing rain into my ill-equipped body. <i>Just make it to the trees! Just make it to the trees!, </i>I thought. There would be at least some reprieve there and I could start focusing on the race rather than just survival. My limbs were numb, but I made a mad dash for the forest and yes, things did get a little better. <i>OK, time to eat.</i> Great idea in theory, but not exactly possible when one's gel flasks have frozen. Luckily, I had taken two handhelds, one of which was filled with glorious CarboPro, so I was able to stave myself off of an early morning bonk-fest, while I tried to stuff the gel down my bra and make it to Lyon's Ridge - mile 10.5. <br />
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I never eat solids this early in a race, but I grabbed a few frozen handfuls of melon and Ritz crackers for the short hike out of the aid. I knew that even though I could now get a few sips out of the flask, it wasn't nearly enough calories and I was not about to destroy my race on account of caloric deficiency. Plus, I knew that my only chance of staving off hypothermia in these conditions, with these little clothes, was to keep throwing more wood in the furnace. FYI: eating crackers when your mouth is frozen and it's hard to breathe anyway is a guaranteed fun time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqEqgVvjxkt9GYk8n5h-tk9884oPzFFfn83cWFxKcwckvOWYhPxkvML52OiqTerIjJC3tjdZo0ZZGVEigQndU4p5fH_rX5VtHMG04m8BYEX3ESydqRMhOvcT_6rrCiWoDOjYJFVlJ334/s1600/4-duncan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqEqgVvjxkt9GYk8n5h-tk9884oPzFFfn83cWFxKcwckvOWYhPxkvML52OiqTerIjJC3tjdZo0ZZGVEigQndU4p5fH_rX5VtHMG04m8BYEX3ESydqRMhOvcT_6rrCiWoDOjYJFVlJ334/s320/4-duncan.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Grape Ice-pop into Duncan<br />(photo: Keith Blom)</i></span></span></td></tr>
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Heading to Red Star, I began to understand how this high country thing was going to go. Canyons would be good - getting me out of the wind, rain and hail and warming me up to the point of functionality/little risk of getting too cold. Ridges would be bad. Very, very bad. The major problem with this was that my hip flexors were frozen solid and every step was pretty gosh darn painful. I wondered how long this would go on, but remained absolutely confident that the answer was, <i>"it can't much longer."</i></div>
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Unfortunately it did go on.. and on.. and on. I came into Duncan Canyon Aid (mile 23.8), very excited to see my crew and hoping that perhaps they had a miracle solution for me. There were no miracles, but there was an extra t-shirt that was a better option beneath my soaked through jacket than a singlet. I also realized that in the cold, I could get away with only carrying one handheld, which always makes me feel a bit lighter and faster. Minor victories. So I switched my plan again, opting for the CarboPro to account for the frozen gel situation, and took off down the trail. Everyone promised that it was going to get better, which I believed, seeing that I was heading into Duncan Canyon. It would be warmer down there and I would feel less like I was going to die.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxO3R54k8IXdK_iMxC29Nhysa4NLvZuuK0FpcrfB9hXOnX_Y98hOYyn9Ogx0WNHEwtAvoTnhosAlKEdNjgLOI66ccu_XLD3rXLzuOatqourSXzdO_3lL-klI1uHTNrgysY3YfqW0usFQ/s1600/5-duncan+leaving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMxO3R54k8IXdK_iMxC29Nhysa4NLvZuuK0FpcrfB9hXOnX_Y98hOYyn9Ogx0WNHEwtAvoTnhosAlKEdNjgLOI66ccu_XLD3rXLzuOatqourSXzdO_3lL-klI1uHTNrgysY3YfqW0usFQ/s320/5-duncan+leaving.jpg" width="240" /></a>Heading down to the creek, I marveled at two things: 1) that I was now already a fourth of the way done with the race; and 2) just how well manicured this beautiful single track had become. Running the canyon back in January, Dom and I had stumbled, tripped, hopped over and crawled under tree after tree and branch after branch. It was a mess and was slow running indeed. Not today! The trail work crews had done a truly remarkable job at paving the way and I enjoyed the smooth cruising down, around, over and down again to the creek - warming up all the way. Once across, I remained resolute in my decision to run most of the climb seeing that it was - as the kids like to say these days - officially douche grade. I passed quite a few guys doing so and this made me feel like a total badass. I admit it, I don't care.</div>
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So the climbing was good, but unfortunately, this meant you were going back up and exposed ridges were going to begin occurring once again. I kept it together, but coming into Robinson (mile 29.7) I was definitely freezing up again. I was a good 6 pounds up on the scales on account of being soaked entirely through and laughed to myself at how my greatest fear going into the race was losing too much weight on the course. Willfully drenching myself before every med check had been my plan - so I guess I was still sticking to it; nature was just taking care of the dirty work. Robinson was the first truly rocking aid station, and I marveled at all the crazy people standing out in the freezing rain to cheer on the runners. They had to be way colder than I, so when I saw June with my little baggie of gel and almond butter, I was extra appreciative. In the frenzy of all the SoCal Coyote love bestowed upon me, I almost left without my little packet of a non-frozen 200 calories (much needed), but unsurprisingly, June was on it. I ran on out, getting down some food and trying to imagine where Miller's Defeat would be. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPQZ_73bu7b9-ULKApZZ-a5f5rqdl72HyieC5OrRYduLRe63FbNBi0hisAdoITpSpdM09ekgt2yqdGU3YroO5iNOIFcELsQiK1HayYSJfjOketpvoQw8ngNT26_96fPmmLoR_EiP3mUg/s1600/6-robinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPQZ_73bu7b9-ULKApZZ-a5f5rqdl72HyieC5OrRYduLRe63FbNBi0hisAdoITpSpdM09ekgt2yqdGU3YroO5iNOIFcELsQiK1HayYSJfjOketpvoQw8ngNT26_96fPmmLoR_EiP3mUg/s320/6-robinson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Robinson Flat: Just your standard game of Capture the Flag<br />(photo: Jack Rosenfeld)</i></span></span></td></tr>
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Miller's Defeat was in a place that could not have come any sooner, thanks to what I encountered on this next 4.7 mile stretch. You see, things were really bad, and then they got better. Now they were getting bad again, and it was somehow worse this time. The trail was exposed, the wind was insane and the hail kicked on up again. I honestly began to doubt my ability to continue - not on account of my willingness to run or deal with being uncomfortable; but in fear of the point where hypothermia would begin to set in on account of my (and everyone else's) lack of appropriate gear. I couldn't feel my hands, feet or face and every stride sent searing pain extending from my frozen hip flexors up my abdominals straight to my chest. How could this be happening? How could my race be jeopardized by cold at <i>Western Fucking States?</i> I guess Miller's Defeat was aptly named.</div>
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Now at mile 34.4, I did something else I've never done - I stopped and ate a cup of broth during the DAY. What can I say? It was there, it was hot and it was glorious. I downed it and some more crackers (easier this time, with the hot liquid to aid in swallowing), knowing full well that calories were going to be the only thing that would get me through this. There were no Goretex jackets, there was no rain delay. There was a large fire that the volunteers had built and there were a good 10 runners huddled around it trying to get their shit together - but it was not for me. Me… I had to be moving on. </div>
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As I was leaving, a volunteer called out that I was over a third of the way done with the race and still well under 24-hour pace. I told her I didn't care about time, which was interesting because it was both a true and completely false statement. Here's what I mean: at this point, I hadn't looked at my watch once. I honestly had no idea how long I'd been running and what 24-hour pace even meant. All I know is that I was doing my very best, eating when it seemed like a good idea and somehow just believed that it was all good enough. I admit partial lying, because of course, I did very much want to break the 24 hour mark - it's just that I wasn't very concerned with the semantics of how I got there. I was just going to do it, and that was that.<br />
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Of course, "doing it" meant that I had to keep moving forward through this admittedly miserable situation. And so goes the plight of the ultrarunner. One one hand, I was happy that it wasn't bad enough that the aid stations were blowing away or visibility was so decreased that I couldn't physically continue (a la C2M 2011). On the other hand, I did entertain thoughts of them just calling the whole thing off and me suddenly being wrapped in a 0 degree sleeping bag and placed in a warm car. You see, there was no way I was going to quit. BUT if they <i>made</i> me quit, well, there's an idea...<br />
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Fortunately, I soon ran up on two guys having a related conversation. One was wearing a vest fashioned out of a trashbag and questioning if it was even in any way helpful and the other was laughing at how the only benefit of being from Florida - heat training - was now totally irrelevant. None of us could feel our faces. We'd all transitioned from the <i>this kinda sucks</i>, through the <i>this is really starting to suck bad</i> and arrived at the <i>OK, this fucking sucks</i> stage of the day. No one was in a bad mood about any of it - but it was what it was. And it was not fun. Before I understood what I was doing, the words came out of my mouth... <i>"You know, I haven't given up optimism that it's going to get better."</i><br />
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Wait. Was that me with the stellar attitude? Turns out it was. And turns out I needed to be listening to my own advice. A reality check told me I was rapidly dropping elevation now and even if it was still cloudy in the canyons, it would likely be warmer. Plus, I was running to a different city - maybe the weather would be different there! Before long, the downhill grade turned steeper and I knew I was approaching Dusty Corners and a report from Dom. But before I even entered the aid station, the answer I'd been looking for came into view -<br />
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Clear skies ahead.</div>
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">SECTION 2. DEEP CANYON DE-THAW</span></u><br />
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I left with a new bottle, more PowerGel, and a little thing they like to call hope. Perhaps I was going to make it after all. As I rolled along the fire road in my wet clothes, still shivering a bit, I prayed that the sharp pain I still felt in my frozen hip flexors would not be a permanent fixture for the remainder of the race. At only 38 miles, that would be a scary thing. I dipped onto the single track that would lead me to Last Chance and laughed that I was actually looking very forward to the canyons - so forward in fact, that I ran a little harder. </div>
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I remember this as a major turning point in the race. It was the first time I actually felt comfortable… almost warm, even. It was the first time I could actually see my surroundings, now not physically in a cloud, and the view of the waterfalls across the canyon from Pucker Point were outstanding. It was the first time I actually cracked a smile - as doing so earlier in the day hurt my teeth. Things were definitely getting better, and I ran into Last Chance (mi 43.8) in an awesome mood. This was only made awesomer when I saw a sign reading "KATIE PANDA," and knowing full well I was the only one of this breed in the race, concluded it must be for me! Thank you so much to Louis Kwan and his friend volunteering that made this total boost of energy happen. It was truly perfect timing. Once again, the volunteers commented on my strong sub-24 hour pace, whatever that meant, and then did something extremely strange:</div>
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They offered me ice for my bottle.</div>
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So, I guess I never considered the fact that it could actually be hot down in the canyons - which would have added another serious challenge to bodies that had already worked overtime trying to survive the cold. Lucky for me, I found the experience to be warm but never hot. Actually, it was pretty perfect running weather now, all things considered. As I decended down to Swinging Bridge, I felt myself begin to thaw out which was good. However, as I did so, the pain in my hips and abdominals extended down into my quads, making the steep descent a bit difficult and painful. Immediately, I wanted to panic. Here I was on the first real canyon of the course (I don't really count DG Duncan) and I couldn't save my quads because they were already shot. There was a hell of a lot of downhill left, so naturally you can see how this would be a problem. Weird thing is, that whole <i>maybe it will get better</i> thing came back again. I really don't know where all this positivity was coming from, but I honestly believed it. I'd been running well and completely within my comfort zone all day, so I just refused to believe that the race would continue to go downhill. Well…. physically it would…. but you know what I mean.</div>
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Bottoming out at the bridge was pretty much the best thing ever. I was so freaking pumped to climb Devil's Thumb. Yes, what many consider the hardest part of the course, and here I was chomping at the bit to get on it. Mainly because I reasoned that now almost halfway through the race, it might finally warm me up. Good news: it did.</div>
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I powerhiked my butt off, drinking, eating thawed gel and actually feeling pretty good. My legs were not tired whatsoever and I felt like I suddenly had a ton of energy. I even ran a few of the switchbacks, where appropriate. The only bad part of this section was that despite how well I was moving, I was getting passed. 1… 2…. I think there were 5 men that went hiking past me like it was nothing. I tried not to let it bother me, considering that they were dudes and their legs were just flat out longer and more powerful, but it was a bit demoralizing. It was here that I first realized I hadn't seen another woman all day, since the one I passed in Duncan Canyon. Considering that there were only 25 women out of 148 people who finished under 24 hours (which actually was a huge number!), this now makes perfect sense.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6W5OoXO0FHbc21PIIbxOUNq9t7xT8Zs3wVmPsslJiRHNxHocVp2uB50CjOFjhToHpL-xacoz627767ljFzo6xyhAqLI-vthjh2R6Cex8wBPyNDYVyGBP-VerYpTFQrI77hqe5_1qwrgQ/s1600/7-devils+thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6W5OoXO0FHbc21PIIbxOUNq9t7xT8Zs3wVmPsslJiRHNxHocVp2uB50CjOFjhToHpL-xacoz627767ljFzo6xyhAqLI-vthjh2R6Cex8wBPyNDYVyGBP-VerYpTFQrI77hqe5_1qwrgQ/s320/7-devils+thumb.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Devil's Thumb: Hell actually DID freeze over<br />(photo: Veronica Whittington Shmidt)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Right before the top, I looked down at my watch and was surprised to see that I'd climbed about 5 minutes faster than i'd expected (based on previous training). This gave me a little boost, and I was all smiles as I began encountering volunteers. I finally lifted that blind focus and allowed myself to enjoy, even if only for a moment, and boy am I glad I did. </div>
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<i>"Wow! You are STRONG."</i></div>
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<i>"Your hair still looks perfect!"</i></div>
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and the best, from a young boy with his mother: <i>"You are an epic person!"</i></div>
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If that doesn't make you fly, I don't know what does.</div>
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I grunted out the last push to the top and was greeted with another interesting offer: a popsicle. Whaaaaat? <i> Listen, I was just a popsicle for over 40 miles! No way in hell do I want a popsicle.</i> I really do believe that even if I had been literally dying of heatstroke, I would have refused the icy "treat," simply in spite. They offered me soup instead, but I was feeling great and just wanted to get a move on. Michigan Bluff held a new pair of shoes and all my friends and I honestly couldn't believe I was already that close to the beginning of the race (aka Foresthill). I remember actually joking around with the volunteers a bit here, which was a good sign, and I left feeling better than I had all race.</div>
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Before the next canyon, you have to run a bit on a gradual fire road, and for the first time starting after stopping at an aid station felt a little creaky. I distinctly remember bending down to pee and being like <i>"shiiiiiiit." </i> OK, this is 100 miles. This is going to get pretty painful, pretty soon, and there's no way around it. I knew that the next descent was a bit longer, but I also knew it was more gradual than the previous canyon, so as I finally turned off the road onto the singletrack, I just said a little prayer. Unfortunately, within the first half mile, my knee started to hurt pretty badly. Now, this was not my post-surgery knee, mind you, but rather the opposite knee under the patella. Every step hurt significantly and all I could think was, <i>wow. How did this happen? </i> You see, I feared my yucca knee flaring up. I feared my right psoas tightening and screaming. I feared my left soleus getting re-aggravated. In short, I spent a great deal of time before the race devoted to stressing out about every injury I've had in the past year. I did NOT spend any time anticipating new injuries. So what the hell was this?</div>
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I'll tell you what this is. It's running 100 miles, and luckily I've done it enough times to know that shit's going to creep up and most of the time it's going to be the weirdest thing ever. Fortunately, I've also experienced this enough to know that if something is hurting at mile 50, most likely something new will be hurting a lot worse at mile 60, so there's not much of a reason to worry. Instead of going into freak mode, I simply stopped, bent over and rubbed my kneecap for about 20 seconds. Then I started running again. Lo and behold - it actually felt better! And it was then that I realized my quads weren't hurting like they did in the last canyon. In fact, my quads weren't really hurting at all. RUNNING 100 MILES IS SO WEIRD!</div>
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I felt really, really good on the decent to El Dorado. I mean, I was still glad for the downhill to be over, but in the process of completing it, I actually passed a few people. Mind you, downhill is not my strong suit, and this was now the second time someone had commented on my mastery of said skill. All I can offer is that Western States is known for it's crazy amount of descent and I did my homework. I guess homework actually has a point. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I assure you, this is the same day.<br />(photo: Jeffery Genova</i></span></td></tr>
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At the bottom, the aid station volunteers were not to happy with my basically full water bottle, so I promised to chug a few glasses there and drain the bottle by Michigan Bluff. Thing is, I'd been peeing like crazy all day (clear, too!) and felt pretty on top of the fluids thing, so I guessed I just forgot to drink while running downhill. I wouldn't make that mistake again though. Starting the climb, I got into a rhythm of eat, drink, push and kept it up all the way to the top. I hiked hard, I ran when I could and I kept pushing the calories down, knowing full well that was what would get me to Cal Street with legs prepared to rock. About halfway up, I fell in step with this guy Mike who had traveled from the east coast to run his first 100. He had earned his way in by winning a Montrail Ultra Cup race, and I was shocked to be running with someone of that level. I think he was equally as shocked when he asked if I was one of the elite women and I laughed my ass off. He was a little low on calories, so I eventually pulled away, offering that when we got to the big bunch of trees that looked like chocolate we'd be close to the top. </div>
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A few more switchbacks, and there the chocolate was! YES! I heard the roar of Michigan Bluff and happily cruised on in to the scales. Weight was perfect, all my friends were there, and for the first time (now at mile 55.7), I sat down. It was only to change my shoes (from the NB WT101 to the NB 890 v2, if you're interested in that sort of thing), but it felt glorious. I elected to stay for a couple minutes, stretching out my glutes, eating some Pringles (once you pop, you can't stop) and chugging a bit of Gatorade before hopping back on up and leaving town. Yes, I literally hopped right back up - no assistance required - as I was feeling that good. They told me again I was about 10 minutes or so under 24 hour pace, and for the first time, I actually thought about what that meant and resolved to stay under it. I had survived the first part of the race and hadn't burnt myself out. Now it was time to work.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDP7xYzXxDacGHBEZb5YEiNI49BRc-MZtxVmFExhHjxYQfwZl0pxcqBkFriPtNInOItwBLHqw-tVCvmyQBIYztdiufxXi_ZZeKGXe1Ie3QRoV_BiSKWkqPg677r4ZFIgFSOcKYpeyBTYM/s1600/9-michigan+instructions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDP7xYzXxDacGHBEZb5YEiNI49BRc-MZtxVmFExhHjxYQfwZl0pxcqBkFriPtNInOItwBLHqw-tVCvmyQBIYztdiufxXi_ZZeKGXe1Ie3QRoV_BiSKWkqPg677r4ZFIgFSOcKYpeyBTYM/s320/9-michigan+instructions.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>They made the instructions quite clear.<br />(photo: Chandra Farnham)</i></span></td></tr>
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Dom walked me out and told me I'd actually made up a lot of time in the canyons. It was nice to hear that I actually was moving as well as I thought I was, because a lot of times, that's not exactly the case. In all honesty, I wasn't really looking forward to the section between here and Bath Rd, as it was all pretty gradual, windy and on a wide fire road, but the thought of no longer doing this alone was motivation enough to get myself to the next checkpoint and my first pacer. </div>
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I ran along the road, feeling a bit tired, but still strong. I focused on my form and realized I was actually running quite well. I guess a year of Hot Yoga Barre (thank you Katie and Jeannie!) had really done wonders for my core and stabilization strength - which was good, seeing as though I was getting no value out of the heat part of it. I ran a majority of the gradual uphills, reasoning that every second I could gain here would only help me later on. It was a game of getting to Auburn as quickly as possible, with the prize being not standing anymore. That was prize enough, trust me.</div>
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As I finally hit the descent into Volcano, I started to hurt pretty badly. My knee, my quads, my abs - and oddly enough, my right arm had been absolutely killing me all day, which I think was due to this awkward bird-grab thing I was doing while trying to warm up my gel flask in the cold. All day, I had been so focused in each and every moment, and now my moments were being dominated by pain. A few more steps and I finally called myself out. Why don't you change the freaking record? It's hurting. It's going to continue to hurt. Why think about it? I wished I had grabbed my ipod at Dusty, but I hadn't, so I resolved to singing to myself. This ended up being a wicked mash-up of some new Temper Trap, Lana del Rey, The Rocket Summer and the riff from Stranglehold. Because you've always got to have the Nuge by your side when shit gets real. Ironically, the lyric persisting in my head was, "This isn't hap-pi-ness…" which I kept yelling (aloud. at nothing.) wasn't true. I WAS happy. This WAS what I wanted to be doing. Why do you plague me Temper Trap? </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPj2NDR2Vfk7df3dRHwdjUeNFpJJDMFwBSfUpm8Abbd5c5uP61ssSPb7-BA3mHdkHxE7yCvZviHV3eKDsJ0C4z3Sw-_T0-n14Xve1OO4JYLRLjoGqxCucJOx0X_THw1y-xbT6P5yLNqqc/s1600/10-michigan+kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPj2NDR2Vfk7df3dRHwdjUeNFpJJDMFwBSfUpm8Abbd5c5uP61ssSPb7-BA3mHdkHxE7yCvZviHV3eKDsJ0C4z3Sw-_T0-n14Xve1OO4JYLRLjoGqxCucJOx0X_THw1y-xbT6P5yLNqqc/s320/10-michigan+kiss.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">I really do love him... despite the fact that he is heel striking.<br />(photo: Chandra Farnham)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Existential lyrical battle aside, I was now nearing Bath Road, where I was 100% confident Dominic would be waiting for me. I knew this because he is too gosh durn excitable not to be running with me every chance he could. The thought made me well up a little - I was in serious pain, and he was the poster child for all things comforting in my life. Just as soon as the first tear was about to drop, I shook my head and resolved not to break down. I was fine. I was moving well. I still felt relatively good. Why use the time with Dom to complain and be sad, when instead I could use it to generate positive energy that would keep me floating along? </div>
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I crested the hill up to Bath Rd and ran into the aid station with a smile. There was my favorite boy, jumping for joy and he was going to run me into Foresthill. I didn't have to do this alone any longer, and I resolved to run strong and make my pacers proud. I moved straight through the aid station without stopping - telling the volunteers I just wanted to keep going. This bolstered a nice eruption of cheers as I left and I felt powerful for conquering this mental battle. There would be more for sure, but you only win the war one fight at a time. Just call me Ulysses S. Grant. Yankee freaking Doodle.</div>
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I was excited to chat and plan my attack on Cal Street (OK, I promise, I'm done with the civil war references), but Dom kept me focused on running as much of Bath Rd as possible. I told him I was getting tired and I was ready to start hitting the caffeine, to which he replied - "whoa! you've gone this long uncaffeinated?!" Yes. Yes I had. And that was exactly my plan. I knew by holding off as long as possible, I would reap the rewards of every hypercharged sip later on and I would begin with a glorious Red Bull. <br />
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We alternated running and hiking up the road, and I laughed to myself, thinking how hard it had been to run ANY of it three years prior - my first experience at Western States or any 100 for that matter. And I was just crewing. Now, with 60 miles on my legs, I could run this hill. I could run any hill! I was invincible! Well… not quite… but I was really happy to be heading into Foresthill with life in my legs. I was going to be able to run to the river and I was going to get that silver buckle - no question about it.</div>
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June met us at the intersection with Auburn-Folsom Rd and we all chatted excitedly as we rolled into town. I was so happy and they were so happy to see me so happy. The sunlight was wonderful and the roar of the crowd at the biggest aid station - the mile 62 party - got into my blood. Soon thereafter, Suzanna appeared before me and escorted me into the scales in a whirlwind of amazing energy. Weight still good, I headed over to my crew where I took a few minutes to really get some food and caffeine down and make sure I had everything I needed for the impending darkness. Suzanna gave me a nice quad rub-down while I wiggled my knee around again, attempting to get everything ready for 16 miles of downhill, with only a few rollers here and there. All packed up and ready for our trip to the river, we bid our friends adieu and headed for Cal Street, waving, kissing babies, etc.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">"With Suz you can't lose" - © me<br />(photo: Paul Grimes)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">SECTION 3. TO THE RIVER (A.K.A. THE STRAWBERRY ORDEAL)</span></u></div>
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It's amazing to me how quickly you go from a wild rumpus to complete solitude on the trail right outside of town. You're in a giant rager one minute and then eerily alone the next - it's a good thing they give you a pacer. And it's a really good thing that fortune and fate gave me Suzanna Bon. First of all, I just realized we were basically wearing matching outfits, which is awesome. Second, if you've ever met a more positive person in your life, I'd love to hear about it. We began rolling down to the river chatting away - both about how things were going and just random whatevers. Before I knew it, we were already at Cal 1. Or Dardanelles. Or whatever.</div>
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On the way in, I told Suzanna I was going to eat some fruit and crackers - you know, since I was on the California Wine Tour or something - and keep moving on through. So I grabbed some fistfulls and got right on back to running. At this rate, we were going to make it to the water in no time! Conversation and easy running continued until suddenly I was brought to a dead halt. I doubled over with a severe stomach cramp that surprised me possibly even more than the earthquake. Where did that come from? I shook it off and got to moving, but hell, there it was again. Ugh! Deep breaths, deep breaths... wait. Why does it hurt so bad to breathe? In short, my stomach was a complete and utter knot and now it was hurting up into my chest, feeling like someone was squeezing the life out of me. While I realize that this is what a 100 miler tends to do - squeeze the life out of you - I knew this was not a normal thing. Luckily, Suzanna was on damage control.<br />
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We kept running and first tried a few breathing techniques. I stopped and went to the bathroom. I tried water, salt and bits of gel. Things weren't really getting better. <i> Do you think it could have been those strawberries?</i> she wondered aloud. Oh god. Even a mention of the word took a memory of what was once sheer joy at the prospect of berry deliciousness in my mouth and replaced it with a vile retching. Strawberries could go to hell.</div>
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And there you have it folks. I was basically having acid reflux while trying to run downhill hard with close to 70 miles on my legs. Ahh, I do love a challenge. I agreed to take a moment at Cal 2 to try and work things out with some Ginger Ale and also maybe get a little broth down. If I started shunning calories now, I was going to be toast by the river. Toast to go with my strawberry jam.<br />
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Everything went down ok, and I started running again, though slower than before. Soon thereafter, folks began to pass looking super fresh and this really went to my head. I had been running so well, and now a stupid stomach thing was slowing me down! I'd expected my legs to be wrecked, I'd expected that my knee might give way. In short, I'd expected anything but revolt of the strawberries, but that's what I got. <br />
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<i>I thought I was running well, Suzanna. This is so frustrating.</i><br />
<i>You ARE running well. You can't pay attention to anyone else. Just focus on your race.</i><br />
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Hmmm... that's what I was doing all day, so why was I suddenly throwing all caution to the wind here, at mile 70-something? Once again, SO thankful to have a pacer here to help keep me mentally tough. I was passed by a few more folks before Cal 3 - but luckily Suzanna seemed to know all of them, so at least we had some fun and encouragement. I held down some gel for the first time right outside the aid station and then took down more ginger ale and broth. Things seemed to be getting a little better.<br />
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Before long, night was upon us as we dipped further down into the shaded canyon. We clicked on our headlamps and continued moving along, almost to sandy bottom now. I really thanked my lucky stars at getting the majority of this descent out of the way in the daylight - as it's super runnable terrain that is always much faster when you can see what you're doing, acid bomb or no. As I was powerhiking the steep stuff towards the bottom - you know, when you go back UPhill and away from the river, just for good measure - Suzanna began to notice my energy waning. Like the most excellent of pacers know, this was probably related to my lack of food intake throughout the strawberry ordeal. She did not order, but rather suggested I take down a full gel. Now. I knew she was 100% right, and elected to try it. I'd either get the boost I needed; or I'd throw up. <br />
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Luckily, both the calories and the caffeine helped and I agreed to take another full gel in 10 minutes. <i>GOD, YOU'RE JUST LIKE DOM! YOU MAKE ME EAT SO MANY GELS</i>! Suzanna - I hope you know that is a very, very good thing. The two of you know how to make it happen, and that's undoubtedly how I was able to keep it together and get it done. So in retrospect, thank you for making me eat that godforsaken motherflipping asshole of a gel. It tasted like silver.<br />
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As we hit the rollers leading to the river crossing, I felt a great deal better and more energized - but now I had a new thing to worry about. After being frozen solid for 40 miles, the last 40 had been pretty pleasant weather-wise. But now it was dark and I was going to have to cross a chest-high, freezing river. Past experience lead me to believe this would not end well. Luckily, Suzanna convinced me that the water wouldn't even come past my knees and the whole thing would be no big deal. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Proper.<br />(photo: Faccino Photography)</i></span></td></tr>
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Granted, she was wrong, but by this point, that was ok. :) You see, I had reached the most iconic spot in the most storied 100 miler in the country... possibly the world, and that hit home. Earlier in the run, Suzanna had asked me if I had been feeling like <i>"wow. I'm here. I'm doing Western STATES!"</i> or if it was more like watching the whole thing go down from outside of my body. <i>Neither</i>, was my response. All I could comprehend was the trail in front of me, and for the last 80 miles my head was living moment for tactical moment. But not here. Here, I realized that I was at the freaking RIVER of Western Freaking STATES and I was only 20 miles away from my Silver Buckle. The lights shone, the energy was amazing and the sound of the water rushing made my heart leap. <i>Lawdy Lawdy get me in the water. I'm ready to be baptised!</i><br />
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In all honesty, crossing really wasn't that terribly cold. Yes, it did come up to my chest, but the magnitude of the moment wrapped me like a blanket. The amazing volunteers lined the cables and pointed out every rock and dip and with a few more steps, I was at the far bank. I could hear Dom cheering as I pulled myself out of the water, and the three of us set about the climb up to Green Gate. <br />
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Dom pushed me to run the sections I could, and even though that kind of sucked, I'm thankful for every second I likely gained there. Plus, I had to try and get myself warm again, especially since there was a shuttle malfunction and June may not be at the top with a shirt for me. Luckily, Dom had brought his jacket, so I threw that on and resolved that June or no, we'd be fine. In fact, we'd be more than fine. <br />
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Approaching the wonderful lights at the top, I couldn't see anything, but I heard June yell out to Dom's cawing. Apparently she had run all the way down from the top with a big ass bookbag of anything I might need. Did I mention how amazing my crew is? Jeeze Louise. Once in the aid, Dom insisted I sit down for a moment and get a large amount of calories in my body. He knew I was likely still behind from the strawberry ordeal and there was no way he was taking me out into no man's land on the brink of a bonk. Dude's one smart cookie. So we pumped my guts full of soup, potatoes and caffeine, during which I stared at the ground and fought tears. 20 miles suddenly seemed like a very, very long way and still being only 10 minutes or so ahead of the cutoff, I suddenly felt very pressured. I could not waver. I could not break down. I had to be strong, and for a moment, I just didn't know if I had it in me. I've always broken down in the last 20. Always.<br />
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Unsurprisingly, my pacers were not going to let that happen. Not now. Suzanna politely informed me that we were not going to be having a pity party. Plenty of people felt way worse than I did. Hell, even <i>I'd </i>felt worse than I currently did at points - namely AC 2011. Dom ensured me that the minutes we were spending stuffing my face were going to prevent that feared meltdown from happening. In short, I was starting to fear the pain, but if I wanted it, I needed to just suck it up and make it happen. It was full on battle of the mind from here on out, and only I could decide if my brain or my belt loops would win.<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">SECTION 4. THE DARK HOURS</span></u><br />
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As I left Green Gate with Dom, I was resolute once more. <i>We ARE going to get that silver buckle, you know? I've come this far and I still have legs. I know I can do it.</i> He knew I could too, and he was not about to let me fail in that endeavor. If anyone, Dom had seen how hard I'd worked since my surgery last November and how many battles I'd fought both physically, and perhaps even more - mentally. Even going into the race, I wasn't 100% where I'd have liked to be had I been healthy for longer and able to train even harder than I had - but nevertheless, I was confident that it was all enough to break the 24-hour mark, no matter what the day threw at me. Having him by my side - well.. actually directly behind me with his headlamp angled down - meant the world to me and I physically felt stronger.<br />
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After successfully convincing Dom that I would run faster in five or so minutes when I warmed back up (as if he didn't know this), I requested that he begin telling me stories. I'd already learned with Suzanna that all I really needed was someone to talk about anything other than running the 2012 Western States, and all the little aches and pains were suddenly not so significant. Within minutes, I was back clipping along at a decent pace once again and the excitement in Dom's voice fueled me on. He was proud of me. And this time it wasn't because I'd suffered through some crazy, freak miserable situation. It was because I'd run tough, smart and hard all day - and now, with less than 20 miles to go, I still was.<br />
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We alternated chatting and silence on the way to ALT - and I alternated blissful states of empowered focus and excrutiating pain in my left achilles. See, it had flared up about halfway to the river, but I wasn't all that worried, considering my rotation of various pains throughout the day. I was sure within a few miles, it would be something else. The river had froze it up and provided some relief, but now it was screaming again. Every step hurt pretty badly, and I was not very happy about it. I felt as if I could run much faster if I could get a better range of motion in the left side, but instead, it was locked. I tried to talk about other things - but Dom silenced me, saying I was wasting too much energy trying to talk and run uphill. He was right, but that pissed me off.<br />
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At ALT (mi 85.2), I told Dom the Suzanna plan. I would sit for 1-2 minutes while he brought me broth, Coke and crackers. I would eat it and then we would leave. That's exactly what we did, and I popped right back up, ready for more and excited that we'd gotten in and out of the aid station a few minutes faster than he had projected. The one disquieting thing here was that the volunteers had been concerned that I was a few pounds up. I assured them that it was simply that I really had to pee, and that I'd been peeing like crazy all day. They wanted me to back off my fluids, which seemed very strange to me, but luckily, they did not detain me. As such, I shuffled for a few minutes to warm back up, then got my groove back. The calories and caffeine at the aid stations were really giving me a boost, and for awhile, life was silently blissful and with purpose. However, somewhere along our trek to Brown's Bar, the twists and turns in the neverending trail became somewhat unbearable. Negativity began it's slow drip into my consciousness which I then did not attribute to my need to start hitting the gel flask hard. Instead, I wondered aloud <i>where the f*cking aid station was, dammit!</i> and stressed as I looked at my watch and realized we were off Dom's projections. That meant I was slowing down, and that meant I was not going to finish under 24 hours. As I finally stumbled up to the aid station, I was devastated.<br />
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I plopped into a chair at Brown's Bar and put my head in my hands. I was now at mile 90 - a mere 10 miles from my goal - and I was unraveling. <i> I have nothing left,</i> I dramatically weeped to the volunteer. <i>Eat this now,</i> said Dom. Potato after potato, washed down with soup, coffee and coke. Calories, calories, calories. <i>We're </i>(chomp) <i>spending too </i>(chomp) <i>long here</i>, I said between mouthful after excruciating mouthful of food. <i>We're getting you to the finish, Panda. Open up.</i><br />
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Within a minute or two, my tears dried. <i>I'm feeling better!</i> I half-laughed half-sobbed like a legitimate crazy person. <i>Let's get out of here! You eat! I'm going to run ahead and pee! </i>I threw on the jacket for awhile once again, pretty cold from the bit of a longer stop and again, felt great with the calories out of the aid station. I questioned the fluid thing, given my frequent pee stops, but Dom assured me that this was a good thing and was keeping my joints feeling good. If my stomach was working, we weren't going to mess with it. <br />
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And now ladies and gentleman, I give you my worst memory of the entire race. I lost it. The willingness to hurt; the will to push. I just wanted the pressure I felt to keep working towards the sub-24 mark to go away. It was crushing me and making it all very hard to breathe. My achilles was hurting like the dickens; it was hard to run the gradual uphills; my body was officially annoyed with the whole having run 91 miles thing; and Jesus! What was the point anyway? Why did I care so much about finishing under 24 hours? What would it matter if I walked the rest of the way and finished in 25? WHO CARES? It's still good to just run 100 miles. I didn't want the pressure I was putting on myself anymore. I cracked.<br />
I threw my bottle down to the ground and sat down indian style in the middle of the trail.<br />
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<i>That's it! I don't want to do this anymore! </i><br />
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Out of fucking nowhere, I tell ya. Panda is down for the count.<br />
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Dom calmly and politely informed me that he was going to keep running ahead to Highway 49 and see if they could send someone back for me. He kept right on running and left me there.<br />
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<i>No! I've come too fucking far for this! That silver buckle is mine!</i><br />
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And that was it. A new, completely ravenous and certifiably schizo Katie had been subbed in; and from that moment on, there were no exceptions. I was going to do whatever it took, and the first item of business was to start running uncontrollably up the fire road. Luckily, St. Dominic was on damage control again. <br />
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<i>I'm going to do this baby.</i><br />
<i>OK, that's good. But first, you're going to slow down before you blow yourself out. Then you're going to eat a gel every 10 minutes for the rest of the race.</i><br />
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I guess Dom had learned something from when I shut myself in the closet a few weeks ago. I was angry about some stupid work thing and tapering, which when combined with the fact that I am female is basically the holy triumvirate of potential rage-fests. Knowing the danger that could likely ensue, I told him the best thing he could possibly do is leave me alone for a few minutes while I calmed myself down. Seeing that he lives in a studio, the only suitable place for this was the closet (otherwise I would have had to put on pants and go outside - lame), so I pulled an R. Kelly and within a few minutes was laughing by myself. In the closet. It ended up being quite the fortuitous situation as I think it really gave him some insight that enabled him to handle a potentially goal-ending situation absolutely perfectly. I am still so forever grateful for how calm and gentle he was out there. </div>
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<i>( I believe I can fly… I believe I can touch the sky…)</i></div>
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Now that you're officially convinced that I am crazy, I'll go ahead and wrap this thing up. Single digits to go! So basically, now that I was officially obsessed, I started freaking out that everything I was doing wouldn't be enough. I still wasn't looking at my watch, but rather just trusting that Dom would tell me if I needed to work harder. So far, all that he was telling me was "MORE GEL," so I figured I'd just focus on trying to get the most out of my achilles that I possibly could. When I knew Highway 49 was approaching, I told Dom that I wouldn't be stopping here. I had enough water and I was just going to grab another gel and cup of Coke and keep moving through. There would be no more stopping. I could never live with myself if I had to play the "what if I'd just been 30 seconds quicker here or there or there."</div>
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Weight was good on the scales and I apologized to June and Monica, but that I'd need to be blowing through. Apparently they were going to tell me that anyway, so everyone was happy. I choked down another gel - like literally, choked thanks to all the dust in my lungs - and passed a dude on the way out, now certifiably possessed. I remember not dropping, but completely spiking the shit out of my trash in the receptacle, high on the fumes of still being on pace. At mile 93.5. This is what it feels like, Panda. Now just keep it up.</div>
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So, based on three prior visits to Highway 49, I firmly believed that getting to that point in the race would elicit a nice, warm feeling of accomplishment and being almost there. However, this was not the case at all. 6.7 miles was still a very long way at this point, and when I tried to compare it to a 10k, that somehow seemed even longer. Again, I'd have to set the miles aside and just focus on the moment, section by section, step after labored step. Dom soon ran up behind me, and we were off on our journey once more. <i> Run, run, don't fall, eat gel.</i> I was really hurting now, and to take my mind off things, Dom reminded me of how far I'd come and how hard I'd worked for this day. All the summits up Baldy in the winter - lungs screaming and legs burning. The repetitive 6-8 hour days in the Front Range, clocking as much possible vertical before the sun went down. The mornings I'd wake up at 4:15 to drive back to Santa Monica from his place in Orange County so that I could still get my barefoot beach run and Hot Yoga Barre class in before work at 8. The heat training (haha) I'd put in at the barre, plieing until my legs were shaking and then visualizing Placer High as I held that shit until I'd literally fall over. The exhausting weekends up in the high country. The hill repeats on my lunch break. Every twice a day I wanted to skip, but headed out anyway. The mini-PT station I built under my desk to rehab my knee. The wall sits in meetings. The sleepless weekends spent driving 7-8 hours north to train on the course and then back to work on Monday. And most recently, surviving that cold, freak weather for the first 40 miles of the race.</div>
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Again, No Hand's Bridge just never seemed to come - the darkness taking away all my visual cues of proximity. All I knew was that when I climbed sharply upward and saw the big bridge overhead, it meant I would descend upon No Hand's shortly. When I finally did, I got very excited, as I finally started to smell the barn - or whatever it is they say - and to my shock, Dom barked at me to chill out immediately. We were now descending one of the only rocky parts since the river, and he was not about to let me lose focus and trip up. I was surprised at his all business attitude at the time, but I now understand and am very grateful that at least one of us was keeping our shit together. It most definitely was a team effort at this point, and I was trusting in him completely.</div>
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I had kept myself from looking at my watch until the aid station, and as I rolled in I finally looked down. 23:05. </div>
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<i>"What do you need?"</i> they said.</div>
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<i>"Just to keep moving,"</i> I replied, head down, barely acknowledging that there was even a tent there. </div>
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All I could see were the two strings of lights that would lead me across the river and across the canyon for the final time. I ran out on to the bridge alone, and for a moment, the world was completely silent, save the sound of the water rushing below punctuated by my rhythmic breathing. I could no longer really feel my extremities and adrenaline pulsed through every inch of my being. Towards the end of the expanse Dom ran by and up ahead, smiling and fist pumping. <i> I've got 55 minutes, I told him. I'm going to do this. I'm really going to f*ing do this.</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><u>SECTION 5. THE HOMESTRETCH</u></span><br />
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As we wound around on the other side of the canyon - mainly flat, but gradually gaining - I became frantic. I was not looking at the time, but I knew minute after precious minute was ticking away. I could not understand how fast I was moving - all I knew was that it was as fast as I could. Again, Dom remained firm that I would not blow myself out here or bonk up Robie Point, so he slowed me down when my breathing was labored and continued to demand pull after pull of my gel flask. I obliged his every wish and just remained focused that it would all be enough. It had to be enough.</div>
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When the lights of Robie finally appeared on the cliff ahead, I ran harder. I was not going to feel better until I was on that last .6 mile climb. I pushed toward it manically, feeling completely panic-stricken in every step. It sounds weird - I was completely resolved that I would finish under 24 hours, but I was completely sure that took me giving every last ounce of energy I had. It would be that close. As we finally hit the climb, I hiked probably harder than I've ever hiked in my life. I poured out my water, and swung my arms. I could no longer feel pain or heaviness - it was like I'd suddenly been injected with pure electricity. The climb was not long and soon I'd be at the final mile. I was impossibly excited. I decided that if I topped out with 20 minutes to spare, I'd definitely be golden. If I had 15, I could make it, but I'd have to run as hard as I could all the way in. I figured Dom knew the same, and there was worry, he'd have expressed it by now - so instead I just continued up, up, up. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Comedy Hour - mile 99<br />(photo: June Caseria)</i></span></td></tr>
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When I made the final turn in, I glanced down. 21 minutes to go 1.3 miles. And I felt electric. At that moment, I knew it was going to happen, but still, I could not relax. June and Suzanna met me and began working up the last hill, smiling and telling me I had, in fact, done it. I was smiling too and there were butterflies in my stomach, though I'm fully convinced their wings were trapped in GU. Suzanna told me that I was there, but we were going to make it hurt all the way in. I was going to use every last bit of anything I had and finish strong. As such, we began running at what felt like a sub-7 minute mile, but what was really more like 8. I laughed and told June that this was payback for last year - where she herself had come up to Robie with about 20 minutes to spare on the absolute cutoff. Dom told me that he was just really glad I was coming in under 24, because he didn't want to deal with an awkward car ride all the way home. They all kept reminding me to soak it in, but I was busy laughing, smiling and just trying to breathe.</div>
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As we passed the white fence I looked to Suzanna and told her everything in my body was burning. <i>Good</i>, she said. <i>That means you gave it your all.</i> And as I finally entered the glorious track of Placer High, I knew that that was deeply, and wholly true. I knew that the day I got into Western States, I would run it under 24. I didn't know how, other than just do my very best in every single moment, and that would somehow be enough. The announcer boomed, but I didn't understand it. The lights glared, but I saw nothing but the red rubber directly in front of me. Dom told me I could relax and enjoy my victory lap, but I still couldn't comprehend anything but running my absolute hardest. This was only exacerbated by the fact that a dude entered the track right after me and was actually trying to catch me. <i>Are you kidding me?! </i> No way was I going to be passed at the last second at the finish line. Besides, I didn't want anyone else in my finish line photos. Not joking one bit here. </div>
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I rounded the final curve and Suzanna peeled off, leaving me to finish the last 100 meters alone. I tried to look around and take it all in - the people in the stands, the cheering folks on the infield, the small crowd behind the clock up ahead. I looked at the words on the banner above them and read each one: WESTERN STATES 100-MILE ENDURANCE RUN, SQUAW VALLEY TO AUBURN, CA, trying to fully feel what that meant and what I'd done. <i></i><br />
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Then I looked below and saw Dom, and all I could think about was what a big hug I was going to get! I was trying to prolific, but really, I was just an ADD kid in some sort of fucked up amusement park. And there were also squirrels.</div>
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A few more steps, and that was it. It was over. I'd done pretty much EXACTLY what I said I was going to do for 23 hours 54 minutes and 17 seconds, and I think that's what made it all a bit anticlimactic. I don't know how to explain it, but I had just known I was going to finish right under 24 hours - not any quicker, not any slower, and with no drama needed. And that's exactly what I did. I don't think I've ever felt so satisfied in my entire life.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>"This is how we do it" - Montel Jordan<br />(photo: Facchino Photography)</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFtOVHAXMkMGfmr443-HRHOPCpwJg4Winmj6Gb58y0ji9-VZWE_rAQP88nR9xSpO_-9-dqF-X8S7Y29dylbMHcC8QNbfGQucGjYAxO8VG7zf7fvaWMSN-I6i0xdlSeXDD_cVg4ubYZwo/s1600/15-finish+blanket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFtOVHAXMkMGfmr443-HRHOPCpwJg4Winmj6Gb58y0ji9-VZWE_rAQP88nR9xSpO_-9-dqF-X8S7Y29dylbMHcC8QNbfGQucGjYAxO8VG7zf7fvaWMSN-I6i0xdlSeXDD_cVg4ubYZwo/s320/15-finish+blanket.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Baby, you know how you said I could only pace you at Hardrock if I broke 24 at Western States?"<br />"Yes, Panda."<br />"I did it."<br />(photo: June Caseria)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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A few notes on this. First, it's necessary to point out that I do not, by any means, think I have achieved ultimate greatness by simply earning a silver buckle at Western States. For chrissakes, Ellie ran a full 7 hours faster than me. Yes. SEVEN HOURS. And Tim was nine. And that is freaking awesome.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19V-aLVbsZDYJ6-TrQXtc-jLf_2OYLyfZOH1MV14p7N3h_2Rwqz7kxQV_KVraO5Qu8eZeIcgAHBxXX3a4fNtmtb_agwma5bMJYyzop4-vaYXLneM9IJPhNc65a47hGxBfvd9MT4-KU98/s1600/17-champ!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19V-aLVbsZDYJ6-TrQXtc-jLf_2OYLyfZOH1MV14p7N3h_2Rwqz7kxQV_KVraO5Qu8eZeIcgAHBxXX3a4fNtmtb_agwma5bMJYyzop4-vaYXLneM9IJPhNc65a47hGxBfvd9MT4-KU98/s320/17-champ!.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Also notable: I am a clairvoyant! My exact words to Dom on Friday: "I saw Tim on Thursday. He was calm. Like scary calm. I think something crazy is about to happen."<br />CONGRATULATIONS TIM - NEW COURSE RECORD 14:46:44 - so, so so deserved<br />(photo: Chandra Farnham)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Why this goal is so meaningful to me is that:<br />
1. It's still hard to break 24 at States. You've got to keep it together and you've got to RUN the race.<br />
2. It's still the fastest I've ever run 100 miles.<br />
3. It's the first time I really felt like I understood how to complete a 100, and then executed. <br />
4. It's a huge leap from having yucca spikes removed from my knee only seven months ago.<br />
5. If I look back at where I was just a few years ago, something like this was so far off the radar, it's silly. I've come a long, long way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8RhFMsbLG5HxG_fSI14c0RhBuzFa2jyq3DQmKVIpUSXl85y4JYj-ZrC0UpGfC26V7hWboR_RvyKPxkERpxL2nt1zUkpzScAPcWTmqhCvwyBxvgiHqEENkikzYOsPDW5cfN78rg01rskc/s1600/19-buckle+tan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8RhFMsbLG5HxG_fSI14c0RhBuzFa2jyq3DQmKVIpUSXl85y4JYj-ZrC0UpGfC26V7hWboR_RvyKPxkERpxL2nt1zUkpzScAPcWTmqhCvwyBxvgiHqEENkikzYOsPDW5cfN78rg01rskc/s320/19-buckle+tan.jpg" width="167" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Tis not a feeling soon to leave.<br />Neither are the tan lines.</i></span></span></td></tr>
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Regardless, I will say this: I freaking love my silver buckle. To me, it represents a new era of Katie DeSplinter - a woman who now trains with confidence rather than in fear, who judges success by personal effort rather than time or placement, who understands that progress is rarely immediate and greatness is a long-term goal. I am not perfect. I am not the best. I am not even anywhere near MY best. But gosh durnit, I am so completely happy and satisfied with my running... and well, my life... and at 29 years of age, I think that's a pretty amazing thing. To me, the silver buckle represents finally achieving a state of balance with competitiveness/drive and happiness/self-worth. Plus, it helps hold up my pants, since I'm too cheap to buy a pair that actually fit.<br />
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Now the dispensing of the gratitude:<br />
<br />
<b>Monica </b>(aka Momica) - Dad being a truck driver or not, the amount of hours you drove was the polar opposite of the number that you slept, and I'm unsure how it was even physically possible. Thank-you for your endless support, positivity and help! Can't wait to crew you when you run 100. You are probably laughing right now; but I know you will.<br />
<br />
<b>Junebug</b> - There are people that come into your life that are just a natural fit, and you are definitely one of those rare gems. Your completely chill attitude combined with your extreme attention to detail and time make you the absolute ideal crew person and I'm so grateful that you've been with me through both the race that didn't go as planned and the one that most certainly did. I thought about our time together during your Western States a lot out there, and I thank you for the inspiration!<br />
<br />
<b>Suzanna</b> - I can't even begin to explain how clutch you were and how honored I was to have your help. Both back in January when you showed me the canyons (and hiked out with me when I thought my knee would never function again) and last weekend when you cruised me right on down to the river. The time went by so quickly and sour stomach aside, I actually had a lot of fun! I have a tremendous amount of respect for you and knew that if I just listened to you, I'd get it done. Thank you for being there for me!<br />
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<b>Dom</b> - I don't really know where to begin with you, and I certainly won't know where to end, so I'll just say this. You are an incredible, loving, supporting man and I am so lucky to have you in my life. Having you with me those last 20 miles meant the world to me, and no doubt, you are a huge reason why I've been able to get where I am today. Thank you.<br />
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<b>Coyotes & Friends</b> - Your support both on-course and online was insane. When I couldn't sleep after the race, but could finally mentally process words, I crawled to the bathroom and began scrolling through my phone to uncover texts, posts, tweets and the likes that moved me to tears. Thank you for your love!<br />
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<b>New Balance</b> - Thank you for making the 101 and the 890 which carried me 100 miles with 0 problems. On a larger level, thank you for your dedication to the sport and supporting a small-time girl like me who just loves the mountains and wants to be in them every day.<br />
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<b>Injinji</b> - Thank you for keeping my feet totally and 100% blister free! The new trail sock was the absolute jam and I wore the same pair the entire race.<br />
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<b>SaltStick</b> - Proud to report that my post-race blood test showed complete and total electrolyte balance. You guys are why! Thank you!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ONWARD!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4hW51ascXG7bw4Gfzbv3XRvUxS_UC4BwjRpumkM7jOIWdd3rYMcOxFtKiITZ-OYn0SjuOMHK9ynTj49P7KuPEs0zH6_NLXQUx1MtkOYUUz1qsEJeDr0YX3IDBqdgRkdPrrqzTIDka1s/s1600/18-crew+&+buckle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO4hW51ascXG7bw4Gfzbv3XRvUxS_UC4BwjRpumkM7jOIWdd3rYMcOxFtKiITZ-OYn0SjuOMHK9ynTj49P7KuPEs0zH6_NLXQUx1MtkOYUUz1qsEJeDr0YX3IDBqdgRkdPrrqzTIDka1s/s400/18-crew+&+buckle.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Thug life.<br />(photo: Chandra Farnham)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<i>**If you'd like to make a joke about how the nice age group jacket I received would have been helpful earlier in the race, you're too late. That ship has sailed.</i></div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-74740265545130887122012-06-20T17:03:00.001-07:002012-06-20T17:03:11.276-07:00I am running Western States. Awesome.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Training in the High Country - Duncan Canyon</i></td></tr>
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In March, I completed my first race back post-surgery. It went well. I was happy. I had a mental breakthrough of sorts, and I had a lot to say about it. Then I went silent.</div>
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I did this not because nothing of value occurred - I thought about numerous topics and even still have a half-finished Miwok race report sitting here. It's just that I guess I kind of made the subconscious decision to spend my time listening.</div>
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There's nothing I can tell you about Western States or my ability to run it. Because quite simply, I haven't run it before. Others have, and they have quite a bit of information and inspiration they're freely dispensing. Hell, they're downright excited to give it to you! There are movies, there are photos, there are race reports, there are course breakdowns. Jesus. I even watched a special on the history of the trail during the Gold Rush. Now if I'm hurling my guts out down in El Dorado Canyon, I can say, "hey, at least I don't have dysentery." </div>
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I could sit here and tell you what I'm going to do. I could compare myself to other runners and previous times. But truth is - it's all arbitrary. Every last bit of it. I made a spreadsheet in Excel, but I don't even know what it means. All I know is that I have somehow arrived on this eve of my Squaw departure uninjured, healthy and ready to run. I've trained hard on steeper, longer, nastier terrain. I've run every single inch of the course and have committed it all to memory. Was it enough? <i>Who's to say? </i> What happens now is that I run strong, I stay within myself and I remain focused for 100.2 miles… however long that takes me.</div>
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I say <i>"somehow arrived,"</i> because there have been multiple spots along the way that I doubted myself to be truly ready on June 23rd. The first step was getting my knee back, and that hasn't been easy. When I ran the course back in January, it all but destroyed my leg. 3/4 of a way through a double crossing of the canyons left me limping and I didn't think there was any way I'd be able to run swiftly down a hill by the summer. Maybe even ever. <br />
<br />
Then, most recently, I somehow inherited a kidney infection. Right after Miwok. Right during the time I should be training hardest. As soon as I was over that (and the horrendous reaction to a crazy dangerous antibiotic), I strained my soleus during one of my last long runs. OK. <i>Really?</i><br />
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What I can say is that through it all I adapted. I did what I could. The exact way I plan to run the shit out of the 2012 Western States 100. And if you'd like to give the obligatory, "are you ready?", I have an answer for you:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">HELL YES I AM.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81O-kbXYjbrjcpm254egmje0f2QOBMsoOcvOG1L3EyrwlnxSDhxYhCniBGgowKn-0OACMO5OYI9Xwp2Yq7PINm1Bo3_lmqemPoY_SAYO26vEBFmGvF_9ZM0CXN94rmtkP1hkFVdGzzYY/s1600/461470_10100495325700241_168293114_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81O-kbXYjbrjcpm254egmje0f2QOBMsoOcvOG1L3EyrwlnxSDhxYhCniBGgowKn-0OACMO5OYI9Xwp2Yq7PINm1Bo3_lmqemPoY_SAYO26vEBFmGvF_9ZM0CXN94rmtkP1hkFVdGzzYY/s320/461470_10100495325700241_168293114_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hiker love in Granite Chief. Amazing energy I've been saving for Saturday...</i></td></tr>
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<br /></div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-85260140354549394082012-03-29T22:24:00.001-07:002012-03-29T22:36:18.532-07:00Prequel Sequel: LA Marathon 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYz-pjIwykaPZrGros42676AwAKvFMb3ZDOE_KAIpjFhhntNNKauQ9vv6UXUhgOSLpNs9Olqms7Nq5g4qsLzX2b6_PT6o6HsBV-PBtW2Z8OLHnpzUKx1qkHcAaCZOHqTlUrJHdz7BsoPY/s1600/bib.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYz-pjIwykaPZrGros42676AwAKvFMb3ZDOE_KAIpjFhhntNNKauQ9vv6UXUhgOSLpNs9Olqms7Nq5g4qsLzX2b6_PT6o6HsBV-PBtW2Z8OLHnpzUKx1qkHcAaCZOHqTlUrJHdz7BsoPY/s320/bib.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See, it's a Prequel, because it's out of order. I ran the LA Marathon 5 days before Old Goats 50. You know... as a fine taper. But it's a <i>Sequel</i>, because this was something that began long, long ago...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How did I get started running, you ask? Well, it's very simple. Growing up, I was thoroughly convinced that my dad was pretty much the most awesome guy ever. He knew the answers to basically everything, he teased my mom, which was funny, he made excellent pancakes and by golly, he was fast. My pops liked to tour the local 5k/10k scene in the slow-pitch softball off season*, and I distinctly remember going to watch him run around St. Louis, thoroughly impressed by the insane distances he was covering. SIX MILES?!! Holy shit. My dad is incredible.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*baller</span></i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTrfsw9AGDXbb5avnWguCCBLGOjQ4Gsp6Ou5_r8iv_FBQRtj9zmBtBrewiM2WwWlZJ8WOB4j3Nr_YiV3devuVG8syd2mgeeQlN5Aod0WeGWXypHKNhLGlXdzzw37XmY76wlBVJdxxWxI4/s1600/cruisin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTrfsw9AGDXbb5avnWguCCBLGOjQ4Gsp6Ou5_r8iv_FBQRtj9zmBtBrewiM2WwWlZJ8WOB4j3Nr_YiV3devuVG8syd2mgeeQlN5Aod0WeGWXypHKNhLGlXdzzw37XmY76wlBVJdxxWxI4/s320/cruisin.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Told you. I had to be exactly like The Kev.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, eventually I got it in my head that if running was something my dad did, then it was something I needed to be doing as well. And so I inquired about the possibility of me participating in one of these races at some point. Next thing I knew, we were signed up for the St. Charles Flat Five and my dad was going to run the whole thing with me! All I needed was my Umbros and my sweet suede Lanzeras and I was ready to rock.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHNSeQPbduqIsLrwjQbh1ssWq2vgwcjike6nx0Ss-jdPvE1cVcRk9aTfy7bOsXVFhSd2WQYe6eYNg6H7o7JUdoR6sNsYFpUqR4cPMA0roECwExovzmvQYSY9PC6Muk3kPF2aq5vnXc1M/s1600/sleepin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHNSeQPbduqIsLrwjQbh1ssWq2vgwcjike6nx0Ss-jdPvE1cVcRk9aTfy7bOsXVFhSd2WQYe6eYNg6H7o7JUdoR6sNsYFpUqR4cPMA0roECwExovzmvQYSY9PC6Muk3kPF2aq5vnXc1M/s320/sleepin.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was 1994, so needless to say, I don't remember a ton of details from the day. Most likely it was humid and I had the best time ever. Those are the only things I can say with any confidence. Also, apparently I came in 4th overall woman which I guess was pretty good considering I was 11 and wearing soccer shoes. Unfortunately, a '<i>real</i> runner' neighborhood lady didn't really like the fact that I'd beaten her, so she found it necessary to point out that the rules clearly stated that you must be 16 years of age to participate in the 5k. Not even out of grade school and stripped of my medal. Such a disgrace to my country.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJG9qubirbyWeW5_2IjHGUM25hEVWrSZoT8Cim2BPikyWz3PyN56I0lz1trqyQ5wfO5n6nrBuk3-bzjhzs2wma1nfRjbcTLUrTpFN8LSWDWpNEz7s0iY_emiVFu26dX66j80_TVJerkk/s1600/flat+five.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJG9qubirbyWeW5_2IjHGUM25hEVWrSZoT8Cim2BPikyWz3PyN56I0lz1trqyQ5wfO5n6nrBuk3-bzjhzs2wma1nfRjbcTLUrTpFN8LSWDWpNEz7s0iY_emiVFu26dX66j80_TVJerkk/s320/flat+five.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I love that I corrected it in red pen.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UghLaMm7VvcbndiCWaF9otA7tsDD4jIYTxY5s8KAKW72FsOc89fa0jQqvs7oyNWfC_45zAbTNPd-kWCgCrCIfW2k4Ik33q-vai8SaRbSm-OyClFiJ7AI_LG8Dlm5TRP92SOywi0HETc/s1600/track.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UghLaMm7VvcbndiCWaF9otA7tsDD4jIYTxY5s8KAKW72FsOc89fa0jQqvs7oyNWfC_45zAbTNPd-kWCgCrCIfW2k4Ik33q-vai8SaRbSm-OyClFiJ7AI_LG8Dlm5TRP92SOywi0HETc/s320/track.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>400/800 meter track star - finally faster than the old man.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My dad and I continued to run 5k/10ks together for the next few years and eventually I went on to run in high school. (Our soccer team sucked.) Around this time, he stopped challenging me to 100 meter dashes at the track, which I now understand was so he may forever say that he is the champion. <i>Congratulations</i>. Throughout the rest of my running career, however, my pops was always present, reminding me to "open my stride" or "play hard, have fun." I always thought it strange that in huge crowds of screaming people lining the course or hugging the fence, including my mother's impressive two-finger whistle, I could clearly make out my dad's soft-spoken advice and nothing else. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0Xh78XiXwL7Ip7E4f7V0l2Rg00rwHIRMU0MiR9uc5wWYEpUqkETIrj4NxmOHc8IefplBXDGtnE6LRC1vLg7pRsA-RUr30U7MFQTP8IjI-wMfxHrmf3fGVtQoXgTzGcpwMj4oUXHt1LI/s1600/cc.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0Xh78XiXwL7Ip7E4f7V0l2Rg00rwHIRMU0MiR9uc5wWYEpUqkETIrj4NxmOHc8IefplBXDGtnE6LRC1vLg7pRsA-RUr30U7MFQTP8IjI-wMfxHrmf3fGVtQoXgTzGcpwMj4oUXHt1LI/s320/cc.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Collapsing into dad's arms after winning<br />the MSHSA XC State Championships.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My senior year of college, I decided to run a marathon. Again, my dad made the treck up to Chicago and again, I could hear him cheering me on, now through literally millions of people lining the streets of a huge skyscraper-filled city. It was pretty awful, considering I was wearing a men's cotton undershirt, some volleyball shorts and knew nothing of gel or the concept of drinking water, but hey - I made it. When I found my old man after the race, the first thing he told me was that he was proud of me. But the second was that he would NEVER run a marathon because the body was just not made to go over 20 miles and that's why I couldn't even step off a curb. The third was a riotous bout of silent laughter, recalling a couple he saw at the beginning of the race with perfect hair and full make-up, clearly running to be seen, who looked quite a bit different and well... melted by mile 20. We have a very similar sense of humor.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The marathoner and the guy who will never <br />run a marathon.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward a bit to my foray into ultrarunning. That's a story I should probably tell at some point, but we'll save that for a later date, as it has nothing to do with this post. On a related note, I know I have not once mentioned the 2012 LA Marathon yet, which is the title, but trust me - this exposition is entirely necessary. To this day, I'm not quite sure what my dad first thought of the whole thing, but all I can remember is honestly feeling like for the first time in my life, he really wasn't very interested in my running. The 50k was one thing, but when I first mentioned 50 miles, I recall some questions into the safety and logic of doing such a thing. Make no mistake, he told me he was proud of me, but the concept was entirely foreign, and unlike me, he was not surrounded by a group of people who thought it all perfectly normal and worthwhile. He was surrounded by no one who had ever even heard of "ultrarunning."</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Parents highly pleased with themselves. Me diagraming<br />how I'd basically had them foiled, but threw all notions<br />aside when he'd called me the previous day from work,<br />i.e. Dana Point, CA.<br />(photo: Kevin Chan)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad's first experience with my ultra career came in 2010 when he agreed to crew me at the Ozark Trail 100 in Missouri. The day ended with him all but carrying me back to the mile 70 aid station, body wrecked with hypothermia, and resulting in my first ever DNF. <i>"Great,"</i> I thought. <i>"I had one shot, and now I've ruined it for him." </i>Imagine my surprise when he showed up in Wrightwood last year, the day before AC100. And imagine how scared I was that I'd fuck it up again, considering I couldn't bend my knee. Nope, dad. This time you're going to see how amazing it is to finish one of these things. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know exactly how long after finishing AC it was, but at some point last year, I heard the first mention of it out of his mouth. My dad, who believed that 20 miles was out of control, thought he might run a marathon one of these days. There was no poking and no prodding and no guilt-tripping. And at any rate, he just wanted to know what it might take and what kind of training he might need to do. The half marathons and various trail races were becoming a little easier, and like I always suspected, eventually it just gets to you that there's something a little crazy out there that other people are doing and goddammit, you should be able to do it too. I didn't get these genes from a donor, people.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ah yes... it's going to be an <b>excellent </b>day.<br />(1400 & 890 -in Mizzou colors- <br />if you're wondering)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, the questions turned to training plans, and the training turned to 16 and 18 mile runs. He called me in January to tell me he was registering for the LA Marathon, conveniently in my hometown and awesomely on my birthday. He said I didn't have to run with him, though I'd promised to do any marathon he signed up for, and I told him he was out of his mind. This was my chance to finally repay my dad for what he did for me 18 years ago and I was now more excited to run the LA Marathon than any other race thus far in life. Did I mention I got into Western States this year? Yeah... <i>that</i> excited.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dominic dropped us off at Dodger Stadium race morning, and we stood packed in a tent, praying it wouldn't rain, as forecast. Pops was clearly excited - and man, how couldn't you be? He'd knocked out all of his training, trimmed down to a quite svelte version of himself and now was about to run farther than he'd ever run before. After three rounds of Randy Newman, we were off.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Perfect form and all smiles through mile 6 - hills<br />officially crushed.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sun came out, the day warmed up and through mile 6, we were easily averaging about a 10 minute pace. Dad felt great, and though we both had to pee, life was enjoyable. We marveled at the scenery... and by scenery I don't mean the city; I mean the participants. Fuck airports, man. Marathons are some of the best people watching opportunities around. We laughed as dad crushed the hills and soon were joined by Dom, spectating at Echo Park and graciously playing tour guide to my grandparents who'd come out to LA to watch their 56-year-old son run his first marathon. I felt like the luckiest in-the-process-of-turning-29-year-old ever, as all of these important people shared this perfect day with me. If the streets of LA had suddenly turned to single track trail, I might have died of happiness right then and there.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somewhere around mile 9, I realized that dad was no longer talking to me, but I remembered that he said he always seemed to have a low point around 9 miles into any run. OK, I thought. We'll shake this. A few miles later, I took this photo around the halfway point and posted on Facebook on the run for our family keeping tabs back in MO. Subsequently I was confused to see the LOL comments popping up on my screen - but couldn't really see the details of the photo, as I was running and there was a glare. On second thought, I now see why.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Look at it this way. At least you aren't heel striking, man.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently, Pops-o-Matic's stomach was not liking his gels any longer, and this was really pissing him off. He'd never had a single issue with the gel, salt and water plan, and now, on race day, he suddenly felt like he was going to puke every time he ingested anything. Soon thereafter he started cramping and he later admitted to thoughts that he might not finish this thing. Fortunately, I also started cramping extremely bad and realized that if I did not urinate, my kidneys were going to explode and I too, would not finish the marathon. I wondered out loud if the need to pee might be the reason for the internal body anger. Without a legal place to grab a bush or alley, we agreed to stop at the next line of porta-potties, no matter how long the line. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Post pee-apocalypse.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Glory glory hallelujah, folks. We have been saved. You want to talk about a second wind - check out my dad at mile 14.5. NEW. MAN. The cramping released, the next gel went down without wretch and our pace dropped back down to a reasonable experience. We left Hollywood, cruised down Rodeo and made our way towards Century City, where we'd be joined by Dom, Grams and Grandpa once again - and dad would officially begin taking steps into the unknown. The beautiful place where every inch is one further than you've ever gone before. Goddamn that shit is magical.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We got there, we high fived Team DeSplinter and we saddled up for the last difficult section of the course - the hills of the VA. Dad was worked, but we were moving right along, and I didn't doubt for one second that we'd be at the finish line soon. I reminded him that it was going to hurt now... probably really bad... but that it would soon be over and it would all be worth it. But he already knew that. My dad is wise beyond his miles.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Does this look like that sleepy-time photo above, or what?<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last few miles were rough. Dad was hurting and I tried to encourage him with the fact that we were passing people who were completely dejected and walking, yet he remained focused forward and in stride. His legs cramped and hurt all over, and after a little convincing, he eventually concluded that it would not hurt any worse to run than walk and it would all be over sooner. We called my mom with a little over a mile to go, back at home, recovering from a knee replacement and super disappointed that her operation would not allow her to be waiting at the finish line in that moment. Even better - you get to talk to us during the race AND I am forever haunted by online photos of me "racing" talking on a cell phone. Go ahead and look it up, people. I don't care.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Precisely.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we turned off San Vicente for the final stretch on Ocean Avenue, an absolutely amazing shot of the Pacific came into sight. Possibly one of the more beautiful I've ever seen. The wind was seriously out of control, creating perfect white caps on the sea and the ability to see for miles, including the crisp lines of Catalina in the distance. The palm trees whipped in the wind, and through any amount of pain, one couldn't help but smile. Victory lap.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad picked up the pace as the finish line came into view and I let out a few war whoops. I was so filled with pride for my dad - in fully committing to doing something he said he'd never do, and completing it all with such a positive attitude, despite the fact that I know he was in some serious pain. I can't quite describe the feeling, but it was pretty freaking amazing. I always kind of feared that point where you realized the roles were switched between you and the parents you idolized, and now you were leading the way for them - but I've got to tell you, it was all quite wonderful. Right before the finish line, my dad, still the most awesome guy I've ever known - now even awesomer, grabbed my hand and we stepped victoriously across the finish line. I will never, EVER forget that moment as long as I shall live. It meant more to me than I could ever fully explain for reasons I probably don't even fully understand.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I am sure that one of those reasons is to say <i>I told you so.</i></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mile 26 - smiling because we're almost done, or because a huge timing clock<br />is currently being rammed into Dom's head? You decide.<br />(photo: the part of Dom that was not being attacked)</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Plural this time.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">(photo: Dom)</span></b></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>END NOTE:</b> Turns out that dad ran the whole marathon with the flu, and was sick for a full week prior. This from the man who passed kidney stones running his first half marathon. If you've ever found a better candidate for an ultramarathon, I'd find it hard to believe.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hiking Temescal the next day. Grandpa offers a ride.<br />At age 76, Grams murders us all up the climb. New life goal: getting<br />Grandma to run that half marathon she casually mentioned...</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-82804720973464159782012-03-28T17:02:00.001-07:002012-03-28T17:02:38.053-07:00Wise Lessons From Old Goats<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>OLD GOATS 50 MILE RECAP - Sat. March 23, 2012</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">All my life, I've been very competitive by nature. In many regards, this isn't a bad thing at all - as it's driven me to push myself and hold myself to higher standards in every aspect of my life. School, sports, work, relationships. I get what I deserve - but I've never been afraid to work really hard to get it.</span><br />
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I've seen competitiveness destroy my running before. When I first started running 'serious' races in high school, I was happy with every result. I just tried as hard as I could and it worked out. Whether I came in 5th or I won, I was pleased because I'd done all I could. Those were the blissful first years. </div>
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The latter years of my high school career were riddled with expectations. I had to win. I had to run fast times. I had to qualify for state and I had to place higher than I did the year before. I had learned that I was good, everyone thought I was good and so I had to be the best. I compared myself to everyone, not only in my races but really just everyone I felt threatened my climb to the top - school, dance, social situations, everything. I hated the pressure. I quit running. After a similar sequence of events in college, I quit dancing. I never really considered it, but for a long period of time, I really wasn't all that happy because of the things that made me the happiest.</div>
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Are you in a conundrum now? Well, I'm not. Read on...</div>
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Over the past three years of opposite-of-quitting-running (i.e. running ultras), I've said countless times that I've never really run a race I'm wholly satisfied with. I didn't run to my potential due to mistakes and bad mental spaces that destroyed my ability to push. I've read many accounts of great runners speaking of everything coming together on one magical day where they just ran brilliantly all day, even through fueling mistakes or tough spots - everything was just inexplicably awesome. Yeah. I've never had one of those days either.</div>
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Until last Saturday. </div>
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I guess it all started to click somewhere in and around my past few races. You see, I went in with the goal to win, and I won. I was the best on those given days. But it wasn't enough. There were awesome things I took away from the experiences, but something still wasn't right. In my mind, I picked apart the races and found other ways to compare myself and my performance. In each, I was only a matter of minutes or seconds off the course record - both of which were held by talented women I often compete against and accordingly, judge myself by. There were bad mental places in both races where I beat myself up for slowing down, or not taking an extra water bottle, or even said <i>"if so-and-so were running you wouldn't be winning because you're not running hard enough." </i>Are you annoyed with me yet? Yeah… I am too.</div>
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I will be honest: I definitely checked the list of entrants prior to last Saturday, and I did, for brief moments of time, fantasize about running with the outstanding names, passing them, and yes, even waiting for them at the finish line. And that's when it hit me. I wasn't going to derive any joy simply from crossing the finish line first. Immediately, I'd cut myself down - knowing that if any of the <i>really</i> big names had traveled down to SoCal for the race, they would have killed us all. True satisfaction could only come from tangible performance goals related only to me and the task at hand, without any extraneous variables. Immediately I set about constructing those goals:</div>
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<li> I reasoned that if I could run under 10 hours on this course (50 miles with 13,423 feet of ups; just as much down <i>and</i> SUPER technical) - I'd feel pretty confident about running sub-24 at Western States, maybe even faster.</li>
<li>I wanted to push hard enough to be generally uncomfortable for the duration of the race.</li>
<li>I vowed to run strong but in control over the first 20 miles; effectively allowing me to reach the largest climb of the race - Holy Jim at mile 28.8 - in good enough shape to run the 4,000 feet over 8 miles to the top.</li>
<li><b> </b>I knew that if I ran smart, I could realistically run every climb and really not have to hike much at all in this race - despite the high vert totals.</li>
<li>I understood that there was still some degree of weakness in my knee, but wanted to run as hard as I possibly could on the descents.</li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Dawn on the Chiquita Trail<br />(photo: Jayme Burtis)</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Thanks to Dom and I's poor time management skills, I didn't have time to get caught up in anything race morning. As the gun went off, I was still stuffing gel in my pocket and adjusting my gear. Dom was still assembling his drop bag. I ended up just shoving the gels down my bra and then spent the first 20-30 minutes convincing myself that I was not angry at him, I was angry at the situation, and just running it out in the dark, pre-dawn hours. Once that conversation was over, the next me vs. me battle began. Was I running too fast? Was I not running fast enough? I hadn't run this far since AC last July thanks to "the incident," so I had no idea what was reasonable anymore. Nevertheless, I put the brakes on a little and not too long after, Keira Henninger caught up to me. I asked if she wanted to pass, but she said no and that we were running a smart pace - so that left me a little more comfortable. I know Keira is very competitive and had trained hard for this race, so I believed her. We continued on together down the rocky, gnarly singletrack at a conversational pace, and she assured me we would catch the women who had took off blazing. Maybe… I thought. Or maybe not. For the first time in my life, I wholly and honestly did not care.</div>
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At some point, we were joined by Marianne Barosa (either from in front or behind - I don't really remember) and the three of us cruised into the first aid station at mile 10.8 together. Keira switched bottles with boyfriend, Jesse, on the fly and Marianne was wearing a pack and didn't need to stop - so I lost them as I quickly filled my single handheld. I figured that would be the end of that and I'd never see them again, which again, made no difference to me. I'd arrived at Candy Store around the time I'd predicted if I was having a good day and not running retarded, so that made me happy. Jesse told me that Maggie Beach and Amber Monforte had arrived a full <i>15 MINUTES</i> before us which just seemed crazy to me. They couldn't have been that far behind the dudes, and that field was stacked (with Jorge, Prizzle, Fabrice Hardel, Eric Wickland and of course, my favorite boy).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Heading to the Candy Store - clearly<br />pissed that I will not actually be getting<br />any candy.<br />(photo: Pedro Martinez)</i></td></tr>
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Heading back towards Blue Jay, I was joined by friend Robert and we began chatting away as we worked up the climb. Imagine my surprise when I caught right back up to Keira and Marianne, power hiking one of the steeper sections. I fell in behind them, dropping to a hike as well on the first couple steep parts, but eventually, I felt the need to keep running. I passed and continued a series of riveting conversations with Robert, hardly noticing what was going on. When he informed me we had gotten the significant climb for this section out of the way, I was actually surprised. I felt fresh and unfazed by the 15 technical miles and only hoped I hadn't foolishly pushed too hard. As the climb turned super gradual, Keira and Marianne eventually passed and I simply locked into a steady pace back to the campground. During this time, I passed Amber, which was a great surprise as well, considering that this chick is an Ultraman Champion (that's a double Ironman). I don't claim to know anything at all about Triathlons, but I feel pretty confident that shit is hard as hell. Accordingly, I figured maybe she'd gone out a little too fast, but would no doubt be back soon. I also noted that things were working out with this whole 'running my own race' thing. I just had to stay the course.</div>
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As I hit the pavement towards the mile 20.8 aid station, I began formulating my plan for my bag of necessary items not being there. See, I had basically thrown my little red bag on the grass by the starting line and remembered something about Steve telling me the aid station wouldn't be there and me replying that it wasn't for Bear Springs. Accordingly, I had absolutely no idea if I'd have my gels and/or what Dom had done with the bag if he had found it. The backup plan was to stuff a handful of Hammer Gels down my bra, knowing full well they would wreck my stomach. Needless to say, I was really hoping to see that red bag. Luckily, as I cruised into the aid station solo, my friend Megan offered up the exact combination of words I wanted to hear, <i>"GO KATIE! Your bag is at the aid station!"</i></div>
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<b>God Bless you, Steve Harvey. </b></div>
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I quickly grabbed a new bottle out of my bag, pre-filled with Carbo-Pro powder and a Nuun tablet, and stuffed with all necessary PowerGels. I threw in some water, slammed a gel, and was on my way, Marianne and Keira both leaving just moments before me. Unfortunately said gel completely bombed in my stomach and I was brought to a screeching halt behind the first bushes I saw. I watched Marianne fade away up the trail and again, figured I wouldn't see her again. Oh well, the pit stop seemed to work and my stomach felt better - time to climb. </div>
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This next section involved a steep little ascent up to the Main Divide, and I figured I'd soon know if I'd overdone it on the first 20 miles. Now on my own, I put my head down and went to work, and before long Keira and Marianne appeared around one of the corners. They were hiking the steeper parts, but I felt no need to walk. It wasn't so bad compared to my typical climbs in the San Gabriels, and so I just moved along at my calculated pace - honestly not feeling much of an effort. The best part of this climb was finally getting high enough to begin enjoying the AMAZING view of my favorite snow-capped peaks off in the distance. It was so clear up there - you could see forever, which is a huge deal in Southern California. I let out a little whoop of joy and energized by the beauty, really sunk my teeth into the next steep section. Here I caught up to Keira running with Pam Everett and a little dejected. I told her that she would no doubt pass me on the next long downhill and I would never see her again, so not to worry. 23 miles is no time to make any decisions that you're having a bad day… you're just having a bad spot. Again, I knew I'd never be able to keep up with any of the lead women when the course turned down, as my knee was simply just not strong enough yet. But that was no reason not to try my hardest. Remember, THAT and that alone was the true goal of the day.</div>
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I caught up to Marianne at the Main Divide aid station, now almost to the halfway point of the race. She finally had to fill her pack I guess, and so I ended up leaving right behind her. Jesse hollered after me that Maggie was now only 5 minutes ahead of us and reminded me that her strength is the ups not the downs. <i>"Welcome to the club," </i>I said. Still, I was impressed with myself that I was catching back up because Maggie is freaking awesome. I actually really wanted to catch her just so I could enjoy some of the day on the trails with her, but I figured that would not likely be happening on a descent. Soon enough, Robert caught back up to me and then Keira passed - all exactly as I figured. Marianne was long gone, and I just focused on getting down this seriously gnarly, rocky, drop off-y single track as efficiently as possible. I also had to focus on my stomach, which was now rampantly refusing calories on the downhill. Before long, I knew I needed another bush. Damn.</div>
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Pulling back onto the trail, I realized that the likely reason my legs still had so much zip was that I'd been downing calories like a champ between the gels and CarboPro. However, at some point it had become too much for my gut to bear, so I was going to have to chill. I started craving pure water over the CP/Nuun concoction, so I decided that I'd switch to pure water at future aid stations and see if that helped. I guess this stomach thing was my low point of the race, but funny, I never seemed to care too much because I was still moving decently well. I'd only lost a few minutes to pit stops, and look, now I had a new friend to run with! I was joined by Beto Campos, and we traded war stories of running AC with yucca spikes in the knee vs. rhabdo. By comparison, this day was magnificent for both of us, and before we knew it, we were entering the Holy Jim aid station, mile 28.8, and treated to a hearty greeting from Big Baz Hawley. </div>
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I quickly refilled and ate a gel on the way out, stomach lurching again. And two seconds later, I realize I failed to adjust my timing when I switched from my gel flask to the full gels. So I had just consumed over 300 calories in an hour - no wonder my stomach hurt! "Oh well, it will fade," I thought - better than the alternative of not eating enough. I also realized that yet again, I'd forgotten to inquire about how Dom was doing. I was hoping not to see him on the out and back, because that would mean he was running extremely well. We'll see soon enough.</div>
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Now for the fun part.</div>
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I'd been looking forward to the Holy Jim climb all day. It was the longest of the day, ascending 4,000 or so feet up to Santiago Peak, but over 8 miles, so not too steep. I'd run it before in training and knew that I should be able to run pretty much every step, unless I had completely destroyed myself in the first half of the race. Now was the time to see how much I had in me. Now was the time to push. Beto and I ran together for a few miles, passing another dude and chatting all the while, before I finally pulled away. I felt strong and in control and my stomach had settled down. In short, I was murdering this climb, just like I'd planned and I felt like I'd run about 10 miles… not 30. FREAKING SCORE. Maybe a half mile from the fire road, I heard an unmistakable yell which could only belong to one man. DOUBLE SCORE. Dom was passing Bear Springs already, and a quick glance to my watch told me he was on track for an awesome time.</div>
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When I had just about reached the end of the single track, I downed the last of my bottle, which I'd been conserving for the last mile. I probably could have taken another bottle here, and was just thankful that it was warm, not hot - or I would've definitely had issues. Just one last little push and up to the fire road…. where there was conveniently no aid station. Oh. Fuck. Had something happened? Was I going to have to go all the way to the peak completely dry? This was bad. This was very bad.</div>
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Luckily, I soon saw Fabrice and Eric hammering down the road and letting me know that the other women were not far ahead. They mentioned something about the aid station, so I knew it must be around one of these bends. Thank you, Jesus. Jorge flew by next, also encouraging me to keep pushing and catch the other ladies. I saw Keira's bottles on the side of the road, not yet retrieved by Jesse, so I knew the boys were right - they couldn't be too far. One turn later, I ran up to the aid station and realized that Dom and Chris were either way far ahead, or I had extremely poor yell recognition skills. There were so many activities going on and so many questions I wanted to ask, but I had to get my shit and get moving. Jesse confirmed that Dom was running in 2nd behind Chris as I dumped out the CarboPro in my pre-packed bottle, filled it with ice water and sucked down another gel on my way out. It was go time.</div>
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<i>Here's a great example of how to use competitiveness effectively, learned by me on this 24th day of March, 2012:</i> I had been running and observing all day, and my learnings concluded that while I wasn't quite back to downhill shape, I was running the climbs faster and easier than anyone. I originally thought I'd be hiking pretty frequently up this last push to the peak, but considering how fresh I felt, I knew this was the time to really go to work and see what I could do. Once we headed back down, I'd be annihilated, so my only hope for staying close to the leaders was to really work every little uphill I had left. And so I did just that. Not because I necessarily felt any need to catch everyone and win the race; but rather because I had learned a bit about how to use my strengths to my advantage and run the best time possible.</div>
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About 6 minutes before I hit the turnaround on top, Keira came absolutely bombing down the road, high out of her mind on adrenaline, sunshine and other such awesomeness. Later dude. See you at the finish. She was not going to be caught. 2 minutes later, Marianne passed, also running strong and clearly hunting Keira down. Looked like fun, but I was going to be out of that one. Good thing that wasn't my goal. A minute later I finally saw Maggie, who I'd been missing all day because she was being rude and running too fast :) She told me to catch her on the downhill, and I told her to catch the chicks in front of her. I was very much looking forward to seeing which of those two things might actually happen.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eating more gel, running every step up to Santiago<br />Peak.<br />(photo: Mieko Morita)</i></td></tr>
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At the top of Santiago, I was greeted by Mieko and a truly splendid view. I quickly refilled, as it was a little chilly up there in a singlet, and thought it high time to see what I was going to be able to do today. I equally as quickly learned that wouldn't be exactly what I'd hoped. My knee was instantly in pain as I pushed down the mountain, and the whole leg felt pretty weak. The opposite hip pinched as I strained to run faster. While my quads felt remarkably capable, my body was unfortunately still not back to 100% strength/balance from the surgery 4 months ago. <i>Yeah… I said 4 months ago, </i>so I guess I really can't complain.</div>
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Before long, I was switching to my final dropped bottle at Bear Springs and officially on the home stretch. Unfortunately, said home stretch, was likely going to be the worst part for me, as it involved a largely downhill, hard packed, rutted out fire road. Plus, my toes were starting to feel really weird - almost like I had blisters, but that seemed entirely implausible. (I later learned that the poison oak between my toes had turned to giant blisters, which is why my feet were itching and burning all day. Thank goodness my Injinjis kept that shit under wraps.) There were no real breaks, and the uphill rollers were significantly steep - enough to halt you if you blew yourself out. The Goat wasn't going to let you off easy, even in these final miles. Fine by me. I didn't sign up for a spa retreat.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJlYLI9AyUS-zcUrjJf4oMABdzaXGGIakZbO6pVmTtiBaWJudnxnEbddZ2I8MxMHxhm3iyi7UN1AiU-u-8Nj8TqTWdgRIpW-lYwMF5-O1qB-7fN4OlyWqhwt5IPqAmnGNe_S0xckMLUg/s1600/main+divide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJlYLI9AyUS-zcUrjJf4oMABdzaXGGIakZbO6pVmTtiBaWJudnxnEbddZ2I8MxMHxhm3iyi7UN1AiU-u-8Nj8TqTWdgRIpW-lYwMF5-O1qB-7fN4OlyWqhwt5IPqAmnGNe_S0xckMLUg/s320/main+divide.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At mile whatever on the Main Divide -<br />probably singing to myself.<br />(photo: Deborah Acosta)</i></td></tr>
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Running up to the Trabuco Peak aid station, I finally felt the urge to actually consider what mile I was at. Once again, I hadn't thought about mileage all day, instead focusing independently on each section. Knowing the course is such a mental advantage to me (thank-you Dom, for showing me!) <i>"Mile 42.2," </i>the volunteer said. 42.2? Wait. What? Double check that math, panda, I think you just calculated that sub-10 should be a breeze. A fill of the bottle and a few minutes carefully recalculating told me that not only was I easily going to go sub-10, but I could actually set a new 50 mile PR on this course, 4 months after knee surgery, TODAY. To make matters awesome, I felt fucking fantastic. Like sliding down a rainbow, glitter in my face fantastic. OK… yes, my legs kind of hurt a bit, and my knee was screaming at me - but all things considered, my body was in excellent shape and I knew I could handle averaging around 10 minute miles for the final 8. That's all it was going to take.</div>
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I ran strong on the downs, I pushed the ups, I ate more gel and I smiled so big my cheeks hurt. I could not believe I was feeling this good over 40 miles into a race. If it were 100k, I would be fine to keep moving. Hell, if you had told me to run 100 miles - I honestly believe I could've kept going. All this after admittedly running way too many miles the week prior, including the LA Marathon only five days ago. I blew right through the next aid station, waving to the volunteers and Pedro and Chris, who I'd now seen three times on various parts of the course, out supporting all the SoCal Coyotes running the race. A consult with my watch confirmed that even with the climbs, I was maintaining closer to an 8 minute per mile average pace, and if I could just keep it up, that PR would be mine. I couldn't remember if my best was 9:42 or 9:44, so I reasoned that I just needed to be under 9:40 to be sure. A little while later, I suddenly heard someone behind me. <i>Oh shit! </i>At the turnaround, the next guy was a good 10 minutes back or more - and I wasn't going super fast, but I also wasn't going slow. How was someone catching me? And why am I so bad at math?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZuIHH1JUsNpv0m2tTINc2avRTP3eZLQhwokBOZ4L1VgL7KlJaGd0j9xYikdnOyCojwRpdIrsQTfOs8tMeDtEWL5Iv7UvnFa3weI1fuuJNn5bZdlioEi3IyPEuyjG8hspL9pLBECfn9Y/s1600/finishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZuIHH1JUsNpv0m2tTINc2avRTP3eZLQhwokBOZ4L1VgL7KlJaGd0j9xYikdnOyCojwRpdIrsQTfOs8tMeDtEWL5Iv7UvnFa3weI1fuuJNn5bZdlioEi3IyPEuyjG8hspL9pLBECfn9Y/s320/finishing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Why is the finish there? I want to keep running<br />forever!!<br />(photo: Flaco)</i></td></tr>
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A few minutes later, I was caught... by Pedro. I told him my goal and checked the mileage with him - I had less than four miles to go. I decided to be safe rather than sorry at the final aid station and topped off my bottle before hitting the last few miles down to Blue Jay. At this point, I just ignored the pain in my knee, opened up and flew down the fire road, over the concrete road, and through the final single track to the campground. I was going to do it. I felt amazing. I'd run my own race all day and now I was about to cross the finish line in a time a full half hour faster than I'd imagined. 9:31. 4th woman. Lots of hugs. It was glorious.</div>
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All said and done, I firmly believe I ran one of the best races of my life thus far - despite the fact that I know I can go even faster on this course once I have my downhilling back. I never once had a single negative thought - it was all pure business and pure enjoyment. I finally had that fabled perfect day, and I know why:</div>
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I only focused on what I could control.</div>
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I could control how hard I pushed.</div>
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I could control my fueling.</div>
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I could control my attitude.</div>
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I could control my race and my race alone.</div>
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Everything and everyone else were simply outside variables which I could use to further my goal, but that's it. So how could I let anything they did affect what I did? Just like I couldn't control them, they couldn't control me. And there it clicked. <i>I was truly and deeply satisfied.</i></div>
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I know there are many more Old Goat experiences in my future as I continue to progress as a runner, because it's all finally enough. I'm finally confident enough in myself and my training to run my own race.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpX2mbhyphenhyphen6zIOHvXnw-c-dkoLG4y-HB-GkNu1dajg_Rzmg5S0ukgLqayE5Kudtotr0fxdG446FFvhMa36J-gsJ6ZJIafkuAaFaxzeaUCmzlUQ4ccZINIHdZv2Se3GVn03C4pC6dhN3O3jc/s1600/rocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpX2mbhyphenhyphen6zIOHvXnw-c-dkoLG4y-HB-GkNu1dajg_Rzmg5S0ukgLqayE5Kudtotr0fxdG446FFvhMa36J-gsJ6ZJIafkuAaFaxzeaUCmzlUQ4ccZINIHdZv2Se3GVn03C4pC6dhN3O3jc/s320/rocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Baby. I had to use rocks."<br />(photo: Jayme Burtis)</i></td></tr>
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<b>FINAL BIG THANKS TO:</b><br />
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<ul>
<li>Steve & Annie Harvey and family for a truly excellent race</li>
<li>Pedro Martinez for giving me his spot in the race and then ninja-ing his way about various points on the course all day</li>
<li>Chris Hays for the cheers and scaring me into running faster on the Main Divide</li>
<li>Jayme Burtis for being out on the course and taking awesome photos</li>
<li>Mieko Morita, Don Ozaki, Carmela Layson and all the fine volunteers for their amazing support, encouragement and rapid-fire bottle filling</li>
<li>Robert Whited and Beto Campos for the great conversations on-trail</li>
<li>Soup Lady - your post-race vegan chilli was excellent and honestly, about all my gel-tummy could take</li>
<li>Monica Morant & New Balance for your endless support</li>
<li>Injinji for the awesome socks for my freak toes</li>
<li>Keira, Maggie and Marianne for helping push me to be my best; and finally...</li>
<li>Dominic Grossman, for always believing in me. Now I believe in me too.</li>
</ul>
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</div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-24474136398257955012012-03-08T15:15:00.001-08:002012-03-08T15:15:20.436-08:00Malibu Creek 50k: The Return<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been over 10 months since I have run completely pain free. I haven't raced in over 6. Serious injuries are a funny thing.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See, there comes a time where you honestly begin to find it plausible that the pain will never fully subside. You will be living with this gimp ass knee for the rest of your life and that's just the way it's going to be. Trying to console yourself with miracle stories of men that were told they'd never walk again running a marathon or heroes who have fully recovered from 13 bullet wounds to the head provides no solace. This small little injury is going to be the death of you and you're fucking certain of it. In fact, you may never have been so sure of anything in your entire life.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The crazy thing is, the next thing that happens is that you actually begin to come to terms with this reality. OK, you say, so I'm now just this permanently jacked up human, and I'm going to have to learn to enjoy running shorter distances and not as fast. Maybe I'll just become one of those people who take pictures during their races. It will all be OK.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, then things just come back and you don't even realize it until a few days later when you're like, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"holy shit. I just realized I ran 10 miles last Tuesday and it didn't hurt at all." </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> You're still planning your foray into racewalking, and all of the sudden you've got yourself a fully functioning knee again. Such was the ninth week of 2012 for me. And such was how I went from finally running 10 pain free miles to "accidentally" running 9 seconds off course record pace in a 50k 4 days later.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be fair, I'd been considering entering the PCTR Malibu Creek 50k for a few weeks, but I wanted to make absolutely certain I was injury free before jumping into a race environment - no matter how low key it was. Even "taking it easy," it's entirely pointless to me to enter a competitive event if I'm not going to push at least a little. My knee felt great, but my opposite hip/piriformis/psoas have been acting up as of late - which in all honesty, is to be expected as my body readjusts and re-forms to not having yucca in it. Lucky for me, Nano PT (Michael Chamoun) came to the rescue with some psoas release on Wednesday that really helped and didn't even make me cry. So, I was </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">mostly</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> injury free…</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Now for the race report part, feel free to listen to this stellar song that was in my head for the entirety of the race. It is awesome so I didn't mind:</span></i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Movement and Location - Punch Brothers</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>FYI, the whole album is awesome.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Race morning was a beautiful thing for two reasons: 1) the headache I'd had for a day and a half turned out NOT to be sickness and was cured with a few sips of coffee; and 2) the race didn't start until 8:30. Accordingly, Dom and I took our time gathering provisions, running into friends and driving out to MCSP as the sun gave way to what was bound to be a beautiful day in the Santa Monica Mountains. I filled a gel flask with PowerGel, threw some CarboPro and Nuun in my handheld and stuffed a few Saltsticks in my key pocket and was all set - no bulk and definitely no extra clothes needed. The fact that I was starting in a sportsbra in MARCH should have been a great indication of things to come.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As it turned out, I had a whole 2 hours and 21 minutes to consider this on the first 25k loop - yet instead, I opted to space out Panda style and think about nothing other than running up hills and how pretty the ocean looked. To my own defense, I was definitely on top of my nutrition and electrolytes, but I wasn't really thinking about making any adjustments to my original race plan… even as the temperatures rose. I was just having such an amazing time climbing and smiling and not hurting that I couldn't really think about anything other than how awesome life was. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ran in a small little pack of dudes for a bit at the beginning and fell in a small little line when we hit the singletrack. I felt 100% in control and let a few people go, including one woman who took off blazing. Though it was not a huge race, the energy I had felt standing on the starting line was electric and something I was so deeply grateful to finally feel again. Thankfully, it was not quick to wear off and before I knew it I was hitting the creek crossing before the first aid station. Unsurprisingly low, I Mario'd my way across the rocks and escaped with dry feet - which I was happy about since I had elected to wear an old pair of NB101's. They don't fit as snug/awesomely as the 110 - but I didn't want to risk the newer shoe which my feet are still getting used to. I chose correctly, as the combo of the classics and a fresh pair of Injinji midweights kept my feet super happy and blister free for the duration of the day. Hooray for that.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I quickly cruised through the first aid station, just downing a cup of water on my way through - marathon style. I hit the first steep pitches of Backbone and didn't feel like hiking, so I didn't, which quickly caught me up to a few dudes up ahead. I passed and then unintentionally ended up locking in behind my friend Bruce - mainly because his shoes looked like Christmas and that made me happy. We climbed up to the fireroad and before long, I was passing the next little pack of people - including the one woman who I knew was ahead. Turns out she was running the 25k, which now meant I was leading both races and which also seemed like a remarkably bad idea. But again, I just didn't feel like hiking and the grade was not as bad as I had remembered from the last time I had run this section of trail. That would be back in Sept of 2009 when I ran the whole Backbone Trail from Santa Monica to Oxnard, and hit this section at mile 32 of 69. Needless to say, I felt a whole hell of a lot better on this particular day.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I knew I was pushing a bit on the climb - but that was exactly my plan. I'd push on the ups and then relax into the downs - hopefully ending with an intact knee and a great workout on the day. As I came around the bend finally high enough to reveal the ocean, I was treated to an incredibly clear, expansive view of Catalina and the glistening Pacific - sea breezes whipping on up the mountain. It was sunny and warm, but I didn't feel too overheated, and was reminding myself to drink rather than sucking it down out of necessity. Bruce remained a few steps ahead and we called out a few times when things got particularly beautiful. I've got to say - I don't normally spend a lot of time in the SMMs on account of always choosing the bigger, steeper San Gabes for my weekend playground, but the past few weekends of crewing Dom at Ray Miller 50 and then running myself on this particular day really made me appreciative of my backyard trails. This was no Mt. Baldy, but it was incredibly challenging and insanely beautiful in its own respect - not to mention GREAT training for the more rolling terrain of Western States. I let out an excited whoop of joy as I hit my favorite part of the entire Backbone - "the spine" - which is this awesome sandstone formation right before Corral Canyon. I ran right on up and frolicked Kilian-style over some rocks, before heading into the cheers of David Chan, Michael Epler and some random folks at the aid station. A quick fill of the handheld, and I was gone.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"My god, you are FANTASTIC." - the voices in my head<br />(photo: Dom)</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bruce and I climbed up the last little roller, when what to my wondering eyes should appear? Two men for one panda. SCORE! I knew I'd for shizzle see the Prizzle at some point, but I was super excited to see Dom as well - running calf pain free! They turned around and headed down the course with me for a bit, which was awesome to take my mind off the long, hard-packed descent. We sang bluegrass, Dom told off color jokes and all was right with the world for a few glorious moments in time. In fact, I didn't even think about my knee until they asked, and even concentrating on it, I was honestly pain-free. Before I knew it, we'd hit the MASH site and I was back to the flatter terrain signifying the end of the loop. I looked at my watch and was pleased to see that it had only been 2 hours at this point. My estimation of doing the first loop around 2:30 was definitely on point and I realized it might be entirely plausible to do this thing under 5 hours. I was starting to feel a little bit of fatigue, but definitely still had legs for the climb and was motivated to push again after admittedly holding back a bit on the descent. The guys expressed my brain's sentiment: <i>wow. that would actually be a pretty good time for a course with 7500' or so of ups.</i></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4ouTVJmunMRqkAiNXOXYq5Je_noq4V_m436QbfgbuyBRmFowFhgEgV5foxXjN-cLs3bl7s_2CbcDTqVoOxqNaqevUX8We1BInUW-wXzvucJNKbqhWGBYMeqa4wwvX5JutGokvtuOxbs/s1600/mc+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4ouTVJmunMRqkAiNXOXYq5Je_noq4V_m436QbfgbuyBRmFowFhgEgV5foxXjN-cLs3bl7s_2CbcDTqVoOxqNaqevUX8We1BInUW-wXzvucJNKbqhWGBYMeqa4wwvX5JutGokvtuOxbs/s320/mc+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The 12 year old version of myself descending Bulldog<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A few miles from the start/finish area, I ran into aforementioned Nano PT and Megan in the dried creek bed, which was also a nice surprise. Friends = energy and I now had like 2 LowCarb Monster's worth. They continued on in the opposite direction, Dom and Chris ran ahead and I cruised the last bit of the loop; downing the rest of my gel flask and water.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I had planned to simply switch handhelds at the Start/Finish area, which I'd pre-packed and left with Dom - but as I turned back around from the checkpoint, he was nowhere to be found. I ran over to my Jeep for the bottle - but it was gone and I momentarily panicked. I'd have to leave with no gel if I didn't find him immediately. Luckily, I ran down the parking lot and saw him sprinting from the pavilion where he'd gone to find me some ice. Crisis averted, I headed back out for the second loop, unexplainably confused of where to go and sure that I wasted at least 9 seconds of time :)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Immediately, I regretted my handling of the situation - I should have waited at the checkpoint tent and downed some more liquids before heading out. It was officially turning from warm to hot, and I could have taken better advantage of the "wasted" time. Lesson learned. At any rate, I was glad to again hit the single track and finally duck down for a much needed pee break, which only further confirmed that I needed to be drinking more. It is here that thoughts of possibly having grabbed a second bottle first crept into my mind. To justify my possible wrongdoings, I reasoned that I would start sucking down my CarboPro and then stop and refill with ice at the aid station before the climb, rather than blowing through again.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did just that and grabbed another cup of water as well, hiking for the first time out of the aid station. I had a feeling the majority of the steep pitches would be powerhiked this time, and I was right, but not with the same fervor I had imagined. I was officially starting to feel overworked - not in my legs, but just a total body fatigue which I largely attributed to the rising heat. I knew I'd be slowing down a bit, but hopefully only by 10 minutes - still putting me in under 5. Dom had been legitimately impressed with my effort and I had butterflies at the thought of showing him I was even tougher than he imagined. (I've never really gotten over the assertion I made in kindergarten that boys would like me if I ran really fast. And )</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I focused intently on running as much as possible and keeping hiking breaks to a minimum and only when absolutely necessary. One guy passed me as I made my way further up the climb, but I kept him solidly in my sight with the other approacher comfortably behind. As I looked back down the winding fire road, I couldn't see any other dots even remotely close - so these would have to be my checkpoints if I still wanted to "race." I was sweating buckets and salt was burning my eyes - all leading me to be quite a bit thirstier than my 16 oz handheld was allowing. To make matters a bit worse, the CarboPro/Nuun cocktail was not actually quenching my thirst - rather it was only making my fantasies of ice cold crystal clear WATER more alluring. Another lesson learned for the canyons of WSER - one bottle of nutrition, one of pure water - mandatory. I tried to console myself with this valuable gem of knowledge I had garnered by my mistakes, but that only worked for about five more minutes. Then, shit got real.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My stomach started wrenching and my energy waned. I forced down more gel via sips of carpet water (that's what hot Nuun and CarboPro tastes like), and I convinced myself that the harder I worked the sooner I would be to the beautiful oasis of Corral Canyon. Luckily, before I could go too far down the path of mental destruction, Michael and Megan appeared on the crest of the next hill. Now, if you honestly asked me in retrospect would I have rather them have been themselves or two pitchers of icewater, I would have shamelessly chosen the latter, but I was the second most happy I could have been to see them. The boost of cheers and smiles kicked me right up to the top of the main climb, now only having to bust through a few more rollers to get to the object of my desire. <i>Waaaattteeeeerrrrr.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the time I hit the spine again, I was relieved, but I was weaving in dehydration. Taking one bottle was a really bad idea!! I pulled up to the aid station and knew what I had to do to get through the rest of this thing: I had to sit down and chug. All the while, I knew exactly what was about to happen, but I greedily sucked down cup after cup of ice cold water, feeling the glorious nectar bring life back to my ailing soul. I briefly considered how nice it would be to turn in my bib and catch a ride down with David, but ah, it was only 7 or 8 more miles and I'd likely feel fine soon. Of course, that was before it got a little worse.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcTFHfmDzA8gDJmN-Uxrt4GjCHN3HeVqwUsfbTZoTVmeQ7yVcfU3Z1qkhQirLxzVpg4AyMACgNEk6ZH7IfhopJEDy8pwi5g56xu3Rmz3wERzP4O97S-ZRX73hk166Z1LMYbg8ahwthrU8/s1600/mc+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcTFHfmDzA8gDJmN-Uxrt4GjCHN3HeVqwUsfbTZoTVmeQ7yVcfU3Z1qkhQirLxzVpg4AyMACgNEk6ZH7IfhopJEDy8pwi5g56xu3Rmz3wERzP4O97S-ZRX73hk166Z1LMYbg8ahwthrU8/s320/mc+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kicking it old school in my 101s.<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unsurprisingly, the copious amounts of liquid I had consumed started coming right back up as soon as I started running again, keeping me to a hike for most of the final climb. Not wanting to lose the vital hydration, I swallowed everything back down and just to add insult to injury - threw some gel in there too. Mmmmm. It became a game of just how much I could get my stomach to tolerate while feeling my worst - again, an experiment conducted for future reference. Luckily, I kept it down and after only a few minutes was able to run again. I'd been sharing the trail with a guy who'd caught up to me at Corral, but his calf cramped and I was left to go it alone. 3rd OA was long gone, so I settled into running as strong as I possibly could without feeling like I might break. If I ran hard the whole way down, I could still break 5 hours, but a quick check determined that was simply not something I was willing to do on this day. That kind of effort would necessitate some recovery and very well may destroy my knee for a few days. It just wasn't worth it, and I was more than content with my work thus far. And so I coasted on down.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The interesting thing about the day was that I never thought about miles - how far I'd gone or how far there was to go. It was only the bump, the traverse, the climb, the rollers, one more, descend, cruise it in - then do it all one more time. I think this is really indicative of my approach to training - how long of a sustained climb can I get?, how many climbs can I string together?, how many times can I repeat it?, how hard can I run it without blowing up? I think about the terrain, the full adventure, rather than just clicking off the miles and I really believe that this is how 50 and even 100 miles have come to seem not as long. It's not that this 50k was nothing - I definitely felt a little worked - my point is simply that I don't ever feel overwhelmed by distance anymore.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other interesting thing was that I fully anticipated my knee becoming really painful at some point along this downhill. As such, I started off conservatively - taking care to minimize the pounding and intently focusing on form, so as not to illicit a flare up. To my awe and wonder, I realized that I was in absolutely no pain whatsoever. So I pushed it a little harder. Still. Nothing. I continued on this way all the way to the bottom of the descent, gradually increasing my pace with no change in sensation in my knee. As I cruised through the MASH site and the creek bed, I honestly couldn't believe what had just happened. I was running full speed down a steeply graded, hard-packed fire road in an old pair of flat, no cushion 101s with 26+ miles on my legs, less than five months after knee surgery... AND I WAS FINE. No pain. No tears. Just awesomeness.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I hit the road and cruised around the parking lot to the jumping joy of Dom and Chris. I had positive split the loop by like 40 minutes, but that was to be expected with the major slow-down/dehydration in the heat. Ah well... good enough for 1st place, 4th overall and a 5:23 in the heat on a course with over 7,500' of climb. Not quite good enough for the course record - I would have had to find 9 seconds somewhere along the course in my pee break, aid station dehydration break, 1st loop bottle confusion or stopping to fix my eyes a mile before the finish when a truck kicked a huge pile of dust up in my face - but you know, I'm just not sure it could have been found :) That said, I'm actually glad I didn't know what the CR was or my proximity - as I firmly believe CRs are reserved for trying your hardest, and in all honesty I did not. I held back with reservations about my knee and focused instead on this race as a necessary building block in my training. I pushed myself and I hurt a bit on the second loop - especially when I ran out of water - but I didn't run on the edge. I raced 100% in control and I felt fucking fantastic when I crossed the finish line. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Deeply confused Panda.<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And when we ran a Baldy loop the next morning.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of the most beautiful days on Baldy yet...<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Best Slumber Party EVER.<br />(photo: Chandra Farnham)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>GOAL ATTAINED:</b> I can run 31 miles at a decent clip, both up and down, on singletrack and fire road with no pain in my knee. I win.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Big thanks to <a href="http://pctrailruns.com/" target="_blank">Pacific Coast Trail Runs</a> for another great day with great friends!</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Do you see a problem? I DON'T SEE A F***ING PROBLEM!!!<br />(photo: Dom)</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-29854078265094651782012-02-27T13:08:00.001-08:002012-02-27T16:15:36.812-08:00Not Everybody's Working for the Weekend<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyttO4tN8OKPx8dJUrHOEDCCM3Rxo_uzhubE4hcp1Al1VEIQMNwAtnZ2N0q-N9rXoHAsnMlz4PC9_omoJmCmTD5W1EVKcoWZHkEM-QjWl_mGXRxf72BncYeW7Hp9-HA9y48RdNOgMb9Hk/s1600/hill+view.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyttO4tN8OKPx8dJUrHOEDCCM3Rxo_uzhubE4hcp1Al1VEIQMNwAtnZ2N0q-N9rXoHAsnMlz4PC9_omoJmCmTD5W1EVKcoWZHkEM-QjWl_mGXRxf72BncYeW7Hp9-HA9y48RdNOgMb9Hk/s320/hill+view.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">I work down there. I run up here. I dream of over yonder.</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">For as long as I've been distance training, I've basically lived for the weekend. I pretty much suffered through my weekdays, trying to shove as many workouts I could into my little free time, and then hit the weekends hard. Sometimes I'd run </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>TWICE</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> as many miles and climb </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>THREE TIMES </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">as much vert in two days as I had in the previous five. I'd write it in my log, stare at it and say, this makes no sense. And then the next week, I'd do the same thing. Buy why?</span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Perspective.</span></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"> Sunrise - a great opportunity to nerd out over forefoot </span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">strike patterns.</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Tired and sore from a long weekend in the mountains; I'd stare down the week ahead with fearful eyes. Working a full-time job, freelance work, managing a long- <s>distance</s> traffic relationship, paperwork, errands, cooking, cleaning and other such life stuff really takes up a lot of time. So even if I spend the remainder of my waking minutes running, I'm going to be tired. I guess my mileage will just be low during the week and all my runs will kind of suck.</div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Shift.</span></b></div>
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Last Wednesday morning, as I headed out for my 5:30am soft sand run, something clicked. I realized I had already run 30 miles this week in just two days and I was none the worse for wear. Furthermore, I did this on two 10+hour workdays, cross-trained AND put in quality workouts that I was proud of. I felt energized. I felt powerful. I felt kind of stupid.</div>
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All this time, I'd been wanting running to be more important and more of a priority during my week; but all I seemed to come up with was excuses as to why it couldn't be. Yet somehow now it was. As I compared my training log to last year's notes, I realized I'm actually putting in a lot more hours, time and vertical feet during my weekdays - even though I'm technically "busier" in all other areas of life. It's not at all hard to put down 20 miles and at least 2-3k of vert on a weekday, especially when it's broken up into two workouts. But how?</div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">See.</span></b></div>
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<b><i>My job is not a hindrance to my running. It is a training tool.</i></b></div>
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Getting out for some hill repeats after sitting, staring at a screen for 4-5 hours - letting my body stiffen up from the morning's workout isn't easy. Hell, it's not at all unlike trying to throw down 9 minute pace up a hill at mile 80. This, my friends, is what you call <i>simulation.</i><br />
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Probably the best thing about my job as a copywriter at a busy ad agency is the fact that it completely fries my brain every day. I'm talking total mental exhaustion. It takes some serious panache to get my shit together for a hard, calculated effort, just like it does when the sun is going down and I'm trying to stay in the race. I remember this when I'd rather go take a nap in my car than lace up and get my ass on the hill at lunch. This brings me to my next truth…<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Who even files anymore? This is 2012, people.</span></i></td></tr>
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<b><i>Even if it's dark before work and dark after, you can still run in sunlight.</i></b></div>
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The next best thing about my job is that there is a 500 foot hill/playground behind my office. It has a winding trail that goes to the top; it has a mean set of stairs; it has steep, rocky drainage ditches. In short, it is awesome for hill repeats when you're stuck in the middle of the city. I used to hit it up after work sometimes and created some mean little workouts. Then it hit me? Why not run it at lunch - when it's sunny and hot and you can get an extra K in on your day? WHY THE HELL NOT?<br />
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There really was no good reason, so accordingly, I've added a few lunchtime trips to the hill every week and always look forward to them. The best part is hitting the top and looking out to my weekend playground - the snowcapped San Gabriels off in the distance - and spending the rest of my repeats infinitely inspired. This work I'm doing during the week is only aiding my enjoyment of the work I do on the weekend. Because enjoyment to me is running fast, strong and slightly out of control.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GDbzaSEs6UgQkWYkiF2drhU17GGXNDrV0Wmr1NlGTmkQkyzZKVTK_lM3ZZ_e6anEj58F4qmvd2YmgGoQ4wAaZEAmJwZFFuycHCWfnsP5r92XcpD6bRpEuFjuLzvE86JTHWU3fWbY9HQ/s1600/hill+steps.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GDbzaSEs6UgQkWYkiF2drhU17GGXNDrV0Wmr1NlGTmkQkyzZKVTK_lM3ZZ_e6anEj58F4qmvd2YmgGoQ4wAaZEAmJwZFFuycHCWfnsP5r92XcpD6bRpEuFjuLzvE86JTHWU3fWbY9HQ/s320/hill+steps.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">The steps up "Work Hill" - Culver City, CA</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<b><i>There is absolutely no time at which it is unreasonable to run.</i></b></div>
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While nursing my knee back to health, I didn't run every day. I definitely didn't run twice a day. I began taking my hot ballet/yoga classes three mornings a week for cross-training. The only problem was, even once I was back to hitting the miles, I didn't want to give up those classes. I've seen and felt dramatic results in my strength as a direct result of these workouts, so obviously I should keep it up. But they are at 6:30 am, so that takes up THREE mornings to run. That was, until I realized I could run beforehand. Furthermore, I'd been wanting to incorporate more soft sand runs, but heading to the beach after work was a bitch with traffic and parking. At 5 in the morning, none of these things are a problem. It's funny that it never occurred to me to run before class, just because I thought it was too early. Is it too early to be running at 2 am when I'm in a 100 mile race? Well, maybe… but you see my point.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0RTe7TzqKE8bR4ITdZ_5I_YerKeTD7e-cpd5-WNzuuFRzCpX0HsWyE0sRwjknz8ki_zKsKnyheHQgC49jRGYu_S5NJEeGPNVTIgUlAIkS-dODw470PdTTnWQsHo1H03zYj3PFQiBdU6Y/s1600/tues+morn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0RTe7TzqKE8bR4ITdZ_5I_YerKeTD7e-cpd5-WNzuuFRzCpX0HsWyE0sRwjknz8ki_zKsKnyheHQgC49jRGYu_S5NJEeGPNVTIgUlAIkS-dODw470PdTTnWQsHo1H03zYj3PFQiBdU6Y/s320/tues+morn.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Tuesday Morning Big Loop - Thank you Michael for joining me!<br />photo: Michael Chamoun</span></i></td></tr>
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<b><i>Sitting in traffic isn't a waste of time. It's a fucking break.</i></b></div>
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I ask for one at least 5 times a day; only one of which I'm procuring a piece of your Kit-Kat Bar. Sitting on my butt, letting my mind wander or listening to music, comedy, podcasts, etc. could be seen as a waste of time, but if I'm multi-tasking by getting said butt from Point A to Point B, it suddenly becomes entirely legitimate. I wouldn't give myself this break otherwise, so doing it a couple times a week to visit Dom suddenly becomes an added benefit to my life. Boom. That just happened.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15IY0tGvLMGuInk5rDtiDZfCsatSDpxhg-9p0mF2xwmcmTDoN4zi0akjp9Q06zMMY8Zg01PRNbTH9J2lCSQRcfaYPpGAIuWUOmj19rNNpRYPmHwfRr_GjBUAKBD-jDdi16tagojyJhA4/s1600/m+mondays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15IY0tGvLMGuInk5rDtiDZfCsatSDpxhg-9p0mF2xwmcmTDoN4zi0akjp9Q06zMMY8Zg01PRNbTH9J2lCSQRcfaYPpGAIuWUOmj19rNNpRYPmHwfRr_GjBUAKBD-jDdi16tagojyJhA4/s320/m+mondays.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>"Marshall Mondays" at Westridge - a new staple & much<br />appreciated group run. Thank you Marshall!<br />photo: Chan Chan</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<b><i>Spending all my free time running isn't work. It's a privilege.</i></b></div>
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Relatively speaking, I don't have whole lot of responsibilities. I've gotta work, I've gotta eat and I've gotta pay my taxes. That's about it. My boyfriend gets excited if I say I'm going to be late because I need to run. My work is cool with me coming in dirty and sweaty. My life is awesome. <br />
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That said, someday I do want a family; and I don't want to just pop the little suckers out. I want to raise them; I want to go to their soccer games; I want to make them delicious meals; I want to KNOW them - all the things my parents did for me. I will run, but I won't have the freedom to do it like I do now. The older I get, the more and more real this becomes. So instead of moping out the door when I'm tired and sore and it's cold and dark - I focus on how lucky I am to have the freedom to run after work instead of a whole host of activities which I will someday enjoy.<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Become.</span></b></div>
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All it takes is a little shift in perspective to be the runner you want to be. Be creative with your training. Check out all of the things in your life that are "getting in" the way, and consider that they might actually be paving it.</div>
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I did. And now I love my weeks <s>just as</s> almost as much as my weekend adventures. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAR2kzYzNmf-nHCwoMJFyj0kszdjESjegkXpo7P1E0Aojw_fMcQ17d7aab-MMy_-YJg4ILn6y9BPX4NSc1f2OdA0kJD_xUaIKsSpd9j6Qh3s1ulg3vof56xgbrqKjgzoxQJuCyLD3Ev6A/s1600/holyjim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAR2kzYzNmf-nHCwoMJFyj0kszdjESjegkXpo7P1E0Aojw_fMcQ17d7aab-MMy_-YJg4ILn6y9BPX4NSc1f2OdA0kJD_xUaIKsSpd9j6Qh3s1ulg3vof56xgbrqKjgzoxQJuCyLD3Ev6A/s320/holyjim.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Ahhh.... weekend....<br />photo: Dominic Grossman, Holy Jim Canyon</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<br /></div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-41719477257439113042012-01-31T21:41:00.000-08:002012-01-31T21:41:52.631-08:00January Things<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo5WoS-GzGyqZ6xEIh1puBylJqR5K48WcpKHGKAftz8TxywzZxD-YiZI7GyQS3rae96pc5P0rTCtUuPe1mAWD0u9Xkyr-43FoGpJp1se1sCBJyiIGvXNXfo-jUPDIOL2KM9QwVKXvddhk/s1600/332437_10150675172898327_740398326_11910373_1251371876_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo5WoS-GzGyqZ6xEIh1puBylJqR5K48WcpKHGKAftz8TxywzZxD-YiZI7GyQS3rae96pc5P0rTCtUuPe1mAWD0u9Xkyr-43FoGpJp1se1sCBJyiIGvXNXfo-jUPDIOL2KM9QwVKXvddhk/s320/332437_10150675172898327_740398326_11910373_1251371876_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Perhaps Baldy will be my new Chantry which was my new Temescal.<br />I see double summits in the near future...<br />(photo: Kevin Chan)</i></td></tr>
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After 7 weeks of recuperation/going certifiably insane, my main objective for January was getting back into shape. More specifically, my expressly stated goals (hastily written one night on a piece of scrap paper with a pen running out of ink) were as follows:</span><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Run or hike at least around an hour per week day</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Run or hike min of 3 hours per weekend day</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cross train 3-4 hours/week</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Soft Sand run at least 1-2 times/week</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Physical therapy 1x/week</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Working up to 50-60 miles per week</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Goal of completing 20 trail miles without stopping</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Work up to twice a day runs</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Based on how my knee was feeling, this felt reasonable and as such - I set out on my journey. While things have not gone perfectly and there still is a significant amount of pain involved, I am happy to say that I've far surpassed these goals and will accordingly need to adjust for the months ahead. I just crunched the numbers and for a start to the year on a post-op knee, I'm deeply satisfied. Here are the results:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOXrJ98HEgQu_oGS8ET4c0_VFqRzUzVDbHpKuqk14Du7FGGFDwqJGnhEohsCcv6ezUxD28dHIz-c85e5lZ2EbU5-MrPWGakqce6Nzo8Wi0329oz3NaibjSC2ot_NlrZra0G_NPRK3ZRg/s1600/404953_10100598131776080_15906903_54037631_1589407427_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOXrJ98HEgQu_oGS8ET4c0_VFqRzUzVDbHpKuqk14Du7FGGFDwqJGnhEohsCcv6ezUxD28dHIz-c85e5lZ2EbU5-MrPWGakqce6Nzo8Wi0329oz3NaibjSC2ot_NlrZra0G_NPRK3ZRg/s320/404953_10100598131776080_15906903_54037631_1589407427_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's climb, bitches!</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TOTAL MILES: 312.5</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TOTAL VERT: 70,300 ft</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TOTAL HOURS: 74:32</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TOTAL CROSS: 11:10</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">AVG MILES/WK: 78</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">AVG VERT/WK: 17,500</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't think I'd be hitting 70 or 80 until March, so this is a very good sign. Probably the most notable thing here though, is after checking last year's log - I realized I'm only 14 miles short of 2011 January's totals. Considering this year, I've taken 2 days completely off and last year I took 0 - that means, I'm basically in the same place. Holy crap! I was positive... <i>positive</i> that I was way off from last year all things considered, but apparently that is not the case. And not only is it not the case, it's made completely irrelevant by this little fact: though my mileage is a bit less, my total climbing is over 10,000 feet more. AND I've spent more hours running this year than last. Boomshakeday. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As such, I'll look to get myself comfortable running around 80 miles/wk consistently during February, likely with one or two topping 90. Getting back to 100 mile weeks should happen way earlier than expected! Working out 2-3 times a day has already become the norm, so getting it all in isn't necessarily a concern - what I'm really working on is extending at least 3 of my weekday runs to over 10 miles at a time. It's really not hard to do and there's really no excuse. I've been rocking them as of late, and my only real hang-up is that I've been getting scared on the trails in the dark because everyone keeps posting shit about mountain lions on Facebook. My solution for this is just not to check Facebook as often :) Last year, I noticed there was often a great disparity between my weekday miles and my weekend miles and I'm already on working on making those at the very least more even - at the best, with my weekday totals on top. Same thing with the climbing. Goal is at least 2-3k of vert each weekeday, and there really is no excuse given that there is a 500 ft hill behind my work perfect for a quick thousand for lunch.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My physical therapy has ended for now, and I'm pretty much off the hook until I check back in with the orthopedic dude mid-Feb. This is awesome, because it frees up one more morning for extra running. I'll continue to go to my Hot Ballet/Yoga classes 3x a week, with a barefoot session beforehand under the morning moon and keep up the lunchtime core work as well. It's making a huge difference, but more on that later... Finally, the most exciting thing in all this is that I finally feel confident in firming up some pre-Miwok racing plans. March will likely be a busy month with PCTR's Santa Monica Mountains 50k on the 3rd and possibly Old Goats 50 mi on the 24th if I make it off the wait list. I'll also be doing the LA Marathon on the 18th (my 29th birthday!) which will undoubtedly be the best of the bunch - as I'll be running with my dad, enroute to completing his first. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZicjGgoAfd3wbeRx2lqptMm5x-3rIHqSt5ey0WKuaANx95uoX_nFGB9fbb9jY-9tyqMAo-x2RlHPwkvZPdTGMA5KD61nOGNLkxArrPGGC7K2gsZ_1aVtjlascGnz-vNzmlqjIf-vcbM/s1600/322770_660055910621_12004171_33672081_1518385263_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZicjGgoAfd3wbeRx2lqptMm5x-3rIHqSt5ey0WKuaANx95uoX_nFGB9fbb9jY-9tyqMAo-x2RlHPwkvZPdTGMA5KD61nOGNLkxArrPGGC7K2gsZ_1aVtjlascGnz-vNzmlqjIf-vcbM/s320/322770_660055910621_12004171_33672081_1518385263_o.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mt. Wilson Summit on a particularly<br />ravishing day. (photo: Dom)</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, that's about it for the first month of the year. It was an awesome one, with trips to icy San Gorgonio and a long weekend in Auburn training on the States course as standouts. Baldy summits have become a staple with the opposite of wet winter we're having, so I'm looking to lower my splits up Bear Canyon and the Ski Hut Trail - you know, just for fun/my own sick pleasure. I've been extending my staple loops/runs in the Front Range as well and doing some exploring/more climbing - so that has been keeping me interested and entertained. No motivation problems whatsoever heading in to February - I'm truly enjoying getting back into the hard training and continuing to avoid plants at all costs.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And finally, the important stuff:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>BEER OF JANUARY:</b> Sierra Nevada Tumbler - Autumn Brown Ale</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been hitting the end of the winter seasonals and I've been hitting them hard; as they'll soon be gone. This month, I tried quite a few and was completely unsurprised to end with two from SN Brew Co. up top - the aforementioned, and coming in a close second - their Ruthless Rye IPA. I had the Tumbler on draft and it was so perfectly smooth and creamy that I chose to have a second for my dinner. SO good.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>JAM: </b> No way will any other band remind me more of January road trips than Toro y Moi. This one is pure excellence:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Still Sound - Toro y Moi</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwCPHGSD8qn8pbKkN26J4oGsCB1_7ob-5wHmTHmZ4siqWuSq-kjOOaEQCI49CyMBFl7Lv2JpqmlkGbHuLt8ftZBXKCH8X0YdxhhyctG5M8Vli5L09Z2rdNU_UhFVBuUj7WW-8ZvVQJAQ/s1600/378884_10100598111461790_15906903_54037541_144807148_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwCPHGSD8qn8pbKkN26J4oGsCB1_7ob-5wHmTHmZ4siqWuSq-kjOOaEQCI49CyMBFl7Lv2JpqmlkGbHuLt8ftZBXKCH8X0YdxhhyctG5M8Vli5L09Z2rdNU_UhFVBuUj7WW-8ZvVQJAQ/s320/378884_10100598111461790_15906903_54037541_144807148_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My favorite adventure partner.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThsuk3B2i0yWxjE9w5Ad_eLACn6OJM_K19_4tHWTi5Rs7dkPMQoYk0zJKJ82DjCLqA44j963kIUk2NF5QT2QNMM8vYg7Ib5a0szSuezUzuv-2mZjU6bVNBErSESg08TgJBR7enUrQZBM/s1600/410839_660432820291_12004171_33674512_38275164_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThsuk3B2i0yWxjE9w5Ad_eLACn6OJM_K19_4tHWTi5Rs7dkPMQoYk0zJKJ82DjCLqA44j963kIUk2NF5QT2QNMM8vYg7Ib5a0szSuezUzuv-2mZjU6bVNBErSESg08TgJBR7enUrQZBM/s320/410839_660432820291_12004171_33674512_38275164_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Every day can be a sunny day if you just climb high enough.<br />(photo: Dom)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-474770936671895749.post-55660648822196737422012-01-26T22:08:00.000-08:002012-01-26T22:08:43.134-08:00Starting the Year off Either Incredibly Right or Terribly Wrong<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuFmbZqjA8vb-jcZ8cnX0E5snEbLYFYYdm5iLsAVM4eq4fKauwIV1J_-cnYjohj0t8CuszPPlq-SPAk6I2XdZdg8fps2xemSTjFViymE2ZIgkUUrchWeIQ0ofiAtWjWFbHnWObuFZIzc/s1600/403606_10100619800910960_15906903_54124534_1510973458_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuFmbZqjA8vb-jcZ8cnX0E5snEbLYFYYdm5iLsAVM4eq4fKauwIV1J_-cnYjohj0t8CuszPPlq-SPAk6I2XdZdg8fps2xemSTjFViymE2ZIgkUUrchWeIQ0ofiAtWjWFbHnWObuFZIzc/s320/403606_10100619800910960_15906903_54124534_1510973458_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Special thanks go out to MLK for having a dream and giving me<br />a Monday off work to pursue mine.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sit here writing as I impose a day fully off from running. My poor knee has been swollen for days. This morning was supposed to be my final PT session, yet now I have additional appointments scheduled for ultrasounding, deep tissue digging and other such torturous activities.* And I did it all to myself.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*NOTE: I started this blog last Wednesday; after one day off, I'm back to pounding it.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started the year with an expressly stated goal of working my way up to handling 60 miles per week with 10,000 feet of climbing (and 10k down) in January. I thought it would be great to be able to run a full 20 miles by the end of the month. Only then, I ran 26 on the 2nd and have been averaging 75 miles and 17,000 feet for the first two weeks. I'm pretty sure that's awesome, but I'm also pretty sure that's why my knee is swelling again. Grrrrr.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You may say, <i>"Well Katie, that is downright silly,"</i> and I wouldn't necessarily disagree with you. But what I will offer is that I simply couldn't help it. My body feels best when I'm running lots of miles and my world seems altogether right. Plus I have <i>major</i> <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=fomo" target="_blank">FOMO</a>. So when friends ask me to run the last 26 of the AC course, I say absolutely. When I realize it may be my last chance to frolick in the San Gorgonio Wilderness before winter sets in, I convince Unicorn to drive to San Bernadino with me, citing that it will be excellent Hardrock training. And by golly, when I see a 3 day weekend with non-existent snow levels in Tahoe, I get my ass on the States course to train. That would be the real point of this post, so let's move on to that, shall we?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last Friday, Dom and I headed up to Auburn after work to enjoy it the way Mr. King Jr. would have liked. Chasing a dream. Only chasing said dream first involved a 7 hour drive in a loud, bumpy Jeep getting us to the inn at roughly 3:30 in the morning. Hey folks, running 100 miles ain't exactly glamorous - and neither is the lifestyle. It's all part of the training. :) After sleeping for maybe<i> </i>2 hours, <i>maybe</i>, we got back in the panda-mobile and headed into Foresthill to meet our guru for the day, the lovely Mrs. Suzanna Bon. The plan was to run all day, heading backwards on the course as far as we felt like and then turn around - keeping an easy pace and focusing on purely enjoying the beautiful day. We'd be rocking the canyons section of the course, which is largely considered the hardest part, and doing it twice. That seemed like a perfect introduction to me.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MfQ3Y5X9QYwC79zDqQr1JXE1tYkS9cFA3xdviTZCupEjQvGKNqRDVlPEgAnBrt3ffJhwQee1K7eO7IvrNp7Rvaq9PXB7vYfxhpI0lblhHQBwSKtQCJ0VNZiy6IHzyMACSLXJjdAy79g/s1600/380047_657865749721_12004171_33660531_1155393441_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MfQ3Y5X9QYwC79zDqQr1JXE1tYkS9cFA3xdviTZCupEjQvGKNqRDVlPEgAnBrt3ffJhwQee1K7eO7IvrNp7Rvaq9PXB7vYfxhpI0lblhHQBwSKtQCJ0VNZiy6IHzyMACSLXJjdAy79g/s320/380047_657865749721_12004171_33660531_1155393441_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Michigan Bluff in January - La <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Niña = La Awésome.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></i></span></span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next thing I knew, we were at Michigan Bluff and I realized it was going to be one of those days where the miles just melt away and you become thoroughly convinced that yours is truly the best life ever. This must be what heroin is like. At any rate, we ran into some friends before heading down to El Dorado Creek and as I've grown accustomed to, I received many a congrats for getting into THE race. I'm now up to at least three times as many "likes" for getting into a lottery than finishing any race in my life. Apparently, Western States is a big deal. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Zombies.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having Suzanna along was awesome, not just because she is an altogether super person - but also because she had great stories and knowledge of the course. Along the way, she pointed out the legendary Ann Trason's house, the Deadwood Cemetery (where I paid my respects, less have bad juju on race day), old Gold mining equipment and all sorts of other cool shit. Accordingly, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time on Google since I've been back, as I love to know the history of the places I'm running. Then every race is like time traveling, which of course, is awesome.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our journey took us all the way back to Last Chance, and as such, we realized we needed to get a move on to get back to Foresthill before dark. All the way, I was marveling at the fact I was running in the Tahoe National Forest in January in a t-shirt. The day was seriously magical. And I was excited to go back through these dreaded canyons and see what was truly up. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7IswRImxrd86JqJ5vx6rRHBKWJSZM0HQlg5f6DPjHPVtsd2PwFHiTanRgbw18MCOr7r33uKZbm0PfwZ6b0hSVC0yh89Mviiakg7FoTK82k6CYuA8AuqhHek279te8dPhKiwE6D8-fDg/s1600/384950_657867670871_12004171_33660615_2011411167_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7IswRImxrd86JqJ5vx6rRHBKWJSZM0HQlg5f6DPjHPVtsd2PwFHiTanRgbw18MCOr7r33uKZbm0PfwZ6b0hSVC0yh89Mviiakg7FoTK82k6CYuA8AuqhHek279te8dPhKiwE6D8-fDg/s320/384950_657867670871_12004171_33660615_2011411167_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chasing Suzanna down the canyons is the <br />opposite of easy.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, what was up was that it was seriously not that bad. I know... I know.... race day in 100+ degree weather is an entirely different story, but my point is that I expected these things to be way steeper and longer, given the tales of WSER lore I have been told. Plus, my reference point for "godforsaken canyon" is of the Cooper variety on the AC course - which is truly a nightmare every time I visit. Long, hot, windy, super steep in places and a total mindfuck. So naturally, I expected three Coopers when I heard about "the canyons." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Down to Swinging Bridge we went, and there before me was the grandaddy of them all: Devil's Thumb. Based on what I've heard, here's what I expected from this section:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a blistering, quad-busting decent, I'd stare down the steepest, most awful climb imaginable. It would be something like climbing the Luna Trail*, but for like 5 miles at least. It would start at least at 7,000 feet and climb to over 10 - but it would feel like climbing 11 to 14, because fuck, this is <i>Western States</i>. It would be exceptionally rocky and overgrown, not to mention completely exposed for the duration of the climb. I would have to use my hands at points. I would have to hike every step. I would have to physically stop and catch my breath at points. There would probably even be bear traps to avoid and eagles would swoop down and try to peck out my eyes. If I even made it to the top, it would be a goddamn miracle.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf46k7bqCYw0owPdVRe2HRaf3WlFdHxSjHEstQYVlTSELAEUcyomgI2wEL7h-herLWfbMigYR8XayJav_rur3VjRF-IbntLa0hmG4B92w8ZmxejKdu0wczEUSGfWokkWOxURDmaP4AQNU/s1600/377419_657867012191_12004171_33660589_1163188779_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf46k7bqCYw0owPdVRe2HRaf3WlFdHxSjHEstQYVlTSELAEUcyomgI2wEL7h-herLWfbMigYR8XayJav_rur3VjRF-IbntLa0hmG4B92w8ZmxejKdu0wczEUSGfWokkWOxURDmaP4AQNU/s320/377419_657867012191_12004171_33660589_1163188779_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Saying hi to the Thumb for Kev, after successfully<br />locating 3 shades of his face he left there last year.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*A local trail/drainage ditch that takes you straight out of a canyon at basically 1 million ft/mile. Also rocky, crumbly, overgrown and there is suggested use of a placed rope at one point.</i></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Needless to say, the Devil's Thumb I had imagined was not quite the Devil's Thumb of reality. (Although I do realize that during the race I may become quite convinced that my first perception was actually spot on.) The reality was that Devil's Thumb starts at around 2,700 and climbs about 1,350 in like 2 miles. I did it in about 45 minutes, hiking most, running a little and stopping twice to take pictures and once to pee. It was steep and it will be a bitch with 45 miles on my legs and the sun blazing down on me, but it is possible. Furthermore, if I continue with my training on the AC course with the likes of Upper Winter Creek, Baden Powell and Acorn and power slogs up the steep slopes of Mt. Baldy - I should be pretty much good to go on the canyons. Thank you Angeles National Forest.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What the day made me realize, however, is that much of the terrain on the States course is very runnable and the climbs aren't long. Accordingly, I really need to work on sustained running more than hiking and some major turnover. Perhaps I will no longer look at the whimpy Santa Monicas outside of my window as a sorry excuse for weekday training when I can't get over to the big girl mountains in Pasadena and beyond. The runnable, 30-45 min climbs are perfect to work on efficiently switching from up to down mode and this will be an integral part of my training.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other thing it made me realize is that my knee has seriously got to get its act together if I want to run this thing well. It's absolutely imperative to run the downhills in control, but strong - and right now I'm kind of doing this crumbly, timid dance thing that isn't working for anybody. Halfway down the El Dorado decent, my knee totally and royally crapped out on me and every step, fast or slow, became wildly painful. It just ain't up to speed yet, and while that is ok for January, I'm really going to have some work to do on improving my downhill ability once the weaksauce joint is able to handle it. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All in all though, I got over 35 miles and somewhere between 10 and 11,000 feet on the day - so I was pretty happy with the effort. I haven't ran that far since AC last July and it felt good. <i>Really </i>good. All day adventures are my lifeblood and I've been downright cantankerous without them. My fear, however, was that I had possibly ruined the rest of the weekend by pushing the distance on the first day. Luckily, a big ass sammich from Worton's, some Udo's Oil, Ice and sleep cured my ailments and I woke up on Sunday hungry for more of the course.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Accordingly, we hopped in the Jeep and set out for Robinson Flat to see what we could see. The local yokels at Worton's, as well as everyone else on FB who was apparently "in the know," told us there would be no snow at all until Red Star. Sounds bueno. Imagine our surprise when 3 miles from the campground we encountered such nasty ice on the road, that even my Jeep in 4WD seemed like a bad idea. Not to be rerouted, we simply parked and ran up the road to Robinson where we found a land of ice and snow and circled around a few times, consulted a compass and finally found our trail. Setting off for Duncan Canyon, I was definitely tired, but totally ready for whatever the day held. I knew it would likely be another 5-6 hour day and that seemed pretty great to me. The decent into the canyon was absolutely gorgeous; the trail enveloped in huge, dense green forest that swallowed me whole. And at the first point we popped out of the trees, my breath was completely taken away by the sweeping expanse of pristine wilderness. No photo could ever do justice to the beauty of the Tahoe National Forest. And parking off the road at an aid station ain't gonna do it either. You've got to be in it. You've got to <i>feel</i> it.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl59ZUpMVLJmkqi58ckjhAnlBF8i2mQxcGa9nXLCgJkQy2yB0VN-Wta7zeGIKN1rQ7JMNnZv4k9Jl3qMJltdbcWVGlMnIffZ1I45oNFb7_yIshkp3YykYhg3eg8JCukmZraf39uJJRt0/s1600/408219_10100619786909020_15906903_54124431_2140924928_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl59ZUpMVLJmkqi58ckjhAnlBF8i2mQxcGa9nXLCgJkQy2yB0VN-Wta7zeGIKN1rQ7JMNnZv4k9Jl3qMJltdbcWVGlMnIffZ1I45oNFb7_yIshkp3YykYhg3eg8JCukmZraf39uJJRt0/s320/408219_10100619786909020_15906903_54124431_2140924928_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Star Fire remnants in Duncan Canyon</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then, just as soon as I lost myself in the lush forest, I was suddenly enclosed in complete destruction. Charred, broken trees stood in stark contrast to the dense greenery of the surrounding hillsides as I wound down to the creek. I've since read that the Star Fire of 2001 had completely destroyed 16,171 acres of the TNF causing a reroute of the Duncan Canyon section of the course for the next 5 years. Though clearly damaged, much greenery and new, small trees sprouted up along the trail. It was hauntingly beautiful and clearly told the story of the natural cycle of things - something we must all accept. It also gave me great hope for our own Angeles Forest, where the Station Fire of 2009 turned the majority of the middle 30 miles of the AC100 course into a creepy, barren land of the lost. It's cool to think that in 5-10 years, I could feasibly see some green (and hopefully less <a href="http://www.nbclosangeles.com/news/local/Poodle-Dog-Bush-126125368.html" target="_blank">purple</a>) heading from Chilao to Shortcut.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Like Rockefeller Center, y'all.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Eventually, I got down to the bottom of Duncan Canyon, where to my surprise, I found an ice skating rink. Well… maybe. I saw where the ice had broken to a rushing force below and admittedly, stood there for a few moments wondering what to do. It was way colder than the previous day and the thought of crashing through and spending the rest of the run soaked was not something I wanted to deal with. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but wander out onto the frozen section and pull some Oksana Baiuls before using my better judgement and scampering over to some rocks for safer crossing. Once on the other side, I enjoyed the rest of my run up to Duncan, but was greatly slowed by all of the downed trees and layers of debris covering the trail. Western States is known for its well manicured trails (just ask Hal Winton), but I wondered if they usually have time to make it out to these higher sections of the course. Cleared, this section would be super fast as the climb really isn't all that significant (though it's listed as the other major "canyon.") In present state, it would definitely slow me down unless I quickly developed some serious log leaping, stick cracking and rock hopping skills. But hell, a few storms between now and then could change the course anyway - so we'll see what fate brings us.*</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Which I'm not so secretly hoping is the original course + river crossing at mile 80 sans boats.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Standing at the future home of the Duncan Canyon aid station, I again marveled at how my perceptions have changed with my perspectives over the years. In 2009, I had stood in this very place waiting for my friend Jimmy to come in. I'd just entered into the world of ultrarunning and the thought of actually running 100 miles myself still seemed superhuman and something I likely would be unable to tackle for a few years, at least. Maybe someday far, far in the future, I'd run Western States too - but I couldn't fathom it. As I watched the runners leave the aid station, I marveled at how they navigated the steep rocky decent and wondered how in the hell they could do that all the way down into the canyon. This course seemed ridiculous and the toughest thing I could ever imagine.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Taking a break with the dude @ DC</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Of course, on present day in 2012, I realized that the insanely steep downward pitch only lasted about 100 feet and then dumped you out onto a gradual, winding path. I guess that just goes to show you that once you take the time to truly understand a thing, immersing yourself in it totally, you'll realize that the intimidation was just born of fear of the unknown. When you get friendly with a challenge, shit seems a great deal more reasonable. This 100 yard section out of the Duncan Aid Station was a metaphor for what my life with regards to mountain running has become. I've trained on the steepest, gnarliest stuff I can find. I've run as high as I can get. I've layered miles upon miles every weekend. And I've run through a great deal of pain on multiple occasions. It's all possible. And now it's all relative. Western States isn't going to be a race of survival for me.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Thank-you.</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was getting late as I headed back on the course to Robinson, and the cold of winter was finally setting in. It had to be at least 30-40 degrees colder than the previous day, but my wardrobe hadn't gotten the memo. Accordingly, I pushed as hard as I could with my swollen knee and admittedly wrecked legs from the day before - finally hitting the campground as the sun was beginning to set. Again, I wandered around trying to find how to get out and where the course went next - but to this day, I have no idea. I guess I'll find out either in May or on race day - whatever Mother Nature decides. Running the last three miles on the road was as cold as I've been in a long time, but it was physically impossible to be miserable with the golden light reflecting off the road and the pink and purple mountains going to rest. It filled me with faith and excitement for what was to come in my training leading up to June 23rd. It wasn't going to be easy, but at the end of the day, running into the sunset on a wholly and completely spent body is what I enjoy most. Onward.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another amazing day now in the books, Dom and I headed back down to Auburn for some hot showers and delicious food. I was immediately glad we had not decided to camp, as the thought of spending the rest of the evening trapped in a sleeping bag for warmth seemed awful. I needed to stretch, ice and somehow pull one more day of hard training out of my tired body before heading home. Also, I needed a freaking beer. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDMjht8y-kEknYPzTvjPxIkDpehE9hbehZKAuXED-X2EVuEoqKssHqMI1IO8AKEn-sLj8FzDFeIfy2UlaZD5t8RkWlorGblA2JF_9UUNtpLuqDsCbruYMhoB_RS5IOtMseaDNPWNYUp4/s1600/5808_765000445970_15906903_43515266_101662_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDMjht8y-kEknYPzTvjPxIkDpehE9hbehZKAuXED-X2EVuEoqKssHqMI1IO8AKEn-sLj8FzDFeIfy2UlaZD5t8RkWlorGblA2JF_9UUNtpLuqDsCbruYMhoB_RS5IOtMseaDNPWNYUp4/s320/5808_765000445970_15906903_43515266_101662_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The scene at Dusty Corners, circa 2k9</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fortunately, I got all of the above and rose Monday morning with the plan of driving to either Dusty Corners or Last Chance to at least connect that section and likely explore backwards towards Miller's Defeat. That was a longer drive than I remembered, made even longer by ice on the road, but we eventually made it to Dusty - which was a great deal less like its moniker than when visited in June. Also, there were no cows - which was disappointing. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSxzstz6g7lv5VdQ15C0t_CzCWTrAW0viu-3l9Iv2eHuXqpGMtKTr1aRnJ8bXBN5HdspIoRfwp2ATIIHuVmspJwdyL5gWEZdxWEDv4lEIob8QmqIadQ6IwMY99NCV0psFxqX15F0H9qU/s1600/405229_10100619828695280_15906903_54124644_1812678557_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSxzstz6g7lv5VdQ15C0t_CzCWTrAW0viu-3l9Iv2eHuXqpGMtKTr1aRnJ8bXBN5HdspIoRfwp2ATIIHuVmspJwdyL5gWEZdxWEDv4lEIob8QmqIadQ6IwMY99NCV0psFxqX15F0H9qU/s320/405229_10100619828695280_15906903_54124644_1812678557_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tracking our 110 prints from 2 days prior.<br />That snow wasn't there back then.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, on this section from Dusty to LC, I would like to note that my trail instincts were spot on with where to turn onto the singletrack - despite the old WS Trail markers remaining on the road and me never reading anything about a singletrack. It was like the race was already in my blood or something. Unfortunately, we did not take that turn and ran all the way back to Last Chance only to discover we'd only run about 4 miles rather than 5 and we clearly must have done something wrong. The good news was that we got some really nice, quicker running in - which felt good compared to the technical dance we'd done the day before. Also, we'd definitely have time to head back toward's Miller's Defeat since these first 8 miles had gone by so quickly. Getting back to the Aid Station site, we ran across some older gentlemen out doing trail work already and seemingly having a grand old time in the forest. They confirmed that they'd actually just cleared the singletrack that we were supposed to have run on - which sure enough, was the turn I'd originally sensed. Oh well, something new and fun for me to experience in May. After parting ways, we headed up the steep grade pouring into DC for a little over a mile, just to check it out and see how long and hard that decent would be coming in. We laughed and posed for a few photos depicting the great "Where's Jimmy?" debacle of 2009, where we were quite certain that every single runner coming down to the aid station was the aforementioned man. It actually got quite ridiculous. At one point, Dom was waiting outside of the porta-potty for Jimmy to come out and talking to him. Only it wasn't Jimmy. Also, we royally fucked up there because we didn't bring him cold Coke and they only had Pepsi. Ahhhh…. <i>memories</i>….</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hey! Is that Jimmy?"</span></i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Back to the present - my stomach suddenly decided to wreck itself and it became apparent that we'd soon need to call it a day. This also reminded me of the Jimmy days, as I had no idea how he was stomaching double strength Perpetuum milkshakes in the 110+ degree heat. To this day, it is one of the only things in the world that truly baffles Dom. I learned at AC that I cannot handle any solids whatsoever in the heat, and as such I've wondered myself if I should begin experimenting with something such as CarboPro to supplement the gels. 57 GUs were fun and all, but I'm thinking I need another solution for getting more calories in, lest it go south on me. Right now, I've got kind of a one track, fool-proof plan; but this is ultrarunning for chrissakes. At some point - likely the worst possible time ever - my unbreakable plan will break. It's not a matter of if; it's a matter of when.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At any rate, we finished up the run and headed back into town to refuel and try to fix my stomach with salad. That kind of worked, but then I bombed it again with Monster, Candy and an Americano in my attempts to stay awake at the wheel on the way back to LA. That night, I lie in bed with twitchy, overworked legs and a brain buzzing with caffeine; but let me tell you what, I was satisfied. The Western States trail is some seriously beautiful shit, and I am so pumped to take on Gordy's dream in 2012.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>AFTERWORD:</b> <i> I f</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>eel like I have to start including these, since it takes me a freaking week and a half to write a post.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm happy to say that I took a little step back in the week after the WS weekend and only ran around 60 miles with 15k of vert, which seemed to do me good. This week, I'm back at it climbing 2-3k per day and will hit 80-90 miles. Also, I was released from PT on Wednesday, which is awesome because that is one more morning hour I can spend training. Therapist chick said the muscle around my left knee is finally back to the size of the right before it wussed out from surgery and atrophied, so that is bueno. And most importantly, I'm finally starting to feel strong and powerful again. Getting back in shape is hard, but it's working...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Finally, I'm going to attempt to post a January re-cap blog here of totals and exciting news, but don't hold your breath.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03367153184816375965noreply@blogger.com5