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...

One Bad Mamma Jamma: C2M 2011

March 18-20, 2011. Happy birthday to me.


You don’t by chance have your ski goggles in the trunk, do you?

Are you serious?

Yes. Yes I am.

And with that, I give you my tale of two moons, or in my case, half of one…

Moon One:  Thacher Field

The things that initially drew me to Coyote Two Moon were the following:

1.  I didn’t get into Miwok.

2.  It fit in my schedule

3.  It was on my birthday

4.  The amount of climbing was absurd (19k for the 100k; 27k for the 100mi) and therefore would be perfect prep for AC

And most importantly:

5.  It was an ultra that removed the pressure of a “race” environment, and left you with the pure, raw fun of taking on an insanely hard challenge.

(Also notable, there was beer and whisky at the aid stations).

Facts stated, the thought of running with a bunch of people who were only out there to simply make the most of the time spent between and under moons excited and motivated me greatly.  And as I rolled into Ventura Thursday night for the bowling tournament, I could see that I would not soon be disappointed.  There were beers. There were costumes. There was laughter that echoed down the lanes.  And there was no talk of who set what record on what course or what the competition looked like for the weekend’s proceedings.  I, myself, enjoyed a delicious Sierra Nevada as team Keyhole Moonshine dominated alley three.  And by “dominated” I mean… well… let’s just say, I hope our running skills would prove far superior to those in any way related to the sport of bowling.

I used to play softball. (pic by H'ard)

Team Keyhole Moonshine salutes an epic display of bowling excellence. (pic unapologetically stolen from Andy K)

The fun continued the next morning, as friends Catra, Andy (and Rocky) took me for a birthday coffee before the briefing/lunch in Ojai.  I hadn’t told anyone it was my anniversary of being born, mainly because I didn’t really think it was important, but as Catra reminded me:  “Every birthday is a big one. It’s another day you’re alive.”  Yet another reason why I love these races – there’s not any other place with any other people I’d rather be on my 28th big one. 

At the briefing, I enjoyed a delicious spread of food from Boccali’s and some high-quality entertainment from the Buffoon, RD Chris Scott, and the musically inclined Pata-poochies.  It was a terribly beautiful day, which made it entirely impossible for my mind to comprehend the severe weather warnings that were in effect for the rest of the weekend.  And so I chose not to comprehend and continue believing that all the gear I had packed as a result of said warnings was going to be total overkill.  Even still, I grabbed one more layer when I drove back to LA to pick up Dom.  One bout of hypothermia might not teach you a lesson, but a second that results in a DNF certainly will.  As a result, I don’t F around when there are snowflakes on my iPhone.

We got back to Thacher just as the 9pm group was leaving to begin their adventure and got to work setting up our tent.  Here’s one of the other awesome things about Coyote Two Moon:  they stagger the start based on your relative ability to complete the course, making it so that everyone finishes around the same time Sunday morning, and in essence, everyone has to fight the cutoffs.  Plus, given the design of the course, no one would really ever be out there “alone,” so to speak.  The course climbs up to “the ridge” (of the Nordhoff variety) and the remainder of the adventure  is spent navigating out-and-backs on the trails that spider off the spine.  This keeps you crossing paths with other runners for the duration of your experience, which is particularly great, considering that high-fives, smiles and coyote calls are my favorite.  As we climbed into the tent, I was beginning to get very excited for the next day’s proceedings, but knew that I needed to get an excellent night’s rest if I were to fight the sleepies through the second moon.  In an act of impeccable timing, the rain began to fall just as we snuggled in.

Our beautiful weekend getaway, pre-flooding.

I slept like a rock on the grassy field, and was awoken only by the start of the other groups about every 3 hours.  The rain had stopped and though overcast, the day was nice.  We hit up the grocery store and then enjoyed a relaxing morning of cheering for the other groups, playing a one-on-one game of soccer and then even taking a little nap.  Before getting to work, we headed back to town to hit up a little Vegan Café for lunch, as my tummy can’t process any sort of complex food items before a big run.  As such, I enjoyed the most delicious brown rice I have ever had, which I mixed with some avocado and a little hummus.  As soon as I sunk my teeth in, the rain began to fall once again.  I was really hoping not to have to start in the rain, but oh well, so it would be.

At 3 pm, I lined up on the field with 11 other Olympic hopefuls and began the serious process of warming up.  i.e. standing around talking and laughing.  Chris eventually sent us on our way, and we began by kicking a soccer ball around the field before hitting the trail.  I was liking this already.

The look on my face is what they call, "foreshadowing."

The 3pm start group makes a mad dash off the starting line - vying for placement up Horn Canyon

Now, I had looked at the elevation of this course and despite the resounding spirit of general revelry, was fully prepared to have it hurt.  The climbs seemed similar in nature to the work I had been doing out in the San Gabriels, and so I figured I would be able to run pretty well at the beginning – and then things might get a little hairy around 40 miles or so.  Due both to the time of night and the fact that I’d never climbed 19,000 feet in one set.  However, this was not the case.  Within an hour, I was heavy and hurting and reduced to a hike.  I shuffled where I could, but it was a struggle, and I became very, very scared that today was going to be a hell of a lot more than I bargained for.  Oh well.  

And such, that became the theme of the run.

I put my head down and powered through the 4 mile, 3,000 foot climb, and before I knew it I had reached the ridge. I was greeted by my first round of amazing volunteers at Ridge Junction, where I refilled, ate some chips and was instructed to draw a card.  Some really f'd up game of poker?  I can get behind that.  Wondering what I would be contending with for the next 7 miles and only understanding that I had climbed to the top of something, I casually struck up a conversation with one of the volunteers, who all seem to know the course because they’ve run it themselves:

I’ve got 7 until the next aid – it’s pretty much all downhill right?

Well yeah – it’s pretty flat. You just climb about 1,000 feet – you know, just rollers though. And then you drop like 2,000 in 2.

These people know how to party.

I continued climbing up the ridge, catching up to a few other dudes from my start group and enjoying a little chat before moving on. Though we rolled along, the climbs were much less steep and my body had finally relaxed into the task at hand.  Mind you, it was freaking freezing and sleeting up there, but I was really happy to be running smoothly, so I accepted the cold.  Of course, not without noting that it was only 4 something in the afternoon and that business was going to get a great deal messier when the sun went down.  Oh well. I’d deal with that then.

Cruising right along.  Still resolved that this was all going to blow over.

Yeah. It's cold. But how can you complain?!

The descent into Rose Valley was steep, but insanely beautiful. I dropped out of the clouds and was treated to an absolutely amazing vista that certainly kept me enjoying the late afternoon rather than foolishly hammering a downhill at mile 10.  The lower I dropped, the warmer and less windy it became, which was also extremely nice. Before long, I rolled into the campsite and set about refilling my pockets with the help of Dom and Peter's friend that I stole, Henry.  I also grabbed a Buff so the air wouldn’t continue the shivving of my bronchi on the ridge. Henry told me the climb should take me about an hour and to get ready for a hike.

Somewhere around Rose Valley

The incentive for running fast today was not to win. It was to get the hell off the ridge.

On the road again...

I did, but a funny thing happened: it only took me 40 minutes. My legs had somehow understood that what we would be doing today was climbing mountains. And my legs really hate to walk. Accordingly, I surprised myself by running most of the 1,000 ft per mile climb (albeit, at a rate I was still passed by a power hiking Jeff Browning) and then began the process of turning  into a popsicle on the ridge once again. Fortunately, the turnoff to Howard Creek came quickly and I began diving down to lower elevations and more fun.  As I descended, the sleet turned into snow, which only seemed to get heavier as the minutes clicked by.  I ran strong and made my last attempts at keeping my feet dry through the deep mud puddles forming on the single track. Given the state of things, I have no idea why I was actually attempting to do this, but I guess I had to try.  I waited until the last possible minute and clicked on my headlamp about a mile out of the aid station.  

By the time I reached Howard Creek, the snow went from a little flurry to a legit situation.  Big flakes were dropping and sticking, and I had already made up my mind to put on a few more layers.  I changed into windstopper gloves, piled on Moeben UV 50 fleece tights, and at Dom’s suggestion, threw on my brand new official C2M Patagonia PrimaLoft liner* under my NorthFace Goretex Circadian Paclite shell.  Word was coming in from the ridge that it was getting seriously nasty up there, and Dom was convinced that he was not going to see me get hypothermia for a third time.  Accordingly, I agreed to fill my pockets with more solid food as well, all the while enjoying a nice disco dance party hosted by the exceedingly groovy volunteers. Suited up and armed for battle, I headed out into the night.

*Thank-you George! I love!

Yep.

Here is where things got interesting.  At first, I thought I was getting sleepy and downed a caffeinated gel.  Now this was exceedingly troublesome considering it was only 8:30 pm and I was running pretty hard.  Why in the hell was I getting tired already?  Probably because I wasn’t tired.  I was dizzy.  The combination of a dark night and a narrow column of light eminating from my head, only illuminating the fuzzy madness of a blinding snowstorm was basically hypnotizing me.  Like for real.  My only resolve was to stop about every 10 minutes, switch off my headlamp and do that thing you do when you’re either drunk or think you might have a concussion, where you follow your fingers from your temples until they meet together in front of you.  In retrospect, I’m kind of disturbed by how much fun I was still having.

I quickly rolled into Gridley Top where I found a bunch of barnyard animals who convinced me to sit and eat some warm soup before heading down to Cozy Dell, aka Cozy Hell… whatever that means.  Needing to break out of my legitimate hypnotic trance, Gretchen treated me to some Peep Coffee which basically turned my life around.  I went from being like, “wow. This is kind of weird.” To “F YOU BLIZZARD! I’M GOING TO OWN YOU AND THE WHITE HORSE YOU CAME IN ON!  AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”  And with that, I bolted out of my chair and back into the serious situation waiting for me outside of the tent.  But not without trying to miss the turn back onto the ridge.  The last thing I heard was the Buffoon say:

This isn’t going to be good.

The next few miles are what I consider the worst possible conditions I have ever run in or hope to ever run in again.  The half snow/half ice was stinging the hell out of my face, thanks to 40mph gusts and I couldn’t even really open my eyes.  I was resorted to run hugging the left side of the trail so as not to miss the Pratt Trail connector – which I had no idea where it was located.  I ran up, I ran down, the snow was accumulating by the minute.  And I was euphoric.  For the next two hours I sang the only song stuck in my head as I danced along the frozen trail – which was interesting since I only knew about ¼ of the words.  Peep Coffee = Catchy pop music.  Now recognizing the irony of singing about being a Hollywood diva who is “cooler than you,” all the while soaked through with rain and mud and running through a blizzard, only makes me wish I had brought a video camera.

Eventually, I spotted the Pratt connector and began the long decent down to Cozy Dell.  Those I passed on their way back up looked entirely wrecked and many asked me if Chris was letting people continue.  I thought that was weird, and my only response was, “yeah, it’s pretty nasty up there, but it’s not that bad.” After a few miles, I hit a couple slippery, muddy patches and thought to myself, “oh, that must be the mud they were talking about.  It’s not that bad either.”  

Hahaha.  Hahahahahaha.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAA.  HAHA. Hahahahahahaaa. Haha. Ha. Ha.

What happened next was full on ridiculous.  For the last two miles, the mud was so slick and so nasty that I basically just slid and prayed.  And that was my legitimate plan for not ending up with a broken ankle or broken face.  I put my handhelds on my wrists like bracelets and grabbed trees and grass and rocks where I could to steady myself.  It was still snowing like the dickens and I couldn’t run very much in the given situation, but I wasn’t concerned at all. In fact, I was pretty darned pleased with the fact that I was not cold at all and my legs felt amazing.  Downright spritely, in fact.  At some point however, I began to realize that while I was doing an excellent job of getting myself safely down the mudslides, going back up was going to be an entirely different affair.  And I had to go back up.  Oh well, I thought.  I’d signed up for a challenge – and challenge after challenge was exactly what I was getting.  About a half mile from the aid station, the two Patagonia guys who had passed me on the way down gave warning that Dom was really mad at me because I was taking too long to get down Pratt.  Though I knew they were joking, I did start to feel bad, as history precedes me and Dom had every right to worry about me out there running through a blizzard all alone.  I pressed on and rolled into Cozy Dell, now fully understood as Cozy Hell, and was greeted by a mustached man who was very glad to see me.  Smiling nonetheless.

I was ushered under the collapsing and leaking tent and the volunteers set about getting me some hot soup and coffee.  The first thing Dom asked me was if I was okay.  The second thing was if I really wanted to go back out there.  The conditions were really, really bad and worsening by the minute and at this point it was a call on my safety rather than my will.  He told me that many had dropped here and that what I had already gone through was impressive enough.  My response was to ask him to find his ski goggles in the trunk.  I was going to need them to find my way on that ridge once I got back up there.

I was overwhelmed with the response I was given there.  Sada and Kathy made sure I had enough calories, Dom checked my gear and another girl out there crewing her boyfriend offered me her rain shell in the event mine had soaked through.  She assured me it would be there at Gridley Bottom for me, as Dom had offered the same to her boyfriend.  What I was about to do was a little crazy, yet I had the full support of the volunteers and crew who were out there suffering right along with me.  And for what?  TO HELP ME ACHIEVE MY GOALS. I would have thought them crazy, would I not have done the very same thing.  And enjoyed the hell out of it.

As I prepared to step back out into the storm, a dark figure approached the tent.  His words were stern:

No one is going back up that mountain.

And with that, the ordeal was over.  There was no arguing.  There was no negotiating.  I had gone a bit over 30 miles and that would be all.  Considering that my legitimate plan for getting back out of Cozy Dell was two sticks, my hands and knees and a pair of ski goggles, I think it may have been a good call.

NAF:  Not Allowed to Finish

Only the “ordeal” was not over at all.

Dom and I quickly gathered our things and headed back to Thacher to check if our tent was still holding up.  Amazingly, the inside was dry and so we piled in, stripped off the layers of wetness and mowed through some chips and hummus. Our plan was to get a little rest, waiting out the storm before driving back to LA and before long, I was sound asleep.  But somewhere around 4:30 am I realized that I was wet again. That was probably because the field was flooding and we were now sleeping in a puddle. Apparently, Dom had already been dealing with this for an hour, as he was blocking the wind for me and also pad-less, as he’d given his to me.  Since it was still quite dark and we didn’t want to lose any of our gear, we decided to try and wait it out until 6:30/7ish when there was enough light in the sky to get the hell out of there.  It was impossible to sleep at this point, so we did the only thing we could: sat there and laughed.  Oh well.

At the first spark of light, we began the mad dash of packing up and running to the car.  It was still pouring and everything we owned was entirely soaked through, not to mention the start/finish area tent was completely collapsed.  To make matters awesome, I was running around half naked.  As we finally hit the road and began thawing out, I was a little sad that we’d had to leave on these terms and that over competitive bitch Mother Nature had won.  But I guess that by sheer statistics related to the amount of time I spend racing her, it was bound to happen.  And I had actually had a lot of fun and learned a lot of valuable lessons in my attempt to give her a run for her money.

Before hitting the showers, we decided to put our soaked through jackets back on and run out to San Vicente to cheer on our friends running the LA marathon in the downpour.  Even though I’d had to come home earlier than I wanted, at least I got to be a part of so many PRs on another epic day.  At the end of the weekend, I ended up with the general feeling not of achievement but of connectedness – and for that I believe the 2011 running of the Coyote Two Moon was a huge and raving success.

Enjoying the beautiful LA weather

END NOTES:

• I got to run 30ish miles and climb about 8k', so that was cool.
• This was the most fun I've ever had in the worst conditions I've ever run.
• Thank-you to the volunteers who had it even worse than the runners out there, some having to abandon the stations and hike down. I can't wait to help every one of you at a race someday as well.
• Thank-you to Dom for spending my birthday weekend taking care of me, and making what should have been a miserable situation one of the most fun adventures ever.

February: Breakdowns and Breakthroughs

I like math.

With math, subjectivity is checked at the door and all that’s left are the cold-hard provable facts. The numbers never lie.

Sounds weird coming from someone whose entire professional life is centered around thoughts, opinions and creativity and whose repertoire of buzz-words include gems like insights and ideation. But I digress, this simply isn’t about work and ideas. It’s about running and the facts. However, just as I can apply logic to a creative profession (let’s be honest, at the end of the day, it’s not about the “best” idea; it’s about “who” is highest on the food chain and bowing to their opinion), I can also allow subjectivity to creep into my training. I begin to form opinions on what I am and am not capable of.

Allow me to elaborate a little on where my head is at right about now. Two weeks ago, I was basically amped. I’d been putting in solid training weeks all year and I felt great. I was completing super challenging runs with little to no trouble, climbing 5-7k back-to-back, at elevation every weekend and even ran every step from Chantry to Mt. Wilson for the first time ever (after a 22 mile day with 7k of ups). I saw progress. I felt amazing. And while I hadn’t yet swiped my Visa with the optometrist, these new rose-colored glasses were pretty much the shit.

Living and loving life 10 mi above the city.

Then came the sickness. The devil filled my lungs with nastiness and tried to break me with a fever twice. I kept training, but my mileage was low and I felt terrible. The low point was probably last Saturday when a fever had me soaked in sweat and dizzy only 2 miles out of Eaton, resulting in me only running four miles and then becoming disoriented in the middle of a RiteAid. I now own pillow pets and a yellow notebook.

Last week was sluggish and hard and I looked forward to 0 runs, but was optimistic heading into the weekend, even though the weather reports called for freezing temps, hail and snow levels down to 500 feet. This forecast didn’t entirely disappoint, which is how I found myself with numb extremities on the top of Mt. Wilson Saturday afternoon. The run/freeze/snow slog pretty much destroyed me and I spent much of my night writhing about the floor like a fish out of water. A fish in pain. Sunday morning, as we arrived back at Eaton (since Chantry was closed due to a landslide) I welled up with tears. There was not one part of me that wanted to get out there and run up a 4600 foot mountain. I wanted to curl up with the pillow pets in the back seat and sleep the day away. Only, not really…

Climbing into a snowstorm in the sun.

You see, I was completely present to the fact that I was not injured. I was no longer sick. I was just really, really freaking tired and arguably a little beat down – but that was no excuse not to run. This was my moment to either give in where most would justify that they should, or to go out fighting and climb another mountain. It was here that I would decide if I was serious about my AC goals or if I was just talking a mean game. Because let’s be honest, it’s easy to train hard when you feel great and are high out of your mind on life. But it’s training hard through the times of greatest mental and physical fatigue that define the truly committed.

The interesting thing though, was as I started my run,* I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be that person. Did I really want to allow running to start ruling a larger majority of my life? Did I want to be that athlete who ran even when it wasn’t fun anymore? Furthermore, was there even a point for me? Why was I completely breaking down over a weekend that was hard, no doubt, but nothing compared to what the top runners in this sport do to achieve their goals? Maybe it just isn’t in the cards for me. Maybe no matter how hard I work, I just don’t have the talent. Maybe I’m just not cut out for running a mountain 100.

*Go big or go home right?

Yeah. Maybe not.

That is reality. But what I quickly came to grips with was that the possibility of coming up short was not going to stop me from trying. I blew past my first planned turnaround point and continued up, up, up. My legs felt like I was at mile 60, which I was beginning to view as a good thing. Simulation. As I reached the turnoff to Idlehour, I thought, why not use this as an opportunity to pretend I’m at mile 84? Let’s go climb this godforsaken shit.

The canyon was pretty much wrecked from the storms we’ve had over the past few weeks, and I spent an unfortunate amount of time climbing over, through and around downed trees and shimmying/dancing across the creek turned raging river crossings at the bottom. I hit deep-ish snow about a mile up the climb/2 miles from Sam Merrill and shuddered at the thought of the numbing experience atop Wilson the day before. But I had a better jacket today and I felt fine as I continued climbing to my turnaround point. I was now officially on autopilot, and I think I even smiled a couple times. Hell, I was actually starting to enjoy this.

Heading back into Idlehour, I knew I had one more climb and then I’d just have to suffer through a quad-busting decent. But then I’d be done and would have completed 22 miles on a day I thought I’d only make it 7… if that. Pretty motivating. Actually, it was motivating enough to keep me running the whole 2,000 feet in 3 mi climb – a simple act that had me shocked at myself about a quarter from the top. Even though I was going through a rough spot in my training, I hadn’t completely broken myself. In short, I was proving that this type of mileage – more specifically the amount of climbing I was doing was sustainable.

Wilson Toll Rd out of Eaton - another crazy storm a brewin' in the distance.

OK, now I was officially running happy. (Er… I mean loyal to the sport.) I blew back through Henninger and down the steep descent to Eaton, singing and flying. Two of my favorite things. Within a mile from the car, Dom caught up with me, running back out to see where the girl who didn’t think she could run today had gone. He reminded me again of my declared interest: persistence over time. For me, this process is not about being fast for a quick moment. It’s about being consistent and strong for the long haul. Powering through the climb at mile 83.75, as I did at mile 9.3. And for that, days exactly like this were necessary.

Days where 24 hours later, while doing the math on my lunch break, I realized I had still put in a completely solid effort even though I felt weak and crappy. Despite wrecked legs, a few pee breaks, lots of climbing around trees and streams, snow, and an arguably bad attitude, I had still run the Idlehour section a few minutes under the women’s CR pace. No matter how down on myself I wanted to be, those numbers were bitch slapping me back to reality. Because while a person can lie to me to make me feel better, math can not. And math was saying I had done alright.

I decided to take my first day completely off of running all year on Monday. I needed to let both my mind and body reset, and most importantly, have a moment to understand what was about to happen. I was now very clear that I was very serious about my goal, and what that means to me is this:

Training hard when I feel great. Training hard when I’m tired. Snapping out of defeatist attitudes. Not allowing obsession to turn into injury.

It's a fine line between breaking down and breaking apart. I’ll continue to run that line until I break through.

When I say that I have a mountain to climb, it's always both metaphorical and physical. On this day, my mountain was ominous as hell.

February was a short month, both literally and mathematically. I was sick for the second half and as much as I tried not to let it affect my training, it obviously did. Both my mileage and climbing were lower than I’d have liked, but I’m accepting it for what it is, and am actually happy that I ended with a solid weekend of ascent. In short, I think February was entirely necessary to move me along mentally and responsibly in my training. Here are the incredibly loyal, honest as hell numbers:

234 miles

42,000 ft ascent

45:37 running time

0 days without poison oak

That puts the totals for the year at: 561 miles, 102,625 feet of climbing, 108:55 hours of running and 0 days without poison oak.

Heading into March, I need to be as honest with myself as the math is:

1. While my weekends have been awesome, I am not being consistent enough during the week. I think I’d be better to be running at least 40 miles M-F, and right now I tend to only run 25-30.

2. I also need to focus on core work. I’ve been doing a bit of ballet in my living room, but to be honest, I haven’t done a crunch in ages. I’m planning on rocking my free week at a hot yoga place the week after C2M (so I have time to get my no-money’s worth) which also offers ballet and core classes in a heated room. If I like it, I plan to invest and hope it will help take care of this area of my training that is lacking.

Moving right along, I’ll keep the mileage consistent with nothing too crazy leading up to the C2M 100k fun run mid-month. The plan is to follow the “race” with a three week build and then one week taper for Boston, where I will see how fast I can run a road marathon off of purely mountain 100 training. I like experiments.

FINALLY, seeing that the theme of February seemed to be Wilson ascents, here are some classics from some amazing days with amazing friends...

Running a snow-covered UWC, a week after charging up in the heat. Southern California is weird.

Always time for a good snowball fight.

Our favorite brothers from Arizona join us on a truly epic day.

Wilson summits are best followed by whiskey and kareoke. Fact.

Deepest powder I've ever encountered up top.

....and then they went numb.