Javelinas, cankles and my pride

I felt great coming off the Bear Chase 100k last month. A renewed sense of accomplishment, a PR and the prospect of really hitting my last 2-3 weeks of training hard in preparation for the the Javelina Jundred on November 1. When you spend a good portion of the year training, preparing and learning about racing better, the prospect of an injury is the last thing you want to have to face.

Two weeks ago, after (what I thought) was a casual run on the trails, my ankle became swollen and painful. We're talking, could-not-walk-kind-of-pain. I suppose that's what you get when you ignore those little pains for too long. Well of course I immediately went to a specialist to get an exam and explained my race/running situation. He promptly proceeded to tape me up in a soft cast, put me in a walking boot and ordered an MRI.

Over that next week, I was a mess. An emotional roller-coaster full of worry, confusion and angst. Slightly pissed at the timing but still trying to remain optimistic about heading this situation off before it got too bad (whatever that meant). What a sigh of relief when the MRI came back without any horrible results. Peroneal tendonitis. I could live with that. The boot and the soft cast came off and I was a free man to run my little heart out now. Well, with an ankle brace of course.

I have been testing my limits these last couple of days (along with the ankle brace) and while the more casual short runs on pavement have been fine, the longer trail runs have left me in a heap of mental goo...questioning my ability, sanity and tolerance for pain. Icing, heating and massage marginally helps but deep down, I know this injury is not just a flash-in-the-pan issue I can easily dismiss. It still hurts. Not to mention I have no ankle because it's disappeared under all the swelling (that's never good).

It's times like this that I hate being so f*cking analytical. I tend to over-think a bunch of sh*t in situations like this even when the answer is usually pretty clear. My wife always knows the answer before I do too. She says I'm stubborn. I say I'm thorough :) Half the time it's not really figuring out the right thing to do, it's actually being at peace with it that's the hardest part. It feels like quitting, but it's not...

Could I go out and start the race? Yes.
Do I want to be out with my trail-running peeps? Very much.
Would I finish (either the 100k or 100m)? Highly unlikely.
Could I have permanent damage after the race? Possibly.
Would I end up back in my boot after the race? Absolutely.

At the end of the day, I have to be concerned for my long-term health and wellness. I don't want to go back to wearing a boot. I also want to continue running for a long time.

Could I "man up" and run it anyway? I suppose. But that would be my pride talking.

And pride doesn't have to walk around in that f*cking boot. I do. So instead, I'll "wisen up" and sit this one out.

I'm pretty sure I'll have a date with JJ next year.

The fire is still alive

Post-MOG100. Even Hobbit feet look better than this.

A month has passed since epic sh*t went down at the Mogollon Monster 100 and my body is still reminding me that as an ultra-runner, the path to healing is never an easy one. For example:

1. The foot-pads on both feet are blistering and coming off. They are the size of Texas.
2. My ankle is still tender from where my shoes push and rub.
3. My lower back flares up after a run of any significant distance.
4. We are grieving the loss of one toenail.

Yet, despite all these issues, I went out to the Javelina Jundred race this weekend to do some pacing with old and new friends. I was ready to have some fun and log some miles despite all the issues and pain it might require.

In Ragnar-style, I ran 15 miles Saturday evening with Greg and was prepared to run 25 more early Sunday AM after getting 3-4 hours of sleep in my car. Not ideal but entirely possible.

Turns out, the additional miles were not necessary but I was already fired up from all the runners, finishers and their stories of tragedy and triumph. It seeps in and is nearly impossible not to get jacked up on the energy and idea of actually running the race yourself.

I know I committed to take some time off. My beer and crappy food intake over the last 3 weeks have been more than enough validation of that endeavor. But it's getting harder and harder to ignore that fire in the belly and wondering, is that indigestion or another 100-miler begging for my attention? Maybe some of both but I do know I'm going to need a race to train for soon.

Confessions of a Javelina pacer - Part II

...continued from Part I

Loop 5

With a new found determination and some calories in her belly, Liz was making some good time back toward the Coyote aid station.

"Screw these rocks", she said as we climbed. Though we walked the rough rocky spots, we were running everything else...uphill.

There was a huge cheer as we pulled into the Coyote aid station. Several of the crew recognized Liz and were applying high-5's all the way around. I got the sense that they too were not expecting to see us back again after our prolonged stay only an hour earlier. The station manager catered to our every need and duplicated my efforts to ensure Liz was eating something. Watermelon, salted potatoes and ginger ale were the only things that sounded less-disgusting. Bathroom break, more water and Gatorade and we were off again to tackle that ominous Jackass Junction segment...that grueling 6.4 miles.

As I mentioned before, night miles are the longest EVER. I did my best to continually be honest with Liz about the mileage. I may have rounded up a few times when she asked me how far we'd gone...you know, like "1 mile" when it had actually be only 0.75 miles. Or said "4.5 miles to the next aid station" when it was actually closer to 5. Given GPS accuracy in the desert isn't really all that good, it was a tolerance I could live with so long as it didn't completely destroy her motivation and mental stability.

The red rectangle is Loop 5 from Coyote to Jackass Junction.

The Jackass station did seem to take a while even by my standards. Lights in the distance?! Nope, just a couple of runners. "God hates me right now", she said on more than one occasion. I'm fairly certain that wasn't the case but in her mind, the ups and downs along with the rocks were the equivalent of being trapped in one of Dante's special circles made specially for ultra-runners.

Eventually the lights of the aid station came into view like that cartoon oasis from on the Bugs Bunny show. You shake your head and rub your eyes just to make sure it's real. With a huge sigh (well, more like a whimpering groan), Liz made her customary pit stops while I filled her bottles. Upon returning, she plopped down next to her drop bag to change her socks. Up to this point she had not once complained about blisters, but now that the socks were off...holy crap, they were a mess.

She had at least 3 blisters on her right foot and 2 on the left that needed to be lanced. All inquiries to the volunteers at the station failed to produce a single sharp object that would help lance these so they could be bandaged up. What does Liz do? Lathers up with sanitizer and uses her fingernails...

Pretty sure Chuck Norris never popped blisters with his hands.

Pacer initiation = over. When you find yourself squeezing someone else's blisters at 4 in the morning, it's for real.

With socks and shoes back on, we made our way into the aid station tent to get some food and warm up.

"Well, that hurts considerable more", she commented in the most deadpan tone.

I laughed awkwardly knowing that blistered feet suck most any time - particularly when you have 32 miles left to run.

There were plenty of other runners resting in the tent - some were laying on the cots, but most were huddled around the heat lamps chit-chatting and making grimacing faces as they all dealt with either intestinal and/or muscular issues. Eventually the talk turned to the time...and how late it was...and when the first cut-off was.

Between small bits of banana, some hot chocolate and ginger ale you could see the sense of urgency growing on Liz's face. "We're going to make the cut-off, right?" she asked. Myself and several others reassured her that it was definitely possible...but certainly going to be close. We needed to cover 7 more miles in an hour and thirty minutes. Definitely possible on any other day...a bit harder when you've got 70 miles under your belt.

But again, Liz rose to the occasion. She tossed the hot chocolate at me and took off running ("It was good hot chocolate though", she said). We didn't stop until we reached the Rattlesnake Ranch aid station. 4 miles, gone just like that in 50 minutes. I think both of us were encouraged by her vigor and spirit that we strolled right by the aid station and kept plowing forward. At this point, it was about 4:50 am and we openly discussed that it would require essential the same 10/11-minute pace to make the check-in at Jeadquarters.

Leaving Rattlesnake, we were off to good start. Somewhere after the first 3/4 of a mile however, things began to slow down. The last 2 1/4 miles is one of the smoother parts of the trail but still has some small rollers scattered throughout. My gut is that the rollers were just enough discouragement...the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back. After all, the smallest rise after running 75 miles can seem enormous.

"I need you to keep running Liz", I said.

"How much farther?" she asked while wincing.

"We have 2.25 miles to go. But we need to go..."

Finishing Loop 5

"We haven't even gone a mile?", she asked with disbelief laced with anger.

"You can do this Liz but you have to focus on running", I said.

As a pacer, you walk a fine line between encouraging without telling and supporting without forcing...all while trying to keep a positive attitude.

Whether it was a sign or not, this was about the time my Garmin died. Half-heartedly, Liz managed a run-walk for the next mile or so until it was pretty obvious that a heavy shroud of defeat (and/or fatigue) had descended over her. We walked side-by-side...my arm around her attempting to offer encouraging words of congratulations as the reality of missing the cut-off began to take hold. In all honesty, I was just trying to distract her from my failure to see her to the end of her 100-mile journey.

Nonetheless, I was very proud to walk her through the finish line. An accomplishment in it's own right, but just a little short of her overall goal. Liz Braun ran 77 miles and received a 100K buckle at the 2012 Javelina Jundred.

We would miss the cut-off by 12 minutes and 21 seconds.

A Pacer's Remorse

I will tell you that the competitive person in me feels like a failure. The single most important reason for supporting Liz was to finish...and I failed. Which sucks big time.

Liz and her 100K finisher buckle

I have experienced enough of my own races however to know that there is seldom just one thing that contributes to a DNF (unless it's an injury). I know personally that I did the best I could but I am not ignorant of the fact that I still have things to learn.

There are plenty of things I will do differently and many things that I will do the same.

So what did I learn as a pacer? Here are my top 5:

5. Be honest with your runner about distances and set their expectations on things that must happen at each aid station.

4. Never tell your runner that they should drop out. If I had, I'm fairly certain Liz's race would have been over at mile 62.5. Instead, she proved just how much more she could do.

3. Discover your marketing hat. Always find small ways to improve the situation. Turn the terrain, the distance or feelings of fatigue, pain and/or nutrition into something positive. Negative thoughts breed doubt - doubt leads to failure.

2. Listen and learn. The smallest sounds, grunt, whimpers and sighs say just as much as words. As you learn what these mean to your runner, find ways to help take their mind off the struggles going on inside their head (or with their body).

1. Force your runner to take in calories at every aid station, no matter what. Running requires fuel. Calories = fuel. Period.

Results

Being the engineer, I have the tendency to analyze and dissect results from a race like this. Data brings perspective and puts the entire race into focus to see just how hard this distance really is. So if you're already impressed that Liz ran 77 miles, prepare yourself.

• Liz had a 100K time of 18:39:28 - good enough for 132nd place out of 159 (100K) splits
• Her total race time was 23:42:21
• This is 202nd overall for all runners (364 total)
• 75th for all females (out of 123)
• There were 160 total finishers out of 364 (44%)
• 55 out of 123 females finished (44%)
• Only 56 runners finished under 24 hours (15%)

Mind = blown.

For perspective, the 2011 finishing rate was 51% (total of 339 runners). Most every report I've read or person I talked to that morning said that the heat was especially brutal. The heat, dehydration and going out too fast in the early morning desert are easy mistakes to make in a distance like this.

In case you're bi-directional-loop-curious, her splits are below:

	Loop 1	Loop 2	Loop 3	Loop 4	Loop 5
Elapsed Time	4:00:42	8:27:10	12:57:30	18:39:28	23:42:21
Loop Time	4:00:42	4:26:28	4:30:20	5:41:58	5:02:53

Congratulations again Liz. I am very proud of you and I hope that when it's time to seek vengeance on the Javelina Jundred, you'll give me a call so we can both finish what we started.

Confessions of a Javelina pacer - Part I

Liz and I (on the right) at pre-race dinner

I will honestly say that being a first-time pacer is not the frolic-through-the-rose-garden I thought it would be.  

I will follow that up quickly by saying that it is a very rewarding experience and I would gladly do it again. But like anything else, doing it well comes with experience - and even then, it will never be the same experience twice.

I had some level of expectations going into this but I don't think there is much you can do to prepare for the waves of physical and mental emotions someone experiences when pushing their mind and body to the limits. I remember going through them myself at the Leanhorse 100. Like being the runner in the race, you deal with things as they come. You try to make decisions that won't impact the entire race but sometimes, point-in-time decisions are critical just to make sure the next couple miles are a success.

It is impossible to look upon the outcome of this race without the proper perspective however. There are things I would do differently for sure. There are also things I would do again without hesitation...

But here, is the rest of the story.

Pre-pacing Fail?

I thought I made pretty good time to McDowell Park. I was there around 6 but did not anticipate the 20-minute round-trip shuttle to the start/finish line. I was actually in the shuttle and on my way to the Jeadquarters when Liz calls. My heart sank totally expecting the "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!" call while she stood there waiting for her dumb-ass pacer. Talk about the ultimate first-time-pacer-FAIL! Turns out, she had slowed down without a headlamp and was just calling to check in. I was able to make it to the start line, get prepared and wait for Liz to come through the line.

Liz was in good spirits as she came through the line to finish Loop 3. She paused at the aid station, grabbed a slice of pizza and kept moving toward her drop bag. We sat down for a bit and I helped her change her socks. After a bathroom break we headed out to start Loop 4.

Loop 4

Leaving Jeadquarters, there was still a buzz of excitement in the air and the newness of conversation that kept us occupied for quite a bit. There were also coyotes howling in the distance. I think this freaked Liz out enough that her pace picked up for a couple minutes just to make sure we were moving faster than the group behind us :) After that, the 3 miles to Rattlesnake Ranch seemed to melt away as we navigated the Pemberton Trail.

The 7 loops of the Javelina Jundred

But night miles are long miles.

I could tell that things were getting hard for Liz - both mentally and physically. The good news was that we kept talking. An occupied mind is a positive mind. When we arrived at Rattlesnake, we paused for a short bit, hit the bathroom and tried to eat. I don't recall Liz eating anything - if she did, it was pretty low in calories.

During the course of the next 4 miles to Jackass Junction, we did a fair amount of walking given the uphill nature of the loop. The conversation was getting thinner but Liz was coherent enough to notice a feeling in her head...somewhat "woozy and annoying", she said. She brushed it aside and I encouraged her to stay focused and keep moving. I could tell that the course was mentally eating away at her with each passing mile (it also doesn't help that your pacer tells you the wrong distance to the next aid station...rookie mistake #2).

It was times like this when clearly, hugs and encouragement from friends and family were needed more than anything. I had arranged videos via her boyfriend and played them for her when times were tough. Below is one of my favorites from Elvis and Lisa Marie Monkey...(a.k.a., Liz's parents)

Jackass Junction was a welcome stop now that night time had fully embraced us. Chris (Liz's boyfriend) was waiting for our arrival at this station and would be a good mental boost for her. I could tell we were reaching a point in the race where she was beginning to question whether she had enough in the tank to keep going. After filling her bottles and throwing down some calories myself, I encouraged her to eat. ANYTHING. Chicken broth was met with a "blech" so I resorted to some ginger ale instead. I was pushing potatoes, watermelon and anything that would stay down. Turns out, there wasn't much of what I was selling that Liz was buying.

Yes, I was concerned that she was in a caloric deficit but at that point, you have 2 choices: (1) Sit and wait until the desire to eat comes around (which could be hours or never) or (2) keep moving.

We left Jackass Junction moving a little more slowly and it was clear that the physical pain was starting to catch up to the mental anguish as Liz started verbally abusing the increasingly larger rocks under our feet. Jackass Junction to Coyote is the longest stretch on the course at 6.4 miles.

The good news - it's downhill.

The bad news - it's rocky.

Liz was not a fan of rocky trails

The wooziness and light-headed feeling continued to grow for Liz and I knew exactly what was going on. The lack of calories over the last 8 miles was catching up to her.

This made it a little treacherous for her to navigate the rocky downhill portion of the trail, even with my help. I stayed either beside or behind her the entire time for fear of her taking a header down the trail. I was honestly worried at this stage that she would faint and not even make it to the next aid station. We took some small breaks here and there but it was questionable whether Liz was going to be able to complete this loop.

As we approached the Coyote aid station, I started doing the math in my head. We did not great make time on Loop 4 despite what she might remember me telling her. I felt bad lying to her but part of my job was to continue to offer hope and encouragement regardless of where we might be at that moment. The only thing that was important at the Coyote station was making sure she consumed calories of any kind. Ginger ale went down well so we stuck with that. We layered on some watermelon and a Nutella sandwich followed by more shots of ginger ale.

Liz was sitting in the tent trying to eat and ignore the waves of nausea that accompanied these calories. You could slowly see the life returning to her eyes but I could also tell that the thought of future miles made her worried and uncertain of whether her body (in it's current state) would make it through the next segment, let alone the 40 miles needed to finish. She laid on the cot for 15 minutes consulting Chris (via phone) and I on whether she should drop out.

"Should I just drop?", she asked me.

Silence.
I would not/could not answer that question.

"It's not my choice Liz", I responded, half-knowing what I think she wanted me to say.

(start internal monologue)
I didn't want to come off as a jerk by not answering - I'm her pacer dammit! The trusted adviser! Oh, ask me any other question but that one Liz! Who am I to tell someone what they can or cannot do? It's a personal decision - a decision that you ultimately have to live with.
(end internal monologue)

Thankfully, I remained silent.

You could see the struggle raging within her. Her body saying one thing but her mind telling her another. I thought for sure she was done. I figured we would walk back to Jeadquarters, get that 100K buckle and call it a night...

Turns out, Liz is a fighter with an amazing resilience (and maybe a little stubborn?). Life and energy had returned. "I didn't come all this way to quit", she said with conviction. With that, Liz was on her feet again and told me, "Let's go". Before I knew it, we were moving toward the conclusion of Loop 4. Her running was strong (the head was a little woozy still) but we made decent time back to Jeadquarters.

I don't remember even asking Liz whether we were going to start Loop 5. She disappeared to the restroom for a bit, hovered over the food, grabbed a few things while I refilled her bottles with water and Gatorade. She took a short sit-break next to the photographer (who I personally think had a little crush on her) while eating some fruit. I broke away to get some stuff from my drop bag, changed the batteries in my head lamps (yes, all 3 of them) and came back to Liz on her feet giving that same look my wife always gives me.

"Are you ready yet?" she said.

Giddy'up.

Look out Loop 5, Liz Braun is about to give you hell.

(to be continued)

The desire to not suck (as a pacer)

So I'm pacing at the Javelina Jundred this weekend and I'm pretty excited about that. It's brought some of the mojo back just preparing for a night of running in the desert. More importantly, I'm on a mission to help Liz Braun complete her first 100-miler

It's kinda got the juices flowing once again and honestly forced me out on the trail to ensure I'm not ill-prepared. It would be very uncool if Liz (who has already gone 75 miles) is the one dragging my ass around the trail for another 25-30 miles.

Being the first time I've paced anyone, I can't help but be caught up in preparing for the actual run/walk. What will I eat? How will I get calories? Are the batteries in my headlamp charged? At the same time however, I know the more important thing is to ensure that my runner has everything she needs - distances, not getting lost, nutrition and encouragement just to name a few.

I get to meet Liz and Chris (BF) this Friday for dinner - we'll talk race strategy, pace and anything else that will help her get across that line. I have a feeling Ghostbusters will come up too :)

Gear...check. Headlamp...check. Nutrition...check. Not sucking as a pacer...TBD :)