These high on vertical, low on lateral foot races are a big deal
in Alaska, with several events so popular they are lottery entry only, and easily
fill to capacity.
I’ve always admired the racers, and been a follower of some
of the more popular events, keeping tabs on who is doing well, who is poised to
strike a big win, sets a record, etc. That being said, I’ve never had a strong interest
in competing.
Running is something I actually really enjoy. Aside from
being a highly practical and economic work out, it’s one of the few workouts I
do where I find my mind can just wander. I come back from runs feeling refreshed
in a way I just don’t get on most bike rides.
The last few autumns I’ve been doing more overland “mountain”
running in the Chugach, and, aside from the fact that I really enjoy it as an
off-season activity, I noticed that when it came to going uphill, I was pretty
descent.
This last point shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’m fairly
small, which gives me an advantage in just about any uphill-oriented activity;
but it also doesn’t hurt that the muscle mechanics of backcountry skiing and pedaling
a bike lend themselves well to steep foot travel.
After this winter’s Tour of Anchorage and Kachemak Nordic
Marathon, I decided I should give competitive mountain running a try this
spring, before the mountain bike race season began in earnest.
Aside from suspecting that I would do OK, I also expected
that mountain running would provide a flavor of competition I embrace.
I like events where I’m going head to head with others,
pushing myself to keep up or keep ahead. If the race ends just a wheel length,
ski length, or maybe a foot fall, in front or behind someone, I got my money’s
worth.
The bell curve for results in these races, particularly the
shorter uphill-only ones, is tightly packed.
As excited as I was to give this all a try this spring, I
did not directly train for these events in any way. In fact, I ran less this
spring than I have in the last 10 years or so due to some scheduling stuff;
though I was road biking a normal amount, and had good carry-over fitness from Nordic.
The first event I signed up for was Kals Knoya Ridge. The
race starts a short walk from a secluded subdivision at the corner of Muldoon
and Tudor, and is pretty informal. The short of it: I placed 9th of
59 in the “Original Dome” course, running the 3.5 miles and 2,900 vertical feet
in 50:25.
Not surprisingly, I loved it. I was quite happy with my time
too. Without much for reference, I was hoping for about an hour.
I was also quite happy with my choice to run the “Original”
course, as opposed to the “Full Monty,” which follows the original course, and
then continues upward along the ridgeline toward Knoya Peak, for a total of 5.3
miles and 4,300 feet of vertical. Veterans tell me the longer event rolls along
seemingly endlessly. I think if I wanted a better idea of how I stacked up
against my age bracket peers, I would have found a better answer in the longer
distance, but, common, this was my first time, and, as I’m coming to learn, having
a good race doesn’t just mean signing up for the biggest and the baddest option.
Maybe I’ll try the Full Monty in the future. TBD.
The highlight of the event was undoubtedly having some great
comradery with Nathan and Rob, who were both trying out this mountain run thing
too. It was good to have friends to share anxieties with at the start line, and
war stories with on the walk/jog back down.
Also, we all faced a brief but raging snow and hail squall
on the final push to the top. It sure made those last punishing minutes very
real.
Don’t start in the back
Rob, Nathan, and I all kind of agreed: we didn’t want to be
“that guy” who starts too close to the front, and causes a traffic jam, so we
all started in the back. All three of us learned pretty quick into the run, we
should have given ourselves more credit. All of us spent a good portion of the
event having to barge through the emerging devils club to pass long conga lines
of runners. On the upside, we all agreed it kept our pacing pretty chill down
low along the rolling and flat sections. It was rare that I felt like I could
push the pace much faster along most the flat sections, certainly not fast
enough to make aggressive passes. I reserved my passing mostly to the short up
hills lower down, and occasionally on flats or rolling terrain if someone
started to let a gap open up in front of them. I was only passed once the
entire time in Knoya, and I had just passed the guy. It’s a nice morale booster
to do all the passing, but, not good strategy.
Higher up in the race I began to catch up with more runners going a pace
closer to mine, but, I still did a lot of passing every time the course pointed
upward.
At the finish, there was basically no question, I had a
blast! I wished it was a bit more of a “race,” but I felt really good with my
effort overall.
The next event was Government Peak. Starting at the
Government Peak Rec Area, the course climbs about 3,700 vertical feet in 2.5
miles according to my Garmin. I finished 1:00:28; 38th/105 overall;
8th in age class.
Compared to Kals, this event felt brutal! The weather was
practically the opposite from Kals: mid 60s, sunny, and a light breeze. Quite
nice really. Government also started in three, self-seeded waves. I placed
myself in wave 1, for racers who thought they could finish in under an hour.
This seemed reasonable to me based on the previous week’s run, though I knew it
would take work. I did not want to get stuck in the back again.
The race went out pretty fast considering what we had on our
plate. I just held my own on the short approach. There were a few quick broken
climbs early on and I made a few moves. There was a lot of jostling going on.
People who went too hard on the lower flats were suddenly dropping back, and
people who had better uphill legs were scooting up.
Then the course hits an endless Alaskan mountain wall. A
bulk load of the vertical route is really steep scrambling, hand over hand,
grab an alder, grab a root, grab a rock.
It’s endless, and it’s steep.
I was sitting in with two dudes who were probably going just
a tad slower than I could, but not enough to justify a risky pass. One or two
speedy climbers were able to scramble through, but positioning was pretty
static.
There were very few short flats through the steeps, footing
was unsure, and my lower back was complaining loudly. Also, my right foot was growing
increasingly numb. I tried to pick up a jog any time there was a flat, but between
my foot and back, it was uncomfortable, and the pitch would go so steep again
that I could not carry an momentum.
Eventually the course hits the more rolling alpine ridge.
This is where the true climbers separated themselves, and despite
my hopes, I was not amongst them. I know the exact point where my biking and
skiing muscles had given me what they could. I remember realizing, in almost
horror, that the fitness freeride was over.
I power-paced the endless ridgeline, trying to focus on form,
and recruiting strength by channeling skinning and biking technique wherever
possible.
Efficiency allowed me to pick off a couple others, but
overall, I watched the nose of the race pull farther and farther ahead. I could
not summon the power to jog, even though the gradient was generally low enough
I probably could have we it not for the effort dumped out on the wall below.
Right near the finish, two guys behind me punched it, and
though I didn’t have much left to contest, I took the bait and punch it too,
getting pipped two spots. I felt physically destroyed.
More?
A friend asked if my bikes were going to get jealous of my
sneakers?
I think for now the answer is safely: no.
I really had fun in Kals, but, I also think I learned in
Government, that the former was a fitness free ride. Government kicked my bike-pedaling
butt.
In both events, one thing I noticed, was that while those
around me were very often sucking air, I rarely found myself breathing hard,
comparatively. My legs were giving it their all, but they weren’t asking for more
than my heart and lungs were ready to provide. It’s typically quite the
opposite for me in full-on bike races, where my legs will outstrip cardio.
Another lightbulb I had go off in Government was: “why am I
paying money to run up this mountain, when I can run up any mountain in Alaska
for free?”
The answer of course, is obvious: it’s a race. But I guess,
when I had that thought, it no longer felt like one to me. I was slammed. I was
just surviving. If I beat someone, it wasn’t really because I had more skill or
cunning, was actually faster; they just hurt more than I did.
It was pretty clear that running uphill is a more of a 1:1
activity in terms of fitness returns. You get what you put in.
You can get strong on a bike by training a lot, and turn
pedals like a machine; but if you can’t handle the bike, at least in mountain
biking, you’ll just be a machine that crashes into trees.
I think Kals will stay on my calendar going forward, and
I’am hoping to revist competitive uphill running in fall if it avails itself,
but whether I do Government again, or sign on for mid-summer races – this
season or next – remains somewhere between “we’ll see” and “probably not.”
As for competitive trail running…that was never really an
interest from the beginning, and certainly, this did not spark any interest. I
just hung on through flats in these two courses.
Not surprisingly, I had some broader takeaways and learnings.
Don’t start in the back
OK, so, I didn’t know how Knoya was going to go, being my
first running race ever, but I won’t make that mistake again. I would not start
on the front row either, but, I think it’s fair to say that, I should at least
be close enough to the front to see the leaders. At government, there could be
some logic to starting in wave 2, in that, and if you’re on the tail end of the
wave 1 seeding like me, you might be able to get a little more freedom to
maneuver through the steeps and run your own pace.
Passing seemed tricky.
It felt difficult to ludicrous to pass in both races. I got
the sense in Knoya that passing just doesn’t happen a lot in general. People
settle out and dig in. Since I was clearly too far back in that race, I had to
make endless passes.
Sometimes something like this happens in bike racing due to
a mechanical or because a faster group will lap a slower group. Other riders
are often all too eager to get out of the way, and at times, I’ve had to tell a
rider I’ve caught to just chill out, and let me around at safe spot for both of
us: they don’t need to throw themselves into the devils club!
In this case, it felt rather the opposite, particularly at
Government.
It felt like passing involved mandatory devils club bashing,
saying “on your left” was an inconvenience,” and in some cases, a little
elbowing and shoulder bumping was required. Early on in Knoya, passing was
swift, and mostly relegated to the short hills, where I would pass up to 5
people in as little as 20 feet. I wasn’t too concerned since they were usually
going really slow as soon as they hit a hill.
Later on in Knoya, and for most of Government, I found that
I really had to say something if I wanted the pass to go smoothly, or provide a
gentle tap on an elbow. If all else failed, it was time to get pushy. It struck
me that, given the sometimes sketchy footing, it was safer for both of us to
facilitate a smooth pass, than fight for a narrow trail, but several times it
came down to the later.
Conversely, at Government, I had a handful runners come
charging up behind me. I could quite literally hear them approaching – their
heavy and increasingly loud breathing, their shoes drumming out a speedier
tempo than those around me. Essentially, the second I had a chance, I would
take a step to the side and wave them through. In a few instances, I got the
sense they were almost confused, before huffing out a thanks and carrying on.
It just struck me as obvious: it’s a 3,500 foot climb, if they’re going this
hard halfway in, what business do I have folding them back?
Anyway, like I said, it didn’t feel malevolent, it was just clear
passing etiquette is different here.
The silence is deafening.
I think one of the oddest things, was how absurdly quiet these
races were. The start of a bike race is a notoriously loud and predictable
chorus. First there is the clicking in as cleats are locked into pedals; then the
ratcheting and clunking of shifting gears and clinking of winding chains; a
brief interlude of hissing freewheels, abruptly broken by the the wailing of
brake rotors as the paceline slows and files in as it hits the first single
track or downhill corner and everyone speed checks.
Throughout the race there is pretty continuous mechanical clatter,
along with friendly jeering and cheering, whoops and hollers, directional “lefts”
“rights,” and the occasional crunching and vegetation thrashing of a crash or
pile up.
In this case, people jogged through the woods in an endless
pace line, and the only noise was the collective sound of heavy breathing, and
of sneakers plodding over the damp spring earth.
The silence created a bit of an insanity in my head!
When I did say anything to anyone, it was always in a whisper,
like we were in a theater or something. So odd.
Stand up
I noticed a lot of people hunched and bunched on the steeps.
It’s tempting to drop down and get low, but I found that the more upright I
could stay, the more power I could draw out of my lower back and glutes,
relieving stress and transferring load off my quads onto my core. Literally,
the more I tried to replicate a steep skin track, the more people I passed. Not
surprisingly, when the grade got so steep I had to tuck, I got myself into a
bike-like position to maintain glute and lower back engagement.
Mall walker
I tried to run as much as possible, but when a group or a
grade knocked me out of my jog and I had to walk, I swung my arms gently. It
felt dumb, but as carryover from skinning technique, it also engaged my lower
back, and I passed people.
Go for the ankles
Something I noticed in Kals later in the race as I cleared
the endless conga lines and caught up with more racers going my pace, was that
I was hitting the bases of the climbs harder than those around me. Just like I
would on a bike or skis, I tried to carry momentum, whether it was actual, or
just physio-mechanical, into the base of every climb, and then allow my pace to
drift back down to a sustainable level as the climb continued. The result was
that I would make a lot of passes near the bottom of a climb, putting distance
into those behind me, and often closing gaps on those in front of me. At some
point, it occurred to me that I was attacking at the ankles of all these
climbs, something I can’t do on a bike since that’s where all my cohorts attack
too. On a bike, if I can attack, it’s usually near the top, or, in this
analogy, at the forehead, or even cresting the scalp.
Shoes
I ran in a pair of $65 sneakers. These are same pair of
cheap “trail running” shoes I’ve been buying once a year and running in until
they blow up for at least a decade. They have enough tread for trails, and do quite
well on rock. When the squall hit during Knoya, the lower portion of the course
turned into a greasy mess. I was lucky I was above it and running through the
rocky alpine. There were a few places higher up on Government I was envious of
those with treadier shoes, but overall, they were fine. I’ve only owned one
pair of true trail running shoes in my life, and they disappointed me on all
fronts. If it had been muddy I would have needed something better, so I won’t
say never, but, I’m glad I didn’t rush out and buy an expensive pair of kicks.
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