The Miwok Live Wire Fun Run

The last few years of my ultrarunning “career” have seen slowing times and fewer races on my schedule. I could chalk this diminishing display up to age and let that take the full burden of excuse. However, not only are ultrarunners themselves evidence that being 44 doesn’t necessarily mean you get slower, I also know that if age plays any role at all, it’s a minor one. The truth is that I just haven’t been as motivated to train in the last couple of years.

So it does not surprise me that, while I was not terribly excited about running a 100k race, I do have a lot to say about the joys I found at Marin’s Miwok trail race this Saturday. Spoiler alert: They do not include running 100K.

I had spent the week leading up to race day on a field trip to Washington D.C. with 22 middle school students. (This is where people generally interrupt me to say, “God bless you!”) Our schedule was packed, and I arrived home at 2:00 AM Friday morning exhausted and with the beginnings of a cold. When I awoke nine hours later, my head felt like the size of a hot air balloon and I had a raging headache. I gamely packed up my running gear and drove to Pt. Reyes to crash with my friends Heidi and Kerry before the race.

When the alarm went off at 3:15, I was kind of dreading my day. I loaded up on cold medicine and coffee though, and by the time I was in the car heading south on highway one, I felt pretty reasonable. Maybe the day would not turn out to be an unending sufferfest after all?

Just two miles out from Stinson Beach and the start of the race, I learned that my day would indeed not turn out as expected.

The sight of several cars pulled over and flares burning across the road greeted me. I wondered if this was overflow parking for the race, and I pulled over into the first available space. When I approached the flares, I could see that the road was blocked off.

Roadblock! If you look closely, you can actually see the downed line that zapped our day.

“What’s going on?” I asked a woman in a down jacket, who turned out to be Laura Richard. Laura and I both had Cool, Sonoma, and Miwok on our schedules, so we’d been seeing each other all spring.

“The road’s blocked off because of an accident,” she said.

There was a handful of other runners there trying to figure out what to do.  When the police said they didn’t know when the road would reopen because there was a downed power line across it, I ran back to my car and got onto my phone to try mapping an alternate route to the start. I knew going back through Olema and all the way to Mill Valley would mean missing the start of the race, but maybe there was another way?

“Hi! Can we jump in with you?” The woman knocking on my car window startled me. After explaining that she and her grandpa had been taking a Lyft ride from their campground to the start, I encouraged her to get in but to hurry! A small sense of panic was beginning to overtake me. I knew we would make the start, but I hated being late.

The woman’s name turned out to be Heidi, and she navigated while I drove. The first option was to take Fairfax-Bolinas Road - an unpleasantly windy affair - up to Ridgecrest Boulevard. I chewed up the one-lane roller coaster as fast as I could, vainly hoping Grandpa Dan wasn’t getting carsick in the back. When we spotted headlights coming back toward us, I had a sinking feeling. I pulled over and rolled down my window to get the news.

“There’s a gate at the top, and it’s locked.” It was Laura again.

“Shit!” came my reply. I’m not supper witty at four AM in a state of duress. “What are you guys going to do?”

“Go back down to the roadblock to see if it’s open yet,” she replied. “Going all the way around would take well over an hour.”

I agreed that there was no point to that. It was already nearing the 5:00 AM start time of the race. So, I turned my car around and followed her.

And that’s how, when the 2018 Miwok 100K runners took off into the dark of the morning, I found myself with ten or fifteen other runners standing at a roadblock on highway one. Trapped.

We tried hard to negotiate with the officer at the barricade. We could literally see the downed line right there, and we could see that anyone could easily drive, or even walk, around it.

“If you can get by on foot some way that is not on the highway, that’s fine by me,” he even told us. It was only a little over two miles to the start, and seriously, what the hell is the difference between running 62 miles and 64 miles, right? But I swear you have never seen such a tangle of blackberry brambles and swampland. We tried bushwacking. We tried fording the lagoon. We tried begging the officer a little more. As the sky brightened, our hopes faded, and we knew our race day dreams were dashed.

Laura finally got a phone call through to Tia, the race director, to at least let her know what had happened. After that, we quit trying to pretend that we could somehow negotiate a late start, and instead started making plans for our day.

Laura called her pacer, and they decided to run a double Dipsea. Several other men made plans for a trail run on the south end of the course. I hooked up with three other runners, including Heidi, and decided to start from the Randall aid station (which was just down the road, on OUR side of the barrier) and run to the start at Stinson and back. We hoped we could talk to Tia and see if there was anything she could do for us.

Four thwarted Miwok runners and two of their crew.

I’ll be totally honest. Given the fact that I was a little undertrained and definitely sick, I was not completely devastated about the turn of events. I will admit that I had really wanted to check the box on getting my States qualifier, but I knew I had TRT 100 in July where I could make that happen. Other runners were not so lucky. Also, of the four runners in my group, I had traveled the shortest distance to get there. And I had already run Miwok twice before! I knew I really had nothing to complain about.

So, no States qualifier on this Saturday in May. But what I did get was a wonderful 28 mile trail run with three new friends whom I will definitely be seeing again.

As we began the hike up Randall Trail to Bolinas Ridge, we traded names and the usual pleasantries of first time trail running. We learned Heidi, from San Clemente and mother of two young boys, is a “Disnerd” and has two prominent Disney tattoos - one of the hitchhiking ghost from Haunted Mansion, and the other of Dumbo. They were hard to see while running, but they were loud and proud on the front of her thighs, and I loved it. David, a doctor from Dallas (or sometimes Couer D’Alene), gave us a solid lesson on racing nutrition. This was of great interest to Bryant, from Bozeman, who had been planning on running his first 100K that day.

Making our way up Randall Trail

I felt heartbroken for them all. I mean, flying all the way in from Bozeman or Dallas? Missing your first 100K? Driving the entire family in an RV the full nine hours from Orange County? I recognized how much each of them had invested in this day - from training, to travel plans, to taking the time off from a bartending job on Cinco de Mayo. These are not small things. And there was not a bitter word among them. Disappointment, of course. But as we made frequent stops to “ooh and ah” at the landscape and take photos, I watched with appreciation as they still found incredible pleasure in their experiences. Damn if ultrarunners aren’t the most resilient people.

David, Heidi, and Bryant on the Bolinas Ridge.

Heidi and Bryant. Check out those awesome Disnerd tats!

Bryant enjoys the sunshine on the grassy hills of Bolinas Ridge.

Spring!

David leads Heidi across the sunny ridge.

Enjoying the morning views.

This was NOT the wreck that blocked the road. (Photo: Bryant Schwartz)

After negotiating the steep beauty of the Matt Davis Trail, we arrived in Stinson to see the finish line already set up, and I took pleasure in running through hooting and hollering, arms overhead in triumph, as the volunteers clapped and cheered. I even had my “fake finish line photo” taken.

Tia graciously told us we would get free entries into next year’s race, and I think that gave us all great relief. Given that the roadblock was no one’s fault, least of all hers, I knew that was generous of her. The volunteers said we were officially known as the “Live Wire Runners” because of the downed power line thing. I kind of felt cool that we had our own nickname. We discussed screening “Live Wire Runners” onto the back of our race shirts.

I am incredibly grateful to be given another chance at this race, and excited that Bryant, Heidi, and David all said they would also return to run next year. Reunion!

My official fake finish line photo. First woman! (Actually, that's fake too. Heidi was first.)

The run back was entertaining because we got to run with a lot of the top men for a while. We spread out a bit, and Heidi sent a message that she was returning to Stinson to meet up with her husband. When we arrived at the Bolinas aid station (which hadn’t been there our first time through), they were confused about who we were until we told them we were Live Wire Runners.

“Oh! Live Wires!” the radio operator declared. “Oh yeah, come on into the aid station and get what you need.” Needless to say, the volunteers were incredibly nice. I even got a homemade lemon square that I’m pretty sure was part of the “volunteers only food.” Delicious!

More spring!

 

Bolinas aid station

The scene at the Randall aid station was much different this time around. It was absolutely hopping! As I approached, I first ran into Jenelle hiking up the trail. It was so great to see a friend, and I felt like I was getting cheering and support just as if I were actually running the race myself. At the aid station, I got hugs from Kacey Greene and Louis Secreto, and since this was the official end to my run, I had another finish line photo taken. Because why not.

My actual finish line photo from the Miwok Live Wire Fun Run (Photo: Jenelle Potvin)

I hung around Randall long enough to see friends Curt, Chris, and Kelly come through. My cold medicine was wearing off though, and my head was throbbing again. My down jacket also wasn’t quite enough to keep me from feeling the icy wind, and I decided to grab my race swag and head back to Pt. Reyes.

Kelly Barber kicking ass and handing out smiles.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the beautiful sunshine of Tomales Bay drinking wine with good friends. Another bonus of running 28 miles instead of 62.

Coastal stroll with Heidi (Pt. Reyes Heidi, not runner Heidi).

Tully, living the dream on Tomales Bay.

As I said to Jenelle while we ran down Randall Trail together, it’s definitely a blow to the ego these days returning to races where I used to run fast. (10:43 at Miwok 2011 - Who the hell was that chick??) But I also think it’s kind of good for me. It forces me to recognize the other things I love about running and racing besides just being competitive and pushing my limits. I love being outside in the beauty of nature, and more than anything, I love, adore, absolutely cherish this community. From the support of friends like Kacey and Jenelle, to the opportunity to share the trail with three strangers-turned-friends with amazing attitudes, the trail running community never fails to rekindle my spirit.

Congratulations to all the runners - official and Live Wires alike. I am already looking forward to seeing everyone at Miwok 2019. Hopefully for 100K this time around, but I’ll take what I can get.

The Canyons 100K ~ 2017

Author's Note: I wrote this piece back in May, shortly after the Canyons took place. What follows is the "first draft" of the significantly shorter piece that came out in Ultrarunning this month. To be honest, I don't consider myself a really strong writer, but what I am is a crack editor. I can usually take a horrid first draft, revise it, hack it back by at least 30%, and turn it into something reasonable.

What I learned writing this piece is that the approach to writing something that is 800 words is wholly different than the approach to writing something that is 2,500 words. Like, I already knew this in theory, but oh man. Now I know it in practice. Even a good editor struggles when faced with reducing the word count by 60% while still maintaining the essence of the original piece. Next time, I will limit my "horrid first draft" to 1000 words.

So, it's not that this version is really any better than what you'll see in print. But I spent so much time on it, that I felt compelled to share the director's cut. If you can't get enough of The Canyons, then read on.

~

The Canyons Endurance Runs take place every spring on the historic Western States Trail out of Foresthill, and I’ll tell you a secret: April is the best time of year to run here.

Part of RD Chaz Sheya’s vision for the event is to provide an opportunity for every runner to experience this storied trail.

“The reality is, it can take a really long time to get an entry into the Western States 100. It took me six years,” he shared. It’s clear from his voice that he’s passionate about offering that access to all runners, especially those from out of the area who might not have the trail knowledge to come run it on their own. “You want to race on the Western States trail? Cool. Here’s a race where you can just sign up and come run it!”

This year, on the last Saturday in April, 400 runners do just that. Like many of the other 100K entrants, my primary goal for the day is simply to finish with a Western States qualifier. Anyone who came here expecting an easy 100K qualifier though will be in for a surprise. The Canyons can dish out suffering and disappointment with the attitude of a much longer race.

The first half of the 100K course heads north out of Foresthill through the namesake iconic canyons of the Western States trail. This half is by far the most difficult part of the race, consisting of an out-and-back across three steep canyons. Preserving any running ability for the second, more runnable half of the race requires a great deal of conservative pacing through the steep descents and climbs of the canyons.

My first worry of the race meets us at mile two in the form of Volcano Creek. All spring, as snow in the high country melted, this creek crossing had grown deeper and more challenging. Two weeks prior, it had been nearly waist deep at the crossing, with immense force from the rushing current.

Jamie crossing the creek two weeks before race day.

“It’ll be exciting!” I declare to two women running in front of me as we make haste on the technical downhill of Volcano Canyon.

“There’s some positive spin,” one of them laughs.

One thing we all agree on, there will probably be a bottleneck as runners cross carefully with the aid of a rope stretched across the water.

As it turns out, the race directors added a rope, giving runners two places to cross. They even replaced the usual, flimsy rope that hung there with something sturdier -- a much-needed improvement for race day. With the creek actually running slightly lower than I's last seen it, the crossing turns out to be quick and painless, the current coming only up to about mid-thigh on me.

There are a couple miles of dirt roads after you climb out of Volcano and head into the first aid station at Michigan Bluff. We run in various small groups, enjoying the company of other runners as the sun rises on the still chilly morning. I run much of this part with Jen Hemmen and Whit Rambach.

“The best way to run this course is to negative split,” I tell Jen with authority. Because, you know. I’m an expert.

It's a sentiment I repeat to at least two other runners during the day. And while it’s not an incorrect strategy, it is perhaps harder to do than I recognize. Especially if one’s training happened to consist of running just twice a week.

I do my best to execute the negative split, staying relaxed on the descent down to El Dorado Creek. The shade of evergreens and oaks keep things comfortable, and the four-mile climb up to the aid station at The Pump goes by quickly. The amount of trail work that has been done through this area is only apparent to those of us who have been out here all spring, and I am duly impressed. Winter wrought difficult conditions, with downed trees incessant and entire sections of trail washed away. The Western States trail crew, along with Chaz and his merry band of chainsaws, clearly fought the good fight in recent weeks, and I am grateful.

At The Pump, runners are greeted by the rainbows, unicorns, and energetic smiles of Reno’s Silver State Striders. The genuine love flowing out of this group exemplifies one of the best things about The Canyons Endurance Runs: community. In only its fourth year as an event, Canyons already feels like family.

Good feels at the Striders' aid station. (Photo: Jill Anderson)

It is hard to leave the energy of the Striders aid station. I am buoyed by the knowledge that, after a short (though not quick) drop down to the Swinging Bridge, we will see them again on the round trip back to Foresthill.

Happy at the Pump. (Photo: Jill Anderson)

Adding to the challenge of this steep and technical section is the fact that runners travel in both directions. Only 15 miles in, we are all still smiling, and it’s an opportunity to say a quick hello-and-good-job to a lot of friends. In spite of this, the constant dance to pass becomes tiresome after a while.

The day warms enough for me to shed my arm warmers, and I share a few miles on the return to Foresthill with my friend Miriam Smith. Eventually though, I realize that staying with Miriam means I am probably running too fast. I let her go ahead. Although I feel comfortable, my watch indicates that I will get to the halfway point at Foresthill with about seven hours on the clock. That is exactly the same pace I ran last year, and I’d followed it up with a six-hour second-half. Thus making me the negative split expert.

In the past three years, as my motivation and enthusiasm for consistent running has waned, I have continuously revised my definition of what it means to go into a race undertrained. Now, as I arrive at Foresthill on pace with my 13-hour finish from last year. I quite honestly think to myself, “Maybe training is just a waste of time.”

Thirty years as a competitive runner, and sometimes I am still dumber than the most ignorant rookie.

The aid station at Foresthill has the familiar feel of race day at Western States. A cheering swarm of family and friends mingle with volunteers. Someone brings me my drop bag, while friend and Aid Station Director Sean Flanagan helps me get fueled up for the second half of the race.

The day has warmed considerably, and I fill my bra with ice before heading out in the opposite direction toward the Middle Fork American River. It will be 15 miles of somewhat rolling, but overall gradually downhill, terrain to the turnaround at Rucky Chucky.

The trail makes a long traverse across the sloping canyon, with views of the snowy Sierra above and the sparkling river below. When I tell people that if they only run here on race day at Western States, they are missing the trail in its best season, this is the scene that comes to mind. The 70 degree temps are mild, even if it doesn’t feel like it to this mountain girl. The slopes are lush and green, and wildflowers abound. California poppies, lupine, paintbrush, shooting stars. They attract butterflies who put on their own dancing display of color. Small waterfalls and creeks cross the trail as it winds in and out of pocket watersheds, and they are unusually swollen for this time of year.

I can feel my right hip tightening in a way that is worrisome, and eventually my left ankle also gets cranky. I find myself questioning if six hours for this 50K is really a possibility. I splash off in the creeks to keep cool, and finally find my way to the Cal 2 aid station and the loving arms of the ladies of my own Donner Party Mountain Runners. Here is another infusion of love and energy, and at this point, I am sorely in need of it. The trail is exposed, the sun hot, and I know the seven miles to the turnaround are not going to pass quickly.

Bob Shebest cruises past me in the opposite direction on his way to the men’s win. Sharing the trail with runners on their return trip is less tedious this time since there are no 50K runners, and we are more spread out. Apparently a fair number of 100K runners dropped at Foresthill, which would also account for the thinner traffic.

I approach a beautiful creek crossing to be surprised by Kelly Barber popping up from full submersion in a deep pool.

“Oh my God, you are brilliant!” I tell him, as I take off my hat and sunglasses in preparation for the same treatment. He is clearly having a good race and throws words of encouragement over his shoulder at me as he tears off down the trail. The soaking is delicious, and I swear my body temperature drops by two full degrees while my spirit climbs in proportion.

Cat Bradley heads by looking incredibly casual and with what looks to be a sizeable lead in the women’s race.

“I love your pigtails!” she calls to me. This makes me smile, and I thank her. I love it when the top athletes have the spirit to cheer and support the other runners.

As the miles slowly tick by, the trail maintains its beauty, and fellow runners trade greetings, I recognize the state that is setting in: survival and acceptance. The return to Foresthill isn’t going to be especially pretty. There will be more walking than I’d like and increased pain in my hip and ankle. But it will get done. I’ll get there. And it’s that confidence that allows me to appreciate the struggle of the remaining miles, if not quite enjoy them.

Somewhere in the last five miles, I’m climbing another endless hill that god-dammit-I-should-be-able-to-run-but-can’t, when I see my friend Michelle Edmonson heading toward me.

“Yeah, Michelle!” I give her a cheer. “How are you?”

“Oh, man.” She shakes her head, and I can see she’s deep in the thick of this thing. “I’m fighting, Gretchen.” Her voice shakes slightly through her smile.

I want to stop. Give her a hug. Tell her she’s got this, she’s badass. Tell her I totally get it.

Neither of us has time for that shit.

“That’s what it takes,” is all I’ve got for her. “Keep fighting!”

And I hike on, engaged in my own fight toward the finish.

I manage to get there before truly needing to turn on my headlamp, and I take a morsel of pride in this. There’s a reasonable crowd cheering for me, and five seconds after I cross the line, I am sitting in a chair while Sean once again fetches my bag for me. Thank God because I am certain I could not have walked the 20 yards to get it myself.

Even in darkness, the finish line at Canyons is essentially a ten hour party. Friends, family, and exhausted runners sit in scattered chairs sharing stories. Chaz grills tri tip and wild duck next to the beer keg and a buffet of hot soups. Music from the speakers is punctuated by the periodic sounds of cowbells and cheering, signaling the approach of another runner.

Well after midnight, the same crowd of friends who had been manning The Pump aid station are gathered around the finish area bringing the same effusive energy to cheer every late night runner across the line. They wait for their friend and Striders teammate Michelle, who is still fighting it out on the course.

She is the final runner across the line, and the Striders have champagne, sleeping bag, and flip flops all ready for her.

“It’s a great feeling,” said Chaz, “to have so many people out for that late-night support, cheering on every finish.” This includes the 14 finishers who won’t make the 18-hour cut off to get a States qualifier.

It’s exactly that feeling that I love about this race. It doesn’t matter that I had a fairly ho-hum performance. It feels good to have tired, aching legs and be surrounded by friends. Providing an opportunity for you to push yourself while also giving you incredible support is what makes The Canyons Endurance Runs truly magical.

Miwok 100K Race Report - 2012

If you asked me what my best performance was in 2011, I would immediately respond with the Miwok 100K. It was one of those rare days where everything seems to go right. My pacing had been perfect, I felt strong all day, and I finished faster than I thought I could. I knew, then, that a return to the same race would be very unlikely to produce a similar result. But as it turned out, Miwok 2012 wasn’t the same race at all.

The most significant change was the increased elevation gain of about 2,000 feet. This included an equal increase in descent. Rumors also had the course at about a mile longer than in previous years – not really significant on its own, but enough to knock back your finish time a bit. The most obvious changes were the relocation of the start/finish area to Stinson Beach and the 5:00 A.M. start time which would have us running in the dark for the first hour.

For my part, I also planned to approach this race differently than last year. My primary motivation for signing up for it was to get in a 100K training run for Hardrock. With that in mind, I executed what has been my typical spring race plan this year by skipping the taper and getting in plenty of miles in the days leading up to the race.

Moonglow over the ocean

Race morning found me cruising down an empty Highway 1 at 4:00 A.M, light from the supermoon reflecting off the ocean. I arrived in time to briefly greet a few friends at the start before we all donned our headlamps and took off through the streets of the tiny, oceanfront town.

With Jen before the start

The morning was warm enough to start in my tank top – no long sleeves required. The first thing I noticed was how light and free I felt. The pockets of my tank top were empty. Oh crap! I forgot all my food! Ten seconds into the race, and already I was in a panic. I had a Mojo bar and a stash of chews and waffles for my pockets, but they’d all been forgotten in the backseat of my cluttered Subaru. I sighed. It would have to be aid station GU’s for my pockets, then.

The first climb began even before we’d left town, and it was a steep one. I made the hike behind Sarah Lavender Smith while we chatted and laughed about our apparent look-alike status. Here’s a photo of us after the race:

What do you think? Ultrarunning doppelgangers? I know – it’s mostly just the pigtails.

We soon left the paved road for some singletrack switchbacks that climbed into the night. I hiked steadily upward, the moon reflecting its iridescent glow to my left, and headlamps strung out like Christmas lights on the switchbacks of the hillside below. Not a bad way to start a race, really.

The sky had barely lightened before the climb abated, and we hit the unforgiving half track across the treeless hills of the Marin Headlands. Running downhill on a slanted, narrow trail, still in need of a headlamp, was the first of many unique challenges offered by the new course. I feel lucky to have survived without a fall or ankle twist.

By the time we left the open hillsides for the redwoods of the Bolinas Ridge, the sun was up, and we dropped our lights at the Bolinas aid station. Having the very runnable trail of the Bolinas ridge at mile 6 definitely lent itself to running fast early, and this is not my favorite way to run a race. Neither do I like to start thinking competitively before the second half, but the turnaround at mile 12 was the only opportunity to see where I stood in the women’s field (11^th).

I tried to force myself to relax and ignore the competition, so when Scott Mills, who was running next to me, offered to take a picture, I accepted.

Enjoying the Bolinas Ridge

Once in a while the trees gave way to views like this:

After passing through the Bolinas aid station once more, we were back on the narrow trail of the open, grassy hillsides. This time, with no headlamp required.

Leaving the Bolinas Ridge. (Photo by Brett Rivers)

Returning to Stinson for an aid station visit, we dropped down via a treacherous Matt Davis Trail. This trail was new to me, and it was my first real clue as to how much more challenging this year’s course was. Matt Davis is a study in contrasts. It is heartbreakingly beautiful – enchanted forest beautiful – with tiny blue flowers thickly carpeting the forest floor, huge redwoods, moss covered trees hanging low, a cascading creek, and lush ferns filling in the only spaces without flowers. It was also insanely difficult to run.

The steep descent was primarily made via huge stone steps, although occasionally a step was made from a wooden beam which had the added pleasure of being covered with a slick, wet moss. Trekking poles would have been nice.

In my head I kept hearing Boromir’s voice from The Fellowship of the Rings asking, “What is this new devilry?” Okay, so I was a little melodramatic. I was tired. But I didn’t want my downhill to come at such costs! I focused on soaking up the surrounding beauty, but at the same time I wondered, would I trade in all this beauty for a section of trail that was more runnable? I hated to admit it, but I think maybe, kinda, sorta, the answer might have been yes. Just a little bit.

Looking back at Stinson from the Dipsea Trail

By the time I’d climbed from Stinson up over the Dipsea Trail and back down to the Muir Beach aid station, I still felt pretty good, but I could see the damage in terms of just how much slower my finishing time would be compared to last year. I hated to focus too much on performance goals, but I felt pretty bummed. I hadn’t exactly been running easy.

As I climbed up away from the beach, the day’s warmth began seeping into my skin. It was an incredibly beautiful day, and the scene below of people relaxing on the sand and frolicking in the surf looked far more appealing than the idea of running another 30 miles.  I wonder if some nice person down there would share a corner of their towel with me, I thought. Definitely. And the idea gained momentum. I bet they would even share a soda from their cooler. Or a beer! I won’t kid you: I was tempted. But then I remembered that I’m not as young and cute as I used to be, and maybe those invitations aren’t as easy to come by these days. I decided I didn’t need to find out and continued uphill away from the beach.

The temptations of Muir Beach

On the long climb out of Tennessee Valley, I caught up with another runner named Steve. He was enthusiastic, and made for an awesome running partner. We chatted about racing and life, and the miles came easy. By the time we reached the traverse with a stunning view of the city framed by the Golden Gate Bridge, we were clipping along at a nice pace. I knew if I could just stick with Steve, I’d have a great race.

City View

I passed a few more women while in Steve’s company, and left the Rodeo Valley aid station just ahead of him. We made a left onto some singletrack that was so narrow and overgrown that I had to slow down so I wouldn’t trip over the waist-high grasses. I also noticed that mixed among the grasses and flowers was no small amount of poison oak. There was no avoiding it.

Really? Did we have to run through this section? I’m sure the course could have been routed around this half-mile! I’d already had two bouts of poison oak this spring, and I didn’t fancy another go-round. My students think I have some kind of a disease, what with all the red bumps and scratching.

A steep downhill ensued, and with my unsteady legs, I had to let Steve take the lead. This was apparently a mistake, as he gapped me quickly.

“Don’t leave me, Steve!” I wanted to yell at his receding form. The farther away he got, the more depressed I became. That was nothing, however, to the torture provided by the latest Miwok devilry: the siren song of Rodeo Beach.

The heat of the day had reached its zenith, as had the temptation of the Pacific Ocean waves crashing on the sand. The course took us directly across the beach, and I stared, mesmerized, by the surfers, and bikini girls, and little kids building sand castles. They stared back, and I knew exactly what they were thinking: “What the hell are you doing??” I wondered the same thing myself.

Rodeo Beach: You can see the trail running close to the lagoon and up into the hills above the red roofs.

 With the finish line only 15 miles away, however, I turned from the prospect of a cold ocean swim, put my head down, and plodded forward through the sand. I could swim at Stinson Beach.

I’m quite familiar with the climb out of Rodeo Beach, and this made it a fairly comfortable ascent for me. I started to smell the finish line, and I basked in the incredible ocean views as I climbed. The previous weekend I had run the Big Sur Marathon, which is renowned for its scenic beauty. It's a well-deserved reputation, but honestly, it can't hold a candle to a race like Miwok. Trail runs offer an intimacy with the terrain that a road run could never touch.

By the time I reached Tenessee Valley again though, I felt mentally done. It was hot, I was tired, and I had 12 miles still to run. It sounds like nothing now, but at the time it felt monstrous. Luckily, Tim Fitzpatrick was hanging around the aid station, and his support and enthusiasm was enough to at least get my legs moving back down the road again.

Above Pirate's Cove (Photo by Glenn Tachiyama)

I broke it down: One more aid station, two big climbs, two big descents. That’s all. Totally doable.

I knew the finish would be down the steep Dipsea Trail, and I was dreading it. I managed a solid pace on the climb, but my legs were jelly on the way back down. Since my finish time would be slow anyway, I allowed myself to go easy heading back down toward Stinson. All I wanted at this point was to avoid a tragic fall before crossing the line. 

When I saw the Dipsea marker that said “Mile 7,” I began to get pissed. Isn’t the freaking Dipsea 7 miles?? Where the hell is the finish line?

I finally burst from the forest directly onto the beachfront park and crossed the line in 11:49, wide-eyed, a bit shell-shocked, and incredibly relieved to be done.

I collapsed onto the grass next to the awesome Benna family. Jen immediately began sympathizing with me about the difficulty of the course while J.B. ran off to get me an ice cold Coke. Oh running friends, how I love you!

Based on my finishing time, I had a very comparable race to last year’s. By most accounts, the front of the pack finished about 1:15 slower than in 2011. I finished 1:06 slower. I finished 7^th woman – exactly the same as last year. The race also capped off a 110 mile week of running – basically unheard of for me. It seems silly, then, that I was thrilled with 2011’s performance but disappointed by this one. I’m well aware that it’s simply a difference in expectations: I’d been hoping to improve upon my time. Clearly that was a naive desire, but there was no way to know that going in.

This version of Miwok turned out to be a much better training run for Hardrock than previous renditions of the course. It also turned out to be another experience that was so tough, it made me question how capable I am of crossing that finish line in Silverton. Honestly, I don’t think having these doubts is a bad thing. The questioning is part of the preparing, and if I felt totally confident I could finish that race in July, it wouldn’t hold nearly the same draw for me.

Post-race with Helen and Larissa

With Donald

After downing a second Coke, I wandered out to the beach for the promised Pacific Ocean swim. I spent the next several hours cheering for friends, both old and new, and passing out finishline hugs. Not a bad way to end a race, really.

Thanks to Tia and all the volunteers for this year's amazing version of this NorCal calssic!

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama