Getting "Chicked": The First True Step to Racing Enlightenment

(above)  Confident (cocky?) in pre-race photo.  Little did I suspect, that the two women in the background would be part of the "Gang of Five" who "chicked" me late in the race!

Upon reading a popular running blog last night,  a certain speedy male runner remarked that he had been "chicked" at a particular event, evidence of a less than stellar performance.  Now, I'm not sure of the precise definition of what it means to be chicked--I'm assuming it is to be beaten by a woman--but I do know there are very few male runners who are fast enough to even bother counting, let alone, have the audacity to joke about it.  For a middle-of-the-pack guy like me, I was humbled early on and can say without reservation that not only have I been "chicked", but I've been "gramped", "grammed", "paunched", "fat-butted" and damn nearly "mommed" by various runners these past ten years.

Back in the late 90's, I had good success in my first two ultras and having finished in the top fourth of the pack in the second one, figured I was already pretty damn fast.  Naturally, I assumed with better training and experience, I would soon have a chance at cracking the top ten spots at some race before too long.  So, it was during my third ultra, the rough 'n tumble Rattlesnake 50k in West Virginia, that I really got my first taste of humble pie.  Not only was I chicked, but gramped to boot.  Late in the race, maybe 27 miles in or so, I was pretty damn tired and moving along slowly--not hurting--but slowly and steadily, when up from behind, I began to hear laughing and chatter.  Hikers?  No, runners.  Female runners.  Four of them plus one dude.  They passed me easily, still chattering and laughing and offered a friendly "hello".  Now, in an event where there are only 136 starters, to be passed in late miles by five people in one quick swoop is rather demoralizing.  But when you're slowly grinding down and they pass you, looking fresh, like they're on a 5-mile fun run--well, that just plain sucks.  But not so fast--my competitive juices were stoked!  I lit out after the gang of five, determined not to be so easily overtaken. This was a true test of my mettle.  I was inspired, anxious to see if I could dig deep and maintain pursuit, match them stride for stride, carrying me to the finish!  ...Oh well, I guess it's really not that surprising that I let them go after a feeble quarter of a mile chase.  They wound up all finishing together, ahead of me by eight minutes.   Then, if this bitter taste of comeuppance wasn't enough, in the final mile of the race, a guy with white hair and beard came up on me, huffing and puffing and grunting like a tenacious junkyard dog.  I remember rolling my eyes and muttering, "Oh, c'mon now!" as I was hoping to just cruise comfortably to the finish.  But there he was, this old guy of 53 (me, a young, svelte, dashing 44 at the time),  and damned (as tired as I was) if I was going to let him pass me.  I surprised myself by clicking into another gear and thought with gratification, and perhaps even a bit of smugness, that there was no way this old dude was going to hang with me now.  Well, not only did he hang with me, but the old bastard wore me down and passed me, "gramped" me, crossing the finish line 14 seconds ahead of me.  I distinctly remember thinking, as he continued to bear down on me, "This guy is practically killing himself.  We're in the middle of the pack of a six-hour race, for Gods sakes! Why is it so damn important for him to beat me?!"  It's because he was Andrew Colee, who I later learned was a tough-as-nails competitor and prolific ultrarunner from Florida--and that's just how he ran--balls out.  Florida?!  Beaten on mountainous trails by another flatlander?!  Twas a bitter pill to swallow--and not the last time I'd battle Mr. Colee.      

And then, there was the time I was nearly "mommed" at the 2005 Stump Jump 50k outside of Chattanooga, Tennessee.  Now this happened on a day where I felt just fine, but was casually taking my time negotiating the very technical trail, and found myself far back in the pack late in the race.  I initiated a conversation with a fellow runner , a middle-aged woman, who was just ahead of me.  I think I brought up Alabama and Mountain Mist 50k, to which, the woman said "My son won that race a number of times."  Say what?  You are DeWayne Satterfield's mom?  I had talked with DeWayne a couple of times over the years, liked him very much, and had a great deal of respect for his running prowess.  So, it was kind of cool to meet his mom--especially under such unusual circumstances.  Then it occurred to me--you can't let DeWayne's mom beat you!  So, eventually I sped up, and on this day, avoided the momming.  But I know the day will come when I will again face this challenge.  Some of these moms can run their butts off, but I will be ready to do battle: Mano y Mom-o.   

I always thought the worst thing in a race would be getting passed by an overweight runner.

Hence my terms, "paunched" or "fat-butted".  Every race has some competitors who are flat-out overweight, but the amazing thing is, that sometimes they will surprise you with their speed and/or endurance.  I've relaxed my attitude on this matter as well, not only because I've been passed by overweight runners, but mostly because I've become one of them!  I don't intend on staying an overweight runner, but as recent race photos will document, I'm presently one of those paunchy guys out there.  And yes, as slow as I've become, and with a mixture of pride and shame I must confess, that I have "paunched" some younger, leaner runners.  Good grief.

If my own past thoughts are any indication, I, Myself, was an object of disdain as I passed these young pups!  Perhaps, as I approach the ripe old age of 55, still carrying too much baggage around my waist, I may be approaching the optimal place in this whole pecking order.  I am becoming the guy who looks like a pushover out there.  If I get passed, so what?  Nobody expects me to run well.  And if I do pass younger, leaner runners, well, bully for me!

So, what of this whole class system in a sport where everyone truly cheers for everyone else?

It's all pretty simple.  95% of the folks who toe the line at an ultra deserve to be there, have put in the training, and have earned my respect before the starting gun even goes off.  The other 5 % get my respect because they're runners--period.  And if someone finishes ahead of me, more power to them.  And if they finish behind me, good job as well.  When it comes down to it, I am downright honored to be a part of these awesome events and to be competing with these dedicated athletes.  And a final word to the speedy male runners who talk about getting "chicked" either out of genuine concern or simply playful bravado:  A pair of younger, fresher, faster, prettier legs is inevitably gaining on you, so you might as well just submit like all the rest of us mid and back-of-the packers.  Not only is getting chicked not such a bad thing, it is the first true step to racing enlightenment. 

  

      

       

Germantown 50K Trail Run

(photo)  Me arriving at the pasture aid station before Twincreek.  Yes, I'm walking, but there was a long hill leading up to the station.  Give me a break!

Germantown 50k:  August 23, 2008

It was one year ago today that I ran the Germantown 50k in southwest Ohio.  Having finally gotten a knee problem under control (I love my knee straps--Pro-Tec Illiotibial Band), I was looking forward to a normal racing season when I developed an upper-respiratory infection which evolved into a slight case of pneumonia.  I blame running on a treadmill in the warm, germ-infested air of a health club for my sickness, having had the same thing happen to me a few years earlier when I thought I'd skirt some of Winter's wrath by training indoors.  The years in between, when I hit the trails (when I could) in the fresh, frigid, open air of the woods, I didn't get sick.  Coincidence?  I'm not so sure.  I've come to believe that fresh air cleanses the body and I am hesitant to ever train indoors in the winter again.  In any event, it took months of training to try and get back my lungs--I was even using an inhaler for awhile.  I did a 25k in early July up at Afton, in Minnesota, just to work towards something, and then endeavored to do Germantown as a warm up for the fall.  "Warm up" turned out to be an understatement.

Germantown is a small ultra run by Wes Fenton, a hard core and passionate ultrarunner.

This year's race (2008), was noteworthy as the course had changed from four loops in a contained park to a sprawling two-ended lollipop design which joined Germantown and Twincreek Metroparks parks with a paved bike path (and  roads through a residential area).  I give Wes a lot of credit for making the change.  People had been used to the four loop course, but I, for one, find a meandering single loop much more intriguing--pavement and all!   When I read about the course, it reminded me of the kind I often create for a long training run.  On the other hand, I'm always timid about running inaugural events or events with major course changes because of the bugs that still need to be worked out.  I was, however, hungry to run an ultra and threw caution to the wind.  

Well, my fears did not go unfounded.  I am not complaining--I had a great time at Germantown--but I did find myself wandering around on several occasions trying to find the course.  At one point, several of us spread out like a search party.  It isn't that Wes necessarily screwed up or didn't care.  It just happened to be the first time the course was tested in a race situation.  And for all my wandering around in confusion, I can take heart that my misfortune helped initiate the process of making things right.  I'm sure this year's event went like butter.

The 2008 event was also noteworthy for its heat,  having been moved from the fall (October, I think) to late August as part of a creation of the Southwestern Ohio 50k Trail Series.  I believe the temperature reached 95 on this day with medium-high humidity.  Now, I'm one of those rare runners who loves running in heat, loves the way it feels to run in heat, but I'm also aware of the havoc that heat plays on your body over the course of 31 miles.  No matter how much you hydrate, it never seems to be enough, and eventually, your body succumbs.  And how!  Granted I was not in my best shape going in, granted I spent extra time out on the course due to wrong turns and wandering, granted this was a gloriously hot but brutal day to run, but man, oh man, I never thought I'd ever be forced to walk THE LAST SIX MILES!  Very strange sensation, this walking during a race.  My mind said "Go, go, go!" but my muscles said "No, no, no!"  If I tried to even jog, let alone run, I'd start to cramp.  So, walk I did through that lovely forest and did a pretty good job of letting go of the humiliation part of "being beaten by the course and the elements" and finding the pure joy of simply enjoying the day.

The course itself was pretty nice.  Ultrarunning Magazine, under their new course rating scale--which I love--gives it a 2/2 in difficulty out of a possible 5/5.  Rolling hills and a relatively smooth surface with some technical patches thrown into the mix.  Both wooded areas of the course are lovely and I also enjoyed the vast, rolling pasture before entering Twincreek.  I saw a huge dark-colored snake along that stretch, always a good boost for the adrenaline.  The paved connector trail and residential roads are flat and tolerable--this coming from a guy who gets bored running on crushed limestone and wide dirt trails!          

One of the stranger moments of the entire race was the finish.  You seem to just pop out of the bushes at the end, and there, maybe twenty yards in front of you, is the finish line and the picnic shelter.  No long, flat, dramatic stretch of grass to hammer-in to an applauding gathering of folks at the finish.  Nope, not here.  It's just BOOOP!  Pop out of the bushes and you're home.

It's even funnier when you're seated at the shelter and you watch others pop out of the bushes.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to witness too many of those finishes as I straggled in at 8:01:46.

And to give you an idea of how my attitude toward racing has changed with age, I was actually happy with my accomplishment.  Would I run the event again?  Sure!  For one, I like having an August event to choose from if needed.  And secondly, I'd like another shot at shattering that formidable eight hour mark!

          

    

Parque Nacional Cajas, Ecuador

(top to bottom) 

Craggy peaks and mountain ponds.

Wildflowers!

Where's the trail?  Enchanted forest.

I turn Diego on to an American delicacy--PowerBars.

Hiked Cajas:  August 8, 2009
On our third full day in the mountains, Annie, myself, and our guide, Diego, drove about a half hour outside Cuenca to Cajas National Park to do a little exploring.  It would prove to be a glorious 4 1/2 hour hike along some of the most interesting and stimulating landscape I've ever encountered.  That being said, the terrific photos I took that day went bye bye along with my camera the following morning (see earlier blog).  Luckily, Annie snapped a few on her camera as well--posted here.  Our hike followed a popular loop trail starting from the park office, as well as some beautiful lesser-known side trails that Diego threw in to wow us.  Wow us, indeed.

At roughly 4000 meters (13, 123 feet), this section of sprawling El Cajas is dominated by tundra vegetation, many lakes and lagoons, and a jagged, undulating landscape.  There is a wildness, a rawness to the landscape which I found very appealing.  The name of the park is said to have been derived from the Quichua word "cassa", meaning "gateway to the snowy mountains."  Cajas also means "boxes" in Spanish, alluding to the small, box-like canyons that dominate the park.  

The views in El Cajas are amazing and plentiful.  With every twist and turn of the trail, there is something fascinating to look at from the very small--hummingbirds at work or delicate wildflowers--to the grand.  Diego led us into a couple of forested areas, which look like, well, regular forests until you get inside.  Populated by dense, tangled, sprawling tree limbs, you feel like you've entered some kind of eerie fantasy land.  It is much like trying to navigate through a mangrove swamp 4000 meters above sea level.  The bark from these trees can be peeled like the skin of an onion, hence the name "arbol de papel" or paper tree.  They are one of the few trees in the world that are able to survive at such a high altitude.

The hike was moderately challenging due to the rolling terrain and the altitude.  4 1/2 hours was perfect for two people not yet acclimated to the altitude.  I would have loved to have spent another day exploring a different section of the park, but also feel very fortunate to have been able to experience this day's hike.  I was in a state of awe from start to finish.

    

Running Again! and Why I Race

After encouraging results following my rigorous hikes in Ecuador, I attempted, for the third time since May 10th, to do a little running.  I went out easy for an hour and fifteen minutes over rolling terrain and what do you know?  My foot never stiffened up!  It was a glorious day--89 degrees and humid with explosions of Queen Anne's Lace and Black-eyed Susans bordering the trail.  When I got home, I did my foot and leg stretches and popped two Aleve for good measure.  This morning, the heel is still fine!  I will rest it two days, and hit the trails again on Tuesday with fingers still crossed.

Prior to my run, I was greatly moved by Tia Bodington's editorial in the August issue of Ultrarunning Magazine (Ultrarunning.com).  She references the cover photo, in which, runner Karl Hoagland is being attended to by volunteer Mike Savage at this year's Western States 100-miler.  Regarding Mike, she writes, "He's wet and dirty, hot and tired, but there's something in his eyes that inspires me to work harder and go longer on my run today."  I became choked-up upon reading these words and looking at the cover photo--because I realized what I missed most about racing.  Racing has always appealed to me because it created a goal to work towards.  I loved the drama and anticipation which led up to race day.  I loved the travel and the pre-race buzz.  But I was never quite sure why half the time, I found myself muttering to myself once the race had commenced. Racing can be punishing and I sometimes questioned what the hell I was doing out there.  Now I know.  Having not raced all season, I know.  I miss being wet and dirty, hot and tired, and pushing myself to my limits.  I actually miss the struggle and the discomfort.  Not only do I miss it, I wonder if I actually NEED it.  I haven't felt myself all year because I haven't been able to challenge myself, mentally and physically, in that same way all year.  When I finally race again (please, next year!)  I will be mindful of these words and this realization, and I will embrace the struggle during races rather than fight or question it.  And I will smile and laugh at this masochistic streak that inhabits us distance runners!         

Hiking The Quilotoa Crater

(top to bottom) 

Spectacular Quilotoa Crater Lake.  

Grand view of a windswept backbone.

 The serene valley side of the trail.

Me, being pummeled by fierce wind.

Annie, on the crater side of the trail.



Quilotoa hike: 

August 11, 2009

The day following our Cotopaxi hike, Annie and I explored The Quilotoa Crater with guide Rueben.  The crater is an amazing natural formation, some two miles wide, and now filled with water after the caldera was formed some 800 years ago.  At 3914 meters in elevation (12,841 feet), we had anticipated an easier hike than the previous day's effort at Cotopaxi.  The most common hike at Quilotoa is a half-hour decent to the lake followed by hike back up which can take three to four times longer than the plunge down.  Many people opt to take a horse back up the crater because the hiking can be arduous, especially for those not acclimated to the altitude.  Some people use the Quilotoa down and up to help condition themselves for more strenuous hikes later in their trips.  We were looking for the most scenic hike, and at our guide's suggestion, took the rim trail to the left.  It proved to be a great decision, as we were treated to a hike which offered a steady dose of hills as well as breathtaking views not only of the crater lake, but of a huge valley on the other side of the trail.  At times, along several backbones, there were tremendous views on either side of us.  Wind was again a prominent element in the hike, particularly when the trail wound to the crater side.  On one particular overlook, the gusts must been close to 70 mph, forcing you to widen your stance so as not to be literally blown off the mountain!  On the valley side, the wind was often blocked, and in the bright sun, the temperature felt immediately twenty degrees warmer than the crater side.  We limited our hike to a two-hour out and back and had a pleasant lunch ensconced in some tall grass over-looking a cliff.  

To our guide, I exclaimed, "I love paja!" referring to this grass, the same type of grass  I had been seeing throughout the high altitudes of the Andes.  Rueben laughed and enlightened me to the fact that word "paja" was also local slang for masturbation.  To which, I again replied, "I love paja!"

Save for the altitude, this is a moderately easy hike, and offers one jaw-dropping view after another.  The crater lake is a sight to behold--simply magical!        

Cotopaxi Crawl

(left)  Cotopaxi on a clear day.

(above) Annie slowly ascending the mountain. 

(below) My guide, Rueben, standing near the glacier.

(above) Me, dwarfed by the base of the glacier.

(below) Me, relishing the moment in this amazing, surreal environment.

Cotopaxi hike:

August 10, 2009

While waiting for photos to arrive from the earlier part of my trip to Ecuador, I do have a few to share from the latter part, my time in the mountains.  Visited the volcano Cotopaxi, about 50 miles south of Quito, with a guide Rueben, my wife Annie, and a couple from Ireland, Ronan and Jean.  Cotopaxi is a majestic, white-capped mountain and still considered an active volcano, although its last major eruption was in 1940.  We drove our four-wheel drive vehicle to a parking lot 4500 meters (14,764 ft.) up , weaving around various cars and a bus which had gotten stuck in the volcanic sand.  From there, we were to simply hike up the mountain, gaining 300 meters in elevation, to a yellow house which practically glowed against the dark, bleak landscape.  Easy enough, right?  Temperatures were probably in the low 40s, constant winds pummeled us with gusts as high as 50 mph, the surface of the mountain was something akin to scree or sand--certainly no firm footing was to be found--and the air, to say the least, was quite thin.  Annie and I had spent three days in the mountain city of Cuenca but were no way acclimatized.  In fact, this was to be the highest altitude in which we had ever hiked.

What a fabulous experience!  The conditions were just so raw.  I made note of our starting time, but failed to look at my watch upon arrival of the yellow house, but at the risk of sounding like a real wimp, this stretch of 300 meters may have taken the lot of us as long as 45 minutes to ascend!  Certainly a half hour.  You would plow ahead for 30 baby steps and then stop to gain your breath.  30 more steps, take a photo.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Each time you stopped, a feeling of light-headiness would rush through you.  And then, you would gaze about at the amazing landscape, the raw conditions you were fighting through, and smile.  It was glorious!

Upon reaching the yellow house, we were able to use the toilet, and then the five us had lunch.

The house also serves as a jumping off point for the hikers who go on to summit the mountain.

Since the cap of the volcano is a giant glacier, it is safer to embark at midnight when the ice is the most safe.  I had no appetite for reaching the summit, but I did want to see the glacier, so after lunch, Rueben and I (he gave me "a look" when I said I wanted to hike higher) climbed another 200 meters to the glacier.  Before long, I was at 16, 404 feet.  Wow.  As much as I enjoyed the earlier climb, this one was even more intense.  The landscape immediately became eerier, we crossed a stream of glacier run-off, and pelted by sleet, we arrived at the foot of the glacier.  It was one of the most amazing places I've ever been.  A wall of snow and ice loomed above us.  We could not stay long as Rueben determined it was not safe due to all of the melting ice, but I savored the short time I was there.  On the descent to the yellow house, I was able to jog down the mountain.  Quite a rush as well, especially for a trail runner who has been laid up for so long!

To do this hike, one needs only to be in average physical condition.  It is not the "test your mettle" type of hike, but it is certainly an emotional rush and I highly recommend playing on Cotopaxi for the sheer intensity of the experience.     

    

Ripped Off in Ecuador!

Camera Stolen: August 9, 2009

I have come to think of myself as a fairly savvy traveler.  I take many precautions to minimize the risk of being a victim of crime.  I wear my wallet under my shirt, wear my day pack on the front of my body in crowds, use a hotel safe when possible--you get the idea.  But in Ecuador this past week, I learned a hard lesson--you can NEVER let your guard down.  99% of the people in the world are good, but the other 1% are always ready to take advantage of a naive tourist.  I was that naive tourist that day and I got ripped off. 

My wife and I were at the bus station in the southern city of Cuenca.  Like other bus station experiences for us in Latin American countries, things felt rushed and confusing.  We speak only enough Spanish to get by, which compounds the stress of the situation.  A young man, clean cut and well-dressed, notified us in English that our bus to Latacunga had arrived and could be boarded.  I appreciated his thoughtful gesture and without a thought, headed toward the turnstile leading to the departing buses.  For whatever reason, you needed to insert a dime in a metal box before the turnstile would turn, and naturally, we had no dimes.  Meanwhile, a couple of men were telling us to give them our big backpacks so they could be loaded into the cargo area of the bus.  We passed them on without hesitation.  Mistake #1.  Always follow your luggage to the cargo area and watch it being inserted.  I would have had I not been stalled at the turnstile while my wife hurriedly went on a hunt for dimes.  Luckily, these men were legit and our backpacks made it to Latacunga.

After my wife, after some difficulty, obtained the necessary dimes--more silly stress--we followed the clean-cut young man into our empty bus.  He led us to our seats (which turned out NOT to be our seats) and started relieving us of our carry-on bags.  By now, I had assumed he wasn't just a nice guy, but the conductor of the bus.  My wife smartly hung on to her daypack, but I allowed the man to take our shopping bag plus my daypack, which he shoved into the upper cargo berth.  I know, I know--NEVER let anyone handle your daypack--but after all the little hassles of the morning, I let down my guard and allowed him to be what I thought was amusingly overly-helpful.  When he finished patting and securing the bags, I asked him the drive time to latacunga.  He replied, "About seven hours," and left--for good--with my new 

Canon pocket camera--so easy to hide in the hand of a professional pickpocket--which held all my photos (AWESOME SHOTS!) from Pueerto Lopez, the Galapagos Islands, and Cajas National Park.  When I spoke to him, he had my camera in his pocket.  Good grief!

It wasn't until a half hour into the ride, that I retrieved my camera bag--sans camera.  At 54 years old, it's pretty amazing that I've never had anything stolen from me.  So, it was for the first time that I experienced that sickening feeling of being violated, of anger and disbelief when one comes to the realization that your property is indeed gone.  It is also noteworthy that as my wife and I searched our minds for all the possible scenarios for why the camera was missing, it took about fifteen minutes until we made the connection with the young man.  Fifteen minutes!  Of course it was him!  That's how good this guy was.  I felt like a complete idiot, and to make matters worse, I had to churn the events over and over while riding in a crowded bus for the next 7 1/2 hours.  Pure torture.  We had also assumed the afore-mentioned backpacks were gone too, that all the men had been in cahoots.  So, it was with great relief that our bags arrived with us in Latacunga.  But my shots, my beautiful shots from The Galapagos of all places, were gone.  And I had let it happen.  And he had had the audacity to do it right in front of us.  So humiliating.  I felt like a complete fool.

Hard lessons learned:  NEVER let anyone handle a pack with your valuables no matter how trustworthy they seem.  Remove your camera card from your camera and/or back up your photos on a disc.  Don't let people rush you.  Be wary of people who seem too helpful.  Guard your valuables ALWAYS.  You know, you read about all the precautions to take when traveling, but if you've never been a victim of a crime, they all just feel like going through the motions.  From hereon, I will be more earnest and vigilant in applying these precautions. 

Yes, I take responsibility for having allowed the crime to happen, but I find it amazing that there were no security precautions at the station.  Anyone could go through the turnstile to the departing buses and anyone could board a bus without a ticket.  Nobody was checking anything!  With these lax conditions, I wonder how many other tourists have been ripped off at that station.   

In the end, some of the great people I met on the trip said they would send me some of their photos.  They are not my photos, but I will be delighted to have them.  I can't say I won't ever get ripped off again in a poor, foreign country, but I will never get ripped off like this again.  We must learn from our mistakes.