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.

--
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.
--
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.
--
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.

Fear, Part 2: The Human Factor

This blog post could probably also be titled, "Why I Let Go Of A Dream."

In February, I was awarded the prestigious Matthew Baxter III Award to attempt to become the first solo woman to fastpack the Drakensberg Grand Traverse. I was encouraged by my personal history in the area, having studied abroad at the foot of the Drakensberg mountains for a year in college. I was inspired by those who had come before me. I was motivated by challenging the idea of wilderness as gendered space - that men are the first-timers and groundbreakers in wild places.

Becca and I explore the 'Berg in 2003.

When I had first heard that the DGT had been done by solo men, I wondered, what do those guys have that I don't? Is there really any more risk to a woman as there is to a man? Before I wrote my proposal, I went about asking a small mixed-gender group of adventurers familiar with the Drakensberg what their thoughts were about a woman taking on the DGT solo. At first, their tales were cautionary, but complimentary. However, after I received the award and pressed them further on how to manage the safety concerns, they ultimately said that they did not recommend I go forward with the attempt:

The locals...as already mentioned, can be a problem. For the most part they are friendly, but we have encountered aggression before. And most of their crimes would be opportunistic. Unfortunately a lone female is a very good opportunity.

I mulled their thoughts for several months, trying to balance the perception of safety versus the reality. My experience with South Africa taught me that perception does not always match reality when it comes to risk and violence - there is a sensationalism to violence that pervades the culture. Then again, I trusted the words I was told, was aware of a couple of violent incidents in the 'Berg, and later learned that gendered violence is significantly higher in South Africa than other parts of the world. 

I explored alternatives to my proposal that would allow me to do it, but none felt right - being accompanied would be antithetical to my goals, while carrying a weapon would be contradictory to my values (and potentially more dangerous).  I began to lose a lot of sleep playing the odds over and over again in my head: "Well, chances are, I'll be fine.  But what if I'm not? Am I courting disaster?  Am I courting violence?  But chances are I'll be fine..."

One night, as I spun the odds once again, I had the thought, "What if I didn't go to South Africa at all?"  The wave of calm that came over me was immediate and unambiguous.  I let my DGT dream go.

It's important to note here the immense privilege I have in getting to choose whether or not I take a wilderness trip. #firstworldproblems. Many people cannot choose whether or not they get to put themselves in harm's way as they go to the store, to school, to church...
--
Fear of violence is one of the most frequent queries I get about backpacking alone: "Aren't you afraid someone will attack you out there?"  

The truth is... no.

It has been through the lens of the DGT in which I have learned of my immense privilege when it comes to wilderness exploration. To define wilderness is to use words like, "freedom," "solitude," and "self-sufficiency." Being in wilderness has allowed me to explore my deepest self. I think of the Drakensberg, of which a long-time (male) adventurer said, "I have been in the 'Berg alone on a few occasions and never felt at ease." It is hard to explore your deepest self when you are constantly watching your back. I wrote the following to my South African peers when I told them of my decision to not attempt the DGT:

It makes me sad that your wildest of places are unavailable (psychologically, if not physically) to the intrepid solo woman and I realize what great privilege I have living and working in a national park where I feel free to roam to my heart's content. I hope that one day your mountains will feel safe enough for everyone and that the economic disparity that fuels such acts of opportunistic violence is leveled out.

I would be remiss if I did not also highlight the incredible amounts of kindness and friendship I encountered while living in South Africa, across genders and races. My biggest fear is that someone walks away from reading this article with a more-engrained stereotype of Africa being a scary place. On the contrary, I wanted to return to SA because of the incredible experiences I had there and the people I wanted to reconnect with.

--
It is worth noting that there have been a small handful of high profile cases of women (and men) being murdered or attacked in the outdoors in the U.S. In reality, the chance of getting attacked while backpacking solo in the U.S. is probably close to infinitesimal. It is certainly orders of magnitude lower than the risk of getting hurt while driving a motor vehicle and I don't think I've ever heard someone say, "Aren't you afraid of getting into an accident?" to someone about to drive home.

Perception of risk is a goofy thing, though.  Despite data that shows that violent crime is the lowest it has been in 50 years in the United States, people consistently estimate that crime is up. Quite understandably, women feel particularly vulnerable to crime - an astounding and confounding one in three women will experience sexual or physical violence in her lifetime. The vast majority of those attacks are by an intimate partner.

So, the feeling of vulnerability is real, even though the risk of being attacked in wilderness is still very low. 
--
There is much work to be done around structures of power, privilege, and violence as it relates to women. It is more important than ever for young women to value their right to be solo and self-sufficient in the world, to not accept the plight of vulnerability meekly, to be strong and confident enough to stand up and say, "This needs to change."  

That's not to say that women can overcome the feeling of vulnerability simply by willing it so. Women and men need to continue to make this world a safer place to be, where women don't have to feel vulnerable simply because of their gender. 

This is part two of a three-part series on fear. This blog addresses fear of danger from other humans. Part one focused on fear of environmental factors, while part three focuses on fear caused by a lack of confidence in our own abilities.

--

Bachelet, Michelle. "Making Cities Safe for Women and Girls." The Guardian. Guardian News and Media Limited, 21 Feb. 2013. Web. 9 Nov. 2015. 

       <http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2013/feb/21/making-cities-safe-women-girls>

Branas, Charles, Therese Richmond, Dennis Culhane, Thomas Have, and Douglas Wiebe. "Investigating the Link Between Gun Possession and Gun Assault." 

       American Journal of Public Health. U.S. National Library of Medicine, 1 Nov. 2009. Web. 9 Nov. 2015. 

       <http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2759797/>

Calkins, Kelley. "10 Shocking Statistics on Gender-Based Violence." The Borgen Project. The Borgen Project, 30 Dec. 2013. Web. 9 Nov. 2015. 

       <http://borgenproject.org/10-shocking-statistics-gender-based-violence/>

Eisen, Lauren-Brooke. "America's Faulty Perception of Crime Rates." The Huffington Post. TheHuffingtonPost.com, Inc., 16 Mar. 2015. Web. 9 Oct. 2015. 

       <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/laurenbrooke-eisen/americas-faulty-perceptio_b_6878520.html>

"Facts and Figures: Ending Violence against Women." UN Women. UN Women, 1 Oct. 2015. Web. 9 Nov. 2015. 

       <http://www.unwomen.org/en/what-we-do/ending-violence-against-women/facts-and-figures>

"Study Reveals Extent of Gender Violence." SouthAfrica.info. SouthAfrica.info, 5 Dec. 2012. Web. 9 Nov. 2015. 

       <http://www.southafrica.info/services/rights/gender-051212.htm#.VkAgmq6rST8>

Swift, Earl. "Murder on the Appalachian Trail." Outside Online. Outside Magazine, 2 Sept. 2015. Web. 9 Oct. 2015. 

       <http://www.outsideonline.com/2011326/murder-appalachian-trail>

"Your Chances of Dying." BestHealthDegrees.com. 2015. Web. 12 Oct. 2015. <http://www.besthealthdegrees.com/health-risks/>

TBT: Zion 100, April 2014

In just 10 days, I run my second-ever 100-mile race. I am nervous and excited, and the only thing that is certain to me is that it's going to be another hell of an adventure. I can't help but look back at my experience at the Zion 100 eighteen months ago. Shall we?

I'm frying up hash browns and runny eggs at 4am in the kitchen of our cozy airbnb rental. I'm trying to keep the noise to a minimum so as to not wake up my crew. There are seven of them, and they've come to Virgin, Utah from as far away as Alaska to support me in my first-ever 100. I smile at the peacefulness of the house, how grateful I am to all of them, and how it's good they're all getting their rest right now. I think, "This will be a big day for all of us." 

The best crew ever (not pictured: Jon Jon and Brea!)

Only the beginning

The first sunrise is nice.  We are only half an hour in, everyone talking and laughing as we walk together up the Flying Monkey Trail (where they actually launched monkeys off the sandstone cliffs in the name of aeronautical science).  I am content to listen to the stories around me and fight the urge inside of me to move faster.  "This should be the slowest run you do all year," I think to myself. What irony - every other race I've ever run has been the fastest possible pace, far faster than training speed.  At mile 15 on the JEM trail, the single track is buttery and beautiful, and I have to reel myself in to keep from opening up and letting loose.  I catch sight of two of my crew, out on course taking pictures and cheering. I say to Kevin, "I can't possibly run any slower."  I feel great.

As I approach the Virgin Dam Aid Station at mile 23, Darren calls me by his nickname for me: "Yeah, Coach!" 

A nearby runner turns to me and says, "You're a coach?  Oh, good.  Maybe you can tell me what I'm doing wrong."

"Running 100 miles," I reply. 

Buttery. So buttery. JEM trail along Virgin River.

Rhythm and blues

After winding in and around a series of desert plateaus and washes on some lovely double-track, we reached the most fearsome climb of the course: the "Goosebump." This moment has been built up in my head for months, based on the description on the website: "It is hard to overstate the steepness of this climb." It is 1200 feet of elevation gain in less than a mile. In scoping it out from the top the day before, it is, indeed, intimidating. Just before the climb, I fall into conversation with a guy I had seen earlier wearing a Blerch t-shirt. His name is Dale and he is animated and bubbly. He tells me of his heartbreak and success at the Leadville 100, about his wife, about finishing rates for ultramarathons. He is content to talk and I am content to listen. I laugh a lot and as I get lost in his tales, we pass 10, perhaps 20, people grabbing their quads and gasping for breath. I suddenly realize that living in Yosemite and practicing regularly in vertical terrain and at elevation gives me a distinct advantage on this section.

Dale and I summit the Goosebump. That was fun!

However, that advantage disappears rather quickly as we immediately transition onto Gooseberry Mesa. Gooseberry Mesa is legendary among mountain bikers for its variety of technical terrain - ledges, bowls, cliffs, and the like. It is stunningly beautiful, offering wide panoramas toward Zion National Park and surrounding canyon country. However, as a running route, Gooseberry is a little like a leech - it's not going to kill you at first, but give it enough time to gnaw at you, and little by little, it's going to do its darndest to sap you dry. The slickrock is hard as pavement, and that variety that cyclists like so much makes getting into a rhythm really difficult. I hear later that the lead female runner slipped and broke her femur on this section. Youch!

Starting out on Gooseberry Mesa. Before the slickrock. Before the carnage.

A 100-mile race can be pretty mentally taxing because there is always something to manage while maintaining "constant forward progress" - drink water, eat more food, no, really, more food, apply sunscreen, remove layer, eat more, adjust drinking hose, stretch calf, etc. To layer another mentally taxing endeavor, like navigating the up-down-and-all-around slickrock of Gooseberry Mesa is pretty exhausting. 

Runners tend to have mental games unique to them that they play to get them through tough spots like this.  Today, mine play out like this:

That guy looks like he's tanking. At least I feel better than him.

Smooth and light and easy.  Smooth and light and easy.  (Tapped out in my head to the rhythm of my foot fall.)

Hey, once I get to my crew, it's only a 50K and a marathon left!  Wait, did I really just think that? 

Luckily, somewhere in here, I meet up again with Richard from Canada, who I had met earlier in the race. Like most ultrarunners, Richard is exceedingly modest and kind, and helps allay my fears about how the race will play out:

"You're looking great.  You've been doing it right, eating well, pacing it out.  Keep it up. Mile 60 is where it tends to fall apart, so whatever you do, make sure to push through that section. It will get better."

Eat some more.  

It doesn't always get worse.

I arrive at Grafton Mesa Aid at mile 49, starting to feel a little fatigued, but in great spirits because a) every step I take from here until the finish will be with a friend by my side, and b) every step I take from here until the finish will be one step farther than I have ever run in my life. 

Hannah is up first for pacing and we are laughing and telling stories as we wind through the dust and cacti. We haven't run together in literally years due to our geographic disjunct, so this is a true treat. Hannah tells me about the well-wishers on Facebook, which fills me a with a glow I vow to hold onto later when things get tough. We meet Ethan and Kathleen from Chicago, who are also running their first 100-miler and who also have not run past 50 miles before. They will be running Bighorn this summer - a race I've never heard of prior to this trip, but which has come up twice now. (Author note: it now makes my bucket list!) Though running with Hannah makes me realize we are really "yogging" at a quite pedestrian pace, the miles seem to fly by quickly as we catch up on life and chat with the Chicagoans about how to train for an event like this in the Midwest.

Grafton Mesa loop with Hannah (taking photo).

Back at the Grafton Mesa aid station, I grab headlamps, warm layers, and sustenance for the night ahead. Kevin jumps in for a 14 mile stint at pacing and we're off. Kevin has been one of the most influential people in my journey to becoming an ultrarunner - encouraging, nay, goading me to try one out after my first marathon, and always geeking out with me about developments in the sport. He knows about my Western States obsession aspirations (stay tuned for a future blog), and was the first of my friends to say, "I'll be there" when I told him I was running my first 100. Kevin and I bounce down the trail, marveling at the scenery, talking about the events of our day, taking photos of the incredible sunset.  

Into the dark.

Around mile 57, my immodium wears off and I need to take several bathroom breaks in the bushes to get my system in order. I also notice that I'm starting to feel pretty "meh" about gels, even the ones I typically love and have trained with all season. My tongue, for lack of a better description, feels "sweeted-out." We are walking at a moderate pace uphill toward Eagle Crags at mile 60 in the dark. This is an out-and-back segment and it feels lonely. We see surprisingly very little runners coming down, nor in front or behind us. I say, "Why does it feel like I'm in the very back of the pack?" Kevin immediately says, "No, no. That's definitely not true. It's just really spread out now. You're hours ahead of the back of the pack." 

We arrive at Eagle Crags and I am delighted to meet the one and only Turd'l. At mile 23, I had exuberantly thanked an aid station worker for some pickles, to which he had replied, "Those are Turd'l's pickles. You can thank him yourself when you get to Eagle Crags." Turd'l welcomes me whole-heartedly and asks me if I want a pancake. The truth is that I don't want anything. None of the food looks good to me and there is a warming fire here that looks way too inviting to be good for me, so I begrudgingly shove some food in my pack, nibble a bit, and leave the aid station. Here in starts a cycle that is a little like the grieving process: getting a runner to eat.

First is denial. "Ugh. Nothing looks good. I don't want to eat. I'll be fine."

Second is bargaining: "C'mon, just eat a little bit. It will make you feel better." "I'm sorry; I know I should, but I just can't do it right now. I feel so shitty." "You'll feel better if you eat this. Here, sit down on this rock for a second. I'll get it out of your vest and open it for you. You don't even have to eat the whole thing. Just two bites. You'll feel better. I promise." "Okay, fine. Just two bites."

Finally, there is acceptance. Sometimes it comes quickly.  Sometimes it does not.

Just like with grief, the stages don't always go in that order and can rear their heads multiple times over the course of a race. 

In my case, acceptance is slow.  I begin to trudge at slower than one m.p.h. for over three miles back to Grafton Mesa while my heart and respirations flutter at weird rates. Kevin pleads with me to stop and eat many, many times and gives me his jacket as I begin to freeze. I feel weird and somehow detached from my own body. I know that I am in bad shape, but all I can think about is getting back to Grafton Aid, which, in my mind, is around every corner. Kevin, for his part, keeps the mood light, even though he is undoubtedly freezing his ass off and cannot get me to do what he knows I need to do. At some point, Hannah comes bounding down the trail from the opposite direction, wondering where the hell we've been for the last three hours. I know by the look Hannah and Kevin exchange that I am in way worse shape than I think. Hannah laughs and jokes and tells me how far it is, and after an eternity, we land back at the aid station. Hannah sternly sits me down by the fire with a thick down coat and makes me change into long johns. My crew thrusts soup broth at me and says, "Take a bite." "Take another bite." They feed me Have'a'Chips with avocado, one-by-one. Any protests about having enough food go unheard. They are dogged. And they are right - I was probably somewhere in the murky land between calorie-bonking and mild hyponatremia. After a 20 minute timeout, my crew reassures me that I still have plenty of time to finish, and they send me packing. After two to three false starts (bathroom calling!), Andy and I take our first gingerly paces out of camp.

"Wee" Hours

Andy and I start slowly at first, and I keep eating salted seaweed snacks. "These are the most delicious thing I have ever eaten!" I exclaim. We pick up the pace a touch and suddenly Andy and I are just out for a midnight run on a random dirt road in Utah and the world doesn't seem so bad any more. We are talking in animated tones and start to laugh about the last 15 miles. "Wow, that was touch and go there for a bit, wasn't it?" I say. "Yup." I would have never guessed that my highest high of the whole race would come at mile 68, and I definitely would not have thought it would come directly after the lowest low I have ever encountered in my life. But here we are. My number for the race is 180, and I decided early on that my motto would be this:

"There's always time for a 180."

I got to run this section of trail twice - once in the daylight and once in the dark.

We gossip about other people we have met through the day, about the leader on course who has probably finished by now, about when Andy is going to run his first 100. Somewhere around mile 71, the following thought occurs: 

"Hmm. I feel something in my shin. That may hurt later."

Andy and I make it over to the to the top of the Goosebump, where Jon Jon is waiting to meet me. Jon Jon has been bouncing around the course all day taking freelance photos of the eventual winner, Jeff Browning, for Patagonia, so I was half-expecting him to not be there for his four-mile pacing stint. But sure enough, despite the ungodly hour and the middle-of-nowhere locale, he is there smiling and ready to run. He is surprised by how well I'm doing, considering the texts he had gotten from Hannah just a couple hours ago. He had prepared a water bottle of Perpetuem for me in case liquid calories are all I can stomach. It is kind of funny tasting, but I can tell my body is happy about it, nonetheless. As we start down the lip of the Goosebump descent, we yell, "Wheeee!  Bombs away!" I feel like I'm "bombing" down the hill, but in reality, it's probably the slowest I've ever descended in any race. No matter. The desert is ours! The section feels short, but very dark and very lonely. We pass only one soul who is without a pacer. His light is dim and he seems rather confused about whether he is in the right place. I grow a little concerned at his distant tone and vague babble. We encourage him to run with us, and he does for a few minutes, but he eventually peels off to use the restroom and tells us to go on without him. I see a glimpse of myself, just ten miles earlier, and I hope he fares okay without a crew to save the day.

We arrive back to Highway 9 at mile 78 and Adrienne and Kevin whoop out a greeting. I mow down some Girl Scout cookies and bananas and I finally feel like my stomach has sorted itself out. Kevin shows relief seeing me eat real food again. He mentions that he tried to sleep, but couldn't really because he was "too excited." (I'm pretty sure he later admitted he was nervous about me, too, after watching my meltdown.)

Adrienne has gotten a few winks of shuteye and is psyched to head out on an 18-mile stretch. We get about a half-mile in, starting to head up the dirt road to Guacamole Mesa, when I throw a salt capsule in my mouth. I struggle to get my hose attachment flowing, and I gag on the pill as it hits the back of my throat. Immediately, I am puking multiple times in the road. A nearby spectator waiting for her runner says, "Oh no! Are you okay?" "Yeah. [puke] I'm fine! [puke] No, really, I'm okay. [puke] I just choked on a salt pill!"

Dumbest puke ever.

All those nice calories down the drain. I rinse out my mouth, laugh sheepishly, apologize to Adrienne if my puke splashed onto her shoes, and try to eat again as we amble up the road. We reach the top of the mesa and there is a confusing split, with trail markers in both directions. We go 100 yards in either direction, but cannot see the next trail marker on either side. No runners come from either fork, even though this is an out-and-back section. A few more runners from behind us catch up and we all look confusedly at the markers, unable to move. We all know that a mistake could be pretty costly at this stage in the game. Or perhaps fatigue is making us indecisive. We look at each other and shrug our shoulders. Eventually, someone says, "I'm pretty sure it's this way," and we all follow like sheep.  It takes a few minutes, but we finally see a runner coming from the opposite direction. Phew.

Tiny elves playing the xylophone

As we approach the Guacamole aid station, we come across a few other runners who have just finished the loop we're about to begin. "It sucks out there! It is so hard to follow the trail." "You're just starting that loop? Good luck," one emphasized with an ironic tone. Uh oh. I turn to one of the aid workers and innocently ask, "Any tips for not getting lost on the loop ahead?" She is clearly so tired of being berated by runners about getting lost, as she rolls her eyes and says, "Follow the course markings..." Hmm. 

Meanwhile, Adrienne has managed to score a roll of duct tape to try to help me tape my shin, which has progressively gotten more painful. At first, we stick to the end of a small pack of runners, which is to our advantage. Guacamole Mesa is a gentler version of Gooseberry - mostly rolling slickrock, but not as jarring or as irregular. However, trail-finding is difficult at night, as the route is marked only sparsely with reflective tape. Having a pack of people is useful because each time we have to stop to find the next marker, we have six or seven headlamps scanning in different directions and at different heights. When one person finds it, we all benefit. Adrienne and I hug tight to the pack for a mile or two, but then my shin starts to hurt and I stop to rip off the duct tape. The pack continues on without us.

Ambling through the dark on Guacamole. See the reflective tape?

The remaining seven miles of this loop go from bad to worse. The irregular footing of the slickrock becomes unbelievably painful on my shin, particularly when my foot is sloped at a downward angle. I begin to involuntarily whimper each time my foot is at an angle and my jogging gets slower and slower until I can only walk. I yelp and cry and it's everything I've got to keep moving. At some point, the sun comes up. I had been looking forward to this moment for months after hearing ultrarunners talk about how the sunrise is something close to enlightened bliss and how it can change a race around.  

The truth is: I couldn't care.

I couldn't care about the gorgeous red hues or the illumination of this awesome mesa. I couldn't care when the Chicagoans catch back up to me and gleefully shout, "Green shorts!" I couldn't care when Adrienne tries to get me to eat something. I couldn't care when I realized that a couple of runners are accidentally skipping at least a quarter mile of the course because they had beelined to the wrong piece of reflective tape. I couldn't care when 50K runners from the race that just started this morning begin to pass us, each offering saccharine words of encouragement. I couldn't care when we arrive back at Guacamole Aid, the last aid station of the course. I couldn't care when I can't get the porta-potty door to close all the way and an aid station worker catches a glimpse of me with my pants down. I am apathetic, exhausted, and in incredible amounts of pain. 

Constant (slow) forward progress.

There are only nine miles left and I'm not convinced I will make it before the race cut-off time. I try to do math in my head, over and over.  "If I'm going one mile per hour and there are six hours left, I won't make it. What if I go one and a quarter miles per hour? One-fourth times six...wait, do I multiply the hours or the miles?  Oh yeah, miles.  One-forth times nine is...  No, wait, times six.  No, nine."  

My brain is useless for math at mile 91.

I keep whining to Adrienne that I'm afraid I won't make the cutoff. I am seriously concerned at this point that I am doing irreparable harm to my body, and I know how heartbroken I will be if I put myself through this much pain and still don't finish. I picture myself crossing the line just minutes past the cut-off. I ask her multiple times, "Are you sure we still have enough time to finish? I don't think there's enough time." I bargain with her: If we don't make it to Darren, my last pacer, stationed at mile 97.5, by 11:30am, I'm cutting my losses. 

We continue down off the mesa and the downhill slope is excruciating. I cry because I don't think I can walk down the whole thing. Then, a stroke of genius. I turn around and start walking backwards down the hill. For three miles. 

Head down. Just keep going. Backwards is forwards.

The sun continues to rise and I don't have my sunglasses, so I start to squint. As I squint, my eyes shut and I catch myself nodding off multiple times. I am a hot mess when we get to the bottom of the hill, where the crew is waiting. It is 11:27am. I tell them, "It feels like tiny elves are playing xylophone on my shinbone." They hand me a pair of trekking poles, and without saying another word, I start limp-marching ahead of Darren, using the poles like makeshift crutches to push myself along. My pace easily triples.

Beer thirty

A few minutes later, a curious thing happens. I am walking backwards down a short, steep hill, when I see a tall woman barreling down the hill toward me at top speed, whooping and carrying...a bottle of beer! She announces her joy at being almost done and I compliment her on her style. She says, "Yeah, somebody else's crew gave me the beer back there." Later I find out that the following transpired:

Darren and I hike off. Adrienne turns to Hannah with an exhausted expression that belies the 18 miles of hell she's been through, goading my crying, yelping, apathetic sack of bones through the desert in the wee hours of the morning. Hannah offers Adrienne a beer, which she accepts. Just then, the tall runner lopes by and says, "Ooh, can I have one?"

A shot from the rental house the day before the race. =)

Darren has done his homework, scouting the course earlier in the day, so he talks me through each section calmly, "Okay, coming up is a short flat section and then we'll get to the creek crossing." Wait. What?! I have pored over the race information and maps hundreds of times over the past six months. There was never any mention of a creek crossing! What a cruel trick on 98 mile legs! It is only mid-shin deep and the bottom is not very slippery, but it sure ain't easy going. I curse and thank my crew again for thinking to bring me a pair of trekking poles.

Nothing about a creek crossing in here!

We are so close - just a couple of blocks through the tiny town of Virgin. A woman I had passed at mile 23 comes flying by us. I remember her from earlier because I had heard her say she had finished something like a dozen 100-milers and I had been surprised because she was a little bit stouter than the average runner. As she rushed by me, I laughed at myself: "Silly Katie. Might be time to rethink your definition of fit."

We turn onto the grass of the finish area and Darren peels off to grab his camera and let me finish what I've started. There is a small crowd of runners and crew members and they clap and cheer. I cross the line, put my head in my hands, and cry a little. Is this a dream? A nightmare? Both? I'm not sure. I'm glad I've done it and I'm glad it's over. I pick out my belt buckle from the finish line table and sit down to drink a beer. 

Holy wow.

30 hours, 44 minutes, 52 seconds. 87th place out of 117 finishers with a 62% finishing rate. I have never been more delighted to be a back-of-the-packer.

What am I left with?  For starters: swollen feet, blisters in odd places, mental fog, chapped lips and nose, wrist tendonitis from the trekking pole "crutches," a puffy face, a bloated stomach, malaise, disinterest in food, a lost concept of time, overwhelming gratitude, pride, and a shiny new belt buckle.

Elephantitis of the shin. No, not really. But still pretty bad.

--
Now and then

18 months later, what still remains? I still sometimes get teary-eyed when I think about the kindness shown to me that day - of strangers and of my crew. It is so humbling to have people take care of you when you're at your most vulnerable. What my crew did for me that day felt nothing less than heroic and like the ultimate expression of love.

I'm also still struck by the thought, "When is it not worth it?" The truth is that I'm not sure. My shin turned out to be a gnarly bout of anterior tibialis tendonitis with peroneal nerve irritation that took almost eight months to heal and rehabilitate, as well as a significant chunk of my bank account for medical bills. I missed an entire summer of adventures in my beloved Sierra Nevada. Then again, if I had quit, the self-doubt and wondering "what if" could have crushed me from the inside for far longer than eight months.

One thing that still remains is a desire to give it another go. A week from today, I fly out to Arizona to try my hand at my second hundo. Who knows what will happen this time? Stay tuned...

This is the first in a series of "Throw Back Thursday" posts aimed at recapping recent (and not so recent) adventures. The posts are meant to serve as "beta" for other adventurers, stories for friends and family, and inspiration for other women to connect with the outdoors and test their potential.

Fear, Part 1: The Bear Necessities

"My, child. Aren't you scared a bear is going to eat you?"

-Visitor, Yosemite Valley, Fall 2002

Risk is a fascinating beast, and its cousin, fear, is an even queerer fellow. We live in an ever risk-averse world. Helicopter parenting and anxiety are at an all-time high.  There is a wonky positive feedback loop happening here: the more that anxiety-ridden parents interfere in their children's lives to shield them from danger, the more fearful those children will then be when later faced with difficult circumstances because they do not have the tools to deal effectively. What we're up against here is a mismatch of skills to experiences.

My current job introduces backpacking and wilderness areas to high school students from communities traditionally under-represented in national parks and wilderness areas. As part of my role, I hold in-person meetings in the communities talking to parents and their children about what to expect. Naturally, if you've never had an experience with backpacking and never known anyone who has had an experience like it, you have many questions.  The questions tend to follow a common thread, and inevitably the first question is almost always, "What do you do about bears?"

Ah, yes, our primal fear of the fang-bearing megafauna.  I have also gotten this question countless times since I started regularly sleeping outdoors without a tent (see quote at the beginning of this post) and backpacking solo. There's no doubt in my mind that we are evolutionarily hard-wired to both fear and adore megafauna: our biggest threats, our close mammalian cousins, our potential dinner steaks. 

Friend, foe, or food? (Don't worry, PETA; I wouldn't.)

I've been thinking about my own relationship to bears (and other scary environmental factors), and wondering at what point I became comfortable with the idea of being alone in the wilderness with wild critters. It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment, but I certainly think it didn't hurt that in 2008, part of my job duties included chasing black bears out of our summer camp. I learned how to run at top speed, screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping they would run away before I got to them. They always did. (One day, I even got to watch one doggy-paddle across a lake after I chased it to the shore!)

Twice in the past year, I have giggled while reading accounts of other ultrarunners, far more talented than me, but with seemingly less wilderness experience, who were "detained" for over 20 minutes waiting for black bears. In one case, the woman sacrificed podium place waiting for other competitors to catch up before she would skirt well off the trail away from the bear. Both times I thought, "why didn't they just yell at the bear to get out of the way?" I realized that we're back to that match of skills to experience: scaring a bear, just like tying a fishing knot, firing up a cook stove, or reading weather patterns, is a skill that comes with experience and confidence.

I didn't yell at this one - s/he was way too cute to send packing.

Since I am interested in the question of why more women do not adventure outdoors, I wonder if these innate fears of large animals and other environmental factors are more common to women than men. If so, is that a biological adaptation where men are hard-wired to face those fears so that they can be effective hunters? Meanwhile, are women more biologically inclined to view environmental factors with more caution in order to protect their brood?

Even if my theory is plausible, I would hate to give too much credence to our genetic make-up or to eschew the role of human agency. No matter how we are born, women are entirely capable of being badass adventurers in the face of incredible odds and extremely challenging environmental factors. (Need proof? Watch Tracks on Netflix.  Or read the book.)

How do we connect women with the confidence and skills to combat fears of the great unknown? Can we do more to get women outdoors at a young age? Can I and other women make a point of mentoring more young women to de-mystify wilderness? Are there media messages about the outdoors that speak to women and men differently? On the flip side, are there skills that are more common among women that we can capitalize on to empower women to feel comfortable outdoors?

This is part one of a three-part series on fear. This blog addresses fear of environmental factors. Part two will focus on danger from other humans, while part three will be about fear of our own abilities.

--

Davidson, Robyn. Tracks. New York: Pantheon, 1980. Print. 

Everett-Haynes, Monica. "The Dangers of 'Overparenting'" The Dangers of 'Overparenting' The University of Arizona College of Social and Behavioral 
       Sciences, 19 Mar. 2013. Web. 19 Oct. 2015. <http://web.sbs.arizona.edu/college/news/dangers-overparenting>.

Gray, Peter. "The Decline of Play and Rise in Children's Mental Disorders." Psychology Today. HealthProfs.com, 26 Jan. 2010. Web. 19 Oct. 2015. 

       <https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/freedom-learn/201001/the-decline-play-and-rise-in-childrens-mental-disorders>.
Gustafson, Timi. "Anxiety Disorders Are Sharply on the Rise." Food and Health with Timi Gustafson R.D. Solstice Publications, 30 Sept. 2011. Web. 19 Oct. 

        2015. <http://www.timigustafson.com/2011/anxiety-disorders-are-sharply-on-the-rise/>.

Levine, Bruce. "How Our Society Breeds Anxiety, Depression and Dysfunction." Salon. Salon Media Group, 26 Aug. 2013. Web. 19 Oct. 2015. 

        <http://www.salon.com/2013/08/26/how_our_society_breeds_anxiety_depression_and_dysfunction_partner/>. 

Tracks. Dir. John Curran. Perf. Mia Wasikowska, Adam Driver, Lily Pearl. Transmission Films, 2013. Film. Viewed on Netflix. 
        <http://www.netflix.com/title/70292997>