San Juan Solstice 50 Race Report

Is there a better way to spend the summer solstice than playing all day long in the mountains?

I think not.

At the risk of assuming knowledge, here's a quick primer on the San Juan Solstice 50 (formerly the Lake City 50) that happened last Saturday:
 - 50-mile loop course through remote terrain, starting and ending in the town of Lake City
 - 12,856 feet of vertical ascent
 - Low point of 8,671 feet
 - High point of 13,334 feet
 - 16-hour cutoff
 - Sometimes called "Mini Hardrock"
 - Course profile:

San Juan Solstice fills up months in advance, literally within minutes of online registration opening—so, on the recommendation of my friend Annie who'd run this one in the past and thought I'd enjoy it, I registered months ago without really doing my research. (These "moments of optimistic impulse," particularly in relation to ultrarunning, are not out of character for me.) Sign up now, ask questions later.

My first inkling of what I'd signed up for came at the Sageburner 50K in Gunnison a couple months ago, when a racer from Lake City mentioned that the snowpack there was unusually high this year and that he wasn't sure the original course would be runnable by mid June.

Somehow, this possibility hadn't really crossed my mind. There's still snow above 11,000 feet on the trail out my back door right now, so I'm not sure why I thought there wouldn't be snow at 13,000 feet in mid-June somewhere else in Colorado, but somehow that just didn't click. Sure enough, then came the pre-race emails from Race Director Jerry Gray, saying we might need to run a modified course at lower elevation to avoid the obscenely high creek crossings and deep snowfields plaguing the true SJS 50 course last month. He'd monitor the snow melt and let us know.

It wasn't until six days before the race that we got final word: things were still crazy up there, but the snow was melting fast, so we'd run the original course, creek crossings and snowfields and all.

Hmm. For the first time since I'd registered, I read the race website more carefully and learned all sorts of interesting things: in fact, there'd be roughly a dozen icy, knee- to waist-deep creek crossings in the first few miles. There'd be bushwhacking and scree-field surfing and post holing and glissading and all sorts of other verbs that, in years past, I'd considered only vaguely related to trail running.

A few of the images that can be found on the San Juan Solstice 50 race website.

Furthermore, there are pieces of advice on the race website like, "If it goes electric, get off the ridge!" and "It is a very wise idea to buy a CORSAR [Colorado Search and Rescue] card ... that will help pay for your rescue."

Also, this running-at-13,000-feet thing. In my head, beforehand, I think I was all, "Oh yeah, I live at altitude in the mountains in Colorado; I'm pretty much made of red blood cells now, so no problem."

Haha.

Turns out, 13,000 feet is still a heck of a lot higher than 7,000 feet. The lowest point (metaphorically) for me on Saturday came shortly after the highest point (literally) in the race, the 13,334-foot Coney Peak. At this point, mile 24ish, we'd already done the bulk of the race's major climbing and now faced roughly 13 more miles of staying above 11,000 feet. As one of the race's more Colorado-appropriate mottos goes: "Get high, stay high."

High did not feel so good to me, though. Not one bit. In fact, aside from the glorious views and the nice folks I met along the way, very little about the first 30 miles felt good to me.

Let's begin with the creek crossings, which were every bit as icy and raging as promised. The first couple of them were exciting—all "Whoo, we're splashing through a creek, it's the summer solstice, isn't this awesome?!"—but then, as my legs got progressively more numb with each crossing, the novelty wore off. The crossings got deeper and more harrowing. Some had logs or ropes to hold on to, but the deepest one of all (which, I was told later, nearly swept away at least one or two smaller-bodied runners) had nothing at all to assist with a safe crossing, save the kindly, patiently extended hands of the runners in front of and behind me, including my wonderful friend Annie.

By the time all the creek crossings were over, my legs felt like popsicles—stiff and frozen. My heart (and I mean this in a physical sense) also felt very cold, like it couldn't pump oxygen fast enough to the rest of my body. I was sluggish until we made it through the first major aid station, popped out above tree line and the sun began peeking through the morning clouds, bathing us with its rays.

Here, it was evident who was a San Juan vet and who was a starstruck newb. Falling into the latter category, I was brimming over with oohs and ahhs and the occasional disbelieving, ecstatic profanity as every switchback took us higher, and snow-capped peaks rose up around us like castles in the sky.

From the beginning, my stomach had been grumpy and I felt a bit dizzy, but otherwise, I was doing all right. The first downhill was a huge boon—off I went, unleashed, and to my tremendous delight, the first runner I flew by called out after me, "Wow, wow! Like a GAZELLE!"

Day. Made.

I would have liked to have stopped to tell him that I like to think of the gazelle as my spirit animal, and that, in 2012, I named one of my personal projects for the new year "The Gazelle Project," which had everything to do with devoting my life more wholly to the sport of trail running.

One of the things that struck me most about running the Leadville Trail 100 last year was how grumpy and even antagonistic some runners were toward one another, including several who made nasty comments to me as I passed them on downhills. (My favorite: a sarcastic, "Nice work trashing your quads!")

The runners at San Juan couldn't have been more different. In my experience, even those of us suffering deep in our individual pain caves throughout the day were still kind and decent to one another. (Thankfully, like nearly every other trail race I've ever run ... )

When I made it to the top of Coney Peak, a fellow runner who was stopped at the summit asked me if I wouldn't mind stuffing his jacket away in his pack for him. I was more than happy to do so, then I asked if he wouldn't mind taking a photo of me at the summit with my camera. Unless one of my parents reminds me of some long-forgotten adventure when I was a wee one, it's the highest elevation I've ever been in my life.

As the runner was snapping a shot of me, another runner (if my admittedly fuzzy memory of the moment serves me right, it was Lucky, the owner of the Raven's Rest hostel in Lake City) approached the summit and said brightly, "Oh, are you two together? Do you want me to take a picture of you both?"

What a gentleman, even as the first runner and I laughed and shook our heads.

On the way up to Coney, I'd leapfrogged with two of my friends, accomplished runners and fellow Pacific-Northwesterner-for-a-while-turned-Coloradoans, Ben (well, Steve's friend whom I've co-opted, who now lives in Telluride) and Annie (OK, Annie's a Colorado native originally, but she did a solid stint working in Olympic National Park before moving back to the homeland near Aspen.) Annie's husband, Jeason, also a former Northwesterner, was much further up in the pack, getting in a solid training run before Hardrock next month.

Ben leads the way.

Annie, trekking poles up, in her perpetual great mood.

Annie and Ben kept me in good spirits on the climbs, as did the runners around us—seasoned SJS 50 vets like the indomitable Roger Jensen with his epic beard and tie-dye shorts and 11-time SJS 50 finisher Annette Fortune, as well as a handful of newbies like myself. At some point on the second climb, the man who'd called me a gazelle caught up to me again, and we fell into step. Bill and I continued to chat away about writing and editing and goodness knows what else for several miles. So many good, friendly people; much as I love my solo runs and adventures in the backcountry, the trail-running community has always been, first and foremost, what I love about this sport.

Then along came the stretch on the Continental Divide. Following a heck of a lot of climbing, it offered a huge section of runnable, net-downhill (albeit very rolling), relatively non-technical terrain. I was psyched and feeling pretty good for the first time all day.

Then, out of nowhere, after a steep descent through scree, a wave of intense nausea overtook me.

I guess there was a "trail" in there somewhere for getting down.

All of the sudden, I was on my hands and knees, dry retching onto the tundra. Fortunately there was enough space between me and the next runner that no one had to witness this display, which lasted about one minute in total. After about a dozen dry heaves and a mild panic attack about my body rebelling so violently and so unexpectedly, I calmed myself, ate a blueberry rice cake (thank you, FeedZone Portables cookbook), sipped some water and Acli-mate, got up and started running again. Just like that, I felt better.

Some further gratitudes: there were no lightning storms on Saturday. This was my worst fear going into a race like this that takes place so much above tree line. The skies went dark for a moment in the early afternoon and it rain/snow/hailed on me for approximately 20 seconds, but that was really it as far as inclement weather; by the time I'd yanked my jacket out from the bungee on my pack and pulled it on, the "storm" was already over. The rest of the day, we lucked out with intermittent sun and generally cool, overcast skies.

Remember in my last blog entry, last week, when I wrote about how I'd be happy if I never had to post-hole another day in my life? Hahaha.

Steve and Carmel, the hero crew team responsible for seeing me and Ben through our respective races, greeted me at the 40-mile mark at Slumgullion aid station with big smiles and a plate of salted avocado and bananas. Pacers are allowed for the final stretch, so Steve jumped in to run the last 10 miles with me. I was already feeling (relatively) like a million bucks at this point—dry socks and shoes, no more nausea, no more getting above 11,200 feet, and feeling in the home stretch—but it was especially terrific to have Steve's company for the final 1,700-foot climb and descent through Vickers Ranch and back into town.

Like a bat out of hell, I went crashing out of Slumgullion, so utterly stoked by how strong I felt at that point that I blasted right past a flagged turn in the course. (Sound familiar?) Go figure; it wouldn't be a real race if I hadn't gotten lost at some point or another, despite the course being perfectly well marked the whole way. I fortunately dead-ended at a creek almost immediately, realized I'd missed a turn, ran back up to the turnoff and got back on course.

The last 10 miles were nothing but fun. No, really. Just as had been my hope for this race, I felt strong and properly trained and, above all, joyful. I cruised hard on the technical descent back toward town, and was delighted to cross the finish line in 13:15ish (still not sure my exact time), at least an hour or two faster than I was expecting.

Last year, I ran just two trail races—the Transvulcania 83K in Spain's Canary Islands, and Colorado's own Leadville Trail 100. On a personal level already discussed at length here in my blog, both races kicked my ass; it was my hope that this year I could finally experience feeling good at the finish line of a race again, rather than just destroyed.

Happily, mission accomplished.

On a more general level, Leadville and Transvulcania were each special and amazing in their own ways. Ultimately, though, with 1,000ish runners apiece and massive fanfare (or as "massive" as fanfare gets in the ultrarunning world, ala balloon arches, sound systems, media coverage, etc), neither race in its modern rendition has much in common with the low-key, laid-back races that made me fall in love with this sport in the first place. (To name a few, my first volunteer gig at Ben Holmes' PsychoPsummer 50K, my first trail race at James Varner's Orcas Island 25/50K, and my first ultra at Bruce Cyra, Kevin and Claudine Kim-Murphy's Vashon Ultra 50K.)

I was happy not to see a speck of litter, not even a lone GU gel tab, anywhere on the SJS course. In my experience, runners were friendly to one another, cheering each other on all day long, offering helping hands at the creek crossings, stopping to check in with those pulled over in pain or exhaustion on the side of the trail.

The aid stations were unbelievably dialed, filled with some of the most wonderful volunteers I've ever met; my drop bags were delivered without asking, my bottle/hydration pack refilled to my specifications in a matter of seconds. With 200+ runners on course, I usually had company if I wanted it, though toward the end, Steve and I also enjoyed some glorious miles entirely on our own, so spread apart had we racers become.

All the race proceeds went to benefit the Lake City Volunteer EMTs.

Bravo to all the folks who made this race happen—the RD, volunteers, runners, crews, sweepers, Lake City locals and more—for putting on such a wonderful, challenging event in some of the world's most beautiful mountains. I feel blessed to have been a part of it all.

Our base camp for the weekend: Wupperman Campground overlooking Lake San Cristobal,  just a few miles outside of Lake City proper.

Sucker for swag: Finisher's cap, age-group award dog tags, plus a sweet cutting board from the Lake City general store and a bottle of Syrah donated by Elkhorn Liquors that I scored in the post-race raffle.

Nothing but gratitude for another glorious day in the mountains.

Race Report: Yakima Skyline 50K

Text message on Saturday, 7:42 a.m. "Have an amazing time, this is a magical race."

It was just about the only encouraging thing I'd heard in the 48 hours or so since I'd made the decision to run the Yakima Skyline Rim 50K.

My friend Tom loved running the 25K race last year. He sang its praises and did his darnedest months ago to get me to register this year. But...exposed ridgelines? Sunny, hot weather? More elevation than any other race of the same distance in the entire Northwest? No thanks; when it comes to running, I adore my overcast Seattle skies, lush deep forests, and gently rolling hills for good reason.

To my relief, the race sold out early on, giving me a great excuse to not think about it anymore. But lo and behold, the seed got planted again a week or two ago as several people who'd registered got injured and were looking to pass off their race bibs to a willing runner. Anyone who knows me knows it doesn't take much arm-twisting to talk me into just about anything; before I knew it, it was Friday afternoon, I was at work and busily texting on my break to nail down a carpool out to Yakima for later that evening.
(This wasn't the first time I've jumped in to a race last minute. Last time I did this, I called it a "moment of optimistic impulse." Could there be a more apt term?)

The litany of potential menaces extolled to me in the 15 hours or so leading up to the race would have been funny, if they hadn't been so fantastically upsetting instead...first, I learned that the trails were rife with rattlesnakes and ticks. What?! Give me bears and cougars over ticks any day. Then I learned that the temperatures would be hovering around 80 Fahrenheit, which is so far above my comfort zone it's ridiculous. Then I actually looked at the elevation profile for the first time since last year when I'd decided I'd never do this race in my life; I'd be climbing and descending not one, not two, not three, but FOUR monstrous mountains.


To give you some perspective on the course (and the variety of trail races in general)...

American Women's 50K Record (Janis Klecker): 3:13:51
2012 Orcas Island 50K Women's Winner (Pam Smith) : 5:16:53
2011 Yakima Skyline 50K Women's Winner (Shawna Tompkins) : 6:49:29

Here I'd been thinking that I could probably expect a comparable time on the Yakima course to my time at the Orcas Island 50K, which I'd run two months ago in 6:31 - but as I lay in bed on Friday night at my friend Cassie's parents' house in Yakima, listening to the coyotes and poring over last year's results/stats on my fancy phone, I realized I was far more likely destined for somewhere around an 8-hour finish.

And, given that I'd missed dinner - having had a kale salad on my break at work on Friday, and then chowed down on nothing but handfuls of potato chips and a brick-sized chocolate chip cookie bar on the drive to Yakima - I felt I should take my expectations down yet another notch. Oh, and Cassie's mom mentioned how humid it had been in Yakima lately. Oh, and the winds atop the ridges might be enough to knock me off my feet. Forget about having tapered or carbo-loaded or remembered to pack a cap to keep the sun off my neck and face, or anything fancy like that either. This race was going to be a hot mess.

So you can imagine the tiny pang of hope I allowed myself to feel when I received Tom's text message twenty minutes before the race start on Saturday morning. Tom may not always come in ahead of me time-wise in races, but I'm pretty sure he always beats me in enjoyment of them. When asked what I'm training for, I tick off my upcoming schedule of races; when asked what he's training for, Tom's reply is "life". Tom FTW.

I promised myself, right there on the starting line at Yakima, to channel Tom's joyful and grateful spirit during my run...the least I could do, after he came down with flu-like symptoms on Friday and had to bail on his plans to come run it, too.


And so the race began. The first mountain climbs 2,000+ feet in 2 miles, topping out at 3,500 feet of elevation. I took this one slowly, falling behind others' lead, and trying to heed Tom's advice and not get intimidated by the chin-scraping climbing toward the skies.


Once the first climb was over, we were rewarded with beautiful views of the surrounding mountains - the Stuart range was out in its full glory, as well as Mt. Adams and Mt. Rainier. Running atop the ridge felt, indeed, magical, with 360-degree views, cool fresh air, sunshine on my face, and above all, quiet. Nothing but the sound of the breeze whistling through the sage brush and the patter of my own footfalls in the dirt.


I spent the next couple of hours on cruise control, in the zone, enjoying the scenery and beautiful day and an unexpected flow of creative energy. I thought about my life, my future, my writing, specific projects I'm working on, people, ideas, everything...I just felt really, really good. The heat was manageable, the descents were a blast, and all systems were a go.

In keeping with my 2012 New Year's resolution "gratitude project", I devoted the entire second climb to reflecting on things and people I'm grateful for. I'm pretty sure I was talking out loud to myself at this point on the course, joyfully prattling away about Washington state, about the hatchling wildflowers along the trail, about the health of my body, about my wonderful parents, about all the friends and familiar faces I'd seen at the starting line. I thought about my recent run with George, where we'd talked about how running long distances makes you appreciate the smallest things so much more - a cool breeze, a cold splash of water from a stream, a Dixie cup of ginger ale. There's no need for excess, for Supersize-anything; that Dixie cup has the power to grant all the pleasure you can possibly imagine in that moment, after running through desert-like mountains for hours on end, parched and exhausted.

I thought about the late Harvey Manning, a local nature writer and conservationist whose passion and devotion to the local trails helped ensure my ability to run on them today. I thought about Kathrine Switzer, who challenged the notion that women shouldn't/couldn't run, by being the the first woman to run the Boston Marathon (in 1967). I thought about the legacy of Caballo Blanco, about Scott Jurek's tribute to him at REI's Running Expo last weekend, and about loving running for the sake of running. I thought about my new friend Jonathan, who several weeks ago gave me some of the best training advice imaginable for races like these (sustained treadmill climbs!), which I'd put to use and definitely felt the positive effects from on Saturday as I powered up those mountains. Jonathan's unit deployed to Afghanistan this weekend, so I reflected on how grateful I am to him, and all those throughout history who've served and defended our country. What a gift, to be a woman in America, and free to have experiences like this.


I hit the halfway point in a surprising 3.5 hours. By the time I started the third climb, however, my good vibes were faltering. The heat at the bottom of the valley was starting to feel suffocating and my feet were getting irritated from the exceptionally rocky and scree-ridden trails. Miraculously, my legs still felt pretty fresh. It made me grateful for all those vertical training miles logged in the Issaquah Alps.

I ran large stretches of the middle of the course with a friendly woman from Banff named Leslie. Let me now devote a paragraph of gratitude to Leslie. This woman is built like a mountain goat; I've never seen someone so steady, so strong - mowing up the ascents as though they were flat, tearing up the downhills like she was on the trail of prey. Beyond that, she had crazy positive energy, whooping and cheering all day long, high-fiving other runners on the out-and-back, even breaking out into song and dance in her own rendition of "Eye of the Tiger" as we approached one of the aid stations, just to get some laughs from the volunteers. What a fun and spunky woman! We chatted away mile after mile, passing folks one by one, and having a blast all the way. When the terrain forced us from a jog into a walk, she'd say triumphantly, "But we'll walk with purpose!" and just keep marching on up.


At one point, she whipped out her camera and said, "Smile!" So, there we are :)
When I finally started to lose my steam on the third downhill and Leslie pulled ahead of me, I felt a little panicked. I'd so enjoyed her company, her positivity and her strength; now I'd have to dig deep into my own stores of energy to keep going forward. My quads still felt strong on the third descent, but my feet were really getting chewed up. I stopped along the trail to peel my right shoe and sock off to try to lance as many blisters as I could with a safety pin from my race bib - unfortunately, to little avail. Most of the monster blisters were developing underneath thick callouses, and their fluids were not easily drained.

The final climb boiled down to sheer willpower. Amazingly, everything still felt pretty good, except my right foot and its forest of big, irritated blisters. The sun was getting hotter and hotter overhead, meanwhile, but I was greatly comforted by the knowledge that I'd soon get to stop running - and an icy cold river awaited me at the bottom. I was moving faster, much faster, overall than I'd expected, and this gave me a good mental boost that carried me all the way to the end.

I crossed the finish line in 7:27:52, and in 5th place for women. (My butt kicked yet again by a handful of women in their forties! :P ) The rest of the day was a blur of cookie-munching, river-soaking and kombucha-guzzling - an amazing day, to be sure. Back to Seattle that night, in time for work the next morning, where I hobbled around on my severely blistered foot and took home our work library's loaner copy of Fixing Your Feet. It'll be a few days before I run (or even walk comfortably) again on these puppies...

RACE RECAP

Average weekly mileage in 8 weeks leading up to race day: 40 miles + sporadic cross-training (cycling, strength)

Peak weekly mileage: 58 miles

Longest single run in training: 31 miles

Race Day Breakfast: Green smoothie, boiled egg, cup of coffee, bottle of GT's Kombucha

During the run: 3 scoops of Perpetuem (carb/protein beverage mix), 7ish GUs, 10ish Endurolytes (electrolyte/salt tablets), ultra grub at the aid stations (ginger ale, boiled potatoes, bananas, orange slices), boatloads of water

Lessons learned: If it's sunny, bring a hat. Don't wear black. Don't forget to put sunscreen on the backs of your arms. If it's hot, put ice cubes in your water at the start. Lace your shoes tightly. If there's going to be a lot of scree, small trail gaiters are probably worth it. If you're going to bring a Ziploc baggy of Perpetuem, better double-baggy it - and for the love of God, don't put it in the same pocket of your hydration pack as your fancy phone.

So. The secret to running a solid race?
Potato chips for dinner.


And rockstar sunglasses.
In other words, low pressure and low expectations :)

From Orcas to Rainier: A Weekend to Remember

This past weekend, I was blessed with more sunshine than the Pacific Northwest has collectively seen in months - and was further blessed with the coincidence of two of my greatest winter adventures having been long slated for this very weekend: (1) the Orcas Island 50K race and (2) three glorious days of backcountry snowshoeing/sledding/hutting it up down by Mt. Rainier.

Part I: Orcas Island 50K Race Report

Running on Orcas Island feels like it's become a little part of my soul at this point. It being the first trail race I ever ran, two years ago now, it holds by nature a special place within me - but it's also just hands down my favorite race. I love the camaraderie of a weekend on the island, potluckin' and campin' and runnin' and eatin' and drinkin' (though just soda for me this year!) and geekin' it up big time with other addicts. I love the course. I love the views. I love seeing what kind of crazy stuff my friend Tom will be eating and wearing and saying at 6:30 a.m. the morning of.


Exhibit A: Tom, Orcas 25K in 2010, Original photo courtesy of Glenn Tachiyama; Photoshopped commentary courtesy of Ryan Schmid
This year, however, was my first time tackling the 50K distance, rather than the 25K. Aside from discovering the day before race day that my tried-and-true running shoes had separated from their soles, and aside from discovering race morning that I'd forgotten to pack my running shorts, the real disaster didn't occur until Race Director Extraordinaire James yelled "Go!"...

Despite promising myself I wouldn't do this anymore, I started off way too fast. All my training has been so solid over the last few months - high mileage, more speed and hills than ever before, no injuries (knock on wood) - that it's hard to squelch the soaring optimism that's been stalking me at the beginning of my recent races. But squelch it I must, or else I wind up suffering for hours at its hand.

I knew after the first mile that I'd gone out too fast. Unfortunately, because I was running in a single-file line on single track with a still-too-optimistic ego to negotiate with, I still didn't reel myself in when I should have. Too proud to let myself get passed in those first few miles, I pushed too hard for yet another mile or two - at which point the course began its first of three steady mountain climbs, and I fell apart.


8,000 feet of elevation gain
So, over the course of the next mile or two, roughly 50 people passed me. I pulled over to the side to let the herds go by while I gasped to catch my breath, tried to nurse liveliness into my brick legs, and contemplated with a mix of glee and disgust the opportunity I'd have at mile 9.5 to drop out of the race completely. The kind of self-berating that usually accompanies this sort of contemplation can be especially cruel. To put it mildly, the next few miles were a challenge.

Fortunately, after cresting Mt. Pickett and backing significantly off the blistering pace at which I'd hurled myself over the starting line, I started to feel decent again. I caught up with Candice, who unfortunately had twisted her ankle pretty badly and was padding along at a pace I was able to match comfortably for a couple miles to the first aid station. Although I wish it had been under better circumstances, her company for those couple miles was a godsend, wrenching me out of my self-deprecating mental soundtrack and reminding me of one of the aspects I love most about this sport: the awesomeness of people you run the trails with. (Candice, may your ankle heal up swiftly!)

The rest of the race was pretty fantastic. 21 more miles to go after that first aid station, and with the help of some Endurolytes and the realist runner in me overtaking the optimist one, I enjoyed a relatively solid, steady race.


Me running by Cascade Falls. Photo by Glenn Tachiyama.
The sunshine atop Mt. Constitution was blinding, the views impeccable, and the company on the trails delightful as ever. As I've gotten more involved in the local trail running community over the past year, the entire weekend was sweetened by the sight of all those familiar faces before, during and after the race. Shoutouts to all those, old friends and new, who kept me company during those long, beautiful hours on the trails of Orcas!

Aside from some calf and quad cramping around mile 24, I felt strong the rest of the way. The climbs were invigorating, the descents adrenaline-charged, and the feeling of crossing the finish line - of being able to stop running - a fine pleasure indeed. I crossed in 6:31, right around where I hoped/expected to (the realist runner in me, again, at least) and spent the rest of the day celebrating with various characters among the fantastic cadre of friends I've made in this sport - Glenn, Tom, Ryan, Ben, Tracy, Michael, Jeff, Alex, Scott, Andrew (notably, though, nearly all dudes...where the ladies at?!)


After much celebrating and merriment at the finish line, we headed off to the ferry landing, bound for Seattle and, in my case, a good night's rest before the next big adventure.

Part II: Hut Up or Shut Up

So. I got to stay here for two nights


with eight of my favorite people


where we went snowshoeing,


watched sunsets,


ate food in our union suits,


and spent the better part of our days sledding.


Video by Cambajamba.
I would like to be as indulgently prolix in my descriptions of High Hut as I've been in my ramblings about Orcas, but I gotta be honest: Cam beat me to it with his epic retelling of our journey. Please check out his spectacular account of our shenanigans on the mountain. I doubt if I could tell it better.


Alan and I at sunset up at High Hut. 'Tis a good life we lead.

Living it up on the other side of the world

Oh, what a trip this has been already! One full week here now, and happily, it feels as though I've been able to pack in a lot of great adventures, without completely overwhelming myself. Still plenty of time to relax, read, catch up with my mom and catch up on sleep.

With the exception of a few cold, rainy days at the beginning, we've had great fall weather here. Loads of sunshine, crisp air, picturesque clouds. I arrived via a 9-hour direct flight (the first time I've ever been able to fly nonstop from home to Amsterdam! Thank you, Seattle!) last Tuesday. I made a futile attempt to ward off jetlag by sleeping only 3.5 hours the night before my flight, thinking I'd be able to just pass out on the plane and wake up refreshed and ready to roll when I arrived in Amsterdam at 8:20 a.m. local Dutch time. Unfortunately, I decided to finally take the fancy-phone plunge and purchase an iPhone for myself right before leaving - and the thrills of being able to play with a new mobile toy in airplane mode on my flight, combined with chatting it up with a sweet German woman whom I sat next to, prevented me from sleeping much at all on the flight.


Almost full moon! Trippy to watch a sunset, moonrise, and sunrise all in the course of one flight.
My mom came to meet me at the airport, and we immediately hopped on the train back to Nijverdal, the small town in the east where she lives. Upon arrival in Nijverdal, I barely made it through the tour of her cozy, new little house before collapsing in bed for an all-day nap. Woke up for dinner and passed back out again shortly thereafter, for a total of 17 hours of sleep. Oi vey!

The next few days, we had a relaxing few days at home in Nijverdal. I got to know her daily environs a bit more - the neighbors (who fielded a few complaints about our rowdy storytelling and laughing into the wee hours of my first few jetlagged nights here!), the local thrift shops, the newly renovated town square, and what I remember best about my last visit to Nijverdal...the beautiful woods and heather fields on the edge of town. For my last few training runs before the Amsterdam marathon, my mom and I set out for the woods, and she walked one loop on various routes while I ran the same loop twice. We really lucked out with the blue skies and sun-spackled trails.


On Saturday morning, we set out for Amsterdam again by train - arriving to slightly warmer weather, and a sunny, glorious weekend day in the city. A longtime friend of my mom's is vacationing in Uzbekistan for a few weeks; generously, he left us the keys to his centrally-located Amsterdam apartment, as well as two ratty old bikes for us to ride around the city. Truly a blessing - I can't imagine being in A'dam without a bike!


Saturday afternoon, my mom and I biked to the marathon expo in the south of the city to pick up my marathon bib and t-shirt, then on to the house of Cinta - my host during my semester abroad in Amsterdam. Cinta, a longtime marathon runner herself, prepared a delicious, vegetarian pre-race meal for me (and herself! She ran as an official Runner's World pacer for runners trying to get a time of 3:45) of pasta with fennel, mushrooms, walnuts and cheese. Her girlfriend Tanja joined us, and the four of us had a wonderful time making up for lost time.


Me with Cinta and Tanja
We biked home at the end of the night, through the lovely Vondelpark, of which I have many fond memories of nighttime biking with Taryn (my fellow housemate at Cinta's from study abroad). It's really peaceful there at night, the darkness punctuated only by other bike lights, the silence broken by the steady whirr of your bike light on your front wheel...on many Dutch bikes, your bike light at night is powered by the energy of your actual pedaling - innovative indeed! I fell into bed at Gustaaf's flat, stayed up awhile reading the latest Jeffrey Eugenides novel on my iPhone before dropping off to sleep. Amazing, technology. (On a total sidenote, I'm halfway through it now and really enjoying the read, contrary to many of the early negative reviews.)

Sunday was the big day - Marathon Day! I think I'll save most of my ramblings about the marathon itself for a separate entry (because we've all witnessed how capable of rambling about running I am!), but suffice to say that it was a gorgeous day with a beautiful, flat course, and I ran about as fast as I hoped to.


Sunday evening, we celebrated by getting together for tea, and later dinner, with one of my mom's close friends from 40+ years ago when they shared their first apartment in Amsterdam together, and her husband and daughter Sabrina. A good evening, full of many stories and laughs too! My mom and Sabrina worked on devising a plan to keep me in Holland longterm :)

Monday, my mom and I hopped on our bikes and headed for the "Amsterdamse Bos" - perhaps my favorite, most cherished part of the city, and one of which few people, even lifelong Amsterdam residents, seem to be aware.


It's a big wooded area just a kilometer or two outside of the city, with an expansive trail system (both semi-paved bike trails and unpaved walking/running trails), lots of lakes and creeks, scenic farmland, and even - as I learned with surprise on a solo run there four years ago - wild boar-ish animals called "Schotse Hooglanders".


One such mellow fellow, just hanging out next to the trail.
The intention was to bike to my favorite restaurant in all of Amsterdam, a Dutch pannenkoekenhuis (pancake house!) with a pancake menu reminiscent of the indulgent breadth of options available at the Cheesecake Factory. Dutch pancakes can be sweet or savory, and include a wealth of ingredients we Americans typically only thing of putting in omelets or crepes...but we're talking full-blown, thick, bigger-than-your-face pancakes here, with any ingredient or combination you desire cooked right into the middle of the batter.


The Boerderij Meerzicht (roughly translated: Farm with a Lake View) is situated in the middle of the forest. Though we found it without trouble, we were disappointed to discover that it's not open on Mondays. Talk about a bummer! Happily, though, we biked back to the city and found ourselves some solid Dutch pancakes there instead.

Sunday evening I was able to get together with a fellow marathoner and friend from my semester abroad, whom I'd originally gotten to know through interviewing for my thesis paper. Over a pot of tea, a few glasses of port, and a block of aged Dutch cheese, we had quite the time catching up, too!

Today, my mom and I spent a relaxed morning wandering around the famous, outdoor Albert Cuyp market, enjoying some traditional Dutch "patat met" (fat french fries doused in mayonnaise and served in a paper funnel with a fork) before making our way back to Amsterdam's Central Station and on the train back to Nijverdal...


...which brings me to tonight! More updates to follow. Namely, the marathon report :)

Weekend in Oregon: Beer, sunshine, and 26.2 miles

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.

Anatomy of a long (urban) run

I'm done with my winter quarter of school! Slept in today, awoke to kitty paws and sunlight pouring through the blinds. It didn't seem right not to do a long run today, even though I had plenty of other things on my to-do list nagging at me. I decided to borrow an idea from my friend Alex, whom I met at last year's Orcas Island run (where he totally smoked the men's 50K) and took my camera along for my long run around Seattle today and snap away consistently while in motion.


I found that running with my photographer's eye engaged made for a totally different running experience - first of all, I ran more slowly than usual, which was actually a blessing. I typically don't have the patience for proper "LSD" as it's called among runners - i.e. "Long, Slow Distance", the key component to any decent endurance runner's training schedule - but I took today significantly slower than my normal pace, and it was really enjoyable. I noticed all sorts of new things, found myself smiling pretty much the whole time, and appreciated Seattle so, so very much.


The full album, with captions, in chronological order, can be found here. (Kudos to you if YOU have the endurance to make it through all of the pictures.)

They showcase:
- Cherry blossom trees, skyline views, shimmering lakes, Puget Sound, beaches, bridges, doggies, hula hoops, kites, paper cranes, palm trees, biker butts, the number 33, and me showing some love to a bottle of Gatorade
- Capitol Hill, South Lake Union, Queen Anne, Magnolia, Ballard, Fremont, and more Capitol Hill at the end
- Cal Anderson Park, Lake Union Park, Kerry Park, Discovery Park, Gasworks Park, and Volunteer Park


Woot! This was great. I love, love, love my long runs (three weekends in a row with 3+ hour runs = heaven!) While I treasure their solitude and the quiet space in my head to detox from stress, it's great, too, to be able to share my run with others, in a way. Bless the internet. And Seattle, and my able body, and everything in my life that has led me to where I am right now.


This is a good place.