The Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School track team filed off the cheese bus into an overcast Saturday morning at Middleburg High School. The heat wave that had singed DC for much of early May had finally lifted, and the 70-degree temperatures felt chilly enough to keep our vinyl blue-and-gold track suits on.

‘Damn!’ David exclaimed as he stepped off the bus, removing his headphones and pointing at a large dome structure ahead. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘It’s a silo,’ Alpha said tersely.  ‘Welcome to Middleburg.’

‘Say wh-at?’

Alpha did not respond. A senior, this was Alpha’s final 2A West Regional Track & Field Championships, and she could not be bothered with David’s unfamiliarity with rural Maryland.

Maduba lifted her beaded braids from her eyes as she scampered off the bus. ‘Man, looka all dem white kids!’ Maduba could get away with saying things like that because (a) she was from South Africa, (b) she had a black mom and white dad, and (c) she could run 400m in 60 seconds.  Maduba was also known for getting away with eating three hotdogs before running her 400m race and still outkicking the field.

We ambled to the track as a disorderly herd that bothered Alpha far more than our coach, Mike Flemming. Coach Flemming had been a star runner for Nebraska some forty years ago, and his coaching style was defined by a strong emphasis on calisthenics. In the next months, my parents would stage a coup that would remove Mr Flemming as our fall cross-country coach after twenty-odd years on the job. They had a legitimate complaint, as the girls cross country team didn’t even have the five runners required to field an official team. But little old Flemming had such cute twinkly blue eyes I still felt bad.

There was a lot of commotion on the track, and enough banners and streamers to look  like a state fair.  I watched a giant shot putter, bursting through his ill-fitting singlet, dip into a deep squat and hurl a metal ball across the field, much farther than anyone on our team could throw.  Someone was speaking over the loudspeaker, but there was too much background noise to make it out.

The metal bleachers were cold and reeked of IcyHot. Assistant Coach Smart handed out the order of events. Thankfully the mile came early so I didn’t have to wait around all day on edge.

Dave bounded from behind and grabbed me by the shoulders gleefully. ‘It’s do-or-die today! You ready, Min?’

‘I think I would rather just die.’

‘M-in!’

‘Regionals is the worst.’ I sighed. ‘There’s no glory, it’s just something you have to get through so you can go on to States.’

‘Hey, not all of us are guaranteed to go on.’

‘I know, I know. Last year qualifying was super exciting.’

‘Martha. Go warm up.’ Coach Smart was in full clipboard/cap/perky ponytail organization mode.

‘Already?’

‘One hour til gun.’

‘I don’t need an hour to warm up,’ I protested.

‘You’re always whining. Go.’

I unzipped the insides of my blue track pants with gold and white blazes on the sides, and reluctantly extricated myself from my giant grey hoodie. Underneath I had a mesh white singlet with scratchy blue and gold trim and B-CC in block letters, and the flimsiest petals of shorts, cut high on the leg and the trim coming undone at the bottom. We had no evidence, but I’d have bet all my lunch money that our uniforms dated back to the 70s.

I warmed up alone in the parking lot. The last time I had been to Middleburg was the regional cross country meet last November. Cross country was so much better than track. I missed the course walks, where we had 3.1 miles to stroll the course as a team, ostensibly learning where it went so we wouldn’t get lost in the race. But we goofed off so much I could never recall where the course actually followed, and my mother could always tell when I got that deer-in-the-headlights look when I came around the turn with absolutely no clue where I was supposed to run.

I trotted around the high school, right by the spot where seven months ago Tripp O’Connell had recounted his traumatic regional cross country race. Tripp had arrived at the race wearing spandex shorts under his uniform. But the power tripping race official had ruled that every team member’s uniform had to match exactly and made Tripp remove the spandex. Everyone wears spandex under their uniform in soccer and lacrosse and other sports. I don’t know why running has to be so fascismo. Especially when there is no physical contact. I mean, it’s understandable that you can’t wear a big chain around your neck in soccer, when you could whip someone in the face with it going up for a header. But running?? Besides, have you seen the kind of jewelry Gail Devers wore at the 100m at Sydney 2000?  God, track officials are the worst.

Apparently the inside liner of Tripp’s thirty-year old uniform shorts had worn out the elastic, and Tripp had to run most of the race with his hand in his pants holding it all from flopping out. He confessed that early in the race there had been some major slippage and was certain that some of the other racers had gotten a good show. With neither our boys nor girls cross country teams qualifying to go on to states (just three of us qualified as individuals), that was the last day we all spent together as a cross country team, howling over Tripp’s story.

I returned to the bleachers, where my parents had arrived. I checked in with them and then scurried to the track to get in a few last strides in. I was much more confident now than a year ago when I ran my first regional meet as a gawky freshman in clunky Nike sneakers.  Now, in my featherweight track spikes I knew the drill. But at the same time, everyone knew me.

My jittering intensified as the track officials walked us to the starting line, and my right leg shook uncontrollably. As always, I would let the pack burst out and then reel them in gradually over the next laps. I just had to finish top-4.  I would let the race unfold and let my finishing kick pop into a Q spot, just as I had at last year’s regionals.

‘Ready.  Set.’

The starting gun shot and the air smelled like gun powder. Nearly twenty girls jockeyed for position. On my second step I felt a chain around my neck clunk against my collarbone, and I realized I had neglected to remove it before the race. I stopped dead and jumped into the infield, all the girls flying by. I fumbled desperately with the clasp, finally got the chain off and threw it in the grass, while everyone else disappeared around the first turn.

By the time I hopped back onto the track the leaders had already completed the first turn. I tore after the pack with a panicked adrenaline, at least 50 meters behind. I trailed the pack alone for the first lap and a half , not seeming to make up much ground.  The only good thing about the mile is that you’re running so hard that you don’t have time to think or get demoralized.

In the second lap I caught the first straggler, then another, and something clicked. Runners were coming back to me, and by the third lap I had pulled myself to the middle of the pack. Entering the final lap, I slipped into my kick. The beauty of the mile is that your lungs are heaving so hard, you’re not registering anything else around you.  People might have cheered as I gained on the girl in the last qualifying position.  But all you hear is the thumping in your head, the gasping of your breath, and the wind whooshing by your ears.

I stumbled to a stop and rested my knees on my hands after crossing the line, lungs still heaving. Panting over my knees, I grinned ear to ear.  I had rallied to overcome what seemed an insurmountable deficit, and I had qualified.

There was a tap on my shoulder and I looked sideways to see an obese man busting out of the front buttons of his official’s uniform and donning an ill-fitting cap. He carried a large clip board.

‘Um, missy. I am afraid you are disqualified.’

I still hadn’t caught my breath yet. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘No jewelry permitted,’ he said flatly.

‘But I took it off.’ My throat constricted. ‘I only ran like four steps in it.’

‘Rules are rules.  Sorry.’

‘But the only one it hurt was me.’  My eyes were wide.

I sat down in the grass and placed my head in my hands and sobbed. Coach Flemming and Coach Smart quickly arrived and began discussing the matter with the official, but to no avail.

I’m sure the meet continued and other races were held. I’m sure my friends Rob and Dave ran. I’m sure Alpha demolished her competition and screamed at her relay team for sloppy baton passes. I’m sure the relay won anyway. But honestly I recall nothing else from that year’s Regional championship. Nothing but several hours of crushed sobbing that was met with extraordinarily sympathetic, consoling words from my coaches and teammates. Even Alpha.

After the final race of the day was run, the 4 x 400m relay, I said my farewells to the B-CC track team for the year and followed my parents to our Honda Civic.

As we walked through the parking lot, a thought entered my father’s head. ‘You know, if you had really been thinking, you would have run back to the starting line and taken your necklace off there. That way, you would have just technically started the race late. I’m sure there’s nothing in the rule books that says you can’t start the race late.’

‘I doubt you can start the race late.’

‘I bet there’s nothing in the rule book.’ He thought he had hit on something. ‘I mean, why would they have a rule against starting a race late?’

‘Whatever.’

‘I mean, just if you had really been thinking.’

I had finally stopped crying a half hour ago, but the tears began to well again.

‘Or, I bet if you had just left the chain on, no one would have noticed.’ He had concocted another plausible alternative. ‘I mean, it was just a tiny chain. You brought attention to it by taking it off. You could just have not touched it.’

‘Oh, Bob!’ my mother exclaimed.

But the economist in him was on a roll.  ‘You know, what you really need to have is a mental checklist. Before each race you go through your checklist of places where you might have jewelry: wrists, ankles, neck, ears, fingers.’

‘I never wear jewelry.’ My hands fumbled with the chain in the pocket of my hoodie. I had eventually retrieved it from the field, but I couldn’t bring myself to put it back on.

‘Well, clearly you wore it today.’

‘I don’t even know where it came from. I don’t wear rings, I don’t wear earrings, I don’t wear necklaces. For some reason I put on that chain last night.’

‘When you went out with your friends last night,’ my mother added.

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Well that’s it. It went against your routine,’ my father explained. ‘Routine is very important in sports. That’s why tennis players bounce the ball the exact same way before each serve.’

I had not taken to tennis as a child, much preferring sports like soccer where it was harder to identify discrete errors.  But I begrudgingly picked up a racquet from time to time.  Probably the last time I had played tennis was in Los Angeles, during what had been billed as a friendly game of doubles with my father and I teamed up against my uncle Jeffrey and his friend David. Jeffrey loves retelling the story about how my dad yelled at me to get off the court when I hit the ball in the net too many times.

My head hung low and I stared at the pavement of Middleburg’s parking lot.  Running was the stupidest sport in the world.  But as the defending state champion in cross country, I could not quit.  My grip on my emotions faltered, and tears streamed down my cheeks again.  I would never be a state champion again.

 

Question:  Should I be freaked out about Lyme disease?

Answer: (a) It depends on where you live.  In the 1990s there wasn’t much Lyme reported in Virginia.  But in the last decade Lyme has been spreading throughout the Northeastern US, and increasingly into Virginia and parts of West Virginia (a trend that is only likely to continue).  In 2012, 95% of Lyme disease cases were reported from 13 states: Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Vermont, Virginia, Wisconsin.  A number of VHTRC runners have had nasty long-term Lyme infections that knocked them out of commission for long periods of time, highlighting the need for knowledge and awareness of Lyme in our running community.

For years, the CDC has reported around 30,000 cases of Lyme in the US a year.  Last year the CDC reported that the methods it has relied on has under-estimated Lyme in the US by a factor of TEN and more like 300,000 Americans are infected each year.  I interpret this as an admission that we really don’t have a clue how many people are infected with Lyme (a 10-fold difference in estimate is HUGE), and reflects how methods of reporting, diagnosing, and estimating Lyme prevalence in the US remain as much art as science.

 

Answer: (b) It also depends on the time of year.  The spirochetal agent of Lyme disease, Borrelia burgdoferi, is transmitted to humans through a bite of a nymphal stage deer tick Ixodes scapularis.  The highest risk for disease transmission to humans occurs during April – September (peaking  in June-July) when the activity of deer tick nymphs is highest.  However, adult deer ticks are still active in cooler fall months.

Answer (c): Ultra runners are particularly at risk because they spent so much extended time in the woods, are often too exhausted after 24+ hours of activity to bother with anything amounting to a thorough tick check, and are tough, indepedent buggers who are more likely to wrestle with chronic symptoms than to seek medical treatment.  Some well known runners have had debilitating and long-term battles with Lyme, including years of symptoms and misdiagnoses by doctors, including Dusty Olson and Burt Yasso.

 

Question: I got bit by a tick.  Should I freak out?

Answer: If you got the big fatty dog tick you’re in the clear — they don’t carry Lyme.  It’s the smaller deer ticks (and the tiny deer tick nymphs, which are approximately the size of the head of a pin) that are less likely to be detected while engorged and of greatest concern.

 

Question: I think I got a nymphal deer tick.  Am I screwed?

Answer: Only if the tick has been attached for over 24 hours.  Infected nymphs begin to transmit Lyme approx. 36 hours after attachment. The nymph increases in size as feeding progresses (see below), so you can estimate the duration of feeding and probability of transmission based on the tick’s appearance and size.

 

Question:  This is complicated.  Can’t I just wait and see if I get a bulls-eye rash?

Answer: An estimated 70-90% of Lyme cases present with a distinct bull’s-eye rash (called a ‘erythema migrans’ (EM)) that emerges after a delay of 3-30 days (average is about 7 days).  But this truism has made it much more likely for cases with rashes to be diagnosed by physicians and cases without to go undiagnosed, so this estimate is biased.  Rashes may also appear on one’s back or in an area that is not readily visible.  Aaron has no recollection of a rash from his case.  Other clinical signs of Lyme include: facial or Bell’s palsy (loss of muscle tone on one or both sides of the face), severe headaches and neck stiffness due to meningitis (inflammation of the spinal cord), pain and swelling in the large joints (such as knees), shooting pains that may interfere with sleep, heart palpitations and dizziness due to changes in heartbeat.  Even without a rash or any of these symptoms it may be prudent to take a prophylactic regimen of doxycycline antibiotics if you think you have been exposed to Lyme.  

Question: Why are doctors (like the infectious disease doc Aaron visited) sometimes reluctant to test for Lyme?

Answer: If you have the bull’s-eye rash, you’re in good shape — even a dolt doctor will know to order a Lyme test or even just put you straight on antibiotics.  But if you don’t have the rash or swollen joints, it can be hard to diagnose Lyme clinically, as other symptoms tend to be variable and non-specific and could be caused by a host of other pathogens (there are even other tick-borne illnesses in our region) or conditions (chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia, etc.).  Lyme falls into that grey category of illnesses with non-specific chronic symptoms like fatigue that are hard to pin down.

Furthermore, there is no ‘gold standard’ culture test for Lyme that actually isolates the pathogen.  Instead, docs have to rely on indirect measures of Lyme infection based on human antibody immune responses to the pathogen found in the blood.  But these immune responses aren’t detectable immediately and may take several weeks to develop.   ELISA are cheap and easy first screens, but aren’t reliable due to their high false-negative rate (may miss over half the true cases), and a more rigorous Western blot array that tests for multiple antibody proteins in the blood (if you’ve ever taken Molecular Biology in college, chances are that one of your first lab assignments was to perform a Western blot using gel electrophoresis to separate proteins based on the length of the polypeptide).  The interpretation of the Western blot is based on an algorithm of how many antibodies come up positive (i.e., one positive protein is not enough for a diagnosis of Lyme).

Doctors that are not in high-risk Lyme areas that aren’t used to performing these tests might not know quite how to interpret them (and may therefore be reluctant to administer them).  Your best bet is to seek out a doctor in a high-risk Lyme area who has seen lots of test results and has developed a feel for distinguishing a positive from a negative.  In Aaron’s case, his test ‘lit up like a Christmas tree’ and there was no ambiguity.

Question: Will use of insecticide help keep ticks off me?

Answer: Use of DEET is recommended as a deterrent for ticks.  A chemical called Permethrin is stronger, but is highly toxic to cats.  It’s recommended to wear long pants and stay out of tall grass, and that recommendation holds for non-running activities when possible (ie, volunteering).  Thorough inspection for ticks post-woodland adventure in all parts of the body is the key.  When I run with someone through a tall grassy area I typically call out Tick Check! at the end to inspect the legs.

Question: Why is there no vaccine for Lyme?

Answer: I will try to contain myself here, as this question is an excellent one but the answer makes my blood boil.  There actually was a vaccine LYMERix that was licensed by GSK in 1998 in the US that was nearly 80% effective after three doses.  Between the time of its licensure in 1998 and July 31, 2000, about 1.5 million doses of the vaccine were distributed.  But anti-vaccine lobbies are extremely strong in this country, and the media loves a good scare story.  Although science showed that all claims of arthritis caused by the vaccine were bogus, headlines like “Concerns Grow Over Reactions to Lyme Shots,” “Lyme Vaccine May Cause Problems,” and “Lyme Disease Vaccine’s Safety Is Questioned” all appeared in 2000 and 2001, and the vaccine manufacturer discontinued production in 2002, citing insufficient consumer demand.  Following this experience, it is highly unlikely that another vaccine manufacturer will try to enter the US market for a Lyme vaccine.  A Lyme vaccine for dogs is available, although its effectiveness less certain and tick control practices are encouraged even with vaccination.

Question: So, should we just shoot all the deer?

Answer: Even though it’s called a ‘deer’ tick, the ecology of Lyme is complex, and smaller rodents like the white-footed mouse are thought to be key reservoirs.  It’s thought that suburban sprawl has increased rodent populations by removal of predators (like foxes) and replacement of old continuous woodlands with meadows and patches, increasing Borrelia prevalence.

Question: What about those people who never get over their Lyme?

Answer: Lyme remains poorly understood on so many levels and I’ve only begun to delve into the many factious Lyme issues of the day.  Some of the biggies are whether Lyme disease also occurs in Southern US regions and is hugely undiagnosed and whether a form of chronic Lyme can persist following antibiotic treatment.  These issues have yet to be resolved, and there’s not enough science for me to have an opinion yet, but if you’re curious, there’s a lot of information on the web:

CDC Lyme info

NIH Lyme info

American Lyme Disease Foundation

NY Times section on Lyme Disease prevention

Lymedisease.org

History of Lyme Disease Vaccine

Mayo clinic

More on Lyme Vaccine

[Note – this is a blog written by Aaron.  I pilfered it directly from Aaron’s secret blog]

____________________________________________________________________________

“You HAVE to go to a doctor!”

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.