Author: martha

When Aaron and I started running together, it became clear that we would never get anywhere if I kept stopping every few minutes to look at birds.  But it seemed implausible that we would spend all those hundred of hours running in the woods and never stop to appreciate the beautiful and varied avian fauna that could be found even in the heart of the city.  So I proposed a compromise: we would only stop for woodpeckers.

Woodpeckers have several advantages as a family (Picidae) to key in on.  Most importantly, the distinct thump of the woodpecker beak on rotting wood is easy to hear, even over the sounds of running and conversation, so we wouldn’t have to rely on sight for identification (much better to keep those eyes pealed on the roots and rocks one is apt to trip on).  Woodpeckers also have very distinctive calls (the Woody Woodpecker imitation is not as absurd as one might think).  Secondly, the medium-level abundance of woodpeckers in Rock Creek Park and Glover Park falls perfectly at the sweet spot of the spectrum.  In our woods we could reasonably expect to spot at least one woodpecker per 1-hour run, on average, not so many that we would be continually bombarded with stoppage (the original problem), but not so few that we would often come home empty-handed.

The third advantage of woodpeckers is that they are relatively large, charismatic birds with striking bold patterns (e.g., distinct crests, black-and-white striking, large beaks, bright red patches, unique vocals), which would make them not only exciting to see, but plausible for Aaron to learn to distinguish.  The fourth major advantage of woodpeckers is that there are five main species of woodpecker found in our woods, enough to have a good diversity and range of shapes and sizes, but a relatively small number for poor Aaron to learn to identify: Pileated woodpecker, Red-bellied woodpecker, Flicker, Hairy woodpecker, and Downy woodpecker (Yellow-bellied sapsuckers and the majestic Red-headed woodpecker also can be found but are not so common).

And the final reason to stop for woodpeckers: they EAT BY BASHING THEIR FACES INTO TREES — how can you not stop to witness that.  So, if you want to start to appreciate the feathered friends that serenade your runs, I suggest the woodpecker, for the reasons above, as a good place to start.

Aaron has now become a full-fledged Pecker Master.  At this time he can even distinguish the Hairy woodpecker from its nearly identical but slightly more petite Downy woodpecker cousin.  Find the Pecker is now our favorite running game.  He’s even ventured into learning other unusual bird species like the Rufous-sided towhee.  I think Aaron’s true crowning as Pecker Master happened when he identified one while we were biking.  Granted, I am not a fast biker (this was the first time I’d ridden a bike on a road since college).  But still, that’s some skill there.

Bull Run 50 miler

Manassas, VA

April 12, 2014

*warning: this report contains graphic descriptions of bodily fluids*

‘I had calculated that our team could win even if we all had cruddy days,’ I told my teammate Robin as we strolled into the Do Loop around mile 30 of the Bull Run Run.  ‘But it never occurred to me that we’d hit this level of cruddy.’  Robin had been dragging me along since Fountainhead, where I had collapsed into a chair and made no signs of getting up.  My race had been going fabulously for the first 20 or so miles, but I was horribly nauseated by the time I got to the Wolf Run Shoals aid station, and spewed vomit and diarrhea shortly thereafter.  Trying to run made me sick to my stomach, and trying to eat made me gag.  But I knew that the major aid station at Fountainhead was just a couple miles away.  When I reached Fountainhead I plopped into chair, immobilized,  and was ready to throw in the towel.  I still had 20+ miles to go, and I couldn’t see any direction for my race to go except down into that death spiral where you’re too sick to eat, and without any food you ultimately lose all energy to move.  Twenty miles is a long way to do the sad walk.

Justine was there with her two kids, and I announced to her that I was ready to drop then and there as I crumpled into a chair.  But dammit I was on the all-women’s team Wussies with Pussies (censored version: Wussies with Kittycats), and all four of us had to finish or our team would be disqualified.  Man, signing up for a team had seemed like such a good idea at the time.  I always loved running on the cross country team in high school and college, having a sense of camaraderie, working together, and running for something larger than yourself.  But for that the only requirement was completing a measly three miles — not fifty.   I was beginning to regret the hole I’d cornered myself into.  I sat in my chair watching blankly as other runners came and went — Keith, several women, and eventually my teammate Robin, who was also having some stomach problems.  Justine must be a marmot-whisperer, because against all inertia she was able to coax me out of my chair to just ‘get moving.’  I mean, what other option did I have?  I couldn’t drop because of the team, I was just delaying the inevitable.

Robin was leaving Fountainhead as well, and the two of us agreed to just walk together for a bit.  Robin proposed a game plan where we at least ran the downhills but could walk the rest.  Otherwise we’d be out there forever.  The downhills were actually the hardest on my stomach, and I proposed alternative strategies (i.e., not running ever).  But Robin was determined to get to Hemlock before nightfall, and if I didn’t want to be left behind I had to oblige.  Every time we went down a hill I was hit with a wave of nausea and would gag at the bottom.  That white loop was awful, but at least Robin was very good at distracting me with good conversation.

It was kind of painful to see just how far back in the pack we had slipped when we started seeing runners already coming our way out of the Do Loop — Mario, Jack, Brad, the two ladies vying for the lead, and, to my great delight, Aaron.  I gave Aaron a good whine about my vomity state of affairs.  But he was running great, and we let him on his way.  After years of struggling with Lyme disease, this was really Aaron’s first smooth race where he felt like his old self again.  So great to him back on top.

Bull Run was my first 50 mile race, but I knew that if I had a good day I had as good a shot at winning as anyone.  Aaron and I had done a number of training runs between Hemlock and Fountainhead, and I was feeling very comfortable with the course.  The fibroma on my foot is still there and occasionally gets inflamed, but I knew it could go the distance.  I had executed my early race plan to a tee, running my own pace and letting the other women run ahead, settling into a very comfortable fifth place by Hemlock.  I had moved into third place shortly after the Marina.  I was eating well, and feeling great.

The night before the race I remarked to Aaron that I couldn’t wait to see who would end up being my running buddy.  Aaron and I had decided not to run together (i.e., Aaron had announced he wasn’t going to run with me).  But I had always envisioned that I would find someone along the trail who would be good company, like I often do in races.  It’s so much better for me if I find someone chatty like Zaruba at Potomac Heritage or Schuster at Holiday Lake or one of those colorful characters who make me forget that I’m in the middle of a race.  I initially ran with Robin, which was great, but her pace was a little quicker than I had in mind, and I let her go.  After the Marina I found myself in particularly unfavorable company.  No naming names, but even Sean doesn’t like this dude.  And Sean likes Hot Pockets.  He’s just always hyper-competitive even in really inappropriate contexts like MGM.  Today his absurdly booty shorts were particularly irksome.  I tried to step aside and let him pass me, but circumstances made us keep criss-crossing.  I can’t blame him for making me vomit (at least not literally).  But I was definitely riled, and the timing of my stomach ills was eerily contemporaneous.   And if he can mess with Seanie’s impenetrable karma, just imagine what kind of hole he can blast though mine.

It’s entirely likely that this disruption of my early relaxed pace contributed to the stomach issues that ensued shortly thereafter.  All of my good (ie, puke-free) ultras have been when Aaron stays with and we treat the event like we’re out for a long training run and there just happens to be a race going on around us.  I grew up doing short races, where the race was all you ever had on your mind, and when I don’t have someone doing a good job of distracting me, my mind tends to drift back towards racing mode.  In fact, every ultra that Aaron has accompanied me for I’ve had a great day (Promise Land, Iceland, Highland Sky – take 2, Catawba), and every ultra that I’ve run solo I’ve puked (Highland Sky – take 1, Holiday Lake, Willis River).  When I’m running with Aaron we make fun of those annoying competitive dudes, rather than letting them get under my skin.  I bet if Aaron had been running with me at Bull Run we would have laughed and swapped stories about the ‘unfavorable company’ and it wouldn’t have unraveled my race.  Not that I’m going to make Aaron to stay at my side every race, I just need to learn how to buffer myself even when when he’s not there.

All aspirations for the podium clearly were long gone by the time Robin and I ambled into the Do Loop.  But we were trying to figure out whether we still had a chance to vie for the team title, and the possibility of it kept us going forward, and even trotting down the hills against the objections of my stomach.  There were only two all-female teams: Wussies with Pussies and last year’s winning team of Kathleen, Kari, Stephanie, and Tracy (team STAKK), which made the rivalry particularly fierce (team STAKK had written on all their legs BIF for Bring It Fuckers).

I had given up trying to eat any gels or even my drink mix, but at the Do Loop aid station I was able to get down some watermelon and ginger ale, and over the course of the Do Loop my nausea began to subside and my spirits  heighten.  As my nausea relented, I was beginning to actually really enjoy walking along with Robin.  We hadn’t caught up in a long time — on my decision to stay put in DC, on Aaron’s Lyme recovery, Adam’s back, on Robin’s plans to take a bit of a break from the ultra scene.  It began to seem plausible that we could keep this up with another 10-15 miles.

We started to increase our ratio of running to walking ever so slightly.  But my stomach was still in edge, and after revisiting the Do Loop aid station I had to let Robin go while I went off to  ‘scratch some leaves’ .  But afterwards I felt a lot better, and was able to run with decent pace back to Fountainhead and arrive just shortly after Robin.  All the shitting had made my bum-hole really sore, and by good fortune Adam had a tube of butt cream on him.  But after the application my finger came out draped with blood.  It was a warm day, and the volunteers were very active about offering runners wet towels, which I used to clean off my red fingers.  But I refused to turn the towel back over when the volunteer wanted to rinse it off to reuse for other runners.  I implored her not to reuse a towel that was now covered in my rectal serum, and I tried to throw the towel away.  But the bag I found turned out to be recycling and the volunteers kept shoeing me away from everything that looked trashbag-like.  As the unofficial VHTRC epidemiologist, I really think there should be BIOHAZARD boxes at the aid stations for proper disposal of such materials.  Then again, it can’t be any more dangerous than whatever was served up at the annual Awards Dinner.  (I was planning as a joke to show up at an aid station requesting a crab cake, but I didn’t come across White House Tom or anyone who I was convinced would get it.)  I still wasn’t eating or drinking much, and didn’t take any of the stuff I’d given Adam as a drop bag.  But I was feeding off of all the support from the incredibly helpful folks at the aid station and other WUSsies along the way (Tom and Kirstin were especially good to see at the road crossing) and I was catching a second wind when Robin and I trotted out of Fountainhead with just a half-marathon to the finish.

My original race plan had been to run easy until the last stretch from Fountainhead back to Hemlock, when I would cut myself loose and have a chance to hunt down the competition.  I clearly was no longer in the running for individual awards, but the team competition was still looking pretty tight.  Robin and I had been passed in the Do Loop by Kari, and Kathleen was way ahead and would ultimately win the race.  But our two other teammates, Alisa and Boots, were looking great and their performances were keeping us in the running despite our dismal straights.  Even though my race reeked of disappointment at an individual level, I felt spurred to crank it up for the Pussies.  Robin had done a spectacular job nursing me back from the grave, and we had really worked together as teammates through our rough patch.  But I was pieced back together, smelling barn, and felt I owed it to the Pussies to give everything I had left in me to the finish.

It was perplexing to me that I felt so energized even though I hadn’t been consuming anything except ginger ale and a bit of essentially calorie-free watermelon over the last hours.  Normally under such caloric deficit I’d be collapsed in a heap.  But I found myself mysteriously able to ride through the depletion.  I was still shitting diarrhea every 4-5 miles or so.  And not eating much of anything.  But my legs were thrilled to be free from the yoke of my stomach, and to have a chance to run.  I missed the company of Robin, and wondered whether the caloric deficit would eventually bite me in the ass somewhere along the way back to Hemlock.  But I ran with abandon, getting stronger and stronger all the way to the finish line.  Runners were perplexed how someone could be whizzing by so late in the race.  A couple asked me quizzically if I was even in the race.  A few called out ‘sandbagger’ and I felt the need to defend myself from such accusations and stop and explain that I had in face been puking and walking for 15 miles and had just caught a second wind only recently.  The highlight of the race was when I flew by the bad karma dude from earlier doing his own sad walk.

Aaron finished in 7:48 in 13th place, a fantastic Aaron-is-back-from-Lyme finish (see his recent recounting of his struggle with Lyme disease), and he and Adam were hanging out together at Hemlock wondering when Robin and I would be coming in.  ‘Running 9-minute-ish miles, they’ll probably come in around 9:30 or so, maybe 9:15,’ Adam estimated.  ‘I don’t know,’ Aaron doubted.  ‘Martha tends to smell barn.’  Adam looked at his watch, ‘Well, it’s possible she could come in closer to 9.’

Right on cue, I came up the hill to the finish area in just under 8 hours and 45 minutes.  I didn’t sprint in — that seemed like a tool thing to do at a 50 mile race.  Robin held tight and came in 30 or so minutes later.  Alisa struggled with her own bout of puking at the end but battled in for the team, and Boots managed to be the only Pussy not to succumb to stomach problems.  Bootsie’s clutch performance, beating out both the 3rd and 4th runners on team STAKK, secured victory and winners’ blankets for the Pussies (and confirming my theory that the slower runners are the real heros that make or break teams and it hardly matters what the faster runners do).  This year we had a WUS sweep, as our Wussies Chasing Kitties men’s team of Mario, Keith, Aaron, and Ryan also won the men’s team competition.  Mario had a great run, finishing 5th.  Robin made us awesome pink Wussies with Pussies (Censored) shirts that we all sported for the team photo.  Although I was disappointed that I hadn’t been able to compete individually, there was an overwhelming sense of redemption at the end as the Pussies celebrated our team victory.  And it was great to just hang out at the finish line party and catch up with folks — if I hadn’t still been feeling queasy I would have stayed out there for hours.

All in all, I’m glad I eked out my first 50 miler.  This was the first time that I have ever bounced back from the stomach ails graveyard — a valuable lesson that in these longer events you have to keep plugging on, because a 180 turnaround is always possible.  Going forward, I’ve decided that I really need to do more ultra events.  I’ve been racing so long (since age 14) that I feel like an old hat who knows what I’m doing, but I still have incredibly little experience at these long distances.  And the only way I’m going to learn how pace myself and balance hydration and nutrition is to simply do more races.  Now that running 50k or 50 miles doesn’t seem  like a big deal anymore, I should be able to do these events more casually.  I’ve got Highland Sky on the calendar for June.  And Aaron and I are thinking of going to Montana in August for Fool’s Gold 50 miler.  I only wish there were more ultra events that had team competitions.  In the end, it was being part of the Pussies that made BRR, even under trying conditions, a fantastic event and a race I plan to return to.  It was a beautiful day with flowers in bloom and waterfalls gushing and birds singing and friends around every corner.  But is there any reason why we can’t we add a team competition to Stone Mill?  Or the Women’s Half Marathon?  Something to keep my sorry ass going even when it wants to crumple into a chair.

 

 

My life does not center around running, or science, or even kitties and ponies: anyone who knows me is well aware that my world revolves around one thing: food.  Part of this is purely physiological: it is jaw-dropping to observe the difference between an underfed Martha (curled up in a ball sobbing on the floor) and, moments later, a well-fed Martha, springing through the meadows.  This is a trait common along my mom’s side of the family, but particularly pronounced in me.

But I also have what can only be called a passion for food.  My mom still thinks that I’m a picky eater because I refuse to eat mayonnaise.  But since childhood I’ve had a voracious and diverse appetite.  As a kid I would down several lobsters in a single sitting.  My record is 4 1.25-lb lobsters in one dinner.   Today I love calf’s liver and raw oysters and sweetbreads and sea urchin (although I’m picky about where I’ll eat some of these; a lot of Japanese restaurants feel compelled to put uni on the menu but little is more revolting than bad sea urchin).

Given the hold that food has on my mood, I’ve really struggled to enjoy recent VHTRC events, which seem to have mistaken fancy and complicated for high quality food.  For me, the absolute ultimate in food is represented by Meyer Dairy in State College, PA.  I have an obsession with throw-back ice cream places, and Nutters in Sharpsburg, WV also has a place in my heart.  In DC I’ve been a devotee of Max’s in Glover Park, and I am forlorn that Max’s is closing after decades because he essentially got kicked out by his landlord.  Darn capitalism.  I’ve always been perplexed by how hard it is to find good ice cream in a city (even New York City is a struggle), but I guess the premature departure of Max’s kind of shows why.

I’m not so into reading food critic reviews and investigating.  What really beats my drum is the random food find when we’re somewhere where we least expect it: that pulled pork sandwich across from the gas station in Southern Utah, the ragu we had skiing in the Dolomites, the fish restaurant in Lima…..  My dire need for food sometimes is a blessing in disguise, forcing us to try off the beaten path places before I turn into a pumpkin.

For example, today we discovered Little Villagio, only because I was so desperate for food after a run in Bull Run that Aaron stopped in Clifton, VA sheerly for its proximity to Hemlock.  You know that I’m in a dismal state when I can’t even muster up the drive to go Wegmans.  Wegmans is up there with ice cream, ponies, and kitties in my list of obsessions.  Wegmans is particularly close to my heart because the store in State College got me through the three years of my PhD.  But I’ve been recovering from a bout of illness, I’m PMSing like mad right now (which has major immunological and physiological effects), and my Chipotle from last night wasn’t sitting so well, so I was feeling pretty queasy after our jaunt from Hemlock to Fountainhead and back.  But I knew that I’d feel better with food, and felt like I could get something like a slice of pizza down.  As we were returning home through Clifton, Aaron spotted a little pizza place, which I eagerly agreed to check out.  When we walked in I knew we’d hit money.  My stomach couldn’t handle any toppings, so we just got a margherita.  As bad as I was feeling, the pizza was still divine.  Apparently they just opened in October.  Introducing our new official Pizza Run.  We will be BACK.

Here are some other local places I was lucky enough to have discovered:

Cornucopia in Bethesda, for the most fantastic Italian sandwiches.  So simple, just a touch of balsamic and olive oil on my prosciutto and provolone, maybe some roasted red peppers if I’m feeling frisky.  But the BREAD.  Vace in Cleveland Park is a great little Italian deli that I feel lucky to have within spitting distance.  But the sandwich at Vace can’t hold a candle to Cornucopia, and it’s 100% because of the bread.  I know we can’t take food opinions from a guy who likes hotpockets, but even Sean admitted that it was the best sandwich he’d ever had.

Aaron and I are lazy bears.  We think every week about joining in Keith’s new running series in the park on Sundays, but we just don’t get out of bed in time.  We laze around the house all morning and from time to time make little mumbles to each other about how we should probably go run before it’s lunch time.  Because if noon rolls around then I’ll have to eat again and then we’ll have to wait for me to digest and there goes the day…….  But we’ve hit on a nifty trick to motivate ourselves out the door on weekends: the Bagel Run.  Bethesda Bagels has by far the best bagels in the city.  There used to just be a small store in Bethesda, but now there is a location in Dupont as well.  If you want to get a bagel in a timely and efficient fashion, I would *not* recommend Bethesda Bagels in Dupont.  You have to navigate a minefield of trendy Millenials and disorganized staff to get your most delicious bagel (Aaron gets the egg and cheese sandwich, I opt for the lox and cream cheese bagel).  Instead, Aaron and I usually wind our way north up the Valley Trail to Meadowbrook Stables, continue along Rock Creek to link up with the Georgetown Branch trail, and the GBT dumps us off seconds away from Bethesda row and our doughy destination.  If it’s warm, we’ll eat the bagels outside, or get tea at Barnes and Nobles to warm up.  Then we hop on the metro in Bethesda and ride home to Cleveland Park.  If we want to run Potomac Heritage and go to the Dupont store, we can generally amble back up Connecticut Avenue even after our bellies are filled with bagel goodness (good training for the donut run).

You never know what kind of weather you’re going to get in March in DC.  The Monday before Catawba it snowed.  By the time Saturday rolled around it was sunny T-shirt weather in the 50s/60s.  There was still some slushy snow at Catawba’s higher elevations, but the weather was glorious and I actually came away with a sunburn.  Aaron and I enjoyed the day with Seanie and Ryan P., our new Finnish pal, who stuck with us through to the end.  You can totally tell Ryan is a Finn from (a) his giveaway last name, and (b) how content he is to quietly trot along, joining in conversation when called upon, but otherwise perfectly happy to run in silence.  I had a friend from Sweden who told me his buddies’ idea of a night out was to go to a bar, sip vodka, and say nothing.

Catawba is a great run for me to do because it’s so sneeeeeeeaky.  Sure, 35 miles, I can do that.  Eight hours later when I realize I’ve been on my feet for way longer than I ever have in my life, I discover that we’ve been running super-extra-Horton miles.  But it’s a good way for me to crack open my vision of the possible.  If Catawba was advertised at 45 or 50 miles, you’d never get my doubting self to show.  I have to be tricked into doing a 35-miler that runs like a 50.  It’s all about the sneaky mind games.  But it’s good, now I can imagine completing a 50 miler.  Which is a darn good thing now that I’ve signed up for the Bull Run 50 in April!  I know, I’m such a baby ultra runner, I haven’t even done a 50 miler.  I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around the fact that I’m supposed to run 50 miles in a month.  But having Catawba under my belt helps heaps, especially since it was *fun*.   Why was it so fun?  (a) the sun was out and spring was singing; (b) have you ever known anyone who loves the trails more than Sean?? his beaming was absolutely contagious on McAfee’s Knob and Tinker Cliffs; (c) it was great to see Aaron finally having a great day out there after all his battles with Lyme and bursitis; (d) did I mention the sun?  I also tried out arm warmers and gators for the first time — sold!

I had a bit of a low  after Sean dropped out and we had to endure that interminable North Mountain PUDs (pointless ups and downs), which I nearly turned into a disaster when I mega-crashed on the final descent down to the aid station.  My foot’s come a long way, but I can’t bomb down the descents like I used to, and I haven’t quite adjusted my feet.  I went down so hard and so fast, I had blood spurting out of four spots.  It was the kind of fall that leaves you dizzy and shivering.  Given  how my knees have a nasty habit of always connecting with rocks, I felt real lucky to be able to walk away and continue the rest of the run.

Overall, I gave my foot a PASS at Catawba, which was good enough to let myself join Robin, Boots, and Alisa on a Bull Run women’s team.  All four runners have to finish, and it will be my first 50 miler, so I wouldn’t have let myself join a team if I wasn’t confident I could finish.  We submitted our name as WUSsies with Pussies, but they made us change it to WUSsies with Kittycats.  We’re trying to convince the men’s WUS team to be WUSsies after Kittycats.  I did a lot of team sports as a kid and teen (soccer, basketball, field hockey), so a major appeal of Bull Run is the team part.  Wussies with Pussies — best team name ever!

On the drive home on Sunday, Aaron and I stopped and strolled along the first miles of the Hellgate course, the closest I will ever get to running Hellgate.  I’ve tried to tempt him away with proposed trips to run this awesome Kepler 50k in New Zealand that’s right around Hellgate time, but that race has a fierce hold.

If you’re wondering where the pictures are for this blog, I can only say that Keith’s camera is the giant black hole of race photos.  It’s where smiley runner faces go to die.  For all the pictures I’ve seen that camera snap, they hardly ever make a public appearance.

 

3rd WUS Beer Mile

February 25, 2014 (Bootsie’s 30th birthday)

Chevy Chase, MD

The 3rd WUS Beer Mile was held in honor of Boots’s 30th birthday.  The National Cathedral cops had kicked WUSsies off the grounds for their Thursday night PUSH group (I think they objected to Tom C’s chains workout).  So we opted for a new locale: my parents’ house in Chevy Chase, which sits nicely on a 0.3 mile loop.

In the winter weather, only of the hardiest of WUSsies came out to play.  Bootsie powered through to a resounding Beer Mile victory.  With Neal and Bobby out of the running, Pat cruised to become the 3rd male champion of the WUS beer mile.  We didn’t have so much in terms of runners, but we had ample photographers, beer-hander-outers, traffic directors, and race timers.

To celebrate, Momma Jill hosted a raging party at casa Nelson, complete with New Haven pizza, Bootsie’s homemade cheesecake, a killer Lion King soundtrack, and a fierce game of pool involving no individuals sober enough to sink any pockets.  At least we weren’t tempted with any of those lethal Cactus Cantina margarita pitchers.