Chevron Houston Marathon (January 2015)

First, a digression (This is despite the fact that I haven't started the report and, therefore, have nothing to digress from.  But, again, I digress.):  In (belatedly) preparing to write this race report, I refreshed myself on my 2014 racing running.  Other than the Austin Marathon and Hell's Hills 50K, 2014 was a quiet year!  At first, I felt ashamed and lazy that I had only two finishes for 2014.  But then I remembered 2013.  In 2013, in the midst of buying a house and planning a wedding, I focused on training to qualify for the Western States 100 with a sub-11:00 finish at Cactus Rose 50M.  When I came up about twenty minutes shy of that goal, I was simply crushed.  I can extend myself the standard platitudes about success and failure and trying and whatnot, but the fact remains I was extremely disappointed and mentally exhausted.  Reminiscing on that reminded me of my resolve for 2014:  run for the joy.  Hence, two races and a DNF at Wild Hare 50K for 2014.  With that attitude, I found myself refreshed as I began training for the 2015 Chevron Houston Marathon...

Around March 2014, I began running with Kenyan Way in Houston as a way to supplement my training (with hill and speed workouts) and to meet other runners.  The decision paid off in both respects.  I have a more focused, yet relaxed, attitude toward training, which has led to more skill, strength, endurance, and mental fortitude.  I also have an incredible group of friends I cannot wait to see before sunrise four days a week.  It was with this coach and these friends that I began training for the Chevron Houston Marathon in late summer/early fall 2014.

I must confess, I wasn't mentally ready to contemplate the whole "training to qualify for Western States 100" again.  In fact, to this day I still chafe at that twenty-some-odd minutes.  Anyways.  Instead, I decided to focus on another goal with a sub-goal wrapped into it:  I would train to qualify for the Boston Marathon (Goal No. 1), while simultaneously learning to become more comfortable with failure and the patience to try, try again (Goal No. 2) to reach Goal No. 1.

Training for Houston was altogether entertaining, exciting, challenging, and annoying.  Hills upon hills upon hills for a flat course?  Oh, but it helps with building speed.  But then why speed workouts?  Instead of fighting it, I chose to trust my coach's incredible talent, expertise, and experience.  So, I scaled hills:  short hills, long hills, parking garages.  I ran fartleks, 400s, 800s, tempos.  I worked on negative splits, hitting my paces on long runs, and staying within range on would-be recovery runs.

I also visited baa.org constantly, making sure I really did read that qualifying time correctly:  3:35:00, or an 8:12 minute per mile pace.  As I described it to my best friend, this was about 0:45 faster than my happy-but-also-pushing-it pace.  For 26 point 2 whole miles.  So, I worked on a few pacing models for the marathon, based on how I tended to run my longer runs.  Straight even pace for 26.2 miles, on the one hand.  Start slow and consistently quicken my pace throughout the race, on another hand.  Bank time with a lightning pace at the beginning so I could give myself some slack near the end, on one foot.  Just run and see what happens, on the other foot.

At the start of training, my long runs looked like so:  fast-less fast-cool it-ow-hobble.  As Jose tended to put it:  you burn yourself out, slow. down.  So, I worked on that and forced myself to keep a slower pace near the front of my run so I could cruise at the finish.  Would you believe it?  It worked!  By the end of the training, I was pacing myself to finish within my goal pace and with some energy to spare.  Go figure.  (P.S.:  Thanks Jose!)

Ben and I discussed my race strategy ad nauseum beforehand.  We planned to run together, as he wanted to pace me to a sub-3:35:00 finish if possible.  Not only would it be an extremely supportive thing for him to do for his wife, but it also would be a PR for him:  a win-win.  However, we have different racing styles, so we had to be on the same page.  Thankfully, Ben knows my style, having "crewed" for me at various trail races and being an all around awesome man who takes an interest in what I do.  Given that, he was comfortable with whatever strategy I chose for the race.  I decided to stick with my new-found training run style:  start slow and continue to speed up through the finish.  To help conceptualize that, Ben created a few different pacing charts that would get me to a 3:35:00 finish depending on what pace I started at and how the race progressed.  I printed them, chose one, and taped it to my mirror for the few weeks before the race.  Seeing the numbers and memorizing my splits turned out to be incredibly helpful benchmarks on race day.

As the race neared, it came up in conversation frequently and I often fielded questions about my time goals.  I would explain my goal of qualifying for Boston and what that meant, especially with my prior marathon times and training.  I would also explain that I was under no delusions that I could qualify given the difficulty of qualifying for Boston at all.  And honestly, I may have daydreamed, but I wasn't delusional.  I knew I had worked well on Goal No. 1 (to qualify) with consistent and dedicated training, but I also knew that I couldn't know if it would be enough or what race day would hold.  So, with that, I worked on Goal No. 2:  setting my expectations and being prepared to be-and being comfortable being-disappointed.

Okay.  With all of that, let's get to race day:

Corral A, first starters.  National Anthem.  Oh look, the courthouse.  5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . go.  I focused from the starting mat and tried to set a comfortable stride without being distracted by those around me.  It is so easy to get caught up in the excitement and fervor of the crowd and other runners, letting all notions of pace strategy go, especially in a road race.  I tried to avoid that.  As we merged on to Washington Avenue, my Garmin dinged to indicate the first mile:  8:07 pace.  This was about 0:38 seconds faster than the strategy, and about 0:05 faster than goal pace, but I gave the thumbs up to Ben.  It felt good, my breath was even, and the cadence was comfortable.  We kept moving.  I saw familiar faces along the course, soaked in the red-white-and-blue of the flag strung from a fire truck crane at our local station, and checked in with myself every quarter-mile or so.  We turned on to Heights/Yale/Waugh (Pick one, Houston.).  Clocked in about the same pace.

As we turned on West Gray, Ben mentioned he needed to stop for the bathroom.  I knew it wasn't negotiable, or else he wouldn't have mentioned it.  Coincidentally, I was in the same camp.  We found a bathroom quickly, did our thing, and got back on the course.  All told, maybe 2:00 gone.  We kept moving.

As we transitioned on to Kirby, the field had thinned and we started talking to a young woman next to us.  She was training for Boston (having already qualified), so Ben mentioned our goal for the day.  She seemed to sense my focus, so she offered some tips, bid us good luck, and returned to her own race.  As we continued down Kirby, our Garmins beamed our pace:  steady around, if not slightly below, 8:07.  This was going to be an interesting race.  From that point, I decided to keep an eye on my 5K, 10K, half-marathon, et cetera splits rather than noting each mile split.  I'd drive myself crazy any other way.

We weaved through the Village and West U, had our photo snapped somewhere around there, and eventually came upon the half-marathon/marathon split.  We veered right and suddenly the noise levels dropped.  Here we were:  in it.

By this point, we were closing in on my brother and sister-in-law's neighborhood and I was looking forward to seeing the bright faces of my beautiful nieces.  I also was ready for the young families that tend to cut up oranges and bananas for their kids to hand out to runners.  While I did get an orange or banana (can't quite remember), I scanned and scanned but wasn't able to find my little ones.  I was disappointed, but re-focused on the race.

Right on Wesleyan.  Left on Westpark.  We were nearing the half-marathon point and, more importantly, mile 15 where my dog would be waiting for me.  Having missed the girls, I was very much looking forward to this.  It is incredible what a smiling face-even of a stranger-can do for a weary runner.

Miles 12 through 14 were rough.  Up the incline on Westpark, around a hairpin (WTH, CHM?) turn at the 610 Loop, and toward the Galleria.  As we got closer, I scanned the large crowd at knee level for that bright golden puppy face.  I spotted him, beelined, and without stopping grabbed his furry face in my hands, kissed him about a dozen times, told him I loved him, startled mom, and kept going.  That was the shot of energy I didn't know I needed.

From there, we cruised.  We cruised through Briargrove, down Chimney Rock, right on Memorial.  By this time, we were still ahead of pace.  I began worrying what the final 10K would look like for us.  The final 10K is when things get dodgy and the most unpredictable, even when you've stuck to your plan.  Plus, the sun was coming out, the day was warming up, and the tummy was a bit more volatile.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that the final 10K was completely known territory for me:  Memorial Park, Allen Parkway, downtown.  These were my stomping grounds, literally; I run those areas nearly every single time I lace up my kicks.  Unfortunately, that didn't make them any easier.  Rather, it just meant I knew how long they would last.

As we made it through the Park and toward Allen Parkway, all the while staying between 8:00 and 8:05, I decided to pull the trigger:  "Okay, let's ease down to race pace."  Ha!  My race strategy had been turned on its head.  I had started fast and in the final 6 miles planned to slow down to race pace.  Cute, Kim.  Just precious.

As Ben knows though, when I verbalize that I am taking it easy on pace, nothing really happens.  I think it is more of a mental thing, actually.  If I verbalize that I am struggling with the pace and would prefer to go slower, I somehow take the edge off and just deal with it?  I'm not sure, but our pace didn't change.  Oh well.

Finally, Allen Parkway:  downtown in sight, rolling hills, so close.  I was struggling though.  I wanted to call it quits, stop right there, sit down, cry, and find a sandwich.  My energy was a mere flicker, fumes in the tank, ready to abandon me with a giant scoff.  Ben kept me in the game as he always does.  Stride for stride he was there and knew when to start with the phrases that I (personally and without judgement to those who like them) find ridiculous.  Bless him.  It is uncanny how he knows the exact moment I need those.

As we entered downtown, my understanding of how much further we had to go became hazy.  I was disoriented with dehydration, the noise, and the crowd.  The shadows from the buildings confused me and I wasn't sure where in downtown we actually were.  Finally, I saw the last distance markers and at least I could focus my tunnel vision accordingly.

That is when I heard Ben say the following:  "Boston is in reach, babe.  You just have to take it."

Oh, bless him again.  Up until that point, I realized, I had refused to let myself believe we were pacing to a BQ finish.  I hadn't let the thought enter my mind.  All I knew was one foot in front of the other.  Anything could happen.

The finish line.  I glanced at my watch and holy expletive:  not only a BQ finish, but a well-sub-BQ finish.  We crossed at 3:29:24, a solid 5:36 under my Boston qualifying time.  A BQ, a PR, a resounding success.

Months later, reliving the elation remains exhilarating and overwhelming.  I don't quite know what to do with it, other than prepare to run the 2016 Boston Marathon.  For a while, I tried to understand why it felt so strange.

On the one hand, I realized that I tend to be a one-more-time kind of person.  I fail, try to learn from my mistakes, and try again (sometimes more than one time is necessary, naturally).  I anticipated as much with this race and my BQ goal.  In fact, that was part of the process:  becoming more comfortable with the failure, the trying again, and again, and readjusting.  All the while knowing any one of those failures did not define me.  But I wasn't expecting that trying again (and again) wouldn't be necessary for this goal.

On the other hand, my 2014 resolve (to run for the joy) had done more for me than I had anticipated.  I had run with joy and without the pressure I had placed on myself in 2013.  I had trained with dedication, and a light heart.  And at the end of the day, at the end of the race, I met my goal without sacrificing the joy derived from the passion.

All told, I'm extremely proud of myself, of my training, of my race, and of the finish.  I also am extremely grateful for everyone I trained with (Ben, Christene, Camille, Jose, Brian, Amira, and every other KW runner who joins us along the way), everyone who encouraged me, and everyone who cheered us as we ran.

I will never forget this race.  It is one of the best races I ever have run.  Not only do my splits prove this (smooth and even, mile by mile), but the results, recovery, and attitude thereafter do too.  In contrast to my experience after Cactus Rose 50M (those twenty minutes!), despite my disciplined training, the toughness of the race, and the painful finish, I still am ready and anxious to train for the next Goal No. 1.  I have enough mental fortitude to forge ahead and test my limits.  Oddly enough though, I hope the next Goal No. 1 gives me a bit more opportunity to work on Goal No. 2.  Whatever that next Goal No. 1 may be, all I know is I will continue to run with joy and with passion.

Chevron Houston Marathon
3:29:24
Gender:  140
Age Group:  24
Overall: 752
Personal Record
Boston Qualifier

Hell's Hills 50K (April 2014)

Three years ago, this was the site of my first ultra marathon.  I didn't realize at the time that it also was my first marathon.  Needless to say, various moments throughout that day were incredibly overwhelming, challenging, and altogether life changing.  I've been back every year since to battle the rollers, the humidity, the heat, the rocks and roots, and the overall jaunt of the race.

This year, I brought another aspect into the mix.  After some coaxing and, well, nagging, I convinced Ben to register for the 50K with me.  This would be his first ultra marathon and, obviously, his longest race to date.  I just hoped he would want to run with me so I could see how he handled the race.  A person's first ultra marathon is an awe inspiring thing to witness and I wanted to witness his.

The weeks leading up the race were tenuous for the both of us.  We both, randomly, took off from running for about two to three weeks.  And when we did pick up again, we had some motivation problems.  In the final couple of weeks before the race, I was able to gather my cajones and knock out some solid training runs, including an 18-mile Monday for good measure.  The race, however, seemed to remain on the horizon and not move closer.  Suddenly, race weekend was here.  Frantically, I began getting my ducks in a row, planning race-eve and -day nutrition and strategy, and running "ideas" and "tips" by Ben for his pondering.  We didn't talk much about the race besides the odd "So, are you excited?" and I was starting to wonder whether we were being a bit too nonchalant about it all.

Friday came and on the road we went after the typical stop at Subway.  The drive was quiet and straightforward.  We arrived at Rocky Hill Ranch at about 7:30 p.m. and saw packet pick up shut down and no greeters at the gate.  After getting comfortable and setting out our clothes for the morning, we shut down and tried to get some sleep.

As 4:00 a.m. greeted us, we agreed we're just a few months too old to be sleeping in cars and vowed to end that method of frugality.  Stretching our legs and seeking out the bathrooms before the lines began, we got ready for gun time.  I gulped down some Diet Dr. Pepper to try to ease some…things…along and, thankfully, it worked.  My body has been unpredictable in the mornings since daylight saving's time, so I was nervous I wouldn't be primed for the start.  We chomped on some peanut butter sandwiches and bananas, a runner's best friends, before looting our race bags.  As we predicted, the 6:00 a.m. start came upon us as if it were sprinting.  After making the rounds of familiar, headlamp-ed faces, we queued up.

As we partook in our usual pre-race kiss and hand squeeze, whoops and hollers signaled the start of the race.  Across the mat--BEEP--and we began our latest adventure with a fun goal:  cross the finish line (1) without vomiting; (2) without despising each other; and (3) having had a spectacular day.

We settled in to the typical single-file line at the start of the first six or seven miles of the course.  As with any race, the first leg tends to be fairly mentally challenging for me.  While I enjoy dark running--I do my best brainstorming and thinking in the dark, it seems--the first leg tends to be the "shake out" portion.  I struggle to get a good rhythm and sometimes must wait until sunrise to really grasp on to the day's happenings.  On this particular course, as well, I typically feel like a spastic deer bounding around the forest.  This isn't so bad on the one hand, but I'd prefer to feel wholly human during a 50K.

Soon enough, the sun rises, though, and I take back my human senses.  It's at this point I think about the 25K crowd starting their race, how far I may have gone by this point, and where on earth I'm going to pitstop.  The trees are top-dense, but a little sparse for the coverage off the trail.  No strangers in a trail race, right?  Right…

As we came in to the first aid station, I let my shoulders relax.  The race had begun.  The first aid station was stocked with bundles of colorful balloons, the typical race fare, and a nearly full bar of liquor, red wine, and white wine.  At that point, I was thankful for one of my race rules:  run through the first aid station.  Just keep running, just keep running, that whiskey is so not a good idea, just keep running, I sang to myself in my head.  Ben, on the other hand, did stop for some water and to drop some trash.  As he caught up to me, I could hear the excitement in his voice about whiskey on the next loop.  My stomach turned at the thought, but my head (and heart, let's be honest) wasn't so skeptical.  We'd see how that worked out about fifteen miles later.

I was anxious to power through the middle portion of the loop for one glorious prize:  the field of wildflowers.  Joe P. promised we would smell the year's bounty before we arrived.  I thought about how the trail drops down to a cooler temperature, the ground becomes moister, and the greenery on the side of the trail unmistakably turns a gorgeous, brilliant emerald green.  It was the entrance to the wildflower field.

We fell in behind a running friend, Caleb.  We chatted here and there, but not much.  The trail and scenery gobbled us up as we scuttled down hills, scampered up and along ridges, and hooked trees occasionally.  I positively adore this portion of the trail.  It remains technical, but embraces you with joy and beauty.  It's wonderful.  Soon enough, we came across the demonic wooden Easter bunny.  I swear, it gets creepier every year.  To its credit, though, it welcomes you to the wildflower field.

This year, I lost my breath from the beauty.  Rather than a green field with a smattering of wildflowers here and there, it was a blue, indigo, pink, purple, and white field with the tiniest bits of green trying to peak through the petals.  It was incredible and beautiful and altogether overwhelming.  I am surprised I didn't trip and fall from failing to watch where I was stepping.  Alas, I made it down the Jeep road and turned toward the second aid station, manned by a few of my dearest running friends.

We trotted in and took stock of what we might need.  A banana with peanut butter for me, along with a few cups of water.  A few greetings and chatter before we set off for the start/finish/turn around.  I knew this portion of the course was, unfortunately, unforgiving in its undulating ascents and descents.  This, I recalled, was the "hell" portion of the hills with monikers like "The Grind" and "The Wall."  Every year since the first, I cringe at the pain I felt in my swollen ankles as I worked my way up both of them with the aid of a walking stick.  It was pathetic and excruciating.  Then again, I came back.  Must not be so bad, right?  Right…

Up to this point, I'd led the two of us through the trails.  I wanted, admittedly, to set a conservative pace to be sure Ben didn't become the "hare" of the famous children's tale.  I mentioned to him I tend to dial it down through the final section so the second loop would be more bearable.  We did just so:  ginger on the descents, walking the ascents of certain angles, and running the flats handily.  Before I could blink, or so it felt, we were on the final Jeep road, past the campgrounds, over the cattle guard, and toward the barn and turn around.  I felt fresh and clear headed.  I just hoped Ben felt the same way.

We came through the turn around as some 25Kers and 10Kers were finish their races, well the winners of the 25K at least.  In fact, we saw Ben's Cactus Rose relay partner, Tracie A., win the 25K women's title.  In a few words:  she's a beast.  She's incredible to watch and so humble.  Way to go, Tracie!

We worked through the aid station (Drink.  Spit.  Heed?!  *Olga laughs at my carelessness.*  Ick, water!  More banana and peanut butter.) and I went to change up my kit a bit.  I stripped my long sleeves, dropped my head lamp, and made the decision to drop my CamelBak.

In past years, dropping your Camelbak would earn you a smack on the head from no less than a dozen people (race director included).  Hell's Hells is brutal year after year because of the onset of the Texas spring heat and humidity.  Racers battle steadily, and quickly, rising temperatures as the sun breaches the horizon, coupled with suffocating humidity that cannot escape the tree tops.  It's as if you're running through a sauna on which someone is turning up the heat every quarter of an hour.  As you collapse at the finish line, you are greeted with a medal and a warm, warm welcome to spring/summer in this great state.

The temperatures at this race make hydration early and often a priority.  Otherwise, sayonara sucker.  You're out and painfully so.

Such wasn't the case this year.  This year, we started running at 54 degrees.  With clouds overhead, the temperature likely didn't raise more than 5 to 10 degrees until midday.  I started running with my CamelBak to avoid leers and smacks, and just in case the sun burned through the clouds and caught the meteorologists off guard.

By the time we got to the turnaround, the cloud cover remained and the temperature and wind promised a day full of the same.  I was burning up in my long sleeves, though, so I dropped that.  I hoped continued running would keep me warm.  I also dropped my CamelBak because I hadn't felt thirsty between aid stations.

As we started on loop two, at which point I should have taken more note of Ben's mentioning a headache, I was thankful to have dropped my water pack but wishing I'd kept my sleeves.  Thankfully, the wind and cold didn't bother me as much as I was worried it would.  However, Ben's headache began to worsen and set the stage for loop two.

We bounded through the first portion of the second loop.  I knew once it was over, I would bound some more to a second view of the wildflowers, another round of jubilant hugs at the second aid station, and a ginger jaunt through to the finish.

I led the charge again, excited to be in such high spirits, feeling fresh, and ready to rock the rest of the course.  At some point, Ben asked me to slow down.  This was the first sign I knew we may have a longer day ahead of us than we'd both hoped.  You see, Ben is a speedy son of a gun.  He can hold a 7:30min/mile for a half-marathon regardless of whether he's had his Wheaties.  Plus, I'd forced a conservative pace (or so I thought I had; the Garmin showed me my error with 9:30s early in the race, dashing my life long goal of being a perfect marathon pacer) early in the race to conserve both of our energy stores.  In a word, his request was strange.

I slowed my pace and looked for cues of the upcoming aid station.  Before getting there, we both stopped off to use the bathroom.  I'd jokingly been asking him throughout Friday if he'd done a "pee check."  A "pee check" is a check of the color to see whether you're low on electrolytes, dehydrated, or just right.  I asked him at this point and the answer wasn't promising.  Suddenly, my focus shifted from a strong personal finish to making sure my husband made it back safely.  I didn't want to dictate his race for him, but I knew I had to be more of a guide than a running partner for the rest of the distance.

As we got into the first aid station, I pointed him to a seat (briefly!) and began gathering calories and plenty of water.  He needed some energy and he needed to hydrate.  As the clues began to piece together, I could tell he was incredibly dehydrated.  I also knew trying to talk him down from finishing wasn't going to work, dehydration be damned.

We stayed at the aid station for about 5 to ten minutes.  He seemed to perk up slightly, so I bent down and told him what had picked me up from this aid station and back on the trail during my first ultra:  "You see that bend in the trail over there?," I asked.  He looked and nodded.  "That's single digits, right there."  He laughed.  I knew it had worked.  He heaved off the cooler and we left.

We walked a short while and I had him run in front of me to set a pace he was comfortable running.  We wound through the woods again, chatting here and there with some other runners.  I was feeling cold and, strangely, my stomach was signaling hunger a bit earlier than it should have.  I also was started to feel the pounding in the soles of my feet.  I didn't say a word, though.  I knew I could exponentially increase the effect of my negativity on myself just by vocalizing it, and I didn't want it to seep into Ben's psyche, either.  I tried to keep things light, fresh, and upbeat.

Ben kept a solid rhythm through the woods as we each tried to be the first to spot the creepy bunny.  As creepy as it is, we look forward to it to greet us back to the flower field.  The second viewing did not disappoint and, thankfully, our fresh memory of its lushness wasn't overblown.  It was spectacular and rejuvenating.  We trotted down toward the final aid station.

Given his pep through the middle portion of the loop, I thought Ben may have just skirted serious dehydration.  Unfortunately, another pit stop indicated he was still woefully under watered.  We spent more time at the final aid station.  I fed him Gatorade, water, and some calories.  We talked with the crew there, Dave, Henry, and Deborah.  I could see his determination in his eyes and I recalled my sit-down at this aid station three years ago.  The emotions from that day welled up inside of me and I felt an incredible amount of pride for my husband.  He was resolved to finish, despite the pain and frustration.

As we left the aid station, I promised I'd report back at the finish and let them know we'd made it back alright.  I again let Ben take the lead, as my "pacing" wasn't all too reliable.  We walked to start, then began some trotting.  We didn't talk much at all; I knew he was focusing on finishing and putting one foot in front of the other.

About half way through this portion, we began to crest a small hill that overlooked Smithville.  As I turned back to Ben, I saw him unsteady on his feet.  He reached his hand out and told me he couldn't focus his eyes.  I quickly led him to a stump to sit down.  Thankfully, he listened to my instructions to drink water, eat something, and just breath deeply.  My knot of worry continued to grow larger.

After about five minutes of rest, I made the decision to ask a difficult question:  "Should I go get someone?"

His answer was definite:  "No, I'm going to finish.  I may not run, but I'm going to finish."  I was proud of his determination, but felt helpless.  I had no idea what, exactly, he was feeling at that moment and don't have enough experience watching other ultra runners to know whether I should have pulled the cord on his race for him.  I trusted him, though, and helped him stand up.

At this point, I knew the only choice was to have him run in front of me.  Rather than focusing on where I was running and how, I watched his foot falls, his gait, and his overall comportment.  I watched for wobbling, weaving, unsteadiness.  Thankfully, none of that appeared.  He kept on with a strong and determined hike.  We kept that way for about thirty or forty five minutes before we found ourselves nearing the final climb toward the campgrounds and finish line.

He turned to me and said, "When we get to the top of that hill, I'm going to run it home."

I swear, I could have been witnessing what I must have gone through that first year.  The entire day was a revisit of that first ultra marathon finish for me and seeing Ben work through it was awe inspiring.  I couldn't help the grin spreading across my face.

As we crested the hill, he broke into a trot sooner than I thought, but I was able to catch up and tuck in to the rhythm.  He laughed and mentioned how he now understood why I always called my late-in-the-race shuffling a "run"; "I swear, I feel like I'm sprinting!" he cried out, as we shuffled onto the single track signaling the final three-quarters of a mile or so.  I laughed and smiled with him.  My excitement of the moment began to take hold of me and I almost fell apart from happiness.  This moment…this moment will be ours for our lifetime.

We ran through the single-track, up along the barn, through the parking lot and stiff-legged finishers, and began to hear the cheers and the words of encouragement.  I peered into the eyes of those watching us, wondering what they must be thinking.  Did they see the man I knew running behind me?  Did they "get" what he'd done that day?  Did they understand?  I sure hope so, because it was incredible.

I made sure Ben's left hand was free so I could grab on to it as we crossed the finish line together.  I couldn't wipe the smile off my face if I tried.  I whispered to him how proud I was of him, how inspired by his determination and grit I was, and how much I loved him and cherished this moment of ours.

Six and a half hours after we'd begun, we crossed the finish line hand-in-hand, greeted by medals and the smiling Joe P.  "Welcome to the dark side," he told Ben with a hearty handshake and a genuine word of congratulations.

And just like that, our adventure was complete.  In the span of three months, we'd run a PR-setting marathon together and a tumultuous 50K together.

I don't know how Ben characterizes his race quite yet, but I have a feeling he'll be back next year.  He has a bone to pick with the hellish hills of Rocky Hills Ranch.

Hell's Hills 50K
April 5, 2014
About 6:30 (final time pending)

Austin Marathon 2014 (February 2014)

So, there tends to be a mix of pride and arrogance-tinged embarrassment when I tell people I'm running a marathon as a training run.  On the one hand, running a marathon as a training run implies a great deal of hard work and a goal beyond the mythical twenty-six-point-two.  On the other hand, it just smacks of arrogance and, for that, I feel self-conscious and embarrassed.  However reality shakes out on how the comment is perceived, this was the case for my second stab at the Austin Marathon this year.

Treating a long distance race as a training run has distinct advantages.  You can test week-prior, day-prior, and mid-race fueling to an incredible degree.  You can evaluate strategies on a macro-scale, rather than micro.  And, if you've run the training race before, you can learn from prior lessons.  I took advantage of each of these with the Austin Marathon, and it paid off well.

As for the week-prior and day-prior fueling and nutrition, I focused on variety in carbs, protein, and fresh fruits and vegetables.  I dialed down some of the easier carbs (e.g., fresh fruit) later in the week and focused on some more complex carbs in vegetables and less-commonly thought of sources.  However, Saturday was nothing but carbs:  oatmeal, English muffin, Subway sandwich, chia seed bread sandwich, melon, apples, pears, and cookies.  It was a "topping off" of the more subtle carb loading the week prior.  I won't lie:  I was dizzy with the sugar rush during the day, especially in the final meal with the fruit and cookies.  It was interesting.  Thankfully, despite the sugar, I was able to sleep well, save for the typical multiple trips to the bathroom to account for the hydration.  Four thirty in the morning came and I woke up well-rested, sufficiently energized from sleep and food, and ready to race.  It was interesting:  I felt evenly fueled rather than jittery.  I briefly thought about caffeine, but decided against it.

As for the lessons from last year, I knew I needed to pay more attention to my body and my perceived effort.  Austin can be a fast race, but you have to play it conservative for nearly twenty miles.

Ben insisted on running with me, which made me nervous for a few reasons.  First, longer runs with me are difficult for him because my pace is that much slower than his.  This wreaks havoc on his knees and endurance because his body is trained to handle the distance at a different pace, drawing fuel from his blood and stores at different rates.  Second, knowing he runs faster than me often leads me to run faster so I'm not boring him with my turtle pace.  He knows of both of these, so it wasn't surprising when I told him I'd be running my race; if he really did want to run with me, he would have to be comfortable slowing down when I felt like I need to do so.  He seemed fine with it, which I was grateful for.  I was looking forward to running with him, but didn't want it to be a miserable race for him either.

So, with that food and pace background, off we went to the start line.  We decided to seed somewhere between 3:45 and 4:00.  I hadn't put much thought into my finish time, but decided I wanted a sub-4:00 finish.

Off goes the gun and so begins our shuffle to the start line.  We kept up with a good clip to start the race with some good excitement.  I kept an eye on my pace and perceived effort, knowing a great race can be lost in the first mile or two if pace isn't respected.  However, when I glanced at my watch at the first mile and saw a solid 10:00, I was nervous.  I felt like I was running too fast, but ten minute mile?!  It wasn't possible.  I decided to put it out of my mind and just run.

We soon turned on to Guadalupe, which has a quick downhill.  I played it conservative, not wanting to blow whatever pace it was that I was holding and burn through too much energy and enthusiasm; I knew the later miles of the race would reward me if I was patient in getting to them.  We whipped on to Cesar and hooked it on to South Congress for the trek to Highway 71.  The crowd of runners was overwhelming and we focused on getting to the full-half split without smacking someone.  Then I cooled my jets because I realized, in all actuality, there was someone behind me who wanted to smack me, too.  Oops.  Sorry friends.

We hooked around on 71 to head back toward downtown on South First.  South First can be another trap for the unweary with some fast downhills closer to downtown.  This course is so incredible and hits so many wonderful parts of Austin, it's difficult not to get carried away and let the excitement lead to faster paces.  This was around the fourth or fifth time I turned to Ben, "Let's pull back just a bit.  Okay, this is good."  I had no idea what my pace was.

Thankfully, Ben knows not to let me know how fast--or slow--we actually are running.  I have a very simple running watch:  start, stop, reset.  I don't like to know my pace, because then I start doing math in my head.  Things go awry.  It isn't pretty.

As we rounded mile nine, I was more curious to see how Freescale would handle the infamous LIVESTRONG Yellow Mile (Freescale just recently took over the Austin Marathon from the LIVESTRONG Foundation).  They were handing out Gatorade chews or something, but it wasn't as enthusiastic as the Yellow Mile.  Regardless, spectators always are incredible human beings, so it was more appreciated than ever!

With that, we made the quiet climb up, over, and under Mopac toward the half-full split.  I was looking forward to some more space on the road, some quiet miles, and the halfway mark.  It thins out remarkably after the split, naturally, and allows the runners manage their race more easily.  This was the case today, thankfully.

However, the split also brings it with it the rolling hills of Tarrytown.  "Run by perceived effort," I reminded Ben myself.  There was no need to blast up and down these hills without having run half the race yet.  We rolled through the hills and soon were crossing back over Mopac for "the back nine" (Okay, back six-ish), as I like to call them.  These middle miles of any marathon tend to be the least populated with spectators and bowls of orange slices.  They are quiet.  They are dark.  They are at the far edges of town.  And they are where the WALL resides.

Well, I decided I didn't have much time for the Wall this year.  I was having a decent race, keeping a good pace, and managed to get my paws on some orange slices.  So, around mile 21 or 22, I shouted out to the rest of my comrades:  "Come on Runners!  This isn't the Wall, it's a GATE!"  I got a few chuckles, but the real benefit was to myself.  I realized I was getting so much strength from humor, smiling, and responding to spectator signs and comments.  Keeping a sense of humor is incredible and so uplifting at later stages, it appears!

I began reminiscing about this part of the course last year.  Last year, my knees were aching, my heart was pounding, I was beyond dehydrated, and I was disoriented.  I pulled over at one point and nearly folded over to the ground from it all.  I didn't have a great race that year, despite getting a finish.  It wasn't pretty.  I'm sure I'd been doing math, too.  Just awful.

This year, I wasn't running on a cloud, but I was pounding out the miles with resolve and, quite frankly, gumption.  I chose against more water or oranges, as my stomach was sloshing and quite acidic, but I had a LARA bar in my back pocket should things get hairy.

They didn't.

Somehow, the final 10K of the marathon flew by with little comment.  We looped through Allandale, down North Loop, and finally right on Duval.  Duval:  that final stretch of the typical Austin race.  Down, down, down Duval.  Ticking off the numbered blocks:  45th…38th…35th…32nd…30th…DEAN KEETON.  On down past DKR and the Alumnae Center, with an extended throwing of the Horns as we passed the Texas Wranglers (*swoon*), loop't around to deposit one onto San Jacinto.  Good ole SanJac, you jerk of a clever character, you!  That's where you see the final turn to the final down hill to the final timing mat:  the finish line.  Before you get to the final turn to the final down hill to the final timing mat, however, you see two bumps.  These are hills.  Twenty five miles ago, they would've been laughable.  Now, however, they are gut wrenching.

This is the point in any run when Ben and I stop talking to one another and we connect on this really strange level about who steps where and who sidesteps what and who jumps off the curb for a moment and how close we take that turn or are we skipping over the railroad tracks?  Or shuffling?  Gotcha, let's get it done:  head down, shoulders back, get it done, honey.  Oh, and what's for breakfast?

That was us today.  We caught a (fifth?!) glimpse of Misha and Kelsey at about 800 meters to go.  Their sign offered extra power if I hit a specified spot on the sign, so I thought I'd give it a shot.  Turns out I didn't have quite enough energy to do that, but I suppose it turned out alright.

Those hills, though, they were staring us down, chuckling to one another:  "Look at these fools!," they guffawed!  One foot in front of the other; that much less enthusiasm in my fist pump at the mention of "Go Team Kate!" But closer we were getting and, finally, we were at the top of the final hill and making the second to final turn.

At that point, we heard our names called out by Haleigh & Co., a dear running friend of mine.  This was just the final kick we needed.  We saw two or three runners in front of us making the final turn.  This was it.

I turned to Ben, nodded toward the outside, and we made the pass.  Our elbows took a 90-degree angle; our hands became flat and aerodynamic; our cadence doubled.  There it was:  the finish line of our first marathon run together.  As I got closer, I saw that we were just under 4:00, which gave me a smile.  I was exhausted and my hips were sore from the effort, but I was still proud of the finish.

We turned to one another, kissed a sweaty and salty kiss, hugged, and got the heck out of the way.  Ben casually says:  "We're just shy of my PR."  Come again, I say?  I realize I hadn't even looked at my watch time and, of course, clock time is fairly inaccurate for official time.  My watch:  3:45:27.  I couldn't believe it!  I couldn't have expected that time on the best of days, and that certainly didn't feel like today.  It was a hard fought run and well run, but it didn't feel like a 3:45!

I'm still reeling from the finish and now understanding why everything hurts so very much.  We're both in awe of the day and know this will be a great start ago our 2014 race season.

Lessons for Me to Remember:  Keep it conservative and run by effort; taking a peak at the course and elevation profile at least the night before isn't a terrible idea either.  Listen to your body and what you actually need, not what your plan or that magazine tells you.  Eat a variety of carbs and proteins early in the week prior and eat carbs the day of; this remains the extended carb-loading that is suggested, with a "top off" twist that seemed to work very well for me.  Run with your husband.

Great race, great day, and great people.  We can't wait for next year!

Austin Marathon
3:49:06
Age Group:  38th (of 291)
Overall:  620th (of 3,593)
Gender:  128 (of 1,407)

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