I’ve never been a long distance runner. I dabbled in cross country in high school. Those races were two miles long. Our training runs were four to five miles. I’d always have a quick excuse if the coach asked for more. After all, I was playing soccer too. We’d run enough in soccer practice to make up for those extra miles.
And so it went. I’ve been an athlete my entire life and a competitive one even through university, but I’d never intentionally run more than six miles. I could run six at the drop of a hat, but I had a phobia of having to run further. My body just couldn’t handle that.
Now here I am, thirty-two years old and a jogger. Not competitive, not long distance, not able to keep up with the times I’d hit on the track in high school. And a trainer at my gym asked me non-cholantly if I wanted to do this 20 mile trail race in Montana this summer. It sounded like an adventure. 6000 feet in elevation gain. 7000 feet in elevation loss. The possibility of getting lost, breaking an ankle, etc., and the challenge of trying to finish the race in a respectable six hours.
The running didn’t sound too exciting, but the adventure sounded awesome, so I started training. They say 20 miles on difficult trails can be like running a hard marathon, so I found a marathon training plan on Active.com and got to it. I trained religiously for three months. I was more inspired by this goal than I had been by any athletic goal since college. I had lost touch with my workouts. I didn’t realize how boring they’d become until I had this beautiful goal, and I was filled with an energy that really reshaped my approach to training and to life. It was suddenly easier to say no to dessert, easier to say no to a drink at a party. I was in training. That brownie and that beer certainly weren’t going to help me drag my sorry butt up a mountain. Now, I’m no saint. My body wasn’t a temple, but I’ve certainly never felt that kind of motivation before. It was brilliant. I was on fire.
Then, on the day registration for the race opened, I slept in and missed the registration window. <sigh> The race registration had opened and the race was filled in eight minutes flat. I was crushed. My hopes, my dreams, all the training…flushed away because I forgot to set my alarm. Man was I pissed.
My wonderful hubbie came to the rescue though and whisked me out of my depression. "Why not try another race? That one sounded crazy for a first try anyway." I didn’t think it was crazy, and I didn’t think I’d find anything as invigorating, but the search began.
A few days later, I had a list of races as long as my arm and I began whittling them down. Too far to travel, not as exciting, no view from the top. I had high standards. I wanted to race somewhere that would make the training worthwhile. I didn’t want to pound pavement; I was looking for an adventure.
I decided on the Cutthroat Classic. It’s an 11.1 trail race out of the Methow Valley in the North Cascades. It was as true as a trail run could get. Run up a mountain then run down the other side. Simple, right?
I rejigged my training plan to half-marathon length and continued my training. I ran up Mt Si. I ran to Rattlesnake Ledge; I dragged friends out running; I made new friends and dragged them along too. It was fun. And I was running more miles than ever before. I’m no ultramarathoner. I’m not even sure I’ll ever run a marathon, but I am proud of now being able to say that ten miles is in my wheelhouse. I’m no longer bound by my six mile limit.
Alas, the race was this past weekend. It was everything I hoped for. I executed my race plan and learned a few things along the way.
This was my prerace schedule:
– Drive 4.5 hours to Winthrop the day before.
– 7pm eat a home cooked dinner, heavy on carbs.
– Up two hours before the race start.
– Standard running day breakfast of one Clif MoJo bar.
– 7 am board bus to race trailhead.
– Consume 1 Luna Moons packet 20 mins before race start.
– 8 am race start.
My goal was to consume 1 Luna Moons packet every 40 minutes. I hit this pretty well at 20m, 1h05, 1h45. I decided to carry them in my shorts tucked into my waistband so I wouldn’t have to take off my backpack during the race. That was a good decision. However, I think I’ll sew a mesh pocket onto the outside of my pack or get a fuel belt for future races.
I hit the summit around 1h25m. This was a bit slower than I had hoped. I had to hike quite a bit, but this felt okay given that everyone else around me was fast hiking too. I had a lot of mental stress on the way up. I was passed by more folks than I care to admit, but I kept telling myself "run your own race, run your own race, run your own race." This was a tip I learned from Tamara.
I also noticed that each time I consumed my Moons that I felt really out of breath. The chewing (which had been fine on training runs, especially compared to the gag reflex caused by some Gus) combined with the thinner air at altitude really took it out of me each time I refueled. Luckily, I’d recover rather quickly with a spot of hiking. I decided to still continue fueling even though I really knew it was negatively impacting my performance on the way up. This decision paid off in spades. When I got to the top, I felt great. The stream crossings hadn’t even gotten my toes wet, no need to change socks. I had six miles left and I felt like I was just getting started. Now it was my turn to start passing all those fast chumps who had passed me on the way up. Yeehaw.
I’d been warned by a few folks that the footing on the way down was sketchy. One woman said there was shale or scree and another had said there was a lot of loose rock at the top. It was really just gravelly trail. Pretty common stuff in the North Cascades. I’d been training on similar trails near Snoqualmie Pass and I had no issues with footing. The loose rock was followed by big rocks. The trail was rough, but it wasn’t scary. I had great traction and was really concentrating on choosing my foot steps and on lifting my knees to avoid catching a toe. Have I mentioned how much I love my Asics trail shoes??? They were fantabulous.
Anyhoo, my downhill time was feeling fantastic and my time was making up for my slower than expected uphill slog. I passed yet another guy and he was having a tough time negotiating the rocky trail. He says to me as a pass him at mile 7.5, "well, at least we’re going downhill now!" and I pumped my fist in the air to cheer him on and hollered back over my shoulder "the downhill is what makes it all worthwhi…<splat>." I was in midst of a long sliding belly flop down the trail. <Ouch> I bounce up to my feet. I’ve got scrapes up and down my right thigh and a bit of bruising, my belly is cut from a rock I slid over (it was a true belly flop), I have small cuts on my left elbow and knee, a nice knot forming where my knee hit a rock, and my left hand looks like I lost a good bit of flesh in that prolonged slide over the rocks. I keep going though. It hurts, but it would hurt a lot more to admit defeat. My ego is resized to where it should be. I spent the next two miles pondering my mistake. I’d gotten out of my own head and stopped my focus on the trail. I was stupid. The trail was rough. The only reason it felt so great was because I was giving it all of my attention. This small lapse in focus could have been really dangerous. Case and point….not too much later, I passed a man with an arm in a sling who was slowly walking out to the finish. He’d dislocated his elbow in a fall. (Never try to catch yourself with your hands kids…).
The trail is leveling out. I’d been told that you lose most of the elevation in the first four miles downhill. This turned out to be true. The last two miles were just slightly downhill and bumpy but I could keep up a clip similar to my road pace. At 9.5 miles I’m feeling good. I’m measuring my energy and wondering if I should run faster or just be more careful on that last mile. I still had some adrenaline going from my fall, so I’m not sure how good I’ll feel once that wears off. The trail is fairly straight right here, I can see about a hundred yards ahead. (That’s a lot of visibility on a trail.) I spot a mountain biker turning a corner and coming onto my straight stretch of trail. I start to swear in my head, and then I start to think how I can negotiate passing this yahoo at pace. Then I fall, again. Dammit. I’d made the same mistake again. I took my focus off the trail, caught a toe, and fell. This time I tried a new move. I didn’t want that bloody hand to hit the ground again, so I did a barrel roll. It was quite exciting actually and successful. I scraped my elbow a bit more, but otherwise, I was unscathed. The biker apologizes and then says "uh, are you okay?" and I make some random remark about how I shouldn’t have let him distract me, and I keep going. I was pissed at this point. Of course it was my fault. I should have stayed in my head and just slowed down, but I was screaming at him internally. "What was he thinking?! It’s hard to negotiate bikes and runners. He should know better than to ride up a race trail! GRRRR!!" But it was my fault. I was feeling embarrassed. I’d lost a bit of my game.
The last mile was uneventful (no crashes). I crossed the finish with a smile on my face and not too much blood on my shirt. I know I could have done better if I’d kept my feet. That said, I beat my expected time by a full four minutes with a finish time of 2h15m55s. This was 12m15s splits, with averages around 17m on the way up and around 9m on the way down. My legs were cramping, my ankle was stiff and wanting some ice, but I was done and the training had paid off. I was indeed faster than I was when I started my training five months ago. I had just run farther than I ever had before and my body handled it well. I knew that keeping my mental focus would be much easier in future races. I had learned a valuable and painful lesson.
Now I’m looking forward to my next goal. I’ll be running in the
Hagg Lake Trail Run in February. It’s a slimy 15.5 mile mudfest. Running in the mud sounds like a fun way to pass a rainy NW winter. Care to join me? I promise not to push you into the lake <evil grin>.
It was such a joy, in fact, that we were dreading the climb down it from the moment we started going up. We passed a skier and snowboarder coming down the chute as we ascended. The snowboarder was muddy all up his front side, but with a heavy pack and tired legs, I didn’t have enough balance to turn to see if his backside was muddy too. I’d bet $10 that it was. This was one big slippery mud and talus festival. Anyhoo, as I was saying, the views were well worth it. The really vertical stretch of snow up to the summit felt great. I’ve been using Jessica’s advice to make sure my duck feet are actually pointing forward instead of to the outside when I go uphill. That seems to really help me engage more than just my calf muscles. Makes the climbing a lot easier. Thanks Jessica!
