I do love the course and the woods, though. In spite - or maybe because of - the rainy weather, it was a spectacular run. It's hard to convey those moments of complete contentment and tranquility, gliding along the soft ground in the damp mist under the green canopy of redwoods. This is why I keep coming back.

Those magical moments rarely last for five hours, though, and for me, at least, it turns out that running 30-odd miles is fairly hard. Using December's race as my baseline, I planned to push a little harder in the first third this time out, since I thought I had played it a little too conservatively back then. When we set out at 8:30, I made sure to keep the legs churning through the early, long climb to the King's Mountain aid station.

Once through there, I found I didn't have to push myself anymore - it was hard going no matter what my intensity was! I had definitely underestimated the difficulty the wet, soggy ground would cause. Mostly, it was just a subtle extra draining of energy with each step, but the accumulated drag of having to push off of very soft ground caused me some considerable problems as I moved through the course.

I hit the Bear Gulch aid station a little tired, but soon found my wind again on the downhill trails into Wunderlich Park. By the time I hit the theoretical half-way point of the race (15.5 miles on my Garmin), the clock stood at 2:24:48. Again, I was right on pace for an even-split 5 hour finish.

Throwing caution into the wind, I ran pretty much the entire uphill return to the aid station, slowing only once for an on-course pit stop, and caught my first road-kill victim at the top of the climb. Loading up on water and some chunks of Pay Day, I set out on the six-mile connector towards Huddart Park, which is when things got really tough.

Even small up-hill stretches reduced me to walking, and I felt a little embarrassed to be out of gas with nearly 10 miles left in the race. But the trail had become extremely sloppy after having had to absorb the footsteps of a couple of hundred runners, and much of my energy was spent pulling my shoes out of the mud. Unfortunately, I was running in my new Inov-8 FlyRoc 310s, which meant my feet had to do a lot of work. Soon, they felt quite sore, and my knees followed suit, as they were doing overtime trying to keep me stable as my legs slid to and fro.

By the time I hit King's Mountain again, I felt pretty trashed, and was not looking forward to the downhill section my quads would have to endure to get to the finish. But as far as I could tell, I had no competition behind me, so I could just cruise this last section and lick my wounds along the way. That is, that's what I thought until about a mile in, when out of nowhere a lady with a 500-number popped up behind me.

With miles to the finish, I figured I was toast. Bev Abbs was somewhere in front of me, but I really didn't like the idea of getting "chicked" a second time. Soon enough, this lady overtook me, and I decided to hang in behind her as long as I could. It turned out she was quite friendly, and we chatted a little bit as we moved along, now going at what I thought was a decent clip. I remarked to her later that perhaps all I'd needed was a proper kick in the ass, because I found my second wind and kept up with her until about a mile out, where I pulled away, somehow churning out a 7:20 pace (admittedly on a decline, and on asphalt).

I finished in 4:57, although the course was even shorter than last time (I measured 29.7 miles). I hesitate to call a 50K trail race a training run, but that's basically what it was. I just wish they could all be like that... well, minus the mud.

Unfortunately, I've had too many things going on for the last month or two, so I was stressed and tired when I woke up this morning. Worse, I had a sore throat, or at least a part of it was sore. Let's call a spade a spade: I felt like crap. Lying there with the alarm going off at 6:00am, I semi-seriously contemplated just skipping this race. But I am too thick-headed not go to a race I've already paid for, so I got my butt in gear, coffee in a mug, climbed into the car and drove to Pacifica.

I was a little worried, truth be told. I hadn't run anything longer than 15 miles since my last 50K of 2009 on December 6. Also, it's been raining cats and dogs for about two weeks, and I wondered if the run would become a mud-fest up and down the hills of the San Francisco penninsula. Standing in line for the bathroom, pre-race, somebody asked me if the course would be "conditioned"(!) I.e., sand put over bad spots, etc. I told the guy no, what you see is what you get. At least the rain had let up for the day, and we would only be exposed to a very short shower during the day.

Wendell started us all promptly at 8:30, and I joined the crowd pressing their way through the narrow trails towards the North Peak, a climb of approximately 2,000' in about 3.5 miles. Once I got moving, I felt pretty good, and just enjoyed the spectacular views along the way. The trail had some muddy spots, but nothing that stuck, which was a relief. There were some huge puddles on the fireroad near the summit, which I just went right through.

After reaching the peak, one of the first things I saw on the descent was a guy off the side of the trail, puking about a gallon of sports drink out onto the ground. Little early to be self-destructing, I thought. Then, I enjoyed the incredible view from the firetrail: I could see for miles and miles out over the Pacific, the city of Pacifica, and spotted a beautiful rainbow over it. I was grinning ear-to-ear as I took a right down the technical single-track back to the aid station/camp grounds.

What followed was a double-dose of the Hazelnut Loop, which includes a mind-bending climb with about 30 switchbacks that never seem to end. Every time you reach a point you think might be the summit, the trails doubles back and takes you higher. Running this stretch takes patience. The first time around, I felt a little worried again - I thought I was too tired for so early in the race. By the second time, I actually felt slightly better - I guess I'm just "out of practice". 50Ks aren't exactly a walk in the park, and it's not always easy sledding.

Finally, I started in on my second ascent of the North Peak, catching up to the second-overall female, and passing her (I did end up getting chicked by F-1). In fact, I passed another runner as I kept up a good running motion all the way to the top. The miles were beginning to take their toll, though, and as I ran back down to the base camp, my quads were complaining loudly. Even downhill, I had a 10:15 mile (on some very technical terrain), and another 8:45 mile - hardly a good pace on a descent.

With about four miles left in the race, I faced the toughest part of the run - the Hazelnut Loop, for the third time. Climbing the switchbacks was like taking a glimpse into hell. I swear the climb was longer! The more I ran, the more I slowed down, and soon I was walking at least half the time. Every time I thought I'd crested the summit, there was another twist in the trail, waiting to take me higher. Boy was I relieved when I finally began the last descent.

I reached the finish covered in mud, about 5 and a half hours after I had started. I had also torn holes into the outer layer of both my shoes - this was not a gentle course. But the weather had cooperated, and all in all, it was a great day to be running those hills around Pacifica. No wonder this race sold out all distances.

You'd never mistake me for a speedster, but four weeks after the MMTR 50, I put together a very even 30 mile run, admittedly under perfect conditions, to post my first sub-5-hour 50K finish. Alas, I can't let it count, because the course was about 0.7 miles short!

I'm not sure how much this had to do with my performance, but I drank a Vespa before the race. In my constant experimentation with equipment and nutrition, I came across this supplement that both Scott Dunlap and others use and recommend. Only after I had purchased it ($6!!!) did I find the website linking the ingredients to the Asian Mandarin Wasp. Great, now it sounded like complete bullshit. But I put it down anyway.

Getting ready for the start, I tied a spare water bottle to my running vest in anticipation of the Orange Loop, a longish 9 miles without aid. As I was doing this, Mark Tanaka rushed over, flustered and late as usual (although his blog post reveals why), trying to change and get ready as Wendell was calling us out to the start. We all got there in time, and at 8:30, got going on the trails.

First thing I found, tying a water bottle to your running vest doesn't work. The thing was bouncing around like crazy, and after a couple of minutes, the knot came undone (my bowline was fine, but the rope I used too slick). Oh well - I transferred the spare to my left hand.

I tried to take it easy on the outbound section, given my proximity to a 50-miler and light running schedule since then. I had forgotten that the run opens with a protracted climb through the forest, but being early in the race, I managed to keep up a running motion the whole way (well, almost) without feeling I was pushing too hard. Soon, King Mountain aid station came into view. I refueled and started in on my favorite part of the course.

The section along Skyline Boulevard is beautiful. Running on soft ground through the lush forest, with very little elevation change, felt wonderfully peaceful. Still conserving energy, I got passed by two women in this section, something which would normally piss me off, but I was just too content to really care. Following one of those women, we came to a big tree that had fallen right across the path. She turned around and gave me a priceless look, a combination of "WTF?" and "are we still on course", before she tried to pick her way through the brush. I climbed up the hill to circumvent the tree, and we emerged on the other side roughly at the same time.

On reaching Bear Gulch aid station, I filled both bottles and watched in surprise as another woman blew through the station and onto the longish 9-mile loop. "She'll run dry and be hurting later," I thought. I buckled up and followed her.

Emerging onto one of the few unshaded spots of the course, I relished the feeble winter sun and took advantage of some bushes on an uphill to water the plants. Soon the trails began to descend, and as I followed them, the race leaders started to show up, already on their way back. The first guy passed me, and just as I started to think, "I'm feeling a little fatigued," I promptly rolled my weak right ankle. I hesitated a minute, but then I thought, I'm deep in the woods and nobody can hear me.

"FUCK!" "FUCK!" "FUCK!" I yelled, and it made me feel much better.

The pain in my ankle subsided, and I continued on. It would stay upright the rest of the day. By the time I started the loop that would turn me around back to where I'd come from, I had counted four runners already on the return section. Many more would be on the loop - looks like I wasn't having a good day, race-position wise.

Running along the Redwood trail, I came across the strange Salamander Pond in Wunderlich Park. Around that time, my Garmin announced I had run 15.5 miles, half-way through the race. My time was 2:24:57 - I was exactly on pace for a five-hour finish.

Unfortunately, the return to Bear Gulch aid station involved climbing the trails I had descended down earlier. I felt a little tired, but kept up what I considered a good "ascent" speed, but I was falling way off the pace for that five-hour finish. As I approached the aid station, I caught up to the woman who had run through without picking up water. "Gone dry?" I asked her? No, she hadn't. We paced each other up the last hill and back to the aid station.

As I stopped, she again blew right through without stopping! Muttering to myself, a friendly 35K runner put my spare water bottle in the back of my running vest, and I set out in pursuit. Within five minutes, I caught up and settled in behind her, feeling quite relaxed.

Then it struck me - there was no need to conserve my energy anymore. Now I don't know how much I can attribute to the Vespa drink, and how much to the easy course and conditions, but I felt remarkably focused and in control for so late in a race. This wasn't like spinach is to Popeye - my legs weren't turning over very fast, and I was feeling fatigued - but I was mentally sharp and my physical deterioration was very even, no sudden drops or surges.

I dropped Miss No-Aid-For-Me-Thank-You, worked hard along Skyline Boulevard and caught first one, then another runner. I tagged along behind the second runner, and we raced each other all the way to King's Mountain. But once we arrived, he doubled over, huffing and puffing like he was going to have a heart attack. I still felt really good, refueled and ran along towards the finish.

I caught one more guy, and spent some time chasing another I would not be able to overtake, but mostly I kept checking my time and doing the math. It did not look like I would be able to get under five hours, unless I hammered some 6-minute miles on that last descent. As I reached the dirt-covered asphalt road, I conservatively started to increase my speed, when the finish line ambushed me - the course was short. So officially, I ran a 4:58.

In the end, I got chicked three times, only finished 25th out of about 100 runners, but I had a great race. The Vespa I'm still on the fence about - did it help me, or was the course just easy? Pondering this question, I warmed myself up with some nice hot soup before driving back home, my last ultra of the year complete.

A tactically placed hint dropped about dirtygirlgaiters.com worked, and I got a nice pair of "DFL"s in yellow.

I also found a new "premium" heart rate monitor under the tree. I've always been sort of ambivalent about these HRMs. One the one hand, it is very cool to be in total control of your engine RPMs, but on the other hand, I've discovered I can just run by feel, too. Regardless, the normal strap with the big plastic band chafes me when running long distances, and once I actually broke skin, I put the thing away. This model, with a much smaller sensor placed on the breast plate, will hopefully be more comfortable.

Next, I got socks. Lots of socks. Lots and lots of socks: 12 pairs. My dad has problems with scale, and gets carried away when shopping. I also have a tendency to punch holes in my socks, and luckily the brand he got I find really comfortable. I should be covered for the foreseeable future now:

Finally, the real prize is a Nathan hydration pack. It's a two-bottle hip pack that Karl Meltzer recommends, and whatever he does, it seems to be working for him! He claims they "don't move a lick when moving at top speed," but I wonder how much of that is due to his running motion and how much is due to the pack's design.

Conceptually, I like the idea of carrying liquid close to my center of gravity. I get along with the hand-helds, but once I start carrying two of those instead of one, they do bother me. As far as I can tell, the two alternatives are either these hip packs, or the back packs. Who knows, maybe I'll hate the pack, but right now I'm loving the idea of running with it.

In other news, I'm growing a beard to cope with the cold winter weather and keep my face warm while I get some miles in during the mornings. Not that I'm really running much right now, in an effort to let my body recover from 2009. Unfortunately, as I've reduced my mileage, I've developed pain in the outside of my left heel when I run on uneven terrain (trails). I'm like those fish that live deep in the Mariana Trench: they can't leave the depths and the high pressure of the trench or they'll die. I seem to need constant mileage or else I get hurt!

It looks like soon I'll have to drive that mileage up again. I've slipped into the Miwok 100K via the wait list, and the race is a scant 18 weeks away.

My ankles are still a bit wobbly, but all in all the rest seems to have added up and I managed a decent clip running around Santa Teresa Park. It just felt right again - the smells and sounds, nothing like Virginia.

I really found my groove running down the Rocky Ridge trail, a slightly downhill section that gets more and more technical as it goes along. Hopping over rocks and ruts in the ground, I found the trough at the end of the trail, climbed out of it and rolled on to the Fortini trail, which features a number of switchbacks that ascend the hills on the south side of the park. It was here where I dropped a pair of mountain bikers, which I always enjoy. By the time I hit the top of the hills, they were at least 400m behind me. Hey, I'm not the one who decided to lug pounds of metal around with me! On foot is the way to go.

Unfortunately, the rains had shut down a little connector trail and I had to finish the last two miles or so of my run on surface streets. But no matter.

Originally, I had planned to shut it down for the year, but I am now eyeing the Woodside 50K in two weeks. I thought it would be a pretty low-key event right before Christmas, but the word is out about that course. It is spectacular, and looks like it is going to completely sell out. I'll see how I feel tonight and decide then whether I want to do another ultra in 2009 or not.

My interest in the Mountain Masochist has its origins in a run I did in the year 2000. After pledging a fraternity (which shall remain unnamed), I was forced into early morning runs twice a week for the duration of my pledgeship. Mid-way through "Hell Week" - the final week of pledgeship - our group was taken out for an excursion on the Blue Ridge Parkway at the break of dawn.

It was a magical run. Mostly because one badly out-of-shape pledge brother held us back to the point where we were almost walking, and the rest could enjoy a quiet sunrise over the serene Blue Ridge Mountains. This was the very first time in my life I experienced running as runners do, and not as the torture it is for most other people. Though it would still be years before I took up regular running, and even more years before I started running "for real", that morning stayed stuck in my mind.

Once entered, I resigned myself to some hard training and ramp-up races, hoping what I could do would be sufficient for running 50 miles. But then again, how in the world can you really prepare for something like that? I figured if I could run 50K without too much difficulty, I could probably put together 50 miles one way or another.

I flew out to DC on Thursday and hung out with friends before getting a full night's sleep and driving down to Lynchburg on Friday. I was staying in the host hotel for the night - the Kirkley - which certainly eased the logistics for me.

Friday evening featured a pre-race dinner, where I was first exposed to the colorful Dr. David Horton - RD emeritus - as well as the new RD, Dr. Clark Zealand, and some other characters. Many runners seemed to know each other from the other ultras run in Virginia, like the Grindstone 100, Hellgate 100K etc. I tried to pry some useful intelligence out of MMTR veterans, and filled myself up on pasta and lasagna.

After a short and broken night of sleep, my alarm(s) went off at 3:20am (EST). Ouch. I got my gear together, checked out of my room and climbed aboard one of the five school buses that would take us to the start on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Promptly at 4, they snaked their way out of the parking lot and transported us to our destination. Most runners stayed in the bus til just before race start at 5:30.

It was, of course, pitch black as we got going, with most competitors wearing some form of headlamp or other. As the first six miles or so were on asphalt, it wasn't a problem. I spent some time chatting with a runner about headlamps, wildlife (mountain lions out West vs. bears out East) and whatnot as I paced some easy eight to nine-minute miles. By the time aid station #2 popped up, it was bright enough to discard my headlamp in the provided drop box and start the first climb into the trails of the Virginia mountains.

The sunrise was nice. Still fresh and finally in the forest, I enjoyed the morning even though my pacific-time-adjusted body was ready to fall asleep again. The trail running was completely different than what you'd experience in California because of all the foliage on the ground. The fallen leaves would cover rocks and roots, turning some stretches into really treacherous terrain.

After about ten miles, my energy level dipped precipitously, mostly because of the lack of sleep and time difference. I didn't feel right mentally and was fighting the terrain more than I'd have liked. As the miles ticked by, I pulled out of my low with the advance of the morning hours. Elevation changes weren't too momentous, and I felt like I was running a decent race.

The idea of having to run 50 miles still hadn't properly registered in my head, though. It was surreal to check my Garmin, see 15 miles on it, and think that I was still over 50K away from the finish.

The running conditions, meanwhile, took me by surprise a little. After enjoying a typical California fall, I had to negotiate the mass of golden leaves that littered the ground in the more northern Blue Ridge Mountains. In and of themselves, they weren't bothersome, but they completely obscured the ground proper, leaving me to balance over whatever rocks, roots or potholes they hid. Early on, this wouldn't be a problem - but later, it would be another story.

But a lot of the course was on fire roads, which made for pretty steady and uneventful running. I made idle chit-chat with other runners while we passed the miles until the race got serious. Which was a little bit past mile 20, when we started a grinding climb into the higher elevations. Though tired, I still felt fairly decent and even passed a few runners on my way up (utterly meaningless at this point). Finally, I crested a hill and emerged on a large clearing to the sight of a clear day and sunny sky. Not much further on, I found Aid Station 10 at mile 26.9 - inofficial half-way point and drop-bag station.

I managed to lose lots of time negotiating my drop-bag, and felt envious of those running with a crew. The simple task of changing shirts and re-loading my running vest with gels and food seemed as difficult as an algebra exam. At one point, I leaned over to pick up my sun glasses and all the gels fell right out of my vest! By the time I exited the aid station, I saw that I was right back at the tail end of the people I'd overtaken during the initial climb.

The next segment of the course featured the ascent of Buck Mountain, or as I unceremoniously dubbed it, "F*ck! Mountain!" It seemed to take forever, and in truth, it was a pretty long section, taking several miles and eating up a good 2,000 vertical feet. For a long time, the "Rocky" theme music would waft over the mountain side from the aid station at the top of the climb, taunting us runners. Feeling more and more tired, I realized I was right around 31 miles, my previous max. It would be unchartered waters from here on out.

Transitioning to fire road again, I trudged on until reaching the entrance to The Loop, a technical 5-mile or so section that would take runners near the summit of Mount Pleasant. As I began, I realized the sun was starting its descent from the sky! I'd been running a long time indeed.

Despite my fatigue, I decided to attempt some proper running - at least on the uphills - only to have my race start to unravel. As I was moving up the leaf-covered trail, I rolled my right ankle, hard. Switching to a walk, I let the pain settle for a couple of minutes before setting out again. Almost no sooner had I started jogging, when bam! Rolled my right ankle once more. A little harder this time. Cursing the trail, I waited out the pain, then tried picking it up... and again, I rolled my ankle, this time transferring off of it before I could cause more damage. And with that, the competitive running portion of my day, at least on the single-track trails, ended. Afraid of really hurting myself, I decided to walk any technical trails as best I could.

Surprisingly, not too many people caught me in this section, and by the time I exited the loop - now having run somewhere around 40 miles - I found I could move fairly well once back on fire road. A volunteer warned me, "it's uphill now!", and I replied: "Good!" At this point, I preferred the uphills to the downhills, with good reason: my quads were pretty shot, and any type of downhill running resulted in agony, not to mention endangering my weak right ankle.

Up or down though, there was no denying the wheels were gradually coming off. My pace slowed to 15-minute miles at points, and even the more runnable sections saw me maybe eking out 12 minutes for the same distance. My nutrition strategy also failed me. Originally, I had planned on one gel every 45 minutes, but in the late miles, they got harder and harder to stomach. Finally, I unpacked a vanilla-flavored Hammer Gel, took a slug, and almost blew it all back out right then and there. That was it for gels, there was just nothing I could do.

The 40s (mile 40+, that is) weren't a lot of fun. The fire roads were not particularly scenic, and all I could do was keep putting in the work to cover the miles. I did not ever have a huge low, nor did I find myself in a corresponding high, either. Never doubting my ability to finish the race, however slowly, I methodically plodded on. Endured, you could say. I think that was the point.

Although other runners would pass, I gradually recognized two other competitors who were moving at my pace, and we kept up some conversation as the afternoon wore on. Pacing with them helped me focus, and kept me motivated.

With around five miles to go, the course headed into some gnarly - and hilly - single track. Inevitably, I fell behind everyone else and got passed by more and more people. I was astounded by some of these runners, who looked like they were just warming up, while the leaf-covered ground and rolling terrain was challenging me to the max. Finally, I limped into the last aid station, which was officially listed as 2.9 miles from the finish line. All race, I'd been hearing horror stories about "Horton Miles", and some gossip had reached me that the final stretch was seven miles, not three! Luckily, the aid station crew came clean and revealed the actual distance to the finish line was 3.9 miles. I could deal with that, and embarked on the closing act of my 50 mile tragedy.

As the course crested another high point and started its final descent into Montebello, even more people bounded by me. I was especially jealous of those with pacers, and I recognized the benefit of company in tough stretches like that. All I got was a lady walking a dog who lied to me about the distance to the finish (misguided, but appreciated, and I almost believed her!) Soon enough, the 1-mile marker appeared, and then thankfully, mercifully, I got my wonky ankle off of treacherous trails and onto predictable asphalt. Accelerating to my new max speed (9:30/pace?), I held off further runners and crossed the finish line with 10:39 on the clock.

Holy crap! What a run!

Dr. Horton was right there at the finish, shaking hands with all the runners. I picked up my finisher's shirt and ambled over to the bench press set-up, fancying a go at the "Iron Horse" award (most reps at 135lbs/95lbs for men/women), but somebody had cranked out 35 already! Laughing, I skipped the work out, which would have probably been a travesty in the state I was in anyway.

Collecting my head lamp and drop bag (which now magically contained an unexpected pair of women's "arm panties" - weird), I managed to hop on the first bus back to the Kirkley, full of runners with which to trade war stories. One guy made me feel like a wuss - he was going to head to the Carolinas that night in order to run a marathon *the next day*!

The Kirkley staff was awesome: they set up a number of rooms with soap, shampoo and towels so we could get cleaned up! It was definitely much appreciated - I was expecting the usual "go the swimming pool" treatment. I felt like a VIP.

I skipped the post-race dinner to drive Route 60 to Lexington so I could visit/crash at a friend's place from college. How, I don't know, but I am probably lucky I didn't kill myself. My adventure ended the next day with a return to DC and a (thankfully) direct flight into SFO. What a weekend.

In no particular order, here are Things I Now Know that I was ignorant of before.

50K shape is not 50 mile shape. It's not even in the ballpark. Not even the same sport. Being able to run 50K well had no bearing on my performance at MMTR. 50 miles are tough!

You can fake your way through shorter trail runs even when you primarily train on roads. But the bitter truth is revealed in the ultra distance. I feel that by only running trails on weekends, neither my quads nor ankles were able to handle the rigors of the Mountain Masochist while my hamstrings and calves had reserves left. Which did me no good. Specificity of Training - simple lesson.

Ultra nutrition is still a higher-level mystery to me. Perhaps there is nothing that can be done, but gels apparently are not the answer.

Finally, to mis-quote Dean Vernon Wormer: "Color blind and running on fall foliage is no way to go through life, son." The leaves were an unexpected hazard. Lesson: stay in California!

Right now, I don't think I'll ever return to Virginia for running - heck, right now, even a marathon sounds ambitious - but I was blown away by the great race put on by Clark Zealand and team. I cannot imagine the logistical nightmare of putting on a 50 mile point-to-point race, but I certainly appreciated the pay-off. And I can honestly say, the course marking (white ribbons) were by far the best I have ever seen in my life, and a real life-saver for a guy like me who could get lost in a phone booth. Thumbs up from this California runner - what a great event.

MMTR Race Site
Eco-X Sports Blog
Garmin Connect Activity Details
MMTR Photos
2009_MMTR.kml

My first week or so back at sea level, and I was constantly exhausted. I slept nine hours a night, usually added on another one or two on the couch in the afternoon. My knees buckled as I trudged around the house. I was down about five pounds from my usual weight. Suffice it to say, the Pikes Peak Marathon annihilated me. What fun, though!

But there were moments I thought I'd be a DNS for the race. Like 24 hours beforehand, when I couldn't run a single step. Somehow, I managed to aggravate an old rib injury and could barely breathe, never mind bounce my body on my feet while running. I studied the cut-off times on the race website, determined to at least start the run the next day.

Luckily, the injury subsided over night, and though bothersome didn't affect my time much the next day. As a Pikes Peak veteran now, I managed to find good parking and timed my arrival at the starting line nicely. The weather was perfect! The race director announced the conditions at the summit (30F, wind chill 15F) before ceding the stage to some local high-schoolers who sang an a capella version of "America the Beautiful" to get everyone in the right frame of mind. With Pikes Peak towering in the background, not a sound was heard from the crowd as the singers rendered their version of the song.

And then we were off! Mindful of my ribs, I started out slowly, but within a couple of minutes things loosed up and I was able to move at a decent pace. Soon the course left the paved streets of Manitou and took us up the initial steep switchbacks of the Barr Trail. I was happy with my pace, overtook a few and was overtaken by a few, but overall maintained my place and steadily ate up the distance.

This year, I'd have to not only go up, but also get back down. "Up and back down" - that sounds a little like "There and back again", the title for Bilbo Baggins' book on his travels with the dwarves. Unlike Bilbo, I wouldn't have to worry about Smaug the dragon at the top of the mountain though. Just breathing - the air at the summit has only 48% of the oxygen found at sea level.

Wearing my Garmin, I ignored the distance display and instead focused on elevation, the true indicator of progress in this race. 7,000', 8,000'... I was feeling decent. While I don't have my splits from last year's Ascent, I felt I was on a similar pace.

Things were moving along nicely until what must be my altitude cutoff... about 9,500'. Just like last year, I started falling back among the runners. Trying to make myself feel better, I asked a lady who was passing me if she was from "altitude". "No, I'm from Chattanooga, Tennessee," she answered cheerfully before leaving me behind for good. Damn! So much for my master plan of acclimatizing to elevation before the race.

Oh well, slow down was to be expected. But something was not right, or better put, something was worse than last year. Without consulting my times, I knew I was slower, especially on the relatively flat section of the course before Barr Camp. Things only got worse as the trees got smaller, the light got brighter, and we emerged from the woods onto the martian landscape of Pikes Peak above treeline.

Soon enough, shouts of "downhill runner!" preceded the appearance of Matt Carpenter, ruddy-faced but handily on his way to another marathon victory. More runners followed suit, intermittently at first, but then with increasing frequency until finally I was seemingly constantly balancing on the edge of the trail to make way for downhill runners.

That still didn't explain my pace, though. The first two miles above treeline took me 22 minutes and 25 minutes, respectively (versus about 20 minutes each in training not five days previously!) The final mile to the summit was especially brutal. I had trouble focusing, got tunnel vision and at one point almost fell off the trail. "You scared me for a minute!" said a rescue team member. "Imagine how I felt," I replied.

31 long minutes for that last mile to the top. I took a standing eight-count on the infamous 16 Golden Stairs, with the summit banner in sight, leaning against a large boulder, trying to catch my breath without passing out. Once I did make it to the top, there was no time to celebrate. Get me off of this thing! Air! Air! The Ascent, meantime, had taken me 3:57 - 12 minutes longer than last year.

Surprisingly, the descent was almost as bad as the ascent. My legs felt like complete rubber, and I had to walk large sections of the trail for fear of tripping, falling or just outright collapsing. I continued to be passed by runners who apparently had nowhere near the trouble I had with the thin air. Invariably, the sections I tried to actually run properly ended when I'd roll my right ankle. Fearing a trip to the emergency room, I'd slow back to a walk, just trying to survive this psychotic race. My fears, incidentally, seemed to be well-founded, as I heard some volunteers discuss another runner's broken ankle. Ouch!

Soon after A-Frame, I was passed by a runner from the Incline Club I had talked to previously. Her time from 2008 had been a little over seven hours. My God, was I that slow?! I had to pick it up, one way or another.

9,500' became my mantra. That was my magic number, the spot where I hoped I'd return to some semblance of my normal running self. Alas, a good section of the Barr Trail meanders through the woods at around 10,000' - 11,000'. I managed to attach myself to another runner who was having trouble similar to mine. Although we were both being passed quite often, I took solace in the fact that I had found a partner in pain, someone else who was struggling in the thin air.

With about five miles to go, I found the strength returning to my body. Now the downhill training I'd tried to focus on this summer seemed to pay off, as I managed to move quite well on the rather steep descent towards Manitou Springs. The temperature, meanwhile, had climbed into the 80s, in contrast to the near freezing temperatures at the summit. What a crazy race.

Nearing the end of Barr Trail, I found myself bringing up the tail of a small pack of runners. I was content to stay there, since passing was treacherous and I felt confident I could accelerate away from these other runners once we hit the asphalt of Manitou Springs. The only problem in this stretch was the gravel I collected in my right shoe (note to self: buy gaiters). The gravel caused a pretty painful blister on my right heel, but at this point, it seemed no more than a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

The final mile of the race took us into Manitou Springs. As expected, I pulled away from the small pack, hoping I hadn't underestimated the distance to the finish line. It seemed to take forever, but eventually a line of cones formed a small lane along the road to lead us to the finish line. But where was it? I rounded a corner, and like a jack-in-the-box it popped up suddenly... and the clock read 6:39:55. I sprinted like a mad-man, and my final time was recorded as 6:39:59.

The finisher tent, blessedly, had some chairs, which felt heavenly after having been on my feet for almost 6 and three quarter hours. My slowest 50K time, incidentally, is 6:11! This had been quite an excursion. Meanwhile, another section of the tent looked like a WWII hospital, with numerous runners having taken painful spills along the course.

I picked up my sweats and a sweet finisher jacket and headed to the creek, where many runners were icing their legs. With numbing muscles, I contemplated what went wrong and came to the conclusion that my 10 days at altitude hurt me more than they helped. It seemed that day to day, I'd grown more tired instead of acclimatizing. Perhaps my next altitude race I'll try to arrive as close to start time as possible, to take advantage of the short period before performance deteriorates.

I don't know if I'll ever return to Colorado Springs and that insane set of trail races. I can honestly say that the Pikes Peak Marathon is the hardest race I've ever done... and one of the neatest runs you'll find in America.

This exchange took place just before the season ending run of the Incline Club, and I think it really "captures the spirit of the thing".

I've been in Colorado Springs since last Wednesday, trying to acclimate to higher altitude in preparation for the Pikes Peak Marathon on Sunday. I followed a similar plan last year when I ran the Ascent. Mostly, I try to do some moderate running and get out to some higher elevation a couple of times.

And like last year, I ran a 10K race last Saturday in Woodland Park, some 30 minutes away. Not only is it good aerobic training, I find that race is the quintessential summer 10K. Small and cheap ($20), it features a small loop + an out-and-back to get in all the distance. I ran the race hard, but at 8,500', hard is relative. Although my first mile was in the 6:20 range, it was downhill, and a corresponding return mile took me 8:00! In the end I finished within seconds of my 2008 time, picking off two runners near the finish and placing 1st in my age group. As soon as I stopped, I was coughing for a good minute and thought I was going to puke and/or pass out. Aerobic exercise is tough without oxygen!

After the race, I stuck around for a music festival. Sitting in the grass, folk band in the foreground and mountains in the background, drinking beer out of plastic cups, it struck me that this exact moment would become my primary association with summer 2009. The Band played "America the Beautiful" as its finale, and I left Woodland Park with a sunburn and some good memories.

The next day, I got up early to run with the Incline Club, a training group co-founded by elite runner Matt Carpenter to prepare people for the Ascent and marathon. I carpooled up Pikes Peak with them and did the two miles down from the summit - and then back up. I spent another two hours or so just hanging out at altitude, picking people's brains on the course and the race.

On Tuesday, I then went back to the summit by myself, again descending the Barr Trail, but three miles this time. On my way up, I tried to work 80-90% as hard as I would on race day. Those three miles still took me a little over an hour! And by the time I got back down to Colorado Springs, I felt like death warmed up. The high altitude can really take a toll on a person.

Yesterday, the Incline Club did its last little run, a "time check", and I went out to get a feel again for the first mile or so of the course. It really is a motley group, a bunch of nutters who think running up a 14,000' mountain is a good way to exercise.

My race number is picked up, my preparation complete now. Two days to go to the big race. Unfortunately, the weather has turned sour again, but I am hopeful it won't be as horrible as last year (it couldn't be worse). At least this year I have more winter gear. With luck, I can better my ascent time and not blow out my joints on the 13 mile descent from the summit.

This year, I was aiming for a 3:15. I finished a world away, in 3:23, my second worst time ever -- only better than my 2006 marathon time. 2007: 3:17. 2008: 3:18.

Fortunately, I never got to track just how badly I was doing because around mile 3, my Garmin fell apart. Literally. I heard the sound of plastic hitting asphalt, only to find that the face of my (expensive!) time piece had separated from the rest of the machinery. I retrieved the damn thing and lugged it in my hand for the next 23 miles. The only times I saw a clock in that race was at mile 13, and the finish. Not that I needed any help to tell that things weren't going well.

Thing was, just like in 2007 and 2008, I would have the dreaded "stomach trouble". With my guts starting to cramp up even as I got to Crissy Field, I reflected on the fact that there is no feeling worse in the world than needing to "go" while running a race. It's not just a physical problem, it's utterly draining mentally. A special brand of pain that consumes you completely. And it happens to me guaranteed in San Francisco. Some might say it's the wind or the dampness, but I know better: it's The Curse.

So, let's see. Six miles in. Stomach issues? Check. Watch broken? Check. Traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge? ... check. Thanks to a late registration, I was started in "Wave 3" along with people whose target time was 3:30 - 3:45. Which, anyway, is not something that makes sense to me. Why should your early or late registration affect your starting time? Shouldn't it be based solely on your expected pace? You know, to help the flow of the race?

I got stuck a little on the bridge as usual, which was OK though, since I was fighting my bowels more than anything else. On reaching Marin county, I raced to the port-a-potties only to find them ALL occupied... with one person already waiting. You have got to be kidding me! Nothing for it but to keep moving.

My stomach settled down a little on the return leg, but after the descent down the Presidio my guts were screaming for relief, and finally at mile 11 I took my standard three-minute break. All in all, it was extremely unsatisfying. Not to go into too many details, but I've got two words: Dim Sum. Had that on Friday, and the problem was it bound up inside of me, wreaking havoc on anything else I had eaten after that. OK... TMI.

All told, Golden Gate Park wasn't too bad. Last year, I completely and utterly disintegrated around mile 14. This year, I slowed down, but mainly kept up a steady pace. I now appreciate the peculiar torture this part of the course has in store for the marathoners, though. The route took us by the first-half finish not once, not twice, but three times. Finally, I thought I was going to scream if I heard the MC say one more time "you're almost there". We weren't!

Mile 19, exit park, enter Haight Street and the hilly streets of San Francisco. Here I found my downhill training (I'm scheduled to do Pikes Peak in three weeks) really helped me. I ran hard on some sections that back on my first try I had to side-step down on!

Around mile 22, we're all climbing one of those persistent hills to the sound of spectators cheering us on. "Come on, almost at the top!" "Keep it up!" And all of a sudden this new voice yells "Die! Die! I hope you have a heart attack! Fuckers!" Flabbergasted, I turned to find this bum pushing a shopping cart uphill, too, apparently not a running fan. I totally cracked up, it was too funny. I wish I could convey the heart-felt fury in his voice!

Ticking off the miles, I found myself feeling fairly good, despite the unsettled bowels. I've gotten so slow, but my endurance is fine. On the other hand, if I'm running slow... well of course it won't hurt as much. I found myself pondering the decline in my abilities. Is it age? The fact that I haven't run on a track since February? Mental laziness? Whatever it is, I find I run slower, but don't feel as beat up at the finish anymore. Which of course makes me think I should run harder, but I can't seem to.

Unexpected bonus: I missed the 23 mile marker, so coming up on #24 was a pleasant surprise! So close! I picked up my pace once I hit the ball park and picked off a number of runners, finally seeing the clock and confirming my poor time. But, as I always say, there's no such thing as a bad marathon finish.

2009 was cursed. And despite it all, San Francisco is still my favorite marathon course. I'll be back in 2010 for more pain and suffering.

The Dipsea is a handicapped race, designed to give old and young, male and female an equal chance at winning. I ran it for the first time last year and had a blast doing it. Although difficult to get into, I finished well enough in 2008 to make the invitational section in 2009, which meant a guaranteed spot in a race that I had been looking forward to all year.

Like last year, I watched the first runners get going, which this year included a seven year old girl from Mill Valley, mixed in with the older gentlemen/ladies. She got the event started with a bang when she sprinted -- and I mean sprinted -- out to a huge lead right off the bat, much to the amusement of the assembled crowd. Every minute, more runners followed, and soon I headed out to warm up and get ready to enter the fray.

Unlike last year, I was in the invitational section, which I was looking forward to as I figured I'd get way more room to run. It would also change my goals for the race: instead of trying to finish in the top 750 combined, I'd have to finish in the first 450 of the Invitational. I'd aim for that, not that I had a clue what kind of time it would take.

As the "scratch" group moved into the holding pen, then to the start, I got the feeling looking around that things would be... more competitive this year. There were some fast looking people in my group, and I had only just squeaked into the Invitational.

And then we started. Within a few seconds, my goal dropped from staying in the invitational to not being the last guy out of Mill Valley! These fools were flying down the street, and I was huffing and puffing to keep up. On reaching the 671 stairs out of town, I had a clear path to the top, unlike last year. So no more taking it easy and blaming it on the traffic, I had to haul ass up that crucible. Within a couple of minutes, I found myself catching some of the other runners, both from my group and from others who had head starts on me. Perhaps I wouldn't finish DFL after all.

Feeling like an old pro at this now -- I ran the single, double and quad Dipseas last year -- I flew down Windy Gap towards the trails. Wearing trail shoes that seemed ideally suited for this shorter, not-rocky but at times technical course, I managed my descent down Suicide much better than last year, although I still got passed. On reaching the bottom, I started the climb up out of the valley, mixing in a bit of walking on the steep stuff.

Things got interesting on the long, exposed trail named Hogsback, as I again opted for the parallel track north of the main thoroughfare. But unlike last year, I did not rejoin the rest of the pack when entering the wooded area, instead continuing on, remembering that the trail would merge again further down the race. As I entered the forest, the main trail disappeared from view, and I suddenly found myself all alone in the silence! In a race like the Dipsea, this is pretty crazy. I tried not to lose my nerve and cut through the woods, or worse, turn back, and I was helped along by catching glimpses of the others every couple of minutes. Finally, my trail did indeed merge with the main one, much to my relief. Also to my benefit: though my detour was slightly longer, it had been free of traffic and also cooler.

Now this is where things start getting jumbled in my mind. As the pack begins to bunch up as the race nears its finish, there's less and less time to relax. Instead, it takes all your concentration not to crash into other runners, and to push yourself to go faster. After all, since the handicapping levels the playing field, a difference of a minute in your finishing time can make a huge difference in your final result.

One guy got an elbow in his face, just in front of me. He was not happy. I reflected briefly on what it must feel like to get a big head start, only to be passed by hundreds of people later. All in all, I think I prefer catching everyone from behind, even if it feels like you're rushing to make a train for 7.4 miles.

I managed not fall going down The Swoop (which would have resulted in a trampling, too), and I was pushing hard climbing Insult Hill. Now that my trail running has gravitated towards the longer distances, I found I had lots in the tank near the end of this race, and I tried to make the most of it. By this point, I was constantly passing people, and when I turned into the final straightaway, I fell into a (flailing) all-out sprint, which netted me one final victim, then almost a collision as some guy had just completely stopped in the chute.

According to the preliminary results, I finished 300-something, good enough for an invite next year, but not good enough to beat, among others, that seven year old girl (-3:06), a 71 year old man (-14:14) or a host of other runners. Less than four minutes separate me from spot #451, which shows how tight a race this is. Finally, I improved my time from last year by seven minutes -- which based on my training level is probably all due to being outside of the crowded Open Division.

Depending on personal circumstances, I am definitely back next year. And even though I decided to skip it this year, I'm now day-dreaming about the Double Dipsea, which is coming up quite soon!

Further pictures of the start and finish
Video of the start

Then yesterday, I went out for the Way Too Cool 50K, completely misjudged my pace and ended up dragging myself to the finish in pathetic fashion. I was so slow that one woman pushed me up a hill. Literally. She came up behind me, put her hand in the small of my back and actually pushed me for a couple of steps! I still don't know if this was supposed to be humorous or if I really looked that bad.

Napa, I have no idea what happened. I trained as I did when I pulled off a 2:58 at CIM in 2007. Tempo runs, long runs, intervals. No races four weeks before the marathon. Tapered.

Way Too Cool... well, I did go skiing the day before. OK, that wasn't going to be beneficial to running an ultramarathon. I didn't feel sore the next day, but I think the day in the snow and sun carbo-"un"loaded me, and I ended up going into the race low on glycogen.

Then the course was tricky because the first half was very flat. I went out at marathon-intensity, which was much too fast for what was going to be a ~5 hour effort. Usually, trail races will have lots of uphills which force you to walk and give you some rest. Way Too Cool just went on and on and on, I didn't know what to do. By the time we were approaching the half-way aid station, I was on pace for 4:30 - and way too tired. In retrospect, I should have gone much slower, but I have trouble varying my pace when I am fresh.

The return featured two monstrous climbs: the one where I was "pushed" up, and another aptly named Goat Hill. I was a sorry sight for all of this second half of the race, and probably set a world-record for getting passed by large numbers of people. I can't count how often I was asked whether I was cramping, if I needed anything, if I was OK. I had to walk a lot, even flat parts.

I don't care too much about my time, but I do wish I'd run a smarter race. Had I crossed in 5:31 after an even effort, that would have been fine. Finishing as I did, by the skin of my teeth after completely misjudging the first half, was pretty lame, and not much fun.

I haven't been really happy with a race in over a year now. Part of it is sort of a been there, done that mentality. I've run too many marathons, too many 50Ks to feel challenged by the distances any more. And following basically the same training program over this time, I shouldn't be surprised that my performances aren't getting better. In fact, they seem to be getting worse. It may be age, burn-out, or just cumulative wear and tear. I may need to adjust my expectations, but right now, it's taking some of the enjoyment out of my racing.

I've got a chance to switch things up now. My next "target" race is the Pikes Peak Marathon in August. A trail marathon up a large mountain. Last year, I ran (kind of) the Ascent portion, so I have some experience going for me.

I'll try to vary my training. I really need to get out on trails more, not just for races anymore. I want to change up my tempo runs, too: go a little slower, but longer. Maybe train on heart rate, and not feel. Go swimming on recovery days. Whatever I do, I know I want to stay away from more mileage: Running sucks up too much of my day as it is.

Even if I don't get faster, just some kind of change would be nice.

Case in point: On Monday, I went for a 15-miler over a rolling, but comfortable course out where I work. My pace over the course in May: 7:33 min./mile. In October: 7:33 min./mile. Monday? 7:12 min./mile, finishing the last two in 6:57 and 6:47 respectively.

I am already entered for my first 2009 race, the Way Too Cool 50K in mid-March, with three others planned. My strategy for the year is to pull off a fast time at the Napa Valley Marathon on March 1, so I can spend the rest of the year running races without worrying about my times. Unfortunately, that puts a lot of pressure on me immediately, and with the race looming in just eight more weeks, I can't slack off at all. Christmas morning saw me doing a tempo run in pouring rain at 6:45am.

Despite all this activity, I've been reflecting on my last year running, and I can discern a theme in it. If 2007 was the Year of the PR for me, 2008 was the Year of the Famous and Fascinating Race. Boston Marathon. Dipsea Race (plus Double Dipsea, Quadruple Dipsea). Pikes Peak Ascent. Death Valley Marathon (come on, this makes for a great shirt!)

It was also the Year of the First Ultra, and although I did finish the year with three (short) ultras to my credit, I don't see myself getting sucked into that scene and what is probably a self-destructive vortex of every-increasing distance. But I now find myself looking for trail races before I consider road races. Things do change.

2,800 miles for the year, 18 races, about $2,000 in entry fees, travel, and lodging (still cheaper than golf). What's to come in 2009?

Death Valley is without a doubt a unique state park, and one I've wanted to visit for a couple of years since I found out they run a marathon there. Unfortunately, the dates always conflicted with CIM, which I like to run because it is such a fast course. But this year I decided to skip that race and do the Quad Dipsea and Death Valley Marathon on successive weekends, foregoing the ego stroke of a fast marathon in exchange for some adventure and travel.

The entrants' last-minute email provided an interesting quote about the area from 1894:

"... the most deadly and dangerous spot in the United States. It is a pit of horrors--the haunt of all that is grim and ghoulish. Such animal and revile life as infests this pest-hole is of ghastly shape, rancorous nature and diabolically ugly. It breeds only noxious and venomous things. Its dead do not decompose, but are baked, blistered and embalmed by the scorching heat through countless ages. It is surely the nearest to a little hell upon earth that the whole wicked world can produce."

I stayed the night at Furnace Creek, got a good night's sleep and wandered out to the start line around 8:00am, fully rested and pretty much ready to go, although I still had some lingering soreness from the previous weekend. Our RD gave a long-winded introduction until everyone was really there, gave us our directions, then started the marathoners (10K'ers and Half Marathoners would start ten minutes later).

As we got underway, the mercury read about 50 Fahrenheit, and would not exceed 70 during the race, which was quite comfortable, though the air was very dry. The group spread out gradually in the first mile or two, and by mile three, a line of runners stretched their way along the shoulder of CA-190. No road closures for us, but the traffic was exceedingly light and what cars did come our way usually pulled into the opposite lane.

I quickly realized that this race would not offer any distractions in terms of scenery. We were in the desert, and although there is something undeniably powerful about the starkness of the landscape, it does not let your mind wander. I worried that with nothing to distract me, bad thoughts would bounce around my head as I got more and more tired and drag me down. I focused on staying positive, listening to my body and sticking to my game plan.

The mileage was marked in tape on the highway in both directions since we were running an out-and-back. This meant we could both see how far we had run and how far we had to go at regular intervals. Aid stations were every three miles with the basics, water and sports drink. Other than that, all we could do was settle in and start working through the early miles of the race.

I was struck by the visibility afforded by the emptiness of the desert and the straightness of the road. I kept track with my Garmin GPS watch, and I'd say on average, you could make out points of interest at least 1.5 miles out. Rather than get upset by running towards things that seemed so near yet so far, I found it oddly relaxing to know where everything was, be it the next runner ahead of me, or the next porta-potty. No surprises.

The rigorous spacing between aid stations also made any mileage-arithmetic easy. I had three gels with me and decided to take them at alternate water stops (i.e., mile 6, 12, and 6 on the return leg). This approach helped me mentally by dividing the race into about four 6-mile chunks. The symmetry was very calming.

In the second quarter of the race, I realized I had misjudged my liquid intake before the start and felt the call of nature quite strongly. I spent some time debating myself on whether I could hold it until the finish, then decided I'd rather lose the time than be in discomfort for two more hours. So at mile 12, I hit the porta-potty, timed myself at 40 seconds, then popped out to find two runners had overtaken me. Rather than get down on myself, I just felt "relieved" and losing two spots didn't bother me at all. As the turnaround neared, I found myself in place 13.

Full of enthusiasm, I jumped on the "X" that marked the turnaround, started back, and realized why everyone who'd run opposite of me had looked strained - it was a little windy, and a little uphill. I dug in and got ready for some real work as I motored back up the road at a steady pace.

The worry I'd had about bad thoughts proved unfounded. Something about the desert leached all thoughts from my head, until I was nearing a meditative state, my feet pounding the asphalt like a metronome. Some people say they like to run because they can think - for me, it's the opposite. I can't think because everything is forced out of my mind but the running, and that's the way I like it. The silence and asceticism of Death Valley amplified this phenomenon, and soon I was focused on the race like I had never been before, almost in trance. It was quite an experience.

I hit The Wall lightly around mile 17, but I think because I was still tired from the Quadruple Dipsea, I couldn't thrash myself like I might have otherwise, and I was as comfortable as one can be in a 26 mile footrace. I was passed once, but managed to pass two other runners (one had back trouble, the other was just in trouble), leaving me in 12th place, which is where I would finish the race.

By the time I hit the slightly rolling terrain which signaled the approach of Furnace Creek, I came out of the zone I'd been in and started thinking about Vegas, where I was headed for the night. And then finally, like an Oasis, I spotted Furnace Creek, though still almost two miles away. I checked my back for pursuers, found it clear, and rolled on down the road, crossing the finish in 3:14. No complaints from this runner.

Unlike the other two of the trio, this race was not handicapped, so the entire pack lined up on Throckmorton, eager to kick things off. I looked around and saw many intimidating race shirts: Hard Rock 100, American River 50, tons of Way Too Cool 50K, a Leadville 100. Uh-oh! I placed myself in the third quarter of the field while the RD announced something that was inaudible over the din of the crowd. Soon enough, everyone started moving.

The start was certainly crowded as the pack of around 250 ascended the 671 stairs leading out of Mill Valley. The weather was perfectly cool, although a little foggy, and the chatter from the start soon stopped. The Quad Dipsea features around 9,500' total elevation gain, and I too was concentrating on getting my trail legs under me. Unfortunately, they had deserted me early, and I found myself with calves hard as wood, even though I had tried to stretch them out before the race.

Quickly, I was relegated to mixing power-walking in with my running, and my pace was all over the map. My legs just would not warm up properly, and I felt I was running well below an appropriate speed. I didn't get too upset though, figuring any energy I saved would find use later on.

I spent most of the first leg around a shirtless older man who smelled like a moose and ran like a machine. He would consistently move up and down the hills around Mount Tamalpais, while I surged forward, then fell back, then surged forward again. My downhills legs weren't much better than my uphill ones, and at the turnaround point I wondered what kind of race I was going to have. Certainly I hadn't started out too well.

Returning to Mill Valley, I noticed my calves had finally loosened, not that it helped much on the brutally steep climb out of Stinson Beach. I kept myself occupied checking out the opposite-side traffic, and was astounded by the different types of people out on the course. A heavily tattooed and pierced woman with crazily dyed hair, a man with a beard halfway down his chest, prim older ladies, a Japanese woman wearing a cap with ear flaps. All across the board!

Having rid myself of the moose-smelling running machine, I entered Mill Valley and negotiated the stairs down, not an easy task at all. Concrete steps, wooden steps, concrete steps with wooden trim, stone steps... all of varying depths, widths and heights. Finally I reached the start/half-way point, and in light of the nice weather, changed into a tank top from my short sleeved shirt. This would pay off nicely.

Trying not to think about the distance left, I hopped back on the stair-stepper out of town. Progress was getting tough, but I just kept on plugging away, now facing a more stretched out trail of racers still on their second leg, and recognizing the many faces again (pierced woman... Auburn Running Company person... etc.)

My race position didn't change much, although I did catch up to a man with whom I talked a while. Unfortunately, he was hurting more than I was, and I dropped him just before we crested Cardiac Hill the second time. I found I still had trouble running downhill, but I did my best as waves of runners ascended the hills, already on the final leg. The leader was blowing the rest of them out of the water, but some of the chase pack was bunched together fairly tight. I recognized the winner of a 50K I had run in October, as well as some other faces that seemed familiar. Due to the double out-and-back nature of this race, everyone spent a lot of time "good job"-ing and "keep it up"-ing one another.

Once I hit Stinson Beach, I made a quick aid-station stop and headed back for the grand finale. Munching on a peanut butter sandwich while scarfing down MnM's, I caught and passed a lady who had overtaken me on the way down and was fumbling with her gear. All for naught, though, as she smoked me shortly after.

All in all though, I felt pretty good given the distance I had run. Clearly, my slow first leg had left more gas in the tank than I thought I'd have. I made sure to try and burn that gas, and moved fairly well on the uphill part towards Cardiac.

Everything came together for me shortly after descending Hogsback, though. The course was slightly downhill for two or three miles - not so much that it became technical, but just enough that it was a challenge for the quads. Ignoring the pain in my feet, I shot down this section like a bat out of hell (ok - relatively speaking). Rarely have I been able to let myself go on a downhill like that, and despite the discomfort, I was pleased with my speed. I managed to lose an Eastern European woman who had been hanging around me the entire race.

When the time came for some of the final uphills, I attacked them with more energy than I expected, running for longer stretches than I had on the first return to Mill Valley. And it paid off, as shortly before the top of the crazy stairs, I caught and passed two other runners.

I made my way down the stairs as quickly as I could, which was fairly dangerous. One misstep, and you could pretty much roll down to the finish line. I stayed on my feet all the way though, and finished in 5:23, a time I am pleased with. Especially considering how I started the race.

Two Ibuprofin, and a four-bag-of-ice bath later, I am ready to close the book on my 2008 trail running. I am hoping for a quick recovery, since I am signed up for the Death Valley Marathon in seven days. Another plan which looked better on paper than in action.

All my fears regarding the time adjustment proved to be just that, fears. I slept great! As well as I ever have before a marathon, a solid eight one-half hours, and felt awake and alert as I headed out to the start. The start was as close as I have ever been to a start, just ten minutes walk. No busses to take. What a nice change.

The weather was perfect. Cloudy, overcast and cool. It was all coming together, and once we got going, I found a fairly fast, yet comfortable pace to start. I was shooting for a 3:00 hour finish, which I thought was attainable given the very flat course.

I had some trouble with congestion. Streets in Europe are narrow! I was crowded in the group around the 2:59 pace setter (who carried a balloon instead of a sign), and after someone stepped on my foot, I shot out ahead to get some space.

After some time in the city of Karlsruhe, the course took us along some rural hiking and biking paths. I realized I was going too fast, but didn't slow down too much. I wanted to push things a little, but shortly before the half-way point, the yellow balloon caught me, and I knew 3:00 was not going to happen.

As the second half unfolded, I was caught by surprise at a couple of climbs onto overpasses we had to do, as well as some stretches of gravelly road, so it wasn't all a cake walk. Also, I wouldn't recommend running on cobblestones after 22 miles; that was extremely uncomfortable. The race highlight in this half was a tour of the Schlosspark, the tourist attraction of the city.

Crowds were out and about, cheering us on. I was quite impressed by the turnout actually, but all their encouragement couldn't keep me from slowing significantly during the last 10km, after what felt like a strong 20-30km stretch. I still felt like I was moving pretty fast (nothing like the disaster of San Francisco), and only one person overtook me in that stretch, as far as I can remember.

I finished in 3:05, which left me feeling a little disappointed after everything had gone right, from sleep to preparation to race pacing. But I guess that's all I had in me for this race. I am looking forward to the winter in California, where the quality of my training might go up without the energy-sapping heat I endured over the summer.

The finish area had free beer, so that was my isotonic drink of choice as I waited for my legs to recover enough to be usable and carry me back to my hotel. I'll need a couple of days to reflect on all that went right today, and see if I can apply any lessons to future races. But right now, I think I hear a couple of German bottles of beer calling my name.