Holy Ohlone

You kicked my ass. I thought I was a strong uphiller and you beat me down. I knew I was a bad downhiller but you revealed it to be worse than I imagined. I looked at the course profile taped to my monitor every day for the last 8 weeks and I'm at a loss to say what registered. A lot of uphill, some downhill.

If I'd crunched the numbers and calculated what it took to drop 1200 feet in just over a mile, or to cover 8 miles straight uphill going from 1200' to 3500' I might have trained differently, clipped my toenails almost off, and started doing nothing but hill repeats - up and down - on Willow Trail or Fillmore Street. But let's be honest - that's not generally my style. Not when left to train on my own, at least. I tend to gloss over the details. And so, while what I didn't truly take into consideration didn't necessarily hurt me, it did make for a long and challenging - though ultimately awesome - day. There's something about jumping into the unknown that's kind of exciting. All the possibilities. And the cold shock of reality. And wondering how your body will respond. And finding a way to keep going when it doesn't. This was that kind of day.

(top pic - me, Helen, Rick at race start; bottom pic - me and Caitlin who crushed it in 5:04, pics courtesy of Rick G)

It started with Helen and Rick giving me a ride to the starting line before jetting off to volunteer at the Backpack Area aid station. The skies were cool and overcast, perfect weather for the initial 4 mile climb up to Mission Peak at 2500 ft. Got to chat with Caitlin Smith (eventual women's winner and new course record holder) and see Sarah Lavendar Smith (east bay running friend and super strong runner) for a quick pic before we were off.

(Sarah Lavendar Smith and me just seconds before race start; she cruised to a killer 5:55 finish)

Lots of familiar faces I knew by sight if not by name. First 12 miles were great - practiced on again/off again run/walk on the uphills. Views were spectacular across the bay area and big black cows dotted the hillsides - I wanted to stop and take a picture but we were pretty tightly packed on the switchbacks and I felt like I had too good of a rhythm going to stop. (Note to self: If you're carrying a camera for 31 miles, don't sweat jumping off the trail to take a picture. Just do it.) As the downhill began, so too did the onslaught of runners passing me. It wasn't overly steep for most of it so I tried to practice different things - lots of little small steps, leaning forward slightly, thrusting arms more - but no matter what I did people passed and kept motoring out of my sight. I expected this but it was still a drag.

(Climb up to Mission Peak)

(Climb down)

Around mile 12 I came into the Backpack Area aid station looking forward to seeing Helen and Rick, a little boost to keep me going. Ann Trason (a legend in trail running) was there, too, a wisp of a thing making PBJ sandwiches. I'd run about 12.7 miles in 2.5 hours feeling good about the hills and my legs. So I started doing the math - not my strong suit - thinking that if I could repeat the same and be at around 22-24 miles in 5 hours I'd have a decent shot at making it a 7 hour day. And then I set out on the next uphill just as the sun started to appear. It went up and up and up and up. Almost 8 miles straight up to the top of Rose Peak. Almost all exposed. But with beautiful views of the east bay and the fog in the distance and a breeze rustling across the dried grass. I was not so taxed as to not notice. Run, walk, walk, run/walk, walk, walk, run/walk, walk, hobble, walk, hike, hike, hike, crest. There were still some 10 miles to go and I'd just hit the peak - was it 10 miles of downhill with some short bursts of up? I couldn't remember but I knew it wasn't a straight shot down. Not that downhill was going to be my friend. As I started to head down from Rose Peak it was evident my legs were feeling the effects of all the uphill. Besides just being not terribly quick on downhills, now I was making painfully slow time trying to refresh the muscle memory and loosen up. But the course wound now through pine trees and shade and I was thankful for that.

(Top pic- backpacker aid station w/volunteers; bottom pic - leaving the aid station blissfully unaware of what lies ahead, courtesy of Rick G)

Soon enough, the trail shot uphill again, then down, then a steep uphill, then a super steep somewhat technical downhill, then straight back up again. It was almost comical. Struggling as I was to find a rhythm on the downhills, I was almost happy to face another uphill but at the same time, feeling increasingly deflated by the up/down, up/down. By then, even the gradual uphills and downhills seemed hard and my running/mindset was in unchartered territories. I was suffering. It wasn't the lovefest I'd had at my first 50k in the North Face Challenge. Now it was just - get it done. And...how much longer?

(Top of Rose Peak at 3,817 ft!)

I started running with the goal to just to get to each next aid station. The volunteers were amazing. Decked out in blue tie-dyes their encouragement and enthusiasm and kindness provided small boosts along the way. Eager to give me whatever I asked for, to tell me how far to the finish, what waited ahead, I was sad to have to say good-bye each time and head off on what was now a fairly quiet trail as the runners had spread out and I was left mostly on my own.

The occasional runner continued to pass me but all were kind in their encouragement. Luis's favorite running partner, Janet, came by making it look effortless. This was a mere training day in her journey to Western States. I crested one of the last hills and stopped at the top of a steep downhill pitch. I had been shuffling just to get to there and felt overwhelmed looking at the terrain ahead. I had to regroup for a second and then will myself down - it wasn't pain, it was just the mental struggle. I picked my way down carefully over the loose rocks until finally, mercifully, the course leveled out into one last gradual downhill mile. I could hear people and smell BBQ and as I turned the last corner it all came into view and I heard someone shouting my name. Sweet god, I'd made it.

(The finish line and friends - best sight of the day, courtesy of Rick G)

The race director was there at the finish line personally handing out finisher's plaques to all while volunteers from the day had assembled and were cheering everyone across the finish. Dana and Rick, Helen, Cheyenne and Tina were all there along with Ken Michal, a fellow Endurable, who'd started the race only to be cut off for time at Rick/Helen's aid station. Rick had graciously saved me one beer of his dozen and I gulped it down while repeating the words "so hard" as my friends asked how it went. But I'd still hit my approximate goal time (7.5) and I'd finished, and in looking back at the pictures I was smiling in every one of them. Even the volunteers said, "if you're smiling it can't be that bad." And yeah, it wasn't that bad. It was hard and it was challenging and I felt frustrated that the level of fitness I felt I had going in was not enough to deliver the strong performance I'd hoped for, but if you can't have setbacks, how can you know the pleasure of rededicating yourself to do better? It was a beautiful course, extremely well-marked, with an amazing staff of volunteers (almost 1 per every 2 runners) and a killer finish-line BBQ; not to mention a stacked field of crazy-strong runners that you can only linger around in awe at their collective accomplishments.

(me and Janet, who's gearing up for Western States!)

My first thought upon finishing - I never want to run again. My thoughts the next morning - I am SO signing up for Ohlone again next year.

31 miles
11,055+ / 10,695- (according to Mark Tanaka's garmin?) / +7800 / 7440 (according to race site)
7.5 hours
1 blister