AC100 Chapter 2: Heart of a Champion. Knee of a Flamingo.

Our house.... is a very, very, very fine house.

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Cloudburst also held a lot of memories for me, as this was another one of Dom and I’s go-to camping spots.  In fact, we’d just had a wonderful evening there two days prior, and I smiled at the love and gratitude I felt in my heart.  I came around the first turn, where we’d legitimately showered on the trail (thanks to this) and I realized that there was no possible way I could love my life and our lifestyle any more right now.  The race was simply a celebration of all the fun disguised as training we’d had this year, and I was utterly happy.

Dom demonstrates proper safety while off-roading.
(photo:  Jorge Pacheco)

Unfortunately, my legs were not utterly happy as well, and this “easy” section felt less easy than all the tough climbs I’d already completed.  I reasoned that this must be normal, given the nature of the course, and that I just needed to stay strong and carry on.  I turned on some tunes and got into a good rhythm of running and singing, which brought back my smile.  But even still, I was on the brink of something terribly wrong. 

I’m not sure exactly when it started, and I know there wasn’t one thing that did it – but eventually I came to the realization that my knee was hurting.  And this largely downhill section was not helping one bit.  Again, I was forced to slow my pace to slower than I liked or knew I was capable of.  This was absolutely maddening.  Here I was, on a section I’d looked forward to all day, and I couldn’t do shit.  Still, I hoped that things would turn around and that I just needed a change of terrain – but with each step, the pain was growing and my hope was diminishing.

Last run of an 85 mile weekend out of Glenwood - not
wanting to be left out.  (photo: Mari Lemus)

I ran through Glenwood and was filled with conflicting emotion.  On one hand, I’d made it through the heat of the day and the elevation of the high country.  I was hurting, but I was still moving.  And memories swirled of the weekend spent running from Glenwood, when I proved to myself how strong I was.  Yet, on the other hand, I was not moving at a pace that was going to catch me up from the time I’d lost in Cooper, and I felt my sub-24 finish slipping away.  I had to remind myself that finishing was the true goal and as such, I pressed on, despite the increasing disagreement of my knee.

Eventually, my friend George caught up  and ran with me for a bit.  He said he’d had some trouble through the day, but that he felt great – and he looked it too.  We were still making great time by his calculations and his hope was inspiring, but I think that deep down I knew that this was only the beginning of larger troubles to come.  Normally, I’m super optimistic about low points because I know that it will always get better (as George was now demonstrating), but this was different.  This was a problem that I started with and I knew that the reality was that it would only get worse.  Even still, I deeply believed I was 100% capable of dealing with the pain I felt now and that I could still turn in a decent time if I just kept doing  everything I could.  So I twisted and turned and winded down towards Three Points, legitimately looking forward to climbing Hilyer. 

I finally popped up to the aid station (mile 42.72 - still not even halfway) just as George was leaving and plopped down on the bench next to an ailing Sean O’Brien.  He seemed to be in a similar world of hurt.  My dad had cut up some cantaloupe for me (my favorite!) which was a nice surprise and tasted magnificent with a little ice cold Coke.  I took a few moments to regroup, hit the bathroom and level with my crew.  At this point, all I told them was that my knee was starting to bother me a bit, but that I was still okay and would continue to do my best.  And so I carried on…

The situation post-Station Fire, on an equally ominous
day earlier this year 

I wound my way down the next section of trail, resolved to keep my form strong and my body moving forward at the best pace I could.  But there were signs, my friends.  There were ominous signs.  Purple poodle dog bush began choking the trail as I entered the fire ravaged areas of the Angeles Forest.  The trail was open and exposed and flanked with blackened trees, in stark contrast to the lush pine of the high country.  And to really drive the point home, I might add that I almost stepped on the severed leg of what I best guess was a coyote.  Basically, it was just way too early for things to be getting this weird.  The road signifying the next segment of my journey just never seemed to come, and I was alone in my endeavor.

Eventually, I did reach the road and eventually I did reach the top of Mt. Hilyer, which also signified the halfway-ish point of the race (mile 49).  I ran a great majority of the climb, which I was proud of in my given state and which proved that I had not given up.  I did a time check and reasoned that my 24 hour finish was officially a wash, but 26-28 hours was still within reason and reach.  That was actually 100% okay with me, and I reached the aid station in pretty good spirits, all things considering.  I was happy for some ice cold water to soak my Buff and some more ice for my bandana and I downed a few cups of Gatorade, having been disheartened by an exceptionally dark pee situation.  Hal (the RD) told me I was doing really well, and even better, that Dom was enroute to a miraculous comeback up front.  They were around Shortcut and Dom was gaining on Jorge.  This definitely pumped me up and I left Horse Flats, where the Hilyer aid station was set up on another one of our rogue campsites, determined to make a comeback myself and beat this knee thing.  Mind over matter.

Ah yes, but the matter was just not improving.  Somewhere along the steep rocky descent into Chilao, the nagging turned to stabbing.  And the stabbing eventually brought me to a halt on more than one occasion.  No. No. NO. This was not happening.  I remembered how just a few months prior I had run so hard down this section that when I clipped a rock and went tumbling, Mari was sure I had broken something.  And now I’m pretty sure that I wouldn't even scratch myself if I fell - I'd just sort of crumple into a melodramatic heap, reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West.  I went on this way for awhile, and then suddenly there it was.

The choice.

"The choice" was a two stage process, and the result would be whether or not I continued this race.  Out there, alone and in an increasing amount of pain, things got very real, and I knew that to finish the remaining 50 miles would require me to ask way more of my body that it was in any shape to give.  So the first thing I had to decide was if I was really, truly willing and prepared to suffer.  To welcome in more pain than I have ever known or even considered, just for the sake of finishing what I started.  This decision was actually relatively simple.  Knowing that I was likely not doing any permanent damage and promising myself that I would take the time to fully heal once the race was over, the choice was clear:  fucking bring it.

Now, the second part… the second part was a bit more sticky.  As I thought about it - I mean really, seriously explored the decisions, the motivations, the implications and the possible outcomes - I realized that this was one of life's defining moments.  My choice would speak volumes about the kind of person and runner I was - not just to others; most wouldn't judge either way - but to myself.  Loud and clear, I was about to learn something really important about who I was.  I just needed to decide if my ego could handle going from the front of the pack to the back.  Because over the next 50 miles, that would most assuredly happen.  It already was.  And I was honest to God doing the very best I could with every step I took.

Dreaming of the race at Guffy
(photo: Dominic Grossman)

No one would blame me for dropping.  Hell, a lot of people couldn't even believe I started not being able to bend my knee and all taped up at the check-in. (In retrospect, now that the blind ambition has cleared, I can't even believe I did it.)  They'd see the growing, swelling mass that had replaced the joint in the middle of my left leg and tell me I was smart not to continue and that I was a hero for making it this far.  Ultimately, they'd still be proud of me.  But would I be proud of me?  Like I said, I can't reiterate enough that I knew I was not doing any permanent damage.  If that were the case, I would've dropped immediately.  I'm not an idiot.  And besides, the pain in my heart was much greater right now.  I had trained for this race all year.  I'd watched my body change as my legs grew stronger, my lungs more powerful and my mind more resolute.  I'd morphed into a runner who truly believed in herself and who many believed could even win the whole thing.  I was truly capable of doing great work today, and I was doing it too!  That was, until this knee thing crept up.  Now, I was just doing OK things and for a large part of me, that was honestly not enough.

The truth is, I've never really had a great race.  One where I've really run to the full potential that I've demonstrated in my training.  There's always a stupid mistake, or crazy weather situation or some other unplanned, unanticipated thing that keeps me from the time and place I know I'm capable of.  And deep down, I really believed that it was all to better prepare me to have the race of my life thanks to all that I'd learned.  Well, long ago, back in the fledgling months of the year, I had decided that the 2011 Angeles Crest 100 was going to be that race for me.  It just had to be.  And yet, somehow, it totally wasn't.  I needed to decide if I was OK with that, and it was hurting my head.

I continued stumbling down the rocky, bouldery, dropp-off-y trail down through the burn area and towards my crew.  God, it hurt.  My mind swirled right along with the scenery as I contemplated whether or not just finishing would be enough for me.  I now doubted even my worst-case scenario of 28 hours was possible and actually knew chasing cutoffs could likely become a reality.  I wasn't going to live up to the runner everyone, including myself, thought I could be.  I was now in a battle of survival.

I thought about my crew gathered at Chilao - selflessly following me around all weekend, taking care of my every need.  For them, just finishing would be enough.  I thought about all my other friends, either running, crewing or just out to cheer - part of the hundreds of people who had been screaming my name and encouraging me along my selfish journey - just 'cause they're awesome like that.  They wouldn't care if I finished DFL - they'd still support me.  I thought about my family, all of whom had traveled here to be there for this day in my life - not knowing or understanding anything in particular about the endeavor other than it was important me.  You're damn right they'd still be proud of me, even if I walked the rest of the whole thing.  I thought about my brother, who probably understood the concept of survival better than anyone there.  Though he'd never agree, I kind of owed it to him to see the race through before he left to go fight a much more important battle.  Anything less would be cowardly by comparison.  I thought of Dom - the one person who could possibly know the mental warfare that was currently waging in my mind and how much this day meant to me.  He was also the one person who would truly understand what I went through to finish and he would respect me for it.

Finally, I thought of myself.  I thought about who I was, what I stood for and what was truly important to me.  I thought about why I was there, what was driving me and how far I'd come.  I thought about who I wanted to be.

There was a time in my life, not too long ago, where I physically could not run.  There was a time when it didn't look too likely that I'd be able to even start this race, much less finish it.  Now, though it wasn't how I imagined, I was on my way to physically finishing this race.  All I had to do was leave Chilao.

Believe it or not, all the excessive soul searching occurred over only what was roughly 2.8 miles.  It also consumed my entire being, and as such, I was greatly confused when I heard an unmistakable, "It's Katie!" from whom I later determined to be Carol Bowman.  I turned the corner and was upon the buzzing aid station and ushered onto the scales.

"You need to have a seat and start drinking."

I was seven pounds down, which I could only attribute to the loss of all my pride and dignity somewhere on the decent off of Hilyer.  I had paid great attention to my fluids and nutrition all day, so I had no clue how this could otherwise happen.  Nevertheless, I agreed with the medics that I could be approaching a not so great situation.  I guess these mountains were really taking it out of me.  Literally.

Ye brother of gnar points South.
(photo: Jessica Fugulsby)

Chilao, mile 52.8, was hopping with crews and spectators and lots of SoCal Coyotes who'd come out to cheer us on.  I wanted to soak up more of the amazing energy there, but alas,  I had to focus on soaking up the calories and fluids instead.  I explained the reality of the situation to my crew, but they already understood.  Things were going to be different this evening, but there was no talk, nor would there ever be, of dropping.  Instead we talked about the highly plausible case that a baby yucca was actually growing inside of my knee, given the ridiculous knot protruding from my left leg.  We laughed and I left.  That was it.

The best part about the rest of my painful journey was that I would no longer be going it alone.  I had my first of three pacers along with me, and little did I know, I'd planned the timing of their arrival absolutely perfectly.  There was no one better to remind me of the importance of earning the finish line, regardless of time, than June Caseria.  A month prior I had forced my knee to cooperate so that I could pace June to her first 100 mile finish at Western States.  June had struggled on and off with a foot injury, and it unsurprisingly had flared up by the time I picked her up at Bath Road, mile 60.  Gingerly picking our way down Cal Street, we were only 10 minutes ahead of the cutoff and it became glaringly apparent that we weren't going to make it.  I leveled with June on what was going down and what we had to do, and after fixing what we could with 'apparel adjustments' and duct tape, she put her head down and got to work.  What was most impressive to me was that she did not complain or cry out or become negative; rather she pushed beyond her limits and did what she needed to do.  By Green Gate, we were almost 40 minutes ahead of the cutoff.  June continued to earn every single step of the rest of the course and crossed the finish line at Placer High in 29:50-something.  It was inspiring.  And for me, I would remain resolute and draw upon her strength, now in my own world of pain.

June Caseria, checking charts and
breaking hearts since 1984.

June did an amazing job of encouraging my progress and keeping me from walking too long on the flats/downhills when the pain flared up.  I was very much enjoying the conversation as a nice distraction to what was going on internally.  It was also nice to hear how everyone else was doing and how my friends and family's day had gone, since I'd never had enough time in the aid stations to check in on that stuff.  Amazingly, I even passed a couple runners here who were much worse for the wear than I - physically and mentally out of it.  I was most assuredly still in this, on all accounts.

The sun was beginning to set as I popped up at Shortcut Saddle, mile 59.3, and the colors hitting the huge expanse of Station Fire burn was very Tim Burton-esque.  i.e. beautiful in a totally creepy, but hauntingly mesmerizing way.  I should have been through here hours ago and was glad I'd packed an extra headlamp for my now worse than worst-case scenario.  That said, the plan was to get in and out of here with a smile - just as it had been all along.  I sat for a few minutes to switch out my bottles and get some calories down, and then did just that.  No one on my crew or in my family questioned my ability to carry on or my sanity.  They simply echoed my facial expression.

Shortcut Saddle, mile 59.3

Before leaving, I got some of the best news I had received all day.  Dom had just arrived into Chantry.  First.  It sounds really cheesy, but this truly renewed my spirit and I left seriously pumped up.  That's love, kids.

The 5 mile, hard-packed fire road descent which lied immediately ahead was going to be tough on a good day.  It was going to be tougher on a hard day.  It was going to be damn near impossible on a day where going downhill was the one thing that had been crippling me for over a month.  Nevertheless, pacer extraordinnaire #2, in the form of Erin Maruoka, and I got to it and I vowed to myself that I would not walk this shit.  Little breaks were fine, but I was going to run to the river if it killed me.  Obviously, it wasn't going to actually cause death, so I requested that Erin ignore my little shrieks of pain and just tell me stories about anything and everything.  I couldn't participate much, as my heart rate had now officially achieved out of control status in response to the pain, but her voice provided a welcome distraction.  The sun had gone down, but I was soaked with a cold sweat and I really had to focus to try and control my erratic breathing.  In short, I was a hot mess.  To make matters awesome, the river just never seemed to come and at this point, I wanted the river more than I have ever wanted anything in my whole life.  I wish I was kidding.

Finally, FINALLY we heard the roar of the West Fork of the San Gabriel River and dumped out at the crossing.  The water was freezing and caused my legs to cramp a bit, but I didn't care because the godforsaken downhill was over.  Furthermore, it reminded me that I was about to close another chapter of my journey - the creepy, burned section - and start working on the final pages.  In a few miles, the terrain would shift again - this time to densely packed woods, filled with flowing streams and steep, rocky single track and though challenging, I was looking forward to the change.  But for now, I just had to get up to Newcomb's.  

I had done this climb in the heat, with loads of miles on my legs, and I'd run the whole thing.  Though now in an entirely different and much more compromising situation, I vowed that I would run as much as possible.  As an added encouragement, my friend Diana was catching up to me, and though I was in no position to win - I was also in no position to be passed.  I still had a bit of fire left.  On a related note, I also remembered my goal to reach Chantry before Dom finished, and if nothing else, that dream was still very much alive.  And so Erin and I pushed up to Newcomb's Saddle, head down and mind resolved.

Perhaps I got a little behind on calories, or perhaps I was just losing my ever loving mind - but when I hit the aid station at mile 68, I felt depleted - physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted.  I saw my family and friends on the big screen, happy to see me and sending nothing but love and support from a mere 7 1/2 miles away.  But I knew what that 7 1/2 miles would entail, and I was beginning to panic.  So I made a quick joke about them making the mistake of giving my mom a microphone and walked away from the camera.  I could feel tears stinging the back of my eyes, and I didn't want them to see me like this.  Apparently, I didn't move far enough away and they could see that I was shoving a stick of Body Glide in the general vicinity of my girl things.  With this, they marveled at how I must still be so mentally "in it" that I had the fortitude to move away from the camera where I would have treated all of Chantry Flats to a quite graphic show.  So in reality, I had done the exact opposite of what I feared.  Point: Me.


I could tell I was a bit out of it here, and knew I probably wasn't taking in enough calories for what my body was going through.  I couldn't really do solids, so I double fisted some broth and Coke which obviously tasted delicious together.  Then Erin and I went along our merry little way.  Minus the "merry" part.  


It was here that things really, officially unraveled.  As I navigated the fireroad down to the turnoff at Newcomb's pass, the pain began to mimic the very feeling I had when the stabbing originally occurred down in Vincent Gulch.  I grasped to focus and harden my mind, but eventually one stride over the rocky terrain brought me to the ground.  I fell to the side of the trail in the weeds, and honestly began struggling to breathe it hurt so bad.  Erin came to my side and worked on calming me down, telling me we could stay there as long as we needed, but that I would get back up and finish this race.  At this point, Diana and her pacer caught up and after stopping to see if I was okay, moved ahead.  I began to wonder how many more millions of people would pass me before I got to Altadena... you know, since there were obviously millions of people in this race.  The key thing to note here, though, is that I still was not doubting my ability to physically get myself to the finish line.  And as such, I got up and we started walking.


First, I was horrified that I'd broken down so severely.  I highly regard Erin as one of the toughest women I know - both physically and mentally - and as such, I was embarrassed for her to see me in that state.  I had told myself I would not allow any tears during this race, but they had come and I couldn't stop them.  That said, I realized I actually felt a little better just releasing it all - admitting that I was in a world of hurt, rather than trying to fake a more ideal situation; but that I would continue.  And so, at this point, I decided to confide in Erin my dark thoughts and release those to be heard no more as well.  What I told her was that I was fully accepting of the way things had played out, the fact that I was going to finish much slower than anticipated and that I was suffering so greatly.  But a part of me was angry as hell.  I'd trained my ass off for this day and was in wicked shape to do something amazing.  I'd felt light as a feather during a flawless first half of the race.  I was after that silver buckle, and I'd worked harder than I'd ever worked in my life.  And yet some stupid freak accident had completely wrecked my big plans.  Not an overtraining injury, not a careless mistake, not a result of prioritizing something else over my running.  Nope.  I had been cock blocked by a plant. And it wasn't fair.


Fitting that my parents were here, because my whole life they have loved to remind me that life isn't fair.  And I totally agree, which is why I wasn't going to just give up, go home and pout on the account of not having the day I "deserved."  I knew this next section was going to be hard.  Actually, it was going to completely blow to be honest, but I was going to have to just take it one step at a time and be at peace with the fact that at least I was moving forward.  


Erin was amazing at encouraging me down the steep, rocky descent into Big Santa Anita Canyon and I am so thankful for her patience.  She assured me that what I was doing was meaningful and necessary... even inspiring, but even still, I couldn't completely shake the feelings of embarrassment at what I'd become.  It was hard to be taking this section so slow when I'd practiced it so many times, flying down and around and off the walls.  


Nevertheless, we pushed our way down to the stream as I pushed the negative voices out of my mind.  Not repressed and hid.  But really let them go.  I remained resolute, focused and committed to still reaching my goal as fast as I possibly could.  In short, it was still a race.      I began thinking of next year, when I'd arrive at this point much earlier and call upon this very moment and how bad I felt, and know that I could handle the pain it would take to chase down the leader refuse to relent until I reached the city.  I now fully believed Erin - this was important and I was definitely going to finish.  


If I remember correctly, once in the canyon, I began running for longer stretches at a time with less shriek-filled ouch fests that required halts in the RFM.  I do distinctly recall Erin being quite impressed with my ability to rock/log hop across all the water crossings with ease, especially after we saw a dude totally eat it  and get dunked.  Style points.


After a great, longer than ever while, we reached the bridge that signified the half mile climb on the road up to Chantry Flats.  It would be the last time I could see my crew, and I knew that once I left, there was no turning back.  The absolutely absurd thing about Angeles Crest is that when you are 3/4 done with the race, you are actually only 2/3 done with the climbing. While many races, most in fact, give you a bit of a break in the last quarter... with maybe some nice downhill or at least diminishing the climbs only to rollers, AC hits you with a long, 1,000 ft/mile trek up Mt. Wilson followed by another 2k or so climb out of the subsequent canyon.  Then you get some downhill, but it's the rockiest, most overgrown, steepest, nastiest shit you've seen all day and you get to do it with 90+ miles on your legs.  You see why I signed up for this.


That lying ahead, I put my head down and ran/power hiked up the steep hill, hearing the roar of the aid station above.  After a few minutes, Erin ran ahead to alert my crew and get things ready, and I took the few moments alone to really absorb the experience.  I switched off my headlamp under the clear, dark sky and took deep, fulfilling breaths of the clean, pine scented air.  This was where I wanted to be.  This was who I wanted to be.  I turned the final corner and approached the large, stone steps, the lights glaring in my eyes.  I had reached mile 75 of the hardest thing I've ever done and there was no stopping me now.




Continue reading the Final Chapter

AC100 Chapter 1: High Country High Life

30:53:21.


Looking at that you may be confused for a variety of reasons.  If you don't know me well but heard that I'm into running, you may be wondering if that was my time at the last local 5k. God I hope not, as that would mean that I took thirty hours, fifty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds to go 3.1 miles.  Though a 10 hour/mile pace feels about spot on for my rocky decent from Sam Merrill (mile 90) to Millard (mile 95), I guess that wasn't the case as I did complete the full 100.53 miles of the Angeles Crest 100 Mile Endurance Run.


Now, if you do know me, you may ask "wow, what the hell happened?  Gosh, you must be so disappointed... that's your worst race ever!"  OK, well I'm going to go ahead and stop you right there and blow your mind a little bit. 'Cause guess what?  In almost all respects, this was actually my best race ever.


That said, let's go ahead and get the bullshit out of the way up front, so I don't have to recount it over and over.  Plus, if you're only into what physically happened and not what epically transpired, then you should know that the long and short of it was that my injured knee simply did not hold up.  The yucca stabbing was apparently a very violent crime and to be highly specific, my lateral retinaculum is kind of fucked.  So there you go.


However... 


What transpired through the brilliant hours in the high country Saturday morning and the painful, broken stride in the wee hours of the following night was by no means a failure. It's funny, you always build that 'coming of age' race up as some glory filled battle that ends with a big trophy or a record deal or something like that.  Mine ended with a fourth place finish, nowhere close to the leader, and a big hug.  But it was definitely a turning point race for me, and here's the story of why...


Dom and I headed up to the high country after work on Thursday and it was immediately apparent that I was more nervous/stressed than normal.  I freaked out about forgetting my camera that I wasn't going to use anyway, cried over cold pasta and spent a great deal of time trying to justify how bad my knee still hurt running the downhills.  I guess it was a little rough going into the race in the best shape of my life, with all this potential - but knowing that there was a very likely possibility that my "injury" would not allow me to truly perform at my best.  The realm of possibility spun from a sub-24 finish that could very well win the thing to being physically unable to complete it. This was absolutely maddening and really, I just wanted to get on with it.

There is no chance I am adopted.
(photo: Natalie Kintz)

Friday morning, we packed up camp and headed down to Wrightwood to check in and begin to absorb the energy surrounding the race.  It was like everyone we know and love was coming to our weekend vacation spot, including one surprise visitor.... my dad!  Now my whole family would be there:  mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law and niece - which was pretty cool, and no doubt instrumental in my will to carry on when things got "difficult." Paired with my all star crew, who we met at the hotel in Hesperia, there was no way I wasn't finishing this race - so let's go ahead and adjust that realm of possibility to everything from a winning time to DFL. As I drifted off to a restless sleep that evening, I knew that I would be running 100 miles this weekend.  The only question was how bad and how long was I going to suffer? 

Not to be all dramatic - but the whole year has kinda lead to this day.
(photo: Natalie Kintz)

In high school, I once gave my whole cross-country team bright lime green ribbons for their hair before our big State Meet.  Subsequently, we won.  I decided to carry on the tradition at the new 'big race,' and gave my teammate some sick laces for our NB 101's.
(photo: Monica Morant)

As I stood on the starting line, counting down the minutes to the start, I wanted to hit fast forward to an hour into the race. An hour in is when I finally relax and get into a groove. Until then, I'm kind of like a manic, ADHD child with a lot of sugar and no parental guidance.  Interestingly enough, five minutes later I already found myself breathing normally and enjoying the dark, cool hours of the quiet morning. Totally, completely relaxed.  And totally in the moment.

It is, as they say, go time.
(photo: Monica Morant)

I began alternating running and walking up the 3,000 foot gain Acorn Trail as planned, ensuring my heart rate stayed low and I felt entirely comfortable, yet not too comfortable if that makes any sense at all.  I spent most of the climb with eventual women's winner, Paulette Zilmer, from Scottsdale.  I told her a bit about the course and we openly shared our respective challenges for the day - I with my knee, and her trying to end a streak of not finishing a 100 since 2008. I was really glad to hear that things definitely worked out for her that day.  And then some.

A typical evening at Guffy
(photo: Jorge Pacheco)

I hit the top of Acorn in :57 which seemed about right and began rolling along through the campgrounds and limber pines of the high country.  Memories began flooding in as I passed each place I trained, slept, talked and burned into my mind.  Each place where I grew into the person that had stepped across the starting line an hour earlier with a confidence and peace I'd never known.  I flew through Guffy, smiling as I imagined the joy of glissading down Mt. Baldy with Dom and Jorge - who were now likely battling for the lead.  I glanced down into Vincent Gulch and first thought to curse it, but then remembered the amazing things I saw the day of the yucca and how Maggie, who I'd just met, stuck with me and helped keep me warm.  She was cruising up ahead as well. I remembered all the sunsets at Blue Ridge followed by nights around the campfire, talking about life, the race and other hopes and dreams which were unrelated - yet could never be entirely separated. All these people. All these moments. And now we were finally out here doing it.

As I came down into Little Blue Ridge, a familiar shout from behind the trees broke me out of my little reverie. (Seriously. I was creating a truly stellar YouTube montage in my head.) Moments later, I crested a bump to see my half-asleep little but not so little brother running out of the woods, cheering me all the way. Apparently he’d overslept a bit and woke up to voices in the trees. So he runs out of the tent in a panic that he’s missed the race and won’t be able to find my crew, and here I come bobbing down the trail. Talk about impeccable timing. I was really glad to have my brother there to be part of the race, as he’s leaving soon for his second tour in Afghanistan with the USMC. I knew he would love the mountains as much as I do and I really wanted to share this part of my life with him before he had to leave.  Needless to say, I was really happy to see him.

The remainder of the stretch down to Inspiration Point was mostly downhill, and I focused on remaining relaxed and not charging too much. My knee was admittedly quite tight, and I knew any excited mistakes here could be my downfall. As such, I continued on at a comfortable pace, intermittingly enjoying the company of a new friend/fellow SoCal Coyote, Tiffany Guerra and the Acorn Comedy Hour duo of George “White Lightning” Gleason and the Broman, Adam Bowman.

Rolling into Inspiration Point, legitimately
quite inspired.
(photo: Joe Gandara)

As I came around the bend approaching IP (mile 9.3), I could hear the roar of the crowd gathered, with at least 50 people screaming my name. It was like the Wellesley of the Angeles Forest, and it was all quite magical. As I cruised in, it was so deafening and packed that I panicked with the inability to find my crew, despite my highly superior skills at Where’s Waldo. As I began pulling off my long sleeve while walking through, Erin grabbed my arm, shoved a fresh bottle in my hand and I was off in less than 30 seconds. It was all kind of like a dream and I’m still not 100% clear on if it actually happened or not.

Erin had told me that the lead women were only about three minutes ahead, which I found to be pretty weird. I thought I’d been extremely conservative during this first section, but hey, maybe everyone was running a smart race today! This was going to be fun. But for now, my mind was completely focused on this next section and what I planned to do with it, regardless of what the competition put into action. It’s funny, I had multiple conversations leading up to the race and even during the climb up Acorn from people who maintained that not knowing the whole course was better because it was less overwhelming. But ultimately, I believe my knowledge of every twist, turn and downed tree of the day’s challenge is what kept the whole thing in a manageable perspective for me. AC read like a book, and I just had to take it chapter by chapter. So for now, I knew I just needed to take it easy on the way down to Vincent Gap, stay on top of my calories and drain my 16 oz. bottle of water. That’s exactly what I did, and I rolled into VG (mi 13.85) feeling remarkably stellar and ready to climb. RAWR!

Note adorable niece in background with
panda and panda pants.  Through
Facebook, she has discerned that I am a
legitimate Panda bear.
(photo:  Natalie Kintz)

I flew in and immediately spotted my niece, Chyler, holding up her stuffed panda and cheering louder than you would think is possible for a five-year-old. I was all business in switching out for my pack and moving through, but not before a high-five from Baby Sass. I’ve also got to break here for a second to call out my incredible crew here for not only being attentive and very sexy (as specified), but also having ESP, which was an unknown feature.* I had scolded myself for failing to write down (on my expertly created spreadsheet using colored markers in favor of Excel) that I wanted my gels in the boob pockets** of my Nathan pack rather than the back. However, this mind-blowing trio of magicians knew that the back pocket was for the birds and I’d obviously want my shit up front. Obviously. Good lord, they rock.

*Trust me, there will be excess crew loving in this post, but it won’t get really awkward until around mile 60.

**Technical term.

I was having pretty much the best time ever.
(photo:  Jayme Burtis)

Out of the aid station, I put my head down and got straight to it. I normally hate running with a pack, but immediately recognized the unanticipated advantage here (besides carrying enough water, as opposed to not enough). I could use my hands on my thighs to do "the Killian" and power my way up the beast that is Baden-Powell. I felt remarkably fresh, was breathing easy, and as such, began making my way up the switchbacks. I noticed Keira, last year's champ, only one up from me and again was surprised, but vowed not to do anything stupid here and blow myself out. Instead, I stuck to the plan of power hiking and running where I knew I could. I pulled over to pee and was caught with my pants around my ankles by the next dude, which was awesome. I offered up a heartfelt "howdy," as he rattled by, but I think he was sincerely conflicted about the whole thing. Over the next few miles, another group of dudes caught up to me, and I was seriously disturbed to see that one of them was none other than Mr. Sean O'Brien. Sean is the resident king of the climb, and I was seeing no reason as to why I should be ahead of him climbing Baden-Powell of all things. But I also knew he was very smart in these things and he eventually passed me towards the top, which made me happy.

Cresting the high point on the course -
Mt. Baden-Powell @ 9,399
(photo:  Gareth Mackey)

Now, one would think I'd be extremely happy to reach the top of a 3,000 foot climb taking me up to 9,399 feet in a fun series of 41 switchbacks. And I was, but here's the thing:  now I had to go mostly down for 8 miles and that was definitely not my strong point with a tight knee. The good news is that it was my absolute favorite part of the course, with sweeping vistas, yards of limber pine and a spectacular section of single track cut into and around the ridge. So, I took a deep breath, leaned forward and just floated right along. I remembered the day I'd run up Baden-Powell after two weeks of nothing in the aftermath of the yucca incident. I was so happy at being able to run again, I'd nearly cried. I was still in pain that day, but when you've barely been able to walk for weeks and you can feel your goal race slipping away, a mountain can do that to you. And now here I was, running incredibly strong, feeling amazing and loving every second of the race I'd planned for and trained for since the beginning of the year. It was all going so remarkably well, and I felt absolutely no pressure to do anything other than what I could in each passing moment. Very early on, I adopted the mantra, "run within yourself," which was in stark contrast to my typical credo of 'relentless,' which is actually tatooed across my right rib cage. There would be a time and place for that, but that was miles and chapters ahead. For now, I needed to remain in the moment and focused on my race and my race alone. And so it was me and the mountain, just as it always was.


As I began navigating the switchbacks down to Islip Saddle (mile 25.91), the roar of the crowd once again became deafening. Still, I picked out my dad's less loud than everyone else's scream and the unmistakable whistle of my mom. I had to laugh, knowing that they had absolutely no idea that there were actually quite a few switchbacks to get down to the road and they had started cheering very early. Now they were going to have to keep it up for another 3-4 solid minutes, which they did. The excitement of my friends and family at the little blue dot (and big puff of hair) bounding down the mountain pulled me right in and down to the scales.

Numbers. Cool. Can I go now?
(Photo:  Katelyn Benton)

Erin and June were on it, grabbing my pack and preparing my bottle as I weighed in.  I was about 4 lbs. down already, which seemed weird considering that I’d been eating regularly and just downed my entire 50 oz. of water – but then again I’d weighed in a little heavy the day before, so I wasn’t too concerned.  I grabbed my bottle and a Lara Bar and headed up Mt. Williamson with some troublesome news from Peter."This is a marathon, right?  I only have 0.2 miles to go!"  He said no.  But also that he was really proud of me, and I believed him, because truth be told, I was proud of me too.  I was completely nailing this first chapter – the high country section – and I felt fantastic.  

That was, until I tried to eat the Lara Bar.  It was immediately apparent that my stomach was not going to be tolerating solid foods any time soon, so I suffered down half of it and shoved it in my back pocket.*  I continued power hiking up the climb, focused on how relatively short this section actually was.  I desperately wanted to run more of it than I was or had planned for, but the heat was rolling in and combined with the Lara Bar situation, that wasn’t really happening.  Even still, I began to see carnage, now on the third major climb of the day, at elevation and now with the added element of heat.  Passing a few dudes, I got a great boost of confidence and continued hiking like a champ.  I got to the top in one of my best splits ever and took my first brief pause to really breathe in the beauty of the day.  Again, I cringed at the technical downhill that lie ahead of me,** but got right to it nonetheless.  I thought about Memorial Day, when over 70 miles into the weekend, I’d caught up to Dom and Jorge at the highway crossing between Williamson and Cloudburst, running an out and back from Glenwood.  They told me their plans as I felt the weight of the mileage in my legs and knew that turning around now, I’d have quite the time getting out of Cooper Canyon and all the way back.  But I smiled and said, “Fuck it.  I’m going over Williamson.”  And so I did, laying down my fastest split ever and then powering through the remaining 18 miles of my run, finishing wholly exhausted.  This was only 5 days after I’d run the Bishop High Sierra 50 miler.  It was the most solid block of training I’d ever put in and the result did wonders for my mental toughness. I was no longer afraid of AC.

*Sidebar:  I just found the other half in the bottom of a bag earlier this week… nearly a month later.  Yummo!

**So sad.  Normally I love this shit.

As I approached the highway crossing off Williamson, I could hear the excited shouts of friends Kevin and Crispin and let them pull me across the 2 and right up the last bump before Eagle’s Roost.  I drained most of my water on the way up and before I knew it, I was already upon the million little switchbacks that would take me down to the road.  Soon I’d be at Eagle’s Roost, where we used to camp back when the 2 was still closed and the peaks were still covered in snow.  We’d run as high as we could and pray all week that maybe next weekend we’d be able to getover Williamson and eventually Baden-Powell.  We’d huddle in our tent, trying to keep warm and entertaining thoughts of summer days and perfect nights.  And mostly, we’d talk about the race.  It was always like that on these weekends in the San Gabriels.  There was nothing else.  Just me, Dom, the mountains and the race.  And that’s all I ever wanted.

I cruised past the road workers and into Eagle’s Roost (mi 30), knowing I needed to get myself aptly prepared to handle the heat a brewin’ down in Cooper Canyon.  I sat for the first time to switch out of my 101’s and into a pair of Lunaracers to handle the road section a little better, and P-Dubs made up a nice, pink ice bandana.  But before I could get comfortable, I grabbed two fresh bottles and began my little jaunt down the highway, encouraged by everyone in the aid station remarking on how good I looked in comparison to most everyone else.  I figured they were just telling everyone that, but as I ran up and then down the 2, I noticed another woman not too far ahead and began slowly gaining.  Even still, I kept the pace easy and enjoyed my family, my crew and June’s bare ass rooting me along.  As I told some random encouraging me through his window, “I ain’t trying to cook myself out here mang.”  My Missourah comes out when I’m in nature.  At any rate, the theme from all the traveling cars seemed to be that I was “running really smart,” and that all the women up ahead were looking a bit frazzled.  I still felt pretty good, but knew just to stick to my mantra and run within myself.  That was the only way I was going to get out of Cooper Canyon alive.

Now, I was in an interesting predicament here.  My legs were starting to feel a little weird and nasty, which I attributed to the change in terrain, and possibly the softer shoe as well.  As such, I desperately wanted this road section to be over.  However, while the majority of the day I’d completed each section of the course hugry to sink my teeth into the next, Cooper was the one chapter I was really dreading.  Not only was it difficult and hot, but I really just don’t like it all that much, even on a perfect, fresh day.  It was going to be really hard to run well and stay strong.  I finally hit the turnoff into Buckhorn and walked a bit over the rolling concrete hills through the campground.   For the first time, I was beginning to feel a little fatigue, but that seemed completely reasonable, given that I’d just completed the hardest 50k of my life and it just so happened to be at the beginning of an unrelenting 100 mile race.  I stopped to top off my bottles and drench my Buff in the spigot before catching the Burkhart Trail and beginning my descent down into the canyon.

Almost immediately, I noticed that my quads were really screaming on the downhill and began praying I’d reach the creek soon.  Nothing stabbing or unbearable – just enough pain to make running well a bit more uncomfortable.  I had been religious on my gels and saltstick all morning and water was flowing like wine, so I was at first a bit confused by the soreness I was feeling.  In retrospect, it’s easy to see that I’d been using my brakes quite a bit on the descents through the high country to protect my knee and as such, I was beginning to feel the logical effects.  If you run mountains, you know that by brakes I mean quads, and now you too can hypothesize as to where some of the troubles began.  Nevertheless, I did my best to get down to the bottom and double-checked the turn taking me across the water.  You’ll tend to do that when you miss it in training and end up with a helicopter out looking to rescue you and two friends who apparently wanted to go to Palmdale.  I couldn’t help but laugh at the though of Peter running up to the campground and grabbing some kid’s beer out of exhaustion, dehydration and relief.  And then I shuddered at the memory that it was a Miller Lite.

Once on the other side of the canyon I began slowly picking away at the climb, trying to run as much as possible.  This wasn’t working.  The heat had my heart pounding in my head and I could feel the GU rising in my chest.  Unless I slowed things down, I was going to be puking out my calories, which was only going to make things much, much worse.  So I reeled it in a bit and began hiking a little slower, allowing my heart rate to go down and my stomach to settle.  Eventually, a few runners began to catch up which didn’t surprise me, but did dampen my spirits a bit.  How was I, the girl who loves the heat and had heat trained for months via barre classes in a 115 degree room, having so much trouble and all these other people weren’t?  Tiffany and Andy Salinger caught up on one of the steeper climbs, working hard, but looking much fresher than I felt.  Andy had paced Dom last year and implored me to keep up – it was my turn this year – but I knew my limits and let them go.  I walked an awful lot through the canyon and a lot more of the gradual fireroad than I care to admit.  Even still, I recognized that low points were bound to happen and I was simply having one of mine.  I just needed to stay focused, do everything I could with everything I had and take notes for next year. *  As such, I began ordering myself to run intervals up the climb, remembering that I was usually always capable of a little more than my mind wanted me to believe.  Before long, I had reached the last section of Cooper, which involved a series of way too many switchbacks leading up to Cloudburst.  I powered through, remembering it wasn’t as bad as it seemed and knowing that there was a bunch of ice waiting for me at the top.

*which is why this blog is ridiculously, ridiculously long

I popped out of the forest at mile 37.54, now back at 7,000 feet, and my crew immediately went ot work on cooling me down.  June draped a towel filled with ice water and particles of heaven over my back, and I sat for a moment to get down some Gatorade and Pringles.*  Again, everyone at the aid station told me how much better I looked than everyone else coming out of the canyone and that I was running a smart race.  I just told them I wasn’t trying to run myself retarded today… which interestingly enough, reminded me to inquire about Dom.  The word was that he’d had a rough morning, but was coming back alive.  I didn’t know exactly what this meant, but I knew he was out there suffering too.  As such, I got up, grabbed my new bottles and jogged right out of the aid station to the cheers of my family and friends.  I was looking forward to this next section – which was highly runnable on a little more forgiving terrain.
*Snacks of Champions

My amazing crew of Erin Maruoka, June Caseria and Peter Williams gets me ready for the next chapter of my journey.  @Cloudburst - mile 37.54  (photo: Kevin Chan)

On to Chapter Two...

Angeles Crest: Final Thoughts

F you, yucca.

This is not my usual entry.

First of all, it is actually an entry at all, with words and stuff, which is more than I’ve cared to post in the last few months.  But that’s where the similarities to my archive end.  See, normally I get lost in the experience of writing; spinning a cohesive story punctuated with a well thought out point.  I edit.  I add photos.  I work to create a little environment for you. 

But today, I don’t have a lot of time – yet I sure have a hell of a lot to say.  And it’s really important that I get it out before Sunday morning, when I cross the finish line of the 2011 Angeles Crest 100 Mile Endurance Run.

I’ve been wanting to run this race for awhile now, but respect the challenge too much to come into it without having the time, physical capacity and mental clarity to prepare for it properly.  Last year was a wash in all of the above respects and so the thought of entering never even crossed my mind.  But as my life began to shift and level heading into 2011, for the first time I felt wholly capable of rising to the challenge.  And so I set into motion, committing fully to training harder and more focused than ever before.

Basically every single weekend I was not out of town for another race, I spent training in the San Gabriel Mountains.  Through the winter months, I ran loops out of Chantry so many times that I’ve lost count.  I ran all the way up Upper Winter Creek for the first time ever in February, and then continued to do so every time since.  Two years ago, I could barely hike up the thing without completely breaking down.  I ran the 4,600 gain from Eaton Canyon to Mt. Wilson through sun, wind, hail and snow and lowered my split to the top each time.  I dragged my ass up Baldy, past the snowboarders at the notch and down into the abyss that is Lytle Creek… experiencing microclimate after microclimate and exploring a seldom touched are of wilderness.  Then I’d turn around, put my head down and focus on the snowy slog back up; legs and feet becoming stronger and stronger with each step.  Sure, it would have been easier to enjoy the California sunshine down in the Santa Monica range – but that wasn’t going to help me come July.  That wasn’t the absolute most I could be doing to prepare myself for seven months down the road.

In March, I completed my first race of the year.  Well, sort of.  I ran half of the Coyote Moon 100k, before being pulled off the course due to the blizzard I’d been running in for the past eight hours.  In the aftermath of the experience, I realized I’d been running the climbs and moving stronger than ever before.  Something was clicking.  In April, I went to Boston to run the most treasured marathon around – admittedly without any traditional speed training or road work, and definitely sans a proper taper.  I PR’d, while spending the last few miles alternately puking and peeing my pants.  Turns out I had been a little sick.

May brought a return to the high country and with it, what I consider my strongest month.  I was climbing 10-15k a week and running 80-100 miles no problem.  No injuries.  The elevation was a challenge at first, but within a few weeks, I was running strong, even over 8,000 feet.  At the last minute, I decided to jump into the Bishop High Sierra 50 miler, which is all run at elevation and contains a great deal of climbing.  I ran very comfortably and finished in the top, having managed some truly terrible stomach issues for the entire race.  Eating and drinking was a challenge, yet I forced the calories down until they literally would not be accepted.  My legs felt fresh the entire day, despite the fact that my kidneys shut down for a good 15 hours.  The next weekend, I capped off the month with an 85 mile Memorial Weekend on the AC course.  When I finished my final run on Monday, I was no longer afraid of Angeles Crest.

But just as the San Gabriels giveth, the San Gabriels taketh away.  The next weekend, I ran with a group from Wrightwood and we decided to go exploring down in Mine Gulch at the base of Baden Powell.  I fell into a yucca plant and my leg was immediately in excruciating pain with a knee rendered unbendable.  I couldn’t walk for days, and just like that – running was removed from my life. 

It was a full two weeks before I could run again, and even then it was slowly.  And before I had the chance to be appreciative, I was back in the emergency room.  The purple poodle dog bush on the course had been turned up into the air and I woke up one Monday to a swollen face with eyes that wouldn’t open and a throat that was swelling shut.  In short, I was fucking miserable without my running and I could feel all of my hard work slipping away.  It was not cool.

What happened next was surprising. 

I jumped back into training – only experiencing pain on the downhills, but running the climbs faster than ever.  My body was rested and refreshed.  Since then, I’ve been gradually building back up and managing the knee pain as much as possible, aided by physical therapy.  (Yes, I needed specialists and PT for a plant stabbing!)  I spent five days in the San Juans sleeping, running and loving the hell out of life at 10-13,000 feet.  I felt entirely comfortable.  I’ve tapered well.

In the past seven months, I’ve watched my body change and I’ve felt my strength grow.  I’ve run the majority of my miles completely alone, tracking splits and trying to shrink the distance between myself and the fearsome duo of Dom and Jorge (stay tuned people, it’s going to be a good race.)  I’ve opened my mind to new possibilities and I’ve harnessed my emotions on the trails.  I’ve cross trained, I’ve heat trained, I’ve trained at altitude, I’ve trained at high mileage.  I’ve run the shit out of some mountains.

So am I ready for the challenge at hand?  Am I ready to finally run the Angeles Crest 100?  The answer is that I am honestly as ready as I possibly can be.  Admittedly, my knee is still not 100%, but I really don’t anticipate it being a problem.  I can’t worry about the weeks that it held me back from training, because those weeks have passed.  They are over and gone and in retrospect, it was a very short time in the grand scheme of the work I’ve put in. 

As such, I will head up the Acorn Trail at 5am on Saturday morning with confidence in myself and the hard work I’ve put in. I’ll feel lighter than ever, with the ten pounds that has come off my frame in the process.  I’ll trust my instincts of where to run and where to hike, intrinsically understanding every twist and turn and bump of the course. I’ll eat, I’ll drink, I’ll salt and I’ll remember how much I want to be there, even when the dark places come.  I’ll maintain a razor focus on doing everything I can in every moment I can, which will include remembering to smile.  I’ll sing at the top of my lungs atop Baden Powell.  I’ll high five my niece and relish in the love of my family and crew.  I will give my honest and best effort at running the race in under 24 hours and I will have absolutely no regrets.

This is going to be fun.

Track me here: http://www.ac100.com/live/

Bib #92.

What I Learned From Getting Shanked in Prison

...the prison of my mind.

When I was young, I’d often accompany my dad on trips to the grocery store, mainly because I was completely irascible and literally could not stand being confined to rooms and chairs and things of that nature.  Unsurprisingly, my mom would always suggest that I buy some patience while I was there.  My over active body fostered an over active imagination, and I had myself thoroughly convinced that this product was conveniently located near the Kraft American Singles in the refrigerated aisle of my local Dierberg’s.  I guess that shit can spoil.

Now grown and firmly rooted in Southern California, I’ve found myself in the market for some good patience as of late.  Why, you say?  Well, because I am injured, and the only cure happens to be time. Unfortunately, I just can’t seem to find any patience.  I guess they don’t carry it at Ralph’s.

So first thing’s first:  how did I injure myself?  Well, it’s pretty typical actually.  I was viciously stabbed several times in the left knee.  By a yucca.  I can’t make these things up.  So, this apparently severely damaged the tissue around the puncture, as well as lacerated and bled out a bursa.  The result is a knee that cannot bend and me walking around with a cane.  I even stumped three doctors.  It’s all very House.

Gangster.

Next thing:  where in the hell did you do that?  The answer would be down in the treacherous depths of Vincent Gulch.  If you’ve never heard of that, good.  Stay on the AC course and do not follow Sean O’Brien and his maps from 1950.  Ah, I’m just kidding, Sean’s runs are always an adventure… but on this particular run, that adventure turned into a 12 hour, 40 mile bushwacking extravaganza that left me hobbling, shivering and climbing in the dark; muttering “I swear I’m still having fun!” under my breath and in between yelps of excrutiating pain.

Finally:  why did you jump into a yucca?  Those things are sharp!  OK, smartass – I know they are.  And I didn’t jump into it.  I fell while half climbing over a log/half balancing on a rock to avoid a mass of stinging nettle on one side and poison oak on the other.  Welcome to Vincent Gulch.

I guess the other thing you may have been wondering is where the world I have been?  No blogs for months, lots of changes and multiple races…. yet nothing to say, not even a race report.  Well that’s not exactly true – it’s more like I haven’t had a lick of time to write due to taking on some extra freelance work as well as kicking my training into a seriously high gear.*  I’ve been putting in some really stellar weeks as of late and have also begun taking hot ballet three days a week for cross-training (cardio ballet in a hot yoga room), which has been wildly successful for my core strength and flexibility.  Plus I love it.  More on that later though.  

* I’m only writing now because I’m injured and having nothing else to do.

I am either working or I am here and have no cell service.  Now you know.

So the point is that my training has been going really well.  The crux of this, which I would have written about but didn’t have time, was two weekends ago when the Memorial Day holiday afforded me the time both to reflect on my gratitude for our troops and for an extra session of beating myself up in the San Gabriels.  The weekend started scarily, with a 24 mile run that reeked of exhaustion from the Bishop High Sierra 50 miler which I had run just 6 days prior.  However, the succeeding day, I completed 34 miles with little to no trouble and ended feeling pretty much amazing.  For my final performance I went and ran another 27, in the middle of which I threw in a surprisingly fast climb over Williamson that even had Dom saying, “Damn.”  Then I suffered through Cooper Canyon and brought it home for an 85 mile weekend that shifted my perspective in a major way.  I was no longer afraid of Angeles Crest.

Stellar Crew of accomplices to said training block.

Coming off of Memorial weekend, I continued to push myself hard and reveled in how wonderfully my body was responding.  Nothing hurt.  Nothing ached.  Nothing nagged.  And I just kept pushing harder and harder.  I knew I could make it through another 3-4 weeks of exhausting days and I’d have truly given my all in this training block.  

You see, that’s why this whole yucca shanking was an exercise in really bad timing.  Because I haven’t been able to run for 10 days and that isn’t exactly working towards the aforementioned plan. Now, all things considered, it IS getting better.   I couldn’t walk without a cane for 4 days, then I still couldn’t walk well for two more.  Now I can walk normally, I’ve taken two ballet classes (albeit with some extremely lackluster plies) and as of today, I can walk down stairs!  The question is, will it completely heal soon enough and how much fitness have I lost?

Last Thursday, the doc said it could be another week or two, or even more.  After that, I broke down and cried and was in an altogether shitty state of things for the last couple days, especially the weekend.  I’m talking full on temper tantrum mode, back from the Kraft Singles days.  I’ve tried to look at the positives here:  hey, there’s no ligament or musculature damage!  Hey, I don’t even have to do anything and my amazing body is just going to heal itself!  Hey, there’s not likely going to be any lasting effects from the attack!  Yes, well I can’t run and it’s completely absurd that a plant has interrupted my training.  And so I wrath.

Needless to say, I can't exactly do this right now.

In the midst of this minor setback deemed national tragedy in my head, my incredibly thoughtful and supportive bf/bff has had to put up with an awful lot, yet he has been awfully wonderful to me.  Between driving up from the OC for multiple visits (perhaps to make sure I wasn’t breaking shit?) and not leaving me on a curb somewhere as I spent my weekend pouting that everyone else got to run and not me! – he’s been a real ace, let me tell you what.  In the midst of this raging, he also sent me a song which I’ve loved for a while but completely forgotten about.  I love the dude’s voice and the rolling melody, but what I really latch onto is the lyrics, namely this part:

We can shape, but can’t control these possibilities to grow

Weeds amongst the push and pull, waiting on the wind to take us…

"We Will All Be Changed" ~Seryn

Hmmm… yes.  Maybe we all just need to settle down here.  And by “we all,” I mean “me and all the crazy voices in my head.”  This situation is out of my control and I can’t decide that it’s necessarily going to turn out terribly with regards to AC or even my life in general.  I don’t get to make that choice.  But still, I never thought of myself as someone who would be lost without my running, and yet that is exactly how I feel.  Why am I acting like such a crazy person?

This got me thinking… I’ve had the chance to train with and therefore engage in lengthy conversation with many amazing runners, who also happen to be amazing people.  While out on a 30-40 mile run, there is room for many topics, to say the least, but I’ve noticed a common thread that binds us all.  We all seem to be in a constant battle of control and trying to accept that we can't control.... whether we want to admit it or not.  On one hand, we universally understand that we can't control the weather, the competition or even what happens on any given day.  Some days and some races are great for no reason; while others involve puking, bonking, a trip and fall or just altogether not going well.  

But through all this, we still have the control to go out and push ourselves each day.  Body and mind willing, we can test our endurance for that extra mile, stretch beyond our capabilities and drop the pace for a few minutes, charge one more mountain, all to give ourselves the best chance to be great come race day.  To go in with no regrets and confidence in the work we put in.  Or at least we think we do...

It's a fine line we run (and sometimes power-hike) between pushing ourselves to new heights or pushing a little too far, winding up injured.  When we do this, we know the line we've crossed, and soon we go back to the drawing board to try and see how far we can get next time.  While this is frustrating when we're dealing with these issues (tendonitis, IT band stuff, calf strains, pulling a hammy, etc.), we know we did it to ourselves.  We took it a little too far, and though we don't want to admit it, we broke.  We're still in “control,” though.

What I never considered was that something else could cause me to be unable to run.  Falling down the stairs, a car accident, fuck, a meteor or rogue piece of an airplane could fall on my head (that's actually an unrealistic paranoia of mine).... things happen.  I should know, as I was once sidelined for a year from a car accident that tore my illiopsoas.  It was entirely plausible that something completely ridiculous could happen and take that ability to push myself, to train for my goal, away.  And it did.

I've been unable to handle that, because I've been unable to let go of this control I've had over my body and my training and the extreme high I get off of surprising myself with a particularly high mileage weekend or a great split over Williamson.  Breakthroughs as a result of hard work.  And now theres a breakdown as a result of nothing.  It just happened.  It just was.  Goddamn yucca.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I get it.... I am waiting for the wind to take me, because that is all I can do.  And in the meantime, I can focus on improving my ability to handle and maintain happiness through setbacks like these.  As much as I want to believe it sometimes, running is not all there is, and I still have the responsibility and desire to be the best person I can be with regards to my character and interpersonal relationships. I was a real bear this weekend, and I have no right to bring the energy down just because I am mad at a particularly spiny piece of foliage.  Do I wish this on anyone?  Well….. there’s this one bi –  No, for real.  I don’t.  Accordingly, I need to stop making it other people’s problem, especially the one who I know would do anything to make it go away if he could.  So that is what I will focus on training right now.  

Even if I have to sit still, I don't have to be still.

What will emerge post-shanking?  Only time will tell...