Year: 2014

MGM is my favorite VHTRC running event of the year.  This year I was extra-stoked because (a) I would finally get to sport the pair of MaxiMOOSE boxers I had found with such jubilation in a sock store in Breckenridge last May, and (b) I couldn’t wait to at long last meet Seangela!

The weather cooperated beautifully with my shorts plan, warm enough to go with shorts but not so hot that cotton boxers would be uncomfortable, and the MaxiMOOSIES were greeted with the raves they deserved.  Mr Andrish on the other hand wasn’t so cooperative.  Something about ‘work’.  There was a good bit of grumbling on my part about another major Sean Bail, but Ragan and Joey were pretty tolerant.  In fact, trotting along with Ragan and Joey made the miles tick by, and in no time I found myself doing the whole 50k.  The last time I ran over 30 miles without pain in my injuries at the end was…..was…..well not Montana…..not Highland Sky……well it must have been Bull Run!

As much as MGM is a social event for me, I didn’t mind it that I ended up running most of the section that overlaps with the Women’s Half Marathon course alone.  My heart thumps a little differently along those stretches.

 

So here’s the one story I’d like to tell from VDM.  After a very long day of snow and ice, Aaron and I were running the last half mile on the road back to the parking lot.  Others had taken the quicker way on roads, and we figured the parking lot would be mostly abandoned.  ‘No, I reconsidered, I bet Gary and Q will still be there shooting back Knob Creek.’  Sure enough, the parking lot was pretty sparse and the light was getting dim, but much to my delight there were Gary and Q, right on call.

 

 

 

 

Philadelphia Marathon

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Aaron ran his first sub-2:50 marathon since getting Lyme three and a half years ago.  Tom ushered in his new decade in style by winning the 60-64 age group.  I was still walking.  It was victory all around in Philly.

I’ve skipped the past couple Boston Marathons, so it was great to go and reunite with the big ole Nittany Valley Running Club ‘blue and white train’ in Philly, including the pre-race dinner at Tre Scalini and a gorgeous day of racing on Sunday.  (Not that I hadn’t just seen many of them a month ago at MountainBack, but there’s something different about a road trip.)  Between my  lurking injuries and having just returned from a couple weeks in Australia, I wasn’t in racing mode and I wasn’t confident my IT band would survive 26 miles of pavement.  But fortunately I had a larger purpose: Tom turned 60 in October, and after blasting through a 2:56 marathon in Portland, he made it a mission to celebrate his new decade with an age-group victory at Philly.  ‘Pacing’ is kind of a misnomer, as Tom is going to run whatever damn pace he feels like, especially if there’s a cute girl in tiny shorts up ahead, but I could trot along and chat and make the miles tick by, at least until the halfway point where marathoners head up river and half marathoners (and injured folks ducking out of the marathon like me) can veer towards the finish line.

The Philadelphia Marathon has metastasized since I last ran it in 2005, when it was just a low-key marathon of a couple thousand people.  Reflecting the last decade’s crazy running boom, now it’s grown to a three-day running festival of 30,000 people, including a 8k race, half marathon, and marathon.  We all grumbled about how the race time had been moved earlier to 7am start to accommodate the troves of 7-hour marathoners.  Yeah I know, we’re elitist snobs.  But only when it makes us set our alarms for 4:30am.  Despite a large group of us managing to successfully convene at the Whole Foods at 6:30am, we all immediately lost each other in the thick crowds by the drop bag area.  It was only by sheer miracle (and Tom’s helpfully recognizable stature) that moments before the race I found Tom in the maroon corral.

But Philly has its perks.  It’s a really nice course, starting and ending at the arts museum, winding around the city and parks and along the river.  It’s fast course and perfect for a PR.  One upshot of the massive increase in the number of racers was the concomitant uptick in the number of spectators, and the crowds were much rowdier than they were a decade ago.

The other upshot of having all the marathoners and half marathoners running together is that it was so easy for me to run 13 miles with Tom and then split off and finish with the half marathoners, pick up my drop bag, warm up with a tea at the nearby Whole Foods, and then march down to a nice spectating spot around mile 25 to see Aaron come up the hill, followed 12 minutes later by Tom.  A part of me was kind of moody not to be out there running with them, but a part of me was also proud that I had been able to not be total idiot and keep the big picture in mind.  I’ve been struggling all fall to whisper down the inflammation in my IT band and my foot fibroma.  I’ve been going to acupuncture, massage, ART, chiro, the works.  There’s been possibly moderate improvement, but nothing to write home about.  I like Larry the acupuncturist that Kirstin, Katie, Sarah, and other wussies see, and maybe my injuries would have gotten worse if I hadn’t visited him so many times this fall.  But I was hoping he’d be able to eliminate at least one of my three problems (foot, IT, and hamstring).  I’m still in search of someone who has real insight into the source of my injuries.

As I found out, the best way to swallow the bit of mopiness that comes with being an injured runner who just watched all her friends finish the marathon she was supposed to run is to head directly to the pub.  I ordered Yard’s Philadelphia Pale Ale (when in Philly….), but they didn’t have it and somehow I ended up with a 9% IPA.  Soon all my memories of racing and non-racing were erased, and I was able to focus on the joy of trying to have a conversation with a group of people in an extremely load room where no matter where you stand you are always in the way of an increasingly irritated waitress.  I finally found my happy spot when I cozied onto a bar stool in the corner and had myself a burger.  Just because I had run the fewest miles didn’t mean I wasn’t the hungriest.

There was a bit of drama when we looked up the results on our phones and it seemed that Tom had only placed 2nd in his age group.  But we quickly determined that the other 60+ year old had not in fact run a 2:34 marathon, especially after going through the half in over 2 hours, and Tom was soon positioned in his rightful place at the top of the order.

Overall, the Philadelphia experience was a successful proof of concept for Boston.  Even though I didn’t end up signing up for the Boston Marathon, Philly showed that I am capable of just going socially, supporting Aaron, seeing my NVRC peeps, maybe popping in and run with Tom for a couple miles.  And when I start to get that little pang about not getting to have that crazy finish down Boylston, just hand me another one of those 9% IPAs.

 

 

I lay in bed with my eyes closed, listening for indications that Finn was up and mobilizing. Last night I had questioned the necessity of the early rise – it was Saturday after all – but Finn insisted that early morning was the best time to run. Finn had a 5 kilometer loop that he professed to be the most beautiful in Sydney.

We were laced up by 8, but the Australian sun was already strong, and Finn insisted I carry a water bottle. I assured him that I could trot 5k without water. But the loop had steep rocky ascents, and apparently Finn’s cousin had succumbed to heat exhaustion once before. On good days, Finn said he could do the loop in around 42 minutes, but he hadn’t been running much and he expected to be closer to 44 today. I promised him I wasn’t wearing a watch.

I slathered on sunblock, and we trotted off through the seminary woods. Noisy rainbow lorikeets shot between gum trees, and enormous sulfur-crested cockatoos bobbed their heads in the branches above. Water dragons sunned themselves on the rocks.

Giant rabbits – the bane of the Australian ecosystem – bounded through the fields. I told Finn how Eddie, my former PhD advisor whom I had been visiting the prior week at the University of Sydney, has been doing some ‘bunny experiments’ to study the host-pathogen dynamics of the myxoma virus that the Australians had introduced several times to try to control the exponential growth of the non-native rabbit population that was destroying Australia’s ecosystem. Although the virus initially caused severe hemorrhagic disease in the rabbits, the rabbits quickly evolved resistance and populations resurged. It’s a rare example of biocontrol, and a beautiful system for studying the host-pathogen arms race. The intentional introduction of multiple non-native species from Europe and Asia has wrecked havoc on Australia’s unique ecology. Rabbits, foxes, and boars were introduced for game; camels were introduced to build the railroads (horses did not fare well in Australia’s scorching deserts).

The ecological history of Australia is a string of human follies, the most infamous example of which is the introduction of the Cane toad. The Cane toad was introduced from South America as a predator of the Cane beetle that was decimating Australia’s sugarcane production. Instead, the Cane toad ate everything but the Cane beetle. Furthermore, the Cane toad is highly toxic, and kills any carnivore that consumes it. The Cane toad presents the greatest threat to Australia’s wondrously unique marsupial population, and Aussies are encouraged to kill any Cane toad they come across by whatever means possible – smashing it with a bat, driving over it with a car – but the Cane toad continues to grow in size and spread in range.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4mvV8OT-mmE

I had visited the Pursells in Manly previously, and the trails were all vaguely familiar. It was a marvelous little loop, climbing up a natural rock staircase cutting through the thick brush. We took a break at the top to enjoy the expansive view over Sydney harbor. Finn pointed out ‘spider alley’ where the trail becomes thick with cobwebs hosting giant spiders in the evenings. Finn had admitted to coming across a giant huntsman spider in the house the previous day that had kept Sarah and me on high arachnid alert all night.

 

Australia is notorious for its oceanic hazards: great-white sharks have been observed right in Sydney harbor, riptides are a major cause of death, and stinging jellyfish require beach-goers to wear protective suits that look like giant condoms during jellyfish season. But no trip to Manly would be complete without some ocean adventure, and Sarah joined us for post-run snorkeling. I’m not sure I’ve ever swum in such cold water. But Finn has infectious enthusiasm, and in no short time I was too distracted by the schools of fish and soccer ball-sized purple sea urchins. We swam point-to-point to Manly beach, one of Sydney’s most popular beaches, which was teeming with weekend visitors.

After some recovery hot showers and snacks, Sarah, Finn, and I hit the road for the Blue Mountains, where Finn lives and teaches piano at a local conservatory. Finn was already pretty tuckered by the morning activities of running and swimming, and was inclined to do a short hike in his neighborhood that afternoon. But Sarah and I had limited time to enjoy the Blue Mountains, and pleaded with him to take us on the more vigorous excursion option that was a bit farther afield.

When someone tells you to wear long pants in Australia, you should probably find yourself some body armor. Australia has the most poisonous snakes in the world. Finn also told us that it was currently peak snake season in the Blue Mountains, and the likelihood of seeing a snake was quite high.  He regaled us with stories of venomous snakes in his backyard, venomous snakes that he had almost stepped on. ‘Just be careful where you put your hands and your feet,’ Finn suggested. Right.

‘So this part is a bit tricky,’ Finn warned. We had deviated from the main path and had walked to the edge of a tall cliff. We couldn’t see the bottom.

Before Sarah or I had a chance to ask whether this was actually a good idea, Finn was already shimmying down. ‘It’s just like non-technical rock climbing,’ he assured us.

Getting down those rocks required ample use of the butt-slide and coordinated hand-offs of our walking sticks so we could use both hands. Finn assured us that climbing back up would be easier than getting down.

Once we got the hang of it, it was actually a great thrill to navigate our way deep into the gully. Sarah and I kept marveling, ‘There’s really no basis for it, but Finn seems to have a lot of confidence in us.’ Finn had been my neighbor growing up, but I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. And this was his first time meeting Sarah. We could think of a lot of our friends – men and women alike – who would not have been game at all for this harrowing descent. We wondered if Finn did this with all his visitors, a right of passage kind of thing. Or maybe he didn’t get many visitors.

‘This was NOT in the brochure!’ Sarah and I kept joking, in homage to Kurt, a California dude from years ago who had showed up to the Mount Kilimanjaro climb decked out head-to-toe in every piece of gear in the REI catalogue and who had shouted that very quote in objection to a brief rock scramble that apparently had not been sufficiently described in the tour’s info materials.

But the challenge was worth it: at the base of the descent was the most tranquil setting of interconnected freshwater pools and waterfalls. Looking up at the wall of mountains surrounding us, there wasn’t another soul in sight.

We stripped down to our bathing suits. ‘So, Finn, are there snakes in the water?’

‘No, the snakes won’t be in the water if we’re in. They don’t like people.’

I furrowed my brow. But the water was so fresh and inviting, we plunged in anyway. You could scramble across the rocks between pools and we traveled through the network of pools for about a kilometer. A wedge-tailed eagle darted overhead. Wood ducks foraged with their bills. We sat under the waterfall and let the cool torrents pour over our head and face.

Just as we were deciding whether to continue on through another pool, all three of us saw a dark creature moving along the surface of the water. I had snakes imprinted in my mind and first thought it was a water snake. Sarah saw its little eyes peering over the water and thought it was an alligator. But when it dove under we saw its furry little sausage body.

‘A platypus!’ Finn exclaimed. We waited silently for another ten minutes to see if it would resurface. But platypuses are one of the most secretive mammals on the planet, and that one little glimpse was all we got.

In all of Finn’s years of hiking and camping in the Blue Mountains, he had never before seen the elusive platypus. In fact, they are so rare that the websites don’t even mention that they live in the Blue Mountains (although their range stretches all along Australia’s east coast). The platypus is such a bizarre little critter, with its duck-like bill and webbed feet and little venomous spurs (I swear everything in Australia is venomous). The platypus is an ancient relic, a mammalian monotreme that lays eggs.

When I had studied abroad at the University of Melbourne during my junior year of college, I had desperately, of all the animals, wanted to see a platypus. I had scoured Tasmania and Queensland, areas where the animal is more abundant, with the hope of a sighting, but to no avail.  And there, in the Blue Mountains, in the least likely of places, I fished my wish. We climbed back up the cliffs, bubbling with excitement, and feeling that we had come across a magical place. It was as if Sarah and I had followed Finn down a rabbit hole into a strange kingdom where mammals have bills and lay eggs.

I started concocting stratagems to get Aaron to come out here, to experience this magical little place. Finn hit the nail on the head: apparently there is a famous 100km race in the Blue Mountains that is held every May (late fall Down Under).

Living out in the Blue Mountains is isolating. Finn’s main human contact seems to be with a neighbor whom Finn believes has been sabotaging and poisoning his trees and garden (at the time of our visit Finn had just acquired some surveillance cameras and had set up trip wires around the sides of his house). Given Finn’s fondness for the outdoors and for running, I tried to convince him to join the local trail running group. Despite many lines of argument I could not overcome Finn’s conviction that 50km was an absolutely absurd distance. Just as I had finally given up and started walking into another room I turned my chin over my shoulder: ‘You know, Finn, there could be cute trail runners.’

His eyes widened and he scratched his chin. ‘Hmm, you have a good point there.’

 

The Tussey Mountainback Draft Relay Challenge (DCR) is the lovechild of fantasy football and road running. Aaron likes to characterize MountainBack as the race that occurs in November, but for which the preparatory email traffic starts in April, and the post-race analysis continues into January, such that there is only about a three-month window where my inbox isn’t stuffed with Mountainback affairs.

This year we had six captains and teams of six, and there was the usual fanfare of sandbagging accusations and last-minute ringer subs with times far faster than the runners they were replacing. I was strongly accused of sandbagging because when bio submission time rolled around in July I was nursing several injuries and wasn’t really running (IT and foot primarily but also hamstring). But I ran my first triathlon smack in the middle of captain-picking, and the fact that I could muster a 38 & change 10k after a 1 mile swim and 26 mile bike with a nagging hamstring roiled the seedings. Of course, I contended that it hardly mattered what my captain seed was, as my team was sure to be more wrapped up in beer than in winning come race day anyway.

The upshot of my unintentional sandbagging was that I got the first pick in the draft, which meant that Meira and I could at long last be united on a MountainBack team. In fact, I was flying back from Montana on draft day, so Meira picked my entire team for me. In predictable Meira fashion, there was disproportionate representation from the trail running community on our team. I was happy to have Thurley on our team, as well as some new faces with Ben, Sarah, and Ed.

As the only out-of-town captain, I shirk most of my captain responsibilities: picking teammates, choosing a name, ordering singlets, arranging for transport. I did propose a race order for the team, with Ed leading off on Leg 1, followed by JT, Sarah, me, Ben, and Meira. And I did register the team and agree to run the captain legs, which are the longest. But I dropped the ball big-time this year on one of my key captain responsibilities to make sure we have good music and we ended up being subjected to repeats of Meira’s mix.  The silver lining was that the van was treated to Aaron’s full delivery of the Jackson 5 while I was on Leg 4, which was acclaimed as the highlight of the day.

I am also notoriously bad at keeping my team’s split times, which are key for the months-long post-race analysis. I did take the clipboard and fill in the boxes next to each runner for Goals: Ed’s goal on Leg 1 was to beat the Mrs (his wife was running Leg 1 as well); JT’s goal on Leg 2 was to not collapse (he’s been ailing from a mysterious illness that his docs haven’t been able to diagnose); Sarah’s goal on Leg 3 was to beat Marty; my goal on Leg 4 was to not crap myself (as the last-ranked captain I was expected to be the slowest); Ben’s goal on Leg 5 was to beat a road runner (Ben strongly identified as a trail runner); and Meira’s goal on Leg 6 was just to kill it (Meira’s a monster hill climber, and Leg 6 is about as killer a hill as you can get).

Aaron and I had spent the week before Mountainback working remotely from his house in Canaan Valley. It was gorgeous fall weather, and the valley was bursting with colors, and it was hard not to slip into putting on too many miles.

It was déjà vu all over again when I got the handoff to start Leg 4, and I found myself once again trailing Alan by about 30 seconds. Last year I’d spent the whole race chasing him but didn’t quite catch him at the end.  Leg 4 is 5.3 tough miles, the vast majority of which climb straight up the mountain, so making that last move is asking a lot.  But I felt that I had wimped out last year in not making a stronger move, and when we hit the final quarter mile I made sure to pass Alan even after he tried to pass me back.  Overall, despite my injuries, I was really happy with my race and the strength I felt in my legs.  Maybe it’s the biking and cross-training, but my quads felt really sturdy.  So even though my IT bands were goners and my right hamstring was useless, my quads held the act together.

My favorite part of this video is when Meira yells, ‘Go Martha, you kept it in the pants!’  (I had told Meira that my little running jingle I tell myself is to ‘keep it in the pants’ to rein myself in when there’s a danger I might go out too hard.)

Here are the final DCR stats (click to enlarge).  I was apparently not the poop captain this year when it came to keeping splits.

For me at least, MountainBack is more about catching up with your friends than running.  Since Eddie left Penn State for Australia, I haven’t had nearly enough visits to State College.  So this year we spent an extra day after the race to spend some time with old friends and make a trip to Meyer Dairy, the happiest place on earth.

ps – There was also a big 50 mile race going on in addition to the relay that we were mildly aware of.   Aaron and I almost toppled a port-o-potty when a hapless spectator didn’t let the first-place woman get priority for the restroom.  As expected, Mike Wardian and Connie Gardner won again, although none of the bluster about breaking records this year came to fruition.  We also had a lot of fun warning Renz about all the ladies that were going to pass him (they did).