Half

The owls were hooting outside the window when the alarm went off this morning. I’m not sure what they felt they needed to say to each other, but they kept at it for almost an hour until dawn lightened the sky.

It was overcast, and chilly. Excellent. Yesterday, sitting in the SB Running parking lot (passing out race packets), I was too hot, and I was afraid for the race.

Rusty wanted me to do a 3 mile warmup, strides, and then start easy. My whole pace group was supposed to start out at 6:35, marathon pace. Which should be easy, except, of course, the first two miles of the half are up-hill. So it wasn’t quite as easy as all that.

Still, we were a very companionable little group. Chrystee, Michelle, Jeff and Laura (Yay! we haven’t seen her in a month!), we lined up behind Drea’s little group (Drea, Tim, Jamie, Mike). Eric was there too, but although normally part of our group, he was going for a faster start than the rest of us.

I noted with some glee that Shiggy did not appear to be here today. Perhaps I’ll win my age-group? If not today, then never. I’m the youngster in the group, and I’m pretty sure that Shiggy is the only one of our local runners who can beat me in a half… so if he’s not here…

When the gun went off, it was hard to hold back — I kept wanting to run with Drea. After a bit I was running beside Tim a bit behind from Drea, and asked why he wasn’t running with her. “She’s going too fast,” said he. Oops. Chastened, I dropped back a bit.

We were chatting together as we went up the hill. Novel. I’m not used to chatting in a half. In a marathon, yes. And I guess I’m going at marathon pace, so it makes sense.

At the 1 mile mark I discovered that I had failed to start my watch when we crossed the chip mat. I start it now. All it displayed was that my heart rate at about 85% — which seemed reasonable on a hill. Chrystee says 6:23, and then corrects herself to 6:33.

Drea is being paced by two out of town women. I worry a little about that. I want Drea to win. I want Chrystee to place. Michelle too. I don’t want out of towners in the top spots.

The male leaders are beyond my ken already, but the women leads are all around me.

One (out of town) woman, breathing very heavily, passes us. I think she’s going way too hard. And a mile or two later we pass her again. Breathing even more heavily.

Laura says she’s feeling poorly and is speculating that when we run past her house (somewhere along here) she’ll just run inside and stop racing. I tell her not to do that.

At the two mile mark the previous mile was 6:40, and I shout to the others that we need to speed up. Chrystee and Jeff both point out that it was an uphill mile and 6:40 is just fine.

I realize that Mike is running with us. Normally he runs with Drea, but he seems to be happy to hold our pace for now. Then Kent comes up from behind. Kent likes to start slow and speed up, he is nominally in our group too, and for now he seems happy to be part of our clump.

As we climb up Mesa Lane, I hear a father, who is spectating, explain to his daughter “It’s alright, they are allowed to run fast in the street.” Mmm. Yes, he probably doesn’t want his three year old out running in the street.

As we run we switch places, we’re a rather loose clump, sometimes one person will be in front, sometimes we’ll be in a long line across the street, sometimes a different person will be in front. Hmm. When we do tempo runs we’re not usually in so much flux… I wonder what’s different today.

We’re up on Cliff now, real traffic beside us for the first time. We have one lane of the Cliff’s four, so we’ve got a fair amount of room.

And here is the three mile mark. 6:27. I guess Jeff and Chrystee were right, we didn’t need to try to speed up, it just happened when we got away from the steep hills. Behind me Jeff says, “We can speed up now!”, and I do.

I’m testing something on this race. I want to eat GU on the marathon course — one every half hour or so, just as I did in the ultras this summer. But I’m not sure how well that will work. I’m running a lot faster than I was then, it’s harder to manipulate things at high speed. So I’m testing to see if this idea will work. I’ve got a small belt pouch with 3 GU packages in it. I haven’t reached the first half hour yet, but I know there is a water stop coming up, and I want to drink after the GU.

I can’t find the zipper on the pouch, so I rotate it round to the front and discover the zipper is on the wrong side from what I was expecting. I open it in front of me, extract a GU pack, and rezip, and rotate it back. Seems to have worked. Then I eat the GU. I hold the packaging in my hand until the water stop, dump it in a trash can, grab a cup, and go off.

At the 4 mile mark I see 6:03. Oh dear. Way too fast. I got excited. Of course it is a downhill mile, but still too fast. Nice that I could do that while manipulating the GU and going through a water stop. So I think the system is working. But I do slow down a bit. It’s still a downhill mile, but I don’t want to go that fast again.

Footsteps behind me. Jeff? No, Kent. He passes me. Kent has gotten faster recently (and I have gotten slower) — in fact, this will be the first race we’ve run together where he has beaten me, but from the way he’s been running in workouts it is not surprising.

We’ve looped back down to the starting area again, and Nichol and her kids are on the side of the road cheering us on (They’ve made up several signs, the one being displayed now says “Go George!”, ).

No longer downhill. There’s a certain jerk when I hit the flat level ground and I have to remind myself to slow. I can’t run that fast on the flat — or I can’t run that fast and still run another 8 miles…

At the 5 mile mark I see my pace was 6:19. Oh.

I had hoped it would be faster than that. Somehow. Foolishly. I was hoping I could run 6:20s for the rest of the race. But it doesn’t look like it. If I could only do 6:20 on that downhill, there is no way I’ll maintain it for the next 8 miles. Sigh.

I don’t adjust my pace, because I’ve already slowed to what feels right for the flat, but I do adjust my expectations. Pity. In the back of my mind there was the faint hope of a PR. Gone now. I’m still nursing the hope of a PR for this course — my previous best (here) was a 6:30 pace, and I think I’m a little bit faster than that. But we’ll see.

Suddenly the bushes beside me erupt and there is Eric.

Hunh? How did he get behind me? I thought he was ahead?

He had to use the port-a-potty. Oh dear, that is not a good sign for him. You don’t stop in the middle of a race unless things are fairly grim. Still he passes me and moves ahead.

At the next water stop I observe that Kent does not know how to drink. He slows, and I pass him. Not that I am that great at it — I often end gasping for breath with my head swimming, or coughing and then gasping — but I don’t slow as much as he does.

At mile six (State St.) my pace is 6:24. This does not feel bad. I’ll bet I can maintain this. Excellent, looks like I’m on track for a personal course record. Well, it’s something. And maybe an age-graded PR?

At mile seven (before Milpas) my pace is 6:23. Looks good.

Jamie and Kent come up from behind and pass me again. Sigh.

Coming up to mile 8, 6:24.

I am passing Eric now (he must be feeling awful if I can pass him). As I pass I tell him “You know you are faster than I, come on.” and he sadly replies “Not today.” Poor guy.

I make myself look up as we go past the bird-sanctuary. Seeing mountains across the lake is probably my favorite view on this race. Little spots of clouds dot the mountains and the sun is shining now, but I’m in shade.

Here is the race leader, preceded by Rusty on the bike, it’s Aaron Sharp (Haven’t seen him for a couple of years…).

No one else is visible for the return.

There’s another water stop coming up, time to do my little GU dance. Again it works. And again I get to pass Kent as he slows to drink. He needs to learn how to do that. Or at least how to do it better.

And now uphill again. Not nearly as hard a climb as up to the Mesa, but I’m tired now. And then down the other side. Oh, no! Up again. I had forgotten that. Sigh. and mile 9 is at the top of the hill. (6:25) And then down again to the turn around. Urg. Then we do turn around and reverse the process. So many bumpy little hills.

Meanwhile I saw 3 guys I didn’t know on their return journey, and then Ricky in 5th place. Then I lost count. Tim. Drea is the first woman, and then Sara next — must have missed Sara at the start (Mmm. Maybe she was one of the two running with Drea and I didn’t recognize her from the back). Out of town women have vanished, I guess I passed them all.

Now I turn and get to see who is behind me. Chrystee is much closer than I had hoped, Jeff, Michelle and, yes, Laura are all back there. And many more people. I try to greet everyone I know, but I don’t have much breath and I have to give that up and resort to a thumbs up gesture.

It now amazes me how many people I do know in a race. As the pack gets denser I don’t always see everyone, but they see me and cheer me on.

Down the last hill now and here’s mile 10. 6:32. Gleep! Well, it was a hilly mile that’s ok, I guess.

Through the water station again in the other direction, I decide that at this point drinking is pointless, and has a fair likelyhood of causing a coughing fit.

Then the long slog back. I’m tired now. And the little hill going up to mile 11 seems interminable. And I ran it in 6:40? Yuck! that’s appalling. I’ll have to speed up.

Chrystee told me later that at one point she thought she was going to catch me. I bet it was on this stretch.

A car pulls out of a parking lot, and almost runs over the guy in front of me. There was a break in the stream of runners from the other direction and I guess the driver just wasn’t expecting anyone from ours. There aren’t many runners ahead of me…

Someone passes me. I learn later he is Tim Townsend. He passes, but this is exactly what I need, and I don’t let him pull away. I dog his footsteps. After a bit he notices and begins encouraging me.

Bike path now. With people strolling and biking, so it’s a bit of an obstacle course.

Seems to go on for ever.

Finally a change, here’s mile 12, and State St. with it’s jumble of traffic. Nice. 6:25! Thank you Tim. Back on track.

Do I really have to keep pushing? Can’t I let the pace drop? I’m tired. No one important is going to catch me. I can just coast in now.

No. I. Can’t.

I don’t know who is behind. There might be another 50 year old. There is Chrystee.

Past the swimming pool.

Tim is starting to catch up with the guy in front. And I am too.

As we pass the harbor road a large truck tries to run us over.

But stops in time.

As we make the final twist I manage to catch the guy ahead, but when we turn the corner and he sees the finish line and pulls away from me again. I don’t have anything left to fight with.

Rusty is directing traffic, when he sees me go by he tells me to catch the guy ahead. I feel like strangling him. I just lost that race.

The line is getting closer. I do pull a little closer to the guy ahead, but I’m not going to catch him, I know.

1:24:25 says the clock as I run toward it. 1:24:30. 1:24:34 and it’s gone and I’m done.

So about half a minute faster than my previous best time here, but probably not an age-graded PR. (I learn later that I fell short of an age graded PR by 0.06%. Almost.)

Then I learn who Tim is, and who the guy between us is (and that neither is in my age-group), and the guy who was behind me explains that he would have caught me if he’d known where mile 13 was, but because it was unmarked he started his sprint too late. He’s a bit put out.

And here’s Chrystee (half a minute after me). And Eric, two minutes after me, poor guy, but he hung in there. And Michelle. Jeff. Laura. (Kent finished half a minute ahead of me). My group!

I go congratulate Drea and Sara and …

I look at the posted results. I’m 27^th, time 1:24:31 (right, it’s a chip race, I guess I was further from the start than I thought). And oh damn, I didn’t win my age-group. I’m second. Someone from out of town beat me by 25 seconds. Oh well.

And then, change shoes, and drag myself up the hill again for another four miles. But these are extremely slow miles. I waited long enough to get really stiff, and can barely hobble up the hill (Chrystee thinks I’m damaged, but I don’t feel off (and believe me I have felt off a lot recently), just really tired). As I go, I start to smooth out. Some anyway. But I’m still going excruciatingly slowly.

Eventually that ends. Roughly 20 miles today. Not a bad training run. 4 weeks to the marathon!

Can’t sleep?

When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache
And repose is taboo’d by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose
To indulge in, without impropriety;

For your brain is on fire, the bed-clothes conspire
Of usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counter-pane goes, and uncovers your toes,
And your sheet slips demurely from under you;

…
The night has been long, ditto, ditto my song,
And thank goodness they’re both of them over!

Nightmare, Iolanthe, W.S. Gilbert

Well, Rusty fixed me up so I can run without fearing that I’m damaging myself. (It’s not everyone who knows what the obturator is, much less can imagine that it might pull the hip out of alignment and make the psoas hurt).

So I started to get exited. The half marathon mile markers have been repainted (oh boy!), and the sign is up warning the Mesa residents that a race is coming through (and me with it!).

I can’t sleep. I’m too excited. I lie there figuring instead.

Now last weekend we did 9 miles at just under 6:30 pace. Should not be too hard to do that for 13. But a 6:30 pace only gets me to an 85 minute half marathon.

What I’d really like is to break 83. That means running faster than 6:20s. Hmm. 6:20s have been feeling hard recently. Of course we’ve only done them at the end of an 8 mile tempo run, but a half marathon will be even worse. Now if my legs were rested, and I had a real taper, I’d give 6:20s a try, but the legs are tired. I get a teeny taper, but they’ll be tired for the race.

Which is rather the point, of this race after all.

Oh, I’ll probably run a few… down the hill from the mesa, that always invites them.

It’s not even 11 o’clock yet. Maybe if I turn over I’ll be more comfortable.

I do tend to go out to fast, up the hill. One year I was ahead of Annie at the one mile mark (ran up hill at a 6:05 pace or something). Not a good idea. Maybe tired legs will take care of that. Or even better, running with Chrystee…

Of course the real issue is the marathon.

I want to be at 2:55. That’s a 6:41 pace. But a 6:40 pace is a lot easier to calculate with. Now the big issue is the hill on Cliff. We ran up it last weekend and definitely slowed for the half mile of steep up. So even if I’m running 6:40s I’ll lose at least half a minute going up.

I can probably push the pace going up so I don’t lose too much (I’m better at hills than most), but that late in the race I’ll end up with nothing left when I get to the top, and there’s still another 2 miles to go. Late but not at the end. I’ve made that mistake before. Question is: how to recover that lost half minute, or maybe minute?

Damn. It’s too hot. I throw off a blanket.

Can I run 6:35 up to the bottom of Cliff? Or would that be too fast? Rusty told me he would comp me if I finished the race in under 2:50. He was joking, of course because there’s no way I’m going to be doing a marathon at 6:29 pace. Or I don’t think there is… It would be nice though… (Not to be comped, I don’t care about that, but to surprise Rusty (and me)). Nah. I’d burn up too soon trying.

Now it’s too cold. Where’s the blanket?

So going back to 6:40s… my! but that’s a nice number. It’s 400 seconds. So .2 miles works out to 80 seconds. Easy to calculate with. So at the top of Cliff —after the hill— when I hit the 24 mile mark I want to be um 2.2*6:40 = 13:20+1:20 = 14:40, so I want to be 2:55:00 – 14:40 or 2:40:20 into the race. If I can get up that hill and still be under 2:40 I should be ok for the last stretch…

6:40 really is a nice number. Three of them make 20 minutes. So 26.2 = 24+2.2=8*3+2.2=8*20+14:40=160+14:40=2:40:00+14:40 = 2:54:40.

Sigh. It’s 5am. I might as well get up…

Annie used to dream about giant birds carrying her off. I wish I had better dreams…

Not racing?

I was talking to a friend who seemed surprised that I might not run a race because I was injured.

To me this was obvious. My hips are misaligned at the moment. Back in 2003 I ran a race with misaligned hips and got a stress fracture in my pelvis. I do not wish to repeat that. Very painful. Kept me from running for about a year.

This went through my mind, but I didn’t actually say it because my friend had already continued: “Maybe it is pride.”

I hadn’t really thought of that (and it stung a little — so perhaps it’s true). I don’t want to run a race (or do anything) poorly. Everything deserves a good effort, and if I know I can’t give that then why demean the race by giving a performance that I know will be poor, better not to run.

(This is different from trying hard and failing — I hit the wall in Sacramento, but that was ok, I was doing my best, but to enter a race with no intention or ability to complete it well is an insult to the race).

For me, the whole point of a race is to get that added boost that the competition provides. If I want to run 26 miles, I can go out the back door and run 26 miles; I don’t need a race; I’ve done it often enough. In fact, if I’m not racing, I’m much rather do my 26 miles out on the trails where it is beautiful, not trotting around the streets of a city.

Some people enjoy crowds of spectators, or perhaps crowds of runners. I simply ignore spectators, and crowds of runners get in my way. I am focused on my race. A runner who can keep pace with me is a boon; that runner will help me do my best. But if I know I can’t do my best, I don’t care who is beside me.

That feels more like respect to me. Not simply pride.

Rather like the recent NY times blog post — if I’m gonna plod, I shouldn’t mess up a race. I can plod on my own. I prefer to plod on my own.

Loose hips sink marathon hopes?

I begin to wonder if I shall ever get through a road marathon training period without something substantial going wrong. I would really like to run one (just one, 1) good marathon, but perhaps that is not to be.

About 6 weeks ago I noticed an ache near the lesser trocantor on the left leg. I didn’t pay it much attention. There’s always something aching and it wasn’t too bad.

But it worsened.

Hip misalignment perhaps? This happens occasionally. So I went to my chiropractor to have my hips adjusted. That helped — for a couple of hours.

Ah, the psoas is too tight, of course! Rusty worked on it, and it released.

After a couple of runs on roads with steep cambers, it got really bad again.

But now all the muscles on the upper left leg were complaining. Primarily the quads, but the hamstrings and gluts too.

Back to the chiropractor. A few hours later the quads feel better and the psoas hurts again.

The last time I had inexplicable pain I had a stress fracture. I get a little paranoid about stress fractures because I’m told it’s a sign of osteoporosis and I have no confidence that the treatments my doctor has prescribed work.

I was limping at the Tuesday workout and it was harder to complete than it should have been.

Thursday, Rusty released the psoas again and that pain completely vanished. Can’t be a stress fracture if the pain goes away.

Whew.

I saw Amanda at Elite PT Friday. She said I was badly misaligned (But Rusty just aligned me the day before! Arrrggggg!). She worked on the psoas again and it released (easily, she said).

That evening I was fairly confident I was misaligned again.

Rusty told me to do a trail run rather than a road tempo this morning. He told me I shouldn’t try to run the distance, just the time. The road workout was 19 miles — how long does that take?

Very dark at 6am when I bike out to cold spring trail. Much warmer at 7 when I get to the trailhead. With the sun still below the horizon, but tinging the clouds with color.

As I start to run, I try to convince myself that the awkwardness I feel is just, um, because I’m not warmed up, yeah, or something like that. Then I run down a little dip. Nope. I’m definitely limping, I feel very off (for some reason downhill is more unbalancing than up).

Damn it.

It’s the first time I’ve been up here after the rain, the first rain of the new water year, 10 days ago. The creek is happily talking to itself again, not just a bunch of mud puddles as it was a month ago.

I pass a father with a toddler strapped to his back. I pass a young woman hiking who wishes me a good run.

I notice my leg isn’t bothering me as much. Ah, I tell myself, I’m just taking advantage of the dished nature of the trail and running so that the trail’s camber actually supports my short leg rather than working against it. Doesn’t mean anything.

After 20 minutes (which is about normal), I come out to the open area where the fire road is. First view of the risen sun.

I go a little further up, it gets a bit lighter, and there’s a beautiful view of the Islands poking out of the sea mist…

Then I turn around, and the mountains also call out for a photograph

As I went further up my sense of imbalance faded. Perhaps I just needed to warm up? Perhaps a trail run could somehow bring me back into alignment? The many different surface types of the trail requiring stablizing muscles to tense bringing things into alignment?

At Camino Cielo I headed down to Forbush. It’s been about 10 years since I last took this trail. Don’t remember it at all…

Thus I get a little lost in the campground at the bottom, but eventually I find where the trail continues. I have a choice now between Mono and Blue Canyon. In spite of having run the Blue Canyon race, I know I never actually got to Blue Canyon trail, only the really long distance runners did that, not us wimpy 60k-ers. So I decide to go that way.

Most of the trees in Santa Barbara do not change color in the fall (or they don’t to my color-blind eyes, which might be a different statement…). But the sycamores do. They turn a brilliant yellow. And down below in the canyon I see a vibrant yellow.

I think it’s yellow.

The trail drops sharply here and then becomes flatter, and opens out into a lovely meadow with oak trees all around.

A little further on there is another meadow, this one with a sign claiming that it is “Cotta Camp”. The sign claims the Blue canyon trail crosses a river, but when I try to do that the trail peters out almost instantly on the far side of the stream. So I turn back and head toward Forbush trail. (But Forbush was the name of the campsite a  mile or two back… Hunh.)

I wonder… Maybe the sign was twisted around.

Oops. I’ve been running for an hour and a half. Um. If I turn back now that will be roughly three hours when I get done. Probably long enough to run 19 miles on the road. I decide I didn’t actually hear Rusty tell me to go by time, I’m gonna run my 19 miles.

Um, well I do have to get to the market before it closes. If I don’t hit 9.5 miles in 2 hours I’ll have to turn back anyway.

Press on!

The trail continues toward the sun, and up a steep hill.

I pause to look back at the meadow before heading down the other side.

I’ve noticed a lack of footprints on the trail. I don’t think anyone has been here since the rain. Last time I saw prints was at Forbush camp. But now I see lots of prints — deer tracks. They seem to use this trail to get in and out of the meadow below.

Another track. (beside a deer track) My first guess is a small dog, but there are not likely to be small dogs without people. A bobcat, I guess. Neat!

“Oh, Pooh! Do you think it’s a–a–a Woozle?”
“It may be,” said Pooh. “Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t. You never can tell with paw-marks.”

The trail now runs about 30 feet above a little river (the headwaters of the Santa Ynez I guess?) and looking down are more sycamores.

The trail drops down and hops from one side of the river to the other. At one stream crossing it vanishes for a bit, washed out by the rain, perhaps, but after a bit of searching I find it on the other side.

Another sign, and a glance at my watch tells me that I’ve gone 9.7 miles and, oh yes been running for 2:01 hours. Time to turn back. Now is not the day to explore “Upper Blue Cyn Camp.” Somewhere I should be able to get to Romero… Not today though.

On my way back I notice something I hadn’t seen on the way out. A much larger set of pug-marks than the little bobcat. The paw here is about as big as my fist. Too small for a bear, not a wolf. Mountain lion?

That’s a little disconcerting.

The print is old.

So where is it now?

As I climb out of Forbush camp back to Camino Cielo the view east now opens up. Earlier it was into the sun, but the sun has risen a bit. It is blue as it fades into the distance…

A bit further on I see a tree with a hole right through it. I wonder how that happened?

I’m feeling a bit tired now. I’ve got a fairly steep slope to climb. Mike would probably want me to try to pick up the effort here. So I do, for a bit. But Mike didn’t actually say to do that, and I can’t seem to motivate myself at the moment so I let the effort drop back to my steady jog.

Near the top is a little spiny of pine trees. I’ve been running through sycamore, and oaks, bay laurel, chaparal. The pines look out of place. And interesting.

There aren’t many of them. Wonder how they got here.

And then on up to the camino. A long hard slog.

On the road is an inexplicable sign:

There are no hikers. There’s just me. I haven’t seen a soul for almost 3 hours now.

And now down Cold Spring trail again. I’ve gotten used to this trail now, and I can really fly down the upper part. It isn’t technical, a good surface, nice downhill, I’m zipping along at, oh, 8 minute miles. Now that’s fast:-)

Hunh. My leg isn’t bothering me. Oh, it isn’t perfect, but I only realize that when I think about it, when I was just enjoying the run it felt fine.

I wonder if running on the trail has helped it?

When I come to the final (or first, depending on your viewpoint) stream crossing there are four people there. Two men are sitting on a rock discussing ¿philosophy? of all things, while one woman helps the other onto the rock. One man is saying «There’s nothing intrinsic about it, it’s only a rock because I call it a rock.» Hunh. I think to myself, that’s silly. And I downgrade my opinion; he is playing with language, not philosophy, a deconstructionist perhaps. I don’t approve.

I get down to the bottom. A bit under 4 hours. 12 min/mile.

Today that seems fast. But Tuesday I was running 5:50s.

“You just missed a spectacular sunrise”

Said Lauren as I toiled up the horse trail to More Mesa.

It didn’t look as though the sun had risen when I reached the mesa.

Off the mesa, and into Hope Ranch.

I may have missed the sunrise, but it was still spectacular.

Just did it.

And at mile 7 (of the hard stuff, mile 14 overall) I thought I might not. I’d slipped 5 seconds on the pace (from 6:15 to 6:20), my HR was 92% and that was too high, my group had evaporated and weren’t there the help me, and Drea and her group were round the corner and too far ahead to be encouraging.

Ah. But then then hill leveled off, I stopped worrying about HR (or where my friends had got to) and the last mile was 6:08.

Done.

(well, then a cooldown, but that was easy)

Cold Spring: aide mémoire

It was hot already at 7 as I biked up to Cold Spring. My route went through the devastation of the Tea fire. Which stopped so close to Cold Spring trail. And a few months later the Jesusita fire went on to burn its west fork.

When I was in college I used to bike over to Chantry Flats and hike. I didn’t know where I was going, I just knew that I could go for hours without seeing a road. I would stumble back in the evening twilight. When I left Pasadena I took a few pictures, but I thought “Why bother? I can always return.”

Well, now that forest has burned up too, and I can’t return, not in my lifetime anyway.

So perhaps I should take some pictures of Cold Spring — just in case.

September is probably not the best time to do this, at the end of a dry summer everything looks a little sere. But now is when I am here, thinking of it. So now is when I shall do it.

I want to remember the simple, ordinary things. Normally I look for things that strike my fancy, but today, I want to capture the essence. These very ordinary trees reaching over the trail. Nothing special, but worth remembering nonetheless.

The lower part of the trail goes beside (or near) the stream. Today, at the end of summer, with no rain since June, the stream is hibernating, it has hidden itself under the ground, and all I see is the dry stream bed.

In a month or two the Sycamores will start dropping their leaves. One of the few local trees that bothers to do that. But for now the sun shines brightly on those leaves…

Mud	Normally a pretty waterfall

The trail crosses the streambed here, and winds up on the other side. Then it crosses again and here the water has been pushed to the surface, a little of it runs over the rocks where I cross, and a fern takes advantage of the water and the sun.

For a time the trail continues beside the creek, but soon it starts to climb out of the canyon. The vegetation is still comparatively lush, and there are ferns beside the trail for a while yet…

After I’ve been trotting through the canyon for about 20 minutes the trail breaks out into the sunlight. It’s hot today. Here are the powerlines. And here is the first view of the trees. About halfway up the trail, standing tall amid the chaparral, there are two eucalyptus trees. How they got there, I don’t know. But they are visible for a long way, quite different from the surrounding landscape, and make a clear goal. I’m going up there (and beyond). From here, just a tiny dot on top of a ridge line… but I’ll get there.

As I climb away from the fire road that services the pylons, views open out. First a view up the coast, east, toward Carpenteria. It’s hazy this morning and I’m looking into the sun.

Then round the bend and past the “No trespassing” sign that marks the Hot Springs connector trail.

The trail gets steep, and then opens and flattens out on a ridgeline, with the mountains just peeking down on me.

From here I get a second view of the trees. They still look terribly far away. The trail continues on this ridge for a bit and then starts climbing, eventually reaching the hill in the distance where it is dimly visible traversing on a diagonal under the trees.

After 35 minutes or so from the base I have reached and passed the trees. The city of SB is in the background. Somehow they don’t look nearly as impressive when seen from above.

Now we head toward Montecito Peak. The trail is fairly exposed here and travels through chaparal (mostly manzanita) about as high as I am. Sometimes I can see over it, often not.

Off to the left is the ridge line containing Camino Cielo, while on the right is the slope up to the peak.

Switchbacks criss-cross this area, eventually taking me to the shady side of the peak.

Again Camino Cielo is on the right, on the left is the trail, which bends right and follows a series of ridges which lead, eventually to the road.

One of my favorite spots on the upper trail, the shrubbery becomes tall enough that it arches over the trail, leaving a pleasant tunnel through which the far ridge line is visible.

Out from under the shrubbery the trail bends right and then makes a big “U”, eventually looking back on Montecito Peak.

The peak, with  Santa Cruz Island poking out of the haze just above it, and the city of Santa Barbara spread out below.

After a few more twists and turns I reach the top. The paved road, Camino Ciello.

Across the road lies the valley of the Santa Ynez river, and the trail beckons me on. Only “4 miles to Forebush Flats” it says.

Sigh. But that journey is for another day. Rusty has only given me a two hour run today, and it takes about one hour to get here. I must turn back now.

As I turn back I see a better view of the city than I have yet had.

And another of Montecito Peak.

And here is a flower. I realize it is the first I have noticed today. Whereas a few months ago the trail had many wildflowers, today there are almost none. Spring is long gone, and now summer is over too.

Seed pods	produced by these June flowers

And here a few seed pods from the clemantis which bloomed even earlier.

Off in the distant haze Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Islands.

The trees again, arching over the trail in a friendly way.

But between the trees, I see the barren wasteland left by the Jesusita fire.

The other fork of Cold Spring trail is all burnt up.

Slower than most nineteen year olds

But faster than a few…

According to the age-grade tables, at 50 I’m about 11% slower than I was at 19.

The pleasing thing is that I still am ahead of some.

Once a year I get a chance to see what this means. Once a year Westmont college invites SBAA to field teams for their cross-country met. Last year our men’s team failed to gel and we ended up with only 4 runners, but our woman’s team won their event. This year we had enough runners, but some of our best were unable to run (Fred Mellon twisted his ankle during the warmup and sat the race out with ice for company).

As I arrive I meet Drea pulling in. Together we go looking for a map.

And someone to explain it.

The course is twisty with lots of loops and subloops — no two the same but all alike enough to confuse. On a foggy morning. And the men run a different course from the women. And it’s different from last year because of the wildfire and reconstruction. We got there an hour and a half early to warmup on the course and learn its twists.

Then we went to get our bibs. Oh, your women picked up the SBAA packet. OK, where are the women? Out doing their warmup on a different set of twisty loops. Ah, but the packet is here amid the back packs. But it only contains the women’s bibs.

Now, it seems unlikely that the women would have removed the men’s bibs but not their own.

We go back to the organizer’s table to request a set of bibs. Time is ticking toward the start. One of our number realizes that he didn’t bring the right singlet (we’re supposed to be in uniform) and he brought an SB Run/Race singlet, not an SBAA one. Luckily, I brought a spare. So we trot over to my bike. When we return we have bibs! and it’s 2 minutes to race time, so we trot over to the start.

Well, we don’t quite start on time.

I line up at the back. The gun goes off, and we head out across the soccer fields. Most people go out way too fast. I find it kind of amusing. I am surprised when Kevin Young passes me, I’d have thought he would have known better. Once we’re off the soccer field and going up the hill I pass him back. And then I just keep passing people.

I realize that no one passed me after that first quarter mile.

A little after mile 1 people are cheering a guy whom I am overtaking. One observer yells out “Quick Henry!” and my mind turns back to “Quick Henry, the fleet” (ok, it should be “flit”, but fleet worked better here).

Now we start on the hills. Next two miles have steep climbs. It’s a good way to pass people. Many can’t climb hills fast, others will think they can and then have nothing left at the top.

Each time we head up the hill (which we do twice) the fog is lifting over the mountains and I get better and better views of the clouds rolling back and exposing the mountainside. But I’m running too hard to carry a camera today.

Each time I pass someone I worry a little that I’ll be out of sight of the next clump, but no, I there’s always someone I can follow (and overtake), until right at the end. But I’m not worried about the last two minutes of the course.

The final loop goes past the start/finish before making an excursion below the soccer fields, around them, across them and back to the finish. I pass the clock and see that I’m just under 30 minutes. Jamie yells to me that I’ve got 2 minutes to go. Nice. Down, around, up (I’m tired of up now), around, across and

finished.

31:43. Twenty seconds faster than last year, and on a much harder course.

They give me a card. I’m in 69th place. Out of 89. Still most of those 20 are college athletes, kind of gratifying to know that I can still pass a few…

Also amusing to note that I’m closer in time to the first place finisher than I am to the 89th (by a lot).

Then the women start…

After their first loop Drea is so far ahead of everyone else it is unbelievable. And then the “everyone else” turns out to be Michelle, who herself has a considerable lead on those behind her. And they increase their leads as the race goes on…

Nichol points out that “69″ isn’t such a bad number to have. I must admit I hadn’t thought of that. One track mind, I don’t think enough about sex…

Where’s Shiggy?

Tom Stoppard wrote The Real Inspector Hound, a play about the hard fate of the second best (or third best). I think of it often when Shiggy disappears into the horizon ahead of me.

Moon is a theatre critic for a nameless British paper. Higgs works for the same paper and is a better critic. So Moon rarely gets to criticize — Higgs usually does the job. And then there is also Puckeridge, the third string who never ever gets to do anything because the other two are there.

Sometimes Shiggy doesn’t show up. Sometimes I get to win my age-group.

I’ve never beaten Shiggy in a fair race, and I’m kind of embarrassed that the only time I have beaten him was when he got lost this past Sunday. It doesn’t really count. I kept wondering where he was…

BIRDBOOT: Where’s Higgs?
MOON: I’m standing in.
BIRDBOOT and MOON: Where’s Higgs?
MOON: Every time.
BIRDBOOT: What?
MOON: It’s as if we only existed one at a time, combining to achieve continuity. I keep space warm for Higgs. My presence defines his absence, his absence confirms my presense, his presence precludes mine… When Higgs and I walk down this aisle together to claim our common seat, the oceans will fall into the sky and trees will hang with fishes.
BIRDBOOT: (Not listening) Where’s Higgs?
MOON: The very sight of me with a complimentary ticket is enough. The streets are impassable tonight, the country is rising and the cry goes up from hill to hill— Where–is–Higgs? Perhaps he is dead at last, or trapped in a lift somewhere, or succumbed to amnesia, wandering the land with his turn-ups stuffed with ticket-stubs.

…

BIRDBOOT: Where’s Higgs tonight then?
MOON: It will follow me to the grave and become my epitaph— Here lies Moon, the second string: where’s Higgs? … Sometimes I dream of revolution, a bloody coup d’état by the second rank—troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men—I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister’s Humber—comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges—And march—an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-hand men—storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet mallet—stand-ins of the world stand up!–

Beat

Sometimes I dream of Higgs.

I’m sorry Shiggy…

Cones? What cones?

I dreamt my alarm went off and I woke up to find it was 3am. I looked hopefully out the window and saw no moon, thinking that might mean fog — but no, the moon was at zenith and bright. Damn. Hot. (Not to be confused with “Hot Damn.”)

So I dozed and dreamed of the moon, and racing, and the Indian climate (Prahlad tells me they run the Mumbai marathon in temperatures in excess of 90) and other things of that kind until my alarm did go off.

No fog. Unfortunate. It will probably be hot. Now I have to decide. Do I carry water with me? If so I might as well expect a poor time; I could take a camera and just enjoy the run — or do I gamble that it won’t be all that hot at 9:20…

Here in my wind-tunnel of a canyon it is chilly.

I decide to gamble. Rusty said to wear my racing flats. Magic shoes get packed. I’m going to take some GU packs. 2? 3? Oh… and I better bring some electrolyte pills just in case.

Biking to the race it feels hot and humid on the Mesa. My glasses fog up. Perhaps I took the wrong option…

I get to the pier a little before 6, there’s Dennis out on the bike path taking a picture of the pier against a sky which is just beginning to show signs of light. Looks like it will be an interesting shot.

And there is Laura, we chat a bit. I ask her to warm up with me, but she goes in search of a bathroom instead. Laura has recently and suddenly become really good and I’m hoping she’ll be running with me, but I’m a little afraid she’ll take off at mile 8 and leave me in the dust as Drea did last year.

On my warmup I bump into Jamie. 6 months ago I was running faster than he, but no longer; he’s now faster than I. But he’s never done P2P before. So he asks how I plan to run it. About 7 minute miles for the first 4 (which aren’t so steep) and then whatever I can after that. He says that’s about what he planned too.

When we get back, the start is swarming with people. And beginning to get light. I greet my friends (or those I see). But all too soon, we line up, and are off.

Wait… we’ve started now?

I get off to a slowish start, in spite of everything I just wasn’t ready when they said “Go!”. Sara D. was right beside me on the line, but somehow she’s a pace ahead. Oh well, she’s going to be ahead, I just didn’t expect it to be happen so quickly. But I’ve found my stride and am about where I should be. Shiggy passes me (Damn. there goes any chance of being first in my age-group). I count people ahead: 12. No, the ponytail ahead of Sara is a cyclist not another runner. 11.

Down the hill under the freeway, let the legs go. Zip. Enjoy this little bit of downhill. And then up on the other side.

I’m slowly catching the guy ahead. I can tell he went out too fast and is now slowing drastically. I pass him. 10 ahead.

I try to put names to backs. Shiggy, yeah, and Sara, and Ricky. Ricky usually goes out too fast, and I usually catch him later (or I do on long courses), but Ricky has gotten fast this year, and I’m not sure I’ll catch him this time.

I’m starting a blister on my right foot, already, just between the ball of the foot and the arch. My flats give me blisters (probably because I can’t squeeze my orthotics in them, so they don’t quite fit right). I hope this doesn’t cause problems later (it’s ok for now).

Here’s the 1 mile mark. 6:34. Oopsie. I really did mean to go out at a 7 minute pace. Oh well, I didn’t. It doesn’t really matter, the first mile is the closest to flat of any, 6:30 is probably a reasonable pace. Yeah. And I’ve got a bridge to sell…

I’m catching up on the guy in front, and then I pass. Only 9 people ahead now, I’m in 10^th place. That’s about where I expect to finish.

At the two mile mark I see 7:02. Excellent! that’s what I want. The guy behind (whom I just passed) runs up close enough to ask for the total time 13:30 I say (close, but it’s too much effort to remember the small digits). I add this is too fast for me (and he agrees for him too), but that the last mile was at the right pace.

Apparently not for him as he drops back again.

Feet behind. Someone else passes. Being in 10^th place didn’t last long.

I realize I’ve seen no sign of Laura or Kary or Kent. I thought they might run with me, but not today. No sign of Jamie either, but I don’t know his back as well as the others, he might be ahead.

At the first water stop I take water. I normally don’t this early but I’m still worried about heat later, seems like a good precaution.

And here’s the Mission and a small crowd is out to watch the race. There’s Fred (why isn’t he running? Oh well, he’d be faster than I so maybe I’ll be 9^th place with him gone). Good heavens, Mickey, a yoga friend, is watching; what’s she doing here?

We turn. Well, I turn, onto Mountain Dr. A narrow windy road. And here are the first walkers. They’re being pretty good, no large clumps. They are walking at most two abreast. I’m grateful.

At mile 3 exactly 7 minutes.

There’s a guy in front now. We’re running at a similar pace. No immediate likelihood of passing him.

I have never seen the 4 mile mark on this course. I’m beginning to think that it just never gets marked. I know it’s before the old reservoir. When I get to the reservoir I click my watch 7:52, but I really don’t know what that means as a mile pace. 7? 7:30? more?

The guy in front has slowed for the water station, and the people there are talking to him and have no water for me. I am annoyed. Water is going to be important today, but I’m not going to stop. I pass the guy in front.

About twenty feet after I hear “Do you want water or gaterade?” are they talking to me? or to Ricky? I yell back “I wanted water but you weren’t ready.” Looking back, that was nasty of me.

Still, they weren’t ready, and they should have been.

But I wasn’t ready either. I had intended to have my first GU here and then drink. But I didn’t have it out. I get it out now, ready for the next water stop.

The guy I just passed passes me. I expected he would. Still #11. At the start of Gibraltar someone cheers “Todd”. Ah. That’s the guy in front. Todd turns to talk to him. I reprove him: Never turn to look behind when racing, it slows you down.

It’s not as hot as I feared it would me. A little voice says “Not yet, anyway. Still a long way to go, and the hottest part is yet to come.”

The views are good today. Clear skies, very little haze. The islands are nicely visible.

Also visible are the scars left by the fires. First the Tea Fire, then after the switchback the Jesusita Fire.

I’m gaining on Todd, and then I pass him. I cheer him on. I’m in 9^th place now.

I hear heavy footfalls behind me, and hard breath. You are running too fast, whoever you are, I think. But he passes me and keeps going faster than I.

Sigh. Ok, 10^th place again.

And then more footfalls behind. Damn it. Stop passing me, people. It’s Jamie. We chat a bit and then he, too, pulls ahead. 11^th.

At mile 6 (6? where was the 5 mile mark?) I see 15:38. For miles 4 and 5 together. That’s quite good for the first really steep bit (of course mile 4 was probably a bit short, but that’s still close to 8min/mile for those two. Nice. OK people may be passing me, but it’s not because I’m slow, it’s because they are fast.)

My quads let me know that they’d rather not work this hard. Silly selfish quads. I remind them we’ve a long way to go yet and they should just calm down.

I see water. Time to eat that GU.

Drink water at the next water stop.

Mile 7 is 9:53. Oh, dear, that’s not so good. Jamie and Roman (I have learned his name from people cheering him on) are running together, slowly getting ahead of me.

The big switchback. Looking straight into the sun. Can’t see anything at all. Suddenly I realize there’s a photographer in the middle of the road, he’s got a perfect shot of me, and all I see is sun dazzle.

Tammy gives me some water (thanks!), and on and up. Jamie and Roman are still in sight.

At mile 8 I see 9:06. OK, that’s not bad. 10 minute miles are too slow, but 9 min seems reasonable.

I’m getting annoyed at Roman, he keeps cutting the corners (We were asked not to do that on this course) while Jamie does not. The result is that often he and Jamie are on opposite sides of the road. The cars don’t like that and aren’t passing them so a small traffic jam develops and I start breathing exhaust.

There’s a sign “Ice ahead.”

Hmm. I could put some in my cap. It still isn’t very hot yet, but it won’t hurt.

Another sign: “5¢, exact change only.”

LOL

I get ready to hold out my cap (I assume they aren’t serious about the 5¢), but it isn’t ice, it’s a bottle of ice cold water. Even better. I drink some, and pour some on my head.

I’m shock. I gasp. It really is cold. I pour a bit more on my head. Perfect time to have my next GU. I eat it and drink more water. And an electrolyte pill too. More water.

These people were life savers. It’s not one of the standard water stations. Probably Brian’s wife and Brooke? And perhaps Nichol’s water. Didn’t recognize anyone, but I am grateful.

Hmm. But now I have a bottle to run with. Oh well, it was worth it.

Mile 9 is in the shade of gibraltar rock: 9:06. Exactly the same as the last mile, and a reasonable pace too.

We’re coming up to Flores Flats. There’s a tiny bit of down hill here and I mean to take advantage of it. I pick up the pace as the road levels, and then pound down into the gully. My friend Bob has his pottery studio (and lives) here, but I have yet to see him when I race by.

Jamie and Roman are almost out of sight now. I didn’t catch up with them by that short burst of speed.

This always feels like the steepest section, climbing out of Flores Flat.

I see Roman ahead — walking. Ah, I thought he was going too fast. He runs a bit, and then walks again. I catch him, and pass. I try to encourage him by saying that this is the steepest bit.

I’ve been there. My first (official) year I went out too fast and had to walk…

Mile 10: 9:36. Now that is excellent for this section. Let’s see I’ve been running for 1:21:?? and I’ve got three and a bit miles to go. If I can keep this pace I’ve a  chance of breaking 1:50! Nice.

Grab some water at the next stop and toss them my empty bottle.

As I come away from the stop, I realize that someone I thought was a volunteer was actually a runner, and I just passed him. I’m in 9^th place now.

Best finish I’ve ever had was 10^th place (and I was younger then). 9^th place sounds neat. I wonder if I can maintain it.

I’m can’t pass anyone by speeding up. I can only pass people who have miscalculated and slowed down drastically because they went too fast at the start.

Of course someone might still pass me. I think that’s unlikely, but…

There’s another runner up ahead, I’m catching up quickly. He slows to a walk and moves out into the road for me to pass him. I encourage him to keep going, “Oh,” says he, “I’m just out for a morning stroll.” He’s not in the race. Rats. “You’re in fifth place.” “I am? I thought I was about 9^th.” “Nope, 5^th.”

I’m not sure I believe him, maybe he missed people. I start naming people I know are ahead: Sara, Shiggy, Jamie — none are likely to have problems and stop. Sara was first woman last year, Shiggy’s usually about 3rd overall. Jamie’s just good.

And here’s Camino Ciello, quick right turn, little bit of water, and up hill. Someone tells me “Turn round at the cones.” I know that, but I guess they need to tell every one.

Nonetheless the cones take me by surprise, I guess I sort of zoned out. I thought they were further away than they are. Also there’s no chalk, but I’m pretty sure this is the 11 mile mark, even though it isn’t indicated. 9:10. Not bad.

I realize I haven’t seen anyone coming down. Am I so far behind the next person?

And now there’s a nice long downhill run. Almost a mile. Well maybe ¾. I try to pick up the pace a bit. It feels like I’m just flying down the hill, but I’m probably only doing 8 minute miles or something. There’s Todd coming up. I’d hoped he was further back, but at least he’s behind me.

Down and down. Past the intersection with Gib again and on toward La Cumbra. Still down but not as steep.

Conner hails me. Where? Oh, he’s perched on top of one of the fire reservoir spools. I try to ask how many people are ahead but I must have garbled it, for he tells me I’ve a mile and a half to go. Oh well, I knew that. I think it’s probably closer to 1 ¾ miles though.

Last year I was quite tired at this point, this year I’m feeling pretty good. Training for a 50 mile ultra is probably a good way of preparing for P2P.

At the dirt road leading to the dam the road goes back up, and I deliberately slow. If I were to try to go this fast uphill, I’d burn up.

Mile 12: 6:48. Now that is impressive. This far into the race, I was probably doing a 6:20 pace on that downhill section. Which is my half marathon pace, so, yeah, OK, that makes sense.

Last water stop. Get some water and it goes down the wrong way. Some gasping before I settle.

Only another mile. Moderately steep. Doesn’t seem as bad as I remember last year. Fair amount of shade.

Me at about mile 12. Photo by Dennis

I pass Dennis: “You’re second.”

WHAT?

I’m ninth. Or tenth. Possibly eighth. I might be off by one. But second? No way.

Well, that would explain why I didn’t see anyone on the out and back section, there was just no one ahead to be seen.

I consider picking up the pace. If I’m second now, I really don’t want anyone to pass me, for once I’ve got something to race for. But there’s still a mile to go. I feel good now, but I know that if I go to fast here I can easily burn up completely. Better not to push it. Check the watch: HR of 91% — yeah — best not push things yet.

And here’s the turn onto the peak. I think this is 13. It isn’t marked (they rarely mark mile 13 on a half). Hmm 8:55. Not bad. Next .1 mile is really steep though.

How far back is Todd. Push.

There’s the clock.

1:47:?? good heavens, maybe I’ll beat my best time even though it was on the shorter course!

But no, the seconds climb inexorably. And I pass under at 1:48:10.

That’s a PR for the longer course, and since the out and back section adds 2~4 minutes (I’ve never actually timed it), it’s a pace that would have been a PR on the shorter course too. (John (see comment below) says it took him 2:34 for the out and back section and as he wasn’t far behind me that’s probably about right for me)

I have to ask it: “What place am I?”

“Second”

Gott in Himmel.

What happened to Sara, Shiggy, Jamie? And a small bunch of other people?

Eric is first. Not surprising. Why wasn’t he on my list of people ahead? I guess he was so far ahead that when I checked out the ones in front I didn’t even recognize him. Eric is far out of my league.

We congratulate each other. Both of us are masters runners. 1:48 is not a very good time for the second place person on this race (It’s good for me, don’t get me wrong, but there should be more than just Eric ahead of me). Where is everyone?

Eric wasn’t even sure he’d be able to run today (baby sitter problems or something). It occurs to me that if he hadn’t run, I’d have been first. Damn it Eric why did you find that babysitter?

Todd is third. I congratulate him.

Someone interviews me. I’ve never been interviewed before. They are surprised that a 50 year old guy was second. So am I. Well, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Shiggy were second. Where is he?

I see Sara. She looks furious. She’s first woman (of course). But she got lost. No one told her to turn at the cones so she (and a bunch of others) just ran on down (and up) Camino Ciello for an extra mile or two until they realized they’d gone too far.

Ah. I’m not really second.

What a pity.

The other side of Camino Ciello

• Presidio Sports
• And the winner says…
• Maggie’s view