The Bear 100, My first (decided) DNF

 Given the Covid Crisis and the shutdowns of all the things; school, offices, restaurants,races, fun and normalcy, in general, I was both surprised and excited that the Bear 100 was a go. The weather, typically a hodge podge of WTF and all four seasons, I thought there was no way they could support a race where indoor shelter deemed a must at times. But, the weather was perfect,  the RD and the committee put on a stellar race, and by the time we left for Logan on Thursday afternoon, i was busting with excitement for the weekends journey and celebration thereafter. 

4 of us, Eve, Jen, Cheryl, and I, headed north. We checked in, we dropped our drop bags, we had a wonderful dinner outside by the river, and went to the hotel for final prep and sleep. Easy breezy morning, slightly scattered start, but all the calm, cool, and collected feelings of the Bear and of the acceptance of the long days ahead were present. 

I have been processing my DNF out there, for 3 weeks now...I was moving well. I was off my goal time, but w/out crew for day 1 (Covid precautions) I tried and succeeded getting myself whole and on top of all the things like electrolytes, water, food, gels, to Cheryl at Temple Fork. I inhaled a lot of dust on the dirt road heading into there, mile 45. Truck after truck kicking up the ground and no way around it. This is where the beginning to my end started, I believe. But we moved well to mile 52, Tony Grove. Half way. But before we reached there, I began to have extremely labored breathing on the climbs. My heart would beat very fast and the drowning feeling of not being able to take a deep breath began. It got worse leaving Franklin, mile 63ish. I puked, which is No big deal. It was the breathing. Perhaps my muscles were not getting the oxygen they needed from the hours of labored breathing(?) I don't know, but I can tell you when we hit the rocky road to Logan River, my quads were all but seized. The downhill was a joke, I couldn't even trot. What was happening? The climb out of Logan was soul crushing. I walked slowly behind Cheryl, contemplating what was going on. I can't hike without a panicked heart and lack of breath. I couldn't trot the downhill, as my muscles would not contract and the pain was stark and sharp. I had taken so much Ibuprofen already. I had puffed on my inhaler more times than I should have. I have salted, I have ate, Cheryl just gave me tailwind, and chews 2 at a time. I had cried. i had asked her to let me stop right there, 3 or 4 miles from Aid..I was falling apart. Why?

What was happening? I have been here before. I have hurt before, I have befallen at some point to this distance many times, and yet always found a way to climb out on top. That's one of the things I love about the 100 mile. But, I was broken as the beautiful sunrise was swept by a threatening rain cloud that stayed away. 

What else can I do? I have to stop. And then Jill came up behind us on the road in her car. Just about a mile to Beaver Lodge aid. Some words were said, I felt like I was bent over. I heard coffee and cream of wheat. Here it comes, the tears, the shaking, the faces of my friends sunk to my level of head hanging down, changing my socks, cream of wheat, coffee, washing my feet. My head was spinning, my eyes burning from dust and tears, my body shaking. I see Betsy packing my vest. "I can't" i say. "i can't breathe". Everyone moving in the direction that will get me out of this chair, as we do , as we hope, as we anticipated for months and months.

And so we left, onward from mile 76. A brief feeling of relief as we slowly walked. Betsy was fresh and smiling and optimistic as she is. Yet, I am still wondering what I was doing. Where could I stop? I know what's coming, I don't think I can do it this time. 

What is happening? Why is this happening. How do I have nothing left to give? I have been trying to turn this around for so many miles. So many hours. People were passing me left and right. The hike to Gibson felt insurmountable with every step. The basin ridge cold and painful. Hot then cold, hot then cold, shivering then pulling at my zipper with such urgency as i thought I would suffocate. Betsy can I sit, I think I am going to pass out. Breathe..slowly...We keep walking. "I think I just had a panic attack". "We can sit at Beaver Creek, just another mile or so. Quads revolted and seized, i tread as lightly as I could and stiff as a board, down the steep rocky descent into mile 85, the campground. 

I sat and ate, oatmeal I think... dirt covered watermelon, and grapes. As Betsy pulled out a McDonald's hamburger and breakfast burrito from her bra, a roar of laughter from the volunteers pushed a slight smile across my face and a thought? (Don't all pacers do that?) We had been here so many times together, sometimes me in the chair, sometimes Betsy. I looked my friend in the eye who was loading up my vest to march onward, and I said "Betsy, i can't". We sat for a few more minutes, maybe 15, and then I signed my race away. 

It wasn't until the morning came, that my lungs really showed how much of a beaten they had taken, and my quads with newly bursted blood vessels were still agonizing and stiff. All levels of nutrients and electrolytes felt wrong and yet nothing outweighed or stung more than dropping from the race. Don't let me get it twisted, regret is not the word, but disappointment is. I burst into tears as I entered my house. "I'm sorry I couldn't get it done", I said to my daughters....

In the weeks that have passed, I first eagerly waited for registration to open for 2021. Hoping that the anticipation of redemption would be enough to kill the nightly re-enacting in dreams of this years race. Just a drop in that bucket, however. The chatter and reserving a house for next years race, also a drop in that bucket. The opening up about it to Betsy and Jen yesterday on the trail was a couple more drops to help fill that mucky bucket.  And, as the weeks come and go, as the humility helps mold the lessons learned, I expect that bucket to be full and fresh again. 

To my daughters on a night shortly after the Bear; "You can do big things, and sometimes they work out, sometimes you succeed, and sometimes you don't. Sometimes it's not your day or your moment. But keep trying and then keep trying again and again and again..and again."

 

100

I walked out of September with sore knees and a real sense of self joy. It doesn't last long enough, but it lasts for awhile. I don't really remember how or why I decided to run 3, 100 mile races in a 7 week span. "The Utah Triple" Perhaps a thing, a very new thing, regardless of it's "thing" or "not a thing" status, it was a thing I did. 

Was it that I was turning 40? Was it the turned up spirit and blues of fall running coming to an end when the snow came and stayed last year? Was it the addictive natured voice reminding me just how good it feels to overcome and cross the finish line. The fantastic pleasure of sitting down and being still, finally?  The laughable pain of trying to sit on the toilet the next day or the burning itching feet through the first night? 

I have a hard time putting it into perspective or understandable terms when I am describing it to others. But, this morning on a lovely dawn patrol run, I didn't have to explain it to my friend, she has the same thoughts and feelings of the distance; as we talked about now what? what next year?

The Ute 100 
The Wasatch 100
The Bear 100

...This is the Utah triple (be it a thing or not). I was a little burned out after the Bear. The weather conditions for all 3 races varied. With a 40 hour cut off at the Ute, I had time to sleep for the first time ever in a race #backofthepackproblems. We saw 2 bears. I laid on the trail with my friend and stared at a billion stars and made a joke about 5k's and margaritas. I was sick and sleepy and fell in and out of panic and patience quicker then my turnover. At the Wasatch, it rained and no hornets to be had. I decided I was done over and over again; I just never said it out loud. I was impatient and irritated, and wondered for the first time if I even wanted to be there. I was overwhelmed with friendship that ultimately carried me into day 2, mile 90, and then to the finish. And at the Bear, I was happy and healthy, and smiley, and strong...until I wasn't. Until I was muddy, and cold, and puking, and pooping, and slowed to the pace of a sleeping tortoise until I didn't. Until I saw my friend, my friends, all of them there for us...rounding the corner, seeing the park, shivering in the wettest clothes and the wettest skin I could remember, finishing next to one of my besties.  

And then it was done. And, I was burned out but satisfied. And then I was burned out and depressed. Curious if what I think of as an accomplishment is simply...not. Perhaps, I pondered, this is just another way to fuel my highs and ignore my lows for a time. Perhaps, running 100 miles is a way to escape and not necessarily to be present at all. Or, maybe it's both? I don't love every minute of it. There's many miles I DO NOT even like. But, I do believe it's something that has enriched my life and spirituality in humanity. And, I can't deny the benefits and impact the very act of running has had on me. 

For now, I am running short and slow. I have been out of the acute recovery phase for many weeks now, but I am enjoying the fall weather and cool mornings, the familiar winter trails, browsing ultra sign up daily for a new exciting event, and reflecting on 2019. To next year...Cheers

Ute 100

There have been a few races gone now, since  I've sat down to write about the experience. I guess, i do this as a journal for the handful interested and my daughters. One day, this might reveal a lot about me to my small people that give me so much hope and wrinkles at the same time.

The Ute 100.

For weeks maybe months before this race, I had a healthy dose of doubt and a not so healthy dose of desire, or lack their of. I was in a rotten head space about the race and it's logistics. 3 am start, camping the night before, 25 miles to our first drop bag, 3 drop bags in total for 100 miles, 40 hour cut -off, remote, rugged, high, lightning probability, HEAT.

I'm not spoiled, and I do like  a challenge, but this was not something I was used to say at Wasatch, the Bear , or Bighorn. If I didn't have my amazing crew, and a vehicle to aid out of, I'm not sure I could have pulled off a finish.

Even with all of the selfless help of my friends, I wasn't sure I could pull off a finish. I won't do a play by play, I won't ask for your attention more than a few minutes. here it goes:

Like mentioned, we started at 3:00am. Jill and I were up a little after 2:00am after a few hours asleep in the back of her truck. We ran then hiked in the dark until the sun came up around 6:30. The first 25 miles were lovely , and relatively easy terrain. After a few steep jaunts, there was lots of easy downhill and then rolling mountain bike trails. The weather on Friday was very bearable. Perhaps the altitude was in fact blessing us with cooler temps in the Ls Salle mountain range.

After mile 25, I got hot and impatient and tired and impatient and sick and tired and a little more tired. The biggest climb of the race came up around mile 33. Mann's Peak that tops out somewhere in the 12,200 ft range. The climb up was a beastly one, but I managed to do quite well here. I shuffled down the scree ridge from the top as fast as I could (fairly slow). Frankly, I was a little nervous up there. I wouldn't generally say I'm scared of exposure, but this was high, narrow, and slippery scree in places. It was windy and threatening to rain, although it never did.

The stress of this climb and getting off the ridge line fatigued me even more. All day i had told myself to just get this climb out of the way, and it will be a piece of cake (LOUD LAUGH OUTLOUD ). This was a mistake as I only mentally prepared to get over the hill so to speak, and then I could get it done.  After a long descent off Mann's peak, my eyes were heavy and my patience was thin. In and out of the next aid (mile 42ish) We climbed out and then down and then up again-this service road full of blow downs and debris from a fierce winter, then another dastardly rocky, downhill full of mooing cows near and far. The sun was setting across the sky lighting up what I believe was Castle Valley. Gorgeous- however, the pleasure of the sites was no match for my ultimate bonk of the trek.

I came into Mile 51 broken. Tears, fatigue, hunger, defeat, discouraged, chaffed, sting everywhere, sweaty, then cold, shaking, and foggy. Betsy, Cheryl, Nancy taking my clothes off and putting new ones on, Do you want this? Can you eat that? How about this? Headlamps? Socks? jacket? try this? one more bite of that...Like a pit crew in the Indy 500, but I couldn't see past my sorrow. No one was feeling sorry for me though...I should know better than that. I wasn't coming in for sympathy- I was coming in for aid, and that's what we do best out there for each other.

Ok...Homestretch..ish..eh, not quite. Cheryl and I headed out into the night. Enough ups and downs that I could go into great detail, but to sum up the night; I could barely stay awake. I wanted to melt into the dirt, and did a few times.Laying on the dirt at one point we turned our lights off and I was staring at the magnificent star lit sky "Cheryl, why don't we run 5k's and drink margaritas afterwards?" ..."Because we drink vodka" :) Can't argue with that. So up and out.

I had time at mile 71 to take a nap. This was a run changer for me. I don't usually have this luxury, but with the 40 hour cut off,  I had time to be out cold for about 30 minutes, horizontal and warm in the car for almost an hour. I popped up around 6:00am. I ate mashed potatoes and a 5 hour energy shot. Then bam, 6 feet in front of us on the trail out of the aid station, a mama and baby bear. Oh SH!t. With normal brain function I would have possibly pooped my pants, but Betsy, now with me for the duration, cacawed like a bird and flapped her arms like a crazy person. mama ran beside us for a few seconds and then disappeared into the thick.

We rallied from here. We rallied from there. We rallied and I grimaced in pain on the downhill, and tried not to think about the heat that was coming as we descended further and further to the finish line. 5 miles of dirt road, we ran it. I came in just under 37 hours.

The darkest and hardest miles were long and bending. My heart was not in it for hours upon hours. I eventually got to a "place" that was familiar- a balance in the mental chaos. A bite down and move mentality- but not until I could see the end near. Maybe mile 86. From about mile 35-85, i couldn't see it, I didn't want it bad enough. I fought it and that is my demon out there. Patience and fatigue. It suspends me out there too long, and I'd like to get to a calmer state quicker and less dramatic. Let's see what Wasatch brings me in 2 weeks. I do love this shit, but that was a doozy for me.

a love poem to no one

You’re so beautiful, I could look at you for hours, if I weren’t  to aftaid of exploding
Combusting, death of something through the uttermost form
Of living. Living without boundaries or social etiquette,
Or doing the work just for the reward, but every breath of life with each other
Rather the reward. And then the alarm goes off at 5:20am.

I don’t need to know if I’m thankful or saddened. I don’t know if I’m
Experiencing trauma or bliss. I think I’m all of it.
And in the hours that follow-I’m in then mountains, in the snow, in the car pool line.
I’m in the grocery store, the Starbucks, the office... and still I’m almost brought
To tears by a shape of a face that , by all accounts should have  forgotten the details of.

she's just gone

Wasatch 2018

Wasatch 100 2018 Finish Line
What are we all doing here? How did we get here? Think nat, think. The sky turned from starry sky black to glowing blue- that's where we were, and now we are here?
I'm in pain & numb ?
I'm sitting & throbbing
My skin hurts & I'm still

It's getting to a point that I might be running too many races to have authentic thoughts about the events anymore. I find the write up boring myself, reading the same buzz words over and over...and over again. Climbing, eat, salt, pain, impatience, pacer, finish line, puke, mud, heat, snow...and so it goes. I've run out of fresh ways to describe my races in a way that I only hope you can connect with or at the VERY least chuckle, wonder why?, or at best...think, I want to do that too.

Beaming into the pit, juvenile optimism about the pain.
Brave to the fatigue and naive at once
Lost in a thought about my body,
dissecting every step. Hungry?
No. That doesn't matter, as I know.
The sun is whipping me and I'm standing here
silencing my hate for this moment.

The Wasatch is special, don't let me get this twisted as I complain. I believe it would be special even if I did not live in these mountains, did not play in these mountains, did not leave my life in Baltimore for good when I stepped foot in these mountains...I think it's special for first timers, for 12 timers, for 17 timers, and for runners who were placed in a chair sick, injured, or unable to...anymore.

I've been thinking more about the Wasatch allure than the actual trails lately. There's an electricity. That might be a local charge, but I know how hard this race is. I know how relentless and damn right miserable it can be. I've met people from out of town, and I am so impressed that they are here, many alone without crew or pacers or a familiar face for 100 miles.  Why? Why this race? I can't shed light on anyone but me.
It started with my first Wasatch finish in 2015. I fought harder for that. I slogged Lambs-Brighton with a pacer that had every reason to believe I could not make it. A pacer who wanted to leave me, and in her defense, I can only say, she did not know me well enough to think otherwise. I would go into van gouge color like description of the first Wasatch, but as they say, it's not about what you've done...
The allure, started there. An extremely hard fight and run to the finish in 2015 with my friend. My friend, who in fact, did know me well enough to know, I don't go out unless I'm swinging doing it. (It's an east coast thing;) (muwah). We ran hard and full of fury, smiling. The beginning of the End. An end I wanted more than I could explain. WHY??

Because it's hard. Because it feels impossible, and when you have come this far, glory is in your site or a finish in your pocket, but it's not easy. It's not a gimmie. It's still not yours, until it is.
Gratitude. Humility. Pride. Happiness. And then what?? You chase it. You  freakin' chase it.

So, Wasatch 2018; Ack the details are boring...But, let me try to summarize 35:33 in a paragraph.
I was injured before the start. 5 weeks "essentially " off. I had a hot but good 32 miles to big mountain. I saw my dear friends Cheryl and Jen with a mango juice and Mcdonalds. I handled BigMountain and Alexander well enough. At Lambs were my people for the Wasatch this year- Mark & Betsy. More Mcdonalds, head lamps, poles, & we out. I motored as fast i could which was fast enough to cover those 23 miles of mostly up in 8 hours. One of mt partners in crime, Betsy, scooped me up and out of Brighton, mile 67. I hit a wall leaving Brighton. And, in reflection, impatience and fatigue.  Sun came up and although lovely, I was getting itchy about time. The heat sucked me dry on Friday and I gave all i had in the tank  to get to Brighton in 8 hours. But, I pushed with a consistent whine that my dear friend let slide..cuz, she knows...Bonk fest at mile 84 when it all just got to me and the tears started to flow. Something we should all remember "You're not failing, Nat. You're bonking" The Gospel of Betsy, Blessed it be to GOD. I ate, I got stung by a hornet. 15 miles to go.  I gave in...
After 30 hours, I gave in and accepted all of it and just moved.
Wasatch, will you ever come gently into the soft night? I doubt it.

 

Bighorn 100

On Saturday, I finished the Bighorn 100 for my second year in a row, tallying my buckles to 7 for the 100 mile distance, and as usual I have some thoughts about those 33 hours and 36 minutes.

Any report you read from last year, 2017 and this 2018, will most certainly mention the mud, or that writer was at a different race. Frankly, if you want to read in depth about the mud, scroll down to my Bighorn post from last year, because minus some players in the great journey, the report could ALMOST be the same. In my humble opinion, it was worse this year, but that is a factor that could vary from runner to runner. But, i think everyone would agree the shear mileage of muddy trail by far surpassed 2017.

I'll be brutally blunt, I got into a bad head space almost immediately starting Bighorn. By mile 8 or 9 I found myself inside my head over thinking every very unlikely scenario of my daughters safe and soundness back home. Why? I don't know. I quite adequately argued with myself about motherly instinct and over-active imagination from the underbelly of dark world thoughts. Dramatic? Yes, of course I am.

When I got to mile 13, the Dry Fork Aid and only Crew station that I would see my people until mile 48, I was barely thinking about the race under my feet at all. Betsy, I'm worried about the girls. "They're fine, Nat"

(in a very "I get it", kinda voice)

She said she'd call Scott and tell the girls I love them, and get messages from them she'd deliver tomorrow...(ahh..mental relief).

She also reminded me, that was a good time to eat:)

My lovely pacer Dee, parted ways with Jen and Betsy here to ultimately make her way up to the turn around with Eve & the legend known as Sherpa Jim ;) -The lovely Carrie's husband and Crew extraordinaire. Betsy and Jen went back into town to get ready for their 52 mile race the following morning. We packed me up and out, and I set off on the dirt road, into the afternoon, into the tangles and slips, the ups and face plants, the angry wet elements thrown gauntlets and the soft views through them, that the next 30 hours would bring. 

I particularly get distracted by squirrels when reading a mile by mile breakdown, so I'll try my best to get to the juicy grinds and over described moments that really help me walk the line between a report and a true story. The weather was perfect! Ya know, until it wasn't. On my way to Sally's Footbridge, Mile 30, the sky suddenly went Haunted House gray and the temperatures dropped quickly, as we have all seen happen in our lives. "uh Oh" a female runner said behind me, and as if she was already aware, the sky opened up a hail storm on top of us.  

I will bring up the mud, because this is where it started and stayed for most of the race. We were at mile 24 (roughly).

The sky ablaze with current and devastating thunder claps

was not enough to break my spirit, yet. I felt very confidant in my steep downhill running to the Footbridge in what tomorrow would come concrete textured mud, today was wet puddles and in place rocks to run through and right over. 

Sally's, Mile 30  in 5:52pm

crewing myself I:

washed my feet,

changed my socks,

emptied and repacked vest

Ate mashed potatoes

Drank an Ultragen

Ate Chicken tenders 

put on pants and dry warm clothes

out at 6:17 pm.

Again I'll refer you to 2017's post on the mud going up to Jaws. The top was better than last year, I will note. And,  I even smiled when I saw the trees Cheryl and i held on to going what felt like upstream not uphill, last year. 

The dance inside my head for these 18 miles went something like this; Hit some aid stations, eat a lot, peeing alot, peeing too much? Probably need salt. What mile is this, what time is it? How long have I been out here? Yay, a flag, this course is so well marked. Ugh, this mud, ugh. ughhhh. Relax, settle down, lots of race left. Be patient. ughhhh mud. so wet. so cold. is that rain? no, that's snow. Actually, i think it's frozen rain. Second headlamp. Now..i think it's just rain. ooh, the road, almost there. pee again. Crap, i peed on myself , hmm that's better than Piss! I crapped on myself, I'm pretty clever with word play... oooh big tent. boom, Jaws. 

Jaws, Mile 48 in at 12:55

Crew'd by Dee and Sherpa Jim we:

ate chicken fingers and fries, they were warm!!!

drank lemonade

dried off feet

changed socks

Dry Clothes

New headlamps

Bladder filled

Unpack and pack again

heavy rain jacket

out at 1:14 am

What goes up...

Dee and I headed out in to the dark, to retrace the 18 miles I just tackled. When I signed up for Bighorn, I didn't secure a pacer or a crew. I was so high on 2017 and the 3 100's I did, I didn't think much past the thrill.

When Dee told me over mimosa's and a Betsy Birthday run (how we roll) that she would come to Bighorn, I about kissed her. It wasn't too bad going up alone, but my spirit was bowing ever so slightly from what was clearly going to be another mud run. The muddy, sticky and slippery terrain continued down, down, down,through all 3 aid stations 2 little bridges, and back in to Sally's. 

Sally's Mile 66 in at 7:05

Crew'd by Dee and myself I;

Washed feet

Changed socks,

Changed shoes

took off wet clothes

dry arm warmers and sleeveless shirt

ate 2 pancakes and 2 sausage

drank a lemonade

Broke the zipper on my drop bag, Shit.

wrapped up drop bag with Duct tape

unpacked and packed vest

"Dee Im heading out, catch me"

out at 7:30 am

Dee caught me after about 15 minutes, i think. The runners I knew out there, Carrie, Stacey, Eve..we were all within minutes of each other, as we climbed up aforementioned concrete textured mud. What I mean by that, is simple, part of this climb was like hiking up through a freshly poured driveway. I started to realize that "well, last year, it got better here..."
 was something I should probably stop saying. The texture changed back to slick and sticky until we ultimately reached the loooong dirt road to Dry Fork for the second time. 

It was hard not to get discouraged. By the time the ground beneath came back to running life, my feet and ankles were trashed from the footing battles of the countless past hours.  I never felt like I wasn't going to make the 3:00pm cut-off, but I had high hopes for this years Bighorn, which clearly coincided with my high hopes for this years Bighorn weather.

So much of the race was just not-fun running, and on the way to the aid station, I pumped and pepped myself up with gels and promise of the finish.  We worked hard to get right here, and we weren't done yet.

Dry Fork Mile 82 in at 2:01

Crew'd by Dee

Ate mashed potatoes 

Drank an ultragen.

Washed Feet Again!

Changed Socks Again!

Pack emptied and filled

Red Bull for the road

out at 2:14pm

Time to wrap this Shiz up...

...But not before a weepy painful scene

I crashed about 2 hours after leaving the aid station. Dee stopped at mile 82 when I went out for this last stretch. She didn't feel good about all the downhill, and I did...until I didn't.

huh, my feet hurt. Duh.

I winced at every step, i tripped on rocks and fell into trail brush, trying to do a speedy tip toe and limit impact on my pruned, wet, paper thinned skin feet bottoms and swollen ankle joints that really weren't into hinging at the moment, like at all. So, out of character, I let it get the better of me.

and I wept angrily in my pity party pain cave.

"There's my friend!" I hear from behind.

And, I bellowed,  "Betsy!"
I tol her she didnt have to wait for me, and she rolled her eyes:)
She told me about the messages the girls sent, that I could see as soon as we finished and got to the car.

We had about 8 miles to the finish. Every step and breath i took was strained.

I couldn't really talk, when I did, i just whined.

I wanted to walk. But, my walk was a crawl, so I nuzzled in right behind my friend, and just watched her feet, and tried to mimic every step to keep her pace, waiting to go numb in the lower extremities.

I was hallucinating a woman in the bushes taking our pictures, and the bridge I was longing for kept appearing, but never really there. I got lost for a moment watching the tall grass blow in the wind, and I mustered a seed of thankfulness that it wasn't too hot, and hadn't been the last 2 days. We were getting closer to the road. We crossed the street, into the park, and through the finish line together. 

Reflection: 

Bighorn took it's toll not only on me, but many other runners.  It felt like trying to keep your balance in a washing machine for so long, that when it spit you out on dry land, so many of us were ship wrecked. Sometimes, after a race, i think to myself, see that wasn't as hard as i thought it was in the moment.  But, not this one.

Bighorn100 2018  33:36

one day at a time

Clarity.

I don't always have it.

But when I do, it often makes me weep.

It often let's me sleep.

Dropping flashes of the underbelly nights,

I call upon an un~level hill 

I am sweaty and disappointed in the 

last poisoned cranberry soaked restless dark.

Habitual decompression of polar characters

and yet, the frost is favored as my skin is often so hot,

and my pulse, I feel it in my chest and head like that bongo

remember?

That one night, drumming out Sublime and Ben Harper songs?

You remember, don't you?

In that house, with those friends, bottles and instruments,

laughter and curse words?

and you, your eyes, so blue. I lost the rhythm when I saw them.

Caught in a web of earthly driven days and nights,

smelling fires and charcoal

feeling pumpkins and wine goblets that fit so perfectly in my hand.

That's the one, that'll be my cup. 

We have a bond, one I love and hate.

But those cool desert nights

That mountain glazed in purple & green, and stubborn July white tops.

It feels like magic!

Until it doesn't.

Until clarity.

Until admission and guilt step up like a

caged beast, and you cant help wondering

How have I not heard you? How have I not nourished you? You are me and I am you.

And those free falling and endless nights have long been gone.

And those fires are in the stove warming my home for my children

And, those pumpkins are carved by delicate hands

And, those bongos are in the basement collecting dust

But the music still plays in the air

and you, your eyes, so blue...help me see my truths.

 

Buffalo Run 50 mile- My very first and my most recent-

There's this place I see

clear as mud and the water in my eyes

comes without sadness. The

wind rips around my flesh and the sun is aggressive in it's kissing. The patience I strive for is greater than my pain, it's a mental confluent surge of ability and superiority  burning pangs  and irritation, all  dancing poorly and violently in the pits of my stomach and surface of my feet. 

It's never a gimme; except this finish was a total freakin' gimme in my mind. And I got that finish, but that's not what I wanted most.  I ran it faster than I ever have. But, it still wasn't a gimme. I drove out to the island too early. So I shut my eyes for 45 minutes in the car before checking in and getting the damn thing going already.  

First leg is the 25k loop with an extra added out and back for a total of a shy 20 miles. It has variation, there are some gradual climbs and gradual down hills. Nothing technical, compared to the Wasatch front. The Sunrise on Saturday was nothing short of kiss the ground and mountain air you breathe  spectacular! Running gleefully with the rising blue glow and looking out over the city lights, beyond the reflections in the great salt lake was immeasurable beauty. You'll see no pictures from me though. No time for love Dr. jones! ;) I set myself up, and more accountable even, told my friends my personal goal. I wanted to run this 50 miles in 10 hours. The 30+ miles that came next are flat, completely runnable, flat, flat, flat miles. I knew 10hours was a stretch, but one I thought I reach. My best time out there was my first. My first Ultra. My first dip in this dirty world. My first experience with all the good and the bad that comes with long distance running. Well, damn, I've done a lot since then. I have fallen in and out of love so many times with ultras since the first...

Did I overestimate my ability or underestimate the mental and physical order of this course? 

There are ALWAYS reasons and variables that will effect your day. My goal ALL of the time, is to treat those variables  equally, and not let them get in my way. So, I won't mention those variables that made the day more challenging. -Because- that is what makes endurance running so engaging. "Anything can happen in an Ultra" I have heard it 1000 times, and it always rings true. Anything can and does happen, even if that anything is a great and smooth day, post holing through snow, or trying to find a place to crap every half hour.

My goal was 10 hours. I finished in 11:12. 

2013- 11:33

2016- 12:40  

(Variables and anythings happened in those years, that's besides the point)

Humbly speaking, I didn't want to just finish. I wanted to run strong and hit my goal. I've come far from just wanting to finish. I've done that, I'm looking to improve. 

It's not so much that I didn't hit my goal. I was happy by the end that I PR'd none the less! I think what surprised me was how hard it was, and how hard I pushed, and I still missed 10 hours by a landslide. I was also unpleasantly surprised with how impatient and physically uncomfortable i felt.  I didn't really enjoy the last 20 miles, and that's a long time to just want something to be done with.

It's not my favorite course. In fact, I think I have been quoted saying I'd never run out there again! But, I had a good year last year with lots of race practice, I thought this was a gimme. And yesterday, i was reminded once again, that it's (races) are never a gimme.

Ahhh, but horah-hooray! Real running season has begun, I can't wait for long mountain mornings that turn into afternoons.

The 2018 plan:

Zion traverse

Scout Mountain 35k

Bighorn 100

Speedgoat 50k

El Vaquero Loco 50k

Wasatch 100
Gnarly Bear 50k

10 Years

in 23 days and roughly 2 hours, it will be 10 years that my mother died.

July 2000, 1 month before I moved to Utah

 Before Cancer

Reading that brings a warm layer of tears over my eyes, my brown eyes, like hers were.  Somewhere in between a bottle of wine and a late night pee before hitting the pillow, I was finally able to articulate a feeling into a thought.  Running long distances has never really seemed hard for me. Don't let me mislead any reader that it is easy, it most certainly is a challenge of endurance and patience, and a dance with your discomfort and pain thresh-hold. But running long distances, particularly the 100 mile distance, has never seemed too much to bare. I, in fact, welcome the day and a half with open arms, maybe more so than any other distance i have endured. Why?

I wrote a book...for lack of a better word. One could call it a 300 page journal entry.  But, I sat down at my computer 6 weeks after my mom died. At a messy desk, in a messy basement, full of memories and junk, and I poured everything I could out of me. I had this hope that if i got it out, it wouldn't hurt so much anymore. That if I put the grief into words that I could make sense of it, figure out where she was, and then ultimately realize she was nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

I didn't want to die 10 years ago, but I didn't know how to live. I didn't believe happiness was a feeling I would ever sustain again. I didn't believe that I deserved anything but chaos and regret. When I picture myself in 2008 I see a slumped shell of me; knuckles dragging on the ground and a low hung head.  I see chaos around and inside me.  And, I believed that was where I would stay. Not in total darkness, but in an overcast room that was always too cold. And so what does that have to do with running? Nothing, nothing at all. Here is a page from my "book".

Today is June 16, 2008. It is warm in Utah and our garden is growing. We have all walks of

life in the backyard raging from thyme to sunflowers, and lettuce to grape vines. I got back

from Baltimore 2 days ago. I was there on a visit to see my family, the family that’s left.

I felt immediate anxiety as the plane landed back in Salt Lake. I used to get so excited about

our garden, but life and growth is something I have been tangoing with since the beginning of

the year. Everything is symbolic and once a day at least, I am rushed with images of mom and

of simpler days, and I ache, god damn I ache. It all just stopped when she died.

Simultaneously with her passing, I became stuck in some twisted limbo between utter

loneliness and a light I can’t see. The birds are silent or maybe I’m deaf to them, and the snow

is messy and cold, while the sunshine is too happy for me. If I were a pie chart, a huge piece

would be missing, maybe all but one slice. If I were a dozen eggs, I’d be there, but cracked

and oozing, no good for anyone. I’m here, but I’m not right, just incomplete and broken.

Time does help. But, I won't ever forget those days. I'll never forget the best days and Ill never forget the worst.  And, I'm glad i wrote it all down. I seem to always re-visit my own words in January and May. The months and days where we celebrated and said goodbye still come, right on time. 

So somewhere between a bottle of wine and slumber, I realized the thing I like about 2 days of mountain climbing, running, fatigue, pain, and relenting miles, I like- that it ends. It doesn't last forever, you survive. Because both the beauty and  the pain of forever is the non-negotiable finality of the never ending.

 

That's a wrap - The Bear 100

Clean desk, clean house, getting work started and done, meal planning, and even a touch of wandering around the house humbly staring at the mountains out my living room window.  My race year is over, and it was a sizeable one, for this 38 year old mother of 2. And now...nothing. Well, nothing in the sense of running, there's plenty of something's in my life that bring me joy, but I spent a large portion of 2017 running and gearing up for 3, 100 mile "runs" and road trip races with friends.  I wouldn't say I've got the blues, I'm just a little flat at the moment. Resting and recovering, crossing domestic and work chores off my list, and feeling a little pang of longing as I watch the colors burst in the cold mountain mornings that turn into truly spectacular sunny fall days. I know it's fleeting, our quick Utah fall.

So, It's almost 4:00pm, and I'm inspired to write some.  I just poured a Wasatch Evolution into my first swag of 2017, another Red Hot 55k pint glass.  I remember getting dressed that cold and rainy February morning and thinking, oh my! these shorts are tight! It's an early race, only 6 weeks after New Years! My first of the year. I got lost, I kinda panicked, I found my way back on course, I had the longest Red Hot run in the 4 I've done, my family didn't make it to the finish, they were 45 minutes late, I had no cell service, and I burst into tears of exhaustion when I saw my mini van chugging up the canyon. That was the start of my biggest year in Ultra-running. I'll only go back a little further, to charge my battery on the details.  I ran a 100 in 2016, Bryce 100, and it fell apart  later into day 2.  I finished, but it was a death march to last place, 2 hours after the 36 hour cut-off. I was demoralized, I was tired, and I was in pain. And as every bad race has reasons...in the end, I just felt defeated. Then later in 2016  about this time, I crewed/paced my friends in 100 mile endeavors of their own. And, I was inspired to bite off more than I could quite possibly chew, I could quite possibly even choke on those bites, but a smart phone, an impulse, a credit card attached to Ultra Sign up, and let's be honest, probably a cocktail or 2...there was my 2017 of running, boom, boom, boom.

A little late to get my Bear 100 experience outta my head, but here I go.  Jill and I were running the race, but we were not alone. Cheryl, Betsy, and Eve were all their to cover miles with one or both of us.  Sometimes you just know you're going to have a bad day. I knew on Friday from the get go, that I was going to have a good day. I can't recall a race I've ever felt so strong and confident in the "good day". The Bear starts with a big climb in the dark, it was slow but steady and in an hour, maybe 2 we popped along some beautiful single track. The views were stunning and the weather was awesome. My music was eerily on point song after song in shuffle mode, and I kid you not, I was smiling and bubbly for the 5 hours it took me to get to the first drop bag aid station. Leatham Hollow, mile 20. I just did everything I knew I was supposed to do. I ran the dirt road like Jill told me to, where everyone else was walking, like Jill said they would be.  Quickly after the road there was another climb.  Boom, more giddy smiles and wide eyed bewilderment as I passed open range cows sitting in fire engine red maples and water gently running next to the fairy tale trails that I'm sure held snow white and those goofy dwarfs somewhere in it's entangled arms of beauty.

The miles ticked off with ease and I came into Mile 45 earlier than I targeted. My friends! Betsy and Cheryl were there with warm Wendy's chicken nuggets, bellissimo! Jill had just left. Pack it up pack it in and out to the road across the street and 6 miles to Tony grove. Here it got dark, but I still got into mile 51 before my target time.  Cheryl was crewing Jill when I got there and Betsy took care of me. We were off and we came up on Jill who was not feeling great, about an hour or 2 later. The 3 of us, and the mad-Massachusetts-talker who  somehow  Betsy accidentally began pacing as well, mostly ran the 3 hours to Franklin. "Hey T-shirt, do you need a jacket?" This made me laugh and notice that everyone around me was bundled up and I had stripped down to said t-shirt and shorts.  That changed when we left Franklin, even on the climb, I was starting to get a little chilled.

The miles to the lodge were dark and pleasant.  Betsy and I chatted and giggled, or silently hiked for minutes at a time. I fell a little bit in the Logan river, and then met my lowest moment of The Bear.  A tendon above my heel had been screaming at me for hours.  Fatigue slowed me down, which made me get even colder, and then that thing that happens when you start to acknowledge all the tough stuff going on, happened. I began to get overwhelmed with the miles to go and even the few miles right in front of me. This felt like too much cold, too much pain, too much of everything. The back of my foot hurt incredibly bad on climbs. Relief came on down hill as I purposely slid my feet forward to avoid friction from the back of my shoe.  She reminded me that I should have some crappy moments in a 100 when I told her I was feeling low. I ate some and we trucked on to Beaver Lodge, where we hunkered down in Eve's VW bus.  Eve made me a grilled cheese and fresh pressed coffee...Sweet Jesus, I am so spoiled.  Betsy was done with me, and I've got to say how happy and lucky I am to have a friend run almost 60 miles of the last 2, 100 miles I've done, which happened to only be 3 weeks apart. Thank you my friend. i owe ya- But, I have a feeling I'll repay that favor in 2018.

Eve and I began again, but not before she gave me the literal new socks off of her feet. How I didn't have socks in my bag there, I don't know. She threw on an older pair she had and off we went. I didn't realize the time, but just like that, we had arrived to my second morning of the Bear.  We caught Jill at the top of the climb, mile 80 ish, and she and I were together the rest of the morning which turned into afternoon, and then the finish. Jill didn't feel well, and I have been in races feeling shitty for so long, and it sucks. The only silver lining is I was able to run with her in a 100.  So Jill, Eve, and I trucked down to mile 85 together. Cheryl and Karl were there. Cheryl who paced Jill from Franklin to the lodge had a 3 hour break where she was supposed to sleep (she DID NOT sleep) and planned to pick me up for the final 15.  She gotta a 2 for 1, and she led the way as Jill and I finished the Bear, in 32:33.

Right after Cheryl picked us up, the weather began to turn. The rain turned to icy snow, and the trails turned to mud. Oh Mud, had we not parted ways amicably at Bighorn?? Had we not had our fill of each other and all of our shoes? It was a slippery and rather painful, for me, stretch to the last mile and a half of road.  Jill asked me if I was still having fun, and I answered "no, I just wanted to be done". The pain in my foot was unbearable, but I needed to feel it a little longer.  But as all races have up's and down's, I laughed again as Cheryl and I lightly debated bacon. It's not food, she says. Why isn't it food, I say? It looks like food, it smells like food, you eat it! It's not food, it's not enough calories , she says..and this continued on down the slippery trail  for long enough to remember that no one is making me do this, and the smile returned even as I winced in pain.

I let out some mix of relief and tears when Cheryl said we had a mile and a half to go. I saw my girls as we rounded the corner. Me, Jill, Olivia and Sylvia ran it to the end, and we were done.

It was my fastest 100 of the year, and besides my first 100 at Antelope Island (FLAT!!!) it was my fastest mountain 100. Here's to the big runs in 2017, geez, I guess I am a little blue it's over, but I am very much looking forward to shorter runs in the dark cold mornings, skiing with my family, and swearing off early races like Moab and the Buffalo Run, or ya know, at least until that impulse, smart phone, and cocktail combo meets again. (which is kinda
inevitable).

Thanks for reading that was longer that I set out to write!