San Dieguito Half Marathon Race Report

http://www.kathyloperevents.com/sandieguitohalf/

I woke up with legs of lead. How on earth was I going to run a half-marathon after riding 80 miles of hills and wind on Saturday ("80 for Haiti")? I felt trashed. I debated sleeping in...running a half marathon. Ugh. I hit the snooze. Several times. Sleeping in was winning by a landslide. But I was already signed up. I had paid my entry fee. A lot of my friends would be there. There would be aid stations. And, I had an Ironman coming up. The looming Ironman was enough to get me out of bed.

Thinking it would be cold, I pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and running tights and drove to the start, almost falling asleep behind the wheel while waiting in line to park. I finally found a place to mark and started jogging the mile to the start. I would be cutting it close. It was warm! No time to change now.

I reached the start and the gun went off. I couldn't believe how many people were racing. When I did San Dieguito 2 years ago, there were half as many people. I was a little frustrated, as the race wasn't chip-timed, and my watch read 1 minute faster than the "official" time. Oh, well. Training run, right?

My legs were tired and glycogen-depleted but I was pleasantly surprised at how easily I fell into a relaxed rhythm. Oh, wait. I like this! The temps rose sharply, and sweat beaded down my cheeks. I drank extra from the aid stations. My legs toiled up the hills in Rancho Santa Fe. I had forgotten how hilly the course was. Eventually, I was rewarded with long stretches of downhill. I focused on landing lightly on my toes and keeping my body relaxed. My IT band didn't hurt! My IT band didn't hurt! Did I tell you my IT band didn't hurt? YIPPEE!!! That was enough to make me run faster.

I enjoyed the Valentine's Day costumes (neon pink compression tights), a wonderful spectator dressed as the Queen of England, and a very hot guy dressed in native Hawaiin garb, complete with an ornate grass headdress, grass leggings, and a very sexy blue loin cloth. Luckily, I ran about the same pace so I drank in the pleasant scene for motivation whenever the going got tough. Spectators and runners quickly dubbed him "Grassy" and shouted out to him with delight as he passed.

I passed one of my rivals at mile 8. Not wanting to get passed back, I picked up the pace to put some distance between us. I passed another friend. Now I was going to have to put some distance on him! All of a sudden, I was racing. Oops! How did this happen? This was supposed to be a training run! Everything was going swimmingly until mile 12 when nature called. I saw a Port-a-Potty. 1 mile to go...nature calls. The debate wasn't long. Okay, Rachel. It's just a training run. Don't shit your pants. I dashed into the loo. When I re-emerged, I had to re-pass all the rivals I had passed earlier. With only a mile to go, I put some mustard on it. I flew across the finish, victorious. I had gotten in a solid training run, run the fatigue out of my legs, my IT band didn't hurt, and I felt strong. It was time for a hard-earned ice bath.

80 for Haiti

http://www.adventurecorps.com/80/

Somehow, I dragged myself out of bed on Saturday and was able to make it to Pine Valley in time to meet my friends for an 8:15 am start (it was supposed to be 8:00 am; thankfully, my friends got there late too). If I hadn't stayed up to watch the entire opening ceremony of the Olympics, I may have been able to get to bed before 1:00 am, making it easier to get up at 5:30 am, but I love a challenge.

I was a big nervous about 80 for Haiti http://www.adventurecorps.com/80/. 80 miles, 6,000 feet of climbing, in the desert=big gulp. However, Ironman Utah is rapidly approaching. It's going to be 112 miles with more climbing, sandwiched between a 2.4 mile swim and an even hillier 26.2 mile run. Time to put the hammer down and get serious.

Map:

We rolled out and began climbing almost immediately. I couldn't believe how warm it was. Since Pine Valley is nestled in the mountains at 4,000 feet and usually chilly (40s) this time of year, the high 60-degree weather and blindingly blue skies forced us to shed our extra layers fairly quickly. I scolded myself for donning arm and leg warmers. After only a few minutes, they were bulging out the back of my jersey. Plus, even though I wasn't technically going to wear them for the whole ride, they would still get drenched in sweat by the end. Does that mean I have to wash them? Ergh. Fine. I guess it does.

I felt great and drank in the mountain and desert views eagerly. Just a bit hungry, despite a large breakfast (banana, coffee, salmon, toast, and oatmeal). I couldn't wait for the first aid station. Meanwhile, I engulfed my Cliff Bar and Cliff Blocks. The first aid station appeared and I gobbled down PB&Js and whatever else I could grab. I snuck into the Port-a-Potty and when I re-emerged, my group of so-called "buddies" had taken off down the road. Thanks! It took off in a futile attempt to catch them, even though they had departed about 10 minutes prior (the line for the loo was long).

--at the first aid station

I pedaled madly into the headwind, which was blowing brutally at about 25 mph. At least I would get a tailwind on the return, I reasoned. Ah, but it's the eerie and evil desert. I would have no such luck. Well, it's good mental training for Ironman Utah. Funny how having a big, scary race looming in the distance on the calendar makes it possible for me to suffer through these ridiculously hard training rides. Otherwise, I think I would have turned at the sign that said "50 mile route riders turn left here". But instead, I put my head down, zoned out, and went to work.


In the meantime, I oohed and aahed over the adoreable baby cows and furry horses adorned in their thick winter coats (they must be hot!) along the sides of the road. Herds of horses grazed on golden grass in an adjacent field with no fence. I wondered what prevented them from wandering onto the highway. The pavement was broken and unforgiving in several sections, telltale signs of extreme fluctuations in temperatures. Pickup trucks and motorcyclists zoomed down the highway, careening inches from my handlebars. I stopped to help a guy with a flat tire. Passing trucks honked and swerved, waving their fists. One truck coming from the other direction stopped in the middle of the road to inquire as to our whereabouts. "Where are you riding to? What are you doing? There sure are an awful lot of youins out here!" I wanted to tell him he was blocking an entire lane of traffic on the highway by stopping in the middle of the road but was afraid if I opened my mouth, obsenities would pour out, so I remained silent.

As I coasted down one of the few downhills (which I begrudgingly knew would be an extreme uphill on the return), I noticed a long, rust-colored, tall fence, stretching for miles, paralleling a set of train tracks. It was ominous and foreign, breaking the land at an invisible boundary. It suddenly occurred to me: it was the border fence separating the U.S. from Mexico. I didn't realize we were so close. Hmmm. So that's Mexico? I'm glad the fence was there to tell me. Funny, but the land on either side of the fence looked identical to me. The fence stretched up towards a large hill and then stopped suddenly, which seemed a little ridiculous to me. Why have a fence at all? If the purpose is to keep people out, and it just S.T.O.P.S., that would be where I would simply walk around.



I finally reached the turn-around in Jacumba and was reunited with my friends. However, my blood sugar was dangerously low (I hadn't brought enough food with me, figuring since it was a supported ride, I could rely on the aid stations), and I was very grumpy, cranky, and irritable. I couldn't even enjoy the spectacular desert views, the Salton Sea, looming in the distance. I chewed out my friends and then complained bitterly to the volunteers that the aid station didn't have any chocolate or candy, which was what I was craving, all the while stuffing my face with granola bars, bananas, and oranges. Ten minutes later, I started to feel much better and a little ashamed at my rude behavior.

--the Desert View Tower at Boulder Park in Jacumba, CA (turn-around)http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/9178

--gorgeous desert views




We rolled out, all together in a group again. I think it was my inattentiveness to proper nutrition but I felt a little loopy. Maybe it was the eerieness of the desert, or maybe I was starting to hallucinate but everything around me took on a weird vibe. Strange rocks made odd piles and formations. Out of the corner of my eye, some of them looked like people, spying on me. Had someone arranged these piles of rocks into weird configurations? They couldn't have naturally formed like that. Or could they? Someone had painted a large fish with a gaping mouth on one rock. There were other rocks with strategically placed paint to form faces, turtles, and other animals. Shivers started running up and down my spine. A sign as I left the park read, "Park Closed if:..." Following this was a list of conditions that occurred commonly enough for someone to have made a sign and included "Temperatures over 120 degrees Farenheit", "Winds over 90 mph,"...I stopped reading. It was like riding a bike on the moon. I was in a harsh, unforgiving and alien land.



As we made the return route, I kept waiting for the promised tailwind. And the downhills. Afterall, I had toiled up and up and up on the way out and the headwinds had been ridiculous. Now, the winds had died down. Everything was still and silent. And we were still climbing. Finally, the winds picked up again. Only the direction had switched. Just for us. Now, we would have a headwind on the return as well. (We had to climb uphill into a headwind both ways, and we ate nails for lunch....and we LIKED IT!!!).



Everything started looking very strange. The people, the houses, the road; I think the desert was starting to get to me. It takes a special kind of person to live in the desert 24-7, 365 days a year. As we passed by a ranch, I noticed what looked like militiamen out of the corner of my eye. Snipers? Migrants from Mexico hiding in the bushes? I gave a start and was thankful that my Joy was right next to me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have believed my eyes. Tusken Raiders from Star Wars? They certainly were in the right place!

No, the owner of the ranch had strategically place countless midget-sized war veteran voodoo dolls around his front yard. Were they scarecrows? Scarepeople? Maybe dead bodies he had murdered and dressed up to scare off trespassers? There were 2 by the chain across his driveway with a sign that read, "No Trespassing". If that was the point, it was working! My weary legs found new energy and pedaled like a maniac to get the hell out of there.



A bit further down the road, a much more inviting but also very odd inhabitance passed by. "Peacock Blue", the sign read outside a very colorful home. Ah, I love hippies. So warm and friendly with lots of pretty colors. Peacock Blue, the name of a tropical island, a fruity alcoholic drink designed to get girls drunk, an acid trip, or the name of a porn star? What do you think? Anyway, I like it.

http://www.tiedyelady.com/

Yes, by this point, it's safe to say, I was bonking. We regrouped at a market where I refueled on a Butterfinger and a Red Bull. I don't know why mile 60 is always my breaking point, but that's always where the trouble starts for me. I felt immediately re-energized, and using the Red Bull to my advantage, took off down the road. Until my stomach started churning. Damn Red Bull! It gives you wings by giving you gas!

We turned left down a steep hill with broken pavement. I stayed relaxed and prayed Torch's front wheel wouldn't catch in a giant pothole. We hit smooth pavement and careened down at 40 mph. My IMAZ water bottle was gone but there was no way I was going back for it. I let my legs recover and enjoyed the descent. Soon, we were climbing again. It was more of a false flat but at mile 70, I was dying. Red Bull: it gives you wings, and then you crash. Miles 75-80, it was all I could do not to fall asleep. I coaxed the pedals to turn over, and I refused to succumb to the negativity drills escalating in my head. Somehow, someway, I reached the finish, but it's all a blur to me now.

I rushed home so I could reach the fridge before collapsing, diving into my stash of fried chicken, sushi, and ice cream. I had never been so hungry and tired in my entire life. This was a good wake up call. I have my work cut out for me before Ironman Utah. Because "80 for Haiti" will feel like a warm-up in comparison. Gulp. I fell asleep afterwards in a deep coma, wondering how on earth I was going to be able to run the San Dieguito Half Marathon the following day.



Photos courtesy of Chris Kostman & Elizabeth Jefferson, 2/13/2010

Random Training Devices and Medieval Torture Devices (Foam Rollers and Bike Trainers)

After tweaking my IT band, I decided to take 10 days off from running. R.I.C.E.--the panacea for running injuries, right? Apparently, not for IT bands. I had my first, maiden voyage run yesterday after my 10-day hiatus. Travis was raring to go, deprived after getting used to his 16 miles a week (he's on a training plan too). I was worried we'd have to run the entire 4 miles at his breakneck 6:50 pace but, thankfully, he slowed to a more comfortable 8:30 after the first mile. Silly, Travis! Unfortunately, my IT band starting acting up after the first mile, as if I had given it no rest at all! That's it, IT band! No more rest for you! If you're going to hurt just as much with rest as without, I'm just going to keep running! I have upped the foam roller to 3x/day, however. Let the torture begin.

Last week was sort of a wash for me. I think I had a low-grade bug. Sore throat, headache, major fatigue. I slept, and slept.....and slept. Saturday's ride was cancelled due to rain. Rain, in San Diego? I guess it happens sometimes. I was sentenced to the trainer. Aside from the foam roller, 3 hours on the trainer is another form of medieval torture. My roadie friend asked if I wanted a rope or a gun afterwards. Ha ha. Why don't roadies ever ride the trainer? I guess, in San Diego, since they ride almost every day, they skip the one day out of the year it rains because they know they will back on the road the next day. Not us, triathletes, though. We are regimented (fist shaking in the air). We adhere to our training plans, dammit, rain or shine! So I duked it out on the trainer, watching Ironman Hawaii, The Spirit of the Marathon, rocking out to my iPod, and calling friends and family. Luckily, they didn't hang up on me when receiving my call and initially hearing nothing but heavy breathing. I had wistfully hoped for 4 hours but just couldn't do it anymore after 3. Funny, but when I had to ride the trainer for an hour last night, it was SO much easier. Good mental training.

Tuesday, I finally showed up for a swim practice at UCSD. I thought I would suck after a week off (oops) but I rocked it. I had only an hour to squeeze it all in. I desperately wanted to finish the workout. I'm not fast. What to do, what to do. Aha! Skip all the rest in between each set! Using this strategy, I was able to complete the 3200 yard workout. Is this cheating?

Today, I dragged myself onto the bike path for a simple workout. I wasn't in the mood but that's not a good enough excuse. I have an Ironman around the corner and it's enough to scare me into the mood! I forgot arm warmers and in the freezing 62-degree weather, I shivered as I sprinted to warm up (I just had to say that to piss everyone in the rest of the country off). The chilly weather made me eager for the hills. As I came to the west end of the path, dozens of wild rabbits grazed in the yellow light of the setting sun. They darted and scurried for cover as I zipped past. One scrambled across the path, right in front of Torch's front wheel. I screeched, sure that Torch was about to make roadkill out of the adoreable little bunny. Wide-eyed, Thumper somehow managed to escape near death. Phew! Close call.

On the return home, a bike commuter sprinted past me. Really? Something rose inside of my chest. I began to see red. I pedaled faster. Since when do I get competitive on the bike? I started to chase him down. I evaluated my prey. Did he have what it took? Sure, he could sprint past me but did he have the endurance to hold me off? After he passed me, he began to slow. Typical of riders harboring the ill-fated Y chromosome. I crept closer, closing the gap up each roller, up each hill. Soon, I was breathing down his neck. I didn't feel like passing him yet. I wasn't done evaluating. I caught my breath. His road bike was in decent shape but the musculature of his calves indicated he was more of a commuter than a roadie (harsh, I know). He smiled at me as we waited for the light to turn, and I immediately softened, smiling back. He let me proceed when the light changed to green, and it was all the encouragment I needed. I took off. I sprinted the next 4 miles as hard as I could, ignoring that they were all on a slight uphill grade. He was behind me, but only just. I was breathing hard, above lactate threshold, and it felt gooood. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Unknown Cyclist for pushing me on a dreary bike workout! At the next light, he struck up a conversation. We chatted the remaining mile left, and he waved me on, commenting that the rest of his ride would be much slower. Such a compliment for a girl like me, used to getting passed by everyone and their granny on crusiers.

The Rachel Ride

I couldn't help but smile when my friend posted this e-mail on the Tri Club messageboard this evening:

"Sorry, couldn't resist. Here is a jersey for your next ride with Rachel:"

Sleeping Indians and Pink Flamingos

As I groggily write this with ice taped to my knee and Advil coursing through my bloodstream, I cannot but think how happy I am, despite my fatigued haze. I am exhausted but blissful after a hard and successful training weekend. I'm almost relieved to have a full work day because sitting at a desk seems relaxing. I also slept like a baby last night. Who needs Ambien when you do endurance sports?


After a full week of workouts, I took an unintended rest day on Friday. I could feel the fatigue accumulating in my muscles. A glance at the training plan and past experience advised me to take an off day to prepare for the heavy weekend. Begrudgingly, I obliged. I would miss a "perfect week" by a swim, bike and weights but in the big scheme of things, that was nothing compared to the importance of hitting my key workouts for the week and making them quality ones at that. It's taken me only 6 years to know when to back off (and I'm still horrible at it).

Sleeping Indian Ride:
I met a group of friends for a 65-mile ride Saturday morning. The sky was a blindingly blue and the weather was a crisp 62. You can thank me for arranging perfect weather for my ride. I do 'em right, down to the route slips on thick resume paper. Except for completely not recognizing Brian Long (former TCSD president) in his bike clothes. I pulled a, "Hi, I'm Rachel. What's your name?" DOH! Too late, I blushed violently, unable to save myself with a suave, "Ha! Pulling your leg!"

The 10 of us headed out for a relaxed, "flat" ride with some rollers. "Oh, it's only 2500 feet of climbing. Won't be that bad", I had promised. Luckily, most of my friends had ridden with me before and knew not to trust me. 4500 feet later; however, several were taking my name in vain.

I drank in the obscenely gorgeous views of rolling hills, carpeted in emerald green velvet. I've never seen San Diego so green. After last week's seldomly seen torrential downpours, everything was blooming. It felt like spring. The birds certainly seemed to think so as they sung and danced flirtingly to each other. We rode up Lilac, past avocado farms and lemon groves, making our way from Valley Center to Bonsall. Ironically, Lilac smelled like citrus, and Sleeping Indian Rd smelled like lilacs. Lilacs in January? Yes, the air was thick with the heavy scent of lilac. Furry horses dozed in the sunshine as we rode by small, private farms. At least they still sported their winter coats. Phew! A rooster crowed. A dozing dog basked in the sun on his side. I did a double-take to make sure he was still breathing. He was so content, I wasn't sure if he had keeled over or not. As I toiled up Olive Hill Rd (which smelled like eucalyptus and oaks, by the way--what is this: Bizzaro World?), I oohed and aahed over an adoreable mamma and llama and her baby llama, nursing contentedly in the paddock. They were so white and fluffy. I wanted to hug them and love them and squeeze them and call them George. Down the road, I heard a loud screech, and I jumped out of my saddle. In a tucked away farm to my right, dotted with animal topiary and bronze and stone animal statues, including a life-size elephant trumpeting, paraded a proud peacock, displaying his brilliant irridescent green and purple feathers.

We reached my favorite part of the ride, Sleeping Indian, a roller coaster of a road with 15% inclines and equally steep descents. I climbed out of the saddle to avoid toppling over, then crouched into my aero bars at the crest to take advantage of the downhills, cutting the next uphill in half. Ah, Sleeping Indian=steep rollers=fun. Plus, how cool is it to ride on a road with a supernatural name like "Sleeping Indian"? Although I was a little disappointed I didn't actually spot a sleeping indian, or even a dozing one. Maybe next time. I reached the final major descent on Sleeping Indian, and hunkered down into a ball, letting Torch fly. The computer read 44 mph. Not bad, not bad. Last time, Torch reached 48 mph, although a swift sidwind had picked us up and skitted us across the road into the other lane (luckily, no cars were around), making my heart leap into my throat.

As we headed towards our final regroup, a strong headwind hit us. Two Swami's cyclists blew by us. Someone in the group suggested jumping on their wheel. Okay. We sprinted for about a mile before catching them, and even after managing to suck their wheel for another mile, I was totally redlining. Afterall 24 mph is 24 mph; I don't care whose wheel you're sucking. Still, it was fun, even after a member of our group accused me of being a "wheel slut". Actually, I thought that was pretty funny.

We regrouped at the park on the San Luis River Rey bike path. I was giddy with endorphins and slightly hysterical. For some reason, we started talking about the colors of the rainbow. Someone mentioned ROYGBV. I heard "ROYG BV". Which quickly, in my warped state of mind got rearranged to "R OYG BV". Switch around a few letters in "ROYG" and what do you get? A doubled-over Rachel laughing uncontrollably until her stomach hurt.

The tired troops fell back into formation to brave the strong easterly headwinds as we headed back to the Pacific on the bike path. We strategically formed a paceline, taking turns pulling. With only 10 miles to go and feeling fresh and strong after a recovery day (and maybe still stinging a little after the wheel slut comment), I decided to show off. I jumped on the front and began pulling, something I am usually way too meek to do (or just simply not strong enough). I glanced at my computer, striving to maintain an even pace. I checked over my shoulder periodically to monitor the group behind me. Was I pushing hard enough? Too hard? It was an amazing feeling to be able to feel strong enough to lead for a few miles. Then, seemingly as suddenly as the ride had started, it was over, and we were back at the start with me thinking to myself, "That's it?" With my key workout of the week still looming ahead, a 16-mile trail run the following day on the docket, it felt good to end my long ride with a "Bring it!" attitude.

How NOT to do a 16-mile Trail Run:
1. Tweak your IT band early in the week.
2. Go out and party the night before until 3 am.
3. Drink 3 glasses of wine. Chase with 2 glasses of champagne. Proceed to get rip-roaring drunk.
4. Wake up with a flaming hang-over.
(Who IS this person? I NEVER do that!)

After several naps, gingerale, pretzels, and Advil, I succeeded in pulling on my running shoes and fuel belt and headed out the door. It was a little after noon. I grabbed Travis and hit the trails. The ground was squishy and wet, still saturated from all the rain. Travis and I were quickly covered from head to toe in mud. Ah, a muddy buddy run! The first 4 miles felt pretty good, and I settled into a relaxed pace, only thwarted by a couple wrong turns and some extra double-backs, my poor sense of direction and cloudy head being the only remarkable remnant from the prior night's raging. Travis, happy to be out and running this way and that, didn't seem to mind.

As we headed back to complete the first loop (I only run 6 miles with Travis), I did a body check. "Hey, my knee feels great!" Cue knee. Whine! Crunch! Squeal! OUCH! My right knee promptly began burning with searing pain. I could feel a twinge from the knee to my hip. G*d*mit all. Doubts flickered in the back of my head. How was I going to run another 12 miles? For a few seconds, the pain escalated to a 10 (on a 1-10 scale). I hobbled and limped and hopped, coaxing the knee to cooperate. The pain slowly ebbed away, and I was able to jump start the leg back to running again. I toiled up another hill and forgot about the knee. The pain dissipated and I was able to settle back into a pace again. Hmmm. Weird. The ebb and flow of pain on a long run.

Half a mile from the house, where the trail ends and the road begins, Travis and I encountered a pond, flooding the trail. I vaguely remembered that the pond would be flooded here but I had completely underestimated how much. I figured I could dance on some rocks over a few inches of water. Ha! Travis slowly tiptoed into the pond covering the trail. Hmmm. A few feet of water to traverse or 2 more miles to double back and circumvent the obstacle? I tugged off my shoes and socks. The decision was a no brainer. As I plunged into the water, I realized I was getting more than I bargained for. Oh, well. No turning back now, I figured. Afterall, I was already wet. Travis looked at me, apprehensively. I beckoned to him. Cooperatively, he submerged himself deeper into the murky watery depths, following my suit. The water was now up to my hips. Instead of having to traverse a few feet across, it became 36 feet. And instead of a few inches deep, it was about 4 feet of water to wade through. Travis would have to swim, something he had not willingly done before. I called to him, and he got this resolved look in his eyes and paddled after me. I showered him with praise, watching him carefully. He snorted to keep water out of his nose and kept swimming. When he reached the other side, I gave him lots of pets and kisses. He was ecstatic. He leaped out of the pond, shook, and took off running wide circles and spirals around me. I pulled my shoes and socks back on, and we kept on running.

I dropped Travis back at the house, and turned around for 10 more miles. I headed into Del Mar Mesa, where the trails are guaranteed to be exceedingly steep and slippery with millions of rocks. The recent erosion from all the rains didn't help. I danced sideways and up and around rock after rock, trench after trench. I toiled up hill after hill, running when I could, and walking when I must. Surprisingly, the knee didn't complain at all on the uphills. But on the downhills, the knee began to complain at an exponentially higher rate. I began to crave uphills and dread descents, a complete opposite from what is normal for me.

After another creek crossing and scrambling up and down some "hands-and-knees" hills, I reached the road, lined with horse farms. I watched a rider training her horse in a sand arena. A furry pony grazed in the paddock nearby. The mailbox was a great white shark with a gaping mouth full of teeth. A white goat with a long beard gave me a hard look from his pen under a shady oak. But what got me most were the pink flamingos. They were everywhere. A massive collection of pink flamingos as far as the eye could see. Plastic ones, metal ones, ones with springs for legs, one with a fan in its belly, another with a clock, paintings of pink flamingos, little ones, big ones, grazing ones, squacking ones; I've never seen so many pink flamingos in my life. I had to convince myself to keep running. I wanted nothing more than to stop and stare. But I knew if I stopped, it would be hard to get the knee going again.

As I made my way back to the house, the final 2 miles, the knee flared up like never before. I had to stop, doubled over in pain, wincing, and pray for the pain to subside enough for me to make it back. Even walking was excruciating. I smacked it, shook out the leg, and hobbled forward. Limping, galloping, slowly, I was able to jump start the leg back into a gentle jog each time. Somehow, I made it home and into the ice bath. I'm getting a massage today. I going to have to be diligent about stretching and the foam roller. I have to get this IT band thing under control.

Another week's workouts completed. In the bag. If I can just get the IT band in check, I'm on my way.

Carlsbad Half Marathon Race Report, 2010

http://www.carlsbadmarathon.com/site5.aspx

It was my first race of 2010. Even though it was really just a training run, one of many to help prepare me for Ironman Utah, I was excited. Yes, I'd run the Carlsbad Half Marathon in 2007 and in 2009. But it's such a fantastic race. Gorgeous ocean views, tons of friendly racers and spectators, lots of friends participating, relatively flat course, and just up the street from home! Who can resist? It's early in the season too so it's a great way to test my fitness and see where I'm at.

I was probably one of the only competitors whose pre-race meal the day before consisted of a McDonald's Happy Meal and a 6-Pc Chicken McNuggets (with BBQ sauce). And my pre-race ritual? A 2-hour nap at 4:30 pm to make sure I sabotaged any plans on going to bed early. Despite needlessly challenging myself, I woke up at 5:00 am on Sunday morning ready to run. As predicted, the rains had stopped, and the sun was bright and blinding against a naked blue sky but the temps were energetically chilly (low 50s). Perfect racing weather. However, I absolutely hate the half-hour pre-race full-body shiver that is required to enjoy the benefits of perfect race weather. Most of you who live in other parts of the country with normal seasons probably have a much thicker skin than I. But I have been removed from the wild and placed in captivity (San Diego), and I have lost the ability to survive anywhere else. When the temp drops below 60, I whimper.

After covertly snuggling up next to strangers in the chute to steal some of their body heat (Tip: if you snuggle up next to other men, they don't seem to mind as much as women; plus, they're warmer; Warning--May only work for women), the gun went off. Finally! I was so excited to be able to run, if only to fulfill the primal urge to generate heat. Only 1/4 mile down the road, the first hill appeared, and I attacked, eager to get warm. I had to be careful not to trip over the heels of the surrounding runners. The streets were packed with thousands of us; it was hard not to feel claustrophobic.

The first 2 miles flew by unnoticed. I was concentrating on trying to find some open space. Finally, at the coast, I hugged the curb and weaved in and out, eventually finding open road. I drank in the obscenely gorgeous views of the glittering Pacific as I flew down Hwy 101. My pace was absurd, especially considering my haphazard training as of late. I couldn't possibly keep this up! Or could I? I vaguely remember thinking that the last time I PR'ed (San Dieguito Half Marathon, 2008). Deciding I had nothing to lose, I went with it.

I skipped the aid stations, taking advantage of my FuelBelt and saving myself precious seconds. In addition, because the weather was cool, I didn't need to hydrate much. My feet flew up the mild hills leading up to the turn-around. I remember the hills being killer a few years ago. I remember having a hard time biking up the same hills on my bike ride just the day before. Now, running, I just flew up them. All the trail running was coming in handy. My technique had changed. My body remained upright and I took shorter strides, keeping my feet under me. I used more of my core and upper body, allowing my arms to help "pull" me along.

All of a sudden, the turn-around appeared. Halfway done already? It's amazing how fast 13.1 miles flies by in a race; in training, those miles crawl by at a snail's pace. I reached my favorite downhill on the course, and allowed my feet to dance down the hill. I flew by some vaguely familiar faces. "Go, Rachel!" I heard behind me. I couldn't turn to look for fear of tripping but it was wonderful to know my friends were all around me. Afterwards, my friend, Darrell, came up to claim the floating voice. I had joked I couldn't turn to acknowledge him because I didn't want to fall. The last time he called my name out on a run, I had tripped over a root in the pavement and fallen flat on my face.

Only a mile further, I looked to the right at another familiar face. We were both in the zone.
"Allen?" I said.
"Hey, Rachel!" he replied. It was so great to be able to chat with a friend. The miles continued to fly by. I did get some annoyed looks from the other runners. Mostly because I was chattering away a mile a minute (very out of character for me) as they huffed and puffed. Allen finally let me go ahead, and I quickly fell back into a zone.

I glanced at my watch at mile 12. I realized if I pushed it, I had a shot at PR'ing. I hadn't started planning on PRing. My first goal had been to have an enjoyable run and push the pace a little. My 2nd goal had been to break 2 hours. My secret 3rd goal was, of course, to PR but only if I felt good. I realized I had a shot. But I would have to push it. I gave it everything I got. My breathing intensified. I felt my cheeks become hot and red. Sweat dripped down my forehead and fogged up my sunglasses. I heard my name cheered by friends from the sidelines. I shot them a huge smile; their cheers fueled me on at an impossibly fast pace. I focused on taking short, quick strides and keeping my feet under me.

At mile 12.5, I passed one of my arch rivals. I cheered her on as I passed; she's a super fast runner. However, internally, I was gloating. Of course, the final 0.5 mile was all downhill, playing to my advantage. I absolutely love downhills, and this was a perfect opportunity for me to showcase my skills. It felt like my feet didn't even touch the earth. I turned down the chute and put some extra mustard on my pace. I flew across the finish line victoriously. I had a fabulous run and had succeeded in PR'ing by 3 minutes. 1:48. Whoo hoo!

Running in the Rain

After thumbing my nose at the rain gods for the last 4 years, San Diego was due for a big storm. It rained, thundered, and even hailed all week long with gusty winds and green skies that reminisced of my days in the midwest when I would duck and cover upon hearing the city sirens blare. The ocean had 20-foot swells and frothy chop, keeping even the bravest and most experienced of surfers away.

My swimming was restricted to the pool (when there was no lightning) and my bike to the trainer. However, my running was only restricted to the roads (as opposed to trails). I love running in the rain. If I were a racehorse, I would be a "mudder." Something about the chill and the wind and the electricity in the air makes me pick my feet up higher and toe off a little faster. When I saw that a big thunderstorm was headed for my area last night at 7:15, I grabbed Travis, my headlamp, and my running shoes, and ran out the door. It was 6:50.

Travis felt the electricity in the air too. We both pranced down the road. At times, I allowed him to pull me like a sled dog, zipping along at 6:50 min/miles. Hmmm. Could I use Travis in a race? Of course, while I was frothing at the bit and kicking up my heels, one glance down at my poor dog told a different story as he darted along with wide eyes, flat ears, and a tucked tail. At mile 2, the lightning and thunder began. He looked at me questioningly. "C'mon, Boy! We better start heading home!" The skies opened up and fat drops began to fall on us. Travis just about leaped into my arms, nearly knocking me off the sidewalk. "HEY! Cut that out!" I yelled at him. Now the poor guy didn't know who to be more afraid of: me or the storm. I agree; that is a tough one. I convinced him the best thing to was to sprint for home. Sprint we did. I sprinted in excitement, while Travis sprinted in fear. Upon reaching the front door, I praised him lavishly. I was victorious. He got lots of treats and a good toweling off.

A few years ago, I remember 2 very memorable and epic runs in pouring rain and hurricane-like gales. One was a 16-mile run on the coast, right after my divorce. The wind was so strong, I was almost blown into oncoming traffic on Hwy 101. I had a lot to sort out in my head. I ran and ran and ran, oblivious to the cold, piercing wind or drenching rain. I felt completely purged and at peace when I returned to the Java Depot in Solana Beach, where my friends awaited afterwards.

The second run in pouring rain was a 14-miler along the 56-bike path. I went with a soon-to-be romantic partner, though I will keep names and dates anonymous. Even though the skies were cloudy and the forecast called for rain, we thought it would just be a light drizzle, if anything. Afterall, this is San Diego. It started out a light drizzle and became progressively more and more a torrential downpour. At the turn-around, my white shirt was completely soaked, and my shoes were making a squelch, squelch sound with each footstep. I wasn't cold or uncomfortable, though I should have been. My legs were delightfully numb and I was delightfully giddy. Maybe it was the excitment of the storm or the electricity in the air but it was a very erotic run. It's bad enough when you run next to someone you find yourself attracted to. I think it's all the heavy breathing, panting, and gasping for air, not to mention the elevated heart rates. Afterwards, you turn to look at each other with flushed cheeks, exhausted and ready for a nap. It's waaay too similar to another more intimate physical activity.

So, yes, running in the rain is where it's at. I'm kinda hoping for rain this Sunday at the Carlsbad Half Marathon.

Stagecoach Century and Del Mar Mesa Trail Run

Stagecoach Century (1/16/10)

• Perfect weather (low 70s) with mild wind (although the head wind was on the way back)
• Great group of friends to ride with
• 3 workouts in 1 ride--social hour, solo riding (great IM training), and paceline practice
• First 50 miles false flat but very rewarding return
• Significant climbs always appear worse than they reallly are
• Love the impromptu pacelines with strangers; great way to make new friends
• Gorgeous desert views, splattered with interesting cacti formations (that turn into creepy people after mile 90 of the bike)
• Eerie historical landmarks ("The Well of Eight Echos")
• Loved the nickname one of my friends dubbed me: "The Phoenix" after observing on several rides that I die about mile 60, only to blow by after mile 80. Very cool.
• Great base mile building for Ironman Utah!

--gorgeous desert view from the top of first big climb and old Stagecoach road

--huffing and puffing up first big hill

http://www.shadowtour.com/Century_Rides/2010_Stagecoach.htm

14-Mile Del Mar Mesa Trail Run
I didn't plan on going 14. It just happened. I ran the first 6 with Travis. Well, Travis probably ran 7 or 8 with all his galavanting around and chasing helpless, innocent little animals, with me widly waving my arms to warn them whenever I saw them first. I dropped him back at the house where he immediately downed 2 large bowlfuls of water and then promptly vomited. Ugh.

I trotted back out to finish my run solo. I only planned on doing 4 more. Afterall, I had biked 100 miles the day before. But my legs felt soooo good. And it was overcast and drizzling. I LOVE running in the rain. Plus, I'm doing a 50K in March and have to get my miles up. I decided to try for 14.

I headed into Del Mar Mesa. Which was more like running straight up and then straight down and then straight up again, all the while navigating around and over millions and millions of rocks. Rocks everywhere. At mile 10, I finally relaxed and settled into a nice rhythm. If the temperature hadn't been dropping (and if the hills hadn't killed my glutes and quads), I think I could have kept going forever. I love how the mind softens, the eyes automatically scan the ground ahead, sending signals to the brain for processing. Where to put my feet, where the rocks and trenches are, how steep the grade is; all this information coming in constantly, milliseconds at a time, flooding the mind on a subconscious level. Meanwhile, the smell of sage and jasmine float through the air, and I sneak peaks at the gorgeous views of the valleys and ponds. But often, I don't need to look at anything or think about anything or do anything. My feet automatically carry me along, and I'm floating, somewhere above it all, in a meditative state. Time stops, and all that matters is this moment, now, from footstep to footstep. This is why I run. It's one of the few times I can effortlessly relax.

Random Objects I Saw on My Run:
Shopping cart
Overturned, red, abandoned Honda
rabbits (3)
ground squirrel
red tailed hawk
gray shirt with Jesus on it, stiff as cardboard
other runners with 3 dogs that rejected Travis when he tried to join in on their reindeer games
hoofprints from horses
pawprints from other dogs? coyotes?
lawn jockey (on the trail)
Giant fiscus planted in the ground and thriving
And my favorite: a shrine of Mary statues with a myriad of little animal statues (dogs, deer, etc) surrounding Mary as if they were listening to her give a speech. A bench was beside the shrine so you could sit and enjoy. It was creepy. In the middle of nowhere!

Lunchtime Ride

I slam a small smoothie, and instead of lunch, sneak out for a quick 20-miles. Afterall, I'm sick of hour after hour on the trainer in the long winter months when the nights are long and the days are short (even in San Diego). After dropping the truck off for a tune-up (hey, multitasking--even better), I head down Genessee, a busy, dirty street. I focus on holding a straight line as semi after semi nearly clips me from the slow lane, shooting up a cloud of smoke in its wake.

By the Torrey Pines golf course, I tense up and ride extra defensively, avoiding swerving Jaguars and Cadillacs. Slouched in the front seat, I can barely spot a slumped gray head. I wave and yell but my shouts and gesticulations fall on deaf ears and near-sighted eyes, clouded by thick glasses with old prescriptions. I zip by some guy on his bike, feeling my ego swell, until I hear the creaking of his cleats and spot his unkempt, hairy legs. My ego deflates. I stop by my favorite bike shop in Solana Beach (B&L), and they assure me Torch is good to go for the Stagecoach Century on Saturday. I leave, having exchanged only pleasantries and no currency. Am I dreaming? Has hell frozen over?

As I return south, a cacophony of pungent stenches of cigarettes, hamburgers drenched in catsup, enchiladas, pizza, and sushi intertwine. Some of these aromas alone make my mouth water (afterall, I only had a small smoothie for lunch) but as the smells swirl and percolate together, each contaminates the next, until it resembles fresh garbage, the odoriferous equivalent of mixing bright colors until you have a muddy gray, overpowering my delicate sense of smell. An older Italian guy screams, "Left," and zips by going uphill. I let him go wondering, Where's the fire?" After passing me with overzealous exuberance, he slows. Now I'm drafting. After being overtaken, I'm very careful before passing again. I figure, if he passed me, he must be an overall stronger rider. And since most people are (especially men with their bigger muscles, hearts, lung capacity and testosterone--unfair advantage; bah!), I just assume they should be in front. We ride through Del Mar together, my strategy being that 2 cyclists are less invisible than 1.

Now, I'm dodging mini-van after mini-van with soccer moms hurrying in and out of parking spaces, weaving this way and that with their perfectly coiffed hairstyles, Gucci sunglasses, and expressionless faces, skin pulled tight from their last appointment with Dr. Botox as they rush off to pick up little Timmy or Samantha. The road clears, and I sprint past Mr. Italian guy, trying to make the yellow light...and miss. If only I had made my move sooner! He pulls up next to me at the light and gives Torch a long, dark look. I don't nod, I don't say hi, I don't even look at him. Very unlike me but he seems cold and hard. I don't even feel guilty about not trying to be nice. The light turns green, and I draft behind him. Surely he's going to take off on the downhill? No. I can't take it anymore. I make my move and blow by him for the final time. Phew!

Now I'm by the beach at the bottom of Torrey Pines avoiding the tourists and surfers, zipping in and out of parking spaces. Each parked car is a potential weapon, cocked and ready to spring its loaded door open into my path. I reach the bottom of the inside of Torrey Pines hill. It feels so good to get up out of the saddle and climb! My lungs are heaving so hard, I taste blood in my throat by the time I reach the creast. I had figured the roads would be mostly empty during mid-day hours but you hadn't counted on who would dominate the roads: the geriatrics, delivery truck drivers, and soccer moms. Back at work, I breathe a sigh of relief. Another bike workout done, and I survived.

Key to Happiness?

Could it really be that simple? Happiness? A matter of simply waking up early? I think I'm onto something here! I've been a night owl all my life but, alas, I live in a world of run by early birds. Pretending to be a triathlete in my free time doesn't help. In my off season, I resorted to my old night owl ways. It's been a constant battle to wake up early ever since.

Shown below is the summar of my workout volumes for the past 9 weeks. I'm embarrassed to even put it up there. The ups and downs of my workouts are vagrant reflections of my fickle moods. Yes, these charts are basically a mood-a-meter (week 6 was when Taz died).

I've slowly but surely been climbing my way back onto the wagon. Prep phase is over, and I'm now into Base phase (take a look at the big jump in training last week!). I have to be careful not to bite off more than I can chew. My body has a dangerous muscle memory. Yes, I can bike 100 miles on Saturday and run 16 on Sunday without any prior training but I will pay the consequences for the next 3 days afterwards (read: too sore and tired to do anything but sleep). I like to think I'm SuperWoman but someone wants to prove to me that I'm not.

For now, I will try to practice some moderation. But specifically, I only have 1 New Year's Resolution: WAKE UP EARLY (I'll start with 6:30 am. Seems an achievable goal). If I can wake up early, I can fit in my workouts and have more control over my day. Accomplishing my to-do list = happiness.

Hurt

I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I foucs on the pain
the only thing that's real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything
what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liar's chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
beneath the stains of time
the feelings disappear
you are someone else
I am still right here

what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

--Johnny Cash

Reflections on an Advenurous Off-Season

My off-season began in early September this year. I've never had an off-season last 3 months before. There were a lot of ups-and-downs but during this time, I had opportunities to try new things I never before had time. Here are some thoughts from these latest adventures:

Xtreme Trail Running with Travis:
Travis is my new favorite running buddy. He's the perfect size and conformation for running so I immediately put him on a training plan to build him up to 6-8 miles (we'll work on speed after we build distance first). Hmmm. Running coaches for dogs....new future career?

When I run on the trails behind my house (which go on for eons), we go exploring. I never knew there were so many trails where I live! I feel like a little kid again. Growing up in NorCal, I was always hiking in the redwoods, climbing tall trees, wading through full creeks covered in thorny vines, and getting poison oak. Now, Travis shows me new routes to forge, unexplored trails up craggy mountains, the best places to cross creeks, and the holes in fences just big enough to slip through or crawl under.

Our last adventure, we ended up in someone's private property, completely fenced in. I was able to pull up the fence for him to wriggle under but couldn't find a human-size hole to follow suit. I cavalierly decided, "Well if not under, then over," and began to scale the cyclone fence in my clumsy running shoes. Not an entirely horrible decision until my shorts got caught on the top and I proceeded to jump down anyway, shredding as I jumped down. At least it was just shorts and not flesh. My legs are perpetually covered in various scratches from bushwhacking nowadays. I'm proud of my scratches.


Winter Swimming in La Jolla Cove:
I hadn't been in a body of water for at least 2 weeks. That body of water had been a pool. Last time I had been in an open body of water had been...August? And that had been a lake. In other words, it had been awhile since I paid a visit to the Pac Ocean gods. Instead of 70-degree waters I had last enjoyed in August, the temp was now a balmy 57. This is my cutoff for swimming temperature. Below 57, I just don't go in; it's too miserable. I was on the fence. But it had been too long. I complained bitterly to my swimming buddies about how cold and awful this whole experience was going to be, all the while slipping into my wetsuit, booties, latex and neoprene caps until everyone looked at me with raised eyebrows, shaming me to silence.

We marched down the steps onto the sand of the Cove. I took 3 sharp, deep breaths, swung my arms back and forth twice, took one step forward, and dove into the water. I was never cold. The water was freezing. So cold, it burned my face. But I was not cold. I forced myself to keep my head down, focusing on swimming (and swimming quickly), knowing, promosing myself it would all go numb in 30 seconds.

Thirty seconds later, my face didn't hurt anymore. I felt warm, calm, and relaxed. The water was glassy, clear, and calm. It tasted fresher, cleaner, somehow, with less salinity, having had a few months to flush the bird shit, kid piss and sunscreen away. The water and beach was empty, in sharp contrast to the congested, flooded days between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The ocean was quiet, peaceful, and serene. Bright fluorescent orange Garibaldi flitted in and out between the green seaweed below, amongst a myriad of other fish of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Towards the horizon, the cresting fins of dolphins rhythmically broke the surface of the ocean as a pod fished for breakfast. Why on earth had I waited so long to swim in the ocean?
Postscript: The next day, I climbed Mt. Baldy. From ocean to mountains in 24 hours. 0 feet to 10,083 feet. Incredible.


Quixotic Mt. Laguna Hike:
Then, there was the incredible 7-mile hike around Mt. Laguna. I've never taken the time to hike as opposed to run before. Going more slowly, I learned and noticed things I've never appreciated before, thanks to my extremely knowledgeable trail guide. I saw shards of pottery and grinding holes used by Native Americans, acorn woodpeckers and their "silos" in trees, decorated with millions of tiny holes, each filled with a single acorn. Very shy ducks. Caves hidden beneath giant boulders. I stopped to listen, something I rarely do. Birds singing. In the distance, coyotes yipping. I heard the wind weaving through the tops of the pines. I thought the ocean was just on the other sound of the mountain, or perhaps an enormous river. The pines were speaking. I had to pinch myself; the ocean was at least 40 miles away.

Random rock arrangements formed faces and animals, reminding me of how I used to lay on my back and stare at the shapes and patterns of clouds meandering overhead, relaxed in timeless reverie. I heard a rhythmic pulse overhead like a softly purring engine and gazed up at the sky, surprised when instead of a plane, a pair of birds flew overhead, so far away, all I could see was their black silhouettes against the blue backdrop of the sky. The oscillating beating of their wings synchronized with the melodic whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. This was the most incredible noise I've ever heard. If only I'd stop to listen more.

I heard other hikers and mountain bikers. I've never realized how loud people are before (and I'm loud, even for a human). Whenever I stopped my incessant chattering, (which required an inordinate amount of personal effort, by the way) an eerie silence fell over the forest, and the birds stopped chirping. Why was it so quiet? Was there a nearby mountain lion or coyote? Oh, wait. It was me. I wonder if the forest creatures are more comfortable with careless human chatter than a silent, attentive human.

I just want to give special thanks to my trail guide for showing me how amazing things can be when I slow down, quietly observe, and just listen sometimes.

http://www.lmva.org/trails/map.htm
http://www.mountainbikebill.com/images/Trails/LagunaMts/LagunaMountainRecArea-2008.JPG

Epic 70 Mile Solo Ride

I've been unintentionally doing altitude training for the first time in my life. After climbing Mt. Baldy and spending a few days hiking on Mt. Laguna, I came back down to sea level to return to training. Apparently, this is exactly how you're supposed to altitude train (or so I've heard). That you go up high and take it easy (e.g. sleep in an altitude tent like M.J.) and then come back down to sea level to train, the idea being that it takes too much aerobic effort to train at altitude so you lose muscular endurance. I'll have to do a little research and post a more science-y blurb about this phenomenon later. I used to be a little bah-humbug about the whole altitude thing. But after only a smattering of accidental experimentation, I've been converted. It's the only way I can explain being able to ride 70 miles of hills yesterday, completely untrained, without it being a big deal. Effortless and dramatic improvements in aerobic capacity? I'll take it!

70 mile bike (with hills) yesterday--I rode 70 miles with a buddy about 10 days ago on the coast (mostly flat), and it almost killed me. Of course, I'm totally out of shape and really had no business riding 70 miles considering I haven't been riding at all. Anyway, at the end, we went up the inside of Torrey Pines, which is hard but I've never felt searing fire in my quads quite like that before. Almost total muscular exhaustion. To the point where I couldn't stand up out of the saddle. Quaking. It humbled me. Put the fear of the Triathlon Gods in me.

Not sure quite what came over me yesterday. I had just come back down from the mountains and felt sluggish and lethargic. After taking Travis for his mile jog and then to dog beach for some water sprint repeats for an hour of fetch, he was thoroughly pooped. (He's been intently focused on staring out the window to the backyard lately after spotting a coyote slinking along the top of the fence). I was just getting started. It was high noon when I hopped onto Torch and took off, not really knowing where I was going to go. I knew I wanted to go long and include hills. I normally never ride solo. I just don't get motivated. This day was different. I was free to ride at my own pace, go where I wanted to go, and take as much or as little time as I needed. Freedom, complete and total freedom. It was completely relaxing. Very therapeutic.

--going up Del Dios Hwy

I took off up Camino Del Sur, linked back into Rancho Santa Fe via San Dieguito Rd (for all you San Diegan natives), and then connected onto Del Dios Hwy (via El Apajo). I drooled over the well-groomed horses in Rancho Santa Fe, and was actually moved to tears as I watched a girl jumping her horse in a nearby outdoor, grassy arena as I pedaled by, wishing that Torch's wheel were hooves instead. I miss horses. The only problem with the horses in Rancho Santa Fe is the absence of smell. They pick up the manure as it falls from the horse. Also explains the lack of flies. But it's a bit unrealistic. Like something's missing. Personally, horse shit is one of my all-time favorite smells. Not to be disappointed, I was bestowed with amorous amounts of my favorite aroma as I rode by Clews Horse Ranch at the end of my ride along the 56 bike path. Other smells I encountered on my 70-mile ride were: eucalyptus and sage (mmmmm), skunk, rotting roadkill, cow shit, chicken shit, truck exhaust, fish tacos (Leucadia), and pot (Encinitas). With the exception of the first, I could have done without my experience being enriched by addition of those other powerful odors.

As I reached Escondido, pick-up trucks honked and swerved towards me, despite the fact I was riding well in the center of the bike lane. Ah, good 'ole Escondido. The water level at Lake Hodges was alarmingly low. A lot more traffic than I was accustomed to as well. Oh, right. I'm out on the roads in the afternoon (normally I ride early morning). And it's a holiday weekend. Shoot. The skies were a brilliant blue and the temps were in the low 70s. I was drinking a ton of fluid. I downed 3.5 large water bottles. I ate a lot too (total calories 750). I casually rode up Del Dios, drinking in the obscenely ostentatious views of the rocky mountains in the backdrop. The crest came so suddenly. Hadn't Del Dios been challenging in a past life? Yes, I had been cruising but, still, even cruise used to be hard up that hill.

I turned into Harmony Grove/Elfin Forest. Snaking my way back west towards the coast, I enjoyed soaring up and down the countless hills like a roller coaster. Elfin Forest is insanely green. The narrow streets are lined with dense eucalyptus trees, and the rolling hills are shrouded in a fluorescent green carpet of velvet grass. Small farms are nestled in the hills (hence the chicken shit and cow shit aromas). A wooden sign read "Goats for Sale" in black paint. I paused to momentarily consider the addition of a pet goat to my animal family. A creek bubbles serenely at the bottom of various giant green hills. It's a different universe, tucked into San Diego's north county.

--Elfin Forest

As I reached eastern Carlsbad, the roads widened, traffic thickened, and strip malls became the new backdrop. An area best biked through as quickly as possible to avoid an accidental collision by an unobservant motorist. I reached the coast and pedaled north. Could I make it home before sunset and still get in 70 miles? I was certainly going to try. Ah, racing the sunset; my favorite workout. From Carmel Valley, Rancho Santa Fe, to Escondido, and now the ocean. I love how far you can go on a bike in just a few hours. Now, I was drinking in ocean views that people fly from all over the world to see. I am definitely spoiled. I passed by another cyclist as I headed north and we chatted for a bit. I love how easy it is to spontaneously meet other people on a bike. The miles always fly by in good company. All too soon it was time for me to turn around and try to make it home before dark. Could I do it? Was I up to the challenge?
--from Escondido to the ocean in one loop

I felt amazing. I had done 50 miles and included hills at a higher-than-average speed and I felt amazing. But I am untrained. Only 10 days ago a flat 70-miler killed me. How was this possible? Who cares! I'll take feeling like Super Woman without question any day. I hunkered down in my aero bars and pedaled on. As I passed through Encinitas, I became extra wary of the slinking cars, lurking for a place to park. Backing up, turning, pulling in, every parked vehicle, a potential fatal crash by sudden car door ready to strike at a moment's notice. I was blind to the gleeful surfers toting their boards (another possible hazard; swung too suddenly, and it becomes a cyclist's worst nightmare) and bobbing in the glassy ocean water. Blind to the pink horizon as the setting sun bejeweled the ocean's surface with glittering amber. Every muscle in my face was taut, my eyes scanned the road, as if heading into battle; everyone was an enemy, potentially waiting to spring out and try to dismount me from my bike. Is this how prey animals (rabbits) live? Awful. I felt like I was invisible; no one could see me. Ah, the glories of holiday traffic on the coast.

I made it to the final turn east back towards home. Torrey Pines beckoned me. "C'mon. Just one time. You can make it up and down and still be home before dark." I couldn't resist. I soared into the park to tackle the inside. Would my legs feel better this time? I needed redemption after last ride's pathetic climb. Aha! Better, indeed! I attacked the inside of TPs like it was no one's business. Out of the saddle, I climbed and climbed and climbed. I felt fresh and eager. Nothing could stop me! I reached the top and smiled victoriously. It was going to be the perfect ride.

I soared down the hill and back home along the bike path as the sun made it's final descent into the Pacific, melting into the cool water. The sky was lined with puffy, neon pink, cotton candy clouds, like something out of the Beatles' Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. But I wasn't on anything except exercise-induced endorphins. Some days, that's more than enough.

Bagging Mt. Baldy

I've decided to branch out and try some new outdoor adventures. When my friend said he was hiking up Mt. Baldy and invited me, I thought, "Sure. Why not?" After a trip to REI, I had the equipment but absolutely no idea what to expect. Mt. Baldy, also known as Mt. San Antonio, sits at 10,068 feet, the highest peak in Los Angeles County and the San Gabriel Mountains. This time of year, the top was covered in a solid, 2-feet of snow. Snow? I hadn't seen snow for 4 years!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_San_Antonio

Decked head to toe in a smurfy blue outfit (no one said I looked like a freakin' smurf!) with brand-spankin'-new, never-before-worn, hiking boots, we set out, trekking poles, crampons, and snowshoes in tow. We started up a fire road. Okay, I can handle that. The guys started talking about making sure not to "miss the trail". All of a sudden, they said, "There it is!" They were pointing to a tiny deer trail to the left, narrow, rocky, cliff on one side, that snaked up into the trees and disappeared. We were only 1/4 mile of the way in. The group headed up the trail like it was normal. I saw 2 guys coming down. Do these people think they're deer? I followed meekly, like a lamb.

Matt and Marie on the way up

Then, patches of ice and snow appeared, like random blobs, threatening to make me slip and tumble down the mountain to my death. Apparently, I was the only one bothered by this as I penguin-baby-stepped-waddled across the icy spots. Each step was very tedious, as I stabbed the trekking pole into the ground and leaned on it to make sure I wouldn't fall. I noticed I was the only one using this strategy to manuever across the trail. Everyone else was simply walking. Hmmm. My method was using an incredible amount of energy and required inordinate upper body strength. Mark suggested I put the crampons on. Huh? What are those? I borrowed a spare pair of semi-crampons (not the full spikes; more like toothpicks) and was instantly a much happier sailor.

--The group at the start (Mark, me, Marie, & Matt; Leonard, not shown)

We reached the Sierra Club lodge where I took a much-needed bathroom break. It had only been 3 miles, and we were just getting started. I was hydrating A LOT, encouraged by my more-experienced friends, who knew drinking lots of water was key to adjusting to the altitude. Of course, my period decided to start that very day, and I don't know if it was the altitude or what, but it was like the Red Sea. I had brought the necessary supplies but used them all up pretty quickly. Argh! Are you kidding me? If you're squeamish, I'm not apologizing. I have to live it! I was just glad I wasn't swimming in the Cove that day; can we say "Shark Bait"? One of the guys had napkins. I thanked him for the MacGyver-style diaper. Who would have thought I would need Crampons and Tampons at the same time?

We continued our hike upwards; our goal was to reach the summit, if possible. The snow pack was continuous now, and we were all donning extra layers, crampons, trekking poles, and ice axes. I was slipping quite a bit in my "toothpick" crampons but making good progress going up. We had only made it about 1/4 mile when we hear, "Help! Help!" We spotted 2 agitated dogs, circling their troubled owner. The more experienced mountaineers in our party carefully made their way over to the fallen victim, who had slipped, twisted an ankle, and was precariously stuck in a steep part of the snow bowl on an ice pack, ready to fall down the mountain if he breathed too hard. His friend was too inebriated to be anything but a hindrance. Both of them were wearing nothing but running shoes. The rescuers hacked a trail for the victim(s) laboriously with the ice axe. Meanwhile, as Marie and I waited, I had the overwhelming urge to pee..again. I had been hydrating very, very well. I did my business by the tree, and felt much better (and warmer) afterwards. Anyone know why you feel warmer after you pee? Doesn't make sense to me. Good use of the time while we waited, I thought. The inebriated victim was uninjured but very unsteady and kept slipping and falling (the running shoes didn't help). As he came closer, he slipped and skidded across the snow pack, aiming (seemingly) right for me. Ummm, big drunk guy rolling like an avalanche right for me? I wasn't about to go down with him! I did a quick side-step, dropped a knee to the ground, and reached for him with my arms to try to grab him, succeeding in at the very least, slowing his momentum. I smiled internally, realizing he had skidded right over the middle of my freshly-made, pee-covered snow. He collided gently with a rock and skidded to a halt, completely unharmed. He fell and slipped and skidded several more times before making it back to the hut.

--Mark and Marie on the way to the summit.

After a looong time, we got the pair situated and continued on our way. We had been delayed by quite a bit. Reaching the summit now would be questionable. But we would try. Maybe mountaineering with a bunch of type-A, goal-oriented triathletes isn't such a good idea? Since I was the newbie in the group, they asked how I felt and how far I wanted to go. I felt great! Wonderful! I had never been this high, altitude-wise, before, never been tested, and felt exhilarated. No headache, no nausea, and only a slight shortness of breath but no biggie. Actually, I couldn't figure out why everyone kept stopping to rest. Of course, I had a secret weapon--a big bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies in my pocket that I nibbled continuously. I must have annoyed everyone enough as I chirped away and scampered upwards because, eventually, they waved me away, actually humoring me by letting me lead the way up for a bit. Anyway, I desperately wanted to reach the summit. I should have thought a little more carefully when Mark asked, "You have your headlamp, right?"

We continued climbing. Suddenly, there were no more pine trees. The wind picked up and the temperature dropped. It was 32 without the windchill, most likely in the 20s with the wind (even though the winds were mild). Actually, when the sun blessed us with its presence, it was delightful. I couldn't believe how one minute, it would be sunny and pleasant, and the next, it was windy, cloudy and cold. Everything was so transient.

--view of the desert from the summit

And then, we reached the summit. It was a small plateau, covered with a smooth blanket of snow. The view was incredible. To the east, I saw the Anza Borrego Desert. It was like walking on the moon. Another planet. 10,000 feet. I felt incredible. Mark said, "You bagged your first peak!" I hadn't even realized it until that moment. It was akin to crossing a finish line. Thanks, Mark. You will always be my Mike Reilly of the mountains.

--bagging Mt. Baldy!

We stopped to eat in a protected grove of pine trees. I gobbled down everything I had in my pack and most of what anyone offered me from theirs as well. The wind picked up and the sun disappeared, and I started to get miserably cold. The group waved me onward. Since I would be the slowest descender of the group, it was a good solution. Apparently, as the saying goes, the climb doesn't begin until the descent. I know now this is all too true but had no idea that going down is twice as hard as getting up. Going up is easy. You're excited, it's easy to see where to put your feet, and you have lots of energy. After reaching the summit, all the wind is gone from your sails. And it's getting dark and cold, you're using less energy so you're colder, but you're using incredible amount of quad strength. And it's hard on the ole' knees! I had never worn crampons before. Luckily, Mark traded me the toothpick ones for the sturdy, iron nails ones, which makes you feel like Spiderman. You can walk on the ceiling with those things. I felt much more comfortable. However, it's a little unnerving going down. One misstep.....

--view from our lunch spot

--She's coming down the mountain!

I may have been a little mountain goat going up but I was like a cat stuck in a tree coming down. No one seemed to mind waiting for me. Unfortunately, we overshot the trail coming down and had to traverse across on a loosely-packed, snow covered part of the bowl for a short way to get back to the trail. It was steep and tedious work. Matt ice axed a path for Mark, who was wearing the measly toothpick crampons; not good in steep sections. Even though I had sturdy crampons, I still used a lot of mental forethought before every step, which was simply exhausting. We reached the trail safe and sound and made our way back to the hut at dusk.

--view coming down in the late afternoon light

--sunset

We stopped to put on our headlamps and stuff our faces one last time. Only 3 miles to go. Of course, since it was dark, and the trail was narrow, it was the toughest 3 miles. Also, the ice was melting and mixing with rock, which was difficult to navigate with crampons. Do I keep them on? Take them off? After tripping and stumbling about 3 times, which put me exactly at the spot where all the ice had melted, I eagerly took them off. I was the last to take them off. I hate ice! My quads were toast by that point. And I was mentally exhausted. Hiking downhill by headlamp is actually quite difficult! I tripped, fell, stumbled my way down a few more times but all very minor.

--donning my headlamp

At last, we made it back to the car. We were victorious! We made our way to the closest Outback Steakhouse and gorged on meat, Bloomin' Onions, and some sort of warm, wonderful, delicious brownie sundae concoction. All I can say is, when can we do it again?!

--crumpled bottles back at sea level