The High Country

It has been quite a long time since I have written here, which is fair, because it took me quite a bit longer than I ever would have expected to recover from Leadville.

It was most likely a combination of physical and mental recovery, combined. I was running again two days after the marathon itself, but for a long time I could not physically run much more than three miles a day. And when my legs started to finally recover, I found myself with much less motivation to run than I had felt in a long time. This, or so I hear, is fairly common after your first significantly long and difficult race.

However, in due time, I got my fire back, and started running longer and more often. This weekend, I headed southwest to Leadville and the Sawatch range to get some serious mountain running in. I had a grand plan to do Belford, Oxford, and Missouri mountains. The fact that the Leadville 100 was this weekend did not influence my plans at all, it's safe to say, since I had completely forgotten that the race was this weekend, if indeed I had ever really known.

I took advantage of the runner's edge on timing, and didn't hit the trailhead until between 8:30 and 9AM. As I often do, I ran without a watch. I can always estimate noon from the position of the sun, and if I can't, because of cloud cover, I know I probably shouldn't be on the mountain any more in any case. Besides, as with most Fourteeners on summer weekends, there were hordes of people out to knock a couple out.

I equipped myself for three mountains' worth of running, and headed up the trail. The guidebook had mentioned a "memorable series of switchbacks" as the trail headed up into Missouri Gulch, and I immediately realized why they can be described as such. The trail itself is nice, soft dirt, but it climbs. Steeply.

I found myself power-hiking much sooner than I thought I would, thinking to myself that if I had three mountains on the schedule for the day, I should probably take it easier rather than push myself at all. Still, before I was beyond the initial pitch, I started picking off hikers.

As the trail emerged into the treeline area, it leveled off to the point where I could start running more without worrying too much about fatiguing my legs too early. And the hikers started coming thick and fast.

When I pass people on 14ers, there are several reactions I get over and over. Most often, people are simply impressed and wish me good luck, or say "Nice work." Others seem somewhat resigned and a little discouraged that I can pass them with seeming ease. The third reaction is the one I don't understand: some people get angry at me. There's a reaction like "Oh, here comes a fast one," in a very sarcastic tone of voice. Or they refuse to move aside.

Fortunately, this day I only encountered the first two types, and it sped me up the mountain yet faster. My legs didn't feel great, but they were plenty strong enough to run the flatter bits and hike the steep pitches quickly, and soon enough I was at the top of Belford, feeling good as I looked down at the traverse over to Oxford.

And so I started to run again, across the ridge of Belford and down the steep pitch to the saddle between Belford and Oxford. I met a guy from Kansas here, who was also running down the steeper pitch. We chatted for a while until he ran out of gas and had to stop, while I ran on. I began to realize at this point that my plan to hit Missouri as well might be more than a little ambitious. My legs began to tire as I ran the trail up the last stretch of Oxford and hit the summit.

Here I finally encountered the third type of hiker: those who seem annoyed at you and consider you a showoff for running on a 14er. To you, I apologize that, because of the endless hours of hard work and training that I put in, I am in better shape than you and therefore can run faster. I assure you, it is not to make you feel out of shape or slow that I run. It is merely so that I can challenge myself and see what I can do. You normally do not even blip on my radar when considering these runs.

That said, I tanked on the way back up the side of Belford. Anybody who has been on these mountains will tell you how much harder the run back up to Belford is than either the original climb up Belford or the climb up Oxford.

I couldn't even think of running here. My legs were protesting every step of the way. When I ran into a couple I had seen on the way up, and they asked whether I was planning on Missouri as well, since I clearly had time, I could only grimace and say "Not today."

I hit the ridge of Belford again, and paused to rest and gnaw on a couple strips of dried mango (a favorite of mine on longer runs and hikes). Looking at my options, I headed north for the the easier, longer descent via Elkhead (I think?) Pass, rather than heading down the steeper route I came up.

As I came down from the pass, I passed in turn the trail up Missouri, and briefly, very briefly, considered running that as well. But again, I realized that it was not in the cards this particular day, and I continued to run down Missouri Gulch to the trailhead.

I think, over all, that this was my favorite day above 14000 feet. I met more nice, engaging people on this run than on any two prior runs or hikes, which meant as well that I stopped running more often. I can only say thanks to the people who were so nice, and (almost) unfailingly encouraging.

You remind me why I love this state.

Race Report

I may have mentioned this here before, but in case I did not, several months ago I decided to train for my first marathon. I had some options on which race I wanted to run, Grandma’s Marathon in my hometown of Duluth, Minnesota being one of the major candidates. However, after some thought, I decided, possibly optimistically, to sign up for the Leadville Trail Marathon.

I knew I was being ambitions picking one of the tougher marathons in the country for my first try, but I figured because a) much of my training is done on trails and b) I was interested to see how I could do in a long race at altitude that I would try for Leadville, which ranges from 10,000 on up to just over 13,000 feet. Training went well, including several 3+ hour runs on the Boulder OSMP trails, and when race day came, despite the rather hectic weeks I’d had leading up to it, I felt as ready as I could have been.

Having stayed in a friend’s condo in Copper the night before, I woke at about 5:15, ate my traditional pre-race breakfast (two packets of Quaker Maple and Brown Sugar instant oatmeal) and headed up to Leadville at 6. After a few detours around town (coffee!!) I finally discovered that the packet pickup had been moved to the more traditional Sixth Street Gym location. I duly picked up my gear, and was heading back to my car to find a suitable parking spot (where I wouldn’t get towed) when I saw Marshall Ulrich heading towards the gym.

I’d met him several weeks before, when he had been a part of the Naked Tour. I asked him if he was running, and sure enough he was planning to run the marathon. Great: now I was running against a running legend. He may be 60, but he’s definitely still a formidable runner. Mostly, though, I was just glad he remembered who I was.

After parking my car I suddenly found myself with more than an hour until the race started and very little to do. I had decided that it was relatively pointless to do any sort of warm up as a) I would not be running all that fast at any point during the day, b) I would have ample time to warm up during the first section of the race and c) I knew I would need every ounce of energy I could muster for the actual race. I would never think of neglecting a warm up for a shorter race, but this was a whole different animal.

Soon enough, though, they called us to the starting line. The guy next to me, apparently from Austrailia, asked how many of these I had done. When I said, calmly “this is my first one,” he seemed a bit disbelieving that anybody would pick this race for their first marathon. After a few minutes of jittery anticipation, the shotgun (yes they had a 12-guage) went off, and we took off up the road. It’s a mark of how focused I was on finishing the race and running at my own comfortable pace that it was about two minutes before I realized I had not started my watch.

At this point, all of my mental effort was pointed towards one idea: take it easy. I had never run a race this distance before, but I knew that I had to start out at a stumbling pace in order to have enough energy over the course of the day to finish the race. At this point, I was already up at the front of the pack within a lead group of 30 or so racers. About 12 minutes into the race, the Heavy Half course split off from the Marathon, and about 10 runners from the lead group took off up the shorter course, leaving 20 or so marathoners to take a right.

Until this point, I had held in my mind the desire to keep a running cadence over the entire course. However, when the guy next to me, a 3 time Leadville Marathon runner, start walking up some of the steeper sections, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and dropped the running cadence. At the time, the pace I set felt very comfortable and easy, but I would later decide that this was the section where I went too fast, too soon.

The first aid station came at about mile 4, and I ran through in 41 minutes. Up to this point, nearly the whole race had been uphill, so I felt good with that time. From there, after another significant uphill, the race course plunges into a loop around Ball Mountain. The short, sharp downhill was followed by a long, relatively gradual uphill, punctuated by the first snow we would see on course. The official course took a jog left and back right to traverse this snowfield, but already runners were cutting off the switchback and heading straight across, as I would on the way back.

The route then hit the only single track we would see the whole day. As a general rule, I feel far more comfortable on the muddy singletrack that we encountered than the rugged dirt roads we had been traversing so far. On those sorts of roads I always picture myself hitting a loose rock at a bad angle and twisting or breaking my ankle, so I slow down. On the single track section, though, I fairly flew along.

I cruised back into the first aid station, which was also the second aid station, as well as the second to last and last aid station, at about 1:10 (?). The course then took a turn down a long, gradual “improved road,” where I concentrated on keeping a fast turnover and minimizing the pounding on my legs. I was now 7+ miles into the race, and running still felt free, easy, and most importantly, slow.

After a few more miles, punctuated by the first water crossing of the day followed by a short uphill, we cruised down into the Res aid station. I start saying “we” here because by this point, the race had settled into the form it would take for much of the day, and I was trading pacing duties with another runner (whose name I never managed to get) with whom I would run for most of the rest of the day. Three was a rather raucous crowd at this station, which was the only one on the course accessible by car.

Until this point, we had been running through the Leadville mining district. Our scenery, save for the Ball Mountain loop, had consisted of mine tailings, old buildings, and pools of water stained by mine runoff. Despite its industrial nature, the area had its own sort of beauty, and it was a fun area to run through.

Now, however, the race turned from the mining district and took on a true alpine feel. At the Res aid station, the race sets its sights upwards and begins the long, steep climb up to Mosquito pass, the high point of the race at 13,184 feet.

When I think about that elevation, I generally think about gasping for air at such an altitude. Up until this point in the race, I had not even noticed that we were at 10,000+ feet the entire time. I did not seem to even be affected by the altitude. Of course, my body was working harder, and I was getting dehydrated and generally depleted more quickly than I realized, and that would come back to haunt me later on. However, at no point in the day did I feel like the altitude was affecting my breathing.

The climb up Mosquito Pass is a monster by just about anybody’s definition (the only possible exception being Matt Carpenter). The pass itself is a rough 4WD road, punctuated by stream crossings and culverts. At points, the grade is as much as 20%. It is long and unrelenting, but the views are spectacular.

I ended up walking much of the climb up to Mosquito Pass. Except for a few spots, it seemed more efficient and a much better idea for the long term than trying, for pride’s sake, to keep up a running cadence. At this point, my plan was still to relax as long as possible, keep my form efficient, and not attempt to really race until I came back to the “improved” dirt road section, which would be uphill on the way back. So I settled in to power hike mode, and ran wherever the trail flattened out for a little while, focusing on keeping the runner in front of me in my sights.

During the climb up the pass, I started passing the slower participants of the Heavy Half race. Each person I passed, most of who made some encouraging comment, gave me a little mental boost that helped keep me moving at a fair pace. One memorable participant, wearing a hot pink and blue outfit, asked “Are you planning on running the (Leadville) 100 this year? Because you look like you know what you’re doing on the uphill.”

Little things like that seem to make all the difference in the world.

Remarkably, after more than 10 miles of racing, this climb felt fairly easy to me. I was not taking a particularly slow pace, but I did not seem to be breathing hard or forcing too much at this point. So when the aid station that would normally be at the top came a mile and a half early due to the snow on the road, I almost went right by it without stopping. Four switchbacks later, I topped out Mosquito pass, was recorded by the race volunteers there, and took off for the pounding descent.

I do not like long descents. I do not like descents with lots of large, loose rocks. I do not particularly like crowded descents. This was all three. There was a lot of pounding, and I felt like I was crawling down the slope. I must have looked better than I felt, though, because everybody climbing up kept saying how fantastic I looked. And I was clearly not going as slowly as I thought, because I caught two runners on the downhill who had taken the turnaround a minute or so ahead of me.

I cruised back into the Res aid station, and heard a brief “Minnesota” from somebody in the crowd. I felt good, shouted out “I’m from DULUTH!” and asked if she would hold my wind jacket. Still feeling pretty good, I ate a piece of watermelon, refilled my water bottle, and took off down the road, having passed one more runner at the station.

I still felt good on the improved road section. In fact, I generally felt better running than walking, and so kept up a running cadence, albeit a slow one, up all but the steepest sections of the road. But I started getting the feeling that my stomach was none to happy with me. Maybe it was the watermelon, maybe it was the gels, maybe it was the change in drinks (why did they have multiple types of electrolyte drinks on the course any way?). Whatever it was, I knew my legs needed fuel, but my stomach didn’t want to take anything in, so I let it slide.

I ran into the “Loop” aid station feeling pretty good, though I had already drained most of my water bottle, and had to refill it again. On the climb out of the station, though, my legs started to quit on me. I had realized that I would be walking a lot of this climb, but even on the flats, I now had difficulty breaking into a run again. On the singletrack portion of the Ball mountain loop, I started being passed by runners who had been behind me until this point. The guy I had been pacing with all day left me behind, then two more runners passed me.

It was definitely the low point of the race.

After the snow crossing, where I slipped, fell, and slid several feet before I could right myself, I slowed to a walk, on a flat, and even downhill portion of the course. Another runner came up from behind, and asked if I needed anything. I still had gels and chews, and so I waved him on, but thought, not for the first time that day, on how nice runners are as a group.

If there was a make or break point to the day, this was it. It was the point where I could decide to give up on my time goal, or even give up on the race entirely. I was in a bad state, with legs that didn’t want to move and a mind that got the first little thought of “what did I get myself in to?”

So I took out a gel, kept walking, and forced myself to get it down. Quitting never really entered my head. Giving up the sub-5 hour goal was a possibility, but I didn’t take it. I hit a smooth, downhill portion, and got my legs moving in something resembling a run again. I still was not feeling great, but the gel helped, and I downed my entire water bottle on the uphill to the aid station.

Mile 22. Save for one or two small sections, it was all downhill from there. I didn’t take the downhill that fast, thinking, as much as I could think at that point, that the last thing I wanted to do was roll or break an ankle in the last 4 miles. At one point, I got confused and was not sure which way to go until two runners coming up from behind pointed me in the right direction.

I kept going. When I hit the point where the two races converged again, I knew that I would achieve both my goals: finishing the race and coming in under five hours. Another racer, one who had run twice before, came up and we cruised back down towards the finish together. He offered to race to the line, but having secured my time goal, I opted not to.

Had I known we were racing for a place in the top 20, I might have felt differently. As it was, I came in 3 seconds behind him, for a 21^st place finish, 3^rd place in my age group, in a time of 4:46:23.1.

Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I had forgotten to look up at the clock as I passed under the finishing arch, and my own watch was off. I only knew that my watch said 12:46PM, and that meant I was in under 5 hours.

Then came the release. Physically, mentally, and emotionally I was spent. This race was easily the hardest thing I had ever done physically and mentally, and emotionally, it had been a tough week, and with the finish line, everything kind of let loose. I wandered around for an hour or so, going to my car, and back to the finish area, and back to my car. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to stay for the awards ceremony or not. I was in a bit of a daze. Then I realized that I didn’t have to decide. I went back to the condo where I’d stayed the night before to take a shower before deciding.

Ultimately, I left before the dinner and awards ceremony. I learned just today that, for getting third in my division, I would be getting some sort of award (what it is I don’t know). So perhaps I should have stayed.

Over all, I would say the race went reasonably well. For a first marathon effort, I could have done a lot worse.

Things I did well: I took enough fluids, did my best to take enough carbs. I paced myself reasonably well. I did not allow myself to quit when the task ahead seemed overwhelming. I chose to walk the uphills rather than hold to my normal conviction that I should run every step.

Things to improve: preparation-wise, I did not eat enough or take in enough nutrition during my training runs. This left my stomach unprepared for mile 19, when I had been taking in fluids and gels all day, but my stomach didn’t want to take in what my legs needed.

I think I caught the marathon bug. There is something about pushing that hard for that long that is appealing to my personality. I am already looking ahead to my next race: perhaps the inaugural Aspen Marathon on August 27^th should I recover enough. I will consider my options, but I have no desire to run a road marathon.

Why I trail run.

Some time ago, Anton Krupicka, fellow Boulder resident and Ultra runner extraordinaire, wrote a piece for running times about why he runs trails (you can read it here). It has quickly become another one of his classic pieces, standing alongside the piece he wrote on why he is a minimalist runner. In this particular piece, as is he is wont to do, he gets more existential and philosophical. In my writing, I prefer using stories and examples to get my idea across, and there is a day last week that exemplifies why I love running trails.

It began as a fairly typical morning run for me. Having run for two and a half hours on Saturday, with the Bolder Boulder on Monday, I had felt somewhat sluggish on my run Tuesday morning. By Wednesday, however, I was feeling back to form enough to give Flagstaff a shot. Running up the trail, just a 10-minute run from my office, I again thought how lucky I was to have such great trails within easy reach.

My legs felt strong on the uphill, bounding easily over rocks and roots and hitting a steady, fast cadence up the steep section. But I had not planned to do the whole trail that day, so about two-thirds of the way up I called it good, turned around, and headed back down the mountain.

How I take the downhill depends far more on how my legs are feeling and how much rest they’ve gotten than my approach to the uphill sections normally does. Some days, when I feel particularly good, I fairly fly down the trail, dancing and skipping over rocks and around trees, with my feet touching down for the briefest moments before rising again. In those times, I feel more like I’m dancing than running. I don’t look for a spot to plant my foot, I let my feet glide lightly over the ground, each footfall being used merely as a reference and means of control.

Other days, such as this one, when my quada are a little sore, I opt for a slower, more relaxed approach. Rather than the dancing steps, the downhill becomes slow and inexorable. And last Wednesday I was particularly glad I took that approach.

Coming around a corner at a sedate pace, I found myself face to face with a deer. He was standing smack in the middle of the trail, looking straight across at me with an expression that said, very clearly, “What the hell are you doing here? This is my trail.”

I slowed, stopped, and we looked at each other for a few breaths. H was a young buck, probably a yearling, two years at the most, and his velvet-covered antlers were going to make him a four-pointer at best. With all the brazen confidence of youth, h stood right in my path, not moving as I walked closer. Finally, when I got to within five feet of him, he gave me one last look, and slowly walked up the side of the hill, joining a group of two more young males.

I continued on for the last mile of the downhill, thinking just how rare that moment had been, and how much I love trail running. When you run, you are necessarily a part of the environment, whether that’s a street, a trail, or a track. There is a connection there, one that you lose with the speed of bikes and the enclosure of a car. You move along through a space, smoothly and efficiently, but there is no denying that you are at the same time a part of that space. That connection, and that feeling of efficient motion, is the essence of my love for trail running.

And as if that run were not surreal enough, a mile and a half later, back on the Boulder Creek Path, I saw two runners coming towards me, on the space to the side of the path where I normally run. And sure enough, there was Scott Jurek, in the trail in front of me, just like that brazen buck.

Only fitting, since his nickname to the Tarahumara translates as “deer.”

A surreal experience, and one that I am not likely to forget any time soon.

The Naked Tour

It has now been four days since The Naked Tour came through Boulder, so I think I had better get this down and posted before I forget about it altogether. As you’ll soon seen, though, that is probably not possible for me.

Context! For those of you who do not know, The Naked Tour is the book signing tour that Christopher McDougall tied to coincide with the paperback release of “Born to Run.” Rather than a normal tour, though, he decided to do something a little different: throughout the tour, he would be joined at different points by other minimalist-type, form-minded runners, usually mentioned in his book. Together they would do the book signing, lead a run, and then do a “cabaret” about running form and technique. The Boulder stop included notables such as Scott Jurek, Eric (check the last name), and Marshall Ulrich in addition to McDougall himself.

I got a message about this from the Boulder Bookstore, and realized that there was no way in hell I could pass up this opportunity. So I duly showed up at the 11AM start, got my copy of “Running on Empty” signed by the author (Ulrich) and waited around for an hour or so before Chris and Scott arrived.

As far as I can remember, I have not mentioned here yet that Scott Jurek was the assistant coach for my high school cross country ski team for a while, when I was just learning. As I read about him more and more in the intervening years, I found it hard to believe that “Coach Jerk” had accomplished all off his various exploits, and that he was by all accounts a very nice guy. I remembered him primarily for yelling at us to do our “tele turns” on the way down hills, which would have made a whole lot more sense had I known then what Telemark Skiing was.

Thank you, Scott. Turns out, here in Colorado I took up Telemark skiing, and your lessons served me well.

So when Scott showed up at the bookstore, I caught him on the way in, looking a little confused as he was unsure of where to go, and held up my old Marshall School XC ski jersey. A bit cheesey, I know, but that’s part of who I am. I directed him upstairs to where the signing was taking place, and went next door to grab a bite and a coffee.

To diverge significantly, Sunday also marked the last day the Bookends Café was in business. This Boulder icon was where I spent many long hours looking for a job and then, once I found one, working on my research for the NWTC at NREL. It was also the place where I wrote the entirety of my Masters thesis. They never gave their reasons for closing, but they will be sorely missed.

After fueling up a bit, we gathered upstairs to plan the run. This was more complicated than expected. Boulder OSMP has a rule that, for groups of more than 25 people, you are required to apply for a permit to use the trails. Well, they informed the Naked Tour of this fact at 5 on Friday, negating even the possibility of getting the proper permits. And, this being Boulder, there were of course more than 25 of us, so we had to split up.

Here we ran into a problem: the route we were taking up Flagstaff was a relatively less-known one. Scott knew where we were going, but Chris did not, so they could not both lead groups up the mountain. So they asked if anybody else knew the route. One person raised their hand, and I’ll give you one guess who it was.

And so, I briefly joined the Naked Tour as a trail guide. As a reward, I got a (very) limited edition Naked Tour running shirt (pics follow), and I also got a tiny bit of notoriety among those who attended.

So we took off. As long as we were on the creek path, there was no problem being in a big group, and we made our way to Eben G. Fine park together, strung out in a long line of runners that reminded me of the days when I used to train with the Bolder Boulder Training Club, now Boldrunning. Once we reached the park, though, we had to split up.

On most trails in Boulder, this would not be a problem, but for whatever reason, few people know the route up Flagstaff from the Creek Path. The route takes Viewpoint trail up the north side of Flagstaff, to Panorama, which traverses the west face, at which point you get on the actual Flagstaff Trail to the summit and the Sunrise Amphitheater, where the Naked Cabaret, as it is called, would hold court.

Chris and Scott decided, naturally enough, to split the group into a fast group and a slower, more strung out group. But Scott and I were the only two who knew where we were going. And, much to my surprise, I was appointed to lead the fast ones to the top.

At the moment, I don’t consider myself to be particularly fast, and the idea of Scott Jurek, THE Scott Jurek, suggesting that I take the fast group to the summit was more than a little intimidating. But, I wasn’t about to say no so, with some quip with the words “assuming I can keep up with them” I took up off up the trail, leading those who considered themselves particularly quick.

For those of you who have not taken the Viewpoint route up Flagstaff, it starts off at a fairly easy slope. We took off at a good clip, talking, laughing, and generally feeling pretty good. After a couple switchbacks, though, the trail takes a definite turn upwards (straight up the side of Flagstaff for a while, in fact). At that point, much of the group started walking.

This honestly surprised me, as I avoid walking on most trails unless I’m out for 15 miles or more. But I slowed my pace a bit and stuck with them, as the gasps started becoming more frequent and more audible. The amount of effort people were putting out was clearly rising rapidly, and we weren’t even a third of the way up the climb yet.

Through most of the climb, I ran with a runner who works at the “Mind, Body, Sole” store in Denver. He had just run the Cheery Creek Sneak 5-miler that morning, and then raced up to Boulder to catch the “once in a lifetime” Naked Tour. We talked generally about minimalist footwear, running in general, and the Colfax Marathon (which he was running in two-weeks’ time).

At each fork in the trail, or road crossing, I stopped and waited to make sure the entire group got headed the right direction. This is particularly critical after the first crossing of Flagstaff road, when there are several forks that are inevitably confusing for the first time runner. I fully expected to get annoyed by the constant waiting, then racing to catch up to the front of the group. But I actually found it rather tun, and somewhat satisfying too.

At the third road crossing, we joined up with a couple local runners who I had seen at the bookstore earlier, but had to head home to change clothes before joining the run. They had just run up the Gregory Canyon route. Remarkably, one of them was running up the trail barefoot, which if you have ever seen the type of trails we have in Boulder is very impressive. They promptly took up station at the front of the group.

The rest of the run went smoothly. The group would string out on the sections where you couldn’t lose the trail, and compress again any time there was a possibility of confusion. On the long last stretch up to the summit area, most people were clearly feeling the climbing we had already done, and many started walking up the log stairs. I still felt remarkably fresh, and so took off to the top with the two runners we met on the way.

And then (once the trailing group had caught up) it was time for the Naket Cabaret at the summit.

The "fast group" at the summit. Scott's girlfriend was nice enough to drive up with the snacks and drinks.

Chris kicked things off, talking mostly about how unexpected the popularity of his book was.

Eric, (I hope I spelled that correctly) was up next. He talked mainly about how he had not planned on training Chris, but Chris was so obviously downtrodden about his running problems that plans changed more than a little.

Marshall Ulrich was up next. He described his new book. I'll post a review of it when I get the chance.

Scott took the last slot. He kept it short and sweet, as it was getting cold up at the summit of Flagstaff. His message basically consisted of "you can do it."

On the way down, I once again took point, and proceeded to fly down the mountain. Nominally responsible for keeping people on the right track again, I mistakenly thought people would probably be able to find their way back down the trail they had just come up. I regularly sprinted ahead to grab some pictures of the stream of runners pouring down Flagstaff.

Runners streaming down Flagstaff. When else are you going to see this? Apparently never, since Chris got a ticket for having too many people on the trails. There was an article about it in the Boulder Daily Camera last week.

This guy is hoping to finish his first 100 miler this year. He got to mile 60 this past year.

It was on one of these sprints that I seem to have lost some people. I took off ahead, to a point I knew would make for some amazing photographs, and camped out for a few seconds before I realized that nobody was coming. I had not stopped at a fork, and people were, understandably, heading down Flagstaff Trail instead of the Panorama trail, whichi is the way we had come up.

After waiting for Marshall Ulrich, of the surgically removed toenails, to catch up so he could direct following runners, I raced down the trail many had mistakenly taken to try and lead any who were confused back to the bookstore. I found one runner who seemed confused, and, trusting that the people who knew Boulder in the lead group could no doubt get them back to the bookstore, I ran with him down 6^th street and back to the bookstore.

Back at the bookstore, the Naked Cabaret continued. Scott answered questions for a while, while Chris signed a bunch of his books for the bookstore to sell later. Unfortunately, as I had other plans for the evening, I had to duck out early and didn’t get the chance to see the rest of the question/answer period, but even so, I had thoroughly enjoyed the day out with the big names, and hope very much to see Scott out on the trails this summer as I extend my distances.

Boulder Distance Classic: Race Report

The promised race report:

Before pulling out of my apartment complex, I double-checked the weather, and saw that it was 35 at 7:15, and was forecast to be around 40 and dry at the start time of 8:30. Duly prepared for the weather (or so I thought) I drove up to Boulder only to find, as I turned into the Reservoir, that it was snowing.

I parked my car at 7:45, thinking that I might be pushing it just a little, but still probably had plenty of time to get my number and chip, change into my shoes and long-sleeve shirt, stop by the Porta-Potty, and make it to the start line in time for the 15k start time of 8:30. 35 minutes later, at 8:20, I finally got my timing chip, and sprinted a “warmup” over to my car to put on my shoes, sprinting from their to the line for the toilets. At about the same time the gun went off, I made it to the front of the line, knowing that if I did not take care of business now, there was no possibility of running the race I had intended.

A minute later, feeling significantly lighter, I tore straight out of the toilet, up the bank to the starting line, crossed the timing mat, and started my race a minute-thirty after the official start. I realized then that, having no warm up, starting late, and with 200 or so people to pass to get to my pace group in the race, I had every excuse to lay back and either not race the way I planned to or drop out entirely.

I didn’t take the excuse. Late or no, I opted to run exactly the way I planned: even splits, sub-7 minute pace. And I duly started picking off the runners who started in front of me. For the first 3 miles or so of the race, I picked off hordes of runners, sometimes stretched 6 or 7 abreast on the narrow race course (running off into the ditch on the side at times to slip by without disrupting their races: after all, they didn’t miss the start, so why should they have to get out of my way?).

For these few miles, I concentrated on picking my own pace, and not getting over-enthusiastic passing others. After the three-mile mark, I started overheating, not realizing that, in my rush to the starting line, I had completely forgotten to take off my hat (a heavy-duty stocking cap with the Colorado Avalanche “A” on the front: a gift from my girlfriend). I dropped the hat off at the next aid station, and took off down Monarch road.

I took my first split at the 5-mile marker: 34:58, just under 7-minute pace. My legs still felt fairly fresh, but I decided not to press too hard. This was, after all, my first race in over two years.

I was fortunate in this race in that I knew nearly every inch of the course. Back when I was running regularly with the Bolder Boulder Training Club, now Boldrunning, our weekly long runs were regularly held at the reservoir, so I came to be very familiar with the area. In this race, that familiarity allowed me to perfectly parcel out my effort, so that I could run at a 7-min pace with the minimal effort.

The next three miles passed in 6:50, 6:55, and 7:03, respectively. Coming into the last 1.3 miles, I started to (finally) feel the pace, and the fact that this was the longest and fastest I had run in well over two years. My right hamstring started to twinge a bit, and I decided that, rather than make a significant surge, I would coast into the finish in a relatively leisurely 8:53.

Place wise, even starting a minute-thirty back, I came in 4^th in my age group and around 44^th overall. The winner and second-place finisher both came in under 50 minutes (I know where I stand in the relative rankings). The most important takeaways from this race are that my pacing at this time is excellent, my fitness is better than I could have hoped and, given the complete lack of speedwork or any sort of taper for this race, I ran a respectable race.

Race

I ran my first race in over two years (since the Summit for Life, December 2008, I believe) today: the 15k at the Boulder Distance Classic. It went well. More to come later.

Up Shadow, Down Fern

Looking out the window of my apartment, towards where Longs Peak would rise if it could be seen, and seeing the inch or so of snow on the ground, I find it hard to believe that I ran my long run this morning in shorts and a t-shirt. Not only that, the run topped out at 8549'.

I was inspired by reading Anton Krupicka's blog to run up Shadow Canyon, starting at the South Mesa Trailhead again, top out South Boulder, and then hop over to Bear Peak and from there down Fern Canyon. Why I was inspired to run a route that even that paragon of fitness described as both "gnarly" and, paraphrasing somewhat, a hellacious climb I would rather not think about. However, I made the plan, and duly left the house, somewhat late, at 8:30 this morning to do just that.

I got out of the car to a near-perfect running day: cloudy, with a bit of rain in the forecast, and temperatures running around 55-60 degrees. Counting on it being at least somewhat colder 3000 feet further up the mountains, I wore my somewhat thicker t-shirt thinking that would probably suffice for the short time I would be at the summit. Properly equipped, or so I thought, I took off up the road-like Mesa Trail to Shadow Canyon Trail.

To my surprise, given their lackluster performance yesterday and despite the long week I put in, my legs felt quite good on the first stretch, and I made it up to the Shadow Canyon cutoff two full minutes faster than I finished the same stretch last week. As I took the cutoff up the canyon, I was thinking that the trail seemed quite wide and easy, much to my surprise. A second surprise came when I saw a shape dart across the trail in front of me, and I realized that it was a squirrel without a tail. Something about that just seemed rather sad to me. The trail changed a little over half a mile farther on, where the trail passes an old hut and immediately switches to a rocky, steep singletrack reminiscent of Royal Arch.

The trail continues in this way another 1.2 miles up to the saddle between South Boulder and Bear. Through this section I surprised myself again by being able to keep up a running cadence far more than I had expected. From the descriptions I had read, I expected to have to power hike the majority of this section, but ended up running about 75% of the time, urged on by the sometimes disbelieving, but always encouraging shouts of the hikers I passed.

This climb seemed to last far longer than the time it actually took (I won't tell you how long, it was almost embarrassing to me), but eventually, with a husky running by my side for the last stretch, I made it up to the saddle. I took a moment to rest, and wait for the husky's human companion to make it up to the saddle, then took off up the trail to South Boulder.

It was here that I encountered the first patches of trampled snow still lingering from the mild winter we had this year. In my road flats, I opted to pick my way carefully up these, and soon came to the boulder pile that marks the top of South Boulder. Here I was rewarded with a fantastic view of the continental divide, and found myself wishing I had not gone minimalist today and had brought my camera. The wind was pushing the mist up through the saddle between South Boulder and a smaller neighbor, and it reminded me of Muir Woods in California, with much smaller trees.

As I stood at the top of my first "summit" for the day, the first flakes of snow began to drift down from the clouds, seemingly only a hundred feet above me. I decided to hightail it over to Bear, top it out, and head down before it got any worse. Unfortunately it got worse as I was heading over to Bear, and by the time I got near the summit, it was windy and snowy enough that I decided to skip scrambling up the boulders to the actual summit, and head down Fern Canyon.

I had forgotten how steep and rocky the first section down the north side of Bear Peak was. There were a few times I almost lost it, but I managed to keep my feet down to Fern Canyon, where the trail heads down towards Mesa through a pine forest. I have always loved this section, particularly heading down it, since the prevalence of pine covering the trail means it is both sheltered from the elements and soft and springy: easy on the legs going down relative to other trails.

Soon enough, I took Shanahan down to the Mesa trail and turned towards the car. I surprised myself again on this section by having far more left than I expected, and practically flying the flats and the slight uphills, although the downhills seemed harder than usual. When I broke through the trees and out to the last, long, curving stretch of the wind and rain, now mixed with snow even at the lower elevations, hit me full in the face, soaking and chilling me instantly.

At this point I decided to book it. I took off, far faster than I thought I'd be able to even on the downhill. I apologize to anybody who may have gotten some gravel kicked towards them, but I fairly flew down the last mile+ of trail to the car, where I promptly turned the heat up full blast, stripped off my wet shoes and shirt, and drove home to fill the rest of my day with spring cleaning, a little laundry, and possibly more than a little Mario Kart Wii.

As I glanced at my watch when I got to the car I realized several things: first, I had run a full hour longer than my long run last week, yet felt almost the same as far as fatigue goes despite the fact that I put in more mileage this week. Second, that meant I am in much better shape than I had previously thought. Third, I had run the section from North Shanahan back to the car a full 6 minutes faster than last week. And fourth, I am going to be very sore tomorrow.