For the first time in my storied running career, I faced the downside of the low-rent, bare-bones trail ultramarathon scene when I “raced” the Sun Mtn 50k yesterday in Winthrop Washington. I technically finished 4th overall in 4:33 or so, though in my head I will consider it no worse than 2nd place in maybe 4:20-4:23. I spent almost all of the 1st half of the race running with the eventual winner, and I admit I felt good. I had no intention of leading the race or making any sort of move until maybe after mile 20ish, but his pace felt good for my pace and we covered the nice trails mostly together.

Then around the 10 mile mark we took a wrong turn. In our defense, there was no marker. We guessed going to the right…which was wrong. Went down a quarter mile only to figure we probably had to go back (after jogging in place for a bit, looking for a flag or sign of some sort), where we were reunited with what I figured were the 3rd and 4th place guys, approaching the very spot where we took the wrong turn. “Oh well,” I glumly thought to myself, sort of annoyed that we lost all that time we put on them but thems the breaks. Through the next couple miles we’d slowly resume putting time on 3rd and 4th again, only to have to stop a couple times to uncurl the lightweight paper signs that had warped and curled up in the rain in order to see which way to go. Each stop got them back with us. Then, roughly a tenth of a mile after the mile 14ish aid station, we come to the most stereotypical of forks in the road, like midway up the letter “Y”…with no sign pointing left or right. And…here’s the 3rd place guy back with us. He has a map but it’s not as helpful as we hope. He wisely yelled back at the aid station “WHICH WAY DO WE GO?!” Not surprisingly, they didn’t know. So we guessed going left. Luckily, we eventually find out we guessed correctly, but the minutes leading up to that revelation weren’t great fun.

My spirits were a little down but picked up slightly as we went through some admittedly very nice single track trails, the occasional nice view distracting me from other, less-than-optimistic thoughts.

Around mile 16 or 17 or hell I don’t know, we started a decent little climb up to Sun Mountain Lodge, towards the end of which I was surprised at how much we’d put on 3rd place. We got to the top though with about 20 options on directions to go and absolutely zero clues on which direction was the correct one. No signs, no flags, just two teenage girls who had no idea where we should go or why we were running up that trail to begin with. While we stood around with our fingers in our noses, trying to formulate yet another educated guess, here comes 3rd place again with his map, once again tied for the lead. The map proved not all that helpful, so we put it away and just jumped onto a trail that was going in the general direction the map seemed to be pointing. Around here I went into “eff this, long-training run from here on out” mode, mentally. Who the hell knew if we were on the right trail and if not, who was choosing the right trail and getting in front of us? Though it was sort of amusing to wonder just what *would* happen to all those behind us…and the many directions they could all choose to go. I pictured Patrick turning 13 shaes of purple at each direction-less fork in the road and laughed, whimsically.

We continued on for another couple miles, glancing at trails breaking off for any evidence we’re on the right track, eventually finding something promising that soon lead to the actual trail we were supposed to be on. At this point I had no idea if we’d cut the course or we’d added miles, and I was afraid of eating because my water bottle was getting low and I had no idea when the next aid station was coming. First place and I put some more distance on #3 and I was asked to take the lead for awhile. I agreed, but soon felt the early signs of bonking coming on. No longer feeling very competitive, I told him this and relinquished the lead, so he started to slowly pull away. I gave in and quickly ate a 3rd Gu and some Gu blocks while sucking down the rest of my fluid, crossing my fingers that the aid station was nearby. I quickly felt a little better and just tried to keep him in my sightline.

A mile or so later, I finally see the 3rd aid station and I spend more time than usual refilling and eating. As I’m leaving I see #3 arriving, probably 60 secs or so back. I start the ~5 mile loop up/around Patterson Mtn about the same distance back from #1. Soon though, within 1/4 mile, I see two guys I recognized from much earlier in the race apparently already finishing the loop! I hear one of them remark about me as they pass, “that guy was in 2nd place…”

If I hadn’t already given up by that point, I gave up here. Who knew how many more men/women were already on that loop? I was now in no better than 4th and possibly as worse as what…10th? 15th? Were those two the leaders? How did they get 30+ minutes ahead of us?! Did I add miles or did they cut? Or both? I tried to keep a cool head but mile-23-at-the-base-of-a-good-climb was among the absolute worst parts of the race to be facing these frustrating thoughts. I could see #1 in front of me for awhile, eventually seeing him with another runner, adding to my certitude that there were many people now in front of me. There was another arrowless fork in the road (I mindlessly went the way that went downhill over uphill) and soon I was on the descent back to the aid station, maybe on the right trail, maybe not, whatever. The guy who was in 3rd for most of the race (as far as I knew) passed me a couple miles later as we approached the aid station (mile 27) and I let him go.

I stubbornly decided to take a mini-vacation at that aid station. Brian Morrison was there with his bloody nipples, Patrick was there, oddly calm about all the missing arrows on the course, Katie was coming into the aid station during her first ultra. I grabbed some delicious jelly beans and casually got back on the course, ordering myself to simply enjoy the final 4ish miles for what it was: a nice jog on a nice day on some nice trails. A good 31-32 mile training run for White River was almost complete and soon I could sit in my decrepit car on the four hour drive back to Seattle.

After what feels about an hour later, I approach the finish line, once more not sure which way to go. I decide to head towards the overweight guy in the chair holding a clipboard. When in doubt, go to the clipboard. The packed house cheers mightily but I can’t muster much of a finish. Almost immediately I find myself ambling up to the guy I ran most of the race with. Turns out he won. I’m incredulous and ask how he caught those guys were had half an hour on us after the 3rd aid station.

“They accidentally cut the course,” he states. “Cut a LOT of it.”

Ahh…by the way, what place did I get?

“You got 4th,” he says.

Turns out the guy I saw in 4th way back at our very first detour around mile 10 came in 3rd overall. I don’t remember him passing us, so either we went long or he went short, or both. I’m quickly reminded how little I care about the details and start a new quest that hopefully ends with pizza & soda in my stomach.

All in all, it was what it was. I stayed in a pretty swanky cabin for two nights and hung with some cool people (and Patrick)…driving my car is never a barrel of laughs, especially not for 8 total hours, but the scenery was pretty spectacular at times, and a 31-32 mile run on the trails is rarely a bad thing. Sure, I came unglued a bit on the course when the “racing” part of the race seemed to be less than ideal, but, again, thems the breaks. In my head I’m confident that had the course been sufficiently marked, I would have been able to go head-to-head with the eventual winner and it would have come down to the final couple miles. I’ve definitely had worse weekends. And those jelly beans *were* mighty tasty.

A few more pics:

In Winthrop the day before, saturated fat and sugar-loading.

My friends are such tools.

Staying dry before the race, morning of.

Ditching the 2nd water bottle at the last second.

And the crowd goes wild!

White River’s only 19 miles longer, Patrick!

Recovering from hard runs/races is always tricky when in the midst of training. Coming off a tough race that is NOT the goal race (like Ski to Sea for me, probably the furthest thing from a “goal race” on my calendar yet simultaneously one of the most demanding physically…and psychologically), you want to resume a normal schedule somewhat quickly after crossing the finish line, but you also have to be conscious of giving your legs enough time to recover. It’d be ideal if I could take Ski to Sea as nothing more than a hard 8 mile insane speed workout and, Monday or Tuesday, just keep the training ball rolling en route to the Sun Mtn 50k (June 20) and White River (July 31). But all that would do is render me motionless on the bed, legs elevated, cursing the fact that no race I’ve come across, including Sun Mtn or White River, give refunds in the occurrence of injury.

A week after a race like a marathon, or something ridiculous like Ski to Sea, the soreness tends to be gone and you sorta feel your age again. You feel able to ratchet the training back up to normal levels, which begins the tricky part. Because though you *feel* able, you probably still aren’t. Unless you’re Michael Wardian or something.

A couple days ago I headed up to Cougar Mtn for the 7.5 mile race (more like 7.75), #2 in the 4 race series, in all honesty just thankful to be back in the “win or lose, at least only it only affects ME” mode of thinking I’d taken for granted up to Ski to Sea. It was a very refreshing feeling, a tiny amount of euphoria washing over me anytime I remembered to remind myself of that. Though it had been nearly two weeks since that sprint down the mountain, I’ve learned the hard way in years past (Hood to Coast the weekend before the SJ&J half marathon a couple years back being a nice recent example), to not expect to feel fresh. During the warmup w/Dutch, not only did I not feel fresh, I had a very tight feeling in my left calf, like it was wanting to cramp but holding off out of learned politeness. I already figured I would not be painting a Monet out there on the course this day, but now I was hoping I could simply race without injuring myself. Though I did not feel cocksure, on the starting line I tried to maintain excellent posture, on the event someone may have been looking at me, trying to determine if, umm…I was in fact cocksure. Oh you better believe it, JACK!

The race started, its now-typical loop around the grassy field causing the obligatory separation before the single track began. A minute or two later I climbed into the single track, surprisingly in first place and noticing how odd and uncomfortable that felt. So uncomfortable, I didn’t mind at all when Michael Smith (3rd at the last race, one spot in front of me), took the lead soon thereafter. Immediately I felt better, chasing him, though he didn’t remain in my sight line for very long. A high school cross country coach, he employed the tactic all cross country coaches teach their kids…when you pass someone, PASS THEM. Don’t give me the option of going with you. Michael did this. He went past me hard, got about 50 yards in front of me, then backed off. On the back and forth switchbacks of Cougar Mtn, 50 yards is plenty, as I could only occasionally see him and soon found myself more worried about myself than him.

About 50 minutes later I crossed the finish line in 2nd place, final time being 57:56. Michael’s lead steadily grew to a final difference of 1:53, and 3rd place finished about the same distance behind me, so in essence I was, once again, completely alone for 97% of the race.

The course was probably the muddiest I’ve seen it outside of random Cougar runs in the pouring rain, though the actual weather at the moment was bordering on hot (damn near 70 degrees). I was fortunate I decided to go ahead and wear the new shoes I’d just gotten on Thursday and “broken in” with an easy 5ish miles the evening before. One two occasions I very nearly slipped while steepling a log, and may have eaten mud or worse had I been wearing anything with less than the large amount of tread my new shoes had. This, the isolation, and the “I’m not cramping but I want you to know I’m not happy about doing this race” calf are probably what amounted to what was an almost 4-minute drop in performance over last year’s race, where I was pretty fresh, I ran the 2nd half with the Swede, and on nice hard-packed trails.

Minutes after finishing I could feel my calf definitely cramping up so I tried to do a sort of cooldown which only delayed the inevitable, that being my limping around the rest of the day. Sunday I just biked for ~90 minutes and watched a bunch of meatheads play baseball near my house in between sets of icing and massage, and Monday evening I was able to do an easy 45 without any issue. Tonight I did an effortless 8.8 at 7:00 pace.

Only a steady diet of icing and massaging will allow me to keep the training ball rolling as Sun Mountain arrives in a mere 5 days.

Issaquah Press story on the race

(Moments before I iced a couple of my bros, the Cougar Mtn mascot)

If the Ski to Sea 8 mile running leg was a band, it’d be Marilyn Manson. The pavement can be the drums, the relentless downhill the guitars, and Marilyn’s screaming mimicked by every fiber of your body below the waist. This is not a dance around the maypole. I knew this going in, but not quite the extent, which led to self-imposed apprehension.

I like to have an idea of what to expect going into normal solo races, let alone team relay races where more than just my cat and I are counting on my not failing. Let alone where all but one of those counting on me are for the most part strangers, and probably better at their sport than I am at mine. And I’m not as fast as the guy they had last year. And their team is pretty competitive, hoping for a top 10 finish. And I’m feeling a little under the weather. Etc. This all bundled itself up into a nice package of fear in my head. I honestly cannot remember a race I’ve run where I was more nervous in the days leading up to it, not even way back in high school, when I was afraid of everything and almost threw up before a couple big xc races. I warned my team’s captain during the job interview a month back that I was not as fast as the guy they had the year before, but I also provided a prediction I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hit since past experiences have told me I’m not what you’d call “any good” at downhill running. I predicted between 41-42 minutes, which works out to a 5:08-5:15 pace. I knew this was all downhill, but just thinking of that pace for anything more than a mile terrified me, especially since I’m not in optimum 5k-10k shape at the moment.

After a pleasant 1-1.5 hours of non-REM sleep Saturday night, I woke up groggy, stuffy and coughy. This didn’t really concern me. My less-than-100% lungs were not going to slow me down in this particular race…it was all up to my legs, and they were both relatively fresh. I ate and drank per my normal routine and sat mostly silently on the drive up to the top of Mt. Baker, save for the occasional hack into my sleeve. I also tried to add to my poor sleep totals from the night before, unsuccessfully.

Upon getting to the top, where both the xc skier (1st leg) and downhill skier (2nd leg) would perform before handing off to me, I quickly found a bathroom and afterward found myself locked out of the car wearing only my short shorts and the tech shirt in which I would race. Perhaps due to nervous energy, I did not feel particularly cold. Or maybe it was simply the least of my worries. It *was* cold up there, but I found it refreshing, and the energy of the starting area was contagious. This race is a very popular tradition in the area, dating back to the early 1970s, and the starting line was buzzing as we approached 8am. What sounded like a cannon let the xc skiers off into the wilderness, the Swede no doubt among the front pack. I did a warmup jog with Greg Crowther (it’s my website and I’ll name drop if I want to) and when we arrived back to the handoff area to wait for our teams with all the other elite-looking runners, I bounced around nervously, trying not to spill bile on the snow.

I heard my team’s number called, letting me know our skier was about 30 seconds from arriving, and bounded out to the edge of the snow next to Crowther and another fellow. Their teams’ downhill skiers came in about 10-15 seconds before mine. “Big Mike” came flying in, slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop about 6 inches from my legs, handing me our timing device before falling over. I spent about 1.2 seconds worrying if I’d botched the handoff, causing him to fall, and immediately started down the hill.

This picture makes me look like I’m 4′10. And dead.

Though I had no way of knowing what pace I was hitting right away, I sensed my initial pace was “about right” as far as turnover went…meaning basically I wasn’t going to be able to go any faster without tumbling end over end, cartoon-style. This was a total shot in the dark though. I also didn’t know if there were mile markers on the course. I figured at the very least I could use the highway mile markers to get an idea of the pace I was hitting mile to mile. Soon enough I came across a handwritten sign stating “mile 2″ on the right side of the road. “That seemed to pass quickly!” I excitedly thought as I hadn’t looked at my watch yet. I glanced down. 8:03. Sigh. You would think a race as legit as Ski to Sea would have accurate mile markers but apparently that magical ability has escaped their grasp as well. It was around this time a young guy whizzed by me, looking incredibly fast and determined. I closed my eyes for seconds at a time (pictured) and just tried to feel light going down the mountain. I awaited the barrage of runners behind me, Marilyn starting to scream at me from my legs.

Soon enough I saw my first highway mile marker and took note of my total time. By the time I hit the next one, I was relieved to see only about 5:10 had passed. This type of running is so foreign to me, I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by anything between 4:30 and 5:30. And I felt I could trust the highway to have accurate mile markers. Around mile 4 I noticed that a guy I had been fruitlessly chasing as he slowly grew smaller had just passed a gray-shirt guy. I honed my focus on that gray shirt and, when I could see him, tried to reel him in myself. I was definitely gaining on him…but slowly. I then spent the next 3 miles closing the gap and finally caught him around mile 7. In between these two events I continued to take note of the highway mile markers…on one mile I clocked a excitement-inducing 4:58…on another one I apparently clocked a 6:28. Sigh.

At mile 7.75 or so, the descent ended and I was now on flat road, running what felt like a 12 minute pace, weighing what felt about 450 lbs. I was insistent that the guy I had just passed would pass me back, but he didn’t, and I miraculously handed off to our cyclist without having lost our place in the race. I started with us in 7th, I handed off in 7th. My final time, by my watch, was about 41:26, give or take a few seconds. The relief of the weight now being off my shoulders was incredible. And not only that, I did more or less exactly what I said I’d do. You couldn’t say shit to me…at least for a couple minutes after I’d finished. I later found out I finished 24th overall.

Our team finished 9th overall. Top 10 was achieved. My fears were not. Even if they dumped me and somehow picked up the best runner in the country, they weren’t going to finish better than 9th. Eight place was over 12 minutes in front. Tenth place finished about 2:45 behind, 11th place about 3:45 behind. This team was going to finish 9th pretty much no matter what I did. If I had known that, I might have gotten a bit more than 70 minutes of sleep the night before. I might not have been stressed all week, and maybe wouldn’t have gotten sick. I might have been a better guest the night before, a bit less reclusive, less in my own head. I might not have wanted to throw up at the starting line. But I probably wouldn’t have felt as good and proud afterward.

*******

A potentially relevant question today is “was it worth it?” And not simply from a stress/relief standpoint. I’d heard from more than one person after the run that the recovery would seem as bad/long as, if not worse than, the typical marathon recovery time. It’s probably a little early to tell, but I *was* still somewhat limping around today at work, all thanks to the quads. I put in another 41:26 run Monday evening (only 5 miles though) to shake things out, took yesterday off and did about 65 minutes tonight. All easy aside from a couple (up)hill charges. Everything was manageable. I won’t be doing mile repeats anytime soon, but at least I think I’ll be able to tackle the Cougar Mtn 7 miler next Saturday.

There was also the risk of injury, but as of now I believe I have escaped unscathed. My shins, that which worried me the most heading in, have actually been mostly silent and pain-free. I barely believe it. I can feel a little tightness when I do some shin stretches, but that’s it really.

Yes, I think it was worth it. I’m sure I won’t be asked back on the team, and that’s fine. Even if I was asked, I’m not sure I would accept. I wouldn’t be as terrified next time, meaning I wouldn’t be as proud when I finished, yet the risk of injury would remain the same. When it comes to my legs, now that I’m out of my 20s, I like to quit while I’m ahead. That’s what 30 year olds do. They quit.

For now I think it’s safe to finally and officially sign up for the White River 50. Then break 8 hours. Then quit. In the meantime I’m more than happy to turn off the Marilyn Manson and put Boards of Canada back on.