A Smoky Volcano Weekend

Gazing down from the top of one of California's largest volcanoes, I scroll back through the photos still on my camera from a visit in June. "Here, this is what the view looks like on a clear day," I offer. Matt and I look up and down, from the camera to the smoky view, trying to orient ourselves.

We stop for a leisurely snack at Lassen Peak's true summit and then spend the rest of the morning picking through the towering pillars of jagged pumice in what is left of her crater.

Even though I've been here before, each new visit yields unexpected discoveries hidden among California's youngest rocks.

We make our return trip just as the hoards of daily visitors begin their skyward trek. Normally I'm not a fan of out-and-back trails, but it always surprises me how different each one looks when heading the opposite direction. The best view is often right behind you.

By now the snow has completely gone, replaced with hillsides covered in lupine. We make frequent stops to photograph my favorite wildflower until Matt points out the obvious: not only is my outfit color-coordinated, but I'm matching those hardy purple flowers. What can I say? This girl loves purple and turquoise.

We stop for lunch alongside Lake Helen. Even though the air is smoky, that sinus headache I've had all week on the coast has disappeared. Instead of the daily nap I've required to function at a reasonable level, I find myself brimming with energy.

We check out a few of the park's other volcanic features before heading back to camp.

Matt narrates at the Sulfur Works stop.

Wind has pushed some more of the smoke out of the area and we find ourselves staring in envy as the sky completely clears in front of Lassen. Matt tries to talk me into a second summit for the day, but my gaze is focused on the boaters on the lake. Before I know it, I'm strapping on my life jacket and paddling out myself.

Growing up surrounded by serene lakes, I took this part of my childhood for granted. My friends had kayaks, I had a canoe. Long summer days were spent cruising the waterways in our boats and bikinis. When the summer heat was too warm, we swam. We are part owners (with a hundred of Matt's closest relatives) of a private island on a lake in northern Wisconsin. After hearing his family wax poetic about this treasured spot filled with water sports, I didn't understand its allure. This was my childhood, not a brief summer vacation. But now that I'm removed from such a luxury, I find myself missing it.

Matt and I trade places. He talks about how a few of his friends do yoga on their paddle boards. I feign ignorance as I ask for a demonstration. He lifts one leg from the board, wobbles a bit, and then decides against it.

 

We trade back and forth. My wrist fatigues quickly using the kayak paddle, but the long single paddle of the SUP feels like that of a canoe, so familiar and natural, and I love the higher vantage point standing above the boat offers me. I need more of this stuff in my life.

As the sun begins to set, we head for shore to return our boats. We cook up a delicious dinner before I roll out my yoga mat for a bit of quiet time with my book and Matt snuggles up in the hammock with his hard cider and chips. All too soon, the mosquitoes begin to swarm and we retreat to the tent for the night.

The next morning, we head north to the Subway Cave and Spatter Cones.

After we meander through the manzanita bushes and finely ground pumice, discovering just how many little volcanoes rest beneath our feet, we head into the cave, with only headlamps lighting our way.

The Subway Cave is just a small portion of a dormant lava tube. Interpretive signs along the very dark trail through the tunnel depict a history that is hard to imagine. The relative calm at the earth's surface makes it almost unbelievable that such unrest lies so nearby.

We make a quick stop at Dairy Queen in Redding before heading home. Although the weekend was too brief, it was the perfect getaway with my honey.

My First DNF: Hammond Trail Half Marathon

It was bound to happen sooner or later, right? It's a runner rite of passage, like your first bonk or blister. If you run enough races, you'll eventually have a bad day severe enough that it causes you to drop out. On Saturday morning, my number was finally drawn.

The rising sun was just high enough in the sky to reach over the coastal mountains and spill onto the waterfront. An ominous orange glow lit up the bay. Although my two weeks of mild smoke headaches had subsided, wildfire smoke was still around, even if I could no longer smell it. After experiencing several bad Fairbanks wildfire summers, by comparison, this was nothing. I tried hard not to roll my eyes when local friends said the smoke was so bad.

Last Tuesday's satellite picture. I live near the "x".

Both the half marathon and three mile runs began together and I focused on not going out too fast. Beginning on a downhill and with a shorter distance is always a challenge. Rachel, my training buddy, agreed to run with me, but since she always likes to run one step ahead, I knew that she'd eventually drop me. We chatted through the first two miles and it was nice to have the company.

Mile 1: 7:40
Mile 2: 7:44

My plan was to settle into a comfortable pace by mile three as my body gradually warmed up. That moment never came. Realizing that my usual pace was too much effort for this early in the race, I pulled back. I had just spent three days in Lassen (at altitude of 6-10K feet) and sometimes my legs feel heavy when I get home from playing that high up. I wasn't alarmed at all.

Rachel zoomed off down the gravel hill to the beach and I was alone. It was a bit of a relief to run on my own and not feel like I was holding back her race.

Mile 3: 7:49
Mile 4: 7:55
Mile 5: 7:57

Finally on a flat stretch of roadway and at a more sustainable pace, I felt a lot better, like I was finding my groove. Continuing on to the halfway turnaround, I cheered as friends ran by on their return trip but I noticed I having trouble shouting out as I normally do. Eventually I just started waving because I was almost too short of breath to speak.  I slowed the pace even more. I accepted that it wasn't going to be my day and shifted into survival mode.

Mile 6: 8:10

I treated myself to a short walk break as I circled the turnaround cone. Yes, lowering the intensity level was the way to go. The course climbed up and over the freeway and it was alarming the amount of effort even the tiniest uphill required. Each inhalation was accompanied by a raspy sound that was becoming more apparent. Now the only thought filling my head was: "Do I DNF now or finish and spend the week wishing I had?"

Mile 7: 8:26
Mile 8: 8:22

Ugh. This mile was the worst. In addition to that now familiar wheezing sound, I began feeling dizzy. As I stared down the road ahead of me, I noticed a slight blur to the edge of my vision. Until the tunnel vision began, all of my previous issues could be explained away. No, this was my asthma. I don't mess with that. Game over. I just had to make it back to the aid station before I could officially quit. I guess the smoke was affecting me after all.

Mile 9: 8:27

As is the case with most club runs, this tailgate aid station was self-serve. The mother of a local high school XC runner was filling the cups and barely noticed as I approached. "I think I need to take a DNF here," I blurted out as I simultaneously tried to catch my breath and choke back tears. She offered me several glasses of water, a sweatshirt, and a hug, all of which I graciously accepted. As Bob passed, I asked him to tell Rachel to come pick me up. Even though I drove us to the run, I knew she'd finish ahead of me, so she had the key. It was a blessing in disguise you might say.

Since the club uses leftover bibs from other races, I can wear this one in my next run and finally let someone tear the bottom tag off of it. :) Next race is a 5K on Sept 13.

It was hard to watch as my friends ran by, most of whom asked if either I had finished already or if I was hurt. By now, my breathing had returned to normal so I definitely didn't look hurt. I debated continuing on to finish but resisted. I didn't have anything to prove to myself or anyone else.  In fact, if I had my choice of DNF races, this one would rank pretty highly. It was a training race early in my fall season.

I know it was the right decision and I'm proud that I didn't continue on and hurt myself, but at the same time, I'm a little disappointed about it all.

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Saturday afternoon was a headache so intense that I thought I might be having my first migraine. I took a few ibuprofen and confined myself to the couch. I slept four hours that afternoon and eight more that night. Looking back at the days leading up to the race, I can see there were warning signs, but since my asthma symptoms have been dormant for at least a year, I attributed all those red flags to other things.

Sunday, I was much better, but still took another day of couch time, including a nap, and was ready to try running again that afternoon. I tucked my inhaler into my glove and went out for a very easy run with Matt. It went well, even Matt commented that I sounded fine and seemed to be relaxed. As for my training, I plan to resume runs as scheduled, adjusting the pace and mileage as necessary. 

Stopping before a full-blown asthma attack was definitely the way to go, even if a DNF bruised my ego a little bit. :)


Anyone have a good DNF story to share? Was it an easy call to make? 

On the other side of the spectrum, do you have a race finish where you should have taken a DNF? How did that affect your recovery?

On Going Upside-Down and Trust

I’ve wanted to learn how to do this headstand since I was a child, but I lacked the patience. Slowly at first, with major assistance from the wall, I made it. Exhilarated in this cheater version I was encouraged to try it without the wall. Slowly I pulled myself away from the wall. Eventually, I could pop up without so much as brushing it with my toe.

Then I eliminated the wall altogether. Suddenly without my crutch, visions of leaning too far over and landing hard on my back kept me from trying. Matt helped me practice a few days. Then I tried again while he was at work.

The first time I reached a full headstand without any assistance, I became so excited that I did, indeed, lose focus and fall over. But then I relaxed myself enough to realize that when my back is straight enough, my legs almost pop up off the ground involuntarily. My body knows what to do, it was my mind that was getting in the way.

I seem to learn this lesson over and over again: Trust. 

Trust my instincts. Trust my strength. Trust my body and everything else will come.

Once I pushed my introversion aside and actively sought out new friends in college, I met Matt. Once I finally let go of the fear of failing for the umpteenth time, I qualified for Boston.

Once I became comfortable with being slightly uncomfortable, I realized what an exhilarating and rewarding place it can be.

Practicing Joy and King Peak

It's been hard to find words to describe what this summer has been for me, thus the sporadic blog posting. I'm still not sure what to say about it all and find myself wondering whether it matters that I find the words at all. For now, I enjoy sitting with this feeling of peace in where my life is right now.

What started out as an experiment to help Matt sleep on midnight shifts soon blossomed into something more. Deep breath in, deep breath out, jump.

Higher than the wildfire haze!

Moments of confronting fear lead to moments of growth. Amid all the lakes, mountaintops, and towering volcanoes, I rediscovered a little of that fearless, playful child I used to be.

I received this comment on one of my posts in July. Apparently, I'm not the only one to notice this shift.

The biggest compliment ever.

Now that summer is coming to a close, I fear that I'll lose bits of this gutsy and whimsical spirit as I head back into the rigid world of speed workouts and mile splits.

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I said yes to Matt's Thursday morning plan to summit King Peak, even though the nauseating and slow drive there would take as long as the run did. It's never about fleeting views from the top; it's taking joy the little moments on the journey:

the unmistakable smell of marijuana wafting across the road as we drove  near someone's farm;

and the greenhouses sparkling in the sunshine

bottoming out our brand new Subaru, Ruby Sue, for the first time en route to the trail;

the stories and sarcastic sillies who always make six miles seem like one;

the PB&J and Grumpy Karen gummy worms;

the sparkling waters of the Pacific and the Lost Coast down below;

and sharing such beautiful places with such beautiful people.

Trio selfie.

Our summit log entry.

Lightning trail descent.

14 mi, 3:37:05, 4,200 ft gain
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As summer in the mountains draws to an early close due to the CA drought and rampant wildfires in the area, I'm nothing but grateful for the opportunities I've had this summer. I hope I can find a way to carry this additional strength and playful joy into my fall training season.

Pacing the Humboldt Bay Half

The morning fog is just beginning to break up as we arrive with the pace team in Arcata for the start. Matt and I duck into a local cafe and enjoy a couple pastries while we wait for everyone else to arrive. Months ago, we volunteered to run as pacers for this race and now that it was race day, I find myself much more nervous than I thought I would be for a relatively easy race time goal.

Nicolette A. photo credit.

I run quietly as Matt, Brandon, and I head out for our warmup jog. Never having paced a race before, I figure out where my nerves are coming from: I don't want to mess up anyone's race by erratic pacing. Telling myself that everyone is ultimately responsible for their own pace and I should try my best and forget about them seems to call my nerves. I tape the pace band on my wrist, secure the large "1:50" sign to my back and line up. Well, here goes nothing.

My racing plan:
Goal Time: 1:49:01-1:49:59, 8:19-8:23/mi.
Pace Plan: Watch instant pace on Garmin for small adjustments, check pace band at mile splits

Y. Kim, SRRC photo credit.

Feeding off of everyone's nervous energy, I take off quickly. I pull back when I realize I'm going too fast. I repeat this several times before we reach the first mile marker and am surprised when the first mile is actually a bit slow. Better than being too fast, I suppose.

Mile 1: 8:28 

I can feel a tight pack of runners forming next to and behind me. WHY ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE FOLLOWING ME?!! I spent the entire week preparing for the crowding that normally accompanies pace groups, but it still feels slightly awkward to have all those eyes on me. The next few miles, I focus on relaxing and establishing my cruising pace. Since the goal pace is within the range I normally use for easy runs, it feels comfortable and familiar and in no time I find myself relying less and less on my Garmin feedback.

Mile 2. Jose Quezada photo credit.

Mile 2: 8:15
Mile 3: 8:20
Mile 4: 8:16

We weave through farmland, familiar to me because several club races pass through on portions of this same route. One of my new buddies comments on the state of the road. Most obviously, it's covered in dried cow manure. At least, it's not a rainy November day and you're running through liquid poo instead, buddy. I can see he's struggling to keep pace on the heavily slanted and uneven asphalt. "The middle of the road is a lot flatter and easier to run on," I offer to him. Others in the group hear me and suddenly I'm leading a single file conga line of runners down the remaining bits of that faded yellow center line. I forget about running tangents on all the turns and aim for the easiest surface instead.

Mile 5: 8:31
Mile 6: 8:19

Mile 5. Jose Quezada photo credit.

By now we've all found our place in the group. The man in the yellow shirt and beanie just ahead of me begins chatting and telling me about how his goal is to stay one step ahead of me. Wow, people really are counting on me to run even splits. Every time we pass a marathon mile marker (about a minute before the half one appears), I glance down at my pace band, making note of when we should be arriving. At mile 7, I call out, "we're about twenty seconds ahead of 1:50 pace right now". Some runners look relieved while I can hear others behind me groan.

Mile 7: 8:21
Mile 8: 8:19

Now on a long straight stretch along the Samoa peninsula, the pace feels intuitive. We're now headed south with a tailwind and I can feel the moisture of the ocean, just a sand dune or two away from me. I catch up to a local lady, Robyn, and she asks, "You ran Boston this year, didn't you?" Even though I know her only by name (her sister-in-law cuts my hair), she somehow knows me. It's funny how nobody really pays attention to my fourteen other marathons, but they all know I ran Boston this year. We chat briefly about our Boston experiences and when I realize we're slowing, I say goodbye and she falls off the back of our group.

Mile 9: 8:21
Mile 10: 8:19

I grab a gel and a water at the next aid station and look back to see how many runners remain with me. To my surprise there are just two, both of them with bright red faces. The tailwind and high humidity are overheating all of us. Even though it's just 65F, it feels like at least 75F and none of us coastal wimps are acclimated to that. I catch up to my yellow shirt buddy and remind him of how he's going to stay ahead. I cheer him on and he hangs with me for a few more paces, but as we turn to cross a series of three bridges across the bay, he drops off behind to stretch his cramping calves. Now I'm left with just one runner.

Bridge 3, taken last October on a cloudy day.

Aside from the narrow stripe of black asphalt cutting through the water, everything around is blue. Due to traffic closures, the view from the bridges are peaceful, serene, and breathtaking in a way I never expected. It is so different than driving across or running with traffic.

Mile 11: 8:17

My lone runner, Chris, tells me that he sees me running a lot. I ask where he lives and it turns out we are neighbors. Since this race isn't a club event, it brings in a lot of unfamiliar faces. I tell him about the club runs and how cheap they are, he says he'll check them out when he gets home.

The final bridge, taken in 2011 from Eureka.

The final bridge is the largest and I spot two cyclists cheering from the top. From the sound of their voices, I already know who they are. Marlene and Sherry scream and cheer as we pass. "Look! I have a buddy! His name is Chris," I explain. "Go Chris!! You're almost there!!" they call out. This is why you need to join the running club, Chris. This is how we spend all our weekends: racing and cheering our hearts out. It's pretty awesome.

From the top of the bridge, I can see the finish line along the waterfront. "Look, you can see the finish from here! Just another ten minutes!" It seems to perk him up, so I take the cue and shift gears from being a chatting buddy to a coaching buddy. "You've got this."

Mile 12, Marlene A. photo credit.

Mile 12: 8:15

We crest the final bridge and drop into Old Town Eureka. We weave through the old Victorian homes and businesses. We make our final turn onto the boardwalk and I tell Chris he should leave me behind. He says that he'd like to finish with me. I'm touched by his gesture and glance at my watch, waiting for the 1:49 to show up. I watch as the numbers change and then pick up the pace. "Kick with me?" I ask as I look over at him. He nods and then matches my pace as we race for the finish line.

Mile 13 and to the finish: 9:33 (8:24/mi.)

A roar of supportive cheers ring out and we cross together as I hear our names announced. We shake hands and thank each other for the company. To my surprise, several other runners who finish just behind me come up and thank me for pacing them.

Y. Kim, SRRC photo credit.

1:49:31
8:22/mi.

Matt managed to take third place overall (1:29:42) and win his age group by running as the 1:30 pacer. After Brandon left him at mile 2, he ran the rest of the race by himself. Inaugural races could probably do without a 1:30 pacer unless it's in an urban area with very large crowds of fast people but he enjoyed having a freebie training race, so no complaints here.

Matt at mile 12, Marlene A. photo credit.

Y. Kim, SRRC photo credit.

Maybe next year I'll plan to race this one myself. The course is beautiful, mostly flat, and has such a different vibe from our club races that I'm sure it will become a staple on our summer running calendar.

Alaska With Friends

When it comes to travel, I'm one of those people who likes to plan. They may not be very detailed, but I like to have some idea of what to expect when I go. The trip to Anchorage was anything but that. I bought a ticket and off I went. Even though I still know a handful of people in the area, I found myself nervous about the trip. Between my family (my dad's side is big, I've got 40 first cousins), friends we've made living all over the country, and my blogging connections, it's becoming increasingly common that if I visit somewhere, I'll be able to find a couch to sleep on.

Rabbit Lake with Mike and Cinthia

Our schedules finally lined up so my hosts, Cinthia and Mike, took me on a gorgeous, sunny, and easy jaunt to a picturesque alpine lake. After my trip last year, I thought I had finally made peace with leaving Alaska, but this perfect weather had me reconsidering everything.

Watching these two reminded me of my relationship with Matt.

Now all I want to do is move back and be full-time mountain running pals with Cinthia. From the first time I met her, it felt like we were old friends, kindred spirits. I really enjoyed how open and honestly we could talk about life, things that make our hearts full, and our favorite running bloggers.

Her Tern with Angel
When I first booked my tickets to Alaska, Angel mentioned a half marathon the weekend I was here. Since I had already splurged on a plane ticket, I didn’t want to pony up the cash for a race. I offered to come cheer and run a few miles with her. Since I was an epic failure in getting our photo yesterday, I promised to be her obnoxious paparazzi and make up for it.

I camped out (with espresso in hand) at mile 2 and 12 of the half marathon, and miles 2 and 5.5 of the quarter marathon and spent my morning giving high fives. It was amazing. I loved that my caffeine-induced craziness made so many women smile.

When I spotted Angel at mile 12, I jumped in beside her. She was running strong and chatting effortlessly. Then came the hill the last quarter mile to the finish. It’s pretty much the worst finish I’ve ever seen. Perched atop a hill that was split into two short steeper pitches was the finish banner. In that moment, I was so glad I wasn’t racing. But Angel, she didn’t fade like I knew I would have. She attacked the hill and zoomed off. She took off so quickly that I almost didn’t get a finish shot!!

Then we grabbed some more miles and a smoothie together and called it a day.

A couple days later, we did some shopping, had some DQ, ran a few miles, and spent the day enjoying the other's company. Chill girl day was perfect. Angel is always such a joy. I love how she's so energetic and chill at the same time.

Evening Apples with Mr. Moose
One night while I was video chatting with Matt, I spotted something move outside the window. One of Cinthia's neighborhood moose came over for a snack. We watched as Mr. Moose pondered whether or not he'd fit in that lawn chair.

I think you're a little too big, guy.

NOM NOM NOM NOM

I caught up with a few other friends during my visit including Anna, one of my best friends in middle school. Whenever I'm in town, we catch up and I'm always surprised how it feels like no time has passed.

Then before my flight out, I met Brittany and Oliver at the airport during their layover. They were jetting off to Norway and I was headed home and we happened to be at the Anchorage airport (they live in Fairbanks) at the same time. Perfect! I love how life hands me these little reunions on almost no advance notice.

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My first window seat in almost a decade offered incredible views of the AK panhandle!

As the plane took off, I realized something: Between wonderful friends, familiar places, and breathtaking mountain views, I'm certain Alaska will always feel a little bit like home.