My plan had been to do several 1-hour runs around town per week, just to stay sane. However, without the motivation of a big goal, I found that I didn't have any appetite even for that. After about three weeks of inactivity, I went crazy and did a 20-miler. Coincidentally, I received an email announcing the inaugural Tahoe Rim Trail 100-miler. I had done the TRT 50 (my second 50 ever) in 2005, and it was an awesome experience. Beautiful and tough. I came as close to dropping as I ever had, and yet something (maybe precisely that) called me back. I had targeted TRT as my one 2006 post-baby 50-miler, and now that there would be a 100-miler, the first ever...I just couldn't resist. So two days later, I did another 20, and two days after that, another 20...of course I got injured!

So I spent March and April miserable, wondering when I'd be able to run and cursing myself for being so stupid. In late April, I decided to start running, despite the fact that I could still feel something amiss in my foot even when walking. If I don't start now, I will never make the TRT100, I thought. By the penultimate weekend of May, I had finally built up to 20 miles in town (i.e., flat). The next weekend, I did another 20 in town, to make sure I wasn't building up too fast. The next weekends went like this:

• June 2-5: a long weekend in Tahoe. Run 3 hours on the TRT Friday evening, 5 hours Sunday morning, 4 hours Monday morning (the same distance as Sunday, with less time wasted to route-finding through snowfields) before driving back.
• June 10: Mt. Diablo 50k. This has about 8000 feet of climbing, which is a LOT for a 50k! My time was a few minutes worse than for the Jed Smith 50-miler!
• June 17: 24-mile night run on trails. I had planned to do more miles, but it was just very slow at night. I ran from 9pm-4am. I felt like I needed some night training before attempting a 100-miler. It was valuable in the sense that I learned to plan on going very slowly at night, but it didn't really provide any good physical training.
• June 24-5: ran the first 24 miles of Western States as part of the safety patrol. Had planned 30, but they didn't really need me after 24. And some of those 24 were walking, to keep struggling runners company. So again I was a disappointed with not getting enough training. So Sunday night, I ran another 24 on the streets.
• July 2: 30 miles as part of an official TRT100 training run. I felt BAD in the second half, which I think was due to lack of water. The official training run was 24 miles with one aid station at about mile 14, but I did the extra six-mile option, so it was 20 miles before the first aid station. I carried 3 water bottles, but it was still not enough. I wasn't so much thirsty as feeling like there was a rock in my stomach, because I had stupidly eaten a Clif bar after about 14 miles. Advice: do not eat if you do not have enough fluid to wash it down! If you eat, you won't get digest it, won't get the energy from the food, and will feel bad. This was my last long run before the event, and it scared me. I wasn't sure if lack of water was the only thing going on, because I also had not trained enough. It didn't help that everyone I had talked to here and at Western States told me how brave (foolish?) I was to make the TRT my first 100-mile attempt.

Race day: On the shuttle from the parking lot to the start, I learned that the course would be longer and more difficult than in 2005! That's what I missed at the pre-race briefing! The first 5 miles, which had been along a fire road, would now be along a parallel single-track trail. So not much longer and more difficult, but enough to disconcert me a bit. Maybe it was good that I had missed the briefing and didn't have to worry about this while trying to get to sleep.

We started at 5 am, compared to 6am for the 50-milers, so I stayed cool quite a bit longer than I had in 2005. I talked to many runners with more experience and tried to learn as much as I could about 100-mile strategy. At about mile 10, three 50k racers passed, going at an unbelievable speed. I don't think another 50k runner passed for at least another hour after that! These three guys were duking it out for the national 50k trail championship, and they had run their first ten miles a full hour faster than I ran my first ten miles! They were probably doing 7 minute miles, vs. 13 minute miles for me.

Gordy Ainsleigh filled my water bottles with ice at Tunnel Creek (miles 11 and 17), which added a nice touch. Approaching mile 17 and especially after, I could recognize precisely where I started having problems in 2005, where they got worse, and where I started having out-of-body experiences. I cruised by those points with no problems. However, I put some pressure on myself which I should not have. I expected that if I were in shape to finish 100, I could cruise through the first 50 in a better time than in 2005 (after all, I had been on the verge of collapse in 2005), and still have a lot of energy for the second lap. Well, I should not have given any thought to the time. I was on a slightly better time than 2005 and apparently conserving energy, but merely paying attention to the time meant that I was not conserving energy as much as I could have.

I was not yet noticing that I should be conserving energy more. (By the time you notice, it may be too late already...). From Tunnel Creek at mile 17 to Mt. Rose at mile 26, I was enjoying feeling much better than in 2005, and the only problem I had was bleeding nipples. I had forgotten to duct tape them before the start, and every time I duct taped myself at aid stations, it fell off due to sweat. Tom Gallagher, the aid captain at Mt. Rose, took care of me and put on duct tape that didn't come off for several days! (That's a slight exaggeration. I was able to get it off after the race and after a long sleep.) In 2005, at Mt. Rose, I stayed half an hour wondering if I should drop, and when I did continue, I was practically stumbling down the trail. This year, I got out of there as fast as possible and ran down the trail.

The course returns to Tunnel Creek at mile 35. Here I sat down and ate as well as I could. It was a late lunch, roughly 1:30 pm and I had been going since 5. One of the 50-mile runners on her way through asked myself and another 100-mile runner how it was possible to do two consecutive 50-milers. I just shrugged and said, "I don't know, because I haven't done it yet!" The other guy said, "It's simple. You do 50 miles, and then you just keep going." Well, the idea is simple, but implementing it is not so easy. I was happy to be making my first try, though. I felt as if I belonged with the other 100-milers, because here I was at mile 35, not tired and looking forward to the end, but thinking how I had reached 1/3 of my goal in relatively good shape.

Right at Hobart Road aid station, mile 40, I was passed by a 50-mile runner I had met on the training run, Eric from Reno. He said it was his 51st birthday that day, and that he would run an extra mile at the end to celebrate. He had said on the training run that his goal was 11 hours, which I thought was impossible given that he seemed to be in roughly the same shape as me, and I had done it in 13. But here he was at something like 9.5 hours into his race and 10 miles to go, and he was moving very well. He wouldn't beat 11, but he would come close. (I think it was 11:20 in the end.)

It was about this time that I started feeling a little flat. I still felt SO much better than last year that I didn't worry, but there was a nagging feeling that I was getting depleted and that it felt more like work than like fun. I reminded myself to take it easy, but I didn't truly have the "take it easy" attitude. I checked my watch to see if I was still ahead of last year, tried to limit my time at aid stations, etc. By the time I was cruising the big downhill to Spooner Summit aid station at mile 48, I had blisters that needed to be taken care of. But that's a minor aid station, and I would have to continue to the start/finish to take care of them. (The 100-miler is two laps around the 50-mile course.)

Arrival at the start/finish was bittersweet. I arrived just seconds after a 50-mile runner, who was cheered and congratulated. I had just run 50, but no one noticed except to steer me away from the finish line and toward the aid station. I arrived after 12 hours and 45 minutes, a good 20 minutes ahead of last year. Not that I should have been worrying about it! It was actually TOO early because crew parking was available only starting at 6pm. But with the time needed to clean and duct tape the blisters, I still managed to meet the family. Vera had been quite worried that at 50 miles she would see me suffering like in 2005, and beg me not to go on. But I looked much better, and she was happy. Still, there were some bad signs. I was disappointed that there was not a real blister expert working at the aid station. And worse, Vera brought me lots of different treats to choose from, but I could only take a few halfhearted bites. I needed to eat, but my stomach wouldn't let me. That's a bad sign!

I left there about 6:20pm, after about 35 minutes total. I walked until I got used to the duct tape on the blisters and then tried to jog. It was pretty slow. I did almost catch up to two people who were walking, but when I said "hi" they took off, like they really didn't want to be passed. I didn't mind that they wanted to be alone, but I was demoralized that I didn't have nearly enough energy to keep up if I had wanted to.

The six miles to Hobart Road were really lonely. In the morning, they were full of people chatting, and now I was all alone. In the morning, we alternated running and walking up this fairly constant, fairly gentle slope, and now I had to walk the whole thing. I finally arrived at Hobart (mile 56) after two full hours. (It had taken about 1:20 the first time around.) Hobart is where I planned to pick up a flashlight and some warmer clothes. Just before I put on a insulating layer, a breeze chilled me in a way that I recognized as bad. My body was no longer able to control its temperature. I've had that several times at the end of long runs, and it's scary. More so if you're still in the middle of the run. But I managed to shrug it off, because I did get back to feeling warm quickly. I left the aid station, and after a few hundred meters, realized that I had forgotten my flashlight. What a stupid mistake! I had to go back and get it, wasting precious energy.

So now it was about 8:30 pm, and dusk was near. (From the point of view of the aid station, the sun had set behind the ridgeline, but I was about to climb up there and get the benefit of some natural light for a while longer.) I trudged up toward the ridgeline, over a trail that had been effortless the first time around, 14 hours ago. The scenery was awesomely beautiful, but the challenge was beginning to sink in. Forty-some more miles to go! Along the top of the ridge, I ran a bit, but without much energy, and favoring my blisters. Then it got dark, and even with my light, I could not really run due to the rocks. Finally, I hit the big downhill which leads to Tunnel Creek, which was one of my favorite parts of the course, and....I couldn't run it. Blisters made it extra painful to run downhill, I could hardly see rocks in time, and my legs were just not very mobile.

Arg. Time to try some music. I had picked up my ipod at the start/finish, but wanted to save it for when I really needed it. I turned it on, but for the first time ever, music did not make the running flow. Instead, it sounded like a big distraction, like the flow of the music had absolutely nothing to do with me. Like I was listening through a wall to some concert that I could not be a part of. That was demoralizing. I was getting closer to Tunnel Creek, but it was taking FOREVER! I started to calculate how long it would be if I continued walking at 2-3 miles per hour. Hmmm, 41 miles divided by 2.5 equals 16+ more hours. Now it's 10pm, so I finish around 3pm? Still 1 hour ahead of the cutoff, but can I really last that long? I've already done 17 hours, can I really do another 17 feeling this miserable?

I saw a light a few switchbacks behind me. Someone catching up. Great, shows how slow I am. But it's quite a while before he passes. First, a light comes toward me. It's a hiker on safety patrol. I say I'm ok or at least not in need of immediate attention, I'm just dealing with blisters and I'll get taken care of at the aid station. How far is it anyway?! Soon after, the guy behind me passes and asks how I'm doing. I say not so well, and he says to keep in mind that everybody is suffering. I don't say this, but...I don't care! He doesn't know how much I'm suffering, and anyway, just because there are a few other idiots doesn't mean I have to torture myself!

You can see the negative thinking. I really should have taken care of myself earlier in terms of eating, changing socks before blisters developed, getting the music to work with me rather than against me, etc. The decision to drop wasn't exactly made then, but the door was open, and how I felt approaching the aid station would be critical. It took a while to reach the aid station, during which I increasingly got shivers. Was I moving too slowly to generate heat, or could my body not control its temperature again? It felt like the latter, although the former certainly was not helping. And when I finally saw the aid station, the feeling was not "At last! A place to refuel and recover!" but more like "At last! A place to lie down until morning!" Also, my watch said that it took two full hours to do those last five miles, versus one hour the first time around. I really was going 2.5 miles per hour, which I had thought was an absolute worst-case scenario when doing my calculation of finishing time. And that wasn't even a particularly difficult stretch of the course. I would no doubt be even slower on some upcoming parts of the course.

That did it. I told the workers that I was considering dropping. I put on lots of warm clothes, sat by the heater, drank some soup, and I STILL felt cold. I weighed myself, and to my surprise I had not lost weight. So why did I feel so bad? I gave myself some more time, but I didn't get better. It was at least half an hour, probably more, before I said I was dropping for sure.

It was at least another hour before there was a vehicle leaving this remote aid station, and then about an hour in the vehicle as we dropped supplies and picked up drops at Mt. Rose before finally returning to the start/finish at about 1am. I drove back to the rented condo, got there just before 2, took a quick shower so as not to get the bed dirty, and slept solidly. Only when I woke up in the morning did I start to take the duct tape off my chest and my feet. And the weirdest part? My legs weren't even sore!

What did I learn?

But my legs weren't even sore the morning after running 61 miles! This was shocking. It meant that I was in good shape. I now think that I ran very low on electrolytes, and that I had just begun to learn the distinction between being tired and being low on electrolytes. Now that I keep up with electrolytes on long runs, I never get to a point where my muscles simply can't move. I never get to a point where I can't control my temperature. I don't get grumpy. Those are not inevitable consequences of fatigue! This must be very obvious to experienced ultrarunners, but it was a big breakthrough for me. I went on to finish my first 100-miler nine weeks later, with a big smile on my face!

The other thing I had to master for a successful 100-miler was blister control. Change your socks often, even if you have gaiters. Dust gets in and grinds away, and you need dry socks anyway. And if you EVER get a blister in training, change something in your routine (bigger shoe, different socks, etc) and make sure you have solved the problem before attempting 100 miles. This wisdom came from the book Fixing Your Feet, which I highly recommend. Fixing Your Feet is full of contradictory advice, because what works for some people doesn't work for others. Try this, try that. But it's important to read because you see that problems do have solutions. You can't just tough it out for the last 50 miles on blisters. Your feet are your most important piece of equipment, and you have to take care of them.