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Kilkenny Ridge Race 50 Miler – 2019 Race Report

Kilkenny Ridge Race 50 Miler, September 14, 2019.

Registering

I first heard about the Kilkenny Ridge Race 50 & 25 miler shortly after the inaugural race in 2018. My first thought was not “I must do this race!” but I tucked it in the back of my mind, and sometimes during my daily run or hike I mused about the race’s logistics — as they theoretically might apply to me.

One early morning in July, I realized, quite fiercely: “I must do this race!” What an opportunity: A supported 50 mile trek with 15,000+ ft elevation gain through a remote range of the White Mountains in glorious September, practically in my backyard — and with a generous 24-hour time limit. I signed up that day and the preparation began in earnest.

Preparation

A nagging on-off hamstring niggle has prevented any sort of fast, flat running basically since Boston 2018, so my year has already been filled with hiking and elevation. After signing up, I took a half-dozen or so trips to the White Mountains to practice the long, sustained 2000+ ft climbs and descents not available around Boston. We also took several family summer hiking trips, including our Mt Garfield adventure as well as an overnight trip to Galehead Hut. On weekdays, I headed to the steepest trails in my local conservation lands and did many up-down repeats.

My leg muscles reached epic stoutness, but I wanted to experience the actual Kilkenny Ridge trail to verify the trail wasn’t crazy technical and allowed for periodic jogging. So one weekend in late August, whilst Mr. P and Little Boy were vacationing in flat Florida without me because I couldn’t take time off work, I got a cheap hotel room in Jefferson, NH for a Saturday night and spent two days exploring the southern end of the Kilkenny Ridge, starting with Mt Waumbeck. (Mr. P and I had hiked Waumbeck ten years ago as part of our 4000 Footer quest; we had also done the other 4000 Footer, Mt Cabot, but had spent no time on the Kilkenny Ridge trail.)

I learned so much that weekend, with a total 40 miles of training on the race course. To my relief, the trail was not very technical — at least compared to some other White Mountain trails.  However, the trail is very overgrown in spots. Because the trail is quite narrow in spots and partly obscured with ferns and brush, trekking poles are tricky to use but there was no question I’d carry them for the whole race. I had a basis on which to plot my pace, and estimated a 20 hour finish, so that became my goal.

Pre-Race

The 50 miler started at 5am Saturday morning. I left work early on Friday afternoon for the 3.5 hour drive. In addition to all of my running gear, I had a bunch of camping stuff, having made a reservation at the Percy Lodge Campground in Stark, NH. It’s 10 minutes from the start/finish and the race endorsed it for lodging on their website. When I checked in with the gracious proprietress, there was another runner checking in who was staying in the lodge. I instantly envied her and wished I had sprung for a room (later, I would end up running a portion of the race with that woman, during which I had a brief fantasy we’d finish together and she’d let me use her shower in the lodge, since the campground shower didn’t seen very inviting in the middle of the night. But I finished before her and was actually not in the mood for a shower.)

My campsite was visually secluded from the other campers, but not audibly secluded. After setting up my tent, I boiled water over a camping stove for a freeze-dried spaghetti dinner. By 7:30pm I was in my sleeping bag, listening to car doors around me slam as other runners arrived at the campground. I did sleep, fitfully. I woke up at 11pm having to pee; at first I thought someone was shining a light on my tent, but it turned out to be the enormous full moon. If only it hadn’t clouded up and gotten rainy for the race — having that moonlight would have been amazing.

I dozed until 3:45 am, when I boiled more water for my coffee and quickly prepared. The biggest disaster of race morning was my anti-chafe balm — Squirrel’s Nut Butter — had turned rock solid. It was exasperating; I blame myself for getting suckered by the trendy, expensive “all natural” brand that evidently freezes, instead of going with the mass market brand with its non-natural ingredients that prevent it from turning solid. Instead of spending one minute applying anti-chafe, it took ten minutes of rubbing hard pieces of Squirrel’s Nut Butter all over my sensitive areas. After that, I had to hurry, and arrived at the starting line with only five minutes before the pre-race meeting.

The Race: Miles 0-25

The 50-miler started promptly at 5am at the northern terminus of the Kilkenny Ridge trail at the South Pond Recreation Area. My goal was to be at the 25-mile halfway turnaround in 9 hours, giving me 11 hours to return to South Pond in mostly darkness — meaning I’d finish at 1am. (The race cut-off was 5am – 24 hours).

The 50-mile race started at South Pond and then turned back around at Starr King (Mile 25) to finish at South Pond. The 25-mile race started at Starr King and finished at South Pond

Mile 1 was runnable but I barely jogged and drifted towards the back of the pack. Miles 2-4 climbed to Roger’s Ledge, which provided a stellar view of the partly cloudy sunrise. Some runners stopped to take pictures. I should have stopped too, because this would ultimately be the only clear view for the entire race, as the sky was quickly clouding over, with light rain predicted later in the day.

We passed the scenic Unknown Pond and then the first aid station, where I refilled water and grabbed some cookies. In my pack I had Oreos and Nutella & PB English muffins, but I was appreciative of the sparse aid station fare – the volunteers did have to hike in all of the supplies, after all.

At two points during the race, runners are required to take a spur trail to an amazing view and mark their bib using an orienteering punch as proof. The first spur trail for the 50-milers is The Horn, a peak about .3 roughish miles off the main trail. It was completely clouded over, with no view and strong wind. Soon after we hit another peak — The Bulge — and then on to Mount Cabot.

Yet another cool thing about this race is it’s the same weekend as Flags on the 48, a September 11th memorial hike that organizes groups to raise a temporary flag on each of the 48 White Mountain 4000-fters. As I approached Mount Cabot, I could hear the massive flag flapping in the powerful wind. The group on Cabot had done an amazing job using ropes to keep the pole erect. I paused to solemnly contemplate the flag, while discretely shoving Oreos in my mouth.

The descent off of Cabot to Bunnell Notch was long (~1.5 miles), rocky, and a bit wet. I owe a great deal to my trekking poles — they slowed me down, but ensued safe and consistent movement.  The climb to the Terrace Mountains (North, Middle, South) was unmemorable, except for the glimpses of fast 25-mile runners beginning to pass us (going the opposite direction). The second bib punch was on Terrace Mountain summit and I got there at the same time as the first 25-miler female, who was flying whilst being quite cordial. I was also leap-frogging with some other 50-milers. I chatted with one person who was nauseous and couldn’t eat, and another person who was not happy with the rugged terrain. It sounded like a number of runners were not already planning to continue past the 25-mile turnaround, which is the most sensible place to DNF.

Coming into Willard Notch AS#1 (Mile 15)

The second aid station was Willard Notch at Mile 15, where I grabbed some potato chips and bantered with the nice volunteers. This is also around where I passed the bulk of the 25-milers. My energy and spirits fed off of the encouragement I gave to them and got back in return. Smiles are so powerful during ultras.

Old Lady Pace

Aid Station

After aid #2 was the long, steep climb up North Weeks (3900ft). During the climb I caught up to a nice young man. He let me pass him and then stuck to my heels. It was his first ultra ever. We hung together for a good 90 minutes, chatting about the race, mountains, running, etc. When we neared Waumbek, I felt like I wanted to move a little faster on the flat parts so I jogged ahead. (I saw him later near the turnaround and he accused me of ditching him — I hope joking).

At around mile 22 I passed the wooded summit of Waumbek — where a large group of Boy Scouts from Flags on the 48 were assembled in the misty clouds around their flag — and then Starr King (obscured view), where I caught up to the woman I saw checking into the lodge. We stayed together the entire 2.5-mile descent to the 25-mile turnaround point — right on pace to reach it at 2pm, which was exactly my goal of nine hours! We passed many day hikers headed to Waumbek (as well as fellow 50-milers who were hiking up from the turnaround).

Such a long descent. I watched anxiously for a large abandoned well on the side of the trail, which signaled the trailhead was close. Even when we hit the pavement, we had about half-mile on downhill road to get to the actual aid station (crossing RT 2, where there was a policeman to stop traffic). I was beyond excited to have access to my drop bag, in which I had a small fluffy towel to dry my wet feet and my favorite pair of socks for the night.

At the turnaround aid station (Mile 25), they told us we were 2nd and 3rd females (the 1st female was literally hours ahead of us). I was pleased about this, because I thought I had a great chance at finishing on the podium; thanks to my careful pacing, it was likely that I’d only pass others and not be passed. (This was half correct. No one passed me in the last 25 miles, nor did I pass anyone).

I spent about 10 minutes in aid — drying my feet, changing my socks and shirt, eating pizza, refilling water, checking my gear for nighttime, etc. The other 3-4 runners did not look close to leaving when I was, so I grabbed another  slice of pizza for the road climb back to the trailhead, thanked the volunteers, and started the 25-mile journey back to from where I started — as 2nd female, which was bonkers.

The Race: Miles 25-50

Now I had to climb back up that long descent – 2.5 miles with about 2000′ elevation gain. My legs felt okay, but I had to control the effort to keep my heart rate low. As I climbed, I passed descending runners headed to the aid station — the rest of the back of the pack, some in rough shape, others just taking their time.

I reached Starr King and then continued onto Waumbek, the trail then becoming relatively flat. My goal was to reach Willard Notch AS (Mile 35) by 6pm. I wanted to cover as much ground before sunset as possible. The descent down North Weeks is quite runnable, and though I wasn’t exactly running I made good time, arriving at 5:45pm to Willard Notch. The volunteers and I chatted as I chomped on potato chips; all race communication was done by short-wave radio, so they were able to update me about the number of runners still in the race, etc. Before I left I put on my headlamp, though it was still light, I would need it soon.

From the aid station was the climb back up the Terrace Mountains. It’s not a long climb but it’s steep, and it was around then that my stomach went south. By the time I was on the long climb up Cabot (mile 37ish), it was dark, windy, and raining a little. I moved steadily and with focus, trying to ignore the nausea.

At the top of Cabot (Mile 39) is a one-room cabin. As I passed the cabin, I was greeted by a short-wave radio operator standing in the cabin by an open window. Until he asked for my bib number, I didn’t realize it was a safety check. As I tried to eat some Oreos, I thanked the older man for helping a bunch of crazy runners. “Oh, I’m crazy too, just not about running, but I’m crazy too,” he said, and we laughed as the wind, drizzle and fog whipped around us.

From the summit of Cabot, I had about 11 more miles to go. The rain was tapering off but my nausea increased and persisted. By the time I reached the aid station near the Unknown Pond (Mile 43), food was not an option. But the convivial volunteers who were camping out for the night lifted my spirits and renewed me with purpose.

I started the climb — the last climb — back up Roger’s Ledge feeling pretty good, but that short but steep rocky wall just killed me. My legs suddenly felt like lead and my heart rate was off the charts. There was another older man with a short-wave radio doing a safety check at Roger’s Ledge (Mile 46), and for the first time I couldn’t muster enthusiasm for a volunteer. In fact, when he told me there were four miles left, I think I glared at him, even though I knew full well there were four miles left. I did thank him for being there, but I was at a major low-point.

The last four miles were a death march. The nausea was overwhelming and my body had just had enough. Not only did I swear off ultra running, I think I vowed never to hike in the White Mountains again.

And the moths. The moths. They could not resist my headlamp. It would start with one or two sizable deep-woods moths, fluttering around me — which were easy enough to ignore — and then suddenly I’d have a dozen moths trying to fly into my face. I learned to stop every minute to look behind me, to throw the moths off course. That gave me about ten seconds of blissful moth-free movement until they found their way back.

Finally I neared South Pond. I knew I was close when someone at the finish line spotted my headlamp and gave a few cheers. I wish I could run but I had zero motivation. Eventually I finished at 12:30am to the applause and cheers of a handful of people. One of the RDs (Kristina) told me I was second female and handed me a large moose trophy. It was a little embarrassing to receive such an amazing trophy given my relatively slow time, but at that moment I really wanted a trophy. And ramen.

I grabbed a cup of ramen and sat on the South Pond beach, where several volunteers and runners were gathered around a fire. And then I saw the full moon amid passing clouds. “Oh look,” I said. “It’s clearing up.”

“Just in time!” someone said, with a sympathetic laugh.

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By Meredith – November 18, 2019

Meet You On Mt. Garfield

This summer we’re getting back to our roots – figuratively, but with literal roots: The rooty, rugged and rocky trails of the White Mountains in New Hampshire.

In our lives prior to child rearing, Mr. P and I regularly journeyed 2-4 hours north to have seasonal weekend-sized adventures. Now that Little Boy is 11, he can finally keep up with all the adventuring — at least when he doesn’t have weekend sports, which is mostly only in the summertime. The ability to incorporate “family time” with “training time” encouraged both Mr. P and myself to sign up for long, difficult races that requires many hours spent going up and down trails in preparation.

Which means many weekend-sized summer adventures for the whole family!

This weekend we drove to Lincoln, NH on Friday night after an early dinner (missing most of the traffic). The plan: Mr. P would drop me off at a trailhead at 6am on Saturday, then go back to the hotel to relax with Little Boy as I steadily hiked 18.5 miles up and down various 4000-footers to Mt. Garfield, a magnificent 4500+ footer with some of the best views in the Whites. At 11am, they would start up the direct trail 4.8-mile trail for Mt. Garfield and we’d all meet at the summit of Mt. Garfield at 2pm, then descend Garfield to the car. And then: Wine, chips, and hotel hot tub.

Due to my lack of cell service in the mountains, we (i.e., I) developed a number of intricate contingencies if I didn’t make it to Garfield by 2pm, because 18.5 miles in 8 hours may sound completely doable, but one never knows what can happen in the Whites. I could get injured, I could get lost, or I could just be plain slow.

Shortly after 6am, Mr. P dropped me off in the popular Lincoln Woods parking area. The first 5 miles of my planned route are extremely flat, as the trail follows an old logging railroad bed that gets narrower and narrower as you enter the Pemigewasset Wilderness.

Flat trail on old railroad bed

I jogged occasionally. I must’ve been one of the first hikers out that morning, as my face caught a large amount of cobwebs. It was distracting because I’ve seen spiders on these webs before, and they are huge. I constantly wiped at my face, necks, and shoulders with my pack towel. I sucked down two Gus and sipped at my water.

Sometime during mile 5, the trail began to climb Bondcliff Mountain and the cobwebs died off. I was passed by a fast-moving trail runner — this route attracts many amazing fit mountain runners who just hop from rock to rock with ease. I would see more of them later, though the majority of people I encountered had heavy backpacks and moved slowly.

Starting to climb and get a view

Before I knew it, the air got crisp and the wind strong, and I emerged out of the woods into the treeless Alpine zone at the summit of Bondcliff. There were a number of backpackers coming down from the Guyot campsite. I paused on Bondcliff to put on my windbreaker and break open my sandwich stash.

The view from Bondcliff

I followed the magnificent Alpine ridge to Mt. Bond. It was windy and cloudy, but it could have been a lot worse.

I felt like I was moving well but lost time on the downhills, being cautious about my footing and protective of my knees — both of which have been pretty cranky about the increased numbers of mountains they descended this year.

The Beautiful Bondcliff Trail

Soon I turned onto the Twinway Trail, and the trail got more rugged, which I anticipated. I summited South Twin at 11:30am and stopped to eat more sandwich and Oreos. I began to get nervous about meeting Mr. P and Little Boy on the summit of Mt. Garfield — 5.5 miles away —  in 2 and half hours. These miles were notoriously technical and slow.

I moved as fast as felt safe to me. The good news is, despite the slow pace, my legs were handling the vert and I didn’t feel too tired.

As I neared the bottom of Garfield’s cone, I knew I was on pace to be at the summit at 2pm. I climbed up the uneven rock slabs to the summit, where there is a foundation of an old fire tower.  A bit surprised when I didn’t see Mr. P and Little Boy… but I just sat down and dug into my sandwich, as that was really the higher priority for me at the moment.

Suddenly, from the protective trees below the summit, Mr. P emerged and locked eyes with me. I waved; he laughed and waved back, visibly relieved to see me. They had been there for 20 minutes and were hiding from the wind. We convened and then took pictures.

Summit Selfie

I had just hiked the ridge behind me

Happy our plan had worked, I commenced eating. We still had 4.8 miles back to the car and I was depleted. Luckily the Garfield trail is smooth and fast; even the steady rain that began as we were about halfway down didn’t slow us too much. Little Boy enjoyed the hike and talked about doing hikes in the future, which is an enthusiasm that I bet will be momentarily forgotten the next time we pull up to a trailhead.

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By Meredith – August 11, 2019

Summer in the suburbs

August is approaching, and summer is at the peak of its brutality. These days, I start running by 4:30am, awakened 30-50 minutes earlier by either profound sweatiness from the humidity in our bedroom, or the drone of the air conditioner in our semi-humid bedroom. My runs are slower, longer in duration, and exclusively on trails, so it’s good to get an early start; by 5:45, the bugs become a real issue. Countless gnats have died in the sweat on my face this week.

After many mornings spent trudging along in a 70-degree dew point, I’m waiting for the humidity acclimatization to kick in but I still arrive home every morning, my clothes completely drenched in sweat. Fall is going to feel so good.

Pond in local conservation land. Funny how you can’t see the mosquitos engulfing me.

When we can, we escape to the mountains.

Vermont Green Mountain sunrise

Little Boy (who is certainly no longer little, and barely still a boy) detests the summer even more than me. He talks longingly of winter and would be content to spend the duration of summer indoors, in conditioned air. He asks when we are upgrading to central air. Bugs can make him fly into a brief rage.

Hiking on ski trails when he’d rather be snowboarding

Summer is coming to a bittersweet close. Soon the humidity and bugs will be a memory, and the darkness, ice, and wind will become the forces of nature that I dread.

At least there’s flowers

 

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By Meredith – July 31, 2019

Memorial Day Weekend 2019, NH White Mountains [VIDEO]

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By Meredith – May 27, 2019

Snowboarder

I thought of Little Boy as a snowboarder many years before he ever actually snowboarded. But his first time on a snowboard was just a few weeks ago, when he finally got to shred the gnar in fresh pow pow, and has been begging for cool, expensive snowboards and gear ever since.

LB has grown reasonably accomplished on alpine skis for a kid who hits the slopes only ~10x a year, albeit with annual weeklong stints in French ski school since he was three. As I’ve observed him in other sports like soccer and basketball, and recreational activities like roller blading and tooling around on his rip stick (a device like a skate board with two vertical wheels), it is obvious that LB’s body is gifted with agility, fluidity, and kinesthetic grace, and he possesses a smooth explosiveness that emanates from his core. He likes to ski, he’s a good skier… but I have suspected for many years that he would love to snowboard, and will be a great snowboarder.  

We hadn’t taken him snowboarding previously because icy-snow New England is kinda a horrific place to learn snowboarding, and using his skis is easier than renting equipment… not mention his sheer reluctance to try snowboarding. But recently we had the opportunity to go skiing in fresh powder — the best conditions to learn snowboarding, and he dug it. He liked it so much, he agreed to go with me to Mount Sunapee today for another day of snowboarding; absolutely no complaining about the long trip, cold conditions, and lack of screen time that such a day trip necessitates.

Mt Sunapee, St Patrick’s Day 2019

(LB is certainly not a cross country skier. We drag him cross-country skiing one or two times a year, which is a good frequency because his young brain seems to forget how much he professes to hate it.)

Because LB is left-footed, he is “goofy,” meaning he snowboards with his dominant left foot in the back for steering. This term for left-footed snowboarding apparently comes from surfing; a half a century ago, Disney released a cartoon showing the Goofy character surfing with his left foot at the back of the surf board. And the term “goofy” is still in use on snowboarding rental equipment forms!

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By Meredith – March 17, 2019

Your DNA doesn’t change, but genetic science does

Around two years ago I bought a basic commercial DNA test through Ancestry.com. (I wrote about it briefly here). The results (see below screenshot) said my DNA was 79% “Europe West” — an illustrative map showed this region as an enlarged Germany. A fraction of German DNA would not be surprising, since my mother’s father was born in Pennsylvania to German immigrants… but my other three grandparents were not German  so it seemed high. Was it possible that my Germanic genes simply overpowered my English and Scottish genes? It was a bit confusing, but maybe genetics are complicated. Or my family history is complicated. What gave the test results credibility in my eyes was how it pinpointed that my family settled in America in Pennsylvania.

Old DNA Results (2017)

Then this week I got an email from Ancestry.com saying that my old DNA results had been updated based on new reference samples: “Your DNA doesn’t change, but genetic science does.”

New DNA Results (2019)

Things I found interesting:

  • “Europe West” has been renamed “Germanic Europe” and reduced from 79% to a mere 15%. It turns out Germanic genes are not as strong as all that.
  • My Great Britain DNA is now a whooping 48%. Granted, there is generous overlapping on the map with the other regions.
  • “Ireland” has been expanded to include Scotland and increased to 28%
  • The 5% Italy/Greece just disappeared, as apparently Ancestry.com has since gathered sufficient data to realize what anyone who’s ever seen the starkness of my untanned skin can verify: None of my ancestors ever left their caves.
  • 6% Norway is not entirely a surprise, as my father once got an DNA test that said he was mostly genetically from Finland/Russian

Honestly, the biggest surprise was that Ancestry.com gave me the updated results without making me pay or join anything, but I guess it’s only fair considering how far off they were two years ago. I spent two year thinking I am 80% German, and thus feeling an inordinate amount of interest in and empathy for the German people. The 2018 World Cup was not fun.

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By Meredith – February 7, 2019

2019 Cape Cod Frozen Fat Ass 50K Race Report

The Cape Cod Frozen Fat Ass 25K & 50K on Sandy Neck beach is an informal “fat ass” event that started 12 years ago, evidently when a small group of crazy people wanted to run an ultra on Cape Cod… in January. The no-cost event grew in size (this year there were around 70? runners for all distances, including 5 miles), but retains a very cozy feel while still offering donation-funded amenities like portapotties, bibs, and hot soup. I’ve heard about this race for years but never had the inclination to run it until this year. With the TARCtic 30 hour ultra in three weeks, doing 32 frozen miles on Cape Cod in January would be a big confidence booster and a great test of my gear.

Pre-Race: I woke up at 4am, readied my gear while drinking coffee and eating Nutella on toast, and started driving at 5am. It was freezing (18 degrees, feels like 4); actually getting in the car and starting the drive was probably my biggest achievement of the day. When I got to Sandy Neck beach 90 minutes later, I parked in the small parking lot and rushed through the bitter cold to the race HQ inside the gate house, where 20 people were crammed into a small warm room the size of my kitchen, getting bibs and dropping off food and drink for the race buffet. I got my bib, dropped some money into the donation cup, and then headed back to my car to make my final preparations.

This is the last thing I’ll say about my gear, promise: I packed a lot of gear — extra clothes and layers for every part of my body, shoes, fuel,– and only used a fraction of it. But I felt comforted to have it there. These conditions were not a joke.

On my way back to my car, I took a photo of the sunrise lighting up the dark, unforgiving sky; it gave me a feeling of contentment and hope that the day would be alright:

Race start: A few minutes after 7am, the race started on the beach. I froze my fingers removing my mitts to snap a pic of the small crowd of runners:

To quote from the race’s website, “The course consists of two 15.5 mile figure eight loops. The first loop is around 5 miles and the second loop is around 10.” (This wording confused the heck out of me when I first read it, but I’m not an especially spatial thinker.) The first 5-mile loop started with about 2 miles of nonstop 15 mph bitter cold headwind on the 20 degree beach. It was daunting for sure, but I was prepared and stayed warm. My biggest concern was the energy required to run against this wind. It also wasn’t very conducive to passing the time by chatting with fellow runners, but the ones I did chat with said they were only doing 5 miles or 25K.

The pack spread out on the first 10-mile loop, which started with many calm and warm miles in the dunes. I started the loop running with two guys, but I found the soft sand to be very difficult and tiring to run on, so I slowed my pace and tried to make up for it on the firmer sections of the trail.

The last 3-4 miles of the 10 mile loop (miles 12-15) were back on the beach with the insane headwind. I put my coat back on and plodded along the beach. I passed the two guys I had been talking with before. Many people were running in the soft sand further from the water because there were less pebbles, but I ran closer to the water on firmer sand, which meant I had to dodge a lot of pebbles.

I was discovering the art and tactics of running on a beach.

Race Half Way: Back at the gate house after finishing the 25K, the temptation NOT to go out again was tremendous, but overall I felt pretty good so I really couldn’t convince myself to quit. I ate an unseemly number of cookies, stuffed my bag with a healthy handful of wrapped peanut butter cups, poured the sand out of my shoes (gaiters would have been appropriate), and then headed out again into the headwind.

By then there was no one around to chat with, so I put on music and enjoyed the scenery. I love running on beaches. I don’t get the opportunity to do it very often, but I found it extremely relaxing and beautiful, despite the wind and cold.

I passed a few guys at the start of my second loop, but then I didn’t see another runner for the last ten miles. So, I turned up my music. I played a game where I’d try to look at my watch every .5 miles (I’m quite accurate!) I ate 4 full-sized peanut butter cups. I cursed the soft sand and tried different strategies for running on it.

Finishing: This race has an unique finish line, because it is essentially inside the small room at the gate house. At 31.76 miles (according to my watch) and 6 hours, 15 minutes of running, I threw open the door and about ten people inside clapped and cheered. A nice guy got me some homemade turkey soup while I sat down and ate munchkins. I got a sweet finisher’s award.

After the race: I currently don’t have a shower at my house because the bathroom is being remodeled. So, I drove 90 minutes directly to my gym for a shower. Because of the drive, my muscles tightened up horribly and I could only limp. I’m sure I looked a complete mess, with crazy hair and a red face, limping slowly to the locker room for my shower past all of the clean people on elliptical machines watching Netflix on their mobile devices. I don’t think for a second that ultrarunning makes me special, but it certainly makes me different.

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By Meredith – January 13, 2019

Shooting Star

On the Bike Path

Early one morning last week, I ran on the quiet bike path over by the town border with Cambridge. My stale legs refused to commit to tempo pace. I willed my breath steady and fixed my gaze straight into the western sky before me; dawn broke along the horizon, illuminating the commuter rail train tracks parallel to the nicely-pathed path. On the iPod Shuffle played this moment’s favorite song, Adrianne Kenker’s mellow and joyful “symbol”:

As I stared into the clear cold dawn, directly in my focal point materialized a shooting star: an initial blaze of white light, followed by a searing twinkle that descended to the horizon in a gentle arc, sparkling madly along the way. I have seen more than a few shooting stars in the past, but this by far the sparkliest. And I was staring directly at it.

It was such as intense and magnificent thing to see. It was also so fleeting.

As I jogged home, daylight came quickly and morning traffic was picking up. There was a time, not even two years ago, when I’d do an extra .7 mile loop around the high school pond on the way back from the bike path, so I’d have an even 8 miles total. But, I had already gotten what I needed from my morning run and wanted to go home to start my day.

As I ate breakfast (my standard weekday eggs/spinach scramble with white toast and butter slab), I posted my run on Strava and scrolled through my Strava feed. A runner in New Hampshire who I follow had also posted his morning run, and titled it “Saw two shooting stars.” This dispelled my fears that what I had seen was just falling space junk; it was a legitimate cosmic experience, and a reminder of nature’s ephemeralness.

Not So Little

Little Boy has been 10 years old for awhile now. He amazes me about once a day. Mostly, in a good way. He is artistic, athletic, and musical. He likes math over reading/writing, thrives in group situations, and has a silly sense of humor. These days, he can be moody — I can literally smell pre-teen seeping out of his skin — but he still has moments of incredible sweetness and empathy.

When I look back on Little Boy’s childhood and his journey to 5th grade, parts of it seem just as fleeting as the shooting star on the bike path. I have these bright, brilliant, flashing memories of him when he was younger:

Reading picture books to him with jacked-up inflection and excited expression, only for him to ignore all my words because he was so absorbed in the illustrations, noticing every little detail and occasionally pointing out mistakes.

Taking him on nature walks and making games out of throwing pine cones and hiding behind trees… anything to motivate him towards forward progress!

Buying him Lego kits that he’d sit in his room for hours assembling, content as can be… so I could clean the house, likewise content in his contentness.

Soccer games when he was in Kindergarten… This year, he started refereeing soccer for younger kids. He gets paid ten dollars a game — his first real job! Watching him run alongside the Kindergarteners as they ran after the ball in a herd is so pleasing, a real reminder of how much he’s grown and matured.

Reffing the Kindergarten soccer herd

I am at a point in my life where I’m more interested in helping Little Boy achieve his dreams than I am in achieving my own dreams. When he was younger, I used to think that when he got to be older, he’d be more independent, and I’d more time to do selfish things like train for 100 mile races, work on this blog, finish my graduate degree, even do some freelance writing to help set myself up for future work when I’m older and burnt out from my current career. But as he gets older, I’m actually doing less and less of those things, and spending more time with him.

His award-winning pumpkin dungeon, which won him a gift card through a school contest. So much fun to create!

There are so many moments that we can’t capture. But oh, how we would like to try!

Soccer Glory

Little Boy plays travel soccer with a town team; for the second year in a row, he made the A team. He’s pretty good at soccer, but I honestly don’t think he likes playing it all that much — not when I see how pumped up he is after playing basketball. But he plays soccer because many of his friends are on his team, and because he’s always played soccer. And he probably enjoys the positive reinforcement and praise.

Little Boy mostly plays defense, so he rarely gets into scoring position, but because of his speed, agility, and footwork, he’s a bit of a fan favorite in the parent’s section. Here’s just a taste of last week’s defense, in a crazy muddy field under persistent drizzle:

So I got that bit on film and I was pleased, and I stopped filming so I could put my hands in my pocket. Little Boy’s team was up 4 to 1 with three minutes left, and his coach subbed him into offense. The other team had pretty much given up, allowing one of Little Boy’s teammates (and good friend) to dribble up to the goal, then pass it to Little Boy, who was lurking on the left.

Little Boy smoothly kicked the ball and it arced magnificently over the goalie’s head and into the bottom right corner of the goal, bobbing in the net. GOOOOAAALLLL! It was incredible; after a year and a half of playing mostly defense, of contributing but never getting to score, he got a goal.

Normally, if a team is up 5 to 1, the parents do not really cheer… but all the parents on our team clapped, very happy for him. I wished so hard that I had been filming, but the goal had happened suddenly and was over just as fast. There are so many moments that we can’t capture.

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By Meredith – November 11, 2018

Where I Run: The Mackerel Hill Water Tower

The Mackerel Hill Water Tower in Waltham, MA sits at the highest point of a small swath of woodsy, meadowed conservation land, surrounded by the grounds of multiple abandoned 20th century mental institutions. The tower is at the pinnacle of Mackerel Hill, which modestly looms 300 ft above sea level and is classified as a drumlin because it was formed by glacial ice pushing piles of clay, silt and rocks into oblong-shaped hills. Because glaciers cannot tread gently across the earth.

Drumlins typically feature one wicked steep slope, while the rest of the sides are more gradual climbs. My favorite trail up Mackerel Hill is via the steep slope — right where the glacial ice pushed up and compressed the loose till roughly 20,000 years ago. These are not mountains, but this trail climbs roughly 100 feet in .10 mile (with sizable rocks and stones to test agility). That’s about an average 15% grade. Run without pause, and you’ll feel that climb for sure.

Approaching the tower from the steep trail

Approaching the tower from the steepest trail

Mackerel Hill is located less than a half mile off of the Western Greenway Trail, a 6-mile long contiguous path that winds through a green necklace of open space in the towns of Waltham, Lexington, and Belmont. I’ve been running the Western Greenway Trail for about 6 years. It’s my “bread and butter” local trail, boasting plenty of rolling technical terrain, and I’ve spent some time exploring of the surrounding areas and paths that link to the Greenway. When I have a 20 mile run to do, I can afford to get a little lost.

Morning at a Greenway meadow

Dewy May morning at a Greenway meadow

About 4 years ago, I wandered off the Greenway to explore a wide gravel road (closed to vehicles) that disappeared into the woods. The road is evidence that this area of the conservation land is not as untouched as the lively meadows and forested wetlands that the Greenway passes through. I soon found myself at the bottom of Mackerel Hill, staring at the unassuming Metfern Cemetery.

Metfern Cemetery

Metfern Cemetery

The Metfern Cemetery is an expanse of grass with roughly two dozen brick-like stone markers, two marked aisles, and several small memorials. According to the sign posted near the gravel path, roughly 300 former patients of the Metropolitan State Hospital and the Fernald State School were buried here from 1947 to 1979. The story of the Metfern Cemetery is a whole other blog post, but to summarize: I used to find it creepy to run past, but now that I know its history, I find the cemetery to be incredibly sad. This is where they buried the patients who no one came to get.

Looming above the cemetery, Mackerel Hill itself is pretty creepy. It’s the former site of the Gaebler’s Children Center, a state-run psychiatric institution for children that operated from 1955-1992 and was demolished in 2011. Several internet resources refer to the center as “the old Gaebler Unit”– creep-y! My googling also yielded some stories about the inevitable abuse that occurred when hundreds of children are confined to an institutional setting (e.g., “Gaebler, To Hell and Back” details physical abuse, forced seclusion and constant Thorazine) and this interesting Creepy-chusetts blog about the building’s demolition, in which the author meets a former patient who tells similar stories.

Forested wetlands at the foot of the drumlin

Forested wetlands at the foot of the drumlin

With the area’s rich history involving mental institutions (most of which have since been abandoned or demolished, with the notable except of McLean Hospital), I do find the area creepy. It’s not so much that I’m scared of ghosts or zombies. It’s much more a fear of the unstable individuals that might be attracted to the area. Whether it be a former patient returning to exact revenge for being institutionalized (revenge…on the local joggers?) or a bunch of satanic-wannabe teenagers needing blood for their pentagram graffiti, my paranoia has conjured fears about it all.

But more than that, I am haunted by sadness, and even some guilt. Running up Mackerel Hill brings me such pleasure and vitality. I am never more alive than when I am bounding up a hill. My feet dart over roots and glide through rocks; my lungs and heart labor with increasing intensity, as my eyes scan the horizon to help my brain determine how much effort my legs can continue to give based on the distance still remaining to the tower. And above all, there is a part of me not connected to any physical part of my body, and it’s overriding all these parts of my body, ordering them to persist in their labors until the water tower is reached.

And when I reach the tower and see the spooky graffiti popping vividly from the rusted gray steel, I slow my body to a shuffle to recover. “They live,” it says. But they don’t. Around here, at that moment, I am the one that is living.

Water Tower Graffiti

Water Tower Graffiti

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By Meredith – May 15, 2018

The 2018 Boston Marathon

I’ve been drafting a blog post about the 2018 Boston Marathon for the past four days (the marathon was Monday; it is now Friday). I am enjoying a respite from work and life by Spring Breaking with my family in Washington State, which has given me ample time to journalize about finishing what will most certainly be one of the most epic races in my life.

But it’s been a struggle to write about this race, and I won’t try to explain why… except to say that whenever I tried to start at the beginning of the race, the “beginning” kept getting further and further away from the actual beginning of the race. I found myself writing about:

  • How the day before the race, I spent about two hours preparing my race gear and drop bags with primary goal of avoiding hypothermia.
  • How the week before the race, I noticed the rain in the forecast; subsequently, the rain/wind/cold predictions got more dire with each passing day.
  • How four weeks before the race, I developed a constant tightness behind my left leg that flared into something concerning enough that I stopped training pretty much entirely, meaning I missed some key training runs and also suffered a huge mental blow coupled with endorphin withdrawal.
  • How six weeks before the race, my training was going so well that I thought I could maybe run a 3 hour 30 minute Boston Marathon (which would be a 9 minute PR).
  • How up until two years before the race, I never thought I’d ever toe the line for the historic, storied, somewhat elitist Boston Marathon.

So because I have failed to write a cohesive, complete post when I start at the beginning, let’s start at the end:

I crossed the finish line in Downtown Boston in 4 hours, 18 seconds. This is an amazing time because, when I started running almost 4 hours earlier in Hopkintown, “4 hours” was the goal time that I had in my head. As noted in the bullet points above, for a while I was going to shoot for 3 hours, 30 minutes… but also see references to “stopped training” and “avoiding hypothermia.” I would be running in self-preservation mode, and I thought 9-minute miles would get me to the end, safe and most importantly running. My #1 Goal: Don’t you dare walk the Boston Marathon.

The last two miles were also the worst rain of my day. The deluge was fierce, wind-swept, stinging. But every time the rain picked up, the infamous Boston Marathon crowd would rally in return. I struggled to maintain my 9-minute mile pace, but I gritted my grin and weaved past my fellow runners as I plowed through puddles. The roar of the crowd was unlike anything I’ve experienced in a race; emotion welled in me as I barreled to the finish line, still determined to get that 4 hour marathon that I knew I was so close to.

“Carnage” is how I would describe the course after mile 20. It didn’t surprise me, as I would say most runners did not prepare adequately, in terms of gear or running with self-preservation in mind. For instance, I saw some runners wearing singlets with nothing protective over them except for a flimsy poncho. When these thin little runners stopped to walk up the hills of Newton, they would quickly get cold and have to visit a med tent. I had no such issues — because I was wearing my excellent hooded running rain jacket, because I was running a sustainable pace, and because I am not a thin little runner.

Just after mile 19, I saw Little Boy and Mr. P. My excitement was unbridled, and I started running towards them screaming with jubilation. My already-high spirit had been kicked into heaven.

Around mile 19

Around mile 19

 

“Ten more miles.” I forced myself to take more Gatorade. However diminished the crowd was by the rain, I was still in awe by the number of people who were there, out in the rain, cheering relentlessly. I began to understand that the Boston Marathon is truly a great marathon. I had always assumed everyone wanted to run Boston Marathon because of the high qualifying standards and the level of competition, et. cetera… but the truth is, they need the high qualifying standards because everyone wants to run it. The journey through the center of eight very different Massachusetts towns (where you are always greeted with a roaring crowd) makes for an amazing course. I began to force a smile as I ran.

The infamous Wellesley “scream tunnel” around mile 14 was not as loud as I was expecting. There did not seem to be many college girls, but there were some, and I did see one runner stop to get a kiss (which was sort of gross because he looked older than 40, yuck.) Best sign: “Kiss me, I’m wet.”

I wasn’t fully confident that I would finish the race until the halfway mark came and went, and I hadn’t felt anything else before my left knee. The intermittent nature of the rain started to get less frequent.

There were some funny signs about Stormy Daniels. It was fun to run through Natick past where I used to spectate the marathon when I lived there.

Around mile 5, I felt the tightness behind my knee rear up. Even worse, the tightness caused my lower hamstring to cramp. I ran for about three miles, worrying that it would get worse and I would have to stop the race. Then, during the mile 8 water stop, I grabbed a cup and stopped to walk. Immediately something seized painfully behind my knee, and then everything felt… fine. Normal. It was as if something had been stretched out and put back to normal.

I passed the starting line at 11am (ten minute past my wave) in a light rain. It had been mentally and physically exhausting just getting to the starting line (that’s an entirely different blog post that I will probably never write) but I was starting the Boston Marathon warm, reasonably dry, and with the goal of finishing in 4 hours.

 

 

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By Meredith – April 20, 2018