There are few bigger races on an ultra-runner's calendar than the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run. Although I've never run it myself, I do live conveniently close to the race course, and thus have found myself volunteering and spectating on several occasions. This year, given the very competitive field in both the men's and women's races, I was particularly interested to see how the race would play out.
On Friday, I made my way to Squaw to help check-in pacers. I was fortunate to be working with Sophie Lewis-Robinson at "Pacer Central." Sophie is not only friendly and nice, but also much more experienced than I in the ways of Western States. She seemed to have the answers to most people's questions, and it wasn't long before her answers became my answers. (Thanks Sophie!) It was a beautiful and fun day where we greeted many friends with excitement, met new people, congratulated World 100K champions, and just generally gawked at the abundance of fast runners wandering about.
Saturday, I made my way to Michigan Bluff in time to see the front runners come through, and parked myself there for the remainder of the day.
It was hot--about 89 F when I arrived at 1:30. I knew it was still heating up, and I assume it hit close to 100 by the time we reached the heat of the day. There were people everywhere, mostly crews waiting anxiously for their runner, but also countless volunteers working the aid stations, communications, statistics, and medical tents. I was searching out some shade when I spotted Joe Palubeski, and pulled up a patch of grass behind him and his crew.
To be honest, I was really pulling for Bev to win this one, so I was anxious to hear how she was doing. I got the low-down from Joe, and I thought things sounded promising for her so far.
I socialized with many amazing runners, some of whom (like Meghan!) I met for the first time (in real life, anyway).
Here are some photos from the day, with a bit of narration on my activities and observations.
Jasper, looking strong in 3rd place.
Leigh Schmitt
Bryon Powell tweets away. Between Bryon and Matt Hart, Twitter was better at times than the official wewbcast, which had a lot of problems through the morning.
The aid station volunteers wait patiently for more runners to arrive.
Tsuyoshi Kaburagi
Gary Robbins
Erik Skaden
Anita Ortiz looked totally solid coming through. She only spent two minutes in the aid station.
Chikara Omine
AJW, surrounded by a gaggle of young, eager helpers
Mark Lantz
Bev Anderson-Abs
Bev walks out with her crew.
Tracy Moore
Krissy Moehl, headed out with her crew
Graham Cooper
Jed Tukman
Simon Mtuy
Nikki, headed to her crew station. She had the most efficient crew I'd ever seen. She was having trouble with her feet, and she had one crew member on each foot--pulling off socks, shoes, retaping, new socks and shoes--Boom! Amazing to watch.
Kevin Swisher
Meghan Arbogast
Caren Spore
Olga cheks in on Sean Meissner
Brian Morrison and Kim Gimenez
Beth Vitalis
Peter, Troy and Carol check runners into Michigan Bluff. I went over to chat with Peter, and soon realized this was the place to be. The numbers were radioed in, and we could look up who was coming just before they arrived. It was a blast to cheer for everyone by name!
Scott Dunlap tells Peter tales of puking and passing out.
Lori Lebel
Kathy D'Onofrio-Wood
The crowd at Michigan Bluff waits for the runners to arrive.
If I had known everything on this plaque, I would have done much better on Craig Thornley's quiz.
Overall, it was an exciting day. When runners come in to Michigan Bluff, they are hot, tired and exhausted from the canyons. Most people looked pretty beaten down, and it was a pleasure every time that I could bring a smile to someone's face by cheering them on.
I stopped briefly at Foresthill on my way home, and was gratified to see some of the same faces, still toughing it out.
Congratulations runners. You are all quite an inspiration.
I’ll begin this report with the obligatory apology regarding the lack of pictures. I’d left my camera at a friend’s, and didn’t discover until race morning that my husband’s camera apparently doesn’t fit into the pocket on my water bottle. So, once again, no pictures. Sorry. (Personally, I think reports with no pictures are often kind of boring, so if you choose to stop reading here, I won’t blame you. Go ahead.)
As part of my training plan for the TRT 50M in July, I chose two races in June: the Auburn Trails 50K, and the Burton Creek Trail Marathon. Both of these races were to be included as part of high-mileage training weeks. However, by the time Thursday rolled around last week, I realized that I had only run 18 miles (and wouldn’t have time for much more on Friday). How did this happen? I demanded of my self. I have no clue! came the exasperated response. Even I, a notoriously lazy and low-mileage ultrarunner, wouldn’t really call 50-55 for the week “high mileage.” (Although it would only take another 10-15 miles for the moniker to fit, in my world.)
I decided my best plan to make up for my slothful efforts would be to run hard at Auburn Trails. I was essentially well-rested, and mentally ready to push myself at something. It was a good time for a race.
I arrived at Auburn’s Overlook Park on a cool and cloudy Saturday morning with about 70 other runners. Everyone seems to be complaining about the lack of heat-training this spring, but I have been perfectly happy with the unseasonably cool temps. I don’t need heat-training for TRT!
I hesitated at my car, indecisive over my attire for the day. The forecast had said chance of rain, but it didn’t really look like it would do much more than drizzle, and it felt quite warm compared to Truckee. I briefly contemplated running in just my shorts and sports bra, but finally opted for the addition of a short-sleeved shirt. These decisions should not be made lightly you know! There were multiple reasons for my “shirt-on” choice, but, sadly, this was the most prominent:
When I see a woman toeing the line, clad in little more than shorts and a sports bra, she looks fast and I assume she will be the winner. I didn’t want anyone making those kinds of assumptions about me. Who needs that pressure!
Okay, I know this is probably just a stereotype that I have, but I swear it’s true! Let’s look at the evidence from my racing schedule so far this year:
AR 50—Well, I wasn’t near the start when the gun went off, but according to photos, all the top women were decked out in singlets covered in sponsor logos. Okay, score one against my theory.
Billy Dutton—Um, it was too cold to go sleeveless!
Diablo Marathon—Prudence: Sports bra, 1st place. Score one for my theory!
Escape From Prison Hill Half—The top two women (Elizabeth Lyles and Shannon Rahlves) both wore sports bras. Can this count as two more points for my theory?
Rock N’ River Marathon—Elizabeth Lyles: Sports bra, 1st place.
So anyway, I guess you can see where I get this idea that shirtless chicks run fast.
Gathering at the start, I saw a few familiar faces. I spotted Joe Palubeski, and scanned the crowd for the rest of Sunsweet’s “Team Red Bluff,” but they were conspicuously absent. In fact, I noticed that the vast majority of the runners were men. Where were all the women?
I positioned myself slightly back from the front line, and was soon joined by Peter Lubbers. He hadn’t been feeling well all week, and consequently he was holding back enough that I got to run the first few miles with him.
The course headed downhill for the first four and a half miles to No Hands Bridge. After crossing the bridge, we did two laps on the Olmstead Loop, beginning with a steep hill known as “K2.”
By the first hill climb, Peter had moved ahead, and I found myself running with a runner from Davis named Mark. We passed the time sharing training and racing tales until we hit Norm and Helen Klein’s aid station, about half way through the loop.
I was feeling relaxed and enjoying the weather. The wildflowers seemed abundant for this late in the year, and I wondered if that was due to the cool, wet conditions we had been experiencing.
The tallest grasses had already turned to dry wheat, but there was a new growth of green underneath. They whispered softly under the wind’s caress, rolling waves across a golden, green sea. I was running alone now, and filled with the peaceful escape of time on the trail.
At the Cool aid station, I was told that I was in second place for the women. As I headed back toward No Hands, I wondered how far ahead first place was. Approaching the aid station, there is a very short out-and-back section. I was disappointed that I didn’t see the first place woman on this section. I figured that meant she was at least five minutes ahead of me, and possibly quite a bit more.
The day was warming up a bit (although temps would top out at about 71) and I decided to leave my shirt at No Hands. At the aid station, I sucked down about my 8th GU of the day. For some reason, I ate way more Gu’s than usual for a 50K, and little else.
Hiking up K2 for the second time, I realized I needed to let go of the idea of catching first place. She could be miles ahead for all I knew.
After the hill, I was bounding pleasantly down the trail, when I remembered my pledge to run this race hard. Was I running hard? I asked myself. I only had about 13 miles to go, I figured. If this was a road marathon with only 13 miles to go, how hard would I be running? Certainly harder than this! I picked up the pace.
Somehow, making the analogy to a road marathon changed my perspective on the race. The course had a few hills, but most of it was pretty fast and runnable. It was here that I realized this axiom: Most 50K’s are more akin to a marathon than to an ultra. The flip side of this idea is that some marathons (like, um, Diablo!) have more in common with most ultras than with other marathons.
Anyway, the point is, with 13 miles to go, I finally started running at race pace.
At the next aid station, Norm asked if I wanted a tattoo. Having no clue what he was talking about, I said, “Sure.” He proceeded to whip out a sharpie and write his name on my thigh. As I stood there and laughed, he added to the artwork with hearts and arrows and such. The best part was Helen standing there rolling her eyes at him.
“Oh God,” she chided. “He thinks he’s such a big shot!”
I know Norm has a bit of a reputation as a grump, but he cracks me up. He has also done me some kindnesses over the years, and I think he’s great, in spite of the fact that he never remembers my name.
He sent me off with instructions not to bathe for a week. (I promise, Norm. I haven’t washed it off!)
I was running hard now, and both my heart rate and breathing had increased noticeably. The downhills were smooth, and I felt awesome.
After a short while, I approached a pair of runners ahead of me. I was shocked when I realized that it was Peter and the first woman, who turned out to be Lainie Callahan-Mattoon. I had totally given up on catching her, and now suddenly here she was.
I gave a few friendly words and ran right on by them. I felt a little rude not slowing to chat, but I had a great pace going and I didn’t want to break my momentum. As I headed down the trail, Peter called out behind me, “Watch out for Lainie! She has the afterburners!”
I contemplated the fact that I was now leading the women’s race, and I felt kind of nervous about it. It’s not unusual for me to compete for a top five spot in a race, but when was the last time I had worked for first place? I’d won the Burton Creek 20 miler last year, but I’d led the entire thing from start to finish and never once saw any of my competition. This was way more nerve-racking.
I tried to focus on just holding the same, steady pace, but the entire time I was wondering if Lainie would catch me. As I ran into the Cool aid station, I could hear people cheering for her behind me, so I knew she was still close.
I didn’t waste any time at the aid station, and as I ran out, I looked back and still couldn’t see her on her way in.
It was mostly downhill to No Hands, which isn’t really my strength in running. I figured if I could hold her off until I crossed the river, I could probably hammer the last 4.5 uphill to the Overlook and hold my ground.
I moved through the aid station with a mission, and I think the volunteers could see it in my eyes. As soon as I approached, they jumped up and moved fast to get me out of there quickly. They did a great job!
As I ran up the hill on the other side of No Hands, I glanced back at the deserted trail behind me. For some reason, I was surprised to be still in the lead.
I had recalled this section of trail to be fairly steep, but as it turned out, it was quite a runnable uphill. I stayed focused, and enjoyed the feeling of really pushing myself.
Near the top, I passed Roger Laesure, and he called out to my retreating form, “Oh, you’re killing me, Pippi Longstocking!” I had to laugh. Do the pigtails keep me from looking like a serious runner or something?
As I crossed the line, the ever-smiling Jeff Barbier was there to cheer me on and congratulate me! Hooray, I had support! Hmm, it felt just like AR 50, finishing in this same park.
Robert Matthis immediately handed me a certificate for a pair of Innov-8 shoes, and I was stoked. RD’s take note here—please give useful prizes like this instead of plaques! It doesn’t even have to be as fancy as a pair of shoes, (although that is pretty darn cool). It should just be useful, you know, like socks, or insulated coffee mugs, or whatever!
I had a wedding reception to attend in the evening, but I still had enough time for a little socializing. I sat around in the sun with Joe, Peter, Roger, Greg Bomhoff, and a few of the other men and enjoyed Linda’s freshly grilled hamburger and a Coke. Such a nice way to end the day.
I was a little disappointed with my finishing time of 5:44, until I found out that the course was nearly 3 miles longer than 50K. Last year’s course started from the fire station in Cool, and ran about three and a half loops on the same stretch of trail. This year, we started at the overlook, ran down to No Hands, and then did only two loops before running back up to the overlook. I didn’t ask Robert why he changed the course, but I suspect it had something to do with the novelty of getting to run across historic No Hands Bridge twice, plus the scenic aspects of that stretch of the Western States trail. It also made for a cool race logo. I have to say, I think I like this course better, in spite of the extra miles (or perhaps because of them).
I felt tired, and it was a good feeling. I was happy with my day.
I’m pretty sure I can attribute my win to one of two things (or perhaps the combination of both). It was either A.) running with no shirt for the second half of the race (score another point for my theory!) or B.) Norm Klein’s tattoo. We’ll never know which one was the deciding factor, but sometimes Norm works an aid station at TRT, and I definitely plan on asking him for a tattoo on race day.
Thanks to Robert, Linda and their team of volunteers for another professional event!
To make up for my lack of photos, here is some footage from the wedding reception later that evening. It was a cowboy themed party, thus the mechanical bull. If you can’t tell in the video, I was having a hell of a good time.
Tomorrow is the last day of school. The kids have been counting down the days all month, and so have most of the teachers for that matter. Long nights of homework, studying for tests, writing tests, writing papers, grading papers and reading, always reading, give way to swimsuits, boats, long trails, gardening, outdoor concerts and farmer’s markets. The mood at school is a mixture of last minute stress and spring fever. In a building where everyone is so desperate to move on to the next phase that some have already turned that page, I feel slightly alone. For the first time in my life, I’m not ready for it to be over.
Last year was my first year at my current school, and it was my first year teaching high school English. (I’d previously taught all subjects in a seventh grade classroom at a different school, but I knew English was my favorite subject.) Not only was I teaching a multi-grade (6-8) language arts class, I was also taking on three classes I’d never before taught, (9th grade, 10th grade, and 12th grade English) and planning the curriculum for all four. That would have been exciting actually, even if stressful, but unfortunately the attitude and behavior of my 9th and 10th grade students broiled the year into the most challenging I’d ever experienced. It wasn’t pretty, and in October of that year I was certain that I would never make it to June.
There is something to be said however, for the notion that the achievements for which we fight the hardest offer the sweetest victories. By the end of the year, I’d seen a noticeable improvement in their writing, they were reading (and discussing!) the books, and we had developed a mutual, if grudging, respect for one another. I felt like I’d climbed Everest, and I was filled with relief upon arriving back at base camp in one piece. The onset of summer that year was sweet, to put it mildly.
On the first day of school this year, I immediately knew things would be different. The hallways held both order and excitement, the air smelled fresh and fearless, and despite my multi-grade classes, I had very few of the same students as the previous year.
When I think of my teaching experience this year, I think of one class: Middle School Language Arts. My high school classes went quite well, but at heart, I am a middle school teacher.
People always think I’m a saint for teaching middle school, but I can’t imagine a better age group. Middle schoolers are so full of life. They’re not as cynical, as snide, or as “me, me, me!” as teenagers, but their intellect explodes in comparison to the younger kids. They’re still children, just embarking across that tenuous bridge of adolescence toward adulthood, but they’re so driven, so intent on becoming someone, and figuring out just who that someone is. They’re exuberant, silly, smart, and they make me laugh every single day.
In a workshop I once attended, I was given a writing prompt that asked me to describe the space where I was my most genuine self—my comfort zone. Other people described bedrooms, time with family, and vacation destinations. My first inclination was to describe running on a long mountain trail. What I ended up describing was my middle school classroom. That is absolutely where I am my “best self.”
I am teacher, guide, counselor and role model. I want to do everything I can for these kids. I want to be perfect.
And because they, too, are working to be the best students they can be, they allow me a great opportunity: I get to be Gretchen.
I (mostly) don’t have to be the strict disciplinarian. I don’t have to prod them with the threat of bad grades, or cajole them into doing their work. I don’t have to be the only one in the room excited about a project. I am teacher and student. I am 35 and I am 13. I am exuberant, silly, smart, and I make them laugh every single day.
One of my favorite projects that we tackled this year was something called Script Frenzy. It challenges the author to spend the month of April writing a screenplay. For adults, the page count goal is 100 pages. For students, I worked with them individually to set their own goals. They ranged from 15 pages, to 45 pages.
With my students during our "It's a Wrap!" party after Script Frenzy. The certificates they're holding say "Let it be hereby known that [name] author of [name of screenplay] courageously threw caution to the wind and stepped up to the challenge of writing a script in the month of April. We salute the named scribe's creativity and commitment in undertaking this deadline-driven script writing adventure."
Prior to taking on this project, I knew absolutely nothing about writing a screenplay. Fortunately, the Young Writer’s Program at Script Frenzy offered a wonderful array of lessons and teaching materials on the topic. The students were daunted at first, as was I. We dove in together, and emerged, 30 days later, as real screenwriters. (Yes, this was one of those projects that I did along with the kids. If I can’t do it myself, how can I expect to teach it, right?) They were so proud of themselves at the end of that month. You can imagine how I felt.
I think there’s something about teaching writing and literature that allows for great human connection and insight. We have to trust each other enough to be honest with our personal thoughts. I know so much about these kids based on what they write and based on their sagacity in regard to literature. I feel privileged when they take that risk to share something personal, some pieces of themselves.
They’ve even inspired me in other ways. Every Thursday before Language Arts, we gather to play our guitars together. Most of them are better musicians than I, and frequently I find that it’s the best hour of my week. In fact, they have arranged to play some songs at our end of the year beach party, and have insisted that I play with them. I can’t believe I haven’t talked my way out of this one. (I managed to avoid it at our school Christmas party.) I explained that their parents only want to see them play, not me, but you know they don’t care what their parents want, right?
So picture me tomorrow, on the beach at Lake Tahoe, with seven 13-year-olds, rippin' School’s Out by Alice Cooper. Seriously.
The reason I don’t want it to be over is that I know this year can never be recaptured. Most of these students are 8th-graders, and many of them are going to different schools next year. That’s what happens when you go to a charter school. But even those that will be back won’t be the same. They’ll be freshmen, throwing off the shroud of middle school like a forgotten dream. They will see themselves differently. Three months from now, and they will be so different.
So I will treasure this year for what it was, and I won’t forget it.
Every year, school teaches me many things: My high school classes showed me how far I’ve come since last year. My middle school classes taught me to hold my students, and myself, to the highest standards.And this year, as with every year, I came away with this one big truth: I have so much more to learn. And that, is a beautiful thing.
I'll leave you with one of my favorite poems about teaching middle school.
Like Lilly Like Wilson
-by Taylor Mali
I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly Wilson, the recovering like addict,
the worst I've ever seen.
So bad the whole eighth grade
started calling her Like Lilly Like Wilson.
'Till I declared my class a Like-Free Zone
and she could not speak for days.
But when she finally did, it was to say,
Mr. Mali, this is . . . so hard.
Now I have to . . . think before I . . . say anything.
Imagine that, Lilly.
It's for your own good.
Even if you don't like . . .
it.
I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly is writing a research paper for me about how gays
like shouldn't be allowed to adopt children.
I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Like Lilly Like Wilson at my office door.
Lilly's having trouble finding sources,
which is to say, ones that back her up:
They all argue in favor of what I thought I was against.
And it took all four years of college,
three years of graduate school,
and every incidental teaching experience I have ever had
to let out only,
That's a real interesting problem, Lilly.
But what do you propose to do about it?
That's what I want to know.
And the eighth-grade mind is a beautiful thing;
Like a new-born baby's face, you can often see it
change before your very eyes.
I can't believe I'm saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I'd like to switch sides.
And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it! That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn't so much matter what you pack them with
so long as they open
at the right time.
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you.
So I finally taught someone something,
namely, how to change your mind.
And learned in the process that if I ever change the world
it's going to be one eighth grader at a time.
When you live in a mountain resort town, life swings in a seasonal fashion. And we don’t just have the standards: ski season, mud season, lake season and fall. Things are further categorized into tourist season (winter and summer) and the off-season (spring and fall). This is Tahoe in the month of May: The skiers are gone, but the kids are still in school. The trails emerge from hibernation, while a scant few locals quietly explore them. The absence of campers, hikers and mountain bikers means dogs rule the parks and trails leash-free. Too cold for water skiing, but warm enough to sun bathe. Each day is a peaceful slice of off-season heaven.
With the onset of Memorial Day Weekend, the off-season is official over. So yesterday, the Friday before the weekend, I thought it a fitting celebration to go for a long run on one of my favorite local trails—the Flume Trail.
Cap and I set out for 22 miles of mountain bliss. In the summer, the Flume is one of the most popular trails in Tahoe, and for good reason. Yesterday, we saw a total of 5 people. (Two of them were ultra-running friends from Truckee, out for a training run in preparation for the TRT 50K.) The weather was a perfect 72, the trails were dry, and yet it was quiet as a winter morning after a storm.
There was so little snow, in fact, that we decided to make it 24 miles by venturing on to the Tahoe Rim Trail to run over Marlette Peak. This led to a bit of adventuring while navigating across the snow. I couldn’t have asked for a day filled with more solitude, beauty and fun, with my favorite training partner to wish a fond farewell to the season.
Cap trots along Marlette Lake
Cap checks out the view of Tahoe from the Flume Trail
Happy Gretchen on the Flume!
Emerging from the snow onto the summit of Marlette Peak.
Today, I happily made the trek down to Foresthill to help out at the Western States training camp. It too, was a celebration of the change in seasons. Peace and solitude are the sustinance of my trail time, but friends are the highlight. It seemed like almost every runner I knew was out on the Western States trail this morning!
I helped out Bob and Margie Read, along with a wonderful crew, checking in runners at the Deadwood aid station. Many of you asked why I wasn't running. Among other reasons: I got to greet, hug, and say hi to every single one of you! That never happens for me when I'm actually doing the running, and how fun is that!
Everyone was having such a great time. The weather couldn't have been better. I met a ton of wonderful people, whom I look forward to working with again at the race. Basically, for me, it was a celebration of the running community. You guys rock!
When I was a little girl, I used to love a show on PBS called The Magic of Oil Painting. I’d watch with wide eyes as Bill Alexander spent thirty minutes creating, what appeared to me to be a masterpiece. It truly was magic. One of the catch phrases that Bill, a portly, gray haired gentleman with a thick accent, used frequently was this: “In order to show light, you have to have dark!” I’m not much of an artist myself, but that idea has always stayed with me as kind of a general philosophy for life. Without darkness, there would be no contrast, and the light would go unappreciated and unnoticed.
If the preceding week of rain and general dreariness was the dark, then this past weekend was certainly the light. I welcomed with open arms what seemed to be the heralding of another spectacular Tahoe summer.
Andrew and I decided on Saturday to take the dogs to the Emigrant Trail—one of the first to be completely snow-free this time of year. We took our dog Cap, our neighbor’s crazy one-year-old lab Mary, a pair of running shoes for me, and a mountain bike for Andrew. This was our first attempt to turn my long run into a family affair, and although it was a mellow pace for Andrew, I’d say it was rather successful.
After the dogs and I were thoroughly exercised, we showered and headed off to Squaw Valley for the annual springtime event: Pond Skimming! This event is classic Squaw Valley. Skiers and boarders ride down the hill to a very small jump and attempt to ski across a good sized pond. Participants are in costume, and there are some crazy antics, to be sure. I saw pro skiers, teachers from my school, students of mine, and friends all getting soaking wet in the name of a good time.
Party time at Squaw
It was a weekend full of sunshine and smiles. And as one of my eighth-graders, Alissa, keeps reminding me, “Only nine more days of school!”
At this point, I feel like writing about approximately a thousand other things besidesReno'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!
Jasper, looking strong in 3rd place. 
Leigh Schmitt
Bryon Powell tweets away. Between Bryon and Matt Hart, Twitter was better at times than the official wewbcast, which had a lot of problems through the morning.
Tsuyoshi Kaburagi
Gary Robbins
Erik Skaden
Chikara Omine
AJW, surrounded by a gaggle of young, eager helpers
Mark Lantz
Bev Anderson-Abs
Bev walks out with her crew.
Tracy Moore
Krissy Moehl, headed out with her crew
Peter, Troy and Carol check runners into Michigan Bluff. I went over to chat with Peter, and soon realized this was the place to be. The numbers were radioed in, and we could look up who was coming just before they arrived. It was a blast to cheer for everyone by name!
Scott Dunlap tells Peter tales of puking and passing out. 
