The Inaugural Ute

Last fall, after DNF'ing at both Run Rabbit Run and Javelina Jundred, I once again vowed to never run another 100 miler. 50 milers would become my new goal. Seriously. I swear. Honest

Then I talked to Marco Zuniga and he told me I needed to try again. I thought about it, knowing how much I hate ending on a failure, thinking that I would just go back to Run Rabbit and finish it this time. 

November rolled around and I started visiting the web pages of 100 milers. None of the ones I considered, including Run Rabbit, sounded like fun. I just couldn't see myself signing up for any of them.

Then I stumbled onto the description for a new race called The Ute 100. The race course was in the La Sal Mountains outside of Moab and was advertised as the highest and most scenic in Utah. I had seen those unique dome-shaped laccolith mountains many times as I was running through the sugar sand and stifling heat of southern Utah and every time I thought, “Why the hell aren’t we running up there?” 

This one was enticing. I looked at it, reviewed the price, course, cut offs, etc. It was almost full and I still couldn't decide. I emailed the race director and asked about a wait list. Nope, he wanted to keep it small for the first year. Either enter now or forget it. I entered.

I went to the La Sals in July to run on parts of the course. I liked it! I rounded up some pacers, including Marco, and fully committed to it.

I trained really hard but also smart. I was ready. For me, pacers and crew are imperative to finishing. Mary Ann Stout, my wife and seasoned crew boss, took  me to the start at 0’dark thirty for a 3 AM start. We saw a few shooting stars from the Perseid meteor shower on our way. Mary Ann took care of me at several aid stations. Lucky to have her!

We were all given a pacer bib that said "Unicorn." Turns out that Unicorns are the greatest thing since sliced bread. At mile 33 I picked up my first unicorn, Ellen Hatch, a 4th year medical student planning to go into palliative care. I wanted her with me early, fearful that if she saw me later in the race she would be all too eager to pull the plug and end my suffering. We headed out for our highest climb of the day, Mann’s Peak, topping out at 12,272 feet. As we neared the top, we heard music coming from the ridge. A forlorn-looking boom box sat there, its tunes coaxing us up those last lung burning yards. The descent from Mann’s was a bit daunting for those not used to talus slopes, but once we cleared the shifting, evil rocks, we were rewarded with several miles of fantastic downhill single track.  

We continued our journey, running through stands of magnificent aspens, past mountain lakes and through herds of contented cows. All was well until I reached the soul sucking part of the course: The Jimmy Keen Loop. Even though the hottest part of the day had already passed, it was still quite warm, and I almost lost my mojo as the trail skirted groves of scrub oak with their false promise of shade. On the plus side, we saw a humongous horned toad and a beautiful, brilliant green Mormon cricket. And we were treated to still-frozen popsicles at the self-serve aid station. On the negative side, the runners hanging out at the aid station were really bringing me down. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.

The real adventure for a 100 miler starts when the sun goes down. By this time, I was running with Marco Zuniga, my second unicorn. I followed his lead down and back up the Kokopelli Trail. I was sorry that I was running this in the dark, because I had heard the views were quite spectacular. As the second dawn broke, we were slogging up a 4 wheel drive road when Marco silently stepped off the road and motioned for me to join him. About 40 yards away, in the pines and aspens, stood a cinnamon-colored black bear. We stood and looked at each for a long minute or two, and then it ran off into the woods.

At La Sal Pass, I picked up my third unicorn, Jaime Aagaard, an emergency physician (because you never know what you will need during the last 18 miles of a 100 miler). We ran some totally sweet single track and then came to the final “short climb” that brought me to my knees. I convinced Jaime that, if she allowed me to sit down, I would eat at least 100 calories. About 600 calories later, we finally reached the top, and then it was literally all downhill. We hit one last self-self water station where the boom box from Mann’s Peak now sat next to a bottle of whiskey, playing Johnny Cash. We pulled up to the finish line party with plenty of time to spare before the 40-hour cut off. 

Now what? I swore that if I finished the Ute, I would be done. I now have 5 belt buckles. One for each of my grandkids (not that they want them). I do not want to end on a failure and the best way to ensure that is to stop now.

It is really kind of fun to see how my thinking changes. Initially: I am finished. Then, well if I go back to Run Rabbit and I don't finish, it would not be a failure since it was already a failure. Now I am thinking that I really don't know what I will do. I talk about it as if it is not a choice, that part of me will make the decision and the rest of me will have to abide by it. 

No need to decide now. I am just carefree and excited about running this fall.

San Juan Solstice: Taking Care of Your Crew

I was so ready for the San Juan Solstice 50 miler. I knew the course. I knew that I would have to climb almost 13,000 feet, and I knew that I would top out at over 13,000 feet altitude. Twice. The weather was perfect and the stream crossings were going to be minimal. I really thought I was going to kill the course.

There were two places where crew could assist me. Mary Ann, my lovely spouse, and Kathy Kirsling, a great friend, would meet me at both of them. I prepared bags of food for Mary Ann to bring to me at each stop. These bags included a variety of foods: gels, bars, home made bars, cans of coconut water, cans of Coke, peanut butter crackers, bags of Tail Wind, bags of Perpetuem. You name it, I packed it.

I reached the first aid station at 7.5 miles about 20 minutes ahead of the cut off. I was feeling good except my feet were numb and my hands were not working. I should have worn gloves. The aid station workers had to put the food in my pack for me. I seriously could not make my wonderful opposable thumbs work.

The next aid station was a major one. I was about 15 minutes ahead of the cut off. I am not used to being that close to the cut off and I was rather freaked out. I thought I was doing much better than that.

Mary Ann and Kathy were there. Mary Ann started pulling food items out of the bag I had given her and placing them on a chair. I looked at each item and stashed what I thought I would want. I grabbed a slice of watermelon, opened the can of coconut water and headed down the trail. Kathy walked me out and I hit the dirt road.

The next aid station was halfway up to the continental divide. It was a very long, slow climb to the station but I made it with 20 minutes to spare. I was neither gaining nor losing time on the cut-offs. No crew was there, but I had a drop bag. I grabbed some food items and headed out again.

After a long section on the continental divide, I finally saw Kathy about a quarter mile before the 40 mile aid station. Again, I was only 15 minutes ahead of the cut-off.

Mary Ann decided to be extra helpful so that I would get out of there with time to spare. She pulled each food item out of the bag I had given her. "Do you want a gel?" she asked as I was grabbing a slice of watermelon from the aid station table.

I stopped eating and thought hard about the word 'gel'. Just as my hands wouldn't work at the first aid station, my brain wouldn't work now.

"What is a gel?" I thought. I could kind of imagine what a 'gel' was, but the word and the image weren't quite lining up in a meaningful way. Finally I was able to decipher that a gel was the little bit of syrupy stuff in a foil pouch. "How would that taste?" I thought. "Will it supply the calories I need? Do I want it? Should I take it just in case?" my brain was churning but not really going anywhere.

"Yes, I'll take a gel," I said as I shoved it in my hydration vest.

"Do you want a bar?" Mary Ann asked.

"A bar? What is a bar?" my brain haltingly repeated the process that finally helped me make a decision about the gel. "No, I don't want a bar," I finally blurted out.

"How about coconut water? Do you want crackers? Maybe you should take some nuts and fruit?" Mary Ann was rapid firing the questions now, knowing she needed to get me out of the aid station soon but also knowing that I had to get some calories in.

"Don't ask me ... I ... can't think. I need to... I got to.... finish. I have to go," I growled. I was pre-verbal at this point. I was thinking in images and feelings. But I was not thinking in words. I was trying to convert these images and emotions into words, but I was reduced to communicating in grunts, and squeaks, and frowns. This was frustrating for me and for those around me.

I headed out, trying to figure out if I was going to make the final cut-off. But not only was I pre-verbal, I was also pre-quantitative. "I have 3 hours and 15 minutes to finish. That is 75 minutes. I'll never make it. Wait, three hours and 15 minutes is a lot more than 75 minutes. I have to cover 10 miles. All I have to do is maintain 15 miles per hour, right?  I can't do four minute miles." I finally gave up trying to figure it out.

Well, I didn't make it. With 10 minutes to go and no end in sight, I realized there was no way I was going to make the cut-off. I stumbled in to the finish line over 30 minutes late.

The next day, Mary Ann informed me that I had been very rude. "Why did you want me at the aid station if you weren't going to let me help you?" It was a legitimate question, but I was still too tired to really think. In fact, I was just barely verbal even after a night's sleep.

"I wanted you at the aid station. I just wanted you," was all I could come up with.

Return to San Juan Solstice

I have started San Juan Solstice 50 miler three times and finished it twice. The course is extremely beautiful but also quite difficult.

Generally when I am getting ready for a race like this, I have some trepidation. I remember those periods which occur in every race, from a 5K to a 100 miler, when I swear (SWEAR) I will never race again. Those periods when I am too tired, too hungry, too sore, too chafed, too bored and too hot/cold/wet/dry. Sometimes these periods last only a small amount of time but sometimes they last for miles and miles. Sometimes I only experience one of these periods but other times they come and go, wax and wane throughout the entire race.

The first time I ran the SJS was a big snow year. We went through deep, rushing, and FREEZING streams. Again and again. Our feet would grow numb and our legs would grow numb. Then we would run a bit and everything would thaw, just in time to cross the stream again. There was also a big snow field that had to be traversed and another that we ran down, slipping, sliding, skidding and wiping out. That year I shed my jacket after the first big climb. During the second big climb it started to storm. It lightning, it hailed, it rained. I almost froze. I had to keep going just to survive.

The second year I started the race I was just recovering from the flu. I was in no shape for running this distance at that altitude. I made it half way up the second big climb and it started to rain. I had a jacket this year but again I almost froze. I dropped out.

The third year I started the race was five years ago. The weather was great, the streams were low and there were no snow fields to scare me half to death. I remember the fantastic scenery. I remember the wild flowers and the camaraderie. I also remember being too tired to run the last couple of miles even though they were downhill. I remember throwing up at the end. I remember being too tired to take off my calf sleeves, too tired to eat and too tired to drink a beer. But mainly I remember the scenery and the feeling of accomplishment.

So this year, I am excited to run. I don't feel the dread that I expected to feel. Even remembering the exhaustion and nausea, I am excited to go run.
I sure hope this will be good this year.

Zumi transitions to full time trail dog

Zumi is so exuberant. I call her Thumper because her tail thumps so hard in the morning, or anytime, when she sees me or another of her humans. She is working at agility, getting a bit more psyched by it, but it is not her passion. Her passion is chasing prey, but that isn't always possible. And it is not her job!

  

No, Zumi's job is being my trail dog. Although Sadie is still kicking along at 10 years of age, she is more and more willing to sit back and let Zumi take her place. Sadie will do the 4-6 mile runs. Usually. If it's not too hot. If Mary Ann is not in the kitchen.

Zumi is now a solid two year old. Strong, with thighs that look like a scale model of an Arabian horse. She has endurance and she is crazy loyal. Her real work has now begun.

 On Thursday, we met some friends and hit the trail. Her job for this run was only to stay with us. No animals to chase, no people to threaten, and I even carried her water for her. 

On Friday, we loaded up and drove to the Pecos Wilderness. I put her pack on her, my pack on me and we (including Jaime) headed up the trail. Four miles later we set up camp. That night the temperature dropped into the mid 30's. I took Zumi's summer PJ's but not her mat and not her winter PJ's. She nestled in my down coat for a while, then squirmed her way into my sleeping bag, resting her head on my chest.

Saturday morning we hiked and ran for several hours. We saw bighorn sheep and Zumi stared at them but did not chase. We saw horses and again she was very polite, stepping off the trail and allowing them to pass undisturbed. It was late afternoon by the time Zumi jumped into the back of the truck, hunkered down on her bed and fell asleep.

Last evening after dinner, I told Zumi to load up in the truck. We picked up Jaime and headed for Mt. Taylor. Running in the dark, in the woods is exhilarating but also a bit scary. Look at those eyes, reflecting back at us. What kind of animal is it? Last night, it was only one eye, not a pair. Weird, right? Turns out there were birds hanging around on the trail, just sitting there waiting for us to get too close.

We topped out at 11,000 feet where there was a bit of new snow from the afternoon's storm. Then it was downhill and back to the truck, finishing up our little 10 mile jaunt and arriving just before midnight. 

Today, Zumi seems to be wondering if maybe she wouldn't be better off living with humans that expect her to be decorative, rather than functional.

Our total mileage for the five day period? Just over 40 miles and almost 10,000 feet vertical. She has earned a day of rest.

Agility: What was I thinking?

Zumi and I have been taking taking agility classes since last summer. Once a week, we go to class and learn a little bit more. Zumi is FAST. So fast that I have to be a couple of steps ahead and directing her from a distance. And that would be fine except I don't think fast. I am always a step behind her in my mind. Keeping track of where the next obstacle is challenges me to the breaking point.

Poor Zumi. She wants to do what I tell her. When she thinks she has made a mistake, she loses it. She zooms around the enclosure, jumping, going through tunnels, careening around obstacles at 30 mph. Then we start again.

Anyway, after 8 months of classes, I asked Susan, the instructor, when we could do an agility trial. This was back in December. I told her I had to have a goal or I would stop taking classes. She said, "March." OK! Now I have a goal. I made some jumps and some weave poles and promised I would work with Zumi outside of class. And I did. Once. Or maybe twice.

The first of February rolled around and it was time to pay for another series of classes. I again asked Susan about registering for a trial. She hemmed and hawed. I asked if she thought Zumi and I should just give up. She hemmed and hawed. Finally she said, "I was told that your first dog is a throw away. You learn on them and then take your next dog to competition." I looked over at Zumi and could read her mind, "My first handler is a throw away. My second handler will take me to competition."

I looked up agility trials in Albuquerque. I found one for March 16, 17, and 18. I told Susan I was going to register. She hemmed and hawed. She said we aren't ready. I registered anyway. I figured we could be ready in three weeks. I would practice with Zumi every day. I would take private lessons. I would watch videos and read articles on training and prepping for your first trial. After all, I rationalized, I am never really ready for a 100 mile race. We all go into a hundred miler knowing that only about 60% of us will finish it. And that includes the elite runners! We know that our chance of real success is pretty low. I would never enter a 100 miler if I had to run 100 miles before I could register. And anyway, I had three whole weeks to get ready for this trial!!

I started working with Zumi every day (almost, anyway). I signed up for drop-in classes. Our first drop-in was yesterday. I watched the other dogs and handlers. They were much better than I expected for novices. Zumi and I did our first run. I became totally flustered. Zumi read my energy and freaked out. She zoomed around the arena, through tunnels, over jumps, from one side to the other until she finally got herself together and came back to me. The other people in the class were tolerant. The instructor was supportive. We settled in and learned a few things.

Our last run of the day was three straight line jumps and then the teeter and a couple of more jumps. Very straight forward. I didn't tell anyone that Zumi had never been on a teeter except when it was only about 1 foot off the ground. This one was about waist high. She ran up one side and when it tottered, she launched herself from the top. For those of you unfamiliar with agility, the dog has to put at least one foot in the yellow part of the teeter. She not only missed the yellow, she missed all the grass between the end of the teeter and the next ten yards!! I heard all the gasps from behind me. I sheepishly admitted she had never done that level of teeter before. It took us another ten minutes to get her back on the teeter. I am sure she had nightmares about it.

I keep telling myself that my dog is so beautiful that no one will care that she totally messes up on the course and is DQ'ed.

Looking forward to 2018

I am nothing if not predictable. After DNF'ing at Run Rabbit Run I decided I just HAD to have a qualifier for Western States. I would do ANYTHING to get that qualifier. I would even run in the heat, multiple laps, in the desert at the end of October.

Yes, I signed up for Javelina Jundred. I really thought it would be a piece of cake. All I had to do was run for 100 miles in 30 hours while surviving the warm day and nice evening. I prepped for the heat: I ran in the afternoons wearing three layers of shirts and long pants, even though it was in the 60's or even 70's. I begged Heidi to pace me, and stupidly, she agreed. I drove the trailer to Phoenix and admired the saguaro and hoped I wouldn't see any rattle snakes.

I started off at a nice little clip, one I was sure I could maintain forever. And I did maintain it, but not quite for forever. More like 50 miles. Then I ran out of gas. Yes, it was warm but not horrible. I just quit eating around mile, maybe mile 2. By 60 miles, I was on fumes and by 70 miles I was reduced to begging a man dressed as a care bear to put me out of my misery. I packed it up and headed home.

I was quite happy making a decision to "never try another 100 miler." Why would I? I was happy thinking I could run 50 milers. I swore I would be content with 50 milers. Until I saw this new race in the La Sals. The Ute 100. Sure looks like fun to me. The race director swears that he has found a beautiful course. I have always wanted to explore those mountains outside of Moab. And the cut off time is definitely in my favor. In fact, there are six (count them....6) women over 60 signed up for this little sweet heart of a run. I will be in good company.

Yep, I signed up. I am in. I can't say no.