Rest in Pants

Both of my legs lost a very good friend today: my favorite red pants.

Two days ago, I was leaving the house for a long run, and my Utah Roommate told me I looked like a pirate. That is a creative way for a kind person to tell you that your pants are shredded at the bottom. You need new pants. There was nothing else in my appearance that would lend itself to piracy, so I read between the lines.

For months now, my family has been trying to take these pants away from me, but there is no closer bond than that between a girl and a pair of pants that are weighted with nostalgia. They’re my media pants. I wear them every time I am going to be in the newspaper. They are a googleable aspect of my life.

Sledding in the pants.

There have been other indications that it was time for them to go. My Opera Roommate kindly calls my other sweatpants my “dressy sweatpants.” That is an indictment of these pants by juxtaposition.

Basketball in the pants.

Often sweatpants swell out in the breezes so that you look like you have elephantitis of the legs. However, if you cut small slits into the bottom, they fall more naturally. (Tip for success.) These were the first pants I ever de-elephanted, and it ended up precipitating in their premature demise. The slits extended and overtook my media pants, from the ground up.

Pants with all of my friends.

I know there are more important things going on in the world, but I can’t think of any. I am becoming near-sighted—in a state of un-bepanted myopia. Is that a real psychological malady? Are there any doctors out there? I don't know. I'm fine or in denial.

RIP. Rest in [Pants]. You’re as non-living as you’ve ever been, but I’ve anthropomorphized you so that you seem dead to me.

In other news, I’ve finally gone ahead and updated my race schedule and 2012 sponsorships. I am thrilled to be back on Team Inov-8 and to have DryMax’s support for another year. I am additionally enthused to be a part of UltrAspire’s team of Elite Immortals for 2012. In actuality, I’m about as immortal as my aforementioned pants, but even if you have metaphysical qualms about our team name, you should check this company out because they are thoughtfully designing products for ultrarunners that are innovative and wonderful. Their hydration packs are particularly commendable.

A MEMORIUM:
-bubble gum ruined pants of 3rd grade
-kickball slidetackle knee-hole windpants of ‘96
-pink and green flowered leggings that went out of style in 2nd grade
-hot pink bike shorts removed from my closet as punishment when I tried to wear them to school approximately 11 times in kindergarten
-the pants I got with tulips on the back pockets that I grew out of one month after I got them for Christmas in a 5th grade growth spurt

May all of you also Rest in [Pants].

Here is my official pants modeling photo. I am ready for my closeup.

Rocky Raccoon 100

Here she comes, Miss America.

I am wearing a dress and brushing my hair right now. Just so everybody knows because I thought I was irredeemably dirt-covered and would have to be a mud-ball for the rest of my life after the race on Saturday. Oh, look. It's the dirty girl in class. She fell too many times in mud puddles one day and never recovered. Worst nightmare.

The first 3 miles, the pack started out very quickly, so I settled into my own rhythm and finished the final 97 miles, at which point I left because I was done.

That’s the summary.

Caution: Wet floor

CAUTION: WET EVERYTHING ACTUALLY.

Race morning, my crew and I awoke to torrential rains and thunderstorms that would continue on and off all day. It was an oddity to find myself on a starting line next to so many people I didn't know, but I have never raced in Texas. I found a spot next to great friend, Montrail's Jill Perry, and we were off, headlamps catching the sheets of rain to form illuminative sheaths at every step. Lightning turned the sky pink. I told approximately 40 people that I was overwhelmed by the beauty. Within thirty seconds of the start, I was offered a hearty greeting from Liza Howard. We were both fairly loquacious for the early morning. (Dear Coffee, thanks for making me more extroverted beyond my organic capacities. All the introverts of the world are nodding, silently.) And we exchanged introductions. Liza moved forward, and Jill and I had a chance to catch up between miles 15 and 35.

That first lap, we picked our way through mud pits and over roots, tripping often and enjoying our time on the trails. I say "we" because early in the day, it's still a shared endeavor. You're just running with friends. Later, it becomes a lonely pursuit, around the time when you hurt the most and need friends. I did have a pacer, though. His name was Michael Bublé, and when he sang, "I've had my run, and baby I'm done, I've got to go home," I totally understood, probably in a more robust sense than Michael did because he meant it metaphorically. Then I dropped my ipod in a mud puddle and said goodbye to my running partner.

Starting the run, I realized my legs didn't have the same zip that they typically do entering a run. I felt sort of lethargic and wondered if I had lifted too deep into my taper. I decided to just hang on and enjoy myself for the first 60 miles, not letting Liza slip too far out of sight. At 60 miles, I assumed, everyone else would feel similarly poor, and there would be 40 miles of racing. I didn't think a PR was possible, but I did show up to compete and would try to do that.

We ran, and we ran. I tripped a lot. I found a turtle. I looked for alligators because maybe Texas has them. People ran by and yelled, "Looking good!" I assumed they meant metaphysically because............................

Photo by Bob MacGillivray of DryMax Socks. Thanks for coming!

......I didn't look like a part-time model, at least on the surface.

As the day went on, the presence of the 640 runners re-running the same wet loop made erosion a reality. There was one particular incline, where you would run up and slide back down so the net sum of your efforts was zero. It was like Sisyphus. I wished we had been pushing boulders up the hill to make it more real like in the story, but alas, we didn't get that opportunity. I like when the things I've read for homework become real life.

Sixty miles happened, and I thought that was really great because everybody else would feel bad like me then. At 61 miles, I took the lead...and held it for the rest of the day, uncontested. I later found out that several top runners had dropped, but at the time, I didn't know and still assumed I had a target on my back. Thus commenced 39 miles of paranoia. I ran conservatively and held onto an energy reserve in case someone should arise to challenge me. It was not a fast day, but sometimes, winning an ultramarathon is about survival and monitoring the forest for alligators and dropping Michael Bublé into a mud puddle.

The aid stations were marked by Texan hospitality, and volunteers did everything they could to make our experience enjoyable. I also had a fantastic crew. It was their first ultramarathon experience, but they were the most attentive, efficient crew I have ever had. Thank you so much, Littles, for everything.

Maybe you've never considered running 100 miles in Texas. I think you will after you see this:

GIANT STATUE OF SAM HOUSTON. It's right alongside the highway. I am never leaving because I love Texas.

The best part of everything is that my feet are not swollen or battered by the weather. Often, I go buy new loafers after 100-milers, not because of any intrinsic connection between the two but because it always happens to be about the time when I need new loafers. I buy them too big because my feet are swollen, so then all of my loafers are half a size too big. But not this time. Thanks, DryMax and Inov-8. I've got normal feet.

So pretty. I like your hair.

The best things in life are Gluten-Free.

I like to tweet among ultrarunners to get a sense of the important topics in our community, and today they were:

1-Whether or not to run in underwear (Highly contentious. Why are you fighting?)
2-Paula Deen's blood sugar levels.

These are so important, you guys. I just have nothing to contribute.

People are also tweeting about politics.

bAbe Lincoln: off of my penny and into my heart.

Americans love politics, and Americans love freedom. That’s why we visit the Liberty Bell (even though it's cracked) and walk the Freedom Trail (even though Boston is so cold).

I have recently become more free: gluten-free, soy-free, and nut-free. But in this case, the freedom is a guise because I'm actually restricted, and it's non-optional.

Oh, you're actually probably allergic to adventure . . .

There’s nothing truly free about gluten-free. You’re gluten-lessfree, trapped in rice cake prison. Rice cakes are not cakes either. That’s a lie, too, because when you have allergies, everything is a lie. And everything tastes like potatoes because gluten-free is synonymous with the phrase 'we make everything out of potatoes.' They just take potatoes and shape them into the images and likenesses of other foods, and you play along for a while like you haven’t noticed. Potatoes often taste like the dirt they were grown in. I said this once, and my dad answered, "Have you been washing them?" Nope, Dad. I hadn't. Now they taste less like dirt. In summary, when you’re gluten-free, you consume dirt and lies. You’re trapped in a Platonic cave, eating potatoes in the shadows and thinking you’re free. (Wheat bread in this illustration is the Form of the Good.)

On another note, eating correctly has cut my recovery time in half. IN HALF. I've done three track workouts this week and have settled into a routine of high volume, less vigorous cardio, peppered with lifting and core and the accessory workout of shivering in the library. I am learning how to cook new things. I'm less tired, and I feel like myself . . .

. . . Which version?

. . . All of them, to be metaphysically consistent and not propound a bifurcated identity.












But anyway, I am ready to race. That's exciting! And I look forward to Rocky Raccoon 100 in a few weeks.

Good luck, everyone, with your underpants fight.

Freedom Park 24-Hour

Do you know what the lamest thing is? When you decide to celebrate a new year by running for a day, you're celebrating a new year with one less day because you've already spent one. It's 0.274% less of a celebration than everybody else gets who didn't spend that day celebrating the year.

About a month ago, I saw this sign on the school bulletin board. After doing a double take, I realized I had confused the term “sedentary” with “dysentery.” You can’t be healthy and have dysentery. You just can’t. I re-read it and wondered if I qualified as sedentary.

I don’t, it turns out. ‘Sedentary’ is unambitious and sets its floor lower than the 10-30 miles per day I had been running, but I was more sedentary than I have ever been in the past. I was certainly on a mileage cutback, without any over-distance days, which was enough to make me doubt my training. Fortuitously, about a week later, Annette Bednosky emailed Anne Lundblad and me and asked if we would be interested in competing with her at the Freedom Park 24-Hour race. Girls just want to have fun, and Annette and Anne are some of the coolest people you could ever run with for a day, so we all agreed. I knew they could kick my ‘however,’ though.

‘However’ is a euphemism for ‘butt.’ They could kick my butt. The problem with euphemisms is that you always think of the original thing that you were trying to avoid saying.

On New Year’s Eve day, the three of us stood side-by-side on the starting line. Anne (an Inov-8 teammate) and I wore matching uniforms. The three of us are about the same height with similar temperaments and dark brown curly-ish hair, so I wondered whether we had chosen ultramarathoning or if ultramarathoning had chosen us.

We started the race together—the three of us—plus Jonathan Savage. Anne is a very tactical, smart runner, so she soon broke off into her own rhythm. Annette and I plowed ahead, letting the early hours of enthusiasm guide our pace in a conservative, but lively, trot. It was wonderful to catch up. She is SO GREAT. I always start off faster in these events and anticipate a positive split. It’s because I’m not a lady of the evening. That’s a euphemism for ‘street walker,’ but I only meant to say that I prefer going to sleep at 9 p.m. and am demoralized by the nightfall. Annette hung strong, then cut back, and I began a back-and-forth circle crossover with Anne, who was just a couple of laps back. I knew I was leading the field—men and women—but don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Anything can happen in a twenty-four hour run. Actually, so many things happen during a 24-hour run.

I got a sunburn over winter break. Take that, Connecticut.

Central happenings

There was a man with high-waisted pants that flared and an orange and blue modification of the Union Jack on his helmet. He biked, facing us, making us run around him. There was also an agility tire in an open field that appeared to be levitating at dawn and at dusk. Maybe it was. There was a man in the grass, lying there and taking pictures of us. I have been reading Orwell’s 1984, and in my mental fatigue, I assumed he was affiliated with Big Brother. I got mud on my sneakers and immediately looked down and said, "Aw, you're okay. You're okay." That is so attentive and motherly. Or incorrect and anthropomorphic? The race field was small but wonderful. There were many friendly exchanges all day long. An older man tipped off his hat and said he couldn’t keep up with me on a bicycle. People were affirming. There wasn’t any compulsion to be nice either. It was not like, “You’re pretty...Can I borrow your Hegel notes?” or “I like your hair...Do my calculus?”

The week before Christmas, I visited Dallas and was lovingly persuaded in the direction of being more attentive to my allergies. (Thanks, Littles!) I have never felt physically better during one of these events. Typically, after 70-80 miles, my stomach goes south. This time, I avoided gluten, nuts, and soy and never became ill. Imagine that.

Hours 4-15, I maintained approximately the same pace, and at 15 hours, 30 minutes, I crossed 100 miles. This felt special because it was a PR by 45 minutes and the 6th fastest 100-miler by a woman in North American history. So I’m not actually sedentary. But mentally, I fell short this time.

By the time I crossed 100 miles, I had been inside of my head for a long time. I’ve become the master of sublimation and am the most industrious when life is hard. But though I am fairly adept at keeping my mind busy, I couldn’t do it yesterday. Conversations had long ago ceased, and many runners had headphones on or were plodding through quietly. I ran another two miles and motioned to my brother. I told him I was thinking about our mom. He put a blanket over my shoulders, and we walked and talked for a mile. Mentally, I was out of the race. I felt dignity in what I had completed and decided to step away from the run, at the time still in the lead.

When I left, Anne looked incredible. She was strong and moving well, and from what I hear, she continued that way and had a big PR. I was happy to get to know her better and to meet her husband Mark, another Inov-8 teammate. Wonderful people, incredible athletes.

When I have a little more distance from the mess of the fall, I will be running a race as a fundraiser for the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition. Information will be posted here soon.

And here we go.

My body feels unstiff, and I'm motivated! I have mixed feelings of accomplishment and incompletion. Sometimes you run 103 miles and feel kind of lazy. But that’s ultramarathoning, and mediocrity is contextual. This is an encouraging way to open January. My focus of 2012 will be 100s and 24s, with a possible 48-hour (if I can get over the fact that after 36 hours of wakefulness, your neurons start to die). I am going to find another race to parlay the fitness acquired here into. I am so thankful for my brother and my dad. It was really fun to travel down there with them. Thanks, Inov-8, for letting Anne and me look cool and have stellar footwear. Thanks, DryMax, for miraculously keeping my feet undamaged. Thanks, 2XU, for quad compression. Thanks also, David Lee, for putting on a fun, well-supported race. I will be back. Others should, too. The Morganton night sky is clear. You can see the Big Dipper.

In the words of my brother, “Surprisingly, this sport is more boring than NASCAR.”

No, seriously, you guys. Everybody [who is a preteen girl] does self-takes in mirrors.

Happy New Year! Happy Trails.

You're not an Inspiration.

Sometimes you pre-plan your life for errors and think that if you fall asleep in class, you’ll just raise your head slowly and say “amen” because you’re in Divinity School and it’d be mostly okay.

But then you never have to because you run ultramarathons, and your training zaps out the tired.

But then you never have to because you run ultramarathons and your training zaps out the tired.

I rewrote that sentence and removed the comma. I don't like commas because they're like having to pause at an aid station, and I'd really rather run-on. (Ultramarathon grammar pun!)

Where did the tired go? To the land of lethargy where homework takes 30 hours because your brain has less oxygen.

I’ve begun ultramarathon training again—not full force, but I'm getting there. The past three days, my mileage was 17, 19, 27. Small victories. My roommate's boyfriend told me that I don't count as inspirational because inspiration incites change, and he would never want to do this.

Did you just run 25 miles before going on a 10-mile hike to a bog? Yes. Guilty. And this is my bog hair.

In school, I’ve been learning about doxastic penetration. This is important for us.

Doxastic penetration refers to when your beliefs color your perceptions. It means that what you see is distorted by preexisting sensibilites. This is all too relevant for a distance runner. Beginning a run with a negativity bias will make the run actually feel more difficult. Or if you think a 20-miler is long, the distance will be more pronounced in the way you experience it.

There was one study done where people were placed at the bottom of a hill while wearing backpacks and had to estimate the size of the hill. They perceived the hill as bigger than the control group—those not wearing backpacks. The question was about the phenomenology itself. Effort changes vision. It would be harder to climb the hill with the backpack on. There is scholarly contention as to whether the doxastic influence directly affects the raw visual processing or the post-perceptual judgment, but it redounds to the same thing: If we think something is harder, we’re going to be biased in the way we see it. We have the power to alter our vision.

I think about this every time I go outside into the arctic tundra of New Haven, Connecticut for my morning runs. If I nurture a belief that the weather is miserable and probably going to kill me, it will actually feel more oppressively cold.

Be attentive to your thoughts. Ultramarathon training is in reality one of the most difficult undertakings you could attempt. Why make it worse with diffidence or undisciplined beliefs?

Ultras are hard but always worth the effort. Think about the positives. Cognitive penetration works in two ways. Think of why you love to run, and it will literally transform your experience.

You're not an inspiration, though. Because people don't want to do this.

Everybody Has Two Cows

(Farm life, the good life.)

Everybody has two baby cows: calf one and calf two. Both have to be healthy in order for us to thrive as runners.

In May, I wrote a blog entry that mentioned cows in passing. My comment was passing. The cows were alive. Subsequently, my measurables indicated that a lot of people arrived at my blog in ‘cow’ google searches, so I wonder where are all of the hard-hitting bovine blogs are. Not here. I don’t know anything about animals.

Over time, the connection persisted and solidified, as people continuously and regularly googled ‘cows’ and ‘cow care’ and found themselves here. These days, my blog is like a haven for the farmer. My blog is essentially a farm. Talk of Gatorade is comparable to irrigation strategies, although it is tough to simultaneously cater to such disparate audiences. I feel so scattered--like seeds on a prairie AND like racers over a point-to-point trail run course after the first 30 miles.

Welcome to my farm. Have you considered ultramarathon running?

(Thus ends my modeling career. And my role modeling career.)

Smooth transitions…

Right now, I am sidelined by an enfeebled calf. By that I do not mean that I am cornered by a degenerate baby cow. I anticipate you reading it like that, and I could let it stand without clarifying but that's as good as lying. I rarely encounter cows, and that's the truth. I actually mean my leg calf. I attempted to do a lot of running this summer in a wide range of events, so it is okay that I am injured because I am now more acquainted with my finitude, and I have this opportunity to think more about sustainability, an issue deer to the hearts of all farmers. See what I did there? I wrote ‘deer,’ rather than ‘dear,’ to seduce hunters to come learn about the ultramarathon.

("Hi Mom, it's me. I just ran for 48 hours, and I am losing sight of my finitude...Should I, like, what? Get injured?")

Welcome to my farm, hunters. I love you, deerly.

But to proceed forward (as runners are apt to do) and both because I am trying to be a woman of substance [*Ontologically, I already am.], and because this entry is devoid of worthwhile content, I would like to tell you about the things I am learning about running and injury prevention...as relayed through population ecology. It’s an animal theme.

As it turns out, sustainability isn’t just for groups of organisms struggling in the wilderness. The way animals survive and thrive can teach us a lot about how to do the same.

1. Herd Mentality. I read a study a while back that examined athletes in two camps: those who train alone and those who train with others. Those who regularly ran with a group produced better results, were more consistent, and even rated themselves as happier. It seems intuitive, right? People need people. We thrive in community. Even if we relish the time alone, it is still worthwhile to forge an affiliation and to periodically return to the pack. No man is an island. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .because islands are inappropriate ecosystems for calves, and everybody has two calves. (*This is an untrue, artificial extension of a trusted aphorism to suit my purposes.) If man were an island, he would be in an interminable state of calf impoverishment and never be able to run. Rather, man is a temperate pasture where land herbivores tarry about, imbibing pesticides--a field of cattle bonding and gratuitous hormone ingestion to facilitate heightened lactation. This is a metaphor.

(In whale pods, the whales are often similar in appearance because of their genetic kinship. Here we are, demonstrating.)

2. Limiting Factors. In ecological terms, these refer to those things (like special resources, nutrition, and shelter) that control population growth. There is typically one specific factor that continuously keeps a population in check. If there is insufficient food suitable to a species, it will die out. For runners, it works the same. Everyone has a limiting factor. It's the thing that slows you down when all else is going well. Identify your factor, and pre-treat.

3. Carrying capacity. Look at the graph above. When a species is populating a new environment, it can grow for a while but then must drop off or else it will erratically exceed and drop below its carrying capacity in turn. The environment can only sustain so many individuals. Mileage increases function analogously. Our carrying capacity is how much we can amass mileage before sustaining an injury. Some athletes chronically rise and fall below this line, alternating between excellence and injury. (I do this. My running log is a sinusoidal wave, but I'm learning.) Don't be like that. But please get close to the line. Don't under-perform. Nobody likes a half-hearted athlete.

4. Zone of thriving. Some organisms have small zones. Environmental factors (temperature, pH, comestible resources, etc.) have to meet rigorous standards. Other organisms, like detritivores, for example, can thrive in a wide range of settings and conditions. Runners can be graphed onto this metric. Some of my friends train exclusively on a track, at a specific time of day, and back off in certain weather conditions. Others can run anywhere, anytime. Do what you do. Don't compare.

(Getting my temperature taken.) Monitor your own health. You know best when you feel strong and are running well.

Okay, go thrive.

TransRockies Fire-Eating

I met my teammate, Amy Lane, in the pre-dawn darkness in a neighborhood in western Massachusetts. She was with her fiancé, Brian (another ultrarunner) and the three of us drove to the airport together. We wore matching red backpacks full of spandex, and we stretched and hydrated almost compulsively while we traveled that day.

Amy is an engineer, vibrant and enthusiastic. She sat one row back on our flight and filled the plane with conversation. Amy found several runners in the surrounding aisles and made friends immediately. I sat one row up, looking out the window, quietly studying cloud formations. I didn’t speak to anyone, but I read 1.5 books. What a pair we made.

Peace Out, East Coast. Hello, Colorado.

We arrived and secured a swag wagon—a beautiful rental car of the Nissan species. Outside the city limits of Denver, we stopped by a Wal-Mart to pick up some food and supplies for camping. Guess whom I found?

Mike Frazier.

Guess what else.

Broccoli.

As well as: Philip Turk.

This is real life, and it happened in that order. Really, I went in there looking for mouthwash. This confirmed two things: Virginia Happy Trails Running Club members are ubiquitous, and Super Wal-Marts carry both non-comestible material goods and high-quality vegetation. (Thanks for the broccoli, you guys.)

Amy, Brian, and I drove up into the mountains to adjust to the altitude. We climbed a 14er, ran some trails, took a couple of naps, and practiced breathing. Together, we traversed the Collegiate Peaks, and much to my disdain, we camped out on Mount Princeton, even though Mount Yale was better-looking. That evening, we set up our tents on a dusty enclave along the side of the ridge. It looked like something out of Ezekiel, everyone. There were bones spread across the ground. Some still had flesh on them. We were inhabiting The Lion King in 3-D. I was nervous, and I sent “I love you” text messages to my parents just in case I was to be eaten that night.

Breathing.

In Colorado, breathing is a lot like fire-eating. It has a similar burn. At first, I struggled with hydrating while I ran because I have not yet mastered the ability to use my esophagus and trachea at the same time. You haven’t either. It’s called choking. So I would drink and accrue an oxygen deficit. Even walking around felt like an anaerobic exertion, and it weighed on our muscles in a deplorable sort of way.

The day before the TransRockies start, Amy, Brian, and I drove to Leadville to watch a portion of the Leadville 100. We situated ourselves at mile 22 and cheered for our friends. Again, I found VHTRCers—Neal Gorman, both Frasier brothers, and Phil, as well as TAC’s John Dennis. Way to go, you guys. You are so incredible.

TransRockies

This event has a lot of hype, but it is legitimate hype. It actually is an experience of a lifetime. GORE-TEX and Inov-8 do a tremendous job putting on this event, allowing runners to traverse trails from Buena Vista to Beaver Creek and to explore the White River and San Isabel National Forests. There was a mix of singletrack and forest road, and we climbed about 25,000 feet over six days. It was safe and as clean as living in the wilderness can be. We were well-fed and cared for by race volunteers. I have nothing negative to say.

Every day was a new race. Therefore, stage races such as this are an ideal location to grow in racing confidence and your ability to predict what you may need over the day. I loved our tent community. It looked like a Hooverville, one of the tent towns featured in The Grapes of Wrath (and real life, during the Great Depression. Steinbeck didn't make it up.) Life during the TransRockies event was a radical inversion of normal life. Rather than being an ultrarunner among non-runners, I was suddenly surrounded by 400 other people who do what I do.

The Hope Pass day was inarguably my favorite. They told us that llamas carried water up the mountains for us, so I loved it before we began. The misery of the ascent contrasted sharply with the beauty of the landscape. We paused for a moment, and lost the rest of our oxygen in breathless disbelief. Then we went back down. Amy and I were abetted by our technical trail running experience, and we recklessly descended the mountains, having the time of our lives.

We both required towing at certain points throughout the week, needing extra help from each other, and it bonded us. We’re good friends. Towing felt beneficent and motherly. At one moment, you are enervated and dessicated, wondering if you will survive the day yourself. Then your partner needs your help, so you tow. Suddenly, you have this new vigor. It’s similar, maybe, to those moms who push moving vehicles away from their children in parking lots.

Injuries, Shin-juries.

Identify the weakest aspect of your body. That is what you will hurt at TransRockies. Ultimately, the mileage we cover over the 6-day event is not too much to handle if you have a high-mileage background. (I would have covered more or a comparable amount in a training week at home.) But the stress of racing every day can agitate even the healthiest body. Imagine you are a piece of paper being pulled east and west simultaneously. Your former injuries are perforations in that paper, more easy to tear. They are your Achilles tendon. I am inclined to shin-juries, so I iced and foam-rolled repeatedly for prevention. For some people, their Achilles tendon was a literal Achilles tendon. (Hi, Sean. Your ankle is looking particularly voluptuous today . . .) So identify your weakness going into the race, and anticipate. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. It is easier to prevent an injury than it is to recover from one.

(Post-run recovery in a stream at Camp Hale)

I am certain that there are millions of more things to say about this adventure. I'm still processing. I did notice that every girl member of Inov-8 at some point wore the Roclite 268s. I wore them every single day and found them perfect for the rough terrain, and they were supportive enough for repeated wear. It was incredible to meet teammates Katie, Alex, Gina, and Peter, as well as Team Inov-8 Italy. I loved that. I loved meeting everyone. To all of my new friends: If you need me, I'll come running from a thousand miles away. When you smile, I smile. Those are Justin Bieber lyrics, but I mean them, probably in a more robust sense than he does.

Okay, happy running. School starts for me on Wednesday. Welcome to 18th grade.