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.

In July of 2008, I ran the Grand Island Trail Marathon in Michigan.  The race is 26.2 miles around the perimeter of Grand Island, off the shores of the Upper Peninsula in Lake Superior.  You have to take a ferry to get there.  You run over dirt trails, sand beaches, muddy slop, and endlessly tall rocky hills; you run along the water’s edge and on top of 200+ foot cliffs.  There are bears.  Only five aid stations are scattered around the island, so you have to carry water with you.

In July of 2008, I ran the Grand Island Trail Marathon in Michigan.  And I hated it.  After I finished, I was in a state of pain I had never before experienced after running.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to throw up.  I wanted to get as far away from Michigan as I could.  As we headed back to my dad’s place in northern Wisconsin, Joy asked me a silly (at the time) question.

“Would you ever run it again?”

My brain immediately screamed NO!  But my mouth was slower.  I thought about my answer for a bit.  Finally, I replied.  “Yes.  On one condition.”

“Steve?” she offered.

“Yes - if Steve runs it with me.”  When I got back to work the following Monday, I hunted Steve (whom I introduced in my last post) down and gave him the full report.  Steve and I are a lot alike; we’ve both done enough road races that they’ve lost some of the challenge.  Trail races were the next step.  As I wowed him with tales of dodging waves, tripping over roots, climbing monster hills, and running through the woods with a Camelbak, I even managed to convince myself that it was a good idea.  The plan was set, and once registration opened in January, we reserved our spots.

After I started running with my VFFs, a silly little thought came to me.  Could I run a marathon in them?  Could I run Grand Island in them?  I decided that GITM would be the perfect test.  The trails were similar to, though more extreme, than my home XC course at Parkside, so I could properly train.  The race was at the end of July, after my other two marathons of the early season, so I could focus on training in the VFFs as opposed to shoes.  I began to run farther and farther in my lizard feet, running 10, 15, 18.6 miles in them.  I felt ready.

In mid-July, Steve had to back out.  Tendonitis in his knee, the doctor said.  Without some physical therapy and rest, he could seriously damage his knee.  I was scared.  I remembered how tough GITM was last year, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go it alone.  But I couldn’t back out.  Scott was coming up with us to run the concurrent 10k.  I couldn’t leave him hanging just because I felt like chickening out.  Besides, I already had one Did Not Start to my name (Lakefront Marathon, 2006).  Nasty weather didn’t knock me out of Deadwood, so I decided there was no way I could wuss out on this one.

So, training continued.  Two weeks before GITM, I got ripped on Guinness and Red Stripe, then took sixth place in a local half marathon (in shoes) the next morning.  I guess that means I was/am in good shape.

On the Thursday prior, we piled into the car with Tes, picked up Scott, and cruised up to Little Rice.  We spent the afternoon and night at my dad and stepmom’s place, and on Friday, set out for Munising.  We dined on Subway and Guinness (carbo loading, ya know).  Actually, a pint or two of Guinness has become a pre-race ritual for me.  If nothing else, it helps me sleep!

That night I got a text message from Steve.  “Be like the Raramuri and have fun.  Sorry I cant be there to suffer with you.  Steve”  This message may have been the key to everything.

The next morning was the familiar sleepy/hyper prep session.  Double check all the gear, is my number on straight?  Check the Camelbak fit again.  Adjust the straps on the KSOs.  Chug iskiate.  Much to Joy’s continual annoyance (and Scott’s amusement), I am an anxious nutcase right before a race.  Until I reach the start line, I have excess nervous energy that I just have to dissipate and I guess I can be kind of annoying.

We made it to the island.  I was stopped at the hotel, at the dock, and while picking up my timing chip by people asking about my fivefingers.   The race began, and for the next four hours or so, I think I averaged just over one question or comment per mile.

The first four miles are relatively flat, sandy fire road.  Then you hit a steep 200-foot climb, followed by a gradual increase for another mile.  You turn around and run back down the hill to the beach, where the course literally follows the water’s edge for a full mile.  The KSOs really shone here.  Last year, a wave got my shoe wet and caused a huge blister.  This year?  I ran through the water with impunity.  I knew my lizard feet would dry out long before any problems.

Shortly after the beach was another muddy 200-foot climb, and then rolling trails through the woods until about mile 15.5.  The second beach.  This was the beginning of the end for me last year.  This year, I thought about Steve’s words.  “Have fun.”  So I did.  The ensuing four miles of endless climbing?  I ran the whole friggin thing, save the last 100 feet, where the trail got a little too narrow along a cliff for my liking.

Then I blazed downhill for the next two miles.  As I cruised into the mile 22 aid station (“Look at his feet!  Those are awesome!”), I realized that I was not only on pace for a course PR - but I was on pace to have my fastest marathon ever.

Alas, it was not quite to be.  Around mile 23 my quads started to cramp.  I know from past experience the fastest way to ease this is to walk.  No running it off.   I thought to myself, I can either get mad that I’m not going to break four hours, or I can shrug it off and keep having fun.  Balls to the clock, I’m enjoying myself too much!  So that’s what I did.  I ran-walked the last few miles and came in at 4:10, a hefty 18 minutes faster than last year.

With a huge (like, psychotically huge) grin on my face, I found Joy and Scott by the refreshments.  Joy asked how I was doing.  “I’M AWESOME,” I said, or something like it.  “And I am VIOLENTLY HUNGRY.”  I was manic, yet I was about a second away from taking another runner out when he got between me and the bananas.  Are you sure you’re ok? Joy asked again.  “Yeah!  I GOT TRAIL MIX WHOOO!”

And then I jumped in the lake.

In July of 2009, I ran the Grand Island Trail Marathon in Michigan.  And it was the greatest race I have ever run.  I don’t know if it was the fivefingers, the good night’s sleep, the Subway, the Guinness, the iskiate, or Steve’s profound text message.  Chances are, it was a perfect storm of factors that led to a great day.

I finally got to run with my coworker Steve on Saturday.  We’re running a trail marathon together this month, and I wanted to see how he handles the dirt and hills.  Steve is definitely faster than me on the road; last September we ran a half marathon “together” and I’d lost sight of him by mile two.  Saturday was a lot better.  I actually managed to wear the old guy out, which made him a little nervous I think.

Importantly, I also ran 18.2 miles in my KSOs with no ill effects.  That’s the farthest I’ve gone in them.

This Saturday I have a half marathon here in town.  I’ve run it every year they’ve held it, and I’m the only person who has done that.  Maybe next year, after the fifth time, someone will notice.

I’d really like to PR, but I would have to run at worst a 7:32 average. Sure, I can manage that for like six miles, but thirteen? Don’t know about that.

I am going to try my new secret weapon, though.  The Tarahumara of the Copper Canyons in Mexico have drink they call “iskiate.”  It’s made of water, sugar, lime juice, and chia seeds.  Yes, like seeds from the plant in a chia pet.

It’s a strange drink, as the seeds get very slimy and look like frog eggs suspended in the water.  But it actually tastes kinda nice and refreshing.  The seeds are supposed to be crazy good for you, one of those “supergrains” like quinoa (which I also like).  We’ll see if it lives up it’s purported ability as an endurance booster.