Better Than “First Aid”: Ultra Aid Kit Essentials

A few weeks ago I was running down a trail with a friend new to the amazing world of trail pounding. And then, they pounded. Caught a rock with their toe and landed with their ankle on another rock. Oof, and there goes a few ligaments.

Sure wish I had a cold pack…. Argh.

We got back to the car and I chastised myself for having such a crap first aid kit. Lots of bandaids but nothing truly essential for trail runners or even ultrarunners. Then I started fantasizing about creating such a kit myself and selling it, even a Kickstarter, the whole shebang.

But…. no. Some Kickstarters are lame and mine was about to join them.

And then I got pragmatic. Instead, I’ll tell you what will be in my perfect Trail Aid Kit for your car, and you can craft your own based on mine. No commercial first aid kits tailor to the odd desires of trail and ultrarunners, so this kit might save your butt, or make your ride home far less unpleasant.

TRAIL/ULTRA AID KIT: FOR THE CAR

The reasoning behind each of these is usually self-explanatory, but I’ll elucidate when I have something to add.

START with a basic first aid kit with bandages and the usual. Most normal first aid kits have SOOOO many bandages and not enough of the ‘serious’ stuff. Keep the basic kit and get another sack for your ULTRA kit. šŸ™‚

  1. Instant cold pack(s). For injuries, usually, but also can be used to bring down body temp if you are finishing your run on a wicked hot day (just wrap it in cloth so you don’t frostbite anything, then stick under armpit(s), alternating as needed).
  2. Stretchy compression bandage, any kind. Tons of uses. To hold an ice pack on or create stability.
  3. Technu. (Or IvyX) Ran through a patch of poison ivy or oak? These are pretty much your only option.
  4. Nut butter or other chafing relief stuff.
  5. Electrolytes. Tons of options these days. I have definitely finished runs low on electrolytes because I misinterpreted the heat or the weather.
  6. Space/thermal blanket.
  7. Water filtration. Can help in more ways than you think. If you get to the trailhead and realize you’ve forgotten bottles, take a LifeStraw to purify water on your route (if there’s a stream/spring/lake!). If you bring bottles and run out of water, fill your bottles at a water source and bring it BACK to the car to filter later if you know you’ll be dehydrated.

CAR EXTRAS

Not necessarily in your first aid kit, but in your car: WATER. (If you keep a plastic water jug in your car, change the water at least every month because that plastic will leach… ick.) Also, some dry clothes, possibly a towel, and some calories that are heat-tolerant. Nut butter packets are great. I like to keep some protein recovery powder and my shaker bottle to have something for my quivering muscles on the drive home (or directly to a grocery store for some FRUIT).

Further ideas? What else is something you would LOVE to know is waiting for you in the car as you stagger down the last bit of trail, hurt or dehydrated or (gawd forbid) bleeding? Let me know!

For realz. Car-stable PIZZA ROLLS!

[NOTE: this post is full of Amazon links; buy your gear where you choose!]

Momentum: How Getting Faster Happens

I am a fast runner right now, and I love it.

How did that happen? Consistency. Luck. Momentum.

Newton’s first law of motion is that bodies tend to stay in the situation they are in. If moving, they stay moving. If still, they stay still. Momentum works both as actual motion as well as inertia. It is the driving force in the universe. Entropy also is a contributing factor: physics isn’t always clean and simple.

Translated from the original Latin, it reads thusly: “Law I: Every body persists in its state of being at rest or of moving uniformly straight forward, except insofar as it is compelled to change its state by force impressed.”

What that means for my running right now is that I am riding a wave of fast. I say this without braggadocio or swagger. I’ve amassed nearly a year of good training without injury (dear gawd let this not be a jinx) and slowly built up a good racing season. Joe Uhan calls this “marble in the groove“. It’s when you take that momentum and build something phenomenal, whether that’s over the course of one race, or a whole season.

After my first “A” race in June did not go entirely as plannedā€”San Diego 100 in heat and meltdownā€”I focused on a sub-24 100 in September and nailed that without major issue, adoring nearly every mile of that high Arizona course. No unexpected downtime in the lead up, no missed weeks, no stressing. Just flow.

VFuel showing off their athletes, including yours truly. Wheee!

 

And then. After recovering from that race (which didn’t seem to take much time or effort, either), I broke my 50K PR set more than a decade ago. When I was 30 I ran a 5:22 over in Phoenix, and I thought that was a decent time, at the time. 2004 was a good racing year for me, with my 50 mile PR also set, and my first Hardrock finish yet to be claimed.

But last week outside of Salt Lake City, at an elevation where I do not live, I shaved 6 minutes off that PR at age 44, a full 14 years after the first one. And it was hard but not ridiculous. I was cruising, grinning, and on a goddam high pretty much all 5 hours of that magical race. I’d slept 9 hours the night before the race, but that was to make up for the 2 hours I’d gotten the previous night (umm), so it’s not like I’m some saint of sleep.

And since that race, I’ve continued to train hard. Or, hard-ish, given that I do not have another race on the horizon. I go out for “normal” runs on courses I’ve done dozens of times and set Strava segment PRs. It’s really kind of magical.

Marble, meet groove. Set last night.

 

And it has to end.

When? Dunno. Why? Because my body will hit some kind of combo of tired and unlucky. Some bug will hit me. My wackadoodle sleep habits the last month could catch up to me. The stress of moving to a new city and social engagements also adds to the physiological bill.

And, on December 1, I will know if my next 6 months of training will be as important as any I have ever undertaken. It is then that I will know if I get into Western States 100. When I run that race, it could be my only shot for years. That means I will run the race of my up-to-now life. That is the goal. There are performance goals that I will have in mind, but the main goal is to run The Best Race. Period.

If I don’t get in (and odds are still greatly not in my favor, with a 6.7% chance of getting in), I will look to a late spring or early summer “A” race again. Perhaps San Diego because that’s a stellar event. And then, there’s still the possibility of getting in to UTMB. Everything will shake out as it needs, but in the meantime I know that my volume of training is what is propelling me along now.

I will do my best to protect it and keep it sustainable. I owe that to myself and to my idea of racing well. Wish me luck.

If you want to have a go at ultra racing, I can coach you. This stuff runs in my blood and in my neurons, for three whole decades. Let’s make some awesome happen.

Brandishing my Antelope Island 50K schwag at top of Wire Mountain, Salt Lake City

5 Things You Need To Know About Running 100 Miles In A Day

It was Sunday, 10 in the morning, in the vicinity of the finish line of the Stagecoach 100 mile race. I was not functioning well as a human person.

“Hey, I couldn’t find you!” said Geoff after I’d wandered off for another unplanned nap in the back of the enormous tent. An hour prior I’d been wide awake, ringing a cowbell and cheering in other racers in the morning light. Three hours prior I was sitting in a daze after my own finish wondering if that had actually just happened (yes), if I’d feel some exhilaration any moment now (no), and why my ass hurt so much (TMI).

Okay. Wait. Back up just a tiny bit. Let’s go back a little more than a day and start this sizzle reel from the beginning. It was 6 a.m. on Saturday, I was about to run my first sub-24 hour 100 mile ultra marathon, and I felt pretty damn good. But why was I even here, with this particular goal? It all goes back to a “little” horse event called the Tevis Cup.

100 Miles. One Day.

To run 100 miles and not get “lapped” by the sun. It’s the stuff of ultrarunner dreams. Those four iconic words are etched into each coveted silver buckle from Western Statesā€”the oldest 100 miler in the country. Originally, 100 miles under 24 hours was the final cutoff for the Tevis Cup, but after Gordy ran it without his horse it was clear humans could do it, too. Now, a sub-24 at the 100 mile distance is a people’s benchmark, attainable and yet still difficult. In other words, it’s the perfect goal.

For me, it took some planning, some specific training, and a lot of base building. This race was chosen specifically; I had run my 100 mile PR here, a 26:15 five years ago. Everything seemed to be in alignment. I didn’t even get injured (more than a niggle) during training. In the end, my race was a success and yet the achievement felt incredibly numbing at the same time. I was left with so many conflicting emotions, from “of course I did it, I knew I could” to “that hurt a lot but I can do it better” to “I’m already sad and I don’t know why” to “goddamn I’m tired” to “maybe I feel a little . . . yay?

I have been doing ultras for a very long time, including 100s, yet I wasn’t sure how I would feel. Maybe I imagined it a little like Zach Miller. If you haven’t seen the end of The North Face 50 mile from 2016, give it a look. Watching that kind of redlining . . . it makes me FEEL stuff. THAT is how sport should be! And feel! And wooooooo! But for me, at 6:28 am on Sunday morning, 23 and a half hours after I started, there was not a lot of fist pumping.

Crossing the finish line I definitely felt relief that I didn’t fuck it up. See, the thing is that I knew I could break 24. My training was right, the day was right, even my cycle was exactly at the right spot. (And yes, that’s important if you are a woman trying to race. Dr. Stacy Sims, y’all.)

Weeks ahead of time, I told everyone I was going to do sub-24. It made the goal more real and more visible. And scary: what if I totally failed? If the result was that I struggled all day and finished in 25 hours, I’d feel surprised and a bit humbled and a lot embarrassed. So I needed some perspective.

Detach From Results

In order to let my legs do what they were ready to do, I put my trust in them. My heart was ready. It was the head that needed some coaching, honestly. The head controls pretty much everything, including legs and heart. It was my head that would tell my legs to slow down if it decided I was a crap runner. It was my head that would allow my legs to reclaim their spunk in the last hours to put the frosting on my race cake.

Days before the race I was in a yoga class and almost lost it when the instructor said to the room, “Your body is ready. You are ready.” She wasn’t talking to me. She was referring to all of us being warmed up and ready to do a deep stretch. But it didn’t matter. My heart heard those words and melted like butter in a skillet. Yes. I was ready.

5 Things Toward Making Sub-24 A Reality

In the end, several things helped me get to my goal. They are what you must remember. They are what I needed to relearn.

1. Running to a timetable is damn stressful.

Nearly every other ultra I have ever ran was “to feel”. Meaning, I ran what felt appropriate for the day, for my training, for the race. Not too hard. Sometimes I was fighting cutoffs. Sometimes I pushed myself harder than usual to finish strong. But almost always, I was running what felt reasonable for that day. And that made me feel unfulfilled as an athlete/animal. WHAT COULD MY BODY REALLY DO? This was a question I’d started to answer 10 years ago when running marathons, but I am just poking into it with ultras.

My 24 hour target splits were absolutely perfect for ME. They were based on two people who’d run this race the year before, finished just under 24, and raced like I do: worryingly slow in the first half, then a barely perceptible slowdown in the later miles. Based on previous races I knew this was my kind of plan. But it left little room for error. I wasn’t putting in quick miles early to have some wiggle room later. That ends up disastrously for many people, and besides, I love that feeling of “orange-lining” the whole 2nd half. Not redlining and blowing up. Bad idea. But just below that is the orange line and that is where I twiddle the dials of my Central Governor and go into the pain cave for awhile. Sustainable discomfort. Which leads to . . .

2. Everything is temporary. EVERYTHING.

Feeling bad. Feeling awesome. Being too hot. Needing to “find a tree”. Feeling hungry. Getting talkative. Wanting silence. Being lost. Getting lonely. Those fresh batteries in the super-bright headlamp.

Pretty sure I fertilized a tree somewhere around here. About mile 30.

Nothing lasts. Soon, you feel better. Or worse. Or your batteries die. Deal with it, and wait for the next change.

3. Self-talk can make or break you.

Get ready for this one; it’s not as hippie as you think. Hours and hours of “you got this” and “you are ready” and “what a great day” will tend to produce a different mindset than “oh boy I feel slow” and “this hurts my feet” and “ow ow ow my butt”. And your mindset can turn into differing performance results. It’s true that some folks can rally when faced with criticism or difficulty, but those birds are rare. Many of us do far better with encouragement, from the world around us AND our inner narrative. Even though I wasn’t able to draw my Sharpie mantras all over myself, I still thought about them as if I had.

Corollary concept: positive talk directed to other people is a double shot of goodness. Telling other racers they’re doing well, thanking volunteers, all of it feeds into this big loop of sparkles and unicorns and love. And it works.

4. The finish is what you make of it.

Didn’t have any friends to be there and go WOOOOOOOO and take photos of your grimy face and thousand-yard stare? Suck it up, buttercup. You STILL did the thing and the tiny cactus still believes in you. Pat yourself on the back as much as you damn well want. Mope. Take a micro-nap without really planning on it. EAT something, unless you will literally throw up as a result. And, most importantly, get OUT of your head. You’ve been in it for more than a day. Stand up, walk around, and do the WOOOOOOO for everyone else who is coming in to the finish. Maybe they don’t have their friends around, either. BE their friend. You both did this thing.

5. Aftercare is real and underappreciated.

No, I didn’t just deliver a baby but boy did I put my body through the wringer. For days the muscles are confused and angry, the lower legs inflamed and swollen with impressive cankles. Sleep is challenging, and then sound, and then challenging. Hunger is fickle, rising and falling with no seeming logic. I am given a free pass to eat anything I want as a “reward” for my race, but when I go to the store the day after the race I buy salad and liver and eat them with gusto. More than a week after the race I find myself having a chocolate-bar-and-bag-of-chips dinner. Really. But with more than a solid week of nutritious food already down the hatch, I’m recovering like a boss.

Oh, yeah. Emotional wackness. I get this one, real bad. Half a day of “yay, I did that” followed by a day of random staring into space and thinking, “boy is my life empty and dumb”. Repeat for a week. Or two. Throw in some sudden emotional meltdowns, such as panicking at the grocery store or bursting into tears during a run, and you have a pretty interesting post-race period. It’s sometimes called post-race depression and it can magnify any other clinical depressive symptoms already present. Pay attention and call someone if you’re freaked. Call me. There’s lots of us in this together, and we’re stepping up to be seen.

Salt encrusted shirts are THE BEST.

Ultimately, the biggest secret to aftercare is just tuning in. Need a nap? Take one if you can! Hungry? Eat something, dammit: whatever sounds good. Legs all freaky and tight? Lay on the floor and put your feet on the wall. It’s a lovely feeling. Want to go running? Go, but slow. Don’t want to go running? Don’t! But do walk around and be mobile as much as humanly possible. You might get a cold a week or two later. That’s fine. Sleep more.

And take it all in. Smile, even if you still have the thousand yard stare.

Why Would Anyone CHOOSE to Run 100 Miles with Sand In Their Eyeballs?

Short answer is, well, no one. Not on purpose. But there WAS sand in my eyeballs and I dealt with it and I continued. That’s what running an ultra is often about. Certainly, that’s what the 2017 San Diego 100 was about.

Two things happened in early June. I finished my 9th 100 mile race, and I was infected with Taylor Swift. The latter is a highly-contagious condition, passed through the air in the form of sound waves, affecting those most susceptible: the nervous and tired. And try as you might, it is incredibly difficult to Shake It Off.

It started somewhere in the parking lot in the cool dawn hours before San Diego 100. I heard the chorus of Shake It Off, a song I didnā€™t previously know that well but now is intimately familiar. Chirping along at 160 beats per minute, nearly the perfect tempo for a jog on the trails (though too low by most exercise physiology standards), and damn if some of the lyrics arenā€™t good for an ultramarathon kind of mindset. You can’t blame me, can you?

ā€œ. . . I keep cruising . . . Can’t stop, won’t stop moving”

But first, how did I get here, to this hamlet of a resort a few hours south of my current home, on this sunny weekend in June? Of course, it started with a little website called Ultrasignup and a credit card. San Diego 100 joined my 2017 race list in January, thanks to a tip-off from a few friends that this historically hot race was actually pretty darn fun and scenic, to boot. This meant Iā€™d be able to focus all of my spring training on bulking up miles and doing heat acclimation, the latter a task I actually rather enjoy. Cycling through the recently-typical but still frustrating loop of train/injury/train/injury, I cancelled a 50K, skipped a long-awaited 110K, and finally toed the line for Leona Divide 50 in April, dropping down to 50K when it was evident that even 50 miles was too much, too soon.

All of these race cancellations and punts put doubts in my mind and a little nagging voice in my head that said, ā€œwhoa, there, cowboy”. Who wants long-term injury woes when the evidence points to just taking some REAL healing and rebuilding time? No one . . . except many of we ultrarunners when it comes down to it. You know you shouldnā€™t eat that extra snack if youā€™re trying to lose weight, but holy crap is it hard to soldier on when treats are all around us. To ultrarunners, that snack buffet is the massive list of races just waiting for your credit card and itchy typing fingers.

My coach bounced (literally, knowing him) between unbridled enthusiasm/support and cautious warnings to back the heck down. That 110K (Coyote Backbone)? Definitely cancelled. Leona Divide? Not advised, but worked out pretty OK. Jemez 50K in late May, bumped up from the 15 miler? Tentatively accepted. Even the whole shebang of getting to the start line of San Diego? Not adviseable with the extent of my recurring pain patterns. But then again, Iā€™d found from my PT that much of my discomfort was NOT in fact a hamstring injury but rather some extensive referred nerve pain. I didnā€™t know whether to be estatic or freaked. Nerve issues can be long-lived, but then again so can hamstring complaints. At least I didnā€™t feel like I was going to be actively risking a muscle tear. THAT made me feel way, way better. Armed with exercises to retrain movement patterns and relieve that nerve, I (ill-advisedly?) decided that running with and through my rehab was an OK proposition.

andrea at jemez 2017

At Jemez 50K, sailing.

And so, despite any sensible long-range recovery plans, my need to run San Diego persisted and I followed it right to that starting line at 6 a.m. on June 9th. We set out slowly down singletrack. Actually really slowly, like walking a lot of the first mile, chuckling as we came crashing to a single-file halt from each brief jog. It was necessary through the swampy meadow, the path set through the grass and cold misty air. That cold was almost painful now but we knew we’d love toĀ have it in about 8 hours.

A bit about San Diego 100ā€™s weather: this is known as a hot, hot race. Want to run ā€˜downhillā€™ in the heat? You do Western. Want to run in the mountains in the heat? You do Angeles Crest. But in the last decade, the appeal of running moderately tough trails in the heat has brought a lot of talent to San Diego, making it well known as a sleeper tough 100. I prepped for heat for months; itā€™s what any pragmatic runner should do. Actually, Iā€™d make a case for doing heat training in late spring to ALL ultrarunners, just because it better prepares you for any heat you encounter, and makes you a more efficient sweating machine in all temperatures, too.

All that in mind, I had no fear about heat. I knew to drink more than I want to (already being one of those low-drinker types), and to just not push the effort level under the mid-day sun. We ambled along out of the meadow and up a good fire road climb with ample rocks. I chugged along and said hi to a few known faces (hi, Summer! hi, Robert!) until we crested the climb and started down a fairly nasty Zane Grey-ish trail. The moniker ofĀ ā€œsneaky hardā€ 100 owes some of its reason to ample sections with bad footing. If some runners find their weakness in long or steep climbs, I find it in technical terrain. I can grind out the worst longest steepest uphills and leave some folks in the dust, but throw me on a flat trail strewn with rocks and everything balances out. Thatā€™s a long way of saying that quite a few people passed me here, and that itā€™s not a concern. Some of them Iā€™ll pick off on climbs later, some of them Iā€™ll pick off in the last 30 miles, and some of them Iā€™ll never see again. Iā€™ll run my race and try to have a good day while finishing strong.

As the sun inched upward, any full blast of rays was just a teaser for how quickly the thinner air at a mile high can transfer heat to our skin. A dry breeze came and went, along with preemptive advice from early aid station volunteers to ā€œdrink up, drink a lotā€”that wind will dry you right out!ā€ We passed through mile 8 aid, mile 12 on a friendly little out and back where I spotted more friends like Constance WannamakerĀ and Amy Chavez, two ladies I knew would do well and Iā€™d likely not pass them later on unless they bonked hard *and* I had a phenomenal race. (They didnā€™t, and I didnā€™t.) Onward to the first major stop with drop bags and crew at mile 21. This would be mile 91 on the way back, and boy did that ever feel like a LONG way away at 11 a.m. with the temperatures rising. My crew and able photographer Geoff CordnerĀ refilled bottles, fetched snacks, and sent me on my way to the next stop at 28. I made a note to really try to get through aid stations quickly as they can be quite a time-sink.

andrea coming into mile 21 san diego 100

Mile 21, stripping down to refill.

“…Iā€™m dancing on my own; make the moves up as I goā€¦ā€

Todayā€”like usualā€”there is nervous and friendly chatter in the early miles, but my threshold for engaging in conversation varies widely. Some moments Iā€™m the chatty one, other times I just grunt when someone is more chipper than I have bandwidth for. Today I wanted to say hi to a few known friends, and have a few quick meet & greets with new faces. After that, Iā€™m usually good for the next 24+ hours of near solitude. Running solo is my preferred way to train, giving my brain the space to just wander. Oh, and music? Not my gig, either.

I talked a little with a guy from Ventura named Mallory nicknamed Mooey (Mooie?) (http://www.ultralive.net/sd100#tracking/runner/107) wearing RaceReady shorts. I complimented him on his old-school style, but heā€™d just bought them recently on a running store recommendation. That company was pretty much the only game in pocketed-shorts-town back in 1999-ish (check out this chafing discussion in 2001 and this gear summary from 2002). These days, Iā€™m more of a better-than-naked fan, but hey, those mesh-pocketed pioneers carried my gels through a few ultras back in the day. Glad to hear the company is actually still around.

As the heat rose, I felt pretty good, all things considered. I was taking it at a medium-effort, staying near many of the same faces at least for now. Miles 30-45 can be the crux of this race: hot, with a pavement section that can destroy some knees, followed by an uphill trail slog with the sun directly on you as you clamber over technical terrain. This is Noble Canyon. It is 3pm and yes, it is toasty. But actually, itā€™s not *that* toasty. We are surely lucky, for now. Last yearā€™s high was about 108. This year will barely crack the 90s.

mile 95 desert clouds

Nothing beats desert clouds, really.

Since San Diego almost fables itself as a scorcher, I had a vision of Race Director Scotty Mills seeing the mild forecast and then placing an Amazon Prime order for hundreds of cordless hair dryers, one for every runner to make up for the missing heat. Ultimately, the race had one of its mildest years on record, but that doesnā€™t mean we had pleasant temperatures. And boy was that wind dry, sucking the moisture out like a straw. I still saw serious ashen faces at aid stations and saw one guy step off the trail to launch his lunch. In the end,Ā the race probably went through hundreds of pounds of ice instead of thousands.

The weather bonus was yet to come:Ā we were about to be delivered a very different ā€œtreatā€ out there after dark, out in the moonlight.Ā Don’t worry, we’ll get there.

I chatted a bit with a guy from somewhere near Redlands about his first 100 miler (this one). He was a little worried about what would happen after 12 hours, as heā€™d never gone that far before. He worried about lack of sleep and hallucinations but at least I reassured him theyā€™re not crazy or trippy like pink elephants and stuff. I hope. My experience has been more like this: hey, an SUV parked near the trail, nope, thatā€™s a rock; whoa, a big tent next to the trail, nope, thatā€™s a rock; why is there a house out here right on the trail? nope, thatā€™s a big rock; are those folding chairs sitting next to the trail? nope, thatā€™s a tree. And on, and on. Mundane but out of place things is my style of visual fuckery. I would have a much harder time with night running if my hallucinations were actually scary. Now letā€™s hope I didnā€™t jinx everything forever.

Speaking of night, here it comes. The dayā€™s heat dissipating, I roll into the 48 mile aid station just after dark, more or less on schedule. Iā€™m not as fast in the dark (who is, really?), so this next stretch might take a little extra effort to keep things moving. Itā€™s 7 more miles before our big honkinā€™ out and back downhill to the turnaround point at mile 64. I know, 64 miles is the turnaround? Hang tight.

Hereā€™s the general layout of the course: picture one long out and back with a little loop at the beginning and a bulge in the middle where the trail diverges. Like a snake with a huge head and a gopher in its belly, and weā€™re going to follow the outline of the snake body. We do the loop (8 miles), then go down the first stretch of trail for about 20 miles; weā€™ll come back on this later. Then the trail splits and we go one way for about 25 miles, then join the snake tail for a 14 mile out and back, then come back up a different and shorter split of the trail for 20 miles, then join up again for the last 9 miles. Confusing? Yeah, I get it. Take a peek at the map on my Strava file: https://www.strava.com/activities/1032406160/overview

“ā€¦I donā€™t miss a beat; Iā€™m lightning on my feetā€¦”

Remember how we we dodged a bullet with the ā€œpretty warmā€ temperatures instead of ā€œscorching hotā€? Hereā€™s where things got interesting. Just when the moon was rising full and buttery over the PCT on that 7 mile downhill, it came: 50mph sandblaster dermabrasion treatments. A moonlight spa right there on the PCT, yeah, thatā€™s what it was. I bet some destination resorts charge for this kind of torture just to tighten up the pores, or something. What it did for us was tighten up our jackets, and made me wish I still had my sunglasses to protect my eyeballs from dust. Iā€™d turn my light up full blast to make up for the glasses and just get on with it. One switchback with blinding gusts, kind of sort of running, then the next with a tailwind so strong it was chilly without gloves. Repeat . . . until you almost canā€™t take it anymore, and then itā€™s another half mile to the aid station. I saw Constance on this stretch, headed back uphill and chilled without a jacket due to a mixup with drop-bags. Boy did I wish I had gloves to give to her since she does NOT have fun when itā€™s cold.

Eventual winner Kris Brownā€™s race report summed it up well, ā€œA beautiful and serene day turned into a chaotic and violent night, but by then I was engaged.ā€ I was engaged, too. Focused on getting the heck down that trail so I could go back up and get OUT. So hereā€™s the thing: I passed about 15 people on this stretch. Thatā€™s where I can do alright at these things: when the going gets obnoxious, I can soldier on better than most. When folks around me are having the shit annoyed out of them, I see that and I get just a little stronger, seeing their trepidation. A fondly remembered high school XC teammate used to make us both chant as we strode upward, “I love hills! I love hills!” Everyone else’s bummer was our chance. Thanks, Robin.

“ā€¦I stay out too late; got nothing in my brainā€¦”

I leapfrogged at least a few down at the aid station, and then trudge/jogged back up the trail. I passed a few more here, and started getting into my later-race groove: count the people you pass, try not to let any/many pass back. Repeat until finish line. These solitary miles were what I came here for: all static in my brain slows, all planning and worrying and scheming dissipates. During ultras I donā€™t have big brainstorms and new ideas, but I donā€™t have much of anything else that clogs my neurons, either. I just GO. Sometimes thatā€™s all I can think about and it is a relief to the psyche.

As the night got deeper and we left the climb for more mild trail, I tried to reel more folks in but it was getting harder with how spread out we were. So I just went down into my cave and just tried to move as efficiently as possible when your feet hurt, you ass hurts, your actual ass hurts, and you could do with a little nappy right about now. Coffee instead? Yes, indeed! Leaving the 3:30am aid station with a jolt was just what I needed to get on with getting to my pacer at mile 84.

Only 5 more miles to the next aid, my drop bag, new socks and shoes, and a place to ditch my lights as soon it will finally get a wee bit light. But first, more miles in the dark, more gusty winds and sand blasting, and a bit of a slowdown in my pace. This is one of my slowest sections, despite the coffee. Just before dawn is often sleepiest, tiredest, and so on. Most runners have pacers through here (though San Diego is set up *perfectly* for solo runners and awards them accordingly with a different buckle), but mine will join me for the last several hours. This is a choice I make often, to run without a pacer or with one only for a short key section, or only if they want to join me. Just another introvert thing, probably.

At mile 80 the aid station is here and the light is indeed coming, so I ditch the headlamp and handheld and sit down to swap out shoes, but realize with my feet already swollen my new pair are just not going to cut it. So, I wipe my feet down and change socks only, which feels at really good. It turns out (after later inspection) that one of my socks had worn a big hole right in the heel over those 80 sandy miles. That could have been just one more of the sources of foot discomfort. Ok, get the heck out of here; Iā€™ve already blown at least 10 minutes doing this swap out.

Despite the dawn, the winds do not abate and in fact become a bit stronger on this stretch, nearly picking me up on a few switchbacks over this open terrain. Itā€™s an incredibly scenic section but difficult to enjoy with sand in my eyes. I picked up a few things on the trail that must have been dropped or blown off their runners, to hand off at the next aid station. I wonder how many things were blown off that didnā€™t land on the trail but are far, far awayā€¦. I’m a little hungry but not feeling the food situation. This leaves me low, mentally. A little sad, a little melancholy.

Actually, repeat #3-#5 for hours as necessary.

Mile 84 arrives and with it another drop bag full of gels (VFUEL gets my vote for the last year+) and one more pack of chews for extra salt and, well, just something to chew on. Iā€™d exhausted my ginger chews already. This aid station and last actually had salty rice balls so I ate ate least one of those on my way out. They are hard to chew and move, but seem to deliver good calories. Must experiment more with this, as I don’t eat enough in these races to, well, race.

My crew/pacer/cattle-prod Geoff and I set out, now making better time because I still think I can crack 30 if I donā€™t majorly mess up. Earlier one of the pie-in-sky goals was 27, but I knew that would be a stretch. So I marked out the splits for 28, 30, and ā€œfinishā€ to be prepared. Mostly Iā€™d been hitting the 30 hour splits but was behind those by 30 minutes right now. It is hard to apply last yearā€™s results to this year as the heat was awful then, but itā€™s all I had. I know I am relatively strong at the end compared to most folks, so I can usually beat late-race projections, so off we went.

I was in a mental low point a few spots here, needing to run, wanting to run, but not actually getting the mojo. I felt a bit queasy, even a little dizzy for a spell, but realized that was because my stomach was completely empty. So it wasnā€™t bad food nausea, but rather NO food. This is actually a common problem for me: I get behind on calories not for lack of appetite but just because I donā€™t accurately refeed at the level I require. Sometimes I think I eat enough by grazing at the aid station but usually itā€™s far from the target. This is still something I am working out in order to be able to RACE ultras rather than just complete them.

So we ran, sometimes slowly but what I could muster.

andrea-mile-87-san-diego

And I walked, sometimes crabby and morose.

walking crabby at san diego 100

I was told at one point that my pace was falling off and that almost made me burst into tears. Not at the concept of missing any time goal, but because I felt like I was being scolded. Low points in an ultra must be like being a toddler again. No cookie? Wahhhhh! This is what having everything magnified feels like. Honestly, the emotional ups and downs that we 100 mile runners feel should go a long way to helping dudes understand, just a little, what PMS is like, when these moods and emotions just seem to come out of nowhere. How ya like that now, boys? Super-fun, ainā€™t it? But the key in both situations is this: know that it is normal, and wait it out.

Math in my head showed me that going sub-30 was a sure thing, and now it was just a matter of by how far. So we ran. I passed a few more folks but everyone was moving pretty well so staying in front of them was work. That made me happy: I was surrounded by runners like me, strong at the end. One quick pitstop and I lost another place, but it was totally necessary. The end of Wasatch in 2014 was nearly catastrophic, so I hoped to not repeat that situation.

We rounded the lake, and saw a finishing chute, all uphill, and I had to run it. No walking at this point, no way. Not like my jog was anything resembling a kick, but walking across a finish line just doesnā€™t compute. And then, it was done.

Andrea after finishing San Diego 100

Aftermath and notes for future injury assessments: my ass hurt in several ways, only one of which was a deep aching at the inside hamstring attachment (not the priformis, that one I know well). But with that pain now gone I am not worrying about it. Some outside knee pain, the same kind as over the last month. Receded after 10 miles never to return. Hip/groin flexor pain: a little and manageable. Painkillers: 6-ish ibuprofens, plus 10 of these buggers after learning about them on a physio podcast: Meriva Curcumin. Canā€™t hurt, and maybe they helped even more than I realized.

That song? Yeah, it was in my head throughout the race without me even knowing all the verses. Itā€™s actually not a terrible little pop song. Now, of course, I know it well, and now I can infect you, bwahahaha: Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off.

The gear:

  • Salomon Sense UltraĀ 3 pack (a little too big even in size S, but otherwise very comfy)
  • Salomon old style soft flasks – the new ones with the firm bottom hurt my ribs.
  • Target C9Ā Champion shorts circa about 2011: the only shorts that NEVER chafe me; this black pairĀ have been with me on at least 4x 100sĀ start to finish.
  • VFUEL shirt: nothing special about the shirt, just what it represents as my first ever ambassadorship in ultrarunning. Curious about VFuel? Give it a go with 20% off: use the code ANDREA20%
  • Julbo photochromatic shades: darker in sun and lighter in shade. I could have used these overnight against that wind!
  • HOKA ONE ONE Speed Instinct shoes: just a tiny bit too ā€œlightā€ for a 100? But really nice wide toebox and good but not aggressive tread. A thin rock plate would make these perfect.
  • Smartwool socks: super comfy but prone to getting holes when abraded
  • The food:
  • VFuel: about 15 gels in all flavors, plus Ginger Twist drink taken double-strength. I might lobby VFuel for chews, too, with the same flavors as their drinks. Or, maybeā€¦Ā maple bacon WAFFLE! Waffles are huge right now. Hint, hint.
  • Waffles: 3 GUĀ gluten-free waffles. I like these except that they are too sweet. A little more savory, guys?
  • Chews: Clif chews mostly in margarita flavor for the salt.
  • Aid station food: not a heck of a lot. 2 rice balls, a handful of m&ms, a few pieces of potato.
  • Total estimated calories: 2500-3000? Not terrible if I were a better fat burner. Not enough for a carb burner.

I almost feel bad that I wiped off my feet at mile 80, which ruined the awesomely black coating of grime on them for this post-mortem photo op. My leg “tights” are still pretty impressive, though.

Like my tights?

Post Ultramarathon Funk And How it Sucks Balls

It is pretty well known that the more a person does ultramarathons or marathons, for the most part, the quicker one recovers. Recovery from one’s first 50 miler is nothing like the 10th or the 20th or even the 5th. The body figures out, bit by swollen bit, just what in the bloody hell was laid down upon its bones and joints and muscles and skin and how to look around and pick up the pieces. You’ve Humpty Dumpty’ed yourself over and over again and the king’s horses and the king’s men are getting quite good at this game.

However.

The rest of it, the head stuff, is weird and troubling and kind of common.

After an ultra, I have a day, maybe two days, of a kind of awesomeness. I’m tired. Blissed out. Exhausted. Content. And then, things happen in the brain and it all goes kaflooey. It doesn’t happen to everyone. A few studies have even “debunked” the whole idea of feeling like crud after endurance races.Ā I’m not convinced by one study ā€“ maybe familiarity with a mood test taken daily for weeks on end makes you feel better about your life in general, who knows.

At any rate, a scholarly search on this phenomenon gives me some great stuff to work with like theories about amino acid depletion and such, but that doesn’t tell you the STORY. The story ofĀ feeling like a old bloated whale with arthritis who never lived up to Moby Dick’s expectations and is likely to end up as lamp oil ASAP. The story that digs into why it might happen, with a little science as background but a lot of first person experience to bring it together in the flesh. I’ll run through the stages, best as I have known them.

Stage One: Finish Day

So here we are. It’s that first day, the day of the finish. There’s a few hours of just shock. You walk around a little bit, making sure you’re warm and fed (if hungry, though that can take hours to come back normally, too) and not bleeding all over the place if you took a trail stumble or bashed up your feet. Mingled with that shock is some bliss, coming from endorphins and a general sense of accomplishment. People are probably telling you ‘great job’ and ‘nice to see you out there’ and stuff like that. What happens from here on out varies, depending on the length of the event and the time of day you finished. After a 100 I generally fall asleep mid-day, often during the awards ceremony. After a 50, it’s evening-ish already and all you need to do is try to eat something and get back to where you’re sleeping.

Stage Two: Sleeping

That night of sleep can vary as much as any night of sleep can. You could toss and turn in pain and get little rest at all, or you could sleep like a baby on benadryl with possible short interruptions for a muscle cramp here and there.

Stage Three: DOMS day(s)

The next stage is a lesser version of immediately after the event. You’re sore, a bit stiff, a bit hungry, and still basking in the congratulatory glow. Maybe you’re back at work with a tan and some trail wounds and someone there actually gives a shit about your weekend. But at this stage, the glow is fading. The muscles are beat all to hell and while they feel better by the hour, the real damage will take weeks to repair.

Stage Four: FML

Ok, so now you’re in the place we came here to talk about. Song lyrics appear in your head full of melancholy:Ā My head is an animal. It’s empty in the valley of your heart. That kind of stuff. Your body is well on its way to repair, though it has a long way to go. You get out for a run, or two. It feels ok, or it doesn’t. Sleep is better. Legs aren’t as twitchy. But you, in your head? You feel like that event was a mirage. It barely happened, the pain was barely perceptible, the joy was fleeting, and it seems like you won’t feel that excited about something again for a long time, maybe ever. THAT’S IT. It’s a funk, or its depression, or itsĀ the suck, and you’re in it.

Why does it happen? Here’s a theory, cobbled together from research and experience (my own and others‘). Firstly, some people are more prone to this than others, and those people often seem to have general issues with “lower” moods throughout their life. They aren’t necessarily what you’d call full blown depressives, worthy of medication. I’m simply talking about us who get a little anxious, get a little nervous, get stomach pains, get a little obsessive. The sensitive people. It seems we get that post-event funk/blues/suck moreso than others.

So that’s the correlation, but the causation could be something more real and simple: amino acid deficiencies. See, brutal and prolonged exercise really hammers on a few key amino acids like choline, but depletes them all to some degree, including tryptophan, tyrosine, and phenylalanine. Those three are required to make your happy chemicals serotonin and epinephrine. So there’s one of the big theories. The combination of a person with melancholic tendencies coupled with a huge hit on key nutrients = FUNK. Serious funk.

we got the funk

Now what? Basically, wait it out. Feed the amino acid machine – eat great quality food: eggs, sustainable organic meats, cheese if you want, sardines. Get your levels back up to normal, the real food way.

And, don’t beat yourself up if you engage in guilty pleasures. I’m known to abuse a little of the chocolates during this time, and snack food in general. I just need to remember to eat good protein and sleep lots. And it will end. Really.

 

Tuesday Tribute: Katie DeSplinter

Hi kids. I’m back on the posting wagon, finally, with another Tuesday Tribute. The schedule goes back to weekly from now until eternity or I run out of amazing women in my life. That could be awhile. But now, on to Katie DeSplinter, ultrawoman of mystical powers. She doesn’t break bad, she breaks excellent.

Katie downhilling a not so technical trail. (from iRunFar.com)

Katie downhilling a not so technical trail. (from iRunFar.com)

Me: “Holy shit you’re running amazingly fast!” Katie: “Not as fast as those guys!” Me: “No one runs as fast as those guys. Seriously.”

Those guys were Dominic Grossman & Co, screaming down a loose cannonball run of babyhead rocks next to a steep creek drop-off on the way towards Grouse Gulch on the Hardrock Hundred course. It was a training day, but it seemed to me that Katie was getting some serious turnover practice for future racing days ahead.

Katie is a new person in my circle, but one of influence in just a few encounters. She’s learning her way around racing ultramarathons in one of the most open and generous and patient ways I’ve seen. She blogs about her successes, her worries, her failures, and the intersection of all three. Case in point, AC100 this year was planned to be a dream race, sub-24, with everything looking pretty good. Then, worries about training load (too little) and previous issues with kidneys (too much) and finally, she just went and did it. The write-up is pretty spectacular and takes a meandering course through angst, joy, flow, bloody pee, and rain in Los Angeles. Yep.

“The only thing I honestly feel right now is everything.” – Katie

Just read it, already.

Are ya back after reading that? Good. Now, let’s talk about AC in general. She’s part of the overly-feared next generation of young ultrarunners. Young ‘cuz she is only 31 – the age at which I knocked off from ultras and went down the marathon rabbit-hole for 5 years, losing all sense of moderation and some of my bone density in the process – and yet she is capable of winning races. A few for now, but more to come I’m sure. Her generation (really a sub-generation, but whatever) is overly feared by some in the long-standing ultra camp who think youth entails enthusiasm at the cost of respect. But in many young runners, as well as many older runners, the respect and volunteerism and community are part of the ultra life. They give back. They volunteer and crew and pace with abandon. They do trail work. They organize their own races (hello Nick and Jamil), adding to the pool of awesomeness out in the country and world.

But enough about other runners. Katie’s getting the podium today. I ran into her, not quite literally, on the PCT outside of Los Angeles last weekend. She was running with a friend, as was I, in opposite directions. The four of us stopped to chatter about everything under the warm sun, only finally disbanding when we all realized we probably should get back to our respective days. She sported a hat that can only be pictured to be appreciated.

Katie says 25% of people get it. I'm surprised it's that high. (by Geoff Cordner)

Katie says 25% of people get it. I’m surprised it’s that high. (by Geoff Cordner)

It’s a snarky hat from a snarky 2008 youtube phenomenon, but underneath the hat is a good dose of earnestness. Without the dippy video, this could actually be Katie’s motto. Do what you like and give zero Fs to those who stand in your way without reason.

That’s why she is here. Another woman making me rethink what it means to be solid in your own self.

—————————–

**Tuesday Tribute is my way of showing off the women in my life who have done something to influence me for the better, through direct advice, great example, resilience, strength, bad-assery, or any number of things. Every week. Every Tuesday.

Tuesday Tribute: Jamesina Simpson – engineer, mom, runner

I’m back with another Tuesday treat, your current Tribute of the week. This one comes from a close personal connection – my sister-in-law, Jamesina.

TUESDAY TRIBUTE: JAMESINA SIMPSON

Part of Jamesina's herd - the kid, the dog... all perfectly under control

Part of Jamesina’s herd – the kid, the dog… all perfectly under control

She’s a PhD in Engineering, a university professor, a sub-3 hour marathon runner, and, perhaps most potently, the wife of my brother and mom to my niece (soon to be 2nd niece!). But there’s a lot more going on – things that have taught me much about myself and how to interact better with other introverts. You see, I’m a shitty communicator, make no bones about it. I’m like Sheldon without the witty t-shirts. When I want to talk about something, I do. When I don’t want to interact on a subject, I don’t. I, in general, have not been communicationally housebroken.

When I first met Jamesina, she was hard to read – quiet, reserved, but serious. She and my brother hit it off immediately at a party we all attended and alighted off to chat alone after I tried to occupy the conversation with talk about running. I was jealous of his time, of course – he had only recently “finally” moved to New Mexico and I was enjoying getting to spend time growing our post-college sibling friendship. On the other hand, Jamesina was really exciting to me – we were both geeky, quiet, and runners. We did training runs together that proved to be key in my own brief road racing stint – easy runs to her, but crazy hard tempo pace for me. It was perfect. She also got me into Bikram yoga (which turned into hot flow yoga), a habit that lasted three years and gained me literal balance that I still retain.

Then there were her life accomplishments: the PhD, a professorial position before 27, a house before 25. Yowzers. Oh, and we both loved Greg. This couldn’t go wrong! Yeah…. well there were some bumps in that road.

In a nutshell, we’ve had some serious miscommunications over the years. However, I’ve learned a TON about being a better conversationalist and listening to other people’s emotions instead of just the words they are saying, and we’ve ironed out nearly all the remaining kinks. She’s shared knowledge with me about her own ups and downs with athletics that has proven insightful and is appreciated. This gives me the same hope that I had when we first met. I’ve only grown in my admiration for what she’s accomplished. I mean, a sub-3 hour marathon a year after your first kid? Seriously impressive.

Not much has changed in the intervening 7 years – she’s still serious, quiet, driven, and always happy to share a joke with Greg. They don’t live here in New Mexico any more, so my visits are more infrequent. But when they are both happy, that’s awesome. I hope the two of us continue to grow as people, communicators, and athletes.

Thanks, Jamesina.

Shredded HOKAs After 300 Miles? Part 1 of 2

wf100-post-feet-cropWhen I finished Wasatch Front 100 ultramarathon in September of 2012, my HOKA One One Bondi B shoes had 105 miles on them. They were dirty, stinky, and were showing noticeable wear on the tread. However, they’d performed surprisingly well over the dry and rugged trails of the Utah mountains.

After another 150 miles, however, they are practically dead, following another 50 mile event and a few training runs, and then the Angeles Crest 100 in August of 2013. Now, the tread is essentially gone.

This is after about 300 miles on shoes that some runners get 800 or more miles on before needing to start afresh. Are these a particularly shoddy pair?

They’ll go in a box back to HOKA headquarters for evaluation, soon. And I’ll post the results of that, here.

HOKA One One users, how goes your miles on your shoes? High, low, somewhere in between?