Huddart 35k: Have a Plan. Run the Plan. The Plan Works

“Gatorade. Gatorade!” she gasps at the aid station volunteers. They’re slow to react.

My bottle is already open and by the time she finds her Gatorade, I’m full. A little voice whispers into my ear, “just go.” I throw back a banana and take off. I snap the elastic. Charging the short climb leading back to Huddart, I get into the orange then red for the first time today. I ran within myself all morning, ran smart. I ran to win.

She never saw me again.

The gun goes off and the pack races across the dead summer grass towards a skinny gap in the wooden fence. A narrow single track leads half a mile down to Richards Road, the first real chance to make a pass. I zoom ahead and find myself in the lead. I go through the gate first thinking, this is weird.

I pick my way down the twisty trail and try to take it light, adrenaline surging. I never go out in front. In fact, just before I broke the plane of the fence, I glanced back as if to look for someone else to go through first.

We plunge into the redwood canopy and out of the steadily rising heat. Richards is a wide, pine needle-laden path that winds along a creek for almost a mile with some gentle downs, flats and very few ups. It’s a great way to start a race.

I chat briefly with the other front-runner, only to find out he’s running the 50k. I sheepishly admit that I’m running “the short one,” the 35k (22 miles). As the rest of the pack catches up and I start getting passed, I remind myself “you have a plan, run the plan.” Race plans are meant to be broken, but if you torpedo yours before mile 1, what’s the point?

The first person to join our pair is a thin brunette, white singlet and blue shorts. She runs well, with an efficient road-runners gait. She isn’t very talkative but said says she's also running the 22-mile. I peg her as competition, along with a shirtless, Hoka-wearing super fit guy with a white running hat.

The trail winds uphill for the first time and several more runners pass me. I let them go. We dip back onto single track and wind into the redwoods, emerging briefly into the sun as if to remind us that it may not feel it, but its going to be hot today.

The next four miles are a steady climb 1,400 feet or so to Skyline. There are a few steep parts, especially in the final half mile, but for the most part the trails are soft and runnable. Switchbacks give you good vantage ahead. The elastic is long, but fragile. Ease up for too long and you’ll quickly lose the group in front.

I settle into my climbing rhythm, which isn’t going to win any speed awards, but I’m consistent and can now handle reasonably steep grades without too much strain. Training mostly here and Mt. Montara, another long grinder, I can hold this pace for several miles of climbing and preserve valuable energy.

All of a sudden it’s raining. As we rise into the mist, droplets appear and land pleasantly, cooling my warm face. I look up and sunbeams blast between the trees, reflecting off the pockets of rain. This is why I run. This is why I run out here, for these tiny moments, these snippets of perfection with which every once in a while nature blesses us.

I cruise into the King’s Mountain aid station in sixth place, grabbing a banana and nothing else. I’m sticking to the plan. I have plenty of food and water to make it the five miles to the next aid station. These few saved seconds are the first step to reeling them in.

It happens sooner than I expect. In almost no time I pass one guy and have fit Hoka guy in my sights. But the plan doesn’t say reel ‘em in the first two miles of the ridge trail. The plan knows the first two miles are actually uphill and going too hard here is a really good way run out of gas while you’re still on the ridge. The plan says wait. So I wait.

But the plan doesn’t know that before I’ve gone much more than a mile, I’ll come around a corner and catch a glimpse of the lead pack. I’m thrilled. I took it easy on the ascent and now after not that time spent in my next gear, I’m within striking distance. The elastic hadn’t broken and I’m back in the race.

A moment to explain the elastic. KJ tells me that this is a cycling term describing your connection to the rider or riders (in our case runners) you’re chasing. If the gap is small enough, you can pace off the group in front and catch up with a short burst of speed. Visualize a rubber band pulling you along the trail. But the rubber band is only so long. Don’t let it break. If the gap grows too large, the elastic snaps and you’re all alone.

In other words, you just got dropped. You lose the mental benefit of chasing and the group ahead can break away and you won’t have any idea. If the elastic snaps, you’re then forced to either chase them down or just hope you can catch them later. Hope is not a viable race strategy.

That’s when you’re behind. When you’re in front, you want to snap the shit out of that elastic. But this comes at a cost. Your legs only have so many bursts in them that you can use to try and gap people. Misfire and you just wasted precious energy while they gradually reel you in, expending much less to get to the same place.

So here I am, at the same place, running at a really smooth, comfortable pace. I consider passing everyone, but for what? They’re generally better climbers than me and there are enough rolling hills between here and when we drop down off the ridge that I’d have to work extremely hard to actually drop them. And this early in the race, a few would likely go with me so I’d have to push even harder.

In short, not worth it. I settle into fifth place, sizing up the competition in front of me. Turns out two of us are going on at the turnaround to run the marathon distance, so I’m really in third. But I don’t know that yet. The guy in front has long spandex sticking out below his shorts and …

BAM! I’m down. I had drifted off into some vignette, probably imagining my glorious descent at top speed, and lost concentration on the trail. My right toe had clipped a root and I skidded into the dirt.

The guy in front of me, the strongest natural climber of the group, whirls around to make sure I’m OK. I hop to my feet, dazed, and catch back up with the group. I’ve started tripping more than I used to, especially in flat sections where my mind can drift. It’s annoying more than it is painful, but one of these days I’ll land on a rock.

We wind along the ridge just under Skyline Boulevard in single file, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The occasional roar of a motorcycle interrupts the tranquility, the long eastward vista popping into view as we wrap south.

As we near the aid station and turnaround, the group starts to spread out. Long spandex guy and Brunette break away, as Hoka-fit guy eases the pace noticeably. Climber and I are behind him and slow down in kind. I don’t mind though, I know we climb up to the aid station and it gets a bit hectic with the out and back. I’ll eat for real here with another quick stop at the final aid station before the descent. I’m ahead of schedule anyway and happy to drift behind for now.

Spandex and Climber continue on ahead, adding the four-mile loop to make a marathon. It’s now just Brunette, Hoka thenme.

I stay within myself, gradually reeling in Hoka as we climb back up to the ridge. I can tell he’s fading, and while I don’t feel amazing I go for the pass anyway. I’m not worried about gapping him here though, since I can tell just maintaining my pace will put space between us.

I now have five miles to catch Brunette and set up for the descent. I catch glimpses of her up ahead as the narrow trail winds through redwoods, poison oak and other runners. Until now we had the trail to ourselves, save the occasional hiker. But now on the way back, we’re constantly having to weave through oncoming traffic.

I pass Tyler, fist bumping and whizzing on. He looks strong and there aren’t many places between us. My confidence grows that he’ll actually enjoy himself and not swear off trail running forever after his first 20+ mile run.

With every turn, every slope, I close the gap. Brunette is running well and I’m having to hustle to make up time. But I can coast on the downs and not lose time. My legs are starting to tighten up a bit and are complaining, ever so slightly, on the ascents.

I come around a corner and there she is. I’ve closed the gap and still have two miles left on the ridge. I know that this is now my race to lose. There’s no way she can keep up with me descending off Skyline and I should be able to get far enough ahead that even if I fall apart on the last little climb, I’ve got this so long as I don’t …

BAM! I’m on the ground again. Another loss of focus. I glance up from the ground and blue shorts sail on, disappearing around the bend. No turn around, no checking to see if I’m OK. Now maybe she didn’t hear me, that’s entirely possible. But I am pretty sure she just kept running.

As we’re milling around the starting line, hopping up and down and calming nerves before the gun goes off, pretty much everyone around me is my friend. I harbor no ill will towards other runners. Until we start and one of them tries to run faster than me. I’m a polite competitor, don’t talk shit and remain respectful, but you also really don’t want to piss me off unless you are much, much faster than me. I express anger, as it turns out, most effectively through running beyond what should be my natural limits.

And now this chick had pissed me off.

I’ve done a lot of trail runs in the past four years, and not once have I been so concerned about winning that it occurred to me unscrew the top to my water bottle before I arrived at the aid station. You know, to save three valuable seconds.

The last of my water sloshes out of the open top as we veer onto King’s Mountain. I am right on her tail and for the past mile have noticed her lagging. She kept pace, but you can tell when someone goes from running easy to running hard. And after 17 miles, running hard is just a lot harder than it was two hours ago.

Her gasping for Gatorade confirms my assessment. The plan calls for a mellow climb to Chinquapin then laying down the hammer. I change the plan.

I almost sprint up to the trailhead, not looking back. I imagine her seeing me leave and either chasing after, leaving before she wanted to, or grabbing more food and losing valuable time. Either way, she’s about to get dropped.

I should know: it happened to me.

The infamous Bernardo gapped me out of this aid station, at this same race, almost two years ago. I never recovered. But I ran an altogether stupid race that day. I went out and tried to win, but mistakenly thought that trying to win meant trying be in front at mile 11 rather than mile 22. Turns out it’s the guy who gets to the finish first, who wins.

KJ says that when you pass someone, crush their will. Take off hard without warning, leaving them so hopeless, so exasperated, so sure they don’t have a prayer of catching you that they crack. Or maybe it’s me who says that.

I hit the Chinquapin trail head panting, my legs screaming for the first time all day. They can scream all they want, but I’m not letting up. I ease into downhill mode, pass a few slower runners and release my legs.

My love affair with descents are as varied as the trails themselves. Some are steep and technical where the advisable speed is just beyond out of control. Others are gradual and wide where you can really move. This one is amazing because it’s the perfect slope for running. To actually sprint downhill.

I duck around trees, lean into turns and do my best not to fly off the edge of the trail. I’m passing tons of people now, mostly without incident. I’m very conscious of not being the A-hole fast guy blowing past pregnant women and weekend warriors without regard for their safety. I’m too old for that shit.

But that doesn’t mean getting lost in your earbuds and losing awareness of the trail is OK. I actually wish race organizers were stricter about enforcing no-headphone rules on single tracks. It’s as much for their own safety as it is mine.

“On the left!” I yell, in my most pleasant voice. “Coming up on your left!”

Nothing. “Hello!” I scream, not as polite this time. I try again, nothing. I’m now basically right on top of her and have to screech to a halt to avoid bowling her over. Still no semblance of awareness. The trail is narrow, with a ledge on one side and a mountain on the other. I can’t pass safely unless she pulls over – which is trail etiquette when a faster runner wants to come through. But it’s also etiquette not to blow by someone on a narrow trail if they don’t know you’re coming.

I can reach out and touch her now. “Hey! Take out your music!” I’m literally screaming in her ear at this point. Exasperated, I tap her shoulder as delicately as possible while we run in sync and yell again directly into her ear. She jumps, I think more from how incredibly close I was rather than the fact that I was there in the first place.

Blathering apologies, she moves over to let me by. “Pay attention!” I yell, not polite at all, immediately realizing that even though she was in the wrong here, I was still being the A-hole fast guy. The vast majority of the runners here aren’t thinking about winning, haven’t been thinking about winning all week and aren’t in the midst of some adrenaline-riddled sprint down a thousand feet to crush the will of some brown-haired runner they don’t even know. And that's totally cool.

As I go past, I turn around, put my hands up and stammer, “I’m sorry. Sorry. But please pay attention when you’re on the trail.” I turn the corner, not waiting for a reply.

I take it easy for the next few turns and get back to my usual polite passing of usually polite people who urge me on as I fly past. This is the tail end of the half marathon and while no one is in any danger of winning, that doesn’t mean they aren’t working as hard as I am. It’s the beauty of trial running, that no matter where you are in the pack, you’re probably suffering just as much as anyone else on the trail. Sure, as you become more serious about the sport you learn to push past higher degrees of pain and discomfort, but slower times are not synonymous with less suffering. Sometimes it’s actually harder to be out there for longer, going slower, than to just get it over with.

Chinquapin dead-ends and we veer left onto the Dean trail, wide by comparison and littered with half-marathoners. I weave through and prep for the final climb, which more than a few times has been my undoing on this course. It’s not long, it’s not steep, but at mile 20 it’s an easy place to melt down, or at the very least lose a bunch of the time you just worked so hard for ripping down.

It’s over before I know it. “Wow, that was easy,” I think. I definitely have more in the tank.

A few more twists and I’m onto the home stretch, about a mile and a half of a crumbly road that’s part uneven gravel and part pockmarked pavement. For as enjoyable as the first mile of this course is, the last mile is equally unpleasant simply due to the crappiness of this road.

Thankfully its downhill and the road allows wide-berth passing with no sketchiness to speak of. The bottoms of my feet start to hurt, the downside of sporting my lighter, smaller Saucony’s over my bulkier and more forgiving Salomons. But this was race day, and on this track, this distance, I wanted the speed and agility of the minimalist shoes.

The parking lot appears in the distance and I know I’m home. I haven’t looked back since the top, but I don’t need to. If Brunette, or Hoka guy for that matter, had managed to catch me then god bless 'em, I’d deal with it when they passed. But they’re nowhere to be seen. I blend in with half marathon finishers and quietly breeze over the finish line.

First Place.

Race Report: TNF 50k Bear Mountain - So. Many. Rocks.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I underestimated this race, but on paper it shouldn’t have been that hard. Sure, finishing times were slow and I saw the course described as “the hardest 50k in the country,” but pain is quickly forgotten and runners are apt to recall their most recent race as the “hardest ever,” forgetting the same level of pain just months before. The elevation gain wasn’t that bad, the profile and climbs seemed modest and after all, it was upstate New York. How hard could it really be?

As I lay on the ground half-eavesdropping on the 50-mile winner chatting with the masseuse, waiting my turn and surveying damage inflicted on the raw skin of my lower legs, I heard him say “I think that was the hardest 50-mile I’ve ever done.” So there’s that.

I had been running well leading up to the race. No injuries to speak of, a half marathon PR on a not-PR course, and I had finished several long runs feeling strong, including a 33-mile training run with over 7,500ft of elevation gain just two weeks before. If anything, I was worried I had over-trained and under-tapered, but that is an affliction with which I am quite happy to live these days.

I did my best to survey the course ahead of time, scrolling through photos and reading race reports. I even found a local San Francisco runner who finished last year’s race in about my goal time and pinged him for some tips.

So when I toed the line for my second race in New York in the past six months, I felt confident and ready to run. Within a mile, I learned what “technical” really means, and for the third time in as many 50ks this year, resigned myself to the fact that I’d be running the entire race with wet feet. So it goes.

The race kicks off for about 14 miles of gradual climbing with some short descents interspersed. My strategy was simple: take it easy for the first 15, then race it home. I settled in with the lead two women, who literally chatted the entire time I was near them. Impressive. It sounded like they were just out for a training run, and given that they finished together – literally at the same time, I guess they really were.

For the first few miles there were 10-15 runners ahead of me, which was actually a bit further ahead than I had planned on being. As we climbed up out of the second aid station, a group of about six runners pushed past. I let them go. I stayed with the ladies and we wound our way up, scrambling at times, to the ridge and the top.

A bit about the trails on Bear Mountain.

Imagine a trail that isn’t so much dirt as it is rocks. Just rocks. Jagged rocks that range in size from baseballs to watermelons. Then layer on creeks that, as one fellow-runner put it, prefer the trail to their own creek bed. Where it wasn’t wet, leaves had fallen from the trees last fall where they had remained, undisturbed, concealing the rocky terrain below. You’d put your foot down and it would either go left, right, forward or back. If it stuck, it was likely because you mashed down right onto the point of one of the little bastards. Now try to run.

Where the rocks weren’t wet or hidden by leaves, we were running through mud. Mud you sunk into shin-deep. Mud that threatened to suck your shoes off – which it succeeded in doing to more than a few other runners. You could avoid the mud by skirting the edge of the “trail” and crashing through dried bushes that ripped the skin off your calves.

Sometimes, as a respite from the mud and rocks, you’d get to ford a river. For a while I tried to avoid these, rock-hopping across. But as the morning wore on and the temperature rose, dunking my battered feet into refreshingly cool water trumped dancing waterlogged shoes over the rocks, risking a slip and a dunk.

There were perhaps 10 runnable miles on the entire course. And two of them were on pavement which, for the first time in my trail running career, I couldn’t have been more thrilled to see. I’ve never been happier to run on hard, unforgiving, solid ground.

But really all you need to know about these trails is that on a 5-star rating system for "Technical Terrain,", North Face gives the Marin Headlands, including the Dipsea, a two out of five. Bear Mountain got all five.

But despite this so-called “technical” terrain, the first 15 miles were positively enjoyable. I took it easy, ate and drank comfortably, and my legs felt strong. They were tired, but not overly so, when I reached the top and I was happy with my position and how I felt. It was time to race.

Or, do my best to race when keeping anything resembling a reasonable pace was so incredibly difficult. I picked it up and gradually started reeling in the pack of six who had left me at the bottom of the hill. We hit pavement and looped around a lake where I could see a handful of runners ahead of me, stretched out along a gradual upslope into the mile 14 aid station.

What these east coasters had on me technique-wise on their silly not-trail-trails, I had on them on anything even remotely smooth. Cherishing the road, I made up time and eased into the aid station pumped and ready to run.

I took off in tandem with a guy I had seen a while back who seemed to know the trails well. I settled in behind, chatted a bit and hit a long gradual downslope. It was definitely the highlight of the run. The trail was challenging, but not overly rocky. Hopping fallen logs every 50 yards or so, we zigzagged our way through meadows and woods, through creeks and over boulders. We were running, albeit not all that fast. But we were running.

If you let your concentration drift, even for a moment, you’ll eat shit. And eat shit I did, tripping on a rock that seemed to pop out of nowhere. I was down before I could process what happened, but fortunately found a soft spot to fall and popped back up. The guy I was following didn’t notice I had tripped, ear buds blaring.

I eased off just a bit, but more than anything kept my head down and focus aimed at the trail.

Rocks and fallen trees gave way to an actual trail, so I passed my descent partner and another runner we had caught. I had now recaptured all the spots I lost on the descent and set out hunting the group I hadn’t seen since the start. Reveling in the smooth trails, I settled into a comfortable pace and for the next half hour, ran basically alone for the first time all day.

We wove through rolling hills, tracing the flattest path back to the parking lot and the mile 20 aid station. I felt strong and was thrilled to be running, but knew that the toughest miles were yet to come.

At Way Too Cool this year, I forgot to eat starting at about mile 22 and melted down around mile 28. So today I ate. And ate. And ate. I ate early and I ate often. I left every aid station with something in my hand, usually a banana, just like my plan. I ate potatoes and oranges and blocks and Gu. I even found papaya out there, which was amazing. But as the miles wore on, I became more and more parched, finding it harder to force down food. I had the usual bouts with indigestion but dry mouth was my nutrition enemy.

At one point I could only get though half a Picky Bar because my mouth was just too dry to eat and I didn’t want to deploy my entire water bottle to get it down.

I won the nutrition battle though, and never melted down, never bonked.

Rolling out of the Anthony Wayne parking lot with just 10 miles to go, I reveled in pavement once again. I even caught up to two runners who I hadn’t seen since the early miles. Both were walking, which seemed strange on flat ground. I was moving well but not blistering, and I blew past. We had now fully mixed with runners of different distances, but I did notice two blue 50k bibs move past me on the pleasant, winding trails. That’ll teach me to pull over for a piss.

I tried to close the gap but was once again thwarted by rocky trails and poor footing. I was even losing ground on descents, which is a rarity for me.

Miles 23-26 are a blur. I was mostly by myself, and the trail wound through bushes and trees and hills and everything just sort of blended together. I remember short, steep climbs and tricky, rocky descents. I remember fording knee-deep creeks and dancing on tired legs when dirt gave way to those all familiar rocks. I checked my watch more often than I should have, knowing there was an aid station at mile 25.0 and that a mile later we’d summit Timp Pass, a grueling, Goat Hill-esque climb with just a few miles left in the race.

After a few false summits, Timp Pass reared before me. It’s not that tall, maybe a couple hundred feet. And while steep, Goat Hill is far worse. But the footing was characteristically terrible, the temperature seemed to rise 10 degrees and the bugs. Oh the bugs. Swarming my face as I struggled upwards, I hit what was at then time a low point in the race. In crept the thought that every trail runner has at some point in a race, “Why the hell do I do this?”

But at least I was at the top. It was all downhill from here.

The descent was miserable. The worst footing yet, wet, slippery rocks as far as I could see on this glorious downhill that I couldn’t run. I was moving barely faster than a walk and got passed by a guy who just hopped down the trail as if the rocks weren’t there. I tried to speed up but rolled my ankle and almost fell.

So I resigned to just picking my way down, cursing the course and the goddamn rocks. It was my lowest point of the race. Here I was at mile 27, feeling fit and strong, ready to run, and I had to navigate these damn rocks. I fully realize that technical ability is an important part of trail racing, and that I generally have an advantage in technical situations – or what I thought were technical situations – but this was something altogether different.

After what seemed like an hour-long descent, the rocks gave way to actual trail and I pulled into the final aid station. I downed some oranges, chatted with the friendly aid station crew and took off, running. I knew the last mile or so of the course would be technical again as we retraced our steps back to the start/finish, so I ran the smooth trails hard. I had gas in the tank, running the little ups strong and sailing down the flats.

I had been running for almost five hours and was ready to be done, but it was more of a mental exhaustion than a physical one. I was tired of course, and my legs and feet ached, but given actual trails I know I had more miles in me today.

At the mile 25 aid station one of the crew had told me that I was in 11^th place, which lifted my spirits. I dropped to 12^th when the guy passed me doing down Timp Pass, so was determined to either chase him or someone else down to get back to 11^th. Top 10 would be fantastic, but I knew time was winding down and I just wanted to take it one place at a time.

Up ahead I saw my new 11^th place target, a guy running with trekking poles. I’m sure they helped, and at times I could have used poles on the tricky footing, but I’m just not sure it would be worth lugging them 30 miles across hill and dale.

I gained ground and when he started walking up a rocky, slippery hill I made my move. Probably a foolish place to pass, but I had energy where I’ve never had energy before and wanted to make the most of it. I went by sloppily, tripping and slipping my way up the rocks, finally slowing to a hike when I had put 10 or 20 yards between us.

The trail topped out and got smooth again. But no sooner than I had started running again when the rocks were back again. 

But before I knew it I was back to the home stretch and gentle, glorious grass that led to the finish line. 5:12 and 11^th place. I felt that rush of emotion like my first Way Too Cool, a mix of relief and sadness welling up. Relief that the race is over, that you’re not running any more. Sadness for the exact same reason.

I wandered over to sign up for a post-race massage, retrieved my drop bag and changed out of my soaking shoes and socks while chatting it up with a guy who turned out to have won the 50-mile. Not bad company. A massage, ice bath (amazing post-race amenity by the way), plate of food and a beer and I settled into spectator mode.

Luchi and Miguel finished a couple hours later and with that, my trail racing career in New York had more than likely ground to a halt. I'll take my steep, grueling trails back in California any day. Because at least you get to run.

Huddart to Purisima, X2

Mileage
Today: 25
Present: 942
Count: 129

Some mornings, you just feel like running. And besides the fact that I have WTC coming up, its been a while since I've just run, and run.

I drove down to Huddart in the morning with Luchi, unsure of exactly how the day would shake out. I do enjoy running with other people, but its hard to get your ideal training run in when other people are there. The pace, the mood, everything. But the flip side is that the right training partners can push you further than you thought you could go, drag you up the hills.

KJ met us at the park and promptly said that 20+ miles was not in the cards today, having just gotten back from a month-long vacation. So two laps it was.

It hasn't rained in what seems like years, and my recollection of Huddart dark and brown and green and wet was anything but. But the trails were just as soft and quiet, a strange emptiness on this silent Saturday.

In addition to putting in miles, I also wanted to find the connection between Huddart and Purisima. Easy to find at the top, a quick jaunt across the road. We dropped down the fire road and I realized that unless you're committed to going all the way around the loop, dropping down to Purisima is pure masochism. So I did it twice.

We raced down Chinaquin, KJ taking the lead. Luchi lagged a bit but its understandable, turns out there aren't that many people who can keep up with with KJ down the hill.

I dropped them off at the parking lot, refilled my water and set back off. I did my best to conserve water, knowing that I ran short on lap one. For a moment, I considered adding in the loop at Purisima, but pushing 30 miles was not meant to be. I wasn't prepared, and at that distance it turns out you need to have your act together.

I felt good grinding up to Skyline, but started to lag as I approached the top. I dropped down into the valley and hit the bottom, just behind some bikers. The climb back out was brutal. Long, slow and I knew I was short water. I did my best to keep my momentum and run when I could, but the hill seemed forever. I stayed just behind the bikers most of the way but couldn't seem to pass them.

Maybe I shouldn't put so much credence in it, but I still hate getting passed by bikers up the hill.

I finally hit the top and was beat, didn't have much water left and just wanted to be back home. I cruised back down but when you're exhausted and out of water, even the best descents don't seem that fun. I couldn't get to the parking lot fast enough. My legs hurt. I was thirsty. Hungry. I didn't want to be running anymore.

But I finished. And with just about the hardest training run I've done since some of KJ and my old school jaunts from the Marina to the headlands and back, my confidence bloomed.\

http://app.strava.com/activities/108948320

Purisima Loop With Dad

Mileage
Today: 10
Present: 910
Count: 126

What a find, this Purisima. And I still haven't fully explored what it has to offer. This 10-mile loop can be hiked or jogged or I don't even know what else. Then the spur out to Bald Knob and beyond. So much potential.

I am fortunate on so many levels to be able to go on a 10-mile trail run with my dad. I sure as hell hope that when I am 65 I can do the same. And we weren't exactly going slow either. He's a pretty tough guy to get to open up, which I guess is where I get it.

But midway through the run I probed a bit about what it was like to run after kids. He explained how he actually started running more once he had me. How time becomes more dear and if something is important, you find a way to make it happen. It was not only refreshing to hear that not everyone becomes a fat slob once they have kids, but just to hear him tell stories about his life.

There is something special in this place, I felt it the first time I stepped foot onto the mist-shrouded trails. I can't wait to go looking for it.

http://app.strava.com/activities/108948302

Family Bonding, Levy Fartleks

Mileage

Today: 6

Present: 865

Count: 118

After a long day of hauling our office up the hill, Maura and I drove out to Stockton to spend the night with my parents. We didn't exactly wake up early, but joined them on their morning run out on the levees.

Talk about flat.

We jogged the first half of the run all together, joined by their golden retriever Gracie. Turning off the levees to run along an irrigation ditch, my dad sped up and we ran together at around 7-minute miles for half a mile or so. He turned back with Gracie to run with the ladies and I turned it up, doing my best to hold sub 5 for as long as I could.

Didn't last long, but it felt good to open it up. I chased the dog and determined that she can out-sprint me. I guess I shouldn't feel too bad about that though.

I circled back and hung with the family, winding through orchards and hearing stories of Pam being chased by coyotes. As we neared the final straightaway, electric poles dotted the right side of the trail about 50 yards apart. My dad took off at the first and when I caught up, he said he likes to sprint between them through the end of the run.

Almost 65 and he's still sprinting. Love it.

I hit my first pole and was off. I don't really open it up like that very much these days and wow. I was back up on my toes and for a split second felt like I was in high school again. I felt fast. Really fast. I kept waiting for my hamstrings to tear but they held together. Man it felt good to be running like that.

The next couple poles were fast, but not as fast as the first. Turns out somewhere deep down there, I may still have it.

http://app.strava.com/activities/105326327

Off-Trail Trekking, River Crossings Galore

Mileage
Today: 6
Present: 811
Count: 114

Determined to find the trail promised to go "all the way back into the canyon," my feet were soaked within a quarter mile. Maura on my back, I crossed the river and hit the sand running.

But the trail didn't last, it petered out and all that was left was Texas thicket and the tail edge of a paintball range. And water. Alone, perhaps I would have charged ahead to see if the trail reemerged around the bend, but looking back at my wife and her two brothers, I thought better of it.

We backtracked to the trail we knew, past the house across the crossing and out towards the main part of the lake. The trail ended again and this time Maura turned back. It wasn't wise, the risk reward just wasn't there. So Miguel, Luchi and I pushed on, a rare moment when all three of us could just be guys, out in the open air testing each other and pushing the others ever so slightly.

I held back of course, we were out for a run not racing, and I've learned enough times that if you want people to enjoy running with you, you can't leave them in the dust. Ego anyone?

And we had a blast. A week ago I did my first snow run, and today I did my first true cross country, off-trail trek replete with river crossings, cliff shimmying and dying light. We crisscrossed the sad dry lake bed, doubling back numerous times when the "trail" we were following disappeared into the brush or over a cliff.

I longed for my worn Salomons but my Sauconys performed admirably and forced me to dance through the weeds and plants, dodging rocks with prudence.

Turning around at the resort, we struck a new path back cliffside, scurrying down rocks that were anything but stable. When we hit the path, legs scraped and adrenaline pumping, our wet shoes felt light in the evening air.

We picked up the pace a bit, a quick gait home. Miguel and I led Luchi back, and I think we all thought forward to May when the three of us would be running in Bear Mountain, 50 long Ks in upstate New York.

Coasting across the final meadow and scampering up the steep steps to the house, I couldn't help but feel like I had just finished one of those runs you'll never forget. The terrain, the company and the place -- just a special hour. Oh, and Merry Christmas.

http://app.strava.com/activities/102267600

Lake Travis Recon

Mileage
Today: 3
Present: 809
Count: 114

Fresh off the plane in Austin and on the shores of what used to be Lake Travis (drought), I looked out the window of the house we rented and was delighted to see a wide trail cutting a line along the banks of creek that was once a lake.

Maura, Luchi, Jessica and I grabbed our shoes and were out the door. Light dwindled and we drove down the road to the town park to pick up what we were told was a trail that would lead us to an easy spot to cross the river and continue along the river back towards the house. It was too late for fording and we just wanted to get out there.

The dirt was soft, just what you'd expect basically running at the bottom of a lake. Short, but sweet, we took the trail to its natural conclusion as light gave way to night.

I knew I'd be back tomorrow for further exploration -- and indeed I was right. Not bad for a backyard.

http://app.strava.com/activities/102267593

First Snow Run (Mostly Lost)

Mileage
Today: 11
Present: 806
Count: 113

Salomon's "Spikecross" studded trail running show

The snow was hard-packed, not exactly ideal running conditions but as stable as I could have expected. One could even argue that my feet jostling over the uneven ground was a good thing -- ankle training if you will. And for the the first time in my running career -- and indeed my life -- I badly wanted studded trail running shoes.

For the first mile or so, I had to contend with ice on the roads more than anything else, so was grateful for the change in terrain when I hit the trail and began tromping over the snow.

Up up up towards Page Meadows, a path I can barely cut in the summer given that I've only run it a handful of times and until you hit the Rim Trail markings are few and far between. But I found the meadows and was rewarded with bluebird, crisp morning air and wide open virgin meadows all to myself.

I picked my way along paths previously trampled down by cross country skiiers, hikers and the occasional snow-shoer, seeking out the most well-worn trails to stay on top of the snow. My feet sank in more than a few times and I kept having to stop to flick snow off my ankles to try and keep my socks dry. Gaiters, perhaps more than Spikecross, would be a worthwhile investment.

I wanted to just keep running. I had the quiet forest to myself, the early morning wife drop off at SFO four hours earlier seemed days away. I wanted to run to Alpine. To Squaw. And beyond. I knew I couldn't, that I didn't have enough water or food or even know where I was going. But damn I wanted to go.

I meandered around the meadows and popped back onto the main trail, heading generally away from home for as long as the trail held. It sloped down and ended a bit before I had hoped. I had to turn around, and after a slippery slog back up quickly found myself back in the meadows but the trail leading back down the hill provided elusive. I wasn't worried per se, but trudging back up the hill in the snow wore me out and I was starting to get ready to be back in the warm house.

Backtracking, I managed to pick out the right trail. I was found again but tremendously sad that my run would be coming to an end. Two hours of bliss, my first snow run ever. And not my last.

http://app.strava.com/activities/102267618

Thankful for a Headlands Sunrise

Mileage
Today: 20
Present: 754
Count: 105

I almost didn't get up this morning. It was dark, cold and I was starting to feel sick. But I knew the early morning wake up would be rewarded if I could just get there. So I braved the dark, hit the road and slipped north out of the city, the Golden Gate awash with dawn's early light.

I pulled into the Rodeo Beach parking lot around 6:45am, just 30 minutes from my front door. Precious few others joined me at that early hour, a couple park personnel and a few surfers looking for some morning waves.

The vegetation is sparse at the Headlands, and when I hopped out of the car, an invisible wind whipped in from the east, blowing offshore. It wasn't terribly cold,  but the wind bit and I opted for long sleeves, something I rarely do on a long run. I was glad I did and as I set off to the gun turret, the wind blew me straight back, making the normally arduous climb that much more of a wake-up call.

The 30k course at Rodeo Beach is nothing short of epic. Steep climbs, gradual downs with some technical sections and views pretty much the whole time of coast and the hills, ocean and bay. But what makes the biggest mark on me every time I run this figure eight is the expansiveness of the distance covered.

From the top of the first climb, I took a moment to scan the horizon, take in the expanses I was about to cover. Several ridges north, past valleys to the east then south almost to the bridge. In this early morning light, the light skewed the distance and it looked further than I had remembered.

The sun, a brilliant red orb, rose quietly over the San Francisco skyline.

I dove down into Tennessee Valley, taking it easy on the gradual descent. It would be a long day and I wasn't here to set any records. I wanted a long, comfortable run with no pain to remember the trails I know so well yet visit so infrequently.

From the trailhead, I charted a new course up the Miwok trail, mirroring the route my race here will take in a few weeks. Miwok wraps around the back of the ridge and meets up with Coyote Ridge Trail, my regular path up this second big climb of four.

I was taking it easy on purpose, but felt strong. I remembered back to my race at Mt Tam, how strong I ran at the end after going easy at the beginning. I think this is the right way to run trail races, but I'm not sure yet and have a sample size of exactly one.

Cruising down to Muir Beach, I glanced at my watch and saw that I wasn't even halfway done. Which wasn't a problem since the morning sun had heated up, the wind had died down and I had barely seen anyone all morning. I had the trails to myself.

I took a breather at Muir Beach and stood staring for a few moments out at the breakers. An empty beach, a quiet morning in Marin-style paradise.

The short climb out of Muir Beach is followed but one of the best stretches of coastal running in Northern California. A narrow, winding trail along the bluffs, on race day you can run this as fast as you want. Wooden bridges, smooth trails and fast fast fast downhills racing towards Pirate's Cove.

The rise out of Pirate's Cove isn't as long as the other three on this course, but I always count it as one of the big ones. Its steep, relentless, longer than you think and starts with a stretch of eternal stairs. And it happens to come right before Bonk Hill, the long grind up the back of the Headlands that's named for a reason.

Sailing down the fire road, I got myself mentally prepared for Bonk Hill. I refilled my water and grinded up the gradual incline up Tennessee Valley. At the parking lot, I mimicked the aid station, stuffed a couple shot blocks in my cheeks and started the climb.

Running Bonk Hill is simple: Run. It's not so steep you need to walk, and if you do, its going to be a long, long hike. Easier said than done though, as its almost a mile and a half up the winding, twisting fire road that never seems to end. It finally does, and the rolling respite leads into the almost final climb into the eucalyptus grove before you pop out to the best vistas of the run.

I've run here enough to have made the mistake of forgetting to eat during this break in the hill. Bonk Hill isn't named as such because you bonk there, per se, its named because it sucks what little energy you have left and sets you up to bonk later on.

And you want to be taking it in, not bonking, dancing along the narrow trail on a ridge plunging down to the Pacific on one side, the Golden Gate peaking over the Headland hills on the other. Another spot to run fast, albeit carefully, this is the time to gather yourself for the final descent down Slacker Ridge to the grueling flat section home, that in the summer will be dead into the wind.

I checked my legs coming down Slacker Ridge and they felt tight, but stable. Another great spot to run fast if your legs can handle it, but not so fast you forget about the flats.

I hit the flats and almost missed the turn, per usual, but made it across the bridge and into the Rodeo Valley wetlands, a wide trail that no matter how flat it actually is, always feels uphill. I even had the wind at my back today, but still struggled. And when I hit the road, with a little more than a half mile to go, I really started to struggle.

Three and a half hours, 20 miles and 4,200 feet of elevation is a real run, and I probably didn't eat as much as I should have. And as anyone who has run this course will tell you, that last stretch along the road is a killer. The tiny uphill barely registers, but it seems like forever.

I finally skidded in and couldn't have been happier about it. I was gassed. But I think what really sapped my strength on the final half mile wasn't the exhaustion, wasn't the soreness or the hills, but the knowledge that the run was almost over. That I'd have to leave the trails behind.

Until next time.

http://app.strava.com/activities/97424202

Race Report: Inside Trails Mt Tam Half Marathon

Mileage
Today: 13
Present: 711
Count: 101

My last two trail races have been anything but stellar, so I wanted to go into the Mt. Tam Half with Inside Trails with a totally different mindset.

Sure I had placed OK and run reasonably fast, but one triggered a months-long injury and the other almost put me out of the marathon. In each case, I went into the run with the decidedly wrong attitude. Its not that I was trying to win per se -- there's nothing wrong with that -- but I had completely forgotten why I got into trail running in the first place: its damn fun. In both races, I set off with nothing but my place, my time and my performance in mind.

In short, I was too focused on the destination and was neglecting the journey.

So this crisp morning as we took off from Stinson, up the Dipsea and into Muir Woods, I really, truly wanted nothing more than to have fun.

Mission accomplished.

As a bonus, I also figured out the best trail running race-day strategy to finish strong and run a great race: Expect a 1,000ft climb straight up three miles before the finish that never comes.

Having failed to run the whole course last weekend, I relied on the course elevations posted on the race website to plan my strategy. Over miles 4-8, the trail plunged down into the woods then rocketed straight up for two miles back to the final aid station before you picked up the Dipsea again for the final descent back to Stinson.

It seemed simple enough: save gas for that final push and hope the people in front of me struggled up while I breezed past them to glory.

KJ and I stuck together on the first climb up Steep Ravine, content to even be chicked in the pursuit of running smart. We hit the top and flew down. Literally flew.

The descent down Ben Johnson Trail into Muir Woods was one of my top three trail running segments of all time. Lush woods, damp fresh air as the salty sea mist mixed with the towering redwood forest. Steep but runnable, soft trails that were highly technical with roots and rocks leaping out at your feet. Keeping pace required intense concentration. I followed another runner down, weaving through hikers who were surprisingly understanding and there were no near-crashes.

This was the first time I had let loose downhill in my new trail shoes and they performed admirably. I was nimble, dancing down at speed.

I had extended a lead over KJ on the flats before the aid station, but expected him to pass me at any moment on the down. He is a better technical downhill runner than me, but he didn't catch me until the bottom. When he did, he yelled out "damn AJ, you're not supposed to run downhill so fast!"

But the descent could only last for so long, and I settled into what I expected to be a series of short ups and downs, a meander back to near sea level. The plunge never happened.

The crowds of tourists thinned out as we crossed over to a narrow single track that wound back uphill. Strange, I thought, I didn't remember this long a climb on the map. But I kept the throttle light, taking it easy, preserving energy. What was more likely, the elevation chart was wrong or I didn't remember the course perfectly?

But as the miles wore on and we kept climbing, I began to doubt myself. Was I on the wrong trail? Nope, I saw other runners and never left the orange ribbons. But I stuck to my race plan and took it easy.

At one point, one the lead runners charged past me, asking what race I was running. He had gotten lost and was now trying to make up time. He blew by me, effortless. Some people can really run.

Miles ticking by, I really started to wonder where that descent was. When we crossed 1,000 feet at mile 8, I gave up trying to figure out where I was and just ran. I settled into a comfortable pace, finally passing the runner in front of me who had kept a 100 yard or so lead on me for the last half an hour.

And almost out of nowhere, we popped off the single track. I momentarily thought I recognized the trail as what I had flown down earlier, and there was the final aid station.

What the what? At that point I convinced myself I had somehow run the wrong trail and had missed that final climb. I popped a salt pill, refilled my water and raced down the Dipsea, guiltily chasing runners I was sure had run longer, and suffered more than me.

The legendary Dipsea Trail is pretty much as advertised. Steep climbs, breathtaking views, tons of stairs and really easy to crash on. But that first mile or so along the ridge is unforgettable as you look up the coast at Stinson and beyond, sun shining on the golden hills. The trail is oddly tricky to run hard, with subtly uneven ground making for tough going. Really easy to turn and ankle and I was glad KJ and I had run this section in our recon.

I passed the guy I had flown downhill with, later finding out her had been saddled with cramps. I pushed on, down the long series of steps before the junction with Steep Ravine, up the final couple insulting climbs before emerging at the top of the Dipsea's first gradual climb away from the beach. Down below, perhaps a quarter mile ahead, I spotted my next target.

He was a ways out there and moving well, but I felt strong and fresh. I knew I had plenty of time to catch him, and that the only way I wouldn't is if I crashed. So I remained reserved and gradually reeled him in.

When I got close enough for him to hear me, I knew he knew it and he picked up the pace. But I held back, not wanting to risk either of our safety passing on the spaced out wooden steps that dot this section of trail. We hit a gap in the stairs, I advised him of the pass and flew by. I never looked back.

I don't look back, ever. Or at least I try not to. Looking back shows weakness, and if I see someone ahead of me doing it, I know they're mine.

I didn't want to get repassed, so opened it up and sprinted the last section of trail, down onto the pavement, across the little bridge and to the finish line.

I ducked in just under two hours and felt like I had two more hours left in me. I chatted with some friends and others who had just run the race, discussing the course and the phantom climb. KJ came in a couple minutes later and confirmed that the elevation map had been wrong. We later figured out that it had been for last year's course, which evidently was a lot harder.

What followed was precisely why trail running is infinitely better than road running. KJ got a call from one of the race volunteers telling him that his wife Abra had accidentally run the pink not the orange course and would be completing the 30k rather than the half marathon. She had toyed with the idea of running the 10k all along, only opting for the half at the last minute so now would be running 3x her plan.

But she was in good spirits and was in plenty good shape to finish.

It turns out Maura's brother Luchi, who had joined us for the half, also got lost and ended up running 16 miles. His first trail race and the longest he had ever run. He had an amazing time. We all did.

KJ ran out to grab a case of beers and we lounged on the grass, chatting with other runners, cheering on finishers and waiting for Abra. She cruised in, a mere 4.5 hours after she started and about 3 hours longer than she had planned on running. But she was all smiles.

We crushed our last beers, wandered over to get brunch and enjoyed some well-earned greasy burgers and fries.

Quite a day. Reminders of why I run trails throughout, good times with good people in a beautiful setting. It makes getting up at 5am on a Saturday and not getting home until 4pm all worth it.

http://app.strava.com/activities/95865433

Dipsea Recon, Mostly Lost

Mileage
Today: 9
Present: 689
Count: 98

Of the many lessons I learned last month at Mt. Diablo, running a course for the first time in a race doesn't make the race any easier. Especially one with the word "mountain" in the name.

So with the Mt. Tam Trail Run next Saturday, KJ and I trekked to Stinson to scope out the trails.

With the marathon over, I'm really looking forward to getting back into trail running. Driving out to the trails is a bit more of a commitment than falling out my front door, but every time I make the effort I wonder why I don't do it more often. And having somehow managed to run trails in San Francisco for three years now without having set foot on the infamous Dipsea Trail, I figured what better way to spend the Sunday after the marathon than getting my trail legs back.

Rising from Stinson, the trail winds through the brush, immediately introducing you to the stairs for which these trails are so well known. After a mile or so you arrive at the ominously named Steep Ravine Trail. Its aptly named, but what struck me was the scenery more than the steep.

A crystal pond greets you as you dive into the ravine and you're enveloped in ferns and craggy trails, the path rippled with roots and rocks. Stairs hewed from rock, steep climbs are interspersed with rolling, runnable inclines. The iconic ladder hits you halfway through, forcing you to scramble a quick dozen steps up. Its freaking gorgeous in here, like running on Endor.

We took it easy, mixing in some hiking, knowing there was plenty of climbing left to go.

We popped out at Pantoll Campground looking for the Ben Johnson trail. We followed signs down a narrow, winding trail that became increasingly narrowing winding. Turning back seemed logical several times before we actually did. Getting lost isn't that big of a deal, but getting lost where you can actually run is a lot better than what was barely a deer trail. As it turns out (as it often does), if we had pushed on a few hundred yards further we would have popped out onto the right trail.

Back at the trail head, we forged another route in our attempt to find our way to the course. Another fail. This time at least we hit some nice trails, finding a fire road that would have taken us all the way to the Mt. Tam summit if we had been inclined. We weren't, and turned around.

We finally managed to find our way down to where the first aid station would be, realizing that we had turned too early in our search for Ben Johnson. We stopped to chat with a local runner who gave us some helpful tips for next weekend and regaled us with his weekend training schedule for the Quad Dipsea (Mill Valley to Stinson, back to Mill Valley, then do it all again. 28 miles and A LOT of up).

Not looking to spend all day on our feet, we abandoned our attempt to run the entire course and headed back down, noting the sketchy footing and surprise hills on the dipsea back to Stinson.

Its not hard to figure out why the Dipsea trail is so renowned. Epic Pacific views, challenging climbs, a variety of terrain, incredible scenery and I only saw a fraction of the trail.

The sun was out, the weather crisp but warm and all in all it was about as good as a mellow day out on the trails can get. My legs felt surprisingly good just seven days after the marathon and I'm pretty stoked for next weekend.

http://app.strava.com/activities/94518455

Race Report: Diablo Serves Up Humble Pie

Mileage
Today: 13
Present: 570
Count: 83

With all my Achilles issues of late, I was thankful just to be able to run. But I still had a shitty race. Weak mind, weak body. Bad all around.

It started the night before.

Maura and I offered to babysit for some friends, and while we had a great time vegging out, I didn't get to bed until after midnight and after a couple too many glasses of wine. The alarm went off with a 5-handle and it just didn't feel like race day. After so many great race mornings at our old house, it's going to take a while for race day to feel like race day at the new house.

New trails, new mountain. Pre-race was a mess, and no cash meant I had to park about a mile from the start and jog in. Fine, nice warmup. But it just didn't feel right. My Achilles felt fine, but my legs didn't. I had run Twin Peaks two days before, and while I didn't go fast, it's still a lot of up before a race which was basically nothing but up (then down).

I checked in, hit the bathroom and started stretching, but I never found those race day jitters. Even jogging up a little hill, my quads burned. I started losing confidence. Bad mindset.

All distances started together, but it was easy to pick out my half marathon competition from their similar numbers and the fact that vast majority of the strong runners were in the half. I picked out the two strongest looking runners and when the "gun" went off, they jumped out in front. I had already decided they were faster than me, so I hung back. Weak mind.

Sure enough the rest of the pack settled behind and I followed them about 50 yards back up the gentle incline. The first two miles are along a fire road up Mitchell Canyon, gradual and a great way to start a race. I knew the real hill started at mile 2, so was happy to hang back and see how the leaders fared when it got steep. They fared better than I did.

As we began to rise, I settled into a grinding pace I thought would be sustainable all the way up. I knew the race wouldn't be won in the first half of the climb, but much like Pacifica in July, as soon as I lost contact with the leaders, I lost that edge. I forgot I was racing.

After a quarter mile, I got passed. I didn't care. I rationalized: I'm saving it for later in the up, I'll wait until the front guys start to fade and then I'll catch them. They never faded. I did.

Several other runners passed me on the way up, and I felt nothing. I wasn't so much tired as I was scared of going any faster. I wanted to have something left later on.

As we rose, the valley floor dropped away. It was quiet, nothing but my plodding feet to break the silence of the wind.

The trail was relentlessly steep. And it just kept going. A winding fire trail, flat sections were few and far between. Up ahead, I saw runners starting to walk. Rather than seizing on an opportunity to pAA I told myself it was OK for me to walk as well.

Part of trail running, more mental than physical, is figuring out when to walk the ups. You can do perfectly fine in a race by hiking the steep sections, but knowing how steep is steep enough to walk and when to start running again is the art. The science is that you've been climbing for almost five miles and you're starting to really run out of gas.

And as soon as you break, as soon as you relent, you almost cease to be able to control it. The leap between tired and walking shrinks and the next thing you know you're walking again. You didn't even realize you made the decision. Body starts taking over from mind.

We crested a ridge and looped west, reeling in the breathtaking Diablo views for the first time. I didn't care. After that much climbing, the view almost didn't matter. You can't appreciate it. Or I couldn't anyway. I tried -- tried to suck in the crisp air and derive strength from the expanse. I whiffed.

I breezed through the aid station -- inconveniently placed about 20 yards off the trail, and joined several runners ahead of me lost getting onto the single track summit trail. We found the trail and for a second, I regained my strength. I felt good -- back on single track and off the fire trail, I surged. I ran strong. And then I faded.

In hindsight, I think I had it in me to make a push there, stay in what was then third of fourth place. But I just didn't have that killer instinct you need to climb the last mile after an hour and 3,400 feet up without any down -- balls out as hard as you can go.

I hit the top and caught my breath. Winding through construction and a parking lot, the summit is uninspiring -- the opposite from my experience riding up the winding road on the opposite side. As I started down, I took it easy to let my legs rest and see how my Achilles felt. I knew the down would be harder on me than the up, and the last thing I wanted to do was injure myself.

This was my first race in my new trail shoes, the Saucony Kinvara Trail. I wanted a minimalist trail shoe, and this certainly is it. Only my second time on trails, I am still getting used to them -- especially down. They are a far cry from my burly, rugged Salomons, but more inline with my current running gait. I'm excited to break them in, but for now I'm taking it easy going down. Dancing more than running.

Several more runners passed me on the single track as I picked my way down hill and around runners coming up. Hammering it here just seemed stupid, although on more than one occasion I've been that guy. These were runners who should not be in front of me -- I had lost it.

When we hit the fire trail, I was breathing hard. I was more tired than I thought I'd be, and any time the trail flattened out my legs reminded me of the climb I'd just finished. So I took it easy and mailed it in. No sense in hurting myself, coming in 6th vs. 8th vs. 10th didn't really matter.

Typical of my attitude that day. As my brother commented later, I think I've become too focused on racing, and not focused enough on running. Its a spectrum of course, but the more fun I have the better I do. The more serious I make these casual, fun trail runs, the less fun I have and by extension, the less well I'll do.

And having never really had to fight through an injury like this, I didn't appreciate the impact it would have on the mental aspect of my running. When you don't trust your legs, when you're focused on every little pang and twitch, you never really lose yourself and fine that zone.

I was really gassed as I ran the final two miles back down the gentle slope, and I could feel my Achilles tightening up. I've never checked my watch so much when it mattered so little.

I cruised into the finish line, grabbed about 15 slices of watermelon and chilled on the bench, listening to the leaders swap stories, chat about Ledville, Western States and other races that at the time, seemed very far away. I longed to be one of the guys who had earned the right to expound.

I left quietly, a mellow walk back to the car. It was a beautiful, crisp morning. Birds sang, wind rustled the trees. It was fitting that the most enjoyable part of the day was the 1-mile walk along the road back to my car.

Weak mind, weak body.

http://www.strava.com/activities/87355235

Watch Out for Bees

Mileage
Today: 7
Present: 541
Count: 79

When the toughest decision you have to make all day is which of the world class trail runs that are fewer than 30 minutes away to choose from, its hard to complain about much. Such is life in San Francisco.

Tyler and I left early to get back early. Still working his way slowly into running, I wanted to make sure our run was fun and challenging, but not a death march. I don't know the trails here nearly as well as I do the headlands, but there is a fairly proscribed path that I've gotten to know through races and a few more casual runs. It has some elevation gain to be sure, but is a fun and scenic and run.

A perfect morning for running, crisp but cold, warm enough to stay loose all the way. We kept a good pace up the first climb and into the flats before starting the long set of switchbacks up to Skyline. A gradual climb that is totally runnable, we pushed up to the flatter section, which I actually find harder because the slope is harder to see. You think its almost flat so you pick up the pace, only to find that not only did you just climb 1,000ft, but its also still most certainly up. Turning around and zooming down, you realize why that last mile was as hard as it was.

We bumped into a high school cross country team practicing, and were happy to veer off away from them and have the trails to ourselves. Just like the ups, the downs at Huddart are just that perfect pitch to coast down at pace, still running, not just falling southward.

Strangely, not once but twice, I was dive bombed by bees along the trail. I don't think I have been stung by a bee in 20 years and damn does it hurt! The first time I saw it out of the corner of my eye and it nailed be right behind the ear. Early in the run, my head hurt the entire time. Then later out of nowhere, one got me behind the right shoulder through my shirt. That one swelled up and bothered me all week. I've heard about bees on the trails, especially in the fall, but have never had an issue with them. I guess you spend enough time out there and its bound to happen.

A little bit lost at the end, we popped out into the parking lot and didn't realize it was ours until we saw Tyler's car. Oh, we're done. And while it's nice to be surprised by being done before you think, I couldn't help but feel like there was a little running yet left to be done. Next time.

http://app.strava.com/activities/85998174

Lonesome Duck Exploration

Mileage
Today: 7
Count: 512
Count: 76

My first trail run in Oregon was anything but magical. The setting was pretty enough: quiet river, jagged hills, misty and cool. But these were not running trails. Old 4WD roads long since forgotten slashed in the memories of Native American hunting trails make for a lot of stops and starts.

I set off from the Lonesome Duck, a fishing lodge cum B&B in southeast Oregon owned by a business partner. I ran along the river on a gravel road, breaking in my new Saucony trail running shoes, their second adventure after my run in Tahoe two days ago. And as I determined today, these minimalist shoes, while achieving my stated goal of feeling like I was running in my road shoes, are a two-wheel drive version of my rugged Salomons.

My feet were almost instantly wet -- and maybe they would have been in any shoe, hacking through bushes, hiking up embankments and trudging through wilderness where the trails had disappeared into history. But I made the most of it, finding a solid dirt road leading south to the Jeld Wen window and door factory. Rolling hills and not a soul for miles.

The air was crisp and thin, though not as thin as Tahoe. I didn't have much spring in my step, and wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the cold, or the fact that I barely ate the day before. Or maybe I was just out of my element, up in Oregon for a big work meeting and nervous as hell.

I came back along the river where there definitely wasn't a trail. But ironically it was my favorite part of the trek. High stepping over cow patties and gopher mounds, the minimalist shoe forced me to dance more than run. You have to place each step carefully, gingerly, since the lack of support isn't forgiving of bumps and turns.

And running without a trail, so close to "civilization" as it was, felt free in many ways. It wasn't fast and it wasn't pretty, but not having to follow a proscribed route, out along the quiet river, was refreshing all the same.

http://app.strava.com/activities/85326635

Back in the Tahoe Trails, Lovin it in New Shoes

Mileage
Today: 6
Present: 505
Count: 75

These trails can heal.

In the past couple years I have transitioned from weekend warrior used-to-be high school track "star" to wanna-be ultra runner and sub 3-hour marathoner. The transformation has not been without its slings and arrows, and at times I've been forced to stash my shoes and ride out injuries. Fortunately its been nothing major, nothing that has sidelined me for more than a few weeks or a month at a time.

And when I'm on the mend, looking to migrate from a few slow miles back to real runs, I find myself in Tahoe. Maybe its just the air, the way the pine permeates the void, refreshing a tired soul and mending my aching muscles. It could be the sounds -- nothing but the leaves rustling, the occasional animal scurrying away from my approaching feet. Or maybe its the trails themselves. Gentle, needles dropped into a cushiony pad, then rocky and rugged they can kick your ass up and down.

Whatever it is though, these trails can heal.

I hit them Rim Trail behind our little house in Tahoe City, a quick six mile loop through Page Meadows. I'm yet to run these trails fully healthy. And maybe that's for the best, since given the chance I might not come back. The trail winds out from the meadows into the woods, up and up and out to Alpine Meadows. Then to Squaw and beyond.

I haven't gone that far. Yet.

http://app.strava.com/activities/85326636

CV Trails, Missed You

Mileage
Today: 3
Present: 449
Count: 66

There's just something about Carmel Valley. Maybe its the perfect weather, that touch of humidity drifting in from the ocean, that hint of brisk to keep you sharp. It could be the sounds -- silence occasionally breached by fortunate birds and the lucky dogs who chase their calls. Or perhaps its my family history, roots that run deep to that part of the world, back a hundred years when mountain lions had good reason to fear my grandfather's bow.

I end up there from time to time and can never stay long enough. There is no doubt that next Labor Day for the 3-day novel contest I'll end up there, looking for that valley full of quail.

We were down there for Maura's 30th birthday, holed up in a Mansion in the hills. It was vintage Carmel Valley. An amazing mix of humble, breathtaking views. Fog, rolling in from the coast, then back out again as quietly as it came.

Maura, Tyler, Gaucho and I hit the trails as the sun set, a quick jaunt out and back. I could have run forever -- and indeed wanted to. Its almost a blessing that my leg wouldn't have let me, or I would have been disappointed. But to just get out there, dance along the dirt and move in the wilderness, was enough.

http://www.strava.com/activities/81486339

Race Report: PCTR Pacifica 21k - 7/14/2013

Mileage
Today: 13
Present: 340
Count: 47

Based my pre-race, the day could have gone a lot worse.

Maura and I have been packing, painting and moving all week. I've barely run, barely slept and eaten like crap. I skimped on pre-race eating and visited the bathroom more often than usual.

It wasn't looking good - and for the first time in my running career, I stuffed some TP into my pocket, hoping it wouldn't prove to be a prescient decision. And to top it all off, I had tweaked my back earlier in the week and this was the first morning I could stand up straight.

Which all could have been quite disappointing, since I had pegged this race as a possible winner. I know these trails, love these trails, and can grind up Mt. Montara in my sleep. But life is good -- my wife and I just bought a house, ducks are settling into a row at work and I really have nothing to complain about.

So despite all possible negatives going into the race, I had a great attitude and no expectations. And to top it all off, not only was Maura running with me, but so was my dad. His first trail race in recent memory, 64-years old and ready to tackle the hills. I was a proud son.

As we crowded around the starting line, I glanced around and picked out the competition. At a small race like this, it's not hard. Only seeing a couple strong looking runners, my confidence grew.

When the pack set off, a few over-eager runners hopped out into the front and set an unsustainable pace. I settled back in the middle of the pack, waiting for them to drop off. And they did.

For most of the single track section of the climb, a young guy set a brisk pace and I followed at his heels (although not too close, having learned my lesson last year in Woodside). I liked the pace, so decided to keep up. About a half mile in, a tall guy blew past us all and disappeared up the mountain. Really strong, impressive climber, but we caught him on the downs.

The Mt. Montara climb is runnable almost the entire way. Invariably, about a half mile in my legs begin to burn and my breathing labors. I wonder how I'll make it all the way up. But there is a flattish section about a mile in where your legs get to rest a bit, and for whatever reason from there on my legs stop complaining.

When we hit the fire road, there were three of us in the pack. I was in the middle and feeling good, so I backed way off the pace to catch my breath and see how the guy behind me reacted. He immediately jumped in front of me. After 30 yards or so of jogging, I picked it up again and settled in behind him.

Shortly into the fire road, you hit the steepest part of the course. In a longer run, I'd certainly walk this. But I know its runnable despite the pitch, and when the guy in front of me began to labor, I made my move. In hindsight this was perhaps a stupid place to pass, on the steepest part of the course. But I wanted to set the tone -- I had sized this guy up and knew I was a stronger runner, and wanted to make sure he knew as well.

Trail racing is in some ways more mental than road racing. There is so much pace variability, speeding up and slowing down, jockeying for position along the single track, passing and getting passed, and as you tire its easy to convince yourself that you're not as fast as the guy in front of you, so you can ease off your pace without feeling guilty. So I figure why not use it to my advantage. As KJ would say, crush his spirit.

I also passed the guy leading our pack on this steep section, wanting to test him a bit. My legs felt strong and I knew I could run well to the peak. While he seemed strong, I wanted to know. He kept with me stride for stride all the way to the top.

We hit the turnaround and I flew downhill. I opened up a lead as I leaped down the fire road I knew so well. It's craggy, steep and slippery -- not an easy descent. But I knew I had a technical advantage and wanted to give myself some breathing room. The single track is a great grade for descending fast, but with the rocks and switchbacks, its not rest. Even if he caught me on the way down, I wanted to be fresh for the next two climbs.

And catch me he did, almost immediately onto the single track. Which was OK. He was a polite runner, passing with respect, encouraging other runners. And while we didn't exactly chat, it felt like a hard training run with a solid running partner. Midway through we caught first place and opened up a gap. Another friendly guy, an excellent little lead crew. Overall, a really enjoyable 3.5 mile descent.

We hit the parking lot, almost took a wrong turn and pulled into the aid station. With my lack of pre-race eating, I wanted to make sure I took in enough food to push me through the climbs ahead. In hindsight, I took too long here. I should have been carrying more food if I had wanted the calories, but more importantly first place spent almost no time in the aid station. By the time I left, he was a good 50 yards ahead of me.

In a road race this is no big deal, it's easy to keep contact. But 50 yards may as well be 50 miles in a trail run. I lost contact, and when my legs screamed out at the incline, I couldn't use him as motivation to push harder. Every time I didn't seem him on a switchback ahead I kept convincing myself that I could let him go, he was a strong runner and I'd be happy with second place. Definitely a loser's mindset.

I really labored up Valley View Trail. It ground on longer than I had expected and my legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. I glanced back and could see third place, the strong climber, gaining on me. It spurred me on, but my legs didn't respond.

I hit the top and tried to push it downhill, but even that was a struggle. I landed at the bottom and turned left up the fire road to Horseshoe Trail. I tried to push it up the gradual incline, but wasn't moving fast. A few minutes after turning right onto Horseshoe Trail, the climber passed me. "Don't worry, you'll pass me on the way down." He said. "We'll see," I replied.

The rest of that climb is a blur. It's a narrow, overgrown single track with no vistas. It's repetitive and long, but not that steep. It's totally runnable, and on a good day I could run it quite fast. But today was not that day. I struggled up each switchback, continually hearing someone on the trail behind me. I try to never look back (shows weakness), but on this climb I must have looked back 20 times. I literally kept hearing footsteps. But there was no one there.

I finally hit the top and as the slope turned, gravity took over and my leaden legs were dragged downhill. I tried to turn it on, but had nothing. Midway down I was able to pick up the pace, but my stabilizers were shot. I kept overshooting turns and dancing along the shrubs. Lets' not get hurt.

Around every turn I hoped to see the climber, but unsurprisingly I never did. I just didn't have enough to catch him.

I hit the bottom and turned for home. Results aren't posted yet, but I think I missed the top spot by a few minutes and second by one or two. But I felt good about the run. I lost to a guy who was stronger than me on the ups, and just as strong on the downs. The guy in second crushed me on the climbs and I didn't have enough to catch him on the last down.

So it goes. I finished third in 1:52, a positively respectable time.

I grabbed some water and a beer and waited for Maura, my dad and Maura's friend Nicole to finish. I chatted to a few runners, including the two guys who beat me. We all complained about different parts of the course -- especially the endless switchbacks up Horseshoe.

Maura and my dad came in almost together at 2:40. My dad looked like he had barely broken a sweat. Not bad for the oldest guy in the race and winner of the 60+ division.

Maura had a good race too, and also came in third for the women! Two white ribbons and a blue -- not a bad day for the Jeffery family.

Lessons learned: Keep contact -- mind is more important than body. There is no training for hills other than running hills (or leg strengthening exercises). Even on a short race, have an eating plan.

Fourth Figure Eighteen (Nineteen)

Mileage
Today: 19
Present: 309
Count: 42

My first run at the Headlands in months as expected: long, steep and fantastic. I just love these trails, and know them better than anywhere else. Its as close to a home course as I have, but each time I find a new adventure waiting for me in the craggy hills and rocky slopes. It is indeed, as good as trail running gets.

But it ain't easy: 19.5 miles, 4,000 feet of vertical climbing and little support.

I used my new Ultimate Direction hydration vest for the first time, filling up both water bottles and stuffing food into the rear pouch (an orange, half a sweet potato and gels). When I set off up the first climb from Rodeo Beach to the gun turret, the bottles bounced around on my chest and I chuckled that I was about to find out how women feel running with breasts.

Halfway up the climb I knew my legs didn't have it, but I resolved to finish the 30k course that I planned on running since apparently training is all about learning to run on tired legs. I was expecting sun and relative heat, but Mother Nature provided fog instead. All the better, I'll take running in cool humidity over heat any day.

When I realized my legs were pretty shot, I resigned myself to just go out and enjoy the day. I wasn't setting any course records, I was out by myself and I loved these trails. It was like coming home. I would focus on technique, nutrition and disappearing into the hills. Running in the moment.

I hit the Tennessee Valley trail head still without much spring in my legs, and I knew I had a hard climb ahead to Coyote Ridge. That is one steep, grinding climb, but I ran the whole thing. About halfway up my legs loosened up and I actually started to feel better. Sometimes it takes an hour for your body to wake up.

Down to Muir Beach then back up, where I passed a few other walkers and runners. But despite it being Fourth of July, the trails were quiet. I basically had them to myself.

The short stretch down from Muir Beach along the Pacific Coast Trail is one of the most fun segments to run in the entire Bay Area. Sharp turns, quick ups and downs and when the sun is out, you feel like you're levitating above the crashing waves. But even in the fog the trail is amazing, and I lost myself in a mellow pace, barely realizing I had been running when I hit the railroad tie stairs and trudged back out. It's a steep, but short climb and one I always think is going to be over sooner than it actually is.

I rolled back down to Tennessee Valley where I took my time to walk and eat. I knew Bonk Hill was coming and I wanted to be fresh. No matter how many times I run here, I always manage to forget that once you crest Bonk Hill it's still a long way home.

I put my head down and started the long, winding climb 1.4 miles to the top. Which of course isn't really the top, but its the top of Bonk Hill. I managed to keep a good pace, doing my best not to look at the trail ahead. It's a sweeping, gradual turn where you can never see more than a quarter mile ahead. And you always think you're closer to the end than you actually are.

This hill has crushed me more than once, but I'm slowly gaining mastery of it. The trick is to just get it over with. Settle into a quick turnover grind and move. It's not so steep you can't run, but just steep enough to be a tough climb. You have to meet it in the middle.

The trail breached the clouds and I popped into sunlight for the first time, a mist-shrouded view of Sausalito below. I hit the top and almost laughed. Bonk Hill. Whatever. That arrogance would turn out to be misplaced.

In hindsight, as soon as I finished Bonk Hill I should have put some food in me. 1.4 miles is a lot to climb, especially when its two hours into your run. You don't have a ton of energy reserves left at that point. But I reveled in my dominance and didn't eat. As I started the final mini-climb to the actual top, I realized my mistake as I started to feel a bit bonky. But I pushed on and when I hit the top stopped walk and refill my water bottle from my auxiliaries.

When I crossed the road and started along the most breathtaking part of the run (without the clouds that is), I really started to feel bad. Ironically, when Bonk Hill won its name when KJ and I ran the 30k here back before we knew what we were doing, it was on this stretch that I actually bonked. So I was in familiar territory.

But I'm smarter now, and was prepared. I dug into my bag and pulled out the rest of the potato. Hitting the spot is an understatement. It was exactly what I needed and almost immediately kicked that bonky feeling. So mental note, sweet potatoes defeat the bonk.

At this point I just wanted to be done. I still had more than four miles left, one final tiny climb left and from there it was all down hill. I descended Slacker Ridge at a good clip and promptly got lost looking for the Rodeo Valley Trail back home. I was gassed, about out of water and generally over the run, but I remembered back to something Leigh says about getting lost: bonus miles. Some attitude.

I sauntered into the parking lot at just under 3:30. Not fast by any stretch, but a really solid training run and a reminder why I love running these trails.

http://app.strava.com/activities/64921061

Epilogue: I left my sandals in the Rodeo Beach parking lot on my way to meet some friends in Marin for a BBQ. Five hours later, I convinced Maura to go back to the beach on the off chance my sandals, which I've had for over a decade, were still around. And, they were. Karma!