Spooner's Cove Trail 50K

After a long drive down Highway 1 the day before, my Volkswagen Beetle thankfully started and I made the slow drive from my hotel to the start line.  The road was winding and twisting, passing over gnarled coastal terrain.  A preview of what was to come.

Upon arriving at Spooner's Cove, I finally had a chance to look out on the ocean instead of the road in front of me.  Gorgeous.  Short white cliffs right up to the sea, and a beautiful morning for running.  I turned around.  Oh my goodness, those hills.  I wondered which one we had to climb.  Pretty though.

This race didn't have a marathon or half-marathon.  The only distances were 5 miles, 7 miles, 25K, and 50K.  So you were either doing short, long, or REALLY long.  At the gun, there was a large cluster that immediately got in front of me, two of which kept widening the gap.  A mile in, I was still running at the back of a group of about six, and two guys were at least 30 seconds ahead.  We were running 6:30 miles, and while the terrain was entirely flat, that's still pretty fast for a trail run.  Another flat mile later, we were still at the same pace, and those two guys were even farther ahead.  I tried not to worry about them.  The way I saw it, there were three possibilities:
1.  They're not doing the 50K (most likely).
2.  They're doing the 50K, but they have no idea how to pace themselves, and they'll fall apart later in the race.
3.  They're doing the 50K and they're really that good, in which case I'm not going to beat them anyway.

Two miles in, the hill finally started.  Not too bad, some up-and-down, and the steep parts weren't that hard.  About a mile later, I passed the guy in red shorts, one of the front-runners.  He was struggling mightily with the hill.  A lot of that first cluster was still ahead of me, and by now, I had learned that just about all of them were doing the 25K.  I was fairly certain that I was leading the 50K crowd.

About halfway up the big hill, the 5-mile course split off and the trail absolutely shot upwards.  Not only that, but it became the most ridiculous terrain I've ever seen.  Exposed rocks made up the majority of the trail, and loose scree was everywhere.  It was all I could do to keep running, which I think would be better described as little hops from one flat spot to the next.  Almost everyone else was walking.  Already, I half-expected to walk it the next time around.

I finally made it to the summit, grabbed a rubber band, and looked up.  We had crested a major ridge and you could see a full range of hills past this one, almost all of them with summits that we could look down on from here.  I turned around and looked out at the ocean.  It seemed so far away.  I remembered I was in a race and ran back down.

Like always, I got passed repeatedly on the ensuing downhill.  Wasn't as bad as I had expected, but was still enough that I was unable to take full advantage.  There were so many people still around me!  In a few other races, I've managed to beat all the half-marathoners to the halfway point, but not today.  There were some very talented runners doing the 25K.  And it seemed like the field was very young!  I think most people were in their 20's.  I wondered if it was a running group over at Cal Polytech nearby in San Luis Obispo.

7.4 miles in, arrived at the first aid station.  Took in nothing but a little water, then stopped in the bathroom.  I probably ate too much last night.  Headed back out.  The next section of the course was a little longer, but the hill was supposed to be not as bad.  I think I got this.

For three miles, a long, long steady incline.  No true climbing really, just a very long incline.  I started passing people again.  I was honestly handling the hill pretty well.  At one point, I passed a guy in a grey shirt, who stayed behind me for a little bit.  Not long after I passed him, we found ourselves running along some saddle-shaped pass.  Looking both left and right, you could see an endless supply of gorgeous California hills.
"Whoa, look at that!" he cried out.
"That's what I live for!" I smiled back.
"Beautiful day for a run!"

I had thought the course headed back once it reached a high point, but we had to run past that for about a mile, descending all the way, before we got to the turnaround point.  With such a long out-and-back, this would be a good chance to see how close behind the next 50K guy was.  I kept looking for bibs, but the problem was so many people wore them on their shorts, off to the right side.  I couldn't read the numbers and therefore had no idea what race most people were in.  It wasn't until I'd backtracked a full mile that I saw a guy with a bib starting with 5.  That would mean I'm two miles ahead.

It wasn't until I had to run down the long incline that I noticed how technical it was.  Lots and lots of embedded rocks in the trail, the kind that hurt when you kick or step on them.  It was starting to get pretty crowded too, with lots of people now heading up.  A few more people passed me going down, all of them trying to finish strong in the 25K.  As I kept dodging rocks and humans, I found solace in the fact that I'd basically have the whole trail to myself later, so that'll probably make it easier.  Maybe.  At least, that's what I wanted to believe.

When I arrived at the aid station, my watch was showing 16.3 miles.  If this were a 50K, it should be about 15.5.  Great, so the race is even longer??  What are they trying to do, kill me?!?  Downed some more water and a little peanut butter and headed back out to do it all over again...

This time, with no one around, I spent a little more time looking at my surroundings in those first two miles.  I can't believe I missed the beautiful coastal scenery last time.  More than once, I was sorely tempted to stay in place and watch the waves breaking on the rocks.  There were a few more people out going for a hike by this hour.  I wasn't doing 6:30 miles this time.

I was doing surprisingly well heading up the big hill the second time.  When I got to the steep part, it didn't even seem as bad!  Surprisingly, I was able to run up the entire thing without walking.  It wasn't until I got to the top that I realized how tired I was.  Oh well.  20 miles down, and most of the climbing is done, including the hardest hill of the course.  Not bad!

Running down the hill was when things started to go south.  I couldn't do much other than plod along, and for some reason, I kept feeling like I really needed to pee, even though I knew I didn't.  I stopped four times, and each time, barely anything came out.  Then one minute later, I'd have the overwhelming urge to pee again.  I finally decided I'd "hold it" until the next aid station.

23 miles in now.  I've felt worse before.  I wasn't falling apart just yet, but I wasn't at my best either.  I took in four dixie cups of water this time.  It was hard to get my legs going.  I finally didn't feel like I had to pee.

I finally started seeing other people on the course again, maybe one person every five minutes or so, the last few people finishing up the 25K.  I realized it was going to be very lonely at the finish line; all the 25K-ers will have already gone home, and I'm likely to be the first 50K-er.  And there weren't many people doing the 50K in the first place.

Everything in me started falling apart.  I still wasn't walking up the long incline, but everything hurt.  My stomach was acting up, my legs were sore, and my feet were a wreck.  Not only were my light trail shoes no match for the rugged terrain, but the shoes I was wearing were past their prime and have very little "boing" left in them.  By now, it seemed like any irregularity in the trail caused major pain.  But most of my trouble appeared to be internal.  My insides were aching and it felt like I was just out of energy.  Once or twice, I stopped and put my hands on my knees.  Weird, because I wasn't so tired I had to walk.  I kept turning around to see if anyone was behind me.  Once, I could finally see someone in the distance, looked like they were about half a mile back.  That got me going.  If they've made up 1.5 miles already, and I'm doing this badly, they oughta be able to catch me if I don't get it in gear.

Once I passed the saddle-shaped pass and headed downhill again, I tried opening it up and running hard again, but it didn't quite work.  I tried to remind myself of things that convince me to try harder: songs, running mantras, or the idea that I'm running "for" something.  And I gotta say, while those can be effective at getting you off the couch to go running when you feel just fine, they have a way of becoming insignificant when your insides hurt that bad.

About a quarter-mile before I made it to the turnaround, a guy on a mountain bike passed me.  When I got to the turnaround a few minutes later, he was stopped there, and at about the same time, two other mountain bikers showed up.  I stayed in place for a second just to stay in the shade.  One of them offered me water.
"So how far are you running?"
"50K.  How far back is the next guy?"
"You mean the next mountain bike?"
"No, runner."
"Oh, I didn't see any, did you?" he asked another guy.
"No, I haven't seen anyone."
I smiled.  That means the next guy is probably three or four miles back!  That guy I saw behind me a while ago was probably one of these mountain bikers!  I decided I might as well hang out here for a minute and gather my strength for the final assault.

I probably hung out there in the shade for a full two minutes, maybe more, talking to those guys.  When I started up again, I walked at first to get my legs to ease into moving.  About 20 seconds after I started running, I saw another runner coming the other way.  What?!?  Oh, so the next guy wasn't three or four miles back.  He was right behind me, and I let him catch up.  When he ran past, I noticed he was one of the guys who had his bib tucked away to one side so I couldn't read it.
"Hang in there and we can break five hours!" he exclaimed as he ran past.

I actually did fairly well heading back uphill to the saddle pass, and he caught me just as I got there.  I finally walked a section of the course, the very last steep part before the trail heads back down again.  He walked it too, but much faster.  He was about my height, probably in his 40's, and very slight.  I probably have about 10 pounds on him.  Just looking at him, you could tell his body is a model of efficiency.
"All we gotta do is get up there and then we can just cruise!" he chirped.
"Yeah, well, that's easy to say..."
He smiled, "Oh, I know!  Have a good finish!" as he disappeared away from me.

I walked all the way up to the saddle pass, even the part that smooths out to an incline.  Just as I got to the top, three more 50K-ers passed me going the other way, one-by-one, with a minute or so separating each.  I was two miles ahead with only three miles to go, and all of my miles were downhill.  Normally, that would be a lock, but things weren't going so well.  I started my trudge down the hill.

Even going downhill, I was still doing each mile in about 10 minutes.  It didn't help that I kept stopping to put my hands on my knees, sometimes for over a minute at a time.  Again, it was weird, because I was still jogging, not walking.  Why did I feel the need to keep stopping?  I tried to suck it up and just make myself get through it.  It only kind of worked.

Only about half a mile from the finish, I saw a couple people on horses.  Normally I'm supposed to yield to them, but they both got their horses off the trail and told me to go ahead and run through.
"Naw, I'm looking for an excuse to not run," I explained as I slowed to a walk.  "Besides, I have no interest in spooking a horse."
"You won't scare them.  Hang in there, you're doing great!"
"Ehhhhh...." was my reply to that.  "...and I'm not even carrying a human on my back."
Looking at the horses made me realize what a wimp I was being.  Such powerful, noble creatures, and they can routinely carry another large animal on their back for hours at a time.  I gave each one a pat on the flank as I walked by.  I started up running again.

When I crossed the finish line, I immediately found a canvas chair and collapsed in it.  A volunteer brought me four consecutive cups of water.  Normally, I hit the snacks right away, but not this time.  I must've stayed in that chair for about 10 minutes before I even bothered to get up, and it was only for more water.  I sat back down for another 10 minutes.  I didn't feel cold, but started shivering.  I got up again and slowly made my way to my backpack to put on a jacket and jeans.  I kept shivering.

"You want some barbecue, Rob?" Wendell asked.  I shook my head.  "How about a beer?"  I shook my head again.  "Wow you must really be hurting!" he laughed.  I managed a smile.

With some non-painful feeling returning to my legs, I decided I'd get up and stand in the sunshine to try and keep from shivering.  But more than my legs or my stomach, it was my head that felt like it was recovering.  I think I was getting pretty dehydrated during the race, having only drank nine dixie cups of liquid the entire time.  And it was fairly warm and sunny, too.  I think something similar may have happened at Coyote Ridge and Cinderella.

A few other 50K-ers had finished by now, and I found myself smiling and joking with a few of them.  OK, that means I'm doing fine now.  Time for that beer and barbecue!

This being my very last race with Coastal Trail Runs, I was hoping for a win, but it didn't happen today.  Of course, there were a lot of "what-ifs" going through my head: what if I hadn't eaten too much the night before, what if I didn't stop in the bathroom, what if I didn't stop to pee four times, what if I hadn't talked to the mountain bikers after they told me no one was behind me, what if I didn't keep stopping to put my hands on my knees, what if I'd drank enough, what if the course wasn't almost two miles longer than a 50K.  But as I've said before, everyone can "what-if."  I got beat.  I was basically my own undoing in this race, and someone else did better.

The third-place finisher, who I'd merely though was short, was 13 years old!!!  Holy smokes!  I'm impressed that a 13-year-old would even sign up for this, let alone finish, let alone come in third!  Watch out for this guy...

Overall, yet another great race put on by Coastal Trail Runs, and I think an alright resolution to my year as a trail runner.  Stay tuned for a retrospective look back at my first year of trail running, mostly as it involves the races put on by Coastal Trail Runs.

Official announcement for my next adventure is coming soon...

Lake Chabot Trail 50K

Unless you count the Bizz Johnson Trail Run (and I think that one deserves an asterisk), Lake Chabot is by far the flattest race in the Coastal Trail Runs series.  Only Wildwood even comes close, though you might argue that Wildwood is a little easier.  Lake Chabot does have a couple tough hills, while Wildwood is essentially a long slight incline out, then a long steady downhill back.  Even if there's less climbing total, a tough hill 20 miles into a race can really do a number on you.

If you look at the course's elevation profile, it looks like it's peppered with a handful of nasty, steep climbs.

But then if you look closer, you see that the course's highest point is only about 400 feet higher than the lowest point, and it doesn't seem so bad.

I'd had a productive week of training, including a great run at The Dish in Palo Alto.  For the first time in over a month, I was actually feeling good about the shape I was in.  A sub-4:00 time sounded like it should be an expectation on a course like this, and a win sounded reasonable.  That is, until one of the volunteers told me that some other excellent runner was in attendance.  I guess we'll see what happens.

Before the race, I saw a guy wearing a black sweater with the name of a company on it.  I can't remember the name of the company, and I wish I could.  But that's not what made it stand out; it was the logo above the name.  Apparently this company's logo is - no kidding - the Triforce.  After seeing that, my mind immediately went "DAAAA!!!! Dadadadada Daht! da-DAAAA!!!!"  I should've handed the guy a Clif Shot and said "It's dangerous to go alone!  Take this."  I had the Zelda theme stuck in my head for the first five miles of the race.

Right at the gun, I was behind a fast, skinny guy in a bright yellow shirt.  He was running the half.  I just stayed with him, since he was holding a great pace, was nice and steady, and it wasn't taking too much effort on my part.  About three people weren't far behind me.  Surprisingly, the course was paved for well over a mile.  Also had a lot more shade that I'd expected.  It was still cold out.  Was glad I wasn't wearing my lightest shirt.

About two miles into the race, I was still right behind Yellow Shirt, when we got to a wide spot in the trail with a few hikers and a whole bunch of dogs.  They were friendly dogs, but were very, very interested in us.  All of them came running right at us full speed, then ran alongside us for a little while, like we were playing some sort of game.  I wasn't worried about them, but it's still kind of weird when you're in the middle of the race.  I definitely didn't want to trip over one of them.  They abandoned their game once we left the clearing, and we kept going.

About a quarter-mile later, we got to a narrow bridge.  Had to trot down a short staircase, only wide enough for one, and the bridge creaked and buckled under the weight of only two people.

"This is a crazy loop!" Yellow Shirt exclaimed.

"No kidding!" I answered.  I wondered how this would go when the larger bunches of people came through.

Only a little later, I was wondering where that first hill was.  There was supposed to be one about 2.2 miles in.  Was it one of those random rolling ones before the bridge?  If that was one of the "big" hills of the course, this was going to be a very easy day.

After about another mile of flat course along the shore of the lake, the course turned upwards.  Only three miles in?  Wasn't the next big hill supposed to come later?  But we made it to the first aid station having done only about 3.3 miles.  Wha...that's over a mile early!  I've never seen Coastal Trail Runs measure a course that inaccurately.  Sure, sometimes a 50K is off by half a mile or so (at least according to my GPS watch), but this is over a mile, and only a couple miles in.  Maybe they moved the first aid station from its original spot.

By now, a guy in a white shirt had moved ahead of me, during the hill.  It's truly the hills where you separate the men from the boys.  White Shirt was running the 50K.  Must be that really good guy.  I didn't worry about it.  Run your race.

The course did a little jumping and dipping here and there, but nothing bad.  Yellow Shirt and I were still fairly close together.  Ran through some heavily wooded singletrack that took us away from the lake, then finally made a turn and headed up the biggest hill of the course.  At the top, I stopped for the aid station.  Yellow Shirt just kept running.

As I put down an orange slice and some sports drink, one of the volunteers asked me,
"Did you go to UT?"
I wasn't wearing anything indicating as much, so I wondered how he knew.  But for whatever reason, I didn't ask.  I just confirmed that I did.

"Hey, me too!  Hook 'em!"
I raised my horns.  "Damn straight!"  I took off running again.

Only a few steps later, I remembered that volunteer was also at Bizz Johnson, where I wore a burnt orange running shirt.

Both the big hill and the second aid station came about a mile and a half early, just like the previous hill and aid station.  What was going on?  Maybe they moved the start line from its original location, and we've got longer to go before we get back there.  It was the only explanation I had going.

Not only had Yellow Shirt not stopped at the aid station, but he was absolutely burning up the downhill.  By the time I reached lake level again, my stomach was acting up.  And it kept getting worse.  And worse.  And worse.  By the time I got to mile 10, it was affecting my running.  That's the point at which it's worth it to stop for a bathroom.  I hoped that the start/finish was coming early like everything else had.  The course turned to pavement again and began rolling.  I kept looking at my watch.  Every time I did, it told me only a tenth of a mile had passed.  I tried to hold it together and kept moving.

After only 11.5 miles, I was back at the start/finish.  A mile and a half early.  I stopped in the bathroom, with only mild success.  Got back out started up again.  My stomach only felt a little better.  Still seemed like there was a lot going on in there.  I still couldn't explain why the course was so much shorter than it should be.  But hey, if that means the day will be that much easier, I'll take it!  Yellow Shirt had finished his half marathon, but White Shirt was now about five minutes ahead of me.  That far ahead after 11.5 miles?  Yeah, I think the day is his.

There were a lot more people outside this time around.  Had to run around them frequently for the first mile or so.  Just as I got off the paved part of the trail, with noticeably less people around, something shifted in my stomach.  I stopped for a second and put my hands on a tree.  All in one quick burst, I let out the biggest, most voluminous fart in recent memory.  OK, now my stomach feels better.

When I reached the clearing where the dogs were last time, I noticed something.  Something important.

We missed a turn!!!

The course does a virtual loop away from the lake, up a hill, then goes across the narrow bridge.  We just cut straight across and left out the loop!  That's why everything came a mile and a half early!  That's why the hill at mile 2.2 seemed so weak!  We didn't do it!

Instead of taking the loop in the upper-right, we cut straight across.

Realizing the mistake we made, I went ahead and did the loop twice this time to make up for it.  Had to do a hill twice consecutively, harder than spreading them out, and even added probably close to a quarter mile by doing the extra section to close the loop (and since we did that last time, maybe added a half-mile total).  But I'm going to say that's the price I pay for missing it last time.  Besides, I wanted to finish this course honestly.

When I got to the next aid station, I saw another guy just leaving it, about 20 seconds before I got there.

"You need to call Wendell," I said as I arrived.
"What's wrong?"  They looked alarmed.

"No one's hurt," I sputtered in between trying to swallow peanut butter.  I explained how at least five people missed the loop the first time, pointing it out on the map.  If the message got relayed to Wendell now, that means that the 50K leader (who missed it the first time and might've skipped it again) could still make up for it by doing the loop three times at the end of the race.  I could've kept my mouth shut until later, hoping he'd be disqualified or something, but I wanted to win the race fair-and-square.

"Alright, we'll call him."  I probably spent at least an extra minute at the aid station explaining the whole thing, but well worth it.

I'd forgotten how long the singletrack section of the course went on before the big hill and the next aid station.  Seemed like it was just going on forever.  Not hard, just much longer than I remembered.  I was now about 20 miles into the race, with only a couple hills left, and I was still feeling pretty good!  Much better than I felt 20 miles into Coyote Ridge.  For some reason, "Redneck Woman" by Gretchen Wilson was running through my head during that section.

When I got to the next aid station, I explained the situation again to those volunteers, just in case the other aid station didn't get a cell phone signal or something.  They mentioned that the second-place guy was about two minutes ahead, but first place was about 30 minutes ahead.  Obviously, he hadn't done the yellow loop twice like I had, if he went from 5 to 30 minutes ahead that quickly.

"Did you volunteer at Bizz Johnson?"
"Yeah, I did!"
"That's where I've seen you before."  The guy was wearing a Houston Marathon shirt.  He asked what part of Texas I'm from.  I used to say the Dallas area, but by now, I've spent enough time in the Austin area that I answer both.  "I'm actually moving back soon, though."

"Oh, you don't like it out here, huh?" another volunteer chimed, with a smile.

"Actually, I do like it here!  Different reason I'm moving."  I fired up my legs again.  "Thanks, y'all!"

The arches of my feet were starting to hurt by the time I made it to the bottom of the hill.  They hurt worse when I got to the bottom and the course became paved again.  And while the course was more shaded than I'd expected, the day also got warm faster than I'd expected.  I guess that evened out.

The section between the big hill and the start/finish didn't seem to go on quite as long this time, but felt much harder.  Lots and lots of short ups and downs.  I saw a few other runners finishing their first loop, some of them walking up the hills and running down, which is a little funny to watch when the hills are about 40 meters apart.  A whole lot more people on the trail by this time of day, nearly noon, with great weather, going for a hike along the lake.  Can't say I blame them.

When I arrived at the start/finish and hit the aid station, with only a five-mile loop to go, I asked the volunteer,

"So you heard about people missing the yellow loop, right?"
"What?"

Oh, crap.  That means the guy in front didn't get the message.  He might wind up disqualified.  I felt for the guy.  I've gotten lost on a course too, but it only made me add unnecessary mileage.  This could be much worse.  I would hate to run 28-ish miles only to be credited with a DNF, and I felt bad that the guy was following me when he missed the turn the first time.  Nothing I could do now, though.  Now that it was warm, I took in plenty of water and set out for the final leg of the course.

I might add that ever since I made up for the yellow loop, all the aid stations and hills came exactly at the distance expected.

Only about two minutes after I left the start/finish area, I saw the guy in the lead, wrapping up his race.  He was clearly the superior runner, so I applauded him as he approached, and he gave me a fist-bump.  In the back of my mind though, I pondered his fate.  There was still another guy in front of me.  I wondered if he had skipped the yellow loop too.  I saw a bunch of people finishing up the 30K and gave them a few encouraging words.

For the most part, I just got through those last few miles.  Kept counting off each half-mile as I went, and after cresting the hill, I knew I had only a little more than two miles to go, and the worst was over.  The trail was now pretty crowded, and a lot of people seemed to be aware that a race was going on.  I kept getting congratulated.  When that happens, I often wonder, do they actually know I'm out towards the front?  Do they know I'm almost done?  Do they even know what distance the race is, or which distance I'm running?  In general, how much do they know?  Are they just congratulating everyone they see with a number pinned to their shirt?  Encouraging, cheering, that makes perfect sense, but when I hear "congratulations," I ask myself those questions.

I was still delivering my traditional "Good morning!" to most everyone I saw, and then caught myself.  Is it still morning?  I looked at my watch.

"Uh, let's see, 29.6 miles at a 7:54 pace, that means, uh...OK, this is hard.  Let me think."

Then I remembered that I can change the mode and look at elapsed time instead.  Oh yeah.  That's easier.  3:54 had elapsed.  It was still before noon.  I should still say "Good morning!" instead of "Good afternoon!"

Then something else hit me.  There's three-quarters of a mile to go, and now - I looked again - about five minutes left if I want to break four hours.  It's gonna be close, but I could do it!  I shook off the "just get through it" pace I was holding and ran like I normally can.  It wasn't easy, but it wasn't as hard as it could've been.  Could I have been doing this earlier?

I reached the parking lot with a minute to go.  Couldn't possibly be a full minute from here; I can already see the finish line.  Wendell was standing at the beginning of the flags leading to the finish.
"You're gonna break four hours!"
I smiled.  "By this much!" I shot back as I ran past, and through the finish line.

As usual, I slowly worked my way around the finish area, taking in all the goodies: trail mix, water, crackers, beer, and nowadays, they've added barbecue and pumpkin pie.  Love these guys...

It was determined that the first-place finisher didn't do the yellow loop the first time, but did the second time.  What Wendell did was extrapolate his pace, add time to it to make up for the distance, and rounded up to make up for the hill.  He still finished first after that, and not even by a tight margin (more than 15 minutes).

The second-place guy had done the course correctly all along, as evidenced by being 20 minutes out of the lead at the first aid station.  That could only happen if some people skipped the loop and he didn't.  He wound up beating me by only two minutes.  ARG!  If I'd known he was that close!  Of course, had I managed to catch him, he probably would've found another gear too.  So I came in third, even though I didn't have a bad day.  Not my very best, I'd say (for example, I had a near-identical time at Crystal Springs, a harder course), but certainly not a bad day.  I just got beaten by better men.  And that's OK.

Coyote Ridge Trail 50K

Since I missed Diablo earlier this year, Coyote Ridge, with 7,350 feet of climbing, would be the most technically difficult trail run of the year.  Well, the San Francisco 50-Miler has it beat, with over 10,000 feet of climbing, but I feel like that gets a different category.  And mile-for-mile, Coyote Ridge actually has more climbing.

The day started off cool and foggy, not so much that you couldn't see very far in front of you, but enough that you couldn't see the hills in the distance.  The forecast called for a clear day and 70 degrees by noon.  We'll see what happens.

As the race started, a clump of solid runners took off with me.  I slid in place behind about six of them.  I kept trying to look at their bibs and noticed that most of them were only running the half-marathon.  One was running the marathon, and another was doing the 20-miler.  None in the 50K.  That's a good sign.

Once the hills began, I separated myself from all but two of them, both doing the half, and by the time the first round of hills were over, I was well ahead of all but one.  Some people were walking the hills already, only a few miles into this thing.  I happily trotted up the staircase coming out of Pirate's Cove, and it didn't even feel that hard.  Weird!

Along the ocean ridge, running on the side of plunging hills, above the Pacific Ocean, it was still really foggy outside.  Kind of a shame, because that's one of my very favorite parts of any course in the Coastal Trail Runs.  I just love scenic points overlooking water.  Maybe it would clear up and I'd get to see it later.

Arriving at Tennessee Valley (I feel like I should build a house there), I was still feeling pretty good, and as I climbed the hill leading away from it, as it seems I do every other weekend, I noticed that it just didn't seem that bad.  Normally, that hill is really tough and it takes it out of you, but I was doing great today.  I reached the top and bounded down the singletrack path with the view of the Golden Gate Bridge, then ran through the fire road that leads you back down to the valley floor.  Probably could've made better time here and there, but 12 miles in, and things still felt pretty easy!  Maybe not running much for the last few weeks recharged my legs or something.

A 20-miler caught up to me at the 12-mile aid station, then took off before I did.  I wound up passing him on the next hill and chatted with him a little bit.  Nice guy, and seemed like he was going to finish a good race.

Went back down the hill and made it to Tennessee Valley again.  I was finally starting to feel a little tired, 15 miles into the race.  But covering 15 miles in two hours, I was on pace to break the course record of 4:16!  I knew I wouldn't run the second half as fast as the first, but I had 16 minutes to play with.  The record was definitely possible.

At least, that's what I thought until I took on the hill leading back to the ocean.  Good gravy, what a hill!  Only 16 miles into the race, and I had to walk it.  Didn't feel too bad; the 20-miler guy, who had now passed me again, was walking it too.

By now, the fog was only lingering in the bottoms of a few select valleys.  Here and there, I would see a patch of smoke just above the ground off in the distance, and my first thought was that someone was having a barbecue.  Outside of those few spots, the sun was bright and shining down on us.  Going uphill, it was enough to make you feel hot, but on downhills, the extra wind (and lower effort) cooled you off just as quickly.  At the oceanside, though, I was hoping for that stunning view I love so much, and the coast was still completely fogged over.

Heading down the hill back to Muir Beach, my legs weren't cooperating.  I was having to ride the brakes more often than not, when usually, I'd be able to run through it a little more often.  I don't know if it was raw leg strength I was missing, or strength in my joints (my ankles were starting to really hurt).  Or maybe it was just the extra five pounds I was carrying, making it a little harder to bound over the terrain effortlessly.

By the time I hit the turnaround at mile 20, I could tell things weren't going very well.  My legs had found some strength again, possibly only because the course was flat for the past two miles.  I downed a little water and a Clif Shot and headed out again.  Slowly, but feeling a little better.  I had yet another two miles before I'd have to climb again.  The sun had fully come out, and it was getting hot.

Only about one minute after I left the aid station, a guy passed me coming the other way.  I didn't see a bib on him.
"50K?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Good going, brother!"
Was he doing the 50K too?  Or something else?  Or was he maybe just going for a run, had heard about the race, and was asking what I was doing?  I hoped it was anything but the 50K.  Seven minutes elapsed before I saw anyone with a 50K bib, meaning I was 14 minutes ahead.  With only 10 miles to go, that should be an insurmountable lead.

This time, I wasn't able to run up the staircase leading out of Pirate's Cove, so I walked the whole thing.  I was sweating bullets.  I started to wonder if I should've worn something other than black.  But considering that my black shirt is my lightest one, maybe it would've only come out even.

On the way down the other side of the hill, the same guy that I wondered was in the 50K passed me.  OK, so now it's obvious he's running the 50K.  No other distance in this race does this part of the course, and the odds that some random jogger would be following exactly the same course I am are virtually nil.  So I just got passed.  I'm in second place.  However, when the course flattened out for a mile or so before the aid station, I was able to keep him in my sights.  He was only maybe a minute ahead of me.

I reached the aid station, but spent too much time there.  Wasn't feeling well though.  I was at the point that everything felt like an uphill.  There were still two major hills to go, one of them starting immediately.  Reluctantly, I headed up.

I wound up walking a couple sections of the hill, even though I knew I didn't really need to.  At the top, I even stopped in place and looked around for a little while.  A great view, and very peaceful.  And my legs hurt like hell, so I wanted to give them a break.  I finally started back down, but couldn't maintain a good pace.  On the way, I saw the guy in second place, probably about 10 minutes behind me.

Once again, I spent too long at the aid station, and took in about 10 dixie cups of sports drink while I was there.  I might've been starting to get a little dehydrated, and probably should've taken more water throughout.  I finally left to take on the last, and hardest, hill of the course.  I walked at least half of it, then barely managed to get going on the downhill afterwards.  A cyclist saw me, and probably noticed I wasn't doing so well.
"You need some water?"
"You got some shade?"
"Shade?"  He laughed, "I mean, I got some extra water if you need..."
"I'm good on water, all I need is shade and a nap!"
He smiled and took off.

Not much later, the second-place guy passed me on the downhill.  We exchanged a few pleasantries.  I tried looking on the bright side of things, even pointing out to him that the fog had fully dissipated, and we were being treated to a gorgeous view of the ocean.  "That's what I live for!" was his response.

By the time the course had flattened out again, I no longer had him in my sights.  No big deal.  I let him take it and just focused on finishing the last two miles without incident.  In a little too much time, I was there.  Third place.

This race was an unfortunate combination of a very tough course along with me being kind of out-of-shape after spending the last three weeks not training much and eating a poor diet.  In that time, I managed to gain five pounds, which on me, is a LOT.  I've had worse races, but not many.  This certainly wasn't my best.  I feel like on another day, I would've come in second, and on a much better day, I could've won, or even broken the course record.  That still seemed like a possibility halfway through the race, and then I wound up running the second half a full hour slower than the first.

Nothing to do but prepare better for the next one, three weeks from now, and a much flatter course.  I'll get 'em next time.

Bizz Johnson Trail 50K

33 hours after my plane from Berlin landed in San Jose, I woke up at 2:00 in the morning and hauled my behind to Susanville, CA for a race.  No, this is not normal behavior.  Neither is running a 50K in the first place.

The Bizz Johnson Trail Run is an overwhelmingly downhill course; only a few inclines for the first 12 miles, and all downhill after that.  There is essentially no climbing to speak of.  I was looking forward to a fast, easy race.

It was COLD.

I'd at least been smart enough to check the weather for a race that starts at an elevation of over one mile, so I knew the cold was coming.  For the first race this entire year, I wore sleeves.  Short ones.  No hat, no gloves, and normal shorts.  I guess this is how I was preparing for a 37 F start.  But I knew that it would be in the upper 50's by the time I was done, easily in sleeveless territory for me, and there was nowhere to shed clothes during the race, so I went with the best thing I could.  I looked around.  I could only see about three other people wearing as little as I was, and none wearing less.

Wendell's pre-race routine was noticeably short for two reasons:
1.  Everyone starting with me was doing the 50K.
2.  The course follows one trail the entire time, without even any others branching off it, so he hadn't even bothered to mark it.

Immediately after the gun, I wound up in front.  The 50K does an extra out-and-back that the marathon doesn't, up on the way out, down on the way back.  If climbing was going to be any advantage today, this would be my only chance to use it.  Not that it was a climb; it was barely an incline.  Still, I was holding a 6:40 pace for three miles, going uphill.  Not bad!  And to think for the entire rest of the race, I should be going faster!  I smiled.  Today was going to be a good day.

I reached the turnaround and looked at my watch.  When I saw the first runner coming the other way, exactly one minute had elapsed.  I was two minutes in front.  After only three miles?  That would mean that after 30 miles, I should win by 20 minutes.  Or perhaps more impressively, I was running each mile 40 seconds faster.  Of course, maybe this guy's just wisely starting carefully, or maybe he's an exceptional downhill runner, somewhere I'm known to show weakness.  But that was still a huge lead to have after only three miles.  I suddenly liked my odds.

I reached the start line again and Wendell gave me a high-five as I ran past.  After two-and-a-half weeks overseas, that was the moment that I felt home again.

The course, nothing but a long, straight, flat fire road, turned into a shallow incline for the next several miles, slow enough that you didn't even notice it.  My pace barely even moved.  I kept looking down at my watch.  Seven, eight, nine miles into this thing, and I'm still running a 6:30!  I haven't even started down the hill yet!

At an aid station around mile 10, I chanced a look backwards.  I could see for probably almost a mile.  No one there.  I headed out in high spirits and a good position.  Still, it felt weird to be running again after two weeks off.  And it seemed like it was taking forever, like I'd forgotten that 50Ks are long.

After mile 10, it finally started getting a little hard to maintain pace.  I kept telling myself that the downhill was almost here, and when it didn't come in the next mile, I reminded myself about some other detail I saw on the elevation profile, and I'm sure the downhill is coming soon.  This went on for almost six miles, because I somehow hadn't realized what the course really does: turns to a shallow decline at mile 11.5, then the strong downhill really starts at mile 16.  The funny thing is I didn't speed up at mile 11.5, and barely sped up at all at mile 16.

The thing about a downhill race is that it's a whole different kind of challenge, one that sneaks up on you.  At first, you're thinking "This is easy!" as you fly down the course.  But running downhill uses a specific part of your legs, over and over, until they're beaten to death.  By the end of the race, you're dying for the course to go uphill again.  Actually, that's not quite true: I kept thinking "I sure hope it's all downhill soon."  Then I remembered that's what it is already, and my heart dropped.  There is no possible way for it to get easier, and it's already hard.

Once the downhill started, the wind was against us most of the way.  Annoying to deal with, but I considered it an advantage; the guy nearest behind me was tall and skinny.  It'd probably hurt him worse than me.  And by now it had warmed up; in fact, I spent the majority of the race just barely sweating, right where you want to be.  Those behind me in long sleeves might not be faring as well.

At mile 22, the course takes a slightly stronger dip to get under a highway, and then you climb out of it.  That is actually the biggest hill of the course, climbing back out to ground level after going under a street.  The course profile actually had to zoom in on it to make it noticeable.  I was even glad to do something else for a short time just to recharge a few parts of my legs real quick and give my core a break.  Immediately afterwards, there was an aid station.  I happily stopped and had a caffeinated Clif Shot.  I normally avoid caffeine, but I was just feeling tired, and I blamed the lack of sleep.  Maybe this was just what I needed.
As I was heading off, a volunteer called, "All downhill from here!"
I turned my head around and smiled at them, "I am sick of that!"
They laughed.  I'm glad they could tell I was just joking with them, and actually still in a good mood.

The course went on to weave in between some hills and follow a creek downstream, repeatedly crossing it on wooden bridges.  My thighs were starting to give out.  My pace started to slow, even though there was no reason to.  I still felt like I had plenty of energy, and I was still running downhill.  But my raw strength was gone.  Unfortunately, the downhill made it so you couldn't back off slightly; you were either going to run, or you were going to light jog, at best.  I had no choice but to run.

In the last five miles, things got ugly.  I slowed, and slowed, and slowed (as much as a 7:30 mile can be called slow, but then again, it was downhill).  Only 8 miles ago, it looked like 3:20 was likely and 3:15 might even be possible, but now it was looking like I'd be lucky to finish in 3:25.  Each step was agony.  I did my best to smile at the volunteers and deliver my signature "Good morning!" to folks on the trail, but I think they could tell that my full spirit wasn't behind it.  I repeatedly did math in my head to tell myself what percentage of the race was done, and was satisfied every time the amount left went down by a full percentage point.  By the last mile, I was very, very ready for the day to be over.

It wasn't until the last mile that I fully breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't get caught.  At one point, I glanced over my shoulder and couldn't see anyone for at least one minute behind me.  It just seemed like after I opened a solid lead so early on, and held what I thought was a great pace throughout the race (until the very end), it was unlikely that someone was close behind me.  And if it was by more than a quarter mile, that would be exceedingly hard to make up in only one mile, especially a mile that's still downhill and still fast (but still hard).

I very happily crossed the finish line in 3:29, glad to beat 3:30, and easily my fastest 50K ever.  Still, this was probably the stiffest my legs have ever been after a race, even after ones that were much harder and more difficult to finish.  This course honestly needs to change its name from "Bizz Johnson 50K" to "Quadbuster 5000."

It was a while before I could walk even close to normally, and hours before I didn't have at least a slight limp.  But hey, I won a really cool frosted beer mug, even better than the normal coffee mug you usually get (especially since I do drink beer but don't drink coffee).  I immediately poured a beer into my mug and drank from it.  Ahhh, the sweet taste of victory!

Berlin Marathon

The Berlin Marathon could hardly be more contrary to most races I do.  It's paved.  It's flat.  It's fast.  The world record is often set there.  It's held in a city of 3.5 million people.  There are 40,000 participants.  And my chance of winning was worse than a new college graduate in the job market.

I landed in Berlin on Friday, two days before the race.  I went to the race expo later that day, then watched the speed-skating marathon, particularly to cheer on the always lovely Luise.  She broke her own PR!  And the world record for a skating marathon was set in that race, breaking the one-hour barrier for the first time.  I think it's pretty cool that Luise will always get to say she was a part of the race where they beat 1:00 for the first time.

After two days of doing marathon-related activities, I felt mentally prepared, even in a foreign country where I don't speak the language, running an event that's very different from my normal one.  And I hadn't even adjusted to the nine-hour time zone difference, about as big as it could possibly get.  But still, I felt ready.

One notable thing - you get next to nothing in your race bag at the Berlin Marathon.  Not even a T-shirt.

I woke up early on race morning and took the train into downtown, where the race would start.  It was cold.  I piled on some clothes and tried to stay warm.  Just as we arrived, the sun came out.  Made a huge difference.  I said good-bye to Luise and walked into the athlete's area, almost immediately heading to the line for the port-o-potty.  And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Why are there never enough of these?  Do they ever learn?

10 minutes before the gun, with still at least 15 minutes before I'd finally get to pee, I got out of line and dropped my clothes off, then headed over to the start area.  Turned out to be a lot farther away than I thought.  In one area of the park, there was a row of bushes and a lot of men turned towards it.  Well, if I'd known that was there in the first place...

20 seconds later, I resumed walking.

I could hear pre-race announcements winding down and knew the start couldn't be far away.  I looked at my watch.  No more than a minute or two.  I still couldn't even see the start line.  I started seeing signs pointing people to their starting blocks.  G, then 20 seconds later, F...  I was in B, the second-fastest.  If I was going to make it, I'd have to run.

I was incredibly thankful I was going to be in starting block B, because I had a goal of breaking 2:40 for this race.  I knew it would be difficult, improving my previous best by almost four minutes, and maintaining an average pace of 6:06/mile.  If you had mentioned that to me half a year ago, I would've said it was impossible.  But after running a 2:44 in San Francisco, a much tougher course, and after a couple surprisingly fast training runs in the past couple weeks, I was believing.  It would just take an error-free race: no bathroom stops, solid pacing, and I can't get stuck behind slow runners at the start.  Starting in block B took care of one of those, but I was now in danger of missing out on that.  I ran faster.

I had logged probably over half a mile before I made it to the start area.  When I got there, the race was already underway.  Rather than go back around and get behind the very slowest runners, I squeezed through a hole in the fence right in front of the start.  A guard nearby noticed, and when he saw my bib with "Block B" written on it, he even helped me.  I jumped into the crowd, hit the start button on my watch, and took off as best I could.  I was walled in behind slower runners, but they weren't too terribly bad.  I looked around at other bibs and saw the letter 'D'.  Could be a lot worse.

Since I didn't have any time before the race to stand still and get my watch to get a satellite reading, it didn't work right away.  I kept letting it search for a signal, but it's very hard to lock on your location when you're moving.  After 10 km, I gave up.  I didn't even have my time, since it won't record anything without a signal.  For the remainder of the race, I just went based off of time-of-day, since I knew when gun time was.  But since I jumped in after the gun, I had no idea what the difference was between my chip time and gun time.  I guessed about one minute, even though I thought it was more, just to be safe.

For at least the first five kilometers, I spent at least as much time on sidewalks and medians as I did in the street.  There were so many people and there was rarely a good way to get around them.  Not only was I losing time by getting stuck running something slower than my pace, but I was probably adding extra mileage by weaving back and forth, and burning out juice by surging ahead when I could.  Still, I felt like this was my best option.  I couldn't afford to get too far behind early on, and if I didn't find a way to get around these people, I'd only spend more time stuck behind them.  I needed to get around them ASAP.

Things got a little better as the D's slowly turned to C's, and by the 10 km mark, I was able to run normally most of the time.  I was still passing almost everyone I saw, but slowly.  My strategy, most of the time, was to get behind a small pack, follow them for a little while, then surge ahead to the next one.  Follow them, then once my legs recover from the last pseudo-sprint, run ahead again.  Repeat.  I kept my eye on my watch.  If I wanted to break 2:40, I would have to run each kilometer in just under four minutes.

At the halfway mark, I noted my time.  I was almost perfectly on pace.  That might be good news, only you usually slow down in the second half.  Of course, in my most recent road marathon, the opposite happened.  And maybe in this one, there was a major difference since I was stuck at a slower pace during so much of the first half.  I kept my hopes up.  It was still possible, maybe even probable, but certainly wouldn't be easy.  Just then, my stomach started acting up.

As I approached kilometer 27, where I had planned to grab one of the free gels being handed out, my stomach was hurting enough that I debated whether I should even take it or not.  Aside from my bite-sized pack of peanut butter, which I also had second thoughts about, it would be my only sustenance the entire race.  But I knew that if I stopped for a toilet, I could probably kiss 2:40 good-bye.  I took it anyway, and the peanut butter too.  If I didn't, I'd probably burn out in the last half-hour.  We're going to have to take some chances to make it happen.

But by 31 km, though I was still dead-on pace, I stopped for the toilet.  My stomach was starting to affect my running, and if I didn't stop now, I wouldn't have enough time to make up for the time lost in the toilet.  It was now or never.  I wanted to make it a 20-second stop, but it, um, just kept coming.  Good news to get it all taken care of at once, but I was losing time.  In the end, I spent at least a full minute in there, and probably more.  I got out and immediately started passing loads of people again, just after I'd gotten to the point that I wasn't anymore.  I looked at my watch.  2:40 was still technically possible, but might realistically be out-of-reach.  But hot damn, I was flying now...

At one of the many musical spots on the course, a family had set up a canopy tent and some big speakers.  They were playing a great song by Boston.  My head started bobbing.  My feet moved a little faster.  A grin spread across my face as the riff led into the chorus.  Though there was a chance I would irritate every runner nearby, and quickly label myself a foreigner, I burst into song:

"It's more than a feeeliinnn'..."

The guy three meters in front of me, in a red shirt and a backwards hat, turned his head halfway around, a big smile on his face, and sang the backup part: "More than a feeeeliinnn'!"

I smiled bigger and launched into the next line: "When I hear that old song they used-ta plaaayee-aaaayy!!"

Just about then, I caught up with him.  He was Jeff, from Boston, and obviously a solid runner.  I told him about my Boston experience, and how I thought folks from Boston were pretty cool.

"Yeah, the whole city gives you the rock star treatment all weekend when they find out you're running the race," I recounted.  "About 50 Red Sox fans gave me a standing ovation in the subway tunnel, and once I got on, the whole car got up to give me a seat."

"Oh, that bullshit, man!!" he responded.  "When I ran New York, I took a three-hour train ride home, and not one New Yorker gave me their seat.  I had to stand up for three hours after the marathon."

I told him I was trying to break 2:40.  He consulted his watch.

"I think you're gonna have to run 6:00 miles from here on out to make that happen."

"Well, I know I can run that fast, but will I?"  There was still about nine km to go.

"I mean, if you wanna go for it..."

"I'm not gonna make any strong decision.  I'm just gonna run as best I can.  If it happens, that's great, and if it doesn't, that's OK."

"Alright, that sounds good."

He didn't say anything else after that, but he noticeably picked up his pace.  While I was about to pass him earlier, I was now having trouble keeping up with him.  He stayed about a stride ahead of me, and every now and then, flicked his head back to see if I was there.  It finally dawned on me: he's trying to pull me to my goal.  My heart warmed.  Here's a guy who was already running a great race, was perfectly happy with the pace he was holding 80% of the way through, and he's changing his strategy to help a stranger reach his goal.

Friends and neighbors, that is why you sign up for races.  That's what makes the $100+ registration worth it.  And that's what long-distance running is all about.

I picked up my pace and stuck with Jeff.  His watch beeped.

"We just did that last mile in 5:54."

I'd noticed we were moving a little faster, but it hadn't taken a toll on my legs just yet.  "Damn, man, we're cookin'!"
"Yeah, well...yeah!"  He responded like it was just something we needed to do.  He kept running.  I kept up.  I figured if I broke 2:40, I was going to give Jeff the biggest, sweatiest hug in recorded history at the finish line.

At about the 37 km mark, though, Jeff just got away from me.  I could no longer hold the pace he was at, the pace that would be necessary to break 2:40.  In the last 4 km, each step got worse.  My legs burned.  My abs ached.  And I was just running out of energy.  For the first time in the race, a few people passed me.  My pace sagged more.

With 2 km to go, I looked at my watch one last time.  It was clear that I wasn't going to make it.  I stopped worrying about running fast and tried to run strong and manage to enjoy it.  I only kind of did.  I kept counting off the minutes until I'd be done.  I looked around at the thick crowds cheering us on.  I wished I could manage a smile and a better performance for them.

After a ton of turns in the last couple km, the course straightened out and I ran through the Brandenburg Gate to the finish.  I didn't bother sprinting for the end; didn't see a point.  I must not have looked well, because a volunteer immediately rushed over to me and asked, "Are you OK?"
I managed a weak half-smile and a thumbs-up, then muttered, "Yeah."  I kept walking.  I noticed they didn't do that for any other finishers.

Only about 10 seconds later, I saw Jeff.  He must've waited right there for a couple minutes just to see how I'd finish.  Hadn't gone well for me since I saw him, but I smiled when I did.  Turned out he was going to Oktoberfest with his girlfriend too, only they were taking trains, not bikes.  And they were going on a different day.  Shame.  I woulda bought him a beer.

A banana and an alcohol-free beer later, I was feeling right as rain again.  I danced through part of the athlete's area, then went back and got another alcohol-free beer to bring to Luise.  Took a train back to her place, showered, and finished the day with a couple beers, roast beef pizza, and surprisingly good chicken nachos.

My gun time was 2:43:00, which means my real time was probably somewhere around 2:42.  So I missed out on my goal, but still set a PR, and I'm pretty happy with that.  Overall, the race went well.  I did catch myself playing a lot of what-if, like what if I'd started on time and didn't get stuck behind so many at the start, what if I'd been able to properly draft off people going my pace for the entire race, what if I'd gotten a port-o-potty before the race and managed to do #2, thereby eliminating my toilet break?  But I don't like what-iffing; anyone can what-if.  My finish time is 2:42 or so, and that's that.

But my chip time?  That's where it gets interesting.

Apparently my chip didn't work properly at the start, and for some reason, instead of just using the gun time as my start time, it assumed I started 16 minutes after the gun.  Officially, my chip time is an astounding 2:26:36!  That's good enough to get on the Olympic team in some countries.  Somewhere in the books, it's on record that I'm that good.  I know I'm not, but it's kinda cool just to see that number next to your name, I guess.

With my results, official, imagined, or otherwise, I'm generally satisfied.  Hard to be upset with your fastest race ever.  And the rest of my trip; bikes, beer, and bratwurst, was an awesome time.  Exceedingly glad I went.  And I've knocked off my second of the six major marathons.  I'll probably never do all of them.

And Jeff, if you ever read this, thanks again.  This maß is for you.  Prosit!