Schrodi Fund's Run Like the Wind 6 Hour Race

This race was truly humbling, on a number of levels.  I signed up for the 6 Hour race so I could have ample time to get in my twenty miles I'd planned as part of my training.  Beyond that consideration, I didn't think much about this race in the weeks leading up to it.  This turned out to be quite the mistake.  I'd forgotten Rule No. 1:  respect the race and all of its idiosyncrasies.  Running isn't simply about the distance; it is also about the mindset, the resolve, and the mental fortitude to keep going when the situation begins to break down.

Having ran the Monday immediately following Cactus Rose 50M with no problem, I failed to notice and address the psychological toll Cactus Rose had taken on my psyche.  It's relatively easy to get out and pick up the miles day-in and day-out when it is habit and so ingrained in one's daily routine; psychology often doesn't come into the equation in my day-to-day running.  So, in the time between Cactus Rose and Run Like the Wind, I simply logged the miles, not realizing how much "fortitude" I'd spent in the training leading up to and in the running of Cactus Rose.

Run Like the Wind, however, required much more than logged miles.  The race is timed, whether 3 hours, 6 hours, 12 hours, or 24 hours.  It is run around a 1K loop.  He who logs the most kilometers in his time frame wins the race.  It's a mind-numbingly repetitive endeavor.  Now, I've done my fair share of mind-numbing work (i.e., law school; editing; dealing with opposing counsel; et cetera), but I was wholly unprepared for this.  First, I didn't plan ahead of time how I would approach the "numbers."  Was I going to count down from my goal lap count?  Count up?  Go by kilometers, or miles?  I hadn't even thought about it in the least.  This meant I was grappling with it while running, which continued to break down my mental resolve with each little step.  Second, I failed to just take the race as it was; rather, I approached it as if I had the finish in the bag, whatever finish that may have been.  Paired with what I detail below, all told I ran for about an hour and twenty minutes of the originally planned six.  Funny how things happen...  The prideful part of my personality would like to note, for the record, I did get in another 10 miles the following day, just for good measure.

A number of other factors also took small bits from my mental fortitude.  First, the race began at 10:30 a.m.  I've done 4 a.m. starts, 5 a.m. starts, 8 p.m. starts, but never a mid-day start like this.  I had no idea, and barely planned on, what my pre-race nutrition would look like.  Even when I did decide what I would do (full breakfast and pre-race snack), I didn't plan my travel accordingly, so I was left scrounging at Starbucks and the hotel continental breakfast buffet.  Needless to say, my stomach did not fair well.  Too much of everything:  too much peanut butter; too much fruit; and too much protein and fat.  Second, I drank way too much caffeine prior to the race, mostly in an attempt to, uh, get things moving.  This backfired into a brick in my stomach, as well as an incredibly unsettling case of tunnel vision that began with my first step of the race.  I believe the caffeine also contributed to the third "chip:"  tightness in my chest.  At rest and while walking, I felt fine; however, my chest would become too tight to ignore when I began to run.  I'd never experienced it before, so it was rather disturbing.  This ultimately was the straw that broke the runner's resolve:  I refuse to mess around with chest tightness for the sake of a finish.  There may have been no blood or visible bones, but that is fine by me.  A few other things of note:  (1) I forgot to charge my iPod shuffle, which I tend to rely on to set the tone and groove in the beginning of a run; (2) I kept my sweater on for the start of the race, despite the rising temperatures; and (3) I had over-scheduled my weekend while in Austin, leaving me tense to get to a finish and on with the weekend.

I was, and remain, very disappointed in how I approached this race.  I've been looking forward to it for two years now, having not been able to participate due to final exams, and I basically blew it.  I'm not sure how many times I will have to learn the lesson, but here it is again:  Respect the race.  Respect the distance.  Prepare accordingly.

All of the above being said, I still had a great time at the race while there.  It was so wonderful to see my Hill Country Trail Running family.  I'm afraid I may have been too upset with myself to hang around afterward and spend more time with everyone; for that, my apologies!  I'm looking forward to Rocky Raccoon in February to make up for it.  Great job to everyone who came out to the race, toed the line, and put their best foot forward.  It was all for a great cause and I'm so proud to call each of you a friend.  And to Sammy, thank you for doing so much to put this race on, host all of us, and devote your time and energy to such a wonderful approach to a growing problem around the country.

Until next year, run like the wind, my friends.

Run Like the Wind 6 Hour Race
Austin, Texas
Total Time:  1:22
Total Distance:  13K

Cactus Rose 50M (October 2012)

After my experience at Cactus Rose in 2011, I approached this year's iteration with much more respect for the course and the distance.  I began training after Pandora's Box of Rox in May; I was consistent in training; and I followed an actual training plan with a peak run of about 30 to 31 miles.  In short:  I came to Bandera a much different runner this year than I was last, and I intended to prove it.  With a finish six hours faster than last year, I'd say I succeeded.

This year I was able to arrive at the park well in advance of (1) dinner; (2) bedtime; and (3) the 5 a.m. start on Saturday morning.  For previous races, my anxiety has tended to be through the roof worrying about finding the race; getting my packet; changing into my race gear; et cetera.  This year, I got to the park at about 2 p.m. on Friday afternoon, dropped my bags to my liking, picked up my packet, visited with some folk, had dinner, and dutifully parked myself in a chair until 3 a.m. on Saturday.  I was curled up in a bundle of blankets by 7:30 p.m. for a full eight hours of sleep, with everything set out and ready for the morning.  Anxiety check?  Little to zero, save for the whole "Okay, you're running 50 miles tomorrow on the Cactus Rose course."

I did have some anxiety about the weather., though  Traveling to Bandera involved steadily dropping temperatures and a biting cold rain no one enjoys.  The radar indicated it would be gone by Friday evening with promises of perfect running weather for Saturday, but this is Texas.  No weather forecast is ever too reliable.  I worked myself in my head, getting ready for any possibility.

Three a.m. came just fine.  I got dressed, drank a few Diet Dr. Peppers, and had my english muffin with peanut butter and jam.  I sat in the car for a while, saving my energy and trying to accrue a bit of warmth.  The temperatures were about steady from the evening before, which meant they were only going to get warmer as the day progressed.  I convinced myself not to overdress based on this as well.  Finally, around 4:30 a.m., we made our way to the start/finish to visit with folk, get the adrenaline pumping, and hit the trail. I was so nervous last year that it was refreshing to feel ready, confident, and excited to get started, sprinkled with healthy nervousness.  Finally, Joe called time and off we went.

Fairly quickly I realized I did not, in fact, have fresh batteries in my headlamp.  My lamp was hardly visible.  I tagged along on the lights of those around me, but I wasn't sure I could pull that off for the next two and a half hours until sunrise.  Thankfully I'd packed a flash light in my Camelbak.  If it came down to it, I knew I could rely on that.  As it turns out, I couldn't.  I finally pulled it out, afraid I was pushing the pace in an effort to keep up with the lights.  I didn't want to destroy my prospects of a solid race so early in the course.  The flash light is small and light, but it's also fairly cheap apparently.  As I am cruising along at a decent clip, the light flickers and fades out.  I was confused, royally confused, because I knew the flash light, at least, had fresh batteries.  Ah, the "cheap" factor.  The flash light was so poorly manufactured that the connectors weren't reliable.  I could click the flash light on and off at intervals, but could not be sure the light would remain on consistently, especially with the jostling involved.  For some reason, I kept the same pace and just took extra care in where I stepped.  Fairly quickly I found myself at Equestrian, four and a half miles in to my fifty mile foot journey.  After a general request for batteries with no response, I lit out, wanting to take advantage of the dark running as much as possible.  Running in the dark tends to melt away miles.  By the time the sun rises, you've been at it for two and a half hours and can have as many as fifteen to twenty miles behind you, depending on your pace.  I also knew this was the easiest and most runnable portion of the course, and I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity for a quick pace.  Onward and forward.

The course was starting to look and feel very familiar.  Not familiar enough though, and the 5.2 between Equestrian and Nachos dragged on longer than I'd anticipated, which isn't a great psychological place to be so early in an ultra.  Finally, I came upon Nachos.  Having had four Diet Dr. Peppers at this point and still fueling off of breakfast and my seemingly infinite glycogen stores, I grabbed a Lara Bar as a security "blanket" and left Nachos fairly quickly.  The next 4.8 miles was going to be a bit more challenging, but also offered some of the most amazing views of the Texas Hill Country.  I wanted to be at the top of the climbs in time to catch some of the sunrise before head down-feet forward took over.

I want to take a moment and note the incredible beauty of this part of the state.  I was overcome with enthusiasm and energy last year when I saw these views, which ended up sapping some of my energy later in the race, but remain worth the elation.  Driving into Bandera this year, I was overcome with emotion and nearly cried looking forward to seeing the beauty of the area from such great heights in the coming hours.  I cannot find words sufficient to describe the beauty.  I am so lucky to live in this beautiful state, have access to this breathtaking part of the Hill Country, and have been able to haul my behind up those climbs to see them yet again.  The pain (i.e., "cactus," literally and figuratively) is more than worth the beauty (i.e., "rose," just figuratively, unfortunately, unless the sunrise can be described as "rose-like") of this race course.  Moving along...

I approached the climbs and descents between Nachos and Equestrian with quite a bit of aggression, but knew that the following twenty miles would need most of that same drive.  At this point in the race, my one rule came into focus:  if the trail is remotely runnable, you'd better be running.  I was surprised at the extent of flat trail; I didn't remember there being quite that much, but I certainly wasn't one to complain.  These miles were fairly unremarkable:  head down, feet forward, short stop on Ice Cream Hill for a sunrise photo courtesy of Brian Kuhn.  I had a wonderful conversation with another lawyer who practices in Switzerland, as well.  I'd call these the Tuesday-through-Thursday miles:  just get 'em done.

Coming in to Equestrian I was so happy to see Ben waiting for me.  He was such a critical part of my finish last year, I knew I couldn't do much better this year without him.  I planned on more independence this year, as he was running a leg of the 100M relay, but I knew he'd be at Equestrian and the Lodge during my race.  Seeing a familiar and supportive face can mean all the difference.  He reminded me of my inspirations for this race, made sure I signed in at the table, and clapped me off toward miles 15 through 25, the first half of the hardest portion of the course.  It is full of rocks (now even more due to erosion), higher and thicker sotol cactus (graze-the-face high), and incredible elevation ascents and descents.  My mental resolve had to be airtight for the next ten miles into the Lodge.

With another Diet Dr. Pepper flooding the senses, I trucked pretty consistently into Boyles.  Another unremarkable five miles, as far as I can remember, though the final three quarters of a mile to a mile of the section wore on, as the miles are wont to do in the middle stages of the race.  By the time I came in to Boyles, I was recognizing a solid and reliable pace.  I was keeping the same speed, despite changes in terrain and elevation.  This was a good sign.  I wasn't going as fast as I wanted to, a pipe dream of qualifying for the 2013 running of the Western States 100 in the back of my mind, but I was moving swiftly and strongly.  Some energy in my systems, and I was off to the Lodge.  My resolve was wavering, so I kept telling myself to just get to the Lodge and head right back out.  As long as I got back out on the second loop, my ability to finish was that much more solidified.

The solid five miles into the Lodge were steady and measured.  Again:  if the trail was at all runnable, I ran and ran hard.  This was where I could expend some energy, knowing I'd have a downhill toward more downhill coming out of the Lodge.  With last year's experience too fresh in mind, I was worried about these five miles dragging on and chipping away at my psychology, but I rather quickly came upon the loop split and knew I had half a mile into the start-finish.  I was still running strong, so I felt good coming in to cow bells, cheers, clapping, and more familiar faces, Ben and Alex.  Seeing their smiles filled me with more energy and a resolution to get back out there.  That being said, I had a chaser of iburprofen with my fuel and caffeine.  My knees had been aching for fifteen miles, no longer used to the trails after five or six weeks of running roads in Houston, and my ankles were all but shot from the rocks and sliding.  Note to Self:  Wearing heels every day does not make your ankles strong enough for Cactus Rose.

Leaving the Lodge I was strong and had buoyed spirits.  I knew I had more runnable sections than I'd recalled from last year, so I resolved to take advantage of those with gusto and a fast clip.  I came up on two friends of mine, Michael Dino and Devon Kiernan.  Devon and I ran quite a bit last summer, so it was good to get some run time in with him.  I didn't chat with him for too long, as he was running the 100M and needed to focus.  Michael and I chatted for a bit, which was refreshing given the solitude inherent in Cactus Rose.  Before I knew it, I was dropping down in to Boyles.  It is always a great feeling coming to an aid station before you'd expected to do so.  Another round of fuel, systems check, time check, and I lit out.  I was excited:  I was coming up on tail end of the hardest, most arduous part of the course.  I was doing this, and I was doing it well.  I remember where I was physically and mentally at this point last year and frankly, I was no where near the positive position then as I was today.  I made my way toward Equestrian:  5.5 miles to the midway point of my second loop, the longest stretch of the course.

An hour and a half or so later, I finally came in to Equestrian.  Things had taken some turns and I was becoming mentally shaken.  The climbs and descents had taken their toll on my physically and more.  "Another fifteen miles from Euqestrian?," I asked myself.  "Impossible.  What am I doing out here?"  I kept the words of a few people in my head, namely Joe's "You don't have to drop out here if you refuse to let the excuses take over."  "Keep on moving," I told myself.  "Just keep moving."  Equestrian finally came, as did another visit with Ben.  Another round of ibuprofen.  More caffeine and fuel.  My knee was becoming almost unbearable:  pain radiating around my left patella.  Thankfully, I knew it wasn't serious and I could run on it.  Remember:  no bone sightings, blood, puking, or any combination thereof?  Keep running, fool.

Knowing I'd need another boost at Nachos, I asked Ben to be there.  Originally, I had thought I would want Boyles and Nachos as my quiet stations, as is the tradition at Cactus, but I knew I'd need the boost at mile 40.  That was a good call.  By the time I came through Nachos, I was in more pain than I could have ever imagined  My resolve was nearly shot, and I just wanted to sit down...lay down...take a shower...anything but keep moving.  Again, Joe's words "Just don't drop at Nachos, just bring it in to Equestrian.  Trust me."  Again, many thanks to Joe for his words of wisdom.  Ben and I didn't speak much at Nachos, but seeing him there made all the difference.  He didn't let on (until after the race) that I looked a touch broken down, worn, and on the brink.  In fact, he didn't need to because I was well aware of how close to the edge I was at that point.  Thankfully, Ben knows me well enough not to have asked how I was doing, or we would have had a full break down on our hands.  I was, in short, exhausted.  But I needed this finish:  too much training put in, too much work already down, and too many people I unofficially was running "for" to quit with only ten miles to go.  Holding back tears of exhaustion, frustration, and pain, I went off.

For the next 5.2 miles, I reminded myself where I was at this point last year and how great I was doing this time.  Last year, night had fallen and I was dragging my leg.  My knee had chosen to revolt and refused to bend without sending sharp and unbearable pains throughout the left side of my body.  I was hardly at a half-way walk last year.  This year, however, I was running.  I wasn't shuffling.  I wasn't trotting.  I was running.  I may have been in incredible pain, but, dammit, I was running with forty miles of trail behind me and less than ten ahead of me.

Eventually, my pace slowed.  My frustration grew and gained strength.  I tried to piece together this portion of the course, which was exceedingly difficult because I'd never run it in daylight and I only knew it by feel.  "Okay, power lines.  We're almost to the fence line, which means we're almost to Equestrian for the final four and a half miles."  Wrong.  "Another stretch of power lines?  Another fence line?  What is this incline?!  That's Equestrian over there with the cars, right?  It has to be, right?"  Wrong.  With every wrong assumption or conclusion, I became more panicked and angry.  Even so, I kept on at a decent clip whether walking or running, never letting complacency take over no matter how frustrated I became.

Finally...finally, there was Equestrian.  I knew Ben would be there with a large smile on his face, as would Misha.  The two of them could lift my spirits without uttering a word.  I also knew Olga would be there, which means I was finishing this race whether I wanted to or not.  At this point, I knew the finish was in the bag.  The only question remaining was how long it would take.

I was surprised to find I'd covered the 5.2 in about an hour and fifteen minutes, which was much faster than my emotions had led me to believe.  I'd avoided looking at my watch as much as possible unless I was at an aid station.  Looking at my watch mid-run tends to lead to some awful mind games.  With four and a half miles ahead of me, with the longest stretches of runnable portions, and hours of daylight left, I knew I could pull out the finish in about an hour.  Entirely palatable.  I pulled on my gloves and jacket, which I'd previously ditched at the Lodge, as I knew the temperatures would drop in the valleys outside of Equestrian.  I dropped my Camelbak with Ben.  I knew I wouldn't need water over the next four and a half miles and I'd be able to move more easily, and quickly, without it.  Pumped myself up ("I run six and a half miles or more a day damn-near in my sleep! Get outta here 'four and a half!'"), fist pounded the guys, made sure Olga saw my spirits, and off I went.

The adrenaline must have kicked on at some point because I was moving at a pace I hadn't seen since the early morning.  It was smooth and steady, though it remained painful.  Four and a half miles..."less now," I kept telling myself.  In fact, through the entire race, I kept reminding myself:  the longer and faster you're moving, the sooner you are to the finish line.  Keep at it.  This is such an easy lesson to say, but one I have learned consistently over the past few months with training, and weeks with larger, more daunting projects at work.  It goes back to one of my favorite running quotations: "Be not afraid of moving slowly, be afraid of standing still."  I kept moving.  I knew there were some brutal and steep ascents and descents on this portion, which I was not looking forward to, but I also knew it would mean I was close to the loop split and the finish line.  Again, more aggression, steady pace, resolve to finish.  To be fair, I didn't have a choice but to finish at this point, but it all came down to how long it would take.  I wanted a chair and something other than another Lara Bar in my stomach, so I kept up the steadiness.

One mind game I play with myself is purposefully overestimating how many more miles I have on a long run.  "You've got about four more miles until you're in a warm shower with coffee brewing.  Keep the focus and keep the pace.  Four miles."  In actuality, I know I have two and a half.  Somehow, though, I continue to trick myself.  It works well for psychological and mental training.  I brought this trick into play in the last miles of Cactus Rose, and it worked gloriously.  About thirty seconds after telling myself, "You've got about two more miles, so about twenty five minutes to go.  You've got this.  Keep it steady and bring it in strong," I saw the loop split.  The loop split is about half a mile from the start-finish.  Half. A. Mile.  You'd better believe I began moving with more speed and conviction than I'd had all day at that point.  It's incredible how much energy I can find at the bottom and at the end of a race.  The pain in my knee?  Disappeared.  My ankles?  Quiet.  Finally, I saw the Lodge and flags.  I started watching for the dry "creek bed" crossing with the smooth rocks.  I knew that would mean I was a turn away from the time clock, finish mat, and a completed goal.  Faster, smoother, and even faster I ran.  I sprinted across the mat and immediately fell into a crouch.  My shoulders began rocking with emotion:  I'd done it, and I'd done it well.  All of my hard work, training, and dedication had paid off into a solid finish six hours faster than last year and before the sun had set.  I could finally believe myself when I tell people I'm an ultra runner.

A few observations.

1.  With the amount of natural sugars I eat throughout the day in the form of whole grains and fresh fruits and vegetables, my hydration and fueling needs are wildly different than the average ultra runner.  Also keeping in mind the newest "drink to thirst" advice, I found I was hydrated the entire fifty miles without drinking water.  I'd be interested to get some tests done on my kidneys to see if they agree with my lack of need to drink water, but I never felt dehydrated, not once did I feel thirsty, and I sweat the entire race.  No slosh in my stomach, either.  It was very interesting.

2.  Additionally, my glycogen stores likely are higher than the average ultra runner, again, because of how much of my diet are "good" carbohydrates.  I dipped into the "lows," but never more than a toe-dip in and always around the time an aid station was due to arrive.  My Lara Bars were great fuel sources:  protein and more glucose, solid food to keep my attention diverted starting out from an aid station, and sustained me through each section.  Going forward, I might drink less caffeine.  I became concerned about the possibility of an elevated heart rate, though that never materialized.  That being said, I may stave off caffeine at future races until it's necessary as a pick-me-up, rather than as a keep-the-levels tool.

All in all, this was a fantastic race.  My resolve wasn't as even and high as at Nueces in March, but this was a solid run built on dedicated training and focus.  I am immensely proud of my performance out there and I am really looking forward to my running continuing to improve.  Up next may be Run Like the Wind 6 hour, then Round Two of Rocky Raccoon 50M, Nueces 50K, perhaps Hell's Hills 50K depending on my schedule, and the Army Marathon tucked in there somewhere.

Finally, it was so great seeing everyone out there:  Diana H., Dave S., Dave L., David J., Sonya M., Devon K., Mike S., Michael D., Thomas O., Arturo A., Joe and Joyce P., Brian K., Olga, and many others I am almost positive I am missing.  I miss you all so much, even just the idea of running with any one of you on any given day of the week.  It was also great meeting so many new people out there this weekend.  A great weekend full of catching up, keeping on, and moving forward.

Next Year:  sub-12:00.

Cactus Rose 50M
October 27, 2012
12:30ish (actual time to come later)

Life's Mileage: Blessings from the Trail

In early 2011, I ran the 3M Half Marathon.  I signed up on a whim; injured myself by training without a plan; and ran the race somehow.  The next week, my brother convinced me to give trail running a try since it would involve less injury, less soreness, and more glory, I suppose.  I bought a pair of trail shoes and tried it out, immediately falling in love.  Before too long, I'd signed up for two trail races through Tejas Trails:  Nueces 25K and Hell's Hills 50K.  Not one to do anything halfway, I also became a member of the Hill Country Trail Runners.  All of these decisions-the shoes, the races, and the HCTR membership-joined forces to be some of the best decisions I've made in my life.

Through Tejas Trails and HCTR, I've amassed an amazing running family, incredible life experiences, and have grown into a confident and increasingly strong runner.  Reasonably so, it can be difficult for people to branch out into a new hobby, jump into an established community within that hobby, and come out on the other end with nothing but positive things to say about each and every person they've met along the way.  Somehow, I have been blessed with such an experience.  To dive into the specific blessing I've been given from any given person in HCTR would be an exhaustive task, so I won't do it.  I can only hope that each of you realizes what you mean to me, what you have done for me, the confidence you have helped me build in myself, and the impact you have had on my past, present, and future in both my life and running.

This post comes in the wake of some exciting news:  I have accepted a job in Houston and Ben and I are beginning the process of building our new life there.  While I won't be at weekly club runs at Walnut Creek, sending out running buddy request emails for weekend long runs, or finally making regular appearances at the monthly meeting, I will continue to be as active a member of HCTR as possible.  A move to Houston cannot, and will not, affect the ties I have gained with my running family in Austin; where I am today is almost unthinkable without the experiences I've had through this club and through Joe's races.  I refuse to let that fade into the ether with this life change, for I would be losing that which got me here in the first place.  Thank you all for everything you have given me:  your time, support, cheers, beers, all of it.  Thank you.

Until the next Austin trip or Tejas Trails race, happy trails, my friends.

Pandora's Box of Rox Marathon (May 2012)

This race was at the same time both beautiful and horrific, which only the genius of Joe Prusaitis can create.  Since the preceding statement could be interpreted as a negative statement, perhaps even offensive, I'll explain.

In the days leading up to this marathon, I considered whether downsizing to the half marathon would be a better idea.  For one, this race is right in the middle of my (last) two weeks of final exams.  Thankfully, most of my finals came before the exam, which was conveniently timed to coincide with my taper week.  But I also came to this race with interesting sleep patterns, a questionable relationship with caffeine, and a head foggy with sports and state and local government legal doctrine.  Perhaps less of a challenge was appropriate.  Second, I knew the heat could be problematic.  I have been training in the early mornings, never really running after 9 or 10 a.m.  "Eh," I thought, "it will be fine."  Famous last words of a fool, if I've ever heard them.

My training leading up to the race was pretty standard.  Five miles or so on Monday, five and change on the trails on Tuesdays and Thursdays, eight on Wednesdays, yoga on Fridays, and a 10-15-10 round of long runs on Saturdays.  I've kept up the more plant-based and less-cheese diet, which has kept me moving pretty swiftly on my runs.  I'm continually surprised by the progress I see in my running.  The only difference between the days leading up to Pandora and those leading up to Nueces and Hell's Hills are the stress levels.  While some stress has disappeared (thanks to finishing our publication goals at the Journal), some stress has increased (finals, for example, and preparing for a move this summer).  I'm not sure if this affected how I approached the race, though I'm sure it did.  I wasn't able to devote as much thought to it, planning my strategy.  And, unfortunately, I've seen it has just "one more hurdle" to May 9, the day I get to relax by the pool until my bar review course begins.  All in all, the approach to the race was both standard and perhaps less than ideal.

I woke up at 4 a.m. for my customary toast and Diet Dr. Pepper.  I wanted to be on the road by 4:30 a.m. to ensure I'd get to Reveille Peak Ranch by 6 a.m. packet pickup.  I put quite a bit of stock into the ability to sit around for an hour or so before a race, soak everything in, and mentally prepare for the day ahead of me.  I overshot the time needed to get to the Ranch, however, and had closer to an hour and half.  No big deal, really.

As the race started, the sun hadn't yet been able to burn through the overcast skies.  There was a breeze coming off the lake and the temperature couldn't have been higher than mid- to high-70s.  Since this was the first year Joe has offered this race, there were less runners, which was nice for the start.  There was little to zero start and stop, as I experienced at Hell's Hills.  The running was smooth from the get-go, allowing me to focus early in the race.  I knew I wanted to get through the first loop fairly quickly, to avoid the sun as much as possible.  My speed may have been to my detriment, however, as I'm thinking it zapped some energy stores I needed later in the race.  The first aid station came up quickly.  Having had toast over three hours earlier, I grabbed a banana and forged ahead.

The next three miles, give or take, had us traipsing across red granite outcroppings and domes with a bit of single track here and there.  The views were spectacular, simply breathtaking...that is, if you could lift your gaze long enough to take a peak at what the views had to offer.  The outcroppings made for a slow second leg of the loop, as it was important to keep your eyes on the ground to avoid tripping.  It was easy to get lost in the crags and, indeed, I saw one half-marathon leader, for lack of better phrasing, belly flop onto the granite after tripping.  I'm sure water would have been more welcome for the poor guy.  After the outcroppings began to fade, we climbed up into the trees and a bit more single track and into the first aid station.  I had a bit of water left in my two handhelds, so I didn't refill (Mistake No. 1).  I did down four peanut butter and jelly squares, as well as three endurolytes.  With about three miles to the next aid station, and no knowledge on what the course had to offer from this point, I resumed the trail gingerly.

The next three miles alternated between single track, mostly climbs, and more red granite outcroppings.  I preferred the outcroppings, as they brought with them wonderful breezes as the temperatures were rising.  This part of the loop was largely unremarkable from a running perspective.  There were beautiful wildflowers, however, and more breathtaking views.  All in all, it was a quick three and a half and I found myself at the three aid station of the loop in startling time.  I filled up on more peanut butter and jelly squares and refilled my water.  Off I went, three and a half miles until the next aid station.

This particular three and a half miles was probably my favorite of the course.  It wound through single track, a small bit of granite outcroppings, and offered a perfect mix of scenery, grasslands, and open spaces.  My running was strong and my focus honed.  I started thinking this could be a 5 hour race.  (Mistake No. 2).  In an even more remarkable amount of time, I found myself at the fourth and final aid station on the loop before the start/finish.  With less than two miles until the start/finish, I just aid a bit of banana, breezing through the aid station with little fanfare.

The 1.69 miles to the start/finish was probably my strongest of the race.  I hit a perfect harmony of pace, breathing, and focus.  I was surprised at my form, posture, and how quickly I found myself making the final turn into the finisher's chute, only 2.5 hours after I began the loop.  I quickly picked up a water refill, some endurolytes, and peanut butter and jelly squares, and made my way to my drop bag for some Diet Dr. Pepper.  I chugged about six ounces or so of Diet Dr. Pepper (Mistake No. 3) and made my way out for my second loop (Mistake No. 4), thirteen point one miles to go for my first marathon finish.

I immediately began to feel my stomach tighten.  Nothing was moving from the organ for the next four hours.  Rather, my stomach intended to cramp, heave, slosh, and wobble for the next thirteen miles.  Looking back on the first loop, I didn't drink nearly enough water, but I took plenty of endurolytes.  In essence, I was dehydrated and it was my fault entirely.  As a result, paired with the rising temperatures and incredible heat indices on the outcroppings, I started the second loop so far behind in hydration, it would be impossible to get back on top of it before the finish.  I kept up the running into the first aid station, though.  Popped a chunk of banana and forged ahead.

The outcroppings between aid station one and two made for slow running on loop one, and nothing was different the second time around.  It certainly felt like a longer three miles than the first go around, and I'm sure it took me longer.  The heat was just oppressive and drained me of any energy or hydration I possibly had at this point.  I tried to maintain my focus, but I couldn't help finding myself just scanning the horizon for the aid station:  I needed water, endurolytes, and fuel.  With my energy levels falling precipitously, I couldn't focus enough to remember what the course looked like leading up to the aid station, so every turn offered new hope.  This proved to wear on my psychologically, which is dangerous in any challenging race.  Finally, I dropped into the aid station.  I got a water refill, popped two endurolytes, and stuffed, literally, some peanut butter and jelly squares into my stomach (Possible Mistake No. 5).  Before I left, I decided to address an interesting issue that had arising:  the sole of my right shoe had started to detach from the main part of the shoe.  It was literally flapping as I ran.  "Duct tape?"  I sat down and wrapped up my shoe to the best of my abilities, at the time.  I figured duct tape could do the rest of the work; it's duct tape, after all.  The cramps in my stomach persisted and worsened as I left the aid station, commiserating with other runners there about the incredible and sudden heat.  Off we went.  Three miles to the next aid station, then sailing into the finish.

I ran quite a bit in the next three miles.  It seemed to pass the time faster (go figure!) and get my mind off of the incredible pain and discomfort in my stomach.  All I could think was a good bout of (sorry!) vomiting would do wonders.  With no clue on how to self-induce vomiting, I was left to hope it would just happen naturally.  Then I could quickly rehydrate and start fresh-ish on it all.  Unfortunately, my hope was in vain and it never happened.  I just kept moving, though, waiting for the next aid station to appear.  This particular three miles was long and arduous.  My focus fell to an all-time low and I simply couldn't keep up my enthusiasm for a good performance.  Simply put:  things were falling apart and it, likely, was all due to poor hydration in light of the incredible heat.

As I nearly fell into the next aid station, the volunteers could tell I was struggling.  I dropped my handhelds and doubled over near some bushes, hoping against hope that something would come up and relieve my pain and discomfort.  I suddenly felt ice cold water pouring over my back.  It startling, painful, and the best feeling in the entire world, all at the same time.  Unfortunately, the water evaporated as quickly as it hit my skin.  I was ushered to a chair and quickly handed a cup of ice water and water treated with an endurolyte-type tab.  The volunteer, Frank, checked my ability to focus my eyes (all engines firing, somehow), my will to keep going ("Are you absolutely sure?" "Yes." "Okay, then I need you to stay on top of your fluids better.  You're doing a terrible job, here."), and forced me to stay seated for a bit.  I somehow made my way over to the food table and chose an orange.  I thought it might be refreshing and jump start some movement in my stomach.  Unfortunately, the heat had sapped its moisture and it didn't do much for the discomfort.  This was the last bit of food I could force myself to eat during the race.  (Mistake No. 6, probably).  It was then that I noticed the duct tape had begun to melt off the shoe and had failed in its mission to keep my shoes in tact for the final jaunt.  The aid station didn't have any more duct tape, but they did have athletic tape.  Frank quickly wrapped the tape around both shoes as best as possible, with no promises it would work.  "It'll do," I said wearily.  "It'll have to."  After another round of being doused in ice cold water, I began the first of the most gut wrenching eight miles to date.

With the sun rising to its noon position, the heat was starting to hit its peak, and I felt it.  My stomach was such a brick, it wasn't even churning.  It simply was cramping and refusing to function.  The idea of adding water to the mix was too much for me to handle, so I simply didn't drink much of it at all (Mistake No. 7).  Against Frank's advice, I ran more than I probably should have at this point.  Thankfully, the capacity to do so didn't last long, and I eventually slowed to random trotting, and finally to a pitiful hike.  I fell in line with another "What did I sign up for?" participant, Jeremy, and we hiked our way into the next aid station.  I'm not sure if Jeremy walked it in because he was concerned about my safety, or if it was because he too was feeling the pressure of the heat.  Regardless, I was grateful for the company and for the security should something happen.  Things were starting to get dodgy.  I stopped talking quite as much, to avoid getting my heart rate much higher than it needed to be.  Despite the walking, the final aid station was upon us surprisingly quickly.  I quickly sought shade and a chair; I needed to get my heart rate down, immediately.  I somehow got some water in my system, but not much.  I also decided against any food.  Less than two miles to go.  It seemed like an insurmountable distance at this point.  My anxiety was peaking as I wasn't sure where to locate the pain in my upper body:  my chest?  my heart?  my stomach?  It was alarming, to say the least.

I started off on the hike to the finish.  And I hiked.  That's all I did.  I couldn't trust my body to run, the pain in my chest and stomach was so severe.  Instead, I made sure to keep my arms down by my side, to keep my heart rate down and blood flowing easily.  I tried to find the perfect way to breath to keep my heart rate even and myself less winded.  I knew this portion of the course better than any other, as this was the fourth time I'd run it.  There was the first footbridge.  And now the long bridge over the water.  Ahead was a bit of open walking on Jeep road, two more foot bridges, then the turn into the final stretch.  I just willed myself to keep moving, stay calm, and finish it out.  Things would relax once I finished.  My walk was strong, I'll say that.  I kept at it.  Finally, I was making the final turn.  I knew Kate and Kevin would be waiting and looking for me, so I began to trot.  I couldn't finish at a walk, but I couldn't run too quickly.  So I trotted it in.  I've never been so relieved to finish a race and know I could just slow everything down.  I picked up my medal and was instructed by my running buddies to "just get in the pool."  Don't have to tell this girl twice.  I stripped off my taped-up shoes and socks, and got into the pool faster than I thought possible.  It felt incredible.  I could already feel life returning and my heart calming.  At the same time, I just wanted to lay down and focus on getting all systems back to level, or as close to it as possible.

I found Kate and Kevin again, who presented me with a cup of water, and we made our way to the Pavilion.  I immediately fell to the ground and closed my eyes, babbling about all of the above, explaining away my later and less-than-strong finish so they weren't questioning why they'd made the drive for such an anticlimactic experience.  I could feel things calming.  Eventually, I was able to sit up, again.  Kate and Kevin noted the color was returning to my face.  My anxiety eased as I thought it must mean I hadn't done any permanent damage.  I could hear myself speaking with more liveliness and could feel less pain in my chest and stomach.  I was able to drink more water and could feel the pull of thirst in my mouth.  Systems were recovering.

Even with everything returning to normal, all I could think about was getting home, into the A/C, and into a definite zone of relaxation.  So, without much fanfare, we packed up and made our way back to Austin, capping off a hell of a day.

I made a number of mistakes out there, chief among them being failing to respect the race in its entirety and failing to appreciate the power of heat.  Thankfully, I don't anticipate running any more races while the heat is so great (Cactus Rose 50M is next on my radar), but I know the heat will still be an issue during my general running over the next few months.  I've got to get a handle on this aspect of running if I want to avoid such a terrible experience.  A bit of research is in order, I'd say.

All in all, it was a wonderful race.  The course was absolutely gorgeous, the aid stations were perfectly organized and staffed, and the classic Prusaitis touch was there.  I'm sure I'll be at it again next year, but until I know more about running in the heat.  What a challenge!  Many thanks to Joe and Joyce, all of the volunteers, and everyone on the course for a wonderful, entirely educational, and perfectly horrific race experience!  It is one I won't be forgetting any time soon and, oddly enough, I'm glad it will stick with me.

Pandora's Box of Rox Marathon
May 5, 2012
6:33:48

Hell's Hills 50K (April 2012)

I carried a chip on my shoulder as we drove away from Rocky Hill Ranch after Hell's Hills last year.  Granted, I hadn't been ready for the 50K distance last year.  Truly, I had no business being out there.  That being said, I wanted to show that course what I was made of and, coming off such an amazing experience at Nueces, I was ready to go head-to-head, again.

I mimiced my Nueces 50K training for Hell's Hills.  My running remained strong and consistent.  My long runs were easier, especially the twenty mile training run two weeks out.  I knew I was ready, but I had reservations about the different terrain and the increasing heat.  Again, I developed a plan for getting from aid station to aid station and ran the race in my head a number of times.  One challenge I knew I'd have to overcome was the possibility of arrogance after Nueces.  So, I reminded myself to respect the course and respect the distance.  Take it mile by mile; run smart; fuel smart; and keep moving.  Those were my rules.  My goals?  Finish in under 7 hours, without the aid of a walking stick, and strong.

At the last minute, we got a hotel room in Smithville so we could save an hour in the morning that we wouldn't have to spend driving.  After another pre-race last meal at Whole Foods (garden vegetable soup, whole wheat roll, linguini with roasted tomatoes, and fresh fruit), we hit the road.  The drive was short and easy and, before long, I was assessing Saturday's weather, setting out my race day clothes and equipment, and double-checking that I had my toaster, whole wheat bread, peanut butter, blackberry preserves, and, most importantly, my pack of tiny Diet Dr. Pepper cans.  Everything was accounted for so, I did what any runner does the night before a race:  I settled into bed and watched some mind numbing television.

Surprisingly, again, I was able to fall asleep fairly quickly.  The AC unit in the hotel room wasn't great at circulating air throughout, so I was a bit warm throughout the night, but it wasn't too terrible.  After a "I overslept!" dream, the alarm nonchalantly sounded at around 4:30 a.m.  I promptly opened a can of Diet Dr. Pepper and began my ritual.  I got dressed, double-checked all of my equipment (headlamp, batteries, water bottles, watch, hat, socks, and shoes), and made my peanut butter and jelly toast.  After all the boxes were checked, we packed everything up and hit the road for the short drive to the race site.

My anxiety began to rise.  I had something to prove today; I had to prove that I could do this course as well as I could Nueces.  I had to prove that the last year had taken me far from the DFL category.  I am very proud of my DFL at Hell's Hills last year; however, I am a much different runner than I was last year, and I'm equally proud of the strides I've made in that respect.  I wanted that to shine through today, but I also knew anything could happen.  I tried to swallow the anxiety and made my way to pick up my packet.

We set up my drop area:  a reasonably uncomfortable chair, my equipment bag with easy access to new socks, a second pair of shoes, a change of running clothes, my Lara bars, peanut butter, and Diet Dr. Pepper.  I started the next round of rituals:  folding my bib number into a smaller rectangle, pinning it on, stretching, tensing up into a tight ball in the chair, and yawning nonchalantly, as if I wasn't about to set out on a thirty one mile jaunt.  As usual, the start time was suddenly upon me.

For this race, both Ben and my mom were in attendance, and both were also running their own races.  Ben was taking the opportunity to get his marathon training run in by running the 25K.  My mom decided on the 10K, as she's coming back from a recent injury.  I hugged, received by votes of confidence and well wishes, and slowly walked over to the start line.  I was awfully sleepy and hadn't been able to shake into alertness quite yet.  I distracted myself by catching up with some running buddies and suddenly found myself crossing the start line and onto the course.  I reminded myself that the first two miles were climbing miles on an otherwise flat course.  "Take it easy.  This is going to be a warm and humid day.  Don't give it all away for just these two miles."

There were so many runners out there.  The start of the race was exceedingly frustrating as people paused, walked short and ridiculous "ascents," and generally slowed the entire line of runners down.  It only takes one runner to slow the entire procession.  I just hoped it wouldn't be like this for the entire race, otherwise I wouldn't be able to zero in on my focus.  Finally, the trail opened up and allowed me to run around a small group of women runners who were well into a gossip fest.  Not my cup of tea during an ultra; perhaps over brunch, but I needed to focus.  Soon, they were well behind me and I couldn't even hear their chatter anymore.  I focused on the rolling and twisting of the trail, instead.

In planning for the aid stations, I'd decided to eat a snack at the three-mile water only aid station.  As the sun started rising, I thought the aid station should be coming up shortly.  But I kept running, and it never appeared.  My spirits started to lag.  I was running, and quickly at that, but I felt like I wasn't getting anywhere, especially that water aid station.  In fact, I was already feeling hungry and I hadn't even reached the three mile mark?  I started to think about how long of a day this was going to be.  Finally, the trail dropped me into the aid station.  Relieved, I started to unzip the pouch on my water bottle for my Lara bar, since this was a water only station after all.  Then I noticed a friend noshing on some peanut butter and jelly squares.  "Isn't this a water only aid station?  Where'd you get that?"  Jeremy just laughed at me, pointed to his watch, and said, "You've run about six miles!  We passed the water only station three miles ago!"  In the darkness, or perhaps due to my own focus, I'd blown right past the three mile station!  My spirits soared.  I'd run six miles without even realizing it; my hunger was reasonable.  I grabbed some peanut butter and jelly squares, filled my water bottle, and ran off yelling something about how excited I was to get to the field of flowers on this next section.

I fell into running with two older runners.  We discussed the virtues of trail and ultra running and introduced ourselves to one another.  We developed a nice cadence, challenging but still comfortable.  The time passed reasonably quickly.  Suddenly, we were seeing more wildflowers and I knew the best part of the course was about to open up to us:  the field of flowers.  Imagine the poppy field in the Wizard of Oz.  Now, fill it with blue bonnets, Indian paintbrushes, and a medley of yellows, whites, and oranges.  The field was blanketed with a beautiful mist, something you only see in animated films almost.  It was idyllic and gorgeous.  Because the trail was flat, smooth, and straight, I let myself take it all in; I also knew I could get distracted for a moment because the next aid station was about a quarter of a mile away.  And there it was, the Tunnel of Pines aid station.  As I ran up, I saw a familiar mint green Mercedes:  Dave Silvestro would be there!  Dave has become a good friend of mine, one of the closest members of my trail family.  He is encouraging, but isn't afraid to let you know how you can improve.  On top of that, he is one of the most unique individuals I've ever met.  And finally, he has an adorable chocolate lab named Zeus, who I adore.  As I glided into the aid station, I mustered all the nonchalance I could: "Morning, Dave!"

Dave was at Rocky Raccoon and witnessed my complete breakdown after the first loop.  In fact, he washed my feet and ran through all of my ailments, pains, and thoughts as I decided to call the race an attempt rather than a finish.  Dave knew these next races would be important ones, and I wanted him to see how different an experience they were already.  I wanted him to see how strong I was this time around.  I was rewarded with a great smile, a compliment on how I looked after 10 miles, and encouragement to keep it up.  Another handful of peanut butter and jelly squares, some water, and I was off.  "See you in a bit, Dave!"

The last 4.7 miles of the loop can be tough.  It seems never ending and is littered with random rocky portions and some incredible drops and ascents.  Unfortunately, this is when my IT band started to rear its ugly head.  Knowing I could keep running through the pain without incurring more problems, I kept at it.  I had my IT band strap at the start/finish and I knew I could alleviate the pain the sooner I got there.  I won't lie:  it hurt.  At the same time, I knew I could run through it, so I did.  I also knew I had to get out on the second loop so I could solidify my chances of finishing.  So, I trudged along and came into the start/finish at three hours on the dot.

I grabbed some water and food, put on my IT band strap, and grabbed a Diet Dr. Pepper.  I dropped my headlamp and sweater, and off I went.  I needed to keep the focus and get to the first aid station.  I was nervous about my IT band.  I knew it could make this day much longer than I was hoping it would be.  I took the first mile or so at a trot, as I knew the trail would flatten out shortly.  I convinced myself to keep running, even if it wasn't as fast as I had during the first loop.  Again, I dropped in with another set of runners, who thought I might be at the front of the pack for the women runners.  I knew it was impossible, so I just put it in the back of my mind, but I did hang on to their comments about how "fresh" I looked.  "A good game face," I thought.  "I'm no stranger to acting."  We kept going, chatting about running, the Olympic trials in Houston, and a number of other things I let glide through my ears as a simple distraction from this particular part of the course.  I knew it would feel long again.  Finally, we were back at the first aid station.

My IT band hadn't quieted.  I tried stretching it out and downed a handful of salt pills to try to alleviate the muscle cramps I'd started to feel.  The heat was setting in and I'd underestimated its affect on my running.  I hadn't had muscle cramps since the Capt'n Karl's series.  I'd forgotten how painful they are, almost crippling.  I did remember, however, that the muscle cramps don't feel quite so bad as long as I keep running, distracting my legs from the cramps and focusing on the act of running.  So, after fueling and refilling my bottles, I trotted off.  I focused on the field of flowers to keep me moving; I craved the beautiful sight again.

The focus I had to harness on this next section was incredible.  My energy levels were dropping faster than they had the first loop; the heat was setting in and taking its toll; I had to keep moving and get to the next station to have any chance of finishing in under seven hours.  I peeled my eyes for "landmarks" on the trail.  If I saw something familiar, I tried to place on the last loop and how I'd felt at the moment in a vain attempt to gauge where I was in relation to the field of flowers and the next aid station.  I refused to look at my watch, as I didn't know what my pace was, so I could easily deceive myself into thinking I had less time to run to get to the next aid station than was really the case.  Finally, I was at the field again.  This time, however, the sun was unrelenting and led me to sweat bullets.  I picked up the pace, taking advantage of the flat and smooth portion, passing runners I thought had gained at least miles on me.  As I passed, friends commented, "looking good!"  I kept my focus and threw them a nod and waive of appreciation.  Coming into the aid station, I realized I was more dehydrated and in more of a calorie deficit than I originally thought.  I was a touch woozy and couldn't quite focus on what, exactly, I needed.  As a result, I had some peanut butter and jelly, some M&Ms, some Coca Cola, and Pringles dipped in mustard.  I'd come to regret the mustard, but all's well that ends well.  Off I went.

Knowing the last two miles would be tough on the IT band with the steep descents and ascents, I took advantage of the Tunnel of Pines and Avenue of Pines.  I ran as comfortably and as quickly as I could. The heat and sunshine took more out of me.  My energy levels were dropping.  "Keep moving."  I would run a bit, catching up to my power-walking friend Brian, then drop focus and reduce to a hike.  Brian would quickly pull ahead of me and I would become frustrated again.  Back to running.  It became a cat-and-mouse game, which we both recognized.  The miles leading up to the Grind and the Wall were long and unending.  I knew that, once I got to the Grind and the Wall, both incredibly steep gulches in the trail, I was close to the finish and closer to some ice cold water.  The sun set in deeper in my gut.  Things easily could have turned very ugly, very quickly.  I could feel my stomach churning, bubbling, and threatening to send everything right back from whence it came.  "Keep moving."

Suddenly, I saw Steve Moore on the side of the trail.  I imagine he was out there to encourage people, or perhaps waiting for particular runners to pat on the back.  I glanced at him, "how much further?"  He scrunched up his face a bit, "Umm...oh..."  "Don't tell me.  Don't tell me. Don't tell me," I blurted out, turning my face away and putting my hand up in the air.  Thankfully, he didn't take offense.  He knew what was going in my head and let me pass without a second thought.

The trail turned into a tropical-like environment, and I knew I was getting closer.  Finally, the trail opened up to a Jeep-type road and my cadence quickened.  "This was where I ditched my walking stick last year," I thought, smiling to myself.  No walking stick this year!  Finally, I saw the barn and tractors.  I crossed a small clearing and up a short climb.  At the top of the climb, there were the camp sites.  I knew the parking area was just around the bend.  My pace quickened yet again.  The finish was right around the corner.  My back instinctively straightened.  My shoulders fell back and relaxed.  My pace hit its stride and picked up considerably.  I ignored the pain in my knee; it was almost over.  I focused on the finish line, not hearing or seeing anyone on the side lines.  Finally, I heard the ringing of the finisher's mat as I crossed the line.  At the finish were Ben, my mom, and a handful of members of my trail family:  Michael Sawyer, Brian Kuhn, David Jacobson, and Chris Haley.  I took in the look on their faces.  They weren't used to me finishing right behind them and it showed in their surprise!  I knew I'd done well, but all I wanted to do was escape the heat.  I doubled over in relief and wondered where two things were: (1) my finisher's medal, sans a DFL trophy, and (2) a cold bottle or cup of water.

Hell's Hills was more challenging than I anticipated, but it was a lesson in respecting all aspects of a race.  Anyone can run the distance, but it takes a number of skills to balance the hydration, fueling, electrolyte balancing, and adjusting for rising or lowering temperatures.  While I think I could've left more out on the course, I'm still proud of my finish.  I don't think I gave it my all, for whatever reason.  I just don't feel like I did, which will get me out there next year.  That being said, I finished four hours faster than I did last year, of which I am very proud!  But, I can do better.  I know I can.  And that is what keeps me going...

Hell's Hills 50K, Rocky Hill Ranch, Smithville, Texas
April 7, 2012
6:49:28

Nueces 50K (March 2012)

With the feeling of accomplishment from last year's jaunt on the Nueces course, as well as memories of the absolutely gorgeous landscape and environment, fresh in my mind, it was a no brainer to sign up for race again this year.  The only catch?  I'd be attempting the 50K.  Joe maintains this is one of his most challenging courses, so this decision put me a touch on edge, especially considering my thoughts on the Cactus Rose course in Bandera.  This in mind, I decided to take what I learned at both Cactus and Rocky and move forward with preparing for the Nueces 50K.

In the weeks leading up to the race, I pushed myself harder and further on training runs.  I felt myself becoming stronger, faster, and more confident every time I laced up.  I committed myself to consistency in a number of ways:  (1)  more healthful and whole eating; (2) smart and more focused recovery; (3) smart running; and (4) taking training one run at a time.  Additionally, I committed myself to the necessary mileage.  I wanted to start this race with the confidence that I could tackle the miles and the only way to gain that confidence is to log the miles beforehand.  So, my weekend long runs involved a number of 15 milers, as well as one 20 miler two weeks out from race day.  I tapered with a 10 mile long run the weekend before, 4-5 milers on the Monday and Tuesday prior, and rest on Wednesday and Thursday.  Finally, the pre-race final meal at Whole Foods:  garden vegetable soup (fiber for digestion); spinach and feta orzo (protein for sustained energy and carbohydrates for glucose); ciabatta roll (again, those carbohydrates); and some fresh fruit (those lovely, lovely carbohydrates).  After the mind numbing three and a half hour drive to Rocksprings, reality was setting in:  the moment of truth was upon me.  Was my new approach to training (i.e., actually training) going to work?  Would it be worth it?  Or would it flesh out to provide me with no more strength and drive than I'd had in previous races such that I could revert back to my "Oh, training?  No, I just get out there and run" arrogance?

Kyle and I made the decision to book a lodge at Camp Eagle, which turned out to be a great idea.  Kyle, Ben, and I each had our own bed to get a decent night's sleep before sun rise.  We nestled in around 10:30-11 p.m., on edge for that early morning alarm to sound.  Surprisingly, I was able to fall asleep rather quickly and slept fairly well.  After a "wake up" slap from Kyle, I wished him well and nestled in for another thirty to forty five minutes of sleep before my own start time.  Finally, it was time to get after it:  I woke up, got dressed and tried to warm up my legs, and turned to my trusty whole wheat bread smeared with peanut butter and blackberry preserves, along with a small can of Diet Dr. Pepper.

After picking up my packet, ooh-ing and aah-ing over another pull-over sweater as the race shirt, I began the process of honing my focus on what lay ahead of me for the day.  I reminded myself of the cards I had in my pocket:  (1) I'd run the course before and remembered it well; (2) I was a stronger runner than I'd ever been, and recognized it; (3) I knew to respect the mileage and course; (4) I'd run the course in my mind, with a plan of action for each section of the course (hike the hills with a purpose; aggressively run the remainder); and (5) I was ready to have fun.

The last hour before the start of a race, no pun intended, races by!  Suddenly, Joe is reminding us of a few odds and ends, nuances of the course, and then we're off!  I barely had a moment to stretch before nestling myself in the middle of the pack.  I reminded myself to hold back the energy, hold back the adrenaline; I'd need all I could get later in the loop and later in the race.

The section of each race between the start/finish and the first aid station of a loop is always challenging for me.  I just want to be in the race, which means I want to be on the other side of that first aid station.  Thankfully, there were so many runners (the 25K and 50K began at the same time) that I was distracted for a number of the first few miles on the way to the first aid station.  I focused on getting around particular runners who may have been too slow, too prone to stopping suddenly, or whose running style or sounds simply irritated me.  Finally, the runners spread out and I was able to start taking advantage of some solitude, allowing me to bring my focus to a more central place in my body.  If I could try to describe it, this focus sits in the exact center of my brain, right behind my eyes.  If you have the opportunity to see me come through an aid station at the later stages of the race, you might recognize what this looks like:  almost zeroed in vision, a tunnel vision of sorts.  As I ran toward the first stop on the course, this focus became more and more tangible:  it was going to be a good day.

I finally dropped into the first aid station.  I filled up my water bottle, grabbed a handful of peanut butter and jelly sandwich squares, and perhaps a handful of salt pills.  I knew the middle portion of the loop was both the easiest and challenging.  Coming out of the aid station, the trail becomes nearly unnavigable and it can be difficult to follow the markers.  I slipped down loose rocks, scrambled over fallen branches, and pulled myself up hills that seemed to stare me straight in the face they were so steep.  I ran this portion as best and safely as possible; I knew I would be rewarded with an opportunity to rest on a gentle, but steep, climbing hill.  The tangle of branches, rocks, and roots deposited me at the bottom of this hill and I relished in the sunshine and gentle breeze.

I attack hills with a particular goal:  hike with a purpose.  The goal of an endurance event is to traverse the distance while expending as little energy as possible.  While it would look incredibly impressive indeed to scale a hill with gusto, speed, and while running, this will only cost an athlete later.  So, I hike with a purpose:  I swing my arms at my side to propel me as fast as I can, just short of a run.  I take short steps to avoid rolled ankles, and I pull from my core so I don't burn out my calves or quads.  Finally, on the longer hikes, I content myself with the knowledge that my body will recover remarkably quickly once I reach the summit.

As I reached the summit of this particular climb, I began to, what I will call in retrospect, trot.  The last mile or mile and a half, however long it was, had been challenging but invigorating.  Without much fanfare or warning, though, I felt myself moving faster.  I hadn't told my legs to move faster, but there they went.  I was moving past other runners with such ease, I couldn't help but look down at my body with wide eyes and surprise.  What on earth was going?  To this day, I'm not sure, but I didn't question it and took advantage of it.  I just focused on keeping my back straight, shoulders back and relaxed, arms moving rhythmically.  The end of the descent from the longer climb dropped me onto one switchback trail.  I knew this meant I was close to the next aid station; I also knew this was an incredibly lazy part of the course and I had to take advantage of the lack of rocks, ascents, and sun exposure, so I kept running.  Before I knew it, the trail was dropping me at the Wall, the second aid station of the course.

Ben met me at the Wall, which was a great motivator to keep up the enthusiasm and energy.  I had a few peanut butter and jelly squares, as well as some banana with peanut butter smeared on top.  I didn't want to burn out on peanut butter and jelly, after all.  Off I went, and with a few butterflies in my stomach:  the most gorgeous part of the course was upon me.  As with last year's race, this was the part of the course that convinced me to sign up for the race.  I ran across a portion of the river bed, across the river on an old wooden bridge, and along a bluff directly next to the river; this was why I have grown to love trail running.  The experience with nature is just overwhelming, humbling, and incredible.

Another ascent; another hike with a purpose.  This ascent took us up, only to come back down and into the creek bed.  I knew that, with every step I took, I was coming closer to the most, well, horrific part of the course:  the fence line littered with palm-sized rocks with zero shade.  Suddenly, it was in front of me.  Alright...again, hike with a purpose.  Just keep moving and, no matter what, do not look up.  To look up would be to crush one's spirit with the force of a sledge hammer.  This particular ascent was absolutely unending.  The moment you thought it was over, it kept going.  I didn't look up.  I kept my focus and kept hiking.  Finally, I was at the top and got back to running.  The next portion would be slightly rocky, but it was still easy to take this portion aggressively.  After three rolling ascents and descents, I found myself at the final aid station before the start/finish.  A mile and a half, and I'll have finished the first loop.  I picked up a few M&Ms and was off; I'd refuel and get some electrolytes at the start/finish station.

After a quick jog across a field of sorts, the trail dropped down through a few trees, across the park entrance road, and suddenly the lodge is in sight.  At this point, your spirits lift and you know you're doing something right.  My pace quickened ever so slightly; I wanted to get to the start/finish as soon as possible so I could get started on the second loop.  I knew this thing would be in the bag if I just started on the second loop.  Still, I held back a little bit.  After all, I still had 15.5 miles to run.

At the start/finish, I took another handful of salt pills, ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and drank another small can of Diet Dr. Pepper.  I started the second loop the same way I started the first:  slowly. I knew the first mile and a half or so of this portion of the course was hilly and could zap more energy than other portions of the course.

Again, I just wanted to get on the other side of that first aid station; I wanted to be in the middle of the second loop already.  Unfortunately, my energy levels seemed to plummet suddenly.  The heat was bearing down on me and I was started to falter.  Something had happened.  I decided to take a moment to take stock of what was going on and sat down on the side of the trail.  What was happening?  I'd just had some food and caffeine, I should be firing on all cylinders.  Then I realized I still had my running jacket on.  It had been reasonably cool when the race started, but the temperature had risen quite substantially by this point in the day and I hadn't thought to take the jacket off at the start/finish.  I slowly un-pinned by bib and peeled the jacket off and over my head.  I slowly pinned by bib back onto my shirt, hoisted myself up, and tied my jacket around my waist, praying this would do the trick.  I started off at a trot again.  Slowly but surely, my enthusiasm, focus, and energy returned.  I'd pinpointed the problem, solved it, and was back in the game.

This first portion of the second loop was as long as it had been the first time around, but I finally found myself at the first aid station.  I refilled my water, picked up (surprise!) some peanut butter and jelly squares, as well as a few Pringles.  Off I went.  I knew what I needed to do on this part of the course and I was anxious to tackle it a second time.  The middle part of the course the second time around was almost identical to the first.  Within what felt like minutes, I was at the Wall again.

I hydrated, fueled, and handed off my jacket to Ben.  Off I went; this finish was within grasp.  Given that, I kept my emotions and daydreaming in check.  I still had a number of miles to finish; it wasn't time to celebrate quite yet.  Down into the river bed, across the bridge, up the ascent, down and around, and there was the fence line.  "Blast," I thought.  "Here we go again."  The sun had risen higher in the sky by this point, so the temperature was all the more overbearing.  Sweat dripped down my face and my legs ached with the job of pulling me up the hill.  I diverted my attention to a conversation with a fellow Austinite.  We lamented the climb, and reminded each other to take a moment to appreciate the views of the Texas Hill Country.  It truly is a breathtaking view from up there.  At the top, I knew the rest was downhill as long as I kept running.

"Just keep running," I told myself.  I started approaching two runners ahead of me.  As I passed, one turned to look at me and said, "Well aren't you looking great!"  I nodded in appreciation, but kept my focus.  I didn't want the nonchalance and arrogance to take over.  One ascent and descent.  "Two more," I thought.  Another ascent and descent.  Then, wham.  Something in my ankle seared into action.  I'm still not sure what happened amongst those bones; by the time the race was over, I didn't experience any more pain.  But in that moment, I was sure I'd done something serious.  "Move!," I told myself.  "Just keep moving!  Adjust your gait to avoid the pain, but you're not bleeding and you don't see any bones.  Move!"  So I kept going.  I found a way to run on the tip of my toes on the left foot, supporting most of the movement on my right, and came to the third and final ascent and descent.  I knew the aid station was at the end of this hill.  Another runner I came across was experiencing some muscle problems, so we brought it in together.  A volunteer at the aid station took a look at my ankle.  He probed it, put pressure on it in a few places, rotated it; in short, he couldn't find anything wrong with it.  "Screw it," I told him.  "I'm out of here.  See y'all at the finish."  I grabbed some more M&Ms, declined a swig of Dos Equis, and high tailed it out of there.  I had less than two miles and I was going to finish strong and without whining.

To be certain, that ankle wasn't on board with my plan.  It fought back and brought tears to my eyes a few times in the last two miles, but I bore on.  I kept going and I finally found a comfortable running style to get into the finish at a full on sprint.

As I crossed the finish line, a new emotion flooded over me:  a sense of happiness at how strong of a run I'd just had.  In the past, my finishing emotions centered around the fact that I'd actually finished.  Today, I was overcome with emotion because of how I'd finished and how amazing it all felt.  And on top of that, I finished an hour and a half faster than I was anticipating!  It was incredible and I hope to hold on to that sensation well into future races.

With a smile plastered onto my face, and random giggles, I gathered my things and headed back to the cabin.  For the first time, I was able to take a solid shower immediately after finishing and it was glorious.  I threw myself onto the bed after and took in the day.  Here I was, showered, laying down, and smiling after running thirty one miles.  Training had paid off, I reminded myself.  I had to stick with it.  I suppose the hundreds of thousands of other runners who train are actually on to something...

Nueces is quickly becoming my favorite of Joe's races and I anticipate returning every year, perhaps tackling the 50 miler one of these days.  For now, I think the Nueces 50K will be my go-to yearly race.

Nueces 50K, Camp Eagle, Rocksprings, Texas
March 3, 2012
6:39:30

Rocky Raccoon 50M (February 2012)

Having finished Cactus Rose, I decided to put another fifty mile race on my calendar.  I knew Rocky Raccoon would be an easier course, so I could certainly finish the race with less drama and in less time.  Further, my running had improved, I'd become faster, and I'd become more confident in my abilities.  In fact, I finished the 3M half marathon a few weeks prior half an hour faster than my fateful experience last year.  So, off to Huntsville we went.

Sadly, we approached race day with less race-related anxiety, with less planning, and with less training.  On January 10, my father passed away after being hospitalized with shortness of breath less than a month prior.  As Rocky was less than a month after his passing, it came as no surprise that I was less enthusiastic, less interested, and less invested in the entire endeavor.  I decided to fake it.  I'd told enough people about the race, I might as well go through with it.

As we drove up to the park, the skies were dumping an unimaginable amount of rain on us.  As I made my way to the Lodge from my car to get my race packet, my shoes were quickly soaked.  This became an incredible foreshadowing for how the rest of the short day would proceed.  I kept up my "excitement," however.  As the start time came closer, we waited out the rain in the car.

While I was hoping real excitement would materialize once the race began, I knew it was a lost cause as we crossed the line.  I continued with the run, however, and it started surprisingly well.  The course is largely flat, mostly littered with roots rather than rocks.  The ground is padded with pine needles, making for a cushioned landing.  Unfortunately, the course was also flooded in many places and had turned to mud on account of the rain.  As I sloshed from aid station to aid station, any semblance of enthusiasm began to fade.  In fact, as I set off from the last aid station in the first loop, everything crumbled.  My energy flat lined.  I began to shiver.  And my irritability sky-rocketed.  I strode into the start/finish turnaround pale, mute, and ready to go home.

I went home.  I pulled off my timing chip and bib, turned them in, and went home.  My heart simply wasn't in the race.  I did not care if I finished.  I did not care if I walked away without a medal.  I simply didn't care one bit about what was going on.  Explaining all of this to Joe, who encouraged me to keep going, I realized how correct of a decision it was.  Compared to The Falls 60K, I was at the opposite end of the spectrum for this DNF.  At The Falls 60K, I was heartbroken; in this instance, I was relieved.  It was time for me to pack up and call it a day.  So, I did.

To this day, I know this was the correct choice.  I may have finished that first loop in record time for me, and I may  have been fueling and hydrating damn near perfectly, but I wasn't there.  And I didn't want to be there.  I'm sure I could have finished, but I didn't care to and I am content with that decision. What I do know is I'll be out there next year, hopefully with a finish to speak of.  I don't feel a need to conquer the course, but I do have a need to experience it in all of its glorious 50 miles.

Cactus Rose 50M (October 2011)

Somehow, I bounced back from my DNF at The Shoe 60K.  I had another race to focus on:  my first attempt to finish a 50 mile race.  Rather than toeing the start line with zero information about the course, the race, and the experience, I searched out every bit of information I could about this little race in Bandera, Texas.  I found out a number of things:  It is all hills.  It is incredible rocky.  You will be running through cactus.  It is self-supported.  It is an incredible experience.

As the weeks wore on, I continued running, although without a planned training schedule.  With new responsibilities at school, I simply couldn't commit myself to a specific training plan.  I had to run when I was able and run the distances time allowed.  I ran 4-5 times per week, with 15 miles on weekends.  As race day approached, I thought it might be worthwhile to get in a longer distance for "time on your feet" experience.  To this end, I met with a few fellow runners at the Forest Ridge Trail for a set-your-own-distance training run.  Our aid stations were the trunks of our cars, as each loop on the trail was about 4-5 miles, perfect distance for the Cactus Rose experience.  On top of this, the terrain we ran on was as similar to Cactus as could be found in Austin.  I set out hoping to run 30-35 miles that day, but I started out with mistakes.  I didn't eat enough over the course of the loops.  I also didn't drink nearly enough water.  Finally, I so quickly got behind on my electrolytes that, after twenty miles, I was seeing stars and finding it difficult to focus on a given point in space.  I shut the training down at twenty miles and contented myself with this as my "long run."  Cactus, here I come.

In between the "training runs," I read every article I could find on the distance and self-supported races.  I began developing what I'd like in each of my drop bags:  peanut butter, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trail mix, anti-inflammatories and salt pills, Lara bars, bananas, and small cans of Diet Dr. Pepper.  Each was included for a different purpose:  protein for sustained energy and slower digestion, sugars for quick energy, pain killers and electrolytes, easily-eaten foods, potassium, and, of course, caffeine.  As race day closed in, I began assembling my drop bags, hoping I'd put together the perfect concoction for success at Cactus Rose.  I also began packing my race equipment bag.  I set everything out on my bed, double checking my "Race Packing List" to be sure I had everything I might possible need.  Then I packed it all into my bag.  I then unpacked, repacked, unpacked, and repacked again, searching for the most efficient packing possible.  Before I knew it, race day was here.

As we approached Bandera, anxiety began to deepen.  There was nothing more I could do.  I couldn't fit in one more training run.  I couldn't repack my drop bags, or my race equipment bag.  This was it; do or die.  I was somehow able to fall asleep that night, although I'm not sure how.  The back of my truck really wasn't too comfortable, especially with the cold October air seeping in to the cabin.  Shortly after closing my eyes, 4 a.m. was upon us.  My bags had been dropped, my packet had been picked up, my bib pinned, my peanut butter and jelly eaten, and my caffeine slurped.  It was time to start.

I nestled in within the other runners, looking for familiar faces to distract myself from the day I was staring down with wide eyes.  As Joe sent us off, I looked toward my adrenaline to keep me moving.  If I began to contemplate the entirety of the day, I knew things would begin to break down.  As I'd told myself the main weeks prior:  take it five miles at a time and five miles only.  Once you finish the current five miles, then you can turn to the next.  As I strode into the first aid station, I was still fresh and excited.  I cheekily grabbed a Lara bar and trotted off into the continued darkness.

As the sun rose, I knew I'd made a good decision signing up for this race, if only for the incredible views from the tops of the hills.  The expanse was breathtaking and I couldn't help screaming out, "I LIVE HERE!  This is so beautiful!"  Unfortunately, this enthusiasm, coupled with a Tom Petty dance party at Ice Cream Hill, would later come back to my detriment.  I didn't care about that then, I was having a great time; this was my day, I was doing this and no one was going to tell me otherwise.

After the second aid station, the most difficult part of the course lay ahead of me:  the steepest and longest climbs, as well as the patches of Sotol cactus.  This difficulty would span miles 15 through 35, so I knew I needed to focus.  The day began to wear on me and, as the sun began to rise, I had to focus more on each task.  To my credit, I made it through the first twenty five miles with surprising strength and focus.  In fact, I foolishly asked Joe if that was all he had before I set off for the final twenty five miles.  During the course of the next 5-10 miles, I came to regret that comment greatly.  Thankfully, he was at the aid station when I arrived, so I could tell him I'd recognized the gravity of what I was seeking to accomplish.  I'd been reminded of one of the paramount rules of ultrarunning:  respect the distance and respect the course.  Each can chew you up and spit you out without a second glance.

At mile 30, I changed my shoes for more cushioning and left for the third to last aid station at mile 35.  At mile 35, I changed my socks, added some bandaids to a few blisters, fueled, and grabbed a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, as my energy levels were lagging and needed quite the boost.  Miles 35 through 40 were, quite honestly, a breeze.  I didn't realize I'd finished the most challenging part of the course and was on the downhill toward the finish.  As I came in to the 40 mile aid station, I was incredulous as I thought about how far I'd run that day:  40 miles!  I seized on this excitement and, with Ben in tow, set off for the last aid station, where I knew I would find Olga who could push me in to the finish.

As I started shuffling, what I thought was a respectable run, I had no idea how the next few hours would unfold.  About two miles later, my left IT band seized.  I couldn't bend my knee without excruciating pain.  Running was all but out of the question.  Ben helped me stretch it out and remained patient as I dragged my leg, doing my best to maintain a pace faster than walking.  Without our realizing, the sun was beginning to set.  The temperatures were dropping.

I began to shiver and my teeth were audibly chattering.  Night had set in and I hadn't crossed the finish. It was going to be a long night, especially since my IT band was showing no signs of relenting.  Finally, we came into the aid station at mile 45, five miles away from the finish.  Five miles.  I was all but blown:  I was colder than I could imagine, I was exhausted, and I didn't know how I could keep moving with all the pain in my knee.  I relished in the Ramen soup I'd been handed, and eyed the hot chocolate down the line.  Olga came over, asking what I needed.  I told her how cold I was and asked her how I cold overcome the pain in my knee.  Without a second thought, she grabbed her IT band strap, wrapped it around my thigh, and shoved some anti-inflammatories into my hand.  She flitted off for a moment, giving me an opportunity to wrap my frozen hands around a cup of hot chocolate.  I didn't even care when it sloshed onto my bare hands, I was so very cold.  Before we set off for the final five miles, Olga got my attention:  "The valleys are going to be extremely cold.  Just keep moving.  Take the descents carefully.  Above all, don't start feeling sorry for yourself."  I was blown away by her authority on the subject and was confident she knew I could finish.  She shimmied out of her oversized jacket, wrapped it around me and offered one last bit of advice:  "Eye of the tiger.  Now, go!"

We were off.  Olga's generosity and her advice had infused me with a new sense of purpose.  My eyes were focused on the ground and my head was focused on the finish.  The descents were excruciating and the night was unrelenting in its cold.  But we kept moving.  We just kept moving.  At no point did the topic of quitting come up in conversation, although there wasn't much conversation to be had.  Suddenly, we were at the fork; we were at the fork where runners split at the beginning of each loop, the direction depending on which loop they were beginning.  I knew we were close.  The trail flattened and turned into a meandering one through some trees.  Shortly thereafter, we saw deep red lights.  Were they the photographer?  A car's taillights?  It couldn't be the finish line clock, could it?  It was.  "Let's run," I said.  To be frank, "run" is a relative term at this point.  My feet weren't dragging and they weren't walking, but I'm not sure they were running either.  I warned Ben of the impending tears once I crossed the finish.  It had been a long day, and even longer past few hours, how could I not cry?

As the dings echoed once I crossed the finisher's mat, I was surprised to find those tears weren't so forthcoming.  In fact, not even a knot formed in my throat.  I collapsed into a chair and called Joe over. As it turned out, the jacket Olga had given me was his.  I also wanted to give him her IT band strap to return to her.  Finally, I asked him one question:  "Why on earth did I choose this as my first 50 miler, Joe?"  His response?  "I was wondering that myself, Kim.  But you did it, you did great."  At that point, my finisher's medal was shoved into my hand:  I'd finished.  I'd run 50 miles.

Ben and I slowly made out way to the truck, where I found two wonderful surprises waiting for me: a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Jameson whiskey.  I waited on the whiskey, as I knew my liver was already blown from the rest of the day.  But we did pop the cork on the champagne for a bit of celebration.  Considering it was already so late in the evening, it was a short celebration, however.  We climbed into the car, turned the heat as high as it would go, and set off toward Austin.

The jostling of the truck lulled me into a gentle sleep on the ride back.  I was simply too exhausted to take the time to reflect on the day quite yet.  In fact, even today, six months later, is difficult for me to wrap my head around that day.  I still get goosebumps when I think about it.  I am proud of my perseverance, of my resolve to finish, and of the strength I found to do so.  I learned so much about myself that day, lessons I have used in every single race I've run since.

Cactus Rose 50 Mile, Bandera, Texas
October 29, 2011
18:38:34

Capt'n Karl's Night Series

After the 50K at Hell's Hills, I just contented myself with running.  There were no races on the immediate horizon, especially with the deep Texas heat.  After finals, however, my trail running went into overdrive, as did my need for that sense of accomplishment I'd discovered at both Nueces and Hell's Hills.  Perusing the Tejas Trails site, I saw the Capt'n Karl's Night series:  three night races near the end of the summer, spaced over two and a half months.  The races offered 10Ks, 30Ks, and 60Ks.  I knew the 30Ks were achievable, and the 60K was enticing.  So, I signed up for the first two 30Ks, setting my sights on the third race for a new achievement: a 60K, about six miles further than my longest run to date.

To prepare for the races, I began running more times a week and at longer distances than I ever had.  I became a member of the Hill Country Trail Runners, which became an incredible source for group runs, night runs, encouragement, and information.  Each workday was mind numbing; all I could think about was when I would be able to lace up and hit the trails.  It was an incredible feeling!  I found that I'd come to love running!  Who knew this could happen?  I was running, for the most part, for the sake of running. It was all I could talk about, all I could think about, and was, in short, all consuming.

Capt'n Karl's:  The Lake, 30K


The familiar feeling of anxiety, mixed with excitement, mixed with a twinge of self-doubt.  The day of the race, I was a bit timid.  How much water should I drink for my race coming up tonight?  What do I eat?  If I remember correctly, I think Torchy's Tacos was involved, as were 4-5 bottles of water, and a refraining from coffee so it would work when I drank it at night.  An hour's drive later, we were at the race site and setting up for the few hours we'd be out there.

This particular race involved three loops of about 6 miles, which seemed easy enough.  Six miles was nothing, especially with an aid station nestled right in the middle.  And for that matter, I'd been training in the evenings multiple times per week all summer:  this heat wasn't going to be an issue.  However, as the loops wore on, the muscle cramps set in.  I wasn't hydrating nearly enough, nor was I taking in enough salt or electrolytes.  Essentially, everything was breaking down.  I cried out from the muscle cramps they were so painful!  We soldiered on, however.  This 30K was not going to conquer us, we were going to conquer it.  And we did, eventually.  As we collapsed into our chairs, we reflected on the laps comprising this particular race.  It was hot.  It was unrelenting.  And we were exhausted.  And for me, I had to move right along:  there was another 30K in just a few short weeks.  All I had time to do was reflect on the lessons I'd learned:  fuel smarter, don't over hydrate, and pay close attention to electrolyte consumption.

Capt'n Karl's, The Lake 30K
July 16, 2011


Capt'n Karl's:  The Falls, 30K


This time around, my new boyfriend, Ben, was in tow, meaning the stakes were high.  I certainly did not want to lose face in front of him; I wanted to show him how tough I could be, despite how adorable he found me.  Further, my brother and his friend were also running the 30K:  here was my opportunity to prove to my brother how much I'd progressed and improved.  I daydreamed about finishing the race before him somehow, and had even said as much of the possibility out loud!

This race was one loop:  a short and sweet 30K, a few aid stations, and continuously dimming light.  The terrain was manageable and varied, allowing me to pass some of the time by reflecting on what I had seen earlier in the run.  As darkness set in, so did the solitude, giving me the first glimpse of what I would come to love about trail running.  I was able to get lost in the run, hearing only the sounds of my own foot falls and breathing, willing myself to keep moving and keep running.  Before I knew it, I was running along the final fence line with the finish in sight.  "Already?," I thought.  "Well, alright."  I crossed the finish line strong for the first time since I started running in the summer of 2010.  Everything was on point:  I was fueled well (thank you, Hut's!), hydrated, and had sufficient electrolyte levels.  I finished without much fatigue, although I'm not sure another loop would have been feasible.  The best part?  I finished a mere thirty minutes behind my brother.  I didn't meet my goal of beating him, but I came much closer than the realistic side of me thought would be the case.

As we drove away from The Falls, I felt calm and proud.  I had turned to a new side of trail running:  I had some idea of what I was doing, and it felt fantastic.

Capt'n Karl's, The Falls 30K, Pedernales State Falls Park, Johnson City, Texas
August 6, 2011
4:00:39


Capt'n Karl's:  The Shoe, 60K


Shortly after The Falls 30K, an interesting pain developed in my knee.  I'd been running like a maniac lately, with some two-a-days, longer distances, and greater intensity.  Something had gone amiss.  With a trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico on the horizon, I decided to take the trip as an opportunity to rest the joints in preparation for The Shoe 60K.

Unfortunately, the rest in San Juan was insufficient to alleviate the pain in my knees and I felt them almost immediately upon setting out from the starting line.  The race was four loops.  My excitement carried me through the first loop, as did the presence of Ben.  Again, I would hate to lose face in front of him.  As I started out on the second loop, the realization set in that tonight would not be in the cards for me.  At best, I'd walk away with another 30K finish.  A few things contributed to this realization.

First, in between The Falls and The Shoe, I'd signed up for another race:  Cactus Rose 50 Miles at the end of October.  Because I didn't know what was causing the pain in my knees and how serious it might be, I didn't want to jeopardize the next feat on the horizon.  Had I known what the pain was, and that I could continue running on it without causing further damage, perhaps I would have kept going.

Second, and more importantly, I realized the importance of knowing my limits.  I wasn't prepared for a 60K, not in the least, especially one in the dead of summer.  I hadn't logged nearly enough miles; I didn't have the necessary mileage base; and I didn't know what can happen to one's body as the miles pile up during the course of a race.  All I had in my bag was arrogance:  I'm young, fit, and have "run" a 50K, I can certainly do this.

As I approached the end of the second loop, I voiced all of this to a still-unknown fellow runner.  He was much older and clearly, this wasn't his first rodeo.  I explained to him how difficult this was for me; how difficult it was to decide to quit.  I could barely utter the word at all.  I explained that, because I was so young, I didn't have enough experience to handle this more gracefully and understand that it isn't the end of the world.  Despite all of this, I knew what I had to do:  with this knee pain, my upcoming attempt at Cactus Rose, and my inexperience with this distance, I had to drop from the 60K.

Ben could tell something was wrong as I strode into the start/finish area.  He wrapped his arms around me and asked what I needed.  I couldn't even look him in the eye.  My voice was so small, I'm not sure he heard when I said I need to talk to the race director, Joe.  I pulled myself away, still embarrassed about what Ben was about to see and how disappointed I knew he would be in me.  I walked over to Joe, my head hanging lower than I thought was possible.  I uttered the words I didn't think I was capable of uttering:  "Joe, I have to drop.  I have to drop out of the race."  I then heard one of the most heartbreaking sounds imaginable, given the circumstance:  the ripping of my timing chip as it was torn from my ankle.  My race was over.  Joe patted my back, nodded his head approvingly and sympathetically as I explained why I'd made the decision, and offered my a 30K medal as a token of consolidation.  I took it, although to this day I wish I hadn't.  I slipped away, quietly and quickly gathered my things, and went off to hide in my own miserableness.  No one could say anything to assuage my disappointment.  It was absolutely crushing.

We made it back to Austin that night and all I could think about was how on earth I would fare at Cactus Rose.  What had I been thinking signing up for it?

Capt'n Karl's, The Shoe 60K Attempt/30K Finish, Mule Shoe Bend, Marble Falls, Texas
August 27, 2011
5:06:07