Two Cool Things

I know I've not yet completed my AC race report… which was 2 months ago. Yikes.  But, considering that that story has turned into an epic work of non-fiction, I've decided to take a quick break to post some more relevant, timely and exciting news.  

1.  I'm now running for New Balance!

This is super exciting to me for a variety of reasons.  The main being that over the past few years, their minimal line has helped to completely transform my running.  The R&D they are putting into their trail (namely minimal trail) shoes is like no other company out there and I am excited and honored to start being a part of it.  

If you've followed this blog for some time, you may note that I did run for another shoe company for a number of years.  During this time, I would still experiment with other shoes on the market for comparison purposes in everyone's search to find/create the perfect shoe.  When New Balance created the WT100, the gravitational pull could not be ignored.  In short, my feet fell in love.

Elissa and I flying down from the high country in our
WT101's.
(photo:  Dominic Grossman)

While I definitely consider myself a more minimal runner, it has become important to me to build an arsenal of shoes to train and race in.  Just as I need to vary my workouts to see the max benefit - so do I with what is on my feet.  Most days call for the WT101, others work in the Minimus.  Road runs and trail runs involving a lot of steep downhill firewood are done in the RC1400.  Soft sand runs and grass striders are done barefoot.  A flat, slow recovery day even works in the 890s, which is about as much of a heel as I'll ever go.  I can feel what my feet and body are calling for, and fortunately, New Balance has got an answer for me at every stage of my building up and breaking down.

The two recent additions to the New Balance Outdoor
Ambassador team @ Mt. Baldy Race to the Top
(cancelled mid-race due to weather)
photo:  Andy Noise

On a more emotional level, representing New Balance is special to me as an old pair of 760-somethings in a narrow width were my first "real" running shoes back when I started running cross-country in high school.  The very first pair were a set of mismatched size Reeboks from an outlet store in the Ozarks… which is why I say "real" pair with the NBs.  I've had about 16 pairs of the things over the last 13 years, and they've seen me through all sorts of running excitement and accomplishments.  I always try to emulate that first year of running - where I knew no boundaries and truly believed I could do anything.  Sometimes that's hard with all the ups and downs I've experienced, but slipping into a pair of kicks with a nice crisp N on the side is a good reminder of where I started and that unquenchable thirst for greatness. 

So basically, I can sum this all up by saying I don't believe in simply slapping a logo across your chest and getting free product if the product itself does not work for you.  In short, New Balance works for me.  It works really well.  And I'm stoked that they believe in me and my commitment to the sport enough to help support my efforts in making excellent happen.  And I'm getting on that as we speak….

This brings me to exciting thing #2:

I won a race!

I haven't won a race since high-school cross-country, so this is pretty cool.  It wasn't just my first ultra win; it was my first win in a very, very long time.  And the best part is, it was a last minute entry into a situation that was designed simply to kick-start my confidence into taking on higher mileage training again.  More on that:

Since finishing Angeles Crest with a nice, large swollen mass on my left knee; I've been purposefully timid in my reintroduction to ultrarunning.  I've sworn to myself that I would not race again until I was back to 100%, but also that I would continue to do as much as I could since I believe in active recovery for just about everything.  That has resulted in me spending every meeting at work digging my thumb into the large ball of scar tissue in my knee to work on dissipating it, and lots of running, stretching and strengthening.  I'm proud to report that it IS getting better.  But I have been dissuaded over the past few months by anything really long and with long downhills.  The pain comes back and I freak out that my body is not yet ready to handle the effort to train for and race the 100 mile distance.  And after a largely botched attempt, that is really what I want to do right now.

I was looking forward to crewing and pacing my amazing friend, Erin Maruoka, in running her first 100 miler at Rio del Lago.  She'd accompanied me during some very dark (both physically and metaphorically) miles during AC and I couldn't wait to return the favor.  Unfortunately, the Marocket came down with a nasty injury and on Tuesday made the responsible call to wait to run 100 miles when her body was ready.  The following few days went like this:  On Wednesday, I contacted our friend Lukas, the Pride of Slovakia, who was also running his first 100 to see if he'd like an extra crew member - since I was already going to be riding up with him on Friday and had the day off.  He thought it was a good idea to add, as he said, "a woman's touch" to the mix of very fast and very competitive boys, so that was done.  Then on Thursday, I got a wild idea:  maybe I should run the race?  No, no… running 100 miles would be an entirely foolish idea.  But wait.  There's a 50k….

After less than an hour of contemplation, I was registered.  A low-pressure 50k seemed to be just what I needed to get my confidence back and test where my body was.  Plus, while the course was hilly, it was all rollers - so there would be no long, hard-packed fire roads to destroy my knee.  After the Baldy Race to the Top was called off 2 mi from the summit (due to lightning and possible hypothermia) a few days prior, I was hungry for a race.

Dom, Lukas and I drove up Friday morning - after only a few hours of sleep, thanks to seeing these guys down in Orange County.  We immediately noticed how incredibly hot and muggy it was outside, and I was immediately thankful I wasn't the one running 100 miles the next day.  I was still running 31 miles…. but I kept forgetting that.  I was too wrapped up in the excitement of preparing Lukas for his first 100 mile adventure.  And laughing at the antics occurring in an Olive Garden, thanks to a four beer deep Tyler Olson and an encouraging Dominic Grossman.  

Team Lukas:  Tyler, Ankur, me, Mighty Mouse and Dom
Personally, I like the variant display of shoes - Newtons,
Toms, WT101s, Hokas and MT101s.
photo:  Tyler Olson

The next morning we rose early to make the 5am 100 mile start.  We saw them off and 2 miles in, and then the boys took off for a long and fun day of chasing Lukas around the lake.  I hung out for an hour, followed by an anticlimactic "go," signaling that I must start running.   A few guys took off immediately, as guys often do, and I settled into a solid and effortless 7:30 pace along the bike path.  It was still dark, but I was already sweating.  This was going to be fun.  

After about a mile, a ponytail went blowing past me to take the lead.  Mind you, I was still clipping along at that sub-8 pace for a 50k.  I knew there was absolutely no reason to give chase, so I let her go and enjoyed the easy, gradual downhill on the bike path to the turnaround.  Even still, I was already looking forward to being done with the concrete, so I was delighted when that turnaround point came.  As I doubled back, I couldn't help but size up my competition - even though I had vowed that this was only a race with myself and to test my current fitness level.  I couldn't help it.  And actually, it was a good sign that I still had a little fire in me.

When we hit the first hill on the way back, the girl from mile 1 slowed to a walk and I cruised past never to see her again.  I later found out she was only 15 years old!  Running an ultra!  AND it wasn't her first.  Crazy, seeing as though I didn't even know this shit existed when I was 15.  Mad, MAD props to Ms. Sarah Neal for being awesome.  

I crossed the levee to the other side of the lake feeling pretty good and took stock of the beach that I would be visiting in a few hours for a heavenly post race swim.  The air was sticky and I was already looking forward to that.  As I rolled along the trail next to the lake, I was treated to an absolutely stunning sunrise over the hills…. a flash of fiery red cutting through the morning clouds and reflecting off the water.  I was immediately glad I decided to do this.  Epic sunrises signal amazing adventures ahead, and that was exactly what I needed.

I quickly jammed through the first aid station, Twin Rocks, and begun my first go with the 'meat grinder' -  a delicious 6 mile section which Lukas and Jimmy would get to traverse 4 times.  Now, my first experience with this section was, "Really?  This is not bad at all.  Some rolling up and down.  A few technical sections.  Kinda rocky.  A few big uneven steps.  Eh."  Actually, I was kind of savoring in the whole "not as bad as I thought mantra" for the whole thing.  I thought I might hurt the whole time.  I thought I'd be running slower.  I thought the heat would be worse.  But none of these things were the case, and I was running pretty strong.  Even pushing it a bit.

As I got to the next aid station, Horseshoe Bar, the heat was definitely starting to rise and I looked forward to getting some ice in my bottles.  I also got a little unplanned 2 1/2 minute break here, as I think the two volunteers here were used to the more relaxed visits from the 100 milers and 100k-ers.  Oh well, they were super nice and it was nice to have a little conversation, as I'd been running alone all day.  Once filled, I took off for Rattlesnake - which would be mile 17.5 and my turnaround point.  I couldn't believe I was already almost halfway done and I was still running at a really great pace both up and down the hills.  Freaking sweet.  With the heat, the hills and my current state of rehabilitation, I reasoned that a sub 5 hour finish would be an A goal for the day - but as long as I was done by noon, I'd be happy.  The way things were looking, I was going to far surpass that goal and if I really wanted to explore where my red line was, I may even be able to crack a PR at the distance.  

I had begun passing some 100kers by this point and again, it was nice to see some other folks, bust out some high fives and altogether keep the energy rolling.  The heat was now in full swing and as I hit the exposed, dusty sections of the trail, I could feel it bearing down.  I only hoped that my stomach would not go south if I continued to push.  I had broken a few cardinal rules in the racing/nutrition department:  1.  never try anything new; and 2. especially don't try any new food.  So I already had that going for me.  BUT, I have to say, my little experiment was pretty much the best idea ever, because this is what I came up with:

Hydropak Softflask

Genius setup for speed

I call it the Moo Cow System.  Double the spouts for double the fun!  The system consists of a Hydropak gel softflask and my trusty Amphipod handhelds.  Normally, I can only fit 4 gels max in each zippered pouch and getting them in and out when stuffed to the gills is a challenge.  Especially when there are rocks to stumble on and trees to run into when you're not paying attention.  BUT, with the soft flask, I reasoned that I could load in 5 gels and rig it up so that I'd never have to fumble with wrappers.  This brought me to experiment number 2:  I normally use GU, simply because it never fails me.  Partially because the consistency is thinner than GU and would more easily flow through the valve, and partially because I had not consumed a GU since AC, where I ate roughly 57 of them, I decided to try Powergel instead.  Dom uses it and it hasn't killed him yet, so I reasoned that this would be an OK thing to do.  Let me just tell you, the results were astounding.  I took two pulls from the flask every 20 minutes, never fumbling with a wrapper and never breaking stride.  My only regret was only having purchased one softflask, so that eventually I had to duck into my traditional supply of GU packets.  Needless to say, I will be rigging up both my bottles like this for all future races.  Now if I could only find a solution for more easily popping my Saltstick.  I do have an idea on that, but it has yet to be engineered.  Stay tuned.

Same Rattlesnake Bar - post-race crewing Lukas, now
in the lead of the 100mi, never to be caught
(photo:  Dominic Grossman)

OK, miracle invention aside, back to the race.  The heat was up, my stomach was fine, my legs felt great and I was approaching the turnaround at Rattlesnake.  This was exciting, given that soon I'd see where the four guys up ahead of me were and see if I could work on picking any of them off.  Because that would be fun.  I soon discovered that the lead guy was way out front and uncatchable, the next two were maybe a possibility if I really started burning it and fourth was only a few minutes ahead.  I thought with any luck I might be able to catch at least one of them, but I wasn't going to burn myself out trying.  There wasn't really much point to that, considering that I wanted this race to begin a really solid block of training to build me back up to 100 mile weeks.  At the turnaround I decided to skip the refill, given that I was carrying two bottles and really only needed one and set into chase.  There were another couple guys in the 5-10 min range behind me, but the next women were spaced out 20-30 minutes back.  I realized here that unless I totally blew up, I was probably going to win this race.  Cool.  Now let's see how fast I can do it.

By the time I got to Horseshoe again, I was starting to cook a bit and realized my legs were starting to feel the hills a bit.  My pace had slowed a little and I realized the PR situation was now officially out of range, but sub-5 was still alive and I wanted to make it hurt just enough to deem the day a descent effort, but not enough to require recovery days.  Recalling the previous impromptu rest here, which seemed nice at this point but would not really be helpful in the above goal, I decided to forego the ice and simply fill one of my bottles myself with tepid water.  In and out and onward.

I reasoned that the next 6 mile section should take me an hour tops and that I'd be fine sans ice.  The volunteers had told me I was on the 'down' side of the course, whatever that meant, because I was pretty sure it was all just up and down - but that gave me a little confidence that maybe I could do it even quicker.  Enter the fear of the meat grinder.  I now understand.  This section actually took me closer to 70 minutes, meaning that my pace had slowed to above 10 minute miles, even though I was sure I was averaging 9.  The sun was scorching and the little patches shining through the trees and off the rocks created a dizzying effect, resulting in more than a few missteps.  I was eating, I was drinking and I was running - but I was really starting to hurt.  In short, my meat was ground.

By the time I reached the final aid station at Twin Rocks, I was ready to get this race over with.  Mind you, I was still running well and experiencing no real lulls of energy or cramping - but I was definitely getting tired.  I figured the runners up ahead were long gone and it was actually possible that someone might catch me, though I hadn't seen anyone on my tail.  I decided to stop here and load one bottle up with ice after what I'd just been through, and to my surprise, the girl at the aid station had a message for me.  "Hey, the guy ahead says your about to catch him and you should go ahead and get on with it."  This actually seemed like fun as I would have loved even a mile of company, so I decided to go on and push it in for the last five miles.

I knew soon that the trail would widen and the footing would be a great deal easier, meaning that I could really run hard to the finish.  The sub-5 time was going to be close, but if I worked hard, I could do it.  Sure enough, I soon hit the rolling section along the lake and really sunk my teeth into the steep ups and downs.  I was crunching the numbers in my head and I still had a shot.  I hit one particularly steep hill and focused on powering through, feeling a deep burn in my legs.  I reached the top and saw a yellow building that I didn't remember from the way out and there were no markers telling me which way to go next.  I actually didn't think this was all that weird, as there were a few places where intersections weren't quite clear and I just had to figure it out.  I knew there shouldn't be any more single track at this point, so I turned right past the structure and began heading down.  After a few minutes, I knew I should not be heading down for that long and realized that I was officially lost.  So I climbed back up and experimented with the other way.  Definitely also wrong. The only place to go was backwards until I found something that seemed likely or another person.  As such I ran back down the hill, shouting all the way - trying to hear if there was anyone else that could point me back onto the course.  A woman came out of her yard and told me she had seen ribbons back down by the road and maybe to check there.  Eventually I spilled out to a place where the trail had forked left, and upon studying the footprints in the dirt, concluded that this was the way to go.  Seeing that I'd already lost around 20 minutes on the ordeal, and that it was certain I'd been passed by at least one or two people - I decided to run back to the road where there were ribbons a plenty and grab one to mark the turn.  I'd heard that Rio del Lago is famous for having markers taken down by possessive homeowners along the lake that don't want us out there on "their trails," so I wasn't surprised by the lack of marking in a crucial place and don't fault the race management one bit.  I hoped that by putting a new ribbon up, others could avoid the same mistake and frustration… at least until some other self-entitled prick decided to rip that one down too.  Ugh.  Don't even get me started on that.

At any rate, I was a little annoyed after the detour - especially since I now only had about 10 minutes to go over 3 miles.  Obviously that wasn't happening.  However, I decided to turn that aggression into speed and made myself run hard all the way home.  That was the true goal - to push myself beyond my comfort zone and get back into racing mode… so that's what I would do.  I couldn't help the unfortunate detour - if anything, I got at least an extra mile or so in there and these trails around the lake were quite enjoyable.  More bang for my buck.  I will admit that my knee was starting to flare up a bit in these last 5 miles, but nothing stabbing and nothing I wasn't able to push through.  Still, it makes me a little concerned as to whether or not I am going to be able to handle another 100 in November.  

As I finally opened up onto the levee, I could see another figure off in the distance - presumably one of the guys who had passed me.  I doubted another woman had caught up, but who knew at this point.  I ran hard, enjoying the last mile of the run and looking very forward to both a swim in the lake and meeting up with Team Lukas to see how the Pride of Slovakia was doing.  As I crossed the finish line, I heard the shout of "first woman!" and realized I had actually won.  I looked back across the levee and couldn't see any other figures approaching, so despite my detour, I guess it hadn't even been close.  I thanked the race organizer for a great day and then ran down the beach for a heavenly swim/salt removal.  But not before running into Ben, the guy I was trying to catch, who had apparently been the figure on the levee finishing right in front of me.  "How didn't you catch me?  I was dying out there, and I got lost for a bit!"  Ha, unsurprisingly we'd both had the same trouble - only he realized the mistake immediately, whereas I tried desperately to prove that I hadn't gone the wrong way.  At any rate, we were both shocked that no one had passed us.  

Trick or Treat, bitches.  I'm the champ!
(photo:  Tyler Olson)

For my next trick, I proceeded to swim around the lake for an hour or so, which felt absolutely heavenly.  When I finally got a hold of Dom, he told me the fantastic news that Lukas was closing in on the leader and running ridiculously strong.  Soon after, he and Ankur picked me up on the side of Auburn-Folsom road and we were off to crew a victory.

Yep, that's right, Lukas won his first 100 miler, in his first attempt at the distance!  Mind you, he's no stranger to endurance events - with multiple Ironman and Kona finishes; as well as 50 miles and 100k.  But still, there's nothing quite like running 100 miles and he took that challenge like a champ.  Quite literally.  It was very inspiring to see how dialed in he remained all day and how he took care of himself in the heat.  He obviously knew what to do to get the most out of his body in the steamy conditions and I learned a lot.  Oh, also we had a ton of fun since unlike many mountain 100s, we got to see our runner every 3-6 miles!  Plus, Jimmy was right behind Lukas - so each aid station was like a little party with all of our friends.  Such a great weekend.

In the end,  Lukas finished first in 18:41, followed by Jimmy in a personal RDL PR of 19:29.  Then we all went to In 'n Out and I attempted to fall asleep back at the hotel in the same shorts I'd slipped on almost 24 hours prior.  Race number still attached.  

Dom promptly kicked me out and into the shower.

Late night fun.

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

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

Go Back to Chapter 1


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...