Skyine to the Sea - Part 1

Note that the photos were taken by Paul Rodman and you can read his race report here:  50 is the new 30

If I had to sum up the experience of my first 50k in one word it would be: surprise.  Sometimes it was the surprise you feel when you come across a 20 dollar bill in an empty parking lot (lucky!) and sometimes it was the surprise you feel when you take a swig from the milk carton and find it’s gone sour (wha? sputter. ack). 

Start to Waterman Gap aid station (6.2 miles)

The race started with little fanfare.  We were standing across the street, warming ourselves in a patch of sun when the pack of runners across from us surged. Time to get this thing done.  As I ran along the gentle downhill slope I was surprised I was keeping up with the runners around me, but I was. I don’t have much experience being part of a line of runners and I’m not sure if I liked it or not but I decided I was open to the experience and did not drop back. Regardless, it ended when my shoe came untied. This should not have been a surprise, since the laces of my trail shoes have trouble staying tied, but I had completely forgotten that. 

Do you see roots and branches? Me neither.

 Two miles later I had a real surprise when I turned my right ankle on a branch. Turning my ankle while trail running used to be a big fear of mine, but then it never happened, and so I have worked to let that fear and the caution it produced go. This was a pretty hard turn, but I kept going, sorta skipping and hopping while I decided if it was serious or not. Naturally, it did not feel good but did it feel bad enough to stop and assess the situation? Was I crying? No. The day before I watched the movie Run, Fat Boy, Run. In it one runner twists his ankle badly in a fall and finishes the marathon. Chuckling, I actually thought of him and decided if that mythological man could keep going so I could I. The ground was soft from the needle cover and I tried to control my breathing and my fears and enjoy the journey. Imagine my surprise 2 miles later when I inexplicably found myself sliding down the trail with my arms outstretched, the trail a few inches from my face. Dang. I jumped up and kept going. I was shaken again, having never fallen on a trail run, but I really did not want to take the time to assess the damage too closely. My right knee hurt, my calf was scraped, but I didn’t feel any blood and my palms weren’t bleeding either.  

I hadn’t yet hit the first rest stop; I’d twisted my right ankle and then fallen and banged up right knee. At this point, I needed to get a hold of my mental game, because it was starting to falter. Negative thoughts and fears were running through my mind.  I repeated to myself to focus on the moment at hand. I wasn’t going to drop out yet, so I needed to press on, and there is always my litmus test for stopping: “are you crying?” I mean this literally, when you’re crying for your mom, it’s then you’ve got a problem, but until that moment, you have strength. You haven’t really started to crack until tears are running down your face and my cheeks were completely dry. So, I told myself to suck it up, consider it a new race and focus.  Don’t stop to feel sorry for yourself, don’t pause to check out the damage, just go. And I did.

Waterman Gap Aide Station

I was thrilled to finally get to the rest stop and find at least 7 other runners there; I’m used to being by myself at these things. I stuck to my game plan, threw some snacks into a plastic baggie, cleaned up my scrapes and headed back out in less than a minute and a half. I was especially impressed because I’d been running with another woman for over an hour and I left the rest stop without her. Hanging out (and back), with another runner tends to be a weakness of mine and I couldn’t afford it this race. I needed to make it to the Gazos Creek aid station by 1 if I was going to run the 50k. If I missed it, I would be running my first marathon of the year instead. I didn’t even pause to say goodbye.

Waterman Gap to China grade aid station (11 miles)

I started on the next section of the run, more rolling than the first. My hands were stinging, and my ankle/knee were kind of hurting but nothing was terrible. I focused on the cut off time and actually passed two runners, then another. The third woman stuck with me for a long time. We ran along silently, only chatting every once in awhile.  I was focusing on the cut off time, and doing the best I could do at the moment.  She kept commenting on how beautiful it was; I didn’t look up from the trail much...I'd already seen it up close and figured I didn't need to revist that vantage point again.

Great view, slippery rocks

We ran to the second rest stop, and it was noon. I had one hour to make the cut off, and the guy there told me it was a little over 5 miles. I had run this portion before and knew I had rocks to go over, and a stream to perhaps dunk my foot in, but it wasn’t too hilly. I had a slim chance of making it. This time I swore, threw a little jerky and a goo drop into my baggie and kept right on going. I was in and out in 30 seconds or less but I wasn’t happy. Just in front of me, I saw a guy in last year’s Skyline to the Sea race shirt and knew that if I could keep close I him I’d make the cutoff, since he had done this race before. 5 miles on the trail in under an hour was going to be a stretch, but I tried not to focus on that too much. 

China Grade to Gazos aid station  (16 miles)

I ran along, monitoring the time and trying to stay hopeful and focused, I was getting closer, but time was running out. I was going nuts on what would happen if I didn’t make it. How long was too long after the cutoff to beg to continue? How would I feel telling everyone I didn’t make it? I wrestled to focus on the trail in front of me while deciding 5 minutes or less after the deadline and I would beg. After that I would run the marathon without complaint.  A runner came in the opposite direction telling me I had a little more than a mile to go, my watch said 12:49, 11 minutes, and one mile to go, and it should be doable. 

I longed for a straight stretch of asphalt but instead I found a tree to duck under, a trail lost in roots, wooden steps and nothing but turns ahead. I focused on the athletes I know who are great runners: Mike, Jason, Molly, be like them I told myself. Mike would go up the hills with ease, Jason would be scrambling up these rocks, and ducking under the trees with speed and grace, Molly would be embracing the pain, checking her watch and running hard. Me? My hands were shaking. My legs were shaking. I wanted to throw up, and go to the bathroom at the same time. I felt my asthma kicking in and I couldn’t breathe all that well. Adrenaline is not my friend.

 

I pressed on, trying to focus on the moment.

I wanted to stop and catch my breath. I wanted to say, you came very close, congratulations on a hard effort, maybe next year.  Instead I repeated "be like Mike, Jason, Molly, c'mon, just for a moment."  and pictured them running alongside me, all grace, speed and hard effort.  I heard people ahead and increased my speed thinking it was the rest stop, but it was a large group of hikers. 1 minute to go and still I couldn’t see the end.  I pushed on and heard voices again, again I upped my speed, rounded the corner and there it was, the rest stop. I pulled in completely out of breath and wild eyed, tapping my watch which read 1:00 and asking who would mark my bib, because I had made the cutoff. Yipeee. Now, I cried. I’d been out of water for a little bit, and had not taken the time to eat goo when I knew I should and was an emotional wreck. PHEW. My reward was 16 more miles to go and I was frickin’ delighted.

Crying, I saw the guy in the shirt I’d been trying to catch. I hugged him (yeah, he was a little teeny bit surprised, but he went with it. Smart man.) while I babbled that I’d been following him, trying to catch up because I knew I’d make the cut off since it was his second time running the race and he had made the cutoff the first time (don’t question my logic here, it made perfect sense at the time). You were my lighthouse I said, my beacon on the trail, and you didn’t even know it, but thank you. He laughed, pulled at his shirt and said, “oh this shirt is kind of false advertising. Last year I DNF’d.” DNF’d?! OMG. Thank goodness I didn’t know that, it would have really depressed me. We both cracked up at the irony and he headed out on the trail.

A volunteer took my Nathan pack to refill with drink while I ate a little, refilled my baggie and turned to find she had somehow gotten the clasp that holds the water closed stuck in the half on half off position. Nobody could pull that slider off. We were all panicking a bit as we realized that finishing this race was going to depend on this water bladder holding and it was stuck beyond help. She managed to cram it into my backup all messed up. Disaster averted.