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!

Wildwood Trail Marathon

Drove up to Portland on Friday, arriving in town about 11:00 at night, found a (sort of) cheap hotel.  Asked if I could have a later check out, so I could take a shower after the race.  That's an extra $40.  Forget it.

Somehow, I thought the race started at 8:30 instead of the actual start time of 8:00.  Glad I got there early!  Managed to do a little stretching and made my way over to the start area.  Just before the gun, I realized I hadn't put my pack of peanut butter in my pocket.  Oh well, I could probably do without just this once.

Going into this race, I had two goals:
1.  Win.
2.  Finish in under three hours.

This was the flattest course of all the Coastal Trail Runs, so if #2 was ever going to happen, it was going to be today.  Taking a look at the out-and-back course, I saw that it was mostly uphill on the way out, and mostly down on the way back.  I figured as long as I reached the halfway point in about 1:30, I had a chance.  I'd be getting tired at the end, but I'd also be running downhill.

The course was in Forest Park, right next to a road called Skyline.  My eye twitched.  A select number of 2006 Texas 4,000 Sierra riders would remember that hill as the tough one that wiped us out at the end of a long day into Portland.  Maybe the course is harder than it looks on paper?  Would it be as hard as it seemed back then?

Right off the bat, a muscular guy took off up the hill, shot out of a cannon.  He was dressed in all black, like me, only he was wearing knee-high black-and-white camouflage socks.  The start line had been changed from its normal location, so the course now included an out-and-back that was basically a climb straight up a hill and back down.  I'm a decent climber, but I couldn't believe how fast this guy was getting up the hill.  I saw him run through a patch of sunlight and noted the time, then looked at my watch when I got there.  30 seconds had elapsed.  Only three minutes into the race, and he was already 30 seconds ahead.  Damn.

I came around a corner and saw Knee-High standing on the trail next to a cone.
"Is this the turn-around?"
I looked at the cone.  It definitely had a sign on it that included the words "turn-around."  But it was off to the side of the trail, and it had a yellow ribbon on it.  Having run many races with Coastal Trail Runs before, I knew that yellow was never used for the marathon; it's almost always reserved for the 10k.
"Nah, I don't think this is it.  Keep going!"
I felt bad that the guy just gave me a free 10 seconds.  But it was unlikely that either of us would beat the other by 10 seconds or less.

A quarter of a mile later, we found the real turn-around and headed back down the hill.  I think I actually managed to gain on Knee-High on a downhill.  Not common for me.  I suddenly liked my odds.

Two miles into the race, headed back uphill again, it was clear that Knee-High wasn't just a fast starter, but a force to be reckoned with.  I finally passed him 2.5 miles into the race, slowly, on an incline.  It took effort.  I couldn't tell if I was foolishly letting my competitive side get the best of me, or if I was doing a good job of using my best abilities.  Time would tell.

The course was heavily wooded, to the point that no sunshine made it through to the forest floor, even though it was a bright, sunny day.  Probably a good thing, since it wasn't that cool out.  Had we been in direct sunlight the whole time, it would've felt pretty hot.  As it was though, nothing but green.  Lots of it.  Dense canopy and thick undergrowth.  A beautiful course, even if there weren't really any views.  It reminded me of Big Basin.

In fact, the course itself wasn't unlike Big Basin either, due to all the micro-hills.  Aside from the initial out-and-back climb, there weren't really any big hills, but the course just rolled and dipped constantly.  You really had to be paying attention.  The difference was that this course was the opposite of technical.  Firmly-packed dirt the whole way, hardly any rocks or loose gravel in sight.  A perfect surface and a not-horribly-challenging course.  This was going to be a good day.

Had to climb a short out-and-back hill to get to the first aid station.  I downed some Clif Shot and asked the volunteers what mile we were at.
"7.2.  It's 6.7 to the next one."
I looked at my watch.  It showed 6.3.  Clearly, it wasn't working very well.  No wonder it thought I was running eight-minute miles; it doesn't think I'm going as far as I actually am.

Immediately after leaving the aid station,  Knee-High was there.  I finally noticed that he looked familiar.  Maybe I've seen him at one of these races before?  Every time the trail made a switchback or hairpin turn, which was often, I looked back and saw Knee-High not far behind.  My lead was probably only about 10-15 seconds.  At some point, his shirt came off.

Just before the turn-around (the course was an out-and-back), a big hill.  Switched to shorter steps for the first time in the race and plugged away.  This was where I could separate myself.  Made it to the aid station in 1:37.  I now had to just as far, minus the initial out-and-back, in 1:23 if I wanted to break three hours.  It was a net downhill.  Sounds do-able!

As I ran back down the hill, I made a note of how much time had elapsed since I left the aid station.  Knee-High showed up 1:30 later.  I had a three-minute lead, which I'd opened up in about six miles.  I'd been gaining about 30 seconds per mile.  Solid!  Of course, if I could do it to him, he could do it to me.  And with half a marathon to go, he would only need to gain 15 seconds per mile to catch up.  Now is not the time to get complacent.

Knowing that a win and a sub-3:00 marathon were both possible, but not easy, I posed a challenge for myself: never "tap the brakes" running down the hills.  Run through the downhills in all cases, use the terrain to your advantage.  I wound up still having to slow down for some of the switchbacks and hairpin turns, but I felt like I did a pretty good job using the descents on the way back, better than I normally would.

Since it was an out-and-back course, I had to pass a lot of people headed the other way on the way back.  Just about everyone was great at sharing the trail.  Seemed to be a popular trail, since I also saw a lot of people not wearing numbers.  Hey, if I lived in Portland, there's a good chance I'd be running there too.  What a great place to run.

At one point, I was charging up the hill and came across a middle-aged couple walking their dogs.  When there's a dog involved, especially when there are two people, it can be hard to go around just by moving to the edge of the trail.  Dogs can just be unpredictable sometimes.  They moved their dogs off the trail at the last second.  As I passed, the man called,
"Pedestrians!  Yield right-of-way!"
You wanna tell me exactly what vehicle I'm driving?  I'm a pedestrian too.  I'm just faster.

My watch was now showing that I was running each mile in at least 10:00.  I knew that was impossible; it was probably closer to 7:00.  I kept not seeing the turnoff for the aid station.  I knew there were 6-7 miles to go after that.  I would need about 45 minutes to work with in order to finish the race in under 3:00.  When I saw the turnoff, looked down at my watch, and read 2:19, I concluded that it was still technically possible, but unlikely.

I panted between gulps of water and managed to swallow a sticky Clif Shot.  Just as I was finishing, a volunteer told me,
"5.6 to the finish!"
"That's it?!?"
"Yep!"
"Rock and roll!"
I had 40 minutes to finish this thing.  Did some math in my head as I headed down the hill leaving the aid station.  If I could run 7:00 miles from here on out, that'll do the trick.  And it's mostly downhill.  I smiled.  This thing is happening.  I reached the point where the aid station turnoff re-joins the trail.  Knee-High was nowhere to be seen.  I was still at least three minutes ahead; he hadn't gained on me at all.  I smiled bigger.  A win was in the bag.

My watch had completely stopped working.  I was stuck on 17 miles permanently.  I charged down the hill, unsure of how far I'd gone, how fast I was going, and how much distance needed to be made up.  At least the time function was still working (obviously, you don't need GPS for that).  The thick canopy cover, great for keeping us cool, must've made it hard to get a satellite reading.  I was never sure if I needed to pick up the pace to make it, or if I should play it safe and run comfortably.  Without knowing how far it was to go, it was impossible to make that call.  I just tried to hold a strong pace.

I was finally starting to get tired.  I kept looking at my watch, pretending I would finish in exactly 3:00.  When the watch read 2:41, I'd think "Just hang in there another 19 minutes, c'mon, you can do this for 19 minutes."  Five minutes later, when it read 2:46, "You only have to run for another 14 minutes.  What is that, two miles?  You can always do another two miles."  Helped me get through the last half-hour of the race.

With less than five minutes to go, I started getting nervous.  I tried looking through the trees to see houses, or flat ground, or any sign that we were near the finish.  I could never see it.  With each minute that ticked away, I got more and more desperate.  How far is it??  Should I just start sprinting?  How long could I maintain that?  I can't remember, is there one last hill?  I finally decided to stop worrying and just run like I run.

Just past 2:58, I finally heard the noise of the finish line.  It didn't sound close by.  Only 10 seconds later, I came around another hairpin turn, still heading sharply down the hill.  And there it was!  I was never so happy to see the bright colors of a flag and a canopy tent.  Elated, I practically sprinted through the finish line with three fingers in the air.

There were still a lot of half-marathoners at the finish area (they started a half-hour after the marathon).  Slowly, people started noticing that my bib number was different.  After a while, about every 30 seconds, I heard "Wait, you finished the marathon?"  My neck got tired from nodding.

While getting some water and snacks, I met a nine-year-old girl that finished her first half-marathon.  Not only that, but it was a trail marathon, not an easy course!  And her time was respectable, regardless of age, sex, or trail conditions.  Holy smokes!  Just imagine being a strong, college-aged young man, thinking you're tough for finishing a hilly half-marathon, and you see a nine-year-old girl already done when you cross the finish line.  Kids like that rock.  Parents that allow them to pursue tough goals like that (without pushing them towards it) are almost as cool.

I waited around at the finish area for a little while, wanting to see Knee-High finish.  15 minutes later, there he was.  We shook hands and congratulated each other.  He laid in the grass; I ate more.  When the results came out, a familiar named jumped off the page.

"CHUCK!  That's the guy who beat me at the Golden Gate Trail Run in February!"
At the time, when this guy beat me by 15 minutes, I figured he was on another level that I may never reach.  This time, I beat him by 15 minutes.  I shook hands with him again.

"Now we're even!"
"Don't say that.  I hold grudges!"
I laughed.  "We'll see what happens next time.  Great race."
"So you do a lot of trail runs?"
"I do now, I guess.  I do most of the ones with these guys."
He shook his head slowly, "You can have 'em."  He started taking off his knee-highs, "I'm not a trail guy at all."
He sure could've fooled me.

When I took a second look at the results, something else jumped out at me.  Chuck is 42!  He looks my age, for crying out loud!  I hope I'm as handsome in 14 years.  Not to mention that badass.  Damn, man...

Since the race was in Portland, I had some wild fantasy that a rep from Nike would be there and immediately offer me a job on the spot as a high-level trail running consultant.  No such luck. :)

After hanging out and eating for almost an hour, I finally made my way over to the shuttle pick-up to head back to my car.  By now, there weren't many people around; the half-marathoners had already left, and most marathoners were still running.  I found an entire school bus trying to turn around on a small residential street, with cars parked on both sides.  It wasn't moving very fast.  I made my way to the door, hoping the driver would let me on.  The door opened.

"Can you check me, mon?"  He had a Caribbean accent.
I walked behind the bus and helped wave the guy into position.  He was now blocking all sides of a T-intersection.  No one seemed to be coming anyway.  I climbed on the bus and plopped into a seat two rows back.  The driver waited for other passengers.  A few minutes passed.  No one else came.

"How many miles?"
I looked up.  He was looking at me in his mirror.  "26."
"Hoooooo!" he let out in a high tone.  "I would die on the way home!"  He shook his head.  I grinned.  "Is the race on a course around the city?"
"No, it was in Forest Park, on the trails."
"Oh, I see.  And you pay to race?"
"Yeah, only about $50.  It's not bad."
"Is there some incentive you get for racing?"
"Well, I got a medal!"  I pulled mine out.  "Actually, I got two medals."
"Two medals?  Why do you have two medals?"
"One everyone gets for finishing, and I got another for winning."
"Winning?  You won?  What do you mean by you won?"
It seemed pretty self-explanatory.  "I mean, I finished first."
"First place?!?  You won the whole race?"
"Yep!"
"Hoooooo!" he exclaimed again, with a big, incredulous smile.  "They should be paying you millions of dollars, mon!  I see these Kenyans winning races and you are like them!  You must be a rich man!"
I laughed.  "No, I'm not quite like that.  Not that good."
He fired up the bus.  I was still the only one on it.  "We gonna take the champion home!"  I leaned back in my seat and smiled again.

I got back in my car.  No shower.  Very little change of clothes.  627 miles to Berkeley, CA.  Let's do this thing.

San Lorenzo River Trail Run

I guess I haven't written anything since San Francisco last week.

San Lorenzo would be my fourth marathon in four weekends, and on top of that, it was on a Saturday where all the others were on Sunday, giving it a shorter turnaround than normal.  I've gotten into the habit of making Friday a speed run (only three miles) followed by a swim, then a day of rest on Saturday before the race on Sunday.  With the quick turnaround, I felt like that approach, with one less day to work with, would result in not nearly enough running during the week.  So I did normal runs through Thursday, then Friday I swam only.  Enough rest, I hope.

San Lorenzo River is one of the more unique trail runs, considering the waist-deep river you have to cross - four times.  The course has a relatively moderate amount of elevation gain, maybe a little on the high side, but peppered with an obscene hill you have to climb - again, four times.  This marathon was a race of big moments.

As I've started to do lately, I took off strong and got out in front in the early going.  Heard chatter behind me until the hills started getting big, when everyone got quiet.  I led the charge up the hill, and less than a mile in, tripped over a root and fell forward.  Well, that's embarassing.  Got right back up and kept going.

For the majority of the first mile, I wasn't feeling it.  My legs felt stiff and sore, and I was already doubting how well I'd do as the race went on.  I wondered if all the races in the past month were finally catching up to me, and maybe today wouldn't be my day.  Started feeling better when the course flattened out only a mile in.  Alright, this I can handle.

A guy named Pat caught me on a descent (as I've been learning, apparently my weakness).  He was running the 30K.  Very friendly guy, we talked a little while.  He could really scoot!  We arrived at the river crossing more or less together, him in front of me, and just forded it, leaving our shoes on.  The water wasn't nearly as cold as I thought it might be; in fact, it felt great!  I did my best to hurry out and started running again with soggy shoes.  They were noticeably a little heavier.

Immediately after the river crossing is the big hill.  I passed Pat fairly quickly and headed up in my trademark fashion, quick short steps and an even rhythm.  At one point where the trail switched back, I looked for Pat.  I didn't see him, but through the trees, his navy blue shirt would be hard to notice.  It was entirely possible he wasn't that far back.  Or he could be walking up.  Not that it mattered too much as far as my race was concerned; he was in a different one.

After a grueling uphill with a couple of false summits, the trail finally headed back down, steep enough that you had to stay on the brakes more than the gas.  As I headed down, I thought to myself, "Man, that hill was pretty tough!  Glad it's over.

...oh mannnn, that was only the first time!"

After nearly a mile of descending (I'm surprised Pat didn't catch me), the course flattened out and ran along the same river for about a mile before I arrived at the first aid station.  The volunteers, sweet as could be, apologetically told me they didn't have cups yet for one reason or another, so with a smile, I took my water out of a bowl, thanked them, and headed back.  Noted the time on my watch and waited to see the first runner headed back the other way.  About three minutes had elapsed, making me six minutes ahead.  A handful more passed soon thereafter.  Then I realized I hadn't been noting anyone's bib number, so I had no idea how close the nearest marathoner was.  Oh well, I'll have another chance at the halfway point, and with twice as much data.

This course being an out-and-back, I wound up having to pass several people for the next three miles.  Just about all of them were great about sharing the trail, and the few that weren't were mostly just caught off-guard, not being a jerk.  Gotta say, I really love the people that come out for these; the level of kinship is greater than you'll see at almost any other outdoors/sporting event.

After crossing the river again, I didn't see anyone else on the course, until I got near the end and found people finishing up the 10K (they started later than us).  I'd forgotten that there was a section that must have pointed downhill for a while in the early going; it seemed like I was running up an incline for miles (because I was).

Hit the downhill to the finish, ran strong again for a mile.  Took a little more time than normal at the aid station, eating a little slower and chatting with a volunteer.  Apparently Wendell had come by just 30 seconds earlier and specifically asked if I'd made it through yet.

Made myself move back up the hill.  This time, a little slower.  Just like last time, I made a note of the time when I left the aid station, but this time I remembered to look at people's bib numbers.  The first few, predictably, were only doing the half marathon.  When I saw the first marathoner, seven minutes had elapsed.  I was 14 minutes ahead.  Over one minute per mile.  Pretty hard to make up.  Barring disaster, it looked like I had this one.

The river crossing was a lot more busy this time around with people coming the other way, so I wasn't able to use the rope.  It was only waist-deep anyway, and hardly moving, so going around wasn't really an issue.  Heading up the big hill for the third time, I wasn't sure how long I'd last before I'd have to start walking.  Only one way to find out.

There were still quite a few people on this section of the trail, but much more spread-out.  Since the 30K and 50K routes had an extra loop that they had to tackle right in the middle of the race, that resulted in the runners all over different points of the course at all times.  That has the notable benefits of making it easier to pass and also means that there's always someone nearby on the trail, so it's hard to get lost.  The only downside (and this is nitpicking) is that it's hard to tell exactly how far ahead or behind someone is, or how well they're doing, when they did a different amount of mileage than you at some point on the course.  It doesn't matter really, but I'm curious by nature, and doing math about pacing and gaps gives my brain something to do during a long run.

After cresting the hill, I was noticeably having more trouble with the downhills.  Not a problem really, better to stay in control than risk anything.  When the course flattened out, I saw a few people riding horses.  I'm not sure if their "Howdy!" response to my typical "Mornin', y'all!" was meant to be humorous or if that's just how they talked.  One of 'em was wearing a cowboy hat, after all.  At one point, I got stuck behind a couple horses, and they were kind enough to move off the trail to let me by.  I just walked past; I had no interest in spooking a horse.

After hitting the aid station and turning around, I noticed I wasn't running "my" way.  It was much closer to a jog.  Considering this was one of the few flat spots on the course, I considered that unacceptable, even 19 miles into the race.  I picked it up and ran like a man.

Took on the hill for the fourth and final time.  Not having walked yet, I was resigned to make this a no-walk marathon.  Coming up from this side was a little shorter anyway, so I figured it should be do-able.  Concentrated on short, quick, even steps, like always, and didn't mind moving slowly, as long as I kept moving (walking would take twice as long).  On my way up, I saw two guys with marathon bibs on.  They were now 20 minutes back.

"Jesus Christ, man!"

They were actually looking really strong, running down the steep, technical hill with confidence.  Probably faster than I did.  In no way were they having a bad day.  Still, with a 20-minute gap, they would need to make up nearly four minutes per mile at this point to catch me.  Not happening.

Managed to get up the last big hill without walking.  Nice!  Had this race taken place a few months ago, I'm not sure it would've worked out that way.  More and more, I can count on finishing these trail runs without walking.  Which is probably my greatest strength.  I'm not that fast really, and I often get caught on a descent.  But I keep moving, no matter what the Earth has to say about it.

Coming down the hill again, for the first time in over a year, I had that feeling I used to get with my old, half-a-size-too-small (but damn sexy) racing shoes.  Where towards the end of the race, it feels like my big toenails are getting shoved backwards into my toe.  In a few cases, that resulted in toenails going entirely black and very nearly falling off.  I still hung onto those shoes for a while though, because I always ran so fast in them, and, well, they were sexy! (I like bright-colored running shoes).  I think that big toe effect tended to happen when my form got sloppy at the end of a race and I didn't roll through properly; I was just plopping my foot down over and over.  Luckily, this stopped when the downhill did.

I started smiling real big when I crossed the river for the last time.  By now, it was just getting fun.  Got out and trudged my soggy behind up the last big hill of the race.  Some parts of my thighs were now getting pretty irritated from running in wet shorts all day.  I wondered if I should've worn something more spandex-like or neoprene-y.  Like a pair of running shorts I have where the liner is more like boxer briefs, or almost like tri shorts...

Tri shorts!!!  Why the hell didn't I wear tri shorts?!?  Or even my whole friggin' tri suit??  If there was ever a time to do that (and some runners do all the time), this would be it.  Oh well.  Next time, I guess.

Of the last four miles, three of them are uphill.  Two of those three are a slow, mild incline, but 22 miles into a race, you feel that.  I actually did alright coming up the steep hill that kicked it off, but in the flatter section that went on for two miles, I was really feelin' it.  Almost wanted to stop and walk.  One thing that kept me going was seeing other folks on the course, either walking in the end of their half, or jogging easy, slow enough that I was still able to pass them, even as tired as I was.  If I'm still passing people, there's no way I'm so tired I need to stop.

The turn downhill thankfully came a little earlier than expected, though it still seemed to take forever to get there.  I'm not sure why, but not long after I turned downhill, I started getting light-headed.  My eyes had trouble focusing, my head just felt...weird...and my arms were tingling.  I think it might've just been that running easier caused a rush of blood from my legs to my head.  Or something.

"You know," I thought to myself, "Maybe it'd be OK to just jog easy to the finish."

The first time around, I was able to charge down the hill, but I didn't see how that was necessary this time.  A first-place finish and a course record were completely assured, even if I walked it in.  But I still wanted to finish this thing without walking, and I figured with only one mile to go, all downhill, a light jog would be just as easy and would get me there faster.  Even at my deliberately slowed pace, I still managed to pass a guy.  Crossed the line to applause from a bigger crowd than normal and sat down for a while.

The second-place finisher turned out to be the guy who previously held the course record.  For the race, he had three goals: beat his old time, break four hours, and defend his title.  Hated to make him only succeed in two.  He was a great sport though, and a really nice guy.  He managed to find the only beer in the cooler, probably left there by accident (this park didn't allow public drinking), and shared it with me and the third-place finisher.  I looked around for Pat since I wanted to congratulate him (he wound up winning the 30K), but it looked like he'd gone home already.  Somehow, it seemed like a lot of the race organizers had heard about my performance at San Francisco the previous weekend.

In the end, I wound up breaking the course record by 40 minutes.  Not bad!  Was a pretty challenging course, but again, a fun and unique one, with the killer hill you have to conquer repeatedly and the river crossings to make it interesting.  That guy certainly could've chosen an easier course to try and break four hours...

I should also mention that there was a group of at least a dozen 12-14-year-old girls all wearing lavender, doing the half marathon.  I never got the whole story, but they're apparently all from Milwaukee, WI, in town to do this thing together.  I guess they were a cross-country team and wanted to toughen up for next season?  After running 13.1 miles on this kind of terrain, a flat 5K would seem like nothing.

So the end result of The Gauntlet: Four marathons in four weekends, two outright wins (both course records), a second-place finish to an Olympic marathoner (by only five minutes), my fastest trail run ever, and my fastest marathon ever.  I have seized the month of June and throttled it.

I think next weekend, I'll do a nice, long, moderately-difficult bike ride.

San Francisco Marathon

The Dallas Marathon begins at 8:00 AM.  The Austin Marathon begins at 7:00 AM.  I always complained about that; 7:00 AM in February is about the coldest possible time and day of year, and in February, the sun isn't even up yet by 7:00.  And since Dallas starts at 8:00, why can't Austin?  Boston, which has a lot more weight to throw around, starts at 10:00 AM, giving you enough time to sleep in and even get a full meal down.  Most of the Coastal Trail Runs start at the decent hour of 8:00 AM, except Big Basin, which started at 9:00.

San Francisco inexplicably starts at 5:30 AM.  Holy schnikees.  I guess they really wanna get those roads re-opened early.  I was staying with a friend that wanted to wake up at 3:45 AM, even though we were only taking a 10-minute cab ride to get there (she likes a long morning routine).  I managed to get enough sleep (maybe just enough), having gone to bed while it was still just a little light out.  I may have eaten just a little too much the day before.  I put down a somewhat smaller amount for breakfast and hopped in the cab, still very dark outside.

San Francisco had plenty of port-o-potties (which I needed), but didn't make it very clear exactly how many there were (they just kept going all the way down a long street).  Meant you either had a long or short wait, depending which line you found.  Got everything done that I needed to do just in time, lined up, and started off in the second wave.  San Francisco has multiple starts, depending on your expected finish time, so you don't have to shove past slow people that lined up in front for no good reason.  Take a note, LA.  And almost everyone else, for that matter.

Despite starting with a fast wave, I was mostly passing people early on.  Even when I got stuck behind someone for the first half-mile, we were at least moving.  We started spreading out just as the course rounded a corner and headed almost due west, along the ocean.  Headwind.  I made it a point to hang out behind tall people for a moment when I caught them, rather than passing them immediately.  Stay outta the wind, save your strength.

I dunno why, but I felt a little odd in some spots in those early miles.  I couldn't tell if I felt like I was running harder than normal or too easy.  Looking at my watch, my pace looked OK (though since I almost exclusively do trail runs, what's my "normal" pace, anyway?).  But it almost felt like I was running in a body other than my own.  An in-shape one, but I just didn't feel the same as I always did.

Here and there, the route got off the road and onto a walking path, only about two meters wide, thinner than a lane of auto traffic.  That was fine in the crowd I was in, but when the masses came through?  I dunno how they expected a few thousand to run on that path together.

Five miles in, we headed up a hill to the Golden Gate Bridge.  First main hill.  I passed a number of people.  Hills must not bother me as much as others, at least after taking up trail running.  During the hill, we saw our first fans on the course.  Five miles and no spectators until now.  But that's what happens when the race starts at 5:30 in the morning.
"Good morning!" I chirped as I approached.  They laughed.  I guess that's an unusual thing for runners to say to spectators.

I always forget how long the Golden Gate Bridge is.  When you first start across, it doesn't look that far.  One mile later, you're still only two-thirds of the way across.  Felt good running across the bridge though, especially as you make it towards the end, as it bows back down.    A turnaround in a parking lot, complete with a solid cover band, and back across the bridge the other way.  Looking at how many people had already passed me going back across the bridge, it looked like there were about 50 in front of me.

Heading back across the bridge, I got to see all the people behind me.  Goodness, there were a lot of them!  6-7 miles into the race, and they still hadn't separated much, still bumping elbows.  I'd hate to be in that mess.  Now back in the headwind, I did my best to follow tall people again.

Felt good to break off the bridge and be alone again.  A tough uphill almost immediately, then a great downhill.  And when you looked to the right, outstanding views.  My stomach started to act up.  Almost immediately, I saw an aid station complete with port-o-potties.  Should I?  It wasn't affecting my running yet, just discomfort, so no.  But I would probably have to later.  No biggie.

A few rolling hills later, we were in Golden Gate Park.  Closing in on the halfway point, I was well under 1:30.  Not bad!  I had noticed that to this point, I was much better in the hills than other people around me, both going up and down (trail runs, how adaptable you have made me!).  Just at mile 13, another aid station.  This time, I took the opportunity to use the toilets.  Cost me a minute, but it would probably pay back later.  Felt great getting back on pace.

Hitting the halfway point, I looked at my watch.  Pace was 6:22/mile.  Considering that included a bathroom break and the "tougher" half of the course, not bad!  I'd probably slow down in the second half, but maybe not by much.  A couple miles later, my average pace improved to 6:20/mile.  So halfway into this thing and I'm getting faster?!?  Yeah, I'm OK with that.

Miles 14-19 are a gradual uphill.  In some spots, you get a decently challenging uphill, though never a long or a particularly steep one.  In other spots, it gets pretty flat.  But it's certainly never downhill, and it's an incline a lot more often than not.  Every mile, I kept checking my lap time.  Every mile was between 6:10 and 6:20.  Seriously?!?  My PR was at a pace of 6:29/mile.  Breaking that not only seemed possible, but...likely!  I'm still running better than that, and while running uphill!  I was almost exclusively passing people at this point.  My feet were starting to hurt.

There were bands dotting the course in the second half, probably at least one per mile.  A number of them were only two people, just a minimal drumset and an acoustic guitar on a street corner.  Just shy of mile 19, I saw another one.  There may not've been anything particularly special about them, but, well...
For one thing, they were playing a type of music you don't usually hear from a band at a marathon.  Low-key, easygoing acoustic music.  Again, it was just two people, a guitarist and a drummer.  The guitarist was a cute blonde with a very pretty voice.  She was smiling. Just after I rounded the corner and they came into view, she turned, looked at me, and smiled bigger.  I kept looking at her and smiling back.  Maybe she was just smiling to see any runners paying attention to them, or maybe I looked like hell by that point.  But who cares?  I just liked how she was smiling at me.  She was singing in some foreign language, I couldn't tell what.  I have no idea what she was singing, nor in what language, but it was awfully pretty.  I kept running.  Was only able to take them in for about four seconds, but for one reason or another, understated as the entire fleeting experience was, her face and her voice stuck with me for another mile or so.

I hadn't fully realized how much time is spent in Golden Gate Park, but it wound up being over six miles.  About a quarter of the course.  Upon exiting, the course flattened out quite a bit and headed east, smack in a solid tailwind.  Better conditions!  The sun was just now coming out and we were pointed right at it.  Not only that, but the street had that perfect shine to it, causing everything in my field of vision to be nothing but glare.  I kept my face scrunched for the next several miles.  The streets were completely empty.  Silent.  A ghost town.  I hadn't noticed so much in Golden Gate Park, since I'm used to being surrounded by serene nature.  But when it was silent streets and empty, unlit buildings, it was very noticeable.  There were still virtually no spectators to speak of, maybe a group of four or so every half-mile.  The cops directing traffic outnumbered them by far.  This is clearly not a race you run for crowd support.

This might sound strange, but probably the worst part of the course was a downhill.  At mile 20, and then again at 21, there was a short, steep downhill, the kind that's enough you have to hit the brakes to keep from losing control.  I had hoped that all the uphill we'd gone through would give us a downhill we could really use.  But no.  Coulda been worse, but I'm not a fan of steep downhills.  At least my feet were feeling better, probably just from hitting the ground a different way for once.

Still holding strong, I kept looking at my watch to get an idea when I'd finish.  Apparently my watch was off by a little, over-estimating how far I'd run, and I'd actually be crossing the finish line when my watch read about 26.4.  It looked like setting a PR was a given!  And was 2:45 possible?  Every time I looked at my watch, it looked like maybe just barely, but no.  But every time my watch beeped to tell me my last mile's time, it kept getting faster, until I was running sub-6:00 miles.  Holy crap!  What the hell was going on?!?

The toughest spot in the last stretch was probably mile 23, when the course turns south for at least half a mile, finally into the wind again.  Slowed you down, but not so bad.  Turned back out of it and headed down to the water.  Hitting the water felt great, just a little flat to go, all tailwind.

Rounding AT&T Park (where the San Francisco Giants play), you now know there's exactly one mile left; you're at mile 25.2.  I turned around the stadium and saw a long straightaway.  2:45 looked like it was in the bag.  Where the hell was the finish line though?  It's only a mile...
Half a mile to go, I still couldn't see it.  Really??  I started worrying that my watch somehow got off by even more and I wasn't as close as I thought, maybe 2:45 wasn't happening after all.  I finally rounded a corner and saw the finish almost right there.  Crossed the line strong and started walking.  Unlike usual, somehow, my legs didn't cramp up right away.  I actually felt...good!

Saw Larry at the finish line, a guy I've run with at work.  He looked genuinely elated to see me that early and to learn I set a PR.  I gave him a high five, smiled, and kept moving.  A banana, scone, yogurt, chocolate milk, beer, and popsicle later, I was feeling even better, dancing through the bag pick-up area.  Grabbed my drop bag and my SF-LA Challenge medal, stretched, and waited for my friend to finish, then took a cab home.

My official time wound up being 2:43:52 (which I'm just calling 2:44), a PR by six minutes on probably the hardest urban course I've ever done.  And not only that, but I ran my first-ever negative split.  And to think that all included a friggin' bathroom break; my day could've gone even better.  No point doting on that though.  There's hardly a thing I can feel about this race aside from happiness (OK, pride too).  After worrying about beating my BQ time by more than one minute and hoping to beat it by five minutes, I beat my BQ time by a solid 21 minutes.  Yeah, that might be enough to go to Boston.

Went to visit my aunt for the rest of the day, and we wound up going for a bike ride all over Golden Gate Park (oh, the irony).  A great meal, a good beer, and some good times.

So far, the Gauntlet has gone fairly well: a dominating win at Canyon Meadow, a decent second-place finish at Big Basin (second to an Olympian, I might add) that was my fastest trail run ever, and now a marathon PR by a wide margin.  Can't wait to find out what the San Lorenzo River Trail Marathon has in store next week.

Boston, this one was for you.  I hope I did you proud.

Big Basin Trail Marathon

The Big Basin Trail Marathon is unique in a few ways.  For one, it's a well-established course, very popular in the area, on a very popular (and scenic) hiking trail, the Skyline-to-Sea Trail.  For another, it's a marathon and 50K only, no short options.  Also, it's a point-to-point, as opposed to the usual double loop, and the occasional out-and-back.  And finally, as the name "Skyline-to-Sea Trail" might imply, it's a net downhill.

Like always, I studied the course's elevation profile beforehand.  It looked like there were really only three hills, and none of them even looked bad.  The course information indicated 3,000 feet of climbing and 5,000 feet of descent.  I looked at the elevation profile again.  I figured they might be exaggerating.  Only three hills, none of them bad, and the majority of the course is downhill?  Sounded pretty easy.

Since this was a point-to-point, we had to drive to the finish line, a solid hour away even with zero traffic, and take a shuttle to the start, a full hour-and-a-half.  That meant I had to get up early.  I had the thought that I might sleep on the bus, but I wound up talking with the friendly guy behind me practically the whole way.  The ride reminded me of Boston, the way you're shuttled from the finish to the start, and the length of the ride can be intimidating, knowing you have to run all the way back.  But one comforting aspect was the fact that we were consistently going uphill.

This race had about the same number of participants as most Coastal Trail Runs, but since everyone was doing either a marathon or a 50K, that meant they were all good runners.  At least, that's what I had thought.  Both on the bus and as I stretched and went through my pre-race routine near the start line, I heard an unusually large amount of people repeating the mantra "I'm just trying to finish."  One couple in particular snuck off and started the course 20 minutes before the gun because they were worried about making the eight-hour cutoff.  They were doing the marathon, not the 50K.  26 miles in 8 hours means only 3.25 miles/hour.  Walking speed.  Which meant they were worried they couldn't essentially go for a hike, even one that's mostly downhill.  At the risk of sounding elitist, if you're not sure you'll even finish a race, and you don't think you can jog at least half of it (in a marathon, that'd have you finish in about six hours), you might think twice about signing up, for your own health.

The conditions could hardly be more perfect: temperatures in the mid-50's, overcast but not dark, and plenty of canopy cover on the course.  I lined up near the front and took off strong at the gun.  Right away, I was out in front.  Might be another lonely marathon.  The course started off largely downhill, and I was actually doing a good job taking advantage of it, running most of my first few miles in only about six minutes each.

Less than a mile into the marathon, I heard footsteps behind me.  No heavy breathing, just footsteps, probably about 5 meters back.  I kept wondering if I'd be passed, but that never happened.  Only about a mile in, I saw the couple that started early.  Not only were they already not running, but they weren't walking either.  They were standing off to the side, taking a break.  Wow.  I'd never sign up for something I was so wholly unprepared for, but I guess I partially admired the fact that they were willing to put themselves through a loooong day.

I kept listening to the footsteps and noticed that they would get a little louder at the end of a good downhill and softer after an uphill.  Sounds like the guy is good at downhills.  No good, considering that's appeared to be my weakness, and there's an awful lot of them in this course. About four miles into the race, he finally moved past me on one of the longer downhills to that point.  I managed to keep on his tail.

This course, I gotta say, might've turned out to be one of the hilliest courses I've ever seen.  Not that there were any long hills.  Nor even many steep ones.  But the majority of the course was almost entirely made out of micro-hills, the ones that go up and down every 20 seconds.  There were essentially no breaks, and no chance to settle into a groove and start pacing well.  This course forced you to make an effort with every step, physically and mentally.  No auto-pilot today.

About a mile after I got passed, I managed to catch up with the guy and run side-by-side with him when the course widened to a fire road (at least 80% of the course was singletrack).  He kinda glanced over, like he was gonna say something.  I beat him to it.
"Good morning!"
He smiled.  "Good morning!"

Turns out he was running the marathon too.  Dammit!  Was hoping he was in a different race.  I moved ahead of him (barely), with him staying right on my tail.  Again, I could manage to get away from him slightly on uphills, but I could tell he was holding back on downhills.  I wondered if that was to my advantage: maybe he had to push harder than he was comfortable with on uphills, and on downhills, he was unable to use his best assets.  At least, that's what I was hoping.  The guy didn't seem to have many chinks in his armor.

Eight miles in, the steps behind me suddenly stopped.  Not another sound.  I kept running, but after a minute, paused.  Did I miss a turn?  After Cinderella, I'm still paranoid about that.  Since he was right behind me, and seemed like a nice guy, I had my doubts that he'd let me go down the wrong way without saying something.  Besides, there wasn't even an intersection.  There was nothing for me to miss.  I concluded that he probably just stopped to pee.  I kept running again, hoping this was my chance to put some distance between him and myself.  One minute later, I saw a pink ribbon.  Yessss, not lost!  Another minute later, he was behind me again.  Dammit!

11 miles in, we crested the second of the three hills of the course, followed by a long downhill section that might as well have been a friggin' obstacle course.  Rocks, roots, stairsteps, and scrambling over sheer rock.  Never a dull moment.  I started feeling bad that I told someone on the bus that California trails rarely have any rocks or roots, they're mostly well-groomed packed dirt.

The other guy slipped in front of me again around the halfway point, just as the downhill was bottoming out.  I managed to keep him within sight, in striking range, and even started closing the gap after a while.  At mile 14.2, we reached the third aid station.  I looked at my hand again.  It was supposed to come at mile 15.8.  What the hell?

"What mile is this?"
"It's uh, I dunno.  8.5 to the next one.  10.4 to the finish."
"Thanks!"
Yeah, that'd be 15.8, but my watch says 14.2.  Was the watch off by that much?

I took off hard from the aid station, determined to stay right on the guy's tail.  He'd stopped for less time than me, opening up the gap again.  I knew that my only chance to win was to stay right on his tail until the last strong hill, blow him away on the climb, and manage to hang on from there.  I caught up to him just as the trail started turning upwards.  Nice!  Now just stay where you are and wait till he slows a bit and make your move...

At mile 15.6, the trail headed back down.  Wait.  That...that can't be the big hill already...?

It was.

Miraculously, I managed to close the gap on a downhill.  I still don't know how.  But about as soon as I did, he hit the afterburners.  I'm guessing he had the thought that once he got on the downhill, he'd drop me easy, and when that didn't happen, gametime was over.  He effortlessly opened up a huge lead as I struggled with a long, technical downhill.

While this was maybe the hilliest course I've ever done, at least in some ways, it was by far the most technical.  I struggled with that, especially towards the end.  Here and there, my left arch gave me a twinge.  Nothing hugely concerning, but enough that I was thinking about being careful.

The course bottomed out around mile 19 and it was a mostly flat fire road for several miles.  Somehow, it was still technical.  Probably the rockiest, most uneven fire road I've ever run on.  My pace still sagged.  I was just worn out.  I probably overdid it in the early going to stay competitive, and was paying the price now.

I started noticing something odd about my watch: the mileage would freeze for half a mile at a time, then jump ahead.  Since it was cloudy AND we were in tree cover, was it having trouble getting a signal?  If so, it was probably connecting dots with straight lines, ignoring all the twists and turns in the trail, and there was no WAY it was accounting for the extra distance created by all the micro-hills.  So THAT'S why everything was coming two miles too early.  I've actually run farther than I think.

As predicted, the last aid station came two miles early.  Hurting and resigned to coming in second, I stopped completely and helped myself to a lot more than I normally would.  Not that it would kick in before I reached the finish line, but I was already thinking about recovery.  I trudged off with 1.7 miles to go, but feeling a little better.  At least, for about 20 seconds.

I'd noticed the last hill on the profile map, but hadn't bothered to note it (I write the mile markers of all the peaks on my hand in permanent marker).  It just seemed too small, too insignificant.  As I ran up, I knew this wasn't even steep, nor did it even go on that long, but it was forcing me into a comically slow pace, like I was heading up the type of hill that I would normally debate walking.  At one point, I crested the hill and heard a familiar sound.  I looked up.  The ocean!  And no hills between me and there!

Or so I thought.

The trail continued to snake along the side of the hill rather than running straight down to the water, and it went ahead and went uphill just a bit just to mess with us.  Soon enough, I charged down the last hill and through the finish line.  The other guy was already sitting on a park bench, drinking a coke.

The other guy, whose name I finally learned was Jussi, finished five minutes ahead of me.  I finished in 3:05.  My fastest trail run so far, but also with the least climbing (even with all the micro-hills), and a net downhill.  Somehow, I had the notion that I might even break 3:00, but that just wasn't happening.  Jussi and his wife Paulina, who won the women's marathon by over half an hour, were both on vacation from Finland, found out about the race a few days ago, and decided to run it.  And not only did they run it, but they beat the pants off everyone else, and Jussi never even looked tired, not during, not after.

"Holy smokes, you're fast!"
He smiled.  "Well, it wasn't easy."
He sure made it look that way.
(note: I would later learn that Jussi is an Olympic marathon runner.  He was probably just humoring me.)

Still, I'm pretty happy with running my fastest trail run ever, and I did beat the old course record by eight minutes.  In fact, when I got to the finish, the support still wasn't set up, so I helped them put out all the snacks.  Stuck around for a little while, took in some food and beer, and headed home.

As much as I describe the course as technical, difficult, hilly, and obstacle-course like, it was also beautiful, unique, and fun!  Even for a trail run, this felt like a different kind of challenge, and I can see how it's a very popular hike.  While the course was lacking in vistas, it was still absolutely gorgeous, running through the deep, silent, and occasionally foggy woods, surrounded by thick ferns on the forest floor and tall, ancient redwoods all around you.  And at one point, if you actually looked up, you got a great view of Berry Creek Falls, good enough that I actually stopped entirely for about 10 seconds to take it in.  If you ever get the chance, it's a great hike, and I'd say it's worth it even if the 26 miles takes you a full weekend.  Lucky me, I got to see it all in three hours.