Running a 50k is better the 2nd time around
But not better enough to make me do it again
As you may be aware, a pandemic has shut down much of regular life (including organized races). And my recent ankle surgery means I haven’t run since August and optimistically won’t run again until sometime in 2021. What better time to reminisce on my second attempt at a 50k, which took place one year ago this week.
My first attempt at a 50k did not exactly go awesomely. It was brutal. 8.5+ hours of brutal. But, I’m a glutton for punishment, and was smart (or dumb?) enough to sign up for another 50k before I’d finished the first one. And everyone knows you can’t bail on a race you’ve already committed to.
So, 50k take-two it is!
The second one has got to go better than the first, right? I can’t possibly have even more injury issues this time around, could I? My kids would never attempt to sabotage me with sickness and lack of sleep and general stress, would they? Well, it wouldn’t be an adventure if they didn’t…
Just a couple weeks after the Backcountry Rise 50k (again, so brutal), I took the most scenic runs of my “training” — up the John Muir trail to Half Dome and back. I set out at 5am and reached the base around 7:30am, with only a short (and mercifully uncrowded) climb up the cables to the top of Half Dome. What an experience! Simultaneously euphoric and terrifying.
Getting to Half Dome early has it’s perks — besides the mostly empty cables, I actually had the top all to myself for almost an hour.
Running down the trail was a lot easier than running up (and more scenic, since much of the ‘up’ was before sunrise), and I was back in the village before noon — just in time to pack up and make the drive back to San Mateo. 17 miles, 5,000 feet, and an experience for the ages. Just another Tuesday in the pre-covid time.
I felt so good that I knocked out a 13 mile run on Saturday with 1,500 feet of climbing. I’m feeling great and actually excited about this 50k in a couple months. I’m ready, I can feel it.
Then, on Sunday, I start feeling something else. Intense nausea. Chills. Horrible body aches. By Monday I feel like I’m dying. It’s the worst flu I’ve ever had. At least I think it’s the flu? I’m up all night Monday. Minutes feel like hours. I need morning to arrive so I can go to urgent care. Tuesday at 8am I limp out the door and drive to the clinic.
Turns out it’s not the flu. It’s my appendix. inflamed, ready to burst. My wife is in NY (people used to travel for work in the pre-covid days, remember?), and I manage to finagle a neighbor to drive me to the ER. Crisis averted.
Down one appendix, I’m anxious to get back to training, but it was 10 days post surgery (and 2 weeks since my last run) before I could get back on the road. I tried to make up for lost time by ramping up too quickly, and of course tweaked my hamstring.
As race day gets closer, I’m less and less confident that I can actually do this run. I’m ramping distance when I should be tapering, and my body just doesn’t feel right. And on Friday, two days before race day, my daughter Clara comes into our room at 4am and proceeds to throw up on our bed. I mean, the universe clearly doesn’t want me to run this 50k.
Should I listen? Probably. But I really want to redeem myself after Backcountry Rise. There’s just no backing out now.
Sunday. Race Day. My alarm goes off at 4am, but of course I’m already awake.
Why the f**k do I do this again?
I drive to SF and catch a school bus that will take us to the start line. I’m very nauseous, which is normal for me but not exactly comforting. Despite the cold (it’s 5am in November) I’m sweating profusely.
Why the f**k do I do this again?
6am at the start area. It’s still dark. I’m still exhausted. My nausea has passed. Now it’s just boredom paired with anxiety. This race can’t start soon enough. The sooner we start the sooner I’ll finish.
Why the f**k do I do this again?
I’ve done a handful of trail runs, ranging from 20k to 50k. One lesson I’ve learned is that when I start fast I usually hit a wall. Of course sometimes when I start slow I still hit a wall. But starting slow at least gives me a chance to have a good race. My last time at this starting gate (for a shorter race) I positioned myself at the front of Wave 1 and ran out of gas. This time, I place myself at the back of Wave 2. Pretty sure this is a good decision, although I might be screwed either way.
The course heads straight up a steep hill for the first 3 miles. I take it easy. I also make sure to drink lots of water. Getting severely dehydrated 14 miles into a 32 mile race (Backcountry Rise) is not a mistake I want to repeat. Thankfully there are aid stations every 3–5 miles, and I stop at each one for electrolytes and snacks.
It was very foggy for first few miles, which ruined the scenery but kept it nice and cool. Good for avoiding dehydration I hope. We did poke out above the fog for a brief stint at the first peak, but descended right back into it. It wouldn’t be until about mile 7 or 8 that the air would clear for good.
Just before mile 9 I felt a sharp stinging pain on the outside of my right ankle and then another on the outside of my lower left leg. I hear the person right behind me yell “Bees!!!” and realize that one of us roused a hornets nest. It hurt, but I actually felt a lot stronger (extra adrenaline?) and had my best ascent of the race, passing lots of people along the way.
At mile 13 I start getting a bit stressed. Am I going to get dehydrated again? Or am I over-hydrating? My legs are also getting pretty tired from the downhills — some of which are quite steep and are becoming more technical in miles 16–19.
Around mile 17 I pass the turn off to the Nature Friends Tourist House — a brewhouse buried along the trails of the Marin Headlands. I doubt it was open this early, but it was certainly tempting to detour in for a quick beer or four.
The weather cleared up and was sunny throughout the second half. It made for striking views, and wasn’t too hot, especially with my pretty modest pace.
I was mostly relying on fluids (electrolytes and water) and small snacks (pretzels, fruit), but decided to eat half an energy bar while walking up a steep climb around mile 22. Big mistake. My stomach reacted poorly and I never really felt right again. As I crested at mile 23 my legs were exhausted. The descent to mile 24 was worse and my legs felt completely shot.
One more big climb, then some rolling descents. As I peak just after mile 26 I’m at 5 hours and 11 minutes. 6 hours feels in reach, figuring just under 10 min per mile for 5 downhill/flat miles. But as I jog along the rolling trails atop the Headlands, the math isn’t making sense. I’m over 27 miles and I know it’s about 3 miles once I reach the bridge, and definitely more than a mile to that spot. I thought this race was 31 miles, and all my internal “you can do it!” and “keep it up!” pep talks are predicated on the number 31.
By mile 28 I know it’ll be something closer to 32 miles to finish. As I finally descend towards the bridge it’s looking like closer to 33 miles. How did I miss this?!?!? Did I make a wrong turn somewhere?? 6 hours is clearly way out of reach. And my psyche is crumbling.
I reach the bridge and descend the 2nd steepest set of stairs ever designed and built by man. I loop underneath to find the absolute steepest set of stairs ever designed and built by man that I must now ascend. What are the odds?
Those stairs killed me. They sucked all the wind out of my lungs and made me wonder how I’d run the remaining 3 miles. The cool breeze on the bridge helped, but it was still brutal. On the descent towards Chrissy field a cyclist almost took me down, shouting “look out!” as he brushed by at full speed. That would have been a fitting end after gutting out 32+ miles.
Ironically, my recent ankle surgery was spurred by a cyclist who hit me while trying to pass — without warning — on my right side. Life is hilarious.
Along the water I can see the finish. It’s only about 1/3 mile, but it looks and feels like an eternity. And just like 2 years ago, the last couple hundred feet are on the bumpy and uneven Chrissy Field grass. I’m shocked that no one ruptures an achilles on that.
Total distance: 32.7 miles
Total elevation gain: 6,500 feet
Total time: 6 hours 20 minutes, good for 10 out of 44 among men aged 40–44, and 102/592 overall. A HUGE improvement vs Backcountry Rise.
I grabbed the complementary water bottle, filled it, and then just laid down for about 20 minutes. I’m so tired, my legs are so sore, and for some reason I’m really nauseous again.
I finally pry myself off the ground and find the recovery tent. No massage, but there is a chiropractic group that can do deep tissue work. After a 45 minute wait and making it clear that “no, I don’t want an adjustment” and that I’m not actually injured, just sore from, you know, running 32.7 miles through Marin, he busted out the massage gun, which was amazing. Worth the wait.
Next priority is to get some real food. I grabbed a “Steamin’ Burger”. I forgot how delicious a burger with mustard and onions can be. Of course everything tastes better after a race like that. But still.
The bus situation seemed to be non-existent, so I set off on my 1.5 mile walk back to my car. Which was probably good for stretching out my legs, but I can’t say I was loving it. Another hour to drive back to San Mateo (why is there crazy traffic in SF at 3:30 on a Saturday?), and I’m home.
Between the obvious muscle soreness, some hamstring issues, and a brutal flu (for real this time), it took me a almost a month to get back into a regular running routine. It was a rough race, and an even rougher recovery. But I’m so glad I did it. I needed to prove to myself that Backcountry Rise was a fluke. That I could actually “run” a 50k, and do it competitively. All that said, I’m guessing this will be my last 50k. 32 miles is just too damn long. And 6 hours (not to mention 8+) is way way way too damn long.
Of course I haven’t run for almost 3 months because of my ankle, so right now any distance sounds amazing. 6 miles feels a long way off, much less 30. Running is a passion, and having it stripped away (hopefully temporarily) helped me remember to embrace it while you still can. Maybe 50k (or longer) will call my name again. Never say never.
You can see a find a full list of race recaps here (if you’re into that sort of thing): Joe’s race recaps
