Come Pick Me Up: Way Too Cool 50K 3/4/2017

“Maybe you'll rest sometime, I wish I could.”- Ryan Adams

 

I'm driving up to Cool on race morning. It is early, the roads are dark. Ryan Adams is live at Carnegie Hall, finishing his concert with “Come Pick Me Up”. The harmonica is intoxicating. It's a song about pain, about love, about loss, about uncertainty. It's about the ties of love that bind us, even while they may break us. And I'm on this road, because despite being five days removed from a pneumonia diagnosis, I don't know how to let her go. Running pulls me in with her smile, her glance, her old love letter. She drives me in a way that others don't. She is beyond intoxicating for me. I have no desire to let her go.

 

I have made many bargains with myself this past week. I have gone through the stages of grief. I have come to terms with the fact that I will not start this race. I have been running for nearly 10 years and yet, the time has come. Time to take the first DNS (did not start). I was there Wednesday, in bed at 7 pm, feeling like crud. I was still fighting the thought. By Thursday, after another night of limited sleep from coughing, I have acquiesced. I will not start. I'm not sure when I can run again. My goals for Boston have gone by the wayside. I will be stuck in another floundering race year like 2016. I try valiantly to sit there. I accept defeat. And then, I retract it.

 

This race day may not come, but I am not lost. I will heal, I will run again. I will modify what goals I need to. But I will keep my eye on the prize. I will keep my eyes on the celebration that will be Boston, where I will find joy, regardless of what time my body can muster. I return to gratitude. I return to hope. I wait in patience. I am feeling better. My appetite is returning. My brain is less foggy. I am mildly productive. I am carb loading, just in case. In case I feel better, I will consider my options.

 

I sleep well Thursday night; three pillows and sleeping with body tilted on my right side seems to be the solution. By Friday, I feel better. It's amazing what sleep can do. I meet with Lorena for coffee. I am optimistic. If I continue to feel well and sleep well, I will start tomorrow. If I start feeling worse, I won't start. If I feel worse as the race gets going, I will drop. These are the only conditions under which I will run. This is not an "all in" situation. It is an exit strategy that I must be absolutely willing to take; if I can't accept the exit, the starting would be folly.

Reasons to Run.

 

So, driving to Cool, I reflect on my love of running. I reflect on the complications she can create at times. I also absolutely understand her mystique. I understand the love she gives in return. I arrive at the race start a couple of hours pre-race. I grab a photo of the sunrise; these are also the reasons to run. I pick up my bib, note my cotton race shirt. Apparently, I'm motivated to run 31 miles for a frog cupcake, because the shirt is not a selling point. I've wanted to run this race for years, but have always had a conflict with my daughter's gymnastics schedule. It's one of the few iconic local races I have not managed (well, save for that run from Squaw). I have been running the trails since October. I have trained tirelessly on the course, through storms, through rivers, through mud fests. I have done my back to back long runs. And for whatever goals I had pre-pre-race, I have let those go. Stay healthy and don't be stupid. The goals have been simplified. Pull the plug if you must, just don't make yourself worse.

 

I meet up with Azi before the race. We have been training together and I am excited for her as she will become an ultramarathoner today. I also see Marc (a stud runner who I know from swimming) and Paul (fellow ultrarunner in training for his 2nd Western States) pre-race. The time is ticking down and the masses line up near the starting arch. This is a huge trail race and the runners have been divided in two waves; Azi and I joke about our predicted Ultrasignup finish times that have placed us in the first wave. I’m not sure Justin Bieber is the best pre-race start selection: “you should go and love yourself.” (The intent of the song is quite the opposite.) I settle towards the back of that pack.  We wish each other well and are ready to start.

With Azi at the Start!

 

The first mile is pavement. I'm not worried about time today. The goal had been sub 6 hours pre-pneumonia. Most prior Strava course readings have the course at 30 miles, so the goal had been to stay under a 12 minute pace per mile (5 miles per hour, 6 hours). I figure I might end up somewhere closer to 7 hours, assuming I can make the finish today. The watch will not by my concern and will not dictate the push or the pace today. I just run with the crowd, working to warm up. I'm am working to moderate my effort, not to find its limits. We hit the end of the pavement and join the Olmstead Loop. I stay to the far right of the fireroad, giving myself space so that I don't feel the need to push the initial downhill. I've been off the trails for two weeks (since my hypothermia/ asthma attack day here on 2/17) and am gathering my trail legs back. I am timid in my footing. My calves are tight. My legs feel like I haven't run in forever. It's been six days; that's about the same, right? We head down to Knickerbocker Creek. I take my time crossing, planting my feet, not really caring how high the water is. I veer again to the right heading back up the hill. I know the climbs will be the hardest on my lungs, so I will not test them. My lungs still feel tight.

 

I am not feeling great. But I am not feeling horrible either. I am working to be patient. I continue moving with the conga line as we drop in and out of sections of single track trail. And wherever this days goes for me, I can at least appreciate the terrain. The trails are infinitely more runnable than they were two weeks ago. They are worlds better than they have been in the past three months. Two weeks ago was a mud slosh slog of a run with high and cold waters in between stretches comprised of more sliding than running. The trails greeting me today actually make you want to run on them and make the course prettier than my usual forays in Cool. I can even hear frogs croaking as we step through the waterways. I finally appreciate the race mascot.

 

But my body isn't quite right. My lungs are tight. I am not wheezing, but my breathing is restricted. My left foot is going numb. It did this at Redding and on a training run here two weeks ago. I attributed the sensation to the steep downhill at Redding and to my insole a couple weeks back. Now I am more worried that something more problematic is at hand.  Four miles in, I pull to the side of the trail and quickly adjust my shoe, hoping to correct the issue. Azi passes by me and checks on how I'm faring. I advise not great and that I may drop when I reach the start again at mile 8. I am coming to terms that this may just be a $150 8-mile race day.  I get moving and hang behind Azi. We have a conversation with some other gals on the trails. This has me identified as "the sick one" for the remainder of my day. And somewhere in that 5th or 6th mile, I start feeling better. I push on, move past Azi, and start getting my groove back. My lungs finally feel as though they have warmed up. My foot is gradually regaining sensation. I am improving in my mud and water navigation skills. I am starting to find some peace on the trails.

Hey, I figured I'd grab a photo of Azi passing me by!

 

Miles 1-8: 9:03, 12:08, 11:00, 12:36, 11:03, 11:08, 11:25, 11:30

 

 

In to the first aid station at mile 8, I feel steady again. My race will not end here; I will leave my car behind. I quickly fuel up on boiled potatoes with salt and grab some electrolyte. I thank Katy for helping out, though my brain is not working as I misname her and then realize it isn’t right. Not sure if it’s race brain or the residual infected body talking, I apologize. Azi comes in just behind me. She is doing well, looking strong, though comments that it’s harder than she expected. I head off, out of Cool. Jeff passes me by: a triathlete friend tackling his first ultra (which he will claim as his last by day’s end). My brain still seems a bit foggy as it takes me a minute to recognize him. I wish him well as he sails off, figuring he must have been in the 2^nd wave, given his pace. Past the meadows in Cool, I feel my stride kicking in. I leave my worries behind and surge forward.

 

The next stretch of trail covers my favorite local miles comprising a gradual downhill through single track in the forest. I drop my Strava PR through this stretch. I reach my favorite turn, take a wide right into the left turn, arms in airplane position. A runner behind me tells me to “fly girl!” This is the stretch where I always feel like a kid, just playing, breezing through the forest. This is the joy that these trails entail for me. Two weeks ago, I could only slowly walk through these miles as my asthma was flaring on the hypothermia day. No doubt that prompted my subsequent pneumonia. But, today, you will not take me down! I sail. I reach highway 49, cross the road, greet Gordy who directs us on to the Quarry Trail. (It’s all his fault, this ultra nonsense….) I am still flying, using the gentle decline of the fireroad to propel me along. And all I am thinking is how fast this course is. I mean crazy, MF’ing fast! My watch clicks the 11 mile mark in 2 hours flat (10:54 pace); I am a mile ahead of schedule. I am not pushing by any means, but I am just rolling!

The speedy Quarry Trail.

 

 

Miles 9-16: 10:16, 10:27, 10:16, 9:15, 11:57, 10:24, 12:07, 10:03.

 

I use a slight incline another mile out to eat my food. Course familiarity makes the fueling easier as I know when to expect the hills. There are ever so gentle rollers, but the fireroad is a speedway as far as trail terrain is considered. I reach the half marathon mark: 2:23 (10:54 pace). I am quickly in and out of the aid station a mile further down the road, then happy to join up on another stretch of single track, if nothing else, for the scenery. As we run closer to the river, I chat for a bit with a guy from Oakland awaiting the SD100 waitlist. The conversation is interesting, but challenges my lung capacity. I eventually feel a surge of energy and run forward, as running faster seems to be easier than talking. The terrain has shifted with recent rains, leading to washed out sections of the trail and a sudden sandy beach in my path. I move beyond the beach and back up the hill. I am moving, still feeling strong. I push, trying to catch up with the next set of feet ahead of me, trying not to get overtaken by the feet behind me.  I do this all the way to the creek, cross it steadily, then head up the next mini climb.

 

Who says you canlt grab a selfie while running a 9:15 mile?

In the next stretch of single track, I pass the guy running this in sandals. I can’t even fathom the concept. The half way point is reached in 15.5 miles and 2:49 (10:54 pace). Trails are normally not quite so metronomic, even for me. We cross the two forks of Hobeken Creek; water crossings no longer phase me after months of them. There is a climb out as we work to rejoin the Western States Trail. Again, I work on fueling as I power hike up. When the terrain flattens out, I am back to rolling again. I lead a short train with some fellow runners and we are chugging along. The amount of energy I feel through this section is ridiculous. We are 20 miles in to an ultra. There is no wall. I have found my endurance. I am pleased as can be with how I am feeling. My lungs are fine and staying steady. As long as I avoid coughing, I know I can avoid the dreaded bronchospasm that might derail me. 20 miles in in 3:44 (11:12 pace). I have given back a wee bit of time on the climb (which totaled 700+ ft over 3 miles), but am nearly two-thirds of the way through the race and am 16 minutes ahead of ideal (healthy) schedule. 21 miles in, our mini train drops a 9:29 mile. It suddenly backs up though as we catch roughly 15 runners in a conga line ahead of us. It’s not clear to me what has happened, but I also know we are now spitting distance from the Auburn Lakes Trails aid station. I rein in my patience. I drop to the aid station, grab some potatoes and saltines and go; they have no electrolyte poured (I have a backup in my pack if needed). I move as I have no interest in the larger, slower conga line formation.

 

Miles 17-24: 10:41, 13:27, 15:31, 10:25, 9:29, 11:17, 9:57, 10:33.

 

I cross the next creek and continue on the forested single track. There will be the periodic tree limb to climb over, but the trail is infinitely runnable. I pick up a couple of other gals and we have a mini train moving again. This is fun and I continue feeling good. What I notice most is that my endurance is everything I had trained for. My body may still be fighting off infection and my lungs may be partially obstructed by the pneumonia infiltrates, but at my core, my endurance is intact. I don’t tire. I could have a sulking moment, knowing today’s performance on this course will not speak to my potential. Instead, I am just eager to return minus the pneumonia. This course is PR worthy. And while, I know today’s race for me will be far off of my PR, I only need to have that glimpse of potential. It’s this thing about magic that I was reflecting on earlier in the week: magical days, magical courses, magical races. This course will have that for me another year. I just look forward to returning. In the meantime, I’m savoring the moment and enjoying the pneumonia run of my life!

 

The course is so fast though that I don’t want to stop. I have no interest in slowing down. In the 24^th mile, I start to feel not-quite-right. I feel ever so slightly dizzy. A quick check and I realize, aside from a couple of potatoes at mile 21, I last ate during the climb at mile 18. Whoops! I pull to the side, shove some food in my face, and walk briefly to digest the calories. I have disrupted the mini train and let the other gals go ahead; they were both kind enough to thank me for my pacing. I am quickly back on track and in the game again. Sailing, I drop a 9:20 26^th mile. I don’t run 9 minute miles on the trails; well, rarely. And there’s no way this should be happening at this juncture in an ultra. But, damn, is it ever fun! Close to the marathon point, we hit the course reroute. This involves a steep climb and then a steep descent to gather us back to the firetrail to connect with the steepest climb of the course up to Goat Hill. I connect with Paul here; he was running gangbusters through 23 miles and then hit a bit of a bonk.

 

I move on up Goat Hill. The climb is steep (+500 ft in less than a mile), though thankfully not too long. The marathon point is reached in 4:48 (11:00 pace). I am tired when I reach the top, refill my pack, drink some electrolyte, shove what calories I can down my throat. I won’t stop at the last aid station, so need to get what I can here while I catch my breath.  The descent I feel is worse than the climb. There is this illusion as you go down a hill that you should be sailing. But this descent is technical and could easily be ankle-spraining. It is steep and you are running down a very narrow river bed that won’t accommodate the width of both feet. This far in, I also have no interest in getting injured. I take my time, play it safe. I run the sections that are more level and tip toe through the rest. Somewhere along this stretch, I realize my Garmin is long or the course is long. I will be well over 31 miles, so my estimate of timing will not quite be right. I’ll know for sure when I hit the final aid station, but know from my familiarity with the trails that it is not within the half-mile of distance I need to break 6 hours. The fact that I’m even this close is a miracle anyway. I will continue to push and give the course what I have left, but am at peace with whatever that clock reads.

 

Miles 25-31.61: 10:25, 9:20, 20:44, 11:35, 12:58, 12:41, 13:23, 9:24.

 

Thanks to Lorena for my mile 30+ photo!

I pop out at the Upper Quarry right after my watch has hit the 30 mile mark. I run across highway 49, while my friend Lorena is snapping pictures and cheering me on. I have no time to dawdle. I have 1.4 miles left and never even glance at the aid station, but move on through it and up the final hill to Cool. I am fairly confident in my math skills (and don’t have a 6:00 mile in me even on the best of days), but my effort does not waiver. I will finish this strong. I push and run the flatter section and the slight incline. I then have to power hike as the trail gets steeper in the final climb. I nearly go ankle deep in the mud (in the same spot I went calf deep two weeks ago…). The mud is thicker right before the terrain plateaus. Get those shoes really dirty before you call it a day! I see the sign for Cool: 0.7 miles. The clock is at 5:56. There is one volunteer, then another, then the spectators start picking up as they encourage me as I take my final right turn of the course. I am pushing and smiling. I am so happy that this race has unfolded as it has. It was beautiful; it was fun. It was even a bit on the magical side. I come across the finish line in the utmost joy!

 

6:02:39 (11:41 pace) official for 50K. #24 F40-49/117, #73 F/279, #299 OA/699

 

Garmin 31.61 miles (11:20 pace), +3819 ft, -3757 ft.

 

Cupcakes with Rhoben and Azi!

            My friend Rhoben is there to greet me at the finish line; he was so kind to come out and spectate. We walk to my car, thinking we have a bit of time before Azi comes through. I need something warm to wear and I need to change out of my wet and muddy shoes. We are walking back to the finish line to catch Azi and she has beat us. She finished her first ultra in 6:12! I couldn’t be more proud and am happy for her as she starts what will no doubt be a stellar ultra career. We hang out postrace for a bit. I make sure to get my frog cupcake; remember, that was my reason for running this thing!

 

I earned it!

 

            I understand at heart that this day could have gone wrong in so many ways. I know my decision to start at all could have been a bad one. I was about as cautious as I could be, for me. I’m working hard on listening better to my body. I took my time and waited until she told me to go. While that shift may seem a small one, it’s not. I’m known for just continuing well past the point of folly, but I never felt on that brink during the race. I was evaluating the day as it developed, pulling back when I needed to, and not pushing until I knew it was safe to do so. And yes, ultimately, it’s all running’s fault. I love her too much. I keep coming back even after the rough days. Because despite the challenges, it’s a love that drives me, that nurtures me, that satiates me. And yes, if I had to do it again, I’d have her Come Pick Me Up.