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 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
