Beautiful Trauma: Sean O’Brien Not-Quite 100K 2/3/2018

                I’m going to the bathroom and the floor starts to move on me. Visually, there are sparks of shadows and light dancing before me. I logically know there is no actual movement underfoot, so can only attribute the distortion to the effects of the heat finally catching up with me. Well, maybe the effects of the heat and pushing it the past five and half miles to get here, doing my best to garner more time on the cut-off. I’m running a precarious balance, triangulated between patience, gratitude, and the damn clock.

I will eventually come to realize this is new to me. I’ve been sick and I’ve willingly dropped from races because I knew my body could not manage more. I’ve always stopped on my own terms.  I am aware of the clock, but it’s always been in a more abstract sense, numbers on the sheet in my pack, never the actual numbers I pay attention to. My math skills remain focused on pace, distance to the next aid station, distance and elevation gain of the next climb. The clock is only there for me on road races, where it becomes a heavy burden, tick tocking the minutes either to or away from the BQ. The clock is only there for me on the trails when I am a pacer. I’m not sure I care for it as a runner. It will become just as stifling as the heat of the day.

But as I start the race at 5 am I am far away from the events that will unfold 36 miles in. I am filled with excitement and hope and gratitude. I have run all the other 100K Western States qualifiers in California (Miwok 2014, Quicksilver 2015, Canyons 2016 and partially 2017, Cuyamaca 2017). I am eager to experience Sean O’Brien 100K!  I registered on opening day: September 1, 2017, wanting to have my 2019 Western States qualifier earlier in the year. When I gained entry to the 2018 Western States 100 race, I decided to keep SOB as an early training run. I have not yet not started a race I have registered for; and while that may seem a silly reason to run a tough race, I didn’t want to break my streak. I took some down time from the trails after Cuyamaca in October, save for an RDL pacing gig, and returned to my trail life the week after CIM in early December.

Training in the weeks prior to SOB was tough. I was running my usual back to back runs, but the amount of elevation gain I was covering was new and challenging, all set to mimic the climbs at SOB. During the week, I would carry out the tempo runs and speedwork or hill work. I was finally just doing what I was told to do. Follow the training plan. Take my coach’s advice.  I’m a bit of control freak, so giving up control has been hard for me. I think it’s liberating at the same time. It has required patience (my word for 2018) and trust. I know I am my own worst enemy when it comes to restraint and the fact that I have little of it. I am working to be more mindful, to rest when I should rest, to run when I should run.  I even started stretching and foam rolling. I started yoga, which has been hard too. I think I might finally be learning to stop moving. I’m learning to find patience even when I previously could only find that in running, running a lot.

I have no lofty race goals. Finish. If it takes 16 hours, I am at peace with that. This is for all intents and purposes a training run. Enjoy the journey. Get the miles in. The weather forecast will dictate moderation. I’ve signed up for a race, so heat is a guarantee. I’m just grateful I won’t have the added weight of the humidity from Miami the prior week.  The temperatures for the day are predicted to be in the lower 80s. It might be a bad sign that I no longer blink when I see such forecasts; it’s par for the course. Yet when Paul gives me a ride to the start (thanks again!) and we chat with his local running friends, the temperature gage in his car reads a cool 39 degrees.  I’ll honestly take it as long as it lasts.

Race start is at 5 am. I wish Paul well; he is also doing this as a WS100 training run. The race director makes a few announcements, highlighting the predicted temps for the day, the tough nature of the course, and the option to drop down to another distance if needed (and who to notify). Then lights are on and we are off! I have no sense of the course, only having an elevation profile to go by and brief snippets of video from YouTube and descriptors from race reports.

It is pitch dark, so I take my time, giving my eyes, my lungs, and my legs time to warm up. There is some climbing right near the start when we segue on to single track. The road will then widen again as we dip down. Within the 3^rd mile, we cross the single creek of the course. It is shallow, but there is a rope traversing its width. I am amused by a couple of people who actually take off their shoes and socks to cross to the other side… hmmm…  Leaving the creek, we start the first of many longer climbs which will gain roughly 1800 ft over the next many miles. It is fireroad, but it is steep, gaining over 600 ft in miles 3 and 4 individually. I am in power hiking mode. I put my watch on my altimeter screen and tick off the feet until I get closer to the top (which is around 2400 ft for the whole race). Patience, patience. I can only focus on a moderate effort as the day is long. My leg briefly has some cramping and then numbness in my foot but this passes within a couple of miles.

I think we have crested the ridgeline as I catch more glimpses of the ocean; daylight is arriving long before anticipated. By this point in time I am chatting with Gina, who lives in Cool, near where I do much of my training runs. We are beckons of brightness to greet the day, both clad in bright hues of orange. Sometimes it helps to pick a cheerful color to help color your mood. Gina and I will continue to chat on and off throughout the day. She will exclaim she just wants to keep me in her sights. In reality, she pulls ahead and then I generally catch up some time later, so I suppose it works for her plan.  I gather photos of the sunrise below us and to our left.

I think we should be at the top, but there is another climb, making the first aid station sometime after mile 7 (advertised as mile 6.5), which briefly concerns me for the course running long. The next climb is a wee bit steep (even though I won’t appreciate it fully until my return hours later). I spot a photographer half way up the immense boulder façade. I smile for my photo as I am careful tip toeing to avoid falling. I’m fairly sure there should be a fantastic view behind me! I am all about patience, not wanting to go out too aggressively and blow up. I also want to take in the course, appreciate the terrain and scenery around me.

Photo courtesy of Howie Stern Photography.

Over the massive boulder complex and down the other side, I spot the first aid station at Corral Canyon. I grab some potatoes, refill my flask (my powdered electrolyte, their water); I have already been eating as I do on climbs, at least being aggressive with nutrition.  I spot a porta potty and have to go to the bathroom already (which is unusual for me; guess I’m hydrating well).  But someone runs to it from the trail, so I carry on instead. The next section of course puts us back on single track. There is a gradual descent, but it is a ravine-like trail, so rock strewn and technical, not conducive to bombing out the miles. I exercise the patience needed to keep the ankles intact. The course is all rollers when you are between steeper climbs. You think you get a brief break, but then the feet are ticking up and down again. There will be another “mini-climb” before the next aid station. It might be bad that I am already considering that 460 ft over a single mile is “mini” anything.

In to the 2^nd aid station at Latigo Rd at mile 11 (the race distance has nearly corrected by now), I pass off my pack for a refill and use the porta potty. The release feels good. I eat a bit, refill my flask, and then don my coolant towel. Yes, it’s roughly 8 am and I am already warm. So much for the start in the upper 30s. Coach Ellie has told me to start cooling measures the minute I start to feel warm. I could not have anticipated it this soon, but cold water around the neck and cold water on my cooling sleeves are needed.  After a couple more miles of undulating terrain, I reach the next aid station at Kanan Rd and my drop bag. I reapply Body Glide, refill my nutrition, dump my headlamp and gloves, grab my visor and sunglasses, enjoy my Milky Way, and get on the road. Around here, I realize some of the 50 milers are passing by me; they started an hour after me. Okay, so I am quickly figuring out that my pace might be too patient. I’m not quite used to being “caught” this early in the race.

When I check my pace at varied markers and aid stations, the average fluctuates between 14:15-15:30 pace. I lose some ground on the climbs and regain it on the interim stretches. The course has a 16 hour cut-off for the 100K, which is a 15:30 pace. Maybe I should be worried, but I am ignorant of the course ahead. I mean, I know the generalities and am still optimistic that something will level off at some juncture or that I might find more runnable descents. It is a long day, I am busy just moderating effort. By the time I reach the turn-around for the 50K around mile 16, the 3^rd place male in the 50K has just returned; they started 2 hours back. Let’s just say, there’s some relief as I move on to the course sections just covered by the 50 milers and 100Kers.

Back on fireroad and I am back to climbing. Power hiking again and trying to digest a sandwich. I figure it’s the only point in time during the day where it might not be blazingly warm such that I can actually get the food down. Before I reach the next aid station around mile 19, the lead 100Kers will be coming back (they are at mile 31-32 and are super studs; this is a Golden Ticket race after all). After a few runners, the lead female is on the return in what appears to be long basketball shorts. It throws me, but she is absolutely crushing it; she will go on to set the course record as she grabs her ticket to WS100.

At the Zuma Edison aid station, I refill my flask and rewet my sleeves, grab a quesadilla (which is absolutely delightful!), and go. The next few miles will see a drop of around 2300 ft. I know I need to move it; it’s all fireroad. I resort to my marathon legs and will drop the 3 fastest miles of my race (10:29, 9:21, 9:41), even with controlling the pace so as to not blow up my quads. I am enjoying the shift for the legs, but also anticipating what I need to accomplish at the next aid station. I am through mile 20 in 5 hours.

Bonsall Rd aid station just before mile 23 will lead to longest gap between aid stations on the course and will also cover the hardest 9 miles of the course, including two steep climbs of 1600 feet each back towards Zuma. The day is getting warmer and warmer and there is not a hint of shade to be found. The race director sent out an email to warn about hydration out of this aid station, after I was already warned by two friends about this section of the course. I have pushed from mile 19 because I want a solid three hours in case I need it for the climb. For better or worse, I caught the cut-offs at mile 19: out of Bonsall by 11:30 am, out of Zuma again by 1:30 pm.

In to Bonsall, I run to the bathroom even though it is a bit away from the aid station. Yes, I am doing an excellent job of hydration; I daresay better than any prior race given my bathroom stops. I grab my drop bag, get my grapes and snacks, Body Glide up, grab the extra flask, fill both flasks, refill the pack, get ice in my arm sleeves, water on my neck, and quick food. I skip the shirt change and the sock change; they would be comforts, but there is only time today for necessity. I’m pretty sure the peppy gal checking on me and the other runners and volunteers is the race director; her encouragement and spark is much appreciated. I am out the door at 10:30 am. 3 hours. I need to average 20 minutes per mile. Until you run one of these crazy races, you never realize how challenging such a seemingly “simple” feat can become.

The climb starts on single track. And it’s a bitch, gaining 600 ft in the first mile. I am making fair time, all things considered. It is tough and taxing. It is exceedingly warm, so much so that the ice in my arm sleeves melts and they are nearly bone dry a few miles in to the climb. I will douse them with a bit of water from my hydration pack to try to remain cool. Through these miles, the walking wounded are starting to collect. There is the periodic runner sitting on the side of the trail. I ask if they need anything; they decline, I move on, again and again. Then there are the handful of runners who start descending. I know they are going the wrong way; they clearly know as well. It was me back at TRT, heading down Diamond Peak to my end, but I was at mile 70+. These runners are turning around at mile 23-26. This might be a record for observed early carnage on a course.

I am acutely aware of my time constraints, but also realize I am managing. I have energy, I am fueled, I am moving, and I am maintaining. Gina and I reconnect through this climb and get to talking a bit again. The words are short as we are both working. I reach the marathon point in 6:38. By mile 27, there is a brief reprieve as the course heads downhill, dropping 900 feet over the next 2 miles. I can get the legs running again and it feels so sweet despite the heat. I have some foreboding though as I know every step I sail down is another I will have to climb momentarily.

Gina in orange before me around mile 27.

The descent halts and is replaced with another 1600 ft climb starting in the 29^th mile. I treat myself with my grapes, the perfect food on a warm day. I also then drink my second bottle of electrolyte. I am managing with enough fluid in my pack, so spritz water on my arms and neck to try to cool off a bit.  A gal in Boston yellow pulls out her phone to check the weather. It mocks us, claiming 70 degrees and a “feels like” of 80. Who knows what the actual temps were, but they certainly feel way warmer than 80. The temperature highs for the day in Calabasas, the closest town to the start, were predicted to be around 80. (I would have happily taken the Malibu high in the mid 70s, but we were so far above and away from the ocean that I realized those predictors were moot.) Later in the evening, the local news would report a record high of 90 in the San Fernando Valley, in a town about 5 miles away. Either way, it was warm. Certainly lack of heat training was a factor when I’d been running in the cold up North. It felt warmer than Cuyamaca and warmer earlier in the day.

I am overjoyed when I spot the Zuma aid station just above me. I gather ice in the pack and in my sleeves, find an anti-chafing product (okay, so RunGoo works, though I only typically use it on my feet), grab another quesadilla, and go. It’s 12:55 pm. I am officially at the 50K mark of the course in 7:55. I leave out 35 minutes ahead of the cut off. Crap. Well, good on me for making it up that climb in under 2 ½ hours, but still. This is uncomfortable. I am not yet at the top of the climb and gain another 600 ft in the mile out of the aid station, texting my husband about my status. The minute I hit a descent, I roll. I will push over the next few miles of fireroad. I need to get any time I can get back, as the aid stations will start having tighter cut-offs very, very soon. I have until 3 pm to make it to mile 36.

I am feeling good and moving decently enough. I actually catch some spurts of energy through the next few miles, knowing I have made it through the hardest part of the course and that I am still intact and not wilted. I am planning my next aid station and what I need to do there. My feet are starting to not do very well from a pain standpoint, so I know I need time for the shoe change. I run in to Kanan Rd. I go to the bathroom and the world starts to spin. Shit. I change my shoes, body glide up, skip any shirt/visor change (no time), grab my Milky Way and grapes, refill the pack (the volunteer mentions it is nearly still full…), get ice for my sleeves. The volunteer confirms my distance and states I need to go. I know. I know. I move out. It is 2:25 pm. I remain 35 minutes ahead. I was too slow there due to the dizziness and give back 5 extra minutes I could have used. I have to get to mile 43 by 4 pm.  I am not sure if I am aware of that cut-off yet. The only one on my mind is that I need to be at mile 49.5 by 5:15 pm. That’s 13 miles from Kanan. How am I going to manage that with less than 3 hours? I did realize at the half way point that I would have to even split the race to finish under 16 hours, and yet, I remained optimistic.

But, wherever I need to be in the future, be it time or distance, suddenly no longer matters. My head is spinning as I trudge out of Kanan Rd. And trudge it is. I am reeling and woozy and nausea sets in. I know I just need to keep moving and hopefully the sensation will pass. Gina catches up through this section and I wish her well, tell her to keep pushing. I am working to stay upright, which means my pace has slowed to a crawl. I eek out a 25 minute mile on modestly traversable terrain. Just one step in front of the other. I would be focused on the clock if I could think that clearly. Maybe I pushed too much between miles 31-36 and finally have managed to get behind on fluids and nutrition in the heat. I try to eat some gummi bears. They saved me during the hottest miles of Cuyamaca, but right now are a congealed unpalatable mess. This is the moment when you know your race is done. In the middle of nowhere and still a long way to go to get anywhere, I know I won’t make the 100K. I am filled with some sadness with a hint of despair. I let out the tears. I try to refocus on gratitude, but I find myself not quite ready for it yet. I push all the emotions aside and just keep moving.

I make it to the next aid station a couple of miles down the road. It is a bit of a MASH tent (yes, the TV show was filmed not far from here, around mile 52 ish of the course), with the wounded on camping seats. I sit for a minute. On the radio, a volunteer from another aid station talks about how they have 20 people there and no cars to get them out. I know I won’t make it to mile 43 by the 4 pm cutoff. But one volunteer reports that to even have the option to drop to the 50 miler, you have to make it there by 4:30 pm. That doesn’t make much sense as some of us look at each other; the 50 miler started an hour later, so it would be a way tighter cutoff and that aid station is also open until mile 56 of the 100K. Well, crap. I’d rather not have a DNF. I grab a rice ball and head out. Can I say how delightful that was? And clearly my stomach is back on line and I have avoided my prior urges to vomit. The head is finally righting herself too.

Really, mile 40!

I am moving again, or at least I am trying to.  But, this course. This course. I move on the descent out of 39. And then there is another huge climb. Well it’s not as bad as some prior ones, but gaining another 600 ft on a technical mile at this juncture might as well be the nail in my coffin. I am slow as I have little left in me. I come across the walking wounded and the periodic runner on the side of the trail again. I have little to offer. I do move when I can though, but experience briefer and briefer spurts of energy and runnable terrain. I think I am close, but I am not. I can hear the aid station and then eventually figure out where it must be based on cars. I am still not close enough. There’s no way I can make it there by 4:30 pm. Damn, another DNF. I am pushing, but my heart is sinking. I am pulled back to Canyons, to all those moments wondering if I was even made for these feats, and to whether or not I want to be chasing them. I somehow, somehow made it through 2017 and was graced with the ticket to States after a five year chase. Yet, how do I make it there? I feel this immense frustration with running. What if June is the logical end of my running life? What if we just need a break?

I make it to mile 43. It is 4:33 pm. I check in with the timer. She offers me the opportunity to continue to finish the 50 miler. (There was no 4:30 pm cutoff here; I think that was at Kanan Rd for the 50 milers.) And I am back. I thank her profusely and joyfully accept the opportunity to traverse the final 7 miles of my own accord. I grab some cookies at the aid station, thank them, and head “home.” My legs are tired, it is still warm, my body is a wee bit ravaged. But my heart is back. And sometimes, that’s all you need.  I can salvage the day. I refocus on gratitude.

I climb up the boulder encountered at mile 7 of the race. It is still steep on both sides. I take in the views and I grab all the photos I want. I am walking it in to have some time to process. There will be nothing spectacular about the final 7 miles of the course in terms of my racing. But the sunset to my right, the ocean in the distance in front of me, the hills that stretch on endlessly before me, with the winding road that marks the trail – all of these are beyond spectacular. So, I feed my soul with them. I enjoy my cookie snack. And I process. I shed a few tears, but I’m back in the right spot.

Darkness will eventually descend. Speedier 100K folks will pass by me and I wish them well.  I think I should be able to move faster, but even the descent is so damn steep. I am recovery-walking out of this one. It will be my slowest 50 miler (unless you count the first half of TRT), but I figure it’s not horrible given I’ve walked the majority of the final 14 miles. I pull off the fireroad and estimate 3ish miles left. It seems to take forever to find the creek in the darkness. I intermittently worry I have steered off track as the night is so silent and I am alone for eons. Eventually I catch a reflective tape or glow stick. Finally, I reach the creek; its cooling waters soothe my achy feet.

The race is starting to get a bit long for me. I keep hearing noise in the distance, but am fairly sure I have at least a couple more miles to the finish. I realize on my watch my average pace is sitting right around 17:00; I’d rather be at 16:xx. Small goals, I tell ya! So, I set off, trying not to get lost. I pick up the pace and run for a bit, then walk, run, etc. My pacing plan is going swimmingly until I am thrown back on to single track and start to climb again. I have shifted from a park I imagine is busy during daylight hours back in to the wilderness. Perhaps I am not as close as I want to be. The challenge with a new course is traversing it solely in darkness, which would be the first and final 5-6 miles of the course for me. You could throw me out there in daylight tomorrow and I’d have no idea where I was!

I still work to push it though, managing a decent fast paced hike in between spurts of running. It still feels as though I am headed back into the heart of darkness. I wonder what creatures lurk in these wilds. Not helpful… My math skills can’t be that poor, though I really do wish I had paid more attention to when exactly the creek crossing had been this morning.  Eventually I hit pavement and go East, surmising from noise that I must be going in the correct direction, though I struggle to find markers. A 100K runner sails up behind me and passes. He gives me some encouragement and I start running again.  The noise is getting louder. Finally, I round the last right corner and go through the finish arch. A woman starts to put a medal around my neck; I decline and state I dropped down from the 100K to the 50 miler. She persists. Apparently the 50 miler and 100K medal are the same (as is the 50K and 26.2); guess I could have run less!  I alert the timer and my status is adjusted to the 50 miler.

It is decidedly one of the uglier races I have executed, while still finishing. Obviously, it was not the distance or the goal I set out for, but I did ultimately find some way to salvage the day. It will take me days to process the non-DNF DNF. Part of me will always view this as a 100K DNF, though I’m quite sure that attitude no longer aligns with where I need to be. This is all part of a journey. It’s more relevant to sort out what went wrong, what went right, and to take what I need from the race in the coming 5 months to get me to Auburn on June 24^th.  I could sit in the negative emotion I felt in two spurts during the race (36-38, 41-43), or I could take something better out of the other 45 miles for the day.

What could I have done differently? Be less patient and slightly more aggressive in the opening 10 miles. I took too long to warm up and was too casual given the tightness of the future cut-offs. So, I need to think about strategies that can warm up my lungs and my left calf before I ever start a race. I should have maintained my fueling strategy better after mile 31. I was perhaps too excited to reach that milestone and felt the clock ticking too loudly, so I slacked off on nutrition and fueling from mile 31-36. Granted the heat of the day might have impacted my nausea and dizziness at mile 36-38, but perhaps fueling could have averted that moment, as that’s the moment when I missed the future cut-off. One could argue I could have given more in the final descent, but for me finishing the race was all that mattered then, not the time. Having time to reflect and find the joy on the trails was what I was left with once I missed the 100K cut-off. There are infinite reasons for why I run; finish time doesn’t quite hold the sway it once did for me. Heat-wise, I think I managed fair. Formal heat-training for WS100 is a given. February makes warm runs outside hard to conjure. I had considered the sauna, but race day predicted temps a few weeks out seemed reasonable. I guess I should know better by now and just do it in case.  Not to mention that the Sacramento Valley will start to provide an ample supply of 90+ degree days by May.

What went right? I managed the heat fairly well. I used my cooling measures early and often. I had an ample supply of varied food available in drop bags and found items I could tolerate in the warmth. I was aggressive with fueling for the first 8 hours; trust me, I never pee that much during trail races! My climbing skills are improving. I was able to move through the toughest section of the course without giving back time, with steep climbs and high temps. I adjusted my plan as I had to, eliminating some items I might have wanted at aid stations (shirt, sock changes) for the sake of time and to instead use my resources on heat and nutrition management. When I felt like crap, I kept moving along, albeit slowly, until I started to feel better. I never felt the temptation of a rock or of pulling to the side of the trail. I might have been battling some mental demons, but I still focused on moving forward and even kept mentally fighting myself to get back to a better head space. Ultimately, I stayed in a space of gratitude for 90% of the race. I was willing to adapt, taking the opportunity for a finish, and not giving up because of the missed cut-off. And my recovery has probably been a bit smoother for the 12 miles I saved. And I made a friend in Gina as we both toughed out a hard day; she would also drop to the 50 miler. Oh, and I got lots of great photos! (Yes, I am moving when I take my photos and it’s well worth the few minutes of overall race time slowing.)

Race stats for the nerds among us:

Overall time: 14:02:35 (16:51 pace) for 50 miles.

12^th AG F40-49/14; 26^th F/35; 88^th OA/111 (stats for the 50 miler, which included 58 who dropped down from the 100K; see rest of race details below.)

Garmin: 14:02:19 (16:55 pace) for 49.77 miles. Gain 10876 ft; loss 10702 ft; low 57 ft, high 2379 ft.

Miles 1-10 in 2:33:59 (15:24 pace); gain 2900 ft, loss 1139 ft.

Miles 11-20 in 2:25:32 (14:33 pace); gain 1709 ft, loss 2598 ft. 

     Race time miles 1-20 4:59:31 (15:00 pace).

Miles 21-30 in 2:37:50 (15:47 pace); gain 2503 ft, loss 2375 ft. 

Race time miles 1-30 7:37:21 (15:14 pace)

Miles 31-40 in 3:14:37 (19:27 pace); gain 2553 ft, loss 1823 ft. 

Race time miles 1-40 10:52 (16:18 pace).

Miles 41-50 in 3:10:19 (19:01 pace); gain 1208 ft, loss 2766 ft. 

Race time miles 1-50 14:02 (16:51 pace).

General race stats (which shows it wasn’t just me, but it was a tough day out there. It also is a tough race; not Canyons tough, but harder than Miwok and the rest of the 100K qualifiers for WS. Canyons remains the beast, but you do have more time to finish it; heat can or cannot be an issue. Miwok climb lengths are similar but some of the descents at Sean O’Brien are more technical and there are fewer stretches of pure runnable terrain in between the climbs. Also Miwok, on a “warm day”, might top out in the mid 60s, but tends to favor cloud cover and has actual sections of intermittent shade. So my ranking of difficulty: Canyons, SOB, Miwok, Cuyamaca, Quicksilver.)

245 starters in the 100K: 134 finishers of the 100K (55%)

111 non-100K finishers (45%): 47 DNFs (19%), 64 drop-downs (26%) (58 to the 50 miler).

Gratitude. Courage. Vulnerability. Ask. Patience.

    

Heading in to 2014, I came across an article by Kristin Armstrong. It spoke of her practice of living her life each year by a word. The idea was to challenge yourself by embracing a concept for the coming year. Gratitude was the logical starting place, having come through the 2013 Boston Marathon and a trying year. Gratitude was surprisingly easy and left me wondering why I had not embraced it sooner. And it wasn’t just about being thankful for the big things (a celebration Boston in 2014, my first tri, my first 100 miler and a joyous race), it was about learning to appreciate all those small things. Being grateful to run, to have a body that would cooperate for me, to have friends who would support me. To find joy in chasing a simple sunset, to get up each morning and have fulfilling work, to enjoy a homemade meal with the company of family, even to have a good night’s rest. The perspective shift from what I might be wanting in an ideal world to instead focus on all the blessings I already had in my real world filled me. Gratitude continues to walk beside me each day, in each race, in each relationship.

                Courage was harder as I headed in to 2015. I lived with so much fear. It came at me in stark black and white as I prepped for 2015, making one concrete list of fears and another list of my existential fears. I’ve not yet been able to cross off my fear of mountain lions (because well, let’s face it…), but I have worked hard on my fear of mud and getting dirty, I worked through my litany of bike riding phobias, and I somehow even grew to appreciate and love dogs in the process. Somewhere along the road, I let go of my fear of failure and even embraced it as necessary for progress. I tried new things, sometimes because they were hard for me, but more often because I didn’t ever want fear to manage me. As I got going, the list no longer held sway. It became easier to meet new people, easier to do things by myself, easier to let go.

                Each year I wanted to challenge myself a bit more. Filled with Gratitude and Courage, I was ready to step it up to Vulnerability for 2016. Vulnerability naturally started in the year of Courage, but it was piecemeal without its own space. The tentative experiments in vulnerability handed me a few swift kicks in the ass and I think I battled at the thought of returning to that place of rawness. But as I let go of my fears of failure, I fell and I failed. I felt shame as I floundered during the Los Angeles Marathon. I had trained so hard and I sucked so bad, being so far from my planned execution. Vulnerability was all I was left with. Despite wanting to just cry and scream, I took some chances and I shared the ground I found myself on. It was the hardest race report I ever wrote (yeah, I’ve had plenty of more challenging ones since), but it was necessary to allow that side of me to come out. It was okay to be broken, to let out those emotions, to sit with them, and to eventually use them to be able to move on. That capacity would get me through a trying racing year as failure stacked on top of failure and as I learned to let them go. They will not define me, they will help me grow.

                I never really vocalized the 2017 word. But it was decidedly “Ask.” As in, ask for what you need, ask for help, ask if you can help. It’s not enough to express your emotions, you have to connect through what you need from others and through what others may need from you. It was partly prompted as I undertook the daunting task of raising $10,000 for charity (Project Purple for Boston 2017 for my dad), but it certainly came through in daily life, other races, and pacing gigs. I dread making requests of others, I dread asking for help, I dread inconveniencing others. But I also understood it was the other half of Vulnerability. It’s not enough to sit open with where you are emotionally. In many ways, maybe it means little if you find yourself unable to ask for help. I pride myself on being independent and strong willed, but I am much richer for those who have helped me and for those who have allowed me to ask for help. The connection that comes from generosity and reciprocity is worth the risks we think we are assuming in the process. In truth, I came to look at things differently. What was the worst-case scenario if I asked someone for help and they were unable or unwilling to help? I was back at the same place I started. I really had nothing to lose, but instead only connection to gain and at a minimum, a discussion of the barriers to helping that might be there, not the least of which was my ability to accept what was offered.

                And here I sit on the precipice of the new year. 2018 is about dreams and possibilities. And so, I’m holding on to Patience and am requesting her guidance. One could easily see me as a very patient person, and I am, and who isn’t in the world of endurance or ultra running? Its all about delayed gratification- train for months on end for one single solitary goal. My life may well be about delayed gratification; my career path necessitated it, my temperament is settled by it. But, this Patience for me is something a bit different. I feel nothing but gratitude at finally having the opportunity to run Western States 100 in 2018, but it scares the shit out of me. I’m fairly sure it could strip me down to my core, to my most naked, to my most vulnerable. I will be asking for a boatload of help in the process, from guidance, to encouragement, to pacers, to crew. But I understand that Western States 100 is a journey. And no, it’s not the one that goes from Squaw Valley on June 23^rd and finishes on the track in Auburn on June 24^th.  It’s the journey that takes place over the next six months between now and the start line. And for that, I need restraint, I need Patience. I need, for once, to put some control outside of myself, to be patient with my plan, to make myself coachable, to allow for the process. There is nothing to rush. I need to rest and wait and rest some more when it is time to hold back. I need to move forward when it is time for that. I need to be patient to enjoy the process, to find joy in this journey, to savor the months ahead, to take it all in.

Gratitude.

Courage.

Vulnerability.

Ask.

Patience.

I need and plan to embrace every single one of you. 

Making It Through: 2017 Racing Year in Review

The Stats:

Miles: Running 2317.86 (45.57 miles/week; 6.35 miles/day), Bike 533, Swim 1.

Races (24): (9) 10Ks (6 trail), (1) 10 miler, (3) half marathons, (1) 20 miler, (4) marathons, (3) 50Ks, (1) 40 miler (100K dnf), (1) 100K, (1) 75 miler (100 miler dnf).

Lowlight: Canyons 100K.

Highlight: Boston Marathon, running for my Dad. (With CIM being a close second, feeling home.)

Hardest racing moment: Dropping from Tahoe Rim Trail 100 miler (sitting on a rock at mile 70, knowing my asthma had the better of me that day).

Proudest racing moment: Cuyamaca 100K, having a solid race despite the heat and getting that 5^th Western States qualifier after a tough year on the ultra front.

Best salvage: Finishing CIM decently despite my first road race fall in 28 marathons and 10 years of racing.

Best racing while sick: Way Too Cool 50K (5 days after a pneumonia diagnosis).

Best racing decision: drinking that beer while going up Heartbreak Hill on a warm day in Boston.

Best trip for racing: D.C. (Marine Corps).

                2017 might have just been about survival on my racing front. I couldn’t have fathomed having a rougher racing year than 2016. 2016 was about overscheduling, blowing up, and overheating. I pulled back on the racing front for 2017 (yeah, I know, it’s hard to tell), ditching the return to triathlon plans to try to manage some running success. But, alas, my body had other ideas. I started the year with bronchitis in January, then continued with fulminant outbreaks of poison oak from February through May, pneumonia in February, a clogged ear with hearing challenges (allergy related) from April through June, intermittent exacerbations of asthma, on and off hemorrhaging , and bouts of leg numbness and cramping. I worked hard to try to keep my running heart in the right place, but all of the physical ailments tested me, especially as I wasn’t “injured” in any traditional sense. Ultimately, that required a lot of shift in expectations and an acceptance of my limitations.

The finish line at Redding Marathon.

                I kicked off the year with the Redding Marathon- a beautiful but tough course, somehow eeking out an AG win and my only BQ of the year  (and a squeaker at that). I then stumbled through my poison oak and asthma/pneumonia days. I walked in to Way Too Cool 50K prepped to take a DNF if my lungs could not manage the course. Instead, I walked away minutes off my goal and with my soul fed from a fun and fast race. I would do what I could over the following six weeks to prep for Boston, with fits and starts, struggling to breathe some days, while sailing along others.

Pneumonia filled happiness at Way Too Cool.

                When Boston 2017 dished out another heat race, I shifted to enjoying the experience. This one was for my Dad, as I was only able to return in 2017 (after qualifying and missing the cut off) via a charity bib, raising money for Project Purple in the fight against pancreatic cancer. Running for charity might have been the greatest single running gift 2017 provided me. It allowed me to run for something beyond myself and allowed connections in the process I could not have envisioned. I remain grateful for that opportunity and for the people that came in to my life as a result, as well as those I came to know better in the process. I celebrated Boston as only Boston can be celebrated!

Cheers to you Heartbreak and Boston!

                Following Boston was a quick transition back to trail and ultra racing. This provided my lowest race point of the year at Canyons 100K. I was sick before I started and the canyons wrecked nothing but pain on my ears, leading to an eventual drop 40 miles in. But I worried as I felt I lost my drive for ultra racing, unsure whether the Western States quest remained a goal I still should strive for. In the meantime, I was enjoying a 10K trail race series in Folsom and managed to regroup to train for Tahoe Rim Trail 100 miler.

Mile 6 of Canyons with my dear friend Lorena.

                Tahoe Rim Trail 100 miler in July would prove to be the prettiest course (road or trail) I have ever run. It is also amazingly tough. I survived the heat of the day, but my lungs and the altitude left me breathless. I would pull the plug on the race after 75 miles. I’ve never been as sad about racing as I was following Tahoe. The frustration I felt for so much of the year culminated with a blue abyss of emotions at Tahoe. My body had and was failing me, again and again. Was is my age? Too many years of racing? Crap luck?

Mile 31 of TRT part-way up Diamond Peak, before the lungs gave out.

                My original plans for the back half of 2017 were to try once more for a marathon PR. But the DNF at Tahoe and a need for one last chance at my 5^th year of Western States qualifiers would force an altering of my schedule. I found myself training for Marine Corps and CIM with my core Boston training group with Charlie, while being back on the trails as I trained for Cuyamaca 100K. A blazing hot race on Mt Diablo in August gave me this concept I once knew as confidence back. It parlayed into a patient and comfortable Cuyamaca 100K on another overly warm day outside of San Diego. I exercised every bit of patience I could muster during that race and found my heart filled again with the gratitude and nourishing emotions that bring me to the trails. Not from a time standpoint, but rather from a heart standpoint, it is the best ultra I have had since my first 100 miler in 2014.

I'm back! Cuyamaca joy!

              Marine Corps Marathon 2 weeks after Cuyamaca was respectable, given another warm day, but was more enjoyable in terms of the travel standpoint. I struggled again after MCM, being sick upon my return home, then having a hard time recovering after a pacing gig at Rio Del Lago. My body was back fighting me with random bouts of extreme fatigue, interspersed with some rather impressive runs. I extended my rest periods, but knew CIM would just be about making it through.

      Then something rather magical happened on December 2, 2017. After 5 years in the lottery and with a 30% chance of getting picked, my name was drawn (250 out of 261) in the Western States 2018 lottery.  After the challenge that was 2017 (and really 2016), so many of the reasons for persevering and being patient came to fruition. I have been filled with such joy since that day. I again feel content with running and with why I am doing this. My heart is steadfastly on this journey.

                My racing year would close out with CIM the following day. I just floated through that race. Well, I ran decently but knew I would only have a squeaker BQ in me for the day. That goal fell apart after a fall at mile 22, though just by 23 seconds.  Regardless of time, my day was filled with so many friends both on and off course, so much that makes me feel home in this town and in this race. It is this what grounds me in my running and what will take me through to 2018 and the years beyond. 

          

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 2^nd 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 1/8^th 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, 3^rd 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 3^rd 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 3^rd 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 50^th 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 2^nd 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).

7^th in AG F40-49/ 16 finishers (10 drops).

19^th female/35 finishers (16 drops).

83^rd 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 2^nd 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.