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Northwest Passage

4/23/2019

Mid-summer passed uneventfully, but I maintained a relatively high standard of fitness, even for me. As August approached, I spent significant time staring at park maps and planning trips, getting a feel for what I could do with the kids while we were visiting my parents in the PacNo.

As for my time, I had some ideas: good, bad, probably both. The date finally arrived, and I packed my children into a metal tube to be flung through the air at several hundred miles an hour by a set of controlled-inferno air compressors. The day after we arrived, my adventure started: a childlike, carefree delight of re-discovering the paradise in my backyard.

There is a trail that runs along the waterfront, up the cliff near my parents’ house, out past the airport, across the nearby river, and along a local lake. I joined the trail at its closest point, then took back roads into some familiar territory: the road that led to my friend’s house, the same road on which I used to sprint between telephone poles to do speed work (or sprint walks) back at the beginning of my running career. It was all coming full circle! Or at least it was a closed path, wended among the hillocks and dales of modern life. And from here it would emanate once again, a new path this time, a longer and slower path, perhaps to return but perhaps not.

On this particular day, I just ran by that old road and went home, 9 miles of wishful thinking. Then I got up the next day to do another 9 miles, this time along the water and around town, a route I'd never seen before. The next day counted another 9, these across town and through a trail system I had never known existed. And the next day saw another 8 hammering along the nearby trail once again. Then 9. Then 8. Then 10. For seven straight days, I pushed 12 km or more out of my legs, and on the 8th day, I took my parents’ car early in the morning, drove to a familiar trailhead, and took “the alternate trail”, one I had never set foot on, figuring on doing another 10 miles, these in the mountains to celebrate their dominance in this landscape one final time.

Instead, they asserted that dominance and beat me back.

The trail I was familiar with led to Lake Angeles, heading up a series of switchbacks a thousand feet or more. It then carried on around the lake and went up to the ridge, a ridge I didn’t know the altitude of but was pretty sure was about 2000 feet above the parking lot. Along the ridge lies a connector trail that hooks to the top of the alternate trail I now printed my tread on.

One way to deal with running on an unfamiliar trail and staying on course is by using any known features as a sort of map edge, reducing the odds of simply getting lost. After all, if an unknown segment of trail is bordered by known segments, it’s damn near impossible to lose the way in any meaningful sense. So it was on this day, when I opted to take on the unfamiliar segments (the alternate trail and ridge line), then descend via a familiar path once I reached it.

I started up at a modest pace. It was a climb from the start, and I was pretty sure the trail was something like 7 miles heading up to that 2000-foot ridge. The trail did, indeed, go up, and after about 30 minutes, I paused to check my phone for position and altitude. I was already over 1500 feet above the parking lot, about 2 miles out. That seemed about right, and I was confident the trail would flatten. I carried on.

Another 30 minutes ticked off, still significantly vertical, and I finally reached an area looking out on the crease through the mountains, ridge visible at the top. The ridge was about 1500 feet above me, perhaps a little less, but it appeared to be at least a half mile or more away horizontally. That meant a minimum of 3 more miles. I checked the phone, which indicated an altitude about 3000 feet over the parking lot. And just under 4 miles notched.

An hour of running, not quite 4 miles. Typical speeds for my outings on this trip had been in the 12.5-13.5 kph range; this run was about 6 kph. I looked up at the steep climb in front of me and figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a glance around. Up I went, another 500 feet almost straight up the wall. Far short of a mile. Time elapsed: 20 minutes. I was now only a little more than 4 miles into the run, my legs jellied, approaching 1.5 hours on the trails. My confidence descended as my heart raced.

I snapped a photo from just below 4000 feet, turned around, and tried to bomb the descent. Even with the speed increase, with straightaways bookended by steep drop-offs that required forethought to even approach, I couldn’t reach top speed; with my mind already mostly out of the run, each switchback seemed a death-defying feat. I finished with 12 km logged in an impressive 2-and-change-hour slog (hey, check out that notch up in pace!). And my legs still felt about as solid as a slug’s trail.

When I got back to civilization, I could hardly walk. But boy did I feel good.

Next up: Every way Virginia

Mash out. Spin on.

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Comeback Year (v6.3.3)

4/10/2019

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The year was 2015. It was a comeback year. Another comeback year. Yet another comeback year. Once again yet another comeback year. Still once again yet another comeback year.

The winter wasn’t particularly grueling, though I spent ample time doing the 10-mile course through the local park and back along the trail. I probably increased distance with light and temperature sometime around March. The darkness of winter faded, washed gently by anticipation, the feeling that this was going to be another great running year.

I wouldn’t do anything crazy or rash, just go all-out and hammer out some entertaining runs. In early April, I went back to the Goddard 2-miler and put in my best time yet (the aforementioned 11:22), good for 6th place.

At the time, they were putting on that event on a Wednesday, followed a week later by the Goddard 10k, a noontime race. I had a meeting that morning at 10:30, and when it drifted into the 11:30 time with discussions still raging, I started to panic. I really wanted to do this race. Talk carried on to 11:40, then 11:45. Finally, I stood up, and as one of the main participants in the meeting simply declared that we would have to take this up some other day; I had an appointment. Based on the fact that I was wearing running gear, it was clear what that appointment was, but at Goddard, the atmosphere is relaxed enough to allow for these sorts of physical pursuits to interrupt what elsewhere might be considered cause for another hour of bickering.

The others in the room seemed satisfied, and I burst out the door almost at a sprint. I dropped the computer back at my office and headed out the door to the car, breaking several speed limits on my way to the park. With about a minute to spare, I pulled into the parking lot, hurled myself out of the car, and hustled across the field toward the start. The starting line, you may recall me mentioning, is slightly past the finish line, which means any latecomers need to make up an extra 200 meters just to get to the race. I did this at a decent clip, the volunteers passing me a number as I went by (and letting me simply stuff it down my shorts); the finish line clock already read a few seconds as I passed.

I hit the start line and relaxed into my pace, passing runners unabashedly. They sloughed off, one after another, many of them surprised to be overtaken with such ferocity this early. Or, rather, they would have, had they existed. On this particular day, there were about 35 runners, and I slammed through in an official time of 41:59 -- 4th place overall. But it’s likely that my actual 10k time was closer to 40:00 once again.

And the races continue! That weekend - as in, days later - was the Jaguar 5k, for which I was impressively trained. Those fast-twitch muscles were working overtime, and I honestly thought I would break 18:30. Imagine my surprise, then, when I entered the track (400 meters to go!) with the clock reading just under 16:40, trailing one of the local high school’s leading cross country runners by perhaps 20 meters. I accelerated, tried to pour it all out, cut the lead to about 15 meters, and ultimately crossed the tape in 17:55, once again finishing 4th overall.

I nearly vomited. Then I jogged a bit, moved around, got some feeling back, and went back to find Carlos, who finishes somewhere in the 21-24 range.

It was around that time that I booked a flight to Washington to visit my family. It would be the first time that my kids would get to see their house, their first trek to the great Northwest and all the wonders it has to behold. Aside from being an opportunity for them to do all sorts of fun things, it would be an opportunity for me to catch up on my trail running. I was electrified with the possibilities: should I explore new wilderness trails that I’ve never seen before? Go up to Deer Park again and run along the ridgeline? Take a trip around the mountains a run along the coast?

A Note On Shoes

Footwear was, is, and will be a staple of the running community discussion. When I started training, my shoes were whatever was available at Payless Shoe Source. It was usually a thick-soled sneaker that I would wear for a couple years before moving on to the next pair; by the time I tossed them, they would have holes all over the uppers and be tread-bare. In grad school, I experimented a little but generally stuck to the principle that “trail shoes” meant anything with aggressive tread, usually the on-sale under-$40 model. Sometime around 2004, I started thinking more about shoes and what they might offer.

From trial and lots of error, here's my short list of shoe elements to consider:
- Foot room: We all have different feet, and we all want different roominess in different places.
- Ankle room: The ankle hole is a surprisingly relevant part of any shoe. I've got big ankles, so i like a gaping maw.
- Achilles pinch: Here's a surprising one! Some shoes curve back in and pinch your heel into place; I have persistent Achilles problems and can't stand that feeling. YMMV.
- Foot position: Basically stack height, but keeping in mind that the midsole also has a stack and might "arch up" or something like that. Get into the shoes and move around as much as your local shop will allow.
- Tongue connectivity: If it's disconnected, don't spend time running on small rocks. If it's connected, though, it often changes how the foot gets squeezed.
- Underfoot feel: On any surface, you'll feel the rocks and sticks and roots differently depending on both the thickness of the stack AND the material used. Use underfoot feel rather than stack height.
- Weight: Your shoes shouldn't weigh much unless you really like doing extra work. Try to get something that meets your needs, and be wary of any product that tacks on extra stuff that adds weight you're not taking advantage of.
- Drainage: You may find yourself in a stream. Be sure the shoe won't carry too much of it away.

My preferred shoes? I started on the New Balanace MT101, which offered a solid trail feel without sacrificing support. I need the stabs of sharp rocks, the weird lumpiness of roots, the crunchy-squishy touch of slightly frozen ground to keep me moving comfortably; without these, I would probably stumble my way around. When New Balance discontinued the line, I found several compromise products before finally settling on the Inov-8 Terraclaw 250, which I then ordered a ton of and ... it's now been discontinued. Back to the search.

I have never worn a maximalist shoe and can’t imagine I’ll ever want to. But I’m not here to tell you which shoes to get. Ultimately, each person has different wacky feet with strange bunions and callouses and arches (or not) and bony structures that make shoes a highly personal decision. My general advice: figure out what kinds of shoes “feel right”, and assess other shoes relative to those. Don’t be pulled in by promises of improved performance from metafoamagic or whatever - test them yourself!

I bought Olympic National Park trail guides, pulled maps from the internet, and started dreaming big.

Next up: PacNo In Brief

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Northwest Passage

Comeback Year (v6.3.3)

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