Trail Running

    I think I may have found a new potential addiction: Trail Running. In the past, I have enjoyed darting down wooded trails with my dogs, in my mind I am the hunter/warrior coursing my dogs through underbrush, along game trails, seeking prey. I love feeling fleet of foot as I dodge rocks, fallen branches, feel the constant change of terrain beneath me and the energy of the earth vibrating through my bones and innervating my entire being. But in the past, these moments were limited by knee instability and, quite frankly, aerobic capacity. Now, as my body becomes accustomed to running and racing, I crave variety and excitement, challenges, new endeavors. I have found this in my first Trail Run. The Multnomah Falls Trail Run, to be precise. 5.4 mile with nary a level spot in the entire course, dodgy footing beneath a canopy of trees and often times the only noticeable sound was that of rushing water.
    Race start was 09:00h, a reasonable start time. I was running a tad behind schedule, having stayed up a bit late the night before, so my morning was a bit sluggish. Ample coffee worked wonders and I was feeling great soon enough. My typical pre-race breakfast of banana, ProMax bar and black coffee was sitting very comfortably in my oft treacherous digestive system. I made good time on the drive up I84-E and pulled into the race area with a solid five minutes to spare. Let me say here, one thing I love about running races, I can show up at the last minute, slip on my shoes and go. No muss no fuss, no having to show up 2+ hours before my start with a ton of gear like I have to for a Tri.  Oddly, there was a dearth of runners, none actually. Was I in the right place? Well, there was a giant, digital clock counting time, an easy-up sunshade with a semi-officious looking woman sitting beneath, and a slightly harried looking young man who showed all the evidence of being a race coordinator. Turns out I was not five minutes early, I was 25 minutes late. Oh shit. But no worries, I wasn't in it to win it, I was here to try something new, in a beautiful location that I had not visited in perhaps 30 years. I was quickly and easily pinned with my number, shown a map and sent on my way.
    Loping along the trail in my moccasin-like ZemTek minimalist running shoes I was easily transported into my hunter/warrior mindset and was suddenly missing having my dogs flushing the underbrush for their own amusement. I was a little disconcerted by the exposed, jagged bedrock that seemed to dominate this lower section of trail, but dismissed it as temporary, knowing the main trail would be paved and well traveled. My legs felt good, it was a gorgeous Fall morning, the air was sweetly scented with pine and falling leaves. I loped along, feeling like all was right in the world that inhabits my skull.
    Once I hit the main, paved trail I found myself engulfed in a group of Japanese tourists, we all politely Excused Me-ed as I let my feet weave me through their smiling group. Now onto the steeps. The trail is quite steep with ten switchbacks on the lower half. I admit, I power walked the steepest sections, and my legs were burning pretty good by the time I hit the first mile marker, but my breathing was great. I kept up the climb, though I was soon counting mile markers and trying to remember what the harried race coordinator had told me about forks in the trail, and his stern reminder that I did not want to take the Larch Mountain trail. I kept climbing, my left knee clicking a steady metronome with each stride, nearly the only sound reaching my ears, but I felt good.
    Without warning, the pavement ended and there was a beautiful downgrade on a pine needle cushioned path. I let gravity pull me down with fast strides, feeling the pleasure of letting my legs stretch out a bit. Down, across a beautiful little stone bridge that I had to stop and admire for a brief moment, then on I ran. As suddenly as the pavement had ended, and just as I was feeling to joy of running, the jagged bedrock began again. Very tough footing for a bare minimalist shoe. I ran for a bit, trying to keep up my pace, but the rocks defeated me. I was beating the absolute hell out of my feet, and needed to avoid real damage. I slowed to a quick walk, picking my footing as carefully as I was able. The trail narrowed and actually worsened. I began to have the sneaking suspicion that I was on the wrong trail. I kept eyes peeled for a trail marker, anything to tell me I was or was not on the right route. I hit tight switchbacks on this narrow trail and started to worry a bit. Not too much, since I was in this for the experience not a record time. I was only in competition with myself. Finally, convinced I was on the wrong trail, I turned back to look for the turnoff I had obviously missed. I came across a couple, asked them if the was the Waukeena Trail. No, this is Perdition Trail, he responded. What? Perdition? That was not a name that had been mentioned in any way shape or form. So I headed back over the jagged bedrock, retracing my steps. Happy to hit the pine needle padded path I broke into a run, up, up, up, my legs suddenly warmed to their task and felt fantastic. But there was no missed fork, and I was back on pavement, back at switchback 7 when I stopped, again. I was definitely going in the right direction at this point, I was just retracing my steps, no doubt about it. Frustrated, I had a brief thought of just heading down, climbing in the car and going home. But it was a brief moment. I was not going to take a DNF on this, even if it meant hacking my way through the underbrush. I stopped a guy with a fly rod, he looked like a regular in these parts. Turns out I had turned back when I was a bare quarter mile from where the actual fork in the trail was.
     Once again, turning back up the trail, I ran. My legs still felt fantastic and I was invigorated with the clean air and natural beauty. I ran. Crossed the stone bridge for the third time, dainty footed my way through jagged bedrock, ignored the voice in my head that was telling me that I was beating holy hell out of my feet, and I moved along at a decent pace. I stubbed both my feet several times on unforgiving, solidly embedded stone. But what is a little pain, other a reminder that we are truly alive? I found the fork that would send me higher along the correct trail. A small group of women with racing bibs who were walking the course stood at the intersection, they too had taken a wrong turn, adding a few miles to their hike. We chatted for a moment and then I ran on.
    From that point on there was little walking. I ran and felt glorious. True, I slowed to dance across bedrock, hoping this solid, ancient partner did not abuse my feet too badly, and then I would run. I joyously greeted everyone I passed, we were all in high spirits. I ran. Up and Up. Into the low clouds that blanketed the Gorge. The air was clean and damp, cooling my face, purifying my soul. Reaching the trail summit, I slowed for a moment, did a victory dance and let out a whoop, it was nearly all downhill from here.
    Now, down and down. Some descents so steep I worked as hard to keep myself from succumbing to gravity as I had worked fighting against it on the steep ascent. I quickened my stride, and forced myself to be mindful of where I was putting my feet, I knew I was more in peril of a potentially devastating misstep now than when I was climbing. As if to forcefully remind Brain of the perils, within a few hundred feet of trail I stubbed my toe painfully and was nearly sent sprawling, and came within a few degrees of rolling my ankle badly. But still I ran. I danced over bedrock. Scrambled over tree roots. Scampered over narrow foot bridges. I felt amazing.
    Near the end I came across two college aged boys, they asked me what I was doing. I slowed a bit, laughingly told them of my insanity. The joked that they should pace me down since they were late getting back to their bus. They ran along behind me for a bit and I chatted with them over my shoulder, but not for long. They got winded, I did not. I was almost sad to reach the end of the trail. There was no one left to greet me, as is par for racing events, but I did not mind, the triumph was all mine and I was elated. I wandered down to the picnic area where I knew they had some post-race food and beverage, and to check in just in case they might think I was lost. I laughingly told them of my added mile or two. Vowed then and there that I would be back next year. As I ate some delicious chicken tortilla soup I chatted with an older man who was an obvious race veteran. He asked if I had done this race before. I confessed that I had only started running in June and this was my first trail run. He got a surprised look on his face, "Your first trail run? This is a tough course, with a pretty high difficulty, especially for a first timer. I'm impressed." I laughed, thanked him and thought, "I'm glad no one told me that sooner, or I might have been worried."
    Today I am a little sore. My leg muscles are all too happy to remind me that they worked hard and well for me yesterday. I am footsore, with a few lovely bruises adding color to my poor feet. But it was worth the small discomfort that was barely acknowledged during my joy and exhilaration. So, add another new passion to the growing list. I love trail running. Granted, it means investing in more appropriate footwear, but I want to keep my feet happy. I really do love my life.

New Regiment

    As the race season winds down I am looking ahead to winter workouts, off season training, making my workouts more about quality than quantity. I know my aging knees cannot handle pounding the pavement for miles and miles, it is just not a good plan, and counter-intuitive. I risk over-use, stress and injury, which would sideline me, as well as just piss me off.
    So, what to do to get my running speed and endurance up? My ongoing research has led me to a few new, and exciting, workout ideas formed around Crossfit principles. By incorporating plyometrics, speed strength training, and more intensive core work I believe I can increase my speed, strength and stamina.   
    Plyometrics trains muscles to have more explosive strength. Plyometric exercises force the body, especially the large muscles of the legs, to do repetitive, quick, explosive moves such as Jump Squats, Lateral High Steps, Jump Sequences, Stepper Jumps, Split Squats with Jump, and the ever unpopular Burpee. You get the idea. These exercises are also intensely aerobic as well, to get the cardiovascular system pumped.
    Speed Strength training is what is at the core of a lot of Crossfit workouts; Set a timer, select 2 or 3 strength training exercises, and do as many sets as possible within the allotted time frame. This is the basic idea behind my Down and Dirty Thirty leg workout, which incorporates strength and plyometric legwork for a solid 30 minutes, no breaks, as many sets as I can manage. It just about, but not quite, gives me dry heaves. I am mentally preparing several similar workouts that will either work my entire body, or be more specific such as legwork or upper body/core work.
    I know that firefighting will require I increase my core strength, wrestling heavy hose is hella tough, and incredibly awesome; think Ultimate Supersoaker. And a strong core is essential in all 3 triathlon disciplines, as well as any obstacle racing I opt do.  So I am looking to add a whole new series of exercises using the Macebelle, Indian Clubs, and Slosh Tubes. This should really work my shoulders, chest and core, and activate muscles vital for heavy lifting, stability, and balance.
    All this has me ready to reorganize the garage to set up my long anticipated home gym. A finished, attached garage giving me space for a gym was one of the big selling points on my little house. Now to make it happen: Mats, bench, pull-up bar, climbing rope, cool paint job, epic posters. The time has come. As soon as the weather turns wet, I am diving into this project.

WTH Am I Thinking?

    Just as I think my race season is near the end, I sign up for another rather brutal event. Race The Reaper, a 6 mile, cross country, obstacle race with 20+ obstacles. I cannot but ask myself, "WHAT THE HELL AM I THINKING?!" I was wheedled into this my my buddy Josh, a 24 year old firefighter who was at the Stair Climb with me, and a fellow race freak. But damn, he is 24. I am not. Hell, I have a son older than that. I have not been training for obstacle races this summer, focusing my energies on triathlon endurance, two similar but very different training concepts. Yes, I have decent upper body and core strength from swimming and weights, but not what it will take for many of the challenges I know are now looming. And then there is the knee instability issue, the reason I had discarded the idea of doing these types of events. I hear the voices of my doctor, physical therapist and coach, "catastrophic," echoing through my skull. So seriously, what the hell? The hell of it is, I really want to do this. I am excited and planning on giving it every ounce of effort I can. Yeah, so I am a bit of an idiot. As my recruiting officer at the station asked at this last drill, after my epic weekend of Tri and Stair Climb, "When was the last time you had a psyche evaluation?" Yes, it made me laugh, with only a hint of mania.
    In my defense, I am a planner. I am thinking ahead, working out glitches. Tomorrow for my trail run I will be trying KT Tape for the first time. It has a stellar reputation for giving incredible stability to joints. Both knees will be taped, and topped with neoprene knee braces. I am opting to leave my bulky off-loading, stabilizing knee brace at home though. It is wide enough that it alters my running stride. Plus, I do not want to subject a $1000 knee brace to water, mud and god knows what. I think I will take it for after, since it alleviates the arthritis pressure. So, Kt Tape for stability, basic knee sleeves for a little added security as well as knee cap protection, and my ZemTek Terra running shoes to keep my footing nimble and grounded. See, I am thinking this through.
    Two weeks to mentally prepare myself. There is not much I can do in the way of physical prep this late in the game, so this will be all mental for me. I am not worried about running the distance, or even failed attempts at obstacles, only about potential damage to the fragile joints that are my Kryptonite. I have said it before; If my joints were as tough and strong as my muscles and bones, I would be a freakin' superhero. So, let the games begin.

Cold Water Bath, A Necessary Evil

    In the last few weeks I have read a number of articles and testimonials praising the post workout Ice Bath. In my mind, an ice bath is just one step shy of self flagellation with a metal tipped quirt. I do not like cold water, although I have been getting a bit fonder of it in my open water swims. But to bathe in it? What the hell? One of my online athletic geek sites has photos aplenty of naked legs submerged in ice-cube filled bathwater. They make me cringe at the sight. But still, reading these hardcore, endurance athletes singing the praises of ice baths I decided that I needed to sac up and give it a try, at least once, before forming a final opinion. This last sunday was the perfect opportunity: Triathlon in the morning, 40 flights of stairs in 50+ pounds of gear at noon. I knew my legs may very well prevent me from crawling out of bed come monday morning.
    The day was every bit as brutal as I imagined. By the time I got home I could already feel my legs stiffening up, and thought that I was likely too late for a cold bath to make a difference. Although I felt this might be an unfair test of the procedure, I opted to give it a shot anyway. One piece of advice that did not vary: bundle up head and torso to maintain core heat. Okay. I started the bath, deciding that my frigid, straight from the well water would be cold enough, after all, it can cause brain freeze if drank too quickly. I let the tub fill, put on a favorite hoody, and wandered through the house sans pants while the water ran. I did not want to do this. I was already cringing at the thought. Finally, I could not procrastinate any longer. I stepped in, gasping as soon as my feet hit the water. I slowly lowered myself in, gasping and trying to not shout as the water covered my legs. As the cold water hit my delicate girly parts, I almost said, "fuck this." But since the whole day had been a trial, overcoming weakness, Gutting It Out, this seemed somehow appropriate. I sat. Gasped. Cringed. Shivered. Tensed. Then finally, relaxed. It wasn't so bad after the first few shocking moments. It actually started feeling almost... good. I leaned back, stifling a gasp as cold water rode higher up the sensitive curve of my back. My dog Hugo came in to stare at me in bewilderment, not understanding why anyone would willing bathe, though he will jump into frigid rivers in the middle of winter. He was joined by black cat Homer, aka His Shitness. They gave each other a knowing, "she is loonie" look, and bumped heads. They kept me company for the fifteen minute soak, Homer occasionally lapping at the water, Hugo insisting on head scratches. It was relaxing, soothing, time to think over the events of the day in silence with few distractions.
    I finally decided it was time to get out and feed my poor abused body. I wrapped a thick, soft towel around my waist while I started prepping dinner. Then changed to compression shorts and compression socks, and cozy, wool booties. My legs felt great, rejuvenated although still tired. I knew the true test would be in the morning.
    Lo and behold, I have had almost no soreness from my sunday endeavors. To me this is miraculous. The cold water bath seems to have worked it's magic. I will also say, in the studies I have read, the newer data shows better results with a cold water bath versus the ice water bath. Thank the gods, I don't think I have the brass ovaries to sit in a tub of ice water. But I will say, from here on out, a cold bath is de rigueur post event. This coming saturday will be my next opportunity to test the theory as I am running the 5 mile Multnomah Falls Trail Run; steep uphill, steep downhill. Will my quads ever forgive me?

Stair Climb

    The Annual Firefighter's Stair Climb. I had never even heard of the fundraising event until 10 days before the event was to happen. Raising funds for cystic fibrosis, it is exactly what the name implies. Firefighters climbing stairs. In this case, 40 flights up the Bancorp Building in downtown Portland. 40 stories is some serious altitude. It is done in full Turnouts; heavy jacket, pants, heavy boots, helmet and SCBA (self contained breathing apparatus). It is probably a good 50 plus pounds of gear, and being that it is fireproof, it is thick and does not breathe. At all. Sweating profusely is part of the game. Dripping wet, saturating sweat. And the SCBA, I do not have much practice with it yet, so it had the feel of an Alien Facehugger.
    So, to pick up where my last writing left off: Blasting crosstown from Saint John's to downtown Portland. Not fun under any circumstance. Less fun with a tight schedule and not a clear idea of where the hell I was going. Of course, I passed my street and went about ten blocks before I realized my error. That may not sound like much, but in Portland where all streets are one-way, and have bus only lanes, and Maxx trains dominating, and add in the police cordoning off random streets for the AIDS Walk, it all had a nightmarish quality. I could actually see the building I needed to reach, since it is the tallest one in the area but could not reach it. Finally, knowing time was running out, I parked about five blocks away and schlepped all my gear to the location. Damn, I was already tired, and then hauling gear with tired arms, it was like adding an extra leg to the race. Finally, the building loomed into sight and I staggered inside. Thankfully I was met by a few of my comrades from Station One, they relieved me of my burdens so I could sign in, get my timing chip and slip into gear. The bag pipes were already playing for the Tenth Battalion as I pulled on my Turnouts, glad that we have to practice gearing up and my best time so far is 58 seconds. I fell into the second to the last position, in the last battalion, and tightened straps as we walked.
    I had about 15 minutes to gather myself, chat with the others standing in line, as we were sent in one by one. I pulled on the mask of my SCBA, breathing through the filter, not hooked to O2 yet. We chatted, our voices amplified and tinny through the built in microphones of the mask. Finally, my turn. I clipped on the O2 and was rewarded with a shot of cool, pure oxygen. Time to climb. I was already tired. I started up, my legs complaining that we had already swam half a mile, biked 12, and ran a 5K. I told them to shut the hell up. Three flights up and I didn't think I could keep going, my legs were so damned tired, and I was using a ridiculous amount of oxygen trying to keep my flagging muscles supplied. But I kept climbing. I started counting down the remaining flights: only 36 to go, 29 to go, 27 to go... It seemed like an eternity. At about the 25th floor I had to take off the SCBA mask, I was running low on O2 and knew I wouldn't be able to cope with that last gasp of air that sucks the mask to your face. Yeah, I wimped out on that one. I kept climbing. The Captain that had come in last, behind me, passed me, as I was now pausing at every floor, convincing myself I could do this. A volunteer came up behind me, he was like the chase boat in my first Tri swim, keeping an eye on the last entrant, Me. He offered to take the SCBA, I declined, I could do this. My exhausted quadriceps burned, complained, ached, trembled. Each step was a minor victory.
    Finally, floor 40, Victory. But wait. What cruel jest? I have to climb to 41. Not funny. Not funny at all. But I continued upwards. Stepped through the door and was met by a small crowd relieving me of my SCBA, helmet and jacket, handing me ice cold water, shaking my hand and congratulating me. I was suddenly far less tired. I was elated. The agony of the climb forgotten. One of my comrades was there, waiting for me. We sat and drank water, chatted, congratulated each other, laughed at how much harder it was than we had imagined. I had made it to the top. Another challenge accepted and met. Not fast, certainly, but Epic, definitely.
    Next year I will be better prepared, a (almost) vetted firefighter and not a complete newb, and in much better shape. I am not sure what I will do if the Stair Climb and Portland Tri fall on the same day again. I may blow off the Tri, not because of the physical difficulty of two events in the same day, but because I want to revel in the pageantry of the Stair Climb; firefighters massing, marching, being led by a Piper in full Highland regalia. I want to experience the whole event, not just a small slice. And next year, I will ace this. 

Epic Day. Slow, But Epic.

    Today was my last Tri of the season. As well as my first time doing the Firefighter's Stair Climb. I had hoped to put in a stellar performance at the Tri, but I can't say it was my best effort. No, I take that back, it was my best effort because I had to work so damned hard to get through it. The days did not start out fabulous, I woke with chest congestion and my stomach was unhappy. I had to force myself to eat. And nothing settled in very well. I had a banana with a little peanut butter before I left the house at 5:15am. And managed to get half a protein bar down shortly before I arrived at the site. But my energy felt okay, despite it all.
    It was a cold morning. No surprise, it is now autumn, and it was barely past sunup. But once I was zipped into my Selkie suit I did not notice the cold. The swim started out decently, as we swam 100 yards across the current to the first buoy. But then the left turn, into the current. Swimming upstream, in the middle of the Willamette is not easy. As a matter of fact, it sucks. It felt like so much work to make even the smallest headway. And the lung cheese and upset stomach I woke with decided it was time for an encore. I actually get mild motion sickness when swimming in open water if there are even the smallest of waves. But I soldiered on. "Gut it Out," was the motto for the day. Finally, after an eternity of swimming, I staggered to shore. I really wanted to get to Joshua and into the saddle.
    The bike ride went well, as usual, but I had lost so much time in the swim that I was at the back of the pack. I really had to push myself just to maintain the status quo. It was over all too soon, and I was back in transition, ready for the run. Now is when things got dodgy. I think I am allergic to cottonwood trees. It is the only explanation. I started having bronchial constriction less than a quarter mile in. This time I was prepared with my inhaler though. As a matter of fact, I went the whole 5K with the inhaler in my hand. I had to stop and walk repeatedly as my breathing issues didn't want to subside easily. I finally found my stride in the last mile and was making decent time until I got back into the park and under the cottonwood trees and my breath started whistling in my throat. Nothing like feeling strangled to put a crimp on the sprint to the finish. But I did finish. Even though there were a number of times when I felt like stopping and taking a DNF. But I didn't. Instead I wandered about for a few minutes, kind of wanting to soak my legs in the cold water of the river, before giving up on that notion and packing up my gear.
     As much as I would have liked to dwell at the Tri, and gnosh on the tasty food presented for all the athletes, I had to blast cross town to the Bancorp building for the Firefighter's Stair Climb, and I was running drastically short on time. But that is for another blog. Tomorrow. Because today kicked my ass, and I am tired. But honestly, I feel great. My body feels good, my mind feels sharp, my mood is mellow and yet elated.

Vigilance

    One of the many weird things about being female are "Fat Days." You all know exactly what I am talking about. I weigh no more today than I did yesterday, and feel great mentally and physically. But oddly, I feel fat today. I know for a fact that even the sleekest, professional, female athletes have Fat Days. There really is no rhyme or reason to it. It just Is. What is the cure, the remedy, the elixir? Eat less, workout more? Not this week. I am in a Taper Week, so restricting calories is not the best idea. Keeping an eye on what goes into my system, yes, I always do that. Even when I am allowing myself an indulgence, I keep an eye on things to keep it all from getting out of hand. Being a recovering carbohydrate addict, I know how easy it is to fall off the wagon, to pump up my system with white sugar and high fructose corn syrup. I am vigilant against such a depraved downfall, cautious, careful, ever watchful. So, despite my vigilance, what the hell is up with the Fat Day? And why now? I blame it, as I blame a lot of my physical and mental oddities, on hormones. The ongoing Hormonal Shitstorm my body has been subjected to for too long. I do know that today is not the day to fall off the wagon. I am being watchful, concerned. I also am looking forward to a good swim this afternoon. I don't plan on going too crazy, but it is my last lesson before Attila the Yoda heads off to college, and my last real swim before my final Tri of the season. I will swim my regular two hours, focusing on form and breathing. It will feel good to slip through the water, work my body in ways that no other form of exercise can quite match. It will help me to burn away this Fat Day, put it behind me, and move on towards my upcoming Epic Weekend of self imposed torture.