But, allow me some sentimentalism: this month marks the 10-year anniversary of my obtaining Luna Moonshine, the '99 periwinkle-colored VW Passat that's been the only car I've ever owned. And, several days ago, I finally said goodbye and put her to rest in the hands of a VW shop here in Colorado.
Over our shared decade, we traveled roughly 100,000 miles together. She moved with me from Kansas to Ohio to Washington to Colorado. She road-tripped with me to Chicago (twice!), to Massachusetts to visit my good friend Becs and experience Trader Joe's for the first time, to New Orleans for three weeks of hurricane relief work after Katrina, to Kentucky for my very first backpacking trip, to the depths of the Cascadian jungle in western Washington for many a banjo jam session by the river.
She died a few times, including once at the end of a 20-mile gravel road in the woods, after which she had to be hauled out of by Cambajamba's jeep and a four-foot tow rope. She suffered sub-freezing nights in Ohio, rain storms in Seattle, snow storms in western Colorado. She was only ever in one accident. On one of the rare occasions I permitted someone else to drive her (those who know me know I was always protective of Luna), she was rear-ended on a highway exit ramp and had to have her bumper replaced.
In her final years, she cost me a fortune in repairs, not to mention in taking only premium gas for a decade; I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy to be washing my hands of VWs and hopping on the Toyota bandwagon. But, that won't stop me from making an overly sentimental post here on my blog about our many good years together.
The Kansas days. Christine and Pat and I pack for our first road trip--to Chicago, for Lollapalooza, to see Weezer and Death Cab for Cutie and other high-school favorites. Luna was bumper-sticker galore back then, including but not limited to cliches such as: ART NOT APATHY; Compassion is Revolution; SAVE THE DRAMA FOR YO MAMA; People are Miracles; Every breath is a gift; ENJOY LIFE THIS IS NOT A DRESS REHEARSAL.
My first backpacking trip, in Mammoth Cave National Park, with Sahale, Ezra, Erika and Shari. It rained for 40 hours straight. Magical as the trip was, we cut a planned five-day trek short after three days and I was grateful to Luna for putting the "car" in "car camping" that night. As in, I slept in her front seat that night.
Piling into Luna in New Orleans with Ruth, Anna, Daniel and Adam after a long day of gutting houses.
My commute through northeast Ohio farm country from Oberlin to Elyria for my job at Dick's Sporting Goods--the first job to send me down a running/outdoors-related career path, and also introduce me to some incredible friends outside of the "Oberlin bubble."
Sunset over I-90 in Washington state, the night I arrived in Seattle after a 2000 mile drive from Kansas, and a few days' stopover in Glacier National Park to visit Shari and hike the heck out of some beautiful Montana trails. Real world, adult livin', here I come.
Cruising the streets of my new hometown the next day. Seyeon took this picture from my backseat, because my front seat was still full of moving boxes.
One of my first travel-writing gigs, with OutdoorsNW magazine--road-tripping to Oregon's Willamette Valley to ride my bike, go wine-tasting and write about it for the magazine! Thanks to Carolyn for entrusting me with the assignment.
Luna pretending to be a 4WD mountain car, playing chauffeur to my annual Christmas-in-Seattle tradition with Elodie and James--snowshoeing! In the Seattle years, post accident-and-bumper-replacement, Luna sports new hippie bumper stickers, including but not limited to: Run Happy; Namaste; I {heart} New Orleans; 50k Vashon Ultra.
The neighborhood cats in Seattle loved Luna.
Other creatures have also enjoyed sleeping on, or in, Luna. She played chauffeur to the most magical road trip of all time, out to the Methow Valley for the Angel's Staircase 25K with Tom and Elodie. (Flatlanders running straight up an 8000-foot mountain elicits midday car naps.)
Luna also earned me my favorite parking ticket, featuring the best butchering of my name EVER. I've seen Yikta, Yata, Yakita, Yita, Yika, Yikita ... but this. This was a whole new level.
Luna survives a long, cold, grueling drive from Seattle to Colorado at the beginning of this year for my new gig with Trail Runner.
My mom (visiting from Holland earlier this month!) and I saying goodbye to Luna in the VW lot here in Colorado where we left her.
Snowshoeing Coal Basin, across the street from home
To drive from Seattle to the Roaring Fork Valley in Colorado
takes about 18 hours if you do it straight through—in a normal car. However, in
a 14-foot Uhaul van hauling a loaded auto trailer and climbing mountain passes
at a rip-roaring 40mph, the trip takes closer to 30 hours. And when the Uhaul
place takes two hours to rent you your auto trailer the morning you need to
leave, and when heavy night time fog swallows your vehicle whole, and when said
Uhaul van comes with no CD player, no tape deck, no auxiliary port, and an
AM/FM radio that offers few stations deep in the mountains…well, let’s just say
that Steve and I had a lot of time on the road for conversations two weekends ago.
Among them was a discussion of the merits, or lack thereof,
of Facebook.
Who hasn’t fantasized about quitting Facebook? I know I
have. The wasted time scrolling glazed-eyed through my Newsfeed, the FOMO (Fear
Of Missing Out) or uncomfortable jealousy that can ensue when perusing evidence of others’ adventures,
the reality that while some posts can indeed introduce us to great ideas or
articles or images or quotes, the vast majority do not.
I once heard the analogy that comparing your life to someone
else’s based on Facebook is like comparing your own backstage to someone else’s
highlights reel. Most of us can probably relate to this—the occasional twinges
of inadequacy or insecurity when we look at other people’s lives from the
outsides. If I had a dime for every time one of my college classmates (or
really, any of my twentysomething friends) has posted on Facebook about what a
failure our fellow class of ‘08 Oberlin alum Lena Dunham has made them feel
like…well, I’d be a wealthy young lady indeed.
Most of us have probably contributed to this ourselves, too.
We don’t intend to—after all, we’re trying to paint a nice life as much for
ourselves as for the audience of our friends, family, and acquaintances. What
we choose to share on Facebook is not false, nor even necessarily an
exaggeration: people do get happily engaged, they take beautiful trips, they
have cute babies, they land dream jobs, they wake up and feel genuinely blessed
and grateful to be alive—and they absolutely deserve to be able to tell the
world about it.
But I think it’s important to stay aware of how the details
we broadcast about our lives are inevitably selective ones. As Steve
articulated so well on the road that night, those details are often different, more carefully chosen, than the ones we might share in a one-on-one chat with a close friend—just as
details were carefully chosen for mass email updates before there was Facebook,
the way Christmas letters were before mass emails, and the way grandmothers
were before Christmas letters.
It’s a fine line, though! Sharing our lives with each other
online can serve great purposes. We can inspire one other, build communities,
have dialogues about meaningful issues, stay current on the lives of friends we
might otherwise lose touch with.
Indeed, there are plenty of such legitimate things for which
I have enjoyed using Facebook. For one, getting my current job. I wouldn’t be
in Colorado now if Trail Runner hadn’t
posted on their Facebook page that they were looking for an assistant editor.
Two, being a part of the trail running community. I met 95% of my trail running
friends in Washington through the Seattle Mountain Running Facebook group. We
used Facebook to coordinate runs with each other—so even at 5 a.m. on a cold,
snowy Friday morning, I was able to find people to run up Mt. Si with me before
work. Our Facebook group helped me feel part of a team in what’s essentially an
individual sport, and fed me a steady stream of inspiration to hit the trails
and live life to the fullest. Three, Facebook has made me feel less far away
from my mom—who lives eight time zones away from me, across the Atlantic
Ocean—because she can stay up on my day-to-day life. She sees pictures of the
adventures I go on, gets notified when I update my blog, can trade comments
back and forth with the friends I’ve made in my adult life.
Every time I’ve ever entertained the thought of quitting
Facebook, my ego immediately protests: ‘That’s some crazy talk!’ I have fears:
the fear of disappearing from people’s radar screens, the fear of being lonely,
the fear of feeling out of touch, the fear that no one will read my blog if I
don’t let them know on Facebook when I’ve written something on it. Will I still
feel like a real person if I’m not on Facebook? It sounds ridiculous to ask
this, but I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind; someone tell me I’m
not the only one.
But after giving all my fears a little air to breathe…I feel
pangs of excitement. I consider how much negativity Facebook has brought into
my life. Ironically, it’s often made me feel farther away than ever from people
I love. I know for a fact it’s done the same to many of them, at least upon
occasion—I don’t have time to call or write a friend of mine across the country
(or world), but I have time to make a Facebook album? That doesn’t feel good
for anyone—and many of us are guilty of making someone in our life, at some
point, feel less important to us than Facebook.
I often lament that I’m not in as good of touch with
important people in my life as I’d like to be. You all know who you are; I
could be better. It’s not that I don’t have time to sit down for an hour and
write a long, meaningful letter to you; it’s that I’m throwing away that time
Liking things instead, telling myself that logging on to FB helps me “unwind.”
Where my mind came up with this propaganda, I have no idea.
Facebook doesn’t relax me; it makes me anxious. Like
Nicholas Carr wrote in The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains, social media makes me feel like a rat running
around a maze, pressing little levers in hopes of triggering a moment of
pleasure—the fleeting high of someone commenting on a status or Liking a photo.
Facebook has made me virtually incapable of sitting still or taking a walk or
waking up in the morning without feeling tempted to pull out my iPhone and
check my Newsfeed, hope for those exhilarating little red numbers next to my
friend requests, my inbox, my notifications. I’ve checked Facebook in bed,
during dinner with friends, during work meetings, in the bathroom at bars, while in traffic (I’m
particularly ashamed to admit that one, but I’m being candid here), while
hiking in the woods, and plenty of other places I no longer want to interrupt with technology.
As Steve and I drove farther and farther away from the
bustle of the city, deeper into the quiet of the mountains, and the more we talked
about all this, the stronger my conviction: my life would be better off without
Facebook.
But, I’m not going to up and quit today. First of all, I’m
writing this blog entry from our new home in a tiny mountain town, where we
have no cell phone reception or Internet—so even if I wanted to quit Facebook
right here and right now, I couldn’t. This blog entry is being composed in archaic Microsoft Word, and will benefit from fresh eyes in the morning
before I drive into town for work and broadcast it to the world.
Second of all, my desire to let go of Facebook does not mean
I want to give the world a hasty, impulsive peace-out. I don’t want to
disconnect; if anything, I want to reconnect. I want to make my interactions
more meaningful, more personal, more…joyful, even. And that will take some planning.
Third of all, I actually use Facebook a fair amount in my
working life now—to help manage the Trail Runner Facebook page, to track down photos or contact information for
stories, to stay on top of buzz in the greater trail running community.
So while my fantasy of quitting Facebook altogether is
louder than ever, I’m still not sure it’s realistic (yet). What I do feel is
realistic, however, is drastically changing my habits with it—beginning with
the fact that Steve and I have no plans to get Internet in our home. If we want the Internet, we can pay six dollars (still roughly less than or at least equal to the cost of gas to drive into town) for a 24-hour block of it—which we plan to do perhaps once a week. It's more expensive than offering to chip in for and share our neighbors' wi-fi, but we figure we'll be more likely to succeed in unplugging if the temptation isn't omnipresent.
These disconnected evenings have been a fascinating
experiment indeed. After a few stubborn clues in Friday’s crossword had us
stumped, we might have been tempted to Google the answers we needed. Alas,
there was no Google to consult. So we took a walk and came back to it with
fresh eyes—and our brains, able to come up with many of the answers
that had previously eluded us, undoubtedly got a better workout because of it.
Is it necessary for everything in our lives to be so
instantaneous after all? Is the state of not knowing something knowable a state
we can learn to be patient with? I forget; I went for a snowy road run after
work one day last week, and reached for my laptop when I got back to map my run
online and calculate the distance I’d covered. But did it really matter that I didn’t know
exactly how many miles I’d run?
When I got home from my run to find an empty house, I wanted
to text Steve to see where he was, but of course, I couldn’t. Was it the end of
the world to not know where he was, or when he’d be home? Of course not; I
survived. And I thoroughly enjoyed the old-fashioned flutter of excitement in
my stomach every time I heard the crunch of car tires on the snow outside,
wondering if it might be him. I relished my eagerness to swap stories about
each other’s days—of which we knew nothing about, because we hadn’t called,
texted, emailed, or posted on Facebook all day long.
So, if my friends far away don’t see full albums of photos
of my day-to-day life, will we perhaps have more to talk about and more to
share with each other when we do catch up? I sure hope so. I will still write and share photos
occasionally on my blog, but I won’t use it as an excuse to not also write or
call those I love. I especially want to be more conscious of not painting slanted images of my life on my blog. At the risk of getting uncomfortably personal, I hope I can give a fair and balanced report of my life here.
A final note: the last thing I want this entry to be is a
high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou declaration of my rejection of social media and
the Internet. I don’t think either is evil, or that everyone would necessarily
be better off without them. But here, now, withdrawal from daily use of the Internet in my free time—and in
particular, of Facebook—feels like the right move. Drop me a line at yitkawinn@gmail.com with your phone
number, email address and/or home address, and a note on how you’d best like to
connect with me.
The Gratitude Project: Committing to starting my Thanks, Parents! blog, and spending more energy in general being grateful, rather than irritated, frustrated or impatient.
The Gazelle Project: Wanting to be a bigger part of the running community, prioritizing injury prevention, running higher mileage, and becoming a stronger uphill runner
The Energy Project: Getting organized, procrastinating less, prioritizing sleep, and being more conscientious in general about how I nourish my body - including forgoing alcohol for a year
On the whole, I was successful with all of these: I blogged about gratitude all year long, my running life flourished, and I made it the whole year without booze. There was something very valuable to me in the exercise of setting just three major intentions for the whole year. It allowed me to really, truly focus on those "projects" as I called them - and for the first time in the decade+ that I've been making resolutions, actually feel I accomplished everything I wanted to in that year. Speaking purely from my own experience, I think there are two major problems with New Year's Resolutions, which explain why most of us fail to keep ours. The Too Specific Problem I know, SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, and Time-bound) goals, blah blah blah...and I'm all for specific goal-setting! But I think you can set yourself up for failure when you frame resolutions as specific goals, rather than as general intentions. If you look at the specific, measurable aspects of my projects, I failed on most counts. Let's take my Gazelle Project. I wrote in last year's blog that some of my specific running goals for 2012 included: a sub-20:00 5K, a sub-6:00 mile, and qualifying for Boston. Of these, I accomplished zero. I didn't even wind up running a single 5K or road marathon. Instead, however, I ran not only my first 50-miler, but my first 100-miler. I went from having gone on exactly one group run with the Seattle Mountain Running crew to going on dozens of training runs, road trips, and race adventures with new friends. When I sent the word out to my newfound trail running buddies of 2012 (well, except Glenn, who's known me since the very beginning of my trail running life, back when it was still a solo sport for me, not a community-driven one) that I was leaving Seattle, nearly a dozen of them showed up for my farewell snowshoeing adventure on New Years Day.
Snowshoeing at Commonwealth Basin with my SMRG buddies
At the beginning of 2012, I'd never even been to a 100-miler. By the end of 2012, I'd volunteered at several, paced at four, and even run my own. I went from running one ultra in 2010, and one in 2011, to running over a dozen (Fatasses/unsanctioned ultras included) in 2012. I volunteered at more races than ever before, and also ran more total miles than ever before (1800+ for the whole year, up from 1300ish in 2011). So...did I keep my resolution to develop myself as a runner, or not? Calling it a project, and giving myself un-specific, un-measurable goals like "being a bigger part of the running community", "preventing injury", and "running higher mileage" were actually far more attainable and valuable in the long run than any of the specific, measurable running goals I tried to tack on, too. The Too Many Problem
"Most people overestimate what they can do in one year and underestimate what they can do in ten years." - Attributed to both Bill Gates and Anthony Robbins...not sure who said it first
I think we often expect too much of ourselves. In addition to the three major projects, I had many supplementary goals and ambitions for 2012. Some of these happened: I read at least a book a week all year, I landed a full-time writing job by the end of the year, I did more yoga. On the other hand, plenty of them didn't happen at all: I didn't take banjo lessons, I didn't eat less refined sugar, I wasn't diligent in budgeting and tracking spending, and I still can't do a pull-up.
But...I think that's okay! It's perfectly fine to aim big, but I think it's also important to be patient with ourselves. None of us pull it all off. So...I think that three, from now on, is my magic number for New Year projects: three big, ambitious ones to which I really, truly commit myself and my energy. Of course, there will always be other ideas, other goals percolating in my mind - but above all, let me not lose sight of the big three. --- With that, I present my 2013 Projects.
The Simplicity Project
I've moved a lot in the last few years. There was a little window of time where I managed to stay in the same apartment for over a year. Aside from that, in my adult life, I haven't lived in the same space for more than 3-8 months. In fact, I've had a dozen different residential addresses in the past five years alone. The good news is that, every time I move, I get rid of more stuff. More things feel superfluous. This all feels immensely rejuvenating; instead of stressing about the fact that I'm once again renting a truck and moving my life halfway across the country, I'm embracing the opportunity to lighten up. In 2013, I'd like to keep things simple. I want to be more relaxed in my day-to-day life; I've left a cushy corporate job in the big city for the passion gig in a tiny mountain town, and I'm hoping the shift in scenery can help me simplify the expectations I have for myself. Life is about being, not doing.
Sunrise in Glenwood Canyon
I want to be more spontaneous in daily life, rather than setting a tight agenda and always feeling rushed. I want, as I blogged about several months ago, to stop glorifying busyness. I want to have the patience to meditate, to not set an alarm on weekends, to give myself permission to spend hours reading a novel or doing a jigsaw puzzle, to keep my mind present during more of my daily life. I want to live amid less clutter, and be less attached to material things. Well, except running shoes: a vice that, on a sidenote, my new job will be no good at discouraging. Below, on the left, is my new boss's entrance hallway at home. On the right is my own. Oi vey. At least I know I've come to the right place. Speaking of which, trail running friends and blog readers alike, drop me a line if you're interested in wear-testing shoes for Trail Runner. I need folks from all over the country, so speak up!
But, really. I'm serious about simplifying.
The Wellness Project
This will follow some similar themes as last year's "Energy Project". Of last year's three, it's the one I feel I did most poorly on. I made some strides - forgoing alcohol and juicing daily for most of the year, establishing "Health Home" with James, picking up yoga again, trying to bike commute more, etc - but I still feel I have a long way to go in this realm. So I'm repackaging it for 2013 as a Wellness Project :) In this, I would like my life to include more: sleep, juicing, cooking with whole foods, salads and veggies, green smoothies, tea, running, yoga, reading, journaling, meditation, being outdoors, love ...and less: Facebook, internet, iPhone use, refined sugar, dining out, spending money, caffeine, processed foods, meat and dairy, stress and anxiety, hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock
The Courage Project
Here's something that may come as a surprise to those who've met me in my adult life: I was a pretty shy kid with a lot of insecurities and a big inferiority complex. I had a rough time for many years, making new friends, "fitting in" socially, feeling I had much to offer to others. I can say with confidence that I've overcome most of that - but as with anything in our childhoods, the shadows of those memories still trickle into the cracks of my adult life. To this day, I have a strong need to be well liked, to seek the approval of others. Am I perfectionist? Often, yes, more than I like to admit. Without getting too psychoanalytic here, I know that there are many things about this coming year that will prove challenging in this realm. Having my writing and editorial skills spotlighted in front of a national (and opinionated!) audience is scary. Learning to not take criticism personally will be a tough, but necessary, lesson. I'm also struggling with all the fears that come with moving somewhere new, and having changed virtually all aspects of my life over the course of a few short months. People here don't really know me yet, and it will be a while before I can feel myself around them. I miss my friends, the familiarity and comfort of my old life in Seattle. It will all come with time, I know - but for now, it's hard to feel like a blank slate again. Rather than letting myself be swallowed by these fears, I hope to see them as the opportunities they are, and grow from them. During my few months with Solavei, I was fortunate to have a great boss who nudged me out of my comfort zone daily, who always challenged me to take on new responsibilities I didn't initially think myself capable of. This was a hugely valuable learning experience for me (thank you, Rudy!), and one I want to continue building on on my own in the coming year. ---
So there you have it. I think that because I was able to accomplish so many of my concrete, external goals in 2012, I'm necessarily deciding to focus on more abstract, internal goals in 2013. That feels good.
We're not in Washington anymore: Luna Moonshine, my ever-capricious VW who almost broke down the day before leaving for Colorado...didn't know if she'd make it all the way, but here we are!
There's a great deal more to say about adjusting to new life in Colorado, but this blog entry has gone on long enough already. Suffice to say, for now, that I have gone from a world where the essentials are waterproof jackets, poncho pants, and GORE-TEX boots, to one of chapstick, sunglasses, and insulated gloves.
Most other things, I'm pleased to report, have stayed consistent: the abundance of fleece, Patagonia puffy jackets, tea, coffee, dogs, Subarus, dirty hippies, wool socks, and microbrews.
Too many adventures to write about, too little time! Let it be known that over the past few weeks, I have donned a variety of pants - literal, figurative, and otherwise. I've taken turns wearing my fancy pants, my mountain pants, my eating pants, and of course, my running shorts.
(Please note: If you're tired of reading about mountains and running, you can find a brief interlude from those themes buried in the middle of this entry: just look for Cee Lo Green!)
So, two weekends ago, I went to Oregon with my friend Deby for yet another crewing/pacing gig. While Deby knocked out her umpteenth 100-miler this year, I tagged along for the road trip down to southern Oregon and a long weekend of rich conversations, glorious meals, evening hot-tubbing, and sleep-walking mountain miles.
The race, Pine to Palm, is Oregon's only 100-miler. After cruising for two days around the backcountry roads there to support Deby and the other runners, I'm definitely adding P2P to my Ultra Bucket List. Beautiful part of the country, great trails, tons of runnable single-track, thoroughly challenging course. The time cut-offs, unfortunately, were rather aggressive early in the race; paired with intense heat on a lot of exposed ridges and a couple aid stations running out of water, the conditions caused many runners to drop out in the first half of the race.
Strong, steady, and determined as always, though, Deby cruised through like a champ. A little before midnight on Saturday, I jumped in at Dutchman Peak to run the last 35 miles with her. The thin air in the Siskiyou mountains got to us quickly. Around 3 a.m., while trudging up a long section of service road, we both began drifting into walking sleep. It's the strangest sensation, to be moving, to drift off for a second or two, and come to stumbling along in the darkness...your legs still walking, but your mind completely shut down. We curled up on the side of the road for a short nap, but found neither of us could actually sleep - so we marched onward. When the sun came out, it proffered a welcome energy lift.
Perhaps the most amazing moment of the weekend came in the form of a kind stranger at the finish line, who let us borrow her car for several hours to go retrieve our own from Dutchman Peak. Prior to her generosity, we had hit a bit of a panic, realizing suddenly we were not on our home turf in Washington, where we're both accustomed to knowing a good chunk of the people there and could count on hitching a ride with someone. The two other runners and crews we knew had both dropped out in the middle of the night, so we were essentially stranded at the finish line, with no friends, no prospects, no money (left our wallets in our car at Dutchman!), no cell phone reception...and certainly no energy to backtrack 35 rugged miles on foot to get back to our own vehicle. Disaster! Thank goodness for the kindness and trust of strangers. We live in a good world.
All the time I've been spending doing this sleep-deprived rambling around in the mountains has been good processing time for my little heart. 2012 has undoubtedly cast some tidal waves of change in my direction. Metaphorical tsunamis, for better or worse, require a good amount of energy to handle.
As many of you know, I recently accepted a new communications job with a mobile start-up. It was a difficult decision to leave REI, as for 3+ years it's been an absolutely amazing company to work for. Ultimately though, I'm really excited about this new opportunity to further develop my skill set - and hopefully make a bigger impact than I felt capable of making in my old role.
I wake up every day with new tasks to tackle, whether they be drafting letters, writing video scripts, designing newsletters, or in the case of last Friday afternoon - greeting, schmoozing with, and being the face of my company for 400+ members from all over the country. I met good folks from New Orleans, Tulsa, Salt Lake, New Jersey, Puerto Rico, and beyond. Really cool experience. Then jetted over to Seattle's EMP in the evening for our official launch party...rocking out to Cee Lo, scarfing hors d'oeuvres, and sipping Sprites at the open bar like the classy lady I am.
But putting on my fancy pants (or dress, as it were) didn't prevent me from totally shifting gears and donning my mountain pants again at 7 a.m. the following morning.
We've had a truly beautiful summer here in the Northwest. 40 consecutive days without rain, and more sunny, blue-skied, 70-degree days than I could count. It's a shame to reach mid-September without having tromped around even once in the stunning North Cascades - so this weekend, with the help of my new friend Steve, I rectified that. There was a tremendous amount of fog, but happily, we enjoyed the little island paradise of Mt. Forgotten, rising above it all at 6000 feet.
It was a rigorous hike that began in deep fog - but the upshot was getting the mountain (true to its name!) all to ourselves. We ditched our packs for several little exploratory scrambles around. Tasty Ramen mash, mountaintop Scrabble, and cliff-side naps in the sunshine sweetened the whole experience. Not to mention obligatory post-hike milkshakes.
North Cascades for the win.
And...I like my life! Thank you to all who continue to make it a good one.
One of my new year's running resolutions for 2012 was/is to volunteer at more races. Trail races are typically low-budget affairs that rely heavily on passionate swaths of volunteers who come out to make possible the amazing feats of their running compatriots - whether by checking in runners at the start line, manning aid stations, or serving as a direct support crew to individual runners. Since I've run more than my fair share of races at this point and reaped the benefits of the unbelievably awesome local running community, I figured it was high time to wear the volunteer's hat for a weekend!
It was with this mindset that I agreed to crew and pace for my good friend George last weekend at the Badger 100-Mile Challenge outside of Kennewick, Washington. (Yes, 100 miles. On foot.) It's only a few hours' drive from Seattle, but the terrain couldn't be more different from what we Cascadians are used to running through. My typical trail run is through tall, dense forest, a cocoon of bright green moss and ferns and pines. Kennewick is a barren, treeless desert of dirt and dust, exposed ridges, scattered with tumbleweeds and sage.
George was not the only running buddy of mine tackling this beast of a race; I knew several other folks, mostly through the Seattle Mountain Running Group (SMRG) I've been bumming around with a lot lately. By the end of the weekend, I'd know many more, and far more intimately. This being George's first 100-miler, and George being the kind of awesome friend everyone was eager to come out and support, there was a small entourage of us out to crew for him - Jenn, Glenn, Topher and myself. I'd never even been to a 100-mile event before, so aside from being excited to support George's accomplishment, I was psyched to get to witness firsthand what a race like this does to the minds, bodies and spirits of its runners.
The race started at 7 a.m. on Friday in steady rain and 50mph winds. After a steep initial climb, the 60ish starting runners faced long miles ahead along exposed ridges. We managed to miss George at the first crew-accessible aid station (CREW FAIL!) because he, and the other runners, were all booking it so hard to get off those ridges and away from the miserable weather. It wasn't until mile 22ish that we saw George and many of the other SMRG runners come through, and were able to dole out clean clothes, homemade cookies, and bottles of thick, goopy Perpetuem to keep them going.
Topher's old school VW bus made for the perfect movable aid station, with a dry spot for our running friends to get the fuel they needed before moving on. Our runners' clothes had already gotten so soaked that our crew's first mission was to cruise into the nearest town to find a laundromat and some high-powered dryers. The next few aid stations went by in a flash - amazing how all of Friday flew by, as we drove and parked and waited and made bottles of Perpetuem - and repeated. Fortunately for our runners, the rain let up in the afternoon.
Most of the runners were approaching the turnaround point at mile 47ish around sunset on Friday. Amazingly, at this point, most of the runners we saw were still in great spirits - awake, energized, positive, and confident. I wondered about whether my presence was actually of value to them; everyone seemed to be doing just fine! Usually, the dropout rate for tough 100-mile events like these is right around 50%, but seeing all the smiles and good humor as the runners trickled in to that aid station, I wondered if anyone would be dropping at all. Where was all the misery and soul-reckoning I'd heard about at these events? I was proud of and excited for all the runners I knew out there, and duly inspired.
Finally, night fell. The aid stations have a different feel at night, with their quiet, unassuming presence tucked away on the sides of mountains, the party lights, the Dixie cups of chicken noodle soup, the stoves fired up for ultra-grub like pancakes and quesadillas, the folding camp chairs set up to support the slumped bodies of increasingly fatigued runners. It was a really neat experience to hang out at these aid stations through the night, staring into the darkness and watching for the tiny, bobbing light of a runner's headlamp in the distance. The lights of Kennewick lay out below us, a blanket of stars above us.
The white line on the right side of this image is from the headlamp of a runner.
Glenn jumped in to pace George (essentially, run alongside him, ensure he stays awake, moving, and on course - a job that's part babysitter, part designated driver, part coach, and part therapist) from mile 47 on through most of the night. Because most of the aid stations for that stretch were not crew-accessible, the rest of us took the opportunity to curl up in our vehicles and catch a few hours of shuteye.
The next crew fail came in underestimating George's pace yet again. He and Glenn powered through the night, passing many other runners, and gaining speed as others were just starting to slow down. They blazed in to the aid station we'd parked at to nap around 2:30 a.m., a few hours ahead of when we were expecting him. Jenn traded places with Glenn to pace George for the remainder of the race, while I waited for another runner friend of ours, Ras, to come in so I could hop in to keep him company for the remainder of the course.
Running through the night is a crazy thing. My only other experience with it is the Ragnar Relay, but that's never more than a few miles before you hand off the baton to the next runner. I joined Ras at around 4 a.m., and for the next 8.5 hours, we were out on that course together, battling fatigue and steep hill climbs and the sheer emptiness of a race course that had dwindled down to the smallest handful of determined athletes. From there until sunrise, we only saw one other runner. We made our way over jeep trail after jeep trail, hill after hill, until the sun came up. That sun felt good.
This was Ras's second 100-miler, and though he was definitely hurting from long, unexpected stretches on pavement, he kept in great spirits. We shared amazingly lively conversation over the sunrise, through winding vineyard trails, along the highways, up and down more and more mountains. It was cool to spend more time getting to know Ras, since he and I have run a lot of the same races, but had never officially met before last weekend. (...Although he's made guest appearances in my photo albums before, given that we have similar climbing paces; the clicking of his trekking poles was the soundtrack to my ascent at Angel's Staircase last August.)
Ras + my shadow at the top of Angel's Staircase, August 2011 - Little did we know it wouldn't be the first time we'd share mountain summits!
While trekking along a seemingly endless stretch of road, we stumbled on a group of 7 or 8 runners, walking the opposite direction as us. They'd gotten terribly off course in the middle of the night and were trying to find their way back to the aid station we'd just come through. They all had hamburgers in their hands - apparently picked up along the road while lost - which they gnawed away at, eyes glazed over like zombies, as they stared confusedly at the two of us. These things happen at ultramarathons, I guess. We wished them luck and continued onward.
We saw George and Jenn at one of the later aid stations, along an out-and-back portion of the race; they were a couple hours ahead of us on the course, but it was great to see familiar faces. By the time we rolled into the final aid station, Ras's wife Kathy jumped on course for the final few miles.
The final few miles were probably the most scenic of the entire course, at least that I saw, with sweeping views of the valleys below us, and a highly runnable trail that seemed to give many of the exhausted runners new life in their legs. Amazingly, I'd soon learn, ALL of the runners I knew doing this race MADE it to the finish under the 32-hour cutoff. Pretty impressive, given that only 34 of the original 60+ starting runners finished. Later, stories trickled in of other runners dropping, due to turned ankles, muscle cramping, hypothermia, and feet so swollen that shoes had to be cut away with scissors. I attribute the finishers' achievement to their relentlessly positive attitudes, their tenacity, their training, and the running community camaraderie we're fortunate enough to have out here in Washington. Everyone had families, friends, crews, other runners, pacers and a team of exceptional volunteers rooting for them, and everyone rocked it!
So, after all that, am I more excited or less excited about someday trying to tackle a 100-miler myself? More excited, to be sure. Perhaps not this race in particular (the terrain didn't sing to me; the course markings still need some improvement), but I've got buckle envy, for sure.
Photo snagged from fellow Kansan, and 2012 Badger finisher Jeff Webb
I've got some work to do, but I have a pretty constant source of motivation from the people in my life out here - a huge congrats to all the runners at Badger this year, and a big THANK YOU for inspiring me with your superhuman accomplishments and triumph over a punishing and merciless mountain challenge.
I would like to start this entry off with giving the biggest shoutout possible to photographer extraordinaire Glenn Tachiyama for capturing, on more than one occasion, the exhilaration and pure joy I (and several hundred other runners) felt over this past weekend! Because of his talents and devotion to the trail running community, I get to continue reliving my favorite moments, as well as share them with people in my life. Thank you, Glenn, for who you are and all that you do!
So. Have I mentioned recently how much I love this sport? Thank goodness for all the lessons learned (well, relearned, or truly hammered home, at least) at Orcas this year. At this weekend's Gorge Waterfalls 50K in the scenic Columbia River Gorge in northern Oregon, I started more toward the middle of the pack, and took my sweet time warming up over the first few miles. Please, universe, let me remember this pearl of running wisdom in my races from here on out.
Due to some last minute trail closures and crazy late-season snow, James had to revise the course multiple times in the weeks leading up to Sunday - ultimately, the revised course featured less elevation than the original one, and may also have been a bit short of a true 50K. Throw in a flat tire on the race supplies van on race day morning, and I'm sure this one was a bit of an RD's nightmare - but for the runners, it was quite a dream! Tons of beautiful waterfalls, well marked course, aid stations with awesome volunteers, yummy finish line food, and as always, a fantastic community and overall vibe. Thank you, James and Candice and everyone else who helped make this happen.
Anyway, the revised course played well with my current strengths - a lot of twisty, technical trails but with long, relatively flat sections, and only two really sustained climbs.
A decent section of flat road in the middle of the course also undoubtedly shaved some minutes off my time. I hit the halfway/turnaround point in exactly 2.5 hours, which is more than a little ridiculous, given that my previous 50K PR was 5:35, run on a far flatter course. I did slow down some on the return, but felt pretty darn good the whole time. I had some great conversations with other runners out there, many of which continued at the finish line party afterward.
The out-and-back nature of the revised course (versus the original point-to-point) actually turned out to be pretty cool, because I got to see some of the pack-leading rockstars like Max King, Ian Sharman, Stephanie Howe and Jenn Shelton...Oregon runners, represent! This was my first ultra run outside of Washington state, and though there were plenty of familiar faces there, it was fun to run alongside so many new ones, too.
First Glenn sighting, mile 10ish. So excited to see him, I leapt skyward to make a fool of myself :P
I tried some new things this race. I ran with handheld water bottles instead of a hydration pack - YES. I consumed significantly fewer calories than past races, but my fueling regimen (see "Race Recap" notes below) seemed to do the trick. I probably could/should have started drinking/eating a little earlier in the race than I did, but overall, my stomach and energy levels did great - no bonking, no cramping, nothing - woohoo!
My only troubles were my feet, which got thoroughly soaked from the sloppy, muddy trails and several shallow waterfall crossings. Compounded with some very rocky sections, my feet - which typically don't give me trouble at all - were in some serious pain toward the end of the race. I wasn't able to rip down the downhills as fast as I usually do. Fortunately, the extra hill training and strength training I've focused on the last month or so paid off on the uphills; I could feel my legs were far less fatigued on the climbs this time than they were at Orcas. That felt GREAT. I shall run more hills.
With Tom and Elodie at the finish line. I wouldn't be where I am now in the world of trail running without these two wonderful souls!
I crossed the finish line in just under 5:15 - a PR for me of 20 minutes, although with the likely shorter distance, not entirely sure it counts as a PR. Nevertheless...very satisfied!
RACE RECAP
Average weekly mileage in 8 weeks leading up to race day: 40 miles + sporadic cross-training (cycling, snowboarding, yoga/strength)
Peak weekly mileage: 71 miles
Longest single run in training: 29 miles
Race Day Breakfast: Green smoothie, boiled egg, cup of coffee, and a few squares of dark chocolate
During the run:1/2 packet of Perpetuem (carb/protein beverage mix), 3 GU's, a few Endurolytes (electrolyte/salt tablets) and 1 squeezable packet of almond butter
First and foremost, thank you all for your kind words on my last entry here. My blog saw a record number of views the day I posted my entry on Sasha, and many of you took the time to send me messages or call, and I want you all to know how much I appreciated your love, comfort, and support over the past week. The loss of a pet is never easy, but being able celebrate her life with you all meant a lot to me. I'm honored that so many of you took the time to read my words of tribute to my dog, and also that they resonated with you. Thank you, all of you...I am grateful for you in my life.
Second of all...as always, bless running.
And living among mountains.
This past weekend was a wonderful respite from the "real world", as Alan and I made an Oregon road trip out of the weekend and spent our time taking my little Passat for a grand adventure through mountain passes, by lakes, along babbling rivers, into the woods, and through a few new towns. The whole weekend was all in the name of the Eugene Marathon, about which I wrote a story for Outdoors NW last spring and was registered to run in 2010 until I injured myself about a month out. Bummer.
This year, however, my body has held up to the training I've put it through. Maybe it's the new shoes (running in lightweight, neutral shoes for the first time, after a lifetime in stability shoes), maybe it's all the trail running and hills around Seattle strengthening my muscles, maybe it's just getting smarter about my training over the years...but in comparison with my last marathon, this one was a blazing success.
We began the weekend by driving down to Eugene - Tracktown USA, and home to many running greats throughout history including the late and great Steve Prefontaine - for the Expo. We stopped in Portland for lunch that day, finding (as we did for the entirety of the weekend) little hole-in-the-wall, mom-and-pop restaurants along on our way on Yelp. Family-owned Lebanese restaurant? Heck yes; 5 stars for the Nicholas Restaurant.
Guided again by editorial I've done for the magazine, I was really interested in checking out Bend (there will be a little mini-story of mine in the upcoming Outdoors NW about trail running in Bend!), so Friday afternoon, we started driving east in Oregon on the beautiful McKenzie Scenic Highway. The Forest Service campgrounds, sadly, were still closed for the season - the mountain pass along that highway peaks at about 5,000 feet, and the snow was still quite ample up there - so we wound up pitching a tent in an RV Park in the woods.
RV parks...never my first choice, but it was a surprisingly beautiful one, and I felt sufficiently tucked away in the forest in our cozy little REI Half Dome.
The following morning, we slept until the sunshine woke us up, and then made the rest of the drive east to Bend. Bend was a blast. The weather was incredible, and we spent an entire relaxing Saturday exploring town.
Our afternoon included: getting brunch at the lovely CHOW (thank you again, Yelp), strolling along the Deschutes River that winds through town, checking out Bend's REI, stopping by Fleet Feet to meet and chat with the Patagonia-sponsored runner that I interviewed for my story on Bend, and polishing off the afternoon with a couple microbrews on an outdoor terrace downtown. And I have to say, I think Oregon kicks Washington's butt in microbrew-land. Alan's 10 Barrel Brewing Co. S1nist0r Black Ale (Bend) and my Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar (Eugene) rocked both of our worlds.
Anyway. We drove back to our campground that night, stopping in Sisters for dinner at an old hotel renovated into a sweet saloon-type restaurant called Bronco Billy's for my official pre-marathon meal (grilled salmon, rice pilaf, and a skewer of grilled veggies = yum!) before cruising through the mountain pass at sunset to return to our campsite. Beautiful drive.
Us with the Sisters mountains in the background.
Sunday morning, the alarm clock went off at 4:30 a.m. By the light of my car headlights, we took down camp in record time (it was freeeezing cold out), hopped in the car and hit the road for Eugene. The weather, again, couldn't have been more ideal - perfect sunshine, and temperatures ranging from 42-55 degrees in the morning (68 later in the day...).
The starting line, outside of historic Hayward Field.
The marathon itself was incredible - beautiful course along rivers and trails and through beautiful wooded areas as well as quaint residential areas, full of energetic spectators, great musicians along the sidelines, and pretty flat and fast overall. And yes, I ran the whole thing with my camera (in a pocket of my hydration pack, but easily accessible while running.) I am that devoted to you all, my blog readers. :)
It was the opposite, in many (good) ways, of my first marathon in Seattle in 2009. I obviously went into this one with a great deal more long distance running experience under my belt; when I ran Seattle, 26.2 miles was the longest I'd ever run before. At mile 20 of Eugene yesterday, I thought, woohoo, only a 10K left; thank goodness I don't have to run 31 miles today!
I fueled much better this time around, taking in gels or shot blocks or squeezable packs of almond butter at 30-40 minute intervals. I stopped at every single aid station for a cup of Gatorade, and sucked down water from my pack on the run. I'm pretty sure I remember only stopping at a couple aid stations in Seattle for water or Gatorade, and only eating one (maybe two?) gels. Whoops. Live and learn.
I also ran the first half much slower. With Seattle, in my excitement, I accidentally clocked a 7:02 mile early on, and crashed and burned with 10:00+ miles and a lot of walking at the end. This time, my slowest mile (9:02) was my first, and my fastest (8:12) was, of all things, the 21st...and my overall pace got faster and faster as the race went on, with the final six miles, despite my muscles starting to burn, my fastest pace of the entire marathon.
I blame (a word I use in jest) my unexpected 3:45:16 clock time on the 3:50 official pacer. I started out the race way behind him and the pack that ran with him, beginning conservatively and really enjoying the first half of the race at a leisurely pace. I honestly had no ambitions with this marathon, except wanting to do the whole thing without walking (like I did during the last 6 miles of Seattle) and secretly hoping I'd beat my time...but not feeling very confident about it. But at some point, I caught the 3:50 pacing group, somewhat to my surprise, and was still feeling very strong; I ran with them for awhile before feeling confident enough to push ahead.
And push ahead I did! I lost the 3:50 pacing group for a few miles, and felt like I was maintaining a good, strong pace. I indulged in the glimmer of hope that I might, in fact, catch the 3:40 pacer - when all of the sudden, there was that darned 3:50 pacer again, right on my heels, and pushing what suddenly felt like a VERY hard pace. This was about mile 19, when my legs were just beginning to really feel it. Seven miles away from the finishing line seemed too soon for me to start really racing (vs. cruising comfortably), but I was determined not to let that darned pacer pass me - and there he was, chasing me down.
That sense of competition pushed me to my max. I felt unsure my legs were going to make it, but I kept reminding myself that I'd trained for this, I'd fueled everything perfectly, and there was no logical reason for me to not be able to finish the race strong - despite my body protesting and trying to convince me otherwise. Fortunately, the scenery along the river for the final 7-mile stretch was beautiful, the crowd support amazing, and before I knew it, there was historic Hayward Field and the finish line, and an unexpected miracle time on the clock before me. I finished strong, at a 7:44 pace for the home stretch into the stadium, but with next to nothing left in the tank: just the way you want to finish a race.
Bliss!
Best quote from my blog entry about my Seattle marathon: "3:45 would have been great, but that's what next time's for, right?"
Next up: qualify for Boston! I was 4 minutes and 17 seconds away from a 2011 Boston qualifying time...but they've just made the standards even more rigorous, so my goal for my next marathon, whenever that may be, is to run a 3:34:59. It's going to be hard to top this experience, though. Eugene for the win.
