Running and Pregnancy: A Balancing Act for a Guilty Conscience

This story actually begins before I got pregnant. Nathan and I struggled to conceive, not as much as some do, but enough to earn the label “infertility” and require medications and metal instruments to begin our entry into parenthood. I had assumed I would be the wonder-woman who ran ultras with a baby-bump, but as the months passed, I started skipping runs in the second half of the month, just in case science was wrong and that would help.  Running became a consolation prize: If I’m not pregnant by December, I’ll do this race, undertrained though I was.

Then our miracle happened. We were pregnant! Even more miraculous was our first ultrasound showing two lives latched on to me, with two beating hearts. Whereas my What to Expect book encouraged continuing running for a singleton pregnancy, it recommended discussing any exercise with my OB first for twins. I stopped running altogether, not wanting to take any chances.

It didn’t matter. At our next visit, the ultrasound showed one happy active fetus. The other had stopped growing a week earlier (exactly when my nausea and fatigue had subsided some) and no longer had a heartbeat. As devastating as this was, I couldn’t find a reason to blame myself; we had been exceptionally careful. When I got home from work that day, I went back to my old consolation and went for a run.

I ran over the next few months as I could. Pregnancy affected things in ways I never imagined: a 7 mile trail run gave me piriformis spasms more painful than anything I had experienced. I couldn’t believe 7 miles could cause something so severe when after 100 miles I could at least get up and walk to the bathroom. Later on, demanding rotations coupled with viral infections meant I did little more than work and sleep. I developed a mild anemia from pregnancy, but it was enough to give me the running in water sensation that giving blood had created in the past. Once I recovered from viruses, had a couple weeks of iron supplementation in my bloodstream, and transitioned to lighter rotations, I was ready to get some more miles in.

I have a wonderful friend who was willing to come run with me, even though I warned I would be very slow and have to stop to pee every 10 minutes. I was nearly 32 weeks, and running felt GOOD. Well, it felt pretty terrible in my middle section, but arms and legs and breathing were all working well. We were only 5 minutes down the trail when I tripped.

The impact on my abdomen was enough to make me think I had instantly killed my baby. My friend stayed calm and helped me get safely home, and Nathan drove me to the hospital when my OB said I should be admitted for monitoring. After 16 hours of monitors picking up our son’s heartbeat, kicks, and hiccups, coupled with 2 ultrasounds showing a healthy boy, I was finally reassured.

At first, fear of falling again kept me from running. And it was getting pretty uncomfortable. But once the initial shock wore off, I knew the real reason I wasn’t running anymore. I didn’t want anyone to judge me for being careless after what happened. At the same time, I had heard so many stories of women running marathons or putting in training runs that traveled up mountains at 8 months of pregnancy, and I felt inferior for spending my hours off on the couch.

Yesterday I went for a walk for the first time in a month. It didn’t feel natural to be dressed in my running clothes and not running. I hated that people were passing me, people I could outrun even now at 36 weeks. I chanced it. I ran a stretch here, a minute there, watching the pavement closely. I didn’t fall. And I’m hoping that you aren’t shaking your head at me now for taking the risk.

I imagine that this won’t end when he arrives. There will be years of balancing my needs against his and battling guilt. I’m going to make use of two weapons to start out facing this guilt: an incredibly supportive husband and a running stroller from a thoughtful aunt. It’s time to (slowly) get back to running.

Bull Run Run 50 Miler: Not A Fluke

Hoping that my completion of the Lookout Mountain 50 Miler back in December was not a fluke, Jordan and I ran the Bull Run Run 50 Miler up in Clifton, VA this past weekend. As often seems to happen in run-ups to races, my training was cut short by injury. Often this is due to over-training or the wrong running surface; this time around, blunt force trauma was the culprit. Exactly a month out from Bull Run Run, I fell hard late in a 25 mile training run on local trails. I fell with my left arm pinned underneath me, felt my whole rib cage shift to the right, and heard an audible 'crack.' I lay still for a few minutes, cursing the unseen root that had knocked me down, but nothing seemed horribly wrong, so I finished the run in some discomfort and went home. I would later discover that simply laying down or sitting was uncomfortable, and laying on my left side was excruciating. All symptoms pointed to a bruised or cracked rib; the only treatment would be 3 to 6 weeks of rest (or until symptoms went away). I was at the peak of my training cycle (still needed a 30 miler), but suddenly breathing on a 5 mile run was difficult and painful. I fought through the next week and a half, making no progress, and finally took off a whole week to let things heal. I hoped that having finished a 50 miler would give me the mental edge to make up for the lack of miles in my legs.


With things feeling good by race weekend, Jordan and I headed to Clifton in time for the pre-race dinner on Friday night. Over pasta and salad (and even fajitas for the brave) we were implored by the race directors to follow two simple rules: don't die, and lube your b____ (er, whatever needs lubing...).


Race morning began comfortably chilly (that wouldn't last), and with the bugler sounding the Calvary Charge, we were on our way.  I quickly lost my arm warmers as we ran the lap around the parking lot to spread out the field, raucously cheered on by the race directors and spectators. Jordan had stressed the importance of being well placed in the group, as the most technical portions of the trail occur within the first few miles, right along the river. Due to the long winter, the blue bells weren't out in force, but I was happy to be feeling comfortable after the previous month spent worrying about my ribs. Having decided to run our own races, I soon pulled ahead, wanting to bank time on the flat sections (I still had some sub-10 hour illusions). The first aid station and turn around were packed with runners going and coming, and the excitement of passing so many runners seemed to make us go faster.


I returned to the start finish at mile 16 without incident, dropped off my arm warmers and trash, an headed out for the second part of the course. The day was quickly heating up, and my right knee continued to give me trouble as it had during the previous week (we don't have anywhere in Charleston to effectively train for downhills). It eventually quieted down, only for my left knee to begin painfully locking up every 15 minutes. I'd experienced something similar at Lookout Mtn, and thinking it was due to muscle cramps, began drinking NUUN as well as taking salt caps at the next few aid stations. While these didn't help my knee, they did help my overall race, as my body was able to use the 44oz (2 bottles) I was trying to drink every 3-5 miles (although peeing orange is always surprising and never pleasant...) I continued to stay ahead of my sub-10 hour pace, though my time buffer earned in the early miles was shrinking.


Throughout the course, I was surprised how many places I remembered from crewing for Jordan four years ago. It's a gorgeous area, though without leaf cover (another causality of the long winter), it had a bleak, hard look as the sun crept higher in the afternoon. I remembered that the Do Loop maintained an infamous reputation, and it did not disappoint. The steep, punchy hills came rapidly in the second half of this section, and I was forced to walk most of it. I kept up my sub-10 hour pace until mile 40, at which point my knees dictated that I would be hiking the last ten miles back to Hemlock. If I could maintain 15 minute miles, I just might have a chance to 'score' for the South.


But it was not to be; the hills, mud, and rocks that had been minor obstacles on the way out became big challenges on the way back, resulting in 17 minute miles at the last point I bothered to do the math. I wasn't upset; I think pushing oneself to cover 50 miles in one day is accomplishment enough, no matter how you go about it. Jordan passed me, running strong, with about 4 miles to go; after pulling ahead in the early miles, I don't think I was ever more than 10 minutes ahead of her at any point during the day. Remembering the map, I knew that once we got back to the river, we were close. When we started climbing away from the river (one last gut-buster of a hill), I knew we had to be really close. Once I could hear the race director's megaphone, I decided I wasn't going to walk anymore. I ran in the last quarter mile, even struggled for an awkward and painful sprint at the line that almost knocked over the waiting race director, for a time of 10:47:37, almost two hours faster than at Lookout Mtn.

The 'awkward' sprint to the finish
Photo: James Williams

I can't say enough good things about this race. The course is beautiful, challenging, well marked, and really well organized. And the volunteers were unbelievable: I have never felt so spoiled and well taken care of as a runner. Not once was I allowed to fill up my own water bottles; I was greated at each aid station (and sometimes before!) by a voluteer asking what I needed. There were folks to drape wet towels on us (a brilliant idea), someone with a hose waiting to give us a shower, another handing out popsicles (the popsicles, more on that in a minute), another literally putting my water bottles back in my vest when she saw me having trouble with fine motor skills. I always had the feeling that the volunteers had been in races and heat, and knew exactly what we were going through and what we needed. Finally, we knew we'd been spoiled when the service at the mexican restaurant we went to that night paled in comparison to what we'd been treated to all day.


And oh, the food! It is obvious where the race fee goes; each aid station had two tables (and often more) of every food one could possibly want during a race. While I had to stick to my trusty Fig Newtons and Pringles, I did have some fresh cut strawberries (so good!) and four popsicles. A note on popsicles; they're a great treat, but shouldn't be considered a replacement for food while running. The high sugar content made me euphoric (like, happy to the point of tears) for about three minutes, and then I'd quickly crash. I finally figured out the corolation on the last popsicle, and remembered to eat my Shot Bloks. The finish line did not dissapoint either, as they had burgers and hotdogs a-plenty (I told a few folks the story of watching a volunteer give the last burger to the guy in front of me after finishing Lookout). I even had a Fat Tire to go with it, as I was surreptiously directed to the right cooler by a kind volunter.


The finish line at Bull Run Run is perfectly set up for spectators to sit in the grass and watch folks finish, which most people do. There was a wonderful sense of community amongs these wild and crazy people who like to spend so much time in the woods. We stayed and ate and cheered for almost 2 hours, and as much as I wanted a shower and to go to bed, I really hated to leave. Thanks to the Virginia Happy Trails Running Club for giving us such a great day in the woods.

Bull Run Run 50 Miler: Worth it for the Food Alone

When I ran the Bull Run Run 50 Miler as my first 50 miler 4 years ago, I was lucky enough to achieve a storybook ending by reaching my goal of finishing under 10 hours to “score” for the South with a time of 9:59:23. The race was so fun and well organized that I knew I would have to come back. This time Nathan ran too and was initiated into the wonderful family that is the Virginia Happy Trails Running Club

.

Naturally, I wanted to break 10 hours again. But IT band pain kept my long run to 30 miles rather than my planned 36 and robbed me of my peak weeks of training. The temperatures would reach 75 on race day, 10 degrees warmer than in 2010, and a long winter meant bare trees which provided no shade and runners who weren't acclimatized to the heat (even those of us from the Lowcountry). The only thing working to my advantage to best 2010's run was experience. I wasn't optimistic.

With this is mind, I made my motto for the race “I'm just going for the food.” BRR50 has the best aid stations I have ever encountered (Pizza, strawberries, avocados, ravioli, I could go on for paragraphs) as well as delicious Friday night pasta and salad (and fajitas for the bold) with post-race burgers and hot dogs.

Nathan and I put my “experience” to use by going out a bit quicker to avoid being stuck in a slow line for the first seven miles as I had in 2010. This worked well and probably saved us a lot of time. After a couples miles, I eased up some, but he kept going at the faster pace. I was struck by how much easier the course was than I remembered it; other races had taught me how incredibly runnable this course was in comparison. Still, the steep downhills started hurting my IT band as early as mile 4, and as this worsened, I worried about whether I would be able to finish the race. Miles 7.2-11.6 were on a flat, easy section through the bluebells and I planned to walk one minute in the middle of it. Right when I started to walk, I came across Gary Knipling, local ultrarunning celebrity/mascot, and I couldn't help but run to chat with him. He was as gregarious as promised and became one of two 70 year olds to finish the race that day. I had a 10-15 minute cushion on the pace needed to break 10 hours at the halfway point, but as the temperature rose, I knew this goal was no longer practical.

While in 2010, my undergraduate courses led to translate the events of the day and the songs in my head into French, this time around I considered the day in medical jargon: “Man, I'm really blowing off CO2.” “It would be great if I could perfuse my kidneys a little bit less and my gut a little bit more.” “I wonder what my BMP looks like now.” “Why is there a mandible hanging from that tree?” (No joke, and I don't believe I was hallucinating). In between thoughts like these, I chatted with Greg, who was running his first 50 Miler and committed to being conservative until the final 10 miles, even though he felt strong. 

The heat was affecting all of us and the aid stations responded with ice cold rags and popsicles. The tables of amazing food were utterly unappealing to my nauseous stomach. BRR50 was where I discovered my love of pizza mid-race 4 years ago, but I couldn't tolerate it that day. Despite feeling dehydrated, I was having to stop to pee at least once an hour, which is not ideal as a female in a race of mostly men where the trees were all bare. I was drinking a full water bottle a section, even though some of the sections were only 2-3 miles long. My hands were swollen to the point that my handheld bottle was no longer comfortable. Greg asked if I had taken any electrolyte capsules and I said I hadn't, convinced that my experiences with projectile vomiting after ramen noodles at Burning River meant supplemental sodium was a bad thing for me. It was more desire to stop wasting so much time peeing than actual logic that made me decide to take an S-cap somewhere between miles 38-40.

I felt myself slowing more and encouraged Greg to go on ahead. He said he was happy with the company and grateful I wasn't too much of a chatterbox. This prompted me to think of several stories to tell him (Sorry, Greg!), and then I had to stop to pee and I didn't see him again. He would finish in a strong 10:19. With Greg gone ahead, I stooped to solitary melodrama, wherein I thought of the heat as “bludgeoning my soul.” I soon realized how ridiculous that sounded and realized the problem: I hadn't eaten much more than popsicles for a couple hours. Whoops. I forced some shot blocks in.

My main concern about the last two sections was water supply. I was badly sunburned and had chapped my lips to the point of opening up a cut where my sweat gathered and dried so that I got to experience the literal meaning of the metaphor “rubbing salt on your wounds.” I only carried one 22 oz handheld and had downed it in each of the previous 2-3 mile sections. The last two were 5 and then 5.5 miles. I would have to run almost all of them to avoid running out of water. The energy from my shot blocks kicked in and I settled into a pattern of running 5-10 minutes, walking 1 minute. My IT band actually felt better, possibly because I was running more slowly. About 4 miles from the finish, I caught up to Nathan. I walked with him for a minute and then he encouraged me to go ahead; he wasn't planning to run anymore. I ran the majority of the remainder to cross the finish line in 10:30:20.

Results have been posted, and I was 114^th out of 272 official (sub 13 hour) finishers (321 starters). In 2010, I ran 31 minutes faster and placed 140^th. The heat had slowed the entire field, so I am quite content with my run. Once again, the VHTRC put on a fantastic race unmatched by any other ultra I have done. We will be back!

-Jordan

Lookout Mountain 50 Miler: The Trick is Not Minding That it Hurts...

Five days removed from my first 50 miler, I'm still coming to grips with what we did. My training towards this race did not go as I'd hoped. An ill-advised 24 miles on pavement in late August caused my plantar fasciatiis to flare up in my left foot, and I was reduced to minimal distance during the week, and trying to extend my long run on the weekends. I researched training plans and race strategies, the most encouraging of which stated that if you can run a marathon, you can finish a 50 miler if you're smart about pacing and eating. My only goal for this race was to finish, and the 13-hour time cut ensured that finishing would be a challenge.


The week of the race, we watched the latest winter storm march across the country. Rain and temps in the mid-forties were predicted for race day (had we been any farther north, it would have been snow). Race morning did not disappoint. The rain was unrelenting, with the temps in the mid 30s, so we stayed in the car until the last possible moment. I may have looked calm in that picture on Jordan's blog, but my mind was screaming, “what the hell are you about to DO?????” Though the race was sold out, there were definitely not 400 runners at the start line. Once we got moving were totally soaked, my mind calmed and we got down to the business of running.


The race packet said that the views of Chattanooga from the first 6.3 mile section are really amazing, but I will have to take their word for it; we were in a thick fog on the mountain. The trail descended down the side of the ridge, hugging rock formations over some very high cliff faces; with so little room for error, I was thankful we didn't encounter this section any later in the race. The first aid station at Craven's House came quickly enough; we had averaged better than 13 min/mile pace, keeping things nice and easy at the start of a long day. The next section remained in the valley, with gentle rolling terrain on jeep trails; I hadn't expected anything this easy on the course. I was stretching my legs a bit, so Jordan and I decided to split up around mile 10 and run our own races. I got to the next aid station a full 30 minutes before I expected to, but still feeling good, knowing that the next section included the long climb back to Covenant College at the top of Lookout Mountain.


I walked much of the climb, which is one of the secrets of ultra-running; we don't run the entire time. I'm sure some of the frontrunners and professionals can run 95% of the distance, only walking the most technical or steepest sections. I was aiming for a 60/40 ratio of running to walking, hoping to find a balance that kept me within the time cut. I chatted with a number of folks, which helped to break up the monotony. I rarely caught people's names; sometimes we'd chat for miles and I'd never even see their face as I followed them up the mountain. As the day went on, I could only recognized fellow racers by what they were wearing.


I returned to the start at Covenant College still feeling good; tired, but ready for more, as the first 22 miles were really only a warmup. 'More' turned out to be mud; miles and miles of mud. The hours of rain, overnight and throughout the morning, had turned vast portions of the course into thick, slick, sucking mud. There was no way to move through it quickly, and certainly no way to get through it cleanly. As mud and water poured into my shoes, the water leaked out, but the mud and silt built up into mounds under the balls of my feet that I had to periodically stop and scrape it out.


As we descended the far side of Lookout Mountain, we were on familiar trails. Jordan and I ran the Rock Creek stage race last year, part of which took place in the same area. We were approaching the part of the course that I'd been thinking about for months; a collection of switchbacks so steep they required a series of ropes to navigate. I wasn't worried about going up this section; my concern was that in 12 more miles I would have to descend it, possibly in the dark, having already covered 42 miles. Going up proved no problem, and the trails leading to the Long Branch loop passed without incident.


If I had a dark time during the race, it was on the Long Branch Loop. My left knee had been hurting off and on, but the pain turned on with a vengeance during this section (I discovered later that this was due to my quads cramping and pulling on the tendons in my knee). Going downhill was really painful, and even level ground was uncomfortable. The 'short 4.5 mile loop' as it was called at the aid station seemed to last forever; the trails were beautiful, but technical enough so that I could never find a rhythm. I began to think about what damage I might be doing to my knees, and how far I could push before I should consider pulling out at the next aid station. I must have felt better by the end, as a quickly grabbed my headlight and a small burger at the aid station and headed back the way I'd come, toward to the finish at the top of Lookout Mountain.


For the rest of the day, the passage of time was foremost on my mind. I had four and a half hours left to cover the remaining twelve miles; certainly possible, but this was unfamiliar territory, farther than I'd ever pushed myself on foot. The trails proved just as technical on the way back, but since they were now familiar, my perceived progress was quicker. I steeled myself for the climb down the roped switchbacks, warning runners around me that I was planning to take the section very slowly to try to save my knees (it did occur to me that flinging myself off the top would have been a more expedient means of decent...). I made good use of the ropes as my feet slipped out from under me at one point, leaving me dangling on a particularly steep switchback. I only took on water and a reserve energy gel at the last aid station, as seconds now began to count; I had less than 3 hours to cover 7.5 miles, and knew I might need every minute to beat the time cut.


It quickly became full dark as I started the last section. I spent much of it alone, ticking off familiar landmarks and following the dim shine of my headlamp. I fell hard at some point, flat on my back in the mud, but didn't injure anything. I kept looking for the start of the climb; my leg muscles were so sore by this time that going uphill was the only action that didn't hurt. I worried that I wouldn't make the time cut; I knew the difficult mud sections were at the top of the climb, and wanted plenty of time to navigate them in the dark. As I got higher on the mountain, the fog grew thicker, until when I emerged at the summit, I couldn't see more than five feet ahead. Cold wind hit me in the face as I came out of the tree cover, almost blind, slipping in mud, trying to avoid the reaching briars. I remember laughing inwardly, thinking, “this is absolute hell.” Soon I was joined by another runner (never got a name, only know she was from West Virginia), and we chatted for the last mile and encouraged each other to the finish. At some point, I mentioned that this was my first 50 miler, and she asked if I planned to do another one. I responded by saying that now was not the time to ask me that question... We knew were getting close when we could faintly hear cheering and a voice through a loudspeaker. We knew we were very close when we suddenly saw white Christmas lights strung through the trees and a large red clock showing that we'd made it inside the time cut with almost thirty minutes to spare. I crossed the finish line, heard my name announced over the loudspeaker, and bowed my head for a volunteer to hang a medal around my neck. Jordan finished about ten minutes later, and as it was cold and they'd run out of burgers, we quickly hobbled to the car, returning to the hotel for hot showers and some of the best pizza I have tasted in a long time.


Now that the legs are less sore and the swelling has gone down, I find myself already eying races for the future. Until Saturday, fifty miles was a distance to be covered over a week of hiking; now it's just a long day's work. And I had more to give at the end of the race; I could have kept going. And that makes me curious...


-Nathan



PS – The endurance test didn't end on Saturday, as I had to drive my standard transmission truck all the way back to Charleston; shifting gears after a 50 miler is no easy task...

Lookout Mountain 50 Miler: The Day I Fell out of Love with my Kinvaras

For the past three weeks, I have been traveling for interviews, dragging with me an embarrassing amount of luggage, including two separate pairs of Saucony Kinvara 3s.  One pair tends to cut into my heels but only has 100-200 miles on it, so I brought this pair for all my shorter runs.  The other pair broke in easily and had not rubbed on my heels, but it had 500 miles on it, so I carried these shoes to Pittsburgh, Greenville, Cincinnati, Rochester, and Columbus, just to wear for the Lookout Mountain 50 Miler in Chattanooga, TN.

In training for past 50s, I have run weekly mileages in the 60s with long runs every weekend working up to 6 hours or 36 miles.  Since starting my clinical years, I have not been able to maintain this schedule. With a front-loaded fourth year schedule, I struggled to get a few short weekday runs in a week with long runs occurring every 2-3 weeks.  I did manage a 5 1/2 hour mountain run 3 weeks prior to the race and I was counting on this to carry me through. I knew this training could allow me to finish, but no more, so I spent a lot of time preparing myself to be miserable for much of the race.  As such, the pace chart I wrote on my arm was quite conservative:

This race was Nathan's first 50 miler, and he drove up from Charleston to meet me for the race.  We were a little nervous about the weather: 39 degrees is perfect, but rain complicates things. We got to the race start, waited in the car awhile, dropped off our drop bags, and then decided to go back and sit in the dry car some more.  Nathan was very excited to start his first 50:

He perked up once we hit the trail.

400 runners were signed up for the 50 miler.  There were definitely not that many at the start.  I heard rumors that some people ran a few feet in the rain and then said, "Oh, nevermind," and turned around.  Not us.  We were in it to suffer.

Much of the first section was single track along a ridgeline.  The rain was falling and there were plenty of puddles.  The options were to step in the puddle or on the slippery edge of the cliff. I chose the puddles.  There was no hope of keeping feet dry anyway.  The result was that when Nathan and I arrived at the first aid station at 6.3 miles, my socks had fallen down in my shoes and my heels were already bleeding. I tried to pull up my socks but they were not budging.

The next 8.5 mile section was impressively easy.  It was about as similar to road running as wet trails could be, and largely downhill.  Nathan's easy pace is naturally faster than mine and he started inching ahead, then he would periodically wait up for me.  I needed to go to the bathroom anyway, so I thought this was a good time for us to split and each run our own race.  I took this opportunity to go to work on my socks. They would not pull up and I couldn't get a good grip.  I needed to take off my shoes if anything I did was to last more than a minute.  My hands were so numb that my fingers had lost all dexterity, so I eventually gave up struggling with my double-knotted shoelaces.  In the end, I wasted about 10 minutes and achieved nothing.  At the next aid station, I asked for band-aids (the ones I started with were long gone in the rain, which had since stopped). The band-aids, which probably took another 10 minutes for the friendly volunteer to apply, quickly fell off again and I decided that the sharp pains in my heels would simply be part of the race.

It was 7.7 miles to the next aid station.  It contained a climb, but the elevation chart had made it look so impressive that it didn't seem too bad while hiking it:

I probably went quicker than I should have on the uphill, running whenever I felt the grade was reasonable and hiking with some "umph."  I was eager to reach the next aid station though, because it had drop bags, and therefore...dry socks!  Once I arrived and found my drop bag (the struggle of this made me really appreciate my crew from past races), I changed socks and applied large bandaids to my heels.  My left sock was soaked in blood all the way done to my midfoot.  The new socks were wet again within about two minutes.  The band-aids were so heavy-duty they may have lasted a half mile.  But the key was that my new socks were too big for me and I pulled them way up, so there was no more shoe-on-skin the rest of the race.

The next section was miserable.  Absolutely incredible mud.  Mud with a mind of its own. Mud that slides intermixed with mud that slurps.

I like mud.  It gives you something to show for the day and distinguishes you from road runners.  This mud did not like me. It threatened to send me into the creek.  It left me stuck in a split with the kind runner behind me propping me up. It slammed my arm into a root when I fell later in the dark (although I do appreciate having the scrape and bruise to show off).  One runner asked me to step aside for her to pass in this mud.  I gladly did, but I had to ask, "How it is possible to run faster than I am in this?"  She shouted back, from 10 feet down the trail, that it was her shoes.  Huh. Road shoes with 500+ miles may not always be the answer.  Mercifully, we reached a point where there were leaves on top of the mud, or I would still be out there sliding around.

We climbed up a steep technical section that requires a rope to ascend, and the mud made the parts without the rope particularly harrowing.   I knew what my goal needed to be: to get back down this rope section before dark.  First there was more mud, and very narrow trail with the faster runners coming back.  It was hard to get any rhythm while having to jump off the trail every 30 seconds.  Eventually the aid station came, and there was just on quick 4.2 mile loop before last 11.8 miles of the course, which were largely the last (muddy) section in reverse.

Quick 4.2 miles.  Ha!  It went on and on.  Great trails, but I finished it thinking "That was never 4.2 miles!" a la Monty Python's "Argument Clinic."  I share this not because it's particularly witty, but because Nathan had the exact same thought when he hit this part of the course.  Talk about made for each other (or at least both brought up in households with an appreciation for British humor, I mean, British humour).

I pushed it to make it down the rope before dark.  It was so close that some of the folks who went down ahead of me already had their headlamps on, but I was able to wait to turn mine on until after reaching the bottom.  I left the last aid station around 10:39 into the race-- over 2 hours before the cut-off time of 13 hours, plenty of time to cover the last 7.5 miles.

Of course, I had been planning to run most of those miles.  My legs were tired, yes, but still up to a few miles of running.  Unfortunately, the combination of darkness, mud, and sometimes technical trails meant that it really wasn't possible to run much at all.  The pace we needed to maintain walking is quite easy on a treadmill, but in the mud it was another story.  Runners who had been strung out in singles over the previous 45 miles banded together in groups and together we marched to the finish. Considering my lack of training, I was not at all disappointed with my slowest 50 mile finish time of 12:44.  Nathan was there waiting, but I will leave him to tell you about his race.

I must have looked pretty rough at this point.  I was covering in mud and thought I had 17 "boos boos" until I discovered a few more in the shower today I missed when counting yesterday.  No pictures from immediately post-race, but here is what my heels look like 24 hours after finishing:

As I hobbled barefoot into the hotel, the security guard asked me, "Uh, ma'am, do you have a room here?"  Thankfully he didn't ask for my room number, because I could not have produced that information at the time.

In spite of the struggles, I'm very glad to have done the race. It was a welcome break from interview season and a long over-due return to ultrarunning.  As for the Kinvaras, they still have my love.  They just may not be my top pick for the next rainy trail race.

-Jordan

Copperhead 50K

When Nathan and I decided that the 50K we were originally signed up for this weekend was no longer worth the trip (the government shutdown meant the course had to be moved to a 4 mile loop of what looked like jeep trail), one of my first thoughts was "Oh man, now I don't get to write a blog post."  So, we decided to put on a low key, unofficial 50K here in Charleston so that I could write a report.

Okay, maybe there were some other reasons too.  I had trained for a 50K, at least by distance (long run was 30 miles).  My trail training was lacking, but all the more reason to get some miles in on trail.  Plus, I had tapered, probably more than I should have, and now I needed an excuse for running very little the last two weeks.  Nathan was undertrained due to plantar fasciitis, but he had still been looking forward to the race.

Howie helped me get the word out and soon Chad (Eagle Endurance) and Andrew (from Try Sports) were volunteering to bring water jugs, tables, tents, etc.  It was much more than I had expected!  I got together some snacks of standard ultra fare, Lana added homemade oatmeal raisin cookies, and we had a nice little aid station. 

The course was 4 laps of an 8 mile loop of single-track at the Wannamaker North Trail.  Or 3, or 2, or 1 lap as you like.  Six of us started down the trail (others would join later), chatting about toenails and such.  Lana had destroyed 9 of her 10 last month in the Georgia Jewel 100.  I was a bit jealous, having never lost a toenail myself.  I stubbed my toes as much as it may have been possible over the next 32 miles, but all I got was a lousy blood blister. 

The first copperhead tested our spacing.  We passed; no one ran into the person in front of them.  With lap two came copperhead two, thick, head raised, and slithering toward us down the trail.  I stopped a couple feet short of it, and the adrenaline rush helped muffle soreness that was already creeping into my legs.  This prompted the christening of the run, "Copperhead 50K."

Nathan and Andrew stopped early in the third lap (Andrew had just run the North Face Atlanta 50 Miler last weekend and Nathan is still battling plantar fasciitis), but Howie had joined us so I still had company for the lap.  Howie kept commenting on how quickly the miles were going by.  They didn't seem quite as quick to me.

As I filled up my waterbottles for the last lap, Nathan asked me "Last lap another 1:30?"  I told him I thought it would be more like 1:35 or 1:40.  This was a silly thing to say.  It showed I was planning to suffer, so of course I would suffer.  Howie was with me one more mile and then I was on my own.  In some ways I was glad Howie was gone so the suffering could begin.  Makes a lot of sense, right?

The next few miles were the low point of the run.  I was tired from carrying two water bottles for all but the first lap, and I was tired of stubbing my toes.  It rained a bit, which is usually welcome, but it fogged up my glasses so I couldn't see the trail and stubbed my toes even more.   Without the goal of passing other people in a race, I found it tough to stay motivated to keep moving. I had already decided I would allow myself to walk occasionally, so why not walk more frequently and for longer?  Once I hit 3 miles to go, I was fine, but I think the last lap served to show me that my "ultra brain" is out of shape.

I ended up running the 32 miles in 6:23.  A bit slower than I had planned, but I think it will definitely be helpful (especially mentally) on December 14th for Lookout Mountain 50 Miler.  Thank so much to everyone who came out.  You guys made it fun!

Jordan

Running Again

I haven't posted in over a year.  There's a good reason for this: I haven't run a race of more than 10 miles since starting my third year of medical school.  My third year started with surgery, and while one of the scrub nurses at the VA advised me that I could make time for my run by skipping dinner, I was too lazy and hungry to make this happen.  Over the six weeks on my surgery rotation, I ran between 5-15 miles, not per week, but total. 

I got a few more runs in over the course of the rest of the year, but I rarely ran more than 3-4 days a week with occasional runs in the 10 mile range on weekends.  Some rotations were lighter, but there was always a tough rotation looming that discouraged me as I looked ahead.  I couldn't sign up for any races because I could never be sure of getting a given weekend day off.  And I felt any time off needed to be spent studying for exams. 

It's a lot of excuses-I know.  I have classmates that maintained their mileage over the year and I have so much respect for them.  It did not happen for me.  And I am moving on.

Now, it is fourth year.  Glorious, "best year of your career" fourth year.  I've been enjoying it for nearly three months and have not yet had to come into the hospital on a weekend.  There's one busy rotation ahead, my acting internship in the PICU, but the rest mostly takes place during weekday daylight hours.  So I am running.

10 days ago I ran 27 miles.  My weekly total that week was 50 for the first time in over a year.  This weekend, 30 is on the calendar for Saturday.  I call myself ultrarunner again.  It feels good.

The race calendar for the next year is taking shape.  Oct 6: FATS 50k with Nathan. Dec 14: Lookout Mountain 50 Mile with Nathan.  Feb 1: Uwharrie 40 Mile.  A spring 100 with plenty of singletrack (Massanutten? Rock Creek Thunder Rock?)  Maybe head back to Bull Run Run 50 Mile if there's time.  There are a lot of opportunities.  I'm excited.

So that's where I've been the past year, and where I hope I'm going in the next year.  I'll do my best to have  tales of massive blisters and clutch slices of pizza in the coming months.  I can't wait to get back on the trails!

-Jordan