Tjalling Ypma - 4/12/10

I had prepared for this race in my usual meticulous way, principally by tapering since New Year’s Eve. Robin objects to me calling this tapering, since that would imply that I had actually trained before that, but she forgets the intense carbo-loading I endured at Christmas. I had not really planned on doing this race, but as luck and Krissy would have it the opportunity arose and I could not resist doing it for the ninth year in a row. When Robin heard that I had entered there was much sniggering and dark muttering about ‘picking up the pieces’ and what happens ‘when the wheels come off’, so to placate her I ambled about on Galbraith and in the Chuckanuts for a couple of hours in the weeks before the race. A few days before the race Robin damaged herself extensively in a fall on the treadmill at the gym, amply proving my contention that training is dangerous and should be avoided. My longest run between last year’s 50K and this year’s race was the Orcas Island 25K in February, so my running legs were certainly fresh on race morning.

Race day was no exception to our incredibly mild winter: clear, dry and windstill with very comfortable temperatures, although cold at first because of the clear skies. I think this was the first time I have ever run the race in shorts, though I did wear gloves for the first 10K. There were lots of friendly familiar faces milling about at the start, although more of them were supporters than actual runners. Polly kindly offered to transport my camelbak to the first aid station, saving me that little bit of weight and effort. The crowd of competitors seemed even leaner and meaner than last year; the caliber of the runners keeps rising. I was relieved to see that last year’s fad of garishly colored gaiters had gone away, though I suspect that this had more to do with the good weather than good taste.

I know enough about this race and myself to start towards the rear and keep things very moderate from the get-go. I nevertheless usually find myself in a crush of bodies for the first few miles, but this year was a pleasant exception. I seemed to have plenty of space and was able to trot along at my own genteel pace without knocking elbows with anyone else. Maybe it was just a matter of the bulk of the masses now being much faster than me. The winding single-track through Arroyo Canyon was still a bit of a bottleneck and I did have to hold my place in the line of runners snaking its way through the woods, but once past that point I once again had lots of freedom. It was a great relief not to have to cope with the endless and inane back-of-the-pack chit-chat that marred this part of the race for me last year, though I confess that I probably committed a similar offence by discussing gear ratios and wheel sizes with a fellow mountain biker I happened across who was running the race for the first time. When he announced his intention to break 6 hours I wished him well and told him not to wait for me since I had no such high aspirations.

Some 58 minutes had passed by the time I jogged into the first aid station and picked up my camelbak. Besides containing about two liters of coke (so much for all you nutrition nazis) there was quite a bit of food in the pack. I knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t touch any of that food, but taking it seemed the right thing to do in the unlikely event that good sense would prevail and I would actually eat something along the way. I gratefully sipped at my sugary elixir as I headed for the familiar Fragrance Lake Trail. I had carefully exerted minimal effort in the opening miles and felt quite fresh, though that was soon corrected as I started up the first steep switchbacks. I like to run uphill, so it was a bit disappointing to discover that walking up the steeper parts felt better than running. Fortunately my long legs give me a good stride, and I had plenty of gas to run up the lesser gradients. The would-be 6-hour-beater tried to keep up with me on this section, but from his heavy breathing behind me I could tell that this was not a good idea on his part and he duly paid the price – no sub-6-hour race for him. The downed trees that had hampered progress the previous week had been cleared and the path was dry so the going was good; combined with the ideal temperatures it all felt pretty easy. The little wooden stile that marks the top of the two-mile climb is nevertheless always a welcome sight.

For once the trail around the lake was not a mud wallow. The usual scramble took me out of the basin, and there I was headed down the detested Two Dollar Trail – detested by me because my worn body parts hate the stress of these steep downhills. This year I decided to throw caution to the winds, so rather than tire my muscles and joints by trying to fight gravity I just let it fly down the hill at whatever speed seemed natural. This worked fine, and although I did have one or two folks bomb past me at a headlong pace, several others were content to sit on my heels and follow my lead. When the steep drop eased off onto the newer bypass of the eroded gully I had these guys breathing down my neck, making me move more rapidly than I otherwise would have done, but I was still well within my comfort zone and the footing was good so I had no problem pushing the pace a bit. For once I enjoyed the final steep descent, which is often just a slimy mudslide, down onto Cleator Road and aid station 2 with its welcome coke and cookies and M&Ms. Polly was there to check that I had collected my camelbak, so I thanked her and headed onwards.

I don’t usually care much for the ascent of Cleator Road, but it has become much more tolerable since a big chunk of the road fell into the creek a couple of years ago and motor vehicles were banned. I usually walk up most of that long uphill, but this year I felt like running up it, so I did. I realized that this might not be a wise move, and I probably paid the price later, but I always have to compensate on the uphills for the time I lose on the downhills. The steady low-gear slog up the wide gravel road felt good and carried me past a lot of walkers. The aid station at the Cyrus Gates Overlook held no attraction for me – that is, I saw no coke - so I passed straight by. There always seems to be at least one more curve than I expect on the final winding stretch, so I was glad to reach the junction with the Ridge Trail. By then I was about 15 minutes ahead of my usual schedule. Vague and dangerous thoughts of PRs entered my head. I knew enough not to get any real hopes up, not being halfway through the race yet, but it was a cheering thought.

I’m always cautious on the Ridge, since there are many opportunities to trip over rocks or roots and twist my no-longer-youthful joints, to say nothing of plunging headlong over the precipice that the path skirts. I usually feel at peace up there, probably because the narrow path winding through the rocks and trees forces me to focus my attention on the immediate environment while all distractions, including the sights and sounds of other runners, are blocked out. I also like the soft firm footing on the thick carpets of moss and fir needles, so that when the path does level and straighten out you feel you are really flying. A fair number of runners passed me on the rougher stretches; I was happy to let them go and proceed at my own relaxed pace. I had trotted around this part of the course the previous weekend, so it was all very familiar and comfortable. For once I did not stop at the rocky outcrops to admire the wide views eastward to the Cascades; I just gave them a brief nod of acknowledgement and apology as I jogged by. Before long I was heading down the next detested descent, but for once the steep and badly eroded gully at the north end of the Ridge was dry, with good footing, so I made it to Dan’s Traverse and the halfway point without bodily damage and still well ahead of my usual schedule.

The untold joys of the Lost Lake Trail lay ahead. Familiarity with the trail helps a great deal here; I knew exactly which uphill parts to walk while taking in some nutrition, and which of the longer flatter parts to run. By then my legs were giving notice that they were nearing their expiration mileage, but the rest of me felt fine and ordered the legs to carry on regardless. I was still maintaining a modest but steady pace, so no more than a small handful of runners came by me as the miles flowed past. As a result of our remarkably dry warm winter the trail was much less muddy than usual, so it was easy to switch off any significant mental activity and just let the legs swing the body along brainlessly. Of course the good times were over once we reached Lost Lake; that is where both the mud and the climbing resume in earnest. Since about 150 runners had ploughed through the muck before I got there, deep soggy mud wallows spanned the full width of the trail in many places, often stretching for tens of meters. I had been wise enough to use normal shoe laces instead of the elastic laces I usually favor, so at least this year my shoes did not get sucked off my feet. The bad mud is only on the first half mile or so of the trail from the lake, and that part is mostly flat, so it really isn’t too bad other than forcing an unwelcome change in the mindless running rhythm. The mud stops when the serious climbing starts, and here I regretfully had to slow to a walk instead of running up the relatively moderately angled though long climb to the ridgeline. Nevertheless I was still keeping up with some of the better trained guys who had been in my vicinity since pounding down the Two Dollar Trail, and I was still well into PR territory by the time I reached the crest and had to start the long winding descent down to Chinscraper.

I always find the next part of the course a bit trying. Undoubtedly this has something to do with it being around the 20-mile mark, the standard point at which marathoners start hurting, and certainly my untrained legs are always well beyond their comfort zone by this stage. But in my case a large part of it is psychological; in particular I am frustrated by the fact that so many folks fly effortlessly down these hills while I actually have to work and hurt to cover this easy ground. I was plodding along, muttering morosely to myself in this gloomy vein, when I was passed by a girl in plaid shorts. Now I do not generally favor plaid shorts; in fact, I think they should be banished to some nether region, like, say, a golf course, where they can cavort with other similar atrocities (argyle, anyone ?) well out of sight of more fastidious folk. But these particular plaid shorts – I should perhaps mention that they were very short plaid shorts – were altogether admirable. In fact I had to speed up considerably for a closer inspection, to make sure that these plaid shorts really were an exception to the rule. My shameful prejudice was amply confirmed; these shorts were definitely spectacular. I might even have to get some for Robin, to motivate me to run with her more often. But I digress; and thus distracted from my discomfort and prompted to higher speeds the remaining easy ground to the foot of Chinscraper was covered relatively quickly and painlessly. Soon I was throwing back a few mugs of coke as I contemplated the prospect of the painful climb up Chinscraper. Gina and Lora, who were cheering on friends and acquaintances at the base of the climb, kindly invited me to join them on their planned 50-mile bike ride later that afternoon; I regretfully had to decline their generous offer, for fear of holding them back of course.

At that point I had run about 21 miles in just under 4 hours, and I had just over 2 hours to run the remaining 11 miles if I wanted to break 6 hours, which seemed doable. I was still not really aiming to break 6 hours, but the prospect certainly kept me on my toes. Going up Chinscraper was the usual tedious slog but somehow it didn’t feel as endlessly long as it sometimes does. I felt I was going really slow, but it only took me 20 minutes from the aid station to the end of the climb and the contour path to the overlook. I still had about an hour and 45 minutes to cover the remaining 10 or so miles to the finish; easy, right ? So off I set at what felt like a decent pace down the last of the long descents. This one is no less obnoxious than the others; in some ways it is worse since it is the longest one and I’m always hurting by then and far too many folks come pounding by me. I really missed the aid station that used to be at the Ridge Trail junction, and this year the aid at the Cyrus Gates Overlook was also gone by the time I got there. Various body parts I didn’t previously know I had (there are muscles in my groin???) were making themselves painfully evident by this point, so I was making loud negative noises as I got back down to Fragrance Lake where Robin was waiting to escort me down the rest of the way. She told me later that she feared it was going to be an awfully depressing slow run by my side, and was surprised that despite my grumpiness the pace stayed tolerable. She gave me some shot blocks that helped a lot, and she had extra supplies of cold coke, so by the time we got down to Chuckanut Drive I was bouncing along quite nicely again. In fact I had to wait for her to hand off my camelbak before heading home on the Interurban.

If memory serves me right (it often doesn’t these days) I still had an hour and 7 minutes in which to cover the last 6 or 7 miles; miles I had covered effortlessly in 58 minutes on the way out. I was still not set on going under 6 hours, but it was obviously going to be a close thing whether I aimed for it or not. I don’t recall much about this last long familiar and mostly quite easy stretch, save that I was passed by quite a few folk and was very grateful for Robin meeting me at various intersections to pour nutrition into me. I kept the legs ticking over at what seemed to be my highest sustainable pace at that point, which was not very fast since I was wary of cramping up or other bodily damage. I was careful not to look at my watch; I knew I would PR but I didn’t want the pressure of trying to beat the 6 hour barrier. The comfortingly familiar terrain passed by steadily enough, though I had to walk the steepest ups and downs like the firehouse dip and some stretches around Arroyo Canyon. Once up the gravel switchbacks the end is essentially in sight, and I got into automaton mode for the last mile or so to the finish. Polly and Lindsay were cheering at the Rotary Trailhead; Lindsay had just run 5:15 but since she actually trained I think that should be discounted. On similar grounds I claim immunity from the charge that I got chicked by Amber and Molly. Turning up the last little rise and then pounding down the long road to the line I thought I still had a chance at breaking 6. The clock, once in sight, told me otherwise, but I was still delighted to get home in 6:04:50. My previous pathetic best was 6:23. The inescapable conclusion for next year: train less!

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