From Spring raining to Spring Training

Spring officially began on March 20 but you wouldn't guess that based on the weather outside.  For the last week or so it's been wet, windy, wild weather here in the valley.   60 m.p.h. winds took out our power, the track's too boggy for practice, even the dogs don't dare step outside and yet somehow I still ended up sunburned this week.  "How?" you may ask.   Well . . .

For my birthday this year my dad took me down to Arizona to see a few Spring Training baseball games.  Being a lifetime Dodgers fan, I was excited to travel down to their fantastic new training facilities down at Camelback Ranch.  The weather was perfect and it was incredible to see the players up close and even chat with a few of my favorites.

Andre, Phoenix homeboy.

Kemp, the enigma.

Carroll is a cool dude.

G'day, Trent Oeltjen!

Loney, where's your pop?

Great seats.

Tommy's still around.

Donnie Baseball

OK, a little self-indulgent and irrelevant for a running blog, right?  Well, not entirely.  Knowing I'd be down around Phoenix for 30 or so hours, I Googled "Phoenix trail running" and sifted through some possible runs.  Eventually, I settled on the very central Phoenix Mountain Preserve.  When I clicked on "images" to see what I was getting myself into, I came across a picture of a smiling bunch of trail runners with "WMRC" shirts and a link to the Wednesday Morning Runners Club website.  It said they had a group run for about an hour every Wednesday morning at 5:16 a.m. through the Phoenix Mountain Preserve.  Perfect!  How serendipitous! The one morning I'm there, the one place I wanted to run and all these smiling, inviting "Phoenicians" (?) to guide me.

So out off bed I rolled at 4:25 for a quick 20 mile drive in the rented Hyundai over to the park where I planned on running eight miles over loose rocks and rattlesnakes in pitch black conditions.  Isn't vacation great?

I got there a little early and was quickly welcomed by Tim.  Runners are universally friendly folks, and the WMRC proved to be no exception.  Within minutes, the group went from two to twelve to about twenty runners and without much ado they all started shuffling uphill in the dark.  I felt a little out of place initially.  I noticed all the runners were in long sleeves, while I was in short sleeves.  No one else was wearing compression socks and they all seemed a lot more comfortable than me with their headlamps.  I was just glad it was too dark to truly appreciate my orange & black shoes/ lime green shirt   combo.  I'm sure I looked like a clown with that apparel choice and the sunburn on just the right half of my neck and face.

The pace was easy, especially since I unintentionally ended up starting behind some more casual runners. I never run with a headlamp so that took some getting used to, and my stomach was still working on the full rack of ribs and goblet of red ale from Claim Jumpers the night before.  I was a little light-headed and in no rush.  The trail was more technical than most of what I see out here, although it reminded me of the run up Montara Mountain in Pacifica.  I almost rolled my ankle three times and I was again thankful to be wearing my stiffest, most stable pair of shoes.  In the last month or so, my LaSportiva Fireblades have helped me over three feet of fresh snow in Tahoe, through thirty miles of mud at Way Too Cool (see blog below) and proved to be a prudent choice for the tricky terrain in Phoenix. And I'm not just saying that because the kind people at LaSportiva have hooked me up with free kicks in the past, but . . . LaSportiva, if you're reading this, just know that I'd love to try the Wildcats in a size 45.  Grazie!

Up the mountain we went.  My breathing was strong and easy and the pace was . . . crap, I didn't have my Garmin on!  I had turned my GPS on back in the car to acquire the signal and then I left it there.  Damn! I really wanted the map and elevation profile . . . oh well.  Anyway, the run seemed to wrap a little around Piestewa Peak before heading back downhill.  It was spectacular to watch the streaks of blue and red start to stretch across the star-filled sky as the sun slowly rose.  Besides a few near falls and the occasional brush with a cactus, the run was very peaceful.

  

At the Dreamy Draw recreation area everyone took a few minutes to chat, stretch, refill bottles and take advantage of the facilities before heading back.  By then the sun had risen high enough to turn off the headlamps.  I think my eyes/brain were still adjusting to the lighting and I could feel myself drifting a little like a drowsy driver on the interstate when all of a sudden, BAM!  Down went one of the other runners right in front of me.  It was terrifying at first glance to see someone plunge headfirst into a massive rock but thankfully the water bottle seemed to cushion the blow and his headlamp seemed to take the brunt of the impact.  Still, ouch.   Even as an experienced runner (he was wearing a Javelina Jundred shirt) who knows the trails, you can never be too cautious.  Thankfully, he was still smiling (and conscious) half an hour later.

For the second half of the run, I stopped more and more frequently to take it all in and snap a few pictures.  I doubt any of the photos can match the beauty of being there in the moment, but  I gave it a few shots, literally. 

I'd again like to thank the kind members of the WMRC for the gracious hospitality.  If any of you Phoenicians ever plan on heading out for the Western States 100, Way Too Cool or any other event around here, know that you're always welcome to stay with us--we even provide complimentary airport shuttle service most days.  :-)

As for me, usually I'm not a "group" runner, a morning runner, a headlamp runner or a Phoenix runner, but I'm sure glad I tried something new.   I'm pretty sure I'm going to try to make Spring Training an annual pilgrimage and if I can only be in Phoenix for a day or two a year, I sure hope one is a Wednesday.



Cacti on the brain.



Way Too Cool 2011

After two long months of coughing, a tricky groin, and winter blues, it was good to be back up and running at the 2011 Way Too Cool 50K.

The race probably couldn't have come at a worse time for me.  I've been in a funk all of 2011, with nothing but a pair of DNF's to show for my efforts.  My confidence has been low, my body beat up and I don't know that I've ever been so emotionally drained.

And the race probably couldn't have come at a better time.  Twelve months after the pink slip, the sale of the old house, the purchase of the new house, the remodelling, the pink slip,  teaching, coaching, the 120% work schedule, taking the students to Europe, WASC, the pink slip, the new baby, the long nights with the new baby, the initial sibling jealousy, the pink slip,  turning 40, receding hairline, enlarged prostate . . . little by little I could feel all this weight lifting off my chest and I could finally take a deep breath and run again.

I woke up at 4:15 on Saturday morning, had my usual 3 Eggo waffles with apricot-peach jam for breakfast, showered and head out to Cool.  It was a gorgeous day to run 50K, about 45 degrees for the start, clear but just enough cover to keep the sun out of your eyes.  I got there plenty early to take full advantage of the porta-potties and pick up the great swag bag.  I decided to make immediate use of the Moeben arm sleeves--I just wish either they had more size mediums available or I had the biceps to fill out the large they gave me.  For shoes, I was going with my LaSportiva Fireblades.  I had only once worn them beyond 8 miles (16 miles up Mt. Diablo and back) but I decided that despite being a little stiff, they are the biggest shoes I have (a full size bigger than my other shoes) and I could use both the extra support around the ankles and room up around the toes.

The Way Too Cool is the biggest 50K around: 675 runners via lottery, of which 586 showed up on race day.  At the start I couldn't believe how many people were attempting their first ultra--more than 150 newbies!   I also saw some familar faces like Jean Pommier and Gary Gellin, guys who would probably contend for the overall win.  My personal goal was simple:  "DF."  Usually I have an "A" time, a "B" time and a "C" time in mind, but after two "DNF's" in 2011, I just wanted a "DF"--"Did Finish."  And I wanted to have fun.  And take lots of pictures.  And not drain myself to the point where I couldn't enjoy the start of my Spring Break.

The race started on Dam Road, heading out to the Olmstead Loop.  The pace was brisk but easy, I was cruising about 7:00 mile pace but this pace soon fell off once we started on the single track.  We were running like box cars.  For this part of the race it didn't matter who you were: locomotive or caboose, we were all going the same pace.  I probably would have gone a little faster without the tyranny of so much company but that's OK.  I was initially surprised at the first water crossing but after the first 40 or so I was less moved.  In fact, the cold water felt pretty good.  The omnipresent mud was less charming, however.  I guess the trail conditions were normal for the site and the season but it was an unexpected challenge for me to run in mud for a good 20-25 miles of the ultra.  My favorite muddy moment was losing my left shoe in the bog around Mile 4 of the Mine Trail.  It just went down 5 or 6 inches and never came back up.  So I had no choice but to scoop it out, plop my sweaty cheeks down in the muck, clean my sock as best I could and pop the shoe back on.   I then realized that I'd lost my D-TAG timing strip somewhere in the marsh.  I had to laugh, reminding myself that I wasn't going for a time but an experience.  By the time I found a spot back in the single track train line we were chugging along around 8:20 pace.  Oh well.  When I hit the spillway the rushing water rinsed me clean and I was having a blast. 

The first aid station was at Mile 8, back at the start.  I was hoping for a quick porta-potty stop but they were on the opposite side of a chain link fence.  So I just GU-ed, refilled the bottle and drank a little Coke.  I even tried some boiled potato.  Usually I wouldn't try something new in my stomach on race day but it wasn't "race day," it was "adventure day," right?

After a quick uphill bump across a meadow, it was time for some downhill.  Again, the company I was keeping on the single track wasn't pushing as hard as I would take it on my own, but I figured I would enjoy the ride, play it safe on some technical terrain and save my legs for the last miles.  On the way down, I started chatting with Stephanie from Sacramento.  Normally, I'm not the talkative type but I enjoyed talking with her.  We cruised into the next aid station at Highway 49 and made our way onto the Quarry Trail.    The miles passed easily with Stephanie, a lawyer, mother of two, former collegiate athlete who knew a little about Lodi wines (loves Macchia) and the Avenue of the Vines (she ran a 1:27 there last year and still remembers the smell . . .). 

I stopped a few times to take some pictures and I had to keep tying my shoes.    All the mud and water had me worried about blisters so I eventually lost Stephanie after about 5 miles.  I sipped some Coke at the two aid stations and kept trying the potatoes--so far, so good.  My stomach was doing fine halfway through but I'd regret not taking in some more electrolytes. 

As I left the Quarry Road to head back up the hill, I noticed I was alone for the first time all morning.  It was a strange sensation, highlighted rather ironically by U2's "I Will Follow" on my iPod.  After being led around the course for the first 16 miles, I actually had to pay attention and follow the trail markers. So I was a little paranoid, my water bottle was dry, I was due for a GU but not ready to ingest it and I realized that the toughest uphill sections were just around the corner.  But at least the trail was beautiful, dappled light falling through the trees, one waterfall after another and a creek to cross every quarter mile, it seemed.  My pace was dropping as the grade increased and my legs were stiffer than I expected with ten miles to go.  The Auburn Lakes Trail aid station came just in time and I took my time filling bottles and finally emptying my bladder.  Ah, if only I'd taken an S!Cap or brought along some Nuun tablets.

The Robie trail led out of the ALT station and roller coastered up and down through some brightly sunlit higher country.  I was starting to let other runners go around me and the 4:45 finish time I considered reasonable a few hours earlier was fading out of reach.  But I didn't mind.  It's amazing how much more fun a run can be when you have no real performance expectations besides enjoying yourself and not walking weird the next week.  As my left gracilis started to flare more and more and then stiffen, I just eased off even more.   I shifted my attention to a short term goal: .35 miles per song on my iPod.   The numbers game was just enough to keep my mind occupied and it carried me to the base of Goat Hill, the toughest climb of the day.  To be honest, after a year of running 16 Pacific Coast Trail Run events, Goat Hill seems less daunting.  Still, how fitting the iPod shuffled to the Stones' "Beast of Burden" as I  plodded upward and onward.  It was the most grueling moment of the day for the two guys I was working alongside.  I hiked past one guy who seemed to be jogging in place.  I felt a little guilty not to be working harder, grunting louder, but I had made a "no suffering" pledge and I was sticking to it.  My GPS would later show a 40 minute mile pace up the hill and 35 minute pace while I worked my way through the subsequent aid station.  Hmm.  There's a video below . . . if you can handle the excitement of watching tired people in funny clothes walking up a hill.
 












The last 5 miles were what you expect from a guy with a bad leg intent on not feeling anything beyond discomfort.  I took my time to the tune of about an hour, almost equal parts hiking and running.  I played cheerleader to the passing runners--I think I only passed one poor suffering soul on the last part of the course-- and I cracked what seemed to be funny jokes at the last aid station.  I was smiling ear to ear.   I had more fun hiking up that last miserable hill than I did storming downhill to top five finishes at other races. 

Cresting the hill, I opened up a little to look good for the crowd at the finish.  Not that anyone knew me, but whatever.  Habit, right?  I came across the line at 5:01:21, a little misty behind my sunglasses but no one will ever know.  Even if you cross the same finishline as 564 other people, that doesn't mean you all ran the same race. 

Post race goodies lived up their hype:  veggie pizza, homemade soup, double chocolate cookies and the famous frog cupcakes.  Ultra runners are a friendly bunch so I made some casual chit-chat but I admit I kind of envied those who came and left as a group.  I thought about sticking around for the massage but I figured I would rather try and catch the end of a track meet back in Stockton. 

Heading back out on Highway 49 I started to leak again.  It just started coming.  I fought it at first but it felt so good I decided just to go with it and let it all out.  Maybe it was the Cowboy Junkies song or maybe I was just a little lonely.  It was such a beautiful day but it had come and gone so quickly.  I just wished that it all would last.  So I cried like I cried at Jed Smith with Tim, the day after his dad's funeral.  I cried like I always cry at the end of "Before Sunrise," "Gataca," or "The English Patient."  I cried like Holden in Chapter 25 or like me for the past 25 years when I wonder around Vinewood Park in the dark.  I cried like Chloe who doesn't even know why she's crying, she just wants to be held.  And it was the best I've felt in a year.