Belated Helen Klein 50k Race Report - A Cautionary Tale

My Helen Klein race report, both the writing and running of can be summed up with the same phrase, “Better late than never!” Admittedly I think I've run out of witty running analogies after my Rio Del Lago report, and quite frankly I think I ran out of words. I almost didn't even post a report for Helen Klein but I remember as a brand new ultra runner searching the web for info on any of the races I was thinking about running. I also had an incident with a drop bag that, well, I think it should be passed along as a cautionary tale in hopes of saving folks from a similar fate in future race. So with the calendar just a few days away from turning to 2009, I thought I'd write a few thoughts about the 2008 running of the Helen Klein Ultra Classic held November 1, 2008 in Granite Bay, CA.

It was wet! My goodness it was wet and at some points throughout the race it was cold and wet, and windy and cold and wet. To be honest I'm a bit of a fair weather runner. Many moons ago, I believe in 1998, I ran a rain soaked California International Marathon. It was my 2^nd marathon at the time. I had trained much better for it than I had the previous year when I crossed the line in my marathon debut at 3 hrs 52 minutes. I was happy with that time in 97, but in 98, watch out! Watch out for large puddles was more the case and I ran in a downpour. I remember essentially staring at my feet for 4 hours and just wishing the race would be over soon. I crossed the line in 3 hrs 54 minutes and I was bummed, but I realized that the weather had to have had something to do with the slower time despite my training.

Another memory of that race was my running attire. It was pre-technical fabric running shirts and I ran the race in a 100% cotton Utah Jazz t-shirt. It rained so much, and perhaps I sweat so much, that from that day forward I had 4 rust marks on the shirt from the safety pins that held my number in place. I've since moved on to be a number-on-my-shorts guy. But back to my fair weather running confession.

I didn't run in the rain again until last May, some 10 years later, the opening day of the Western States training camp. I was running with Western States entrant, and all-around swell guy Jeffery Johnston (who can now be seen, by the way, using his magic hands working with VeLoyce at Monsters of Massage!). The plan was to run both the first and second days of the camp in one day, allowing us to bag the Sunday run altogether (I don't typically run on Sundays). We would do 32 miles supported by WS aid stations and then we'd run another 18 miles on our own. It dumped rain. It poured rain! It rained and rained and rained and I wasn't prepared. I was cold, wet, and muddy but I tried to stay positive. After all, Jeffery was the one running States and I was merely a pacer. It was my duty to support him! So in hurricane-like conditions we found ourselves close to the finish of the first leg, I was very glad that he asked me if I would mind cutting the run short?

On the positive side, I was the type of runner who would do my best to avoid getting my feet wet up until that point. I blamed it on my expensive orthotics that I wore in my running shoes, but the truth was that I just didn't want to get my feet wet. This run cured me of caring about my shoes, my orthotics, you name it.

Back to HK. I had asked Jeffery if he had a waterproof running jacket I could borrow pre-race. He gave me his best one. Now fast forward to just an hour before the race. A few hundred of us, people running the 30k, 50k and 50 mile distance, are all huddled in the Cavitt Elementary Gym. It was dark, “pinch black” as my 4-year-old would say. It was also not raining. I spotted fellow new 100-mile alum Monica Moore at the check in table for the race. I asked Monica for her opinion on whether or not to wear the jacket. I had tried it on and it felt warm. I was starting to think about leaving it behind. Monica reminded me of how much I sweat...not sure if that was a compliment or not but point well taken.

As RD Norm Klein led the masses on the ¼ mile walk to the start I was one of the last ones to go. I was still debating whether or not to take the jacket. At the last minute I decided against it, I thought that it wasn't an impossible thought that the rain could break for a mere 4 hours to allow for a good race.

I made the hike to the start and sure enough, the skies started to open just a bit and a light drizzle fell. Still, no problem. Now, onto the good stuff. Just like for the start of RDL, thanks to some Homeland Security work on the levee, we would be forced to take a slight detour at the start and finish of the race. Thanks to the rain, the detour was nice and muddy. It was dark. Norm decided to send the 50 milers off first, then the 50k folks 2 minutes later and finally the 30k folks 2 minutes after us. He also delayed the start by 15 minutes to allow for a little extra daylight. All of these ideas sounded pretty darned good in purpose.

He started the 50 milers and all of the 50k folks made our way to the start. Within a couple of minutes he sent us off. I started off with a lead pack of about 5 or 6 runners. Within a quarter of a mile we had caught the last of the 50 mile folks who were diligently walking the uphills. It was a muddy, single track uphill and thus it posed a problem for those of us trying to get out to a bit of a fast start. All of a sudden we had gridlock, muddy gridlock no less.

The next couple of miles were spent trying to nicely pass the 50 mile runners on the muddy course when possible. Eventually I made my way to the American River bike path. I'd spend the next 27 or 28 miles on the bike path and I was quite content to do so. Unlike many trail folks I'm still a road runner at my core. I love the trails, love them more than I thought to be honest. After Rio I didn't run on a trail until this past Saturday. I did an easy 15 miler from Auburn to Cool and back and it was wonderful. I truly do like the trails, but I don't mind the road either.

For the next couple of hours there was very little to report save a few things that popped into my head when sitting down to type this report.

First, several people asked me why I felt the need to run a road ultra so soon after completing my first 100 miler. The answer was, “I don't know, I guess I just signed up.” My recovery from the 100 was great and I had been running fine for a couple of weeks prior to HK. With that said, about 4 miles into HK the skies opened and it dumped rain for a bit. I had roughly 27 or 28 miles to go. I had participated in many ultras over the past few months. I accomplished all of my goals...and here I was sloshing my way in the cold rain. I had a bit of a “why am I doing this?” moment. I had to just put my head down and keep on moving forward.

Second, it was lonely out there! Last year I ran HK as my 2^nd ever ultra. There are a couple of hundred runners between the three distances, but nothing like a good old 6,000 person marathon. Over 32 miles you can run many, many miles without seeing anybody. I mention last year because I ran the first 16 with my friend Jeffery. I then hit the turn around and saw a lot of people over the next few miles on my way back. Eventually I was running on my own but you couldn't swing a stick without hitting a biker (and trust me, I wanted to try several times). This year, thanks to the rain, there were no bikers. I was following a couple of people who turned out to be 30k runners, so they turned around at the 9'ish mile mark. I didn't see anyone again (other than aid station volunteers) until a couple of miles from the turn around when Michael Fink was sprinting the opposite way. He finished in a ridiculous 3:40-something and was running like a man possessed. He was truly in the zone. I saw the 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th place finishers and then all of a sudden I was at the turn around. I was in 5^th place!

I made the turn and saw several 50k and 50 mile runners (I was extremely happy not to be running 50 miles this day, I thought about it for a few minutes before turning in my 50k registration). I then ran by myself for at least the last 12 miles, in the rain. No bikers, no spectators, no walkers, just me and the rain.

Third, I thought, after a successful 100 mile race, that I was smart enough to eat and drink enough to stay feeling great. But sure enough, it was cold and wet and I just didn't feel like eating frozen gels or drinking my special mix of Gu20 and Endurox. I'm sure that all came into play in my overall down mood the last few miles.

I could go on, but let me just first, thank the volunteers. Friends Steve Itano and Ling-Ru Chu were at the Hazel aid station and both were happy to tell me that they were glad they weren't running! And friends Melissa Johnson and Nancy Warren were at the next aid station and gave me the surprised, “Tony, you're in 5^th place!” Nancy walked with me out of the aid station on the way back with a cup of broccoli soup and told me to get out of there and place high! It's always fun to see familiar faces and especially those who are excited for you.

Now, basically the reason I decided to write this report even two months after the race. Let this be a lesson. Remember earlier when I said I set my bag of dry clothes down against a wall. That was foreshadowing. When I set my bag down that morning I was a bit surprised, and bumped, that a couple of folks decided to put their bags so close to mine. Hey, there's a whole gym, people! Spread out.

Now, I finished the race and was pretty happy to say I finished in 5^th place. I knew my family would be there and I saw my kids playing in the rain. I made it in the gym, soaked, cold, and expected a warm response from my wife. Not so much. Turns out she had just wrecked the van against a basketball pole in the parking lot. She put a pretty good dent in the side. Thankfully I went with the, “Are you OK?” as my first reaction. Always a good move! But my wife was rattled, and it showed. No excited, “You took 5^th!” No problem, we had promised the kids In-n-Out for coming out to watch Dad run so let's just get my dry clothes on and get out of there!

Norm gave me an award for finishing some place in my age group, and I went to the wall to find my bag. No bag. No problem, must have moved it somewhere. I walked all around the gym, in the locker room, still no bag. I was cold. I finally flagged down Norm and asked him where he put the bags that were against the wall where I left mine. Norm looked at the wall, and then looked at me. He said, “read to me what that sign says on the wall.”

“Sunrise Aid Station Drop Bags.”

My dry clothes were miles away at the Sunrise Aid Station. Quick directions from Norm, out to the dented van and I slipped into early hypothermia as we eventually found the aid station and my wife ran out and got my bag. The kids were patient, which was a pleasant surprise and before long I was in dry clothes and we were on our way to In-n-Out. By the time we got there my appetite had caught up to me and I indulged in a rare double-double. That, along with my fries, and the left overs of everybody else's fries and I had put a dent in the 4000 calorie deficit I had put myself in (according to my Garmin GPS watch).

So use my story as a cautionary tale, always look on the wall above where you leave your bag, and never forget a chocolate shake is a wonderful post-ultra recovery food.

Newsmessenger - Traumatic Dentistry

Note - I've had a few people ask me if I was still writing for the paper. Writing, yes! Posting the articles to my blog, no! I'm going to do a little catching up over the next few days.

There I was, white knuckling the dentist chair. I couldn’t have been more than 14. Dr. Christensen’s size 10 right loafer firmly planted on my left cheek, left foot on the armrest of the dental chair. His two hands, which oddly always smelled, or worse yet tasted, of pepper, gripping the handle of a cartoonishly large pair of construction-grade needle nose pliers pulling desperately at my lower-right wisdom tooth.

“I’ll get you out of this mouth if it’s the last thing I do!” he said maniacally.

To this day, I wonder why he didn’t take all four at once. My guess was that he only had a couple of payments left on a boat and my bottom teeth would cover that amount quite nicely. Better to wait for his daughter’s wedding before extracting the top two.

I showed him, though. Some 20 years later and a thousand miles removed from that dental chair, I waited until one of those top two wisdom teeth abscessed, helping my then-dentist Dr. Tuttle re-roof his house or take the family to Disneyland with those extracted chunks of enamel.

At least he had numbed me. I was to the point that I looked forward to the shot and its accompanying round of the sweats, which always caused me to soak through my shirt.

Dr. Christensen had a bad habit of uttering a line that to this day sends a shudder up my spine — “I think we can fill this one without numbing you.”

It never worked. Eventually, I always needed the numbing. I’ve often wondered if a heart surgeon could get away with that line?

“The valve is quite close to the surface of the chest. I think if you bite down on this rolled up Highlights magazine, we should be able to fix it without bothering the anesthesiologist.”

And now back to my exaggerated memory. I felt a bead of sweat drop from Dr. Christensen’s uni-brow and land smack-dab on the portion of my tongue that housed the taste buds for sweetness, and suddenly I felt a gagging sensation. Well, that’s not exactly what happened. Funny how things that seemed so dramatic, so intense as a kid were, well, quite a bit less dramatic once you put them into context as an adult.

Dr. Christensen did remove my two lower wisdom teeth somewhere around the time when the A-Team was battling it out with Magnum P.I. in the ratings. A time when the phrase “the plane” made you think of a fantasy about to be realized and not removing your shoes and wondering if anybody will notice that your toothpaste tube is .6 ounces too big for your carry-on.

When I was a kid, a trip to the dentist meant filling cavities. Preparation for the dentist was much like cramming for a test. The night, or sometimes morning, before, I would dig through the cupboard and find that old dusty container of floss. I would then proceed to turn that white floss string red from the bloody gums that accompanied my semi-annual flossing. I would be very certain to brush daily, sometimes even twice a day for at least three days leading up to the visit. The goal was to knock down the layer of what I liked to think of as “fur” off my teeth before sitting in the chair.

As an adult and father, it’s humorous to see the dentist through a much different lens. I now floss daily. It’s not because I’m passionate about flossing, it’s because if I don’t I know I’ll get a cavity, and I have crummy (translation, little to no) dental insurance. That means I’m out a couple of hundred bucks for a filling, heaven forbid we’re talking crown or root canal.

I’m also hyper-vigilant about my kids brushing and flossing habits. Four kids plus two adults, divided by terrible to no insurance, times a bad genetic hand (I’ve often said my wife’s teeth are made of candy corn) equals an awful lot of money when we let the oral hygiene slip. I’m now convinced that my parents looked the other way with my youthful dental practices, thanks to what was probably pretty darned good dental insurance. But lucky for my family, the first thing I noticed was that our dentist has tiny feet. Perhaps their childhood memories won’t be as traumatic as my visits to Dr. Christensen.