theSmudge.com

One week ago, I awoke well before most people do on a Saturday morning, and long before the sun rose. I forced myself to eat a little breakfast, I put on my running clothes, I grabbed my water bottle, and I set out into the cool morning air. I was going to run 20 miles, get home just in time to change into dry clothes, then go see my friend Katie finish a race, with the likelihood of taking home prize money. This would be my longest run before the New York Marathon two weeks later.

At mile 1.6, I suddenly tripped on an uneven part of the sidewalk. Tree roots have pushed it up, and I’ve actually tripped there twice before and remained on my feet. (One time I went staggering/running/leaping for half a dozen steps before regaining control.)

The scene of the crime (taken the next day). It was just my luck to land on concrete that is rough and made of lots of tiny rocks.

This time, I found myself skidding along the sidewalk, coming to rest flat on my chest. I got up and realized my knees were bloody messes, as was part of my left hand. My water bottle had protected most of my dominant right hand, thankfully.

I gathered up the various possessions that had gone flying. I walked around to see if I’d broken/damaged anything. Nothing felt out of place, so I ran home. It was a good way to test the limbs, and I certainly didn’t want to take the time to walk a mile and a half. By the time I got home, I had bloody streaks down my legs and my shoes needed to be washed. (I debated for days whether to post pictures of the carnage. I decided not to, but if you want to see the gore, I can email you a photo.) I was done for the day.

It turned out that Katie had to pull out of her race, so we met at a Starbucks and commiserated for a while. We were both bummed and in pain, and it was such a relief to see and hug a close friend. She understood. Many people say that running 20 miles is insane, but Katie runs that amount many days and doesn’t think I’m crazy. We eventually parted ways and I went off to buy the biggest band-aids I could find for my knees that were getting more painful by the minute. Of course I happened to drive down the parking lot lane where the world’s slowest, biggest customer was trudging slowly down the middle of it while I inched along behind her.

But of course that wasn’t all. On my way to meet Katie, I was minding my own business when a large turkey came flying over a sound wall. It landed ungracefully in front of my car, and I braked just in time to avoid an early Thanksgiving slaughter. So, while that was at least amusing, it clearly was not my day. I skipped going to a bowling party that evening, since I wouldn’t have actually bowled and wasn’t sure I’d survive the drive, at the rate I was going.

I did note, though, that the morning’s distrastrous run put my year’s total miles at 1,000.19. It’s the first time I’ve ever run more than 1,000 miles in a year.

Sunday morning was Take Two. I went through the same routine as Saturday, this time leaving two hours later and with hurting knees that had disrupted my sleep. I even took the same route, stopping to take pictures of the offending sidewalk. For 20 miles, I felt my knee wounds at every step. Every bend and straighten of my legs upset my wounds. I’m not following much of a training plan (see this post about my “plan,” and this one about how it worked for me — though I don’t actually advise anyone to do it). I only scheduled two runs on my calendar for New York training, and this weekend was the most crucial one. It was “do or die” for New York, and this was my only chance to do that long run. As it was, I’d lost almost two weeks of training in September due to a knee issue.

So I ran. I had told myself not to go too fast, because a long training run isn’t supposed to be fast. The purpose is to get time on your feet and train your body to keep going. Earlier in the month I’d run on hills and in humidity for 11 days in Hawaii. That really helped my training, and I’d done some rather fast runs when I returned home. This 20-miler was NOT to be run fast, and I told myself that no mile time would start with an 8. I stuck to it, having to force myself to slow down sometimes during the first 10 miles.

Danville.

Part of the route was new to me, and I absolutely loved running through Danville. Then it began to get harder. At mile 13, I turned on my music to help distract myself. I reached the Iron Horse bike trail that would take me back home, took one look at it and said, “No.” I don’t really like the trail, since it just seems to go on forever (and was the scene of my stress fracture last year). So, instead of running the trail on Sunday, I took a different parallel road. That was a smart move, because it was more shady and by then I was getting hot.

By mile 16 I was taking a couple walk breaks. My wounds were hurting, I was hot, and I was cranky. Katie happened to text me to see how I was, so that was a nice pick-me-up. (She’d just come in second place in a 5k!)  Then I reached one of my favorite roads, because one side of it goes up and down along grassy hills. Across the four lanes of traffic, the sidewalk is flat. But I love the hilly side, because I want the hill workout, and I like to conquer a little hill and then zoom down the backside. That was the one mile that came in under 9 minutes — 8:57, so not too bad.

The last two miles were torture. I was so ready to be done. If I could have, I would have called someone for a ride. After all, 18 miles is still a good long run. But I had to get home, so I had to run two more miles. I wasn’t actually injured, so I had no excuse. My watch beeped 20 miles as I entered my parking lot. I. Was. Done.

The toll had been taken on my knees. I showered and slathered on Neosporin, my go-to for most skin troubles. I have sensitive skin that gets infected easily, and I was taking no chances. And then my knees felt like they were on fire. Neosporin had let me down and I was in utter agony.

Then I got chills. Oh no. This could be a sign of infection. Both knees were very red, another sign. After another night of bad sleep, this time involving a lot of tears, I got up Monday and called a doctor.

Those who know me will understand the significance of Layla calling a doctor. I don’t have good luck with doctors. At all. After all, doctors were the ones who told me years ago that I’d never be able to do much running. Four marathons later, I’m still proving them wrong.

Monday afternoon found me at a new doctor’s office. They were changing computer systems, resulting in a long line at registration — I wasn’t surprised, given my track record with doctors. I was finally called into a room where a very nice medical assistant began going over basic medical stuff. As always, my low blood pressure impressed her. Then she discovered that the staff hadn’t given me forms to fill out my medical history. She began entering the basic ones on her computer, and then realized the questions were wrong.

According to the computer system, I was a male. And they couldn’t fix it. I’d later get paperwork addressed to “Mr.” When the doctor came in to see me, she’d heard about the error, and apparently it was becoming the talk of the office.

The doctor was actually really nice. At one point she bent down and winced, then apologized because her quads were sore from a workout. In my book, that gives a doctor brownie points. (If a doctor tells me running is bad, I will never again return to that doctor.) She talked me into getting a tetanus shot, prescribed some ointment that’s given to people with second and third-degree burns, and then got a Sharpie to draw a permanent line around the damage on one of my knees. If the redness passed that line, it would mean infection had spread and I needed to be seen again.

I hobbled out of the doctor’s office to the elevators, where a very cute little girl said, “What happened to your knees?” and used the toe of her Ugg boot to point at them. She missed kicking me in the knee by about an inch. I gasped in relief, and her horrified mother apologized profusely. Since nothing actually touched my knees, everybody lived.

Then I hobbled to my car and called the pharmacy to see if my prescription was ready. Yes, it was, but they wanted to know why a “Mr.” was named Layla.

After growing up in the mountains and then spending more than 13 years in a valley, it’s been pretty amazing to be back among some hills. However, though I now live just a 15-minute drive away from Mt. Diablo, I’ve only been there once — and that was by car a couple years ago before I moved.

On Sunday, I crossed that off my imaginary list of things to do. Along the way, I learned a good lesson that I need to remember during my next marathon: My head can play games with me and make me think I’m physically tired, when I’m not.

My dad came to visit this weekend, so I figured it was about time to explore Mt. Diablo on foot. On a clear day, it offers some of the most amazing views you can imagine, ranging from the Golden Gate bridge to the waters of the Delta to more mountains and valleys. It’s been very hot lately, but the weather cooled significantly on Sunday. The forecast called for rain until mid-day, so we took our time getting there (read: went to lunch, and to both REI and Sports Basement for the full nerdy fix). We drove partway up the mountain to the overlook where we were treated to this oh-so-spectacular view:

What a view ... of a sign.

Oh well. I’d found a website that outlined a 6.6-mile hike. My knee recently went nuts for no apparent reason, so I didn’t want to overdo it. (The knee had fully recovered a couple days earlier, but only after I took more than two weeks off from running.) This seemed like a good distance, and would include the summit, which has a building with some history.

We set off down a trail, where a bunny scampered ahead of us and the pine cones were as big as my shoe.

I should have compared this thing to my head.

The clouds were lifting, and it was rapidly becoming ideal hiking weather. We went up and down some rolling hills, and then I came across this creature in the middle of the path:

Ack, tarantula!

Yes, that is a tarantula. I held one when I was 10 years old, and the thing covered both of my hands then. This creature was no smaller. I couldn’t make actual words of warning come out of my mouth — it was more like, “Aaahh aaahhh aaahhhhmmmkkkkggg.” But I actually got closer to it and was about to bend down for a close photo when I had a thought: “Do tarantulas jump?!” Last summer I battled black widow spiders, and in the process I encountered a spider that Google informed me was a “jumping” spider. I hate and dread all spiders except daddy-long-legs, and the idea of a JUMPING spider gives me the shivers. So, yeah, I backed up from the tarantula. But I really wanted some perspective, so I quickly got this shot:

I wear a women's size 10 in trail/running shoes. This spider was no joke.

We went on our way, with me texting that picture while walking up a rather steep trail. (Yes, I had full internet/phone signal on the mountain, except the brief time when I actually needed it.) Then we turned onto a single-track trail that got even steeper. At a clearing, we were treated to this:

Clouds lifting to reveal a view from Mt. Diablo.

At some point, though, the trail began leading away from the summit. I’d followed the directions, I’d looked at the map on my phone, and I’d seen the summit as we circled around toward it. But I never saw a place to turn toward the Summit Trail leading to the top. That wasn’t necessarily bad, though, because the top looked pretty foggy and I think the clouds would have obstructed the view.

But then, as we took a couple pictures at that gorgeous spot, I looked at the time and realized it was 6:40 p.m. We figured the sun sets around 7:15 or 7:30. The park entrance had a sign that read, “Gates locked from sunset to 8 a.m.” At that point, I looked at my GPS watch and my phone and calculated that we had about 1.5 miles of hiking to go. Including the drive back to the gate, we’d be OK but cutting it close.

However, the 6.6-mile hike on that website hadn’t included the trail we were now hiking. And the clouds started to return, which meant things were getting darker. We hurried. At one point we ran, partly for fun and because it was downhill.

I hadn’t run on trails for a while and was just “jogging,” but then my running gait kicked in. It was such a feeling of magic — I still vividly recall the exact moment when everything suddenly became smooth and I began flying down the trail. THAT is why I run, to find that feeling of smooth euphoria where everything else slips away.

My last trail run became a death march that left a bad taste in my mouth, so this was a bit of a reminder that I do still love running trails.

But the trail seemed to go on forever, and the sky was getting darker. I looked at my phone and began counting down the tenths of a mile. And then, with 0.1 miles to go, I remembered I’d typed in an intersection that was not our endpoint. Our final destination didn’t have a good intersection that I could locate on my phone’s mapping program while I walked quickly. We actually had at least another mile left.

That realization came at the top of a hill that we’d powered up, knowing the hike was almost done. My lungs were dying, and I became completely depressed at the discovery that this hike was definitely not finished. Now I was really worrying that the park gates would be locked. I was defeated. I bent down for a minute to catch my breath and try to find my bearings. The only thing to do was to keep going and hope the rangers didn’t actually close the gates at sunset. We had water, food, a phone charger, a car and a blanket in the trunk, but no way could I handle being locked in a park until 8 a.m. I was not happy. This was definitely “the wall” of a marathon, when you want to stop and quit and call for a taxi.

I began thinking. If the gate was locked, what could I do to get out? I could jump over the gate and go look for a hacksaw, though lord knows where I’d find one. Who could I call? On a Sunday night, the park service would only be an answering machine. My first legitimate idea soon came: Earlier, when taking in the gorgeous views, I’d looked down on a town that my phone told me was Clayton. I could find their police department’s dispatch number, and they’d have a contact for the park rangers. Then my second idea came: We were in Contra Costa County; I could call a friend who works for the Contra Costa Times. He covers crime and county matters, so he’d have some phone numbers.

My spirits lifted. I had an action plan. It’s amazing how much better I suddenly felt. My lungs weren’t dying, and my legs had so much more pep in them. I even said something like, “This is what I need to do at mile 23 of my next marathon — occupy my mind by coming up with ideas of who to call to bail me out.” After 8 miles of hiking, we finally got back to the very welcome sight of my car, leaped in, and I careened gently down the winding road into the rather dark sky. (Yes, you can careen gently. It helps if you’re the only vehicle on a mountain: You can take 15 mph curves at 30 mph.)

We finally arrived at the gate. It was open. The feeling of relief that flooded through me was so strong and so sweet.

I soon realized that I’d had a couple other options, too. There are a few homes inside the park gates, and I really doubt they’d turn away a desparate, charming, slightly frazzled redheaded female. And an old friend of mine lives in Danville, another town at the foot of the mountain. I might not have his current phone number, but we’ve been emailing on facebook lately, so I could probably get hold of him.

And so my adventure on Mt. Diablo came to an end. It was a good hike and a fun time made up of gorgeous views, interesting creatures and a valuable lesson: I am usually stronger than I realize. When I came 22 seconds short of breaking four hours in a marathon this summer, that was because of my head, not my body. I still have no regrets about that amazing day, but I do know that my body could have performed a bit better if my head hadn’t said, “I’m tired; let’s give up.”

There are 14,359 seconds in a 3:59:59 marathon. The Alaska marathon took me 14,421 seconds. Rather than thinking about how tired I feel, next time the going gets tough, I need to focus on an action plan.