Yesterday I ran the Silent Trails 10 mile trail race, which is a yearly memorial run held to remember 8 Wyoming cross country runners who lost their lives because of a drunk driver 5 years ago. The race took place up at Happy Jack, and the views were spectacular. I can't think of a better memorial to the poor students.
I was a little nervous because even though I managed to shuffle a painful 18 miles on monday (with much walking), 10 miles is still a long way for me. I did my usual pre-race ritual of sorting my gear, eating porridge and trying to time my fluid intake for maximum hydration and minimum bladder complaints. I messed the last one up hugely. Literally a second after Perry, the race organiser, shouted 'go' and around 120 hardened trail runners and a few not so hardened panicers (ok, me) lept forward gracefully, I realised I had to pee. The first two miles were down hill, so every step jolted my poor bladder upwards. After 2 and a half miles I realised I simply couldn't ignore my body for the rest of the race, and slowed to a walk while I scouted out possible pee locations. Eventually, I ducked off the trail behind a tree. Thankfully, this is Laramie not Birkenead so there was no laughing and pointing from the other competitors.
I rejoined the race, and set off at a more modest pace because unfortunately I had run out of downhill bits to pelt down. All was well until the aid station at 4 miles. Then I set off walking again because I had been warned that there was no point trying to run up the hill that followed, unless I wanted to look like someone running on a treadmill (i.e. not actually getting anywhere). The hill is called 'death crotch'... says it all really, although Christine affectionately calls it 'the bitch'. It's a mile of evil switchbacks, and worst of all, a false summit, so just when you think 'horray I've survived' and start to run again, you hit yet more switchbacks.
Eventually, death crotch was heroically defeated and I managed to set off running again. Pacing was difficult with no mile markers, and I hadn't really thought about how much more difficult 10 miles on a trail strewn with rocks and tree roots would be than my usual road/ dirt path running. Sometimes I would see or hear no other runners for a few minutes, and I would wonder idlly if I had taken a wrong turn. Then a cough or heavy footfall would break the spell and I realised my laboured breathing was blocking out subtle sounds.
I grabbed a drink at the second aid station (6 miles) and finally caught up with a woman I'd been steadily gaining on for about 20 minutes. We had a quick breathless chat, then I got a second wind. After that I had three miles of perfect, peaceful running. There was noone in sight, the views were fantastic and I felt relaxed and strong. I wasn't running to complete a race anymore, I was running just for me.
I passed through a gate we had passed a 1/4 mile after the start of the race, which lead me to believe erroneously that I only had 1/4 mile left to run. So I started smiling and speeding up. Big mistake. There was actually another mile so I suffered quite a lot. I started to hallucinate adoring crowds cheering me on just around the corner, but every corner just revealed more trail, trees and rocks. I thought about the marathon I am running in a few weeks and how much more pain I'll be in near the finish then, and how great it will be because my dad will be there with hot tea. I thought about how bloody stupid running is sometimes.
Then I could see the finish and I felt a whole lot better. People cheered and clapped and I decided that running was good after all, and that runners are nice people. I recovered with some great food and stayed to clap for the few people who came after me (I was pretty near the back).
It was a superb race, everything a race should be with great organisation, friendly competators and a beautiful course. Several times since I moved here I've thought about quitting running because the altitude makes it so tough, but this race was enough to make me realise not quitting was absolutely the right decision.
In 2 weeks I'll be racing again, this time a hell of a lot futher. I know it's going to be tough but I think I'll survive.
d I had moments of intense pain and a few 'mini-walls', but I never seriously thought I wasn't going to make it. The support was brilliant- people in laybys, locals and passing cars were all very positive. Even the other runners took time to say well done and chat a bit. The worst bit was the descent into Llanberis- very steep and painful for sore joints. A woman in pink hurtled passed me wailing something about not being able to stop and vanished around the corner in a blur of lycra. I overtook a couple of lads who tried to chat me up in broad yorkshire accents. They lost interest when I warned them not to get downwind of me.. 
