Not necessarily in that order.

Snowy Run at Wallace State Park

2011-02-27T17:19:00.000-06:00

We have a couple of healthy trail-running groups in the Kansas City area, but both conduct the bulk of their group runs on the Kansas side of the state line or south of the river, on the east side of Kansas City. That puts any of the group runs a minimum round trip of 1 hour and 20 minutes from my front door, and that distance usually keeps me from participating. I have to say that sometimes that bums me out.

There are advantages to being a trail runner in the northland, however. Most of the time, for example, I get the trails all to myself.

This morning I was due for a long run, but couldn't bring myself to plod 10 miles on pavement in the drizzle and fog. The trails at Smithville Lake, maintained by the Earth Riders Trails Association, would likely be closed due to mud. That left one little gem of trail running goodness: Wallace State Park.

Rocky Ford trailhead

Located right off I-35 near Cameron, Missouri, about 25 minutes from my house, Wallace State Park has enough single track trail to accomplish a 6-mile loop without any repetition. The trails hug creek beds and trace ridge lines, meandering through mature oak forest, passing by a few stands of tall pine, cedar outcroppings, and transitional habitat. The trails drain fast, so mud is rarely a problem, and they are so lightly traveled that most runs are conducted in complete seclusion.

The rocky ford

For the bulk of today's four-mile run, I created the first set of human tracks through three-day-old snow. As I went along, I tried to identify animal tracks in the snow. These included deer, opossum, turkey, squirrel, mink (see below), and a number of other fuzzies that I probably overlooked or failed to identify.

Crime Scene in the Woods

This was a fun little scene that distracted me from my run. I am given to occasional bouts of intent nature study:

Small-animal tracks in every direction, blood spattered and pooled in a swath of about 40 feet. Someone had a wild party here.

More tracks and blood, running from the trail to the creek. You can see that the predator was a low-slung mammal prone to sliding over the snow. This made me think river otter, but then I figured it was too narrow and the feet too small for that critter.

More blood. I never saw any fur or feathers, which makes me think the kill came from the creek (fish or frog, maybe). I also didn't see any different kinds of tracks that would have been caused by struggling mammalian prey.

Close-up of the predator's tracks. About 1.5 inch wide.

Another close-up of the tracks. I am going to guess that the perpetrator was a mink.

Human "sign" in the woods (made by me).

Breathing Again

2011-02-22T06:29:00.011-06:00

Last fall, I honestly did not know what the future held for running and the Mayo clan. That thing some people call Life struck us pretty hard, in a lot of boring and everyday ways. Running took a backseat. In the midst of trying to simply right ourselves, I remember saying something to the effect of, "Maybe in 2011... no big races."

Since 2008, Rick, Adrian, and I have packed up for extended race trips: two family trips to Western States (one for the "fire" year in 2008 and then the real deal in 2009), and two trips to Leadville (Rick went alone in 2009, and all three of us went there for two weeks in 2010).

Those trips provided priceless memories and were worth every penny. But last fall, when I started worrying about finances and the state of our house (ultra-vacation money greedily devours paint-the-house money and put-up-a-fence money and finish-the-basement money), it looked to me like maybe it was time for a break. I didn't make any ultimatums. Just suggested. "Maybe..."

Months later, something occurred to me. Our household had become a house without running. And a Mayo house without running is a strange place indeed. Rick really only got into running—and quickly thereafter, ultrarunning—in July 2004. I embraced his new passion as a supportive partner and fellow runner, though my commitment to my own running was admittedly sporadic until some time around February 2009. Along the way, the running routine had become as common as breathing. When we both stopped focusing on running in the fall of 2010, the air had literally left us both.

Last July, I was finishing up a 15-mile race when another runner figured out who I was. "Oh, Rick Mayo is your husband. So you're Kristi Mayo," she said. "That must be an incredibly supportive environment to live in as a runner."

Yeah, I thought. It really is.

Neither of us are really given to resolutions, but on January 1, we both took turns on the treadmill. The next day, we did the same thing. At some point, I think I said, "I have decided to get some kind of a run in almost every day if I can—even if it's only a couple miles." Rick replied, "I decided the same thing."

After a few weeks, we were breathing again.

Fast-forward to February 12: I was finishing the last mile of the 10-mile version of the Psycho Wyco Run Toto Run Trail Runs. As I ran down one of the final hills on the course, I spotted Rick standing on the side of the trail at the bottom. He ran the 10-miler, too. Before the race, I made him promise to come back for me after his finish so he could bring me home over the "Three-Hills Section". And there he was.

Rick fell into step behind me.

"How did you do?" I called back to him.

"First," he said.

"Awesome!" I was filled with elation, but my reply likely came out as a grunt, as we had reached the steep incline of the next hill.

After I crossed the finish line and we socialized around the aid station over cups of soup, I was filled with a feeling of completeness. We're back.

Now, there are warmer days ahead of us. We will run in shifts. No sooner will I get back from a run than he will be out the door for his. In the afternoons, our daughter will go down for her afternoon nap, and so will we. Our weekends will be punctuated by the occasional race, some long and some short. And we will save and plan for—Yes—another ultra-vacation, this one to South Dakota so Rick can run the Black Hills 100 in June.

Maybe we'll still find a way to paint the house. And as for the unfinished basement... I guess the treadmill is happy down there, just the way it is.

Jaeger

2010-10-22T16:59:00.000-05:00

In the quiet space between the eye and the lens of a spotting scope, a spark of excitement leapt into my consciousness, ran down my brainstem to my spine, and settled around the pounding of my heart.

A brown bird on the water, half a mile away. Small head. Long, pointed wings. The shape reminded me of a Sabine's Gull, a bird that nests in the Arctic and spends the rest of its time over the open ocean. Some of the birds, usually juveniles making their first trip south, migrate over the center of the continent. In recent years, Sabine's Gull has become an annual fall visitor to Smithville Lake.

But this was not a Sabine's Gull.

Why? I asked myself, watching the bird ride gentle waves, its head high and alert. It's just not. Wait for it to fly.

My phone rang. It was my husband, just home from work, wondering where his wife and three-year-old daughter were. "I have a bird," I said. "It's a good one." He understands me after 15 years. The tone in my voice told him it was useless to ask when we would be home. He let me go.

Adrian played nearby. From the corner of the eye that was firmly affixed to the eyepiece of my scope, I saw her start off toward the rip-rap at the edge of the lake. "Adrian..." I breathed, warning her not to go. She ignored me. The bird raised its wings and all at once started across the lake, rising into the air. All brown at this distance. No distinctive pattern on the upper or underside of the wing. Definitely not a Sabine's Gull. It's — a — jaeger.

Until this moment, I had never seen a jaeger. Like the Sabine's Gull, this family of gull-like birds is almost exclusively pelagic, and they can even be difficult to spot from the coast. To see a lot of jaegers and see them well, one must get on a boat and travel out to sea. I have never been on a pelagic birding trip, but I have spent every fall and winter for the last ten years keeping an eye open for that one stray jaeger. Because, also like the Sabine's Gull, jaegers occasionally are found on inland lakes as they take a short-cut through the center of the United States.

The last time any jaeger species was seen in Missouri was 1996. Coincidentally, that sighting was also at Smithville Lake.

As I watched the jaeger gain altitude and, with remarkable speed, cover the entire distance of the main body of the lake (which is about one mile at its widest point), I dug back in my memory to find field marks that might help me separate the three jaeger species. But, because I have never tried to identify a jaeger before, the field marks were not lodged in my brain. I even had trouble recalling all three species by name. Parasitic ... Pomarine ... and ... and ... Long-tailed.

In their brown juvenile plumage, all three are very similar. I have heard horror stories about multiple birders seeing the same bird independently, and independently they each arrived at a different identification. Knowing the identification conundrum I was up against, I simply watched the bird and took as many mental notes as I could. And I occasionally glanced toward the shoreline to make sure my daughter had not fallen into the lake.

"Adrian, I have a really good bird here," I called.

"Good, Mom!" she said encouragingly, taking off her shoes to tiptoe across the rocks.

"Adrian, did you know you're my lucky charm?" I called. Three years earlier, when she was just four months old riding on my chest in a Baby Björn, we kicked up a Common Ground-Dove in a field near our home. It turned out to be only the sixth time that particular dove species had been seen in the state.

"Yeah, Mom," Adrian replied.

She has no idea, really, but—like the man in my life—she already knows that sometimes it's best to humor me when my eye is on my scope and my heart is in my throat.

Identification, misidentification

That first evening, I spent more than 30 minutes watching the bird fly. By then, Adrian had thoroughly soaked her clothes with lake water and we needed to go home. Before we left the parking lot, I wrote down everything I observed. After making a written description and sketching the bird from several angles, I opened my Sibley field guide, confident that I would have an identification—and immediately became lost. I had no idea what I had just seen. Parasitic Jaeger? Pomarine Jaeger? Long-tailed Jaeger? I did not know. But it was time to go home.

What is the allure of identifying a bird? Most people could care less about separating a House Sparrow from a European Starling. But for me—and a good number of afflicted others who call themselves birders—the presence of a difficult-to-identify bird can cause various symptoms including a gnawing sensation in the stomach, diminished appetite, difficulty sleeping, and lack of concentration at work.

In my case, the jaeger resulted in all of the above symptoms.

When a red sun cracked the horizon the next morning, I was standing on the shore of Smithville Lake, my scope panning furiously to keep up with the powerful flight of a bird in silhouette. I waited, heart pounding, for confirmation that my jaeger was still here, that I had re-found the same bird from the night before. At that moment, the bird accelerated toward an Osprey lazily flapping toward a cove. It strafed the large fish-eating raptor in an attempt to steal its catch. The Osprey wheeled, held onto the fish, and the jaeger—yes, still here—climbed back to a higher altitude.

I jogged along the shoreline with my scope and tripod on my shoulder, my digital SLR camera banging my hip and tangling with the strap on my binoculars. Finding a clear area of shoreline, I raised my camera into the sun and tracked the jaeger, which was following one or two Ospreys around the cove. It headed directly toward me, coming closer than I had seen it before, but it was silhouetted against the sunrise and I was determined to get a photo instead of raising my binoculars. Finally, it banked with its ventral side perfectly parallel to my camera's view. Click - click - click. I checked the photo preview on my camera's LCD screen. It was all black against the sky, but there was the tell-tale jaeger tail—rounded with one or two longer central tail feathers. At least now it was documented as a "Jaeger species".

Knowing I would have the sun in my eyes from this location for the rest of the morning, I made a fast ten-minute dash in my car to the east side of the lake, heading straight for a point that provides good views of the full length of the dam and several arms of the lake. I waited for about ten minutes before the jaeger finally flew into view. I centered it in my scope and panned as it crossed the entire distance of the lake. From that moment forward, I kept the bird continuously in my scope for over an hour.

The jaeger spent most of its time flying high above the tops of the trees on the horizon. It crossed the length of the lake many times. It dipped down to the water once, picked up a fish off the water, and stayed still on the waves while it picked at and ate the fish. Then it took off, rose into the sky, and began its patrol of the lake once again. In a heart-stopping moment, the jaeger's meandering flight became more focused and intent. It dropped low to water, and suddenly there was another gull in the scope view with the jaeger. Just as the jaeger pulled in close to the gull, the gull flared its wings with its back to me, and I gasped when I saw the bold upper-wing pattern of a juvenile Sabine's Gull. The Sabine's Gull wheeled away and the jaeger gave up the chase.

But the chance to observe the bird's behavior took a back seat to my attention to the bird's plumage. The jaeger stayed infuriatingly distant, making it difficult to interpret the colors and tones I was seeing relative to the bird's topography. I watched how color and tone of the upper wing changed when the bird was flying in a relaxed attitude, compared to sharp, banking turns or more aggressive flight. Light danced on the wing and underside of the bird, changing the way my eye perceived "white" or "buff".

Finally, the jaeger settled onto the water about 400 yards away and preened while resting. This was close enough to make out some finer details, but far enough away that some details were left to interpretation. I saw a small, dove-like head. Unstreaked breast. I scribbled notes blindly onto a small notebook while keeping my right eye pressed against my scope. The bill appeared to be one-half black, and it was small and fairly straight. I scribbled more notes. When the bird took flight once more, I had a sense that I might have been closer to a positive identification.

When I returned to my car, I pulled out my field guides, compared them to my notes, and reached a conclusion: Long-tailed Jaeger.

Uncertainty

What is worse than not knowing the identity of a bird? Thinking that you might have identified it incorrectly.

Immediately upon returning to my computer, I shared my one silhouetted image of the jaeger with the community of birders online. By the end of the day, others were calling into question my identification. I tried to stand by my original ID, but faltered in the face of my own inexperience. By Saturday, others had seen the bird and were posting pictures of the jaeger and sharing their own opinions. Some said Long-tailed. Some said Parasitic. Most shied away from a public declaration of its identification. All seemed to agree that it was not a Pomarine Jaeger, so at least we had made it 33 percent of the way toward a positive identification.

By Sunday morning—my husband's birthday—I was completely distracted in everything I tried to do. The following day, I was scheduled to take a group of birders in two pontoons out onto Smithville Lake for the annual "Smithville Lake Pleagic", which I started leading six years ago. I knew that if the bird stayed until Monday, we would have a good chance of getting close enough to get good photos and—hopefully—a good, solid, indisputable identification.

But for me, standing in the light of Sunday morning, Monday afternoon could have been a year away.

"How would you like to go on a boat trip for your birthday?" I asked my husband. He hesitated, but agreed to go. He knew it was useless to resist.

Rick and Adrian tolerate me

Rick, Adrian, and I rented a pontoon with the intention of taking it out on the water for two hours. At the two-hour mark, we had caught two tantalizing glimpses of the jaeger flying at a distance and then disappearing against the horizon, but I did not have the photos I needed. Feeling completely defeated and somewhat foolish and really selfish, I started to tell Rick to head for the marina—but then changed my mind: "No, try going that way." I pointed north. Almost immediately, we had the jaeger in our sights. And it was cooperating. The bird made several passes high over the boat as the pontoon's tiny, shredded propellor tried to keep up with the jaeger's amazing aerial speed. At last, the jaeger landed on the water.

Rick, driving the pontoon, eased up slowly ... slowly on the bird. I crouched at the front of the pontoon and clicked my camera incessantly. At a distance of about 30 yards, the bird took off, and there! I had the photo I had come for. Upper wing, under wing, flanks, breast, bill all visible in a single frame.

It flirted with our boat a few more times but never allowed a close approach, so we headed for the marina to avoid stressing the bird unnecessarily.

Looking at the photos on my camera's LCD on the way home, I said to Rick, "The bill doesn't look like it's half black. It looks one-third black." And I rattled off a few other identification points that I had learned over the last few days. "I think that means it's a Parasitic Jaeger."

When we returned home—in between putting our daughter down for a nap and rushing to make my husband a birthday cake—I quickly shared my photo with the online birding community, convinced that we now had the correct ID: Parasitic Jaeger.

But 90 percent of the comments that came back congratulated me on the identification of Missouri's fourth Long-tailed Jaeger!

The Annual Smithville Lake Pelagic

By Monday morning, I knew two things: 1) jaeger identification is hard and 2) I needed to get my hands on an excellent but out-of-print book, Skuas and Jaegers by Olsen and Larsson.

I also went into Monday having been reassured by a number of people that my original identification, based on my long period of study on Friday morning, had been correct, and that my photograph taken from the boat on Sunday verified that identification. But there was still a sense that doubt lingered among some other respected birders.

At 2 p.m. two boats with ten birders each set out from the marina to try to find the infamous Smithville Lake jaeger. After an hour of searching, we had not found the bird. A very small group of gulls was loafing on the water in one spot, and I suggested that we idle the boats in that area and attempt to "chum" with popcorn and cheese crackers. I threw out one handful of crackers. The nearby gulls reacted by flying closer to the boats. I threw one more handful of crackers. Someone on our boat shouted, "There!"

I turned around, looked up, and here came the jaeger, making that direct, intent flight straight at our boats.

The next 30 minutes have become a memory—solidified with photographs and video—that I will carry with me the rest of my life. The jaeger came to our boats and picked up popcorn from the water, only feet away. While shooting video of the bird with my iPhone, it circled us and was practically an arm's reach away from my face.

Long-tailed Jaeger, 20 September 2010
Smithville Lake (Smithville, Missouri)

No other rare bird that I have experienced compares with the Smithville Lake Long-tailed Jaeger of 2010. Each time I watched this bird—beginning with distant views on Thursday, building with the long, peaceful observation on Friday, climaxing with the birthday boat ride on Sunday, and concluding with naked-eye views of the jaeger at arm's length—a new level of detail was revealed. And although the gnawing in my gut, the distraction at work and at home, was tied to a personal desire to pin a precise name to a creature—by the time it circled our boats on Monday, its exact identification had become a quiet footnote. Instead, I gained an appreciation for individual perception, for subtleties in plumage and structure, for movement and behavior.

My desire to learn more overrode the need to assign a name. Every bird sighting should be like this.

Forward Motion

2010-07-15T19:46:00.002-05:00

Raven Rajani and I eyed the pack of people positioned behind the starting line of the Psycho Psummer 15-mile trail run. We both wondered out loud whether we should start out near the front, or step back a little further into the safety of the pack.

"Last year I was stuck in a conga line clear to the five-mile mark," I recalled.

"Oh well," said Raven. "Let's just start near the front. They can pass us if they want to."

Co-race director Ben Holmes gave the go-ahead, and the crowd simultaneously beeped their watches and surged forward, funneling from a short paved section onto the singletrack. Then the runners were immediately faced with another decision. Here, the trail split in two: Go left, and you splash through a low-lying area of slop; go right, and you run up a short but rather steep and rocky hill followed by a steep and rocky descent. Raven and I opted for the slop to the left, and somewhere in the merge with those who had gone right, Raven was shuffled away behind me. She's a strong and determined runner and I kept glancing back, expecting her to catch up to me, but didn't see her again for the rest of the run.

The strategy to go out a little quicker was a good one, because—paradoxically—I was able to settle into a slower and more controlled pace early on. Within a mile I was running with just a few people nearby. I started out power-walking the inclines early through the aptly named "Three Hills" section and running freely on the downhills . It was not as muddy as I had expected and/or my Inov-8 X-Talons were handling it well. On one downhill, a female runner beside me muttered something that I interpreted as, "I'm going to die." Trying to be friendly and reassuring, I muttered in reply, "No you're not." But as I ran on ahead, it occurred to me that maybe she'd said, "I'm doing fine." In which case, my reply of "No you're not" would have been entirely inappropriate. Either way, she was a far stronger runner than I, and passed me shortly thereafter, never to be seen again.

Photo by Rich Stigall

The 15+ mile course unfolded before me and I found myself much calmer and more focused than the year prior. In the mile before the "Hedgehog" hill, I could feel my X-Talons were loosening and a hot spot was developing on my left heel. I was also about an hour into the run and knew I needed to get an S-Cap down and maybe a GU, but instead kept moving with a desire to get the 35% grade of Hedgehog out of the way. At the bottom of the hill, we encountered a rope installed to aid runners in scrambling up the moist, steep, and slippery trail. I grabbed the rope and started up, utilizing it fist over fist, which worked great—until two or three other runners grabbed the rope behind me. Bing! I was sling-shotted off the trail as the rope lurched to the right, and then Wham! I was dragged back to the left. That was interesting.

Photo by Rich Stigall

After finding the top of the hill, I plopped directly onto the ground, out of the way of the other runners. I was glad to have waited to do the shoe adjustments and to dig out my nutritional materials until after the climb, because my breathing and heart rate were completely out of control. By the time I had untied and tightened both shoes, pulled an S-Cap out of the plastic baggie tucked into my Nathan backpack, and torn the top off a GU packet, only a minute had passed, but I was ready to run again.

Photo by Dick Ross, seekcrun.com

Unfortunately, the damage had been done to my left heel, which at this point I was certain had blistered. The discomfort I could bear, and this only became a factor when we hit the Boy Scout section of the course on new singletrack that has a significant camber. This created just enough friction on my heel to make me slow a little through those sections.

Once out of the Boy Scout section, though, the blister faded into the back of my consciousness. In the meandering Wyandotte Triangle, a cluster of 15-miler women gathered together. "We're all sizing up the competition," said the runner behind me, as we heard the others asking, "Are you in the 50k or 15 mile?" I told her I really just wanted to run faster than last year. At that, she swung around me and disappeared around a switchback and into the wilderness. I proved myself honest by not trying to stay with her. To this point I had run the race with a focus on maintaining an even level of perceived exertion—and even though my watch showed me I wasn't making any monumental gains over the 2009 race (I knew in the Triangle that I was going to finish well over 3 hours), I felt I was putting forth a more consistent effort than I ever had before.

On the outbound Wyandotte Triangle Aid Station—about three miles from the finish—I stopped for the first time to fill up my Nathan backpack's 70 oz bladder. While there, another runner asked for ice. Ice! I had been running for almost three hours in heat and humidity without even a single thought about the existence of ice. I set off with a precious Dixie cup of ice, which I relished immensely: I rubbed ice cubes over the back of my neck and my pulse points. I chewed on ice. And, best of all, I put ice in my bra. This was the first time I had experienced this magnificent pleasure on a run. It was simply divine.

Playing with the ice put me in a jovial and playful mood. I caught up to a runner I had been playing leapfrog with all day long. She crossed a creek ahead of me, and when I crossed—instead of trying to pass—I doubled back and kicked around in the cool, clear water for a while. When I squish-squashed in my soggy shoes back to her, we chatted for a while. Then she bid me farewell, and I managed to find a happy jog and pulled away for the final miles toward the finish.

For a weary runner, the last 5k of the course can only be described as demoralizing. The hills are rutted, rocky, and just plain steep, with the occasional shoe-eating mud pit. In 2009, I was cursing every step of that section. This year, I was able to keep my head up and simply moved forward, not concerning myself with whether this would be described as a run or a walk, a jog or a shuffle. I was just getting there.

And so: 3 hours and 19 minutes from the start, I got there. In the end, there was nothing terribly remarkable about the race, save a blister (I never blister) and a couple sore toenails (I never lose toenails). In between the finish line and getting cleaned up, I was a bit emotional while talking to my daughter and my mom—I think because it was the first time since the start of the race that I let myself relax. That had never really happened before. I went into it with a "long run" attitude, and planned for it to be a good trainer for races to come. But I came away from this race with a deep sense of satisfaction.

It was a good run.

Photo by Dick Ross, seekcrun.com

Rick after finishing the 50k version of Psycho Psummer
Photo by Dick Ross, seekcurun.com

Spider Webs: Resistance is Futile

2010-07-02T12:24:00.005-05:00

Spider Web Resistance Rating (SWRR)

Level 1 — Low resistance to breakage, minimal adhesion. The spider silk brushes gently past your face, breaking easily and floating away. No spiders or dead bugs are evident on the web you just destroyed.

Level 2 — Slight resistance to breakage, moderate adhesion. The spider web will stretch for half a stride before breaking. You likely do not see the spider, as it is small enough to fear your presence and abandons the web at your approach.

Level 3 — Advanced resistance to breakage, strong adhesion. The spider web stretches considerably before breaking. Running through the web induces involuntary response of flailing arms and frantic wiping of face. You are likely to find the slower spiders stuck to your face or shoulder. The mummified remains of the spider’s kills are present, often sticking like black spit-wads to your arms, face, chest, and legs.

Level 4 — Maximum resistance to breakage, sticky as hell. In fact, the web may not even break. Spiders have lost all fear of large mammals and hold their ground. The spider is large enough that you make eye contact with the furry arachnid prior to collision. By the end of your trek, you are partially encased in multiple webs, dehydrated bugs, and likely have a few spiders writhing inside your shirt.

Level 5 — The spiders eat you. Runners getting a late start find your dehydrated remains suspended above the trail.

The Berryman Incident

2010-06-07T14:43:00.007-05:00

On May 15, our family greeted a rainy dawn on the Berryman Trail near Potosi, Missouri. In a steady downpour, Rick headed off for his fifth running of the Berryman 50 Mile. Adrian passed out in her car seat on the way to the first crew-accessible aid station, and stayed that way through Rick's first 25 miles. This made me feel like a seriously organized and upbeat crew person, since I could focus my attention on Rick. Plus, for the first loop he really looked like he had the cruise-control switched on, running with the front-runners and not needing much other than a few Gu packets.

It was when he rolled into the start/finish area at 25 miles that things started to go wrong.

I had Adrian parked in her child-sized lawn chair. I had an adult-sized chair set up next to her, under the shelter of an information kiosk, with a towel laid on the ground and a pair of shoes—with laces amply loosened—waiting for Rick's feet, plus a pair of socks turned inside out—just the way he likes it. I had the Gu he needed. Everything ready to go.

But as he approached my mini aid station, Rick tugged at the sternum strap on his hydration pack, and the cylindrical clip that connects the strap to piping on the pack itself came loose. This is not supposed to happen.

Rick and I looked at the broken strap for a half second before he pushed it into my hands and I dropped to my knees, trying to shove the stupid clip back onto the piping of the hydration pack. Adrian tried to help. Rick and I started to squabble. Adrian said she was hungry. Rick and I snapped at Adrian. Adrian whined a retort.

Rick grabbed his spare handhelds out of my bag and went to fill them up. Fourth (formerly fifth) place jogged through the start/finish and off on his second loop. I gave up on an immediate fix for the pack and hastily transferred as much Gu, salt, and other supplies as possible into the handhelds. Rick snatched them from me and left at something less than a dejected jog.

That would have been the time to stop and collect myself, but instead, I went to co-race director Victoria to ask if she had a screwdriver or some sort of wedge-like implement. She kindly lent me a multi-tool. Adrian watched with interest as I tried to wedge a pair of needle-nose pliers into the cylindrical clasp on the strap while attempting to maneuver it onto the piping. Just as I heard my daddy's voice say, "You should never point sharp objects toward yourself," the pliers slipped and jabbed into the fleshy part of my left hand between the thumb and index finger. Finally, somehow, I got the damn pack fixed, loaded it up with as many running supplies as I could find in the bag and Jeep, and Adrian and I rushed to the next aid station.

I delivered the pack to Rick about 8 miles from the start/finish area, which he happily accepted and then quickly disappeared into the woods. It would be about another 8 miles before I saw him again at the Brazil Creek aid station. Feeling like my job was done, Adrian and I headed to the Brazil Creek campground. I couldn't think of anything else he would need, and Adrian needed to get out and play, so we put on our rain gear and went to the water crossing. Adrian proceeded to play in the creek and get herself thoroughly soaked.

My spirits were pretty good when Rick crossed the creek, though I was disappointed to see that another person had passed him and when Rick came across the creek, his spirits were not very good. Then he asked for ibuprofen. Apparently, this is the ibuprofen that he had asked me for about 20 miles before. The ibuprofen was in the locked car, about 300 yards away. He jogged away from me and Adrian—who was still collecting rocks in the creek—without taking the keys. Kicking into hyper-active crew-person mode with an overwhelming sense of urgency, I tried to pull Adrian quickly away from the creek and sprint to the car at the same time.

This operation is not possible.

Child wants to play in creek. Mother/crew person wants to sprint. Child will win or will be dragged kicking and screaming in the other direction.

I tried to pick her up and carry her a short distance, but she went limp and slid out of my grasp. "Hurry," I tried to encourage her. "We need to help Daddy. You want to help Daddy, right?" She nodded and started to follow me. Thinking she'd stay on my heels, I moved faster. Then I turned and saw her standing in someone's campground, 50 yards away, talking to a strange dog. I yelled. She froze. I doubled back, pulled her along a little farther, and looked back to see Rick pulling at the locked door yelling something in my direction. Finally I made it back to the Jeep—without Adrian, who was standing frozen in the middle of the drive engaged in a staring contest with a grandmotherly marathoner who had kindly decided to try to help by keeping an eye on my child.

I couldn't find the ibuprofen. Rick snapped at me. I snapped back. I found the ibuprofen and slapped a few pills into his hand. We exchanged a few unpleasantries. My mind registered the dismayed "I'm not getting in the middle of this" look from one of the volunteers.

"Go run," I said to Rick.

He related something to me about hating where he was at and not wanting to do this any more.

"Get out of here. It's not going to be any more comfortable in Leadville!" I shouted as he wandered up the path away from the campground.

I felt sick to my stomach as soon as I said it. I think I muttered, "Sorry." and "Thanks." to the volunteer. I turned back to the car, looking for Adrian, and didn't see her. Panic washed over me. "Dammit, where did she go?" I dashed around the car and found her on the opposite side. I gathered her up and set about changing her out of her wet clothes. We were running out of options—at this point just about everything I had brought was wet and/or muddy. I found some dry clothes for her and set her back in her car seat, consoling her—even though she was remarkably calm—and beating up myself on the inside.

As I settled back into the driver's seat, I tried to collect myself. It was at this inopportune time that my mom called to check on Rick's progress. Hearing her voice sent me over the edge. I completely lost it. I sobbed and blathered and snotted all over the place. Adrian started to cry. I finally hung up and turned again to Adrian.

"Why are you sad, Mommy?" she asked.

"Because I can't be everywhere at once, but I feel like I should," I said. "I love you and your daddy very much."

We drove on to the next aid station, about 4 miles as the Rick runs. By the time we got there, Adrian and I had collected ourselves. The ibuprofen had kicked in, so Rick looked much better when we met him a little way down the trail. Adrian ran him into the aid station and then saw him out. She gave him a big hug. He told me, "I might still get under eight hours."

I like goals. "Yes, you will! Go get it."

And he ran off into the woods.

When the race clock clicked over to 7:59, I looked at the clearing in the woods near the finish line and saw my husband bursting triumphantly from the vegetation. Adrian did her trademark run to the finish line with her dad. Rick got his traditional beer and a buckle. He got his sub-8-hour finish, just a hair off of his personal best on this course, and 6th place over all.

Like pain, the chaos of crewing is quickly forgotten. I always beat myself up when I think I have fallen short of helping Rick in an efficient manner. The fact that he told me he needed ibuprofen and I completely missed it still bothers me. The fact that I was standing at the water crossing playing with Adrian instead of at the car where the race supplies were also bothers me. It makes me insane that I ran away from Adrian and chanced her getting hurt. I hate how we bickered, especially in front of the ever-helpful and dutiful volunteers, who were spending the entire day in the rain and really didn't need any more cloudy attitudes to pull them down.

But the experience also made me reflect on the wonder of the ultrarunning community and how graciously fantastic its members can be. This was the first time in crewing many races that I felt short-handed. Almost always there is a friend to step in to help, no questions asked: someone to hand my child to while crossing a barbed wire fence at Rockin' K (Tony Clark); to play in the rocks with Adrian while waiting for her dad at Michigan Bluff (Stacy King); to walk down a long, steep, dark and spooky road to meet Rick at Green Gate while I took Adrian back to the hotel for a much-needed nap (Angel Clark); to rush from aid station to aid station through the Arkansas hills to keep track of my husband as well as her own when I couldn't even get to the race (Tiffanie Bevan); to chase my daughter across the prairie as a form of entertainment (Laurie Euler)...

I have been extremely lucky to be surrounded by good people who very easily could have looked the other way when I struggled to attend simultaneously to the two people I intensely love.

Thank you.

Cool bird!

2010-05-04T11:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon I received a call from birding buddy Doug Willis. His voice was slightly muffled in a way I have come to recognize as Doug talking on the phone while staring intently through a spotting scope. "I have a Pacific Loon in full breeding plumage at Smithville." A little over an hour later, I was standing in the warm sunshine by the old oak tree at Shelter 9, Crow's Creek picnic arm, Smithville Lake, watching the handsome black, white, and silver bird preen, stretch, and flap its wings.

I took a few embarrassingly fuzzy pictures by holding my Nikon DSLR camera up to my spotting scope to document the bird—only the fourth Missouri spring record. The images resemble those of the Loch Ness Monster, which is how all of my Pacific Loon digiscoping attempts over the years have turned out. Click here to see a picture from the Web that shows what the bird should have looked like under perfect photo conditions.

Pacific Loon, Smithville Lake, 3 May 2010.
Found by Doug Willis.

The Pacific Loon stretches its wing.

Since the 1990s, Pacific Loons have become a rare but regular visitor to Smithville Lake during fall migration, but Doug's May 3 sighting is a first for this location. Other spring Missouri sightings have come from southwestern Missouri: two reports from Table Rock Lake and one at Fellow's Lake in Springfield.

Seeing one in full breeding plumage is a particularly special treat, since they are usually in drabber gray-and-white dress during the fall migration. Pacific Loons breed in the northern reaches of Canada and usually winter in the Pacific Ocean. Some birds migrate straight south from Canada, which brings them through the Midwest. It stands to reason that those birds would make the return trip straight north from the Gulf of Mexico, or wherever they end up after passing through the Midwest—but either it doesn't happen very often or many birders are too busy watching the warblers and shorebirds that highlight spring migration to keep a close eye on reservoirs. (I suspect it's a combination of both.)

Later in the day Monday, Linda Williams reported as many as five Common Loons in the Pacific Loon's company. Apparently this bird was moving with a migrating group of this more common species, which nests as close as Minnesota.

Thanks to Doug for keeping me on speed dial in spite of the recent distractions (family, running, etc.) that have kept me from birding as much as I would like. What a cool bird!

"Just a Marathon"

2010-04-26T15:05:00.000-05:00

Rick & me before the start of the Free State Trail Marathon
Photo by Gary Henry

My name is Kristi, and I am a SOUR: Spouse of Ultra Runner.

I have spent countless hours watching my husband, Rick, suffer, bitch, smile, and cry his way through five years of training and running ultra marathons.

The prospect of running my first marathon-distance race this April paled in comparison to his accomplishments. There would be nothing "ultra" about my marathon. Just 26.2 miles through the woods. The kind of distance that he covers on training runs. It's nothing - right?

The mileage seems so common in our household that I just couldn't get my head around the fact that 26.2 miles is a long distance for my own body to run. Part of me knew better: While standing in the port-a-potty line before the race, I commented to experienced ultrarunner Gary Henry, "I think I will be respecting the distance a lot more in about five or six hours."

Strangely enough, my biggest concern going into the race was getting through the first three miles. Rick, who has run and/or paced at this race every year since the inaugural edition, reported that the opening section of the marathon course went cross country, over swaths of grass—exactly the kind of running that I like the least. I also knew that by the end of those three miles, I would know whether all of my little nagging pains were going to stay away or come along with me for the remainder of the race. Once I got over the first three miles, I told myself, then I'd be on the single track trails that I really enjoy and everything else would take care of itself.

At the starting line, I hugged my mom and my daughter, Adrian; kissed my husband and wished him luck (he was also running the marathon); and started running when race co-director Ben Holmes said "go". As the pack of runners strung itself out over the grass, I had that lovely lack of sensation that adrenaline brings. Up ahead I saw Rick being pulled to the front and found myself assessing his competition—a spectator even while running my own race.

I did a quick system check: no pain in the ankles, feet felt good—none of the nagging pains were with me yet. I checked my Garmin and saw I was running about a 9 minute pace. Breathing was OK and my stride relaxed, so I decided to just roll with it. The course took a lolly-pop loop around a water-treatment lagoon and Rick swung by me on his way out of the loop, in the lead. "...need to slow down," he gasped as we slapped hands in passing. "He does, or I do?" I asked myself.

Adrian had a big smile on her face and was clapping when I ran past her again before heading into the woods to pick up the single-track. The first three miles were done, and all was well.

Heading onto the single-track after 3 miles
Photo by Dick Ross, seekcrun.com

What mud?

Being a SOUR also carries some big advantages. One perk is having a personal shoe tester. I give Rick a hard time about his "shoe fetish". It's not uncommon for me to walk in on him shopping for shoes on the Internet—and it feels like something I shouldn't interrupt. The Kearney UPS delivery lady knows us well and sometimes gives me his shoes when she stops at my office, just to save herself the stop at our house later in her route. It seems excessive, but the more I run the more I understand. Luckily, I can usually take his recommendations and follow his expert advice. He rarely leads me in the wrong direction.

Inov-8 X-Talons after 26 miles
Photo by Rick Mayo

So the shoes that Rick bought for me for Christmas—Inov-8 X-Talons—were firmly laced to my feet the morning of the race, because he assured me they would be the best at handling the mud. These shoes have a very minimal upper, with mean, nasty lugs on the bottom. The only trick is to make sure they stay laced snugly, as the laces have a tendency to loosen up when the shoes get wet. (Rick tried to swap out the Inov-8 laces in my shoes for laces that would stay put, but I didn't let him. As it was, I only needed to tighten the laces once, about 10 miles in.)

Two inches of rain had fallen on the course in the days preceding the race, so there was a good quantity of wet, black mud pits on the trail. Most of the pits also had standing water in them, so it was a splishy-splashy kind of mud. I quickly learned that the mud pits were no place for a heel strike. When I planted my heel, I felt the earth gripping and sucking my shoe into its sticky embrace. From that point forward, I took short, quick, tippy-toe strides straight through the center of the pits and eluded the mud's appetite for shoes.

"What mud?" I loved these shoes.

A little help from my friends

On a training run with the Lawrence Trail Hawks a few months ago, Nick, Gary, and Coleen led me onto the fabled Red Trail to help me prepare for that section of the Free State course. "This is a place where you can really make up some time if you know what you're doing," Coleen told me.

Her words were in my mind as I danced over the fractured slabs of rock along the shoreline of Clinton Lake. Barely recognizable as such, this was the Red Trail. Other runners trotted the short sandy sections and slowed to teeter over the slippery rocks. I kept my head down and moved as fast as I could, trusting my shoes to keep me upright and being thankful that the Hawks had taken me this way before.

You have a lovely aid station, but...

At the KUS aid station
Photo by Gary Henry

Another thing I have learned from five years as a SOUR is the power of aid stations to eat a runner's time. So my objective was to say "thank you" to the wonderful volunteers, but use their services as little as possible. Rick encouraged me to obtain my own Nathan hydration pack, so equipped with 70 ounces of water on my back I was able to bypass most water stops and aid stations without a refill.

At the first stop by the Land's End aid station, I grabbed a fistful of cantaloupe and a fistful of pretzels and ran off into the woods. It felt so good to have something to munch on other than the Gu I carried in my pack. I also left that aid station feeling energized, but a glance at my Garmin told me that I was close to leaping off into the great unknown: I was nearing the mileage of my longest training run this year (about 12 miles), and I could already feel my body anticipating a cessation of movement. "Not yet," I told my bones and muscles, and forged on.

Surviving the lows

Near the KUS aid station
Photo by Kyle Gerstner

"Living through your lows will definitely prepare you for your first 50k," ultrarunner Larry Long wrote to me earlier today, after learning through social media of the low point I experienced during this race.

That sounds like a wise, reassuring statement to me now, in the comfortable glow 48 hours after the finish line. But when the Low hit me somewhere between miles 17 and 20, the thoughts going through my mind sounded something like this: "F--- ultras. A marathon is enough. No, this is too much. I'm going to death-march my way out of here and be very supportive and understanding of Rick from now on. Let him run these f---ers. He can have 'em."

Shortly after leaving the Kansas Ultrarunners' Society aid station—where Stacy Sheridan, Laurie Euler, and others gave me warm smiles and pumped up my disbelieving ego by telling me how "great" I looked—I started getting stomach cramps that I just couldn't figure out. Was it my abs? Maybe from my hydration pack? Was it my gut? Did I need salt? Was I dehydrated?

Reduced to a fairly miserable walk/jog, I wandered through the deep, dark woods and wished Rick was there to help me figure out what was wrong.

Then I switched gears from SOUR... to Mommy. In the week leading up to the race, I was plagued with dreams that involved childbirth. This, I suspect, is because I have always told myself that if I got through a med-free labor, I could get through anything. My pregnancy was the turning point when I decided I never wanted to be slow and rotund ever again, and I started running consistently 6 weeks after delivery. When faced with the prospect of giving birth, I did a lot of reading and research, and one quote stood out in my mind: "When you get to the point where you don't think you can handle the pain any more—that's probably as bad as it's going to get."

Hiking up a hill, cursing myself for running this race, that phrase came back to me. Of course, the famous ultrarunning quote, "It doesn't always get worse" also went through my mind, but I liked the childbirth quote better. My body won't give me any pain I can't handle.

About that time, David Wakefield—on his way to win the 40-mile race—power walked his way up the hill to me and gave me some much-appreciated, kind words of encouragement. He broke into a smooth stride away from me and I did my best to follow. Before long, I came up to the Land's End aid station (3 miles from the finish), swallowed some of the best-tasting Coke I have ever had, and jogged out of there with a mind that was much more well adjusted.

The finish

Photo by Rick Mayo

It occurred to me, as I turned off of the single-track and onto the gravel hill that leads to the finish line, that with all my visualization of running this race, I never visualized myself finishing. Then my eyes locked onto a three-foot-tall person smiling and clapping at the top of the hill. Adrian ran toward me, wheeled around, and ran me in to the finish. I crossed the mats at the finish line, turned, and gathered Adrian into my arms. Rick, long-ago finished and already in street clothes, dutifully snapped pictures. My mom informed me that he had won the race, which thrilled me because I never stopped thinking about him and wondering how he'd fared.

After resting in the grass for a few minutes, I looked up at my husband and once again sought his advice. "What do I do now?"

Photo by Rick Mayo

Running People

2010-03-30T15:57:00.012-05:00

Tuesday, March 30, was one of those sunny, breezy days when the warmth of spring still feels novel. Adrian was engaged in one of her favorite games: "race". I stood at the edge of our driveway, the designated finish line (or maybe it was an aid station), and clapped and cheered. She ran to me, feigned exhaustion with heavy breaths, brushed her curly hair out of her eyes, gave me a hug, and then set out for the next leg of her race—away from me on the sidewalk.

On one of her return trips, Adrian came to a sudden stop when she laid eyes on the two neighbor kids, Maddie (4 years old) and Bubba (2, almost 3—only one day older than Adrian). I greeted their father and gave Adrian a nudge in their direction. Maddie, slender and about the same height as Adrian, reached out to put her arm around my daughter. "Do you want to come play with us, Adrian?" she asked. Adrian lowered her eyes and inched away slowly—almost imperceptibly—until she found the shelter of my legs. Bubba, also about Adrian's height but stocky and about 15 pounds heavier, looked up at me with a big grin and chortled.

The kids' dad and I talked. I paused during the conversation to pick a ladybug off my shirt and handed it to Adrian. She emerged from my shadow and her deliberate avoidance of the other kids and put the ladybug to task crawling all over her hands and arms.

She is a master ladybug wrangler.

The other two kids joined in, and within minutes they had found common ground. Although Adrian didn't speak a word, they exchanged knowing looks regarding the ways of the ladybug, and by the time the beetle flew away, I believe Adrian had become intrigued by these two smallish people in her driveway.

I saw a slow smile crinkle the corners of her mouth. She sidestepped one of Maddie's advances—four quick steps to the right. Maddie followed. Adrian took five steps in another direction. Maddie and Bubba followed. Her face broke into a wide grin: Now she knew what to do.

Adrian ran. And the kids ran with her.

Or, they tried. Bubba fell splat onto his belly, laughed loudly, and scrambled up to continue the pursuit. Maddie, who looked a little confused at what was happening, stayed on Adrian's heels. My daughter accelerated and quickly put distance between herself and the other kids. She changed direction without warning, throwing them off momentarily. The three moved in a pack of ever-changing size and shape. Sometimes they would be clumped one on top of the other, then Adrian would shoot off and run through open ground all alone while the other two scrambled to keep up.

I have been reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, the best-seller that focuses on a tribe of runners in the Copper Canyon of Mexico. One scene describes the Tarahumara children warming up before a day of school with a running game, covering great distances in a pack where the small kids run shoulder-to-shoulder with the big kids. I stood there and watched Adrian, and could imagine her running with those Rarámuri children: Her head turned alertly to keep an eye on her pursuers as she ran in the opposite direction; upper body straight and upright, arms relaxed, as her red-and-orange sundress swirled with her; long legs reached out strong and steady to carry her from concrete to the rough terrain of our yard, and her sandal-clad feet flexed and pushed her forward. Her movements were coordinated and calculated, but at the same time free and improvised. Her face was relaxed and glowing with what could only be described as joy.

When the other two kids grew tired of chasing Adrian, their father scooped them up and carried them back to their house.

"Can I play with them again?" Adrian asked me when they were out of earshot.

"Sure," I told her.

"Now?" she asked.

I smiled. "Maybe another day," I said.

"I want to run," said Adrian, and she took off running down the sidewalk in the direction of Maddie and Bubba's house. I jogged after her. By the time we got to their house, Maddie was riding her bicycle down a long stretch of sidewalk, with Bubba and her dad following close behind. Adrian stopped running and watched them go, a small distance growing between her and the bike. Then, she furrowed her brows, set her lips in an intense frown, and said, "Ready... Get set... Mark!" and she was off.

Adrian the hunted was now Adrian the hunter.

Adrian reached the dad, evaluated the best way to pass, then cut to his left and accelerated by him. Next: Bubba. That one was easy—she jogged past him without a second glance. Then: The bike. She covered the empty ground between Bubba and Maddie, who pedaled along at a decent clip. Adrian wove back and forth slightly, observing the bike's speed, its slightly wavering path down the center of the sidewalk. Then, one burst of speed and Adrian fired past the bike, showing Maddie her heels for about 20 yards.

Then Adrian stopped. The group overtook her and continued down the sidewalk. She waited patiently for them to get a good head start. Then, "Ready... Get set... Mark!" And she repeated the hunt at least two more times until they reached the end of the sidewalk.

At this point, as Maddie, Bubba, and their dad headed back for their house, Adrian went to work picking grass and making a small nest "for the birds," she said. This nonchalant distraction was her way of catching her breath without admitting that she was tired. After a few minutes of nest-building, Adrian swung up onto my shoulders and we walked home, squinting our eyes against the setting sun.

From her perch, Adrian prompted me: "Run, Mommy."

Winter's Last Hurrah

2010-03-21T14:09:00.001-05:00

This morning, I stubbornly set out on a run at the Smithville Lake mountain bike trails with two primary goals in mind: 1) test running with Rick's Nathan hydration pack to see if it's a good fit for future long runs; and 2) raise a big, glorious middle finger to Winter ("Snow on the first day of Spring? Ha ha! You'll never keep me inside!"). Uncharacteristically, I had no mileage or time goals in mind. I was just going on a run.

On the frosty 20-minute drive to Smithville Lake, I was mesmerized by the snow drifts piled in ditches on the north side of the road. Their cascading shapes and impossible crevasses were works of art. Where one could peer in through a narrow opening in some drifts, there was an icy blue glow—like the "blue ice" that one sees in glaciers. Stunning.

As I neared the lake, I had difficulty maintaining a decent speed as all along the roadside there were flocks upon flocks of birds—American Robins, Killdeer, Dark-eyed Juncos, Song Sparrows... I could have amassed a decent species list if I'd slowed down. Several Harlan's Red-tailed Hawks flapped by overhead. Crossing a narrow branch of Smithville Lake, an American White Pelican was clumsily chasing a first-cycle Herring Gull in a game of "go (gimme that) fish".

Gulls on the boat slips at Camp Branch Marina
(Photo taken 14 March 2010)

Then I "accidentally" turned south at the little town of Paradise and ended up at Camp Branch Marina. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of gulls swirled around the lake and loafed on the roofs of the boat slips. Pelicans paddled though the shallow water. I felt the spandex in my running gear pulling me toward the trail, as the sight of so many birds — representative of infinite possibility — pulled me to reach for my binoculars. I scanned the flocks of birds briefly, then finally gave in and drove promptly to Sail Boat Cove, when I tumbled out of my vehicle into the icy parking lot, turned my face into the 20 mph north wind, and struck out onto the trail.

I descended into the trees, found shelter from the strong wind, and lost myself in pure joy for 7 or 8 miles.

This was a day when the run could have gone on forever. I gave new meaning to the word "singletrack" — where the only track through the snow was my own. Well, the only human tracks. Innumerable deer, coyotes, foxes, squirrels, raccoons, and possums had gone before me down these trails. In the quieter areas, snow clung to the branches of the trees. In some particularly dense stands of younger trees, the effect that of a crystalline cathedral.

I lost myself in a way that allowed me to forget pace and effort. My body walked when it wanted to walk, and ran when it wanted to run. I would find myself clicking down the trail at a smooth and steady pace and think, "Wasn't I just walking a moment ago? When did I start running?" Then I'd turn my mind off and enjoy the sight of a Fox Sparrow in the tree above me, or the audible pleasure of Northern Cardinals, Eastern Bluebirds, Tufted Titmice, Black-capped Chickadees, and Golden-crowned Kinglets in full song.

By the time I regained the trailhead, I had no concerns about Winter making an unwelcome return on the first day of spring. It is all part of the pulse of nature and the passing of time, and I was grateful for the opportunity to move effortlessly through those woods on such as day as this.

Random Thoughts

The Nathan pack was wonderful.

I returned to the marina after my run and took notes on a first-cycle Thayer's Gull, a rarity that is becoming easier to find at Smithville Lake in recent winters.

Blindfolded

2010-03-04T15:45:00.007-06:00

The air today has that soft, moist smell of spring. It wafts in through an open window. At home on a Monday, I am playing the role of full-time mommy as Adrian recoups from a fever and ear infection. We have laughed and played. Listened to the Mamas and the Papas as I beat out the rhythm with her Dora the Explorer tambourine. And we watched one of her favorite movies, Fly Away Home.

Silly faces on a quiet sick day at home

The movie is based on the true story of Bill Lishman, a Canadian who pioneered the method of teaching young birds their migratory routes using ultralight aircraft. The closing scene is full of lovely, sweeping images of the fictional main character, a little girl named Amy, flying the final few miles alone with her Canada Geese. The scene always makes me cry, but today it left a lasting sensation of longing deep in the pit of my stomach.

Migration. I spent so many years deeply engrossed in the northward and southward movement of wild birds. From mid February through late May, and then again from late August through early December, you could find me standing on the shore of a lake or lurking deep in the forest or walking through golden prairie grass—nearly every day—watching, waiting, discovering the wonder of migration.

Since Adrian came into my life, it has been more difficult to put my finger on the pulse of migration. And now that I am focusing much of my free time on training my body to endure a trail marathon, I am finding myself even more torn than before. Mother - birder - runner.

But even as I pour my energy into training, migration is happening around me. Last weekend, running the trails at Clinton Lake, I gleaned Yellow-rumped Warbler chip notes over the sound of other runners' footfalls. On treks around the neighborhood, Belted Kingfishers have uttered their toy machine-gun rattle overhead. And, of course, flocks of geese headed north and west speak the story of spring.

Drake Cinnamon Teal among Blue- and Green-winged Teal
Photo by Linda Williams

It's as if I am blindfolded in my bedroom—a place of perfect familiarity. I do not need to see migration to know that it is there. Sure and steady, the birds move on a calendar of their own, driven by daylight, magnetic currents, and low-pressure systems. March 1: the first Turkey Vultures glide in on a south breeze. March 15: Blue-winged Teal arrive, and among them a drake Cinnamon Teal bobs its head. April 1: the nasal call of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher carries through the still-barren trees, though their buds are swollen and poised to burst forth with another year's foliage.

I'm not watching them, but I know they're there.

To know something so intimately, and yet only catch the occasional glimpse of it in passing... This is a beautiful but bittersweet sensation.

Dead from a bough

2010-01-25T13:59:00.012-06:00

January 1, 2010 — Fat Ass 50k, Wallace State Park (near Cameron, Missouri)

Frozen toes, frozen nose, frozen water bottle. I cupped my hand around the spout on my water bottle and blew long, slow, warm breath into my hand. I turned the water bottle over and squeezed hard, then repeated the process a couple more times until there was a slushy sound and free-flowing water dribbled onto the snow. I took a drink and continued my seven-mile trek through ten inches of snow and single-digit temperatures at Wallace State Park.

There were just a couple miles left until I reached the warmth of my vehicle—and the ranger station where the Rissers (who put on the Fat Ass 50k at Wallace State Park each New Year's Day) provide an awesome spread of warm soups, chili, and cookies.

As I tried to remind myself that I was having fun (sure, I really was ... really), I noticed a small, reddish-brown lump in the middle of the footprint-pocked trail. I bent down to scoop up the Carolina Wren, its feathery weight barely noticeable in my palm. It had been dead long enough to be literally frozen stiff, its half-closed dark-brown eyes coated with frost. Running a finger along its breastbone revealed no layer of fat. These little dynamos are bundles of energy. Pairs will stay on territory throughout the winter, and will not hesitate to vocalize their displeasure if you get too close to their brush pile. But cold, ice, and heavy snow are hard on the Carolina Wren. In fact—thanks in part to the relatively mild winters of the 1990s and 20-aughts—their numbers have been increasing gradually since a series of hard winters almost completely drove them out of Missouri during the late 1970s.

This has been a hard winter.

I set the wren down in the snow a few paces off the trail and continued on, feeling a little more absurd for being outside on a day like this, in the undeniably severe cold, in the beautiful and deadly stillness of those blanketed woods.

Seven miles was enough. And at the end of the trail, there was a husband, a daughter, some warm chili, and conversation to warm life back into my nose and my toes.

Later in the day, I told Rick about the wren.

He said, "What's that poem? 'I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself...'?"

"Yes," I replied. "I believe that's how it goes."

All Alone

2009-11-10T21:38:00.009-06:00

I took a short run on the Smithville Lake trails today. I headed south along the shoreline and danced with the rocks a little faster than I had intended. The Mute Swan, dubbed "Crook" last weekend by my fellow Birrunderers, fed quietly in a cove. Silent. "Mute," one might say ... And rather alone.

Last Friday's birrundering (that's "birding while running" for the uninitiated) was the first time I had run with a group since high school. It was a nice way to pass the miles. Shelley asked me if I always run alone on trails. Of course, was my reply. She told me she runs alone, too, but pointed out that some people think it is foolhardy to go out on trails alone. You're isolated. You're vulnerable. What if...?

Being on the trails never seemed strange to me, because my time spent outdoors—alone—goes back farther than that. I have spent the last 12 years looking for birds in quiet, isolated places. Standing on the banks of the Mississippi. Watching ducks for hours from the shore of Smithville Lake. Bushwhacking through cane stands along the Eleven Point River in Missouri's Ozarks. All that time spent exploring, and most of that time I was alone.

But it goes back farther than that. Before running, before birding, I was a little girl. An only child. Creeping through the woods behind my parent's house. Splashing through the creek. Sitting quietly beside the pond. A constant narrative ran through my mind, my imagination conjuring up tales of magic and adventure. Out on those back acres, I was alone.

So today, here I am. Running through a sea of fallen leaves, the golden sunset glancing off the lake to set the woods on fire. Just as I have always been. Yes: alone. But also surrounded by so many fantastic sights and constantly engaged in such adventure that the words isolated and vulnerable and what if... take on less importance. I tuck those words away, let them keep close company with my awareness and common sense—and I live in this one moment that was made for me. Alone.

An Hour in Auburn: WS100 2009

2009-11-03T11:54:00.000-06:00

The highest award of Western States becomes a self-assurance that celebrates this event before it begins. In spite of the distinction of that silver buckle, and perhaps because of it, Western States proves that honor lies not so much in reaching the finish as in daring to arrive at the start.

—Los Angeles Times, Opinion Editorial, 27 June 1985.
Read at the annual flag raising, Emigrant Monument, Western States Endurance Run.

Twin searchlights carved slices out of the black sky. I stood in the unnaturally green grass of the infield at LeFebvre stadium in Auburn, California. My two-year-old daughter clung to me, drifting between sleepiness, crankiness, and interest in everything going on around her. Random bodies lay bundled in sleeping bags nearby. Hits from the '80s blared from the PA system, and occasionally a disembodied voice broke in over the music to announce a name, a hometown—a Western States finisher.

About 300 yards from that finish line, in a dark corner of the stadium, there stood a chain-link gate. It sat wide open. Occasionally one or two people would emerge from the shadows, move through the gate, and begin their journey around the red track. Some walked. Some shuffled. Some limped. Others were able to muster a good stride. They'd round the final turn of the dimly lit track, drawn in by cheers and an ever-narrowing chute—only to be lost in a sea of light and bodies at the finish line.

It was some time between 4 and 5 a.m. The final hour for the sub-24-hour buckle. I strained my tired eyes to focus on that chain-link gate. The voices of the friends who had traveled to this place with us drifted in and out of my consciousness. One of those friends, Gabe Bevan, lay exhausted and satisfied on the infield grass. His wife Tiffanie had moved through the tears of joy and now worked to gently remove socks from Gabe's cracked and battered feet. I took a picture. Shifted Adrian's weight on my hip. Moved my gaze back to the chain-link gate. Then to my watch. Minutes peeled off the clock.

At 4:40 a.m., 20 minutes from the sub-24-hour cutoff, a mirage: Two runners jogged through the gate. One was slim, a little bounce in the way he moved. He peeled off his headlamp and tossed it at his pacer's feet. "Is that him?" I heard myself ask out loud... Then I became convinced. "It's him!" I squeezed my daughter, smiled at my companions, and made an all-out sprint toward the finish line. I hurried up the outside of the chute and watched the runner make his way down the backstretch of the track, tears coming to my eyes. "Adrian, it's your daddy! He's finished the race!" I snapped a few pictures. Then questioned myself. It wasn't his stride. It wasn't right. But it had to be him! "Go baby!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. He came around the turn. Then I felt a chill go down my back and up into my hairline and my vision narrowed. No. Not him. The announcer: "And here comes Jim Scott from Chico, California..." I pressed my back against the brick wall at the edge of the track. My throat tightened and I told myself not to cry. "Oh, Adrian..." I sighed. "Baby, that wasn't him." Her head rolled off my shoulder then snapped back and resettled under my chin. No two-year-old should be up chasing runners all night. Her eyes fluttered open then closed again. I slunk back to our group's spot on the infield and resumed my vigil, completely deflated.

Soon, I heard something I had not prepared for. Birdsong. The voices of robins and other unfamiliar Californian birds began to float in over the music being played on the stadium's sound system. I looked up and saw the sky turn from black to blue-black. Dawn was coming, and my runner was nowhere in sight.

Eight minutes before 5 a.m. Twenty-three hours and fifty-two minutes of running. Angel Clark was waving at me from her post near that chain-link gate. I think Tiffanie and Stacey said something that reassured me that this time, maybe, it was real. And then he was on the track. Still wearing his headlamp. Still running. I ran toward the backstretch, snapped a picture. It really was him. I ran back toward our spot on the infield and tried to hand off Adrian, still sound asleep, to Tiffanie. She immediately stirred and cried out. I grabbed her back and took off for the finish line. This time I moved into that sea of light and bodies and positioned myself just behind the chip-timing mat. I bent to my knee, stood a semi-conscious Adrian beside me, and took another picture. Then I screamed for him, "Go!" The videographer at the finish glanced down at me, smiled, and took a step back. I yelled again at the top of my lungs. I rose quickly to my feet and he piled into me—all sweat and stink and mud: the man I love. A Western States finisher.

(Thank you for taking me on that ride.)

Kristi, Adrian, and Rick at the WS100 Finish Line

Psycho Psummer 15-mile trail race

2009-07-13T10:43:00.015-05:00

Feelin' fine at the start

The Psycho Psummer trail race has been the primary focus of my training since I got back into running regularly last February. I have never run a race longer than 10 kilometers, and prior to this stint of training, my longest training run was about 8 to 10 miles—way back in high school.

Over the months, I had a good stretch of building up mileage and maintaining focus on my training. My longest run was 12 miles on trails at Wallace State Park at the end of May. A week or so later, I "tweaked" my right ankle on those same trails, and ever since have had a nagging but mild stabbing pain just below my inside ankle bone.

In the weeks leading up to Rick's Western States 100 run, my training became a little more inconsistent as I experimented with resting the ankle, avoided running on the uneven ground of trails—and got caught up with work, preparations for our trip, and other extracurricular activities.

On our trip to California for WS100, my ankle became aggravated when I attempted to hike 25-lb. Adrian part way up the last mile to Emigrant Pass. At that point I knew that my ankle was going to hurt during my Psycho Psummer race, and the best I could do was try to ignore it.

So I came into the race feeling under-prepared, but determined to finish as close to 3 hours as possible. I had in my head a time of somewhere between 3:00 and 3:30, but was willing to accept anything the course and the weather had to throw at me.

Heavy traffic

It turned out to be a good mindset. The race began with the start-and-stop traffic jam of 200 runners funneling themselves directly onto single-track trails. I would think I had a good pace going, and then we would come to a near-standstill. Eventually the conga line sorted itself out and I actually benefited from being sandwiched into a group of runners moving at a pace right at the upper level of my comfort zone.

But the miles were dragging by. I kept glancing down at my Garmin Forerunner and marveling at how the time kept passing, but the mileage did not. I tried not to worry too much, but when Rick jogged up beside me after photographing runners at the top of Hedgehog, I pointed to my watch and asked, "Is that for real? Are we really only 4.5 miles into this race?" Almost an hour had elapsed.

Rick nodded. "But there's some more runnable sections coming up," he said. "It gets easier!"

Miles kept peeling off. But as I plodded along the long, exposed, uneven ground of the dam, the cranky ankle crashed my party. I had done my best to ignore it, but the clumps of grass and the slight uphill slope on my right side made it impossible to find good placement for my tender right foot. I went into a cool, quiet place in my mind to try to get away from the discomfort, forgetting each aggravating step as it trailed off behind me.

Summer Tanagers were singing in the woods. Northern Parulas. A Rose-breasted Grosbeak. I choked down a GU gel and swallowed half a bottle of water. As I headed up the new single-track and away from the dam, I heard a Prothonotary Warbler singing its sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet chant.

When I emerged from this haze, former Kearneyite Mike Prentice was standing at the edge of the woods dolling out water to thirsty runners. I said howdy. He said I only had a half mile to the next aid station. I took some fresh water anyway, and went on my way.

Again I was tucked in with a small group of runners, and was moving along at a comfortable pace. Soon the trail sidled up to pavement and I began the 3-mile out-and-back "Boy Scout Honor" section, which consisted primarily of gravel and pavement. The stable footing was a marvelous respite for my ankle, and I took advantage of it, happily glancing down at my Garmin when it beeped at the end of each mile to see that this mile had been faster than the last.

Forgiving gravel and pavement

On my return trip past Pat Perry's "man shower" aid station, I stopped for a while to talk to Rick, grab an S Cap, and scavenge for food. Inside the shelter, I found Stacey King hard at work making PB&J sandwiches. Those didn't look appetizing, and neither did the watermelon, but... Ah, then my eyes fell on a bowl full of little bite-sized chunks of orange melon-type stuff—I think it was cantaloupe. I haven't ever been a big melon-type-food person. But Rick had to drag me away from this bowl of delicious goodness.

"It's time to go," said Rick.

"But it tastes so good!" I mumbled, a little juice dribbling from the corner of my mouth.

"Then take some with you."

This seemed reasonable. I grabbed a handful and headed out the way I came, back up the pavement, across the street, and then down the trail into the Wyandotte Triangle.

Almost there. I know the Triangle—it's the turnaround for the Psycho Night 10k, which I have run every year since its inception. I relaxed on the single-track and my ankle felt good, but my legs were starting to recognize that I was now pushing them farther than they had ever gone before. I powerwalked a good portion, and took comfort in the notion that I was "almost finished".

As I came up out of the Wyandotte Triangle, I was pumped. Only a few more miles to go on a section of the course that I actually know pretty well. This section would throw at me the biggest mud pits of the day, along with some tough climbs and descents with large, loose rocks—but I was almost done and my legs actually felt pretty good. I cruised the downhill section away from the Triangle, passed a person or two, decided to try running through one of the mud pits instead of tiptoeing around it and Schlup! My left shoe stayed firmly planted in the mud as my legs continued on their path of forward motion.

I tried to laugh as I tiptoed back through the mud hole pitted with horse-hoof prints, retrieved my shoe (it took a few strong tugs to get the earth to relinquish it), and then tiptoed back to a slightly drier side of the trail to reapply the wheel. I tossed my bottle onto the ground, and as I attempted to unknot the wad of mud that was once my shoelaces, I glanced toward my bottle and noticed him: a little Three-toed Box Turtle chilling out in a water-filled horse-hole just his size. He stretched out his neck toward me and said, "Hey, man, take a break. You need to just sit down in the mud and reelax..."

A couple runners picked their way past me. I fumbled to tie my shoe back on and wiped my mud-caked hands on my thighs. "Sorry, Turtle, I need to finish this run."

The box turtle slowly looked away. "Whatever, man..."

The air had completely come out of me. I used the narrow, packed paths beat out by all the runners who proceeded me to make my way around the large mud pits, but the uneven ground and unstable footing was sending stabbing pain into my ankle. My legs were toast, so my uphills were reduced to a crawl. The ankle was screaming, so instead of taking advantage of the downhills I had to pick my way carefully down the rock-strewn bridle trail. I shuffled along at something that may have resembled a jog on the flatter sections that cut through cedar trees and scrub habitat.

Runners passed me. A man somewhere behind me was singing hymns about angels and heaven.

The trail flattened out and Canada Geese at the ranger's station honked. The woods spit me out onto pavement, and I shuffled down the hill and across the long, flat, open lawn trying to look somewhat strong for the camera that Rick pointed at me. One more final push around the shelter and over Raul's mats, and Ben rewarded me with an ice-cold soaking-wet bandanna across my shoulders and back.

Finish line — 3 hours 24 minutes

All the people I have watched from the sidelines were incredibly supportive of me as I made this first venture into trail racing. All along the course I would hear someone yell my name and in my haze didn't know who it was or where they were, but it definitely kept me moving forward. Familiar faces filling my bottle and offering me words of encouragement made the miles go by faster. And the congratulations and sweaty hugs at the end were perfection.

Laurie Euler, me, Debbie Webster

Later in the day, Shane Jones said to me, "You had this look on your face that said, 'How can anyone do 100 miles?'" No, I know how people do 100 miles—training training training, and the rare ability to disconnect one's mind from one's body and one's body from one's soul. As I came across that finish line, that look on my face that Shane saw may have been the look of wheels turning. Turning in the direction of thought: Not enough long runs this last month...Ill prepared for those last three miles...How many more miles of training would I need in order to do two loops out here...?

Christmas in June

2009-06-22T09:47:00.006-05:00

“The best way I can describe it is it’s like if you miss Christmas for a year,” [John] Trent [Western States 100 spokesman] said. “It seems like there is a lot of pent-up demand and energy for the race.”

—Auburn Journal (Auburn, California) 17 June 2009

On Wednesday morning, we get up early, load ourselves onto an airplane, and fly out to California so that Rick can have another shot at running the Western States Endurance Run. Well, another shot at starting the race, that is.

2008 still seems like a bad dream. Months of preparation, arranging travel, worrying about flying with a one-year-old... We finally set down in Sacramento, inhaled our first lungfuls of smoky, campfire air, hustled through the procedure of renting a car, driving through Sacramento traffic, stocking up at a local Walmart, driving some more to get to our hotel... We never really had time to relax and get excited about the race. No sooner had we driven into Squaw Valley than we learned the race was going to be canceled due to poor air quality.

Rick says he hasn't skipped a day since without thinking about it. We never got to celebrate the Christmas for ultrarunning in 2008. But now it's Christmastime again.

Dare I say we've had our fill of bad luck? Right now, approximately 400 runners are preparing to make the trek back to Squaw Valley (80% of the 2008 field is returning in 2009). I hope all of those runners find their bad luck is behind them.

And this time around, our little camp of Kearney ultrarunners has even more cause to celebrate and anticipate the start just five days from now. Gabe Bevan, who came along last year to pace Rick, is returning to the Western States Trail in his own right this year: he beat incredibly long odds and was one of the few people to draw in as new entrants to WS100 this year. Gabe is bringing along another accomplished Kearney ultrarunner, John King, as a pacer—and Rick will have Tony "What, Do You Think I Was in the F-ing Navy??" Clark from Wichita, Kansas to push him those last 40 miles from Foresthill to Auburn. And, of course, our contingent will be rounded out by Tiffanie Bevan, Stacey King, Angel Clark, and 2-year-old Adrian Mayo—some of the best and most experienced crew people and cheerleaders (and taskmasters) any runner could ask for.

Last year it seemed like the race was never going to happen, and sure enough—it didn't. But in 2008 I had the chance to see the trail, to have my shoes covered in its dust, to walk on the track at LeFebvre Stadium. I believe that Western States is real. And in the past year, I have seen my runner grow and mature in his strength and confidence. I believe in Rick.

Christmas morning is just five days away.

Welcome back

2009-05-27T23:17:00.006-05:00

Today, somewhere around mile six and half-way up a long hill in the drizzle, it hit me.

"I am a runner again."

I haven't been a runner for a long time. Probably the last time I considered myself a "runner" was in high school. I ran cross country — slowly. But I was inclined to spurts of two-a-days during the summer; cut out caffeine and watched my diet, all in the name of improved training; obsessed over running shoes and running shorts and running singlets. I was a runner.

But it was a love/hate relationship. I loved the training, but I hated the pressure. Running a five kilometer race hurt. I would start stressing out the night before a race, and didn't stop until the damn thing was over. Then I would stress that I hadn't performed well enough. I hated the starting-line stampede. I hated how my gut turned to jello and my mouth went dry. How girls would elbow me going up a hill for no good reason other than to be mean.

It didn't take very long for me to start associating running with that negativity, and when I went to college I found that birding was a much more pleasant source of challenge and relaxation. So for the next 12 years I spent almost every free moment focusing on learning everything I could about bird identification and searching for that next avian rarity in the field.

In 2004, Rick discovered ultrarunning, and over time I developed a new way of looking at running and racing. Running didn't need to be about beating that skinny little elbowing bratty girl up the next hill—it could be simply about trying to get through the next mile... or the next 49 miles. I have tried perennially to get myself back in running form, usually after the spring bird migration passed, just in time to muddle through a race like the Psycho Night Trail Run 10K. Then I would slip back out of shape during the fall bird migration.

During that time, while standing at aid stations waiting for Rick, people would casually ask me, "Are you a runner?" Those innocent people had no idea what a difficult question they were asking. Do I run? Yes. Do I run consistently? No. Do I like to run? Well... maybe.

Late this past winter, for one reason or another, birding became less appealing to me. I still love it, but the last two years since Adrian has been around, birding has become a struggle. It is difficult to get out and spend the amount of time that is needed to find "good" birds. I miss being able to get into the rhythm of migration. I also grew overwhelmingly bored with birding in the same few locations that were convenient, the ones that worked into my mommy schedule. Often I only had an hour or two to myself. That's just not enough for a good birding trip.

But two hours is plenty of time to run a few miles. Or ten.

So my focus shifted. Recognizing that I was finally on board with running, Rick started working extra hard to make sure I had that precious hour or two a few times a week to get out for a run. Slow miles on the treadmill in late winter turned into slow miles on roads in the tentative spring, and over time the miles have increased and the time required for each mile has decreased... And I find myself enjoying the burn in my legs and the rhythm of that long stretch of road out ahead of me. And I find myself plotting my next escape to a trail. And obsessing over running shoes and running shorts.

Coming back down the long hill in the drizzle, a cool breeze hit my face, and I held out my arms, tilted my head toward the gray sky—and I smiled.

I am a runner again.

Crew Report: The Western States that wasn't

2008-07-03T13:11:00.024-05:00

I intended this post to serve as my first attempt at a "crew report". So many ultrarunners participate in the catharsis of posting race reports on their blogs, and those reports prove to be an excellent way for others to prepare for (or recover from) a race. But there aren't too many firsthand accounts from crew members that help other crew members prepare to keep up with and take care of their runners for the duration of an ultra event. Sometimes interesting stories come not just from the trails, but also from the winding roads that link the aid stations.

Our first view of the Sierra Nevadas—and the pervasive smoke—from the aircraft.

Adrian chills out on her first airplane trip.

"Team Kearney" laid its assault on Sacramento International Airport at 10 a.m. Wednesday, June 25. The group consisted of eight individuals from the same Kansas City-area town: Rick Mayo (entered in the 2008 Western States 100 event on the two-time lottery-loser rule); Rick's 13-month-old daughter, Adrian; Adrian's mommy (me); his pacer, Gabe; and Gabe's wife, Tiffanie; and their three fantastic children, Tristan, Corbin, and Ella. We were all already worn out from the 3 a.m. (Central Daylight Time) start to our day, but in good spirits as we collected our rental vehicles, made a stop by the Roseville Wal-Mart (right off I-80 on the north side of Sacramento), grabbed some good fast-Italian food at Pasta Village (just across the parking lot from the Wal-Mart), and drove the additional 1.5 hour to our hotel in Truckee. From the time we stepped off the plane in Sacramento, we were aware of the presence of fires: the sky was a strange, brownish shade of white, and the sweet smell of burning pine and grass hung in the air. The winding drive up I-80 between Auburn and Truckee was beautiful but should have been stunning; each awe-inspiring vista was cut short by the milky air.

Pacer Gabe Bevan pilots the pace vehicle.

The Haze, as seen from I-80 between Auburn and Truckee.

After settling into the rather comfortable Best Western Truckee Tahoe Inn (clean, updated rooms and a full, hot, complimentary breakfast), Rick, Adrian, and I decided to stretch our legs at the Western States starting point in Squaw Valley. It was a very quick and scenic 20-minute drive. When we turned off Hwy 89 into the resort, Rick put in a call on his cell phone to Kansas runner Willie Lambert who was staying in accommodations at Squaw Valley. Just moments after Willie answered the call, the tone of Rick's voice changed and punctured a hole in the bubble of excitement that surrounded us. "You're kidding! Oh no..." Judging from his inflection, someone he knew had either suffered a very serious injury or had died. When he ended the call he relayed the news to me: The race might be canceled.

Rick & Adrian near the WS100 start in Squaw Valley on Wednesday, June 25.

Adrian takes in the bad news.

A sample of the air quality in scenic Squaw Valley Wednesday, June 25.

We spent some time wandering around Squaw Valley, taking in the scenery and the pervasive scent of campfire. The air burned my nose and throat, and I hate to think what it was doing to the baby. I tried to keep an upbeat attitude, saying out loud that maybe the rumors of the cancellation were overblown... maybe the fires weren't as bad as they thought... Rick was quicker to accept the impending news. "They'd better give me a loaner buckle," he said.

We returned to the hotel with the smoky haze enveloping our own minds. I had come there only as a crew person, but I had spent years planning for and anticipating this one event. Simply imagining Rick stepping onto the track in Auburn brought tears to my eyes. My preparation hadn't involved the miles and hours of sacrifice that Rick had endured, but I had prepared mentally to be there for him as much as possible, keep him moving, take care of a 13-month-old for the duration, and—most importantly—I had to get Rick to that track no matter what.

Around 8:30 p.m. Wednesday Rick got the call in our hotel room with the final word: the Western States Endurance Run was canceled.

When you stay in a hotel near an ultrarunning event, it's never difficult to pick out the guests who are there for the race. Particularly after the race. Walking wounded shuffle through the lobby, horde food from the complimentary breakfast, pause on the stairs to catch their breath. Thursday morning in Truckee, you would have thought it was the morning after the race—in a hotel full of runners who DNFed at mile 89. Fit-looking men in shorts, race t-shirts, and ball caps shuffled through the lobby wearing unusually clean-looking trail shoes. They stared at the ground, avoided eye contact. Disappointment in its purest form was palpable.

Blogger's Note — 27 May 2009 — I began writing this report almost one year ago and apparently gave up because the disappointment was still too deep. Rather than leave it unpublished, I will post this now, somewhat unfinished...

The track at Placer High (Auburn) — waiting under orange skies to serve
as the finish line to a race that will be delayed for another year

Rick and Adrian take a somber stroll around the track

Approaching the "finish line"

A reporter from the Auburn Journal interviews Rick

Robie Point

No Hands Bridge

The end of Slinger Mine Road; from here crew people walk about 1/2 mile to the Green Gate aid station.

The road to Green Gate. It's a steep walk down and even steeper walk back up.
I will not be attempting this aid station with Adrian in tow in 2009.

Pretty view from near Green Gate

No Hands Bridge

Part of Granite Chief Wilderness Area. Very pretty.

Adrian and Cowman (and a daisy... and me)

Robie Point

Rick's training run in Squaw Valley

Adrian on Turning 10 Months Old ... And something about chicken

2008-03-18T21:27:00.009-05:00

Today I turned 10 months old.

At the ripe old age of 10 months,
I know how doors work. You just open them up...

...and walk on through. Or you can crawl.
It's okay if you still crawl most of the time.

Some doors look like you could walk right through.
But you can't.
That can be a little tricky to figure out.

I love my daddy.

I love dinner time, too.

But some foods don't taste so good.
Like chicken. I do not like chicken.

Please don't make me eat chicken.

Fortunately, I have discovered that kitties like chicken.

Did you know that each year the average American
consumes more than 80 pounds of chicken?

Wow.
That's a lot of chicken.

So eat your 80 pounds of chicken
and then you can have my 80 pounds of chicken,
'cause I don't like chicken!

Remember when I said it's not a good idea
to share your candy with greedy grey cats?

Well, I haven't changed my mind on that matter.
But it's okay to share your pasta with the grey cats.

Grey cats are nice.
(And they like pasta, too.)

I'm Still Here...

2008-02-19T21:38:00.002-06:00

...Someone's just been keeping me a little busy!

Adrian's Happy Halloween

2007-10-31T20:29:00.001-05:00

"Today, my mommy and I
are going to tell you how to enjoy
the thirty-first day of October..."

"Eat candy."

"Lots ... and lots ...
of mouth-watering, delicious candy."

"I highly advise eating candy from a bowl
that is at least six times larger
than the size of your head.
But keep in mind one important thing..."

"Do not SHARE your candy!
Especially with
greedy gray CATS!!"

"Candy is only for babies.
Not cats.
That is important to remember."

"There is no joy greater
than eating candy from
a giant, shiny bowl."

"Well, okay.
Flying with mommy
might be more fun
than eating candy
from a giant, shiny bowl."

"And hanging out with dad
and the pumpkins
on the front porch
is a pretty cool way
to spend your time, too."

"Pumpkins can make pretty good companions.
Except sometimes they talk more than me.
And they actually look kinda stupid.
You know, I don't think I really like pumpkins that much."

"Oooh. Pretty light.
Never mind.
I like pumpkins."

"Yeah.

Pumpkins are alright."

"So, after you've eaten your candy,
kept it away from the CATS,
flown with mom,
hung out on the porch with dad,
and talked to the pumpkins,
it's time to reflect on the day
and just enjoy the moment."

"And this, I believe,
is the best way to spend
the thirty-first of October."

Happy Halloween!

Common Ground-Dove

2007-10-11T21:57:00.001-05:00

Common Ground-Dove
Brooke Haven subdivision, Kearney, Missouri (Clay County)
11 October 2007

This picture was taken with a Nikon D50 with a 200mm zoom lens through my Swarovski AT-80 spotting scope set at 60x magnification. There are certainly better ways of taking a picture, but I was working with what I had available at the time!

Smithville Lake Pelagic 2007

2007-09-23T20:22:00.000-05:00

Sabine's Gull
Photo by Kristi Mayo

Three years ago, I suggested to the field trip organizer for Burroughs Audubon that it might be fun to take a pontoon or two out on the lake in the fall. It is something that birding groups have been doing for some time out on Carlyle Lake in Illinois, and, in fact, St. Louis-area birders Jim and Charlene Malone planted the idea in my head back in 2003 when they suggested that Smithville is similar in size to Carlyle. So, in 2005, I reserved a couple of pontoons and announced the trip. The boats filled immediately.

That first year we set out on October 8—a beautiful, crisp, cool morning... but one that yielded little species variety. Timing was perfect to enjoy the large Franklin's Gull flock (10,000+) that stages on the lake each fall, but we saw little else. It was just too late in the year to be finding Sabine's Gulls or phalaropes.

In 2006, I moved up the date to September 18 and scheduled the trip in the evening and on a weekday to take advantage of the evening gull roost and less boat traffic. We spotted an immature Sabine's Gull in a relatively short space of time and both boats got fantastic looks from 20 to 30 feet at the bird sitting on the water.

This year, the formula changed a little once again: September 22 was still within the window for Sabine's Gull and phalaropes, but this time we tried the trip on a Saturday. Add to that a perfect, blue-sky, 85°F day, and we were not alone on the water. Boats and jet skis were everywhere, and seemed drawn to the large flocks of Franklin's Gulls that attempted repeatedly to settle down on the water. Nonetheless, we were able to sidle up in both boats to a very cooperative immature Sabine's Gull, watched numerous Osprey catching and eating fish, and marveled at a Peregrine Falcon pummeling (but not killing) an American Coot in mid-air.

Here's a few photos from the excursion:

Brock Winkelbauer (pilot of the second pontoon) & me
Photo by Marsha Hawk

Sabine's Gull between the two pontoons
Photo by Kristi Mayo

We tried "chumming" with popcorn. This attracted the attention of a few Ring-billed Gulls, but there simply weren't enough Ring-bills around to create the feeding-frenzy we had hoped for.
Photo by Laura Gilchrist

A good run

2007-08-13T07:52:00.000-05:00

The light in the woods dimmed enough that darkness closed in on the sides, the rocks and roots in the trail appeared to smooth out into the dirt, and ambient sounds no longer belonged to their source but instead became a mysterious part of the night's presence. It is in these few precious moments of the gloaming that the effort of running fades away, and it seems that I, too, become part of the night—gliding over the trail with no starting point or destination. Simply in the moment.

That was somewhere around mile 2 of the Psycho Night 10K Trail Run on Friday, August 10. Over the first couple miles I had settled into this strange little pocket where I was quite alone. I had started the race with Tiffany and Stacy, and thought that maybe I should stay with them for the duration of the race, but somehow they drifted behind me early in the race and I hesitantly went on, figuring they'd catch me once I crashed on the many hills of the course. Once we hit the single track a few hundred yards into the race, the only person to pass me (permanently) was Barefoot Rick. I scampered past a group of three runners going downhill, but they easily passed me again on the next climb. I caught a few glimpses of them on longer straightways, but they'd always duck around a corner, and I made no effort to catch up. At one of the water stops, a pair of female runners stopped to get a drink and, in a rare moment of competitiveness, I accelerated into the woods and down the hill to put distance between us.

In the complete darkness of the Wyandotte Triangle, I ran up on the same three runners I'd been trailing during the first half of the race. One of them was without any kind of lighting device, and all three were moving slowly and cautiously along the narrow, winding trail, desperately searching the woods for flags to indicate they were still on course. I politely hinted that I would like to get past them, and they stepped aside to let me go. As I passed, I told them just to stay on the dirt trail and they'd be fine. I was feeling strong and strode out a little, sensing the group of runners dropping farther back behind me with every turn.

On the return trip, any desire to "race" that had crept into my mind faded away as my legs began to feel like they were running away with me on the rocky downhills (I knew a flat-out tumble downhill was eminent, but for some reason I managed to stay upright), and it became nearly impossible to fathom climbing the uphills—even as each step carried me closer to the top of each steep slope. I let my body go ahead of my mind, which was probably the best thing I could have done, since my mind was telling me, "Six weeks of training isn't enough to be able to run a 10K... You just had a baby 12 weeks ago... It's incredibly hot... Maybe you should stop and rest for a few minutes... Are you drinking enough?... What if you pass out... What if they have to carry you out of here?..."

Then a headlamp lit up the trees from behind me and I found myself racing again. The runner behind me closed the distance between us as I walked up a hill, so I kicked my legs into a half jog before the crest of the hill and then strode out as the terrain leveled out and sloped downward again increasing the distance again. The headlamp behind me flickered on a tree beside me and I noticed a sharp turn in the trail ahead. Knowing it was silly to be worrying about my placement when I was already bringing up the back of the pack, I accelerated around the corner and tried to disappear before the headlamp found my backside again. I never did see that headlamp again. Suddenly two people were walking in front of me, one leading a small deer (it was actually a weimaraner). They stepped aside for me to run past, then I popped out of the woods and onto the pavement for the final downhill stretch to the finish.

My husband was there at the finish line and he caught me and made me stop running (I guess he thought I'd run all the way back to the car if he didn't stop me). My time of 1:18 was about 12 minutes slower than last year, but I really wasn't concerned about the time. I was simply pleased with myself for having the balls to even attempt the run. Six weeks ago I really didn't think I would be able to gather up enough fitness to run the majority of the course, but I trained for it anyway—and, in the end, I was successful.

And, best of all, it was a good, soul-satisfying run.

All's quiet and going well

2007-08-03T17:34:00.000-05:00

The time since Adrian's hernia repair has flown by. The surgery went very well. She actually had hernias on both sides of her abdomen, leaving her with two half-inch "stab wounds" near the point of each hip bone. They're healing nicely and she didn't show much discomfort at all in the days immediately after the surgery.

As soon as I as able to pry my mind away from my baby's health, I had to roll into getting the July/August issue of our magazine finished and off to the printer. We uploaded the files today, which is always a liberating feeling. Production actually went better than expected—primarily, though, because my dad (also our publisher, graphics guy, writer, etc.) did such a great job of taking my disorganized leads and running with them. He really did the bulk of the work on this issue. Just getting away to do my small part felt like such a struggle, but everyone is learning right now. My mom has been great in helping to take care of Adrian for a few hours a few times a week. I have found that getting out of the house and away from the responsibility of caring for her is incredibly important for me. Sometimes I just feel like I'm going out of my skin sitting around the house. A couple hours away and I feel entirely renewed. Adrian came along to the office a couple days this week, too, and did great. So, like I said: We're all learning and adjusting to this new life.

Running is going great, as well. I'm really surprised at how quickly my body has returned in six weeks. I don't feel too far behind the level of fitness that I had at this time last year. I did hit a point where I started losing motivation a couple weeks ago. But getting out for a couple trail runs has helped with the morale. I feel so much more complete and satisfied after running on a trail—both mentally and physically.

Wednesday morning, Tiffany and I went out to Wyandotte County Park Lake to run the 10k Night Run course. We were planning to turn around after running about 35 minutes, but just before that deadline approached I noticed that we were at the "Wyandotte Triangle", the turnaround for the 10k course. So we ran the meandering switchbacks of the Triangle and then headed back, and finished the course in a little over 1 hour, 25 minutes. That was with a pretty conservative, relaxed pace, too, so I think it should be fairly easy to finish a little quicker next Friday. Maybe I won't be coming in after everyone packs up and goes home, after all.

It could be worse

2007-07-12T06:49:00.001-05:00

(2007 Running of the Bulls)

Racing the baby

2007-07-11T17:18:00.000-05:00

I didn't think I would get the chance to run today, but then Rick came home earlier than I thought he would and the baby was sound asleep in the sling and had been for quite some time. I thought that maybe I could slip the sling off, baby and all, into the crib, pull on some running clothes, go run, and maybe—just maybe—get back before she woke up.

It was fabulously cool (about 75°F) and overcast during the run. Throughout the run, my mind kept flipping back home, and all I could think was that I needed to hurry and get back because the baby was going to wake up. Chances were, in fact, that she was already awake. In the past, she has had a habit of waking up or going ballistic about five minutes after I walk out the door, no matter in what state I leave her: well fed, sound asleep, playing contentedly—it doesn't matter. When I leave, she tries to make her daddy's life miserable.

So today I raced the baby. I worked the hills. I pushed my stride. I rounded the corner in our neighborhood at a good clip and ran up to our mailbox and walked toward the front door, cautiously opening it a crack...then all the way...moving in the entry as if a fully armed commando-baby hid around the corner. It was strangely quiet. I went upstairs and straight down the hall to the baby's room, where the door was still pulled shut—just as I had left it. I looked in her room, and there lay baby Adrian, still sprawled out in her crib and breathing slow and deep—just as I had left her. I raced the baby, and I won!

Inevitable distractions

2007-07-11T15:56:00.000-05:00

I am now 5 runs deep into my "training". I know I'm not running enough, but it's tough to get out the door. Adrian has been what most would describe as a fussy baby... and her fussiness tends to peak between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m. (or whenever she goes to sleep, usually between 8:00 and 10:00). Rick's usually only available to watch her after 5 p.m. — which means I have to walk out the door knowing that he's going to be screamed at for the duration of my run. I'm not worried about her; I know I'm leaving her in capable hands. And he's a great and patient daddy. But I hate leaving him with that frustration, especially when it's so much easier for me to just stick a boob in her mouth and keep things quiet and calm.

And now it's even harder to leave. Monday afternoon, Adrian suddenly started full-on screaming. Not her normal fussy cries, but red-faced, eyes-wide-open, panicked-expression screaming. I had just changed her diaper when this started, so I offered her a snack (she refused) and then I retraced my steps back to the diaper. When I took the diaper off I noticed a lump about the size of my thumb on the right side of her pubic bone. The entire area from her groin to the spot where the lump sat was purple-red, and her screaming intensified any time I got near it.

A couple hours later, when the pediatrician could finally see us, the lump had receded... But he confirmed my suspicion that she "likely" has a inguinal hernia. We're seeing a surgeon tomorrow morning. In the mean time, I'm peeling off her diaper and looking for the lump any time she looks at me cross-eyed and wondering if her fussiness these last seven weeks were all because of the hernia.

But there are benefits to having a trainer for a husband. Yesterday he pushed me out the door: "Go run before she starts crying and you don't want to leave. She's fine. You're in training now."

It was a good run. I only covered 2.4 miles, but ran the first mile without walking. It was the first run where I deviated completely from my 2-minute run/walk intervals. I am, of course, abysmally slow. But I know I'm getting stronger. My husband even told me my legs are "looking good" yesterday. I guess that's progress...

Goal Number One

2007-07-03T09:26:00.001-05:00

This is me about 11 months ago, taking a little walk break at the turnaround point for the Psycho Night 10K Trail Run. I figured I should slow down to wait for Rick, who can be seen chatting it up in the background there. I didn't want to get so far ahead that he couldn't catch up... I ended up finishing in 1:06.

A month or so before Adrian arrived, I told a few people that I'd like to try running this race again this year. It's August 10, which is also my 28th birthday and our 6th wedding anniversary. Seems like a good way to celebrate. I have no idea whether this goal is doable... Alright, I know it's doable, but there's a good chance I'll be stumbling across the finish line in record-slow time. I guess I'm just not sure whether it's a good idea to try to get ready for a 10K with only six weeks of training, and 12 weeks after having a baby.

All things are possible, though. No matter what happens, at least it gives me a focal point. A little motivation never hurt anyone.

Childbirth and Running

2007-07-02T20:50:00.000-05:00

This evening Adrian got to spend some quality, one-on-one time with her daddy... which meant I got to go for a run. The temperature was about 15 degrees warmer than my run yesterday, and I could certainly tell the difference. Of course, I was feeling yesterday's run a little, too. The roads through the neighborhoods were busier, with people driving as if they have the weekend on their minds. It's a good time of year, though, in these days before the 4th of July. It's nice to see families sitting together in their driveways, little kids setting off snakes and smoke bombs. I was surprised to discover that the laughter of a child stirs some sort of warm-fuzzy emotion for me now.

I did the 2-minute run/walk intervals again, and was very happy to have the 2-minute walk breaks. On a couple hills (minor inclines, really), my running pace slowed to a crawl. I'd catch myself thinking, "Go ahead, walk. Then, walk a couple extra minutes while you're at it." But it's important to me that I do everything I can to silence that kind of negative inner dialogue. A few months ago, as I was preparing myself mentally for giving birth, I resolved to bring the lessons I had learned while distance running (and while watching my husband, Rick, tough it out through 100-mile races) into my labor experience: to understand that pain is inevitable, but it's not something to fear, and no matter how tough it gets, there's always a way to take just one more step... and then another step... and so on, until the job is done.

After I successfully made it through an unmedicated labor and delivery, I made another resolution: To bring the lessons I learned during childbirth into my running experience. And there, the number-one point I garnered was to avoid over-thinking the discomfort.

So, today's baby step in the crawl-walk-run process: 2.9 miles in 34:25.

On the road again

2007-07-01T20:06:00.000-05:00

This morning—after getting the go-ahead to "resume my regular life" from the doctor at my six-week postpartum checkup on Friday—I went for a run. It was fantastic. The sky was overcast, the air was cool and dry, and the neighborhoods were quiet. I really had no idea how it would feel to run. About a week and a half ago I tried running for a few hundred yards during one of my long walks around town, and it felt downright awkward—I noticed every one of the 10 pounds of fat and flesh that are looming around my stomach and hips right now. But Sunday, it really wasn't too bad. Those extra 10 pounds are still there, but I was able to settle into a rhythm fairly quickly.

I didn't go crazy on this first run. I just did 2-minute run / 2-minute walk intervals over about 2.4 miles. Toward the end my legs were getting a little heavy, but I didn't get very winded.

Later in the day, I could feel the run in my upper abdominals more than anywhere else. It's going to take a while to get those core muscles back. But, like my wise husband/trainer told me, this will be a crawl-walk-run process.

I was just happy to be out and moving a little faster than a walk!

Baby Huey and the European settlers

2007-06-28T19:23:00.000-05:00

Today a Chipping Sparrow came to our yard with its "kiddo" in tow: a big, ungainly juvenile Brown-headed Cowbird. The young cowbird stumbled around in the grass, begging continually. The Chipping Sparrow, about half the weight of Baby Huey, hopped around frantically, diving after insects in an attempt to satiate the gaping, hungry mouth.

To the uninitiated, this would be a surprising sight. You might wonder if the tiny Chipping Sparrow had adopted the baby cowbird out of the goodness of its heart. Well, the Chipping Sparrow is certainly raising the cowbird as its own, but not by choice. The female cowbird is a brood parasite—she removes an egg from the nest of another species and replaces it with her own. Then, Ma Cowbird leaves the residents of the nest to incubate the eggs and eventually care for her progeny. When the egg hatches, the young cowbird usually dominates its smaller siblings for food and space. Despite a striking contrast in appearance and, often, size, the host parents continue to care for the cowbird... and within about 10 days Baby Huey leaves the nest and follows his adoptive parents, continuing to take whatever he can from them until he's ready to fly off on his own to make more little cowbirds.

I sat watching this scene through my living-room window as my own kiddo nursed. An image flickered through my mind of attempting to breastfeed a baby 50% heavier than me. I've felt sorry before for parent birds parasitized by the Brown-headed Cowbird—but this time I felt true empathy.

The unfortunate thing about Brown-headed Cowbirds is that they are only doing what they have evolved to do, but sweeping habitat changes brought on by—you guessed it—human beings have made it even easier for the cowbird to survive. Naturalists speculate that oodles of years ago, the cowbird followed the bison herds across the sweeping prairies, dining upon insects attracted to and flushed out of the grass by the grazing animals. Because the bison were nomadic, the cowbirds found it necessary to evolve the same kind of nomadic ways. As any nomad knows, however, it's downright tough to find time to pick out territory, defend that territory, build a nest, lay eggs, incubate eggs, and raise young. That could take weeks. By the time the young were raised, the bison herd could be many miles away. So, the cowbird evolved a better plan: let someone else raise the kids, and once they were full grown, they could catch up with the herd.

As with all things in nature, that tactic worked as long as a delicate balance was maintained. Balance, though, was not something that the European settlers excelled at. As the forests in the east fell to logging, the cowbirds took notice. Before, the cowbirds would only visit the nests of woodland species that utilized the edge habitat of forests. But today, most tracts of woodland are heavily fragmented. You can't walk too far into the forest before you're walking back out the other side. Cowbirds gained access to what used to be the deeper parts of the woods, and began to use the nests of some more delicate songbirds. According to Ken Kaufman's Lives of North American Birds, a female Brown-headed Cowbird is known to have used the nests of more than 220 species of birds, and she can produce up to 40 or even 70 eggs in a single season.

That's a lot of displaced songbirds. And that means the Brown-headed Cowbird is looked upon by many as a villain. But for Baby Huey's bio-mom, it's the only method of survival for her species.

It's a big world after all...

2007-06-27T18:22:00.000-05:00

Adrian and I had a big outing today: A trip to Babies 'R' Us and Target. Sad really. For me in my isolated little universe, this was exciting.

It was also a little depressing in other respects. I used to be such an efficient shopper. Get in, get the stuff on the list, get out. No dilly-dally. No impulse items (not usually). Walk straight ahead with your head up and do not make eye contact with the merchandise.

Now, I walk into a discount superstore and my pupils constrict, my mind goes blank, and all I can hear is blood rushing through my ears. Oooh, shiny...

I walk out with more worthless crap than I intended. Even more unfortunate is the fact that when I get home and realize that something I bought—a shirt for instance—does not fit, I look forward to the impending trip during which I will return said worthless crap... so I can buy more worthless crap.

Maybe a little social time is in order. We have an outing planned on Sunday—a birthday party for our friends' 2-year-old daughter. The festivities will be in the early evening. This should get me some much-needed human contact. However, my daughter's favorite pastime these days between the hours of 4 and 9 p.m. is marathon nursing. So I expect to spend most of the time sitting with my shirt hitched up, performing my best impression of a cow. Fun stuff.

I'm itching to get out for my walk today, but there's a steady rain falling outside. I know. What a pussy. Why not go for a walk in the rain? I guess it's more comfortable to stay at home, nurse my baby, and spare my husband the misery of trying to appease a creature that wants nothing but The Boob.

Love,

Bessy

It's Tuesday... right?

2007-06-26T10:23:00.000-05:00

Keeping track of the days has been just one of the challenges over the last five and a half weeks. Not knowing the day of the week, the date, even the time of day: It's a feeling I have grown accustomed to.

The cause of this discombobulation lies nestled in the folds of a purple tie-dyed sling as I write. We are both trying to get used to this arrangement—holding and being held while I attend to other everyday activities. Since one major component of my life involves sitting at a computer and employing both hands on a keyboard, I realized it is necessary for my daughter to learn to nurse, sleep, and generally chill out in this sling. That way, she gets what she wants (food, warmth, the sound of my heartbeat and digestive gurgles), and I get to make money.

We can get used to this.