Well, it’s been 3 weeks since my defeat. I’ve been taking it easy, sulking, catching up on errands, trying to get back my run groove. I’ve resorted to trickery to get my feet moving (see last post). This morning, I relied on my hubby to kick my behind if he found me sleeping on the couch AGAIN when he awoke. (The pattern has been, wake early to run, hit the snooze, walk out to the living room, fall asleep on the couch.)
It sure took me a long time to get out the door this morning. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the scene of defeat – Trabuco Canyon. I just had to FORCE it. So, I got in my truck and drove mindlessly toward the Saddleback Mountains.
If you live in Southern California you probably know that Trabuco Canyon is the same canyon that the two teenaged hikers were recently lost for 4 days. The media spread “my” canyon all over the airwaves, naming trails, etc., for four days. Thankfully, the two kids were safely found. I suspect they learned lots of lessons. Many that I have learned myself, but have been fortunate enough not to cause a 4 day “man hunt,” utilizing hundreds of volunteers, several helicopters, medics, etc.
Anyway, I finally arrived to the Holy Jim lot around 8 AM. Two runners and several cyclists stood around talking about the lost hikers. They had their theories, mine was similar (I’ll leave out my theory as to what happened, unless I hear later that it’s the case).
Taking off towards the Holy Jim Trailhead:
Though my calves felt tight at first, I found Holy Jim delightful. It was not the same beast that kicked my butt during Old Goat. This Holy Jim was cool, scenic and gave me strength. I ran with plenty of calories stashed in my pockets and plenty of fluids to drink until I arrived at the secret stash several miles away.
I ran up that switchback with four other ladies who had not run Holy Jim before. So, when the lady behind me tried to catch me, I had the advantage being that I know how to pace myself on this trail. In the end I passed the front runner of the group, only because she turned her ankle. I stopped briefly to talk with her, then whizzed my way up to Bear Springs.
Hallelujah! Me and Holy Jim are friends again.
Holy Jim:
While the four ladies headed off toward Santiago Peak, I took the Main Divide for an up and down, up and down run toward West Horsethief. The sun came out strong, yet I was lucky to have an occasional cool breeze. I felt very fortunate to have these gifts today – I can still run mountain trails, I know my way around these mountains, and I enjoy the “harsh” beauty.
Several jeeps drove past me as I ran the Main Divide. I even came upon two more female runners. I began to remember that I love trail running.
From the Main Divide:
What a delight to make the top of West Horsethief. I stopped for a quick photo op, then happily, joyfully made my way down that steep, rocky switchback. I slid a few times, tripped once, and even fell back lightly once. The trail seemed longer than I remembered. But then again, it always does. And I thought, as I always do, that it must be more difficult running down Horsethief than running up it. Toward the bottom, I came upon two hikers. I rarely come upon anyone on Horsethief. These two were sitting in the shade probably saying, “What the heck were we thinking?”
Top of West Horsethief:
West Horsethief:
I finished this 14+ mile loop at a packed Holy Jim parking lot. A line of cars backed-up on Trabuco Canyon Road trying to get in the lot Not a place remained to park. Drivers were eager to catch my eye to ask if I was leaving. I only put in a quick stretch before giving up my space. The drive out was a little odd, no not a little. It was very odd. Every available space to park along the canyon road was crowded with cars. Countless hikers made their way in, and at some points were the road was tight, a literal line of cars waited to make their way through. I have never seen Trabuco Canyon so crowded. I found this a little annoying – were these visitors there to see the sight of a near tragedy (the lost teenagers) or were they genuinely interested in this beautiful place that the media referred to again and again as rugged, harsh and dangerous?
I suspect the crowds will die down. If not, there are plenty of canyons where I can access Saddleback Mountains.
The main thing is: Today I returned to the scene of defeat. AND I remembered that I love trail running. This is not to say that I totally have my groove back. But it’s a start. A dang good start.
It’s time to call this rut official. Every morning I set my alarm to get in an early trail run. Every morning, I hit the snooze and go back to sleep. Now this week is spring break. I’m off work, the boys are home from school. The only reason I have to rise early is to run. That hasn’t been reason enough!
Rarely do I need a push out the door to get out and run. I have felt lucky about that. Looks like my luck ran out. This rut was going to take my own pushing to get out. Not just pushing once, but perhaps repeatedly.
Today’s plan: After a family outing along East Trabuco Creek, I would run home. I packed my shoes in the back, went on a little hike and hunt for pollywogs with family and friends. Then as everyone drove home I taped up my right arch because my heel has been aching. Then I laced up my shoes for a short run home. I was SOOOO close to saying, “Just drive me home and I’ll run around the neighborhood.” But I stopped myself, because I knew that I wouldn’t run around the neighborhood. I needed to be forced to run. That’s why I let hubby drive off. With no ride home and a pair of running shoes upon my feet, I had no choice. I ran.
I can’t say how I felt at first. I didn’t think much. I can say that I wasn’t enjoying myself. My shins slightly ached. I stopped to stretch. A solemn enjoyment finally hit me at two miles in, just as I crossed the bridge over E. Trabuco Creek, for a run along the bike path (the “River Walk” back toward home.)
I can tell there’s going to be a little more forcing and trickery going on before I’m totally back in the grove. Feels a little like I’m starting over (but not really, because when I first began, I couldn’t even run a neighborhood block!)
Miles run: 5
Running through a city park along the train tracks:
Passing the petting zoo (look at those teeth!!):
The bridge over E. Trabuco Creek (many people think this is San Juan Creek, but it’s not. This creek joins San Juan Creek in less than a 10th of a mile from here):
Saturday, I went for something much different than my status quo trails. I ran my first Hash Run. I learned about the Hash House Harriers several years ago. I was told that they were “drinkers with a running problem.” Sounded interesting, but years passed and I never “hashed.” It seemed to me that beer and running didn’t mix. With all the falling and tripping I do on the trails sober, how would I run after some beers?
My friend Emmett Rahl invited me to The Hashtravaganza located on Orange County Trails. I thought it was a good opportunity to end my mourning over Old Goat. It was time for some play in the wilderness and to chuck the seriousness. First things first, I decided to take a bus to the event. I metabolize alcohol very slowly, which means if I get pulled over, even after a small amount of alcohol, I will probably blow over the legal limit. That’s just not a chance I don’t want to take. Call me paranoid. Besides, I love riding the bus!
My stop was 2.5 miles from the run start. At the start, the entire group, including organizers and workers take off. It’s a moving sort of run. This of course means that I HAD TO make it in time for the start. Somehow, someway, I got turned around and ran 2.5 miles in the OPPOSITE DIRECTION. This of course meant that I had 5 miles now to run, and only about 30 minutes to do it. DOH!
So I took off running with no hopes of making it in time, but really wanting to make the start, so I did the unthinkable. I stuck my thumb out. Yes, I tried to hitch a ride. Much to my disappointment, car after car after car whizzed by ignoring my request. Finally, after about 2 miles on the return 5 mile trip, a mini-truck pulled over. The driver was a male named Abraham, the passenger squeezed in the back seat was male as well. I hopped in the car with a quick back-up plan conjured up on the spot. I left my door unlocked, with an eye on it to make sure the driver didn’t lock it. I also didn’t seat belt, so I could have quick access out of the car if need be. Hitch-hiking is not recommended behavior, especially for females. Needless to say, hubby was not happy (he actually called me when I was in Abraham’s car). I am pleased to report that the driver was rather nice and drove me all the way to my destination, about a mile past his turnoff. He told me that his car broke down last week, and he tried to thumb a ride, and no one picked him up. That’s why he pulled over to give me a ride.
I made it to the Hash in time to have a small breakfast (they had a great “continental” spread) and a beer. 100+ drinkers with a running problems were in a festive mood. Each had a plastic mug hanging somewhere on their attire, hooked to their backpack, etc. I hooked a plastic mug given to me by Emmett onto my running belt.
The day was too long, with too many separate adventures to detail it here without writing a book. I will try and make it brief, by starting with how Hash Runs work (or at least these Hash Runs – Hash Runs are run all over the world, so they probably vary).
Saturday, we had 5 separate hash runs, I say “runs” and not races, because they are not races. Anyone caught running competitively gets loudly declared a “racist.” Each run started off with a couple “hares” who took off first with bags of flour to mark trails. The rest of us, the “hounds,” waited fifteen minutes and then ran off after the “hares.” Quickly into the run, there’s a “T” for Turkeys for the easier route, and an “E” for Eagles, for the hardest route. I took the “E” at each occasion.
Some of the flour markings lead off onto “false” trails. So, we listened to the whistle wearing “hounds. They blew twice when we were “on trail,” and once once for “off trail.” Often people yelled out, “Are we on?” or “On on?”
During the course, we also saw the marking BN which means “beer near.” Here we “hounds” stopped for a beer. There were also whiskey stops along the way, where runners took shots of Jack Daniels or Honey Jack. (I steered clear of the shots being that I am not a liquor drinker, liquor referring to the “hard stuff.”)
Something very interesting about Hash Runs, is that runners are allowed to cut the course. Cutting the course is taking short cuts, some small, like skipping the corner and running through a field to catch the course up a ways. Cutting the course under regular circumstances is a big No-No. In all the “races” that I have run, I have never cut the course, though I have seen runners do it (though very few). The first time I cut the course on Saturday was very liberating. I must have cut the course 5 more times after that. (With glee I might add).
After the first Hash Run (remember we had 5), all the runners met up again for more beer, snacks, awards, and drinking songs. Everyone had smiles and there was lots of laughter. Sometimes the “hares” were booed for making such a difficult trail. The person voted to have done the stupidest thing on the run was awarded a toilet plunger to carry with him/her for the entire next Hash Run. One more thing: When a “hound” catches a “hare,” it’s called a “Hare Snare,” and all the “hounds” have to wait fifteen minutes before taking off again (so that the hares can get out far enough).
The end of Hash Run #1
I was amazed to find that running while drinking beers, quite a few of them, is not difficult at all. In fact, I burned off the buzz early into each run. And I was left with the numbness. Ended up, I ran faster. I didn’t fall; I didn’t trip. I didn’t fret the difficulty. I took on the steep hills and thick brush with pleasure and a big grin. At one point, a group of us ran into what felt like Stinging Nettle. That stuff with it’s microscopic thorns hurt like heck. I said, “Oh dang, I don’t do good with Stinging Nettle.” The runner in front of me laughed loudly. “Who does good with Stinging Nettle? That’s like saying, I don’t do good with cyanide.” Then he commenced to stand off to the side, yelling and laughing hysterically, “Make it stop! Make it stop!” Soon after, the stinging ceased. We obviously had not run into Nettle. But the “Make it stop!” guy and his friend cut the course and found themselves in a sticky situation at the bottom of a ravine. Having been stuck in a ravine before, I said, “Don’t do it.” But they didn’t listen and afterward stood on the other side yelling to runners not to cut the course there, it wasn’t worth it.
The hill behind me only looks steep
The sun came out in abundance for run #3. Fortunately, a cool breeze blew through quite frequently. We had a full spread of lunch awaiting at the end of run #3 and more beer. And then we were off again for another tough run. And more beer.
Feeling no pain:
Deciding on the plunger award after Hash Run #2:
Hash Run #3:
Beer Stop:
End of Hash Run #3, meet up for lunch:
Hash Run #4, quite strenuous (but fun):
End of Hash Run #4:
During Hash Run #5, I found myself running along the Turkey route. I don’t know how I missed the Eagle. But I did see many runners up on a higher trail. I looked for a way to get there, but only came up on barbed-wire fence. One of the runners, stepped down on a portion for me, and I carefully stepped over it. This is how all the runners were, kind and friendly, smiling and laughing.
Well, we all ran along this trail that quickly ascended. Pretty soon the flour markings ended. Yet, we continued running with some of the runners yelling “On Trail? On Trail?” No whistles were blown. Eventually, we hit a dead end and had to turn around. We all got back on the Turkey route which eventually lead to another Eagle route. I took the Eagle, cut the course to get to a meadowy tough climb. This run was the shortest of all the runs, yet it was extremely tough toward the end. I was quite relieved to end up back at the start, where there was more beer and a full course dinner being cooked up: steak, chicken, roasted veggies, a green salad with a huge choice of toppings, and of course, more beer.
After eating and joking around some, my hubby arrived to drive me home. It was a long day. I felt accomplished for handling 21+ difficult miles so well. And the above is the SHORT version of this adventure.
I will add that I woke up Sunday morning sore. All of my muscles ached. The bottom of my feet ached. I slept til noon. Then I took another nap about 4PM. Fun times, but boy did they wipe me out.
It’s been nine days since I’ve hit the trails. For nine days, trails were the furthest thing from my mind. I told everyone I was recovering, when actually, I was kind of sulking. I didn’t stretch. I didn’t roll. I didn’t cross-train. I knew that I would run trails again. I just needed time. I needed to take inventory. I needed nine days.
This morning, it was time. I set out for my “short” run to Top of the World in Laguna Beach. I felt better than I thought that I would. But then, my calves screamed with pain as I ran up that first steep climb, Cholla Trail. I stopped once to stretch my calves. I focused on loosening up for the rest of the climb. When I reached West Ridge, I took several minutes to stretch out my calves once again.
The remainder of my run was tranquil. Most of the time I sunk into nothingness – just running trails, and nothing more. That’s the best.
I headed up the mountain with Emmett Rahl at 3:30 AM. With little sleep, I felt energetic, excited, trying not to think about Old Goat specifics. My first & utmost concern was making that first cutoff – The 21 mile technical “Candy Store Loop” in 6.5 hours.
We took off in the dark wearing headlamps. I handled the rocky terrain well, relieved I had trained on San Juan Trail. I fell twice in the dark. But they were both those amazing, what I call “ballerina” falls. These are the falls that I bounce back up with absolutely no injuries. A little ways later, I kicked an embedded rock so hard that I was sure when the sun rose, I’d see a blood soaked shoe.
I passed several people on the Viejo Tie portion of the loop. I chanted my mantras, prayed for strength. Though visibility was tough at first, I know the Viejo Tie. In training, I learned I didn’t have to go as slowly as it looked like I did. There’s landing paces, ways to maneuver the trail quickly and confidently. As I passed one group of runners, one of them yelled out to the others ahead, “Fast Runner” so that I could pass. I got a hearty laugh out of that. I don’t think anyone has EVER referred to me as “Fast Runner.” With six runners behind me, one of them at my toes, I felt happy. I arrived at Chiquita trail 12 minutes faster than my best! With the sun out and warming the earth quickly, I saw that my shoe was clean of blood. My big toe ached, but it was bearable.
My friend Robert Whited passed me on the final ascent into the “Candy Store” aid. I didn’t see many people running this portion. Those I did see, like myself, hiked a great deal of the short distance. (Not Robert though; he’s an animal.)
Somewhere in the first 11 miles, I lost my time gain and arrived to the parking lot across from The Candy Store right around my best time: 3 hours. I quickly hopped back on the trail to loop back around onto Chiquita with a great sense of urgency to finish the mainly uphill ten miles in the best time I ever had. If I did any less than my best, I would not make the cutoff.
The first five miles into the return trip were tough. But I moved forward at a good pace. Emmett Rahl caught me and then he quickly ploughed up ahead of me. My friend Kurt Erlandson also passed with encouraging words. Many people passed me, as I had taken the early start, and the regular starters were coming on strong. One guy turned back to look at me and said, “Hey! I read your blog yesterday.”
Right about the time that I felt I couldn’t move any faster, a group of 5 or so runners came up from behind as we climbed that rocky exposed terrain. The female leader passed me. Her male followers didn’t pass. I didn’t force it either. Instead, I followed her lead, picking up my pace tremendously. Focusing on her feet, I witnessed her trip a few times. I continued with my mantras and praying. And then I fell again. But amazingly, I fell sideways, directly into the mountain wall. The runner ahead hollered back asking if I was okay. Surprisingly, I was fine after pushing myself away from the dirt and keeping stride with the group. It seemed as if I didn’t miss a step.
At the Chiquita falls aid station, I met up with a large group of runners. I found Emmett, gulped down a shot of water. I said to him beneath my breath, “I’m out of here.” I needed all the head start I could get. He didn’t hear me, telling me later that he turned to look and I had disappeared.
I arrived to the first cut-off in 6:10. This was my best time by EIGHTEEN minutes. I also made the cutoff with twenty minutes to spare!! Several runners dropped out at that point. It was an easy place to drop because our cars were in the vicinity. So relieved to make the cutoff, there was no way I was dropping. Next stop, the Bear Springs Aid station by 5:00 PM.
I refilled my hydration pack, grabbed a gel, a piece of peanut butter sandwich and a couple Red Vine candies. Then I quickly took off again, this time running the single-track Falcon Trail toward the Main Divide for a huge climb up to Trabuco Trail. I hiked the Main Divide with some difficulty. But I wasn’t alone. Several other runners struggled that bastard of a rocky road. Good news is that it’s relatively short.
Aid at Trabuco was festive. They offered runners beer and didn’t let me do a thing myself. I took a few sips of beer. I gulped down Coca-Cola and ate pieces of oranges. I took off my long sleeve shirt, tied it around my waist. I applied sunscreen to my shoulders. Relief settled in with the shade of Trabuco Trail. I struggled some down the rockiest portions. At one point my feet rolled over the ground as if I were running on marbles. At about mile 25, I took off my sunglasses to take in the spectacular lush mountain scenery. I saw what looked like thousands of tiny gray flies fluttering about. Something was happening with my vision. I took in another gel, and kept the fluids flowing.
Hiking up the Main Divide toward Trabuco Trail:
When Trabuco Trail FINALLY began to level out, I could hear voices behind me. So, another runner was going to pass me. They had been passing me for hours. I wasn’t running very quickly. Actually, I was just trotting when the two came right up on me. I overheard the sweeper, Eric Kosters, talking to “headquarters,” as he approached with the last of the pack. This is what he said, “I’ve got runner #such and such, but we’ve caught up with another runner. So, I’ll be with her instead in a minute.” He wanted to know who I was, I yelled out, “121.” No, he wanted my name. I told him and he chuckled loudly and said, “Lauren!!!” We had been “talking” on Facebook in the weeks prior.
The beauty I took in on Trabuco Trail when my vision started getting “weird.”:
Well, I knew this extremely rocky, hot trail well. Though Eric was a nice guy, the last thing I wanted was him running up my rear. I took off like I’ve never run that trail. “Get as many corners behind you,” I told myself. I wanted the sweeper and other runner to turn corner after corner and not see me. I figured that way they wouldn’t try as hard. I ran that portion so quickly, I AMAZED myself. I actually passed two runners in the process, one of them, Jeff Higgins (whom I would later meet).
I was in and out of the Holy Jim aid station in probably a minute. I refilled fluids, grabbed a handful of potato chips and took off in a big hurry, away from the sweeper!!!
Two of the runners I passed on Trabuco passed me going up Holy Jim, one of them the young man who was previously with the sweeper. Eric Kosters had a new runner now, and it wasn’t me.
Climbing Holy Jim was EXCRUCIATING. I wanted to vomit and could barely move one foot in front of the other. The salt was crusted over my face so thickly that it cracked when I grimaced (or smiled ). I dreamt of the spring in the mountain wall where I would wash my face. But I didn’t count switchbacks or even think about when I would arrive. I merely climbed switchback after switchback, trying to focus on the moment. I passed a runner, and came up on the heels on another runner suffering as much as I was. His name was Mark, (he was the guy with the sweeper on Trabuco). He hadn’t climbed Holy Jim before. I tried to give him hope, talking about the downhill toward the top, and that it was going to get shady and not as steep pretty soon. I continued to pray. And I continued to dream of washing my face.
When I finally arrived at the spring, Mark was a few feet ahead with his hands on his thighs. I told him that he could wash his face if he needed, that the water was safe. I don’t think he wanted to walk those few feet back. I know I wouldn’t want to. I painstakingly squatted down to the spring, my quads aching so much, I groaned. And then I washed my face again and again. It was beautiful, truly beautiful. I have never had a better face wash in my entire life.
When I took off I passed Mark who was still resting with his hands on his thighs. I passed two other suffering runners as I made my way to the top. I kind of wished that I would vomit so that the nausea would go away. It took every thing I had to take another step. I should have taken in more calories at the aid station. I probably should have eaten a whole meal. Looking back, Holy Jim is where I lost the race.
I made the second cutoff, about a half mile past the top of Holy Jim with ten minutes to spare. I took my drop bag and didn’t do anything I had planned. I wanted to re-tape my arches, change my socks. Instead, I merely took out my Chamois Butt’r and gobbed it onto my underarms which were rubbed raw by my shirt seams.
I took a seat, my shoulders and arms aching. I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. A few runners who had dropped were sitting in chairs beneath the easy-up. They looked relaxed, yet defeated. The aid workers, so friendly, re-filled my hydration pack. They wouldn’t allow me to do anything myself. Aid worker, Cris Francisco, was a life saver for me right then. He massaged my shoulders and my upper back. It was very painful, but he got out the twisted knots beneath my skin. He traveled back and forth between runners putting wet paper towels on their necks. And he poured water down my back. The bad thing was, I had taken a seat. And I continued to sit. Finally, Cris said, “Lauren, come on! You’ve got to get moving.” So, I was up quickly, asking what I should eat that wouldn’t come right back up. Upon Cris’s suggestion, I took a handful of pretzels and headed up the Main Divide, destination: Santiago Peak.
The continuing two mile climb was miserable. Pure hell. I chatted with runners traveling down from the peak, one of them Kurt Erlandson. He looked strong. Many of the runners coming down assured me that I would feel much better when I reached the peak. I ate my pretzels slowly and I hiked slowly. It felt like the peak would never arrive. One foot in front of the other. I made the cut-off, I would make the peak. Nearing the top, Emmet came down looking refreshed. He told me about the chicken soup at the top. Just about fifty yards from the aid, I saw Mark again, who had passed me at the last aid.
I met Scott Barnes, an extremely encouraging “elite” runner along with Deborah Acosta at Santiago Peak. A beautiful site! It was nice to see two friendly smiling faces. Deborah refilled my pack, she gave me some delicious chicken noodle soup (again, strangely, the best I’ve ever had in my life!). Scott offered to cook me a quesadilla. I declined, thinking I wouldn’t be able to hold it down.
I ran down the Main Divide, carefully. I passed the sweeper and Jeff Higgins on their way up. I didn’t pass anyone on the way down and made only a very quick stop at the next aid. The sweeper and Jeff came in right behind me, and Cris Francisco took over as sweeper. Cris was so kind with his encouraging words and told us to take advantage of the downhill. Not wanting to be with the sweeper, even though he was Cris, a great guy, I took off running quicker than I wanted to. I continued running on what seemed like a new pair of legs. I ran the uphills even and continued running, leaving the sweeper and Jeff behind.
And then as the dropping sun turned the sky orange, at mile 41, a jeep pulled up beside me. The passenger rolled down the window and said, “Lauren, I have some bad news.” I looked at his car and runners in the back seat. In disbelief I said, “Are you pulling me?”
“I’m very sorry,” he said, “but the race director said you have no chance of finishing by the course cut-off.”
The race director!! Steve Harvey? My friend??? My friend was pulling me from the race???? I wanted to plead, “But I can make it. I can!!!!!!” I only had nine miles to go. Instead of pleading, I burst into tears. Even with making the 5:00 PM cutoff at Bear Springs, there was no physical way that I could make it to the peak and then to the finish in 3 hours. It was over. I simply bawled. Not wanting to burden the guy who was pulling me from the race with my pain, I turned away from him and cried at the valley. I didn't want to look at him; I didn't want to talk to anyone.
I also didn’t want to wait for the truck back a ways to pick me up, so I continued running the main divide. Maybe they would forget that they pulled me. But, I knew they wouldn’t forget. When the truck pulled up, I was still crying. The passenger said she was so sorry. Both the driver and the passenger were so extremely gentle with me. I bucked it up and cried silently. The female passenger talked to me quite a bit, but I just couldn’t talk. I phoned my husband at one point to tell him, and bounced around the truck for a long bumpy ride back to the start. We passed several other runners along the way who would eventually get pulled. Emmett was pulled at mile 44 after he was told they he would be allowed to finish.
Arriving at the finish line, people were in a festive mood. The grill was on fire. People drank beer. I just wanted to get my grab bag and sulk away. And then I saw Steve Harvey. The race director. I wasn’t mad at him anymore. He has to do what he has to do. I walked up to him and he said, “I’m sorry.” And then I cried on his shoulder.
As I ate my burger and waited for Emmett, I got a nice pep talk from Jeff Higgins. This was his fifth year trying and being pulled from Old Goat. Here I was thinking that I would never run this race again, and Jeff keeps coming back again and again for more fun. Thank you Jeff. I really appreciated your talk. I appreciate that you came up to me in my misery. I wasn’t pretty and I wasn’t exactly nice. I hope that I wasn’t too short.
Pulled at 41 (me not looking too fresh and layered five times over as the cold, cold, cold settled in at Blue Jay) and Emmett pulled at 44 / as a side note, I really didn’t want to post this picture because I looked and felt so terrible. But, I wanted readers to see Emmett, an inspiring, back of the pack ultrarunner.
I got very little video and still shots in this race. I had to keep moving and only had time to run, eat and pee.
). I dreamt of the spring in the mountain wall where I would wash my face. But I didn’t count switchbacks or even think about when I would arrive. I merely climbed switchback after switchback, trying to focus on the moment. I passed a runner, and came up on the heels on another runner suffering as much as I was. His name was Mark, (he was the guy with the sweeper on Trabuco). He hadn’t climbed Holy Jim before. I tried to give him hope, talking about the downhill toward the top, and that it was going to get shady and not as steep pretty soon. I continued to pray. And I continued to dream of washing my face.
