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.

Agility: What was I thinking?

Zumi and I have been taking taking agility classes since last summer. Once a week, we go to class and learn a little bit more. Zumi is FAST. So fast that I have to be a couple of steps ahead and directing her from a distance. And that would be fine except I don't think fast. I am always a step behind her in my mind. Keeping track of where the next obstacle is challenges me to the breaking point.

Poor Zumi. She wants to do what I tell her. When she thinks she has made a mistake, she loses it. She zooms around the enclosure, jumping, going through tunnels, careening around obstacles at 30 mph. Then we start again.

Anyway, after 8 months of classes, I asked Susan, the instructor, when we could do an agility trial. This was back in December. I told her I had to have a goal or I would stop taking classes. She said, "March." OK! Now I have a goal. I made some jumps and some weave poles and promised I would work with Zumi outside of class. And I did. Once. Or maybe twice.

The first of February rolled around and it was time to pay for another series of classes. I again asked Susan about registering for a trial. She hemmed and hawed. I asked if she thought Zumi and I should just give up. She hemmed and hawed. Finally she said, "I was told that your first dog is a throw away. You learn on them and then take your next dog to competition." I looked over at Zumi and could read her mind, "My first handler is a throw away. My second handler will take me to competition."

I looked up agility trials in Albuquerque. I found one for March 16, 17, and 18. I told Susan I was going to register. She hemmed and hawed. She said we aren't ready. I registered anyway. I figured we could be ready in three weeks. I would practice with Zumi every day. I would take private lessons. I would watch videos and read articles on training and prepping for your first trial. After all, I rationalized, I am never really ready for a 100 mile race. We all go into a hundred miler knowing that only about 60% of us will finish it. And that includes the elite runners! We know that our chance of real success is pretty low. I would never enter a 100 miler if I had to run 100 miles before I could register. And anyway, I had three whole weeks to get ready for this trial!!

I started working with Zumi every day (almost, anyway). I signed up for drop-in classes. Our first drop-in was yesterday. I watched the other dogs and handlers. They were much better than I expected for novices. Zumi and I did our first run. I became totally flustered. Zumi read my energy and freaked out. She zoomed around the arena, through tunnels, over jumps, from one side to the other until she finally got herself together and came back to me. The other people in the class were tolerant. The instructor was supportive. We settled in and learned a few things.

Our last run of the day was three straight line jumps and then the teeter and a couple of more jumps. Very straight forward. I didn't tell anyone that Zumi had never been on a teeter except when it was only about 1 foot off the ground. This one was about waist high. She ran up one side and when it tottered, she launched herself from the top. For those of you unfamiliar with agility, the dog has to put at least one foot in the yellow part of the teeter. She not only missed the yellow, she missed all the grass between the end of the teeter and the next ten yards!! I heard all the gasps from behind me. I sheepishly admitted she had never done that level of teeter before. It took us another ten minutes to get her back on the teeter. I am sure she had nightmares about it.

I keep telling myself that my dog is so beautiful that no one will care that she totally messes up on the course and is DQ'ed.

Looking forward to 2018

I am nothing if not predictable. After DNF'ing at Run Rabbit Run I decided I just HAD to have a qualifier for Western States. I would do ANYTHING to get that qualifier. I would even run in the heat, multiple laps, in the desert at the end of October.

Yes, I signed up for Javelina Jundred. I really thought it would be a piece of cake. All I had to do was run for 100 miles in 30 hours while surviving the warm day and nice evening. I prepped for the heat: I ran in the afternoons wearing three layers of shirts and long pants, even though it was in the 60's or even 70's. I begged Heidi to pace me, and stupidly, she agreed. I drove the trailer to Phoenix and admired the saguaro and hoped I wouldn't see any rattle snakes.

I started off at a nice little clip, one I was sure I could maintain forever. And I did maintain it, but not quite for forever. More like 50 miles. Then I ran out of gas. Yes, it was warm but not horrible. I just quit eating around mile, maybe mile 2. By 60 miles, I was on fumes and by 70 miles I was reduced to begging a man dressed as a care bear to put me out of my misery. I packed it up and headed home.

I was quite happy making a decision to "never try another 100 miler." Why would I? I was happy thinking I could run 50 milers. I swore I would be content with 50 milers. Until I saw this new race in the La Sals. The Ute 100. Sure looks like fun to me. The race director swears that he has found a beautiful course. I have always wanted to explore those mountains outside of Moab. And the cut off time is definitely in my favor. In fact, there are six (count them....6) women over 60 signed up for this little sweet heart of a run. I will be in good company.

Yep, I signed up. I am in. I can't say no.

Another racing season, almost over

Wow, so much has happened. So little has happened. I have sad tales and happy tales and my dogs have wagging tails.

Sadie was last listed as disinterested in running. She revived and is again by my side. I think her primary motivation is running into Richard, the ice cream man for dogs. Richard walks almost every day, with a pocketful of delicious dog treats. He spares no expense on these treats and he knows all the dogs on his route. He keeps index cards in his pocket: dog's name, where they live, their favorite treat, any special medical considerations.

Sadie, and Zumi, think he is WONDERFUL. They can smell him a half mile away, I swear. They stop, point their noses, take a big sniff and then sprint to him. All Richard wants is to give the dogs a treat and then pet them. All the dogs want is every treat in his pocket. They turn into vicious animals, jumping and pawing at him, snapping the delicacies out of his fingers, sometimes taking a bit of finger tip along with the treat. I have tried to calm them down but they become frenzied when they spot him.

My big race was Run Rabbit Run. It turned into a short race. Everything was going well until about mile 35. Then everything turned to, uh, well. I quit peeing. The funny thing was that I was in the bathroom, sitting on a bench, at the 41 mile aid station trying to decide if I just had a UTI or if I had an acute kidney injury. Some woman entered a stall and let loose with a stream of urine that lasted and lasted and lasted. I indelicately announced that, "I'd give anything to do that." "Do what?" she asked. "Pee," I moaned. "You can't pee?" she asked. "Nothing but blood," I responded.

She came out of the stall and introduced herself as an OB/GYN and sat down next to me. She concluded that I was not dehydrated, and I should therefore NOT push fluids, and I should probably drop out of the race before I did any real damage. I took her advice and that was the end of that. I went a total of 20 hours without producing more than a cup of urine. Kind of scary, but everything returned to normal within a couple of days.

What's next? Stay tuned.

Sadie is retiring

I've been running with Sadie for almost 9 years. She is the sweetest dog. Ever.

We got Sadie as a pup when we lived in Wyoming and she cut her running teeth in the Med Bow Mountains. She fell through the ice of a beaver pond at Happy Jack, outside of Laramie and had to be pulled out.

She has been to the top of Mt. Elbert in Colorado. She ran on the Appalachian Trail in Virginia, Tennessee and North Carolina. And most recently she has run in the Sandias outside of Albuquerque.

Sadie on her 2nd birthday doing a 50K outside of Asheville, NC.

 Most of our runs are not very exciting. We are just out there, paying our dues, staying in shape so that we can enjoy the big runs, the fun runs. Like Hope Pass!

Sadie at Hope Pass.

I can only estimate the number of miles we have run together. Let's say 30 miles a week, 50 weeks a year, for 8 years. That gives us about 12,000 miles. 

I always feel safer when Sade is with me. She has never had to protect me, but I think she offers protection just by being there.

Sadie has started hanging back on our runs. There have been days when she balks about certain routes. For instance, she hates the yucca loop, but generally loves running in the snow. Initially, she was just picky about our routes. Now she is more consistently indicating that she doesn't want to go more than a couple of miles, regardless of the route.

I have to accept that she is done. She just doesn't want to run anymore. I always thought that Sadie would quit running only if and when she was too stiff and old to really run. I didn't think she would just lose motivation. And yes, I have had her thoroughly checked by the vet. 

Not having Sadie with me has caused me to question whether I want to continue running. Maybe she's right. Maybe we are both ready to drop back to hiking instead of running. But Sadie has brought up her replacement. She has trained Zumi to chase rabbits, run on the trail, and greet hikers and runners we encounter. 

I love Sadie. I love her enough to let her stop running. And Zumi is ready to begin her 12,000 mile journey. 

Inspiration?

The kids were here but now they're gone. I really wanted them to stay forever. Sigh. They clogged the toilet, wet the bed, brought me (and Mary Ann) a case of gastrointestinal virus, a used diaper (by the dryer), and 4 (unmatched) socks.

Anyway, after throwing up spaghetti and my toenails on Tuesday, I ate a bowl of Cheerios on Wednesday, a half a bowl of oatmeal and half a baked potato on Thursday, and a noodle bowl and omelet on Friday.

That brings us to Saturday morning and the Mt. Taylor Quad. Not running for a week and not eating for a couple of days created some doubts about finishing. But you never know how the day will go until you work it, right? The winter quad is a bit of a challenge. For those who don't know, it starts in Grants, NM, at 6500 feet. You bike up for about 13 miles gaining about 1800 feet. Then you run for 5 miles, gaining 1200 feet. Grab your skis, with skins attached if you have any brains, and ascend another 1200 feet and finally switch into your snowshoes and top out at 11,300 feet. Then you turn around and go back down, snowshoeing, skiing, running and biking.

Team Scrappy, AKA Team Scruffy, met up on Friday evening. That would be Ellen Hatch and Spencer Briggs, and a late add-on Crystal Anderson. After a high class night at the Motel 6, we made our way to the start line with our bikes and our rather funky fashion statements. We were all hoping to add a beautiful doubler's scarf at the end of the day. These scarves are for those who completed the Mt. Taylor 50K in the fall and solo the Quad.

We looked a bit scared before the event.

All of our gear was already on the mountain, so we sucked down a cup of coffee, grabbed our bikes and helmets and went to the starting line. The four of us were all pretty close together at the bike/run transition.

About half a mile into the run, a woman passed me. She looked over and, I swear to god, said, "Wow, you are doing well." What the hell did that mean? Not, "Nice job," or "you're looking good," or even "you can do this." No, what she didn't say was that I was doing well for someone my age. I turned to Crystal and she said she just didn't know that I was a beast. Thank you Crystal. I needed the beast label rather than amazement that I was still kicking.

Fast forward to the uphill ski section. I am plodding along when some woman catches up to me and says, "You are an inspiration." I saw this woman again on the downhill run. She was walking back down to the next transition. She was on a team and only did the ski/snowshoe sections so her race was over. She started running with me and again told me I was an inspiration. OK, I like inspiring people. Someone has to do it. I enjoy being a role model. I want women (men, girls and boys) to see what a person can do. But again, the unspoken was that I was an inspiration based on my age. In fact, she asked me my age and told me she thought it was wonderful. 

I guess it was a day when I was showing my age. That is what bothered me. I really thought that I was still passing. Passing as a 50 year old. I could draw the parallel with other parts of my life. I am not ashamed of being in my 60's. I am proud of what I can do at my age. I just don't want to look my age. That's all. I want to be in control of who knows my age and my sexual orientation. I don't want it to be obvious.

Team Scruffy with our Doubler's Scarves

Another Place, Another Adventure

Running the trails should be an adventure. It shouldn't be terrifying but it shouldn't be boring. I like to balance out my races. I like to go back to some that I have run numerous times. It is like meeting up with an old friend. Perhaps they have changed a little since I saw them a year ago. Or maybe they are just like I remember them. That would be like Mt. Taylor. This was my fourth year running the 50K race just outside of Grants. I know what to expect there. The weather may change a bit, but the race directors are my friends and I know that they will put on an excellent race. The mountain itself will always suck the breath out of me but only until I hit the peak.

But this past weekend I tried something different. I did a two person relay on the Naatsis’áán trail, just north of Navajo Mountain. A friend of mine agreed to go with me. I chose the first leg, figuring it was going to be easier. I was right.

We drove about 7 hours to the Navajo Mountain Chapter House where there was a health fair going on all day Friday. Tom, the race director, was briefing the volunteers. The Navajo Mountain High School students were selling Navajo tacos. Yes, I ate one. We were a very small band of runners, about half Anglos and half Native Americans. We really didn't know what to expect but we found out at the race briefing. During the briefing, we were chowing down on homemade lasagnas, spaghetti, fantastic fresh salads, topped off with three different types of infused water. Most of us either slept on the floor of the chapter house or set up tent just outside the building.

This was a totally fantastic experience (see the pictures below). The scenery was amazing. But even more importantly, the support we received from the community members was totally astounding. These folks camped out. They cooked. They donated time and local food and resources. They spent their entire weekend trying to make sure the runners were fed, happy, and safe. This was a community event!

I will go back. You should put it on your calendar for next year. Forget the big fancy races. This is an experience of a life time.

The race

We started early on Saturday morning, way before the sun came up. The runners doing the second leg thought they were going to get to sleep in. But their day began even earlier. They drove to the marina at the south end of Lake Powell and boarded boats that took them to the Rainbow Bridge National Monument. There they could lounge on a house boat or head on out to await their runner.

I started the first leg. Daylight was hours off but we had no problem seeing the road. The community members were there. They were excited. They wanted to escort us to the trailhead, 8 miles away. They drove cars, trucks and ATVs to light our way. 

I was alone very early on. By the time I hit the last section of dirt road, the sky was light and I could hear a Native American flute. The first aid station was fully stocked and several community members were there to fill my bladder and give me encouragement and food.

Then I hit the trail and the magic started. This was an amazing scene. The sun coming up illuminated the mesa, turning it bright pink and orange and red. My camera didn't do it justice.

We entered the first canyon, down and back up. We entered the second canyon, down and back up. We entered the third canyon, down and back up. You get the idea. 

The scenery was constantly changing. Some places we could run, some places we had to hike.

I never take pictures during a race. I am there to race, not to sight see. But I made an exception for this race.

I didn't care who passed me. I did want to finish in a reasonable time, so that my teammate Jean Herbert could get started before it got too warm.

Oh, well, sorry Jean. I had to get a few more shots.

Can you believe this place? Seriously? I had never even heard of it before.

Loving it!!

Still loving it!!

The scenery just kept coming. My jaw kept dropping.

The race director promised we would enjoy this trail. He was right.

We weren't promised much in the way of aid stations, but there was more than enough food and water out there for us. Community members had backpacked water, sandwiches and other food items in for us. They camped out and enjoyed the stars. They were happy to see us. I was ecstatic to see them!

At other sites, community members had brought supplies in on horseback. One of the horse riders wanted to make sure the horses were well cared for. He carried in a bale of hay!

Are you tired of the pictures yet?

As the sun and clouds changed, so did the vistas.

This was a huge slab of black and white rock. Really cool.

I finally entered a section known as the furnace. Although it has a reputation for being extremely hot, it was fine when I went through. The walls of the canyon were blocking the morning sun. After we left the furnace, we entered Bridge Canyon. From this point to the turnaround, the trail was hard to follow. The flagging was scarce and the cairns were small. All I really had to do, though, was follow the footprints of those who had gone before, and follow the stream. As long as I was moving the same direction as the water, I was going the right way. No more pictures though. I was too busy trying to minimize my extra-trail excursions. I admit I was also getting tired and worried that Jean would have to run during the night.

I did happen to see this little critter. It was teeny. I looked it up: a red spotted toad. It's a little blurry. 

And then, I heard what every trail runner listens for....the sound of cowbells! Oh what a glorious sound. I took it on it, told Jean good luck and stopped for the day. Who cares how long it took. 

There was a nice little aid station set up just inside the fence from the National Monument. I ate a few bananas, talked to the Rangers and started towards the boat dock. I completely forgot about the Rainbow Bridge.

At first, it didn't look like much.

But as I got closer, I realized just how mammoth it is.

We did not go under it, out of respect for the traditional beliefs.

As we neared the water of Lake Powell, there were hanging gardens, places where the water seeps out of the sandstone and supports flowers and other plants that are not seen in other places.

Jean ran it back in. She was accompanied by an ATV while on the dirt road and a car while on the pavement.

Background: NavajoYES (Youth Empowered Services) has started a race series within various Navajo Parks. The organization's mission is to promote wellness and fitness within for the Dine’ people and their community. Tom Riggenbach, the director of NavajoYes thought that a race series could raise money, raise awareness of the world of trail running, and bring in visitors to the Navajo parks and reservation. He started off fairly modestly last year, with a series of smaller and shorter races. 

This year, though, Tom wanted to host an epic adventure. His dream was to host a 50 mile solo or two-person relay through the canyons just north of Navajo Mountain, or Naatsis’áán, starting at the east end of the trail, at the Navajo Mountain Chapter House, and traveling through several canyons to the turn around or trade off point for the relay runners. Now this turn around point was no ordinary place. The turnaround was just shy of the boundary of the Rainbow Bridge National Monument, a totally cool arch. The logistics required that the folks running the second leg of the relay drive almost 100 miles to the marina on Lake Powell where they boarded a boat for a two hour ride, covering almost 60 miles. The runners finishing the first leg would then return by boat to the marina and back to the chapter house.

Time to go sit down?

I called it quits at work about 15 months ago. I had been in academics my entire life. I worked hard, trying to make the grades in undergrad and grad school. I worked hard as a post doc and as a research scientist. I worked hard as an assistant professor and as a department chair. I went to bed each night knowing that my work was not done. I could never, possibly, do enough. There was always another paper to write or another test to grade. Some nights it didn’t bother me, while other nights I tossed and turned, worrying about my lack of progress, inefficiency, and job security.

I wanted to exceed. I wanted to be a good researcher and a good teacher, even a good administrator. I seldom met my own expectations, let alone those of the academic establishment. I had some successes but was always left feeling unfinished.

This summer I completed the Bighorn 100. Training for the event had started to feel like being a grad student or an assistant professor: would I do enough? Could I succeed?

When race day came, I followed the plan. I made the cut offs. I finished the race. I was so extremely glad. I finished. I didn’t have to do it again. It was like getting tenure. But I had also committed to running another 100 miler, in Alaska, in August, with a very good friend. I didn’t train after Bighorn but I did run some miles. 

The week before the Alaska race, I went into body conservation mode: eat, sleep, take it easy to be fully recovered. On Sunday I ran La Luz, a 9 mile uphill local race. I ran hard and actually did well. Good effort and a feeling of ability prior to the Friday afternoon race start.

But Sunday night our search and rescue group was called out. I answered the call and actually got out of the parking lot. This was to be my first mission and I was pretty psyched. Should be easy. The family of hikers were located under the tram. We just needed to hike in and escort them out. Couple of hours, or so I thought. But the route was not what I thought. We bushwhacked all night, from 11:30 pm to 4:30 am. During that time I took several hard falls. I was in way over my head. I was tired. I was scared. I wanted to call it quits. I knew my boots were not any good for that terrain. I realized my head lamp was not sufficient. I struggled to carry my pack. My arms were scratched in a million places from crashing through the brush. I had cactus spines in my legs and my butt. My shins and knees were bleeding. I was tired.

We made it out and I was seriously questioning whether I would continue in search and rescue. I had been a liability to the team. Too old? My balance seems to suck these days. I don’t have the strength. Yeah, I have endurance but that may not be enough.

Onward to Alaska. This is a minimally supported race with only two exit points: mile 41 and mile 67. Seriously, no other places to quit. I was hoping my friend would decide to go for the 50 miler instead of the 100. I talked with one of her friends, who agreed to run with her if I gave out. Or even if I didn’t give out. At mile 41, we would pick up a third runner. I knew I could make it that far and was pretty sure I could make it to mile 67. Good enough. Didn’t need to do the whole thing.

We started out nice and slow, but making better time than I had expected. The air was cool and damp. We had plenty of food and there were many fast moving streams to refill our water. Our spirits were high. It stayed light for a long time and we had topped out at the pass and had mainly downhill from mile 30 to the trail head at mile 41. My light was weak, giving me just enough light to walk fast or trot. My friend’s light was no better. The trail was muddy and keeping my feet dry was a major consideration. 

We went along a long lake, barely able to see it in the dark. We heard some weird sounds and stopped to listen. Loons. Oh my god it was fantastic to listen to the loons in the dark. We continued our trek, still ahead of schedule but now talking about dropping at mile 41. She didn’t seem to be upset by the idea. I figured she could go ahead with her friend and I could just drop out but she didn’t have the drive necessary to continue. 

We might have both decided to keep going but, around mile 32, I fell. Hard. Trying to go around a puddle that spanned the trail. My thigh smashed into an elevated root, with my full weight landing on it. Well, maybe not my full weight since my face also plowed into the ground. My lip was smashed and my chin was bleeding but the big pain was my thigh. It hurt, especially on the downhills. I couldn’t run. I could barely walk. It was a very long 9 miles to the trail head, where we gave it up.

And now all I can think is that it is time to retire. I remember being at a conference and listening to some young faculty member telling an older administrator that it was time for her to “go sit down. Find something else to do. Get a life. But go sit down and let the younger folks take over.”

Now I am thinking if it is time to go sit down. What a relief it would be to not have to train. No more getting up in the middle of the night to drive to a race. No more being hot, or cold, for hours on end. No more eating trail bars that taste like cardboard. No more drinking hydration drinks. No more falling and having scabby knees and bruised shins. No more running until utter exhaustion. No more worrying if I have trained enough.

Don’t know what I will decide. I have a 50K coming up in about 5 weeks, and another marathon after that. But will I sign up for any others? I don’t know. I do know that I need a break. 

What's next? Don't ask!

My toenails are still attached but they won't be for long. My feet have a new layer of skin, with only a little bit of callous. My weight is back to normal and I almost feel recovered. Thanks, Bighorn 100! Loved every minute of it.

Next, though, is a very different race. Resurrection Pass  is next Friday.

I'll be flying up to Anchorage to meet up with Jen Goyette. We did the 50 miler a couple of years ago and last year we ran Grand Canyon R2R2R. Why not try the 100?

What makes this race attractive (other than Jen)? Well, it will be cool, not the furnace of the canyons in Bighorn. It is not extreme in terms of elevation change, but there is plenty of climbing and descending. At 3000 feet, you are really above treeline. Not bad.

The wildflowers are fantastic. There may be moose and bear (is this a plus? Not sure). And it is free! This is a fat ass style race. No shirts, no buckles, no aid stations. Seriously, no aid stations. There are two places for drop bags (mile 42 and mile 67). Those are the only places you can quit, too. 

I will pack up tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Finishing what I started: Bighorn Part II

With great preparation and a fantastic support team, we headed to Sheridan, Wyoming. I love, love, love, love the Bighorn mountains. They are large and grassy, not rocky like the Sandias. They have cliffs and rivers. They have fantastic fields of wild flowers in June. There are canyons, wild animals, big skies, and the possibility of "weather."

The race starts on Friday at 11:00 AM. Weird, eh? The 100 miler was an add on and they started it so that the 34 hour cut off would match the cut off times for the other distances. The weather was mild. Maybe upper 70's. Nothing to complain about there. Rachel started with me. As an "over 60" runner, I was allowed to have a pacer for the entire 100 miles and I figured I could use all the help I could get. Her job was to make sure I started at a reasonable pace, ate and drank consistently, and get me to the first major aid station and up the first major climb with no deficits. I wanted Rachel to experience the beginning of a 100 miler so she would know what to expect for her inaugural effort in September.

At mile 13.5, Cheryl joined me. Since she did not get to pace the previous year, I wanted to make sure she got to run this year. Cheryl and I saw amazing fields of wild flowers. Arrowhead balsam root, lupines, primrose, and I don't know what else. The hills were covered! We had one major downhill. I wanted to stretch out, so I picked up the pace a bit. I fell. It hurt. I got up and opened up again. I fell again. It hurt. I dialed it back. We paused for a few seconds to look over the side of a drop off at the raging Little Bighorn River. Totally amazing view.

Cheryl and I hit the next major aid station ahead of schedule. We prepared for cooler temps and darkness. Leaving the aid station we could hear thunder and within a few minutes the rain started. We parked ourselves under an overhanging rock ledge along with Ferdinand, a friend from New Mexico, and put on our throw away ponchos. The rain didn't last long and the clouds lifted.

As it grew dark Cheryl asked about the moon. I glanced up and saw an almost full and clearly visible moon just above the silhouette of the cliff face. It could not have been more strategically placed for maximum WOW factor. We stopped and gazed at it, oohing and ahhing as if we were watching fireworks.

We were fortunate that there was very little mud this year and we pulled into the halfway aid station still ahead of schedule. There was a large tent, with lots of heaters, food, cots, helpers, food and chairs here. We met Ranie here. The goal was to get my butt out of there before I became comfortable. The cots were filled with bodies trying to get warm, bodies that were spent from over exertion and nausea. My body was fine. I just needed to change shoes, grab food, and get back on the trail. We did great.

Now it was time to run with Ranie. I had vowed to be upbeat and steady to make up for all my whining the previous year. We had a good time dodging mice and garter snakes, discussing (totally one-sided discussion) the rock formations, and talking about folks we know in Laramie. I kept positive until we were pretty close to the next major aid station when my feet started hurting.

By this time it was getting hot but we had tons of downhill running to go. I was looking forward to it except....my feet hurt. Again, the goal was to get in and out of the aid station with minimal time loss but I insisted on doing some foot work: adding tape, and changing socks and shoes. I said good bye to Ranie and headed off with Rachel. I figured since she saw the best of times at the start she should also see the death march of the finish. And for me, it was a death march. My feet were done. Every step hurt, especially every downhill step, and we were going to lose a couple thousand feet over the final miles. I whined, I whimpered and I rebelled. Rachel, the same age as my son, told me to suck it up. She informed me that we were doing the pace we needed to beat the cut off. She acted like she was checking her garmin for verification. I found out later that the garmin was worthless to her at that point, but her confident lies were exactly what I needed.

Let's cut to the finish. I made it with almost 45 minutes to spare. Every step was torture by then but walking was only slightly less painful than jogging.

Before the race, my friend Linda Romero sent a picture of the back of one of our shirts:

Finishing what I started: Bighorn 100: Part I

Long ago and far away, I decided to run a 100 miler every other year until I hit 60 (years old, not 60 races). I completed the Leadville Trail. 100 when I was 52, 54 and 56 years old. When I was 58 years old, I was recovering from heel surgery, so I decided to postpone the next 100 miler for a couple of years.

In 2014, I set my sights on the Bighorn Mountain Wild and Scenic  race. I gave it an honest try and dropped out at the 33 mile mark. In 2015 (I know, I was 61, not 60) I went back and dropped out at the 48 mile mark.

I swore I was done; I had passed the 60 year mark. But when registration opened again in the fall I was like a drunk at the liquor store. I went in just to look, not to buy. I walked out with my registration. I didn't tell anyone for a couple of weeks, until I finally admitted it to Cheryl who, for some odd reason, was very glad. She had gone as a pacer in 2015. She never got to pace and she was still waiting for her chance. Totally bizarre, if you ask me.

Slowly I admitted to other friends that I had registered, but was not yet open with Mary Ann (my spouse and crew) or Ranie (my pacer from the previous two years). I knew that they were a bit upset with my previous lack of performance and persistence at beating my head against a wall. When I finally admitted it, they both came on board, initially somewhat reluctant but then fully engaged and supportive. Another local runner, 31 year old Rachel, told me she had signed up for Wasatch. I told her she should pace me at Bighorn to get a feel for what a 100 is like. She readily agreed. My team was now complete.

Training was good. No injuries, no problems, no melt downs. I experimented with nutrition. I did heat training. I was in great spirits. This year there would be no excuses.

Balance. It's all about balance.

So this year I am striving for balance in my life.

I just completed the Mt. Taylor Quad. That gave me a chance to compliment my running with some skiing and some biking. I was starting to really enjoy both of these activities. I think I will add biking to my regular training schedule.

Looking for balance in other aspects of my life, too. I "should" be doing some intellectual work. You know, reading the great books, writing research articles, writing a novel. But I have been extremely lax in this area. I have started three different on-line courses. My best effort was getting almost half way through one of them. The other two? I didn't even make it through the first three weeks. I keep telling myself I am just not ready yet to engage my brain. Yikes, I hope I don't lose it.

But I have completed a Wilderness First Aid course. Yeah!! I think that is pretty cool. I keep quizzing myself. What does "SAMPLE" stand for? When do I check the person's Level of Responsiveness? Now I need to take a CPR course.

I am also doing the training to become qualified to do Search and Rescue. That sounds like a great volunteer activity for me. Except I have been told that the calls usually come at 10:30 PM....I am dead asleep by then.

I have been tiling the floor. I have been learning how to weave. Balance. It's all about balance.

But mainly I am obsessing about the Bighorn 100 race. Yep, signed up again. No balance there. Just sheer pigheadedness.

Here we go again

Is it time already? To figure out what races I will run next year? I am getting emails that this or that race is 75% full or the price will increase in one week or registration will open in a couple days. I can't think that far ahead.

But I will be trying for the Quad again this year. And I signed up for Bighorn again. Other than that? Who knows?

My best running buddy, Sadie, is doing great at 8 years of age. She's the one on the right. Scout is only 3, but she is not doing so well.

She has the heart of a trail running dog but the vertebral column of ... well, let's just say that there are some congenital abnormalities. I resigned myself to not having her to run with. I figured we could walk together or maybe even trot around for a few miles. But over the past couple of months, she has had more and more pain. We finally took her to the neurologist. She had a pretty extensive surgery to try to stabilize the lumbo-sacral region. While it would be absolutely wonderful if she could run again, it will be fantastic if she can walk.