Race another 100 miler?

After much deliberation, I signed up for another 100 mile race, Run Rabbit Run. I have a bunch of decisions to make:

1. Do I really want to run it?
2. If I fully commit to running it, should I take the early start (offered to women over 60 and men over 70)?
3. Who will be my pacers?

Let's take number 1 first, since the others are moot if the answer is no.

Do I really want to run it? Why would I want to run it? Everyone asks this question of ultra-runners and ultra-runners ask this question of themselves. Again and again and again.

I want to run another 100 mile race because...

1. I want to prove (to myself and the world) that I can.
2. I failed to complete this race two years ago and I have unfinished business.
3. I want to see/run the new course, especially that Flash of Gold trail.
4. I want another belt buckle.
5. I bask in the admiration of others.
6. I feel like a total bad ass when I finish a race such as this.
7. I feel lost without a major race to think about.
8. I love the planing that goes into big races.
9. I love being in great shape.

I should forget it because:

1. I don't want to hurt that bad.
2. It costs a lot of money (some is already spent).
3. I hate being that dirty for that long.
4. I don't want to have to train.
5. It is selfish. My spouse, my pacers, and even my dogs will sacrifice for this event.
6. I might fail. I hate to fail. I mean, I really hate to fail. Can't fail if you don't try.

If I don't do the race, what will I do instead? I mean, do I need to do something else? This summer I have four big adventures. One is already over: running camp with 5 good friends at the Colorado Running Ranch. That was a blast. It was so much fun that I decided to go back to the area and play around some more for four days. This time with the dogs, my camper, just one friend (Cheryl) and Mary Ann. It should be cheap and fun.

In August, I will run the Teton Crest trail with two really good friends. And a couple of weeks after that, I will run Maroon Bells Four Pass Loop with two more really good friends. These will be somewhat costly, but not in the $1000 range that the 100 miler will set me back.

I bet I could schedule another great adventure in September to replace Run Rabbit.

It all comes down to cost and benefit. I seriously do not know what I will decide or how I will make the decision.

But Wait

So I have been dealing with the idea of not racing anymore (except for shorter, less stressful races). Thinking about relaxing, enjoying the runs, and staying clean and fed and, above all else, comfortable. That's what I think when I am not running.

But when I am running, I am loving it, and planning for the next big race. And then I come home and find that I cannot commit to the next big race.

I talked with Avery, my oldest grandson, about trying Run Rabbit Run again. I admitted that part of my motivation to finish it was gone, since some 60+ year old woman has already done that. I told him that she took a one hour head start.

Avery discussed the merits of playing it safe by taking the extra hour versus going bold and starting with everyone else.

A couple weeks after that conversation, we had this text exchange:

So, I wonder what I will do.....Care to weigh in?

Time to fill out the dance card?

I wrote this back in November, after a hard season of racing, pacing, and assisting with other races:

            I was tired, I didn’t want to race. Ever again. I didn’t want to run. Ever again. I fell into bed. A warm bed with clean sheets. Clean sheets and a pillow. Not sleeping in the back end of the truck. Curled up with Zumi and Sadie. Snuggled. With Mary Ann. Tired. Too tired.

            Clean. I was clean. I had real food. My teeth were brushed. I even got to floss. I was clean. I was in a real bed. I was snuggled. I didn’t have to face heat or cold. Wind or rain. Hours of being dirty. Days of eating aid station food.

            I was tired. It felt good to snuggle. Good to rest. Good to sleep. And be clean.

            What was next? Another race? Maybe. Maybe not. I was tired. Too fucking tired.

            Comfortable. How horrible, to be comfortable and out of the elements.

            I need to recover. Get some sleep. Gain a couple of pounds. I was at the lowest weight I had been since I was in my early 30’s and suffering from depression. Not dangerously thin but on the edge. Hungry. Wanted real food. Clean sheets. Brushed teeth. Not too hot. Not too cold. No chafing. With a real bathroom and a toilet that flushes. Soft toilet paper.

Comfortable. Safe. Fed. Clean. 

Is this how it ends? I just decide that comfort is more important than adventure?

The Inaugural Ute

Last fall, after DNF'ing at both Run Rabbit Run and Javelina Jundred, I once again vowed to never run another 100 miler. 50 milers would become my new goal. Seriously. I swear. Honest

Then I talked to Marco Zuniga and he told me I needed to try again. I thought about it, knowing how much I hate ending on a failure, thinking that I would just go back to Run Rabbit and finish it this time. 

November rolled around and I started visiting the web pages of 100 milers. None of the ones I considered, including Run Rabbit, sounded like fun. I just couldn't see myself signing up for any of them.

Then I stumbled onto the description for a new race called The Ute 100. The race course was in the La Sal Mountains outside of Moab and was advertised as the highest and most scenic in Utah. I had seen those unique dome-shaped laccolith mountains many times as I was running through the sugar sand and stifling heat of southern Utah and every time I thought, “Why the hell aren’t we running up there?” 

This one was enticing. I looked at it, reviewed the price, course, cut offs, etc. It was almost full and I still couldn't decide. I emailed the race director and asked about a wait list. Nope, he wanted to keep it small for the first year. Either enter now or forget it. I entered.

I went to the La Sals in July to run on parts of the course. I liked it! I rounded up some pacers, including Marco, and fully committed to it.

I trained really hard but also smart. I was ready. For me, pacers and crew are imperative to finishing. Mary Ann Stout, my wife and seasoned crew boss, took  me to the start at 0’dark thirty for a 3 AM start. We saw a few shooting stars from the Perseid meteor shower on our way. Mary Ann took care of me at several aid stations. Lucky to have her!

We were all given a pacer bib that said "Unicorn." Turns out that Unicorns are the greatest thing since sliced bread. At mile 33 I picked up my first unicorn, Ellen Hatch, a 4th year medical student planning to go into palliative care. I wanted her with me early, fearful that if she saw me later in the race she would be all too eager to pull the plug and end my suffering. We headed out for our highest climb of the day, Mann’s Peak, topping out at 12,272 feet. As we neared the top, we heard music coming from the ridge. A forlorn-looking boom box sat there, its tunes coaxing us up those last lung burning yards. The descent from Mann’s was a bit daunting for those not used to talus slopes, but once we cleared the shifting, evil rocks, we were rewarded with several miles of fantastic downhill single track.  

We continued our journey, running through stands of magnificent aspens, past mountain lakes and through herds of contented cows. All was well until I reached the soul sucking part of the course: The Jimmy Keen Loop. Even though the hottest part of the day had already passed, it was still quite warm, and I almost lost my mojo as the trail skirted groves of scrub oak with their false promise of shade. On the plus side, we saw a humongous horned toad and a beautiful, brilliant green Mormon cricket. And we were treated to still-frozen popsicles at the self-serve aid station. On the negative side, the runners hanging out at the aid station were really bringing me down. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.

The real adventure for a 100 miler starts when the sun goes down. By this time, I was running with Marco Zuniga, my second unicorn. I followed his lead down and back up the Kokopelli Trail. I was sorry that I was running this in the dark, because I had heard the views were quite spectacular. As the second dawn broke, we were slogging up a 4 wheel drive road when Marco silently stepped off the road and motioned for me to join him. About 40 yards away, in the pines and aspens, stood a cinnamon-colored black bear. We stood and looked at each for a long minute or two, and then it ran off into the woods.

At La Sal Pass, I picked up my third unicorn, Jaime Aagaard, an emergency physician (because you never know what you will need during the last 18 miles of a 100 miler). We ran some totally sweet single track and then came to the final “short climb” that brought me to my knees. I convinced Jaime that, if she allowed me to sit down, I would eat at least 100 calories. About 600 calories later, we finally reached the top, and then it was literally all downhill. We hit one last self-self water station where the boom box from Mann’s Peak now sat next to a bottle of whiskey, playing Johnny Cash. We pulled up to the finish line party with plenty of time to spare before the 40-hour cut off. 

Now what? I swore that if I finished the Ute, I would be done. I now have 5 belt buckles. One for each of my grandkids (not that they want them). I do not want to end on a failure and the best way to ensure that is to stop now.

It is really kind of fun to see how my thinking changes. Initially: I am finished. Then, well if I go back to Run Rabbit and I don't finish, it would not be a failure since it was already a failure. Now I am thinking that I really don't know what I will do. I talk about it as if it is not a choice, that part of me will make the decision and the rest of me will have to abide by it. 

No need to decide now. I am just carefree and excited about running this fall.

San Juan Solstice: Taking Care of Your Crew

I was so ready for the San Juan Solstice 50 miler. I knew the course. I knew that I would have to climb almost 13,000 feet, and I knew that I would top out at over 13,000 feet altitude. Twice. The weather was perfect and the stream crossings were going to be minimal. I really thought I was going to kill the course.

There were two places where crew could assist me. Mary Ann, my lovely spouse, and Kathy Kirsling, a great friend, would meet me at both of them. I prepared bags of food for Mary Ann to bring to me at each stop. These bags included a variety of foods: gels, bars, home made bars, cans of coconut water, cans of Coke, peanut butter crackers, bags of Tail Wind, bags of Perpetuem. You name it, I packed it.

I reached the first aid station at 7.5 miles about 20 minutes ahead of the cut off. I was feeling good except my feet were numb and my hands were not working. I should have worn gloves. The aid station workers had to put the food in my pack for me. I seriously could not make my wonderful opposable thumbs work.

The next aid station was a major one. I was about 15 minutes ahead of the cut off. I am not used to being that close to the cut off and I was rather freaked out. I thought I was doing much better than that.

Mary Ann and Kathy were there. Mary Ann started pulling food items out of the bag I had given her and placing them on a chair. I looked at each item and stashed what I thought I would want. I grabbed a slice of watermelon, opened the can of coconut water and headed down the trail. Kathy walked me out and I hit the dirt road.

The next aid station was halfway up to the continental divide. It was a very long, slow climb to the station but I made it with 20 minutes to spare. I was neither gaining nor losing time on the cut-offs. No crew was there, but I had a drop bag. I grabbed some food items and headed out again.

After a long section on the continental divide, I finally saw Kathy about a quarter mile before the 40 mile aid station. Again, I was only 15 minutes ahead of the cut-off.

Mary Ann decided to be extra helpful so that I would get out of there with time to spare. She pulled each food item out of the bag I had given her. "Do you want a gel?" she asked as I was grabbing a slice of watermelon from the aid station table.

I stopped eating and thought hard about the word 'gel'. Just as my hands wouldn't work at the first aid station, my brain wouldn't work now.

"What is a gel?" I thought. I could kind of imagine what a 'gel' was, but the word and the image weren't quite lining up in a meaningful way. Finally I was able to decipher that a gel was the little bit of syrupy stuff in a foil pouch. "How would that taste?" I thought. "Will it supply the calories I need? Do I want it? Should I take it just in case?" my brain was churning but not really going anywhere.

"Yes, I'll take a gel," I said as I shoved it in my hydration vest.

"Do you want a bar?" Mary Ann asked.

"A bar? What is a bar?" my brain haltingly repeated the process that finally helped me make a decision about the gel. "No, I don't want a bar," I finally blurted out.

"How about coconut water? Do you want crackers? Maybe you should take some nuts and fruit?" Mary Ann was rapid firing the questions now, knowing she needed to get me out of the aid station soon but also knowing that I had to get some calories in.

"Don't ask me ... I ... can't think. I need to... I got to.... finish. I have to go," I growled. I was pre-verbal at this point. I was thinking in images and feelings. But I was not thinking in words. I was trying to convert these images and emotions into words, but I was reduced to communicating in grunts, and squeaks, and frowns. This was frustrating for me and for those around me.

I headed out, trying to figure out if I was going to make the final cut-off. But not only was I pre-verbal, I was also pre-quantitative. "I have 3 hours and 15 minutes to finish. That is 75 minutes. I'll never make it. Wait, three hours and 15 minutes is a lot more than 75 minutes. I have to cover 10 miles. All I have to do is maintain 15 miles per hour, right?  I can't do four minute miles." I finally gave up trying to figure it out.

Well, I didn't make it. With 10 minutes to go and no end in sight, I realized there was no way I was going to make the cut-off. I stumbled in to the finish line over 30 minutes late.

The next day, Mary Ann informed me that I had been very rude. "Why did you want me at the aid station if you weren't going to let me help you?" It was a legitimate question, but I was still too tired to really think. In fact, I was just barely verbal even after a night's sleep.

"I wanted you at the aid station. I just wanted you," was all I could come up with.

Return to San Juan Solstice

I have started San Juan Solstice 50 miler three times and finished it twice. The course is extremely beautiful but also quite difficult.

Generally when I am getting ready for a race like this, I have some trepidation. I remember those periods which occur in every race, from a 5K to a 100 miler, when I swear (SWEAR) I will never race again. Those periods when I am too tired, too hungry, too sore, too chafed, too bored and too hot/cold/wet/dry. Sometimes these periods last only a small amount of time but sometimes they last for miles and miles. Sometimes I only experience one of these periods but other times they come and go, wax and wane throughout the entire race.

The first time I ran the SJS was a big snow year. We went through deep, rushing, and FREEZING streams. Again and again. Our feet would grow numb and our legs would grow numb. Then we would run a bit and everything would thaw, just in time to cross the stream again. There was also a big snow field that had to be traversed and another that we ran down, slipping, sliding, skidding and wiping out. That year I shed my jacket after the first big climb. During the second big climb it started to storm. It lightning, it hailed, it rained. I almost froze. I had to keep going just to survive.

The second year I started the race I was just recovering from the flu. I was in no shape for running this distance at that altitude. I made it half way up the second big climb and it started to rain. I had a jacket this year but again I almost froze. I dropped out.

The third year I started the race was five years ago. The weather was great, the streams were low and there were no snow fields to scare me half to death. I remember the fantastic scenery. I remember the wild flowers and the camaraderie. I also remember being too tired to run the last couple of miles even though they were downhill. I remember throwing up at the end. I remember being too tired to take off my calf sleeves, too tired to eat and too tired to drink a beer. But mainly I remember the scenery and the feeling of accomplishment.

So this year, I am excited to run. I don't feel the dread that I expected to feel. Even remembering the exhaustion and nausea, I am excited to go run.
I sure hope this will be good this year.

Zumi transitions to full time trail dog

Zumi is so exuberant. I call her Thumper because her tail thumps so hard in the morning, or anytime, when she sees me or another of her humans. She is working at agility, getting a bit more psyched by it, but it is not her passion. Her passion is chasing prey, but that isn't always possible. And it is not her job!

  

No, Zumi's job is being my trail dog. Although Sadie is still kicking along at 10 years of age, she is more and more willing to sit back and let Zumi take her place. Sadie will do the 4-6 mile runs. Usually. If it's not too hot. If Mary Ann is not in the kitchen.

Zumi is now a solid two year old. Strong, with thighs that look like a scale model of an Arabian horse. She has endurance and she is crazy loyal. Her real work has now begun.

 On Thursday, we met some friends and hit the trail. Her job for this run was only to stay with us. No animals to chase, no people to threaten, and I even carried her water for her. 

On Friday, we loaded up and drove to the Pecos Wilderness. I put her pack on her, my pack on me and we (including Jaime) headed up the trail. Four miles later we set up camp. That night the temperature dropped into the mid 30's. I took Zumi's summer PJ's but not her mat and not her winter PJ's. She nestled in my down coat for a while, then squirmed her way into my sleeping bag, resting her head on my chest.

Saturday morning we hiked and ran for several hours. We saw bighorn sheep and Zumi stared at them but did not chase. We saw horses and again she was very polite, stepping off the trail and allowing them to pass undisturbed. It was late afternoon by the time Zumi jumped into the back of the truck, hunkered down on her bed and fell asleep.

Last evening after dinner, I told Zumi to load up in the truck. We picked up Jaime and headed for Mt. Taylor. Running in the dark, in the woods is exhilarating but also a bit scary. Look at those eyes, reflecting back at us. What kind of animal is it? Last night, it was only one eye, not a pair. Weird, right? Turns out there were birds hanging around on the trail, just sitting there waiting for us to get too close.

We topped out at 11,000 feet where there was a bit of new snow from the afternoon's storm. Then it was downhill and back to the truck, finishing up our little 10 mile jaunt and arriving just before midnight. 

Today, Zumi seems to be wondering if maybe she wouldn't be better off living with humans that expect her to be decorative, rather than functional.

Our total mileage for the five day period? Just over 40 miles and almost 10,000 feet vertical. She has earned a day of rest.