Wildwood's Revenge

The week pressed on as I dutifully stuck to my training regimen: 6 mile hill run, track workout, two 5:00 AM gym workouts, and a nice flat 5 miles on the waterfront. My legs are slowly beginning to come around, which I think is due mostly to the speedwork. On Friday night, I double-checked the training log for tomorrow's long run.

Well, well, well. Wildwood Trail, we meet again. This time, I'll be ready for you...or so I think.

Same bleary-eyed morning routine: whole grain cereal, fruit, cottage cheese, and coffee. Sports drink: check. Chocolate Gu packets: check. Hydration belt: fully stocked. Muscles: stretched. 7:30 AM rolls around and I'm out the door and off into the wilderness.

The distance today is a choice of 12, 14, or 16 miles. Since I've had experience on this trail, I know better than to shoot for a 14. Knowing how Wildwood will surely test my will, I settle on 12 miles. I don't want to be disappointed when I inevitably tap out at the end. I line up with the four-hour marathon pace group and we hike up the road to the starting point.

Everything starts off swimmingly. We head off at a relaxed 11:20 per mile pace, and my heart rate settles comfortably at 161 bpm. The first two miles are gently rolling hills, and the scenery is beautifully green and lush. I'm with a faster group this time, and my footsteps fall right in line with theirs. My place at the front of the single-file line makes me feel like an integral part of the team.

We arrive at Rest Stop #1 in no time. Stretch, hydrate, refuel. We start the descent down for Part 2, and I know that this is where the fun will really begin. The steady and sharp downhill pitch in the beginning always makes me dread the return. Sharp switchback, steep incline, root, branch, rock, fern. The guy in front of me stumbles over a wayward branch, so of course, I immediately trip over it and fall down in the dirt. The trail is jarring on my ankles, knees, and hips. It's a challenge just to stay balanced and upright.

We get pretty far along, without the soft, oozing puddles of mud this time. I'm proud to see we've gone much further into the trail than we did last time. I'm so focused on myself and my thoughts that I don't even hear the commotion in front of me. I'm suddenly seized by an intense, searing pain in my thighs and it feels like daggers driving into my flesh. Everyone is panicking. Did I get hit with a stinging nettle or something? What the hell just happened?

It takes me a second or two to discover we've been attacked by a swarm of aggressive, angry wasps. The groups in front of us must have disturbed their nest and boy, are they pissed off. There's about six wasps latched right onto both of my legs, stinging repeatedly. I have a phobia of bees and wasps, which doesn't help because I only have a tiny, single track trail on which to COMPLETELY FREAK OUT. I jump up and down, brushing them off my throbbing legs. Another one descends on my right thigh and I swat at it frantically. My right index finger promptly swells up and hardens. "Did anyone get stung?" asks the pace leader. I nod and manage to say yes. Not sure how many times, but it feels like a thousand.

I will my aching legs to move on. We hit the second rest stop and collect ourselves. I can barely stand up straight at this point, and peel back my running tights at the knee to have a look at what lies beneath. There's a raw, red, bleeding dot where I got stung. I know there are several more on my upper thighs, but I have to ignore them for now. My finger is swollen and bruised, and I'm not looking forward to the return trip.

Our group comes up with a plan: separate and sprint through the wasp's nest. I ask if I can use anyone as a human shield, half in jest. I sprint for my life, waving my arms in front of my legs and desperately hoping they got enough of me the first time around. I narrowly escape, unstung this time. My comrades aren't so lucky - two girls get stung, one of them on her neck.

I can feel my thighs swell and harden through my running tights, and the multiple spots where I got hit are throbbing and burning brightly. I press on, and start to fall behind a little. I had tried to make a mental note of all the steep downhill spots on the way out, but there were too many to remember. It feels like we're running completely uphill the whole time, and hill running isn't my strength.

Around a bend, I let most of the group pass me by. As we move on, the gap widens even further. Another member of the group falls back with me, due to an IT band injury. We slog up the big hill alone, having completely lost sight of the pack. I'm wheezing and panting, willing my swollen legs to stumble upward while my companion is taking it easy to protect his left leg. We're trail running road kill. There are so many twists and turns that I can't see the opening of the trail, and the rest stop. It's killing me, and just when I'm about to give up and start walking, I hear whoops and hollers. Oh sweet Jesus - we're done. We've made it.

When I finally get home and run a hot bath, I peel off my sweaty layers to carefully inspect the carnage. I have 11 wasp stings total, all glowing red, swollen, and angry. I wonder briefly if I should seek medical attention. As I sit on the edge of the tub and wait for it to fill, I give myself kudos for finishing what I started. Sure, I ran the shortest distance of the day, fell face-first in the dirt, got attacked by wasps, lost the group, and ran out of steam at the end, but the point is, I never gave up.

Oh Wildwood, you'll test me every time, but you'll never get the best of me.

Spent

The 80-plus degree heat beats down on me with an irrepressible fury. Sweat, grime, and dust run slowly down my forehead and drip on the brown asphalt. Splash-splash. My heart is a giant hammering racehorse, beating thunderously inside my chest. My itchy, irritated eyes narrow and my jaw sets firmly as I pump my fists in front of me, willing my legs to turn over faster, stronger, harder, and propel me 100 meters further down the track.

Rewind to four days ago. The Project Manager in me was unleashed, and I started getting antsy about my training. Have to do more, have to really hit it hard, bigger workouts, more miles. Don't have time. Must get on top of things NOW. I evaluated the meal plan and put myself on strict compliance. I put pen to paper and devised some gym workouts and intervals on the indoor cycling trainer for some guaranteed ass-kicking. I set running schedules for my usual loops and hills, and planned a track workout to throw in a little speedwork.

When I was finished, I gave it a look and wondered if I was setting the bar a bit too high. Three double workout days in a row seemed possible, but since I hadn't set foot in the gym but once in the past three months (stupid tendinitis), maybe it would be tougher than I thought. I've done this before. I can do it, I say to myself. No problem.

By 5:00 PM on Wednesday, my muscles were feeling admittedly sore from all the workouts. I hopped on my commuter bike after work and headed across the river towards Duniway park. Three miles is nothing, but on my converted single speed, it feels like 20. I rolled up to the track just in time for the group workout to begin.

Warmup, lunges, squats, jumps, side shuffles, push-ups (guy-style, thank you very much), and sit ups. Then, our plan for the day: 100 meter repeats, and 6 laps around the track at 'comfortably hard' pace. It's all pretty much hard for me, so I wasn't sure what that meant. I just knew that I had one thing to accomplish: go fast.

And fast I was, at least on the 100 meters. I'd forgotten that I was pretty snappy with the short distances. When it came time to do the 6 laps, I lagged behind as usual. The pain set in and I was sure I did a number on my calves and hamstrings. After the work was over, I hopped on the bike for the 5 mile commute home and briefly considered calling J for a ride. Rather than endure the inevitable heckling that would accompany such a phone call, I reluctantly headed home.

That night, a tiredness crept over me that I'd never felt before. I almost fell asleep in the kitchen while I was waiting for the brown rice to finish cooking. I mechanically fed myself and then crashed in bed at 9:30 PM. I ignored J's commentary of my early bedtime ("What are you, six years old?") and slept like the dead.

The next day, I could barely raise my arms above my head. I wobbled on sore legs with tender heels. Every muscle, joint, and tendon hurt. I was definitely going to skip today's workout. The verdict? Overtraining.

It's been two days and I'm still not fully recovered. I wished for a nap all day, and walked around like a zombie at work. I headed straight home and used the cloudy, damp sky as an excuse to miss today's 6 mile hill run. I need another day off to recover.

But more than that, I need to learn to listen to my body and convince myself that if I miss a workout, it will be okay.

Happy Trails

I've no shortage of motivation. Setting the goal of finishing my first marathon has given me a significant aspiration, and it's kept me out there on the road every weekend with all the other crazy folks in my marathon training group. The thing I feel has been sorely lacking in my life at the moment is inspiration.

I awoke on Saturday morning, bleary-eyed and incoherent, having not ingested any form of caffeine yet. There was much scuffling about in the kitchen fixing breakfast, searching for sports nutrition, consulting my training schedule, and furiously mapping the "long run" starting location while promising my husband eternal best-friendship in exchange for a Stumptown latte. After cursing up a storm at my stubborn printer and throwing on layers of hi-tech fabric, I somehow produced a map, and furiously searched for my hydration belt.

Sadly, it has come to this: I own an adult fanny pack.

I found it amidst a strewn pile of clothes I still hadn't unpacked from last weekend's getaway. Since my loft has become Marathon Training Central Control, I suppose I've let some basic housekeeping fall to the wayside. So it goes. I hastily grabbed car keys, chocolate-flavored Gu packets, a headband, and my exalted Stumptown latte. I headed out the door in the general direction of Forest Park. It was early, and the temperature was already a clear and balmy 65 degrees.

I wound the car up towards Wildwood Trail. On the menu today: a beast of a 10 mile trail run. I immediately spotted the throng of crazy folks in my training group, and scoped out a place to park. I maneuvered the car into a makeshift spot on the shoulder of the woodsy 2-lane road, and headed off bravely to face my morning sentence. The training clinic director had already begun her spiel, and I craned my neck to listen intently as the various pace groups were called out. The enthusiastic runners lined up at the start of the trail: 3:40 (no freakin' way - Boston qualifying pace.) 3:50, 4:00, then 4:15. Shit.

I managed to fall in line with one of the last pace groups, the 4:30. The trail was so narrow that we bunched up behind each other single-file, and trotted off at a pace that was only slightly faster than power walking. My group was the largest, so we took our time getting started. The evidence of Spring was all around me, with vivid greens and earthy browns. Luckily, we were under a thick tree cover, the dense leaves matting together to provide a forgiving shade that brought the temperature down a few degrees. My bare shoulders shuddered a little at first, and I knew I would be thankful much later when I inevitably heated up.

About a mile in, I began to hit my stride. The pace group leader, a formidable man of about 6'5" with a solid build, yelled out "RUNNER UP!" and "ROOOOOOOOOT!" every so often with a deep, booming bullhorn of a voice. I kept my eyes alternating between the trail floor, on the lookout for thick bulging roots, treacherous jagged rocks, and wayward branches, and the serene landscape in front of me, with the hazy sunlight gently filtering in beneath the thickly matted tree branches. The lush, sun-dappled greenery stole a few of my precious breaths.

We foraged on in single file, like a well-oiled machine. I kept my eyes focused ahead, intently working in sync with the rhythm of my heavy breathing and the sound of a hundred footsteps gently pounding the compact earthen trail. On a slight incline, we reached a crescendo of birds twittering, twigs snapping, feet thudding, and strenuous panting.

After what seemed like an hour (roughly thirty-six minutes in real time,) we arrived at the rest stop, which was only three miles in. A more beautiful sight was never had: fresh, ice cold water, sugary gummy bears, and crunchy cookies. After thanking the rest stop volunteers, I scooped up a handful of gummy bears and stretched out my warmed-up muscles.

The 4:20 pace leader called out for her group's departure. Game on - I was feeling good and ready to dial it up a notch. We started off on a slight descent, and I moved to the front of the group. The trail descended and turned steeply, and we eased cautiously down a few switchbacks. Mental note: that'll hurt on the way back. We trudged up a particularly nasty hill, our overzealous pace-setting cheerleader promising us a "hot ass" as the payoff for conquering it. When we reached the summit, I exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

My frontline position put me in charge of calling out hazards to the rest of my comrades: "Rock! Root! Branch! MUD!" Oh, there was mud on this trail. Thick, oozing, squishy mud. Thin, slippery, splashy mud puddles. Huge pits of quicksand-mud ready to trap heavy, pounding feet. The only way to avoid a nasty slip or fall was simply to run straight through it. I planted my left foot into a sizable mud pit and drenched my toes. Mud splashed up around me and brown streaks coated my lower calves and ankles. Oh, well - it was about time to get new shoes anyway.

We reached the halfway point after much pain and suffering, and stopped momentarily to refuel before heading back. I glanced my heart rate monitor swiftly - 845 calories burned thus far. I had felt great that morning, but didn't want to press my luck. Standing at the 5-mile mark, sweaty, salty, quivering, and breathless, I knew that 10 was about all I could hope for today. We turned around and dutifully trudged on.

The road back was quiet and introspective. The sun was shining brightly through the greenery, bathing the woods in a serene glow. The trail wound deftly around and the forest and thankfully, the gently rolling hills were forgiving on my weary legs. My feet throbbed, and I could feel them swelling inside my damp, muddy shoes. I was convinced I had multiple blisters on my toes. The gummy bears, chocolate Gu, and sports drink handily strapped to my waist had run out long ago. Come on, don't bonk. You can do this. Finish.

We turned a corner and I heard the whooping and hollering from my group. We had arrived at the finish, and the stairs leading up to the paved road were a welcoming sight. I slowed down to a trot, gave the requisite high-fives, and beamed at my group. I was covered in sweat, salt, and grime. My muscles ached to the core, and my feet pulsated. I wobbled up the stairs and out to my car, taking a generous breath of fresh air into my lungs. I pushed "stop" on my heart rate monitor, and peered expectantly at the resulting data:

Total run time, 2 hours, 10 minutes. Calories burned, 1496. Average heart rate, 166. I felt so productive, and it was only 10:30 AM.

That day, I got the inspiration my soul was so desperately craving. Being a part of the long, hard-working machine that churned out treacherous trail miles gave me a fulfilling sense of purpose. Suffering with the group made the finish much more meaningful, and the beautifully quiet landscape provided the inner reflection I knew I desperately needed.

I sat down wearily in the driver's seat of my car, took off my filthy shoes, and knocked them together in a feeble mud-removing attempt. Time for my trail-weary legs to head back home. Time to count each heroic moment, each swelling red bug bite on my sore calves.