Author: martha

I got a text from Robin the night before the VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon:

‘Any last minute WHM tips?!’

I replied:

‘Have fun and don’t get wrapped up in how other people are running.  Remember that many of them don’t know the course as well as you do~’

These lines would prove to be prophetic, as Robin’s ability to stick to her guns and run her own race won out when Holly went off course shortly after mile 8.

I thought that I would feel conflicted about not running the VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon this year.  That a little piece of my heart would ache to be out there, bounding along from the Clapons’ Do Loop AS to Juanita’s Canteena, high-fiving friends and tearing up trails.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.  The reason why I never really liked volunteering is because I always felt like I didn’t know what I was doing and was mostly in the way.  Like tagging along with Aaron, taking crappy under-exposed pictures.  But no one knows their way around the Women’s Half like I do.  After rabbiting the opening half-mile (‘Robin, meet Holly.  Holly, meet Robin.’), I went straight to work on the Fountainhead aid station.

‘Did you run this race two years ago?’ one of my co-Fountainhead volunteers asked me.

‘Yup.’

‘Yeah, I remember you.  You came flying in before we were ready with any cups.  You were pissed.  We were all like, Well, guess we dropped the ball on that one.‘

‘Yeah, with your table placed 20 feet off the trail and no one holding out a cup.  While I’m all sweatin’ beads out there.’

So this year, I made it my personal mission to rectify the Fountainhead AS.  The tables were moved right down next to the trail so runners didn’t have to patter up the hill to get some food and drink.  JLD and I took on scouting duties, heading into the woods to call out the leaders so everyone could be ready.

I was wide-eyed as the streams of women came through.  Everyone was giving so much heart!  For some reason I had always imagined that just the top 8 or 10 women were busting their guts, and that the middle-of-the-packers were more kind of fun-running it.  It couldn’t be further from the truth.  It was just wave after wave of blood and sweat and heaving lungs, and we scampered as fast as we could to get them water and gatorade and direct them back on their way.

Satisfied that Fountainhead was now a model of well-oiled aid-stationing efficiency, I headed over towards the second loop to see the finish.  I ran into Q and Stephanie, who told me how Holly had gone off course.  What a punch in the gut.  Holly’s such a talented runner, and has so little time to race these days with two little-uns.  For her to make the trek up here to race and then deal with that kind of frustration…..  I was bowled-over thrilled for Robin, who ran a smart, tough race and deserved every ounce of her victory.  But the only way I could deal with my vicarious frustration for Holly was to grab some tape and go double/triple mark the hairpin turn where she’d gone astray and make sure no one else missed the spin.

The finish area of the WHM is always an especially happy place.  And not just because of what WHTom and Mario put in the smoothies.  Sure, this year I had to explain a bit why I hadn’t run.  I had different explanations for different people, all of which were at least partially true.  Some I told that it was just time to step aside, to have a more exciting race with a new exciting winner.  Fresh blood.  To others I said that it was just becoming a handful, always running with a bulls-eye on your back, and that it was nice to have a laid-back chillin’ August where I didn’t have to have that oh-shit-am-I-fit? moment.  Aaron in particular appreciated the lack of pre-WHM paranoia about being slow and out of shape.  For others I just put it simply that it was time to give back to a race to a race that had given me a lot over the years.  And to others I told a little story about how this weekend I was going to finally do a road race with my office friends: the Navy-Air Force Half Marathon….

I can’t remember the last time I was so downright calm before a race.  No butterflies, no jitters.  Maybe it was the influence of my decidedly chill friends Cecily, Cecile, and Bernard.  Maybe it was the strange anonymity of road races.  There were 5,000+ running the race, and none of them asked me if I was going to win today.  Maybe it was watching the Wounded Warriors start their race 5 minutes before our start, true exemplars of grit.  Some had aerodynamic wheelchairs.  One had two prosthetic legs.  All were inspiring as they disappeared over the hill.

Having just run the NIH relay on Tuesday (our Runners without Borders FIC team finished 11th out of some 100+ teams) and been the rabbit for the WHM on Saturday, my legs were all geared up for a quick start.  I went straight to the front of the women’s field, immediately separating myself and settling into the mass of men.

I wore my Garmin only for record-keeping, and I never glanced at it during the race.  I know exactly what kind of just-below-balls-out pace is right for a half-marathon distance.  I don’t need no stinking watch~.  In just the last few months I have finally made my peace with the whole Garmin/Strava thing.  Prior to meeting Aaron, I was violently anti-Garmin.  But back in December Aaron bought me my first Garmin, along with a heart-rate monitor, and set up my account on Strava.  True to my word, I gave it the ole girl scout try for six full months.  After six months, I gave my verdict:

Verdict #1: I agree that it is useful to keep track of how many miles I run a week.

Verdict #2: I *hate* timing myself during training runs.  Training runs are for relaxing.  I detest even more getting little notifications from Strava that I’ve set a CR for a particular segment — or that someone has broken my CR.  Sometimes at the end of a run I just want to see how many miles I did and it starts flashing things at me: Congratulations, you just PRed in your 15k!!  Congratulations, you just PRed in your 20k!!  And I just want to start smacking it into the concrete.

Ergo…..I will not wear my Garmin during training.  But I will manually enter my daily mileage into Strava.  I will wear my Garmin only when I race, just for record-keeping (no glancing), and when I am in foreign places where I don’t know the distances.  This is my grand compromise.

The first five miles went around Haines Point.  Haines Point is a lovely park, but a terrible place to run, just boring and long.  But it was at least early in the race, and it was a cool, overcast morning and I felt all clippity-clop.  There was a strong wind coming off the Potomac, and I nestled in behind two gentlemen who kindly blocked the gusts.  I like running with men…..  But between miles 4 and 5 arrived the first sign that something had seriously gone south in my abdomen.

Rather than dwell on the discomfort, I tried to focus on how lucky I was that today was not in the middle of a 50 mile trail race.  My belly did not have to skeeter over rocks or bomb down hills.  I could probably even get by without having to eat or drink anything.  All I had to do was keep an even keel across the flat, smooth pavement for another 9 miles and jostle the belly as little as possible.  When I saw Aaron at mile 6, I gave a reassuring thumbs-up.

Miles 6-11.5 were a long out-and-back on Rock Creek Parkway, up to Calvert (but thankfully not all the way up the hill).  I was able to scope out the second place female at the turnaround.  I remembered what Aaron had told me about the optical illusion at turnarounds.  Like side-view car mirrors, there should be a warning at turnarounds: WARNING: the next female is actually much farther back than she appears.  

From the turnaround (just after mile 9) to mile 11.5 was a thrill.  I had a sea of 5,000+ runners coming in the opposing direction screaming First female!  You go girl!  You’re killin’ it!  I can’t say I my stomach felt great, but it was the first point in the race where I was quietly confident that I would get my little tummy across the finish line in first place.  Up until that point I had accepted the reality that my stomach might just burst out on me before I got to 13.1.

When I got to the Memorial Bridge turnaround just before mile 12, I noticed that a different woman was now in second place, a very petit girl (‘Emmy’) who I’d immediately scoped out at the starting corral as the quickest of the lot.  But I had a comfortable lead with just a mile to go, and ended up finishing a minute ahead (1:19:52 v 1:20:48; full Results; I think I set a new CR there).

Even after breaking the tape alongside the Washington Monument, my race didn’t quite end at 13.1.  My stomach was giving out, and I scurried over to the closest port-a-potties at the Medical Tent.  ‘Excuse me, can I use these?’  I was bowled over, clutching my belly.  ‘No, these are for patients,’ he replied sternly.  ‘Oh my god, I’m going to be a patient soon!’ I cried as I scurried across the field to the distant row of johns.

I could go on at length about the day’s stomach eruptions, but my mother tells me that I write too much about poop in this blog.  So I’m just going to sum it up by saying that I enjoyed about a good hour of watching my friends finish — Cecily came in at 1:33, Bernard in 1:49, and Cecile in 1:56 — and hanging out on the lawn of the Washington Monument as we waited for the 10am Award Ceremony.

But my stomach couldn’t hold out.  At 9:45am I cried Mercy! and arranged to have my award mailed to me.  I was in agony.  I couldn’t make it another 15 minutes.  The agony would continue for several more hours, at which point, rolling around on the floor, I determined that I wasn’t going to make my flight to Mexico City that evening.  I rescheduled to fly out the next day, rescheduled my Monday seminar and dinners as best I could, and tried my best to horse-whisper the stomach back to normalcy.  The agony abated after a couple hours, even if the stomach didn’t stop erupting (and bleeding).

The stomach stuff is unfortunate, but I also have to spin the positive: I was able to run a sub-1:20 half on a bum stomach, and I was able to keep my cool and not let the bowels totally derail me.  With the help of my little Strava I’ve been putting in consistent 50-mile weeks for 8 weeks now, the most consistent training I’ve ever done.  I’m hoping that my upcoming travel to Mexico and Taiwan doesn’t undo everything.  And that some day my stomach decides to chill the #%@ out and let me run~.

 

‘A newt!!’

We were a mere quarter mile into the 2015 Big Schloss 50k and I was already stopping for critters.  I scooped the poor little guy off of the trail, sparing him from the onslaught of stomping hokas, and displaying him to anyone running by who would glance.  Finally I found a safe spot for him (or her — I’m not very good at sexing newts) and re-entered the congo line of runners.  But by this time Aaron and I were way in the back, behind the lady donning an ankle-length rain slicker (not the garment of choice for anyone hoping to move their legs quickly).  But that was fine.  The Big Schloss is the kind of event where a minority of folks might imagine it’s a ‘race’ but most of us are just out there for the fun of it.  Which, on a soggy day with rain drilling us for long stretches, meant lots of amphibians on the trail — mostly frogs (or toads — I’m barely more able to differentiate frogs and toads than I am at sexing newts).  For some (likely unrelated) reason it also meant lots of poops.  I didn’t have a great stomach day.  Not terrible: no puking at least.  But every poop was preceded by some serious warning toots that burned poor Aaron’s nostrils.  We considered that if I could somehow weaponize them and use them against my competition I’d be unbeatable.  But even my death poops and the driving rain couldn’t detract from the singular joy of running with the AirBear.  After 10 days in West Virginia that spanned Labor Day weekend, I’ve had a splendidly long run of Aaron tolerating trots with me.

‘Bear, we will speed down the hills as fast as we like.’  I enumerated our fun run plan: ‘And then we will mosey up the hills and be lazy bears.  Okay?’

Aaron was amenable to the plan.  We ran down the wet rocks a little faster than he would have otherwise.  And we moseyed up the hills a little slower than he would have otherwise.  And we took a few more poop breaks than he would have.  But we enjoyed the warm rain and splashy puddles.  And the surreal ‘snowscape’ views of thick white clouds beneath the Schloss outcrop.  And the eerie mist atop the ridge.

And I’m finally starting to get my downhill mojo back.  My left foot injuries made my downhill running so very sad for so very long.  But Sean had told me about a luscious 3-mile descent down to AS#2, and in his honor I made Aaron fly down it with me.  The quick downhills were not kind on my belly (Aaron is convinced I need to learn how to use my abdominal muscles to hold my belly in better on the descents).  But it sure was worth it.

The night before the Schloss, Sean (who was technically a co-RD for this race but had to coach a high school XC meet and was MIA) had lamented something  about the rain interfering with the after-party.  For some reason the phrase ‘after-party’ had gotten stuck in my head, and for the second half of the run I could not get R Kelly out of my head:

Then after the show, it’s the after party
And after the party, it’s the hotel lobby
Yeah, around about four you gotta clear the lobby
Then take it to ya room and freak somebody

We had to tweak the song a little for Schloss:

Then after the run, it’s the after party

After the party, it’s the Lost River lobby

Where the food is great but the service is shoddy

But everyone wins ’cause there’s an actual potty.

Often Aaron and I scurry home after runs.  Aaron likes his naps.  I worry about whether the kitty is hungry.  But this time the after party lived up to its hype, with funny people and stories.  Joe getting pushed on his bike to work by a German guy when his derailer fell off.  Keith running the last stretch with his balls out (either because chafing or just because he wanted his boys to get some fresh air — your guess as much as mine).  And the highlight being the amazing present Jack gave us in remembrance of our awesome Teton Crest run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Big Horn 100

The Power of Being Alive in the Moment

By Betsy (‘Boots’) Nickle

As I came up to the line at Big Horn, I knew that I had a long day ahead of me. I had lost an essential part of my race gear: lube. I knew going into the race that I was going to suffer as result. At the start of my first Western 100, I felt small in the crowd against the towering mountains. Many of my VHTRC buddies were there to see me off. My first 100-miler pacer (Judith) gave me a motherly hug and best wishes. I was thankful for her kindness!

Standing there with good running shoes, a pack, and my Bull Run 50 miler visor, I had one of those “What the heck am I doing here moments?” Bang! The gun sounded. Like the sound of the gun, I came to quick conclusion; I was here to finish a 100-mile race in the West.

Within the first few miles, I felt my lungs constricting as I was talking to another runner. It was a little overwhelming because I have had asthma attacks while running. I was concerned that it might happen again. I let the other runner go ahead. As I found myself climbing a hill, ants appeared to be summiting the mountain ahead. I realized those could be my friends.

The noon sun beat down on us. However, the scenery was captivating. We were running in a meadow that you find on computer screen savers. I didn’t know if I was hallucinating. Thankfully, I realized that cannot happen at mile 5. I used the scenery to my advantage. Rather than get caught up in my breath problem, I busted out my iPhone and took photos. My thought was that at least I’d have photos even if the day went haywire. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was going to make it to mile 50. After my picture-taking break, I found myself much more grounded.

Rather than dwelling on what the race was going to dish up, I found these words from my meditation practice echoing in my mind “Nothing else is supposed to be happening right now.” Step by step and hour by hour, I found myself embracing the beautifully difficult terrain with a real sense of presence. As a trail runner, I find that my mind wonders to the future: what food do you think they will offer at the next aid station, how far ahead of me are my friends, will I have a good enough day to finish. Yes, those thoughts came up as they always do. Today, I labeled them as thinking, rather than creating a story that had no bearing on my performance. That action helped me create a sense of spaciousness, where I found myself enjoying the race and connecting with other runners on the trails.

During ultras, we experience great highs and lows just like life. I have found the key is to embrace the moment. There might be some major soul-sucking suffering. Like the moment when I found myself shoeless in a huge mud-whole (both of my shoes were sucked off) or the moment at mile 90 when the bottoms of my feet hurt so bad that I walked down hill and counted as 20 people passed me. During these moments, I just accepted that suffering is part of the experience.

The suffering makes you appreciate the runner’s high moments much more. Like running along the mountain ridgeline in the moonlight and observing how the moon reflects off of the mountain. Or climbing up a 16-mile hill experiencing altitude over 10,000 ft, to sit with my friend Misha who helped me change my shoes and brush my teeth. I felt so comforted on many levels: the camaraderie, embracing a creature comfort of a toothbrush, and accomplishing something that my mind was trying to talk me out of doing many miles ago.

As I found myself running along the trail, I became captivated by the fields of wildflowers blooming on the tops of mountains. Weeks ago, these flowers did not exist. In fact, they were covered with snow. Often we associate snow and winter with bleakness or depression. Yet, these flowers served as a beautiful reminder for me. That even though something might seem dead on the surface, there is often something underneath that with a little bit of light and/or encouragement; it will surely bloom.

Often in our lives, we find ourselves in difficult situations where the journey ahead of us seems overwhelming. Yet, running has taught me that breaking an overwhelming task down into little pieces gives me faith in my ability to achieve it.   When I crossed the line after running down the road with my brother by my side, it was rewarding to share that experience with him in hopes to inspire him. There was also an amazing sense of accomplishment in doing something that is really freaking tough, persevering through the struggles, and accepting that I did the best that I could do on that given day. Honestly, it made this finish the sweetest one for me.

Even though, it’s a personal worse for me by 19 minutes. It was one of the best races because I embraced the beauty and struggles in the present moment. I also worked hard to not allow something that happened in the past be an indicator of my current performance. Over the course of the race, the hours rolled by like minutes and minutes felt like hours at other times. Yet, they were filled with many pleasant views including a 10 minute sit down with my brother in the middle of a field only to embrace the beautiful scenery in the moment. Spending the time to embrace nature is the real reason why I run, I’m thankful that I had such a beautiful course to take the time to do it.

Often I find that people (including myself) are so caught up in the performance, that we busy our minds with unnecessary anxiety and pressure. I learned that taking moving from a performance based focus to enjoying the present moment enabled me to create more memorable moments with the people I love. I hope look back on Big Horn 100 in many years with my brother and say, “Do you remember when I told you that we needed to sit for 10 minutes and look at the scenery?” I hope his response is, “Yes, it was amazing, but remember your sock issue.” Then, we will laugh.

In March, I lost my cousin. She was in her late 30s. Her death reminded me of something important. The only thing that we are sure of is the present moment. While you may be spending your time planning for life in your 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s, they could not happen. Over the years, I have seen successful runners suffer with injuries that have sidelined them for months. That has helped me recognize that our running careers in the present moment may appear to be infinite. Yet, they could be taken away from us initially.

Trail running has taught me that being is more important than doing. As a city person, I’m rushing from thing to thing, but I often find that I miss out on being in the moment. All that rushing creates so much anxiety. When I take a few extra minutes to anchor in the present and connect with my environment, I find my contentment increases. Honestly, I don’t think my performance is hampered.

Racing on trails is a lot like life. I’m not quite sure when the end is near. At least if I’m being, I know that when things end that I enjoyed the experience. When you find yourself lost in your rushing mind (happens to me all the time) remember: “Nothing else is supposed to be happening right now.” I hope that statement will bring you ease and comfort in a world that expects us to do rather than be.

 

Grand Teton National Park, WY

August 2015

Jack’s family scooped us up in the Jenny Lake parking lot.  Jack’s wife and kids must be awfully used to his trail running shenanigans, because they were relatively unfazed by the fact that it was 9:45pm, pitch black, we were hours beyond when we said we’d arrive (we did manage to text them from the trail and give some heads up).  And they had pizza and beer for us!

 

 

 

Some people endure all the travel so that they get to do a race.  I endure the race so I get to do the travel.  –Martha Nelson, July 19, 2015

When we realized that Steve’s wedding in Jackson Hole would conflict with the Lurray triathlon in August, we scrambled to find another triathlon to do this summer.  I had several criteria:

(a) open water swim in a clean lake (no pools, no dirty rivers)

(b) Olympic or half-ironman distances

(c) less than 4 hour drive from DC

(d) gotta have some hills (so many of the triathlons cater to people trying to get PRs by being pancake flat. bo-ring.)

(e) gotta fall on one of my few free weekends this summer (I’m having an epidemic of conferences that spill over into the weekend this summer)

After scouring the calendar of tris, we came across Anthracite in Jim Thorpe, PA that seemed to fit the bill.  It was Olympic distance, in a fresh lake, and meandered through the hills adjoining Pennsylvania coal-mining towns, the biggest of which was Jim Thorpe.

Aaron and I have been swimming fairly consistently this year.  We try to swim every Tuesday morning, and occasionally on Thursday, but with my travel schedule this probably averages out to about 3 swims a month.  Not enough to really get in swim shape, but enough to consistently work on form.  I set a very low bar at last year’s Lurray Tri.  But I can now breathe to both sides.  And Aaron promises I’m don’t look like I’m drowning, even if it feels that way.

I can’t really say the same about our bike prep.  I think Aaron has been on a bike for a total of <5 hours so far this year.  The fact that I’m double that made me feel like I had done some training.  But 10 hours of biking doth not a training make.

The day before the race I purchased my first wetsuit.  It went something like:

‘Um, it’s kind of tight around my chest, I can’t take a full breath.’

‘Good fit.’

‘It’s kind of choking my throat.’

‘Perfect.’

My lack of wetsuit experience would become apparent during my 5+ minute transition zone 1 time.  I felt like I was trying to skin a seal.  An angry, stubborn seal that did not wish to part with its epidermis.

After buying the wetsuit, Aaron and I shimmied up rte. 70 all the way to Mauch Chunk Lake, besting the packet-pickup deadline by four minutes.  ‘Mauch Chunk’ was the original name for the town of Jim Thorpe. Let’s see, on one hand we can name our town after a great Olympic hero, or as an alternative something that sounds like mouse vomit.

On our drive up to the lake, the road became noticeably steeper.  ‘Whoa, Aaron, there are hills here.’  We decided that we’d better drive part of the bike course to get a better sense of what we were in for.  There was a lot of muttering of curse words.

‘Mile for mile, Aaron, have you ever done a harder triathlon bike course.’

‘Nope.’

‘Maybe we should have done some training?’

‘Maybe.’

‘It says it’s a high of 92 degree tomorrow.  We’re gonna roast.’

‘Yup.’

We picked up our race packets and listened to an extraordinarily efficient pre-race briefing by the no-nonsense RD.  The key message was: don’t fly down the big hills because there will be 90-degree angle turns at the bottom and you will crash.  Got it.

There was only one B&B where you could book for just one night (most have 2 night minimums on weekends).  You couldn’t book online.  Nor by email.  You had to actually call and leave a message.  The kind little old lady who ran the B&B called me while I was boarding a plane in O’Hare and somehow I managed to give her my credit card info over the phone before jetting to Ontario.  She sent us a confirmation in the mail.  With stamps.

The B&B was one of the highlights of the trip.  It was a old Victorian right in the middle of town.  We were put in the ‘Arizona Room’ decorated for Sedona hippies.  Since we had to rise at 4:30 am for the race, our fridge had been pre-stocked with milk and juice and bowls were on the table along with homemade granola and coffee.  And, most beautifully, we were allowed to check-out late so we could shower after the race.

Jim Thorpe is a surprisingly cute and touristy town.  We thoroughly enjoyed Stone Row Pub (which we returned to for post-race brunch).  And the long lost pleasure of thumbing through CDs at a real brick-and-mortar record shop (I bought Aaron the latest Florence + the Machine).

‘Just so you know, this is not how triathlon starts normally go,’ Aaron clarified.  I guess the nice thing about a super hilly bike course is that super type-A triathletes are deterred.  There were plenty of tricked out bikes, but the air was not drenched in testosterone.

The whole Organization of the Gear part remains my Achilles heel.  I had a couple gear fails: (a) my goggles kept fogging up, so I couldn’t see anything (I couldn’t even make out the giant red balls marking the swim course until I was right on top of them); (b) it took me twice as long to get out of the wetsuit as everyone else; and (c) I ran out of fluid on the bike in the baking sun and entered the run completely dehydrated.  When Aaron finished his race, he was amused to see that the water bottle from his bike had been pilfered.  Apparently, a dry-throated marmot had drunk everything in sight after its bike ride and strewn it on the ground.

Triathlon is a perfect space for me to practice not being competitive.   I’ve been a front-pack runner since the day I set foot on a track my freshman year of high school.  I really had no experience in being a leisure athlete.  Even on family ski trips, Nelsons don’t wait for each other.  Nelsons blast down as fast as they can go, and if you can’t keep up…..well, hope you know the way.  My stubby skis and diminutive size meant that turning was never really an option for me.  So when I had to do a mandatory wrestling tournament in 7th grade, my honed survival instincts shot me through the elimination bracket.  I had never pulled girls to the ground before, but being a Nelson had prepared me well, and in the finals I defeated a tomboy named Kate who was 5 lbs heavier (quite a lot when you’re only 75 lbs to begin with).  We had only two weeks of training in wrestling moves, so they were really just cat-fights.

So enjoying being a back-of-the-packer is not really in my DNA.  Ultras have taught me a lot about how to rein in the testosterone and just enjoy the day.  And after a temporary setback at Holiday Lake, where my attempt to run non-competitively this year left a bitter taste that no amount of alcohol and honey has been able to clear, I got Operation Tame the Marmot back on track at Manitou’s.  It’s not the greatest feeling in the world to pop out of the water and have all the bikes gone (it kind of feels like you’re entering a disaster zone of a previously inhabited city that’s been destroyed by a tornado).  But I just take my merry time in the transition zones, enjoy the cool fresh lake and the wind in my face on the bike.  There’s a balance to racing in a way where you’re in check and just enjoying being out there, but exerting enough to still feel satisfied with your effort.  I’m still trying to find that balance, but triathlons are an ideal venue for experimenting.

The old me would have rolled my eyes at placing 3rd in my age group at a dinky triathlon (I think there were only 5 women total).  But Marmot 2.0 held up my little award and smiled for the picture with pride.  Anthracite is kind of a Race for the Birds of triathlons.  Prizes for all!  We even saw some highly acrobatic Eastern kingbirds darting along the shoreline during our post-run splash in the lake.