White River, again

You dream you are crossing,
The channel and tossing,
About in a steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between
A large bathing machine
And a very small second class carriage.

The night before the race I dreamed I had a thorn in my foot, and when I woke up the foot still ached from the memory. I dreamed I had misplaced one of my tentacles and kept trying to count them.

First your counterpane goes
And uncovers your toes
While your sheet slips demurely from under you.

I dreamed that John Loftus was about to start the race (in front of my childhood home) and I wasn’t dressed yet and couldn’t find my headband (I never even wear a headband). I dreamed that someone was lecturing me on the quality of my dreams and threatening to disqualify me from the race if they didn’t improve.

But the night has been long,
Ditto, ditto, my song,
and thank goodness they’re both of them over.

In other words, I didn’t sleep very well the night before. I got up before my alarms.

A race hotel is a strange place. Everything goes dead by about 10pm, and you start to hear people moving around at 4am. You’d think it would be easy to sleep early and get up early. But I couldn’t. Well the getting up early worked I guess.

I ran this race three years ago. I thought I’d made a couple mistakes in running strategy which I hoped to correct, and I hoped that I’d finally figured out how to eat and take electrolytes properly. That is, I hoped to do better.

On the other hand I didn’t think I was in very good shape. I didn’t feel that I’d ever fully recovered from Leona Divide back in April; I just felt tired all through training and couldn’t run very fast (not that speed is quite as important in a fifty mile trail race, still it is indicative of general fitness…). That is, I feared I’d do worse.

The white river really is white (or at least grey).

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I wrote the above before the race started, and that was about the last time I hoped to do well. Thirty seconds after the start I knew I wouldn’t.

The race starts with about three miles on the flat and people seemed to take it almost as a road race. Last time I went out too fast (my first mistake), got my heart rate up too high and had to slow down (relative to others) when we got to the first climb. This time I resolved not to make that mistake. I very deliberately kept my heart rate to ~80% — and people kept passing me. Far more people than I had expected. And then when the climb came, more people passed me.

Yes, they are probably going out too fast; yes, I will probably pass some of them later. But there are so many of them. I won’t pass enough.

Sigh. Oh well.

It’s still a beautiful course. The race starts in the valley of the white river. For about half a mile we run along a grassy airstrip (where there is plenty of room to pass people) and then dive into the forest and run on the river bank. The trees are massive and we are dancing around roots. Then we cross the river and continue on the other bank.

For some reason this side of the river is covered with wildflowers (and the other wasn’t). There are real buttercups here, willowherbs, and something that looks like a Clarkia (but which turned out to be another willowherb — though it doesn’t look like any willowherb I’ve seen before), lots of daisies (of course), some foamflowers… anyway it’s beautiful. (I went back the next day to get the picture)

Then we cross the big highway (WA 410, at this hour of the morning there’s no traffic) and head away from the river. Here in the deeper woods there are different wildflowers. Sasal, huckleberries. There’s a sweet little orchid that pops up now and then, and, there, under that bush, could that be a broomrape?

We have gentle rolling hills for another mile or so under the forest canopy, and then the first aid station, which I don’t bother with, so I pass a few people, but that’s irrelevant as they’ll pass me back all too soon. Then after another mile we begin to climb.

Last time I had to slow down and walk because I got my heart rate too high on the early part. This time I have to slow down and walk even though I kept my heartrate down. Does that mean that running fast early didn’t matter? Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake? Playing it safe doesn’t seem to have made things any better. Or maybe I’m just not in as good shape? Who knows.

As I trudge up the mountain, people keep passing me.

After a bit we come to an enormous rock face with water trickling down, and we head up beside it, then a switch-back and a real waterfall. It’s still too dark to take pictures, but I wish I could.

The hill just keeps going up.

After an hour we come to the first ridgeline. On a clearer morning (such as we had three years ago) you could see the mountains on the other side of the wilderness area, but today all I see is clouds. Rather nice clouds, but clouds.

Now we are running along the edge of this ridge, sometimes we get close enough to get a view, mostly we’re in the trees. As the race director puts it: “You are 3 feet away and 800 feet above a wilderness area.” There’s a sheer cliff to our right that drops down into a valley, and across the valley is Mt. Rainier. Only Rainier is hidden in clouds just now.

And then we run into fog ourselves.

It’s not dense enough to condense on my glasses, so I rather enjoy it. There’s something nice and — comforting? — about a blanket of fog (especially when you know there’s an 800ft drop just off to the right).

But we climb out of that and see some sunlight (not on us, but across the valley).

For the first time I pass someone. Of course this might just be one of the slower people who started early, still, it is encouraging.

Ah, but someone else passes me. A woman with a black pony tail comes up behind and I let her go ahead, but then a quarter mile later on a downhill stretch she lets me pass her. We leapfrog for a bit, and then she goes ahead. I don’t see her again until 7 miles from the finish.

And we’re back in the fog again. If you squint you can see the guy ahead of me.

We slow down to a walk on the steep climbs. And when we do that, we bunch up.

Here is the next aid station. I fill up with water (I’ve been trying to drink more water). This station has no food (and anyway I carry what I’m eating at this point); but it does have a fire. I realize my hands have gone numb and I can’t open my camelback (luckily the volunteer here can). A fire sounds nice, but I don’t have time.

Out of the aid station and then start running again when the slope levels out. We have been in and out of fog, and now we start to see bits of sunlight.

We have come into a new wildflower regime (we’re about 5000ft up now), and here are our first bunchberries. I like bunchberries. The idea of a dogwood flower on a tiny forb appeals to me. I know I can’t get a good picture of them without stopping, and I’m not willing to stop. So I take a bad picture instead.

Suddenly we are out of the fog and above the clouds. The view is spectacular.

But the guy ahead complains that he was hoping the fog would last longer so it would be cooler later. Oh. Yeah. That would be good. Still, there’s plenty of cloud cover, it’s just below us, we may get into it again.

Turning a corner we have our first view of Mt. Rainier

The woods look different in the sunlight.

And once again, different wildflowers. Hostas (Corn Lilies) and Indian Paintbrushes. The Hostas aren’t blooming yet, but their leaves are distinctive. A little further up are another species of Indian Paintbrushes, these with orange blooms.

And we start to see beargrass, a spectacular flower, on a stalk about 3 feet high.

Some cute little yellow violets, and small things I can’t make out as I go past.

Suddenly the first returning runner (this section is out and back). He’s a long way ahead of anyone else, but then we see a few more I count up to about 10, but then get back to my own concerns.

And then we move to the sunny side of the mountain again, and things get drier and the wildflowers go away.

Rainier again. It’s just spectacular, floating above the clouds like that.

I’m running behind a woman at the moment. She seems to be running slowly, but whenever I look at my watch my heartrate is about 80%. Sometimes higher. So I don’t pass her.

I guess I notice women more than men in these races, partly because there are fewer of them running at my pace, and partly because I just notice women more.

Graagh. I’ve got a small stone in my foot and it’s digging into my heel. Nothing I do seems to shift it. I’ll wait for the aid station and take my shoes off there.

Rainier again, the clouds below have mostly disappeared. I guess we won’t have much fog later.

I notice that my heartrate has calmed down a bit, and the woman ahead still seems to be running slowly. Then she mentions that she hasn’t had anything to eat since the start (why not?) and she’s running on empty. So I pass her.

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

Finally the aid station. I hand my camelback to a volunteer to fill up while I undo my shoe and get the stone out. Drat, the heel still hurts even though the stone is gone. The volunteer comes back and tells me (sternly) that I haven’t been drinking enough. I hope she’s assuming that I haven’t filled up since the start… but… she’s right. I haven’t been paying attention to drinking since the last aid station. I should do more.

Three years ago it took me 3:09 to get here, this year 3:10. Hunh. Maybe I’m not going as slowly as I thought. Oh. but we have a slightly different course this year, and we’ve run a half mile less. This is roughly a third of the way — (at least, they say it’s 16.7 miles, my watch says 15.5).

Oh well, I’m out.

Three years ago we just turned around and went back, now we climb a small hill, do a loop and avoid about a mile of returning runners. So this bit of trail is new to me.

I’ve been seeing a bush, about 3 or 4 feet high with large white flowers. Could this be a Cascade Azalea? I don’t have time to look closely. Oh yes, and lots of lupines, I’ve been seeing them ever since we got into the drier area. And phlox, and yarrow too.

The trail is kind of bouncy here with occasional views of Rainier.

The new trail really does provide good views as it edges from looking at Rainier on the left and another valley on the right. It’s pretty bumpy as it goes along the ridgeline. I’m encouraged to see that there is still some fog off to the right… I hope that’s the valley of the white river, to which I’ll be returning in another hour or two.

Hmm. I’m basically alone now. Every now and then I can see someone ahead, and doubtless people aren’t too far behind, but no one is in talking range.

And then I trot down off the ridgeline and rejoin the old route, and meet runners coming the other way again. Only now I’m the one returning.

As someone from the south I’m obliged to get excited when I see snow in July. I remember that there were patches of snow here three years ago too.

And then back to the second aid station where I again fill up with water. Someone passes me before the station, and heads out down the trail faster than I… but after a bit I find him massaging his calf. Cramp.

Mmm. I’ve been getting minor cramps in my right abdominals, but they aren’t bad, and go away. So far.

After the aid station we head down a different route from the one we used to go up, and it also returns us to the start. It’s a shorter route back, and so steeper.

After half an hour I come to a branch in the trail. It isn’t marked. I look harder. It still isn’t marked. Being color-blind I worry that I missed something other people have seen. I run back a little way because there was a smaller trail back there and it is possible it was marked. Someone passes me. He has no doubt and goes straight down. I dither a little longer. Someone else passes me. Oh well. I follow them.

Later I stop to piss and two people catch up and pass me, so I run behind them for a bit. One of them slows, and then the other guy and I catch up with someone else who speeds up when we come up behind him. There’s a huge tree down across the trail here, and as I scramble over it I have to stretch my legs out wide and they don’t like that. Ouch.

I notice that my watch says we have run 25 miles in about 5 hours. Oh dear. That makes for a 10 hour run? I was hoping for 9 (well, I’d have loved 8, but that seemed unlikely).

We catch up with another runner, who seems to be a friend of the guy in front. They start chatting and the other guy and I pass them both.

We run beside a little stream for a bit, but then turn away from it. The stream brings its own group of wildflowers: twinflower, pipsissewa — I thought that only grew on the east coast, but when I go back the next day it really is pipsissewa.

When we pull away from the stream we start to hear the road instead (the stream was nicer). There’s more traffic now, and I worry a little about getting across it. But when we come out of the woods it turns out not to be bad. We do need to wait a few seconds, but nothing substantial.

We cross the road at the same place we did earlier, and then head back along the river. We’ve returned to the start, where there is now an aid station. I left myself some figbars here and some trail mix. First time I’ve ever used a drop bag. I get my bag while someone fills my water. And I grab a bit of cooked potato too. I found at Leona that they seemed to work well. I started the race eating gels, but after a couple of hours I switched to chewy blocks, and now I’m moving toward more solid foods. Or that’s the plan.

I move out of the aid station, eating some of my figbars, and pass several people. We come out briefly on the road again and as I look for trail markings I notice a woman ahead of me, so I follow her, and then I see the marks. The woman turns out to be Dana and she and I will pass and repass each other many times over the next 23 miles (or however far it is).

But now I don’t know who she is and she pulls away from me.

I’m climbing now. And in the sun. I remember I have no sunscreen. Damn. I decided not to bring any so that I could carry my stuff on the airplane, and assumed I could a) buy some in Eumenclaw (which I forgot to do), b) find some at the race start (which I didn’t) c) pick some up on the course (which they said would be available but which I have as yet seen no sign).

I think the trail mix is too sweet. It makes me slightly nauseous so I can only eat small bites. I probably should eat more frequently because of that, but I can’t bring myself too.

I’m walking now. Fast hiking. I ignore my heartrate when I’m walking even though it climbs above 80%. Is that ok? Anyway I pass people. Every now and then I see Dana’s back.

I saw this little flower on the other hill too, but didn’t try to photograph it. Now, I’m moving so slowly that I don’t mind pausing briefly to take its picture. I assume it’s a lily. That is, I assume it is something that was called a lily twenty years ago. But that family is in sadly reduced circumstances now, and many species have moved to other families (and even orders). A little research suggests that this one is a Queen’s Cup.

And is that a sedum? I didn’t even know they grew on this continent.

Finally we come out to the next aid station. Still no sign of sunblock. This one is 50K from the start. I fill up with water, eat a potato and leave the station before Dana.

Something is wrong. Water is pouring down my back. It stops when I stop running, and I think the problem is solved, but no— more comes out when I start up again. Have I sprung a leak in the camelback (god, I hope not)? I’ve still got another third of the course to go, and this is the sunniest bit. I need water. I pull the camelback off my back (while still walking) and discover the answer is much simpler. The volunteer simply didn’t screw the lid on tight, and whenever the water in the bladder splashed up as high as the lid it would come out. So I screw it tight and all seems fine now.

Except… my shorts are now sopping wet and they are chafing my thighs. Arrgh!

And I wonder whether I now have enough water to get to the next aid station, well it could have been worse. And after a bit my shorts dry and stop chafing.

The trail just keeps going up. Sometimes in shade, sometimes not. Finally I come out on a somewhat level ridgeline with more beargrass and some tiger lilies.

And then there is a bit of downhill and three people come thundering past me. One of whom is Dana. After they pass there isn’t much downhill left, and I catch up with them again and we all go together for a while. Then one decides let me pass, with the other goes on faster, so now I’m running behind Dana. I could pass her, but if I did I think I’d just slow down and she’d pass me back. So for now I go at her pace and we chat a bit.

Actually she may be making me move faster than I would otherwise.

A bit more up, and then the false summit. Now there is a nice shady downhill area and Dana pulls away again. And the guy who just let me pass catches up and passes me again.

And then the final climb up to Sun Top. Walking again. I pass a number of people (including Dana, I think). About four of us reach the aid station at the top together. Someone fills up my water. I eat some potatoes, and — yes! Dana is spraying herself with sunscreen. Finally. I get in line to use it. When I pick it up, it turns out to be hers, not from the aid station at all, but she graciously lets me use it. Oops.

Sun Top is three quarters of the way done, and I’ve been running for 7 hours, 45 minutes. That means I’m on track for a 10:20 race. Ug. Still, the fastest bit is up ahead, I should be able to make up some time now.

Again I am out of the aid station before Dana and onto Sun Top Rd. I like this bit. A nice level fire road. Much nicer running that any fireroad in SB.  I can just zoom down this. (That’s speaking relatively. If I push I can get an 8 minute pace:-) I’m a little tired.

Anyway, I’m off. There’s a guy just ahead. I pass him. My watch says I’m running at a 9:20 pace. A little further down there are 3 people, and I pass them. (I’m now averaging about 8:30). And then Dana comes zipping by me. I’m surprised, no one passed last time… anyway, we cheer each other on as she goes by. The road goes down steeply for about 5 and a half miles and in that time I pass 11 people, and my watch tells me I’m averaging 7:48. The last two I pass are the guy who was ahead of Dana before Sun Top, and black pony tail whom I haven’t seen since about mile 10.

Then the slope levels out a bit for another mile or so. Last time I made the mistake of trying to keep going at the same pace and my heartrate zoomed up and I had to walk for much of the last six miles. This time I slow down a bit. I can see three people spaced out on the road ahead, and it is tempting to speed up and try to pass them. But I don’t speed up, even so I manage to pass one of them.

At the final aid station I see Dana again (I suspect she was one of the two whom I saw but didn’t pass on the road). Once again I fill up my water and get out of there before she does (if she hadn’t taken so much time in aid stations she’d have beaten me, but maybe she needed that time).

The third mistake I made was to think that I could run at 80% for the last 6 miles. And the fourth was to get lost. I go out of this station intending to go at about 75% and doing my damnest not to get lost. I don’t get lost.

I pass some people and some pass me.

We are once again beside the river, running through massive trees. Every now and then there are views through the trees of the white river. It should be lovely, but mostly I’m thinking how tired I am and how much I’d like to be done. I don’t really hurt. I’m just tired. I look at my watch. I’m a mile out from the last aid station and I’m running at a 13:40 pace, I’ve been going now for 8:45 hours and I’ve got about 5 and a half miles to go. I don’t think I’m going to break 10 hours even. Bleah. That’s pathetic.

Someone comes up behind me, but decides to run with me. We chat a bit. I can’t remember what about. Then someone else joins our group. He seems to know the other guy. Then the first guy drops back and the other runs with me. I try to get him to pass me, and he just encourages me to keep going. Says we’ll break 10 hours at this pace, so don’t worry. I think he’s wrong. I keep going. I wish he’d pass me. If he passed me maybe I could slow down a bit. But he doesn’t pass. I keep going.

I look at my watch. There’s a large banner on it Battery low, press enter. If I press enter the message goes away for about 2 seconds and then pops back up (the battery is still low, you see). Unfortunately this message means I can’t see the rest of the display. I don’t know my HR now, nor what time it is, nor how far I’ve gone or anything. Stupid. I don’t care that the battery is low, I care about my heart rate and other stuff. Don’t show me irrelevant information.

I ask the cheerful guy what the time is and he tells me we’ve been going for 9:15. So another 45 minutes by his estimate, another hour or so by mine.

I’d really like to stop now. Not in an hour. Now.

Someone else comes up behind and this person does want to pass. So the cheerful guy decides he wants to stay ahead of her and passes me before she does. Now there is no one to push me, but even so I don’t slow down.

Someone else passes me.

A little later I find him working on a cramp and pass him. Then he passes me back. And 20 feet after that he turns a corner too quickly, slips, and falls. I pass him. He passes me.

I see him disappear up a hill and—

There’s the road!

Almost done. Up the bank, onto the road, turn left, left again and then 200 meters flat straightaway. I pound down it as fast as I can. The faster to the finish line, the sooner I’ll be able to rest.

A final turn, the clock reads 0:54~~. What does that mean? Maybe after 10 hours it doesn’t show hours any more? I can’t have taken 10:54 to do this; it’s somewhere around 10 hours. Maybe 10:05? Thoughts tumble through my head.

And I’m done. Whatever the time was. I click my watch off, but it’s no help, all it says is Battery low, press enter.

As usual, people seem to think I’m in bad shape and keep asking if I’m OK, but all I need is some rest.

I get some cold water to drink (I hate cold water, I think it made me vomit the last time I did this race, but I need water). And wander over to the results board. There are a lot of people ahead of me. I start looking for my age group. Not many people in their fifties though. The first is about 8:40 hours, the next is not until 9:42 (here I start to get excited, maybe, just maybe I’ll be in third place in spite of everything). But then, right before the end is the third place guy. My name gets added to the list. I see I ran in 9:54:51 and the third place guy was just 2 minutes ahead with only two people between us. Surely I could have found two minutes somewhere? When I was wandering around looking for the unmarked trail maybe? And then I count. Three people ahead of me. One is a woman. Oh. He was the guy who ran with me along the last bit by the river and kept encouraging me. Um. Yeah. He deserves to be ahead.

But how on earth could I have broken 10? When I finally got back to the hotel and convinced the watch to cooperate, I found that according to it the last 6.6 miles were only 5.97. So either the course is shorter than they claim, or my watch was underreporting distance (and my pace). Or both. Anyway either would explain the result.

Just as I finish thinking that I see Dana finish about three minutes after me. And shortly after her comes black pony tail (whose name I never learned).

I am tired. I hobble over to the port-a-potties, and then look for a place to rest, to sit. There’s not much in the way of furniture out here. But I spy some lawn chairs laid out that no one seems to be using. There’s a guy watching them but not sitting on them, so I wander over and ask if I can sit for a bit and he says sure. He also asks if I’m OK. (what on earth do people see in me? All I need is some rest). Then suggests that I lie down. Sure. Why not. Oh. It turns out this is the first aid tent, and he’s some sort of medic. No wonder he’s worried about me. The wind picks up and I start to get chilly so I grab a nearby blanket and pull it over me. A nurse wanders over and suggests I drink a little more water, so I do, but it’s difficult lying down. So I struggle to sit up again, feel nauseous, grab a plastic bag and vomit. After a bit I feel better.  The nurse takes my pulse and says it is weak and high. Gets me to take another salt tablet, and drink some more water. I see they have some bananas and ask for one. I lie there for almost an hour before deciding it is time to get up. The nurse checks to make sure that my pulse has calmed (it has, some anyway), tells me I look better, asks me a few questions to make sure I’m not a blithering idiot, and lets me go to my car.

I go back to the hotel, shower and change. I had intended to go back to the race where they were serving food, but I don’t have the energy. I had intended to go back and at least retrieve my unused drop bag from Sun Top, but I don’t have the energy. I had intended to run an extra three miles (to get up to my age in miles), but there is no way that will happen.

All in all, pretty disappointing. Half an hour slower than three years ago, and I still don’t seem to have figured out how to eat/drink on the course. Or maybe I have figured it out but just don’t do it. I wasn’t paying as much attention after Sun Top as I should have. Maybe I should have drunk more? But how can I make myself do that? My attention wanders at that point in the race, I’m just not thinking about it. That is — assuming that’s the problem.

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What could I have done differently? Given myself more time to recover from Leona, obviously. But I’ve got to figure out how to eat and drink if I want to do this again. It can’t be healthy to disrupt my osmotic balance until I want to vomit. Maybe if I had a smaller camelback and knew I had to empty it between aid stations… The large one I use gives a cushion against emergencies, but I have no idea how much I drink because I never drain it. Trailmix didn’t work. What can I use instead? Potatoes seem perfect, but how to carry enough? Would bread work? or is that too dry? Biscuits?

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• Official results
• Official Wrap up with links to other write ups.
• Some Rainier wildflowers
• More Rainier wildflowers

Awake to Run

I never sleep well before a race. This time I woke up about once an hour. Finally at 2:45 I gave up and got out of bed. My ride wasn’t till 4 though, so I baked bread.

After Leona I talked to Coach Mike about what went wrong. I wondered if he thought I’d be ready to run the White River 50M at the end of July. He thought I would. And then, to my surprise, he suggested I run Born to Run 50K as a way of fixing some the mistakes I made with fueling. I was surprised because B2R was only 3 weeks after Leona and I didn’t think I’d be recovered by then. Mike told me I wouldn’t and that I’d have to keep my heart rate even lower than I usually do in an ultra — and if I didn’t feel up for it I shouldn’t do it.

Well, I felt pretty good after about a week and a half, and Luis posted that B2R was almost full and encouraged people to sign up. So I did. And then I felt really tired again.

Of course.

Anyway, this was to be a test of eating and drinking, not of racing. I hoped it wouldn’t matter much. Mike wanted me to drink a quart (a liter) an hour. He wanted me to eat more salt (so I decided to double my intake from Leona, which was about 4 times what I’d done previously — on those rare occasions when I’d taken any salt previously). And he wanted me to try to eat real food rather than just gels, so I brought along some fig bars, and some trail mix.

I’m to keep my heart rate below 75%. Considerably below on the downhills. Normally I race ultras at about 80%. I’m not sure what this will mean.

Andreas and Heidi offered to come pick me up at 4am (true friends!). Andreas was also doing the 50K and like me he had done Leona three weeks before (but he did the 50K); Heidi was recovering from an injury and was only doing the 10mile race.

It was cool and pleasant outside in SB. The sky was clear and the stars were shining. I’d hoped for fog. Didn’t want to run in the valley’s heat (though Mike considered that something else I needed to work on; I felt I should seek out cool races instead).

Luis’s race, Born to Run, is, of course, named after the book, Luis being a friend of the protagonist. His race is not set in Mexico but on the East Creek Ranch, an 8000 acre cattle ranch outside of Los Olivos.

Once we got to the top of the coastal mountains we plunged into fog, and it stayed with us all the way to the Ranch. Yay! We got there at about 5am and showed three other cars how to open the ranch gate and where the race start was. Then we checked in and picked up our bibs.

At 5:45 Luis described the course: Two ~10 mile loops each returning to the start. One is marked with pink tags and one with yellow. Blue tags are on routes you should not choose. (Gleep. Colorblind me often finds pink and blue indistinguishable. “Tough” says Luis. Succinct.

At 6 Mr. Chamberlin (the owner of the ranch) fires his shotgun, and we are off.

I start out well back and (I think) fairly slowly, but after a bit I look down at my watch. I’m running at 76% already. So I slow way down.

After another 5 minutes I look down again. 65%. Ah. Frequently when I start running my heart rate jumps and then drops back. I guess it takes it a while to get used to working harder or something. OK. I can run a little faster.

I’m running behind a gentleman wearing a shirt from the Avalon 50; I am also wearing an avalon shirt so this pleases me. As we go up a hill I pass him, but then he pulls back ahead of me on the downhill. I’m trying to run 75% on the uphills, and I seem to be doing ~69% on the down. I’m not really thinking about it that just seems to be what comes out of me.

After about half an hour we reach the first aid station. It doesn’t appear to be functioning and anyway no one needs anything. We just continue.

I’ve been consciously trying to drink more than I usually do. Unfortunately I don’t really know how much I’ve drunk. I’ve got a 2 liter bladder on my back. It’s impossible to guess if I’ve drunk a pint in the last half hour or not.

We are now coming to an edge of the property and we can look across a fence into the neighbor’s vineyard. I ran this loop back in February when Luis held a training run on it; back then the vineyard looked like a bunch of sticks stuck in the ground, now there’s a green fuzz as the sticks turn into grape vines. (this picture was taken later in the day on a second pass through this loop, earlier it was too dim with fog for the green to show in a photo).

We’re now climbing a hill, and once again I pass the other guy with a avalon shirt. We have some chat on the way up, talking about our respective avalons. Of course on the way down he overtakes me again, but I don’t let him get far ahead and reel him in. And then I never see him again.

Back in February this area was full of common fiddlenecks (a type of wildflower, not a fern) but I’m disappointed to see that all of them appear finished and uncurled. No more flowers.

We’re now close to the paved road. I’m not paying to much attention. Suddenly I see people in front of me running toward me. They tell me they went the wrong way. Then I notice that right beside me there’s a obscure trail, and, yes, it is marked. I would have missed it too. So now at least 4 people who were ahead of me are behind me. I keep expecting them to pass me.

I hear turkeys gobbling across the paved road, but I can’t see them.

As we run beside the road we get a good view up the valley, and can see the hills across the way where the fog is lifting. We’re still in shadow, but there’s sunlight ahead.

And now we come to the second aid station; it’s a little after 7 and my friend Nancy is offering me a cup of water. I don’t need any additional water (but it does remind me to drink from my own supply), so I pass on through.

I realize I’ve gone about 6 miles in about an hour. In spite of the fact that I’m keeping my HR down to 75%. That’s faster than most ultras I’ve run. This must be an easy course.

There’s a fairly steep uphill grade here and I drop back to a walk as my HR climbs. But it drops again fairly quickly, so I’m doing a sort of jog/walk/jog/walk alternation up the hill. During this process I pass and repass a woman who turns out to be the 50K female winner (I don’t know that yet, of course), but when we get to a long downhill stretch she takes off ahead and I don’t see her again until the finish line (where she finishes behind me. I still don’t know how that happened).

There are some nice beds of Clarkias here. Some elegant clarkias are open and obvious, but the others are still tightly curled up in buds. I’ll have to wait until later in the day to identify them. There also appear to be some slender tarweeds (or are they miniature? I need to look closely at the flowers to distinguish).

And now we’re coming back to the start/finish area. They need to check me off a list when I arrive (they tell me I’m done, at first, thinking I’m only running 10M), and then I go over to the aid station to get some water. No one notices me. I’ve gotten spoiled I’m used to volunteers filling my backpack for me, clearly that isn’t happening here. Silly George. I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself — only where’s the water I should be using? I ask and no one answers. Odd. Eventually I grab a bottle and pour it into my camelback. Ump. It looks as though I’ve drunk a little more than a pint in the last hour and a half. Not good. I must do better. Of course, it has been cold and foggy so I haven’t needed to drink much.

It still is cool, but I have a feeling that’s not going to last. Time to remove my long sleeve shirt. Good-bye Avalon. I drop it on top of Andreas & Heidi’s car as I leave the area. And as I do so I see Andreas, Karen and Brett coming into the area. I’m not as far ahead of them as I thought (of course I did take an unconscionably long time in the aid station).

Now I’m following the loop marked with yellow flags. I’ve never done this one before. There’s still some fog visible off in the distance, but it’s pretty sunny here.

Hmm. That fuzzy leaf looks like a milkweed plant.

We come to the second aid station first on this loop. Again I plow right through. We leave the station by a different route that on the first loop.

Suddenly we turn a corner and we are being stared at by a bunch of cattle. They don’t look happy to see us, but they aren’t doing anything about it, just staring to express their disapproval as we run by, 20 feet away.

We are running under oak trees now and it’s shady and nice. The pack has thinned out. No one is very close to me.

After a bit we run up another hill and come out onto a bit of trail that was on the other loop, so we get to see (and pass) some of the slower runners. We cheer each other on.

And then we turn away from them onto a stretch of single track trail. This is a little different from most trails. I don’t think there’s a year round trail here, it looks as though someone has come through with a long mower and shaved the grass and left it at that.

There’s nothing wrong with this; it isn’t hard to run or anything; it just looks a little odd. The views are nice though…. There’s still a bit of fog off toward the coast…

There’s someone not far behind me on this section, and about half-way though I pass someone who seems to have slowed down. But then he and the guy behind me start chatting together and start gaining on me. We talk a little. They bemoan the fact that the fog is off toward the sea and not over us.

I find I’m pushing things a little harder (or am I more tired?). My HR on the downhill sections has climbed to 72%.

The single track ends in a steep drop down to a road that leads to the first aid station. We take a different route out of it from any we used on the first loop. Hmm. the course is rather cleverly designed that way.

About half a mile beyond the aid station there is a strange dark lump in the road ahead. As I get closer I see a turkey vulture alight and I realize there is a dead cow in the road. This is a huge shock. Closer still and I see the eye is oozing blood — I wondered if someone had shot it, but realized the vultures have been after that.

(Other people say there was a dead calf too, and the cow died giving birth. I guess I didn’t look closely enough).

The first loop was only 9½ miles rather than 10, so I’m sort of assuming this one is also short and start figuring that I’m only two miles from its end. This is a cheering thought. But the loop just goes on and on. It turns out to be 10¼ miles instead.

Finally I get to the start/finish, get checked in as having finished the second loop, and refill my water. This time I use more than a quart (but I’m not sure how much more), so I came closer to or maybe even hit the amount I should have drunk.

And I’m out again. A repeat of loop 1.

The loop looks completely different in the sunshine. It’s starting to feel hot though.

I also notice that it’s getting harder to control my heart rate. I’m walking more than I was 3½ hours ago, and I have to spend more time looking at my watch to make sure I’m not pushing too hard. Even on the downhills I’m starting to approach 75%.

There aren’t many people around. I can’t see anyone ahead, and the guys behind are quite some distance back.

Then I turn a corner and suddenly people are scrambling down the steep slope where loop 2 approaches the first aid station. I think I recognize some of them from my previous view of slower runners — but I’m not sure.

The aid station is crowded. I can’t see any pink tags leading out of it. I chaif as I wait for one of the attendants (there are only two) to have time to answer which road I take out of there. But I’m finally off.

I’m feeling very slow now. Before a pace from a 75% HR felt reasonable, but it doesn’t any more. This may be because I’m tired, and so 75% HR does give me a slower pace. But it just feels wrong. It’s way too slow. I want to go faster. I know I can go faster (but maybe I’d get injured if I do). I don’t push it. I just complain to myself.

Somewhere along here is the place where people missed a turn. I keep looking for it, but can’t find it. There are large unflagged sections if Luis deemed that there were no alternate routes… but there are alternate routes. I don’t see any flagging on them either. Am I going the right way? I look down, and in the roadbed are the prints of many feet. I’m probably in the right place.

No one ahead. No one behind. Is that trouble?

Then finally I do find it. Much further along than I had thought. And now I’m running beside the paved road again. There’s no sign of fog now.

And now I’m coming into the second aid station, and there’s Nancy. They’ve put up signs in the road “You are NOT almost done.” Mmm. Thank you. I’m assuming my race ends after 3 laps which means I’ve less than 3 miles to go. That’s sort of “almost done”. Isn’t it?

I mostly walk up the uphills out of there. I still get a little running in, but not nearly as much as I did the first time round.

I’m trying to figure out how much 8000 acres (size of the ranch) is in square miles. I don’t know an acre to mile² conversion. But there are a bit more than 2 acres to the hectare, and a hectare is 100m to the side which means an acre is about 100yards/√2 to a side, so about (17*√2)² acres in a square mile = ~550 so a bit less than 16 square miles, or a square where each side is 4 miles long. (Now that I’m home I see that 8000 acres is actually 12.5 square miles, so a rectangle 3 miles by 4 miles. It’s still big).

And then finally the downhill. It’s pretty much all downhill from here to the finish line. A mile and a half or so. There’s still no one around me.

As I come down the hill I pass a few slow runners. I assume they are people who are a lap behind rather than people I’m catching up with, so they don’t count.

About a 100yds ahead a mule deer comes down the canyon on my right, crosses the road and disappears off to the left. When I get to the place s/he crossed I look left and wish I could bound up a slope that steep.

I realize I’m going to finish in under 5 hours. That’s kind of neat. My heart rate is now at 75% and above even on the downhill but I don’t have far to go.

I see the cars. I see the finish.

About 10 feet from the finish they announce the fourth place finisher. But it isn’t me. Hunh? Maybe they misread my bib. Anyway I cross the line. And turn off my watch. They check me off the list, and then want to send me out for another loop (they think I’m doing 100k or something.) I say I’m done. They tell me I’m not. Apparently I have to run another half mile to an old stump with a skellington hanging from it, and then back. Um. OK. I set off again.

Was that announced at the beginning? I certainly didn’t hear it. I’m a bit annoyed. I know I’ll be above 5 hours. Oh well. I pass some slow people, but I don’t see anyone else ahead of me. I pay no attention to my HR monitor. After a bit I recollect that I turned off my watch when I crossed the non-finish line. Damn. I turn it back on again. But now I shan’t know when half a mile is. I’ll just have to watch for the skeleton. And there it is. And I turn and run back.

As I cross the finish line again I hear them announce me as the sixth place finisher in 5:03. But… you announced the fourth place guy when I was here last and there wasn’t anyone between… I look at the results. I am in sixth place, and the guy who was announced earlier was fifth. Did I mis-remember? Did Luis mis-announce? I guess it doesn’t matter.

Oops. I see someone has prepared the finish area for Chrystee. Only she’s not running today. Maybe someone else…

I’m feeling in pretty good shape. I’m not nauseous. I pissed during the race. I’m even hungry! I eat a spam and cheese sandwich. The first one tastes wonderful, the second… not so much.

Now… did I feel better because of the nutritional changes I made… or because I only ran for 5 hours and most of the morning was pretty cool so there really wasn’t much of a problem anyway?

I chat with Heidi, (who ran ~20 miles instead of just the 10). And then Andreas and Karen come through. They know to go off to the skeleton. Then the first place woman finishes (how did she get behind me?), and then Karen and Andreas. Luis is so excited that Karen has finished second that he doesn’t even notice (or mention) Andreas.

Then Brett comes in.

I’m feeling pretty good. I realize I haven’t run my age yet this year. I decide to head back out and take a closer look at some of the wildflowers, and in addition run another 2K to get in 52K (actually, a bit more like 3K. My watch thinks I’ve only done about 49K).

Oops.

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Flowers on the trail

Papaveraceae (Poppy family)
Eschscholzia californica California poppy Dec-Oct 2012 2011 2008
Ranunculaceae (Buttercup family)
Ranunculus californicus California Buttercup Jan-May 2012 2011
Caryophyllaceae (Pinks family)
Silene gallica Windmill Pink Jan-July 2012 2011 2010
Polygonaceae (Buckwheat family)
Eriogonum sp.
Apiaceae (Parsley family)
Torilis arvensis-purpurea Hedge parsley Mar-July 2012 2011 2010
Asteraceae (Asters, sunflowers family)
Achillea millefolium Common yarrow Feb-Oct 2012 2011 2010	Erigeron foliosus leafy fleabane Apr-Jan 2012 2011 2010	Hypochaeris glabra Smooth Cat’s ear Jan-June 2012 2011
Carduus tenuiflorus Slender thistle Feb-June 2012 2011 2010	Silybum marianum milk thistle All year 2012 2011 2010	Eriophyllum confertiflorum golden yarrow All year 2012 2011 2010
Madia gracilis slender tarweed Apr-July 2012 2011 2010	Pseudognaphalium californicum California pearly everlasting Jan-Nov 2012 2011 2010
Boraginaceae (Borage family)
Amsinckia tessellata bristly fiddleneck May 2012
Hydrophyllaceae (waterleaf family)
Phacelia ramosissima Rambling Phacelia Apr-May 2012
Adoxaceae (Elder family)
Sambucus nigra-caerulea Blue Elderberry All year 2012 2011 2010
Apocynaceae (Dogbane family)
Asclepias eriocarpa Broad-leaved Milkweed May-Aug 2012 2011 2010
Lamiaceae (Mint family)
Marrubium vulgare Horehound Mar-Oct 2012 2011 2010	Salvia leucophylla purple sage Feb-July 2012 2011 2010 2008	Salvia spathacea hummingbirdsage Dec-July 2012 2011 2010 2009
Orobanchaceae (Broomrape family)
Castilleja brevistyla Shortstyle Indian paintbrush Apr-May 2012 2010
Phrymaceae (Lopseed family)
Mimulus aurantiacus sticky monkeyflower Jan-Sep 2012 2011 2010
Plantaginaceae (Plantain family)
Collinsia heterophylla Chinese Houses Feb-July 2012 2011 2010
Verbenaceae (Verbena family)
Verbena lasiostachys Western verbena Mar-Sep 2012 2011 2010
Convolvulaceae (Morning glory family)
Calystegia purpurata-purpurata Pacific false bindweed Jan-Aug 2012 2011
Brassicaceae (Mustard family)
Brassica nigra black mustard All year 2012 2011 2010	Sisymbrium officinale Hedge Mustard Apr-May 2012
Fabaceae (Legume family)
Acmispon glaber Deerweed All year 2012 2011 2010	Lotus corniculatus Birdsfoot Trefoil Dec-June 2012 2011	Lupinus nanus sky lupine Feb-June 2012 2011 2010
Geraniaceae (Geraniums family)
Erodium cicutarium Red-stemmed storksbill Dec-July 2012 2011 2010
Onagraceae (Evening Primrose family)
Clarkia bottae Punchbowl godetia Mar-Aug 2012 2011 2010	Clarkia purpurea-purpurea Winecup May-July 2012 2011 2010	Clarkia purpurea-quadrivulnera Four-spot May-Aug 2012 2011 2010
Clarkia unguiculata Elegant Clarkia Mar-Sep 2012 2011 2010

Recovery

It always surprises me how much easier it is to recover from a trail ultra than from a road marathon. While it’s true I don’t run as hard, and I am running on a softer surface still I’m out there for three times as long…

True, after the race on Saturday I hobbled down to my car, and getting in and out was difficult. But Sunday I didn’t really hurt except for going down stairs; I did an easy 10 mile bike ride and went for a beach walk. By Monday I was running across streets and going downstairs with no problem.

Wednesday I went for a three hour (but very easy) hike, and Thursday I did a little run.

I still feel more tired than I should, but nothing hurts any more.

After a race I tend to get depressed. If I’ve run well then there’s a moment when I realize that nobody cares that I did well, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I just did something utterly pointless that was really hard. If I haven’t run well, then I’ve done something utterly pointless and didn’t even succeed at that.

So when I went on my hike on Wednesday and found a little patch of stream orchids, I was greatly cheered

I guess orchids are pointless too. But they are pretty.

Leona Divide

I don’t really know where the divide is. The Leona Valley with its lakes is a rift created by the San Andreas fault. The race starts to the east of Lake Hughes and runs first south-east, then doubles back on itself to go west and then returns.

The weather people claimed that it was 39° in Lake Hughes Friday morning (day before) and that the high would be 56°. But when I got there it was about 70°. The prediction for the day of the race were equally wrong. It was 51° when I arrived at 5am and reached up into the 80s during the day (that’s at the start/finish area. it was hotter in the canyons).

Very windy though, but I figured that would calm.

We started at 6, in twilight, and ran up into the hills. Two women behind me were chatting: “We can go slow for the first half hour, after all we’ll be out here for seven or so.” At first I thought they might be slow 50K runners, but they had said they were going slowly and our current pace would not yield a 7 hour 50K. Nope they had to be fast 50milers and they were behind me. I should slow down. And they passed me.

I was hoping to break 8, but didn’t really expect to. Somewhere between 8 and 9. Every course is different and I can’t tell in advance…

The countryside is drier and barer than that of the SB mountains, much more open and smaller bushes. Not a problem this early in the morning but it doesn’t look as though there will be much in the way of shade later in the day.

I’ve been troubled with nausea in most of my ultra races (and some training runs too). Mike tells me this is because I haven’t been taking enough electrolytes (salt), so this time I take 100mg of sodium every half hour (and I’ll continue to take a gel pack every half hour). Of course I have a large camelback to drink from when I need it.

We are winding up a dirt road on a ridge line with canyons opening off to the west as the sun begins to rise above the mountains. Every now and then I stop running and walk for a bit until my heart rate drops. This early in the race that happens pretty quickly.

The course is well marked, but sometimes I don’t notice the markings. At an intersection the guy just ahead turns right to piss in the bushes and to avoid him I turn sharp left. The woman behind me yells at me that the correct route goes closer to straight ahead, and then I notice the little “do not go here” sign. Now we get to go downhill for a bit and we trundle along in slightly different order.

My hands are getting warm and I take off my gloves. Stuffing them in the backpack is too difficult so I just hold them. I end up holding them for about an hour and a half…

I don’t bother to stop at the first aid station. I’ve only been running for about an hour; it’s still cool; I haven’t drunk that much water; no need for a refill. So I’m now running with a slightly different group of people. We go uphill again for another 20 minutes and then make a very sharp turn onto the Pacific Crest Trail (the west coast equivalent of the AT) — and it’s a bit harder to pass people, but there is an etiquette involved and people are willing to move over if they know you want to pass (and, similarly, I must move over when someone wants to pass me). We coalesce into a little clump of runners (different, yet again from any I’ve run with). I count about 6 people ahead and there are maybe 4 directly behind (harder to count people behind). I slowly move up the clump.

At one point when I move to the side to allow someone to pass I twist my ankle slightly. It’s fine on level trail, but on a slope I notice a little twinge. OK for now, but I worry that it may worsen. I feel it off and on for another three hours or so, and then it fades. Good.

It’s kind of odd, there’s our little group of about 10 people but no one in sight ahead. We wind in and out of canyons. It’s very dry. The trail is white sand with little scrubby bushes, only waist high, much lower than what I’m used to in SB. It is still chilly in the shade, but starting to be warm in the sun. Every now and then we turn a corner and the wind hits and then it’s chilly in the sun too.

I’m in fourth place (in our clump) when I realize that the reason we are a clump is that the woman in front isn’t going as fast as the people behind. The guy behind her passes, and then the woman ahead of me, and then a few minutes later I do. I stick with these two, they are going at a reasonable pace (for me) until we get to the next aid station.

Again I don’t need water so I just pass through.

Now we go steeply downhill for about 3 miles to the next aid station where the trail crosses a paved road. This section goes very quickly. My water is starting to run low but the station appears well before I run out. I do stop here, and get them to refill my water while I remove my long sleeved shirt and tie it to the backpack and then stuff the gloves inside (finally I get rid of them).

Of course immediately after removing my shirt I plunge into shade again and am a little chilly, but that doesn’t last.

And now for the longest climb of the course. I cross the road and head up. First we climb 1600ft in about 3 miles. Then there is about a mile of fairly level ground and then another 600ft. I go up.

There’s a guy behind me, slowly catching up. I offer to let him pass but he seems happy not to. We chat for a bit. When 16.7 miles rolls around on my watch I mention that we’re a third done and on track to break 8 hours. However he’s doing the 50K, so he’s more than half done and on track to break 5 hours. “Of course” he says. Finally he does pass me. But then he gets a stone in his shoe and I pass him back. We climb.

We start to see returning 50K runners. One guy. 10 minutes later another 2. Then a woman. Another man. The second woman (but she’s limping, oh dear).

At the top of the steep hill is another aid station, and this is the turn-around for the 50K race. I say good-bye to my friend and he turns back while I continue. This station claims to be about 20 miles from the start, but my watch thinks I’ve gone 19. Not sure what to make of that.

I start out with a couple of other people but they start to draw ahead, and pretty soon I’m by myself. This is a bit that looks flat on the elevation profile but really consists of lots of small ups and downs, twists and turns. It’s also exposed and in the sun. The ground is very white. The sun is very bright. The sun reflects off the white ground. Not really to my taste.

Off in the distance is a hill top with some pine trees on it.

Then I begin to climb again. There’s a little shade here. I think I’m on a north facing slope so there’s less direct sun. And there are masses of baby blue-eyes. These are fairly rare (or I think so) in SB, but they are all over here. Also some larkspurs. I guess it’s a bit damper here than it has been.

At 25 miles (by my watch) the time is 4:06, so I’ve dropped a little from the 8 hour pace. On the other hand, if the distance posted at the last aid station is correct I’ve probably run more like 26 miles and so I’m still OK…

And after a bit I start to see returning runners from my race. I sort of count these. That is to say… I try to count them, but I’m not at my most analytical after running for four hours and I keep forgetting to pay attention. (Was that runner 8? or 9?). Convention is that returning runners have the right of way, but the trail is narrow here and we’re on the side of a steep hill. Leaving the trail makes my foot twinge. Still, I do it.

As I crest this hill I’m in a stand of leafless trees, with a few just starting to put out buds. They look like oaks. I don’t think I’ve seen any oaks in Ca. which lose their leaves (Heidi thinks caterpillars ate them, but she wasn’t there; I think they were deciduous).

There was supposed to be a nice view of the valley below, but the camera didn’t catch it…

And now we leave the trail and head down (steeply down) a hot dusty dirt road. I pass some people and some pass me.

Two miles down the road (or a bit more) is the turn around (and an aid station). The woman who comes in with me (slightly ahead) turns out to be bib number 320, while I am 319. This amuses me. But not her. She turns around and zooms out of there like a rabbit, while I feel more like a tortoise. The road is uphill and steep and hot. I’m basically walking. There’s another guy who left the station at about the same time. He is also a tortoise and he and I trade places a couple of times. The rabbit is long gone, I never see her again. How does she do it?

I think I’m in about 40^th place now. But I know I haven’t counted well. I’d could be 45^th, or 35^th…

Off on the side of the road is a western wallflower. I noticed it on the way down, but I was running then. Now I’m walking. I can’t photograph flowers when I’m running, but at a walking pace, I can stop and it won’t slow me much. I’ve never seen a wallflower before.

The road is hot. I feel I’m crawling up. My fellow tortoise has now disappeared ahead.

I’m starting to balk at the thought of another gel, so I eat some blocks instead. For some reason they seem more palatable.

Eventually I reach the trail again. It’s cooler and sometimes shady and I can run again.

Now I’m the guy returning and people have to get out of my way. It’s kind of nice, but I’m feeling tired.

After ~3.5 miles from the turn-around I see Nichol and cheer her on. (well, sort of. I tell her she’s looking good, which she disputes saying she feels terrible to which I reply that I’m tired). A quarter mile after that I see Jennifer and say something to her too. It’s supposed to be cheering…

Hot. Lake Hughes in the distance.

There was maybe 3 miles of gentle shady downhill, but that is behind me now. I’m out in the sun on the bumpy flat section. I’m not doing very well. Several people pass me. I do see my fellow tortoise again, but I never catch up with him.

As I approach the next aid station there are inspirational quotes on signs. The only one that grabs me is one from Winston Churchill: “If you are going through hell, keep going.” It has a twinge of wit to it which the others lack.

At the 50K turn-around aid station again. In this direction the aid-station claims to be 35miles, my watch thinks it’s only 34 miles. In either case I’m more than ⅔^rds done, but still with a long way to go. I eat a bit of banana and a potato. I grab a quarter peanut-butter sandwich while they fill my water.

The peanut butter proves a mistake. My mouth is dry and the peanut butter sticks to it. It’s very difficult to swallow. Funny. I don’t feel thirsty, but my mouth is dry. I thought there’d be some jelly in it, or less peanut butter… Eventually it goes down.

There’s an older woman walking with a stick (I mean a real stick, not a fancy pole). She’s a 50K walker and is in good humor. She asks for a tow as I head out. I wish I had enough energy to tow her After this I assume that anyone I pass is likely to be a 50K runner, and anyone who passes me a 50M.

And I stumble out. Steeply downhill now, but very sunny and hot.

People pass me. I’ve given up on trying to eat even the blocks. I’ll just wait for the food at the next aid station. Mike told me that it was easier to eat real food at this point and he seems to be right.

I’m back at the paved road. It’s hot. It’s 1:30, about the hottest part of the day. People ask me if I’m OK. Well… not really, but I’ll manage. Someone pours water down my back. “Brormbgphmshqua”. Oranges! I eat 5 orange quarters! Yummy! And some soda. Mike told me to try drinking it. Bleah.

And now, the last steepest hill. Three miles of up to the next aid station. All in the direct sun in enclosed canyons with no breeze. I’m really dragging now. All slumped over walking up the hill. People pass me. I pass a few. The ridge line seems impossibly far above me. I realize I’ll probably be slower than 9 hours. I hadn’t expected that. Ug. It’s hot.

I think that funny little thing might be a broomrape flower.

It looks as though I’ve reached a ridge. There’s a bit of shade now and it’s not so steep. I can run again. Well… jog.

But I haven’t reached the ridge. I keep going up for another mile or so.

And there is the last aid station. More oranges! — these are covered with salt. Weird. Again they ask if I’m OK.

But this isn’t the end of the climb. There’s another mile to go up exposed fire road. At least it’s slightly cooler up here than it was down in the canyons. Slightly. It’s still hot. I’m walking again.

Someone looking far too cheerful comes running up from below. Only 2.9 more miles he tells me, and it’s almost all downhill.

Maybe. But it’s still uphill now.

And then it is down. And I’m running again. Not fast. But running.

I’m a quarter mile from the finish line when someone passes me. Damn. I haven’t seen anyone for half an hour couldn’t he have waited 2 minutes? And then someone else. And then I’m done too.

At the finish line they ask if I’m OK. Strangely I feel dizzy for about 30 seconds after stopping. And then… I’ll manage…

I really must look awful, they aren’t worrying about other finishers as they are about me…

John (who did the 50K) tells me it was “just over 80 at the finish line in the afternoon” (I finished at 3pm).

Official time: 9:06:47, 52^nd overall, third place in my age group.

I want an orange. Or a banana. Or an apple. But they don’t have anything like that. I have a banana and an apple down in my car, but that seems so far to walk. Instead I go sit on the front porch for about half an hour and then go inside to eat a sit-down meal. I’m rather proud of myself. This is the first 50 miler where I’ve actually been able to eat after the race. I guess the extra salt was helpful.

Then I go back outside and wait for my friends to finish.

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I did not piss during the race (I never have in an ultra). Nichol points out that means I was dehydrated. Um. I never felt thirsty. Maybe I need to force myself to drink more than I want to?

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Other blogs

The race website

• First place
• Battling for second #1
• Battling for second #2
• 12th place
• And a DNF
• A 50K runner

Avalon 50 miler

The race started at 5am. I had grumbled about that — I didn’t really want to run in the dark for an hour and a half — but given the heat of the day I later changed my mind.

The race started at 5. I couldn’t sleep well (or at all) and at 3 I gave up, got out of bed, stretched, had breakfast, got ready, and waited. At 4:40 I went down to the race start, checked in, and milled around. I noticed one woman had her headlight strapped around her midriff. It seemed much better than putting it on the head. Eventually we lined up. Someone said “Go”, but no one moved. Then there was some argument, and eventually a whole group of voices cried “Go”, and we went.

I was lined up in the second row at the start and there were about a dozen people in front of me, including one woman. That seemed about right. But soon another 10 people passed me, including another woman. Humpf.

Avalon crowds around the ocean at the mouth of a canyon, and we ran up this canyon. On city streets for the first mile or so, and then into the Wriggly Botanical reserve and onto dirt. It was pitch black and nothing was visible except the lights in front of me. Someone had placed glow sticks in the road to mark each turn (there weren’t many turns).

The road steepened and started to switchback. And now it was possible to look behind. There was a river of lights from runners behind down in the valley below. We climbed further. I passed the second woman. After a bit we got a view of Los Angeles. Lights across the water stretching from one horizon to the other. And down below, the tiny lights of Avalon.

It had already warmed up. It was chilly at the start, so I put on an extra layer. Now I take it off, and stuff it into my camelback.

We climbed out onto a ridge running parallel to the ocean, with LA across the water, ahead, the road turns inland and up and I can see a few lights sprinkled far ahead of me. Many lights behind.

A little after 3 miles I took my first gel pack. This is complicated by the fact that I have a flashlight in one hand and gloves on both. Luckily the flashlight has a wrist strap, so I just let it dangle for a bit. The process actually went fairly smoothly.

The road now turns downhill and I hear footsteps behind me, and Ray joins me. We run together for the next 2~3 miles, chatting (which is how I learned his name). Ray has done the race before.

Ray turns out to run faster downhill than I (at least in the dark he does) while I go slightly faster uphill, so we join and separate and rejoin depending on the terrain.

The road is actually in great shape, but I still am a little leery of plunging downhill in the dark (and some of the downhills are steep).

Around mile 5 we pass another guy (never got his name) and we all three run together now. There is a road sign up saying that the road will narrow, and we should slow down. We joke about that. The road is called “Fox Canyon Rd.” (or something like that) and we begin to see signs warning us of “fox-crossings” with cute little fox pictures on them. (The picture at right was taken much later in the day, of course, and at a different place, but the sign is the same).

The channel island fox is a species in its own right, smaller than the mainland variety, and only found on Catalina and the Channel Islands off SB.

I don’t see any.

The guy whose name I don’t know wonders where the first aid station is. Ray says it’s about mile 4 or 5. We are now at 5.75.

A car comes driving down the road at us. We were running three abreast, taking up the entire road, but we squinch down. Kind of intimidating meeting a car in the dark. They are so much bigger than we…

And there’s the aid station. I don’t need to stop, so I run through. Ray and the other guy do stop. Running by myself for a while. I click my watch at the station. It’s probably time for a gel, I look at the watch and realize I turned it off, rather than recording a lap. Twit. Turn it back on. Press the real lap button. And, yes, it is time for a gel.

The first time I ran on Catalina it was very foggy and I couldn’t see anything. Now it is dark, and I can’t see anything.

I pass a couple of women walking. Where did they come from? They don’t look as though they could have gotten here before me? I guess there was an early start for walkers.

A little beyond them is a clump of three runners I gain on them and then pass. One of them asks if I “took a late start?” To me it seems perfectly normal that I might run faster on the flat while they run faster uphill (or that they went out too fast and have slowed) but it seems to surprise them.

I experiment with turning off my flashlight. Yeah… I can see, but I still feel more comfortable with it on. If the road were perfectly smooth it would be a different matter. This road is smooth for a dirt fire track, but it has the occasional gully. The flashlight goes back on.

I glance behind me. The sun is starting to come up. It’s still very dark, and the camera’s exposure is so slow that the image is blurred (I don’t stop running, of course). Ten minutes later there is a bit more light, and the camera does a better job.

I round a bend and climb a slope, there, at the top, is the race photographer. I realize he is positioned perfectly to get a shot of us running against the sunrise. He takes one of me, and as I go past I yell “I want a copy of that.” “All right.”

I have a copy of it (by Roger Meadows of Avalon):

I take my camera out again at another open stretch for a sunrise view, but a truck is pulling up from behind. I don’t want to take a picture with the truck beside me (lest I stumble). But the truck doesn’t pass me, it stays beside me. I glance over at it. There’s a video camera and operator on the back of the truck and they are filming me. Finally they pull away, but the sunrise view has gone.

I see my first bird. A crow I think, but then realize it is probably a raven. Too big for a crow.

I start to see the countryside and am surprised by how dry everything looks. There are large stands of Opuntia. I was expecting countryside like that around SB, but this is much starker. No chaparral. Just dry grass and cactus. And then I pass a little rain pond where the cactus is right at the water’s edge. I don’t often think of cactus in a littoral situation. (It’s still dim, so the picture is very blurred).

The road has turned inland now, away from the coast, and the sun is rising behind the mountains instead of over the ocean. And then the sun actually rises. I glance at my watch and see it is a little before seven. This is a little perplexing as the sun isn’t supposed to rise until ~7:05. But I guess I’m at elevation so it will rise earlier…

I can see the terminal building for the airport. It’s a cute little thing. But round the corner is the next aid station. I fill up with water. The video crew are here and they film me filling up.

I’m running up toward the airport, and there are some walkers ahead. The video truck drives past again, but this time they don’t film me, they catch up with the walkers and film them, and then as I catch up they film me pass them.

The airport is on top of a hill, and from here there is a nice view of the route ahead, or would be if it were not still dark.

Every now and then I pass some walkers. I say “Good morning” as I go by. It’s odd to think that I’ve been running 2~2:30 hours now and it is barely after sunrise…

Now I’m running downhill, heading westish across the island. I’m going at a pretty good clip, sub-8 minute miles. There’s a ranch or something here, with a sign on the road: “Speed limit: 5 Mph.” I decide to break the law. It’s not often I can break a speed limit running, but I’m going about 7.5~8Mph.

I come upon a meadow holding two buffaloes. First buffaloes I’ve seen on Catalina. I try to take their picture, but the camera does not cooperate all I is a blurred image of a fence with some brown lumps behind it.

I’ve run pretty much NE-SW across the island, which is only about 6 miles here and now I’m looking west by south. It’s not so dry over here. A little bit later I start to see wildflowers. Coast sunflowers, manroot, locoweed of some nature, some little white flowers (probably Ceanothus), and a flowering plum which doesn’t make it up to SB.

I guess it makes sense. The storms come from the west off the Pacific, so the east side of the Island will be dry, while the west is wetter.

Then I turn north along the coast and head down into Little Harbor. This isn’t a village, just a harbor for boats and a place to picnic. Just to show how wet it is here, we have our first of two stream crossings. As far as most trail runs are concerned, this is nothing.

On the far side of Little Harbor is the next aid station. Again I fill up on water.

Generally it is a pretty hopeless idea to try to take a picture of a wildflower on a run, but coast sunflowers are pretty big, and the light is starting to be good, and I like them…

It isn’t hot yet. When I checked at 3 this morning, the forecast was for 77° in Avalon, and these exposed western canyons will probably be considerably hotter. Best to get as far as I can in the cool of the morning.

We’re in sun now as we climb out of Little Harbor and I can see people ahead of me. Some are walkers, and they don’t count, but some are runners (who occasionally walk, to make things confusing). I’m still running as I go uphill. I can keep my HR to about 80% by running slowly, so I’m doing that. But the runner ahead has started walking. I pass him. There’s another guy beyond him, with a hat with cloth round it. I’m slowly catching up to him on the uphill, but we head down again and he goes faster down than I.

I see that he is stopped in the road in front of me. At first I don’t see why. And then I round the bend.

Brian & the Buffalo

There’s a buffalo blocking the road. I stop and take his picture, before approaching to try and deal with the problem. It’s my road too. Do we get to deduct time spent waiting for buffaloes?

We try going off the road and circling behind him, but he turns and makes nasty noises at us. Then we try to go off road on the other side (on the left). He still watches us, and doesn’t seem completely happy about it, but we get past him. We look back. He’s watching us. Buffaloes can run faster than we can so we continue walking for a while. I suppose herbivores are unlikely to pursue running prey… but it seems more prudent not to test that. In Yellowstone they said “Stay back 50 yards.” We didn’t. But we did get lucky and survive.

Now we run together. He turns out to be named “Brian”. He runs faster than I downhill, but not so much faster that I can’t keep up. He’s a little disappointed in his performance, he was hoping to go faster. I don’t think he really understood what the hills were like. I’m actually pretty happy with my performance. I’m going about the right pace for an 8 hour time (which was sort of a goal), but it is early yet.

Down below is/are Two Harbors, so called because the island becomes very narrow here, less that a quarter mile across and there is a harbor on each side. We are on the east side of the island and approaching from the south. Two Harbors has a few dwellings, it’s a bit more of a settlement than Little Harbor.

Our route continues into Two Harbors and the beyond. If you click on the picture you’ll see the road on the far side of the bay as it follows the headlands. The turnaround is at the end of the second promontory.

I’ve been wondering when I’d see returning runners. If I’m running at an 8 hour pace and the winners will probably be somewhere under 7 (possible under 6 if they are really fast, but probably close to 7) that means they should be half an hour or so ahead… We see a guy heading back but he looks like a walker (I’m perplexed by this, because I think of there being a single separate start for walkers, but I learn later that was not the case, people started when they wanted. One man started at 11pm the day before).

After him comes a runner, who is first (just to make sure, we ask him). I make a rough note of where we are, and it takes me ~35 minutes to go from there to the turnaround and back. So that’s roughly where I thought the lead would be. A second guy follows him.

Brian and I wonder what place we are. Brian thinks probably the top 20. That sounds about right, judging by how many seemed ahead at the start and how many I’ve passed since (of course the walkers confuse things, I can’t always distinguish).

Brian tells me that we need to check off our bibs when we get to the turn-around. Apparently they announced that at the race overview last night (a gathering of which I was unaware).

We get down to Two Harbors. There’s an aid station here, which I don’t feel the need to stop at (but Brian does, so we separate for a bit). This is very close to 25 miles, about half-way.

Two Harbors actually has some streets, and the route is marked on them in flour. As I approach one flour arrow I notice a raven appears to be eating it. At the next arrow I have my camera out, and it really does look as though the ravens are eating the mark. I sometimes worry about arrows being scuffed out by runners, I’ve never thought they might be eaten up!

I’m now climbing out of Two Harbors, keeping track of the returning runners. There are two more coming down, and then the next one is a woman. Whee, she’s doing well (She finished even better, second place overall, and setting the woman’s record).

I round the first promontory, and beyond is another bay sprinkled with boats and buoys. I notice that my heart rate has gotten up to 83%, but I’m kind of excited by the turnaround so I don’t actually slow down as I should…

Back into this cove, and then up the other side. And then I see the guy ahead turn around. There does not appear to be anywhere to cross off our bib numbers. Good. Less to worry about. (It turns out there was a pen somewhere that we were to use to make a cross on our bib, but I didn’t notice it, and it didn’t matter.) The guy ahead looks tired, I bet I’ll pass him soon. Then I’m at the turnaround. I think I’m number 13. Brian isn’t far behind me.

I don’t care about the other people who are behind me.

I got to the turnaround (which was about 26.6) in under 4 hours, so I’m a bit ahead of the game for an 8 hour race, but doing a rather slow marathon.

Now it’s back to Two Harbors. I do pass the guy ahead. 12th. The Brian catches me and we run together again. We both stop at the aid station, but I get out of it faster than he.

And then I climb back out of the harbors, back the way I came. I’m getting tired now, so I start doing some walking on the uphills. The buffalo has gone (thank goodness). Someone passes me. Drat.

Lots of people are going the other way now. I try to guestimate their finishing times based on how far we are from the turnaround (of course this assumes none of us will slow, a ludicrous idea). I pass Michelle and we greet. I’m guessing she’ll finish in a bit more than 10 hours. Up, and up. The number of runners/walkers going the other way fades to a trickle, and then vaguely around the point where I start estimating 12 hour finishing times (the cutoff) it comes to a stop. (pretty much).

I’m going downhill now, and fairly fast again. Then someone comes zooming past me. This is obviously someone who has held back for the first part of the race and is now going for it. I don’t think I could do that (not the holding back part, but speeding up after running for 5 hours). Anyway, I’m 14th again. But ahead of me I can watch the guy who just passed me overtaking someone else, and I expect I’ll catch him too…

I happen to glance at my watch, mile 31.4 in 4:48. That’s a 50K PR!

A little further and I reach 33.4, in 5 hours. That’s 2/3rds. And is 20 minutes faster than 2/3rds of 8 hours. Hmm. Of course, I know I’ll slow, but I do have some cushion…

Then back down to Little Harbor and its aid station. I zip in to fill up with water, and I grab a slice of orange and a bit of banana too. I think the guy I’m expecting to pass is still in the station as I go out the other side. So 13th.

I climb out of Little Harbor again, across the stream again, but the course takes a different route when I get to the top of the hill. I follow the coast a little longer, and then plunge into the interior.

And now it is getting hot. And unpleasant. The canyon walls have closed in and reflect the heat back at me. And, of course, I’m getting tired.

I go deeper into the backcountry. There’s no one else around. No one to chat with, no one to pass, no one to pass me.

A little before the next aid station I come to the 3/4 mark. And I’m at 5:45. So I’m still on the good side of making 8 hours… but I’m now only 15 minutes ahead. I’m going more slowly than an 8 hour pace now.

And then the next aid station. Just water.

I see someone ahead of me. Walking. Running. Walking. He’s got his hand on his back as if his hip pained him. I ask if he’s OK. Says he’s got stomach issues because of the heat. (not what I would have guessed). “Yeah”, I agree, “the heat is nasty.” Actually I’m having stomach issues too. Each gel pack gets harder to swallow and I feel closer to nausea. But I can still run. So I push on.

Another stream crossing. At this one I have to get one foot wet.

I walk across the stream, and it’s hard to start running again on the far side. My quads are shot. I guess I’m not used to running this fast downhill. Oh I ran down Romero, and that was similar terrain, but there has been a lot more downhill than once down Romero.

It’s hot. I’m coughing too. I’ve had a bad cough for most of the last two weeks. Yesterday it was clearing up, but today I’ve been subjected to occasional coughing fits. Now one doubles me up.

As Shakespeare says “Take comfort, and endure.”

I’m walking again. It’s not really steep, but I’m walking. The guy with stomach issues (I learned later his name was Jimmy-Dean) passes me. He seems in great shape now. I wish I were doing as well. I look at my watch. Then I start watching my watch, I’m close to, now I’m at 43.75. That’s 7/8ths of the course and the time is… 6:59:40. That means I’m still ahead of the 8 hour average pace. By a whole 20 seconds. Or more usefully, it took me 1:14:00 to do the last 1/8th, and I’m not going to speed up on the next 1/8. There’s a really tough hill yet to come. Time to accept that I’m not going to break 8.

Oh well.

The guy ahead stops, turns and asks me: “How far have we gone?”. He could not have asked at a better time. I tell him 43.7, in just under 7 hours and that if he keeps to that pace he’ll break 8. Just. At least he looks like he has a chance, I don’t. He thanks me, and is gone.

I’m doing very little running.

The next aid station is coming up. It’s at the bottom of a really steep hill. I remember this hill from the marathon. I had thought it would be earlier on the route, but that’s because the marathon takes a longer course into town from the top (It finishes the way we started). I really pushed to get up this hill before, and that proved a mistake. I can’t push now.

More water. I linger a little in the aid station, in hopes of miracles, but none comes. So up the hill, at a walk.

At least no one is behind me.

It just keeps going.

Eventually it looks as though I am reaching the top. But I remember this from before. This is a snare and a delusion designed to make me hopeful and then dash those hopes. It goes up again just round the bend. But right here we have some good views. Unfortunately they are too hazy to see in the thumbnail, but if you click on the image the snow covered mountains above LA are visible on the horizon. Roger Meadows got a better image than I.

At least there is a breeze up here, it has cooled down a bit because of that.

A little bit of downhill before it goes up again. I trot down and walk up. Again and again.

It’s time for my last gel pack. I take it out and look at it. My gorge rises. I put it back. I’m going so slowly now, I may not need it. I hope I don’t, because I’m not eating it.

Now real downhill. And here’s the last aid station. My watch says mile 46, so four more to go. I take some gatorade here, there’s no point in filling my camelback now. It’s still got water in it and I don’t need more weight. The first person to talk to me tells me I’ve only got 4 miles to go. Which is what I thought. The next person tells me I’ve got 2~3, and the last person says 5~6. Um hum. It would be nice if they had their story straight. (it turned out to be ~4 as I expected). They tell me it’s all downhill from here. (It ain’t) As I leave someone yells to me that I’m in 12th place. Well that’s nice. I thought I was in 13th. I might have miscounted at the turnaround, or I might have missed someone in an aid station. Kind of neat.

I shamble off.

The road goes up again. Damn, damn, damn. I walk. Footsteps behind. He’s running. He passes me. I trot behind for a little, but can’t keep going. He asks me if I believe what the volunteers said about it being 6 miles to the finish? I tell him they told me every number between 2 and 6. He laughs. I think it’s 4 miles.

And he’s gone. So 13th again.

Round the bend and I can see Avalon. And now it really is all downhill. But oh, I’m going slowly. My watch says 47 miles and 7:48. Nope. Even at my best I can’t run 3 miles in 12 minutes. Even downhill miles. I hope I can manage 10 minute miles.

My legs hurt. I’m not really running, more sort of… I don’t know what.

There is traffic on this road. By normal standards there is very little traffic. But I’m not in a normal frame of mind. There’s too much. 4 cars every 10 minutes is unconscionable. I keep looking at my watch. Neither time nor distance is passing very rapidly.

After about 10 minutes I hit 48 miles. The road would be quite nice, tree-lined with views of the ocean and occasionally Avalon (and the two little odd bits of suburbia that seem to have grown up in the coves adjacent to Avalon). It would be nice if I were in a better frame of mind.

At least I’m sticking to my 10 minute miles. I feel that I’m hobbling along. I might go faster on the flat? Will anyone else pass me?

I round a bend — and I’m in Avalon. It’s 49.3 miles so I’ve got a ways to go yet, but here is the village. I’m not lost.

I hear a bell ringing and cheers, and I know that someone has just finished.

I come down the road, and come to an unmarked intersection (no race markings I mean). Well I’ll go downhill rather than up. And then that road hits the waterfront. Again, no race markings. So I turn toward where I know the finish line is.

Flat. I’m now running through tourists, who don’t care about the race. I manage to go a little faster as I avoid the tourists.

I thought…

I thought the finish line was at the start. But it’s not. Have I gotten lost somehow? Where should I be? I keep running.

And then I hear a shout “Runner coming!” and the bell rings and there they are! Only a block beyond the start. They stretch a tape across for me to run through (a nice touch, I don’t think I’ve ever run through a tape before). And I’m done!

My watch says 4:17:48, but I know it’s short because I turned it off for a little bit by mistake. So probably 4:18:??

I wonder if I’m in 14th place or not. I’m pretty sure I’ll win my age group because last year the winner finished in 8:49, so I’m about half an hour ahead of that.

Jimmy-Dean comes up to congratulate me and to thank me. I gave him just the encouragement he needed, and he finished under 8. !

It’s odd to think that it’s not yet 1:30. Most of the afternoon is still to come, but it feels as though it should be the end of the day to me.

They seem to post results roughly every hour. At the moment only the people who finished under 8 hours are up. I’ll come back in a bit. When I do come back I find my time was 4:18:34. I was in 15th place (so nothing from the volunteers at the last aid station was correct). And I’m second in my age group. The winner was an hour ahead of me. (Wow. Good for him!)

So. 8 hours was a goal to shoot for. I didn’t really expect to break it, but I got my hopes up as the race progressed. I’m glad I tried. And I came close enough that I’m pleased!

(Hmm. I didn’t break 8 hours, but I did break 500 minutes. That’s an even nicer number).

Age-group placers get terra-cota tiles

• Full Results for Avalon Benefit 50 Mile Run
• This might be the third guy (whose name I didn’t get) who ran beside me at the start (and passed me at the end)
• Brian’s Buffalo

Winter solstice run

On the twenty-fourth day of Advent,
My coach, he said to me:
You must go running,
Even though it’s raining,
Head up Romero,
Out Camino Cielo
Far as Gibraltar.
Turn back around,
Twenty-seven miles.

This solstice was supposed to be remarkable because there was an lunar eclipse on the shortest night of the year. The barbarians here didn’t notice. The skies were overcast and pouring rain.

Pity.

It’s three and a half weeks to my race and today is (probably) my longest run. I can’t put it off until tomorrow, because tomorrow it’s supposed to rain harder (and it rained yesterday too). Mike said to go up Romero Rd, then run hard on Camino Cielo for about 40 minutes. And then turn round and go back.

Normally, when I do a 4~5 hour run (as I expected this one to be) I fill my camelback with 6 pints of water, which is as much as it will hold. But it was raining. And wet. I didn’t think I’d need that much, and it’s annoying to carry an extra 6 pounds of water I’m not going to use. So I only filled it half-way.

I drove. I couldn’t face biking back in the cold rain for 10 miles after a hard run. On the way up I was pleased to note that there would be little chance of fire today. I wondered if this were deliberate, or chance?

I thought about locking the car. But the last time I ran in the rain my fingers were so cold after the run that I couldn’t use them, and it took forever to get the bike unlocked. So I decided to leave the car unlocked. There was no one else around, I didn’t think anyone would want my car…

I’d been up here two days earlier. On Sunday it was raining much harder than it was today, but it was warmer. On Sunday the place where the road fords the creek looked potentially dangerous. Today it just looked wet. Anyway, I slogged through it, and then started running up the fireroad.

The lowering clouds, the rain, and the trees, all combined to make the road a bit dark. The closest ridge line ahead poked out of the mist, but the ones behind it were hidden. On Sunday this road had been a small creek in its own right, pretty much entirely under water; today it looks like a road with puddles.

Today, at the place where the fireroad forks, a normally dry ditch is a busy stream that crosses the road. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen water in this ditch — except, of course, for Sunday, when there was even more.

I didn’t bring a camera on Sunday. I’m half hoping that it will start raining harder so that the creeks will be full on the way back down. I know that will be uncomfortable, but it would be neat.

Just beyond the stream the road becomes an oak allee. The combination of new green from the oxalis below and the dark oak limbs above is lovely to my eye.

Then the stream crosses the road again. On Sunday there was quite a torrent here, and some of our party were dismayed by it. Today, well, today you can see the stepping stones. Now admittedly the stones are under water, but you can see them, they console you, even if they are useless.

Just after the stream are the first signs of rock falls. These were not here a few weeks ago (one of them was here Sunday). These don’t really block the passage. They are just … interesting.

Looking back across the valley I can see the route of the other fork of the fireroad as it winds into the mist. Hills mounded on hills, and mist coming down from above to hide their tops…

A little further and I find a new rock fall. Not a particularly large fall, but a rather large rock… longer than I am tall, I’d guess (though I did not lie down in the rain to measure it).

I’ve been running for about a mile now (my watch beeps at me) and I realize I’m starting to get hot. I’m wearing 4 shirts, and that seems too much at the moment. The rain is light, there’s no wind, it’s 52° (12°C) so not really cold, and I’m running uphill. I stop to take off one shirt and stuff it into the camelback. I also pause to take a picture of Montecito below me. Or where Montecito would be if you could see it in the mist…

Then I turn another bend in the road, and I’m looking at a hillside over which small puffs of mist are drifting. I think it is beautiful.

I love the interplay of mist on the mountains…

The ferns by the side of the road are looking very happy. Since this area is normally dry as a bone, I wonder if they are Polypodium (resurrection ferns, which shrivel up when dry and pop out again when it gets wet).

At the two mile mark I realize I’m hot again. I consider removing another layer, but then remember that the road levels out ahead, and we cross out of the lee of the cliffs and into the wind (maybe). Probably best not to take off another layer just yet.

The road is completely blocked by a new rockfall (this was not there on Sunday). It’s about 3 feet high, and there are some very large rocks in it. It continually surprises me that such big rocks will fall…

As the road levels out, it fills up with water. And a few more rocks too. The puddles are above my ankles and my shoes are soaked. Again.

A small stream cuts across the road here, and you can see some of the old construction left over from the days when Romero was a paved road.

I realize it is time (past time actually) to take my first gel pack. My fingers are awkward as I fumble for it in the backpack. They aren’t numb yet, but this does not bode well for the rest of the run. I’ve only run 3 miles, I’ve got another 20 or so to run. If my fingers get worse, I won’t be able to handle the gel packs, and I’ll not be able to fuel myself properly…

A little further on a small stream comes out of the hills on the right and takes over the road. I splash through it until I reach its source, where I find a small waterfall splashing down from above.

Just round the bend is the trail crossing. We turned back here on Sunday.

Looking back I see a vista of ridges coming down to the road and fading off into the mist…

A little further on is the first real waterfall. 10~15 feet tall it has dug a 2 foot deep channel in the road and I have to jump down into the stream to get across.

The road continues upward. From time to time I round a bend and can see it on ahead of me, fading into mist.

As I near the top it is time for another gel. I have even more difficulty getting it out this time. And I just can’t open it. Finally I rip it open with my teeth. I think about putting on my extra layer, but I tell myself that once I get to Camino Cielo I’ll be running hard and I’ll warm up again. I won’t want the shirt then. So I don’t put it on.

That will turn out to be a mistake.

Finally Romero hits Camino Cielo. I go stand on the water tank that lives here. There’s a spectacular view from here, on the one side we look down on Montecito, the ocean, and the channel islands. On the other side is the Santa Ynez valley (Blue Canyon to be specific) and the mountain ranges beyond.

View of Montecito and the ocean

View of Blue Canyon

But I must turn away from the view. Now begins the hard part of the day. I have to run on Camino Cielo (toward Gibraltar) at 85-90% effort. For 40 minutes. I climb down, check my shoelaces, square my shoulders and set out.

At first things seem to go well. My heartrate quickly climbs to 83% as I head up the hill. Then 84%.

There are some rock falls on Camino Cielo too. And then, a section where several small waterfalls come plashing down the cliff face. This seems rather odd. The cliffs above me aren’t very high. This road runs (almost) on the divide, so there’s not much above me. How can there be enough drainage up there to make waterfalls? Even little ones?

I tell myself I’ll take a picture on the way back, but I can’t stop now, that would render the hard run purposeless.

I look at my watch again. My HR hasn’t gone up any further. After a mile or so I get out of the lee of the cliffs, and (as I’m on the ridge now in truth) the wind attacks me, lashing me with rain. It’s cold. I’m not warming up. In fact my hands are colder than before. I should have put on that shirt.

Later I check the weather station on top of La Cumbra which showed a temperature of 39° with 20mph winds when I was running on Camino Cielo. Quite a bit colder than down in the city. At least my core seems fine, no shivering or any other signs of hypothermia. I’m unhappy and complaining but not in any danger.

I know I haven’t been running very far yet, I’m guessing about a mile.

I keep going.

Ah, a bush poppy in bloom.

Finally I reach San Ysidro trail head. I let myself look at my watch. My heart rate has dropped to 82%. Arg. Well, this is a downhill stretch, but still… it’s disappointing. I’ve been running for about 20 minutes. Almost half way.

In another quarter mile I find Cold Springs. No one else is about. The wind is cold.

Onward, and steeply upward. I have to slow down, this section is too steep.

I can’t really think of any other landmarks by which to gauge my progress (and help pass the time and get my mind off my hands). There’s the trailhead for Cold Springs Mid Fork, but it is only indicated by a soda can somewhere in the shrubbery, I’ll never notice it. There’s the turnaround for Pier to Peak, but any chalk will long have washed away, I won’t notice it either.

I sort of fall into a stupor. I don’t look at my watch any more, somehow that action has become too difficult. It’s all I can do to force myself onward. I’m pushing somewhat, I’m probably keeping my HR above 80%, but it’s supposed to be 85 or even 90 and I’ve given up on that.

Finally the road turns downhill again. I’m hopeful that this means I’m nearing Gibraltar (somehow I’ve decided I will turn around at Gibraltar. It’s just too difficult to look at my watch and find when 40 minutes is up.)

But no. The road goes back up again. I’m cold.

And then down again. Down for a long time. I almost don’t recognize Gibraltar when I see it. I think the road just bends to the right and don’t realize there’s an intersection until I’m almost in the middle of it.

My hands are so cold I fumble with the camera. I can’t get it out. Then I can’t turn it on. Then I can’t take the picture. Then I can’t turn it off. Then I can’t put it back in its pouch. There are droplets of water on the lens now, I see.

This camera fiasco reminds me that I’m cold and should put on my extra shirt.

I take a gel. Again I must use my teeth and it seems to take forever to rip it open.

Oh yeah. I look at my watch. Roughly 50 minutes to get here. I should have turned back 10 minutes ago. Somehow it was easier to keep going than it was to look at my arm. That doesn’t make sense. But there it is.

And so I turn around and run back. I’m halfway done. In terms of distance, anyway, but I’m going to be much slower going back on CC than I was coming out. I’m sort of stumbling up the hill now. My hands are curled up inside the sleeves of the new shirt. Maybe they will warm up there?

There’s a scrub oak in full bloom off on the right of the road. I find these shrubs fascinating, I expect oaks to be great huge giant trees, not little 3 foot guys. Yet their acorns and catkins are just as big as those of their larger brethren.

The wind is hitting me with rain. I’m cold and wet. The fog is all around me. And here is a sign telling me not to light off fireworks. At the moment it seems ludicrous. Come to think of it… why would anyone be lighting fireworks here anyway? Some random bit of roadway miles from anywhere? I could sort of understand such a sign on La Cumbra peak… if someone lit fireworks off there they’d be visible in the city below (maybe), but here? No one could see them.

A mystery.

As I climb up to the peak between Gibraltar and Cold Springs it starts to get brighter. Am I going to climb out of the clouds? The rain is pretty strong here, you’d think not… but still, it’s a lot brighter.

Finally I do reach the summit, the road goes down again, the sun does not appear, and it gets darker again.

Cold Springs.

San Ysidro.

Halfway along Camino Cielo. I think my hands may be a little warmer now?

Time slows to a crawl. Or maybe I do.

There are cliffs to my right so I look for waterfalls. But these are the wrong cliffs. No waterfalls here.

But after turning enough corners I see the waterfalls. There isn’t very much water, but it has a good drop, and it’s a lot more water than I expect…

That means I’m almost at Romero. Doesn’t it?

Now I turn a corner and it’s like a wind tunnel. All the wind from below is funneled into this narrow cutting through which Camino Cielo runs. It’s cold. And wet.

Off on the right of the road is a tiny little bush, six inches high, covered with currant blooms. I’ve never seen one this small before. Is it the common “Chaparral Currant” or some other of the half-dozen Ribes species that I don’t know how to distinguish?

And here’s the rockslide. I hadn’t remembered just how big the rocks were…

That means I’m near Romero doesn’t it?

And finally I am. I round a corner and there is the water tank. I climb up to it and stand under its awning, on the lee side and attempt to get out another gel. My hands might be warmer than they were at Gibraltar, but they aren’t warm. So extracting the gel proves a difficult operation. Eventually I get it out. I try to open it with hands. No good. With teeth. No good. I try to drive a key through the middle of it and saw it open. Also not successful. Now I’ve got this half open thing, I can’t put it back, it will become a gooey mess. I try to tear the other side with my teeth, and finally this works.

Normally I take a gel every half hour. I managed that at the start, but then there was a gap of 50 minutes, and now 80 minutes. I need this gel. I’m somewhat surprised that I haven’t started to feel hungry. I must be burning through fuel just to keep warm, and I am not eating as much as I usually do…

Oh well.

Out into the rain and wind again, for the final stretch. Soon, I’ll be out of the wind. I hope.

After about half a mile, I am out of the wind. It’s usually at it’s worst on the ridge, now that I’m below that it isn’t so bad.

After another mile I glance down. And I realize I can see the ocean. The camera can’t see it so well, because of raindrops on the lens, but the shoreline is still visible. That’s the first time all day I’ve been able to see that far. The clouds must have lifted a bit.

Around several more corners and I see a cascade of waterfalls one above the other. This must be the big fall I saw on the way up, only now I can see above and below it.

Down past the trail crossing. I’m starting to get hungry, but I don’t want to stop now.

My hands are definitely warmer.

It’s stopped raining.

Even though I’m below the clouds there are still wisps of mist blowing about, but all my pictures have blurry raindrop smears on them and they are ugly rather than beautiful.

I realize that I haven’t seen a soul all day. Usually there will be someone else on the trail. Usually there will be a car or two on Camino Cielo — I was on it for more than two hours and went from one end to the other, and there was no one.

Splashing through the puddles that say I’ve only three miles left.

I realize I have drunk almost no water. I drink some now, but I really don’t feel the need.

Out from behind the mountains and now I can see the city below.

Only one mile to go. And I see my first people. Kim and somebody are climbing up. I look at my watch. Almost exactly 26 miles. I’ve gone 26 miles without seeing anyone. A weird marathon. I guess: It isn’t raining, it’s about lunch time, if I’m going to see anyone now’s the time. In the this final mile I see 5 more people and a dog.

At 26.2 miles I look at my watch 4:31. Perhaps the slowest marathon I’ve ever run. Suddenly I run out of energy. I walk. I get out some Cliff Blocks. And… yes, I can open them with my hands (with a lot of effort, but I can). I start to eat them, and find they have a strange tangy taste I am not used to. After eating several I take off my (long distance) glasses and peer at them with my eye. The blocks are covered with dead ants. How on earth did ants get inside the packet? And if so many could get in, why couldn’t they get back out? Who knows. Interesting taste.

I start running again.

I get to my car 26.96 miles. I consider running an extra .04 miles, but decide against it.

My hands are still weak. It takes a lot of effort to get the key off its hook. I need to use both hands to turn the key in the ignition.

As I drive home I consider:

I ran 27 miles in a light rain on a (relatively) warm winter day. And I was miserable and barely able to function. I would not be able to run 50 miles if I have that much trouble opening gel packs. If it rains on Catalina in 3 weeks I doubt I’ll be able to finish, unless I figure out some way to keep my hands warmer. My gloves don’t, I’ve already tried that and I know it’s a failure. Plastic bags?

I hope it doesn’t rain on Catalina.

Flagline 50K

Stepping off the plane at the Bend/ Redmond airport I see snow covered mountains. If I’m properly oriented, the snow covered ones are the three sisters (South Sister being the one in the center, the other sisters being behind the airport roof), with Mt. Bachelor over the airplane.

There is no snow in Santa B at the moment and so much in Sept. impressed me.

I must admit this race has proven the least organized race I’ve ever done. At least as far as advance planning goes. It was listed as the USATF 50k championship last year, but there was essentially no information on it. Finally in May or June there was a post saying they didn’t know what the route was because it would be under snow until mid-August. I found this disconcerting. If it’s under snow in mid-August, generally the hottest time of the year, won’t it be under snow again by the end of September? Oh well. I signed up anyway. They didn’t ask me for my USATF membership number (required for a championship race — or so I thought). They didn’t provide even a rough idea of altitude, elevation gain/loss, nor such simple things as where/when bib pickup would be. In mid-August a preliminary map appeared, so I made travel arrangements. Still no idea when/where bib pickup was, but I assumed (hoped) if I arrived the day before everything would work. On 13 Sept. they posted a new route for the course (less than 2 weeks before the race). On 23 Sept (two days before the race) I got an email with yet another route for the race.

An almost right course map. The start and finish were a little different. (click on it to make it bigger).

At the end of August, a friend who lives in Bend, told me it had snowed the night before and the route was under snow yet again.

So I stopped worrying and started laughing. I assumed it would all work out.

Everyone seemed to sign up for this race at the last minute (perhaps they were waiting for the map?). When I checked the site the week-end before the race there were only 34 entrants. But the ones whose names I knew were all good runners (really good). This woman beat me on the White River race last year by about 2 hours, and this 52 year-old guy is the one who beat me last year by an hour, and… Then when online registration closed on Wednesday there were 50 entrants, and all the new-comers were really fast. When I went to pick up my bib I heard there were more than 100 entrants, and on the race day I heard that some people signed up after that…

I was nervous about the competition.

Pickup was at the local running store Friday afternoon before the race. There I met up with an internet/college? friend. Dave went to CalTech (another darb), but he was 4 years ahead of me, so was gone before I arrived. When I started running, and writing about running he found me on the ‘net. Somehow. Since then we’ve been emailing. He lives in Bend, and although he wasn’t signed up for this race, he had offered to show me around the area.

He showed me how to get to the start (about half an hour out of town) at the foot of Mt. Bachelor (I presume that Mt. Bachelor is so named because it is right across from the
South Sister Three Sisters, the snow capped mountains I saw upon arrival. Bachelor has some glaciers but is mostly snow free at the moment). Thence he drove me on a dirt road which in places paralleled the route, and then, further up, was the route.

He points out little red flags beside the road. I hadn’t noticed them, but they are the course markers. I hate it when people mark things with red. I can’t see it. Colorblind monkeys can’t find ripe fruit and die; colorblind humans can’t find their way and lose.

Grumble.

Bend itself looks dry (except that (by Barbarian standards) it has a river running through it); it’s in the rainshadow of the mountains; so as we climbed up to the top of those mountains it got damper, and I started to see the moss that covers the trees on the coast (not to the same profusion, of course).

I looked for Poison Oak to see if I would need to apply Teknu, but saw none. Nice.

Then we took a quick sight-seeing excursion. There is an extraordinary mountain called Broken Top which looks like a volcano with half of its crater blown off (which is, indeed, what it is). I found it impressive from the valley floor, so we drove over to a neighboring ridge which had a good view and looked across at it.

That night I slept well until 2. Then I started tossing and turning and looked at the clock every 2 minutes. At 4 or so I managed to get to sleep again, but at 4:30 I awoke to a car horn honking, thinking it was my alarm. Then at 4:50 my normal Saturday alarm went off. I’d forgotten about it. At this point, I gave up. I had three alarms set for 5, but I got up at 4:50 anyway (and then 10 minutes later started turning off alarms as they went off).

I drove to the race start; I had plenty of time and was in no hurry, so I stopped a couple of times to take pictures of the mountains. The (almost) full moon was setting right behind Mt. Bachelor. When I turned around I realized there was a
Lupinus lepidus
Dwarf lupine tiny little lupine growing in profusion on the road’s shoulder.

Today is the equilux in Bend (or as close to it as Bend will come). On the equilux the day and night have equal lengths. It happens a few days after the autumnal equinox and a few days before the vernal one.

My car’s thermometer said it was 39° at the race start-line, so I bundled up, with two technical shirts over my racing garb and a windbreaker on top of that, gloves and one of those ear warmer straps. Chilly. Last trip to the port-a-potties. Then I went back to the (warm) car and stayed there until 20 minutes before the race start. Ate some Gu. When I got out of the car I found the sun had risen and it felt warmer, so I put the wind breaker back in the car.

I went to the organizer’s tent to see if they had any route maps (no), but they told me that the race start was actually .9 miles down the road. So I set off down the road. Someone very kindly offered me a lift. There was one guy at the official start. He came up and shook my hand (I guess he was getting worried about being at the wrong place — there was no mark anywhere to show it).

We waited.

More people trickled down. This spot was still in the shade and it was chilly; there was frost on the ground. I was shivering. I noticed one young woman in bra and shorts who looked much warmer than I, in spite of all my layers. I was impressed.

But now we were all lining up at the invisible line on the road. A woman beside me turned to her partner and said “What are we doing in the front?” and moved back. I sort of felt that way too, but no one seemed to want to be at the front, so I figured I might as well stay.

The RD said a few words. The course was marked with little orange flags`(Dave and I had figured that out yesterday), but that wasn’t all. There were some little blue signs too at tricky places, and a mountain biker was going ahead to draw arrows in the dirt (forest service didn’t let him use chalk or flour). Suddenly I felt a lot better about the markings. Even I can see arrows scratched in the dirt.

And really the course was well marked. There was only one place where I wasn’t sure which trail to take, but doing the obvious thing (stay on the main trail which I’m already on) worked. Oh, yes, there was one other place but as the two forks rejoined later it turned out not to matter.

The RD put on a good race. Not so good at pre-race stuff, but the important thing was the race, and that, I thought, was great.

The RD adds that we should watch out for mountain bikers on Flagline Trail, as the course is not closed. He also mentions that this is bow-and-arrow deer-hunting season, and that might be an issue on Forest Route 370 (the road Dave took me up the day before). He encourages us not to annoy the car-drivers on that road because they might be armed.

And then we started. We poured across the road (no traffic at 8am Sat. on a road leading mostly to closed ski areas), up it for a little bit, and then ducked onto a trail. It’s good to start on a road because it’s easier to pass on the wide spaces roads provide and there’s a lot of passing going on at first. Oops, not a trail, but a forest service road. Not nearly as wide as the paved road, but easily space to pass. It was a nice surface and we almost immediately started going downhill.

I started to worry. My breath felt constricted, my legs stiff. I reminded myself: This happens sometimes, especially if I don’t warm up. Don’t panic. But still my breath wouldn’t come…

I tucked in behind two women. I have enough hubris to think that I can keep up with most women. But that was ignoring the fact that I knew there were lots of fast people (of both sexes) in this race. I wasn’t foolish enough to try to run with the leaders, but these two seemed to be setting a pretty comfortable pace. When I glanced at my HR after a while it was reading 77%, which was fine. And it was (mostly) downhill.

Lupinus polyphyllus Though fir trees. Not very dense. Pretty, when the sun wasn’t in my eyes, though it often was. I didn’t try to take pictures because of the sun. Down below the trees there is another, much larger, lupine blooming. But it’s almost finished, more seedpods than blooms.

For the moment it was enough just to run. It felt good now.

After a bit I glanced down at my watch. We’d been running for 20 minutes and were averaging 7:47min/mile. To me that seems really fast for a trail run. But it was (mostly) downhill, on a forest road with a good surface.

Whoever was running behind me had very loud breath. I wondered if he might be running too fast and whether he’d drop back in a bit. Then the two women passed someone, and after a bit, I passed him too. Stentorian breath didn’t pass him immediately. Then the woman who was behind passed the leader, and suddenly I was running with them. I was thinking I should pass the former leader too.

But I glanced at my watch. Oops. I’d let my HR climb to 85%. Normally on ultras I try to keep it at 80%, so, regretfully, I slow and drop back.

The morning had (of course) warmed up now that we’d started running and after a bit I thought about taking off one of my layers. This was a complex operation. I had to remove the camelback from my back; unclip the camera, store it inside the camelback so it wouldn’t fall; take off my cap; take off my ear warmer (which I also decided to remove) and stuff it in the camelback; then remove the shirt (all the while holding the camelback in one hand and running fast enough that no one behind will catch me, and avoiding any trees that I might want to bump into while the shirt was over the head); move the camelback to the other hand to get the final sleeve off; open the camelback, and stuff the shirt inside; realize that it was time for a GU too, take that out; eat it (the GU gel is cold and stiff this morning and harder to extract from the package than usual); stuff the wrapper in the camelback (because these shorts have no pockets, I just now remember); extract the camera; put the camelback back on; clip on the camera.

No one passed me but the women are some distance off now.

There are two guys running ahead of the women, and the women slowly overtake one of them. He has a white shirt. I run behind him now—sometimes closer to him, sometimes further as our speeds dictate. The women disappear into the distance.

From behind I notice that he is examining a fork in the trail. It is not marked with orange tags, or a blue sign, or an arrow. It is marked with little pink bits of flagging tape. Hmm. We weren’t told about pink flagging tape, but it appears recent, so he takes the fork. This gives me a chance to get closer to him (which isn’t really fair. I don’t need to stop to look at the route).

We’ve been running for 7 miles now (my watch beeps every mile. Sometimes I hear it, sometimes I don’t. I heard it just now). We’ve maintained an average pace of 8min/mile. Silly slow for a road race, but quite good for a trail.

Then I hear a dog bark. Hmm. Most likely that means we’re coming up on the first aid station. Then loud music. Then people. I think someone checks my number off as I run past. I don’t bother to stop. I’ve barely touched my water. Oh… But it is time for another GU. So I go through a second, but slightly less involved, wrestle with the camelback to extract a GU and then store its wrapper.

The trail is now mostly uphill. I slow. And take a picture.

After a bit white shirt (I think it’s he) catches up again. I offer to let him pass, and after a long pause he says “No, I’m good.”

I had intended to run this race at 80% as I normally do. But I’m thinking. Why don’t I try to run at a pace that seems comfortable? I don’t want to push too hard, but why not try to keep my HR between 80 and 85%? I seems to be what I’ve been doing. My HR is currently about 82%. I know! It’s an experiment. Mike told me to keep my HR at 80% when I was training for that 50M last year, but he didn’t really give me a target when I was training for a 50K. It’s shorter, obviously the HR should be a bit higher.

Later, when looking at a HR graph from the race, I see that by trying to run between 80 and 85 percent I actually averaged about 80%. Interesting to see the connection between HR and altitude change.

A little further on I glance down at my watch. We’ve been running for 10.7 miles, which is a bit more than ⅓ of the way. I mention this to whoever is behind me but I get no response. Not very talkative. Hmm. And we’ve been going for 1:20 or so. Wow. This looks like a PR. If I can keep up this pace I’m set for a 4 hour 50K. Of course I know that is silly, we had 7 miles of blasting fast downhill. Now the trail is climbing and I’m know I’m going more slowly. Still… it’s nice to think about.

Since I’m going fast, that means there’s less time to get tired from an elevated HR, so even more reason to try to push a bit harder.

Um. That sounds awfully like a rationalization, doesn’t it?

Anyway here is some yarrow blooming still, and a little further on is a blue aster and then a white. And that’s about all the wildflowers I’ll see.

Around 12 miles I glance back (when going round a hairpin turn) and see there are now 4 people stuck behind me, so I once again ask if anyone wants to pass. A little pause and then someone new says “No, I think we’re all hurting.”

Someone with a bib comes running down the trail toward us (reverse direction). We ask if he’s ok, and he tells us he took a wrong turn. Then he’s gone. Erp. “Have we taken a wrong turn?” I yell at his retreating back. “No, you’re good.” he responds in the distance.

Odd. I speculate a bit. Did he give up because the wrong turn meant he wouldn’t win? or wouldn’t PR? I’m not likely to learn. I don’t think I’d give up… but who knows?

Someone now passes me.

Some mountain bikers pass us (going the other direction, thank goodness) and it all goes very easily. They cheer us on.

Ah, the loud breather is behind me again. Or a loud breather is. We chat a bit. This guy is talkative, or as talkative as anyone is in a race. He’s Kevin, from Seattle. After I say I’m from SB he tells me his first ultra was in the Santa Monica mountains. Not one I’ve done, but then my first real ultra was White River up near Seattle. So there’s a sort of parallel. I ask if he was behind me near the start. He was. The altitude is affecting him (I guess that’s why he’s breathing so loudly, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing him). He asks if I have a goal time. Not really. I’ve never run this race before so I don’t know what to expect. Um, I’d kind of like to break 6 hours. Kevin tells me he always runs in 5 something. Then he says he likes to take the middle part of an ultra easy (we’re now in the middle third, so I’d call that the middle), then he passes me.

Oops. He takes the middle easy, but he’s passing me in the middle. I guess the pace of someone trying to break 6 hours is too slow even for “easy”.

He’s got a red shirt on, I see, as he disappears ahead of me.

Some other people pass me too.

When there were 4 people running behind me, I felt I couldn’t slow down and my HR was about 85%. Now there’s no one there. I lose my motivation a bit. I do one of my first walks.

We’re coming up on the highest point of the race (at least by my watch). I don’t realize this at the time but mile 13 reaches a peak of almost 7000ft. Then we drop precipitously down. I’m a little dismayed by this; I don’t realize how high we’ve climbed, and it seems to me that we’re spending a awful lot of time going down, and we’re not halfway through yet.

I begin to catch up to people ahead. There’s a guy with a red shirt on, and I assume it is Kevin, so when I reach him I complain about the amount of downhill. He seems surprised, so perhaps it isn’t Kevin? I don’t really know what he looks like, and being colorblind I might confuse his shirt… Looking at the course now, I realize that it doesn’t look like that much downhill to someone who realizes how high we just climbed, so perhaps that was what generated the surprise…

Bink. We’re at a small aid station with just water. I’ve still got plenty so I don’t stop, and I pass some more people who do. But we start climbing again, and they all seem to pass me back. The guy in red says “See you on the next downhill.” as he passes me.

A guy in a black shirt passes me as if I were standing still. Just powering up this steep slope.

I find it very strange. I think of myself as a good uphill runner and a bad downhill runner. At least in SB. But in races the reverse seems to be true. I take the uphills a bit conservatively, and then I can go fast on the downhills. And I do pass people on the downs… Of course I don’t dare run fast on the SB downhills, I’m too worried about trail conditions and breaking my neck…

I’m walking again. A guy in a blue shirt passes me. This is the first guy I’ve worried about passing me. He looks like he’s older than I. I fear he’s in my age group. I know that Patrick (guy who beat me last year at White River) is ahead of me, but I was still hoping to get second…

However that hope isn’t enough to push me ahead of blue shirt.

I turn a corner and there is Broken Top. Ah. I know where I am now. I just go a little north (right) of Broken Top and I’ll be going in the right direction. Of course, really, I’ll just follow the trail.

Another corner and there is South Sister. My first view of her from the trail. My mind wanders. When I was 5 my family rented a canal boat and spent a month on the waterways of the Netherlands. Our boat was called “De Vier Zusters” (the four sisters). And now there are three sisters in front of me.

The third aid station has a lot of hype going on before it. Lots of little signs on the trail. These get my hopes up long before the station is actually in sight. This time I do stop. I could have passed blue shirt if I’d run through, but I think I should refill my water. This takes longer than it should, and blue shirt is out of sight by the time I’m ready to go again.

As I leave the station, I realize this is one of the spots Dave showed me yesterday. He thought it it might be the highest point on the run, but my watch says its about 50ft lower than the spot at mile 13. Still I remember Dave’s words and feel a little better about how tired I was climbing up to it. Of course! It’s the altitude. (That begs the question why mile 13 wasn’t quite as bad, but since I don’t realize how high it was, I don’t worry about it now).

I’ve also been running 17+ miles. I’m more than half way! And it has only taken 2 and a quarter hours to get this far.

Now I’m on the road, Forest Route 370. No one has tried to shoot me with a bow yet. The road goes downhill. There’s someone ahead and I’m catching up! I’m hopeful it is blue shirt, but it turns out to be a woman. Now where did she come from? She’s not someone I’ve been passing and repassing. She doesn’t seem tired, she’s going at a reasonable clip. Slower than I, but not a pace I’d associate with exhaustion. I just wonder why she’s letting me pass her. But I don’t ask, and cheer her on.

I’m catching up with red shirt (is it Kevin’s red shirt?). Slowly. He yells something I can’t make out, and when I do pass him I ask what he said: “Oh, I was just saying ‘Hi!’”. Probably Kevin.

I realize I haven’t been paying attention. I haven’t noticed any trail flagging… but I haven’t been looking for it. Could I have missed a turn off? I’ve sort of spaced out in a tired daze. I mean I’m running pretty fast downhill (that is, somewhere between 8 and 9 min/mile) but my focus has been internal, not checking for flagging on the roadside.

Small, nagging worry.

The road now runs above a noisy stream. I can hear it, but it’s a long way down and I can’t see it. Yet. But then the road comes down and crosses it.

Ug. Uphill again.

But not for long.

Then, off in the distance I see blue shirt. (I’m not lost! Yay!) He’s running with black shirt (another person I’ve played leapfrog with). I slowly gain on them. Slowly. Then blue shirt passes black shirt. Then I pass black shirt. A truck comes roaring up the road, and we crowd over to one side (it doesn’t shoot us, but it does go by awfully fast). “Well that was exciting,” say I. “Wonder what his hurry was,” responds black shirt. I pull away from him. But I don’t pass blue shirt. Disappointing that.

And blue shirt finds the flagging I’d been wondering about (and I follow him) and we’re off the road and on a trail and going up. Damn. Lost my chance. I’m unlikely to pass him going uphill. We pass a couple of runners who are walking. I push. I try to run when blue shirt does and walk when he does. I don’t catch him up, but I don’t lose him. We climb the hill. I see someone running slowly ahead of me. Ah ha, I think! But it isn’t blue shirt, it is some woman who stops to let me pass. Then down into a valley. There’s another woman whom blue shirt has just passed. (Why am I passing so many women and almost no men? Weird. Doesn’t usually happen). This woman hops across a little stream and then lets me pass her. Of course, crossing a stream means an uphill on the other side, and blue shirt pulls away again.

Then I trip and fall headlong. Not a bad fall. I’ve skinned my knee and that’s about it. But when I start to run again I get tired very quickly. I have to slow down and walk. Not sure what that fall did to my body (or mind), but it’s not going to let me go fast for a while. My HR has dropped to about 77%, as well.

Oh well. I make the best of it.

I feel better after a bit and start to run again.

I can see blue shirt again. And there’s yet another woman ahead whom he is passing. There are also two mountain bikers waiting for us to go by. I pass the woman, then the bikers. She tells them to go on ahead of her. Oh. I probably should have done that too. I’m not going fast. But they aren’t close enough to tell any more. I keep hearing a bike bell, but when I look back I see their dog has a bell and is wandering all over the place. Now ahead, now behind me. A couple of times I fear he’ll get in my way, but he never does.

The trail steepens, and blue shirt vanishes again.

After a couple more miles the bikers suddenly zip past me. Which means I have to run outside the trail which is harder and slower. After 200 yds I crest a hill and find them stopped. So why on earth did they bother to pass? I’m not sure why they stopped, but they now seem annoyed with me and complain “Why didn’t you guys post a notice at the trail head?” Um. That’s a good point. Why didn’t the RD? I will suggest it for next year. All I can say to the bikers now is “Sorry.”

It’s getting harder and harder to eat my GU every half hour. At the start of a race GU doesn’t taste bad, but by the end it is just awful. I make a face with each swallow.

Now I’ve looped back and am coming up on the previous aid station. I don’t need aid. So I zip through. Blue shirt isn’t there. They tell me to turn left when I get to the road (so they’ve figured out I’ve been through before); the course sort of does a figure 8 here, and this is the cross over point. They tell me the next turn is in 2 miles.

I’m at ~24.5 miles now. So the next station is roughly a marathon.

On the road again, and down in the other direction. I crest a slight rise, and on the other side of the next dip I see blue shirt. Walking! Ah ha! I am not walking. Maybe I’ll catch him. But as I come down the dip, he stops walking and starts running again. And disappears. Again.

Sigh. Looks like I won’t catch him.

First view of Mt. Bachelor. I’m getting close to the finish…

I’m going “fast” again. I average a 9 minute pace on this 2 mile section. I’m starting to check at my watch (to see if I’m at 26.5 miles) and look uneasily for flagging on the road. Yesterday Dave and I couldn’t figure out where the race left the road. It’s got to be near here… I come to something called “big meadow”. And at the very bottom of the meadow is another aid station, and the route crosses a small bridge and then heads south. Dave had looked at this bridge and dismissed it for two reasons: 1) It wasn’t flagged (it wasn’t yesterday, but is today) and 2) it was going in the wrong direction. But it only goes the wrong way for a little bit, then loops back and heads up the other side of big meadow before turning and climbing the hill above it.

A nasty uphill and then a downhill. But this downhill trail isn’t fun to run on. It’s the only trail we’ve been on so far that is the “technical” (or difficult) to run on. But it’s a short stretch, only .8 miles and I’m at the final aid station.

I don’t realize it at the time, but I’ve been here before too, this is the second aid station I came to. But my recollection of the map has faded with my increasing tiredness. My watch says I’ve run ~27 miles, so only 4 more to go. But “Oh, methinks, how slow these old miles go./They linger my desires…”

A little further on there are three people guarding an intersection to keep me from the wrong route. And they cheer me. I thank them. Only three miles they say. I look at my watch and I realize they are right. Then I look back at the watch. I’ve been running for 4:35:–. Only — only three miles! Wow. I try to guess what my body can do. Ten minute miles? that’s 5:05. Whee… I’m actually close to breaking 5 hours. Forget about 6. Lets see. I’d need to do the next 3 miles in ~24 minutes, or 8 min/mile pace. I feel my body again. I might be able to push to a 9 min pace, but I think 8 is out of the question. They say it’s all downhill, but I don’t believe them. In fact it is starting to climb right now.

I think breaking 5 is a pipe dream. Still, I do have a bit more umph as I leave that little group.

There’s another woman up ahead. Walking. I promise myself that I’ll catch up to her and then walk behind her (it’s uphill). But as I come up, she pulls over to the side and stops. So I have no choice but to run by. I’m a little resentful. I wanted to rest. I run a little further and then I, too, start to walk. She doesn’t pass me. Then it starts going downhill again, and I run along.

Finally I get to pass a man. Sadly it isn’t blue shirt. This guy looks very tired. I feel tired too, of course, but not that tired.

Now I’m at the bottom of the downhill, and, despite past assurances, there is a slight net uphill from here on. Around a bend is Mt. Bachelor. That is encouraging. I start to hear the noise of the main road we crossed at the start (I have to cross it again, and then run up the side road to where I parked). Unfortunately the main road doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. I’m going parallel to it.

There’s a downed tree across the trail, I hop on top and down the other side. Suddenly my right hip seizes up. Damn it! I’ve only got ¿1.5? miles to go. I’m so close. I don’t want to collapse now. But I have to slow. A bit. Whew. I can still run. Slowly it improves, and then I forget about it.

And the road is very loud, and I’m out. No cars coming, so I cross. Oops. I wasn’t supposed to cross here, because there’s a short cut on the this side of the road. So I ignore the short cut (which means I must cross another road). And then there’s the start line. (this is where I should have crossed, there are two crossing guards to help me here).

I’ve been thinking. I don’t need any more GU, or water. It’s only .9 miles now. I can dump my camelback here by the side of the road and come back and pick it up later. I also want to finish in my SBRR shirt, but I’ve still got on the Flagline technical shirt I put on for warmth early this morning. I don’t need the warmth now. I’ve thought about removing the shirt before but it would mean doing that dance with the camelback so I never tried. I dump the camelback. And now removing the shirt is easy. It also falls by the wayside.

A lighter man, I run up the final stretch. And there is blue shirt. Maybe a quarter mile ahead. I don’t think I’ll catch him; he has too far a lead for this final stretch. But I try. On this section I was able to get my pace up to 8:35, even though it is uphill. But it isn’t enough. I hear a cowbell sound as blue shirt crosses the line. A little later I cross behind him.

5:04:08 by my watch (official time is 5:04:12). Well, I didn’t break 5 hours, but it’s a huge PR for a 50K. I guess Blue Canyon really is a hard course (that being the only other 50K I’ve run).

I am 51.

I promised myself I’d run 51K. And anyway I have to retrieve my camelback. I get some water, and then head back down. I run on the other side of the road from the racers. Very, very slowly. It takes me 11 minutes to run (downhill) what took less than 6 on the way up. I find I dropped my camelback almost exactly 1K from the top (.63 miles), perfect! I cross the road, grab the camelback, then the shirt, and get out of the way again.

As I was running down I saw Kevin coming up. He shouts at me “Did you break 4… I mean …”. “No,” I yell back, “I just missed it.”

I walk back up the hill. This takes a long time. I cheer people on as they come up.

I sort of collapse at the top. I don’t think I’m safe to drive a car. The thought of food is nauseating. I just want to sit. I force myself to drink. And I have some watermelon. I sit in the shade. I get some more to drink. Kevin comes up. He asks me “You said 6 hours… did you really mean 5 hours?” I laugh. “No, the only 50K I’ve done before this had a lot more elevation, and I really never have broken 6 hours. I hadn’t realized how hard that race must be.” I ask how he did and he finished in 5:11 (so 5 hours and something, as he said; he knew better than I what to expect).

Eventually I leave my shady spot and I find the official results. I finished in 5:04:12, according to them. Rats. I’d kind of gotten attached to 5:04:08, it sounds so much faster. I turn away. I turn back. I was 25^th overall (of 70) and second in my age group (of 4). Blue shirt (Larry) was not in my age group after all, he’s in his 60s. That’s a little demoralizing too. I turn away. I turn back. Patrick was first in my age group, and was only half an hour faster than I this year. An improvement!

And now it feels safe to drive.

My car’s thermometer which had been sitting in the sun for 6 hours says the outside temperature was 72°. But when I got back to Bend the temperature was 86°. Whewf.

Results

• Footzone race wrap up (they put it on)
• Bend Bulletin (local newspaper)
  

  The top 5-10 runners took a wrong turn 3 miles from the finish. The guy who arrived at the finish line first stopped and waited before crossing it until the other 4 leaders caught up with him. Then they all crossed the line, one after the other, in the order they had been in at the 28.1 mile mark (where the bad turn happened).

• Scott Dunlap (won masters men)
• Stephanie Howe (2^nd woman)
• Wildflowers

It’s too darn hot!

The forecast was for 92°F in Santa Ynez.

The 50K started at 7am, so I’d probably finish between 1pm and 2pm.

It would be hot.

I considered not doing the race, but not very seriously.

Just before sunrise at Rancho Oso.

But at 6:30am it wasn’t bad. Karen, and Brian and Michael all drove in together and we waited for the start.

It was basically the same course as last year, an out and back run toward Gibraltar reservoir with one additional excursion up Arroyo Burro. Last year the excursion happened at the end of the race, this year at the start.

Last year I had come in second. I didn’t really expect to do that again, but… well… I hoped. Actually, since the first place finisher from last year wasn’t around, I wondered…

I didn’t think I was in as good shape as last year. But… well… I hoped.

We started. Up a dirt road and then onto a trail.

Wildflowers! lots of them. I don’t remember such a display last year. Fourspot clarkias, and punchbowl godetia.

There’s also a lot of purple sage. Now purple sage is almost non-existent on the front country trails, but here purple seems to have replaced the black sage.

(only one of the flower pictures here was actually taken on the course, and it is out of focus. It’s hard to take closeups of flowers when running past them. The others were all taken in more relaxed conditions and other places).

I’ve been running behind the top three runners, but I quickly realize that they are too fast for me to run with so I slow down a bit.

I’m planning to run this much the way I did it last year, trying to keep my HR at 80% (and slowing, or walking if it goes above). I have the HR monitor set to beep at me if I exceed that threshold. I’ve also got a large camelback holding 3 quarts of water and my intent is to run through aid stations until I need to refill. Last year I didn’t refill until halfway through the race. Finally I plan to eat a GU every half hour.

And now we start seeing fairy lanterns. A beautiful flower in the lily family. Another flower I haven’t seen in the front country. Just beyond are some butterfly Mariposa lilies (I know the name is redundant, I didn’t make it up).

I’m not doing as well this year as last. My monitor is already beeping at me to slow down. Sigh. Last year I ran for several miles and didn’t have to slow until I got halfway up a real hill. A man comes up behind me and I let him pass. Then a woman does, and I let her pass. (as she goes by she comments on my gators which have little puppy dog paw prints on them. Not what I actually ordered, but they fit so I’m using them. Glad someone likes them).

I think I see an owl clover out of the corner of my eye. These like to live in grassy meadows so I’m a little surprised to see it under trees. I decide I have mis-identified it. But on the return, when I’m going more slowly, I can verify that it is indeed an owl clover (or at least in that genus — even then there’s no time for a good look).

Hmm. Here is a pink honeysuckle vine which I’ve only (before) seen blooming on the west fork of Cold Spring trail. It took me forever to figure it out.

And now I see a yellow lupine. I’ve never seen a yellow lupine in SB before (I saw them in Humboldt county, but those were 6 foot tall woody shrubs, while this is just a small forb). I’m all excited about it, but of course I can’t stop. I decide that after the race is over I’ll come back up the trail and take its picture (it’s only a mile from the start). When I get home I identify it as a butter lupine (that proved wrong once I got a better picture. Actually a “Chick lupine”).

Another woman comes up behind, and I let her pass. Now there are 6 people ahead of me. So much for being in second place.

Of course some of them are probably doing the 50mile run? I can hope anyway.

Now we leave the area around Rancho Oso and head up toward Camino Ciello on a little trail that bumps into Arroyo Burro Rd. just before the top. There are actually some stream crossings on this trail, nothing significantly wet, but I don’t remember any water last year. And down near one stream crossing are some elegant clarkia.

There are a few fiesta flowers still blooming, but these are almost over now. And the woodmint seems to bloom forever. Oh, and here are a few blackberry blooms, haven’t seen any of them in the front country for more than a month. Purple larkspurs are really lovely and there are a some of them here too. Chinese houses are another bloom that seems to like woods and the dampness around streams.

Even though I’m running under trees, in the early morning, I’m already sweating. I can feel it running off my face. Worrisome. Each time I turn a switch back I can hear people behind me, I wish I were further ahead of them. I wish I were closer to the people who have passed me…

And, of course, there are the Phacelias. These were more visible two months ago, but they are still going. In fact the imbricate phacelia has just started blooming. But the tansy phacelia is almost over.

As we climb we move slowly into a drier climate. Canyon sunflower are quite visible with their yellow blooms. And a little higher are a few Indian pinks. They started blooming back in March and are almost over now. The Indian paintbrushes pop up here and there, an interesting genus where the plants are root parasites (they extract nutrients from someone else’s roots). Some verbena (I thought these were a sage when I first ran across them, but they are actually in a different family).

As we go even higher we come out of the woods and into the true chaparral. The chamise, a large shrub, is now in full bloom. Underneath them are the ubiquitous yellow yarrow.

Now we are coming up to Arroyo Burro road, and I can see a runner going down it, probably the guy who passed me. A little further and I reach the road myself, head down, and then someone (probably Michael?) shows “Go George!”. Thank you! And I glance sideways and see a long line of people struggling up the trail.

The road is much wider than the trail, more open, which means we see different wildflowers. At the moment it is about half in shade, and half out (as the road switchbacks in and out of the early morning sun.

There is still a lot of chamise, and purple sage. The clumps of yellow yarrow are intermixed with blue dicks and popcorn flower. But not all the yellow here is from yarrow, we also see deerweed and a cute little aster I can’t identify.

The road runs roughly parallel to the trail we’ve been on, and goes back to very close to the place we started from. This means downhill on a good surface. I increase my speed, maybe I can catch some of the people who passed me. Almost immediately my HR monitor starts beeping at me. I decide I don’t care. My HR is at 81% and I need to get speed now. It’s sort of a trade off against the heat. If I go too fast then I tire later, but if I don’t go fast enough then the sun will catch me and I’ll slow down anyway. Luckily, the monitor calms down after a bit.

There’s still a bit of pearly everlasting on the sides of the road. It’s a opalescent aster which can be dried (hence “everlasting”). Sigh. Here’s a patch of bindweed; there’s just no escaping it, a European invader which is all over the front country. But there are a lot more bush poppies — a member of the poppy family which is a woody shrub rather than the herbaceous plants we are used to. And one greatflowered phacelia. These are all over the front country where the fires burned, but they’ll grow in the disturbed earth here on the side of a road as well.

I start to see the back of the number two woman, who passed me going up. This is encouraging. I’m gaining on her (albeit slowly).

Then, round the bend, I see my first chaparral yucca; these spectacular plants only began blooming a week or two ago and are not in full display yet. As a contrast in almost every way, the foothill dudleyas are short, reddish and have been blooming for months. Moreover, they never seem to open more than a few blooms out of a cluster at a time, so their umbrels aren’t very impressive. Another May bloomer, the withered snapdragons, also have a rather self-effacing bloom which never seems to open fully.

And now I’ve caught up with the number two woman and we run together for a bit. I learn that her name is Shannon and she’s from Orange County. I ask her if she’s interested in wild flowers, whereupon she points out bush monkeyflower to me, and mentions some other flowers we have passed. But she tells me that woolly bluecurls is a sage (both are in the mint family, but it isn’t a true sage). So, in return, I point out the prickly phlox, a plant that’s in the same family as the phlox, but isn’t a true phlox.

However, at this point, I am moving faster than Shannon, and I pass her. Doubtless we’ll intersect later. After a bit I hear a shout behind me, and I wonder… have I missed the turn-off? and is someone shouting to me to come back up? I try to remember the course from last year (in reverse), and I’m pretty sure the turn-off doesn’t look like this, and is much further down. Still, it worries me.

There are footprints in the road in front of me, so that’s consoling.

I continue downwards, hoping that I’m right. There are lots of yerba santa on this stretch. I tumble down the hill, and there is the first aid station and the turn-off. The aid station is about 50ft below the turn-off, and even though I don’t need any aid I have to run down, to check in, and then run back up. I see Shannon on the way up, and she also doesn’t want any aid.

Shannonbehind me (if you click on the image to make it bigger others are visible further back)

Now we are on a little side trail which winds along the edge of the valley (up and down hill as it cuts across water channels), but which eventually, shakes itself and starts back up the mountains again heading for Gibraltar Rd (the back side of it) and Camino Ciello.

The wildflowers here are similar to what I’ve seen before, butterfly mariposas, fourspot clarkias, a few punchbowl godetia. Some of those butter lupine I got so excited about earlier, and a few arroyo lupine — which rather surprises me, I’d thought they had finished blooming (they have in the front country). As we crest a little ridge I see a strange member of the mint family, pitcher sage, which I’ve only seen once before.

After a bit Shannon and somebody else pass me again, and again we have a bit of chat before she moves out of sight. Then, when I’m walking uphill and see a butter lupine I pause to take its picture and Brian catches up with me. I offer to let him pass me, but he is content to go at my pace for a bit. Then we both catch up with Shannon and she lets us pass, and then she once again passes us.

There are some little blue flowers at my feet, I can’t figure out what they are at first but then I decide that they must be small blue-eyed grasses (which are not grasses, but members of the iris family). The locoweeds have pretty well finished blooming, but they are now producing little rattling seedpods which whisper as I run through them.

As we start to climb again we leave the grassy, valley floor and climb up into chaparral again. This gives us a little shade, at least at times. I’m walking up this slope. Last year I ran up the slope (with occasional walk breaks), this year I’m walking, and even walking my HR monitor is beeping at me that I’m going too fast. I don’t feel that tired, I think it must be the heat starting to affect me.

I try to interest Brian in the wildflowers, and point out the chaparral pea to him, and then the common monkeyflower. But that isn’t what he wants to talk about. I don’t even engage his attention when I point out that the common monkeyflower is less common than the bush monkeyflower:-)

Ah well. There’s a little bit of chia still blooming here, a small sage which seems to consist almost entirely of bloom. There’s also a small (indigenous) member of the parsley family here, southern tauscia.

Earlier in the day my face had sweat rolling off it. Now there just seems to be a crust of salt. Should I be worried?

There are also thistles. Most of the thistles that afflict our trails are European imports, and these are no exception, the yellow star thistle, with a rather pretty little yellow bloom. I’ve only found one native thistle, the venus thistle, and it isn’t quite blooming yet.

The white sage has started putting up flowerspikes, and at the bottom of the hill there were no blooms, but further up there are flowers on the spikes.

I’m getting a little concerned because my 3 quart water supply is almost empty. Last year it lasted far longer than this. Oh, even if I run out, I’ll be fine because I’m almost to the next aid station, but I didn’t expect to need that station. It’s the heat. I also worry about Brian who only has two water bottles.

There’s a little bit of purple nightshade off on the left. Most of the nightshades have stopped blooming and turned to producing little tomato-like fruit, but a few are still flowering. And every now and then we run over the fruit of the California manroot, a spiny gourd thing that something seems to like and to tear open and leave scattered on the trail.

In the final stages of the climb up Gibraltar there are some holly-leaved cherries still in bloom. These are botanically real cherries, but they have such huge seeds compared to the cherry that the amount of edible flesh within is tiny. They don’t have much flavor either, as I recall.

Finally we get to Gibraltar Rd, and the aid station. I fill up my water, and now there’s a long downhill stretch. Once again I’m going to try to push the pace here, hoping to catch up with Shannon again (I did notice that the guy who was ahead of Shannon was still hanging out at the aid station when I left it, so once again there are 6 people ahead of me).

The vegetation on Gibraltar is similar to that on Arroyo Burro Rd., but it’s a bit lusher in places. This year there are several places where streams cross the road, and often at each stream (or damp spot) there’s a small thicket of trees (mostly bay laurel) which shade the road. The shade is welcome, it is hot.

There are some cardinal larkspurs just opening their buds off on the left side of the road.

I do not see Shannon ahead of me. I do see two guys running strongly back up the hill, judging by how far we have yet to go, I’m guessing they are about 45 minutes ahead of me. Twenty minutes later, or so, I see the lead woman going up hill. And then I get to the aid station, which is the 50K turn-around. Shannon is there, but she leaves as I arrive and that proves the last I will see of her. I fill up my water and then head out after her, but she’s already out of sight.

I’m running strongly for a bit, and I see Brian coming down, perhaps ¼mile after the aid station, but I can’t keep running strongly. My HR monitor starts beeping at me to slow down. So I walk and run, but it turns into more walking, and then a lot more walking. I wasn’t doing this badly last year, in fact, this was where I caught up with Guillermo. But today, this is where Bill catches up with me. He is able to run more than I, and he fades off into the distance ahead. So that means there are now 5 people ahead of me… hmm, I suppose two of the six I thought were ahead have gone on the 50 mile route.

I find my new glasses are too tight. So I take them off and hold them in my hand for a while to let my temples rest.

I realize that I haven’t taken any salt tablets. And I know I’ve got dried salt from sweat all over me. I take one now, and some more water too.

It seems to take forever to climb that hill. My camelback is starting to feel empty again. This is disconcerting because when it gets empty it flaps on my back as I run, and the flapping sound is like footsteps behind me, so I keep looking back to see if anyone else is catching up. I’m not going fast.

Finally I reach the aid station at the top, and I fill up my water. I have managed to catch up with the guy who last passed me, and we head out together. We’ve been running for a total of 4:30 hours and gone 22.5 miles, or 5 miles/hour. As a road racer this seems a very slow pace, but as a trail racer it’s what I was hoping for. It means I’ll finish in just a little over six hours.

Or so I tell myself. But even on this downhill trail I’m moving slowly. I don’t really feel tired, I just can’t move. I do feel a little nauseous, perhaps taking that salt tablet was not a good idea.

The guy ahead of me fades into the distance again.

At the bottom of the hill is a long section of rolling (unshaded) hills. I’m still feeling ill, and I forgo taking my next GU. I see a woman in front, moving slowly, and for a moment think (hope) I’ve caught up with one of the two lead women ahead of me. But it is neither of them and is instead someone running the 25K. She tells me she can’t remember coming through this section on the way out. I reassure her that we did. Or at least the 50K route came this way — I don’t know what the route is for the 25K.

And so I pass her. At least I’m moving faster than someone. I pass another woman from the 25K who moves aside to let me pass just as I’m about to start walking myself. However I walk faster than she does.

It’s hot.

I find I can no longer run downhill. I’m just plodding along.

Maybe I need food. The thought of eating is nauseating, but I force myself to eat half a GU. I don’t vomit.

I crest a hill, and I can see the final aid station on the top of the next hill, but I must descend into a valley and then climb up again in order to get there.

I still can’t run down hill. Plod. Hot.

I eat the other half of the GU. I still don’t vomit.

My water sack is flapping and I keep thinking there are people behind me. There aren’t, but given how slowly I am going, there should be.

I’m climbing the next hill, and there at the top I can see the final aid station at the top of the next hill. Again. Frustrating. I guess there was a small hill in between which I’m now on, but which was invisible before. But now I’m feeling a bit perkier, and I can run down this slope. I guess the GU helped. I’m feeling less nauseous too.

It’s very hot. When I get to the aid station the volunteers seem a little concerned about me. But it’s only 2.5 miles to go; I’m sure I’ll manage. So I fill up my water and press on.

I really am feeling better, and it’s a nice downhill slope on fire road; I feel like I’m really moving again (according to my GPS watch I’m doing ~9 minute miles, but it feels fast).

But it is hot. The sun bakes down. The sun reflects off the road surface and bakes up.

I turn a corner and there are some yellow mariposa lilies. I have never seen them before. So I don’t have any pictures to show, and I’m not going to stop to take any, not when I’m moving this “fast”. I promise myself that I’ll come back after the race and look at them again. I’ve been running for 30 miles that means there’s only a mile and a quarter to come back.

Downward.

And then there’s the turn-off to head back toward the finish line. And it starts to go up hill again. Now you would think that with only ¾ of a mile to go I’d be able to tough it out and run uphill. Last year I did. But not this year. I just don’t have the energy, the heat has really sapped me.

So I walk up and run down. It seems like forever. I pass Kevin (doing the 25K) who seems in worse shape than I (later he tells me he’d sprained his ankle). This final section seems to take forever. There’s a place where there are lots of RVs parked, so I must be near the parking lots at the finish … but I am not.

I pass the 50K point (according to my watch — which isn’t all that accurate). But the trail keeps going.

Up and down.

Oh neat. It really is owl clover.

Up.

And finally the last section, and it’s all downhill and to the finish line. At least I get to run in.

They tell me I’m seventh overall. Some how I lost track of a runner. Hunh.

I’m exhausted. I stand in the shade at the finish tent and just … stand.

Sandra wonders if I’m OK. “Yeah, I’m alright.” But I just stand.

Finally I screw up my courage and walk out into the hot sun and go the 50 yards to the food building. Shade there. Benches. Water. Ice. Food. I go in the door and collapse on a bench. All I can do is just sit. Someone hands me a bottle of water. I’m not ready for it. I’m feeling nauseous again. I just sit.

Shannon hands me some ice in a tin foil sack, and I let it rest on various parts of my body which are too hot (all of them). Someone else hands me a cold wet towel. Heaven! I drape it over my shoulders. I ask for some watermelon and someone cuts me two large slices. I eat it. I start to feel human again.

It turns out that Shannon won the woman’s race, passing the woman who was ahead of her for the first half. Good for her!

Someone asks me why I have tinfoil resting on my thighs and I explain that I don’t want aliens examining my knees.

People start to come in, and now I’m the one passing out ice and slicing watermelon.

I think about the promises I have made to myself: That I’d run 51K to celebrate my birthday. That I’d go back up the trail to take pictures of the flowers. I think about the heat and how exhausted I feel. I do not move.

I should go home. But that means walking out the door, into the sun going another 50yards through the heat, opening my car up which has been roasting in the heat for the last 8~9 hours. It seems too hard.

So I stay and chat with my friends.

It gets hotter.

Someone says 95°. Someone else says 103°.

There are showers. I summon up my resolution and walk over to the shower. I have no change of clothes, nor a towel, but that doesn’t matter, being wet will cool me down. Walking back under the trees to the main hut it is almost pleasant. But then I’m out in the sun again, and it isn’t pleasant any more. But I’m now cool enough to face opening my car and driving off. It remains hot until I reach the pass in the mountains, and then, ah, then, the blesséd coolness of the ocean rushes into the car.

---

Now that the results are finally in, I see that I really was in sixth place as I thought. I wonder who they thought was the extra runner?

---

Other blogs…

• Real problems for 100k runners
• The 100k winner
• The 50m winner
• Another 50K runner (besides me, I mean)

50 at 50

White River start
Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

I’ve been thinking of this for two years.

When my friend Jim Sloan turned 50 I teasingly suggested that he do a fifty mile race to celebrate. Then I realized that my own fiftieth was soon, and I should start thinking of what I wanted to do. And it seemed an intriguing idea.

Why put so much effort into a piece of ephemora? No one else will care. It won’t last.

Why not?

My life is equally ephemeral.

Just to see if I can run 50 miles. No one cares, but me. And what else matters?

It’s like cooking a good meal. The pleasure of the meal won’t last, but isn’t it still worth preparing something tasty?

I got recommendations from two other friends on what run I should do; they both suggested the same race — The White River 50 Mile Endurance Run. It wasn’t on my birthday (which would have been best), but it was close enough. Both said it was a really beautiful run.

A year later (on my birthday, of course), I started sending out invitations to my friends (especially those also turning 50) to get them to join me.

I waited impatiently for registration to open for the 2009 race.

When January rolled around I also registered with the USATF for the year. The race was the USATF National Championship for 50 mile trail runs, and they offered prize money to USATF members. Of course I was too old for there to be much chance of my placing even in the top 5 masters, but I might as well allow for the possibility.

Finally race registration opened. But now I had shin splints. I wasn’t running. Could I actually run for 50 miles? I signed up anyway.

I started training in April, still with shin splits, and found the splints weren’t an issue on the trails. Whew.

In May we had a big wildfire and they closed all the trails. Half of them burned up. How was I going to train. (People lost houses, and I was concerned about where I could run. My priorities are all wrong).

After what seemed like forever they reopened the undamaged trails — the ones furthest from my house. This doubled my bike commute.

My coach told me I should do a 50K as a training run. So I did the Blue Canyon 50K, a new race, just over the mountains from me. I loved it. And I felt great afterward, far less stress on the body than racing a marathon. Oh — and I came in second too, that probably helped (it was also a great surprise).

None of my running friends wanted to join me at the white river. Unfortunate. My parents, however, did agree to fly out and watch. (I wouldn’t want to watch an ultra☺— nothing interesting happens for hours). I got them to watch the start, and then drive around Mt Rainier national park.

The White River is an extraordinary color, not precisely white, but a kind of milky grey. It originates in one of the glaciers on Mt Rainier; the glacier grinds up the rock over which it moves into a very fine sand, and this sand becomes embedded in the ice. So when the ice melts the sand remains suspended in the water.

The race makes a figure 8 course. It starts down in the valley of the White River (right beside the river) at about 2000ft, climbs to the top of one local mountain (not Mt Rainier, something only about 6000ft) then drops back down to the start, heads out in the opposite direction to the top of another mountain (this one 5000ft), and back down to the start which is now the finish.
The route skirts the edge of Mt Rainier National Park and is in national forest. Strangely we did not see Mt Rainier when we drove to the area (perhaps lesser peaks blocked it, perhaps we weren’t looking), so it came as rather a shock when it appeared during the race.

When I checked the weather online the prediction for the area was for 81° F. That did not sound good. At the race talk the night before the organizers said that the prediction for the mountains was closer to 70° F — better, though I’d still have preferred something cooler.

The day dawned. Well, actually it didn’t. It got light though. Too many mountains to see the sun for hours.

I assumed this race would be like the Blue Canyon run — almost everyone would set out at a leisurely pace and I could keep up with most people. Er, no. People treated this as a real race. First four miles were beside the river and fairly level and we just zipped along.

The first aid station was in dense forest about 4 miles from the start. I’ve got a full camelback, about 20 GU gels, and some electrolyte tables. No need to stop.

As at Blue Canyon I’m eating one GU gel every half hour. I vary this slightly in that I got hungry early once and had 3 GU in that hour. I’m also swallowing electrolyte tablets, one every hour and a half (for the first three hours, when it’s cool and shady) and one every hour after that.

I had intended to set my watch so it would beep at me if my heart rate got above 80%. Stupid me and set it to beep if the HR was above 90%. Oops. I’d have to look at the watch currently I was running too fast. I slowed a bit. Then we came to the start of a climb. I slowed to a walk to keep my HR down — and 30 people passed me.

How demoralizing.

At the Blue Canyon run, the first place finisher was happy to take my pace for most of the race. Here everyone seems to be going faster. I told myself that I was doing the right thing. I tried to convince myself that everyone else was going out too fast and would fade. It’s really hard though when everyone else is passing you…

The forest is lovely though. Immense cedars, not much underbrush. Hmm. No wildflowers. That surprises me, I thought this was peak wildflower season… The trail switch backs up the mountain side, beside a stream. The hillside is steep and the stream is mostly waterfalls (well, we are in the Cascades). Sadly there’s too little light and none of my photos turned out.

Ah, here are some little orchids (the picture is from a different day)

People keep passing me.

For a while I was running behind a guy with a blue shirt. All USATF masters runners had pink ribbons with our age and sex on them. He was 60. He pulled away from me.

How demoralizing.

Some of the people passing me had stentorian breath. I kept thinking — you’ll never be able to keep that pace up for 50 miles, slow down now. But they didn’t. What did they know that I didn’t? Could I start out with a higher heart rate? I didn’t try but it was so tempting.

We came up to a ridge line and got our first sight of Mt. Rainier, a white lump above all the other mountains. At first I thought it was a cloud.

The guy behind me watches as I take a photo on the run, and says “That’s impressive, that you can do that on the fly.” Then he passes me.

A woman who has been behind me for about an hour passes me, and says “But, you’ll probably catch up with me again.” Politeness.

Her breath is labored — I consider suggesting that she should slow, as (I think) she is pushing herself too hard for an ultra — but that might be viewed as self-serving (telling the person who is passing you they should slow down for their sake isn’t likely to be believed), and she might, just possibly know more about what she’s doing than I — this is my first 50 mile race…

I don’t say anything.

Finally I start to pass people. I come upon a couple who are running (or, at the moment, walking) together and zip by them. Then I pass the woman who has just overtaken me, telling her that I’ll see her again as she told me (in fact I don’t). I’m counting the number of people I’m passing. Four so far.

I come to the second aid station. Earlier I was a little worried about checking in at the stations (each station is supposed to get a list of all runners to make sure everyone gets to every station and a) doesn’t get lost, b) doesn’t cheat). I wasn’t sure how this would work, afraid I would have to wait in line to be noticed, but it is all very efficient. Here there is someone sitting on a rock about 200m outside the station looking for bib numbers and writing them down. We call out our numbers as we approach to make life easier for him.

I don’t want anything yet, but I do want to get rid of my empty GU wrappers; I ask for the trash and someone points it out to me, and then I’m gone. I assumed the guy who showed me the trash was a volunteer but shortly afterward I see he’s running behind me and I realize I’m not going to be able to make an accurate count of people I’ve passed since when I go through an aid station I won’t know who is a runner and who is a volunteer. But we’re definitely up to five now.

I’ve got a lot of people to catch up with.

We’re coming into a more open area (hotter) but with wildflowers. I guess the flowers are altitude dependent. There are lots of lupin, and something that looks like the New England bunchberry (the tiny dogwood). There is a rather impressive flower which I have never seen before, bear grass

I’ve also managed to (almost) catch up with the guy in the blue shirt. There is one guy between us, all covered with tattoos. I start chatting with him and learn that he is Owen from Seattle. I explain that I am running this to celebrate my fiftieth year.

I do a double take. There’s a patch of snow beside the trail. I point this out to Owen, who is unimpressed. Of course there will be patches of snow in July.

The trail becomes very steep and technical here. We are walking up it, of course, and we complain to each other how much more unpleasant it will be when we try to go down it.

We three pass several more people, and it suddenly dawns on me: There was an early start for slower people — I bet that most of the people I’ve passed are from that slower group. I’m probably not passing many of the people who have passed me.

A hosta. How neat. Is this where hostas come from?

This section of the trail is an out and back, and we start to see runners returning. The lead guys are really flying down this trail.

After a bit we are running on a narrow ridge. It’s a beautiful trail with views in all directions. I’ve passed Owen for the moment and am right behind blue shirt.

Lew, me and Owen at Corral Pass.
Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

And now we come to the third aid station, again we call out our numbers as we run in. We’re almost exactly 3 hours into the race and the station is at 16.9 miles, or almost exactly 1/3 of 50 miles. I’m on track for 9 hours. And we’ve been climbing all morning, maybe I’ll break 9? — but then I’ll be more tired later, maybe it will even out. It took us 25 minutes to get here from where the first runner passed us so we’re about an hour behind the leaders, or a little less.

Here I want to fill my camelback with water, but they don’t seem well equipped for that. It seems to take for ever, and I don’t fill it full. I’m impatient. Then I’m off. After a bit blue shirt catches up with me (I guess he took longer in the aid station), passes, and I then follow him. The guy behind me chats a bit, and then passes both me and blue shirt. Then I chat with blue shirt. His real name is Lew, and he is 60. (And he’s been ahead of me for most of the race). This race is a good cure for hubris.

Lew has run this before. He explains how he has given up on short distances (like 10K) because he can’t go fast enough any more — a feeling I can sympathize with, and points out that at our age we have the patience not to go out too fast. Hope he’s right. Hope I will catch some of those people ahead.

But then Lew gets a stomach cramp and must slow until it goes away. I pass him, and now I’m by myself.

Running back to aid station 2 (which is also station 4) over the same trail. Now I get to see who is behind me.

There don’t seem to be many people.

Let see, there were 202 preregistered, and another 10 or 20 registered at the start. Maybe 50 people are ahead of me (I should have counted, let’s say 60)… I’ve passed 20? certainly less than 30. Where is everyone? There should be another 100 runners behind me. Have I totally miscounted? am I at the tail end of the race? How humiliating. Or are they so extremely slow that I shan’t see them at all?

Oh well, the scenery is nice. I see more patches of snow, which I missed on the way out.

I’m pretty much by myself now. Occasionally I pass people, but not often.

It starts to cloud over. Which is something of a relief, it will mean it is less hot when we tackle the second (and more exposed) portion of the course.

I get to the next aid station (#4) and do a proper job of filling my camelback. Then I’m off. As I head out I see a woman is just behind me and she doesn’t stop at the station. We’re on a downhill section, switchbacking among huge trees. The trail is good, and it would be easy to try and go fast here. But a fast downhill will make my quads hurt later, and we were warned not to go too fast. So I’m holding back, but the woman behind me isn’t, and she passes me. Again, I wonder if caution is the best choice…

Oh, I’m not going slowly, but I know I could go faster.

I pass a few people myself. As I get further down I begin to hear waterfalls, but there are no good views of them. Even further down and I start hearing road noises. There are two road crossings in this race, the first happened right at the start — at 6:30 in the morning there was no traffic, but we’ve been warned that there will be traffic for this second crossing, and we won’t have the right of way. We may have to wait for the cars.

But when I reach the crossing the only car is far in the distance and I can zip across.

Now I’m running beside the river again reversing the route I did early in the morning.

And here is a banana slug in the trail. I didn’t know they came this far north. Not as yellow as I’m used to though.

Into the fifth aid station. This is a bit over halfway, and I’ve taken a bit over four and a half hours. I seem roughly on track. One of the volunteers fills my camelback for me, but as I head out it comes undone and a great gush of water goes down my back. I stop and fix it. But not well, I get another drenching. This time I get it right.

A few minutes later I reach the start again (remember it’s a figure 8 course), and I am just congratulating myself on how cool and overcast it is, when the clouds break and the sun comes out. I’m heading to a peak called Suntop, and I wonder if the appellation is ominous.

But for now I’m still running in shade. Some nice wildflowers here, I resolve that after the race I’ll come back and take pictures (I don’t).

We’re climbing again, and I’m mostly walking. I’m playing tag with a guy in a light green shirt. Every now and then he’ll slow and walk and I’ll catch up and pass him, and then he’ll recover and run (ok, trot) ahead of me. This will go on for quite a while.

We’re in an area which was clear cut maybe ten years ago. The sun shines down on us and there is little shade. Still it could be worse; it isn’t as hot as I was afraid it would be. And there are some rather interesting cliffs on the other side of the valley.

Eventually we reach a ridge line, and get out of the clear cut. Forest again. The shade is welcome.

As I was climbing I started hearing a distinctive cough behind me, after a bit the cough is close enough to talk to. It turns out to be Owen again, whom I haven’t seen since before aid station 3. We chat a bit, and then he passes me (telling me he’ll see me again — I run behind him for quite a way, but I never pass him again).

Aid station 6 is at 31.2 miles. Almost exactly a 50K, and it has taken me just under 6 hours to get here. Sounds about right for a 50K. It’s not quite 2/3 of the course, so I’m still roughly on track for a nine hour finish.

Owen starts to catch up with the guy ahead, and they run together for a bit, with me some distance behind.

Now that we are in tree shade, the sky has become overcast again.

We’re on a ridge now with nice wildflowers. There are plenty of bear grass (I think, these seem thinner, perhaps something else). A little thistle, and a lovely lily.

Now a long downhill under forest canopy. My quads are very unhappy. Perhaps I did go down the long hill after aid station four too quickly. Owen is out of sight. The guy in front gets closer and then further off as we use different strategies coming down.

I don’t have much energy. I worry that I’m too tired — will I be able to finish. Perhaps it is altitude? But we aren’t really very high, probably 5000ft or so. Owen seemed to have no problem, though the guy in the green shirt is obviously suffering too.

We start going up again, the final climb to Suntop. There is a dirt road which also makes this climb and the trail crosses the road a couple of times (this isn’t a significant road, essentially no traffic, so there’s no worry about these crossings). I finally pass the guy in the green shirt. I tell him I’ll see him again, but I don’t.

I pass another guy on my way to the summit, and then I see Mt Rainier again. This time it is hidden in clouds, and the clouds and snow blend together and it is hard to see where the mountain is and where the clouds are.

Me, at Suntop (¾ done)
Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

And here is the penultimate aid station. I fill up my camelback (and seal it properly), and then head down. Now I’m going down the dirt road. It’s a good level surface, and I’ve been told this is where I should try to go fast — if my quads cooperate, if I can get over the exhaustion I felt earlier.

Let’s see the last station was at 37.2 miles (almost ¾ of the way done) and I got there at 7:08. I’m going to have to pick up the pace if I want to break 9 hours. Um. Going down this road will have to be fast, it’s 6.5 miles and I’ve got to do that in considerably under an hour to have any chance at all.

Downhill is not generally my strong point.

My quads hurt.

But I can still run on them.

They seem to warm up after a bit and become less painful. I remain aware of them, but they aren’t preventing me for going “fast” (“fast” turns out to mean 8 minute miles — on a perfect downhill road, normally I’d be ashamed, but now it seems good). I’ve lost the sense of exhaustion I had earlier.

I see two guys ahead, in matching yellow shirts.

They were running together, but one has slowed.

I pass him.

Then, slowly I catch up on the other guy. And once I do that I see a third guy off in the distance. I keep getting closer, and eventually pass him too. This is great! If I can just keep passing people that will give me the boost I need to go faster…

But those three are the only ones I see on the road.

Cars occasionally come by — one every 10 minutes or so. The road is very dusty, and they stir up the dust which I have to breath. Yuck. Sometimes the wind blows it away, sometimes (more often) not.

My heart rate seems to be hovering around 75%, which is a good hard push on a down hill, so I think I’m doing what I should.

Then the road levels out.

I try to keep up the same pace (8min/mile remember) and find I’m gasping. I look at my monitor 82%. Oops. Too high. Slow a bit. Hmm. 80% actually seems comfortable, so I push at that level.

And here is the end of the road, someone directs me on to a trail, and there is the last aid station. I don’t need anything. It took me 50 minutes to get down the road. I’ve got another 6 miles to go. I need to keep going at the same pace to break 9 hours. That seems unlikely (it isn’t downhill any more), but I’m going to try.

Once again I’m running beside the river. This means a mild uphill. Doesn’t look good for maintaining the pace. And then I see a real climb. I have to walk. I know I won’t make 9 hours.

But on the other side I run down again. Heart rate still at 80%.

I manage that for another half hour — and then something gives. I can’t keep going at that level. I trudge on. I find myself running uphill and walking down. That’s backwards. I’m really tired.

Someone passes me.

I can’t keep up with him.

I suppose I probably should not have tried to run at 80% for so long this late in the race. On the other hand, a 9 hour finish required that (and more probably). I’m glad I did my best to achieve that…

Some rather nice views of the river.

I pass someone and he cheers me on. Congratulates me on my birthday. How did he know? “Oh, I ran with you earlier.” Did he? I don’t remember. (Perhaps he was behind me, then I wouldn’t recognize him).

OK, it’s gone 9 hours, the finish must be near.

It’s not.

On, and on, and on.

Up hill and down.

The trail was washed out. I get lost, and wander a bit. Finally I see a couple out walking their dog. That’s the trail. Back on track.

Come on, I must be nearly there. Where is it?!?

Up.

Down.

Heart rate is below 70%.

I’m beat.

Of course I’m worried that someone I’ve passed earlier will pass me.

It’s actually a rather nice area, with some nice falls. I’ll come back here after the race and take some pictures (I don’t). Very nice views of the river, I really would like some better pictures of the odd water color.

Where is the end?

I see someone, standing by the trail. He tells me, “Just a quarter mile, follow the arrows once you get to the road.” I thank him. I am so grateful the end is close. I think about what a wonderful person he is. (But — how long will it take me to run a quarter mile now? 10 minutes?). Winding around on the roads. A maze of cones. Where do I go in? There. The chute. Clock 9:21:51. The line. Done.

They give me a bottle of cool water, which I drink.

My parents lead me off into the shade.

I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been after a race.

I’m not ready to leave yet. I wait a bit and stumble over to the results poster. They have little cards with people’s names, ages, sexes and finishing times (ordered). I wait until they bring out mine. I’m 45^th overall, time 9:21:58. I’d hoped for better, but it will do. Hey, I finished! That’s the important thing. I count finishers in my age group: I’m second! That’s great! I can leave now, a shower calls.

Parents drive me to the hotel. I feel awful. I should probably eat something. A GU and an electrolyte tablet. And more water. I haven’t used a bathroom in 11 hours. I haven’t needed to, but now I do. I feel awful.

In the room. In the bathroom. Rather impressive. I still feel awful. I need to eat more. I go toward some raisins. Suddenly I know I’m going to vomit, and I run (OK, hobble) to the bathroom. I reach the bathroom (good) but not the toilet (less good). I’ve eaten nothing but water and sugar and salt for the last 11 hours, there is nothing in my stomach but sugar water. Oddest vomit I have ever cleaned up.

I’ve never raced so hard I vomited before. I don’t want to do it again, but I’m sort of proud to have pushed myself that hard.

Shower.

Cold. Curl up under the covers and nap for half an hour. Better.

Actually I’m feeling pretty good. Quads still hurt, of course; going down hill/stairs is painful. But I’m cheerful again and have some energy.

My mother tells me that my problem was that I raced to win. I shouldn’t do that any more. If I hadn’t tried to win I might not have been so beat up afterward.

I feel as though we’re from different worlds. Of course. So what?

(And I don’t really try to win, that’s neat, but I’m trying to do as well as I can. Doing my best depends on me. Winning depends on who shows up (and what rules are used ))

Back to the finish line for the awards banquet. Can’t bring myself to eat. Wait for the awards. There are several sets of awards, one by USATF rules (this is the national championship for 50 mile trail runs) and one for the race itself.

The guy who finished ahead of me in my age-group was not a USATF member. So he didn’t count (according to the USATF) and I’m first in my age group — I’m the national champion! (And I have a patch to prove it).

OK — I know I don’t deserve it… but I must admit I am extremely pleased to be called a national champion. And actually being a national runner up is pretty neat too. I’ve never been either one before. Come to think of it, I don’t even know anyone who has been a national champion…

Lew comes up to me and congratulates me. He got over his cramps, finished and won his agegroup (really won it, not like me). Amazing man.

As far as the race is concerned, I’m second in my age group.

I’ve got two sets of awards, one saying I was first, one saying I was second.

Only time I’ve ever been first and second in the same race. Then I remember that Yasso was first, second and third in one race and realize I still have something to strive for.

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Approximate locations of the Aid Stations

As determined by GPS under trees (so not the most accurate measurements).

Name	Lat	Lon	Altitude
Start/Finish	47.019179	-121.535661	2580ft
Aid 1	47.042278	-121.563448	2500ft
Aid 2/4	47.046233	-121.5234	4920ft
Aid 3 = Corral Pass	47.015354	-121.467130	5650ft
Aid 2/4	47.046233	-121.5234	4920ft
Aid 5	47.019247	-121.534852	2580ft
Aid 6	47.008191	-121.564596	4360ft
Aid 7 = Suntop	47.039815	-121.597047	5190ft
Aid 8	47.019247	-121.534852	2050ft
Start/Finish	47.077585	-121.585423	2580ft

50 at 50? Not quite.

There’s a beauty in extreme old age–
Do you fancy I am elderly enough?
Am I old enough to run it do you think?
Should I wait until I’m 80 in the shade?
There’s a fascination frantic
In a ruin that’s romantic;
Do you think I am sufficiently decayed?

The Mikado — W. S. Gilbert

Well I’m 6 days short of 50, so 49.94. And despite being advertised as a 50K the course is actually 56K (and due do confusions, I actually ran 63K). So it isn’t really 50 at 50. Not quite. Not yet.

It’s still my first ultra. Mike said I should do it as a training run to see what running an ultra was like before I tried racing one in July… I was to keep my HR below 80% of maximum. I was to eat 200Calories/hour (a GU every half hour). I was to drink at least a pint of water an hour. I was to pop some electrolite pills (salt tablets) every now and then.

I got myself an enormous camelback which could hold 6 pints. I had lots of GUs. I had a few pills. I didn’t plan on stopping at any aid stations, except maybe about halfway through to refill my camelback.

At packet pickup the night before, Ken told me I needed gaiters. Then Ken gave me a pair of gaiters. I was expecting great heavy hot things, but these were little bits of brightly colored cloth that clipped on to my shoes (around the laces) and kept out fox tails and rocks. They worked quite well, but they weren’t so brightly colored when I finished.

A 50K. Hmm. I thought when I first signed up. Probably take me around 6 hours? Then I really looked at this one. It’s not really 50K, it’s 34.9 miles, and it’s got ~10,000ft of elevation gain. OK, we’re into 9 trails territory here. Seven, maybe eight hours. I’ll bring enough GU for 9 hours. Just in case.

It rained in Santa B the day before the race. It never rains in June, but we had about 6 hours of solid rain. At first I was happy — overcast weather for the race — but then someone pointed out the likelyhood of mud on the trails. Oh dear.

Misty, moisty morning

As it happened it didn’t rain much in the valley. And there was no mud. But it was overcast. Joy!

So I’m heading over the pass around 6am and then down the other side and off Paradise Rd. Get there about 6:30. Patty is already in the parking lot. The car in front contains Carrie Dent, and the car behind is Mark. Mark hasn’t brought tecnu. Nor has Carrie. I put some on me and then give them both some. I very carefully put sunscreen on my face and neck — and somehow forget that I’ve got arms and legs too. I felt very silly when I realized that about 30 minutes into the race.

There is only one bathroom. Things move rather slowly there. I get to the race start and hear that we’ll be starting in 3 minutes. Gleep! where did the time go? I had intended to have a GU before the start. Tough. My HR monitor is reading 00. Damn. Turn it off and on. Still 00. Fiddle with the strap: 62. That’s reasonable. We line up.

There are about 50 runners for the 50K here and 12 for the 50M. Not a huge crowd, but respectable.

Just follow the Glo-Sticks we are told. Well, Glo-Sticks were needed for the 5am start of the 100k, but for us 50Kers, they are a) dead b) invisible. Doesn’t really matter — we’re all lost. Someone sees the first, and we’re off. I’m about 4th place. Not that that matters much at this point in the game.

My camelback is leaking. It has wet my pants, just as with all the women bloggers. I pull off to the side and see that it has popped open. Sigh. I close it up and join the throng (I’m not 3rd any more). My camelback is leaking. Again, still. I pull off and fix it again. This time I do fix it.

Low overcast in the valley of the Santa Ynez river

I’m behind Ken and Mark now. They are chatting about Mark’s idea of a “5 trails” race now that we don’t have 9 trails left. Mark thinks we can get a 50K by running up Cold Spring, across on Camino Cielo, down San Ysidro, over to Ramero, up Ramero, down San Ysidro, across to Cold Spring and finish. Even more elevation than 9 trails, I suspect. Sounds tough.

And I realize how different this race is than any I’ve been in before. People are chatting. Oh, in a marathon I’ve had brief conversations, and in a 10miler I’ve gasped out a few sentences, but we’re all running very easily, we’ve got a long way to go, lots of hills, and we know we can’t run fast or hard now. So we’ve lots of breath. Which means we talk. It feels — friendly.

Ken lets me pass him (it’s single track) and then Mark does too; it really is friendly. I was perfectly happy to run with them, I’m in no rush at the moment, but I’m also perfectly happy to go a bit faster.

The guy ahead. Probably Guillermo

I start gaining on the guys in front. Very slowly I’m passing people. It’s an odd feeling. I don’t want to run too fast. I have my HR monitor set up to beep if I go above 80%. I see people ahead, I know I could catch them easily, but only if I pushed myself harder than I should, this early.

Still, I do gain. And pass.

But it still feels very odd. We’re racing, for goodness sake, but we’re racing so slowly it feels ridiculous.

There are no mile markers. Weird.

There’s one guy (in sight) ahead of me when we reach the first aid station (about 3 miles). The road goes straight, but a trail takes off to our left. I don’t notice it. The route we are to take is marked with blue ribbons, and side-trails we aren’t to use are marked in red. Presumably the trail had a blue ribbon. I wasn’t looking. The guy ahead sees a red ribbon on the road. I don’t. Suddenly it occurs to me: I’m color blind, and a red ribbon tied to a green shrub isn’t going to be very noticeable to me. Thank goodness the main route is marked in blue. That I can see. And I try to be more alert to ribbons.

We’re on single track, overgrown, narrow singletrack. The grass reaches up to my waist, my chest. The trail is just grass beaten down. There’s a blue flag ahead to aim for. I might go faster swimming. Oh, here’s some poison oak. It, also, is up to my chest and reaches out to my arms. I had put tecnu on my legs, I didn’t expect to need it on my arms (or face), didn’t expect the oak to be this tall. Live and learn.

Taking pictures becomes problematic now. I’m not going to stop running. Light is dim. There’s a lot of camera jitter. I can’t look where I’m going, and I stumble several times, and fall once.

Runners behind

Still, it’s kind of amazing that I can take pictures at all. I would not attempt that on a road race.

I discover a new problem, one that had never occurred to me. The trail is somewhat overgrown. It’s quite visible (mostly), but there are shrubs that encroach at shoulder height. And these shrubs have tough branches which leave little micro cuts on my upper arms. No one cut is noticeable, but there is a cumulative effect. Other people, I see, have upper arm guards. They looked odd at first, but now I know why.

I’m in a clump of 3. We switch places from time to time. Guillermo, Dave and I. I’m  being kind of stupid. I’m trying to get ahead. I haven’t realized that it doesn’t matter yet.

I do pull ahead. Every now and then my monitor beeps at me (and keeps beeping until my HR drops below 80%) and I am anxious lest someone will overtake me. No one even tries.

On a long slow uphill Guillermo catches up with me. This worries me. I don’t want to be passed, but I don’t want to hold him up either. I ask if he wants to pass me, and he says “Not yet”, that he’ll wait to mile 30. (We’re now about mile 7? I’d guess). So we continue to hike up the hill together. Then run down. Then up.

After about an hour and a half I glance at my watch, which has mysteriously started showing Calories. I claims I have burnt about 900. And I’ve eaten 300. I guess I can’t run forever.

Sun comes out on Gibraltar dam

The sun starts to come out. Oh well, we had almost 2 hours of overcast. Guillermo points out Gibraltar dam, it is behind us and we are running away from it. Which is odd because we’ve got an aid station to get to near the dam.

Up some more. And we pop out onto the Angustora Road which leads from Camino Ciello to the dam. Dirt road now, with some remnants of pavement from decades ago. Guillermo pulls ahead of me here.

Another aid station is just around the corner. We’ve gone 9.6 miles in 1:51 minutes. Wow, we’re really zipping along. Guillermo stops at the aid station, and I do not. Downhill again, and a good running surface. I pick up the pace (I’m still trying to win, you see, and I’m not even a third of the way yet). I manage to get quite some distance down the road before Guillermo leaves.

Sun on the valley

The sun is really coming out now, and it is easier to take pictures from the road.

Odd rock formations

The guy ahead

Then I began to see glimpses of the guy in front of me. I think there are 2 in front. I learned later that both were doing the 50 miler, but right now I am anxious to catch either. Wouldn’t it be neat to win this thing?

I’m slowly catching up to him — when my monitor starts beeping at me, and I have to slow down. He runs off.

Purple sage

There have been a fair number of wildflowers on this run. Yucca are quite obvious, of course. Purple sage is in full bloom (black sage is over, I can see the seed cases). White sage is just starting to come out. There’s lots of yellow yarrow, so common it is dull. Various flowers whose name I don’t know, of course. A few bush poppies still popping out. Clematis is well over, but their seed whirlagigs are still around. It’s hard to take flower shots when I’m unwilling to stop running. But I’m walking now and here’s a luxuriant stand of purple sage. I risk it.

Hey! I’m catching up to the guy again!
Gibraltar Dam again, and now we’re heading toward it.

I do manage to catch the guy in front. He points out that we’ll have to run up this lovely downhill. I had worried about that myself. In the full sun. With no shade. Oh, yeah. Hadn’t thought of that. Then I pull ahead of him.

The next aid station is the 50K turn around. I don’t know that. Neither, it turns out, do they. I don’t bother to stop because I don’t need to, and run through. Another 200 yards and there’s an intersection. I can’t see a flag on either branch. One has a locked gate, and one is just the continuation of the road I’m on. No brainer, I take the obvious route. After two minutes or so downhill, some guy comes out of a house down near the dam and yells at me to go back and take the other route. Actually I can’t hear him very well, but I think that’s what he says. So back I go. Up hill. The guy I’ve just passed has followed me. He is grumbling that the aid station we just passed is the turn around. I’m convinced it’s the next one (how I got that idea, I can’t imagine), more oddly the volunteers at the aid station also think it is the next one. Dave has also followed me down. Finally Guillermo yells at us that he’s found the flag at the last intersection pointing to the other road. Sigh. So I’ve lost ~4 minutes and gone from being first in our group of 4 to being second. Then third. Dave and I run together for a bit. Dave turns out to be a friend of a friend (Kary). Then Dave passes me too. Fourth. Sigh.

Gibraltar reservoir

It’s a pretty stretch of road, beside the reservoir. Lots of ups and downs. Dave and I switch places a couple of times. He goes up hills faster (I’m still not letting my heart rate get above 80%) but I come down them faster. This is weird. I think of myself as being a fast climber but slow on the downhills. Maybe I’m really becoming an ultra-runner.

I realize I haven’t seen anyone come back. Maybe my little clump is in the lead for the 50K.

Old mine building

We come to the old mercury mine, and the aid station is just around the corner. Guillermo and the guy I don’t know are there still. I fill up the camelback. The guy I don’t know says his GPS watch shows 17+ miles, and that’s too far for the 50K turn; he figures that as he’s started on the 50miler, he might as well run that now rather than the 50K. I take off. My camelback is leaking. I pause and fix it. And do fix it, but again I have wet shorts. Guillermo quickly catches me, and passes.

We start seeing  runners going the other way. One guy confirms to me that the turn-around is at the mine. I pass about 10 or 12 of them. After a bit a truck comes down the road, he’s got the drop bags for the 50K turn-around and is taking them to the mine. OK, I guess he was just late, and that’s where we were supposed to go.

Luckily I don’t have a drop bag.

Clouds

Hmm. Some clouds are starting to pile up in the sky. Looks quite pretty from here.

I’m back at the aid station which really is the 50K turn around but which is terminally confused. I want to make sure they have my name because there was no one to take it at the place I did turn (thus they can check that I did get to the turn-around, and did do the whole course this way), they, on the other hand, want to offer me food and drink, which I don’t want. Takes a while to make sure they’ve got my name.

I take off, just behind Guillermo, but once again he is going faster than I. Then I begin to see that Dave is catching up with me. I know at this point that we are the top three 50K runners. That’s kind of exciting. This is my first 50K and I’m in second place! Dave’s first too, and he’s in third. Only Dave is catching me. I’m still trying to keep my HR below 80%. Then slowly I start to pull away from Dave. Equally slowly I start to gain on Guillermo.

The only shady section on the road. Even puddles here.

I decide to let myself run up to 83%. I’ve passed the halfway point now (I think) and can expend a bit more energy. I can’t reset the point at which the alarm goes off, so I just live through the beeps. There aren’t as many as I expected. And slowly, slowly I gain on Guillermo.

I turn off my watch’s beeps so I won’t bother Guilermo, I figure I can risk going 85% now…

I catch Guillermo.

I don’t pass Guillermo, he picks up the pace.

We run together. We walk together. We chat again. Guillermo, it turns out, is quite an ultra-runner. He’s done 15 100mile races. He’s won Angeles Crest, he’s run it in under 19 hours (don’t know if that were the race he won). Here am I, with my measly 4 marathons, none of which I’ve won, and here’s Guillermo with 15 century runs. I’m a bit intimidated. He asks me about Mike Swan and Peter Park and Stu Sherman. Knows them all. Well, I do too, but I live in SB and he doesn’t.

Finally we get to the aid station at the top of the road. I don’t stop. Guillermo does. Ah ha! I think, I can get ahead of you again.

Nope.

He catches right up, and then zips ahead of me when we hit the single track. I let him go, and then slowly catch up with him again. That surprises me. (Looking back, I think Guillermo was just running hard enough to insure he won. He’d keep up with the second place guy for company, and then at the end would sprint out ahead. It certainly was more pleasant for me, having him run with me.) So he let me catch up. Then he let me get ahead. He stopped in fact. Ah ha! I think again, I’ve got you now.

Nope.

He catches right up. So we continue chatting. It’s getting harder to run up the hills, but Guillermo is quite content to walk when I do. I ask if he wants to pass. “Have we reached mile 30 yet?” Not by a long shot.

We’ve been running for 5:30. That makes this the longest run (in terms of time) I’ve ever done.

Finally we come out to the first aid station again. Maybe I’m learning the right attitude finally, maybe I’m just exhausted, but I wait for Guillermo here. We now leave the route we used on the way out, and go up the road I tried to follow at the beginning. It is now marked with blue flags, but there is no one to direct people in that direction. How many runners will turn the wrong way because they just assume the course is out and back?

More to the point, most to the point from my perspective, will Dave go the wrong way and steal first place from us?

Clouded up again

Uphill. Very steep. We walk almost the whole way up. Together. Guillermo occasionally runs now. I can keep up with him, but it is hard. I never start running myself.

Clouds have now covered the sky. It’s actually chilly. I had not anticipated that. I was expecting heat. And we are walking. Hiking hard, but it’s not as warming as running.

Fog blowing across Camino Ciello

We turn a corner and there is the ridge line and (presumably) Camino Cielo. I can see fog blowing over the ridge. There’s a stiff wind which is blowing us back and is actually cold!

We press on. The final aid station. I am sick and tired of GU. I take a banana. After we leave the station I realize I’ll be stuck with a banana skin all the way to the finish. Oh well.

Guillermo asks how far to go. We are now 3.3 miles to the finish. 6 hours, 21 minutes of running. Can we finish before 7 hours? Normally the thought of taking 39 minutes to finish a 5K would be ludicrous. I can do a 10K in that time. Not even pushing hard. And this is a downhill run (mostly); obviously we’ll finish before 7 hours. No doubt in my mind.

Unh hunh.

34miles minus 3 miles means we’ve passed 30 miles. Guillermo leaves me. I try to keep up, but I don’t expect to succeed, and I don’t. Still I’m going down at quite a clip.

Suddenly there’s a horse in front of me. Actually there are about 10 of them. Guillermo is hugging a tree off to one side of the trail, and I realize I must hug a tree on the other to get out of their way. They start to move. Very slowly. I ask if they can hurry, but this just annoys the leader. Share the trail she snaps at me. She, of course, is not sharing, she’s taking all of it. Still, I reflect, trail etiquette gives horses the right of way. I’m not sure what trail etiquette says when the hikers are racing, but it doesn’t matter. They plod on by. Guillermo gets to move before I do, and is out of sight before I can start.

Now, in addition to poison oak, I have to dodge horse dung.

How far behind me is Dave? Will he be slowed by horses? Will he catch me? I’m not going as fast as I would like…

I look at my watch 6:48. Oh no. Maybe I won’t make it in under 7 hours after all. I have no idea how far I’ve gone. No idea how far I have to go. The trail continues to wind among the trees. It’s a beautiful trail, but I’m not in a position to appreciate that just now. I pick up my pace. It’s really hard to do that now, but I do get my heart rate up to 90% and then I feel that was stupid; I’m light-headed and exhausted, but I have to keep trying. The trail has opened up, I see a building, and another. I must be getting close, I try to go faster. I brest a hill and… the trail keeps going winding in and out. Damn it! How much further? Damn again! I’m running in deep sand now, each footstep slides and slithers under me, and it’s up hill again. Brest another hill, and down, whew. I recognize this, I ran here this morning. There’s a glow stick. There’s a person cheering me. Round another corner, and now I can see the final turn. A long downhill, and then it’s only 50 feet to the finish. And now I can see the clock 6:50. I’m going to break 7 hours! I’m so happy. I put my thumbs up in the air to cheer, and people are at the finish line and they are cheering me… and I’m done!

And I’m second! 6:53:15. Longest run I’ve ever done.

Why did I care about 7 hours? We’ve run an arbitrary distance on a new course. But some how this round number seems important to me. More importantly I ran with an average HR of 78%. Now that’s something to be proud of!

Then I learn where the turn-around really was, and that we really should have turned back earlier. Who cares? It was a great race and no one got ahead of me who shouldn’t have, so it didn’t matter. Later I figure the extra bit to the next aid station added 4.6 miles, so I ran 39.5 miles (assuming their measurements of the distance to the aid stations are correct). Wow. 39.5 miles. That’s 63.5K. A tad more than a conventional 50K race.

A bit later Mark Warren comes in. He also added the 4.6 miles, but he didn’t do the final climb so he shaved off about 3 miles (and a long steep climb). Then Dave came in, he did what Guillermo and I did. Then the first woman finisher, only she didn’t do the 4.6 miles. Arg! This race is going to be a mess to score:-) Everybody ran a different distance. I’m glad I just ran it. That was fun. I’ll leave figuring out the scoring to others. Beautiful course, perfect weather, and a great first ultra. Who cares about the distance? It was an ultra. The longer my training run, the better for my 50 miler!

Did I mention I’m happy and pleased?

I’m happy and pleased.

• Mark’s view