Real trail racing is not something I've done for nigh on... 3 years, now?

But during this rest period after Duathlon Worlds, I was feeling especially demotivated, and when I saw this event pop-up in my email, I remembered how much fun I had the last time I did it. Three years ago, I had just gotten really into trail running, and I decided to complete the fall trail series put on by TATUR racing (still have the series shot glasses!). It wasn't just the hardest trail race I had ever done in my life - up to that point, it was the hardest race I had ever done, period.

It was also some of the most fun I ever had. So when I saw that email a few weeks ago, I decided "What the heck?" and signed up for the 25K.

I am pleased to report that the Turkey and Taturs race is still some of the most challenging, technical trail running you will ever have the (mis)pleasure of coming across. Seems to me it was even rockier than in previous incarnations! Thankfully, I didn't bruise myself up as much as last time. And although I didn't win any hardware this go-round, I still had a blast, and more importantly, I reconnected with why I love trail running in the first place. I would do this race again in a heartbeat, although next time I might actually head out to some trails, first ;)

3 years ago at Turkey and Taturs with the AG award. Sadly I would leave empty-handed this year - and this time the award was actually shaped like a Turkey!

Race Morning

I awoke bright and early... well, early anyway, and made my way over to Tulsa. I had spent the previous night at my parents for a Diwali/finally-celebrating-my-30th party, so I hadn't really put too much time into race prep, and I was still so stuffed on food from mom's that I didn't even bother to eat. I grabbed some water bottles and hydration packets, as well as a GoMacro bar TheFeed had shipped me, and made my way out the door.

The race morning was cold, and I seriously debated whether or not my normal 40 degree running outfit was going to cut it. I put my faith in my weather app, which said that the temperatures would be increasing over the next few hours, and hoped for the best. With a 7 AM race start, we would at least begin the run with the sun rising (unlike the poor 50K runners, who had to begin their day in the dark).

Everything about the race morning was familiar, and it brought back a rush of memories. I made a mental note not to fall and crack my knee on a rock 2 miles in as I had last time I did this race, and took my place amongst the entrants at the race start.


The Race

It began well enough. I started with a strong 8:00 min/mi run, not too fast to wear me out, but an effort I could hold for some time, and made my way to the front of the pack. As we began ascending the trail, I soon remembered how damn technical this race was, and my pace slowed accordingly as I made my way through the starting rocks.

Suddenly, my eyes began watering. And watering. And watering.

I realized that my reluctance to do much outside these past two weeks had meant that my body was not adjusted to the cold. My eyes were reacting to it by tearing up. The glasses on my face, combined with the highly technical trail, meant that my free hand (the other held my bottle) was unable to really wipe the tears away. They began streaming down my face the same time the trail began descending...

I slowed to a crawl...

... and watched as a stream of competitors easily made their way past me. I could do nothing. I couldn't see well. The constant tears had the effect of moving my contacts around, which made my vision treacherously blurry. I slowly picked my way through the rocky descent, allowing ever more people to run past me, and was happy when the trail eventually made its way upwards again.

I could run up the mountain, and I could run up it fast. The ascents were steep and long, and naturally slowed everyone's pace down. Despite the streaming tears, I could still ascend the inclines faster than most, and I used them much as I could to power past competitors and catch back up to the front.

But it was short lived. The moment the trail descending again, competitors would once again swarm past me. My vision wasn't clearing up any, and wouldn't for a good 7 miles.

My Garmin was stubbornly refusing to keep the satellite signal, which only compounded things mentally as I had no idea of where I actually was in the race. But I remembered what the halfway point of the race looked like: a trek along some treacherous rocks on the cliffside. And when I reached, I looked down and finally resigned myself to the fact that this was no longer a "race" for me. I just couldn't do it with blurred vision. It wasn't worth the risk to my health and well-being. The years away from trail running had left me lacking a bit in the technical skills department, and without a strong vision to drive my legs, I couldn't compensate for it and I didn't feel safe doing so.

I stopped and let several racers go by, many of which I had worked very hard on the inclines to pass. I then just... took it all in.

I looked around, and for the first time that morning, I realized just how gorgeous it truly was up there. The air was cool and crisp. The ground was covered in colored leaves (to the point it was impossible to even see the trail at times). The views from the cliffside were spectacular. For the first time in many, many years, I allowed myself to walk a bit mid-race, carefully picking my way over loose rocks and boulders and fallen trees bigger than me that littered the way.

When the terrain became less technical I picked up my pace again and carried on. I remembered that was was a giant hill at about the 11 mile point in the race. I came upon it much faster than I thought (my watch said I had completed only 7 miles), and this time, despite slowing to the point of walking up the incline again, I ascending with glee. The hill is so steep you can honestly place your hand out in front and use it to help pull your way up. I very nearly did so. But it was exhilarating, and crossing that point meant that I was very nearly done, having only 4.5 miles left to finish. I continued on with the last part of the course in high spirits.

Then things started to turn.

The back end was much, much rockier than I recalled. It was as though the entire last 4 miles were just littered with loose rocks, big and small, to the point that I spent most of my time just picking my way carefully over them. The moment the terrain eased up and I began to run again, my foot would soon slip on yet another rock, and I would be forced to slow again to pick my way through the next section, reminding myself that base training was coming up, and that it wasn't worth a twisted ankle...

Up until this point, my memory had served me well, and my mental map of the course from a few years ago matched up with what I was seeing. This part, though, was wildly unfamiliar. Whether the trails had changed over the past few years, or my memory just failed me, I am not sure of. But I got lost, detouring down and off the trail for a bit before someone was kind enough to yell out at me from far above, "Hey, it's this way!" Curses, I probably just added a good mile. I had gotten a bit off track in the first half of the race, too, due to the trail being completely hidden at points by the abundance of rocks and the fall foliage, so it only aggravated me that I was adding yet even more distance and time to my already slow crawl, and so close to the end!

I could occasionally hear the sounds of the finish line as the trail meandered close by. Spectators were cheering on finisher after finisher, and I kept hoping they would soon be cheering me. Yet every time the trail veered close, it would just as quickly veer back off again, to my utter dismay. I was growing tired and ever more frustrated, especially when I could hear the announcer start to kick off the awards ceremony. At least my eyes were no longer tearing... I thought, as it had finally warmed up a bit, the lot of good it was doing me.

Finally, finally (!) I saw the path open up to a paved road, and I knew this led up and on to the finish. I crossed the line, noting how empty the finish area was as many spectators and competitors had themselves already crossed and then left. Mark was waiting for me at the finish, beer in hand (HUZZAH!), to say congrats and to chat and catch up on how Worlds went.


At the finish

I felt a curious mix of emotions. On the one hand, I was proud of myself for getting back out there and doing a race of this caliber. It lived up to my memory, and is still the most brutal trail run you can do in all of Oklahoma (possibly the surrounding multi-state area). Yet I was saddened that my time had stunk so horrifically. (In 2012, I had actually won my age group and come in 4th overall, losing 3rd by only a couple of minutes. This year, I finished with a time about 30 minutes slower than before, and came in dead last in my age group.) I was overjoyed to have seen such beauty, and I was proud that I had let myself actually pause to enjoy the experience. Yet I was irritated that I had gone off course not once, but twice, and I seemed to have lost some technical abilities to boot.

It's a curious thing to get your ass kicked so handily. On the whole, despite any irritations I may feel at the time, I rather enjoy experiences like that. They are always good reminders of not only how far you've come, but of much further you have still to go.

With Worlds so early in the season next year, I will need something to occupy my time in the fall. Perhaps I'll do this race again. Or maybe I'll even try my hand at mountain biking there - just so I can participate in an off-road du. Who knows? You never grow so much as when you stretch yourself and do something that scares you.

We'll probably meet again soon, Turkey.

Shot glasses from completing the TATUR series 3 years ago. And some really nice swag. Maybe I'll collect a second set... someday ;)