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.

Pandora's Box of Rox Marathon (May 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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