Not Exactly Beach Walking: Three Nights on The Wilderness Coast

Toby and I don’t really know each other. We met on the PCT just before Paradise Valley Cafe and I was there when he got his trail name, Applejuice. I thought he was nice then, and we’ve followed each other on social media since, but no, we don’t know each other. Still, when he posted that he would be finishing up his Pacific Northwest Trail section hike on the Olympic Coast and was open to having people join him, I sent him a message to tentatively RSVP. 

I waited until nearly the last minute to say that the timing would work for certain, and in that time also managed to attempt and quickly abort another multi-day backpacking trip with a friend.

“Do I even like backpacking anymore?” I wondered aloud on that trip, our single night backcountry camping after hiking into camp in the dark. I kept scanning our meadow home with my headlamp, looking for the reflection of animal eyes in the dark. “Maybe I should sell my backpacking gear and just accept I don’t do this anymore.” But it didn’t matter either way: my friend’s sleeping pad sprung a leak so we threw out our plans and went car camping (fresh air mattress in tow) instead.

Even after my existential backpacking dread, I decided to try the coast anyway. Toby and I traded messages arranging shuttles, talking about tide charts, and planning for where I could pick him up near Forks, WA. He added me to his permits, assuring me that the campsites were only 8-10 miles apart. It’s supposed to be beautiful and he wanted to savor it, he said. Amazing. Short miles. Beach walk. Even I could do that!

Well.

Day 1: Sand, Tide Pools, and a Hole in the Wall

I pick Toby up in Forks and since we have less than two miles to camp from the trailhead, I give him a tour of Forks. We stop at the post office so he can send mail and then stop by the visitor center and take a selfie with a life-size cardboard cutout of Edward Cullen. And then the tour is over, because there’s not a whole lot to see in town.

Our plan is to hike from Rialto Beach to Cape Alava, the northern section of the Washington coast. At Rialto Beach, we luck out with a parking spot despite the full lot, and after a stop at the toilets start wandering down the beach toward camp. Good news: we get along great. We talk about teaching (he’s a professor), books, distance hiking, and a million other things. We’re laughing a lot. He’s spent the last 31 days with very little human interaction, so despite being introverted, he’s happy to chat. I am chatty, period. This is a good match! We ooh and aah at the beach and talk about how this is such a great way to end his trip, with easy miles in a beautiful place. 

We reach our first camp area past Hole in the Wall and tried to suss out where to stay. Despite the fact that it’s only 1 pm, a lot of campers already seem set up for the night. An older couple had claimed 50–or more—feet of the beach, and as we try to see where we might be able to stay without disturbing them, they keep trying to dissuade us. “We’ll have three tents,” they say. “There will be a three month old!”

We keep looking around and considered a site on the other side of their rock, then the other side of their tree, when the man in the couple comes up to us and says he found a good spot for us. Toby is skeptical but I go look, and it was genuinely cute – tucked behind a big driftwood log and with its own wooden wind chimes.

We set up camp there for the night, and wander around the water and tide pools remarking on anemone and crabs and colors. The sunset is lovely.

I haven’t packed enough water, assuming that of course in the northwest we would have no trouble finding any, but that’s not the case on this stretch. Toby has enough water to give me a liter, so we don’t worry about it.

“I hope we have enough time to get to camp and relax,” he says about the rest of our journey.

I scoff. “We’d have to take psychedelics and lose hours staring at a tide pool to get to camp later than, like, noon,” I say. I’ve done coastal hiking before, just a hundred miles south along the Oregon coast. It’s tedious sometimes, but beautiful, and not much to worry about as long as your tides are OK.

Eventually, we get in our tents. We talked so much our voices got hoarse, but we keep talking until the sun goes down. 

Day 2: Coves, Capes, and Crawling

Toby has been waking up with first light his whole hike, but between our short mileage day ahead and a midday low tide, there’s no point in rushing in the morning. “I feel like I’m cheating by still being in bed,” he says around 8 a.m., and we laugh.

I pull oatmeal out of my bear can and make breakfast. It’s foggy this morning and we can’t even see the next land protrusion we have to cross ahead. I keep looking out and asking, “wait, is it raining?” because the fog is so thick you can see individual particles, like rain, but it’s not exactly falling. The outside of my tent is soaked. It’s not especially fun packing up a wet tent, but we know the forecast told us to expect better weather later. This is just a marine layer, we tell ourselves.

Around 9 am, we start walking. The first stretch ahead of us is beach, and the sand is a little tedious, but we’re in a good, hopeful mood. Quickly, we reach the next headland and start to encounter not sand but big boulders stacked on top of each other, which we much clamber around and over. Our packs are heavy and throw off our balance, and we quickly give up on trekking poles.

“Is this hiking!?” Toby says. Not really. But we don’t have another word for it. Not bouldering. Low-grade scrambling?

Toby demonstrating the “hiking” technique. No photos from this section do justice to the ass-kicker it was.

We’re using our hands and choosing routes and laughing. We’re moving so slow. Each step is a serious consideration on the boulders – what is stable, what leads to a dead end, what is sneakily slippery. Toby keeps checking his phone GPS and seeing that we’re barely inching along. 

Then the boulders end and it’s back to a pebble beach, a large cape ahead. Cape Johnson. We cross paths with another backpacker who’s come from the opposite direction. He has a British – possibly Australian – accent. Toby asks if he has any intel for the trail ahead. “Buckle up,” he says. It took him about an hour and a half to get around the cape. 

An hour and a half? It’s less than a mile of “trail.”

“That means two hours for us,” Toby says after he passes. We’re no mountain goats out here. We assume he means there’s more of those big boulders.

We continue, climbing over and under downed trees (“blowdown!” we joke each time we see them, because Toby encountered so many blowdowns on his PNT hike) and trudging through pebbles and spring-mix colored seaweed that smells like rotting ocean. Another couple of backpackers. One of them is smoking a cigarette. They say they’re doing an out and back, heading out now. They carried a gallon of water. They’d rounded the cape yesterday at high tide. They look beat, but we don’t have a gallon of water in our pack, and we don’t have to cross at high tide, so we don’t take their exhaustion too seriously. We commiserate and then continue. At least it’s not high tide! We think.

In fact, we’ve planned tide perfectly — we head around Cape Johnson at exactly low tide. Despite that, we quickly realize this cape is not fucking around. Yes, it is covered in boulders that you have to climb up, around, sometimes leading to dead-ends or cliff-outs where you have to descend again and reroute. But now, in addition to being big and sometimes unstable, the boulders are slick. Even when you find a stable rock, there is no solid footing.

We are using everything. Our hands and knees. Counter weight. Several times we just sit down in order to descend. My quads are confused. My glutes are on fire. It’s like doing weighted single leg squats on dish soap, I tell Toby later.

But we’re laughing to avoid crying. And Cape Johnson is so long, so big. “It can’t be like this forever,” Toby says. But every time we think it has to be the end, we round the corner to find yet more boulders slick with sea stuff. Toby is experimenting with which seaweed has the best grip. I’ve taken to saying “fuck you, rock!” each time I slip, which is every three steps or so. 

“I’m a pretty positive person on trail,” Toby told me the first day. But by an hour into Cape Johnson, even he is starting to swear. Where is our beach walk? Where is his easy meander to the end of his journey? The views? There aren’t any, it’s too foggy. 

I took hundreds of photos on the trip, and almost zero on Cape Johnson. There wasn’t time for photos. We were just trying to survive. I envisioned slipping and hitting my head against the rocks at least a dozen times.

These are the mildest rocks we saw, which is why I was able to take a photo of them.

Sometimes the only thing to do is slide on your butt.

By the time we can see the end — by which I mean, the end of the slippery slick boulders and into the pebbles— Toby apologizes for having invited me. “I had no idea it would be like this!” he says. 

No, no, I’m having fun! I tell him. Well. I hope I am having fun, like type 2 fun, but I’m not sure yet. 

We pass a group of three backpacking women. “How is it up ahead?” We ask them. They tell us about water sources near our campsites — that they had to do a ten minute scramble for just a trickle of water. Lovely. Instead, they say to look for a better stream a half-mile before camp. We warn them about the cape, and one of the women jokes, “I’m just going to turn around and come back with you.” Honestly? I wouldn’t have blamed her.

Once we get into the pebbles, I make us stop for snacks, which I’ve started to call “emotional support food.” I feel spent both physically and psychically. It felt like being on high alert, watching every single step with no relief. We’ve made almost no progress toward camp—maybe 0.7 miles in two hours. I am feeling raw, scooped out. But lunch helps, and it’s like I can feel the calories squirting hope back into my cells.

Still, there’s more to come. We can see more pebbly beaches that make each step five times slower. More “rock hopping on steroids” as Toby called it.

We pass a couple and trade intel. After saying it’s still slow going ahead for us, we continue on, and just as we start up yet another set of full-body boulders, the man calls out from where we’d last seen him. “There’s a beautiful beach ahead!” We yell back our thanks, but honestly? I’ll believe it when I see it.

After some more rocks, we reach a grey beach with compact sand, and our feet feel like new feet. We’re flying. Camp still feels so far away, but at least we’re moving. Only minutes pass before we get to our next challenge of the trail: our first overland crossing. A thick rope dangles from a 30-foot arm made of dirt and sand, and Toby goes first ascending. At the top, just as I am finding my footing and trying not to let myself panic, Toby yells out, “you’re going to be so happy to get up here!”

At the top, I see why. It’s the beautiful beach walk we’d expected of the whole trip. Lovely yellow sands. Compact lower beach. But first, we have to descend, which Toby does with confidence and I do with… less confidence. “Film me!” I say, thinking it will make a good keepsake. Instead, I stop half-way and start repeating, “I don’t like it!” before deciding to scoot down on my butt with the support of the rope instead of trying to walk down facing the wall.

On solid ground, Toby says, “I am so much happier!” It’s 2:30 pm and the clouds have finally burned off and it’s our own solitary paradise. But again, it’s not long before we reach another overland route. This time the descent is three times as long, roped again, but it leads to yet another lovely beach. 

Better yet: it’s the last major adventure before camp. We keep a lookout for the stream the women told us to collect water from before camp but we don’t see it. Instead, we get to Cedar Creek.

“Oh shit, did we miss the water?” I say. The creek where it empties into the ocean is dry. All I want to do is get to camp and eat and lay down, but I won’t be able to cook without more water. The last stream we passed was before the last overland crossing. We wonder if we’ll have to climb back up the ropes to fill our bottles. Maybe it won’t be so bad without packs? It would still be exhausting.

Before we give up, we check further up the creek where it parallels the beach, and as we step over the low wall of pebbles, a flat, reflective surface comes into view. Success! A large pool of water, stopped by some driftwood. It’s a little brown, but our filters will handle that.

“A ten minute scramble for a trickle of water,” the women had told us. This was a 30-second jaunt up some pebbles to more water than we’ll ever be able to drink. Hikers: sometimes a great source of intel, sometimes mistaken. Or as I kept telling Toby, “Oh god, I’m so glad they were just dumb.”

Then we look for camp, and luck upon the cutest little spot tucked into the trees just above the beach. One campsite over looks the ocean, and just south of it is a a little breakfast nook made out of driftwood, complete with a marine-debris table, all looking out over the water. We’ve made it. We survived Cape Johnson. 

But what the hell was that? After we’ve eaten and set up our camps—I initially set mine up in a separate campsite but then realize I’ll be afraid of bears all night and instead relocate my tent within a foot of Toby’s—Toby looks at his guidebook to see what we missed. But of Cape Johnson, all the guidebook author has to say is, “Hiking through here is likely to be slower than you might estimate.”

The understatement of the century. But that’s our keyword for what may lie ahead, so Toby scans the upcoming section for similarly underwhelming descriptions. One section, where we know we’ll need hustle to get before low tide, says, “a particularly rocky and slower area of the beach.”

Dang. There is more ahead. But at least we know what we’re getting ourselves into now.

Day 3: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes Your Body Hurt

We wake up feeling better. At least we know what we’re in for, Toby says. My body seems to have recovered overnight, and while I’m definitely sore, I’m moving. I have breakfast and tea. I am flying through my food—I’ll have enough, but I did not overpack.

We start out and we have more big boulders to cross. They’re tough—my legs lack any fo the precision they had when they were fresh, and it feels like I’m swinging big tree stumps around—but at least they’re not Cape Johnson. We take to saying this through the whole day. “I mean, it’s no Cape Johnson.”

The next big section we have to navigate, we run into a father and son. The ground beneath us is rocky but flat. “It’s basically this for the next mile and a half,” the dad says. And he’s right. It’s like getting a brutal, rocky foot massage—but hey, it’s no Cape Johnson.

Instead, most of our concern goes to a section we have to navigate later at low tide: Point Five. The guidebook author has noted this as ‘a particularly rocky and slower area of the beach.” On this author’s scale, it could mean slaying a sea dragon for all we know. So we trudge forward. If it’s not a rocky foot massage, it’s pebbles that make us move at super slow speed. Our steps look like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

One stretch of boulder-scurrying is short, but the last section is still flooded with tidal water, and our only option is to wade through shin-deep pools. Our feet are wet, but who cares? It’s no Cape Johnson. We climb over and duck under blowdowns. We meet large caves carved by waves, which I keep calling “coves”—any inward protrusion is a cove, my brain decides, although we learn later that’s not the real definition—and take pictures, feeling small within them.

There’s beach trash and bottles from Japan, there are more buoys than we can count, there are large rusted pieces of ships whose purposes we can’t imagine. We pass a deer munching on the cliffside plants.

Finally, we reach Point Five, and at first it seems to be another treacherous excursion. The beginning of the route around the Point is being splashed with waves, and we hug the rocky sidewall, which is also dripping with springwater. “This is not the safest I’ve felt on the trip,” I say.

Toby tackling the beginning of Point Five

But once we make it past the slippery entrance, things start to get cool. We have to crawl up and through a four-foot diameter hole in the rocks, which leads us to a kind of Tomb Raider landscape with large dark rocks and spires and more “coves” that aren’t coves.

My fully-wet butt going up through the hole in the rock
Photo of Toby from the other side of the hole
Point Five, which is not at all Cape Johnson

Not long after that, we stop for water, and then we find camp. At first, we explore a tree-covered spot where someone had lined a bunch of rocks and branches up to create a kind of grand driveway to the camp spot, but the spot itself is lackluster compared to yesterday’s. There’s a couple of very low benches and enough spot for tents, but Toby isn’t satisfied, so he checks out a couple of other camps while I sit down.

“The other camp is pretty cool,” he says, so we move. And he’s right: a table and benches, and best of all, it has a swing made of marine debris.

It’s only 4 p.m., but we’re starving, so we eat dinner and then relax in our tents for a few hours before getting hungry again. At our second dinner, a young buck comes wandering through camp. Toby’s OK, but I’ve had my fill of deer encounters for the year, so I keep my distance.

Tomorrow is our last day, but we have a problem: one of the coastal points needs a four foot tide to cross, and the lowest tide of the day is 3.3 feet—and just a half an hour before our shuttle leaves. The timing doesn’t work.

Instead, Toby decides that to get to the trail’s terminus we’ll take the Ozette Triangle trail out from Sand Point to Ozette, then take the trail from Ozette to Cape Alava. We won’t get to see the last few miles of the beach, and we’ll have a longer mileage day, but we’ll still get to the end.

Day 4: Smooth Trails and Shuttle Drivers

It’s a quick beach walk to reach the trail after Sand Point, with a little bit of tide pool hopping, but then the trails themselves are breezy: hard packed dirt and boardwalk with minimal elevation change. We cruise along, still chatting as thoroughly as day one. As we approach Cape Alava, we heard what sounds like a rowdy party, and as we get closer we realize it’s not people—it’s sea lions barking on an island off the coast.

We take a lot of pictures at the terminus, the westernmost point of the contiguous United States. There’s no sign, but there is a big rock and beautiful views. We started early and we have more than enough time.

Cape Alava

After eating the last of our food, Toby sees on the map that there’s a campstore with deli sandwiches and pizza a quartermile from the trailhead where our shuttle will pick us up. It’s motivation enough to get us moving.

We reach the trailhead, use the bathrooms, and walk over to the camp store. At the bottom of the camp store’s driveway a couple of guys are waiting for a hitch—they’ve just hiked the whole PNT. Toby talks with them a while—he hasn’t met very many PNT hikers this year—but then we head to the store and eat a truly delicious deli sandwich. Then we head back to the trailhead, where our shuttle driver is waiting.

I wish I’d gotten our shuttle driver’s actual name, but Toby and I later settle on “Chatty Charlie.” Charlie has lived in Forks his whole life, first working for the local prison for 31 years, now driving shuttles and selling commercial chanterelles. He hasn’t hiked the coast since the 5th grade, so he doesn’t seem so interested in our stories about slick rocks and tides. Mostly what Charlie loves is fishing, and everything on the peninsula relates back to it. The buoy where the halibut catch is good, they bay where the silver salmon jump, the watering hole where his daughter nearly caught a 45-pound fish when she was barely 45 pounds herself. We talk about hunting—a buddy of his is going to give him some bear pepperoni, something I’ve never heard of—and the taste of west-side dear versus east-side deer.

It’s the kind of local chatter you can only ever hope to stumble upon, and he tells us where to get milkshakes, so we head there when we get my car. From there, it’s almost four hours of driving back to Seattle.

When I drop Toby off, I feel like I’ve made a very good friend, and that I might be hobbling for the rest of the week. It wasn’t the adventure we expected, but we’ll always have Cape Johnson.

Runlikely: The end for now

Hi!

I wanted to update this quickly (because I have another story I’d like to post) to say that, unfortunately, the aches and pains I felt on the last run persisted even after rest, and I had to cancel my 50k plan. In another summer that might have really bummed me out, but this summer I went to Maui and being on vacation in a new place helped take the sting out of the failure.

I’m several weeks out now and haven’t attempted much running since, though I think I’ll start back up in the coming weeks. I saw a doctor a couple of weeks ago who said it didn’t appear anything was torn or otherwise significantly damaged—instead it was likely a combination of muscle weaknesses yanking on my knee and IT band. I’ve been doing yoga and pilates to try to strengthen my hips, glutes, and quads enough to hike, which seems to have worked.

This year, the 50k did turn out to be, unfortunately, unlikely. But there’s always next year or the one after that. This year I learned what it felt like to hike/run 22 miles with thousands of feet of elevation gain. I ran/hiked a 48 mile week, the farthest I’d run in a week by far. I failed, but I still accomplished a lot. That’s the whole point of trying.

So the 50k adventure is over for now. Thanks for following along. There are more adventures to come.

Runlikely: Triumph and Despair

The first bad sign of the long run was that the pond I’d been planning on refilling my water at was dry. Last week it had been full and flowing from the snowmelt, but clearly the once-in-a-millennia heat wave had done it in.

The second bad omen was that, in order to reach more water, my options were to turn around miles ahead of schedule, or to add an additional 1,000 feet of loss and gain to my day in order to reach a stream and pond that I could see on my map.

The third bad sign—always in threes, you know—was that, as I started down the “fun” part of my day, the part where I get to cruise downhill for miles and miles, my knee started to ache. And ache. And ache.

As of the last post, I’d just had two back-to-back low mileage weeks, and had managed to get my training plan back on track. It was going well. In that bravado, I looked at my training plan and decided that Saturday (July 3rd), I wanted to try to get to 23 miles, just so I knew what my legs would feel like.

In a further demonstration of blind confidence, I wanted to run a local 19.5-mile race the following weekend (July 10), so I knew what the mental and physical experience of being a slow runner in a race would feel like. Did I start shit-talking myself? Were there other slow runners? Did the aid stations close up before I ever arrived?

So Saturday, July 3rd, I head to my usual course and start out. It was going fine. I got up the mountain the fastest I’d ever gone up it, even though I wasn’t pushing super hard. If any parts of my body were bothering me, I don’t remember it. I do remember that it was warm-ish, and that I found myself thinking, “Huh, I should probably eat something” and then very quickly, “Nah, I’m not hungry yet.”

As I mentioned in the intro, the pond I’d been expecting to refill my water at was bone-dry. I ask a couple of hikers if they’ve seen any water on their route and they say no. I have half a bottle of water left, so I’m not in an emergency situation, and even still, I could have made it back to my car without water—uncomfortable but doable.

My options are to go back down the mountain a few miles to where there was a mossy spring dribbling off the mountain, which would have put my planned 23-mile day at 16 or so miles, or to follow a route down to a pond I can see on the map. I opt for the pond. It’ll be an adventure, it’ll get me to the right mileage, and what’s an extra 1,000 feet of elevation? No biggie.

Just descend and ascend 1,000 feet in the sun, it’ll be fine.

The trail is clearly less traveled than where I’d just been, and I don’t see any other hikers. I do see a lot of bear poop. I’m not a bear poop expert, but it strikes me as being at least a few hours old, which is less comforting than you’d hope. I pull out my earbuds and play my podcast out loud instead, and every few minutes yell out “Hey bear!” You know, just in case.

I find the turnoff trail for the pond but it is steep and narrow and unmaintained, and it looks like an ankle twist waiting to happen, so instead I keep going further down the initial trail because my map suggests I’ll cross a stream. Luckily, there is a stream—not where the map says it would be, and the trail the map suggests is beyond the stream is completely overgrown, but I’m able to refill my water. I spend the whole time convinced I’m being watched by a forest animal, so I start talking loudly.

“I’m tough!” I yell out.

“You don’t want to mess with me!” I say, filling my water filter from the stream.

“I’ll be leaving in just a second!” Hunched over my water bottles, screwing their lids back on.

“Please don’t eat me.” I say, buckling my backpack as I start walking back up the trail.

The hike back up is fully exposed and it’s warm and I’m glad there was water down there. Once I get back into the shaded trail, I see a frog hop into the debris on the side of the trail and stop for a video.

Despite having an iced latte at breakfast and drinking all of my water, I realize I haven’t peed all day. I step off the trail in one of the few flat sections and pee, though it’s not much. Huh, I wonder if I’m dehydrated, I think.

I reach the downhill section and start to jog. It’s going OK, but there’s a weird ache in my knee, and I can feel a blister forming on my foot. Or, more likely, it’s already there. I keep going, and the ache is persistent in my knee. Then on one step, it feels like my knee cap is stuck. Another step feels like my knee cap is sliding weirdly across my knee. Another step and there’s a kind of click of tendons in the back of my knee.

What. the. heck.

It’s not a sharp pain and I’ve still got at least seven miles to get back to the car, so there’s no much to do but keep going. I jog in bursts and walk in bursts and realize I won’t be adding an additional mile at the bottom to reach my 23 mile goal as I’d thought. I haven’t eaten much. Am I bonking, is that why I feel like shit? I start working my way through the snacks in my bag, salty and sweet and fruity. I drink my electrolyte drink. But my legs are losing power, aching, refusing to do anything more than hike.

I get to the spring and refill my water again. I somehow, eventually, reach the Iron Horse. I try to jog it, since it’s a super mild downhill, but my legs downright refuse. I feel like an idiot. I feel defeated. I get back to my car. It took me nearly eight hours to run 21.7 miles. It’s the longest that distance has taken me so far, and it’s the most beat up I’ve felt after a run. I don’t even bother to stretch. I get in my car and think: there is no way I’m going to finish this 50k.

Still, the next day I’d made plans with a friend to go on an 8-mile, 2,500-foot gain hike. I’ve definitely got a blister on my foot, and my knee hurst a little, but mostly my legs feel fine. It’s beautiful, the prettiest hike I’ve done all years, with views of Glacier Peak and Mount Index and several other mountains I don’t know the name of. Another hiker tell us there was a bear ahead but it’s a lot less scary with other people. We don’t see the bear. I eat leftover pizza at the top. My knee and my blister ache on the downhill but I’m going slow and have trekking poles and how bad can anything really be.

Remember hiking? Hiking is nice.

Monday I take the day off.

Tuesday I’m supposed to run 8 miles but when I get to Carkeek, my knee and blister are aching again. Better a little undertrained than a little injured. I go home after two miles. The story I’m constructing in my head is that my knee hurts because the blister is messing up my gait—if I can just make my blister feel better, I’ll be all good.

I pop the blister and let it heal overnight. I try to run again Wednesday, and within two miles my knee and foot are both hurting. With all the hiking I’ve done, popping the blister usually works. I go home. I really hope I can figure this out by Saturday, when I’m supposed to run 19.5 miles. I just spent $60 on the race. I’m going to feel like an idiot if I just wasted that money.

I take Thursday off. Friday, I buy some special blister bandaids and try to run again. At first, it’s going OK. My blister seems to be protected by the bandaid, my knee doesn’t seem annoyed. But then, just as I get over two miles, my knee starts to feel hot, and the blister starts to sting.

So my Saturday 19.5-mile race clearly isn’t going to happen. There are no refunds available, but you can reschedule—there’s another 19.5-mile race on the same course in late October. I reschedule. Who knows if I’ll be in any kind of running shape by then, but at least it doesn’t feel like such an immediate loss.

But it’s Sunday now, and though I woke up without any knee pain, my knee started to ache as I drove during errands. It’s the inner part of the knee. There’s nothing sharp or particularly triggering, there’s no bruising or swelling, and I seem to have full range of motion. It kind of reminds me of a day-old burn—left alone, you wouldn’t know there was a problem. But if you slap it or brush it against something or put it under hot water, the sting comes back. It’s not healed yet.

So I’m hoping that means it will be a relatively quick recovery period—that a few more days of rest and I might be able to continue training. But I am concerned that this many low-mileage weeks could be the final nail in the coffin for the 50k. I’m supposed to start tapering this week, but what is tapering amid a (hopefully minor) injury and several low-mileage weeks? I’m not sure.

And the thing is, when things don’t go well, it’s hard to keep motivation. I’m not getting the emotional top-up from sticking to my schedule, and so my mind starts to wander. What if I just don’t do this 50k? What if I buy a bike? What if I just hang out for a while—remember what it was like to have leisurely Saturdays? My brain really doesn’t like the in-between spaces where I don’t know what my goal is. I like to be working on something, and waiting and resting and hoping my knee will recoup does not have the same level of satisfaction. It wants something to be working toward, even if it’s another goal entirely.

Add to that, on Tuesday I head to Maui with Mark. It would have been hard enough to stick to any kind of training schedule on vacation if training were going well, but it’ll be interesting to see which ends up being a bigger problem: my knee or my motivation.

I do have the option of canceling my hotel room near the race until just a few days ahead of time. If my knee is still busted, that will be the clear choice—I’m slow enough without nagging pain. But it would be a real bummer to have spent so many months preparing for this race to just… not even get to the starting line.

But it wouldn’t be the first time I’d tried really hard and failed. There’s always next year (this mortal hopes), there’s always longer, slower training blocks, there’s always other dreams and other hobbies and other fun to have.

In the meantime, if I have to snorkel and surf and eat shaved ice as cross-training… well, that’s a burden I’m willing to carry.

July 4 Weekly Goal: 45 miles
Actual: 48 miles (8 purely hiking)
Elevation gain: 10,000 feet

July 11 Weekly Goal: 32.5 miles
Actual: 7 miles
Elevation gain: not even worth counting

Runlikely: In Which the Training Plan Falls Apart

I ran my first 41-mile week. I ran my first 21-mile day. One of my feet aches on the outer edge intermittently, particularly on trails in my trail shoes. But the good news is: it’s now a cut-back week, which means that I’m only supposed to run about 28 miles, a significant downgrade from the week before. The purpose of cut-back weeks while training is to give your body a chance to recuperate, and clearly my body needs it.

But my foot is bothering me and it doesn’t feel better after my rest day on Monday. In fact, it’s hurting even when I walk, which is no good. So I decide to take Tuesday off from running, too. Better a little undertrained than a little injured, I remind myself. It only moderately soothes my anxieties. Just as I’m about to start catastrophizing about my foot, my back seizes up. I’d done single-leg step-up lunges on Sunday on my kitchen chair. Glute exercises can sometimes irritate my sciatic nerve, and I am paying the price. My back takes my mind off of my foot, and that afternoon I go on a leisurely walk with a friend for six miles. My foot doesn’t bother me.

Wednesday I wake up and my foot hurts as I walk around the house. What the hell, I think. I convince myself I have cuboid syndrome, when a bone at the base of your toe bones gets slightly dislocated, or so the internet tells me. I follow YouTube videos for how to pop your cuboid back into place to no success. I try to find a physical therapist or podiatrist who can see me, since it can apparently be fixed with a manual adjustment pretty easily, but everyone’s booked for months.

I’m frustrated. What am I going to do? I can’t imagine choosing to run my weekly miles if my foot aches with every step. But by the afternoon, my foot isn’t bothering me, and I’m so agitated that I decide, screw it, I’m going on a run.

The run goes fine. What the hell.

The next day, Friday, I decide to do my cutback long run of 14 miles. It’s a beautiful day and I decide that even if I can’t do the exact mileage, I want to go somewhere pretty, so I head up toward Bellingham and watch paragliders take off at an overlook near Oyster Dome, then hike up Oyster Dome and run around Lily and Lizard Lake and then back to my car. It’s just under 13 miles and 3,000 feet of elevation gain, and my foot doesn’t bother me. I do have to take an emergency poop a tenth of a mile before I reach my car. You win some, you lose some.

Sometimes views matter more than miles. (This is a screenshot of a video, I am a nightmare.)
I had some serious fun on the downhills

The next day I fly to San Diego to visit my dad and hang out with one of my best friends, who is flying in from Chicago. On Sunday, I run my scheduled 4 miles. On Monday my best friend flies in early, and we get breakfast and swim and check into our Airbnb, and I still manage to get in that day’s scheduled 8 miles. I am killing this vacation schedule! I am a running master!

Tuesday we take a surf lesson. I manage to stand up several times (amazing!), our instructor pushing us back into the waves again and again, having to drag our surfboards against a cross-current while shuffling our feet against the sand in case of stingrays. By the end, I am totally beat. And starving.

It takes us ages to get back to the Airbnb, shower, and then head over to Mission Beach to try to find lunch. There’s a 20 minute wait for the place we decide on, and so we share a pretzel while we wait. We are so goddamn hungry. When we finally sit down, I inhale a salmon sandwich and fries. I need a nap. I’m supposed to run four miles. We want to go ride the rides at Belmont Park. It quickly becomes clear: I’m not going to be running those four miles.

Wednesday we surf again, and this time I am sore but primarily fatigued. The instructor is less hands-on and it’s harder to get on the board and my wetsuit is looser so I keep ending up with water trapped in water balloon-like pockets in my ankles and arms. But I hired a photographer to take photos of me and my friend so we persist. I stand a few times for a few seconds. I think I love surfing?

Afterward, I am beat. I’m supposed to run six miles, or maybe those four miles from yesterday. I don’t do either. There isn’t really time. We have to shower and then drive up to Oceanside for dinner plans we made.

This is not running.
This is not running and it is also not surfing.

I’ll get up early and run Thursday morning so I don’t get too far behind in miles, I tell myself. That is a lie. I watch Too Hot to Handle with my friend instead, a reality show about shallow sex-crazed people who are enticed not to have have sexual contact with each other for the chance to win $100,000, which my friend and I both agree is probably not enough money to entice people to do anything in this economy. Then we have to go to the airport.

At home, Seattle is experiencing a once-in-a-thousand-years heat wave. Friday, I manage to run five sweaty miles.

I’m supposed to run 17 miles on Saturday, and I get up and go to Cougar Mountain. IU start sweating even as I run downhill. I am chugging water. By 9 a.m., it’s 90 degrees. I can barely manage even my slowest shuffle without feeling like I’m going to die. I’ve run five miles, and I call it.

Instead, I pay a local gym $15 for the use of both their treadmill and their air conditioning. I run three miles on the treadmill, then do the stairmaster for 30 minutes, then run on another treadmill for three more miles. I put on the lame slow-moving trail experiences on the treadmill TVs and move the incline up and down to try to feel something, but the only thing I feel is an abiding hatred for treadmills. (OK, and my heels hurt.)

Sunday at 6 a.m. it’s already in the mid-70s. There is no way I am running. The only exercise I get is moving our two fans from window to window to try to cool the house down and hanging a black comforter in front of the sliding glass door to try to block out the sun.

I was supposed to run 39 miles. I managed 24.

That leaves my stats at:

Cutback weekly mileage attempt: 28
Actual: 24

Non-cutback week plan: 39
Actual: 24

Luckily, or perhaps I should say hopefully, ultramarathon legs aren’t built or lost in a single week. I’m writing this on the Thursday before the next scheduled long run (a 19ish miler), and I’m glad to say that since the heat broke on Tuesday, my running is back on plan.

This will be one of my two final training weeks, and then I’ll be tapering. (In Maui.) (If the last week has taught me anything it’s that my taper might be more taper-y than my training plan would recommend.)

I’m four weeks out from the race. Completing it within the cutoff still feels pretty unlikely. If the Pacific Northwest gets a heat wave on race day, I’m toast. As I’ve told many friends recently: don’t ever let me sign up for a summer race again. I am a winter runner.

But regardless, I am real ready to have my Saturdays back. I likely won’t run for August (recovery and also backpacking plans), but I’m hoping in September I’ll be running again, though at a much reduced weekly mileage.

Two more weeks of this dedicated effort, and then I have to hope my legs have enough endurance in them to cross the finish line.

Runlikely: Long Slow Hungover Distance

My scheduled mileage for the long run this week was 20 miles, but for the 50k race, I need to hit just about 21 miles in under 6 hours and 30 minutes in order to make the cut-off. So earlier this week, I figured: let’s just go an extra mile to see if you can do that.

But, ah-ha, I turned 30 on Friday. I had friends over Friday night and had two (2) glasses of wine along with a full dinner and cake, but, being THIRTY now, I woke up hungover. That kind of low blood sugar, drained, mildly nauseated misery. I spend longer than intended in the bathroom, pack my bag, and convince myself to get going.

It turns out it was going to be a morning of buzzkills. In the haste of packing my bag, I forgot to bring my earbud. I forgot the bandana that I use to wipe when I pee. (I am reminded why I really need to pack my running pack the night before.) As I approached the trailhead with my stomach churning, I realized I’d eaten spicy food for lunch the day before. Hungover and spicy food? Which God do I pray to for GI distress?

I was 0 for 4 and I hadn’t even started the 21 mile trail run. And my right foot was giving me problems—the outside of it, right where the outer arch turns into the heel, gave me a mild zing with every step.

I’d eaten the usual: a bagel and a latte. This morning the bagel felt weird in my mouth, like the wrong level of salty. It was a sunny day and the high was supposed to reach 73 degrees. The latte felt like it was swishing around in my gut. Is this the run I puke on? I wondered.

This week’s run was the same trail as last week’s, for simplicity’s sake. (It’s not that easy to find 20+ mile trails that have the right elevation gain and no snow right now.) The Palouse to Cascades Trail is uphill from the trailhead but super super gradual. I try to jog parts of it, but the more I try, the more my stomach sloshes. Forget it. I’ll just walk. And walk I do, at a decent clip, turning off onto the Ollalie Trail and starting to go up in earnest. The good weather means the mountain bikers are more plentiful today, and I mostly leave my headphones out so I can hear the whoosh of them coming down the trail.

I try to jog some of the very short flat or downhill sections that come on the way up, but my stomach backs up into my throat. People talk about sweating out hangovers all the time, right? So this can’t possibly last all day?

It doesn’t. By mile 8 or so, I feel OK again. I pass some bikers trying to help a fellow biker with a flat tire. I decide not to try to summit Mount Washington (I don’t need the extra elevation gain) and continue along the Olallie Trail. I call out “Hey there!” over and over again, nervous about the idea of seeing an animal. The mountain bikers—two men and a woman, who I’ll call The Trio—pass me again, which lessens my fear. I catch up to them again as they navigate over a brief uphill snow patch.

“How are you doing?” one of the men asks.

“I’m doing!” I say. “How about you?”

“Well my heart rate is like 300 beats per minute and my cholesterol is through the roof,” he says.

“You, too!?” I laugh and make my way past them. Up ahead, the woman is still riding, and then she stops to wait for them.

When I reach my half-way point and turn around, The Trio is splayed out where the woman has stopped, with one of the men with his feet on the trail’s bank and his back on the ground, relaxing.

“Is there snow up ahead?” the other man asks. They’re planning to go until the snow stops them.

“No snow. I don’t think you’re going to run into any,”

“Oh man,” the man says. “I should have paid you to say the trail was covered in snow!”

I tell them I’m sure they’ll catch me soon and I start on my way back. The trail is mostly downhill, but it’s rocky and my feet are pounding. My shoes have been great—no blisters—but I’m questioning whether they’re too minimalist for long runs. If I really go for it, I’m afraid I’ll bruise my feet should I land on a rock. So I do what I can, shuffling down, down, down. I step to the side as more mountain bikers come up, I jump to the side as they come down.

One young duo passes me on the way up, and an hour or so later they pass me on the way down. “You’re making killer time! We were wondering when we’d see you again!” the woman says. My knees are starting to hurt, and I feel like I’m moving at a snail’s pace, so I appreciate it.

I jog by a mountain biker stopped at a viewpoint. “You’re running this thing?” he says.

“It was mostly a hike up,” I say. “And praying for my knees on the way down.”

Later, he’s coming down the mountain and stops. “How are the knees?” he asks.

“Sore!” I say. He asks if I’m OK, if I’ll make it. “Oh yeah,” I tell him, and then he heads on his way.

About four miles from the car, I head mountain bikers so I step to the side again. It’s The Trio, and they skid to a halt seeing it’s me. “How’s the downhill going?” I ask.

“FUN!” the woman says.

“That’s quite a hike you just did,” one of the men says.

Here’s a mental game I play on these runs: how many people say “have a nice hike!” versus “have a nice run!” To be clear, it’s a nice sentiment either way—I like the pleasantries of the trail—but when someone says “have a nice run!” it definitely gives me more of a boost. Only one person, the mountain biker at the overlook, called what I did running this time. But hey, at least I got one!

I’d escaped most of the day’s heat being up high but as I got back to the Palouse to Cascades Trail, the temperature had risen and it was humid. Since it was relatively flat/downhill, I tried to pick up my pace and somewhat succeeded.

But I didn’t make the 6:30 cutoff I was hoping for. Starting the day with a hangover didn’t help, and my legs being so sore on the downhill made it hard to go fast. Strava also suggested I spent at least an hour not moving, which must have been from saying hi, the few times I looked at a map, stopping to pee, and filtering water.

But hey: I didn’t puke. No catholes were dug (mostly a bonus because the opportunity for cathole digging was limited on the ridgeline.) And I kept moving for 21 miles. Sore, yes, but uninjured.

Long run distance: 21 miles
Long run elevation gain: 3,986 feet
Effort: Easy+
Time: 7:05 (average pace: 20:16/mile)
Emergency poops: 0

It’s also worth saying that the story of the long run is also a story of the rest of the week’s training, too, and this week I was already showing signs of not being at optimal running effort. Tuesday’s run was scheduled at 6 easy miles but I cut it short. I felt beat, and I was moving slow, and the idea of climbing another hill at Carkeek sapped all the joy out of my body. I couldn’t get out of my head or how miserable this run was feeling. I have work to do, I kept thinking. This run is going to take forever. If I was just faster this wouldn’t be a problem. But I’m not fast. I’m slow slow slow.

I knew I had the 21 mile run this weekend, and I figured it was better to cut back a bit on weekday mileage than zap all of my energy (both physical and mental) early in the week. So I told myself: OK, today we’re going to run for time—one hour—instead of distance. One hour ended up being 3.7 miles. I bombed the last downhill which was fun, and then let myself go back to my car.

I think that was the right call, but also, it felt like I was letting myself down. I ran my scheduled run Wednesday, and Thursday, since I’d gotten my work done, I decided to try to make up for Tuesday’s miles by extending the run. BUT I was allowed to go as slow as I wanted. No racing the downhills, no pushing myself to go faster. A genuine, easy pace. So I did, and I made up the miles, and it put me at a 19:06 mile.

I’m not sure if I would have been better off just letting Tuesday’s miles to go or not. Running training feels like a constant negotiation my body, my mood, and a very chatty, a-holeish part of my brain. The loudest, meanest part essentially has one message all the time, every time, which is: YOU’RE SLOW! Whatever other accomplishment I may have made during the training week—bigger miles, managing to run up that one hill, finding a truly easy pace, having a good time—that voice is on the other side of it saying, “Yeah? You feel good about that? Well, you’re still SLOW.”

And the thing is—I am slow. Very slow! Especially when I’m building mileage and doing long runs and trying to keep an easy pace. I am not self-deprecatingly slow, I am factually slow. I know that mentally bullying myself won’t make me less slow, and yet the voice is still there, trying to remind me that for whatever I accomplish out of this running season, it will not be speed.

I am tempted to tie this up in a bow about overcoming that voice, but that’s not really what I’m doing. This week I’ll have run for some 12 hours. Like the rocky trails and rumbling tummies and sweat and heat and uphills, I am not trying to defeat the realities of this training plan. I’m trying to build the resilience to run alongside them.

Total miles this week: 40+ (or will be when I run this afternoon)
Total elevation gain this week: ~6700
Total hours training: ~12 hours and 20 minutes

Runlikely: Squats are Evil

The best part about these write ups is that I can sit on the couch while working on them.

The latest stats:

Long run: 18 miles
Long run elevation gain: 3,494 feet
Effort: Easy+
Time: 5:31 (average pace: 18:24/mile)
Emergency poops: 0

Total miles this week: 38 (or will be when I run this afternoon)
Total elevation gain this week: ~6500
Total hours training: ~10 hours 45 minutes

The good news for me is there was nothing particularly dramatic about this long run. The bad news for you is it’s a more boring story.

I ran up the Olallie Trail with the goal of going to Mount Washington. The first section is a flat-ish uphill on the Palouse to Cascades Trail (formerly known as the Iron Horse, formerly known as the John Wayne Trail). The trail is primarily used by mountain bikers, which made me a bit nervous, imagining I’d be dodging folks flying down the trail.

Starting up the Palouse to Cascades Trail

But the course is open to hikers, too, and the bikers I went by were nice and courteous. The mountain biking angle made the trail pretty fun—a pretty gentle, steady uphill, with little ups and downs and wide, rounded corners which were fun on the way down. And I think the course is pretty similar as far as elevation gain to the one on the 50k, which makes it excellent training ground. And the fact that it’s essentially one trail the whole way helps, too — I think that’s a big reason why I was able to do this one a full hour and a half faster than the 16 miler last week.

On the way up, I kept a steady and slightly relaxed hiking pace and didn’t need to stop at any point. I listened to the final episode of Rabbit Hole by the New York Times, and then switched over to Dr. Death, which I’d started months ago on a road trip but never finished. I grimaced several times hearing about just how terrible this doctor was, and it may have made me step more carefully on the way down (do not fall and need surgery, Colleen, you never know who that doctor might be!!).

I kept meeting a couple of mountain bikers who were stopped for breaks. “You must have got up early!” they said when they rode past me on the uphill. Then I caught them again just before the trail descended briefly. “It’s you again! Bet you can’t catch us on the downhill.” And then finally I met them where their ride ended. “There she is!”

Maybe it’s dumb but I’ve always loved these interactions outdoors, and I missed them during the pandemic, when people were much more cautious about interacting with strangers. Most of it is that I really like people, and I like the small comraderies of doing a hard thing together, even if you’re doing it separately. But part of it, too, is a bit of magical thinking: when I know there are people ahead of me, my brain relaxes and thinks that I won’t have any animal encounters, or more specifically, won’t be mauled by a cougar or bear. (Or charged by a deer, which has now been added to my mental fear bank.)

Of course, this doesn’t make any sense. Having a mountain biker a mile ahead of me doesn’t mean a bear can’t decide to wander down to the trail, or that a cougar isn’t watching. (I mean, I do like to think they steer clear of active trails much of the time, but on the other hand there was a cougar so aggressive at the Mount Baker Trail I used to frequent a couple of years ago that they shut the trail briefly, so…)

But I’ll take the respite from worrying about animals, and when I passed those mountain bikers, I didn’t know if anyone else was on the trail ahead of me. So my brain started creating spooky stories. I thought I heard a rustle and spun around, spotted what I thought was a bear, and jolted—only to realize it was a tree stump, like the dozens of tree stumps I’d passed all day. As I turned off onto the trail for Mount Washington, a narrow little strip of footpath through tall, thin trees, I started stressing that I would hike face-first into a cougar den or bear foraging den. “Hey there!” I called out every five seconds. Just in case the imaginary bear hadn’t heard the last one.

When I got to a steep uphill, just shy of my nine-mile halfway mark and just shy of the summit, I thought: nahhhh and turned around. “Hey there!” I called out every five seconds, again, just in case. I stopped to pee, and then “hey there!”‘d again.

And then ahead of me was another woman runner. “Sorry about all the hey-there’s. I freaked myself out about seeing a bear.”

“I get it,” she said. “Have a safe run!”

The way back down was anxiety-free because I’d already run those trails, so the magical thinking told me there couldn’t be any animals. I also passed several people coming up on bikes or hiking, which helped.

That said, according to my watch, my downhill pace was worryingly slow. Like 15, 16 minute-mile slow. I don’t know if that was a fluke of the watch — I certainly didn’t feel like I was going that slow — or if the trail was steep enough that I was putting the “brakes” on. In which case, I really need to practice getting my feet to move quicker and getting comfortable moving fast downhill, since that’s what’s going to help me make up time from the uphills. It’s a balance, though, because downhill… hurts. Or “hurt” might be extreme, but it’s quite taxing. One of my knees started to ache a little, and my feet were really taking a pounding.

I’d felt really good and strong until mile 10 or 11, but then my muscles seemed to start sending signals to my brain: “hey! we’re freaking tired!” I tried eating a little more, thinking that could be part of it, and eating didn’t seem to hurt. (I’d eaten a bagel for breakfast and drunk a latte, and 3/4 of the way up the trail I’d eaten a ham and cheese croissant. I’d also been sipping Tailwind. After that I switched to the Huma gels I’d brought.)

But I kept going. My hip twinged a little but nothing too wild. My butt got sore. And as the trail flattened out, I picked up my pace a little. I got to the bottom and then ran further up the Palouse to Cascades Trail, doing a 1:30/30 run/walk to finish off my miles. When I turned to go back to the car, I managed some sub-13-minute miles going down the trail, even though I was very tired and walk/running.

One thing I noticed toward the end of the run is that I was having a trouble getting a deep breath. It felt like I was holding a lot of tension in my torso/chest, and couldn’t quite get my lungs to expand. I’m not sure what to do about that, but something to think about, considering I’d still have another 13 miles to go at the 50k.

As far as the rest of training (and the title of this post) — it was quite humid this week which made my weekday runs kind of miserable. I mean, they were fine, they were just slow and sweaty as hell.

However, on Tuesday, after 6 miles, I decided to add in some “3-minute mountain legs,” which coach David Roche recommends for trail runners. It’s essentially reverse lunges and single leg step-ups onto an elevated surface. He recommends 25-50 of each. I did 15 reverse lunges on each leg, 15 step ups onto a low bench at the park, and then added in 10 side lunges for each leg.

I… was so insanely sore. Walking up the couple of feet of my driveway to get the mail, I groaned and grunted. Steps were brutal. I was hobbling for days. It made the rest of my training week significantly harder (I was recovered by the long run, luckily.) Run 16 miles? Sure, my legs say. Squat 15 times? Forget about it.

Which tells me two things: I could probably really use these to improve my uphill hiking and possibly my downhill running, and also I need to start smaller. (And maybe stretch those muscles right afterward.) I’m going to try doing them today after my run, and depending on how sore I am, again on Tuesday, so that I don’t ever end up sore on my long run from lunges.

Runlikely: Charged by a Deer

Miles: 16
Elevation gain: 4,131 feet
Effort: Moderate (I tried to keep it easy but what is easy about 4,000 feet of elevation gain?)
Time: 6:50 (average pace: 25:27/mile)
Emergency poops: 1 but not quite an emergency

I woke up this morning to a dream I was starting a backpacking trip and was trying to stuff a bunch of things into my pack last-minute, which wouldn’t fit, so I was stuffing them to a garbage bag strapped to my backpack before realizing I didn’t actually need a double sleeping bag in addition to the sleeping bag that was already in my backpack. And I could probably leave behind the takeout container full of Chinese sautéed pork, too.

I don’t know what the metaphor there is other than perhaps I was feeling out of my depth about this mileage. Still, I got on the road at a reasonable hour, grabbed a bagel and latte to try to repeat the no-gut-problems success of the last run, and headed to the Highpoint Trailhead for a day spent running around Tiger Mountain State Forest. At the trailhead , the coffee meant a trip to the porta-potty that I hoped would tide me over for the whole run.

I started the run on the very flat Tradition Lake trail to warm up and then headed up the Tiger Mountain Trail. Honestly not a ton to say about it: green, mossy, pretty typical PNW. Climbs to nowhere in particular. There was a very cool, long bridge over a creek that was so covered in greenery that I couldn’t see it but could hear it.

My nipples start hurting for reasons I don’t understand (is it because it’s cold? are my water bottles cold and making my nipples colder? are they chafing?) but rather than try to understand the exact mechanism, I pulled Aquaphor out of my pack and slathered them and called it good.

Very quickly I realize, uh, wow, this is a lot of elevation gain I’m racking up here. According to my watch I’d climbed ~2,000 feet in the first 5 miles (and the first mile was flat.) As mentioned, the ups and downs are… pretty pointless. I couldn’t see through the trees or anything, so as I get to mile 4.5 I text Mark to let him know my plans have changed. I’m not going to do an out and back on the Tiger Mountain Trail—the idea of turning around at mile 8 just to tackle these ups and downs again sounds not very fun. Instead, I’m going to make a loop out of the multiple trails that go around the park.

The first adventure was to tack on a summit of Tiger Mountain 2, which essentially consisted of a big radio tower. There was an itty bitty view through the trees.

A hiker had told me it was only 20 minutes further to Tiger 1, so I figured: OK, there next. This meant running down a steep dirt road, and then huffing and puffing up a steep dirt road.

Just as I was laughing about how ridiculously steep the road got (which I did not capture well in photos but I would have been nervous to drive a car up it), I turned to my right and, WHAM!, Mount Rainier was out in all its glory.

That was a great mood booster, since I didn’t know if views were going to happen on this run. I got a cheesy photo of me and the mountain and then kept going. There’s a fun Hiker Hut at the top made out of metal with benches inside. I can’t say I’d be eager to stay there but maybe if I was caught in a storm.

So far, despite the elevation gain being more than I expected, I’m feeling good. It’s great temperature for running, the weather is nice, I just got to view Mount Rainier, and the rest of the trail won’t be a repeat of things I’ve already seen. Delightful! I head down Poo Top Trail—it’s narrow and rooty along a tree-covered ridgeline and relatively steep, so I’m not moving super fast, but I’m having a good time. I descend about 500 feet and am a stone’s throw from a road crossing when the title of this blog post becomes relevant: I come across a doe and her fawn.

I don’t often see big wildlife on trail. I’ve never seen a bear in the wild. I’ve never seen a mountain lion. Despite hiking in Arizona regularly and 700 miles in the California desert on the PCT, I’ve only ever come across three rattlesnakes. I consider this lucky because I have no interest in screwing with wildlife, especially when I’m on my own.

I have, however, come across deer on hikes before. It usually goes something like this:

*sees deer* “Oh!”

*deer jumps away immediately to safe distance*

So color me confused when this mama dear and her fawn do not head for the hills (or the downhill, in this case) when they see me. I backed up and tried to give them space, but they kind of just kept lingering in the same spot. At one point, the doe went into the brush just off to the side, and the baby tried to follow but quickly jumped back on trail. (That baby almost looked too tiny to deal with the underbrush, but I am not a deer scientist, so what do I know.) We are at an impasse. I don’t want to hike 500 feet back uphill in the wrong direction (I don’t want to do it so much that if the thought even crossed my mind, my brain immediately dismissed it as a plausible course of action. Hike uphill to avoid a male deer? A moose? A bear? Sure. But not a doe.)

“Go on!” I keep telling the deer. But she’s not moving, and I’m sure as hell not going to walk up to 120+ pound wild animal with its baby.

So, I decide, I will be the one to trudge down the mountainside into the fern and poky green-leafed things and what I really hope is not poison oak (I am not a botanist either, clearly.)

This was a dumb idea. Because even though I knew I was not trying to harass these deer, this doe did not know that, I would come to realize. I shuffled down the side of the mountain some 15 feet to where there were some trees I could use to balance as I tried to make my way parallel to the trail. As I got just past where the doe was (I couldn’t see the fawn anymore) I said again, “Go on!” Nothing. I don’t know why I thought telling her to go, like a neighborhood dog, would do anything to encourage her to move. I tried again, “Go on!”

At some point, I either say “Go on!” one too many times or tried to move in a way she didn’t like, and in a flash, the doe charged down the hillside at me.

While I could tell you what to do in the face of black bear and mountain lion with some confidence (make yourself big, yell), and even grizzly bear (back away slowly saying “woah bear,” have bear spray ready, uh, pray), and heck, maybe even sharks (punch ’em in the nose!) I have no idea what you’re supposed to do with a deer. I have never seen a trail sign detailing how to handle deer. I had no idea a deer with no horns would even charge. (Let’s blame the patriarchy for that one.)

So what I did do is yell, “Get out of here!” The doe froze, and meandered back up to the trail. So I tried to move again, and she charged down the mountain again.

“Get out of here!”

We did this probably eight or nine times. Once she charged when I just turned my head to figure out what my next move could be.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking:

I really should have just googled what to do with a deer who won’t move before I trampled down this mountainside.

What is her plan, exactly? To ram me down the mountain? To head butt me to death?

If I have to use the SOS button on my InReach because I get head butted down a mountain by a deer, maybe it would be better to just disappear out here.

I’m considering whether to throw something at her, but having recognized my complete lack of deer-knowledge, I’m not sure if this will scare her off or piss her off more. I’m holding onto a thin little tree for balance and wishing I was behind one of the more substantial trees to my right or left, but whenever I try to move, she charges me.

And she seems to get closer with each charge, and each time I yell at her, it’s like she’s learning: “That’s it. That’s all this dumb lady has. I literally have eyeballs on the side of my head I’m so far down the food chain but even I could be an apex predator next to this dumb ape.” At one point she starts nibbling on some trail-side leaves she’s so unthreatened by me.

So the next time she charges, I yell, and I also break a branch off the tree I’m holding onto and throw it at her. This, finally, seems to spook her enough that she bounds back up to the trail.

To be honest, I don’t remember the sequence of events after that — whether she kept bounding or moved slowly up the trail or whatever, but I am pretty sure that was her last charge. I struggled to grab a few more big sticks in case she decided to charge again and bushwhacked my way parallel to the trail a few more feet before getting back on the trail itself. I carried those sticks for a good half mile before accepting that she wasn’t coming after me.

What Gaia thinks the deer encounter looked like. I wish I’d been able to move that much.

Compared to getting charged by a deer, the rest of the run was uneventful. I had to dig a cat hole around mile 10. I summited Tiger 3. On the way down back toward the trailhead, I started down a trail that said “unmaintained.” Another trail runner was headed up. I asked how the trail was.

“Rough,” she said.

“Like, terrible?”

“It’s not too bad, but it’s about 2,800 feet in 1.2 miles.”

“Oh, nope,” I said, marching back up the short distance I’d come. “I’ve had enough of that today.”

The way down Tiger 3 wasn’t exactly gentle on the knees/quads/spirit, but better than that, at least. I got back to the trailhead and had only gone about 13.5 miles, but managed to rally to run the Tradition Lake trail again (this time to the end) as well as the flat Bus Trail. This time around I realized why it was named that.

I didn’t read the trail signs but my guess is it’s because of the giant bus.

That is, by far, the most beat up I have felt after a run so far. It feels like someone has bludgeoned my legs. On the way home, I picked up a gyro and fries and a root beer hoping to undo some of the damage with pure calories—I should have probably had a full sandwich or something on me instead of just the Tailwind, gels, and banana that I did. (I also had a granola bar but it would probably take several more hours of starvation before that sounded appetizing.)

After I got home, I looked up what you’re supposed to do with deer. It sounds like it’s pretty rare for a doe to be aggressive with a human, even when her fawn is around, so lucky me. (It’s more common when there’s a human and a dog.) But does can be aggressive in the spring with their new babies and bucks get aggressive during rutting season. And in case you see one, the internet has informed me the best practices are, in this order:

  1. Hike your stupid ass back up the mountain, even if it means an extra 500 feet of elevation gain and the trail turnoff is RIGHT. THERE.
  2. Climb a tree, if you’re lucky enough to be near a climbable tree and have the speed to climb a tree as a deer charges you.
  3. Act big and shout
  4. If it does ram you, curl into a ball and cover your neck to protect the important stuff and hope they go away.

(Summarized from here.)

But throwing a stick (at a DOE!!! I wouldn’t even try it with antlers) didn’t seem to hurt.

Runlikely: Trail Training Starts

Whoops. I know it’s been a bit. I went out of town to visit my aunt and didn’t bring my laptop, and then figured I might as well wait until my next long run. So here we are.

The basic update is that, instead of running almost exclusively on roads (there’s a .5-1 mile section of trail I like to run on my neighborhood loop but it’s mainly pavement), I’m doing 2-3 runs per week on trails, including my long run. And that… has upped the difficulty. Trails slow everybody down (maybe especially me), and there are lots of little muscles waking up for the first time in this training round.

I got through all my scheduled runs while visiting my aunt (3/5/3/11/3 for a 25 mile week), including a long run near and around Tully Lake. That 11 miles took me up to the top of Tully Mountain (a 600′ elevation gain, which is small by PNW standards) then back toward the lake and around it. It went fine! No emergency pit stops, I brought enough food and managed to fuel well, and I found a groove that had me cruising the flats and downhills.

Miles: 11.5 (on trail)
Elevation gain: 1,306
Effort: Easy (though I struggle to start easy, I fell into an easy pace by the last miles)
Time: 3:33 (average pace: 18:33)
Emergency poops: 0

The view from the viewpoint at Tully Mountain

I was stoked, because I wasn’t sure if I’d have to cut back my mileage to accommodate running on trails. But so far, my body seems game. It helps that I’m not even hazarding an attempt at running uphills at this point and instead am trying to hike them strong. I’ll be doing some hill-specific training drills, but everyone’s advice for your first ultra is to hike uphill and run the flats/downhills, so that’s what I’m practicing in training. (The idea is that the physical cost of running uphill is more likely to wear you out than save you time unless you’re an extremely fit runner—and there are uphills that even elite runners would choose to hike to be more efficient.)

That said, this elevation gain was a little less than what I’d be facing on race day (which is 2,000 feet of gain in 7 to 8 miles), and a lot of it was small ups and downs around the lake rather than a steady uphill like I’ll be facing at the race. But there aren’t 1,000+ feet mountains to go straight up in western Massachusetts where I was at, so I did the best I could. A good chunk of this run was dirt roads, too, which is way less technical than most single track.

Some stuff that worked on this run is I tried out Tailwind, which is a supplement that is supposed to provide all of the electrolytes and carbohydrates that you need while running—and it’s supposed to be a type of sugar that’s easier on the stomach. I’m not sure if it’s the Tailwind that meant my stomach didn’t turn into knots, or just the more varied terrain/pace of trail running, but it tasted good. I ate breakfast (bagel with cream cheese) about 20 minutes before I started and packed a banana. I had other snacks with me but didn’t need them.

The other real winner of this trail run was the podcast Out Alive by Backpacker, which my friend Wayne recommended to me. They’re true stories about people who find themselves in near-death situations in the wilderness and how they got out. They’re 20-30 minutes long and I’ve been enjoying the heck out of them. (I am very open to podcast recommendations for these long runs! I like stuff about the outdoors, and I don’t like True Crime.)

I wasn’t too sore/wiped out after this run (which was on a Friday–three days of running in a row), but for logistical reasons took the next day off, and then ran again on that Sunday. My ankles/calves were very not into it on that run. I’m struggling a bit because I feel like taking a day off makes it very hard for my ankles/calves to get back into the swing of things, but I do need rest days. I fell off of the strength exercises I was doing to make sure my hips are strong while I was traveling.

OK, this week’s long run:

Miles: 14
Elevation gain: 2,352
Effort: Easy-moderate
Time: 4:23 (average pace: 18:50)
Emergency poops: 0!!

First, the good stuff: I ran 14 miles, which is the farthest I’ve ever run, and I did it on a trail. Cool! My stomach was fine the whole time, though I’m now carrying a ziplock, wet wipes, and a trowel in my running backpack. I followed the same procedure as last time: bagel for breakfast, Tailwind in one of my waters, and banana, but I also had a Huma gel and a Hammer gel because I had less Tailwind than I needed. I also had a oat milk latte with my bagel, which, talk about a gamble. But again: fine! No tummy troubles whatsoever. And the Out Alive podcast was a great companion again, although I have now binge-listened to every episode and will need to find something else.

Training for the week overall had gone OK—I did a five mile trail run with 1,083 feet of elevation gain on Tuesday and tried to do some downhill sprints to get more comfortable running downhill fast. I did a speed workout (3 x 3 minutes fast, equal recovery) on my neighborhood loop, which went OK, and then an easy run that did not feel easy. I couldn’t find a chill pace and kept speeding up and then walking and trying again. My hip was bothering me—I’m assuming IT pain. I’d fallen off of doing the hip exercises a PT recommended to me but have since started again, and am trying to think “hips forward” while running to try to engage my glutes better.

As far as the long run, my ankles were not pleased. I planned to do a “long” warm up by hiking for 10 minutes but they were so mad that I think it took 40-50 minutes before running became even a remote possibility. At one point, I thought: am I going to have to hike this whole 14 miles? No way, that will take me forever. So I told myself if I’d hiked for two and a half hours and my legs/ankles were still not OK with running, I could turn around and hike back to the car, regardless of how many miles I’d done. (The thought being I could aim for a similar amount of “time on my feet.”) But after 50 minute, I started being able to run for extended periods of time and, voila, 14 miles became possible.

I have some funny magical thinking around hiking—I’ve never hurt myself hiking. I’ve been sore, tired, grumpy, blistered, but never injured. So there’s a part of me that feels like hiking is a low-risk activity. Therefore, the fact that so much of this is going to be about improving my hiking means my risk of injury is less. (Having known many people who have hurt themselves hiking, I logically know that’s not true. But the magical thinking is still there.) But either way, my hiking experience is helping with the trail running. If I hadn’t woken up for several days in a row with sore ankles and still been able to crank out 15+ mile days, I would have been afraid to push on this long run.

The trail was uphill that most of the time going in, which I didn’t realize. The elevation gain mimicked the race’s pretty spot-on, which is great. Sometimes the uphills are obvious, other times they look like flat but feel like hell. I only realized some sections were uphill when I ran the way back and realize I was going flying down. Uh, also my butt seemed to be doing a lot of work on this trip. My glutes felt very… engaged.

I wasn’t familiar with the area I was hiking/running, and so I was having to figure out navigation while I ran, too, which slowed me down, though I’m not sure how much. My Garmin gives me the overall time, but Strava often deletes anything where I’m not moving—and for this run Strava cut a full half hour off my overall time (which would have made my overall pace more like a 16:50). So that gives you some indication of how much time it eats up to be like, “wait, where am I going?” I tried to choose a route that was simple to follow (Tiger Mountain Trail) and went far enough, but then there were trail closures not long in and I had to re-route. That meant several miles on dirt roads rather than trails.

Speaking of which, after I turned back from my half-way point, I ran into another runner who was confused where the trail went. “I just spent a half-mile bushwhacking and I’d like to avoid doing that again. Do you know where the trail goes?” So I showed him the map on my phone. He told me he was glad he ran into me, which was nice—I don’t feel like part of the “running” crowd because I’m so slow, but at least I can still be useful for navigational purposes. I’m glad to be vaccinated and able to talk to random strangers without being nervous about being unmasked.

At the end, I was a half-mile short of my 14 mile goal so doubled back to get that last .5. I was wiped by the time I got to my car. Not the most wiped I’ve ever been (last summer after a hike I had to stop mid-way home to eat because I wasn’t sure I’d make it home otherwise), but not as energetic as after the 11-mile run. My bra started digging into my back with the backpack, so I might need to experiment with other bras.

Oh, and my feet. I’ve been getting recurring blisters at the big toe joint of my foot. I have wide feet, but I bought quite wide shoes and so was confused why I kept getting blisters. Turns out, I think it was the calluses I’d developed there. I’m trying to scrub those away so they don’t keep causing problems. And it seems to be working, because despite 14 miles, no blisters. That’s a big win in my book. (Running is such an attractive sport.)

I got home, ate, drank, but didn’t take a nap because I had socializing plans. Today I’d planned to do an 8 mile hike but I’m tired and got a late start – I’m still debating whether to go on a longer hike or a shorter run, and I think I’m leaning toward the latter.

I am still very nervous about making the cutoff times for this race. It doesn’t seem impossible, but it does seem like I’ll have to hope everything goes near-perfect in training. It’s unlikely that my running pace will get much faster by July, but I think it’s reasonable to think that my uphill hiking can get more efficient, and that I can get better at running downhills faster. Those things will help trim time off my miles and make the cutoff possible.

Runlikely: The Humbling Half Marathon

Miles: 13.1
Pace: Moderate-hard, for me
Time: 2:43:41
Emergency poops: 1 (shoutout to the perfectly placed porta potty)

The long and short of this post is: the half marathon went fine!

I woke up early, managed to use the bathroom in the morning (not always a given), wasn’t feeling especially nervous, and got to do a few stretches before the run. Great! The weather was pretty excellent — not raining but not super sunny the whole way. And I hit my time goal (or very close to it) at 2:43 — I’d been half-hoping to get close to 2:40 and basically feel like I managed it.

On the other hand, it was not without its trials and tribulations. Over the last two days, my period had been threatening to start–just a little bit of blood but then it would cease. WEIRD and not a thing I’ve experienced before. So in addition to being worried about my gut, I was also worried I might start bleeding at any moment.

At the beginning of the race, I started too fast, which I do not know how to stop doing, and then eased off into more reasonable paces. But that first couple of miles were rough on my system—my stomach started cramping early and my I felt a weird kind of anxiety in my body, which I think was because the sun was shining directly on me the first couple of miles. I was warm and running too fast and thinking, oh shit, what have I done. What am I doing!?

Once the sun backed off and my pace slowed down, my mind cleared more and I tried to just focus on the run/walk intervals I set for myself. First 2 minutes runnning/30 seconds walking, and then when that felt like too much, backing off into 1:30/30. I thought about standing up taller and increasing my cadence. Most of the time, it just felt like a long run where people cheered me on every once in a while.

Other times, I caught myself thinking: I am the slowest person out here. And I am trying so freaking hard.

I was mostly able to keep those at bay for the first chunk of the race. I kept a couple of runners in eyesight distance and was like, it’s fine, there’s someone else out here about my speed. I was in the first wave of runners who started at 8 a.m., and I tried not to pay too much attention when another wave of runners who had started behind me sped past—or even lightly jogged past. Good for them!

I’d brought tortillas with me as food for the run, because I haven’t had much luck with sugary foods and my gut. (Admittedly I’m still unclear if it’s sugary foods that are making my stomach cramp or if it’s spicy food the couple of days before a long run, but I didn’t want to risk either.) Eating a tortilla while running is challenging, and anyway, it didn’t work. After eating my stomach was like, “who wants to eat at a time like this!?” and started bothering me.

It calmed down after a few minutes, but then when I tried eating again, it bothered me again. Cool. I kept an eye out for porta potties, which the race had said would be along the course, but wasn’t spotting them. Well, better hope I get lucky, I thought. Then I spotted one, but there was a line of a few runners and my stomach wasn’t actively bothering me. Nah, I’ll just keep going, I thought.

And I did, and it was fine, and then I picked up a cup full of Nuun around mile 9. Maybe I needed electrolytes! I thought.

HA.

HA.

Not only did it taste gross (in my opinion), it immediately made my stomach start grumbling again. It calmed down, but lowered to a dull roar of discontent. Like imagine the Jaws music here. I knew there was something in the water and it was getting closer, even if it had not yet ripped off any limbs.

I tried to just focus on my run/walk ratio, and gave up watching my pace and hoping for the 2:40 finish, because now I was just hoping I could finish without having to poop my pants and/or poop in one of the random farm ditches on the side of the road (I had certainly seen other racers dash off to the side, but I’m assuming they were peeing. ASSUMING.)

Luckily, up ahead: a porta potty! With — oh god, was there no line!? My stomach chose this moment to cramp hard, and I got myself into the unoccupied toilet, gave my butthole a moment to unclench, and then got to pooping. “Excellent timing, body!” I told myself.

I was in there for about three minutes (I counted later) and walked out feeling pretty good. My legs were a bit stiff from the lack of movement, I figured I definitely had to let go of my 2:40 dreams, but: I was OK! I had not had to shit in a ditch! And I was not bleeding through my pants!

That said, at around mile 9.5, I was definitely not going to be putting anything in my mouth again, thanks. Figuring out long run nutrition would be a problem for next week’s Colleen. Unfortunately, I probably could have used some carbs, as the last miles reeeeally dragged. I just kept focusing on the run/walk. You only have to run for 1:30 and then you can walk.

And as those miles dragged, I also started thinking: oh God, what have I done signing up for a 50k?

I am not even 1/3 of the way through what I will be doing in a 50k.

This race is FLAT. In the 50k I will have climbed 2,000 feet by this distance.

There is no freaking way I can do a 50k.

Luckily, right in this particular pit of despair, I spotted a friend who had come to cheer me on, Julie. I wasn’t sure it was her — her hair was especially blonde — but she had her two pugs with her, and she was STARING at me. So I stared back. And then she waved and I imagine said something encouraging that I cannot recall anymore. The course went on a detour before doubling back to the start, so it would be a quick walk for her to the end. “I’ll see you at the finish!” she said.

Instant mood lift! My legs moved a little faster, and as I turned toward the detour, I saw two other friends, Natalie and Loomis, and my husband. I waved and they waved back. I’m doing it! I thought.

The next two miles dragged, even though it was the prettiest section of the course, the shaded Lowell Riverfront Trail. Runners were passing each other regularly, since the course doubled back on itself, so people were throwing out “good jobs!” left and right.

But I just wanted to see the turnaround point, where I knew it would be a straight shot back to the finish. Run, walk. Run, walk. Run, walk.

At the turnaround point, I spun around the cone and then started feeling like the end was in sight. I was tired, but I was also passing the (admittedly few) people who were still behind me. “Good job!” I said. Good job good job good job. I started saying it to everyone. And then, as the end came into view, I picked up my pace. I saw Natalie and Loomis and Mark and Julie. And across the finish line I went. Natalie said they were all surprised I was smiling, since other folks had looked really beat. I’ll take it!

Afterward we got some food. I was tired and definitely started hobbling as my muscles cooled down, but it was nothing worse than the day after a hard backpacking trip.

The spiral really started when I got home. Even though I’d done what I’d set out to do — hit the pace I’d been trying to hit, made it through, didn’t feel especially beaten up — I couldn’t get that thought out of my head. How the hell am I going to do a 50k? I thought about how I wish I hadn’t started this blog series because then I wouldn’t have to try, I could put it off for another year, two years, forever. I’m just too slow, I figured. If I’m a 12:30 pace at a moderate-hard effort on completely flat ground, my pace is going to be impossibly slow on trails and elevation gain and over 30 miles. There’s no freaking way.

So I do what I always do when I’m stressed, and I googled the hell out of it. I read 50 reddit threads. “slow runner 50k??” “back of the pack 50k” “chasing the cutoff 50k”

None of it satisfied the part of me that was essentially asking: is this even worth trying, or is this 100% doomed to fail?

And it’s worth saying that it’s not the possibility of failure that bothers me. It’s the possibility that everything could go RIGHT — my stomach could be fine! the weather could be perfect! my legs could handle the terrain! — but that I would just be too slow. For some reason, that activates a very scared, very sensitive part of me. I can accept that crappy things happen that you can’t forsee, and it sometimes changes your plans. I really don’t like the idea that you can prepare, train hard, and not be good enough to even participate.

I posted the question of whether this was possible on reddit, which is a dubious choice, and mostly got encouraging feedback, and then also got feedback that I should already be running 40 miles per week if I want to achieve a 50k and that I’m essentially stupid for not doing that. But I’m pretty convinced that it would be very difficult for my body to maintain 40 running miles per week for more than a few weeks at a time, at least in this stage of my running experience. I’m pretty sure it would be more likely to open me up to injury than success. And I want, at the very least, to make it to the start line.

So after all that, I might be reworking my training plan a little bit to try to get a few more miles in ahead of the 50k, turning runs into hikes when I’m feeling fragile, and even backing off of mileage if I feel like I’m courting injury. I’m back in the boat of thinking: I can at least try. My focus is going to be on maintaining my easy running stamina while trying to improve my uphill hiking, which is pretty weak at the moment, and to not get injured.

But it’s pretty clear to me I’m going to be chasing the cutoff. And as much as it’s going to be physically challenging to run/hike 31 miles in 10 hours, getting my brain to be kind as I try may be the hardest part of all.

Runlikely: The 50k Training Plan

I have two summers of running training to go on, which means I do not have the kind of wisdom necessary to plan my own 50k training. (And arguably won’t have the physical stamina necessary to run a 50k, but we’re gonna keep it positive around here!)

What I do know is that my body doesn’t seem to like running five days a week, and that I need to be careful as I start entering higher mileage for any niggles or exhaustion. Two summers ago I pulled a groin muscle (self-diagnosed; it felt like running with a flat tire) after racing a 5k as hard as I could and then trying to run 10 trail miles the day afterward. Ah, the bravado of inexperience. I’ve read that it’s better to enter a race slightly undertrained than slightly injured, and I’m taking that to heart.

I’ve already had some achilles issues that I had evaluated by a physical therapist, who gave me some very simple stretches and exercises to incorporate, as well as some hip exercises to keep my IT bands from getting angry.

With that in mind, I’m generally using this Couch to 50k training program from Week 5 onward after my flat half marathon May 2. I like that it’s four days a week, with back-to-back runs midweek and on the weekends. It means that I’ll mostly only be giving up my Saturdays to training, where other plans put a mid-distance long run in the middle of week. If all goes well, I’ll be doing weeks 5-12 twice, since I have time, and adding an additional 2 miles to my long runs the second round.

Go read the full post about this plan for more info.

During this training, I’ve got a few trips planned to visit family and friends, and one vacation with my husband. (We’re both vaccinated and will be following all public health guidelines.) I’ve tried to plan those around my lower mileage weeks, but I still have a 16 mile run on the books one Saturday in Hawaii. In July. (Is it possible to have preemptive heat exhaustion?)

Keep in mind I’ll be entering into this having just trained (and run) a half marathon, so I’m not actually starting from the couch. But I am starting from minimal elevation change, which is one part of this plan I’ll have to experiment with. Do I build elevation into every run? Specific runs? Long runs? I’m not sure what my body will tolerate. If nothing else, I’ll be doing shorter runs/hikes that mimic the two most significant climbs on the course (~2,000 feet and ~1,500 feet).

Also, I plan to do plenty of walking/hiking. I’ll be hiking anything more than the mildest climb, running the flats and downhills—with some speed work and hill sprints mixed in occasionally, depending on how my body copes. Ultraruns, from what I’ve heard, can be completed or failed on descents—if your quads aren’t ready for the pounding of downhills, it can end the race for you.

I’ll also be swimming, biking, and potentially walking and hiking as cross training—again trying not to overdo it and respecting the fact that I’m asking a lot of my body. I’ll be trying to mix some strength work into the week, too, but it’s my least favorite activity, so it’ll probably be bare-minimum activity to try to keep easy-to-fatigue running muscles strong. And then yoga/stretching and massage gunning my body as required.

So this is the plan. I like plans, because they give you a direction to head, but if I do this well it’s going to mean sometimes foregoing the plan—namely, backing off when I’m not recovering well. But I think the hardest part is going to be not getting caught too much on my pace, which I’m sure will be discouragingly slow.

I’m trying to remind myself that, even if I come out of this slow and unlikely to finish the race in the allotted time, I will still be in excellent backpacking shape for the season. But only if I don’t hurt myself in the prorcess.