“It’s not the mountain ahead to climb that wears you down, it’s the
pebble in your shoe”
Muhammad Ali
Last August, the day following the 2013 Angeles Crest 100
mile race, I put my name in the hat for the 2014 race. I was scared,
but I had unfinished business with this behemoth.
It was in 2009 that I had first signed up for the Angeles Crest
100 mile endurance run. I was a relatively new “ultra runner” at the time, and
admittedly a bit naïve for taking on such a large challenge. The course boasts
upwards of 21k feet of both climbing and descent with the highest peak reaching approximately 9,300 feet at mile seventeen atop Baden Powell.
If the steep climbs and descents aren’t enough to intimidate, there is
also the technical terrain and scorching temperatures that make this hundred miler
a daunting prospect.
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| Looks easy, right? |
Armed with ignorance, a false confidence, and head-strong determination, I
trained the best that I knew how and prepared to toe the line for the 2009 start. In retrospect, my training probably was not close to enough to deliver me to my first finish, but I would not find out as the Station Fire sadly caused the race to be cancelled.
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| Station Fire of 2009 |
In 2010, I was granted a free entry due to the cancellation,
but had not trained to race. I was a little worn out on the idea of running a hundred miler and had frankly become intimidated by the challenge. Just as the beautiful landscape of the forest had burned in the Station Fire of '09, so had my naivety that often hurls me blindly into "unrealistic" feats. Clearly, I had not respected the course the way I should have going into 2009 and I was no where close to ready in 2010, mentally or physically.
Still, never one to walk away from a free opportunity to run and perhaps grasping on to a piece of "what if...", a friend and I decided to start and treat the day like a fun "training run." The day proved to be just that and the faint "what ifs" that had followed us to the start line went dead silent as we decided to pull the plug at mile forty-two. As my wrist band was cut to signify the end of my day, I wondered if I would ever come back and finish my business in the Angeles Crest Forest. Running the first forty-two miles had caused the race to grow even more exponentially in my head until it had become a near impossible feat. Furthermore, and beyond just this particular race, the one hundred mile distance now seemed like too much to take on.
Still, never one to walk away from a free opportunity to run and perhaps grasping on to a piece of "what if...", a friend and I decided to start and treat the day like a fun "training run." The day proved to be just that and the faint "what ifs" that had followed us to the start line went dead silent as we decided to pull the plug at mile forty-two. As my wrist band was cut to signify the end of my day, I wondered if I would ever come back and finish my business in the Angeles Crest Forest. Running the first forty-two miles had caused the race to grow even more exponentially in my head until it had become a near impossible feat. Furthermore, and beyond just this particular race, the one hundred mile distance now seemed like too much to take on.
I did not realize it at the time, but the distance had become a pebble in my shoe.
Following 2010, I took some time away from racing. I wasn't enjoying it the way I used to and I needed time to reflect. I also succumbed to a few injuries that required nursing; most significantly a stress fracture that sidelined me for close to a year.
Slowly but surely, though, I found my way back to running, and, eventually, I regained my joy and confidence. Upon successfully completing a few fifty milers, I decided it was time to revisit the hundred mile distance. After a few snafus (see "Lost in the Sun" blog), my first hundred miler was to be Pine to Palm in September of 2013.
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| Removing the first pebble |
Armed now with a sense of realism, increased confidence and better training, I crossed the finish line at P2P. And as I finished, I noticed something; there was a feeling of lightness. It was as if a small, aggravating weight had been removed. Quickly, I realized that it had never been the hundred mile distance that was holding me back; it had been doubt.
Doubt had been a pebble that I had placed in my own shoe.
With the hundred mile pebble removed, I decided it was time to go back to AC. This time would be different, I vowed. I was confident in the distance and maybe even ready to approach it with bigger time goals. I couldn't wait to dig in and start training.
But, as March of this year approached, and the time to start focused training for AC was on the horizon, I started to experience significant pain in my right foot in the diagnosis of plantar fasciitis. Suddenly, running wasn't fun anymore and even simple short runs were causing me to limp for the remainder of the day.
I tried to maintain optimism as I experimented with all the tried and true solves for PF, including rest. Nothing seemed to work, though, and my confidence in my ability to train and finish AC dwindled rapidly. Suddenly, March and April had passed, and while I was running some, the quality and duration of my runs were not up to the par with what I believed was needed to attempt this monster of a race.
I contemplated bowing out. I seriously contemplated bowing out. I couldn't see any other option. I was limping through short runs, so how could I expect to complete 100 mountain miles?
Or could I?
Nothing was broken. I wasn't broken.
But, as March of this year approached, and the time to start focused training for AC was on the horizon, I started to experience significant pain in my right foot in the diagnosis of plantar fasciitis. Suddenly, running wasn't fun anymore and even simple short runs were causing me to limp for the remainder of the day.
I tried to maintain optimism as I experimented with all the tried and true solves for PF, including rest. Nothing seemed to work, though, and my confidence in my ability to train and finish AC dwindled rapidly. Suddenly, March and April had passed, and while I was running some, the quality and duration of my runs were not up to the par with what I believed was needed to attempt this monster of a race.
I contemplated bowing out. I seriously contemplated bowing out. I couldn't see any other option. I was limping through short runs, so how could I expect to complete 100 mountain miles?
Or could I?
Nothing was broken. I wasn't broken.
"F it, I am doing it!"
This was simply going to be another pebble in my shoe that I would consciously remove. It might not be a perfect path to getting to the start line, but I wasn't going to let this detour stop me . Of course, I would be careful, and there would be adjustments, but I had consulted with experts and there wasn't real danger in moving forward; it simply didn't feel good. And I could power through discomfort once I decided to stop letting it interfere with my confidence.
And, perhaps, there had been a part of me that had wanted a small excuse to not have to revisit my behemoth. Perhaps, I had been scared. The pain was legitimate, but it didn't need to be a game ender.
Moving forward, I decided there would be no more excuses or pebbles in my training. There was no guarantee I would finish the race, of course, but excuses would not hold me back from getting to the start line with the best preparation my body could handle.
Because running wasn't feeling great, I decided to do everything I could to make the training moving forward as fun as possible. I employed great friends to meet me on runs. I included bucket list items into my training like climbing Baldy and traversing the full sixty-eight miles of the Backbone trail. And, of course, I built in excursions to the Angeles Crest Forest for training runs on the course with other entrants and friends who wanted to join along. The pain still lingered, but I was putting in significant miles and some of that old confidence was slowly returning.
This was simply going to be another pebble in my shoe that I would consciously remove. It might not be a perfect path to getting to the start line, but I wasn't going to let this detour stop me . Of course, I would be careful, and there would be adjustments, but I had consulted with experts and there wasn't real danger in moving forward; it simply didn't feel good. And I could power through discomfort once I decided to stop letting it interfere with my confidence.
And, perhaps, there had been a part of me that had wanted a small excuse to not have to revisit my behemoth. Perhaps, I had been scared. The pain was legitimate, but it didn't need to be a game ender.
Moving forward, I decided there would be no more excuses or pebbles in my training. There was no guarantee I would finish the race, of course, but excuses would not hold me back from getting to the start line with the best preparation my body could handle.
Because running wasn't feeling great, I decided to do everything I could to make the training moving forward as fun as possible. I employed great friends to meet me on runs. I included bucket list items into my training like climbing Baldy and traversing the full sixty-eight miles of the Backbone trail. And, of course, I built in excursions to the Angeles Crest Forest for training runs on the course with other entrants and friends who wanted to join along. The pain still lingered, but I was putting in significant miles and some of that old confidence was slowly returning.
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| Climbing Baldy with awesome people; Photo Credit: Random Hiker |
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| Celebrating America atop Baden Powell; Photo Credit: Rachel Bailin |
As race week finally approached, I still had some concerns, of course, but I was starting to recognize my pebbles and I quickly tried to pull them out. The "doubt" pebble, the "foot" pebble, the "heat concerns" pebble, the "have I trained enough?" pebble; I slowly removed them one by one. A hundred miles is a long way and surely there would be sediment, dirt and small pebbles that would make their way into my shoes, but I wanted to walk to the start line with confidence that I had removed the ones I had created myself.
And so I did at 5am on August 2nd. As the the horn sounded, and I shed my race nerves along with my morning jacket, I began my journey that had been in the making for close to five years. Whatever the day should hold, I was proud of the work I had done and for seeing my training through.
The early and latter part of the day progressed mostly smoothly. I felt steady and even managed to enjoy a lot of it. I enjoyed conversations with other runners, chats with supporters and my crew, seeing my father at aid stations, and breathtaking views. My foot was even cooperating and the high temperatures that usually accompany this race, were strangely absent. Aside from a close call with a rattle snake, the day was going remarkably well!
I cruised into mile fifty-two to pick up my pacer, Steven, relatively unscathed. I knew there was plenty of course left, but I was ahead of cut-offs and was confident I could hike out sections as needed. I wasn't moving quickly, but we steadily approached mile sixty in time for an epic Sunset and some quick aid before dropping into the canyon.
As the night closed in, I could feel myself becoming more lethargic, but I continued to move forward in good spirits. Steven and I enjoyed funny banter and I marveled as I was able to still run through some of the early part of a rainy night.
I experienced some stomach nausea at sixty-eight, but was successfully able to quiet it through nutrition (re: Mountain Dew) and a short period of rest at the Newcomb's aid station. We continued on at what I jokingly referred to as my "truffle shuffle" pace and eventually made it into Chantry Flats. (Mile 75)
Chantry Flats emerges as a sea of lights and nervous excitement at the base of Mt. Wilson. It is a chaotic scene of crew members helping their runners, supporters anxiously awaiting their participants, and both downtrodden and high-spirited runners anticipating the final quarter of the race. It is an aid station that sees a lot of drops as the next twenty-five miles of the course are especially daunting. The final section features two significant climbs with the first being the climb up Mt Wilson and the second up to Sam Merrill. It also features significant technical downhill, especially in the final ten miles. Not an easy order for being seventy-five miles into a tough race.
Luckily, I was not destroyed in either the physical or mental sense. I was still in relatively high spirits and ready to tackle the final section with my next pacer, Brian. After filling up on more food and Mt. Dew, we started our trek up Wilson.
I was becoming more and more fatigued, but we powered up the mountain. As climbing is my strong suit, I fought to continue up at a decent stride, determined to reach the peak as painlessly and quickly as possible. My pace was no where close to my earlier climbs in the day, but we made it to the top with minimal pausing, and I was able to catch up to a few runners along the way.
But upon reaching the top and closing in on the final twenty, I found my spirits starting to drop for the first time all day. Overcome with sleepiness and an overwhelming realization that there were still many tough miles ahead, I grew sluggish and struggled to respond to Brian's patient attempts at conversation. I was simply ready for the day to be OVER.
Silently, I tried to encourage myself with thoughts of the finish, but my attempt at a "truffle shuffle" into the aid station at mile eighty-three was heavier on the truffle than the shuffle. Still, I made it, and I managed to exchange some tired smiles and hugs with some of my friends who were manning the station. I stocked up on more Mountain Dew which had now become my go-to drink/calories/caffeine of choice, and headed out with a sense of dread again for the impending and final climb.
The final climb commenced around 4am and I struggled to navigate and maintain balance through the narrow and rocky switchbacks. My heart accelerated with every quickening of pace and my responses to Brian had become mere one word whispers. Grumpily, I cursed some of the steeper ascents and rocks that cut my path while clumsily trying to juggle my hand held water bottles and headlamp that I was carrying for better lighting accuracy. Though shorter than the climb up Wilson, the winding mountain seemed to last forever. I contemplated stopping on a rock and sleeping for a short time, but my desire to be finished with the climb won over my desire to sleep.
Finally, as the first light of morning painted the sky, we closed in on the aid station at mile ninety. While the prospect of a beautiful sunrise, aid from friendly volunteers, and having only ten miles left to the finish line should have been met with relief and joy, I couldn't shake the negativity that had started to chill me through the night. Hoping that some calories and caffeine might change my disposition, I requested another cup of Mt. Dew while trying desperately to stand upright and appear together. Silently, I wondered if I could request an IV drip of my precious Mt Dew for the remaining miles.
With some coaxing from Brian, we marched out of the aid station and started our journey to the finish. The remaining miles would be mostly technical downhill, a reality that filled me with further dread. Technical downhill has not been my strength and I was reminded of the final section of Pine to Palm 100. I had done significant work on the climbs only to be passed by multiple runners on the final downhill section.
"Here we go again," I thought to myself.
But, what could I do? I wasn't a good downhill runner and I was tired. My calves felt destroyed from the final climb and I was barely staying awake.
"Do you want to try running?" Brian asked.
"I am NOT running another step!" I adamantly replied.
Convinced that I could only hike the remaining miles, I quietly consoled myself that I was OK with simply finishing.
About a mile into our descent, though, my rationalizations were interrupted by the sound of two women chatting. A few moments later, a runner and her pacer passed by in a steady shuffle, and slowly moved down the descent. As they disappeared from view, I at first felt acceptance. Acceptance quickly turned into admiration, though, as I quietly wished I could run too.
But, why couldn't I run? Was I hurt? Was I sick?
No, I wasn't.
Tired, yes. Sore, yes. Incapable?
NO.
Then it happened; I started to shuffle down the mountain. And as I shuffled down the mountain, admiration turned into determination and I started to jog down the mountain. And as I jogged down the mountain, determination turned into fight and I started to RUN down the mountain! Before I knew it, we were running down the mountain quicker and with more precision than I had ever run down the section on fresh legs.
I marveled at how quickly we were moving through the final single track and laughed with joy and surprise as we pushed our way to the finish. My joy was momentarily paused, though, as I came to a realization that I had failed to remove one last pebble.
Perhaps downhill running wasn't my greatest strength, but it didn't need to be a crutch. I was far more capable than I had given myself credit for and it was time to stop hiding behind weaknesses.
I crossed the finish line at 8:32 am after 27 hours and 32 minutes. Upon crossing underneath the historic finishing sign in Altadena, I was covered in the sweat and dirt that accompanies one hundred miles of hard mountain miles.
My shoes, however, were pebble free.
One hundred miles is a long journey; you might as well empty your shoes before you begin.
And so I did at 5am on August 2nd. As the the horn sounded, and I shed my race nerves along with my morning jacket, I began my journey that had been in the making for close to five years. Whatever the day should hold, I was proud of the work I had done and for seeing my training through.
The early and latter part of the day progressed mostly smoothly. I felt steady and even managed to enjoy a lot of it. I enjoyed conversations with other runners, chats with supporters and my crew, seeing my father at aid stations, and breathtaking views. My foot was even cooperating and the high temperatures that usually accompany this race, were strangely absent. Aside from a close call with a rattle snake, the day was going remarkably well!
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| Look, I am smiling! (Mile 42); Photo Credit: Tiffany Guerrera |
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| Epic Sunset and still smiling(ish); Photo Credit: Chandra Farnham |
I experienced some stomach nausea at sixty-eight, but was successfully able to quiet it through nutrition (re: Mountain Dew) and a short period of rest at the Newcomb's aid station. We continued on at what I jokingly referred to as my "truffle shuffle" pace and eventually made it into Chantry Flats. (Mile 75)
Chantry Flats emerges as a sea of lights and nervous excitement at the base of Mt. Wilson. It is a chaotic scene of crew members helping their runners, supporters anxiously awaiting their participants, and both downtrodden and high-spirited runners anticipating the final quarter of the race. It is an aid station that sees a lot of drops as the next twenty-five miles of the course are especially daunting. The final section features two significant climbs with the first being the climb up Mt Wilson and the second up to Sam Merrill. It also features significant technical downhill, especially in the final ten miles. Not an easy order for being seventy-five miles into a tough race.
Luckily, I was not destroyed in either the physical or mental sense. I was still in relatively high spirits and ready to tackle the final section with my next pacer, Brian. After filling up on more food and Mt. Dew, we started our trek up Wilson.
I was becoming more and more fatigued, but we powered up the mountain. As climbing is my strong suit, I fought to continue up at a decent stride, determined to reach the peak as painlessly and quickly as possible. My pace was no where close to my earlier climbs in the day, but we made it to the top with minimal pausing, and I was able to catch up to a few runners along the way.
But upon reaching the top and closing in on the final twenty, I found my spirits starting to drop for the first time all day. Overcome with sleepiness and an overwhelming realization that there were still many tough miles ahead, I grew sluggish and struggled to respond to Brian's patient attempts at conversation. I was simply ready for the day to be OVER.
Silently, I tried to encourage myself with thoughts of the finish, but my attempt at a "truffle shuffle" into the aid station at mile eighty-three was heavier on the truffle than the shuffle. Still, I made it, and I managed to exchange some tired smiles and hugs with some of my friends who were manning the station. I stocked up on more Mountain Dew which had now become my go-to drink/calories/caffeine of choice, and headed out with a sense of dread again for the impending and final climb.
 |
| Aid at 83; Photo Credit: Anton Smith |
The final climb commenced around 4am and I struggled to navigate and maintain balance through the narrow and rocky switchbacks. My heart accelerated with every quickening of pace and my responses to Brian had become mere one word whispers. Grumpily, I cursed some of the steeper ascents and rocks that cut my path while clumsily trying to juggle my hand held water bottles and headlamp that I was carrying for better lighting accuracy. Though shorter than the climb up Wilson, the winding mountain seemed to last forever. I contemplated stopping on a rock and sleeping for a short time, but my desire to be finished with the climb won over my desire to sleep.
Finally, as the first light of morning painted the sky, we closed in on the aid station at mile ninety. While the prospect of a beautiful sunrise, aid from friendly volunteers, and having only ten miles left to the finish line should have been met with relief and joy, I couldn't shake the negativity that had started to chill me through the night. Hoping that some calories and caffeine might change my disposition, I requested another cup of Mt. Dew while trying desperately to stand upright and appear together. Silently, I wondered if I could request an IV drip of my precious Mt Dew for the remaining miles.
With some coaxing from Brian, we marched out of the aid station and started our journey to the finish. The remaining miles would be mostly technical downhill, a reality that filled me with further dread. Technical downhill has not been my strength and I was reminded of the final section of Pine to Palm 100. I had done significant work on the climbs only to be passed by multiple runners on the final downhill section.
"Here we go again," I thought to myself.
But, what could I do? I wasn't a good downhill runner and I was tired. My calves felt destroyed from the final climb and I was barely staying awake.
"Do you want to try running?" Brian asked.
"I am NOT running another step!" I adamantly replied.
Convinced that I could only hike the remaining miles, I quietly consoled myself that I was OK with simply finishing.
About a mile into our descent, though, my rationalizations were interrupted by the sound of two women chatting. A few moments later, a runner and her pacer passed by in a steady shuffle, and slowly moved down the descent. As they disappeared from view, I at first felt acceptance. Acceptance quickly turned into admiration, though, as I quietly wished I could run too.
But, why couldn't I run? Was I hurt? Was I sick?
No, I wasn't.
Tired, yes. Sore, yes. Incapable?
NO.
Then it happened; I started to shuffle down the mountain. And as I shuffled down the mountain, admiration turned into determination and I started to jog down the mountain. And as I jogged down the mountain, determination turned into fight and I started to RUN down the mountain! Before I knew it, we were running down the mountain quicker and with more precision than I had ever run down the section on fresh legs.
I marveled at how quickly we were moving through the final single track and laughed with joy and surprise as we pushed our way to the finish. My joy was momentarily paused, though, as I came to a realization that I had failed to remove one last pebble.
Perhaps downhill running wasn't my greatest strength, but it didn't need to be a crutch. I was far more capable than I had given myself credit for and it was time to stop hiding behind weaknesses.
I crossed the finish line at 8:32 am after 27 hours and 32 minutes. Upon crossing underneath the historic finishing sign in Altadena, I was covered in the sweat and dirt that accompanies one hundred miles of hard mountain miles.
My shoes, however, were pebble free.
One hundred miles is a long journey; you might as well empty your shoes before you begin.
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| Cruising through the finish line |
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| Can't believe it is done! |
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| Dirty, but pebble free |
