Dukes up against the conventional race recap.

John got me a new cactus, we named him Kruggel. He reminds me to put my dukes up. 

I find most race reports painful reading material. Many describe the course, or the bodily reactions to the course, in excruciatingly fine detail. Race reports, or "recaps," magnify the relevance of the euphoric or dystrophic moments during a race.  This approach neglects the rapturous or dour moments that occur before and after a race. For the sake of writing, I will admit that a race serves as a useful point to stop and reflect. For me, however, the performance of racing feels less like the climax of a story than the conclusion.

The amount of running done in a 50k, 50 mile, and even 100 mile race is minute compared to the amount of running done leading up to the event. Ignoring these important runs is like saying it takes no icing to layer a cake. For instance, when I think of my build up for the Moab Red Hot 55k, I think of bashing my body on ice, the salvation of Massive Attack and Poliça three hours into four hour runs, and following Muprhy's spotted butt along these new Front Rangian trails. Two weeks before Red Hot, I also found myself back in the weight room, a weekly habit I fell out of after graduation in May. I received compliments on my weight room antics from two meatheads, said "Thank you have a nice day," and cooly proceeded down the stairs to the locker room, feeling less cool when my legs seized up on the second step. Lastly, I found myself dangerously close to the too-many-treats threshold while working at the Windy Saddle. I am proud to say I maintained my weight, but ashamed to say I ate approximately 1.5 treats per shift worked.

Photo by  Myke Hermsmeyer

In the grand scheme of things, a 5.5 hour race is insignificant compared to 1-4 hours, depending on the swing of things, of daily training. Few moments during my race stand out as hardly momentous. I started my race out strong by introducing myself to Jenn Shelton, a runner I idolize the most, by saying I started following her on Instagram. I spent the rest of the race berating my awkward self. My thoughts finally drifted to more relevant topics, such as not falling on my face while still managing to run fast, when the terrain became harder than pavement and the slickrock slanted to the right 40˚.

My good friend Myke let me demo the new Ultimate Direction handheld. I enjoyed the luxury of being able to stuff as much as I needed in one handheld, minus squeegeed gel packets which I have a habit of stuffing my bra with. The crinkled tin flatters my physique, but more importantly I could not get this demoed handheld dirty. As compared to the zipper-covered canvas of my usual handhelds, the silk fabric of UD's handheld appealed to my habit of whipping my sweaty forehead and crusty nose. But again, I was looking out for Myke. Beware, the UD bottles act like a spontaneous high-pressured tit upon the introduction of Hammer Fizz.

After the race, I struck up a less awkward conversation with Jenn and felt better about smoothing that over. I found out about John's race and how he skeeee-ooooed each sponsored runner he passed and beat for a solid 7th place. We ended our trip with a short hike to Delicate Arch in Arches National Park with Myke and Ed, then high-tailed it back to Denver to disentangled Murphy from his new girlfriend Kona. I don't think he will be so excited about my small hiatus from running the next week or so, but luckily John is more resilient than I. Moab Red Hot was the first of seven ultras I signed up for this year, compared to the four ultras I've done in my life. I've got to recover and train smart if I want to make it to the start line for the next six, not to mention cross my fingers hard that chasing career goals doesn't get in the way.

Photo by Myke Hermsmeyer

Frigidity through a house with tall windows.

One winter morning the town woke up to yet another winter morning. It was an odd morning though because no one gently awoke to the sound of a furnace clicking on, or water running through radiators. As doors opened to retrieve newspapers, the townspeople felt funny confronted by their same backyards blanketed in snow. It was warm. Awkwardly warm like the first day of the year wearing shorts, when warmth doesn’t feel right on your legs. The birds loquaciously agreed the same way birds complement a pulsing midsummer morning. But it was the same low angle light as the same time yesterday, so there was no reason the day should not go on.

     At school and work, between acquaintances and among passerby, the townspeople’s conversations gravitated to the day’s strange whether. The world appeared as when felt through a vaporous cup of hot tea millimeters from the face. The conversations never stayed long on the topic though because there were tasks to accomplish and progress to be made.

     By mid-day, the morning sky’s tarnished metallic hue grew to the stark cerulean that always contrasted the dull winter earth. The high sun gave the townspeople a warm sense of security. They stopped talking about the weather and focused on plans to enact. The birds took their daily siesta from singing and the snowpack began its daily attempt at melting.

     When the townspeople emerged from and lightened the steel office buildings, headlights blinked on for the drive home. Fine steel wool clouds filled the sky but the usual sharp chill evaded the air. The warm weather resumed its position as topic of conversation.

           

As sure as weather will change, the townspeople continued to experience the funny-feeling weather through the winter. Regardless of how much snow piled over cars, the apparently cold days always felt warm. When spring began encroaching the landscape, the atmosphere recommenced with the biting cold temperatures so ruminated during the storms before.

     The townspeople’s lives had continued as normal. Papers signed, projects pushed, plans delayed. Of course the weather was investigated. Protocol written, funding procured, data analyzed. Interesting things were learned, but in the end the townspeople found it more rewarding to focus on adapting.

     As change in weather continued, the hindsight was the most difficult to deal with. Reality confused the townspeople’ memories so that a warm remembrance was draped in a vale of dark cold. Luckily, the coldest memories began to brighten and warm. It was like living in a whole new world, even a whole new body. It was hard to believe the body could feel one way when the mind remembered another . Gradually, the townspeople’s minds and behaviors adjusted to the change. Progress continued, deals were made, plans impeded and completed.

I recently entered an essay contest for free entry into the Telluride Mountain Run. Of the three essay prompts, I responded to the question, "What is the next big thing to ultrarunning?" You can read the winner's and my essay here. My name is actually Hannah. 

I like to think I lost to the single other entrant because I disobeyed the rules and did not write my essay in one sitting, tripping on Benzedrine. Instead I put it on my to do list, tackled it in ten sittings of five minute each, edited, and re-edited. It's the same way I tackled 15 letters of introduction to professors and 87 cover letters for job applications over the last year. The same way I to-do-listed my way out of college. The slight edge.

For all the technical writings I polished off to the tune of my Glitch Mob Pandora station in the Mansfield library, this essay was the most challenging task I ever assigned in my planner. I kicked myself for losing touch of the creative 8-year-old I once was. I used to write stories, draw pictures, and subject my parents to make believe games. I am proud of everything I accomplished in college, but I would hate to trade in the ability to create imaginary worlds in exchange for the ability to run power analyses.

As nostalgic as barista life is, I am filled with a manic dread that my plans for becoming the scientist I set out to be will fall through. Inspired by a failed essay contest, an attempt to avoid mental listlessness, a current read by a favorite author Annie Proulx, and my cousin Emily's creative writing, I'm trying to write more.