Temperatures warmed significantly in the past week; we went from having about a foot and a half of snow on the ground to being left only with those big dirty piles of snow at the edges of parking lots. We even had a few days of 70-degree weather, which is unheard of February in recent memory.
Before the snow vanished, I did get out to Great Brook Farm for some XC skating (which can only be done on groomed trails, hence I haven’t done skating in forever because it seems much easier to backcountry ski for free in the local conservation area). I’ve never been particularly good at XC skating and it took me a ten minutes to get my balance to the point where I was comfortable, but at least I was better than this guy, the Venezuelan skier who is now famous for his disastrous race in Finland (the most cringe-worthy part is around 40 seconds, when he manages to break his pole from a standing fall).
XC Skating at Great Brook Farm
I went in the morning (it was Veteran’s Day) and already the temps warmed the snow to a mush. The trails were also getting crowded. Although I’m one of the slowest XC skaters ever, I still got to fly past the crowds of classic skaters slowly wobbling their way in the piéton tracks.
Meanwhile, Mr. P (who didn’t get the holiday off from work) was working from home, debilitated by a man cold. The cat and him were enjoying a symbiotic association involving body warmth.
Little Boy was also keeping quite warm in Florida — at Disney World, in fact, where he spent the entire week with grandparents (schools have off the whole week for February vacation). From what I understand, it was trip that oscillated between a huge amount of fun and a massive amount of lines. He returned yesterday and the weather was still warm so we took a walk to Alewife Brook and fed a donut to fish, geese, and ducks, all of who competed for the crumbs. The goose proved to be the most dominant donut-grabber.
Carp, ducks, and goose
Aside from my XC skating jaunt, I spent the rest of the week working and being a wee bit resentful of those at my work who took the week off. My workload never seems to abate, and my next real vacation involving entire weeks off and being off the grid won’t come until August. That’s six months away!
When people find out I’m an ultrarunner, they typically do one of two things:
#1. Seem politely disinterested in a way that I assume that, to them, ultrarunning is such a bizarre, foreign concept that they don’t even want to try and comprehend it and would prefer to drop the subject. Sort of what I do when someone says they are really into country music.
#2. Show varying amounts of incredulous interest: “How is it possible for anyone could run that long? How do you train for that? How do you eat? How do you sleep? How do your legs/feet not hurt?”
They ask me the “hows,” but very rarely the “why.”
Which is good, because I can’t even really justify why I love running long distances to myself.
“Oh, you get to run in beautiful remote places…” Well, you can hike in the beautiful places. And honestly, running is a bad way to relish in scenery since you have to keep your eyes down.
“I love challenges.” Honestly, I don’t really love it. At my last ultra (The North Face Endurance Challenge 50 miler in December 2016), I spent the last 20 miles just praying for it to end. It was brutal. But it was the second time I did that race, and I very well may do it again someday.
“The people in the ultra community are great.” Yeah, they are, but for me that’s more of a bonus, not necessarily something that’s keeping me there.
“I can eat whatever I want!” I can probably eat more than the typical person and avoid weight gain, but I don’t “eat whatever I want.” I actually seem to have to eat less than other people just to maintain my weight.
“I get such a sense of accomplishment after finishing an ultra.” So this is true. But, what’s to stop me from getting a sense of accomplishment after a 5K PR? Or even from some decidedly less selfish pursuit, like volunteering?
It’s not just that I can’t articulate why I like ultrarunning… I honestly don’t know why I do it. It’s a hobby that makes no sense. In fact, it’s an extremely impractical pastime (and I am generally practical to a fault).
So this quote by David Blaikie (who, from what I can tell is a runner and a journalist) really strikes a chord in me. I will try to hold onto this idea as I struggle through that final miles of my next ultra — miserable, with my head down, trying to coax more PB&J sandwiches in the deepest realm of my being.
“Perhaps the genius of ultrarunning is its supreme lack of utility. It makes no sense in a world of space ships and supercomputers to run vast distances on foot. There is no money in it and no fame, frequently not even the approval of peers. But as poets, apostles and philosophers have insisted from the dawn of time, there is more to life than logic and common sense. The ultra runners know this instinctively. And they know something else that is lost on the sedentary. They understand, perhaps better than anyone, that the doors to the spirit will swing open with physical effort. In running such long and taxing distances they answer a call from the deepest realms of their being — a call that asks who they are …”
– David Blaikie
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At The North Face San Francisco 50 Miler, Dec 2016
The DeCordova is our default art museum, for these reasons:
1: Located in nearby Lincoln, MA, there is no need to venture into busy, crowded, nightmaresque Boston.
2: The DeCordova offers a mixture of indoor and outdoor exhibitions in a scenic setting, so we can stroll through woodsy environs while also being cultural, and…
3: (this is a newfound reason) The cafe serves beer and wine! (so long as the patron simultaneously purchases food, hence we bought a bag of potato chips. A toast to public health?!?)
Beer break at the lovely cafe
Little Boy’s “Old Lady” puppet, constructed in the “Mash-up Zone”
Taking in soothing yet questionable audiovisual art
Making our own art! “Untitled (Eye in Lemonade bottle)”
I’d like to begin blogging again. But before I do, I need to address the lengthy period of silence. Nothing dramatic… I could blame the decidedly amiss frequency on the general hectic nature of my normal life, but upon reflection I find that I have time to do a lot of of non-essential things if I make it a habit. I am a creature of habit.
So why is blogging no longer a habit?
Blogging used to fulfill me in a way that my professional life did not. Up until a few years ago, my job used to be boring, monotonous, and I needed an intellectual outlet. (Yes, blogging about a trip to Johnnie’s Foodmaster was sooo intellectual). But now, work keeps me busy… in fact it consumes me most of my waking hours. In a way 2016 was a hallmark year in my career, with a big fat promotion to accompany some big fat project deliverables that have the VIPs at my company crowing with satisfaction. But the lead-up to each project completion left me fraught with stress and worry; I’d awake at 3am to peck away at work. My actual work day is consumed with so many meetings that I don’t have time to work at work.
When I’m not working, the last thing I want to do is sit at a computer and think. I’ll sit at a computer and watch mindless stuff on Youtube, I’ll read Reddit, I’ll peruse ultrarunnerpodcast, but I just want to switch my mind off. Which is a bummer, because I feel guilty about all of the time I waste watching (and rewatching) SNL skits and looking at the aww sub-Reddit when I could be adding to my blog canon. Aside from my Ultrasignup profile, this blog could be the closest thing I have to a digital legacy that defines who I am.
So I didn’t make any New Years resolutions about blogging (in fact, I didn’t make any resolutions at all) but I am resurrecting my blogging resolve without trying to put too much pressure on myself. First step is to make it a habit. Second step is to make it something worth reading.
And here’s how we’re all looking these days — this was on a ski cabin in France over the holidays.
I woke up at 4 a.m., right on schedule. It’s the time my body declares it can’t withstand the night any longer without giving in to my shrinking bladder. The dawn patrol bathroom run has become a ritual.
The morning run was muggy, the kind of muggy that sticks to your skin and whispers, Why are you doing this? I jogged three miles to the gym, where I’m a regular fixture in the winter but a rare oddity the rest of the year. James, the ever-cheerful desk guy, greeted me with his usual warmth and tossed me a towel without even glancing at my membership card—an unspoken acknowledgment of our routine. I rolled out my calves and quads with a long, torturous plastic tube, stretched with a hint of yoga, held planks to the tune of whatever pop chorus was stuck in my head, and flirted with the light kettlebells. Twenty minutes later, I was jogging along the Charles River, squeezing out another two miles of sticky, humid effort before heading home.
Today was the day: the start of our three-night camping adventure. A flurry of packing ensued, punctuated by frantic searches for missing socks and snacks. By 9 a.m., we were buckled into the fully-loaded Subaru, rain showers in Massachusetts giving way to blue skies as we crossed into New Hampshire. Our first stop: the Flume parking lot for a warm-up hike up Mt. Pemigawasset (a.k.a. Indian Head). It’s a quick three-mile round trip with a manageable 1,200 feet of elevation gain. Little Boy put up the expected complaints but—miracle of miracles—offered spontaneous compliments on the view. We documented the summit, and I stowed away the brief flash of pride before it could scare him off.
On Mt. Pemigawasset
After the hike, we head to the campground. En route we stop in Twin Mountain for ice cream at a general store. A sign on the door barred certain named people from entering the store for reasons of “moral turpitude.” Thankfully, we were not on the list, and the owners actually seemed pretty normal. Upon reaching the campsite, we set up the tents, tarps, alcove, and start a fire, and enjoy relative calm and snacks.
Friday September 2
I was fully awake by 6:15 a.m., having spent the night in a tent, waking up just enough times to feel nostalgic for uninterrupted sleep. Little Boy chirped a “Good morning!” as I unzipped the tent, and I hushed him back into his sleeping bag for a few more precious moments of quiet.
Confession: I slept in my running clothes, complete with a semi-suffocating sports bra. Camping brings out my practical side. Sneakers on, I ventured out for a morning jog on the campground’s modest trail system. I had a map, vague memories from five years ago (Little Boy’s first camping trip!), and enough confidence to get lost, which I did. Panicky, I clapped my hands and called, “Hey Bear! Hey Bear!” every few minutes, straying into an ATV trail before finding a sign that pointed me back to HQ—1.5 miles of downhill relief. What was supposed to be a quick 50-minute run turned into 90 minutes of misplaced adventure.
By the time I returned, Mr. P was already pulling a pot of boiling water off the camping stove. Instant coffee has never tasted so good.
Post-coffee, we set out for Mt. Washington. Our goal was Tuckerman’s Ravine. If Little Boy was up for it, we’d push on to the summit, but a 9:30 a.m. start meant no late-afternoon descents. Tuckerman’s would be victory enough.
Little Boy’s relationship with hiking is part Shakespearean tragedy, part slapstick comedy. He’s a reluctant hiker until the promise of candy or the need to spite the trail itself propels him upward. Today’s motivators: Kit Kats and some mildly inappropriate conversation topics. We reached Lunch Rocks—three miles and 2,500 feet up—where we had a proper break, a few snapshots, and started our descent.
In Tuckerman’s Ravine — note the little hand 😉Smiling because of kit kats and the promises we’ll go back to the car
After the hike, we return to the campground for a dip in the swimming pond.
Saturday Sept 3
This was to be the most momentous day of the vacation. Mr. P tackled a Presidential Traverse (19 miles, hitting all seven of the Presidential Range’s 4000+ footers) while Little Boy and I would be tackling one of the Presidential peaks, Mt. Pierce. We had tried to time our respective adventures so we would all meet up at the end of Mr. P’s traverse, but we moved a bit too fast and he moved a bit too slow, so we only shared the last 1.5 mile together (and more importantly for Mr. P, the car ride back to the campground).
Still, a great day. We dropped off Mr. P at the Appalachia trailhead early so he could start his traverse at the northern-most part of the Presidential Range, then we headed back to the campground for a lazy breakfast.
Early morning drop-off of Mr. P at the start the traverse. I joked with Mr. P that I took this picture so I could tell the rescuers what he was wearing.
Then Little Boy and I drove to Pinkham Notch to start our ascent of the southern-most Presidential peak, Mt. Pierce. This is an “easy” hike for a 4000-footer, less than 3 miles one way and 2500 ft. elevation gain along the nicely-graded Crawford Path. I’ve noticed Little Boy moves much easier when he is with one parent as opposed to both of us. Perhaps he feels more like a hiking buddy and less like he is being dragged into the woods by his crazy parents. We stopped for two Kit Kat breaks along the way but made it to the summit in less than two hours.
We waited. Mr. P projected his arrival to Mt. Pierce before 2pm, but at 2:30pm he wasn’t there. Since I had no cell phone service, I assumed all sorts of bad things. I decided Little Boy and I would start to descend and we’d take it from there.
Then, disaster on the descent: Little Boy, who is normally so fluid and agile on the rocky downhills, slipped on a wet rock and banged his right knee badly. He howled, tears screaming down his face as I hugged him and weighed my options if Little Boy was unable to walk. Could I carry him down? Should I enlist other hikers’ to go radio for help at the nearby AMC hut? Fortunately, after about two minutes Little Boy started to walk — or hobble, rather — down the trail. He couldn’t flex his right knee without pain so he was descending slowly straight-legged, which looked so wrong. My head marinated with negativity; now my son was maimed, and my husband was missing.
Then, Little Boy began to pick up the pace. In fact, he was flying down the trail and I could barely keep up. I even lost sight of him. I began to call his name. I called it a half-dozen times when I heard a noise behind me. It was Mr. P!
We caught up to Little Boy and all my gloom lifted. Sure, Little Boy had a bruise but it would heal. And Mr. P was there, so there was no reason to call 911. Not an unequivocal success, but still a nice day.
Sunday Sept 4
Our last half-day camping. Even if Little Boy could hike with his swollen knee, we knew that he had reached his tolerance level… as had Mr. P, after his Presi Traverse. So they went to the Mt. Washington Cog Railroad while I planned to explore the trails within running distance of the campground.
I started on the Jimtown Logging Road. I had planned to hike up Mt. Crescent and back to the campground on the logging road, but I quickly developed hatred of the route, which was overgrown with meadow grass to the point that walking — let alone running — proved difficult and kinda gross. So I mapped out an alternative plan back to the campground. Instead of going up Mt. Crescent, I would descend to the Appalachia trailhead through a bunch of little-used local trails (all maddeningly labelled “Path”) and take the Presidential Rail trail about 5 miles back to the campground.
On the way to Appalachia, I passed Lake Durand, which was a pleasant surprise. There was a great view of the Northern Presidentials from the lake.
View of Mt. Adams from Lake Durand
The five-mile jog along the Presidential Rail trail was actually quite beautiful. It felt strange to be doing something so flat in the White Mountains, but compared to the jam-packed trail of holiday hikers, the isolation of the trail made me feel like I was truly getting away from it all.
I returned back to the campground at around 11:30am, which was prime time to snag a hot shower without a line.
After lunch, and breaking camp, and a quick dip in the swimming pond, we headed back home. Bye, summer… we hope we gave you a good send-off.
The first thing I did on January 1, 2016 was check my email to learn I had “won” entry into the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 miler via the lottery — which inspired many brash resolutions around training and lifestyle. But my training did not go as vowed. In the winter, I built up a good running base, but didn’t follow through on cross-training or strength/mobility/flexibility work. When spring came, for various non-running reasons, I wasn’t able to put in the hard, long efforts I needed. I bowed out of the Wapack and Back 42-miler; I lost some crucial weeks in June recovering from the San Diego marathon.
I knew that the TRT 100 would present many challenges for me: altitude (most of the race takes place between 7000-9000 feet above sea level, and I live at sea level); elevation gain (over 20,000 feet, which is difficult to train for when my nearest “mountain” has a measly 350 foot climb); and travel (I’d be arriving with Mr P. and Little Boy in Sacramento late Thursday night and traveling to Nevada on Friday for the early Saturday start, meaning I’d start with a certain amount of weariness).
The week before the TRT 100, I took an honest look at my training and decided to downgrade my distance to the 50-miler. Since the 100-miler is two loops of the 50, I’d still see the whole course. I’d have more time to relax on the beach with Mr. P and Little Boy. And, I would rather comfortably race and finish the 50 than suffer and probably not finish the 100.
The travel went well. On Friday, we arrived in Carson City in the early afternoon to pick up my bib and check into the hotel before heading to Zephyr Cove beach. Mr. P and Little Boy enjoyed periodic bursts of snorkeling in the brisk clear waters while I waded and mindfully hydrated.
Snorkeling
Aimlessly Wandering
On Saturday morning, I woke up at 3:45am. We stayed at the Carson City Plaza for the shuttle to the start/finish line at Spooner Lake, so Mr. P wouldn’t have to drive me. I had all my gear readied the night before so my priorities were to drink coffee, eat some nut bars, and use the bathroom. I arrived at the shuttle bus early and eavesdropped on other people’s conversations about the race and the course. I felt anxious so every little bit of knowledge gleaned was reassuring.
The bus arrived at Sooner Lake in time to see the 100-mile race start at 5am. I felt a little wistful as the 100 milers ran by with their headlamps. As the 6am start for the 50 mile and 55K race neared, the sun gradually rose.
Spooner Lake at Sunrise
The race started with the national anthem and then Pink Floyd’s “Run Like Hell.” I ran comfortably in a tightly-packed line of runners as the trail climbed gradually. Some runners already had audibly strained breathing; it always amazes me how people basically guarantee fatigue and misery in the last stages of an ultra in order to gain a few minutes at the start. My plan was to maintain a slow, steady pace, promising myself that if I wanted to go “beast mode”, it would wait until mile 43, where the 7-mile downhill to the finish commences.
The pack was spread out by the first aid station (Hobart) at mile 6. I grabbed some PB&J (my staple ultra food) and filled up my soft flasks. The next part of the race climbed some more to the Tunnel Creek aid station, where I grabbed more PB&J and applied sunscreen before starting the Red House loop — a part of the course known as “the taste of hell.” It wasn’t as bad as all that, though (and especially not as bad as the hell that awaited at mile 30).
After the Red House loop, the course climbed some more and the views got amazing. The trails started to fill with mountain bikers, who were very courteous but added some apprehension as their presence divided my attention. Around mile 20, I tripped and fell in front of three mountain bikers. Luckily I landed in soft sand so I only suffered some surface scratches on my elbow and a heavy dousing of dirt on my quads.
At mile 22, they warn you to fill up on liquids because the next aid station is in 8 miles. Unfortunately, the water tasted horrible — like glue. (I later found out the taste was due to the new PVC pipes that were being used to transport the water. Yikes.) On this mostly downhill section, I did share some miles with some nice folks, and the chatting helped to pass the time going into Diamond Peak at mile 30.
Mr. P and Little Boy awaited me at mile 30. I arrived just before 1pm, which was my optimistic target for Diamond Peak.
Arriving at Diamond Peak
My drop bag was at mile 30, so I changed my socks and retrieved my trekking poles, which I knew would come in handy for the impending 2 mile climb up a ski trail. I sat down for a bit, drinking water and eating PB&Js while smiling like an idiot at Mr. P and Little Boy. I told them to come to the finish line around 6pm, as it looked like I might be able to pull off a 12-hour finish.
The steep, 1600-foot climb out of Diamond Peak was hell, but it was a hell I had trained for. I used my poles to push myself up the sandy slope, passing more than a dozen other runners, some of whom commented on my “nice pace” (although I was moving at about a 30-minute per mile pace). For the first time in the race, my breathing was not so relaxed but it never got out of control.
Miles 32 to 42 are sort of a blur. I was still running steadily but slowly, and felt good. The highest point of the course is Snow Peak at mile 43; it was on this climb that I started to feel nauseous. The views were amazing but there was some serious wind! I realized the altitude was getting to me. I choked down three tortilla chips and some pickles at the aid station; I tried a peanut M&M and nausea quickly welled. Finishing the last seven miles on only water was not ideal, but I knew I could do it. As I took off jogging slowly on the downhill, there were some moments I had to stop, thinking I was going to puke. Breathing became harder. My legs were also starting to feel fatigued. It was a slow jog to the finish and I counted down the miles with a wee bit of impatience.
Reaching Spooner Lake was such a relief. The last part of the race is along the perimeter of the lake, wth the finish line in sight. I could see Mr. P and Little Boy just before the finish line and again, I started smiling like an idiot.
Nearing the finish
High Fives from Little Boy
I crossed the finish in 12 hours, 35 minutes. The race director George greeted me and urged me to sit down. He asked me how I liked the course and I said something about how I loved it, it was the most amazing race I’d ever done, and I’m from Boston so it was extra special for me. He commented that I must be very “well-trained” to come from sea level to run without much affect from the altitude.
At the finish
A nice woman asked me if I need anything to drink. I still felt queasy so I asked for more water. I started to give her my soft flask to fill up and she chuckled. “You’ve been drinking out of that thing for 50 miles. Let’s get you a cup, dear! Wouldn’t it be nice to drink out of a cup?”
Oh yes, it would!
After 20 minutes of drinking water from a cup, I was finally able to eat. There was some Mexican food but I was more intrigued by the ramen soup. There was free beer for runners but I let Mr. P drink mine.
Finishing the 50 miles in 12 hours, 30 minutes is actually a really great time for a low-lander (and flat-lander) like me. I placed 12th lady out of about 50 ladies. And, I did not regret switching from the 100-miler to the 50. I had good training for a 50 miler, but frankly, I do not think I would have finished the 100 miler.
We headed back to the hotel, where I took an amazing shower and we ordered takeout salad and a meat/cheese platter. I sipped wine until bedtime and awoke Sunday feeling stiff but not too bad. Mr. P went for a morning run. We were leaving Sunday night but still had the day to enjoy Tahoe. Overall, it was an amazing race and wonderful little vacation.
Time: 3:39:37. 90th woman out of 2,610. A Boston Qualifier—by just 23 seconds.
It almost didn’t happen. Back in January, the chance to run the San Diego Marathon as a charity runner—fully sponsored, with flight and hotel included—landed on my desk. The perks were undeniable: a free trip to a city I’d never visited and a 26.2-mile tour of its streets. But the drawbacks were just as weighty: a road marathon in June, complete with hills and potential heat, didn’t align with my training for a 100-miler. Plus, massive, crowded road marathons drain me, both physically and mentally. San Diego seemed like a risky place to chase a Boston Qualifier.
Still, the perks won out. After a near-miss BQ at Hyannis earlier this year, the fire was lit. I’d been logging slow trail miles with hill repeats (see below) since March, but some vestiges of road speed remained. Maybe, just maybe, San Diego would give me a shot at redemption.
EEEEk…
The journey began with a grueling five-hour flight in a middle seat on United economy—the flying equivalent of purgatory. Fortunately, my seatmates were considerate with armrest diplomacy. I distracted myself with release notes for work and Matt Fitzgerald’s How Bad Do You Want It, a captivating dive into the psychological aspects of endurance sports. (Spoiler: “Mind is everything. Muscle—pieces of rubber.” Thanks, Paavo Nurmi.)
San Diego itself felt like a hybrid of San Francisco and Phoenix. I grabbed a shuttle to my (all expenses paid) hotel, which was smack in the downtown.
View from my hotel room
From there I walked roughly a mile to the Convention Center to pick up my bib. Let me say, I’ve been to Race Expos before… but this was by far the best. Sure, it was crowded and exhausting, but pretty much every exhibitor offered free samples. I mean, that’s what an Expo is about– free samples! (Special kudos to Honey Stinger for their buffet of broken up pieces of Honey Stingers.)
I walked through the Gaslamp District back to the hotel. It seemed like a lot of upper-class chain stores mixed in with restaurants and breweries. The sun was hot.
Headed to the Gaslamp District
I stopped at a tourist shop and bought tchotchkes for Little Boy and Mr. P. Back at the hotel, I watched this crazy Animal Planet show called “My Cat From Hell.” I rolled out my calfs with a lacrosse ball and bidded my time until the charity run’s pasta dinner. I didn’t eat much pasta.
Jet-lagged, I fell asleep at 8pm and woke up at 3:30am. Walked about 1.5 miles to the start line.
What a scene! Over 20,000 runners. Madness. There were about 30 corrals and I was starting in corral 5 (based on my estimated finishing time of 3:40 — which is the qualifying time for the Boston Marathon for women my age). I noticed I was in the same coral as the 3:40 pace group, which was led by a very small young man who looked like he could easily do 2:40. I was tempted to run with the pace group but I decided I wanted to run my own race and see where that would take me.
Starting Line, Corral 5. Yes, some guy is wearing firefighter gear.
The first 18 miles were a dream. I clicked off 8-minute miles effortlessly, my breathing steady and strong, as Fitzgerald’s advice echoed in my head: stay in the flow, focus on the present, don’t overthink the finish. My legs were rubber; my mind, steel.
Then came mile 18. The sun grew hotter. My clothes were soaked with sweat. A side stitch gnawed at my ribs from all the water I’d consumed at the aid stations. Dizzy spells loomed, and my pace slowed to 8:20s. Still, I clung to the hope that my earlier cushion could keep me on track for a BQ.
The true test arrived at mile 22—a grueling two-mile hill that reduced me to a miserable 10-minute pace. I was spent. But at the crest, I summoned whatever scraps of energy I had left and pushed on.
Just before mile 26, the 3:40 pacer streaked past me, flanked by a few runners. Panic set in. I surged forward, matching their 7:30 pace. “What kind of pacer finishes a 3:40 marathon with a 7:30 split?” I grumbled internally, but I stayed with the group. The finish line loomed.
I crossed it. Relief.
Not knowing my exact finishing time, I passed through the gauntlet of medals, food, beverages. I grabbed my cell phone and checked my texts. I knew Mr. P was getting texts about my progress, and would send me my results…
“Nice BQ. See you in Boston.”
I had BQ-ed by 23 seconds! It might not be enough to actually qualify me for the Boston Marathon, but that is secondary.
Not knowing my exact time, I grabbed my phone and checked the texts from Mr. P, who had been tracking me: “Nice BQ. See you in Boston.”
I’d done it—3:39:37. A BQ by 23 seconds. Maybe not enough to actually get into Boston, but enough to prove that I could.
For nearly a decade, I’d told myself Boston wasn’t for me. I wasn’t fast. I wasn’t that kind of runner. And yet, here I was—90th woman out of 2,610, in the top 10% overall.
To the San Diego Marathon, the charity that sponsored me, Mr. P and Little Boy for their unwavering inspiration, and Matt Fitzgerald for awakening my mind to what’s possible: Thank you.
Results: 2 hours 14 minutes, 8th girl, 1st 35-39 lady
My 39th birthday this year fell on Memorial Day Sunday. And so did one of my favorite races… the Charlie Horse Half Marathon, run on the bucolic trails (and some roads) of Central Eastern Pennsylvania.
It was our third year doing it. Last year, the race mixed up Mr. P and mine’s ages on our bibs, so I inadvertently won 1st Masters (40+) female, while Mr. P placed 1st in the 35-39 division. It was sorta funny, but at the time I thought, “Maybe I can never do this race again. Because someone might remember and question why I’m suddenly not a Master.” But of course, no one is that invested in the results of this nifty yet obscure trail race.
I like this race for a number of reasons.
It’s a race that Mr. P and I get to do together because it coincides with our Memorial Day pilgrimage to PA to visit family. This year, Mr. P is nursing a knee injury and wasn’t excited about racing, but we were both pretty excited to get to go on a “date” while Little Boy hung out with his grandparents.
Charlie Horse is a race with a little bit of everything. It’s billed as a trail race, and yes, the majority is rolling trail with a few steep climbs and semi-technical descents. But the race also has sections of flat, non-technical trail that you can practically fly on. Then there’s a road section, with a loooong descent followed by a killer climb. At mile 12, the obstacles start: logs, mud pits. The last mile is just a grind of rolling trail that never seems to end. This is a race for the versatile runner.
Finally, because they have 5-year age groups, it’s pretty easy to win a cool medal made from a real horseshoe. (Probably one quarter of the runners win a medal!) And there’s free beer and BBQ at the finish line, which is at a nice, relaxed country club.
At 9am, just as the morning was beginning to turn uncomfortably warm, the race started – a dash across a parking lot, and then into a river crossing. I don’t care anymore about getting my feet completely soaked within the first minute. (This is also a good race for the runner who never seems to blister.)
The trail climbed uphill for a bit, and then flattened out. At the mile 3 out and back, I counted five girls ahead of me (not knowing if there were any really far ahead I might have missed). My pace was solid on the flat/downhill section; I passed some guys who went out too fast while trading places with two other girls who ran well. The mugginess of the day affected me a bit and I regretted not carrying water.
At mile 9, one of the girls and I encountered some volunteers directing runners up a steep hill. The volunteers knew the girl and informed her she was 7th girl (though I was only a step behind her). This invigorated me and I chugged past her up the hill. That was followed by a long descent on a road. Luckily, I’ve had a lot of long concrete descents in my training, and I went at the downhill with wild abandon.
The subsequent uphill was much harder. Compared to last year, I was much slower due to the humidity and creeping heat. I did pass a number of men and saw some women further ahead, but I took it easy.
After a short descent, the race returned to trail and the obstacles. There was girl on my heels as we plunged through the succession of 4 mud pits.
She seemed full of energy. I asked her how old she was, and upon hearing “29”, I told her to go ahead and pass me.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Today is my 39th birthday!” I told her.
She said something to the effect of “Wow, you’re so old, I’m hope I’m still this fast when I’m so old!”
I finished behind her as 8th girl, first in my age group. I got a medal, beer, BBQ.
Mr. P finished 30 minutes after me due to his knee. He was not pleased when he finished, but brightened when we dug into the aforementioned beer and BBQ.
Four years ago, I ran the marathon at Bear Mountain (post here —Little Boy was three years old and as cute as a bug!) I was getting back into running after a self-imposed hiatus. I carried about 15 extra pounds and had never run a trail race longer than 7 miles. I had tremendous fear of the Bear Mountain marathon; it was unknown territory in more ways than one. I finished in a rather feeble time of 6 hours, 27 minutes (I recall jogging/walking/stumbling a majority of the last ten miles). I never considered going back to Bear Mountain for a longer distance because it’s not my type of course: it’s technical, steeply rolling, grizzly. I prefer runnable ultras with sustained climbs and descents.
Mr. P., on the other hand, has raced on some of the most difficult terrain on the East Coast, so Bear Mountain is right up his alley. He signed up for the 50 miler. I felt zero envy.
We left for New York mid-Friday afternoon when Little Boy’s school let out. (He was sore at us for making him miss his after-care program fun.) We arrived at the hotel around 7pm, had a surprising dinner at Pizzeria Uno (nice cobb salad — who knew?), then went to bed to arise the next morning before 4am. I drove Mr P. to the start, then Little Boy and I went back to the hotel to (unsuccessfully) try to get more sleep.
I studied the race course map and decided we could meet Mr. P at around 20 miles, which was a nice lake aid station easily accessible by car. We waited by the lake for over an hour; it was clear Mr. P was off his projected pace, and when he arrived he confirmed that the course was more technical and slower than he anticipated (I did warn him!)
Smiles at mile 20
This poignant-looking picture is actually Little Boy asking Mr. P if he can help connect the iPhone to the hotel Wi-Fi after he finished his 50-mile race.
After wishing Mr. P well, we had about 5 hours to kill before meeting him at the 41-mile aid station. We went back to the hotel, rested, went to a WalMart, and showed up at the aid station a good two hours early to play frisbee and football in the adjacent grass field.
Mr. P came through. He was moving okay and was within reach of his “B” goal, which was to finish in under 12 hours. He had nine miles to go and was eager to finish.
Little Boy and I took the shuttle to the starting line. There was an informal 1 km kid’s race that Little Boy started in the back and was frankly not motivated to do. This kids’ race was memorable because, right after the start, there was a toddler stampede that resulted in two little kids getting (harmlessly) trampled by other toddlers and everyone was like “Awww!” and laughing.
Coming into the finish
The minutes ticked by. I was anxious for Mr. P to meet his goal of under 12 hours, and at 11 hours 50 minutes, I spied him approaching the finish chute. Hurrah!
Mr. P running with respectable form to the finish
After he finished, the rest of my day was spent happily waiting on him, hand and foot. However, I was signed up for the half marathon the following morning, which I was a little apprehensive about because of the rainy weather, and because it’s a 700-person trail race.
Trail races with 700 people are not fun. They are crowded, impersonal, tense. It was a thirteen mile conga line, up and down the hills. Half the runners were in a total anaerobic state the whole race. It was hard to pass people safely because many people lacked trail etiquette and/or were wearing headphones and seemed oblivious to others. After the final big climb at mile 11, the pack finally spread enough that I could practically fly to the finish. I had hoped to finish under 2:20, but actual time was 2:35. Do not underestimate Bear Mountain!
The photographer made me laugh by asking, “Didn’t I see you running yesterday?”
I raced the half marathon, hoping to inject some serious speed into a schedule weighed down by long, slow mileage. Since I finished the 50K Spring Classic last year in a respectable 5:36, I thought I could maybe do the half in around 2 hours. Alas, a little too ambitious: though it’s a flat, fast course for a trail run, there’s still some rollers and muddy/watery sections. More excuses: the week before, I had a knot in my calf muscle the size of a golf ball that left me unable to run for three days until I successfully loosened it by repeatedly rolling the knot over a lacrosse ball. At work, I was overseeing a major software release, which was racheting up my stress levels to the point I’d wake up at 2am, unable to sleep due to worry.
At the start of the race, I immediately noted the shortness of breath at speeds I should have been able to cruise on. (It also gently rained, which I actually LOVED.)
Still, overall, pretty happy. My calf is recovered and still, inexplicably, almost the same width as my thigh, the software release was successful, and this pic of me around mile 4? ain’t half-bad! Trail racing with the TARC folks… that’s happiness!
