My family had this camping trip planned for nearly a year. I was really excited to be heading to Olallie Lake, which sits high up on Mt Hood - so close, in fact, that the Pacific Crest Trail runs right through the area. I envisioned a nice long run on the trail, exploring a new section I had never seen before.
Except that it turns out that our reservations were not at Olallie Lake, they were at Olallie Campground, about 50 miles to the south on the McKenzie River. Thankfully we figured this out before we showed up at the lake...
My initial disappointment that I wouldn't be able to explore the PCT was replaced with the realization that we would be camping right on the McKenzie River Trail - which I will be running in 3 weeks. I could learn part of the course and see what kind of trail I was in for.
Except that our campground was on the other side of the river.
Doh.
Right through those trees we could watch mountain bikers and runners tooling by all day long. Sigh.
So basically I had no preview of my upcoming run at all.
Not even a run to stretch out the legs.
At least I managed to get a few nice shots of some of the more beautiful spots in the race.
Clear Lake. We will run all the way around this lake. The color of the water is amazing.
Sahalie Falls. We were on the waterfall trail - the race trail runs along the far side. Notice a theme?
Even this late in August, the water is roaring through here.
You know how some trail runs are magical, and you find yourself marveling at how awesome nature is and how wonderful it is to be alive?
This was not one of those runs.
On paper, it looked like it would be a challenging loop, similar to the Beacon Rock loop, with perhaps a bit more climbing.
On paper.
In reality, it was a bush-wacking, spider avoiding, poison oak dodging, relentless climbing, punishing downhill super challenging day on the trails. One of the ones you call character building.
An early shot of the trail. Doesn't look too bad, does it? Everyone must start turning around near here, because it was about to get ugly.
A peak-a-boo view of Mt St Helens, I think.
Hwy 84 and our car is way down below...
Megan was a machine on the trails. She just kept running and running. Me, not so much.
Awesome view of the gorge spreading to the east.
A huge field of boulders and scree. At this point, I wondered how high up Mt Hood we were getting. Also, where do all of these come from?
Mt Adams through the haze.
Could not properly capture this waterfall as at this point, I was having a bit of an asthma attack and was really struggling. However, I did hop right in to it like a shower, and it was the most amazing feeling ever.
As Sarah and I run along the ridge, my eyes drift to the meadows and forest covered hills below. You can't help but dare to look when presented with a view like this, even though your mind is screaming to keep your eyes on the trail.
"Mt Hood is right there," she says to me. But of course we can't see it. Low clouds obscure the horizon, and I try to imagine the snowy peak rising above. It is beautiful in my mind, but there is running to do and a trail to scan.
I am nearly 12 miles in to my first 50 mile race. We have set a comfortable pace, moving along in an easy rhythm, discussing races and strategies and typical small talk runners make.
The race is going well for me so far. An alarm that failed to go off at 4:15 has been my biggest disaster. Breakfast was a bit light as a result, but my turkey sandwich had done the trick after the first hour. Catching the early start with Sarah, giving Jodi a 'welcome back to Portland' hug and watching my friend Megan take Todd's request to lead the runners out as an invitation to smoke us all has given me a light heart during the early miles.
The first little climb of the race - a spot loaded with memories from camping with family and friends.
My first surprise of the day is seeing my ultimate running buddy Julie popping out of the woods as I am about to leave the first aid station. I already felt so lucky to have my friend Gregg there to fill up water bottles and give me some encouragement. This is the kind of day I am having.
I have been feeling some needle like twinges in my knee, but my body seems to be settling down and loosening up. I focus on moving from aid station to aid station, resisting the temptation to think 'Holy crap, I have 38 miles to go.'
Every once in awhile you get a nice view of the lake.
One of my favorite spots on the course, about 1/2 a mile from Little Crater Lake.
Soon we hear a whisper coming up the trail. Ian Sharman, running like a gazelle, cruising his way to a course record. He is friendly as he passes - 'great job ladies' I think he says, but all I can think about is the lovely accent.
We soon pull in to the Frog Lake aid station, our first turn around point. Yassine Diboun is all energy and smiles, infectious. Running chicks Lynn and Karen provide hugs and aid, and then we are heading back the way we came.
Yassine's fantastic video of the day includes Sarah and I heading back up the trail:
We are back on the ridge above the meadows. I notice the sky is blue, so I glance over my shoulder and gasp. Sarah whips her head back; I think she believes I have twisted an ankle or something serious.
"What?" she asks me in a worried voice.
"The mountain! It's so beautiful!"
In that moment, I feel unstoppable. Humbled. Awe-struck. A perfect moment - the kind you go looking for but can only be given. The photo does not begin to do it justice.
But a race is meant to be run. Stopping and contemplating the view is really not an option if you want to finish before the cut-offs, so a couple of quick photos and I keep on my way.
Sarah and I were grooving now. We were back at the start/finish area (mile 28) by 11:23 - 5 hours, 37 minutes later. But soon, I would be heading in to unknown territory. Things were about to get tough.
Miles 28 - 34 start out flat but start moving uphill before long. It was a climb I had done before though, so I knew what to expect. Sarah was heading in to a low point as we slogged up to Red Wolf Pass, but I was still feeling pretty good. I even remember thinking that maybe running really far was going to be strength of mine - ha ha ha ha ha. I know better than to have these thoughts - they always come back to bite you in the ass with a vengeance.
Pulling in to the Red Wolf aid station was a delight. Marta, Mary & Jason were there with ice, oranges and coca-cola - they only things that sounded good at this point. I was forcing myself to eat vanilla gels on the hour, but nothing else appealed. As we left their friendly station, I felt a bit of dread for what lay ahead. I knew we had a long downhill - a preview for the last, deadly climb of the race. But I was also eager to motor for awhile, so I was moving pretty well - which is when Sarah let me go. And then I was alone.
I had been under the impression that immediately after the clear cut at Red Wolf Pass the trail went downhill, but this was not the case. I was climbing again, and it pissed me off a bit. I let the anger carry me for awhile. In this section I passed three hikers, one of which gave me the cold prickly feeling on the back of my neck. I decided that if I was assaulted at least I wouldn't have to run anymore, which wouldn't be all bad. And that opened the door for my catastrophe fantasies.
I imagined tripping and falling and breaking my wrist so that I would have to be pulled. (I did decide that it should be my left wrist so that I could still type.) I also imagined breaking a leg. Anything to be carried off the course and call it a day. It's funny what your mind will do when it is free to roam. Ultrarunning truly is 90% mental; a lesson which would be reinforced before the day was done.
Nearing the bottom of the hill, I ran in to Megan on her way back up. (She would eventually finish her first 50 mile in 9:24 - so beyond awesome!)
"You're almost to the creek," she said. "And then it's just literally two miles up, you hit the road, and the aid station is right there. I left the aid station 32 minutes ago."
I was stoked. It sounded so close.
It was not.
The hill just went up and up. And up. I had stopped briefly to dunk my visor in the water, which felt amazing. But not amazing enough to make the hill any easier.
I knew that Julie was up at the aid station. It was my motivation to get up the hill, but it was a tough climb. I still felt pretty good, but I was getting tired. When I finally hit the road, I remembered what Megan said.
Apparently her "right there" and my "right there" are two entirely different distances. But finally seeing Julie as well as Julz was worth it - and I had just 11.5 miles left to go. More oranges, more coke and a little Vaseline (which I had to go back for - it was one of the only things I thought about on the climb up and I forgot about it once I got there!) and I was ready to finish.
I put on some tunes at this point, using just one ear bud to make sure I could still be aware on the trail, and moved down the hill. My quads were feeling it, but it was bearable. I tried not to think of the climb back up the other side. Down at the creek, I took the time to splash water on my face and resoak my visor. Marvelous.
I was tempted to sit in the creek and relax for awhile.
And then the climb began. I called on every muscle fiber memory of Beacon Rock I had. At one point, I caught up to a few people, and we all marched silently up the trail, heads down. I wondered if this what what runners call the death march. I had to dig deep and just keep moving, and that is all I did. There is nothing special to it. It's just being too stubborn to stop.
By the time I reached the top, my mind was exhausted. I knew that it felt the same to run as it did to walk, but it was tough getting my body to go. This is where experience comes in, I am sure. Next time (god, did I just type 'next time'?) I will have more mental strength to put my body in to a run when it has reached this point. As some more regular starters passed me, I was able to break in to a run and follow them down the hill I had hated so desperately before - and finally, I pulled back in to Red Wolf and the comfort of friends.
Just 5.3 miles to go.
I ran most of those last miles, but at the flats, where Sarah had told me how she had not been able to run there the year before, I felt myself slip in to that same place. I refused to run. Mind kicks body's ass.
There is a beautiful sign on the PCT trail where it intersects with the Ray Miller trail. But you haven't really seen its beauty until you reach it near the end of this race.
As we neared the Clackamas Lake campground, I remembered what Susan had said during our training run. "You will start to cry when you get here because you are close and because you are a woman, and women are emotional."
Yes, I cried.
I had just run 50 miles.
I walked right before I hit the road, but as a fellow runner passed me, she said, "C'mon!" The energy of the finish line lifted me; Jodi and Seth's cheers powered me on. I was doing it, running under the finish line banner, huge grin, job done.
11:28:37.
I am not be the fastest runner out there. I am okay with that. There is much to achieve and much to learn no matter your pace. This ultrarunning journey is revealing so many truths about myself - what truly matters to me, what I struggle to let go of, how I see myself in comparison to others. You strip away so much when you get out there on the trail, when you hit the dark places and watch how your mind works for or against you. This is why I run. This is why I am not done.
Where we soaked our feet after the race. So cold. So good.
Everyone always talks about how hard it is to train for a 50 miler, but no one ever mentions how tough it is to pack for one. Sheesh! The clothing selections, the drop bags, the things to carry, the things to unload. It is an exercise in second guessing and speculation. I only hope that I have done alright.
I consulted my experienced friends for their advice. Bring a drop bag for each station even if you don't put anything in it, they advised. That way you have a place to put stuff you don't want anymore.
"Pack light. Pack enough food in case the aid station is running out. I'm bringing hand helds. I'm doing my hydration pack. Start the race slightly hungry. Eat a good breakfast to get you started. Gaiters are good. I never wear gators..."
In the words of Susan Powter, stop the insanity!
The one thing I've learned is that you have to figure out what works for you, because every person has a different plan.
Which will be fantastic once I have some experience under my belt. But for now, I'm a wreck. Nevertheless, I've packed up my drop bags, my gear and my vest. I am as ready as I can be.
I think.
What I packed for this adventure:
Gear: Running skirt Tank top
Visor Arm sleeves
Montrail Rogue Racers
Vest: Gum 2 vanilla gels
1 GU chomp - peach tea Peanut butter sandwich 1 Honeystinger chew Packet of peanut butter 34 oz hydration bladder. Or one handheld in the pocket, one I am carrying. Okay, I'm not quite done!*
I can still remember the first time I entertained the notion of running a 50k.
I was fairly new to Twitter and Dailymile, and I was having a twitter conversation with this guy about his recent finish at a 50k. If you can run a marathon, he told me, you can definitely do a 50k.
The seed was planted.
Not long after, I met a bunch of great ladies at a meetup before the Portland Marathon. Ultrarunners. If you can run a marathon, they told me, you can definitely do a 50k.
Five months later, I toed the line at the Gorge Waterfalls 50k. And finished. They were right. I could run a 50k.
Other ideas were brewing.
It happens when you spend time with people who regularly do what the rest of us consider inspired, crazed or even impossible.
You start believing that you can go farther.
The 50 miler went from a ephemeral idea to a solid goal to a completed registration.
And now it is less than a week away.
I don't know what lies ahead. I know that my mind has been racing with speculation, planning and anticipation. I know that I believe I can do it. I know that the only way I can find out is to try.
I will tell you this.
If you believe you can, you are much closer than if you believe you can't.
And we are all capable of much more than we first dare to believe.
