Saturday

In spite of a week of the county government claiming parks were closed, for the first time they had made the effort to block them off. No big surprise, given the amount of maintenance the county does, but this still caused a small amount of annoyance as I pulled up to my usual parking lot and found a chain dangling across its entrance. I parked in the "secret" spots - a little pulloff at the end of the road - and watched the rain intensify while I prepped for the run.

Now ready to go, I stepped into a pretty typical rain - maybe a 3/2* - and started off. The train was muddy from the overnight off-and-on waterings, but it wasn't unrunnably bad, and I didn't feel abusive going over it. It was still easy to stay on-trail and step straight in the puddles without wondering just how deep my ankles would sink.

I headed up onto the trail and took a right to do the large loop out first. This was pretty easy, though I was definitely wet by the time I'd hooked back to the powerline section. I climbed the hill and at the top heard a rumble. 

Uh.

This rain had just turned to a thunderstorm. I dropped down the hill and back into the woods, figuring it was safer to be in the middle of a forest than on the flats of the powerline stretch. A few rumbles later and the rain really started, coming now in heavy droplets at moderate volume. This has escalated to a 4/3 or even 4/4. I certainly wasn't drowning in it, but there was quite a bit of water falling.

And now came the second time across the creek. Except it wasn't possible, as the creek level was so high that leaping across looked precarious and fording the rapid waters sounded a little silly. I made my way to the bridge and up the river, the rain coming down hard the whole time. This stretch felt muddy, brutal, difficult. A creek crossing arrived that fortunately hadn't been flooded, and I hopped across gamely. As I neared the forest exit, the rain let up, and by the time I was in the open again, my rain gear was burning me up.

The next half went easily, with just a couple little detours to dodge blown-up streams. A couple loops through the south section, then back up to the powerline (again: no creek crossing; bridge it is!), closing out the run with a set of up-tempo segments. 

Monday

It's definitely colder than I expect this time of year in Virginia. We're far enough south that it feels like spring should be in full bloom by the second week in April, but we've had a frost blow in on a 15 mph wind and now I'm fully bundled.

That's not necessarily bad. We're all out in masks now, and my running buff works serviceably for the purpose on the trails. Plus, of course, there won't be the clusters of walkers and cyclists on the unavoidable paved stretches of the path.

I roll out the long way, even though this is the end of my running week. Down the trail, shoes sticking in mud everywhere the drainage is inadequate, I'm now looking for the longest single-loop run I can manage at Wakefield. Out along the river, back on the double track, left onto the access trail, then a hard left to loop around.

Here's the muddy stretch that bikes have torn up. I try to run through it, but in some sections the mud is so thick it threatens to eat my shoes. I tiptoe around as little as possible, ride the boards where they've been dropped in, and get through in way better time than expected. Now come the curves and the big loop back up, then across before ejecting onto the powerlines. 

The wind is bitter out here, and I'm hoping the sun cuts through it before the end. Everything's dry, and I'm feeling great. Around the end, then winging back along the interstate wall: normally traffic noise is a continuous stream here, but today you can hear each engine as it passes on the other side. The trail is firmed up here, the going easier, and now I'm warming up.

Descend? No! Back around to the forest path again, this time the other way - no repeats, no hesitation. Around the trail, across the wooden bridges, slicing back to the powerlines again and slowly looping down the hill. At the bottom it hooks back up, and I take the hill at pace. 

Now back to the top and the winding drop to the creek. Interstate path straight across, into the power station segment, then back to the curving forest stretch. Definitely too warm for the kit, I start to unzip: jacket off, sleeves rolled down, ready to blow through the rest of this.

I cross the parking lot lawn, head over the road, pound the wooden slats on the bridge and do the triangle extension, then dip through the tunnel. This is the back side of the course, the section that's hardest to loop because the paths seem to all come together in random ways. But I'll do my best. 

I start out right and make the big loop to the end, then turn hard right and come back to the entrance. Make the next right, lean left to stay on the unused path, then stick right to get down to the main path after a cutback or two. There's a little strip on that path that I don't think I can get out of repeating, but there's the last path pair that gives me a nearly-complete looped course.

On the other side of the creek, the logs keep things interesting, and I take the widest course. There's an inner path, but there's no loop possibility out here: not enough paths to do entrance and exit without repeating a decent segment. So I re-cross the creek and head for the exits, 9km into this run.

I don't need to look both ways anymore, crossing to the dirt path, then rejoin the paved trail at the end. Right turn, back toward the car, a couple people are now out - it's pushing 8 and definitely in the 40s. I leap the creek through the dirt and find another mud-filled pile of a path. It's all about dodging over here, because the puddles and mud pits are everywhere. 

It's forest time again. Head down, rapid-fire, pulsing across the trail. A couple cyclists roll by, and I cut through the brush to avoid contact. The Mud Pit of Doom - my last trail work effort - has a puddle on each end but a long, dry stretch through the middle. I hope it holds. 

Along the river here, the sounds are everywhere: falling water, of course, but also squirrels scurrying around the trees, birds out in force, the winds flowing through long grasses at the forest edge. I'm happy here.

There it is, though: the last creek crossing on this strip, and I know the end is coming. Up past 10k now - not super long, but long enough to feel good - and I've almost single-looped it. I lean right to take the last "bonus" stretch, then cross the creek where I've crossed before. Staying to the left - does that count as a loop? For our purposes, sure. 

I'm going left now, then back into the woods, and now past the main exit to the first dive back to the double track. I don't think there's anything longer here, but the return on that double track is rock-strewn and ankle-threatening. But here I go!

The actual loop is about 10.5km, with just under a kilometer each way car-to-path. I'll be back again. And again. And again and again and again. Though there are plenty of options around, it's hard to imagine finding another place where there's even a place to park.

Friday

Looping it again, this time on pace. I've found my 12km loop, now it's all about rhythm. There are people today: it's warmer, drier, all-around better. Every high-pace strip feels brilliant, like I'm running downhill even when it's a steep climb. My legs are more than happy, they're thrilled. 

Nights now I go to bed with legs tingling from effort. It's a delightful tingle, like they want to quit but just know there's more tomorrow. I can feel the build here. 

Am I getting faster? Probably not particularly. But I'm getting more comfortable and more confident. After four months off I needed to make a good return, and this truly feels like it.

Wednesday

Masks on, even when it's 50F. The tour today is simple: warmup lap, nothing too long. The first half disappears under my feet before I even know, but the last third feels infinite, like I've been out here at Wakefield forever. 

Back in high school and college I ran the same course every day. The repetition was good for mentally checking out and just getting the miles done. But with the taste of variety that trails bring, I generally don't like to repeat anymore. 

It's hard, though. I need a trail to limit strain on the Achilles, but I can't roll the dice on other familiar trails. In fact, I know that most of them are closed off: they're national parks or state parks off major roads, with no parking alternatives. 

Wakefield or bust!

Mash out. Spin on. 

All I could spot was a sliver of pink close to the ground, the slenderest hint of a marking. Gingerly but firmly, I tapped my way across the boulders until I found myself standing next to a half dozen grassy tips with a flattened ribbon knotted around the largest, boulders in both directions as far as the eye could see, three metal poles now visible. 

​My shoulders slumped, and I stretched my neck by turning my head in a circle. Drawing up my frame to its full extent, I said to the Nobody That Was Here, "It will be whatever it's going to be." I set off for the next pole.

​Until that Friday, 50k had been my limit. I'd never done more, and before 2019 had never thought of nor desired doing more. 

When I'd emailed my friend Kevin in early January with a "crazy idea" akin to his crazy idea of riding a 200-miler in the DC/Maryland area during the previous summer, I assumed we'd both get a chuckle out of the thought before discussing a realistic adventure like hiking for 3 days or something. 

The timing was right, of course: beginning of August, right when I wanted to be in Washington to visit my parents. But running 40 miles around Mt St Helens sounded a bit excessive, even to my run-obsessed self.

But instead of laughing, Kevin responded by signing up for the race.

Uh oh.

I emailed him back the next day: "M-- is down with me signing up, once we have our second paycheck back thank you very much shutdown wanky business. We'll also have to work out childcare or something ... Future me problems. See you this summer!"

The exclamation mark was perhaps a tad compensatory. But when the shutdown ended on Jan 25, I immediately signed up, knowing I wouldn't actually pull the trigger if I really thought about the ridiculousness of the event.

It's not that 40 miles is, in and of itself, a particularly great leap from a 50k. But the Bigfoot 40 Mile goes around the "base" of St Helens along trails that offer almost 10,000 ft of climbing on a course whose times look more like those from a 100k. 

Wednesday, August 7, we landed in Seattle, and in spite of a small luggage snafu, our pre-arranged plans got me to Kevin's by noon on Thursday. A couple hours of packing later and we were on the road, cruising the 100-ish miles south to Cougar, WA, a small town that lies at the convergence of access to the ring road at Mt St Helens and I-5. It's also the apparent end of cell service.

We wound our way up the lower section of the mountain and parked in the lot with dozens of other runners. We set up a 2-kid tent for Kevin and a hammock for me, cooked a fine dinner of asparagus and mushrooms in couscous, and chatted up some of the neighboring crazies for the next couple hours, until darkness began to descend and my confused body clock told me it was way past bedtime even though it was still only about 9 p.m.

I disappeared into the hammock and promptly passed out. Around midnight, I awoke with a massive urge to pee. Held fast by the mummy bag, I struggled a while before flipping on a handheld light to find the bag twisted and the pad hiding the exit hole. It sounded to me like I would wake up the whole campground trying to extricate myself. Finally, I shrugged out of the bag, crammed my foot through the hole, and stumbled - thanks to the brilliant light that had wrecked my night vision - blindly into the forest. The handheld came with me to the pisser, and along the way I could hear other people walking the same path but could see absolutely none of them. Once relieved, I went back into the hammock and resolved all the issues by laying the bag over my body. 

​Around 4:30 I was awake, wide awake, energetic and ready to go. It's hard to kill 3 hours before a race, but I managed by getting dressed, checking in, taking some long-exposure photos, and eating fruits and drinking small sips of water. 

​When Kevin and I made our way to the start line, most of the 90+ runners were already there. We talked start strategy - I have one, he doesn't - and ended up in the "back of the front third". Until right before the gun, when the RD told us to actually come up to the start line and nobody else would, so I marched up and took one of the front spots. Whatever guys, it's 40 miles and you're all acting like you think your start position will influence how people think about you.

Away! Up the forest path, past the split to June Lake, up and up and up at 5-10% grades. I walked almost all the climbs, jogged where I could, didn't worry about other people passing or falling back unless they would be in direct conflict with where I wanted to be. 

Now we were talking race strategy. "The way I see it," I told Kevin, "if someone told you this was a 35-mile run with 8000 feet of climbing, you'd be way happier. So just walk the first chunk and you'll get that."

It's weird, but it works, since it brings the scale of a large race into perspective. Running 10 miles (at this point) isn't hard; running it two or even three times in a weekend isn't hard either; running it four or five times consecutively suddenly doesn't sound as bonkers.

The rise continued through a dusty rock field topped by scrub trees, then wound back into the forest. By this time I had relinquished the lead spot and was letting another runner dictate the pace. He cruised through a particular section and hopped mysteriously, then yelled over his shoulder, "Wasps! Wasps!"

I just about shit myself. If there was anything I didn't want to deal with today, it was wasps. In the previous three weeks, I'd recovered from a bee sting and a wasp sting, both of which caused some ugly swelling. Just like me to get into this whole thing and be tagged with a Rule of 3s assault.

I leaped over the area and quick-footed through, crossing my fingers that I wouldn't be stung. And I wasn't! Then I heard Kevin yelp behind me and knew he'd been harpooned.

"You ok?" I asked him.

"Yeah, I think so," he responded. I suggested he take some benedryl; he declined. 

We carried on together briefly, the scrubby pines giving way to a regular forest path and tall northwestern firs. Here, Kevin fell back as I continued behind a woman with a steady and only slightly insistent pace. Our heads-down push gained us the boulder field rather soon.  

In the open and without the fog, the temperature slowly began to rise. I could see two runners ahead moving about my pace, but as before I was gaining on them, slowly but surely. The trail crossed rock-strewn dips, dry creek beds, and dusty meadows. I caught and passed one of the runners ahead, caught and hung on with the other, and spent 5 or 10 minutes being leapfrogged by the guy I'd passed moments before as he alternated between sprinting ahead and falling back. (I suspect he was a little low on energy at that point, as he would slow significantly then blow by.)

I was now running with Will, and I moderated my pace a bit to stay with him through what I estimated was the midpoint - that is, turning around now would mean a longer run than heading to the finish line. We chatted for 15 minutes or more as we traversed the plain, until we came upon a river.

"I'm stopping for a drink," he said.

I shrugged. Sure, why not? The river was a little silty, but with plenty of eddies that offered better drinking options. We both sucked down water, wet our swiftly warming heads and necks, and carried on. The mountain was half-visible, a blast of clouds cutting straight west off her side. ​

The aid station workers passed me a PB&J and filled my bottles with apple juice and Tailwind, a product I'd never used before. I shook some salt into the Tailwind, thinking it was like Gatorade (oh boy was I wrong...we'll get to that) and forced myself to take a moment to be sure I took advantage of the station. A girl who looked to be about 14 took my backpack to fill with water. Behind the counter I spotted a beer case of Elysian Space Dust.

"Aid station powered by Space Dust?" I asked the station's clear organizer, pointing at the case.

"That's just an empty box," he said. Then he leaned in so say more quietly, "We emptied it into here." He patted a cooler tucked most of the way under the table. 

I smiled and nodded. "You deserve it," I told him.

A 200-mile runner moved into the aid station and asked about drop bags. I stepped aside, tugged on my socks - now dry - and shoes - now debris-free - and pulled my backpack on. Water poured down my back. I quickly shrugged out of the pack and re-seated the cap to the bladder, then turned back to the aid station table to thank them. An open beer sat in front of me. 

"Just one or two drinks, ok?" the organizer said, grinning.

I took a couple pulls from the bottle, the sweetness of the front end accentuated by my calorie-starved body and cut that much more abruptly by the hoppy back. It was delicious.

I set off about 20 yards behind another runner (I mentally named him "Nathan" for his pack choice but never actually asked) and decided to hurry to catch him. We ran together up the small rise back to the top of Windy Ridge, passing a film crew along the way.

"Nice moves!" the documentarian seemed to yell. I'd heard that before, though, so it took less time for me to recognize he was talking about Moosey E. "What's his name?"

"Moosey Elisabeth," I told him.

"Moosey Elisabeth?"

"Yup, named by a 6-year old, no way I could change it," I told him. 

"And really, why would you want to?" the other runner joined in.

I briefly explained the story of Moosey E, but we were pulling ahead and I was in consistent-speed mode, trying to hold effort as much as I could for the remaining 14 miles. 

Halfway down the hill we veered left to go up the adjacent ridge. The climb was steep, the temperature rising, the progress slow, the effort high. But it didn't feel as brutal as it apparently was. The two of us were able to make the trip up the hill together, talking about Montana and Canada and the Northwest and logging and trail races. 

At last we reached some pockets of trees and shrubs, each well populated with huckleberries and salmonberries. These lined the trail heading up, then continued as the trail bent onto a wide, flat plain. The mountain was fully out, the sun now almost hot. For the first time all race I could feel sweat dripping down my forehead, and my arms were slick with it.

The trail went up and down here, and I held my pace, moving ahead of my companion and closing the distance to the next couple runners. On a relatively steep climb, I overtook another runner and recognized her from the start of the race, the woman who led me heading into the first boulder field. Now the trail character changed again, climbing out of one dry or slightly damp creek bed via an ashy, rocky ascent, wrapping around the next jutting hill, and steeply descending the dusty and rocky back side - one wrong step here would mean major injury. 

The pattern was brutal and pace-killing. There was no way to find consistent performance in this stretch, and it worked on every leg muscle. I began sucking at the Tailwind, but the taste and effect were terrible, like salt water that made my gut contort. To add to the discomfort, the sun was heating the rocks around, causing everything to radiate. It was now uncomfortably hot. The only redemption was the scenery: a pristine view of the imposing mountain standing firm in the sunshine. ​

Interlude for a race recap. In preparation for a 44-mile run around Mt St Helens in August, I've signed up for several intermediate races. These aren't to test my mettle against the locals - though it's always fun to compare - but to inject a little interest into the training regimen.

I like to think of the training season as standing next to a dirt pile and trying to build it as tall as you can. Every session is a shovel of dirt, and when you start out, it's easy to just chuck that dirt on top and see some growth. But after a while you need to get strategic: if the dirt mound is too tall and not broad enough, it will fall back on you, so some days you need to lessen the slope of the pile so it won't collapse. (Overtraining is like finding that your dirt source is the pile you're trying to build.)

So a couple weeks ago, I decided to run the Laurel Hill Park 10-miler. My schedule indicated a 10-mile run was in order. The prior Thursday had been a particularly rough interval session, in which I totally misread my training notes and ended up blasting my legs to excess at 5-mile pace. As Friday drifted into Saturday, my legs were sore, so I wasn't hopeful for a great performance. Indeed, I plotted out the course with 8:30 miles in mind, and a stretch goal of 1:15.

Before the race, I practiced my prep. People who have a consistent pre-race routine usually see better results simply because their bodies are in "race mode". The routine I've settled on:

1. About 30 minutes before the run, drink some coffee. Not much, maybe a half cup. I've weaned myself off daily caffeine, so this really hits me.
2. Go to the can. This is enough time to clear things out so that if I don't get another chance, I'll be fine during the event.
3. About 20 minutes before race time, do a short, ~0.25 mile warmup jog at extremely low pace.
4. Push-ups and sit-ups. Nothing too strenuous, focus on getting the core activated.
5. Additional ~0.5-1 mile warmup jog. Focus on loosening up, so do some butt kicks and stride steps and cross steps.
6a. If needed, strip off warmup gear. Your body should be race-warm at this point.
6b. If possible, do 1-3 hill climbs, no more than 5 seconds each. These will raise the heartrate and activate the core a little bit. 

With 5-10 minutes left before the race, your body is now warm. And that's where I found myself 10 minutes before race time, standing on a paved path in a knot of runners. Feeling a little more confident now that my legs were warm and I'd assessed the actual leg soreness, I slid my way near the front. 

The race went off easily enough. I slotted myself about a dozen people back from the lead, since there was a mix of 5-mile & 10-mile runners. Around the first couple bends we were together, and I slid up a place or two. It's hard to contain overexuberant legs, so I was hesitant to make any aggressive moves.

The first 3/4 mile felt like nothing. We were on the paved Cross County Trail (CCT), which also makes up part of my hometown Wakefield Park trail system. We wrapped around the back of a storage building, skirted the east side on grass, then re-entered the CCT. Finally the pavement gave way, and we hit the big descent with switchbacks that was slowed by the people in front of me. Ever so quietly, two 10-mile runners broke off the front and disappeared a few dozen yards ahead as we moved into the woods. 

I could have shaved 10-15 seconds off the final time with some aggressiveness in this section, but it worked out as I found my spot behind a fellow-paced runner. I rode his heels for a couple miles, sliding by another half dozen others who had more stately paces until at last we reached the first turn-off loop. I followed him in the slight rise into the woods. 

As we approached that rise, I heard someone behind me. The characteristic footfalls and rustle of clothes held back for a half mile or so before finally whisking by on the arcing, descending curves. Their owner popped ahead like a man possessed, and I said to my pacer, "He must be a 5-miler." Then I spotted his bib: red stripe, definitely a 10er. He had the pace to break away, but as the trail leveled he and his bright yellow top took up a spot maybe 15m in front of us.

We stayed with him at that distance through the rest of the side loop and halfway into the extension loop. By this time I'd been on the same person's back for almost half the race, and since he showed some reticence through the dusty, rocky turns along the far plateau, I slipped by him. He stayed with me for a little while, holding my heels through several curves, but the descent and climb up at the far end of the course put him firmly 10 or so meters behind. I gained an equal amount on our leader. 

We were maybe 5 miles through now, and I still felt good. My leader was young, probably not too experienced at race tactics; the guy behind me was my age, but I knew the final switchbacks of the race course would give me opportunity to run him down as long as we were close. With that in mind, I now started a game with the yellow jersey: he hated hearing footsteps, so I'd let go during descents, get close enough to be audible on the ensuing flats or rises, and he would pace up until he got out of earshot. I imagined his power level dipping at each of these, an extra jab here and there in a long bout.

We hooked around to do the main loop the second time, now passing runners from both races. Our pace picked up a bit along the flats at the top of the main hill, and as before the yellow jersey cruised on the wide turns into the valley. He got a few extra steps on me, but as we rose back up on the other side, I caught up again. 

"Was that other guy a 5?" He finally asked.

"Nope, 10. He's still there," I told him, having seen the third in our group no more than 20m back along the switchbacks.

We came out of the woods, bent right at the aid station, and I was aware of someone behind me. We polished off the loop, and now he was just a few meters back. Back to seriously overlapping with both races, we made our way along the base of the dirt pile hill in the heart of the course mostly by running next to the trail, calling out our passes as we went.

Having cleared the bulk of this, we opened into a wider stretch, and the guy behind made a move. He passed easily and camped a half dozen steps ahead of the guy in yellow, with me now taking up the rear. Our course turned down into a dip, then sent us into some rollers that were set up for rapid-fire mountain bike fun but made for slightly less running fun. 

We strung out a bit, since this small slope and the few runners we were passing slowed us all to different depths. Now into the woods again, I expected the final climb, but it didn't come: a small up-and-down, then a brief drop to cross the tiny creek. And after that, the ".5 miles to go" sign.

We made a hard right, and I considered my place only a moment before opting to go. Worst case, I figured, I'd blow up and lose by 20 seconds. Best case, I'd hang on and close out ahead.

I passed easily, kicked up a notch in pace. The lead guy muttered, "Go get it!" I rolled onto the pavement thinking it was the end of the course, but after a brief stint we hit the final climb on those switchbacks from the start. I quick-stepped up, each time seeing the pair behind by no more than 10m. But at the top, I dug deep to roll over it with speed in spite of the steeper lip. Race tip: don't be lulled into a lower pace by a hill.

Now clear, I accelerated smoothly onto the final mini-descent. Pavement, a few runners, over to the guard tower turn, I hazarded a look back: they weren't in sight, so were still behind those runners I'd passed. It was mine if I didn't ease off. 

I didn't.

I dashed across the grassy knoll and slid through the finish a full 12 seconds before my chasers. Final time: 1:09:58, good for 3rd and a full 5 minutes faster than my "stretch goal" time. Maybe it's going to be another one of <i>those</i> seasons, which I certainly don't mind. 

At the end, I didn't feel overly wrecked, but after a few hours these legs were sore. The course was decent, featuring good variety, including lots of meadow/dry/exposed areas with some whipping wind. I preferred the wide turns in the forest for runnability and pleasantness, but since it's just 20 minutes away, this little park might be a future site of a long weekend run.

​Mash out. Spin on.