Warning: Running Ultra Marathons Can Rub Off On You!

“Why is there an IV bag in the refrigerator?” asked my sister Leigh, upon discovering my backpack reservoir while looking for supplies for a salad. As we live on separate coasts, she had heard about my recent immersion in trail and ultra running, but not experienced it firsthand.

I had selected the Montara Mountain Trail Marathon (also 10K, Half, and 50K) in Pacifica, CA (run in another incarnation as the Pacifica 50K) based on its date and close proximity to San Francisco, where I planned to stay with my sister while attending a professional conference.  I was excited to check out the trail running scene in California and be immersed in the rugged coastal landscape I always love visiting. I vaguely noticed that the course involved some major elevation gain (5840 according to the website; 7500 according to the Garmin) and slow times (the women’s course record after the first running last year was 5:45). However, I now realize I did not allow that information to influence my training in any way (didn’t do any hill repeats).  It probably saved me that Sno recently took a notion to explore the hilly Quinnipiac trail.

I arrived in San Francisco Friday afternoon, knowing the turnaround would be quick before the Saturday 8 am start (which I chose to think of as 11 am, EST). Fortunately, this allowed little time for me to indulge any of the pre-race paranoias that had been percolating, including worries regarding a recent cold, resurgent knee pain, the usual ankle drama, and the possible foolishness of having run the hilly Colchester half-marathon the prior weekend. Despite repeatedly checking my running gear before leaving Connecticut, I discovered late in the evening that my trusted running socks were nowhere to be found, so I borrowed a pair of my sister’s Thorlo hiking socks, which I hoped would be good enough.

When we arrived at the San Pedro Valley County park for Leigh to drop me off, it was a beautiful, crisp, clear, sunny day. The small parking lot was getting jammed up quickly by the vehicles of 250 descending runners. For several disconcerting moments, it looked like we’d be turned away at the gate, forcing me to choose between jumping out of the car not-quite-organized or risking a drive and walk back of unknown length, just half an hour before the start.  Fortunately, we got waved in to the last remaining parking spot. I was relieved, since the thought of that RAV-4 disappearing so abruptly had given me a weird nervy feeling like a kid being dropped off on the first day at a new school.

As we milled around waiting for the start and I saw a runner point to the distant summit where we were headed, the significance

of the six peaks on that website elevation graph finally started to sink in.  I was surrounded by some steep coastal ranges that almost reminded me of Hawaii’s grand wrinkled mountains. I realized I was going to be in for some serious mountain running that I was probably quite ill-prepared for, especially in comparison to a San Francisco crowd. The marathon course consisted of two loops of a three hill course: 3.75 miles straight up to North Peak (“the big hill”) returning mostly the same way, then a two mile loop (1 mile straight up “the little hill” and down) then a four mile loop (you guessed it, 2 miles straight up “the medium hill” then down).  I guessed the second ascent of the big hill would be the hardest part psychologically and tried to encourage myself by recalling Suds’s exuberant accounts of his mountain running exploits.

The race began with a single file, single track ascent through a strongly-scented Eucalyptus forest, which turned out to be a bracing refrain throughout the course. I was wearing my brand new Garmin GPS watch and was curious to see how that would influence my experience, though also a little concerned that the extra data would throw off my time-tested approach of just going by feel.

The trail was quite smooth by Northeast standards and the pitch was entirely runnable, though pernicious in its unrelenting rise. It was hard to know how to pace myself and whether or not to take walk breaks as most of the pack around me were half-marathoners and I didn’t know what lay in store on the rest of the course. Though the Garmin said my pace was in the 15’s (which seemed slow), it felt like a very intense effort (probably too intense for the first 4 miles of a marathon). I ended up continuing to run 95% of it anyway, as I couldn’t really imagine backing down from the slow, methodical trudge i was already doing. As we rose higher through the coastal scrub, then onto a steep dirt road, the views of the ocean, the town, and the rugged coastline became more and more expansive and dizzying under the clear blue sky.  The temperature rose quickly in the sun, eventually reaching near 70 degrees.

After a few moments to take in the view at the summit, I moved on to my favorite section of the race–a long, rip-roaring descent facing the blue-on-blue horizon, which felt effortless and exhilarating, like a ski run from peak to base (the Garmin now said my pace was in the 7’s, which also seemed unwise, but I was having too much fun to slow down).  After completing the descent (and enjoying a eucalpytus pick-me-up) at 7.5 miles, I refueled at the course’s single aid station (visited several times each loop). I was happy to find watermelon (my favorite) on offer, as well as the same drink i happened to have in my “IV bag” (Cliff Cran-Razz).

As I started out on the second section, a passing runner announced, “now’s when you feel the beating that your quads just took,” and he proved to be right. Though slight by comparison to North peak, the small rise felt surprisingly challenging, and it lacked the views of the first leg.  I soon discovered that worse was yet to come. After a brief bit on a gravel road, the third section up the medium hill began. This brutal trail was a seemingly endless series of rising switchbacks surrounded closely on both sides by thick vegetation that obscured the views and made it impossible to gauge whether you were making any upward progress (or how much remained).  Anticlimactically, it eventually turned downward after one last unmemorable and arbitrary switchback.

During the run down, brightened by a eucalyptus blip, I start to notice a mild rubbing pain on the bottom of my heel. It feels like the beginning of a blister, but I’ve never had any blisters there before, so I don’t worry about it.  I figure I’m halfway done and can probably finish before it turns into anything too problematic. My half-marathon split is 2:13, which is encouraging, since I’d anticipated I might be running over six hours based on last year’s results.

As I start the second ascent of the big hill, I’m feeling confident about tackling the climb, but a little lonely, as runners are quite spread out and–surprisingly–don’t seem to be as chatty as the New England crowd. I haven’t fallen in with anyone all morning and little more has been said in passing than “on your left” or “good job.”  I do a bit more walking than the first time around, but am able to sustain a pretty reasonable forward momentum.  I fantasize about diving into the surf of the tiny beaches I can see so far below. The fun of the descent is starting to be compromised by the pain of my heel, but my quads are still in surprisingly good shape. I celebrate my unlikely good fortune when an on-course restroom (complete with flushing toilets and a sink) appears at just moment I need it.

The final six mile loop (the small and medium hills) has already receded into an undifferentiated blur. By this point, for reasons unclear to me, my enthusiam and sense of adventure have been replaced by a disagreeable soldiering mentality not typical of how I usually experience races.  On my way down small, I feel a sickening sensation that I now know was a massive blister ripping open across the bottom of my heel. I pass a runner who plans to walk up medium and am happy to be alone and without the pressure of other runners nearby. I reflect on how deeply pleased I am not to be running the 50k (which would be mean yet another tour of small and medium). The shift from ascent to descent brings cardiovascular relief, but a sharp, stabbing pain with each footfall.

Suddenly, I hear an unexpected runner thundering up behind me, and I reflexively pick up the pace, though I am beyond caring anything about my time or place.  I tell myself that he is welcome to pass me if he wants to work for it, but that I am not going to make it easy for him.  Buoyed by one last shot of eucalyptus, we careen madly down the final hill, his unwished-for presence a helpful distraction from the pain and a helpful catalyst for getting off my foot sooner.  I maintain a 3 second lead on him, ending up the third woman and fifth runner overall (4:43:46). As I finish, I look down at my foot. It takes me 20 minutes and an Anchor Steam to get brave enough to peel off the shoe.

While I wait for a ride after the race, I enjoy chatting with two women in their 70’s who recount their adventures on their favorite West Coast marathons, including Big Sur. While I do not plan to run Montara mountain again, my California dreamin’  (and scheming)  has only been reinforced.  Leigh, her kids, and my friend Sandy soon arrive after a snafu at the airport. We do a photo shoot of the blister (my most impressive and disgusting running injury to date), while the kids relieve me of my medals and play with the trailside dirt and dandelions.