Coursework, experiment/research planning, exams, endless scientific papers, numerous meetings with professors, etc. sucked up much of my year. But, I have hoarded away a small amount of time for a few other endeavors. Running, primarily. And a bit of painting/writing. But for now let's talk about the running. As those of you who know me are aware, I am often running. Sometimes, it is out of obligation to stay fit, but sometimes it is for enjoyment or peace. In fact, this started out towards the end of high school because I wanted to get in better shape, and had always been an active person (playing soccer, basketball, and hockey with some skill in the first and relatively little in the latter). I really started to enjoy running, however, in college when I joined track and field and then cross country. Through athletics at St. Olaf, I learned to push myself far beyond what I thought myself capable of. I remember running 8 miles for the first time with cross country (it was hard, at least for me, green and inexperienced as I was). Then, for other workouts, gradually farther. During those first years of cross country, I felt like Samwise Gamgee many times when he remarks that he has taken the farthest steps from home. Each step was a bit farther, and a new limit. However, my true love was always track and field and "long sprinting" (I started out with sprinters) and middle distance (I like to claim that I run everything from the 200m to the 1500m, and while it is hard to choose a favorite, the 600m and 800m are probably them). I did cross country to improve myself for track, and for the challenge. But it was definitely more difficult for me -- in a different way from the challenges and difficulty of track and field -- since cross country and distance running lacked the enjoyment and love that I had for the track. There are few feelings more dear to me than racing track and field, and a close second would be training for track and field. I love it. I often regret that I only started in college, and that I missed out on four potential years of competing in high school. At the same time, perhaps starting later saved me from injuries as I never did get injured during collegiate track and field (and that is a rare thing). It could also be my ox-like build and blood. I'm not the toughest, or the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest, but I am pretty stubborn mentally and physically. So, as you might gather, distance was not the most pleasant for me during that time and I certainly would have chosen 800m repeats any day over a long run. And a long run, to me at that time, was probably anything beyond 5 miles. It just didn't feel fun and exhilarating like sprinting/mid-distance. The 800m can be grueling -- just as grueling as a distance race -- but it is of a different sort. It is intense, but brief. You pour everything into it that you can, and have to summon all that you can then and there. There is strategy, but only enough strategy as can fit into less than 2 and 1/2 minutes at the most. It is hard, and it is a challenge, but I always loved it. Distance, on the other hand, seemed to drag on forever. It was a challenge that did not appeal to me. It seemed less of a "race" to me (personally, not literally) and more of a "I am subjecting myself to an extended period of pain and I don't even get to sprint" experience. I had ample respect for distance runners, but never saw myself as being able to do what they do (and not really wanting to, or imagining that I might enjoy distance running given my sprinting inclinations).
You may then be surprised to learn that this year I ran my first ultra marathon -- and a trail ultramarathon. The McDonald Forest 50k (31.3 miles) of trail and 7,000 feet in elevation gain (and loss!). You might also remember that towards the end of my time in Japan, I ran the 2013 Hokkaido Marathon. Training for that marathon and that challenge brought with it a change in perspective. I trained for it alone, and without much idea of how to train besides a bit of online reading. Once I got myself to a baseline of decent distance fitness, adding mileage became. . . well, sort of enjoyable. For the Hokkaido marathon, this peaked with the exhilaration of running 20 miles to reach the neighboring town. A thrill! And an adventure. I also found that if I slowed down my pace from middle-distance hare mode to sustainable tortoise mode, I could apparently run forever. Although cross-country was never quite as enjoyable to me as track and field, one aspect I had always loved was the time spent outdoors admiring and feeling and experiencing the land. So at worst, marathon training let me gaze lovingly at the land for hours on end, and to feel it beneath my (sometimes blistered and achy) feet. I was fortunate for that first marathon to be able to find some beautiful roads to run. One, following the Shinkawa river down towards the ocean and then in the case of running to the next town heading upwards along a road near to the ocean with occasional glimpses of the water. I went for a 10 mile run one week, 14 miles next, 18 miles, 20 miles . . . and then did the full 26.2 for the first time in the marathon.The training, of course, was physically challenging and I often had to push myself but it was rewarding and honestly, not really unpleasant at all (with the exception of one run with a very tough head-wind). And the marathon itself was, well. . . pretty easy and smooth. I admit, I did not "race" that marathon or push myself as perhaps I could have, and my time was a mediocre 4 hours. Nothing like the speedy olympians. I did it calmly, and to complete the distance. I did it cautiously. Having little experience with such distance, I was always waiting to hit the wall. But I never did and it was pretty comfortable. I was perplexed. And proud, and pleased, of course. I was most excited, probably, to tell former track-teammates and family that I had done it. It was something that no one would have expected me to do, and possibly something that some did not think I could do. But, because of my stubborness, I tend to assiduously try to do things people think I cannot. I had also, often, remarked during my time as a track athlete that the first person to run a marathon died doing it. This was usually said somewhat sarcastically -- it was meant to say: that's fine if others want to subject themselves to it, but I'm just as well with my 800m or 400m thank you very much.
Well, after that marathon I began to understand how distance running can be enjoyable. As I mentioned, it came from changing my perspective. Changing my mentality. From embracing the calm of the long run, from pushing myself, from controlling myself, from step by step of exploration, and from taking a few leaps. (Because, after all, it was all uncharted territory and hey, who knew when my engine might quit? A dose of risk and some good leaps of faith in myself were requisite.) I taught myself during and after that first marathon to think with an open mind and fresh eyes to the experience. Not to compare it to sprinting or to track and field, but try it out for what it was. Not to compare any one experience to another, but to embrace each for what it is. That might not work for everyone or every situation, but mentality is a powerful thing and it can be an immense tool. It helped me to grow while I lived abroad, and it has helped me in many challenges to improve myself. It seems that shift was enough to transform a stubbornly devout-"long sprinter" to a distance runner (well, someone who can run a decent distance and usually enjoys it. Maybe not a "distance runner" per say!).
Changing mentality does not only apply to running. When I am in a difficult situation, when I feel tired, frustrated, angry, defeated... sometimes I let myself linger in that negativity and sometimes it is fine and healthy to acknowledge difficulty or other frustrated, tired, sad, or angry emotions. But you must move past them. Otherwise, you will weigh yourself down. Thus, as I have learned, if I can change my mentality and my perspective, things brighten. For example, instead of saying "I'm so tired", I can tell myself that I have worked hard, but I am alive, look what I have done, let's see what I can do. Isn't this a privilege, to push myself! I must embody gratitude. I can tell myself: I am breathing. I am standing. I am living. Embrace breathing. Enjoy the air. Enjoy the sun (or the beauty of the clouds, grey though they may be, or the touch of the wind). Take a deep breath. Admire the ground, the grass, the tree, the insects, the birds. Be grateful for my body, the atoms that I am fortunate to call "me" for the time being. In other situations, instead of saying, "I am so unlucky", reflect on better fortune. Remember that I have a home to live in (not to be taken for granted), that I have access to water (well....sometimes on runs I don't and that's tough! But I mean in general). Water is a precious, precious thing to be respected and to be grateful for. Think of how fortunate it is to get to drink something so nourishing. Or simply, remind myself that at one point something good happened to me and savor it. Tell myself, "Well, I do not like what is happening here, but let's change that for the future. Let's work on that." Anyways, there are many ways to change one's perspective. Sometimes, it works!
Armed with the experience of one marathon, and the surprise that it was not so very hard at least at my pace, I actually felt for a little while that other challenges were not such challenges anymore. Used correctly, this can be empowering. But it could also be, surprisingly, discouraging. "I can run a marathon", I would sometimes think, "so what is the point of running?" That is perhaps an exaggeration, and not really a good mentality at all, but what I mean to say is that I wondered "what next? What do I do now?" I felt that now running was like spinning my wheels, whittling away time, and what was I achieving? That is not so, of course! But in any case, I felt like I was stuck, was looking for something, and not sure what, and running had lost some spark. Having graduated from collegiate athletics, that fount of focus was also gone, and it stung bitterly. I had lost motivation -- not just because running suddenly seemed lacking or boring. It was probably also connected to dissatisfaction with my situation in life at that moment, with stress for family, for my future, and likely connected with depression unrelated to running but certainly affecting my motivation. I needed a change in my mentality, that was for sure!
50 mile or 100 mile races are typical ultra-marathons, and would be the next leap in distance if I wanted to do something longer, I thought. Yet those distances did not seem especially productive for me (and possibly overly ambitious and might lead to injury if done improperly). Alternatively, I supposed, I could do another marathon, and try to get faster. Or maybe try to accomplish something with 5k's or 10k's, despite never having much success against sleeker, slimmer, distance-types.
The answer slipped into my mind when I first visited Oregon State University last spring as I was trying to decide on a program. The graduate student I stayed with is a spectacularly active woman -- biking, running, rafting, skiing, mountain climbing -- she is inspiring. She took me for a short run, and told me about a race she had done last year called the Mac 50k. The trail she took me for the short run on lead up a hill, and I was not in great shape at that time. I had been skimping in my running, out of frustrating laziness, not going more than 5k distance in the chilly Minnesota winter and spring and lacking much of my past dedication. Minnesota is also comparatively flat and I had not run up a hill in some time (and generally had a practice of avoiding them). While trying to hide my gasps for air and to keep up, I listened to her tell me enthusiastically about the 50k. It was in the research forest connected to the very country park trails and woods we were in. 50k, I thought with a hidden roll of my eyes. That's 31.3 miles, I huffed and puffed to myself, that's a long ways on hills! Did I mention that my distaste for hills used to run (pun intended) about as deep as my distaste for distance? Or deeper. Ah, how I would whine about hill workouts. I always disliked that burn, slowness, and hopelessness of an uphill climb! So when I heard about this race, while struggling up a hill, I politely nodded but did not think it was for me.
But the seed was planted.
When I moved out here to Corvallis OR to start graduate school last fall, I began to keep that race in mind. The apartment that I ended up in, in a spectacularly fortunate twist of fate and with a dash of diligence, is precisely where I am happiest -- close to the forest. A huge, beautiful forest which I have mentioned before, the McDonald-Dunn Research Forest. I was still in not so great running shape, but started to do some trail runs in the forest, seeking solace and exploration in my new surrounds. I still did not think I would be doing an ultramarathon. I learned more trails, and made a loop -- which I later learned was 9 miles --, frustrated with my poor fitness and choosing the toughest climbs to try to whip myself into better shape. The McDonald-Dunn research forest, less than a mile from my doorstep, is very hilly. Any forest out here in western Oregon is likely to be hilly. That is because the bulk of the forests coat the Coast Range of mountains (read: hills. They are definitely hills, not mountains in my book). In any case, the research forest is beautiful. It was always a little bit frightening to try to learn the trails on my own, but I kept pushing myself. Little by little, my running fitness started to improve again. I found many friends in my kind classmates. I started to settle. My mind was starting to work again. In general, I grew happier. And a bit stressed, of course, as graduate school will apparently do to a person.
When Christmas break rolled around, I was not unaware that the opening of registration for the Mac 50k was also around the corner. The race itself would be May 9th, but registration began January 1st. I registered that night. Suspicious behavior for someone previously "not interested" in running an ultra-marathon! The next months brought some tentative training. I was still unconvinced the whole endeavor would work out. There was always a little risk in my mind (not wholly unfounded) that this might just not work. But little by little, I kept at it. I kept running in the forest. I sought out tougher hills, and longer runs. I burned myself out on a couple of 3 1/2 hour runs up 2,000 ft of elevation in the cold, misty, chilling wet of the Oregon winter. Ah, lots of cold mist and cold rain and soaking, muddy shoes and drenched clothes and pink skin. After a couple of those exhausting runs, I laid off. That was too much, and I was tired. This was going to be hard, I realized. It was late January/early February, and I had probably burnt myself out around that time. So I eased off of those really tough runs, but kept doing my 9 mile hill loop -- my comfort loop, that I could run without sight (and have, when it got dark too fast a couple times on those short winter days!).
Into March, it hit me that I had better as heck start training again. I only had 8 weeks before the race, so use them well and get serious! In somewhat of a panic, the next run I did was 20 miles. I jumped up from a maximum distance of about 10 to 14 miles at most to a 20 mile run, which is never especially wise. It could have been a disaster, but it was one of those leaps. Either I would be able to do it, or it would be a long walk home. Always a little frightening! The loop I ran was also on the roads out to the countryside, not in the forest, and thus considerably flatter. This helped, and the first 14 miles were a pretty smooth and controlled "trot." But I will say that I did not run one step beyond 20 miles that day, no sir. I was parched, and achy, and realized at mile 20 that the loop was actually just over 21.5 miles so I walked that last 1.5 miles which is one of the first times in many years that I have allowed myself to walk during a solo run. From there, my "short" runs became longer and easier, not bad at all. It stopped raining as incessantly (though I still, more often than not, got rained on). During that first 20 mile run, I felt some resentment that it required 3 hours of time to set aside for running. I sometimes felt, guilty, too. I was busy, I was being pulled every which way by professors and friends and obligations. So 3 hour chunks of time seemed to be snapped up by everyone. Stolen away from me. But once I had decided I would run 20 miles for a certain day, I guarded it doggedly. I hoarded away that time like coveted gems. Especially if I knew the weather would be sunny. I was frustrated by the amount of time I would need to defend for running, even so. Then, another transformation occurred. The next couple times I ran 20 miles on my loop out into the Oregon countryside, in the beautiful, hesitant sun of spring, with growing plants (daffodils at first, and then lilacs) and birds around me. . . I started to savor that time. The ground beneath my feet. The gentle, slowly-warming wind on my skin. I did that 20 mile loop 3 times, and I think fondly back to those runs. I would gladly do them again! I also did them after my morning class, and before my evening class. So I will not soon forget quickly changing, splashing water on my face, and arriving to class with creaky knees to learn about environmental law and policy, and wondering if anyone could guess why I looked sunburnt and salty.
Then, in my last week of training I did a 24 mile road run, followed by a 21 mile trail run in the hills two days later. This was the test. All my distance had been on roads. I had been avoiding such long, long runs on the trails, all the while the knowledge that I must face them nagging at me. It was a misty, but not too chilly when I did that 21 mile run. It was also the first and only training run I ever did with a water bottle. (I will tell you, my limit without water is 22 miles...and I know that with some precision because that's how far I got on my 24 mile run before desperately dragging myself to a precious and hard-to-find drinking fountain). I was a bit achy by the end, and ready to be done, but it was not too bad. And I was done. I was done training. Oh, the relief! I really wasn't too concerned about the race itself anymore. Who cares? I can go 21 miles on trails, can definitely go 31 on the roads. Worst case scenario? I spend a day in the woods.
I knew I could go the distance and just had to make sure I could do it all in 8 hours. Based on my calculations from my training runs, I was on pace to do it in 6 hours. I ended up doing it in 6 hours and 51 minutes because I made sure to be cautious, and because it was tough. There were lots of unexpected climbs, different from the route I had anticipated. The first half was pretty simple. I was a bit nervous, but fresh, and the weather was excellent though very hot. The forest was beautiful, and I was occupied with following the trails and the lead of the people around me. It spread out more and more, and for much of the race I was alone or could just spy a couple people through the trees far ahead. There were a couple times during the second half of the race, while fast-hiking it up after hill after hilly, pointless, narrow trail that I realized the stupidity of the whole event. Then, I would get some water and feel less crabby. (There might have been more than a couple of times when I was crabby, I suppose! The 10 foot slide down a loose dirt, steep slope on my butt among those moments. But usually I was all alone in the woods and so, not hard to calm down, take a deep breath, and acknowledge the beautiful surroundings.)
Overall, however it was not too bad! And really not all that hard, to be honest. Challenging, yes, tedious, yes, but nothing all that arduous. It wasn't really a running race though. The strategy is to fast-hike the tough climbs, and I did a lot of that. So I think if I were to do a trail ultra-marathon again I would just train by doing moderate running distances and hiking my butt off. I would also like to do a 31 mile race that is flatter, just to see the time I would actually take running since on my training run it seems that, without hills, 6 hours is a reasonable goal. I really picked up speed after reaching 26 miles -- I "sped" past a lot of people during that last 5 mile stretch and felt like I still had some decent running in me, since I had done so much hiking. I was, however, ready to be done. All and all, I am very glad and proud of my ultra-marathon. Plus, I got my finishers jacket. Maybe that's all I wanted?
Candidly, I think that, more so than marathons, trail ultramarathons are pretty silly. They seem to have it as a goal to make things needlessly difficult. I think I would rather just try my hand at the distance -- I am, after all, a true trackster and thus like to be able to time things and compare performances accurately -- than a bunch of different, unique obstacle courses. Can't I just run my 31.3 miles in peace without clamoring over fallen trees and steams? That said, obstacle courses are really fun, too. And jumping over fallen trees, I will admit, is a favorite past time.
A few weeks later, I also ran the Run for the Hills 30k (18 miles). That felt like a nice, reasonable distance by comparison and remains among my favorite races I've ever done, through gorgeous woods, and up some lovely, grassy, windswept hills with views of the valley and rolling Coast Range. And did I mention? After all that hill training, I don't mind hills at all anymore. I kind of like them. Sometimes, my legs want them.
So it has been a rather transformative athletic year, as well as academic year. I have a broader perspective on distance running, and will probably keep doing it. It brings you to beautiful places, and your feet do not forget them. You absorb those places into your bones.
My spectacular distance fitness lasted a bit longer (it felt so good to feel strong and trim and indomitable), allowing me to coast for a couple weeks through some great runs. Now, predictably, it has faded. As with all things, you use it or you lose it and I haven't yet made a habit of 31 mile runs. I have since settled back around 9 or 10 mile distances, and even done a couple of shorter, speedier races. (I can tell you, I was longing for some "short", "fast" 5ks after all that distance training. I can tell you that prior to Ultra-marathon training, I would not have called a 5k a "short" distance race, nor would I have thought of it as speed training.). I remain thankful above all for my health, and for the privilege to roam the woods and grasses, wide places, narrow trails, and many roads of this earth.
You may then be surprised to learn that this year I ran my first ultra marathon -- and a trail ultramarathon. The McDonald Forest 50k (31.3 miles) of trail and 7,000 feet in elevation gain (and loss!). You might also remember that towards the end of my time in Japan, I ran the 2013 Hokkaido Marathon. Training for that marathon and that challenge brought with it a change in perspective. I trained for it alone, and without much idea of how to train besides a bit of online reading. Once I got myself to a baseline of decent distance fitness, adding mileage became. . . well, sort of enjoyable. For the Hokkaido marathon, this peaked with the exhilaration of running 20 miles to reach the neighboring town. A thrill! And an adventure. I also found that if I slowed down my pace from middle-distance hare mode to sustainable tortoise mode, I could apparently run forever. Although cross-country was never quite as enjoyable to me as track and field, one aspect I had always loved was the time spent outdoors admiring and feeling and experiencing the land. So at worst, marathon training let me gaze lovingly at the land for hours on end, and to feel it beneath my (sometimes blistered and achy) feet. I was fortunate for that first marathon to be able to find some beautiful roads to run. One, following the Shinkawa river down towards the ocean and then in the case of running to the next town heading upwards along a road near to the ocean with occasional glimpses of the water. I went for a 10 mile run one week, 14 miles next, 18 miles, 20 miles . . . and then did the full 26.2 for the first time in the marathon.The training, of course, was physically challenging and I often had to push myself but it was rewarding and honestly, not really unpleasant at all (with the exception of one run with a very tough head-wind). And the marathon itself was, well. . . pretty easy and smooth. I admit, I did not "race" that marathon or push myself as perhaps I could have, and my time was a mediocre 4 hours. Nothing like the speedy olympians. I did it calmly, and to complete the distance. I did it cautiously. Having little experience with such distance, I was always waiting to hit the wall. But I never did and it was pretty comfortable. I was perplexed. And proud, and pleased, of course. I was most excited, probably, to tell former track-teammates and family that I had done it. It was something that no one would have expected me to do, and possibly something that some did not think I could do. But, because of my stubborness, I tend to assiduously try to do things people think I cannot. I had also, often, remarked during my time as a track athlete that the first person to run a marathon died doing it. This was usually said somewhat sarcastically -- it was meant to say: that's fine if others want to subject themselves to it, but I'm just as well with my 800m or 400m thank you very much.
Well, after that marathon I began to understand how distance running can be enjoyable. As I mentioned, it came from changing my perspective. Changing my mentality. From embracing the calm of the long run, from pushing myself, from controlling myself, from step by step of exploration, and from taking a few leaps. (Because, after all, it was all uncharted territory and hey, who knew when my engine might quit? A dose of risk and some good leaps of faith in myself were requisite.) I taught myself during and after that first marathon to think with an open mind and fresh eyes to the experience. Not to compare it to sprinting or to track and field, but try it out for what it was. Not to compare any one experience to another, but to embrace each for what it is. That might not work for everyone or every situation, but mentality is a powerful thing and it can be an immense tool. It helped me to grow while I lived abroad, and it has helped me in many challenges to improve myself. It seems that shift was enough to transform a stubbornly devout-"long sprinter" to a distance runner (well, someone who can run a decent distance and usually enjoys it. Maybe not a "distance runner" per say!).
Changing mentality does not only apply to running. When I am in a difficult situation, when I feel tired, frustrated, angry, defeated... sometimes I let myself linger in that negativity and sometimes it is fine and healthy to acknowledge difficulty or other frustrated, tired, sad, or angry emotions. But you must move past them. Otherwise, you will weigh yourself down. Thus, as I have learned, if I can change my mentality and my perspective, things brighten. For example, instead of saying "I'm so tired", I can tell myself that I have worked hard, but I am alive, look what I have done, let's see what I can do. Isn't this a privilege, to push myself! I must embody gratitude. I can tell myself: I am breathing. I am standing. I am living. Embrace breathing. Enjoy the air. Enjoy the sun (or the beauty of the clouds, grey though they may be, or the touch of the wind). Take a deep breath. Admire the ground, the grass, the tree, the insects, the birds. Be grateful for my body, the atoms that I am fortunate to call "me" for the time being. In other situations, instead of saying, "I am so unlucky", reflect on better fortune. Remember that I have a home to live in (not to be taken for granted), that I have access to water (well....sometimes on runs I don't and that's tough! But I mean in general). Water is a precious, precious thing to be respected and to be grateful for. Think of how fortunate it is to get to drink something so nourishing. Or simply, remind myself that at one point something good happened to me and savor it. Tell myself, "Well, I do not like what is happening here, but let's change that for the future. Let's work on that." Anyways, there are many ways to change one's perspective. Sometimes, it works!
Armed with the experience of one marathon, and the surprise that it was not so very hard at least at my pace, I actually felt for a little while that other challenges were not such challenges anymore. Used correctly, this can be empowering. But it could also be, surprisingly, discouraging. "I can run a marathon", I would sometimes think, "so what is the point of running?" That is perhaps an exaggeration, and not really a good mentality at all, but what I mean to say is that I wondered "what next? What do I do now?" I felt that now running was like spinning my wheels, whittling away time, and what was I achieving? That is not so, of course! But in any case, I felt like I was stuck, was looking for something, and not sure what, and running had lost some spark. Having graduated from collegiate athletics, that fount of focus was also gone, and it stung bitterly. I had lost motivation -- not just because running suddenly seemed lacking or boring. It was probably also connected to dissatisfaction with my situation in life at that moment, with stress for family, for my future, and likely connected with depression unrelated to running but certainly affecting my motivation. I needed a change in my mentality, that was for sure!
50 mile or 100 mile races are typical ultra-marathons, and would be the next leap in distance if I wanted to do something longer, I thought. Yet those distances did not seem especially productive for me (and possibly overly ambitious and might lead to injury if done improperly). Alternatively, I supposed, I could do another marathon, and try to get faster. Or maybe try to accomplish something with 5k's or 10k's, despite never having much success against sleeker, slimmer, distance-types.
The answer slipped into my mind when I first visited Oregon State University last spring as I was trying to decide on a program. The graduate student I stayed with is a spectacularly active woman -- biking, running, rafting, skiing, mountain climbing -- she is inspiring. She took me for a short run, and told me about a race she had done last year called the Mac 50k. The trail she took me for the short run on lead up a hill, and I was not in great shape at that time. I had been skimping in my running, out of frustrating laziness, not going more than 5k distance in the chilly Minnesota winter and spring and lacking much of my past dedication. Minnesota is also comparatively flat and I had not run up a hill in some time (and generally had a practice of avoiding them). While trying to hide my gasps for air and to keep up, I listened to her tell me enthusiastically about the 50k. It was in the research forest connected to the very country park trails and woods we were in. 50k, I thought with a hidden roll of my eyes. That's 31.3 miles, I huffed and puffed to myself, that's a long ways on hills! Did I mention that my distaste for hills used to run (pun intended) about as deep as my distaste for distance? Or deeper. Ah, how I would whine about hill workouts. I always disliked that burn, slowness, and hopelessness of an uphill climb! So when I heard about this race, while struggling up a hill, I politely nodded but did not think it was for me.
But the seed was planted.
When I moved out here to Corvallis OR to start graduate school last fall, I began to keep that race in mind. The apartment that I ended up in, in a spectacularly fortunate twist of fate and with a dash of diligence, is precisely where I am happiest -- close to the forest. A huge, beautiful forest which I have mentioned before, the McDonald-Dunn Research Forest. I was still in not so great running shape, but started to do some trail runs in the forest, seeking solace and exploration in my new surrounds. I still did not think I would be doing an ultramarathon. I learned more trails, and made a loop -- which I later learned was 9 miles --, frustrated with my poor fitness and choosing the toughest climbs to try to whip myself into better shape. The McDonald-Dunn research forest, less than a mile from my doorstep, is very hilly. Any forest out here in western Oregon is likely to be hilly. That is because the bulk of the forests coat the Coast Range of mountains (read: hills. They are definitely hills, not mountains in my book). In any case, the research forest is beautiful. It was always a little bit frightening to try to learn the trails on my own, but I kept pushing myself. Little by little, my running fitness started to improve again. I found many friends in my kind classmates. I started to settle. My mind was starting to work again. In general, I grew happier. And a bit stressed, of course, as graduate school will apparently do to a person.
When Christmas break rolled around, I was not unaware that the opening of registration for the Mac 50k was also around the corner. The race itself would be May 9th, but registration began January 1st. I registered that night. Suspicious behavior for someone previously "not interested" in running an ultra-marathon! The next months brought some tentative training. I was still unconvinced the whole endeavor would work out. There was always a little risk in my mind (not wholly unfounded) that this might just not work. But little by little, I kept at it. I kept running in the forest. I sought out tougher hills, and longer runs. I burned myself out on a couple of 3 1/2 hour runs up 2,000 ft of elevation in the cold, misty, chilling wet of the Oregon winter. Ah, lots of cold mist and cold rain and soaking, muddy shoes and drenched clothes and pink skin. After a couple of those exhausting runs, I laid off. That was too much, and I was tired. This was going to be hard, I realized. It was late January/early February, and I had probably burnt myself out around that time. So I eased off of those really tough runs, but kept doing my 9 mile hill loop -- my comfort loop, that I could run without sight (and have, when it got dark too fast a couple times on those short winter days!).
Into March, it hit me that I had better as heck start training again. I only had 8 weeks before the race, so use them well and get serious! In somewhat of a panic, the next run I did was 20 miles. I jumped up from a maximum distance of about 10 to 14 miles at most to a 20 mile run, which is never especially wise. It could have been a disaster, but it was one of those leaps. Either I would be able to do it, or it would be a long walk home. Always a little frightening! The loop I ran was also on the roads out to the countryside, not in the forest, and thus considerably flatter. This helped, and the first 14 miles were a pretty smooth and controlled "trot." But I will say that I did not run one step beyond 20 miles that day, no sir. I was parched, and achy, and realized at mile 20 that the loop was actually just over 21.5 miles so I walked that last 1.5 miles which is one of the first times in many years that I have allowed myself to walk during a solo run. From there, my "short" runs became longer and easier, not bad at all. It stopped raining as incessantly (though I still, more often than not, got rained on). During that first 20 mile run, I felt some resentment that it required 3 hours of time to set aside for running. I sometimes felt, guilty, too. I was busy, I was being pulled every which way by professors and friends and obligations. So 3 hour chunks of time seemed to be snapped up by everyone. Stolen away from me. But once I had decided I would run 20 miles for a certain day, I guarded it doggedly. I hoarded away that time like coveted gems. Especially if I knew the weather would be sunny. I was frustrated by the amount of time I would need to defend for running, even so. Then, another transformation occurred. The next couple times I ran 20 miles on my loop out into the Oregon countryside, in the beautiful, hesitant sun of spring, with growing plants (daffodils at first, and then lilacs) and birds around me. . . I started to savor that time. The ground beneath my feet. The gentle, slowly-warming wind on my skin. I did that 20 mile loop 3 times, and I think fondly back to those runs. I would gladly do them again! I also did them after my morning class, and before my evening class. So I will not soon forget quickly changing, splashing water on my face, and arriving to class with creaky knees to learn about environmental law and policy, and wondering if anyone could guess why I looked sunburnt and salty.
Then, in my last week of training I did a 24 mile road run, followed by a 21 mile trail run in the hills two days later. This was the test. All my distance had been on roads. I had been avoiding such long, long runs on the trails, all the while the knowledge that I must face them nagging at me. It was a misty, but not too chilly when I did that 21 mile run. It was also the first and only training run I ever did with a water bottle. (I will tell you, my limit without water is 22 miles...and I know that with some precision because that's how far I got on my 24 mile run before desperately dragging myself to a precious and hard-to-find drinking fountain). I was a bit achy by the end, and ready to be done, but it was not too bad. And I was done. I was done training. Oh, the relief! I really wasn't too concerned about the race itself anymore. Who cares? I can go 21 miles on trails, can definitely go 31 on the roads. Worst case scenario? I spend a day in the woods.
I knew I could go the distance and just had to make sure I could do it all in 8 hours. Based on my calculations from my training runs, I was on pace to do it in 6 hours. I ended up doing it in 6 hours and 51 minutes because I made sure to be cautious, and because it was tough. There were lots of unexpected climbs, different from the route I had anticipated. The first half was pretty simple. I was a bit nervous, but fresh, and the weather was excellent though very hot. The forest was beautiful, and I was occupied with following the trails and the lead of the people around me. It spread out more and more, and for much of the race I was alone or could just spy a couple people through the trees far ahead. There were a couple times during the second half of the race, while fast-hiking it up after hill after hilly, pointless, narrow trail that I realized the stupidity of the whole event. Then, I would get some water and feel less crabby. (There might have been more than a couple of times when I was crabby, I suppose! The 10 foot slide down a loose dirt, steep slope on my butt among those moments. But usually I was all alone in the woods and so, not hard to calm down, take a deep breath, and acknowledge the beautiful surroundings.)
Overall, however it was not too bad! And really not all that hard, to be honest. Challenging, yes, tedious, yes, but nothing all that arduous. It wasn't really a running race though. The strategy is to fast-hike the tough climbs, and I did a lot of that. So I think if I were to do a trail ultra-marathon again I would just train by doing moderate running distances and hiking my butt off. I would also like to do a 31 mile race that is flatter, just to see the time I would actually take running since on my training run it seems that, without hills, 6 hours is a reasonable goal. I really picked up speed after reaching 26 miles -- I "sped" past a lot of people during that last 5 mile stretch and felt like I still had some decent running in me, since I had done so much hiking. I was, however, ready to be done. All and all, I am very glad and proud of my ultra-marathon. Plus, I got my finishers jacket. Maybe that's all I wanted?
Candidly, I think that, more so than marathons, trail ultramarathons are pretty silly. They seem to have it as a goal to make things needlessly difficult. I think I would rather just try my hand at the distance -- I am, after all, a true trackster and thus like to be able to time things and compare performances accurately -- than a bunch of different, unique obstacle courses. Can't I just run my 31.3 miles in peace without clamoring over fallen trees and steams? That said, obstacle courses are really fun, too. And jumping over fallen trees, I will admit, is a favorite past time.
A few weeks later, I also ran the Run for the Hills 30k (18 miles). That felt like a nice, reasonable distance by comparison and remains among my favorite races I've ever done, through gorgeous woods, and up some lovely, grassy, windswept hills with views of the valley and rolling Coast Range. And did I mention? After all that hill training, I don't mind hills at all anymore. I kind of like them. Sometimes, my legs want them.
So it has been a rather transformative athletic year, as well as academic year. I have a broader perspective on distance running, and will probably keep doing it. It brings you to beautiful places, and your feet do not forget them. You absorb those places into your bones.
My spectacular distance fitness lasted a bit longer (it felt so good to feel strong and trim and indomitable), allowing me to coast for a couple weeks through some great runs. Now, predictably, it has faded. As with all things, you use it or you lose it and I haven't yet made a habit of 31 mile runs. I have since settled back around 9 or 10 mile distances, and even done a couple of shorter, speedier races. (I can tell you, I was longing for some "short", "fast" 5ks after all that distance training. I can tell you that prior to Ultra-marathon training, I would not have called a 5k a "short" distance race, nor would I have thought of it as speed training.). I remain thankful above all for my health, and for the privilege to roam the woods and grasses, wide places, narrow trails, and many roads of this earth.
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