Equinox Marathon Race Report

Golden Hour arrives just as a crowd gathers outside for the race start. Leaves that were already at peak color become over-saturated as the sun climbs higher in the sky. A slight crispness hangs in the air. For all the years that I've had bad weather luck at marathons, the Equinox has always been kind to me. This year appears to be no exception.

Glancing around, I notice that I'm one of the few wearing shorts. After months of summertime weather, it's not surprising to see the locals bundled up. Since it's forty degrees and temperatures plan to heat to sixty, I'm in shorts and long sleeves, as always. I don't know it now, but I'll be thankful for that later.

Matt and I snap a selfie just in time for me to tuck the camera away and start my watch. The crowd takes off through the field and up the first of many hills  we encounter today. Somehow this year, we've started closer to the front of the pack and don't experience anywhere near the bottleneck that I remember from before.

I try to calm my competitive nature, reminding myself that I didn't really prepare for this race. We're on vacation after all!

The first miles pass quickly. Sunshine filters through the trees and at mile two, I don't notice a man cheering from the shadows until he is right beside me. "A little early for hallucinations, isn't it?" I ask Matt.

The trail we've been following ends and we emerge onto the road for a short time. Much of the Equinox Marathon course is like this: trails connect well in the wintertime, but since some of them are over lakes, road connectors are necessary in the summer months.

It would not be a race without some sort of goal, whether to keep me pushing hard or to keep me calm. This time, my goal is meant to be the latter:

1. Don't fall down. This is not a goal race. I've got work to do this fall, it can't include an injury.
2. Beat my course best, set in 2010: 4:36
3. DON'T FALL DOWN.
4. Take pictures, eat snacks, ogle fall colors.

Before long, the pack has thinned out and Matt and I are running behind people keeping the same pace as we are. Our surges and slowdowns match perfectly to the woman ahead of me, whom I recognize as Dorli McWayne, this fantastic masters runner I used to finish waaaay behind. She offers to let us pass, but I tell her that her pace is great and we'll let her know if we need to pass later.

Skarland Loop trail, mile 5?

The trail is technical for a while, a puzzle of tree roots that fly by at a dizzying speed. Somehow there are just enough segments of clear trail for my eyes to refocus before the next one begins. We pass the muskox farm. We cross over our old road 20 mile run route.

Mile 6

I haven't run this route in seven years, but suddenly memories are flooding in as I piece the course together in my head. Before I know it, we're at the first relay checkpoint and passing through a crowd of people. Sommer and the kids were supposed to meet us here, but I can already tell by the time on my watch that we're way too early for what we told them.

Finn was bummed and refused to give anyone else high fives. I can appreciate that loyalty.

Checkpoint 1 (mile 8): 1:10:45, 8:50/mi.

It's here that the fun begins. Just as the course has been so far, ribbons of sweet singletrack are strung together with brief road segments. The climb is grueling and just as I remembered. I put on my game face and make it my mission to hang with the girl up ahead. I know she's running the relay, so she's got perfectly fresh legs and will make good time. We climb and climb, briefly crossing the road. The skeleton of an old car still remains. That slick-as-shit-not-quite-mud spot is still there. There's comfort in knowing what's coming next.

Ehh NBD, there's just one hill.

For as much as the locals tout this as one of the most difficult marathons in the country (they claim it's 2nd to Pikes Peak Marathon), it's really not that bad. I've definitely had shorter races with a lot more climbing. For example, the 30k trail race I direct has over 4,500 ft of climbing in it versus the 3,500 here spread over 26.2.  It's certainly one of the most beautiful marathons I've ever run, though.

Mile 9

Soon we pop out onto the gravel road leading up Ester Dome. Great views spread out to the east and I try to make sure I appreciate them. That's why I'm here.

As we climb the road, signs cheer us on. Beer is up ahead. In fact, there are no less than ten unofficial aid stations serving beer. This race is often on one of the last warm weekends of autumn and Fairbanksans come out to drink while they watch their friends pass by. It's basically a twenty-six mile party with some pretty trees and a big hill or two mixed in. I take a swig of PBR as I pass by one of them.

Mile 11. Okay, so I may be getting a little tired of climbing here.

When the course veers off the side of the road, I recognize the trail from yesterday's hike with Sommer and the kids. I'm not sure why it's called The Zipper because my poor legs do not feel zippy and for the first time today, I'm forced into a hike. Meanwhile, Matt is trotting along like this is the easiest thing in the world. He's my personal paparazzi and I'm having a good time with him behind the camera for a change.

Mile 12.5

From here, we hit the out-and-back. In training for the relay in 2008 and marathon in 2010, I refused to do this section more than once. I hated it. Straight down, straight back up the way you came. It seems to serve no point other than adding mileage somewhere. There are short views to the south before we dip back into the trees on what is essentially a washed out jeep road. Yay.

I can feel myself slowing as I take tentative steps, trying not to let gravity slam me to the ground. But then, perhaps due to overthinking it, my foot catches on a minuscule rock and I go down. I feel my body twist as I roll and almost somersault to a halt. I'm now somehow facing up, flat on my back. Matt comes into view in front of a bluebird sky. WELL SHIT.

1. Don't fall down. This is not a goal race. I've got work to do this fall, it can't include an injury.
2. Beat my course best, set in 2010: 4:36
3. DON'T FALL DOWN.
4. Take pictures, eat snacks, ogle fall colors.

He helps pull me upright as I survey the damage. I've got scrapes on both knees and up as far as my left hip. I pick the rocks out of my skin as we resume forward motion, this time at a walk. People whizz by.

Since I seem to be an expert at crashing halfway through races with miles and miles to go, I know resuming running is the best solution. I break into a trot. The downhill isn't fun due to the swelling, but the constant moving keeps it from swelling more and completely locking up.

My left leg will look like this a day or two later.

At long last, we reach the aid station at the end of the out and back. I grab a cookie and two water cups. An aid volunteer notices me washing the dirt out of my knee with one of the water cups and offers aid. Nah, I'm fine.

I take my time climbing back up. By the time we reach the second checkpoint, I know I'll be able to finish the race. It may not be pretty on the steepest downhill sections, but I've got this. Vacation race, remember? I say to myself.

Checkpoint 2 (mile 16.8): 1:33:50, 10:40/mi.

When I reach the top of the chute, I glance down at my watch. By my calculations, I needed to arrive here before three hours to beat my PR. To my surprise, I arrive at 2:44:35. Before I can puzzle over what this means for a finish time, I'm faced with the biggest descent of the course. While most people dread the climb up Ester Dome, I hate the downhill sections the most, especially now that my knees are extra sensitive.

Of course this photo does it no justice.

Let's revisit that course profile: Six hundred some feet down in about a quarter mile. This downhill is called the Chute and it sees enough crashes that they keep medics at the bottom in case someone needs to be evacuated. And this is Alaska, where people are pretty much left to fend for themselves in treacherous situations.

Matt and I take our time getting to the bottom of it. Once we're there, we're treated by the most beautiful section of the course. It's still going downhill by quite a bit, but the footing is good so I'm able to take my first shots of Matt running through the golden forest.

Now approaching mile twenty, we begin passing struggling runners. There's one particular younger runner, a high school aged boy, walking along clutching his leg. I stop to ask if he's okay. He says that he's run out of water and is cramping up. I remember that I've carried a salt tab in my pocket today and offer it to him. He doesn't hesitate accepting it. He'll later finish just ten minutes behind us so the salt must have helped! Yay!

Down, down we go. Eventually we pop out on a gravel road, then a paved one. There's a slightly longer stretch on the power line trail than I remember. Honestly, most of the rest is blurring together because I've realized that not only am I going to beat my own PR, but I might just beat Matt's too if I push it a little. Suddenly I'm in race mode.

One final time, the course emerges onto a paved country road. I remember Gold Hill Rd. from my twenty mile route. It's finally a gentle downhill for awhile. My inner road racer takes over and for the first time in many miles, I've forgotten about my knees. I'm focused on catching the people ahead of me. Matt turns to me and smiles, "It's nice to run a race with you when you're having a strong finish." I realize he's referencing the last time we ran a marathon together, CIM 2013, when I had a meltdown at mile 24. I tell him I'm glad too as I notice that both miles twenty-four and twenty-five are in the 7:35 range.

There's one last hill waiting just before the final mile, a small but brutal 200 ft. climb through the UAF campus trails. In 2010, this hill slowed me to a crawl. Today, I'm surprised that I'm running the whole thing, even though it's at a pretty slow shuffle. After that, it's one last road crossing, a trail through the field, a stand of trees, and then the finish.

I catch up to the man ahead of me. He's slowing but refuses to let me pass. I swerve right, he does too. When we hit the final road crossing, I sprint around him and take off through the field. I don't know if he's right on my tail, but I pretend he is. I glance down at my watch to survey my pace, it sure feels fast. (My watch data will later tell me that my last .2 mile was a 7:01/mi pace.)

We pop through the last bit of forest into the field where we started the race. To my surprise, the final bit no longer climbs part of the beginning hill. Matt and I are sprinting side by side with the sun shining down on our faces. It's sort of perfect and I'm almost sad we're to the end.

Third leg (9.7 miles): 1:19:31, 8:11/mi.

Jerzy Justice photo credit.

4:04:05
9:18/mi.
3,550 ft. gain
12/239 ladies

A volunteer rushes over as Matt snaps photos of my knee. "Go give the med tent guys something to do, they look bored," she says. I begin to decline her offer, but then I see that they've got some really cushy lounge chairs, so I take her up on that. The cute firemen tell me that I'm their first customer of the day as I sign my name and take a seat. They remove both of my shoes, irrigate my wounds and tell me that they're surprised that I've only got two cuts. They're a little deep but were spouting out more blood than expected as I ran. They bandage me up and I hobble off.

Matt and I find a soft spot in the grass. It isn't until then that I realize we both beat our old PRs, mine by thirty two minutes, his by four.

We grab a shower at the Patty Center, find some lunch and then park ourselves in the grass for the rest of the afternoon. We cheer on other runners as they finish until we're too exhausted and head back to the house.

When we arrive, we learn Sommer has planned movie night with Finding Dory and banana splits for a snack. Daisy asks if we can stay another week, please. Oh I wish.

How to properly refuel after a marathon

Don't worry, Daisy, we'll be back. We always come back.Thanks to the folks at Running Club North, our friends, and family for an amazing trip back. Fairbanks still feels like home and I wouldn't be surprised if we someday return permanently.

Cool drone video I didn't know where to put in my race report. 

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year (hint: it's not Christmas)

If I had to pick my favorite season, it would be autumn. Where I grew up, autumn started relatively early. School started just as the leaves began to turn. It signaled the end of that frantic, never-ending energy season full of sunshine, swimsuits, and ice cream. But before the calm of winter could fully take hold, the whole world changed color. I've always likened it to the finale of a fireworks show: a sudden burst of rich colors that make us all ooh and ahh before things quiet down.

Chena River

Living on the California coast means virtually no fall colors. Surrounded by evergreens, we are treated to brief bursts of color. A maple tree here, an oak there---nothing like the forests of reds, oranges, and yellows I was used to. I didn't realize how important this season was to me until it suddenly disappeared from my life.

Above the Elliot Highway from Grapefruit Rocks

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Fairbanks in September is gorgeous. From the moment we stepped off the plane, we immersed ourselves in the forests of golden birch and aspen leaves at every available opportunity. We revisited our favorite trails, explored some new ones, and did pretty much every activity one is not supposed to do leading up a marathon. Oh well.

Goldstream Valley

Our first adventure was a cruise around the UAF trails. This is the activity Matt insisted we take on first. We hadn't been off the plane more than twenty minutes by the time we were shuffling through a carpet of golden leaves.

Skarland Loop

Ballaine Lake

The next morning, we went on a short hike with my cousin's wife, Sommer and the kids, Daisy and Finn. This trip would not have been financially possible for us without family living in town. We lived with them the first few months we lived in Fairbanks. Our old computer room is now their guest room. My cousin Shaun and I have always sort of been the black sheep of the family, always living far away and never feeling connected the way our Wisconsin-based family does. We've always gotten along pretty well. It's always great to catch up with them.

UAF Trails

That afternoon, we took a page from our California playbook and the rule that if it's sunny and 65, one must spend the day outdoors. We drove out into the hills to take on Angel Rocks. That's where the autumn beauty got real. Everything, everything, was golden. It was incredible. The only thing we didn't do was rest.

Angel Rocks. Our outfits gave us away as non-locals. Everyone else had a real summer and thought 60 was time to bundle up. Not us.

Angel Rocks

Chena River again.

On marathon eve, we took another hike with the kiddos and went up to Ester Dome. Matt and I suggested a trail that happened to be part of our marathon route. We climbed rocks, we admired grouse in the trees, and explored the world from a seven year old's point of view. It was nice to go slowly and take things in differently.

Ester Dome with the fam. Sommer P. photo.

That night, the skies were finally clear. I knew I was supposed to be in bed resting for the next morning's marathon, but when the aurora is out and you're only around for a week, you skip the sleep part. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my camera and tripod and headed to my favorite aurora viewing spot. Since my cousin lives in the same valley and much closer than where Matt and I lived in town, it took only a few minutes to get there. It was perfect for a quick aurora shoot. Unfortunately, the lack of snow and my rusty skills made for some mediocre photos. Oh well.

Goldstream Valley aurora

Saturday was the big day, the main event on our trip. I'd like to do a separate post on that so let's skip ahead.

Instead, here's a fox. This one spent the next week visiting my cousin's chickens.

Sunday: Grapefruit Rocks. This is a popular route for hikers. I call it a route because it's not really much of a trail. I guess it's a piece of cake for people who rappel up and down sheer faces but it was a tiny bit terrifying on wobbly tired legs. The temperature was great once again and I got to spend a full day hanging with my friend Rena, who was out of town last time I visited. Man, I miss having her around in my daily life.

Grapefruit Rocks with Rena

Rena F. photo.

Monday was our final day in Fairbanks and we definitely didn't waste it. One of our California friends happens to own a seasonal cabin outside of town and she invited us to check it out. Then she and her son followed us up the hill to explore Murphy Dome with Sommer and the kids one last time. All the kids got along great and it was fun to explore a place I have seldom visited myself.

Matt and Seth

Tracy chasing after the kids.

Tall

Us with Sommer, climbing through the rocks Tracy J. photo.

Our final adventure was a quick shakeout run with Jane to make sure we really slept on our red-eye back to California. I'm always surprised by how much better my legs feel after a trail race vs. a road one. We had one more dose of fall colors before we headed south. Perfect.

Ester Dome run.

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Even though I was initially disappointed by the wildfire smoke cancelling my half marathon, everything turned out even better than I had hoped. I got my dose of fall color and am now content to embrace the shorter days and let life slow down for a little while.

Ester Dome Rd.

When plans change: Fall half marathon training

In between weekend trips to the mountains, I managed to squeeze in some focused road training and set my sights on The Rogue Run Half in Medford, Oregon on September 17th. My summer of shorter distance running set me up pretty well to expand into half training. Paces slowed, tempo runs grew longer. Everything went seamlessly....

6 @ 7:10

A super strong fartlek run.

2x2mi.

until of course, it didn't.

On Tuesday of that week, my biggest and most successful training week ever, I surpassed my goal pace in a half marathon pace workout, both running my fastest seven miles ever and my fastest 10K ever (I haven't run a lot of 10Ks). I felt like I was flying.

7 @ 7:08, and an unofficial 10K PR by 20 sec.

Then Thursday, I felt off. I could barely breathe. My workout was terrible. I was supposed to do 2x3 miles and could barely manage 2 miles in the first rep before I had to stop. Matt talked me into a short recovery and a chance to try again. I couldn't. Then I looked down and spotted something on my shoes. Ash. Fantastic.

Yuck. I'm sure this is what the inside of my lungs looked like too.

By Friday afternoon's run, I was wheezing, dizzy, and couldn't quite figure out why. I didn't realize at the time, but wildfire smoke from fires both east and north of us were dropping bits of tree on us. Normally, smoke doesn't bother me. But apparently on the coast, with my ever-present allergies, it turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back, so to say.

I moved inside to the treadmill. I stayed inside during what was arguably one of the warmest and sunniest Labor Day weekends ever because I literally couldn't breathe outside even while walking. Bleh. I ran a total of 45 miles on the treadmill before I wanted to quit running forever.

All that time, I dreaded what this complication would do to my goal race. I worried about it for a week, struggling to hit paces that just one week earlier came so easily. Then I got an email.

I was sad, but mostly relieved. I knew wildfire season hadn't been kind to the Rogue Valley and I really didn't want to have to make the decision to skip the race myself. Race organizers did that for me.  They also issued a full refund, something I didn't expect from a for-profit racing company. (Thanks Hood to Coast!)

I spent about a week looking for races and didn't find a suitable replacement. When Matt asked if he should cancel that long stretch of leave he had taken, I hesitated. We had cancelled two other trips recently. I mulled this idea over the day after a rain and on my first outdoor run in over a week, a nice solo 16 miler with my favorite big trees. Where could I go to get out of the smoke? Not Oregon or California.....

Then I came home to an article from Alaska Dispatch about stupid cheap airfare. The wheels began to turn.

Side story: A few months ago, I made the mistake of following musher, Brent Sass (based in Two Rivers), on Instagram. What can I say? I'm a sucker for cute puppies.

If you like husky puppies, you should definitely follow him.

Anyways, I remembered this shot and that's all it took for me to make my decision. In my repeated visits back, I had yet to make a fall trip. It was time. I haven't had a proper fall season since we left Alaska.

It just happened to be Equinox Marathon weekend. Celebrate with all of Fairbanks as they say farewell to summer? Heck yes. Sign. me. up.

Despite a summertime of speed work and 5K training, I managed to squeeze in enough August mountain adventures that I was confident I could knock out a trail marathon at the last minute. Sunday afternoon, we bought our plane tickets, signed up for the marathon, and got Zoey her luxury suite prison cell at the vet. By Wednesday afternoon, my running shoes were already kicking up golden birch leaves and I had all but forgotten about that missed half marathon run.

I knew it already: This trip was better.