Monadnock-Sunapee Greenway Overnight

I just got back from an overnight on the Monadnock-Sunapee Trail, starting at Monadnock State Park HQ and sleeping at Crider shelter last night. To make day 1 a bit more interesting I did an out-and-back from Crider to the summit of Mt. Pitcher (about 4 miles north on the trail). The hike was meant to express a minimalist style, where I brought the least possible amount of gear in order to see what was truly necessary (or very, very useful). In that spirit I did without a sleeping bag, ground pad, tent, cook-stove (and associated cutlery/food), and any extra regular clothing beyond my long-sleeved tech shirt and spare socks. What I did have was:

• Guidebook/map
• rain-shell
• fleece
• zip-off nylon trousers (worn)
• camera, sunhat, sunglasses.
  
• compass, knife, iodine, gps, cell phone, headlamp, head-bugnet, ace bandage, ibuprofen, bandaids, emergency matches.
• a 50oz hydration bladder, and a 1-qt gatorade bottle.
• A little shy of 7700 calories worth of food.

All told I don't think my pack weighed much more than 18 lbs with all water reserves full. This was great, because I've found I can run OK with packs weighing around 10% of my body weight. Much heavier than that and it grows difficult.

These two days were amazing! I'm not going to try to sum them up. Follow along with the pictures below:

public

Here are a couple of other notes to go with the pictures:

• About two miles out from Crider Shelter, I was starting to feel it. It was hot, it was muggy, and I had a cloud of midges and deerflies boiling around me that would do Pigpen proud. In short, I was begging for rain. A few drops fell, but nothing serious. Then, less than 1/2 a mile from Crider, it started to rain in earnest! Blessed relief...I was so happy I just sat in the rain for 20 minutes before meandering down to the shelter and settling in for nap.
• I had the most amazing nap! The rain was coming hard outside and it was thundering, but I was snug as a bug in the shelter. I really considered calling the day right there, but eventually the rain stopped, and I reconsidered my plan to make it to Pitcher Mountain.
• The minimalist overnight went OK. I took out everything from my backpack and used as a pad between me and the hard wood floor of the shelter. The mosquitoes were pretty horrible, but at least my bugnet kept me from being bitten all over my face (the whining of mosquitoes is still exquisitely annoying though, even when they can't reach you). Eventually the skeeters went away and I fell asleep (around 8:30, probably). Woke at 12:15am and then sort of cat-napped on-and-off until 5. It was a bit chilly. I ended up wearing my rainshell while using my fleece as a cushion for my bum. If it had been a little colder I would have worn the fleece and just sucked it up. Sleeping on wood planks never hurt anybody. The whole affair was a bit spartan, but I just reminded myself that I got to enjoy the pleasures of a light pack for two whole days, which seems to me to more than balance one uncomfortable night. Still, next time I'm thinking of bringing a ground-pad.

Here are some rough times and distances:

Day 1: 28.2 miles
7:10 leave Monadnock State Park HQ
8:02 summit Mt. Monadnock.
10:10 Eliza Adams gorge
noon Nelson Village
1:45 Crider Shelter (18.1 miles from the summit of Monadnock)
5:35 leave Crider
6:38 summitted Mt. Pitcher.
7:40 return to Crider Shelter

Day 2: 20.0 miles
5:45 leave Crider Shelter
8:45 swim at Silver Lake (20 minute stay)
9:45 Eliza Adams Gorge
11:00 Dublin Trailhead (11 minute break).
12:20 summit of Monadnock, again.
1:12 return to HQ and car.

Highland Sky 40M Race Report

Highland Sky Trail Run:
Distance: (nominal) 40 miles; (claimed by aid stations): 41 miles; (distance traveled): ??
Location: Davis, WV
Course Composition: Steep singletrack: 44%, road 32% (mostly dirt), upland meadow/rocks: 24%
Goal: Finish (Bonus: Break 10 hours).

Report: The day starts in the cool, gray light of early dawn; 5:45 in the morning, and runners milling around the starting area, settling into their gear, sorting through their dropbags and making a last visit to a portajohn, while Dan the RD calls out names on a megaphone to confirm all starters. My buddy Joel has driven us in--me and his friend John, who was awesome enough to put us up the previous night.

I'm struck by the seeming ordinariness of the field. It's by and large a pretty unassuming group of reasonably fit-looking people of varying ages and gender. It's not at all obvious--in the way it sometimes is in similarly-sized road races--who the ringer is who is going to run away with the show. It occurs to me that either stamina is the most invisible of all human superpowers, or--if you take the Born to Run line--that what we're doing is not all that remarkable, doing what we were designed to do, "justifying our own existence", as Jack London puts it:

He was realising his own meaning in the world; he was doing that for which he was made—killing meat and battling to kill it. He was justifying his existence, than which life can do no greater; for life achieves its summit when it does to the uttermost that which it was equipped to do.

At 6 am sharp the pack trots off into the misty morning; I am setting out to see for myself what my body can do.

We are running down a dirt access road, rugged hills looming up to either side of us, horses grazing peacefully in amongst the long green grass and wildflowers. The pace is easy; I feel light and full of strength. I think I can sustain this effort level forever. We make a left turn off the road and begin working our way up past the first aid station around mile 3, following the beaten path of other runners through the long grass.

I let myself drift into the trail trance, disappearing for the time in the larger queue of runners that forms up in the single-track. The trail is soft and slick with mud from last night's rains. I think I am probably somewhere around mid-pack. Trying to change positions seems pointless; we're so early in the game, not even 5 miles in.

We start switch-backing our way up the steep slope of one of the ridges that make up the Appalachian divide, stinging nettles batting against our shins. We reach a stream crossing, the water flowing swiftly down through a pool and into a gorge that stretches deep down on our left-hand side, the depths concealed by swaying green foliage. We gingerly cross the slippery rocks, soaking our feet to the ankles.

The trail continues on like this for a while, up to the top of one ridge, then bombing down the far side, then up the side of another. I am feeling excellent. Though I'm still focusing on keeping it easy, the initial large pack has broken up quite a bit, and I've moved up several places. There's always somebody to run with at this stage; I am not the most outgoing runner, but I appreciate the company. The flagging is excellent. Whenever I think I haven't seen one for a while (usually while head down, watching my footing) one literally baps me in the head.

I see Joel at AS #3 (~16 miles) and he asks me if I've been eating enough. I'm pleased to report I have been; the salty trail mix I packed and copious water have gone down pretty easily, and I've been eating much more steadily than the runners around me.

A final bit of climbing and then a turn onto the road bring us to AS #4, around mile 19.5. This is the start of the "Road Across the Sky", a rolling dirt road that runs lengthwise along one of the ridgelines. it's about 10am; I've been running for a little more than 4 hours. I am way, way ahead of my guessed time, but still feeling fine.I sit down and change my wet and muddy trail shoes and socks for fresh socks and my road shoes. I also think to slather on some sunblock and grab my hat. The day is still mostly overcast, but getting brighter and hotter by the minute, and the course has us up here on the high plateau for a while.

The "Road Across the Sky" is uneventful. I catch a runner I had let go by while I was changing my shoes, and exchange some pleasantries. I say he might be seeing me again; he says "At the finish!", encouragingly (he turned out to be wrong about that, in part due to events neither of us could foresee).

At AS #5, somewhere around mile 23, I accidentally drink some Mountain Dew, thinking it was lemon-lime gatorade. The road is straight as a ruler, and all rolling hills. You can see the top of the next hill from the current one, and the long swoop of descent and climb. I walk as appropriate. While on one ascent, I see a lean guy running shirtless with just a water bottle jogging up behind me. What a hero! He reaches me and falls into a walking step, and we exchange pleasantries. His name is Jason and it turns out he's a 2:57 marathoner. Wow. I think ruefully about my so-called pacing strategy.

Jason and I finish out the road together, making it to AS #6 around mile 27. We arrive just as the #4 woman is leaving; she had been camping out there for a good 20 minutes, trying to put it back together after booting. She says she might be looking at a long 14 mile hike back home. No talk of dropping though; tough.

We're turning off into Dolly Sods now, beautiful upland meadow, and a completely different biome from the lush verdure of the ridges. We can see the sods stretching away all around us, lacking only sheep and a shepherd piping out a lonely air to make the scene complete. Rather I should say "I", since Jason has gapped me by this point (for a while I see him toiling ahead in the distance). I am mostly running still, but it's been growing more intermittent, the excuses needed to walk growing slimmer.

A mile or so down the road I and a few other runners pile up against an unmarked intersection. Strange; the course has been beautifully marked the whole way. The larger, main trail continues straight ahead, but is demarcated by a "private property" sign. Another smaller trail leads off to the left and disappears into trees. Both show signs of recent foot traffic. Imagine you're there, standing at that intersection with a half-empty waterbottle and three other runners in the same boat as you. What do you do?

I ended up following one guy down the left fork for a ways. No nearby blazes. Then preceding down the main trail a ways; another intersection, still no blazes. Some people in my group continued on. I began backtracking again, with plan to either return to the last known blaze and take stock, or find another runner who had done the course before and get his advice. I didn't find such a person, but I did somebody who thought he remembered that Dan had worked out some problems with a private property owner so that the course could go over his land. So! That sounded promising! Back to the "private property" branch and onwards.

Still, I and a few others very nearly go down the wrong side of the ridge, but somebody "halloo's" us back onto the proper course. Oddly, I feel somewhat refreshed by getting lost. It's been an excuse to walk around a little bit, and relax that relentless mental focus on making forward progress. Now we have a clear goal, and I am jogging again.

We hit an interesting rocky patch, where it seems great rocks slabs are broken into fissures, and rise into odd formations like fairy towers in the desert. I am a little too fagged to appreciate it properly; AS #7 (mile ~33) has become a singular focus in my mind. I am starting to need it bad. Where is it already? Surely we didn't burn that much time wandering around lost (oh yes we did, of course we did) how many more turns...? Ah! There it is! This is supposed to be Dan's son Willie's aid station, but I don't get to see him (he must have been out fixing the trail flags when I went through). I have some fruit, some HEED, fill up my water bottle, and rather reluctantly kick out onto the trail again.

This stretch is awesome. Clear, easy downhill, perfect for light jogging. Or rather, it should be awesome. Somehow I just don't feel enthused about running. I decide to hike for a bit until I feel better.

Leading up to the race, I had a chance to talk to both Joel and Katie about their experiences running Highland Sky, and I'm pretty sure both of them used the word "suffering" to describe certain parts of it. My plan was to avoid suffering if it all possible; I just wanted to finish, not be a hero. During this stretch, I return to that thought. "Well, am I suffering?"

My first response is no. I think of many hikes I've done, even since I was a small boy, finishing exhausted but happy. Certainly not suffering. It's all just too beautiful up here to be miserable. But as the descent continues it's a little harder to keep up the pretense. At a certain point I have to admit "suffering" is probably a fair adjective.

I get to the point where the trail turns back upwards, marching straight up a ski hill. I remember that this is where Joel jogged the ascent to catch his opponent in 2008 and ultimately broke him to win. Shit, I think, I bet no one runs this today.

After the hike up the ski trail, a long and tortuous descent follows over a mud-slick trail that has been christened the "Lehman butt-slide". It's fun in its way; I am a little detached from it, just trying to keep making forward progress. Occasionally I am stopping to stretch now, even sitting to do sitting stretches. I know this is a big no-no (sitting down is dangerous; you need to keep making forward progress!), but the temptation is strong, and it seems to be helping, at least briefly.

I've been hiking down through these woods for a while now. Occasionally runners have hauled me in, but not as many as I would have guessed. How bonked is this field, anyway? And furthermore, where is AS #8?

I make it passed a few steel traffic-sign posts staked upwards to serve as bollards, and cross back onto road. OK, now I'm scenting the barn a little. But I'm still walking. Man this is hard. Oh, a tent! It's AS #8! (mile ~37).

I refill my water-bottle and eat some fruit and jelly-beans, but I pass on the salt and the vitamin-I. Everyone's so nice at the aid stations. The lady there assures me that I've got this in the bag and am definitely going to finish. That's nice to hear. No point in dilly-dallying; 4 miles to do and this isn't about to get any easier. I start trudging.

Sometimes I play the "let's see if we can run to that landmark!" game, but not too often. Mostly I'm too busy running over this stretch in my head, because Joel showed it to me yesterday evening. About so far, and then the left turn onto the trail paralleling the highway; then crossing the highway; then up the access road to the Canaan resort, then some trail stuff I didn't get to see, and then the finish. Four measly miles.

After about two miles, I am about sure that finishing this race is the hardest athletic thing I've ever done, not just in absolute terms, but even normalized to my fitness and abilities. I thought I was pretty tired jog-walking in the KBVCM; hah! This is qualitatively the same kind of fatigue, but it's just on a whole other level.

I think there really ought to be an aid station at mile 40. I don't need food, but somebody to give me a hug and tell me everything's going to be ok would be just ducky.

Around mile 40. Somewhere up the Canaan access road. No end in sight. I start thinking of it like walking laps on a track. OK, that was probably like 100m right there. That...ok, that was pretty close to another 100m. So we're about 1/2 way through 400m. Good! Progress. Let's count steps. Hmm....123456789....199, 200,201, two-hundred...something, ugh, this is stupid. Why don't we just think of something else..... OK, so that had to be a lap.

The next 1000m are pretty much all like that.

Then the crest of the hill; below me down a paved path is the Finish! I lumber into a trot. I cross the line! Finished!

Lying on the grass never felt so good. Joel is hanging out by the finish, and Katie is wandering around with their 2-year-old son Oscar. Later Joel helps me fetch my car (which contains, among other important things, my dinner ticket), and opens doors for me the whole way (perhaps a first for a man on crutches at Canaan Valley Resort, or most other buildings).


Reflections: Most of all I'm happy to have finished. This is the first course I've attempted where merely going the distance felt like a pretty good accomplishment. I also hit my 10 hour WAG in a time of 9:18 or so, and perhaps without getting lost would even have gone under 9. All that's pretty good!

Beyond that, though, I feel like this race has clarified and expanded on things I learned about myself from my first two marathon experiences. It's hard to be really satisfied with a race where you have to trudge it in so slowly. Together I take these experiences as a test of resolve and spiritual fortitude, what you might call "grit". Can you learn grit? Can you train it? Or it just a part of your character?

I don't know, but I'm happier taking the trial, accepting the rather unsatisfactory result, and then trying--however futilely--to train up this part of me that is the first to quit. How many people, either from lack of opportunity or lack of inclination, never get the chance to test themselves?


PS: A Big, big thanks to all my wonderful hosts on this trip: John & Jodie, Luke & Catherine, and especially Joel and Katie for putting me up. (Matt & Kate, I just assume I can crash on your futon..., oh well thanks to you guys anyway :D ).

Thank you I'd like to have my legs back, now

I know it's only been 6 days, but I'm ready for my legs to stop feeling so dead and flat. It's hard when it's so gorgeous, and just the perfect weather for a long run. I've been running every other day. Yesterday I did 5 and...yeah; still pretty dead.

Last post I implied I was going to run a fall marathon. Well, I thought about it, and now I think I AM going to wait a year before taking another shot. I found through the last cycle that I enjoyed the mileage I was putting in, but I did feel like it constricted my racing options quite a lot. I skipped JJR entirely because I couldn't figure out a way to make it work with my long run. And marathon training inevitably means less speed training. I've been spending a lot of time running no faster than 10K pace, and that's making me impatient. I'd like to get back to actually improving my 10k pace--which I think is a pretty soft PR (albeit, not as soft as my marathon pr).

So the tentative plan is: finish off my long running phase with Highland Sky, then get back to speed training, with hopes of running a fast 10k in the fall, hopefully followed by a reasonably fast 1/2 marathon at Applefest. I will post later with a more comprehensive race schedule, but right now I expect to reprise the Bridgton 4 on the 4th, and run the Marathon Sports 5M for the first time.

Vermont City Race Report

Night before the race I knocked off early, feeling as relaxed and ready as could be hoped. Ev and I had taken a leisurely hour's stroll around the neighborhoods that stood off behind the hotel, and the evening air had been fresh with the smell of rain (indeed, as we were hanging out before bed, there was yet more thunder, and more hard driving rain outside). I planned on waking up at 6:15, in time to take the 2nd shuttle to the start. When I get a particular wake-up time in my head, so long as I am not very tired, I can usually rely on some part of my brain to pull me awake before the sounding of my alarm. But this time something funny happened. I blinked awake and checked my watch: 3:05. 3:05! Coincidence perhaps, or perhaps not. The subconscious mind can play funny tricks.

The sky drizzled a light rain down on us as we waited in the parking lot for the shuttle to take us to the start. I blessed the heavy overcast as a propitious sign; my worries of a scorching hot day began to fade (prematurely, as it turns out).

Reaching Battery Park and feeling the cool wind sweeping off the lake put the final seal on my plans: I would start at 6:45 pace, and shoot to break 3 hours.

The rain quickened as we stood in the starting corral. This was to be my first race in contacts--a recent acquisition. I felt pleased to have my decision to go to that trouble vindicated; glasses are a nuisance in the wet.

We were counted off, and then the whole mass of us, several thousand strong, surged forward into our first loop through the downtown Burlington side-streets. I ruthlessly held my pace to no faster than 6:45; despite that, it crept lower anyway; I seemed to be holding steady on uphills, but gaining time on the declines. The first charge up Church St. felt marvelous; the energy of the crowd was electric; the shops and restaurant awnings that Ev and I had passed by in leisure now streamed past in a blur; the human energy concentrated in one great continuous cheer.

The rain continued as we started on our out-and-back on the highway. I took the opportunity to gain a little distance, hugging the very edge of the shoulder on the long curves that made up the road, staying well to the side of the running pack. I took my first shot blok at mile 5, as planned.

At the turnaround I get a wave from Ricardo, perhaps 30 seconds ahead of me. Damn! I thought. One of is way off-pace here, and I don't think it's me (Ricardo had been saying he wanted to break 3:30 the previous evening).

The cruise back along the highway felt effortless, the incline at mile 8 negligible. I dutifully ate shot bloks at odd-numbered miles and chased them with a little water at the ensuing water stops, though I didn't feel the need of them. I caught up with Ricardo somewhere before mile 9, his great coughing fits resounding over the sound of the crowd. It was amazing how well he was managing it, and I wondered what he would be doing without that chronic cough.

By mile 10 the rain had stopped. We were on the long stretch through South Burlington, and the pace no longer felt effortless, but neither did it feel difficult. Around mile 11 I snagged a gel to use for later. We wove our way through a small neighborhood and then began to work our way back northward to the 13.1 mile mark.

I was beginning to feel the mileage now. Nothing serious, but the realization of 13 more miles still to come was sinking in. As I think I mentioned in an earlier post, I once had a little bit of bonk around mile 13 in a long run, but talked myself back in the game, telling myself you will feel stronger at 17 than you do right now--and somehow that came to pass. I sucked my gel, took some water, and told myself the same thing.

We passed through a canyon-like stretch of bike trail and through the sewage treatment plant detour (which smelled like what it was). Soon we could hear the booming voice of the Taiko drums declaiming the incipience of the Battery Street Hill. Another great crowd here; the drummers and the cheers made mile 15 one of the easiest on the course--I topped the hill and took stock of myself as I passed under the "Start" banner.

Some fatigue in the legs; breath still coming easy; not thirsty, tired, but still strong. I had hit the half in 1:28:30 or so; still planning on holding the pace. You will feel stronger at mile 17 than you do now.

A runner should beware making promises he can't keep. At mile 17, two things happened. (1) sudden, immediate need for a portajohn. (2) the full emergence of the sun. I don't feel badly about stopping--there was really no question about that--but I am somewhat equivocal on the subsequent mile.

Ironically, the externalities of mile 18 were wonderful; on the course map it had looked like an afterthought; a lazy turn in a local neighborhood, necessary only for burning up distance. But that neighborhood was out in force, and filled with unofficial aid stations: oranges, watermelons, water, hoses: it was all there. Sadly, this was where I was forced to take full stock of my physical situation, and it was not good. My legs were getting heavier by the minute, and burning with a fire as though I had been running 400m repeats, instead of the ~8:00m pace I had been managing since my rest stop.

When I reached mile 18 I paused for a second and looked to my right. Two miles back in that direction were the start and finish areas. Food and water and rest. I looked to my left. That way lay 8 miles of pavement; steadily worsening outside conditions, and steadily degrading physical condition. I looked back to the right and I thought about it.

I really, really thought about it.

But there are degrees of quitting. I have only DNF'd a race when I had a legitimate and immediate fear of injury--and that only once. So I turned to my left and kept on plodding.

I was using the same kind of jog-walking that I used to limp home in Hyannis. I would run for a bit, while the fire in my legs built and built. Then, when I didn't think I could stand it anymore, I would walk for a stretch. It hurt to break my self-promise not to walk. Inevitable? I wish I knew. Maybe if I had held to a 9-10 minute jog the fatigue signals would have plateaued eventually, or maybe I just would have hurt myself. I didn't gut it out long enough to learn.

Around this point--mile 20, I think--I heard distinctive coughing echoing from behind me. Still clinging to a little pride, I did my best to hold to a run. All the same, Ricardo passed me not long later, asking me what had happened. "I'm done," I answered. "No no," he protested. "Drink some gatorade!" I appreciated the well-meaning advice. If only that would have fixed me. For that matter, if only I had a nice honest cramp--important muscle groups gone completely out of my control. That would have been preferable to the silent firefighting battle I was waging, pain pit squarely against determination.

Some interminable time later we picked up the bikepath for the last 5 miles home. Occasionally glimpses of Lake Champlain would emerge through the trees. The canopy above largely protected us from the sun, though not from the rising heat and humidity. The water stops had signs indicating the severity of atmospheric conditions: "Low" meant ideal running conditions, from there ranging through Moderate and High to Extreme, which meant very dangerous levels of heat and humidity. The water stop at the beginning of the bike path was advertising "High".

For my all own demoralized state, the bike path was a pleasant enough place to nurse along a little bonk. You know you are in sorry straits when you slow down to take water at the 25.6 mile station (I wondered why they even had one there--now I know!) Just as I was approaching the entrance to Waterfront Park and the finish, the 3:30 pacer man caught up to me. Sigh. I mustered a little bit of gas and passed him, sweeping through the crowds that lined the chute leading into the finish. A final, desultory kick brought me home.

Final result: 281st, in 3:29:42.

Grade: F (I walked!)

Allowing 4 minutes for my bathroom break, I had almost the exact same result as in Hyannis, in nearly the exact same time. Given the extra volume I ran, the extra quality workouts, the extra consistency--I never, never would have guessed this outcome. Needless to say I am disappointed. I have taken two good licks at the marathon now, and both times it's knocked me on my ass. This is a tough distance. My reward for three months training was not any pride of accomplishment, or glory to privately gloat on. Instead, I got another stern lesson in endurance racing, from the only real teacher there is.

But it is not a cheap reward. I will take it and value it commensurate with its cost. To sum it up in two parts:

1. In shorter distances, the conditions of the race can usually be relied upon to make you faster. In the marathon, however, the race only makes me faster. It does not make me stronger or more enduring. In that sense, the race is the enemy.
2. There is a formula for calculating your expected marathon time: take your 1/2 marathon best x2, and add 10 minutes. That would make me a 2:57 marathoner. I have been implicitly following this advice--acting like a 3 hour marathoner who once had a bad day and ran 3:25. But 3:25 is not my personal best because of some anomaly. It is my best for the very good reason that on race-day I can only run 18 good miles. It is time to start acting like a 3:25 marathoner who is honestly trying to better his PR, rather than setting out to run the 3 hour race I somehow conceived that I deserved.

Time to repeat what I said after Hyannis. The marathon and I aren't done. I will be back, I will try again, a little stronger and a little smarter. And this time, I don't mean to wait a whole year.

Goals

I am in the phase now where there is nothing I can do to help my upcoming race except eat and sleep sensibly and try not to hurt myself. There's not much left to do but blog. So, as promised yesterday, here are my goals for the Marathon:

If peak temperature is expected to be < 72 degrees:
A: 2:59
B: 3:04:30
C: sub 3:20, and no walking

if peak temperature is expected to be > 75 degrees:
A: 3:05
B: 3:15, and no walking.
C: no walking.

Right now it's not looking good for an attempt to break 3 hours. I know I'm not the strongest hot-weather runner, and there certainly hasn't been an opportunity to work on that with this cool, rainy spring. I am praying to the weather spirits for a cool, misty morning, but if it's sunny and warm, then I'm going to be very prepared to adjust my pace expectations (if temps are expected to peak over 85 degrees, I'm planning on ratcheting down my starting pace even more).