The View to Huasca: UTMX 100. Meditations on training, racing, losing (and finding) motivation.

AC 100 Finish: The end of a long journey.             Photo: Larry Gassan

  After finishing the Angeles Crest 100, (which you can read about here), I took five days off, but then tried to get right back on the horse. A couple things held my training back:

1. Motivation. The AC 100 was the culmination of 3 years of training and racing, and 6 months of focused training. After that effort I simply didn't have the same desire to get out of bed to run 3-5 hours in the mountains on Saturday and then repeat on Sunday. My body seemed ok; my mind needed a break: a longer break than 5 days.

2. Return to teaching. I was back in school the week following AC. The beginning of a school year is hectic and all-consuming: driving out to the mountains mid-week was no longer in the cards.

  However, I didn't stop running. I wasn't tracking my mileage, but I was doing speed workouts a couple times a week, and a ten miler here or there. I did get out for a great long run with Martin and Hiram for my first summit of Ajusco in August, but there wasn't much more than that.

Great run/hike up to Ajusco with Hiram and Martin.                           Photo: Hiram Marave

  And yet the UTMX 100k loomed, and all indications were that this was going to be the race of the year in Mexico. Fantastic organization; magical location. So that knowledge kept kicking me out the door to run. Just not for as long or steep as I needed to run. It's easier for me to run a race than it is to go out by myself for a long run, so I signed up for some races.

First Annual Tepozotlan 21k, Sept. 7

Wildflowers, rocks and climbs....                                      

   On September 7, I ran the Solo Para Salvajes race in Tepozotlan. Solo Para Salvajes is the mountain (and trail) running group run by Pedro Fletes Omaña. One can't speak of mountain running in Mexico without mentioning Pedro Fletes. His group efficiently runs nearly two races a month all year long. He has being doing this since the late 80's. His races feature aesthetic routes, adequate aid, and an absurdly economical price tag. About 22 USD for a race. The races are a mix of long time classics and newer ventures. Tepozotlan was a new one: a point to point race, and it was a beauty on all fronts: wild terrain that was a mix of cross-country off trail climbing and descending, and narrow, rocky single track throughout. Also, in the manner of all of all Salvajes' races it was simply, yet effectively organized: the route was fairly marked, there were aid stations were you needed them and had what you needed (salt, sugar, liquids). And, as always, a family of runners in good spirits.  We also lucked out with perfect weather: sunny, but not too warm. This race is an instant classic in my mind. Which brings me to a point I'll focus on more later: what makes a great race? Aside from organization, it's simple: the route. The route is everything. Most experienced trail runners don't give a shit about running 20 or 50 or 100 or 165 kilometers (why not 17 or 56 or 151?): we care about the trail. Trails that are aesthetically pleasing, trails that offer challenges. And beauty. 

A route that makes sense. Stunning.                    

Loops within loops don't make sense. Little out-and backs just to add distance don't make sense. If there is a peak in the area, the route should go up to that point.

Tepozotlan was the perfect route. And I had a good day, as I was in fantastic spirits as I discovered how awesome the course was. I'll be back next year.

Course was so nice I hiked back out there with Milly after the race

Ajusco 50k, Sept. 21

 I guess my only problem with the Tepozotlan 21k was that it wasn't long enough. So I had signed up for a new race being organized by some friends of mine. They aren't experienced race directors, but they have a passion for trails, and I had run with them in the area, so I was excited about the race. Also, I felt that mentally I needed a 50k long run, as this would give me some confidence going into the 100k in Huasca. I hadn't run longer than 21k in more than a month.
  Well, as every trail runner in the Mexico City area now knows, the race didn't go as planned. There were problems. Basically, the race imploded. I'm not going to rehash all the details, but I will offer a couple observations. Most complained about the trail markings, but I didn't find this to be a problem. I think the problem is that there were too many races, and the route (see my comment above about loops within loops) was not intuitive: in my mind, it didn't make sense. Also, my friends just underestimated how many folks it takes to organize a race, especially a race with a lot of new trail runners. Some hotheads called it a "deception" and a "fraud," and, frankly, that's ridiculous. It was some runners who got in over their heads and things spiraled out of control. 

It was a race. It went poorly. It's just running. Get over it.

  My race in Ajusco ended at the end of the first 25k(?) loop. Why did it end? Because of the organizational problems? Because the trail was hard to follow? Because the the finisher arch was prematurely deflated? Nope. It ended because I was dead tired. I've never felt that poorly in any race. Before Ajusco, I've never thought about dropping early in a race, but the DNF excuses were already filling my brain on the first climb. I had nothing. So when I got to the end of the first loop, I ended my race. Can't blame that on anyone else but me. I don't feel bad about it, as I was absolutely zonked and the idea of trudging around another loop had zero appeal.

         Struggling.
But a bad day running in the mountains is still a good day...               Photo: Martin Forstmann

  I was sure my 100k Huasca dream was done. I would do the sensible thing and drop to the 42k. I told a few folks I would switch races, I wasn't ready for 100k, mentally or physically. So it goes.

 Camino Largo y Sinuoso 33k, September 28
 And then I had a good run a few days later. My body started to feel better. And I signed up for the 33k run the following Sunday, one of the classics of the Solo Para Salvajes group. I knew this route well, as I've trained here many times, and ran the race two years ago (report here). I decided that THIS would be my long run for Huasca. And the race went well: I took the first climb easy, descended down to the cuarto dinamo, which is the half-way point, and then started to push a bit from there. And I found myself able to push hard all the way to the finish. And I still finished with something in the tank. I told Milly I would finish around 5 hours, 5:15, and I ran in at 4:42. Suddenly, I was feeling great about Huasca.

UTMX 100k: Huasca de Ocampo, Hidalgo, Mexico. October 11, 2014

Epic.

  But, one solid twenty-miler does not a 100k training plan make. Frankly, I don't care. It's an experiment. How much of my base have I maintained since running 100 miles? How much has slipped away? I'm running the 100k to find out.

  But really, I'm running this event because it's going to be freaking awesome.

  I don't want to miss this race. It's not just another race. Everything indicates it's going to be the premier Ultra running event of the year in Mexico (and if I'm mistaken on that count, someone please tell me where I should go run): I know a bit of the route from my previous experience running Marcos Ferro's race two years ago (report), and it's beautiful, rugged and varied (and also: very, very well organized). Running down into the Barranca (canyon) de Metzitlan (and climbing back out) is only going to raise the "Epic-ness" of this great event. If you are a mountain runner in Mexico, you will be at this event. Some have claimed that it is pricey (100USD for the 100k), and while that may seem true --by Mexican trail race standards-- remember that these guys have been working on this race for a year, with nearly a 100 volunteers and workers on race day to make sure everything goes smoothly. It's not a for-profit venture, folks: Ferro and co. are putting this own because they want to share some great trails with the trail community.

  I can't wait.

  My race-day goals:
  1. Enjoy the highs
  2. Embrace the lows.
  3. Stay in the moment

Yeah, sure I have some time goals floating around, but without knowing the course --and never having run the 100k distance-- (pace it like a 100 miler? a 50 miler?) they are guesstimates:
A goal: sub-16
B goal: sub-17
C goal: stumble across the finish line with a smile on my face at midnight (19 hour time limit).

Gettin' ready..

And after Huasca? I think a good long rest is in order....

But that race in Chico and the Salvajes classic Triple Corona look tempting....

Every Fool Has His Day: Travesia de las Sierras 50 mile race report

  If a good race results in a bad race report, the following report will be terrible. This was my first visit to Villa Del Carbon, a small town tucked into the mountains an hour or so out of the reaches of the sprawling (and, frankly, ugly) northern part of Mexico City*. Villa del Carbon is beautiful and worth the trip. Seeing how people live up in the hills makes one wonder why they would move down to Tlanepantla. Economics of course. Not everyone has a plot of land in the hills to farm and live off the land. The contrast between the congested, gray-drab cement structures of the far reaches of the city (*technically, not a part of Mexico City, but it all blends seamlessly) and the remote, lush green of Villa Carbon was both profound and disturbing.

  I was fortunate to hook up with the members of the Mytikas running group and we fought Friday traffic (including a chase scene that involved 4 police officers and a warning shot fired --we didn't stop to ask for details). I was definitely not in the familiar center of Mexico City that I know and love.

                                                           The Early Conga Line                              Photo: Martin Forstmann

The "lobby" of the hotel was filled with runners catching up and waiting to get their packets. I took a little nap, grabbed my race stuff and walked into town with the Mytikas crew to grab dinner. Luis was running the 100 mile race, and Oswaldo, Rentato, Hugo and Israel were running the 100k. I would be doing the "short" race (80k) as my plan was to recover quickly and get back training hard for the AC 100 mile race on August 2 and 3.

  During dinner I was thinking of ordering quesadillas and chicken soup, as my stomach was its normal pre-race dainty self (including nerve-induced diarrhea, which, just as it did before Zane Grey, disappeared the moment the race started. Weird.), but when I saw everyone else ordering full meals I went with the house special Enchiladas Chiripas. Huge plate and I polished it off with a Negra Modelo. I left it to fate to see how that would play out...
  I woke up with a bit of a panic as I remembered that I only had hotel reservations for one night, and I couldn't leave my stuff in the room all day. I loaded everything in my car and walked the two blocks to the race start. Everyone snapping pictures and chatting it up. I find it very hard to be social before a race, as I just want to be alone in my thoughts, but I ended up in a few of the approximately 128 group photos that are always taken before every race in Mexico. Here's one:

               Pre-race group photo #112: With the Mytikas running group (and others) at the start                             Photo: ?

  I had considered running with the Nathan pack, as the aid stations can be a bit unreliable in these races, but in the end I went with two hand helds and the Jurek Essential. My plan was to eat a vanilla GU every hour along with potatoes and salt, all of which could be stuffed into the Essential and the handhelds.
  The race started (a bit late, as usual) and we descended about a kilometer through the town until we crossed a road and headed into runnable terrain in the forest.
  Coming into the race, I didn't have high expectations for the course. It was out and back (for a total of 50k), and included a 5k section of pavement which I would see four times. Not really what I'm looking for in a mountain race. There was a bit of climbing (just shy of 7,000 feet), but I would have liked more for proper AC 100 training.
  However, I was pleasantly surprised: the variety of the terrain kept things interesting: there were some short, steep climbs, stream crossings, technical single track, and rolling, grassy trails between corn fields. And the road was nearly empty and rolled through tranquil countryside with great views.  I enjoyed the pavement section: it provided an opportunity to stretch out the legs, get into a rhythm and push. Life dictates that the majority of my runs are on asphalt, so I was prepared to grind it out on the road. The out-and-back style had other advantages: it allowed for interaction with all of the other runners. This is always helpful in a long race. Encountering Hector Mendoza --the Happy Face Runner-- with his whistle and endless good cheer and positive vibes (I've never seen that guy looking miserable during a race) is always a boost. Every time I see him he reminds me to smile and he usually snaps a photo. Aside from runner interaction, it also gave me course knowledge so I knew where to push and where there would be hiking breaks to shovel potatoes into my mouth. I love exploring new trails, and my favorite course layout is the point-to-point, but out-and-backs have advantages as well. For one thing, I could see how much time I was putting on runners behind me.

           Hector "Happy Face Runner" Mendoza who reminded me to be happy when I started getting grumpy about the lack of trail markings.        Photo: Martin Forstmann

          On the Road in the Morning Dew: Juan Pablo (L) and Martin Forstmann (R)      Photo: Hector Mendoza (??)

  Which brings me to how well this race went.
I started slowly in the morning and my plan was to keep it that way until the 25k mark. However, at about 10k I felt great and decided to pass a couple of runners that have finished ahead of me in the past few races. I knew it was way too early to be making any sort of move, but I figured if I felt good I should use that energy, as there would certainly be lows later in the day. There were some major route-finding problems on the climb to the high point of the race. The course simply wasn't marked for about 6 km. However, I had the course description in my pocket and using the GPS mileage of other runners around me we puzzled it out without too much lost time. It's pretty unnerving to arrive at an unmarked three way fork in the road during a race...

                                       Through the fields...                                                                   Photo: Martin Forstmann

  Arriving at the 25k mark at the high point of the race, I was relieved to run into Pedro Fletes, the race director. He was re-marking the course and glumly commented that "everyone got lost." I ran downhill with a new confidence and practiced my AC 100 strategy: run downhill steadily (but not recklessly), hike the ups hard and run the flats.

Chespiro to the rescue! Marking the course(again)...better late than never!               Photo: Martin Forstmann

  My knee threw a kink in this plan, and when I descended off the road onto the last steep downhill before the flat section of trail that leads back to town, my right knee flared up and I had to limp and try to keep the leg straight as I went down this hill. To simulate this at home, try keeping your knees locked straight and then walk down a stair case. Fortunately, the knee was not an issue on flats or uphills, so I was able to plug away as I finished my first 50k "lap." 7:11 (though I didn't know that at the time as I wasn't wearing a watch). I grabbed my remaining GU's and tied my shirt around my waist as the sun was out after a cloudy, misty morning. The sunburn hurts as I type this.
  I had been thinking about an 8 hour 50k, and while I didn't know how far under that time I was, I felt fantastic, and now it was time to really push. I tried to run everything and I arrived at the 62.5k aid station feeling great. I had to grunt up a boring dirt road for 2.5k and then turn around, and go back down to the same aid station and then back to town. I got into a fairly negative space on that climb as I thought the section was thoughtless and just plain stupid. Why not make the section up along the fantastic trail that follows the river? I ran into the RD Pedro again back at the aid station and politely proposed an alternative for the following year that would avoid this 2k out and back on a dirt road.
  I hit a bit of a low on the climb back up through the fields and to the road, but once back on the road I tried to run everything, pushing on the downhills as hard as I could....trying to get my quads ready for AC...
 It didn't seem to matter how hard I pushed, I just kept feeling better. I had some final, uplifting exchanges with other runners who were heading out in the other direction. Martin Forstmann, whose photos you see throughout this report, was pretty beat up and clearly struggling with a rough day (back in March at the 60k Carrera de Resistencia, he easily dusted me, putting about 15 minutes on me in the final 15k), and I tried to give him some encouragement but I wondered if he would finish the race.
 The knee magically felt better, and I made sure to keep eating even though the end was near. I ran every step of the final steep climb into town and felt fantastic. 11:39:40. A 50 mile PR (previous: Sean O' Brien 12:17). Here's a garmin reading from last year's Travesia 50 winner, Sinhue Fletes.
  I hung out at the finish line and enjoyed the Caldo de Pollo and potato quesadillas (with the tortillas fried in oil) a couple of things that make these races --despite their casual organization standards-- so fantastic.
  In many ways, the race was a great confidence builder for AC, but I shouldn't crack the bubbly just yet: AC will be hotter with three times as much climbing and descending. 
  
  I should probably also keep in mind it's twice as long... 
  
58 days to race day and still lots of work to do. With school ending I will be able to get up in the mountains more frequently and I've got to log some 20,000 feet weeks or pay a very steep price (pun intended) at AC.
   I walked to the hotel, changed and took a shower and came back to watch finishers.  It was dark when I heard that familiar whistle and I was shocked and thrilled to see Martin running in with Hector. The Argentine looked like he'd been ground up with some burger meat, but he got it done. Awesome, emotional finish. 
  And a clear reminder that any fool can run a good race when it all comes together: high energy, no stomach issues, every step feels good, etc. But to finish on those days when nothing comes easy is the real test.

The next morning, after showering and eating, I sat in the town square eating barbacoa with Renato "111K" Rios (he bagged some extra mileage on his adventure) and watched the hundred mile runners still plugging away. I had shared some miles with some of those runners the previous day. While I slept they were still at it. That was pretty sobering and will serve as a good motivator for the next 58 days.

Post-race thoughts/reminders/boring running details:
    I ate two big meals in the 15 hours before the race and my stomach was perfect the whole day.
    During the race I ate around 11-12 GUS and two ziplock bags of salted potatoes. I drank water and gatorade (orange) for the whole race, and some random peanuts in aid stations. 
    The first trail race I've worn road shoes: The Saucony Rider 6. I bought these in Arizona for road running and I've liked them so much I've been wearing them for everything. Right now they are my first choice for AC 100. My old Cascadia 7's still have another race in them, but the Saucony's feel lighter. Sadly, the pair of new Cascadia 9's I have pull my sock down on my left foot when I run, and I can't stand running in them. Bummer.
  I didn't feel strong on the steep climbs. I need to focus on more hills in the next 50 days.
  I ran more of this 50 than any other 50 I have run. Part of this was the nature of the course, but I've been doing long runs of 4-5 hours in Ocotal where I run the whole time, no hiking. I think this is helping. While I need to get out and do some long hikes up the Cerro de San Miguel, I need to keep long runs in the mix as well.
  The knee pain went away, but I've got to work on that. If I can't run the downhills at AC.....my race will be over before Chantry Flats.
  I felt fantastic after the race, and other than normal post-race soreness, there is no lingering pain. I will rest one more today and then head back out tomorrow. 

Mexican Beauty/Mexican Reality: Race Report, Carrera de Resistencia en las Montañas 62k. “What a long strange trip it’s been.”

We would run the route out and back for a total of 62 kilometers

   What’s there to say about a well-executed race? Not much, really.

 Fortunately for you, neglected reader, my race was a long-and-winding disaster, so the report that follows might prove a bit more appealing than if all had gone well.

But first a digression:

 No one talks much about the Grateful Dead’s studio success, and with good reason. They made their magic on stage. However, there are at least a couple studio standouts: American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead. I bring this up only to recall the cover of American Beauty and also to justify my use of the somewhat tired “what a long strange trip it’s been” line which comes from one of their few radio hits (Truckin’) that was a track on American Beauty. If you recall the cover, depending on how you looked at it (or depending on what you were in the mood to see), it said both “American Beauty” and “American Reality.”

  I haven’t listened to the Grateful Dead in the past decade and a half but this popped into my mind at the end of the race for reasons that will be made clear at the end of this report.

Boring race background stuff:

  My big goal race is the Jemez 50 miler on May 25 in New Mexico. I woke up at midnight back in December to be the first person to sign up for the race. I’ve got plane tickets and personal days lined up. Why Jemez? One, because I’ve got a friend who lives there (who, sensibly, is running the ½ marathon) and two because I wanted my first 50 miler to be the hardest 50 miler in the U.S. (don’t ask, I don’t know why). And most folks figure that the toughest 50 miler distinction is a toss-up between Zane Grey, San Juan Solstice and Jemez.

   So everything has been geared towards Jemez. I ran a 50k (followed by a ½ marathon the next day) back on February 2 and 3^rd, and then ran just over a marathon in the mountains a couple weeks later. But then I got wonderfully sidelined by one of the great experiences in my life: performing in the theatre production of A Woman in Mind. After 20+ years I was back on stage. Running took a bit of a back seat. I didn’t stop running, but the long runs didn’t get much beyond 30K (and there weren’t too many of those) and I fell short of 50 miles a week, hovering in the forties, at best.

  I did run a few shorter trail runs in the first couple weeks of March, and I improved dramatically in all three runs from my efforts the previous year, but success at 14k, 16k and 26k doesn’t readily translate to success at longer stuff.

  But the big part of my plan was to run the 62k Carrera de Resistencia en las Montañas (CAREMO.) It was perfectly timed: a month before Jemez. I’d spin the wheels on a long run and still have time to recover. I told myself it was a training run, but a race is still a race. Nobody likes to get passed. Even when training.

  I didn’t have grand goals. I dreamed of 8:30, a bit out of reach, but I was certain I’d finish sub-9. I had run the course in one direction: CAREMO is the first 31 kilometers of the oldest marathon in Mexico, the Maraton Rover, but instead of running down to Cuernavaca after arriving in Tres Marias as the Maraton Rover does, you turn around and run back to Mexico City.  UP/Down/Up/Down.  31k out, 31k back. There’s a few kilometers of flattish running in there, but not much. My 31k split to Tres Marias was 4:15 last year in August. I thought I could match that.

  And I almost did. I’m definitely in ok 20 mile shape. I went out very conservatively and then started picking things up, passing some folks around 15k. I made the climb up to the highest point of the race and then the long descent into Tres Marias. I arrived around 4:25. Good, I thought. I took it easy.  I knew the tester in this race would be the steep climb back up to the Cerro. 

  I climbed well. Didn’t get passed.

I was distracted, however. Earlier, about a kilometer after the turn around in Tres Marias, a group of runners looked distraught and as I passed them I caught the words “me asaltaron/They assaulted me.

  I’ve heard tales before. Folks having their mountain bikes taken at gun point, a few news reports of hikers getting robbed. It’s all been second-hand info. But it happens. Some have warned me about training alone out in Desierto de Los Leones, but I see so few people out there that it seemed a bit of unjustified paranoia so I never gave it much thought.

 

 These freshly assaulted runners were going to end their race in Tres Marias.

 I did the only sensible thing and kept running.

My two points of logic that led to above decision:

1. The thiefs (or, as I heard runners referring to them later, Ellos que no tienen madres/those without mothers) probably would not strike again, as the word was out, as were a few police trucks

2. The tried and true “it probably won’t happen to me”. (always 100% correct until it isn’t)

But let me clarify so you don’t accuse me of building cheap suspense, and because my grandmother, Nina Carlin, is a regular reader of this blog (the only regular reader, I should say): I wasn’t robbed. I made it home, showered, ate and wrote this report.

But the thought stuck with me, the negativity began to flood in. I thought back to the trash along the side of the road in the first part of the race. I recalled the gentleman strolling along whom I saw just casually throw a bottle in an empty yard (well, empty except all the other trash that was strewn there.).

  I reflected on Boston.

  I contemplated on the phrase “hijos de la chingada.”

  I mused about poverty and whether or not that was any excuse to leave garbage everywhere.

  I decided it wasn’t.

  I had dark fantasies about getting robbed, but turning the gun on the robbers and putting holes in their kneecaps as a well-earned lesson in not taking things from runners who are tired.

 I noticed every piece of trash on the course.

 I went to a dark place, and my race was falling apart. I had finished the last major climb, but couldn’t get things to turn over on the downhill. My stomach was tight. Folks started passing me.

  I was nauseous, dizzy.

Not wanting to eat a GU, but knowing I needed to eat a GU.

I reflected on what an easy target I would be for robbers. And how unlikely it would be that I would have the wherewithal to provide them that well-earned lesson in the kneecaps.

  In fact, three teenagers with small sticks could have held me up.

  These three fantasy teenagers with hypothetically small sticks would have been rewarded with 3 packets of GU, 50 pesos and a Garmin watch. I fantasized that I could negotiate with these hypothetical robbers to leave me with my Patagonia Houdini, as it’s so flimsy and cheap looking they could never imagine I spent nearly a 100 bucks on the thing. They could take my cell phone. I don’t know why I brought the damn thing anyway as I hadn’t taken a single picture. And what the hell would they do with a Nathan Pack?

 

  Especially after I blew out their kneecaps.

 

 And so it went.  (in my head, while I was running shuffling down the mountain back toward Mexico City)

Around kilometer 50 a crew of about 6 people passed me. Passing all of us was a happy couple running like gazelles downhill.  

 They were running the race I wanted to run. I’m glad I got to see it.

  “Well done, happy couple. Well-executed race. I forgive you the smug looks I imagined on your faces when you blew by me.

 Bet you wish you had a great race report to write. Maybe next time. I’ve got a training plan for you.”

 It would have felt nice to vomit, but I couldn’t. I more or less kept moving.

And then I came to a little impromptu aid station. It wasn’t there on the way out (As a side note, the first aid station was at kilometer 25. As much as I hate wearing the pack, it was the right call.)

Nothing sounded good. I didn’t want anything; I just wanted to feel better. So I drank some Red Cola (not even real Coke. I love the 300 peso entry fee, but Jeez!) and a bit of water.

 

  I was asked offhand if I’d been robbed. I had to think about it, as in my head at that moment I had been robbed and I was wanted by the police for the unjustified shooting of three teenagers armed with nothing but small sticks. I don’t know where the gun came from.

  Apparently a few folks had been robbed, not just one. I didn’t ask for details. I was left with only the slightly flimsier point number 2 in my logic as described above.

  Still, the sensible thing was to keep moving.

  And then I was out of the woods, back in the neighborhood that had crept up the mountain: haphazard, unfinished houses up high. Some no more than four brick walls with a tin roof. And trash was everywhere. And I was never running this race, or any race that used this route ever again. It was a disgrace. All this I spoke very loudly in my head. But it wasn’t just the race I was chastising. It was all of Mexico.

  If you’ve every lived in a foreign country for a while, you’ve probably done some version of this. When things go bad, we expats don’t blame the DMV, the IRS, the Cops, the Democrats or Republicans. We blame the whole country. And this I was doing, indicting all of Mexico. They had failed to maintain civil society  --as evidenced by some runners who got robbed and all the trash strewn about—and I was leaving, an act that would ripple far and wide across the nation and result in a lot of soul searching and perhaps a national reading of Rosseau’s The Social Contract, followed by rigorous discourse which would result in sweeping changes: the most notable being no trash where I run, and robbers will not be a threat to my possession of a Garmin GPS watch.

And then I lost the course.

There were no ribbons to be seen. A big truck was moving slowly down the hill. I knew they were the thieves and I thought of removing my watch, just to have it ready. Hoped they would be satisfied with the Garmin, my last packet of GU and 50 pesos, and not take my Patagonia Houdini.

They drove past.

 And then there was another runner. Never been so happy to have someone come up behind me in a race. He said we were on the right path. He was a seasoned vet, and I tried to follow. On the downhills I could stay with him, but I was such a sorry shuffler on the flats and couldn’t keep up. I struggled to keep him in view. He seemed to have his wits about him. We were in traffic now. And then the course flattened out for a long while. I saw him turn. And when I took that turn I was in the middle of a street packed with vendors, covered in tarps, with people walking everywhere. One of the markets that spring up across the city on the weekend. I had no idea where to go.

  I’m supposed to run through the market? I kept going until it was obviously Not the Right Way. I asked a Taxi Driver where the Pemex was, he pointed me back the way I had gone. Back through the market again.  I figured since I was lost I might as well use the phone and capture a bit of the market on video.

  My Garmin had died. A blessing. It would have been painful to know the time.

  I wandered. I thought about just getting a cab and going home. I didn’t want the shirt, the medal. I was done with this race. And anyway, I was leaving Mexico.

 And then I remembered this was my first “ultra” beyond 50k. Would I fail to finish my first ultra? I wandered and asked and finally found the street I was looking for. I walked.

  I saw the Pemex. I still walked. Some folks started cheering and I felt a bit ridiculous for walking, but after nearly an hour of wandering around lost, it seemed almost dishonest to jog it in.

  And then I got a big hug from one of the volunteers. She put a medal around my neck. And immediately I felt quite stupid about being such a grump.

  And then I was sitting on the ground, in front of a Pemex station, about three feet from where the cars where barreling past, where the longest avenue in the world, Insurgentes ends and turns into the Cuota (toll road) to Cuernavaca. A few racers where chatting. Without me asking, a cold beer was put in my hand. I didn’t know any of these people. A woman who turned out to be the second place female was next to me, and we chatted a bit. I prayed to all/any gods that she not ask me my race time.

She didn’t.

 Incidentally, in addition to being very fast, she’s strikingly beautiful.

  We talked about running and training, but strangely, not the race. What a relief. The assaults were mentioned in passing and then not brought up again.

  It was a beautiful moment there on the side of the highway.

 

It turned out that others got lost, too. We saw one runner arrive by bus from the other direction and then finish. We all had a good laugh at that. Numbers were exchanged. Vague plans to run were made.

  Sitting there on the gravel, exhausted, cramped and a few feet from the highway, cold beer in hand, surrounded by a few good people, I decided I wasn’t going to leave Mexico. I decided my terrible race had actually been a fantastic adventure. Which is all for the best, as truth be told, I’m not much of a runner. Never have been.

 But I can hold my own on an adventure.

 

  Somewhere in there I realized that Mexico is a great, beautiful and flawed place.

  Like most places; like most people.

And that’s when I had my American Beauty/American Reality epiphany, and realized one had to see all sides simultaneously to understand the whole. I also had the idea it would make a good title for this report, so I finished my beer, said my goodbyes, and went home to write it.

Like some sort of miracle, this photo was just posted to the Solo Para Salvajes site as I was uploading this report. Thank you, thank you, thank you Sir Mike Kazt, whom I don't know. I owe you a beer. The man who kindly put a beer in my hand at the end of the race is Eliseo Sosa, sitting to my right with the red cap.

 Postscript: As it turns out, it was a bit worse than I knew while racing. Six racers were assaulted and beaten and robbed by armed men. If you read Spanish, here's the link to the article. 

Racing at night in the mountains: Carrera Nocturna

  I needed a long run in the mountains this weekend, and when I saw that the 12 hour night race was offering a six hour option, I thought, why not?  I ran my first 50k on February 2 at Ray Miller with Jeremy, and my focus for the next three months is getting ready for the Jemez 50 Miler on May 25, which will be my first 50 miler.
  I didn't have any experience running at night other than the first 50 minutes of the Ray Miller race. So on Thursday I got out to the Mountain in Desierto De Los Leones and ran up in the light and came down in darkness. My headlamp is a very basic Petzl model which provides just enough light to run and just as I was finishing that run I wiped out pretty hard (about 1 minute from the end of the run) on a root that left an ugly bruise on my thigh. It served as a good reminder to take it easy at night.
  This race was the first "timed" race that I've run, and it consisted of two loops, only the second of which would be repeated. The first loop I've run many times in other races (Camino Largo y Sinuoso) and in training. It starts in El Zarco (a little outpost about 2 kilometers before Marquesa) and climbs on some winding singletrack to a smooth ridge road that descends slightly for about six kilometers before crossing a wooden bridge and then it climbs up a rocky fire road that winds to the top of the Cerro de San Miguel (12,500). This out and back section was billed as 25k, but my Garmin showed a bit longer. The second loop began with the same singletrack climb to the smooth ridge road, but then we would veer off to the right and follow the road as it slightly climbed to an aid station about 7.5 kilometers which was the turn around. The 12 hour runners would keep running this second out and back until morning, but my goal was to run both loops once, getting in 40k or 25 miles. At this elevation, with over 4,000 feet of climbing, I knew there was no way I'd finish the 40k under the 5 and half hours which would have allowed me to continue on a third loop. I also knew I really didn't need to be running 55k at this point in my training.

  The Ray Miller race went really well for me, but I struggled with the Nathan pack. It's such a hassle to get into an aid station and have to deal with removing the pack, opening the bladder. And then repeating this again and again. It's a time killer. I knew there was an aid station at the top of the mountain (12.5 kilometers), and then we would return to the aid station at the start, and there was a small aid station at the second loop turn-around, so I went with one handheld (Ultra Direction, 20 oz.). It was perfect. I stuffed gu's in the pockets of my shorts (and kept a few more in my car at the start/finish) and I wasted zero time in aid stations. I'm done with the pack except for longer, solo training stuff in the mountain. 
  
  Mexicans tend to overdress for the cold, and most folks were wearing running tights, multiple layers and jackets. Standing around getting cold before the race, I started to second guess my choice, but I stuck with the shorts and two thin layers (long sleeve Ray Miller Race Shirt/and a thin pull over base layer) with the Patagonia Houdini jacket. When the Houdini jacket arrived in the mail, I was a little put off with just how flimsy it seemed considering the 99 bucks I spent on it. However, the only thing I can say now about the jacket is that it is genius. Tie it around your waist or stuff it in a pocket and you forget about it, but it was the perfect light weight layer and I was never cold, even on the long, slow, steep climb up to the summit. A buff around my ears and a thin pair of Nike gloves and I was dialed in: the perfect amount of gear: not too much, not too little.

  Finally the race started and we began the ascent to the ridge trail. I kept it to a fast hike, which was about all that could be done anyway as the trail is so narrow there is nowhere to pass. Once up to the road my plan was to keep it steady, but comfortable until the climbing began. A handful of folks passed me here, but I knew they were either front runners catching up with the lead pack or people who I was going to see on the climb. On the climb I just hiked hard and steady. Except for a couple early sections that flatten out or descend a bit, I didn't run. I saw some runners trying to maintain a running cadence on the hill and eventually I hiked past them. It's just too long of a climb and too steep to gain anything by running for anyone but the super stars.

  The descent was all about not biting the dust. I felt good and I was catching a few people and trying not to drift as I ran in a little cone of light. A few more night races might convince me to upgrade my Petzl headlamp. I think the one I have would be perfect for those late nights reading in a tent. The night sky was stunning. Not a lot of opportunities to for star gazing when living in a city of 20+ million, but out here on the other side of the mountain, the view was incredible
  
  After the descent it was a slight climb back to the final descent to the start. This section seems to always kill me, and during the carrera larga y sinuoso a number of people caught and passed me here, which was miserable so late in a race. I passed some folks in the first section and then just focused on running and not slowing down. For a long while someone was right behind me, but I never looked back to see who it was and finally he drifted back. 

  I made it back to the start, got some gu's and few hits of coca cola from my car, grabbed a bag of M and M's, went to the bathroom, refilled my water and  headed back up to the trail for my second, and last loop. It was pitch black and I had never been on this trail before, but the route was obvious and well-marked with glow-in-the-dark reflectors. I was struggling to run here, and was reduced to a walk at some points. I did catch up to the eventual winner of the 6 hour race at at one point, who seemed to be struggling a bit, but then she was gone. After the turn around I started to feel better and played a game where I would run hard to a distant glow-in-the-dark marker and then shuffle for a bit. One guy flew by me in this section, but other than that I was alone: run...shuffle...walk a bit, repeat.
  And then I was done. I didn't feel horrible. I was tempted to head back out there, a part of me was caught up in the 12 hour idea, but my plan had been 40k/6 hour race, so I called it a night. I'm usually racing away after races to go somewhere else, but I had the luxury here of changing into warm clothes, eating some incredible caldo de pollo and hanging out with the Solo Para Salvajes crew and watching the 12 hour runners come in and then head back out for another loop. 
  I felt a sting in my foot, but didn't think much of it, but when I got home and showered I saw that I could have slid the skin off my long toe like a used condom. I've never had any blister issues, so I can only attribute it to the thin dust which just works its ways through shoes and socks during this dry season.

  A solid training run for the Jemez 50. Got some gear decisions figured out and just over 4,000 feet of climbing, and everything over 10,000 feet, topping out at 12,500. Here's the Garmin Data.