ITR 2016 Marin Ultra Challenge 50M, El Nino, El Viejo, y El Idiota
El Nino, the boy child, slammed the NorCal region a week ago and
again last weekend, and made a muck of the MUC 50. Forecasts changed
from day to day, at one point looking really good, but that wasn’t to be
our luck.
The morning started fairly dry, or at least had some dry spells. Last year, this course had an unexpected humid heat wave and took out a few good runners. Not this year. Thanks to El Nino, the rains had run amok.
When the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, what would be the chances that my plans to shed a jacket mid-morning would be a good choice? No surprise, poor choice, that the afternoon would prove to be too wet, even for a duck.
El Viejo, the old, one of us pushing 50 years, the other pulling 50, set out on this rainy day just to see if we could run 50 miles up and down 11,000 ft. Anil and I had the bright idea that Ramiro should run his first 50 here, and to think, he listened to a pair of running idiots. I guess that makes him our schmuck.
The morning started out fine, as they usually do, aside from Ramiro getting lost and Anil getting pulled over by the police asking what are all the bags being transferred from car to car. We only had periods of light rain. After greeting Bree, Cece and Kowsik, Ramiro and I started off together but by the time we reached the summit-top at Cardiac aid station, the weather really started to suck.
The wind blew the rain sideways but we quickly got into the Mt Tam forest on the famed Dipsea Steps. The peace of the flowing creeks and green canopy were interrupted by CHihping coming up behind us, exclaiming, “I’m sick, so sick”. I think he just got back from Taiwan two days ago. Such a drama queen. He didn’t even upchuck.
Next came the infamous Willow Camp climb, 1700 ft in 2 miles. Your first time, it will be the most horrendous experience you could imagine going through as a “runner”. Your second time, well, my second time, I thought it was just awesome. The steep hill keeps climbing longer than you think it rightfully could, disappearing twice into the trees, and then reappearing again revealing yet more climbing. You could console yourself, with the thought that at least we’re getting our bang for the buck.
Chihping unsurprisingly recovered and overtook us on the hill. The next section across the ridge on the Coastal Trail proved to be a bear. With howling winds and pelting rain, we had to get off the mountain to safety or risk hypothermia. Having been here twice before, I encouraged a group of runners to make haste for a wooded section ahead. They all struggled but at least we made it. We also hit the restroom at Pantoll Park, and if you’ve never had a mid-ultrarun BM, well, all I can say is you’re missing out. Hyperboles are often misplaced, but the joy of a MUBM cannot be overstated. Now running like fairies down through Muir Woods, we crossed one beautiful cascading creek after another, often having to run through ankle or calf deep water as by now the afternoon’s predicted steady rain had arrived. The beauty of the woods was only interrupted, too many times, by Ramiro warning, “tengo pedo”. Geesh, Ramiro, how much “pedo” do you have? More climbing, more descending, more fording, before finally arriving at Deer Park aid station. We were 30 minutes from cutoff and the aid station was sorely out of most rations. Making the remaining cutoffs would require some pluck.
Ramiro and I made a steady climb up the Miwok trail. This is, in my opinion, the hardest hill of the MUC. It comes late in the race, but not late enough that finish-line-of-sight can carry you through. The sky started getting darker and our clothes even wetter. Ramiro’s jacket had drenched through. With his pace slowed by cramping, and now near hypothermia, in Muir Beach at mile 40, we were stuck.
El Idiota, the idiot, that’s me, and chances are, if you’re reading this, it’s you, too. My Greater Idiot of Ultrarunning theory is that one only gets into this “sport” because he or she is led on by an even bigger idiot. I have the privilege and responsibility of playing Ramiro’s bigger idiot having led him to the point where he said, “Why, yes, running in freezing rain for 11 hours was fun”. I have my own bigger idiots, of course, but my inner idiot though, “Why, yes, I’m only 30 minutes ahead of cutoff, I have 10 miles, 2 big climbs, it’s getting dark and it’s still raining. Of course, I’ll just keep running by myself.” I’ll need more than dumb luck.
After wasting the next 5 minutes trying to signal the troops at home, I took off up Green Gulch and towards the last aid station at Tennessee Valley. The sky was rapidly turning dark, but I had made up some time. With reduced urgency, finally getting to an aid station with a drop bag, I changed into dry shirts and, for some godforsaken reason, dry (very-soon-to-be-wet) socks, and grabbed my “headlamp” and then up the Marincello trail. I thought, well, I’m not the only idiot here, because all the other idiots were still wearing their headlamp while I was carrying mine like a fog lamp. That slightly less idiotic move helped me ramble through the last 4 miles, finishing an hour ahead of cutoff, and to the potluck.
The ghost of Chihping hit me twice on the way home though. My stomach gave way twice. Wretch, barf, puke, up-chuck.
You might ask, would I ever do this again? Do you even know me? Why the f*ck wouldn’t I?
Thanks ITR, and very special thanks to the volunteers who braved hours in the storm! I am awestruck!
The morning started fairly dry, or at least had some dry spells. Last year, this course had an unexpected humid heat wave and took out a few good runners. Not this year. Thanks to El Nino, the rains had run amok.
When the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, what would be the chances that my plans to shed a jacket mid-morning would be a good choice? No surprise, poor choice, that the afternoon would prove to be too wet, even for a duck.
El Viejo, the old, one of us pushing 50 years, the other pulling 50, set out on this rainy day just to see if we could run 50 miles up and down 11,000 ft. Anil and I had the bright idea that Ramiro should run his first 50 here, and to think, he listened to a pair of running idiots. I guess that makes him our schmuck.
The morning started out fine, as they usually do, aside from Ramiro getting lost and Anil getting pulled over by the police asking what are all the bags being transferred from car to car. We only had periods of light rain. After greeting Bree, Cece and Kowsik, Ramiro and I started off together but by the time we reached the summit-top at Cardiac aid station, the weather really started to suck.
The wind blew the rain sideways but we quickly got into the Mt Tam forest on the famed Dipsea Steps. The peace of the flowing creeks and green canopy were interrupted by CHihping coming up behind us, exclaiming, “I’m sick, so sick”. I think he just got back from Taiwan two days ago. Such a drama queen. He didn’t even upchuck.
Next came the infamous Willow Camp climb, 1700 ft in 2 miles. Your first time, it will be the most horrendous experience you could imagine going through as a “runner”. Your second time, well, my second time, I thought it was just awesome. The steep hill keeps climbing longer than you think it rightfully could, disappearing twice into the trees, and then reappearing again revealing yet more climbing. You could console yourself, with the thought that at least we’re getting our bang for the buck.
Chihping unsurprisingly recovered and overtook us on the hill. The next section across the ridge on the Coastal Trail proved to be a bear. With howling winds and pelting rain, we had to get off the mountain to safety or risk hypothermia. Having been here twice before, I encouraged a group of runners to make haste for a wooded section ahead. They all struggled but at least we made it. We also hit the restroom at Pantoll Park, and if you’ve never had a mid-ultrarun BM, well, all I can say is you’re missing out. Hyperboles are often misplaced, but the joy of a MUBM cannot be overstated. Now running like fairies down through Muir Woods, we crossed one beautiful cascading creek after another, often having to run through ankle or calf deep water as by now the afternoon’s predicted steady rain had arrived. The beauty of the woods was only interrupted, too many times, by Ramiro warning, “tengo pedo”. Geesh, Ramiro, how much “pedo” do you have? More climbing, more descending, more fording, before finally arriving at Deer Park aid station. We were 30 minutes from cutoff and the aid station was sorely out of most rations. Making the remaining cutoffs would require some pluck.
Ramiro and I made a steady climb up the Miwok trail. This is, in my opinion, the hardest hill of the MUC. It comes late in the race, but not late enough that finish-line-of-sight can carry you through. The sky started getting darker and our clothes even wetter. Ramiro’s jacket had drenched through. With his pace slowed by cramping, and now near hypothermia, in Muir Beach at mile 40, we were stuck.
El Idiota, the idiot, that’s me, and chances are, if you’re reading this, it’s you, too. My Greater Idiot of Ultrarunning theory is that one only gets into this “sport” because he or she is led on by an even bigger idiot. I have the privilege and responsibility of playing Ramiro’s bigger idiot having led him to the point where he said, “Why, yes, running in freezing rain for 11 hours was fun”. I have my own bigger idiots, of course, but my inner idiot though, “Why, yes, I’m only 30 minutes ahead of cutoff, I have 10 miles, 2 big climbs, it’s getting dark and it’s still raining. Of course, I’ll just keep running by myself.” I’ll need more than dumb luck.
After wasting the next 5 minutes trying to signal the troops at home, I took off up Green Gulch and towards the last aid station at Tennessee Valley. The sky was rapidly turning dark, but I had made up some time. With reduced urgency, finally getting to an aid station with a drop bag, I changed into dry shirts and, for some godforsaken reason, dry (very-soon-to-be-wet) socks, and grabbed my “headlamp” and then up the Marincello trail. I thought, well, I’m not the only idiot here, because all the other idiots were still wearing their headlamp while I was carrying mine like a fog lamp. That slightly less idiotic move helped me ramble through the last 4 miles, finishing an hour ahead of cutoff, and to the potluck.
The ghost of Chihping hit me twice on the way home though. My stomach gave way twice. Wretch, barf, puke, up-chuck.
You might ask, would I ever do this again? Do you even know me? Why the f*ck wouldn’t I?
Thanks ITR, and very special thanks to the volunteers who braved hours in the storm! I am awestruck!
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