Some WUSsies ventured to the Netherlands to demonstrate how we do it. We have been unable to confirm whether this run was followed by 2-for-1 pizzas.
Mike W. – 6:42:49, 2nd Man
Amy S. – 8:10:11, 11th Woman
Matt W. – 6:50:23, 6th Man
Good jogging, all! Results are here.
For the fifth year in a row, I took pictures at the VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon. Here are a few favorites.
Cascade Crest 100
August 27-28, 2011
Easton, WA
‘Interesting choice of a pacer,’ Keith remarked to Aaron on the Friday before the start of the Cascade Crest 100 mile race in Easton, Washington. For I, his pacer, was most known for being whiny, dependent, delicate, and with zero experience in long races. On top of that I was having lingering stomach problems from my recent trip to Nepal that nearly kept me from boarding the plane to Seattle.
It has been fascinating to observe the power of preconceived notions and their ability to block out anything that deviates from one’s prefabricated order. To someone outside of WUS like Monica Ochs, who crewed for CCC female victor Shawna Tompkins and joined Amy and myself in touring the course in Amy’s Civic ‘Bridget’, the natural question within the first hour of meeting me arose, ‘So is the guy you’re pacing your boyfriend?’ To which I answered, ‘Yes, he is, but it’s quite strange, no one knows. You see, we don’t hide it, we act normally – he walks home with me after each Tuesday night group run, we’ve made numerous references to the ‘extra’ bed we have in our hotel room, and heck everyone knows I’m a princess and here I am flown across the country to wade through mountains for an entire night. We’ve been waiting for people to use their own powers of inference to call us out on it. But the closest anyone has come is that someone thought Aaron was showing up to all our WUS runs because he was having a fling with another male runner (who actually was a girlfriend himself). I guess he gets some credit for noticing and wondering why in recent months Aaron has greatly increased his Tuesday night attendance. But overall they’re all astonishingly oblivious.’
I knew that I would not be particularly adept at crew. At the first crew-accessible aid station at Tacoma Pass Aaron asked me if I had his bag. Not only did I not have his bag, but I didn’t even find out what it was he wanted so I could try to dig something up for the next crew-accessible aid station in 10 miles. All the other crew people were leaping to attention, taking charge, disseminating instructions, asking the runner key questions – kind of how I imagined war would be. Wives kissed their husbands, friends patted their runner on the back. You know what I did when Aaron arrived? I threw my hands in a V and exclaimed, Yea! And remained standing exactly where I was beside Monica. Then I admitted I had none of the materials Aaron was requesting and apologized profusely for being worthless.
Fortunately I did have a learning curve as the day and night wore on, and by the mile 68 aid station at Lake Kachess, where I was to start pacing, I had Aaron’s drop bag ready for him as well as extra drink powder mixes and shot bloks and felt proudly organized. Although externally chipper and unfathomably polite, Aaron was not in great straights when I joined him at mile 68. As we trotted off up the road to the ‘Trail from Hell’ Aaron explained that he had ‘no up and no downs’ and it was going to be a long 32 miles home with lots of walking. But I was giddy to be out on the trails, talking a mile a minute as I recounted all the stories from the day, continually gazing up at a black sky freckled with so many stars that it was difficult to make out any of the known constellations (although the 7 tough miles of dirt road with 3,000 feet of gain to No Name Ridge provided more than enough time for us to identify Orion, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia’s Chair, and the Seven Sisters as we plodded (and mainly walked) along).
It was not easy to watch Aaron navigate the ‘Trail from Hell’, groaning like an elderly patient as he tried to discern the easiest way to sprawl across the multitude of giant blowdowns (apparently late snows had slowed their removal by the forest service). Always so unshakably positive-minded and rarely expressive about suffering, it was entirely unnerving to witness the pain take over him and his body. I found myself getting increasingly angry at the course for having so many steep inclines (those damn Cardiac Needles!) that came in such gratuitous droves – couldn’t the trails be more merciful on my poor Aaron??
Somewhere along that relentless 7 mile dirt road climb I began to experience problems of my own in my right foot. I have a history of coming down with plantar fasciitis when I have run at an unnaturally slow pace to accommodate another runner, something about altering my footstrike and coming down harder on my heels. The pain alleviated somewhat when we returned to the softer trails after No Name Ridge, where Aaron also found new life and started running again, but I had to dance on my toes to spare the inflamed right heel (although it was impossible to complain too much given the state of Aaron’s much-abused body).
Overall, I discovered that I absolutely love to run in the night – it’s surreal, peaceful, and so beautiful with the clouds of stars and a faint outline of the mountains. On barely any sleep I never got tired, never took caffeine, never got in bad spirits. Although I’m still a bit perplexed how female runners plow through the night without imagining killer psycho rapist murderers around every blind turn — I would freak out.
And of course the best part about running through the night is getting to see the sunrise, which Aaron timed perfectly to coincide with the most scenic section of the course between Thorp Mountain and French Cabin, with a red ball of fire glowing over the Alpine Lakes Wilderness and Stuart Range.
Did I enjoy pacing? Absolutely. Does that mean I wish I’d run the other 68 miles? Not really. Does that mean I’ll never run 100? Fortunately I don’t have to decide that today.
(Photos courtesy of Glenn Tachiyama)
On occasion, though, we do still rely on our own powers of perambulation to explore the trails.
Ragan, aka The Professor, and her husband, aka The Other Professor, decided to take advantage of the summer by fleeing from the heat and the hustle and the occasional bussle of DC. They chose to head to higher grounds in West Virginia. I let Ragan know that I would be in Canaan Valley this weekend, and we agreed to meet for a light jaunt around Dolly Sods. I promised her that someone would have to go to Nepal to find better trails than the trails in West Virginia!
Ragan and I had a thoroughly enjoyable run in Dolly Sods. I took her on a 24 mile loop that covered many miles of trails in the southern portion of Dolly Sods, through lush foliage, over rugged, rooty trails, up long climbs. The trails twist and bend, following a sandy creek bed for a while before veering to the left through a grove of rhododendrons that lean into the trail just far enough to brush your shoulders as you pass them. At the next right, the rhododendrons might give way to a pine forest made dark by the high canopy. During the long, technical descent to the base of the Red Creek valley, Ragan mentioned that the trail was so technical that she could hardly take her eyes off the ground to enjoy the surroundings. I agreed. During the equally long ascent (equally long in terms of distance—much longer in terms of time), she suggested that after this run, she was going to have to rest her brain. I agreed once again.
I had explained the route yesterday when she offered to stash aid. After 13 miles, we reached Forest Road 75, know in some circles as The Road Across The Sky. We refilled our bottles with the water and Gatorade that she had dropped. The day had been cool but slightly humid. There were clouds in the sky, but so far, no sign of the predicted thunderstorms. We had been sweating and talking so much that the refill came as a welcome relief. A weird dude with a pony tail and a tie-dyed shirt pulled his beat-up, circa-1992 Camry into the parking area near the trail head. I asked if he would mind packing out our aid to save me the hour and a half of driving that would be required to retrieve the mostly empty bottles from that side of the wilderness. He was happy to oblige. Ragan pointed out that there was still half a gallon of water, a banana, and a small (airline-sized) packet of almonds in the bag that we left with him. Even though I feel like he did us a huge favor, I have no doubt that he counted the remains of our aid as a huge score.
We ran up the road for less than two miles before following another trail back across Dolly Sods. This portion of the run was in Dolly Sods North, which could almost be on a different planet from where we had started the day. The trail began by swooping up and down through a dense forest before taking us over a small crest where the woods gave way to wide open, rolling hills.
The weather and company were so agreeable that when we reached a decision point—where going straight would give us five more miles, while turning right would give us eight—we chose the longer option. As we had for the prior three hours, we continued yammering on about racing, experimental economics, relationships and whatever else might have occurred to one or the other of us at any point in time. We scrambled over a large beaver dam to cross a stream, filled our shoes with muck on a boggy, mossy trail, and we sampled some wild blueberries.
It was a perfect day for a run.
