Trail Race Meets Butt Luge Competition

Last year, my husband and I celebrated Valentine’s Day the best way we knew how: by running the Raging Bull, a completely brutal six-mile relay race in 12-degree weather. 

Romance done right.

We had such a great weekend, we decided to do it again this year. I booked a cabin at Platte River State Park, and learned that the race had changed venue to Mahoney State Park. This was okay though, because:

1. Mahoney is only a few miles away from Platte
2. Cabins at Platte are cheaper anyway
3. I didn’t know that Mahoney even had hiking trails. How hard could this race possibly be?

We had done a few races at Mahoney in the past, but they were always on the park’s paved roads and sidewalks. Platte River has miles of rugged single track trails through the woods, over creeks, and up and down ravines. There was no way this year’s race would be as tough as last year’s. 

Crazy how someone can simultaneously be so right and so, so wrong.

The good news: at 18 degrees, race day was slightly warmer than last year. The bad news: this was after a week of pleasantly warm (40 degree) days, which melted a significant snowfall that Nebraska had received the week prior. Several inches of snow had melted into many, many puddles on the trail: puddles that had frozen solid when the weekend cold snap hit. Last year we had to contend with a crunchy snowpack; this year, however, our route might as well have been on a skating rink.

The race organizer, Angry Cow Adventures, had provided sufficient warning that there would be ice on the trail and advised the use of screws or Yak Traks to help with footing. I had my trusty trail shoes, which had helped me through previous snowy routes, so I figured I would be fine. We filed out of the warm lodge to line up for the start, and I positioned myself in my usual spot at the back of the pack. 

We took off on the three-mile long loop: I had signed up for the 6-mile race, so I would have to make the loop twice (there is also a 12-mile option, but I am so very bad at trail running, I decide to leave well enough alone). We didn’t get too far before we ended up on some icy bits of trail; I was able to pick my way along the edge of the trail to get more traction, but it was slow going.

Then came the big moment: the moment very early on in the race (or rather, two back-to-back moments) when I knew I would only be finishing a single circuit of this course.

As the trail trended downward, it was exceptionally icy and terrifying. At the time, I had ended up with a small group of women, most of whom were taking the race as seriously as I was. The trail banked down fairly severely; the best way to navigate it without falling to our deaths waste sit on our butts and slide down the ice. 

And the Nebraska women’s butt luge team was born.

We ended up having to traverse this way more than once, and I was growing increasingly convinced that I only needed to experience this route once to truly appreciate it. Then, my decision was sealed in stone about a half mile in, when I slipped on a patch of ice and wiped out. My feet flew out from under me and I landed HARD on my butt, bouncing back to also land on my shoulder. It hurt….. a lot……. but not so much that I couldn’t keep going. I knew I would have some good bruises from that experience.

The bruise on my palm was easier to show off than the one on my butt.

For some reason, my Garmin ate my data for the race, but I know that my first mile took just over 23 minutes. The second mile was just as slow; there were so many extended patches of ice, I ended up walking a good part of the race. The third mile, however, opened up out of the woods and into some of the more open areas of the park. It was a rougher mile in that the wind could now get to us–a strong, cold, cutting wind–but the ice had virtually disappeared and I could remind myself of what running actually felt like. At some points, I still had to blunder through the snow, but I could at least propel myself forward with confidence. My final mile was something over 16 minutes–considerably faster than the first two, but still not much to brag about. 

My 5K road race PR is a 29:23, which is a 9:28 pace, but I’m generally closer to a 10:00-11:00 pace, depending on a zillion different factors. My trail 5K pace is generally anywhere between a 13:00-16:00 pace, depending on the difficulty of the course. Take away the ice, and this year’s Raging Bull course would’ve been challenging, but nowhere near the toughest course I’ve done. Last year, I completed the six-mile race in 1:32. This year, it took me 1:13 to do three miles.

But at least I got a cool shirt, some kickass bruises, and a great story.

Everybody Hurts, but Especially after a Trail Run

The Ni-Bthaska-Ke 12K Trail Race is billed as “The Toughest Trail in the Midwest,” and while I know that there are races with more grueling terrain or more challenging distances, I know that this race tests the limits of my physical abilities well enough. 

How tough is it? They say that running the 7.5ish-mile course is “a half marathon effort,” but after a dozen halfs, I know I can crank out a half with less pain and anguish pretty much anytime. How tough is it? My race pace for road running is generally between a 10:00-11:00 min/mile. My race pace for a trail race is 12:00-14:00 min/mile, depending on the difficulty of the course. My race pace for this race? A 16:00-18:00 min/mile.

I also lose the ability to go up or down stairs for a couple of days.

Leading up to the race, my training had been sporadic and half-assed, and I wasn’t remotely close to the mileage I should’ve had by this time of year. Last year, I had a tremendous PR, beating my previous times by around 20 minutes. This year, I knew I wasn’t going to chase a PR; I just wanted to survive.

For the uninitiated, there are a few acronyms that most athletes avoid:

• DNS: Did Not Start. A racer has registered for the race but has had to scratch him/herself from competition due to injury or extenuating circumstances.
• DNF: Did Not Finish. A racer begins a race but has to pull out of competition due to injury or illness.
• DFL: Dead F***ing Last. Self-explanatory.

The field wasn’t even a quarter of a mile in when I realized I had already established myself as DFL. I knew I couldn’t dwell on it too much, but I was concerned as I watched the runners before me draw farther away. Just after the first mile, I started to have company again as the 4-mile race leaders came through. It was a bit terrifying to watch them fly down the trail, barely in control. I don’t care how fast you can run on the road; you might want to reel that shit in while hurtling downhill unless you want to end up swallowing your own broken teeth.

We came to a creek crossing where runners have to climb across a fallen tree and shimmy their way up a steep (and muddy) embankment. I caught up to a few 4-milers as they were helping each other cross. One runner kindly offered a hand to help me up the bank; I reached up with my left hand, realizing too late that I was not balanced correctly. When I tried to switch my grip, I slipped and slid down the muddy side. 

“OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY!” she exclaimed. 

“I’m good,” I responded. “I’m fine. It was my own damn fault.”

As I was pulling myself up after getting a good handhold, she was running to catch up with her friends, calling out “I’m sorry…..I’m sorry…” as she fled.

It wasn’t until after the 4-milers peeled away that I ended up with a couple of other runners; we fell into pace for a little bit and chatted. It was their first Ni-Bthaska-Ke, so I gave them a few pointers on what was ahead. They were cheerful and having fun, but told me, “we figured this would be a challenge, but we REALLY had no idea.” I assured them that I had made the same mistake the first time I ran this course. They decided that they would invite some of their friends to run it with them next year, but let their friends discover the “fun” on their own. I liked these ladies, but after reaching mile four-ish and one of the easier stretches of the course, I ended up picking up my pace and leaving them in the dust (they ended up finishing about twenty minutes after I did.)

In a lot of longer distance races, I tend to spend my final few miles reeling in those who went out too fast and have blown themselves up. Just before mile five, I saw my rabbit: a woman in a red sweatshirt. I spent the next mile trying to catch up with her.

The hardest sections of the Ni-Bthaska-Ke are the first and last two miles, which are on the same trails. As I left the easiest stretch to head into the final two hellish miles, I was surprised to come across another runner: he apparently had been somewhere between me and Red Sweatshirt but I hadn’t seen him in the winding trails. I overtook him on one of the more painful climbs and steadily pulled away as I got incrementally closer to Red Sweatshirt. Finally, she was in my sights: as I crept closer, she glanced more and more over her shoulder at me. When I was only a few yards away, she turned back at me and held up her phone.

“I think we’re off course. I haven’t a seen an orange flag for a while.” I looked back down the trail from where we’d come. She was right; I had been so intent on catching her that I hadn’t been following the trail markers–I’d only zoned into the red sweatshirt in front of me. Luckily, she had the GPS on her phone recording her run; we could see that if we stayed on the current trail, we’d meet back up with the race course. “Well, I broke course,” I said. “There goes my age-group medal.” She laughed. “I was worried about that, too,” she responded.

We celebrated when we found the marked course again, and I could see the final climb ahead. “Once we’re out of the trees up there,” I told her, “it’s pretty much just a downhill cruise to the finish.”

“Thank God,” she said. “I’m just about out of gas.”

As soon as I left the tree line, I left her behind. The final quarter mile is all downhill; even though I was exhausted, I decided to run to the bitter end. I crossed the finish line as they were breaking it down–always a confidence booster. 

But the medal doubles as a bottle opener, so there’s that.

They asked me if I knew how many runners were behind me–I guess there’s a positive to starting DFL: you know EXACTLY how many runners you might have passed. I walked it out to where my husband was patiently waiting. Being considerably faster and fitter, he had finished an hour earlier. 

Show off.

He, too, had missed a turn and gone off course (in a similar area but not the same trail); he too had fallen on the course.

WE ARE SUPER GOOD AT TRAIL RACES

With my off-course adventure, I had added approximately an extra quarter mile to my race. Though my finishing time didn’t come close to my PR set last year, I had my second best time overall, which was good enough for me.

And my race ended in a burger and a beer, which is even better.

  

Happy Trails

I eventually came to love running, even though I suck at it. I loved trail running at first sight, even though I REALLY suck at it.

I had been running for almost a year when I signed up for my first trail race, the Empyrean 5K. This is a trail race through a Lutheran church camp, hosted by a local brewery. Yes, it is as awesome as it sounds.

“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” -not Ben Franklin, sadly

As I started running, I would gauge the success of a run based on whether or not I had to walk for any duration of it. That was my goal for every race (not including water stations: I’ll probably never master drinking out of a paper cup on the run [God bless Lincoln marathon and their lids with straws]). I learned very quickly, however, that trail running is a completely different animal.

My philosophy for road races: run to the end.
My philosophy for trail races: don’t be a hero.

The Empyrean is always in February, so the temps have varied every year, and the footing has ranged from powdery snow to ice to mud pit. The race is kicked off with a small ceremony: a prayer for the safety of all the runners, and then a ritual sacrifice of a snowman.

Eat it, Winter

My first time running Empyrean, I really didn’t know what to expect. I positioned myself with the back-of-packers, as usual. The route varies every year, but I’ve noticed that smart trail race designers start their races with a looooooooooong climb to get the field a little more strung out before the race hits the single-track trails. I ran the incline, but then a second, steeper hill came next. I knew I’d have to walk; I was feeling bad about my performance so early into the race…until I watched the 30-odd runners ahead of me hit the hill; simultaneously, every single person started walking. At this moment, I realized that trail running was a bitch, but we were all in this together.

At this moment, I fell in love.

I’ve done several trail races since that first one, and they are consistently some of my favorite events. I love the running community because everyone supports each other and most people are only competing with themselves (except for those front-of-packers). Trail running is all of the goodness of the general running community, plus some masochism. Because of the challenge and because of the pain, trail runs seem to usually have more of a party atmosphere; post-race tasty adult beverages are generally the norm. In fact, for the Empyrean 5K, Empyrean Ales brews a beer exclusively for the event: the Luther Lager.

Available only after space cats and ass kickings.

Each race tends to have its defining moment, and mine for this year’s Empyrean 5K had to do with a run-in with a local celebrity. Ivan Marsh is an amazing runner and pretty well known in the Nebraska running community, especially for trail races. I am proud to say I came across the finish line just ahead of Ivan this year.

Of course, that was after he had already finished the race and circled back to run the final mile with a friend of his, but I take my victories where I can get them.

This triumphant finish also involved jumping in a puddle and trying to steal my husband’s beer (not pictured).

Romance!!!

Happy Valentine’s Weekend!! My husband and I ran an ass-kicking 6-mile trail race; it was super romantic.

The Toughest Trail

Runner’s World asked for submissions for a feature on runners’ favorite race shirts; I decided to play along. I searched high and low through my self-curated archive of running shirts to choose the best.

Decisions, decisions.

There were so many cool designs (and some pretty lame ones); there were so many shirts that were reminders of many great races I got to be a part of. I flipped through my album numerous times, and kept coming back to a shirt that represented not one single race, but three attempts at the same event: the Ni-Bthaska-Ke Trail 12K. Rather than a new shirt for each year, there has been a single design offered for the event as a whole. I’ve done this race every year for the last three years, and it has kicked my butt soundly every single time.

Attempt #1: April 7, 2012.
I had been running for less than a year, but I had tackled a milestone for a new runner: the 10K. Searching for events, I found this race. A 12K wouldn’t be *that* much farther, right? It would be a challenge, but how much harder could it really be, right?

Right…..?

Oh, poor, sweet, innocent, stupid Me.

Not knowing what to expect, I ran with no water or fuel. I didn’t need fuel for my 10K; why would I need anything for an additional measly mile and a half? I ran my first-ever 10K in 1:14; this race took me an additional HOUR to finish (That’s one hell of a 1.5 mile). It wasn’t until after I finished that I heard other runners discuss how the course was so difficult, the 7.5-mile course was “a half-marathon effort.” For the first time, I experienced the “bonk”: that moment when your body completely runs out of fuel in your system, and things start breaking down. I walked a good part of my last couple of miles…marginally due to the difficulty of the course, but mostly because the only thing my brain could process was “sandwiches.” When I finally emerged from the woods to find my waiting husband, I could only eat chips directly from his outstretched hand.

It was a beautiful day to wish for the sweet release of death in the woods.

Time: 2:13:11

Attempt #2: April 6, 2013

The next year, I was a little more accomplished and confident as a runner; I had a half marathon under my belt, and was working towards a second half. However, as I ramped up my miles, I had injured something in my groin/hip flexor area, and around two miles into a run, I would feel some pain–after a longer run, I would practically be unable to walk.

I started stronger for my second Ni-Bthaska-Ke, but my injury caught up with me, and about did me in. I ended up pacing with another injured runner; we would take walk breaks together and periodically stop to stretch our pains out. We kept good company, but I barely limped across the finish line and couldn’t run again for a couple of weeks afterward.

Mile 7’s a doozy.

Time 2:18:55

Attempt #3: April 5, 2014

Third time’s a charm, right? I came back in 2014; I had completed a full marathon, I had run through much of the winter; I was ready and willing. This was the best trained, most prepared, and healthiest I had been for the Ni-Bthaska-Ke. I worked on pacing myself; I had fuel right at the right moments; I planned my water stops perfectly. I still had to walk the major climbs, and they still kicked the crap out of me, but other than the screaming legs, I felt pretty damn great. As I passed a few people toward the very end, at the peak of one of the toughest climbs, they teasingly scolded me for looking so happy. (People tell me that I’m a smiley runner, but that might be more of a friendly pain grimace they are seeing.)

Also, the face of victory.

I walloped my previous times so soundly, my husband missed my finish: he wasn’t expecting me for at least another 15-20 minutes.

Mile 7 continues to suck.

Time: 1:52:47

So I shared my shirt with Runner’s World.