In Other News...

Carson at Costco Optical

I was trying to think of something clever to announce my brief return to blogland, but alas, nothing. Much has happened since January 2010 - We welcomed the birth of our second son, Carson Ray, just a few minutes into the new year, I left my job as a geologist with a large corporation and started my own consulting company, I discovered a large pocket of monster quartz crystals while on a training run which spiraled into a gem collecting obsession, resulting in a drop-off in my training mileage. Needless to say, the urge to run was always present, and I'm currently in the opening stages of a 'comeback'. I've signed up for a 50-miler in April 2012, and have struck a fragile balance between miles and stones. Much of this stuff deserves posts of their own and may get some extended treatment in the future.

Monster Smokies

In the meantime, loads of 'sorries' go out to those who commented on previous posts only to hang in limbo while moderation notices went to my now defunct corporate address. My music site is also a memory, but the free song downloads will soon find a new home, and I'll post a link when those are ready. (Edit: Here's the link!) Plus I need to figure out all of the new Blogger bells and whistles that have been added since I was away. Good times.

Looking forward to seeing you on the trails.

Kirk

(cough) May (cough) (cough)

Yeah, I’m still kicking. Work is in the midst of a spring fury, and fire academy is in full swing (or in firespeak, 'fully involved'). The weather has been idyllic, and the long days beg for more grandiose impressions in this ball of clay I call our property. Oh, and there’s this little kid named unGuy pushing his truck up and down the cobbly paths I’ve created. Did I mention that I’m a trailrunner? These days my runs are few and far between, but stuffed with enjoyment and void of injury, forging yet a deeper appreciation for time I once took for granted. With a few exceptions, my racing calendar is a blank slate. Instead of jumping into the old standbys year after year, the idea of exploring new terrain, with no premise of what lies around the bend, holds a fair sense of wonderment. In place of mileage, pace times, and placement are music, vistas, and running to run another day. Only a select few are able to combine these successfully. A common question offered to runners is ‘Why do you run ?’, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard the same answer twice. When asked, I’m also likely to give an indefinite response, and I assume it’s because the nature of my love for running ebbs and flows with my current state of mind. When running becomes a chore, the culprit is usually some other aspect of my life that has gone amiss. But there are times when I’m traveling some unfamiliar terrain and everything appears to be in sync. If only I could eke out a few more minutes in my day so this feeling would linger for just a little while longer.

Moabilization

I'm back on the wagon with the latest race report from the Moab Red Hot 50K. The race marked a marginal shift in my priorities as a trailrunner. Stay tuned for a contemplative account of this Valentine's Day adventure.

Needles District, Utah

Sliding Down That Pole Will Be Fun

My 2009 race schedule recently took a bit of an interesting turn when I joined the local volunteer fire department. Basically, my Wednesday nights and many of my Saturdays will be spent at the academy tying knots, climbing ladders and putting out fires in fake buildings until the end of June, which means Fruita, Gateway and Kettle are out this year and Ice Age, Big Horn, and Silver Rush are in! I'm already there.

My goals for the year are to stay healthy, enjoy my family and take in the scenery. I hope your 2009 is a prosperous one, too.

Aspen, unGuy and Kirk at the Elk Creek FD Open House

Getting One's Bearings

As I strolled in from a run on a typically cool and quiet evening, I thought it odd that the lights were on at our neighbors Gary and Kim’s, especially this time of night, but I coasted up our driveway and a flight of stairs to slip quietly into the house. Aspen had long been asleep and the dogs were closed in with her. As I was hanging my running clothes I could hear the mutts making a commotion in the bedroom. I let them out, as not to wake her, thinking they were excited to see me. Once I opened the door, they bolted towards the patio, but I had closed the screen door, preventing them from going any further. They paced excitedly from the front to the patio doors in almost a frenzied state, the tempered ‘mruff…..mruff’ warning barks threatening to rouse Aspen from sleep. Finally, I flipped on the outside light, slid open the door and watched as the dogs peeled out, their nails treading in vain to turn the corner towards the patio gate. Fortunately for them the gate was closed, because on the driveway below was about a 400-lb black bear, dragging a full bag of trash away from the house. I had forgotten to close one of the garage doors for the night and he snuck in for a late-night snack. When the lights came on, he scuttled toward the nearest tree and attempted to climb it, before abandoning the idea and galloping down the driveway, claws clicking on the asphalt. The dogs were frantic by now, and Aspen stepped out on the porch, rubby-eyed and confused. I looked across the street to see the outlines of Gary and Kim, and I discovered that the bear had also paid them a visit. Apparently one of their burros, Mikey, spooked him over to our place. The encountered occurred so swiftly, I didn’t have time to get the camera. But the ensuing adrenaline rush will not be hibernating anytime soon.

Painful Lessons in Humanity

Note: I’m still working on the Leadville Trail Marathon race report, but in the meantime I offer this short anecdote. Enjoy.


This past week Aspen and I celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary, and unfortunately most of the events surrounding this commemoration will not be remembered fondly, rather with disgust tempered by resolve. This year’s occasion loosely coincided with the grand opening of a sushi restaurant in Conifer. We had been salivating over the prospect of such an establishment in our own town for months, after years of frequenting various sushi dens throughout metro Denver with no clear favorite (ok, Osaka Sushi is mine). Of course, jamming a piece of raw fish in my mouth at $2 a pop does not sit well with a guy who used to eat an entire meal for that amount, so we only indulge on special occasions and during happy hour when prices are relatively cheap.

This was our Plan B. My tragic Plan A was to surprise Aspen by arranging a candlelight dinner at one of our most favorite Chinese restaurants. The place is a bit of a dive, but the food is great, and the owner always greets us at the door and routinely sends a complimentary glass of wine or dessert to our table. However, I assumed he would only recognize me by face, so I drove to the eatery a few days before the magical date in hopes of presenting him my idea in person. I had called ahead to confirm that he would be there when I arrived, only to find that he was out making deliveries and would return shortly. In the meantime, I sat in the waiting area and chatted with his ten-year-old son, a bashfully friendly kid tending to the few customers dining nearby. I asked him about school and his outside interests as the time whiled away. After about thirty minutes I began to look at my watch, since Aspen would soon be expecting me at home. Around then the conversation drifted to a subject I was not prepared to explore, involving him being physically abused by his father. I fidgeted uncomfortably as the boy matter-of-factly alluded to an incident when his dad punished him as a five-year-old (and this was much more than a spanking). I continued to ask questions, while secretly fearful of their replies, until I could no longer justify the wait. I excused myself and made a hasty retreat to the car. My thoughts raced as I sped home in disbelief. Did I misinterpret the boy’s story? Is this commonplace or even accepted in Chinese culture? Should I say something to someone? For the next few days I struggled with the idea of this man with an outwardly kind and caring demeanor, hiding the soul of a coward. I questioned what would provoke a father to strike his five-year-old son and wondered if I could be capable of carrying out such a shameful act.

That Friday, around 6PM, I pulled into the parking lot at the new sushi place with a half-hour of happy hour to spare. Aspen had just arrived and was relaxing at a table on the patio, while Nick dined on one of his favorite meals of shells and cheese. I noticed two other couples with young children, including one seated at the table next to us with two girls about two and four years old, along with a man who looked to be their grandfather. It was a typical cool summer day in Conifer, and everyone appeared to be relaxed and in great spirits. As Aspen and I have enjoyed some of our deepest discussions at restaurants, I felt comfortable disclosing the events that had unfolded a few days before. The experience had taken its toll on my disposition, and I needed to tell someone. I expected she would then understand why my initial plan fell through. What I didn’t expect was that I would break into tears after relating what I had learned, as if the weight on my conscience had suddenly been lifted. Once I regained my composure, I apologized for my terrible timing, and we talked briefly about it before moving on to another (and more cheerful) subject. I had effectively destroyed the mood, and it was only a glimpse of what was to come.

A teenaged boy filled our water glasses, and I asked him to send out the waiter. Aspen was already enjoying a glass of wine, and I needed some alcohol in my system to temper what had just transpired. We soon became aware that something was amiss with the wait service. First, we were informed that the happy hour prices would not take effect for another few weeks. My beer showed up about fifteen minutes later, and we weren’t able to place our food order until we had been seated for about thirty. We both chalked it up to ‘working the kinks out on opening day’ and made the best of it by entertaining Nick and eavesdropping on the other patrons dining on the patio. It was obvious that the mother of the two girls at the table next to us was becoming increasingly irritated as time wore on. Eventually, I sensed the same frustration in a few of the other customers, as the wait staff continued to bungle orders and make repeated apologies for the delays in the kitchen. After about an hour, the waiter brought out a portion of our meal. His hands were visibly shaking from the verbal onslaught of disgruntled diners. Then the manager made an appearance to reassure a couple that they would shortly receive their meal, offering to comp their drinks. The grandfather stood up and muttered something about ‘going to the kitchen to see what’s taking so long’ and disappeared. The father of a family seated behind me held out a plate of sushi and proclaimed loudly that he didn’t order it and anyone was welcome to it.

By now, it was getting past Nick’s bedtime, and we were struggling to keep him entertained, allowing him to splash his hands in our glasses of water and taking him on short excursions away from the patio. The woman next to us was getting more vocal in her displeasure with the service and took every opportunity to justify it to all within earshot. Her behavior was making Aspen visibly upset. We looked at each other, and I said calmly, ‘Let’s go.’ The waiter passed by as we gathered our things, and I politely explained to him that we hadn’t received our entire order but needed to get our son home to bed. Aspen offered him some words of encouragement as she signed the credit card slip, and we stood to exit the restaurant. Against my nature, I dealt some parting words to the obnoxious woman:

‘It’s only a meal.’

She sat there in disbelief as I repeated myself, and then some. 'It’s only a meal. It’s not worth embarrassing yourself’. The waiter was standing next to the table, and his eyes grew large as I unleashed my brief but pointed reminder. Not to be outdone, the woman replied with some fallacious statement about us leaving because we received our order before anyone else. I had already said my peace, so her counterattack was fruitless.

As we walked to the car, I noticed that Aspen was in tears. I drew close to console her, underestimating the impact this woman had made. Sobbing, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so glad we’re not like that.’

‘Me too, Babe. Me too.’

Race Report: The Kettle Moraine 100K

There’s a popular tiding shared by those who have completed a long ultra with those who are considering one: “You're never the same again”. If being reduced from a confident skyrunner to a blubbering mass of sweat and drool qualifies, then I suppose the message was received loud and clear. The disintegration took place at this year’s Kettle Moraine 100 in La Grange, WI. Several factors reinforced my decision to tackle such an extraordinary event: The race start was only a few miles from my childhood home with the race date coinciding closely with both my son’s first birthday and a memorial service for a loved one. Aspen and I decided to take some vacation time and spend it with family, while touring the scenic byways of NE, IA, MI and WI. This trip alone deserves its own post, but I’ll reserve that discourse for another time. Nevertheless, the events leading up to the race would resurface as I considered the miles ahead of me during some of the most dire mental and physical challenges I've ever faced in my forty years of life.

Our first destination was a small country church in Reading, MI to attend a memorial service for my nephew Rowan, who was born prematurely on February 17, 2008 and died the following day. The service was brief and subdued, and the weight of cradling my own healthy son while my sister and her family openly suffered over the loss of theirs once again brought forth a flood of mixed emotions.

We were able to spend some time with my family before moving on through MI, with Mom joining Nick in the backseat and providing limitless entertainment for the little guy at every waking moment. Our travels brought us to Holland, home of my alma mater, where we spent a couple days with my Auntie Ann and Uncle Gary and family, marking the last day of pleasant weather for the entire trip. Eventually, we made our way north along the Lake Michigan coast, into the Upper Peninsula and then south into WI to my hometown of Elkhorn, where my parents still reside.

Unmanned aid station? Nope, it's a self-serve asparagus stand!

On Friday afternoon, the day before the race, I was posting Kettle webcast info on my blog when I received a somewhat frantic cell call from last year’s 100-mile winner, Mark Tanaka. I had offered him a place to stay while seeking a repeat win, which he unexpectedly accepted. He was still at O’Hare Airport and itching get to WI and into race mode. Shortly after the call, the wail of a tornado alarm plastered the neighborhood. I hadn’t heard one of these since I was a kid!

Mark arrived around dinnertime, and immediately asked for a glass of water, then a refill. I was thinking, ‘Wow, this guy's really thirsty’. I soon learned about his version of heat training, which involved a 2-hour drive in a Jetta with the heat on, dressed in heavy sweat clothes. Given the recent work schedule he had posted on his popular blog, it appeared he was preparing for this race like a student cramming for a test. Items succumbing to Mark’s ensuing caloric free-for-all included a couple grilled Sheboygan brats and a hefty slice of ice cream pie. For a little guy, he had quite an appetite! I broke my ‘No Spicy Food before Race Day’ rule and enjoyed a brat, too. Oh, so fatty and wholesome. After the meal, Mark, my Dad and I drove up to the La Grange General Store to collect our race packets, where Mark was instantly transformed into a celebrity by Race Director Timo Yanacheck and several others involved in the registration process. It was great to view first-hand the positive impression he had made in the 2007 event and how warmly they received the reigning champion.

We made a brief visit to the Nordic Hiking and Ski Trail to survey the race start before the mosquitoes forced a hasty retreat to the car. Casing my last race involved sand, cacti, and exposed bedrock cliffs; this was chest-heaving humidity, poison ivy and skeeters. What a contrast, and an extreme I was willing to accept. Once home, the night ended quickly for us trailwarriors, I to my old bedroom, and Mark to one of my sisters’ bedrooms, since converted to a sewing niche. I hoped the dolls and frilly dresses didn’t overly threaten his masculinity.

Just after 5AM, Mark and I left the house for Nordic, the morning’s glow heavy with water vapor. The race was still an hour away, and I already felt as if I were breathing through a wet sock. Upon reaching the parking lot, the pre-race furor was in full swing. I emptied my race bag, slipping on my hydration vest and loading it with Shot Bloks, Vitalyte servings, and the BlackBerry. I had decided to spare the iPod and place all of my music on the BB, thus ridding myself of few more ounces of redundant weight. My Dad arrived in an RV shortly before 6AM, and I handed him what was left of my race supplies, including a printout showing my expected times of arrival at each of the crew-accessible aid stations. Just in case, I had also prepared two drop bags for the Emma Carlin (Miles 15.5 and 47.3) and Scuppernong (Mile 31.4) aid stations. Mom, Aspen and Nick were to arrive later at Emma Carlin.

The race kicked off amidst a chorus of cheers, and a mass of 100K and 100-mile runners made their way through a grassy area, slightly more treacherous than a local farmer’s back forty. I took a few minutes to find my stride, which was metered by a Podrunner mix that may have been too aggressive for these conditions. After a couple miles, the hills began to take on a more distinct shape, for which the acronym PUDs (pointless up and downs) proved to be an accurate descriptor. Pointless or not, I enjoyed this section since it culminated many miles of training in the foothills where I live. The downhills were carefree, and to the average flatlander I may have looked like a crazed lunatic, flailing down each hill as if trying to outrun a landslide.

This unfettered behavior would not pass without recourse, however. Around Mile 3, I felt a twinge of pain on the outside of my left knee, and I remembered having this same sensation a few days after Gateway. I had been tending to this other hotspot on the inside of the knee, which magically disappeared a couple days before the race, and I wondered if they were somehow related. Nevertheless, I ignored the issue and carried on.

(Note: Until the splits are posted on the race website, times are approximate)

I arrived at Tamarack (Mile 5.1) at 44:22, already 10 minutes ahead of schedule. A short while later I reached Bluff (7.4) with a few more minutes in the tank. My Dad was waiting on the back end of the aid station, along with another dozen or so spectators. ‘Sixth place!’ he shouted as I strode by.

Since I was carrying about fifty ounces of water in my pack, plus twenty more in a handheld, I didn’t spend much time at either Tamarack or Bluff, topping off my bottle at each oasis, including the unmanned Horseriders (12.3). From here to the next aid station, I passed a few more runners, including Charles Corfield from Boulder, who is known for his well-paced, intelligent racing style, and Dave Wakefield from Topeka, KS and Paul Schoenlaub from St. Joseph, MO, who appeared to be running together. Dave mentioned they were sponsored by Salomon, and we talked shop for a while. I was silently envious of their sponsorship since I run in Salomons but may no longer be able to afford them.

I cruised into Emma Carlin (15.5) at 2:24:30 (-15:00), and as I expected, I had arrived before any of my family. I was so distracted by their absence that I forgot about the drop bag waiting with fresh supplies, and I passed through the aid station without stopping. I must have triggered an exodus because four or five runners appeared behind me as I left the area. All of them had been somewhat rested and easily passed me, including brothers Joel and Mark Dziedzic, of West Bend, WI. As the others pulled ahead, Joel and I exchanged the usual pleasantries, before I felt I should back off of my pace. I watched as the 'peloton' assumed various incarnations for the next couple miles until it permanently disappeared into the foliage.

Around Mile 18.7 I entered the prairie. I had been warned about this section, that there’s no shade and the sun’s heat forces humidity into unbearable digits as it evaporates the headwaters of the Scuppernong River. It was painful to learn that the warnings were quite accurate. The humidity was so harsh that my cache of Shot Bloks began to ooze through the mesh pocket of my vest. The only redeeming qualities of this no-man’s land was its uniformity and views of the adjoining forest. Soon I began to recognize my surroundings and realized that I was now running on a section my Dad, Nick and I had snowshoed the previous Christmas. That day, the snow was heavy and wet, and we returned to the car thoroughly soaked. I was sopping wet on this second visit, too, but not in the manner I would have preferred.

The familiar terrain signaled that I was nearing the Highway 67 aid station (23.9). I caught up to Joel, who complained of feeling tired. I urged him on and then attempted a strong clip into the parking lot at 3:53:23 (-20:00). But the wind left my sails once I realized I had missed yet another family connection. I grew frustrated and almost angry at the time. I deeply needed their involvement, if only something as simple as an encouraging shout or familiar face.

I took some time at the County ZZ aid station (26.5, 4:20, -17:00), eating bananas and other fruit as a kind elderly gentleman filled my hydration bladder. Charles arrived shortly thereafter and spent little time at the sanctuary, wishing me well as he moved on. I turned to follow behind him when a sharp, searing sensation stopped me in my tracks. I could not bend my left leg. Then it became painfully clear, the twinge I felt at Mile 3 had morphed into something serious, only I hadn’t stopped long enough at any of the aid stations for it to take hold.

I decided to limp forward, every other step forcing me to grunt loudly and absorb incredible pain. Eventually, the debilitating feeling retreated to where I could manage a slight shuffle. However, the downhills were filled with more limping and grunting, and reaching the base of each hill felt like coming to the water’s surface after a turn on the high dive. It was exhilaration, not in a delightful way, but a twisted, panicked way.

Around Mile 28, the first of the relay runners came into view, looking strong. He had covered only about three miles, so it was to be expected. A couple more passed, and I cheered them on as my own form quietly unraveled. My pace had slowed in the heat, and the knee pain started to creep into other parts of my body. At Mile 29 I came to a complete stop. The throbbing was such that I didn’t know how I was going to make it to the next station, much less another 34 miles. Instead of getting customarily angry with myself, I broke down. As the tears began to collect and merge with the rest of the fluids that were rapidly leaving my pores, I once again forced the stricken leg forward to emulate some sort of walking motion. On a short straight section of the trail I turned to see Joel slowly approaching. When he came alongside me, I explained my predicament, and he offered up a couple ibuprofen tabs. I took them gracefully and thanked him in the most convincing manner I could muster. Little did he know that those two little pills literally carried me into the next aid station.

I arrived at Scuppernong (31.4) at 5:29, coincidentally close to my predicted split time of 5:30. My family was there, as were many others, cheering the incoming runners. Mom was sitting with Nick, who broke into a smile when he recognized that the raggedy-looking corpse kissing his forehead was his father. I tried my best to collect myself in view of so many strangers, although I was a bit disoriented and couldn’t convey to Aspen what I needed. She attempted to get me on a scale, and if it had been working properly I may have realized that I was severely dehydrated. I walked over to the aid station table shirtless, unaware that I was wearing a heart rate monitor that had been modified using a couple of my wife’s bra straps! Despite my incoherency I was able to scan the aid station table for anything that looked appetizing, settling on a handful of bite-sized PayDays, I inhaled these and grabbed some more, then returned for a third serving. (Note to self: PayDays). A lively aid station worker suggested putting ice in my pockets, and I thought, Why not? Into my pockets it went.

During this time, I could feel my composure returning, and the ibus continued to do their job. I slipped on a dry shirt and replaced and refilled all of my gear, including more Shot Bloks (in a Ziploc this time) and a new set of Vitalyte servings. As this course was an out-and-back, I had resolved to revisit the County ZZ aid station, where I would reevaluate my condition before deciding if I should drop out. Aspen asked ‘So where do you want us next?’ to which I blurted, ‘Every aid station you can get to. Please.’ I wasn't thinking clearly at this point, and I needed someone to carry a bit of my mental load.

I grabbed a handful of ibuprofens before I left, downing a few before staggering back into the woods. The mosquitoes were becoming an increasing nuisance, and I expect that they were always there, only I was now moving slow enough for them to catch me. About thirty minutes into my return trip, that first dose of drugs began to wear off, and the last tenuous layer of comfort would fall away. The miles were slowly tearing me down again and I felt I had nothing left to prevent the slide. Then, in a brief moment of clarity, I decided I was going to finish the race. I thought of my sister and her husband, the intense grief they were enduring, and I knew that my suffering was nothing compared to what they were going through. I could manage a few more hours of this and be able to celebrate at the end of the day, while their struggles would last a lifetime.

At around Mile 34, I returned to the rolling singletrack section before the County ZZ aid station, complete with the only true switchbacks of the entire course. I began to experiment with the downhills by pointing my left toe outward and using the bad leg as a crutch. This seemed to alleviate the impact somewhat, although I was still clenching my teeth on every other footfall. The second helping of ibuprofen had yet to engage my nerve endings, and I concluded then that I would never use those generic orange ones again.

I arrived at ZZ (36.4) at 6:47 (+27:00), to the concerned smiles of Aspen and Dad. Aspen was starting to get the hang of this crewing thing and immediately took my pack and refilled the hydration bladder. I settled into a camping chair and drank a couple handhelds-worth of ice water, while chatting with a few of the race supporters. One of them was a man waiting for the pastor of his church to arrive. He said he was pacing him for the final 38 miles in the 100-mile event, and I wished him and the preacher well. What I would give for a pacer right now, I thought to myself. I handed Dad my Blackberry; the battery was about dead and the sweaty headphone cords were becoming a distraction. Easing out of the chair, I turned to Dad and showed him the names of my sister’s family I had written on my bib the night before. I could barely utter the words ‘I’m running for them', before my emotions forced me to turn away. Leaving the aid station, I passed the pastor’s pacer and asked him to pray for me, knowing he’d understand exactly where I was coming from and where I was headed unless things started to turn around.

A few minutes later I caught up to Laura Waldo from Ludington, MI, one of the cities we had just visited the week before. She joked that her hometown wasn’t much of a tourist attraction, and I struggled to recall anything remarkable about the area, possibly confusing it with Harbor Springs or Manistee. Regardless, it was a relief to have her company, and it distracted me from my other issues for a couple miles.

I rolled into the Hwy 67 aid station (39) at 7:26 (+31:00). Aspen was waiting with supplies, while Mom and Dad attended to Nick. I pulled off of the course and made my way to the aid table to research alternative fuels. As I collected a few chunks of fruit from one of the serving plates I told Aspen that if I had to eat one more Shot Blok, I was gonna barf! Mom and Dad showed up with Nick, and Dad remarked about how much better I looked than at the last aid station. Mentally, I was already at the finish line, accepting my kettle; physically, I was just a shell, hiding a temple that continued to crumble.

Exiting the Hwy 67 area forced me back into prairieland, and that’s when the incessant tune popped into my head. Over and over it played, and there was nothing I could do to ignore it. I tried singing another song out loud, hoping to cancel out the offending melody, only to stand by helplessly as the passage worked its way back into my psyche. I was missing the iPod terribly.

The open fields temporarily gave way to a short forested section, and a few spectators relaxing in lawn chairs started cheering as I passed by. I assumed I was at the Antique Lane station, with only three miles to Emma Carlin. I would be cruelly mistaken when I approached the real Antique Lane aid station (44.2) thirty minutes later. Defeated, I remembered that the previous station (Wilton Road, 41.5) had been added shortly before the race and after I had taped my splits to my handheld. Emma Carlin was still another three miles away.

I stopped to fill my bottle at one of the water containers. Bleccchhh. The water tasted terrible and smelled like a bayou. Were my other senses beginning to fail me now? Who spiked the punch bowl? A few more runners passed through briskly, and my surroundings began to take on a pleasant fuzzy white outline. I thought for a moment, ‘This is it. This is the best I can do’ and looked for a place to rest a while. There were no chairs and no shady spots in the grass, so I huddled under the table for a few minutes, contemplating my not-so-graceful exit. An SUV parked about a hundred feet down the road started and slowly drove away. In my altered state I assumed they were my last lifeline, and I would have to cover these next three miles on my own if I wanted to drop out of the race.

Around Mile 45, I caught up to a man who was moving much slower than I. As is customary when I approach someone late in a race, I asked if he was OK, and he implied having some chest pains, wisely deciding to take it easy into Emma Carlin, where he was planning to drop. I asked if he’d mind if I walked with him, remembering the tragedy that had occurred at this year’s Collegiate Peaks. Not that I was in much better shape at the time, but I couldn’t leave him behind with good conscience. I learned that his name was Craig and that he had turned in a few strong 100-mile finishes in previous years, but today was just not his day. We conversed in typical trailspeak – jobs, kids, weather, etc. Weather. The clouds were beginning to muddy the skies in the direction we were walking. The occasional muffled thunderclaps countered our conversation, and behind them, an ominous dull rumble like the sound of an avalanche under a blanket. The murmur created this swirling, cows-flying-through-the-air image as I recalled yesterday’s tornado alarm.

Craig and I rolled into the parking area at Emma Carlin (47.3, 10:08:21, +1:43), where my cheering section had grown to include my sister Amy and two of her kids, Summer and Emma. I made my way to the aid station, where my split time could be recorded. ‘Do you want some meat?’ Aspen asked meekly as she held out a pre-packaged slab of sliced turkey. ‘Meat. Yes!’ She started rolling each slice into a cigar and I ate three or four of these like a wedding crasher mobbing a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I spent a few minutes chatting with my family before the impending storm began to tug at my attention, indicating it was time to go. I said my goodbyes and reaffirmed to Aspen that I needed her at the remaining accessible aid stations.

I returned to a wooded, singletrack trail on the heels of Drew Waddell from Arlington Heights, IL. After chatting a while we learned that we were both in the middle of a year’s worth of firsts: first trail marathon, first ultra, first 100K, and so on. I eventually backed off of his pace and forged my own. By now the rainfall was penetrating the canopy, and the thunder grew increasingly unmistakable. The rain should have provided relief but did nothing more than drench me even further, as initial precipitation simply released more heat from the ground. Eventually the temperature began to wane, and I could feel my core coming back to life. Only, the storm continued to build in intensity, gathering moisture from some giant atmospheric sink. Just when I thought the downpour had peaked, the valve was opened another turn. Lightning punctured the deluge, sporadically striking the earth only yards away, causing me to instinctively shield my head from the impending impact.

I reached Horseriders (50.5) just behind Drew, and by now the rainfall was cascading from the skies in unbelievable amounts (subsequent weather reports estimated an incredible 11 inches per hour!) I moved on past him and the unmanned aid station into more undulating singletrack, overtaking a couple more runners along the way. The downpour was making navigation quite difficult for one bespectacled gentleman, and I was grateful to be wearing contacts at the time. Runoff was assuming the route of least resistance – the trail. At first I tried to thread my way through the less impacted terrain along the path, but after a while even that became a futile effort.

The worst of the storm eventually moved on while I made my way toward the next aid station. I noticed at about Mile 53 that my Garmin was dead. I had outlasted yet another gadget. As I feared, once the showers subsided the mosquitoes returned with a vengence, and every walk break was spent defending my last untapped liquid. The trail would take my sweat, my tears, and eventually the contents of my stomach, but it would not get my blood.

Around 7PM I trickled into Bluff (55.5) with Aspen and Amy waiting for me. The aid station was now almost completely covered with a tarp, and as I lingered inside to escape the assault of the Wisconsin State Bird I sensed that my body temp was beginning to climb again. I stepped outside and asked one of the volunteers to hit me with some bug repellant. He sprayed a little bit here and there before I told him to just baste me like a turkey. (Note – Garmins do not like bug spray.) Drew arrived at the station shortly thereafter and moved through quickly, while Adam Blum from Los Gatos, California rested in a chair within the tent. I wasn’t feeling particularly competitive at the moment, only more determined to finish the race and get that little kettle in my sweaty grip. Aspen said ‘Only 8 more miles!’ ‘7.5 miles’ I corrected her. Mentally, I was not gonna give up that half mile.

I had spent too much time standing in one place at Bluff and paid for it as I tried to exit. My left leg was almost incapacitated at this point. I yelped out loud during those first few hundred feet, then gradually focused that energy into a loping gait. It was only 2.5 miles to the next aid station, and by now the race had become a handful of bite-sized pieces. I entered another open grassy section and noticed a couple of the 100-milers making their way towards me. The second one was Mark, shirtless and running strong. I wasn’t expecting him on this part of the course and assumed he must have had some trouble. We exchanged a few encouraging words in passing, and Mark went on about the lightning storm. ‘I got kids, man! It’s not worth it!'

I reached Tamarack (57.8) around half-past 7, to the applause of a very friendly and able aid station crew. We traded some wit as one of them snapped a photo of me, my weathered form pacing back and forth in front of the aid table because I was afraid to stop. I downed a few banana pieces and proceeded along a tree-lined path, knowing the finish line was now within reach. ‘Five miles. I can do five miles’, I convinced myself aloud, over and over. ‘Four miles. I can do four miles.’

I struggled through the final PUD section, walking the downhills with my left leg straight as a kickstand. With two miles to go, the terrain began to soften, and I continued with my vocal self-encouragement. At this point, it felt almost natural to talk to myself. I had no music or companionship, only some rhythmic respiration and a few babbling words of support from my imaginary pacer. With about a half mile to go I instinctively turned around to find Adam closing in on me. I simply dropped my head and laughed. It was a fitting conclusion to a frustrating day. His fifth gear was spinning nicely, and he soon disappeared into the woods ahead of me.

I began to hear voices other than my own, hinting that I was closing in on the finish. I rounded the last corner to find Aspen standing there holding Nick, and I immediately burst into tears when the weight of what I had just accomplished struck me like a trunk. I crossed the line with virtually nothing left in the tank and struggled to maintain my poise in the face of unfathomable exhaustion. The man I had asked for prayer was there, congratulating me on finishing the race, and I thanked him for remembering me.

The skies slowly reopened to unleash a final watery onslaught, and I lay on my back in the grass, offering my remains to any moisture I could absorb while others sought shelter. I closed my eyes for a moment and sensed the ground beginning to spin. Aspen helped me to my feet, and I made my way to my parents' RV, where I sat on the steps in a stupor with a bag of ice on my head and a couple bottles of water to empty. Gradually my condition began to worsen, and my teeth and fingers started to tingle. Recognizing from past experience the impending signs of heat exhaustion, I asked Aspen to find someone to help me before things got out of hand. She returned with a registered nurse who introduced herself as Ann. I asked her last name and she said ‘Heaslett, I’m Timo’s wife.’ I replied in a grateful haze, ‘Ah, I know you; you’re a legend!’ She chuckled bashfully and proceeded to carry me through the aftermath by returning with a cot and a blanket. I lay there as wave after wave of heat trauma coursed through my body. On the peaks I was craving a fat slice of pizza; in the troughs I wanted to throw up. Eventually, Aspen had to leave to get Nick to bed, and Dad helped me into the RV, where I lay down on a foldout bed. Ann returned later to check on my recovery, and I related that I hadn’t yet received my kettle. She excused herself and returned moments later with Timo, who ceremoniously presented me with the distinctive award like a general bestowing a Purple Heart upon a dying soldier. I smiled incoherently, cupping my trophy like a magic lamp. I’m not sure what I said in response, unable to fully express my gratitude with dialogue, but I remember managing a few words about returning next year. Was I that delirious?

It was dark when we pulled out of the Nordic parking lot, and I hoped for as much straight road as possible. I lay there under a sleeping bag with the kettle in my hands, knowing I had squashed the voice that begged me to quit several times during the race. The triumph was not in this trinket-sized goblet of copper, but in finally confronting my weaknesses. Even in my battered state, I felt stronger than I had in years. I had received the kettle empty, but it was now full.

For those interested in the race stats:

Finish: 13:56:31 [Officially 14th out of 38; much deeper in the field of all 100K finishers. Many of the 100 milers dropped at Nordic (Mile 62.9) and were given credit for 100K.]

100K

Entrants: 72
Starters: (will update when info becomes available)
Participants reported at Scuppernong (mile 31.4): 59
Finishers: 38
Percent Finished: (will update when info becomes available)
Winner: Christine Crawford, 38, Whitewater, WI, 11:08:12

100M

Entrants: 123
Starters: (will update when info becomes available)
Participants reported at Scuppernong (mile 31.4): 114
Participants reported at Nordic (mile 62.9): 81
Finishers: 37
Percent Finished: (will update when info becomes available)
Winner: Joel Eckberg, 37, Downers Grove, IL, 18:10:07 (Mark Tanaka 2nd, 20:39:37)

Weather (highs for June 7, 2008)
Temperature: 88˚F
Humidity: 86%
Dew Point: 70

Course overview: Caution, it's a big 'un!

The Half-Full Kettle

Crazy. Brutal. Exacting.

I hope my upcoming post will be able to capture the essence that is Kettle. I know what they mean now.

Currently compiling various photos of the event and will have the adventure online soon.

The Circle of Love

As Nick’s first birthday approaches, I’m increasingly reminded of how blessed I am to be a father. I was reading Aspen’s note in her Mother’s Day card, confessing that “I didn’t realize how much you loved me until I became a mom”. I’ve been repeatedly playing that profound line in my head for the last few days, confident that no greater compliment could be made to one’s parent.

Being a dad has broken me as a once selfish and independent spirit. I used to snicker to myself seeing Aspen getting all choked up over some couple having a baby on the Discovery Channel; now I am sharing the Kleenex, reliving Nick’s first cry (‘un-Guyyyyyyyyy, un-Guyyyyyyyy’) like it was yesterday. I can finally appreciate the connection between us and these unknown parents in their time of bliss.

My transformation to fatherhood was much more natural than I had expected, and I attribute this to age (40) and maturity (for the most part), as if the years of independence were preparing me for something greater than I could comprehend. The bond between Nick and I was instant, like two childhood friends reuniting for good. It grew into something even greater, and I’m not sure if my love for this little guy will ever be matched with words.

Sometimes the simple thought of him brings grateful tears to my eyes, and there are nights in the dim light of his room as he’s cradled in my arms, when the joy of having a child becomes almost overwhelming. It is during these moments I pray that no harm ever comes to him, or that I'll always be able to protect him. Now, I know that being an omnipresent father is unrealistic, because he will undoubtedly inherit the scrapes and bruises of his dad. But in those times when he stumbles, I will be there to apply the band-aids.

What the Hail???

I’m fortunate in that my employer allows me to work from home one day per week. That day is Thursday, and I look forward to it because I don’t have to make the hour-long commute into the city and can perform my job in my bathrobe if I want to. It also affords me a full day with unGuy and a rare daylight run, and I bank my hours during the other four days of the week to allow me this luxury. Yesterday, I decided to split from my afternoon routine and go for a jaunt in the morning instead. The sun was out, and the temp was around 50 – perfect for an easy neighborhood excursion. I gave unGuy a warm bottle and strapped him in the BOB, affixed the shield accessory to the stroller and began my circuitous route through the outer reaches of our neighborhood. The roads were still a bit muddy from recent rain and I found myself powerhiking a fair amount just to keep my heart rate in check. About seven miles in, I was starting to tire, so I decided to end my run using the shortest distance possible. Thankfully, our area is comprised of a series of intersecting loops, so I can change my course on the fly if I want to.

While navigating this shortcut, I noticed the clouds beginning to build overhead, further lending to my decision to call it a day. However, the speed at which the sky began to darken became increasingly disconcerting. I started picking up the pace, ignoring the high heartrate alarm pulsing from my Garmin. As I was climbing a steep section I sensed a rushing sound in front of me that diverted my attention from the road to the landscape beyond, and what I saw was a curtain of white, advancing on me like an angry mob. It was starting to hail. At first, I reveled in this freakish front, crying out ‘No way!’ in an incredulous, almost childish tone of voice as the deluge increased in intensity. Soon, the stings peppering my head and arms became too much to bear, and I crouched beneath the little shelter the stroller had to offer as the hailstones grew from peas to marbles. I nervously scanned my surroundings, with seemingly no refuge in sight. To the right, a cliffside, hail pouring off its lips and accumulating in pyramid-shaped piles below. To the left, a drop-off and no place to push a stroller. I knew I had to make a decision quickly. Lighting clapped around me, and never mind that 5-second distance theory – I had to find cover fast. By now the hail had completely blanketed the ground, and I pushed further up the hill while I still could. Chin buried deep into my chest, I pressed onward, feeling a warm sensation in my shoulders seconds before a bolt struck nearby. I felt exposed and vulnerable, and I decided that getting under a tree would be the lesser of two evils. About 100 yards later I came upon a driveway with a welcoming conifer nearby. I raced towards this giant and came to a stop completely out of breath through a mix of exertion and hyperventilation. This incredible episode had unfolded in a matter of 3-4 minutes. I quickly poked my head around to the front of the stroller, expecting to find unGuy wailing uncontrollably. He was not. In fact, in typical unGuy fashion, he appeared to be enjoying himself.

As quickly as it had come, the storm front pushed eastward and the sun began to seep through the cloudcover. I hesitantly slipped out from beneath the tree and returned to the road. I could only walk as if pushing a sled, pristine ice bearings collapsing under the weight of the stroller, and I was still about 1.5 miles from home. Finally, I arrived at the house, the BOB covered in pine needles and snowy aggregate, unGuy looking none the worse for wear. The squall had barely glanced our property but managed to pummel an area only an earshot away. My hands were so cold I could barely unclip my son from his harness, and I began to absorb the gravity of what had just occurred. Even now as I write this, the anxiety of that brief ordeal is a persistent afterthought, and I suppose I’ll be ordering a home weather station before the day is through.

Ground Zero. Looks kinda flat from space. It's not.

If I Could Save Pee In a Bottle

Aspen and I live in one of those neighborhoods with a single road feeding a dozen or so less-traveled roads. The main drag is curvy with posted speed limits of around 30MPH, making the 3-mile trip from the highway to our house seem like an eternity when you’re in a hurry. Of course, while driving that slow, you’re afforded temporary glances of neighbors’ spreads, dogs, horses and other farm animals, and the occasional elk or deer grazing nearby. Sadly, the views are coupled with the errant unsightly home or derelict property. I suppose they start to become part of the scenic woodwork after a while. Creating quite the opposite effect was the amount of roadside trash that began to surface when the snow started to melt. Once Aspen brought it to my attention, trash started popping up out of nowhere on this stretch, diverting our attention from the road and threatening the promise of any future houseguests. Finally, one day we decided to stop complaining about it and put our words into action, choosing a well-traveled 1.5-mile section of the main road and setting out to collect all of the trash on its shores. I put unGuy in the backpack and we parked our car on the side of the road with a sign stating ‘Trash Pickup Ahead’. We decided to work in tandem, combing one side of the road and then returning on the other. The task began in earnest, as we gleefully upheld our self-appointed roles as refuse stewards, joking about who would be the first to stumble on a dead body or porno magazine. About two hours and seven or eight full trash bags later, the novelty had worn off and the end of our journey couldn’t have felt more distant. But, shortly before our car came into view, a woman stopped to thank us for our efforts, reviving our spirits and serving as just reward for our voluntary deed. We didn’t find any corpses or porno, but I did learn a thing or two about the demographics of our neighborhood:

Someone:

• likes to drink and drive, beverage of choice being Miller High Life 40s. We found about 15 of these scattered throughout the 1.5-mile stretch, each in their own bag, and the bottle was always partially filled with beer or other undesirable liquid;

• smokes a LOT of hard pack Marlboro Lights;

• drinks a bunch of this beverage called ‘Talking Rain’ but can never finish the bottle;

• chews that bottom-shelf tobacco Husky and spits into a beer or soda bottle, whatever’s available;

• likes to eat a small bag of chips and drink a 20-oz. soda while driving, finishing off the snack by rolling up the chip bag like a joint and stuffing it into the empty bottle before throwing it out the window;

• has a Lhasa Apso named ‘Milly’; and

• named ‘Sharon’ had a birthday in December.

Except for several lipstick-coated cigarette butts and maybe Sharon, I’d be willing to wager that the rest of the repetitive trash was borne by men. Slobs. Regardless, we’re delaying the unglamorous task of separating the trash from the recyclables until our stomachs have had a chance to recuperate. For now, the shoulders of this short segment are free of litter, bounded on either end by more trash-riddled roadway, and no one to scour its banks. I have a feeling we’ll be scavenger hunting again soon.

Race Report: Desert R.A.T.S. 50-Miler - My First Ultra

The Desert R.A.T.S (Race Across The Sand) Festival in Fruita, Colorado was started in 2003 (originally the Spring Desert Ultra, or SDU, as it's still affectionately named) with a 25-mile race (in almost a single loop) and a 50-mile race (in which one follows the 25-mile course, then its reverse). Dave had been encouraging me to forego Greenland Trail this year and try the SDU instead. It happened to fall somewhere on the uphill climb towards Kettle in June, and I figured it would let me know if I was worthy of such extended distances. I naively registered for the 50-miler and was confident my training would come together in kind. But in the closing days before the festival, I found myself approaching my first ultra with increasing apprehension and downright fear. After all, I had run my previous longest distance only five weeks earlier at the Salida Trail Marathon and had since logged a piddly 80 miles of training. Suffering terrible heat-related mishaps in previous warm-weather events left me skittish over the predicted temperature highs in Fruita, which increased incrementally on a daily, or even hourly basis into the high 70s the week before the race. Also, I had been noticing some pain in my left forefoot, most likely from the XT Wings, which have seemingly sacrificed some width to allow for a more beefy shoe. And mentally, I just couldn’t picture myself gutting out those extra 24 miles. Was I too optimistic when building this year’s race calendar, or would my ‘at-least-my-body-is-well-rested’ excuse prove to save my sorry butt once again? I would soon find out.

It was late Friday morning when Dave, Jamie Dawson and I met at the Wooly Mammoth parking lot off of I-70, near Morrison. They piled their gear, including an ample stock of chilly microbrews, into the back of my Outback for a 4-5-hour trip. The I-70 corridor was enjoying a rare cloudless sky as we sped towards Fruita, just a few miles northwest of Grand Junction. I was fortunate that Dave had booked a room at the La Quinta months ago, and he was more than willing to let me crash on its second bed. Jamie and the rest of Dave’s training group of fifteen were also staying at the hotel. Friday night we enjoyed a Mexican dinner with a portion of this group, all of whom were running the 25-miler the following day. I joked with them about beer IVs and leaving a pretty corpse. Finally, one asked me if I was nervous about running the 50, and I responded with a relieved ‘Yeah’, as if my demeanor could no longer keep up the upbeat façade.

That night I tried to sleep with the notion of a DNF permeating my every thought. I forcibly banished those negative images and instead pictured myself pulling it off. Despite the paucity of mileage, I had made some preparations for the race: I started taking salt caps regularly a few days before the event; I looked up last year’s results, picked an upper-mid-pack finisher, and wrote his splits on my handheld as a reference; I prepared serving-size amounts of my favorite drink powder (Vitalyte) and fuel (Cran-Razz Shot Bloks); and, in addition to my usual playlist of Podrunner mixes, I set up a series of songs on my iPod that I knew would inspire me if I was having trouble.

I had also set some loosely-specific goals for myself. I’ve seen other runners do this, and thought it was a great way to stay positive in a race by mentally checking off each goal. These were (in order of increasing difficulty): 1) Complete the first loop, 2) Finish the race, 3) Finish in the top 20, 4) Finish in the top 15. That’s as far as I was willing to go.

The morning arrived quickly as the fuzzy 4:45 on the alarm clock came into focus. Dave was upbeat as usual, and we each performed our race day preparations with nervous excitement. I wisely decided to run in my Salomon XA Pro 3Ds instead of the XT Wings today.

The starting line was just outside the tiny berg of Mack, Colorado, short of the Utah border, and we appeared to be one of the later groups to arrive. I adjusted my gear and cued up my iPod to start off with the ‘Feelgood’ playlist, while throwing a stick for a fellow-runners dog. Dave came over to wish me luck, and he, Jamie and I lined up somewhere in the middle of the pack. The race timer counted off the seconds, and then we were shuffling southeast down a dirt road. The road began to climb, ending at a fenceline after about a mile, then reduced to singletrack (called the Moore Fun Trail) for the next five miles, until the first aid station at about six miles. I decided to take it easy on this first leg and even stopped a couple times to get some photos. However, something had caked up the lens on my BB, and the photos turned out cloudy. It would be the last time I used it (hence the lack of pics in this post). I walked most of the uphills in this section, patiently allowing runners to pass me as necessary. The remaining mile or so into the first aid station was mainly downhill, and I started passing runners who were putting on the brakes in the cobbly terrain. I looked ahead briefly to see Dave, a strong downhiller, stuck behind a block of tentative descenders. Seconds later he broke free and was pulling away quickly. I met up with him at the first aid station and we ran the next few miles together. Also at this time, I caught up to Chris Boyack, who had finished only a few seconds behind me at Salida. I knew we would be seeing more of each other as the day wore on. At Mile 7, we reached the start of about three miles of trail along the sandstone rim of Horsethief Canyon above the Colorado River. I felt great. The trail hugged the edge of the canyon, darting eastward into several slot canyons. These little offshoots were deceiving in that you were within a stone’s throw of a runner on the opposite side but may be a half-mile or more behind them. I remember smiling as I ran past the race photographer as Kool and the Gang’s ‘Celebration’ blasted in my earbuds. Now I knew what Dave was talking about.

About midway through this ribbon-like section, I was faced with an entirely foreign dilemma – I had to pee. This was the first time ever in a race and I wasn’t sure where the appropriate spot should be - Behind that bush? Just off the trail? What are the rules here? Finally, I came across a re-entrant and scrambled up to a healthy juniper to unload. I could hear the muffled slapping of feet as at least five or six runners clipped by. I reemerged to join the traffic, just a few steps behind Dave. I had earlier assumed he was in front of me when in fact he had also been off answering nature’s call.

The rim portion of the trail would intersect two more aid stations (Pizza Overlook at 9.1 miles and Crossroads at 12.2) before the long haul through Salt Creek Valley. I began to push a little harder, testing my limits as the morning’s gentle breeze lofted cool air from the Colorado. I was downing three S-Caps an hour by now, and pounding the Shot Bloks. I was filling my handheld at every aid station and mixing in the Vitalyte servings each time. I also had a half-full hydration bladder in my HPL#020, which I alternated with the handheld. Water, salt, Shot Bloks, Vitalyte – this four-course meal seemed to be working well, for now.

Shortly before the Troybuilt aid station (Mile 19.2), I caught up to Jamie. By now I had emptied my hydration bladder and had the volunteer refill it halfway. I also started adding items from the buffet table to my regimen (another new frontier) – bananas, at first.

Jamie and I began the slog up Mack Ridge. This was a two-track, cobbly ‘road’ that appeared to have recently been crudely graded. It was a climb for about two miles with some brief downhill sections. At Mile 21 the trail began to descend, and I knew this was to be the final drop into the end of the first loop. At about Mile 23 I passed 50-miler frontrunners Allen Belshaw and Ryan Burch on their second pass through the course. Those guys were really hauling ass!

Finally, I was back on the dirt road within a mile of the start line and 50-mile turnaround. I passed a runner who appeared to be struggling to knock off those last few hundred yards. He looked familiar, and the instant I recalled who he was, I heard my name from behind, ‘Kirk!’ I turned around, ‘Jorge! How are you doin’, man?’ Jorge was in Dave’s training group, and I had just met him at dinner the night before. He was suffering from severe cramps (and I heard later he had been dealing with them for the last nine miles). I encouraged him to keep running and not to stop, as it appeared that he was in a great deal of pain, which would only intensify the longer he was on the course. I verbally poked him along and said that I wouldn’t leave him behind. Soon he was pulling ahead and then accelerating toward the finish line. ‘Jor-ge! Jor-ge!’

I crossed a few seconds behind him and made my way over to my drop bag, restocking the ‘Bloks and scarfing down some items at the aid table. Wow, I had made it halfway! It would be so easy to call it a day and cheer on the 25-milers as they finished for the day. However, there was a niggling voice inside that said I was still running well and quitting now would be a cop out. Off I went. I crossed paths with Dave about a quarter mile out. He looked strong and fast (and would later PR in the 25-miler by 19 minutes!)

I could feel the temps starting to climb as I retraced the terrain I had just covered. I spotted one guy in front of me and one or two behind as I climbed Mack Ridge. For a while, no one seemed to be losing any ground or making gains. That is, until it was time to head back down the ridge. I threw caution to the wind and let myself ‘fall’ on the downhills, catching Sandy White just before the Troybuilt aid station (officially Mile 30.2, but more like Mile 32 according to my GPS). I spent a couple minutes here scarfing down banana fragments and even some potato chips. Sandy left a few seconds in front of me and I was able to catch up shortly thereafter, where we spent the next couple miles introducing ourselves and talking about upcoming races. At around 34 miles, Sandy motioned for me to go ahead because he was starting to ‘not feel that great’. I powered on, keeping an eye over my shoulder to ensure that I was continuing to pull away. I came upon two more runners shortly before Crossroads (38.7). One was limping badly and when asked if he needed anything, he said ‘Yeah, a helicopter!’ The other complained about being ‘chicked’ (passed by a girl) and also did not appear to be in any hurry. All of them joked about the layer of salt that was now encrusting my face (can you use the word ‘encrust’ without mentioning salt? Probably not). Despite my ghostly appearance, I was suffering no heat-related issues whatsoever. However, the gaiter had pulled off of my left shoe and some sand had collected in the shoe or sock. I had to empty it fast because another runner was approaching the station whom I assumed was Sandy. It was Chris. He had pushed the last five miles pretty hard which helped him pass a bunch of runners. He was in and out of the aid station quickly and said, ‘Come on, Kirk!’ motioning me to catch up. I pulled in behind him for a mile or so before the foot started to act up again. I stopped to take a closer look at it, only to discover that it was not sand in my sock, but a blister on the ball of my foot (probably caused by the sand, however). I pulled on the sock and shoe and decided to suck it up.

I caught Chris and then passed him, and we traded spots for a few miles including Pizza Overlook (40.2), where I stopped and once again gorged at the aid table (M&Ms, Coke) before dropping behind Chris again. We were now running the relatively flat section atop Horsethief Canyon. I stayed in Chris’ shadow for the first mile of this leg before pulling ahead yet another time, determined not to waste so much time at the next aid station. I started my descent to the Moore Fun station (Mile 44.1) with another runner in my sights, and when I arrived there the volunteers said that he was a bit incoherent and could be caught easily. With a handful of jellybeans and renewed spirit, I took off after the struggling runner. After a seemingly perfect race I was to make a mistake that would cost me precious time at the finish – I took a wrong turn, not only at a bearing opposite of the actual course, but in the direction of uphill. As I was climbing this offshoot I was searching for shoe prints while convincing myself, ‘This is not the trail. I know this is not the trail!’ I reached a switchback, and turned around to see Chris going the right way, with Sandy on his heels. A couple curse words later I was back on the correct route, realizing I had not only lost two places but a potential third as the runner I had been chasing was now painfully out of reach. Regardless, I shook off the rookie blunder and pressed on. I would later learn that the misturn cost me six minutes and about a half-mile of extra running.

The next couple miles comprised mostly of crawling back up the upturned sandstone slab cradling the Moore Fun trail, and I powerhiked a fair portion of this section, remembering that carefree descent almost 10 hours before. Reaching the top edge of the formation, I began my final descent, first along a short rim overlooking the Colorado before dropping down toward the finish. The wind was blasting over this saddle, and I staggered like a drunk along the brief stretch. Then it was a precipitous plunge to the Moore Fun trailhead. I didn’t want to spoil a stellar 50-miler with a last-minute digger, so I took this segment a bit more conservatively. At last, I was cruising on a dirt road, with the distant glimpse of support tents flapping in a gusty afternoon front. As I was closing in on the finish line, I picked up the faint cheers of the patient few bringing in the 50-milers. I could see Dave making his way to the front, and then Jorge, snapping photos. I had crossed the line in just over 10 hours with a respectable 9th place overall finish.

The next few minutes were a blur as I began to comprehend what I had just accomplished. I didn’t know what to do next. Eat? Drink? Mine the salt on my face? Not having much time to contemplate the process, I snapped out of my funk long enough to hear the name of the next runner to cross the line – Kirk Apt, the guy whose splits adorned my handheld. In mild disbelief, I made my way over to this previous Hardrock and Leadville winner to introduce myself. ‘Recognize these numbers?’ I asked as he relaxed in a lawn chair. ‘Yeah, those are my splits from last year!’ he exclaimed. We exchanged congrats and I returned to my own recovery under the shade of the support tent, dumbfounded by this incredible coincidence.

I asked Dave to drive back to the hotel as I called Aspen to let her know I was OK. She was well aware of my concern over completing the race and was grateful to hear that I didn’t end up in the ER. Returning to the room, I just wanted to take a shower, order a pizza and get a bit of shuteye. I had hoped to later celebrate with Dave and his friends at a local brewpub, but the short nap became a three hour affair, and I had slept through the awards ceremony. Fortunately, Dave was able to collect my medal (3rd, 35-49 age group), which was yet another surprise.

The next morning we ate a large breakfast and made our way back to Denver, and the four hours in the car gave me a few moments to contemplate my performance and look ahead to longer races. If anything, I was encouraged that an ultra isn’t all about speed – because I don’t consider myself a particularly fast runner – but rather about racing smart.....

....and salt!

Course map, complete with landmarks (Note: May take a bit to load)

Zoe: The Silent Killer

We have two dogs, both of which we adopted as puppies from the Denver Dumb Friends League. We got Zoe, a black Lab-Chow mix, in 2001, and Pickle, a black lab/Heinz 57 mix, a year later after learning that most dogs are happier with a playmate. Zoe quickly assumed the alpha position, while Pickle gladly took the sidekick role, shadowing Zoe’s every move. They grew to be very sweet and loyal dogs, but sometimes could not be more tempermentally opposite. Pickle behaves more like a human, while Zoe clings to traits decidedly common to her ancestors: rolling in fresh animal poop or dead carcasses to mask her scent from other predators; preparing a bedding spot for herself if we stop on a hike for longer than 5 minutes; and chasing, catching, and maiming small animals. I once had to kill both a wounded rabbit and a ground squirrel on a single hike. Last night it was a fox. As the sun was setting, the two dogs took off after the creature, which barely eluded capture as it attempted to cross the snowy meadow near our property to the safety of the forest beyond. Our neighbor was able to call Pickle back to us before she reached a barbed-wire fence, while Zoe continued pursuit unfettered. About this time, my parents, my uncle Kevin, and his girlfriend Cindy arrived at our house. An hour went by, then two - no Zoe. My concern for her welfare grew, and then the morbid ‘worse-case scenario’ thoughts became all-consuming as my desire to be a good host deteriorated. I imagined Zoe slicing her stomach on the barbed wire fence, bleeding out in the forest, then being attacked and eaten by a mountain lion. I envisioned myself strapping on snowshoes the next morning, crossing that same meadow and stumbling upon her half-eaten remains in the woods. Something must have happened to her, I convinced myself. Finally, I slipped out of the house and drove along my usual running routes, hoping she would recognize a road and take it back to our home. I crept along with the brights on, whistling the same note that usually stops our dogs in their tracks. No sign of Zoe. Finally, after about an hour of patrolling the area, I received a call on my cell from Aspen. Zoe had just appeared on the porch, wagging her tail and ready to come inside. When I arrived home, Aspen was giving her a bath while checking for any injuries. No blood. She also checked her teeth and noticed fragments of light-colored fur in between a few of them, indicating that Zoe had made a successful catch. Aspen dried her off with a towel and released her into the living room, where she promptly lay down in front of us, oblivious to our frustration over her primal ways.

Race Report: Salida Trail Marathon

(Note: To skip past the personal race prep goo and go straight to the race report, look for ‘And we’re off!’ This wasn’t meant to be a novel, but it sorta ended up that way.)

When I decided to tackle the longer trailrunning distances several months ago, my anchor race became the Kettle Moraine 100K in June. I then pieced together a race schedule for 2008 that would build up to this marquis event, starting with a 20-mile snowshoe race in January, a 33K jaunt in Moab, and recently a trail marathon in Salida, Colorado. Each occasion was met with a ‘Sheesh, am I ready?’ attitude, as the fear of bonking or DNF’ing lent to some anxiety in the closing days and hours before a race. The Salida Trail Marathon, dubbed ‘A Run Through Time’, was no exception and would be my first attempt at this distance. I had just finished a 70-hour workweek in the field, during which I ran zero miles, got little sleep, and spent my days inhaling jet fuel fumes at a military installation. My longest training run to that point had been around 12 miles. To my benefit, being away from home spared me from the latest cold bug, and I felt healthy.

As a drive home from my field location would have added quite a few hours to my return trip, I decided instead to take the shorter route directly to Salida on the day before the race and spend the night in a hotel. Dave had graciously reserved a room for me at the Woodland Motel, after jumping on a last-minute cancellation in this popular bedroom community at the gentle bend of the Arkansas River and a snowball’s throw from Monarch Mountain. As I pulled into the berg, heavy snow began to fall, adding to a fresh base that appeared to have been building throughout the day. I arrived at the Woodside and went straight to Dave’s room where he had been relaxing in front of the TV, and we joked about the size of his quarters and the gratuitous signage adorning it, instructing guests on which towels to use and how to set the thermostat. As is custom, I commended Dave’s cache of race food, a feast in of itself. I appreciate the fact that he likes to reach a race destination a day early, decompress in the hosting city, and inspect the first few miles of the race course. I’ve learned that having a general idea of what to expect prior to the race gives one a bit of a mental edge.

I checked into my room, and we immediately drove in the direction of the race course. Fortunately, this particular circuit would follow a two-lane paved road feeding into an improved dirt two-track into the foothills northeast of Salida. Both Dave and I ran the half-marathon last year, and although he briefly flirted with the idea of joining me in the full, decided as the date came closer to stick with his original plan. As we climbed into the foothills, the snow grew deeper and the drive more treacherous. The course appeared vastly different in this virgin blanket of snow, and there was some confusion as to the location of the half-marathon turnaround point. Finally, we reached a spot that we both remembered and decided to push onward into the full-marathon course. The route was well-marked with pink flags, most likely placed by Chaffee County Running Club stalwart Tom Sobal on one of his ‘leisurely jaunts’. The marathon course was to follow the main road to the former mining town of Turret, now reduced to a collection of rustic summer homes cast in the shadow of its former glory. Dave and I figured, What the hell, let’s go check it out while we’re here. However, it was not meant to be. The road conditions had deteriorated beyond the comfort level of my new Outback and its driver, and we wisely returned to drier ground. I remember joking to Dave that snow was ‘The Great Equalizer’ and was almost giddy with excitement that this was gonna be more like an adventure race than a marathon.

Dinner was consumed at the Twisted Cork Cafe, perched next to the Arkansas west of town. It’s almost not worth the trouble going into a trendy restaurant, scanning the menu and predicting the fuel content of a pre-race meal when the entrees include ingredients like red peppers and cabbage. My mouth was watering at this point and I struggled to select the safest meal possible, finally settling on a noodle dish with a spring roll, while Dave got a penne pasta dish with a side of steak fries. We both inhaled our meals with copious amounts of ice water and left the restaurant painfully satiated, putting my ‘no farting in the new car’ rule to test.

Each of us returned to his room, and I began arranging my gear for the next day, vacillating between bare-bones and overkill, eventually reaching a happy medium. I watched a bit of TV and then drifted off with the promise of a challenging race in the morning. My alarm sounded at 5, and I scarfed down a carbo-rich breakfast before stealing another couple hours of shut-eye.

Soon it was daylight, and I dressed and made my way to the race start near the base of Tenderfoot Mountain. The temp was around 15 deg F, and the thought of running in a T-shirt and shorts was initially a bit unappealing. But I’ve learned that if I can suck it up for the first mile or so, I don’t need all of those heavy clothes anyway, as my body temp shoots up pretty quickly even on the coldest days. The registration line for the marathon (inside the historical Scout Hut at Riverside Park) was about 30 people long by the time I stepped in (no one was in the half-marathon line), and I struck up a conversation with Bill Geist from Los Alamos, NM (14th marathon overall, 4:37:24). We talked about the weather and the course conditions, which were wildly different from last year. Soon I was pinning my bib number to my shorts and getting my food in order (Clif Shot Bloks and Power Bar fragments), looking for Dave among the masses enjoying their last few minutes of warmth before venturing out into the cold.

Stepping outside of the building I noticed the competitors making their way toward the start line, which was northeast across a bridge over the Arkansas, then a few hundred yards down a primitive paved road parallel to a series of railroad tracks. As I got closer, I recognized Dave, and I think we were two of only a handful of runners in shorts. Rounding out my getup was a (Warning: Shameless Product Endorsement Alert) tech tee, a Nathan hydration pack (minus the bladder), Dirty Girl gaiters, and a pair of Salomon XT Wings. I also caved in to the temps and had added a thin GoLite jacket. Joining the tech apparel was a Nathan Thermal Quickdraw handheld, an iPod Classic loaded with 165 BPM Podrunner mixes and a Blackberry Pearl.

And we’re off! The course further followed the tracks to the northwest, then split right to a dirt road fronting some ramshackle houses at the base of the foothills. The route quickly began to rise toward a municipal water tower, then dropped again, confusing newbies who were expecting a steady climb. We had covered about 1.5 miles of dirt then picked up a mile-long section of paved road, when I discovered that I hadn’t started my GPS (I was able to add that missing first section in SportTracks). I also ditched my jacket during this time and tied it around my waist, where it stayed for the rest of the race. I hung with Dave for the first 2-3 miles as I tested the waters after 5 days of no running. I felt relaxed and loose, and Dave and I overtook a number of runners who were having a difficult time once the course started climbing the Ute Trail.

After about a mile of climbing, I felt that I could manage a faster pace and bid Dave adieu, moving on ahead past a dozen or so runners. I reached the half-marathon turnaround point and pushed on into the extended course. By now the road was snowpacked, and the sun peeked out from behind the cliffs. I let my mind drift into its surroundings, as pace and breathing were being driven by the iPod. After another mile or so I reached a saddle with a great view of the wintry Collegiate Peaks. I stopped to get a couple photos, and a runner I had just passed approached me and offered to take my picture. We fumbled around with the BB for a minute or two trying to get the best shot (Hmmm, did that cost me a few places at the end of the race? I’d post the photo, but it didn’t turn out that great.)

Soon I was running again, overtaking a couple guys who had caught up during my ‘photoshoot’. For the next several miles, the course negotiated a series of extended uphills and downhills as I pushed on towards Turret. It wasn’t long before the frontrunners began to pass by me, and since this was an out-and-back, I began my customary counting to determine what place I was currently holding. The count slowly climbed into the teens, then the twenties, after which I stopped keeping track (23…24…25…, ah, whatever).

A brief steep and cobbly section led into the former townsite of Turret, where a table of goodies awaited. I snagged a banana and probably should have grabbed a fistful of Fig Newtons, but I wanted to stay ahead of the guys I had just passed. I started my return trip, picking off runners on the uphills and greeting those coming toward me. My ‘Runners-Get-Friendlier-Toward-The-Back’ theory definitely came into play as I made my way toward Salida, and I was encouraged to cross paths with like-minded competitors who were also truly enjoying the experience. Well, maybe enjoyment is a slight overstatement, as I would soon find out. I reached the ‘photoshoot’ site at the saddle, and being a first-timer, I assumed it would be a nice downhill cruise from there. However, at Mile 17.5, the course took a sharp left turn onto a snowcovered jeep trail save for one set of tire tracks. At this junction was an aid station, only a half mile up the road from the aid station at the half-marathon turnaround. I thought it odd when coming up the gulch that they’d have two stations so close together, but once I made the turn onto the snowy trail, I realized why. I would not be returning the way I came, rather taking a more southern route, eventually rejoining the original trail at about Mile 25.3. The second aid station was geared toward the return trip for the marathoners.

I had a bit of trouble running in the narrow, 6-inch trench left by the single recon vehicle, and thought the course couldn’t get any trickier until it went off-trail to the right at Mile 18. What proceeded was about five miles of post-holing through calf-deep snow covered by a thin crust of ice. The magic shell was only dense enough to handle my weight about half the time, as my pace ranged from a crawl to a scramble, as I was able to run more stable sections as short as 20 feet. I reached for my BB only to find it had fallen out of my hydration vest somewhere along the course (and later turned in by an observant runner). ‘Well, sh*t’, I said as I plodded forward, eyeing the occasional drop of blood left behind in the snow from one of the frontrunners as he blazed the trail for the rest of us. I looked down at my own legs and was surprised to learn that I too was bleeding. I came upon one of the other runners in shorts, and soon learned why I was able to catch him so easily. ‘Ah, racing flats’, I said, my smile pulling back into a wince.

Eventually, the trail turned south and I was able to enjoy some downhills on soft ground. Yes, downhills! My former bane had suddenly become a boon in the loamy Arkansas Hills. I attributed this to the sponge-like consistency of the ground surface, recently stripped of heavy snow cover by the sun, and the XT Wings, which added a noticeable cushion to each footfall. I caught up to Bill, and we traded positions for a mile or so, but I was able to pull ahead when the terrain became difficult. I could feel my left calf start to tighten up, but downed a couple S-Caps and the sensation subsided. I also noticed hunger pangs at about Mile 23, which is odd because food is usually the last thing on my mind at this point. Those issues were cleared up with a few Shot Bloks.

Between Miles 24 and 25, I passed three more runners and set my sights on a fourth (Rich Muzzy, 11th, 4:34:37) but he saw me approaching and stepped up his pace. Soon I was flying down that initial hill near the water tower, and I could hear someone gaining on me from behind. It was Scott Kunz, who I had recently passed. He had found a fifth gear and breezed past me with a smile, eventually catching Rich before the finish line for 10th place and a time of 4:34:20. His pace was such that I had no way of responding in kind, and the three of us cruised along the train tracks with no one making any real gains on the other. At this point I saw Dave and Aspen standing with my parents, who were visiting from Wisconsin and had arrived a day early to see me race. They were straddling that set of tracks I had to cross a couple hundred yards before the finish. Last year, my toe caught the last rail, and I went down hard and flat, pushing my front teeth into my bottom lip and causing an injury to my right palm that ached for weeks. I finished that one with my hand up to my face and a mouthful of blood. This time, I focused on clearing the rails and still managed to graze one of my feet on that last one. My Dad said later that a runner behind me did fall, injuring his elbow and bloodying his forearm.

The final 100-yd stretch through the grass at Riverside Park felt like an eternity, and I gave one last look over my shoulder to ensure that I wasn’t going to be passed before crossing the line. I finished and immediately went over to congratulate Rich and Scott. Scott was joking that his running coach teased him about not having a fifth gear, and he wanted me to call this guy and tell him otherwise.

Dave ran up to congratulate me and said that I had come in 12th place (4:35:09). This was a wonderful surprise, since I had lost track of my position about halfway through the race. Aspen and my parents soon followed, and it was great to finish a race like that and be welcomed by your loved ones. UnGuy was asleep in the Baby Bjorn, and he gave me a big smile when he woke up. I hadn’t seen him nor Aspen since Monday, which made the finish even sweeter.

Once I collected my things, I downed a bowl of chicken soup, a couple of those chocolate chunk cookies and about 40 ounces of Gatorade. This is probably the first of the longer races where I had an appetite at the finish, a welcome change (I couldn’t eat a thing after the Moab race for about two hours). Dave had to jet back to Boulder and said his goodbyes. We walked over to Amica’s for calzones before returning to Conifer as another trail race event came to a close.

Next up, a 50 miler in Fruita, Colorado. I’m already wincing.

Course Overview - Now picture it with snow.