Whining Wednesdays: How Health Food Ruined My Life

It's been a while since I last complained about John's mistress, Running. Rather a shame, since that was some of my best material. But it seems I've gotten used to the other woman in my life. A four or five hour rendezvous on the weekends doesn't phase me anymore. I dismiss John as he heads off for his forest trysts with a wave of my hand. "Have fun," I say. "Try not to get eaten by wild dogs." Then again, maybe John's just gotten better at hiding his affair. He sneaks off during working hours so I'm none the wiser, or wakes up early to get in a little extra lovin'. Whatevs. I'm over it.

So now, you'd think my life would be that of the carefree wife who knows exactly what her husband is up to and no longer cares. The trouble is, a new mistress has stepped onto the scene. Apparently one wasn't good enough for my man. And this bitch makes Running look like my BFF, if you can believe it. Her name is Health Food, and she's boring, bland, unsatisfying, and crunchy in a "I don't even need to wear deodorant" kind of a way. Even worse, she's decided to stick her nose exactly where it isn't needed or wanted: MY diet. And that, my friends, is a step too far.

The good ol' days.

Some of you know about John's weird food habits. It started with Vespa, his wasp larvae extract that helps him burn fat instead of sugar on long runs (or something). With the Vespa came the high-fat diet, which was all well and good at first. John was baking up a storm! There was butter everywhere, even in John's coffee (if he hasn't told you his "Bulletproof Coffee" schpeal, and you insist on hearing it, can you do me a favor and ask when I'm not within earshot?). If anything, I was annoyed at Miss Fatty always showing up when I was trying to be good. "Leave me alone!" I'd scream. "Can't you see my metabolism isn't what it used to be?" Then she'd pat me on the back with a greasy mitt and offer me a cookie.

At any rate, I got used to constantly smacking away Lardo's sticky fingers, but I wasn't prepared for Health Food. She kind of snuck in slowly in the form of weird supplements: chia seeds, spirulina, fruit-flavored cod liver oil (a personal fave). But whatever, John was still baking, butter was very much a part of my life, and no one had dared mention anything about carbs. And then, one wretched day, John stumbled upon Vinnie Tortorich's podcast and No Sugar, No Grains, and my life has pretty much been ruined ever since.

Mommy is drooling (and weeping) off-camera.

I'm not going to get into the science behind all this crap, mostly because I don't understand it and I don't particularly care to. The bottom line is, sugars and grains are bad for you. And that was news I simply didn't need to hear. Ignorance is bliss, and I have slowly been dragged by my once-loving husband into the fiery pits of knowledge, aka hell.

We spent two weeks in Spain and John wouldn't even look at the gelato, let alone breathe in the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread. If you know John, you know he (and I) used to live for dessert. We literally had dessert every day, sometimes twice a day. It's how we ended our day together - dessert in front of a favorite TV show. John and I were perfectly healthy NORMAL people. We exercised, we didn't eat a lot of processed food, we ran marathons (okay, in my case, marathon). We didn't need Health Food showing up and waggling her bony fingers in our faces, scolding us for the occasional french fry. But that's exactly what she did.

All the stuff I didn't get to eat in Spain.

As the weeks have gone on, more and more foods seem to disappear from John's repertoire. First went the grains of any kind, followed swiftly by added sugars. Since we don't eat meat, that basically limits us to veggies, the occasional fresh fruit (god forbid I nibble on a dried apricot every now and again), nuts, and fish. Even dairy got the ax recently, and John was practically living on sour cream for a while. I managed to ignore all this for a long time. John would glance pointedly at my plate of pasta and I'd whistle innocently and look the other way. Or he'd casually drop in a line about my breakfast of Kashi and milk and how my blood sugar was not going to thank me later. Then, the other day, when I was blithely licking peanut butter from a spoon, he did the unthinkable: he mentioned trans fats, and how I was basically killing myself by consuming my most favorite thing in all the world.

So you know what I did? I decided to prove to him that I didn't have a dependency on sugar and grains, that my lifestyle is a choice and I can take it or leave it at will. For about two weeks now, I've been on this b.s. diet of no sugar, no grains. Granted, I refused to give up cultured dairy, but for the most part, I've stuck to my word. I've been living on nuts (So. Many. Nuts.), the hideous dirt-covered veggies available here in Russia, fish when I can get it (seriously, if I hadn't started eating fish, I wouldn't have the strength to type this right now), fruit when no one is looking, and, for dessert, two squares of dark chocolate at the end of the day. And you know what?

I'M STARVING!!!

Yeah, I admit it, I am a freaking miserable wreck. All I want is a giant baguette covered in butter and maybe even honey, or worse still, jam. I want pasta drowning in alfredo sauce, and I don't even like aldredo sauce. If I never see another cabbage, beet, or carrot, it will be too soon. If someone offers me another dried out, over-cooked, nasty ass piece of salmon, I'm going to shove it down their throat. And I'm sorry, but 95% dark chocolate shouldn't even count as chocolate. But I'm so hungry I savor those two piddly squares a day like they are creme-freaking-brulee. Creme brulee! Someone get me some goddamn creme brulee!

Um, where was I?

Oh yeah, Health Food. John takes offense at me mislabeling his mistress in such a fashion. He prefers Madame Whole Food, presumably, or Ms. NSNG. But call her what you will, there is no room in my life for this nonsense. John promises that when Western States is over in a month or so, Health Food will leave and I'll have my husband back. But I don't buy it. I don't believe he'll go back to baking once a week or that bread will ever make an appearance in this home again. Because he can never un-know the things he knows, and unlike me, he can't live happily ever after with the possibility of inflammation and clogged arteries. Honestly, I don't know what his problem is. It's almost like he's addicted to Health Food or something.

Go figure.

Running, the Life Ruiner

If the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, then the shortest distance between John, me, and an argument is a run, straight or otherwise.  I've known this since we first started dating, and yet for the life of me I can't seem to learn my lesson.  Here's the latest.

John was lucky enough to get a second day off this week (I heart construction).  In John's defense, it was my idea to go for a family run to Old Town, grab brunch, pick up the glasses I'd just had re-lensed with plastic (the woman at the glasses store thought I was nuts for having clear plastic put in my glasses post-Lasik, but my frames were expensive and too cute to waste), and walk home.
"How many miles would it be if we took the long way to Old Town?" I asked John on Wednesday night.
"Three miles, maybe a little bit more," he assured me.
"Perfect!"

Here's the thing.  John lies about the length of our runs EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  I can't recall a single occurrence where John has accurately told me the length of a run in the ten years we've been together, despite the fact that he has a GPS and knows the length of every conceivable run in the area.  Every time, it leads to an argument when three miles into our three mile run I realize we're nowhere close to home.  And yet I believe him EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  John may be a liar, but I'm an idiot.

As we set out for our run on Thursday at 9:30 a.m., I already felt like crap.  I'd woken up some time in the middle of the night with a migraine-quality headache, but by morning it was more of a slow burn than a full-blown rager, and I ignored it.  Within thirty yards of our house John was way ahead of me, pushing Jack in the stroller (which happened to be holding my water bottle).  For a half a mile I fumed silently, watching John continue to get farther away while I felt my tongue slowly shrivel in my mouth like a raisin.  Finally I couldn't take it any longer.  "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" I yelled.

"We're going at 9:45 pace," John hollered back.  "It's too slow!"

Now I grant you, that's pretty f-ing slow.  But I like to warm up to my 8:45s, thank you very much.  I screamed a few more obscenities and John wisely slowed his pace.  But within another mile, we were back to running 8:45 pace.  Normally, I can handle an 8:45 mile.  I'm not THAT slow, for Pete's sake.  But it was hot out there, folks.  I've been running on a subterranean treadmill for the past year, blithely churning out my four miles a day at a comfortable ten-minute-mile pace in the basement, watching Pretty Little Liars on Hulu and slurping from a water bottle, basically doing anything I can to help myself forget that I'm actually running.  It works for me, okay?  I'm not fat, I can climb a flight of stairs without getting winded (provided I'm not carrying Jack), and my clothes from college still fit.  I have accepted my state of slothliness.  Why can't John get on board?

As Old Town finally came into view, my stomach was churning and my head was pounding.  "I'm walking!" I finally shrieked, and planted myself in the middle of the sidewalk, my aching head hanging somewhere between my knees.
"But we're so close!" John said rather sadly.  We'd run 4.45 miles.  King Street was .05 miles away.  I could see how much it was killing John to walk so close to his mental finish line.

I relished every second of it.

When I'd regained the ability to function, I assured John that we'd actually passed our finish line 1.45 miles ago, so really, he had nothing to worry about.  We ate a leisurely lunch, picked up my glasses, and headed home.  By now it was almost noon.  The sun was beating down on us, and we still had two miles to go.  When I got home, I headed straight upstairs for a shower, then collapsed on the couch.  I literally had to tell myself out loud to get off the couch and go write.
For the rest of the day, I felt like a blob of green Jell-O.  It was all I could do to eke out my ten pages and crawl back upstairs to help John put Jack to bed and make a salad.  When we finally went to bed at ten, I felt like I'd been beaten over the head with my diaper bag.
I'd like to say "lesson learned."

If Running is John's mistress, she's my dorky study buddy.  She's ugly, nerdy, has acne and a bad case of halitosis, but dammit if she isn't smart.  I hate Running, but she's useful from time to time.  She's always available and she doesn't cost anything to hang out with.  Running keeps me in shape, allows me to eat the steady stream of baked goods that flows through this house, and makes me feel a little better about myself.  I need Running at the end of the day.  And I hate her for it.

John and I first ran together when we'd been dating for two or three months.  I have this little problem where my ears get really cold when I run.  It can happen when it's seventy degrees out, so I've been known to sport a TurtleFur skiing headband while out for a jog in Half Moon Bay.  In July.  For a while I wore a black beanie we dubbed "the nut," but it got lost somewhere in the wrinkles of time.  At any rate, on our very first run together, my ears started hurting.  John, who was still in love with the idea of me back then and hadn't yet realized what a pain in the ass I could be, sweetly cupped my ears with his hands for the remainder of the run.
That doesn't happen anymore.
Now, it's a miracle John doesn't take a bull-whip to me when we're out running together.  In Kingsville, when John first started getting into running, he would literally run in circles around me.  I don't think I need to tell you how obnoxious that is.  He would run backwards next to me, even walk next to me just to illustrate how slow I was going.  Then he'd do the very worst thing of all: offer to carry me for the rest of the run.  He's lucky he wasn't the one who needed carrying at the end of those runs.

By the time we moved to San Diego, it was pretty clear that running together could only hurt our relationship.  We got my parents' old treadmill and I was perfectly content to run in air conditioned comfort while John roasted on the hillside trails of Scripps Ranch.  It wasn't until after Jack was born that we dared try running together, and we found a formula that actually seems to work for us:

John runs fifty miles.
The next day, we run three miles together while John pushes Jack in the stroller.
John runs behind me so he can concentrate on my ass instead of the fact that he can run faster ninety miles into a 100-mile run.

I think it's an equation we'll be sticking to for the time being.
Or at least for the next few weeks, when I somehow forget the misery Running brings into my life and decide it would be buckets of fun to go for a nice five miler with John.

Happy Trails! 

The Autumn of My Discontent

So earlier this year I made a proclamation.  John was still taking classes for his Master's degree, working long hours, preparing for the Foreign Service Orals, and training for Western States.  Jack was ... well ... a baby.  I needed a break, a little time where life wasn't necessarily about me, but it wasn't all about everyone else either.  "This shall be the Fall of Mara!" I declared.  John and Jack looked at me like I was crazy and went back to their business (reading and drooling, respectively).

In March John passed the Foreign Service Orals.  He graduated from grad school in May.  Last month John ran Western States, and all was right with the world.  Finally, I thought, we can take a break.  No more talk of economics or electrolytes, international relations or interval workouts.  I daydreamed about the fun family activities we could do with all this extra time.  (What those fun family activities would be, I had no idea.  But we had all that extra time to figure it out!)  Life was good.  And then, two days after we came home from Western States, John and I were lying in bed, trying to get back on east coast time.  John mumbled something, something that sounded suspiciously like "50k in two weeks."  But no, that couldn't be, I told myself.  My season had begun when Western States finished.  John knew the rules.  No more races for the rest of the year.  But really, it had sounded a lot like "50k."  I rolled over.  "I KNOW you're not talking about doing a 50k in two weeks."  "Uh, nope, wouldn't dream of it.  You must have misheard."  John wisely scooted onto his quarter of the bed and went to sleep.
Hmph, I thought.  I sure showed him.  He won't be mentioning running again for months to come.  The Fall of Mara has BEGUN!!! 

Some time last week John lost his mind and asked if he could run the JFK 50-miler in November.  The look I gave him could have melted steel, and John quickly tucked his tail between his legs and scurried off.  But then the guilt began to creep in, pecking at the edges of my conscience like a beady-eyed rat.  Guilt, that terrible, resolve-destroying beast, is John's greatest weapon against me.  After all, John is a wonderful husband who never makes me feel bad for staying home with Jack and pursuing this writing nonsense when I could be generating an income.  Who am I to keep him from his true passion?  There are far worse hobbies than running, after all.  Like gambling.  Or porn.

So on Saturday, when John asked me what time the mail went out, and I asked him why and he replied, "Because the check for the JFK 50-miler has to be sent out today," I didn't strangle him as I was inclined to do, but instead told him, "If you go to the post office right now the check will probably make it."  And he did.  And it did.
And so it seems that the glorious Fall of Mara is not to be.  This will be the Autumn of My Discontent, filled with more races and long Sunday runs, more talk of wasp larvae extract and enough Zappos orders to make Imelda Marcos proud.  Because at the end of the day, we should all be lucky enough to be married to someone who allows us to follow our passion, wherever that road may lead.

And my road, as it turns out, will be leading me to Cancun, Mexico, for a girls trip at Thanksgiving.  Holla!

Hey, who ordered the giant nut?

A Runner's POV: Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run

Some of this may be redundant, but I thought it would be fun to share John's Western States experience in comparison to mine (ie runner vs crew-er).


(Warning: Long-Winded)
For the uninitiated, WSER is something like the Boston Marathon and World Championships of ultra-running all wrapped into one.  Like Boston, its course sections and primary challenges are well known to runners who’ve never seen them. Places like Robinson Flat, Devil’s Thumb, and Rucky Chucky are to the ultra scene what Wellesley and Heartbreak Hill are to aspirants and veterans of Boston (admittedly there’s nothing quite like running through Wellesley, but Devil’s Thumb is a 2000 foot ascent over 2 miles whereas Heartbreak is an 88 foot ascent over .4 miles…)  Both of these races earned their respective places in running lore by being the first – or nearly the first – of their kind. WSER began in 1974 when a Tevis Cup competitor’s horse went lame and he decided to complete the 100 mile endurance horse race on foot.  Gordy Ainsleigh finished the first known human powered run of the WS trail from Squaw Valley to Auburn in just shy of 24 hours, thus establishing the unofficial benchmark of the sport and the race’s motto: “100 miles, 1 Day.” The depth of competition is also unique within the United States.  Because of its history and place in the sport, WSER attracts the fastest ultra-runners from across the globe, and is also seeded with the winners of various races and race series. The rest of the field is comprised of lottery winners and athletes who enter via title sponsor slots. WSER is the seminal event on the ultra calendar, and for most of the ~400 runners toeing the line in Squaw Valley, the race of their lives and the culmination of years of training (and trying to get in).

I started taking running seriously in 2004 after a 5 year hiatus from “real” training and 3 years of the USMC standard ~20 miles / week. Ever the optimist, my goal was to someday run 100 miles in under 24 hours. I can’t pinpoint where this ambition came from; it just made sense. I vaguely recall my high school chemistry teacher, Willis McCarthy, wearing one of his many WSER silver sub-24 belt buckles and thinking that he was completely insane, but that’s now part of the appeal. Years later he has become a huge resource of ultra-running wisdom before each of my now annual 100 milers. I often get asked why I do this, and the short answer is that there is something very powerful about finding, testing, and exceeding your perceived physical, emotional, and mental limits. With each race the boundaries get pushed further and further out. Running 100 miles virtually guarantees even the best prepared elite athletes a stark reckoning with their individual weaknesses. It bears mentioning the obvious here: preparing for and running an ultra is a very selfish endeavor. It requires countless hours and days of solitude that could be spent with family. It is not unlike other addictions in many important ways. Mara, Jack – thank you. All I can say is that hopefully my running serves as an example that the limits we assume for ourselves are all too often arbitrary and there to be broken.

We arrived in Squaw Valley on Wednesday after leaving Jack with my Mom in HMB and settled into the aptly named “PlumpJack” inn -  a VMFA-323 haunt from way back and purveyors of the finest homemade granola. 3 good reasons to go back! The inn entrance sits about 500 feet from the start of the race, which is both a blessing and a curse depending on how susceptible a runner is to the sometimes negative energy that can infect pre-race venues. WS, however, proved to be the opposite. Everyone I met was so amped to be there and so supportive of their fellow runners’ buckle-hunts that it felt more like a party and less like the all too familiar size-ups at big road marathon packet pick-up expos. The pacer-crew duo of Mike and Alexis arrived on Thursday and we made an afternoon of attending a crew strategy briefing and hiking most of the way to the top of Emigrant Pass on the race course. I had previously run and built quite a bit of familiarity with the final 75 miles of the WS trail 4 weeks earlier over the Memorial Day weekend, but this was my first look at the unorthodox and daunting first 4 miles.

Friday started with more granola, and I must admit here, my first piece of bacon in over 16 years (not disappointed; maybe in myself a bit, but certainly not otherwise). Not unlike other 100s, WSER requires a pre-race medical check in conjunction with packet pickup. I was super-light, but my blood pressure and pulse were both through the roof; I attribute this to nerves and a lingering giddiness over the impressive amount of free “schwag” given to all entrants (a Mountain Hardwear backpack, Moeben arm-warmers, Moeben leg-warmers, a Moeben neck-gaiter, an Asics technical T, a cotton T, Injinji socks, and a full-zip fleece jacket – all emblazoned with WS branding). Again, that self-indulgent “look at me thing.” We made a point of getting out of race central and headed for my Uncle Ray’s place in Incline Village and planted ourselves on the nicest fully wait-staffed private beach on Lake Tahoe for a too short 2 hour interval, and then proceeded back to the (somewhat patronizingly redundant) mandatory pre-race briefing for crew, pacers, and runners. Mara, Mike, Alexis, and I huddled one last time to inventory my gear and go over the final plan for the race, and then spent the rest of the afternoon hanging around Squaw Village with the feet up. My standard pre-ultra high-protein/high fat dinner of fish, rice, and lots of butter followed. Serendipitously, there was a bottle of New Zealand Pinot Noir on PlumpJack Café’s wine list that shared its name with my trail shoes (Peregrine), so we obviously obliged and were not disappointed! Unsurprisingly I had some trouble getting to sleep, but still managed about 6 hours.

I woke at 3:29 – exactly 1 minute prior to the alarm – and felt remarkably well rested. Mike quickly followed and beat me out the door to hold a place in line for the second pre-race weigh in (WS instituted a race-morning weigh in to combat the practice of runners weighing in light the day before; each participant wears a wrist band with his/her pre-race weight so that medical personnel can monitor relative weight loss at multiple check points throughout the day. A 7% drop is grounds for a mandatory drop). The next hour.5 went very quickly, and before long I had worked my way to near the front of the jittery hoard of ultra-runners at the well-lit start line set to the Rolling Stones. I was concerned about bottle-necking behind slower runners prior to hitting the back-country single-track, but the 2500 feet of gain in the first 3.5 miles along wide jeep trail and ski slope mitigated any problems that weren’t wholly self-inflicted. We set out to the RD’s welcome to the “Holy Grail of ultra-running!” and within ¼ mile a group of about 20 of us split off from the front of the field. I was surprised to find the pace comfortably aerobic, and kept the leaders within about 45 seconds as we hit the snow about 3 miles into the race. The opening shots of a 100 are a relief; after 3 weeks of reduced volume and a very steep taper over the preceding 3 days, it’s a welcome return to normalcy to get the legs and lungs working again. I could have dropped a gear and maintained contact with the lead 10 or so, but for obvious reasons it seemed inadvisable. The snow started about a mile from the summit, and proved a bit easier to run on than I’d anticipated. I’ve had a bit of experience running in snow from the past two winters spent living in Northern Virginia, but that didn’t stop me from at least 5 spectacular but non-injurious falls over the 9 or so miles of crusty side hilling that WS had in store for us. One dude in front of me broke through some tell-tale pink snow into a sub-surface stream, so things could have been worse. I was totally outclassed by the downhill / snow running speed of the guys I went over the top with, and by the end of the snow section around mile 15 I had fallen back to around 40th place. This presaged my experience throughout the day: catching and passing runners on the climbs, and getting passed on the descents; definitely room for improvement there.

I had gone through all of the 60oz that I had in my pack by the mile 15 aid, so I gratefully dropped it with the volunteers there who insisted on taking it from me for a refill while I quickly grabbed a few ounces of dilute Sprite and a piece of watermelon. Unfortunately, and despite their best efforts, the FIVE people struggling with my pack managed to tie the thing into a Houdini knot without adding a drop of water. It cost me about 3 minutes un-effing the thing and finally getting it refilled. I should have cued into the fact that I was the only runner in that lead group who was wearing a hydration pack. Oh well… Miles 15-29 went smoothly as we cruised through the beautiful back country and began the gradual descent down from 8600 feet. Most of this section proved runnable and I settled into an effortless 7:45ish pace. At ~30 I went off course with an INOV8 sponsored runner from named Chris from PA who I’d fell in with for a few miles. Apparently the lead 4 guys did the same thing and went even further up the wrong trail than we did, so I feel less bad about it, but it’s annoying nonetheless. The course marking crew had slung a bunch of surveyor tape at a trail intersection, but it either fell or an animal took it down in such a way that it indicated a right turn instead of the intended left. The entire course is marked with yellow and black tape approximately (in theory) every ~100 yards, so if you’re paying attention it’s easy to determine pretty quickly if you are or are not on course.  It took us about ½ mile to realize our error. No biggie in the grand scheme; getting lost at least once is pretty standard fare for most ultra-runners and me in particular. After retracing our steps we quickly came into the much anticipated mile 31 aid station at Mosquito Ridge. Because crew access to any of the aid stations before mile 55.4 was restricted due to the immense amount of snow, most of the runners had drop bags planned for either 23.8, 31, 38 or 43 (or all 4). Mine was supposed to be at 31, and wasn’t. None of the drop bags made it to this aid station. The aid stations are plenty well stocked with food, but unfortunately I needed something very specific, and missing it had implications for me through mile 65 or so. I typically race on very few calories, and this is enabled by an great product that I use called Vespa (long story short, it’s a bio-peptide derived from the secretions of Mandarin Wasp larvae that is believed to shift the body’s energy utilization toward fat and away from stored muscle and liver glycogen during protracted exercise). In practice this means that I get by on about 200 ingested calories for 50k, and about 400 for a 50m. For the skeptical of you out there, I ran 50k and 50m PR’s this spring on 300 and 400 total calories, respectively. Take the Vespa out of the equation, however, and I’m in uncharted territory. Beware single points of failure. I had enough on me (they are about 18 calories each and a bit larger than a GU) to last through about mile 35, so I started to preempt the inevitable by  significantly upping the food intake.

I ran strong into the infamous canyons, and beat my target times for both of the major mid-race ascents of the day (2000 feet in 2 miles from Swinging Bridge to Devil’s Thumb, and 2000 feet in 2.5 miles from El Dorado Creek to Michigan Bluff). It was at this point in the race that I passed quite a number of runners who I wouldn’t see again until the next day’s awards ceremony, but I ultimately paid for it with a hard bonk that started to materialize just around the time that I saw my crew for the first time at the mile 55.4 aid. Speaking with them afterward, I apparently didn’t look too great. There’s one photo of me from a distance and it’s obvious that my form is jacked. In practiced style, Mara took my shirt and tied on my ice-cold “Cool Off” bandana, Mike handed me a Vespa, some baby food (trust me), and a chilled coconut water, and Alexis swapped my pack for a hand-bottle. I was out of the aid within the planned 3 minutes, but the next 6.6 into Forest Hill were the toughest of the day for me. I struggled to run, rehydrate, and refuel after the protracted effort up the Michigan Bluff switchbacks. My crew wore shirts with my name and number expertly painted on the front, with “IMO John J. Rutherford III” on the back. For those that don’t know, my father passed away unexpectedly at age 61 on May 5th, and I’d decided to dedicate this effort to him. He would have been there, as he’d been at literally hundreds of other bike races and ultras throughout the years, and suffice it to say that I continue to find inspiration in his example of selfless compassion and work ethic. Coming through the physical and emotional nadir of the race, and despite the immense difficulty that forward motion posed at this point, I knew that there was no way in hell I would allow myself to cease forward progress. At Angeles Crest last year I learned that I could come back from severe dehydration and caloric deficit, so I comforted myself in the knowledge that with persistence and discipline I’d get my legs back. Everything hurt, and I began to question whether I was injured or just tired (my right leg gave way on its own running up the hill out of the aid station). Lesson learned: when you’re bonking hard, most if not all the pain is metabolically induced.

I was just beginning to come around by the time I ran into the huge crowd at the Forest Hill / mile 62 aid station. Vespa purveyor, coach, sponsor, and ultra-guru Peter guided me through the medical check while Mike, Alexis, Mara, and Nathan waited for me down the road for the shoe change / re-arming / pacer pickup point. Our good friend Kim from UCD - a Forest Hill native - was also there to cheer me on (Thanks Kim!). My feet felt like they were in good shape, but I was looking forward to the comfort of dry socks and road flats for the rolling and generally runnable final 38 miles of single-track. I also took off my compression sleeves because I felt that the downside heat retention outweighed the upside of accelerated post-race recovery. The plan was for Mara to knock out the shoe change while I recharged, but as it turns out it’s actually much easier to change one’s own shoes. Somehow or other my feet had torn through both of my brand new DryMax socks (fail: don’t try new products on race day), and the trail shoes were heavy from the multiple stream crossings of the preceding miles. I threw on a singlet here, too, and re-donned the hydration pack that Alexis had stuffed with my requested supplies for the next 20. Inside of 4 minutes or so I was headed down the road with the first of my 2 pacers, Mike. Utilizing a pacer in a 100m serves a very practical purpose, but it is also a huge psychological boost. At WS, all runners are allowed a pacer from Forest Hill to the finish. The two buddies I had pacing for me knew the drill. Mike is an elite triathlete and veteran of multiple Ironmans, 100m mountain bike races, and other ridiculous adventures, and Nathan has a slew of ultra-runs under his belt and quite a bit more experience running in the dark than I do. Both understood how I was feeling and what I needed to do to take care of myself and continue pushing through to Auburn. Some runners use a single pacer, but I think having 2 for ~20 miles each worked out well. I assumed that it was going to take me about 3 hours to get from 62-80, and 4-5 to get from 80-100. These estimates were a product of both projected fatigue and the terrain as 62-80 is mostly downhill whereas 80-100 is more technical in spots, mostly uphill, and mostly in the dark. That said, the shorter duration with Mike was bound to be tougher on the pacer as it was in the heat of the day, and I intended to push.

Mike ran behind me and doggedly whipped me into maintaining my form, and kept me on a salt, broth, Coca-Cola, GU, and Vespa schedule that had me running an honest race down to the river. We run together quite a bit back in NoVA/DC, so he’s got a pretty keen sense of what I ought to look like if things are going well. This familiarity was priceless, and I don’t think that either of us will soon forget those 18 perfect miles. Picking off runners through this section on the ups was a huge lift, and from past experience and knowledge of the course I knew that my last 30 were going to be strong. We hit 3 aid stations between FH and the American River crossing at Rucky Chucky, and spent less 30 seconds to a minute in each. Coke, broth, go. The river crossing at WS is both a literal and figurative Rubicon. It’s massive, and the crossing point is between two incredible rapids (the larger of which is the name sake of this point in the race and a North Face trail shoe: Rucky Chucky). It’s a matter of conventional wisdom that if you make it across uninjured you will finish the race. The water was so high this year that rafts were set up to ferry runners either individually or in pairs. Mike and I shuffled right down to the makeshift dock with broth and Coke in hand, threw on life jackets, and were being paddled across without delay. I must have mumbled something about Vespa about mid-river because the rower chimed in and offered me one from a stash he had sitting in the bow. Talk about full-service! Peter definitely had something to do with this; in addition to being an event sponsor, he was responsible for setting up the Rucky Chucky crossing logistics (and literally hundreds of hours of other critical WS preparation services).

A challenging, too steep to run climb out of the river gorge starts immediately on the far side, and I think I surprised Mike with my complete bypass of the aid station situated there. I had been so self-absorbed for the preceding 2:45 that I failed to notice that Mike, completely focused on my well-being, wasn’t taking care of himself in terms of salt, fluid, and chow. The bonk-monster reared its head and I found myself gapping him on the road up to the planned pacer swap at the Green Gate aid station. Nathan, anxious to get going after a day of waiting, came down the road about ¾ of a mile and started his duties early. Mara and Alexis were waiting for us, and Alexis had set out all of my requested supplies in the most organized, inspection-ready, “junk on the bunk” style that I felt bad for taking hardly any of them! I ditched the pack for the last time, took a hand-bottle of Clip-2, threw on my headlamp, and followed a very fresh Nathan on down the trail to Auburn. Before long I asked him to run behind me as we were in very different, er, places, and there was no way I could maintain 8 minute miles at this point. 10, yes, 8, no.

There is something magical about miles 80-90 in a 100 for me, and I also love the revitalization that comes with the falling temperatures and different sights and sounds of dusk. This is only my third 100, but without fail this is the stretch of the race that I enjoy most. Completely in tune with my body’s requirements, remarkably comfortable, smelling the barn, and honestly a bit high (for lack of a better word), there is no place on Earth like mile 85 of a 100 that’s going well. I don’t remember exactly what Nathan and I were talking about at this point, but he did a good job of playing along with my altered mental state! Adding to the surreality of these miles were the over-the-top aid stations (the saner of us confirmed that they were, in fact, ridiculous). All I can compare them to is the ridiculous scene in “Apocalypse Now” where Martin Sheen’s patrol boat pulls into the USO Playboy Bunny light show turned riot. Wow.

I fell off the trail and partially into a ravine around mile 86 and sustained a respectable laceration on my shoulder that will definitely leave a scar. We spent an extra minute in the mile 89 aid amid blasting Doors music cleaning it out with peroxide before getting on our way, but all told this mishap didn’t cost me much. We found Mara, Alexis, and Mike at 93, and I dropped my bottle for the push to the finish. I was regrettably a bit mean to Mara here in my insistence that I didn’t need anything (sorry!). Amy Sproston and her pacer caught us (trading places all afternoon) about ½ mile out, and her pacer asked if I was John from VA. I answered in the affirmative and she said something to the effect of “your wife says hi.” All I could think was that she must be (justifiably) pissed (Mara, that is, at me)! As it turns out she wasn’t; they’d just struck up a conversation at the last aid... Phew.

The section from the Hwy 49 crossing to No Hands Bridge at 96.8 was much more runnable than I’d anticipated. At this point in the race, and truth be told from about 65 on, downhills were no longer welcome occurrences. Nathan and I made good time loping through the moondust and soon cruised through the NHB aid. I downed one last GU with a Sprite chaser and set my mind to leaving nothing on the table for the final 3 mile climb to the finish. I knew that Mara was going to meet me where the WS trail transitions to road in suburban Auburn, and I made this my motivation to time-trial to the top. I don’t know if it was the Sprite, endorphins, or adrenalin, but I felt no pain between here and the finish. I can’t remember a time when running felt more effortless. Nathan, not to be outdone by Mike, decided to let me go; we were close and his duties complete. I passed Amy one last time (she’s kicked my ass many a time), and within minutes rounded the corner onto Asphalt and a waiting Mara. I felt bad for the folks in the aid station there at mile 98.5 as I doubt many runners bothered to stop; I certainly was in no mood to delay the finish any longer. I think I surprised Mara but she got right in step as we set out together on a very fast last 1.7. There were quite a few Auburnites (drunk?) out cheering us on despite the hour, and we hammered through the streets marked by the permanent orange footprints indicating the last stretch of WS into the track at Placer High School. My finish time was generally meaningless at this point as I was well inside my “Plan B” time of 20:00 - “A” was sub-19 and top 20 overall, but I got it in my head that it would be cool to break 19:30. We entered the the stadium and hit the track at the beginning of the first straightaway for the final .2 miles to an impressive crowd, all the while watching the finish clock click right through 19:30... No big deal. It was so awesome to run the last stretch and cross the finish line with Mara. She had put so much into my preparation for WS that it was only right that we finish together. 19:30:49 chip time. Not quite up there with the leaders, but 8 hours faster than last year at Angeles Crest, 2 hours faster than my rookie go at Vermont in 2009, and 4.5 hours better than I’d hoped for when I first embarked on the WS buckle hunt in 2004. I am satisfied, but eager to test myself again; the limit is out there still waiting to be found. 33rd overall, 12th in my division.

As soon as we crossed the finish mats I got “medaled,” weighed, and ushered into a very welcome chair for a BP check. My weight was only down 2.5 lbs, and I’m not sure what my BP was, but the RN assured me that I was going to make it (I was lame and asked something along those lines). After the immediate hoopla of the finish I was led off to a tent to have my blood drawn for a research study. I haven’t checked the results yet, but it’ll be interesting to see how the heart and kidneys fared. I unfortunately disappointed a medical student who desperately wanted me to pee in a cup for his own hyponatremia study. He would have had to wait another 5 hours, and I needed first-aid, chow, and sleep! Sorry, dude.

I was completely floored to find one of my Dad’s best friends from UC Davis vet school right there waiting for me at the finish. I hadn’t seen Lane since my father’s funeral, and before that I think it had been at least 15 years. Suffice it to say I was greatly moved to see him, and it made my finish that much more emotional. We shared a few moments immediately after I delivered my father’s eulogy in May, and it all sort of came back to me in those moments after seeing Lane again at the finish. It was an honor to see this kind man track my progress all day and come out to the finish. Thanks, Lane; I am humbled and I know that my Dad would have been touched by this. Dr. John III never did anything quite like WS, but I know that he understood how much this sport - and cycling before it - meant to me. I never would have realized my own athletic, professional, or personal successes without his selflessness and unconditional support. He wasn’t there to share in the achievement of this long held goal, but it would never have been a possibility without him. That buckle is going to be an heirloom.
If you’ve read this far, thank you, and if you’re even a smidge intrigued by what it’s like to go out and test your limits, go and do it!
Happy Trails,
John

Western States: The Blog Post

Hello all and welcome back!  It's been a crazy couple of weeks, but I think we're finally starting to get resettled here in Alexandria, which means it's time for my Western States blog update!
A lot can happen in two weeks, so I'm going to break things down a bit to make them more manageable.  First I'll talk about our pre-race adventures, followed by the race itself, and finally the few days post-WS.  So, without further ado...

Pre-Race:
John, Jack and I departed for San Francisco on Saturday morning, unwittingly beginning what John has since dubbed "The Most Challenging Day of Parenting Ever."  Jack, who up until now has been a champion traveler, decided to whine, kick, bite, and occasionally scream for our entire first flight of approximately four and a half hours.  We walked on to the plane a relatively serene and tidy family, and left with both John and I wild-eyed and trembling, our hair and clothing askew, our nerves shattered.  Jack, on the other hand, fell asleep the moment we set him into the stroller to walk to our next flight.  About half an hour later, when we boarded our second flight, Jack's eyes sprang open and thus ensued another two and a half hours of torture.  At some point during the second flight, around the time that Jack let out a blood-curdling scream for no apparent reason, John and I looked at each other in horror.  "It's happened," I said, choking back tears.  "We have finally become those parents."

Fortunately, rest and relaxation (and the eager arms of Grandma) were awaiting us in Half Moon Bay.  We spent three full days there, stuffing ourselves with Patti's cooking and taking giant gulps of crisp ocean air blessedly devoid of humidity and mosquitoes.  John did a few "easy" runs (meaning I could just about keep up with him) and Jack played with Dasher and Capone to his heart's content, occasionally poking one of them in the eye while gleefully declaring, "Eye!"

A lovely, if not exactly stroller-friendly, hike near the ocean.

Jack, whose love of the ocean becomes more apparent every time we visit, got to enjoy the sand between his toes again at Maverick's. 

Just what Mama loves to see - lots of sharp and slimy things for Jack to play with. And eat!

We had a fun visit with some old friends, ate at John's favorite restaurants, and discovered some extremely delicious (and highly addictive) peanut-butter chocolate malt balls.  (Anyone noticing a trend here? Apparently I also needed to load up on calories prior to Western States...)
After several days of allowing Jack to settle into his new surroundings, John and I left on Wednesday morning for Squaw Valley.  It should be noted that this was the first time John and I have left Jack for any significant period of time, and the first time I have ever been away from Jack for more than 24 hours.

It was AWESOME.

Of course it helped that we were leaving Jack in the very capable hands of Grandma Patti and Uncle Mike, and that we were preoccupied with all kinds of race stuff.  I missed Jack a lot, especially when I saw other munchkins, but it would have been nearly impossible to do the race with Jack in tow (I think the flights out pretty much erased any lingering doubts we may have had on that front).  Suffice it to say, I think we all enjoyed our time apart, but were extremely happy to be reunited at the end.

John and I stopped in Davis for sandwiches from one of our favorite restaurants from back in our college days, Zia's Deli.  I'm happy to say not much has changed in Davis in the ten years since I went there, including Zia's sandwiches.  We stopped again in Auburn for race supplies (coconut water, baby food for John, sadly no more peanut butter chocolate malt balls) and arrived in Squaw in the late afternoon.  After checking in, John and I headed straight for the bar and enjoyed a large glass of wine by the pool at our hotel, Plumpjack, and commented on the graciousness of the resort in naming itself after our son.

Sunday morning we feasted on the buffet breakfast, including the granola that John had been raving about for months, literally (I'm happy to say it lived up to the hype), and headed into Reno to pick up two of our crew members, Mike and Alexis, who flew in all the way from Alexandria to help.  Yes, they're pretty much the most awesome friends ever.  We grabbed lunch in Truckee at Burger Me, then headed back to the hotel for a brief question and answer session for crew members.  John wanted to take a quick hike up the trail where Western States starts, and I figured it wouldn't hurt to work off the granola, yogurt, scone, sticky bun, eggs, and toast I'd had for breakfast (not to mention the burger and fries I'd polished off at lunch). About an hour later, Alexis and I caught up to Mike and John two miles or so up the trail.

John: "Isn't it just beautiful up here?"  Me: "Can't...breathe...Air...too...thin...."

 Seriously, I have no idea how they walk so fast.  The first three miles of Western States goes straight up hill, taking runners from about 5,000 feet of elevation to over 8,000 feet.  This year, the course had to be altered to account for the vast amounts of snow the Tahoe region received, but even still, the runners had to contend with ten miles of snow on the course.  As I wheezed my way over to Mike and John, I became convinced that hill was put there just to rub it in my face that I will never in my life compete in an ultra ANYTHING, let alone 100 miles.  The snow did look inviting, however, so I plodded in first, followed shortly by Mike and Alexis, who started an impromptu snowball fight that I wisely stayed clear of.  Meanwhile, John looked out over the vast expanse of snow and mountains, no doubt kicking himself for ever signing up for such a ridiculous race.  No wait, that was me.  John was wondering what the hell he'd been thinking asking Alexis and me to crew for him.

Alexis takes aim...at her husband.

 Another hour later, when Alexis and I had finally made it back down the hill, we went to dinner in Tahoe City and returned to the hotel for a brief with John's coach and several other runners.  I did my best to look like I was paying attention for a good thirty minutes.  Woo hoo!  Friday morning we ate more granola, scones (chocolate chip this time - yum!), eggs, potatoes, toast, etc. and attended the pre-race check-in session with John. 

John, Mike and Peter at the Vespa booth

Alexis and I scored free T-shirts while Mike helped someone do something useful and John filled out paperwork (you're starting to get how this whole crewing thing works, right?).  When that was finally over (sheesh, you'd think we were there for a race or something), we drove up to see John's godfather in Tahoe.  As luck would have it, Uncle Ray has an awesome condo on the lake, and we got to spend an hour basking on the beach.  I think it's safe to say that was my favorite hour of the trip.  I kid, I kid.  Obviously John finishing the race was the best part.  Duh.  (Did I mention they had cabana boys and lounge-side service?)

Yeah, I'm pretty freaking happy.

Friday afternoon we made our crew T-shirts (those free shirts at the pre-race expo came in handy!  See, Alexis and I were helpful!) while John got organized and went over his final plan.  We'd had to make some adjustments when the course changed just a week prior to the race.  Due to the snow, the first place crews could access their runners was at mile 55, as opposed to 23 in "normal" years.  John would have to rely on aid stations and drop bags in the first half of the race, and we wouldn't get a chance to see him until sometime around 2:30 p.m.  I think I was more concerned about this than anyone (another trend forms), but John was his usual calm and collected self.  We ate another fabulous meal at the hotel and turned in early.  Western States check-in started at 4 a.m. sharp.

Eating.  Again.

Race Day:
At 3:30 a.m. John and Mike got up (which pretty much meant that Alexis and I were up too) and got dressed before heading down for John's pre-race medical check and weigh-in.  He came back to the room at 4, and we stood around nervously until about 4:45 when we walked down to the starting line (luckily only about 500 feet from our hotel).  It was pitch black and freezing cold, but there were still quite a few people there to cheer on their runners.  Once John walked into the crowd at the starting line, we didn't see him again (Not that we could discern, anyway.  These ultrarunners all tend to look alike, aside from varying degrees of facial hair growth.  At some point I described John to a woman as a skinny guy with a shaved head.  She looked at me like I was insane.)  A few minutes later the shotgun went off, and at 5:00 a.m., the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Race was on!

About thirty seconds later most of the runners were walking.  Remember the giant hill?

On that note, Mike, Alexis and I returned to our hotel room for a little extra sleep, ate breakfast and checked out at nine, then headed towards the first crew check point nearly three hours away.  We stopped to pick up extra supplies (the folding chairs and umbrella I'd stupidly forgot to pick up in Half Moon Bay - you'd think after standing in the sun for most of Vermont I'd have learned a thing or two - as well as lunch for the crew).  Then we began a quest to find fudge almost as epic as Western States itself.

At some point during his running career, John decided that fudge is the perfect ultra food.  Unfortunately, we forgot to look for fudge before getting to Tahoe, and despite the presence of several candy and chocolate shops, fudge was nowhere to be found.  At the grocery store I bought the closest thing, fudge brownies (I was pretty sure someone - meaning me - would eat them if John didn't), and we headed to three more candy stores before finally finding "fudge" at our fourth stop.  For some reason, everything in this particular candy store was covered in chocolate, including the fudge.  Later in the day, when I chipped away at the chocolate coating, praying to find something akin to fudge underneath, all I found was more chocolate.  Crap.

Fudgeless - but wearing a damn cute shirt - at Michigan Bluff.

However, John's faithful crew carried on admirably, arriving at the first crew access point, Michigan Bluff, early enough to score a great parking spot.  We took the shuttle down to the aid station, plunked down our chairs, and waited.  And waited.  And waited. 

Fabulous chairs to go with our fabulous shirts.

Finally, about two hours later, John pulled into Michigan Bluff.  Unfortunately, he was looking less than thrilled.  Turns out the singular drop bag John had dropped off on Friday hadn't made it to the mile 31 aid station, which meant John didn't have the Vespa supplement he takes.  I'm not going to go into a big spiel on Vespa, but essentially it allows you to consume fewer calories during endurance exercise by metabolizing fat stores.  Because John doesn't eat a lot during races while using Vespa, it's extremely important that he consume it at regular intervals.  The Vespa was in his drop bag.  By the time John came into mile 55, he had already bonked twice.

Ready for our runner!  John was #339, and we called ourselves Team HAPpy Trails in honor of John's dad, Hap.

We did our best to patch John up, gave him fresh water bottles as well as GU, Vespa, the baby food he likes to eat while running (those little squisher things I feed to Jack apparently make for great ultra food; I'll take John's word on that one), a wet bandana and hat, sprayed him with sunscreen, and sent him on his way.  The next aid station, Forest Hill, was only 6 miles away.  We packed up, got back in the car, and headed straight for Forest Hill.  The rest of John's crew - ie John's good friend Nathan - was waiting for us, along with my best friend Kim, who grew up in Forest Hill.  It was so fun seeing Kim there, and it was Kim's first chance to see John running an ultra.  She was so moved by the whole thing she was actually tearing up.  I was trying not to go crazy waiting for John. 

John and Peter coming down the road at Forest Hill.

John finally passed through the aid station about thirty minutes behind his projected time, which wasn't too shabby considering the shape he'd been in at Michigan Bluff.  After we did a quick sock and shoe change, got John in his water pack, and refilled his supplies, he and Mike (who was pacing John through mile 80) were off down the road.  When I offered John some of the "fudge," he took one look at it, said "Yuck!" and never asked for it again.  Hmph.

Just a little side note here, folks.  As you can see, ultra races aren't exactly a spectator sport.  You get to see your runner at 5-10 aid stations throughout a course, usually for a few minutes at a time.  The rest of the race is generally off in the mountains or in some other inaccessible location.  It's a whole lot of hurry up and wait at ultras, which is why it's so important to have at least two people crewing for you (and I'm talking about for the sake of the crew here, not just the runner).  It's a stressful endeavor with very little pay off.  Having good friends around helps significantly.
 
Our next crew stop was at mile 80, where Nathan would trade places with Mike.  We said our goodbyes to Kimmy, packed up the car, and headed towards Green Gate.  Once we parked, we had to take a shuttle ride to the crew drop-off point about two miles uphill from the aid station.  As we were walking down the fairly steep hill, we passed a few people whose runners had already come through.  They didn't say much, but their eyes said "BEWARE.  You are nowhere near the bottom.  And you still have to come back UP this hill later."  We trudged along with our cooler and chairs and finally made it to Green Gate, just on the other side of the race's major river crossing (this year involving rafts, due to huge amounts of snow runoff).  We unpacked our gear, sprayed massive quantities of bug spray on ourselves, and settled down to wait. And wait.  And wait. 

Nathan, me, and Alexis's spread: "Special deal for the pretty lady. Very nice, very nice. You like?"  And yes, I look twelve.

Finally, John came up the hill to the station.  Alas, Mike was not with him.  John assured us he was just a quarter mile down the course, so Nathan and John headed out after a quick refueling.  Mike showed up not long after, but it was clear he was hurting.  He'd been so busy looking after John that he'd forgotten to take his own salt tablets, which are crucial during the heat of the day (we're talking 90 degrees here, in the blazing sun).  Alexis and I didn't want to tell him about the massive two-mile trek awaiting him, but we set off soon enough, Alexis interjecting with a chipper "Just around the corner" every so often.  Unfortunately, it was never just around the corner.  Somehow the hill had morphed into the longest hill ever in existence while we were at the bottom of Green Gate.  I secretly relished every rest stop we took, all the while cursing Nathan for leaving me with his inexplicably heavy backpack and the 30-year-old cooler we'd found in John's mom's garage that was awkward to carry and remarkably weighty for its dainty size.  We finally crested the mountain... er, hill, waved down the shuttle bus, and crammed ourselves into the back row of a bus-turned-sauna.  Let's just say it was crowded, stuffy, and ... malodorous ... in the back of that van.

Our next stop was mile 93, which required another drive and shuttle ride.  We stood in the dark with a bunch of other crews, most of whose runners were very close in pace to John.  We hadn't had time to get dinner (it was around 9 p.m. at this point) so we drank some of the instant hot chocolate provided for the crews and stomped our feet to keep warm.  John and Nathan flew through the aid station, both looking well aside from a nasty gash on John's right shoulder.  I offered John a water bottle, but he was getting a mite testy at this point.  Apparently he wanted to drink the water from the bottle but not take it with him?  In my defense, I'm not sure he was entirely coherent at this stage, but I was clearly missing some crucial piece of information.  At any rate, John grabbed his last few supplies and headed into the dark.  I promised to meet him at mile 98.9.

The only decent shot of John running. (Photo courtesy of Gary D. Avey)

Alexis, Mike, and I got back on the shuttle, loaded into the car, and drove to Auburn High School, where Western States finishes.  Mike and Alexis decided to wait at the finish for John, so I bravely strapped on a head lamp for the first time, asked someone for directions ("Just follow the orange footsteps," a girl told me) and headed into the dark.  Let me tell you, even with a headlamp, those orange footsteps were incredibly difficult to see.  Before long I had been swallowed by darkness.  It was also utterly silent, aside from the two or three runners who passed me on their way to the finish line.  All I could see of them were headlamps shining in the dark.  At some point I heard a wolf rustle in the brush (okay, fine, it may have been a squirrel) and I decided to pick up the pace.  At mile 99 a house loomed up out of the darkness, surrounded by a crowd of drunk people waving their red cups in the air.  It was like stumbling on a frat party in the middle of nowhere.  A guy stopped me and asked me if I'd just run 100 miles.  I decided not to remark on the implied insult there, but instead politely told him, "No, I'm running to meet my husband.  Am I going the right way?"  His friend nodded, while the other guy, who I had just noticed was holding a camera, said, "Probably.  But who cares?  Take a picture with my friend."  I'm not sure why anyone would want a photo of a stranger who had just run less than a mile, but the whole thing was so surreal, who was I to argue?  Somewhere out there some random guy has a photo of me around mile 99.  Anyway, I said goodbye and headed back into the dark, eventually finding my way to mile 98.9, Robie Point.

Another bizarre scene awaited me at Robie point, where an aid station sat at the dead-end of a street.  Several tents were set up, trimmed with Christmas lights, and a group of people sat around talking and laughing.  Eventually a nice man came over to me and asked me who my runner was and offered to track him on their computer, but the tracking was so far behind that it didn't have John checked in at the last check point.  I gratefully accepted a cup of water and waited for John.  About thirty minutes later, John emerged from the darkness, moving startlingly quickly.  "Let's go!" he said, before I'd even had a chance to say hello.  I handed my cup to a stranger, thanked them, and charged after John.  "Where's Nathan?" I asked, a little concerned.  (John is starting to develop a bad habit of dropping his pacers.  He dropped his brother, Mike, in the middle of the night at Vermont.  The poor guy didn't even have a headlamp.  At least we'd learned from that mistake.) "He's right behind me," John said.  He was going so fast I could barely keep up, and his breathing was disturbingly rapid.  "Are you alright?" I asked.  "No serious damage," he said between breaths.  I decided that was good enough, and that there was no way I wasn't keeping up with my husband after he'd run 99 miles.  But I'm not going to lie.  It was an effort. 

When the stadium finally came into sight, John sped up again, and we hit the track at what felt like a pretty good clip.  Running that last 200 meters with John was incredible, and I finally got a tiny taste of what it must feel like to accomplish something so amazing.  We crossed the finish line together at 19:30:30, only 30 minutes off of John's goal time. 

Mike, John, and Nathan (who got a little lost in the dark but finally found us!).

John was immediately weighed and taken to medical, where they took a frustratingly long time patching up the significant slash in his shoulder.  Only one person was allowed into medical, so Mike, a former EMT, went with him.  But from where I was standing, I could see that John wasn't faring so well.  I made eye contact with one of the medics and told him John needed food and a blanket, and they quickly finished up so I could get John into some warmer clothes.  Then I ran over to the food tent and asked for John's requested meal: a grilled cheese sandwich.

While I was waiting for the sandwich, an older man with long gray hair and a beard turned to me and asked me if I'd just run.  I explained that I'd ran the last mile with my husband and, kind soul that he was, he seemed genuinely impressed with my effort.  It was clear he'd run the race, given his outfit and the number 00 on his shorts, but before I had a chance to ask him how he'd done, he informed me that he hadn't finished.  "But," he said, "I've done it 13 times in the past, so it's okay."  When he turned around, I wasn't surprised to see the name "Cowman" written on the back of his shirt.  It had taken me a few minutes, but partway into our conversation, I had a feeling I was talking to the infamous Cowman A MooHa, the second man ever to run the Western States course, in 1976.  It seemed a fitting ending to a long and, I have to say it, epic day.

Post Race:
On Sunday, after a much-needed shower and a good night's sleep, as well as a grotesque amount of food at the Cheesecake Factory, we headed to the awards ceremony.  John was absolutely beaming when he received his sterling silver Western States "100 Miles, One Day" belt buckle.  We piled back into the car, then drove towards Half Moon Bay, stopping only once in Davis, for a much-deserved Blizzard.

The faithful crew and our runner.

Mike and Alexis spent the night in Half Moon Bay with us, then left early Monday morning.  John and I spent one last lovely day in HMB, savoring the cool temperatures and Patti's cooking for as long as possible.  On Tuesday morning we headed back to SFO, bracing ourselves for what would undoubtedly be another long and painful venture. 

I think it's pretty clear what Jack thinks of the whole "ultra running" thing.

About midway through the first flight, while Jack was putting on a show even more horrifying than his display on the trip out, I looked over at John, whose face was contorted in misery.  "I don't get it," I said.  "You just ran 100 miles.  You should be able to handle this no problem."  John looked at me earnestly and replied, "I have to admit, this is actually harder than running 100 miles."

And there you have it folks.  I've never run 100 miles, but I've dealt with a cranky toddler for countless hours all alone.  I may not have a belt buckle to show for it, but I am arguably just as tough as my ultra-running husband (John basically admitted it.  Okay, maybe not in so many words, but still...).

Maybe I have it in me to run an ultra one day after all.  For now, I'm the proudest Western States Widow around, and incredibly grateful for all the support from friends and family over the past six months.  Thanks especially to Kim, Nathan, and most of all, Mike and Alexis.  We couldn't have done this without you guys!

Hit the Road, Jack (and John, and Mara)

This is just a quick post to bid my faithful readers (all ten of them) adieu before we head to California.  One week from tomorrow John will be hoofing his way through the mountains somewhere between Squaw Valley and Auburn (assuming we survive two more flights with Jack between now and then; I bought Jack his very own "smart phone" toy for the plane.  It has fake apps, people - I'm not messing around).  We should be able to follow John's progress via Facebook, so hopefully you'll have some idea of where he's at throughout the race.  In the meantime, please wish him luck and pray he has a good race.  We'll all be paying for it if he doesn't.

I'm not sure what computer access will be like this week, so I may not update the blog until I return.  But you can expect a big fat Western States 100 posting when I do.  John and I are also very excited to spend three nights in Squaw Valley sans Jack.  I was really looking forward to lounging by the pool, but since the pityriasis rosea is STILL HERE (it's been six weeks!) I'm not sure it's going to happen.  Here's hoping it looks slightly less hideous by then.

Alright, better get packing while the child is sleeping.  More later!  Western States here we come!

Western States 100: Why I Seem to be More Nervous Than John

As many of you know, John is less than two weeks away from his third annual 100-mile race, the Western States 100.  John has been trying to get into Western States for several years now, and finally, thanks to his sponsor, he has secured a spot amongst the 415 runners competing in the 2011 event.  Here's a little description from the website:

"The Run is conducted along the Western States Trail starting at Squaw Valley, California, and ending in Auburn, California, a total of 100 miles. The trail ascends from the Squaw Valley floor (elevation 6,200 feet) to Emigrant Pass (elevation 8,750 feet), a climb of 2,550 vertical feet in the first 4½ miles. From the pass, following the original trails used by the gold and silver miners of the 1850’s, runners travel west, climbing another 15,540 feet and descending 22,970 feet before reaching Auburn.
Most of the trail passes through remote and rugged territory, accessible only to hikers, horses and helicopters."

Sounds like your kind of fun on a Saturday morning, doesn't it?

John's first 100-miler was three years ago in Vermont.  As I discussed in a previous post, I crewed the race (at 17 weeks pregnant), along with John's brother, Mike.  There were parts of the race where I was crewing alone, trying to make my way through the mountains on tiny dirt roads in the middle of the night.  It was incredibly stressful, feeling completely responsible for John's upkeep and well-being.  This year, I won't be alone.  I will have our good friends Mike and Alexis and Nathan and Jackie along for the ride, and Mike and Nathan will be running 20 miles each with John.  I am responsible for the last two miles.  I think I can handle that.

John and Mike post-training race (aka, a marathon).

And yet.  Yesterday, Mike, John, and I sat down to discuss John's plan for the race.  I think I sort of annoyed Mike and John, who are both ultra athletes and consider this sort of thing to be "normal."  But even now, after several years of this nonsense, I still don't consider it normal.  When John told me his plan to spend two minutes at each aid station, I sort of freaked out.  In Vermont, John spent 10-15 minutes at each aid station, eating grilled cheese sandwiches while I refilled water bottles and checked his vital signs.  Two minutes is nothing.  It's the amount of time it takes me to apply mascara.  To one eye.  It's the amount of time it takes me to change a diaper.  How on earth am I going to take care of John in two minutes!  I'm not a Nascar pit crew for God's sake!  AAAAHHHH!

Okay, so perhaps I over-reacted.  Perhaps I was a little too focused on things like backup plans in the case of serious injury (you know, since most of the trail isn't accessible by motor vehicle), instead of things like how many baby food squishers John is planning on consuming at mile 73.  I know John is prepared for this race; I know that he knows his body inside and out; I know that Mike and Nathan are serious athletes who will take care of John for the hours where I won't see him.

But perhaps the most comforting thought of all?  I know that I'll have the wives of two more ultra athletes with me, ready to commiserate about the ridiculousness of our husbands' "hobbies" and the complete and total non-normalcy of the whole endeavor, for at least nineteen crazy hours. 

Weekly Inspiration: Or a Lack Thereof

Hello all.  This is the first week in a long time where I honestly couldn't come up with anything inspiring to write about.  In fact, I couldn't really come up with much to write about period, and I think it's because I'm a little burnt out at the moment.  John was gone for a week, as I mentioned, and it wasn't until yesterday that I got my first break from Jackaroo in eight days.  I REALLY needed it.  I love Jack more than anything, but he's exhausting!

Jack models the fab hat Sarah got me in Mongolia and demonstrates his new skill: opening doors.

Now that I've had some time to clear my head (amazing what five hours - a hair appointment and a movie - can do for one's mental state), I think I can blame my lack of inspiration on several things, including rarely leaving the house (or the presence of a toddler) in over a week; being in a constant state of itch for four weeks (I was seriously considering a post on pityriasis rosea, because it has been such a major presence in my life for over a month now, but then I realized that probably wouldn't make for very pleasant reading); and feeling depressed about the state of my novel.  I got another rejection from one of the three agents with my novel, and while she didn't say anything negative (aside from the fact that she couldn't envision anyone she could sell it to), it wasn't a particularly helpful rejection.  I'm starting to realize that very few of them are.  The worst part is, I don't know if that's because the agents don't have the time to tell me what's wrong with my novel, or if there really isn't anything in particular wrong with it!  The only slightly uplifting news is that I am really excited about my new Young Adult book (thanks to Sarah and Erin for helping me brainstorm all last week), but I haven't had much time to work on it so far.  I also got a request for my old novel, How the Other Half Lives, from one of the agents who rejected The Book Collector, so I'm trying to revise it in the next couple of weeks.  I wrote it in 2007, so a few things are somewhat dated.  Plus I've learned a few things over the past couple of years, and I'm trying to apply those to this novel.  It's a long shot, but it's something.

Meanwhile, John's training weekend went really well.  His coach thinks he could be an "elite" runner and break 19 hours at Western States.  I worry about John pushing himself too hard and blowing up part-way through the run, but he obviously knows his body and its limits very well, so I'm trusting him to follow his instincts.  Of course, his instincts led him into poison oak, a cracked rib, and a bear last week, so maybe I'm giving him more credit than he deserves...
Sarah is home from Mongolia (yay!) and had her own fun adventures to relay.  I'm anxiously awaiting her photographs, because the few she sent me while she was away were amazing.  I'll try to post some of them here when they're ready. 

A trip to River Farm seems like the perfect excuse to break out Jack's overalls!

One of the few inspiring things I DID see last week was River Farm, which is a gorgeous public farm between Old Town and Mount Vernon off of GW Parkway.  I can't believe I've never been before (a friend has been telling me about it for a while but I just never got my butt down there).  Jack really loved running around and exploring, and we had a lovely shady spot where we could sit and watch the kids.  We will definitely be back.