Fuego y Agua in Fair Nicaragua

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter about the Fuego y Agua  ultramarathon in 2013.

In February, five Second Winders competed in a series of endurance events, called Fuego y Agua, on the volcanic island of Ometepe in LakeNicaragua. There were many incredible bloggers who produced better  reports than anything I could ever write, with photos and video. Some links to those are at the end of this report. Here, I’ll highlight a few things that made my 50K race special.

One of the great things about Second Wind is how those who move away always reappear. Every new race becomes a chance to renew an old friendship. Second Winders Rob and Melissa Raguet-Schoefield moved to St. Louis several years ago after Melissa completed her Ph.D. at Illinois. Melissa’s fieldwork on howler monkeys led her and Rob to the Nicaraguan island of Ometepe, where these monkeys are found. During their two years there, Rob ran the 2012 Fuego y Agua as his first 50K. Eager to return, he put an online shout-out to the Buffalo, a group of Second Wind trail runners. Heeding the call were Don Frichtl, Jen Burton, me, and Brian Kuhn, another former Second Winder who now lives in Austin. We couldn’t resist running up a tropical volcano during February. Jen, in particular, was destined to do this race. Just weeks before sign-up, she had received a gift basket filled with food, including a mystery box mix of Gallo Pinto, a pilaf of beans and rice. We were to learn that it was Nicaragua’s national dish, to be had morning, noon, and night with every Nica-style meal.

Volcans Concepcion on the left, and Maderas n the right, viewed from the ferry.

In its fourth year, 2013’s Fuego y Agua featured 25K, 50K, and 100K distances, and for the first time a 70K survival run. At the heart of the races are the two volcanoes that dominate Ometepe. Volcan  Concepcion is a live one, hence Fuego (fire). Volcan Maderas is dormant, and a small lake sits in its caldera, hence Agua (water). The 25K took place on Concepcion, the larger of the two, and the 50K went up and down Maderas. The 100K and survival runners had to do some of both.

Fuego y Agua attracts amateur and elite athletes worldwide, and as word gets out, the race is becoming more popular. Race director Josue Stevens is also the director of the Copper Canyon race that was featured in Chris McDougal’s book Born to Run and was recently renamed after its founder, Caballo Blanco. Eric Orton, the coach that helped McDougal run again, was running the 50K.

The camaraderie at Fuego y Agua was at least as memorable as the race itself. More than 220 runners
swamped the small town of Moyogalpa, race headquarters. By the end, most of us recognized each other from sharing sidewalks, tables in restaurants, seats on the ferry boat, and tough times on the trail.
Fuego y Agua was the first to unite both the ultrarunning and obstacle racing communities. Each thought the other was nuts. I am here to tell you that it’s a slam-dunk. The obstacle racers take the crazy
cake. Nutshell: The invitation-only survival race attracted the world’s top racers of this genre, including  champion Junyong Pak. Of the 37 who started, only two finished. He was one of them. And yes, live chickens were involved.

Don shares the trail with a local.

Another great feature of Fuego y Agua was its tight connection to the island and its people. Everyone could feel the goodwill between the runners and the islanders. Nicaragua is the second poorest country in the western hemisphere, after Haiti, and the race organizers wanted this race not only to give back to the community, but to involve its members. Islanders and runners participated in the island cleanup held prior to race day, and in the kid’s race held the day after. Boys and girls from all over the island ran a 5K on the streets of Moyogalpa, and received race shirts and a pair of running shoes at the finish line. The shoes were donated by companies and by the racers themselves. I love the idea that a pair of my shoes is being worn, and perhaps run in, on Ometepe.

Jen and I ran the 50K. It’s hard to call it a run. It was more like a 30K run through an extraordinary and unfamiliar culture followed by 20K of one-two-

The vegetation changed dramatically as we ascended Volcan Maderas.

three-and-up, moss-covered monkey-bar, controlled insanity. I felt like a little kid on an adventure the entire way. We donned headlamps at the cool 4 a.m. start, and temperatures wouldn’t hit the 90s until the sun was overhead. Running in the dark, side-by-side with survivor runners holding live chickens (told ya!) made me giddy until my first harmless tumble, when I tripped over a rock. It was dry season, so the dust of the trail kicked up and I ran like Pigpen in my own cloud. As my beam of light bore through the darkness of the narrow trail hemmed in by deep dirt banks, I felt like I was tunneling through a mine.

Sunrise revealed the utter beauty of the island. As we ran on cobblestone roads through tiny villages, past extremely humble dwellings, we exchanged ¡Holas! with the people who lived there, shared the trail with horses and cows, traipsed among banana trees on plantations and upon the black volcanic sands of freshwater beaches, all the while closing the gap between Moyogalpa and the foot of Volcan Maderas, the volcano that loomed ahead. At the volcano’s base was Porvenir, where we were greeted by friendly aid station workers and the start of our steep climb. We were to crest the top, drop into the crater, climb back out, and run to finish line by the lakeside town of Meridas.

By Porvenir, I felt really good. The trail became steeper and rockier, so running got sporadic and the
race turned into a hike. Vegetation thickened as I went higher, and the jungle’s deep shade was a welcome relief from the hot sun. The hike transformed into a climb, and thanks to my hydration vest, my hands were free to grab onto trees, roots, and rocks. I suspect that cutting switchbacks may have been too cumbersome for whoever built the trail, because the trail mostly went straight up. Imagine climbing the stairs of a tall building, four steps at a time. Now add a profusion of roots, rocks, limbs and shoe-sucking mud, and you’ll get the idea. Because I could never see the summit, it was impossible to gauge my distance. It wasn’t until I started to plunge practically straight down, holding onto a metal cable, that I realized I had already gone over the top. The plunge led to the pretty little lake and a hard-earned aid station loaded with familiar fixings: chips, gel, and all combinations of nuts and chocolate. I lingered for no more than five minutes.

Jen in the Jungle Gym section.

The next stage, known as the Jungle Gym, made me laugh out loud. The little blue bits of plastic flagging tied to the branches overhead guided me through the maze. At one point, the “trail” went over a mass of roots suspended over a cliff. No fear, though—the roots were strong and thick like a net, and the limbs were like handlebar grips. Everything was green with leaves and moss. No wonder monkeys liked living here. I never did see one, but I heard a few and can say that howler is a good name for them. Each racer I saw in the Jungle Gym seemed to be having fun. The race we were running was not only noble, but ridiculous!

After much climbing, more lumbering, and even more clumbering, I was off the volcano proper, and the terrain opened up so I could break into a trot. It was so liberating that I thought I felt a hand on my bottom, pushing me along. But the pitch was ever so gradually downhill, and I painfully realized that I was not going to be sprinting to the finish. The race was two weeks ago as I type this, and I have only one toenail left.

Mud-strewn author.

As it got hotter and drier, I started to encounter locals on the trail again. The finish line lay ahead. I ran under the tape in 11:15, popped a Toña (a Nicaraguan beer that helped sponsor the race), and headed into Lake Nicaragua to cool down and clean up. I was covered in mud, and a few bruises as I would find out later, and I was happy! Playtime was over, and I was intact. Friends, old and new, were there to greet me, including Jen and Rob. Jen fulfilled her destiny as third female. Rob had run with the lead pack until a missed a turn on the beach took them out of contention, but he had carried his own for a good while with some of the world’s top trail runners.

Back in Moyogalpa, we would join Don, who had run a courageous 25K on an injured hip, and later Brian, who would finish in darkness from 100 grueling kilometers up and down both volcanoes. At the post-race banquet, Jen received her award of a mask of a horse, crafted by the country’s top mask artisan.

We were all heartened to learn that local hero (and destined to be international star) Johnson Cruz, won the survivor race, beating Pak. Warm and humble, but one of the toughest men on the planet, Johnson also ran with the kids in the children’s race. He would return to his modest farm in Moyogalpa while we all jetted back to the states, having run for a while in that magic spot between fire and water.

Ometepe

Two volcanoes form most of the island of Ometepe, which means “two hills” in the native Nahuatl language. It sits in the largest lake in Central America: Lake Nicaragua, an oval-shaped lake about 110 miles long. Its breathtaking beauty and biodiversity make Ometepe a great ecotourism destination.

The perfect cone of the largest of the volcanoes, Concepcion, is 5,577 feet high and is the site of the 25K and the longer races. The smaller is Maderas, at 4,573 feet, which the 50K racers had to climb.

Roughly 42,000 people live on the island, 15,000 of whom live in the race’s host town of Moyogalpa. For a flyover of the 50K course, see Rob’s video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=15-Y-qY4G6w

Related reports

Official website: http://fuegoyagua.org/

News reel of the survival run, featuring Junyong Pak, Olof Dallner, and Johnson Cruz: globalnews.ca/video/461172/survival-run-only-two-racers-arrive-alivein-thesurvival-run

Yassine Diboun’s blog of the 100K: trailandultrarunning.com/fuego-y-agua-2013

There are others, including interviews and videos, Just Google “Fuego y Agua”.

Changes in Altitude, Changes in Attitude: My First Mountain Race

Bighorn runners Vicky and Jim Halsey, Don Frichtl, and Judy Tolliver before the race.

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter about the Bighorn Ultra.  Photos, except for the first one taken by an innocent bystander, were taken by Don Frichtl.

Many things will compel a runner to stop running. Fatigue usually. Pain sometimes. But that Saturday in June, under a bright blue sky, picking my way down a single track through a meadow flanked by walls of weathered rock and jumbled ridgelines, I was stopped by beauty.

The narrow trail cut through an explosion of purple and yellow flowers. The grass was shot with granite boulders covered in lichens the color of celadon, paprika, and soot. I took in the wonder of it all for a moment, then picked up my feet and started off again. In the heart of the Bighorns of northern Wyoming, deep into a 50K, I was not only 1,200 miles west of my home in Urbana, Illinois, I was also 8,000 feet closer to the sun that was beginning to parch my body as I ran my first ever mountain ultra.

Back in January, euphoric after a 25K and well into my second beer, a voice next to me warned: “Believe me, you’ll want to sign up for Bighorn, ‘cause it’s gonna fill up fast.” Kennekuk runner Vicky Halsey was unmercifully nudging me toward my next big challenge just minutes after I’d completed my last. I call such friends enablers. She and her husband Jim were eager to return to the site of the first ultra they had run together. I held out my arm: “Twist, please.”

Trail-running is among the top five fastest growing outdoor sports, up 11 percent in 2011 over the year before. Bighorn has grown even faster, and it did fill up quickly, in just weeks, in fact. And so I became one of the 800 who converged in Sheridan, Wyoming, to mark the twentieth anniversary of the Bighorn Mountain Wild and Scenic Trail Run in 30K, 50K, 50M, and 100M distances.

Runner in the distance among blue lupines and yellow arrowleaf balsam root.

In the shadow of the Big Horn mountain range, along the old Bozeman Trail that connected the gold fields of Montana to the Oregon Trail, sits the historic town of Sheridan (pop. 17,641 and a bag of chips). The trail encroached on valuable Indian hunting grounds, and the area witnessed many tragic  conflicts including the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Today the town’s Main Street still retains its Western character, but you can also order berry-stuffed crepes for breakfast and a cold one from a local microbrew pub. At the Blacktooth Brewing Company, I met up with Jim and Vicky and Second  Wind’s Don Frichtl. We had all road-tripped out.

The conversation turned to the race. We speculated about how we’d fare in higher altitudes. I hadn’t prepared any differently than for any other long race. You can’t really prepare a body for altitude in Illinois. The best you can do is to prepare for the terrain, so I did a fair share of Clinton and Forest Glen long runs, maxing out at 20 miles.  Nonetheless, I began to doubt as I heard people talk about sucking air at a mile and a half high. Maybe my 8-hour goal was wildly optimistic. Even 9 hours began to seem too ambitious. The cut-off was 13 hours. I hoped I could make that.

Sheridan native Penny Hanify had generously opened her heart and home without ever having met us. She’d recently moved back from the Midwest, where she was a member of the SLUGs (St. Louis Ultrarunners Group), which is how Don came to know her. She cooked us a feast of barbequed chicken and fettuccine upon our Thursday night arrival and put us up for the weekend. Someday I hope to pay her kindness forward to far-flung runners who come to race in our area.

On Friday, I acclimatized to the area, touring Sheridan, channeling cowboys and Indians, and looking at Western art. The 100-milers started their race at 11:00 that morning, about the time I was wandering through the aisles of King’s Saddlery museum, jampacked with nostalgic cowboy gear. Don drove up to the Medicine Wheel, an ancient Native American spoke-like pattern made of stone atop a windswept peak, while Vicky and Jim went to the trailhead to preview the course. Sheridan had rolled out the red carpet for us, and so did the tiny town of Dayton (pop. 794 and site of Wyoming’s first rodeo), where  the race would finish and post-race festivities begin.

Approach to Tongue River Canyon.

While waiting in a Dayton school parking lot for the bus that would take us 45 minutes into Bighorn  National Forest, I made several frantic changes of clothes. The start would be nippy; the finish would be hot. What’s a girl to wear? As has happened so many times, I got lucky and wore just the right thing: shorts, short-sleeved tech shirt under a long-sleeved shirt that I could shed and wrap around my waist, gloves I could stash in my pockets, sunscreen, and lip balm.

We stood in a windy alpine meadow at the Dry Fork aid station, waiting for the start, shivering but warmed by the excitement. A few runners could be seen deep in the valley below making their way toward us. They looked like animated toy soldiers. They’d been running all night in the snow-covered upper reaches of the rugged 100-mile course. We were fresh. They were not. So many people I spoke with were Bighorn veterans. Some came back every year to revisit the most beautiful trail they’d ever run. Within minutes, I understood why. After a live performance of “The Star Spangled Banner,” the race director said, “Go,” and we were off, climbing 500 feet to a ridge that looked out on snow-capped peaks in every direction.

The chill soon gave way to sweat, known to some as “liquid awesome.” The mountains knocked me out. I swore I saw Julie Andrews twirling in the distance. But the obstacles and ruts made it hard to lift my eyes off the ground. Once I got my trail legs, my mind wandered to the scent of pine and sage, the silver bark of aspen, the gurgle of creeks and crash of the raging river, weathered snags and bleached bones of fallen trees, boulders ridden to their resting spots by ancient glaciers. Nothing back home could compare.

My fear of searing lungs melted away, and I began to bliss out. The thin air would not suck the life out of me after all. But I didn’t anticipate the steep, rocky descent into the Tongue River Canyon and the toll it would take on my knees and quads. You can’t help but smile as a 100-mile runner blows past you and tells you how good you’re looking while you’re gingerly hopping rocks at mile 11 and he’s loping like a mountain goat at mile 80. Another walked with me a spell as I fought off a cramp that grabbed at my calf. He advised me to take another Scap to stop the siege, and it worked. Nothing beats the wisdom that’s passed from runner to runner. Whether you dispense it or receive it, it feels good. It stops you from whining.

I witnessed many happy reunions throughout the race. I had a little one, too. At the Lower Sheep Creek aid station, I recognized Mark Tanaka from San Francisco. I’d met him while working the overnight aid station at McNaughton, an ultra near Pekin, Illinois. He had asked me to wake him in 20 minutes while he lay on the plywood sheet we’d put down so we wouldn’t be sucked up to our ankles in mud. When I did, he instantly popped up, downed a bit of food, and went on his way into the dark and into my memory of the first ultra I’d ever witnessed.

At the Cow Camp aid station, I was greeted by a familiar face—Penny. She had worked through the night, nourishing the 100-milers as they ran in temperatures that dipped into the thirties. And there she was, offering me bacon! (They had cooked up 60 pounds of it, in grizzly country.) The workers were as helpful as they were delightful: kids filling water bottles, retirees offering humorous encouragement and concern for your welfare, and smiling dogs. Later aid stations had pineapple, apricots, plums, and even shrimp.

Along the Tongue River.

Throughout the race I never questioned my ability to finish. I had worried that my hamstring injury would flare up. The steep descents without solid footing forced me to walk often. Ten miles to go, and I was suffering from flat-out fatigue—the good kind. The kind that’s impossible to get any other way but this. The dry, hot road into town presented the final challenge: five flat brutal miles, punctuated by a spray-down from a local with a hose and a popsicle straight from heaven. The cheers of the crowd and the pulsing live music at the finish line made me pick up my pace. With a time of 8:12, I was the 57th 50K female runner. I rinsed my feet in the icy Tongue River, put on my I Love Bighorn socks (which came with the race swag), and washed down a couple burgers with a post-race beer, when there she was: Vicky, already talking to me about the next one. I hid my arm behind my back. But not long after, hearing Don say Bighorn was the most beautiful of the more than 100 ultras he’s ever done, I thought: well…maybe.

Home again, the first trail I ran was the Schroth at Allerton, which runs along the sluggish waters of the Sangamon. The six-mile loop wasn’t much, but it was long enough. I didn’t need anything longer until the next race. After Bighorn—dry, high, and spectacular—I saw my familiar trail in a different way: oxygen-rich, lush, opulent, bursting, close.

Proust once wrote: “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” The Bighorns made me see my home trail again as if for the first time.

Trail of Fears: Running trail at night

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter about trail-running at night.

This is not a general article on running at night. This is a specific article on trail-running at night. There’s a difference—the main one being that on a trail you don’t need to be visible to cars. Also, many people run in the dark because they have no choice: At certain times of year, it’s simply dark when they have the time to get a run in.

People used to fear almost everything about the hours after sunset. It was “not a place for respectable men, and especially not respectable women, to ever be, ” according to U of I historian Craig Koslofsky. But by 1700, as lighting technology evolved, “night was now seen as an opportunity.” From a trail-running perspective, as headlamp technology has evolved, night is an opportunity for respectable runners to experience the trail in an almost magical way.

Most people try to find well-lit areas to run in at night, for very good reasons, including the obvious: It’s less risky to run when you can see where you’re going. Seeking out dark trails on purpose is done for other reasons: It’s an interesting challenge. Having less psychological distance from the stars helps you feel connected with the universe. It’s a hoot!

As a runner, how better to embrace the night than to run in it? Some nights might have a moon, and it’s a heavenly experience to run by moonlight. A full moon presents itself every month, and many local trail runners take to the Buffalo Trace trail at Lake of the Woods to partake in a Moon Run. There are several variations to the Moon Run. If the full moon falls on a Tuesday, there may be a Burrito Loco run. This entails the Fun Run at Meadowbrook, followed by a Burrito Loco at El Toro on South Neil, followed by running the 5-mile Buffalo Trace loop. (There is a beer variant to this one as well.) Another variation is the Moonathon, which happens if the full moon falls on a Thursday. Moonathon rules are simple: The runner who logs the most miles between 6 and 10 pm wins the traveling trophy (a beautiful sculpture). The Buffalo trail is practically a grass sidewalk, but if you don’t know the course, it is possible to get lost. Also, in fall, care must be taken to avoid peril by fallen walnuts or hedge apples. The trail is run in the opposite direction than usual (usual is counter-clockwise). The trail is not run in reverse solely to be confusing. It’s just that going the usual way, you hit the woods first and field last. Run the opposite way, the woods are more illuminated the higher the moon. To some, wearing a headlamp or carrying a flashlight, is cheating. (It was more fun, too, before the park eliminated the stream crossings and replaced them by gravel minefields.)

Another popular place for night-running is the North Woods trail at Clinton Lake, a ten-mile loop. On August 19, about 20 of us showed up to celebrate/mourn the end of summer. Some were first-time night-runners, many were first-time-Clinton night-runners. I’ll describe this run as an example of what you can expect when you do a night trail run.

First, everyone gathers at the starting point and trades notes on gear, mostly headlamps. What kind do you have? (I have a Petzl Tikka.) Do you wear it over the bill of your hat, or under? (I don’t wear a hat with a headlamp, never tied it. Cindy Ginsberg wears hers on her handheld water bottle.) Are we crazy? (Yes, I said to the guy in the truck—the last of the fishermen to leave the parking lot.) And then you take off.

At first, it’s no different than any other run, but once you enter the woods and plunge into low light, your pace slows way down. (Tip: If you have any doubt at all about your headlamp batteries, bring extra. Otherwise, you will drive yourself batty with angst.)

One of the first things you’ll notice is that it’s nice to be right behind someone. You can light-draft off their headlamp, copy their footfalls, and have a warning if there’s anything to trip on. “Ooof! Root.” “Whoa, slippery bridge.” What’s not so nice is that if it’s dry, you can see the dust blown up by their footsteps—the dust that you are inhaling—because that little cloud of Brownian motion is illuminated by your headlamp. Sometimes the trail looks like someone sprinkled chalk on it. I guess you don’t notice it in the daylight, but I think it’s just what clay powder looks like in a headlamp.

In my case, it’s not long before I’m alone. This time, I had a group in front of me and behind. The Clinton trail is hilly and windy (as in winds around), so there are chances to see both groups when the trail jackknifes. Tiny bobbing beams, like little spaceships containing friendly aliens. (Tip: If you are truly alone out there, make sure someone knows where you’re going and when you’ll be back. Remember Aron Ralston.)

As evening turns into night, you’ll feel pockets of warm and cool air as you dip in and out of depressions along the trail. You’ll hear different sounds rise and fade as you pass certain areas. Wee-ah wee-ah wee-ah cicadas give way to chirping crickets, the trills of frogs and drones of bullfrogs herald watery areas. Owls talk to each other in otherworldly hoots, gliding on soundless wings. (Tip: Don’t bring an iPod.)

Alone, you will soon grow used to your moving circle of light, and your focus will concentrate as you travel inside your cocoon. Your senses will be heightened. You may notice a dark outline below your eyes, as if your cheeks lead down into a black hole. It’s a sensation hard to describe, but you swear you have glasses on when you don’t—that the blackness is the lower rim of your glasses. You reach up to adjust the phantom glasses only to touch your eye directly. It’s unsettling, too, when you attempt to make this adjustment several times during the course of your run, even if you have never run with glasses on before.

It’s Clinton, so for me, this always involves some walking. It’s during the walking parts that you can turn your headlamp off the ground to look around you. It’s so cool to see the eye-shine of spiders, whose eyes glow like little stars the size of pinpricks, which are everywhere in places, reflecting your headlamp. You may come across the proverbial deer in the headlights, only the headlight is you. That their eyes seem to glow is caused by the light-reflecting surface behind the retina, which helps animals see better in the dark. If you stop running altogether, turn your headlamp off to see what your setting is really like. Melt into the night scene for a moment.

In spite of your headlamp, you can’t quite see enough to anticipate the physical sensation of the ups and downs of the trail. Surprises abound, even if that part of the trail is devoid of roots and rocks. This is another reason to keep the pace slow, especially on an unfamiliar trail. Another thing you can’t quite see is where the heck you are. Sometimes the familiar landmarks—the rickety bridge, the tree with the tin can in it, the trashed appliances—are out of light-beam reach. This actually works in my favor. If I don’t know where I am, I don’t know how much more I have to run. If I don’t know a hill is coming up, I won’t dread it. If I don’t know where the steep ascent ends, I get that heroic feeling when it’s over before I know it. Plus, there’s the exciting sensation of being on an entirely new trail, even if you’ve run it many times in daylight.

From a critter standpoint, it’s nice to run at night in the Midwest. No mountain lions, moose, wolves, bears, oh my! For thousands of years, though, Christians identified night as a time of evil, natural and supernatural, full of the devil, ghosts, and witches. It’s hard to shake this notion. You are on high alert. So I about jumped out of my skin when a rather large, tan animal bounded past me from behind and cut in front of my path. What was that!? It turned out to be Cayenne, Ken Welle’s dog. Ken had gotten off to a late start and was catching up to the front group. When the adrenaline rush subsided, I laughed.

When the run was finished, we gathered in the parking lot for well-deserved calories, liquid and solid. We talked about how neat it was to have just done such a thing, and we just enjoyed hanging out. (Tip: when you talk with a fellow runner during a night run, do not blind them with your headlamp. Some folks sport fancy headlamps with a red-light setting for this and, according to Elliot Brinkman, for sneaking around in areas you shouldn’t be.)

Yeah, you can trip in the dark, but I would argue that you can trip in the day, too. It’s all a matter of focus. During the day, an interesting bird or view of the lake may take your eyes off the trail at the wrong moment. At night, your eyes are almost always on the ground in front of you. Because you can’t see very far ahead, your brain has to process visual feedback more quickly. You are more in the moment on a nighttime trail run. (Tip: If you are older, expect your eyes to react more slowly to adjustments in light.)

There are lots of ways to add new dimensions to a run. Running in dramatic weather, running on ice, running in sweats wearing a lead-filled vest in July, or running in a red dress. Adding night running to your repertoire is an easy way to mix it up. Admittedly, it’s not for everyone, but nighttime trail-running is a simple thing to try. Go to your favorite trail at night. Start running. If you don’t like it after, say, 100 yards, turn around and come back. If you do, welcome to the dark side!

Heed the cry: and don’t just talk about it, do it

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter for Sep/Oct 2011 about volunteering for races.

How many times have you seen this in your In Box?

From: Tricia Crowder

Subject: [Secondwind-l] VOLUNTEER CALL

It seems like every race, these notes eventually stop coming, indicating that volunteers have been found. So if you’re like me, you don’t always respond to the call. As it turns out, many of the races that Second Wind helps manage are staffed by the same people time and time again. Perhaps involuntarily, our involunteerism is wearing them out. But really, when we don’t volunteer we are missing the best parts of being runners.

I’m writing this the day after the 2011 Howl at the Moon 8-hour ultra at Kennekuk, where I was an aid station volunteer for the third time. I knew I wanted to be there to see old friends and make new ones. Because I was injured, I couldn’t run it so I worked it, which brings me to my first point: Working a race is a great way to stay connected to the running community when you can’t run. When I do come back and start racing, it won’t be a hey-where-you-been situation. Instead, it’ll be a natural progression back into the running part of running. You see, as running sage Tony Suttle is fond of saying, it’s not about the running.

In the six years or so that I’ve been running, there have been hundreds of people, both behind the scenes and part of the scenes, who have made my race experiences not only positive but possible. They are the ones who make races fun, safe, and organized. Working a race is a way of paying it forward.

Sometimes there’s the general sense of helping a collective group of runners. Then there’s the special sense of helping someone in particular. At the Howl yesterday, I smiled when I thought about the previous year’s Howl when I offered my help to an older woman who was struggling on the course. She didn’t know anything about S-caps or gels, and on such a hot day, it was clear that she needed some. I gave her some from my stash and walked with her until she revived. Then I offered to pace her for a loop, for which she was grateful, but then I immediately regretted it when she told me she was a walker and not a runner. I wanted to run a loop, but I walked with her anyway. It turned out to be one of the most memoable and rewarding loops I’ve ever done. The distraction of talking about her family and her life helped her finish the race. I was so happy to see her embraced by her husband at the end of what was to be a successful Howl for both of us.

Working a race can even be life changing. In 2009, I worked the overnight shift of the McNaughton aid station. That year, runners competed in 50-, 100- and 150-mile distances as part of the McNaughton Park Trail Runs ultra in Pekin. The lights of our aid station shone like a beacon of hope as runners who had run all day soldiered on through the night by headlamp. I got a glimpse of the ultra world at that aid station, and the seeds of my running aspirations were planted. Working a race can give you a preview of what it’s like to run it.

After working local races, you may want to branch out and work one completely out of your jurisdiction. I did that last year as a volunteer at the Ozark 100, in Missouri, miles from here. I felt right at home, and I got to experience a new running venue by running part of the trail after my aid station duties were over. Not only am I a member of our local running community, but I am part of the larger community of like-minded individuals, united by our love of running and the great outdoors.

I was surprised when Tricia told me recently that our club routinely has to struggle to come up with enough volunteers to staff races, especially during the races themselves. Part of the problem is that many would-be volunteers can’t do race-day jobs because they are running the race. That’s when we need to step up, if we’re not running that day. Working a race is also a good way to get our non-running or not-running-that-day family members and friends involved in what we do and in the camaraderie that comes from working with other race volunteers.

If you run 5Ks, try working a marathon. If you run long trail races, try working a short road race. Curious about triathlons? Working one is better than a front-row seat. Want a little excitement? Try working the finish line of a short, fast race. Keeping runners organized in the finish chute, pulling bib numbers, or clicking times keeps you on your toes. In the last stages of a race, when most of the crowd has left, you may be the only ones cheering for a runner as they finish. You may have a bigger impact than you’ll know.

Runners are part of the race. They are its raison d’être. But it’s also the volunteers that make the race happen. We depend on each other, and in many cases, we are each other. How many times does it feel good to be truly needed? In a race, it’s every time.

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Photos by Brian Kuhn.

1) Gregg Rose, coordinator for the Howl 2011 aid station, awaits the first runners.

2) The full monty of the Erns: Teresa worked as a scorer, daughter Jessica worked the aid station, and Marty ran at the 2011 Howl at the Moon ultra.

3) Darby Rude hoists the Gatorade at the Howl aid station.

Running in a Winter Wonderland, in snowshoes!

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter about the Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships snowshoe race on March 6, 2011, in Beaver Creek, Colorado.

I was in Colorado in March, and a major snowshoe race was taking place at the resort where I was skiing. I like to run. I like activities with the potential for cold toes. Perfect. I was in pretty good shape this winter, yet I had never snowshoed before. How hard could it be? It wasn’t dangerous. What did I have to lose? Wouldn’t it be a nice break from skiing? Why of course! And so I entered the Jeremy Wright North American Snowshoe Championships snowshoe race.

The March 6 race was the last of three in the Beaver Creek Snowshoe Adventure Series, the winner of which would be crowned North American Snowshoe champion. The series boasted a $15,000 purse and attracted world-class snowshoe racers from across the country, including many accomplished trail runners and mountain athletes (like Josiah Middaugh, Bernie Boettcher, Peter Maksimow, Brandy Erholz, Travis Macy, to name a few). The races were held at McCoy Park, a beautiful Nordic area with miles of trails for snowshoers and crosscountry skiers perched at 10,000 feet. The 10K race was filled with serious competitors, but the more casual 5K race made a point of welcoming the rest of us.

Snow was falling fast in thick tufts on race day, after several inches of powder had blanketed the mountain the night before. We rode up a ski lift to the start and hunkered in the warming hut, filled with everything familiar to a runner: shelves of drop bags, racers suiting up, tables filled with bananas, cookies, energy bars, Gatorade, hot tea, and cocoa. The snowshoers were a friendly bunch to hang out with, and I was surprised that there were three times as many women as men in the 5K.

There are many types of terrain-specific snowshoes, and I took advantage of the free running demos offered at the site. Typical running snowshoes have aluminum frames, are about 7–8 inches wide and 22–25 inches long, and have crampon-like teeth that bite into the snow for traction. My snowshoes were about 1.5 pounds each, and I wore trail running shoes with them. Like every snowshoe, they sink a little, and so you drag some snow with every step. Hence the going is slow, and it’s very much a strength activity: a quad-burning, lung-searing, heart-pounding workout, especially if you’re not acclimatized to the high altitude. How nice.

McCoy Park offered breathtaking views of three different mountain ranges, but they were invisible through the fog of heavy snow. Trails wound up and down, through meadows, thick pine forests, and aspen groves typical of the Rocky Mountains. The course comprised groomed snow (tilled by a snow cat), single-track, and off-track sections (called powder zones). I heard that at some points along the 10K course, the women had to branch off from the men and run a separate path so that their leaders had to break their own trail. Otherwise, the leading women would be following the tracks of the top men. No one is spared.

More than 350 racers competed in both races, and we all started at the same time, with a gradual ascent that very quickly separated the seasoned snowshoe athletes from the rest of us. The race began with a gradual ascent up a groomed section. Even the groomed surface had plenty of snow on it, and as I started to run, the snow kicked up behind me, throwing it onto my backside. Within the first half mile, I was already reduced to walking. I had plenty of company.

Running in snowshoes requires launching up and forward, lifting each foot so it clears the snow and adjusting your gait so that your snowshoe doesn’t whack into your other leg. The motion becomes especially exaggerated in fresh snow. The time to run was on the downhills, but these were tricky because you had to maintain your balance. Your foot is not striking a predictable surface, and in areas of fluffy snow, you don’t get much traction. In the singletrack sections, you found yourself running in a narrow trench, compressed by the footfalls from those ahead of you. Losing your balance could mean planting yourself. If this sounds dangerous, though, it’s not. Again, we’re talking about slomo and soft landings.

Most of the pack I was with trudged the uphills, jogged and then briskly walked the flats, and trotted the downhills. Very little talking took place. The snow absorbed most sound beyond one’s own cocoon—a world of labored breaths and muffled crunching of snowshoes packing snow crystals. Beaver Creek’s tagline is “Not Exactly Roughing It,” but here we were.

Near the end, I could hear music booming and a voice announcing the name of each finisher. As I kicked it into gear for a “strong finish,” I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline, which gave way to a flood of happiness as I crossed the finish line. I was the 59th female in the 5K with a time of 1:03:41. The first place female for the 10K did it in 1:02:11.

Better technique and lots of practice will improve my snowshoeing. And no doubt, adding snowshoeing to the mix will improve my running. Next winter, when the snows return to Illinois, instead of heading out on the slippery streets and partially shoveled sidewalks, I’ll be strapping on my new set of snowshoes and reliving my Rocky Mountain high.

Lessons learned from a short race

I ran the Buffalo Trace race on Saturday. This is on the same course that I run every Thursday. The Thursday before, I was reduced to walking a good part of the way. I was just beat from running that week, including a Burrito Loco run.

Note for those unfamiliar with the Burrito Loco run. We have moon runs on the Buffalo Trace trail every month under a full moon. We run the course backwards from usual, by moonlight, usually starting around 9 pm. If you bring a light of any kind, you will be ridiculed. We have fun runs at Meadowbrook every Tuesday. If a full moon happens to be on a Tuesday, it's a throwdown for the Burrito Loco. You run to fun run, then hop on over to El Toro II, where you must consume a Burrito Loco and a minimum of two bears, then drive to Mahomet for the moon run. I did not go to El Toro (due to a bathroom remodel at home, I opted to take a shower at my gym, to at least get the first layer of grime off), but I did consume the required two beers.

Okay, so I've gotten complacent about short runs, which to me are now anything less than about 5 miles. Funny how that line gets moved the more you hang out with the Buffalo, our trailrunning group composed mostly of ultrarunners and their peculiar friends. I came in second (age group, of course) last time I ran it , which was year before last. Last year, I sat out due to a calf tear. The woman I was runner-up to was not running it this year. Plus, a herd member threatened to nickname me Baseball if I didn't beat a certain runner, whose nickname is Slugger (as in Louisville). So I did want to run it. But still, I did not prepare properly.

Here's how: For breakfast, I had coffee and fresh pineapple. That's it.

I ran a fast pace in the beginning and I thought I'd lose it, but it felt comfortable and I kept it up until... mile 4.5 or so, finish line practically in sight, crowd noise crystal clear. My friend B. had already passed me about half a mile ago and was going to take first. That was never a doubt. But then I heard heavy female breathing down my neck. Convinced I was going to be saddled with the shame of being called Baseball, I picked up the pace. Alas, it was too early to do so, as I would find out. I began to heave with every step. I slowed it down only to be passed by someone decades younger than I. I should have run my race on my own terms. Things were getting worse and I had to come to a complete halt, bend over, and puke my brains out. Coffee and pineapple.

"As I lay dying," at least eight people passed me, including --- no doubt --- the woman who would take second. I took third and retained my non-nickname.

Lessons learned (I hope): Run the race on my own terms at my own pace. Kick it up only when close to the finish (I'm still figuring out the equation involving the variables p=pace, t-zero=time to start running faster, n-heave=number of heaves per set distance, t-puke=time to puke, d=distance to finish line). Eat smart: standard carb breakfast (bread) with low acid fruit (banana) and less coffee. Adjust attitude: Running a short distance is a big deal if you run it faster than you're used to, and just because you run a course every week doesn't mean you know anything!

Swampstomping in Elvis Country

Here is an article I wrote that appeared in the Second Wind Running Club newsletter about the Swampstomper trail run, near Memphis, Tennessee, on January 15, 2011.

The snow faded, and the corn and bean fields gave way to cotton and rice as a group of Second Wind runners headed south, through Missouri and Arkansas before crossing the Mississippi into Memphis. They were headed to Meeman-Shelby Forest State Park in Millington, Tennessee, to run in the annual Swamptomper, a 25K/50K trail race held on Sunday, January 15.

The twelve of us had reserved two of the park’s five rustic cabins. Perched on the shore of a pretty lake, they were shouting distance across the water from the race course turnaround aid station. Packet pickup was at the start-finish, the Mississippi River Group Camp Lodge, which the race FAQs notes “is not hidden by a Romulan cloaking device.” This is another way of saying that without a GPS, it can be difficult to find. The race director gave runners the option to switch races up until packet pickup, providing the flexibility needed for many of us during the winter months when training might not have gone as hoped. Most of us ran the 25K, which started at 8:30 am, and a few ran the 50K, which started an hour earlier.

Ellen Erhardt, Chris Bryon, and Don Frichtl had left Friday to soak up some local culture. Tony Suttle, Lindsay Spangler, and I drove up the next day to find our cabins empty. Where was everyone? We were admiring the colorful sunset reflected in the water when Bill and Becky Dey pulled up. They told us that their getting lost on the way down resulted in the sighting of a white buffalo at a safari park. No lie. We lit a fire in fireplace and commenced lounging. Eventually the text messages from the other group started coming in. They had been joined by former Second Winders Tim Gill and Karin Gibbs, from Louisiana, and Brian Kuhn and Jen Burton. The first message, from Don, began: “Dinkin beer on Beale….” [sic] followed by several others, including another that read “Listdn to walkin in Walkn n Memphis!” [sic] It dawned on us cabin-dwellers that the communal homemade spaghetti dinner we had planned might not happen until quite late. And didn’t we have a race tomorrow?

The revelers did come home to roost, and a yummy meal ensued, complete with lamb and goat meatballs, followed by the pièce de résistance: King Cake, brought by Karin and Tim. This traditional Louisiana cake, associated with the Epiphany, resembles a giant cinnamon roll with sugary icing and colorful sprinkles. Hidden inside is a tiny plastic baby. Custom dictates that the lucky person who winds up with the piece containing the baby is charged with supplying the cake for the next year. Poker-faced Brian surprised everyone when the plastic baby came shooting from his mouth when least expected.

Race day: Sunday morning. The start-finish line was literally a crack in the road.
It was a brisk 35 degrees, but it was pretty dry with tiny patches of snow in only the shadiest spots. Some of us wore shorts and were quite comfortable once we got going. “Unlike last year,” said Tony, “we were blessed by almost perfect conditions.”

Six of the group ran Swampstomper last January in conditions that lived up to the race’s name. “Knee deep puddles,” recalled Lindsay, “sloshing in water for 16 miles.” The course followed the road a very short distance before plunging down a steep ravine into heavy woods. The well-maintained, single-track course followed ridges and bottoms. Most of it was flat with a handful of steep climbs, the steepest of which was ascended by stairs. Dead leaves littered the ground and clung to the trees, but there were also patches of bright green water horsetail in low-lying areas.

Numerous wooden bridges were covered with chicken wire for traction. Flood-prone areas were evident, and as I ran I realized just how lucky we were to not be fording the streams that were mere trickles on this day. There were a few stretches where cypress knees popped up from the ground, which could have dire consequences if you fell, but the main hazards were tree roots. I never saw the Mississippi River, which we were running along, perhaps because it was hidden by the bluffs we were running between.

The 25K course went out about 3.5 relatively easy miles before starting a 3-mile loop that was more challenging, followed by another 3 easy miles to the turnaround, where you could see our cabins. Then it was back to where we came from, but skipping the loop. The 50K runners did the entire course twice. This layout allowed runners to greet each other as they met running in opposite directions. (That’s how I learned that Don shed his shirt. He was the only shirtless person I saw.) The two aid stations and their staff were outstanding.

Most of us 25K runners ran well, and big smiles were everywhere. After receiving finisher medals and clay medallions, runners were treated to grilled hamburgers, hotdogs, accoutrements, and a warm fire burning in a barrel. But it wasn’t over for everyone. Most of the 50Kers were still on the course.

It was too cold to hang out post run, so we returned to our cabins, which I mentioned were near the turnaround aid station. This gave us 25Kers the opportunity to yell words of encouragement across the water to our 50K comrades, who would have about 9.5 miles to go. Some of us drove back to the finish line to cheer them as they came in.

That night brought us to Beale Street, where we enjoyed its famous nightlife, with live music in every bar. (One band noticed that were clumped together and asked us where we were from. It turned out their bass player was from Bloomington, Illinois!) We also enjoyed the camaraderie with some fellow runners from Evansville, Indiana. We recognized each other by our new Swampstomper shirts.

Linsday summed it up succinctly: “Good food, good company, good trails!”

Note: The 2012 Swampstomper will be on January 15 and start at Poplar Tree Lake instead of the Mississippi River Group Camp Lodge. Race registration will open at 6 am on September 16, 2011.