So I just finished the Avenue of the Giants marathon. Sometimes I really have to ask myself why I wasn't born a sprinter. I can't believe I just trained 5 months to inflict pain and extreme mental and physical discomfort on myself for nearly 4 hours. I'm really not sure why people, and more importantly, I, do this sort of thing. What's worse is that I actually did it quite well which only guarantees that I will be doing it again someday and pushing myself even harder, which can only lead to more pain and discomfort. Here's the recap.
Avenue of the Giants is a gorgeous, almost flat marathon, half marathon and 10K. Just so we get this straight, ALL marathons are 26.2 miles. If it is not 26.2 miles you cannot call it a marathon. If you're running a half marathon, you must call it that and be clear that you are not running a full marathon. 13.1 miles is not a marathon. Not even close. Just had to put that out there. Trust me, if you ever run a marathon, you'll forever be irritated by people who say they are running a marathon this weekend, when they're only doing half. Moving right along. So the race follows the scenic Avenue of the Giants in Humboldt county (northern California) through groves of enormous redwood trees. It's quite breath taking. It's also hard to run while looking up at the sky in search of treetops. The weather was quite cool and the route was gorgeous. Amoung the trees are thick blankets of fern and giant clovers. Apparently there's also giant poison oak- I squatted in it to pee around mile 10.
Every once in awhile I passed by little waterfalls running under the road into the huge river that we followed most of the way. The trees allow for a lot of shade (I'm not kidding when I say they're huge) so it was nice and cool. So cool in fact, that I over hydrated, causing me to have to stop 3 times in the first half of the marathon to pee. Thankfully a few aid stations had bananas because I was starving. I had scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast but I get so hungry when I run these days.
I was actually quite surprised by my ability to stay in the moment for the majority of the run. Usually I get through a run, mentally, by envisioning what it will be like to stop and be done. Since this was going to be a 4 hour trip I decided that wasn't a good idea and I was going to have to settle in and get comfortable (hahaha). So I pictured it to be a day trip. It worked well for awhile and I was way ahead of pace. I just wanted to be under 4:30. When I ran my first (and only) marathon years ago, I hadn't trained very well for it and ran a 5:29. Kinda sad, but whatever, it was my first one. So I had been training to get under 4:30.
I just tried to focus on being in the present and not let myself think about being done (because it was hours away). I did great with that until about mile 18, then things started to hurt. I was worried because I knew I had been running quite a bit faster than I had planned and trained for, which in a race that long can lead to absolute disaster- like having to be carried off the course by an ambulance. My breathing was doing really well though and I had tried to slow down several times during the race to no avail. Sometimes your legs just want to go a certain speed, so you do.
Around mile 20 I began to wonder why on earth I would do such a thing to myself. It was stupid and painful and I didn't want to be doing it anymore. So I just ran faster. I started to pass by a bunch of walkers (fast people who couldn't run anymore)and picked it up even more. The sooner I got done, the sooner I could stop running. There was a point around mile 21 or 22 that I actually almost cried. But I reminded myself that if I cried I would have a much harder time breathing, so I choked back the tears and pushed on. The last 4 miles were the longest of the entire race, but once I got to mile 25 my brain quit working. I just ran. I pulled ahead of so many people in that last mile. As I crossed the finish line, I heard my name being called over the loud speaker "Carrie Bowers from Yreka!" and I almost cried again.
Then I stopped and walked. I had made it in 3:53. An awesome time for me but not quite Boston Qualifying-- which, why the hell would I want to do that? If you've ever done a marathon, the ending is always the same. You stop running, then walk to the people giving out finishers medals, then to the water and food corral. It's literally like herding cattle. I stuffed my face with food (this is instantly, like 30 seconds after finishing) and grabbed a bottle of water and drank several cups of electrolyte replacement drink. I was hurting so bad at that time that I was ready to cry again. Everything hurt. And it hurt deep down to my bones. I hobbled to my car and grabbed two motrin and a leftover vicodin from my surgery. Then I hobbled back to listen to the awards ceremony and eat more food.
Now I'm offically on bed rest. Boston Qualifying time for my age group is 3:40. Everyone is talking about it. Lame. See, Boston is a fairly respected marathon. I guess it's like the marathon of marathons. It's in April. A couple people have already talked to me about it. Here's the thing. You have to qualify for it first. You can't just enter. So if I want to run Boston (ick) not only would I hve to run that one, but I'd have to run one before it and go a 3:40. I'm going to avoid this for awhile.
So I texted my buddy Brian, who is one of those fast marathon runners (much faster than me) and told him I don't know why I do stupid stuff like this. He said it's because I'm psycho like the rest of them. Grrr.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
First Assignment for Writing Class
I wondered how many days in a row I could cook my brain before I did permanent damage, as I started up the mountain for the second consecutive day under warmer weather than we’d had all year. It was the Friday of my second week on a Hotshot Crew in Northern California and only a few of the overhead were at work. The rest of the twenty person fire crew would show up in two weeks and I had a lot of work to do to even get close to the required physical condition that these elite hand crews demand. Hotshots regularly hike several miles in steep terrain to reach a fire before going to work on clearing brush and setting backfires or burning out vegetation in advance of the main fire. I had spent five years on a wildland fire engine and had only limited experience on a Hotshot Crew, but for some reason it was what my heart wanted so I was damned to follow regardless of the pain and difficulty.
Loaded down with thirty-five pounds of gear on my back and a twenty-five pound chainsaw slung over my right shoulder I trudged behind our other Senior Firefighter and focused on setting my boot down in the dirt where his picked up. Wearing green pants, a long sleeve yellow fire shirt, wool socks and leather lace up boots that rose to the base of my calf, I could feel my body temperature start to rise within minutes of the start of the hike. I could feel sweat start to gather in the sweatband of my white hard hart that bore a sticker with the Hotshot emblem on each side. Jeff, hung over from a late night at Jolly’s, lead the hike wearing the same uniform and carrying the exact same gear. The difference was, I was half his size.
We had hiked a much steeper and longer hike the day before and I had nearly collapsed. They offered to take the saw from me but there was no way I was going to be the girl that couldn’t hike a saw, so I staggered up the mountain overheated and exhausted with one of the guys behind me to steady me when I started to topple, which happened more frequently than you would think. Without him there I surely would have tumbled down the mountain for quite a ways before coming to a stop at a landing.
This year I would be one of three women among seventeen rugged and dirty men but I was the only female on the crew who was a Senior Firefighter, which put me somewhere in the middle of the ranks. I would be expected (and I expected myself) to lead by example, both physically and mentally. Becoming a Hotshot doesn’t merely involve being hired onto a Hotshot Crew; it must be earned through sweat, hard work, dedication and having enough grit in your heart to earn the respect of your peers that are already considered Hotshots and have been for years. Technically yes, I am a Hotshot for I’ve been hired on as one but that doesn’t buy me a belt buckle or the ability to lead so the crewmembers under me will follow.
During the weeks preceding my transfer from an engine in Southern California to a Hotshot Crew in Northern California, I had endured so many expressions of doubt from friends, family and coworkers. Everyone worried, as did I , about the stability of the vein in my shoulder that had literally been crushed between my rib and collar bone the summer before during a short term detail on another Northern California Hotshot Crew. My rib had been removed and a new vein grafted out of my leg and after 5 months on Disability, my doctor had released me to full duty. My arm still felt funny sometimes, as if some one was kinking a hose in my armpit, but I had yet to develop swelling and figured this was how it was going to be for the rest of my life. A firefighter assigned to a helicopter actually told me I shouldn’t go to a Hotshot Crew and belonged on an engine. He said “Hotshot Crews tear girls up”. When I responded that Hotshot Crews tear guys up too, he responded with “You don’t want to go to Klamath Hotshots, they’re dirty!” I’m not sure what about me gave him the impression that I didn’t like to get dirty because I never showed up to work wearing make-up and it was a rare occasion that I even wore deodorant.
I continue to lace up my boots despite my own doubts and comments from others because I absolutely love my job and the pride that comes with a long day of hard work. The smell of smoke is fairly equal in my book to that of freshly brewed coffee in the morning. It soothes me much like the feeling of home. Ignoring all my setbacks, I’ve started a new chapter in my life: packed up all of my belongings and relocated to a new town filled with strangers. I put on my brave face, but in all honesty I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up with the crew, that they won’t like me and that I’ve committed myself to several years of loneliness and extreme physical demands. I’m afraid but I will keep my head down to hide my pain and fatigue and I will act like a leader. I will clench my jaw when I want to cry and I will act like a Hotshot, and maybe, I’ll become one.
Loaded down with thirty-five pounds of gear on my back and a twenty-five pound chainsaw slung over my right shoulder I trudged behind our other Senior Firefighter and focused on setting my boot down in the dirt where his picked up. Wearing green pants, a long sleeve yellow fire shirt, wool socks and leather lace up boots that rose to the base of my calf, I could feel my body temperature start to rise within minutes of the start of the hike. I could feel sweat start to gather in the sweatband of my white hard hart that bore a sticker with the Hotshot emblem on each side. Jeff, hung over from a late night at Jolly’s, lead the hike wearing the same uniform and carrying the exact same gear. The difference was, I was half his size.
We had hiked a much steeper and longer hike the day before and I had nearly collapsed. They offered to take the saw from me but there was no way I was going to be the girl that couldn’t hike a saw, so I staggered up the mountain overheated and exhausted with one of the guys behind me to steady me when I started to topple, which happened more frequently than you would think. Without him there I surely would have tumbled down the mountain for quite a ways before coming to a stop at a landing.
This year I would be one of three women among seventeen rugged and dirty men but I was the only female on the crew who was a Senior Firefighter, which put me somewhere in the middle of the ranks. I would be expected (and I expected myself) to lead by example, both physically and mentally. Becoming a Hotshot doesn’t merely involve being hired onto a Hotshot Crew; it must be earned through sweat, hard work, dedication and having enough grit in your heart to earn the respect of your peers that are already considered Hotshots and have been for years. Technically yes, I am a Hotshot for I’ve been hired on as one but that doesn’t buy me a belt buckle or the ability to lead so the crewmembers under me will follow.
During the weeks preceding my transfer from an engine in Southern California to a Hotshot Crew in Northern California, I had endured so many expressions of doubt from friends, family and coworkers. Everyone worried, as did I , about the stability of the vein in my shoulder that had literally been crushed between my rib and collar bone the summer before during a short term detail on another Northern California Hotshot Crew. My rib had been removed and a new vein grafted out of my leg and after 5 months on Disability, my doctor had released me to full duty. My arm still felt funny sometimes, as if some one was kinking a hose in my armpit, but I had yet to develop swelling and figured this was how it was going to be for the rest of my life. A firefighter assigned to a helicopter actually told me I shouldn’t go to a Hotshot Crew and belonged on an engine. He said “Hotshot Crews tear girls up”. When I responded that Hotshot Crews tear guys up too, he responded with “You don’t want to go to Klamath Hotshots, they’re dirty!” I’m not sure what about me gave him the impression that I didn’t like to get dirty because I never showed up to work wearing make-up and it was a rare occasion that I even wore deodorant.
I continue to lace up my boots despite my own doubts and comments from others because I absolutely love my job and the pride that comes with a long day of hard work. The smell of smoke is fairly equal in my book to that of freshly brewed coffee in the morning. It soothes me much like the feeling of home. Ignoring all my setbacks, I’ve started a new chapter in my life: packed up all of my belongings and relocated to a new town filled with strangers. I put on my brave face, but in all honesty I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up with the crew, that they won’t like me and that I’ve committed myself to several years of loneliness and extreme physical demands. I’m afraid but I will keep my head down to hide my pain and fatigue and I will act like a leader. I will clench my jaw when I want to cry and I will act like a Hotshot, and maybe, I’ll become one.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Cops and Books
I've been meaning to get a library card up here and am reminded of it every time I pass the library. The only reason I haven't yet is because I've still got several books that I bought that need to be read.
All week I'm helping out with the First Responder class downtown at the Yreka Fire Department which is directly across the street from the library. The library is a big white old western style building with the word "LIBRARY" at the top over big brown doors. Curiously though, on the lawn of the library is a sign that says "Yreka Police Department". I always figured the police station was attached to the library and was situated in the back- that's where all their patrol cars are parked.
Today I was looking out the fire station window at the library across the street and realized it wasn't that big of a building. You couldn't possibly fit a police station and a library in a building that small. I asked a couple of the guys that were sitting around and they responded that that's no longer the library. It was the historical building of the library, but it is now the Yreka Police Department. How confusing! And here I was going to just walk in and ask for a library card. Imagine my embarassment when I walked through the front door of the library only to be greeted by a cop.
"May I help you ma'am?"
"Uh, I'd like to get a library card?"
How embarassing. Maybe I should do it anyway just for kicks. But now I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. I guess the library is now located up the road a ways. But they don't take the sign down because it's a historical landmark. There's also weird signs on some people's houses, but they're just houses, not what the signs say. This reminds me of a book I read when I was a kid called "Sideways Stories of Wayside School" or something like that. Or maybe it's the Twilight Zone I'm reminded of.
All week I'm helping out with the First Responder class downtown at the Yreka Fire Department which is directly across the street from the library. The library is a big white old western style building with the word "LIBRARY" at the top over big brown doors. Curiously though, on the lawn of the library is a sign that says "Yreka Police Department". I always figured the police station was attached to the library and was situated in the back- that's where all their patrol cars are parked.
Today I was looking out the fire station window at the library across the street and realized it wasn't that big of a building. You couldn't possibly fit a police station and a library in a building that small. I asked a couple of the guys that were sitting around and they responded that that's no longer the library. It was the historical building of the library, but it is now the Yreka Police Department. How confusing! And here I was going to just walk in and ask for a library card. Imagine my embarassment when I walked through the front door of the library only to be greeted by a cop.
"May I help you ma'am?"
"Uh, I'd like to get a library card?"
How embarassing. Maybe I should do it anyway just for kicks. But now I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. I guess the library is now located up the road a ways. But they don't take the sign down because it's a historical landmark. There's also weird signs on some people's houses, but they're just houses, not what the signs say. This reminds me of a book I read when I was a kid called "Sideways Stories of Wayside School" or something like that. Or maybe it's the Twilight Zone I'm reminded of.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Spiders
The one thing I can’t handle about being single is having to kill my own spiders. Today there was a uniquely patterned jumping spider waiting to get inside my front door. First I tried to take a picture of him with my phone because it was so unbelievable in size and color- stocky with a bright orange butt. But then he started to move and I realized this was a serious time, not a photo opportunity. I picked up a gardening glove and whipped at him with it… and missed completely. He hardly flinched. I grabbed a hand trowel and swung- missed again. He dropped to the ground in front of me, or so I thought. Seconds later I realized he had jumped, and would jump again. Dear God, jumping spiders. I’m not sure there’s anything more terrifying in this world. Whose brilliant idea was it to give such frightening creatures the ability to jump about? I saw him disappear under a flower pot. I picked it up and didn’t see him. The clever thing was clinging to the bottom of the pot. I banged it on the ground until he let go, and sat there, waiting for my next move. I stepped on him. He was shockingly juicy.
Right now there’s a tiny spider on my kitchen ceiling. His small stature is one of the very few reasons he’s still alive, as he has been for days. I saw him on my ceiling yesterday, but ceiling spiders present a very difficult problem. I could easily pull up the stool and hit him with my sandal, but my track record for being able to hit what I swing at would only ensure that the spider would drop straight down onto my head and cause an outright panic and possible heart attack. I can’t risk having a spider fall on my head so he’s still alive until he moves onto a wall or I figure out a way to approach the situation.
Right now there’s a tiny spider on my kitchen ceiling. His small stature is one of the very few reasons he’s still alive, as he has been for days. I saw him on my ceiling yesterday, but ceiling spiders present a very difficult problem. I could easily pull up the stool and hit him with my sandal, but my track record for being able to hit what I swing at would only ensure that the spider would drop straight down onto my head and cause an outright panic and possible heart attack. I can’t risk having a spider fall on my head so he’s still alive until he moves onto a wall or I figure out a way to approach the situation.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Area Photos
This is a view of Mt. Shasta from a trail I was walking the dog on. There's a cool lenticular cloud off to the left.
Here is my little town of Yreka with Mt. Shasta in the background. Mt. Shasta is quite the imposing landmark around here. It's shocking to turn down a road and see the bright white glare of it. It was around sunset in this picture so you can't really tell how white it usually is. Fun fact (or possibly fact): Yreka was originally named Wyreka which was some Indian word meaning "White Mountain". Whoever was in charge at the time misspelled it and it was never corrected.
This is the zoomed in version of Mt. Shasta. The pictures really do not do it justice. It's very breath taking.
This is the view from the second stop along our crew hike out at our station. It's a long steep hike.
This is the view from the front door of the Hotshot office at the station. I'm fairly happy with it.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Oiy.
I haven't written since I moved up here because everything's been so crazy. But I thought I'd post some pics of the place. Sorry to keep you guys waiting. I'll be taking more, but it's been rainy and I've been running around everywhere. Right now I don't have many pictures up at my place, so you'll notice the walls are bare. Like I said, it's been crazy here and right now I'm house/dog sitting for a friend so I haven't even been spending any time at my place.
Here's my place, the door on the left. The one on the right is the neighbors. It's a duplex, so I'm only joined to one pair of neighbors.
My living room, nice big window faces the street, but it's not a real busy street.
The bathroom... obviously.
My patio- a little bare right now.
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This is what the spare bedroom consists of right now. It's the same size as my room. My room faces my patio, this faces the street.
Here's my place, the door on the left. The one on the right is the neighbors. It's a duplex, so I'm only joined to one pair of neighbors.
This is the kitchen that leads out to my little patio.
My living room, nice big window faces the street, but it's not a real busy street.
My room.
The bathroom... obviously.
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My patio- a little bare right now.
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This is what the spare bedroom consists of right now. It's the same size as my room. My room faces my patio, this faces the street.
Today I went and took a bunch of pictures of the area because it was a gorgeous day, so stay tuned for more pics.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Moving Day!
Today I will go into work, turn in my keys and pick up my training folder, then head down to Canyon Country to pick up my uhaul. I'm loading up everything I own today and starting to drive up to Yreka. Corey (CEO of Shark Finn Movers) is going with me to help out and then flying back. We'll stay in Sacramento tonight and then move into my new home tomorrow. Which reminds me, I need to call my grandmother...
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