Confessions of a Rookie Trail-Runner

Was it the best idea? Probably not. Was it certifiably insane? Not fully. Was it the right thing to do? Perhaps. Was it enjoyable? Hell yeah!

Racing a distance that you're fairly under-trained for has it's perks. Like approaching the race with extreme amounts of naivety for example. Such recklessness typically garners one of two outcomes: you either endure an embarrassing bonk of epic proportions, or you emerge out of the ashes with some samples of victory, whether physical, emotional, or mental.

Either way, by the end of the race you're bound to know something about yourself; you're an idiot, or you're on to something.

At least this is how I'm looking at my intro in to trail-running.

Several weeks ago I signed up for and raced my first trail race, which also happened to be the longest distance I've competed in since 2009. Despite the fact that I hadn't finished a run over 1hr 45min in months, and despite the fact that I hadn't run workouts or even run over 40 miles a week in well over a year, I decided to dive into the deep end of the pool with hopes of swimming.

It was the Sage Burner Trail Race— a mostly single-track trail for "25k" at elevations just over 8,000 feet. With undulating terrain (3,000ft +  worth of elevation gains) and mountainous views, it was sure to be a real burner.

Just to make a few thing clear, I wasn't entirely ignorant in this pursuit. I had run the last few miles of the course fairly regularly for the month prior the race, so I knew what was coming. Though one thing I did entirely under-estimate was my inability to run technical trails.

photo credit: Will Shoemaker

On the more difficult (rocky, uneven slopes etc.) I nearly stumbled to a walk in attempts to escape the race unscathed. First and foremost, I wanted to finish the race, and hopefully without busting or bringing any physical bruises or scars back home with me.

This of course meant I was probably moving at rates much slower then competitors twice my age (I did get passed quite a bit early on during these dicey sections). At times, I'd estimate my speed at over 12 minute miles. Though, I made up for it on the less-technical sections of the course, where I'd let loose and let my legs fall into a much more familiar clip, around 5:30 mile pace.

photo credit: Gregg Morin

The track-runner/road-runner in me enjoyed these brief moments of opening up my stride to a much quicker pace. And ironically enough, the race itself felt more like a fartleck, which was a workout I'd grown familiar with over the years.  Some sections you'd fly at paces more in-tune to shorter distances, other sections you baby-step your way forward just to keep the momentum rolling.

Either way, it was fun. Plain and simple.

Another (among the many) "lessons learned" included hydration. It was my first "cup-less" race as well, which meant that you'd have to either A) bring your own fluids, or B) put your head under the coolers at the aid-station.

After blowing by the first two aid-stations, I was nearing the expected "bonk" by 11 miles. I hadn't consumed any sort of nutrients — not even water. By the third aid-station, I decided to put my head under the cooler and get some electrolyte-heavy fluids all over my face. This of course made for an interesting final four miles, which not only included some beastly climbs, but also the challenge of enduring the discomfort of running with the sticky drink that I spilled on my face and all over my arm.

My patience and course-knowledge eventually paid off, and I was able to bring a lot of runners back. Despite my extreme lack of aerobic-fitness, the pure joy of winding along the trails and occasionally bringing my eyes up to check out the scenery kept things interesting enough for me to continue plugging away.

I finished fourth, against some solid competition. The run totaled 2hr 4min, which incidentally was my longest run in over a year, so I was pumped just to survive.

So I didn't bonk. Didn't bust. Didn't puke.

I did, however, have a great time, and the itch to enter more trail races has only become more prevalent. Now I find myself looking to other crazy challenges to test out. Distances under my longest (26.2) don't seem as appealing anymore. And the terrain — can we get some more single-track trails over mountain passes?

With a few more months worth of aerobic-building and some honing of the technical-running skills, the ceiling can only be raised from here.

If there's any "lesson-learned" that I can use to sum up the experience, it'd be that sometimes you have to do what appears irrational, insane, and obviously a bad idea, just to know where you stand.

If you're not pushing the limit, they what are you doing?

Escaping March

If there's any certainty, it's that time is consistently flowing. No matter how much you want things to remain the same, or at least stall, it's hopeless. You'll always be moving - forward.

This thought came to me a few days ago as I was cruising down a gradual single-track trail called "Broken Shovel at Hartman Rocks in Gunnison, Colorado - my new home (I'll come back to this later).The trail is soft and descends among the vast sage from south to north.

Like a mountain-biker, I run wide on the banked turns and shift through my stride like a race-car driver. In the distance, Carbon Peak is visible to the north, and the southwest has snow-capped views of the San Juan Mountains. I'll skip the history lesson for the time being, though words and pictures really can't capture the natural beauty of the landscape in the Gunnison Country. It's something that can only be experienced.

So you'll find these words as just a teaser.

Needless to say, and back to my point, I was enjoying yet another day running under the sun.
The physical aspect of running has been challenging over the last year, though the motivation is currently speeding towards an all-time high. I'll credit my picturesque surroundings. In recent months I've had to abandon any speed-oriented track work, which explains why I've taken to the trails.

Like most aging-tracksters, the question always is: when is it time to "Move Up?" Now, I'll go ahead and tip the hat at BRC/Adidas teammate Alisha Williams for prompting this blog entry. Her entry from several days ago (found: here) spurred the idea in my head - or more specifically, it gave direction to the nonsense that usually floats around up there.

I've been battling this thought for quite a while now, and only recently has an answer been visible. At last year's Mt. SAC Relays (against common sense), I spiked up despite months of achilles issues. Having worn spikes for track 10k's in the past, I thought nothing of it. The result of such recklessness however, would have a lasting affect.

I spent the next two weeks after the race hobbling around - not running. Walking was painful. I resembled an old man without a cane, awkwardly shuffling his way across the street to get coffee. Curious onlookers probably assumed I was adjusting to a new prosthetic leg. Surely, a 28-year-old man had no other valid reason for hobbling with such stiffness. 

This was the beginning of a years worth of "40ish" miles per week of running. Notice the quotations around "40"; some weeks were much less. Anything more and the rebellious achilles would return for another round of battles.

Rehab didn't seem to alleviate much of the pain. Nor would complete rest. It appeared that if I wanted to continue training at all, it would have to be in a constant state of screaming pain gravitating from my heel. The only real differences from a day to day basis was how much screaming was going on.

This of course raises the question (circling back to Alisha's blog post) of when to 'hang them up'. It's crossed my mind - multiple times. When you're in a perpetual state of injury, it's hard not to say 'screw it' (edited version) and resort to sleeping in, eating unhealthy amounts of buffalo wings, and staying up late to watch episodes of Cougartown with a 1-poind bag of gummie-bears.

Without a boot, or a doctors positive result of some serious injury, it's hard to find that middle ground. Some days, I felt that a fracture of sorts would at least allow an exhale. You can't do anything about that except wait it out.

But a nagging achilles injury that varies in pain from day to day is always getting your hopes up. It's the physical equivalent to the month of March. Some days are warm. Some days are cold. It could still dump a foot of snow. Or it could be 70 degrees and sunny.

A fracture would be January. It's always cold. And it's always snowing.

Over the span of the last few months I've had my high moments of staging a "Ali"-style comeback on the running world. And I've had my moments of just quietly hanging them up for good and walking away from competitive running. But then something happened.

Spring in the Gunnison Country.

For you outsiders, I'm sure this rounds ridiculous. But if you've never been to Gunnison in the Spring (or the Summer), it'll be hard to understand. With the sun out, the trails dry, and the sky blue, it's hard not to want to be outside.

I took to the track in attempts to whip myself back into shape. And with every toe-off between the white lanes, the raging battle with my achilles ensued. This just wasn't going to work.

Not this way at least.

With the return of a competitive fire, I've been forced to get creative with training. Somehow, someway, trail running presented itself as the answer. And it does help that I've got the most beautiful trails I've ever run on at my disposal. Now, don't be mistaken, I'm not fleeing the roads and track. This is just a current mode of training. For whatever reason, my achilles seems to prefer the soft, uneven trails over the track, or the roads. Which makes some sense, in an uncommon sort of way.


So here I find myself, tapping lightly on the dusty trails with mountainous views. Change has been inevitable. And with each passing day we're only getting older.

I've come to the conclusion that the battles with my achilles isn't an indicator that I'm nearing my physical limits, it just means I've got to get creative and try alternate ways to get something done. Because when there's still passion, you don't give up, you just try another route. It's important to continue flowing with the current.

I'll admit, I've always had an itch to take to the trails and traverse high mountain-passes. And the current seems to be taking me there.

I might be scratching that itch soon...