Invigorated Malaise at the Bandera 50K

(From top to bottom)

1). Minutes before the start.

2). Follow the cairns and try not to trip!

3). Typical scruff and hills.

4). View from hill top with winding trail below.

5). Gorgeous flat section late in the race just begging to be hammered!

6). Finisher's medal well earned.

First, a side note...I ran the Bandera 50k in early January of 2006. I would love to run it again

--and it's simply a matter of making it a priority of money and time and will--in order to make that desire a reality. Of course, it's also a matter of whether my beat-up body will ever allow me to cover 50k again, but I remain hopeful and determined. If all goes well, it won't be long until these reminiscences will be replaced by race reports of freshly completed events. And so, Bandera...

The 2005 season was noteworthy for the fact I didn't race until late July, but then managed to cram in three trail marathons and three trail 50ks into the next five months. Bandera was the final race of this stretch, and in retrospect, I think I was a little physically drained. It also wasn't wise of me to position Bandera at the end of a nine-day trip to Texas with my wife, which included New Year's Eve on the Riverwalk in San Antonio, play time in the Hill Country, and beef--lots and lots of brisket and carne asada and brisket and carne asada--and brisket. Now, mind you, I'm not a beef guy, and for several years in my life even committed to being a vegetarian, but there's beef and then there's Texas beef--and I surrendered with giddy pleasure. And thus, my wife thinks my flagging later miles in the race were due to an overindulgence in brisket. And if she happens to be right, I must confess, the trade-off was justified--the brisket I devoured at the OST buffet in the quaint little town of Bandera was pure bliss.

The Bandera 50k is held in Hill Country State Park under the guidance of the very capable and accommodating Joe Prusaitis. By January, the rattlers have since hibernated at Hill Country, but keeping one eye on the ground is still a good idea since parts of the course are strewn with rocks. Joe even thought it might be fun to throw in a little off-trail trail--we followed rock cairns over a steep, rocky hill littered with smaller, you guessed it, rocks. There are trees in the park, some of them delightfully gnarly, but they provide little to no shade. The views from atop the many hills--MANY HILLS--are terrific. Being from the Midwest, and often immersed in dense forest, this was a rare delight. I'd never run anywhere quite like this before--huge expanses of scruffy, undulating terrain--and if you were careful, you could actually run and gaze out across the landscape. In short, the 50k single-loop course was tough and beautiful.

Temperatures were chilly at the start--low thirties--and quickly warmed to the upper seventies. I delight in running in warm weather, but I'm sure the unusual heat took as much of a toll on me as did the brisket and too many racing miles. After a vigorous first 13 miles or so, I faded quickly, much to my confusion, and slogged through the final 18 in a state of "invigorated malaise". Yes, that term pretty well describes the sheer joy and frustration of seeing a gorgeous piece of country present itself, just begging to be hammered, yet you are just too damn tired to muster anything more than a jog--or a walk. And so, you shake your head and chuckle, and resign yourself to enjoying the lovely surroundings, not wanting it to end but wanting it to end. When my race was all run and done some 7 1/2 hours later, I was surprised to have found myself finishing in the middle of the pack--which made me wonder how well I might have done had I been feeling strong. Now, you understand, my need to return.

And this time, I'll have brisket AFTER the race.

Otter Creek Tales

(top photo) 2008 race. Savoring the day.

(bottom) Ohio River from atop a bluff.

For three of the past four years, the second weekend in December meant making the five-hour rode trip to Kentucky to run my final event of the season, the Otter Creek Trail Marathon. Otter Creek State Park, a little west of Louisville along the banks of the Ohio, sadly closed following last year's event and race directors Todd and Cindy Heady have since organized the Beautiful Trail races in Louisville. In fact, I've just realized marathoners may be finishing that event as I type these words. Every race has it's little bit of drama and stories, but my Otter Creek memories are particularly vivid--and quirky.

I loved the Otter Creek course--an 8-mile loop through rolling pine forest, along pretty Otter Creek, and atop a tall bluff overlooking the lazy, winding Ohio River. There were enough big hills there to grind down your legs, but also flatter areas you could attempt to hammer. That is, if the roots didn't trip you up. Tripping was the norm at Otter Creek. On my first visit there in 2005, I think I went down six times. The header I took at the finish line was a gem. My buddy, Al Chase, had finished just ahead of me and was waiting for me to come in. I had passed through the finishing area three times already on my loops, but was doing the final two-mile out-and-back. Meaning, I would be approaching the finish line from the opposite direction. I was running strong and feeling great--until I tripped on a lip rising up from the cement sidewalk and hit the ground hard just a yard or so from the finish line. I immediately looked up at race director Todd, who was manning the timing table, and asked, "Am I across?" "Close enough," he replied, while my compassionate friend Al was laughing hysterically. 'No," I muttered, "I'll make it official," and I crawled the final few feet to glory. Now, one would think one good tripping story would suffice for any event, but not Otter Creek. Advance to the following year, where on the back end of the course, on a long downhill, I stubbed my toe and went into a spectacular, out-of-control decent, landing on--make that, plowing down--the unsuspecting female runner in front of me. Having fallen on top of the poor woman, I was not hurt, as she cushioned my fall. Luckily, she survived without injury and I apologized profusely as I scurried ahead of her.

Yes, falls were just a part of racing at Otter Creek. The '05 race was also notable for its abundance of ice on the trail, especially on the first loop before temperatures turned the trail to a mixture of ice and mud. My friend Al slipped on an icy section of the creek trail and found himself frantically grasping at branches as he began sliding down the side of a bluff. No wonder he found my finishing line face plant so funny. But I am no better, as I found great amusement in watching Wild Bill, the head cross-country coach at the state champion high school in Indianapolis and my running partner for part of the '08 race, suffer his share of falls on this dastardly course. Thump! I would hear behind me. "Damn, " Bill would say, "I'm gonna feel that one tomorrow." He was much more polite than me, known to hurl resounding F-bombs into the air.

Part of Otter Creek's charm was it's low-key atmosphere. When Al crossed the finish line in'05,

there was no one else there. No one. Not even the race director. "Hello!" Al yelled. "I finished! Anybody here?!" Turns out, Todd was in the nearby parking lot, digging through the back of his truck for something. You see? Low-key. Can't get a story like that from a big city marathon. Cindy prepared terrific pre-race pastas and post-race soups. Her and Todd rented out a cabin at the park where runners would gather the night before the race. A great little gathering. Al and I rented a cabin that first year. It was atop the bluff overlooking the Ohio River and was just yards off the course. We could have turned it into an aid station had we wanted to. And the night after the marathon, he and I went for a walk down the trail. No flashlight was needed as a full moon reflected off the snowy/icy ground. It was magical.

When I crossed the finish line of last year's race, I continued on for another hundred yards or so--and wept. This little race had brought me so much joy after running it just three times. I only knew it with it's trees bare and a chill in the air. I wonder what Otter Creek might have looked like in the summer or fall. The park is now closed--and I'll never know.

Beach Run on the Riviera Maya

(photos) Lovely tide pools.

Bird and crashing wave.

The mother load of coral.

Trail skimming past mansion hurricane devasted property.

Termite nest near mangroves.

Rocky section near mansion.

For me, there has always been a disconnect between the romantic image of beach running and the reality of actually doing it. If I can find a rare beach with hard packed sand to run on, then perhaps, an actual productive run is possible. But even then, I get easily bored running on along a flat, straight line--and then back again along the same damn flat, straight line. I guess I must be a high maintenance beach runner because not only do I want remotely runable terrain, but varied as well, and with some bends and roll and surprises along the way.

On a recent trip to the Mayan Riviera in Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula, I found a beach front route, one I enjoyed so much I actually ran it on two different days. I have named it Four Points, because it stretches from the northern point of Soliman Bay north of Tulum to the southern point of Tanka Bay. The two-hour out-and-back route follows two sandy crescents, passing two additional points of land, and turns around at the nauseatingly posh resort Dreams. I did not venture to try, but I imagine they would refill your water bottle there, adding a slice of lime and a colorful paper umbrella.

There is a variety of footing along the route, hence the appeal--from hard packed sand to the miserable slogging variety, and also traverses over rocky sections, a patch of actual trail running through a grove of palm trees, weedy sections, horrifying garbage-riddled sections, and even expanses of limestone pocked with tide pools. For those who dare the sea to get their feet wet, or for those who don't mind running in soaked shoes, there is also, of course, the waterline. Such a tease, the sea. One moment it gives you a glimpse of hard-packed good running, and the next, it playfully hurls a wave at your feet. Don't expect to outsmart it. You WILL have at least one wet foot before the run is over.

There are actually a few wilder-feeling, undeveloped sections of beach between the various bays, and it is here you will find yourself marveling at the bounty of coral (the second largest reef in the world runs parallel to the shore), maritime birds, and the afore mentioned tide pools. It is bliss. Along the developed sections, you will pass workers diligently raking the beach in front of their respective properties (why?)--a variety of casitas, small hotels, grand villas, and opulent mansions. There are also seemingly abandoned properties, some damaged by the hurricane of two years ago, and others, by the economic downturn.

This is a route which some runners may find frustrating, but seasoned and determined trail runners, accustomed to tackling and embracing all kinds of terrain (read: shitty) will enjoy.

Bring a camera and a laid-back attitude, and enjoy the little surprises and adventure along this slice of sun-drenched coast north of Tulum, Mexico.

A Little Slice of Trail Runner Heaven

(left) A new trail in the making?

One of the best parts of running trails is discovering and exploring new ones. I was on a run today when I unexpectedly encountered a "new" trail. On a whim, I blew off my planned route in favor of following this undeveloped path of tire tracks, newly cut trees, and orange ribbons. When the tire tracks ended, I followed the ribbons. And when the ribbons ended, I was standing in a surreal-looking pasture in the middle of nowhere. So, I did what has become second nature to me--took pictures and bushwhacked my way through the expanse until I came to a familiar trail. This meant running through leg-grabbing weeds, on pillowy mounds of hay-like grass, and through a shallow swamp. It will be interesting to see if this route actually does turn into a trail, but if it doesn't, I still had the time of my life--scraped legs, soggy feet and all. It was a little slice of trail runner heaven.

Running/Hiking Hocking Hills area, Ohio

(top to bottom) Inside The Rock House, Rim Trail at Conkles Hollow, Rock formation between Old Man's Cave and Cedar Falls, Ash Cave.

I recently explored some trails within seven hours of Chicago which rival the beauty of Kentucky's Natural Bridge State Park and Red River Gorge area--Hocking Hills, Ohio. It was on my to-do list ever since I heard about the bundle of races there (Hocking Hills Indian Runs) a few years back. The Indian Runs include distances of

10k to 60k. The photos on the website were intriguing and the September race date was inviting, but when I asked trusted ultrarunning resource Rob Apple, who has run just about everything in the country, whether he recommended the race, he replied it was fine, but not for true trail junkies--too much asphalt at Hocking Hills. From what I can gather, about half of the 20k loop is asphalt, so I scratched the race from my schedule. Still, those photos of the park stuck in my mind, and when my nagging PF messed up my racing season this year, I thought a visit to Hocking Hills for some "light" running and hiking might be just the kind of trip I needed this Fall.

There is much to explore in the Hocking Hills region of south central Ohio. I spent parts of three days poking around and had a good deal leftover for my return trip there someday (hopefully, soon!). Having run pretty hard the day before my trip, my first day in the area was spent simply hiking and exploring Rock House and Conkles Hollow. The hiking trails are quite short at the Rock House, but seeing the formation is a must. It is, indeed, more of a house than a cave, and particularly interesting once you make your way inside. At Conkles Hollow, there are trails which run through and above the gorge. I took the rim trail around and above the gorge, a 2 1/2 mile loop. The initial assent may be a tough climb for those in poor shape, but worth the effort once topping out. There are numerous unobstructed lookouts on one side of the gorge, particularly striking due to the fall color. The trail on the opposite of the gorge is more wooded, but afford interesting views of rock formations below. It is a lovely hike.

On Day 2, I essentially did an out-and-back from Upper Falls in the Old Man's Cave area to Cedar Falls, maybe 7 miles total. I had planned on running all the way to Ash Cave, three miles further, but lost the trail emerging from the gorge at Cedar Falls and lost precious daylight (and motivation) in the process of my search. As it turns out, when arriving at the parking lot from the Cedar Falls Gorge, you must take a HARD RIGHT where you will see a marker for the Buckeye Trail (obscured by a the branch of a tree, hence my wandering fruitlessly left). In retrospect, the blue blazes and stone markers of the Buckeye Trail are so abundant, that I am embarrassed at having lost the trail!

The trailhead for this run/hike can be found between the campground and the park buildings along State Road 664 at the top of Upper Falls. There is a stone marker there commemorating Grandma Gatewood, for whom this stretch of trail is name. IT IS A SPECTACULAR TRAIL, dropping into the gorge where you are immediately greeted with tall stone walls and waterfalls. The way to Old Man's Cave is paved, but lovely. Shortly after Old Man's Cave, the trail changes to dirt and follows a winding stream. To one side, is a tall rock face and along the way there are many delightful surprises including huge boulders and interesting rocky outcroppings to negotiate and appreciate. It is a little slice of trail running heaven--visually engaging and technically challenging. If want to get an actual run in, DO NOT BRING A CAMERA. Let me put it this way--if you want to actually the run this section, hike it first with your camera and get all the beautiful shots out of your system. Otherwise, just plan a run and shoot regimen and expect to be out there for a good 3 hours or more just for this simple 7-mile section!

I'm happy that I saved the 6-mile out-and-back from Cedar Falls to Ash Cave for the following morning as it felt "just right" before my drive back to Chicago. There is a large parking lot at Cedar Falls. At the far end, just hop on the wide trail with the wooden sign pointing to Ash Cave. It was interesting to see how different this section was from yesterday's trail. The Ash Cave section is more "traditional" woods running--a mix of wide trail and single track winding and undulating through the countryside. It felt much like Wisconsin's southern Ice Age Trail, and on this lovely, sunny fall day with temperatures close to 70 degrees, I was in a state of bliss. From this bucolic setting, Ash Cave, the largest formation in the Hocking Hills area, appears out of nowhere. It is not really a cave, but an enormous semi-circular rock formation gouged into the side of a cliff. Standing beneath it, embraced by it, is a wondrous experience.

The Hocking Hills area is a delight. Take some time to see it and go play.

I Retire From Ultrarunning--For 18 Hours

(left) Runners negotiating rocky terrain in the first mile of the Flat Rock 50k.

(below) Enjoying an ice cold drink at the 23.5 mile aid station, just minutes into my retirement from ultrarunning.  Oddly enough, this happened to be the only photo taken of me during the race!

Fun and Folly at the Flat Rock Fifty

It was five years ago that I retired from ultrarunning.  That lasted about 18 hours.

I was running the Flat Rock 50k in southeast Kansas, an out-and-back course in the beautiful Elk River Reservoir.  The trail is captivating, winding in and out of little canyons, sometimes along large rock faces above the river and reservoir.  28 miles of it are on wickedly rugged terrain littered with jagged rocks--hence the irony of the name "Flat Rock".  The mantra here was "If you look up, you go down."  And it was true.  Your eyes had to be constantly fixed to the ground lest you risk tripping.  The going was quite slow.  I remember feeling fresh and invigorated while glancing at my watch at the one mile mark.  It read "14:02"--and I chuckled at the formidable task ahead. The day heated up nicely--80s and sunny--just lovely--and I was cruising comfortably along, taking many photos of the course along the way.  Man, I was having fun!  Yet, despite my numerous photo stops, I was still running in the middle of the pack.  As I hit the 20-mile mark, my legs (and my mind) were particularly weary from picking my way through all the rocks--there was no normal running gait to be had--but all in all, I was still moving along happy and steadily.  After passing through an aid station at the 23.5 mile mark, I quickly found myself in a field of waist-high grass atop the canyon.  It was lovely.  The sun embraced me in its warm, soothing rays and I suddenly stopped in my tracks to take it all in.  I was running in the most wonderful place, on the most wonderful day, completely absorbed in my beautiful surroundings and sated with my rigorous physical exertion--and then a curious thing happened.  I shook my head, laughed to myself and started walking back to the aid station.  I was done.  It had been an exquisite day.  And I didn't see any point in running the final 7.7 miles to the finish.  Doing so seemed like a chance at spoiling  what had become a perfect running experience.  All in all, it was very much a Forest Gump moment.

Upon reaching the aid station, I then declared, much to my surprise, that not only was I was done for the day, but done for my career.  No more ultras.  There seemed no point to do any more--I had just passed through the gates of running Nirvana.  I imagine the impetus for this moment had been building up in the months prior to the race.  My work was absorbing more and more of my time, my training suffered, and I was running slower than I had in the past.  I was getting older and ultras were feeling harder.  It was demoralizing.  And  it was right about this time that I came to the realization that it wasn't the actual running that I loved so much, as it was being out on the trails.  The running  enhanced my enjoyment of the trails, enabling me to see more of a trail on a single day, but if I had to choose between never running again or never setting foot on a trail again, the former would have lost.  But, not ready to give up the race experience, I simply decided that if I was going to still do them and wasn't going to be as competitive doing them, I might as well just completely run for the fun of it--hence the camera.  I soon discovered, that the experience of running with a camera, especially on a course this beautiful, was so engaging that I practically forgot (and really didn't care) that I was in a race at all.  No wonder bowing out at 23.5 was no big deal.  

And so I took a chair at the aid station under the shelter of a canopy and pounded down some of the most delicious ice cold Gatorade I have ever tasted.  It felt so great to just sit there in the warm air and take in my surroundings.  I had, in essence, created my own finish line and settled into a state of utter contentment.  Runners passed through the aid station, many of them urging me not to drop.  "C'mon, run with us.  We'll get you to the finish!"  'No thanks, "I replied with a certain  nonchalance, taking another long draw from my bottle, "I'm just fine."  And fine I was--until the next morning when I woke up and thought to myself, "What the hell was that all about?!"

Guilt.  What to do with the guilt of a DNF?  Yikes!  I've heard of guys who have fallen off cliffs, broken their backs plus both legs, and dragged themselves to the finish just to avoid the dreaded DNF.  What was my excuse?  "I didn't FEEL like finishing."  How many readers at this very moment are shaking their head with disdain or bewilderment?   I put in the training to cover 31 miles--had already run two 50Ks earlier that year.  I drove 12 hours one way just to get to the event.   I had taken time off of work and spent my hard earned money for travel and entry fee.  And then, 23.5 miles into the event, on a whim, I drop.  No finisher's award.  No fishing time.  Just a big, fat D-N-F. 

Well, I can't deny not initially questioning my decision to drop.  I mean, it was a little weird--surreal.  I could plead "Temporary Insanity", but I won't.  In fact, five years later, having well digested this experience, you will be surprised to know that I have no regrets whatsoever.   Because I know what happened to me out there.  My priorities changed; my mindset changed.   I no longer thought of myself as an ultrarunner but rather, as simply, a trail runner.  It was more about my enjoyment of running on trails than mastering the distance.  And so, completing the final 7.7 miles that day, in the big scheme of things,  wouldn't have made much difference.  This is not to say that getting to the finish was never important to me again--I've since gone on to run 6 marathons and 10 ultras on days where the challenge of finishing did happen to matter to me--but on that warm day in Kansas back in 2004, not reaching the finish was perfectly fine.  And as proof of the odd curves and surprises that Life always seems to send our way,  I followed my Flat Rock experience with one of the best races of my career just six weeks later, finishing 11th overall at the Owen-Putnam 50k in Indiana.  Go figure.  I haven't run that well since--but I can honestly say I savor each and every trail run more than the last.  My trail running has become even more than about trails or running--it is about the celebration of

experiencing Nature, of melding with Nature in a unique, joyful, soulful way.  

   

Over time, I've learned there are races to race and races to treat like a ten-year-old on summer vacation.  You carry a camera on some, and others, leave it for the finish line.  There are trails just too beautiful to race--unless you find the time to return another day to stop and wander and savor.  And whatever the race, you go out and give what you have.  You give what feels like a satisfying effort.  Most days you'll bust your butt and push through the discomfort because it oddly feels good and right and satisfying.  And then, you may find yourself on a day like Flat Rock where stopping at just the right moment seems like the perfect thing to do.  Take my word for it--it feels rather liberating.      

 

         

       

Galapagos Islands, Ecuador

The Galapagos Islands--unique in all the world.