A year in the balance

A year in the balance  

By: Meghan McCarrick

We live our lives out of balance.  

You will take that statement one of 2 ways.  

I tend to think that balance is mediocre and monotonous, but also calm and rewarding even in the case of struggle for it.  People from different cultures, of different sexes, with different belief systems, they all fall somewhere along the balance quest spectrum.  Give me routine!  No, give me adventure!

Goal setting can really turn balance on its ear.  Clear headiness.  Panic.

This year, I had running goals.  I assumed that they would keep me on track.  I am impatient.  As I set goals, they became too small. 

Running is ME dependent.  Balanced or not, running is physically AND mentally challenging where so many other facets of life are not.  I am healthy “enough” and driven “enough” and available “enough”.  But, I also found that I am balanced OR imbalanced enough.  

February 2014 rolled around and I realized I was keeping a modest but above average weekly mileage count.  A few 30 mile weeks in ass cold Missouri winter weather had strengthened my character enough to decide it was time to look at setting a 2014 goal. I set my sights on a 50 mile week.  I made this plan known to those close to me on a Sunday.  On a Tuesday, I heard from a childhood friend that he was eyeing hundreds in 2014.  I didn’t even know what that meant.  In all honesty, I still don’t and possibly never will.  I was out for a short run and turned it into 11 miles.  By that Saturday, I only needed 6 more to have my 50 mile week.  That was in March.  

I basked in the glory of finishing that goal, kind of, and then realized I was screwed for the rest of the year because I had rushed it.  I chose an admirable 1000 mile year.  I was already on pace for it but couldn’t account for illness or injury or “other”.  1000 miles came and went this past summer.  Actually, it went with a bang.  In that short amount of time, I had found my running group and they joined me to run those last countable.  But, then, that too was done.

I ran my longest mileage day of around 32 miles.  I was joined once again by my favorite running companions.  That day was marked by a quick, “ok, well, we did that” afterward.

I decided that 1500 was a number I could hit before the new year.  That number also came and went and I didn’t even acknowledge it this time.  I ran my first “official unofficial” race in the last 12 years (I ran a 5k once in my early 20’s), mid November.  That run was difficult at a 50k distance with a hard course here in Missouri, but I still managed it well.  I ran my first “official official” 50 mile race in early December, also difficult, also fine.  

Then, when I looked for that same grasp and desire and deep seated mouth-on-the-reins feel, it just wasn’t there any more.  Where was my balance?  Or imbalance?  

I am 23 miles from an 1800 total for the year.  I feel fairly positive that will happen.  But it isn’t really a goal. I am scared to think what I might feel to just be done…done for real.  So, instead of running today, I typed this, with 20 miles scheduled for tomorrow.

I can’t believe what I have accomplished, but I also don’t feel like it amounts to much.  I know what I felt in the last moments of completing those goals but there was not a sense of finish, more of a “what’s next?”.  And now, I don’t know.  What do goals afford you in the end?  

A nice dinner?  A new pair of jeans?  Bragging rights for the week?

What do we do when we overcome an intangible?  Goal, meet balance…on ear.

This is not meant to be depressing, just an account, harnessed by some questions I have been contemplating going into next year.  My spectrum might appear inherently negative with disillusionment on one end and breaking my life on the other, but it really isn’t; I know there is a sweet spot in there.  I already have some goals for 2015.  And, I already have some fears about the balance.  

Simply because, we live our lives out of balance.

My 2014 running goal was a 50 mile week.  This is seconds after the completion of a 50 + mile day.  

Group Run

By Meghan McCarrick

Originally Posted in Terrain Magazine

I mean, really, who gets to have this much fun as an adult? 

Sure, everybody likes a solo run. Hit play, tune out the surroundings, wave to fellow runners…if you feel like it. Or blow past them quickly enough that you don’t even have to acknowledge anyone else is out there with you at all. Just me and my mountain or dirt road or four-lane highway. Solo run, I got love for ya. But, there’s a need for that running camaraderie, that pack mentality. To be able to hit a rock wrong and warn the person behind you instead of feeling like an idiot when you look around to check that no one saw.


Group run. Just saying it invokes the anticipation and thrill of stretching your legs, feeling out your leader, playing your roll within the tribe. Stretching it out in the beginning, talking about the latest conquests, hitting those first (often uncomfortable) steps as a unit, warming it up, pulling out the stops, helping each other along the way, racing to the end, and finally a finish of delirious contentment. Runners know how to tap into that childlike bewilderment and that untethered push, where we don't feel pain or limitation or obligation.


Group run. Your chance to feel whole.


When I think, “Let me sing to you the song of my people,” I hear grunts, run steps, slipping gravel, rustling leaves. I schedule these runs for myself as much as anyone else. Some runs are on challenging singletrack trails, some on winding dirt-packed forest floor, a few along rail-to-trail and once a month, through town. I cherish the opportunity to have access to invite “my people.”

Turnout is typically between eight and 16, and the consensus is always that “this was the best time ever.” It doesn’t matter if we have a fall along the way or gear failure or sore muscles or a run-in with a wild beast. Always, the sense of tribe is the end result. Your filter is removed when you push yourself physically, and what you’re left with is honesty. “This is as fast as I go.” “This is as far as I go.” “I’m going to throw up.” The people I run with probably have better insight as to who I am and what I can take at the core than members of my own family.


A group run is a thing of stress and worry for me a few days or hours beforehand. Not only do I feel jacked up by the whole process, I simultaneously feel tired and anxious and kind of like I’d rather do something else. Weird stuff. Within the first few seconds of hopping into the car, I decompress and feel that everything is right with the world. I leave the stresses of home behind and realize THOSE were the weights that made me think the run was a problem. I sometimes have to crack a window just to keep sweat at bay. I crank up the stereo and think over whatever gear I might need to pull out of my ever-ready run bag, a fixture in the trunk, when I arrive. As I drive closer, the music is turned down, and I find supreme focus.


My dedication to these runs never ACTUALLY waivers, but it’s very much just a piece of a clustered life. When I schedule, prepare and even struggle getting my shoulders through the teeny-tiny openings of a sports bra (you know what I’m talking about), these are all just more “means to my ends.” The kids’ voices never stop, the need to have everything prepared for myself AND for abandoning the household, those are all weights that I get the opportunity to run out from under for that hour or two.
 

Group run. Where you shed the preconceived notion of individual and find your place amongst a mass. I think a lot of people race for this very reason. That united feeling of fatigue and exhilaration is unlike anything you can experience otherwise. So, group run. Go find your people. On a whim, albeit a strong one, I found my people at a trailhead in a strange place just before dark. I wasn’t sure if I’d even be able to keep up. It has changed my adult life. I never had this kind of fun at a bar or home watching TV or even vacationing. Group runs give me “self recharge” and primal recognition to my part in the whole.

Channel the inner ninja.  Stealth runs, in the dark, in the woods, dependent on your group, there's nothing like it.

If you don’t run, start. If you do run, group run. At least once a month.

Meghan McCarrick lives in Washington, Mo., eats copious amounts of kale and runs 30 to 50 miles a week, usually with her dog, Magpie.

Seriously?! A race report for the Blue Springs 50/50

By Andy Smola

I want to start by saying the people I spoke/interacted with were all very nice. Anything read in this report is not a personal attack on anyone. There were a lot of problems with this race that could be easily remedied and some ethical questions that should probably be addressed. The biggest question is why these things have continued to occur since the race has been around for multiple years.

Check-In/Registration
I had a feeling things weren't going to go well from the beginning. Maybe I'm a little odd in the way I do things, but I'm generally conscientious of other people's inconvenience. So when the check-in was located in a corner booth at Fazoli's, my radar was already on high alert. Who would create such a bogged down process. At a Fazoli's. In a corner booth. Someone unorganized, that's who. It didn't help that the t-shirt was cotton and was not race or distance specific. Since this would be my first attempt at "real" ultramarathoning, I had a higher expectation. However, despite my initial thoughts (and after getting reassuring messages from Meghan), I decided it wasn't a big deal. Not only was it only $35, I wasn't doing the event for a t-shirt, just my own curiosity and a stepping stone to further future distances. 

Race Day/The Start
I woke up at 3am to eat and planned to go back to sleep. Yeah right. I was up watching comedy on Netflix. Aziz Ansari cracks me up and always chills me out before a race. I headed to the race start and got my gear together. I was ready in plenty of time. At about 10 minutes to start time, the Race Director, Lou, walks around asking for people's names so he can see who is starting at the early (optional) start time. 

"Make sure I get your name if you're starting at 6. You have about two minutes," Lou announces. 4 or 5 people come running up (those people are at every race I've ever been to) to make sure they are checked off. As we are standing there, Lou looks at his watch and says, "Uh oh, it's after 6. Go." For a split second we all look around confused, but then realize that's the "start." Off into the darkness we head. At the first intersection I get to, I'm lost. I look at the people behind me and they say, "we thought you knew where you were going." With no clear markings near or on the road, we begin looking around until someone points to the other side of the road. Off into the darkness we head again.

My plan was to keep myself at a 9 minute pace for most of the race. I had lofty ideas of an 8 hour finish, but figured a reasonable estimate would be a sub-9 hour. A 10 minute pace would be 8 hours 20 minutes. I thought that would give me a lot of cushion as I ventured out into the 19 unknown miles. 

There was a warning on the FAQ section of the BS 50/50 website (last updated in 2011) that said if you started at 6am, the first few aid stations would not be set up. I wouldn't see the first one until mile 8 (every "4" miles), but they only had a couple of bottles of water the guy had brought with him. I had my vest on so I wasn't concerned. I stopped anyway to fill up my smaller water bottles that were filled with dry Perpetuem. 

As I headed out, a group of three were right in front of me so I stayed with them. They were holding pretty steadily between 9 and 9:30 pace, so I ran with them. Two guys running the 50 miler and one gal running 50k. This is where I met Russell. 

The Mistake
Russell and I started talking. As it turns out, that would not be a very good idea for either of us. We learned a lot about each other as the miles ticked by. We had become separated from the others and were blazing a path to superstar glory. At the turn around and the aid station that followed, there was no check in or anyone to make sure no one cut the course. 

As I headed back to the start/finish line, I ate my peanut butter and honey sandwich. Russell and I began discussing our pace. We were holding an 8:30 most of the way back. We kept trying to tell each to slow down, but in the end we got lost in conversation.

After a quick stop at mile 22, we headed out only to realize the mistake we made. Our previously effortless pace was now much more difficult. By mile 25, Russell said he needed to walk. We did, but then I headed out. I was determine to hold the pace. I made my way to the next turn around. Here I found an unmanned "aid station." A water jug. No one taking names or checking numbers. I filled up my water bottle and headed out. I met Russell a 100 yards from the turn around. He was doing well. We were both tired. At mile 27, the first wave of cramps began to hit. Hamstrings. I was forced to walk and stretch, but I kept moving. Once they let up, I would start running again, determined to hold at least a 9 minute pace. 

Instead of slowing down as I seized up, I kept my pace to make up for my walking. I was back at the 50k start/finish line. Personal 50k records of 4:47 are not good when you have 19 more miles. Despite my bib having "50 miler" on it, the photographer stopped me at the line and ask to take a "finisher" picture. I looked at him and said, "I still have 19 to go." I change my shoes and started out again. 

The Unknown
I was struggling. I was hurting. I was walking. After a half mile, an older man and his pacer passed me. I mumbled to myself, "there's going to be a lot more that pass me at the rate I'm going." I waited a bit and started running myself. I was really in bad shape. The intercostal muscles of my ribs were very angry and screamed in pain when I tried to take a deep breath. As if that was not enough, my back hurt from my vest. Not from bouncing or rubbing, but from just being there. Any jostling was difficult to tolerate. My hamstrings continued with their threats of cramping. I was in a bad place.

As I started my walk/run method, I noticed the man and his pacer were walking in front of me. I passed him. I walked. He passed me. He walked. As we went back and forth, I realized I would not be able to stay in front of him if I ran based on how I felt. I needed to start doing so mechanically. I started walking for 1/20 of a mile and running for a 1/10 of a mile. I don't know how long I kept that up, at some point I looked back and there was no trace of the man and his pacer.

At mile 39, I arrived at the first manned aid station. I walked in and the volunteers were laying on the picnic table seats talking about husbands and relationships. They asked if I needed anything, but didn't make any attempt to get up. I asked for a water refill and one of them stood. I took off my pack and made several attempts to open the bladder, as the attendant stood and watched with a full pitcher of water. I was hot, dehydrated and miserable. It was difficult to focus on the clasp, but I finally opened it. She filled the bladder and I hurried to get it back on in fear I would be caught by my pursuer. Before I donned my vest, the two ladies were back to discussing domesticated life in the burbs. 

My run/walk method continued, but became more walk than run. About 20 steps is all I could muster before I stopped to catch my breath. I tried to eat too. But everything I tried was tasteless, spitting out chocolate powerbar. I might as well be eating dirt. The perpetuem was like drinking warm strawberry-banana flavored vomit. The only thing satisfying was water. Unfortunately, it was becoming more difficult to find. All the unmanned aid stations were empty or near empty jugs of water. 

By mile 40, I was looking around every corner for the turn around. It all look so familiar. "It's around this bend, I know it," I said to myself. But as I looked around every tree, I became more deeply disappointed. Nothing but dry dusty trail.

Finally, I made it to the turn around (again, unmanned with no one to make sure you didn't cut the course). A small family was walking by it as I made it there. I felt a little weird passing them, only to turn around and follow them. So I started running. I WAS in a race after all. All I managed was the standard 20 steps before resuming the walk portion.

At about a half mile from the turn around I spotted my pursuer. Running. He's a full mile behind me, but I was sure it wouldn't be long before he would catch me. I tried to increase my walk/run intervals but could not bear it. I even began thinking it was all in my head. That I had plenty of energy and I just hadn't been trying hard enough because I got so used to walking. I started running and looked down. My watch showed an 8:30 pace. It seemed easier. I thought I might just pull this thing off. I thought I just got my second wind. 

10 seconds later I was stopped, bent over trying to release the cramps in my legs and gasping for air. 

Guess not.

Another half mile passed and I found Russell. He had sat down on a concrete barrier. I stopped to talk to him. He was cramping, walking and miserable, but still going. He said he gave up running and is just going to walk the rest of the way. I told him I would see him at the finish and to keep going. I needed to keep going too, sure the man and his pacer would catch me at any moment.

I made it back to the aid station and refilled my water again. They asked me if I wanted food. All they had were some doughnuts and bananas. I sat down and ate a banana. They asked me how close the others were. I said I didn't know, got up and headed out again.

It continued to get hotter. My spongy cooling rag became dry and stiff. I tried to soak it in water at the last unmanned aid station, but there was no water. I continued on, frequently looking behind me to see the man who would most certainly catch me. At one point I walked backwards for quite a while to see if I could catch a glimpse of him. He never appeared. 

At some point in the last 4 miles I broke down emotionally. I was miserable. I couldn't see going any further. The longer I walked, the longer it would take. I tried to run but still didn't make it more than 20 steps. I felt hopeless. 

And then I laughed out loud.

I was crying, but no tears welled up in my eyes. I had the horrible "cry face," but none of the water works. I was so dehydrated that no tears would fall. How ridiculous! It was then that it occurred to me: I was almost done. That I had come this far. That this, too, would eventually end. I pulled myself together, walking faster and, while it was still only 20 step, continued to run.

The Finish
I was within a quarter mile and I could see the finishing area. I looked over my shoulder again, sure that the man would pleasantly say hello as he jogged by. No man. No pacer. No hello.

As I closed in on the last 1/10 of a mile, I told myself I was going to run it in. It was downhill, I told myself. It was the finish and no respectable finisher would be caught walking to the finish, I told myself.

I walked. I didn't even try to run.

I came to my glorious moment. My pains and breakthroughs all coalescing in the final finishing moment. The cheers and bells would be deafening, even if it were only coming from two people. The moment captured in time with a photo that I would look at and say to all those who would listen, "that was when I finished my 50 mile run."

"What distance did you run?" was what I heard. "50 miles," I replied. 

"How far are the others behind you?"

"I don't know."

That was it. No picture. No grand finish.

I sat on the curb. Exhausted, but happy that it was over. The sun baking my skin. No shade. I just sat there. Then I heard, "let me get a picture of you." Lou pulled out a little, and ancient, digital camera that may have been an instamatic (still haven't seen that picture).

The other man asked if I needed anything. "Water," I said. He brought over a Dixie cup and poured me some water. I drink it. He asked if I wanted some Gatorade. "Sure,"I replied. He walks to his van and pulls out a gallon jug filled with red fluid. He pours me the Gatorade. I realize it's warm once I hold it in my hand, but I don't care. I drink it. 

It's not warm. It's hot.

It settles down into my stomach. Hot, sugary fruit punch. As the seconds tick by, my mouth floods with saliva. I'm going to hurl. I realize I cannot get up and do not want spew all over my shoes, body or on anything close to me, because I will have to sit next to it for a while.

"Can you get me a bag?  I'm gonna puke." I say out loud.

A lady returns with a trash bag and I realize it may be that I just need to get blood back to my head. I lay back on the hot grass taking deep breaths. The sensation passes and I sit back up. 

Lou is standing in front of me with cardboard box. At this point I think that I am the first person from the 50 miler that has come in. He says, "here's a prize in this box, you can take your pick," and sets the box on the plastic bin next to me. Solar powered dancing flowers and one Frankenstein. 

Of course I take the Frankenstein.

I take off my shoes and socks, cramping the whole time. I start grabbing my gear and walk stiffly to my car. I begin wondering how I'm going to drive if I keep cramping so bad, but continue to gather my things. I sit in the car with the air blasting and my calf muscles threatening to cramp. It's 91 degrees and I'm staring at Frankenstein.

I'll never run this far again, I tell myself.

Recovery
I made it back to my friend's home, took a shower and ate some sugary food. Nothing tasted good, so I didn't have more than a bite. I laid down on his couch and tried to nap, but I was violently awoken by leg cramps. "I'll never do this again," I repeatedly muttered. 

By Monday, I was better, not 100%, but emotionally I was in a much better place. I was willing to entertain the "possibility" of another Ultra. By Tuesday, moving better and by Wednesday I was running again, shocked at the difference only three days had made.

Race Summary/Recommendation
There are obvious problems with this race. At the top of my concerns are the ethical issues of not having checklists of names to make sure no one cuts the course. Not that anyone would do such a thing, but who would know if someone did? For all I know, the person who actually got 1st place never made it to the 50 mile turn around.

The aid stations were a joke. The volunteers were not helpful. And the overall support for the 50 milers was nonexistent. No medals or buckles. No race specific t-shirts. Other distances might have had a better experience, but the 50 miler sucked! It seems like it was an afterthought. My recommendation would be for them to drop the 50 mile distance. The 5 people that registered seemed more like a pain in the ass to the RD and volunteers. 

I would not recommend this race to anyone.