I was hungry.  We’d spent what seemed like forever in line for the free pasta dinner, and we finally had food.  Steve and I were at a small table against the wall.  Surrounded by other Racers, we dug in to our slightly overcooked noodles and surprisingly well-made red sauce (meat for me, vegetarian for Steve).

“I can’t believe it,” Steve said.  “We’re actually here.”

I nodded slowly, looking around the dining room.  “Dude.  It’s finally real.  This is really going to happen.”

‘Here’ was the town of Grande Cache, Alberta.  That’s in Canada, eh.  Two thousand miles from home, over 4100 feet above sea level in the Canadian Rockies.  ‘It’ was the Canadian Death Race.  125 kilometers (about 76 or so miles) on trails through the wilderness, including three mountain summits.  17,000 feet of elevation gain.  Only 24 hours to complete it.

Steve and I had been planning and training for the race for nearly a year.  In the weeks leading up to our departure, neither one of us experienced much in the way of the usual pre-race anxiety.  We focused on getting gear in order, coordinating driving plans; Joy and I would meet Steve and his family near Glacier National Park in Montana a few days before the race.  The race was so far away, in time, in distance, so far from anything we had ever done, that we had nothing to compare it to.  Until that dinner, the night before the start, it didn’t seem real.

Miraculously, that night I slept like the dead.  I’d had my ritual pint of Guinness (4.2% ABV?  WTF Canada?) and crashed.  Up and out early in the pale, chilly dawn.  I munched down a bagel with peanut butter and chatter with the relay team camped next to us.  Steve was up and worried; he had hardly slept.  One drawback of Tent City is that you’re, well, in a tent.  You can hear everything.  I’d managed to shut it all out, but Steve wasn’t as lucky.

Click to read more …

June 5, 2010.  Just outside of Washington, DC, near Sterling, Virginia.  Another early morning, and once again I was preparing for a 50k.  This time I was going to be running on my own, in high heat and humidity, on unfamiliar terrain, and with a new, inexperienced crew (my mom, Val).  I was excited, not really nervous.  The day before had been my birthday.  I was a newly-minted 31-year-old running 31 miles.  I’d met Dean Karnazes and got his book signed.  I was ready.

The sun was coming up over the trees and the field was filling up with runners.  I set some waypoints on my phone’s GPS so Val could find the aid stations and her way back to the finish line.  This would ultimately prove useless.  I briefed her, again, on what it would be like.  I tend to repeat myself when I’m anxious.

Okay: I may be incomprehensible later in the race, this is okay.
If I ask for something, ice, water, gel, whatever, that means I need it RIGHT NOW.
My body will not understand patience.
I may be manic, just go with it.
If I snap, I am sorry now and I will be sorry later but in that moment I am not.
Never tell me I’m “lookin’ good!”
Do not touch me at any point during or after the race.
I will probably fall asleep in the car after and then wake up like a hungry bear.
Val said she understood.  I repeated everything.
Click to read more …

I knew, coming out of a high-mileage March, that I was likely going to have some lingering effects in April.  What I didn’t know was that the effects would be painfully felt the day after I made the previous post.

I set out for a mixed-surface run.  Nine miles on the sidewalks and bike path to Parkside, 6.2 miles around the trails, and nine miles back.  I figured it would be fun, long street miles with a fun traily center.  That’s not what happened.

The run started slow and only got slower.  I managed to catch a curb and blow my big toe right through the fabric.  My Camelbak kept rubbing on my lower back.  Everything felt heavy.  I managed to get to Parkside and do my two laps, but almost immediately upon leaving, I knew I was in trouble.  I couldn’t run.  I hobbled another mile before I did something I’ve never had to do before: Call for help.  My wonderful neighbor Kim drove up to the north side and rescued me.

Distal fourth metatarsal, left side.  Distal second and fifth metatarsals, right side.  Right lateral ankle.  Right lateral hip.  In my head, the words “STRESS FRACTURES.”  Looking ahead to my races, the words “$400 gone.”

The following Thursday, I’m at the podiatrist Joy works for.  He pokes and prods my feet, no pain.  We discuss running in FiveFingers (which he’d never heard of), and to my surprise, he sees no problem with it.  X-Rays show nothing - other than that I did in fact break my fifth metatarsal on my left foot at last year’s Grand Island Marathon.  The other doc comes in.  He’s heard of FiveFingers and is *thrilled* to meet someone who runs in them.

The verdict?  Keep running.  Let them know how it goes.

I made the decision right there to stop training for the Wisconsin Marathon on May 1.  I need to focus on my 50k in Virginia and the MC200.  I decided that April is going to be a trail month, working back into high miles with some recovery time.

Here I am at the end of April.  The weather hasn’t helped.  It’s been scattershot chilly, overcast, windy.  I’ve only managed a few runs - but they’ve been quality.  I ran an awesome 20k the other day where miles 7, 8, and 9 were all under 8 minutes.  I wanted to do a 30k this weekend, but the weather’s been lousy.  Maybe I’ll try tomorrow night.

The Wisconsin Marathon is less than a week away.  I still don’t know if I’m going to be at the start line.

My highest mileage month ever, this March.  105.2, mostly on the road.  Trails are nicer, more fun, more comfortable, but the Wisconsin Marathon is next.  A road race.

Running in fivefingers is like learning how to run all over again.  Trails, I got that.  Roads, that’s a whole different thing.  No stumps to watch out for, but no room for forgiveness.  If I’m getting sloppy, I find out instantly.  I’m using my calves more.  My foot strike is farther forward.

In the snow, sometimes, there were only the slightest impressions of my heel.

I did 16, 18 okay on the roads.  My 20 was terrible, but that happens.  Last weekend I hit the slop mud, frozen mud on the trails.  I called it my 23 mile recovery run.  The recovery was mostly mental, a green refresh.

I started running part time in my fivefingers about a year ago.  Full time eight months ago.  Since then, I have given my green KSOs more abuse than I ever heaped on any shoe.  I ran on dirt, mud, rocks, and in Lake Superior.  Concrete and asphalt.  I ran in snow, rain, below freezing.  Ice.  I kicked things, tore small holes in the fabric.  Scuffed the tops of two toes open.  Wore through between some toes.  They’ve been sewn shut, wrapped in duct tape and electrical tape.  Frankenfivefingers.

I have punished them mercilessly.  And they have given me love for 600 miles.  I’ve started wearing a new pair, but I don’t think the green ones are done just yet.

In 2007, I ran 600 miles.  In 2008, I ran 679.5.    This year, I finally cracked the sevens, and ran 702.  Three marathons (Wisconsin, Deadwood-Mickelson, and Grand Island), my regular half marathon, and my first ultramarathon (a 50k), typed into my meticulous training log.

Total miles: 702
Total time spent running:  109 hours, 32 minutes, 12 seconds (give or take)
Average per mile, overall: 9:21
Month with most miles: March, 89
Month with least miles: December, 8.2 (haha)
Miles Teslin ran with me: 40.3
Miles run in shoes: 283.1
Miles run in fivefingers: 418.9
Injuries due to fiverfingers: 1 broken pinky toe
Fastest mile: March 25, mile 8 of 8, 6:46

4:45 am.  Ugh.  I don’t get up this early for work, and here it’s Saturday.  A quick wakeup shower, then time to get my gear on.  Long sleeve tech shirt, short sleeve Grand Island Trail Marathon/North Face tech shirt.  Compression shorts.  Running shorts.  Vibram fivefingers; my lizard feet.  Threw on my old windpants.

Slightly nervously, I drank some water and ate a piece of whole grain bread with peanut butter and honey.  I wanted to cram a couple eggs and a Clif Bar, but the guts ain’t having it.

Wake Joy at 5:30.  As she got ready, I went over my other equipment.  Filled up the Camelbak bladder and dropped in some electrolyte tabs.  Stuffed chocolate PowerGels and Starburst fruit snacks into the hip pockets on my Camelbak.  I tied on my bandana.  I’d like to call it “lucky” but I’ve had about as much bad luck as good.

We hit the road a little late, after an argument about Teslin coming (Teslin came) and getting some gas.  The weather was cold and rainy.  39 degrees when we left the house.  It took a little longer than we remembered to get out to Ottawa Lake, and the thermometer was down to 35 when we parked.

Steve was already there, somewhere in the crowd.  I grabbed my bib and chip and surprisingly, found Steve right away.  We were ten minutes from the gun.  Joy took our picture as we moved up near the start line.  Five minutes.  I shucked my jacket and windpants.  Shorts? Steve asked.  Of course, I said.  I only wear tights below freezing.

There was a count down.  Ten, nine, eight, seven.. you get the idea.  Then it was GO.

50 kilometers.  31.07 miles, if you want to get all familiar about it.  Steve and I were running our first ultramarathon.

We ran up and over the first big hill, then cruised a wide path loop through the woods.  Some rolling hills, nothing too bad.  We hit our first aid station and gobbled down some food.  Then another, shorter loop, this one with a little more mud.  We chatted.  We chatted with other runners, mostly about my lizard feet.  The second aid station.  As Steve wrestled with a tube of M&M’s (ultimately giving them back when he couldn’t get it open), I chowed down on gummi fruits.

We left, and the trail got narrow.  Twisting, winding through the trees, no room to pass, a cluster of single file crazy people running in the woods.  We weren’t that crazy, we would say.  Other people are running the 50 *mile* race today.

The sky was open to us again but the trail stayed tight as we crossed the highway and entered the fields.  We thought they were fields, anyway.  Marshes would be a kind term.  Grasses and weeds shoulder-high brushed our column as we ran.  Sometimes it was just mud, sometimes it was standing water.  Lucky for me, the lizard feet drain almost as fast as they fill with icy mud water.  Almost.

We crossed boardwalks and were thankful that we weren’t crossing streams and slime ponds.  We also yelled “WHOOP” a lot as our muddy feet slipped on the wet and muddy boards.  The trail through the marshes felt like it was designed by a caffeinated 3rd grader.  Meandering, endless, no sense of direction.

Suddenly we were at aid station three.  More scarfing.  We hung around for a few minutes.  So did about a dozen other runners.  No hurry today.  Eat and drink, then run on to the next section.  Pee as soon as you’re out of view.  We were happy to be out of the mud, but we had traded it for something much worse.

Hills.  There had been hills all along, but not like this.  Big, winding hills.  There’s rocks under the leaves, Steve told me.  I have five millimeters of rubber under my feet.  I know where the rocks are.

This is the section where we start walking.  I ran until my quads started to lock, then it was time to walk.  We were roughly 20 miles in, and really, no one was going to complain about walking.  When we got to the next aid station, Steve told me to eat a salted potato.  Good way to get salts back in you, he tells me, a raw potato slice covered in salt.  I ate one.  It was as bad as you think.  I also ate a handful of M&M’s, Skittles, pretzels, four brownies, a banana, half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a cup of chicken soup, two cups of Mountain Dew, a cup of water, and another packet of fruit snacks.

You ready? I asked.  Yep, Steve answered.  We started running again.  Most other people might disagree with how I describe our movement, but I’m pretty sure we were running.  We shuffled along, walking, running, whatever.  Our muscles were definitely tired, but our minds were positive.  We’re both normally solo runners, but having a “team” was better than any of the aid station food.  Even the brownies.  With the other person there, we were able to keep out negative thoughts.  Once you start thinking negative, start wishing you were anywhere else, you’re just about defeated.

But not us.

At the last aid station, they told us “3.7 miles left!”  That’s a 6k.  That’s nothing.  I pounded a couple cups of energy drink.  Some other runners were looking at the potatoes.  One asked, how does it taste?  I answered, it tastes like hate.  He ate his potato.  Yes, that is an accurate description, he said.

Less than four miles left.  We definitely got a boost.  After a little while, we recognized the trail we were on.  We started to run a little faster.  We’re gonna make it, we said.  Our legs became awesome as we cruised down through the trees.  I ditched my Camelbak with Joy two miles from the finish.  I gave a pre-emptive victory cry that echoed in the woods.

Okay so we walked up the last big hill.  But then we ran.  The finish line appeared around a turn.  Come on baby, yeah, we got this.  Fist bump.

We crossed under the archway with a real victory cry.  We did it.

It was dark.  These fall evening runs get dark so fast.  I’d reached the turn around point at the south end of Pennoyer Park and was heading back south through Kennedy Park.  The dark requires a certain amount of vigilance, not so much for people, but for obstacles.  You learn to trust your peripheral (“periphial” as they say around here) vision.

I saw a shadow in the grass.  It wasn’t large, but it was moving along on a course to intercept me.  I tried to focus on it; was it a cat? Small, loose dog? A raccoon?  As we reached a bit of light, I saw my pursuer.

A fox.

I stopped.  The fox stopped.  I hissed at it, waving my arms.  I don’t know why, but hissing tends to work on most animals, scare them off.  This guy stepped back, then started slinking toward me.  I hissed again; same thing.  I charged the fox, growling, “get outta here!”  Again, he bounced away, only to creep back.

I was being hunted.

I started thinking about which leg I should let him go after, how painful the rabies shots would be.  I charged him again and he was still undeterred.  Finally, after what felt like several minutes, I managed to maneuver ahead of the fox on the bike path.  I started running backwards, keeping an eye on him until he was out of sight, and then I I turned around and sped up a bit.

My season is almost at a close.  I peaked at 28 miles in late September, only finishing thanks to Matt keeping me company from 15-25.  Tomorrow is the Big Thing.  My first ultramarathon, a 50k (31.07 miles).  Steve will finally run with me, unless something happens tonight.  In that case, I will run my race, then go to his house and kick his ass.

I’m looking forward to having some time back, to having the pressure lifted.  I know that no one is actually putting pressure on me, except for me, but I have the drive to push it, to see what I can do.

I recently considered trying to run every Wisconsin marathon in one year.  Then I learned that there were 18, not 5, and more than one weekend had multiple races (some even on the same day).

Maybe I’ll make that an “in my 30s” goal.