Sabrina Moran's Ultramarathon Blog

Rocky Raccoon 100

2012-02-06T12:35:00.001-05:00

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.

2012-01-19T18:14:00.005-05:00

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

2012-01-02T01:59:00.012-05:00

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.

2011-11-02T21:15:00.001-04:00

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

2011-09-23T20:59:00.013-04:00

(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

2011-08-28T21:55:00.007-04:00

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.

Anticipation and Towing

2011-08-17T19:31:00.005-04:00

(This photograph summarizes of my summer. And conversely, this photograph summerizes my summary. Don't worry. It was the clown's idea to do the sorority squat. We just eagerly complied.)

Running, okay.

When my bosses asked me what I was going to do with the time between the end of my internship and the beginning of the school year, I hesitated to say “run across the Rocky Mountains tethered to another lady” because I wanted to be remembered for the way I excelled at data entry, not for the things I do in my free time. So I spoke the truth, but in a somber whisper, nodding. The result was more creepy than I intended.

Dear Diary,
It seems I’ve embarrassed myself at the office again. All of my bosses know about the rope and the 6 days of racing, and there is no time left to redeem myself. Game over.
Fondly, $abrina

At work. "Elegance does not consist in putting on a new dress." - Coco Chanel. WISE WORDS, COCO.

Tomorrow morning, I am flying out to Colorado for the GORE-TEX TransRockies Run. It’s a 6-day stage race from Buena Vista to Beaver Creek, Colorado. It will be exciting. My racing partner is Inov-8 teammate Amy Lane. She is an incredible athlete, who particularly excels on trails and in the 50K to 50-mile range. Also, she is lovely. This will be great.

The Tether

It’s called towing. You can read about it here.

Alright, I am off to finish packing, but here are some of my thoughts from today:

I made a triumphant return to Bikram Yoga because stretching is healthy and because I like to work on my anti-skills and operate outside of my realm of competence. Soon into my session last week, I started looking around the room for a clock and discovered, much to my chagrin, that they didn't have one. I was so deflated. I love to know what time it is. This reminded me the following passage from Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels, when Gulliver finds himself a giant foreigner among tiny people called the Lilliputians:

When the Lilliputians first saw Gulliver's watch, that wonderful kind of engine...a globe, half silver and half of some transparent metal, they identified it immediately as the god he worshiped. After all, he seldom did anything without consulting it: he called it his oracle, and said it pointed out the time for every action in his life.

That gives me pause. Time shouldn't be such a restraint. We should periodically disconnect and be fully present. For this reason, once each week, I run without my watch.

Okay, go. Have the best day ever. Happy running.

The Garden State. I mean it.

Thank you, Inov-8, for all of your support! This is the best.

Back on My Feet Lone Ranger 24-Hour

2011-07-18T22:46:00.008-04:00

Results:
1st woman, 2nd overall. 137.82 miles in 24 hours. PR by 6 miles. CR (over my old CR from last year) by 12 miles. And I made the All-Time North American Ultra List with that distance!

When Anne Mahlum, the Race Director, drove by me on a bicycle at hour 11.5 and asked me how I was doing, I didn’t know what to say because my reality proper consisted in binaries. I was exhausted but caffeinated. I was dirty, but on the inside I felt clean. I was suffering intensely but probably on the same emotional plane that I might be spinning in a sundress in a field of daisies. My legs felt like cars had struck them, but moment-to-moment, I was detached from the immediacy of that pain. I was somewhere afloat in the noumenon with Kant.

Ah, the poetry of the ultramarathon.

I didn’t say these things to Anne. Instead, I said, “I’m okay probably.” I gave her a thumbs up/finger point combo, while expressing consternation with my eyebrows, and that seemed right.

(One year ago. I was such a child. I remember those days fondly.)

Last year at the pre-race medical check-in, the doctor took my vitals, then shook me and asked if I was awake. This year, he checked my pulse, rechecked it, looked bemused by my body temperature, and then asked if I was alive.

I said yes.

He said no.

Apparently, he had been trying to count the number of breaths I had taken since sitting in the medical chair, and I hadn’t breathed yet. My pulse was slow, but it always is. The whole occasion was curious because I felt so alive at that moment, sitting there on the edge of my favorite environment, a race site, where Gatorade and spandex abound. My heart was fluttering, I think, but he couldn’t track it. I think if you move from "asleep" to "not alive," then that means you've improved your fitness...up to a point, that is, when the opposite becomes true.

The Lone Ranger 24-Hour Run is an incredible event. Last year, I enjoyed the excitement of the occasion and the Michael Buble playing on the backstretch of the course, (admittedly. I will admit that.) I knew I’d be back, and this year, it would be an A-race, meaning I would do focused training and build up for it. So technically, I had only spent a 24-hour span of my life on the course, but I’ve revisited it so many times in my dreams that I knew it more fully, like 24.5 hours worth of course knowledge. (Dreams are short, actually.)

(Pre-race, I chug literature as much as I chug Gatorade because it's good to have something to think about other than running when you're running.)

The car ride from DC to Philadelphia was hilarious and wonderful because those are adjectives that describe my co-passengers, Tala and Nathan. I have the best friends in the world. Carrie, Lauren, Kim, Nathan, and Tala not only gave up their weekends to watch me run but also took care of a lot of the planning. I was able to share this part of my life with them! When I sent them a Details and Logistics email thanking them for joining me “on this metaphysical journey into the cosmos,” they decided to take over the practical aspects of planning.

(My crew: Nathan, Tala, Lauren, Kim, and Carrie. BEST CREW EVER.)

I was VERY excited to run, though not in a camp counselor way—more like in a phlegmatic, placid, anticipatory way—smiling on the inside. And I altogether couldn’t decide if I was enthused about the adventure before me or if I was just chipper in general over the amount of Justin Bieber they let me sing along to on the way over.

Race morning came! I sought out Anna Piskorska in the starting area. Have I mentioned she’s awesome? She is awesome.

We hugged, wished each other luck, and were off. FOR A DAY. Twenty-four-hour runs are simple in concept but difficult in execution. This training season was very strong, with 5 peak weeks at over 150 miles/week, so I knew one of two things would happen:

1. I would do well and be happy.
2. Something awful would happen to me.

Both 1 and 2 occurred, actually. But I landed more on the happier than the awful side.

All was going well for hours. I was jubilant and just taking it all in. People kept giving me sweet, feminine nicknames, like "Monster Child," "Beast," "MorANIMAL," and, my personal favorite: "Freak of Nature."

No, I have changed my mind. My favorite thing was when they yelled, "Oh, wow! You're the FIRST LADY!" And I would say, "Aw, yes. It seems I have been confused with Michelle Obama again." This happens all the time. Every time I am winning a race, people think I am married to the president.

Then my stomach went south. And suddenly, I was 13 hours into the race, doing what the yoga people like to call “Savasana,” but that I like to call “prostrate abject failure.”

(Here is a cat I found on the internet, demonstrating. Apparently its name is "Sweet Tater Cat." You're welcome.)

Things eventually corrected themselves. I just got sick for several hours and lost momentum. It was awful, but it happens. I threw up on the bushes! And I wasn’t alone. It was quite the occasion out there on those bushes. This is acid deposition, and the plants will die. I don’t know what happened to everyone else, but I know I got sick because I am not used to eating so much processed food—Gu’s and such things. But I have learned. I wished for a nice spinach salad of pure, unadulterated lettuce.

Twenty-one hours in, I got the record and held a pow-wow with my crew. Rockstar Phil McCarthy joined. I considered being done, leaving room for myself to easily beat myself next year to re-secure the cash bonus, but Phil recommended I pound it out to see what I could do. I went out again, finishing the day with 137.82 miles. Thank you for being a great friend, Phil.

Also, thanks to Inov-8 for equipping me in excellent clothes and sneakers. I spent a great deal of time in my Road X-233s and loved them--strong and supportive--much like my team. I wanted to run for Inov-8 because I love those shoes, but in joining, I also got a family of runners and friends. I love my team. Also, thanks DryMax for the awesome socks! This is the first summer ultra where my feet have come out unbattered. It is actually remarkable.

Mom, Dad: I just confused you guys for buttons. Why? Because you're as cute as them. You're as cute as buttons!

Serge and I are collecting our plaques. Awesome job, Serge.

Fast forward to the real world now:
Today at work, I was washing dishes in the bathroom with my co-interns, and I volunteered to be the bouncer to keep people outside. "What are you going to do?" one scoffed. "Run at them? ... For a day?" Maybe. I don't know. Sometimes, I'm in the grocery store, and I think that if anyone were to challenge me to a game of freeze tag, I might win. I'm beginning to feel more like an athlete, rather than just a philosopher in spandex. The world is opening up before me!

Congratulations, everyone! Great day, you guys. I truly enjoyed meeting all of you. I hope you reached your goals and are recovering well.

Sophie's Death March

2011-07-03T14:01:00.002-04:00

SUMMER FEELS AWESOME.

When my boss asked me what I was doing this weekend, I hesitated to say “Death March” because it sounds so final, and I have several outstanding office assignments to complete. Nobody else can do them except for me. It takes a special girl to enter data. I’m going to go ahead and say that I am the only one capable of data entry. Some people say chimps, too, yes. But that’s likely because they’ve never met a chimp. Or me. No chimp, even the most skilled chimp on the planet, could perform data entry with comparable enthusiasm and vigor.

So I told her I was doing a Death March but that I am not actively seeking a premature demise or anything; it’s just a cute little nickname. If I were to name a run, I would call it something like “Runnity Run Lalala Mountain Bippity Bop,” which is why they never ask me to name things.

Dear Diary,
It seems I’ve embarrassed myself at the office again. My boss thinks I may be dying, proactively and pre-meditatively, over Fourth of July weekend and that I’m not going to finish inputting my data. This is probably less embarrassing than the day she found me dancing at the fax machine.
Love and Fondness,
$abrina

I left the DC area at 4:30 in the morning because I figured I’d get lost, and I did. Anticipate and account for my flaws—Check. GPS units are pernicious to society because they give you an order like “turn left,” but you have to wait two miles to obey. “Turn left in two miles.” Obedience should be immediate, like it was in the old days. So I ended up on the far side of the mountain at a gas station, and an affable older gentleman in a jean jacket sent me in the correct direction. I made it.

The group Sophie assembled was huge, 40 or more. It was exciting to see a lot of familiar faces and catch up briefly before we were off. I trotted up front with Neil Gorman and Ragan Petrie (both of WUS!) and a few others. It is important to, at all times, be fit enough to run up front because there is the highest likelihood of encountering a bear. We did get lost for a bit, though, and got in some extra credit miles. It felt good, as extra credit often does. When we re-passed a group, they sassed us and called us lazy. I love the VHTRC.

As we ascended the first set of inclines, Neil scolded me for running with my head down and reminded me to look around. His reminder changed the rest of the run for me. The higher we climbed, the more magnificent the waterfalls. We scurried over boulders, across creeks, and through single-track footpaths of verdant profusion. Some might call certain areas of the trails bucolic or pastoral, Bobby Gill. We climbed mountains and overlooked the entire world, it seemed. I felt adequately re-contextualized within my environs. Living in DC, you start to think that you are big and important, but you're NOT. Just kidding. But on the mountains, you feel small and lose track of your personal affinities and agendas. You are just wholly present, taking it all in.

The day was clear and temperate; it never grew too hot. The trees provided us with shade and respite, but every time we reached a clearing, we were flooded with a resplendence of white light.

Resplendence is on the list of words I am not allowed to use in my blog. My blog editor/little brother wrote down several words I have used too much—i.e. resplendence, obfuscation, salubrious—and banned me from using them because he says they are my comfort words. But in this case, it’s the only word that fits. Deal with it, Teddy Moran!

*Upon editing, Teddy just notified me that I forgot “unadulterated” on my list of banned words. “But maybe that's because you wanted to continue using it in your blog, pretending it's not a comfort word,” he said. So restrictive. I am now accepting applications for a new blog editor with a greater allowance for repetitive diction.

You're fired, Teddy. You and your bear can leave. What do you know?

In the quiet moments, I rewrote the lyrics to Beyoncé’s “Halo” song. “Baby, I can see your Hegel.” Because sometimes you’re on the dance floor up in the club, and you want a more substantive lyric, something with richer content. So you’re dancing and ask, “What is that feeling pulsing through my body? It is the stereo?” NO. It’s edification. And it is altogether the best feeling in the world.

So I was thinking pretty hard about the Beyoncé song, and in my inattention, I wiped out on a root. I cut both of my knees, really only superficial abrasions, but there was a lot of blood. As I ran by people, they clasped their hands over their mouths and gasped. Ragan told me to clean it off in the river, but I decided it wasn’t worth stopping. There were only 6 miles left. Furthermore, every trail run includes falling. Recall the middle-finger-to-the-world hand blood incident on New Year's Day and the how-did-those-rocks-get-into-my-sports-bra? misadventure in May.

Also of note: I ate a Gu! It was the first of my life. Gross. Gu’s are basically sugary, caffeinated gelatinous amalgams that dehumanize you upon consumption because they’re not real food. That being said, I will eat them every run for the rest of my life now because they are portable and have a high assimilation efficiency. Right away, you feel better.

Okay, go! I have to get some faster miles in today. Tomorrow, I may do Gary's Browntown Loop. "Chances of a bear sighting are 58% - if blackberries are ripe along Mt. Marshall Trail the odds bump up to 84%." Okay, awesome. And then my BOMF taper starts! Ahhh!!! It's my first A-race of the year. Thanks again, Sophie Speidel for organizing yesterday's trail run. It was a ton of fun.

(Two weeks away from BOMF 24-Hour run. I could not be more excited. I feel strong and healthy, and I've put in more high-quality distance sessions this year. It will be fun to see my Philly running family again!)

Whatever you do, GO BIG. Happy trails.

Your brain on an ipod

2011-06-12T22:29:00.007-04:00

Bonding with my coworkers.
Fun fact: David Little never smiles with his teeth. It's because he doesn't have any.

There are two types of people in this world:
1-those who bite into a whole apple, and
2-those who cut up an apple before they eat it.

Oh, 3 groups. David Little can only eat apple sauce.

The first group--the Goethes--see things as coherent wholes. The second group--the Democrituses--break things down into their constituent components.

The same is true of ultramarathoners. Some people start 100-milers with pacing guides, split goals, and a run-from-aid-station-to-aid-station mentality. Others appreciate the integrity of the undissected occasion. Neither group is better. If you can run 100 miles, then I think you're a stud. I am in the second group. I like the bigness of a thing. I like when adventures are so huge it's hard to wrap my imagination around them. But recently, my training has become Democritian. I am running more intervals, speedwork, and hill repeats. I take things one at a time, and I think it's working. I am also doubling every day. I wish I had felt this strong when I was attempting to race 50Ks earlier this year. 24-hour events require more consistency than raw speed. I also wish training in New Haven weren't such HECK. I love Virginia.

But what I'm really writing to say is that your brain is in danger.

Last year, my professor told our class that a man was struck by an airplane while he was running because he was listening to an ipod and didn't notice the plane plummeting down from the sky. Everybody immediately turned to me--the token runner--and frowned, in a group sigh seeming to communicate "YOU'RE NEXT." My fate is sealed to death by an airplane.

I had a few questions, like:
1-Wasn't there a breeze from its descent?
2-Did the sky darken above him?
3-How loud was his music?

But I will never die by airplane because I do not run with an ipod.

Our culture has a serious issue with always needing to be mediated. We are disinclined to unplug ourselves and detach from noise, but we need silence. Our brains require it.

Silence is when your memories are strengthened and consolidated. Memories, technically speaking, are pathways of interconnected neurons, or Hebbian synaptical loops. The more you retrace a pathway, the more it is solidified as an indurate retrievable item. Memory is subcortical, and sensory stimulation is superficial. The significance of this is that the primacy of sensible immediacy precludes depth of processing. So if you are listening to things or visually engaged, and you are wholly captured by those senses, you are less able to traverse Hebbian pathways, and your memories dissipate prior to crystallization.

I do appreciate that this is dense material. Thankfully, I speak two languages: English (Academic) and English (Thug). So here is the digested, thug version of the above: Be quiet, yo, cuz if you don’t, yo’ brain aint gonna have nothin’ in it. Dat’s what’s up. Or in the words of Eminem to Rihanna: “I can’t tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like.” This is because his sensory stimulation is primary and is precluding his data retention. Or, at least that is how I interpreted the song.

Furthermore, our need to incessantly listen to music is resulting in an elevated dysthymia. By this I mean it is more difficult to feel happy. For example, running is a positive reinforcement. It results in the production of endogenous morphine, or endorphins. Music has the same effect. The coupling of the two reinforcements diminishes the reinforcement of each item on its own. So if you lose your ipod and cannot listen to music one day while training, the run will be less enjoyable than it would have been otherwise. Many races have a No Ipod Policy. Do you want to start a race already enjoying the event less than your competition? No way, no way.

And perhaps most importantly, I think it is a valuable thing to unplug and spend time alone with your thoughts. It is weird that we think we need entertainment, and I think you forfeit a lot of your individual agency if you keep listening to other people's lyrics, rather than your own thoughts. Don't run with an ipod. Or if you must, turn off the sound.

In other news, there is a giant rat on the street near my office. It is like Godzilla.

It's the simple things that make life exciting.

Happy running! Have a great week.

The Sophenator et al

2011-05-30T17:57:00.001-04:00

(pictures from Sophie and Jenny)

The Sophenator is an all-star, and she assembled a large group to go run around Sugar Hollow, near Charlottesville, Virginia on Saturday. I loved the people who showed up: Sophie, my bros (Marlin and Q), big-time smilers (Gary and Jenny), the VHTRGs (Gentry and Griffin), WUS’s Corris duo, and others. Harry Landers was the namesake of the run, which was dubbed the Harry Landers Special Memorial Run in honor of his intrepid feat of manliness last year—when he broke his collarbone but continued to run.

To arrive on time, I woke up at 3 a.m., which is about as yesterday as today can be without having to reference today as tomorrow. It felt early. The weird thing about this was that a bunch of people were still out and about, continuing their yesterdays, and I was starting my today. It was as though we were living in different time zones while occupying the same sphere. This only magnified the surreality of the occasion.

I picked up Austin from D.C., and we drove south. Austin has joined other runs before—crewing/pacing me through Old Dominion last year and driving down for one of these group runs last summer. We’ve been friends for half of my life, the better half. Not because of his presence in it but because nothing important happens in the first twelve years of life. You just learn how to walk and talk and practice using silverware correctly so that you will not embarrass your parents when you eat in public. The greatest preoccupation of my younger life—ages 0 to 12—was whether or not my teeth could get sunburned if I smiled outdoors. I was certain they would. Then I’d have a mouthful of tan teeth, and that’s a horror. I told my second grade class this, and everyone stopped smiling during recess. Our teacher had to intervene and tell us that we do not, in fact, have melanin in our teeth. Then I turned thirteen and was instantly mature and understood teeth and silverware. That’s when I met Austin in gym class.

We arrived and talked. Sophie gave us maps, but if I could read a map or do other practical things, I wouldn’t be working on a degree in Philosophy. My family reminds me of this every time I use the words "Chicago" and "Boston" as synonyms. Then she warned us about bears. She said it was a high bear-density area and used some synonym for “vicious” to describe them. To my left, Jenny was talking about a snake of anaconda proportions that had approached her in a swimming hole in the forest. I wasn’t nervous or anything, though.

The run was ugly and lame because of the sunshine and excessive floral and faunal comeliness. Sickening. Every time we saw a scenic vista, I gagged and squinted so I wouldn’t have to look at any of it. I held my breath when I smelled flowers. There were just way too many flowers. I was so over it.

But just kidding. It was the best day ever. We ran through streams and up the mountains. I was thankful for my sneaker choice—Inov-8 F-lite 230s. They dried almost instantly, performed well on the rocky trails, and were light and comfortable. I ran up front in a pack with Austin, Steve, Christian, Joey, and Mike. It was actually comical how academically-motivated that little crew was. Law, Immunology, Medicine, Public Policy, and Neuroscience. As we each embodied our respective disciplines, we engaged in intellectual synthesis all morning on those trails. It felt like the Enlightenment. But in the quieter moments, I reflected on how I would fight off a bear.

We got to the swimming hole and tarried until more of the group caught up. The boys and Sophie were fearless and jumped right in. Jenny and I did a countdown and submerged ourselves together. It was freezing but functionally alleviative. Our joints benefited from the ice water. Off we ran, passing hikers and wanderers. It was a beautiful day.

(Jenny, Marlin, and me. Wet t-shirt contest. Marlin won.)

I am in the midst of a Runaissance, a rebirth of running in my life. Virginia is my favorite place in the world. I am loving this sport all over again, as though I am only just beginning this journey. Well, I am, kind of. I'm not an old lady. For now, I am focusing my attention on timed races, specifically 24-hour runs, but it is in my 2-year plan to run a couple more 48-hours because I'd like to see how far I can push myself there. I've moved a lot of my training over to pavement to equip my legs, and I'm doing more pace work and strength training. Running in the mountains felt excellent, however. I miss that.

(Mountain Marlin...Marlin the Sherpa)

When I finished the run, my shirt had blood all over it from a fall. The boys said it was awesome and wanted to see the gash. I couldn’t show them because the source of blood was from rocks that got into my sports bra. Igneous rocks. Note to all girls: It’s your prerogative if you want to stuff your bra, but if you do, don’t use gravel.

Austin and I drove off, back up to DC. Then I went to my friend’s wedding and danced with the mechanized exuberance of a Type A kindergartener. If you dance with a huge smile, nobody will question the quality of your moves.

I wish I could go back to the forest and train there everyday. Doing these runs is about as satiating as eating a lot of Pixy Stix. You’re satisfied for a few minutes, but in their wake, your hunger is even greater. I think in the future, I’m going to have to live in the mountains.

3 Days at the Fair: 48-Hour

2011-05-15T22:23:00.005-04:00

(laughing at "Everything hurts except my injury.")

First of all, BIG congrats to all racers this weekend, both at 3 Days and beyond. There were so many events going on. My heart was with you MassaNUTS, running the trails in George Washington National Park. What a fun weekend to be an ultrarunner!

Race results:
1st woman, 3rd overall for the 48-hour event
(172.4178 miles total, 131 coming from day one)

(Literally, the last 8 times I've been in a newspaper, I've worn THESE, my favorite pants.)

I like long races, and I like timed circle events. My focus for 2011 is the 24-hour, so the 48-hour race option at the NJ Trail Series’ “3 Days at the Fair” provided a unique opportunity for some over-distance training. I hoped to kick it hard the first day to test my 24-hour fitness and then hang on FTW (for the win) for the 48-hour if possible. Ultimately, this is what happened, but it was sloppier than that and involved more suffering. Excuse me, I mean “edification.” It involved a lot of edification.

Whenever someone asked me what my goal was, I gave a conservative offering because I didn’t know how my body would respond. I still don’t know, in the form of any principle of generalizability. There are so many unique factors per 48-hour time period that it is difficult to know—even in broad strokes—what will happen. Looking at the entrants list, I knew there were several big guns present. I expected them to run evenly-paced races and wanted to hang back with them but knew I had to run my own race. I know that sleep deprivation is excessively demoralizing for me, so I translated my early enthusiasm into big mileage, crossing my first 100 miles in 16 hours, 53 minutes. This included a few sneaker changes, leg rollouts with “the stick,” and attention to nutrition and hydration. It felt light and casual, which was appropriate.

At around mile 120, my stomach rebelled, similar maybe to the incident in Steinbeck’s esteemed project, The Grapes of Wrath, when Winfield eats too many peaches. I finished off the day with another 11, wrapping up 131 miles. This is an encouraging sum because it all seemed fairly mellow, particularly the latter half, when I inculcated more breaks into the run in anticipation of day two. I feel confident about where I’m at for the 24.

At around that time, I met up with Deb again. We were both in pain, but that was to be expected. In these races, suffering is a ubiquitous state of affairs. So either be an encouragement, or say nothing at all. Do no harm. That’s in the Hippocratic Oath.

(Early the 2nd night.) If I had to pick one person to run a paved 0.88-mile loop with for two days, I'd pick YOU all over again, Debbie Horn.

The course was punishing in its small, paved circle with gravel kind of way. My stomach was worsening. I hadn’t eaten in a while, meaning my blood sugar was off, and my eyes played tricks on me. I thought I saw a pile of cats—one body, lots of heads—along the posterior of the course, but when I ran over top of them, they dissipated.

Heading back through my crew area, I laid down for a bit, hoping everything would correct itself. Nothing changed, but the pavement-pounding from day one reverberated through my legs. I made the decision to leave, telling RD Rick and a few friends I would return as soon as I could keep food down.

At home, I waited. Just before 5, I wandered into the kitchen. My cat strided in and rubbed up against my leg. “I don’t even know if you’re real or if you’re a hallucination like the other cats,” I said. “Smokey, tell me. With your feline insight, what’s the feasibility of there being a multi-headed dissipating cat?” Then I ate, and all was well! I returned to the fairgrounds, alit with joy. Hark! I bring you good tidings of great joy. There is a world outside of this paved circle, but this world here is better. It was like an inversion of Plato's "Allegory of the Cave." I lost 8 full hours of running, which was not ideal. Rule number one in a multi-day: Ideal doesn’t happen.

Forty-one more miles occurred. I would expound if I remembered them. There was rain, and I think at some point the McNulty children were dressed in costumes. Rick and Jennifer McNulty are the race directors for the NJ Trail Series events. They are runners themselves and are incredibly kind and attentive to their racers. They kept everyone fed and laughing. Their children camped out with us all weekend, and they are intelligent and splendid. Splendid!

Hug from sweet Anna. She won the 24-hour.

The race ended well. Admittedly, I got the giggles. I was running with Bill Gentry. Partial laps are not counted, but we wanted two more...Who even knows why? So we started sprinting. Bill is fast. I was hanging on with all I had, mumbling, "Oh, my gahhhh. Adrenal fatigue." The people were cheering at us loudly, but I felt so far away, like I was outside of myself watching it happen. As we sprinted, I peeked to my left. The young McNulty daughter was dressed as the Grim Reaper, just standing there, observing us.

Female Whiner. I mean Winner.

I am writing this blog in the kitchen, eating everybody's food. What a fun weekend. Thanks for crewing, Mom and Dad. Congratulations, everyone! Now I feel a bit more like this girl: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qR3rK0kZFkg

48 hours in MY COUNTY!!

2011-05-10T09:40:00.002-04:00

(So happy the school year is over, and I am reunited with my dog)

True Confessions: I always think my car’s butt is bigger than it is and leave extra room for it when I pull into a parking spot. What does this say about me? Poor car body image? Vehicular Body Dysmorphia (VBD).

VBD is a disease I just invented. I’m going to patent it as soon as I figure out if I need to do that through the CDC (Center for Disease Control) or the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles).

Primary symptom: If you maintain an irrational belief that you have a big car butt, a badunka-trunk, in spite of evidence to the contrary.

Literally, I am going to read this in about a month and be so embarrassed of myself.

At the gym on Wednesday, I watched a boy fall asleep on a treadmill. He flipped off and face-planted on the moving tread, while dozens of students looked on in breathless horror. It was final exam period, and I knew I was about one gulp of coffee away from doing the same. The boy, whom I’d like to call Victor, for victory, leaped to his feet and resumed his running, playing it off like nothing had even happened, the way a squirrel does when it falls out of a tree. Everyone around him breathed again, sighs of relief. If there is extra oxygen in the troposphere today, it is because of the dozens of students at P-W Gym who ceased to breathe for 15 seconds. Let the record show.

But anyway, watching this boy FALL ASLEEP WHILE RUNNING struck me because, in the story of my life, it might offer a bit of foreshadowing.

On Friday, I am doing the tautologous complement of this statement:

“I am running for 48 hours.”

A tautology is when a=a.

If I had been the one to invent logical syllogisms, I wouldn’t have called it a “tautology.” I would have called it “nothing to see here, people.” Because a is obviously a; it’s not even worth saying.

So if a is “I am running for 48 hours,” then its complement is “I am running for 48 hours.” And then you think, well how is this a logical syllogism if you arrive at a conclusion that does not seem to be in any way logical? Nobody runs for 48 hours.

But people do. I googled it. And there is an opportunity to try it in MY HOME COUNTY—Sussex, New Jersey—this weekend. I have to run it. It’s too big to wrap my imagination around. It will be edifying.

The race is a little steep, and I don’t mean topographically but rather monetarily, so I am imagining that I am going somewhere exotic, instead of the 0.8ish-mile loop 20 minutes away from my home that I will run for 2 days…Man, when I say it like that it sounds SO fun.

I’m excited for my runner friends to meet the bovine lineages of Sussex—the cows whose forefathers watched me run in my youth. And that smell? It’s the anaerobic decomposition of corn. It will grow on you. And remain in your clothing.

(Mad cow: an exemplar)

Here is my race plan:
Don’t get greedy with the miles early on. Pace myself.
Eat before I’m hungry.
Drink before I’m thirsty.
Think about what I’m doing as little as possible.

(Here I am, running alongside the same course in late high school during a Cross Country meet. Rocking the shorts over spandex look, alriiiiiight.)

The other day, I went running with my 9-year-old nephew. We went for an easy 20 minutes, and, though he did a spectacular job and I was very proud of him, I think he was disappointed that he didn’t last longer.

Reflecting upon the run, my dad offered some insight. “Little kids cannot accurately perceive their limits. They think they can run all the way to California.”

That statement gave me pause because I often think I could run all the way to California, and I’d like to do that sometime. And you know, with the 48-hour run starting on Friday, I wondered what level of interpretation I should read that statement. What are you trying to say to me, Dad? I like that kids think they can run forever, and I’d like to hold onto that a bit longer and keep trying to do so. I don’t ever want to be someone’s limiting factor—imputing my mature sensibilities into their ambitions, telling them they can’t do what they think they can. Because maybe they can. The reason I first ran a 100 was because I thought I could, and nobody told me I couldn’t.

But without a doubt, this run will be a humbling experience.

Welcome to my town, y’all! We’re going to have a great time.

Tornado Miles in Hampton

2011-04-17T21:34:00.008-04:00

“Jay, hi. Do you have a floor?” I called my friend Jay in a flurry of exhaustion.

“Miss Moran, it is past your bedtime.” [It was 9:20 p.m.] “And yes, I have a floor.”

“Okay because I was just running and was going to keep running and then there was this tomato thing…tornado, oops. So I stopped and need to sleep, like on a floor.”

Jay was unphased, because he’s my friend and he just gets me. For some people, I’d probably have to explain, “Yeah, I was running for 83 miles because I needed to train, and then there were tornadoes. And I go to sleep at 9:15 p.m.” But Jay already knows these things, and he didn’t find any of this unusual. I slept on his couch, and left at sunrise. But before this happened, a bunch of things occurred.

A couple of months ago, Shannon McGinn sent me a facebook message asking if I would like to join her relay team this weekend at the Happy Pace Race 24-Hour Run in Sandy Bottom Nature Park in Hampton, Virginia. She thought we could easily break the team record, and—at only 553 miles—I agreed. I needed a low-key build-up run around this time, and it’s tough to convince yourself to go for a 75-mile run on your own. So I signed up, and it went like this:

“Nine ten!” I sang out my bib number as I approached the finish line attendants. I was about 30 miles into the race at that point, reporting my lap completion. Up until that point, I wore a cotton tee, but as I finished this lap, I pulled it over my head to exchange it for a technical tee. I was covered in dirt and inchworms and could taste my red Powerade mustache. “I’m pretty,” I said and bounded into the team tent.

“Guess what!” I found Charles West, our crew captain. “My first marathon was a Boston qualifier, in honor of Boston Marathon weekend.” He laughed and told me I should eat. Shot Bloks and Powerade, check check.

Passing through the aid station, I grabbed a Nuun tablet and some water. I bit one-third of the tablet and took a swig of water, just as I passed a group of boys about my age. I smiled, and foam erupted from my face. I will say this: Never put an ENTIRE Nuun tab into your mouth because you’d probably end up with a cleft palate. They're supposed to be mixed with water. “Oh, great,” I thought. “I am foaming at the mouth, and now everybody is going to think I have rabies.”

I got a second wind, just as a cold front entered and the winds picked up. So much wind took place. It’s like my inner life was written into the structure of the troposphere. I felt confident in my strength. I have been in the weight room a lot lately, and a strong however makes a difference. “However” is a euphemism for “butt.” You’re welcome.

Hours passed, and the runners quieted in introspection. I ran by a couple (holding hands! cute!) and the man nodded toward me, “This girl is unreal.” Probably this was meant as a compliment, but I had been inside my head for so long that it launched an existential crisis. Oh, my gosh. What if he’s right, and I’m not real? There’d be no way of knowing…

When I got into the 70s, sleepy tiredness overwhelmed me. Shannon happened upon me in a root-filled back-stretch of the trail. She asked me if I needed anything. "I'm dreaming of ice coffee," I muttered.

Shannon is an art therapist. I think she's good with emotions. She smiled, affirming my discomfort. "Why is it that...you feel you need ice hockey?" I laughed and enunciated, and a lap later I was chugging an ice coffee, which we had at our aid station! Score! I gulped the coffee, pouring it down my face and shirt as I drank, like a Corporate America version of a Gatorade commercial.

Then the storms came. The course was surrounded on either side by bodies of water and several open field areas, which became flooded. Lightening flashed repeatedly, punctuating the obscurity of nightfall. It was terrifying. On the far side of the course, I approached a glowing phantasm. It was a woman, hiding with her headlamp inside of a pale pink poncho and walking slowly...in the wrong direction. "Come on!" I called, when I figured out she was a human. "This is not safe." The race course was temporarily closed due to lightening and tornadoes touching down in the area.

Inside the weather shelter, Team Awesome tallied our miles and found out we had achieved our goal! We already had the record, 13 hours in, and finished the day with 813.25 miles. With the goal secured and no real individual investment outside of the team record, most of us headed off. Shannon stayed behind and ran, finishing in 83.5 miles. I was later surprised to hear my 83-miler landed me 2nd woman among the 24-hour field. Honestly, what a cool day. Thanks so much to George Nelsen, the RD. It was a fun, well-organized, low-key perfect day. And way to go Team Awesome! :)

(I love this photo. RD George is beckoning us forth to run.)

Time Out: Hamster Wheeling.

2011-04-14T14:24:00.003-04:00

Psychologists often draw a distinction between two people going for a walk together, versus two people walking side-by-side in the same direction. In the first case, there is shared intentionality. In the second case, there is vacant simultaneity. I think about this when I'm on the elliptical next to non-runners, or really, doing any sort of focused training alongside non-competitive athletes. Their pursuits, often analogous in form, differ in telos. Because in the same act, we have different motivations.

Basically, what I'm saying is I miss running with shared intentionality. I need more ultrarunners in my life.

This weekend, I am traveling down to Virginia to run in the Happy Pace Race 24-Hour Ultra Relay. I am SO EXCITED about the ultra-bonding. It is supposed to rain. Bring it. Bring the rain.

The Happy Pace Race is held on a 5K loop course in the Virginia hardwood forests of Hampton, Virginia. The course is flat and about as untechnical as running across your living room. You just run loops for a day. It's like voluntary hamster-wheeling. BRAIN: DISENGAGE. This is so exciting.

I ran it last year for a casual 60-mile long run with periodic fartleks in my mileage rebuild between Umstead and Old Dominion. It went like this. But this year, I'm running as a part of a relay.

Our team is awesome. Literally. Our appellation is "Team Awesome." I did not name us. I'd rather we be called Team Humble and let the other people evaluate us. In high school, I competed on a quadrathlon team called Team Amazingly Good-Looking, and I worried that the people would judge our aesthetics, rather than our performance. The most beautiful quality in a person is humility. The second most beautiful is monster quads.

(No, wrong. Not that kind of quad. I'm talking about leg quads: monstrous leg quads.)

I am especially excited about how this race fits into my upward build toward the summer races.

Last year, my race distances went like this:

(Big guy, medium guy, big guy, big guy, little guy, big guys)

This year, I'm racing like this:

(Little guy, little guy, little guy, medium guy, big guy, big guy, big guy...medium guy)

It is sort of a crescendo. I have lots of little guys early on to grow in racing confidence without burning out. The year will end (if all goes well) on Masochist to try to get a Western States bid again.

Okay, GO. Have a great week, and good luck to everyone racing Boston this weekend!

Babooshka Monday

2011-04-02T13:53:00.000-04:00

Here is an argument for heightened focus in athletics, as depicted by a real incident in my life. (Thanks for capturing this, Anna.)

I was a camp counselor for three summers. It was the best time of my life. On Babooshka Monday (a holiday we invented), my friend Liz and I were singing Fiddler on the Roof out the door of the cabin.

The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day, and we had 15 minutes free before dinner. Liz challenged me to a tetherball match.

1. The match begins.

2. The volley.

3. The distraction.

4. Struck in the face!

5. The apology hug.

Have a very nice day. Please remember to focus.

Baby's First Bikram Yoga

2011-03-12T16:33:00.006-05:00

Let's Hang Out. Oops, nope. I have to go to yoga. Oh, Bikram yoga. For most of my life, I have avoided you because:

(basically me and my new friends)

1. I don’t like to stretch.
2. I have a hard time thinking you can do anything proactive in your life while just wiggling around in place.
3. My hips don’t move. Or they move just as well as a middle schooler in gym class when you’re coerced into square-dancing and don’t want to interact with the boy you were assigned to, so you just wobble around and barely let him touch your hands during promenade. Life-long trauma. (This is why I can never be Beyoncé.)
4. If we were supposed to be upside-down doing toe-touches all the time, we would have our faces upside-down on our heads, so we could still ward off predators.

(I found this on google images. Thanks, America, for being so weird that you saved me the time of having to transpose a face upside-down on a head.)

5. Yoga reminds me of fermented bacteria. Probably because it sounds like yogurt. Ohhhh. Okay. I just figured that out. Oh, my gosh. Breakthrough.

But everybody keeps talking about it. Yoga-doers (yogis? yogurts?) are evangelists for their sport. I mean it. They just talk about its virtues all the time until you believe them. And then you are struck with such profound cognitive dissonance because you believe yoga is the best thing in the whole world and yet have never actually done it. So you start doing yoga in your room using the online yoga channel. But the online yogi definitely enjoys listening to his own voice and keeps talking and talking so that it becomes obvious why it’s free, and then you catch yourself checking your email during the dead body pose. It’s all over then because you’re supposed to NEVER check your email during yoga. Rule number one, they say: Never check your email. Rule two: No snot rockets.

You're welcome, trail runners. (My mom hates when I write the words “snot rockets,” so I try to include that in every entry. Teenage rebellion, I guess, except I never rebelled in my teens. Wayyyy too busy doing homework.)

Then, one day, a Groupon arrives in your inbox saying you can do Bikram yoga for a whole month for $30. (This is unreal.) So you do it.

At my first class, I sat right next to the heater because somebody had to sit there. I’d rather I be the one having the biggest suffer fest to maximize edification. Plus, I wish all of life were held in a sauna.

Then the yoga instructor got us into this pose-thing [a technical term] and said, “This is bringing rapid oxidation to your brain. It’s going to make you smarter.” And well, I’m already smart enough to know that her statement was false because it was during a slow twitch posture—lots of mitochondria and myoglobin, therefore slow oxidation—but still, that’s the most seductive thing she could have said about Bikram, and maybe I’ll stay for life. Seductive. This is the first and the last time I will ever use that word in my blog. Why? It's rarely applicable.

So anyway, the room was full of Yalies who perked up just then, drooling about increasing their brain efficiency. The yoga instructor definitely knew her audience. And I held that pose for an extra couple seconds because I am competitive and wanted the biggest brain. The girl to my left did the same thing; I watched her. And she watched me. Brain envy. This is real.

Thinking about your own brain is a little nuts. Once you start analyzing its processes, you stop thinking and start thinking about thinking (meta-cognition), like Hegel—when you turn your lens in on itself. It’s like when you tell yourself not to look at your nose, and then all you can see is your nose, everywhere you look. And now I’m looking at my nose. Awesome. And now I’m thinking about my brain. Terrific.

(Savasana--Dead Man Pose. I naturally assume this posture after a 24-hour run. Does that make me a yoga expert? Probably.)

I had several other reservations about yoga. It is only held at awkward times in the day, and it requires so much stuff! You have to get a mat, bring two towels, a water bottle, and clothes for after. And you do Bikram in short-shorts and a sports bra! So I was like, "Heck no am I going to wear that to yoga. It's so revealing. I will save those clothes for the privacy of my own..............long runs in the forest and sprinting through traffic, while dodging pedestrians." You have to draw the line somewhere.

In conclusion, I think we all learned something here today. Yoga is related to yogurt not at all, or at least only to the extent that pilates pertains to pirates.

But this is a new journey that I’m on. I think yoga will make me stronger and less likely to get injured as I add training volume. I would love to hear your opinions on this. Is yoga actually good for running, or is it all in everybody’s heads? In reality, I find that the thing that most improves my running is...wait for it...wait for it...RUNNING. I will keep you updated. I will be a yoga spy runner.

(This has nothing to do with yoga, but I'm going home to New Jersey next week to go run, hike, and camp. Furthermore, I'm going to be an artist if Philosophy doesn't work out. Here is my first artistic sample to share with the world. More to come.)

2011 USA 50 km Championships: Caumsett

2011-03-06T21:55:00.004-05:00

The 50K National Championship was held at Caumsett State Park in Lloyd Harbor, NY. It was beautiful. The course looked like Holmdel Park—-for all the NJ XC runners out there—-except it was flatter. So if Holmdel were made of butter and somebody took a blow dryer to it for half an hour so that it melted a little, then that’s what the course looked like. It was all pavement, ten 5K repeats. The day started at about 50 degrees with the promise of rain, and IT KEPT ITS PROMISE. My clothes clung to me like Saran Wrap to raw chicken.

Hold on, I need to brush my teeth.

Okay, go.

So the past two weeks have been nuts with schoolwork. I was so mentally exhausted that I decided it would be better to disengage, to pick a pace and cruise control, and to fill my head with somebody else’s thoughts, namely Plato’s. So I sat under a tree the hour before the race and read Ashbaugh’s “A Study of the Cosmological Account in the Timaeus.” Mental exhaustion is a terrible way to run. Because you’re not strong enough to push through the rough moments. The whole morning, I was a bottom-dweller, a suckerfish, a detritivore, pond scum with personhood.

We lined up at the start. I felt like such an imposter among the spider-legged speedsters. Imposter Syndrome is real. I see it in my peers at Yale. It’s the thing that drives my Cognitive Science classmates to present their credentials before answering every question. Oh, so you worked in a chimp lab for 4.5 years while living in a military base on the moon? Cool, because if it had been only 3.5 years, I would have doubted your ability to meaningfully contribute to this conversation.

the race start

Anyway, I have a short, choppy turnover, characteristic of technical trail running. My greatest trail virtue is my worst road vice. I’m a worm gear, you guys. I’m great on mountains and last a long time, but I love road running, too, because I don't want to be a one-trick pony who only runs trails. So off we went, their legs flipping at altitudes above my rib cage. I felt like the stocky mutt, trotting multi-step, having the best time ever, silently coaxing my legs to grow. Then the rains came. And it suited my mood.

I started to think about the psychology of ultrarunners, which is decidedly immoderate, at least by Aristotelian standards. Among competitive endurance athletes (many, not all), there’s an all-or-nothing mentality. Like neurons, they fire in binaries, ones or zeros. They either go out in record-shattering performances, or they DNF. They either run 20+ milers, or why bother leaving the house? I am trying to get to the place where it’s okay to do okay, to disengage from that mentality. Because even if you don’t win, there is dignity in completion.

There is an old western movie that my dad made me watch called The Searchers. It is TERRIBLE, (but I loved spending time with you, Dad). And in the movie one of the guys asks John Wayne if they should just quit. And John says, “That’ll be the day.” He casts a sanctimonious glare at the other guy and furrows his leathery brow.

(J.W. and me, hanging out and not quitting)

Sometimes I think about that when I feel weak. Should I quit? "That’ll be the day." But, whatever. I’m unimpressed. That pansy rode a horse.

One of my goals for this race was to work on my hydration strategy. Because usually the week after a race, I am marked by lingering desiccation, indicative of a poor job of balancing my electrolytes with water. Today, I gulped some fluids every 2.5K. Because I like my water pure and unadulterated, I chewed my Nuun tablets. They fizzed and felt sharp and sugary. Totally awesome. I also drank some Gatorade and soda, kind of. I mean I actually just poured them down my shirt because I didn’t want to slow down, so my sports bra was about a 1.5 molar solution of sugar-water, which decreased as the great deluge soaked me through. Basically, had it been a warmer and drier day, I would have been a hummingbird’s saccharine dream girl.

Furthermore, you can replicate my experience at home! To simulate my race, do this: For two weeks, do homework—-a hecka ton of studying. Then, somebody will scoop you up and put you on a treadmill in a shower and turn the water to ice cold. Then they'll lock you in and say, “I’ll come back and get you in 4 hours. Your performance will be linked to your name on the internet forever.”

No, hold up. When I was conceiving it in my mind, it sounded more fun. It was definitely a great day. General rule: If somebody ever explains an ultramarathon and it doesn’t sound like the best time ever, they’re probably explaining it wrong.

I finished the race with my homeboy, Mike Lynch. He looked at my feet. Blood and guts. Everybody has foot guts, Mike. Just usually they’re on the inside of the feet. At one point, I thought I felt a rock slip into my shoe, and I guess it did. It traced a line along the inside of my arch, leaving a blood trail across my new shoes.

The finish line attendant gave me a high-five and suggested I celebrate my day with a beer. “That’ll be the day,” I answered, just like John Wayne. I changed out of my spandex, into some other spandex, and out of my Inov-8s into some other Inov-8s.

Race over. 50Ks done. 100-mile training starts this week. I am pumped.

Camelbaks and Dating. Here is a reflection.

2011-02-26T09:14:00.005-05:00

When you go for a long run with someone new for the first time, you get nervous and wear your best spandex. Like it's a first date. Only it’s better because it's running. Discuss.

(My friend Matt just reminded me that I wouldn't know what a date was like. Cool, thanks.)

Taylor Swift just broke up with Jake Gyllenhaal, and everyone is freaking out in anticipation of her next breakup song. She writes songs about everyone she dates, so don’t date her if you don’t want to be in her songs. In the same way, I write blogs about the people I run with. I’m like an ultrablogging Taylor Swift, and lots of times, my running friends become a google-able aspect of my life. I’m sorry, but only kind of. Because you inspire me. And a lot of times, I feel like a squirrel. I’ll be running and think of something helpful or edifying or terrible, and I’ll tuck it into my cheeks like acorns and store it until I’m safely home to record it. That way, I can share my life with other people.

…Anyway, here’s to YOU, Bimblers, my new running friends. The Bimbler’s Bluff is a group of trail and ultraunners in the New Haven, Connecticut area. I’ve only just NOW figured out they’re here. It’s just like how it took me until November until I figured out how to turn on the TV in my room. But now that I know they’re here, life is so much better! And now that I can turn the TV on, I have things to occupy my mind while I do core work.

It’s important to have friends.

Because sometimes life feels like this.

And your friends can solve your problems by moving your face.

It’s also important to have ultra-friends because they understand you. Non-runners ask a lot of questions, which typically—when pressed—devolve into whether or not I run hundreds of miles out of psychosis or if they should be ashamed that they haven’t run one intentional step since high school gym class.

[Answer: Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m mentally stable in all other aspects of my life. It’s not psychosis. Don’t be ashamed, but maybe go run more. And while we’re talking about mental issues, why don’t you explain to me why you feel negatively implicated when I go run around.]

Training this winter has been nuts. There is a lot of snow, covered in ice of varying surface integrities. You never know when you’re going to break through. And the ice cuts your legs, so I have brand new leg scars. Using your legs to break the ice. This is a pun because of the dating theme. But because I announced it, it’s self-congratulatory and doesn’t count. A boy in my Symbolic Logic class made puns every day. EVERY DAY. And nobody liked the puns because he said them and laughed before anyone else could, and he found his identity in punning. He was the pun boy, and it wasn’t healthy. We probably didn’t like his puns because we were concerned for his health.

In other news, I’ve started wearing my Camelbak at inappropriate occasions, like at the dinner table because it’s way more convenient to have a hydration system strapped to your body than to hold a cup. And it seems like such an American notion—not even having to move, just drink from a tube hooked across your body, lower right to upper left, like you’re saluting a flag with a water tube. This is why the rest of the world is behind the runners. One day, they’ll catch on. Until then, I’ll drink from my Camelbak--definitely at dinners and probably at my wedding some day.

My next race is another 50K. 50Ks are short. They’re just little guys. It’s like when I was a 2-miler and my coach used to tell me to run the 800, too. And I would think, “Should I even bother to put on my shoes? It’ll be over in 5 seconds.” And then I’d get out there and DIE because it was so fast. Four times shorter. A billion times faster. (I’m rounding up.) 50Ks feel the same—-like acute burning leg fire. And if you’re going to run 31 miles, you might as well just finish off the last 69. That’s all I have to say about that.

Blog confessional: I listened to too much Rihanna yesterday, and my swagger has been especially pronounced all morning because of it. This is the good life. And it’ll be even better after my Old Testament exam on Friday.

Holiday Lake 50K++ Race Report

2011-02-13T10:54:00.008-05:00

I don’t have anything to say.

Just kidding.

(Jennifer, me, David Horton, Martha, and Sophie after the finish)

This past weekend was the Holiday Lake 50K++ run down in Lynchburg, Virginia. The worst thing about Virginia is that it does not contain Connecticut within its borders. The drive was LONG.

On the way down, I stopped at an aid station—I mean "rest stop"—to stretch and find some food. Inside, I joined a line behind three old ladies. They were giggling, and when the taller one noticed me, she turned around to talk. The ladies were on a getaway adventure to gamble together, but first they needed Taco Bell. Girls gone wild: octogenarian style. The tall one asked me where I was headed and then interrupted,

“Sweetie, you look exactly like I did when I was younger.”

“Like me, too,” another one added, studying my face. This isn’t even bizarre. Old ladies flock to me like woodland creatures to Snow White, and these are not the first to tell me they looked exactly like me. I can only assume the 1920s was a homogenous mixture of myselves, interacting with myselves. Running around and stuff.

HL50K was the BEST. It was held at the Holiday Lake 4-H Camp in Appomattox, Virginia. On Friday evening, the runners arrived and ate dinner together. The sun had already gone, and I thought about how I would be running before it rose again. Uhhh, winter. Talk about pineal obfuscation. After our pre-race meeting (basically Horton stand-up comedy), we split off into different cabins to sleep (or, more accurately, to talk for a couple of hours about potential outfits for race day and then to fall asleep with a cabin full of new friends).

On the starting line, Dr. Horton led us in the National Anthem. It was COLD. We sang in unintentional vibrato because of the shivering. I looked down and surveyed the shoes: road sneakers, Vibrams, Montrails, Inov-8s, and others. High variability in support and style. If you ask a runner why they selected a certain shoe type, they will evangelize their convictions about why THEIR sneaker is the BEST choice for the conditions. Try it. But all I’m saying is that if a boy wears Inov-8s, it increases his rugged manliness by a factor of two. I wore the F-lite 230s, and they were perfect for the rolling, largely untechnical course.

The gun went off, and we disappeared into the darkness. We bunched up, talked, pushed past each other, and regrouped, etc. In the early morning cold, snot rockets flew in all directions. They whizzed through the air, catching the light from our headlamps—like fireflies, punctuating the obscurity of nightfall.

The sun rose, revealing an incredible course. We traveled around the lake and explored the area’s network of trails. When we ran through the streams the first time, I shrieked because it was SO COLD, and a film of ice appeared on top of my shoes. The second time through, it was a welcome relief. The ice jolted life back into my feet.

There were several open meadows that reminded me of the burned-out fields alongside the Western States course. I couldn’t figure out why they were so barren. Acid deposition? Fires? But as the sun rose higher in the sky, the fields were flooded with a resplendence of white light, and I stopped asking questions and began to appreciate the beautiful day.

Things that are annoying during a race:

1. That you can’t gulp out of a camelbak
2. That the hand straps on water bottles get loose
3. How when you wipeout on the trails, the older men look at you like you’re a fragile porcelain statue, about to break at any second
4. When your beard gets full of ice

Number 4 is something that does not affect me personally, but I observed it. There was a ubiquity of frozen beards out there. Unreal. “I like your beard.” –Ke$ha

For three hours, I had to go to the bathroom. True life: ultramarathoning. But Virginia hardwood forests lack robust trees and dense shrubbery. The trees along the course were wiry and thin—like the marathoners of trees. So I held it to preserve my dignity. The men did NOT hold it. If I had a dollar for every time I saw a man go to the bathroom in the forest on Saturday, I could pay off all my loans for my undergraduate education. I took a swig from my hand bottle and coughed up a liberated hunk of moss that had entered the mouthpiece during an earlier fall. Got to preserve my dignity. Cough.

[my rockstar friends! Sophie (my Inov-8 teammate), Martha Wright, and Jennifer Pharr Davis]

The race ended. I was the 2nd woman, good not great. Girls don’t like to get chick’d either. I felt distance-strong. I’m not at all sore from the effort, but I didn’t have the turnover speed to drive it home for the W. Sometimes, there is a disconnect between what your mind dictates and what your body will do. This is an argument for substance dualism. It’ll happen. I’m further along in my training this February than I was last, and I am biomechanically sound and growing in strength and in my love for the sport.

Holiday Lake is an incredible event. I recommend it as a first ultra or a 100th ultra. Like all the Lynchburg series events, it is very fellowship-oriented, and you will leave feeling celebrated for your accomplishment no matter where you finish in the pack. Thanks so much to all the race volunteers, Dr. Horton, and to all of my new and old friends who made it such a wonderful time.

Next week, I’m working at the NJ Trail Series Febapple 50. Great life. Happy running. And Happy Valentine’s Day. I probably love you.

(Beyoncé "Put a Ring on It" reference)

[Photos by Jennifer Nichols!]

Good to know if there are worms under your rock.

2011-02-03T15:38:00.008-05:00

True fact: Last year, I ran Umstead 100 as a nature vs. nurture personal debate. BECAUSE I LOVE SCIENCE EXPERIMENTS. I was terribly untrained. Just prior to the race, I asked the RD if there were any slots open. There were! I thought it would be neat to see if my past running had gone well either because:

1. I train hard.
or
2. I was born to enjoy these certain kinds of things.

And the only way to figure that out is to run 100 miles all-out without the training to support you. [P.S. Sponsors, don’t worry because I’ll never do this again. I promise.]

Somehow I PRed. But I felt like I was going to DIE. In terms of cardio-endurance, it felt awesome, but the pounding on my legs was jarring. After I finished, I waddled inside the giant lounge-cabin to hang out with the DNFers and injured/resting runners. I stretched out by the fire, telling jokes to the people around me because I had thought-up some good ones while running. Annette Bednosky was there, and I was so thrilled to catch up, I jumped up to see her! And I promptly blacked out. (Because you don’t jump up after lying down after running 100 miles…You live, and you learn...)

The medic launched himself toward me and took my BP and told me it was pretty low, and I assured him it was always like that. “No worries. I control my blood pressure with my mind.” And then he asked me if my side ponytail throws me out of chiropractic alignment. I had never thought of that, but I answered, “Sir, I believe it is worth the risk.” Because it’s important to look like the decade you were born in.

(natural beauty multiplied by 2)

(But if I ever look like this, it's not okay. I can't work it like she can.)

Umstead was a great day, and it felt so FREE! No expectations. It was an adventure that I’ll remember forever…and more so now that I am in the practice of reflecting upon these things. Did I run in the past? Probably, but I don’t remember the specifics. My mileage log says I did—A LOT…like up to 180 miles per week in college. But I had no real plan and didn't dwell on it. While running, I never thought about running because sometimes the last thing running is about...is running.

Running is the freest aspect of my life. It’s just there, and somehow everyday I wake up and train without pause. I never used to think about it, and that’s why I liked it so much. It was pressure-free. So I was initially hesitant to start a running blog because I didn’t want to turn my lens in on itself. When you bring your life under scrutiny, one of two things can happen:

1. You become disillusioned and feel pressured by your own normativity.
or
2. You perfect your skill. You become more aware of different things holding you back, and you can really start to succeed.

I was afraid of both. Because sometimes you flip over a beautiful rock and find a pile of worms. And because once you’re aware of something, you’re sort of obligated to care. And I don’t know how to half-way care. About anything. If I were more relaxed, I would not be a Philosophy student at Yale. I’d pursue my secondary passion: street rapping about thug lives in the ‘hood. Or I would have settled for Princeton. [Ohhhhh Princeton burn! Go Bulldogs.]

But the neatest thing is that I have benefitted from this reflection. Thinking about my training gives me more racing confidence because I know I’m prepared. Running teaches me a lot of things about myself, when I’m paying attention, about my perceived limitations and the person I want to be. I love being able to share my experiences with people so they can learn as I learn, and I hope others will be encouraged to start running, too.

Anyway, I’m trotting around right now, enjoying my first New England winter (NOT!). I have made final adjustments to my racing schedule [see on right side of screen). I’m really happy with it and think it’s sustainable. You guys, life is good. I hope you have a week full of joy and adventures. Homegirl out.

Granola, lipstick, rottweilers, blahblahblah.

2011-01-22T10:29:00.006-05:00

Last week after basketball practice, I drop-kicked my cell phone down a flight of stairs. It was a total freak accident. So I went to the Verizon store to activate a new one. The Verizon man didn’t believe a person could drop-kick a cell phone unless they were inebriated, and the more I protested the more he didn’t believe me. But honestly, who plays basketball drunk? I have a hard time playing well sober. Anyway, the Verizon man winked at me, and I couldn’t figure out why because I thought America was over the wink. But then he gave me the head nod, told me he was reactivating a new cell for free (hello $20 that will remain in my pocket), and winked again. I was so annoyed. I kept thinking that if he had an actual conversation with me, there’d be less winking and more blinking…because he’d be falling asleep. Because I drop more facts about the brain than a sailor drops curse words. But I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I took that $20 to the grocery store and bought 6 boxes of generic-brand granola. Growing up is hard.

I like being a girl, not only because it increases my allotment of granola but also because I can do this if I want, and it’s totally okay:

Plus, girls are better at managing pain, long-term planning, and metabolizing fat over the long haul, so we’re really made to ultrarun. I used to think boys had an advantage over girls in sports, and in many ways they do. Their lungs and hearts are bigger. They have more muscles. And while they were doing formative athletic things in their youth, I was playing hair salon with my collection of “My Little Ponies” and decorating my face with my mother’s lipstick.
("I'm asking you to trust me. I've done this to myself at least 7 or 8 times.")

In basketball, I’m at a disadvantage because the boys are more aggressive. But I try to make up for it in positivity and in the simple joy I get in running around. The ability to run 100s covers a number of ills. I can feign competency and am always fit enough to hang on. True confessions: I like when they set a pick and I run right into it. Maybe I’m wrong, but picks and screens are like conflictual hugs. And it’s nice, like oh, you were thinking of me and blocked me with a wall.

Oh, gosh. I was just thinking that I hope none of my professors ever, ever, ever come across my blog because I would lose all credibility as a mature thinker.

This weekend, my training is very important because I am using it to determine what I will race in February. On the table are a 50K, a 50-miler, and a 100-miler. Depending on how I feel and how this weekend goes distance-wise, I will pick one of them. The 100-mile is my wheelhouse (definition 3), but I have a lot of speedwork built up now from basketball, cold morning sprints, and from the two families on Route 565 in Vernon who think their rottweilers know they’re on underground invisible fences. THEY DON'T KNOW. THEY HAVE NO IDEA.

In summary, girls are awesome, and I’m heading out for a run now. Ready set go.

Remember Pants.

2011-01-13T15:12:00.011-05:00

On Friday, I got the flu. It was the kind of flu that makes you feel like you’re working harder than you ever have in your entire life, but you’re actually barely moving. I love that kind of flu—not because it’s comfortable or something to strive for—but because it felt philosophically dramatic, and I tucked it away in my mind to someday use as a metaphor when I need to say something meaningful and poignant.

I slept all day. That evening, I met up with my brother over dinner, and we talked about the following morning, which would be his first attempt at an ultra, the MHRRC Recover from the Holidays 50K. I wanted to give him some anti-advice, (i.e. Sprint out really hard in the beginning. Fill your water bottle with milk. It’s okay to run in blue jeans. Fanny packs? Yes. Wear at least two.) But he kept grumbling in nervous agitation, calling the dinner his “last supper,” so I was supportive instead.

Saturday morning, I woke up early. My life was enshrouded in darkness, metaphorically as pertaining to my illness and because it was pre-sunrise. I wandered into the kitchen, flipped on the lights, and found a note from my brother, to himself.

1. Remember food.
2. Remember pants.
3. Stretch.

WHOA. It looks like he figured out the sport of ultrarunning. Cracked the code, discerned the three secrets of the sport: food, pants, and stretching.

I started to pack some food for the day and got tired. Flu. So I took a nap on the floor. My bro walked in and found me there. “Feeling okay?” Teddy asked. I shook my head, sweeping my curls across the kitchen floor. “Nooooooope. I feel like the opposite of okay.”

I wouldn’t be racing that day, but I figured I'd get a few miles as long as I was there. I went to the course and saw Pete Colaizzo, the RD. We caught up a little on life and sports. He’s also the Marist track coach—thug life, right?! The MHRRC has grown considerably over the past few years. They have a full calendar of exciting races and training opportunities coming up, so if you’re in the area, check them out: http://www.mhrrc.org/.

The gun went off, and I went with the lead pack, hanging on and chatting with the herd, to ultimately manage a 25K of training, which on that course meant five repeats of 2.5K out-and-backs. The road was covered in ice and snow. I would run up the hills and slide back down, like Sisyphus, when the net worth of your struggles amounts to zero. It was COLD. The air was basically made of ice cubes, and you had to bite them. You had to bite the air to chew out some oxygen or else you couldn’t breathe. I kept my HR steady and low (in the moderate trot/aerobic zone), while chewing the ice-cube-air until my day was done. The runners ran on, and I waved goodbye.
(Check it. That's a struggle-face. Misery and distress jog.)

On the way home, I sang some Justin Bieber. This is uncool; I know that. But my singing voice is best after I go running. After 100 miles, forget about it; get me a record contract.

While I’m bummed I didn’t get to race, I have to keep it in perspective. For me, winter races and anything under 50 miles exist as a test of fitness to get me where I need to be when it counts. It’s demoralizing to train hard for something and not be able to compete, but I know I’m getting stronger. This brings me to my next point:

In this sport, a common saying is, “Ultrarunning is 90% mental.” Like this:

Or, they say, “Ultrarunning is 90% mental. And the final 10% is mental”…which is cute and catchy but probably erroneous. And the philosopher in me is wondering how the mind is functioning without implicating flesh and if I have to be a substance idealist to keep running.

I think it’s more like this:

You need to get in shape on two fronts: mental and physical. The mental determines how far you can physically push yourself. Ideally, you want to be at 100% in both categories because (and you can see this played out in yourself on race day) you physically race what you deserve from your training. But your emotive and intellective constitutions (your mind) can easily prevent you from running full-out what you should. So by all means, prep your mind. The strongest runners are focused and passionate. But work out like a dog, too, or you won’t make it far past the starting line.

I PROMISE, THIS IS THE MOST BORING THING I WILL TYPE EVER AGAIN IN MY BLOG. I just needed to get it out because sometimes, colloquial expressions are false. But people keep saying them! It’s like that inspirational saying, “Reach for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land among the stars.” And I’m thinking, no you won’t. The moon is much closer than stars. If you miss, you probably didn’t exceed Earth’s escape velocity, and you’ll come right back down and burn up in the atmosphere.

The other day, I was at the gym, trying to find a magazine to read on the stationary bike. The table was covered in mostly academic periodicals. “Uhhhh,” the girl next to me said. “This place has the worst magazines.” She looked over, and I was clearly, visibly drooling over a science periodical with a brain on the front. I froze. Oh, my gosh. She’s going to realize I’m a nerd. Think of something cool to say! Think of something cool to say! But I couldn’t think of anything. She sized me up. Dang. Next time I’ll have something prepared, like, “I know right?! Worst magz ever. Did you know Beyoncé’s not really pregnant. Just a rumor.” It’s the small battles in life that make the world exciting.

This week so far:
Monday: 35 miles (20 and 15) + core work
Tuesday: 10 miles + 90 min. cardio + leg lifting
Wednesday: 38 miles (24 +14) + core work, light lifting

Whachaaa! Happy trails, friends! Have a great week.

I know about Ke$ha and raisins.

2011-01-03T20:59:00.012-05:00

(winter training...blechhhhh)

When I was 8 or 9, I was sitting in the bleachers at a football game with my friend’s family when I noticed the lady next to me was knitting a sweater. I told her she was talented, and she answered that she needed to knit to keep her hands busy because she recently quit smoking. Knitting instead of smoking. I said that was the coolest thing ever, and my friend and I excused ourselves to go practice cartwheels behind the bleachers. About 11 years later, I remembered the woman, as I worked in a behavior modification lab in college.

Rule number one: You cannot simply desist a negative behavior. You need to replace it with a new positive one. So while vowing to consume less soda, you should have a conjunctive goal of drinking more water each day. And if you want to watch less TV, maybe couple it with the positive goal of increasing athletic activity…like…say, maybe running more. You’ll find that it is SO fun.

Anyway, try to take that into account with your New Year’s resolutions. This year, I have resolved to:

1. Be the kind of girl who consistently lets people merge into traffic ahead of her.
2. Make every training mile count. Focus.

My New Year started in the best possible way. No alcohol, but I find that the post-ultramarathon state is a lot like a hangover, without the inexorable accompaniment of the cerebellular obfuscation implicit in inebriation. Your body gets pretty trashed—but in the most salubrious sort of way—and you’ll be back on your feet full-force after some rest and hydration. I know a LOT about alcohol since I’m such a fan of Ke$ha’s music, but it’s not really my thing. However, I eat so many raisins! Raisins are old grapes, so they’re... basically…wine…

(You can get buzzed at breakfast! It's 5 o'clock somewhere...)

On December 31st, I did a sunset run around the hills of Charlottesville. I covered myself in spandex—as much spandex as you can wear before you run out of surface area. So much spandex. It was a beautiful run because C-ville is a real babe of a town. Then I heralded in 2011 with the Howard fam.

January 1st was the best. Sophie Speidel and Vince Bowman organized a trail run to meet on top of Black Rock Summit in the mountains between Charlottesville and Harrisonburg. There were lots of climbs, and it was the best day ever.
(one of Sophie's pics)

At one point, Gentry was talking about his 2011 race schedule, saying he’s keeping his 100-milers pretty casual so he can pound out his 48-hour run in May. I got all choked up and couldn’t even talk for a second because I was so thrilled to hear that—not specifically that Gentry is concentrating on the 48-hour—but I realized after all these years of living my life in the same way with nobody who really understood, I have finally found my people. The VHTRC! They live in Virginia and have normal-people jobs during the daytime, but as a hobby they run as far as they can and have an awesome time doing it. Anyway, it was SO GREAT.

The biker boys up front were blasting down the mountains, which was a neat opportunity to practice my technical downhills—less braking, more free-falls. At one point, we paused on the trail to wait for the rest of the runners to catch up. One of the boys had a Ziploc® bag of baked goods that he found on the trail, so THEY ATE ITS CONTENTS. They offered me some, and I cast a sanctimonious glare and then giggled. Everybody secretly wants to eat food off of the ground. It’s human nature, and if you say no, you’re lying or have never been a child. Plus, I was eyeing the carrot sticks in the grass alongside the trail…MMMmmmMMMMMmmmm, right?

Later, I wiped out hard. I tripped, and before my whole body had struck the ground, I was already screaming, “I’m okaaaaaaaay.” My tights got ripped, and my hand was pretty bloody. For the remaining miles, I tried to hold it as still as I could so none of the blood would sweat off before I showed it to the boys.

I said goodbye and drove off—back up north to see friends in Arlington, Virginia. The problem was, in my fall, I guess I jammed my middle finger. The middle one! The way my hand rested on the steering wheel, it stuck straight out so that I was flipping off all the cars that passed. I decided to curve my hand around the wheel to direct it back toward myself. I gave myself the middle finger the entire 2.5-hour drive.

I was sweaty and dirty and covered in hand blood, but it was the best way to start the new year. Next Saturday is my first race of the year—the MHRRC 50K, which I last ran in 2007.
(2007 podium)

Happy New Year, Happy Winter, and Happy Trails!

De-Amish-ing our Dog

2010-12-20T18:51:00.012-05:00

Sometimes I walk into the health food store looking like a female gladiator—like Hercules, with my muscles flexing in the breeze. This is totally real life. And I walk in there and want vitamins, and the ladies working there tell me not to get the soy-based kind but rather the smushed up vegetable variety. I concede with an affirmative head nod, not because I want to be trim and toned to the degree of excellence they’re modeling (because—for real, most people working at McDonald’s look healthier. This is a brand of poetic irony I have only grown to appreciate more in my advanced age. I guess it’s the whole "those who can’t do, teach" thing...[analogous to how I always tell people with great conviction to floss 3 times each day and myself do it...like every other day.] I like to imagine them at home with pork rinds dipped in butter.) But I never say that. I just nod because introversion is a gift in these cases. There is no expectation to talk but just to nod and agree as they tell me about how milk is like cigarettes because we don’t have as many stomachs as cows. Furthermore, I agree with the soy thing anyway. Mostly because I read in a science journal that it is actually TOXIC in giant quantities, and I like to eat like a cave woman.

True confessions: In high school, I was greedy. One morning, I saw that there was only one banana left, and I wanted it for after track practice. So I labeled it with a permanent marker “SABRINA’S BANANA. NOBODY EAT.” And I felt so awful. At school, we were reading Scarlet Letter, the story about Hester Prynne, whose Puritan neighbors condemn her for committing adultery. She has to wear a giant A. That day, I attached a gigantic G to my sweater, for greed, because of the banana.

Training is going well, though I’m not as jacked as I previously indicated, so I’m starting to lift weights again. Winter is the most unmotivating season because it’s cold, and that’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s worse than rejection. Taylor Swift has so many songs about rejection. Finals just ended. I learned a lot this semester, mostly that Moses was a lot like Henry Clay. He lived a long time and was involved in all of the important things.

Also, my family adopted a dog named Cay (short for Cayuga, a state park in the Finger Lakes area of NY). She looks like an Ewok, with maybe…Tina Turner's hair. We adopted her from the Amish, so it’s been really neat to acquaint her with modern technology. Today, we introduced her to the complete works of Michael Bublé and showed her the toaster, DVD player, and processed margarine, among other things she has heretofore never encountered.

(childhood ornaments, bonding on the tree)

Merry Christmas, blog. I’ll be back soon because I always go Christmas Eve carol-running, sometimes with my barefoot friends. BRB, as the kids say these days. And I am racing a 50K imminently (!!!) against my brother. Look at how intense he is…

Can’t even handle that. Can't even replicate that face.

If someone says RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN TO PHILADELPHIA, then you just go.

2010-12-05T13:38:00.025-05:00

Thursday was a dream. It was a cross-train day, so I woke up and biked to the gym. I lifted a bit and did some swimming. I’m becoming an excellent swimmer. I hardly ever crash into the wall these days. I figured out breathing. I can use my legs and arms together in uniform motions, etc. etc. Then I biked home, cleaned up, and made it to school by 9.

Study. Chapel. OT Section. Lunch/Presbyterian meeting. Study. Class.

I was leaving my final class of the day (Ethics of St. Augustine) when I saw a football flying across the quad. I ran outside, and threw my books into a pile. My friend, Alex, chucked the football my way, and I joined the game.

In a skirt. In a button-up shirt. In high boots. With my hair down.

My friends and I ran around, and I made amendments to my outfit as we played. I threw my hair into a ponytail. Then my boots had to go. I tucked in my shirt. Pretty soon, I was running around with a grass stain on the side of my skirt, and my tights were covered in mud. No worries. It was the best time ever! Plus, I needed to practice. I told the Episcopalians I would play on their football team…Bad idea, yo.

The afternoon grew colder as we played, and my friend, Gracie, and I excused ourselves to head back to the gym. Core work. It is easier to do everything when you have a strong core, which, I think, is a pretty solid metaphor for life (?).

Yesterday morning, I got to play with the Yale Div School Episcopalians in a football tournament in NYC against two other schools. Oh, my gosh. It was terrifying. There were not many girls, and the boys were sassy and corpulent and had bad attitudes. I thought for sure I'd get smacked down. Plus, it was freezing. SO COLD. Today I’m sore, not from football but from shivering. Also, it wasn’t a free-for-all-tackle-to-the-ground-run-around-in-your-school-clothes kind of game. There were plays to think about. There were running patterns and blocking strategies. It required a lot of thinking.

Please just let me stay inside of my head when I play sports. I like abstractions...material particulars kill my spirit. Let’s have meta-convos about football and the strivings of human endeavor. Let’s operationally define and re-define our terms. And please, let’s have all of our movement be forward-movement, none of this side-to-side wiggling stuff, which, I think, is a pretty solid metaphor for life (?).

I did learn that football is a lot more complicated than it looks, so I give it props. I just think a lot of the beauty of a sport is lost when there are too many plans and rules. I like raw sport, pick-up fashion. Like, maybe someone will say to me, "I dare you to run to Philadelphia. You have ONE DAY. Go." ...Then I will run! I'LL RUN AS FAST AS I CAN! I won't say, "No, I'm sorry, but I need a taper and to map out where I'm getting my electrolytes." No. No. I'd just go.

Anyway, I heard someone on the field yell out “Blitz!” I had no idea that was a football term! But it is, and I am very happy I could expand my lexicon.

blitz—(noun) A sudden charge upon the quarterback by one or more of the linebackers or defensive backs when the ball is snapped. Also called red-dog.

To me, “blitz” is a group of runner boys at W&M. They were my team in undergrad, and I loved them. I still do. I still love you, Team Blitz.

College was nuts.

I lived in a house with my best friends, and everywhere I went, I saw friends and potential-friends and people I admired because they cared about the world. I love W&M and the type of people it attracts. Everyone is passionate about what they do.

I started ultrarunning in college and worked really hard at it. I woke up everyday at 4 for a quick breakfast and then a long run before classes. I spent hours out before the sunrise, trotting around Colonial Williamsburg. Just me and the sheep. I thought about life and the things I believed. I planned for the day ahead. Then I’d clean up and head to classes. Sometimes I cleaned up. Sometimes I just headed to classes…Baggy sweatsuits cover a number of ills—like the running clothes underneath. You know, you know.
(asleep, riding back from a race weekend...still clutching my race number)

My afternoons were Blitz-dominated. I’d meet up with the guys to go for faster runs, to make sure I didn’t become a slow-poke. All of my memories of those runs are positive. We had flower day, when we’d pick flowers and give them to people as we ran by. There was a lot of speed work and smack-talking. We once ran in the ice-cold pouring rain, just to prove that we were intense enough to do so. The boys went shirtless and wore their shortest shorts that day. I wore several layers of water-resistant clothing. They ran in a pack around me and called me their queen. It was AWESOME. Like 15 brothers! We hung out and ate meals together. They taught me how to play video games.

(This is our score card. I was ranked 9th, just above the controller with nobody using it and my little brother.)

We all had nicknames. I was “S Mo” or “The Shark.” My brother Teddy was “T-Pain.” We had a boy named Andrew on our team, but he got a girlfriend and stopped coming to practice. Another Andrew transferred in, so he became Andrew 2.0. Then he got a girlfriend and stopped showing up. We picked up an Andrew 3.0 my senior year, and he is a beast. He runs like a G.I. Joe and is indefatigable. If you run with 3.0, you know you’re going to be sore the next day. Deal with it.

Blitz also crewed for me in my first ultras. They were wonderful friends to me, staying up through the night, driving me around Virginia. My running community showed me what it means to believe in someone and support their goals. They definitely did that for me.

Anyway, I don’t think I have a future in football, but I’m excited about the miles of running I have ahead! Happy trails, everyone. Have a great week.

LSD with All My Friends!

2010-11-12T12:54:00.000-05:00

At my older sister’s wedding, I wore makeup foundation for the first time. But not on my face.

On my wrist!

I’ve been working on my watch tan since sixth grade, and when my family suggested (demanded!) that I take off my athletic watch for the wedding, we realized that my tan was intensely pronounced. It would still look like I was wearing the absence-of-watch from outerspace.

Anyway, my running watch died! I mean it “died.” It never lived, so more accurately, it remained nonliving in the most poignant and complete sense of the word.
http://www.firstschoolyears.com/science/resources/games/ourselves/living/living.htm.

Now I have a new one to run with. My last watch was bright pink, and the Chrono timer only went to 20 hours. This is a fact that I found all too emotional during my last 24-hour run.

Why did it stop? What does this mean?

Somewhere in the watch-making process, somebody decided that 20 hours is long enough to work out. Twenty-FOUR hours is excessive.

Recently, I have looked like this:

Minus the hoop earrings.
Also: no baby.
Otherwise exactly the same.
My leg broke. I broke it. It’s my fault. I have a collection of 3 stress fracture boots from my running life, which I will one day use as flower pots and line the walkway to my home. And that is all I have to say about that.

I’m running again, really excited about GISPs (Getting In Shape Pains) and LSD. My high school coaches emphasized LSD—maybe too much. I don’t know. Well, I guess there’s no such thing as too much LSD; let’s be honest. But speed is good, too.

Whaaat? LSD means Long Slow Distance. Speed is faster running.

As of late, I've been lifting and spending a lot of time cross-training. Shout-outs go out to the following patrons at Yale’s Whitney-Payne Gym:

1--girl typing a paper on her laptop while on the stair-stepper
2--old man in gladiator unitard
3--girl eating fried chicken in the locker room shower at 9 a.m.
4--man admiring his arms in the mirror for 15+ minutes
5--the man crying this morning during his abs routine

Hats off to all of you.

Life is great. School is wonderful. I live with an old lady, and she sasses me when I leave for my daily runs. “Ohhhhh. I see you’re running again. Do you even have friends?” It’s pretty terrific. But, I mean, she’s no Sylvia… http://notallergictoadventure.blogspot.com/2010/07/sylvia-strikes-again.html.

Life is good. Being a student and running is like a personal study in eudaimonism. It's human flourishing.

I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving and my trypto-plan with good old Austin…going on a post-turkey running adventure. YES. I’m also figuring out my 2011 schedule right now. Any race suggestions? Let me know! ☺

It's a New Dayyyyy

2010-10-13T13:32:00.000-04:00

******** I believe it's worth noting that the boy ABOVE is my little brother, NOT the man below. Several people asked me if the man below was my brother. NO. Gosh. I just think it's funny that if you misspell moron, you get Moran. It's especially funny when I am making moronic decisions, like running on an injury.

My little brother is a runner, too. He is a junior at The College of William & Mary, a genius, and an all-around great kid. This past summer, we had two weeks together at home before I went off to grad school and he left for a year of study abroad in Germany and Argentina.

During that 2-week span, every evening, Teddy and I would throw on some sneakers and head up to Vernon High School to run some miles together in the cool of the day. And every day Teddy would run for exactly 50 minutes.

In the beginning, this didn’t bother me. It didn’t affect my own mileage, since our evening runs were always my double. (I did mountain training during the heat of the day.) But seriously, why 50 minutes, no more and no less? A twenty-year-old is too young to be calcified in a routine. The final night of our Vernon runs, I asked Teddy how long he was running for.

Teddy: 50 minutes.
Me: Okay, well I’ll be running for 51 minutes today. I hope you don’t mind waiting the extra minute.

We ran together for a while, then split up so my little bro could pick up the pace. He’s a speedster. At 51 minutes, I returned to the track. In the distance, I could see Teddy bounding toward me with a huge grin. “I decided to run for 52 minutes today,” he announced. “I hope you didn’t mind waiting the extra minute.”

Teddy smiled the whole way home, thinking he had won. But really, I WAS THE WINNER in this situation. Because that was the day Teddy’s imaginary mileage wall was broken. The joy of my heart is discovering that you can do more than you think you can. That is why I ultrarun.

In Cleveland, I got injured. I’m still not exactly sure what I did, but I really hurt my leg. And I think the fact that I took ibuprofen blocked some of the pain and allowed me to do more damage than I would have. All that to say, I will never take ibuprofen during a race ever again. It’s not really “pro fun.” That’s a FALSE PUN. I remember reading about a tribe of people in Africa (?) during Cognitive Science class in college, and the people were unable to feel pain. At first, I thought, wow that is totally awesome. But it’s not. They would step in fire and never sense it. They would cut off the circulation in a limb while sleeping and never feel it, so they would never adjust. The limb would die! And even small things like adjusting your posture while you stand or sit in a chair so that your bones don’t break through your skin…All of these things are not possible if you have no sense of pain. Pain is a good thing because it tells you when you are doing damage. I don’t want to soften the insight my nervous system is providing me. So I am serious. I’m IbuproDONE.

Since I haven’t been able to run as of late, I’ve been taking care of other details of my training life…lifting, stretching, nutrition. That way, it will be easier to return. The gym at Yale is very nice. The website calls it a “fitness enthusiast’s dream.” It’s NICE, but not really like any of the dreams I—a fitness enthusiast—have ever had. First of all, there is no lava. It’s a lot less fantastical, and I would expect my grandma and maybe my third grade math teacher to be on treadmills side-by-side or something. It is nothing like my dreams. But still…it’s nice.

One thing I like about it is that there are very few mirrors. Okay, get this: Psych studies have shown that the presence of mirrors in a gym increases the self-efficacy of men and lowers that of women. Seriously. Somehow, men look in the mirror while lifting weights and think they can accomplish more. Women look in the mirror and think, “Oh, I forgot I looked like THAT. Nevermind. I am less capable than I thought.” So if we just remove all reflective surfaces from the world, we would even the self-esteem playing field. Girls, what is the deal?

The other day, I went home to see my parents, sister, and nephews. I was folding some laundry and watching my mom knit a scarf. One of her knitting needles snapped, so she left the room to look for another. A few minutes later, she bounded down the stairs, proclaiming, “I fixed it!” The needle was sloppily taped and slightly bent. It was a big mess, but she tucked it back into the scarf and continued to knit. I looked down at my own leg—also wrapped in a sloppy tape job for a quick fix. “Oh my gosh, is this an object lesson, Mom?” I asked. It wasn’t. But I realized I was going to let my leg heal completely.

I am letting my leg get better! And then I am never going to get injured again because I am not going to train like an idiot. I got hurt twice this year, and both are a function of not taking care of small issues. I have two runner friends at Yale. Both are injured. Alex displaced fat in his foot and broke his heel while marathoning. Elise hurt her IT band in her journey to become an ultrarunner. We have bonded over this. We’re hyper-competitive bench sitters. And it really stinks! I used to think that Taylor Swift had a song to express every emotion I have ever had, but she has no song about not being able to run 100 miles because of injury. Get on that, Tay Sway or Beyonce or Michael Buble. I want to sing a song about this.

And that is all I have to say about that.

New decisions:
1. NO MORE INJURIES EVER. Two is too many. I’m done mourning the miles I’ve missed over this unexpected vacay. I’m learning my lessons and moving forward.
2. I am going to try cross-country skiing. It would be a great low-impact break from running during the winter.
3. I want to focus on the 24-hour run during 2011. It’s my favorite distance.

Happy trails. I have homework to do. Uhhhh. (Just kidding. I love homework.)

"Good luck, big brains." Blog It Out, and Shake It Off.

2010-09-19T18:04:00.002-04:00

Have you ever written a blog entry feeling like scum because you had to stop 80 miles into your run? This is my first, and I don’t like it so far.

When I was a child, my sister had a ball python named Tamara who was never hungry. We used to have to take her to the pet store to get her force-fed. Many afternoons, my little brother and I would sit in front of her aquarium and plead, “Please eat, Tamara. You’re beautiful just as you are.” Well, this race, I felt kind of like Tamara because I just couldn’t eat—not because I’m a vain reptile or anything. I just couldn’t get food down.

This weekend, I traveled to Ohio with my dad to race in the North Coast 24-Hour. I was well-trained and confident in how rested I was, and I was excited to just get out for a day and run. I planned to hold back some in the beginning to run stronger in the latter half, and I did not anticipate disaster…

Early Friday evening, my dad and I arrived at the Days Inn Hotel, which was 4 minutes directly down the road from Edgewater Park. Listen, I am typically neutral about living situations—not fussy or anything. But all I’m saying is, the pictures of the hotel offered online made the place seem beautiful, regal, and almost palatial, and I’m pretty sure they were doctored photos.

I got cleaned up and pre-set my race gear, and by 7:30, I went to sleep. ALMOST. The hotel was loud. Every step on the hallway above was somehow magnified through the ceiling, and there was a party going on up there. I couldn’t sleep! In the middle of the night, I left the room to notify the front desk. So…do you know how if you have curly hair and you just let it dry on its own when you’re sleeping, it turns into a space helmet of curls? I had that. And I had crazy eyes from emerging from the darkness into the resplendence of the illuminated hotel lobby. I stumbled toward the man at the front desk and said, “I’m sorry, but there is a crazy party going on above my head. Please, please, this restaurant is BANANAS.” I meant hotel, but I was tired. I mumbled and made frantic, sweeping arm gestures so he would know I meant business. I wandered back to my room, and the noises continued for hours. I turned on the fan as white noise, wrapped two jackets across my head and ears, and covered my head with blankets and pillows. The next morning, I gathered up my things and, while exiting the room, discovered that Anna Piskorska had stayed directly across the hall. We shared our lack of sleep condolences. Uhhh.

My dad drove me to the race start and gave me a pep talk. He said that he was thrilled to share this trip with me, and even if I only ran one lap, he already had a wonderful time and was proud of me. Foreshadowing? Even if I tanked, I was still loved.

I think there is beauty even in terrible times, and this race was no exception. I made a bunch of friends. Jill Perry was there. She is a dynamo, full of love and joy for everyone, and I was thrilled with the miles we got to share.

Issues developed early for me. I was in good spirits but was uncharacteristically unable to eat. Typically, I aim for approximately 300 calories every 90 minutes plus water and electrolyte tablets. But every time I tried to eat, I felt uncomfortably full. I looked for liquid calories and tried to eat a bite of solid food every lap or two, but nothing stayed down. Uh-oh. I continued like this for several hours, coercing myself to eat, but I could feel myself getting weaker. For the first time in my running life, I visited a medical tent. My muscles were tightening, as my glycogen stores depleted. I was encouraged to stay loose and to get food in me.

I was still moving, though, way ahead of my pace goals. By this time, my wonderful college friend and current Ohio resident, Caitie, had arrived. She encouraged me and bonded with my dad between laps. I haven’t seen her since college, so it was a huge treat. Seven hours in, I instituted periodic 45-second walking breaks to help digestion. My legs started to lock up, and my left IT band became inflamed. I altered my gait and hobbled into the medical tent.

There was a medical man, and he took care of me. He said that because my glycogen stores were tanking, my quads were suffering. My hips turned in, and my IT band was off track and waaaaaaaaay too tight. I asked if he could just do a quick-fix tape job and send me off, but he told me nothing would improve if I couldn’t replenish my carbohydrates. So, I force-fed myself potatoes while shuffling forward for three laps. I hate potatoes. They taste like the dirt they’re grown in. I got sick again on those laps and lost a couple of things—the mobility in my left leg…and those potatoes. Totally gross, I know.

If you’ve ever seen an ultramarathon, there is a point in every race when people start to broaden their stance, like they’ve been riding especially wide horses all day. I always giggle because I imagine I’m out West, and it only ever happens to me after I’m all done. NOT THIS TIME. I was the most wobbly horseback rider around. I took some Ibuprofen because I BE PRO FUN, even in the worst of times.

I faded and faded and faded and faded and faded and couldn’t look at food and ran one more lap. Dunzo. 80 miles. I told everybody I was a phenotypically-defunct big loser between sobs and went away to brush my teeth. I mourned the drops of some other friends, as well. It’s pretty rough. You can train your guts out and give 100% for months, and one little thing can go wrong and destroy your race. So I guess just make sure that you really love what you do day-to-day in your training because races can end terribly. You have to walk away from a bad race (or a good race) and see that you’re more than just a runner. It’s just a sport, (THE BEST SPORT, but still a sport.)

I’m not so down now. Writing this, I have yet to sleep. (I stayed up all night and got sick 8 more times…confirmation that it was okay to walk away.) I feel honored to have competed with such rockstars. And I was thinking, I have only been racing ultras since 2007…three years. That’s half as long as I was a ballerina, and I never accomplished anything in the world of dance…

(Here I am, doing an extra-credit splits while everybody else just stands there, clearly the hardest-working bunny in the entire class.)

I’m back to school! I love it. It’s a great community, and Yale is the place where everybody knows your name. I’ve only lived in 3 states, but this is what I’ve got so far:

-Connecticut is for lovers.
-Virginia is for likers.
-New Jersey is for the rapid dissipation of the public education system.

At Yale, I signed up for every intramural sport that the graduate schools have to offer, and the soccer season just started! The Divinity School team—the Paracleats—has a history of excellence. Also, a couple weeks ago, I built my own bicycle! The world is my oyster! You can’t stop me now! Do you know how long it takes a philosopher to assemble a bicycle? What is a bicycle, really, and how can I be sure it exists apart from my sensible intuitions?

This semester, I’m taking Biomedical Ethics, Ethics of St. Augustine, Old Testament, and a David Hume seminar. I don’t like Hume, but that class is my favorite. I like to read the things he says and scoff. “I love the way you lie, [David Hume].” –Rihanna.

Happy trails, everyone! Keep at it! Test your bounds. Feed your quads. Share your stories. Have a great week.

Moving Again and Straight Thugging

2010-08-19T20:41:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite things in the whole world is playing baseball with my dad. But I have a particularly jarring memory of this etched in my mind.

A couple of years ago, we were out in the side yard, tossing around a baseball. As the game progressed, we moved further apart, whipping the ball through low-hanging trees. We laughed and celebrated with a liberal supply of air high-fives and affirmative head nods. My dad tossed a pop fly, and I leaped into action. Before I landed, I launched the ball off again, regained my footing, and froze. I watched in terror as the baseball spun toward my father’s shin, and I heard a sickening smack as it struck bone. “Oh, my gosh. I just maimed my father,” I whispered breathlessly.

My dad shook his leg and dropped to pick up the ball. “Ow,” he acknowledged, a smile spreading across his face. “Great speed. Now let’s work on your aim.”

I stood there in disbelief. And that was the day I realized my dad’s skeletal system is probably made of iron ore.

All that to say: I have strong bones, too. (Thank you, Dad!) I do a lot of road running, but I am happily injury-free and able to enjoy higher mileage than I otherwise could.

Maylon Madness was last Saturday! It was awesome, even though I didn’t run one step. I got to help out, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cutting up bananas, and driving the monster van. The van was a veritable swag wagon. It was the biggest vehicle I have ever driven, and it made a beeping noise when I put it in reverse. Legit. The interior was lined with decorative lighting, and gangster music played lightly over the sound system all day (because I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off). I was straight thugging.

Rick and Jennifer McNulty run the NJ Trail Series and have a growing number of race events spread across the state throughout the year. MM was a trail race in northern Jersey, just past Jefferson High School in the Mahlon Reservation. There were several options: 25K, 50K, 75K, and 100K. It was a collection of great people, all out celebrating an unseasonably cool day on the trails. Congratulations to all the runners! And shout-out to Mike Lynch, my local mentor in the sport and one of the funniest people in America.

My own training has just started to pick up again after a brief running-detox period. I feel good now and am ready to get back into it. Two days ago (my first day back), I doubled—31 miles in the morning alone and 5 faster miles in the evening with friends. The past two days I have taken advantage of Vernon’s mountains and done some hill training.

Let me just say, Vernon is beautiful. If you are looking for a romantic getaway location/place for you honeymoon, do this: Hop off the New Jersey Turnpike at exit 11. Drive north through the buffer region called Morris County until you reach Sussex. (The sign says “Sussex County: People and Nature Together.” Charming and FACTUAL.) Travel north-northwest until the ratio of cows to people increases, and then look around. You are in the Switzerland of America. Vernon Township. There are lakes and mountains. It is beautiful! The Appalachian Trail runs through, and there are more wild turkeys than people. We have no sidewalks, and the closest real store is a Wal-Mart 20 minutes away, three towns over. (Vernon is also the site of Running with the Devil—the 6- or 12-hour runs up and down the ski slopes in July.)

Yesterday, I went out on the Appalachian boards. After passing into the forest, I turned right onto the dirt road, crossed a bridge, and came out on Maple Grange (next to the old horse race track). I turned right again at the emu farm and heard some kids chatting in Discovery Years Pre-School. “Idiot!” a little boy screamed. “You’re a big idiot!” Oh, man. If that kid were a Moran, he would have gotten his mouth cleaned out with soap. When I was a child, those types of verbal attacks were illicit. They were considered the gateway drugs of debasive vocabulary, and I guess we didn’t want them to become a casual part of our household lexicon. I am thankful for that. But now that I’m old, I can say whatever I want. What up, Mom?! I can call anybody an idiot these days. I just don’t want to. It seems so mean…

Tomorrow, I am moving up to Yale to get started on my Masters. I am not especially excited about running in New Haven, but I will hopefully find trails nearby. I am also not excited about being a student again. Ugh, school. Just kidding. I FREAKING LOVE SCHOOL. Learning is my favorite thing.

See you later, beautiful Vernon! You're a real babe of a town.

Next up: North Coast 24 (September 18th). I can’t wait! I am going to find some shorter local races to prep myself for speed. And that’s it. I have to go pack for moving now…

Catherine's 50K and Season Wrap-Up

2010-08-01T14:42:00.000-04:00

Lifeguards cannot close their eyes. It is our job to see it all, to take everything in. And this was never a problem for me until the morning the man in the maroon velvet Speedo sauntered onto my pool deck. He was a corpulent man of bulk, yet he moved confidently and began a routine of side stretches alongside the pool. I surveyed the scene with unease. It was my job. For the first time in my life, I regretted that I am a girl with clear vision.

I have clear vision, but I can never seem to find a trail. At every fork in a path I second-guess myself, and the directional options seem n-dimensional. It is negatively affecting my race times, comically so. My new favorite race maneuver is running back—retracing the trail—to find the next person coming up to ask them where to go. Extra credit miles. Better safe than sorry.

Last Saturday, I ran in the Catherine’s 50K in the beautiful Massanuttens. It was only 6 days after the Lone Ranger 24-Hour event, but I decided to run anyway because:

1.I would get to see my VHTRC friends.
2.I hadn’t put my racing gear away yet, so it was just sitting there all ready for me. Old water from the week before was still in my water bottles. Just kidding. But seriously, though. No, no. I dumped it out.
3.Running on a paved circle for a day is very different than running an out-and-back mountain trail.

Catherine’s was a casual event. Business casual. The day before, I trained a double (45 minutes of biking plus a 15-mile run), and I added some lifting. I set my alarm that night and fell asleep in the clothes I would run in the next day. Simplify, simplify.—Henry David Thoreau.
But my alarm did not go off, and when I woke up, the sun was already up. 6:28 a.m. My worst nightmare had come to fruition, and there was no way I could make it to the start in time.
I jumped into the car and drove south. When I finally got there, it was 8:20, so the run had already begun. I tucked into the forest and saw ...................................................nobody.

Well, there were some deer. I’m glad deer are not hostile animals. They always catch me when I’m alone.

I bore down and hurried through the trails, and before long, I was surrounded by a sea…a C…a vhtrC of runners. Sophie was there! About 80% of what I know about ultramarathoning, I learned from reading her blog over the past couple of years. I saw Mike and Jeff, Bobby, Bethany, the Kniplings, and so many other wonderful people. Bill Gentry—man among men—was celebrating his 100th official ultramarathon. That was AMAZING! I picked my way through and settled into a pace. My legs felt light, and the fresh air was wonderful. There were streams to cross and a profusion of slippery rocks, sweeping the spread of the course. It was wild.

I got lost a bunch of times. That was frustrating. It was entirely my fault, though, not a reflection of the course at all. Just me, spending too much time inside of my head. Story of my life. I just don’t like running backwards or waiting as the clock ticks.

Tick tock on the clock, but the party don’t stop, no. Oh oh oh ohhhh. –Ke$ha.
If I were a rapper or a mononymous, trisyllabic diva like Madonna, my name would be $abrina, in homage to Ke$ha, my social ethics role model. I like that she talks her songs, rather than actually singing, and isn’t even very good at talking. I also agree with every morally-loose sentiment she expresses.

The temperature creeped up to 107, so it was basically heaven. I wish all of life were held in a sauna. When the race finished, there was a barbecue. I stayed for a bit but had to head back to the dog I was babysitting. This dog is ruining my social life. I think he appreciates me because I sang him the complete works by Taylor Swift before bed last night, inserting his name in place of every noun. As I was sitting here writing this, he just brought me one of my shoes. He even nibbled down the back a bit so it’s softer and easier to put on. I am thankful for that.

Since April, I have raced five times (Umstead, Happy Pacers Race, Old Dominion, Lone Ranger, and Catherine’s). That’s the most I have ever done in this short a period, and I still feel strong and healthy! I have gained a lot of race experience and confidence. Now I am resting for a bit and easing into graduate school. My feet are a veritable mess following the season, but I am not concerned. My sister once tried to get me to have a pedicure, but I’m not even pedi-curious as to what non-running feet would look like.

Next up: North Coast 24 in Cleveland (September!!!) and then the Grindstone-100 in October. It will be so fun to return to the Grindstone and see my old friends. Bobby Gill: rematch? You on? I am going to work hard.

Back On My Feet Lone Ranger 24-Hour Run

2010-07-20T20:48:00.000-04:00

http://blog.backonmyfeet.org/2010/07/18/20in24-results-serge-arbona-retains-title-23yr-old-takes-womens-crown/

At some point during my childhood, I realized my eye doctor never changed the eye charts, so I memorized them. Done. Bottom line: A P E O R F D Z. And that was it. I had perfect vision with my eyes closed. I thought it was the type of challenge you could surmount one time and then move on with your life. Let’s do bigger things.

Running is not like that. In high school, as we approached the end of track workouts, my coach would yell, “One and done!” Oh, right. One for now, but in 15 minutes we’ll be doing a cool down run, and you know very well that I’ll be running every day for the rest of my life.

Ultrarunning offers a robust extension of that sentiment. Every race is a unique challenge, and there is no such thing as perfect. It requires you to adjust your plan and account for whatever befalls. Wild dogs, temperature changes, nutrition problems, mountains, and injuries. Oh, man. The Lone Ranger 24-Hour Run was no different.

The race course was beautiful. I loved it. It was a loop of about 8.45 miles around the Schuylkill. A regatta [not to be confused with ricotta] was being held out on the water. I watched as crew teams competed, and a man bellowed boating instructions over a loud speaker. Philadelphians wandered about the course all day, too, rollerblading and walking their dogs. And at night, there were fireworks in the distance. The aid stations were the best! They were well-stocked and full of the friendliest volunteers. I approached a station and heard some familiar lyrics: “And I know someday that it’ll all turn out. You’ll make me work, so we can work to work it out. And I promise you, kid, that I give so much more than I get. I just haven’t met you yet.”

You just haven’t met me yet, Michael Bublé. I’m right here, just running around.

One of the highlights of the day was running with Anna Piskorska—a virtual superhero of 24-hour runs. We discussed shared friends and our first meeting, at the Umstead 100, where we competed but never spoke. Anna is wonderful, and I think her daughter must be very proud of her. After about 2 hours, we separated at an aid station, and the heat of the day escalated to almost 100.

Anna had told me that 50 miles would come quickly. She was right! 60 came quickly, too. Then 70 and 80. In the heat, hydration was important. I stuck potatoes into salt cups and ate them, then chugged water. Now, writing this while sitting in a normal context, well-fed and hydrated in a temperature-controlled bedroom, that seems incomparably gross. At the time…delicious. But as the night arrived, I was ready to sleep and started to struggle with my pacing.

I worked to discipline my thoughts. As long as your mind is focused, your body will follow. At age 26, your neuroplasticity starts to decline. I turned 24 on Monday, so I’m becoming increasingly cognizant of this. I want to take advantage of my malleable intellect over the next two years by disciplining my thoughts and learning everything I can. But sometimes my mind still wanders…

For a large chunk of the night, I thought about scholar pictures. I wondered--should I ever become a scholar--what picture would I choose for wikipedia?

I really like what Kant does there with his receding hairline, but Metaxas’ I-just-had-a-brilliant-thought-while-you-were-taking-my-picture shot is good, too.

Probably, I would go with this:

This is how I want to be remembered—as a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths. My tabula was almost rasa, John Locke. It was the first picture of my life, and I think I nailed it.

The race went on. The heat got to me, so I could no longer eat solid foods. In the words of a post-modern philosopher, “Ain’t about how fast I get there. Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side. It’s the climb.” Miley Cyrus, your lyrics would be more poignant if they were not sung while you danced on a pole. For the final 40 miles, I drank soda for sustenance. A terrific woman with a huge smile gave me iced coffee every 8.45 miles. I loved that. My wonderful crew member—Kristen “KPr$” Peterson—took great care of me and delighted in her first-ever experience at any running event. All of the other crews rallied around me as well, and I have never felt so loved by a group of people I had just met!

At about 2 a.m., a man named John offered to pace me for almost 17 miles. It was dark, and I was scared. I am so thankful for his encouragement. Later, a guy named Mike finished the race with me. He was hilarious. Mike found out I liked philosophy and asked me pressing “philosophical” concerns he had been stewing over:

“When does a twig become a stick? When does it become a branch? Then a tree?” he probed.

“I don’t know, Mike. Those are implicit in the definitions of the various affections of wood…together called a tree,” I mumbled. “It’s not philosophy.” Mike smiled and told me about the time he made a tree into a log.

“What would happen if I had a car driving at the speed of light with its headlights on?” he asked. Physics. I was 120+ miles into a run and had no remaining mental lucidity to answer that with any clarity of response. But I loved that he was engaging me in my interests. We laughed a lot. Mike was the best.

My parents came! I love them! They love when I run for 24 hours and get all beat up and exhausted; it’s probably their favorite thing.

Then it was all over. I got my first record, which was exciting. 127 miles (officially 125.something to the final aid station you reach) in nearly 100-degree heat off of 3 weeks of training. That’s encouraging to me. It means I can plug in and do work. I went home, rehydrated, and thought about my next race. I want to compete in the 24-hour run for the national team in Cleveland this September. I love this distance.

When I woke up in the morning, I had to google the event to make sure it all really happened because these runs seem so surreal. It’s like living 2 separate lives. I put on my loafers and business clothes and hopped onto the metro, hoping it was the correct train. I couldn’t really read the sign, so I just crossed my fingers and assumed it said A P E O R F D Z.

Sylvia Strikes Again

2010-07-04T18:22:00.000-04:00

I am in a public feud with an old lady at my gym. And I just love her.

I started attending a gym a few times a week when I moved to the DC area back in September, and this woman—whom we will call Sylvia—immediately accosted me. She marched up to me in the locker room one morning and said, “I just don’t understand why they let children into this gym. Where are your parents? I want to give them a piece of my mind.”

I stood there, shocked. She was like the 70-year old female version of Kanye West, jumping into my life like that. Other women in the room looked away, nervously.

The next day, she got me again, just as I was hopping off of the elliptical. “Oh, hello, CHILD,” she spat at me in an acerbic tone. I loved this woman. I am 23. So I told her that. Sylvia eyed me up and down and muttered, “Well, there is no way I could have known.” Later, I caught her at the front desk, talking to one of the office managers. “There is a child in here,” she said, glancing toward me. “She’s a child, and she is lying about her age. I’d say she is twelve years old at the most.” I laughed.

The feud has continued. One morning, I was heat training in the sauna when Sylvia came upon me. She jacked up the heat and then ran away, trying to over-heat me out of the gym. There is comedy in that. I appreciate her wit. Sylvia once told me to stop wearing eyeliner because “it’s not really for kids,” and she offers to help me get dressed. Do I need help tying my shoes? No. Thanks, though. I have been advised to “be seen and not heard.” So I cannot answer her indictments. It is settled; I am twelve.

Youth does have its advantages. For example, my bones heal like lightning. That is a wonderful thing because there are 6 weeks between when I broke my foot and my next race. Perfect! Actually, I am already 100% recovered; now I just have to get in shape.

All my life, I’ve been somewhat accident-prone in running, most recently awarding me the Best Blood recognition at Grindstone ‘08. My first athletic injury came at age 3. I was running in a graveyard when I tripped and broke my nose on a parked minivan. A year later, I tried to outrun my next-door neighbor’s mountain goat. In the end, it got me and head-butted me into the bushes. In 4th grade, my friend Glenn told me he was faster than me. We lined up at recess to race. Glenn got caught up in a jump rope, and I sprinted to victory. I turned around to laugh, still moving forward, and ran into a shed. Now I have a chin scar. Glenn was a very graceful 9-year-old and did not tease me as he walked me to the nurse’s office. Pride go-eth before a fall. Pride ran-eth me into a shed.

Yesterday, I picked up my friend, Austin, in the District at 5:40 a.m. and we traveled a few hours away to the Jeremy’s Run area of the Shenandoah Mountains. There, we met up with the VHTRC [Virginia Happy Trails Running Club…so cool] to do a 21-miler up into the mountains. It was amazing. I love the fellowship of running. We saw bears and breathed in the fresh air. Something bit my ankle, and I got worried. Austin said that if my flesh started to decay, he would let me know because he is a good friend.

Actually, I make a point of trying to keep as many middle school friends as possible, and Austin is among them. I think: This person chose to be my friend when I was at my ugliest and most awkward, when I was a brace-faced member of Young Astronaut’s Club, who spent my free time traveling around northern NJ performing yodels in a goat costume. There is freedom in knowing I have that level of acceptance. By comparison, anything I do now is cool.

The views were beautiful, and the people were delightful. I enjoyed making new friends and hearing their stories. Every ultrarunner has ridiculous stories, and it is fun to listen and share.

We reached an overlook and paused to explore the view. “Austin,” I coughed. “Are we at altitude, or am I out of shape?” He told me I was out of shape. Cool. There’s time. My goal is to get fit by Tuesday.

Austin wears those glove-shoes, and he loves them. He always gets a lot of attention for them, and people ask him for shoe advice. This is funny to me. Austin is very clear-eyed, and I would ask him for advice on lots of things, just NEVER issues of shoe preference. For example, see what he chose to wear during the DC Snow-pocalypse. Very fashion-forward. What a guy.

(Austin reads this blog but is on a business trip to Lebanon and will not see this for at least 8 days.)

I got home early from the run and went over to dog-watch a basset hound named Tucker.

Tucker is a diva, and I could not get him inside. After taking him for a walk, I let him roam freely about the fenced in-backyard. But I couldn’t get him to re-enter the house. From 7:45 until almost 10 p.m., I chased him around the backyard, but he has swivel-hips and kept eluding me. I played dead, and he didn’t care. I pretended to cry to elicit sympathy, but he was heartless. I kept asking him, “Is this the way you want to start our friendship?” But Tucker sprinted around and around. It was demoralizing. Finally, I gave up and walked inside. Tucker took the cue and followed me in. Just like that. Tucker, my love for you is not contingent upon your behavior. I will love you just as you are. You are another Sylvia in my life.

Today I ran about 35 miles (plus some lifting and dog-walking), and tomorrow I’ll get more heat training in. My foot is perfect, and I am excited about my upcoming race. I love summer, and I love this sport.

Old Dominion 100...The Injury Report

2010-06-18T16:13:00.001-04:00

In the early years of my life, I had a recurrent nightmare in which I got elephantitis in one of my legs! (It’s a horrifying disease where you’re infected by the Brugia malayi, a parasite carried by mosquitoes. Then your legs swell out to elephantine proportions.) Anyway, in my dream, my right leg gets elephantitis, and the first thing I think about is, “How the heck will I run now?” I attach a skateboard to my leg and can thereafter only run on pavement, pulling it along. No big deal. And I still have friends.

I guess that’s how I feel right now. USELESS, elephantine(?) leg [foot]. How the heck will I run now?

Answer: I cannot.

For a short period of time, I am resting. Rest is a good thing. I am starting to see that it is—Sabbath is a vital part of training life. Do you know what is interesting? Our cells have Sabbaths. I could not make this up. If you look at the life cycle of a cell, there is a “quiescent” phase, known as G0, in which it rests. It just sits there. No RNA is produced, and it quits dividing. There is a metabolic interlude. Why? The authority of God is written into the structure of the cosmos. Just sayin’. Rest is a Biblical mandate. So…I’ve heard a lot of athletes say they don’t need to rest. Well, yes, they do. The average human body contains somewhere between 50 to 75 trillion cells. Each cell takes a Sabbath. I disagree with those athletes because their constituent cellular components are modeling a wellness rule that would benefit them in life. Ohhhh you don’t rest? Hmm. It seems like ALL OF YOUR CONSTITUENTS DO. Got you there.

During the Old Dominion 100, I broke my foot and tore part of a tendon. I actually walked (limped?) away from the doctor feeling relieved because the diagnosis validated the pain. I’ve never cried so hard during a race before. I thought I was a big wimp.

And don’t think that it’s what I should expect for being an ultrarunner. All sports have some level of risk. I broke my nose playing softball. I broke my finger playing basketball. I scarred my chin swimming. I broke my nose playing piñata.

I also love going to the doctor! The dentist is my favorite, but any doctor is fun.
1—I like to fill out forms about my name and all the numbers (SS#, height, insurance ID) associated with my life.
2—I love the brief exposure to diseases in waiting rooms. (It preps your immune system for later battle.)
3—I love to speed-read through all of their magazines. I once read 12 magazines before being seen.

When I go to a new doctor, I never tell them I ultrarun when I first arrive. I wait until they check my pulse and are taken aback by how low it is. Then I tell them. I don’t really look like a serious athlete. It’s my secret identity. I’m like Miley Cyrus as Hannah Montana. The best of both worlds.

Do you know what amoebas do? Their actin and myosin microfilaments slide over each other as they extend pseudopodia (false feet). That’s how they move. Their feet are only present briefly, until they suck them in and shoot out new ones. Say what you want about amoebas, but they got it right. I would like new feet right now.

The last time I broke my leg, I was standing around with the German foreign exchange student (who had a broken arm). She was smack-talking me about her comparative agility, so I challenged her to a jump roping competition. I beat her on one leg. Arms don’t affect that sort of thing.

So I am broken, but I’m okay! And I have other hobbies. I cannot currently ultrarun, but I can do other things for long periods of time. I’m going to ultra-sit and ultra-read and ultra-play-the-viola. Probably I’ll ultra-color. Ultra-talk on the phone. Ultra-learn-some-neuroscience. Ultra-make-some-friends.

I love my fracture boot. Velcro goes with EVERYTHING.

The Old Dominion 100

2010-06-07T21:53:00.000-04:00

Today, I rode the DC Metro on one leg, struggling to keep the pressure off of my right foot. The Metro wasn’t especially busy, but all of the seats were taken by middle-aged businessmen with ipads and proletariat man-purses. I was in a skirt and wearing a foot cast, but they let me struggle and wobble. I relished in my balance game and delighted in the challenge, but mourned the loss of chivalry.

My training season for the Old Dominion 100-Miler was one of my best ever. I put in a lot of hours on mixed terrain and lifted quite a bit. My peak week was 185 miles, which included two 45-mile runs. I was well-rested and loose. I felt strong for the first time in about a year.

The race was set to begin on Saturday at 4 a.m., but by 1, I was awake and ready to run. My crew was asleep, with their stuff strewn about the hotel room. I was so excited.

At 2:50 a.m., I hopped out of bed and assembled my gear. Two weeks ago, I raced in the Girls-On-The-Run DC 5K with a 5th grade friend from church. She’s new to the sport, and we had a lot of fun running together through the pouring rain! At the GOTR race, every girl was given a bright blue hair ribbon. I decided to wear mine for the Old Dominion. I tied it into my ponytail, and my brother rolled his eyes in disapproval. Look good. Feel good. Run good.

The Old Dominion began wonderfully. The first 2 scores of miles passed quickly, as we wandered through the beautiful town of Woodstock, Virginia and explored the Massanutten Mountains. I tried to stay in-step with one or two men at all times because of the loose farm dogs.

I once watched an episode of The Tyra Banks Show. Tyra had all these ladies on who had been bitten in the face by dogs. She kept saying things like, “You’re beautiful just as you are,” and “Actually, you’re probably prettier with that scar because it makes you unique.” Great show. But then, she sent them away to get makeovers. She had their faces doused in so much cover-up that you could no longer see the scars…or their original faces. Tyra exclaimed, “See, you’re beautiful just as you are!” I will never let a dog get my face.

My favorite section of trail was a steep, muddy incline that was populated by dozens of teenage locals riding four-wheelers. As they drove by, giant mud globs were liberated from the course and launched at me from all sides. The cool mud felt great against my skin because it was over 90 degrees and humid. Plus, things like that never happen in DC. It was unreal.

The technical trail sections were neat, too. I was worried because I’ve had some ankle stability problems/tendonitis lately, so I had to focus. The course wasn’t anything like the Grindstone or the Mountain Masochist, but it was still pretty rocky—like playing tetris with your feet. If you were to misstep, you could lose some teeth, especially since your hands were bound up in racing hand-bottles.

I heard some locals practicing with their shot guns in a corn field. I’d be so mad if somebody accidentally shot me in the middle of my 100-miler.

Large sections of the course smelled like the anaerobic decomposition of corn. Also: manure.

At about mile 49, I sprained my ankle. BAD. But it’s always hard to say how much pain is too much pain over a 100-miler, so I kept going. There is dignity in completion. My pace remained stable, and I was in good spirits through the next marathon of miles. But eventually the tears came. By the time I picked up my safety-runner at mile 75, I was in intense pain with every step. I was almost inconsolable. Almost.

My safety runner for that 11-mile stretch was Austin Morton, and he is AWESOME. We’ve been friends since middle school. We ran together in gym class and argued about whose last name was closer to “moron” …Morton or Moran. (Clearly, Morton is.) He kept me laughing and didn’t mock me when I cried. At mile 86, he said good-bye and sent me off. The sky started to darken—metaphorically and because it was nighttime.

I GOT LOST. I got lost SO MANY TIMES. Sometimes, it’s my fault. I have an unparalleled, unnatural proclivity for getting lost because I spend a lot of time inside of my own head; I was a Philosophy major…But some of the markings were difficult. In certain areas, there were only ribbons to mark the way. Over the course of the day, they were blown upward into the branches of the trees, so with only a headlamp, they were hard to see. I was limping and confused, and I didn’t know which way to go. At one point, I ran two miles in the wrong direction. After mile 90, that’s demoralizing.

But I finished! I got 1st place for women and third overall. It was not a PR, but it was encouraging to get a win. It made me feel like an athlete. I felt strong, and I am driven to compete harder (once my foot recovers). And now I have another belt buckle!

HOLD UP. So: In a 100, if you finish in under 24 hours, you get a belt buckle, not a trophy. For some reason, there is a general consensus that trophies are impractical. There is no real utility in them. It’s just too bad I spend all of my free time in running spandex. No belts required.

Hopefully, I’ll be back at the Old Dominion next year. I really enjoyed it! The people were wonderful, and the aid station volunteers were so friendly! Thank you so much for all of the work you put into the race! :) Also, thank you to my wonderful crew: Teddy Moran, Garret Martucci, and Austin Morton. I love you guys.

Old Dominion, next year I want your record. NO INJURIES. No getting lost.

2010-05-14T23:11:00.001-04:00

shoes, oh my shoes

2010-04-18T16:33:00.000-04:00

Okay, so here’s the scoop: Two years ago, I was cooking hot dogs for my campers over an open fire when I caught my shoes on fire. They were my favorite trail shoes, and they burned up like slices of toast. I thought, “I will never love another shoe again. It is too painful.” I considered becoming like Pocohontas, shoeless and free.

But then I found the Montrail Rockbridges. I am in love again. Birds are singing. In the words of Celine Dion, “My heart will go on.” My heart has gone on.

Rockbridges are my favorite Montrails. They’re light-weight and breathable. They’re sturdy enough that they can handle technical trails, and they are just very comfortable. I have the purple-maroon ones. They remind me of eggplants. Every Italian girl loves her eggplants.

Sneakers are important when you regularly put more miles on your feet than your car. I love my Montrails.

Happy Pace Race 24-Hour Relay, etc.

2010-04-18T11:58:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, I treated myself to an ultra—a casual race in Sandy Bottom Park, Hampton, Virginia. It was SO FUN, but at the same time a giant misadventure.

Problems:
1-I left 80% of my racing gear back in D.C. Water bottles? I went old-school and carried plastic ones. Head lamps? Just two—my least favorite ones. Technical socks? Noooooo. I wore an old pair of my brother’s socks. I love his socks. You know what they say: You never really know a person until you run 60 miles in his socks. For shoes, you only need to walk a mile.
2-My GPS had no idea where we were going.
3-I accrued a major sleep deficit over the week. It was crazy.
4-I parked my car in a pile of road kill.

The race was great, though. It was one of those run-however-much-you-want or run with a relay team event, while fundraising for the American Cancer Association. Perfect! Part of me wishes I had stayed to run the whole 24-hour shebang, but I stopped after 60 miles, since running over 100 within 3 weeks of running 100 would be.....hmmmmm....less than salubrious, especially for my mental health. It's taxing. Oh, my gosh.

The first several laps flew by. I met a Chemistry professor named Mark. I was thrilled. I love to run with chemists. I met one at the Grindstone last year. We talked for a while, until he hit the wall and had to drop out. Unlike in racquetball, hitting the wall in running is not a good thing. Mark was fun! He holds the world speed record for dribbling a basketball while marathoning. Mark and I talked about spectroscopy. I asked him if he could tell me the chemical constituents of the dirt we were running on. He said, “No because I’m not a geek.” I said, “Ohhhh yeah. Me neither.”

Dirt is wonderful. A couple of years ago, my bio lab did a five-week microbial diversity study of Virginia hardwood forest soil. It was so enlightening. In a 50-50 mixture of soil and distilled water, my lab partner and I found approximately 270,000,000 bacterial colonies in 100 ul of our sample. And that was only testing for four types of bacteria! I was blown away. But, Mark, I am not a geek. Nerd, maybe. But not a geek.

The race progressed, and I passed the RD. “There’s a bull’s eye on your back,” he told me. Ahhhhh, why?! I was the hunted. The previous years’ winners were trying to walk me down, but I was LEISURE RACING. I was there for the love of the sport. Oh, so then I thought about Nicomachean Ethics for a while. Bull’s eye…you know. The mark of the moral virtue is a habit of the soul, concerning choice, and consists in OBSERVING THE MEAN, a mean such that a man of practical wisdom (phronesis) would observe. I was thinking about how if I lived a life in reference to the mean, I would have to be lazy and fight my inclinations to run. (AMERICA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? http://www.obesityinamerica.org/ )

This is going to sound weird, but having that time running for so long alone with my thoughts…ummmmm…fine-tunes my intellect. There was this one time that I invented apple juice. I thought, “Apples are so delicious. I wish there were some way to…maybe…extract the liquid so I wouldn’t have to chew.” It doesn’t matter that it already exists because I invented it independently of everyone. Maybe that’s what Al Gore means when he says he invented the internet.

This run, I skipped my morning coffee and only allowed myself a single ibuprofen 45 miles in. I wanted to feel my body respond to the trails better and not be removed from the pain or exhaustion. One man ran by me and told me he was on vicodin. He had some left over from an old injury. Welllllllll, I just don’t think that’s okay. Actually, it really freaked me out. I prefer my reality unaltered.

Man in the zoo print elephant shorts, I salute you!

Man dressed as Prefontaine, mustache and all, I salute you!

Woman talking to every member of her extended family on her cell phone while running, I salute you!

Thanks for a wonderful time.
Upcoming races:
Old Dominion 100 (June)
Vermont 100 (July)
I can’t believe I get to live this life.

“I’ve had my run, and baby, I’m done. I’ve got to go home.” -- Michael Bublé

A few thoughts coming away from the Umstead-100

2010-04-03T10:58:00.000-04:00

Results: http://www.rgdweb.com/ultra/umstead/DataFiles%5CUM2010OOFFINSFinAA.pdf

Second place! And it felt pretty good. :)

1-I am pretty sure that ultramarathoning is the only sport which not only condones the fanny-pack but practically mandates it. So fun.

2-I love this sport because the people are so authentic. They all have an interesting story to tell. I think when you spend so much time alone in a pair of sneakers, it edifies you. It makes you stronger and more honest with yourself.

3-This is the only sport where you could run 99 miles in one day, and if you don't finish that last mile, you walk away having failed...even after running 99 miles. Hahahaha. Cool!

4-About 75 miles in, a lady yelled after me that my calves were getting sunburned. I said, "Thank you. That is the least of my problems right now."

5-The whole time, I kept thinking about how it only takes 18 hours without brushing your teeth for permanent tooth decay to occur. So, by necessity, I finished in 17 hours, 21 minutes.

6-Two men proposed to me while I was running. I said yes to both of them.

7-The race volunteers and aid station workers were so encouraging! THANK YOU!

8-When I hit 99.7 miles, I told my pacer (my little brother), that I had had enough and was dropping out of the race. He did not think it was funny. I thought it was SO FUNNY.