Runnin' Down A Tree

I've never had a tree as a destination for an out-and-back run in the mountains but apparantly there really is a first time for everything. I prefer loops, peaks make natural turnaround points, lakes are okay, but a tree? This wasn't just any old tree though...well, okay actually it was a really old tree: The Patriarch in the Bristlecone National Forest high up in the White Mountains, the largest known tree of its kind. At 6:15 am, with sunrise bathing the crest of the Sierra in a pinkish hue and Silver Canyon still shrouded in cold shadows, Brannon Forrester and I snapped a few photos and, pointed ourselves east and began the long, slow climb off the Owens Valley floor where the pavement ends above Laws: elevation 4180'. The Silver Canyon Road climbs gradually for the first 7 miles and these early miles passed by quickly and easily. Nearing 7000' the road veered away from the creek and began climbing in earnest. Running became fast hiking became slow walking and within 3 miles we were standing at the intersection with White Mountain Road at well over 10000'. An incredible expanse of the Sierra unfolded to the west. The view stretched from the Olancha Peak area to the south all the way north to Dunderberg Peak near Conway Summit. If the range seems mighty while playing from within, its size and scope seem to grow exponentially from this White Mountains viewing platform across the valley. Standing at the road junction taking it all in, my long-distance trail runner's mind couldn't help but fixate on two particular numbers on the signage. One sign pointing west back down Silver Canyon said "Bishop 15" and the other pointing east said "Deep Springs Valley 16." Way too much of a coincidence to dismiss. It will have to be done: the White Mountains Crossing 50K had been born in my mind. We weren't even halfway done with the day's adventure and I was already planning another. Continuing north on White Mountain Road we were soon dealing with snow in shaded areas, still firm and runnable this early in the morning, and a cold north wind on exposed high points that kept the layers on and the desire to move quickly strong. The 9 miles to Patriarch Grove passed by easily, the altitude a surprising non-factor as it was my first foray above 10,000' this year. Along the way we saw a lone wild mustang casually grazing its way across the plateau. Within minutes of leaving a meltwater puddle on the road that I had busted the ice off of in a desperate, failed attempt to enhance my meager water supply, the mustang was happily lapping up the silty water. I didn't have the fortitude to indulge. The water had a coffee with cream complexion that didn't inspire confidence. Five and a half hours after leaving Laws we found ourselves quietly paying our respects in the presence of incredibly old age: The Patriarch stood before us like a sentinel over the ages. A human lifetime seems really insignificant in comparison to longevity of these beautifully gnarled, wind-sculpted trees. The snow cover on the ground took away a bit of the extreme feeling of dryness that the Whites often exude. But water was an issue for the two humans standing around in silent reverie. It was a long way back to the water source at the base of the switchbacks in Silver Canyon and I was wondering how long my system was going to go along with my playing camel. By the time we had retraced our steps to the pavement in Laws, 10 hours of meditative motion had elapsed and my quads were ready for some horizontal time. There was really only one climb in this outing but it had taken us to 11,300' and as Tom Petty sang years ago, "I'm learnin' to fly but I ain't got wings...COMING DOWN IS THE HARDEST THING." Seems like Petty knows a thing or two about mountain running.

Learnin' New Tricks At the American River 50M

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Well, it certainly is true that some old habits die a really slow, painful death (if they die at all) and, for me, as a runner, during the course of 12 years on the trails, reaching into my bag of racing tricks has consistently left me on the receiving end of a second half bonk. The lame excuse for taking it out too hard off the gun usually involves some variation on the "well, I was feeling really good" theme. Of course you felt good dumbass. It was the start of the race, responds the mental coach sometime post-death march.
It is an unassailable distance-running fact that all great performances (and it makes no difference whether you are referring to a world record at the international level or a personal best at the plodder level) are executed only after paying the hefty psychological dues at the alter of consistency. Even pacing. Even splits; negative splits even. It is incredibly challenging mentally to hold back when you are feeling invincible, when you know you could be running faster; but the reality is that those 30 seconds or so per mile you save in the early going can quickly become many minutes per mile given back to the clock when the wheels come off. If you are reduced to a walk, those minutes can transform into hours. I know. I have "bonked," "had the wheels come off," "been part of the carnage," and, generally speaking, felt more misery in the second half of more races than I care to recall.
After adding the Way Too Cool 50K to that illustrious list in mid-March I was determined to redeem myself at American River on April 4. The gun went off and the top 20 or so quickly vanished into the ghostly light of daybreak. A few miles down the bike path I tucked in behind the three lead women running in a pack. Although this was completely unplanned I knew it was a fortunate circumstance as women tend to be much smarter when it comes to race strategy than dudes. It took a few miles however and a round of introductions before the self-conscious feeling of being a male interloper in this evenly-paced estrogen club finally dissipated. The plan quickly became to stay with the lead woman through the first half and take it from there. This plan quickly unraveled as my ass decided to take center stage giving enhanced meaning to the Swedish interval running term: "fartleks" or "speed play." My version was anything but playful or enjoyable and I became fixated on my poor decision to join friends on Thursday evening for a Mexican food extravaganza for the ensuing 15 miles. On five separate occasions I found myself practically diving into the bushes alongside the bike path, completely indifferent to the abundance of poison oak, only to emerge a few minutes later and take off at an unreasonable pace until I made visual contact with the female trio again. At some point during this madness the lead female group splintered for good and I settled into my own comfort zone, thankful to have emerged intact on the other side of intestinal distress.
In spite of the lost time in the bushes and, in some ways worse, constantly losing my focus and rhythm I managed to come through 50K in 3:56, only 5 minutes off my 50K PR and feeling reasonably well. Following the customary mid-race "bad patch" that hit me this time between miles 29 and 33 things really began clicking and as the race course left the asphalt bike path and dirt roads permanently for progressively more rolling and technical single-track I became the hunter on the prowl for late-race carnage. Every time I caught someone I would get a surge of adrenaline. It felt sooooo good to be blowing by people, not because I relished their misfortune but because I knew how they felt and had completely forgotten what it was to be on the other side of the predator-prey race dynamic. By the time I crossed the finish line in 6:51.43 with a 15 minute 50M PR I had picked off 11 and only been re-passed by 1 on the final 3 mile climb to the finish. Coming in 18th I was nowhere near the fun up front but on this day it did not matter. What did was even pacing and keeping my cool. Now only one question remains: can I prove that this was not a fluke? As we all know, old habits die harder than bad action movies.