An Unfortunate Sequence of Events

I came across these photos of the duathlon we did back in March. I look like a rock star in none of them.

First we have me getting passed on a climb:

At least I am smiling. And at least I passed her back on the run.

This one is here just because I like it.

Next we have me failing badly at grabbing water out of transition.

Failing at snagging some water after 10 years of racing
apparently makes me smile.

Race photographer John Purcell posted these on his Picasa page. I didn't even notice him out on the race course. He must have a crazy zoom lens or something. Or maybe I am just that focused when I race. Yeah, whatever.

Next!

Does anyone else ever do something dumb during a post-race high? Like sign up for another longish race taking place 13 days after crossing the finish line of the last?

I woke up Monday morning after the Rev3 fully expecting to not be able to move for several days, let alone several hours. I preemptively took the day off from work, told my hockey team I wouldn’t be able to make it to Monday night’s game days beforehand and was even initially anticipating having to call out of work on Tuesday.

Instead, I popped out of bed ready to go. Ready for a run. Ready for a bike. Ready for a race. I had nothing planned, Bill had to go to work and I was antsy. I convinced a friend to meet up for coffee and several games of Scrabble – I had to get out of the house. After two games of Scrabble (we split them, although my friend, who is currently growing twins in her uterus, spelled “twins” twice and “womb” once. Is that cheating?) I found myself back home and amazingly bored. Our gear was cleaned (ok, the nasty bikes still need some work), the laundry was done.

I obviously went to hockey and got out some of the antsy. By Tuesday night, though, the antsy was back. The race calendar was empty until June, making me sad. Bill and I poked around the interwebs to see what was going on during the one weekend we are free in May. Nothing.

They only thing that sort of fit into our ever-so-thrilling lives was the Yough Extreme in Ohiopyle State Park sort of near Pittsburgh. Ten hours, or maybe 12, of mountain biking, orienteering and whitewater paddling.

We thought about whether it was a bad idea and then went to bed. By the time I woke up Wednesday morning Bill had rented us a sweet yurt in the park. By the time I left for work we were registered for the race. No time to put a team of three or four together, just the two of us --The Haines Street Hustlers.

The most exciting part about the act of registering was the little box that said “What would you like the announcer to say as you cross the finish line?” The registration Web site was clearly geared toward tris, 5ks and 10ks that do sometimes have announcements like “Here’s Betty from Philly completing her first 5k! And next we have 97-year-old Huckleberry, our oldest racer today. Go Huckleberry!”

Adventure races, however, not so much fanfare.

Just in case, though, I filled in the little box. Behold, my masterpiece:
“Here they come! WHOOOOOOOOOOOO! Ladies and gentlemen, here we have the Haines Street Hustlers, the biggest BAMFs in all the land.”

No, I don’t expect this to actually be said as we hopefully stroll/roll/paddle across the finish line but please allow me to keep my dream alive.

The race is about half the distance of the Rev3 and better take us about half the time to complete. I am sure there will be some glitches along the way (there always are) but Bill seems prepared to pull me along and push the pace a bit so hopefully we’ll officially finish.

Despite being a shorter race than the Rev3 it looks like we will be lugging more gear and carrying heavier packs. We can use our own paddles and PFDs for the water section and I don’t think we will go through transition at all, let alone a half-dozen times like we did last week, meaning that we have to carry a race worth of food and water from the start.

I just hope it rains and hails because I am not sure I know how to race in the dry any more.

The Rev3 = Mud, Rain and Necessary Nudity, Part II

As we headed out on foot the sun was shining, my feet were dry and I was warm.

For about five seconds. We soon ducked under a guardrail and crossed a new stream, born out of the storms. Everyone else leaped across. I tried, missed and found myself shin-deep in the dirty rushing water.

Well, shit. I guess changing my socks turned out to be the most pointless thing I did all day.

Fortunately the CP was sitting there right where those on the team who know how a map works (i.e. not me) expected it to be and we were off. The next point, however, did a good job hiding from us. Everyone but me (again, I am basically useless with direction) stared at the map and strategized as to where the CP might be. Apparently the map was from the dawn of time and thus didn’t include the roads, cabins, campgrounds, houses and giant cell phone towers that would have otherwise served as helpful landmarks.

Instead we were relegated to using actual land features – CP clues told us to look for saddles, spurs and reentrants.

We spent a particularly frustrating 45 minutes of seemingly aimless wandering without snagging a pesky point described as a “reentrant on the back of a power line.” After about 44 of these minutes I realized I had no idea what we were looking for.

“What the fuck is a reentrant?” I asked. (Sorry, Mom. I said “fuck.”)
“You mean you’ve been looking for this thing without knowing what we were actually looking for?” Brad Jason asked.
“Uh, yeah. I was really just looking for the orange and white flag.”

And then, magic.

“I know where it is!” a suddenly inspired Bill yelled. He took off down the power line, ducked into the woods and there it was. Didn’t seem so difficult after all.

After the Great Reentrant Debacle of 2011 we chugged along punching points at a steady pace. We soon yanked on our headlamps and I found myself playing in the woods in the dark. Fun! The boys would get us to the feature and then Val, who apparently eats carrots by the ton and is part owl, would pick the point out of the dark.

I contributed to the team effort by eating M&Ms and walking in circles.

After a bit we found ourselves at a gate and a wire fence. All of four feet tall, the gate made an easy obstacle. Except I decided that going under the wire fence would be easier. Under I went. And got stuck. My teammates helped pluck me out of the mess but I became the most muddy member of our team in the process. After a slog through a few inches of water and other junk we easily grabbed the point.

“God, I must be getting really tired,” I said. “I am hallucinating that we are walking through giant piles of wet cow shit.”
“Yeah, we ARE walking through giant piles of wet cow shit,” chorused my team.

Eew.

A few steps later I realized that, thanks to going under the wire, my right arm had been christened with poop. Although the rest of me was nearly as gross it became imperative that I wipe the poop off as soon as humanly possible on the thing closest to me. The only thing close at that point would have been Val, and I am not that mean, so I scraped it off on a trail sign farther down the path. Vandalism at its finest.

We continued on foot and were around about a dozen other teams for an hour or two. I figured that we were well toward the back of the pack as we finally strolled back into transition at about 1 in the morning.

I was surprised when the boys handed in our passport and said that the race officials said that we’d gotten a lot of optional CPs compared to many of the other teams. I decided that they were just being nice and that we were in fact in DFL.

There was an optional team challenge that we decided to tackle next. We had to get three barrels, two 1 x 6 planks and all of us across a 50-foot plot of land without any of us, or either of the planks, touching the ground. For 20 minutes I found myself wedged between B.J. and Val with Bill bringing up the rear. We are now prepared to represent the U.S. in bobsled in the 2014 Olympics. Smooshed together, we scooted, moved barrels, passed along the planks and successfully made it across.

Only 13 miles of muddy, semi-technical biking stood between us and the finish line at that point. Although at the time 13 miles seemed like 130. As we started off a few teams were heading in from the foot section. Many looked like they were about to fall over and pull a Rip Van Winkle, pulling each other along, staggering, using sticks as crutches. I know it was mean of me, but I was motivated by their struggles. “I know I don’t look as bad as they do, because they look amazingly terrible.” When the bike got tough this became my inspiration.

There’s a special place in hell for me, I know.

My brain was getting extra mushy, so here’s what I remember about the bike: Wet trail, dry road. Wet trail. Wet muddy trail. Wet muddy hilly trail with lots of rocks. Get off bike. Push bike up hill. Get back on. Slide around. Get back off. Ride down hill. Lose ability to brake thanks to the mud and the wet. Get back on bike. Pedal. Push. Stop. Stare at lost helmetless team wearing Dockers torn off at the knees and torn up to their crotch. Wonder where their helmets went. Wonder why they thought biking in tightywhities was a good plan. Pedal. Get off again. Barf. Stand still. Contemplate the fact I just barfed. Think about the fact that I’ve never barfed in a race before. Try to eat something. Dry heave. See Bill’s tail light fading ahead of me. Don’t want to be left all alone so get back on and keep going.

My teammates were kind as I moseyed along, knowing that I could keep going, just that I couldn’t keep going hard. The three of them all took turns hanging back with me, which was not only nice but probably also prevented me from having a screaming temper tantrum, so we all won out in the end.

And then, darkness. My bike light decided to shine no more, leaving me with just my headlamp to light the trail. Amazingly unfun. Bill told me we were almost done but I decided he was lying. Val stayed behind me so I could benefit from her light a bit and B.J. would ride ahead, turning his bike around to light the way for me as best as he could.

Turns out Bill isn’t so much of a liar after all. We spit out onto a sloppy, flat trail and could see the finish line off in the distance.

Sweet! We pedaled on, a bit faster now, and crossed the line with the usual adventure race lack of finish line fanfare.

Eighth place overall out of 42 teams, seventh place in our division of about 22 teams. Considering my goal was to finish and then not be dead last, I am sort of thrilled.

But I still don't know what a reentrant is.

Want to see before and after pictures?
BEFORE: We are holding Christmas ornaments that were oddly for sale at the race check-in at an outdoor store.
AFTER: We are dirty. And maybe I could have seen better on the bike had my headlamp not been actually covering my eyeballs.
But wait, there's more. B.J. is the only one who looks remotely badass. Val looks like she is auditioning to be the latest member of KrissKross, I am apparently incapable of making a serious face and Bill is thinking "This is what I am married to for the rest of my life?"

The Rev3 = Mud, Rain and Necessary Nudity, Part I

At 5:15 or so (I’d taken off my watch about 8 hours in and had lost track of time) Sunday morning team Bees’ Knees crossed the finish line of the Rev3 Epic Adventure Race, soaking wet, chilly, slathered in mud and happy.

And not in last place, either.

It only took me one mental near-meltdown, seven Gus, a bag of beef jerky, three bags of peanut M&Ms, two hotdogs, three slices of pizza, two Stinger waffles (my new favorite race food, delicious, packed with calories), three Snickers bars, four containers of Pringles, one packet of Sharkies, eight mini powdered sugar donuts, four string cheeses, one single gummie bear, 100 ounces of water, three bottles of Heed, two packs of instant Starbucks coffee, one bottle of Five-Hour Energy, two raincoats and three lovely teammates to get me there.

Fortunately, my mental near-meltdown came a day before the race actually started. Usually it happens at about hour 20 of a 24-hour race, but I guess it was for the best that I freaked out a bit before we even left our house – got it out of the way early.

Bill, Val and I headed down to Virginia Friday morning. Along the way we learned that, due to high water levels that hadn’t crested yet and more rain on the way the paddle portion had been cancelled. A bit disappointing but not as disappointing as getting washed away forever in a raging river would have been.

We met up with B.J. (and B.J. and Val met for the first time ever). Check-in was as straightforward as any 24-hour race could have been. No gear check, maps already plotted, straightforward instructions and a few warnings about the weather (flash flood, tornado and thunderstorm warnings for most of the day and an inch or two of rain) and we were off to organize gear, eat pizza and sleep before the 7:30 start Saturday morning.

I actually slept a bit – better than I usually do before a race. Woke up to a bit of rain, some donuts, coffee and a banana and the Bees’ Knees headed to the start in Shenandoah State Park.

Our cars would serve as our transition area, giving us easy access (perhaps too easy) to all of our junk, food and dry clothing a ton of times throughout the race. For an unsupported race it was about as supported as it could get.

After a quick pre-race meeting we were off. A 3-mile gearless run on straightforward trails through the park to a checkpoint where passports for the first bike leg were handed out. It was tough for me to keep the adrenaline in check – I wanted to sprint off but knew that wasn’t wise as hours and hours and miles and miles were ahead of us.

We were back in transition soon enough to pick up our bikes. After my first public pee for the day (I’ve never been so naked so many times in public in my life as I was for this race) we were off for a 55-mile ride on real roads and a few gravely patches. The original course had called for the bike to be along Skyline Drive but the possible government shutdown last week and a last-minute permit denial led to a new course designed just a few days before the race.

We moved along fine, first crossing a bridge that was mostly under water as the rain began to fall harder. And then harder. I had on an UnderArmour base, arm warmers, bike jersey, bike cap, helmet, raincoat, bike shorts, thermal bike tights, ski socks and lobster gloves along with activated hand warmers strategically placed in pockets, in my cap, in my gloves – sounds excessive but I knew that once I got cold I’d never get warm.

After about two miles we were splattered in mud. I laughed at B.J., whose face seemed to be completely covered, until Bill and Val pointed out that every inch of my head was apparently buried in mud.

Our pace was decent enough and I felt solid on the climbs – when I got a bit tired I’d think of the hours in the basement on the trainer and the miles of hill repeats, reminding myself that the climbs in front of me were what I’d trained for and I was able to get going again. Managed to coordinate pee breaks with B.J. punching the checkpoints. To anyone out for a rainy but scenic drive on Saturday morning in Virginia, I am sorry that my half-naked self was part of your view.

I was cozy in my 8 trillion layers and my hands were actually warm despite the fact that the gloves were sopping wet. REI Novara lobster gloves, I salute you.

The downhills were fantastic – we’d crest the hills and then stay off our brakes, zooming down at speeds in the high 30s. Probably not the most wise thing I’ve ever done considering the pounding rain, but we fortunately all made it down safely.

A special shout-out to Val who, I am pretty sure, set a mountain bike landspeed record on the last descent, prompted by rumbling thunder and increasing wind. She wanted off that mountain and the rest of us followed close behind.

We pulled into a parking lot that was originally the site of the put-in for the paddle. Instead of riding the river we rode in a van, our bikes towed behind, back to transition. The van was the best thing ever. Warm. Warm. Warm. Also warm. And dry. I downed about 900 calories during the 30-minute ride back to transition and felt just about totally fresh by the time we reached transition.

We had about 6 miles of trekking to two checkpoints ahead of us before heading out on the actual orienteering course. The two points seemed random, not challenging (on roads and my directionally challenged self probably could have found them without assistance) and were sort of boring, but they were mandatory so off we went. The first point involved crossing the bridge that we’d ridden over to start the bike. Water was even higher than earlier in the day and we carefully worked our way across. By the time we snagged the second point the race directors closed the first point out of concern for the rapidly rising water.

We found ourselves back at the car and absolutely drenched. Amazingly, the rain stopped and the sun peeked out a bit. Bees’ Knees and the other teams in transition stopped and stared, muddy faces turned upward toward the sunshine. People cheered. People clapped. It was clear, however, that this respite was temporary as dark clouds were working quickly to cover the sun.

I considered completely changing my clothing. My bike shorts were disgustingly soaked and everything else was covered in mud. More public nudity? I looked around – Bill and B.J. were plotting points for the O section, Val was refilling water bottles. And then I realized that the navigator for the team set up across from us was sitting in the tailgate of his SUV plotting. Naked. Entirely naked, hanging out in a trunk, plotting. That was a first.

So inspired, off everything came, peeled off layer by nasty layer. On the dry stuff slowly went. At one point Bill looked up from the map and saw me standing there with nothing on but a pair of ski socks.

“Are you just going to wear that for the foot section?” he asked.

Much to his dismay I pulled on a pair of tri shorts, running tights, dry ski socks, trail runners, a base layer, another bike jersey, dry arm warmers and a hat. Bliss! I felt so warm and cozy. We packed a bit more food, and, as an afterthought, I threw my Gore-tex jacket into my pack on top of my already wet raincoat, just in case.

Off we headed for 7 or so hours on foot, packed with all sorts of highs and lows…

I need to catch up on some sleep before heading back to the job tomorrow. Don’t go anywhere though – part two of this riveting, photoless, long-winded race report will be up soon.

Tadaa

After 21 wet, muddy hours we rolled across the finish line of the Rev3 race with smiles on our faces and no booboos.

No pictures -- the only one I took was of a donkey we passed on the way home. I will post it with the race report after I get some sleep!

Let's Go!

Bags packed. Gear piled. Purchased all the peanut M&Ms in the tri-state area. Hair all chopped off today because it got too heavy for a ponytail and it kept getting stuck between my back and my backpack. Time to race.

Yum!

For me, adventure race nutrition means packing a buffet of junk. Some Gus, some bars, some gummy things. Some Snickers, lots of peanut M&Ms, a pizza. Some coffee, some water, some Gatorade.

The more variety I pack, the more likely I am to actually eat. The Gus and bars make me want to vomit after a while but the calories still need to get in my belly.

Here's the beginnings of what I am packing for this weekend. The pizza (not purchased yet) and string cheese and french fries (in the fridge and freezer) haven't been packed yet.

I try to take in about 300-400 calories an hour while on bike and on foot, a bit less on the paddle (although it is easier to eat while sitting in a boat). Over the course of 26 hours that amounts to about 7,800 calories. Good times!

Yes, that is beef jerky. I eat it while in the boat. Yes, it is made out of meat.

Is It Safe to Paddle for Ten Hours In Thunderstorms?

I am going to go with no. Makes it unfortunate that the weatherforecastt for the race this weekend has only gotten worse, now calling for a 70 percent chance of thunderstorms. All while being chilly.

Should make for an interesting 26-hour race.

I'd rather not have to race in my crispy goretex shell but the more the temps drop the more likely that it will be along for the 130-mile run/bike/paddle/run/bike.

 And I guess I need to read up on what to do while on the water in a thunderstorm. I am pretty sure that the rule is to get the hell off the water and use the boat as a house. Should be an interesting weekend.

Stinging in the Shower

Hold on. Hold on to yourself. For this is gonna hurt like hell.

-- Sarah McLachlan

Ignore the rest of the lyrics that seem to tell the sad tale of some guy dying while his girlfriend knocks on the pearly gates for him. Instead apply the opening lines to my shower yesterday.

I've shared that I often get booboos. And now I am going to share yet another booboo story.

"Don't get any booboos," Bill shouted after me as I threw on my pack and ran out of the house yesterday.

I don't like to listen. About 50 yards from the front door I managed to get my feet tangled in one of those rings of plastic that holds a stack of newspapers together. Down I went, left knee, elbow and hip taking the brunt of the fall.

"Oh, little baby, you feeeeeeeeeeeeell," yelled a neighbor from her front patio.

"Yes, yes I did fall," I said. I stayed on the ground for a bit, trying to decide if I should take a nap or keep going. I decided to keep going and had a decent two-hour run with Abby.

By the time I got home I was sort of pressed for time -- family was in town and we were meeting up for dinner. I avoided the shower for as long as possible, choosing to ignore the blood creeping out from underneath my running tights, refusing to look at when I knew was a scraped hip and hiding the bloody elbow from Bill when he got home from his run.

Finally I knew it was time. I stepped in.

YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

It hurt. A lot. I decided, however, that I didn't want to end up with some nasty, pus-filled wounds or with gravel and dirt permanently lodged under my skin so I scrubbed away.

Maybe I should quit the whole running/biking/dirt thing and take up something safer. Knitting. Puzzles. Cross-stitch.

I Have a Dream

A few weeks before it inevitably and invariably begins -- the hot mess race dream.

About 10 years ago I ran my first race. A flat 10k about three miles from my front door. As soon as I registered, about a month before, the dream began. And, ever since, the nights leading up to a race I care about are often filled with dreams of missed starts, mistakes, injuries.

I wake up late. My car won't go. I have to run to the start and am exhausted by the time I get there. I don't have my bib. I don't have my chip.

The most nervous and excited I've ever been before a race was for the Columbus Marathon. I really, really wanted to qualify for Boston. I put in the miles, put in the time, and actually told a few people that I'd set a BQ as my goal (I usually keep my goals to myself, especially before a race).

Night after night (as in 10 or 15 times) I'd dream that I missed my flight to Columbus or that I left my racing shoes behind. My friends I was staying with kicked me out because they wanted to have a party. I got lost on my way to the start line.

And then the race would begin. Except I'd lose the course and would find myself running aimlessly in circles, through malls, through air craft carries (my dad was a sailor on a few when I was a kid so this isn't as random as it would seem). I'd finally cross the finish line in 12 hours or worse.

I am in bed. Not in a coffin.

I patiently waited for the Rev3 dreams to begin. Finally, late last week, it showed up. A variation on a theme this time. We are in canoes on a quiet river when suddenly we tip.

My three teammates are swept downriver, laughing as they go. I am sucked backward into the tower of a castle where I get stuck for hours and hours, the rest of my team now below me, laughing and pointing at my misfortune.

Thanks, guys.

I’ve had this exact dream two more times. I never get out of the castle.

Um, what’s this all about? Is my team running some sort of covert operation to strand me like Rapunzel or what? I am dreading the paddle of this race (28 miles with a single-blade canoe paddle … should take forever) so I get where the canoe part is coming from. But castles and mean teammates?

Does anyone else have weird, trippy, anxiety-ridden pre-race dreams, or am I just a wackadoo?

A Blog About A Guy and His Feet

I came across this blog today. ALERT: It is gross. But impressive.

I am all for adventures, I am all for playing outside. This guy's story, however, makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit.

Sir, I wish you a speedy recovery. And I am glad to know that there's someone out there with feet more disgusting than mine.

I Picked Butler To Win It All! Go Butler! Also, What I Did This Weekend

This weekend was supposed to be boring. This weekend was supposed to be planless. Lots of lazy time, obscene amounts of sleep, a workout or two and then dinner at Bill's parents.

However, not having plans apparently stresses me out. By the time I left work on Friday I realized I'd be crashing by Sunday night. First up was a beer or a few in celebration of the birth of a fellow Icehole. I am apparently old because after three beers I thought my head would fall off. Fortunately it didn't, although I wish it had by the time I woke up the next morning. A mini-hangover. What? I am 33 years old. What 33-year-old has a hangover? Let alone a hangover after three beers? I slept in a bit and made it out of bed by 10:30. Just pathetic enough to be pathetic.

Saturday was officially Philly Spring Clean-Up. Basically you sign up to clean up all the dirty diapers, condoms, false teeth, garbage bags, pizza boxes, bottles of pee,** and other random treasures that sloppy people dump all over the city. We did it renegade style and didn't actually sign up. The top of our street has a giant building abandoned by the city. It used to be a police station but now it sits vacant, collecting shit. The city doesn't clean up around it. Philly is a dirty city (although I love it so). The combination of the two means that the grass around it is filled with more displaced junk than you can shake a stick at.
It's also more displaced junk than you can shake a broom, two rakes, a snow shovel and 17 trash bags at. I'd expected our little project to take about 30 minutes. It took almost four hours. Bill stuck it out ot the end, scooping up every last tasty morsel of garbage. The whole thing was disgusting.

Getting away from the nasty and onto my bike was an upgrade to my day. I did about 17 miles of hill repeats. Semi-boring, but the newly tuned bike was fantastic. Love the new tires. Love the fact that shifting gears no longer sounds like a bucket of screws has been dumped onto the ground. I felt totally fine after the ride and headed out on foot for about 45 minutes at a slow pace. I felt fine the whole time.

I barely had time to scrub off the bike chain grease before some buds came over for a tiny bit of basketball, lots of cookies and 127 Hours. I read Aaron Ralston's book a few years ago and liked it, a lot. Can't say he's someone I would have wanted to be BFFs with before he had to chop off his own arm, but I liked the way he told his story and how he seemed to evolve as a person and an athlete when all was said and done.

The movie was fine although I was surprised that it was nominated for best picture. Aaron's thought process and how he came to realize he had to break his arm all sorts of ways and then freakin' cut it off with a bobo knife wasn't really explored. Instead he got stuck, hallucinated a bit and then hacked off his arm. The end. Eh.

Then, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. After a junky night's sleep I was up at 7 a.m. On a Sunday morning. Crazy. By 8:10 (I was a few minutes late) I'd joined up with Bill, Abby, Val and two other peeps for a morning run in Wissahickon Park. By the time I made it back to my car I'd put about 15 or 16 miles on my legs. Decent for a sunny Sunday morning. Even better is the fact that I feel totally fine today. I took a rest day today and now I feel like a slacker because I feel fine. Oh well. With less than two weeks to go until the longest race I have done in pretty much forever maybe it's better to play it safe?

I hauled down to the ball park after the run. When I say "hauled down" I mean "I sat in traffic for 105 minutes trying to get to the stadium." Gross. But, Phillies time! Bill's dad managed to score four tickets a few rows behind home plate. Bill had to work at REI so I got to go. The day was gorgeous, the Phillies won and I got to spend some quality time with the in-laws discussing the bigger questions in life like why a beer and a double bloody mary cost $23 and why people leave half-way thorough the 5th inning when the sun is shining and the Phillies are winning.

After sitting in traffic for another hour after the game and dinner at Bill's parents I was in bed by 9:30. It's been decades since I was under the covers that early. I am getting old!

That is all.

** I picked up all of these things. Actually I left the bottle of pee because that's just too gross.