Iron Supplements

For a while I had been randomly mixing lifting and other cross-training into my run training. There was no science to it, and frankly really very little thought at all up until the day of when I'd muse, "I think I'll [squat / deadlift / cycle] today." That, of course, meant that there was no strategizing with regard to what exercises would make the most sense, what weight I should use, or how the lifting fit in with my running.

More recently, I'd laid off lifting altogether and had been focusing almost solely on running, with just the occasional bit of stationary cycling mixed in when necessary for injury purposes.

But now, it's time to start lifting again. So I made Dave Koppenheffer of Powerhouse Psychology (also, as you might guess, my brother) my official weight coach. Dave's not a runner, he's a power lifter. He doesn't even like running. But if I had any doubts as to whether he'll do a brilliant job directing the weight-lifting portion of my training, he smashed those doubts with his introduction to the lifting plan that he designed for me.

Here's what he had to say:

"My goal is to help build strength for injury prevention and muscle explosiveness and endurance. ... [On] uphills when your stride shortens because it feels like you're running in quicksand -- that feeling comes from weakness in the hams and hips. Hopefully we can cure some of that. ... My theory is this: long distance runners aren't considered explosive athletes, but in my opinion that's false... The ultimate goal is to bridge the gap between explosiveness and muscle fatigue."

I'm no expert, but that makes a lot of sense to me. What makes even more sense is that the program Dave has designed for me revolves around low-rep, high-weight exercises that will emphasize the fast-twitch muscle fibers that don't get as much work during long running sessions. My hope -- basically echoing Dave's words -- is that this will balance out my fitness, provide additional stability, and help cut down on injuries.

At this point, I've knocked out week one of the program, a power session consisting of nine sets of high-weight, three-rep box squats -- an exercise that Dave has picked out specifically for its applicability to the running muscle groups -- followed by a final set where I knocked out as many reps as I could (I managed 14).

Of course maybe most important as far as a trainer or coach goes, Dave has said that he plans to be very flexible to focus in on what seems to be working and shed the things that aren't working. So on that note... it's time to GET SOME!


--

2012

No, this isn't a review of a bad movie, nor is it my New Years Eve plans.

The last possible race on my 2011 calendar was the Las Vegas Rock 'n Roll half marathon. I've run it the past two years and had a lot of fun with it, but this year the half marathon is $150. That's insane. So I won't be running it. Oh well, I'm sure they're not crying their eyes out at the for-profit Rock 'n Roll that they won't be getting my entry fee -- the marathon is already sold out and the half almost certainly will as well. Besides, they'll get me for the San Diego Rock 'n Roll in June. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In any case, with 2011 essentially over running-wise, it's time to start thinking about 2012.

My first race is already set: The Houston Marathon in January. Now that I've done my complaining about how expensive the Rock 'n Roll series is, I should admit that Houston will probably go down as the most expensive entry fee I'll ever pay. I (stupidly) missed the date for the lottery and my mom and friends got in, which meant that I could miss out or pony up for the charity entry. I took the latter route. My bank account's reaction: "Ouch!"

It'll be a fun race though -- it's a road race and very flat, so I can see if I still have any speed chops left now that I've turned my attention more towards trial and ultra races. Also, the Olympic trials for the marathon will be taking place the day before the commoners run the course.

Choices, choices, choices
My main goal for 2012 is to run my first 50-mile race. I figure that April is a pretty good month to target for scheduling that race and I've got a few on my radar.

American River 50-mile - I've never heard of this race (not that I'm a grizzled vet that knows all the major races), but it looks like a really good one. The race is in Auburn, CA, not surprisingly right along the American River. A big upshot is that the race is run by the Norcal Ultras, who ran the Golden Hills Marathon that I really enjoyed. Downsides include that it's on the pricier side ($165) and there's a decent amount of pavement on the course.

Lake Sonoma 50 mile - I love the Sonoma region of CA and from the pictures this looks like a beautiful course. It also looks like a tough course (10,500 ft of climb). The course is an out-and-back which isn't totally ideal. Also, the 2011 race was cancelled due to flooding. It looks like that's the only time that's happened, but still, that would really suck to get all my training in and then have the race cancelled.

Zane Grey Highline 50 mile - This is in Arizona and I've heard a lot of talk about this race -- it's known for being particularly challenging. An advantage is that I know a bunch of people that have run this so I can get a pretty good idea of what to expect. However, I'm not totally sure that this is the right race for my first 50.

Mokelumne River 50 mile - Definitely never heard of this one, but it looks like a really cool course. It's in Comanche Lake, CA in the Sierra Nevadas. This looks like a ridiculously hard course with 11,639 ft of climbing. It's also an out-and-back. Particularly concerning is the fact that the time limit is 12.5 hours -- I'm honestly not sure that with that amount of climbing that I'd be able to hit that limit. This race is a dark horse contender, but it's on the list...

Leona Divide 50 mile - This is another race where I know a lot of folks that have run it -- and done quite well. Looks like a fun race and well organized which is a definite plus. Another out-and-back course (maybe I should stop worrying about that...). Tough course for sure, but not quite as tough as some of the others above (8,900ft of climb). This is the current front runner (so to say).

I'm guessing I'll have to make up my mind pretty soon because these races all have pretty limited fields. At this point I'm leaning toward Sonoma or Leana Divide, but if anyone reading this has some sage thoughts (or, heck, not so sage...) feel free to share.

Everything else...
Getting a 50-mile that I'm excited about is my main focus for planning 2012, so filling in everything else will just be a matter of finding some fun races (and not being too bummed if I miss out on some). Like I said above, I've already got Houston in January and I'll be in San Diego in June. I'm sure I'll schedule another race with my crazy, marathon-running mom (in addition to Houston). 

On top of that, I'll definitely be peppering additional ultra races in there. Right now, the Chuckanut in Washington in March is high on my list (that'd necessitate a late-April 50-mile). Depending on how the 50-mile in April goes, I might head back out to Berkeley next fall to hit the Firetrails 50. I had a great time running the Golden Hills Trail Marathon and wouldn't mind bumping up in that event.

A little help from my friends
Of course, the most fun is when I get to run a race with friends or family -- or run a race near where friends live. That's why I'm doing Houston and San Diego. So if you happen to be reading this and have an itch to do a trail race (ok, any race...) with me, LET'S GET IT ON!


--

Bootlegger 50K: Race Report and 6 Things I Learned

Crossing the finish

Though my trip to the Grand Canyon for the double-rim crossing was an ultra distance, Bootlegger was my much-anticipated first actual ultra race. And it didn't disappoint.

First things first though. The folks at Red Rock Running Company and a horde of awesome volunteers made this a really great race. The trail was well marked, organization was good, race website was awesome, aid stations were on point, and the swag was killer.

And I have to give a big shout out to my awesome crew chief -- my wife, Jackie. Sure this was only a 50K and I probably didn't need a crew, but it was really cool to have her there and she was great. Plus, a familiar face at an aid station is a nice psychological boost!

A clutch of really solid runners from Arizona came up for the race and rocked it. James Bonnett grabbed the W with a 4:09 finish. I wasn't too far behind (cough, cough) at 5:17. That scored me a 13th place finish, which I wasn't too disappointed with for my first shot at an ultra-distance race.

Rather than trudge my way through a blow-by-blow recap of the race, I figured I'd distill it down to a few "lessons learned" from the race.

1. If you want to post a killer time, don't punish your legs weeks before the race.
Tapering is common knowledge. That is, in the weeks leading up to a race, you reduce your training to make sure your legs are fresh and ready to go. I didn't do that this time around. Exactly two weeks ago, I did a 42-mile double crossing of the Grand Canyon. Two weeks ago. That's 14 days. You don't have to be a runner to know that that's not tapering.

Oh well. Would I have done it differently? Not a chance. The Bootlegger race was awesome, and I wanted to do my best. But running the Grand Canyon? That's something that's a huge privilege and I'm damn glad I did it, even if it did mean that I didn't put up the best time I could have at Bootlegger.

2. Go out amped, get slammed.
I was so excited for this race. So excited. That's great, but it also meant that I completely ignored sticking to a sober racing strategy. I bombed down the short downhill that started the race, ate up the 1,000-foot climb into the canyon, and was logging 7:30 and 8-minute miles through the flatter sections. My split on the first 15+ mile loop was around 2:20. That's roughly a 9-minute-mile pace, which is no joke for a runner of my caliber when you've got around 2,000 feet of climbing.

The result? I got owned by the second lap. I did a bunch of walking on the initial climb, more walking on the backside climbing, and my legs felt like they were running through molasses even on the flat sections. I had hoped to run either an even effort or even negative splits -- not even close. My second loop was around 40 minutes slower, putting my second-lap pace at around 11 minutes per mile.

3. Fuel, fuel, FUEL!

Cruising into an aid station

I generally try to take in around 250 calories per hour on efforts of three hours or longer. I whiffed on this badly in today's race. Why? Part of it was that cold temps early in the race seemed to sap my appetite. The brisk pace that I set at the outset of the race also made it more difficult to eat (mistakes often compound on themselves).

By the last two aid stations (roughly four hours in), I had taken in around 600 calories. Why is this a problem? The early intensity likely ate up a significant chunk of my glycogen stores and so it would surprise me not one bit if my late sluggishness had a lot to do with being low on fuel.

I gorged on pretzels, bananas, and Coke in the last two aid stations, which no doubt helped me on the last seven miles, but it would've been great to have done that earlier.

4. Downhill > Uphill
Downhill running can do a number on your legs, but I'd heard again and again that it's tough to gain too much of an advantage by being a bomb uphill runner, but sharp downhill chops can make a big difference. I saw that borne out today. Not surprisingly, I got passed while struggling up the climb into the canyon on the second lap and runners further back made up significant distance on me. But after cresting the peak I launched into some pretty quick downhill running that put me back ahead of the fella that passed me and left those closing in in the dust (well, except for one woman who ended up dusting me a few miles later).

5. You'll be warmer than you think.
I live in Las Vegas, which means that through September I'm still wrangling with 100-degree-plus temperatures. Since my blood has thinned out from years of living here, it also means that I'm not much of a fan of colder temperatures. For that reason, my immediate reaction to a chilly forecast is to layer up. But I've learned -- after doing that many times -- that I rarely end up being nearly as cold as I think I'll be once I start running. In fact, I generally end up overheating, sweating, and looking for the closest place to stash my heavier duds.

Though the forecast was for crisp 37-degree, wind-chilled temps for the morning of the race, I opted to go out with shorts, a short-sleeve shirt, thin running sleeves, and light gloves. Except for the gloves -- I ended up not being able to feel my fingers for much of the race -- it was a good call. I was plenty warm while temps were still cool and the sleeves were quick and easy to shed when it warmed up a bit.

6. Leave it all out there.
I made some mistakes today. My performance was probably hurt by the Grand Canyon voyage. Two of my goals were to run even or negative splits and finish in under five hours (the other was to just finish) and I didn't hit either. However, when I finished, I didn't have anything left in the tank. I'd put it all on the course. Perhaps I could have done better, but when you give it your all, there's not too much more that you can ask of yourself.

Loved the race, but happy to be done

--

Running Las Vegas: Cottonwood Valley

You're in Las Vegas. Maybe you live here (like me) or maybe you're just in town for a visit. You're sick of the blaring lights of The Strip and you're looking for respite from the asphalt. You're in luck -- you don't have to go far to get in some awesome single-track running that will make you feel like you're light-years away from the madness of Vegas.

Blue Diamond Highway. Also known as Route 160. Also known as Widow Maker Highway. Hop on that and go west. Keep going. Go past where the housing developments end. You'll come to where Route 159 breaks off to head to Red Rock Canyon. Stay on 160, go about five miles further and on your right you'll see a parking lot with bathrooms. That's your spot.

If you're there on a weekend, you'll likely see a bunch of cars in the parking lot -- most of them are mountain bikers. Don't worry, you'll occasionally have to dodge a biker, but the trail system is vast enough that you'll be mostly left alone.

There are some rudimentary trail maps at the parking lot. They're of pretty limited use. I'm sure you can find some better maps online, but, frankly, it's not really that necessary. Just hop out there on one of the trails and get going. One of the great things about running in the desert is that it's very hard to get lost (if you're smart, pay attention to your surroundings, bla, bla, bla).

What else do you need to know? Not much. The trails aren't very technical at all, the scenery is amazing, and there is a lot to explore. So what are you waiting for? Go get some.


--

Running the Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim

I'm not really into the blow-by-blow trip reports so much, but I guess if I'm ever going to do it, it's for this one.

I guess a good way to start this is to set out exactly what it means to do a double crossing of the Grand Canyon. Very simply, it means starting at one rim of the canyon, running down into it, running up and out the opposite rim, then running back down into it, and, finally, running up and out the rim that you started. In my case, that meant starting at the south rim of the canyon, running down the South Kaibab trail, crossing over the Colorado River, hopping on the North Kaibab trail, following that up to the north rim of the canyon, then doing it all in reverse.

What does that mean in numbers? It means running just shy of 42 miles and climbing a bit more than 10,700 feet.

At 6:20AM on Saturday, October 22, I set out with five other crazy runners -- Shad, Brett, Shane, Casey, and Mike -- to tackle this, well, very grand canyon. We parked about a half mile from the North Kaibab trailhead and started off at a brisk trot to warm up. It was about 30 degrees when we started, so I was donning a long-sleeved shirt and a Buff under my hat.

Since it was still pretty dark, when we hit the trailhead we didn't spend much time hanging around trying to see the sights and instead got right to business. The trail was steep -- which was to be expected since the North Kaibab trail drops down from roughly 7,000 feet to 2,400 feet -- but right from the get-go I knew that my quads were about to take a serious beating.

It seemed like I'd hardly blinked and we were at Skeleton Point, the scarily-named point that the folks at the National Park suggest day hikers don't try to go beyond. The downhill made for relatively easy running, but the abuse on the legs was constant and because of rocks on the trail, erosion-preventing logs, and the ever-present danger of death by 3,000-foot plunge, it was tough to get too much of a rhythm going.

Early union break.

Of course while I was busy trying to keep myself from plummeting to an untimely end, the sun was rising and and revealing the unbelievable grandeur of the Grand Canyon. And boy was it grand. We took a couple of short stops on the way down to keep the group together and take opportunities for a few pictures. Awe inspiring doesn't nearly do justice to the views that we were treated to on the way down.

In another heartbeat we were at the Colorado River and crossing over the Black Bridge. Although we had a pretty good pace going, we stopped to walk over the bridge and enjoy the views of the river.

Me at the Black Bridge

The Colorado River

Brett getting ill on the Black Bridge

I wasn't watching the time closely, but it wasn't much more than an hour by the time we had covered the 7.4 miles to Phantom Ranch. Phantom Ranch is a campground area in the bottom of the canyon that has a restaurant, campsites, and lodge- and dorm-style accommodations. Because you're, well, in the bottom of the Grand Canyon, everything that goes into and out of Phantom Ranch does so via mule trains (oh yeah, I forgot to mention above that we had to dodge mule poop all the way down the South Kaibab trail). Maybe most importantly, Phantom Ranch was our first water stop.

Yum, snacks...

The trail flattens out after Phantom Ranch as it runs along Bright Angel Creek and the running got easier -- and faster. The scenery continued to be spectacular, with the creek roaring along beside us and the canyon walls rising up all around, but now we were able to settle into a nice, comfortable 9-minute-or-so pace. As we made our way further along, and the sun continued to rise, we lost what shade we had left and the temperature started to rise. Of course, being late October, the eventual high for the day was somewhere around 85 -- not much of a peak for somebody that's been training in the Las Vegas heat all summer.

By the time we hit Ribbon Falls we had already gained around 1,300 feed from the Bright Angel campground (shortly before Phantom Ranch) and were still feeling good and at a good trot. A little over a mile later, we hit the Cottonwood campground and stopped just briefly to refill water bottles. We continued on and made our next stopover at Roaring Springs -- another 1,200 feet up and about two miles further from Cottonwood. At this point we had already started mixing hiking into our running to make the most of our energy.

At Roaring Springs still looking happy...

Snacks!!!!

I'm not exactly sure how to describe the rest of the trip up to the north rim except to say that it was a slog. The distance covered was less than five miles, but it was another 3,000 feet up from Roaring Springs. We made a brief stopover at the Supai Tunnel because the water was still turned on there and we took a few breaks for photo ops (the views were... um... well.... amazing), but mostly it was just putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible.

By the time we reached the north rim there were just five of us (Brett decided to break off earlier and do a slightly shorter route), but everyone was in pretty good shape. The same couldn't necessarily be said for some of the other folks that we met on the other side. Along the route we'd seen a fair number of other runners, some who looked like they were going to toast the trail with no problem and some others that looked like they may have gotten in over their heads. Up on the north rim, there were at least a few people that seemed to be questioning whether a single crossing might not have been the better choice.

But no matter, we had ground to cover.

One of the other runners in the group remarked to me on the way back that it seemed like I was taking decidedly fewer pictures on the return trip -- which was absolutely true. Trust me, you can't get sick of the views that you have in the canyon, but at the same time you've captured a lot of them already and -- at least for me -- it was the pounding that my legs took coming down the north rim that really woke me up to how much was left.

By the time we'd covered the worst of the pounding descent (with a brief stop at the Supai Tunnel and a slightly longer stop at Roaring Springs), I was really happy to be done with the toughest downhills of the day. In fact, by that point I was thinking that the cliche "It's all downhill from here" has it way, way, way wrong. I'd rather it just be all flat.

About five miles or so from Phantom Ranch, one of the group stopped to relieve himself and I'd realized that I hadn't peed the entire day. Mind you, this is nearly 30 miles and eight-plus hours or so into the trip. Big deal? Could be, so I made myself pee. Dark. Not encouraging as it suggested dehydration. That was a little weird since I didn't feel particularly thirsty, nor did I have any trouble spitting. In any case, I downed the water I had left in my bottle (I still had some in my pack bladder as well) and figured I'd deal with the situation when we got to Phantom.

If there was a stretch of the run I remember as being particularly enjoyable, it was the rest of the way back to Phantom. My legs felt fresh, the trail was flat, and I was logging eight- and nine-minute miles easily. If there was a stretch of the run that seemed absolutely interminable, it was the rest of the way back to Phantom. Particularly since I had re-hydration on the mind, that five miles seemed to go on, and on, and on, and on.

I finally did get to Phantom and immediately set about downing a liter and a half of water. It seemed too late -- I was unbelievably nauseous and felt like my face was turning green. I filled up my water bottle once more and found the rest of the crew enjoying a break in the Phantom Ranch restaurant (two were enjoying beers!). I got a lemonade to go with the water, but no dice -- I felt like my entire stomach wanted to turn itself inside out. I and one other member of the group -- who was battling dehydration -- stayed behind when the rest of the group headed out. Better to deal with the problem now rather than stupidly try to tackle the final seven miles and 5,000 feet back up to the south rim feeling like crap.

Mike and I, *post* Phantom Ranch stopover, on the way back up.

Then I recalled that it was roughly the same feeling as I had at the end of the Golden Hills Marathon and that I had attributed that to too little salt replacement. My plan for the run had been to take one salt cap per hour. I figured that, combined with the Cytomax that I was mixing in my bottle, would be plenty of electrolytes. But I didn't exactly stick to that plan. It was hour nine of the run and I had only been through six of the salt caps and two of the three Cytomax mixes. So I immediately popped a cap and mixed the final Cytomax pack. Within minutes, I felt like a new man. Amazing. I filled my pack bladder all the way up (Phantom was the last water stop before the finish) and we headed out.

There were definitely some run-able sections between Phantom Ranch and the toughest of the south rim climbing, but I did very little running and instead settled into hike mode. I kept a pretty slow, steady pace for a while, but started to pick it up when I started to get concerned about hydration again. The queasiness returned and I started questioning whether it really was a salt issue. I popped another salt cap and guzzled down what remained of the Cytomax. Stomachache gone.

Sunset

At this point I felt pretty sure that I had a beat on what was causing my problem, but nonetheless, it was late in the day, my body was beat up, and the sun was setting, so I put my head down and mustered as much of a marching pace as I could. Along the way I passed a few other runners closing out their own R2R2R journeys, including one that was puking his guts up and looked like he was going to have a real tough time finishing out. (I stopped to offer salt, food, water, etc., but he refused all... Turns out one of our other runners ahead of me had already given him some salt tabs and I'm pretty sure that everyone that passed him was offering whatever they had on them). I also smoked a whole bunch of hikers.

Dang it's dark...

By the time I had reached the point that I thought marked 2.5 miles left, I came to a very soul-crushing sign that informed me there were 3.5 miles and 1,300 feet of climbing left to go. I marked the distance on my Garmin -- which was cutting in and out of reception -- and trudged on.

The south rim is far steeper than the north rim and the Kaibab Trail is a much steeper grade than the Bright Angel Trail (which most hikers go for). That, combined with an already long day, meant that as I went on, the trail seemed to steepen drastically as I went. By the time I reached the final set of switchbacks ascending to the rim, the scene was Seussian in my head, with the trial basically going straight up into the heavens, bending all over the place in wild angles. But on I went.

I looked down at my watch... Still another half mile or so left... And then... Wait... There are Shad and Shane sitting there with chips and beers.

Shad: "Great job dude, you're done!"
Me: "What?"
Shane: "You're done!"
Me: "No way, you're messing with me."
Shad: "We've got chips and beer, does it look like we're messing with you?"
Me: [speechless... big fist pump]

Feeling like there needed to be some massive punctuation mark on the day's work, I proceeded to walk back over to the canyon rim and scream "Konichiwa bitches!" over the side. Don't ask me why -- it just felt right.

Final time: 12 hours, 19 minutes.

--

Packing Up - The Grand Canyon

Tomorrow I meet up with five other crazy runners to make the five-hour drive to the Grand Canyon. The plan is to get settled in tomorrow night and then get up bright and early on Saturday to rock a rim-to-rim-to-rim crossing of the canyon.

In a way, it'll be just like a race or a long Saturday run. In some other very important ways, though, it will be nothing like a race or a long Saturday run. For one, the double crossing is 42 miles, which is longer than I've ever run. The total elevation gain is something like 11,000 feet, which is just plain evil. While there are places to refill water a couple times, there are no aid stations, so everything I need I'll have to carry. And as if the distance and elevation didn't suggest it already, it's just a plain crazy route. Here's what the National Parks Services has to say:

Hiking to the river and back in one day is dangerous and never recommended due to limited shade, extreme heat, and a near 5,000 foot (1,524 m) elevation change!

Hmm... Then how about running to the river, past it, to the other rim, back to the river from that rim, past it again, and then back to the start?

Ok, so there's that. But let's get practical. How in the world do I pack for something like this? Obviously, the standards: trail runners, shirt, shorts, hat, watch, etc. But as far as stuff that's relatively specific to this trip, I've rounded up:

• Backpack. I run with my trusty Nathan pack on most of my long runs and am relying on it to carry everything I'll need for the run.
• Food. I did a big shopping spree at REI and, space permitting, hope to carry 2,000 to 2,500 calories with me during the run (~200 or so per hour).
• Water bottle and drink mix. In addition to food from calories, I'm going to carry some drink mixes along with an extra bottle.
• Salt pills. Running low on sodium is not a good feeling out on the trail. And by "not a good feeling" I mean dangerous.
• Duct tape. Good for just about everything. Wait, no, no "just about" involved, it's good for everything.
• Long sleeve shirt and Buff headscarf. According to the weather forecast, it'll be around 30 degrees when we start. That's not really t-shirt weather. In fact, I think I may want to add gloves to the list...
• Toilet paper. Need you ask?
• Headlamp and extra batteries. We probably won't finish before dark, so this'll come in handy.
• Camera. How else am I supposed to take awesome pictures for my post-trip report?

Now, dear reader, the big question: Will I conquer or be conquered? I'm really hoping the former. Really hoping. Stay tuned....


--

The Golden Hills Trail Marathon and Three Things I Learned on the Trail

(How about this, let's ignore the yawning gap since my last post and just chalk it up mostly to my laziness/busyness)

Last weekend was the Golden Hills Trail Marathon from Tilden Park in Berkeley, CA to Lake Chabot. In broad strokes, it was a great race. The coordination was well done, the trail markings were great, swag was top notch (Patagonia t-shirt, Moeben sleeves, wine glass), and there was some good food at the finish. Oh, and of course, the trail itself was beautiful.

I'll skip giving the blow-by-blow of the race, but suffice it to say that it is a tough course. In the race materials it says that there's 4,800ft of total elevation gain, but when I plugged my Garmin in after the race it gave me roughly 8,600ft. And I will say absolutely that it felt way more like 8,600ft. There were a few really killer climbs during the race, but the leg-beating that you got from those was only exacerbated by the fact that there really weren't any long stretches of flatter running that gave your legs a chance to recover. You'd work 'em cranking up a hill and then give them a good beat-down pounding back down. Rinse and repeat.

But of course trail runners don't ditch the pavement to run sissy flat dirt paths, so the elevation profile was a very welcome challenge.

I'm not sure what level the competition was at for the marathon -- the Firetrails 50-Mile was going on simultaneously and that was not only a larger race in terms of participants, but it appeared from past years that the real animals went for that race. At the very top of the marathon, though, there were some serous speed demons -- the winner finished in around 3:06, which seems like an unreal time on that course. In any case, with a 4:20 finish, I managed to place 7th overall and 2nd in my age group, which I was pretty psyched about considering this was my first full-on-running marathon and first trail marathon.

That's was also nice considering this wasn't a focus race for me so it was far from a full-out effort. Of course, as a tune-up race for the upcoming Bootlegger 50k in November, I was hoping to come away with some aspects of my game that I could step up in the few weeks I have left. And oh did I ever...

Here are the three primary lessons I took away from the Golden Hills experience.

1. Getting a little salty... Before recently I hadn't really thought much about sodium. But after a conversation with some local ultrarunners, I realized that I needed to get that into my mix if I wanted to avoid some bad episodes on longer trail days and particularly in races. For Golden Hills I packed two salt tabs and downed one about 1.5 hours into the race. The other was left chilling in the pouch on my water bottle for the rest of the race. Bad move. With about three miles left, my quads started badly cramping and when I finished I was so nauseous that I couldn't stomach food for about 20 minutes. Some post race research connected the dots and let's just say that I won't be skipping the salt at Bootlegger.
2. Plan ahead for aid... Aid stations on trail races and ultras aren't the simple water-or-cytomax affairs manned by high school kids that they are on road races. With a veritable buffet of edible goodies plus a variety of drink options and a knowledgeable station crew that wants to help you get in and out quickly, trail aid stations can be a little overwhelming. Prior to Bootlegger, I plan to take some time to think about my overall hydration and nutrition plan so that I have a general sense of what I'll be putting in my body when. But on race day I'll also want to have some thoughts brewing prior to each aid station about what I need so that I can get in and out of each stop quickly and with everything I need. 
3. Oh God, the hills! Um, so I think that Golden Hills revealed that my hill training during this cycle has been pretty pathetic. I was walking sections of hills very shortly after the start and pretty much the whole race I was getting smoked on uphills. Not that I need to be overly hard on myself -- after all, I did just start running trails. More dedicated time working the hills needs to find a way into my schedule and I definitely need to get some gym time back in my life to work in some strength training. And it's not even just a matter of the uphills -- I gained a lot of lost ground on the downhill sections, but I could really feel the pounding from those stretches and know that some weight training will help keep my legs strong (and injury free!) through punishment like that. Alas, while the two points above I can definitely remedy prior to Bootlegger, I'll really have to wait for my next training cycle to work this stuff in.

Now before I close out the post, I have to give a big thanks to my great pal Lauren, who got up butt early to drive me to the starting line of the race and was there at the end to cheer me across the finish line, take the picture above, and listen to me bitch about how sick I felt. Running a race like that is hard, but the logistics can be a pretty big pain in the ass without awesome family and friends to help you out!

What's next? Well, with Bootlegger just around the corner, I've made the somewhat questionable decision to cram in one additional tune-up / challenge: A Grand Canyon double crossing next weekend. More on that soon...


--

Walking the Find Line of Pain

The back of the shirt that I received for running the Utah Valley Marathon reads: "Pain you enjoy."

It's a great tagline. After twenty-plus years of participating in competitive sports, I've become well acquainted with the reality and wisdom of that phrase. If you're working hard -- whether it's in a competition or in practice -- it's often going to hurt. Your lungs huff, your muscles burn, your joints ache, you might even bleed. And, most of the time, that pain all works toward making you a better, stronger, tougher competitor.

But when is pain bad?

That's a question that I've struggled with throughout my athletic career. When does pain cross the line from good and productive to detrimental? If you're not comfortable living close to that line, you're not going to improve as much as you can. At the same time, if you don’t respect the far side of that line, then you may find yourself sidelined for an extended period of time.

I recently ignored the far side of that line. After my best 5K performance to date, I woke the next day with pain in my Achilles and a slight hobble. What did I do? I went out for a hard, fast, hilly 18-mile run. By the end of that run my hobble was a limp. Short periods of rest did little and I couldn't shake the pain as I continued to train for my first marathon.

The short story is that I was barely able to train over the final month and though I completed the marathon (that experience is a whole other story), it was far from the Boston-Marathon-qualifying time that I was hoping for.

After the marathon though, I pledged to give myself the time needed to heal. I didn't run a step for two and a half weeks, skipped out of multiple races, and restarted my training easy, short, and slow. Now, I'm back to running sans Achilles pain. That's the upshot. The downside is that a month of half-effort training and almost three weeks of no running at all means that I now need to spend a lot of time building back up to the 50-plus mile weeks that I was at before.

So the big question, of course, is how to avoid the lousy fate of losing precious training time and progress to an injury that you exacerbated by trying to train through the pain. Here are three pointers that I think can go a long way.

1) Mindfulness

That word can do wonders for almost anything in your life, but for our purposes here, every athlete that's competed and trained for any reasonably long period of time should have a pretty good sense for what training soreness feels like and what an injury feels like. Sometimes it can be tricky, but often times, if you're paying close attention to how your body feels, you can easily identify whether that tweak in your quad is just the ache of a great set of squats or whether you've pulled, torn, or twisted something that will need a couple days to heal. If you don’t take the time to tune into the pain and interpret it, you run the risk of turning a few days of healing into a few months.

2) Know the consequences

It's usually mentally painful for any serious athlete to take time off from their training. You have to deal with thoughts of losing ground on competitors or simply not having the opportunity to continue pushing yourself forward in the ultimate competition with yourself and your own limits. But if you ignore the early signs of an injury and sideline yourself for months, you will lose a heck of a lot more ground than if you took a few days right away to let the then-minor injury repair itself.

3) Be prepared

Following from No. 2, it's easier to deal with the mental anguish of not doing your primary training if you are prepared with cross-training alternatives that won't stress your injury. In my case, swimming, biking, and pool running were all great options to keep up my cardio and muscular endurance without banging my bodyweight down on my Achilles. A lifter with a deltoid tweak, meanwhile, could spend a week working on their core and legs while giving their shoulders some restorative rest.

I'd like to end this by saying that I hope that you never get injured -- and certainly I do. But injury is pretty much an inevitability when you're a hard-working athlete, so instead, I'll wish you the wisdom to know when it's time to back off, and a speedy recovery for every time you do take a hit.

--

Everything Just Happens

I don't like the saying (cliche?) "Everything happens for a reason." I don't think it does. I think life is far more random than those five words give it credit for.

In its place, I prefer this classic Zen story:

Once upon the time there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.

“Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed.

“Maybe,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.

“Maybe,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.

“Maybe,” said the farmer.

The point is that stuff just happens and in a lot of cases, we can't do a darn thing about it. What we do have control over, however, is the way in which we react. In the story, the farmer doesn't get overly jazzed about good things happening or upset about bad things happening -- he just flows with the unfolding events.

Now I can say this much: I was not anywhere near as Zen while dealing with my most recent injury. I did a fair amount of whining and feeling sorry for myself.

However, part of the cross-training that I did to reduce impact on the injury was pool running. I can promise you one thing -- running in circles outside doesn't hold a candle to running back and forth in a sub-Olympic-sized swimming pool when it comes to boredom potential (in one session I ran 92 laps). But what I found is that with the water slowing your movements down to a near crawl, it provides a great way to feel, and work on, your stride.

And I'm not sure that I can emphasize enough how important good running technique is. It will help prevent injuries, help you run faster and more efficiently, and, man, it just looks darn purdy...




And it was only because of my injury that I found pool running as a great way to work on my stride and running technique.

Of course, the whole injury thing was also a great reminder to train wisely and avoid overtraining and overreaching. And since I (and I'm sure I'm not the only one!) have a serious issue with constantly pushing harder, faster, and farther, I don't think I can have too many reminders of this. Better still, this time the reminder doesn't look like it will keep me off my feet for long.

So, in the end, there were good things that came out of my injury. Was this because everything happens for a reason? Nah, I don't think so. In fact, I think that if you think that everything happens for a reason then you get lazy and expect something in the outside world will happen to make things peachy again. If, instead, you take something bad happening and find the positive and the lessons, then you can create good from the bad even if the next flop in the poker game of life doesn't turn up aces for you.

Could we say it's all about "Making lemonade from lemons?" Ugh. If you really must pin me down to a cliche then fine, go ahead.


--

Hardcore or Stupid?

There's a fine line between being hardcore and just being stupid. And for much of my life I've exhibited a talent for finding that line, stomping on it, kicking it, and then boldly walking over it.

What has this meant? I'll spare you the details of my formative years, but what it means currently is that I've been battling through one injury after the next during my marathon training. Nothing's been serious, but it's been a parade of small, nagging injuries that have meant unplanned downtime during my schedule.

The reason that this is happening is simple and you'll find warnings about it in pretty much any running training book you read -- I stepped up my mileage way too quickly. During my previous half-marathon training program (can be found here, highly recommended), my peak weekly mileage was 35 miles. During my current marathon program (adapted from Pete Pfitzinger's Advanced Marathoning), my peak weekly mileage jumped to 55 miles. And while there was a chance I may have been able to handle the step-up in mileage, my training also included races, serious speed work, and training on hills.

Hardcore? Possibly, I guess. Stupid? Yes, definitely.

So now, as I write this, my right foot is wrapped in an icepack as I continue to care for a tweaked Achilles -- the third injury stoppage in this training cycle. While none of the injuries held me up for long, they were over-training injuries that were very likely unnecessary. Granted, when you're pushing yourself hard enough to really improve, there's always the chance of boo-boos, but smart training means training hard enough to improve without pushing yourself into unnecessary downtime. After all, it's much tougher to improve when you can't train.

Like I said, it's a fine line. On this particular occasion, I rambled way past that line. Will it be the last stupid training mistake I make? Doubtful. But every mistake is an opportunity to learn.


--

Like a Fine Wine...

This past weekend I managed to take first place in my age division at the Las Vegas Susan Komen Race for the Cure. I managed an 18:53 finish -- 45 seconds better than my previous PR. I was still a few minutes (!) off the overall leaders, but I was pretty psyched since it's the first time I've placed in any of my races.

It was interesting timing since I had just turned 30 the week before and had bumped up into the 30-34 age group. It was a fact that wasn't overlooked by many of my friends, who gave me the ol' nudge-nudge, wink-wink and said, "It's not that bad getting older after all, is it?"

The easy answer, of course, is: "Sure!" After all, if I had still been in the 25-29 age group I would have placed exactly fourth (by all of eight seconds).

Of course it's not really true. The winner of the race was a 44-year-old with a fresh time of 15:54 (that's a 5:08 pace!). There was 40-year-old not too far behind at fourth. And while the 5k is a relatively shorter race where youth may still pay off to some extent, as you look at many of the distance runners in the world it's not college-age kids and it's certainly not anyone younger.

At the marathon distance, running great Haile Gebreselassie holds the record with a time of 2:03:59. He set that in 2008 at the age of 35. Paula Radcliffe may have been relatively young when she set the women's marathon with male pacers (29), but she set the "woman-only" record at 31. Matt Carpenter (pictured above) set the record for the brutal Leadville Trail 100 when he was 41. Scott Jurek set the U.S. 24-hour distance record at 36.

Or just take a look at the ages of the top finishers of the Badwater Ultramarathon last year: 30, 38, 35, 41, 41, 42, 36, 42, 46, 40.

Clearly, 30 isn't the end of the proverbial road when it comes to running.


--

Running With Giants

Last week I was lucky enough to get to hear Chris McDougall speak in Asheville, North Carolina. For those that don't know, McDougall wrote the book Born to Run. It's kind of hard to describe Born to Run in a nutshell, but it's about humans' natural ability to run long distances, the killer races that take place in remote Mexican canyons, the amazing tribe that runs those races, and a quirky and fascinating cast of characters.

I wish I had written this all down sooner so the highlights hadn't already started fading to the abyss, but let's see what I can cobble together.

More than a talk
The event actually kicked off with a run through some pretty cool trails behind the campus of University of North Carolina Asheville. With a whole bunch of people of varying abilities along for the run, it turned into more of a trot/walk, but it was a nice little showcase of some of the trails that make Asheville such a great place for trail- and ultra-runners.

The most notable thing about the run for me though, was the fact that I was able to grab running great Scott Jurek (quick CV: 3x Spartathalon winner, 7x Western States winner, 2x Badwater winner, U.S. record holder for 24-hour race) for a second. I asked him for his thoughts on where to run my first ultra. He suggested that, particularly for my first, I choose a race on a terrain similar to what I can train on. He did, however, speak pretty highly of the Chuckanut 50K in Washington.

What really jumped out at me though, was just how down-to-earth and mellow Jurek was. He's had a ridiculous level of success in the sport and yet talking to him you'd have no idea -- he's just a cool guy.

Barefoot
A big part of Born to Run is the attack on the shoe industry and advocacy of barefoot running -- or at least more minimal footwear. So not surprisingly, this was covered during McDougall's talk. What I like about his approach (and the others echoed this) is that he stresses that you can't jump right into it. That is, you can't expect to go from a "normal" pair of shoes to the Vibrams and expect to log 50 mile weeks in them right off the bat.



Handling adversity
Jurek spent some time talking about how he handles adversity on the course. I really wish I remember this more clearly, but he basically offered a three-step process:

1. Allow the emotions: You're likely feeling frustrated, angry, or some combination of any number of other emotions. Don't try to fight them. Let them run their course then move on to...

2. Assess: Jurek gave the qualifier that he's a physical therapist and said that there are a lot of aches and pains and other problems that you can fight through and not do any lasting damage. He talked about how he sprained his ankle early on in a 100 mile race and still finished. He pointed out that the swelling provided a natural support for the ankle through the rest of the race. But basically, the idea is that it's very likely that whatever happened is something you can fight through, but in this step you figure that out.

3. Address it: Do what you have to do and fix whatever it is that's going on. Getting dehydrated? Get to some water or pop an electrolyte tab. Flagging energy? Try some food. Blister? Tape it up.

(If you're reading this Scott, I'm pretty sure I messed this up, so feel free to correct me...)

Get excited
One of the really cool things about Jurek is that you can tell how much he loves running. As part of the show he showed pictures from some of the races that he's run. They were alternately breathtaking, cool, badass, and all of the above at once... like this one of him running in Badwater.



Wrapping up his photo show, Jurek gave an impassioned pitch for running ultras, noting that it's his belief that unless you have a serious medical condition there's no reason that you can't do it. And, according to him, it's a heck of a lot of fun.


Special guest
Asheville native Will Harlan was brought into the mix by McDougall. Fortunately I don't have to challenge my memory to recount his contribution. I'll just share the video that he showed:




Surprise!
One of the coolest parts of the evening was completely off the schedule. It just so happened that sitting right in front of me were ultrarunners Mark and Anne Lundblad. Among Mark's big wins are the high-profile JFK 50-miler in Maryland and the 40-mile Mt. Mitchell Challenge. Anne, meanwhile, has also notched wins at JFK (course record) and Mt. Mitchell as well as Mountain Masochist. She was also named Western North Carolina's outdoor athlete of the decade.

Like Jurek, both of the Lundblads were really laid back, very cool, and very helpful. As far as breaking into ultras, Mark suggested that I start with a 50K rather than a 50-miler and echoed Jurek's view that I should pick a race with terrain similar to what I can train on. They both also gave me their email addresses and encouraged me to email them if I had any other questions.

Famous last words...

Since then I've already emailed them, asking about their views on low-profile (barefootish) shoes and using a Garmin watch while running. Mark got back to me quickly and said that they're big on the lower profile shoes, but emphasized that it's important to ease into them. I had been checking out the trailrunners from inov-8 (Mark and Anne are both part of Team inov-8) and Mark recommended that I check out Roclite 295 for a good transition shoe.

As far as using a Garmin, Mark was pretty practical about it -- he said that he used one for a bit, but had trouble getting and keeping a signal in the WNC trails and so abandoned it. His view was that if it seems like it's something that's helpful, use it; otherwise, chuck it.

And lastly...
Since I don't want to make this already-long post too much longer, I'll leave you with this. You may not be on the list of places where McDougall and crew are going to touch down, but fortunately you can still catch him on TED:





--

Running in Circles

I was at my sister's house today. Her neighborhood isn't an ideal for running. It's a small neighborhood and it dumps out onto a two-lane country road that locals drive about 80 on. But a rain storm was moving in, which meant I didn't want to take the time to drive somewhere to run.

So I did the only thing I could: I started running in circles. Or, to be more precise, I started running in a sort of crazy y-pattern that got me to one mile per lap. And I ran that path over and over and over again.

I ran up the surprisingly steep little hill right in front of her house. I ran through the straightaway that blasted me with the storm winds that were coming in. I ran by the guy cutting his lawn and endured the sneezing attack that came with each inhale as I passed. I ran past the dogs that were sure I was up to no good. And I ran around the stink of the jenky garbage truck as it slowly made its rounds.

And I did that all over, and over, and over again.

But as the laps wore on, all of that began to fade away and I hit that comfortable zone that I love so much. It didn't matter that I was just running in circles, I still got what I wanted -- I got in eight miles from a training perspective and I hit the zone. 

That zone is one of the primary reasons that I love running. Why? I'd be lying if I didn't say it's an escape. But it's also more than that, it's an access point to the present moment. Thinking shuts off, worrying ceases, evaluating and judging cease, heck, even enjoyment ceases -- you're just there. Of course it only lasts as long as the run lasts (if that long), and then all of the thinking and other crap come bounding back.

It reminds me of one of my favorite movies. In I Heart Huckabees they find the same sort of thing except that they're getting to that place by whacking themselves in the face with a big rubber ball.





Unfortunately it's futile -- as Caterine Vauban points out, even with "the ball thing" you're inevitably drawn back into human drama and suffering. So you get to hang out in that place of a bit, but it doesn't prevent the whole thing from starting over again.

We could drag meditation in here too, because the place you're shooting for there is basically the same. And, just like the running zone and just like the ball thing, you can't hold onto the peaceful place you reach in meditation.

So then what's the point of any of it? Is it just escape? I don't think so. I think by finding that place, no matter how you find it, you gain perspective in your day-to-day life simply knowing that that's there, knowing what it feels like, and knowing that thoughts and worries don't last. Being caught in feeling like thoughts are real and tangible and you and your thoughts are one gives them far more power to overwhelm you. Knowing that they're ephemeral and can disappear completely gives you more power to look through them.

Or so I'd like to believe. Sometimes that's easier than other times. My life, like the run at my sister's, seems to take place in a continuous loop -- peace and simplicity lead the way to worry and complication, which push me towards happiness on the way to disappointment and discontentment, which, of course, leads me right back to the beginning.

What's great about it all is that when you know you're running in a circle you at least have a pretty good idea what's around the corner -- like it or not.


--

4 Hours of Peace and 5 Other Reasons I Love Working for Nothing

A month ago I started volunteering at a nearby hospital. There was no particular thought behind choosing a hospital -- I'm not in the medical field and I don't plan to be. I had been looking for a volunteer opportunity, but it was just happenstance that I noticed the "volunteer" link on the hospital's website while trying to get a physician referral.

Since I really didn't have any expectations of what I was getting myself into, I can't really say that it is or isn't what I expected. What I can say though is that it's become one of the highlights of my week. Why is working for free so great? There are a few reasons.

1) Four hours of peace. When I'm at home, if I'm not at the computer then my iPhone is in my hand. When I'm out, if my iPhone isn't in my hand, it's close at hand. There are books to be read, TV shows to be followed, Tweets to be cleverly responded to, movies to be watched, statuses to be updated, articles to be written, phone calls to be made, laundry to be done, meals to be cooked, dogs to be walked (well, one dog at least), und so weiter. When I get to the hospital, I turn off my iPhone, lock it in a locker, and spend four hours where the only computer that I have access to has no internet access. Bliss.

2) The home-office antidote. There are advantages to working at home and being your own boss. Being alone all day every day isn't one of them. In the course of four hours at the hospital I interact with other volunteers, patients, nurses, lab techs, and doctors (of course, the interaction with doctors is limited to them taking only cursory notice of me when we pass in the hallways). I'm hardly an extrovert, but this weekly booster shot of social interaction is much needed.

3) In a small way, not so free. Every week, each volunteer gets five dollars to spend at the hospital cafeteria. While that may sound chintzy, the prices are pretty reasonable to start with and we get the 20% employee discount. This means that I can get a full meal and a cup of coffee during a break in my shift. It's not the prix fix at Joel Robuchon, but a BBQ pork sandwich, apple, chocolate milk, and coffee that I don't have to make or pay for works plenty well for me.

4) Forgetting to be smart. When engaged in my day job, my brain is generally pushing into the red zone trying to dig for interesting topics to write about, find stocks to bring to investors' attention, discuss tried and true investment wisdom in new and interesting ways, and weave my way through heaps of economic data. When I'm at the hospital, nobody appears to think that I am capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time -- not only am I a volunteer, but I'm also about 30 years the junior of most of the other volunteers. I'm A-OK with being treated like that. Heck, sometimes I think I get a little too into the role -- today I got lost circling around a floor of the hospital and had to be pointed back to the elevator.

5) Helping. One of my main activities at the hospital is discharging patients. I bring a wheelchair to their room, help them in, wheel them out, and make sure they are safely on their way home. The returns on that are pretty straight-forward since the patients are typically very grateful and extremely happy to be going home. Less straight-forward is the work we do running samples to the lab, transporting equipment, and the like, however, when you think about it, with us doing that gofer work, the nurses are freed up to devote more time to patient care. And it's easy to feel pretty good about that too.

6) A sick person, an old person, and a dead person. It was coming across those three sights that set Siddhartha the prince on the path to becoming the Buddha. Or so the story goes. At my age, running 50+ miles per week, and doing pretty much whatever else I please, it's easy to forget that it doesn't last. There's no benefit in being morbid about it all, but as little as four hours per week in a hospital can offer a pretty heft dose of perspective. Invincible? Nah, just still very young and very lucky.

I guess it's cliche to say that you get back more than you give when you volunteer, but most cliches end up with that dubious title for a reason. I'm a big fan of getting paid for my work in monetary form, and hope to get paid even more for it in the future. But I'm also becoming a pretty big fan of supplementing my cash-producing work with some work that pays in other ways.


--

Charleston: 1, Me: 0

"You can't always get what you want."

That was pretty much the theme of my day at Mount Charleston.

As I pointed out in the prelude, I prepared myself for a variety of possible foreseeable problems. Unfortunately, I prepared myself for the wrong problems. I was unprepared, for instance, for the trailhead to be closed. I was likewise unprepared for snow. I also can't exactly say that I was ready for massive collapsed trees blocking the trail. Lucky for me, I got them all, which made my run excursion debacle interesting, to say the least.

In one of the trail descriptions, I read: "The trail is well-maintained and virtually impossible to lose." Maybe I should have read the whole thing: "The trail is well-maintained and virtually impossible to lose except in snow." (emphasis mine). And boy was there snow...

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, since that description was for the "South Loop" trail. The South Loop trail happened to be closed. Instead, I was guided to the "Echo Loop" trial, which was in such dire condition (snow, felled trees, etc) that I have to imagine that the Devil himself was standing at the South Loop trailhead smiting people with a vengeance. And, for that reason, I guess I can't be mad that the South Loop trail was closed.

The short version of what could be a very long story is that it was impossible to keep track of the trail thanks to the ski-resort-like conditions. Interestingly, as advertised, Echo Loop does come back around to meet South Loop -- at the closed South Loop trailhead. So after 2.5 hours of jogging up and down avalanche chutes, getting stuck in three-foot-deep snowdrifts, and tripping over innumerable half-snow-covered fallen trees, I finally found myself... back where I started.

As nothing is ever a complete loss, there were plenty of takeaways from this adventure.

• Expect the unexpected. Always.
• Snow may be harder to run in than sand.
• White men really can't jump (I've got a golf-ball-sized knot on my shin from trying to leap a dead tree to prove it).
• Duct tape does wonders for blisters (didn't feel a thing the entire run).
• Call ahead for trail conditions. 

And besides the hard-learned lessons there were definitely some bright spots. Charleston Peak or not, the views were pretty fantastic. Though my total mileage was just nine miles, my excursions up and down the avalanche chutes left me with a total ascent of just under 3,900' -- which is nearly the climb I would have had if I actually hit the peak. And, thankfully, I was right about one thing from the prelude: Mount Charleston lodge does, in fact, have some really kickin' ribs.

Because this is already really long, I'll spare the clever life-lesson tie-in (not getting what you want, taking untraveled trails, and so on). However, I started with part of a line from The Stones. I'd hope pretty much everyone could finish that line ("But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.").

Pretty straight forward: You don't get exactly what you want (or what you think you want), but you get what you need. In my case, I wanted to run to the top of Charleston Peak. Is a 2.5 hour meandering voyage in sopping shoes through snow and mud what I needed? Eh, I don't think so. But sometimes, what you need just may be to simply not get what you want.

Now don't you go getting too comfortable Charleston. You won this time, but I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back.


--

Mount Charleston Prelude

Tomorrow morning I'm dragging myself out of bed bright and early to drive an hour northwest of the city to Mount Charleston, home of, well, Mount Charleston.

My plan is to run to Charleston Peak, the highest peak in the Spring Mountains at 11,918'. The route is 8.3 miles in each direction and starts at 7,600'. One website describes the trail as such:

The trail is 8.3 miles one-way, with an elevation gain of about 4300 feet -- from 7600' to 11,918'. Although the trail itself is excellent, the elevation gain, length and high altitude make it very challenging for most mortals.

And that refers to hiking the trail.

In addition, I'll be tacking on another 3.4 miles somehow to hit the 20 miles that I have on my training schedule.

I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit nervous. Partly because I'm going up there alone (though there should be plenty of hikers up there). Partly because of the elevation. Partly because of the elevation gain. Partly because it's 20 miles. Partly because I have a general fear of the unknown. And if running up a mountain is anything for me, it's an unknown.

But I guess there's little gained from dwelling on all of that.

Packing for the excursion I've set myself up with:

• Rain gear consisting of one large trash bag and a ziplock for my phone (20% chance of thundershowers)
• Cool-weather gear (it's generally 20-30 degrees cooler in Charleston than Las Vegas)
• Blister kit consisting of duct tape wrapped around a half Bic pen, Nuskin, and antiseptic wipes (I didn't tie my shoes tight enough the other day and ended up with a blister... boo-hoo)
• Eats: Banana, Cliff Bar, Stinger energy gel, Shot Bloks, Sport Beans, and Sharkies (looking to take in ~300 calories per hour)
• And, most importantly: Wallet with credit card (the Mount Charleston Lodge makes a mean rack of ribs...)

Since I'm planning to start training for an ultramarathon when I'm done with the upcoming marathon, I figure this will give me a pretty good taste of just how badly I'm likely to get my ass whooped.

As the wise Chaka Khan said: "Through the fire, to the limit, to the wall ... I'd gladly risk it all." Not that that makes any sense since I have no intention of "risking it all." But you get the point.


--

When 12 Miles Is No Big Deal

Not all that long ago, I was training for half marathons and swore that I wouldn't run anything longer. The only time I hit twelve miles was during the race, and at that point I knew that there was only another 1.1 mile left to go.

Now, I'm training for my first marathon and it's a different story. Yesterday was Friday -- just a "normal" day on the training schedule, not a long run or anything like that -- and the schedule called for 12 miles. The day before was a tempo run that totaled 11 miles. Sunday I'm supposed to run 20 miles.

Throwing on my running gear there was none of the anxiety or butterflies that I usually get when I'm about to go on a challenging run. Why? Because 12 miles is no big deal.

When did this happen? How did this happen?

It's simple: It's all relative. When the goal was a 13.1 mile race, an eight-mile run was a challenge. When the goal is a 26.2 mile race, 12 miles is no big deal. I can only assume that when I'm training for a 50-mile ultramarathon that 20 miles will seem a lot easier.

Of course, as Einstein would be quick to point out, relativity is hardly confined to running.

• A 5'8" man like myself would be a giant among the pygmies, but the New York Knicks wouldn't give me a second look (that's if they gave me a first).
• I doubt my sister could bench press 145 pounds a single time. I can do 20 reps with no problem. Eight-time Mr. Olympian Ronnie Coleman can put up 495 pounds for reps. An attempt at that would likely end my life in a horrible chest-crushing exhibition. (note: always use a spotter, kids)
• With $100 in your bank account, an $80 dinner out is a serious splurge. With $10 billion to your name, buying a few restaurants might be something you'd do on a drunken dare.
• In a field of grass and weeds, a dandelion can look very pretty. Next to a dozen roses, a dandelion looks pretty pathetic. (note to self: A dandelion bouquet probably won't cut it on Valentine's Day)

So, then, in a vacuum, what am I -- tall or short? Am I strong or weak? Rich or poor? Dashing or plain? And is 12 miles difficult or no big deal?

Or ... are all of those distinctions meaningless?

I think most people would hate the idea of doing away with these relative concepts. Without those, you're no longer bigger, stronger, faster, richer, smarter, nor are you better looking, more impressively employed, or even (gasp!) wiser. You're just you. And what the hell is that?

But sticking with relative concepts is no picnic either. As long as we keep them around, then most goals become moving targets that you're unlikely to ever hit. Want to be wealthy? Even if you put a specific number on it -- "I want to have $1 million" -- it's very likely that once you reach that number you'll find yourself looking around at the folks with $3 million, $5 million, or $10 million and decide that you feel like a pauper with $1 million.

That's far from hypothetical. The average respondent in a recent Fidelity Investments poll had $3.5 million in investable assets and an annual household income of $379,000, yet 42% of them said they don't feel wealthy. And when would they feel wealthy? When they have $7.5 million in investable assets -- or so they say.

Of course, the same could be said for a good job, a better body, a perfect family, or any of the myriad other things that we pride ourselves on. It's classic hedonic treadmill.

Like I said at the beginning of all of this, running 12 miles is no big deal. But is it because I'm training for a longer race? Perhaps. Or maybe it's because running 12 miles is just about maintaining foot turnover over the course of 63,360 feet. Running 12 miles is simple -- everything else is damn complicated.


--