Old Pueblo Epic Race Report

I'll just apologize in advance for this extremely long winded race report. I have a lot to say about this race.

I didn't talk a lot about my plans to run Old Pueblo. I didn't blog about it, I didn't post a lot on Facebutt about my training. I think this was partly because I've been training for it for a long time, and partly because I just don't make a big deal out of stuff. This may or may not be a good thing for me, this 'not-making-a-big-deal' thing. This policy of not talking seems to have kept me largely in my head, which I'm not sure has made me feel more positive about my experiences. I think that keeping things to myself helped me to build up expectations, and didn't promote me talking through my fears.

I also found that mentioning that I was going to "do" 50 miles did not register with most people. I'm not sure if people process this information (do they think I'll drive that 50?). Mostly, people seemed unimpressed. So I didn't talk about it much.

We drove to Sonoita Arizona, south of Tucson, on Friday a.m. Me, spouse, Mo, and Bones had signed up for this race as a joint crazy adventure. Mo has done this race before, but it would be the first 50 mile attempt for the rest of us. Luckily, Mo had a lot of good information to share about her experience before.

It took about 7 hrs driving there the long way via Hillsboro (where we got to re-live the memories of the Ghost Town run, le sigh, the race who does not want me back). Sonoita has a population of about 300, so I didn't expect much. I was pleasantly surprised when the hotel I booked (called the Sonoita Inn) turned out to be attractively appointed. The building itself looked like a barn out in the middle of the grassland and desert. Our rooms were nicely done - each room was named after a local ranch, with a short history of its ranch namesake outside each room. The hotel had nice personal touches like home-made goat milk soap, and wine and cheese and snacks laid out for guests. It was a really sweet place for its odd, remote location, and I would definitely stay there again. We ate at a local Italian place -- one of two or three restaurants in town.

I took a half-dose of diphenhydramine that night. We were on the senior citizen/ultrarunner schedule of dinner at 5, bedtime by 8, so of course my body was not ready for sleep when I needed to sleep.

A nice thing about staying in Sonoita is that we were about 20 minutes from the start of the race (a mine claim called Kentucky Camp), so we got to sleep in for that extra 20 minutes. It doesn't sound like a lot, but at that time of day I would do just about anything for extra sleep. I think most of the people staying at the hotel were doing the race, because there was plenty of noise from other people downstairs by the time we were getting up. We rolled out of bed at 4am, got dressed, ate some breakfast. I elected to wear my CW-X 3/4 length tights, a short-sleeved tech shirt, MoeBen sleeves, a buff, a cap with a brim, injinji socks, and a newly broken in pair of road shoes. I also had a Sugoi Helium vest, my new favourite runny thing. It weighs nothing, packs down into a thimble, and is day-glo green with reflecty bits and a mesh back.

We arrived at Kentucky Camp and found it to be chilly, and at 5-something in the morning, nobody was surprised by this. I put in 180-something run miles in February, another 170-something in January. I got accustomed to training at 5-something in the morning at times, so this was not unexpected. This is a good thing. My stomach was a little unsettled, but not in knots and not out of control, I made my porta potty trips, got my last minute gear stuff out of the way (pinned my number, stowed my post-race gear). At a small race like this (175 cap) there are no crowds, and the whole atmosphere is fairly relaxed despite of the fact that you're there to run an incredibly long distance.

I elected not to wear any GPS, but instead just brought a watch. I knew that Garmin would probably die long before I would finish, and thought I'd just take along something to remind me of the time so that I could stay on top of my nutrition.

My nutrition plan was to do a full gel every hour, with supplementary squirts from a gel flask every 20 minutes. I would take an e-cap every hour, as needed. I would supplement food from the course where I could - aid stations varied from 3 to 7 or so miles apart, which sounded reasonable. I dropped gel flasks at miles 29 and 40, shoes and socks at 29, extra warm gear at 40.

Having done a few long distance runs in preparation for this, I knew a couple of things going in:

1) This would hurt. Eventually, it would hurt a lot.
2) The pain would slow me down if I let it take over.

As part of my preparation for this race, I've been doing some reading about Zen experience. I was hoping that Zen experience would, in this case, translate to a sort of hypnotic experience, where I would get to stop thinking and feeling and just enjoy the doing. I was thinking hard about how to focus on being Zen, which is sort of the exact opposite of having a Zen thing. I've been reading Anton Krupicka's blog, and he talks a lot about staying in the moment, which is a very Zen thing to do. He does not, however, write much about pain. I think he feels pain, I think every runner does. I get that everybody processes it differently.

Without realizing it I had built up an expectation in my head, after the many training miles and thoughtfulness and preparation I had put into this this race. I had an expectation that everything would just fall into place. Or something. I wasn't sure. I knew I just wanted to finish, no time attachments. My reading the night before landed me on this:

Spiritual Awakening is frequently described as a journey to the top of a mountain. We leave our attachments and our worldliness behind and slowly make our way to the top. At the peak we have transcended all pain. The only problem with this metaphor is that we leave all others behind. Their suffering continues, unrelieved by our personal escape. (Pema Chodron, "Comfortable with Uncertainty.")

And so, when they sent us off into the darkness, trotting away from Kentucky Camp I felt calm and settled in my stomach. I had a pack full of gels and gatorade, I had a plan, though I'd tried not to have any expectations. I had a head full of expectations, without really realizing that I had a head full of expectations.

Miles 1 - 3 were unremarkable. The group started out hiking right away. I was surprised at how slowly everyone was moving. If the road turned up more than a degree or two, the power-hiking commenced immediately. I figured this was part of the ultra thing, and that since I didn't know a damned thing about what the world would be like at mile 40-whatever, I figured I would learn from the experienced runners, let them teach me their ways. I fell in with a runner named Dawn who had started five 50 milers, but had DNF'd two attempts at Zane Grey. She left me on one of the early descents, because I am a painfully slow descender.

Miles 3 - 7 were also pretty unremarkable. I was hoping that I would find a porta potty at the mile 7 aid station, but alas, the course had Zero portapotties. I catted-and-moused a pair of runners, one of whom I overheard talking about his various Ironman finishes, and a recent Javelina 100 finish. I figured if Javelina Jundred guy is nearby, he probably knows what he is doing and so I should pay close attention. I grabbed some food at the mile 7 aid station and kept going feeling great.


Miles 7 - 13 were spent scouting for toilet locations in the desert. There was a surprising lack of bushes and trees that provided adequate cover for me and my modesty. Yes I know that Everyone Poops. Yes I know it's customary for ultra runners to go pretty much anywhere. This did not go well for me, the whole pooping in the desert thing, I feel I don't need to say much more about that. I lost Javelina guy after this, as he waited for his friend (a runner who had never done this distance before). I took two PB&J quarters at the mile 13 aid station, and a few chips, I stayed at the aid station for maybe a minute before I was on my way.


On the journey of the warrior-bodhisattva, the path goes down, not up, as if the mountain pointed toward the earth instead of the sky. Instead of transcending the suffering of all creatures, we move toward turbulence and doubt however we can. We explore the reality and unpredictability of insecurity and pain, and we try not to push it away...At our own pace, without speed or aggression, we move down and down and down.


Miles 13 - 19 were a long downhill stretch, partly runnable, partly not, covered in rocks of varying sizes. This was another point at which I was reminded that my slow descending was a handicap, as many runners I had time on easily passed me. This included a couple wearing Hokas, who had never run in their Hokas previously. She was just as terrified of descending as I, but was coached down by her husband...and yes, she passed me. At the mile 19 aid station, I asked them to make me a sandwich, grabbed a handful of chips, and left.

Miles 19 - 25 - were into the teeth of a ferocious wind, right when the course started to turn uphill again. I'll guess that the gusts were 30+ mph, and right into my face, which made dealing with it a bit easier. Side winds would have put dust into my eyes, but a straight-into-the-face wind meant that dust was deflected by my glasses. My feet and hips had started to hurt, and I was starting to fixate on the sensation. This was about 5 hrs into the race, and I finally decided to plug in and turn on the iPod, and I took two Tylenol.


At roughly mile 23, I ran into a fence marked with course flags, and no visible flags further on to tell me which way to go. Luckily, I had put a copy of the course map into my pack at the last minute - which said, "private property, climb over closed gate." Thank goodness I packed that map - because the runners were so thinly stretched on the course at that point, I'd still be standing there wondering what to do.

Mile 25 aid station was manned by some kids who seemed fairly inexperienced with crewing, but were steadfastly manning their post. They said I was ahead of the cutoff by 30 minutes, which was too close for my liking (turns out I was further ahead than that). I asked them to re-fill my pack with fluid. I learned at this point that the race had a totally new and completely unexpected sports drink I had never heard of called 'Xood'. I had read on the website to expect Heed, and was surprised not to have that available. Nonetheless, I could tell I was getting enough calories and electrolytes from the gels and e-caps I had brought with me, so I asked them to fill my pack with water.

In my head I was not happy to be halfway done with the race. I was frustrated by the wind, and anxious about the experience. I was starting to feel the pain of the miles, and knowing that I was *only* halfway through gave me a sense of dread. It did not feel good to get through 25, I was feeling trepidation - the day was only half done, and I'd just finished the fast half, and it took me 6 hours. I left this aid station with a piece of wrap sandwich, not sure if I'd made a good choice or not (about the race or the sandwich).

Miles 25 - 29 were long, uphill, into the teeth of the wind. They were ugly. My feet were hurting. These miles seemed to go on forever, and I was again looking for a toilet-tree. These miles were on a road on a cliffside, not even a bush in sight. Eventually the cliff path turned away from the wind. My feet were really starting to hurt, and I couldn't find a way to get away from the feeling. I felt like I was spending every second of this experience "in the moment" and I didn't like the moment. I wasn't enjoying the moment. The moment sucked. How Anton Krupicka stays in the moment escapes me - why would you want to stay in the moment when it's so freakin' miserable?


The Ironman/Javelina guy caught up with me on the way in, and we power-hiked up to the mile 29 aid station, bypassing a baby snake along the way. He'd left his friend (who was not having a great day), and was continuing on at his own pace. His friend's wife hiked in the last 1/2 mile to aid station 29, telling us we looked good, asking about her husband. I felt a little better hearing we looked good, though we both explained to her that it was all a big facade. I told her the smile that was fixed to my face was from gritting my teeth.

Mile 29 aid station I changed shoes. The aid station volunteer did a perfect imitation of Forrest Gump, which cheered me up. My feet looked ok on the outside, I had no big hot spots, no major boo-boos, just pain. I greased up my feet, put on fresh injinjis, and older shoes with more mileage, thinking they'd have a little more room for my swollen tootsies.

Miles 29 - 33 were back uphill on the same trail we'd come in on for miles 3-7. I left mile 29 aid station with half a PB&J and felt better - maybe the new shoes would make all the difference in my race, my feet felt much better already. It wasn't steep trail, but it was rocky. Again I had to find a porta-tree, again the experience was unsettling, and I discovered that my pack was dripping fluid. I was fed up with myself and my own thoughts, I'd been outside running for what seemed like days. Within a half hour my feet started to hurt again. I found another runner who was feeling just rotten enough to run with me for a bit, and I was glad for the company. And then, I scared her with my porta-tree experience...

Other runner: How are ya doing?
Me: Well, I think my pack has a leak, and also, I've pooed on myself.
Other runner: oh.
me: it's not all streaked up my tights, is it?
Other runner: No. I don't know you that well, so please stop talking about it.

She quickly moved on to do her own pace and her own race, sorry about that. Again, I lost her when she descended -- this seemed to be the theme for the day.

I also passed a guy who I'd catted and moused who had a cough. He'd been coughing early in the race about every 20 feet (totally destroying my Zen), and I finally caught him for good (I later found out he'd been pulled at mile 33).

Mile 33 aid station was covered in bees. I asked them to check my water and they gave me a half a sandwich, but with that many bees there I didn't want to stick around. I sat down for a minute just to relieve the pressure from my feet, and then I was up and out. Gbye, bees!

Miles 33 - 40 is probably where I started to cry the first time. I can't remember. I know I broke down a couple of times, and I know it's much harder to run when I'm crying, and once I start, I'm like a leaky balloon. I just let it roll through me, I figured my emotional state was part of this crazy, painful, weird journey and it would pass. The trail was rough and rocky, and it just kept going. I remember looking at my watch and trying not to pay attention to how long it was taking to get to the next aid station. It was a long stretch of trail that was never-ending. I had plenty of food and water, I stayed on my nutrition plan and kept going, my pace was just so demoralizing. The trail was only runnable for me in stretches. I couldn't pick up my feet effectively enough to run unless the trail was less rocky and more road-y, and this stretch was mostly rocky. It was somewhere in here that I figured out that the faster I could make myself go, the faster I could be done and off the trail. I told myself to go faster and just ignore the pain - but this would only work in the stretches where I could actually run (the flattish non-rocky bits). I had no way to know where I was in the course except for by my watch, and I could tell by the way time was still dragging on that I was not making good speed. Somewhere in here I took two ibuprofen to back up my tylenol.


I found a deer leg part way through this section. Last time I saw a deer leg was at Bandera, the shiny polished hoof seemed to stand out in the rolling rocky terrain. I'm not sure what to make of deer legs on the course, it's very unsettling to almost trip over a random hoof.


I rolled into the mile 40 aid station just before 6pm, and totally fell apart. I'd been running for about 12 hours, and the signs that the aid station had set up leading up to it struck a nerve - "You will not falter...You will not waiver..." I knew that at mile 40 I was committed to finishing, but I also knew that running really sucked. I didn't want to finish. I wanted to go home. I wanted nothing more than to get off my feet. I was done. The mile 40 crew gave me soup, Justin's wife talked me down. They said you're good, you can finish this! I put my vest and my buff back on, grabbed my extra shirt from my drop bag. Mo and Bones had left me an extra headlamp, which sent me further into tears. They were probably already done, they knew I'd be out here still in the dark. I was overcome by gratitude that they were taking care of me, mixed with dread that I was still out here.

In training, 10 more miles would have take me a little over an hour and a half if I were feeling fresh. I knew there was no way I could run that pace at that moment, and it was awful. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I knew it would realistically take me over twice that time, and I didn't want to be out for 3 more hours. I didn't want to face 3 more hours. My feet were killing me.

But everything else was good to go. Dammit.

Miles 40 - 46 the sweep crew caught up with me. The first few miles out of the mile 40 aid station were beautiful, but the light was fading fast.


I ran where I could, but again, more rough trail made my descending slow. The lack of light made my progress slower still. Eventually the sweeps were right behind me, guiding me back to the start line (which is good, because I did take a few wrong turns in the dark). They pointed out that this would be one of the few occasions when having two guys behind me with knives was a good thing. They said they were grateful that I was making good progress, since it meant they'd be home at a decent time. I told them I was really disappointed to be DFL. They said this was not a bad thing, that I was still out there doing 50 miles when most people in the world were not.


The combination of the darkness and iffy trail surface (through a perversity of course layout ALL the water crossings of the course were in the final miles) made my progress painfully slow. Due to my adherance to my nutrition plan, and the amount of caffeine I'd taken in during the day (I'd tried to take in a caffeinated gel every other gel so as not to tweak out too hard), I was still perky from the ankles up. The last miles of the course were at least as technical as the early miles, if not moreso - and doing these miles in the dark became hopelessly difficult for me, even with two headlamps. During those instances where I could run, my feet felt better, my legs felt better. I was reminded that I'd trained to run these 50 miles, not walk them -- and all the walking I was doing felt pretty awful on my body.

The sweeps, who were cutting down course flags and glow sticks, found one flag tied to another deer leg. We didn't collect that flag.


At the mile 46 aid station they told me that the finish might be 5 miles away, not 4. In my mind, the finish could have been 100 miles away. At this point I was really really committed. And pissed. I knew that last 5 would take more than an hour to finish, probably two at the pace I was going. Worserer, the trail continued to get more technical, singletrack and windey, and dark. My foot pain would come and go, briefly getting better if I could trot a little, then getting intensely painful.

Miles 46 - 51 were dark dark dark. and slow. And dark. And technical. Me and the sweeps were on a first-name basis by now, I found out they were training for Zane Grey. We caught up with a guy who had a serious knee injury, and split up -- Dallas stayed with broken knee guy, Mike stayed with me. In spite of my state of mind (being pissed at myself for being so slow), I was grateful for the company. The pain in my feet and legs came and went with no real rhythm. I couldn't pick up any run speed, between not being able to see the trail very far ahead (I think some of this was a function of having run 40-something miles and having a little tunnel vision) and the trail being rough and weird, and my feet and legs being just crazy achy. There were a few moments where I wanted to pause and enjoy the moment, turn off my headlamp and look at the stars -- but I felt pressured to finish.

I kept wanting to know how far I had come, how far I had left. I couldn't tell how fast or slow my progress was in the dark, and I felt like I had been out in the dark for days. Forever. Forevverrrrrrrr.... GAAAAA! WHEN WILL IT END??? I didn't want to pause to look at my watch, I just wanted. To. Be. Done.

And then, off in the distance, I saw a headlamp coming the other way. "That's probably my husband," I said to Mike. Sure enough, there he was - telling me where the finish was. They were all waiting at the end -- Mo and Bones. "Have I told you how much I love you?" I said.

I finished in 15:21 something. 15 hours of "running." (Spouse finished in about 10 hrs, Mo and Bones in about 12). The lovely finish line people handed me a belt buckle, and I still felt like I could be OK for awhile. I sat by the fire in the cabin. Some runners still hadn't come in (I wasn't totally DFL, but close), and spouse was contemplating going back out.

Soon after that, I crashed hard, shaking uncontrollably. My legs ached something awful. No, it never ends. Nevaaaarrrrrr!!


Things that went right:
* I have incurred no injuries other than lingering achiness, which is totally to be expected after being on my legs for 50-something miles.
* Three days later my legs are still sore, but much better. I can almost use them again without feeling like I need a Zimmerframe.
* I expected some breakdowns and got none -- no ITB issues, no hip issues, but I did get three new blisters on my feet in areas where there was plenty of callus already built up. I think the orthotics are to blame for these, there was no way to predict this.
* My pack wasn't leaking after all, just sloppily filled. I re-filled it a couple of times on the day, I was well-hydrated and well-nourished. My nutrition plan seemed to work well.
* I made an effort not to linger at the aid stations, and I did pretty well on that.

Things that went wrong:
* I need to explore trail shoes. I use road shoes for training and racing, and I think trails like that really chew up my feet. I think that over long races like this one, trail shoes might help attenuate the pain I felt. I am pretty sure it'll still hurt, but it might help.
* 15 hours is a long damned time to be out there. I need to work on speed.
* Three new blisters - totally new. I chalk this up to Anything Can Happen In An Ultra.
* I need to get faster at descents.
* I experienced some tweakage at the back of my left knee, probably from over-extending due to using the descending muscles. Which didn't appreciate the descending.
* I could not figure out a way to get out of my head. My head totally did me in, fixating on the slow, fixating on the pain. I am hopeful that just by getting through this race, the experience will become part of my experience and I will be able to let go, that I won't have to fixate on WHEN WILL IT END because my brain will know that there is an end.

Long Term Plans
I have the Silver Rush 50 (Leadville) on the agenda for July, and I am freaked. The cutoff for this race is 14 hours, and it's much higher up. The race profile shows that it's about the same amount of climbing, and the trails look more runnable than Old Pueblo (jeep trails). I know from Old Pueblo that I have to get faster, and I have to get better at descending. My biggest fear is that I can't -- that I can't get faster and I can't get better at these. I don't know what it will take.

Now that it's out of my head, I confess that this is easily the longest, most self-examining, and most boring race report I've ever written. This is totally in keeping with this race having been the longest, most uncomfortable period of self examination I've ever experienced. I wanted to be in the moment, and by God I was - I experienced every painful second.

I have some misgivings about putting it all down -- by admitting my fears and my pain, do I give them life? Do they take over? If I admit that it wasn't fun, will it ever become fun? I want to do it again but I want it to be fun -- is that possible? Will everyone think I'm a big pussy because I felt pain, cried, didn't like it? Because I feel like a big wuss. A big slow wuss, and I'm not sure how to shake that. Speed never seemed to bother me before, mainly because I've always been comfortably mid-pack, or mid-to-back of the pack. It's never been a big goal, I've always wanted to just be comfortable doing what I'm doing, not feeling pressured.

I am counting this race as a mixed achievement. A finish is a finish, and this one was mine. It wasn't as fast as I wanted to be, and I know I have work to do. I'll wear my beautiful new belt buckle, and I'll feel my sore spots on my sore spots, lick my wounds, and recover. I was one of 33 women who finished, one of 125 total runners who finished. There aren't so many of us.

St. George Postmortem Notes

It is customary, post performance, to determine what went right, what went wrong, who can be blamed, and what are the most plausible excuses for poor performance. This is commonly called a postmortem examination, 'cos it's Latin and it sounds smart, like you put your best brain cells into the effort. Ideally a thoughtful postmortem will determine the cause of death and analyze how things could have been improved for the victim. The goal is to eventually land on a satisfying conclusion that will help the living let go, move on, and stop playing with dead things.

I've had a couple weeks to cool down and think about it all, and also learn a few things. It's been very satisfying.

I re-read my race report, then walked away, then read it again and thought my god what a bitter, nasty, horrible race report. It almost seems like I didn't have any fun at all. Which is sort of true, I wasn't having any fun. I'm pretty clear on that point. Nonetheless, it bothers me that I wasn't having fun. I trained for this race - and I knew it would be difficult. I'm dissatisfied that I fell apart so catastrophically as to not even enjoy the experience.

My lower back hurt, solid, for a week after the race. I seriously damaged it something awful. Then it got better after stretching, massage, and general laziness. I've been trying to enjoy my recovery, and it's been bittersweet. On the one hand, it's nice not to be training for an Ironman and sleep in, and enjoy weekend time with my kids. On the other hand, I really seem to enjoy training for an Ironman. Just maybe not all the time. So I'm kind of missing it.

I'm a little closer to figuring out why I didn't have fun. This weekend I got back outside on the bike for the first time since St. George. Bones and I elected to ride up Tramway as prep for Iron Horse. I was happy to be outside in the sunshine with no training pressure.

Tramway is a reasonably difficult climb in the City that holds some respect. The first time I climbed Tramway (all 6 miles of it) I was rather proud of myself. It's not super steep (maybe 6% or 8% at most) but it's long, and climbing it without popping is a task that takes practice.

I had initially convinced myself when I signed up for IMSG, that the bike profile looked about like climbing Tramway roughly 8 times. I spent many weeks of paper research convincing myself that no, it couldn't possibly be that steep, and many a ride up Tramway gritting my teeth and thinking there is no way in hell I'd be able to do this 8 times.

After extensive review of the GPS data for Tramway and many many breakdowns of the IMSG profile map, (the map says this many feet of ascent, over this distance, etc. etc.), I convinced myself that surely IMSG would be a little shallower than this. In preparation, I completed many trips up Tramway chewing on the idea that it would be far worse than what I would get to experience during the race.

This past weekend's ride was like a PTSD flashback: climbing up Tramway on Sunday, Bones and I agreed that yah, it was about exactly the same as riding the St. George bike course. It may be shallower on paper, but it felt almost exactly the same, qualitatively.

About 20 minutes into my easy pace Sunday ride my back started to hurt and would not stop. There I was, mentally, in exactly the same place I was about 40 miles into the Ironman St. George Ride, thinking "huh, that hurts, I'll just stretch it out and it'll relax".

Except that much like St. George, there was no relaxing. There was no position that got me out of that pain: it stuck to me relentlessly and didn't quit until I got off the bike. The rest of me felt absolutely ready to ride. My legs felt strong, my heart and lungs felt fully on-line. And yet, WTF is up with this back thing?!

Here is my dead thing. How did it die? What was its cause of death? How can I learn from this to make the next thing better?

On reflection, I think I know exactly what happened: I traded saddles about 6 weeks before the race.

Yes I know that was probably not smart. In my defense, I traded to a saddle that a) worked better than the one that was currently on the bike, and b) was identical to a saddle I have on my tri bike. At the time, it seemed like a much needed improvement, and the timing seemed like it would work -- I'd be doing some long hard rides on the new saddle in plenty of time for the big day. So while it was different, it wasn't super weird different. This was a known difference.

I'm recalling now that when we (my professional LBS bike fitter and I) put the new Cobb V-Flow saddle on the bike, we observed that it would not go as far forward as the current one (Selle Italia Glamour), and that this may or may not be a problem.

The new saddle (which I totally recommend, by the way, I love love love the Cobb on my Tri bike) does not have the same adjustability on my road bike as the old one. To which I said, "it's better than the one I have, I think it'll be OK."

Since we couldn't move the saddle forward farther, I am seated just behind the cranks on the Cobb. And when the rider is seated just behind the cranks, she ends up using her back to do some of the work, instead of getting her legs to do the whole job. And when the rider has just come out of a hypothermic swim, and her muscles are frozen, it seems they don't adjust well to being over-stressed by doing extra work on a ride that has a whole lot of climbing.

Ya think my back hurt a little?

During my experimental PTSD climb up Tramway, I discovered how much that pain tore out of my ride - it slowed me down immensely. Physical pain is fatiguing, and when there's no way to get out of it, well, it's no wonder my ride sucked.

On the plus side, because my back was killing me on the ride, I think I effectively saved a lot of energy for the run because I was unable to push very hard on the bike. That's not to say the run was easy for me - but it does explain a PR on freakishly hilly marathon course.

I don't have a moral for this story, I'm just glad to know what the problem is, and what to do about it now. I'm experimenting with a new saddle (the Adamo) in a better position, and I'm still stretching my jacked-up lower back (it's still not 100% happy with me). I'm worried that Iron Horse will be painful, but now I know why, and I know what to do.

Lesson learned. Postmortem complete.

What's next?

my year of good stuff

Ok, I admit. I have been a little lax in my posting (one post in 6 months? bad girl!!). That's not to say that I haven't been doing my thing - far from it (come visit me at my other blog if you have the stomach for it). I think I've had a really excellent year, and I'll put it all down here while I'm thinking about it and feeling good about it.

working backward from this weekend...

Ghost Town 38.5
Last Sunday I ran 40 miles. The race (Ghost Town) was only 38.5 miles - but I'm 40, and I wanted 40. So Beloved and I walked an additional 1.5 miles. The race was hard, but that last 1.5 was excruciating. I don't recommend it (getting extra mileage, that is). Total time: 9:23 for the 38.5, plus another 20 or so minutes for that last 1.5.

The course was mostly jeep trail with some paved at the beginning and end, and a few sections of singletrack. The terrain was varied, Garmin says it was at least 7000 feet of climbing, all told. I ran where I felt like it, I walked where I felt like it, I took the day to do my thing. I felt best in the last 10 miles when the heavy caffeine started to kick in (I save my caffeinated gels for the back half of the race).

Even though my feet were aching, I had no other issues to speak of: my nutrition was fine, I was tired, but I had no mechanical failures. No ITB issues, no springs or sproings, no nothing.

I look a leetle too perky here, that's how I know this was early in the race.

It was a hard race, no doubt about it, but I guess it still hasn't hit me that I actually ran 40 miles. Somehow that's become No Big Deal.

Huh. Maybe that's a sign...

Beach to Battleship
I did another Iron distance in late 2009. This one was an emotionally satisfying event - I had a really excellent race in which I did not bonk, I felt good, I had no stomach issues, and most importantly, I did not overheat. I finished in 13:53, which is 2 hrs faster than my previous Iron distance effort.

Two hours. I could hardly believe it myself.

I really think the temperature made a big difference. Also, the flatness of the course was a big contributor. Compared with Vineman, well, this course is just not the same. But I'm better trained and smarter, and faster. These are all good things.

This course featured a downhill swim. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not: The swim was in the causeway with the tide - about a 0.5 knot current. My fellow Outlaw SW Tri Gal says we looked like we were on a conveyor belt. Swim time: 1:10.

I can never hope to post a time like that in another race without the benefit of a current, but it sure felt good to see that time on the day.

The bike was also flat and fast-ish. We thought we had died and gone to heaven when the locals told us that under normal conditions, the back half of the loop would be with the wind. Alas, that was not the case for us on race day. The back half was in a headwind, feeling like we were going nowhere. The last 20 miles were particularly demoralizing, and seemed to take hours. Bike time: 6:50.

oh yes, it does feel good to get off the saddle, no matter how cool looking it is.

The run was not so flat, there were a few hills along the route. Still, it was fun and I was ready for it. I went into it prepared to do whatever it took to finish the race and was astonished to find myself full of energy to run, run and keep running. I ran to the first aid station thinking I'd just see how far my energy took me and then walk if I had to, and I was stunned to find that I had bags of energy left.

Had it not been for my IT bands both falling apart on me (not one, but two), I'd have run the whole thing much much faster. My energy was there, but the legs just were not - I felt them start to go at the start of the 2nd loop of the marathon, and by the end, I was in agony.

In retrospect, the week before I had been leveled flat with a flu-like thing and had done no stretching. Seriously. I was sick and did nothing but lie still and wait for the swine flu to pass over me. I think the week of inactivity gave me an awesome taper, but killed my IT bands.

at this point I felt like I could run forever! Bring it on, bitches!

As it was, I had a PR for marathon distance in any race. Run time: 5:23

I think this result is all about consistent training - I'm reaping the benefits of being OCD about my training, doing whatever my coach says. Thanks, Coach!

After that race my legs were pretty useless for a couple of days.

Palo Duro 50K
For me this was the best 50K run ever, bar none. Palo Duro Canyon is a neat little surprise in the middle of the flattest and least exciting part of Texas. We started running in the dark, and as the light rose it revealed a desert palette of reds and browns, and a green strip of river through the bottom of the canyon. The trails of Palo Duro Canyon feature gently rolling hills through desert badlands and riverine habitat. It's just cool!

I tore a hole out of my last 50K run, and PR'd (7:08). I was 90 minutes faster than my Bandera 50K. The last 5 miles I ran faster than I had run the entire race. I was filled with joy for running. I was ecstatic.

I know -- that's weird that it took 27 miles to get to that happy emotional place. WTF?! Perhaps I was just that loopy from dehydration. I don't know.

I love you, man!

I do know that I had no ITB issues for that race. Yah - a 50K and no mechanical issues, unlike the Bandera Rocky Rock 50K Course From Hell. Which I will go back to someday, just because I can.

Vineman 70.3
I went back to Vineman to do the half partly to have a good time with my buddies, and partly to convince myself that I wasn't afraid of the course. And I wasn't.

But maybe I should have been.

Vineman 2009 was my first 70.3 race under 7 hours (6:54), a PR which took every cell in my body to achieve due to intense heat. I know I complained that the Vineman full was inhospitably hot (96), but the 70.3 had it beat: we got back to the car thermometer after the race, which said the temperature was a scorching 102.

Dude, I am cooked.

I know. That ain't right.

This was probably exacerbated by the fact that my Old Lady age group was the next-to-last out on the course. I understand they switch it up every year so that no one age group feels heat of the day, which is good. Or I'd complain. Loud.

The swim was gorgeous, as I remember (45 min). The bike was far less taxing than I remember (3:17), but the run was brutal - like trotting through a 13.1 mile sauna with occasional sprinklers. My run time (2:36) is a reflection of how hard I had to work in that heat. Still, I felt it was a success and I feel I had a really good day. I know if the heat hadn't totally cooked my eggs, a 6:30 was within my grasp.

I also had a moment of light when I saw and spoke with Sister Madonna Buder on the run course. Sister Buder looked strong, and I stopped and waved to her and said, 'you're my hero.' She responded with something sweet, and encouraging. She is amazing. I heard later that 21CM had a conversation with her in transition that went something like this.

21CM: I think you're amazing
SMD: I think everyone is amazing.

Anybody who is so fearless and so giving and so beautiful about her ability, well, what's not to love and admire about that?!

So that's my backwards year. Looking forward, I'm ready to vomit thinking about IMSG...but before then, I'm going to do Ironman New Orleans ('cos that looks fun), and whatever comes up with my Outlaws, my friends, my family.

One race at a time...

the insanity continues

I know...I know I know I know. where the hell has she been and how come she never writes anymore?

I'm sure I could come up with a number of reasons as to why the blog has gathered dust, but I won't. I'll just pick up where I left off and pretend nothing has happened.

There was that Quad Weekend...

I had no trouble this year pulling a team together for the Quad. The same guys I had last year were easy to convince to do it again this year. I'm not sure how I got so lucky with my team. There's the Biker, who is good friends with the Skier, who is a good cycling buddy of mine, and the Runner, who happens to be my spouse, and me, the humble snowshoer. Usually spouse is not so interested in team things - but the Quad is a special kind of insanity. I'm not sure how I talk him into it every year, but it's not hard. The manliness factor is probably a big piece of it. He remembers how crazy-hard it is, and he's game. Also, I think he likes the rest of the team, because they're all good people.

This is the second year we've had the same Quad Team, which means that I'm dealing with seasoned pros, so to speak. All of us tend to train year-round for one or another thing. The only thing we needed to do was train for this thing, since skiing and snowshoeing are the only weather-sensitives sports, it's really down to the shoer and the skiier to be in reasonable form for our specialties. The Quad is just a fun weekend in the snow.

The Quad, this year, fell on Valentine's day. This year also, it fell on a weird weather weekend. It had to happen sometime, that the weather would be less than perfect. The last few years we've had glorious sunshine and fabulous perfectness.

This year it was cold and windy.

Seriously. Cold. And windy.

I know. I've been having trouble writing some seriously inspiring stuff here. We came, we saw, we quadded, the end. There are so many things I love about that race - the location, the people, the obscene difficulty of it.

This year it was also seriously hard, mentally. As in years past, I always forget just how frickin hard it is to make it to the bloody start of the snowshoe leg. It's not like other races where you can just take a taxi, or have someone drop you off at the start of your leg, no. We take a bus from the town of Grants to the start of the run/end of the bike (T1). From there, we get in a truck to go to the end of the run/start of the ski (T2). Each and every one of the relayers gets in a truck and gets hauled to T2. It's a big undertaking, getting racers onto the mountain - and it seems like the entire town of Grants volunteers for this race. Grants is not a big town, so it's pretty cool that they pull this off.

From T2, it's up to the snowshoers to haul their own butts up to the end of the ski/start of the shoe (T3). On our own.

For emphasis, I'll spell it out -- that's 2 mile snowshoe from T2 to T3 - before we get to race. Bleah. Every year I tell myself 'oh it's just 2 miles' and every year I am swearing, cursing, sweating and freezing my arse off hiking those two uphill miles before I even get to start the race. This year was no different than previous years - except for the wind. And the cold.

On the plus side, they did change the course slightly from last year - the uphill was the same 1 mile with 800 feet of elevation gain (and most of that gain feels like it's in the last 1/2 mile, topping out at over 11,000 ft). In previous years the downhill is the same as the uphill, but this year the downhill went down a more sheltered route, which meant the snow was less frozen, and more fluffier. For me, this meant I could descend a little more fearlessly.

cutting to the chase,
2008 Quad Shoe Up: 26:05, Shoe Down: 15:40
2009 Quad Shoe Up: 24:51, Shoe Down: 13:10

I think my improved time is down to more than just the changed course, and I'm very pleased about that.

As with last year, we came in first in our age group. We were trying hard to improve our overall team position, but it was not meant to be. A crack team of suspiciously fast sub-pro types came in first, and a team of males consisting of really fast guys (some of whom I know) came in 2nd. One of these yearsI just know that we'll break our position and move up the ranks...

But that was February! What the hell else have you been doing with yourself?

Well. Since the Quad I've
a) Signed up for Satan's Spin Class. Again. I came out of last year's hellfire 10 week course feeling pretty strong, and all indications so far are that Uncle Roy's magic is working again.

b) Signed up for Ironman St. George Ho. Lee. Shit. IMSG (or IMUT?) will be a second iron distance race within 6 months, since I'll be doing Beach to Battleship in November. It will also mean maintaining iron-style fitness through the winter (ulp). Given how strong I've felt recently, I feel good that I'll be able to pull off an iron distance race if I can train like this next year. I'm excited about that, and I'm also excited about shaking up my season next year. Getting an iron distance done early in the year will mean that I can do different things later in the year. On the downside, it will mean some hard, long miles in some cold parts of the year. Luckily, I live in a part of the country where this will be possible.

Having said that, we did get snow last week. And we usually get one more snow for Easter.

For posterity, I'll record that Mo and Spouse are responsible for talking me into that one. Mainly spouse. He sealed the deal by enthusing about making a family holiday in Utah, visiting the local beauty spots.

Mo and I helped each other fill out the registration forms. It's so good to have a partner in crime - I'd never have figured out what to say on some of that stuff.

c) completed the Napa Valley Trail Half Marathon. We'll refer to this race in the future as, 'the race in which spouse lied to me.'

I'll save that for the next post.

Ok, I'm caught up now...

on being crazy

I think my sanity has been called into question.

Again.

Many in the athlete (or pretendy-athlete, like me) community struggle to explain to our family, friends and (sometimes) spouses why we like to do what we do. Why do we spend upwards of 7 hrs a week training when most people might struggle with 3? Triathletes, in general, do way more than the required minimum of 30 minutes a day, so anything beyond that logically looks like a pointless waste of time. It looks like we're running away - from something, or some one. What would be the point, especially for those of us who aren't 'in the money'?

I've heard stories of family members who are outright hostile to their kin about their training. Family members will leap to accusations of the P.A. being obsessed, or neglectful, or crazy. As a side note, I have heard the "crazy" thing so many times it almost doesn't register anymore. My personal favourite criticism was, "you are sick," which was directed at me from a cyclist - and therefore more compliment than accusation.

I know -- 7 hrs a week. I picked that out of the air, and I know it's a low number - I figure that's roughly a recovery week for some of us - but other sources set this as an average standard for short distance racing, and I think it's a great goal for many. At the peak of Ironman training, with century ride and long run weekends, it can get up to 20 hours, but for average short-distance triathlon training, 7 hrs a week seems about right. That's an hour a day everyday.

I'll just come straight out and admit that yeah, triathlon training is an odd thing to want to do. It's not a well-accepted hobby, it does seem pretty fringey. Our circles are pretty small, though they seem bigger when you're in the water with 2500 other people on race day. Much has been discussed about the socioeconomic groups who choose to participate in triathlon. It's a pretty narrow focus. We all put our strait jackets on one arm at a time, just like everyone else.

I was faced with the same question and same crisis of conscience when someone else (also not a triathlete) a few years ago asked, why aspire to an Ironman? Why not use that time for something else, something bigger? Curing cancer, volunteering at a homeless shelter, spending more time with the kids, etc. etc. I agree, these are all noble and valid things. At the time I was more worried about the impact of loss on my children - could they handle mommy taking on what was effectively a part-time job for a few months?

These days, I am no longer defensive about the implication that what I choose to do with my time is somehow less valuable than something else, because I've mostly stopped judging what other people do with their time. Everybody is different about their 24 hours. I have happily and firmly arrived at the conviction that I love what I do, and as long as it's fun for me, I'll keep doing it. I support everyone else in pursuing what makes them happy, and this is what makes me happy.

I suppose it's also true that many an addict has said the same thing, when confronted with their addiction: I'm not hurting anybody, I can quit when I want to, you can't make me quit...that's another blog for another day.

Here is the bonus awesome: if mama is happy, everybody else is happy. No, my kids do not miss me. They support me. They run ice baths for me, they run aid stations with me. They nap with me.

Back to the examination of my sanity. I got prickly about the accusation briefly, then settled into my usual live and let live mode, but in the course of un-prickling myself, I came across this awesome article in Men's Fitness (of course) about the top 20 reasons to do triathlon.

This article says everything I wanted to say, and these are really awesome reasons to get into (and stay in) the sport. It's also accompanied by a photo of a guy with totally ripped er, everything, as some kind of demonstration of triathlete superpowers (Thank you, Men's Fitness for bringing it right down to the important stuff). I've summarized and added some commentary on how these reasons are true for me.

You will lose weight. Hmm...Now, I've lost a little bit of weight doing triathlon, but I've mostly moved it around. But I know plenty of people who have dropped weight by training. For many, this is a big motivator - and it's true.

You will look and feel years younger. Absolutely, unreservedly yes! I often accuse other triathletes of looking far younger than they are, and it's not unusual for me to be told I look much younger than my calendar years.

You will have more energy. Check! Even after incredibly long days with a swim and a two-a-day and a full day at work, and time with kidlets, I still don't feel as wiped out as I did before I started training. After a good sleep, I feel good. Frankly, I am not sure I'd be able to do what I do if I weren't training hard.

You will get more out of your workouts. I have goals in my workouts where I didn't before, so I suppose I'm getting the added bonus of achievement. Also, workouts leading up to a race take on more meaning because I know I'm not just marking time, I'm putting it in the bank.

You will injury-proof your body. Hmm...The article goes on to talk about the benefits of cross training and how that's better than single-sport training. I can't argue with that. However, I've been injured doing multi-sport, so I can't really say I'm injury-proof. Sorta check.

You will improve your health. Duh

You will live longer. Than what? How will I know I will live longer unless I do an experiment, with controls, in which I live twice: once with triathlon and once without? OK, controlled scientific experiments notwithstanding, I take the point that the benefits of exercise are many and scientifically, exercise is proven to extend life. Check.

You will be more productive. Definitely true. I do more, I get more done. See masthead.

You will learn to handle stress more effectively. Um, I think that is true actually. There is something about going for a run, or knowing that I will get the hell out from behind my desk and into another frame of mind later that does give me a sense of calm.

You will build rock--solid self confidence. "Rock-solid" - only in Men's Fitness. I'd say this is true for me - finishing a race does give me a personal boost that I have not found elsewhere. Also, I look awesome. I get a secret thrill out of finding new muscles in my legs. Those are mine, I earned them.

Your mood will improve. Now that you mention it, I am generally a happier person - I'm blaming the endorphins.

Your motivation to exercise will soar. I'm motivated, it's true. Also, there is no better cattleprod for training than signing up for a race.

You will learn to strengthen your weaknesses. Oh. Hell. Yes. I find my weaknesses, I work on them. Multisport has a way of exposing weaknesses in many areas.

You get to rub shoulders with the best athletes in the world. I'm a little surprised to say that this one is definitely true. I've made friends with world class athletes, and they are seriously down to earth people.

You will join the fitness elite. Um...I don't know about that. Seriously. Who put that in there? Did they just need 20, so they added this totally BS promise? Not buying it.

You will have an increased sense of purpose in your life. I suppose I do - I have a reason to get up early on weekends, I have a much more compelling sense of purpose when I hit the pillow at night, food takes on a different tone altogether when you treat it like fuel...Yeah, it's true. Check.

You will become the best that you can be. Personal achievement figures high in the sport, that's very true. Competing in something as base as this does bring out a part of me that really wants to do well everywhere in my life. It's a well known fact that the sport attracts a mindset of acheivement, and now I have to wonder, is it nature or nurture? Are triathletes overachievers, or are overachievers just attracted to triathlon? Discuss...

You will be a hero to your kids. That's a great idea - and I hope it's true. Right now, they just know that mommy and daddy spend time doing what makes them happy and practicing a whole lot. It's a part of their life. They don't miss us, they don't complain. We've never pushed them, and they like to race in their own races, they look forward to their own training.

You will motivate and inspire those around you. One of the ways I've eliminated the "You're crazy" is by recruiting other family members to join me. Little by little, I have my own group of people who dabble in crazy themselves. I have been known to tell just about anyone who will listen that whatever goal they set for themself is not out of reach, because if I can do it...

You will set other positive things in motion--things you never imagined.Really? Cool!

I note, with interest, that unlike many articles in Men's Fitness they don't talk about how triathlon will improve your sex life - directly - though it's implied in parts of the article. Donald did an article awhile back about sex and athletics which also makes the point that fitness improves your personal life in ways that many people don't talk about.

The other thing that nobody talks about is how once you're there, you're there. Once you've built a big base it's far easier to maintain than it is to totally start over. My crazy fun may seem ambitious, but when you're already there, it's just a big volume weekend, or small volume weekend. It's no big deal. It's an hour here, a couple hours there.

so - to that end, this year's race schedule will probably include:
Mt Taylor Quad - I'm doing the snowshoe leg again
Napa Valley Trail Half Marathon
Big Sur Marathon
Jemez Mountain half marathon followed with Santa Fe Century extra crazy weekend training (because it's awesome fun!!)
Iron Horse - this year it better not snow
Valles Caldera Half Marathon - I'm so psyched they added a half!!
Buffalo Springs 70.3 - Maybeperhaps
Vineman 70.3
La Luz, if the Gods choose to accept my lottery entry
Colorado Relay - because I said I would
and the big dance- Beach to Battleship 140.6.

I'd totally stick another 50K in there if I could - but it seems like that's enough for this year.

To the uninitiated, this would seem like a reasonably insane race schedule, but trust me when I say this one is on the light side. More reasonable than insane. Perspective.
Call me crazy...

where the f*@# did she go?

I've been busy. K?

Let me 'splain.

The training, obviously, has been picking up, since I have a big dance in oh, about 7 weeks but who's counting. I'm a little sketchy on it all -- will I be able to put it all together on the big day? I don't know. I remember feeling this way before Buffalo Springs, and that turned out OK, so I am still training hard. Still alive.

Just.

My company was just purchased. On top of my building training schedule, I now have new people to sniff tails with, new stresses at work, new deadlines, new meetings, all that crap. The good news is, the new company seem like nice people. The bad news is, I'll have to absorb a whole lot of new information. That's not really bad news, but it's news, and it takes time.

My training volume went up. Did I mention my training volume went up? I'm supposed to ride my bike for 5.5 hrs tomorrow. I have been running all week...and swimming and biking...and new work things...

Last weekend I did the Albuquerque Century with a bunch of my Outlaw Peeps. We opted for the metric century, and I was very grateful for that by the time we got to mile 60. Our 64 mile metric was actually 70 miles, but who's counting. Rolling time was 4:20-something, I think. We did pretty good!

The day after I did that, I ran 14 miles.

Today I ran an aid station for the Valles Caldera Marathon, which is one of the tougher trail marathon courses there has to be out there. My beloved was running, so me and the peeps helped run Aid Station 7 -- at mile 19. The race only included about 50 odd competitors, it's a small race in a really gorgeous part of New Mexico.

A word about the Valles Caldera -- a not-so-ancient volcano caldera which is now a protected valley of about a thousand acres ringed with trees in the Jemez mountains. The preserve now contains large herds of elk, and in the summer the valley is used for stock grazing. The preserve is mostly closed to the public with some exceptions. Also, there's about a thousand miles of logging roads perfect for running or mountain biking. It's really pretty, it's a special place.

The guy who was running the station with me and the peeps didn't know much about running, marathons, ultras, any of that, so it was fun educating him on what to expect and what to offer in our smorgasbord of goodies. The first few runners will look really strong, I explained. They won't want much. They will just go straight through. But as the day goes on, people will want more food, more liquids.

Huh, he asked. Why is that?

Well, when you've run as many miles as those guys at the front have, a trail marathon crossing 10,000 ft of elevation is no big deal.

Today I also ran a little, tomorrow I ride. Maybe I'll have something fun to say tomorrow - after I get some sleep.

did I mention I'm a bit sleep deprived?

Yeah. Welcome to the crack house.

Welcome to Crazy Town, Population: Me...and her, and him, and him, and...

Some months ago some clever person gave me the very clever idea of signing up for the Jemez Mountain Half Marathon and the Santa Fe Century, both of which happen to fall on the same weekend. At the time, I was sorta half committed to doing the Bay to Breakers - a race I love, but which is, when you get down to it, a really expensive 12K race, and not exactly the best training material for Vineman.

It was a tough call: two local, high quality, distance races versus a 12K in another state featuring naked runners. Hrm...

Now, when you break it down to just distance, doesn't seem so crazy. It's not the first time I've done a long run on one day and a long ride on the other, I do that every weekend. Even the distances didn't seem outrageous. So why did it seem just a little bit extraordinary to sign up for two events in one weekend?

I dunno. Yet everyone I mentioned it to had the same reaction: (sharp intake of breath) Really?

Long pause.

Yeah. That makes sense.

Still.

I had a lot of company: several Outlaws who signed up for both races, plus several others who did one or the other.

I got up at 5 on Saturday for The Jemez Mountain Trail Run, a run event featuring 3 distances: 50 miles, 50 kilometers, and a half marathon. The half marathon was also described in the race info as a 20K, but Garmin says it was neither: I picked up a neat 13.6 miles by the end of the run. I knew going in that it would be tough, partly because

a) several of my Outlaw friends were signed up for it
b) other ultra runners I know were signed up for it and
c) my husband signed up for the 50K.

Any race which my husband signs up for is guaranteed to be a real ass buster.

Here is the terrain profile for the half marathon. Garmin says it's only a wee 3500 ft of climbing, but it does start at a few thousand feet higher than where I live. Oh yeah, I thought, I'll be feeling that. But it'll just be a long training day. A long, catered training day, at mileage I'm familiar with.

My husband left for his 50K adventure about an hour before I did, but Maria and I managed to see them leave just as we arrived to check in for our half marathon. Goodbye honey, just have fun out there.

An hour later and we were on our freezing way down the trail. Los Alamos had a big fire in recent memory, much of the forest that we ran through is in recovery from that fire - so picture a landscape that looks pretty surreal: lots of spiky burned logs, scrubby undergrowth, exposed hillside. The trail up to the peak of Guaje Ridge was a stiff grade, Mo waited for me, and she and I walked hard all the way to the top. No point in wasting everything, I have a long weekend ahead of me!

Aid stations were extremely well stocked and friendly, and after a brief stop at the halfway point, I felt like I had plenty of gas left in the tank. Off I went down the hill - the "easy" part.

Huh. Easy. What was I thinking? The backside trail was exposed, the terrain varied from burned forest to sandstone, desert and scrub, and back to high desert. While it was beautiful, I didn't get to see much of it, as I was too busy focusing on my feet and the terrain about 4 to 6 feet in front of them. I was focusing so much that I found myself off trail briefly. I don't know what made me stop and turn around - oh that's where the flags are! - then I got back on trail and kept running.

Oy, what a long day. By the last mile I was fatigued. My legs hurt, my brain hurt. And then came the sandstone stairs back to the finish. Whose crazy idea was that?! Total time: 3:18:05. I was guessing it would take me around 3 hrs for this course, I was not surprised with 3:18. This is not a PR course, it's a survival course, challenging terrain.

That's when I found out that many runners had not finished at all. How frustrating! I don't know how many half-marathon runners DNF'd because of the wrong turn I almost took myself, but it was a lot. Ouch!

After a shower and some food, I felt almost normal again. I was surprised how quickly my body bounced back.

Here is the course profile for the 50K run. See that little blip at the beginning? That's our little half marathon peak. Whatever pain I may have been in for my long training day could not compare with what the 50K people were doing.

I won't even show you the 50 mile profile. You'll pass out with sympathetic exhaustion.

My husband finally came in at 8:47 something. You know you're in a different realm of athletics when you start talking about your event in terms of the first few hours...and then the second few hours...and then...He had evidently also taken a wrong turn - many of the 50K racers had done the same - and done about 55K (he claims 2nd place in the unofficial 55K race). He rolled in across the finish line feeling great, as if he could have easily done a 50 mile race. Good job honey! I'm super proud of you!

We drove home, I passed out and let him drive, I could not help myself - he was UP and I was not. I began actively eating, packing, and resting as much as possible for my second long day of training.

I got up at 5 on Sunday for the Santa Fe Century. What was I thinking? My quads were already sore, and although I slept and ate as much as I could, I knew there was no guarantee that I'd have enough in the tank for a full day of my VERY FIRST CENTURY.

Are you kidding? Bike 100 miles? People do that? Are they crazy?

I carpooled up with my fellow Outlaws Iron Maiden and her spouse, the Silver Bullet, with a plan of riding with them and Flamin' Mo (fellow Jemez Trail runner) and whomever else we could scrounge from our Outlaw friends: Mighty, Sluggo, Gogo, and others -- all of them did the same crazy run the day before. I don't know about them, but I was seriously unsure of my performance ability on the day.

Ulp.

To further handicap myself, I brought my heavy bike (Irene), because she's the climber and that's how I roll.

I should mention that my longest ride ever to date has been about 73 miles - and that was last summer. My longest ride this year was sixty-something, a month or so ago. I figured like the day before, this would just be a long training day. A "just do it" event. Catered training. Sure.

Ulp.

We left Santa Fe in beautiful weather conditions - cloudless, windless, slightly cool. My legs were sore, but I figured it would work itself out. 25 miles later we found ourselves in the scenic mining town of Madrid, NM. I was starting to think this would be OK, as we stopped at the first food stop and ate snacks.

OK, so the first 25 miles were downhill. I knew that. Here's the ride profile - it's quite something isn't it?

As soon as we left Madrid, I started to have bad feelings about the ride. Looking at the ride profile, you can see that the ride heads sharply uphill after Madrid - payback for all those downhill miles. I have gone down Heartbreak Hill before, and I knew it was coming. That's right - down -- but never up. At the second food stop I got a dose of Ibuprofen and more food. I had a good stretch. OK Mo, let's shake and bake!

All of us crazies with toasted legs had discussed Heartbreak that morning - would we climb it? Would we walk it? It's at least a 13% grade. 13 doesn't sound like much, but try pushing yourself and your bike up that for a half mile. Would we make it?

I'm proud to say I did! I traversed the grade quite a lot, but I didn't stop. I knew stopping would mean falling over - and there was no way I'd get started again if I stopped. So I forced myself up - as slow as I could without falling - and I did it!

Of course, after watching Mo power up on her giant heavy 14 speed Schwinn, I had to - I have like 9 million more gears than she does, and Irene weighs at least 2 pounds less. Mo, by the way, is an animal! She came in a whole 15 minutes or so after me on the day before - not because she's a slower runner, but because she ran about an extra 6 miles more, due to the trail misunderstandings that plagued every other runner there. She is bad. ass.

Anyway. Heartbreak hill faded into memory almost as soon as we crested the top - we headed back down the east side of the mountains and picked up Dave at Cedar Grove. Dave coached us through the most tricky part of the ride - the second half. I had never even really seen this part of New Mexico, and it's very subtle. You can easily be seduced into thinking it's just flat with a headwind, but it's a subtle uphill grind that eventually wears even the most solid riders down to nubs. Dave and Woody cut big holes in the wind for Mo and I as we pressed on toward Stanley, through the Estancia Basin into Gallisteo, and on past Lamy. We weren't going fast, but surprisingly, we were hoovering up all riders who were ahead of us, one by one. After the foodstops, groups of riders would pass us, only to be passed by us within a mile or two.

By the next to last foodstop, I was relishing the end. The self talk started. Only 35 miles. I can ride 35 miles. I had totally ditched my nutrition plan in favor of stuffing everything into my mouth. I emptied my Heed bottle and filled it with Gatorade - not because it was better, but because I was about ready to barf heed, I was so entirely fed up with it.

By the last foodstop, I had abandoned my eat everything plan, I poured out my perpetuem and filled my bottle with coke at a gas station. At the last 2 aid stations, when I got off the bike I was grateful to not be sitting down. My legs felt OK, I was walking fine, but every time we got back on, I was looking for any possible way not to be focusing on the misery that started at my saddle and went right up to my shoulders to my wrists, down my quads, to my feet. My low back and hip were throbbing. And my feet hurt.

My feet! What the hell is up with that?

Oh yes, there was a lot of swearing. Isn't there always a lot of swearing in first centuries? The last 5 miles were on the freeway. The freeway! Oh yeah, I was totally freaked about riding on the freeway, but that road is made for speed, 'cos we were hauling ass for the last 5! Before we knew it we were back at the start, off the bikes, grateful to be done!

Thank f*ck!

I had turned Garmin off at every food stop, and my total rolling time was a little over 6 hrs 40 minutes for 101 miles. We dawdled quite a bit at the aid stations this being catered training and all, and we were probably out there for about 8 hours (about 15 minutes at each of 6 food stops). The Iron Maiden told me, on the way back, that the ride was described as "moderately difficult." Hah. Moderately difficult. We agreed a more apt description would be f*cking hard.

When I got home, I discovered how inexpert my sunscreen application had been. I have sunburn patches pretty much everywhere - my calves, my forearms, parts of my knees. My face is OK and my feet are un-burned, due to being in the shoes from hell, which only hurt after about 95 miles. Thankfully, I'll still be able to use them. At 95 miles, everything hurt. I'm willing to believe maybe it was just me, and not the shoes.

Also, about my butt. Though my butt was grateful not to be moving, it has been surprisingly ungrateful about sitting down. Parts of my butt will never be the same again. Until the next time. Yes, this reminded me exactly of the first time I ever had a bike ride of any distance. I thought my girl parts would never be the same. And they might not be.

Every time I stand today, I'm reminded sharply of the effort I put in this weekend - my quads are really pissed at me, my skin's a little swollen. My hip flexors are toast. After sleep and food, I'm sure I'll be able to get up and do it all over again, just like I did the first time I ever rode 50 miles. I'm still eyeballing that saddle with a deep sense of mistrust.

I'm proud of what we did this weekend - that was a big chunk to bite off. Yay us! I may have even impressed my husband, who treated me to sparkling cider when I got home. And an ice bath.

Ok, the ice bath was my idea.

Next up: Iron Horse. Oh, I think I'm ready for that now...as soon as I make friends with Irene again.

now recruiting

Here's a fun thing to do...try a google image search on the words "Bay to Breakers" and you'll get a feel for just how chaotic and silly and fun (and naked) this race is.

Go on, I'll wait...

Are you back?

Heh. Pretty wild, eh?

21st Century Mom and I did this one last year and had a pretty unforgettable time. Between the salmon running and the wedding runners, the bands, the chaos, and the fantastic weather, it's the weirdest 12K ride ever.

This year we're hoping to get as many blogger athletes involved as we can. And we're hoping to maybe impose a theme on our group. We're not sure yet what to call the theme, but we think it'd be a blast if we all run in tutus.

All of us.

I have dibs on black.

I know that some out there are a little worried about the implications of wearing a fluffy skirt. I understand, tutus may not be quite your cup of tea, but we think it's totally in keeping with the spirit of the race.

Plus, with that many naked people around, you won't feel out of place with a little chiffon around your waist.

So what do you say? Would you like to join us on the 3rd Sunday in May? Registration will open Mid-January - but we don't think it's too early to start planning.

Kids, don't try this at home.

I'm currently gearing up for the Colorado Relay.

And by "gearing up" I mean I just remembered last week that OMG it's NEXT WEEK! GAAA!

So I am serenely and calmly working as many last miles into the bank in preparation for the 170 mile running race and competition in who can smell the most athletic, whilst crammed into a 12 passenger van and running with 9 of your best friends and some total strangers for 29 straight hours.

Really and truly, the Colorado Relay is a blast.

I can remember last year feeling distinctly un-prepared, though I deliberately over-packed (I packed pretty much everything I owned into my transition bag and took it with me). Turns out I still didn't have enough clothing, because it rained the entire weekend. Also, it was quite a shock going from the warm Albuquerque high desert to the sub-arctic Rocky Mountain Range. I had to stop in Breckenridge and buy a pair of tights. The experience was so critical that pretty much every piece of warm athletic clothing I have purchased since then I have thought to myself, "Yeah, I should make sure I pack this for the Relay." Every long-sleeved top, capri tights, warm socks, you name it.

Sushi hat is definitely going.

With the impending relay in mind, I made a few adjustments to my weekly plan to get the right kind of miles into the bank. Last Thursday I was scheduled to do 6 miles - so I ran up the hill near my office for 3 and back down. Except I did it with no nutrition (because, you know, that's always a good idea). By mile 2 (uphill) my stomach started to cramp - it's still pretty warm here, I was losing a lot of water. I had to stop into my friendly neighborhood Trader Joe's to tank up before I finished my pathetically slow run (it's nice that they put one on my running route for me).

Hrm. Maybe I'm still recovering from Chips and Salsa...

Saturday's plan called for 10 miles of running on terrain like I would expect to find in the Relay. So a dear (and blazingly talented) co-relay friend took me up for a run up the Pino Trail.

The data I found on the Pino trail says it gains ~2700 ft in elevation in about 4.5 miles (and it took those poor souls 7.5 hours). Garmin says we got over 4.5 miles (and still didn't get to the top) but we gained 3500 ft, in a little over 1.5 hours. I say "run" but in truth I was mostly huffing and puffing and pointing at squirrels and birds. It was truly beautiful up there, nice and cool. The flora totally changes when you get that high. Plus, I'm convinced that hypoxia makes you happy.

It was worth the pain.

Since I didn't summit, the Pino Trail and I have un-finished business, and now I feel I'll have to return. I would totally have finished the trail, if I had not had a date to come watch GeekGirl get inked (HOW EFFING COOL IS THAT TAT???). And a birthday party to take the Pikachus to in the afternoon.

Though I was hurting today the plan called for 50 miles of riding with some hills. So the Iron Maiden and I suited up and headed out. Initially I had said I wanted to ride to Jemez Dam, but I wussed. My legs, they are trashed. No Dam-age for me.

Instead, we did the Algodones Loop backward. Good hills (about 2000 ft worth), fast flats and great company.

Currently, however, it hurts to sit down. It hurts to stand up. Just looking at my legs makes them growl at me. I feel like a cardboard cutout of a person. Hrm. Maybe all that last minute preparation wasn't too smart...

Bring on the relay. Oof!