American River 50 2014: There can be no other title except MY FIRST 50 MILE RACE REPORT

This is a big deal.

Without fail, there is somebody at every ultra I've run that I hear say, Oh, I'm not really trying for anything today, I'm just using this as a training run for my self supported run across Canada next month. I'll probably just cartwheel the whole thing.  

I heard this type of exchange on the bus on the way to the start. "It's only a 50 miler, so the heat shouldn't even be an issue."

It's a good thing it was dark...

The "it's only a 50 miler" comment snapped me out of the anxious mind chatter and got me refocused. The few weeks leading up to the race, any time it came up, GeNene would say to me, "This is a big deal." Then I started saying it, and understanding what it really meant. This is something that I used to talk about doing "someday". It seemed really far off. I believed I could do it, but it would happen to some distant future version of me. "This is a big deal" means, I am that new version of me. I've trained for and am ready to run 50 miles. 

There's not much I wouldn't do to stay warm. 

The bus ride to the start can be tricky for us introverted folk. I'm not really a make small talk with your neighbor at 4:30 in the morning before a big race kind of gal because, well, there's just so much I have to think about to drive myself insane. Did I drink enough water yesterday? Did I go to the bathroom enough this morning? Do I have to go now? Should I eat something? Why didn't I look up how long this bus ride would be? Did I remember my shoes in my drop bag? Both of them? This bus smells like peanut butter, should I have brought peanut butter? Both of my shoes are still on my feet, right? Garmin check. Bib check. Time check. Why didn't I bring any peanut butter????? And then, from somewhere in the back of the bus..."This is the easiest 50 miler in NorCal!" Barf.

We arrived at Brown's Ravine Marina, the new start of the race, and about 4 people stood up and got off the bus. The rest of us sat there looking around at each other with the same thought: It's warm in here, it's cold out there. We stayed until the bus driver stood and turned around to face us, "So...I have to take the bus back now..."

After a trip to a porta potty where I congratulated myself for bringing my headlamp because porta potties don't have any lights inside them, my mission was to find warmth for the next hour. I found warmth inside a large white tent heated by hundreds of runners packed inside it. PACKED. Before I knew it, it was time...

Just follow the Morning Star

Don't think. Just run. 

We began on pavement and everything was wonderful. The only thing I was focused on was nutrition. Eat early, and eat often. We hit a little bit of single track and then it was right back to either gravel or pavement. At Folsom Point I dropped off my headlamp, and then, I'm going to be honest, the rest of the journey through mile 24 is kind of a blur. But that was the plan. It was a lot of pavement, so I wanted to relax through the first half of the race and get to Beal's Point feeling good.

The only time I have EVER welcomed a climb for a break from the pavement. Somewhere around mile 15. Nimbus Bluffs. 

Who was at the top of the hill with his megaphone? Goat Hill You're Awesome Guy! At Way Too Cool 50k year before last this guy was the voice that carried runners up the worst climb of the race by basically standing at the top screaming YOU'RE AWESOME. This time, he was making sure we appreciated the motivational signs stuck in the ground on the way up. "DO YOU SEE THE SIGNS? I BUILT THESE SIGNS IN MY GARAGE YESTERDAY. YOU'RE AWESOME." Guy, whoever you are, you're awesome. 

More pavement.

Neverending pavement. 

This was painted on the path every hundred yards or so...I recently binge watched the last season of The Walking Dead so...

This was all I could think about...

We also got a first hand look at what the drought looks like as the day heated up.  

The next aid station a man announced my name (Lia Ku-eck) (for the record it's Keek, but I'm used to Kook, Kwek, etc. I answer to all of it.) as I ran in and another man was standing in front of me asking if I had a drop bag. I had stopped in front of piles of them and was just staring. I knew I had one, but I couldn't believe that 24 miles had gone by, so I didn't answer right away. I looked at him and said (like a moron), "Is this Beal's??" Who doesn't know where they are?!? When he said yes and my shock wore off, he directed me to my drop bag. I found a spot in the grass and got down to business.

This is the first race that I've ever had a drop bag and it was like magic to me. It's like a gift that you give to yourself in the future. My feet were feeling ok, but I had a couple of hotspots.  I went ahead and changed my socks and changed from my Brooks Cascadia 9s to my Montrail Bajadas.

Also in my drop bag:

• A towel to soak in water to wipe my face and neck
• 4 extra hair rubberbands in case the one in my hair and the other three spontaneously combust
• chapstick! YES. 
• Like 2 dozen Gu...uhhh...
• half a dozen salt tabs. SMART because aid stations seem to run out of these first.
• Ibuprofen in case something goes really all bad.
• One safety pin because when I was packing my drop bag I found it in another bag and thought, I definitely might need this. 

This is the part where the race actually begins.

Leaving Beal's. Where even is the water.

I took off with my feet feeling completely refreshed, turned the iPod on for the first time that day and queued up Meg's playlist followed by one of Eric's playlists from New Year's Eve followed by my playlist.

5 miles to Granite Bay, no problem. 5 miles to Buzzard's Cove, ok, yeah, ok. 3.5 to Horseshoe Bar...if I see one more Gu packet I swear to God I will ralph. I got to the aid station and just looked at everything on the table. Nothing looked like it wouldn't make me gag. My eyes landed on a volunteer holding a gigantic thing of Tums. "I can't do anymore Gu," I said to her. "Well, what can I get for you!!" she asked SUPER enthusiastically. I asked for one Tum and all of a sudden there was a line behind me...turns out Tums were the highlight at Horseshoe Bar. I also popped a Ginger chew and hoped my stomach would settle. I wouldn't make it the next 12 miles without eating.

Turns out, I barely made it the next 2.8 to Rattlesnake Bar. My energy was gone, and my body started to feel shaky since I had skipped a couple of feedings. I knew my blood sugar was dropping and I had barely consumed any calories in the last hour and a half. It was right at the point where I started to think, UH OH, that I turned a corner and saw that the trail was dropping us into an aid station.

I ate 7 orange slices, 2 potato slices dipped in salt, and half a banana. IT WAS THE BEST TASTING ORANGE THAT HAS EVER EXISTED IN THE HISTORY OF EVERYTHING. That orange saved me. I came back to life at mile 40.9.

This is the part where the race ACTUALLY actually begins.

With my stomach back in check, all I had left to do was battle the fatigue and push forward for the last 10 miles. I pushed. I battled. It was hard.

It was less than 3 miles to Dowdin's Post, and leaving there with 3.6 to go to Last Gasp was the first time I let myself feel how close the finish was. 6 miles and this will be over. Bad idea. I immediately got weepy, so I needed to refocus. No problem! A few more miles and all I was doing was rethinking my entire decision to participate in this race!

This is a thousand foot climb in the last 3 miles. 

It was a lot of going up. There's not much else to say other than this is the portion when I did most of my cussing. 

The last mile.

I was cranking out a pretty triumphant shuffle-run along with an interesting laughing-crying combo. I had been out there eleven hours and it was finally, actually about to be over. Man, there's nothing like the feeling of the 50th mile. 

I hit the top of the last hill and turned a corner and saw all the people lined up along the sides. Clapping and smiling. I carried some people in my heart across the finish line with me, and I saw their faces in all of those strangers that were celebrating the end of my race with me. 

To the volunteer at the finish...thank you, and I apologize, although I'm pretty sure I wasn't the first or last person that day to sob in your face when you said congratulations and put the medal around my neck.

I locked eyes with GeNene immediately and tried to smile instead of cry and then a nice man asked me if I'd like to step over here and get my finisher's jacket. I said I would love to. He called out the size to a woman who handed me a deliciously beautiful Patagonia jacket and then marked my bib. I staggered in the direction they pointed me and took a bottle of water that someone wearing a cape handed to me.

I made my way to GeNene and halfway collapsed into a sobbing hug. That lasted about 3 seconds before all I wanted to do was sit down. First, though, I needed to pick up my drop bag and get my headlamp, THEN I can sit down. Found my bag and then I staggered over to a table full of headlamps. A man pointed and said, here's <some kind of brand> these are <another kind of brand> and these are "miscellaneous". All I could come up with was, "Mine's orange." I found my headlamp. I found some grass and just sat.

I'm sitting this is so great. SO GREAT. 

I'm still sitting and now I also can't talk. 

 Eleven Hours, nine minutes, fifty-three seconds is the amount of time it took me to run 50 miles to Auburn. It was the first time I crossed a finish line and thought, "I don't actually know if I ever really need to do this again." (That thought has since changed...kind of)

The Damage

I'm going to refrain from posting pictures, but I would love to share the fact that I had the most massive blood blister on my left foot. The kind that I never felt and can't understand how it didn't explode. Also, there was a toe that I honestly couldn't tell if the toenail was still there or not. My right foot apparently didn't run 50 miles because it was completely fine.  The 12 hours after the race were, well, horrible. All I wanted to do was eat a burger and celebrate and be happy and have a beer and go to sleep. My stomach did not understand what just happened. I couldn't eat until the next day on the drive home. A week later, my legs and feet are fully recovered, but I still have a lingering hip/glute thing going on. Oh yeah, plus the poison oak. Legs. Arms. Everywhere. 

Epilogue

We got back to the Holiday Inn in Auburn after the race, where lots of other runners were also staying, and I continued to just sit for a while. I wasn't sure if I could make it down to the hotel restaurant to eat anything, but I was trying to will my body to feel stable and cooperate. About the time I realized I wasn't interested in leaving the room that night, from outside in the parking lot, we heard a low voice start singing, "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen..." We looked out and saw a man doing the same stiff legged shuffle walk I was now doing. He was wearing his finisher's jacket and medal.

50 miles. Everybody fought their own battle. Everyone saw their own trouble. We ran 50 miles.