Month: August 2019

Chasing Ultra – Part II

The official course stats:

LEG 1: 20.5KM // 1,480M VERT

LEG 2: 16.5KM // 720M VERT

LEG 3A: 6KM // 125M VERT

LEG 3B: 7KM // 475M VERT

TOTAL: 50KM // 2800M VERT

I think these numbers are to be taken as indicative rather than absolute. My GPS watch logged 51.7KM and a little under 2800M.
Elk Valley Ultra
Three forty five in the morning came way too soon. Sleep had come surprisingly easy. I drank a tall glass of electrolyte mix, put the coffee on, and hopped in the shower. Breakfast consisted of a couple of home-made muffins, and a small yoghurt. Taping up various body parts, filling water bottles, double checking the race vest and lacing up the runners took up the rest of the time till five.
I found a parking spot not too far from the starting area, placed the drop bags into the vehicles that would take them to the aid stations, and waited for my wife and daughter to arrive. It was a chilly morning, and not many of the racers had arrived yet.
As I jogged towards the outhouse at the other side of the parking lot, I felt the adductor muscles in my left leg tighten up. That was one of the nags that I had not been able to get rid of since the last long run, and now it was giving me a painful reminder. Apart from that, I was feeling vaguely confident. Confidence stemming from ignorance probably. “Start slowly” I kept repeating to myself. With more areas in my legs hurting than I have fingers on one hand, this might be easier to accomplish than I had imagined.
The start signal was a very unassuming “3-2-1-off you go”. Some two hundred runners crossed the line and turned right onto the gravel path along the Elk River. Two and half kilometers later a good number of them had passed me. I was sticking to a leisurely pace, worried about my ever tightening groin muscle. If I could make it to where the climb started I might be OK. Some 7 or 8 km or non-runnable climbing awaited, lots of time for the body to warm up and get ready for a faster pace later.
As soon as we turned up the single track mountain trail, the pace was determined by whomever was leading the conga line up. Somewhere up ahead would be the fast starters, not burdened by the mass of runners behind them. We weren’t going up very rapidly, but I tried to embrace it as the slow start I told myself I needed. From time to time someone would step out of the line to take a breather. Not many were behind me. One rather heavy-set individual was breathing with an intensity not fitting the climb. I have to doubt he made it through the whole run.
About 2/3 up the climb the terrain got a little technical and people ahead of me in the conga line started having trouble. Now I was getting concerned about the delays and the slow pace, especially since we were in terrain where I was most at home. I couldn’t take it any longer, and with a few “Would you mind if I pass?” and some quick scrambles, I moved passed the bottle necks and fell into a quicker pace.
It still was a decent grind until the trail topped out, but the trees had all but vanished, the air was clear, it wasn’t too hot yet, and the grade didn’t phase me. Around 2 1/2 hours in I stood at Windy Pass, cheered on by a small crowd. Well, only four people really, but given that they probably also had to hike 2 1/2 hours or more to get there, I was impressed. In the weeks leading up to the event I had been telling everybody that wanted to hear that I would want to take three hours to do the initial climb, and that two and a half would be too fast. But I felt good, and started the long descent.
It felt long indeed, going down seemingly endless single track. Towards the bottom the pine trees gave way to beautiful old growth forest, and then just like that a cow bell sounded, and cheers erupted, and I found myself greeted by my daughter at the first aid station. She made sure I found the drop bag, filled up the hydration pack, and took some pictures. Right around four and a half hours I jumped back on the trail, a half hour ahead of my self-imposed schedule, in good spirits. And the groin pain had gone!
The first section of the second leg ran in between the creek and the road. Nice grass, flat dirt trail, easy to make good progress. Once the trail crossed back across the road, where my daughter cheered some more and took more pictures, the climbing started again. It would continue for quite some time, relentlessly going up on mountain bike trails and washed-out cutlines. I felt strong, and managed to overtake a few runners, without getting passed myself. In retrospect I figure I was at the tail end of the middle-of-the-pack.
The downhill was again a grind, and by now things started to hurt. I had to walk regularly now to let some knee pain subside before continuing the push. The second aid station was a welcome sight. Both my daughter and wife were there for moral support.
I ate a banana, by now the bacon-peanut butter wraps had become very unappealing, and drank the ginger ale, My daughter again refilled the bladder and added ice cubes, which was wonderfully cool on my back during the next section. I changed out of the Altra Lone Peaks and into the Hoka Speedgoats. My feet were feeling really flat and tired, and I hoped that the extra cushioning of the Hoka’s was going to help me keep a decent pace.
I don’t really remember leg 3a, only the friendly lady cheering my up the small hill back to the aid station, and meeting back up with my crew. I really didn’t need anything, other than some encouraging words. I looked better than some of the people that came through before me, who were cursing out loud the climb they had just done, so I was told.
A glance at my watch showed that I was eight hours and some forty five minutes in. Seven and a half-ish kilometer to go, and almost 500 meters of climbing. Suddenly I realized that the sub-ten hour goal was still achievable. Sent off with some stern words from my wife to not overdo it, I hobbled back across a parking lot and onto the mountain bike trails. The climb was steady, but not steep. I still felt strong going uphill, so I managed to jog some good sections. When I’m hurting I like to fall into a pattern. Count 60 double-steps running followed by 30 walking; back to sixty running, etcetera. The kilometers ticked off swiftly, and the time looked good. But there was still a lot of downhill to get through.
The downhill was painful. I had passed a runner on the uphill, who came barrelling by me not too long before I finally made it back to the river. The final few kilometers I exchanged places with a female runner that I had ran behind for a while on the first descent. We were both struggling to maintain a good pace, but once across the bridge and in the home stretch we managed to encourage each other that a sub-ten finish was still possible. I watched the kilometer counter go past 51km, and the time creep towards the ten hour mark. How long was this race anyway? No more walking breaks now, just grind grind grind along the river-side gravel path. Finally my daughter appeared from around the bend. The finish had to be really close!
With five minutes to go till the 10-hour mark I could relax. I chatted a bit with my daughter during the final few hundred meters, and managed to cross the finish line in a blistering 9 hours 57 minutes and 53 seconds!
I collected my medal, my free beer (Fernie Brewing Company Brown Ale), and a meal of pulled pork, beans and a salad, which mostly my daughter ate. One thing I had looked forward to was a dunk in the Elk River, but the water level was high, the current strong, and my feet too much in pain to move to a shallower spot across the rocky river bottom. I opted for a quick dash to the room for a shower, a snack and more fluids.
We were back at the finish area in time to witness the last two finishers come in minutes before the 13 hour cut-off and later one final runner about 30 minutes or so after. It was a great atmosphere, despite the thunderstorms and rain showers.
All in all this was a fantastic event, which I fear has unleashed the beast. I can’t wait to do it again.

Chasing Ultra – Part I

“With your knees you should probably not be running”
The memory of the last time I ran a foot race has sunk so deep into the recesses of my brain, that the synapses connecting to it have long died off. I suspect it was in high school. Some Phys Ed teacher probably staged a running contest, or had us run around the soccer field, keeping track of who did the most loops. I’m sure it wasn’t me.
I ran a bit, on and off, here and there, but never liked it. It was hard, and it was hard on the knees. Too many squats during my university days, when six times a week I started off the day with a two to three hour gym session, before hitting the books. I ran on the beach, during lunch breaks at my first job, but not frequently. I didn’t run for a decade and a half after that. I tried again a few years ago, and worked up to a 10K, before the knees started acting up again. “With your knees you should probably not be running”, said the physiotherapist.
How I became aware that there was such a thing as an ultra-marathon, I don’t remember; and how I came to believe that I really needed to run one is a mystery. Being close to some amazing athletes during my biathlon days had changed my perspective on training. It only took a few decades for me to finally realize that there is a whole world of training out there beyond the 20 min mark. One of my former team mates, and later two up and comers in the Canadian biathlon world ran the Canmore Quad, a 50+ km, 15,500 feet underground ultrarunning challenge involving four mountains. I was beyond intrigued.
Then last year I just started running. And reading. Soon I found “Born to Run”. I devoured that book, barely able to put it down. I believed everything, because I wanted it to be true. Anybody can run dozens of kilometers through the mountains. Just proper technique and training. I got religious about toe striking, and started adding the miles. Eleven miles was the first mountain “run”, still in hiking boots. Bought runners, and shredded their soles on Grotto Mountain. Also duly blackened a toe nail on that descent. Soon I did a 19 mile run, including crossing the Elbow river. Running with wet feet is what ultrarunners do; I saw that on Youtube.
Rae Creek Hills – July 8, 2018. All is still well here.
One unhappy Saturday in July things took a turn. I had a big run: 22 miles and 7,000 feet of elevation gain, with some serious off-trail terrain (shredded the warranty-replacement runners’ soles on that trip). At some point if felt a sting in my back, but it went away. I forgot to mention that two years earlier I had received cortisone injections in my back to treat some joint issues. I finished the day, and felt OK. Until the next morning. Something was wrong. I could barely get out of bed, couldn’t stand, sit or walk. More injections, pills, and two weeks of agony ensued. I was done running.
 
Charlie – who could outrun the wind – having a cool down on a hot day in the mountains. I still miss him dearly.
A month later I bought a mountain bike, and before the fall weather hit I rode my first 100K. But mountain biking isn’t running. It doesn’t have the same freedom. And I still had a pair of barely used new runners, as the second warranty-replacement pair, a different brand this time. By Christmas I was doing short jogs again.
The back hurt, there was no denying. I was doing short 5K “runs”, and whatever was wrong with my bones made me pay every time. I have an extra tailbone, one rogue joint that refused to fuse with his buddies as he was supposed to, and some extra lateral bone growth coming off of it that joined up with the hip bone. That discovery explained the decades of stiffness on that side. But now that contact area is showing some “pseudo-arthritis” – I think it is called that anyway – and that was causing the pain.
Over Christmas I tested myself by running Prairie Mountain, or its equivalent on the hill behind the house) for twelve days in a row. I managed better than expected. (Twelve days of Prairie Mountain)
Then one day I bumped into a friend on the hill. We chatted a bit, and he mentioned a 50km race his wife had done the year before. Not just any 50km, but 50km including 2800m of elevation gain (and loss) in a big loop around Mount Fernie, and adjacent lower hills: the Elk Valley Ultra (Elk Valley Ultra) That sounded like me! Less running on flat terrain, more hiking and climbing, technical terrain, all things that I figured would work in my favour.
But my back still hurt during every run. I consulted with my chiropractor, who had discovered my back problem initially, and asked him if by running I would do more harm. He said no.
I signed up. And I started running. I made a schedule, I had time. Ten percent distance increase per week in for the long run; building in two rest weeks to give the aging body time to catch up to an ambitious mind.
The miracle was happening. As the weeks progressed, the moment that my back would start to protest would come later and later. My schedule had me do a long run of 40K two weeks from the race, and then taper down. A smart gradual increase in mileage, so the body had time to adjust. But I lost faith. I just had to prove to myself sooner that I could a distance like that. I started pushing the long runs, and ended up doing my first run past the marathon distance about 8 weeks before race day.
My body protested. I developed a nagging pain in my left foot. I had no choice but to tone it down a notch or two. As a result I did not do a long run over 12K in a month. The pain decreased but did not go away. With four weeks to go, it was time to gamble. I did a 21K run the one week, and a pretty gnarly 36K run with 1800m of climbing across an exposed ridge the week after.
After three more shorter runs suggested by a taper schedule I found on the net, and struggling through those, I pulled the emergency break. The long run had taken too much out of me, and too many body parts were aching. I needed rest bad, and probably more than I had time left. It wasn’t until Thursday before the race that I started feeling a little better; still too many nagging aches and tight muscles to be confident about a good outcome. But time was up. Time to leave for Fernie.