Run Rabbit Run 100

Photo: Paul Nelson.

After a string of relatively successful 100 milers in the years between 2009 and 2013, I figured I'd got the distance dialed in and could pretty much show up to any race and have a good day on autopilot, but things started unravelling a bit this year, my 40th on this planet.

Forty is a weird age. The average life expectancy in this country is less than 80 (I'm pretty sure), so   statistically speaking you've pretty much crested the hill at 40 and physically you tend to start feeling those niggles lingering just a bit more than they did just five years ago. But at the same time most 40 somethings still feel vibrant, full of life and - at times - as giddy as a prepubescent teenager. Or at least this 40-something does.

Through the prism of a runner's time-obsessed eyes, entering the 'master's' division presents interesting new challenges. Can I defy the law of averages? How long can I compete against kids half my age? Will I ever win another race? Will I still be running 20 years from now? Should I just focus on competing against others in my age division? Which races offer masters money? Should I use my master's standing as an excuse to just 'enjoy' running and not be so obsessed with trying to compete? Is it time to start mentoring and focusing on others with more talent, stronger drive and years of optimal performance ahead of them?

These are just some of the questions I've had rattling around in my head this year, and I think the noise had an impact on my drive to succeed. I turned 40 almost exactly one month before Western States and then proceeded to perform terribly there (after winning my first race as a master, I might add). That was a tough pill to swallow. Maybe I was over the hill and maybe it was time to retire to pasture, a racing afterlife of comfortable and well-earned jogging all the way into my 90s.

But I'd committed to running the Steamboat 100, put on by my good friend Fred Abramowitz, and I wasn't about to renege on that commitment. I gave myself a month to wallow in self-pity post Western States, and then went about the business of figuring out what went wrong and how I was going to fix it. After a bit of reflection, the two primary reasons I came up with for failing at Western Sates were lack of conviction and a sour gut.

The lack of conviction manifested itself both in training and on race day. I didn't have the drive in the spring to run the miles I knew that I needed to in order to be competitive. I ran a few token 100 mile weeks, but I just didn't have the desire to really stack those weeks up back to back over the period of a couple of months. This lack of physical preparation led to a downward spiral in mental belief, to the point that I found myself on the starting line in late June not really wanting to be there. The outcome of my race was sealed long before I started puking on the way to the Auburn Lakes Trail aid station. The nausea was just a final nail in the coffin.

But with the help of friends and family, I started digging myself out of my funk, and worked on building a mental foundation for Steamboat. The first rule I implemented was to respond positively to any questions related to the race. By telling others that I was looking forward to it, I managed to also convince myself. The second rule was to teach myself that nausea didn't have to be inevitable. Working closely with local dietician and accomplished ultrarunner Abby McQueeney Penamonte I was - for the first time - able to develop an in-race fueling strategy based on testing and fact, rather than guesswork and hope.

The nutrition formula was pretty simple. After a half hour metabolic treadmill test conducted at 100-mile effort, I was able to ascertain what my in-race fueling needs were. Considerably less than the 200 - 300 calories per hour I'd been trying to cram down my throat in previous races, as it turns out. The results suggested that I burn fat very efficiently and as such don't need much more than 100 calories an hour to maintain respectable energy levels while performing at 100-mile effort. That's the equivalent of one gel an hour, and quite contrary to conventional ultrarunning wisdom that mandates forcing a gel down your throat - come hell or high water - every 20 minutes. I'd tried that and it didn't work.

Not long before Steamboat, a friend sent me a link to a blog post that Pam Smith - of Western States fame - had written earlier this year. I have an immense amount of respect for Pam, but nowhere near her work ethic when it comes to figuring out - and implementing - the science behind performance. So it was with much glee that I read her article recommending a nutrition strategy based on limiting caloric intake to levels well below that held as gospel in the ultrarunning community. My plan to not start consuming until at least two hours into the race was also given the nod of approval by Pam. There was even advice on post-puke strategies, but I was committed mentally to not puking so I filed that one away in the contingency drawer.

The other part of the puzzle was to keep effort levels firmly under control. There is a direct correlation, I have found, between effort level and your gut's ability to process fuel. I was bound and determined to keep things casual all day and all night at Steamboat. My whole family had come out for this one, including my parents all the way from England. They had last watched me do the 100 mile thing at UTMB in 2011, where I registered the only DNF of my ultrarunning career. I absolutely could not let this one spiral out of control. Discipline was required.

Love you, Mum!

So it was with much alarm that I found myself at the front of the field with good friend Zeke Tiernan as we crested the opening 3,500 foot climb of the day.

"This feels easy right, Zeke? We're not being stupid here ... right, Zeke?"

I'd look back a few switchbacks and see the rest of the pack, but knew that if I moved any slower I'd start tripping over rocks. The effort was fine; everyone else was just being ridiculously cagey. As we transitioned to rolling singletrack, I dropped Zeke and found myself solo at the front of the field. I didn't let it bother me though. My breathing was super controlled and the effort was way easier than it is has been at Western States and other 100 milers, so I rolled with it, popping an 80 calorie peanut butter pack exactly two hours into the run.

"This is easy, right Zeker?"

Outside of this initial peanut butter pack - taken so I wouldn't have to carry a filled second bottle up the initial climb - the plan was to subsist on starch-based carbohydrates delivered in liquid form. Pretty much mumbo jumbo to me, but it had worked to a degree in the past and I believed that it was going to work at Steamboat if controlled to 100 calories - or one scoop diluted - per hour. Simple. With the help of pre-mixed bottles in drop bags and at crew locations, I was able to transition between aid stations without having to fumble around with baggies of powder - the curse of liquid nutrition strategies.

The seven hour mark, give or take an hour or two, has traditionally been the tipping point for my stomach in these races; the point where nausea starts kicking in and I start the long drawn-out internal monologue:

"To puke or not to puke? That is the question."

Prior to 2013, when the puking floodgates opened at Leadville, I had been firmly in the camp of puke avoidance at all costs, typically being able to get by on coke when things starting turing sour. However, an eruption at mile 88 on the Leadville course, some 50 meters down the road from May Queen, had put an end to all that, and I moved from a history of never having puked during a race to almost incorporating it into the game plan. I proceeded to spill my guts again at the base of the Boulevard - mile 96 at Leadville - then twice at the Wasatch 100, endlessly at UTM Fuji, and then again at Western States. I was on a four-race streak. And it sucked.

Seven hours and 40 miles into Steamboat and the gut was still shipshape, though. I had stuck religiously to the plan, and while I had been swallowed up by a pack of seven other runners at the front of the field, I was elated to be in the race and consuming without concern. I wouldn't describe my energy levels as particularly perky - the formula needs to be tweaked - but I was running. The lack of pep was exposed on the long climb in the dark back up the Fish Creek Falls trail, where for the first time I lost contact with the front of the field and found myself running in fourth or fifth.

Fish Creek on the way down and in the lead. 

At the top of the climb at Long Lake, I decided I needed something solid to placate my growling stomach, so I consumed a small cup of ramen, careful not to get carried away, and then proceeded to enjoy the very gradual dirt-road climb out to Summit Lake, passing fellow master Paul Terranova along the way. This left just Rob Krar, Josh Arthur and master-inspiration Jeff Browning ahead of me.

The 4,000 foot descent to the Spring Creek Ponds aid station at mile ~70 was a long one, but uneventful and controlled. My stomach was still intact, I was consuming and I wanted to keep it that way. I allowed myself another small portion of ramen at Spring Creek before beginning the long climb back up to Summit Lake and Buff Pass. A few miles out from the return to the Dry Lake aid station (mile ~75) I begun to find myself hiking sections that I knew I should be running, so I decided that as my stomach was still feeling good I'd allow myself another bowl of ramen to supplement the liquid fuel and to see if I couldn't re-stoke the furnace.

Unfortunately, I ate too much and on the ensuing seven miles of uphill gently graded dirt road to Buff Pass I had to drop the effort significantly and found myself walking long sections (slowly) in a bid to give my stomach the time it needed to shake the nausea. The familiar puke/no puke internal dialog kicked back into gear, but I was determined to buck the trend and make this a no-puke outing, even if it meant giving up places against the rest of the field. Finally near the top of the climb, the nausea abated and I was able to get back about the business of running and racing. Unfortunately, I had consumed nothing over the span of the last two hours, so energy levels were low.

At the toasty Summit Lake aid station, I nibbled on a grilled cheese sandwich, pleased that this was even an option and making sure to exit the aid tent quickly enough to avoid losing the body heat that I would need to get me through the next section of rolling and high-altitude trail. The outside temperature had become legitimately cold, so I was definitely motivated to keep a warmth-generating effort going. Nonetheless, I knew that I'd probably given up any chance of catching third on the slow climb to Buff Pass.

Unfortunately I was producing a good amount of heat while still allowing for lazy breaks of hiking on stuff that I should have been running. By mile 96 (of 107), I had given up fourth to a charging Ryan Ghelfi, who was running impressively at his first go at the distance. He left the penultimate aid station, a fourth visit to Long Lake, as I was entering, but I didn't have a whole lot of fight in me. The mission for the day had been to run my race and complete it without any massive blowups.

I think I achieved that. And while I didn't close the final 20 miles with the kind of fight and focus I would have liked to have done, I was happy to still be nipping away at my fuel and getting the job done with over 100 miles completed. Descending the final 3,500 feet into the finish at the base of the ski hill, I was generally happy with the way the race had played out.

I had broken the puking spell, I had remained largely positive the whole way around, and I had rekindled my belief in my ability to run 100 miles at a reasonably competitive level. Oh, and I had made a bit of cash in the process too. A good day at the office, with a nutritional foundation to build from, and a renewed - if still tempered - sense of purpose for the South Africa Sky Run in November and then further afield to the 2015 season.

Thanks to everyone who believed in me this summer and especially those who helped convince me that I still have a few good races left in me, and then helped me make the practical changes needed to achieve that.

Salida Marathon 2014

It's a short three-hour drive from Fort Collins to Salida, a trip that takes driver and passenger through classic Colorado country, and one that never gets old. You roll up through the Denver foothill towns of Conifer and Bailey, give a nod to the somewhat incongruous hillside Jesus statue at Camp Santa Maria as you make your way up to Kenosha Pass, before crossing the Colorado Trail and dropping into the high and huge South Park Basin, which encompasses a massive 1,000 square feet all at approximately 10,000 feet above sea level.

It's a harsh environment and this year the snow fences to the west of Highway 285 are completely buried, a sure sign that it has been a cold and wet winter in the Colorado Rockies. But the highlight of the drive for me is always the drop out of South Park into the Arkansas Valley, which is punctuated by the massive Collegiate Peaks of the southern Sawatch range.

Camp Santa Maria.

The view of the Collegiate Peaks is far better when unobstructed. 

The Arkansas Valley has its own dry and remarkably warm microclimate. It is often referred to as the Banana Belt of Colorado. The rolling hillsides covered in scrubby pinon and juniper for some reason remind me of childhood summer vacations to Forna, a small village just inland from the Mediterranean coast near Valencia, Spain. An old Moorish castle sits above the village on a hill covered in similarly scrubby vegetation. The trek up to visit the castle would always be a highlight of those trips.

Forna Castle. 

So anyway, it's always good to be back in Salida enjoying what fees like a late winter mini vacation.

The family couldn't make it out this year, so I opt for the budget-friendly pad in the back of the Xterra for the weekend's accommodations. As I make my way to Safeway for donuts and coffee early on race-day morning I bump into Joe GFM, who'd be dwelling a few alleys down from me that night, and we catch up with one another's goings on before heading down to the rail yards under clear, but slightly parky skies.

Paul Hamilton was a name on the start list that I was looking forward to racing, so I was slightly disappointed not to see him on the line as we got underway. I'd figured he'd be in contention and would help push the pace along, but as it turned out it would be just me and Josh Arthur off the front once we started climbing.

The first two miles at Salida are always a fun time. It's a casual two mile loop to and from the start to space the race out before hitting singletrack. The banter is always good and offers a chance to catch up with folk that you haven't seen all winter. Timmy Parr, a regular and multi-time winner of the race, has moved to Leadville I learn. It's been a tough winter up there at 10,000 feet and he talks of having not much more than the roads around the Fish Hatchery to run on.

After the warm-up lap, I decide that I'm going to go about setting the pace up the switchbacks that lead to the wonderful snaking, rocky contour trail of the new course. I want to avoid the slow start of last year so I can run an honest marathon effort the whole way around. Once we get up to elevation, I'm surprised that it's just me and Josh. The pace feels right, nothing crazy. We shoot the shit for a bit, chat about Altra Zero Drop, both of us now sponsored by the aggressive start-up out of Salt Lake, before slotting into a good rhythm that we'll hold for the rest of the race.

We spit out onto the Ute Trail at a little under 59 minutes, but neither of us can remember what the split was from last year. I'm pretty sure we're ahead of it as we find our stride up the railroad-graded dirt track. This is always a tough section of the race. The grade is fairly mellow at about 300 feet per mile, but given the awesome footing you really have to stay on the gas to make the most of it. If you hit it too hard though your back 13 miles is going to be miserable.

Josh and I run stride for stride the whole way up to the turnaround at 9,000 feet (1:34), dropping off our bottles at the aid station along the way and getting them back refilled on our way back down. As we make the turn onto the rugged jeep track section of the back half of the course, we quickly realize that conditions are improved versus last year. There isn't a great deal of snow on the ground and a set of tire tracks has packed things down decently where there is. We have to negotiate some ice and tricky cut up snowy sections along the way, but it doesn't cost us a lot of time.

Again, we stay stride for stride as we make our way back to town, both seemingly comfortable at the pace we're setting. We alternate in the lead, until finally with perhaps eight miles to go and a half mile before the precipitous descent to the mile 20 aid station, I decide to push the pace along just a little harder. I don't look back until the aid, and am massively surprised not to see Josh. I think I've done enough in those couple of miles to seal the win and settle into a significantly easier rhythm. That, as it turns out, is a big mistake. A mile later, on the switchbacks up the final climb of the race, as we start to pass half marathoners I am shocked to look back and make direct eye contact with Josh.

By the top of the climb, Josh is back on me, and I'm starting to feel beginner cramps in my hamstrings. A mile later and I'm surprised that Josh hasn't gone by me yet, as I know the pace isn't what it was just four or five miles ago, but he seems content to settle in. The half marathon traffic is pretty thick at this point and there's a lot of weaving going on. I figure Josh will wait until we spit out onto the doubletrack four miles from the finish to make his move. I'm right. But I've still got a little something left in the tank.

Once Josh assumes the lead, the pace is all of a sudden at the top of end of what I'm still able to push out, but I can still hang. However, on the last mile of the descent down to the rail yards, Josh is able to get a slight gap that I can't quite cover. With a half mile to go, he has maybe 10 seconds on me. We're now on the flats and running into a strong headwind for these last few meters and I can sense that Josh is starting to tie up, so I hit the gas for one last push, cutting the gap in half but ultimately running out of real estate.

I look at my watch and I see a new PR in the digits. This, in my 40th year and sixth time running the race, is something of a surprise. But a welcome one.

The post-race scene is as fun as always. Bill Dooper has enjoyed spectating the race, getting to all the aid stations along the way, and he is full of his usual banter. He tells me that it's mine or Dylan's year at Western States in 2014. I nod. Yeah maybe. I'm as fit as I've ever been at this stage of the game, so why the hell not?

Six Years, Six Podiums. Artwork by race RD Jon McManus.

Results.

The Coastal Challenge

My family and mother-in-law joined me for the weeklong trip out Costa Rica for the 10th running of the Coastal Challenge stage race, a six-day, 145-mile run through the jungles, beaches and coastal mountains of this gorgeous Central American country. To celebrate the decade-long anniversary of the event, the organizers had invited a number of runners from around the world to make a race of it at the front of the field. In the men's race, there were six of us who seemed likely to be in the running. I was the only one coming in as a stage-racing rookie, with a couple of the European guys bona fide specialists.

The start. 

After settling into a day of hotel living at the Best Western in San Jose, the capital city, for pre-race briefings and the like, we were whisked off in the wee hours of Sunday morning on a long bus ride to a beach from where we would begin the six days of racing.

San Jose sits at relative altitude and as such enjoys relatively cool temperatures. The situation on the coast would be markedly different, and by the time we got running on day one it was already a scorcher.

On the docket for the morning was a stage right out of the Mike Wardian playbook: 10 miles of flat jeep track, followed by a couple of 1,000 - 2,000 foot bumps and then more flat running into the finish. Mike's superior leg speed was evident from the get go, and by the time we finally made the turn onto a stretch of rough singletrack through the jungle, he was a couple of minutes off the front. Frenchman Martin Gaffuri and I worked together up the hill and by the time we popped back onto the jungle road Mike was no more than 50 meters ahead, a gap that was soon closed on the climb to the high point of the day's stage.

All fun and games at this stage.
Photo: J.A. Vargas Lead Adventure Media

Thinking smart thoughts (or so I thought), I let him go on the ensuing descent with the goal of preserving my quads for the five days of racing to come. With a few miles left to the finish, Spaniard and stage racing legend Vincente Juan Garcia Beneito, caught up to me and we pushed together into the finish, crossing as one at a stunning eco-lodge tucked away in the depths of a luscious jungle valley. Martin rolled in 10 minutes later, followed by Philip Reiter from Germany a few minutes after that. Badwater champion Carlos Sa ended up taking a mysterious wrong turn 100 meters from the finish line that cost him something in order of three hours, essentially putting him out of the running for the rest of the race. Much to his credit, however, he persevered.

Quite frankly, I was stunned at how much I was hurting after a fairly simple 22 mile run and shuddered at the thought of the early mornings and heavy mileage ahead. I licked my wounds and attempted to play with the kids through the afternoon. Eventually, after some quality time in the cold pool accompanied by cold beers, I was able to walk with a little more fluidity. As would be the case all week, my appetite was insatiable and I was able to put food away in vast quantities.

Not a bad spot to end day 1.

In order to beat the heat, each day started early. Fortunately I didn't have to pack everything in the morning as Dana and the kids would leave a little later with the staff bus, but trying to find things at 4:30 in the morning amid a mess of soggy gear intermixed with a mound of kids' stuff all the while grimacing at inexplicably sore legs was an interesting way to prepare for the morning's racing. With five minutes until the start, I finally found my race bib, slotted into a damp pair of running shoes and got ready to go.

Right from the off on day two, we were into the jungle, gaining elevation quickly and sweating profusely. Five of us in the lead group ascended the climb as one, with Philip off the front and out of sight. We spaced a bit as skill sets dictated across a mix of technical descents, jeep road and cow pasture. It was on the super rutted cow pasture descent, in particular, that we built a gap on the Yellow Jersey of Wardian.

By the river crossing at the halfway point of the day's stage he was out of shoulder-check sight, while Philip was maintaining his lead off the front. Nonetheless, there would be a long stretch of groomed dirt road that would allow Wardian to catch back up and grow a lead over myself and Vincente Juan, the two of us again firmly in lockstep in third and fourth. The stage ended with approximately four miles on the beach to the finish in the small surf town of Domincal. Vincente and I closed  the gap on Mike to less than a minute by the finish, working well together under mercifully overcast skies, with Philip a couple minutes ahead of Mike. Martin and Carlos ended the day another 10 to 20 minutes back, so it was looking like it would be a four-horse race, with less than four minutes separating the first three, Vincente and I finishing the 24-mile leg together for the second straight day.

Beach fun in Dominical.

The camp location right on the beach was absolutely stunning, and I spent the remainder of the day playing in the surf with the kids, building sand castles and consuming calories. There was a large population of beach dogs down here in Dominical, no doubt thriving off tourist generosity, and one mutt in particular attached himself to Alistair and the camp in general.

At close to 50k, day three was the first of two long days, and perhaps the one to start stringing the field out a bit. It began with a short tour through town and then launched into 5kms of swimming, wading and rock hopping along the course of a gorgeous river, which after a short stretch of connecting double track would lead us to a stunning double waterfall.

Ultradog

Running through town, Alistair's mutt friend from the night before was right there barking and nipping at our heels. At first an annoyance, the dog stuck with us through the first 5km, then proceeded to make his way up the river with us, whining and crying at particularly tricky spots but always finding a way to navigate. By the first aid station, five of us plus Ultra Dog emerged from the river and crossed the bridge on the way to the waterfall. Looking back down the river, Wardian was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was floundering in the river at least 10 minutes back, more than enough to erase his lead from the first two days. This was getting fun and the race was on.

After some howling and hollering at the sight of the waterfall, it was time to get our heads down for some grunting up steep jungle trail to the rolling roads that led us out to some of the thickest jungle terrain we would see all week. By the time we hit the trail and started moving through the thicket, it was myself, Vincente and Philip - accompanied by Ultra Dog - leading the way. There were stretches in here that had clearly just been machete'ed days before, the fern-like foliage collecting and piling up around our ankles as we waded through. The heat of the day was once again piling on, and at each and every creek crossing I silently implored the dog to stop and get some fluids, but he seemed unflappable and singularly focused on hanging with the group.

Climbing out from the waterfall. Photo: J.A. Vargas Lead Adventure Media

After a long climb to the second aid station, we were off to the races with a long stretch of downhill dirt roads, punctuated by short sections of technical jungle trail. Wardian had been running the smooth descents a lot quicker than all of us on the first two stages, so I was expecting him to pick us up at some point before we got down to the beach, but I don't think any of us expected him to close on us quite as quickly as he did, not far from the high point of the course. Once he got on the train, we ran pretty much as a group - dog included - for the long descent to the Pacific Ocean.

After four hours of hard running through the jungle, the exposure to the sun and soul sapping views of endless beach kms did a major number on me. I'd been told 12 kms of beach, so prepped myself for an hour of torture and dropped off the back of the pack, alone with just the dog for company. As it turns out, it was only 30 minutes of beach running, but by the time I made it to the canopy and the short climb out from the beach I was wobbling like a drunk man, more than a little disoriented. The final three or four kms on the road to our unbelievably scenic finish location at Ventanas Beach National Park were some of the more pathetic miles I've put in during my time as a runner.

I gave up more than 10 minutes on those last few miles on the beach and road, but cared about nothing more than getting rehydrated and cooled once finally at the finish, the toll of the last three days, 75 miles and scorching sun really starting to take large chunks out of me. I was quickly realizing that I was coming into this race woefully underprepared.

The kids on Ventanas Beach.

Once I was back in the land of the living, it was time to figure out the camping situation and then spend some quality time with the kids in the ocean at one of the most scenic and secluded beaches I've ever had the pleasure of enjoying. The heavens opened up rainforest style that night, and the first two hours of 'sleep' were spent trying to keep water out of the tent. It was not a good night's sleep to say the very least, and the race was quickly becoming as much about managing exhaustion through sleep deprivation as it was managing a physically dinged up body.

The clock stops for nobody, and by 4:30 it was time to start sorting through the damp and wet to get ready for the next day's racing, which on paper looked like something of a respite at just 22 miles. But we'd been warned of some pretty gnarly terrain, so nothing was being taken for granted. And then, once again, we were off to the races.

Day four opened up with a few kilometers of gradually ascending jungle road, before a big 3,000 foot climb on steep, tight and barely-there jungle trail. Once again I found myself working with Vincente up the hill, Philip off the front and Mike a minute or two up the trail. We hiked 90 percent of the climb, and despite feeling like I needed to be pushing harder, I was content just to follow Vincente's heels to the top. It came relatively quickly, and once at elevation we would follow rolling, wide and well-groomed dirt roads with huge views for miles. I made the occasional attempt at dropping Vincente, something I'd yet been able to do over the first three days, but soon gave up figuring that the steep, technical descent at the end of the stage would be where I'd chop some time on the competition.

Au contraire, Blackadder. With a measly five kilometers to the finish, my race essentially came to a grinding halt.

I was pleased that I needed to pee, as it would allow me to stop running for a few seconds to take care of business, but I wasn't prepared for the thick ruby red flow that ensued. Immediately my brain shut things down and I was no longer able to run. The day had turned into yet another scorcher, so I found a spot in the shade, laid on my back and considered my fate.

"Kidney failure, hyponatremia ('wait, what are the symptoms again?'), dehydration, bladder chaffing?"

"Which one is it damn-it?"

After 10 minutes of sitting, I finally decided I needed to get to the finish and be done with running. I was pulling the plug, DNF'ing, spending tomorrow playing with the kids in the ocean.

I finally rolled into the finish after a long, hot 5km shuffle, some 30 minutes behind the lead, and set about rehydrating. Exhaustion aside, I actually felt fine. I told the camp doc the same, and he prescribed a couple of hours of fluid intake before deciding what needed to be done. A couple of hours and many liters of water later, and hey presto my pee looked like pee again. There went the excuse to dodge day five and a further 48kms of fun.

Heaven. Photo: RestArts Studio

And Hell! Photo: Ian Corless

I ate well for the remainder of the day, looked for crocodiles with the kids and slowly got my mind back into the game. I would finish out the mileage, complete the Coastal Challenge, but the racing was over with. I felt good about the compromise and got a sound night's sleep.

Day five was a long one for sure, but mercifully it was relatively flat, which allowed the miles to float by in a metronomic rhythm. For the first time all race, I had some space from other runners, so I sat back and enjoyed the scene. The mangroves in particular were stunning, but just as bucolic were the horses out to pasture in a beautiful valley as open as the mangroves were dense.

End Day 5 at Drakes Bay

With every passing step I was getting closer to Drake Bay, our final and perhaps most stunning location of the entire trip. I passed an ailing Carlos Sa at mile 20 or so. Carlos, like many in the race, was dealing with pretty major feet issues. Mercifully my feet had held up through the humidity, dousing and countless creek and river crossings. It could have been so much worse.

There was one final river to cross before we made our way to the finish on the beach. I sat for a while to cool my jets, then engaged the final kms of road to the beach. Popping out onto the beach at Drakes Bay, the finish line was a mere 800 meters away - no endless beach running to finish the day - thank the sweet baby Jesus.

Despite having a final day of running left to complete, there was a definite sense of accomplishment around camp that afternoon. The final day at 13 miles would be nothing more than a victory lap, a quite stunning victory lap as it turned out, with rivers, waterfalls, dogs, dirt roads, beaches, coastal singletrack and a final few hundred meters of beach running all packed in there as a punctuation point on a fantastic week.

I felt a true sense of accomplishment at the finish. The Coastal Challenge had lived up to its name and challenged me in ways I hadn't predicted it would. Each and every day was a grind, the heat and humidity were intense, and the level of competition meant that there was simply no letting off the gas. Every day was a race - until, of course, it wasn't.

I have to thank the race organizers for putting together such a stunning course and figuring out the crazy logistics that go into an event like this. Camp was ripped down every night and miraculously re-established at the next day's location, kitchen, med tents and all. The staging locations were gob-smackingly beautiful and the camaraderie around camp was flat-out fun. I was a little nervous about bringing the whole family out for this one, but the kids had an absolute blast and were truly sad to leave camp life and the warm ocean.

This one comes highly recommended, solo or en famille.

Stella was quite taken with Dr Luciano!

Photos: Ian Corless 

Photo: RestArts Studio

Week Ending January 27

Mon - 10 miles (2,500') easy. South Horsetooth summit via Slush's Slit and then around on Westridge - Spring Creek. Another beautiful day in The Fort.

Tues - AM: 7 miles intervals. Not much in the tank for this morning's work. Ran with Chris, but the effort/split relationship was not a good one for me. Worked way too hard for these. Maybe some lingering cold stuff going on, if I really want to reach for an excuse. Or just getting old. Workout was 3 (1,200, 1,000) around City Park Lake, with the kilos as fartleks: 4:08, 3:25, 4:04, 3:23, 4:00, 3:20.
PM: 5 miles (1,500') easy. An easy jog up Horsetooth to shake out the morning workout.

Weds - 7.5 miles (1,800') easy. Casual Horsetooth summit on icy trails.

Thurs - AM: 10 miles (1,400') hill tempo. It was cold this morning and the roads on Centennial were an icy/snowy mess, which made for challenging running trying to maintain an effort coming back. Out easy to the turn, then back with Jason in approximately 33 mins.
PM: 4.5 miles (1,500') kinda hard. Retained my title on the VBM. Undefeated in all four renditions, as it happens.

Fri - 7.5 miles (1,800') easy. Grabbed a morning ascent of Horsetooth with Danny in the new snow. A little slippery, but I knew where all the icy spots were hidden. Back down the hill with neighbor Mike and his big plott hound.

Sat - 12.5 miles (3,400') easy. Double Horsetooth summit (21 & 22): Southridge - Audra - Rock - Wathan - Spring Creek - Soderberg - Rock - Audra - Southridge. Super casual double up and down via the cheat three-way route.

Sun - 15.5 (1,500') 5k/10k Frost Giant double. We stayed up in Estes Saturday night with Danny and his family at a cabin that one of Danny's colleagues had graciously opened up to us. Elk burgers were on the menu, which is fitting while in Estes, a town that is overrun by Elk. We were in town for the 35th running of the Frost Giant races, the fourth year in a row for me. The morning starts out with a 5k at 11:00 and a 10k at noon. Both races are a mix of hilly road and tough cross country, all at 7,500 - 8,000 feet.

There was a good group up from The Fort and surrounding areas, so we got out for a jog of the 5k course to assess conditions, which aside from the wind - always a factor in Estes - were pretty good. Getting ready, I bumped into Joe G who'd indicated the day before that he might be coming up, doubling down on the double with a 30k snowshoe race the day before.

The race got out with me, Mike - who'd beaten me the last time we raced on Thanksgiving - and Joe off the front in a small pack. The pace felt a lot more reasonable than it has in past years. Half a mile in on a slight downhill, Mike put in a little surge and it was just me and him at mile 1 heading up into McGregor Ranch. I kept on the gas all the way up the hill to the high point in McGregor Ranch and then let it go on the downhill across the pasture. This was enough to establish a comfortable gap on Mike, such that I could cruise the final mile back to the finish reasonably comfortably for 18:44. This was a few seconds off of last year, but 50 seconds off my best from 2011.

We jogged a bit between races to stay limber, then got things underway for the 10k, which starts with a steep climb up into some neighborhood roads. It looked like it was just me and Joe off the front for this one. We ran together for the first mile, and then I got a gap heading up to McGregor Ranch. The gap on Joe stayed essentially the same for the remainder of the race and I was content just to get around. The underfoot conditions were especially challenging on the 10k part of the course, with the usual off-camber grassy hillsides in addition to some really awkward sections of ice on the low point of the field to pick through. It felt like hard work. I popped back out on the road in 34:35, which meant I needed to run under 5:30 through the last mile to register something under 40 mins. I gave it a go, but came up a few seconds short (40:08), running another personal worst unfortunately. This one two minutes slower than last year and four minutes off my best. Maybe the course was longer? The cross country section seems to change a bit every year. Or maybe I'm just getting old.

Longs money shot from the Estes Trail Gazette

Post the 10k. Podium in various orders for both races.

Total: 79.5 miles (15,500')

So, another base-building week of fairly easy, but hilly mileage in the books.

I've been up in the 100s for weekly mileage at this time in years past. Not this year. I think I can time a better peak for Western States if I stay conservative on the mileage through the end of February; save the heavy lifting for March, April, May. I think I've been fitter in May than June the last couple of go arounds.

Off to Costa Rica early tomorrow for a 10-day run vacation with the family. I'll be competing in the Coastal Challenge stage race, but should be done each day by 10:00 or so, which will mean lots of quality time on the beach with the kids. Six days of camping for three-year-old Stella should be interesting, but hopefully fun.

This is the 10th running of the 6-day, 230km race, so the race organizers have been busy putting together a field of international runners that I'm looking forward to running with and competing against. Ian Corless has the details on that. Having never run a stage race, I'm not really sure what to expect in terms of recovery and getting after it for six straight days, but I'm sure I'll figure it out. Fun times.

Week Ending December 29

Mon - 5.5 miles easy. Tyler Hill/Uni loop.

Tues - 3 miles easy. A quick and easy loop up and around the university.

Weds - 6 miles w/5k race. Headed out to Whitstable with Dana and the kids for an early race to start off our Christmas Day. Alistair and I raced, while Dana and Stella enjoyed some time by the sea. I wanted to keep this one firmly under control to save myself for the main event the next day at the Saltwood Boxing Day Run. Got out with two others off the front at a pace that felt a whole lot quicker than I wanted it to. Unfortunately, I have a competitive instinct that can be very hard to quell so I tucked in and ran with it. Went through the first kilo in 3:18 (5:18 mile pace) and shook my head, but stuck with the other two anyway as things seemed to be easing off. This was reflected pretty clearly over the next two kms that came in at 3:40, 41 (5:54, 55), after which I decided to pick things up a touch. Final two kms clocked at 3:24 and 3:35 (5:28, 44), so yeah the splits were all over the place.

Thurs - 4.5 miles w/3 mile xc race. Saltwood Boxing Day Run. Felt really strong for this one and was really pleased at how hard I was able to stay on the gas the whole way around. Third overall in a surprising 4 second course PR despite majorly muddy conditions.

Fri - 5.5 miles easy. Jogged an easy Tyler Hill/University loop.

Sat - 6 miles w/5k race. Back out to Whitstable for another Parkrun 5k. Despite this being my third race in four days, I wanted to push this one a bit to see if I could sneak under 17 minutes to finish out the year. For me, anything under 17 minutes means I'm starting to round into decent fitness. Not particularly fast by any stretch of the imagination, but a good marker for me. I would run this one solo in second with a guy close enough off the front to act as a decent pull. Through the first kilo I worked on holding a pace that would allow my race-weary legs to ease into things but keep me in the general 3:24/km ballpark. I was a little disappointed to come in a couple of seconds over at 3:26 for the first km, about 10 seconds back on the lead guy, so ratcheted things immediately after the km marker, focusing on not losing any more distance to the lead. The second km came in at 3:14, which put me back in the hunt. Unfortunately the middle km of the Whitstable 'lollipop' loop was a mix of slippery mud, significant headwind and flooded concrete path. I did what I could, and was okay with the 3:42 for this one. Immediately on getting back on the promenade for the return to the finish, I pushed hard, with the lead guy still just 10-15 seconds in front. The fourth km was an alleged 3:05 (4:5x mile pace), but I have to think it was a touch short. From there I just needed to run a final 3:32 kilo to sneak in under 17. I felt like I was still able to push through that last km, but must have been slowing a touch. The final .1 up the hill into the finish stiffened the task, and I ended up crossing in 17:03, 25 seconds or so off the lead. Nonetheless, I was happy with the run given that I'm still in the off-season, and it has me encouraged to chase the speed a bit over the next couple of months to see if I can't run something in the 16:30 range before really beginning to load the miles and vertical this spring in preparation for Western States.

Sun - 6 miles easy. Jogged out an easy Tyler Hill/Uni loop with a tack on at the end to run down the St Thomas Hill footpath.

Total: 36.5 miles

A light week on the mileage front but necessarily so, as I put in a couple of hard effort races in addition to a race as a workout on Christmas day. Both the Boxing Day Run and the Saturday 5k have me decently encouraged that my fitness is starting to come around, and I'm really looking forward to working hard on my higher end speed the next couple of months to see if I can't register an altitude PR at the 5k distance and breach the 16:30 threshold as a prelude to the meat and potatoes of 100 mile training: volume and vertical.

Speed is undoubtedly my biggest weakness when it comes to running ultra-distance events, my stomach being a close second, so it's really a no-brainer for me to want to get after it in a serious and focused manner if I truly want to get the best out of myself in the summer racing season. I need to figure out my stomach too, so I'll be experimenting with that as well as the next five months unfold. No point being in the best shape of your life if you let it all unravel at the hands of a sour stomach.

Saltwood Boxing Day Run 2013

The end-of-year return home wouldn't be complete without a trip to the village of Saltwood for a romp across the British countryside in the annual Saltwood Boxing Day Run, now in its 39th year. The weather for our trip home has been absolutely diabolical, but one would expect no less. After all, a British man never leaves home without his umbrella - or so my Chinese students used to tell me way back when. Wait, what? But, yeah, it's rained every day since we've been here and, much like last winter, rivers are bursting their banks and half the country is under water.

I lived through this misery for the first 20 years of my life, but now the annual return to the UK makes me thankful for every single one of those 300 days of sunshine we are reputed to get on the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies. That said, nothing quite beats the British countryside on a glorious summer day, no mater how few and far between they are. But I digress. All you need to know is that the route for the 39th running of the Boxing Day Run was bloody muddy.

The race, nay run, is an approximately three mile loop through farmers' fields, past a gate or two, over a stile, through the woods, up and down a couple of hills and back to the finish line on the village green. A true cross country race in a quintessentially British setting. This would be my sixth running of the race in the last seven years.

There looked to be a good turnout milling around as we got ready for the off, runners no doubt encouraged by the brief window of sunshine we were enjoying following the previous two days of torrential rains and gale force winds. After a few pleasantries on the start line with a couple of the Saltwood regulars it was down to business. The start was hectic and I came close to taking an early digger with ankles being clipped left and right by overanxious youngsters getting out at a sprint. By the first turn I finally had room to run and found myself sitting somewhere around tenth with a couple of lads off the front that I knew wouldn't be coming back.

The lead up to the first kissing gate, coming up from the first river crossing.

Across the playing field, I passed a couple of the early pacesetters before easing past a few more on the slick descent to the first footbridge. Up the steps to the 'kissing gate' I was sixth in line, a position I held up the first hill and over the stile. Across the grazing field - no sheep this year - I moved into fourth, with third 10-15 meters ahead and first and second off to the races. A mile down and it was a race for third.

I had my brother's cross country spikes on this year and they made a huge difference versus regular trail runners, which are simply no match for the bogs of the Saltwood course. On the slick boggy paths under the wooded canopy, I went to work on bridging the gap to third making a bit of a dent by the time we popped back out into the fields.

I was close enough now that I could hear some pretty labored breathing and was feeling strong enough that I was able to keep firmly on the gas up through the rolling paths, a number of which were more brook than trail. With a half mile to go on the final footpath leading back down into the village I began closing quickly and ultimately went by without a fight, finishing back on the green in a surprising four second PR and third place overall. Five-time winner Michael Coleman was finally dethroned by a young lad, Maximilian Nicholls, who has been running the race for years, coming of age this year with an impressive slog through the mud.

Happy to get on the podium again.

After getting a few layers on, I headed back out to watch Alistair finish up what he fittingly refers to as the Mud Run. Just the two Clarks on the start line this year, but hopefully we'll have a full contingent next year for the 40th running of this great running tradition.

Results.

Geeked to get going.

Finishing it up and putting the hurt on Skeleton Man.

Week Ending December 22

Mon - 7 miles (1,700') easy. Final Horsetooth summit of the year, and number 152 total. I can't remember how many I did last year, but I'm pretty sure it was less. Hopefully I'll have the fitness, desire and consistency to register a few more next year.

Tues - 8.5 miles intervals. 5 x mile, w/first steady, second through fourth fartlek, and last steady (CCW (.98 mile), CW (1.02), CCW, CW, CCW). Showed up for this one not really sure how much I wanted to put into it, so opened up running the first one at a reasonably casual effort with Leora, Ryan and Andy: 5:41. The next three were fartlek and I decided to push the hard segments a little harder than usual and float the medium ones a little easier: 5:34, 5:20, 5:34. Finished with a final steady mile, pushing the last quarter hard: 5:15. Felt some fitness there this morning. Promising.

Wed - 5.5 miles. Jogged some easy miles on the mean streets of Canterbury after the long flight from Denver. To the West Station to pick up a birthday present for my mom, then up the Crab and Winkle to Blean, and back via Rough Common.

Thurs - 10 miles (1,000) easy. Blean Woods outer loop. Trails were totally waterlogged, but it's always good to be back home enjoying the refreshingly moist air, at least for the first couple of days. Then the rain starts getting pretty old. Not sure how I put up with it for 20 years, but I guess I didn't know any better.

Fri - 5.5 miles easy. University/Tyler Hill loop.

Sat - 5.5 miles w/5k Parkrun race. I always enjoy running the Whitstable 5k Parkrun races when I'm back home. It's a similar concept to the Tortoise and Hare races I put for the Fort Collins Running Club in Colorado, in that the races are designed to offer a means of promoting fitness for newer runners or a fun workout for more seasoned runners in an inclusive, affordable environment. If you ever find yourself in the UK on a Saturday and fancy a workout, then check out the Parkrun website and see if there's one being put on in a town near you.

Originally I was going to run the six or so miles up to Whitstable, but I didn't much like the look of the weather and with lingering jet lag I decided an extra few minutes in bed was the wiser option, driving out instead with Alistair and my Dad. Alistair and I got in a nice mile jog on the seafront to warm-up, noting a strong tailwind outbound and stronger headwind coming back, then after meeting up with my brother and his two young running proteges, it was off to the start line and time to get going. The goal was to run a hard workout more than it was to race, so I eased into things and followed the lead guy off the front. He put a few meters on me through the first couple of kms, but once we hit the sloppy mud on the kilometer long lollipop section of the out and back I quickly regained the ground and then muscled past him as we made our way back along the seafront into the wind. I forgot to bring my watch so didn't get splits, but I'd guess my first and third miles were probably right on 5:30 and the middle mile through the mud and strongest headwind at about 5:45-50. Finished in 17:25, which felt about right for the effort, then ran back out to run the last km again with Alistair who registered a course PR at just under 28 minutes. Always a fun morning on the Whitstable seafront.

Headed out in the afternoon to Canterbury Rugby Club to watch the first team play a top of the table clash against Cambridge in cataclysmically terrible weather. Brought back fond (I think) memories of playing through similar conditions on more than a few occasions during my youth.

Sun 18 miles (1,000') easy. Ran at a very easy effort out to Whitstable and along the seafront for a bit, then turned and retraced my steps. My legs were a little creaky for this one and not much enjoying the hard surface underfoot so it was generally a bit of an effort. Wet again.

Total: 60 miles (3,700')    

It's always a tough grind crossing the Atlantic in the easterly direction, especially with kids in tow, so the running has been a little labored and my sleep not great since arriving in the UK. But I'm getting into the swing of things now, just in time for a run of three races in the span of four days between Christmas and Saturday. Fun times.

Thanksgiving Day 4 Miler

Despite having run this race each of the six previous years that I've lived in Fort Collins, I was on the fence about running this year, right until the day before Thanksgiving. All fitness indications were pointing to a poor performance relative to previous years and, quite honestly, I'd been enjoying the tranquility of the off season. But tradition is tradition, and it's kind of weak to not run a race for fear of running a disappointing time. Besides, my good friend and long-time training partner Mike Hinterberg would be toeing the line, and recent workouts suggested he had a good shot at putting the hurt on me, something he'd yet to do in the many times we'd shared a starting line. I took that as a challenge and good enough reason in and of itself to run.

Despite Mike's superior fitness, could I - the wily old veteran - find a way to overcome the odds and break the tape ahead of him?

That was the challenge. And I had a plan. You see Mike has a long and consistent history of taking things out way too hard and paying dearly as a result. All I had to do was run a smart, patient race and wait for the mid-race Hinterberg implosion. I figured it would happen somewhere around the three-mile mark. If I was going to have any chance of holding off Mike's superior kick, I'd need to put a few seconds on him before the final turn onto College Avenue, 200 meters from the finish. The action, I figured, would need to unfold between mile 2.5 and mile 3.5 on Mountain Avenue. 

The race, as always, was waist deep in talent. A secondary goal at this race for me is to try and beat the lead ladies - many of international calibre - so I lined up alongside Mike and a bunch of very fit-looking women a couple of runners deep from the start line. 

The gun went off and it was off to the races. I always ... always ... go out too hard through the first half mile of this race. I wanted a comfortable 5:30 to get the ball rolling, figuring this would leave me a good 10 seconds behind Mike at the first mile marker. I kept to the plan and felt good and comfortable doing so, tracking the lead pack of ladies while watching the men's talent gallop off into the distance. To my great surprise, however, it took Mike until about the half mile point to pass me, a clear indication that he too was planning on running a smart race and looking to beat me in the process.

The first mile with the chase pack of ladies popped at 5:33, right where I wanted it. Mike had maybe five meters on me and he looked to be working on reeling in the lead lady a few steps ahead of him. Grinding up Mulberry towards the Bryan Ave turn into City Park, I had to dig just a touch to keep Mike's gap at five meters. Despite ratcheting the effort a touch, a couple of the ladies starting pulling away from me; clearly they were just getting warmed up, and any response from me would have been suicidal. Rounding Bryan and heading into the park, the second mile split at 5:29. The effort still seemed sustainable, so my thoughts started shifting to time goals. The day before, I decided I'd be happy with anything under 23 minutes, but now I was thinking 22 flat might be within the realms of possibility, even with the always tricky third mile to get through.

Turning the corner onto Mountain Ave, with Mike still five meters ahead, I decided it was time to put the pre-race plan into action and I worked on bridging the gap. Somewhere around mile three, just as I'd drawn it up the night before, the bridge was gapped and I found myself listening to some very heavy breathing. I sacrificed a bit of oxygen as I made my move to make it sound like I was out for a Thursday morning jog, knowing full well that Mike - a guy who'll race you through the last 50 meters of any training interval - wouldn't let me go without a fight. 

Mile three popped at a thoroughly disappointing 5:47, a number that confused me until I saw how far ahead the ladies I had previously been running with were. The planned-on, and famed, Hinterberg fade was in full effect; the only problem being that I was fading with him just when I was supposed to be muscling my gap. With the race still on, and Mike's heavy breathing still audible off my right shoulder, I started thinking through my long list of excuses. 

It's been a long summer. I'm getting old. I've been half ass'ing my recent workouts. I'm coming off a long period of rest. My mileage has been pitiful. Yada, yada, yada. As the weakness started to enter my mind a half mile from the finish, Mike made his retaliatory move. I held on to him until about Laurel Avenue, two traffic lights from the turn onto the final straightaway and then I couldn't hold on any longer and I did what I always do towards the end of these sprint races, I threw in the towel. I knew I had no kick in me and reminded myself for the nth time why I race 100 milers and not 100 meters. Runners flooded by me as I turned onto College as I ground out the final few seconds of the race. 

The 5:38 last mile was at least a little quicker than the pitiful third mile split, but it wasn't good enough. Not even close. Mike beat me by a convincing six seconds. Nonetheless, my watch showed a 22:29 finish time, which works out to a roughly 5:37 average. It's a good bit faster than I thought was realistic for my current lack of fitness, but still a good minute off my best from two years ago. I finished fourth or fifth in the women's race, 40 seconds off the winner and something like three and a half minutes off the lead men's pace. 

Feeling my age, I ran back through the field to find my son who was full of excitement in finishing his first Thanksgiving Day 4 miler.

Silent Trails 2013

All pics: Mike Hinterberg

The Silent Trails 10 mile race up in the Happy Jack area east of Laramie Wyoming is a race worth doing. Fitness be damned.

This year's race marked the 12th year since a crash on Hwy 287 between Laramie and Fort Collins resulted in the death of eight talented guys, basically the entire University of Wyoming cross country team, at the hands of a drunk driver. Laramie is a small, close-knit college town and the accident had a profound effect on nearly everyone in the community. The Silent Trails race commemorates the eight who died that day, while also serving as a reminder to be thankful for the health and ability that we have as runners to be out enjoying a run in a beautiful place at a beautiful time of year.

For 2013 the entry fee had been dropped to $5 and the focus kept squarely on enjoying, running and reflecting. Per Dan Rodesevich, the new RD:

Hereafter, most aspects of the race will remain the same: We'll always gather on the morning of the second Saturday in October to run the course that Cowboys and Cowgirls became so familiar with while running for Wyoming. Given that the only reward that Wyoming runners expected to receive after completing the circuit in training was a drink of lukewarm water and words of encouragement from Coach Sanchez, I want to keep to a minimum the trappings of tokenism that have crept into most other races. I intend to offer few awards, few prizes, few souvenirs, and a rock-bottom entry fee. On the other hand, camaraderie and mirth we'll continue to have in abundance.

Perfect.

Despite the fine fall weather being enjoyed in the tropical climbs of Fort Collins and Laramie, somehow the Happy Jack area had managed to hold onto the 8-12 inches of snow that had come down two days prior. This provided once again for the expected, nay, demanded adverse running conditions so associated with the Silent Trails race.

Hinterberg enjoying a hot beverage post race.

UW XC alum and Horsecow jog a few to warm up.

At the early morning carpool rendez-vous at Vern's it was great to see such a big turnout from the Fort Collins trail running community, with close to 30 of us ready to convoy north on the hour-long trip to Laramie. True to form, the weather turned to crap as soon as we crossed the Wyoming border. Not the usual howling winds, but we did manage to go from a nice sunny fall morning in Fort Collins to a complete sock-in on the High Plains. Nonetheless, 30 minutes later at 7,000 feet in Laramie things looked good again: no snow on the ground, no winds, and wait was that a ray of sunshine? At 8,000 feet by the Lincoln Memorial, however, the story was once again reversed: proper snow on the ground and more dense fog.

The fog would clear, but the snow would be a pain in the arse.

As always, there were a bunch of former UW cross country runners there ready to race - Dirty Dawgs, I believe they call themselves - among other talented runners who perhaps don't take things quite as seriously these days. From the off, I was surprised to find the pace in the lead pack quite manageable so actually gave thought to racing this thing with a proper effort, but I knew I was horrendously out of shape, so stuck to the plan of getting out and enjoying a hard run without totally grinding myself into the Wyoming dirt, err, snow. By the creek crossing at mile three, I was sitting in fourth in a chase pack of four or five guys behind a lead pack of three who were now 10 meters off the front.

On the run up to the staging point for 'Death Crotch Hill' I geared it down and let everyone in the pack get ahead of me, keeping the effort levels firmly in check. We bunched again going up Death Crotch, with Horsecow Lonac setting a particularly shameful pace off the front, and then split apart going over the top and into the energy-sapping snow drifts. Nik Deininger, who I'd beaten handily last time I raced him at the Pilot Hill 25k back in June when I was fit and ready to get started on my summer of Grand Slam racing, took off not to be seen again. Horsecow fell off the back, while Ragan was hanging tough a few meters behind me, and another guy I didn't recognize was a few meters off the front but still in view.

Ragan and I worked together to bring back fifth-place guy, and then with a mile or two left to race, after jogging as a pack of three for 10 minutes or so, I caught a glimpse of Scott Foley through the trees. Now Scott is a talented former Boise State XC runner. I beat him last year at Pilot Hill after his monumental blow up on the sand flats coming home, before being properly smoked by him at a local 5k road race a month or two later. True to form today, he was completely blowing up through the latter stages of the 10 mile distance, again reminding me that the definition of a long-distance race is entirely subjective. For me, 10 miles is a sprint, for other much more talented guys it might be the longest race of their season. Either way, Scott was clearly done racing, so I took the small rush of seeing a runner come back late in the race as an opportunity to break up my little pack of three to avoid what was looking like it would either be a three-way hand holding finish or some kind of horrendous sprint to the line. I was keen to avoid both scenarios.

The injection of pace was enough to get around Scott, enough to drop the former fifth place guy, but not enough to drop Ragan. Having never been beaten by Ragan - in our many encounters - I was motivated for a bit to try and hold him off, but I simply didn't have anything left in the tank on this day. Ragan dropped me with consummate ease, and so I geared down to a pace that would be sufficient to maintain fifth and cruised into the finish for yet another satisfying romp around the woods of the Medicine Bow National Forest on the second Saturday of October.

Mary Boyts and Cat Speights - inspirations both - getting it done in Wyoming. 

I ended up running seven minutes slower than last year. Some of that was definitely the snow on the ground - versus race-day snowfall and no accumulation last year - but most of it was a singular lack of fitness. I have not been this unfit in quite some time. But that's okay. It's the off season, I need the rest, and I'll get back into it when I feel ready. And that ain't now. In the meantime, I'll continue to be thankful for the gift of running and in particular the gift of running through the woods on snowy fall days.

Thanks as always to Perry, Dan and all of the High Plains Harriers who, quite simply, understand the fundamentals of what running is all about: camaraderie and mirth. I hope to share in the Wyoming mirth and camaraderie for many more years to come.

Mike mixing it up with the top ladies.