Cactus Rose 50M (October 2013)

“It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.”

Theodore Roosevelt

Over the past year and a half, I've developed a long term goal:  qualify for and finish Western States 100.  There is so much intrigue in this race:  the history and founding; that it is point-to-point; the myriad of terrain, altitude, and weather experiences; and the list goes on.  I've only recently become a more patient person, but my Western States goal could not be contained.  So, with less than a dozen ultras to my name, I set the goal and charted the course:  Western States 100 in 2014 with a qualifier at Cactus Rose 50M in 2013.  I chose a training plan and, in May, began to train.  It was both liberating and humbling to follow this training plan, and I stuck with it throughout.  I missed zero runs and only, maybe, a half dozen times had to cut my mileage by a few.  As Ben put it, "you were an animal."

Race day is the variable factor in the equation, however.  All of the training, tracking, planning, and praying in the world cannot control the weather, the poor way a meal the day prior decides to sit in your stomach, or the errant rock a few miles--or many miles--into the race.  Race day is where everything comes together and everything is tested.  If you pass, you meet your goal.  If you fail, it's time to stop, pick up the pieces, and reevaluate the equation and numbers you put together.

This was my third fifty mile race at Cactus Rose.  It has become the anchor of my running year and I look forward to it with a certain giddiness and respect for most of the year.  This year was no different; with the addition of a very specific goal as well, the stakes were that much more dynamic. 

With this familiarity with the race and the course, my hectic week paired with addressing a random bout of strep throat didn't peak my race-related anxieties as they would have in years past.  In fact, my week-of preparations were haphazard and nonchalant:  pick up some snack bars here, some Diet Dr. Pepper there, pack a few things on Wednesday, throw some equipment in a corner later in the evening. I finally dedicated a few hours on Thursday night to pulling everything together, cross-checking prior year's lists and plans, and making sure everything was ready to go.  Thankfully, this being my third year also meant my strategy was rather dialed in:  drop bags of around 1,000 calories, 2-4 cans of Diet Dr. Pepper, blister and Advil kits, and extra shirts and socks here and there.  With a few things to handle at work on Friday done, we were on the road around midday.

The drive was much more fun than the anxiety-ridden, solo drive last year.  Ben had yet to move to Houston, so we met that weekend in Bandera.  After the race, he made the permanent move to Houston with me, ending our short bout of a long distance relationship.  We were able to chat about random things, joke around, and people watch in the cars driving with us.  We even saw a small, personal helicopter being towed somewhere outside of Seguin!  As my Dad flew helicopters, and because it's not often you see a helicopter on the freeway, I took it as a sign that my daddy would be with us during the race.  It was a nice feeling.

We stopped in Helotes for our final meal before race day:  the always safe, Subway.  I probably should have asked for less mustard and no jalapeños, but that's a lesson I probably will never and don't care to learn.  After our oddly-long stop at Subway, we were back on the road for the final stretch into Bandera and the Hill Country State Natural Area for packet pick-up and relaxing into as much sleep as we could get in the car.  

Even by this time, my nervousness had yet to materialize.  I suspect this was a factor of my training.  Over the last six months, I have had probably half a dozen 18-milers on Monday mornings followed by 12-14 mile runs on Tuesdays, all wrapped up with 16-20 milers on the weekend.  This training made me confident my body was ready for the beating of the Cactus Rose course.  My anxiety in previous years was driven by the "can I do this?" factor due to a complete lack of any training plan.

At the same time, this was the first race with a specific goal attached to it:  qualify for Western States 100.  This would require a finish under 11 hours, which is an hour and a half faster than last year and comes in around a 13:00 average pace.  The terrain at Cactus Rose is, in a word, brutal.  Large rocks, steep and long climbs, and little coverage from the sun and elements.  I adore it, but could I tame into 11 hours over fifty miles?  Only time would tell on race day.

Last year the weather was cold, blustery, and incredibly windy.  I wore long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and an extra pullover.  It wasn't until around mile 35 or 40, if I remember correctly, that I shed the pullover.  The temperatures simply didn't get much warmer than that.  

This year, the start line was windy but hovered in the mid-60s as early as 3 a.m.  This necessarily required that I pay closer attention to hydration.  The sun will burn off any cloud cover and you will sweat much more than last year.  Do not forget to drink enough water.  

Finally, we lined up to start.  This year Ben began his team's relay as its first runner.  Before the race started, I turned to him, as we hadn't discussed it yet, and said, "Today, we're running our own race.  I'll see you later this morning.  Have fun."  With that, I plugged in my music, did some "dynamic" stretching after realizing I hadn't stretched at all, and zoned in to focus on fifty miles, eleven hours, and moving forward.  

The start of the race was typical:  single-file with some passing here and there.  Little chatter.  I knew from past experience it would thin out shortly, and definitely after the pass through the first aid station.  The first five miles of the race is a complete mystery to me.  I can't see anything outside of what my headlamp illuminates, and I usually focus on the foot steps in front of me to rely on when to shift, turn, climb, walk, and haul.  Soon enough, we fell into Equestrian for the first aid station.  I quickly found our drop bag, shotgunned a Diet Dr. Pepper, and left.  Eleven hours requires aid station efficiency.  

At this point, I began to worry about my GI.  My bout of strep throat required a ten-day antibiotic treatment that promised and delivered unpredictable GI upsets.  To be frank, it has been a miserable ten days on this medicine.  Race day was the final day of treatment, so the medicine--at least two pills over the course of the planned race--would be in my system.  With such heavy physical activity and blood diverted from digestive systems, I had no idea how my GI would react.  I hadn't had as "productive" a pre-race trip to the bathroom as usual, so the anxiety simply heightened.  

As I filed out of Equestrian and onward to the second five miles, which promised plenty of open running and time banking, I refocused my mental game.  The rule I've imposed on myself in my prior races this year has been, "If it's runnable, you'd better be running!"  This race was no different:  flats and descents were runnable, with little exception.  Ascents were power hiking and hydration time.  That was the plan, and I stuck to it…at least through mile 45.  More on that in a bit.

During the five miles to Nachos, I daydreamed about one of my favorite parts of the race:  sunrise on Ice Cream Hill and the later summits.  The view of the Texas Hill Country from these vantage points is unmatched and at sunrise is breathtaking.  I decided my short term goal would be to get into the later summits in time for the 7:30 a.m. sunrise.  I kept on trucking, making sure to keep an eye out for confidence markers and trail arrows.  By this time, the field had thinned and, in contrast to the past two years, I found myself quite alone.  I couldn't rely on the shoes in front of me and had to be certain I was on track.  A missed turn could prove catastrophic to my time goal.  At the same time, it was peaceful, definitely something I've been needing in the past couple of months.

With little warning, I found myself dropping into Nachos to some respectfully quiet applause and "way to go runner!" cheers.  I wasn't expecting it as Nachos is traditionally a quiet aid station and largely is abandoned by spectators and crews.  It was a great early boost and I appreciated it quite a bit.  I decided to refuel only with another gulp of Diet Dr. Pepper, mostly because I wasn't sure how my stomach would be reacting over the next ten miles with the caffeine.  I did not want to add food to the mix quite yet.  Risky?  Yes.  At best, I hoped the caffeine would move the systems into gear, so to speak.  My Diet Dr. Pepper pop-tab didn't do its job, though, and I was left with a detached tab and an unopened can.  I grabbed the nearest pen on the table and stabbed the top of the can until a hole formed.  Without even inspecting it for sharp edges, I went through another round of shotgunning to some laughs and amused claps.  "I'm your everyday MacGuyver," I responded.  I hauled off into the darkness for the third leg of the first loop:  back to Equestrian.  

This part of the course is where some mild ascents begin.  It is a taste of what is to come in miles fifteen through thirty five.  I reminded myself of my short term goal of ascending some later summits in time for sunrise and kept at it.  Ascents?  Power hike.  Descents and flats?  Kick up some dust, lady, and haul for a ways.  I reminded myself that these stretches of running were my usual.  In training, I don't incorporate walk breaks.  In fact, I can't remember the last time I walked during a training run.  In all aspects of training, I push and I push hard.  That way, race day feels more comfortable when things turn rougher.  I reminded myself of this when the small voice in my head asked, "Are you sure you can run for this long straight?!"  My response:  "Yes, this is a piece of cake.  Go away."  The voice subsided.

Miles ten through fifteen were unremarkable, save for the lackluster sunrise.  The cloud cover prevented me from seeing the beautiful pinks, oranges, and yellows I dream about when thinking of this race.  I was also disappointed I didn't find Brian K. at the top of Ice Cream Hill for some sunrise photography.  I didn't realize he was one of the masses scrambling around the hills that morning with me.

These miles were also the introduction to this year's crop of sotol cactus.  Sotol resemble aloe vera in their triangle and tipped leaves that shoot out directly from the root.  A long stem with red buds rises from the center of the plant.  The green leaves are lined with small razor teeth.  There are sotol enough along the Cactus Rose course to cover the entire pathway.  More than enough, in fact.  The only strategy is to wear pants and run straight through, arms up to at least avoid some scrapes on your upper body.  Strange or not, I don't mind the sotol.  In the later miles of this race, it is a welcome distraction from how much the soles of my feet hurt from the rocks.  

Soon enough, I dropped into Equestrian for a second time.  Again:  quick in and out at the aid station.  Chugged a Diet Dr. Pepper through some chokes.  Grabbed a peanut butter cookie Lara bar.  Stashed my now-unnecessary headlamp.  Checked my pace chart and realized I'd banked twenty minutes.  Off I trotted to the monstrous middle miles.  In my head one could hear:  "Let's do this.  This is where you shine.  Climb.  Run.  Get what's yours.  Get.  What's.  Yours."

Solid and steady through the fourth leg of the first loop.  Throughout, I kept remarking to myself how I'd forgotten how much of this course actually is very runnable.  The hills also weren't as intimidating as my memory made them about to be.  I was happy at this realization, as I knew it could be a boon for my time goal.  I focused more on my foot falls, aiming to avoid stubbed toes, trips, or the like.  I didn't have time for injuries.  I did notice my legs were dripping with some blood from the sotol scratches, and I'd received a few others on my arms, but they didn't bother me much.  

The ascents coming out of Equestrian and toward Boyles progress in difficulty.  After a warm-up hike, you tackle the Three Sisters:  an ascent up and three "bumps" at the top with a descent toward Sky Island.  Sky Island is the longest and seemingly steepest ascent of the course with a brief reprieve at the summit and a descent drop before climbing into Boyles.  I simply kept my focus and kept running when runnable and power hiking the ascents.  Thankfully my hesitancy on the descents was beginning to dissipate.  Having no hills in Houston, my experience with downhill running has been seriously lacking.  

Boyles came up rather quickly and unexpectedly, which is always a great experience in any long distance trail run.  I powered up the short ascent into the aid station and got to work.  I could sense my heart rate was fairly elevated, so I decided against more Diet Dr. Pepper and just drank some water.    We had to replace the bladder in my CamelBak before the race, but I had forgotten to run some warm water through the tubing.  The first gulp had a distinct plastic taste.  After signing in, and realizing I'd lost ten of my twenty banked minutes, I picked up my clip for the second quarter of the monstrous middle miles.  Moving toward the start finish is a good feeling:  running toward the halfway point and an opportunity to refresh the mind.  

This portion of the monstrous middle is somewhat innocuous.  One fairly steep ascent coming out of the aid station with a jaunt across a technical summit, an equally long descent, and right back up Cairnes Climb before dropping down into the Lodge.  

I was feeling great at this point.  I was awake, alert, and moving swiftly.  The soles of my feet were beginning to feel tender, but that was to be expected given the terrain.  I began thinking about my plan at the turn around:  what do I want?  Ice cold water.  What do I need?  Food and Advil.  Any other items to do?  Probably try to use the bathroom.

I kept a steady pace and, soon enough, the trails were becoming all descents and flats, signaling the final push into the Lodge.  I eventually hooked up with Brian K., at which point it became clear why he wasn't photographing folks at the top of Ice Cream Hill.  It was great to run with him again and catch up.  Before I knew it, we were already at the loop split, which meant we were about a third to half a mile from the start/finish.  Our pace picked up noticeably.  We both were ready to get back out and into the second half.   I quickly stopped at the bathroom and hauled into the turn around.  

As I came into the Lodge at five hours and ten minutes flat, I heard whoops and my name called out:  Misha, Kelsey, Alex, and Ben were waiting for me as I came in.  Hearing the cheers is always so uplifting and, frankly, makes me feel like a rockstar.  There's nothing quite like it.  I beelined for the water jugs, but found no cups.  I saw small skull buckets, grabbed one, and began filling, chugging, and refilling.  I drank too quickly and began to cough, but the effect of ice water was rejuvenating.  The heat was unbearable and I was sweating more than I thought was possible this time of the year.  The temperatures must have been nearing the 80s, I would put money on it.  After feeling content with some water in my belly, I found my drop bag.  I took my antibiotic, two Advils, a chug of Diet Dr. Pepper, and left with a peanut butter Lara bar.  I'd estimate this all happened in 2-3 minutes.  Again, aid station efficiency had the potential to save me important minutes in the long term.

Starting on the second and final loop is always a game changer.  There no longer is the looming question:  am I going to start the second loop?  Or am I going to talk myself into calling it a day at one loop?  The mind is a funny beast.  Thankfully my speed at the Lodge aid station prevented me from even thinking about the question for too long.  As I crossed the mat one more time, I was again focused on the next ten miles, the final ten of the monstrous middle.  I did the math and realized I had just over five and a half hours to finish in eleven.  I could do that, I told myself.  It certainly would be close, but I could do it.

After I finished my Lara bar, I picked up into a trot.  I immediately wished I'd asked for my Saucony Kinvaras, the road shoes I use for training runs.  They have the same heel drop as my 101s and are a similar light weight, but they have more cushion.  My feet were screaming.  I told myself I'd relay this message to whoever might be waiting for me at Boyles and plan on changing shoes at the first Equestrian stop on the loop.  Just keep after it, I told myself.  Time will get you into your new shoes.

Miles twenty five through thirty were unremarkable, as far as I can recall.  I believe my strategy was to zone out and knock them out, saving my mental game for miles thirty through thirty five, the hardest five of the loop from a technical perspective.  Saving mental fortitude is important in long and rough races like Cactus.  You never know when you'll need it so, if you can bank it away for later, do it.

These miles were quick and smooth and I quickly found myself upon Boyles.  Misha and Kelsey were waiting for me.  I'd already decided what I needed to do at Boyles:  refill water and keep moving.  Just get those last five of the monstrous middle done, then focus on opening it up on the back fifteen.  Ben wasn't at Boyles, so I asked Misha to relay the Kinvara message to him.  After sucking down some water straight from the tap and refilling my CamelBak, I hightailed it out of there.  I wanted to destroy these five and get on with it all.  I was also anxious to check my pace chart at Equestrian.

The ascents and descents were tougher this time.  I did enjoy the descents more this year, though, as I was more comfortable than earlier in the race and they were an opportunity to pick up some time lost on the ascents.  As I finished the peak after Three Sisters, I could sense Equestrian coming closer as there were more non-runner faces on the trails and whatnot:  a good sign of an aid station near as crews begin to venture out on the search for their runner.  

I dropped into Equestrian strong and with a good pace, again to friendly cheers and whoops.  I signed in and stooped down to clean out my shoes.  I'd accumulated a dozen or so of the razor sharp pricks from the sotol cactus, as well as a few pebbles and some sand.  If I didn't address them now, they could become more like boulders and knives in my socks later.  Before I could get my right shoe back on, Ben called out to me and handed me my Kinvaras.  I'd completely forgotten about them.  I quickly slipped them on and sought out my drop bag.  I asked Ben to fill my Camelbak with some ice (would be wonderful on my back) and mostly water.  I was looking forward to the long supply of ice cold water as the sun beat down from overhead.  I had some Diet Dr. Pepper and picked up another Lara bar, which I would later discover was "Pecan Pie" flavored.  It was yummier than I remembered, so it was a pleasant mistake.  

As I left the aid station munching on my snack, I realized how perfect of a decision it was to change shoes at this juncture.  The Kinvaras were like running on clouds.  I took stock:  You've got a new set of shoes, cleaned out socks, some caffeine, a pie, and some more confidence and morale boosts from your fiancé and friends.  Let's knock out some miles!  These five miles, quite possibly, were the strongest of the day both physically and mentally.  I was zoned and zeroed in and nothing could stop me.  Another runner I'd been playing cat and mouse with called out to me as I zoomed past:  You're an animal!  I thought to myself, "hell yeah, I am!" as I hurtled down some quick hills.  Not to belabor the point, but this was phenomenal running, not even to speak of the fact that these were miles thirty five to forty.  I'll forever be proud of those five miles.  

The focus disallowed any other thoughts whatsoever.  None of the niggling thoughts of whether I'd meet my goal, whether I should even try, whether I'd finish the race, whether I'd severely roll an ankle or hyperextend a knee.  None of that.  Just running.  Before I could blink the dust out of my eyes, or so it seemed, I was approaching Nachos.  At this point last year, I was struggling.  Ben knew to keep his mouth shut and let me get in and out as quickly as possible.  This year, the pit stop was seamless.  He refilled my CamelBak while I drank more caffeine and found a peanut butter and jelly Lara bar.  I wanted something sweeter and more uplifting than peanut butter or pecan pie.  It was a good choice.

Unfortunately, these miles saw the start of my mental resolve breaking down.  As my time dwindled to under two hours for the final ten miles, I began to do the math.  I would have to rock a solid 10:00 mile for the final miles and, quite frankly, I didn't think I had it in me.  Remember, what you think in an ultra controls how the ultra goes.  An honest look at my physical state tells a different story:  I absolutely could have done it.  That's not to say the pace wouldn't be difficult and wouldn't hurt, but I could have done it.  

All of that being said, I kept a decent clip during miles forty through forty five.  By decent I mean I was moving as best I could.  My quads were blown from the increasingly aggressive takes on the descents.  My hamstrings?  They'd gone home long ago…caught a cab and never looked back.  It was just me, my calves, and my feet.  And like I said, my mental game was trickling to a halt.  

Since I run this portion of the course only in the dark at the start, I don't have much idea of what it all looks like:  how many road crossings?  How many stair steps down?  How many power lines and fence lines?  I have no clue.  It's a mystery renewed every year.  I still don't recall how many road crossings, but there were far too many power lines and fence lines.  The worst kind of fence line too:  in a wide open field where you can see the runners ahead of you and how far they are from the aid station, and how much further you are from the aid station.  The land just stretches out for what feel like days in front of you.  I just wanted to be in at Equestrian, drop my Camelbak, and haul in to the finish.  But I couldn't get it together.  I kept glancing at my watch, seeing the remaining minutes flit away into the past, gone as a resource of confidence.

After the final fence line and road crossing, I could sense Equestrian was close and my pace increased.  This turned out to be a key component of my finish, but I'll get to that in a moment.

I flew in to the aid station, saw Ben sign me in, and unbuckled my CamelBak.  It fell with a thud to the ground:  "I'm dropping this here."  I glanced at my watch:  10:10.  Fifty minutes left in the bank.  I asked Ben how many miles I had left:  4.9 miles.  

What came next was unfortunate and did not bode well for the remaining miles.  I hurled the f-bomb across the length of the tent and nearly threw my wonderfully ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper into the nearby lot of cars.  I wanted to hurt something as much as my spirit had been crushed.  Four point nine miles with fifty minutes required a constant 10:00 mile, and I knew there were two ridiculous ascents in the middle at some point.  Not to mention my screaming feet and already hobbling mental focus.  

I didn't give Ben an opportunity to say anything.  I simply told him, "I'll see you there."  I angrily ambled off and spent a good two or three minutes walking and gulping my drink.  I didn't care that I'd have to hold the empty can for the next hour.  Whatever.  I was angry.  I was sad.  I gave up.  To be certain, I walked quickly…but I walked.  I broke my rule and failed to run all runnable sections.  I would try to run only to stop a few minutes later.  "What's the point?," I asked myself.  "I'm not going to get 11:00, but I'll certainly finish, so who cares?  Just take your time and feel sorry for yourself.  It will be fantastic.  "

I don't know who this person was and I'm sure I'll be pondering those five miles for a while before anything becomes clear.  Perhaps I just spent all the mental fortitude I had.

At some point in this stretch, I heard some heavy breathing behind me.  I looked back and saw a young woman crawling up behind me.  Her bib indicated she was running the fifty as well.

Throughout the race I had an inkling that I may have been one of the female leaders.  I didn't see many coming back out for a second loop as I came in from my first.  I tried not to let this get to me over the course of the race, but I welled up big time when I saw her behind me.

A sudden thought flashed through my mind the moment I saw her:  "Do you want to place?  Because she will take it form you, without apology."  Out of nowhere, I suddenly began to crank out a pace I hadn't seen in hours.  It was a renewed energy and a new motivation.  Now, certainly, 11:00 had long since past.  I suppose I chose a new goal and went for it.  She seemed (and it turns out is) nice enough, but I wasn't going to let her take the last vestige of some sort of "success" from my day.  I kept running until I couldn't hear her behind me anymore, tossing glances over my shoulder for her, tackling the ascents and descents with reckless abandon and dogged resolve.  I kept checking my watch and figured I'd come in around 20 minutes past the hour.  I saw that time point draw closer and closer.  I kept running and running.  Soon the trail was all flat and something of a Jeep road.  I was close.  I heard clapping in the near background. Around three minutes later, there was the loop split:  half a mile to go.

I hurled myself around the curves and nodded wearily and knowingly to those heading out on their next loop.  One of them called out a congratulations to me.  Naturally, in the final two or three minutes, I analyzed the heck out of that comment rather than just letting it buoy me:  "Does he know that I'm one of the leaders?  Could I have speculated correctly about my place?"  Regardless, I kept running.  I didn't slow down for rocks or roots or grooves.  Why should I care?  I was almost done and not a race in sight until February.  I rocketed up the final gully before turning down the finishers shoot.  

I saw the finish clock, with an 11 in front, and my attitude turned sour again.  It showed in my face, too, but I kept running.  I glanced back and didn't see my chaser.  I crossed the mat and fell face first into Ben's arms.  A brief sob and full on hugs to cap the moment.  He knew the gravity of the finish and didn't say a word.  It wasn't time yet.  Too fresh.  

As I pulled away, a woman wrapped a medal around my neck and another handed me a small boot.  I'd placed fifth.  I'd placed.  The woman who spurned the final miles came in as Ben and I posed in front of the finish clock.  She congratulated me and seemed to marvel at how quickly I'd shot off when I saw her; she mentioned my entrance at Equestrian caught her off guard and motivated her to pull a solid finish in the final five.  In return, I thanked her for kicking me into high gear and was frank that I took off because I wanted to beat her to feel better about the day.  She took that comment graciously, laughing and congratulating me again.  Another note as to why the trail running community is good people.

For the rest of the evening, as the relay team dominated with a solid lead for a hundred miles, I vacillated between disappointment and realism.  I'd put in six solid months of ragingly difficult miles.  4:30 a.m. wake up calls, sometimes earlier.  Early nights to bed.  Many lonely miles, and many agitated miles with Ben.  Doubts and excitements.  Arrogance and humility.  The gamut, really.  And here, I felt like I'd blown it.  Everyone assured me I'd done my best, looked strong and bold, and not to beat myself up over it.  Regardless, I did the math on how much time per mile my twenty minutes really accounted for:  right around half a minute.  Half a minute.  

In my heart of hearts, I know it was an incredible day out there.  I did things I never thought I could and I ran a strong and steady race.  A fast one, too.  I have every reason to be proud of my performance, and I am proud.  

As the night wore on, I came to the realization that one amazing thing of the whole experience is that I'd tried.  A few years ago, the idea of trying would have been laughable.  And if I hadn't tried, I wouldn't have come close to succeeding.  I recognized the growth I've experienced in the past couple of years and tucked it away for a later pick-me-up.  More quickly than I'd anticipated, I began thinking about how I'd plan my next attempt to qualify for Western States.  This failure to qualify wasn't a one off.  The attempt wasn't an all-or-nothing.  It is a try, fail, try again.  Repeat as necessary, learning at every foot step.

Be all of this as it may, I'm allowing myself to be disappointed.  I'm allowing myself to scrutinize every decision of the day to see how I could have done differently.  I'm allowing myself to admit that I chose to give up in the final five minutes.  And that's okay.  It doesn't make me an absolute failure.  It means I have lessons to learn and, most importantly, want to learn them.  It means I'm early in my ultra running career.  It means I have some great moments to look forward to in the future.  It means I'm not hitting all of the high notes before things have a chance to get interesting.  I say bring it on.  

I want to highlight a few lessons, if only so I can reference them as necessary:

• Training hard will be an incredible advantage on race day.  My core was strong throughout and I never had lower back pain persistent in other races.  My legs were blown by the end, but I knew how to power through that and make running happen regardless.  My endurance was dialed and that is because I trained it to be so during the past six months.  Lesson:  follow a challenging training plan and enjoy a better, kinder race day.
• Listening to your gut will get you far.  Don't tax it unnecessarily but listen to its cues.  Drink water to thirst and listen to any cramping.  Give it what it craves; it is a good communicator.  
• Accept that things will go wrong.  Whether that be an unwanted interruption of focus at an aid station, a rolled ankle, a fall or unpleasant slam into a tree, something will go wrong.  Learn to fortify your mental game against how those experiences can break you down.
• Finally:  Failure is not the end; it is an opportunity to continue moving forward with more wisdom, experience, and knowledge.  The next attempt will be that much better.  Get after it.

I know there are more lessons, and they will come to me in the following days, but these speak loudest at the moment.

As always, Cactus Rose was an incredible experience.  I learned more than I ever anticipated and look forward to the next round.  For now?  I'm planning my next attempt to qualify for Western States.  Thank you for the kick in the pants, Bandera.  Until next time…

Cactus Rose 50M

11:19:14

Fifth Place Female Overall
23rd (out of 146)

Rough Creek 40M (Sept. 2013)

When I was young, my Mom would prepare my plate for any given meal, but she would let me decide how much to have.  As she began to serve the food, she would say:  "Okay, just tell me when to woah."  Once she'd served how much I wanted, I'd rush to put my hands over the plate and feverishly say, "woah!" As I have matured, I've kept this concept in my mind:  Know when to woah.  Sometimes I have done it poorly, but other times I have done it well.  This weekend, I did it well.  I knew when to woah.

I signed up for this race as a training run.  The idea of logging 30+ miles around the streets of Houston was not appetizing and I knew a race environment would provide better training and motivation altogether.  Plus, it would be an opportunity to run heavy miles on the trails, rather than on concrete and asphalt like the majority of my training miles this year.  I only needed 31 miles per my training schedule, but I signed up for the 40 miler.  Ben signed up for the marathon.

The week leading up to the race was unremarkable, although the Taper Monster reared its ugly head.  "Why on earth would I wake up to run a measly four miles?"  He's an arrogant one, that Taper Monster.  Besides the incidents of the taper, though, a pretty straightforward week.  I studied the course, planned my drop bag, pacing, and whatnot.  I didn't want to put too much thought into what, essentially, was a training run.  I put enough in to get excited and pumped for some miles.

We stayed in a hotel around 10-12 miles from the race and fell asleep shortly after getting in to town, around 8:30-9:00 p.m.  Waking up was easy, as it was actually later than my usual wake-up time.  We dressed, caffeinated, and headed to the race site.

I believe this was my first trail race that wasn't organized by Tejas Trails, so I knew it would be interesting to see how they differed.  Any anxiety was put at ease at packet pickup, as the volunteers were excited, took my humor well, and were quick to help.  Once we'd pinned on our race bibs, we hung around until gun time.  A few bathroom trips, a couple excited hops and nervous jokes, and the time rolled around to get crackin'.

As a newer race series, the turnout was small.  Perhaps 150-250 runners for all three events, the half-marathon, the full marathon, and the 40 mile race.  This was perfectly fine by me, as I knew the field would thin quickly and I could have my solitude.  I was not disappointed.  A mere mile to a mile and a half into the race, Ben and I were the only people around us.  As we came in to the first aid station, I kept rolling on and up to the first significant ascent as Ben refilled his water bottle.

This course was a great training course for Cactus Rose.  It was full of hills, both rollers and steep.  The first one was long and steady, which was a good introduction for what was about to come.  I steadily made it to the top, focusing on my form, footing, and breathing.  As I rounded at the top, I came upon the first challenge of the day, a foothold-less, steep, dirt-only descent.  Having training on roads and sidewalks for the last year, I was hesitant and, frankly, terrified.  I didn't want to fall because (1) no one wants to fall down a hill and (2) I didn't want to injure myself before my goal race.  I took it slow and steady as others flew down.  "Run your own race," I reminded myself.

The subsequent hills were challenging, tedious, and never ending.  Having studied the race map and topography, I'd known to expect this.  It was at this point that I understood where the aid station name, "Rusty Crown," came from, however.  I was amused, but not really.  I also knew there was a flat portion to reward the weary at the the midway point of the "crown."  I paced myself along to this point and let my pace open up once I got there.

It was at this point that I had the opportunity to briefly chat with Olga.  She told me she was training for a hundred miler in a few weeks, and I told her about my plans for Cactus Rose 50M.  I told her I was training to qualify for Western States 100, which means I have to shave about an hour and a half off my time from last year.  I was disappointed to hear she won't be at Cactus Rose this year, but was buoyed by her response to my question of what I will do without her:  "You'll finish, and an hour and a half faster!  It's a good omen we spoke today!"  I believe her.  Who doesn't believe what Olga prophesies on the trail?

I carried on with a smile and into the second aid station.  Unfortunately, this is where things got a touch hairy.  I'd planned my hydration and fuel on the assumption that the drop bags would be at the Bowl aid station on the first loop.  This was not to be the case, however.  Not having a water bottle to use for water (cup-free aid stations and my bottle was in my missing drop bag) and no Lara bars on hand, I had to make do with what was in the tank and get to the next aid station.

Thankfully, my training had prepared me for something like this.  I train in deficits.  I train with little water and little fuel.  My body has learned to perform well under these conditions.  There are two reasons for this.  First, you never know when an aid station will have lost or misplaced your drop bag, or when an aid station will be out of whatever it is you were counting on, or some other "catastrophic" what if.  Second, by training in deficits, I am learning how to cope in mentally challenging circumstances so that on race day, when everything is hydrated and fueled optimally, I feel unstoppable.  It has done me well.

The next portion of the course was the back half of the "rusty crown."  I had caught up to Ben at this point and had begun thinking about the day's distance:  forty miles.  Was this wise?  It was ten more miles than my training plan called for, and ten miles shy of my goal race a mere six weeks in the future.  The distance itself wasn't the challenge, but the after effects could be problematic.  Moreover, Olga was using the distance for a hundred mile race, albeit likely as part of a taper.  On top of this, I was already behind in hydration and fuel, on the first loop of three, due to the mishap at the aid station.  I reminded myself:  this is a training run and only a training run.  I was not there to compete or to finish with a specific time, per se.  I was there to train.  With that in mind, I decided to finish the second loop and evaluate at that point.

Ben and I came through the start-finish around the same time, at about 2:24ish for the first 13.5 miles.  I must have looked dehydrated or upset, because the Race Director pointed me out as the runner who'd been confused about the lack of drop bags at the Bowl.  I reassured him it was fine, I'd pick up what I needed on the second loop.  I reassured the aid station volunteers I did not, in fact, need water; it was only seven miles to my pack, where all of my goodies would be.  They weren't buying it.  I felt fine, but I must have looked a bit peckish.  Water was forced in my hand and, as I drank it, boy did it taste fine!  That is when I knew I didn't know where my body was at.  I'd underestimated the timing of the start (an hour and a half later than my usual start), the heat (how hot can North Texas really be?  I mean, I do live in Houston.), and how I'd react to it all.  I finally acquiesced and took a water bottle that was offered me for the seven miles to my bag.  I'm so glad I did, it was like manna from heaven as I guzzled water.  A handful of grub and we were on our way.

I kept a decent pace out of the start/finish and toward the first aid station.  I was leaning on the side of dropping at the marathon distance, but a thought was nagging in my head.  As we'd come in the last mile or so of the first loop, I could see who was heading out on the first loop and also what distance they were running.  I'd only seen one woman, and she was running the marathon.  This meant I was the female leader for the forty miler.  If I could keep my performance up, I just might win the whole enchilada.  It was, quite honestly, a thrilling thought.  But I reminded myself:  you are here to train, not compete.

I filled up my water bottle at the Rusty Crown, drank some down, and refilled before heading out again.  I thought Ben was right behind me, so I didn't stop to look around.  Steady as I went up the first line of the Rusty Crown.  Another round of up-and-down, slip-and-slide, curse-and-groan.  I used the same technique as on the first loop:  steady, form-focused hike up, careful and deliberate skip down, and repeat.  This half of the Crown was unremarkable and I soon found myself deposited into the Bowl portion of the course, which was a flat, extremely runnable, exposed trail through an open field.  It was nice to have a steady, even pace for a time.

A few more ascents and descents, around a short curve, and into the Bowl aid station.  At this point, the drop bags had arrived.  Unfortunately, I'd also began tripping on obvious portions of the course (i.e., large rocks, branches, et cetera) and wasn't sure how to articulate myself as well.  These are classic signs of overheating.  I also was lightheaded and the grumbling in my stomach was terribly audible.  This, too, was not good.  Even on my longest of training runs, I am steady, focused, and never experience lightheadedness, disorientation, or hunger.  I knew the combination of all three was problematic and it meant I was dehydrated, despite significantly increased water consumption, and way behind on fuel.

I grabbed my water bottle from the drop bag, took stock of what was left in there as I knew I wouldn't see it again.  We weren't going to be sticking around for the drop bags to be returned to the start/finish, so I had to be sure I was fine with not coming home with anything left in the bag:  Dr. Pepper, Lara bars, and my blister kit.  All of these were replaceable, so I was fine to leave it.

As I headed out to the back half of the loop, I knew the decision was eminent.  Although I was still lead female, I knew I had to drop at the marathon distance.  If I was tripping now, if I was lightheaded now, if I was painfully hungry now, the third loop would become a death march and any visions of finishing gloriously as the first female would be long gone.

This was a difficult and a not so difficult choice.  On the one hand, my pace was surprisingly strong and my legs felt fresh.  My feet were tender, but that wasn't surprising given the terrain.  Mentally, I was prepared to go another loop.  On the other hand, my chest and head were pounding, the sun was burning and only getting worse, and my vision was beginning to become less than reliable.  A 50/50 mix of great running conditions and dangerous running conditions.

In the end, my overall reminder loomed:  you are here to train, not to compete.  I decided to finish the marathon distance with a respectable time and with strength to continue training on the not so distant Monday morning.  Had this been Cactus Rose, however, I would be telling a wholly different story of the next three or four hours.

Although I didn't finish the full 40 or so miles, I am damn proud of my race this weekend and here is why:

• I lead the female 40 mile runners--by almost a quarter of an hour--for the entire first two loops.
• If I had signed up for the marathon, I would have been awarded second place female for the distance.
• I finished just shy of 27 miles in around 5:20.  If I can run similarly at Cactus Rose, there's my Western States 100 qualifying time.

This was the ultimate successful training run.  I listened to my body.  I took advantage of what I'd taught myself by training in deficits.  I ran hard and well.  I learned that my training has put me in a position to have a successful and strong race at Cactus Rose.  And, most importantly, I knew when to woah.  

Had I continued on to the third loop, I very likely would have derailed and sabotaged all the training I have done to date and that I still have before me.  On the other hand, I very well could have bounced back and not experienced more signs of heat stroke or exhaustion.  But that wasn't a risk I should have taken, nor was I willing to take it.  This has been an incredible training season and I am so proud of what I have achieved by way of it.  To have squandered that for the sake of pride would have been foolish and I know I would have regretted it.  

As a summation of the race itself, I'm impressed.  I was disappointed in what happened at the first drop bag aid station on the first loop, but things happen.  As trail runners, we have to be prepared for things to go wrong.  It is the nature of the sport.  The course was incredibly challenging, yet beautiful and fulfilling.  I hope the timing remains the same for next year, as I'd love to run the course again.  Thank you, Dave, for such a great Saturday!

Rough Creek 40M Marathon (er, 26.94M)

5:19:35

Unofficial second place female, marathon

Female leader, two loops, 40M

The Army Marathon: We Run With Heroes (April 2013)

An innocent post on either the Tejas Trails or Hill County Trail Runners forum informed me of this inaugural race.  I had heard of the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C., but hadn't heard of a similar marathon for the military branch most close to my own family.  Both of my parents were in the Army and, in fact, met on Fort Hood, Texas.  My Mom was stationed in Maryland, Monterrey, and Texas, picking up an inkling of French and Russian in the process.  She intercepted transmissions and translated; I've yet to get her to tell me of the one classified report she had to make.  My Dad was a career Army soldier.  He enlisted out of high school and was stationed in Fort Hood, Texas, with various deployments to Germany and the Middle East.  After flight school in Alabama, he was a helicopter pilot with deployments to Central America.  He retired after over twenty years of service.

To say veterans have a special place in my heart is an understatement.  The majority of the country appreciates and respects the sacrifices our armed men and women make for us on a daily basis.  Unfortunately, a large portion of the country fails to truly understand the extent of that sacrifice.  The sacrifice not only is required of the solider, but the responsibility also encompasses spouses, children, parents, siblings, neighbors, and friends.  I will never forget the moment I broke into deliriously happy sobs when my Mom told me my Daddy was coming home from Honduras, after eons of monthly letters, packages, and momentos.  The sacrifice is borne wordlessly and often is overlooked.

When I found out about the Army Marathon, I knew it was an opportunity I could not miss.  It was the inaugural running, from my hometown of Killeen, Texas to the place where I said goodbye to my own hero, my Dad, in Temple.  Twenty six point two miles of memories, reflection, and challenge.  In short:  an opportunity to honor it all.  Though others ran the race for our Army heroes as a monolithic group, I ran only for Dad.  I was nervous about the emotions that likely would well up during the course, but I knew it would be cathartic and therapeutic.

The week leading up to the marathon was one of the more stressful, though by no means the worst lead.  Ben and I have been in the process of searching for a home.  In the days before the race, our hearts twice were broken by a shady opportunity and a lost dream home.  Finally, however, our luck turned and on Friday, we entered into a contract on our first home together.  It was with this exciting development that I entered race weekend.

After my experience at the Austin LIVESTRONG Marathon, I have realized my anxieties differ depending on the length of the race and the course.  A trail ultramarathon is less daunting these days.  Of course, I continue to train and I respect the course.  I plan my nutrition and hydration, and I certainly don't act foolishly.  A road marathon, however, has me on edge.  I train on the roads, but there is something about the infamous marathon distance that gets me.  Perhaps it is the knowledge that 26.2 miles of pounding the concrete is going to feel much, much worse on Monday morning than 31 or 50 miles of the rockiest terrain Joe Prusaitis can find.

Combine the home search anxiety with the pre-road marathon anxiety and I was a bundle of sunny spirits!  We somehow made it through the week and found ourselves on our way to Killeen to tuck in for the night.  I had my now-ritualistic race-eve dinner at about 3:00 p.m., fired up "The Spirit of the Marathon," and cozied up to my favorite crew, Ben.  Given the week prior, it was no surprise that I fell right to sleep around 8:00 or 9:00 p.m., with little by way of random awakenings over the course of the evening.

Four thirty came as it always does.  I checked the temperature:  low 50s.  I thanked myself for packing my running pants, lightweight jacket, and gloves.  After a guzzle of Diet Dr. Pepper and generous layer of deodorant, we rendezvoused with Mom and headed to the start line.

Considering the emotional base of the race for me and Mom, we found ourselves discussing Dad more than any anxieties of the race itself.  It's as if we knew he would carry us through.  The minutes ticked down and soon we were lining up, seeding ourselves as best we could among the less than thousand runners who had showed up for the day.

We started off down W.S. Young, a street so familiar I could tell you the significance of almost every building along the way.  We started from the Killeen Convention Center, the site of many proms and school gatherings.  Then there was the Killeen Mall and the J.C. Penny where my Dad had the stylist cut off my hair into an oh-so-darling crew cut.  Next up, the school and our first 7-11 (Slurpee, anyone?).  Soon we turned right and toward Harker Heights, home of countless tattoo shops, drive-through liquor barns, and dance halls.  I was so overcome with the memories that I hardly noticed the miles ticking by.  I simply was astounded at how familiar it all was, yet so different.  I thought about how, had decisions been made differently, I might still live here.

Soon, the urban scene began to peter off as we neared the Killeen Airport.  This was around mile five.  As I turned the corner on a small "lollipop" portion of the course, I was confronted with the PHI Air Killeen Base.  This was the first of my meetings with Dad for the morning.  Dad flew for PHI, though not out of Killeen.  I choked back some strong tears, kissed my fingers, and pointed up to the sky.  "I feel you, Daddy.  Let's do this."

I rounded out mile six and kept moving through the miles.  As I came into the double digits, the scenery was decidedly pastoral.  I was struck with the beauty of the area.  I'd never appreciated it when I was younger, simply hating the culture and wanting to flee the scene as soon as I arrived.  In taking in the views along the course, I was disappointed this was the first time my eyes had been open to the beauty.

Mile thirteen met me with my first spectators!  An old friend (another inherited from Mom), Vanessa, and her husband, Tony, were waiting with camera at the ready.  I barely noticed them there, only seeing Tony waving at the last minute, giving me enough time to pose for Vanessa's camera.  It was a wonderful and unexpected pep at the midway point!

At this point, I started becoming curious when I'd see my favorite orange slices.  The race materials said there would be no gels at the water stations.  "Understandable," I thought, "but surely they'll have oranges!"  I saw some being handed out at 13.3, but didn't pick any up.  I don't like refueling until around mile 15, sometimes even mile 20 or 21.  If they had oranges at the midway point, I was certain they'd have them later down the line.  I kept running.

I don't remember much about the miles between thirteen and twenty one.  I continued to take in the scenery, noticed a slight twinge in my left hip, and kept thinking about what I was out there for.  At times, I felt like crying from sadness and anger at losing my Dad before I was even twenty five years old, before I could even call him an old man and he really be an old man.  Where was the justice in what had happened?  Why had it happened?  Why him?  Why us?  Of course, there are no answers to these questions.  No amount of miles in the world will ever answer those questions.  I kept running.

I was excited for mile 20 because then I could do a few things.  First, I could tick off the remaining miles (6 left...5 left...4 left...et cetera) without much arithmetic required (though my brain failed still; apparently mile 23 leaves me with eight miles to go in your standard marathon).  Second, I could harken back to my finish at Austin and track how much better I was doing.  Third, I could allow myself to start thinking in how much time I had left (e.g., at the 10K mark, it was a simple weekly run and I could be done in about an hour).

Unfortunately, it wasn't as smooth sailing as I had imagined at the middle miles.  There were no oranges.  The sun was beginning to be bothersome.  I could feel the blood blister getting bigger on my right foot.

Complaints.  Simply complaints.  I reminded myself what I was out here for:  I was running for a man who no longer can run.  I was running for a man who had devoted his life to serving others without complaint.  I was running to honor him and everything he stood for.  "Keep going, girl!," an older man shouted at me.  The tone and tenor of his voice was spot on for my Dad's.  I had to convince myself it wasn't him and, quite frankly, restrain myself from running to him for a hug, I was so convinced it was Dad cheering me on.  I kept running.

The miles began to drag, no longer ticking away as effortlessly as earlier.  I figured I must have started out much faster than I should have, though, because despite the slow pace, I was right on time for a sub-four hour finish.  I kept running.

Sweat began to sting my eyes and salt began to crumble off my face.  I guzzled water at each of the aid stations left on the course, one each mile, save for the last one.  I could see the final turn and didn't want to know what would happen if I stopped running, even if only for a moment, at this point.  I kept running.

The smiles and the cheer of the spectators was incredible.  Their genuineness was overwhelming and kept me buoyed as I felt myself slogging to the finish line.  I made the final turn, anxious to see the finish line.  I didn't see it as I'd hoped.  I kept running.

I knew I had just a few minutes left, a few more minutes of pain, discomfort, and unwieldy emotions.  I kept running.

I came around a slight curve and there it was.  By no account was this a large race, but the finisher chute was lined with people sporting posters, noise makers, and encouragement.  I was so overcome I couldn't look them in the eye.  I kept running.

I crossed the finish line in under four hours.  The expected sobbing didn't materialize, though I surmise it may be because it was a race of vindication for Dad, rather than of vindication for me.  Perhaps his joy and pride came through as the timing mat registered my finish.  Who knows?  For now, I'll just keep running.

Dad, I love you.  I thank you for the sacrifice you made for me, for Kyle, and for our family.  I pray that you are safe, that you are happy, and that you are whole.

Army Marathon:  We Run with Heroes
Killeen, Texas to Temple, Texas
3:56:15
Nineteenth female overall
Fourth female in age group, 25-29
91st overall (of 601 finishers)

Hell's Hills 50K (April 2013)

Well, yet another surprising and only slightly less unremarkable race than Nueces 2013.  A quick and dirty synopsis:  Bang!  Run, run, run.  Whine to David Land.  Pout.  Deep sigh.  Run, run, run.  Trip.  Run, run, WIND, finish.  You placed!  Really?  Awesome!  Okay, time for some Thundercloud and a wedding.

And for the long version:

Though the lead up to Hell's Hills wasn't as stressful a time as it was for Nueces, I was looking forward to a solid long run.  At the same time, I was anxious about how the race would affect the rest of the weekend.  Surprisingly, the race was not the most important aspect of the weekend.  Rather, we were going to Austin for the wedding of a good, good friend of mine to a wonderful, other friend of mine.  Smithville and Hell's Hills happened to be right in the middle, so why not?  Another ultra under the belt for me, and a solid weekend long run for Ben.

Considering how well the pre-race nutrition for Nueces worked, I decided to replicate it as near as I could.  I didn't track what I ate the week leading up to Nueces, but I did write down my pre-race day meals.  So, on Friday, I ate exactly the same thing as I ate the Friday before Nueces, and at the same time of day as well.  I also caffeinated the same way on race morning.

We headed out of Houston around 5:30 p.m.  After we got on the other side of Houston's notorious traffic, it was smooth sailing in to Rocky Hill Ranch.  We quickly found our car-camping spot, got comfortable, and tucked in for the evening after a few rounds of Words With Friends.  Thankfully it was only slightly chilly outside, so we didn't need to sleep with the car running for heat.  Surprisingly, I was able to fall asleep rather quickly and got fairly restful sleep.  Four in the morning wasn't entirely welcome, but it wasn't as rude as it could have been.  Unfortunately, Ben didn't fare so well in the sleep department.  Even more unfortunately, this followed him the remainder of the weekend.

Around 4:15 a.m., I downed some Diet Dr. Pepper, changed my clothes, and waited for time to pass before the final count down.  We chatted, found Dave Silvestro, chatted about this, that, and the other some more with Dave, and generally watched the minutes tick away, with a few trips to the Port-o-Johns tucked in there.  Around a quarter to gun time, I ambled over to the start line to warm up and get ready.  I confirmed the location of my drop bag, flipped on my iPod shuffle, and squirreled myself away in the throng.  Five, four, three, two, one...go!  "Take it slow," I told myself.

I knew the course would be, at the very least, sticky after the recent rains, so I kept my line of sight straight at the shoes in front of me.  I knew they would direct me around the mud and water instead of into the mud and water.  By and large, this turned out to be a good strategy.  There was one instance in which this led me into a thicket of branches, damp leaves, and who knows what when I blindly followed the runner in front of me, but we quickly got back on course.  As with all of Joe's races, the crowd eventually thinned and I found myself running free, with only the sounds of a few other foot falls behind me.

I can't quite remember who piped up first, but I eventually got to talking to a runner behind me named Matt..  I found out he was in nursing school through the Army and this was his first ultramarathon.  Even though he was an Aggie, I was ecstatic for the conversation and the friendly and enthusiastic attitude.  Those first 5-7 miles are always my most difficult.  Once I get through the first aid station, I loosen up and accept what is going to take place that day.  Until then, I'm anxious and irritable.  Any distraction is fantastic.  Shortly after Matt asked "where is this aid station?" we came upon it.

As I'm wont to do, I breezed through the aid station to make it on to the next.  More so, however, I was looking forward to getting to the field of flowers.  The field of flowers is an open meadow, with only a few cross fences, full of wild flowers.  It is on the tail end of the middle portion of the course after winding through bush thickets, trees, and one section I call "the rainforest."  Unfortunately, the field of flowers was less impressive this year, but beautiful nonetheless.  The dew resting about two or three feet from the ground always takes my breath away, often precipitating a few stumbles as I take it all in.

I came upon the meadow sooner than I anticipated.  I felt loose and fresh, ready to finish up the back third of the course.  I always forget how challenging the back third is, though.  It is full of sharp twists, winding turns, steep descents and ascents, and a bit more humidity as the hours while away.  I tackled it with gusto after running through the Tunnel of Pines aid station.  I wasn't thirsty and my energy was still level.  The only issue I'd been experiencing, in fact, were some nagging, though slight, pains in my left knee.  A bit of IT-related pain, and some pain on the top and inner knee cap.  I started to question whether a second loop would be worthwhile, what with the Army Marathon in two weeks.  Considering Hell's Hills was a "why not" race, while the Army Marathon was a run I intended to finish in honor of my Dad, the second loop wasn't looking to be in the cards.

I kept reminding myself that IT band issues are just irritations and relievable.  A second loop wouldn't affect my ability to run the Army Marathon.  "You're just being lazy," I told myself, "just get out on the second loop and stop whining."  It was an adorable inner dialogue (debate?) with myself, I assure you.

I ambled in to the start-finish fully intending to call it a day.  Ben would be finishing soon, and cranking out another 25K may make us late to the wedding, I reasoned.  I pled my case to David Land as he handed out 10K and 25K medals.  He wasn't really having it.  He told me to cool it for fifteen minutes and see how I felt.  In the process, I ran into a good friend of mine, Ashley Stanley.  Her husband had just finished the 25K like a boss, so she was hanging out at the start-finish, waiting for other friends to finish their races.  We caught up briefly, then her friend offered me the use of his BioFreeze.  "I don't know what that is," I said, hoping it wouldn't develop into one less excuse for my quitting.  His eyes lit up as he told me how wonderful it was, and he bounded off to get his bottle before I could say anything.  Shortly after rolling it all over my left knee, I knew my excuses were running ragged.

Suck.  It.  Up.  "Alright, Kim.  Earbuds in, let's go."  Off I went.  I hollered at David that I'd be back in a few hours.  He didn't seem surprised at my decision.  Trotting toward loop two, I tapped back into my focus and resolve.  Unfortunately, my self-haggling led me to forget my Lara bar.  About four miles or so into the loop, my stomach started hollering.

As with the first loop, the first aid station never comes soon enough on the second loop.  However, I know that if I get in and out of the first aid station on the second loop, the finish is in the bag, barring any debilitating injury.  When I finally rolled in, I gobbled some oranges and some water, and began my steady trot again.  Soon enough, I came upon a runner with a steady and solid pace.  I sheepishly fell in stride behind him.

I knew I was close on his heels, but I decided to ride it out until he got irritated enough to make me pass him.  I knew what I was doing, but my ankles hurt so much that selfishness got the better of me.  I just knew if I kept up with his pace, we'd be upon the second aid station in good--great--time.  Unfortunately, a root got the better of him and he tumbled.  He waved me on and, to my surprise, thanked me for motivating and pushing him for however long we'd been running together.  I was so taken by his comment, I couldn't put two words together to let him know he'd been the one pulling me!  Thankfully, I ran into him at the finish and we exchanged thanks for keeping each other going on that particular stretch.  Such team work and mutual help is nearly unheard of in road racing.  Another tick on the positive side for trail and ultra racing...

I tried to keep the same pace after I left my new found friend, but I knew I was speeding up a bit.  I assured myself it would be less dangerous because it was the last loop.  "Leave it all out here," I told myself, "like you should have last year."  I finally came across the field of flowers and knew things were about to get interesting.

My ankles were on fire.  My knees, blown.  My stomach sloshed louder than the wave pool at Schlitterbahn on opening weekend.  All of that being said, my energy was still level and my mind seemed ready for the strong finish.  I briefly stopped in at Tunnel of Pines for more water and oranges.  I felt the bright energy burst of the oranges and high tailed it out of there.

When another runner asked me how many of "these 50Ks" I'd done and I couldn't come up with the answer, I knew I needed to double-down on the focus.  My brain wasn't wanting to function, which isn't a good sign.  Thankfully, I was less than five miles to the finish.

"Kim, if you keep running steady, you will be done in less than an hour.  Just keep running, simple as that."

So, I kept running.  Simple as that.  The winds were interesting, as were the river rocks.  The descents and ascents were brutal on the ankles, but I recalled my first year on the course, where I could hardly walk without crying out in pain.  I had to finish the race only after ditching a walking stick another runner had found for me.  I was much further in my running today than ever before.  This seemed to help my feet keep turning over toward the finish.

I kept at it.  Soon, Paul Terranova bounded past me as if he were out for a quick jaunt in the middle of the week.  I pined for the energy, but kept at what I had going for me.  I could see the signs of the end of the course.  My mind was waiting for the cattle guards.  Those meant we were closer to the front of the property; closer to the first set of camping tents; closer to the red barn; and closer to the finish.

There they were, the cattle guards with the wooden boards over them to prevent sprained ankles.  I tightened my form and kept the pace.  I followed the woman in front of me, who seemed to blaze by out of nowhere with energy to spare.

I ambled down the single track, through another gate, and saw the flags waving in the heavy wind.  As I came onto the straight away to the finish, the wind picked up in a strong way.  I was struggling beyond belief to keep my pace in spite of the wind.  All I could do was focus on the finish line coming closer.

Finally, the wind was a non-issue and I could experience the joy of the finish.  With a little dance, and a random jump:  BEEP BEEP!  Two beeps for a finisher!  I was jazzed by the grin on David and Joe's faces, and laughed at David's comment that I was in better spirits than earlier.  I wasn't surprised by Joe's handshake either.

However, I was surprised by Joe's ensuing comments:  "Hey, stick around.  We're not sure where you are but you're in the top five.  I want you to get your trophy, we just need to figure out the order."

I feel strange calling these past two races "unremarkable," but that's the best word for them.  They simply were decisions to keep running.  Simple as that.  Nothing special, as far as I can tell.

Honestly, I'm not sure how this happened again.  It's not as if I do speed or track work ever.  I don't do proclaimed tempo runs or fast-paced runs or back-to-backs or anything like that (I don't even know what have of those special-named runs are, actually).  I just do straight miles, with long runs being carb-depleting runs so I don't have to fuel as much during a race.  That's the extent of the technicality of my training.  A few bouts of weight training during the week, otherwise.

At the same time, I'm incredibly proud of my finish at both Nueces and Hell's Hills this year.  Two years ago, Hell's Hills marked my first ultramarathon.  It was an awful race full of naiveté and foolhardy stubbornness.  I finished dead last.  Such an accomplishment that I even got a trophy to mark the occasion.  Two years later, I walk away with a different kind of trophy entirely.  Quite the uplifting and humbling experience.

I'm not sure where all of this is going.  I continue to reflect on my finish at Nueces, and now at Hell's Hills.  I try to determine the source of those finishes.  From the best that I can ascertain, it's me getting out there with healthy doses of respect for the race, confidence in my ability, and a determination to have a good time on the course.  That's the best I can say at this point.

The finish was marked by great camaraderie at the HCTR BBQ and Picnic.  The party after Hell's Hills always is a blast; the people incredible.  I wish Ben and I had been able to stay longer, but the wedding drew nearer as we lounged at Rocky Hill Ranch.

After collecting my trophy (!), we hobbled over to the car.  As is my tendency, I organized the car and bags, tucked Chuck (my trophy) into his spot in the back seat, and we high tailed it to lunch at Thundercloud.  A mere seven hours later, I sported some killer platform, suede and leather espadrilles, a  flouncy and flowery cocktail dress, and shiny curls.  Ben transformed with his slick navy pinstripe suit. Strangers to the morning, we waltzed into the evening for our next adventure...

Hell's Hills 50K
Rocky Hill Ranch, Smithville, Texas
5:58:04
Third Place Female Finish

Nueces 50K (March 2013)

I'm not sure where to begin with this race.  So much happened in the span of twenty-four hours, and so much of it was simply amazing.  It will take me quite a bit of time to absorb it all.

With an extra two or three hours of driving to get to Rocksprings this year than last, I decided to get on the road earlier.  I didn't want to feel rushed, plus I wanted to visit with friends and get a better night's rest.  After a brief pit stop in Austin for some grub, I hightailed it west.  Besides the fact of getting to Camp Eagle before sundown, I am glad I got on the road around midday so I could appreciate the startling beauty of the Texas Hill Country.  It has been so long since I've been deep in the heart of it; the visit simply was refreshing.

My excitement began to set in as I neared Camp Eagle.  This was only my third year out there, but the stretch of Highway 41 to Hackberry Road is one stretch I know like the back of my hand.  It took me to my first amazing trail running experience in 2011, to a humbling and exhilarating 50K last year, and now to the unknown this year.  After the eight mile dirt road crawled into the camp ground, I felt at peace and at home.  No anxiety for the miles ahead of me tomorrow; simply contentment.

I swaggered into packet pickup in full business attire:  lavender dress, long black coat, tights, and black pumps.  I was mistaken for the wife of one of the many runners and it took a bit to get someone's attention and convince them that, yes, I was running in tomorrow's race.  Understandable considering my get up...

I finally was able to head to the cabin, where I would reunited with my closest running buddies.  I literally stumbled in to the cabin, loaded with bags, blankets, and bags of soda.  There they were:  Brenda, January, Manny, Diana, and a few who I came to know much better this weekend over a few miles.  I instantly felt at ease, knowing I was where I needed to be.

After a quick change into normal clothes (i.e., sweats and a t-shirt), I walked to the mess hall to catch up and feel the pre-race buzz.  We spent the rest of the evening talking about good and bad, funny and sad, gossip and fact.  It was perfectly comforting and I was so glad my day had allowed me to get to camp in time to do so.  By the time my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light.

Five a.m. came accordingly, though nosily, and I began my pre-race rituals.  Crack!  Fizz!  Sizzle!  First Diet Dr. Pepper of the day for the first jolt of energy.  I began to fold my blankets and organize my race bag for quick access at the start-finish split after the first loop.  Lara bars in one pocket, change of shoes and socks in the other, and my IT band strap front and center.  Crack!  Fizz!  Sizzle!  Second Diet Dr. Pepper of the morning as gun time neared.  As the sleepiness began to dissipate from the room in anticipation of the day, we all began to make our final arrangements and took the deep breathe to prepare for the deep plunge in the cold morning air.

I'd made the decision to wear my Texas flag shorts, in honor of Texas Independence Day, in spite of the cold start.  I figured I'd be out there for quite some time and knew this course is wont to heat up rather early in the morning.  I also knew my legs were the least likely to be uncomfortable due to cold.  Two layers of long sleeves and a pair of gloves would take care of the rest.  As Leah and I neared the start, the butterflies fluttered and my legs began to twitch with excitement.  Here I was, two years after my first trail race, ready to hit the trails most familiar to my legs and memory.  There was no unknown this time around:  I know this trail better than my route to work in the morning, and I know how to tackle it twice in one day.  My only thought?  "Let's do this."

I began the race with a smile on my face, which stayed there nearly the entire time.  Quite frankly, the entire race was rather unremarkable.  My legs simply kept going.  They only tired late in the second loop.  The first aid station always is late on the uptake in this race, at least by my experience.  It seems to take much too long to arrive, but it didn't feel quite that way today.  Regardless, I felt good, fresh, and energized, so I blew through it and on to tackle the climbs of the middle portion of the loop.  I was anxious for the long, long downhill at the top of a gentle, rocky climb.  That's where I wanted to open up the running for real, and I wanted to vindicate the small "loop" just before the drop down in to the Wall aid station.

This was the only portion of last year's race where I felt I actually had not given the course all that I had to offer.  It is where I walked unnecessarily, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.  I vowed to vindicate that feeling today.  It wasn't difficult; I was feeling great and breezed through the trial and down into the Wall.  Again, I felt great, energized, and didn't want to lose my pace or rhythm.  I breezed through the Wall toward my favorite portion of the race, which takes me along the riverbed, both on the riverbed, as well as along cliffs above the riverbed.  It's absolutely stunning and this year, as with last, I was jazzed to know I'd get to run it a second time in the same day.

After trotting through the woods and winding riverbed, I turned and saw the dreaded Gorilla Climb:  a one mile hike up, with nothing but rocks and cactus as footing, and no cover from the sun whatsoever.  Somehow, however, the top of the climb came faster than a snap of the fingers, and off I went to find the last two rolling hills before the final aid station and the start-finish.  The running was cool and easy, and I didn't let up once.  Soon enough, I was running past the final aid station and toward the finish.  Again, nothing remarkable.  Nothing remarkable except for the ease of the running itself, that is.

At the start-finish, I was cheered on by my friends:  Brenda, Manny, January, Marcia, and I'm sure a few more.  As I heard them cheer my name, I was renewed with more energy and inspiration to kick it on the second loop as I did on the first.  I grabbed a snack, some more Diet Dr. Pepper, and headed out for Round 2.

I recalled the second loop from last year, remembering how warm it became and how my energy quickly plummeted.  I was waiting for that to come around this year, but I didn't actively wait for it.  In the meantime, I simply kept running.  My rule had become, "If the terrain is runnable, I'm running.  It will hurt no matter whether I run or walk, so might as well run!"  Thankfully, the fall in energy and motivation never made its way to me.

During the first five or so miles of the second loop, I realized someone had fallen in step behind me.  I could sense a lack of urgency to pass me, so my next thought was that they had fallen in behind me and were following my pace purposefully.  This tends to make me nervous, because it makes me less likely to slow down or walk when I need to do so.  Sure enough, after a few minutes, he called out that I was pulling him along to the first aid station.  "Crap," I thought.  We started chatting and I learned this was his first 50K.  My take on the circumstance immediately changed:  I'm always excited to hear about a race being a person's first, whether 5K or 50 miler.  The revelation rejuvenated me and I hoped we would finish together so I could witness that moment myself.

Suddenly, though not as quickly as on the first loop, we were upon the first aid station.  We had such a great clip going that neither of us slowed down.  We blew right through the aid station to tackle the woods and climbs of the middle section.  The sooner we made it through the brush, the sooner we would be on the long downhill and into the Wall.  I did, however, make a point to slow down long enough to point out to him, Scott, that only a midweek long run stood between him and his first ultra finish.

This, again, was the portion of the course I wanted to dominate, vindicating my perceived short fall from last year.  At this point, it became clear that this race was remarkable in how unremarkable it had been.  No pains, twists, falls, stumbles, mental low points, unnecessary walking...nothing to hang my head in shame about...what on earth was going on, here?

I ambled into the Wall and decided on some water and a few orange slices.  I quickly downed those and high tailed it toward the Gorilla Climb.  By this point, my feet were started to pound and swell.  My quads were screaming at me.  In spite of all the pain, I kept moving, simple as that, and happily.  Not once did I resent the running, which isn't necessarily uncommon on the longer races.  The running was just perfect and as the miles added up, I was enjoying the next mile more than the last.  It simply was incredible and striking!

The Gorilla Climb felt longer the second time around, but I kept my eye on the folks in front of me and kept climbing.  The sunshine was a bit warmer, but it was also rejuvenating when paired with the perfect late winter breeze.  Finally, I saw the red "WRONG WAY" sign that signaled the turn off from the fence line and the last two or three climbs of the course.

My pace had slowed considerably, but I kept running.  My excitement was getting the better of me as I felt the 50K of a lifetime coming to a finish.  I was afraid my excitement was too early and I wouldn't be able to pace it out to the finish with the same energy.  Regardless, I kept moving.  I played cat and mouse with a few other runners, but we all came into the final aid station around the same time.  As per tradition, I joked with the volunteers about the day and how I'd see them later, "I mean next year!"  Humor is relative after twenty nine miles...

With less than two miles to go, I decided to take a calculated risk.  I'd checked my watch only once during the race and the question was whether to check it one more time before getting down to the finish.  Scott, the tag-along runner from earlier, and I had decided to run for a sub-six hour finish.  Would I make it?  With only fifteen minutes or so until I crossed the finish line, my patience wore out and I decided to see just how much time I'd either (1) gone over six hours already or (2) how much time I had to make it to the finish to reach my goal.  The answer?  Twenty one minutes left in the bank.  It was interesting, this was better than caffeine, or a gel, or electrolytes to get me to pick up the pace.  Certainly, my ankles howled and my feet were screaming, but I was almost there.  I didn't see Scott behind me anymore, but I kept going.

I ambled down a few hills, across the small field leading down to the final stretch, and through the first creek crossing.  Suddenly, I was on top of a shrub.  I seem to recall flipping over in some fashion, scratching up my legs on thorns and getting stabbed in the thigh by an unyielding branch.  I still am not sure where the shrub came from, but after a few sharp expletives, it was on its way to a mere memory.

As I began crossing the creek for the second and final time, I heard Scott call out to me.  I was so excited, because I knew we were about to finish at our goal time.  I was so happy for him to meet his goal during a great, though grueling, 50K race.  As we laughed, smiled, and made strange noises on our way to the finish, it all set in for me.  The tears began to form, and the pace began to quicken.  I didn't experience the same all out sprint I have in the past, perhaps due to the aggression I showed over the course of the entire race, but I was still moving.  I didn't dare look at my watch.  Rather, I quickly turned to see the clock and saw I was at least four or five minutes under six hours.  My first year at Nueces, I ran the 25K in over four hours.  My second year at Nueces, I ran the 50K in around 6:30 or so.  And this year?  This year I ran the 50K in under 6:00.  Where did all of this come from?  I couldn't say but my heart was glad.

My disbelief multiplied as a trophy was thrust into my hand:  fifth female finisher for the 50K.  I still cannot comprehend this particular part of the day and unfortunately, I really can't speak to it.  I simply don't know how to do so.  At bottom of the disbelief is the fact that I never have placed in a competitive individual sport.  The only other trophy I has says "DFL" on it for Hell's Hills 50K (2011), "DFL" standing for "dead f*cking last."  I don't know how to process this fifth place finish; maybe I will be able to at a later date.  All I know is I am flabbergasted and extremely proud of myself.  At the same time, I don't know what, exactly, I did to get that trophy, so I'm not sure what I'm proud of?  The process of getting to race day with the wherewithal to make that happen?  The race itself?  The problem is, I never go out to a race with the idea of placing in any capacity, even in my age group.  The idea never has seriously crossed my mind.  We'll see how the fact sits with me over the next few days and perhaps I'll have more to say.  For now:  wow.

This weekend was incredible.  It was filled with amazing time spent with some of my closest friends, inspiring miles with friends new and old, a striking finish in under six hours, and my first trophy.  The drive back to Houston wasn't enough time to take it all in, in fact.  At the end of the day, my love for this race simply deepened and was affirmed.  This race is life changing and I will be back for as long as I can run.

Nueces 50K
Rocksprings, Texas
5:55:18 (unofficial)
Fifth Place Female Finisher