Not the Worst Running Race Ever

When I saw the race announcement for the Palisades Ultra Trail Series I got super jazzed because it looked amazing, it was nearby in a mountain range I wanted to explore more, and it looked hard as shit. Also the marathon was a beautiful aesthetic loop with “98% singletrack” (not true, but I ain’t mad...anymore).

The race directors’ vision was to put us out there on disappearing trails deep in the Palisades. Unfortunately they had to make the tough call at the last minute to change the 50 and 100 mile courses and made them a lot crappier than the original plan. Some of the most remote sections were so overgrown and littered with blowdowns that they decided it was dangerous to put ultra racers out on the course in those conditions. Instead of big sexy loops, they had to cut back on their aspirations and trim the courses into smaller loops and out-and-backs. Logistically it was far less of a headache but I could really feel for them and the racers—I’m sure everyone was disappointed. They didn't really change the marathon course though, to my delight.

The vibe at the start was pleasantly chill. The race announcer kept goading people to stand closer to the front but everyone was hesitant. The race started with a few yards of doubletrack then we immediately turned uphill, just how I like it, and started plodding in a conga line straight up the steep, rooty, dusty hillside. I dared to burn a few matches to pass a big group of walkers so I didn’t have to climb with my nose in some dude’s ass. Soon we were high above the reservoir, contouring around south-facing slopes and enjoying big views. I heard from afar what sounded like a raucous crowd of supporters and couldn’t believe that so many people had rallied and found a good spectating spot to cheer on runners, but as I got closer I laughed: it was actually a noisy herd of sheep occupying the drainage below the trail. Oh, Idaho.

Early in the race when I was just plain stoked.

After a precipitous descent, the trail crossed through a wide bowl of scattered stone surrounded by cliffs. It seemed like part of a mountain had calved off and formed a barren stone basin in the otherwise lush landscape. Mordor radness.

Cy and I leapfrogged each other several times. I’m faster than him on downhills and he’s faster than me on uphills. Turns out we’re pretty much the same speed overall, which is cool.

The trail climbed and descended again, then we hit a flat gravel road section, which made me super disgruntled. “I hate hate hate road,” I thought in rhythm to my pounding footsteps. Fortunately the road ended with a nice big aid station. There was a dude in a diaper. One volunteer brandished a sign: “You’re doing awesome! Only a crap ton of miles left!”

The course moseyed up North Indian Creek, then took a left and headed up Garden Creek, beginning to gain elevation more efficiently. A runner popped up behind me and I thought it was a chick. Turns out it was just a womanly-looking guy.

Just as I started worrying about water, another aid station came into sight. The volunteers there had purified water from a little stream and poured the pure run-off into my hydration bladder. One of them reassured me there were less than ten miles to go, and pointed to a peak at the head of the canyon. “You just have to get to the top of that first.”

Slowly, slowly going uphill.

I grabbed some bacon and settled in for the climb. The trail was a magic little piece of tread sculpted onto steep shale slopes, rising over little plateaus and ridges on the magnificent landscape. The canyon dropped down behind us, a waterfall poured off red cliffs to my right, and I could see a steady line of runners far ahead and above me. I felt good.

A woman came into sight several switchbacks above me. She was the first chick I had seen all day and I started feeling competitive. I caught her at the top of the ridge but she started going off course, so I yelled to her to come back. Her mistake gave me a small lead but she was a fast descender and soon passed me on the rocky downhill. She introduced herself as Juli. We caught and dropped Cy and another dude, and when Cy darted off the trail for us, I could tell he was stoked to see us together. I charged down behind her, thinking there was no way I could sustain this reckless pace, but we had another moment of quick orienteering through a meadow and when I found the next course marking, she disappeared behind me. 

It was real pretty.

I was confused and stressed by her disappearance, feeling like she must be breathing down my neck and would catch me any minute. I ran faster than I wanted to through long, flattish miles of dense overgrowth with lurking rocks and vines and logs waiting to throw me to the ground if I stopped concentrating on my feet for even a second.

Race volunteers had put a ton of work into clearing the course, but the thick vegetation was stronger than their machete swipes. I pushed through slow miles of claustrophobic green corridor, aware that I could at any moment run into a moose or bear but too tired to care. My feet hurt. I was hungry. I hate flat descents. I started feeling emotional. I didn’t want Juli to catch me.

As I left the final aid station, I saw her behind me and had another little moment of panic (but also relief that she hadn’t seriously hurt herself). That was motivation enough to keep a steady, uncomfortable pace.

I finally broke out onto good trail again and put my head down for the final three miles on Big Elk Creek, trying to relax my upper body and focus on good running form. It was hot and flat. Have I mentioned I hate flat running? The half marathon course was an out-and-back that stayed on Big Elk and I thought about how terrible that sounded.

I finally saw the parking lot and staggered to the finish line. As I ran up the final flight of stairs and rang the finisher’s bell, the race announcer proclaimed that I was the second woman to finish. I almost started crying with happiness and brokenness. I fell down on the grass, as one does.

The first place woman called out “COOLIA!!” She had to remind me of who she was (the rad sister of one of my bike team moms) because I was an empty shell of a person.

I really can't believe I got second. Also, 14th out of 66 doesn't suck.

Juli finished shortly after me and Cy sprinted in just after that. Then we had to book it back to the valley for a wedding.

I had a better attitude at this race (I never decided that I hated running and would never do it again) and a better finishing kick than I used to back in the old days. I credit that to age and experience, or something. Which is good, because I’m signed up for another race in a month.

Dispatches from the Western Front

Monday was Tyler's birthday and he pulled some strings at work and got us a party boat. Ten of us piled on and doused ourselves in sunscreen and blasted "Blurred Lines" on repeat and set to work on the mimosas and Torpedoes in the cooler. When it got really hot we jumped in and climbed up to the Tea House, the quaintly named rock edifice in the middle of Emerald Bay. Paul drove donuts at the mouth of the marina before we headed back in with the setting sun. It was the most fun I've had in a long, long time. Clearly the best place to enjoy Tahoe is from the middle of it.

The Tea House

Too. Damn. Good.
(Pic from Katie)

After a surprisingly successful return to "competitive" running (a firecracker 5k barely merits the title), the bug has bitten. Again. Sigh. In September I will have the great pleasure of running up the mountain I skied down all winter, and with my padre nonetheless! Riding in the Graeagle area last week got me thinking about the Lost Sierra Endurance Run and I've actually managed to get my ducks in a row for that as well. I even did a long run yesterday, a long, hot, flattish run that ended as usual with a plunge in Fallen Leaf, and that made me feel pretty good about a 30k* in two months.

*Not 50k because I'm not insane

Office run
(Pic from Merril)

And I got a new pair of fatty fat skis for my powder-centric future plans.

So sexy

Every Friday night at camp the musically endowed counselors set up on the deck and perform for an hour, and every Friday night I stand at the huge window overlooking the lake, in my palatial office, and watch the show, and every Friday night the musicians finish with a rousing rendition of "American Pie", and every Friday night everyone dances and sings along, staff and toddlers and grandfathers and surly teenagers and tipsy soccer moms, and every Friday night, despite the disturbing sense of deja vu, the communal happiness and wistfulness at the week's end is palpable, even from the second floor. And then the sun sets and every Friday night, it's the most beautiful thing ever.

The view from work
(Pic from Nichole)

Pain Please

After a couple weeks of rather shameful sloth, this weekend I endeavored to hurt myself in a variety of ways. First up was the Mind Over Mountain 15k, a tiny inaugural trail race in SC. On a wet Saturday morning we wound up out of Jones Gap State Park and for the first four or so miles, despite picturesque waterfalls and splendid views, I was vaguely disappointed with the terrain. "Not for beginner trail runners or the faint of heart," boasted the race description. "Do not underestimate the difficulty of this course." C'mon, my inner mountain goat bleated. Gimme the goods. Then the trail pitched straight up endless staircases à la Art Loeb or Presley, and my elevation fiend was satiated. The race topped out at Caesar's Head then plunged southward again. I had been chilling on the climb but the downhill was so long, so sweet that I gave it my all, chasing dudes down and bounding through dry creek beds, praying I wouldn't place a foot wrong and smash my face on the waiting rocks. 


Totally awesome.

The next morning, my calves crying out for respite, I joined a gang of 111k hopefuls to ride Laurel-Pilot from the shop. We had a more epic ride planned but the 15 miles of climbing before Laurel, the plummeting temps, and CB's untimely mechanicals deterred us and we hauled ass home on the road, leaving bonking and frozen friends behind us like decapitated soldiers in the Mekong Delta. 


One might, if one were so inclined, argue that I should've gone snowboarding that chilly, snowy day, instead of Tuesday, which was sunny and 60°. Pshaw. Hungry to get in one last evening on the slopes, I cajoled Chuck and Dan into accompanying me, and for what it's worth we had a good time on the stupid icy runs...minus a couple of painful yardsails. I still suck at snowboarding (three trips does not an expert make, no matter how much it frustrates me) but oh man is it fun. 


This weekend brings with it the John Rock 8k in which all the local runners talk shit and throw down for bragging rights appreciated only by few. I can't wait! 




As usual, no pics because a: the internet does not deign to acknowledge my existence and b: ain't got no camera. 

Crazy Running

i found myself doing a bit of crazy running today. not running something crazy, which i tend to enjoy, but crazy running, which i tend to not enjoy. you know, when you're running along on autopilot and you've worn your old shoes which you forgot get terrible traction in thick leaf cover (reason #17 why the shut-in was so damn hard) and you find that your heart is really pounding without your permission and the light is tricky on sycamore cove (the light is always tricky on sycamore cove this time of year) and you're literally (and probably figuratively too) kicking yourself because your form is so sloppy and your foot placement sucks and some weird song refrain is playing in your head and suddenly you're seeing all snakes instead of roots and the only way to end the crazy is to stop. breathe. tell your body to calm down and behave itself. walk a little. and then you proceed onward and you shake it off and after a bit you remember the mechanics of this silly sport again.


good luck to all ye denizens of the trail, for tomorrow is the shut-in. you're made of stronger stuff than i.

Um...Oops

Suffice to say this weekend did not turn out as expected. I was planning to suffer and plod through the run and then surge from behind to take the throne during the six-hour. I assumed I would be deathly sore and fatigued from the run but would somehow rise like a phoenix to conquer the course--after all, I am in no way a competitive-level runner, and am in some ways a competitive-level rider.

Well, I won the half marathon.

I do not win running races.

Uwharrie was way...way...way...way too many fireroads. Yet somehow this didn't daunt me. I went on my merry way, heart beating in time to the pitter patter of high cadence footsteps, drenched with sweat in the 93% humidity. Zoning out on the fresh logging roads and relishing the rare singletrack. Then St Marie, who was trawling the course on his Stumpy, gave me a news flash: Number one!

Say what?

When we crossed paths again and he confirmed it, I settled into grinning complacency--until I glimpsed the light-footed form of another female right behind me. Terrified, I pushed hard for the last four miles and finished, arms raised, only 45 seconds in front of her. Sub-two hours.

Me and my "arch nemesis"

On Sunday I forgot, in a combination of laziness and cockiness, that a six-hour is about riding as many laps as you can, not as many laps as you can get away with. Feeling way better than anticipated, I took a huge early lead, pinned it for a few laps, then started taking longer and longer breaks. I would eat, drink, and watch the course, trying to ascertain where the eff my competition was. Finally after five laps, my hands and ass whimpering for respite, I asked the well-meaning but somewhat inept race director what my gap was. He told me #2 (who was also second in the run) was two long laps down, with an hour and a half to go. After I had thrown in the towel, changed clothes, and put on my shades, he let me know that the timing was screwed up and she was actually only one lap down. No way was I kitting up again, and my faulty math led me to believe I still had the W.

Alas. My mistake was revealed at awards. So in a very strange turn of events, I won a half marathon and lost a six-hour that I had been totally crushing. I still netted the Queen of the Mountain, but it was a hollow victory because not only was the competition pretty sparse...I couldn't even beat the sparse competition!

Well, we still had fun...and I definitely won't do it again, thanks.

Oh Hi

Forgive the extended hiatus. I have done literally nothing worth alerting the interwebs about. I had composed a little ode to summer in Brevard, but it rang hollow when I reread it a few weeks later--true to form, after a May of quasi-bacchanalia and carpe diem-ing, I have reverted back to my natural state of book- and blueberry-devouring lounge lizard, ready to call it bedtime at the drop of a hat.

Race weekends and epic runs have passed me by with little effect. Nothing looms on the horizon except a trip to Italy (the idea of which seems too unreal and ephemeral to talk about) and this weekend's alley cat (sure to be the social event of the century).

Nonplussed by all this inactivity, I decided (with the usual hemming, hawing, flip-flopping, and backpedaling) to sign up for the Uwharrie Rumble in two weeks: half marathon on Saturday, six hour mountain bike race on Sunday. Highest scoring woman wins the coveted Queen of the Mountain title.

A whole new flavor of stupid, ne c'est pas? (Oh crap, I can't even say that in Italian.) Prompted by my desire to check out Uwharrie, I've committed myself to an entirely new way to discover that I don't like racing. Yay! It also appeals to my secret love of omniums--I may be mediocre, but I'm consistent, gosh darnit. Fortunately I'll have the emotional/logistical support of the Saint...although it will assuredly be peppered with I toldja so's when I'm a whiny, cramping wreck mid-race Sunday...

Always good to have a positive outlook. Stay posted. I promise a scintillating synopsis of the alley cat as well.

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

2,200 to over 6,000 feet...31 miles...

Go look up Bridges Camp Gap on the Pisgah Ranger District map. Go ahead. I'll wait.

...See where it intersects with the Parkway? That's where I finished my day yesterday. Now see if you can find the Art Loeb--it's very brightly marked (on the map. Not in real life.) The two trails are pretty durn far apart, wouldn't you say?

But more on that later.

I leapt out of bed with the first chiming of my alarm clock. Had breakfast, drank some coffee, listened to some tunes, was out the door. I felt like a rock star.

A big crowd turned out at 7am at Davidson River Campground: Jackie, Sara, Cason+Kira, Sadie, Lydia, Leah, Gordon+Gary, and me. Only the last four of us had any intentions of doing the big mama--everyone else was peacing out at Gloucester, about 12.5 miles in.

It was a wonderful run. I felt like a little filly prancing uphill and everyone was in high spirits, chatting and smiling, with nary a whiff of competition or jostling for position. The forest was bathed in apple green with heady bursts of color from the flame azaleas peeking around every corner. Grasshoppers fled before us, ricocheting off leaves like leggy ball bearings.

I think my smile was this big most of the time. (The good pics are courtesy of Gordon Murray)

Then at Gloucester the bailers fed us and watered us and we said our fond farewells. Up the stairway to hell, up Pilot Mountain we clambered for what felt like hours, only to descend (oh Art Loeb, you brutal mistress, always stealing the elevation gains back from us) to Farlow Gap, where Todd Branham and some SORBA friends were doing trail work. It was nice to see familiar faces.

A beautiful day on top of Pilot Mountain. Obviously my camera phone doesn't do it justice.

The vistas were choice, the weather was amazing, and I felt spry all the way to Black Balsam, although I was out of water and a bit daunted by the remaining mileage. However, I was still within my limits mentally and physically, refueling like a champ, and feeling gregarious and talkative.

Between the Parkway and Black Balsam

I'll just say it: everything we did past Black Balsam kind of sucked. The trail is a warped cavity eroded into the hillside and the signage is inadequate to say the least. Fortunately the 360 degree views almost make up for it. And I am biased against the final leg now because of what happened. I blindly trusted the experience and map skills of my companions but after a couple of missed intersections we went way...way...way off course. We plunged down miles of steep, debris-cluttered trail into a deep valley, which was nice and all until we came upon a camper who told us just how far off track we were (possibly on the unpleasantly named Greasy Cove, although it could've been any unmarked trail). Fortunately we were only a couple miles from the Parkway, and what could have been a very serious issue was only a minor inconvenience. We sustained no injuries, suffered only a little bonkage, and emerged from the woods with our sanities and friendship intact, albeit feeling a little sheepish and disheartened. And still did almost the same mileage, even if we didn't accomplish our goal.

The final word? Aside from serious navigational issues and not enough water, it was awesome, especially the first two-thirds. It did not destroy me in body or soul and unlike the Shut-In, which I may not do again, I would run the Art Loeb again in two weeks. Really. It was an experience worth having.

Reverie

April is waning and suddenly it's less than two weeks until my rendezvous with the white blazes. I have been making some attempts to prepare, inasmuch as one or two ten-milers a week can prepare me for a thirty-miler (the probable answer: notsomuch). I think it is helping more mentally than physically--after all, the Art Loeb is nothing but prolonged steep uphills and prolonged steep downhills, my two favorite features of Pisgah. If nothing else, I can turn my brain to the right setting for that noise.

If I really want to rev my engine beforehand, I probably ought to read Born to Run for the third time--it never fails to ignite a temporary lust for long plodding miles of singletrack. That book does the same thing for me as really good DH videos, which may be indicative of the nature of each sport. Running is my cerebral, solitary retreat, while I like riding because it is adrenaline-pumping, sphincter-clenching, and delightfully social.

There may be nothing finer than a well-made DH video. I entertain no dreams of gravity racing but those films have universal mountain biking appeal. Something about the perfect integration of images and music elevates both to their maximum potential. For example, I watched Made the other evening. Long ago I had decided that Tegan and Sara wasn't really the band for me. But on this viewing of Made I noticed how perfectly the angry, plaintive rock of "The Con" meshed with some righteous shredding at Bromont, and I fell head over heels for it. That song has now been on repeat in my head for a week.

I love how a different perspective or context can completely alter and improve a song. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' first album always left me a bit cold because it seemed too simplistic and punky, but then I listened to a podcast that explained the song "Maps". It was a based on Karen O's disintegrating relationship and in the video her face shows unbearable pain. Another song that is now running through my brain nonstop.

Sometimes when someone I respect really likes a song or artist, I give it more time and consideration than I otherwise would. I recently downloaded the Sleigh Bells album because it got so much buzz last year. After a few plays I relegated it to the Meh pile as being too noisy and repetitive. Then it came up during an unintentional listening session with some friends, who all thought the album was great. It inspired in Rimmer this flawless gem of musical criticism: "The intro [to "Treats"] makes me want to set fire to a car, and the rest of the song makes me want to watch it burn."

Needless to say it's back on my playlist.

Forgive the tangents but this is what I was thinking about on my run today, through smothering humidity, cloudbursts, and the intoxicating smell of wet ferns. I never talk about music on this blog. It seems like a pretty personal and subjective pleasure, and similar to people who constantly label themselves "foodies", I think people who are deeply enamored with their own opinions about music are beyond annoying. But I think we all know what it's like to be really affected by something we're listening to, and that is why I feel okay talking about it.

After Careful Consideration, The Two Most Important Reasons Why I Run In The Forest Instead Of In Town

1: I like to run without a shirt but am deeply self-conscious.

2: Peeing in the woods is on my list of top five favorite things to do in the whole world.

Redefining Stupidity

my fast fit runner friend leah wandered into the bakery yesterday and casually threw down the gauntlet: 'i've got a free weekend in may and a few friends who want to run the whole art loeb. interested?'

well, yes. the art loeb is on my list of stuff i'd like to do in the next few years. but next month? ouch. she lobbed that terrifying tennis ball into my court and the only thing i could volley back was an, 'um, ok.'

it's haunting my thoughts now. the longest run i've ever done, on an insanely technical and demanding trail? sounds like...the shut-in. which, at (almost) two thirds the distance of the AL, destroyed me. however, a thirty mile group run/hike means less pressure and no entry fee to justify. there is a good chance i'll bail somewhere near gloucester gap or black balsam, so i can prepare for that likelihood. meanwhile, baker bill and i ran up bennett/buckwheat and down avery today and i felt positively spry. now my mind is buzzing with ways to prepare for the madness. laps of presley? repeats on coontree?

stay posted. i may opt out, or i may discover a secret wellspring of masochism that turns me into an ultra-endurance runner.

although the latter is unlikely.

note: leah has already survived it a couple of times, as has jbw and any number of other crazies. and i want to join their crazy ilk.

And Now, Without Further Ado...

Before delving into my own personal sufferfest, I want to extend high fives to other people in this long weekend of sufferfests. Here's a vague high five to everyone who raced that marathon in New York or wherever, and to everyone who did the Iceman, which looks super stupid, and to all the loud and encouraging spectators who swarmed the Shut-In. A very specific couple of high fives to Jenna and Lydia for being wonderful volunteers on the deserted, snowy Parkway. And a whole round of "up highs" for all my friends who crushed the Swank. The KOP proved that he will probably get faster every freaking year until he is eighty, Geoff B got fourth with a broken rib, and Derek finished strong on three different bikes, which tickles me to no end.

So.

Confidence, which is supposed to have all kinds of miracle uses and magical results, has never really done good things for me in competition. Whether it be soccer games, XC meets, or bike races, I perform best when I've achieved a subtle blend of grumpiness, pessimism, apathy, and disgruntlement. I approached the Shut-In feeling prepared, eager, and confident of success, and just like those malignant clouds over the mountains, I should've known this peppy optimism did not bode well.

Dear Julia: Fear me. Love, the Parkway

No, I can't really blame the awfulness of the experience to some abstract concept like a good attitude. Contributing factors included: the cold; the cramping; the coldness of my calves; the coldness of my water; the coldness of a single GU lodged in my gut, which kept me from eating anything else the whole run.

All right, no more excuses. The Shut-In was very hard, very painful, somewhat rewarding, and veryveryvery beautiful. Even as I zombie-staggered up the brutal final two miles, sobbing from oxygen debt and hating the panting progress of other runners as they passed me, I couldn't help but notice the sun piercing the snow clouds, and the glitter of the frost-laced puffs of weeds lining the path. If I had to die the dramatic, absurd death I was envisioning for myself, at least I would be in heaven on earth.

Oh, and to everyone who said, "Beat Baker Bill,": not even close. He had a great race and beat me by ten minutes. Despite falling apart, I did meet my target of a sub-4 hour finish (which I realize now was not an especially lofty goal).

A less than rosy experience after the finish did not help matters, but eventually we escaped the sub-freezing windy venue and returned to real life in the valley below. It's kind of hard to walk now, but safely ensconced in my warm bed, I am (as usual) forgetting that promise I made to myself during the last ten miles: "Never again, never again, never again."

Maybe again.

The view from the top (images courtesy of Ian Hilley)

I'm Hungry

The Shut-In is looming.

These days I've got some good options when I want to hit the trails. On runs with my dad we explore the epic ups and gnarly downs of Pisgah. When I go running with Joh, we (subtly, with great nonchalance) try to bludgeon each other into submission. When I'm on my own, I do long loops on the old faithfuls and get lost in my thoughts. Today I did the Big M backwards and forwards and only came into contact with people twice; I skirted the work crew on Sycamore, then ran into T Cowie and T Had near the end. Squirrel had only a few, oft-repeated words of wisdom for me: "Don't forget to eat and drink." He knows me so well.

During the hours of vaguely addled solitude, I decided to name all the different ways that I go downhill. What follows is an unabridged compendium of all my descending styles.

1: The Rag Doll:

All about gravity, feet flopping and arms flailing. I do the Rag Doll down steep, wide open

descents. It's like running it WFO on a bike. It's the fastest way to run but the feet take a beating.

2: The Real Runner:

This is less of a free fall than the Rag Doll. This style uses more muscle for braking and control, and actually pay attention to where each foot goes. Better for technical downhills and hurts less.

3: The Jackalope:

This bounding style is ideal for thick, soft surfaces like mud, heavy leaf cover, and especially snow. It's crazy fun but only works when there's something to catch and cushion each foot fall.

4: The Holy Sh*t:

I reserve this cautious half-run half-walk for only the scariest, most ridiculous rock faces,

boulder fields, and slippery switchbacks.

5: The Prairie Dog:

'Nuff said.

Ode to Self-Propulsion

forgive the silence, i've just been living life.

my days are equal parts work and play. there's the daily grind of BMB or B&B but after work i can traipse off and partake of the feast of fun that surrounds us. running, painting my toenails, bike riding, playing with puppies, reading everything i can get my hands on, slip'n'sliding, eating yogurt and lots of fresh veggies, watching roller derby, and spending time with people i really like.

the best part is that i can continue this trajectory for as long as i want. there's no deadline, no requirement that i return to "real life". there's nothing propelling me in a direction i don't like.

running has become a favored pastime recently, despite cloudbursts, bug swarms, and stifling humidity. it feels more like floating. the racing schedule for this fall is looking less bicycle, more bipedal:

august 21: springmaid splash 10k

september 18: hickory mountain 10k

november 6: the shut-in

meanwhile, the next great adventure is a trip up to mont-sainte-anne with mon st marie. i definitely plan on touching rachel atherton.

fingers crossed there will be a repeat of '08.

The Frosty Foot

My pain memory is shockingly short. I'm hobbling around the house like an eighty-year-old after this morning's trail run/race in Tsali...and thinking strange hallucinatory thoughts like...

"That wasn't bad. Was fifteen miles long enough?" Yeah right, around mile 8 I wanted to punch myself in the face.
"I could have gone faster." Yeah right, I was set on 'trudge' and definitely couldn't have.
"I should run more/longer/competitively." Yeah right, my mantra during the race was "Please never again".

The rose-colored glasses go on about twelve minutes after a race. Stoic? No. Stupid? Maybe.