Antelope Island Fall Classic 50k-2016

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The Antelope Island Fall Classic 50k starts with a couple of miles of easy uphill. Somewhere to the east the sun has risen, but for now we run in shadow. In a canyon on our left, coyotes start to howl, welcoming the morning. Runners stop, look at each other. Some of us stand and listen for a moment before we continue. The sun is peeking over the horizon as we reach the hilltop.

100_0823It’s a perfect day, in the next ten miles all my extra layers will be discarded. I tend to dress a little on the warm side, so I’m really happy that I decided to wear a tank top as my first layer.

The next few miles are fast and flat followed by a downhill to Death Valley. Everybody seems to make it through Death Valley alive, in spite of the buffalo grazing on the hillside. More fast flats, and we climb to the first aid station.

100_1348I get some Coke and PB&J. Can I just say, and hope that all race directors will listen, that Coca Cola is amazing at an aid station? I don’t know what it is, I don’t drink Coke any other time, but it is perfect during a race.

100_1346Fast downhill again. The course, overall, is pretty easy for a 50k. The website shows 3500 feet of vertical, but my watch ends up closer to 3000 feet. For a Utah race of any length, that’s almost flat. Don’t get me wrong, the lack of vertical doesn’t mean things can’t go horribly wrong.

Respect the distance.

20161105_104629The west side of the island is very pretty in a wild and barren sort of way. This summer 50% of the island burned in a wildfire. I expected to see more signs of this, but the island seems almost normal. Most of the vegetation is grass, with very few trees, so recovery is easier than it would be in many places. There is an ashy, burnt smell when the wind dies down, and some areas look charred, but life has fought back quite well.

At some point, I look at my watch and realize I haven’t eaten in over an hour and a half. I eat a couple of slices of running potatoes (my own recipe) and keep going. Probably should have eaten a little more…

There is a pretty substantial hill coming up where the course crosses over to the east side of the island. I remember the hill from this race three years ago, and I dread it, but my troubles begin before this hill makes its appearance.

There is a part of the course that runs right along the shoreline. There are big rocks, fun to run on, and I jump from one to another like a gazelle…I might not look exactly like a gazelle, but it is fun. After the fun rocks is a section of sand alternating with smaller rocks. I start to really slow here, my pace completely falters, and at one point I just stop, stand in the middle of the trail and look around.

20161105_104506It’s not a steep spot, but I suddenly decide I can’t take another step. The next aid station is about two miles away, but that seems like an extreme distance. My husband is ahead of me somewhere, so I decide to call him so he can come and get me. I decide this although I’m not anywhere near a road, my husband does not have his phone on him, and besides that he is running! Then I remember that there is very spotty cell service on the island, especially at the finish line where I parked my car.

This thought process is a lot harder and more time consuming than you would think. It wasn’t until much later that I realized my ridiculous plans were the result of low blood sugar. My underfed body had depleted my underfed brain of all its sense.

I start walking for a few minutes, then stop again. I’m so hot! I’m so hungry! I’m so glad I’m alone so I can’t whine to anyone! I take off my pack and shed my extra layers of clothes. I try all of the mantras that usually work. My current favorite is Finish on Empty! That one has been great during Spartan races, but it doesn’t work so well when you’re already on empty with miles to go.

I sit on a flat rock on the side of the trail and eat. A couple of runners pass and ask if I’m okay. I’m not sure what my answer is, but it must be reasonable, because no medical helicopter shows up.

20161105_113851Only a week or two before I had written a post for you guys called Under the Bridge. I start thinking about the advice I gave in that post, and realize that’s the advice I currently need the most.

I get up and start going again and reach the dreaded hill. I start to feel better, but my hoped-for time has been completely blown away. I start thinking the whole field has already passed me, and the man coming up the hill behind me is sweeping the course.

But he’s not the sweeper, and the hill turns out to be not so dreadful. I reach the aid station at the top, not quite half way, and tell the kind volunteers that I’m having a rough day. They say, “well let’s see if we can turn it around!”

And they did. More Coca Cola, PB&J and some advice to DRINK MORE!

20161105_101758I drop down to the west side of the island. This side isn’t as pretty, but there are nice views of the mountains of the Wasatch Front. This half is mostly flat. I usually have trouble with flat, but my day truly has turned around, and I maintain a pretty good pace for the rest of the race. The race three years ago had been short of a 50k, but the course this year has been modified, adding about a mile of pavement at the end.

I collect my finisher’s cup (chili bowl) and have it filled with buffalo chili. The buffalo chili at all the Antelope Island races is made by the race director’s wife, and it is delicious!

20161105_093346Like every race, I learned something. Like most races, I finished. My time was slow, but for me, not shamefully slow. I mean, I am The Trail Snail.

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Under the Bridge

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There is no troll under the bridge in this story. There’s not even a trail in this story…

100_1215The sun is beating down mercilessly, so hot it takes my breath away. The air is so hot and dry that drinking doesn’t even help any more.

I stop and look up. Runners pass me, heads down, looking defeated. The sun, strangely, looks tiny, a tiny little dot that is taking away every will I have to keep going. Ahead of me is an overpass, promising a brief moment of shade. Beyond that, the road continues uphill. It’s not steep, but at this moment it is just too much. Maybe if I could get just a tiny bit of cool water, instead of the warm water at the aid stations, maybe then I could go on. Maybe some shade, more than the tiny bit that the bridge will offer, maybe then I could go on. But beyond the bridge, the heat shimmers on top of the pavement and the sky is clear from horizon to horizon. I stand as runners shuffle past, and I know I can’t go on.

2014-10-04-10-50-38I walk to the bridge and stop in the shade. A low concrete barrier lines both sides of the road, and I sit down. Here I will sit until a sag wagon comes. I’ll flag it down and climb in. Inside, the air will be cool. Maybe a sympathetic volunteer will give me an ice cold bottle of water. I’ll ride in comfort to the finish line. I know I won’t have to wait long, there are plenty of shuttles, one goes by every few minutes.

As I wait, I think of how long I have wanted to run this marathon. I think of my joy when I made it through the lottery. I think of my training runs. I put a lot into this, my training was perfect. I think of the medal that would have been waiting at the finish line, and of my family, who will be waiting at the finish line. I think of their reactions, surprise followed by sympathy. Like all good families they will help me rewrite this story so that it’s not really a failure. It was just too hot. It’s amazing that anyone finished… and then I’ll try again next year.

100_1218I think that’s the thought that got me, waiting a whole year to try again, remembering for a whole year that I climbed into an air-conditioned van instead of finishing what I came here to do.

I start to cry when I realize that I can’t get in the shuttle, that I can’t give up. It’s hard to breathe when you’re sobbing. I think somebody asks if I’m okay, but maybe I imagined that, in any case I don’t answer. I’m not okay.

I stand up and walk through the remainder of the shade, then I start to run. I start at a shuffle, but I gradually pick up my pace and make it over the hill. I’m just past the marker for mile 19 when a shuttle passes me.

100_1214Now I’ve completed the St. George Marathon six times, it’s the only road race on my calendar these days. The second time, the bridge seemed to appear so soon, I felt so good! When I saw the bridge, I smiled, probably a big, stupid smile. When I ran under the bridge, I was startled when a sob escaped me, and then another. I had to walk, trying to breathe normally, trying to keep my emotions a secret. I’m not really a crier. A lot of people cry during and after events, from happiness, relief, pain… a section of Daughters of Distance, by Vanessa Runs, is dedicated to this phenomena, and it seems to occur regardless of gender, fitness level or experience in the sport. My daughter cries at the end of most events, something that was pretty confusing for her husband the first time he witnessed it.

“Are you okay? Was it bad?”

“No, it was great! I’m so happy!”

But I don’t really do that. Except EVERY SINGLE TIME I run under that bridge. Six years. No reason to think it will change. Some of the years have been relatively easy, like that second year (the bridge is here already!?!) and some have been closer to that first year (there’s that cursed &#*$&%@ bridge!).

A Gandalf misquote

A Gandalf misquote

Now the bridge is a symbol to me. It reminds me what I need to do when struggles seem too difficult. That few moments of my life, six years ago, was actually an epic battle of my mind against my body.  One of the benefits of endurance sports is that you learn to triumph. You learn to suck it up. You learn to think of that year of regret, and decide that you really can take another step.

Struggling through a marathon isn’t the same as raising a child, making a marriage work, or maintaining a successful career. It’s not the same as having a sick parent, losing a family member, or dealing with illness and injury.

And yet, in a way, it is.

So my advice, take it or not, is this:

When you think you can’t, even when you absolutely know you can’t, maybe just take one more step. Maybe, after all, you can.20161113_092958

Share the Trail

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2016-08-02-09-49-06I’m on a narrow downhill section of singletrack. Yay downhill! The section is not steep, but lots of roots cross the trail, requiring enough focus that I don’t see the mountain biker coming uphill until I almost reach him. Startled, I slam on the brakes and step to the side. By this time, he has also stopped and pulled off.

“Thanks!”, we yell at exactly the same time.

“Have a good run/ride!”, we yell at exactly the same time as we each move on.

2016-08-02-10-42-08I’m kind of laughing at our excessive politeness as I continue my run. It’s really nice to laugh at excessive politeness, rather than grousing about the rudeness of someone on the trail.

I won’t say it happens a lot, but I’m sure we’ve all had those trail moments that kind of ruin your mood for a while. It bothers me the most when it’s a fellow runner. Sometimes I’ll wave, or say hi, and get a stony stare in return. Then I say things under my breath…

2016-08-02-09-24-32On that extremely polite day, I was on a trail that can get a lot of mountain bike traffic. It’s part of an extensive network of trails, some bike only, some downhill bike only, some multi-use. On this system of trails, I’ve seldom had a problem with a mountain bike. Everyone seems to be just enjoying themselves and able to share without trouble. Which makes sense. It’s not that hard.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the case everywhere I run.

Part of the problem, admittedly, is the inconsistency in trail sharing rules. There is a sign at most trailheads in my area that shows a horse, hiker, and bike. This sign shows that everyone yields to horses, and bikes yield to hikers.

2016-08-07-08-05-05-2If you learn one thing from this post, always yield to horses. Always! As a former equestrienne, I can tell you that even a horse you know well can be unpredictable at times. Also, horses are BIG! If you squeeze behind a horse on the trail, you might be unpleasantly surprised at the result. With horses, move off the trail as much as possible and let them pass. Pay attention to the rider. If the rider seems relaxed, she’s probably on a horse that has a lot of trail miles and will not misbehave. If the rider is tense on the reins, then give them plenty of room and don’t make sudden moves.

On other trails, signs say “yield to uphill”. This makes sense. For me, admittedly not the greatest mountain biker that ever lived, starting on an uphill can be difficult. Running uphill doesn’t pose the same challenge, but it’s nice to keep going when you’re trying to push to the top of a hill.

20160828_152611-2There is a nice, short, technical, multi-use trail that I run sometimes where I have had NO END of problems. I don’t know if it’s the easy accessibility of this trail, but I often come across that dreaded “bad biker”. This is the mountain biker that puts all the trails at risk for mountain bike closures.

This particular trail is used by families with tiny children and great-grandmas. It’s frequented by stoners and groups of teens. These groups don’t take a nice nature hike thinking they are putting life and limb at risk.

But, throw a few pre-teen mountain bikers into the mix, drop them off at the top so they’re not even tired (good idea, dad) and see how fast they can get to the bottom. Do this every Saturday, the busiest day on the trail. Whether they think they’re in a race or a video game, there is no slowing for pedestrians, other bikes, or wildlife.

2016-08-07-09-32-24Unfortunately, these are the mountain bikers that the people on the trail that day are going to remember. They will remember the ones that almost ran them down, the ones that didn’t slow down, since they were airborne, the ones that would never think to smile, or nod, or thank somebody for moving to the side.

And these are less than half of one percent of the mountain bikers I see on my runs.

I don’t have a solution for these particular stupid boys. My husband and daughter talked to a police officer at the trailhead after a near collision, and the police officer thought you should yield to downhill riders since they’re going fast and it’s hard to stop. As if careening out of control is something to be desired. So. No help there.

The simplest solution is not to necessarily follow the signs posted, but to be polite. Everybody is doing the same thing. Whether you’re running, hiking, strolling slowly with your grandchildren, or mountain biking, you’re just out enjoying the outdoors. Everybody needs to do that more. We’re a sedentary and expanding populace, and getting out on a trail is extremely good medicine.

IMG_20140415_181300_365If you can’t say “good morning!” or at least nod, maybe you are part of the problem. The trail doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to all of us.

So yield! Just yield.

And maybe smile.

The Ivy Dog loses an eye, but not her mad trail skills

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2016-01-31 13.08.47There are things that happen out on the trail that make me feel especially slow. Once, while I was running, a man caught up and passed me. He wasn’t running, he was hiking. But he had really long legs. So, not a big deal, right? Except for the Yorkshire Terrier trotting along with him. With the usual Yorkie size short legs. As they passed, the Yorkie gave me a really superior, snobby look. Not cool

Or the time I startled a quail and it ran away in fear. And kept running, pulling away, running away down the trail on its two-inch long legs. Pretty much lost me. Also, not cool.20160221_112414

Then there’s The Ivy Dog.

The Ivy Dog, as you have learned (The Ivy Dog) is a trail running machine. She has perfect conformation for trail running, with all-wheel-drive, traction control and the finest brakes money can buy. She also has perfect trail etiquette. She politely greets fellow trail runners and, unlike her buddy Clayton the Malador, she never bumps you when she passes. The only thing she does on the trail that is slightly rude is when she stops uptrail and waits. She isn’t trying to be rude, but the look on her face is like, “my gaaawwwd can’t you go any faster? I don’t have all day here!”

Come ON you guys!

Come ON you guys!

About six months ago, Ivy got a red spot on her eye. At first it looked like an injury, like maybe she caught a branch in the eye or something like that. It was off on the side, on the white part, and most of the time you couldn’t see it at all until she turned her head just right.

The Ivy Dog actually belongs to my non-running daughter N, who relies on the rest of the family to keep Ivy sane by taking her trail running. When the red spot didn’t go away after a few weeks, N took Ivy to the vet. N started treating her with eyedrops morning and night. The Ivy Dog, as I mentioned in the previous post, is ridiculously smart. Even though the drops were unpleasant, she began whining at a certain time of evening if N hadn’t given her the drops yet. Us humans need a lot of reminding. It’s not easy being in charge of us.

Seriously, you are so slow

Seriously, you are so slow

I won’t give you all the details, but suffice it to say that the drops cleared an underlying problem that they had identified, but did nothing for the red spot. In fact, it began to grow rapidly, spreading across her eye and getting in the way of her eyelid.

The concerns turned rapidly to cancer and whether it may have metastasized to other parts of her body. This, in turn, led to sleepless nights (for us, Ivy was very brave) lots of vet fees, and some hard decisions. It also led to a couple of sad trail runs. We didn’t know when, or if, Ivy would join us on the trail again. Each run leading up to her surgery could be the last. Did she know? I couldn’t tell. She ran and played like it was her last. But she always does.

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I’m not very happy right now

A few days before Ivy lost her eye, an ultrasound of her abdomen came back clean. The other area of concern was her lungs. The lung x-ray had a couple of spots that might be a problem, or might not. We wouldn’t know if we should worry until they biopsied the tumor on her eye.

We have a wonderful vet. A couple of them, actually. They told us to YouTube videos of one-eyed dogs so we wouldn’t be shocked by how she looked. We did. It’s not an easy thing to see, but at this point, we wanted the tumor to be gone, and Ivy to be okay. That’s all. We knew she was beautiful and always would be. We also knew that if any dog would be just fine with one eye, it would be The Ivy Dog. (Clayton the Malador is a doofus, he would run into everything!)

photo 1 (1)We picked her up in the evening. She was very high on drugs. I walked her into the parking lot and she stopped, staring at some buildings across from the vet’s office. She stood there for a few minutes, moving her head just slightly. So this is how things look now. Okay. Then she walked purposefully to the car.

Two weeks confined to a carrier is like two years in a prison cell for a dog like Ivy. Two weeks in a cone AND confined to a carrier is worse than anything that’s ever happened to anybody. It was very snowy during that time. She is very modest and won’t do her business if you’re watching, so we let her off leash in the backyard. As soon as the leash was off, she ran like a jackrabbit. We chased her and she ran, using her cone as a snow shovel, joyfully throwing snow over her head as she ran from the pitiful two-legs.

So we knew she would be fine.

She didn’t know she was supposed to be convalescing. She thought we were ridiculous, trying to make her walk down stairs (instead of fly), trying to make her drink, trying to make her eat. I get it. If you were to say to me, “Hey, thetrailsnail.com (that’s what my friends and family call me) you need to drink this water, and eat this bowl of damp kibble. Eat it all. Good girl!” I would also roll my eyes at you, or eye, if I happened to have only one.

Happy dog

Happy dog

She was angry at Clayton the Malador. She assumes everything is his fault. But she stepped her chicken herding up a notch, deciding, for instance, that they really needed to be herded into a particular area and kept there for a certain amount of time. This led to some conversations like this:

“Is Ivy eating the chickens? They sound like they’re being attacked,” my husband calmly asks. I look out the window, “No, they’re in the corner of the garden by the composter. She’ll let them go at the appropriate time.”

Two weeks after surgery, we went back to the vet. The biopsy had come back, the tumor was benign. She was finally okayed to get rid of the cone, but a slight infection was going to keep her off the trail for another week.

As we were leaving, Ivy walked up to say hi to a man sitting in the waiting room. He was a tattooed biker dude, a tough-looking guy. He reached to pet her, then recoiled when he saw her missing eye. She dropped her head and walked away.

I would like to say that this exchange didn’t make me cry, but I can’t. My heart kind of broke for her right then.

20160221_105723We waited out the week. Then my daughter J and I took her out to her favorite trail. We kept her pace slow (i.e., at our pace) and kept her on leash for about a mile. When it was clear that we had the canyon to ourselves, we let her off. She didn’t miss a beat. She went right back to her steady, ground-eating pace and took the lead. She stayed to the trail more than usual, with just slight meanderings, but she seemed to be even faster than before! We had to keep reminding her that we were slow, pathetic two-legs. At one point, after being made to feel like exceptionally sluggish little slow worms, we taunted her, saying that maybe she had twice as many legs as us, but we had twice as many eyes! Too soon? Sorry. Ivy thought it was funny.

So The Ivy Dog is back. She seems to have lost absolutely nothing, and to have gained even more joy on the trail after being confined. We’ve all been there, right?

It’s a strange journey, when the worst thing you can imagine isn’t really the worst thing. It’s a horrible truth in life, that there are always worse things. Losing an eye is an awful thing, but if you could ask Ivy, I think she would tell you it’s no big deal. Not running; not smelling squirrels and voles and deer; not ridiculing slow humans? That’s what’s really hard.

So if you see her out on the trail, sporting her pink collar and single eye, please accept her greeting. Give her a head nod. Tell her she’s pretty. Don’t recoil. Don’t say “ewww”.

Remember, she’s part of the trail running community. Just like you. 20160221_113513