Breaking Forty

Well, I did it.  This week I finally broke forty miles.  There was a time when that was common place.  Not anymore.  Imagine, I even contemplated throwing in the towel again – reminding myself that I don’t have to run.   At any time, I can chose to NOT run.  I find it healthy to remember this.  Well, it took me four runs to get in 44.4 miles, and I am glad for it (not to mention a tiny bit optimistic).

Monday (April 13), I drove up the coast through Laguna Beach then up Newport Coast for a run out of Ridge Park.  I took the long way because I didn’t want to pay the $6.50 toll.  I ran 11.78 miles (18.96 km) in total, taking off from Bommer Ridge, then El Moro Ridge where I stopped off at a World War II bunker and headed down B.F.I. (Big Friggin’ Incline).

I couldn’t resist running beneath the highway (Pacific Coast Highway) for a close-up look at the ocean.  After some relaxing time listening to the waves roll in and out, I headed up through the campground to check it out for a possible family outing.  Nice campgrounds, but no campfires allowed.  No campfires!  Can you imagine camping without a fire? 

After the campgrounds, I made the difficult three mile uphill trek back to the car.  So worn out was I that I didn’t care about a stinkin’ $6.50 toll and drove the toll road back home. 

Thursday (April 16), I ran out the front door for a run down at the beach.  I saw a woman pulling her huge luggage on wheels behind her up Pacific Coast Highway.  She asked directions as I passed her on the road and I could tell even behind her dark glasses that she was bawling her eyes out.  I helped pull her luggage back up the highway, and used her phone to call the bank she was trying to locate.  Turns out the bank was much too far for this woman to walk, especially with all her heavy luggage.  I contemplated walking her back to my house so that I could drive her, but I didn’t need to, because while I phone, the bank manager said that he’d drive out to pick her up.  I walked the recently widowed woman up the highway further and waited with her until the bank manager showed.  When he arrived, he appeared like a knight-in-shining-armor – tall, dark and handsome.  (I did get the details on this woman’s situation, as we had a lot of time to talk.  The details are so sad and too complicated to relay here, and though, I feared “handing” her off to a stranger, I got his name and make of car, and felt overall confident that he was safe).  This small adventure derailed my running plans, but I was able to get in 5.30 miles (8.53 km) along the California Coast. 

Friday (April 17), I planned for a long run, setting out in Aliso Canyon around ten AM.  The skies were blue and the tall brown grass sang in the wind. From Wood Canyon, I quickly turned onto Meadows Trail (my old-time favorite) and ran along the overgrown single-track to Mentally Sensitive Trail.  The trek up that steep trail was excruciating.  It took me about twenty minutes longer than usual.  That was a good thing, because before I had a chance to commit to my long loop, I received a text from my husband stating that his car didn’t start.  This meant that I had make a smaller loop, heading back down Meadows for a nice long switchback down into Wood Canyon.  I got 7.69 miles in (12.38 km) and made it to my youngest son’s school just in time for his pick-up. 

Saturday (April 18), I was back at Aliso/Wood Canyons (this time at 12:30 PM)  for a long run up Wood Canyon, Cholla and West Ridge to Top of the World.  That was about 7.25 miles of hot uphill running.  On the ridge I ran through a swarm of bees, which startled me at first.  But then the scene brought back lovely memories of running through swarms of bees on trails in years past.  At The Top of the World, I took in the view and then turned around and headed back the same way for a total of 14.53 miles (23.38 km).  This run kicked my butt.  But when I calculated my week’s totals back at home, I came in a little over 39 miles.  This meant of course, I needed to get out one more day this week. 

Sunday – today! (April 19), I ran straight out the front door at about 3 PM and ran 5.10 miles (8.21 km) along the beach.  It was a tough run, but easy terrain-wise.  I kept up a decent pace, but felt still slightly sluggish. And that was it – my forty miles done – happily struggling along, “embracing the suck,” every last mile of it. 

Rolling Ridges

I felt at a loss where to run this morning.  I’ve had too much of Aliso/Wood Canyons, its shady groves, spring flowers, creek crossings and wretched climbs and descents to and from the ridge.  I’ve had about enough of Arroyo Trabuco trail too, with its multitude of creek crossings, lush groves and relatively flat terrain.  This morning it was, “Ho hum, where do I run?”

I suspect hubby could tell that I was approaching the door to the blues.  I’m guessing that’s why he handed over his debit card and said, “Get some gas and go run in the mountains.”  I took it in a heartbeat (I have yet to get the bank to get my own debit card).  But then I took so long getting out of the house, I opted for something entirely different – a run in Crystal Cove and Laguna wilderness.  This time though, I didn’t pay the exorbitant cost of the toll road.  I took the long way and drove through Laguna Beach. 

Wonderful Laguna Beach. 

Many, many years ago, before our three boys were born, I drove every day through Laguna Beach to get to my job in Irvine.  Oh, how I longed to be one of those wanderers strolling along the boulevard as I drove bumper-to-bumper, puffing cigarette smoke out the open window of my Toyota Corolla.  The Greeter, the original greeter, an endearing old man, stood on a corner and waved at me every single day as I drove by.  He waved at everyone.  For years.   And years. 

This morning as I drove though this town, I couldn’t help delight in the idea that I am one of those wanderers now (not exactly how I imagined, but I am).  The greeter is no longer on this earth.  But a larger than life statue stands on the road replicating his wave.  In front of that statue, stood another man this morning.  He wore a red coat as he waved at the drivers moving along Highway One.  Sure, he wasn’t the original.  But he put a smile on my face, just as the original greeter had so many times. 

Oh ya!  Lest I forget . . . I ran today.   I made a three-ridge loop (with a connector trail along the way).  Though I was still tired from yesterday, I enjoyed every perspire of sweat.

First, I ran along Bommer Ridge, high about the Pacific Ocean.  It’s a mainly downhill ridge, rolling though, with some up’s. 

Bommer Ridge:

After Bommer Ridge, I hopped onto El Moro Ridge.  It’s more rolling than Bommer, and heads directly toward the ocean.  I spied many coyote and bobcat tracks.  I explored the campgrounds.  And I stopped to photo this green meadow:

El Moro Ridge:

From El Moro Ridge, I took B.F.I., which stand’s for Big F’ing Incline.  For me it was all down hill.  I stopped for at bit at the WWII bunker.  Ate my snack there as I gazed down at the Pacific.  Then I was off again, headed for the BIG rolling climb up No-Name Ridge.

View from B.F.I. bunker:

I took no pictures (prisoners?) from No-Name Ridge.  I found the climb quite taxing.  I ran when I could.  When the ascents were too steep, I practiced my power hiking.  In all, I covered 9.82 miles on this loop.  And as usual, I believe I’m better for it. 

A Marina Run and a WWII Bunker

Monday, day two of my new running streak, I took a leisurely run at the marina.  Well, it wasn’t exactly “leisurely” because when I run flats, I try to pick up the speed.  I’m so accustomed to a slower pace due to the elevation gains I usually run, I must take advantage of the flats, so that I don’t train myself only to run slowly.  Still, my faster pace is rather slow.  Be that as it may, I ran faster than I usually do.  And that was fun.

I took a quick look at the daily fish count.  Look at all those fish, and three fishing boats were docking at the time, so their fish wasn’t even counted yet.  The café’s and restaurants were filled with tourists.  And there were smokers all about.  I assumed they were out-of-staters, because in California, smokers usually go back into the deepest darkest recesses to light up. 

Tuesday, day 3 of my new running streak, I went for a run and search.  A running friend told me where to find a WWII bunker off the trails in the coastal hills.  8:00 AM, I set out for a ten mile loop in search of this bunker. 

I began the loop in Newport Beach in the Laguna Wilderness, and ran a rolling truck trail down to the shore.  The weather was pleasantly cool.  For the first three miles, I didn’t even take a sip of the icy fluids strapped to my back.  I don’t even think I turned my hat around for the first three miles.  That’s how cool the weather was.  Lovely.

I had to climb a nasty trail, a steep truck trail, with paved portions.  Paved!   Also, not one single tree (aka. shade) lines the entire trail.  Stopping at the first location I figured to search for the bunker, I found nothing.  A bit disappointed, I thought to myself, “I have to take this trail again!!”  That trail is named B.F.I. appropriately named (Big F’ing Incline).  

Climbing B.F.I.

Still climbing B.F.I.

Before reaching the top however, I finally spotted it.  I noticed the cap first and ran on over to check out the bunker.  The cap was locked so there was no getting inside.  But I was able to crouch down and peer into it from a front opening.  I felt a bit sad exploring this historical remnant.  Mankind went through a terrible time during this period.  I even felt odd taking a picture of myself in front of the bunker.  I felt like I shouldn’t smile.  But I did. 

After my bunker find, I ran up another ridge then closed up this loop for 9.9 miles.  Ended up I drank all 64 fluid ounces of my Nuun dissolved ice water. 

The profile (Route:  No Name Ridge, No Dogs, B.F.I., El Moro Ridge, Missing Link, Fence Line, Bommer Ridge):

Day One

Ambitious for ambition, I decided today to start streaking.  No, not running nude.  Running consecutive days.  After my last streak (that ended with 56 days), I thought, “Did that.  Don’t need to do it again.” 

Well, I think I do need to do that again.  I need to kick-start my fitness.  I need to kick-start my love of running.  I don’t know how long I will streak.  Perhaps I will try and break my record. 

Day one of my streak I got a late start in Laguna Coast Wilderness.  9 AM weather was still cool, the skies were overcast.  I set out on Bommer Ridge amongst several hikers, mountain bikers and runners.  Yes, runners!  I saw more runners on the trail today than I think I’ve ever seen on a trail run.  Within an hour, I probably came upon twenty runners.  Festive!  About that time, the sun broke through the clouds too.

View from Bommer Ridge:

The weather warmed up tremendously before I turned off onto Old Emerald, a lovely single track that winds down into Emerald Canyon.  Mountain bikers flew by me all the way down.  I lost them in Emerald Canyon when I turned off onto Old Emerald Falls.  The bikers continued up Emerald Canyon back to Bommer Ridge .

Old Emerald Trail:

Heat bared down even harder as I ran Old Emerald Falls.  To make matters even more difficult, the landscape was dry and exposed.  My pack contained plenty of fluids, but I really could have used some ice in my cap.  I took in a lot more heat than I expected and looked forward for this never ending lonely trail to end.  Not a pleasant experience.

Old Emerald Falls (I have no idea where the falls are/were!):

Matters didn’t improve much when I finally hit El Moro.  I really don’t think there’s a single piece of shade on that trail.  After a while, I began to think I was running the longest trail ever!  When I finally got a look at the grand Pacific Ocean, I was ready to jump head first into it.  I would have if I could have.  My saving grace was an occasional breeze.

I ran into the parking lot on my way to No Name Ridge where I would close in this giant loop.  I guzzled down at the water fountain and washed my face with cold water in the restroom.  With about half my fluids remaining, I didn’t refill my pack.  Why didn’t I refill my pack?  Because I was lazy.  Yes, LAZY.  I broke one of my hard fast rules, which to ALWAYS refill.  I paid for this big time. 

The heat continued to bare down on during those last four up hill miles.  With about two miles left, I sucked down that last of it.  All I could think about was water.  Water and shade.  I brought my energy level way down.  And I finally found a bit of shade beneath a kiosk where I sat to cool down for a few minutes. 

I knew I wasn’t going to die or stroke out or anything like that.  There were plenty of hikers at this point, that if my situation got crucial, I could beg water off.  Still, the last two miles were pretty dang miserable. 

Making my way up No Name Ridge on my way back to the truck:

My little piece of shade:

I made it to a drinking fountain before my truck.  After guzzling down I washed my face.  Then I guzzled down more.  Feeling better, I took off my hot shoes and socks, and relaxed in an air-conditioned car before taking off for home. 

Day one was a huge struggle. 

After a cold bath at home, I’m all better.

 

The loop:  Boomer Ridge, Old Emerald, Emerald Canyon, Old Emerald Falls, El Moro Ridge, B.F.I., No Dogs, No Name Ridge.

Take Two

Today’s run ended my “rest while running” time.  I thought it apropos to end my “rest” by attempting the run that seemed to set the downward spiral in motion during my training last September. 

I set out running Bommer Ridge in dense fog this morning headed for Old Emerald.  I took a wrong turn last time, which resulted in pure HECK.  This morning I accidently took Bommer ridge down to Willow Trail, which I do every single time.  That was no big deal.  I just had a short uphill run to get back on track.

 

I came upon one other runner on this lovely, yet eerie morning.  He turned around and joyfully hollered a greeting.  Bundled up from head to toe, I couldn’t tell right off if I knew the man.  I mean, he kind of looked familiar.  “Do I know you?” I asked.  (I say that more than ever now that I’m a trail runner).  Turns out we didn’t know each other.  My friends and family who don’t run trails think that this sport is small.  And it is.  BUT to me, it’s a huge sport.  I constantly come upon people at races and on the trails that I’ve never seen before. (And I stay in my own state!)

Anyway, a thick gray coyote looked on at me through the mist as I ran onward searching for Old Emerald Trail.  I felt certain I missed it last time because it was not marked.

I focused off to my right for an unmarked single-track.  Eventually, I found a distinct single-track.  Unmarked.  It didn’t look familiar.  But keep in mind, when I run Old Emerald, I run up it.  I ran down Old Emerald just once. 

So, I ran that single-track down the hillside and told myself firmly, “If you get into trouble, TURN BACK.”   I noticed bike tracks, no footprints.   Nothing looked familiar.  With the fog so thick, I could not make out my surroundings very well.  Then finally, I noticed a ledge down below that could probably give me a good view.

From the ledge, I could see the meadow I was aiming for, way, way off in the distance.  Problem was, there was a ridge between me and the meadow.  I was on the wrong trail.  It’s pretty much a straight shot to the meadow from Old Emerald.  I would definitely remember having run over another ridge.

So, I ran back up that single-track, a little proud of myself for not taking the trail anyway, just to see what would happen. 

Back on Bommer Ridge, I came upon another single-track.  I ran a short distance of it, to the edge, before its descent.  I could still see that ridge.  Wrong trail.  And so, I continued onward, confident that I would find Old Emerald because here and there I could see an outline of the ridge that separated the canyon from my meadow.  Sure enough, soon after the other ridgeline sloped down to nothing, I came upon this trail:

Unmarked?  It may seem so.  I felt vindicated.  That is until I turned around and saw the trail marker, clear as day on the left edge of Bommer Ridge.  I ran down Old Emerald with great focus and renewed energy.  At the bottom, I ran probably twenty-five feet before I came to Old Emerald Falls Trail.

Entering Old Emerald Falls:

The meadow!

The climb out of Old Emerald Falls was a chore.  It was single track, and in places technical, which took my mind off the difficulty.  From there I caught Moro Ridge and ran it all the way to the ocean (well, I had to take a couple other trails).  I saw these two, seemingly tame deer as I made my way down B.F.I. Trail:

Running beneath Hwy One for a view of the grand Pacific:

From there it was all uphill, a lovely, cool uphill.  The last run of my “restful running” couldn’t have turned out better.