Nueces 50K (March 2013)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LIVESTRONG Marathon (February 2013)

Though I signed up for this particular race on a fluke and with a touch of flippancy, this turned in to one of the most incredible and humbling experiences of my life.  Shortly after registering for the race, I found out a team had been formed in honor of a friend of mine, Kate Voth.  Kate has been battling cancer for far too long, and at far too young of an age, yet she does so with such vibrance, faith, and a ceaseless smile.  She truly is inspiring and had influenced my running in innumerable ways.  Naturally, I immediately joined Team Kate Voth and began fundraising while training.

With something, and someone, to run for other than my own pride and for myself, the drive toward race day was much different than in races past.  For example, I was much more careful when various joints began to ache or IT bands began to bark back at me.  While I can stomach not making a trail race here or there (perhaps not well, but I'll stomach it), I did not want to miss this race.  If Kate Voth can wake up every day with heart and soul to boot, there should be nothing keeping me from running the LIVESTRONG Marathon.  Though I had to bow out of Rocky Raccoon 50M a few weeks prior, my IT band surprisingly bound back and felt as though it had never given me issues.  My pace had become slower over the past few weeks, but I knew it didn't matter how long it took me to finish the marathon. The important part of this race was the challenge and dedication I put into it, pulling Kate's name to the finish.

By race day, Kate's influence became striking.  Not only had Team Kate Voth become the largest LIVESTRONG team in the foundation's history, it also raised the most money in foundation history.  In fact, LIVESTRONG CEO, Doug Ulman, joined Team Kate in time for the gun and donated an incredible amount of money to the team as well.  As we all posed for a team photograph in front of the Texas State Capitol, my adrenaline pulsed and the butterflies began to stir.  Today was they day we ran the race Kate much rather would be running; today was the day we ran for Kate and with Kate.

While I knew the distance was surmountable, I was nervous because I hadn't had an opportunity (or the physicality) to run longer distances in some time.  Further, I'd been battling some awful GI issues due to stress over the weeks prior.  Regardless, I listened for the gun, began my start line shuffle (Feel like you're going slow?  Slow down even more.), and started the day's journey.

One thing about trail running is the distinct lack of noise, spectators, and outside energy and buzz.  I tend to find this fantastic, drawing on small and discrete amount of energy from aid station volunteers as I make my way through the course.  In fact, my tendency toward quiet and solitude made me nervous about the guaranteed high energy and massive crowds lining the LIVESTRONG course.  As an introvert (one who is physically drained by extended human interaction; not one who is shy or who is anti-social), this could be devastating on a four hour test of endurance, both mental and physical.  To compensate for what may have been a negative, I focused inward and thought about random nothings.  Get into the zone by zoning out; as I was not running trails, I knew I could just occasionally watch for an errant pothole or similar.  Just run, I told myself.  Just run.

Unfortunately, my GI issues weren't ready to stand aside for race day.  This meant I was scanning the sidelines for restrooms for, I kid you not, the entire first eleven miles of the course.  In fact, I'm sure I would have finished well under my goal had I not had this issue.  Regardless, when nature calls... (Alright, all you squeamish roadrunners, I'll stop talking about body functions.)

GI issues aside, the first eleven miles were glorious.  The race started with temperatures in the high 40s, perhaps the low 50s, and with little to no winds.  The spectators were sleepy-eyed and gave just enough to keep me charging south on Congress.  I distinctly recall recognizing how much easier it is to run in Austin.  Perhaps it is the atmosphere, the lesser amount of pollution, or simply the fact that it's Austin, but running feels much smoother there.  With this in mind, I remembered to throw a glance over my shoulder and take in the view of the Capitol from the South Congress bridge.  As always, it was stunning.

The race took us down South Congress to Highway 71.  A brief right turn, then another right turn dropped us onto South First and back toward downtown.  One of my tactics on longer runs is to break the route into manageable chunks.  The idea of running from downtown Austin to Highway 71 was a bit for me to stomach as the start of a race, so I labeled the South First section the second "chunk."  Finishing each chunk is a small, but powerful mental and psychological boost and is incredibly helpful with mental endurance, as opposed to trying to swallow the entire distance in one gulp.

South First looped us onto Cesar Chavez.  I was looking forward to this portion because of the infamous "Yellow Mile."  I had no idea what to expect (in fact, I could say this about the entire race because I'd failed to study the map more than ten or fifteen minutes total; I just knew I was running in Austin, which was all I needed to know).  However, I knew exactly what was coming as I rounded the corner on to Cesar Chavez and could hear the cheers of the "Yellow Mile."  I don't think the yellow-clad spectators or volunteers spanned a full mile, but their enthusiasm more than made up for it.  I ran down the line of them, catching each of their outstretched hands.  I'm sure my face portrayed the dumbstruck look I felt.  "Who are all of these people?  This is incredible!"  It was a very powerful moment to see so many people so jazzed to be there cheering on me, and every other runner!  Rather than being drained by the spectacle as I'd feared, this portion of the race doubled my energy.

The next few miles of the race slogged.  We dropped down to Lake Austin Boulevard for a moment, then turned on to the access road for Mopac South.  The sights weren't so inspiring.  A few hills, which I relished, to take us to the half-marathon/marathon split.  I scanned the nearby runners to see whose face betrayed their impending fear of the infamous half-marathon hill.  Though I love running hills, I was happy to turn left at the split and get in the full marathon, rather than staking my claim on the so-described "ball buster."

It was at this point in the race--around mile 11--when my GI issues ceased and I was able to pound out the miles as usual.  The sun was heating up, but there were plenty of trees along Exposition to find shade.  I was getting nervous about this part of the race, however, because this was the portion I really didn't know.  Well, I knew the area and I knew I'd love this portion of the race because I would be running in my old neighborhood and along my old running routes.  However, I didn't know exactly which portions I'd be running and how long each portion would last.  For me, I'm able to swallow those above-described manageable "chunks" only if I have a solid idea of what they look like.  I knew generalities, however, so I stuck with those:  we're not going further north than Anderson; we run parallel to Mopac for a god-awful amount of time; once you turn on to Woodrow, you're headed south to the finish.

I had my first bite to eat around the half-marathon mark, just after the 13.1 sign.  This was a nice shot to the energy levels and mental stamina, especially as I crossed the Mopac bridge at 35th Street and saw just how far in the distance downtown was, which I had to return to within the next two hours.  Off I trotted...

Miles thirteen through, oh, around nineteen or twenty were strange.  I returned to the beginner's tool of "just run to the next corner" and, once I'd arrived at the next corner, "okay, just to that speed limit sign."  I hadn't resorted to this technique in as long as I could remember, but I found myself using it nonetheless.

By the time I got to mile nineteen, the sun was much warmer and I could sense dehydration looming.  I'm not a huge eater or drinker during races.  (In fact, I ran this race on two Diet Dr. Peppers, one Lara bar, half an orange, and some water)  I'm not sure why, but it is what it is.  Regardless, I needed something BRIGHT and I need something with some liquid.  There they were, bright and dripping with juice:  ORANGES.  I grabbed a wedge and dug in; it was the most delicious orange I have ever tasted.  As someone who eats oranges by the buckets, this is quite the compliment.  The break in the running also clued me in to my need to get some water, so I downed about two cups of water and kept moving.

It was around this time that I began to play cat-and-mouse with the guy who ran with two tires strapped to his shoulders.  I kept thinking this guy must have gone through some hardship and is proving to himself, or someone, of his toughness and resolve to power through whatever may be ahead of him.  I offered help when he seemed to need it, though he never took me up on it.  For these reasons, when he crossed the finish line ahead of me, I didn't feel too bad for being beat by the guy who ran with tires.  I later found out he did it just for fun; I now feel bad the guy with tires strapped to his shoulders "for fun" beat me.  Anyways...

As I ran down North Loop and meandered toward Duval and San Jacinto, I began to realize--and take heart in the fact---that I'd run this before, twice in fact, if not more times.  This portion of the race is lifted straight from the 3M half-marathon course.  I took stock and realized I felt better at mile twenty three than I did at mile ten or eleven during my first running of the 3M half marathon.  This gave me a bit of a boost and a touch of heart to pull it in to the finish line.

I was drained though, nearly empty, with the fuel indicator falling swiftly.  As the finish loomed, the orange-bearing spectators dwindled in favor of waiting at the finish line.  I kept trudging, waiting for that moment when something would trigger my legs to kick it, as I call the phenomenon.  The first time I experienced this was during my first 3M half-marathon.  I saw some folks walking around with their medals and I wanted one more than I could believe.  Suddenly, my legs felt fresh (-ish) and off I sprinted to the finish line to claim what was mine.  In each Cactus Rose 50M finish, I've suddenly been imbued with energy from places I didn't know it existed, most notably during my 2012 finish.  My finishes tend to look like the strongest parts of my races, or so my imagination leads me to believe.

I can't recall when that moment occurred during the LIVESTRONG Marathon, but I know it was fueled by the fire and tenacity of Kate Voth.  Throughout the race, in my lowest of moments, I drew on her passion.  She and I have talked on numerous occasions about her passion for running, and how sad she is to thinks he may never be able to run again.  This kept me running, in spite of pain, fatigue, or simple sheer boredom.  Suddenly, my legs took off in a sprint I had never known myself to be capable of.  I turned the corner and there was the finish.  I felt my arms shoot up like the winner's do at every major race.  And yes, the tears began to well up in my eyes.  I'd finished a race that meant more to me, and more to someone else, and I was so proud of it.  I'd finished the run for Kate Voth.  Yet somehow, what I perceived as me doing something for someone else, suddenly became Kate Voth doing something for me:  she gave me perspective, a renewed passion, and an unbreakable drive.  How does she do that?

The LIVESTRONG Marathon was a race for the ages.  I cannot wait to run it again next year, again in Kate's honor.  I pray daily she will be able to join us next year, this time with a race bib and timing chip.  Thank you Team LIVESTRONG, Team Kate Voth, and Mrs. Voth, herself.  An absolutely amazing day...

Austin LIVESTRONG Marathon
Austin, Texas
4:24:13

Rhythm & Blues Half Marathon (February 2013)

When did the day come when I am comfortable signing up for a half-marathon two days prior and being wholly unconcerned with the possibility of not finishing?  These races are the ones that remind me of the progress I've made in my running in the past two years.  

My Mom told me she planned to run the Rhythm and Blues Half Marathon on Sunday, February 10, but she was running solo.  Knowing I wasn't entirely comfortable with this idea, she offered to register me for the race and we'd make a mother-daughter morning of it.  

We wiled away the minutes before the race shielding each other from the wind and threat of rain, gossiping and people watching.  We'd agreed beforehand we would not and should not run together.  We aren't that kind of mother-daughter team:  do your own thing, I'll see you later.  That's us. 

So, the gun went off and so did we.  Three loops up and down Allen Parkway with a slight detour into Downtown Houston.  Loops, how I loathe thee.  They are mentally challenging, monotonous, and awkward.  Where's the imagination?  There is none.  I've seen that building five times now.  Where am I actually running to?  Right back to this point for the third time.  

Up until the morning of this half-marathon, I'd been battling some GI issues of an unknown source.  Thankfully, they seemed to stave off during the morning hours and leave me free to log some miles.  At the same time, I was incredibly dehydrated and didn't realize it until I was starting the second loop of three, finding myself doubled over with a cramp.  "Take it easy! Keep running, you're doing just fine!," one spectator reassured me.  I have to admit, the arrogant ultra-runner in me wanted to throw a number of expletives his way.  Instead, I tried to control the irritation in my voice at bay as I said, "Yeah!  I'm doing fine!"

On top of the dehydration, the day offered incredible humidity.  This simply exacerbated my dehydration as I lost more fluids than usual.  As a result, I felt incredibly sluggish.  In fact, I felt as though I were running with concrete blocks on my feet.

But, I kept going.  I wanted a finish.  I wanted a medal.  And I wanted to call this weekend a success.  So, I kept moving.  I people watched as the miles ticked by.  I watched the first loop come and go, then the second, and finally the third began.  Slog, step, slog, step, slog, step.  Onward and forward.  My mental strategies were going in full force:  relentless forward progress.  Just keep moving.  Everything is temporary.  Imagine the finish.  Kick it, kick it, just kick it.

I'll say this wasn't the most difficult half marathon I have done, but I will say it was a surprising challenge.  It also was a very satisfying finish because, in spite of my feeling of slog and slug, I finally broke the sub-2:00 goal for a half-marathon finish (1:55:49)!  I also finished eighth in my age group, out of about ninety-two!  I'll take it.  

Rhythm & Blues Half-Marathon

Houston, Texas

1:55:49 

Rocky Raccoon 50M (February 2013)

Last year, I signed up for this race with a bit of that well-known twenty-something arrogance.  "I've run Cactus Rose 50M.  I certainly can run Rocky Raccoon.  Please, bother me with something more challenging."  Even without taking into account every other stressor affecting my performance last year, had all conditions been perfect, I'm not sure it would have been a finish then.

This year, I signed up in the middle of the Texas Bar Exam, scared the race would fill up before I finished the three-day exam.  Unfortunately, this meant I didn't think too much on what I might be asking of myself to run Rocky Raccoon 50M.  My training to that point had been stellar, but I was training for Cactus Rose.  Being an incredibly grueling race, Cactus Rose takes quite a bit of bite out of a runner.  It seems I'd already forgotten this.  Further, I signed up for Rocky Raccoon out of a need for vengeance:  no race bests me and gets away with it!  Well, as we'll see, this isn't the best motivation for me and tends to wear on me more than the race itself.  Mistake Number 1:  Allowing negative emotions to motivate a race finish.

Regardless, I found myself at race week having told maybe a handful of people, as opposed to dozens (a strategy I have to keep me honest).  I hadn't planned my aid station strategy, nutrition strategy, or much less packed at all.  In fact, I hadn't even been tracking the weather obsessively.  As the days ticked by, it looked like it would be a game day decision kind of race.  Mistake Number 2:  Inadequate planning in preparation for the race.

Finally, up until race day I'd continued running through IT band issues.  I believe these resurfaced after being dormant for a year or so due to a number of factors.  With about a week of wind, rain, and colder weather, I'd begun running on a treadmill at the gym, which tends to change a runner's form if the runner isn't careful.  I was not careful.  Unfortunately, this meant the last two weeks or so before Rocky were spent logging miles on the elliptical and with little weight training or stretching designed to stabilize the knees and hips as necessary to alleviate IT band problems.  Mistake Number 3:  Not listening to my body or watching form in all conditions.

So, we arrived at Huntsville State Park and knew it would be beautiful weather and essentially perfect race conditions.  If there was a finish in me today, I was certain it would be a Western States 100 qualifying time.  The conditions were that perfect.  Unfortunately, such was not in the cards for me.  My need for vengeance simply didn't last through even a single loop.  Then, I felt a slight twinge in my IT band and began thinking about my race season.  In the next two months, I had planned on running the LIVESTRONG Austin Marathon, the Nueces 50K (my favorite race of the season), and the Army Marathon in Temple, Texas.  Throw in the necessary training miles and the next few months were running heavy.  Moreover, these three races, I realized, meant more to me than any vengeance finish at Rocky Raccoon.  At bottom, I lawyer'd myself:  rational thought and reasonableness won the day.

In short:  by the time I came into Park Road Aid Station, I'd made the decision to drop from the race again.  I wasn't willing to risk blowing out my knee on an additional thirty seven however easy miles just to say I'd bested the beast of Rocky Raccoon, the most underestimated of Joe's races.

Who knows if I'll ever get a finish at Rocky Raccoon.  Quite frankly, I'm not sure I care.  It is not my personality of a race.  It is a fast course, a flat course, and a smooth course.  There are no peaks, no climbs, no cacti, and no obvious challenges.  Perhaps this is the kind of challenge I need to overcome:  doing something for the sake of doing it, rather than "proving" something by the act of it all.  Again, who knows.  At the end of the day, I am confident with the fact that I DNF'd at Rocky Raccoon with my eye on the real prizes of this race season:

Running 26.2 miles in honor of Kate Voth at the LIVESTRONG Austin Marathon.  Running with my closest of trail buddies at my most favorite of trail races, the Nueces 50K.  Running another 26.2 with my Mom in honor of my Dad, Gordy McQuire, at the Army Marathon.

There are better things in life than proving one can "just do it."  Sometimes those things are knowing when to say "when" and focus on what's really important.  I think I learned that lesson rather easily today.  However, knowing me, I'll need to learn it again, and again, and again.  Thankfully, this is why I run, and run, and run...

Happy trails.

Schrodi Fund's Run Like the Wind 6 Hour Race

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cactus Rose 50M (October 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few observations.

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

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

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

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

Next Year:  sub-12:00.

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

Life's Mileage: Blessings from the Trail

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

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

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

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