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.

Neurotic Cord Pullers

I recently started taking the bus to work a couple times per week to save on gas and wear-and-tear on my car. There’s a Park-and-Ride just a few miles from my house, and the bus route dumps me pretty close to work. Although it adds an extra half hour to each end of my commute, I appreciate that someone else is behind the wheel when traffic is brutal. During the ride I’m preparing emails for work, drafting blog posts, listening to music or watching a movie on my iPod. The time just flies. Sometimes I just stare out the window or observe riders as they board or disembark the bus, and I’ve come to recognize the same people occupying the same seats day in and day out. But one thing puzzles me. Each day without fail, the same person pulls the ‘Stop Requested’ cord when approaching my stop. At this point, the same half-dozen people get off the bus driven by the same bus driver each day. It’s almost as if said cord puller is afraid that the one time he doesn’t perform his daily duty the bus would breeze on past this popular stop. If I were a bus driver, this would drive me nuts.

The Favrelous One Retires

It’s a sad day for Green Bay Packers fans today as quarterback Brett Favre has announced his retirement from pro football after 17 years in the league (16 with GB) and a dozen NFL records. As a former Cheesehead and avid Packerbacker, I was hoping he’d build on last year’s successful season and return for one more stab at the Lombardi Trophy. Here’s one more ‘ya der hey’ for you, Brett. We’ll miss the mix of field antics and professionalism you brought to the game. Enjoy your retirement!

Ashes to Ashes

It is with great sadness that I relate the recent death of Rowan Parker Corcoran. He was born prematurely to my sister Heather and her husband Darin on Sunday, February 17 and died the following day. I’ve withheld my public reaction to his passing because I’m still searching for the positives in such a terrible event. My thoughts go to Heather and Darin during this difficult time.

Race Report: Moab Red Hot 50K/33K

My first trail race for 2008 was the Moab Red Hot 50K/33K. I chose the 33K because I’m still not up to the ultra distances, and the race was to serve as a bit of a testing ground for longer events on the horizon. The race conveniently coincided with Valentine’s Day, so I booked a couple nights at Moab’s Cali Cochitta Bed and Breakfast, to the delight of my lovely wife. As a contestant in the first Western states trail ultra in 2008, I was excited to see names like Karl Meltzer and Anita Ortiz on the 50K entrants list, and I would later discover a few last-minute elite entries at race time. We hit the road on Friday afternoon, minus unGuy (staying with Grandma and Grandpa) and the dogs (with our neighbors, Gary and Kim).

Upon reaching Utah, I couldn’t believe the amount of snow on the ground, easily the most I’ve ever seen in this desert-like environment. It also lent to some spectacular views as the sun set beyond the Colorado Plateau. We pulled into Moab around 6:45 and proceeded immediately to the Musical Festival office to pick up the race packet. Before heading to the B&B, I wanted to check out the race start to see how much snow remained after a mild winter day. We drove about 10 miles north of Moab to the Gemini Bridges trailhead and picked our way up the slope through about three inches of slush, which would guarantee to freeze into a crunchy shell by morning. We also popped over to the race finish, where the south-facing terrain slightly eased my apprehensions about finishing on a downhill section. Finally returning to the Cali Cochitta, we settled into our room, where I performed my pre-race ritual of organizing my gear for the next day. I also set the alarm for 4:30 to stir me out of sleepytime long enough to eat a small breakfast. I slept well on each side of that first alarm.

The next morning was crispy and clear as we motored to the race start. The parking was scarce, and it appeared that we were one of the last to arrive, even though it was an hour before start time. I slipped out of the car to stretch, then made my way toward the masses, subtly assessing the competition and their apparel. Some were bundled up for a Yukon expedition, carrying backpacks and handhelds, while others were down to tank tops and shorts. I was somewhere in the middle, with a tech tee and shorts, handheld and Nathan hydration vest (minus the bladder). I had also rigged up the iPod to spin Podrunner podcasts in increasing BPM and carried my Blackberry to snap photos along the way. The 50K event was to start at 8:00, and the 33K at 8:30, and I stood with the 50K-ers as the course directions were broadcast by Race Director Chris Martinez. Kurt appeared next to me and we chatted briefly. He was still getting over a cold and planned on a subdued effort. Once the announcements concluded, the runners began to collect near the starting line. It was then I recognized Karl, along with 2007 Leadville Trail 100 winner Tony Krupicka and his pacer (and trail demon in his own right) Kyle Skaggs. I smiled in amusement as these faster runners stood at the line, separated from the rest of the group by an invisible 20-foot buffer. A fan asked them to pose for a picture, alerting others who weren’t in the know that these guys were trail celebrities. Soon the countdown began, and the runners were off; Tony and the gang taking quick possession of the lead. I returned to the car, ate a Powerbar and talked to Jim Sparks, who was parked next to me. He was very affable (although he reminded me a bit of Charlie Manson). We talked about injuries and races in common (Pikes Peak, Imogene), and wished each other luck in the 33K. By now, Aspen had left the confines of a warm vehicle, and we proceeded back to the starting line. Again, the RD barked out race directions, stating that the course was well-flagged, with pink ribbon showing where to go and red indicating off-course conditions. As I turned toward the direction of go, I felt the essence of speed surrounding the insanely skinny Anna Pichrtova, as she took her place in front of the rest of the runners along with Venezuelan runner Ramiro Paris (now a Boulder resident). The countdown ensued, and we were on our way. I hung in the middle of the pack for the first couple hundred yards or so, then began overtaking runners on a short climb, tiptoeing through the icy areas, and feeling quite strong. The climb was followed by a long descent, almost three miles on a two-track dirt road. At the peak I figured I was in about 7th or 8th place, but I got caught up in the moment and stuck to a pace I knew I couldn’t sustain for long. A runner I had passed on the uphill overtook me during this time, but I was able to otherwise maintain my position for the next several miles. At the 4.4-Mile aid station, we turned left to climb up to the ridgeline overlooking the entrance to Arches National Park. The 50K runners had turned right to complete an out-and-back to pick up an extra 17K then would return to this point to join the remainder of the 33K course.

The climbs were mostly slickrock, and I walked only the steepest sections. I was passed quite easily by another runner who appeared to be out for a morning stroll. I would later overtake him as he couldn’t maintain such a brisk pace. The course flirted briefly with the ridgeline, then descended, only to repeatedly return to the cliffs as runners traveled south. A female runner caught up to me, and for a while we helped each other through some sections that were poorly marked. Once the course pointed downhill after the Mile 8 aid station, I had to drop back, as my knees couldn’t handle that kind of punishment.

Tom's catching up!

Another runner, Tom Conner, caught me, and we spent the next 6 or 7 miles together, taking turns in the lead, while the other spotted the course markers. At one point around Mile 11, Tom stopped in his tracks with painful calf cramps, and I offered him an S-Cap. That seemed to temporarily keep the cramps at bay, as Tom pulled ahead for the rest of the race. I caught him briefly at the Mile 15 aid station, but by then I knew I wouldn’t be able to overtake him.

The remaining 5 miles consisted of dirt two-track road comprising the Golden Spike, briefly interrupted by steep slickrock benches. I occasionally looked behind me to make sure I wouldn’t be caught by any second-wind runners on this last stretch. Soon I began to pass hikers and other tourists, cheering me on as the last few miles came to a close. I was cruising at this point. My heart rate had dropped considerably, and I focused on my breathing and staying in sync with the iPod. The last half mile or so consisted of a precipitous drop full of doll’s head-sized cobbles strewn across red dirt. I was cutting a tangent on one of the switchbacks when suddenly I tripped and hit the ground hard, sending my calves into excruciating spasms. I screamed out loud as the cramps slowly released their hold long enough for me to stand and continue, and the pain subsided once I started moving again. The finish line came into view, as did Aspen, who was trying to get some action shots amidst the spectators and hikers. I crossed the line at 3:06:55, fast enough for 9th place overall and 3rd Masters. Tom was there with his wife and family, and we exchanged congrats and stood for a photo (Tom was 8th overall, 2nd Masters).

The post race food consisted of corn soup in a bread bowl, and at any other time this would have been a treat, but the only thing I could stomach was good ol’ H2O. I offered Aspen my share, and she wantonly accepted. We hung around for the 33K awards ceremony, which netted me a plaque and a 4.5-lb keg of Cytomax. The plaque was like nothing I had ever seen before, and difficult to describe with words. Picture a piece of sheet metal folded over and then the front of it etched out with a laser to create the silhouette of a runner and some text. I was grateful to receive such a unique award.

We returned to the B&B, where I showered while Aspen relaxed in a hammock in the backyard. The temps were in the 50s, just enough to taste of summer on this clear day. We drove back out toward the race finish, but continued on to a town called Potash, which was actually just a huge salt processing plant. The road circled expansive settling ponds until finally dumping us at the edge of Canyonlands National Park. We chose to return at this point, taking several pictures of a balancing boulder that begged to be dislodged from its tenuous perch.

Back at the Cali Cochitta, we rested briefly, then walked to Eddie McStiff’s for dinner and subsequent after-hours party. Dinner left me with a pleasantly-satiated feeling, ready to absorb whatever alcohol was being dispensed at the party. We entered a room reserved for the race entrants, and I quickly made my way to the tap, filling my red party cup with a nice amber micro. We asked to share a table with Mark Muehlethaler, not knowing he was with Anita Ortiz and Katie Mazzia, whom I had met the week before. Soon we were sinking beers and margs, snickering at the unusual Utah liquor laws and gabbing about races upcoming and past. At the table next to us were Tony, Kyle and Karl and their mates, enjoying the subtle air of exclusivity. I had hoped to introduce myself, but the opportunity just never came about. Kurt joined us after a while, and I was happy to see that Tom also made an appearance.

9:30 rolled around, and both Aspen and I were halfway to bed. We said our farewells and walked back to the B&B, crawled under the blankets, and quickly succumbed to a restful sleep. The next morning we devoured our home-cooked breakfast and hit the road, hoping to take a short scenic detour around the nearby La Sal Mountains. However, the scenic byway was not meant to be. We didn’t have a map and were going by the directions provided by one of our hosts, resulting in a detour completely devoid of any mountain or snow cover. The route slipped us into Colorado about 120 miles south of Grand Junction, placing us at the Eisenhower Tunnel at, you guessed it, 3PM, where we sat in gridlock in almost the same location as a week before.

Fortunately, traffic on the other end of the tunnel was light, and we got to see unGuy sooner than expected.

To summarize the experience in a few words, the Masters’ placement was a nice surprise. Sometimes it’s good to be an ‘old’ guy.

Screw Them Shoes!

I’ll be getting to my Moab Red Hot 33K performance shortly, but I first wanted to bring up the concept of screw shoes. These are a pair of ordinary-looking running shoes fitted with a series of sheet metal screws. The screws help runners through the late winter season when the snow melts during the day and turns to ice on cold nights. The most thorough description of this process can be found on Matt Carpenter’s informative site. I’ve been meaning to do this for weeks and keep forgetting until I’m dressed for a run and don’t want to take the time to mess with my shoes. However, I’ve paid dearly with increasingly painful falls. I was doing a recovery run last night at a mellow pace on my usual dirt road route. About four inches of powder had fallen throughout the day, obscuring any hazards underneath. I was almost at the end of the out-and-back when I saw the dogs start to lose their traction. By the time I saw the underlying ice it was too late, and both feet flew out from under me. The fall resulted in two throbbing elbows and a busted headlamp, and I lay there cussing at myself, writhing in pain before gathering my composure and continuing on. One of my dogs, Pickle, showed some innate concern and came over to see if I was OK, not used to viewing her master in this horizontal display. Once I returned to the house, I was horrified to discover that my overshirt was soaked in blood from the right elbow down, and Aspen quickly ushered me over to the kitchen sink, where I hesitantly removed the garment. Fortunately, it was a puncture wound, and my elbow didn’t need stitches, but the sheer amount of blood was a bit disconcerting. Nevertheless, today, as I sit here bumping said elbow on various things in my office, I humbly accept the ‘I Told You Sos’ from my good buddy, Dave, who’s been bugging me to screw my shoes for weeks. I finally get the picture, man.

Happy Val-in-times Day

Valentine’s Day is always a fun holiday for us. I usually write a ‘Love Letter’ that we send to our friends and loved ones, detailing our exploits and setbacks from the past year. We figure that everyone sends theirs on Christmas, so why compete? Most years, our Valentine’s weekend includes some sort of trip to a mountain town involving a stay at a bed and breakfast. It used to be the St. Elmo Hotel in Ouray until they promptly priced themselves out of our range. This year I registered for a trail race in Moab and combined the event with a couple night’s stay at a local B&B. I played it coy for a few weeks until the subject of lodging came up and I had to spill the beans. Aspen still has no idea where we’re going (but will find out in the morning). Grandma and Grandpa will be taking care of unGuy for a couple days.

I stopped at the store on the way home from work today to pick up some Valentine’s Day ‘stocking stuffers’. Big mistake. Joining me were a bunch of men picking up last-minute gifts for their wives. I’m sure this is quite amusing to the female cashiers and customers. The epitome was this guy who took approximately 12 seconds to pick out a card for his wife, prompting a woman standing next to me to declare, ‘Ha, ha, that’s about how long my husband would take, too.’ I spent a considerable amount of time looking for the perfect card, and then some chocolates to be arranged in an interesting manner, which Aspen will discover in the morning. I was a bit uncomfortable standing in the checkout line with all these goobs and their feeble last-minute attempts to show their mates how much they love them. I got those same smirky looks from the ladies and wanted to shout, ‘This is just extra stuff! I planned ahead! Really!’ But the icing on the cake was the 12-second-card-choosin’ guy at the front of the line with his card, a two-pound bag of cocktail wieners and the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Nice job, dude.

Race Report: Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships

Are you a newbie runner, translating your experience into the running world through hiking and snowshoeing? Do you fancy yourself as being competitive on snowshoes? Do you desire a venue at which to prove your remarkable speed and endurance? One bit of advice – do not register for a race with the words ‘North American Snowshoe Championships’ in the title. After a strong finish in last week’s Screamin’ Snowman, I was to discover my true position in the rank of Colorado’s elite, after a brutal 10K at the Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships in Beaver Creek, Colorado. This was a last-minute sign-up with the prospects of testing a pair of Crescent Moon’s latest offering, the Magnesium 9s. However, I was to race in my old Crescents, after learning that the company was building them on an as-needed basis, and all pairs were reserved for testing and review by publications such as Snowshoe Magazine and Backpacker. Nevertheless, having run a few snowshoe races in Beaver Creek, I’ve come to enjoy the race experience and post-race festivities.

The race directors wisely start the contests (5K, 10K, kids fun run, ‘dash-for-cash’ run) at 11:00 AM, allowing us city folk to make the 2-3-hour trip without having to get up at 0 Dark 30. The drive to Beaver Creek started as a casual affair. We left the house at 8, giving us plenty of time to reach the slopes. What I didn’t expect was the amount of ski traffic on I-70, prompting a recollection of how we’re always scrambling to get to the start line of the Beaver Creek races, no matter how early we get out the door. We did have a bit of a time buffer this year, allowing me to deposit Aspen and Nick near the drop-off area, park the car in an overflow lot and take the shuttle back to meet them. Beaver Creek Resort is unique in that there is almost no parking at the base of the slopes, except for residents and guests of the surrounding villas. We commoners take a shuttle into the village, which has a center plaza surrounded by shops and bounded by condos. Every square inch of space is accounted for, and I bet it’s one of the few establishments with outdoor escalators. Meeting Aspen at the base of the main ski slopes, she informed me that this race would be starting further upslope and that I had to take a chairlift to the registration booth and race start. I jogged over a bridge to a tent to get my chairlift pass and got in line for the ride up. I shared a quad-seater with a young couple who were skiing but were very interested in snowshoeing. I told them that I had been an avid skier at one time, but went snowshoeing once, only to get hooked and decide to never ski again. I bragged about how it costs next to nothing to do so, and I can bring my dogs and spend an entire day in powder without encountering a single soul. As we talked, I kept glancing at my watch, which had passed 11AM during the ride. Fortunately, upon reaching the registration booth, I found that the race was yet to start, and they would run the kids race and the 100-yd ‘dash-for-cash’ prior to the 5K and 10K races.

I took a bit of time settling into my race mentality. The temps on the slopes were in the 40s, so I wore a tech t-shirt and a light windbreaker, with winter running pants and a pair of Salomon XA Pro 3Ds. The weather also prompted the return of my lucky red bandanna, which was worn at almost every race last summer and fall. I had planned on wearing an iPod and a belt with a couple 8-oz bottles of Vitalyte but chose to leave this extra weight behind as I surveyed some of the other runners and the course beyond. I started inching my way through the other shoers to a spot somewhere in the middle of the pack, to learn that the 5K and 10K racers would comprise a mass start. The race director shouted ‘GO’, and off we went, starting with a climb in the direction of up. There was some difficulty moving forward as people were mostly trying to maintain their balance amidst the confinement of a group start. Once I was able to look ahead of me, I noticed the frontrunners had already broken away from the pack. The course soon split into the respective 5 and 10K routes, and most of the runners went the 5K direction (237, to be exact). Over the next few miles the course alternated between single-track powder and groomed Nordic trails. I chose not to try to pass on the single-track, knowing my strengths were in the Nordic climbs. My direct competition became apparent within the first mile, and I traded places with four or five others for the duration of the race. The toughest section proved to be an extended downhill singletrack through thigh-deep powder, and I was having difficulty in such small snowshoes designed for groomed trails.

As the race wore on, I found that I was able to pass runners while power-hiking, which gained me at least 3 or 4 spots alone. I had hoped that my training mix of running and hiking would benefit me on the hills, and it most certainly did. As the race MC's voice echoed ever nearer in the distance, I began to pick up the pace, knowing the finish was close at hand. (I had stopped looking at my Garmin after Mile Marker 4, in which the unit showed only 3.5 miles.) I caught up to a younger guy who flew past a bunch of us in a previous deep powder section, and he rose to keep pace with me. By then my sights were set on the finish line, knowing I had a little bit left in the tank to cruise ahead. However, I didn’t notice the right hand turn, and the younger guy laughed at me as I realized my error. The course detoured into a short section of powder during which I had lost precious yards to my competitor, allowing another racer to catch me, as well. I spent what little I had left maintaining my balance through this short section which rejoined the groomed trail I most desperately needed, and cruised into the finish.

Once I regained my composure, I began changing into some dry clothes, discovering that my race bib belt had completely spun around, leaving my number on my backside. On a hunch, I guessed that the finish line registrars didn't get my race number as I finished, and my suspicions were proven to be correct. Fortunately, I had timed the race with my Garmin, and it matched the question mark on the registrar’s ledger (1:11:30). It might have been for naught as I later learned I had finished 40th out 80. Collecting my things, I grabbed a chairlift back to the plaza, along with two other female snowshoers. I quickly learned that they were Anita Ortiz (2nd Women’s 10K) and Katie Mazzia (9th Women’s 10K). I had recognized both of their names immediately, as runners tend to scour race result postings for familiar names. Anita was suffering from that exercise-induced hacker’s cough I enjoyed at last week’s race. We talked about the Screamin' Snowman and the upcoming Moab Red Hot 50K, at which all three of us will be competing (well, they in the 50K and I in the 33K). Both were jonesing for a Starbucks, and we said our farewells after disembarking the lift.

I caught up with Aspen shortly thereafter. She was pushing Nick around in the jog stroller, and he was konked out in a restful nap. We proceeded to the plaza center, where a catered lunch was being served to the race participants. I wasn’t the least bit hungry and encouraged Aspen to enjoy my share. Soon the race MC was handing out raffle prizes, briefly interrupting the giveaways to announce the winners of each race division. Calling out the race times elicited murmurs of astonishment from the crowd, and I was quick to determine that the men’s winner finished the race a full 20 minutes faster than I did. The awards ceremony and raffle soon ended, and everyone made their way to the shuttles. It was about 1:45 PM at this point, and I still had to retrieve the car and return to get Aspen, Nick, and the jog stroller. We finally hit the road about 2:30.

Had I remembered past races, I should have kept a mental note to leave for home ASAP, for the next 3.5 hours were to be spent in the car, sitting in ski traffic hell, including an entire half-hour spent completely still, just a few hundred yards from the west entrance of the Eisenhower Tunnel. At first we both kinda marveled over how many cars were on I-70 at the same time. After two hours of inching ever forward, those curiosities turned to frustration, as I took stock of how much of my life was being wasted in this traffic jam. Aspen entertained herself by watching an entire movie on my iPod, and Nick cycled through sleep, whining and crying, as his day was also being manipulated by the incessant traffic pattern. Several times I wondered out loud how people can subject themselves to this kind of punishment each weekend. Gratefully, I will not be among them.

To summarize the race, I didn’t feel that I made any glaring mistakes, other than assuming that I was going to finish better than I did. If anything, this race gave me a renewed appreciation for the level of running talent that Colorado has to offer.

Another One Bites The Dust

Kirk runs happily down the street
His hat pulled way down low
Ain’t no sound but the sound of his feet
On a couple inches of snow
Are ya ready?
Hey! Are ya ready for this?
Are ya hangin’ on the edge of your seat?
All of a sudden
The runner slips
To the sound of the beat, yeah.

My favorite runs occur when it’s dumping snow. Last night after getting sucked into 90 minutes of eye-rolling that is Deal Or No Deal (more on that in a later post), I didn’t get out until after 10 PM. It had been snowing for a while and about 2-3 inches had accumulated on snowpacked ground lovingly polished by local traffic for some time. I was running my usual route, an out-and-back that climbs the first half-mile, then gradually works its way down to the mouth of someone’s driveway. I was enjoying a rare sub-7:00 mile under 140 bpm, when all of a sudden my feet left terra firma and I was eating fresh powder. I should have paid more attention to one of my four-legged friends who was having trouble keeping her balance on the deceptive turf. The only component missing from this scenario was the third-base umpire squawking, ‘SAFE!’ I’m not sure how far I slid, but it was enough that the dogs showed some concern over their master suddenly becoming a sled. Brushing the wintry debris from my chest, I caught my breath long enough to laugh out loud, wondering what kind of spectacle I would have made to onlookers had I not been in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it’s time for those cleats after all.

Race Report: Screamin' Snowman 5K

My second snowshoe race of the season was this little bitty 5K at Eldora Mountain Resort called the Screamin’ Snowman. The race course is a radical blend of steep uphills, well-worn single-track trails, and thigh-deep off-track powder. It’s almost impossible to get a rhythm going, since none of these sections are more than a few hundred yards long (except for one lengthy off-track segment). My first stab at this course was in 2005, when I ran with Aspen to finish somewhere in the middle of the pack. I returned in 2006, originally hoping to run the 10K version, but when it came close to registration time, I didn’t feel like I had a 10K in me. I surprised myself with a third place overall finish in the 5K. This year, I’m sure I could have taken on the longer distance, but my ego won out in the end and I went with the Sandbag Special. I uncharacteristically started just behind the frontrunners on this course, which opens with a groomed uphill climb that immediately spreads out the field. I found I was able to run this first section and keep a fourth-place position for the first couple miles of the course. Eldora had received about seven inches of powder the night before, so the off-terrain portions of the course were slower than usual, prompting the runner behind me to joke about how all of us looked like drunk people trying to navigate our way through the woods. I found that the 5K field was a lot stronger this year, and my perceived improvements were not enough to repeat my success, as I lost a couple places in the closing mile of the race. I finished strong, although my mistake of not taking a couple puffs on my inhaler before the race proved costly toward the end, as I struggled to get oxygen into my lungs on the home stretch. On such a short distance I wasn’t allowed to stop and take a breather or veer off course, as eight of us finished within 45 seconds of each other. In the end I came in sixth place overall, and I was gaining on the runner in front of me as I turned the last corner. Satisfied with my performance, I regained my composure and searched for Aspen, who was in the ski rental shop, cradling Nick and talking to some of the other moms with kids around his age (there must have been at least four or five!)

The exhilaration of knowing I had pushed my body to its limits paled to what would occur after the race. I asked one of the race directors, Darrin Eisman if he had any skull caps from last year’s event. I happened to be sporting one (see photo in Bachin’ it with unGuy), and have been wearing it around the house as my hair gets longer and increasingly difficult to keep out of my eyes. I had tried several different and more expensive brands only to come back to this economical version sold by Headsweats.com. To my delight, he said that they had a bunch left over from last year and were selling them for $5 (they cost $14 online)! I bought five, and he also gave me a freebie. After the awards ceremony, I ambled over to where Jake Thamm, owner of Crescent Moon snowshoes, was plying his wares. He was providing loaners of his most current product line to race-day entrants. I introduced myself, as Aspen and I wear Crescents and had recently sent them in to be retrofitted with new bindings and crampons. I had also talked with him at length on the phone about their new products, etc. He recognized me right away, and we spoke briefly about their new line and how light Crescent Moon snowshoes have become over the years. He mentioned that their current model is made of magnesium, resulting in an even lighter shoe. I looked down at mine (well, Aspen’s, actually – I race in hers) all beat-up and missing sections of paint, thinking of the 1000+ miles and breath-taking locations these shoes have seen, and I salivated over the aesthetics of his current versions. As the crowds were dissipating, I offered to help him load his inventory into his Jeep, casually volunteering to test a pair of those mag shoes. To my astonishment, he offered to send me a pair in return for a written review on their performance, durability, etc. As a ‘Crescent Veteran’, I look forward to giving the new shoes a thorough workout.

Now that the short race is out of the way, I look forward to the longer distances, where I can use smart running tactics like proper nutrition and hydration to persevere in a race rather than pure speed, which is not my strength. I have the Moab Red Hot 33K in a couple weeks and anticipate a strong finish simply due to my preference for colder climes on race day. In the meantime, I’m looking at the North American Snowshoe Championships in Beaver Creek next Sunday. This is a 10K event and will feature some of the best snowshoe runners in the country. I’m still suffering from a nasty exercise-induced asthma-borne hacker's cough which I hope will clear out before the weekend. Given the strength of the upcoming 10K field, I’ll need every advantage I can get. With a clean set of lungs and a pair of Mag 9s, maybe I’ll have a fighting chance (to finish).

Bachin’ it with unGuy

This past weekend Aspen was in San Diego for a dental conference, which meant that unGuy and I got to hang out together for a few days. I was looking forward to this for weeks (not the ‘Aspen-leaving’ part, but the ‘spending-some-quality-time-with-my-son’ part). I get the impression that many dads dread playing Mr. Mom any longer than they have to. But unGuy is such a good little dude that I don’t mind the poops molded to his butt crack or the errant projectile squash spit-up. Other than that, he’s a pretty low-maintenance kid. I took advantage of our time together by planning a couple excursions for the weekend. Saturday we went snowshoeing at my ‘secret spot’ near Empire. It’s becoming not-so-secret lately as it was the most people (6) I’ve ever seen on this trail in one day. However, we passed many of them soon after starting and spent the rest of the afternoon on our own. I carried him in a Kelty Kids Journey backpack, which comes with a mirror that you can use to see how your little passenger is doing. I used it a few times when things got quiet back there. We started at about 8,900 feet and were just above 10,000 feet at the turnaround point (about 3 miles in). UnGuy fell asleep on the way back, so I knew he was comfortable.

Sunday afternoon I stuffed unGuy in the BOB and went on a 12-mile run around the neighborhood. A lot of snow had melted in the past few days, and the winds were incredibly strong. One gust nearly stopped me in my tracks. Fortunately, we bought a shield for the stroller, so unGuy was fully encapsulated. I walked a decent portion of these miles in an attempt to keep my HR below 140, but even that was tough when the route got muddy. UnGuy barely made a peep during the 2.5-hour jaunt. I peeked through the shield once, and he was playing with his foot.

Aspen was scheduled to arrive at DIA shortly before 6PM, and I thought it would be cool to surprise her at the airport. She missed unGuy terribly, and I figured it would take away her misery as soon as possible. When I got to the airport, I put him in the BabyBjörn (facing forward) and made quick strides to the reception area in the main terminal. I was on time, but it appeared that her plane had also come in early. I nervously paced around the escalator exits hoping I would catch her before she went to the baggage claim area. Soon a glut of passengers burst forth, and I recognized Aspen walking nonchalantly with her boss, who saw me and directed her attention my way. Our glances met and she scurried over to me with tears forming in her eyes. I unclipped unGuy from the harness and handed him to her as the days, hours, minutes, then seconds of separation culminated in an outburst of emotions that only a new mother can appreciate when reunited with her child after some time apart. I began to cry, too, and we stood there in a group hug, isolated from the urban commotion around us, as bachelor’s weekend came to a memorable close.

Blog Enhancements

I’ve slowly been making enhancements to the blog after getting ideas from other sites and soliciting feedback from various bloggers whom are bit more internet savvy than I. You’ll notice that the following updates have been made:

• You can now post a comment anonymously. I had originally selected that a blogger account is required to post here, but I feel that it detracts from the free-form feel I’m trying to achieve with this blog. All you John or Jane Does are now free to post without giving up any personal information. But I encourage you to use your name in your comments so I know who you are.

• I’ve added my proposed race schedule for 2008 in the sidebar. Hopefully we share a least one race this year. If you’ve never met me, I’m the lanky 6’ 3” dude with shoulder-length blonde hair, probably fiddling with his iPod. I tend to have the blinders on during a race but am always interested in meeting people.

• Subscribe to this blog through Feedblitz (also in the sidebar). I found that this is a great way to get my posts in your email inbox. My mom reads my blog and has no idea what a RSS feed is, so all she has to do now is enter her email into the little box ‘dere, and voila, she’ll never miss a post! I do encourage Feedblitzers to continue to visit the site, however, and post comments.

NOTE: If you’ve noticed, each of the photos on my blog have a caption that can be seen if you hover your mouse over it. I would ultimately like to have these captions directly beneath each photo, but this only works if you have every photo centered on the page. As far as I know, to place captions beneath photos that are right- or left-justified requires creating a table using HTML, which is beyond my expertise. I’ve sent feedback to blogger.com, but would welcome any quick fixes in the meantime.

I have a few more items to add, including links to products I use and endorse and a list of links to other blogs and various interesting sites.

I realize this is one of thousands of blogs fighting for your readership. Help make this grow! Introduce TFC to your friends and family! Link to this site!

The Good Samaritan

One of my favorite blogs is A Trail Runners Blog by Scott Dunlap. While on a long bus ride a few days ago, I decided to scan through his last few entries. I soon came across a post about his experience at the Diablo 50K which provided a detailed account of the burden he was carrying into that race. I will not go into detail, other than that he happened to witness the immediate aftermath of a cyclist vs. truck accident and was a first responder. The post details a heartbreaking report of what ensued and how he dealt with the lingering emotional upwelling (be sure to read all of the comments following the post). While reading his narrative I was reminded of a time as a child when my Dad found himself in that same situation. We were driving on I-94 through Milwaukee when a dump truck lost its footing on a graded hillside on the opposite of the highway as we were passing by. I remember the massive beast tumbling to its side and finally coming to rest upside-down, wheels spinning and diesel fuel spilling to the ground out of a punctured gas tank. I recall my dad swerving to the shoulder and bolting across several lanes of traffic, running up this hill to the overturned truck, then pulling the bloodied driver out of the cab and harm’s way. I don’t remember much after that, only the unconscious speed at which my Dad responded. I haven’t made any rescues of quite that magnitude, however, I did experience a slightly more subdued incident about 10 years ago. I was driving the Jetta in a heavy snowstorm, returning east from Glenwood Springs on I-70. I had my mom, one of my sisters and her infant daughter in the car with me. We were passing through Vail as a Chevy Astro spun off the road into the median about 300 yards in front of us. The van slammed into the ravine dividing the four lanes of highway, resulting in a blast of fresh snow shooting in all directions. I immediately pulled over and sprinted toward them, not knowing what I would discover upon arrival. There, I found a young couple with a very small child groping their way out of the vehicle. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and we were able to give them a ride to a gas station in Vail. Of course, this is quite tame compared to what Scott and my Dad experienced, and I wonder how I would have reacted in their situation. I guess you never know until it happens to you.

A Run Through Time, Part III

Continued from Part II......

Once past the Ranger House, I could feel the grade taking its toll on my energy reserves, and I responded by downing a few Shot Bloks and a couple gulps of gel. Little did I know that these were simply bandaids more suited for a training run and not miles 16-21 in a brutal climb. However, it was a mental boost that got me through the next couple of miles. Although I was well hydrated, I didn’t realize that I was far behind on my required caloric intake (about 4,000 each way). The trail began to cut into the cliff walls as I entered Roaring Springs Canyon, and the next mile or so was spent guessing where this route could possibly lead. I wondered if this portion of the trail was designed as it was blasted out of the sandstone or if there was any forethought that a chosen path would lead to an impassible dead end. Along this stretch, I met a few hikers and runners who were incredibly fresh and high-spirited. With about three miles to go I relinquished my jogging pace and resorted to a brisk power hike. Each turn gave a disheartening view of yet another geologic formation above the next, and I cursed out loud when I approached a section descending a series of switchbacks to a footbridge crossing. It’s bad enough to have to give up some elevation on a climb like this, but even more frustrating knowing that you have to regain it on the other side. With about 2.5 miles to go, I ran into Travis, who had started from the North Rim and was happily traipsing his first few miles of an R2. As I approached him, I felt that the R3 was an impossibility at this point and had already decided to call it a day upon reaching the rim. He was his usual positive self, riding that wave of enthusiasm I had known just a few hours ago. Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from a guy who recently quit smoking after 16 years and a became new convert to the running frenzy. After a few minutes of encouraging banter, we parted ways; Travis bounding gallantly down the path of vindication and me climbing the slippery slope of denial. I reached Linda about 0.25 mile later, decked out in all-weather gear and navigating the descent with a set of walking poles. A self-proclaimed slowpoke, she had made every precaution on this trip, plying her trail smarts onto the rest of us as the proverbial Trail Angel. Knowing she was an avid photo-journalist, I tried to look strong as I approached her, but the resulting picture exposed me for the tired heap that I was. By now I just wanted the hike to end and informed Linda of my intent to call it a day. She reminded me that her husband (and my co-worker) John would be waiting for me at the top with drinks and food. This became my focus as I considered the last two or so miles of the journey. The clothes I has peeled off in the first mile of the descent were slowly retaking their place on my torso as the weather conditions deteriorated.

I reached the Supai Tunnel shortly thereafter, and I knew from my research that it was almost exactly two miles from the North Rim. I figured I’d be arriving at John’s Food Mart in about a half hour. This was minutes before the wheels fell off and time became immaterial. I remember glancing at my GPS at one point, and to my horror I was clinging to a 28:00 mile. To put it in perspective, a granny pushing a walker would have passed me at this point. The term ‘death march’ came to mind and along with it the stories of runners who had succumbed to this misfortune for miles. Each turn led to another, with no home stretch in sight. Finally, I was passing the short hikers, the folks who step out of their cars in their penny loafers and amble down the trail a few hundred yards to get a better taste of the canyon. Many already knew who I was and what I was about to accomplish, and they cheered me on to the rim. I tried to look my freshest, but such despair is hard to mask with just a smile. A kiosk came into view, and I used what little I had left to carry me to the top. John was waiting like a concerned parent, and I was quick to inform him of my decision to hitch a ride back to the South Rim. A seasoned runner and hiker, he assessed my condition and didn’t dissuade me. I sat in his car with the heat blasting in my face, as recovery took hold. Chris arrived about a half hour later and appeared to be in a much better state. He had already decided to complete the R3 and sat in the car to recharge his GPS and attend to some leg cramps. Dave arrived about twenty minutes after Chris and was also content with an R2. We cheered Chris on his way and started on our 5-hour drive back to the South Rim.

I remember looking at a few trees, then waking up at a gas station a couple hours later. Climbing out of the car, I felt oddly fresh, and the pain of regret began to sink in. I began to second-guess my decision to bail out of the R3 and wondered if I had given myself enough time to recover before letting go. This inexperienced judgment would preoccupy my thoughts for the remainder of the trip.

Once the three of us were conscious and coherent, the undeniable subject of work came up. I try to avoid talking about work unless asked, but as we all shared a background in geology, the subject matter would promise to be entertaining. The hours evaporated quickly as we strengthened our commonalities through anecdotes from the field, and soon we were approaching the feral swarm of tourists in Grand Canyon Village. Not being successful at reaching Aspen by cell, I directed John to a parking lot off of the Bright Angel Lodge. She was parked there as expected and had just listened to my voice mail, relieved that I was safe and anxious to hear about the run. The dogs were barking in unison with reverence, as if they knew of what I had just accomplished. We quickly darted off to the town of Tusayan, where I had anticipated the devouring of the thickest, greasiest pizza we could find. Our first stop was at a couple different hotels in the town. I thought it would be a nice gesture to Aspen, and a guaranteed good night of sleep. All but one of the establishments were sickeningly out of our price range, and that one hotel was oddly closed when we attempted to inquire about vacancy. Nevertheless, pizza was next on the agenda, and we would return to this dive once our gullets were gratuitously filled. The impending satiation would have to wait even longer as we discovered that the entire Tusayan business district was in the middle of a prescribed power outage. By now I would have eaten just about anything and we resorted to the Yavapai Lodge cafeteria for some overpriced vittles. I would not be denied my pizza and succumbed to the rotating heat-lamped slices that the food vendor had to offer. Aspen had her fries, and unGuy, well, he just continued to elicit coos from all of the moms in the cafeteria. After some thought, we decided to camp another night and stay in Tusayan Saturday night.

Our guts filled, we returned to the campsite to relax and recover. I asked Aspen to drive out to the main road to attempt to reach Dave on her cell phone, as the signal had disappeared once we left pavement. She returned shortly thereafter, stating that we had to pack up and leave immediately. She happened to be pulling out onto the main road as a convoy of park rangers were returning from a training session. We gathered our stuff and made a hasty retreat to Tusayan after all, but by then our cheap motel had filled, as well as many of the mid-priced lodging. The rest were simply out of our price range. Finally, I said ‘Screw this’, and pushed on south towards Williams, hoping we could find some more affordable digs. We were about five miles outside of Tusayan when we passed a patrol car, and I diverted my attention to the rear view as the squad flipped a ‘U’ in our direction.

Coming up: The Red Butt(e). Steaks and Headlamps. Agate to the Past?

Race Report: Turquoise Lake 20-mile Snowshoe Run

The 19th annual snowshoe race encompassing the Turquoise Lake area near Leadville, CO was my fourth time dragging my sorry carcass through miles of knee-deep powder. Each time has been a unique experience altogether. The first time was in 2002, and I figured it couldn’t be much harder than the snowshoe treks I was l already doing that winter. Toward the end of the race I found myself doubled over trying to preserve the contents of my stomach and attempting to resolve the errant hallucinations. I stumbled in toward the end of the pack, vowing never to subject myself to such punishment again. Four years went by, long enough for the painful memories of that ordeal to lapse. I had just started running in September 2005 and had about three months of training under my belt when I entered the 2006 race. I did much better and felt encouraged to continue with this running thing. Last year I caught a cold a couple days before the race and thought I could shrug it off by race day. What I didn’t predict was the sub-zero wind chill and a DNF about seven miles into the race. The walk back to the start was easily five miles, and Aspen happened to be driving by, sparing me further humiliation. This year I had logged many more miles, including three months of hill training around our new digs. I was getting over a cold and briefly considered passing on this year, but in the end my pride won out, and I entered with the goal of at least finishing the race.

Since Aspen was ill, I decided to make the solo journey to Leadville. My room at the Timberline was huge, allowing me to spread out my gear for the next day. Upon a cursory inventory, it looked like I remembered everything. But to my dismay, a leak in my hydration pack bladder thoroughly soaked my running clothes. (Our tap water is so good that I’ve become a bit of a drinking water snob, so I tend to haul my water from home, when possible). I hung up what I could, knowing the mountain climate would make short work of the drying process. I set my alarm and drifted off to sleep. The next morning arrived too soon, and I chose to delay race preparations to enjoy few more minutes of bliss. When my feet finally hit the floor I drew the curtains aside to a steady accumulation of snow. Realizing that I had a few miles to drive to the race start, I quickly threw on my attire, which was considerably less than what I had sported the year before. Outside, I brushed the snow off the Jetta and forced this sled down the hill toward the starting line at Sugar Loafin’ Campground. By now I was to pay for those extra 15 minutes in the sack, as people were already lining up, and I had yet to register. I scrambled to get signed up and ran back to the car to add the rest of my gear. I arrived back at the start line as RD Tom Sobal was going through the course directions to about 60 runners, only to realize I had forgotten my bib number in the car. I made a second trip back at slightly less than a sprint and returned as the race started. I slipped in at the end of the pack and spent the next few hundred yards pinning my bib number to my shirt and setting up the iPod for a 5-hour workout.

The opening leg was spent in single file at a brisk hiking pace, and it was evident that my cold still had a tenuous hold on my energy. My heart rate jumped into the 160’s and I was out of breath. I attributed this mostly to nerves and the adrenalin generated during my late arrival. Soon I calmed down and was able to shake off the cobwebs. During this first mile the course follows a series of overhead power lines via a swath cut into the forest to install them. Every time I travel this section it reminds me of the photos I've seen of the Klondike Gold Rush. I estimate that a few hundred feet of elevation is gained immediately. On several occasions I stood in place as some of the slower climbers in front of me navigated the steeper sections. It’s really tough to move at this speed when anxiety takes control and you feel like you’re losing ground to the frontrunners. One must keep in mind that there are 19 more miles to assume your place in the food chain.

The climb peaks at a service road, then drops to Turquoise Lake. The trail enters a clearing marking the edge of the shoreline, where a runner gets a glimpse of the frozen horizon beyond. Only this year, the lake was socked in with low-lying snow clouds, and visibility was poor at best. The course would begin to cross the snow-covered ice cap, and here is when I made my precipitous move towards the frontrunners. I passed approximately 20-25 people during this time, while keeping an eye on my heart rate. When it rose above 160 or so, I would slow to a power hike, but I found I was able to run most of this section. Occasionally the course would cross a section of slushy snow, where snowmelt settles in depressions in the ice surface, and there’s no easy way to navigate except go through it. I noticed that the trail banked to the left toward the opposing shore, which seemed to deviate from previous years. Soon I was climbing the shoreline toward the trees and tracing a fresh snowmobile trail. I could see two more runners ahead of me, and I was slowly gaining on them. As I rounded a smooth curve, the two were standing at a junction, studying a map. As I got closer, I noticed several snowshoe tracks leading to the right. However, I remembered this being a left turn. One of the two others was certain that the frontrunners had made a wrong turn, so he began to hike in the opposite direction. The other followed him and I in turn. But I soon relented and began to run toward the rest of the tracks, knowing that Tom was in the lead group and would not have made such a rookie mistake. By now a few more runners had collected and agreed with the first guy, yelling out to me that I was headed in the wrong direction. So, I turned around and attempted to regain the ground I had lost by getting in front of this group (which had quickly amassed to about 30 people). I had covered about 0.3 mile when the road began to descend, suggesting that I was indeed heading in the wrong direction. It was soon confirmed by a couple of support crew walking toward me who said that we were only a couple miles from the finish line. At this time, many in the group were considering a hasty return to the finish, since they believed we were far off course and would not be able to make the 7-hour cutoff time. I wasn’t about to hang it up just yet and returned to my original course.

The next five miles followed the main road that circles the lake. It was here that I reaped the rewards of my recent hill training. I found I was able to run almost the entire way. I caught up to an older gentleman, and we talked for a while, concluding that the course was being run in reverse of previous years. I passed two young women who were trudging along and appeared to be in poor spirits when I greeted them. I did my best to cheer them on and continued at my normal pace, overtaking a young guy who was taking very small steps. Usually, that’s the sign of a death march, and I was quick to recognize his troubled state after experiencing those same symptoms first hand. He said he was OK, so I moved on. At Mile 11 I was approached by a guy on X-country skis. He asked if there was anyone behind me, and I gave him a quick synopsis of what happened at the junction. He appeared to be quite concerned about the rest of the group and mentioned something about the cutoff time. He also noted that the aid station was 10-15 minutes away. I was relieved to know I would soon be putting some liquids into my system, since I had been prepared for an aid station at 5 miles in, not 12. Arriving at this oasis, I filled my handheld, drank half of it and refilled. I also had a smaller, empty 8oz bottle with Vitalyte powder, and I filled that, too. At this point the course becomes an out-and-back, where the trail steadily climbs to a 10th Mountain Division hut at 11,370 feet and returns to this aid station before heading to the finish. The aid station volunteer was helpful, and I was grateful that he properly assessed my condition before deciding whether to send me home. I was catching my second wind at this point, and it helped me through the toughest leg of the course. I was about halfway to the hut when the race leaders passed me on their descent. I did not recognize the two frontrunners, but I did spot Tom right away, in third. Shortly behind him was Keri Nelson, and then the staggered chase group. Nine, ten, eleven, I counted each runner as I was being passed. 19, 20, 21…Wow, they’re not as spread out as I would have guessed! I began to wonder where I would have been in the standings had I followed my instincts back at that junction, since I must have lost at least 20 minutes in that fiasco. I passed one more runner as I ascended, and about 200 yards from the hut I came upon Kurt who yelled out my name in excitement. He had suffered a cold spell and spent a few minutes in the hut to get warm. He said he’d be running slow so I could catch up and we could finish together. I reached the hut, tagged one of the walls and began my descent. The first few hundred yards were a bit out of control as I struggled to maintain balance with tired legs on a steep grade. Once the slope became manageable I could feel yet another gear kicking in. I quickly caught Kurt and we took turns leading on the downhill. Upon arriving at the aid station I learned that I was the last one to be allowed up to the hut. The confused pool of people I had passed earlier were directed to the campground with a DNF. This meant that I would be second or third to last place at the finish. However, I was relieved to still be an active participant.

Leaving the aid station, Kurt and I cruised a long descent on the main road. At this point I was still feeling really good. However, Kurt mumbled something about calling it a day. I told him I'd make sure he crossed the finish line, and that seemed to energize him as he pushed on. We began to pass some of the DNF’d runners, and I could feel their pain; not so much from exhaustion, but from regret. No one likes a DNF. Kurt and I made a right turn off the main drag into the woods, quickly dropping to the lake ice. Our entire crossing would be done as a power hike, since by now an additional 5-6 inches of snow had accumulated on the ice, and I assume that only the strongest of athletes could have run this section. We stopped briefly so Kurt could snap some photos of the eerie terrain.

A guy in front of us was moving at a crawl, at one point pausing to rest his hands on his knees. When we approached him, he asked how much further we had until the finish, and I reluctantly reported that he still had another 2.5 to 3 miles to go. I asked if he was OK, and he said he was getting dizzy but otherwise all right. At this point I had little water and one bite of food, which he politely refused. We continued on for another 1.5 miles or so until we reached the shoreline, rejoining the trail we covered earlier that day in the opposite direction. I was a few yards in front of Kurt and took the opportunity to consume the remainder of my supplies as he caught up. Once at the top of the ridge, we flew down the utility corridor singletrack with haste, and the return trip seemed to last forever. About 0.25 mile from the finish, I stepped aside and let Kurt take the reins into the finish line, and the 63-year-old grand master powered through those last few yards of powder like a champ. Kurt finished with a 5:24:20 and I with a 5:24:25. My GPS showed 21.3 miles.

Once the rush subsided, I took stock of the incessant snowfall and made a beeline to the car, now huddled under a blanket of heavy snow. I had planned to change into some dry clothing and rejoin Kurt at the small campground lodge for some homemade grub (entry fee to the race was $20, or $10 of you brought a dish to pass). I slipped off my snowshoes, gaiters, shoe covers, and finally my running shoes. All were thoroughly saturated. I then stepped into my boots and began to relieve my Jetta of about 100 lbs. of wet snow. The windshield was already covered by the time I made it around the car, and my concern over the weather began to grow. I started the car and picked out my exit strategy. The Jetta inched forward ever so slightly and the wheels began to spin. About 20 minutes later I had finally broken free. Now the decision was apparent: Do I hang out, eat a good home-cooked meal with friends, or to I hightail it outta there while I still can? Of course, I went with option #2. I spun my way back to Leadville, went straight to the Timberline and booked a room for the night. I had hoped that Kurt would figure out why I left and we could catch up later.

Further disrobing ensued in the rustic dwelling; each article of clothing more soaked than the next and hung on every available hook or nob in the room. I’m sure I was carrying at least one or two lbs. of snowmelt in my outfit alone. I checked my cell phone and I had two messages, one of which was certainly from Aspen, since I mistakenly told her the race started at 9 (it was 10, actually), it would take me about 5 hours, tops, and I would call her as soon as I finished. The phone was about dead at this time, so I had to charge it a while before making any calls, further lengthening the waiting process. After suffering the residual effects of my last year’s DNF, she was relieved that I finished and was happy with my performance. The accumulating snow and the serenity of being trapped in it made me even more homesick, and an extra night away from Aspen and unGuy was almost too much to bear. However, I went to the ‘Hut, ordered my traditional post-race pizza and settled down for the night. Kurt was able to track me down and invited me to join him and his friends who lived in Leadville, but by then I was hunkered down and ready for a second full night of rest.

The next morning, I noticed an additional inch or two of snow had fallen in the city, but the sun was now drenching the hills in a wintry glow. I collected my race garb, which had dried to a nice cardboard consistency, and packed the car. Kurt returned to invite me to breakfast, but I had already set my sights on the drive home. We said our goodbyes and each went on his way. The return trip was beautiful, as the recent snow had wrapped every tree like a gift. I was reinvigorated and blessed to be the fleeting owner of such beautiful country.

Postscript – After receiving the race results from Tom a few days later, I learned that the frontrunners had lost their way while crossing the lake and decided to head toward the nearest sign of land. Once they determined their location, they chose to run the course in reverse. Out of 64 runners, only 25 completed the full 20+ mile course; 39 did not. Kurt and I finished 20th and 21st, respectively.

Post-postscript - I’ve uploaded a Google map version of the race course and have added rudimentary green lines and arrows showing which direction the course should have taken (counterclockwise instead of clockwise). Looking at the map, you can see the split once the course reaches the southern shoreline of Turquoise Lake. The route should have stayed right and reached land directly north of the entry point. Instead, the frontrunners drifted left and then beelined it southwest to the shore. You can see where I doubled back a few times as shown by the blue section of the line. Ultimately we ran most of the course in reverse, except toward the end we would have continued south-southeast on the main road and then crossed back over the ice just above the dam. Ah, well.