Dirty 30 Race Report: A tale of two races.

As I mentioned a couple times over the past few weeks, I was none to sure of my training going into my first Ultra: the Golden Gate Dirty Thirty. This is a notoriously tough race, starting at 7500’ of elevation and climbing (and descending) about 8000’ over the course of its 31 miles. Knowing that my 16-mile “long” runs and one training half marathon were probably insufficient training, I told myself I would treat this as a test run, more of a supported long run than an actual race.

Had I actually stuck to that plan, I probably would have been fine, but in the back of my mind I was still thinking that I could squeak my way under the notorious 6-hour barrier. As it turns out, had a certain toe-rock encounter not occurred, I may well have been able to do just that.

Race morning: I woke at 3:30AM, having gotten a good 51/2 hours of sleep the night before. Knowing that I couldn’t truly compete in this race, I had very few nerves the night before, and so got a much more restful sleep than I often do the night before a race. After a quick breakfast of toast and chocolate peanut butter, as well as a cup of coffee, I left the house at 4AM to meet my carpool at 4:20.

The car consisted of 4 other more experienced ultra runners and me. Despite my relative lack of experience, it was determined that I would likely have the fastest finishing time (by a good bit) and so I got the dubious honor of carrying the car key. This seemingly trivial issue would show up later, so a small amount of annoyance.

We arrived at the race start right on schedule: 5:15 AM for the 6AM start, leaving plenty of time to check in and wander before lining up at the start. I ran into a rather impressive number of friends at the start, and chatted away the minutes before the (delayed) race start. The whole time I repeated to myself that I would not, this time, go out too quickly.

This race fell into two distinct pieces for me, so disparate that they seemed different races.

The first race began at the start line.

There was no gun for this race, just a high-school student singing the national anthem, followed by a classic “Ready, set, go!”

For seemingly the first time in my racing career, I managed to not take it out too quickly. I ran by myself for a few hundred yards before actually stopping and waiting for my friend Matt to catch up. We would run the first 16 miles of the race together, making it feel more like one of our semi-regular weekend long runs than a goal race. Other friends would drop in and out of the group over the course of the race, but Matt and I kept together for a long time.

Again, with the idea of taking it easy for a while, we went out slow. For the first mile or so we were often passed by people charging out of the gate, but almost without fail, we caught them in the next 15 miles.

So began a long period of steadily passing runner after runner as we chattered on. The stretch to the first aid station passes up a creek bed, crossing the creek itself seven times as the trail winds its way up 1000 feet.

We passed the first aid station, at 5 miles, in 52 minutes, right on or a bit ahead of 6-hour pace. I knew it was seven more miles or so to the second aid station, and thought that if we hit it around two hours we’d be doing well. Shortly after the first aid station, Matt took a pit stop, and I slowed to wait for him while I took the opportunity to adjust my pack, move some gels and chews to the front straps of my SJ Ultra Vest, and take off the gloves I had been wearing. I felt that whatever little time I might lose this way was well worth the mental boost of running with a friend.

Still with Matt, we ran and talked steadily through the next climb and the descent into the next aid station, Matt gaining a small amount of ground on a long rutted descent that I easily made up for during the aid station. On our way out, knowing we were in for a long day, we briefly discussed the meaning of life (which I summarized as “find a mate, reproduce, die”) before devolving into crude jokes.

After aid two came both my favorite and least favorite part of the course. The 5 miles separating aids two and three are punctuated by a massive, steep climb that we hiked (passing yet more runners), which culminated in a rocky scrambling section, where we had to keep a little more watch for the trail markers.

As in any loop course, the ascent was quickly followed by a long, rocky, technical descent, and this is where I got into trouble. For the most part, I was hitting the footing well, but for whatever reason, I had trouble with my right toe tagging rock after rock on the descent. I had debated wearing these particular shoes (my Altra Lone Peaks) for this very reason. They are long and beefy, with wide toes. This makes them very comfortable over long distances, but I also find them very clumsy over technical terrain.

Eventually, around mile 16, this fact caught up to me: I tagged my right toe hard on a rock, and hit the dirt. By this point, Matt and I had formed a group with another Matt, and I told them both to go on rather than wait up for me. I picked myself up, dusted off, and gave myself a moment to shake off the fall, which had shattered my mental state.

My second race began here, and was a learning experience.

A few hundred yards after I fell, I stopped again to tie my shoe, and realized that my mental focus was gone. The next 12 or so miles were as difficult as any miles I’ve ever run from a mental perspective. We had figured that, in order to realistically make it under 6 hours, we should hit the third aid station at around 3 hours. My fall and subsequent mental lapse denied me that goal.

As it turned out, I made the turn off for aid station three in just a tiny bit over 3 hours, still on a good track to make my goal, but here I made a tactical error. The third aid station was not actually on the course: it was almost 200 yards downhill from the actual course. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have realized that I had a good amount of water (two bottles that were each just over half full) and more than enough calories to more than make it to the next aid station, just under seven miles away.

Despite this, not trusting myself, I turned down the hill, off the course, and headed down to the aid station.

I had a second chance to change my mind: I ran into Matt on the path to aid station three, and I think that, had I turned around and run with him instead, I could have made a good crack at 6 hours. But again I decided to keep going down to the aid station.

I think it was primarily these two mistakes that cost me my time goal.

However, this brief segue down to the aid station did give me the opportunity to run once again with my friend Justin, who is a far more experienced Ultra runner than I am.  He opted to skip the aid station and just keep running, and I ran into him on my way back up the hill.

I quickly left Justin behind though, and entered the most difficult part of the race for me mentally. Over the next 8-10 miles I was passed by a large number of people. Some I traded places back and forth with a few times. I almost universally spent less time at aid stations than the others, choosing to rely mostly on the fuel and salt tabs I had brought for myself rather than that available at the stations. The only aid I took other than water was one slice of watermelon, one quarter of a PB&J sandwich, and one Hammer Gel. The fuel I had (Vfuel and Honey Stinger Chews) sat well in my stomach and seemed to be doing the job, so I didn’t feel the need for anything else.

There was a very long, steady climb out of the mile 17 aid station. I power hiked much of it, though it was not that steep, but I kept up a running cadence whenever the slope got shallower. By this point, those runners who had started out yet more conservatively than I had, and probably had more experience at this race distance than me, started passing me. I was still in a mental funk, and rather than latch onto one and ride in their wake for a while I let them go.

Ultra-runners are almost universally encouraging to others in the race. Those who passed me encouraged me to keep going, while dealing a minor mental blow with their passing.

At the top of the climb, we hit a fire road that snaked across the top of the hill, and inevitably dropped precipitously into yet another valley.  I passed mile marker 20 and almost precisely 4 hours, and thought that, with a good ascent of Windy Peak I might still be able to reach my 6-hour goal.

It was at 4 hours, finally, that I instituted my run-walk plan. I would run for approximately 9 minutes, unless the slope was too steep, and then take a 1-minute walking break, unless I was cruising a downhill. This made an immediate difference, allowing me to recover somewhat on the go, and I noticed that my running sections were getting considerably faster.

I cruised through aid #4, passing several people who had passed me over the previous 5 miles and continued down the trail with my run/walk tactic working wonders. I was beginning to feel again that I might just be able to make my goal.

Then Windy Peak kicked my ass.

I hit the turnoff for the Windy Peak climb, and found myself unexpectedly descending a rather precipitous slope. This jogged my legs a bit, but also meant that, after the climb up the peak, we’d have to come back and climb that again.

Then the climb started and every other thought went out the window.

The Windy Peak climb was not what I had expected.  From the course description and the elevation profile, I thought it would be steeper: more hands-on-knees climbing and scrambling and less gentle-but-steady slope. I think I could have handled the former just fine, and it might have given me a mental boost with the more engaging terrain, but the latter ground me up and spit me out.

But I made it. Somewhat despairing by the top, I took a second to take in the view around me.  I let the race marshal mark my bib, and took off, deciding that nobody would pass me from there to the finish

Nobody did. I headed down the slope at a good, but not crazy, pace. Most of the Windy Peak section was a loop, but there was a short out-and-back to the peak itself. When I hit the end of the route back, I knew from the volunteer there that it was 3.5 miles to the finish. My watch said 5:40.

On my best day, I might be able to pull that off. If I were rested. And if the course were relatively flat. I knew that this day, that was not in the cards.

Realizing this, a weight slipped off my shoulders, and I decided to cruise in. I still didn’t want anybody to catch me during the rest of my race, but I no longer felt any pressure to finish in any certain time. It made me wonder if, had I not had that goal to begin with, I might have been better equipped to achieve it.

I hit the last aid station and the volunteers there told me it was only 1.5 miles to go. This sounded wrong, as we were at mile 28.5, and it was a 50k. My guess is that the name “Dirty 30” confused them into thinking it was actually a 30-mile race, rather than its true 31-mile distance. So I ignored them and just pressed on.

The short, sharp incline back to the turnoff for Windy Peak was not as difficult as I had imagined. Partly that was because, having missed my time goal, I was no longer interested in pushing as hard.  

The last mile and a half was a simple cruise into the finish. My legs, somewhat surprisingly, were feeling better than they had in 15 miles, and I knew that I would finish the race. I also started thinking that I might recover faster after the race because of my slower pace.

I cruised into the finish as the clock hit 6:16. Not a bad time for this course.  My girlfriend was waiting for me at the finish line, a nice surprise, as she was unsure the night before whether or not to come. I was not about to ask her to come up for the start and wait around 6 hours with nothing to do while I ran.

Even out of it as I undeniably was after the race, I managed to learn that a friend of mine from work had finished almost an hour ahead of me, and was the first female. She ran the second fastest time ever on the course for women, and it is safe to say she had a great Ultra debut!

Matt had come in at about 5:52, to make his goal of breaking 6 hours. Justin came in 6 minutes behind me for a solid time.

The next two hours was a bit of a comedy of errors. Sometimes I want to hang around after a race to watch and cheer the other runners on. This particular day I had little desire to do so, and so embarked on a quest to find the other members of my carpool. With this goal in mind, I wandered from parking lot, to finish line, to food area several times in search of members of my carpool, without success.

Finally, around 2:00, I gave up, and tucked the key under the windshield wiper of the van I’d come to the race in, trusting that the others would end up there eventually. Naturally, as soon as I had done this and hobbled back down to the finish line, the driver ran through the finish chute. I explained to him where the key was, reversed the car back down the single lane road from the finish area, and drove back to Westminster and a much-needed shower.

Suffice to say my first Ultra was a learning experience. I did many things right. I did many things wrong. But I am proud to say that I never once thought about quitting the race.

Things done right:

I carried two water bottles: This let me easily refill one or the other at each aid station, and still have some backup water without overburdening myself.

I followed a steady fuel plan: every 35 minutes on the dot, I fueled up. I alternated between chews and gels, which seemed to agree with me. I supplemented this with a tiny bit of food from two aid stations (watermelon and PB&J). When my stomach grumbled during the second half of the race, I chowed down on some dried mango, which always seems to sit well. Every hour, I took a salt tab. This sat in my stomach better than any electrolyte drink has ever done.

I (eventually) stuck to my run/walk plan. This seemed to give my legs a chance to recover on the run.

I never gave up. As I said before, the thought of dropping out of the race never even crossed my mind. It simply wasn’t an option.

Things done wrong:

Training. Simply put, I did not run long enough in my training. With at least one 25 mile run, I probably would have been better prepared.

I did not implement my run/walk plan soon enough. I should have done this as soon as I fell. I think it would  have given me the chance to recover mentally from my fall more quickly, leading to a faster second half of the race.

I hit every aid station. This is particular to this race. With the placement of aid station 3, I should have assessed the situation, realized I had enough water and fuel to make it to the next station without stopping, and headed on up the trail.

Hopefully, this report didn’t sound too negative.  (See my Pikes Peak report). I am by nature hard on myself, and am very good at pointing out my own flaws. But I really valued this race as a learning experience. I am not sure when I will run another Ultra, but I will know more going into it and be better prepared.

As Kilian Jornet has said (paraphrasing here): “I don’t want to run a perfect race. If you run a perfect race, you don’t learn anything.”

2 week Update, May 5 - 19

Sunday, May 5: 13.1 miles, 200 feet, 1:27:35:  The Louisville Trail Half. I ended up in 5th over all and first place in my age group. This was a PR by five and a half minutes, and a solid run for me.

Monday, May 6: 6 miles, 800 feet: Went partway up Flagstaff after the race the day before, felt remarkably solid, though definitely tired. After, went to Apex Movement for an hour and a half of Parkour class (this still hurts every time). I do, though, think it's going to help my running overall. I can already feel myself getting stronger in my core and upper body, and learning how to land/fall correctly is never going to hurt my trail running.

Tuesday, May 7: Off. Feeling the last two days.

Wednesday, May 8: 5.5 miles, 700 feet: Still feeling the race a bit, but ran up a bit of Flagstaff any way.

Thursday, May 9: 7 miles, 400 feet: Up Boulder Creek Path to 4 mile and back. Still slow, but feeling better.

Friday, May 10: 6.5 miles, 1500 feet: Sanitas. Felt good to get back into it a bit.

Saturday, May 11: Off. 

Sunday, May 12: 12 miles, 3500 feet. Flagstaff and Green from Chautauqua. Found the trails crawling with people enjoying one of the first truly hot days we've had so far. I ran into Matt and Chris on the first stretch up Flagstaff. And stopped to talk a little bit about our mutual feelings of not being prepared for the Golden Gate on June 1.

I had planned to make this a Flag/Green/Bear combo, but on reaching the Green-Bear/Bear Peak West Ridge junction, I realized that I didn't have it that day, and felt that pushing through the fatigue on this particular day would be unwise. Given the way the next five days felt even dropping Bear, I can only assume it was a good idea.

Monday, May 13: 4.5 miles, 200 feet:  BCP partway up the Canyon. Legs were still tired.

Tuesday, May 14: 8 miles, 1500 feet. Flagstaff via Eben G Fine and Viewpoint. This is one of my go-to runs that I hadn't done in a while. My legs, unfortunately, still felt pretty flat, but it felt good to get some climbing in. I still managed to run an average round-trip time for the out and back. I seem to be fairly fit and fast even when tired.

Wednesday, May 15: 5 miles, 500 feet: Sunshine from work with some work friends. Our company has generously offered to put up the $1300 registration fee to put a team together for the Wild West Relay in August. As training for that, we are putting together a weekly run on Wednesdays. Only a few showed up this time, but hopefully, with time, we can up the numbers.

Thursday, May 16: 6 miles, 1500 feet: Sanitas. Felt slow, but the 85 degree weather may have had something to do with that.

Friday, May 17: 7 miles, 500 feet: BCP up to Four Mile. Legs still felt off. But I slipped into a very efficient shuffle and still managed sub-8 minute pace for the round trip.

Saturday and Sunday: No running at all. I had intended to do a longer run Sunday, as per usual, but found my legs were (and still are) tired despite a day's rest.

At this point, I am concerned that I have not gotten sufficient long runs in prior to my 50k in two weeks. It doesn't particularly matter at this point, since there is nothing I can do about it. I am, however, very worried about crashing and burning in the later stages of the race.

On the other hand, I know I am in fairly decent shape. Even when my legs don't feel like they want to move at all, I can toss out a decent ascent of Sanitas or Flagstaff. And my half marathon two weeks ago speaks to my general fitness level. I am concerned that I have not gotten a run over 3 hours, or over 20 miles, in yet this year.

Because of this, I plan to try something new on race day: I will institute a run/walk schedule for the race. This is not your typical 50k, where you will be able to run the whole way. A typical 50k I would likely be able to run in around 4 hours, maybe a bit less. This one runs well above 8000 feet and has nearly 8000' of climbing and descending in it. I equate it roughly to Pikes, which has the same elevation gain, but 5 fewer miles and peaks at a much higher elevation.

So I will be running 1 minute out of every 10, or maybe more depending on how I feel. A few caveats are in order, though. I will, naturally, always walk if the terrain dictates it. Also, I likely will not walk much downhill. I hope to finish in under 6 hours, so if it starts getting close to that at the end, I will pick up the pace if I can.

The next two weeks, then, I will be focused on sharpening my speed just a bit, and resting and recovering.

Race Report: The Louisville Trail Half

Race Report: Louisville Trail Half.

First, let me impress upon you that this is a trail half only in the most loose sense of the word. While there is some single track, about a mile or so between mile markers 6 and 8, the vast majority of the race occurs on crushed gravel bike paths. In total, they claim 200’ of elevation change, though that seems a little bit low to me. In other words: this is a fast course for me.

Looking around at the start line, I didn’t see that much in the way of competition. There were a couple guys who looked fairly formidable, one of whom would eventually win the race with an impressive sub 1:12 time. But there was none of the sense I often have that I would get, at best, 20th or so. This was likely the result of the concentration of races this particular weekend: The Quad Rock, The Collegiate Peaks Trail Run, and the Greenland Trail Races to name a few.

There was no gun. The RD simply said “3-2-1-GO!”

The race course consists of 2 loops: an initial 5 mile out and back to the west, followed by an 8.1 mile out and back to the east. What little climbing there was all happened in the second half of the race. My strategy was to do my best to take it easy the first half of the race, try to work it up the hill in mile 7, work the singletrack to my best advantage, and push it on the way back.

As often happens, I went out a little too fast. Not horribly so, but a bit. I had chosen not to wear a watch so I have no real idea how quickly the first 5 miles went, but I am fairly sure I came in well under my 35 minute target. But that’s ok, because I was running by feel and I felt like I had hit a fairly sustainable pace.

I took off with the lead pack, quickly realized I was moving faster than I should be, and eased off, letting what I swear was 5 people ahead of me. The 5 mile first loop went easily and quickly, with very little in the way of elevation change to relieve the tedium. Coming into the start/finish area again, my gf and her parents were waiting at the bend to cheer me on. I also made my only wrong turn of the race here, for some reason thinking that we had to go through the start/finish area on our way by. Minor seconds lost, but seconds count.

The next four miles went very well. One woman came up behind me, seemingly easily, and we chatted for a bit as we worked along the crest of the main hill and back down to the creek we had been following the whole race before she pulled slowly ahead. I was beginning to feel the flat, fast nature of the course now: something I have not trained for in the least.

But I was still moving well, and after we cruised down the hill, the course took two dips down into single track along the creek.

Let’s say this: if there’s one thing that I learned yesterday, it’s that my legs like single track. As soon as we hit this section, I could feel my stride quicken, my legs felt lighter, and I sped up. I started regaining ground on the lady who had just passed me. Not enough to pass her back, but enough that I could see my progress against hers.

For the last several miles, we had followed the 10k course. This provided a boost every time we passed a 10k runner saying “good job” or “looking good.” We quickly reached, and then passed, the 10k turnaround and were on our own again.

I reached the turnaround in good order: my form was pretty smooth and still rapid, though I was really beginning to feel the race now at mile 9. Then I turned around.

I realized quickly that I had forgotten one thing: we had been following Coal Creek for the majority of the race, and ever since the 2.5 mile turnaround we had been following it in the downstream direction. It was a very slight downhill, gentle enough that you didn’t even think about it when you were running with the slope. Once you turned up the slope, however, it became very noticeable immediately.

Suddenly I felt every inch of the race acutely, and I knew the race was on. The turnaround gave me a chance to check out the runners nearest to me behind me, and I had at least a 2 minute cushion in my estimation. Again, I didn’t have a watch, so I wasn’t sure, but I knew they would have to run about 30 seconds a mile faster than me over the last 4 miles to catch up to me, and the way they looked at the turnaround I couldn’t see that happening.

Then it became a mental game: just keep my legs moving and form strong for the last 4 miles. At the next aid station, I did something I hadn’t done so far: I slowed down to a walk in order to take in more water. It was probably the best move I could have made, as I almost immediately felt the tension in my right leg ease and picked up the pace again.

The switchbacking hill back up to the high point of the course felt 10 times worse than the larger hill had on the way out, but I still attacked the hill and pushed across the top to the downhill. Then it was just a matter of riding the downhill as long as I could, and letting the sound of the announcer draw me in to the finish.

G and her parents were at the finish cheering me on and came around to meet me as I stumbled to a stop. I think she was a little unsure of what to do with me, as she’s only ever been able to come to one other of my races. But she came over and stood there while I recovered my breath and wits enough to talk, without pushing or making any comments.

I ended up running 1:27:35 (officially) though I saw 1:27:32 on the clock when I finished. That’s another PR for me in the half, in a race I decided to train through. I also came in 5th place over all and won my age group outright.

All in all, I’d say it was a good day, and while I didn’t get my 10 mile run in the next day, I did get a 6 mile run in with about 800 feet of vertical, as well as an hour and a half of parkour in.

I call it a successful day, and am only left wondering what I could do next time.

Updates since February 24.

I honestly did not realize that It had been so long since I'd written a normal "Weekly Update" post.

The last month and a half have led to somewhat sporadic training and posting on my part. In the two weeks following my update to February 24, I ran 85 miles and climbed a bit over 10000 feet. Then I headed off to England for a week and a half.

I didn't run a step in England (purposefully). I decided before I left that, rather than worry overly much about running as a workout. Rather, I would only run if I felt it would add to the experience rather than taking away from it. I had hoped to run a fell race the day after I got there, but was far too jet-lagged to even think about it. Through the remainder of the trip, I was walking around and touring enough that I didn't feel the need to run at all. The only running I did the whole trip was sprinting through the Heathrow Airport after almost getting bumped off our transatlantic flight.

Really, how exactly is it legal to overbook a flight across the Atlantic?

In any case, I probably walked 20+ miles that week, so I don't feel like I destroyed my fitness by not running while I was over there.

It's the weeks since that I feel have messed me up. I haven't been able to run much more than 30 miles in a week since I got back. The first week I was back I hit 29 miles and 5600 feet during the 5 weekdays, but then didn't manage a long run on Easter Sunday. The next week I similarly hit 30+ miles on the first 5 days and 6000+ feet of elevation.

The 6000 feet that week came from 4 trips up Mt Sanitas here in Boulder. Early in the week, I had planned to run it 5 times that week. I ended up deciding instead to head to the BRC Wednesday night run that week.

The next week I spent in Massachusetts for work. The hotels I stayed in were not precisely conducive to running outside, in general. However, I did manage to get one good trail run in on the first Tuesday I was out there. I will write that one up over on the 13 project under new run #4. That Sunday I ran 15 miles on the roads around Fall River and Westport. I shocked myself by running 7:15 pace for the full time, with a few sub-7s thrown in for good measure, on an easy run.

Despite my inconsistent training, it seems that I must be doing something correctly in my training for 15 miles to feel that easy.

Monday, April 15, 2013 we will all no doubt be remembering for a very long time. I wrote about it already, but I have no desire to write further on it at the moment.

I got home late Tuesday night. Wednesday I went on the Run for Boston put on by the BRC, and on Friday ran Sanitas again.

Today I felt solid, so I headed out on the Mesa trail for a double crossing.

I had forgotten, though, that it had snowed 2 1/2 feet in the past two weeks, followed by several days of sunny, breezy, warm weather. Simply put: Mesa was a mud trap. I felt good enough at the start that I thought I might be able to pull out a PR, but with the slop and mud, that was not to be. I still managed to hit a PR on Strava, and ran into my friend Chris in the meantime.

While I have not been able to really train like I would prefer, I'm feeling fast. My real concern, though, is that I have not been able to get the mileage in that I really want to. I have had no long runs over 16 miles or so yet this year, and I don't know that I have enough endurance to pull off my first 50k in a matter of weeks.

I hope to get a bit of extra speed work in on May 5th by running the Louisville Half Marathon (assuming of course I recover from my current cold soon enough), and will try to train through it by running the 11 mile Flagstaff loop the following day. Whether or not that works, I'll try and run a 20+ mile run the next weekend. If I can do that, I'll feel significantly more confident about my 50k. If not, well, I'll get through the 50k and treat it as a fun, long, supported training run.

Thoughts from Boston

After the events of yesterday, I feel the need to capture a glimpse of what is going through my mind.

As I write this, I am sitting in Boston Logan Airport. 23 hours and 48 minutes after the bombings at the Boston Marathon finish line. All around me, I see the blue and yellow jackets and shirts of Boston finishers, occasionally punctuated by the flash of a finisher’s medal catching the light.

I have never seen so many runners in one place outside of an actual race course. And I have never seen such a forlorn, subdued group of race finishers.

The blue and yellow of the runners is counterpointed by the blue and black of the TSA officers, and the darker blue of air marshals, who are out in force today. Despite this, the security line was nonexistent and, aside from checking to make sure my tools were less than 6 inches long (what does that do, exactly?), I flew through the tightened security in a matter of seconds.

Before I get any further, let me say that I did not run the marathon yesterday. I am in Massachusetts for work, and just so happened to be in Boston yesterday on Boston Monday. I had tried several times to arrange a way to be at the finish line and watch the runners come in. Frustratingly, at the time, that was not possible: there was too much work to do and we had to go by our customers’ schedule.

So it happened that, at three o’clock yesterday afternoon, just under 24 hours ago now, my coworker and I walked into a bar in Dorchester and sat down for a late lunch. Almost the second we sat down, the TV screens lit up with news of two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, just a few miles away.

I would say it didn’t register at first, but it did. It registered that something horrible had happened. It registered immediately that the sport I love, something I have always seen bringing people together peacefully, had been attacked. It registered that I should be worried, and was terribly worried, about the numerous people I knew running and watching the race that day. I registered the sirens of emergency vehicles that were lighting up the city.

Of course it didn’t register that people might be concerned about me. I had lobbied hard to get some time to watch the finish, and as far as many people knew, I was as good as there.  When I finally realized that, after some questions on Facebook to that effect, of course the cell network was swamped, or shut down, depending on who you ask. I tried without success to reach my girlfriend, who was in class in Colorado at the time. I sent texts and email to my family and close friends assuring them I was ok.

Then I jumped back on my phone, looking for updates on my friends.

All the time, I was bombarded by images from the TV. I’m sure by now most of you have seen them: the first blast knocking over a 78 year old runner, who was lifted to his feet by a volunteer; the second blast pouring more smoke and flame into the street, setting of screams as people ran, some away from the blast, but a remarkable number towards the blast. I remember the images of blood pools, not stains, but pools, in the streets of Boston. And I remember the image I can’t unsee, of a man, wheeled away in a wheel chair, clearly in shock, with nothing remaining of his legs below the knee but a fully exposed bone on his left side.

But I remember the other images as well. I remember the incredible number of people who ran, not away, but towards the blast area, tearing through barriers and rendering whatever assistance they could. I remember runners heading straight across the finish line, when most feel they cannot run another step, and running straight on to the hospitals to donate blood. I remember the inquiries of friends making sure everybody they know in the area is ok.

I only had a short time, not enough to begin to process the events, before I had to move on to the next site on our list for the day (a young Vietnamese family, where the mother didn’t look up from texting on her phone other than to help us find a light switch or three). Then it was on to the next site: on Beacon Street, the marathon course: completely empty save for emergency vehicles rushing back and forth.

The weight of events, the emotional nature of the day, only caught up to me late last night, when I finally checked into my hotel. I would get, and still am getting, flashes of pure emotion where I feel like I’m going to sob: something precious to me was attacked in the most vile and cowardly way I can imagine. Something of the innocence of running was lost yesterday, and that hurts me more than I can say.

An 8 year old boy, waiting for his father to cross the finish line, died.

Runners and spectators alike lost life and limb, quite literally. Some will never run again, or at least not on their own two feet.

But I see something else: runners are a community. We are a group of people, the world over, who help each other. When somebody falls during a race, inevitably multiple others will stop, spending precious seconds of a time they’ve worked towards for weeks, months, or years, and offer them whatever assistance they can. At mile 27 of a marathon, a time when they are physically and mentally spent, they will sprint towards danger to help people they don’t know.

Anybody looking on Facebook, or any news channel, today will know how the running community is facing this tragedy. There is no division. There is no sense of giving up. There is no other option but to keep running.

There never is.

Updates coming!

I realize I have not updated in a while. I headed off to England for a week and a half, was back for a couple weeks, and headed back out for work for another week and a half.

I promise I will have updates as soon as I have a chance to catch my breath. Things are happening.

On the Influx of Money to Trail Running.

This post is a response to the Trail Runner Magazine blog symposium question: is the introduction of bigger prize purses to trail races a positive or negative thing overall?

I feel rather unqualified to be speaking on this topic. I am at best a decent trail runner. As such, I am at no risk of winning a large purse. Geoff Roes has written eloquently and passionately on this topic, taking the affirmative position that prize money will help the sport. And I doubt you would find Dakota Jones arguing against large purses, with the $20,000 he took home for the TransVulcania last spring.  That prize allowed him to do his own thing, living out of his truck for the summer.

On the other hand, I saw the comments on the Trail Runner Magazine website responding to this symposium topic. They were resoundingly negative, concluding that the influx of money would destroy the sport, and lead inevitably to illegal drug use, cheating, and would destroy the “pure” nature of the sport.

While that is possible, I believe the opposite. I think that the influx of money will help the sport. Trail running has been growing in popularity in recent years, which has in turn led to more sponsor money, which has led to more exposure and an increase in popularity. This is due in no small part to characters such as Scott Jurek, who I am fortunate enough to call a friend and occasional training partner, and Anton Krupicka, Geoff Roes, Dakota Jones, and Rickey Gates, all of whom also call Colorado home.

The simple fact that so many of the top tier trail runners live and train in the Boulder area means that I have the opportunity to meet and talk with the top tier of the sport. For all of them, the goal remains the same: they love running. They love the trails. They love the mountains. They simply love what they do.

Without the money, without the notoriety, they would still be doing exactly what they are doing to the extent that they could afford to. Indeed, several of them (Scott Jurek, Dave Mackey, Buzz Burrell, and Peter Bakwin, to name just a few) have been around long enough that we can guarantee that they would, since they already have.

Rather than pollute the sport, the influx of prize money gives these athletes the opportunity to perfect their craft, and pursue their dreams in the mountains. Just look at AK’s flurry of FKT’s in the mountains this past summer for evidence, or That Dakota Jones’ summer in his truck, cruising the country and going for epic runs

Far from detracting from the sport, the influx of money allows those elites to make a living doing what they love to do. And not insignificantly, that same money gives us a chance to live vicariously through them via their pictures, their videos, and their writings. Do not think that, without the influx of interest and accompanying money, this would be possible for these athletes without even more extreme self-sacrifice.

I have focused so far on one primary reason I do not believe money will destroy the essence of trail running: the character of trail runners and the reasons that we run trails. There are, however, two further reasons I think play a role:

The first is a simple fact: there is still far more money in road running than trail running. By their very nature, road races are easier to draw people to than trail races. Road races usually occur in highly-populated areas, increasing visibility and drawing in both runners and spectators. This in turn attracts sponsors and prize money. Trail races, on the other hand, generally occur in remote and/or difficult to access locations, leading to less exposure and less prize money.

If your primary goal is to make money, road and track racing is still the place to look.

The second reason is limited to the United States. We have a very restrictive set of guidelines in the US regarding the protection of wilderness areas and national forests. The United States Forest Service must balance the needs and desires of a variety of groups when deciding what can happen on Federal lands, including but not limited to logging interests, off-road vehicles, hikers and campers, mineral prospectors, hunters and fishers, and of race directors. Just ask Dakota Jones if you want to hear about how difficult it is to get permits when the race crosses between two different national forests.

For this reason, races are often limited to just a few hundred entrants (or even fewer) after an arduous process for the RD. We are unlikely to see a major trail race in the United States on the scale of UTMB for this reason, unless it takes place entirely on Forest Service roads. Fewer athletes means less prize money up for grabs, and so I believe the prize money for most races will reach a firm limit.

So no, I do not believe that the increased size of prize purses in trail running will destroy the sport. There will always be small, local, uncompromising races for those that want to avoid the hoopla of the major races. But the bigger purses for the larger races will continue to let those at the pinnacle of the sport to pursue their dreams, and allow us to share those dreams. And not insignificantly, this money will push the excitement in the sport, and push the competition at the front of the field to ever more impressive and inspiring heights.