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Saturday, October 21, 2017

There Is No Other Troy for Me to Burn: Cuyamaca 100K 10/7/2017






                This race started on August 27, 2017. While it was the day my name came off the waitlist for Cuyamaca 100K, it was, more importantly, the day I started to find my wings again. It was roughly 105 degrees on the exposed and steep terrain of Mount Diablo. I summited Diablo twice during the brutal 50K, managing the most climbing I have done in a 50K race, while easily clocking my hottest race ever. It was a day when records were made for me, including my Personal Worst 50K, by well over an hour. I even managed to be the 2nd female Overall in the race, out of 2 (it seems my competitors dropped to more reasonable distances given the conditions). But after things falling apart for me at Canyons (a month with a clogged ear and 40 miles of pain up and down the canyons did me in) and at Tahoe (asthma that I gave way to 70+ miles in), I just needed something to prove to myself that I could still do this. The logical test was seeing the weather forecast before Diablo 50K predicting hellish temperatures and signing up to meet my nemesis head on.

I’ve been known to crumble in the heat, to lose my confidence, to wilt. I needed to get some of my swagger back, something sadly lacking in my running life for the better part of a year and a half.  I went to Diablo the last weekend in August and I survived. I didn’t falter, I managed the smothering heat of the day, the dust, the exposed trails. And I flourished despite a lack of ice on course and hours of lukewarm fluids. I even passed a fair number of runners on the back half to garner that OA placing. In the final miles down the mountain, I trucked along, repeatedly playing Sinead O’Connor’s “Troy” on my phone. It’s actually the only time I have played music on any trail race.  And it was just the one song for roughly 2 miles. “I will rise, and I will return, the Phoenix from the flame.” After 8.5+ hours, this Phoenix was ready for Cuyamaca.  

Cuyamaca 100K sits in the mountains about an hour outside of San Diego at 4000-6500 ft of elevation. YouTube course previews indicated I was in for exposed desert terrain and some technical stretches. The total climb of the course did not have me concerned at just under 9000 ft and would actually be the lowest of any 100K I have done (Miwok, Quicksilver, Canyons) by a substantial amount. While October might signal reasonable temperatures, the fact that I had registered for the race no doubt sent the temperatures soaring. My track record for stumbling upon unseasonably warm races is uncanny at this juncture: LAM ’16, Boston ’16, IM CdA ’16, Boston ’17, Canyons ’17, TRT ’17.  The high for the day where I was staying in El Cajon was predicted to be around 95 degrees; the mountains might be spared with highs in the mid to upper 80s. At least it was no Diablo!

Going in to the race, I had one simple goal: finish under 17 hours. I needed to pick up the Western States 100 qualifier to salvage five years of work and maintain my streak in the lottery. I have had that seemingly simple goal previously this year, but my health had other ideas at Canyons and TRT. I joined a bevy of last chancers needing the WS qualifier at Cuyamaca. In fact, I think I only ran with one person all day who was not a last chancer, as the qualifying window for WS 2018 will close in a month. I was feeling comfortable in the days pre-race. I was fairly Zen about the process and the outcome. Either I would get it done or I wouldn’t. If I came up short, I could then choose to start up my quest for WS again next year or I could have the freedom to finally let it go.

I had trained, two months since Tahoe with long trail runs back to back with long road roads, solid volume with many heat days. I was healthy, or as healthy as I may expect to be; a mild cough creeped up due to my asthma in the pre-race week with extra doses of albuterol taken to try to improve my lung capacity. After Canyons, I was ready to step away from, or really, run away from this WS quest. After Tahoe, I was just blue, but I wanted one last chance. Shortly before Cuyamaca, I registered for my 2019 WS 100 qualifying race (Sean O’Brien 100K). I knew I would need another qualifier after I completed Cuyamaca. My patience with the process was returning, as well as the confidence that I could and would finish the race and earn my ticket for States.




I had a pace chart for my race. The goal was 16 hours; I figured I’d be optimistic, while giving myself an hour buffer. Race morning was cold, feeling much cooler than the predicted low 50s. The racers kept warm at Camp Cuyamaca in a school building. I donned my arm sleeves (for cooling, but perfect too for the cold) and my gloves. We congregated outside by the Start/Finish arch minutes before the 6:30 am race start for quick instructions by the race director (which color ribbons to follow for which of the 3 loops of the race). I wished Lorena and Rick well; they would likely be running together. I also wished Caolan and her friend Gabe well. I think Caolan was amused by my clothing choice: Kettle Moraine 100 shirt and TRT 100 visor to start. Both races had been DNFs for me; there may just be something therapeutic, or motivating, about wearing your failures.  Light came earlier to Cuyamaca than home and there was ample light as the race set off.

With Rick and Lorena before the swamp crossing: mile 0.25.



We ran down a firetrail to start our first of three loops, which would return us to the Start in 31+ miles. As warned, within a quarter of a mile, there was a log jam as runners carefully traversed a section of creek/swamp littered with unstable tree branches (the only water crossing area for the whole race). I bid goodbye to Lorena and Rick after the crossing and worked to settle in to my race. My pace starting out was strong as the terrain was a runnable mix of non-technical single track and fire roads through to the first aid station. I just went by effort, knowing it was way too early to be concerned about pace. My left calf was seizing on me, cramping, creating sharp digs of pain. This has become more standard than I would care for, lasting its usual few miles, followed by the numbness in my left foot. I remained calm, plodding along on the foot I couldn’t feel, trusting my eyes to avoid a misstep. This usually passes within a few miles. Per its usual pattern, I was fine by mile 5 or 6 with the left leg and foot finally warmed up and again functional. My lungs also like to play the same game. Patience. Patience.




I had two bracelets on my arm: patience. gratitude. Patience for the pacing, patience for any challenges, patience for the length of the day. Gratitude for the ability to be here in the first place. Gratitude for the views I would experience. Gratitude for the people I would meet along the journey. And the views? I expected desert. But this was much prettier than just desert. The moon was present as daylight ascended, the glowing white globe on the horizon to my right. There was decidedly more vegetation than I had anticipated and it was more green (albeit shrubs and bushes with minimal trees) than I had envisioned. I was pleasantly surprised that my eyes would be tantalized along the way.




Just before the first aid station, runners are coming my way and I realize it’s a quick out and back. I love this element in ultras to be able to cheer on fellow runners. I get my greetings flowing and fill myself up with the reciprocity. In to the first aid station, Caolan is just ahead of me, but she goes to the side to the restroom maybe. Kelly cheers me in- she is a friend of mutual friends who I often come across during ultras. I grab some food as I refill my flask, dropping my electrolyte powder in (Tailwind on course; I will not repeat the Canyons 2016 fiasco). I grab some potatoes and am gone. I am consistent with eating on my own every five miles, taking my power gel energy blasts (I’ve brought out the expired final cola ones for this one!) and S-caps. 

Mile 8.4 in 1:28 (10:28). (Note: I wasn’t going that fast, but the course and aid stations all read longer than my Garmin; the times listed are the official record.)

On the way out, I have my camera ready as runners are going in. A short ways out, I catch some great photos of Lorena and Rick as they run past and wish them well. Both look happy as everyone should be at 1/8th of the way through. I then grab a picture of Tyler (who I trained with during a prior Boston cycle) and half of her friend Curt (who is recovering from a chainsaw to knee incident).  Soon, I veer to the left to follow our detour as we drop back on to single track. We hit the first stretch of technical terrain with some rocks as we climb in serpentine fashion maintaining our conga line formation. The effect of desert terrain is keenly felt as sharp bushes scrape at my legs and as my hand starts weeping blood from some prickly bush I have intruded upon. While it takes a while for the 6 miles to the next aid station, the time is passing without incident, keeping my mind on patience and maintaining an easy effort. We pop out at the next aid station and it is becoming warm. I refill the pack with ice and water, fill my flask with electrolyte powder and water, then put on my coolant towel. The next stretch is 9 miles up the largest climb of the race, so I fuel with candy and fruit and a cookie that is too dry for my tastes.  I sponge off before heading out, soaking my arm sleeves in cold water. It is 9:13 am and we are in the desert.

 

Mile 14.2 in 2:43 (11:28 average; 12:55 section pace).

I know the next 9 miles might be toughest of the day (they won’t be, but the whole course was new to me). There is a long stretch of fire road that ascends. Caolan and I reconnect through this stretch as I grab some photos while taking in the views. Caolan and I are both in the third times a charm club (you know, 3rd WS qualifier attempt in the year…). I know her from a rescue in the Kettle last year and from getting me moving at Boston this year when I was enjoying a beer going up Heartbreak Hill. Again, everything is much better than I could have anticipated in terms of the scenery. I am grateful and sated. I try to eat some real food I have brought with me (tortilla with hummus) but it is already too hot to be digestible. I return to my fake food. Eventually, I am able to enjoy gummy bears in the heat.


 

We meet up with a few other runners as we climb the single-track miles to Cuyamaca Peak, gaining 2500 ft to crest at 6500 ft. InknBurn shirt man is in the lead of this train. I start to chat with Bing, who is from Houston and doing this for fun, I think? He had a qualifier from Rocky Raccoon 100, had run Tahoe Rim Trail 50 (a reasonable distance, in reflection), and was doing his first 100K (well you know, not in a 100 miler… oddly, he wasn’t the only one I met that day doing the same). We agree at least this is not like the climb up Diamond Peak at TRT (grade, heat, sand). The climb is actually very, very reasonable. Incredibly so, I would say. It is gradual enough that we can maintain a decent pace hike. The views improve as we continue to ascend and the miles pass with the gratitude of easy conversation.




We reach a paved road and a kind volunteer greets us with otter pops. They may be melted, but I am grateful for the cool sugar syrup and for the gesture. I suck this down as I make my final ascent to Cuyamaca Peak. Other runners are coming down, so the mutual well-wishes also nourish my soul. There are signs of encouragement along the way. Actual signs that spread smiles on my face. I grab a photo of my favorite: “You are pretty fucking awesome. Keep that shit up.” Why, thank you! I think I will! Volunteers start to run down from the peak, eager to grab our packs to refill them or to otherwise preempt what needs we may have. One grabs my phone and takes a series of pictures of me in the final feet to the top. My pack gets refilled with ice and water and I eat some watermelon. I then pull to the side to get items I need out of my pack. I take a few hits off my inhaler, trying to do this every few hours to avoid a Tahoe repeat late in my day. I grab some photos. I check in to my flight (the alarm went off and there was reception…). I take advantage of the rare reception and post a photo and status update. I have finished the hardest climb of the race at mile 23 and 5:21 in. I get a sponge down on my way out of the aid station and head back down.




Mile 23.2 in 5:17 (13:39 average, 17:06 section pace).




I am in good spirits. I am filled with the joy that spurs me to the trails, a joy I have struggled mightily to find too many times this year. Cautious optimism is my friend. I am grateful. I remain patient as I descend. I wish Tyler and the other runners well on their way up. I turned off past popsicle man on to single track. There is some technicality, as the path is littered with rocks. I take my time, run, slow, run, slow. The views are clear and enriching. Eventually, the terrain shifts again, becoming significantly more challenging. I encounter a series of varied sized boulders. I am tip toeing through it, exercising the utmost patience. I like my ankles and will need them for the rest of this journey. InknBurn shirt man comes flying through. I comment about his daring; he is familiar with these trails. I’m quite sure no level of familiarity will ever see me bounding from one unstable rock to another the way some runners just glide through.




I feel as though I am on the Lahaina Pali trail in Maui. I didn’t recognize that hike with my husband and cousin in June as training for an ultra, but apparently it was. There are some other runners that are gingerly taking their time through the boulders as well, though many are more sure footed and easily pass by. As we are commenting upon the terrain, a gal in front of me falls, scrapping up her knee and rivulets of blood start descending her leg. Another runner cleans off her wound with some squirts of his hydration pack. She is not concerned with the pain from the fall, but rather with cramping as her leg takes the opportunity to complain with the disruption. She requests salt; at least I can oblige and give her some S caps before she continues on her way. I am even more patient through the remainder of the boulders. This is decidedly much harder than the ascent to the peak; it’s not always about vertical gain.






The path finally opens up back on to fireroad. It is warm, but I go with the effort of the terrain and am back to moving after a 24 minute mile. We have been warned about bulldozers that will be on this section of the course. I find the bulldozer after posted warnings to give them a wide berth. Fortunately, it is resting and the worker is taking a break, so I can continue on. The earth through this section is ravaged with piles of upturned bushes and dirt. At one point, I can appreciate the large clearing that is being made on the mountainside which we are winding down. I am unsure of the reason. Some of the hillside clearly speaks to the remains of prior fires, short new vegetation in the midst of scattered charred tree residues.  The contrast provides stunning views.




My pace picks up as I run towards the next aid station, passing by day hikers in the park. I arrive and volunteers are ready to go again! We are only a few miles from the start/finish, so I just grab some food and refill my flask and rewet my coolant towel. Kelly is cheering again and offering help. Tyler comes in behind me; she looks well. I use a real bathroom in the park on my way out; being able to wash my face and hands with running water is divine.

Mile 28.2 in 6:38 (14:06 average; 16:12 section pace).






I am back on single track. I stay behind one runner for a while, but the pace is not quite right. I eventually pass him. I am running strong, feeling good. It is warm, but I feel I am modulating the heat. I do not feel controlled by it. My pacing is where I want it to be. My watch notes the 50K mark in 7:21. My goal was around 7:30.  I start prepping for what I will need to do as I come in to the start/finish area. It comes up sooner than expected (I think it should be around 31.6-31.8; the official marking will be more, but my watch is barely over 31). I never complain about being early!

I grab my drop bag. Another runner’s crew who are anxiously awaiting and worried about their brother offer to help me; they get me a chair to sit on and refill my pack. The kindness of strangers is immensely appreciated and helps move me along. I change my socks and shoes after Run Goo to the feet. There were some hot points that I could see developing in to blisters, so I decide on new shoes altogether, figuring this next loop is only 12 miles if they don’t result in happier feet. I change my shirt (Boston 2015 purple) and hat (Project Purple for my dad), apply sunscreen and bodyglide. I refill my pack with food from my stash and refill with electrolyte powder. I take some more solid food with me as the energy blasts are becoming harder to digest in the growing heat of the early afternoon.  And I am off for loop 2!

Mile 32.3 in 7:23 (13:42 average, 10:58 section pace).




I am on to the blue loop, making my way through the swamp that started the day.  I pass by the guy from the prior aid station, at least I assume it’s him; the challenges when people change their clothing. He is now Boston guy. I guess we’re matching, though his garb should be 2014. The terrain becomes a hike up. I haven’t studied this section of the course much. All I know is it will be a 12 mile loop and gain about 1400 ft; obviously, that says nothing of terrain. I am out on the loop around 2 pm. I take my time as I climb up single-track with periodic rocks. Nothing horrible, yet I do manage a stumble and a catch with my hand to add to the wounds of the day. The heat is the greater offender. I am doing my best to conserve my energy and get safely through this loop as I know that darkness and some cooling will mark my final loop of the course.


Rhino's home.




I am climbing and am then greeted by an expanse to my right. It is an amazing savannah, some lush greenery that is a striking contrast from what I have seen over the course of the prior 30 miles. I grab some photos and a selfie, posting a status update as I again have reception. I think this is the sort of place a rhino could be quite content. At the top of the hill, the path becomes a thin needle winding its way through a large grassy field. I am in the midst of a Van Gogh picture all in hues of yellow, the hay has just not yet been gathered. I can see runners in the distance as we all slowly weave our way through the prairie. Preservation in the openness of the day with the heat bearing down is key. I am pulled back to the meadows of Kettle Moraine, such potentially oppressive beauty. I am grateful I only have to manage the heat and the humidity is not in this desert.


Am I back in the Kettle?


My stomach is becoming unhappy with me. I had tried to eat some real food (a Cliff bar: the carrot cake is fantastic) on the climb, but it is too dry and I cannot chew it, even while chasing it down with ice water. I feel a bit queasy, a mixture between impending nausea and imminent diarrhea. I know I need to be careful in what I consume and tread that fine balance between getting enough nutrition and not so much to render myself sick. I tolerate a few gummy bears before just focusing on the task at hand. There are brief spurts of minute shade; I run or fast walk through them to make up for the slowing pace in the brightness of daylight. My mood remains steady though; I know this will pass.

The course continues to alternate between very runnable terrain and technical stretches. It keeps me on my toes. The views through this loop are completely different from the first loop and nurture me. As I head to the one aid station on the loop, I am greeted by signs of hunky men of the 1970s with quippy phrases, as well as promises of nourishment in the no-drop Gator zone. I hang on to the sign that promised beer (which I thought was prohibited in the park; turns out it is.) The volunteers are again on the ball, cheerfully greeting the runners coming in. This aid station is an oasis in the heat, set up with misting stations. They fill my pack, again with lots of ice. I try my hand at real food: 4 small potatoes, grapes, watermelon. So so very lovely! They are decidedly gracious hosts, as have been all the incredible volunteers on course. These are the small things that define and make a race a wonderful experience. I am grateful I can take in the aid. Other runners seem to be fading here and are glued to the seats in the misting tent. I have miles to go! I head out just before mile 40, popsicle in hand, along with a bag of tangerine slices and grapes. I run/walk to ensure I take in the nutrition.

Mile 40.3 in 9:35 (14:16 average, 16:30 section pace).




It remains hot, but my stomach feels a bit better, and I have about 4 miles left until I return to the Start/Finish.  We turn to the right, nearly U-turning on the course and there is another ascent. I take my time and plod along. Eventually Caolan calls out from behind, confusing me as she was ahead of me, while Gabe is just in front of me. She is frustrated as she veered off course at the U-turn; added mileage is a challenge, never mind having it be in the heat of the day. The three of us trudge up the hill, I try to stick with them, but will eventually fall a bit back. Caolan finds her jet fuel and picks it up to the Start/Finish line. I take my time and then find my legs to run in to the aid station. On my way, my feet get wet going through the swamp for the 3rd time, solidifying that there will be no point to changing my socks (as I will be back here in less than half a mile for the final time). Runners are coming out on their 3rd loop and we greet. Curt is looking solid as he heads out for his final loop.

In to the Start/Finish, I am feeling good. I have about 6 hours for the final loop of 18 miles. This is mine and the Finish Line is in sight. Well, it is quite visible, though I will have to see it in a few more hours! Rick is there to greet me as I grab my drop bag. I know that is not a good sign; he dropped after the first loop due to IT issues. He seems at peace with the decision and is helpful in prepping me for the final loop. He advises me that Lorena is about 45 minutes behind me, or was when I left on loop 2. I ditch my hat and sunglasses. My light is already in my pack, but there will still be another hour or before darkness. I don’t need any food. I use the bathroom, another real one. My GI system continues to hold steady, even though I know she is delicate. I bid my farewell to Rick and happily sail off on the final lap.

Mile 45.1 in 10:52 (14:27 average, 16:02 section pace).




Through the swamp for the final time, I follow the yellow ribbons this time. I pass Boston man and he makes a comment about how I keep passing him, I promise this will be the last time.  I head off through a field as the sun starts to lower. I enter an area of reception and a text comes through from Tyler; she dropped right after starting on loop 2 missing her infant son in her first ultra back post-partum. She sends me encouragement for a strong finish and I send her my hugs. I start to think I am lost as I haven’t seen yellow ribbons in a bit, but I also don’t think there were alternative options. Eventually I spot the ribbons again. Then they disappear again, with two routes possible, neither of which is clearly marked. The way to my right seems wrong. I come back and head to the left, by which time other runners have joined me. I eventually see runners far, far on the horizon and then thankfully, another yellow ribbon. Getting lost this late in the game is not on my agenda!




We drop on to a fireroad. I am cognizant of trying to use the remaining daylight available, as I know I will take my time once darkness descends. So, I run, between the gift of remaining light and the runnable terrain. I run for a bit, then walk a few steps, then run again. The legs are a bit tired, but nothing horrible. Through this section, it is clear where we will drop back to the fireroad to head to the finish. I store that visually as a motivator. There is the periodic fellow runner. I will pass a gal in a red tank and black shorts, while I will be passed by another gal and her pacer.




But mainly, I am in my head through this section. My day has been spent on the task at hand, on navigating the unfamiliar and at times technical terrain, on managing the heat and dust and dirt of the day without having it impact my temperamental lungs. I may still be 16 miles from the finish, but I know the end is at hand and that I have accomplished the goal. I let the emotions of that thought overwhelm me. I am filled with relief. I let the tears roll. These are of pure joy. I finally allow myself to feel all the pressure that sat at the foot of this race for me; I feel the pressure as I simultaneously let it go. This was five years in the making. Five years that became reduced to 17 hours in the desert. It’s so precarious when you put it in those terms. When I think of all the struggles at Canyons and at TRT, of all the wrong sort of tears I shed in those races and in the months since. These are finally the emotions I wanted then; these are the emotions you want in every ultra. Relief. Gratitude. I enjoy the final miles of daylight. My heart is full. I no longer run in doubt or in fear.




Leaving the fireroad, there is a single-track climb to greet the final minutes of daylight. I can’t quite catch the sunset as it is beyond the mountain behind me. I grab a photo of the remaining pink in the sky to mark my 50th mile. I am solo in the desert, out in the darkness, and I am at peace. My GI system has slightly other ideas, but I move on and the feelings fade, but they will ebb and flow for the remainder of the race. Eventually I catch some light behind me. An eager runner states that she has caught me and introduces herself. Katie had been chasing my light up the hill for miles, using it as a marker and finds her own relief. She was the gal I had passed earlier on the fireroad. She is a 2nd chancer here after a harrowing day at Gorge that fell outside the WS qualifying time. She learned from that experience to try to avoid being alone in the dark.

Mile 51.9 in 12:48 (14:47 average, 17:03 section pace).

We make it to the penultimate aid station, again with eager volunteers on hand. I don’t need any refills, but do happily accept some chicken broth as the night is starting to get cold. While there, Caolan arrives in her Boston yellow. We all know it’s just a matter of one step in front of the other now. I leave out with Katie and let her go after a bit and then am joined by Caolan. We use the miles to catch up as we mostly power-walk hike through the night. I want to see what this terrain looks like during the day; I think we are on the Pacific Crest Trail. I can imagine the beauty and the views through the darkness. In stretches, it seems as though we are on top of the world. The moon appears, full and glowing red in the distance. It is as perfect as is this night.

We eventually join up with another runner who was also in the Kettle in 2016, embarking on his first “mountainous” ultra. I guess it is compared with the Midwest, but these are not mountains for me. The world is a small place with these intersections over the course of ultras, all these commonalities in our journeys. I think about the races past. I reflect on this course. Each race has its challenges; some favor our strengths, while others cause us to battle and sometimes crumble under our weaknesses. This is a race I would return to. Obviously, the positive psychological sentiments make it a happy one for me. I have not had a down blue moment, I have never felt defeated out here. I have just felt nourished. But the beauty is becoming, I’m quite sure it’s not typically this hot, and I am enjoying the mixture of runnable and technical. It’s challenging, but it will not kill me. Canyons remains a beautiful beast, but maybe it’s not the beast for me. Miwok, I think, is also this same mix as Cuyamaca. I’ll still leave Quicksilver where I Iet her lie in 2015; this is harder but has more redeeming qualities.

Katie and crew catch up to us after veering off course in the darkness of the night. We all move forward to the final outpost. 7 miles to freedom and to the conclusion of what has finally been a journey I want to be on. It’s a quick stop, get some more chicken broth and a bit of banter. I have other places to be as I graciously move on. I stick with Caolan and Kettle man for a minute and then drop back. I will savor these final miles solo. I have become cognizant of the future and it beckons to me. I have Marine Corps Marathon in two weeks and I’d like to give it its fair due. I work to preserve what I can of my legs while being careful to do nothing stupid in the final miles. It is pitch dark, I am in the desert, there are rocks to watch for.

Mile 56.6 in 14:12 (15:04 average, 18:15 section pace).

I text Jim that I am less than 10K from the finish and that I will be finishing and, without doubt. I send this message as there is no cell service at the Finish and I am unsure how race updates have been going. I actually think they are fairly accurate and frequent as encouraging texts often come in short order after I traverse through a station. It turns out this communication and the race status updates are as top notch as everything else for the day. Every single aid station was recorded and sent to ultralive.net.

I take the final miles, which eventually become fireroad. I am being passed. People will ask how I am faring. I smile in reply, state I am doing well, and encourage them in the closing stretches. The night gets very cold in patches; I put on my gloves and periodically run a short stretch to warm up. The moon is now on my left, smaller but glowing yellow white. I’m pretty sure this is pure happiness.

I eventually find the fork in the road I had noted 15 miles previously. I figure I have about a mile left as I take the final right turn on the to fireroad. Permission to run is granted! I pick up the pace. I run for a stretch, walk briefly, run. The legs are finally feeling the miles of the day, but my soul is eager and propels me along. There is happy banter with my fellow runners as we know we are making our goal. I see the finish line by the school site and I take off for the final length. Through and content. The race director puts the medal around my neck and I express my gratitude for the scenery of the course, for the volunteers, and for the opportunity (his waitlist policy put me here). 5 years and I am still in this game! I will get in to Western when it is my turn to get in and that is enough. I savor the moment, as “there is no other Troy for me to burn.” (Sinead O’Connor)

 

63.3 miles in 16:07 (15:17 average; 17:00 section pace).
My final Garmin data: 61.97 miles in 16:07:42 (15:37 pace). +8199 ft, -8038 ft.
Moving time 15:09:40 (14:41 pace).
7th in AG F40-49/ 16 finishers (10 drops).
19th female/35 finishers (16 drops).
83rd OA/ 147 finishers (115 under the WS qualifying time of 17 hours) (61 DNFs – 29%).
 
 

                I go to the community room and am congratulated by Rick and Lorena. They keenly understand the meaning of this moment for me. I am joyful, but also concerned that their days did not end as planned. Lorena dropped after the 2nd loop due to vomiting and after weighing the risks of the remainder of the race. I refuel on food. Eventually I find Caolan who finished a bit before me, we sit on couch for a few last moments. Third times the charm for us. Hopefully it never has to come to that again.


With Caolan post-race.


                For once, I finished what I started. That task had never been so difficult prior to the past year and change. I suppose it will never again be something that I take for granted. In the days before TRT, my husband and I talked about how I just needed one race to set me right. We also realized that going for that race in a tough 100 miler was chancy at best. But I felt that at Cuyamaca. Mentally, emotionally, physically, I was where I needed to be and I was able to stay there for the whole 62 miles. I did not break down, but rather I took the challenges as they came to me and patiently waited until they passed. I’m back where I want to be. Patience and Gratitude. 










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