The forecast called for rain and seasonably warm temperatures on Sunday, September 24, 2006. Waking to a night sky and humid air, I prepared to start the Vermont 50 Mile Ultra Run at 6:35AM.
The first 10 miles seemed the hardest. I didn’t have that feeling of euphoria that I sometimes get when I run. From the get-go, my stomach didn’t seem to want to cooperate. The culprit: in my Nathan Hydration Pack, I carried a mix that was too sweet and too thick. (I should have begun with a Red Bull Energy Drink like I normally do. Some lessons are hard to learn.) By the time I reached the second aid station, 12 miles in, I finalized the exchange of this tangy orange mixture for plain H20. I started drinking water (along with a salt tablet every two hours), and I started to feel better.
The off-road terrain covered 9000 feet of climbing. While I tend to persuade myself to like hills, I overlooked how many hills I would have to climb. The fact that this was a race whose host is Ascutney Mountain Ski Resort should have been a big clue. Sometimes, it is better not to know.
The climate was a typical New England treat. It’s been said, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute. It will change.” The overcast day lingered a bit in the morning, giving way to the sun popping through the clouds, then being beat out by torrential rain which came and went like it was part of a parade. Wind spun leaves like confetti in a wedding. It truly was a whirlwind of weather conditions. I approve. I like seasons.
With the rain, the trails became slippery and muddy, and, in some cases, overtaken by little streams of water. 32.7 miles in, at aid station #7, I changed into a second pair of (dry!) Montrail trail running shoes. I did not have a single blister (or chaffing for that matter). What a blessing!
I had never run more than 32 miles before and I still had 18 more miles to go. I was feeling pretty good now. Running seemed much more automatic than it had in those first miles. I had managed to eat a turkey sandwich, a few potato chips and some red grapes. Coolrunning.com calculated that I burned 5254 calories by running 50 miles. How many calories are in a turkey sandwich and a few salty chips? Not that many!
So, I wouldn’t say that “I hit the wall” because I don’t believe I did. I wouldn’t say that “I wouldn’t do it again” because I think I will. I wouldn’t say that “this 50 miles was the first notch in my ultra belt” because it isn’t. I would say, “I ran 50 miles. 100 miles is possible.”
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Jay Mountain Trail Run
Jay Mountain Trail Run is advertised as one of the toughest off-road challenges in the world. At the top of Jay Mountain on July 29, 2006, fog covered the area. At the bottom of Jay Peak, and the rest of the way… sun beat us down. It was hotter than 90 degrees F and we were in the presence of intense humidity. I was sweating before I even began the race.My legs were shaking with fatigue after just 13 miles, as I took off my Montrail running shoes to empty them of mud and pebbles.I had run up, and ran down northern Vermont’s tallest mountain, presumably the hardest part of the course. That was a bit of an assumption.This was an amphibious course; many miles and much time was spent foot-planting in the shin-to-waist deep river, and climbing up and falling over slimy boulders.After trudging for 4 hours and 50 minutes, I thought about quitting. My friend Sally, who was tracking my progress from a spectator’s position, slapped my right face cheek, my left face cheek, and then my butt cheeks, and told me, “You don’t quit. You get moving.” Apparently in shock, I listened.I was zigzagging through a tall grassy field, and then I was running through patches of wild berries. I was hiking it up another hill, winding through the woods, and then my feet caved into the slick mud, and I went down to the ground like I was sliding into home plate in a baseball game.Another section included total submersion in water while I pulled myself across using a 50-foot cable. Surely, this was not a typical trail run!31.6 miles of obstacle course in 8 hours and 49 minutes: I finished (22nd of 75 females). What an accomplishment!
Sunday, June 4, 2006
Escaping Alcatraz
I felt like I was a marine on a mission equipped with a parachute jumping from a military plane, as the race coordinator yelled “Go, go, go!”
In my sleeveless wetsuit, without any time to think, I jumped from the boat named, “The San Francisco Belle” with 1600 prisoners of triathlon.
Feet from “The Rock,” while I’m drifting in the Pacific Ocean, I see the Golden Gate Bridge to my right, the Bay Bridge to my left, and the city of San Francisco in front of me.
Clear skies as the race started at 8AM on June 4, 2006, but before triathletes could swim to shore: fog.
At the pre-race meeting, competitors were advised to swim toward various landmarks: the “twin towers,” then the antenna, then Fort Mason, then the Exploratorium Dome, and, finally, the Accenture swim exit just right of the Marina.
Rough waters? Yes. Cold waters? 55-degrees. Sharks? In the 46-minutes that I was swimming, I didn’t see any.
On my road bike, covering the first corner out of transition, I realized “Oh, no! I’ve got a flat tire.” I wasn’t even a mile into the 18-mile bike, and I had my first flat tire in my five-year triathlon racing history. “I can handle this. I just swam from Alcatraz.”
Calmly, I took my tools off my bike seat and grabbed another tube. Like a surgeon, I took off my rear wheel, and exchanged the punctured tube with a new tube. Precious minutes later, the crowd that had watched me while I repaired my bike, cheered for me as I mounted again.
I managed a distance of just a few more bike lengths, and to my dismay, I lay down my bike unintentionally. “Oh, no!”
My handlebar was bent. My right shoulder had road rash. My ankle and knuckles were bleeding. “I’m ok.” With the crowd still watching, I got on my bike. “Let me try this again.”
Down hills traversed around various ledges or were mapped with abrupt sharp turns onto other streets. In addition, the roads needed some work. Braking was absolutely necessary. The real beauty of the bike course was the ascents. There were a variety of short steep climbs, and long gradual climbs with the most breathtaking views.
Next was the run in this three-discipline sport. After about two-miles of flat land, there was a stretch of hills. The only problem was that with this out-and-back course, there were too many participants in the same area at the same time. Slowly, athletes made their way single-file up the stairways to the Golden Gate Bridge, winding through single-track dirt trail, until the descent to reach Baker Beach. Running on soft sand was the prelude to the sand ladder.
Soon enough, I crossed the finish line on Marina Boulevard. I escaped Alcatraz and then some.
The thing with escaping is that for all the planning and preparation, there are still going to be factors you didn’t anticipate and a chance you might get caught.
I planned and prepared, and I was challenged. Yet, still, I was caught … finishing the race. It’s not so bad to be a prisoner of triathlon.
In my sleeveless wetsuit, without any time to think, I jumped from the boat named, “The San Francisco Belle” with 1600 prisoners of triathlon.
Feet from “The Rock,” while I’m drifting in the Pacific Ocean, I see the Golden Gate Bridge to my right, the Bay Bridge to my left, and the city of San Francisco in front of me.
Clear skies as the race started at 8AM on June 4, 2006, but before triathletes could swim to shore: fog.
At the pre-race meeting, competitors were advised to swim toward various landmarks: the “twin towers,” then the antenna, then Fort Mason, then the Exploratorium Dome, and, finally, the Accenture swim exit just right of the Marina.
Rough waters? Yes. Cold waters? 55-degrees. Sharks? In the 46-minutes that I was swimming, I didn’t see any.
On my road bike, covering the first corner out of transition, I realized “Oh, no! I’ve got a flat tire.” I wasn’t even a mile into the 18-mile bike, and I had my first flat tire in my five-year triathlon racing history. “I can handle this. I just swam from Alcatraz.”
Calmly, I took my tools off my bike seat and grabbed another tube. Like a surgeon, I took off my rear wheel, and exchanged the punctured tube with a new tube. Precious minutes later, the crowd that had watched me while I repaired my bike, cheered for me as I mounted again.
I managed a distance of just a few more bike lengths, and to my dismay, I lay down my bike unintentionally. “Oh, no!”
My handlebar was bent. My right shoulder had road rash. My ankle and knuckles were bleeding. “I’m ok.” With the crowd still watching, I got on my bike. “Let me try this again.”
Down hills traversed around various ledges or were mapped with abrupt sharp turns onto other streets. In addition, the roads needed some work. Braking was absolutely necessary. The real beauty of the bike course was the ascents. There were a variety of short steep climbs, and long gradual climbs with the most breathtaking views.
Next was the run in this three-discipline sport. After about two-miles of flat land, there was a stretch of hills. The only problem was that with this out-and-back course, there were too many participants in the same area at the same time. Slowly, athletes made their way single-file up the stairways to the Golden Gate Bridge, winding through single-track dirt trail, until the descent to reach Baker Beach. Running on soft sand was the prelude to the sand ladder.
Soon enough, I crossed the finish line on Marina Boulevard. I escaped Alcatraz and then some.
The thing with escaping is that for all the planning and preparation, there are still going to be factors you didn’t anticipate and a chance you might get caught.
I planned and prepared, and I was challenged. Yet, still, I was caught … finishing the race. It’s not so bad to be a prisoner of triathlon.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Wapack Wash Out
And so the saying goes, “when it rains, it pours.” It’s been the theme for this past week, and is the continuing theme for this week’s projected forecast in New Hampshire and Massachusetts, where we are under flood warnings and watches. New Hampshire has been declared an official disaster site with flooding that closed hundreds of roads, washed away bridges, and wreaked houses.
When the Race Director of the MAY 13th 2006 Wapack Trail Run expressed concern about the drooling weather, decided upon polling participants, and ultimately didn’t cancel the race, my boyfriend sheepishly arrived at the starting line with me for a 12.3 mile trail run. “Come hell or high water,” I was running this race.
Most parts of the trail held a great deal of rainwater, near ankle deep and some parts well past knee deep. What wasn’t washed out was wicked in its own thoughtful way: stacked boulders too tall to cover except by hiking. We were on our way to summiting four mountain peaks, and a “hill.”
Intermittently, trees had dropped their now-orange-colored needles which covered stagnant water holes, creating the illusion of dry land. It was unreasonable to think anything could be dry; it was raining, and I don’t mean lightly. It was dangerous drizzle. We were soaked within minutes of exiting the bus for the start of the race. We each could have proceeded into a hypothermic state had we not kept our bodies warm from constantly moving forward.
After three hours of running, hiking, and wading through water, my boyfriend, David, was losing momentum. We both anticipated a much quicker pace, but we were faced with the added difficulty that wet terrain provides. I was getting cold because we were slowing down. I took the car keys and forged ahead.
I wouldn’t have left David behind to fend for himself to the finish had I known the series of events about to unravel.
In the last two miles, sighting yellow blazes became paramount indicative of an opening in the trees, multiple trails that intersected one another, and a road crossing. At each possibility, I found the yellow blaze and continued consciously thinking that David would also see the trail marker.
At the bottom of what was to be the last of the inclines, I reckoned that David might think we had gone too far, and that we were now set to complete 21.4 miles, rather than the 12.3 we intended so I waited briefly. Then I hustled into the reverse direction, anticipating that he wasn’t that far behind. Of course I knew he was tired, but I thought that he might be jogging. I navigated several turns back into the woods. I yelled for David, my words suffocating in the moist air. I reversed my direction again, not wanting to get too far from what I thought was the finish.
Saturated, and starting to panic, there was still no sign of David. Did he trip, fall, and break his leg, or hit his head? Did he get lost in the woods after becoming delirious from hypothermia? Did he run out of food or diluted Gatorade? Did he need my help? Separating seemed like a good idea at the time, but with each passing minute, it seemed to be putting a damper on a perfectly good day.
Nearly thirty minutes had gone by. I had calculated that we had less than two miles to travel before reaching the finish. Hoping that he might notice if he were to reach this point where two paths divided, using a stick into the pebbles, I etched David’s name with an arrow pointing to the direction he should go. Onward to the finish I went.
Shaking my head in disbelief, there’s David sitting in a car! He had taken an alternate, but valid route. He had taken the road, where I had crossed to remain on the trail. Since he was cold, and without keys, thankfully he was warming up while waiting for me in a volunteer’s car.
I foiled the plan to stick together. I foolishly averted Plan B to proceed to the finish. Humility doused me. Could I borrow an umbrella? Thanks.
When the Race Director of the MAY 13th 2006 Wapack Trail Run expressed concern about the drooling weather, decided upon polling participants, and ultimately didn’t cancel the race, my boyfriend sheepishly arrived at the starting line with me for a 12.3 mile trail run. “Come hell or high water,” I was running this race.
Most parts of the trail held a great deal of rainwater, near ankle deep and some parts well past knee deep. What wasn’t washed out was wicked in its own thoughtful way: stacked boulders too tall to cover except by hiking. We were on our way to summiting four mountain peaks, and a “hill.”
Intermittently, trees had dropped their now-orange-colored needles which covered stagnant water holes, creating the illusion of dry land. It was unreasonable to think anything could be dry; it was raining, and I don’t mean lightly. It was dangerous drizzle. We were soaked within minutes of exiting the bus for the start of the race. We each could have proceeded into a hypothermic state had we not kept our bodies warm from constantly moving forward.
After three hours of running, hiking, and wading through water, my boyfriend, David, was losing momentum. We both anticipated a much quicker pace, but we were faced with the added difficulty that wet terrain provides. I was getting cold because we were slowing down. I took the car keys and forged ahead.
I wouldn’t have left David behind to fend for himself to the finish had I known the series of events about to unravel.
In the last two miles, sighting yellow blazes became paramount indicative of an opening in the trees, multiple trails that intersected one another, and a road crossing. At each possibility, I found the yellow blaze and continued consciously thinking that David would also see the trail marker.
At the bottom of what was to be the last of the inclines, I reckoned that David might think we had gone too far, and that we were now set to complete 21.4 miles, rather than the 12.3 we intended so I waited briefly. Then I hustled into the reverse direction, anticipating that he wasn’t that far behind. Of course I knew he was tired, but I thought that he might be jogging. I navigated several turns back into the woods. I yelled for David, my words suffocating in the moist air. I reversed my direction again, not wanting to get too far from what I thought was the finish.
Saturated, and starting to panic, there was still no sign of David. Did he trip, fall, and break his leg, or hit his head? Did he get lost in the woods after becoming delirious from hypothermia? Did he run out of food or diluted Gatorade? Did he need my help? Separating seemed like a good idea at the time, but with each passing minute, it seemed to be putting a damper on a perfectly good day.
Nearly thirty minutes had gone by. I had calculated that we had less than two miles to travel before reaching the finish. Hoping that he might notice if he were to reach this point where two paths divided, using a stick into the pebbles, I etched David’s name with an arrow pointing to the direction he should go. Onward to the finish I went.
Shaking my head in disbelief, there’s David sitting in a car! He had taken an alternate, but valid route. He had taken the road, where I had crossed to remain on the trail. Since he was cold, and without keys, thankfully he was warming up while waiting for me in a volunteer’s car.
I foiled the plan to stick together. I foolishly averted Plan B to proceed to the finish. Humility doused me. Could I borrow an umbrella? Thanks.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
ENDURANCE RUN: FANTASIES AND FAIRY TALES
What’s real? I had the courage to sign up for a 50K trail run: Ninety-percent single track, ten-percent gravel road. Unlike the cowardly lion, I deemed myself unafraid.
Sure, I’m an amateur, but I’ve put well over a hundred races in the notches of my belt. Let’s assume that I know the idea is to show up on the designated race day well in advance of the pre-race meeting. Unfortunately, my Jeanie had another plan and I started fifteen minutes after the race was already underway because I got lost. (A tip for any future competitor: there is more than one Skyline Drive. I highly recommend referring to the race website www.badtothebone.biz for directions.)
But then... Bel Monte, held on the Blue Ridge in Virginia's George Washington National Forest, starting and ending at Sherando Lake, was more fun than being first in line at Disney Land’s entrance gate.
I had dreamed feverishly about this grand day. I had superimposed the possibilities of becoming a super-athlete. Think Superwoman. I anticipated being more fit than I’d ever been. I had imagined raging up the mountains as if it were as easy as turning on the television. I thought running this Endurance Run would give me the same kind of rush that one might experience skydiving. You with me?
Ten times we crossed a narrow, shallow river. Ten times I hesitated in mental weakness. Ten times I laughed out loud at my hesitation once I had crossed. I’m a Goofy girl.
Out on the course, there was Beauty and the Beast. The online profile of the course showed the obvious changes in elevation, but I underestimated the 6300 feet in ascents. It’s never quite the same as it looks on paper. However, up the mountain I charged. My short legs were covering just inches per stride. Two tall men passed me on the seven-mile incline. Like Jack climbing the bean stalk, up the mountain I persisted. By this time, I had covered nearly three-quarters of the course. I knew chicken noodle soup awaited on the summit; I overheard two wise women talking about it at the previous aid station where I had loaded up on chocolate and cola. I am not the only runner who believes in the three C’s: Chocolate, Cola, and Confidence. Or is it Chocolate, Cola, and Craziness? Well, either one works. Better that than green eggs and ham.
It snowed steadily all day. The sky probably unleashed four inches of the amazing white powder that fused with the landscape forming ice upon the rocks. Snow White would have been pleased. I, too, prefer snow over a cold rain. This area of Virginia coupled with the snow reminded me of where I live in New Hampshire. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” I traded in my ruby red slippers for a pair of Montrail running shoes: an excellent choice.
The tree branches forced to hold the weight of the snow, met in the middle creating a bridge above the winding trail. Even with my five-foot frame, I sometimes needed to crouch below the splice through the enchanted forest. Occasionally, as I wisped by the trees, plants, and shrubs, they waved or shot a pile of snow at me like a grenade.
Nevertheless, I followed the single track trail happily, as if it were the yellow brick road. I realized what it meant to have tunnel vision. In some instances, I ran fluently taking the obvious path of least resistance, pretending I was being chased by the Big Bad Wolf. In other instances, I stepped carefully, placing my foot, like an anchor, in between shards of sharp rocks.
Another competitor, we’ll call him, “Humpty Dumpty” was drooling blood from his knee to his shin. This was a competitor showing his commitment to rapidity. I opt for the rule: safety is more important than speed. My boss always says, “Accuracy is more important than speed.” My mind always progresses to the next phrase, “Except when you don’t have time.” There was a time limit of 10 hours.
Seven hours, 23 minutes, and 52 seconds is how long I was out on the course. (The race clock is different, since I’ve deducted the fifteen minutes that I was late.) Whoa, Cinderella! That’s a long time running. I finished feeling like I could run further. I wasn’t actually about to attempt it on Saturday, March 25, 2006, but someday soon. You make your life what it is. Are you fulfilling your fantasies? I am. I plan on running the Vermont 50-mile trail run this coming September. If you’d like to join me, look for the princess.
Sure, I’m an amateur, but I’ve put well over a hundred races in the notches of my belt. Let’s assume that I know the idea is to show up on the designated race day well in advance of the pre-race meeting. Unfortunately, my Jeanie had another plan and I started fifteen minutes after the race was already underway because I got lost. (A tip for any future competitor: there is more than one Skyline Drive. I highly recommend referring to the race website www.badtothebone.biz for directions.)
But then... Bel Monte, held on the Blue Ridge in Virginia's George Washington National Forest, starting and ending at Sherando Lake, was more fun than being first in line at Disney Land’s entrance gate.
I had dreamed feverishly about this grand day. I had superimposed the possibilities of becoming a super-athlete. Think Superwoman. I anticipated being more fit than I’d ever been. I had imagined raging up the mountains as if it were as easy as turning on the television. I thought running this Endurance Run would give me the same kind of rush that one might experience skydiving. You with me?
Ten times we crossed a narrow, shallow river. Ten times I hesitated in mental weakness. Ten times I laughed out loud at my hesitation once I had crossed. I’m a Goofy girl.
Out on the course, there was Beauty and the Beast. The online profile of the course showed the obvious changes in elevation, but I underestimated the 6300 feet in ascents. It’s never quite the same as it looks on paper. However, up the mountain I charged. My short legs were covering just inches per stride. Two tall men passed me on the seven-mile incline. Like Jack climbing the bean stalk, up the mountain I persisted. By this time, I had covered nearly three-quarters of the course. I knew chicken noodle soup awaited on the summit; I overheard two wise women talking about it at the previous aid station where I had loaded up on chocolate and cola. I am not the only runner who believes in the three C’s: Chocolate, Cola, and Confidence. Or is it Chocolate, Cola, and Craziness? Well, either one works. Better that than green eggs and ham.
It snowed steadily all day. The sky probably unleashed four inches of the amazing white powder that fused with the landscape forming ice upon the rocks. Snow White would have been pleased. I, too, prefer snow over a cold rain. This area of Virginia coupled with the snow reminded me of where I live in New Hampshire. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” I traded in my ruby red slippers for a pair of Montrail running shoes: an excellent choice.
The tree branches forced to hold the weight of the snow, met in the middle creating a bridge above the winding trail. Even with my five-foot frame, I sometimes needed to crouch below the splice through the enchanted forest. Occasionally, as I wisped by the trees, plants, and shrubs, they waved or shot a pile of snow at me like a grenade.
Nevertheless, I followed the single track trail happily, as if it were the yellow brick road. I realized what it meant to have tunnel vision. In some instances, I ran fluently taking the obvious path of least resistance, pretending I was being chased by the Big Bad Wolf. In other instances, I stepped carefully, placing my foot, like an anchor, in between shards of sharp rocks.
Another competitor, we’ll call him, “Humpty Dumpty” was drooling blood from his knee to his shin. This was a competitor showing his commitment to rapidity. I opt for the rule: safety is more important than speed. My boss always says, “Accuracy is more important than speed.” My mind always progresses to the next phrase, “Except when you don’t have time.” There was a time limit of 10 hours.
Seven hours, 23 minutes, and 52 seconds is how long I was out on the course. (The race clock is different, since I’ve deducted the fifteen minutes that I was late.) Whoa, Cinderella! That’s a long time running. I finished feeling like I could run further. I wasn’t actually about to attempt it on Saturday, March 25, 2006, but someday soon. You make your life what it is. Are you fulfilling your fantasies? I am. I plan on running the Vermont 50-mile trail run this coming September. If you’d like to join me, look for the princess.
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