Wussies

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).

 

 

VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Results

 

‘Martha, are you running the race?’ Toni asked incredulously.  As of a week ago, I hadn’t yet signed up.

‘Good question.’  It was 8:13 am.  The race started at 8:30.  I was still torn. I wanted to run, but my poor body had barely eked it through Montana.  My chronically injured left foot, right IT, and right hamstring had all been whimpering all week, waking me up at night.  I needed a good rest.

But I also needed something else much more.  The year 2014 was supposed to be auspicious.  I had trained harder than ever, doing long run after long run leading up to Bull Run, cross training in the pool and on the bike.  My work productivity was through the roof — I’d never churned out so many first-author papers.  I’d scored interviews at top universities — ACC, Ivies.  And yet, somehow I felt like I just couldn’t catch a break.  Like I when you’re caught waiting at an road intersection for that gap in traffic that never comes — as if the traffic flows were perfectly timed against you in both directions.

It started with little nicks, absolutely trivial things like the VHTRC awards ceremony in February.  But the nicks started adding up — the unfathomable whims of the Stomach Gods, the Search Committee Gods, the Editor Gods, and the IT Band Gods.  I just needed something, anything, to throw me a bone before the year was up.

My warmup in Fountainhead on race morning had been lackluster.  I had been entirely unsuccessful in convincing my legs to do any strides or show any pep.  But then Toni mentioned Juanita’s Cantina at the Wolf Run Shoals aid station.

‘Okay, that settles it,’ I pronounced.  ‘I’ll run at least until I get to the tequila shots.’  I removed the gel pads out of my shoes that had been so troublesome in Montana.  I took a last stand-up pee in the woods.  Something about spreading your legs and peeing like a guy always gives me a little courage.

During the pre-race rendition of ‘Happy Trails,’ I noticed that I couldn’t find any of the other speedsters I’d expected to show up — Justine, Holly, Ragan.  Maybe I would get a break.  But when the race started, Justine had snuck in.  Justine was the one person Aaron had admitted could ‘give me a run for my money’ at the WHM.  The race was on!

I was very happy that Keith was rabbiting for me and Justine, and we headed up the road chatty and relaxed.  It occurred to me that maybe the best plan would be to just run with Justine for a ways.  The two of us had already separated from the rest of the field, we could just trot together.

But as soon as the course kicked us into the woods I took off.  A part of me was like, What the f^&k, what are you doing?  But I had an overriding instinct to separate myself and run my own race.  Sure, it sucks being the rabbit out front, knowing that Justine is lurking back there ready capitalize on any misstep or slackening.  But if I was going to come out and race, putting my injuries on the line, I wasn’t going to race tepid.

I was sweating bullets by the time I got to the Do Loop aid station, and had to drop my shirt there.  It wasn’t terribly hot, but the day’s upcoming rain was hanging in the air, and the humidity was high.  I was all-business in the aid stations, not much smiling or joking.  One issue with being first is that the aid stations are never ready for you, so I didn’t even get handed a water or gatorade when I went through at the Do Loop.  But the thing I love about the Women’s Half is that I know people at each and every aid station, and I always know I’ll get a lift from seeing Joe and Michele at the first aid station.

Now, the Do Loop is known for its little needles of steep up and downs.  But when you’re running something like Bull Run or Magnus Gluteus, you’re running slow enough that you don’t realize how technical the trail is.  When you’re racing the Women’s Half, it actually becomes a real technical challenge.

As you all know, things that remind me of ponies make me happiest.  What I love about technical trail is how it brings me back to pony jumping.  When you’re riding a horse over a complex set of jumps, you don’t actually want to be looking ahead through your horse’s ears.  Even as you’re going over the jump you need to already scanning for the next obstacle or you’re going to get a bad line.  The temptation is to focus on the task at hand and just react as obstacles fly at you.  But in trail running, pony jumping, or even mogul skiing, the key is not to be reactionary but to keep your eyes up and surveying.

Getting my plantar fibroma on my left foot in October had put a severe crimp in my technical train running.  I don’t like running boring flat trails.  I get mopey.  I bought my first pair of Hokas in June, with the hope that the extra cushion might protect the plantar fibroma and I might be able to return to some rocks.  I’m not wild about the Hokas (my heel would slip up in the back, causing heel pain), but with their fatty cushioning I did find myself in August, for the first time in eight months, starting to dance a bit on rocks again.

Toni and I were having a debate before the race about what sucks more: being at the front of the pack running your guts out, or being in the middle of the pack where it’s tough to run your own race.  I think we both had compelling arguments on either side, and I left it to Grand Arbiter Aaron to make the call.  Showing his fair and reasonable judgment, Aaron made concessions to both sides: on one hand, Aaron ceded with Toni that it was likely tougher to have to run the WHM in the middle of the pack than to run towards the front in positions 2 through, say, 5, or maybe 10.

But Aaron, having many times led a race himself, had to acknowledge that there is a pain and discomfort that is unique being the front-runner that no one else in the race knows.  It is more than a physical pain, it is a psychological terror to feel the hounds pursuing and be running for your life.  Sure, in many longer ultras the front-runner is so far ahead that they’re not feeling the heat of the chase.  But that’s never the case at a half-marathon distance.

Aaron was taking photographs near Fountainhead, around mile 8.  Since his camera time-stamps his photos, we know that I was exactly 1 minute and 5 seconds ahead of Justine at that point.  I’m smiley and happy to see Aaron in the photo and feeling comfortable.  But I never stopped feeling the chase.  I shot through aid stations, never lingering.  I put some heat on over the last five miles of the race and ended up finishing 4 minutes ahead of Justine.  I was well off of my course record from last year in 1:36.  But the conditions weren’t as good as last year, and overall it was a deeply satisfying race.  Justine is clearly one of the most talented female runners around, and someone with the speed and strength to be a threat at any distance.  I can still feel all of my injuries, 1-2-3, but they stayed pretty quiet during the race, and it was a major breakthrough to be able to dance on rocks like old times.  I couldn’t fly down the hills the way I used to, and Aaron and I share a frustration in not being able to race up to our level of fitness because of the injuries we carry, but overall I feel like I finally got tossed a bone.

I was able to enjoy the post-race festivities this year because I brought my own pizza.  After a hard race I need ‘real’ food — not little finger nibbles — or I get nauseated.  I felt so good after eating my two pieces of Vace pizza that I was able to drink Mario’s delicious pear vodka smoothie.  Mario and WH Tom did a fantastic job manning the smoothie booth.  And it was great to not feel like I was going to spew and catch up with people — Justine, Heather, Keith, Robin, and even my old XC teammate from Amherst College Annie who had flown up from Miami for JLD’s fiance Liana’s bacherlorette party.  I keep in touch with a couple people from the Amherst XC team, but I hadn’t seen Annie in over a decade.  Annie was very chill and easy going back in college.  I was not.  Some day I’ll regale you guys with all my stories from college.  I only ran for one fall season, but I packed in more drama than all the other runners combined, with big highs (All-American) and big lows (I got suspended for a month and couldn’t even practice with the team) and constantly sparred with the coach I detested for so many reasons (telling girls they were fat and shouldn’t eat dessert, making me run when I was injured, refusing to give me back my All-American diploma that he’d taken to ‘get framed’….).  He’s since been replaced with a new head women’s coach, a woman.  Thank god.  Even with my one-month suspension in Sept/Oct, I finished 19th at Nationals in early November, barely trained (I dropped a full minute off my 5k between Regionals and Nationals to run 17:44).  Who knows what I might have churned out if I’d had a coach I didn’t loathe.

I promise this will be my last WHM, at least for the near future.  I don’t want to drain the race of its excitement by letting it become all too predictable.  Pass the torch, as they say.  But it isn’t easy to step away.  Aaron thought he was going to escape it this year and then I snuck in at the very end.  Next summer he’ll know to handcuff me until September 5th.

 

 

Fool’s Gold 50 mile

Pony, MT

August 23, 2014

The Fool’s Gold 50 mile in Pony, Montana was everything RD Alex Papadopoulis had promised: big mountains, sweeping grasslands, open skies.  Only there were a couple things Alex hadn’t mentioned when he came to WUS back in April to tout the race.  First was the fact that temperatures were in the 40s in Pony and in the 30s as you increased elevation on race day.  Second was the driving freezing rain that made it a tad difficult to appreciate the pretty vistas.  And third was the 6-8 inches of snow that had fallen along the highest part of the 50 mile course the night before the race.  Now, of course all of this was way out of RD Alex’s control.  The mountains of Montana sure have way of deciding for themselves whether they feel like being pretty or not.  The good thing was that Aaron and I had come all this way from DC and had to give it a go despite the conditions.  The other good thing was that I had no idea what I was getting into.  The base of the mountain didn’t seem all that terribly cold.  And I was terribly proud of how much gear I had remembered to bring, all slicked out in arm warmers and gaiters and the ultra-lightweight Patagonia shell I had just splurged on.  I had even remembered my little gel heel pads (more on my heel problems later).  I was beginning to fancy myself as a Trail Runner Esperto.

‘So, who here hasn’t studied the map and read all the emails I’ve been sending out?’ Alex queried the wet, cold huddle of pre-race runners in the dark.  My stomach sunk guiltily, but I knew better than to raise my hand.  After all, Alex had showed us the course back at CBPG in April.  I had the gist.  Big climbs.  Big views.  When there’s ten miles to go you can see Pony one mile away, but don’t finish yet, you still have to go run a 10-mile lollipop loop.  Got it.  Besides, I could always just tag along with someone else.  White House Tom was there in his kilt.

Besides, in all likelihood I was going to have to drop out anyway.  Three days earlier Larry the Acupuncturist had refused to even treat my  left heel because he thought that if he inserted needles into that level of inflammation I’d never return for another treatment.  Only after I had absolutely insisted, and accepted full responsibility for what torture was to come, was Larry willing to place the needles.  My body has been a mess since my food poisoning Highland Sky suffer-fest.  Although my IT band held up okay during the Luray Triathlon last week, my right hamstring was shredded, and my left heel had flared up again on the plane.  I had stuffed my drop bag full of warm clothes on the hunch that if I had to drop out mid-way.

By ‘up there’ I mean one of the peaks of the Tobacco Root Mountains we were going to be climbing.  The 50 mile course had 11,000 feet of total elevation gain.  West coast climbs are long, not like the rollers were used to in the East.  The course was essentially a series of consecutive 5 mile climbs up followed by 5 mile descents.  The Fools Gold wasn’t the kind of race we had to do serious altitude training for, hovering mainly between 6,000-8,000 feet and peaking out at about 10,000 feet.

It was still dark and raining when RD Alex Papadopoulis gave his pre-race briefing.  The race was only one year old, so the field was still small.  To boost numbers Alex had added a 50k option that was an out-and-back and started with the 50 mile.   Alex had personally come to WUS last spring to tout the beauty and challenge of the course, which climbed up through the Tobacco Root Mountains in the southwest corner of Montana, near Yellowstone.  We were sold.

There were two VHTRC ‘blue train’ options this summer: Vermont 100 in July or Montana in August. Sean had tried to convince me to go to Vermont, where a large group of VHTRCers were headed and where I could do the 100k. But I balked at the Vermont course description, with its dull gravel roads. At the time of Alex’s visit I still had my first 50 miler at Bull Run looming.  But I promised that if I survived BRR it I’d sign up for what I dubbed the ‘Pony Run’. My Bull Run finish wasn’t entirely convincing, but who could say no to a little August vacation in Yellowstone? Everyone won: Aaron got his challenging 50 miler, I got a couple days tacked on afterwards to go bear-sighting.

There were a couple key points from Alex’s race briefing: (a) some of the trail markers for the 50 mile course had been vandalized, (b) the weather sucked, and (c) if anyone signed up for the 50 miler decided to do the 50k instead he would honor that finish.  Very tempting.

The course began with a 5-mile climb up a dirt road from the town of Pony.  Pony had 100 residents and a bunch of historic buildings that were questionably still functioning.  I ran (and mostly walked) with ‘White House’ Tom up the climb.  My hamstring was cranky, but starting uphill is much easier than starting downhill, and I was grateful I had a long climb to warm it up.  It was raining steadily, but I felt  prepared in my arm warmers and fancy Patagonia shell and was comfortable. The one discomfort from the rain was that my wet feet made my heel pads slide forward in my shoe and dig into my arch.  I wanted to stick with Tom as long as I could because conversation always makes the long climb go by so quickly.  But eventually I couldn’t take it and plopped down on a rock to reposition the gel pads.

When I got back I had cooled off quickly, and scurried to catch a man and woman who had just passed by and get my blood flowing again. A main topic of conversation on the trail was sorting out who was running the 50 miler and who was doing the 50k.  The division seemed to segregate by sex, with most of the men around me doing the 50 mile and the women doing the 50k.  I seemed to be the only one who was seriously considering dropping from the 50 mile to the 50k.  The decision point occurred at mile 12.

After we crested the climb the road turned immediately down.  As predicted, my hamstring did not much like running down the road, and I let my companions go ahead.  But when the road turned to trail, I started engaging lateral stability muscles that slowly loosened up the hamstring and I caught up to Tom and the gang. To my great surprise, Aaron was heading towards me up the hill.  As we passed each other he explained that everyone was doing the 50k version now because the 50 mile course had been closed due to snow.  I later found out that 6-8 inches of snow had accumulated that night on the ridge, making it too dangerous to send us up.

Some of the guys around me were planning to do their first 50 mile race and were pretty disappointed.  But I was elated.  I didn’t have to run 50 miles!  I celebrated with little fist dances.  I reassured my poor little hamstring that we were heading home. After visiting the aid station at the bottom of the hill, we headed right back up.  Every time we hit a steep climb (there were some seriously steep mud butt slides) my heel gels would get dislodged and I’d have to do shoe surgery. As the run wore on and I lost fungibility in my fingers the shoe surgeries became more difficult and time-consuming, particularly the initial step of getting the gaiter hook off the bottom lace.  And every time I lost progressively more body heat.

The meanest thing about the course design is that you get to a point where you are a mile from Pony and can see the town, but have to make a hard right turn onto a spur to go run a 10 mile lollipop.  Fortunately, the lollipop was the coolest part of the course, with a gnarly little switchback climb through the forest that dumped you out onto a beautiful set of ridges atop the mountains. Unfortunately, the combination of high elevation, hard rain, exposed tree-less ridges, and very low temperatures (probably low 30s, based on the face that Tom’s kilt froze and chaffed his thighs) made for pretty dismal weather conditions.

I might have been okay if I hadn’t needed to keep stopping to fumble with my shoes to straighten out those pesky heel pads.  Shaking and with chattering teeth, I couldn’t get my fingers to unclasp the hook and in a fit of frustration decided just to run on my toes and let the pad jar into my arch.  My hamstring wasn’t bothering me as much as I had feared, but I had strained some tendons in compensation.  Between the cold and my tweaks, my feet weren’t at the top of my list of concerns.  There was supposed to be a volunteer at the top of the 4-mile climb with some water, so I hatched a plan that I would suck it up until then and then maybe he could help me rid myself of the useless pads entirely.

But that 4-mile stretch was by far the slowest of the race, and I began to doubt whether this volunteer guy actually existed (Aaron shared the same sentiment and doubt).  In a fit of do-or-die determination, I plopped down in the freezing rain and willed my fingers to unhinge my shoes.  The wind blew in my face, and the longer I idled there, the harder it became to maneuver my numbing fingers.  I started to mumble to myself like a kindergarten teacher gone mental: ‘Okay, take the clasp off the shoe.  Good girl!  Untie the shoes, untie the shoes,’ I chanted.  My jaw was shaking uncontrollably.  ‘Tug, tug.  There you go.  Go–od girl.’  I yanked out the gel pad and held it in the air like a trophy.  It flopped in my hand like a fish.  ‘Come on, tie the laces back up.  There you go.  Good job.’   I made a feeble attempt to relatch the metal gaiter clasp, but knew it was futile and let them flap at my ankles.

When I lurched myself up off the rock I could feel how sore and tight my undertrained and overcompensating quads were.  I pulled my hood tighter around my head and retracted my hands within my jacket sleeves, clenching the heel pads in my paw. I ran the next section hard, even most of the uphills.  I couldn’t understand how I could still be so damn cold when I was running my engine so high.  My arm warmers were thick and would have provided good warmth if they hadn’t kept falling down and clumping around my wrists.  I tried to pull them up through my jacket, but my hands had been utterly useless since the final shoe surgery.

I thought about how every race I seem to find a new way to be miserably uncomfortable.  At Bull Run I felt great except for the whole miserable puking thing.  At Highland Sky I managed not to puke but my IT band felt like daggers were splitting it.  Here at the Pony run my stomach was holding out beautifully, I had managed to navigate my minefield of injuries thus far, yet I had found a new way to suffer: numb and chilled to the bone, so cold I was almost hyper-ventilating. I finally came across the ‘aid station in the middle of nowhere’ where they were able to give me some almost-hot water to drink.  More importantly, the aid station marked the end of the exposed frozen tundra stretch of the race, and from there we headed back into the shelter of the woods.  After a couple miles of rolling, it was all downhill to the finish.

It would have been a lot of fun to fly down that descent through the forest, and a healthy version of me would have loved it.  But today, given the state of all my injuries, I played it very conservative.  The prize for first place for the 50 miler was a fatty $300 check, which I figured they would give to us even though we got pushed down to the 50k.  So I had a sliver of competitive drive.  But my overarching goal was to finish in one piece, with nothing too wrecked, so Aaron and I could enjoy our remaining days hiking in Yellowstone.  My injuries started to flare pretty badly during those last two downhill miles on the road, with my IT band howling loudest, but I tried to keep things quiet.

As soon as I finished, Aaron and I jumped in our Kia and blasted the heat until my drop bag arrived with all my warm clothes in it.  All the VHTRCers survived the day, and no one seemed terribly disappointed that the race had been curtailed to 50k.  Aaron had a good race, but noticed the altitude on the climbs (notably, only local men finished ahead of him). There was a nice post-race party held in the school in Pony, with a nice spread of food (pulled pork bbq, pesto potato salad, fruit salad, baked beans) and bottles of local beer.  Overall, I thought the race was extremely well organized, and I hope the event succeeds.  There there were ample friendly volunteers and well-stocked aid stations that were thankfully prepared for the conditions (the tents and hot ramen noodles were particularly welcome).  I’m sure it was a tough call for Alex to make to divert the 50 milers onto the 50k course, but I think it was a good call, as few runners would have been prepared for such conditions.  There seemed to be good community support from the residents of Pony, as well as the main sponsor Mystery Ranch.

The one thing I found perplexing was why I didn’t win the $300 in prize money.  I understand that the prize purse was technically for the winner of the 50 mile race.  But given that the 50 milers were forced to change course to the 50k, it seemed natural that the structure of the prizes would be likewise adjusted.  The money had already been set aside after all.  I wasn’t 100% sure I’d be getting the prize money, but I had promised the gang dinner on me if I did.  It’s a bit blurry, but Gary K snapped a photograph of me looking absolutely perplexed after receiving my first-place prize: a palm-sized piece of wood cut in the shape of Montana.  I know we’re terribly spoiled back East by Horton schwag, the beautiful Uwharrie ceramics, and the Patagonia fleece I got this year at Highland Sky that is the warmest thing in the world.  But this looked like the kind of thing you have have to pretend to love because your kid made it for you at school.

~                   ~                  ~

Now that I had the hard part of the trip out of the way, it was time to enjoy the three days of vacation in Yellowstone we had set aside.  I had made poor Aaron drag about 20 lbs of photography equipment along, because I had a hunch about a new way to vacation: My passion for wildlife + Aaron’s passion for photography = Wildlife photography trips We had already pilot-tested the plan in Canaan Valley with Aaron’s parents.  We seemed to have it down: I’m in charge of (a) route orchestrating, (b) animal spotting, and (c) animal identification (when possible), while Aaron covers the whole camera bit.

On one hand, our Yellowstone trip was a dismal failure: in our two days in the park we never saw a bear, not even a black bear.  But on the other, it was a wild success: we had discovered a fantastic new way to vacation.  In addition to capitalizing on our personal passions, taking pictures of wildlife has several other advantages: (a) the challenge of finding wildlife has all the sporting fun of a hunt (only without harming any poor fluffy animals); (b) it can be done on a hike when wee are feeling vigorous, or alternatively from a car when we are spent; (c) we don’t have to bother with crowds; (d) we don’t have to buy souvenirs, as they’re all on his camera; and, critically, (e) my  knowledge  of wildlife is incomplete, so if we have a photo record of what we see when can consult books, the internet, or my brother Fred, so we learn as we go.