It has been less than 2 months. 7 weeks. 49 days since my race, and I think about it every day. I wrote about the first part of the day, the glorious 3 mile swim in frigid 62 degree water that left me disoriented, slurring my speech, shivering harder than I ever have, and exulting in what a fabulous swim it had been. Onto the bike, shivering and hoping the lack of sensation in my hands and feet didn't make me crash before I got out onto the main road and into the sun.
It was a glorious day. As perfect as anyone could have wished. The sky was the bright blue that is a signature of the high desert. Heading out into the 138 mile bike course my legs were feeling leaden from the cold, but warmed up quickly. I felt great. My energy after the swim was good. I stuck to the plan and only consumed water for the first 20 minutes or so of the ride, then took a shot of honey. My game plan for energy on the bike was simple: Water, honey, and electrolyte capsules. I had experimented with different gels, chews, drinks, bars, and dried fruit through my training season and kept coming back to cold water, honey, and Salt Sticks. Simple. I had a few mocha Clif Shots and Blocks to break the monotony, knowing that after 9 plus hours on the bike I might get a little tired of honey and water. Anyhoo, on with the ride.
I had visited this route several times, the Cascade Lakes Highway where it rambled between Wickiup Reservoir and up the backside of Mount Bachelor. It is a road with no flats. There is a 2000' elevation gain in one 20 mile section, with one 5 mile section that is a solid climb. I felt fantastic. My energy was good, my legs felt strong, my lungs were happy. I couldn't have asked for better health and conditioning (given the time I have been training for ultra-endurance... next season I will be stronger and faster). There were a few points in the ride where I hit a bit of a wall, but I didn't let myself slack and pushed through. There were aid stations about every 20 miles with gloriously cold water, I fell in love with every one of the volunteers handing out this delectable ambrosia. At the first aid station I found out they were handing out bananas. BANANAS!! My favorite energy bar. My battle cry for the day became, "Woo hoo! Bananas!! Fuck yeah!!" The volunteers thought I was hilarious (so did I).
The glory of the the country I was cycling through was undeniable. Again and again I thought to myself, "I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to do."
About 80 miles into the ride I finally looked at my watch (purchased just for this day). Doing a little quick calculation I realized that my concerns over being able to finish in 9-1/2 were coming to become fact. I was pushing myself to the point of leg cramps, and flirted with asthma a few times, and knew in my heart that at any given point I riding to the best of my capabilities, and I was still about 30 minutes behind where I needed to be. So I pushed harder, even though I knew it would not be enough, but I was not going to give up. I cycled on, though the gorgeous high desert day.
Halfway up my second trip up the backside of Mount Bachelor (the course was 1-1/2 times around the mountain, then down into Bend) I saw the medic van, and a scruffily handsome man stepping out to talk to me.
"Is this where you tell me I won't make the bike cutoff?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said apologetically, "I have a call in to the race director to see if you will be able to do the run course though."
"Okay, I'm going to keep cycling until you pull me from the course," I grinned at him and pedaled on.
"I will be leap-frogging you, if you don't mind," he said to my backside.
I knew this likely meant I was the last cyclist. I didn't care, this competition was against no one but myself. I pedaled on, grinding my way up that 5 mile stretch of first gear, head down, constant incline. The medic leap-frogged me as promised. Finally, about 1 mile from the summit, with less than 30 minutes left to the cutoff time, and a solid 20 miles left of the course, he passed me, and got out of his van.
"The race director said that if you ride in with me, and get to the run start by 7 you can still do the run course. Or, you can finish the bike and not do the run."
I pondered for a brief moment. I had covered the hardest part of the bike course, I was one mile from hitting the long downhill into Bend, and I had really been looking forward to that particular stretch. I also knew there was no way I could cover that 20 miles in 30 minutes. Having covered 118 miles of a tough bike course, I really wanted my chance to run the 14 miles of the final leg.
"Okay, I'll ride in with you."
We put my bike in the van and took off. He told me there were several other cyclists on the road that weren't going to make the cutoff, but they were opting to finish the bike and skip the run. I was disappointed that I couldn't have eked out an extra mile per hour to cover the course in time, but I also knew I had cycled my best. I took a shot of honey, drank some water, and pushed aside any self-flagellation as I prepared my mind for the run.
We passed a number of cyclists, and I really did wish I was riding with them, but I had made my choice.
Once we got into the race venue I unloaded my bike and trotted to T3 to leave my bike gear and change to running gear. I had to relinquish my timing chip at this point, and accept the fact that I would get a DNF (did not finish). Okay, no time to dwell on that, I parked the bike and slipped into running shoes.
The run course was unexpected. It started out normal enough; sidewalks through a residential area, with aid stations every mile. The first surprise was that the flaggers and guides at intersections and course changes had packed up and left at sundown, so it felt like a bit of a crapshoot to stay on course. The second surprise was when the course turned onto a black asphalt path that led off through undeveloped land, with no street lights. That's right. No lights. None. At first, running through the gloaming, there was plenty of light to see. And by plenty I mean it wasn't pitch dark, yet. I came to an aid station, manned by teenagers who said, "The next aid station has head lamps." So I drank some water and ran on. I have good night vision, so was able to differentiate the path from the surrounding ground because it was a darker shade of black. At one point I saw the shapes of a doe and fawn wander across in front of me, since I was dressed all in black, they didn't see me until I was about 6 feet from them, and then they bounded off into the dark. I got to the next aid station and inquired about a head lamp. "We don't have any, but we heard the next station does." This was the story of the night. The lure of the elusive head lamp spurring me on from one aid station to the next.
Running by starlight I again had the thought, "I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing." It was a glorious night, moonless, but with the Milky Way spread out above me. The air was mild, but cooling rapidly, as it does in the High Desert. I ran on. My legs felt strong, my energy was great, my breathing was good. After about 4 miles I did have that realization that I was running through unknown land, with no lights, and no one around me. I was alone in the night. And the thought niggled its way into my brain and I started to get just a little spooked. I didn't have my cell phone, and didn't know where I was. If I ran off course, I could wander all night, as temperatures dipped to the 40's or lower. And then there was the paranoia that I had no idea what or who might be lurking behind every bush and rock. I ran as quietly as I could. My reassuring though on this point is that I am tall, broad shouldered, and relatively flat-chested when squashed into a sport bra. Maybe any would-be assailant would think I was a dude and let me run on past.
Then the asphalt disappeared, turning into an 18 inch wide gravel path. I ran on for a bit until I realized I was having such a hard time seeing the path I was likely to stray and roll an ankle. I slowed to a fast walk. The crunching of gravel underfoot made it sound like there was another set of footsteps behind me. I would stop, listening for my would be stalker. Nothing. Of course. At this point I had been laboring for more than 12 hours, and I think my brain was getting a little tired from the constant need to stay focused on the task at hand. Brain was wandering down loopy paths, populating them with the boogeyman.
Okay, this had to stop. I decided I would risk getting hit by a car, since there was no traffic anyway (I really did feel alone), and run on the road. I needed the security of smooth asphalt beneath my feet. On the road I realized I could make out the 6 inch wide, white fog line painted on the shoulder of the road, I kept my feet on the white line.
Now is when the run became even more surreal. It was so dark around me that the white line really was all I could see. Even my body, clad in black, was invisible. I felt like a Ninja, and focused on silent footfalls. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing. In the distance I could see the lights of the high school where the halfway point and finish line were for the run, but they were more of a hindrance to my night vision than a help. It did give me the comfort of knowing now that I wouldn't get lost and wander through the sage brush all night. But at this point I was feeling like the run was actually riskier than it should be. About a mile from the halfway point another runner caught up with me. She was even more dismayed at the lack of lighting and the disappearance of any on course guidance besides the aid stations manned by 15 year olds. We both knew that what little help there was now would likely be gone all together on the second lap.
I decided that I would only run one circuit. I was disappointed, with myself and with the race designers. I knew I had the physical energy to finish the race. I had the mental strength to finish the race. But I could not squelch the nervousness of the possibility of going off course and getting lost in the dark. And honestly, I think it was a justifiable fear.
As I ran the last bit towards the finish line I rounded a corner and heard my Mom call out my name, cheering me on. It brought tears to my eyes. As I ran towards her I told her I wasn't going to run the second lap. Even as I spoke the words they tasted bitter, I wanted to finish, but had to give myself permission to put my safety first.
At the very end I took an early turn and skulked down a side street to the area where my dry, clean clothes were waiting. It was not the glorious finish I had imagined, but I was proud of how far I had traveled that day: 3 mile swim, 118 mile bike ride over mountain roads, and a 7 mile run. 128 miles. Shy of my dream, but pretty damned good anyway.
Even while I was racing I was thinking ahead to next year, and what I need to do to improve my performance. My endurance and power were good all day long. I had the endurance to do the course, I just didn't have the speed. Next year I will have the speed. And a head lamp. I am definitely taking a head lamp.
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