The yellow, bloodshot eyes!
Avoid the stare!
It's too late! We're doomed! They've spotted us!
(This is also what happens when the pups won't leave you alone while you're trying to make biscuits)
Monday, July 25, 2011
A fight to the end
A quiet morning in the Sheridan shire, we found ourselves fighting for our lives against horrific beasts bearing the white hand of Saruman...
(This is also what happens when the pups won't leave you alone while you're trying to make biscuits)
(This is also what happens when the pups won't leave you alone while you're trying to make biscuits)
Monday, July 11, 2011
(His Version) Saturday Trail Run - Lost in the BIg Horns: Make Larger Arrows
As you all know, Chicky and I enjoy a little stroll in the mountains from time to time. Occasionally when we're out Christina will look at me and say, "Where the hell are we going" or "Do you even know where you are?". I always chuckle and say, "no worries, the car is back that direction, I know exactly where we're at!" I like to think of this as directional training for the event that someday you really get lost. Besides, how else are you gonna find new places if you don't venture off the beaten path. (might be a metaphor for life?) Anyways, our directional training was put to the test this past weekend on a little trail run in the mountains west of Sheridan. Moms/Dads/others - don't worry it all ended well, and nobody was ever in any real danger; I think.
I just posted this on my Sheridan Trail Runner facebook page.Well Saturday morning’s trail run turned into a little bit of an adventure. Kyle, Lynie, Andy and Christina were not too surprised; in-fact they were probably expecting it. It all started when we arrived at Tongue River TH to drop a vehicle and somebody (me) forgot running shoes back in Sheridan. Who does that? After speeding our way back to town, Andy, Christina and I loaded up in the Phipps suburban and headed to Burgess Jct.
The run started out well, we began our run heading east below Twin Buttes with the understanding that if the North Fork of the Tongue was flowing too high we’d turn around and run an alternate route. As could be expected, snowmelt had swollen the river crossing to a level that nobody felt comfortable crossing. Heading back the way we came, we met up with Dry Fork Rd and headed out for the alternate 13 mile loop. Everything seemed to be going smoothly; Kyle, Andy and I would run ahead and wait for the girls at any junctions in the trail to make sure they didn’t miss a turn. We left Dry Fork road on an abandoned two track after making sure everybody knew where we were going. After about 1.5 miles, and one trail junction where Andy laid out a nice arrow constructed of logs indicating the correct direction to take, we decided to wait for the girls to catch up. After a short time waiting, we decided to back track and see where the rest of the group was. We ran the 1.5 miles back to where we were last together, and didn’t see the girls. We decided they had to have taken a wrong turn. Not panicking, yet, we headed back down the two track; stopping at every muddy spot in the trail where eyes searched the ground for tiny girl running shoe tracks.
When we reached the arrowed turn without meeting up with the girls, Kyle and I decided they had to have not seen the ginormous arrow that Andy had placed in the trail. We determined to run up the trail, which turned out to be more of an over-grown elk path, to get to higher ground and a 4-wheeler road to see if we could spot our now “assumed” lost runners. Repeating the same tracking techniques used earlier, Kyle and I came across the tell-tale tracks of our female trail running counterparts. After reaching the 4-wheeler road, and talking to three ATV’ers who hadn’t seen our runners, we decided to complete the planned loop. If we didn’t cross the girls, we head back to the suburban and set out on the roads looking. At this point I started to panic slightly, and wonder if we’d have to get Search and Rescue involved. Kyle seemed cool about it, but running back towards the car with him, his pace told me he was starting to worry as well. I knew that Christina had a good sense of direction and could find her way to a road or help if needed. Heck she has to going on runs with me, but I was not totally convinced that all would end well.
We crested the last hill headed towards the suburban, and what should we see but two figures walking around the parking lot waiting for us. As relief washed over Kyle and me, we raced down a gopher-holed, ankle-twisting hill to make sure our companions were okay. After hugging my wife, she regaled me with the story of how Lynie and she had indeed missed the, apparently not-so-obvious, arrow in the trail and ran back to the suburban thinking we had kept going. We all laughed, but mostly sighed with relief, that the day ended without the need for a search party. Next time, we’re bringing two-way radios!!
Monday, July 4, 2011
2011 Grandma's Marathon Recap
Where to begin... I've been creating this blog post in my head since we returned from our mid-west travels. Every time I sit down to write the post, I lose all energy and motivation to complete said post. Just thinking about our experience has me exhausted. But I'm eating a freshly-baked peach muffin and drinking a cup of coffee, so I'm feeling ready to take this on...
Our vacation plan was as follows: drive to Duluth, camp out, run the race, head to a glorious cabin on a small lake for a few days to recover, drive to Sioux Falls to see family and be at Steve's brother's wedding, and return to Sheridan. Travels began on Wednesday evening after work, at which point we drove just outside Dickinson, ND to camp. Thursday morning we awoke, not entirely refreshed due to late-partying neighbors, and began our road trip to Duluth. Weather was fantastic the entire drive. Then we arrived in Duluth. And Mother Nature decided to be the fickle bitch she is. Skies turned gray, fog rolled in, temps dropped to cool - too cool for late June.
Fast forward to race day... We're both nervous and sleep-deprived - throughout the night, the skies released a torrent of rain, thunder, and lightening. Being in a tent and listening to the downpour only added to the anxiety. Here we had just returned from a race in California in which the rain was never-ending; we were so desperately looking forward to warmth and sun during our Minnesota race. Our alarms rang too early and in the drenching rain, we dressed in our race gear and broke down camp. If we weren't so stubborn and hadn't put so much blood, sweat, and tears into training, we might have bailed. Seriously. Our motivation and excitement levels were running at an all-time low. We made our way to the finish line, where we were to catch a train to take us to the start line. Half-marathoners took buses, marathoners boarded the scenic train to take us up the shore line to the start. Rain continued pelting the train as we wearily attempted to calm our nerves and occasionally nod off for a few more minutes of sleep. So long super cute running skirt that was going to bring me in the finish line in record time. The weather posed too cool and I had to opt for the Robin Hood-look of black capris with pink compression socks. I looked ridiculous. But I was too tired and nervous to care.
We arrived at the start line with not much time to get ready - rushing to use the porta potties before the starting gun shot off. Neither of us were feeling very confident. Steve was not feeling well and I, in the rush of the morning and ensuing nervousness, never managed a BM. One of the first rules of running, especially long-distance running, is to get your guts cleaned out before you run. Otherwise you're almost guaranteed issues.
But I'll come to that lovely tidbit later in the race recap. We bolted to find our goal race times - most big road races ask people to line up by estimated race time - Steve going for 3:10, myself going for 5:00. I vaguely remember hearing the starting gun and the crowd (very slowly) surged forward. Approximately 6 minutes after official start time, I crossed the start line and my chip beeped as it clocked the beginning of my race. At this point, Mother Nature took pity, halting the rain and giving us a steady but encouraging tailwind.
Many marathon races provide pacers - a lead runner that maintains a steady pace and ensures any runner that chooses to run with the pacer they will complete the race in a particular amount of time - and I found the pacer for the 5:00 finish, sticking close to her like a scared child with it's mother on the first day of school. Not everyone utilizes the pacers, but each pacer had a small flock of runners, like a mother duck leading her ducklings. What better than to put the responsibility of meeting a finish time in the hands of a well-seasoned runner? Following a pacer takes the pressure of remembering mile splits out of your tired head and allows you to focus on your running. The pacers hold a sign the entire race with the goal finish time printed in large print, allowing runners to pick them out in a crowd.
The pace felt great. Somewhat slow, but I knew by the time I hit 20+ miles, the pace wouldn't feel so slow. The first 10K flew by and our pacer kept it light-hearted by asking her runner groupies questions. But a small voice in the back of my head kept reminding me that something wasn't quite right. Between mile 7 and 8, my body presented a loud and clear signal that my goal race time might become a pipe dream. My GI tract went into full-fledged mutiny. I slowed to a walk. Took a deep breath. And realized I wasn't going to make it to the next porta potty. What the french, toast?? I bolted to the woods (thank goodness we were still in a remote area, away from housing developments) and prayed to any God, Goddess, or Higher Being to not let another runner see or hear me. At some point, all runners will experience such a moment. It's like being in a secret society. When a fellow runner asks how your race went and you reply "had some stomach issues," they will look at you with a depth of empathy that can only be understood by experiencing a similar, humiliating moment.
No toilet paper. Damnit. Found some leaves, made do, there was a porta potty within a half-mile that I could utilize. I jumped back into the race, but my 5:00 pace group had long disappeared. I was crushed. But I had to keep moving. To really bring yourself crashing back to humility and humbleness, use the bushes in an emergency bathroom break and then realize, after you've redressed and started your marathon, that you have a leaf stuck to your bottom. Not stuck to your clothes. Inside your clothes. Clinging to your ass. Lord have mercy.
I almost dropped. Right then and there. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Was I going to let an unavoidable incident destroy my hard work? Helllllll no. I allowed myself to slow down, but kept running. The miles ticked away, some good, some not so good. Between miles 12-17, a spring returned to my step and all was calm in my world. I was slower than I hoped and never able to catch my pace group, but was still managing to move forward at a rate that would bring me into the finish line only 10 minutes slower than desired. Mile 17 brought a bout of nausea, forcing me to desist eating solid energy chews, resorting to alternating between Powerade and water. A few walking breaks gave my rebellious GI tract time to recover and I managed to return to a shuffle. A few tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes and I felt an emotional breakdown on the horizon, but I knew I couldn't turn back time and return to a 5:00 finish time, so I had to buck up and be happy that the rest of my body felt well-prepared to continue running. A lady walking nearby saw me slow to a walk between mile 17 and 18, asking me if I planned to walk the rest of the race because she was hoping to find someone to walk the rest of the way. Through my blurry eyes, I felt bad telling her "no, I plan to keep running," but I couldn't let myself get caught up in the sympathy of a fellow racer and not run when I knew I was perfectly capable of running.
The rest of the race proved uneventful. I pushed negative thoughts out of my mind as I watched my 5:00 time goal quickly slip into oblivion - especially when the 5:30 pace group caught up to me and proceeded to pass me. I managed to shave 8 minutes off my first marathon time, which is a small victory. My training was spot on and looking back to the race, my legs felt well-prepared. Even by mile 20, when the body (legs especially) begins to struggle to keep upright and continue forward movement, I felt surprisingly solid. Not to say I wasn't tired - if anyone ever tries to tell you they weren't tired at all during or after a marathon, they are big fat liars - but my training was obviously exactly where it needed to be to keep running (er, shuffling) at the very end, including a small kick at the finish line.
Because we're too cheap to pay exorbitant amounts of money for race pictures (seriously, they are ridiculously overpriced), check out MarathonFoto and look us up by last name (Lipetzky) and race (Grandma's Marathon & Half 2011).
Following the race, Steve and I tucked our tails between our legs and scurried off to our cabin on the lake (rented through vrbo.com) and spent the next five days and four nights recovering with lots of sleep and lazy afternoons by the lake. Someday I will break 5:00 in a marathon. Grandma's Marathon was not my day. You live and learn and move on. Next time I'll bring toilet paper.
Our vacation plan was as follows: drive to Duluth, camp out, run the race, head to a glorious cabin on a small lake for a few days to recover, drive to Sioux Falls to see family and be at Steve's brother's wedding, and return to Sheridan. Travels began on Wednesday evening after work, at which point we drove just outside Dickinson, ND to camp. Thursday morning we awoke, not entirely refreshed due to late-partying neighbors, and began our road trip to Duluth. Weather was fantastic the entire drive. Then we arrived in Duluth. And Mother Nature decided to be the fickle bitch she is. Skies turned gray, fog rolled in, temps dropped to cool - too cool for late June.
Fast forward to race day... We're both nervous and sleep-deprived - throughout the night, the skies released a torrent of rain, thunder, and lightening. Being in a tent and listening to the downpour only added to the anxiety. Here we had just returned from a race in California in which the rain was never-ending; we were so desperately looking forward to warmth and sun during our Minnesota race. Our alarms rang too early and in the drenching rain, we dressed in our race gear and broke down camp. If we weren't so stubborn and hadn't put so much blood, sweat, and tears into training, we might have bailed. Seriously. Our motivation and excitement levels were running at an all-time low. We made our way to the finish line, where we were to catch a train to take us to the start line. Half-marathoners took buses, marathoners boarded the scenic train to take us up the shore line to the start. Rain continued pelting the train as we wearily attempted to calm our nerves and occasionally nod off for a few more minutes of sleep. So long super cute running skirt that was going to bring me in the finish line in record time. The weather posed too cool and I had to opt for the Robin Hood-look of black capris with pink compression socks. I looked ridiculous. But I was too tired and nervous to care.
We arrived at the start line with not much time to get ready - rushing to use the porta potties before the starting gun shot off. Neither of us were feeling very confident. Steve was not feeling well and I, in the rush of the morning and ensuing nervousness, never managed a BM. One of the first rules of running, especially long-distance running, is to get your guts cleaned out before you run. Otherwise you're almost guaranteed issues.
But I'll come to that lovely tidbit later in the race recap. We bolted to find our goal race times - most big road races ask people to line up by estimated race time - Steve going for 3:10, myself going for 5:00. I vaguely remember hearing the starting gun and the crowd (very slowly) surged forward. Approximately 6 minutes after official start time, I crossed the start line and my chip beeped as it clocked the beginning of my race. At this point, Mother Nature took pity, halting the rain and giving us a steady but encouraging tailwind.
Many marathon races provide pacers - a lead runner that maintains a steady pace and ensures any runner that chooses to run with the pacer they will complete the race in a particular amount of time - and I found the pacer for the 5:00 finish, sticking close to her like a scared child with it's mother on the first day of school. Not everyone utilizes the pacers, but each pacer had a small flock of runners, like a mother duck leading her ducklings. What better than to put the responsibility of meeting a finish time in the hands of a well-seasoned runner? Following a pacer takes the pressure of remembering mile splits out of your tired head and allows you to focus on your running. The pacers hold a sign the entire race with the goal finish time printed in large print, allowing runners to pick them out in a crowd.
The pace felt great. Somewhat slow, but I knew by the time I hit 20+ miles, the pace wouldn't feel so slow. The first 10K flew by and our pacer kept it light-hearted by asking her runner groupies questions. But a small voice in the back of my head kept reminding me that something wasn't quite right. Between mile 7 and 8, my body presented a loud and clear signal that my goal race time might become a pipe dream. My GI tract went into full-fledged mutiny. I slowed to a walk. Took a deep breath. And realized I wasn't going to make it to the next porta potty. What the french, toast?? I bolted to the woods (thank goodness we were still in a remote area, away from housing developments) and prayed to any God, Goddess, or Higher Being to not let another runner see or hear me. At some point, all runners will experience such a moment. It's like being in a secret society. When a fellow runner asks how your race went and you reply "had some stomach issues," they will look at you with a depth of empathy that can only be understood by experiencing a similar, humiliating moment.
No toilet paper. Damnit. Found some leaves, made do, there was a porta potty within a half-mile that I could utilize. I jumped back into the race, but my 5:00 pace group had long disappeared. I was crushed. But I had to keep moving. To really bring yourself crashing back to humility and humbleness, use the bushes in an emergency bathroom break and then realize, after you've redressed and started your marathon, that you have a leaf stuck to your bottom. Not stuck to your clothes. Inside your clothes. Clinging to your ass. Lord have mercy.
I almost dropped. Right then and there. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Was I going to let an unavoidable incident destroy my hard work? Helllllll no. I allowed myself to slow down, but kept running. The miles ticked away, some good, some not so good. Between miles 12-17, a spring returned to my step and all was calm in my world. I was slower than I hoped and never able to catch my pace group, but was still managing to move forward at a rate that would bring me into the finish line only 10 minutes slower than desired. Mile 17 brought a bout of nausea, forcing me to desist eating solid energy chews, resorting to alternating between Powerade and water. A few walking breaks gave my rebellious GI tract time to recover and I managed to return to a shuffle. A few tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes and I felt an emotional breakdown on the horizon, but I knew I couldn't turn back time and return to a 5:00 finish time, so I had to buck up and be happy that the rest of my body felt well-prepared to continue running. A lady walking nearby saw me slow to a walk between mile 17 and 18, asking me if I planned to walk the rest of the race because she was hoping to find someone to walk the rest of the way. Through my blurry eyes, I felt bad telling her "no, I plan to keep running," but I couldn't let myself get caught up in the sympathy of a fellow racer and not run when I knew I was perfectly capable of running.
The rest of the race proved uneventful. I pushed negative thoughts out of my mind as I watched my 5:00 time goal quickly slip into oblivion - especially when the 5:30 pace group caught up to me and proceeded to pass me. I managed to shave 8 minutes off my first marathon time, which is a small victory. My training was spot on and looking back to the race, my legs felt well-prepared. Even by mile 20, when the body (legs especially) begins to struggle to keep upright and continue forward movement, I felt surprisingly solid. Not to say I wasn't tired - if anyone ever tries to tell you they weren't tired at all during or after a marathon, they are big fat liars - but my training was obviously exactly where it needed to be to keep running (er, shuffling) at the very end, including a small kick at the finish line.
Because we're too cheap to pay exorbitant amounts of money for race pictures (seriously, they are ridiculously overpriced), check out MarathonFoto and look us up by last name (Lipetzky) and race (Grandma's Marathon & Half 2011).
Following the race, Steve and I tucked our tails between our legs and scurried off to our cabin on the lake (rented through vrbo.com) and spent the next five days and four nights recovering with lots of sleep and lazy afternoons by the lake. Someday I will break 5:00 in a marathon. Grandma's Marathon was not my day. You live and learn and move on. Next time I'll bring toilet paper.
Who said Bluegrass music isn't totally sweet?
Anytime we want to listen to music, our delivery system of choice is Pandora, which we can listen either on our laptop or through our BluRay DVD. Pandora provides a plethora of music genres and allows you to mix and match as you choose. Bluegrass is such a genre that occasionally finds it's way into our playlist (by choice, mind you) - we enjoy a lot of the Appalachian-esque style played frequently on NPR and thus have added it to our Pandora repertoire.
One such song that has become my absolute favorite is Pine Mountain Railroad playing "Don't Stop Believing." Yes, you read that correctly. A Journey song. And it rocks. I'm that girl belting "Don't Stop Believing" anytime it comes on the radio. I don't love all Journey songs, but nothing beats that classic. So when Pine Mountain Railroad blasted through our Pandora station with their cover of "Don't Stop Believing," I squealed with excitement and cranked the volume.
I was unable to find the full song online, but did stumble upon a link to Napster and the full version of the song (you only get so many free songs through Napster before you have to pay).
Makes me want to pick up a banjo and rock out.
One such song that has become my absolute favorite is Pine Mountain Railroad playing "Don't Stop Believing." Yes, you read that correctly. A Journey song. And it rocks. I'm that girl belting "Don't Stop Believing" anytime it comes on the radio. I don't love all Journey songs, but nothing beats that classic. So when Pine Mountain Railroad blasted through our Pandora station with their cover of "Don't Stop Believing," I squealed with excitement and cranked the volume.
I was unable to find the full song online, but did stumble upon a link to Napster and the full version of the song (you only get so many free songs through Napster before you have to pay).
Makes me want to pick up a banjo and rock out.
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