New2Crew

(Want to read the other two posts about the race? There's an introduction and a part one.)

Once my decision was made to jump crews, I hot-footed it back to where Frank's two vans were parked to help strip them and get them ready to be returned to the rental agency. When I arrived, I found out that Christina, one of my crewmates who was going onto another crew, too, would be taking one van filled with all the supplies we hadn't used to distribute them among the remaining racers. "I'm going to be the ice fairy," she told me. Frank and Nilsa were not only giving away everything we'd bought at Walmart, but they were also leaving one of the vans with Christina to use in support of Scott D'Angelo and crew, and they were taking Kass and the other van back to LAS so they could all return home.

We said our goodbyes (I checked my tears until the van pulled away), and then Christina and I parted to go find our respective new crews.

Team Ulrich was just about ready to transition, so I stuffed a sandwich, some M&Ms, and Diet Coke (don't judge) down my gullet and got ready to head out on the road again. So far, all I had done was to drive on the course -- I had yet even to carry water for anyone, so I was eager to do some real crewing.

But I had to wait a little longer ... no sooner had we gone out, just beyond Stovepipe Wells, than Marshall Ulrich announced that there was no sense pushing up to Towne Pass at this time of day with the sun beating down and a hot wind blowing.

"Let's take a nap."

Do you find this as funny as I did? A nap? I doubt this was a first, but it was fairly unorthodox. Marsh said that he'd like to lay down for a couple of hours until the sun set, then go up the mountain. He might not normally have done this, but for him, the Badwater Ultramarathon was more like a warm-up, as he'd be heading out for the first-ever circumambulation around the entire perimeter Death Valley National Park just three days after completing the race. That's about a 500-mile trek, taken over about 20 days, doing about a marathon distance each day, in extreme heat: an unprecedented, seriously hardcore endeavor.

"I don't want to burn myself out."

All right, that one is even more funny, because I think absolutely every other racer on the course would be inclined to say that burnout is inevitable at Badwater. But then Marsh isn't much like any other athlete. He has done more than a hundred foot races averaging over 125 miles each, completed 12 expedition-length adventure races, and climbed the Seven Summits (including Mt. Everest) all on his first attempts. A few years ago, he ran across the United States, from San Francisco to New York City, setting the master's and grand master's records.

So, anyway. We all laid down for a couple of hours. I joked, "I'm telling people I slept with Marshall Ulrich!" Okay, his wife was cuddled up next to him while I was in a separate bed, and I never did actually sleep, but ... 

We got up after the sun went down and started the ascent to Towne Pass (4,956 feet). On Marsh's crew, they divide duties a little differently, with one person as the "wheelman" who drives and logs meds, etc., another doing "kitchen" duty (mixing drinks, pulling snacks for both runner and crew), and a third "gimping" (running the food, drinks, lip stuff, and any medications out to the runner, walking a few steps, and then running back to the van), without any consistent pacing.

With Heather at the wheel and Theresa in the kitchen, I began as the gimp -- hurrah, I was crewing! And then at some point, I wound up pacing Marsh. Did he ask me to do that? Or did Heather? Sorry, by then it was at least 9pm, and I'd been up for about 17 hours and I'd be up for many more after that, so I can't remember. All I know is that, with the wind howling, the stars brilliant overhead, and the Milky Way living up to its name (honestly, it looks completely different with no light pollution out in the desert), I started tromping along behind Marshall. He wasn't feeling so great, getting a little nauseous as we climbed. He was still fast, and I had to keep moving to stay with him. 

Again, owing to sleep deprivation, I'm unsure of how long or how far I went with Marsh. Five miles? Ten? I remember thinking to myself, when I climbed back into the van after a bathroom break, that I had covered about eight. And then I went back out again. But who knows ... the distance from Stovepipe to Towne is about 16mi, so it was something less than that. 

Keep in mind that this was now close to 60 miles into the race. Even as I marveled at the night sky, I also found Marsh's persistence to be mesmerizing. Fairly often that night, his gate switched from his natural, normal way of going to something otherworldly, as if he were animating his body with his own spirit, willing it to keep moving beyond fatigue, dizziness, and whatever else was weighing on him. We talked little, but I hope my presence behind him was some comfort.

After daybreak, Marsh perked back up. Again, my memory fails a bit here. I'd worked in the "kitchen" for some part of the night and into the morning, and then I'm not sure where we were exactly, just that I got back out to pace again for a while when we got close to a place where Badwater runners place superhero figures in the mini-caves along a rocky mountainside. And then again across a flat place where we saw our first Joshua trees.

Here's Marsh and me in one of our chattier moments:

And, after I'd been up for about 30hrs straight, Heather sent Theresa and me on to Lone Pine to check into a hotel and get some rest. Also a blur, except I know that was the first time I had a chance to call home and talk with my husband and son. I was still a bit high on adrenaline (amazing how sustained that can be), but I was starting to crash. My husband, who was following along online, told me that the first runners had come in. The first-place finisher Mark Morton had missed setting a course record by two minutes and finished in under 24 hours, and Art Webb had set a new record for runners over 70 by finishing in 33:45:40.

After a shower (probably TMI, but when I took my shoes off, the odor about knocked me over, so I put them outside my hotel room and shoved my socks into an airtight bag), I hit the hay. Completely knackered, I passed out for about four hours, and when I woke up, it was still remarkably cool. 

Then, shazam! Change of clothes, and I was out the door in search of food. Sheesh, I was hungry! I don't normally eat fast food, but a turkey burger and fries from Carl's Jr. (?) was just the ticket. Theresa and I picked up a few milkshakes for the rest of the crew and then headed down the road to find them and take their dinner orders. It was about 7pm, and we expected Marsh to arrive in Lone Pine around 8.

But as we headed to the outskirts of Lone Pine, there he was. He had moved even faster since I'd last seen him. Holy cow. I whipped out my cell phone and called Heather at her hotel room to let her know he was coming through already, threw it back in my pack, and then took off at a jog with a chocolate milkshake and a big smile for the guys. (That's when my phone popped out of my pack and hit the ground. Some kind soul picked it up and gave it to one of my crewmates, Rick, but the thing had stopped working altogether. Oh, well.)

So we got pizza for the departing crew and figured out who would go with Marsh during the last 13 miles up to the portals of Mt. Whitney (8,360 feet): Heather, Perry, Rick, and I would have the honor. We strapped on our night gear again (reflective vest, headlamp, red flasher on the back), and we were off. I made sure I had my fleece in my pack, as it was only going to get cooler as we went up. The high during the entire race was just over 100. Most of the time when I was crewing, it was in the 80s and 90s, and at one point, it had dipped into the 70s, and I'd felt COLD.

The last 21 times Marshall has made this final ascent, he's felt great, exhilarated to be coming to the finish and going uphill, which is usually his forte. In fact, his usual routine is to pick off a bunch of runners coming to the finish, break the tape, take a nap, and then go back to the portals and climb all the way to the top at 14,505 feet.

For some reason, though, he started to stagger in the climb. He was incredibly tired, and at one point, he stopped for a brief (10min?) rest. And then he continued.

About 5mi shy of the end, Heather hopped out of the van and went the rest of the way with Marsh and Perry. She'd done this before, nearing the top of Towne's Pass, when Marsh had continued to feel puny, as her presence lifts his spirits, makes it just a tiny bit easier for him to press on.

Rick and I stayed in the van with him at the wheel (dropping into deep sleep every time we stopped and then wide awake to drive to the next turnout), and me doing both kitchen and gimp duty, which wasn't a hardship, since the road had narrowed considerably, and Marsh wasn't interested in eating anything except a couple of Tums.

When we got within 2mi of the top, Marsh waved Rick and me on, telling us to go park and then come back down so we could all cross the finish line together. Seriously, I have no idea how he remembered to suggest that in the state he was in, but that's pretty much classic Ulrich behavior: no matter how bad it gets, he and Heather still think about other people.

So Rick and I cruised up to park the van, found Theresa at the top, and then Theresa and I walked down to join hands with Perry, Heather, and Marsh as he broke the tape. Rick moved off to take photos, as he had been documenting the whole race with film and stills.

And then he did it: Marshall Ulrich completed his 18th Badwater Ultramarathon and his 24th crossing of Death Valley on foot in 41:55:39.

Rick snapped this pic of me and Marsh just after the finish:

See that finisher's medal hanging around his neck? Marsh sent it home with me to give to my six-year-old son. It's a treasure for sure! (No, I didn't just hand it over. I'm keeping it in a special place until my little one is big enough to appreciate what he's been given.) Of course, Marsh will put the coveted Badwater belt buckle in a case with the 17 others he's earned on this brutal course.

I may, in some future post, write a postcript about what I learned through all of this, what impression it made on me, and also about how I can't remember where my swimsuit and favorite underwear are and how I got a really snazzy new phone, about my lame attempts at "skeet shooting" at Fr. Crowley's and the little pair of pink shoes we put on a gravesite, but I want to let more time pass before I wax philosophical. Until then ...

Sincere, hearty, Badwater-sized thanks go especially to my friends and family who told me I could do it, who cheered when I had successes, who encouraged me during setbacks, and who donated to support the Caring House Project Foundation, a nonprofit that builds entire self-sustaining villages in Haiti under Frank and Nilsa McKinney's direction.

By the way, you can still make a donation (in case you put it off, forgot, or are just now inspired to do so):

$1/mile, or $135 = http://goo.gl/iDyXg

$10/mile, or $1,035 = http://goo.gl/m987e

$30/mile, or $4,050 = http://goo.gl/hEpXW

Great gratitude goes, too, to Marshall and Heather Ulrich, who allowed me to worm my way into a truly phenomenal experience. And to all of my crewmates, Christina, Kass, Perry, Rick, Theresa, Roger, and Linda.

Of course, I also want to express my appreciation again to Frank and Nilsa, who had the confidence in me to ask me along for this adventure in the first place. You two are indescribably rich in character and such incredible advocates and action-takers on behalf of the poor.

(Have you read the introduction to this story first? It's about our arrival in the desert and the days leading up to the race.)

Monday, 7/16. The Good Girls of Badwater were up at 4 a.m. to pack the van and get to the starting line by 5:30. Dunno when Frank woke up -- probably earlier, as all of us were anxious and eager to get this race underway. The night before, Nilsa had carefully taped his toes to help prevent blisters, so all we had to do was load up and move out. Frank seemed pretty calm, joking with us about his Spongebob pants with Patrick Star on one leg and the motto, "Chicks dig me," on the other.

Yes, I agreed. Frank, these chicks dig you!

We arrived at Badwater Basin just as the sun was coming up, glowing orange and red over the mountains. The salt pan gave the illusion of being watery then looked dry again, depending on how the light hit it. (See more photos in my Facebook album.)

At the lowest elevation in the United States, 282 feet below sea level, the mood was surprisingly light, perhaps because many of the starters toeing the line at 6 a.m. were veterans. This would be Frank's 7th go at Badwater, and his compadres that morning included Art Webb (a 70-year-old who's done this more than a dozen times and whose signature skip-step helps you pick him out from the crowd) and Marshall Ulrich (a 61-year-old who's run this race more times than anyone else and won it more times than anyone else, as well as set course records), plus a host of other "old-timers" who return to cross the desert year after year, punishing themselves on a course National Geographic calls the toughest footrace in the world.

Right at 6, the start whistle blew, and they were off. Crew members scattered to their vans and began leapfrogging their runners mile by mile. In other words, a mile ahead of Frank, we pulled the van over on the right shoulder to wait for him. As he ran up, one of us jumped out of the van with water or food or whatnot, crossed the road (carefully, since they don't stop tourist traffic for this race) to meet him, took anything he wanted to get rid of, then crossed back over and hopped back into the van so we could pull it ahead another mile. The first 17 miles of the course are like this, as no one under 60 years old is allowed a "pacer" until you arrive at the first checkpoint at Furnace Creek.

After Furnace Creek, all runners are allowed to have someone go behind them, carrying water, sprayer, ice, lip balm, gum, Gu, you name it. Our plan was to have one of us pacing Frank pretty much the entire race.

Each time we saw Frank, he was moderating his speed, taking care not to go out too fast despite the unseasonably cool temperature that morning (90s). In a race like this, "banking" time is foolhardy -- better to start slow then slow down, as Frank says, so you can finish strong. The end of the race is a 13-mile ascent up a very steep grade to the Mt. Whitney portals at over 8,000 feet in elevation. Never mind the grind of the 122 miles preceding, including two other nearly 5,000-foot mountains to climb on the way.

Because this blog has been largely about my own training leading up to this race, I need to contrast that with the kinds of things Frank did to prepare himself:

While I sat and baked in the 150F sauna, wiggling my toes at the air coming in under the door, Frank was running on a treadmill inside a sauna, cranking it up to even higher temperatures.

Think push-ups and planks and burpees are tough? Try hauling a tire tied to your waist mile after mile to strengthen your core. Frank did that frequently, especially because the area where he lives is flat, so he wanted to simulate hill running.

My long-distance runs are typically about 6mi. Frank's? 50-plus.

And then he went out to Death Valley a week ahead of the race to acclimate himself further to the heat and get his head around the upcoming effort.

So, yes, he's in great condition. And he was moving along the course, looking good, until about mile 20. I don't know how much of this he wants made public, so suffice it to say that he had a medical issue come up that got all of our attention. He thought he might be able to work it out on the move, so he got back out on the course to give it a go. But, no, this wasn't resolving itself. We headed to the medic at Stovepipe Wells, who advised against going any farther. All that preparation, all the build-up, and now he had to make a heartbreaking decision: to DNF, which stands for "did not finish." (You can read more about this on Frank's blog.)

For Frank, the race was over before he'd logged his first marathon distance.

Crushed for him, I thought I'd just go home. He suggested that I try to hook up with Marshall Ulrich's crew, see if they wanted my help. (Frank had introduced me to Marsh -- one of his heroes -- a few years ago, and we'd become friends.) No, I reasoned, I didn't come for this race. I came because I wanted to see Frank through this thing.

I did want to let Marsh and his wife, Heather, know what was going on. As luck would have it, I found Heather in her hotel room there at Stovepipe. I had said no more than "Frank had to stop," than Heather beamed at me and offered, "You want a job?" I blinked at her, a little bleary from the rush of emotion and a bit of fatigue that had set in (it was now mid-afternoon). "This is awful for Frank, but we'd love to have you. I'll give you a job!"

And then I started to think about my own months of training, about the money I'd spent to get out there, about how it would make Frank feel if I bailed out, about how much I liked Marsh and Heather.

Okay, yes! It was on. We'd meet up with Marsh and relieve their first shift of crew: Theresa Daus-Weber (who had written the very book I'd read to help prepare for this event), Heather Ulrich, and I would go out to crew the endurance king himself.

Spending hours in the sauna, doing intense workouts, reading books and making lists -- none of it gave me any idea of what I was getting into. 

Friday, 7/13. After a night's rest in a swanky boutique hotel in Las Vegas, I met up with the rest of our all-female crew (nicknamed "The Good Girls of Badwater" by our runner, Frank McKinney) at the LAS airport, picked up our van, and headed to the desert. We stopped in Pahrump, known especially for its goofy name and large number of brothels. Classy! At Walmart, we loaded up with coolers, bins, food, incidentals like duct tape and baby wipes, and 41 gallons of water; the tab exceeded $800. In short, it was a lot of stuff, but our crew chief and Frank's wife, Nilsa, has got this bit wired. She's helped him run this race six times previously, so she knows exactly what we need to keep him and us going over the 135-mile course through Death Valley.

Now, here's something: Either I wasn't listening or chose to forget, or Frank didn't want to scare me, but what I didn't understand until we were all there was that three of us would be "pacing" (running behind) Frank during the entire race. Somehow, I'd gotten it into my head that I would be schlepping stuff in and out of the van to him, occasionally doing a mile here and there. My training had all been driven by the idea that I wanted to get in the best possible condition so that I could survive the heat, not so that I could actually run a third of this race. 45 miles. Oops. The most I've ever done consecutively is about 8.

Frank allayed some of my fears (me? run at Badwater? in this heat?) by telling me that his pace is usually around a 12-minute mile and that portions go much slower, particularly up hills. He will run a mile, then walk a mile, usually. Sometimes, he walks many miles. Okay, that didn't sound quite so frightening. Maybe I'd heard all that before somewhere. 

Like a racehorse standing at the gate, Frank was eager to get out and stretch his legs, He was in amazing shape, ready to get this crazy run on. He came with us for a little exercise, so we could practice handing him his water bottle and stuff. Temp was about 110F, pretty tame for Stovepipe Wells. (Just a couple days earlier, the thermometer had pegged 130F.) Frank had been out in the desert for a full week prior, and he was marveling at this "cool" weather.

The first few miles were fine -- we were going at about a 10-minute-mile clip -- and then the heat got me, lapping at my legs, blowing hot air in my face and up my skirt. I started to feel nauseous and slowed down. Then I started to feel really crummy, decided it didn't make sense to get myself sick before we'd even left the starting line, and my crewmate, Kass, flagged down a couple of tourists who took me back to the hotel. 

She joked, "Why feel shitty now when you can feel shitty later?"

When everyone was back, a few of us hit the pool, and I recovered quickly. Kass assured me that she'd had a similar experience the year before, and that she'd done fine during the actual race. It was all about acclimating. Okay, I wasn't freaking out, but I was anxious, for sure.

That night, we had a downpour in a desert storm -- Frank said that in all the years he'd been coming out to Death Valley, he'd never seen it rain like that. He was so excited that he woke us up to show us the thunder and lightning.

Saturday and Sunday, 7/14-15. The next two days were spent organizing stuff, as well as preparing the vans with signage, tarps to protect the floors from spillage, and towels to protect the seats from sweat. We drove part of the course, and Frank showed us all his favorite spots, as well as the places we'd need to stop for ice and gas and rest. We also attended a service in Lone Pine at a little Catholic church, where a child was baptized and the priest said a blessing over all of us. The last thing we did before going to bed Sunday night was to pick up a bunch of ice for the coolers.

In the past couple of days, I've spent time in the company of my closest friends and family, getting that last bit of fortitude I need, which is the only thing, really, that I can add to my "training" now. (If my conditioning has been sufficient, then a few extra push-ups and crunches aren't going to help, and if it hasn't, well, same deal.) How comforting it is to know that the people I love are pulling for me!

My emotions are alternately close to the surface and pushed way down as I prepare for this adventure. My neck is stiff and my shoulder is tight, which signals that I'm stressing out some, though I'm not consciously aware of it. I'm happy that I held it together while I dropped off my son at camp this morning, kissing his sweet face and saying goodbye. Gulp.

Flight to Vegas leaves in about 4hrs, and I'm packed: flappy hat, check; wicking socks and underwear, check; sports shirts, sleeves, skorts, sunglasses, fleece (just in case), sunscreen, more sunscreen, anti-chafing sticks, camera, ibuprofen, vitamins, etc., etc. ... check, check, checkity check check!

And the best news of all: it's supposed to be relatively mild during race days, with a high of 110 degrees on Monday, when we'll be going through the hottest part of Death Valley, and a low of 84. We'll see if that prediction holds, but I'm going to take it as a good sign right now. If it's accurate, we may see temps in the 60s overnight once we head up into the mountains!

So I was up at 4am because I couldn't sleep, did the last bit of work hanging over my head, set up auto-replies for email, checked into my flight (on time so far), and have been tying up a few more loose ends just as I zip my carry-ons closed.

Now sending emails to my key peeps (probably missing some and duplicating a few, but thank goodness my friends are both forgiving and generous) ...

Hi there! I'm writing to share something that's looming large in my life these days, and to see if you'd like to take part in it.

In summers past, I've participated in a local 4-mile run to benefit breast cancer patients in our area, which was a great impetus to get out and train a bit during the hot months and, even more important, a way to encourage other women to love running and to raise funds for a worthy cause.

This year, I'm upping the ante. I'm still involved with that training, and ...

A client and ultrarunner friend of mine, Frank McKinney, asked me to "crew" for him at the 2012 Badwater Ultramarathon, which is -- wait for it -- 135 miles! This essentially means that, in just over a week from today, I'll play a supporting role in a hair-raising, mind-blowing, intensely grueling race from the lowest spot in the western hemisphere to the highest elevation in the contiguous United States. It all takes place in Death Valley, one of the hottest places in the world, during the hottest month of the year. National Geographic has called this the toughest footrace in the world.

There's still an important fundraising component, which is giving me at least 75% of my motivation for being willing to brave a pretty extreme environment. All monies raised go to help feed and house people in Haiti. Earlier this year, I visited schools and villages there and was genuinely moved by what I saw: in sum, hopeful yet desperate people, beautiful children who eat but one meal a day (and those are the lucky ones), and individuals who are doing their best to make a difference in that part of the world. My runner is one of those people, and you can learn more about Frank at http://www.frank-mckinney.com/blog.asp?article=275 .

If you're saying, "Yes, I support what you're doing, Karen!" and you'd like to make a tax-deductible donation now, here are two easy ways to do it:

1. If you prefer not to donate online, you can mail your donation to Caring House Project Foundation, P.O. Box 388 Boynton Beach, FL 33425. Or call Nilsa, Frank's wife, at 561.722.3950 and make your donation over the phone.

2. Donate a sum for every mile of our 2012 Death Valley race. At just a dollar a mile, for every $135 you donate you will provide 1,350 meals for the most desperately poor and homeless in Haiti. If you choose to donate $10 for every mile, or $1,350, you will have built 1/2 of a concrete home in Haiti. Or donate $30 for every mile, or $4,050. This donation will have a huge impact in Haiti. You will have built one brand new concrete home for a family of 8 who were living in a mud or cardboard shack. Your home will have 2 rooms, kitchen, front porch and bathroom. PLUS you will provide 13,500 more meals! The ultimate donation for the ultimate race!

$1/mile, or $135 = http://goo.gl/iDyXg

$10/mile, or $1,035 = http://goo.gl/m987e

$30/mile, or $4,050 = http://goo.gl/hEpXW

Thank you for considering this! Along with donations to the charity, I will greatly appreciate well wishes, prayers, and encouragement. This won't be easy but it will be worth it. Certainly, I'll let you know how it all turns out ... I leave this Thursday and return from the desert on 7/20/12.

All my best,

Last Friday night at about 9pm, a terrific storm whipping through the Midwest and East Coast arrived at our house. In the aftermath of what's called a "super derecho," millions of people were without electricity and, therefore, air conditioning and refrigeration. For three days, we tried to keep cool by blocking the windows, opening up the house at night, and drinking LOTS of water. The mercury hit 106 at one point, and one night we had a "low" of 80 degrees. (Not much sleep for my husband or me, but my six year old seems to be able to knock out no matter what.) Daytime temps hung in the high 90s.

Since I'd been doing my time in the sauna, some twisted part of me welcomed the test. These temps aren't as high as what we'll experience in Death Valley, but it was a chance to see how I'd feel in extended heat. How'd I do? In short, thank goodness for cold showers and Starbucks. And for the return of our AC last night. I know I can take it, but I also welcomed the end. Sweet relief.

This also means I missed a few days in the sauna, since the YMCA's power outtage did a whammy on the thermostat and cranked up the temp in there to about 180 degrees when their power returned. There is a BIG difference between 150 and 180, my friends. This I know for sure, now. At the higher temp, I couldn't muster more than about 5mins, and I felt like my face was on fire. Here's hoping they got that squared away, because I've got to get back in there tonight after yoga, will do 25mins and pray that I haven't lost my tolerance.

Last night, I went for a short run of maybe 2mi, with a (half?) mile of it being something like heading toward a blast furnace, uphill, straight into the evening sun. Again, a good test of my training, and I managed fine but was incredibly grateful once I hit the shade. 

Do I feel ready? Am I up to it? Heck if I know. I'm going on faith at this point, since I've done all I can to prepare myself to help Frank do this thing. The race starts in just a little over a week.

26 days till the race starts! Still working out, still healing from both injuries, blah blah blah.

The key thing these days is the heat training, spending time in the 150-degree sauna in preparation for intense temperatures out in Death Valley. It's all right. Hot, sure. A little tedious as I watch the clock and try to amuse myself in a tiny room with only some smoldering rocks to entertain me.

It's kind of amazing that the body can adapt. This week, I'm in for 20mins at a time. Next week 25, the week following 30, and then we head out to the desert.

My secret pleasure: a teeny tiny bit of cool air seeps under the door of the sauna. So I put my foot there and luxuriate in the "draft" over my toes. Heaven, I tell ya. That and pouring a bit of water over my head every now and then give ridiculous amounts of relief.

At this point, I'm no longer thinking about how long I've been into this thing but instead about how long it will be until we head out to Death Valley. As of today, we are just over four weeks away.

Which is freaking me out a little bit because I was laid up last week with a bum Achilles tendon, and my appetite was crazy during that time, with cravings for sweets and all manner of junk that could have really set me back. I indulged a little. I agonized some, too, chastising myself for sprinting like a teenager after about two hours of intense exercise, which brought on the Achilles issue. What was I thinking?!

Saturday, I ran about a mile, which felt okay. Baby steps, you know? (I need to get my legs back in shape for about 6mi.) But then I went and rode a horse for the first time in about 5 years, which was fun but maybe not the best activity to choose. Both of my recent injuries were sort of "reactivated," so my plan for the week is strength training mostly, plus continued stints in the hot box, and totally laying off any processed foods/sugar again.

Thank goodness I've begun my heat training in earnest, because I suspect I'll be sidelined from intense exercise for a few days to a few weeks, maybe months, as I trashed my Achilles tendon tonight during a sprint. Pop! And then pain. So I'll go see the doc tomorrow and find out whether I have a rupture or tendonosis or something else. 

Regardless, I'll be able to go sit in the sauna and sweat it out. This week, I'm working on 15-minute bouts, which up until now I've been doing after a 1-hour cardiovascular workout, and it's a learning process: how much water to drink and how much I can spare to pour over my head, how best to address the electrolyte loss, and which magazines have large enough print that I can read in there without my glasses. (I'm thinking Kindles don't fare well in 150 degrees. Anyone ever test this?)

Right now, the foot is up after icing and downing some ibuprofen, and I'm sipping a chardonnay chaser.

In the sliding scale from wuss to total badass, I don't hit either extreme. But this week, it definitely felt like I was pushing further into that latter territory.

Exhibit A. Earlier this week, I ran a couple of miles in humid heat (80+ degrees) from my home to the gym, then went straight into the sauna (150 degrees) and soaked it up for 10 minutes. Thus begins my heat training in preparation for Death Valley. Entirely a mental game. ("It's hot. Good God, my shins  are sweating. Are my ears sweating? Do ears sweat? How many more minutes ... okay, okay. I can do anything for 9 more minutes ..." and so on.) Last night, I went for a run in 84-degree weather and found it refreshing.

Exhibit B. I feel stronger now than I have in the last 15 years. As my fiftieth birthday approaches in a couple years, this is a big effing deal.

Exhibit C. In this past month, I've dropped more pounds than in any month previous -- and this was the month when I sprained my ankle. (The weight loss wasn't due to the 24-hour bug I had, which did yield a drop but also a quick bounce-back.) Score one for persevering no matter what, for giving my ankle the time and tenderness it needed to heal and also finding a way to keep going.

BTW, it ain't about the numbers for me. The scale is just a measure of my progress, a useful tool because, without it, I tend to kid myself about what's going on with my body. I have always had a distorted perception of my physical self, and once upon a time I imagined myself fat when I certainly was not, and once upon a time I imagined myself healthy when I certainly was not. A friend posted a quote on Facebook this morning about our cultural conditioning and the craziness that surrounds women's body size:

A culture fixated on female thinness is not an obsession about female beauty, [it is] an obsession about female obedience. Dieting is the most potent political sedative in women's history; a quietly mad population is a tractable one. --Naomi Wolf

Yes. True. So I feel compelled to assert here that what I'm up to is in no way about thinness. (Not really about dieting, either, although having a food plan to support high-intensity exercise and weight loss is part of it.) It's a little bit about beauty, because I am a more confident woman, i.e. more beautiful, when I am strong and "in my power." But mostly, it is about blowing out my own stereotypes as I age. I will never fit the current, common standards of beauty, because I am a 47-year-old woman. This isn't a complaint. Truth is I don't give a shit about current, common standards of beauty. I'm more interested in being unusual, being an active parent both emotionally and physically -- my son is an already athletic six year old -- and creating a family lifestyle built around enjoyable exercise and exploring the outdoors.

In my profession as a writer, I get to meet and hang out with people who do remarkable things. People who regularly ring the badass bell. They inspire me, help keep me honest about my own aspirations, meaning I'm constantly sorting out what's important to me and what's not. Right now, what's important to me is strengthening my body and mind for this big event -- crewing my friend at the Badwater 135 -- but I'm also training for the Big Event, the rest of my life. If I play it right, I might get another 47 years.

It's not that I'm so especially gifted in the determination department, but more that it pissed me off that I had to stop after half a mile the other day because of my ankle: Today, I went back to the track after having rested (a.k.a. gnarly stomach bug laid me up for two days) to complete the 1.5mi run for my fitness assessment.

Results: 1.56mi in 14:38, which the handy calculator rates as "excellent" for my age. Pretty stoked that I shaved off a minute from seven weeks ago.

Today we re-assessed fitness at bootcamp to compare with our baselines from week #5, and I gotta say it was a little disappointing because I couldn't finish the 1.5-mile run. WTH?! I have been doing okay (about 2mi at a time) with the bum ankle, but today I had to stop short after just 1/2 a mile. Oh, well, this is teaching me patience, right?

No improvement on the sit-up test -- score unchanged -- but my upper-body strength has improved, and now I am classified as "82/good" instead of "67/average" with my 30 push-ups this morning, 9 more than seven weeks ago.