When I left off racing and 50K's I had just made a major break-through. I hate having sticky hands from when they refill your water bottle and slosh sports drink all over your hands, so I decided to run a whole race on water and electrolyte tabs (and real food). At every aid station I took 2 salt tabs and ran with water in between, and that "wheels falling off" feeling that I took for granted as happening at mile 18-20 of every race never hit. My last mile was my fastest mile, and much to my amazement I placed in the top 3 women that day. (To be fair, it was the weekend after a major trail race, and all the heavy-hitters had raced the week before and were home resting). But that was on December 31, 2011, and I hadn't run more than 13 miles since.
I showed up at the start with my coworker, the trail running convert. Well, he was converted to trail running, but he still doesn't get the whole low-key vibe of the scene. He wanted to show up an hour and a half early to get a FULL warm-up. He turned down coffee because he said his stomach got upset before races, and even before some workouts, and indeed he felt like he was going to vomit all morning. While waiting for the start, a woman struck up a conversation with me, and I had to apologize for being distracted and staring off toward the bathrooms as she was talking. "Sorry, my friend isn't feeling well this morning, and I'm afraid he might be puking in the bathroom and miss the start. If you see a guy wearing a Captain America shirt come up the hill, he's with me."
"Oh no, he's fine," said her husband. "I saw him bouncing around down by the bathroom" (said with clear confusion and a little bit of distain). That would be Captain America's dynamic warm-up. I believe that dynamic warm-ups have a place in running distances a half marathon or shorter, but a 50K? Seriously. When he finally came up to the start a minute before we left, he was shiny with sweat and breathing hard. I looked around and noticed he was the only one sweating. He was also wearing head phones. "I don't want to hear any of the other runners giving me that, 'Hey, good job!' bullshit," he said. "I'm here to race."
The course had a profile like a pair of boobs:
About 5 miles of climbing, about 5 miles rolling, 5 miles down, 5 miles back up, 5 miles rolling, and 5 miles back down. My pacing strategy was just to run until I got out of breath, then walk. But for once in my life the hill was a steady run-able grade. I ran up 90% of the first hill, only stopping to walk when I knew I was near the top and everyone else around me seemed to be walking. Then I ran the rolling hills to the second aid station at mile 11, where I fueled up on salt tabs, water, and potatoes and asked how long it would be until I saw them again at the top of the second boob. "9.8 miles," he said.
9.8 miles seemed like a long way to go without water, especially since half of that distance was uphill and we had already run 10 miles, and had 10 to go when we got back, but whatever. What can you do? I ran down the hill, and then I ran back up the hill. I counted my paces, and every 100 paces I asked myself if I needed to walk. But with only one or two exceptions, the answer was, no, I can easily run another 100 paces, so I did.
When I reached the aid station again at mile 20, my head was pounding and my legs had stopped cooperating. I wished the uphill would go on and on forever, because suddenly the increased pace of the downhill was making me feel like my legs had fallen off. The next 10 miles of rolling and downhill were a struggle, even though the hardest miles were behind me. I ran like a zombie, plodding along on legs that felt like they were running smoothly but the miles wouldn't budge from in front of me. I think there is probably still a singed redwood out there where I blew to high heaven.
Running down the final hill I began to talk to myself out loud. "Just relax," I said. "Don't worry about it. You'll get there eventually, and you can sit down then. Don't look at your watch, you'll get there. Just don't panic." It was a strange difference from how I used to talk to myself: "Hurry up, kiddo. Harden up. You can gut it out. PUSH!" I'm not sure if I would have run any faster if I had taken the drill sergent tone with myself, but my calves, hips, abs, and shoulders were so sore that I thought that relaxing would be the better strategy. And wouldn't you know, I did get there eventually. I only looked at my watch twice in the last 4 miles, and just tried to relax.
The last 10K I managed to run a blistering 12-minute pace downhill back to the finish, but I did finish most of it running and did not curl up for a nap on the side of the trail. All I wanted to do was lie down and fall asleep. I had been "tired" and "sore" before, but very rarely "sleepy."
I lurched, stumbled, and tottered the final several hundred yards to the finish line to come in in 5:59:12. I'd finally broken that 6 hour barrier in a 50K!
Could I have paced the race better? Sure. Could I have run a little faster in the last 10 miles with a different nutrition strategy, I'm not sure. However, I was glad that I hadn't held back in the first 20 miles to finish strong. I had run the hardest part of the course, feeling strong and passing others but never being passed on the hills. Now all I need to do is get my endurance back, and I feel that I could actually race over that distance. The idea of racing a distance longer than 2 hours always seemed impossible for my little stocky body that hates running so, but maybe in my old age I can find something about running that I can be at peace with.
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