...from the last time I did the Redington 50k!
I can't remember that old song, or jingle, whatever it was, that had the line in it "second verse, same as the first", but wherever it came from, that phrase was stuck in my head because, really, yesterday on that route was eerily similar to the last time I was on that route. I had two goals going into this event. (This was not a race, by the way; it was just a TTR training run. In other words, I did this for FUN, not for a T-shirt or a pint glass or a medal. It was just what was on the TTR schedule for this weekend, so that's what I did. I'm not even training for anything. Just burning calories. I have now reached trail runner insanity.) Anyway, my two goals were as follows:
1) Have a better experience than last year
2) Beat my last year's time
I accomplished one of those, I beat my time. As far as having a better experience... well, maybe I did. That mountain at the end was not quite as bad as it was last year. The rest of it pretty much was, though.
This is actually not that hard of a run, by TTR standards. It doesn't have the kind of climbing that our last couple of runs have had (Agua Caliente hill, Lemmon Ascent). I don't know what the total elevation gain was, maybe a couple-few thousand feet? Tame. And there were lots of places where it was almost flat, and it was runnable almost the whole way. It was obvious at the beginning that the sun was going to be the biggest factor (well, aside from the distance, of course). I know when I am only slightly chilly at the start in T-shirt and shorts that it's going to be really hot later. I was smart this year and had stashed a bottle of frozen Nuun at the place where the AZ Trail crosses Catalina Highway. That way I could pick it up when we got there and spare myself having to carry a frozen bottle down the 2.7 miles of trail between the start and the highway. I would then carry it up and over the hill coming out of Molino and stash it again at the bottom of the big hill. See? I'm not always stupid!
The first 2.7 miles is a big drop from the Prison Camp parking lot to Molino Basin. It's a nice way to get started, with a couple fast, easy miles. Once we cross the highway at Molino, there is a pretty short and not too difficult climb up to the saddle. From the saddle you can look out at an endless sea of mountains. I was trying to figure out whether they are the Catalinas, the Rincons, or a mix of both. Anyone? Yeah, I could look at a map but I am a little too lazy for that.
On the other side of that saddle is the drop of about 1000' if I remember correctly from last year. I didn't have elevation on my watch today so couldn't check that. That is so much fun to run down, unless you are thinking the whole time about how miserable it will be to climb back up a few hours later. At the bottom there is a stock tank and that's where I stashed my bottle, on the west side where hopefully it would stay in shadow all morning and still be cool when I got back to it.
From the stock tank the AZ Trail follows a jeep road for a while and then turns into trail again. I got a little disoriented there because there were a lot of little side trails, but I managed to stay on the right trail the whole time. After a couple miles on trail, the trail comes to a dirt road and picks up again on the other side a little ways to the left. This is well-marked and it would be hard to get lost here. From this point it's 4 miles, mostly a gradual climb ending in a drop down to another dirt road where our aid station was, at just over thirteen miles in.
I'd had a pretty good run up till now, even though the trail was very sunny and exposed. Deja vu officially kicked in at the aid station. It was just like last year. I scarfed down little triangles of PB&J, looked at the cooler full of soda, thought, "I want a Pepsi," told myself, "No, you'll make yourself sick and ruin your run," pulled out a Pepsi anyway, drank half of it, told myself to leave the other half for my return trip, and then chugged the other half too because it tasted so good. My stomach promptly blew up like a balloon and I regretted the Pepsi instantly. I sometimes wonder why I just cannot seem to learn some lessons. Is it stupidity or something else? Self-destructiveness maybe? Who knows. Anyway, from the aid station it was another 2+ miles to the turnaround. There was no reason for me to do those extra 2+ miles. I could have just turned around at the aid station and been satisfied with a marathon for the day. But nooooooo, I had committed to 50k so I was going to do 50k.
I walked out of the aid station, walking delicately because of my stomach. Not 100 yards up the trail I decided it was too hot and took my shirt off and threw it on a rock. I walked along thinking how unfair it is that I can't burp. If I could burp I could just drink soda like a normal person and not get the shaken-up soda can feeling that has ruined so many of my races. Eventually the caffeine kicked in and I wanted to run, but I could only run for short distances because of my stomach. I stopped and stuck my finger down my throat, thinking, fine! I'll just puke it up then! but my stomach clamped down stubbornly and refused to let me puke. See, stubbornness runs all through my whole body.
My GPS hit 15.5 and I was still not at the turnaround, which is marked by a big AZ Trail sign. I kept going because, you know, it does not count unless you hit the turnaround sign. I hit it at 15.7. Then I turned around and faced a long, miserable slog back up to the aid station. Just exactly like last year, this is where the wheels fell off the bus. I walked every bit of that stretch and even stopped to pee at the exact same spot as I did last year. Forgot that my TP was in the pocket in my water bottle... which was 10 miles away by the stock tank. Oh well. It's not like it matters when you're going that far. I grabbed my shirt on the way back to the aid station but decided I was not going to put it on; too hot for that.
At the aid station I drank a Gatorade and a water and then some more water. I refilled my water bag and strolled out of the aid station like I had all day to get where I was going. My now-heavy-again pack was bouncing around on my back and something at the bottom of it was digging into my skin since I had taken my shirt off. I stopped to fix the poky thing but found that it was the place where the hose attaches to the bag, can't do anything about that. Oh well! It would just have to rub, then, no way was I putting the shirt back on. By now it was close to noon, and there was nothing but sun. Thankfully there was also a good breeze that kept it from getting too hot. Still, though... all that sun. And do you think I wore sunscreen? No! Of course not!
Even though I had stuffed myself at the aid station, I still had a GU about a mile later. This is not just any GU... it is peppermint-flavored holiday GU! I bought it on impulse at the Running Shop on Saturday and I am so glad I did. It is smooth and not overly sweet and did not make me feel sick at all. Well, at least it didn't make me feel sick until I accidentally looked at it while I was squeezing the last bit out of the packet. In my head the GU was white with red stripes, like a candy cane, like the package it came in. In real life it is approximately the color (and close to the viscosity) of motor oil. Ick! It's surprising, the things that can turn your stomach on a long run!
I hate this run, of course, but one thing I do like about it is that it breaks up nicely into manageable segments. From the aid station, it's 4 miles of mostly-downhill to the dirt road. Then a couple miles of trail to where it turns into dirt road. Then a couple miles on that dirt road to the stock tank. Then the climb up the horrible mountain, then the drop into Molino Basin, then the climb out of Molino and back to Prison Camp. I continued to have pretty awful problems with nausea the whole way but luckily ran into Renee at about Mile 23. She kept me going till the climb started at about the point we finished the marathon distance.
Climbing that mountain was NOT as bad as last time. I never felt like I was going to die and I did not have to lie down on the trail and I did not spend time hanging out in the bathroom at Molino like I did last time. It was miserable but no more miserable than I ever am at that point in a long run. The more-miserable part came on that last 2.7 mile stretch of the AZ Trail back to Prison Camp. It is a long slog uphill, minimal shade. My Garmin (well, Kathy's Garmin) warned me about low battery a couple times and then shut off at Mile 29-something. I felt like it was saying, "Screw it, I quit." I know the feeling! The AZ Trail roughly parallels Catalina Highway here and I know I cannot be the only one who has looked over at the highway and thought about walking out there and thumbing a ride to the Prison Camp parking lot.
My stomach was so awful by now that even the tightness of my sports bra was uncomfortable. I pulled the bottom of it away from my skin and walked along like that, getting madder and madder that I even had to wear a bra. WHY do I have to wear one? What kind of society is this where men can run shirtless but women can't? I mean, I fully understand that if I had a chest I would need the bra for support, but since I don't, why do I have to wear one? I have run braless before though with a T-shirt on, and it was not uncomfortable in the least. So, seriously, how come I have to wear one while Joe Bob with a huge gut can walk around shirt-free and get away with it? As soon as I'm done writing this I'm going to google "right for women to go shirtless" and join the political activist group that I'm sure is out there somewhere. Or else I'll just take a nap, one or the other.
I finally finished and I think Ross said my time was 7:43, which is better than the 8-something I had last year. That should be a 7-hour run if I could just get my act together. The lying down in the Prison Camp parking lot, the wanting to eat but being way too nauseous, the thoughts of never wanting to trail run again, all those were familiar from last time. This time I actually sunburned bad enough that you can see the outline of my sunglasses on my face, something that's never happened before. Also, I stayed nauseous the whole evening last night and couldn't eat. So at least it was a good day calorie-wise if not in any other way.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
I Really Should Change The Name Of This Blog...
... to "The Uninspired Trail Runner", since I don't do anything resembling triathlon anymore and haven't touched water in a swimming pool since... I don't know... maybe November? LAST November, that is. I have pretty much gone over to the dark side of trail running. Even though I claim to hate it, I am out there every weekend with TTR even when there is no race on my agenda till April at the earliest.
Anyway, shame on me for neglecting this blog. "The Uninspired Trail Runner" doesn't have the same ring to it as "The Uninspired Triathlete" so I guess I will just keep the name for now. I am really uninspired as far as writing goes because this blank blog entry has just been sitting here open on my computer since last Sunday, when I ran from Sabino Canyon to the tippy-top of Mt. Lemmon on trails. Well, okay, I did not actually RUN. I ran most of the first 10 miles and not much after that in a total of 18 miles. Hey! 10 miles of running out of 18 is good for me in a TTR run.
This one was one I did not want to miss. There's just something about running to the top of Mt. Lemmon on trails that is so badass-sounding I could not resist it. I mean, who does that? Outside of TTR runners, of course, most of whom do it faster than I do, but I mean of real world people. That's just a crazy thing to do, all right, maybe not as crazy as running to the top of Pikes Peak, but right up there. So of course I had to do it. I don't really worry anymore about whether I'm in shape to do these runs. I just fuel up and go for it and figure I'll be out there as long as it takes and finish when I finish. I guess my body is finally used to the fact that it just has to keep vertical and keep moving for long periods of time.
This run required some logistics. It is point-to-point, not a loop, and Sabino Canyon to the top of Mt. Lemmon by road is something like 35 miles. Luckily Tim, the best ex-boyfriend in the world, nicely volunteered to drive my car to the top of Mt. Lemmon (with his bike in the back) and then ride down, leaving my car up there for me to drive down. So I picked him up early Sunday morning and we drove to Sabino Canyon together and then he left me there.
The first six miles of this run were familiar to me -- 3.7 up the paved tram road, then a couple more on trail to Sabino Basin. After that the run followed the West Fork Trail, which was completely new to me. That trail goes to Hutch's Pool. Hutch's Pool is one of the most popular hiking destinations in Tucson, and I had never been there. It is a deep natural pool in the canyon. I was excited to see it for the first time but should've listened a little more carefully to the instructions about what to do when I got there. I did listen carefully to the instructions for the climb up to Romero Pass, which were: Don't Turn Left. Take the Right Trail. Somehow "turn right, not left" stuck in my mind. This was unfortunate. I was making pretty good time (for me) on the West Fork Trail as I got up to Hutch's Pool. But I must have either missed the trail turnoff to the left, or else just subconsciously followed the right fork of the trail. There are lots of well-used trails that lead down to the pool so it's easy to figure out what happened.
I was running by myself at that point, not too far behind one group and not too far ahead of another one. I still thought I was on trail as I ran past some guys camping by the pool. "Your friends just went that way," one of them said helpfully, pointing to the trail that ran to the right along the edge of the pool. "Thanks!" I said cheerfully, and kept going for another five minutes or so until the trail ended, or got so faint among the weeds and boulders that it might as well have ended. I poked around for a while but decided that could not possibly be right so went back to the campers. I was wondering why the group of runners behind me hadn't caught up to me yet since I knew they weren't that far behind me.
The camping guy said yup, the trail did go that way for sure. I decided forget it, I would just hike back the way I came until I ran into the group behind me. But then I couldn't find the trail out of there, either. I did stumble upon the other camping guy heading back to his campsite with a camp shovel in his hand. I asked him about the trail too, and he confirmed it went along the side of the pool. But just then I saw a red-shirted runner flash by up above me on the side of the canyon. "That's the trail I want!" I said. "Oh no," the guy said, "that's the West Fork Trail up there." Yup, West Fork was the one I wanted all right. But I could not for the life of me find a clear path up there, so I bushwhacked up the side of the canyon, which involved wading through waist-deep weeds and hoping desperately that it was too cold for snakes to be out.
Okay! Now I was back on trail but way behind everyone. What a buzzkill. I still had not solved the mystery of what happened to the other runners that had gone down the trail alongside the pool but decided to forget about it. I knew this was the right trail and that I had about three more miles before the trail junction where I had to turn right and climb up Romero Pass. This part of West Fork was a nice, smooth, totally runnable trail. It was climbing, but very gradually. Every so often I would catch glimpses of other runners way ahead of me. It was very sunny out. I had worn tights and a long-sleeved shirt thinking about temps on top of Mt. Lemmon, but it was a lot warmer than I had anticipated down here.
A group of runners came up behind me. It was a bunch of faster people who had been in the group that had taken the detour at Hutch's Pool. They had gone farther down the wrong trail than I had, and they said some other people had kept going, not turned back when they did. I was glad I was not in that group. This really is not the kind of run you want to do any extra miles on. That group passed me but we stayed pretty close together till we got to the trail junction. A left turn would have taken us to Cathedral Rock and the right turn went up Romero Pass. The group that was ahead of my group had stopped there to refuel so it was like a giant TTR party. I had stripped off my long-sleeved shirt so I was in just a sports bra. The cool breeze felt amazingly good on my skin. I couldn't believe how warm it was. I contemplated taking off my tights too and running in sports bra and thong, but decided that was a little much. (NOTE: I have hiked on Mt. Lemmon in a thong before, but that was with Krissy when ordinary rules did not apply.)
By this point, ten miles in, I had really had quite enough of running. Blacketts was waiting with the group at the trail junction. I asked him how he was getting down and he said he didn't know. I suggested he take my keys and drive my car down and I would meet him at Sabino. I was having vague thoughts of taking the Cathedral Rock Trail and having that somehow be a shorter return to Sabino but he informed me that was not true and we were now past the point of no return. Sigh, okay. I headed up with everyone else.
The climb up Romero Pass was not bad but once we got to the junction with another trail (the Mt. Lemmon Trail? Never did get the name) it became terrible. Straight up, boulder-scrambling required, practically hand-over-hand in some places. Amazing views across the Catalinas in all directions. I had been scrambling along talking to Craig and Sarah but suddenly was slammed with nausea that practically knocked me to the ground. I had no idea where that had come from but I had to stop and lean against a tree until it went away as suddenly as it had come, leaving me weak-kneed and clammy with sweat but able to keep going.
This climb went up to the top of a 7500' knob (as described on the map) and continued to torture me the whole way up. Nausea came and went. I wondered if it was the altitude but doubted it since Pikes Peak was twice this high and I never got nauseous there. This was a different kind of nausea, not the kind I usually get from swallowing too much air. I wondered if maybe I was coming down with a stomach virus and thought this would be a very crappy place to have it hit.
At the top of the knob the trail dropped down to the junction with the Wilderness of Rocks Trail. I had always hit this trail junction coming the other way on the Lemmon Trail and had always turned on WOR and wondered what would happen if I just kept going straight. Well, now I knew! From here to the end I was familiar with the trail, no surprises.
I was plain out of energy here. I managed to do some running but not much. With about three miles left to go I was feeling sick again and had to lie down on a rock. It was much cooler up here but that cold rock still felt so good against my bare skin! I stayed there until I started to feel cold and then ordered myself to get up and get moving for the last haul to the top.
The last part of the trail switchbacked up the mountainside to an old jeep road. When we hit the jeep road we still had a mile and a half to go, nearly all of it still uphill. I got my second wind when I hit the road and managed to run nearly all of it to where it spit us out up near Radio Ridge (9300'? 9100'? I didn't have my GPS but think it was one of those two). I wanted to take a nap up there but couldn't since I had someone coming over later and really had to get down off the mountain. Somehow I neglected to eat anything besides a Mountain Dew, even though there was lots of awesome food. The Mountain Dew finally settled my stomach and I felt fine again.
This was a good day's run and I finished in 5:47, which I think isn't horrible time for this run, but I haven't seen the other times so have no idea what they were like. It was awesome to explore a new trail and to get to the top of Mt. Lemmon on foot. Also, the one nice thing about lots of uphill? No new black toenails.
Anyway, shame on me for neglecting this blog. "The Uninspired Trail Runner" doesn't have the same ring to it as "The Uninspired Triathlete" so I guess I will just keep the name for now. I am really uninspired as far as writing goes because this blank blog entry has just been sitting here open on my computer since last Sunday, when I ran from Sabino Canyon to the tippy-top of Mt. Lemmon on trails. Well, okay, I did not actually RUN. I ran most of the first 10 miles and not much after that in a total of 18 miles. Hey! 10 miles of running out of 18 is good for me in a TTR run.
This one was one I did not want to miss. There's just something about running to the top of Mt. Lemmon on trails that is so badass-sounding I could not resist it. I mean, who does that? Outside of TTR runners, of course, most of whom do it faster than I do, but I mean of real world people. That's just a crazy thing to do, all right, maybe not as crazy as running to the top of Pikes Peak, but right up there. So of course I had to do it. I don't really worry anymore about whether I'm in shape to do these runs. I just fuel up and go for it and figure I'll be out there as long as it takes and finish when I finish. I guess my body is finally used to the fact that it just has to keep vertical and keep moving for long periods of time.
This run required some logistics. It is point-to-point, not a loop, and Sabino Canyon to the top of Mt. Lemmon by road is something like 35 miles. Luckily Tim, the best ex-boyfriend in the world, nicely volunteered to drive my car to the top of Mt. Lemmon (with his bike in the back) and then ride down, leaving my car up there for me to drive down. So I picked him up early Sunday morning and we drove to Sabino Canyon together and then he left me there.
The first six miles of this run were familiar to me -- 3.7 up the paved tram road, then a couple more on trail to Sabino Basin. After that the run followed the West Fork Trail, which was completely new to me. That trail goes to Hutch's Pool. Hutch's Pool is one of the most popular hiking destinations in Tucson, and I had never been there. It is a deep natural pool in the canyon. I was excited to see it for the first time but should've listened a little more carefully to the instructions about what to do when I got there. I did listen carefully to the instructions for the climb up to Romero Pass, which were: Don't Turn Left. Take the Right Trail. Somehow "turn right, not left" stuck in my mind. This was unfortunate. I was making pretty good time (for me) on the West Fork Trail as I got up to Hutch's Pool. But I must have either missed the trail turnoff to the left, or else just subconsciously followed the right fork of the trail. There are lots of well-used trails that lead down to the pool so it's easy to figure out what happened.
I was running by myself at that point, not too far behind one group and not too far ahead of another one. I still thought I was on trail as I ran past some guys camping by the pool. "Your friends just went that way," one of them said helpfully, pointing to the trail that ran to the right along the edge of the pool. "Thanks!" I said cheerfully, and kept going for another five minutes or so until the trail ended, or got so faint among the weeds and boulders that it might as well have ended. I poked around for a while but decided that could not possibly be right so went back to the campers. I was wondering why the group of runners behind me hadn't caught up to me yet since I knew they weren't that far behind me.
The camping guy said yup, the trail did go that way for sure. I decided forget it, I would just hike back the way I came until I ran into the group behind me. But then I couldn't find the trail out of there, either. I did stumble upon the other camping guy heading back to his campsite with a camp shovel in his hand. I asked him about the trail too, and he confirmed it went along the side of the pool. But just then I saw a red-shirted runner flash by up above me on the side of the canyon. "That's the trail I want!" I said. "Oh no," the guy said, "that's the West Fork Trail up there." Yup, West Fork was the one I wanted all right. But I could not for the life of me find a clear path up there, so I bushwhacked up the side of the canyon, which involved wading through waist-deep weeds and hoping desperately that it was too cold for snakes to be out.
Okay! Now I was back on trail but way behind everyone. What a buzzkill. I still had not solved the mystery of what happened to the other runners that had gone down the trail alongside the pool but decided to forget about it. I knew this was the right trail and that I had about three more miles before the trail junction where I had to turn right and climb up Romero Pass. This part of West Fork was a nice, smooth, totally runnable trail. It was climbing, but very gradually. Every so often I would catch glimpses of other runners way ahead of me. It was very sunny out. I had worn tights and a long-sleeved shirt thinking about temps on top of Mt. Lemmon, but it was a lot warmer than I had anticipated down here.
A group of runners came up behind me. It was a bunch of faster people who had been in the group that had taken the detour at Hutch's Pool. They had gone farther down the wrong trail than I had, and they said some other people had kept going, not turned back when they did. I was glad I was not in that group. This really is not the kind of run you want to do any extra miles on. That group passed me but we stayed pretty close together till we got to the trail junction. A left turn would have taken us to Cathedral Rock and the right turn went up Romero Pass. The group that was ahead of my group had stopped there to refuel so it was like a giant TTR party. I had stripped off my long-sleeved shirt so I was in just a sports bra. The cool breeze felt amazingly good on my skin. I couldn't believe how warm it was. I contemplated taking off my tights too and running in sports bra and thong, but decided that was a little much. (NOTE: I have hiked on Mt. Lemmon in a thong before, but that was with Krissy when ordinary rules did not apply.)
By this point, ten miles in, I had really had quite enough of running. Blacketts was waiting with the group at the trail junction. I asked him how he was getting down and he said he didn't know. I suggested he take my keys and drive my car down and I would meet him at Sabino. I was having vague thoughts of taking the Cathedral Rock Trail and having that somehow be a shorter return to Sabino but he informed me that was not true and we were now past the point of no return. Sigh, okay. I headed up with everyone else.
The climb up Romero Pass was not bad but once we got to the junction with another trail (the Mt. Lemmon Trail? Never did get the name) it became terrible. Straight up, boulder-scrambling required, practically hand-over-hand in some places. Amazing views across the Catalinas in all directions. I had been scrambling along talking to Craig and Sarah but suddenly was slammed with nausea that practically knocked me to the ground. I had no idea where that had come from but I had to stop and lean against a tree until it went away as suddenly as it had come, leaving me weak-kneed and clammy with sweat but able to keep going.
This climb went up to the top of a 7500' knob (as described on the map) and continued to torture me the whole way up. Nausea came and went. I wondered if it was the altitude but doubted it since Pikes Peak was twice this high and I never got nauseous there. This was a different kind of nausea, not the kind I usually get from swallowing too much air. I wondered if maybe I was coming down with a stomach virus and thought this would be a very crappy place to have it hit.
At the top of the knob the trail dropped down to the junction with the Wilderness of Rocks Trail. I had always hit this trail junction coming the other way on the Lemmon Trail and had always turned on WOR and wondered what would happen if I just kept going straight. Well, now I knew! From here to the end I was familiar with the trail, no surprises.
I was plain out of energy here. I managed to do some running but not much. With about three miles left to go I was feeling sick again and had to lie down on a rock. It was much cooler up here but that cold rock still felt so good against my bare skin! I stayed there until I started to feel cold and then ordered myself to get up and get moving for the last haul to the top.
The last part of the trail switchbacked up the mountainside to an old jeep road. When we hit the jeep road we still had a mile and a half to go, nearly all of it still uphill. I got my second wind when I hit the road and managed to run nearly all of it to where it spit us out up near Radio Ridge (9300'? 9100'? I didn't have my GPS but think it was one of those two). I wanted to take a nap up there but couldn't since I had someone coming over later and really had to get down off the mountain. Somehow I neglected to eat anything besides a Mountain Dew, even though there was lots of awesome food. The Mountain Dew finally settled my stomach and I felt fine again.
This was a good day's run and I finished in 5:47, which I think isn't horrible time for this run, but I haven't seen the other times so have no idea what they were like. It was awesome to explore a new trail and to get to the top of Mt. Lemmon on foot. Also, the one nice thing about lots of uphill? No new black toenails.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Toenails (With Pictures!)
I know, I know, you're sick of hearing about my toenails. Well, too bad. This is my blog and I can write about whatever I want, and I feel like writing about toenails today. I also feel like putting in pictures. However, I did do you the courtesy of putting the pictures waaaaaaaay down at the bottom, so they won't jump right out and scare you. I must warn you that they are extremely disgusting. Extremely! So don't look if you have a weak stomach or if you think that you might not be able to look at me without the sight of me triggering a gag reflex after you see them.
Some people (non-runners, obviously) don't get why things like this happen to toenails. Here is why. When you run long distances, especially down hills, your toes bang against the toebox of your shoes. Times a million in a long distance race. I am pretty sure this is inevitable. It's happened in many different brands of shoe. I don't think it has anything to do with the shoe being the wrong size. These shoes feel like they're exactly the right size. If I went up a half a size, my foot would be sliding around and would hit the toebox with even more force; if I went down half a size my toes would be squished in the front of the shoe and would start their blistering even before I hit the hills.
Multiply the impact of the toe hitting the toebox times... some really high number, and eventually you get a blister under the nail from the friction. If the blister is bad enough (and here's where my science gets murky and I'm too lazy to google, so I'm basically making this up), it somehow causes the nail to disconnect from the nail bed. Or maybe it happens because the nail sits and marinates in the liquid from the blister all day. I don't really know. But eventually the whole nail will just lift off, and you are left with smooth, shiny pink toe skin just like the day you were born.
Not! More likely you're left with (see below) an oozing crater with shards of nail clinging to the edges of the nail bed because the nail wasn't quite ready to be detached but you got impatient and numbed it up with ice and yanked it off because you got tired of it flapping like a saloon door in an old Western movie and catching on your blankets in bed and making you wake up screaming every time you turned over. Yeah, I know I'm not the only one who's done that.
Okay, I've made you wait long enough, scroll down past the pretty picture of pretty Chloe (you'll need this cuteness to inoculate yourself against the grossness that's coming next) if you reeeeaaaalllly want to see...
The first picture below is of my right big toenail... or, more accurately, the place where my right big toenail used to be. It turned black after Pikes Peak but hung around until after the 50, when it pretty much gave up the ghost. I went ahead and pulled it off, and it came off except for in the right corner, where it was still attached firmly. That hurt. Like pulling off a hangnail. And the fact that I left a tiny speck of toenail there means it will grow back in all uneven and double-thick and disgusting. Like a little horn.
The next one is of my left big toe. I call this one my zombie toenail because it turned fish-white instead of the usual black. (Though today it's looking yellow, maybe due to the hydrogen peroxide soaks?) Anyway, the blister under this one popped and drained and I should have just left it alone, but noooooo. I can't leave scabs or dead toenails alone; I just can't. So I picked at it and picked at it and eventually got it at least halfway off -- but it stopped there and wouldn't go any further. Now what? It hurts too much if I try to pull it all the way off. But if I leave it on it catches on everything. Solution: leave it on, soak it often, hope that the soaking softens it up enough to pull it all the way off eventually. And bandage it during the day so that my sweaty feet don't make it stick to my sock and create a nasty mess when I take my sock off at the end of the day.
You know, the sad thing is that my feet are structurally perfect. Really, they are. I don't have a foot fetish but the shape of my feet makes me want to get one just so I could worship my own feet. Then THIS shit goes and happens to my nails, making me want to throw up. I have heard it said that no matter how gross something is, someone, somewhere, has fetishized it, but I am pretty willing to bet that no one has ever fetishized ultrarunners' feet. And if someone has, that someone is a sick, sick individual.
Some people (non-runners, obviously) don't get why things like this happen to toenails. Here is why. When you run long distances, especially down hills, your toes bang against the toebox of your shoes. Times a million in a long distance race. I am pretty sure this is inevitable. It's happened in many different brands of shoe. I don't think it has anything to do with the shoe being the wrong size. These shoes feel like they're exactly the right size. If I went up a half a size, my foot would be sliding around and would hit the toebox with even more force; if I went down half a size my toes would be squished in the front of the shoe and would start their blistering even before I hit the hills.
Multiply the impact of the toe hitting the toebox times... some really high number, and eventually you get a blister under the nail from the friction. If the blister is bad enough (and here's where my science gets murky and I'm too lazy to google, so I'm basically making this up), it somehow causes the nail to disconnect from the nail bed. Or maybe it happens because the nail sits and marinates in the liquid from the blister all day. I don't really know. But eventually the whole nail will just lift off, and you are left with smooth, shiny pink toe skin just like the day you were born.
Not! More likely you're left with (see below) an oozing crater with shards of nail clinging to the edges of the nail bed because the nail wasn't quite ready to be detached but you got impatient and numbed it up with ice and yanked it off because you got tired of it flapping like a saloon door in an old Western movie and catching on your blankets in bed and making you wake up screaming every time you turned over. Yeah, I know I'm not the only one who's done that.
Okay, I've made you wait long enough, scroll down past the pretty picture of pretty Chloe (you'll need this cuteness to inoculate yourself against the grossness that's coming next) if you reeeeaaaalllly want to see...
The first picture below is of my right big toenail... or, more accurately, the place where my right big toenail used to be. It turned black after Pikes Peak but hung around until after the 50, when it pretty much gave up the ghost. I went ahead and pulled it off, and it came off except for in the right corner, where it was still attached firmly. That hurt. Like pulling off a hangnail. And the fact that I left a tiny speck of toenail there means it will grow back in all uneven and double-thick and disgusting. Like a little horn.
You know, the sad thing is that my feet are structurally perfect. Really, they are. I don't have a foot fetish but the shape of my feet makes me want to get one just so I could worship my own feet. Then THIS shit goes and happens to my nails, making me want to throw up. I have heard it said that no matter how gross something is, someone, somewhere, has fetishized it, but I am pretty willing to bet that no one has ever fetishized ultrarunners' feet. And if someone has, that someone is a sick, sick individual.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Looking Into the Abyss
From the perspective of (almost) one week post-race, I can see that the whole thing was vastly different than the OP-50. I'm not talking about the difficulty of the course, I'm talking about the way I felt about it.
When I reached the finish line at the OP-50, I was filled with horror and was truly appalled that such an event existed and that I had voluntarily participated in it. I remembered the dread I felt out there on the course at Mile 33 and the sheer misery and the knowledge that the misery was going to last for hours and hours and hours yet. When I said at the finish line, "Never again", I meant it with all my heart.
After the OP-50 I couldn't even think about trails for months without that feeling of dread settling over me. I didn't get back on them until Pikes Peak forced me to get serious about them. And somewhere in the process of training for Pikes Peak, I remembered the neat part about doing stuff that is really challenging. That is that looking into the abyss -- i.e., facing something that is so scary and impossible-seeming that you just want to lie down and quit -- gives you a new perspective that you can't just go out and get in run-of-the-mill daily life. It took me a couple months to figure it out, but I finally did, to the point that when I signed up for Flagstaff on a whim I really didn't worry about it at all or spend much time analyzing whether it was a mistake or not. I was excited about it. Really excited! I wanted to see what horrible things would happen to me out there and what I would think about them. I could care less about my time other than wanting to finish within the time cutoff.
I got this strange energy in the days leading up to the race. It's like the things in my everyday life got smaller and race day got bigger and brighter. My feeling on the start line was a mix of a wild, giddy kind of happiness and plain curiosity -- what the heck was going to happen?
It was surprisingly, disappointingly unremarkable for the first 35 miles. I felt pretty good, no hallucinating, no stomach problems, no body parts threatening to fall off, no shitting myself, these were all good things! In fact when I left the Schultz aid station at, I don't know, Mile 31 or 32, I was feeling almost disappointed because I felt so normal. I was slow-running just like I would any trail, any day. Then, suddenly, around Mile 35, in the middle of a steep, nasty climb, ultra brain took over and the feelings of weirdness started.
I stand by my statement that ultra brain is a lot like LSD brain. Hikers walking by look really funny, like they have their heads on sideways or something. I noticed the quality of the afternoon sunlight and think about how, yup, time is passing and I've been out here in the forest the whole damn day. I see things like trees breathing. I start to cry and plead with the trail to please get easier. Then I come around a corner and see it goes up even steeper and start swearing at it.
Then I finally drag myself into an aid station and fall on the ground with no energy left at all and it is incomprehensible that I can walk ten more steps, let alone 13 more miles. But after enough food and soda I start to come alive again, sort of. But I still don't want to leave the aid station. I start thinking about dropping. Who cares anyway. I made almost 40 miles, isn't that enough? Then I picture writing my blog explaining why I dropped -- wasn't trained, shouldn't have attempted it -- and know that my only real excuse for dropping is "I don't feel like continuing" and that is unacceptable. So I get up and trudge out. I keep stopping and looking over my shoulder at the ever-more-distant aid station, waiting for someone to come along and tell me to quit, I guess, but no one does. It's just me and the sunset and the rocks and the aspens.
After Mile 40 is when the serious weirdness starts. This is the good part. It was scary in OP-50 because I didn't know what to expect. Now I do. I start to look forward to it, like, what will I see next that is weird? All the Japanese hikers, that giant gnarly tree down at the bottom (can I just say, Whomping Willow?), the endless stream of conversation coming out of my mouth directed at my invisible hiking partner, all that. Then comes the part that's just lame. The 2000' climb up the mountain, feet dragging like I'm pulling them out of quicksand with every step. Then the beauty of the sleeping bag and the heater. Eyes closed, asleep in five seconds or less. Volunteers won't let me sleep. Get up! You've got five more miles, all downhill. I make half-hearted noises about not wanting to finish but I know I am going to.
So grateful for company on those last five miles through the Blair Witch-y looking forest. The finish line is almost deserted. A couple race people in hoodies and jeans looking frozen. No fire, no hot soup, no cheering crowds. Who cares. It was awesome. I looked into the abyss and did not become paralyzed with dread. I made myself keep moving when everything in me wanted to stop. What a thrill that is! Someone tell me where you can get that kind of thrill in daily life. I'll sign up, no doubt.
The only scary thing is wondering whether I'll need a bigger high some day. A marathon is not really a challenge anymore. Even Pikes Peak. Even the Pikes Peak Double. What happens if you just keep raising the bar? Is this how people end up doing 100's? Running Badwater? Help!
When I reached the finish line at the OP-50, I was filled with horror and was truly appalled that such an event existed and that I had voluntarily participated in it. I remembered the dread I felt out there on the course at Mile 33 and the sheer misery and the knowledge that the misery was going to last for hours and hours and hours yet. When I said at the finish line, "Never again", I meant it with all my heart.
After the OP-50 I couldn't even think about trails for months without that feeling of dread settling over me. I didn't get back on them until Pikes Peak forced me to get serious about them. And somewhere in the process of training for Pikes Peak, I remembered the neat part about doing stuff that is really challenging. That is that looking into the abyss -- i.e., facing something that is so scary and impossible-seeming that you just want to lie down and quit -- gives you a new perspective that you can't just go out and get in run-of-the-mill daily life. It took me a couple months to figure it out, but I finally did, to the point that when I signed up for Flagstaff on a whim I really didn't worry about it at all or spend much time analyzing whether it was a mistake or not. I was excited about it. Really excited! I wanted to see what horrible things would happen to me out there and what I would think about them. I could care less about my time other than wanting to finish within the time cutoff.
I got this strange energy in the days leading up to the race. It's like the things in my everyday life got smaller and race day got bigger and brighter. My feeling on the start line was a mix of a wild, giddy kind of happiness and plain curiosity -- what the heck was going to happen?
It was surprisingly, disappointingly unremarkable for the first 35 miles. I felt pretty good, no hallucinating, no stomach problems, no body parts threatening to fall off, no shitting myself, these were all good things! In fact when I left the Schultz aid station at, I don't know, Mile 31 or 32, I was feeling almost disappointed because I felt so normal. I was slow-running just like I would any trail, any day. Then, suddenly, around Mile 35, in the middle of a steep, nasty climb, ultra brain took over and the feelings of weirdness started.
I stand by my statement that ultra brain is a lot like LSD brain. Hikers walking by look really funny, like they have their heads on sideways or something. I noticed the quality of the afternoon sunlight and think about how, yup, time is passing and I've been out here in the forest the whole damn day. I see things like trees breathing. I start to cry and plead with the trail to please get easier. Then I come around a corner and see it goes up even steeper and start swearing at it.
Then I finally drag myself into an aid station and fall on the ground with no energy left at all and it is incomprehensible that I can walk ten more steps, let alone 13 more miles. But after enough food and soda I start to come alive again, sort of. But I still don't want to leave the aid station. I start thinking about dropping. Who cares anyway. I made almost 40 miles, isn't that enough? Then I picture writing my blog explaining why I dropped -- wasn't trained, shouldn't have attempted it -- and know that my only real excuse for dropping is "I don't feel like continuing" and that is unacceptable. So I get up and trudge out. I keep stopping and looking over my shoulder at the ever-more-distant aid station, waiting for someone to come along and tell me to quit, I guess, but no one does. It's just me and the sunset and the rocks and the aspens.
After Mile 40 is when the serious weirdness starts. This is the good part. It was scary in OP-50 because I didn't know what to expect. Now I do. I start to look forward to it, like, what will I see next that is weird? All the Japanese hikers, that giant gnarly tree down at the bottom (can I just say, Whomping Willow?), the endless stream of conversation coming out of my mouth directed at my invisible hiking partner, all that. Then comes the part that's just lame. The 2000' climb up the mountain, feet dragging like I'm pulling them out of quicksand with every step. Then the beauty of the sleeping bag and the heater. Eyes closed, asleep in five seconds or less. Volunteers won't let me sleep. Get up! You've got five more miles, all downhill. I make half-hearted noises about not wanting to finish but I know I am going to.
So grateful for company on those last five miles through the Blair Witch-y looking forest. The finish line is almost deserted. A couple race people in hoodies and jeans looking frozen. No fire, no hot soup, no cheering crowds. Who cares. It was awesome. I looked into the abyss and did not become paralyzed with dread. I made myself keep moving when everything in me wanted to stop. What a thrill that is! Someone tell me where you can get that kind of thrill in daily life. I'll sign up, no doubt.
The only scary thing is wondering whether I'll need a bigger high some day. A marathon is not really a challenge anymore. Even Pikes Peak. Even the Pikes Peak Double. What happens if you just keep raising the bar? Is this how people end up doing 100's? Running Badwater? Help!
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Redefining Brutal: Flagstaff Endurance Run Race Report
Where to start with this? Maybe with a link to the website:
http://www.aravaiparunning.com/flagstaff/
(I wanted to copy and paste the elevation profile and map, but couldn't figure out how. So if you want to see a visual of the torture, go to the website and look at the elevation profile for the 50-mile race. Especially look at the really thick band of red right before Mile 40. I should have looked at it more closely when I was telling myself that even though I wasn't really in shape for this, if nothing else it would just be a nice day spent hiking around the forest in Flagstaff. Mmmm hmmm.)
Everyone knows I didn't really train for this and thought I could sort of wing it on 40 miles of running in the past month (very little of it on trails) and lots of biking. Plus, I did have a good Pikes Peak Double, so I had that in the bag going in. Well, compared to this... event (I can't call it a race; it was an endurance event), Pikes Peak was a walk in the park. Or a stroll on the beach. Or some other really nice, easy activity that did not at all compare to this. I cannot compare this to anything I've done, not even the OP-50, which was, up until today, the hardest thing I ever did and the worst I've ever felt in an event.
If you didn't look at the website, let me summarize: the course starts at about 7200' or so, and meanders around the forest with 5 significant climbs that go up to right around 9000' each. There's a total elevation gain of around 8000', which is the same as two Mt. Wrightsons (which I have never done, by the way -- perhaps I should have) or one Pikes Peak. My mindset going into this race was that I would plan to spend all day out there in the forest, walk any time I wanted, and just enjoy the hike. There were 29 people doing the 50-mile and I'm not sure how many doing the 50-k.
We started at 6:00 a.m. with perfect temperatures -- just slightly chilly in a long-sleeved shirt and shorts. The first climb, up to the Sunset aid station, was not too bad. I walked it and so did most of the other runners. It would have been runnable if I had been in shape. The Sunset aid station was on top of a ridge line at almost 9000'. Immediately after leaving it the trail dropped down the side of the mountain. The ridge was lined with aspens, and their leaves were all blazing yellow for the fall. They were stunning. The view down into the valley below was also stunning. I did hear a couple of other runners say something unpleasant about how we would be climbing back up the mountainside at the end of the day, but I tried to ignore it. The trail dropped for about two miles and then came out to a dirt road that climbed for about four miles and then came to the Shultz aid station. Tom caught up to me right before the road. (I had to stop to pee and to retie my shoes since my feet were slipping all around in them. By the way, unlike the last 50-mile race I did, I did not emerge with a single gross or interesting shit story. I didn't even pee on my shoes. Boring!) Anyway, Tom and I were not in a hurry. He trained about as well as I did, and we strolled up the road chatting and not doing anything resembling racing. We were only at about Mile 11 and I felt like we were being a little too casual. I mean, neither one of us cared about time but there was a 16-hour limit for the course which I really thought I might end up coming pretty close to.
After the Shultz aid station, the course left the road and climbed a couple miles on trail before coming out to another road. This one went down. It was about three miles of beautiful downhill. I caught up to a guy named Mike, who was also a Tucson runner. I had never met him before. We ran together down the road into the Kachina aid station. They told us at this aid station that it was 3.3 miles to the next aid station, which was a turnaround. I didn't think there was an aid station -- I thought there were only three, Sunset, Schultz, and Kachina. But since they told me there was, I believed them and drank all my water before I got there. It turned out that the "aid station" wasn't. It was just a couple people sitting there checking numbers. They gave me a tiny bit of water from their personal stash, which I felt bad about but I didn't want to go the 3.3 miles back to Kachina without any water.
Mike and I were going to try to stay together but he started having trouble and eventually I just left him. I mean, I am all for staying together if you're doing the same pace but everyone should really run their own race unless it's pre-established that you're going to do it together. (Like escorting a friend through a first marathon, or something.) I never saw Mike after the turnaround and later found out he dropped though I don't know why.
The out-and-back also let me see exactly how far ahead of me everyone else was. I was keeping a loose count of the people who passed me and who I passed and the numbers didn't seem right. There were only about fifteen runners ahead of me and I knew there should be more than that. And there were I think six behind me, including Mike and Tom. I had the vague thought that there must be quite a few people dropping. I myself felt pretty good at this point. I was going slow but I was at the halfway point right around six hours, which really wasn't that bad considering the difficulty of the course.
I went through the Kachina aid station for the second time and then had six miles till I got back to the Shultz aid station for the second time. (For people who do not do ultras, you never EVER think of the whole distance. You would sit down and cry at the start line if you did. You have to go aid station to aid station, and those are manageable distances, about five to eight mile stretches.) Anyway, there was a three-something-mile climb back up the road and then a two-something-mile drop on the trail. I caught up to and passed three of the six other women in the race. (The other three were so far ahead of me I never saw them once they passed me on the Kachina out-and-back.) I beat everyone to the top of the climb and, even with stopping to pee again, also beat them down into the Schultz aid station. The one who came in right behind me had introduced herself as T. She said she had a long, complicated first name so always went by T. She was nice. We grazed at the aid station and then left together to do the 5.6 miles to the Sunset aid station, but I was feeling much better than her so I took off and left her.
It was another big climb back up to Sunset. I felt good for the first two miles and then felt BAD. I walked the rest of it, slowly. When I finally dragged myself into Sunset (at Mile 37), I was completely on empty. They asked me what I needed and I told them I needed to lie down. They showed me to a sleeping bag and I crashed there. My legs and feet were shaking and I was starving but also nauseous. Finally I managed to get down a peanut butter sandwich or at least most of one. (One complaint about this race -- why no jelly in the peanut butter sandwiches? Seriously, do you know how hard it is to choke down peanut butter and dry bread? I ended up dipping my sandwich in my cup of Mountain Dew just to make it go down easier. Yes, looking back that sounds disgusting. However, food takes on an entirely different quality in ultras, and you do things you would never do in real life.)
I felt awful leaving Sunset. Rock-bottom. All three of the ladies I had passed after Kachina -- T, Stephanie, and one other whose name I didn't get -- came into Sunset and then out. Well, T was still there when I left but the other two took off looking great. I didn't understand that. The trail out of Sunset continued up the ridge line and then dropped down. Almost two thousand feet down, straight down. And we then had to climb back up the same two thousand foot drop. I thought of how I was basically a walking corpse dragging into Sunset, and the thought of doing that climb again with eight more miles in my legs was appalling. I was really ready to admit defeat and DNF right there. Korey, one of the fast Tucson runners, was dropping and I saw him sitting in the chair waiting for a ride down and was SO envious. My thinking went along the lines of, OK, I gave it a good try and a great effort, and I still got almost 40 miles in, so is it really worth it to keep going? What if I get to the bottom and physically can't make the climb back up? Will I just sit at the bottom while it gets dark and cold? All these things were running through my head, but yet I found myself standing up and allowing the aid station volunteers to shove me out on the trail again (after warning me that it was a really tough eight miles and was I sure I had enough fluids? No, I did not, only one bottle, but the thought of opening up my bag and getting the water bag out of there and filling it and readjusting everything was way too complicated.).
I wanted to cry walking out of that aid station. I pulled out my phone and texted Rob telling him I wanted to drop. I knew he would say if I felt that bad I should just drop. I waited for him to text me back saying that, and kept walking in the meantime. I wanted to hit 40 miles on my GPS before quitting. I got further and further from the aid station, still no text from Rob. The trail was beautiful here -- right through the aspens, yellow leaves all fiery from the start of the sunset -- but I could care less. All I could think about was my own suffering. Finally I got to the point where the trail started to drop again. It was either turn around here or keep going. Rob still hadn't texted me back giving me permission to drop. Also, I knew Tom was still behind me and knew he wouldn't drop no matter how bad he was suffering. Also, I've done 50+ races and never DNF'd, and always said as long as I could still move I would never DNF. ALSO, I wanted that pint glass finishers got. All right. Decision made, I would keep going.
Almost immediately I regretted that decision. The trail was basically straight down, and it was a mix of giant step-downs and loose slippery gravel-type under footing. The kind where if you step down too fast your feet will fly right out from under you. Every step down jolted my whole body, from the soles of my feet up to my shoulders. Every slippery gravel spot forced me to practically sit down and go down on my butt because I was so afraid of falling. I was wearing my Newtons and wished I had changed into my Hokas at the aid station. (I had them there, in my drop bag, but it seemed like too much trouble to put them on. Ultra-brain at work again. Any time you have a vague feeling that you "should" do something -- eat more, get your gloves out and put them on, change shoes -- and don't do it because it's too much trouble, you should take that as a sign that you are making a mistake.)
As I was going down, and down, and down, I kept passing hikers. They were all Japanese. Seriously, like 20 or more of them, all spread apart. My ultra brain seized on that -- why so many Japanese? (Ultra brain also does that -- picks out things that aren't really that weird and starts perseverating on them. Ultra brain actually bears a surprising resemblance to LSD brain, come to think of it.) One of the little Japanese kids said to me, "Everyone else is ahead of you. well, not everyone, but 15 or 16 people at least." His mom tried to shush him but I just cracked up laughing hysterically. Of course everyone else was ahead of me! I couldn't stop laughing. The first time anything had seemed funny in many, many miles. Thank God for that punk little kid.
I finally reached the bottom of the trail. 6900'. I could not think about the fact that I had to climb back up to 9000'. Impossible. I worked on my game plan instead. I would walk the rest of the way, of course. Take one gel (my last remaining gel) at the bottom of the climb and drink half my water, eat a pack of Clif Bloks and drink the other half of my water when I hit 8000'. That was my plan and I stuck to it.
I was on probably a couple dozen trails and I only remember the name of one -- the Heart Trail, the one that led back up to the Sunset aid station. At the bottom was a sign saying, "Not advised for horses." Why? Because it was too steep and narrow. Ultra brain thought it was very funny that it was too steep for horses but not for runners with 43 miles in their legs. I started up, one slow, plodding step at a time. There was one guy visible ahead of me. His name was Mike and he was from Prescott. I'd met him somewhere else on the trail but couldn't remember where. I kept him in sight but then had to pee again. I started thinking about just peeing in my pants. I could totally understand why people do that in this kind of event -- it's not because you're in such a hurry and can't take the time to stop; it's because squatting down to pee is so painful and getting back up is difficult. I really considered it for a while but then decided I wasn't that bad off quite yet, and managed to pee the normal way without falling over. (I did tuck my shirt into my thong by accident but luckily discovered and fixed it before I caught up to Mike.)
Mike and I dragged ourselves up the mountain together but then he stopped. He said he had to sit for a while. On the one hand, that looked really tempting. On the other hand, I knew I didn't have to stop and that made me feel good because at least I was stronger than someone even though I was barely moving.
After another agonizing mile, I dragged into the Sunset aid station for the third time just as it was getting dark. I immediately headed for the sleeping bag, which was now in front of a portable heater. Lying down there was pure bliss. I closed my eyes and knew I could easily sleep for 12 hours right there. The volunteers were so great. One of them made me the peanut butter-banana sandwich I requested (which took me almost 20 minutes to get down); another brought me my drop bag and helped me put on long pants and another shirt since I was now shaking uncontrollably; another brought me a cup of hot chicken noodle soup; another hung out with me and cracked me up telling stories about stuff that happened to her in ultras and using the "F" word liberally. Lindsey from Sedona Running Company, you are the best! Eventually T and Mike dragged into the aid station behind me and we decided to head down together. Still no sign of Tom. I wondered if maybe he DNF'd but decided superstitiously that I didn't want to know because if he did then I would want to too.
The last five miles were almost all downhill, but very rocky. None of us were interested in running. T and I chattered the whole way; Mike stayed behind us and was silent, lost in his own suffering I guess. That trail became elastic at the end. (Elastic trail = a trail that stretches out at the end for way longer than its actual distance.) Worse, my GPS had measured long (probably due to all the stopping/starting and extremely slow pace) and I was at 51.8 miles when we finally crossed the finish line. Interestingly, I knew the exact mileage but not the exact time, and forgot to push "Stop" on my GPS. I know it was almost 9:00, so it took us almost 15 hours.
The finish line was nearly deserted. There was nothing hot and no one offering anything. In fact we wouldn't even have gotten our pint glasses except that I saw them sitting there and asked if I could have mine, and someone said "Sure" so I got it myself. I sat at the finish line and waited for Tom and found out that out of 29 starters, 7 had dropped. That was almost a 25% drop rate. I was extremely proud of myself for finishing with any time. I firmly believe that getting to the point where quitting seems like the most appealing thing in the world, and then pushing through and not quitting, is a lesson that can be applied to life too.
So would I do this race again? Hell no! Not even properly trained I wouldn't do it. That drop and climb at the end was a clear sign of sadism on the part of the guy who designed the course. And whose idea was it to put the longest stretch between aid stations -- eight miles -- there at the end? The course was well-marked and the aid stations were great (except for the lack of jelly in the peanut butter sandwiches), but... no. Never again. But will I do a 50 again? Sigh, probably. The feeling of accomplishment is just too precious, and can't be gotten any other way that I know of.
http://www.aravaiparunning.com/flagstaff/
(I wanted to copy and paste the elevation profile and map, but couldn't figure out how. So if you want to see a visual of the torture, go to the website and look at the elevation profile for the 50-mile race. Especially look at the really thick band of red right before Mile 40. I should have looked at it more closely when I was telling myself that even though I wasn't really in shape for this, if nothing else it would just be a nice day spent hiking around the forest in Flagstaff. Mmmm hmmm.)
Everyone knows I didn't really train for this and thought I could sort of wing it on 40 miles of running in the past month (very little of it on trails) and lots of biking. Plus, I did have a good Pikes Peak Double, so I had that in the bag going in. Well, compared to this... event (I can't call it a race; it was an endurance event), Pikes Peak was a walk in the park. Or a stroll on the beach. Or some other really nice, easy activity that did not at all compare to this. I cannot compare this to anything I've done, not even the OP-50, which was, up until today, the hardest thing I ever did and the worst I've ever felt in an event.
If you didn't look at the website, let me summarize: the course starts at about 7200' or so, and meanders around the forest with 5 significant climbs that go up to right around 9000' each. There's a total elevation gain of around 8000', which is the same as two Mt. Wrightsons (which I have never done, by the way -- perhaps I should have) or one Pikes Peak. My mindset going into this race was that I would plan to spend all day out there in the forest, walk any time I wanted, and just enjoy the hike. There were 29 people doing the 50-mile and I'm not sure how many doing the 50-k.
We started at 6:00 a.m. with perfect temperatures -- just slightly chilly in a long-sleeved shirt and shorts. The first climb, up to the Sunset aid station, was not too bad. I walked it and so did most of the other runners. It would have been runnable if I had been in shape. The Sunset aid station was on top of a ridge line at almost 9000'. Immediately after leaving it the trail dropped down the side of the mountain. The ridge was lined with aspens, and their leaves were all blazing yellow for the fall. They were stunning. The view down into the valley below was also stunning. I did hear a couple of other runners say something unpleasant about how we would be climbing back up the mountainside at the end of the day, but I tried to ignore it. The trail dropped for about two miles and then came out to a dirt road that climbed for about four miles and then came to the Shultz aid station. Tom caught up to me right before the road. (I had to stop to pee and to retie my shoes since my feet were slipping all around in them. By the way, unlike the last 50-mile race I did, I did not emerge with a single gross or interesting shit story. I didn't even pee on my shoes. Boring!) Anyway, Tom and I were not in a hurry. He trained about as well as I did, and we strolled up the road chatting and not doing anything resembling racing. We were only at about Mile 11 and I felt like we were being a little too casual. I mean, neither one of us cared about time but there was a 16-hour limit for the course which I really thought I might end up coming pretty close to.
After the Shultz aid station, the course left the road and climbed a couple miles on trail before coming out to another road. This one went down. It was about three miles of beautiful downhill. I caught up to a guy named Mike, who was also a Tucson runner. I had never met him before. We ran together down the road into the Kachina aid station. They told us at this aid station that it was 3.3 miles to the next aid station, which was a turnaround. I didn't think there was an aid station -- I thought there were only three, Sunset, Schultz, and Kachina. But since they told me there was, I believed them and drank all my water before I got there. It turned out that the "aid station" wasn't. It was just a couple people sitting there checking numbers. They gave me a tiny bit of water from their personal stash, which I felt bad about but I didn't want to go the 3.3 miles back to Kachina without any water.
Mike and I were going to try to stay together but he started having trouble and eventually I just left him. I mean, I am all for staying together if you're doing the same pace but everyone should really run their own race unless it's pre-established that you're going to do it together. (Like escorting a friend through a first marathon, or something.) I never saw Mike after the turnaround and later found out he dropped though I don't know why.
The out-and-back also let me see exactly how far ahead of me everyone else was. I was keeping a loose count of the people who passed me and who I passed and the numbers didn't seem right. There were only about fifteen runners ahead of me and I knew there should be more than that. And there were I think six behind me, including Mike and Tom. I had the vague thought that there must be quite a few people dropping. I myself felt pretty good at this point. I was going slow but I was at the halfway point right around six hours, which really wasn't that bad considering the difficulty of the course.
I went through the Kachina aid station for the second time and then had six miles till I got back to the Shultz aid station for the second time. (For people who do not do ultras, you never EVER think of the whole distance. You would sit down and cry at the start line if you did. You have to go aid station to aid station, and those are manageable distances, about five to eight mile stretches.) Anyway, there was a three-something-mile climb back up the road and then a two-something-mile drop on the trail. I caught up to and passed three of the six other women in the race. (The other three were so far ahead of me I never saw them once they passed me on the Kachina out-and-back.) I beat everyone to the top of the climb and, even with stopping to pee again, also beat them down into the Schultz aid station. The one who came in right behind me had introduced herself as T. She said she had a long, complicated first name so always went by T. She was nice. We grazed at the aid station and then left together to do the 5.6 miles to the Sunset aid station, but I was feeling much better than her so I took off and left her.
It was another big climb back up to Sunset. I felt good for the first two miles and then felt BAD. I walked the rest of it, slowly. When I finally dragged myself into Sunset (at Mile 37), I was completely on empty. They asked me what I needed and I told them I needed to lie down. They showed me to a sleeping bag and I crashed there. My legs and feet were shaking and I was starving but also nauseous. Finally I managed to get down a peanut butter sandwich or at least most of one. (One complaint about this race -- why no jelly in the peanut butter sandwiches? Seriously, do you know how hard it is to choke down peanut butter and dry bread? I ended up dipping my sandwich in my cup of Mountain Dew just to make it go down easier. Yes, looking back that sounds disgusting. However, food takes on an entirely different quality in ultras, and you do things you would never do in real life.)
I felt awful leaving Sunset. Rock-bottom. All three of the ladies I had passed after Kachina -- T, Stephanie, and one other whose name I didn't get -- came into Sunset and then out. Well, T was still there when I left but the other two took off looking great. I didn't understand that. The trail out of Sunset continued up the ridge line and then dropped down. Almost two thousand feet down, straight down. And we then had to climb back up the same two thousand foot drop. I thought of how I was basically a walking corpse dragging into Sunset, and the thought of doing that climb again with eight more miles in my legs was appalling. I was really ready to admit defeat and DNF right there. Korey, one of the fast Tucson runners, was dropping and I saw him sitting in the chair waiting for a ride down and was SO envious. My thinking went along the lines of, OK, I gave it a good try and a great effort, and I still got almost 40 miles in, so is it really worth it to keep going? What if I get to the bottom and physically can't make the climb back up? Will I just sit at the bottom while it gets dark and cold? All these things were running through my head, but yet I found myself standing up and allowing the aid station volunteers to shove me out on the trail again (after warning me that it was a really tough eight miles and was I sure I had enough fluids? No, I did not, only one bottle, but the thought of opening up my bag and getting the water bag out of there and filling it and readjusting everything was way too complicated.).
I wanted to cry walking out of that aid station. I pulled out my phone and texted Rob telling him I wanted to drop. I knew he would say if I felt that bad I should just drop. I waited for him to text me back saying that, and kept walking in the meantime. I wanted to hit 40 miles on my GPS before quitting. I got further and further from the aid station, still no text from Rob. The trail was beautiful here -- right through the aspens, yellow leaves all fiery from the start of the sunset -- but I could care less. All I could think about was my own suffering. Finally I got to the point where the trail started to drop again. It was either turn around here or keep going. Rob still hadn't texted me back giving me permission to drop. Also, I knew Tom was still behind me and knew he wouldn't drop no matter how bad he was suffering. Also, I've done 50+ races and never DNF'd, and always said as long as I could still move I would never DNF. ALSO, I wanted that pint glass finishers got. All right. Decision made, I would keep going.
Almost immediately I regretted that decision. The trail was basically straight down, and it was a mix of giant step-downs and loose slippery gravel-type under footing. The kind where if you step down too fast your feet will fly right out from under you. Every step down jolted my whole body, from the soles of my feet up to my shoulders. Every slippery gravel spot forced me to practically sit down and go down on my butt because I was so afraid of falling. I was wearing my Newtons and wished I had changed into my Hokas at the aid station. (I had them there, in my drop bag, but it seemed like too much trouble to put them on. Ultra-brain at work again. Any time you have a vague feeling that you "should" do something -- eat more, get your gloves out and put them on, change shoes -- and don't do it because it's too much trouble, you should take that as a sign that you are making a mistake.)
As I was going down, and down, and down, I kept passing hikers. They were all Japanese. Seriously, like 20 or more of them, all spread apart. My ultra brain seized on that -- why so many Japanese? (Ultra brain also does that -- picks out things that aren't really that weird and starts perseverating on them. Ultra brain actually bears a surprising resemblance to LSD brain, come to think of it.) One of the little Japanese kids said to me, "Everyone else is ahead of you. well, not everyone, but 15 or 16 people at least." His mom tried to shush him but I just cracked up laughing hysterically. Of course everyone else was ahead of me! I couldn't stop laughing. The first time anything had seemed funny in many, many miles. Thank God for that punk little kid.
I finally reached the bottom of the trail. 6900'. I could not think about the fact that I had to climb back up to 9000'. Impossible. I worked on my game plan instead. I would walk the rest of the way, of course. Take one gel (my last remaining gel) at the bottom of the climb and drink half my water, eat a pack of Clif Bloks and drink the other half of my water when I hit 8000'. That was my plan and I stuck to it.
I was on probably a couple dozen trails and I only remember the name of one -- the Heart Trail, the one that led back up to the Sunset aid station. At the bottom was a sign saying, "Not advised for horses." Why? Because it was too steep and narrow. Ultra brain thought it was very funny that it was too steep for horses but not for runners with 43 miles in their legs. I started up, one slow, plodding step at a time. There was one guy visible ahead of me. His name was Mike and he was from Prescott. I'd met him somewhere else on the trail but couldn't remember where. I kept him in sight but then had to pee again. I started thinking about just peeing in my pants. I could totally understand why people do that in this kind of event -- it's not because you're in such a hurry and can't take the time to stop; it's because squatting down to pee is so painful and getting back up is difficult. I really considered it for a while but then decided I wasn't that bad off quite yet, and managed to pee the normal way without falling over. (I did tuck my shirt into my thong by accident but luckily discovered and fixed it before I caught up to Mike.)
Mike and I dragged ourselves up the mountain together but then he stopped. He said he had to sit for a while. On the one hand, that looked really tempting. On the other hand, I knew I didn't have to stop and that made me feel good because at least I was stronger than someone even though I was barely moving.
After another agonizing mile, I dragged into the Sunset aid station for the third time just as it was getting dark. I immediately headed for the sleeping bag, which was now in front of a portable heater. Lying down there was pure bliss. I closed my eyes and knew I could easily sleep for 12 hours right there. The volunteers were so great. One of them made me the peanut butter-banana sandwich I requested (which took me almost 20 minutes to get down); another brought me my drop bag and helped me put on long pants and another shirt since I was now shaking uncontrollably; another brought me a cup of hot chicken noodle soup; another hung out with me and cracked me up telling stories about stuff that happened to her in ultras and using the "F" word liberally. Lindsey from Sedona Running Company, you are the best! Eventually T and Mike dragged into the aid station behind me and we decided to head down together. Still no sign of Tom. I wondered if maybe he DNF'd but decided superstitiously that I didn't want to know because if he did then I would want to too.
The last five miles were almost all downhill, but very rocky. None of us were interested in running. T and I chattered the whole way; Mike stayed behind us and was silent, lost in his own suffering I guess. That trail became elastic at the end. (Elastic trail = a trail that stretches out at the end for way longer than its actual distance.) Worse, my GPS had measured long (probably due to all the stopping/starting and extremely slow pace) and I was at 51.8 miles when we finally crossed the finish line. Interestingly, I knew the exact mileage but not the exact time, and forgot to push "Stop" on my GPS. I know it was almost 9:00, so it took us almost 15 hours.
The finish line was nearly deserted. There was nothing hot and no one offering anything. In fact we wouldn't even have gotten our pint glasses except that I saw them sitting there and asked if I could have mine, and someone said "Sure" so I got it myself. I sat at the finish line and waited for Tom and found out that out of 29 starters, 7 had dropped. That was almost a 25% drop rate. I was extremely proud of myself for finishing with any time. I firmly believe that getting to the point where quitting seems like the most appealing thing in the world, and then pushing through and not quitting, is a lesson that can be applied to life too.
So would I do this race again? Hell no! Not even properly trained I wouldn't do it. That drop and climb at the end was a clear sign of sadism on the part of the guy who designed the course. And whose idea was it to put the longest stretch between aid stations -- eight miles -- there at the end? The course was well-marked and the aid stations were great (except for the lack of jelly in the peanut butter sandwiches), but... no. Never again. But will I do a 50 again? Sigh, probably. The feeling of accomplishment is just too precious, and can't be gotten any other way that I know of.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Flagstaff in 3...2...1...
No word on the job. I don't think they're going to offer it to me, which means I can't use that as an excuse to get out of the 50. Damnit! I am not ready for this race.
I've only run maybe 40 miles, total, since Pikes Peak. And I've gained, oh, three pounds or so. Three pounds if I weigh myself after I work out and I'm dehydrated. Six pounds if I weigh myself when I first wake up or many hours after a workout. So I am fat and out of shape. At least I've been biking a lot. I hope that is going to save me up there in Flagstaff. I think it will at least help. Since long trail races are much more about strength than about speed, and biking does work the quads pretty good (especially if you ride hills, which I've been pretty good about doing), I'm hoping it carries over. As for the rest of my race plan? Cross my fingers and hope for the best.
I'm not really nervous, believe it or not. I'm curious. I mean, seriously, what does happen when you do a 50-mile race -- oh yeah, a really tough 50-mile race, with altitude and elevation changes -- without training for it? We'll find out! It's hard to imagine how I could do worse than I did at the OP-50. Well, no, I guess it isn't that hard. At OP-50 I walked the last 20 miles; I guess it would be possible to have to walk all 50 miles of this one. Though that probably wouldn't get me in under the 16-hour cutoff. 16-hour cutoff -- that's 3 mph. Surely I can do that, right? Well, I decided I don't care. I used to say I would never DNF. I would crawl if I had to. Somewhere my mindset changed. If I really feel like crap on this course, I will DNF and not worry about it. (Boy, do I want that finisher's pint glass, though, and I am pretty sure I have to finish to get it.)
I am so excited to see Flagstaff, though! I am convinced every Tucsonan fantasizes about Flagstaff all summer long. The temps here in town have cooperated to feed that Flagstaff lust by shooting back up to almost 100 this week. That cool mountain air is going to feel pretty damn good. And I am telling myself that the total climb looks to be around 8000', which is exactly what I climbed at Pikes Peak. (Although that wasn't up, then down, then up, then down, repeat, repeat, repeat. But Flagstaff only goes up to 9000', which is nothing compared to 14000' at Pikes, right? Right. Plus I did have a pretty good Sabino Basin run the other day. I felt great until the last mile, when I died from the heat. At least heat won't be a problem up there.
So overall, I am excited first, then curious, then scared, and that about covers it. In just a little over 24 hours from now, it'll be on! Wish me luck.
I've only run maybe 40 miles, total, since Pikes Peak. And I've gained, oh, three pounds or so. Three pounds if I weigh myself after I work out and I'm dehydrated. Six pounds if I weigh myself when I first wake up or many hours after a workout. So I am fat and out of shape. At least I've been biking a lot. I hope that is going to save me up there in Flagstaff. I think it will at least help. Since long trail races are much more about strength than about speed, and biking does work the quads pretty good (especially if you ride hills, which I've been pretty good about doing), I'm hoping it carries over. As for the rest of my race plan? Cross my fingers and hope for the best.
I'm not really nervous, believe it or not. I'm curious. I mean, seriously, what does happen when you do a 50-mile race -- oh yeah, a really tough 50-mile race, with altitude and elevation changes -- without training for it? We'll find out! It's hard to imagine how I could do worse than I did at the OP-50. Well, no, I guess it isn't that hard. At OP-50 I walked the last 20 miles; I guess it would be possible to have to walk all 50 miles of this one. Though that probably wouldn't get me in under the 16-hour cutoff. 16-hour cutoff -- that's 3 mph. Surely I can do that, right? Well, I decided I don't care. I used to say I would never DNF. I would crawl if I had to. Somewhere my mindset changed. If I really feel like crap on this course, I will DNF and not worry about it. (Boy, do I want that finisher's pint glass, though, and I am pretty sure I have to finish to get it.)
I am so excited to see Flagstaff, though! I am convinced every Tucsonan fantasizes about Flagstaff all summer long. The temps here in town have cooperated to feed that Flagstaff lust by shooting back up to almost 100 this week. That cool mountain air is going to feel pretty damn good. And I am telling myself that the total climb looks to be around 8000', which is exactly what I climbed at Pikes Peak. (Although that wasn't up, then down, then up, then down, repeat, repeat, repeat. But Flagstaff only goes up to 9000', which is nothing compared to 14000' at Pikes, right? Right. Plus I did have a pretty good Sabino Basin run the other day. I felt great until the last mile, when I died from the heat. At least heat won't be a problem up there.
So overall, I am excited first, then curious, then scared, and that about covers it. In just a little over 24 hours from now, it'll be on! Wish me luck.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Up In The Air
...about whether I should do this 50-mile race in Flagstaff or not.
It's not that I don't know whether I'm in shape to do it. There's a simple answer to that question -- I'm not in shape to do it. No way. Not even close. I've been lazy ever since Pikes, and have gained a couple pounds, and am not eating right, and am barely running at all. But I'm not all that worried about that. I am pretty sure I'm fit enough to make it through the 50 miles even if I have to walk/jog the whole way. And I love Flag, and I love walk/jogging. So I want to do it, for all of those reasons.
I'm actually worried about money.
Here's the deal: I applied for a job at ASDB, and if I get it, it comes with a whopping pay cut -- at least 1/3 less than what I'm making now. Why would I do such a thing? Isn't it stupid to not make the most money possible, and get ahead as far as possible in life? Well, no. I have thought about this for a long time, and the conclusion I've come to is that I value time much more than I value money. If I work at ASDB, as a teacher I will get huge chunks of time off. A week in October for no reason, a few days at Thanksgiving, a whopping 2 weeks at Christmas/New Year's, and then there is the Holy Grail of summers off. Not that I will be able to afford to do much. It's not like I'll be traveling the world on my vacations. But the things I like to do the most, and have the least time to do properly right now, are the following:
1) write -- I really am supposed to be a published author by now, and I'm not
2) train my dogs
3) work out
I could fill a day with those things so easily. It would be so much nicer than cramming them in at the end of the day, when I'm tired and don't feel like doing anything except reading. And most of those things have minimal cost associated with them. I already have computers. Dog training takes treats, those are cheap. New running shoes occasionally, gas to get to trailheads, what else do I need?
Not that that's the only reason I want to switch jobs. It's not even the main one. The main reason is that I want to do something different. When I switched from training guide dogs to teaching cane skills, I gained a bigger, better understanding of my field. For the first time I understood that blind rehabilitation was more than just guide dogs. I got to understand the foundational skills people have to acquire in order to be able to use guide dogs safely. If I switch to kids I feel like that will give me a better understanding of how people form concepts that are essentially visual in nature (cardinal directions, the layout of a city block, etc) when they've never had vision. Plus, I love working with kids. Don't get me wrong, I love working with veterans too. But I sometimes (usually) feel like I have too much energy for the V.A. The pace there is leisurely. Most of my clients have the same eye condition and don't have much real need for mobility training. With kids there is a much greater variety. There is also a lot more challenge associated with working in a school environment, simply because I don't know the first thing about how it is structured or anything like that. It would be a whole new world to master. I do love the V.A. And I have no complaints about it, or about the way it's run. Everyone there does a great job. I like management, I like my coworkers (95% of them, anyway), and I love my clients. But I just can't see myself spending another 20 years there just so I can have a great retirement.
I look at it this way: when the economy tanked, a bunch of people lost big chunks of their savings. Some people lost $50k, maybe even more. You can work at a job that isn't challenging for your whole career and then what? You retire and look back and think about how you could have been challenging yourself with new things this whole time and weren't? THAT'S what I find hard to live with. I swear when I retire I will be happy with a tiny studio apartment in a blue-collar part of some city. I don't need a giant house, a cleaning service, and trips around the world. In my whole life I've never cared much about material things, so I don't think that would change when I retire.
This post got away from the subject. So, the race. I'm paranoid. If I get this job, I want to cut all unnecessary expenses until I see exactly what the difference in paychecks is. Travel to Flagstaff is definitely an unnecessary expense. And by the time I pay $50 for the dog sitter, probably close to $100 for gas round trip, at least $50 for a motel, that's $200 right there. Wouldn't it be better to save that for, say, the phone bill? I think maybe so.
Of course, the big question is whether I will get this job or not. I interviewed on Wednesday. The interview went great. It was a panel interview, seven people, 20 questions. I believe I answered all of them well. The people liked me. I liked them. I'm quite sure my enthusiasm for the job was evident. BUT I don't have any experience teaching kids in a school environment. So if anyone else interviewed who did have that kind of experience, they might very well get the job over me. On the other hand, I'm pretty well-qualified AND I know I nailed the interview. Also, this position was open last month, and then closed, and then reopened. So that leads me to believe they had trouble filling it the first time and didn't have a suitable candidate in mind. Also, since the school year has already started, I think (hope) that most O&M'ers who work with kids probably already have jobs. I put my chances at getting this job maybe a little above 50/50. I just wish they would let me know one way or the other. If I get it, great; if not, I will just look at it as, oh well, now I get to earn the bigger salary for a while longer. It's not like I hate my current job, not at all. I like it. I just want a bigger challenge.
I guess I will go ahead and make the travel arrangements on the assumption that I won't get the job, and then if I end up getting it I will just cancel them. Surely I will hear next week, right?
It's not that I don't know whether I'm in shape to do it. There's a simple answer to that question -- I'm not in shape to do it. No way. Not even close. I've been lazy ever since Pikes, and have gained a couple pounds, and am not eating right, and am barely running at all. But I'm not all that worried about that. I am pretty sure I'm fit enough to make it through the 50 miles even if I have to walk/jog the whole way. And I love Flag, and I love walk/jogging. So I want to do it, for all of those reasons.
I'm actually worried about money.
Here's the deal: I applied for a job at ASDB, and if I get it, it comes with a whopping pay cut -- at least 1/3 less than what I'm making now. Why would I do such a thing? Isn't it stupid to not make the most money possible, and get ahead as far as possible in life? Well, no. I have thought about this for a long time, and the conclusion I've come to is that I value time much more than I value money. If I work at ASDB, as a teacher I will get huge chunks of time off. A week in October for no reason, a few days at Thanksgiving, a whopping 2 weeks at Christmas/New Year's, and then there is the Holy Grail of summers off. Not that I will be able to afford to do much. It's not like I'll be traveling the world on my vacations. But the things I like to do the most, and have the least time to do properly right now, are the following:
1) write -- I really am supposed to be a published author by now, and I'm not
2) train my dogs
3) work out
I could fill a day with those things so easily. It would be so much nicer than cramming them in at the end of the day, when I'm tired and don't feel like doing anything except reading. And most of those things have minimal cost associated with them. I already have computers. Dog training takes treats, those are cheap. New running shoes occasionally, gas to get to trailheads, what else do I need?
Not that that's the only reason I want to switch jobs. It's not even the main one. The main reason is that I want to do something different. When I switched from training guide dogs to teaching cane skills, I gained a bigger, better understanding of my field. For the first time I understood that blind rehabilitation was more than just guide dogs. I got to understand the foundational skills people have to acquire in order to be able to use guide dogs safely. If I switch to kids I feel like that will give me a better understanding of how people form concepts that are essentially visual in nature (cardinal directions, the layout of a city block, etc) when they've never had vision. Plus, I love working with kids. Don't get me wrong, I love working with veterans too. But I sometimes (usually) feel like I have too much energy for the V.A. The pace there is leisurely. Most of my clients have the same eye condition and don't have much real need for mobility training. With kids there is a much greater variety. There is also a lot more challenge associated with working in a school environment, simply because I don't know the first thing about how it is structured or anything like that. It would be a whole new world to master. I do love the V.A. And I have no complaints about it, or about the way it's run. Everyone there does a great job. I like management, I like my coworkers (95% of them, anyway), and I love my clients. But I just can't see myself spending another 20 years there just so I can have a great retirement.
I look at it this way: when the economy tanked, a bunch of people lost big chunks of their savings. Some people lost $50k, maybe even more. You can work at a job that isn't challenging for your whole career and then what? You retire and look back and think about how you could have been challenging yourself with new things this whole time and weren't? THAT'S what I find hard to live with. I swear when I retire I will be happy with a tiny studio apartment in a blue-collar part of some city. I don't need a giant house, a cleaning service, and trips around the world. In my whole life I've never cared much about material things, so I don't think that would change when I retire.
This post got away from the subject. So, the race. I'm paranoid. If I get this job, I want to cut all unnecessary expenses until I see exactly what the difference in paychecks is. Travel to Flagstaff is definitely an unnecessary expense. And by the time I pay $50 for the dog sitter, probably close to $100 for gas round trip, at least $50 for a motel, that's $200 right there. Wouldn't it be better to save that for, say, the phone bill? I think maybe so.
Of course, the big question is whether I will get this job or not. I interviewed on Wednesday. The interview went great. It was a panel interview, seven people, 20 questions. I believe I answered all of them well. The people liked me. I liked them. I'm quite sure my enthusiasm for the job was evident. BUT I don't have any experience teaching kids in a school environment. So if anyone else interviewed who did have that kind of experience, they might very well get the job over me. On the other hand, I'm pretty well-qualified AND I know I nailed the interview. Also, this position was open last month, and then closed, and then reopened. So that leads me to believe they had trouble filling it the first time and didn't have a suitable candidate in mind. Also, since the school year has already started, I think (hope) that most O&M'ers who work with kids probably already have jobs. I put my chances at getting this job maybe a little above 50/50. I just wish they would let me know one way or the other. If I get it, great; if not, I will just look at it as, oh well, now I get to earn the bigger salary for a while longer. It's not like I hate my current job, not at all. I like it. I just want a bigger challenge.
I guess I will go ahead and make the travel arrangements on the assumption that I won't get the job, and then if I end up getting it I will just cancel them. Surely I will hear next week, right?
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