The Rock 'N River Marathon

At this point, I feel like writing about approximately a thousand other things besides Reno's Rock 'N River Marathon, held not this past Sunday, but the one before. It wasn’t exactly a banner day for me, nor was it really an important race on my schedule. It was, however, the inaugural event, and there are a few things about the day that bear mentioning. Since the rain compelled me to leave my camera at home, I fear this report won’t be too exciting. I’ll do my best to keep it straightforward, but as we know, brevity is not one of my bigger talents.

After four straight weekends of racing, I’d planned on the Rock ‘N River Half Marathon mostly because it was a local event, and I had heard good things about its first running, last year. In one of my typical oversights, I missed the online registration and thus found myself making the drive to Harrah’s on a rainy Saturday morning in order to register at the expo.

The registration line was moving painfully slowly, and as I stood there waiting, I tried to remember why I was running this race. Oh yeah: It was supposed to be fun. Still, I reasoned, a full marathon distance had been added this year and I could run that. Why was I running only the half again? I couldn’t remember. I had just decided that I wouldn’t run the full marathon because I couldn’t afford the entry fee, when I reached the front of the line.

Me: How much more does it cost to enter the marathon?

Volunteer: $5

Me: (incredulous) Really?

Volunteer: Yup. $45 for the half, and $50 for the full.

Me: Oh heck, sign me up for the full.


It seemed like a good idea at the time.

By the time 5:00 am Sunday morning rolled around and I was driving through an absolute torrential downpour to Reno, I finally remembered why I was only supposed to run the half: It was my fifth week in a row of racing, and I don’t really like road races anyway. Plus, I was still in an unexplained funk that had plagued me for weeks now, and I was having flashbacks to CIM in 2001 when I had forced my friend Charlie to fly down from Seattle to run through a hurricane with me for our slowest and most painful road marathon ever. I realized, with an impending sense of doom, that I was a little burned out on racing.

The rain was mercifully lighter in Reno, and runner’s gathered underneath the “Reno: Biggest Little City in the World” archway which served as both the start and finish lines. When it was time to line up, I looked around to see that there were only about 100 runners in the full marathon. This did not help my less-than-positive attitude about the day. I did, however, spot Reno’s own bad-boy, Lynyrd Skynrod jog up to the starting line followed by a gaggle of paparazzi angling for a shot. I enthusiastically went up to say hello, and was rewarded with a somewhat distracted response. I guess he didn’t recall that we’d spent what I personally felt was a memorable afternoon together in the casino last spring. Either that or he was just focused on the race.

I managed a quick hello to Turi, who was running the half, before we were off. The route for the first half of the marathon followed the same course as the half-marathon. It was a pleasant out-and-back, westbound along the Truckee River bike path. Upon reaching the Patagonia Outlet, runners looped back towards the start in Downtown Reno. Some people find out-and-back courses to be boring, but I don’t mind them. I think we got the most scenic running near downtown Reno, and I always enjoy seeing the runners passing in the opposite direction and cheering them on.

In only the first few miles it came to my attention that I was in 5th place. With such a small field, it’s difficult to be unaware of one’s place. The third and fourth place women were less than 20 yards in front of me, but I tried not to focus on that fact. I was already running too fast, having run miles one and two in 7:35 and 7:42 respectively. By mile four I had finally eased my way back to 8:00 pace, still in sight of third place.

I saw Lynyrd running toward me with a huge lead on the men’s field. I cheered him on, and he gave me a nasty scowl. Since Lynyrd is known for flipping off his cheering hordes, I rather thought his restraint here was a positive statement on his feelings for me.

The rain picked up again, and my wet shorts started to bunch up uncomfortably. I tried to focus on staying relaxed, but it was fairly lonely out there. At mile eight, the third place woman stopped to tie her shoe. I passed her and never saw her again.

On the run back toward downtown we began to see the half-marathon runners coming toward us. They had started at 7:00, a half hour after the marathon start. There were clearly far more participants in that race, and they cheered me enthusiastically. It felt good, and I did my best to return the support.

Eventually the lead men in the half-marathon came up behind me. I was grateful for someone to lead the way, since the runners coming toward me were now quite spread out, and the course wasn’t exactly what I would describe as well-marked. Nearing the halfway point, volunteers kept cheering and telling me I was “almost there.” I kept amending, in my head, “almost halfway.” Clearly someone forgot to tell them there was a marathon going on.

I was a little concerned about where to go since everyone around me was finishing the half. Fortunately when the split in courses approached, someone yelled from behind me to keep right. This was lucky, since this turn wasn’t marked at all that I could see.

Now running down a rainy, desolate street in Reno, I was really nervous about where to go. There were cones everywhere, but many of these were marking construction zones, and it was confusing. I approached an intersection with total bewilderment when a motorcycle cop appeared out of nowhere to lead me, lights flashing, through the next few turns. I felt like kind of a rock star with my own police escort.

Finally, I was back on the bike path. This stretch of the course was another out-and-back along the Truckee River bike path, this time eastbound toward the city of Sparks. I still felt fine, but I was well aware of the fact that I had been running too fast and I would undoubtedly pay the price later. I plugged into my ipod to help myself relax through the lonely miles.

The rain had stopped for the moment, and I focused on trying to keep my splits even. They had aid stations at every mile, which I thought would be a bit excessive even on a hot day. On this cold, rainy day I only grabbed a cup of water from every third aid station.

When I saw the race leaders heading back, I was somewhat dismayed to see that Lynyrd was not among them. I wondered what happened to him. He was nowhere to be seen.

There weren’t really any course markings at this point, but the instructions were clear enough: Stay on the bike path. Still, for a trail runner who is used to the reassuring sight of pink ribbons every 100 yards or so, I found it difficult to trust myself that I was going the right way.

Approaching the turnaround at mile 20, I was a bit confused. My watch said I had run 4:30 for that mile—clearly laughable. After returning to the aid station at mile 19/21 I had clocked yet another 4:30 mile. Wow, I was on fire! It seemed obvious that the course must be short. I wondered if maybe they had just misplaced a few mile markers, but the overall distance was still accurate. After looking at my splits though, I can’t see how that’s possible.

I had seen the second place woman near the turn around, less than two minutes ahead of me. I figured I may as well focus on catching her, if for no other reason than to have something to do. I knocked out two 7:30 miles in a row. When I still couldn’t see her, even off in the distance, I began to lose heart. I could see that I was on pace to be very close to my PR, but I wasn’t sure the course was accurate and didn’t want my PR to have an asterisk by it.

The rain started coming down hard again. I started to tighten up, and my body kicked into “just get there” mode, averaging 8:45’s for the last three miles. I came into the finish with a small horde of kids finishing the kid’s 1 mile fun run, which was both kind of fun and a little weird. Again, it seemed that no one realized there was an actual marathon going on here.

I grabbed my change of clothes and immediately headed into the casino to get out of my wet things. The flashing lights and constant ringing of the slot machines mesmerized me momentarily before I shook off the dazed and confused moment to search out the restrooms. A casino is a very surreal place to be after a running event!

After changing my clothes and cleaning off the chocolate GU that had apparently been smeared across my face for approximately the last 17 miles, I ventured back outside to see if I could grab my award for third place and bail. After some discussion with other front runners and the person in charge of awards, it seems there had been prize money advertised but there actually wasn’t any. Since I hadn’t known about it, I wasn’t too bothered. I did however check the website and the race flyer later that day, and they did indeed claim to give cash prizes for 1st-3rd places. That seemed to solve the mystery of what happened to Lynyrd Skynrod: He must have heard about the lack of prize money partway through the race and figured there was no point in finishing.

I wasn’t feeling too hot about my day, although I wasn’t sure why. I finished in 3:28—about the same time I ran at Surf City. That day had been a much more enjoyable experience, but then, it had been a much different race: more runners, perfect weather, better pacing by me, and family waiting for me at the finish line. Today’s race I had begun with no plan or expectations whatsoever, which resulted in this competitor running too fast in the early miles and not feeling so hot in the second half. It’s interesting that I ran the same time at both races, but with such different race strategies and such a contrast in how I felt afterward.

I decided it was the least I could do to cheer on the other lonely marathon runners still finishing in the rain, and I stood at the deserted finish line and clapped until my teeth chattered.

Full results here.

Since this was only the second year of the half marathon, the first year of the full marathon, I thought I’d offer my thoughts on what I liked about the event and what I think could be improved upon for next year.

Likes:

• Reno promotes itself as a race destination. Yay Reno!
• Course is scenic, mostly following the Truckee River. Loved starting and finishing under the Reno archway. Very cool photo ops!
• Great price for the marathon!
  
• Many aid stations (maybe too many?) with friendly volunteers
• Separate shirts for men and women, so I actually got one that fit and with a cute design. Also, shirts were a good, tech fabric.

Maybe next time we can…

• Have a few bands. What happened to the “Rock” part of “Rock ‘N River”? Did they really mean the rocks on the riverbed or something?
• Make sure the course is measured accurately. I don’t know for sure that it was short, but even if it wasn’t, there were a few mile markers that were way off.
• Don’t offer prize money if there isn’t any. This is very poor form. The truth is, a quality event shouldn’t need prize money to attract a lot of runners.
• Make sure the course is very clearly marked. There seemed to be a general lack of course markings. (Made up for by private police escort though, in my case!)

Overall, I think this event will be a great one for Reno. The course is flat, fast and scenic, and even though everything wasn’t perfect, it seemed like there was a professional crew there who will turn this into a stellar event. Especially if they can order up better weather in future years.

Thanks to the volunteers and Race Directors for all the hard work and being out there for us in the rain!

Escape From Prison Hill Half Marathon

This year marked my fourth in a row running the Escape from Prison Hill Half Marathon in Carson City, NV. I love this course for its scenic views, tough hills, and quintessential eastside trails (sandy and smelling of sage). It is also often one of the first trails I get to hit in the spring after a long winter pounding the pavement and the snow.

In years past for this race, I have typically been in the midst of training for longer races (usually the Silver State 50 in mid-May). When my training schedule called for a 20-25 mile run on this day, I would hold back a little in the race so that afterward, I could go out for a second lap on the course. I considered my self the “sweeps’ sweep”—I would snatch up errant course markings that the sweeps had missed. It was always a good day, and easy to attribute my slow times to a lack of effort.

Since I decided to skip Silver State this year, and I ran a tough marathon only 6 days prior to this race, I felt content to run no farther than the 13 or so miles of the race course this time. I was looking forward to the opportunity to run a faster time. My previous best on the course had been 2:18, and I was hoping to run close to two hours today. In retrospect, I can see that my ultrunner’s brain clearly didn’t calculate what a big deal it would be to slice 18 minutes off a race of only 13 miles.

I did mostly mellow runs in the five days between races, but I was in a bad mood all week. Finally, by Friday, I just couldn’t take it anymore, and at 3:00 that afternoon I laced up my shoes and headed out into a spring snow storm to run it out. I figured some speed work would be just the thing to sap my sour mood, and the local high school track had just re-emerged from its winter hibernation under the snow.

It turned out to be one of those workouts where I checked my watch after the first rep and went, “Oh shit—too fast,” and then proceeded to somehow run each successive interval faster than its predecessor. God knows how I managed it, but I guess that’s the power of channeling your inner demons into a run. Thus, I found myself at the end of the workout, a quivering gelatinous mess, heaving my lungs onto the infield. I didn’t feel angry anymore, but mostly because I couldn’t feel much of anything but the burning of my muscles and the vicious sleet pelting my face. Reluctantly, I left the sanctuary of the track and jogged home, pleasantly numb.

The next morning I hopped in the car with very little pre-race prep. What could I possibly need that I couldn’t survive without for 13 miles, right? After all, my shoes were already on my feet.

The return of the doldrums was evidenced by my unusual choice of music for the drive—Dashboard Confessional's Places You Have Come to Fear the Most. Well, sometimes the best way to banish a sour thirst is to quench it I guess.

Anyway, I arrived with plenty of time, and saw a few people I know, including Turi. In stark contrast to the previous week’s race, it was quite chilly out—37 degrees. There was a dusting of fresh snow on the ground, and I had just decided to run in tights, long sleeved shirt, jacket and gloves, when the sun peeked over the neighboring hillside. I was suddenly reminded of one of the things I love about the high desert: The sun is strong! I shed the jacket and traded long sleeves for short, while keeping the tights and gloves. It turned out to be the perfect combination.

Turi and I stood around at the start, which had been delayed for some unknown reason. I found Sarah, and her friend Theresa, from Berkeley. I had met Sarah briefly a few years ago at TRT through Addy. It was great to see her back in these parts!

I love this picture of Turi and me, with my arm and camera shadowing his face! Ha ha!

Runners try to stay warm at the start

I felt good and ready to race, with no sign of soreness or fatigue from the track workout 14 hours earlier. Soon, we were off, and racing down the dirt road. I couldn’t believe how fast everyone was running. Don’t you people know we have a huge hill coming up? I wanted to scream at them. But maybe, like me, they ran because they didn’t want to get stuck behind a line of people walking up the first hill of single-track. Or maybe I just forgot what it feels like to run a short race.

Up, up, up the first big hill

In lieu of a detailed course description, I’ll just leave you with the hill profile. This is really all you need to know about this race.

The first hill is a couple miles long, and is mostly runnable. Somewhere near the top, Turi passed me. Everyone did a little shifting of places on a stretch of dirt road, and after that I didn’t do a whole lot of passing or getting passed.

Runners string out along the trail up Dead Truck Hill

I tried to move fast on this rolling stretch, although it was a bit technical. I had definitely pushed things up the hill, and I could feel it now. Finally, we were heading down the other side of the hill, and I did my best not to get passed.

The guy on the right is Blue Basketball Shorts

I was running behind a guy in a pair of voluminous blue basketball shorts, and gaining on him. When I finally came up behind him, I asked to pass. He glanced back briefly, then kicked it into high gear and took off. Okaaaay…A half a mile later, I took pleasure in flying by him and never looking back.

After the relay exchange point, around halfway, I looked back to see if there were any women behind me. Amongst a string of men, I spotted one woman in a pair of green shorts. Dang! That meant I couldn’t relax. On the other hand, it was kind of fun to admit I was pushing myself and getting competitive.

This flatish stretch between the two hills is sandy, making it quite slow. Mentally, I find it to be the toughest part of the race. It’s sort of like running on the beach, except without the beauty of the crashing waves and well-muscled surfers for distraction.

It was actually somewhat of a relief when the hill climb started, because it meant the sandy flats were over. I also considered it an additional bonus that this hill was steep enough to justify walking most of it.

Typically on this hill climb, there is music booming loudly from the aid station at the top. They play cheesy, inspirational tunes with a good beat. You know—the theme from Rocky, We are the Champions, whatever. The louder the music gets, the more relief you feel because you know you’re getting closer. This year there was no music. In fact, the entire summit aid station was decidedly more sedate than usual: no party, no people in hula skirts, no cheerleaders lining the hill. I’m not criticizing; I know it’s tough to pull that kind of thing together. Its absence just made me realize how much I had enjoyed it in previous years. And it was during this silence, my head supplying its own music, that I realized what a poor choice Dashboard Confessional had been for my pre-race tunes.

The second big hill

Once runners reach the top of the hill and start heading down, the real fun of this race begins. This is where the sand becomes your friend. I know I’m always talking about what a poor downhill runner I am, and it’s true. I am. But on this course I feel like the goddess of the downhills. With all the deep sand, you can fly. The impact from each foot fall is absorbed in an additional slide through sand, keeping the runner from accelerating too much without expending much energy. With all the sliding, it feels a little like skiing. I don’t worry about falling—just going fast. Plus, there are also a few short, very steep stretches down the hill, followed by short, steep uphills. You can really let go on these downs, because you immediately channel that energy to bring you up the other side.

It was during this play time, that I looked back to see the woman in the green shorts was still back there. Honestly, I was surprised. I figured I’d blown her away on the uphill. Guess not. We only had 3 miles to go, so it was time to get serious. When the trail leveled out, I did my best not to slacken my pace.

I pushed hard through the flats and into the finish. It was definitely the strongest effort I’ve made at this race. I finished in 2:10. I was initially a little disappointed, since I had been hoping to finish in two hours. Still, I shaved 8 minutes of my PR for the course, which is an improvement of about 37 seconds per mile. I was a solid ten minutes faster than my time from last year. I’d like to think two hours is still a possibility, but the truth is, I pushed pretty hard in this race. Even with more focused training and an actual taper, I’m not sure dropping another ten minutes will ever happen.

After the race I had a chance to hang out with Turi and Sarah. While I was loading my plate at the brilliant breakfast burrito bar, the woman in the green shorts came up to say hi. We both immediately confessed to working hard in order to try to beat the other, and somehow that set things off on a friendly note. She was Becky, from BC, Canada, and she was currently solo on a road trip to find some running and paddling adventures. It sounded brilliant! She’d never done any ultras, and was considering a 50K down in Lone Pine this coming weekend. We sat around the rest of the morning in the Carson sunshine, discussing strategies for ultras while she peppered me with questions.

Is there anything better than talking about running with other runners?

Normally by this time my head is filled with a to-do list for the rest of my day, and I head straight home. Today, I was one of the last to go. Becky, Sarah and Theresa and I sat around chatting and munching long after the burrito bar had been packed up. I knew my bad mood lurked beyond the haven of this race, and I knew this time with other runners, basking in the post-race glow, would be the best part of my weekend.

Sarah and me

On the drive home, the malaise crept slowly back, but as soon as I laid my eyes on the lake, I felt its serenity sooth me. I wondered if Becky had made it up to see Tahoe. Only then did it occur to me that I absolutely should have brought her back to Truckee with me. Duh! She was a cool, outdoorsy woman, on a road trip, looking for adventure, with three whitewater boats strapped to the top of her truck. What better partner for fun?

Becky ("the woman in the green shorts") and me

When I was around 22, I spent an entire year incurring major hospitality debt. First, my friend Charlie and I drove all around the country for 6 months, staying with many friends, parents of friends, cousins of parents of friends …well, you get the idea. Then I spent 5 months backpacking and was given innumerable gifts and favors from so many strangers. It was a year that gave me a strong faith in humanity (and trust me, I cling to it when I see some of the shit that goes on in the world today). I always promised that when I had my own home, I would always take in adventurous strangers, as people had done for me. I have done a bit of it, but it is definitely a life-long journey. It was because of these experiences that I could appreciate the beauty of Becky’s trip, and all the more reason I should have realized that she should spend a few nights in Truckee! So, Becky, if you’re reading this, please email me!! (gbrugman@hotmail.com) Come stay in Tahoe!

I’m sure this is apparent by now, but it was quite a satisfying morning all around. The rest of my day, I felt just wasted. It’s been a few months since I’ve pushed things like that, and even though I was non-functional that afternoon, it felt good.

Thanks, as always, to the Tahoe Mountain Milers and Sage Brush Stompers running clubs for putting on this killer race. You guys do a great job!

Theresa and Sarah


Something about this scene from the finish area strikes me as classic Carson Valley: the giant elm, the fence, the green fields with grazing cattle, the dry hills in the distance. I know I'm romanticizing it, but sometimes it still feels like the "old west" down here.

To an Athlete Dying Young

"Every man dies. But not every man truly lives."
-William Wallace in "Braveheart"

I’ve had the topic for this post swimming around in my head for about a month now—ever since the death of pro skier and Tahoe local Shane McConkey, who died in a skiing accident on March 26 in the Dolomites of Italy. I guess I’m not sure what the topic actually is, or what I truly think about it, which is why this post has remained unwritten until now. I’ve learned, however, that sometimes it is the act of writing itself that helps us figure out just what it is that we are thinking. So…here goes.

In my own writing, I frequently return to the question “why do I run?” It’s not so much that I don’t know the answer (although I’m not always sure that I do) but that I want to make sure I don’t forget it. I’ve been at this running thing a long time, and one of the bonuses that come with age is a little thing called perspective.

In case you’re not familiar with A.E. Houseman’s poem, To an Athlete Dying Young, I’ll post it below. As a teenager, this was one of my favorite poems. Yes, I was a runner even then, and I had an affinity for the author’s cynical sentiment that glory is fleeting. It did, in fact, seem better to “slip betimes away, from fields where glory does not stay,” rather than to become a runner “whom renown outran, and the name died before the man.” I don’t mean to say that I ever had a death wish. It’s just that, when you’re young, the idea of growing old (and slow) seems…sad. Twenty years later, and the idea of growing old, (and slow) still with the opportunity to run, seems beautiful.

This brings me back to Shane McConkey. Shane was a Truckee local who skied at Squaw Valley. He had been an extreme skier for his entire life, and was respected as one of the vanguards of the sport. He was also loved and admired as a member of the community, a husband and a father. I didn’t know him personally, but I had occasions to see him at events around town, and it was obvious to me that he was a passionate man who was living the live he loved.

I’ve made comparisons before between ultra-running and extreme skiing. I guess that’s what happens when you are surrounded by skiers, many of them pros. I see plenty of similarities between the two, along with sports like climbing and mountaineering. The biggest thing I think these sports have in common is the reaction of the rest of the world. When people hear of our exploits, we are most often met with the response, “you’re crazy!” And while most people mean this in a positive and often even respectful manner, it still tends to make one feel somewhat misunderstood. We are all pursuing a passion that is a bit outside the definition of what most consider normal. Interestingly, this also has the effect of causing me to adore the ultra community itself because I feel so much like I belong. These people share my passion, understand what it’s about, and never call me crazy. For skiers like Shane, living in a ski town has much the same effect, and allows one to thrive in the community.

Accidental death seems to strike a special note of tragedy, and often leaves us wondering if the victim could have, or should have, done something to change his circumstances, perhaps avoiding his fate. Earlier this winter, Squaw Valley suffered another hardship when professional ski patroller Andrew Entin died on the job during avalanche control. Caught in an avalanche that he and his partner intentionally set off, he died of trauma. He was working a route he had covered for nine years, in the safety zone, doing everything right. Sometimes accidents just happen. As the wife of a professional ski patroller, this kind of death hits pretty hard, in spite of the fact that I didn’t know Andrew or his wife personally. And when my husband worries, and tries to tell me that running 100 miles isn’t good for me or isn’t safe, my response is generally, “You hold lit explosives in your hand and throw them to set off avalanches while you’re standing on the slope!”

I don’t just say this to shut him up, (although it does typically turn out to be an effective argument). I say it to point out an important truth: I am doing what I love, just as he is doing what he loves, and I could never ask him to give that up. We worry, sure, because we care about each other. We also know that we can’t expect the other one to change who they are, just because we worry. Running is who I am, just as my husband is a skier and patroller. To ask us to live differently, would be asking us to give up who we are.

I don't run for the glory. (In case you haven't figured it out yet, there is zero glory in running.) I run because I love it and I couldn't live any way other than to pursue what I love. Even in more glamorous sports like skiing, athletes like Shane aren't doing it for the glory. Perhaps as a teenager that was part of it, but if you're still doing it when you're 39, it's because you couldn't live any other way. You have gained perspective--you already know that glory does not stay, and that it doesn't matter.

photo courtesy of shanemcconkey.org

When Shane McConkey died, this community had nothing but praise and admiration for him. People came out in droves to write letters and articles and commentary about Shane’s pioneering skiing, his positive outlook on life, and the great example he set as a father, coach and general role model for young skiers. Still, I know there are those outside the ski community, and even some quietly within, who say that fathers and husbands, mothers and wives, should not take the kinds of risks he took, that they have bigger obligations. I don’t know Sherry McConkey, but I am certain that even when their daughter was born, she did not expect Shane to give up doing what he loved. That would have been asking him to become someone other than the man she married. His obligations to his family were to love them, support them, and help them all live their lives well. I don’t think he could have accomplished that in any better way than he did.

To say that those who take these risks must wish to die young is to miss the essence of what they are doing. People who live with passion don’t want an early exit from this world; they want the most out of it. They don’t want to be left with nothing to live for. In Shane’s 39 years, he lived well, and left us all "townsmen of a stiller town."

If you haven't seen Shane's ski base jumping and wing-suit base jumping exploits from the movie "Seven Sunny Days," you should check it out here and here. It's mind blowing! The clip below however, from the movie "Push" does a better job of capturing Shane.

To an Athlete Dying Young

-A.E. Houseman

The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields were glory does not stay

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl's.

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!