Dancing in the Dark

New York is known for colorful people. And rats. And colorful rats.

I am being literal. Just three days ago, on 8th and 42nd, a man walked toward me with a live, pink rat perched atop his fedora (as if wearing a fedora wasn’t creepy enough). As he passed, I noticed two more rats sitting on his left shoulder – one purple, one blue. Sure, I could be making this up. It’s the internet, everything’s a lie. But there are some things women do not make up – sexual assault, and men in broad daylight with pastel rats on their shoulders.

All normal people are alike; each weirdo is weird in their own way. But nothing within my bounds of self-respect will ever approach Rat Whisperer, so seeing him in the flesh was like having my Pandora’s box of social graces blown to smithereens. New York City is the great equalizer. Here, it’s not a question of whether you shed pretenses, but simply how naked you get.

For all my belligerence about basically everything, I love my mother, and when she begs me not to run alone at night in Central Park, I oblige. Last night I was turning the corner to come home, listening to the Hamilton cast recording. (Spotify subway ads extol its personalized “Discover Weekly” algorithms, but I confound and defy them by listening to only ONE THING EVER. Recommend new songs for me now, robot!)

“The Room Where It Happens” started playing, and for those of you that don’t know, it’s a roof-rattling jazz number performed by Aaron Burr. I saw a trail leading to a small clearing and noticed that it was about the size and shape of the actual Hamilton stage. Even without that, it was perfect: Secluded, but open enough to have lead time over lunging rapists. Dimly lit, but close enough to the main road for passers-by to see me struggling with an attacker after a blood-curdling scream. If these thoughts seem morose, there is an 96% chance that you are a person who plans for her eventual rape and murder (AKA "a woman").

When the banjo comes in at 1:11, I know it’s over. (A banjo! In a rap musical! WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE.) Remember that bar scene in Top Gun when Goose is like “I’ll bet you $20 that you can’t have sex with a girl here tonight ” – an early form of the Bechdel test – and Maverick gets this little twinkle in his eye? When I heard the banjo, I was simultaneously Mav and Goose AKA Schrödinger's Top Gun. One part “This is crazy, betcha won’t do it” mixed with “Awww yeah it’s going dooooooown”.

Rhythm slithers through my body, rustling leaves look down from the mezzanine as I scuff dirt here, there, everywhere, shimmying, twisting, stomping. “This is for you, suburban living room decor! I am making you proud, for I AM DANCING LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING.” Fireflies spark all around me, the song crescendos, and here’s the pièce de résistance: At 4:04, a rat scurries across the clearing.

Listen to 4:04 and the ten seconds of whispering and cello pluckings that follow. Pray tell, does there exist in the entirety of the Broadway canon ten seconds of music more suited for a lone rat in the twilight?

In its final minute, the song goes berserk. I am breathing and sweating so hard that I stumble trying to regain balance after an especially dizzying spin and then? The music ends. The magic vanishes. The stage – mulch. The audience – trees. I remove my headphones, leave the clearing, and cross Central Park West as if nothing in the room had happened. (The rat though. The rat knew.)

Four Ten

Four hours and nine minutes is a long time to run
Especially when nobody's chasing you
Which is probably the reason why people ask runners
Are you crazy?
What's the point of "digging deep" when you know you won’t win?

And as a runner myself I think I can say that
We just like knowing we have it in us

Four hours and nine minutes is a long time to run
And what a release when you see the finish
And what a relief just when you think your lungs will explode

And then something does—-and it’s not your lungs

And what a shock when screams of joy become screams of fear
And the blood that’s pumping in your ears runs cold
This is not how you planned on finishing

Because four hours and nine minutes ago you stood at the start
Nervous, anxious, restless

Maybe even terrified
And now some terrorist is at the top of the list of
America’s Most Wanted and the moment that you most wanted

Was stolen from you

Then the clock hits 04:10
And firemen policemen countrymen and women
Embrace the terror
In a race where digging deep isn't just for runners anymore

And as if that marathon wasn’t enough
People run to give blood
Hoping that what sustained them in their journeys
Could help sustain others in hospital gurneys
That tired veins are not too strained
To be drained

For the sake of patriots

“Blood, sweat, and tears” figuratively becomes
“Blood, sweat, and tears” literally
Patriot blood shared in spirit now shared in body

And I am sure that blood runs thick like a river--
Justice running down as dirty water
(Don't we love that dirty water?)
And righteousness as a mighty stream

Because see, here's the thing
Cowardice is obvious in a place
Where people don’t fire till they see the whites of your eyes
So go ahead

Hate
Detonate
But if you want us to feel terror then you're going about it the wrong way
Because the Sons and Daughters of Liberty in this city
Don’t put up with Coercive Acts
So maybe read some history before you try making it
Because the only thing you're making us feel
is pity for you

We don’t know who did this yet
Yet--
We don’t need to know who did this
Because 04:10 said it all
And as a patriot myself I think I can say that
We just like showing we have it in us

We may be runners but we will not run
Some of us may not have legs now but we will stand together

And those trying to divide us

Will just have to go back to the damn drawing board

You see, we're still here
Singing "Sweet Caroline" because after the ashes
Good times never seemed so good

Brutalful

We ate all this during the run and THEN some. Mexican for dinner the night before, oatmeal in the morning, bagels and cream cheese at Phantom Ranch . . and still lost weight. 

Laying out our gear the night before. My dad came prepared for EVERYTHING. He pretty much would've had the supplies to give me surgery on the trail. 

This sign admonishes you not to hike from the rim to the river and back in one day (about 18 miles). Psch. 

After five solid miles of downhill, there's only one thing worse than seeing ALL THIS downhill to go. And that is knowing that you'll have to climb it 36 miles later.

About eight miles in! Sun finally up.

Bridge over the Colorado River. This was taken right after we saw a man in a BATMAN costume hiking up the South Rim. I guess it's a Halloween tradition for some people to do a rim hike in costume!

Ten miles of rolling terrain before the ass-kicking ascent up the North Rim. This is where we met an 18-year old kid named David who was prepping for the same run we were doing. He and his dad had a van parked at the top of the North Rim--they gave us ice-cold sodas once we got up there! 

Right above Roaring Springs, about to hang a left to head up the trail to the North Rim. 

The trail up the North Rim got pretty gnarly. I listened to Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" on the way up which perfectly captured the majesty of the canyon. Randomly, the next song was Debussy's "Claire de Lune" . . . which also perfectly captured the majesty of the canyon. Led Zeppelin and Debussy. Who knew?

Nearing the top of the North Rim! FINALLY. You can see the canyon we came up and how it snakes off to the right. Oy. This is about where the song "Don't Fence Me In" came on my iPod.

I reserve the right to a nasty 80's combover hair after 36 miles.

Weakest fist-pump ever, but who cares? DONE.

We rolled into our Best Western at around midnight--physically exhausted, but not quite sleepy. Bodies are weird. After eating everything left in our packs (and some serious loopiness from Dad!), we fell asleep at around 1:30. Only slept a little while though. It's hard to rest when you're so sore!

The next morning we hobbled over to the motel's surprisingly awesome breakfast buffet, spent a few minutes in the jacuzzi, and lifted weights in the exercise room to released lactic acid. Then I drove ten hours home.

Equal parts brutal and beautiful--brutalful!--just about sums it up. We may have to make this a yearly tradition. Or every other year. Or never again.

The Grand Canyon: Rim to Rim to Rim

A little more than two years ago, I wrote a post about how crazy my dad was. We'd just had a conversation that went like this:

"Dad, are you feeling good and ready for your ultramarathon tomorrow?"

"Meh. Not really. But I'm signed up, so I guess I'll do it."

Welp, I am truly my father's daughter. Things came full circle when, last week, my mother asked me the same question, and I replied in the same way. The longest training run I'd done in preparation had only been thirteen miles long. I had no idea  what I was in for in terms of elevation gain and loss. I'd be running with trekking poles and a 10-lb daypack...had I trained with either of those things? NOPE. 

Yet somehow, at 4:30AM last Saturday, I found myself waking up to run 46 miles in the Grand Canyon with my dad.

Had I known what a mother this run would be, I honestly would not have agreed to do it. There are two things that make this run brutal: First, 11,000 feet of elevation gain. That's pretty ridiculous in and of itself, but on paper it didn't seem, like, crazy. My first ultra was four miles longer with 9,000 feet of elevation gain, but it also had an average altitude of 10,000 feet. This ultra crammed more elevation gain into fewer miles, but hey! Lower altitude! That washes everything out, right? WRONG.

Here is what an elevation map of most ultras looks like. Mile 1 at far left, mile 50 at far right.

You gain a little, you lose a little. You gain a little more, you lose a little more. It's a gradual build.

Here is what an elevation map of the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim-to-rim ultra looks like:

BOOM! Two huge  sections of elevation loss and another two huge  sections of elevation gain. Do you have any idea how hard that is on your quads, calves, and knees?! Not only that, but the miles at which those sections occur are mentally  tough. You gain 5,000 feet at miles 18-23 (for marathoners, this is the zone where most people "hit the wall"), and 6,000 feet on the homestretch (miles 35-46).

So yeah. It was pretty much Thrash City. I became well-acquainted with the Four Levels of Post-Ultra Gimpiness:

1. Frankenstein: Knees don't bend at all, arms out for stability 

2. Zombie: Stiff and robotic, but hey! Knees bend a little!

3. Wedgie Walk: Pretty self-explanatory.

4. Normal

As of yesterday, I'm officially back to normal. And quickly gaining weight being sedentary, so I better get my butt back on the trails. I'll write more about the actual run tomorrow (with pictures). Man, that Grand Canyon is something.

Top of the South Rim, near the start of the Bright Angel Trail.

Tombstones

I like running in graveyards. That's what I did this morning. It was misty and a few wayward turns in the Avenues brought me to the Salt Lake City Cemetery.

I like knowing that my heart is the only heart beating for acres. It makes me acutely conscious of my existence. I'll become a tombstone one day, too. But for now, my bones are my own! The very stars course through my veins! Isn't that something?

I like reading tombstones. Even sad ones, like those of babies who didn't last 'til morning. I think of all the anguish their parents must have suffered, how awful it must've been to have something given and taken away so quickly--but look! The child's parents are right there! Under their own tombstones. Everyone's together again, finally. Isn't that something?

Down another lane, I pass a small hillside of tombstones all written in Japanese characters. Dozens of them--friends, relatives, neighbors, who knows?--all gathered together in their own little borough. Isn't that something? That even in death, we just want to be near each other?

Cemeteries and tombstones aren't monuments to death and loss, but to life and love. I think that's why I like them so much.

Penultimate

It's our second-to-last week here in DC. I can hardly believe how quickly the summer has flown by! We're trying to squeeze in every last bit of living that we can out of this place because--to be honest--we don't ever see ourselves as coming back. (More on that later.) I'm so glad that we've had the summer here though because gosh there is so much to see and do.

Monday 7/25: Brock and I participated in the Barlow Center Talent Show! It was such a fun night. We did a parody of Alanis Morissette's "Ironic." Brock and I lovingly refer to the BC as the friend zone because there's a whooooole lotta flirtin' that goes down here, but not a lotta datin'! So we wrote a song called "Platonic." Brock guitared it up while I channeled my inner angsty Alanis with mad vocals. And together, we came up with some pretty baller lyrics.

An old man turns twenty-eight
He plays the Xbox as his Friday night date
In the friend zone, and he can’t escape
The dinner group gives him stomach aches
And isn’t it platonic . . . don’tcha think?

It’s a bridesmaaaaaaaaaid on a wedding day
It’s a grandpaaaaaaaaaa who asks if you’re gay
It’s the bad adviiiiiiice from your roommates
And who would’ve thought . . . you’re single!!

Mr. Play-It-Safe was afraid to date
Sat in the commons room looking for a soulmate
He waited his whole dang life for a Cougarette
And as the years passed by
He thought “I love Jimmer Fredette”
And isn’t it platonic . . . don’tcha think?

It’s a bridesmaaaaaaaaaaid on a wedding day
It’s a grandpaaaaaaaaaa who asks if you’re gay
It’s the bad adviiiiice from your roommates
And who would’ve thought . . . you’re single!!

The Barlow Center makes people friends not lovers and certainly not eternal companions
The Barlow Center has lingering hugs but never never any kisses, bachelors and misses

So go and do what the Sowbys command

Quit flirting, quit talking, quit holding hands
It’s like 10,000 friends when all you need is a wife
How will you ever replenish? How will you multiply?
And isn’t it platonic . . . don’tcha think?
A little too platonic . . . and yeah, I really do think

It’s a bridesmaaaaaaaaaaaaid on a wedding day
It’s a grandpaaaaaaaaaa who asks if you’re gay
It’s the bad adviiiiiiiiiice from your roommates
And who would’ve thought . . . you’re single . . . . .

The Barlow has a funny way of sneaking up on you
The Barlow has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Of helping you out . . . of the friend zone.

Tuesday 7/26: I lunched with my old BYU cross-country/track friend Laura! She's just as saucy, opinionated, and brilliant as I remembered :) As if I should expect anything less from a person in their third year of Harvard Law School!

At dusk, Brock and I went on a therapeutic run on the Glover-Archbold trail. A little while ago I wrote about this wooded trail we'd found in the middle of DC--as it turns out, the Glover-Archbold trail is just a continuation of that! It's a perfect little 5-mile run from the top of the trail to our apartment, and it winds down through thick forests and streams.

I turned my iPod to Radical Face's "Welcome Home" and stretched my arms out wide as I ran down a hill. I breathed in the fresh air deeply and closed my eyes. We had the trail to ourselves for most of the run, with the exception of a few white-tailed deer and the occasional glitter of a firefly.

Wednesday 7/27: I lunched with Brock :) He bought us some awesome gyros at a local Greek place, and maaaaan oh man were they good. After work, we hit up the International Spy Museum. It was pretty cool, but definitely geared toward kids. Luckily it was community night (aka FREE)--wouldn't have been worth $20 admission!

Thursday 7/28: We made a quick visit to the National Air and Space Museum after work. It's a HUGE museum, and rightfully so--how else are you going to fit DOZENS of aircraft in a single building?! We saw the Apollo 11 Command Module Columbia, the Spirit of St. Louis (Lindberg's plane for the first transatlantic flight!), Amelia Earhart's Lockheed 5B Vega (plane of thesecond transatlantic flight, and first by a woman), UAVs used in Iraq and Afghanistan, WWI and WWII planes--the list goes on!

Saturday 7/30: Visited the infamous Ford's Theatre in the morning (see photos 150-168 here). I couldn't believe how many original artifacts they had in the small museum there--the suit Lincoln wore the night he was assassinated, the bloodied pillow his head lied on, the wooden stick that John Wilkes Booth used to jam the door . . .

It was so humbling to look up at the president's box in the theatre. To look at the stage and see the place where John Wilkes Booth yelled out "Sic semper tyrannis!" before making his getaway on horseback. The entire experience gave me an even greater appreciation for our 16th president. I would really like to name one of our sons after him. "Abraham Boyce." Hmmm.

After Ford's Theatre we went to the Corcoran Art Museum (see photos 79-89 here), which had an eclectic collection of American, European, and modern art. It was a fun, quick museum to go to with lots of gems littered about the galleries. Here's one of my favorites:

"Tamaca Palms" by Frederic Edwin Church. 1854.

Next on our list was the Air and Space Museum (yes, I know, again) to see the "space" portion of it (on our last visited we'd only seen the "air"). We also paid to see an IMAX movie called "Hubble 3D" which just blew our minds. I can't believe how small our little planet is in this vast cosmos! To hear nebulas being measured in trillions of miles across, with billions of galaxies in them--holy cow. I've always had a fascination with space, and I think it's because it ties in so well to my faith in God. It's hard to look at pictures like these and be an atheist.

We grabbed a quick dinner at Busboys and Poets and headed off to meet Ryan and Tiffany for s'mores and games in Rock Creek Park. Unfortunately, their car broke down right as we were about to drive off! The night ended up being a bust, but c'est la vie. If you're going to be stuck on a street corner for the better part of an hour, it's good to be stuck with friends :)

Turn to Stone

D.C. bums me out a little. Not because I don't enjoy my internship or the people I live and work with, but because I don't feel quite like I fit with the people here. But last night my attitude changed.

It was brought on by (what else?) a run. I hit the pavement at around 7PM and ran along the Potomac on Rock Creek Trail. I passed the Watergate Complex, the Kennedy Center, and came upon the sand volleyball pits behind the Lincoln Memorial. I looked out upon the dozens of people laughing and playing together, with the sun setting behind them--and the monuments, and the Capitol--and my heart just swelled. Man, this place is beautiful.

I continued running down the Arlington Memorial Bridge. As I crossed over the river and into Arlington National Cemetery, Ingrid Michaelson's "Turn to Stone" started playing on my iPod. I slowed to a stop and listened.

Let's take a better look
Beyond a storybook
And learn our souls are all we own
Before we turn to stone 
Let's go to sleep with clearer heads 
And hearts too big to fit our beds 
And maybe we won't feel so alone 
Before we turn to stone 

My heart started pounding in my chest as I looked around. I was standing among thousands who had turned to stone. After a few moments of still meditation, I crossed back over the bridge again. Instead of running home, however, I ran to the Lincoln Memorial. As I walked up the marble steps toward Lincoln, I stepped on the stone tablet marking the place where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his famous "I Have a Dream" speech. Looking up and out across the Mall, I saw what is perhaps the most famous stone building in the entire city--the Washington Monument. Behind me, the stone sculpture of Abraham Lincoln. To the left of me, nearly 60,000 names carved in black stone on the Vietnam War Memorial.

I stood inside the Lincoln Memorial watching families take pictures in front of him. There was a white family, an Indian family, and a black family. I realized that this is what Lincoln had worked toward--this day. I reflected on the Gettysburg Address and the line that reads they gave the last full measure of devotion. And it struck me that Lincoln was not exempt from his own words: He gave that himself. As have countless others. How could I not love this city? This city that lives and breathes the sorrows and joys and pains and triumphs of a country?

I walked in my apartment door with a renewed love for DC, and a stronger resolve to let my life become some sort of sacrifice before I turn to stone too.

***

Hot and Heavy

Ultrarunning is kind of a big deal in my family. Well, okay. Just between me and my dad. But that's like 1/4 of our family, which is a decent chunk. I mean, I eat 1/4 of a pizza and I'm pretty full. (Airtight logic.)

I thought it'd be fun to keep you all up-to-date on how my dad's training for Badwater is going. The first question a person asks you upon finding out you do ultras is "What are those?" (Followed by "Are you stupid?") However, if said person is familiar with the sport, that first question becomes "Have you done Badwater?"

My dad got tired of answering "no" to this question. After trekking in Nepal last year (a lifelong dream of his) he needed another goal to look forward to. And a 135-mile race through Death Valley fit the bill.

With the race in mid-July, he's hitting the peak of his training right now. 40, 50-mile runs on the weekends. Y'know. Just to get his blood pumping. This is what he wears while doing that. On a 92-degree day.

When I Said My Dad Was Crazy

I meant it.

Recent text from him: I am training soooo hard for Badwater! 5 layers, 16 pounds of clothes, 4 hours of running with elevation on treadmill, 2 full hats with mouth coverage and winter gloves. Oh yeah...and a space heater on high heat blowing in my face. Followed with 30 minutes in the sauna.

I've run a 50, and I've always said I'm going to do 100s with my pops someday. I'd consider myself a fellow ultrarunner at heart, and I probably "get" my dad more than most people. This? This is just beyond me. I have no desire to ever, EVER do this race. I'll see you at Hardrock in a few years, Dad. But Badwater?

When I start thinking you're crazy, you know you've crossed the rubicon.

Georgetown Run

My new running shoes embarked on their maiden voyage today.

Running is the best way to really get to know a city. To find all the little small streets, old stores, and wooded trails that take you away from the bustle and into the core.

We ran up into Georgetown, down to the waterfront, and along the Potomac through Chesapeake and Ohio National Park. We crossed under what Brock has appropriately deemed "the world's scariest tunnel" and onto a small trail that jutted off perpendicularly from a busy street into thick woods. Tall trees formed a dense canopy above us, and the flick of Brock's shoe in front of me kicked up flecks of mud onto my calves. If it weren't for the roar of airplanes flying low overhead into Reagan National Airport, I would've forgotten where I was.

The woods gave way to a vast, open meadow. A few minutes later, we crested a hill onto Reservoir Road, leading us up a steady slope onto Georgetown's campus. Past the medical center, past the dental school, past the French embassy, and finally down to Wisconsin Avenue.

Wisconsin is a gradual downhill road. The final mile home. My body succumbed to gravity as I sunk into my hips and ran without thinking. That's the best type of running. When your brain doesn't even register the movement of your legs and they just pump pump pump like Quixote's windmills.

Instead, all my mental efforts were exerted in one primal concentration: Keeping my body in motion. I focused my eyes on any approaching obstacles, and stepped gingerly, quickly around them to avoid breaking my stride.

I'm a very quiet runner. My steps are light, and once I settle into a rhythm, my breathing is barely audible. No matter how many "On your left"s I say to people ahead of me, my stealthy movements always manage to surprise/terrify at least one person as I pass them. Whoosh, shriek, jump, "I'm so sorry!", "No worries!", repeat.

But I like this--it makes me feel like I'm running how I should. How my ancestors did, when they had to move quickly and quietly through the woods to kill that night's dinner. Except I'm not dodging trees, bushes, rocks, or rivers. I'm zigzagging through 20-somethings whose arms are full of Zara and Aldo bags, cutting around people stepping into limos and taxis, and winding my way around street lamps, stop signs, and garbage cans.

And now, here I am. Home. But not just home in the sense that I'm sitting in this little 20X20 apartment that Brock and I share for the summer. Home in the sense that, for the first time in a long time, I feel connected to something. Maybe with my body; maybe with nature; maybe with the savage, raw person inside me who just wants to run on the land until she reaches the end of it.

I don't know what it is. But I know I unleash it when I knot up those laces.

Don't Fence Me In

Isn't this the best song?

***

I used to love visiting my friend Erica down the street because she'd go creek-exploring with me. There was a creek near her house with cool water, tall reeds, and muskrats. Now that I think of it, it was more of drainage ditch, but we didn't care because we didn't know that. All we knew was how good it felt when we kicked off our shoes and let the brown mud seep up between our toes. And how exciting it was when we saw a muskrat dart off into the reeds--right in front of us! The lure of always wanting to explore further and further down the creek. And the sweet tinge of rebelliousness we felt knowing that our moms would sigh and say "How many times do I have to tell you not to play in that gross ditch?!" when we came home for dinner.

I remember laying down one night in the field behind my grandparents' cabin, looking up at the brightest stars I'd ever seen. Wispy mountain grass tickled my face while crickets played songs without words (people-words, that is). I remember being struck with the majesty of the universe, and with the greatness of God.

My grandpa owned an authentic teepee that we slept in sometimes. With musty fur blankets and everything. I always had the hardest time falling asleep in that teepee. I watched the flap opening intently and listened to every sound outside, just waiting for a bear to come roaming in.

We moved into a new house in the foothills. There was a funny little clump of cottonwood trees out in the middle of the prairie below us--my friend Becky called them the Broccoli Trees, because they really did look like a bunch of broccoli out there. Sometimes I walked all the way out to those trees just to sit.

I used to run on an old dirt road near my house. I don't even know what the name of it was. I ran down the Cathy Fromme Prairie Trail for just a bit, hopped a fence, ran up into a neighborhood, down a hill, past some mailboxes, took a left and then--exhale--the pavement ended and miles of soft dirt stretched out before me. There were a few houses scattered along that road, but not many. Sometimes I'd see a car, sometimes not. Most of the time it was just me, dusk, and the sound of my feet on the earth. I loved this road because its undulating hills wound down into a valley surrounded by rocky cliffs. At the end of the road was a pasture full of horses. Before turning around to run home, I would stand on the pasture's old wooden fence for a while, trying to persuade a horse to come over so I could touch it.

Sometimes a horse would come, sometimes not. Sometimes I waited for a long time on that fence.

The Double Life

One of the reasons why I love trail running is that it makes me feel like I lead a double life. During the day I work at my desk job, do all my homework like a good little girl, and tidy up the house when I get home. But after all that is done? I'm a heathen running half-naked through the woods. Panting, dirty, sweaty, my footfalls disturbing the peace of the mountains. I like that.

Yesterday, in the weekly meeting that all the American Heritage TAs have, the professor was talking about his experience at the St. George Marathon this past weekend. He told us his time. Another TA told us his marathon time. (Both Brock and I have run marathons significantly faster than both of them). They both talked about how badly they wanted to run Boston. (Brock and I already have.) Everyone agreed that marathoners are crazy. Nobody knew that I'd just run a 50-miler three weeks prior. Nobody knows that my husband--who is so not built for long-distance running--has run a 2:53 marathon.

And they still don't. Most people who know Brock and I don't know any of this. Running has never and will never be a glory sport, because most successes to be had in running are largely personal ones. But I like that. It's fun having something that truly defines me as a person, that I consider to be a part of my very essence, yet having there be relatively few people who actually know about it. And even fewer people who "get it."

Move over, Sydney Bristow. 

Ultramarathon Essentials

It takes a village not only to raise a child, but to help a person run an ultra. I'll blog later about the actual race itself, but for now I just want to extend some internet love to the products and people who helped!

1. Nathan Hydration Pack

You know how in junior high you were NOT cool if you didn't wear Lucky jeans? At ultras, apparently, the same holds true if you don't have one of these suckers on your back. But unlike Lucky jeans, they serve a purpose. The reason why Nathans are so ubiquitous at the starting line is because they are amazing. They carry just enough water to get you from aid station to aid station (about 70 ounces) and have zippered pockets on the front shoulder straps that give you easy access to any PowerGels, chapstick, iPod, etc that you stash in there. And, unlike most packs, the weight of a Nathan is carried completely on your shoulders and not on your hips. Plus, the straps are made of a supersoft, breathable material that doesn't chafe. I am definitely putting one of these suckers on my Christmas list (I borrowed my dad's at the race).

2. BodyGlide

Probably the best $7 investment you can make if you want to run any distance over a half-marathon.

3. Wright Socks

I'm one of the few outdoor enthusiasts who hasn't hopped on the SmartWool bandwagon. I think their socks are too tight-fitting and too hot. But for long runs, cotton just won't cut it. I found Wright Socks at a local running store and love them as an alternative to SmartWool! They're much lighter, more breathable, and achieve the same aim as SmartWool: keeping your feet blister-free. I wore these socks for the entire 50 miles and hadn't a trace of blister at the finish line.

4. PowerGels

Don't even waste your time trying other gels (Gu, Clif Shots, etc). PowerGels are the best-tasting, hands-down. I like the gels with 2x caffeine--it gives you a noticeable kick of energy. Best flavors are tangerine, vanilla, strawberry banana, and chocolate.

5. S-Caps 

The main electrolytes you lose in heavy sweating are sodium and chloride. Chemistry 101, anybody? NaCl = salt. Popping a salt pill every few hours will help replace the electrolytes your body loses through sweating, which prevents cramps (especially in hot weather).

6. Hokas

While there is no doubt that these babies are the fugliest things you will ever put on your feet, they are worth every penny of the $180 you'll have to shell out for them (once again, borrowed my dad's--sadly, our shoe sizes aren't too far off from each other!). They look huge and bulky, but surprisingly each shoe only weighs 12 ounces. And there's a ton  of cushy room inside--perfect for the last 10 miles when your feet are tired and swollen. I wore Hokas for the last six miles of the race (3,500 feet of descent) and it literally felt like they were propelling me forward.

7. Trail Shoes

Brooks Cascadia 5, what would I have done without you? I love these because unlike most trail shoes, they don't weigh 4 lbs each and aren't embarrassingly bad-looking.

8. iPod

I may or may not have stopped to physically shake my booty at mile 16 to Nelly's "Ride Wit Me."

9. Ibuprofen

Liver schmiver. I don't care what the studies say about ibuprofen--it's a godsend! 

10. Excedrin

I packed some Excedrin thinking I might get a headache from dehydration or the altitude. While I ended up having no problems with either of those, Excedrin came in major handy at mile 35 (4pm) when I felt like taking a nap right there on the trail. After the caffeine boost from Excedrin, I was golden.

11. Your Crew

It felt so good seeing Brock and my family at miles 22 and 28! It gave me such a jolt of energy. Not to mention that they operated like a Formula 1 pit crew! All the other runners were totally jealous. My mom massaged my back with Biofreeze, dad topped off my Camelback, my siblings got me food, Brock showered me with compliments... :)

Special props go out to my dad for helping me get through the race mentally. Right before the race started, he attached a strand of five safety pins to my pack. "You're not going out for a 50-mile run," he said. "You're going out for a 15-hour hike in the woods. Every three hours, take off one of these pins. Just focus on that." At the end of the day, I gave him back one pin.

12. God

As great as it is to have the encouragement of your crew and aid station volunteers, that doesn't change the fact that for the majority of the race you're on your own (with scarcely another runner in sight). For me, the going got really tough at miles 35-39. I never thought about dropping out, but I knew I'd need a little heavenly support to help get me through. Saying a quick prayer helped remind me that I wasn't really alone out there. Likewise, when I crossed the finish line I knew it wasn't really all my doing. Philippians 4:13.

***

In the pre-race briefing on Friday, the race director told a story about a guy who hit a mid-life crisis. He saw that he was in the same routine, in the same rut as everybody else his age. So he started running and eventually founded the NYC Marathon.

Our race director referred to this act as "getting off the train."

"You will hit a point tomorrow when this grand, romantic idea that you had six months ago of running an ultramarathon will seem like the dumbest idea you ever had. You will hurt. It will be painful. It will suck. But if you quit because it's too hard, or because you're in pain, then give me back the finisher's T-shirt that you got in your packet tonight. Because you got off that train a long time ago, and you don't deserve it if you get back on."

I'm proud to say I'm still off the train. But like I said, it took a village 

Little Did I Know

that when I wrote about toenails falling off four days ago--and how disgusting it was--that MY toenails would be falling off this weekend. Two of them.

Here Goes Nothin'

"Try the meditation of the trail, just walk along looking at the trail at your feet, and don't look about and just fall into a trance as the ground zips by. Trails are like that: you're floating along in a Shakespearean Arden paradise and expect to see nymphs and fluteboys, then suddenly you're struggling in a hot broiling sun of hell in dust and nettles and poison oak . . . just like life." - Jack Kerouac

"If you're going to try, go all the way. . . You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire . . . you will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is." - Charles Bukowski

"I thought if you could run 100 miles, you'd be in this Zen state. You'd be the effing Buddha, bringing peace and a smile to the world. It didn't work in my case--I'm the same old punk-ass as before--but there's always that hope that it will turn you into the person you want to be, a better, more peaceful person. When I'm out on a long run, the only thing in life that matters is finishing the run. For once, my brain isn't going blehblehbleh all the time. Everything quiets down, and the only thing going on is pure flow. It's just me and the movement and the motion. That's what I love--just being a barbarian, running through the woods." - Jenn Shelton

Joe Tough Guy

There's a trail marathon in CA that looks way sick. I talked to my dad on the phone about running it together next year, to which he responded something like "Yeah . . . "

Being the prodding type, I sent him an email with a link directing him to the course's website. His reply?

"You already tried to induce me to go on this run with you and I, in true man-fashion, simply ignored this sly maneuver. I do not do 26-mile runs."

Well excuuuuse me Mr. Ultrapants!

"True man-fashion." From the nine-fingered man who has maybe 20 lbs on me. He cries during sad country songs, too.

The Downpour

A cloud loomed overhead as she looked out the window. A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder. 

"If you want to see who the true runners are, look outside during Mother Nature's next hissyfit."

The words--a clever tagline from a shoe advertisement--gnawed at her like the memory of a past sin. 

She hadn't even made it around the block when the hail started. Tiny white pellets screamed down from above while the sky roared. Thankfully, it didn't last long. The air quieted and a watercolor sunset unfolded across the horizon. But just when her shoes were getting dry, small dark circles began to dot the pavement. Within minutes, a soothing evening rain became liquid wrath.

She was breathless, drenched, cold, shivering. But the words didn't gnaw at her anymore.

Yet Another Running Misadventure

Less than two months until D-Day: September 18th. The day I run my first ultramarathon. The day I toe the line at 6am with 159 other crazies. I'll be the youngest person there. I's scurred.

With more than 9,000 feet of climbing throughout those 50 miles and an average elevation of 10,000 feet, I'm hitting the trails as hard and as high as I can. That's why I was delighted to find this run online:


I started running on the Big Spring Hollow Trail, connected to a trail that climbed up to Cascade Saddle, and from there I took a Forest Service trail (060) which lead me to the mouth of Rock Canyon. I know I say this every time, but this was one of the most gorgeous runs I have ever been on. I had the entire mountain to myself (didn't see a soul from 6:30-10:00), without even so much as an iPod to interrupt me. When you're walking through a quiet, undisturbed world that is so majestic, so breathtaking that it nearly makes you cry, it almost seems sacrilegious to have Katy Perry blasting in your ear. Besides, no song could ever compare to the sound of aspen leaves quaking in the wind, the soft crunch of dirt beneath your feet, and the perfect stillness of night floating up the mountainside as the sun retires for the day.

After a couple hours of running/hiking, I turned a corner into a cirque behind the Saddle. That's when I saw this guy across a ravine. I have creatively named him Bambi.

Bambi was a young buck--I could tell by the fuzz on his antlers. Newly grown antlers must be itchy, because he kept lifting up his leg to scratch them! It was the funniest thing. I stood there watching him for a few minutes. He watched me, too. There were no other deer around--just me and Bambi in this gaping meadow filled with wildflowers.

I decided to move along. Bambi moved along too, in my same direction, from across the ravine. Pretty soon the ravine closed up, and he was walking directly on the trail behind me.



Then the strangest thing happened. He followed me. If I took three steps, he took three steps. Bambi must have flunked out of deer school, because every single deer I have ever come across has ran away from me as fast as deerly possible. Maybe he'd never seen another human before. Maybe he was hoping to make me his Faline. I dunno. All I knew was that my heart was pounding and I didn't know what to do. I doubted he was going to hurt me--look at that face!--but still, the fact that he had ANTLERS and HOOVES and TEETH (aka: hurt potential) made me nervous.

That's when a little elf opened a filing cabinet in my brain (what? your brain doesn't have elves?) and pulled out an index card. On the index card was a tidbit of information from my younger days. When I was about eight years old, my Grandpa Kern--a true cowboy if there ever was one--gave me a book about the horse whisperer. I didn't read the whole thing, in fact I doubt I read thirty pages, but the one thing I remembered from that book was that horses bow their heads slightly when they want to show deference and respect.

Horses and deer are kind of the same, right? At least that's what I figured. In an effort to reassure Bambi that I was his friend, I did a little head bow. Apparently he liked this, because he kept following me! Had I let him, he would have walked right up to me and probably let me touch him. In hindsight, I wish I had. But I was all alone, deep in the woods, and the last thing I needed to was piss some deer off and have him trample me. I decided to err on the safe side. Having exhausted my deerspeak capabilities, I spoke to him in softly in English: "No, no, deer! Go away." And guess what? He obeyed. Bambi gave me a puzzled look, watched me walk away a few steps, and then turned around and started grazing again.

I continued on up to the Saddle. The view at the top was . . . wow.




A gorgeous vista, right? However, there is a serious problem with this picture. Look at the "V" in the middle-right of the picture--where you can barely see civilization below, miles away. Now look at how much sun is left on the mountain.

I had drastically underestimated how much time this 12-mile run would take me. Taking into account the elevation, I'd been banking on three hours (maybe 3.5). But 4000 feet of nearly relentless climbing took a lot longer than I thought it would. I was on the mountain for four hours . . . and I hauled.
I ran the final ninety minutes of my run in complete darkness, with nothing but a wimpy 1-inch Maglite to help me find the trail. I might as well have used the light from my cell phone. In addition to running in darkness, alone, through tall brush and tress, the trail was tiny, rocky, and very steep.

As I was curving down the mountain, I spooked a deer who darted off down the hillside. It just about gave me a heart attack! I decided that spooking a deer was one thing, spooking a bear was another--so I tried to make as much noise as possible. I made up a little twenty-second song--"da da ba dum dum da da...."--and sang that sucker on repeat as loud as I could as I made my way down (total: 540 times). I also pulled out my pepper spray and kept it cocked and ready, and thought about whether it would be better to whack a bear over the head with a trekking pole or try to impale it.

In addition to alerting any prowling beasts of my approach, the little song I made up helped quiet my nerves and forget how utterly terrified I was. I had never run on this trail before, and had no idea where I was going. At times it intersected with service roads, but I just chose the route that seemed to lead me closer to the city lights. There were plenty of opportunities to get lost. There were plenty of opportunities to break an ankle--running full speed down a trail I couldn't see.

After miles and miles of running without seeming to gain any ground on the lights below, I started getting really freaked out. I felt like breaking down into a paranoid cryfest, but I knew that the minute I lost focus was the minute my chances of making a mistake increased. So I kept singing.

I sent some prayers up to God. He heard them :) I rolled into Rock Canyon safe and sound at 10:15, exactly four hours after I'd started. It was so good to see Brock there in his truck waiting for me. We may or may not have broken the Sabbath and made a Wendy's run immediately thereafter (I needed something to calm my nerves, okay?! Not to mention I was ravenous).

But you know, despite all this, I find myself sitting here and wishing I was back up on that mountain. Can't wait to see what this week's long run will bring :)

For the Beauty of the Earth

Yesterday after work, Brock and I headed out for a backpacking trip in the Uintas. It was divine. Definitely the most idyllic getaway we've ever taken . . . and it was free!

After grabbing some fuel (read: a frosty and chicken nuggets) at Wendy's, we set off into the wild blue yonder with our packs and Mojo. On a run together last week, we saw the most beautiful campsite. It was high up in the mountains with no other campsites around, the ground was flat and mostly soft dirt (perfect for a tent), there was a great firepit and a natural source of pure mountain water that burbled up from the ground twenty feet away. Right when we saw this place, we knew we had to come back.

As one might expect, you don't get to a place this ideal without a haul. It's about four miles up the mountain, and 3.5 of those are uphill. No exaggeration. Add a 30-pound pack on your shoulders, and you've got quite the workout. We were a little worried that the campsite would be taken, but when we rolled in at sunset we were delighted to see that that wasn't the case :) I dropped my pack and set off into the woods to look for firewood while Brock set up camp. When I got back, we made a fire and heated up a can of thick, meaty chipotle chili for dinner. I am quite sure that NOTHING in this world tastes better than chili on a cool night after hours of hiking. We topped off our meal with s'mores (of course), washed up, and crawled into our tiny two-person tent.

It was a beautiful, cloudless night, so we didn't even put the rain cover on. This allowed us to gaze up at the stars through the mesh ceiling, and watch the bats flying overhead. The moon was beautiful and bright. We stayed up late talking about nothing, and right as we were about to drift off, we noticed a certain someone shivering at our feet. Being the sweetheart that he is, Brock let Mojo crawl into his sleeping bag. Mojo nuzzled right up to him and was asleep within minutes. Our lullaby was the breeze rustling through the aspens and the soft burble of the stream.

We woke up to birds chirping in the morning, and had cereal and OJ for breakfast. I'd stuck the milk and OJ in the stream the night before to keep them cold . . . another perk about having that cold, fresh mountain water so close! After eating, I headed out for a run while Brock broke camp. I went out for about an hour and it was breathtaking. The sun was streaming through the meadows below Mt. Timpanogos, and I felt like I had the whole mountain to myself.

I returned to camp to the sight of Brock laying down in the shade reading a book with Mojo by his side. We brushed our teeth, washed up (moist towelettes...LOVE 'EM), and headed back to civilization.

Not a bad way to start the weekend :)

Here's a photo album chock full of pictures...enjoy!

A Troubling Sight

Just now, on my run in the mountains, I saw a man wearing this kangaroo suit playing a banjo.

I am not making this up.

Photo Source

I repeat:  I SAW A MAN DRESSED LIKE THIS PLAYING A BANJO.