Longs Peak Repeats

Yesterday,  I went up to Longs Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park for a run up to the Boulder Field.  I'd done this same run just last month in early June, but back then there was still enough snow covering most of the trail to make the run a bit dicey.  I spent a good bit of that run post-holing up to my thighs, unintentionally butt-sledding down slushy traverses and otherwise wandering lost around the mountain where the trail disappeared under the snow fields.

Apparently, one month makes all the difference because this weekend the trail conditions were fantastic, and it turned out to be one of those perfect Colorado days.  

Perfect Colorado Day

The weather was absolutely beautiful, and I was feeling recovered from last weekend's 50-miler.  Compared to my run in June, this trip up to the Boulder Field was relatively quick and easy.  I was up and down in under three and a half hours without pushing it too hard at all.  When I got back to trail head, I was still feeling good, and there was no sign of the typical afternoon thunderstorms.  So, as occassionally happens, exhuberance overtook my better judgment, and I decided to turn around and head back up for a double.  On the second lap, the weather was still holding out nicely, so I decided to run past the Boulder Field and climb up to the Key Hole, just for fun.



Longs Peak, the Boulder Field and the Key Hole

 Here's a closer look at the Key Hole:

 

The Key Hole
(gateway to the western route up to Longs Peak)

Key Hole up close

The Agnes Vaille memorial rock hut at 13,100'

Even though the last mile or so up to the Key Hole is unrunnable (as you can see in the pictures -- it's boulder scrambling and climbing with no real trail), it was well worth the time and energy spent.  Once you reach the Key Hole, the view to the west will take away whatever breath you have left.

Glacier Gorge from the Key Hole

 

I don't know how far I went because my GPS died after seven hours, but I was out there for about nine and a half hours.  I think I got in about 8,000 feet of climbing.  

Nearing the top of my second climb up, I was starting to feel the thinness of the air around 13,000'.  In fact, I was getting so winded that I had to pull that classic catch-your-breath move -- pretending to be deeply and urgently interesed in whatever flora or fauna is nearby.  I've found that my hands-on-knees-gasping-for-air pose is far less pathetic looking if I simply add the phrase, "Hey, look at this interesting flower/rock/animal down here..."  Pretending to want to get a better look or snap a picture is usually the perfect excuse to pause and covertly catch my breath.  I've found that I don't even have to know what it is I'm looking at as long as I act fascinated by it. 

Normally, obviously, I reserve this classic maneuver for times when I'm running/hiking with someone else, and I don't want that person to know how out of shape I am.  But occassionally, as on Saturday, I pull the move on myself because a little self-delusion goes a long way, I've found.

Here are some pics of the fascinating wildlife I happened upon coincidentally just as I was getting winded:

The gopher from Caddy Shack or that evil staring squirrel

This Lagopus muta danced for me --
it was trying either to court me or kill me,
not sure which (as is often the case)

Dasher, Dancer, Comet, etc.

This guy tried to sell me car insurance

The next day, Sunday, I stayed in Fort Collins and did a more relaxing run along Blue Sky trail. Overall, it was a solid training weekend, and I'm feeling pretty good considering the Silver Rush 50 was just a week ago.  I taped both achilles for the Sunday run (I forgot to tape on Saturday), and my feet felt great (I didn't take any NSAIDs or pain meds).  I was far more systematic and disciplined about water, electrolytes and eating on both runs, and I had no issues with my stomach or swelling or anything.  Also, no blisters at all.  So, with less than four weeks to go until the LT100, I think things are starting to come together at the right time.

Next weekend will be my last hard workout; after that I'll start a slow taper. 

Yes, it makes me a little anxious to say that.  

Thirty-ish to Fifty Miles

I just finished the Silver Rush 50 up in Leadville.  The good news is I survived my first 50-mile run.  The less-good news is I'll have to run twice that distance next month, as my daughter Savannah so helpfully pointed out to me all the way from Australia.  As an aside, she also noted that I could improve the aesthetics of this blog by posting pictures of her:

Savannah in Prison

Her crime:  This Sock Monkey outfit.

Anyway, I spent last Saturday, the day before my 50-mile run, volunteering at an aid station during the Silver Rush 50 Mountain Bike Race, a 50-mile mountain bike race along the same course as the next day's 50-mile run.

Sampling the Aid Station menu

It made for a long day right before my race, but it was well worth it because I learned a lot by helping the riders.  The riders stopped at my aid station twice:  outbound after thirteen miles and then again inbound after thirty-four miles.  Because I saw them early and late in the race, I was able to notice the effects the increasing fatigue had on their thinking and functioning, and it was enlightening.  By the return leg, many of the riders didn't know and/or couldn't communicate what they needed as they rode into the aid station:

Me, to incoming rider:  "What do you need?" 

Typical rider:  "Gasp... nothing, man, I'm good... I'm good.  Gasp... I just need a break for a minute."

Me, after I realized their brains were malfunctioning:  "How's your water?"

Rider:  "Oh...uh... I'm out.  I really need water."

Me:  "Have you eaten anything?  Here, eat a banana."

Rider:  "Uh... no, I haven't eaten in a while... Yeah, I really need some food."

Me:  "How's your salt/electrolytes?"

Rider:  "I'm out and cramping pretty bad.  I really need some salt."

Me:  "Do you have enough GU/gel for the next section?"

Rider:  "Oh...uh... I'm out.  I need some more."

The lesson for me (and my pacers and crew chief) was clear:  at some point during the 100-mile race, I will need my team to do most of the thinking and decision-making for me.  This lesson was confirmed the next day as I felt my own brain starting to get mushy during the 50-mile run.

I spent Saturday night at Charles Bybee's house in Leadville.  He's a friend from Denver (and a soon-to-be FIVE time "Leadman") who spends so much time training and competing up in and around Leadville that he bought a house up there last year to cut down on his travel expenses.  We had a great pasta dinner with some of his running/riding/triathlon buddies who were in town for various competitions and/or recreational activities.  They were an impressive, but unassuming and humble group of folks, and I had a good time getting to know them (even though I had to go to be early because my early race the next morning).

My race on Sunday was great -- beautiful course, good weather (even the 20-minute rain/hail shower felt pretty good on a hot day) and great folks (I ran into a dozen of my training camp friends on the course).  The course was an out-and-back to the south and east of Leadville through several old gold and silver mines with four distinct climbs up to 12,000'.

Silver Rush 50 Course Map

Silver Rush 50 Elevation Profile

Here are some pics from the course:

Ready to go, more or less

Sunrise over the mountains

Perfect morning

Keep on Keepin' on

Steady climb up the pass

Great views of Leadville and Turquoise Lake

One of the many old mines throughout the course

Done

Overall, the race went well and was a great learning experience for me (and for Crew Chief Molly who practiced crewing for me at the aid stations).  I set a very conservative goal of 12 hours because I knew that whatever goal I set, I would undoubtedly try to reach it, even if that meant pushing myself too hard (recall my efforts to reach my seven-hour goal at the Dirty Thirty).  With less than five weeks to go before the 100-mile race, I didn't want to risk injury, so the 12-hour goal was intended to force me to slow down.

Well, that plan didn't work too well because I finished the race an hour and a half faster than planned in 10:34. 

I'm not disappointed that I came in faster than I wanted because I don't feel like I really pushed it at any point during the whole race.  My pace and effort were fairly consistent throughout.  In fact, it only took me about 15 minutes longer to run the second half than it did the first half.  That's a pretty good sign, I think.

One big problem I had was my stomach.  Right from the start, it didn't feel right, like it didn't seem to want to digest anything.  I spent the first six hours of the run trying to get it to settle down.  Finally, I figured out that the problem was probably over-hydration resulting in a mild case of hyponatremia (more ominously known as "water intoxication").  I think I drank way too much water the afternoon and night before the run and flushed my system of sodium and other electrolytes.  I didn't realize this initially because my urine was dark and festively-colored all morning until about four hours into the race -- which, I now know, was the result of some pre-race vitamins/minerals I ate and not the result of what I mistakenly thought was my increasing dehydration.  However, not knowing that at the time caused me to pound water throughout the first half of the race to fend off my "dehydration."  This, coupled with my under-consumption of electrolyte pills, put my system way out of whack and essentially shut down my digestive system.

Only after the vitamins/minerals cleared through my system and my urine turned as clear as the Rocky Mountain spring water they use to brew Coors beer did I figure out that I wasn't dehydrated at all.  I was over-hydrated and flushed of electrolytes.  Immediately, I upped my supplementation of electrolytes and cut my water intake dramatically.  Within about an hour, my stomach settled, the swelling in my hands and feet decreased, and I was able to run the last part of the race without that annoying feeling of wanting to throw up with every step.  Here I am after I finally started "feeling pretty good":

However, I quickly realized that my now-relieved stomach discomfort had been a valuable distraction from the pain I now noticed in the achilles tendon/heel area of both my feet. With my stomach settled, my mind was free to register the heel stab I felt with every step.  So, I spent the final few hours dealing with this issue.  This heel problem had been bugging me for several months, but it had been hovering only around a "2" or "3" on the pain scale.  It grew to about a "5" during the race, but stabilized as a dull ache.  Eventually, it became such a constant throb that it almost went kind of numb, thankfully, so I was able to push on with only mild discomfort.

That pain is undoubtedly caused by some minor achilles tendinitis (between my increased volume over the last eight months and my hill focus for the last four, it's no surprise).  I'm hoping some NSAIDs will help, and I'm going to try some prophylactic taping to see if that will reduce the stress.  I actually tried taping my achilles last night during my weekly Taco Run, and the initial results are very promising. 

The major drawback to this is that in order to tape my lower legs effectively, I'll need to shave them, which means for the next few weeks, I'll look like one of "those guys."  You know, the guys who meticulously shave every inch of their bodies, who insist that their lack of body hair measurably improves their performance (at such big events as their recent family reunion's three-legged race), and who deny (without solicitation and a little too zealously) that male body shaving is any indication of suppressed non-hetero tendencies.  Well, these are my people now.

So, after my first 50-mile run, I feel paradoxically both more confident and more apprehensive.  I mean, I felt pretty good after 50, like I could have gone farther.  I didn't necessarily want to at that moment, but I could have.  That gives me confidence.  But at the same time, those 50 miles were not easy.  And I know that a 100-mile race is far more challenging than just two 50's put together.  So, after feeling the effects of 50 miles on my body and mind, I'm more than a little apprehensive about the unknowns that lie in those uncharted final 50 miles. 

Then again, that's the whole reason I'm doing this.

(Almost) Vomit-Free

One of the first things I learned about ultra running is that it's not so much about running over long distances as it is about eating over long distances.  So, as soon as I was able to break into distances in the high single digits on my runs (late September last year), I began practicing eating during my training runs.  It sounds silly to say I was "practicing eating," but I was (and still am).  The purpose, of course, is to train your digestive system to effectively and efficiently take in calories (read:  to not puke) while multiple other systems in your body are being stressed by the running.  I won't bore you explaining the purpose of or science behind eating while running (because I can feel my kids' eyes rolling) except to say that, for me, that notion of "not puking" was very appealing.  So, that became my goal:  vomit-free running.       

Last month, on June 11th, I was planning on doing a big training run up and down Horsetooth Rock with Alene.  This was a big run for both of us, and we had been planning on it for over a month.  It was to be her final big training run before her Badwater double.  The plan was to run ten repeats up to Horsetooth, taking all day, covering around 43 miles and climbing over 11,000' -- my longest and most challenging run to date.  I was very eager to test my legs and feet on this run, eclipse my formerly-inconceivable mark of eight repeats and be a part of Alene's capstone training run.     

I'll save the suspense.  I never even came close to finishing the run.     

The afternoon before the run, I ate something rotten, really really rotten.  But I'm not exactly sure what -- it could have been a moldy bagel, which I ate for a snack, not noticing the white peach-fuzz growing among all the seeds and things (they did say it was an everything bagel) until I was about half-way done.  Then, upon seeing the fuzzy fungi blanketing the remaining half bagel, I did what anybody (of my gender) would do:  I wiped off the mold, took two or three more test bites then threw it away because it still tasted funny.  You see, I can be sensible and prudent sometimes.      

Or it could have been some soup I ate that day.  I went to an Asian restaurant in downtown Denver for lunch with some buddies, and we received some complimentary soup.  I remember thinking, upon smelling the soup, that it smelled vaguely, I don't know, human-based.  But even worse than that – it smelled as if whatever human ingredients were in the soup had, I don't know, decayed.  I took a small sip of the soup and discovered its smell was merely a gentle foreshadowing of its actual taste.  So, again, I did what anybody would do:  I added hot chili sauce.  A lot of hot chili sauce.  Enough to almost mask the fetid odor and taste.  Then I ate it because who turns down free soup?     

Well, about eight hours later I realized the huge mistake(s) I'd made by eating that bagel/soup.  Propriety prevents me from sharing too many specific details of that horrible night, but here is what I can share:  the bagel/soup came back with a bi-directional vengeance, I spent the entire night fetally curled on the bathroom floor, and I didn’t sleep at all.  The abdominal pain came in waves, and I alternated between wondering how I’d be able to tell Alene I couldn’t do the big run the next day (I didn't have her cell number) and wondering if I should go to the hospital.     

When 5:00 a.m. rolled around, the most recent pain wave had just ebbed back to a dull ache, so I decided that since I was awake anyway, I might as well drive over to the trail head to tell Alene that I wouldn’t be able to run with her.  I definitely didn’t want to just  no-show and leave her hanging.     

On the drive over to Horsetooth, I was able to hold down a few sips of water, so I optimistically tried half a banana, which stayed down too.  When I got to the trail head and saw Alene all motivated and ready to go, I decided rather than bail on the run, as long as I was already there, I might as well just try one lap (only 4.25 miles, 1,100’ climb)  and see how I felt. 

Well, that lap felt pretty miserable.  I had a fever, my heart rate was through the roof and I was queasy and light-headed.  But Alene politely kept the pace slow so I was able to hang in there.  So, when we got back to the bottom, having survived that first lap, I decided I might as well do another lap and see how I felt.     

On that second repeat things got rough, and I spent most of the time fighting off waves of nausea.  About three quarters of the way up, Alene told me I looked green, which didn't surprise me because I felt green.  We summited and started back down as the bile inched up my throat.  I almost made it back to the trail head, but with a few hundred yards to go, I couldn't hold back any longer.  I wretched prodigiously, paused for a minute, walked a few steps towards the trail head, then stopped to repeat the whole process until my tank was completely empty.  My noble and ambitious goal of running ten repeats up Horsetooth was now reduced to just trying to keep the vomit off my shoes (to paraphrase ultra runner Ephraim Romesberg).     

Eventually, I made it back to the trail head where Alene prepared a salty concoction for me to drink from her handy medical supplies (she's a nurse and has been a medical staffer at Badwater).  As I sipped the swill,  I felt the wave of nausea pass, and within a few minutes, my condition was upgraded to exceptionally unpleasant.  So, I did what anybody would do in this situation:  I decided to run another lap to see how I really felt.    

This, I now admit, was probably a mistake.  That third lap was the worst.  The nausea wasn't so bad, but I started to feel like I might pass out any minute, and my heart was beating wildly.  I knew I pushed it far enough.  When we eventually finished that repeat, I just laid down on the grass at the trail head and immediately fell asleep for 45 minutes.  When I woke up, I forced myself to urinate to check my hydration, and I was shocked because I had never seen my urine so dark and viscous.   I have never been so dangerously dehydrated in my life.  It took another 30 minutes before I felt like I could drive home.  Once home, I didn't get out of bed until the next day.       

Alene, after making sure I had some more to drink, headed back up the trail.  She completed over nine repeats (40 miles) that day before it got too dark to run.        

In the end, I have decided that this particular experience doesn't really count against my goal of no puking while running because this episode was induced by moldy and/or putrid food versus the stresses of long-distance running.  So, while my journey to the Leadville 100 has not been technically "vomit-free," I think it's fair to say it's been "(almost) vomit-free."  And I plan on keeping it that way.

Rock Repeats

After the last two weekends up in the high country, I spent this past weekend running around our local Fort Collins trails.  Saturday was Horsetooth Rock repeats and Sunday was an easy run on Blue Sky/Indian Summer.  Both days were typical northern Colorado summer days:  95 degrees, an afternoon storm and bull snakes galore (I saw a couple each day):


This guy was very irritated at having to share the trail


I started doing repeats up Horsetooth Rock as a regular part of my training on March 12, 2011.  I remember the date so specifically because that's the date I met Alene Nitzky at the top of the trail.  On that day, I was in the process of completing three repeats (about 13 miles with about 3,300' of gain), which was one more repeat than I was able to complete the previous weekend.  On my third and final trip up, I was tired but not completely exhausted, so I was more than a little satisfied with myself and particularly pleased with the improvement over the prior Saturday.  I reached the top, paused for a drink of water, and that's when I met Alene.

She came running up the hill, stopped to chat with me and within two minutes had completely (and I'm sure unintentionally) changed my entire training paradigm for the LT100.  I told her that I was training for Leadville and that I was running three repeats that day.  Instead of the impressed nod I was expecting, Alene told me that running three repeats was "a great start."

It turns out that Alene is a four-time Leadville veteran, a Badwater (135 miles through Death Valley) finisher, was in the process of training for a Badwater "double" (across the desert and back)(which she's running right now as I type) and is an all-around great person.


Alene on the Rock (in her Badwater garb)

As I stood there basking in my Horsetooth three-peat, Alene matter-of-factly told me that as part of her ultra training, she likes to run eight or more repeats up Horsetooth.  She told me the best recipe for success at the Leadville 100 is to (1) run/power hike up that hill, (2) run back down, (3) repeat until until your quads turn to jelly then (4) repeat some more.  Immediately less impressed with myself, right on the spot I set a training goal of running eight Horsetooth repeats, which I was able to build up to and complete six weeks later on April 23.

Since that day, my training focus shifted to hills.  Mileage was still important, of course, but vertical training became just as important.  For example, prior to March, I was averaging about 6,000' of vertical gain per month.  Since March, I have averaged over 30,000' of gain per month.  Although I keep mentioning vertical "gain" -- the uphill portion of hill work -- I have found that the corresponding downhill is more challenging and offers the far more room for improvement for me.  After all, it's the downhill that turns my quads to jelly, not the uphill. 

So, the overall purpose of these last four months of hill training has been to condition my quads in order to delay for as long as possible their inevitable jellifying.  Because I'm new to this, I don't really know if I'm taking the right approach to achieve this goal, but it feels right.  I guess I'll find out this coming weekend.  On Sunday, I'll be running the Silver Rush 50 up in Leadville as a training race.  I'm sure the distance combined with the multiple climbs up to 12,000' will tell me in unambiguous terms how my training is working.

Thirteen to Thirty-ish Miles

Running that XTERRA half marathon last October, I learned several things:  (1) I was really starting to enjoy trail running, (2) I should confirm that the safety pins holding my bib number on the front of my shorts are safely closed (you only need to be taught this once) and (3) my plan of not running any long races before the LT100 (so as to make my introduction to the ultra-running world all the more dramatic) was impractical and counter-productive. 

Initially, the thought of skipping the usual progression (half marathons, marathons, 50-K's, 50-milers, then 100's), and jumping straight to the 100-milers, strongly appealed to my -- some might say -- overdeveloped flair for dramatics (Incredulous Person upon hearing that I'm preparing for the LT100: "WHAT?!? You've never even run a marathon before?!?"  Me, casually, with feigned puzzlement, "Why, no, no I haven't. Should I?"), and of course, plainly exposed my -- some might also say -- overdeveloped ego and vanity. 

However, that XTERRA race last fall showed me that I could benefit from at least some race experience prior to the LT100 because a race environment is appreciably different from a training environment.  All the other runners, the nervous energy, the aid stations, the crowds, these are all major distractions that can take you out of your own groove and prevent you from running your own race.  And over the course of 100 miles, that could be disastrous, I've heard.  So, I abandoned my vain and dramatic approach, and decided to run a medium-distance race to get some more experience.  I wanted something longer than a marathon, so I chose the Golden Gate Dirty Thirty in Black Hawk, CO because the distance and terrain (~7,700' vertical gain) would make it a great training run.

To give myself something to shoot for during the Dirty Thirty, I set a challenging but achievable goal of seven hours.  Then, because I can be somewhat methodical (I've heard other adjectives used), I determined intermediate goal times for each aid station based on my overall seven-hour goal and my anticipated pace for each segment.  If I could stick close to each aid station goal time, I would hit the thirty-mile finish right at seven hours.  I figured this would be great practice for coming up with a "race plan" and seeing how well I can stick to it. 

On race day, I wrote the aid station goal times on my forearm with a sharpie, and off I went.  Early on in the race, I bumped into a buddy, Patrick Thiessen, and we ran together for a good while.  He's a good runner and had me at a pace slightly faster than I would have run by myself, so I reached the first aid station ahead of schedule.  I felt fine though, so I didn't mind being a little ahead.  About twelve miles in, I settled into my own planned pace, and Patrick ran on ahead.  Things were looking good.

This is when I first started congratulating myself for having such a great race plan, and executing it so well.  And, yes, for those thinking ahead, "pride doth come before the fall."

I reached the second aid station right on schedule, pausing only to pat my own back.  Continuing on at my planned pace, I cruised into aid stations three and four almost exactly on schedule.  Leaving the final aid station, with about seven miles to go, I mentally reconfirmed that my planned pace would bring me into the thirty-mile finish right at seven hours.  Everything was coming together perfectly.

Then... approaching 28.5 miles, according to my Garmin GPS watch, I came upon a volunteer course marshal who was directing the runners which way to go at a particular intersection.  He was standing next to a mileage sign confirming that we were at mile "28.5."  Pointing me in the right direction, he cheerfully said, "Looking Good!  Just under three miles to go!" 

It took a couple seconds for his words to register in my brain, but when they did, the word "three" hit me like a brick to the head.  According to my Garmin and his sign, I was at 28.5 miles, meaning I had one and a half miles to go to finish this Dirty Thirty.  Something was not right.  I slowed down and squawked, "What?!?"  He repeated himself in an even more encouraging tone, which in my growing confusion, I took to be sarcastic.  My brain whirled with the inconsistency between what I was hearing and seeing.  In a mental haze, I continued running on, trying to sort it out.  How could I have almost "three miles to go," when I thought I only had a mile and a half to go?  I considered the only logical possibilities:

• the volunteer was a sadistic liar;
• both my Garmin and the mileage marker were wrong, possibly intentionally, just to screw with me;
• the GPS satellites had strayed from their geosynchronous orbits, again, possibly intentionally, just to screw with me.

I spent a full three or four minutes seriously considering each of these possibilities before the truth hit me like a second brick to the head.  I had screwed up. The race, though called the Dirty Thirty, was not a thirty mile race at all.  It was a 50K race, that is, a 31.1 mile race (I guess the "Dirty Thirty-One Point One" didn't have the same poetic ring to it).  I admit I knew it was a 50K, but the lovely sing-song rhyme of the race's name made me forget this little tidbit of information, and thus I made my race plan based on thirty miles. 

Now I was in a bind.  I realized I had about 2.6 miles left to go, but in my perfect race plan I had only allotted myself enough time to run 1.5 miles.  I didn't want to give up on my seven-hour goal just yet, so in a bit of a panic, I tried to do some quick mental math to figure out what pace I would need to maintain to make it in time.  If you've ever tried to do mental math while panicking (and/or after 28 miles of running) you know that your arithmetical accuracy is going to suffer a little.  So, I was a bit skeptical when I concluded that, according to my frantic calculations, I needed to maintain a pace of 6.8 furlongs/cubit in order to finish in seven hours.  Somehow, even in my hazy brain, that seemed off.

Still, I knew that all but a quarter mile of the remaining course was downhill.  And I was feeling good on the downhills.  So, unable to calculate how fast I actually needed to go, I just switched off my brain, which was annoying me at this point anyway, and I just ran as fast as I could (which wasn't too fast) for the remaining 2.6 miles.  I hit the finish line (31.1 miles) at 6:54.

Lesson for me and other novice runners out there:  it turns out that, among the other important factors worth considering when preparing for a race, the actual distance is pretty significant.

Two to Thirteen Miles (and Free Tacos)

Last night was the weekly "Taco Run."  Every Tuesday evening, Wahoo's on Grant (in Denver) sponsors a run out to City Park and back and then gives out free tacos to all the runners.

Taco Run!

This little arrangement had been going on for quite a while right under my nose (my apartment is right next door to Wahoo's), but I was oblivious to it.  In fact, last fall, when I was just starting to train with some regularity, I would run to City Park on my own (purely by coincidence around the same time the Taco Run was going on), then run back to Wahoo's for dinner (paying for my tacos), not noticing all the other sweaty people around me or realizing that they were eating for free.  This went on for weeks before someone noticed that I was the only fool paying for free tacos and clued me in to the deal.  Since then, the Taco Run has been the single most consistent part of my training schedule (even if it is primarily a social run versus an actual workout).  Such is the power of free food.  Also, I've met some fun and interesting people through this group.

The Taco Runners (Fil is Chris Sullivan's LT100 pacer, and Denise is my pacer)

Last fall, back around the time I was still paying for free tacos, I was brand new to trail running (obviously, with all of ten months experience, I'm still a novice) -- I had finally figured out where a couple of the Fort Collins trails were, and I had discovered White Ranch in Golden, but I knew I needed some real trail experience before the November registration date for the LT100 in order to make an informed decision whether to register or not. 

So, back in October 2010, to get that quick trail experience, I ran an XTERRA half marathon in Cheyenne Mountain State Park in Colorado Springs.  It was my first real race of any appreciable distance, and I (admittedly somewhat naively) viewed it as an early yardstick of my potential to finish the LT100.  I figured if this 13-mile race crushed me, then that would be a clear sign from above that I was deluded to think I could run 100 miles by the following summer.  In the weeks prior to the XTERRA race, I remember being more than a little intimidated by the distance and the hills on the course.  After all, I had only about five weeks to increase my endurance from two miles on flat terrain to 13 miles on some pretty decent hills.  I admit, that sounds like a fairly reasonable goal now, but at the time, it was a challenge.

Well, the XTERRA race didn't crush me, and I came away very motivated by it.  I ran the first half of the race at a very controlled pace with Molly (her first half marathon too) and the second half alone at a "less controlled" pace.  I don't recall my time (maybe 2:20-something), but I do recall the exhilaration of flying on the downhills on the verge of catastrophe (a habit I've reined in a bit).  And I distinctly recall, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, momentarily imaging myself a persistence hunter and feeling that faint, almost subconscious, flickering sense of being connected to the trail.

That rare feeling, more than any other I get while running, has motivated me through my long-distance training runs.  I haven't really talked to anyone about this (because I recognize how hokey it sounds), but it is a powerful thing -- kind of like a primal and preternatural deja vu.  Maybe I'll write more about it later ... after my good buddies grow tired of the mocking they inevitably will give me now that they've read about my persistence hunter fantasies.

Lost In Leadville

I admit that I am directionally challenged.  Streets, trails, large rooms, it doesn't matter -- I get lost easily.  I'm a few satellites short of an operational internal GPS.  But I've learned to cope, more or less.  Frequently, when faced with a directional choice, I play a little game in which I intentionally go in the exact opposite direction from that which my intuition insists is the right way to go.  More often than not, I find that my anti-intuition keeps me on track.

However, this past weekend, I foolishly let my intuition be my guide and ended up lost in Leadville.

I spent last Saturday and Sunday of the Fourth of July weekend up in Leadville in order to get in a few more high-altitude training runs. My plan for Saturday morning was to run from May Queen over Sugarloaf to Fish Hatchery and back -- a route I ran only seven days previously, so you might think I would be somewhat familiar with the trail.  You'd be wrong.

I can report that for the first 90 seconds of the run my intuition kept me on course.  But by two minutes in, I got that all-to-familiar feeling that I was going the wrong way.  Still, I pressed on for a few more minutes hoping I might see a tree or rock that I remembered from the previous week's run to assure me I was on the right trail.  Of course, that never happened.  By the time I accepted that I was going the wrong way, I was close enough to the crest of the climb that I just kept on going to the top.  After summitting, I turned around and ran back downhill to May Queen to start over. 

Reassuring myself that my five-mile, wrong-way jaunt up the mountain was still good training, I reassessed my directional options.  My intuition, after apologizing for its initial error, confidently insisted that it now knew the right way to go.  Again, I foolishly trusted it and set off on my second attempt to find the trail up Sugarloaf.

This time I went about three miles before I was sure I was lost again.  So, I did the only reasonable thing to do in this situation:  I climbed a tree, took a cell phone photo of the surrounding topography and texted it to my brother Tim in Michigan, with the words, "lost. sugarloaf?"



Actual pic I texted to Tim


Within a minute he called to tell me, based on his assessment of the photo, the sun/shadow angle and the time of day, that I was "an idiot."  I was on the exact opposite side of Turquoise Lake, 10 miles from where I wanted to be and heading in the wrong direction.  I immediately realized he was right on all counts.

So, I turned around again and ran back to the starting point at May Queen, cursing my intuition the whole way.  Figuring I still had over an hour to at least get to the top of Sugarloaf (having abandoned my initial plan of running to Fish Hatchery), I set off on my third attempt.  After getting lost one more time (though now that I was more oriented, I was at least heading in the right general direction, just on the wrong trail), I finally picked up the actual trail at my turn-around point near the top of the mountain under the power lines and was able to run the real trail back down to my starting point.  All told, I was out there five hours, and spent only about 35 minutes on the actual trail I was hoping to run.

Later that afternoon, after lunch, I took a hike with Molly up Hope Pass.  We got an eerie and tragic reminder of how unforgiving this area can be when we passed half a dozen police cars, an ambulance, a search and rescue truck and a FOX News van parked in the middle of nowhere just a few miles from our trailhead.  It turns out the two missing hikers from Boulder (Dad and daughter, missing for over a week) had just been found not far from where we went hiking.  They apparently died from a fall likely caused by high winds.

Sunday, I did a 15-mile morning run around the north side of Turquoise Lake covering the only remaining section of the LT100 course that I had yet to run.  It feels good to have seen the whole course now, even if it cost a few wrong turns on the way.

Crew

There's been a shake up with my crew.

If you're like I was last year, it never occurred to you that someone would need a "crew" to finish a race, unless it was a NASCAR race or something.  I've since learned that to successfully run a race like the LT100, especially if one is a rookie like me, a runner needs the help of a crew.  A crew typically consists of one or two extremely tolerant and patient people who meet the runner at aid stations and generally handle all the logistics (food, water, gear, first aid, etc.) and a pacer or pacers who accompany the runner for some distance during the last 50 miles of the race. 



Right after I signed up for the race in November, I immediately recruited a crew.  I asked Molly to be my crew chief because that position requires a dedicated, organized and motivated person, and it involves a good deal of "list-making" type activities, and if you were to give Molly the choice between (1) going on vacation and (2) making a list of things needed to go on vacation, I'm not sure which one she'd pick.  I mean to say, she just loves checking off those little boxes.  Also, she's seen the actual race before (Tim's race last year), and she has plenty of hiking experience on high elevation trails (including on the LT100 course), so she knows what this race is all about.  Plus, she's dedicated, motivated and very supportive.
  

Molly on Hope Pass with Twin Lakes  in background 

Molly eagerly accepted the crew chief position and immediately set about creating a list of lists we will need for the race.  If you think I'm exaggerating, think again.

Trey's hair



Trey eschewing ski lifts



Next, I recruited pacers to get me through the final 50 miles of the course.  I asked my buddy Trey Overdyke, who is a great runner, a crazy high-elevation endurance athlete and has fantastic hair.  See for yourself.  He was psyched to experience the race.

   

 





 I also asked Matt Fuller, my good friend from the old days in Alaska, to be my pacer.  Matt's not a long distance runner, but he is a badass of transcendental proportions.  He's never run a long distance race (or even a medium distance race) in his life, and he now lives in Memphis (about 300' above sea level) , but when I asked him to pace me for a full 26 miles up and down mountains above 11,000', he didn't even hesitate.  He was instantly all in.  Since then, he's been training non-stop.



Matt at the 2010 Mile High Music Festival in Denver

I didn't intend on having more than two pacers, but Matt's wife Shannon asked if she could pace a section too (Matt's enthusiasm must've rubbed off).  Shannon's a great athlete and Bikram Yoga instructor, and also a great friend from the old Alaska days, so I'm looking forward to running/hobbling the final 13 miles with her to the finish line.

Shannon at Coor's Field last summer

Unfortunately, just yesterday Trey told me that due to a serious injury (don't worry, it's not a hair injury) he can't pace me in the race.  He was very disappointed, as was I, but the good news is he'll recover, and we can try again next time.  Luckily, I was able to call in my ace reserve pacer to take over for Trey.  So, Denise Langone, of the Boston Langones (though, she's all Denver now), is the intrepid soul who will get me through the 10-mile section that crosses the 12,600' Hope Pass.  Denise is not only an accomplished athlete (runner and triathlete), she's also an uncomfortably talented makeup/special effects artist.

Denise as Denise

Denise as Marilyn Manson

So, that's my crew.   Denise (mile 50-60), Matt (mile 60-86), Shannon (mile 86-finish) and Molly keeping it all together. 

Tim's crew will be the same as last year with Paul and Erin pacing and Lori crewing, except that because I can't pace him this year, he'll be replacing me with our cousin Roy, who moonlights as a U.S. National Team Ironman Triathlete and spawns children who set national records in high school track.  Even though Tim was initially disappointed I can't pace him this year, I think in the end he's pretty happy with the upgrade he got.