Race Report Part II

Where were we? Oh yes, downward…for a very long time. Down through beautiful old growth forest, past enormous ferns, down through peaceful arches created by ancient trees. Down, down, down, it seemed we would never reach the bottom of the trail. In fact I think we went below sea level, underground, I’m sure I passed a school of fish and a mermaid or two. When we were almost at the exact center of the earth, it was time to climb again.

The beauty of trail runners, which I know I have mentioned before, is the value they place on food and drink. Before this second climb, we took time to refuel. I enjoyed copious amounts of M&Ms and almonds. Frankly, I have no idea what Alexa, Cassie and Richard ate, as I was having an angels-singing moment with my M&Ms. Never before and never again have M&Ms taste so good.  I’ve eaten plenty since, and I just can’t recreate that flavor, no worries, I’ll keep trying.

This next climb involved switchbacks, which I thought would make things easier. There are actually a lot of optical illusions and unhappy misreads that happen with switchbacks. First of all, depending on the angle, there is a good chance they do not look nearly as steep as they are. It’s not until you actually turn the corner and see what the trail is expecting of you, that you know the truth. Second of all, even with that knowledge there is always the naive hope that the next slope isn’t as steep. It always is. If that is not defeating enough as you are going up, if you stop and look up you see people above you and then people above them, and then people above them, until all you can see are clouds and perhaps the castle of the Giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. One of my strongest memories from that climb is of Cassie. Every time she turned a corner of the switchback, she’d stop, put her hands on her hips, assess and then heave a deep sigh and head on up. I don’t even know if she realized she did it, but I found it endearing and strangely comforting.

At some point we finally reached the top.  I still don’t know if the effort and struggle had an impact on my perception or not, but I am pretty sure that the summit was the most beautiful place I had ever been. If heaven is a place, I caught a glimpse of it. The day was sunny and perfectly clear. From the overlook there was a beautiful view of the beautiful snow-covered dormant volcano- Mt. Baker. There were low hanging clouds that seemed to embrace the mountain.  Next there was a layer of clear blue sky and another layer of puffy clouds hanging in perfect patches above the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Pacific Ocean. As if being at the top of this beautiful mountain with a bird’s eye view of this beautiful planet wasn’t enough, there were friends everywhere. People were calling to each other, shrieking to each other, everyone was snapping photos, and I was constantly being wrapped in (sweaty) hugs. Nancy, Lori and Lori each hugged me as if it had been years, not hours since we last saw each other.  There were people waiting on us-“can I fill your camelback? Can I pour you a drink?” More food, more friends, laughter and reunions. Euphoria defined.  The atmosphere was filled with beauty, love and accomplishment, but we weren’t done. Not at all.

Cassie, Alexa, Richard and I regrouped and we were off. We each had moments of connection and of being in our own heads.  I was a little apprehensive, as I knew we had about five miles to go and they were almost all downhill. I didn’t know what that would look like, but I did know a few things. The weather was ideal, the ground was dry, I had friends with me who knew my fears, and frankly, Alexa had so much faith in me, I felt completely safe. Yes, I was uneasy, but I wasn’t truly afraid. And, if you have been following this journey of mine, you know this is an accomplishment!

We had a lot of fun and a lot of laughs. We were totally goofy at times and serious at others. Cassie had a big fall and hurt her ankle. A little while later she wobbled it again. Man, that girl was tough. She ran cautiously, but never complained. [The next day we saw her on the ferry. Her ankle was five times its normal size. It was black, blue and every known shade of purple]. Alexa, who is a nurturer re-tied Cassie shoes to give more support. I remember this moment so clearly. Alexa and Richard were both gathered around Cassie while they tended to her, I noticed this patch of green grass with a hot yellow sun shining on it. I was so drawn to it and even though I don’t tend to lie down in the middle of a race, I went over and stretched out like a cat and just soaked it in. It was January, but it felt like May. The day, the race, the conversations, the sun, the accomplishments, the knowledge that the end couldn’t be that far away-soak, soak, soak. And then (dang it) Cassie’s shoes were secured and we were off again.

My memories are a bit scrambled, my chronology not quite right, but I know that at some point between the summit and the finish I had one opportunity for a meltdown. My camelback had a very short straw and I spent a great deal of my run hunching over and struggling to get the right amount of water. I dealt with it for so long and for so many miles and just like that, it suddenly became too much to bear. I know this sounds dramatic, but when you have miles and hours behind you and you are tired (and don’t forget) fighting a fever some things become overwhelming. Alexa discovered that the straw was zip tied to the pack. Cassie grabbed her pocketknife and sawed away at that zip tie. The fact that she was holding a sharp knife quite close to some sensitive body parts did not faze me. And though so simple a fix, it seemed life changing. I think I talked about what a difference it made for a very long time. And, Cassie was so excited to use her new (pink) pocketknife! Everyone was happy. (except maybe Richard, who just thought his three girl companions were a little weird).

Ask someone about the Orcas course and they might tell you that the end of the race was the worst part of all. I can’t agree, but I understand where this comes from. At some point, maybe a mile or so before the finish, the trail ends (or so it seems) and you can see the main road of the state park. It looks like you can just run across the road and you will be at the finish, but instead of going across the road, you go left, back into the woods and-as if you haven’t climbed enough, you have to go uphill again. And you know the finish is right there, but it won’t show itself. You just keep going up and up. Finally you get to a point where you wrap back around to the main road, cross the road and-wait for it, wait for it-go up ANOTHER hill turn left and then finally finish.  These last few hills are torturous and, let’s just say it, a little mean on the race director’s part. But as soon as you make that turn from the last hill onto the grassy area that houses the finish, every bit of pain and struggle is erased. And so I found myself running through the finish, hand in hand with my good friend Alexa. I was high fived by James, the race director, who incidentally high-fives every single person to cross the finish. There was a cheering section waiting for us, Nancy, Lori and Lori, David and Kelly, Karen and a tearful eyed Susan.

Race reports have never been my specialty. It’s hard to convey the accomplishment, the beauty and the camaraderie. I’ve tried my best. It was so challenging, so breathtakingly beautiful and such a triumph. Orcas 2015? Bring it!

 

 

 

 

Race Report part I

Two days before the big race I came down with a fever. A real one. Because I was worried that people would think I was chickening out, I took a photo of my thermometer reading 100.8 and texted it off to a few friends. I was so frustrated. Two days until the race and I saw myself sitting on the sidelines. For some reason this was unacceptable. I had come this far and worked this hard only to be betrayed by my own body. Uh, no.I purchased and took more cold medicine and more aleve than I want to admit. I went through two bags of cough drops and chewed many, many, many milligrams of vitamin C. On Saturday morning I woke up feeling awful, got dressed anyway and, along with ten of my friends, headed to the start line.

My plan had always been to run to the first aid station and evaluate my situation. This plan was originally made based on my initial fears of Orcas. On Saturday morning the only fear I was feeling was fear of knocking my immune system for such a loop that I would be bedridden for a week. Sometime during the first mile or two I decided that once we hit that aid station I would throw in the towel. My breathing was ragged, my legs were lead, and there was no way I could be as tired as I was and still make it through the race. We had started in a large group and no one else was having trouble breathing, no one else was showing any indication of exhaustion. My goodness, two miles into a 15 mile race and I wanted to curl up under a cozy blanket and sleep for a week.

But still, I moved forward.

Alexa who was setting the pace, had us walk even the slightest of hills. I could tell that this was too much walking for some people in our group. For me, it was perfect. As the miles stretched out the alternating between walking and running was a godsend. And as the day unfolded our group thinned out. By the first aid station around mile five, there were only about six of us. We came up a small hill and at the top we were greeted by our friends Karen and Susan who were working the aid station. I was elated to see them. I had been feeling well for while at this point (when did things change? I’m not sure) and knew I would carry on.

We refilled our camelbacks, ate a bunch of great snacks and used the “bathroom”, which just meant we grabbed some toilet paper and squatted behind the small outbuilding that marked the aid station. We said our farewells to aid station workers and friends who had just arrived at the station (in a race of fewer than 400 people there were more than thirty Dirty Girls and Dirty Dudes running Orcas-talk about representin’!). We were briefly on the road and then back on a trail. It wasn’t even five minutes when we realized the race had changed, the mountain climb had begun.

Up until this point we were run/walking on terrain similar to trails we had run before. We were up and down rolling hills and switchbacks. Nothing we had done had indicated what we were about to do. It is so unfortunate that neither my writing nor my photography skills can express the steepness of this part of the climb. Everyone, even the chattiest of us, was suddenly quiet. We were all hunched over, and looked more like a group of chimpanzees than upright humans.  The majority of people were grabbing on to limbs and branches as they climbed. Soon people were picking up sticks to help them balance. I was determined not to fall behind and not to lose my friends. Even when people were grabbing sticks, they didn’t stop moving. I think we all feared that if we stopped we would not have the capability to start again.

I grabbed the first stick I saw and tried to rely on it to help me up the hill. It was wiggly and hollow and looked like a witch’s stick. My friend Lori and I used our last bit of spare strength to laugh at this ridiculous excuse for a walking stick. But we didn’t laugh long; we couldn’t risk using that energy. Again, I can’t explain the steepness of this portion of our climb, but in a sport that I usually consider great for all shapes, sizes and ages, I found myself worried about perfect strangers as I watched them struggle up the mountainside. There was a man who stopped because he was “seeing stars”, and an older woman who was overheating due to an unexpected appearance by the sun. This was the hardest part. We were all so focused and determined that there wasn’t much room for anything else. I wasn’t a coward nor was I champion. I just was. There wasn’t room for much more than being, than existing. The climb was on.

 This was the part that made each one of us say we would never do Orcas again. Never, ever, don’t even think about it. However, this portion was really just a tiny bit of the race. Though it was extremely challenging, it was over in a reasonable amount of time and we were soon back on the downhill.

As you know the downhill was my biggest fear and my pace was extremely cautious. Our group shrunk again, as two of our friends cruised downhill at a faster clip and were soon out of sight. We were once six, but now we were four, navigating along switchbacks and going down, down, down. We hadn’t reached the summit of Mt. Constitution, and I knew we would be summiting as part of our race, so downhill was absolutely, positively, the wrong way to go. With each downward footfall I found myself filling with dread. Not because this downhill course was particularly technical or challenging, but because I knew that soon we would have to go back up, up, up…

 

 

 

Pink Pocketknives

Orcas was amazing-like you knew it would be. I plan to take a few days to process and then I will blog a race report. I know some of you are at the edge of your seats. :) Until then here's a list of things I am grateful for-the list is incomplete of course-as there is so much to be grateful for (except hanging prepositions, sorry).

Pink Pocketknives (life changing at mile 12.5ish)
Constant support from Alexa-a great coach & friend
Blue skies
Friends
bananas
country songs-only if written on the trail
soft ground
Mucinex
Epsom salt
Aleve
Friends who carry Aleve
Susan and Karen at the aid station
toilet paper
wiggling walking sticks
Dirty Girls
Dirty Dudes
hot running water post-race (something I didn't have after the Capitol Peak run)
Being stopped on the steepest hill by someone who asks "Are you 'Miles of Motivation' Aimee?" (yes, yes I am).
Amazing views
mist
bridges
old growth forest
moss
imagination
positive attitudes
steep switchbacks (am I grateful for those? Hmm)
Good training
Rest stops with kit kats, coke and peanut M&Ms (yes please!)
Two legs, though someone out there proved not everyone even needs two to give it a go-inspiring!
Laughter-pre-race, during race and post race
Running time with Lori, Lori, Nancy, Cassie & Richard
Bumping into other friends on the trail-Marcy, Dawn, Lucy, Pam and more
Knowing people were thinking of me, pulling for me and cheering me on
A tear filled greeting from Miss Susan Olive at the finish

And (wait for it, wait for it)....
the Downhill!

Orcas Island Brain Dump

This post is just a brain dump. A technique I hardly use in my own writing and certainly rarely share. Still, I hope you can follow my train of thought and put it all together. I was going to clean it up myself, but sometimes we just need to share our messes.

Four days until Orcas and the feelings are up, down and all over the place. Yesterday, thoughts of Orcas came and went, but mostly in the way of logistics. What ferry should we take? Will we get to the island in time for packet pick-up? Will we arrive in time for spaghetti dinner? When should I look at the packing list? Should I bring a book? What kind of cookies should I make? Should I pack my own peanut butter?

Today thoughts of Orcas came and went again. Am I prepared? I ran up a steep hill that was possibly an eighth of a mile if that and I was winded, tired, miserable. How can I climb 4,000 feet if I can’t even handle this little hill? On the other hand I won’t be running up the Orcas hills at the unmentionable pace I was running today.

I have shared many times that over the past six months I have gained about ten pounds. I am unhappy about this in many ways, but in regards to Orcas, I am even more stressed. A long time ago someone had said every extra pound counts, and not in a good way, when climbing Orcas. Even more recently than that someone had said that you could equate being ten pounds over your normal weight as carrying a bowling ball up Orcas. I took that comment and mulled it over and gained another five pounds. Now I will be carrying a bowling ball and an average size cat with me on my Orcas adventure.  I actually had a blog in mind which would poke fun at this very topic, maybe 1200 words instead of three sentences; however I am in a little trouble with my coach about my self-deprecating humor, so I’ll leave it for another time.

Someone asked me recently if I ever had good thoughts about Orcas, and yes, yes I do. I recently ran Capitol Peak in Olympia with four friends. We did a lot of hills and practiced some different techniques on the hills like side-stepping, walking backwards and so on. There was a lot of laughter and some serious tears (on my part). When I started crying my friend Lori immediately joined me, which was pretty touching, though I never managed to articulate that to her. At some point in our delirium we imagined that we would turn a corner and find out the trail we were on was actually connected to the back lot of a Starbucks. We had almost convinced ourselves of it, too. The run which we predicted to be ten miles and three hours turned out to be five hours and 14 miles long. There was sideways rain, high, howling winds and a little run-in with the law. Really. The conversation was often flowing and we managed to take care of each other when needed. These ladies are a lot of fun and I get to run with some of them again at Orcas, which is a gift. So yes, I have some good thoughts about Orcas.

I also have high hopes about Orcas because this beautiful thing usually happens to me around mile eleven or twelve of a long distance run –a good old fashioned case of the giggles. And it happens to everyone I have ever run with. And whatever it is that we found so hilarious at mile 12 can never be created off the trails or roads. When reflecting on it the only thing I can usually say is the old “You had to be there,” and if you haven’t been there yet, I hope someday you will.

I have said it before, but no one knows when they will say that very thing that you will hold onto. They don’t know when they will inspire you and when they won’t even penetrate that lovely brain of yours. My friend Nancy unknowingly lifted me up with a text yesterday that said “I am so not going to rock this race. But I have a feeling that there will be laughter and an occasional swear word. It will be awesome.”

Am I ready for Orcas? I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, but I’m doing it. Four days. Let’s go!

Oh, Baby

The first time it happened, I was sitting in the warm grass under the bright blue Maine sky. It was  a picture perfect summer day. A group of handsome young Coasties were playing volleyball, while others drank beer out of long neck bottles, flipped burgers, or wandered the beach. A young slender woman approached me, I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, but no matter. Apparently my giant belly gave permission to break all boundaries and reveal her most painful memories. There was sciatica, and back labor and blood and broken blood vessels, it was 40 hours long, no actually it was more like 50 and so it went. The next time around it was a friend of a friend whose labor lasted for three days and three nights. And the pain. Oh the pain. There’s always so much talk of the pain.

I had known that people were always waiting in the shadows, wanting to share their worst ever labor stories, but for seven months I had avoided them. Once I let this girl in, once I let her interrupt my beautiful summer day, they all started finding me. The grocery store, the hair salon, my college friend’s apartment, the storytellers they lurked everywhere and suddenly they all wanted to share their tales of horror. Why do people tell these stories anyway? It’s not a cautionary tale. They know you are going through with this labor thing, horror story or not. I don’t think it’s really to scare you, at least I hope not. Maybe I was asking for it. Did my aura change? Was I suddenly inviting everyone’s stories? Was I subconsciously seeking them out?

I had this epiphany Saturday. Listening to people’s Orcas stories is like listening to labor stories. People tell them innocently enough, not knowing what detail I will hang on to. What piece of the story I will obsess about. It’s not their fault. When someone says they are purchasing a heart rate monitor for Orcas, I think "Oh my heart, should I be worried about my heart?"They don’t mean to go from telling about their experience to scaring the life out of me, but I allow that to happen. Maybe I bid it to happen.

I have decided that I have to stop listening to people’s Orcas stories. And, I have to stop asking for them as well. I’ve signed up for the race, so I’m already pregnant with Orcas, so to speak. I’m committed. There’s no turning back, no avoiding it. I have to go for it, move on and labor through. And just like we all feel when we are in our last few weeks of pregnancy, whether I’m ready or not, I need to just do it. I need the day to come already so I can create my own Orcas story. Hopefully it will be full of beauty and life to match the hard work and challenge, just like a real labor story should be.

To Ignore or Not To Ignore: The Question of Pain

The only thing I dread more than running Orcas later this month, is not being able to run Orcas later this month. And isn't that just the way with runners? I have been ignoring a few aches and mini-pains this past week. I have also been ignoring a throbbingly sore toe. My theory is that same one our parents taught us about younger siblings, bugs, school bullies and all other things annoying-just ignore them and they'll go away. I do believe this is the go-to strategy for most runners and often it works.

If you have ever had a sidelining injury though, you have a nagging-what if voice- that whispers to you as you practice your tried and true "just ignore it" technique. What if this is more than simple soreness? What if a few days' rest doesn't cut it? What if this is a sideliner, again?

That's where I am right now with these little aches and pains. Last week when I was fit and healthy, I had to drag myself out of bed to run. Now that I have to take a few days off to rest, I'm going stir crazy. Being told we can't is so frustrating, even when the one making that call is our own body. My brain says let's do this! My shins and ankles say, Umm, not so sure and my toe says Absolutely not. Absolutely not wins, but what an internal battle it causes.

One of my resolutions this year is to run smarter. Running smarter means listening to my body, weighing it all out-is this soreness or true pain? Will running shake it off or make it worse?-and then making the call. The call right now is no running for a few days. I hate that call.

I'm lucky to have so many running friends and a good coach, too. I talked this whole thing over with Alexa who strongly encouraged another day of rest. She told me again that she feels I have a good base under my belt and I will do fine at Orcas, even with a few extra days of unplanned rest.So tomorrow I will find other ways to have a healthy day and running will have to wait. I knew this was the right thing, but I had to hear it from someone else.

Runners are stubborn. And that stubbornness is what gets us through speed workouts, timed miles, long runs, steep hills and nasty weather. I am actually still in awe of my own stubbornness. I didn't even know I had it in me until I became a runner.Sometimes, though, that stubbornness gets us into trouble. It got me into trouble this past spring and my persistent mind-over-matter attitude landed me on the bench for more than a month.

We can't sit out for every little ache or tweak, however, we have to really keep our eye on our body. I, of course, DO NOT recommend ignoring your pains. I am just acknowledging it as a common strategy amongst runners. We all do it from time to time. Sometimes we can get away with it and sometimes we make our recovery so much harder, longer and more intensive. The truth is we know our bodies well enough to usually know the difference between soreness and pain. Between old familiar aches and new questionable ones. Are we stronger to run through them or are we stronger to take a rest day?

Logic tells me I am a smarter, stronger runner for taking that extra rest day or two. It also tells me resting now will make for a better run at Orcas. Still, I hate the idea of not being able to run and I hate the idea that these little pains might be something worse. I hate the idea of not running this weekend, but even more I hate the possibility of not running Orcas. And there, I said it, as much as Orcas frightens me, the thought of being sidelined for the event upsets me even more. Typical runner.

Runners, what a strange lot we are.

Today

Daily post? Right. About that…I think about posting every day, but it just doesn’t always work out. I think the same might go for you, you want to read my blog each time, but every day is a huge commitment. Let’s consider my lack of publishing a favor then, shall we? And let’s pretend that the days I do publish are quite a treat, sound good?

Today I am feeling pretty good about Orcas. After my first post I received so many great comments, emails, private messages and even a couple of phone calls.  I have had so many kind and genuine people offer to run Orcas with me. I am suddenly the belle of the ball with a very full dance card and a very appreciative heart. Thank you!

This week our payment for the house we are renting is due. The timing is great, as it is a reminder of all the great and fun people I am staying with on this adventure of ours. There will be eleven of us sharing a beautiful home on the island. I can see us on the first night picking our rooms, chatting with our particular roommates, observing each other’s pre-run routines. Then the next night I see us in the main room in pjs, under thick blankets watching movies, rehashing the run, laughing and joking. I imagine some of my roomies to be fantastic cooks who throw together an amazing breakfast on our last morning, while those of us with lesser skills do the dishes or take out the trash. The ferry ride home will be bittersweet as we share stories, more laughter and say good-bye to our fun weekend. (Your mental picture of me should involve peanut M&Ms, as I can't resist those ferry vending machines).

Oh sure, there’s that run in the middle of it all. I haven’t completely forgotten it. It’s the main event, after all. Today, Alexa was kind enough to accompany me on a hike/run at Green Mountain in Bremerton. We hiked up some steep hills and practiced running down. I was cautious, but not frightened. I focused on my technique sometimes, at others I just had my eyes glued to the ground. The latter, obviously, is something to work on, as I don’t want to miss out on the beauty of Orcas. Nor do I want to run right into the person in front of me (not a good way to make/keep friends). Today, though, looking at the ground was quite alright. Alexa and I chatted the whole way down, which is always the perfect distraction for me on the run.

I still have a lot of work to do. At some point I need to think about the vertical uphill climb that is also part of Orcas. I know I need to work on my upper body strength and my poor neglected core. I also need to spend more time on my feet, as it will probably take me around five hours to complete the run. And, though they are not my favorite, I want to continue to find steep hills to run down for practice. There are a few more weeks and plenty of time for me to reflect on my concerns and fears. Today, though, I feel confident saying, “I will finish.” And that is quite an accomplishment. Even better, I can say, “Not only will I finish, but I will be surrounded by friends both on and off the mountain.” And today, that feels like plenty.