Author: martha

WUSIes

 

You know that Martha has taken you to an establishment where you are guaranteed to have fun when the stalls of the bathroom recommend only ‘ONE PERSON PER STALL.’  Indeed, we had a rollicking good time dancing at Splash on Friday night in NYC.  We’ll leave the story at that.

 

The bartender at Cuba (mighty good restaurant in the Village) recommended we go to a hot club on the Upper East called Lavo.  But we didn’t quite fit in with the scene there.  And the clincher was when the bouncer told us we weren’t on the ‘guest list.’

Cuba was a damn good restaurant.  But I’m not sure I would recommend getting the squid ink paella right before trying to get into the hottest club in town.

All endurance athletes know that refueling is key to recovery after a long night of partying.  Okay, this shot is a fraud — it’s from the Original Pancake House in Bethesda several days earlier.  There’s no way we were looking this fresh Saturday morning.

Just to make sure that the Italianos didn’t get bored, I set up a lunch with the famous sex blogger Max.  He told us fun stories about how his girlfriend’s mom doesn’t like him on account of his lurid blogging about her daughter.  We kind of thought the mom had a point.  We also thought the mom should probably disconnect her computer for her future sanity.  And just live in a box.  For the rest of her life.

The Italianos had done brilliantly with all the curve balls I’d thrown, but to try to balance out the weekend with some normal, well-adjusted people, we met my Amherst XC teammate Helen Dole for a run in Central Park Sunday morning.  Helen is the epitome of sunkissed happy normal, a nice antidote to totally f’ed up, in your face Max.

Alice and Isabella did a photo shoot around Central Park, mastering their glamor shots and Come Hither looks, while Helen and I went for a spin around the park (we ran right by Deena Kastor!).

Back in DC we got straight to work, building our phylogeographies of avian influenza virus in Turkey (H5N1) and Italy (H7N1), and of course hitting up Old Lady Aerobics (OLA) on Monday night.

With all this preparation the Italianos are totally ready to take on Tuesday night WUS.  The question to the WUSsies is: Are you ready for them?

 

For a year or so now, McConnellsburg, PA, has been the official Drop-off Point halfway between DC and State College, PA, where some kind DCer drops me off and some kind Penn Stater (generally my dearest friend and connoisseur of fine automobiles Tom Cali) picks me up as I transport myself between work gigs in DC and Penn State, where I still work closely with my old dissertation adviser — and run at noontime with the Nittany Valley Running Club.  So when I discovered that there was a race being organized in this exact location on the exact Memorial Day weekend when I needed to transport myself from State College to DC, I figured it was a no-brainer.  I arranged with Tom that after we ran the Black Moshanon 10k, one of our favorite 10k events that winds up and through the forest outside State College, so that he could claim his 7th straight Harry Lyons award for top finisher over 50 (Tom is 56), he would drive me to Cowan Gap Park outside McConnellsburg, where I would pitch a tent, run the 50k on Sunday morning, and catch a ride back to DC with a fellow VHTRCer.  Easy peasy.

First, I couldn’t reserve a campsite — they were all booked for Memorial Day weekend.  Fortunately a kind fellow named Rick said I could pitch my tent on his site.  There was some mentioning via email that I could share a tent or sleep in his car, but believe me, I would find room to pitch my tent even if it was in a tree.

And Saturday morning I ditched my plan of running Black Mo easy.  I couldn’t help it — in these beautiful woods on this lovely day I was not going to cede victory to a 23-year old girl wearing headphones who dashed to the front.  And then it was way too tempting to catch up with Tom and run the whole race with him, stride for stride, enjoying the woods and crossing the finish line together, tying for 3rd, averting any problems with over-eager finish line midgets, and securing the coveted Harry Lyons award and overall 1st woman.

Tom and I had a beautiful drive through the forest and country roads to Cowans Gap and were able to find the VHTRC group at Pavilion 4.  Confident that I could no doubt outrun Rick if necessary, Tom dropped me and my boatload of stuff off and left me to listen to 3 hours of stories about what a nightmare course tomorrow was going to be.  Examples included:

You have to climb as if you’re trying to fall on your face.  Otherwise, you’ll fall backwards down the hill.

When we showed the rangers the course we had planned, they couldn’t fathom that it was for humans.

Since it was on the heels of MMT (or maybe because the course is psycho), no WUSsies were signed up on the entrants list (although Sean insists he would have run if it weren’t for his brain surgery).  I was also kind of worried about my ride home from someone named ‘Marina’, who offered to take me as far as the ‘Reston/Herndon bus terminal’.  Me, a week’s worth of work and running clothes, my tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat.  Right.  Fortunately, always my Savior, Keith announced at the last minute that he was going to come up to run.  I couldn’t convince him to come up that night to protect me from Rick’s tent, but at least he would make sure I got out of the run alive.

I ran with Keith and a new person named Ryan Henry (well, new for me; I’m sure in Ryan’s eyes I was the new person).  Ryan was there to witness perhaps one of the rarest phenomenon in ultra running: the act of without-breaking-a-stride-finding-four-4-leaf-clovers.  I was running with Ryan when suddenly I announced Stop.  Wait.  I trotted back a bit down the trail, plucked my clovers, and delivered them to Alisa & co at the first aid station.  It was such an ordeal to carry two water bottles and my clovers that I decided I’d had it and dropped a water bottle at the aid station.  Alisa said she’d bring it to the 1/2 way mark at the pavilion but we missed her and unfortunately that water bottle also had all my salt tabs.

But no matter, the course was awesome and we decided at the halfway mark to go out for another loop.  The climbs had not been exaggerated.  Not only that, but there were quite a few more of them than Keith and I had envisioned, including a nasty little extra one tacked on at the end.  But at least I saw porcupine!  And a turtle, and a black rat snake, and a red newt….  I have to say, abandoning my water bottle would have been disastrous had Keith not been available for extra water and salt.  Even still, I was severely dehydrated and never peed during the run or for several hours later (not until Keith and I were conveniently on rt 270).

All in all, many, many thanks to Alisa, Sue, and all the volunteers.  The course was well supplied and marked (except one little section where a ribbon was missing and I went off course a ways).  I hope to be back next year!

 

 

Well, I think we have finally discovered what will bring the WUSsies out in droves.

a) 100+ degree heat

b) promises of a purply toenail

c) Bobby Gill [I guess that’s kind of the same thing as a)]

One might have thought that the CPBG patrons might have been nonplussed to be sharing their roof deck with 15 sweaty runners (although we were kind enough to follow Aaron’s lead and wring the puddles of sweat out of our shirts before entering, much to the delight of a certain 11-year old boy passing on the sidewalk (Mommy, can we have pizza EVERY Tuesday night??).  Instead, some kind ladies at a neighboring table shared with us their entire cake — Farewell, boss Richard!

Such an outpouring of WUSsies deserves some kind of commemoration.  We were graced by the presence of a record number of women:

Marjon (long-awaited since Eagle Run!), Jamie (Horton’s former employee, visiting DC for the summer), Sabrina (we’re looking forward to some lessons in non-practical theology), Anna (getting back into training for Beer Mile redemption), Mackenzie (will be working on email word choice — although her endorsement may have played a key role in WUSsie turnout), Kirstin (best dressed, as always), Boots (one of our scarce and prized female WUS regulars), and myself (tolerated only because I’m the only one who knows the damn trails out there).

The ladies begrudgingly tolerated the men only because they carried our beer money and water (or in the case of Randy sprinted back to the WUS house to retrieve the beer money):

Randy (Amy and Marjon’s friend visiting from Portland (really missing the Portland weather)), Bobby (I can’t run because my biceps are too big) Gill, JLD (tolerated because he always brings females), Ryon (tolerated because he always has some entertaining new piece of gear [this time it was a wet rag tied around his neck]), Aaron (who’s greatest contribution to the run may be the squeal he always elicits from Kirstin — well, the impersonations aren’t shabby either), Tom (who doesn’t seem to mind the squeals Aaron elicits from Kirstin), Joe (I’m still waiting to see the day Joe gets pissed about something), Art (who stole my seat but fortunately not my beer).

Noticeably absent:

Keith: perhaps tired of being my waterboy

Brian: sad sad sad 🙁 🙁 still not running

Sean A: hot Match date!

 

Sean B: probably couldn’t find his heart monitor

Doug: I can’t think of anything disparaging to say about Doug but he wanted his absence to be noted

 

My purple toe from Holy Cowans Gap, an insane 50k designed by Alisa Springman and Sue Malone in Southern PA (blog on that is forthcoming):

 

 

 

Greg Luna, Tom Cali, Meira Minard, Tara Murray, and I, with the spectator support of Eric & Wendy, Greg’s dogs Alberto and Tecalli, and chickens Esther, Amy, and Emily, completed what will be forever remembered as the most scenic Beer Mile ever, and perhaps the least competitive.

Indeed, no one actually completed the Beer Mile.  We all ran 4 laps, but Greg had 3 beers and Tom, Meira, and Tara each had 2.  I announced from the get-go that my noontime stomach fun (recovery has been slow from Kerry’s Death March) would prevent me from imbibing any beer, but that I promised to get just as entertainingly drunk off of the Wild Turkey and Ginger Ale that Eric & Wendy provided.

I definitely lived up to that promise, and by the 4^th lap I was doing cartwheels, round-offs, summersaults, stealing course cones, pinching cheeks….

 

…and playing with a dog chewy toy that greatly resembled something else – what were you thinking when you bought that, Greg?

Greg provided fabulous Layer 3 shirt prizes to the ‘winners’ — my cartoon butt also got a good Booty-Pop there.

After reminiscing with Justine at Kerry’s Death March about our human pony shows, I couldn’t resist Greg’s dog jump:

Layer 3 Martha Mile shirts were given to the victors:

Greg: best designed Beer Mile course ever

Tara: best Martha impression during a Beer Mile

Martha: most drunk

Tom also got a prize:

Unfortunately, no one in the group of (mainly Leesburg Mafia) runners that did Kerry’s Death March with me on Saturday had a camera on them (where are Aaron and Bobby when you need them?).  So although KDM certainly lived up to its name, we unfortunately have no visuals of :

1.     The big meaty rattlesnake that sent me screaming like Neve Campbell.  It was just lazing there in the trail with its diamond-backed pattern and by Sean’s account I jumped 5 feet to clear it (by the time I saw it I was nearly stepping on it).  I was still screaming steps later when I was sure I spotted another one, convincing me that I had entered the nightmare Indiana Jones portion of Shenandoah and putting on a sprint like I was escaping Matt Woods’ angry grizzly.  When the snake flurry ceased, I stopped screaming and trotted back to the first snake, which was still sprawled across the path and making Sean, Brian, David, Gina, and Courtney take a wide bushwhack around it.  This sighting hit home a point that Sean had made earlier in the morning when Justine was reluctant to run ultras out West like Zane Grey because of the snakes: ‘At least out West it’s all open so you can see the snakes before you step on them.’  Indeed.  As we were on the topic of snakes I also recalled the time my friend Sarah and I were enjoying a hike around a lake in Thailand and flushed an Asian cobra vertically that was in high grass only 5 feet away from us.  We were too scared even to scream, almost too scared to hold our digestive tracts, but fortunately the flared cobra was scared too and darted off in the opposite direction (Sarah and I were distinctly lacking in hygiene by that point in our 3 month South-East Asia backpacking adventure, so I don’t blame the snake for wanting nothing to do with us).

2.     Courtney’s profusely bleeding head.  It was only after our lovely dip in the waterfall pool at mile 25 that we noticed that blood was dripping from a nick next to Courtney’s left eye, creating crimson waterfalls of his own.  Apparently Courtney’s eye had made friends with a rock during a spill.  Courtney had spent the entire run talking about a) high school track times (85%), b) geocaching (10%), and c) pointing out alternative routes that were either downhill, directly to his car (perhaps?), or required us to scrutinize the map for a while so he could catch his breath, all which was entertaining enough to actually make us want to wait for him.

3.     Little Devil Stairs, the only climb I’ve ever truly enjoyed every step of, and the only climb that I think I will ever be able to hang with Brian Schmidt on, primarily because he wanted a second opinion on which way exactly we were supposed to ascend this glorious waterfall every time we had to cross over it (Courtney and Gina made some wrong calls and ended up getting in some bonus Stairs).

4.     Me looking miserable at the top of Little Devil Stairs.  I was enjoying myself so thoroughly along the waterfall climb that I didn’t notice that something really horrible had entrenched itself in my stomach after the first aid station.  For the remainder of the run I would have to do 5-6 fartleks to catch up with the rest of the group every time I had to stop to allow for the exodus of the offending intestinal matter.  With 4 or so miles to go I ceased all eating and drinking and was able to control the spasms and enjoy myself again, but there were some serious low points during the mile 15-20 range that prompted several a ‘Is she okay?’ from fellow runners.  If I’m going to make it through Highland Sky in June I’m going to have to seriously figure out my stomach, which has always been my Achilles heel for ultra running.  I suspect that the highly concentrated PowerAid from the aid station was a major culprit, and I promise in race situations to forgo my beloved double-stuffed golden oreo cookie.  But this was an excellent wake-up call before my first ultra race in over 2 years (since Laurel Highlands 50k in June 2009, my first and only ultra race).  For me, it’s not about fitness, it’s about knowing that if I put my salt pills in my pocket without a plastic baggy they will disintegrate (lesson learned Saturday), that I need to bring my own drink mix or really water down the Gatorade/PowerAid, that I need to eat nothing solid and perhaps not drink so much.  I’ll have one more chance at Holy Cowan’s Gap next Sunday to see if I can get the hang of ultras.

Overall Kerry’s Death March was a great romp.  We ran a relaxed pace, keeping the group together.  I was given a small dispensation to bomb down the hills (‘Are you sure it’s okay, Sean?  Sure I’m not being a tool?  It’s just fun!  100%?  Okay, I’m going, last chance…..Don’t worry, I’ll stop soon’).  Of course my sporadic shoots to the front had some near dire consequences – like almost stepping on the rattler.  And on one downhill bomb I got distracted by having to weave through a group of Boy Scouts and missed a turn that could have spelled doom.  Fortunately I didn’t get too far down the hill before stopping to wait so I was still in earshot of Sean and Brian when they called for me from above.  I trotted up the hill to the turnoff, blaming the swarm of Boy Scouts for missing it, which prompted one of them to retort, ‘Don’t worry, you sure distracted us too.’  Oh well, what run is complete without some dirty Boy Scouts?