Posts Tagged ‘#hokastinsonevotrail’

Talisa and I at packet and bib pick-up. 6.6.2014.

Talisa and I at packet and bib pick-up. 6.6.2014.

They say, in life, we often see crossroads where one direction means success, the other failure. But how do we know that? It is a gamble. Often, we do not know what lies ahead, unless we take that step.

That is how TARC 50 turned out for me.

June 7, 2014 was going to be my 3rd attempt at a 50-miler. I was determined to have this attempt a success, having DD’d (dropped down) to a 50k at Badwater Cape Fear in North Carolina in March.

I signed up for TARC 50, after having spectated at the inaugural TARC 100 last year, when the husband ran it at its old course in another part of Massachusetts. I figured it would be nice to go back to the race. Last year was my first ultra immersion as a spectator and I did like the experience. Plus, it was only 20 minutes off Boston, which is one of my favorite places in the country.

So off I travelled with my friend and running buddy, Talisa, on Friday. This would be Talisa and my 3rd race together. We’ve run The North Face Bear Mountain 50k in May 3rd and Dirty German 50k May 18th. Nothing proved nicer than going out of town for a race with her.

 

This time, however, we picked up another runner, Bradford; a runner uprooted from Florida to Croton-on-Hudson, NY. The 3 of us drove up to Weston, Massachusetts, where we would meet 2 more runners, Jess and Brad.

Mile-2: I took my singlet and visor off. It was hot.

Mile-2: I took my singlet and visor off. It was hot.

Soon we arrived in Dedham, where our hotel room was (yes, 5 of us shared one hotel room, on the premise that Bradley would be running 100 miles overnight Saturday, anyway, while Jess paced him, so we would have more space Saturday night after the race). Thankfully, we would find out that our hotel sat right beside a Chinese restaurant and was right across a Whole Foods flagship store. That was convenient for nutritional purposes.

After checking in and a quick late lunch, we went to packet pick-up at the Hale Reservation where the race was taking place.
It was low-key. I liked that. I screamed for Otto, the only other good, close friend Talisa and I know, who was running the race. No sight. We would eventually see him at WF later that day and wish each other a good race the next day. Otto was also running a 100 and this would be his 2nd TARC 100. He ran the “mudfest” last year, too.

After doing flatKat, which has now become a “tradition” for me, where I’d lay my “attire” and essentials and take a photo, we finally decided on getting rest. Talisa and I shared a bed, Jess and Brad shared a bed, and Bradford slept on the floor.

Now when I said “rest,” I must have been delusional. Because sleep never came. Or barely came. Despite Talisa giving me a pair of earplugs, the snoring session Bradford performed that night was unbearable. I since, then, made a note to self to screen future hotel roommates for snoring.

Where the hell is Otto?

Where the hell is Otto?

And just when I thought I finally dozed, I heard noises of people getting ready for the race. I estimated the max amount of sleep at 2 hours.

Already a rough start to a day that was going to be spent running 50 miles and I know myself to be less functional with sleep deprivation.

I forced myself out of bed and got ready. I put my usual Asics split shorts on, my Asics Trail WhippAss singlet, my pink polka-dotted C3 Fit compression sleeves, IceBreaker socks, Hoka One One Stinson Trail shoes, and UltrAspire hydration vest.

Days prior, I had bought a Garmin Fenix 2 watch but being that I have not used it in a race, I decided to wear that along with my Garmin 620— just in case. I was stoked wearing the Fenix 2 with the promise that it will last 50 hours.

After some breakfast with left-over plantain and bagel and coffee with almond milk that I brought from home (yes, running vegan, I learned to be self-sufficient with my hotel breakfast), we headed out. Thankfully, since becoming vegan, going to the bathroom prior to a race is no longer an issue. That was taken care of earlier on.

Talisa in one of the steep, less-technical climbs.

Talisa in one of the steep, less-technical climbs.

 

 

At the race start, we gathered by the lake in Hale Reservation. Since it was June, it was a little nippy but comfortable enough. It was predicted to be upper 70s on race day and I knew it was not going to be long until I start shedding off my singlet and my visor.

I placed my plastic box drawer of nutrition in one of the grassy sections by the lake. In it were some Hammer Vegan Bars, Vega Bars, MacroBar, and some SL and S-Caps.

The lake was beautiful and the water at that point looked pristine. I could’ve really just stayed there and watched the runners run, instead. But a job had to be done.

After a few selfies with Talisa, gun finally went off (or was it the yeti with the gun?) and we all headed our merry way out of the beach into a section that would serve as the trailhead.

Just as I predicted, 2 miles into the race, I had to stop at a race marker and take my singlet and visor off. At the upper 70’s, it was too warm for me. I figured, I would be able to come back for them later in the race.

Pre-race selfie by the lake.

Pre-race selfie by the lake.

The 50-mile race was 2 loops of 25miles. Race description of the 50 showed minor elevation. I have run part of the course when I was in Boston in April and I figured, this race could not be so hard. Days prior, however, I was a little apprehensive, realizing this was my first trail 50-miler. The other 50-mile race I ran was in a towpath. Flat as hell. Not that I know hell is flat. The TARC elevation profile, as described at the sign-up website, somehow, did not bother me. Or so I thought. After all, the course was described as “friendly” for those new in ultra trail running .

Well, I had fun. Until it dawned on me how technical the course was.

I love downhills!

I love downhills!

There were so many— and I mean, so many— rocks and roots. Rocks and roots. Rocks and roots.

It actually reminded me of Bear Mountain 50k. No seriously, it was a mini-version of Bear Mountain spread in 50 miles!

This is how I liked to describe it: the elevation was not “bad elevation” but they were steep when they were uphill.

I also remember a section with really loose gravel but was really quite steep. And there were climbs that required some hands. Like one of those in Tammany or Bear Mountain that would be like climbing rocks, leaving you cursing a bit or being swarmed by mosquitoes because you’re going too slow. But as in any uphill, the hard work is often paid off with breath-taking views when you reach the top. This was no exception.

It was like that.

And then you hit the Aid Stations. Very well-supported. The first AS even had the vegan/gluten-free option (aka avocadoes and oranges side versus the pretzel or bread side, duh). Talisa would laugh at the memory of that AS with the gluten-free option.

Not 2013 TARC mud.

Not 2013 TARC mud.

Then there were some mud, but not TARC 2013 mud; just enough mud to get our feet wet and dirty.

Eventually, I finished the first loop. I decided to sit on a bench at the AS to apply some Trail Toes. Then a cramp hit me. And I never had leg cramps ever. I figured, however, that might have just been from sitting and rubbing my feet. Yet I screamed. It was painful. Some friendly AS volunteers helped me. That was very comforting. Something I love about the trail slash ultra running community. People are just there for you.

However comforting that was, I did not stay long on the chair. The husband had already inculcated in me that notion “beware of the chair.” I left the AS. I was confident I was going to finish sub-13 hours at that point, having had the eye-view of the course at this point already.

I went about my way, passed mile 27 and saw my visor and singlet still intact. Passed the same AS’s along the way and intermittently, Talisa and I would take turns passing each other. However, she is always fast at coming in and out of  Aid Stations.

Halfway into my 2nd loop, I was still confident I would actually finish at sub-13.  I was going to be happy with that. I am not a fast runner so there isn’t any delusion of grandeur there. Days before, I actually was being talked into by the husband about finishing sub-12, but I wasn’t sure about it. I thought I was capable but you always maintain the cliche “I just want to finish.” But of course, deep inside, you have your own secret mission.

But then, exhaustion started kicking in. Still my mind was set on a sub-13 finish. Or faster.

Of course, a bummer of a text would come from the husband, who would tell me, I am “predicted” to finish around 14:33 or something, and that really dampened my spirit and for a while, made me cry. What a motivation!

NIGHT FALLS TARC

My Petzl.

I pushed on. Yet the inevitable darkness would fall and although I had my Petzl headlamp on, I would slow down, especially on those uphills with rocks and roots.

My time would further drag and I reevaluated my goal to finishing just slightly under 14 hours, rather than my earlier target of finishing sub 13:30. (Yeah, I have this crazy thing in my head where anything over half an hour on a given hour “would not count.”) And yes, that shit was kinda hard.

So one foot after the other, taking some walks at this point to prevent nasty falls. I was comfortable and I was optimistic to finish under the cut-off despite losing the battle on the secret mission. I was focused and determined—- until, I reached mile 48.5 or 49.

DARKNESS FALLS TARC

Darkness falls.

There, I lost track of a trail marker and lost 2 other runners that I intermittently ran side by side with, passed or get passed by (I would later find out they were Annette and Gwen, who I am now Facebook friends with).

But I wasn’t alarmed. At least, not at that point. I thought I still had over an hour until the 15-hour cut-off and I was only over a mile, at most, away from the finish. So I navigated through the darkness, with only my headlamp as my guide. Once I tried to scream for help, saying “hey, I’m lost.” I saw some headlamps from all sorts of direction but no luck.

So I ran and raced, walked and raced, now with the cut-off haunting me. I finally found a marker and threaded that path. Sighed a sigh of relief. Ran on. Then I reached an uphill, which I sort of suspected that was not supposed to be there. Yet I continued and followed the markers.

Earlier in the day, but when I ended up in this section for the 3rd time that day, I suspected I was about to get lost.

Earlier in the day, but when I ended up in this section for the 3rd time that day, I suspected I was about to get lost.

When I finally hit a flat land that would take me to a right turn on the coursel, that’s when it hit me.

I was lost.

I was on my way back to the mile 45 AS.

It was then that my world started to crumble. I looked at my watch. It was now 14:23 into the race. It registered 49 miles. My mind was racing.

Then another sound dug the hole for me. My watch gave me the signal “Battery Low.” What the fuck?! What happened to 50-hour battery life Fenix 2 ads promised?

I think I died at that moment.

Epic fail or human error?

Epic fail or human error?

For the first time, I couldn’t decide on what to do. And I am mostly decisive.

And I did, for the first time, something that I have not done before. I paced few steps to the left, few steps to the right. I did this over and over and over.

And I did what I often do. I called Dylan, my friend and “little brother.” Of course, I think he was drunk again.

I explained the circumstance. And even as I’m doing this, I was pacing left and right. I literally didn’t know what road to take. I would just take a few steps left, few steps right.

I was facing a grassy, flat section at this point. Right meant DNF. Left meant DNF. Right meant going to AS 45, declaring DNF, and asking for a ride back to the AS. Left meant taking the same route where I was on twice before, attempting to find the finish with the prospect of getting lost again, and, of course, not making to the cut-off.

I tried to make myself cry. And I couldn’t. So I hung up and I did what was logical at that point. I walked the longest one or two-mile walk ever to an AS.

Nearing AS 45 (for the 3rd time that day), I was hallucinatory. Or paranoid. I saw a man in a spotted cow costume. And for a while, I wasn’t sure why he was there. I wondered if he was a psycho with a machete out to kill me.

I would learn his name was Chris Agbay, a runner volunteering at the AS. He and another runner would volunteer to pace me back and I remember saying over and over that there was no point running to the finish as I would not make it to the cut-off.

Mile-45 AS volunteers at my declaration of DNF.

Mile-45 AS volunteers at my declaration of DNF.

For some reason, they assured me not to worry about the cut-off. I didn’t understand that but one of them said the RD was not implementing a really strict cut-off.

Still I decided on a DNF. My first DNF. Chris drove me to the start/finish. As I neared a quasi-suicidal state where I asked myself the question why I DNF’d a race one mile from finishing.

I was disappointed. I knew I had put my 100 percent into that race and I was this close to finishing.

At the start/finish AS, I saw Bradford, who was already comfortable and clean.

However, for some reason, after talking to him I decided to walk up to the tent, where the RDs would be and told them what happened. How I would not find the trail maker on that final route to the last AS.

For some divine intervention or something, Bob would ask me how far I was from finishing. And he would ask me, too, if I am still up to running 1 mile.

I didn’t quite get what he meant. He had to clarify if I wanted to “finish” the race and I could do 1 mile.

“And I’ll be a finisher?” Duh, what a stupid question to ask. He said yes. What does one say to that? Oh, hell, yeah! I tried to show him my watch to prove how far I’ve run but, perhaps, under the unspoken honor code that exists in ultras, he took my word for it.

So off I went with Chris, pacing me in the last one mile that would seal my fate as a TARC 50 finisher.

Time 15:55. Fifty-five minutes over the supposed cut-off that was now down the drain. But who cares? That’s the beauty of ultras. Unless you are elite or competitive, the spirit is in finishing. And so I did.

Talisa would finish shortly after. She had gotten lost, too. And so did many other runners. In and around the same area where I had started to get lost.

But Hallelujah!

There were lessons learned. One essential point is to never give up. Or maybe I did when I declared a DNF and hopped on Chris’ Audi. But then, I guess approaching the RDs at finish was still, somewhat, a testament of some hope lurking in the background. And it paid off. With some faith and perseverance.

My time was poor. But then again and again, I am not an elite. I could not even run a track 8 years ago. So I went home happy. Poor time. But happy, happy trails.

Anticipating-a-finish jump.

Anticipating-a-finish jump.

  • Teeny-tiny eyeview of where the run started.

    Teeny-tiny eyeview of where the run started.

    This one is for the record. Writing about a race two days after the event is, in fact, a record for me. In fact, I have not even    arrived New York but I am already tip-tapping on my phone. Just taking off from Phoenix! Bravo. I guess I owe that to the levels of hormone that somewhat contributed to the outcome of my adventure in Utah, running Grass Roots Event’s Moab’s Red Hot 55k.

    Okay, enough about hormones.

        Let’s talk Moab.

         Where do I even begin?

    Perhaps on the fact that I wasn’t supposed to run this race, which is all the way in Utah. It was my team mate, Joe Delano (or JD, as we would call him), who planned to run this months and months ago. I was just an accidental runner. Somewhat. JD had incessantly talked about “Moab” and invited us to run with him since forever. Since forever that, in fact, I managed to schedule this post-Valentine weekend off of work, thinking that I may actually decide to run it. But as it would turn out, I signed up for NJ Trail Series’ FebApple, instead. This was scheduled a week after Moab.

    Photo-bombing my team mate and travel buddy, Joe Delano, who talked non-stop about running "Moab." Taken a day after the race.

    Photo-bombing my team mate and travel buddy, Joe Delano, who talked non-stop about running “Moab.” Taken a day after the race.

    Honestly, part of me was a bit hesitant about traveling all the way to Utah to run a 55k. I mean, I thought that if I were to travel, anyway, it may as well be for a 50-miler or longer.    Then again life happened and I would end signing up for Moab 55k Tuesday, the week of the race. And– a day before race registration closed. When I met the cool RD for the race (who JD and I would call Chrick because we weren’t sure whether his name is Chris or Rick), he would tell me they recognize me somewhat as the runner from Jersey. “Usually, its runners from Colorado who would sign up last minute… not from Jersey.” Yup! That was me. In Moab. From Jersey.

        I’ve always been in love. But not like this.

    Oh, my god! Utah is beautiful. Moab is even more beautiful!

    The place just mesmerized me. I was transported into that state again where I would declare “I want to live here.” And I think I could. Now that I don’t eat seafoods, I will not miss what the sea would offer. Besides the sea itself. So maybe.

    Moab is a small town. Quaint yet not the usual quaint town I have seen in the east coast. As I would learn from a 711 cashier, for you to live in Moab, you have to either have money, be artsy, or have a business. So I asked “Is there a hospital?” Yes. There was the other unspoken option. Ha!

    I could really live in Moab. The dream will live.

        Clueless.

    Before I came to Moab, I only had a faint idea of the race I was running. I only found out about the elevation profile days before the race. I would also only find out how “big” (aka popular) the race was few days before February 15, with Anton Krupicka, Karl Meltzer, and Jenn Shelton (sorry, I had to throw her name in there) as among the guests/runners.

    Package pick-up was at a restaurant-bar called McStiffy’s. Yup, that’s no typo. No pun intended, but it was kinda tight and packed a venue for the packet pick-up. I was expecting more like a JFK50-ish expo. The line was long and extends from a nook in that resto-bar to the entrance. But I couldn’t complain. I was in quasi-fugue state.

    I can't complain; they have vegan pizza!!!

    I can’t complain; they have vegan pizza!!!

    One other important thing I missed or misread were the “rules.” For some reason, I was a bit complacent taking the race seriously because I had somehow misread the “12:30 pm cut-off for mile 18 ” (before they declare you as having DNF’d) as a 12:30 (read 12 hours, 30 minutes) cut-off for the whole race. My thought process was “yeah, that’s easy-peasy.” Count on me to finally read the whole race rule the day I flew to Salt Lake City; it was only then that I found out that there was an 18-mi cut-off at 12:30pm!

    The race was to start at 8:00am. Sonofagun! 4:30 to finish 18miles. Thank goodness for gogoinflight services! That’s when I started to freak out. By my marathon time, I knew I would be done with 18 miles before 4 hours and 30 minutes, I figured. But that was marathon! On a flat surface! JDC, another friend who encouraged me to run Moab, would over and over try to appease me and say “Its all in your mind.” I would use that as a mantra although sometimes, admittedly, it failed. But on race day, I would hang on to these words.

       Running Slickrocks. 

    So what ends up when you’re mostly unprepared and without expectations? You get a good beating.

    The race was in the canyons of Moab. Over slick rocks and mountains and loose dirt.

    It would start at in a valley and all you did from when the gun would fire was climb. Or run on some elevations. And run on some more elevations. And climb. And climb for many miles. And yes, uphills are not quite my friends yet.

    Now to begin with, Utah already has some altitude. Put that in the context of actually running with an elevation. I was gasping for air. I hate runners who make those heavy breathing sounds but I knew that day, other runners probably hated me because I just panted. For good 4 miles or so.

    I would also meet an Instagram friend, Francesco, from Salt Lake City at the race.

    I would also meet an Instagram friend, Francesco, from Salt Lake City at the race.

    The course was point-to-point, except for one AS that repeats at miles 13 and 18. This only means no going back for anything I may need like shoe change, nutrition, etc.

    The markers for the 55k were in pink! Brilliant against the orange dirt and lime-colored rocks.

    The scenery was beautiful but I think I was done and beat and exhausted by mile 11.

    However, all I could think of at that point was beating the 12:30 cut-off. I thought I did not come to Moab to DNF. And DNF IS NOT AN OPTION. I had other things that would motivate and push me to push on that only I know personally know. “Push past the pain” is another.

    Running the course was just brutal. Being in the back of the pack proved difficult when the markers became few and far between. Most often, I ran the course alone and in those instances when I could not find the markers, I would end up in another hill by the time I finally retraced the course. Time lost.

    But if there’s one thing I figured running trails lately is that I have developed a penchant for getting lost. Of course, it is imperative to find my way back. Duh. But I loved the solitude. Of being able to tell myself I am the master of my own destiny, literally.

    Some of the climbs through slickrocks.

    Some of the climbs through slickroc  On one hand, one great thing about being a back-of-the-packer in these ultras, too, is that it is easy to pass gas or pee behind the shrubs when there is hardly anyone near you. If you’re on vegan diet (and eating a lot of  beans because Mori emphasized the importance of beans to powering legs), you’ll understand how much gas I passed.

        Finally!

    At 11:53 or 3 hours 53 minutes or so on my garmin, I crossed mile 18. I could not be happier enough that not only did I make it to the cut-off, I also managed to cross it before 4 hours. I was exhausted and dead, by then. However, I knew I only have to endure the remaining miles (although I honestly didn’t know and still don’t know how many miles I was supposed to finish at 55k).

    One of the AS's, manned by absolutely wonderful volunteers.

    One of the AS’s, manned by absolutely wonderful volunteers.

    So I ran and walked. And I not ashamed, at all, to admit I walked many uphills. But then  what’s weird about running elevations is that you realize even walking hurts and that running would hurt less. So I braved some uphills and actually ran some.

    What got me through those difficult moments running or walking was the idea that with uphills came downhills, although not always in that fashion. Some climbs through slick rocks were just succeeded with more climbs over some cactus-infested hills. At mile 24, I remember going up a slick rock (not a boulder but a rock the size of a hill, I should say) so pretty in pink with the marker on top, but what the fuck?! There was nothing to hang on to to climb it! Going up that rock took a lot of thinking.I finally realized that going over and through it meant crawling and positioning one foot on this tiny crevice on the side, that one slip could mean my death. Thankfully, my analysis of the situation was right and my Hokas didn’t fail me and I managed to reach the apex. I think it was at the same point that my hormones peaked because I remember crying at mile-24. All the emotions in my life just poured out.

         Downhills, I Heart You!!!

    Then there were many steep but lovely downhills from there. Somehow I knew and figured out lately that my quads and overall, my legs, have become pretty good and tolerant with downhills. I was flying. If only uphills loved me the way I loved downhills.

    But it was also around that point that I decided to stop looking at my watch. I just ran and sucked it up. There was no doubt that I can finish. It was just a question of when.

    I would finally reach the last AS, manned by elderly men and a woman. They would tell me that there will only be 5 miles left. I looked at my watch and saw 28miles. That couldn’t be 5 miles, I thought. Still I gave them the benefit of the doubt and told myself “These seniors couldn’t have travelled so far to man this AS, so its probably just 5 miles.”

    Some of the climbs through slickrocks.

    Some of the climbs through slickrocks.

    And thus I ran and brisk-walked and peed and ran again. At that point, there were a lot of flats yet running on a flat terrain hurt, too. I prayed for downhills but there were barely any. Yet, towards the end, part of what  motivated me to push on was not wanting to be “chubby chick’d” or end up DFL, if I, in fact, ended getting “chubby chick’d” and all the others behind me didn’t make it to the cut-off 12:30 pm cut-off at mile-18. So I made a dash for the last remaining miles. Eventually, I would see a runner infront of me being met by a friend. That’s when I figured we couldn’t be far from the finish. I would also see more people, kids included. And ATVs that looked fresh.

    Finally, as I would see one more downhill that runs on a zig-zag pattern, I would hear a white man sitting call out some name. Oh! My name! It was JD! Already in his sweatpants and– taking pictures. I would pause to ask to have a jump picture taken. He obliged.

    You know I just had to jump in the end. Still need to work on that facial expression business.

    You know I just had to jump in the end. Still need to work on that facial expression business.

    He would pace me in the last few stretch.  I would finish at 8:21 (on my watch). And I wouldn’t forget to stop my Garmin this time.

    Then it was time to do the traditional jump again. This time, at the finish line.

            My take on this race?

    me and chris

    With Grass Roots Events RD, Chris Martinez. Such a cool guy!

    Beautiful, beautiful course that any runner should have this on his bucket list.

    Great race to meet new friends. Moab Red Hot 55k reminded me again why I have learned to love ultra/trail/ultratrail-running: it is the sense of   community.

    Few of the wonderful people I met were Lisa and Bruce W., Maureen H., and Julia L. from Colorado, Rachael B. from Idaho, and Francesco P. from Utah.

    Cool, cool, new friends from Colorado and Idaho.

    Cool, cool, new friends from Colorado and Idaho

    Enjoying the company of a team mate in a new land, who can actually make you cry and takes your crying in stride (I hope).

    Meeting really cool RDs, who would take you running trails the next day.

    Above all, experiencing the beauty of Moab. I will forever be thankful to you, JDC.

    The final take is that some friendships may have been severed during this trip, new ones formed, but memories (both painful and wonderful) will forever be cherished. But that some words that were uttered and feelings felt in the journey towards finishing a 55k in Utah, will have to remain in Utah.

    Now I dig this trucker's hat.

    Now I dig this trucker’s hat.

It's not a Buckle. Yet.

It’s not a Buckle. Yet.

I will start off with what a new (running) friend had said in her race report. The context goes along this line: she did not consider herself an ultrarunner until she    finished a 100-miler. I exactly felt the same way, except that I have not finished my first 100 yet. I sort of felt I am not an ultrarunner until I ran and finished my first 50-mile race. This was back then.

So some time ago, while waiting for my 8-year old to finish her piano class, I found myself inside my car, signing up on an impulse (and based on ego) for the Beast of Burden Winter 50. No, I was not ready for 100. I am not ready for 100, thus the choice to go with the 50. It was based on a challenge by Otto Lam, a quite well-know Ultrarunner in the NY/NJ area. Bottom line, I signed up for BoB50, in that 30-minute wait inside the car.

Of course, I was mocked by people who were personally close to me for signing up for an ultra in the middle of winter— in upstate New York, particularly, in Lockport, New York, which is ultimately synonymous to Buffalo.

Signing up probably happened in November. Or say, late October. Either way, I felt I had enough time to “train.” I know it is “just 50.” Not a 100-miler in Vermont or Utah or Colorado or California. But when I signed up for BoB50, the word DNF was never an option.

For those of you who know me, I am not a fast runner. Nor am I a runner, born and blessed with fast-twitch muscle fibers. I came from a country that did not quite place enough leverage on physical activities in educational institutions, back in the day. I also happen to have been hit by an SUV in head-on, while crossing the street in 2009 that left me with a knee surgery a year after.

No excuses. Bottom line, I. AM. NOT. FAST.

But I happen to have the resolve and determination to finish what I start— at least, when it comes to running. I think that is the only form of artillery that I arm myself with each time.

So on January 18, I ran BoB.

Being that I had planned few weeks before Beast of Burden to run Badwater Cape Fear, I decided my goal was to finish under 14 hours, primarily because Badwater had a 14-hour cut-off. I sort of figured that was a lofty-enough goal. That was a rather slow pace, yet realistic for me. But even that made me nervous.

I knew BoB was flat. And that it was going to be in a sub-freezing temperature. But yes, it made me nervous setting the 14-hr goal. Not because of the “cold;” rather, because it was flat.

Now I am not a hill runner. But so far, I know some of my short distance PRs were in Central Park where there are “mounds.” I even PR’d in Bethlehem, PA for my half-marathon by 12 minutes. So yes, the “flatness” of the Beast’s course scared the hell out of me. Why? Because that meant using the same muscle group for 50 miles. So I wasn’t exactly afraid of the cold. I knew Icebreaker got me prepared for that. Besides, I have always had this belief that when it comes to forces of nature, I can only deal with them and not fight because they are what they are.

For some reason, however, the night before the race, over dinner with friends who came from NYC and NJ for the race, I somewhat decided I’d aim for an even-loftier goal: finish in less than 12 hours.

I hadn’t really told anyone about what my goal was (remember that 14-hour goal?). Or maybe I did tell Vivian. But then, no one else.

So when I decided on dropping my goal to 12 hours, I felt I was about to explode, not having anyone to tell it to, share it with.

Morning of the race, I had to hit coolrunning.com and check what my pace should be. “Okay, doable,” I thought to myself. So I had set that out for myself. Less than 12 hours.

Ten o’clock in the morning, the race started. There were flurries. I could only be thankful for a 10am start. That meant sleeping in after that dinner that ended a bit late.

And then the race started.

It was an out-and-back of 12.5 miles down (or up or whatever) alongside the Erie Canal. And for some time, I thought about what another running friend, Dylan, had repeated over and over: I don’t want to f#cking run on a straight, flat course on a tow path!!!

It will always be my choice for 26.3 miles and beyond. Thanks, Hoka!

It will always be my choice for 26.3 miles and beyond. Thanks, Hoka!

That statement lingered for a bit. Actually that lingered before I came to Lockport. I thought, for some weird reason, that the course would literally be straight— like airport runway straight. That was dumb of me to think. Of course, it bent some. Curved some. But yes, it was flat. Almost as flat as a runway could be. And it was a towpath. Thankfully, there was no slush, which mortified me. I looked down the towpath and for a mile or so, all I saw were loose soil that resembled chia seeds.

For some reason, I had fun. I rushed past the first AS in Gasport (about mile 7), not knowing I was supposed to stop there for the splits. Thank goodness for Kino! I was just “high” and full of adrenaline. I was happy running. Soon enough, I reached Middleport, which was the turn-around point before taking the route back to the start.

Then THE moment of torture happened.  The headwind was horrible. It was, what? 25mph? 30? I don’t know. I just knew it slowed me down and it was blowing against my lungs that already have issues with cold air (read: weather-induced asthma, which I diagnosed myself with). I could barely open my eyes and with the dryness, I looked to my right at one point and saw a field of what I assumed was a plantation or something. And then I hallucinated. Or was that my blurry vision… of Santa Claus in the middle of the field. I had to rub my eyes over and over when I stopped. Finally, it cleared. It wasn’t Santa Claus. It was a red fire hydrant near the snow-covered field. Who puts a fire hydrant in a field, anyway?!

That was a horrible time coming back. But I managed to reach Gasport then the start line. And I was smiling again.

Still smiling. Approaching the halfway mark at the start line. 25 miles more to go!

Still smiling. Approaching the halfway mark at the start line. 25 miles more to go!

In a way, again, I remembered one of the best encouragements I received the night before. “Fifty miles is just less than 2 marathons! You will crush that towpath.”

Again, thanks, Dylan!

Having finished 25 miles, I knew taking 1.2 miles more and I would, in fact, be less than another marathon towards finishing a 50. So off I went back out, saw and greeted some runners, and ran, ran, ran.

Reaching the Middleport station at 8 hours 9 minutes since the start of the race, I felt I had a chance to finish in less than 11 hours, instead. I somewhat figured that it couldnt possibly take me 4 hours to finish 12.5 miles. So I went for it, hoping to finish sub-11 rather sub-12. It even propelled me further to aim for that “new goal” when Violet told me the wind has somewhat dissipated. Ha!

But then, I think at that point, some exhaustion had set in. And yes, there still was wind, although not as horrible as it had been that morning.  By then, it was darker and colder. I had already put on an extra shirt, put on a pair of borrowed mittens. It was a fast turn-around, considering the excellent crewing of Ken Tom, who had helped me put my hydration backpack with so much ease, primarily because he got authorization that he “can touch my boobs.” What am I talking about?! I don’t have any!

Regardless, that was some saved time at that point. But of course, little did I know coming out of Middleport that I had forgotten to turn my head lamp on and now with mittens on, that had become a somewhat difficult task. That was when I slowed down. I had to take the mittens off then the other layers of gloves underneath. The whole process just ate up so much time.

And then my hydration back pack seemed to have loosened. Then my bottle was leaking. Again, I had to remove my gloves and mittens. More time wasted.

From then on, it was a struggle. Murphy’s Law. Five and half miles from Middleport to Gasport seemed like eternity.

Eventually, I would reach Gasport and leave it one last time.

Now I did not pee before leaving Gasport. I sucked it up and because I am a nurse, I was pretty good at it. At least, for the time-being. I would see Tiger and run alongside her, walk a few feet, and catch up again when I ran. I knew the only reason I was able to keep up with her was because she was running a 100. On an ordinary day, I knew I wouldn’t. I would eventually go ahead. But not for long. I had to pull over and hide behind a tree.

The nurse in the runner me could not hold her pee. My butt was numb and I had forgotten to turn my headlamp off, but I didn’t really care. Another few minutes lost.

Finally. I went back into the course. Ran alongside Tiger and went about my merry, tired way.

Photo taken from the start line. Across the canal is part of the course, approximately 2 miles away from the start/finish. If only swimming was allowed, it would have been closer. But it isn't and I can't even swim! This last stretch can feel like eternity. At least, it was for me.

Photo Courtesy: Lockport Photographer (My apologies for not remembering who took this photo). Taken from the start line. Across the canal is part of the course, approximately 2 miles away from the start/finish. If only swimming was allowed, it would have been closer. But it isn’t and I can’t even swim! This last stretch can feel like eternity. At least, it was for me. At any rate, this sight is reminiscent of a Van Gogh, except I can’t find stars.

Finally, too, I saw the finish line from across the canal. That only indicated the final 2 miles. But even that would seem like forever.

I looked at my watch and saw I was nearing the 12-hour mark. Where did time go?

Damn it. At that point, I really thought I’d murder myself if I didn’t make it to the 12-hour “goal.” It just wasn’t acceptable at that point to finish past 12 hours. It. Was. Not. An. Option.

So in exhaustion, I made a mad dash for it. The 2 miles became 1 until I reached the bridge called Exchange-something that marked the point where I’m finally home stretch. I struggled to run as fast I could, whatever fast meant at that point in time.

I kept looking for the blue tent. The freakingly elusive blue tent. But finally, there it was. And there was Jim.

Finally it was the end. Jim hugged me. But then I had to push myself inside the tent. I don’t know if I needed to but I felt I needed to clock-in! Boom! I looked at my time: 11:51. Or 11:51:53, according to UltraSignUp.com.

Okay, I was happy. More or less. Part of me was actually disappointed. I had wanted my sub-12 to be sub 11:30. Yes, I could never be satisfied.

Thus, I resumed the revelry with more hugs– from Ken and Denise and again, from Jim– that I didn’t even notice the RD give me my medal. I took the Jello-shot, only to realize after I took it that I had already sworn not to take alcohol again. But “whatever” was what was in my mind at that point.

Jello shots!!!

Jello shots!!!

And then I cried some. Eventually, I would settle on a chair, covered by volunteers with a warm blanket. (Oh, no, no, no. Not the Christmas Tree blanket!!!) And I would see some runners finish, some runners turn and go for their halfway stretch, and just witness some of the remarkable events that can only transpire in ultra races.

It was a beautiful experience.

It still is. And I still smile at the thought of the Beast of Burden. Of how beautiful the people are at the Aid Stations, at how friendly, at how kindly they make you feel like family. Now I understand what Lisa C. meant when she referred to her “BoB family in Lockport.”

It is funny now. Someone had said that that being in Lockport was like being in Redneck New York. I did not feel that being there.

Beast of Burden was an experience that was beautiful overall. A lot of things had happened training for it, which, thus, led me to call this article a non-race report.

Bottom line, preparing for the Beast was life-changing.

I have made so many friends. Learned so many things. Gained a whole new experience.

1026271_10202953076970981_1446902105_o

Sorry, RD, I did not even notice you.

Equally important during the preparation for the Beast, I have turned my diet around one that was so ingrained on animal products into one that is plant-based, aka vegan. And in running on a vegan diet, I didn’t feel weak, at all. I felt great. I barely walked (besides inside the ASs)!!! In total, I’d say that in all the 50 miles, I had only walked about 20 feet in the course.

Surprisingly, above all, I did not suffer from the same hand swelling that I often suffer from running races prior to the Beast. I am not quite sure if it was turning vegan that made that possible, but considering that I have nothing else to attribute that to, then why not say it was because of that. Why not?

So thanks, Joe, for the influence. I will have this stamped for life.

So going back to where I started with Violet saying “I felt like I am not an ultrarunner until I ran a 100-miler.” I hear you, Violet. For a time, I felt I was an ultrarunner as soon as I finised a 50. I still do.

But then what you said about running a 100-miler is a reflection of what I am feeling now.

Pre-race dinner: Linguine with Mushrooms. One of my favorite pasta mixes even before turning vegan.

Pre-race dinner: Linguine with Mushrooms. One of my favorite pasta mixes even before turning vegan.

Its time to up the ante, push the envelope, and say, I feel like I am not an ultrarunner, until I finished a 100-miler.

Let’s see what September brings.