The Journey of a Long Run in May

Saturday, sometime o’clock

In the back of my mind, Sunday’s run will be a long run with lots of vert, since Sunday is usually my longest run of the week and this month is Mountain May (I’m attempting about 15k feet of elevation gain each week). Vapors of further consideration in the cranium are going along the lines of, “Maybe I could run up to the snow line on the San B trail again and then do a repeat to simulate race day.” But that’s about as far as I’m getting with planning, even when Ben asks me this evening what I had in mind for Sunday.

Saturday, 11:55 p.m.

I’m lying in bed avoiding sleep, probably because subconsciously I wanted to have accomplished something today or lived it to the fullest, but I haven’t. But running comes to mind again. I suddenly decide to look up the Forest Falls web cams and weather for the mountains in the morning. The forecast says a fair chance of snowfall, and even if not, pretty certainly rain. The web cams aren’t current, but the last shots and weather data look foggy at best. That is enough info to swing my mind to: “Okay, probably just a long run at Hulda then.” I’m too lazy to drive to Crafton or Morton, hills that are higher but farther away than Hulda.

Then, as though granted to me by the holy spirit of running, I finally envision the perfect linkup to a couple hill repeat ideas I’d had for Hulda. Duh! It seems so obvious now that I’m picturing it. This thought gives me enough excitement for tomorrow’s run to finally go to sleep. I wake up a few hours later when Bennie starts hacking and then throws up on my blanket. Classic kitty.

Sunday, 9:00 a.m.

I wake up leisurely, after snoozing thirty-seven times or so. I can’t really tell it’s drizzling (maybe it’s not), but I believe it is since the forecast said it would be. I do not feel like getting out of bed, let alone for an immediate long run. The air is cool; my bed is cozy. I suddenly remember Anthony is doing his Rio to Mar thirty-seven-mile run this morning. I realize he’s probably nearing thirty miles if he really did start at 4:30 a.m. like Ben had told me last night he was planning to do. I open the tracking link on my phone. It’s stalled at 14.something miles and says something about “disconnected.” I drag myself to the kitchen in my undies to see if, by chance, it’s different on the computer. Nope.

Lauren facetimes. Hm. Dilemma. Risk losing the call running to put on a shirt? Try answering and explaining that I’m running to grab a shirt? I don’t always do well in high-stress situations. I answer and just hold the camera to my face like our grandmothers do: showing chin and up at best. She puts her mother and her mother’s twin sister on. Perfect. I love getting to meet people in my underwear. Wait, this has nothing to do with my long run. But I’m texting with Ben a little later and we ask each other our run plans again. I tell him “probably Hulda.” He’d like to do something on Lookout, but probably won’t have time.

Sunday, 2:45 p.m.

The foot in my brain has been kicking me for a while now. I need to go run. But my butt hurts from sitting here eating and vegging out in front of the computer! I don’t want to run! Lauren texts me that she’s finally going to the airport again for the third attempt to fly to Europe. Long story. I tell her I’m about to get ready to go run. It’s true.

But on the pot I realize I hadn’t eaten lunch. I should eat some calories. I grab a big Costco blueberry muffin from the fridge and, since I can’t eat without watching something on a screen, I turn on a Norwegian film I came across this morning: The Quake. Oooh. As I finish my muffin, I realize the film is a sequel. Netflix has the prequel: The Wave! Oooh. I know what I’ll watch tonight. I go to my room and get my running clothes on. I gather my water bottle and other running trinkets. I go over to grab my wallet, keys, and watch, and I slump my shoulders. I have a sinking feeling my watch is low on battery. It is.

So I’m charging it. And instead of watching something, I’m typing this blog post out. So that’s something, I guess. The watch is at 34 percent now. It was at eight percent. Progress. In about five minutes it will be four o’clock, so that’s when I’ll unplug and run. I’ll take my external battery pack just to feel safe.

It just turned four o’clock. Watch is at 40 percent. I’m out.

Sunday, afternoon

I start with a big loop I’d had vague visions of before, heading east first, then up to the high point, and looping back down to the lot. It goes well and gains quite a bit of vert: probably 1,600 feet in about six miles and one hour. I recoup for a couple minutes at the car and head out for the second loop and the quick-vert (read: steep) connections that had come to mind earlier. I improvise more than expected during the first round, ending up out west a bit and looping back to the trail I’d mainly had in mind. Then I do a smaller version of that for a loop-two total of about 2,200 feet of gain in six and a half miles and eighty minutes. I’m definitely starting to feel tired by now, but I’m pleased with how my legs are holding up.

It occurs to me during one or two of the short, steep downhills that doing much more of this type of running may finally leave me without a toenail or two. I’ve never lost one to the black, but I figure this is the type of stuff that would do it. Maybe not though. Hopefully not. (Update: it doesn’t.)

I linger at the car a few minutes longer than the first time, mentally psyching myself up for a final outing. The sun is going down, a breeze has picked up, and it’s beautiful outside. I slap on my right arm sleeve, because even in 65º I can get chilled. Pathetic, I know. I’m heading up Always Angry, a segment I named one day when I was, you guessed it, angry. It’s a pretty stout climb. I keep the pace steady, head down a bit, grinding away. I do this a second time and with the fatigue I’m feeling, the setting sun to the west, and the pride and satisfaction I have for what I’m doing, I become emotional for a minute. This sort of thing happens now and then, particularly when my body is experiencing a mixture of serious fatigue and a concoction of pride/humility. I imagine there is hormonal chaos factoring in as well, a rush of weighted runner’s high that floods the body and then becomes overwhelmed by the practical need to focus and finish.

Which I do.

And then: weary, wavering steps during a brief walking cool down. Hands on knees by the car. Eyes closed tight. Deep breaths. I’m done, and I’m satisfied.

After Strava’s elevation correction pruned about 700 feet of gain from me, my totals ended up at something like twenty miles, three and a half hours total time, and sixty feet shy of 5,000 feet of gain. A good day.

Sunday, night

Recovery meals are not a forte of mine; I tend to eat worse foods than I should. For some folks, this is completely justifiable: get that burger! down that shake! snarf that pizza! You’ve earned it! And while I agree to a large degree with that (I burned about 2,500 calories, after all), I want to balance that out with some healthy self-respect and care for this temple. I need it tomorrow, after all.

That said, this recovery meal was not the most exemplary. I scrambled two eggs and put them in two well-cheesed quesadillas. I mashed an avocado for dipping. I made a big bowl of popcorn. I started a movie, and then soon craved a soda. Like, really craved. So, for I think the first or second time ever, I paused the movie, changed into pants, and ran over to Staters for some Dr. Pepper. I’m ashamed to admit how much I drank, but it was kind of a lot. My bones probably lost some density in a matter of two hours. And then I stayed up way too late after discovering a new race possibility and becoming obsessed with it for a couple hours. So much for responsible recovery.

And that’s the journey of a long run in May for this Chris Clouzet. It’s some good times, and that’s why I like it.