A Two-Headed Creature: Jemez 50 Mile Race Report

"What a strange thing that which men call pleasure seems to be, and how astonishing the relation it has with what is thought to be its opposite, namely pain! A man cannot have both at the same time. Yet if he pursues and catches the one, he is almost always bound to catch the other also, like two creatures with one head." 

--Socrates in Plato's Phaedo

                                                            5:00am start                                  Photo: David Silva

 Exposed to the sun, sprawled out on the ground on the impossibly steep, no-trail climb up the backside of Pajarito Moutain, I recalled the words of the volunteer at the last aid station: “Just keep moving.”

  I had never flopped on the ground during a race before, but there I was unable to even keep my own promise of 100 steps before taking a break. I would get to about 23 and then basically fall down. My stomach was tied in knots and had been for hours.

  Without a watch, I wasn’t sure how close I was to the 5:00pm cutoff at the ski lodge.  Ten or so hours into my first 50 mile race that I had been so resolutely determined to finish, but the doubts were creeping in: why was I doing this? All that training, all those climbs up the Cerro de San Miguel and here I was at the tail end of the race, concerned I might not be able to cover four miles in three hours.

  

We began in the dark.

Those first miles of the race were magnificient: rolling, rocky trails through an apocalyptic landscape brutally shaped by the 2011 Conchas fire. Trying to keep my enthusiasm in check, everything felt beautiful and easy. The 3,500 foot hike up from Camp May to the top of Pajarito was fun and I was passing people.

  Arriving at the ski lodge for the first time (mile 17), I reapplied suntan lotion, grabbed a few more GU and headed out to the Pipeline Road Aid Station eating a Cliff Bar. The first signs of unease set in here, my stomach tightened and a few runners that I had passed earlier went by at a solid clip. I wouldn’t see them again.

Feeling good early in the race....            Photo: Jim Stein

  I stopped again on the backside of Pajarito in the bit of shade offered by a tree. I was trying to eat some GU. The group up ahead of me was moving away slowly. A guy I had passed 8 miles earlier in the Caldera came hiking by: he asked if I was ok, if I had enough water. He had run the course the previous year and he assured me that he was thinking he would “peak out” in about 15 minutes. This got me up and moving.

  A few more steps.

  A bit later, during another break, a course official was slowly moving his way down the mountain. He looked worried when he saw me. He was going down to meet the course sweepers. He asked me if I was ok and I lied and replied yes. He told me it wasn’t too far to the bench near the top of the mountain and then it was downhill to the ski lodge. This encouraged me and the grade began to relent and I was able to walk.

 Looking down at the Caldera from Pajarito                                 Photo: Benedict Dugger

•••

 The first time through the ski lodge I hiked most of the way to the Pipeline road aid station trying to digest and get my stomach back in order. The Pipeline was the turnoff for the 50k runners.  The cutoff for the 50 milers was noon, and I had made it here at 10:30. The slide down to the caldera was one of the more unusual features of this race. It was literally a rock slide straight down. The rocks were moving downhill at about the same speed that I was. I fell and thought I punctured a hand-held bottle, but fortunately that was the only mishap. Once I made it down the rock chute, I was looking at about 14 miles of flattish running. On paper, this section should be easy, but mentally it was the toughest part of the race. We were out here in the heat of the day, and while the views were spectacular, the distances seemed interminable. Like most runners, I prefer to be in the woods on winding single track that enhances the sensation of speed. The open expanse of the Caldera was a constant reminder of how slow I was moving. When I got to the Obsidian Valley aid station, I announced that that was officially the longest 6.2 miles I had ever run. I was tired of the Caldera and I wanted nothing more than to be hiking up the backside of Pajarito. Seven miles or so to go to the climb.

•••

  After picking myself up off the ground for the last time, I saw the Bench and knew I was nearing the top of the mountain. I was moving steadily, and soon began the downhill through the ski slopes to the lodge, passing the ski signs I had seen earlier on this descent: the double black diamond runs “Little Mother” and “Nuther Mother.” The blue run asking “Why Not?” My silent answer for this sign was less certain than it had been hours earlier. But this was a fun downhill, mostly single track section and I was feeling better with each step.

  And then I saw the “Aid Station sign” and soon the cowbell started ringing. Unlike the first time I had come through the ski lodge, the place was nearly deserted: a couple of runners recovering and some very helpful volunteers. I experienced a huge burst of energy. I felt like Lazarus. I ate what I could and loaded up my bottles with ice and water and ice and coke. I had made the cutoff,  arriving at 4:10, but I spent a lot of time here soaking my head, getting my headlamp and trying to mentally get it together for the final push and I didn’t leave until 4:28. About 14 miles remained but most of the climbing was behind me.

  Again, I hiked it from the ski lodge to Pipeline Road. This station was manned by runners from the Los Alamos track team. They pulled out some cherries that were chilled and I ate a few of those. It was an incredible relief to know that I did not have to slide down the chute to the Caldera again. There was a short hike up awaiting me, but after that it was almost all downhill until the final two miles. After the climb, the Pipeline Road eventually turned off onto single track through forest that was destroyed by the fire, but signs of new life were everywhere.

 And then it was like the beginning of the race again. I was alone, the sun was low in the sky, and the winding, single track, rocky trail and accompanying views were incredible. All my doubts about why I came to run this race vanished. I was running. Picking up speed. At one point I heard voices behind me that pushed me to run even harder. I arrived at the lonely Guaje Ridge aid station as they were packing things up. I continued to run. I met up with a runner I hadn’t seen since the Caldera. We encouraged each other and I kept moving. I thought Randy would be waiting for me at Last Chance Saloon, the last aid station two miles before the finish. He had run the ½ marathon earlier in the day: his first trail run, and I was eager to see how it went. I passed one more runner that I hadn’t seen since the climb up the backside of Pajarito, and then a few more turns and there was Randy Grillo in the middle of the forest. We caught up on the day as we ran into Last Chance Saloon. He had finished his race, driven back to Santa Fe, showered, napped, and then returned.  Last Chance had beer, tequila and food, but my stomach was struggling with water and coca cola, and I was worried about being passed late in the race so we kept moving. It was getting dark, but I didn’t quite need my headlamp. It was a relief not to have to watch for trail markers and Randy kept me moving quickly. I thought I saw someone behind me, but perhaps it was only a shadow.

  And then the final right turn and rocky climb up to the finish.

  It was dark.

  Someone was ringing a cowbell.

  Pati was there cheering.

  I couldn't even jog it in.

  I was done.

Now I could lay down and not feel bad about it. Randy handed me a Happy Camper IPA, but I couldn’t even begin to think about drinking it or eating anything.

  As I lay on the ground I thought about Pajarito. I reflected about my dream of running 100 miles. Could I really have gotten up and covered another 50?

  I thought I could.

  But I was really happy I didn’t have to.

Postscript:

  Every report I’ve read about the Jemez Mountain Trail Runs remarks on the beauty, brutality and spectacular organization of this race. And my Pajarito-high expectations were exceeded on all accounts. Every aspect of this race is fantastic: The landscape, the organizers, the runners, the trails.  Thanks to everyone who worked to make this race happen. And a special thanks to Randy and Pati for their hospitality and encouragement. 50 miler next year, Randy?

Happy Camper with a Happy Camper            Photo: Randy Grillo

End of a short, fantastic trip to New Mexico.  Thank you Randy and Pati!        Photo: Pati Grillo

Boring Running details I want to remember for next time:

  I went with no watch for the first time in a race and it worked. I think if I had known I had plenty of time to make the second cutoff I would have taken a long nap on Pajarito. Having the pressure of the cutoff and not knowing the time helped.

  Two hand-helds (Ultimate Direction). I ran my first two “ultras” (a 50k, a 62k) with a Nathan pack, but I tend to drink less water when I am wearing a pack and carry stuff I don’t need. I was able to carry six Gu without the pack and my arms never got tired of the bottles.

  I broke the “don’t do anything new on race day” with a new pair of Balega socks, and it worked.  Still, better to test socks out before race day…

  Zero feet problems. Cascadia 7’s are a fine shoe, even the well-worn pair I raced in. Someone else can uphold the minimalist trend: I’m sticking to my “boats.” I’ve got one more new pair of 7’s before I need to switch to the 8’s. I hope the 8’s are as good.

  Neglected to dunk head/soak cap at aid stations.

  I’ve got to figure out the stomach issue. Maybe PBJ’s instead of GU? This was the killer and I really didn’t eat enough. I won’t be able to finish a 100 miler if I can’t figure this out. I went the last 24 miles of the race on coca cola, three or four GUS, a couple cherries, a handful of M&M’s and 6 salted peanuts. Not recommended.

 

I took one salt table and then just stopped because I never train with those things. No cramping. I don’t think I need salt tablets. My tight stomach is not from cramping, but something internal.

  One thing that worked for me running down Guaje Ridge was keeping an open GU packet in my left hand taking a drop at a time instead of trying to suck down a full packet. My stomach felt better here, but it could have been a million other things. Need to keep experimenting.

 As an after thought I threw an extra shirt in my drop bag which at the time I thought was superfluous. Wrong: changing from my snot/sweat/GU/dirt stained shirt into a clean short sleeve was magical.

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.

A Tale of Two Races. The Ray Miller 50k/Surf City Half: The L.A. Double

After the race with (from R) Tom, Craig, Jeremy, the author, and of course, Sofia.

  I'd been looking for a trail race to run in the U.S. with my brother-in-law Jeremy for some time, and the Ray Miller 50/50 was the perfect choice: beautiful trails, fantastic organization and it fell on a long weekend. However, when I first mentioned it to Jeremy he had already signed up for the Surf-City Half Marathon, sort of a tradition for him and his running partners, Craig and Tom. Additionally, my sister, Meggin, was running the half this year as well. Presented with this piece of news, I pondered for about 45 seconds and then stumbled on the obvious solution: let's run both!

  

The LA Double was born.

  It would be a study in contrasts. The Ray Miller race is in its second year, but has already established itself as a go-to early season race that is run by Kiera Henninger. Impeccable course marking, friendly and helpful volunteers (I was running mid-pack but as soon as I arrived at the first aid station I was greeted by a volunteer asking me "What do you need?" with a sense of urgency that one would expect guys like Dylan Bowman and Timothy Olson --who were running the 50 mile race-- to be received with) The trail was beautiful, varied singletrack with six climbs adding up to just over 6,000 feet for the 50k version of the race. All 300 spots were sold by January 1.

  The Surf-City half in Huntington beach is also well-attended. A couple thousand folks run the marathon, but the real draw is the half: nearly 20,000 runners run up and down the flat road that runs right along the Pacific Ocean. Bands along the way playing beach-themed tunes. Water/sports drink every mile. Lots of personalized t-shirts and carefully prepped outfits. I saw some folks so decked out with hydration packs, water belts and other gear that they looked like they were doing a self-supported run on the John Muir Trail.

Pacific Ocean Sunrise about an hour into the race at the Ray Miller 50/50

Gear check the day before the race

At the 6:00am start

 The alarm was set for 3:45, but I was already moving around at about 3:30 getting ready. We arrived at the race with plenty of time, especially considering the breezy check-in (30 seconds) and two-minute wait for bathrooms. The race director counted 1-2-3 go, and we were off. I was in no hurry for a couple of reasons. One, it was my first crack at the 50k distance and two, I knew that the course narrowed from two-track to a singletrack climb very quickly. The line-up formed quickly and we hiked at steady clip for most of the first climb. Jeremy stayed with me at this point, as I had a headlamp, but he began to pull away, as I knew he would as we approached the top of this climb. The sun began to rise and I felt great.

  My goal for this race was to find a pace that did not feel too difficult and walk the first three climbs and run the final two if I felt good. Once the runners got sorted out a bit I found myself in a sort of "group" where I would be passed on the downhills and gain my position back on the climbs. Unlike the previous (and shorter races) that I have been in, everyone around me seemed to know what they were doing. No one was breathing heavily or bombing the downhills at silly paces. I focused on drinking, eating my GUs and just enjoying the scenery. I stopped to snap photos. As we hit the third major climb I still felt great and I was impatient and tired of being passed on the downs by the same runners, so I deviated from my plan and ran up most of the climb. 

Tim Olson, charging up the hill behind me.  It's probably not necessary to clarify that he was running the 50 Mile race and I was running the 50k. From this point on I'm just going to stick with this version of events: I had a great race but Tim Olson blew by me at kilometer 45 and I just couldn't hang on.

   The only way I can explain what is was like to see Bowman and Olson charging up that hill with 47 miles on their legs is to compare it to an experience I had in high school when I lived in Tokyo: I went to see a professional tennis match (Ivan Lendl vs. Mats Wilander) and my friend Troy Palmer conned our way down to the family/coaches section using his fluent Japanese and personal charm. We were 20 feet away or so from Lendl and while I had seen him on television, nothing had prepared me for the jaw-dropping power of his forehand in real life. 
 Watching Bowman and and Olson move up that hill brought me back to Lendl's forehand. 
  It also brought me back to the fact that I had a bit of a climb left and then the downhill to the finish. I put away the camera and got it done, finishing strong and feeling good. Here's the Garmin Data.

After the race I hung out for a while before heading down the coast to Huntington Beach. I was looking forward to chilling in the Governor's Suite that Jeremy's friend Craig had hooked us up with, but the thought of running 13 flat pavement miles on tired legs did not have me too worked up for the race. I choose to put it out of mind and enjoy the evening hanging out with Jeremy, Tom and Craig. 
  There is not much scenery to look at during a half-marathon. I read t-shirts [two favorites: "wedding dress here I come" and "Bye-bye Baby Fat] and was reminded that the USA is the undisputed personalized t-shirt capital of the world. I was on the verge of shin-splints and my knees hurt, so I ran on dirt/grass/sand whenever the option presented itself. I never could get the legs turning over too quickly, and I realized that my goal of sub-two hours was not going to happen. I never felt winded, but just couldn't move the legs any faster. Or didn't want to. 2:09.
 I drifted mentally. I dumped water on my head every mile. I wanted to kiss the woman who had a big bowl of M&M's (and I apologize for taking so many.) Later on someone had potato chips. I took another large handful and ran contented for a while. Forgot about my knees and shins for a short moment.
  Far in the distance I eyed a mountain range. Here we were, nearly 20,000 of us crowded together, running on straight, flat, unrelenting black-top: out and back.  Yesterday, 300 of us were spread out --often alone, or with two or three other runners-- in the mountains. 
Why the overwhelming preference for pavement? I don't know, but I'm done with pavement outside of the occasional 5k or 10k with my students. Back to the trail.

Room with a view

Meggin: "why let a broken rib stop me?"

Americana

In case you had any doubts I was really in Southern California

video of the finish line.

Final thoughts: I was worried about by fitness for the Ray Miller as I was light on long-runs and had lost a couple weeks in training: one to a calf issues and another to the flu. It didn't seem to matter much. On May 25 I am running the Jemez 50, which is going to be a huge step up, both in distance and elevation. My plan is to run the local 63k Carrera de Resistancia in preparation for that, as it falls on April 27.