TBT: Joshua Tree Traverse (December 2013)

I tell Josh to go on ahead, that I need a moment. I leave it vague so that he thinks I probably need to pee. I sit down and cry. I cry my eyes out in quiet, bursting sobs that shake my body and rock my core. On this high fin of rock and sand in the Mojave Desert, I can see for miles. The relative emptiness and endlessness of the landscape feels like the vast void of my soul right now.

I came to Joshua Tree to join in the annual New Years shenanigans: climbing, bonfires, costumes, communal meals with way too much coffee and whiskey (sometimes together), and general hilarity. I had read this account of running a Joshua Tree traverse and was excited to give it a go, especially when my failure to get picked in the Western States lottery (for the second time) meant I would now be running my first 100-miler in just four short months rather than seven. I had not run much over the course of the fall and suddenly realized I would need to amp up my fitness if I was to be ready by April.

Annual shenanigans at play.

I wasn't sure if I would be able to secure the long shuttle required to make the run feasible - after all, it would require my friends to be a) not climbing and b) sober. Luckily, Andy was game. He is used to dreaming and scheming adventures and we'd been each others' logistical support in different ways over years of living and playing together.

Andy sends it.

Two days before the run, Andy found out that his cycling pal, Josh, would be biking from Los Angeles to Joshua Tree the next day. Josh rolled in just before dark with a huge smile on his face. He quickly wolfed down a massive meal and grinned when he found out I like to run long distances. When Andy told him about the next day's traverse, Josh almost immediately said, "I want to join you." "Wait, really? Didn't you just bike 120 miles today?" "Yeah, yeah. But this is so cool! Andy, do you have any extra bars I can borrow?"

And so we found ourselves several hours before sunrise on one of the shortest days of the year, sailing along the quiet highway between Joshua Tree and Yucca Valley. We lamented that we hadn't made coffee and wished against all hope that there might be a Starbucks open. Sure enough, a few minutes later, we saw one with lights on...yeah-ah!

Duly caffeinated, we drove on to the far western end of Joshua Tree National Park: Black Rock. It was darned chilly and I realized that somewhere along the way I had lost one of my gloves.  I tucked my other hand in my sleeve and we got to moving right away. The first section was gradual uphill across semi-frozen sand. Josh wasted no time at all in launching into a narrative arc of his life - his recent travels in eastern Africa, his bike tours with Andy, the complex relationships between his siblings and his mother. It was apparent to me immediately that Josh's fitness could run circles around my meager fitness, and I was content to let him talk while I tried to keep a slow, even pace.

We reached the top of the climb just as the sun popped over the nearby hills, and we cheered and celebrated with margarita-flavored shotbloks. The terrain changed from sand to a dirt road for a couple miles, then we hit a glorious ridge: knife-edged with steep gullies on either side, barrel cacti and joshua trees and yucca, red dirt and rolling hills. We whooped and hollered and repeated over and over how incredible it was, racing down the ridge through a landscape that felt as remote as any I have encountered yet. 

As we carried on toward Keys View Road, the heat started creeping up and doubts started creeping into my head. I was so grateful when we hit the parking lot, where we had stashed water and snacks in a bear canister the night before. I wanted to stretch the break out as long as possible, but Josh was antsy and reasoned, "We better keep moving, eh?" Knowing he was right, we headed back out. The section behind Ryan Campground was the hottest of the day, and I felt tired and dehydrated.  Josh got about 200m ahead of me, and I settled into a dirge of a jog, feeling alone and adrift and vulnerable and sad.  At one point, Josh waited for me to catch up, and seeing him made me feel even more vulnerable, and I urged him on.

It was here that I broke down. The sound of my sobs was swallowed by the stillness of the endless desert. I sat down in the dirt, grabbed my knees to my chest, and rocked back and forth, tears streaming down my face. I missed her, more than anyone could possibly know, more than I would admit to myself. Since my mom's death, I had allowed myself sadness, but I wouldn't allow any other feelings. People had said, "But she was so young.  And you are so young. It's not supposed to happen like this." I had shrugged them off - "supposed to" is a silly thing that has no bearing on my life. There is only what is. 

For some reason, alone and feeling kind of dehydrated and tired in that desert, I suddenly felt all the things I had fought: sadness that I would never get to talk to her again, anger that she hadn't taken care of herself, pity for myself as a motherless being in the great, big world, scorn for everyone who couldn't understand. It all washed over me in a great big wave. 

And then it was gone. As if waking from a dream, I stood up, wiped my eyes, felt my eyes adjust to the vividness of the desert again, and started running, invigorated anew. Just a ways on, I found Josh. "All good?" he asked, having no idea what I had just been through. "Yup, I just needed a minute.  Thanks for waiting."

We began to run again. We passed people backpacking (in a landscape with no water!) and two desolate roads before I finally urged Josh to go on ahead. He had been so kind this whole time, keeping his pace slow or waiting if he got ahead. I was feeling great and there would be no more junctions until the end. Besides, Andy would be running in from the end to join us for the last couple miles, so it wouldn't be long before we were all together again. 

Josh scampered away and I once again settled into a moderate jog. The terrain throughout had been sandy and not conducive to fast running, and this section was no different. The ecosystem felt different here, though - a floodplain of braided sandy washes and more scrubby plants than cacti and joshua trees.  The washes were hard to follow. I looked for Josh's footprints, but I lost sight of those, too. I had no idea if I was on the trail any more, but I knew the road was just off to my left, so if worse came to worse, I could run along it until I hit the entrance station. This section is downhill and shaded and though I was worked, I knew at this point that I would finish. I was super low on water, but I knew Andy would have some with him and in his car. Eventually, I found a section that definitely looked like the trail and I continued on it for another half-mile or so until I hit the parking lot. 

When I arrived, Josh was there, sitting on the hood of Andy's car. Andy was nowhere to be seen. Josh looked at me and said, "You didn't see Andy either?" The car was locked and we were both out of water, no Andy in sight.  Shit. Realizing that we both took different routes through the rolling washes and scrub brush, it was easy to believe that Andy took yet another route through and missed seeing us completely. We wondered how long he might go before realizing we missed each other.

After a time, Andy showed up, just as relieved as us, having had visions of us with a broken leg somewhere further along the trail.  At this point, I was dehydrated, a little nauseous, and freezing - not uncommon for me after a long run, but also heightened by the approaching darkness of the late afternoon. I crawled into Andy's sleeping bag in the back seat and napped deliriously until we made it to the pizza place in Twenty-nine Palms. Three slices of pizza later, I was coherent and bubbly again and already trying to convince Andy to join me next year...

Why am I drawn to hard things?

We stood there in the downpour looking out at the chop on Lake Crescent. Whitecaps were forming and the wind whipped directly in our faces. I asked, "would you take students out in this?" "Yeah," she said, with only the slightest hesitation. "We could go out. But it wouldn't be much fun."

As we walked back dejectedly to the warmth of the wood-burning stove in the NatureBridge dining hall, I looked back longingly at the canoes again. It wouldn't be any fun out there. It was grey and cold and paddling would be tiring. Somehow, I still wanted to go out. I said this to Becky, who said, "You just seem to be drawn to doing these things that are miserable. What is that all about?"

Part of it was that I had wanted to canoe at Olympic National Park for years and felt like I might never get the opportunity again. But that couldn't encapsulate everything I felt in that moment. Becky was right - I am drawn to hard things. 

I'm definitely not a masochist. I don't thrive on pain or suffering. I do have a high tolerance for it, though, which allows me to continue when others might struggle. I am sure that is partially genetic, but I am also sure that it can be a learned quality. Experience with pain and suffering allows one to endure more - sort of a wacky muscle memory of the soul. Simply being able to endure pain does not draw one to hard things, though.

As I explained in my previous post, I am personally drawn to achievement as a construction of self, a buffer of confidence. That's also too simplistic of an explanation for my attraction to doing difficult things. If achievement were the sole driver, I could certainly find something a little less taxing than running ultramarathons or summiting Sierra Nevada peaks solo or skiing in a blizzard.

"Oh, these times are hard. Yeah, they're making us crazy, baby..."

I think what I finally said to Becky was, "I'm addicted to the personal growth that occurs after doing the hard things." I know it would have been no fun to canoe out there in the driving rain, but I also know that I probably would not regret it afterward. It is infrequent that a hard thing is just that - hard, and nothing more. It is almost always hard and a powerful learning experience, or hard and empowering, or hard and camaraderie-inducing.

There is a transcendent power in pushing our limits, digging down deep. In a trying moment, we are reduced to our truest selves, to our maximum potential. When things suck, I feel equally vulnerable and powerful - like I don't know how bad things might get, but I also don't know just how strong I might rise.

This is usually the result of doing hard things.

Fear, Part 3: It's Just Me Against Me

It was around downed tree #39 when my brow wrinkled up, my heart leapt to my throat, and my focus became laser-like. Precision would be key for the next three steps. A large log was perched right across the single-track trail on an incredibly steep slope several hundred feet above the river canyon floor. The move over the tree would be slippery and awkward with a 30-pound backpack, and it would be difficult for a short person like myself.  After crossing, I would need to gingerly step across a short segment of sloping, crumbling dust with a potential 200 foot tumble through chaparral and poison oak. This was a definite choose-wisely/can’t-fall moment. I was in front of our group of four and had no one else’s footsteps to guide my choices. When we all were safely on the other side, I said, “Wow, that was the hairiest bit we’ve seen all trip.”  My friend said, “Huh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I didn’t really notice.”

Wait.  Really?!

I’ve been thinking about that moment. Was it a personal difference in perception? His legs were longer, so the risk wasn't as large, perhaps. Did he block out the exposed slope in his mind - either to mentally overcome it or because we were all hot and tired and had been crossing sketchy slopes for three days?

Or was it a gendered difference in perception? Was it because he was male and men perceive fear and risk differently from women? I was equally, if not more experienced, than my male counterpart in similar terrain. Are women more likely to question their abilities when faced with fear? According to this article from the Atlantic, the answer is probably "yes." 

The article compiles a number of studies that demonstrate a "confidence gap" between men and women.  It says that women tend to underestimate their abilities, while men tend to harbor an "honest overconfidence" - they're not trying to consciously fool anyone, but truly believe in their abilities.  (If you're interested in the "why" behind the confidence gap, read the article - it's interesting.)

So then, the more important question is, does this lack of confidence cause women to sell themselves short? In some situations, undoubtedly, this low confidence is life-saving: "I'm not capable of that; it will hurt me if I try." However, I have to imagine, in most cases, underestimating our skills in a situations like this, causes us to fall short of our potential. Our fear of failure, of not being good enough, of not being up to the challenge keeps us from making it into the highest ranks of leadership, from earning as much as men, and from challenging ourselves in the same way as men do in the outdoors.

There's sort of a trail through there...

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I have known women to deal with the confidence gap in different ways: "Fake it until you make it." Calling each other out when someone is selling herself short. Sharing articles like the one from The Atlantic so that more women are aware of the issue

"When women don’t act, when we hesitate because we aren’t sure, we hold ourselves back. But when we do act, even if it’s because we’re forced to, we perform just as well as men do...to become more confident, women need to stop thinking so much and just act." 

-Katty Kay and Claire Shipman, based on studies by Zachary Estes

In my own life, I have tended to work toward tangible achievements that serve as measurable data of my abilities and bolster my confidence.  When I start to doubt myself, I try to look back on my achievements and remember who I am and what I have done. I am hyper-driven to overcome my self-doubts, to prove myself capable, to reach a never-attainable potential.

This drive has typically paid dividends - hard work yields deep rewards, but I'll admit that it's not always the healthiest or most sustainable solution to the confidence gap. It has led me to injury from pushing myself too hard. When an achievement is not met, one can lose perspective on the beauty of the journey and the gifts of learning through mistakes. Perhaps most notably, the sense of ever-forward progress cannot replace a true sense of self-worth and contentment.
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Where do YOU find confidence? How do we instill confidence in our young women without contributing to our misguided culture of exceptionalism? How do we allow women to be confident and assertive without being labeled as overly aggressive or bitchy?

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This blog was the third in a three-part series on fear, as it relates to women in the outdoors. The first one focused on fear of environmental factors, while the second one focused on a fear of other humans in the wild. Check out another perspective on why I am driven to do hard things.

It's Oink Time: Javelina Jundred 2015

It's ~10pm and we're just cresting the last of what feels like a million washes on the rolling section I've come to call "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride." We've been hearing the bumpin' music across the dark desert for a mile or more, but it's only when we crest the edge of the wash that we see what feels like Las Vegas - the Jackass Junction aid station. Lights, music, and a cordoned off dance floor, complete with disco ball, and booze. 

Apparently lots of booze. 

As Rob and I descend to the station, we watch a guy on a side hill stumble and sway, catching himself once, twice, then careening head-first into a cardboard trash can, flattening it as he falls full-force to the ground just a couple feet ahead of us. Rob and I both lunge to help him up and Rob says, "You go ahead. Get what you need. I'll take care of this guy." 

Add that to the list of miscellaneous pacer duties.

Javelina Jundred: the best Jalloween party, ever.

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I was nervous headed into Javelina. After my first 100-miler 18 months earlier, I had lingering doubts. Could I finish without injury? Am I even capable of running, truly running, a full 100? And could I do it under the cutoff? Javelina has a more stringent cutoff than the Zion 100 - I would need to run at least a 45-minute PR (personal record) to even finish this race.

Then there was the training. It's hard to ever feel like you're ready to run 100 miles, but a back injury just two months earlier had put a hitch in my fitness and I was questioning whether my meager base would hold over.

Once I arrived in Arizona, though, it all dissipated. My buddies, Rob and Carolyn, picked me up from the Phoenix airport. They have a a way of bringing the fun and after seeing their smiley faces, I immediately felt like the weekend would go well. The day before the race, we arrived early to set up our tent near the start and finish. Javelina is the second largest 100-miler in the country, and a large portion of the participants camp out in a huge tent city reminiscent of a music festival. 

Honestly, when I signed up for Javelina, it was my "back-up" race and I didn't give the event too much credit, based on its loop format (more below) and relatively flat terrain. However, what I didn't realize was that Javelina is one of the best community events in ultrarunning.  It brings together ~700 runners, plus their associated crew members, for a weekend of costumery, running, and playfulness - what's not to like?! The race doesn't take itself too seriously - calling its start/finish "Jeadquarters," festooning the course with Halloween decorations, and staging a beer mile the day before the event - but it is remarkably well-organized and well-run.  My hat's off to Jamil Coury and Aravaipa Running.

On race morning, after a pretty fitful night, I wake up, take my earplugs out, and am surprised to find I've woken up to the largest flurry of activity I've ever seen at 4:30 in the morning. A bus pulls up and drops off 40 new runners from the outer parking lot, and folks are scurrying to and fro with drop bags, fidgeting with running sleeves, headlamps, and GPS watches. Nervous and focused looks abound, but so do smiles and laughter.

Carolyn asks me how I'm feeling and I say, "Great! Nervous, but confident. It's going to be a great day." I am surprised to find that I mean it, every word.

My amazing crew - alive, alert, awake, enthusiastic!

Loops 1 and 2: Scout the Route

The race starts slow - perfectly slow. A bottleneck takes a long time to empty out, which keeps me honest in my pace. I take photos of the sunrise, talk to fellow runners, and admire costumes, including at least four Wonder Women, a guy in a head-to-toe lizardy suit, Little Red Riding Hood, an angel with the letters "CRAP" on her shorts (I later find out she is "Holy Crap"), and a number of tutus and animal ears and tails that make me smile. The second half of the 15-mile loop is buttery - smooth, easy downhill, and I keep reminding myself to rein it in and not get carried away too early. I get to the Jeadquarters faster than expected, but I know I've given my best effort at keeping it slow. 

Nothing like a desert sunrise.

After handing over my headlamp and a layer to Rob and Carolyn at Jeadquarters, I head back out on the loop, in reverse this time. One of the cool things about Javelina is that you run each loop the opposite direction of the previous loop and you run many loops in a row (six and a half for the 100-miler and four loops for the 100-kilometer race). This could seem like drudgery, but I found it to be fun for a couple of reasons - you get to see everyone in the race multiple times, and you really get to know the terrain, so there are no unnerving surprises when you are tired. 

On loop two, I recognize Mirna Valerio coming the opposite direction. She is the author of the fantastic blog, Fat Girl Running, and I fangirl swoon a little bit and crack a joke as I pass by. The rest of the loop passes by somewhat unremarkably until the section I will later name "The Rock Gauntlet." While talking animatedly with a couple from Florida about the terrain, I accidentally kick a rock HARD. Yow! I hop a couple times, but since we're mid-conversation, I play it off and don't dwell on it. It hurts, but I figure it will go away, and it mostly does.  A few hours later, I will kick a rock hard with my other foot on the same section of the course. In the weeks following the race, I will lose both of my big toenails. Doh!

The Rock Gauntlet.

As I come into the Jeadquarters a second time, Rob and Carolyn are a machine, putting sunscreen on me, getting ice, taking trash, finding food in my drop bag. Carolyn asks how the heat is. I say, "It's warming up, but it's fine." Rob says, "I figured you would know how to handle it." Living in El Portal = unintentional heat training! I say "People are suffering out there. I'm not suffering!"

Loops 3 & 4: Beat the Heat

It does get hotter on loop three. Taking heat management advice from 2013 Western States champion, Pam Smith, I wet myself down early and often - pouring water over my head, on my shorts, ice in the sports bra and hat, wet bandanna on my neck. It works, but just barely. I am dry each time I reach an aid station. I watch a man get helped over to a helicopter, apparently suffering from some sort of heat exhaustion. It's only in the 70s, but there is no shade on the course, the soil is dark and rocky, and it feels much hotter out there. Two-thirds of the way through loop three, I start seeing people coming in the opposite direction with Otter Pops in their hands. Yes! 10 minutes later, I'm elated to find an unofficial, impromptu aid station: two guys and a huge cooler full of pops!

Soon, I am approaching Jeadquarters, and I try to remember...were they going to have pizza starting at 3pm or starting at 8pm? Please, oh please, let it be 3pm! (It's 4pm right now.) I get there and GLORY, HALLELUJAH! Pizza, it is! I grin, grab two cheese slices and check in with my crew for pack adjustments, etc. Carolyn shares heart-warming Facebook posts with me, I get an update on some of the other runners I've met, and I'm headed out, pizza slice in hand. Nomnomnom! (After the race, I write that pizza was "my highest hope and my best friend.")

On loop four, in a section I call "The Land of the Charismatic Cactus," I fall in with a couple of guys, one of whom Rob later identifies as a starring player in this documentary on the Barkley Marathon: one Brad Bishop. I benignly ask, "How are you guys doing?" and Brad replies with no hesitation and complete deadpan delivery: "I'm firmly buckled into the strugglebus. How 'bout you?"

We laugh and share tales for a short time, but my legs are itchin' to move and it's a hard thing to say "no" to happy legs in an ultramarathon, so I bid them adieu and jog-walk up the hill back to Jackass Junction.

Charismatic, eh?

It's in this section that my stomach starts to rebel. It'd been on the cusp of rocky for an hour or two, but had seemed to recover. Maybe the pizza threw me over the edge? (So much for my best friend!) I find myself dashing to the bushes just minutes before the aid station - a recurring theme for the rest of the event. A couple of immodium eventually slow the runs, but it never completely lets up and I dedicate myself to the only palatable foods left to me for the next ~45 miles: bananas, avocados, and chicken noodle broth. I hold onto a "to go cup" in my front vest pocket and stash avo's and 'nanners to paw at later.

As I'm headed into the last 200 meters of lap four, the lead runner comes in, finishing lap seven. Holy wow. When I cross the chip mat to mark my lap end, he is kneeling just past the line, cameras flashing at him, all celebrating his win. I pat him on the back, and suddenly aware that I'm photobombing his victory, I scamper away to the aid station, where all the volunteers are mouths agape, looking at the victor. I try to get their attention, saying, "I know I didn't just win, but I'm feeling pretty good about finishing lap four! Can I please have some Sprite and ginger?"

Loops 5 & 6: Fight with Light

As I head back to the drop bag area, Rob and Carolyn are ready, as always. This will be the longest pit stop of the day - change of clothes, grab stuff for night time, roll out my calves. Rob is ready and psyched to get out there with me, and we send Carolyn to bed in the tent city so that someone is able to drive back to California. How one can sleep with the DJ blasting music is anyone's guess. Rob and I head out and I'm a regular chatterbox - telling him about my new names for sections of the course - "The Wash," "The Enchanted Forest," etc. I'm punchdrunk with camaraderie, the new adventure of nighttime, and the fact that I'm crushing my projected time of 27 hours. I've also gotten to crew Rob twice previously and so greatly respect and appreciate his talents and love of the sport that I'm tickled pink to be paced by him.

It's here when we encounter the Halloween rager at Jackass Junction. Post-race, it is laughable how improbable such a scene is in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a 100-mile endurance running event. However, in this moment, all I can think is, "Bathroom, food, go. That dance floor is crazy. Are the aid station workers drunk? They seem lucid. Okay, let's run." And away we go.

By the time we end loop five, it's midnight and it's cold. As I put on tights and refuel, Rob throws his puffy on me and runs to the tent to grab something.  So, now I'm wearing tights and shorts, a long-sleeve, two puffies, and gloves, and I am just warm enough. When Rob returns, I hand back his puffy and off we go. Within mere minutes, I am burning up and I strip back to the long-sleeve with sleeves rolled up. It's amazing how poorly the body regulates temperature after 60 miles of running!

Lap six is exciting. Each step I take on the first half is a section of course I have completed for good. This time, when we reach Jackass nearly four hours after the previous encounter, it's dead. The playlist has shifted to slow jams and the debaucherous volunteers have been replaced by awkward teenagers from the local high school cross country team, who quietly address me with, "Do you need any help with water, ma'am?" 

During lap six, I also start to notice shin pain. After the full-on shin meltdown of my first 100-miler, I have a minor freakout and have to talk myself off the ledge for a brief moment. I try foot-striking in different ways to minimize the damage - longer strides, shorter strides, turning the foot in or out, landing on the heel or ball of the foot. The thing that causes me the least amount of pain is to run, not walk, with tiny strides. So, I trot the rest of the race - surely cutting hours off of what my time would have been if I had continued walking sections of the course.

As we get closer to Jeadquarters, we start seeing people with glowstick necklaces - a talisman each runner receives upon starting lap seven to differentiate them from the rest of the pack and validate them taking the shortcut for the last loop. I covet the necklaces and it seems like I will never get mine. The lights of the finish shine so brightly, but we seem to get no closer. 

Rob and I are both flagging at this point. Rob has run rim-to-rim-to-rim at the Grand Canyon earlier in the week, plus a backpacking trip into the canyon, a fifth place finish in the beer mile the day before, and now 30 miles of run-trudging with me in the middle of the night. Rob says, "I'm not sure if I'm going to go out on this last lap with you." I had told Rob before the race that I really wanted him for lap five, and everything else was icing on the cake, so this was not unexpected. I tease him a little about being tired, then encourage him to do what is best for him. As we pull into the start/finish area, I steel myself for the possibility of going back out alone. Secretly, I really hope he joins me, but after all he has done for me already, I resolve to keep quiet and let him decide.

"Sexy Darth Vader." Classy, too - look at those craft beers!

Loop 7: =)

Then, as I lightened my pack of contents and adjusted my headlamp, Rob said, "I'm coming with you. Let's do this." So, we head out for one last nine-mile lap. One more final trudge through the Rock Gauntlet, then we get to a brand new trail - the first all day! The cutoff trail back to the finish is gorgeous - high on a ridge overlooking the area, nobody coming the opposite direction, endless pinpricks of stars and streetlights in the far distance. We pass no one and no one passes us on this section. Rob and I barely speak. We are both worked and content to soldier on silently. It is a beautiful moment in my running career - the miles tick by slowly, but not painfully. The stars give off a feeling of infinite timelessness and I feel something primal and basic as I run through the wilds at night. I feel whole and full and at peace.

Those feelings last for a while, then as we drop back down the ridgeline, the last mile seems to take an agonizing eon. Eventually we get to the edge of the tent city. I ask Rob if he will cross the finish line with me and he says, "Do you want me to?" I yell, "Of course! This is as much mine as it is yours!" We cross the line at a "speedy trot" and we give each other a huge hug. I sit down in a perfectly-placed chair near the finish and a race official brings me a beautiful belt buckle, engraved with a Javelina on the front and the words, "I did it!" on the back.

I came. I saw. I oinked.

Finishing time: 24:13.  A six-and-a-half hour PR.
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After the race, I sit for a long while near the finish, watching the sun come up, cheering runners on and drinking a beer, icing my shin. I have no idea how much time passes. At some point, I gather enough energy to walk the 200 meters to the tent, where I promptly crash into a fitful and painful, but much-needed nap. When I wake up some time later, I attempt to help clean up, but I am useless - my brain feels like molasses and my body feels like it has been run over by a truck. I fall asleep again in the neighboring tent. Thank goodness Carolyn has gotten a little sleep - she is chipper and organized and deftly works around me tearing things down, packing the car, and driving us to California.
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Looking back, Javelina was one of the best races of my running career. I ran a smartly paced race, I made good decisions when things got tough, and I had a talented support crew to keep everything organized and buoy my spirits. My legs held up reasonably well. I still need to figure out my gastrointestinal issues, but I've also had worse. I fell even more in love with the ultrarunning community and surprisingly, I also found new love and joy for the 100-mile distance. 

Like my last 100, the things that remain are mostly joy, gratitude, and a huge sense of accomplishment. 

And oh yeah, an oinkin' belt buckle.