Return to Diablo

Week number three in my “race every weekend in April” extravaganza brought me back to that hot, hellish, yet beautiful mountain known as Diablo. In thinking about why this race has gotten so popular, (both the marathon and 50 miler sold out this year) I concluded that it must be the challenging course, beautiful scenery and strong sense of camaraderie present at this race. Whatever the reason, it seems to draw a good percentage of the ultra-runners in Northern California (and beyond!) When I scanned the list of entrants a week before the race, I was excited to see many familiar names. I think it was the pleasure of these friendships, and new ones made on the trail, that made this year at Diablo special.

The weekend began when Prudence and I piled in my trusty Forester and headed down the hill from Tahoe on Saturday morning. Even in Truckee it was hot, and I had to change into shorts to be comfortable for the drive. This did not bode well for the next day’s temperatures at Diablo! We planned to stay at a hostel in Marin—still a bit of a drive from the starting line, but beautiful, affordable, and with an abundance of trails on which to spend Saturday afternoon.

On the drive down we planned the future of trail running in Tahoe. (Ask Prudence about her future RD duties!) We got pretty excited about ideas for some upcoming adventures, and soon enough we were in Marin, where it was about 20 degrees cooler.

As planned, our late afternoon run on the Coastal Trail through the Marin Headlands was a perfect answer to the stiffness of the long drive. I made the mistake of letting Prudence take the lead, and was reminded of one of the things that makes her such a wicked fast runner: she’s a killer on the downhills! Even though she was taking it easy, I still couldn’t keep up with her down those hills. Fortunately for me the terrain was rolling, and I enjoyed a fun game of pushing the uphills to close the gap that would inevitably re-open on the next downhill. We spent the rest of the afternoon stretching out, and cooking dinner in the vast kitchen of the hostel.

The first challenge of the weekend came at 5:00 am Sunday morning when we discovered that someone had parked their car and blocked us into the parking lot. We freaked, naturally. We had no way to get back into the hostel, nor any knowledge of whose car it was even if we could. Desperate, I finally set off a car alarm. That awoke a rather grumpy hosteller, who grudgingly stumbled out into the dark to move his car. We had no sympathy for him, but we were relieved nonetheless. We were running late, but we knew we would make it. Disaster averted!

We eventually parked the car at the Mitchell Canyon trailhead at 6:40. We had both been hoping to arrive by 6:15, not only to keep things feeling relaxed, but also to socialize with friends we might not get to see once the race started. Instead, we found ourselves rushing to check-in and get to the start on time.

As the crowed of runners headed toward the start, I heard someone call my name. I was excited to see Leslie, and to finally meet Keith.

“Your race report from Diablo last year is what convinced me to come this year!” Keith declared.

“Oh God!” I was slightly mortified. “You actually read that comedy of errors?” We laughed and enjoyed a shared enthusiasm for the potential of the day ahead.


Leslie and Keith

The race began, and we set off up the hill into the light of the rising sun. The trail turned to single track and the colorful ribbon of runners wrapped smoothly up and around the lush hillside. The air was still comfortable, but a warm breeze whispered of the torrid day to come.

Early miles of uphill single-track (photo courtesy of Sean Stephenson)

We had to limit ourselves to the pace of the runners ahead, and I was content with this. We ran some of the hill, but walked much of the steeper sections. I felt like I was moving at the right pace, and enjoyed the company of other runners. As I pulled out my camera for a photo, I noticed not only the runner in front of me doing the same, but several runners ahead Rick Gaston was also going for the photo-op. I couldn’t resist the urge to heckle such a display of paparazzi! (I hope you know it was just me teasing, Rick!)

During the week preceding this race, I had been learning to play “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” on the guitar. I’m here to tell you that nothing gets a song stuck in your head like learning to play it on the guitar. Even with an easy song such as this, by the time I have it dialed, I’ve played it so many times that I don’t ever want to hear it again. Even worse—with this particular song I don’t know the words all that well, thus I found myself plodding up the slopes singing in my head, “I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. Don’t know where it goes, but it’s only me and I walk alone.” Then all I can recall after that is the part that goes, “I walk alone I walk alone, I walk alone I walk alone.” Sort of an inauspicious refrain to loop through one’s brain on a long, hot trail run. Fortunately, it did not turn out to be an omen of any sort.

We moved off the single track and on to the dirt road, and this allowed a pleasant amount of socializing as runners variously passed one another and grouped up. I ran a bit with Scott from Sacramento, who was running his first trail marathon, and exchanged speculations with others about whether today would be as hot as last year’s race.

I heard my name posed as a question, as a tall runner came up beside me. It was a familiar face, but one that I had yet to meet in person.

“Donald!” I declared in delight, as he smiled his affirmation. I have been an admirer of Donald’s blog for some time now, and it was one of the bigger disappointments of my rushed morning that I had been forced to cross “find Donald and say hi” off my pre-race checklist. This serendipitous trail meeting however, more than made up for it. I resisted the urge to greet him with a hug on the run, visualizing the trip-and-crash into the dirt that it would inevitably cause. (I thought that might leave a bad first impression.) We shared a few minutes running together, exchanging training and racing tales, before his faster pace moved him ahead up the hill.

Donald and Rick--still fresh and full of smiles! (photo courtesy of Sean Stephenson)


About this time I met a couple from Calgary, running the 50 mile event.

“So,” I hesitated, “This is going to sound kind of dumb. I mean, I don’t really think that everyone in Canada knows each other or anything, but do you guys know Leslie?”

“Oh yeah! She only lives about 45 minutes away.” came the response. (Whew, they didn’t think I was stupid for asking!) “Anyway,” the woman went on, “I think wherever Leslie goes, she immediately gets to know everyone within a 5 mile radius.” And we all proceeded to espouse the various brilliant aspects of Leslie—her friendliness, adventurous spirit, awesome blog, etc. Yeah, we think she’s pretty darn cool.

By this time, people had sorted themselves into their various positions and paces on the trail, and I found that I was still running with the guy who had been in front of me the entire way up the initial single-track. This guy turned out to be Sean Stephenson, and we would share our entire day at Diablo together. I walked plenty, yes, but I did not walk alone.


The buffet at Juniper (photo courtesy of Sean Stepehnson)


After the first aid station at Juniper Campground, I found a faucet under which to soak my head. It was heaven! I made use of this technique numerous times throughout the day to keep cool.


Donald makes his way down from the summit as I head up.


I hit the summit feeling good, and on the way back down all the nearby runners were full of enthusiasm.

Trip #1 to the top!


“Wow, everyone’s mood just skyrocketed!” one runner observed.

Kiera, from Laguna Nigel, was running the 50, and I think she alone contributed about 80 percent of the surrounding energy. She was so positive and friendly! That kind of thing is just contagious, and we all enjoyed picking our way down the trail together.

After the 50 milers made their turn off, it was just Sean and me again. We took a lot of time for pictures and exchanging tidbits of our lives. This was Sean’s second trail marathon (his first was this same race last year) and he was considering making the foray into the world of ultras. I assured him that this race was probably harder than most 50K’s out there.


Views, flowers and endless down hills.


Sean had spent time as a teacher in the Ukraine, and we exchanged philosophies on education until a missing trail marker forced us to focus on more immediate issues. Several other folks were running in circles at this junction, unsure of where to go, when finally someone who knew the course well arrived and led us forward with a very confident, “It’s this way!” We obediently chased after him, a pack of lemmings down the precipice.


"Ooh, ooh! It went this way! Follow me!"


Somewhere on the approach to Rock City the pack of three lead men came by in the opposite direction. Shortly thereafter, Prudence came bouncing up the trail looking strong. We cheered her briefly, then made bets about whether she’d take the overall win. I certainly didn’t bet against her!

We blew through the Rock City aid station without stopping since we knew we’d be back there in a mile and a half. We made the turn around for the marathon runners, and refueled back at the aid station. I was still feeling good, which was fortunate since we were about to start the long climb to the summit for the second time that day. By this time Sean and I had reached an unspoken agreement to run together, and this fact dawned on me when I automatically checked for his presence before departing the aid station. Water? Check! GU? Check! Sean? Check! And we were off!

Last year I finished the marathon in about 6:30 and Sean had finished in about 6:20. We were both hoping for about a 6 hour finish this year, and I began to check my watch to see if we would be close. I told him I thought we would need a minimum of 90 minutes for that last 8 miles from the summit to the finish line. As soon as I said it, I realized that I was almost certainly underestimating the time it would take. (I was.)

The day sizzled on, and we kept a steady hike up the sun-drenched slopes. The intermittent shade provided little respite, as it was packed with swarms of gnats that were only too happy to fly into any bodily orifice available. Yuck! Still, it was great to have someone with whom to share a laugh over the irony.

Upon reaching the summit for the second time, my spirit soared, but my stomach wasn’t quite as happy. The idea of forcing down any more GU’s was just unpleasant, but I persisted in sucking them down in spite of the fact that the only flavor available was chocolate. Ugh! I purposefully slammed a quantity of water and coke at the aid station, knowing that 8 miles in this heat was a long way to go with only two small water bottles. Almost as an afterthought, I popped two salt caps, and I’m quite certain that was the key to improving the state of my stomach. Twenty minutes later it felt 100% better.


Trip # 2 to the top


I recalled this last stretch of the race as being by far the worst. I guess that’s true with any marathon, but Diablo reserves a special hell for those who hit the wall. It’s 8 miles of technical downhill, with just a bit of uphill thrown in for fun. After a day full of pounding the quads, we had to negotiate some downhill switchbacks so steep and loose that we were forced into a treacherous and careful walk. I had checked my watch at the summit and saw that we had only 85 minutes left if we wanted to finish in 6 hours. I knew it was a lost cause, and I happily forgot about looking at my watch from that point on. We would run what we would run.

At some point it became clear that Sean was falling behind, and I kept pausing to make sure I could hear his footsteps in the distance. I forced some clif blox on him, and inquired about his water supply. He said he still had a little, but I didn't totally believe him. His footsteps became more and more distant, and eventually I couldn’t hear him at all. Suddenly, in this barren heat, I felt quite alone. “I walk alone, I walk alone…(Ah-ah, ah-ah, ah-ahaa…)” I contemplated my choices. I knew Sean wouldn’t begrudge me the need to finish at whatever pace was comfortable for me. However, I’d already had a brilliant workout, and a beautiful, fun day, and much of that was due to the shared experience of having a running partner. It just didn’t seem worth giving that up in order to finish 10-20 minutes faster. When I reached the creek at the bottom, I decided to take my time soaking my head in the icy water and make my way to the finish with Sean.

It's worth noting that this kind of thing generally goes against my nature. I love running with others, but when it comes to racing, I'm a competitor. I can't help it. I like setting goals and pushing myself to achieve them. I suppose since I already felt at peace with the fact that I certainly wasn't going to run 6 hours that day, it was easier that I would have thought to let go of the competitive mindset.





We meandered down the trail, which had now become smoother and less technical, and I have to admit, it was somewhat refreshing not to be in a hurry. We startled a small flock of wild turkeys, (which was very startling to me!) and tried to catch a snapshot of a coyote as it loped across the grass. I wondered if this was the same coyote that I had spotted at this point in the trail last year. I felt like he had come out just to say hello.

A loquacious turky bolts into the bushes.


Somewhere close behind, Sean called out, “You are really wonderful!” I smiled, and knew I had made the right call in not blazing down to the finishline solo. I challenge you to find anyone who doesn’t absolutely light up when told, quite sincerely—especially at the end of a long, difficult trail run—that she is wonderful.



We were all smiles as we crossed the finish line, and per usual, I immediately donned my flip flops and headed to the food table. I got the recap from Prudence on her race: She finished fifth overall and first female, in spite of some frustrations with getting lost numerous times. The three of us sat with our feet soaking in the creek and happily sucked down pizza and coke, as runners continued to finish.

Although this was only my second Diablo, I think this race has earned a special place in my heart. Maybe it’s a bit of one of those twisted, love-hate relationships—the kind where you keep returning to the boyfriend who has treated you badly at times, but you can’t help it because there are also so many wonderful things about him, and you've shared so many poignant experiences. Last year’s race was an epic adventure for me. This year was equally tough and even more rewarding, but in a much different way. I accomplished a few big things, namely finishing a tough course. I also managed not to get lost (unlike last year) and had a more social day on the trails than I can recall in recent years. I happily left my ipod in my pocket all day.

Prudence and I prepare to head home after a long day.


Thanks to everyone out there who made this day so awesome: the volunteers, Sarah and Wendell, and most especially to all the awesome runners sharing the trail with their upbeat attitudes!

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

A Day on Mt. Diablo

Back in February, I picked out the Mt. Diablo Marathon as a training run en route to my attempt at the TRT100. I figured it would be about the right distance for my training at this point, and I knew it was a challenging course. I needed work on my downhill running, and Diablo clearly offered the opportunity. My goals going into the race were to get in a solid day of training, and give myself that motivational boost I always get from immersing myself in a crowd of other runners. Although there were some adventures along the way, I can happily report that I survived a solid training run!


I spent Friday night at a friend’s house about 20 minutes from the starting line. Although I wasn’t particularly nervous about the race, I had put in a full week of mileage already, and I knew the predicted 90 degree temps for the day could make things, well...unpredictable. I spent most of the night checking the time on my watch instead of sleeping. Finally at 5:30 I arose, donned shorts and a tank top for the first time in probably 7 months, and slathered myself with sunscreen. I ate my bagel and banana in the car, and headed off to the nearest Starbucks for a much needed venti coffee. Say what you want about Starbucks, but at least they’re open at 6:00 am, and their coffee is strong.

My caffeine needs getting satiated, I sat at a stoplight at a deserted intersection, confident that I should arrive at the start about a half hour before the race began. I was looking forward to the day, and as I gingerly sipped my coffee in an attempt to avoid burning my tongue, the light turned yellow.

Wait. Yellow? Huh??

Since lights don’t generally turn from yellow to green, I stepped on the gas to get through the intersection quickly. Had I really been sitting stopped at a green light? I shook my head and took another swig of coffee. I reasoned that the caffeine had not hit my bloodstream yet. Unfortunately, the oversight turned out to be more of an omen for the rest of my day.

I arrived at the start with just enough time to check in, gear-up and hit the bathroom before heading to the starting line. There was a good sized crowd gathered, and I didn’t have much time for socializing since Wendell was already giving pre-race instructions. I positioned myself somewhere in the middle, knowing that I didn’t want to go out too fast, but also recognizing that many of the runners were going 50 miles and would undoubtedly be starting at an even slower pace than myself. When Wendell asked if this was anyone’s first marathon or 50 miler, several folks actually raised their hands. I was blown away that anyone would choose this as a first attempt at either distance. I sincerely hoped all of those first timers would have a good day.

As we set off into the shadow of the mountain, the trail immediately began to climb. The first thing I noticed was the plentiful amount of oxygen available at this altitude. I had no trouble with a slow steady jog up the hill, and soon found myself on single track in a long train of runners.

The trail wound up to the spine of a ridge that I immediately dubbed the devil's backbone. We were thrust into the bright morning sunshine which still only whispered of the day's impending heat. A line of runners was strung out before me on the ridge like popcorn on a Christmas tree. The lush green of spring covered the hillside, and it was painted here and there with a colorful palette of wildflowers. As I cruised along the backbone, I attempted to absorb the stunning vistas and watch my footing at the same time: a serious but worthwhile challenge! As we moved through some short, loose bits of downhill, I suddenly found my feet in the air and my butt smacking down hard on the dirt. I discovered the advantage to handheld water bottles is that they protect your palms in a fall, but the disadvantage is that using them to brace my fall caused me to squirt GU2O all over my legs. Ick! I quickly assessed the damage at zero, brushed myself off and kept going.

The fact that we were well into the race at this point and still climbing didn’t worry me too much. I knew the course climbed all the way to the summit, headed down the other side, and then promptly returned to the summit before heading back down towards the start/finish area. In short: we would either be ascending or descending all day. At times, flowering shrubs croweded the narrow trail, and the air was thick with their intoxicating perfume. In spite of the hot day, this was clearly the best time of year to be on Diablo.







I soon found myself at the 3800 foot summit of Mt. Diablo, which required climbing all the way to the top of the observation deck. I paused for a moment to take in the view and re-pay some oxygen debt. Although still early, the day was a bit hazy, and I had trouble identifying any significant landmarks. I knew that deep blue sea was out there somewhere, but the coastline was hidden safely under a curtain of fog. With a satisfied smile I skipped down the steps two at a time beginning the long descent to the marathon turnaround point.

Dodging the oncoming traffic, I took a left turn clearly marked with a stripped ribbon. At this point the 50 mile course and the marathon course were still following the same trail. Based on my one previous experience at a PCTR event, I had decided to give the course map a good study the night before. This is not because the courses are poorly marked; in fact they are quite thoroughly and clearly marked. I am just aware that when there are multiple distances being run at the same time, and the course is routed through various intersections or aid stations more than once, I get easily confused. When I ran the Muir Beach trail run, I managed to stay on course mostly by questioning the volunteers at every aid station about where to go next. Fortunately for me, they all knew the course well. I remembered though that following my own color of ribbon, among the myriad of other colored ribbons, had required paying close attention, something which is challenging for me when I get tired.

Unfortunately, in spite of doing my route-studying homework, I still wasn’t sure exactly where I was on the course. The map in my mind had turned into a confusing jumble of pink and yellow arrows smeared across a zebra of contour lines. That zebra was currently galloping away through the grass towards the ocean.

And so it seems inevitable that I arrived at the Juniper Oak aid station to hear a volunteer say, “Uh oh, we have a marathon runner.”

“What?” I asked, already knowing exactly what that comment must mean.

After volunteers informed me I had made a wrong turn, I immediately commenced with a small bout of swearing. My sincere apologies to the aid station workers and any runners who may have been offended by my initial reaction! My mind was imaging that I would now have to finish a 40+ mile day or drop out, and I was bummed. Fortunately Sarah, one of the RD’s, was there and told me I had just missed a turn about a mile back where the marathon and 50 mile courses split. This meant that I had only added two miles to my marathon, which was actually a considerable relief. I refilled my bottles with water, and said to the volunteer helping me, “Well, I came here for a training run, so now I’m just getting some bonus miles!”

I headed back the way I had come in acceptance of my fate, and happily noted that it was easy downhill going this direction. I recalled that I had seen a runner with a number heading down when I had still been running towards the aid station, and realized that I probably wasn’t the only one to make a wrong turn. I wondered then, why that returning marathoner hadn’t warned me of my mistake, instead of letting me run all the way to the aid station to find out. The devil take the hindmost, eh? I vowed to check the race number of the runners coming towards me incase any of them were mistaken marathoners that I could help out. As I neared the intersection where the courses split, I saw a couple of men with marathon numbers coming towards me running with some 50 mile runners. “The marathon course goes this way,” I called, pointing in the direction of the other turn. They agreed with me, but continued the way they were headed. I shrugged, thinking maybe they had upgraded at the start to the 50 mile race. Anyway, I had done my duty.

Now happily back on track, I headed down the trail towards the marathon turn around. There were a few stretches of steep downhill, and I found myself taking them at almost a walk, cautiously stepping through loose gravel, trying to avoid landing on my butt again. Eventually I saw another runner coming towards me. Was this the marathon leader headed back? To be honest, this guy did not look like an elite runner, and I had definitely seen one or two fast runners on the list of entrants. I was wondering if anyone had dropped out, when the truth dawned on me with a slow sinking feeling. Those men who had ignored my directions earlier were the marathon leaders!

I felt like a complete idiot. They had ignored my directions because of course they had already run this part of the course. Although I was immensely relieved they had ignored me, I still felt like I had nearly caused a serious disaster and I felt terrible. From now on, I promised myself, I would never give directions unless I had complete and intimate knowledge of the course. I was beginning to understand why the other marathoner who had gone the wrong way hadn’t said anything to me.

As I neared the aid station, I began to see more runners coming towards me. I was still feeling like a jerk for giving misinformation to the lead runners, but just kept reminding myself that they had been too smart to listen to me, so no harm done. I saw the women who had been right in front of me and right behind me earlier, and realized that I had been in second place when I had gone the wrong way. I decided it was probably better this way, since I would have undoubtedly started racing and getting competitive if I though I had a shot at finishing in the top 3. With no such opportunity now, I simply continued on toward the aid station.

After reaching the turn around, I noticed that somehow I was miraculously in 10th place. I attributed this mostly to the fact that there were something like 12 women entered in the race. It would be a long climb back to the summit, and I settled in for the ascent with a steady hiking pace. Although my heart rate was high, I knew I could continue the pace for a long time. I was going up a particularly steep section when I noticed a runner coming the other way had stopped.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “just a cramp.” I offered him a Salt Stick Cap, which he gladly accepted. I was pleased they turned out to be useful, since I had been carrying them all day but hadn’t taken any. I also marveled at how ultrarunners will happily swallow a pill produced by a stranger from a little ziplock baggie full of unlabeled white pills. Seems pretty sketchy when you think about it, doesn’t it? ;)

Back at the junction where I had made my wrong turn, I crossed paths with a confused marathon runner.

“Where do I go?” He asked desperately. I was terrified of giving him directions. I interviewed him thoroughly.

“You’re running the marathon?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

“Have you run the out and back section yet?”

“No.”

“Okay,” I was pretty confident now, "you go this way until the turnaround. Then when you get back to this intersection, you go that way."

We parted ways, and I felt a little better. Perhaps, I thought, if I could help more people in this race than I harm, I can neutralize the bad karma I have surely incurred. In a series of changing promises to myself, I now vowed to become a do-gooder trail fairy for the rest of the day. To be honest, picking up the few GU wrappers I found on the trail did make me feel better, and I wondered why I hadn’t been doing that from the outset anyway.

At about this time, a man I had been chatting with earlier came up behind me. We were still hiking, and his pace moved him slowly by me. As he moved ahead, he let slip the admonishment “Don’t chick me” through his labored breathing. I managed a good natured laugh in response. I knew he was a nice guy, and that he didn’t mean anything rude by the comment, but the following paragraphs were already forming in my mind as I hiked.

I have planned at various times to write an entire blog post on this topic, but have been somewhat unsure of exactly how to tackle it appropriately. Well, here goes. What it comes down to for me is this:

The use of the word chick as a verb has got to stop.

When it comes to ultra running I think this word is frequently employed because maybe the playing field for men and women is just a bit closer to level than it is in other sports. I just don’t think the men who use it understand how it makes them sound. Yes, I know most of the men who lament “I got chicked!” are nice guys who probably don’t actually mind getting beaten by women in a race. In fact, sometimes I think guys really believe this is some way of showing respect to those fast women who almost always beat them. In most ultras, the elite women are faster than over 90% of the men’s field. (That’s just my estimate, not an exact figure.) Should all those men really feel bad about themselves? When talented women like Bev-Anderson Abbs, who took 3rd overall in the 50 mile race at Diablo, come in ahead of you, can you really feel bad about it? No. And I know that most, if not all, of those men do not feel bad about it. So why comment on it at all?

I don’t let my students get away with using that phrase, just like I don’t let them get away with using “retarded” or “gay” as a slur. If you don’t understand why this term can be rude, or even offensive, let me put it in another context. When someone says “you got chicked,” this is what I see:

Two 10-year-old boys are on the playground. One just took second in the playground races at recess. The winner was a girl. The boy laughs and points at his friend, crying in a sing-song voice, “You got beat by a girr-rel! You got beat by a girr-rel!”

No kidding guys, this is what you sound like. A 10-year-old. And how do you think the girl in that scenario feels? The loud and clear message is that it is shameful to be slower than a girl. So even if you think I’m just some uptight feminist chick, could you please do me a favor? Don’t pass this phrase on to the next generation. Please don’t say it in front of your sons, or even worse, your daughters. Don’t say it in front of anyone else’s sons or daughters for that matter. Don’t tell them that being a girl is anything to be ashamed of.

So enough of that diatribe, back to the race. After reaching the summit for the second time that day, I was pleased to discover that I only had 8 miles to go. I knew a good portion of the 8 miles would be downhill, and I was looking forward to an easy descent to the finish line. Unfortunately those 8 miles confirmed something I already knew: down hills are not my strength. I cruised when I could through the mellow stretches, but whenever it got steep and sketchy, I found myself slowly picking my way through the mess. Eventually my knees and quads were starting to feel it and I wondered just how far I was from the finish. I was running with a few other people at that point, and one guy had a GPS. He informed us that we still had 5 miles to go. It was clearly going to take me longer than I thought to finish this thing.

I kept reminding myself to eat, and shoved down a few clif blox here and there. I always stop eating when I get near the finish, but at the pace I was going, the finish wasn’t going to come as soon as I’d like.

Heading down some singletrack switchbacks, I suddenly tripped. I had some pretty good momentum going and I did not want to fall. I almost caught myself with my next step, then my next, and once again. With each near miss I seemed to gain speed and finally I was airborne and heading for the bushes. The whole experience seemed to take forever, and my brain went like this: “Oh shit, I’m gonna crash. Oh, maybe not! Damn! Wait, maybe not! Shit! Yup, I’m flying through the air, this is not good. Oh God, is that poison oak? Crap. It doesn’t look like it, but I’m not sure. Turn your head! Don’t get it on your face!!” Then my actual voice went like this, “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” CRASH!

Fortunately for me I landed in the bushes and dirt, not on any rocks. I got up, but this time it took me a little longer to assess the damage. First of all I was mortified at my own screaming, and checked to make sure there were no other runners around. There weren’t. Hmm, I thought shakily, maybe that’s why it’s embarrassing to get beaten by a girl. I sound like a frigging idiot. Maybe we should just change the phrase to “don’t Gretchen me,” because I can see how that might be embarrassing.

I confirmed the absence of poison oak from the vicinity and started a tentative jog. My left arm was on fire, but I didn’t really see any wounds. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself and shuffled along down the hill. When I came to a creek crossing, I gratefully stopped to soak my bandana and wash the dirt from my legs. I discovered two bloody knees, a bloody elbow and slightly bloody shoulder. None of it was very severe, and I felt much better after cleaning off.

Nearing the finish now, I spotted a young coyote trotting gracefully through the grass. It was beautiful, and I smiled. It’s natural athleticism provided a stark contrast to the way I felt at that moment. I was clearly a stranger in it’s home.

A few minutes later I gratefully crossed the finish line.

When I had made my final climb to the top of the observation deck in the race, I had considered running an additional 2 miles after the race was over. I’d run 28, and I thought I might as well bring it up to an even 30 for the day. After my fall, I’d scrapped the plan in a bout of self pity. Now I gave it another thought. I sipped an ice cold coke, and was about to refill my bottles for the 2 mile jaunt, when I spotted a creek in the shade near the finish line. Hmm, I could run 2 more miles, or I could drink this coke while sitting in that creek and soaking my legs. I decided that 2 miles was not going to make or break my chances at TRT. The icy water was the perfect tonic for my tired legs.

After changing and donning my flip flops, I headed back to the shade for pizza. I enjoyed chatting with some other women that I'd met on the course, but I was somehow missing that post race glow. I finally checked the results to see that I had finished 4th woman. I couldn’t believe it. How had I managed that? Sarah even gave me props, saying I had run really well considering the extra 2 miles. My finish time was 6:30, and I felt okay about it since I had initially estimated it would be 6 hours. The results also showed my pace, which was an agonizingly slow 15 minutes per mile. Now I’m sorry, but that is just slow. Then I noticed that the first place woman came in at 6:03. I started thinking how I might have finished if I hadn’t made a wrong turn. Then I realized I had been going faster than 15 minute pace because I actually ran 28 miles not 26. So what did that mean? I’ll tell you what it means: The math is irrelevant. I finished in 6:30 and took 4th woman, and I think I can feel pretty good about that. As my husband said when I told him about my day, “I guess that’s all part of it, isn’t it?” And he is exactly right.

It will not be surprising to you to hear that the 15 minute drive to the freeway took me 45 minutes. Yes, I got lost. I was just cruising along on a street that should have gone straight to the freeway, when I noticed that the name of the street had changed. How did that happen? I consulted the map. Maybe the map was wrong. I kept going. Finally I decided my best recourse was to turn around. As I was headed back I crossed a street that I recognized from the incorrect map. After several turns, I followed a sign that said “freeway” into a mall parking lot. Huh? Where was the freeway? Clearly my map sucked. After another 10 minutes of frustration I was finally on the freeway heading home.

The next day I still felt pretty crummy. Could my electrolytes really be that far out of whack? I consumed food and fluids all day, with no improvement. It finally dawned on me that I was sick. (The sore throat tipped me off!) Maybe this could account for my lack of attentiveness to my surroundings on race day. So as luck would have it my plan of training through this race didn’t completely work out. I took two unplanned days off after the race in an attempt to recover from the mystery ailment. Unfortunately it’s still lingering, but I did manage to get close to my mileage goal for this week.

Thanks so much to Sarah and Wendell and all the volunteers for being out there on a hot day and doing such a great job. I really appreciate the opportunity that these races provide. Congratulations to all the runners in the marathon and the 50 mile race, and especially to the “first timers.” You guys rock!





Unfortunately I am withough my camera at the moment, so for some real race-day photos and great reports on the 50 mile event check out:


Donald's Blog
Scott's Blog
Leslie's Blog