I used to think I did not need professional help to work out my emotional or existential issues. I don’t believe that anymore, especially not after the last election. Like most people I know, I obsess and worry and fret, mostly over things that are not going to change, at least not because I worry about them. Even worse, I then worry about how worrying makes me waste precious moments of life, which is already too short anyway, etc. etc. I end up trapped in this vicious cycle of anxiety like in a spinning hamster wheel, sometimes to the point of waking up in the small hours, worried about the future of humanity, or about something less monumental, like toenail fungus. I used to think I could cope with all these issues, through a strategy of hoping they would go away on their own and self-medicating with chocolate and wine when they would not.

I have long since learned that it’s ok to ask for help with solving life’s problems. Like toenail fungus, most of them won’t go away on their own, no matter how much I try to ignore them. I have learned that it takes courage to face my worries and my demons like a grown-up. So, like many of my now middle-aged friends, I have found a great therapist whom I meet on a regular basis. For the last decade, she has helped me unpack my emotional baggage. She can deal with anything and everything that bothers me, from work-related stress, marital disagreements, and midlife crises to election anxiety, or a sudden proliferation of crow’s feet. In short, she has made a huge difference in my life and my happiness level. I highly recommend her, but realize she’s not everyone’s idea of the ideal mental health professional.

If you decide to give her a try, it won’t be difficult to see her. She always takes new patients, and her schedule is pretty flexible. She gives me appointments whenever I can fit them into my schedule, sometimes on very short notice. She doesn’t even mind when I show up late, and she always lets me stay longer if I want to. I often want to, and I sometimes stay much longer than anticipated.

You should know that her flexibility has its limits. It is more difficult to get appointments with her after dark, or during snow storms. It’s not impossible. It just takes more planning, like stashing a headlamp and a set of microspikes in your car. The only thing my therapist will not do is a home visit. You have to go see her, not the other way around.

Also, she’s a good deal money-wise, at least to a point. Compared to the therapists some of my friends unburden their souls to, mine is pretty inexpensive. Not free, but also not astronomical. In spite of her sensible prices, her office is tastefully, even extravagantly appointed, with color schemes and flower arrangements changing so often it never gets boring to hang out there. One word of caution before you rush to book your first appointment: while her basic treatment plan does not cost much, she will try to sell you extravagant add-ons, like intensive multi-day group retreats in beautiful places. She will use sneaky social-media-based marketing strategies for this purpose, so watch your wallet.

My therapist is so popular because her patience seems endless. She lets me work through my problems at my own pace. She never judges, never criticizes. But listening is only part of the program. Mt therapist does not just prescribe antidepressants. No, she feeds them to me during our sessions, in generous doses. These amazing meds have no side effects, other than, sometimes, sore quads the next day. But she does not hand them out the moment her patients walk in. Usually, it takes at least 45 minutes of intense therapy before it’s medication time, but the effect is worth the wait.

I know what you’re thinking, and you are right. This stuff might be addictive, but honestly, I don’t care because it makes me feel so . . . happy. So serene. So at peace with the state of the world. So intensely alive. You get the idea.

Don’t get me wrong: seeing my therapist is not always easy or fun. There are times when my therapist gets demanding. Sometimes, she gets tough with me. She can make me suffer, like when she literally brings me to my knees. Some of her methods are, to say the least, unorthodox. They include oxygen deprivation, exposure to extreme temperature changes, induced hallucinations, and a kind of mindfulness training with shock-type negative reinforcement that results in bleeding, or in other forms of physical pain.

Some would call her approach abusive. But to be fair, I can abuse her right back, at least verbally. She does not seem to mind at all when I curse or insult her.

Ok, ok, I can tell you’re not convinced. This comes across like my therapist needs to see a therapist. Like she’s a borderline mental case herself. Let me assure you, she is not out to hurt me, though my family and my old friends have expressed concern about my relationship with her. They call it inappropriate and obsessive. They accuse her of encouraging my OCD tendencies, along with my antisocial side. It’s true that I spend way too much time in therapy. I also admit that I sign up for way too many of those expensive weekend retreats I mentioned earlier. Yes, I see less of my friends and more of my therapist than I used to, especially when the days are long and the weather is warm and sunny. But I’ve also made many new friends who, by coincidence, see the same therapist. I don’t think my old friends have anything to worry about, though they accuse me of being in denial when I try to reassure them. But the good thing is, because of all that therapy, I worry much less about trivial stuff, like what other people think of me.

It’s a good time to be alive and running, for therapeutic reasons, or for any reason.

Katrin

PS I would like to thank the TAUR member who posted a lovely photo of a forest trail, with the caption “I went to see my therapist today” some time ago. Your post inspired mine, and you deserve most of the credit.

To say that the Canyon de Chelly is a beautiful place would be a gross understatement. It’s more than beautiful. It’s stunning, yes, but it also has a much more elusive quality. It’s a sacred place for the Navajo People. Even for non-native atheists like me, it’s anything but ordinary. It radiates joy from its red walls. It speaks to the human soul. It echoes positive energy. It seems to exist in a parallel universe, where people and animals live in harmony with each other, and with the rest of the world. Anyone who runs the Canyon de Chelly Ultra gets to spend 34 miles absorbed in this utopian vision, courtesy of RD Shaun Martin, his family, and the Navajo People who graciously agree to share their special canyon with 150 trail runners for a day every October.

Don’t get the wrong impression. The Canyon de Chelly Ultra is more than a meditation retreat. It’s a brutal race. The elevation profile doesn’t look like much to worry about: an out and back course that appears almost flat, except for a short, steep climb near the turnaround a smile 17. I’ve run mountain 100s, a double-digit number of them. I thought this one should be a piece of cake, no, make that a piece of fry bread with honey, in comparison. I was wrong.

When registration for the Canyon de Chelly Ultra opened back in February, the race filled within minutes. On October 8th, those of us lucky enough to get in gather around the campfire at dawn, for a traditional blessing ceremony before the sunrise start. At the pre-race meeting, Shaun has told us how native runners greet the morning with shouts of joy. He know invites us to do the same: “Let it out! When you feel it, whenever you feel that connection, don’t hold it in!” Three, two, one, and we’re off, into the mouth of the canyon, under a sky filled with pink clouds, almost too perfect to be true. I feel like the luckiest woman ever born. The exuberant mood is contagious, and the rising sun smiles on the horizon. Even the skeptics among us seem to know all of a sudden what Shaun was talking about. We yell like maniacs until the deep sand takes our breath away.

I zig-zag, trying to find firm footing, without luck. The first and last few miles of this race are a very long, very deep sandbox. Part of me wants to settle into a slow jog and just enjoy the day, but another part feels ambitious. Having checked out my competition on Ultrasignup the week before, I know I have a decent chance at placing in the top 10. Like two little gremlins sitting on my shoulders, these two parts of me start to argue. Complacency says, in a sooting, reasonable tone: “Oh come on, you’re 46 years old. You deserve to slow down a little, and to just enjoy the scenery.” The competitive instinct, a sly, wily creature, sounds belligerent: ”Hah! Who are you calling old? We can still beat a ton of these young whippersnappers out here!” And so forth, until the competitive instinct wins – this is a race, after all, and racing all out is part of the Navajo running tradition. I don’t want to disrespect our gracious hosts, so I resolve to enjoy every moment of the day while giving the course all I have in me. I try to find a pace that won’t wear me out before mile 5, without letting the lead women get too far ahead.

The deep sand turns into a double track dirt road, meandering around cottonwoods whose leaves are turning golden. The morning air feels crisp. A couple of horses, one grey, one spotted, watch us from just a few feet away, mild curiosity in their eyes. I realize, with a burst of joy, that it’s possible to race hard and still feel the beauty all around me with every step. A familiar ponytail bounces ahead of me. My steps quicken. It’s my nuun teammate Laura Swenson, a very strong runner, struggling a bit today. I pass her, and begin to wonder how many more women are ahead.

The trail narrows to singletrack. A gentle uphill soon becomes steeper. The first-place runner comes charging down like a fleet-footed apparition, waves at me and disappears around the pinon trees. A few more speed demons follow him closely, none of them female. The gnarly climb to the turnaround on the canyon rim slows me down to a hike, up rocky inclines that are almost vertical. Finally, the aid station, manned by an energetic, enthusiastic group of teenage kids. The first place woman is only a few minutes ahead of me, with last year’s winner Christine Garves hot on her heels. I realize I am third, which gives me a jolt of extra energy. The overcast sky keeps temperatures manageable. Resisting the temptation to charge back down into the canyon right away is difficult, but I am smart for once. I sit down to empty about a pound of sand from each of my shoes. Prepared to chase down the ladies ahead of me, I soak up the views from the rim for a few more seconds, then scamper down the rocky trail as fast as I can while remaining upright.

I pass Christine. Second place, with 17 miles to go, which is way better than I had hoped for. On the other hand, I now see more strong-looking women behind me climbing up, including Laura. They’re close, too close for comfort. I keep hearing that the lead woman is just a few minutes ahead, even catch a glimpse of her in the distance once or twice, but can’t catch her, though I’m running as hard as I can once I reach the canyon floor.

Slower runners are making their way toward me, among them my husband David, struggling with cramps, as I learn later, on his way to a halfway point DNF. A quick hug, and onward, through the red rocks, the trees decked out in fall colors, past the horses dozing in their shade, past the jeeps carrying wide-eyed tourists and their guides. I suddenly realize I have run a marathon without taking in calories, so I pull a stinger waffle from my pack and nibble on it, trying to neither fall nor slow down. Six more miles, then five, then four. The packed dirt turns back into sand, which is now even deeper than it was this morning because of all the jeeps driving through it. My legs begin to protest against my brain, which tells them to keep moving, dammit. Like Scotty from Star Trek, they groan “I’m giving her all I’ve got!” in a gravelly voice. Two more miles. The sand swallows my feet past their ankles. Every step costs more effort than the last, but every step moves me closer to the finish line. I glance ahead. No trace of the first-place woman, who probably has finished by now. I glance behind me. No trace of Christine. Out of breath, out of steam, out of all energy, I slow down to a lumbering gait, like an aged camel on the last leg of a long trek across the Saharan desert. Moving along in this not very elegant fashion I savor the last mile. But once the finish line comes into view, not wanting to embarrass anyone who might know me there, I manage a sort of almost-sprint for the last 50 feet or so.

The clock says 5:39, six minutes slower than two years ago. The sand was about six inches deeper, so maybe that’s why. Shaun Martin waits with a hug and hand-made necklace for every finisher. He seems to be everywhere at once today – at the turnaround, taking pictures on the course, at the aid stations, at the start, at the finish. Has he cloned himself? I ponder this question while I collapse on the sand, my legs sore but my heart filled with gratitude.

Shaun Martin is a man of many talents: runner, race director, finish line hugger, coach, motivational speaker, cultural ambassador, cheerleader, silversmith, and who knows what else. The Canyon de Chelly Ultra is not the only race that offers hand-made awards. Shaun is, however, the only race director I know who makes each of the beautiful finisher necklaces and age group award bracelets with his own hands and treats each of the 150 runners in his race like long-lost members of his extended family.

The award ceremony at Canyon de Chelly is as unique and as authentically Navajo as the rest of the race: the aroma of mutton stew and fry bread fills the air, and hand-crafted awards – rugs, pottery, jewelry, each more beautiful than the next – are arranged on a table. The winner gets to choose first, then the second-place finisher, and so on, all the way to tenth male and female, respectively. I have my eye on a silver and turquoise concho belt, hoping that Ali, the women’s winner won’t feel the same. She doesn’t, and I get the belt. Christine, Laura, and the rest of the women’s field gathers for pictures, hugs, handshakes.

Shaun, his family, friends, and the Navajo Nation have made this race into something much more important than an enjoyable athletic event in beautiful surroundings. The Canyon de Chelly Ultra uses running as a bridge between cultures: something that unites us, something we can share and appreciate, in spite of our differences. As we say hesitant good-byes to all our friends, my heart overflows with gratitude: for this beautiful day, for the hospitality we enjoyed, for sharing it with the amazing community of trail runners, for the opportunity to experience a small aspect of the Navajo way of life from the inside.
When my more spiritually inclined friends tell me about their practices and beliefs, I try to keep an open mind, or at least to not roll my eyes. But since I started running ultras, my cynical outlook has softened. I still don’t believe in any supreme being, but I have experienced something my more enlightened friends would describe as spiritual: a sense of connection with the earth under my feet, the cottonwood trees lining the trail, the wild horses grazing in the canyon, the red cliffs towering on either side. I feel a kinship with the other runners who travel along the same path, sharing the same goal of reaching the finish line. I feel exuberantly happy, bursting with joy. I love life. I want to hug everyone I see – people, horses, even the cottonwood trees.

Running has made me physically fitter. Running has made me emotionally happier. Now, is seems, running has made me less of a skeptic. And running the Canyon de Chelly is as close as going to church as I get.

 

Adults, even ultra running adults, enjoy consuming adult beverages. It’s one of the privileges that comes with being a grown-up. I try to not overindulge because I don’t enjoy the feeling of sweating out toxic fumes while on my Saturday morning long run. But there is something worse than a regular hangover: The combination of late-night drinking and late-night ultrasignup sessions. Liquor bottles have warning labels on them. The surgeon general points out that alcohol consumption may have negative consequences. The Ultrasignup website has no such warning label, but it probably should. Or maybe it could require chronic offenders to use an interlock device before logging in. Every time I wake up fuzzy-brained with a dim recollection of registering for yet another epic race, I swear it’s the last, but somehow it keeps happening.

The thing is, alcohol gets rid of inhibitions. Hardcore introverts like me can appreciate this. We tend to overthink everything, weigh all possible responses in any given situation, then miss the opportunity to respond because too much time has passed. But after a glass of wine or two, we no longer filter everything we say. We no longer ask ourselves things like: Will the person next to me be offended? Will his feelings get hurt? Will she think I’m an idiot? Instead, we blurt out our opinions and let the chips fall where they may, which would have happened sooner or later anyway. That’s why alcohol is considered such a great social lubricant, the Body Glide of human relationships.

Alcohol also makes us feel more confident. Our insecurities and nagging self-doubts disappear. When under the influence, chances are we don’t need to listen to Ken Chlouber’s motivational pre-Leadville speech because we are already 100 percent sure that we can do more than we think we can. We tend to feel stronger, younger, more attractive, more interesting. Our wrinkles smooth out, our eyes sparkle, our jeans fit better – at least in our minds, at least for a couple of hours.

As if this were not enough, there’s a third effect: we are not the only ones getting photoshopped. Alcohol makes other people we meet seem more interesting, more attractive, more appealing. Their wrinkles smooth out, their eyes sparkle. What they say sounds smart and funny. They make us laugh. They make us want to get to know them – at least until we’re sober again.

Taken together, these effects can create embarrassing situations, especially while we’re still too young to know better, like waking up in a strange apartment with no clear recollection of what happened the night before or how we got there. In the harsh light of early morning, the rash decisions we made in those days may seem questionable, yet we have to live with their consequences. Growing up means growing out of irresponsible behavior of that nature.

I wish I could say that, as a happily married woman in her mid-forties, these experiences are all behind me, stored safely in the closet labeled “Silly Stuff I Did Long Ago In My Youth.” Yet, this would not be completely honest. True, nowadays an occasional girls’ night out at a bar is a harmless diversion. We listen to some music, have some wine, laugh a lot, and go home. The next morning might bring a mild headache, but no serious regrets. I wish I could say the same for my late-night activities on Ultrasignup.

Another glass of Pinot Grigio after dinner seems harmless enough. Another glass of Pinot Grigio while casually checking the Ultrasignup Hotlist is a different story. First, the alcohol breaks down my inhibitions. Do I have the time? The money? The voice of reason in my head that reminds me of my budget, and of my other responsibilities, other weekend obligations, quiets down as voice of my FOMO gets louder and louder:
“All your facebook friends are running this one! There are only 87 spots left! It’s only $238.47, a bargain! You don’t need things like a haircut or new tires! Your family won’t mind if you miss an important birthday celebration!” And so on.

(The glass is half empty by now)

At the same time, all my insecurities take a back seat – next to the voice of reason, probably. In their place, a boisterous, overconfident side of myself makes a rare appearance as I look at the race info and the list of entrants: “This doesn’t look so difficult. What’s 20 000 feet of gain? Average temperature of 95 degrees? I can handle that! And sure, three weeks is enough time to recover from a tough 100k. Oh, look, my friend x is running it. If she is tough enough, I am, too! No, Im tougher!” And so on.

(The glass is empty. I pour another. My credit card has crept out of its wallet.)

I look at the race website. It looks beautiful, like most ultras. Wine makes it look even more beautiful. Pictures of rolling singletrack through golden aspens beckon seductively from the page – or snow-capped mountains, deep forest, red deserts. The alcohol makes me forget their flip sides, i.e. The ultra warts and wrinkles: heat, cold, oxygen deprivation, sleep deprivation, mosquitoes, sand-filled shoes, blisters, bloody knees, or a combination thereof.

I return to Ultrasignup, straight to the registration button. In that crucial moment of wine-induced ecstasy, I don’t see the pain, the mud, the exhaustion. I only see the beauty.

(I have initialed the waiver. I have typed in my credit card number. My glass is empty. I go to bed happy).

The next morning, I look at the confirmation email in my inbox. My memories are a bit hazy, but the email is there. The money has left my checking account. I pour a cup of coffee, then face the consequences of my actions like the grown-up that I am. And I lace up my running shoes. It’s time to train.

Have you ever been guilty of RUI (Registering under the Influence)? Please let me know!

In the meantime, it is good to be alive and running, sober or not.

 

For me, running is a way of life. I hope to still get excited about lacing up my shoes when I am in my eighties. I hope I will still compete in the seventy-plus age group then, like many of my older friends do. Psychologists recognize that humans develop through a series of distinctive stages from infant to wise old geezer. The path from cradle to grave is not always smooth. We’ve all met middle-aged people who never outgrew their adolescent phase. Runners, especially ultra runners, are different form the normal populations,so it’s only natural they don’t fit into the standard categories. Nonetheless, they, too, go through distinctive developmental phases, and, like normal humans, some of them get stuck sometimes:

 

The Wannabe:
She thinks about running. She talks about running. She reads Runner’s World. She buys the gym membership, shoes, shorts, cute sports bra, and cool-looking sunglasses. She studies the couch to 5k training plan and goes for a couple of runs. But then she stops, and the shoes and shorts become reminders of a failure to launch. Her gear looks at her accusingly until she can’t stand it anymore, so she heads out the door again and the cycle starts over. When she’s not running (which is most of the time), she dreams of being one of the lean, fast gazelle-like people she admires from behind the steering wheel of her car when she drives the five blocks to the post office. When she actually is running, she dreams of stopping, and of inhaling vast quantities of pizza, chocolate, or beer. But one day, she discovers that running has become a habit.

 

2. The Beginner:
She hesitates to call herself a runner. She runs mostly on a treadmill at the gym because running outside seems both embarrassing and scary. She can run a couple of miles without stopping, but she’s convinced that this alone does not make her a runner. Real runners, she thinks, run fast, look sleek, and always feel motivated. She believes she looks more like a turtle than like a gazelle, and she believes people who walk or drive by her will laugh about her slow pace and lack of a thigh gap. But she keeps putting one foot in front of the other because there are moments when running makes her feel free, powerful, and happy. She dreams of getting up the nerve to sign up for her first 5k. But one day, she quits caring so much about what others think and just heads out the door.

3. The Road Runner
She runs almost every day and keeps track of her mileage with a gps watch. She runs an extra lap around the block when her gps watch indicates that 0.2 miles are missing from her daily goal. She owns a closetful of running shoes, running socks, running shorts, running tights, running bras and running tops, arranged by color. She wears her sport bra under her work clothes and keeps her gear in her office to squeeze in a quick run while her colleagues have lunch. Her social life is dwindling because her Saturday long run won’t allow her to stay up past 10 pm on Friday nights. She lets her short hair grow because ponytails are so much less of a hassle. Getting older makes her happy instead of depressed because she looks forward to moving into a new age group. She has finished a bunch of 10ks, and a couple of half marathons. She dreams of qualifying for Boston. But one day, out of curiosity or by accident, she signs up for her first trail race.

4. The Recent Trail Running Convert
She quotes Born to Run like others quote the scriptures of their faith. She buys every piece of gear she can afford, and drools into her green smoothie over the ones she can’t. She has tried every shoe, reads every magazine, listens to every podcast.
She has an informed and sometimes overbearing opinion on zero-drop soles, metabolic efficiency training, and low-carb nutrition. Like a running encyclopedia, she knows who won which races, including the latest multi-day event in the Mongolian Steppe or the tundras of Iceland. She has hired a coach, and follows her chosen training plan with the devotion she once reserved for regular manicures. Between driving to trail heads, training runs, ice baths, a core routine, weight workouts, and the uploading of all her data onto Strava she has little time for anything else. It’s been months since she has watched a movie or gone on a date. She has completed her first 50-miler, but dreams of wearing a 100-mile buckle soon.

5. The Badass
She has quit red meat, sugar, diet soda, alcohol, and her full-time job. She thrives on a diet of coffee, kale smoothies, gluten-free organic eggs, and grass-fed coconut milk. She spends her summers living in her Subaru, in remote locations without running water or cell phone service, and winters in her mountain yurt.

 

Her body is covered in tattoos. Her Subaru is covered in a layer of dust. Her hair is a tangled mess. She has named each of the seven scars on her knees. Between crewing, pacing, racing, and volunteering, she spends time in coffee shops, on her laptop keyboard, because she finances her organic groceries, seaweed supplements and new shoes through a combination of freelance writing and online coaching. She is camping at 12 000 feet as part of her altitude training for her 7th Leadville 100, but dreams of someday getting into Hardrock.

6. The Grizzled Veteran
She still wears her grey hair in a ponytail. She still runs every day, but considers slowing down a bit after her 75th birthday. She remembers a time before Strava, before Ultrasignup, before the internet, before 100-mile lotteries. She has seen every trend in running shoes, running diet, or running fashion come and go at least five times since 1973. Taking anything too seriously now seems absurd to her. Taking herself too seriously never crosses her mind, except before races, when she sizes up the competition within her age group, and while racing, i.e. while running her heart out to beat that competition to the finish line, She dreams of one more PR and one more 100-mile buckle, but in the meanteime, she is happy to just keep running.

 

It is a good time to be alive and running, until the finish line of life.

On the third weekend of August, I run the Leadville 100. I’ve done it every year since 2012, and will keep doing it until I’m too old and feeble to run. Other races come and go, but Leadville remains, a steady beacon in the chaos of my life. Why do I feel its magnetic force every year? Why, after four starts and three finishes, does this race continue to intrigue me?
The answer came to me out of the blue, during my part-time gig teaching English literature: The Leadville 100 is a lot like the archetypal Hero’s Journey, by definition a “pattern of narrative describing a typical adventure of The Hero who goes out and achieves great deeds.” Think of Tolkien’s Fellowship of the One Ring and Frodo’s quest across Middle Earth. Think of Luke Skywalker and Han Solo on their planet-saving mission through space. Or think of ultra runners on their perilous trek through the Colorado Rockies in pursuit of a big, shiny silver buckle:
THE ORDINARY WORLD. The hero is introduced sympathetically so the audience can identify with him or her. Some kind of polarity in the hero’s life is causing confusion and stress.

Meet Katrin Silva, just another middle-aged teacher with OCD tendencies and a love for running in the mountains. She has finished nine 100-mile races the last six years, but fears she is past her prime since entering her mid-forties. There are way too many days when she feels old, frumpy, and way too close to normal. She fears monotony more than anything. She wants to live an intense, extraordinary life. But how?

2. THE CALL TO ADVENTURE. Something shakes up the situation, so the hero must face the beginnings of change.

In December 2015, the darkest, gloomiest month of the fading year, Katrin feels desperate. As part of her valiant struggle against looming old age, she enters the lottery for the 2016 Leadville 100. In January, she receives an email bearing good news: she has been chosen! Suddenly, her life has regained purpose and sparkle. Adding another Big Buckle, aka the saucer-sized award for finishing in under 25 hours, to her accessory collection becomes a goal worth training for. She increases her mileage and, like a true superhero, curbs her consumption of refined sugar and alcohol.

3. REFUSAL OF THE CALL. The hero feels the fear of the unknown and tries to turn away from the adventure, however briefly.

By late June, life interferes in the guise of injuries and family obligations. Instead of ramping up in volume,intensity, and altitude, Katrin’s training is reduced to hour-long jogs at sea level. Her 46th birthday sets off an avalanche of self-doubt. She returns to the US a couple of weeks before race time, far from prepared, yet unwilling to let go of her goal. Tormented by conflicting emotions, she travels to Leadville.

4. MEETING WITH THE MENTOR. The hero comes across one or more seasoned travelers of the worlds who give him or her training, equipment, or advice that will help on the journey.

Still struggling with self-doubt, Katrin attends the pre-race briefing, where race founders Ken and Merilee remind her and 700 other buckle dreamers to dig deep: “You are tougher than you think you are, and you can do more than you think you can!” These wise words help our hero regain some confidence. She gathers more courage from other members of the buckle fellowship at John Scott’s famous pre-race pasta feast, then returns to the Victorian castle she and her companions have rented for the weekend, she finds David, her faithful husband/pacer/crew/photographer combo model, arrived to lend assistance. He hands her a good-luck charm in the form of a laminated, color-coded pocket-size pace chart for a sub-25 hour finish. Nothing can go wrong now! Our hero studies the precious document, holding onto it as she falls into a fitful sleep for about two hours.

5. CROSSING THE THRESHOLD. At the end of Act One, the hero commits to leaving the Ordinary World and entering a new region with unfamiliar rules and values.

The alarm rings at 3 a.m – a sure sign that normal rules no longer apply. Katrin studies the pace chart one more time while sipping her pre-race cup of coffee. She knows where she has to be when to get that buckle. Our hero dons her lucky socks and lucky sport bra before calmly performing other last-minute rituals, like the ceremonial application of Body Glide in strategic places.

6. TESTS, ALLIES AND ENEMIES. The hero is tested and sorts out allegiances in the Special World.

It’s 4 a.m. Time to go. Dressed for battle in headlamps, hydration vests and colorful shoes, all 700 members of the buckle fellowship begin their dangerous quest. They take off down 6th street at breakneck speed, to the claps and cheers of townspeople lining the streets. Soon, the pavement ends. Darkness swallows our heroes as they head out into the great unknown. Under a nearly full moon, they file onto the single track around Turquoise Lake, where the first light of the new day greets them. Katrin reaches May Queen in 2:14, exactly on target.

From there, the first major climb, the first steep descent, and a beautiful, runnable section to Twin Lakes, along rolling singletrack with sunlight filtering serenely through tall aspen trees. The calm before the storm.

7. APPROACH. The hero and newfound allies prepare for the major challenge in the Special world.

At the Twin Lakes aid station, mile 40. her loyal crew, aka David and Rachael, await our hero with sunscreen, watermelon slices, and encouraging words before she faces Mt Doom, aka Hope(less) Pass. Only 60 miles to go!

8. THE ORDEAL. Near the middle of the story, the hero enters a central space in the Special World and confronts his or her greatest fear. Out of the moment of death comes a new life.

In ancient times, the river Styx separated the realm of the living from that of the dead. In modern-day Leadville, the Arkansas river between Twin Lakes and the the entrance to the special world’s inner sanctum plays a similar role. Our hero splashes through numerous mud puddles, then wades across the freezing cold, knee-deep threshold, clinging to the rope that symbolizes her last tenuous hold on reality. She powerhikes at a slow but steady pace through dense, dark forest until she reaches an altitude that trees can’t handle. Though she is on a buckle mission, urged on by the 25-hour pace chart, she takes a couple of minutes at Hopeless to stop and hug the adorable Llamas. She also stops quite a few times to gasp for air, painfully aware of her missing altitude training. And of course, she stops at the top of Hope Pass to enjoy the glorious views for a moment.

Still, she reaches Winfield in 10:37, within a five-minute margin of the sub-25 cutoff. There is no time to celebrate. Instead, it’s time to turn around and get back over that pass.

This section is a killer for legs and lungs, but at the same time a good opportunity to a) see her friends and allies on the course, and b) figure out the female competition ahead of her. Adrian Stanciu, the Dorito-fueled superhuman speed demon, has blazed back up the trail along time ago, on his way to a spectacular tenth place finish. Dave the Vegan is not too far behind our hero, John a little further, along with Eric, Lynette, and Jody. The members of the buckle fellowship try to smile at each other, but fool no one: they’re in pain. Katrin notices that all the women ahead of her look very young. The competitive instinct slumbering within her wakes up. Could she still place in her age group?

9. THE REWARD. The hero takes possession of the treasure won by facing death. There may be celebration, but there is also danger of losing the treasure again.

After an eternity of very slow climbing, our hero crests the cold, windy heights of Hope Pass a second time before descending back into warmer temperatures and more oxygen. In the gentle sunlight of late afternoon, she crosses the river back into more familiar territory of the Twin Lakes aid station, where her faithful companions David and Rachael await, along with a styrofoam cup of comforting Ramen noodles. Katrin puts on her head lamp and warm clothes in preparation for for the long, cold night ahead. Our hero is still on track for a 25-hour finish, but way too close for comfort.

10. THE ROAD BACK. About three-fourths of the way through the story, the hero is driven to complete the adventure, leaving the Special World to be sure the treasure is brought home. Often a chase scene signals the urgency and danger of the mission.

Rachael is supposed to pace Katrin for the next 27 miles to May Queen, but Katrin is in a hurry, eager to complete her mission of bringing home another big buckle. She feels a little guilty, but soon leaves Rachael behind in the aspen forest and keeps running. Rachael is a fellow ultra runner, so she understands.
Darkness descends on the buckle fellowship. Katrin runs hard, but then fritters away precious minutes at the way too inviting Half Pipe aid station, slurping another cup of ramen noodles and fiddling with layers of clothing, batteries, and gloves.

11. THE RESURRECTION. At the climax, the hero is severely tested once more on the threshold of home.
30 miles to go. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s 10 p.m. Our exhausted hero has still only minutes to spare for a 25-hour finish. She knows she has to dig deep to get that big buckle. The powerlines climb is the last major obstacle between her and the finish line. Its five false summits between mile 80 and 85 can demoralize even the most accomplished runners. Katrin knows this mountain well. She has learned to expect its devious qualities and to mistrust its promises. Our stubborn hero, still without a pacer, braces her aching back and puts one aching foot in front of the other as fast as she can.
Friendly ghosts, aka the awesome Leadville Shack club, have transformed the final, real Sugarloaf summit into a surreal space-ship like aid station. The ghosts offer weary travelers hugs and high fives. Katrin’s spirits lift. She wisely resists the temptation of pain relief in the form of tequila, then runs down the mountain toward May Queen, where David awaits to pace her to the finish.

12. RETURN WITH THE ELIXIR. The hero returns home, bearing some element of the treasure that has the power to transform the world as the hero has been transformed.

It’s after midnight. Utterly depleted, our hero forces her sore muscles to keep moving for another 13 miles. She wants to walk, not run. David begs and pleads, to no avail. Desperate, he resorts to crooning love ballads from the 1970s. An unfair strategy, but it works: Katrin agrees to keep shuffling along in return for silence.

A full moon shines over Turquoise Lake. The night is beautiful, but not beautiful enough to eclipse the screaming pain runners are in by now. In the distance, the lights of Leadville call our weary hero home. Will she get there in time for the big buckle? She does not know, and does not want to know. She is digging as deep as she can. Run, walk, run. Pain is temporary. One last downhill, one last climb require last reserves of energy. The dirt road. Then the pavement. One more mile! The finish line beckons in the distance. Like a horse smelling the barn, Katrin runs faster. A red carpet. A few more steps. The glowing numbers on the clock say 24:14. Well under 25 hours, well within the big buckle time, and an age group win.

Our hero hugs Merilee, hugs David, hugs Rachael. Maybe she did not save the world, but she did conquer her Dark Side: her fear, and her doubt are vanquished, at least until next year.

It is a good time to be alive and running, in Leadville or wherever you may be.

See you out there!

Katrin

Leadville was my first 100-mile race in 2012. I finished, but it wasn’t pretty. On the other hand, I learned a lot. Since then, I finished fourteen more 100s, including four Leadvilles, which probably doesn’t qualify me to share a few pieces of key advice with first-timers. Here they are anyway. Read at your own risk, and feel free to ignore them!

How Not To Run Your First 100 at Leadville

1. Sign up in December, as soon as registration opens. Nowadays, this means throwing your name into the lottery hat. Don’t bet on unfavorable odds – Leadville allows 800 participants, so your chances of getting in are actually pretty good. Once you do, share your excitement and/or your panic with all your friends. Of course you want the big buckle. Consult extensively with your mentors, and come up with an ambitious and detailed training plan for the next few months: base building, high mileage, tons of vert, altitude training, strength training, tune-up races, and finally a taper period.

2. Proceed to ignore that training plan because of winter weather, holiday travel, work commitments, February snow storms, injuries, the flu, March snow storms, family commitments, April snow storms, freaky May snow storms, and other excuses. In late July, have a couple of anxiety attacks. Wake up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat from nightmares that involve zombie llamas and lots of puking. Then ramp up your mileage during the final three weeks. Tapering is for sissies!

3. Don’t bother with a race plan, beyond “I WANT THE BIG BUCKLE!!!” scrawled in all caps across your brain. Sure, the 799 other runners have worked diligently on their spreadsheets for months, but just because they have such a document doesn’t mean that you need one, too. Especially if it’s your first 100. If you do decide to write a race plan, limit yourself to a few handwritten notes, and put them in the pocket of the jeans you leave at home in the laundry basket.

4. Don’t bother with crew instructions. Your long-suffering crew captain/husband should be able to guess where you will be when, and in what kind of shape. His telepathic abilities alone should tell him what you need or don’t need at each checkpoint.
He should also figure out on his own that you didn’t really go through the huge duffel bag with all your ultra stuff to lighten the load he lugs to every aid station. Besides, who knows? You might need the three rolls of ductape, extra drop bags, and that pile of old batteries you didn’t get around to recycling yet.

5. Don’t bother to reserve a room early. Why should you? Surely not because 800 runners, plus their pacers, crew and assorted family members, will be in the tiny town of Leadville for race weekend. Sharing a twin room the size of a walk-in closet with three other people will be a bonding experience. Contrary to popular belief, a good night’s sleep is totally unnecessary before a 100-mile race.

6. Pack your drop bags according to a system only known to you, not your crew. This will force you to spend more time than necessary at each aid station, looking for things in unlabeled little ziploc baggies. The suspense will make the race more exciting, especially at 2 AM, as you ask yourself existential questions, like: Did I bring extra batteries for my head lamp, or did I not?

7. The 4 a.m. start is exciting. Use that extra energy to go out with the fast people! You do want that big buckle, plus: this is your chance to hang for a couple of blocks with the elites of ultra running. If you feel the irrational urge to make up for lost time early in he race, even though, not having your race plan to consult, you can’t be sure whether or not this is true, go ahead. Feel free to hammer straight, steep, long downhills before mile 25, like Powerlines. Your quads will thank you later.

8. Don’t bother to make sure your hydration pack is full after leaving an aid station. Blindly trust any volunteer to know the quirks and peculiarities of your pack, even if it took you several months to figure them out. Checking that the bladder is really closed might cost you precious nanoseconds, which you can’t afford if you want that big buckle. Besides, your imaginary superpowers will hydrate you once you run out of water halfway up the mountain.

9. If you get sick of clif bloks by the time you reach Twin Lakes outbound at mile 40, you don’t need a backup nutrition pan. It’s ok stop eating altogether. Just use your special superpowers for fueling. Then, because these superpowers are imaginary, bonk hard on the return climb up Hope Pass. Spend 45 minutes or so slumped in a chair at Twin Lakes inbound, trying to get some calories into your depleted body.  Calculate that you now need to run 40 nine-minute miles to still get that big buckle. Bolt out in a panic, nearly forgetting your head lamp.

10. 11. Feel searing pain grip your quads by mile 75. You can’t figure out why, though your wiser, more experienced pacer suspects your earlier Powerlines descent might have something to do with it. Whine and complain until your pacer regrets ever meeting you, then accept reality. Say a tearful good-bye to the Big Buckle Dream. Slow down to a walk. Proceed to cover the last 25 miles at a Death March pace that would embarrass a geriatric turtle.

12. Cross the finish line hours after you had imagined, but still in plenty of time for the smaller sub-30 hr buckle, which is much more wearable anyway. Feel humbled. Feel grateful. Feel intensely alive. Laugh. Cry. Hug Merilee. Hug everyone in sight. They won’t mind that you smell like someone who has been out running for almost 27 hours. Fall asleep at random, inopportune moments, like while thanking your crew, your friends, and your family members for putting up with you.

Whether it’s your first Leadville, or your fifteenth – good luck to you! Please run smarter than I did in 2012.

It is a good time to be alive and running, in Leadville or elsewhere.
Katrin

Welcome back to Ultra Talk 102, your guide to the language of Ultra running, its conversational etiquette, nonverbal elements, grammar, vocabulary, and syntax. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything. This test is designed for runners who have spent some time studying the language of ultra running and practiced it with native speakers, not for beginners lurking on social media. If you are a novice, you might want to review the info at

Ultra-Speak 101

before getting started.

Ready?

1. If your pacer tells you that “the next aid station is right around the corner,” you hear:
A. “The next aid station is right around the corner.”
B. “You look like death, and. The next aid station is miles from here, so I will sweeten your last moments with an innocent lie.”
C. “You look gullible enough to believe that there is another aid station in this race . . . Muahaha!”

2. You are running Western States. It’s about 120 degrees in the canyons. As you run/walk/crawl your way up to Devil’s Thumb, you see another competitor sprawled on his back, in corpse pose, across the trail. What is the correct way to initiate a conversation?
A. “Oh my god, are you okay???”
B. “This is not a designated aid station.”
C. “The cutoff time is coming up really fast. Better get up and moving.”

3. You are pacing a friend at mile 88 of a tough 100. It’s about 7 a.m, and she is deep in the pain cave. Things are going downhill fast, except for food items, which keep coming back up. Suddenly, her tortured features relax into a broad grin. Her eyes brighten. She points ahead, into the forest, and exclaims:”Look! An aid station!” You obediently look, but see only trees. How do you respond?
A. “You are hallucinating. Probably low blood sugar. Have another Fig Newton!”
B. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
C. “Yes! Listen to those cow bells! Look at that beautiful tent! Wow, there’s bacon frying! Let’s try to get there a little quicker, shall we?”

4. You are heading out for a training run on Saturday morning. Your spouse inquires when you will be back. You say:
A. “In about a couple of hours. I left a map with the route I am taking highlighted in red, and I’ll have my phone with me, so if I bonk, I can call you and you can come pick me up!”
B. “In three or four hours. I’m heading in the general direction of Hermit’s Peak. If Im not back at sunset, come. Look for me!”
C. “I don’t know. Some time today, or maybe tomorrow, depending on how I feel. Go ahead and have dinner without me if I’m not back by tonight!”

5. A non-running friend asks you: “Why would anyone run 100 miles? I don’t even like to drive my car this far!” You answer:
A. “It’s a beautiful experience that will put you in touch with your deepest self. You should try it sometime!”
B. “We are humans, and therefore born to run. It’s much more natural than watching television. Have you read Born to Run? No? Then you should! Here’s a copy.
C. “How else am I going to reach the finish line? Duh!”

6. You are on Ultrasignup, browsing for a new adventure. Which race description is likely to pique your interest?
A. “Come run the Fuzzy Slipper 50 – an easy, fun 50k on groomed trails meandering through gently rolling meadows. There are aid stations every three miles and marking ribbons every three feet. Weather conditions will likely be dry and cool. Look forward to encountering baby deer and cute little bunny rabbits as you cruise toward the finish line!”
B. “The Jagged Millstone is a 50-plus mile race over technical, rocky terrain with 15 000 feet of gain along the way. It’s point to point, and its all uphill. Be prepared for heat, rattlesnakes, grizzly bears, thunderstorms, and sudden blizzards. Carry at least a gallon of water, as you will be on your own for many hours between aid stations!”
C. “Certain Death 100 – only qualified lunatics need apply for the lottery process that might get you into this race if you’re really, really lucky and really, really out of your mind!”

Mostly As:
You have a lot to learn.
Mostly Bs:
You are on your way.
Mostly Cs:
What asylum did you escape from? That’s ok, we don’t really care. Welcome to the tribe!

I traveled from Germany to New Mexico 25 years ago on a tourist visa. The Land of Enchantment enchanted me so much that I never left again, which means I run most of my races in the wide open spaces of the Southwestern US, where I feel at home geographically. On a cultural level, there are still times when I don’t feel like an American. I find the rules of baseball mysterious, and the taste of hot dogs appalling. Open displays of nationalism still make me uneasy, except during the soccer world cup. But last week, I finally ran a race in Europe – not just any race, but the Lavaredo, a 119 km long ultra in the most scenic part of the Italian alps. The 1300 participants come from over 60 different countries, but the vast majority of them are European. I realized then and there that, as a trail runner, I am not as European as I thought. Instead, I look, dress, and fuel like a true American.

Like the general European population, European ultra runners tend to be be a sleek, fashion-conscious crowd. Rugged, weather-beaten mountain types in baggy t-shirts, untidy pony tails, or scruffy beards are in the minority. Instead, trail runners tend a) to be well groomed and b) to wear color-coordinated outfits made from very tight, very bright spandex. I quickly learned that vibrant hues are gender-neutral. Early in the race, before I adjusted my goal from placing among the top twenty in the women’s field to surviving the day more or less in one piece, it was not always easy to tell whether runners ahead of me or behind me were male or female because seeing someone wearing red or purple pants from a distance did not give useful clues.

European runners not only dress more fashionably, they’re also more openly proud to be runners. They don’t just wear their running shoes everywhere. They wear their entire color-coordinated running outfits, spandex and all, when they are not running or about to go running, like days before the race, while having dinner, while walking around the expo, while exploring the town of Cortina. Of course, their outfits look snazzy to begin with, so why not? On the other hand, some European runners are so excited about their upcoming race that they pin their bib onto their snug spandex top as soon as it is in their possession and walk around wearing it all day, which seems like overkill to me.

The unique combination of spandex outfits and nicotine also took some getting used to. When I lived in Germany and Italy, all my friends smoked. When I moved to the US, airplanes crossing the Atlantic still had smoking sections in the back, where Europeans gathered under a blue cloud of toxic fumes. I would love to say that, more than twenty years later, the stereotype of Europeans still smoking cigarettes no longer applies. There are fewer smokers than there used to be, it’s true. But when we cheered on runners of the Cortina Sky Race 20k on Thursday, a fair number of them lit up a cigarette right after crossing the finish line. “Fit smoker” is not an oxymoron in Europe. Still, it’s better than to be an unfit smoker.

Ultra runners everywhere need to eat and drink, but what they consume depends on where in the world they happen to be. The Lavaredo aid stations were well stocked, but their offerings gravitates more to the sweet side than in the US: Nutella sandwiches, fruit, cookies, pastries, and bowls of sugar cubes. No potato chips, no crackers, no pretzels, no boiled potatoes. Savory snacks consisted of noodle soup, bread, cheese, salami, and, at the very last aid station, hard-boiled eggs. Desperate for something salty, I finally tried the cheese. Now I’m a convert. Bite-size bits of Emmenthaler should be standard aid station fare everywhere.

Drink choices consisted of tea, coke, and a concoction called isotonic, a popular sports drink among European runners, but, from what I had read before the race, toxic for everyone else, kind of like root beer is for non-Americans. Speaking of beer: large quantities of the real kind appeared at couple of unofficial aid stations late in the race. Everyone chugged at least a cup of it, except for me. I stuck with coke, my ultra rocket fuel. Like drinks all over Europe, it was served at room temperature, which is normally just how I like it. For the last twenty-five years, I have ordered my ice tea without ice at US restaurants, but in the heat of the day on the Lavaredo course, I longed for cold drinks like a true American.

The amount of stuff US ultras send home with their finishers says, I think, something about the rampant materialism of US consumer culture. Runners go home with awards like medals, plaques, or bracelets, in addition to coffee cups, bottle openers, hoodies, and jackets. Not so at the Lavaredo, where the schwag consisted of a t-shirt in the goodie bag from the expo and a paper-thin,vest-like garment with the race logo at the finish line. There are no medals. There are no buckles. There’s also an obvious upside to this kind of frugality: US ultras tend to cost a small fortune to enter, while the fee for the Lavaredo is a reasonable 110 Euros.

While the Lavaredo RDs do not spend a cent more than necessary on awards, they do invest money where it counts, i.e race organization and safety. The aid stations are few because of the remoteness of the area, but they are overflowing with food, drinks, cheerful volunteers, and medical support. Medical vehicles also wait at the bottom of every major downhill, which seems like a wise precaution. In addition, race officials roam the course with walkie-talkies, making sure no one goes missing. Some of the more haphazardly run US races could take note of this.

Race management also splurges on adding drama to the race. The 11 pm start on the cobble-stoned street next to the medieval bell tower in downtown Cortina makes it feel more like a gala party than a trail run. Starting in the early afternoon, a team of professional announcers provides non-stop commentary in a non-stop fever pitch over huge loudspeakers. In the evening, the people of Cortina pour out of their houses to line the street. Ten minutes to show time, music by Ennio Morricone stirs up emotions, even tears. Then the countdown, tre, due, uno, and we’re off, a sea of multi-colored spandex pouring down the Corso Italia, like champagne bubbles out of a bottle, accompanied by a concert of cheers, claps, and shouts of Forza! Forza! Many hours later, at the finish, everyone who has made it once again feels like a superstar. Names sound grandiose over the speaker system. Announcers and crowds still have enthusiasm to spare.

I am much more used to Ultras about a tenth the size of the Lavaredo, staged at campgrounds or tribal parks, where the start consists of a casual wave instead of a formal ceremony. I am used to crossing a finish line on a dirt track in the middle of nowhere, where the scruffy individuals who have already finished sit around drinking beer, and every half-hour or so clap half-heartedly for two seconds when someone else arrives.

It’s hard to say which type of race I enjoy more: the dramatic flair of the Lavaredo or the easygoing nonchalance of grassroots events I frequent in and around New Mexico. I love them both. And once we’re off and running, none of their differences matter much. After the electric start of the Lavaredo, the cheers die down at the edge of Cortina, where the cool darkness of the mountains swallows us and trail racing becomes the quiet, introspective sport it is everywhere else. The muddy conditions soon color everyone’s race outfit, spandex or not, a uniform beige. The spectacular beauty of the Dolomites instills the same sense of awe in runners from Turkey, Canada, and Iceland. Grunts of pain sound the same in any language.

Trail running is a global passion that transcends language barriers and national borders. We all share the joy of reaching the top of a mountain, the heartbreak of a DNF, the agony of walking down stairs the day after. Our families and friends all over the world think we’re crazy. We all like it that way. Underneath the tight spandex tops or the baggy T-shirts, our hearts beat to the rhythm of the same drum. No matter where we’re from, we have found a sport that brings us joy, and we have found each other. Life does not get better than that.

It is a good time to be alive and running – everywhere.

The Lavaredo Ultra Trail is a 119k race held every June in the Dolomites, which are the wildest and most scenic part of the Italian alps. The course goes up and down these mountains like a roller coaster, gaining about 6000 meters or 18 000 feet along the way — similar to Leadville, but squished into 75 miles instead of 100. This means the climbs are steep.

After watching some video footage that made us drool, Rachael and I signed up for it last October. And then we signed up for the San Diego 100 last February. By April, we realized that there were only three weeks between the two races. This worried me, but not nearly as much as it should have. On June 3rd, I had a good race in San Diego. On June 24th, I barely finished the Lavaredo. The short version of this race report: it almost finished me first. Here is the longer version.

Cortina d’Ampezzo, 10:30 p.m.
It’s not time to go to sleep, or to have another glass of wine. It’s time to head to the starting line of the Lavaredo Ultra Trail. 1300 runners gather on the cobble-stoned street by the bell tower. The thunderstorm that has poured rain on the town for the last two hours is ending. Puddles of water reflect the street lights. Spectators line the Corso Italia. Bits of German, Italian, and other languages float around us, all sounding excited. Maybe the unusual hour of 11 pm contributes to the festive drama, or maybe it’s the music by Ennio Morricone. I feel like we are gladiators on our way to the arena, and in a way we are, about to go into battle with the mountains. The countdown: tre, due, uno . . . And we’re off, to cheering crowds, through the streets of Cortina.

There is no need to turn on my head lamp until the pavement ends. I settle into a conga line moving up the first of many mountains, dodging trekking poles. The forest is dripping with moisture, and the night is warm enough to run in my tank top. A semi-technical downhill that follows the climb is full of slippery rocks and roots. I manage to stay upright. Others are not so lucky. Behind me, I overhear two German runners comparing their scrapes and bruises.

Ten miles in, the first aid station, called Ospedale because it’s next to an old, abandoned hospital building. A creepy sight, and a contrast to the warmth of the volunteers who greet me with shouts of “Brava! Brava!” The offerings on the tables are different from the typical US ultra fare: sugar cubes, nutella sandwiches, and jam-filled crostata. Also, cheese and salami, which I love, but don’t want to try while running an ultra. I grab a couple of cookies, then run out.
The clouds break open, revealing an almost full, reddish moon above the tree tops. It’s finally cold enough to pull on my half-zip. We are on wide, non-technical trails covered by pine needles. On the next singletrack section, things get tricky. 1300 runners on a clay trail create a muddy, slippery mess that clings to anything it touches, like running shoes. We slide all over the place like hydraplaning cars. Water seeps through my socks. My Hokas start to feel like two bricks. A short paved section is a welcome change.

The light of the new day greets me right above Lake Misurina, with a few pink clouds that reflect in the smooth surface of its water. Behind me, someone says “Che bello!” I agree, in my serviceable Italian. We start a conversation about how lucky we are to be out here running when I realize it’s Marcello, one of three Italian ultra runners Rachael and I have met the night before when we took pictures at the start/finish line. We run together for a few more kilometres until he decides to hang back and wait for his friends.
The climb to Refugio Auronzo is steep, long, and leads above the tree line. Misurina Lake becomes a tiny blue dot below me. I live at 6000 feet, so the altitude should not bother me, but being above tree line tricks me into thinking the air must be thin. My lungs are working harder than they should.

Finally, the refugio, which is the Italian word for the mountain huts that dot the alps. A fitting name: refuge, meaning a safe, cozy place to regroup, refuel, and rest a little. Marcello and his friends have caught up. They sit down at a table for a hearty breakfast, inviting me to join them. Too tempting. I take a moment to enjoy in the view and snap a picture. Tall mountains all around, bathed in the pink light of early morning, some of them snow-capped. My heart sings songs of gratitude and joy as I make my way around the Tre Cime, the distinctive three-pronged rock formation that graces our race T-shirts.

Mile 35, about half way there. The sun is rising higher. I am getting hot in my long-sleeved shirt and look forward to the dry clothes waiting in my drop bag at Cimabanche when I slip on a small muddy section along an open meadow. I don’t really fall, but do a not very elegant version of the splits, with my left leg behind me. My left quad, not used to ballet moves, responds with a sharp pain. Ouch. I straighten out, but every step hurts. Definitely a pulled muscle.
The pain stays with me as I soldier on, mentally beating myself up for negotiating the tricky, slippery sections earlier with no problem only to lose my footing in a harmless-looking minor puddle. The double track to Cimabanche goes on forever. I am running with a limp, then walking, which is still possible without limping. I switch back and forth. Run, walk a bit, run again until my quad starts protesting, repeat. My time goals slip away. I know I need to reassess.
Once I get to my drop bag, I chase all negative thoughts away. It’s a beautiful day in the Dolomites, and the final cutoff is 30 hours. I am nine hours in, more than half way done. I have plenty of time to finish, even with an injured quad. I peel off my Capris and long-sleeve top, and manage to stuff both into my pack because the race rules specify that runners must be in possession of their long pants, jacket, hats, gloves, whistle, and space blanket every step of the way. Not a bad rule for a remote mountain race where aid stations are spaced over ten miles apart, but my beloved little pack is almost too minimal to hold all the required equipment, plus essentials like two litres of nuun and a few Stinger Waffles.
Stripped down to shorts and tank top, I hold out my folding cup for Coke, the breakfast drink of champions. I also crave potato chips, but there are none. Time to improvise. I dip a slice of crusty bread into some salt, which tastes almost as good, then head out.

In spite of some muscle rub from my drop bag, my quad is screaming at me, so I walk, remembering that any time goals have gone out the window,or into the mud. Ok, full disclosure: I’m still secretly hoping for a sub-twenty hour finish after passing Malga Ra Stua aid station at km 77 or about mile 45. But the next section of trail destroys any remaining ambition. Over ten miles of steady uphill along a river bed and across a mountain pass take me almost six hours. Like many others, I run out of water and drink from the cool, clean stream, which we cross several times. I’ve been compensating for the pain in my left leg with my right leg, which is now also hurting. Pains are competing for my attention like pop-up ads on a computer screen, only I can’t get rid of them with a mouse click.

I pop my emergency Tylenol. No effect. It helps more to share the sufferfest with people from France, Austria, Italy, and Iceland. We converse in Italian, French, German and English, with topics ranging from the European soccer championships (Go Iceland!) to the relative toughness of the Leadville 100 vs. this . . . Thing. This monster. This beast. We are once again above treeline and keep going up. More up. My quads complain. My new mantra becomes “Pain is temporary.”

A water-only station in a yellow North Face tent. I refill my pack. The aid station is still six kilometers away. At least they’re not all uphill. Pain may be temporary, but it’s still intense. I remind myself that I choose to do this, paid to do this, and would choose to do it again tomorrow. When the going gets tough, I think about the “Why?” of running (or, today, crawling) an ultra. Why would I rather limp up a steep mountain trail than spend the day doing normal things? Because I can. Because life is too short for anything less than the extraordinary. Because the grandiose beauty of the mountains is worth every second. Because out here, the chaos of the world makes sense.

Finally, in a grassy valley, the aid station at Rifugio Col. Gallina. Tents on a sunny meadow, cheering spectators, food, water. My energy returns long enough to refuse the temptation of
a) sinking into a chair and rest, and
b) getting on the dropout bus to the finish line.
I reassure the aid station volunteer that I’m fit to continue and hike out before I change my mind on both counts.
90 km done, 30 to go, about 18 more miles. I can do this, even though it’s not all downhill from here. More steep climbing. More technical climbing – over huge boulders, over logs arranged like an obstacle course. I know it’s to prevent trail erosion, but can’t help wondering whether some course designer indulged in sadistic inclinations. Both my quads now hurt about the same, which makes negotiating the obstacle course really painful. I curse in Italian, German, and English, hoping for temporary numbness from F-word-induced endorphins. I take short breaks between each step, trying to catch the lag time between crashing waves of agony. Downhills don’t bring relief anymore. The opposite, really. It’s late afternoon. Like yesterday, storm clouds gather in the distance. They move closer. The sky turns black. Rain and hail begin to pelt me. One last aid station. The rain stops, as suddenly as it started. 7 more kilometers, all downhill. Maybe I can still break 21 hours? But the downhill is slippery, full of tree roots, treacherous footing. I slide down the mountain, hanging on to wet branches. I don’t want to fall again, but also don’t want to go into the second night. Speedier runners pass me, most with blue numbers meaning that they are in the 50k, but some with black numbers, two . . .three . . . four women among them. I am in too much pain to try and catch anyone, or to even care. My only ambition is to finish as fast as I am still able to. I speed up my hiking pace, but running is out of the question.

The trail widens. Rain is falling once again, a slow drizzle. I don’t care. I’m almost done. Pavement. I catch up to a hunched-over figure in a black rain poncho who is moving even more slowly than I am. He explains, in English with an Eastern European accent, that he fell and landed on a root, which injured his back. We decide to cover the last kilometer together, and we make a fine pair, drenched, mud-covered, hobbling along at the fastest possible speed, which is pretty slow. We discuss how soon we need to start running to be able to run all the way across the finish line, and decide on about 200 yards. When we can see the bell tower, we break into a trot to shouts of “Dai! Dai!” which sounds suspiciously like “Die! Die!” but means “Go! Go!” In Italian. My name on the loudspeaker. Done! 21:19, not the time I had in mind, but not bad, all things considered. Congratulations and cheers. My Czech friend and I shake hands before he hugs his wife and son, and I stumble, dazed, about ten steps up the street to my hotel, not sure if what I want most right now is a bed, a shower, or an entire bottle of Pinot Grigio. What a day! What a race! One of the best things about it: I will have to come back next year, to improve my time. Next year, I will treat this course with the respect it deserves, instead of racing a tough 100 miler three weeks before. I can’t wait.

In the meantime, it is good to be alive and running, even when it hurts.

Ciao amici, ci vediamo molto presto!

Liebe Grüsse, und bis ganz bald!

Au revoir!  A bientôt! ¡Hasta Luego!

The hot list on Ultrasignup is a dangerous place for me and my friend Rachael, like some sort of ultra candy store that seduces us into impulse purchases. We discovered in late March that the San Diego 100 only had a single-digit number of open spots left. My training had been mostly on roads (because of muddy trails and time constraints) and mostly in cold, wet conditions. The San Diego 100 is run on winding desert singletrack, in the heat of early summer. I thought it was a grood idea to sign up anyway, because
a) it was almost full,
b) its early June date fit my schedule, and
c) you only live once.
Like panicked last-minute Christmas shoppers, we registered in the nick of time. There are two entry options: regular, for normal 100-mile runners who like to enlist their friends and family as crew or pacers, and solo, for those who consider crew or pacers superfluous luxuries. (I realize that “normal 100-mile runners” sounds like an oxymoron to most people, but do not know how else to tell them apart from the lone wolves in the solo division). For me, going solo seemed the way to roll because
a) My husband could not take off work anyway,
b)I thought finishing solo would make me a bonafide badass, and
c) and my introverted self suffered from too much work-related human interaction lately and craved some serious alone time.
(I included such a detailed report on my signup process to show once again that ultra runners are not a bunch of obsessive-compulsive weirdos, but rather a rational, reasonable group of people who base their decisions on careful, logical deliberation.)

In early June, I drive to Lake Cuyamaca from New Mexico, partly because I hope the long solo road trip will mentally prepare me for the long solo run and partly because I am worried about organizing all my drop bags and gear for a 100-miler into a piece of luggage suitable for air travel. Like many other runners, Rachael and I pitch a tent near the start/finish line on Thursday. The weather forecast predicts A rcord high near 100 degrees for the weekend. I had looked forward to warmer temperatures , but this seems a little excessive. We prepare our packs, pick our outfits, lube our feet, and slather on sunscreen before walking to the starting line on Friday morning. Scott Mills, the enthusiastic and organized RD, begs us to be smart out there in the heat of the day, then sends us off at exactly 6 am.

 I start near the back of the pack, but feel so good for the first few hours that I pass a bunch of people. But by mind-morning, we’re climbing a section of the PCT. The dry air keeps getting hotter. The shrubby vegetation offers no shelter from the brutal sun. I stuff my hat and sports bra with ice at every aid station, which helps for a couple of miles. The aid stations in this race are seven to nine miles apart, so the ice doesn’t last. I glance behind me and see a by now familiar woman named Gretchen in a cowboy hat gaining on me. I am not willing to give up my position in the field, wherever it may be, so I try to quicken my steps when my left calf muscle cramps mid-stride, in protest. I land in the dirt with a graceless thud, murmuring expletives and massaging my calf as Gretchen passes me, graciously offering to help me up. I wave her on as I struggle back into an upright position, swallow a couple of salt pills, and get going again.

This race is like the canyon section at Western States, except that the canyon section here is 85 miles long instead of 30. The heat starts earlier and lingers later, zapping runners of all energy.
Around mid-afternoon, I climb up the so-called Noble Canyon. There is nothing noble about this thing. It’s rocky. It’s steep. It contains a trickle of water too shallow to cool off in, and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds who are feasting on my blood. The heat of the day has reached its peak. I later find out that the canyon floor reached 110 degrees fahrenheit. Dried sweat has formed a layer of salty residue on my skin, where it mixes with the fine desert sand into a grimy layer. Salt stings my eyes. My stomach is lurching into dry heaves. The rocks seem to be moving in circles, like a reddish kaleidoscope. My powerhike slows to a stumbling shuffle, yet I pass a couple of people who have stopped moving altogether. A chilling sound to my right propels me forward. A rattlesnake is coiled on a rock, just a couple of feet away. I thank it for making me move faster, if only for a minute. My 70oz bladder of watermelon-flavored Nuun is barely enough to get me to the next aid station.

Feeling like roadkill, I reach Penny Pines. It’s only mile 44, not even half way done, but I sink into a chair. I consider dropping. I consider calling David, who is posting facebook updates all day and all night, to tell him it’s not my day. But as my core temperature normalizes, things seem less dire. My usual nutrition strategy is a mix of clif bloks and stinger waffles. Today, I can’t stomach either, so I switch to potato chips and ginger ale, which at least stays down.
Only 56 miles to go. It may not be my day to place in the top five, but I can still finish. It’s time to throw out plan A and go for plan B, which is to stay under the cutoff time, upright and in one piece. Evening is just a few hours away. If I can hang on until sunset, I can get this thing done.
Dale’s Kitchen, mile 57.

It’s evening. The sun is setting in a blaze of reds and purples on the horizon, which means  the heat of the day is winding down. I pick up my lights. Anxious friends and family members huddle around their runners like pit crews at a formula one race, while I – in the stupid category – fumble around in my drop bag, looking for fresh socks and blister bandages. This is also where crewed runners can pick up their first pacer. A woman named Tia leaves with her friend at a brisk pace,which makes me regret my solo status. On the plus side, my appetite has returned, and a quesadilla tastes like heaven. My energy level surges as I run the long, gradual descent into Cibbets as darkness falls. There’s a spring in my step as I pick up my pace, passing Gretchen, Skye, and Tia.

This is an out and back section, and I realize, counting three women on their way back, that I am in fourth place now. I can still finish in the top five! My competitive instinct returns with a roar. Knowing who is in front of me and behind me gets me in and out of the aid station within minutes. I spend most of the climb back up in pleasant conversation with a guy named Mark. There’s enough of a chill in the air to pick up my jacket at on the return pass through Dale’s kitchen. Rachael is there, nursing a shin injury and considering a DNF. I hug her, but don’t linger because of three fast women breathing down my neck.

Mile 80, twenty more to go. Ahead of me, a strong-looking grey-haired runner has doubled back, looking for course markings. I realize with a start that I haven’t been paying enough attention to the trail. We look around for a few minutes until we spot a pink ribbon on a tree branch. A beautiful sight. Reassured, we continue on together, making small talk interspersed with the grunting sounds that mark the late miles of a 100, when he turns around and asks “Do you know who I am?” I know I should say yes, but my tired brain won’t give up the information until he reintroduces himself as our campsite neighbor Rob, just shy of his 60th birthday, on his way to an impressive sub-25finish.
My surge of energy is over by mile 85. My blister intervention at mile 72 consisted of sticking a couple of band-aids onto my dirt-covered feet. They came off a few miles later, and by now I feel like I am running on raw, bleeding soles. Only the competitive instinct keeps me moving at a slow jog. The light of dawn edges up in the East. Time to turn off the lights. I walk, force myself back into a jog, walk again. At this stage, having a pacer can make a big difference. I am in the solo (or the stupid?) division, so I have to make do with an imaginary pacer yelling into my ears to keep moving, dammit.
The last few miles are on gently rolling terrain, but difficult to deal with because they meander through meadows and hills near Lake Cuyamaca, suggesting the finish line is closer than it actually is. They seem endless, looping around familiar ground without leading home. The last mile serves as a final insult. The finish line is almost close enough to touch it, certainly close enough to hear cheering crowds. Just as I think I am almost done, a sign appears, announcing “one more mile to the finish!” upon which he trail loops in the opposite direction one more time. Demoralized, I glance behind me. No sign of Tia, Skye, or Gretchen. My feet are on fire. I break to a walk, then force myself to run the last 100 yards and across the finish line in 25:05, 4th woman.

A long, unforgettable day Is over. Thank you, Scott Mills, for excellent organization, extra ice at all the aid stations, and for the confidence ribbons. Thank you, Rachael, for sharing your tent and the weekend. Thank you, David Infante, Michelle, Rob, Mark, Skye, Gretchen, and Tia for conversations and company. Thank you, David Silva, for cheerleading from home. I now have a couple of weeks to doctor my blister-covered feet before the Lavaredo 119k. Yes, running two major races so close together seemed like a good idea when we signed up. As usual, I blame Rachael.

It is a good time to be alive and running, blisters and all.

See you out there,

Katrin