Recipe for a good year

I'm just going to say it--2014 was a good year.  I needed a good year.  I mean, obviously, we all need good years, but it seemed like this year came around just when I needed it. Thanks 2014.:)

I sit here pondering my upcoming New Years hike and being grateful for all that I've been able to do.  Though it's certainly not a unique tradition, I always like to take a few minutes to sum up the year, and set goals for the next one.  I have to say, I look back at 2014 and see A LOT of luck, and a fair amount of good ingredients.  What ingredients went into my year?  Let me give you my personal recipe for 2014:

1. Pilates

I've been struggling for awhile to find a workout that really works for me.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the weight I gained from both getting married and spending my first year in Japan under my kotatsu. I even broke down and tried "diet shakes".  Then, I found this amazing blog run by a wonderful woman named Robin Long: http://www.thebalancedlifeonline.com/  She has a variety of both free and long workouts, my favorite of which is her 4x4 program.  For a completely reasonable price, I received four 40-minute pilates workouts, each with a different emphasis.  I credit pilates with being able to fit back into my pants, and toning my core and legs.  I'm curious to hit the trails next year with my new pilates-enhanced booty to take on the uphills.:)

2. Vegan cooking

Continuing my ode to bloggers, this blog has literally changed my cooking:  http://thesimpleveganista.blogspot.jp/ First, as a vegetarian living in Japan, cooking can be one of the most depressing things you have to do.  The variety of ingredients and cultures we are used to in America isn't available here, and ordering things online regularly adds up quickly.  So, we end up in a bit of a cooking rut, rotating the same meals every week and losing any enthusiasm you might once have had for cooking.  Second, vegan websites and cooking I've come across in the past use so many ingredients I can't easily come by, and often feature different varieties of soy products, fake meat, and nutritional yeast. No thank you.

This website has none of that.  This website makes me want to be a vegan all the time.  This website makes me want to give the blogger a hug.  Seriously.  I cook from this website at least once a week, and so many delicious dishes--the lentil loaf, curries, chickpea salad and oatmeal cookies top my favorites list.  I very rarely follow her recipes exactly as written, but they give me great ideas for my own cooking.  Thank you Simple Veganista!:)
                                                                                        3. Beautiful runs

Running trails at Madarao.

I'm feeling exactly how spoiled I was this fall with all my amazing long runs as I try and pound out the miles in the dark, cold and snow.  Having beautiful things to look at really does make the miles go by, and running trails has made me stronger and fitter.  I'm so grateful to finally enjoy running again, which leads me too...


4. One good race

Noto Hanto 60K

It's been a long time since I raced a distance I haven't raced before, and an even longer time since I took on a new challenge.  Finishing the Noto Hanto 60K (62 actually!:) gave me confidence to get through my disappointing non-finish at my October 40K race and the motivation to keep training harder in hopes of a 100K next June.  I know I could have run the race harder had I known the course better, and I'm so happy my body has decided to cooperate with my training goals and regimen.

5. Yoga

Though I'm not the best at balance, I do make an effort, and I credit my recovery from years of injuries to vinyasa yoga and https://www.yogaglo.com/. I've been fortunate to attend the True Nature Yoga Festival in Karuizawa for the past two years, giving me the opportunity to work with world class teachers and experience different kinds of yoga classes. This year, it was the lovely Tara Stiles and a taste of Acro Yoga!  Just like climbing mountains, it also gives me a rare opportunity to interact with Japanese people outside of work about things we have a shared passion for.

My new AcroYoga friends.:)

6. Finishing grad school (again)

I'd forgotten how much time writing papers and other boring crap takes out of your life.  Not having to do that is like being given buckets full of happy, smiley time.  Finishing allowed me to pursue everything above as well as greatly reduced my stress level and (hopefully) made me a slightly more pleasant person to be around.  If not, well, sorry.

7. Mountains

Bet you thought I wasn't going to mention these. ;)  As most of you must know by now, the mountains are my home away from home, and I am still crushed about the crappy summer weather that prevented me from exploring them even more.  I have to say that I do prefer them in summer, as these winter hikes are fraying my nerves, but even in winter they are the most beautifully serene moments in my life.  Memorable pics from 2014...

Beer, blue skies, and a gorgeous sunrise on Kitadake.

God-awful weather and hobbit trees on Tsurugi.

Trail running and company on Jonen.

Crappy weather but fun photo tricks on Yari.

My favorite, an epic day hike up and down Kashimayari with stunning views.

8.  Supportive friends and family

I've never been one to make terribly conventional life decisions, and I'm grateful for friends and family that have always supported me 100%.  Living in Japan, scaling mountains, long training runs... I'm especially grateful for my husband, A and my good friends J and N here in Japan for their support in an environment where I often feel like I have none. 

I truly wish everyone the best in 2015, and I'm hoping it's a good year for all of us!

Sometimes it really is about the journey

Trailhead to Akadakekosen

I recently returned from a winter hiking trip in a small range of mountains called Yatsugatake.  It's one of the most popular destinations for winter hiking and mountaineering, and is one of the few places in Japan with a mountain hut open all year.  Several mountains can be accessed from Akadakekosen, including the highest mountain in the range, Akadake (2889 m), and Iodake (2760 m).  Because I want to climb Tsubakuro for the new year, I thought it best to practice first.

I researched the routes available from the hut by looking up various blogs and asking the opinions of the few winter hikers I know.  I was advised to only attempt Akadake with the help of a guide or more experienced hiking buddy, but told Iodake was easier and probably doable.  I made a reservation at the hut; planned to summit Iodake on Saturday and return back home Sunday.

Those of you who saw my pictures may have noted one glaringly absent photo--a summit shot.  That's because despite two attempts, I never made it to the summit. I have been accused (and rightly so) of somewhat reckless decisions in the past regarding choosing when and when not to continue with my hikes, so why the sudden change in attitude?

Winter hiking is serious business.  I've been reading Snow Travel: Skills for Climbing, Hiking and Moving Across Snow by Mike Zawaski http://www.amazon.com/Snow-Travel-Climbing-Mountaineers-Moutaineers/dp/1594857202/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1419238497&sr=1-2&keywords=winter+hiking+and+climbing to learn about proper technique, equipment, etc. when hiking in the winter back country.  Ideally, I would have liked to have taken an avalanche training class before beginning hiking, but sadly the earliest I could get into one was February.  So, every night I read this sometimes terrifying book about staying safe.  It covers topics like what to do when you find yourself sliding towards a boulder field, how to safely jump a crevasse while falling over backwards, and more basic things like ice axe, crampon and kick step technique.  Snippets from this book kept flashing in my head throughout my hike.

The trek in to Akadakekosen begins horribly.  If you don't have a 4-wheel drive car (preferably with chains) there is no way you will make it up the single lane mountain road to the nearest parking lot, so you will have to park at the bottom, near the Yatsugatake yamagoya.  This means you have about a 30 minute walk on a mountain road until you reach the official trail head at Minoto.  Because the roads to Yatsugatake are not in good condition either, I would seriously consider taking the bus if you have a small car that doesn't do well in ice and snow (like mine).  The drive there and back was nearly as stressful as the hike itself.

Once you reach Minotoguchi, most people take the left fork towards Akadakekosen.  Guess what?  This means another 20 minutes or so of slogging away on a mountain road.  For this trip, I was carrying a pack about twice as heavy as usual and by the time I got off the mountain road and onto the proper trail, I was already tired.  My pack contained snowshoes, trekking poles, ice axe, crampons, helmet, 3 layers of clothing, extra gloves, hat, hand and foot warmers, food, water, etc.  If I wanted to camp, I would need a bigger pack, as I had no room for anything else.

The hike on the actual trail to Akadakekosen is absolutely lovely and I highly recommend it even for inexperienced people.  You don't need crampons or any special gear except warm boots and clothes.  It would even be possible to hike in and out of Akadakekosen in one day if you got an early start.

The hike into Akadakekosen.

All geared up on the descent on Saturday.

I was a bit befuddled why everyone was wearing crampons on this stretch of the hike.  According to Mr. Zawaski's book, you should only wear crampons when you absolutely need them--typically when it is too icy or steep to safely kick-step your way through the snow.  He says wearing crampons unnecessarily can actually cause more accidents than they prevent.  People often become careless when wearing them because they give them a false sense of security, and a fall when wearing crampons can cause you to cut yourself with your own feet, or even cause you to fall by getting caught on your pants.  I did this on the way down from Iodake--I misjudged by a fraction of a hair with my left foot on a single line track, caught one of the spikes from my left crampon on my right pant leg, and down I went.  He also says it's more dangerous to self-arrest while wearing crampons, and the best way to determine when and when not to wear crampons is to know your course well.  That way, you can put on crampons before you absolutely need them, so you are not stuck up a slope with no safe way to get your crampons on.

Less than ideal trail conditions.

I arrived at Akadakekosen around 10 a.m., checked into the hut, and raced up the Iodake trail hoping to beat the snow and wind that was forecast for the afternoon.  The trail was easy to follow, but the snow was hard and iced over in places, so I had no flexibility in my steps--I couldn't kick new ones over the old, and the trail was too narrow to kick a new trail off to the side.  The trail was also in pretty bad shape, with numerous trees fallen over across the trail that I had to crawl over, under and through.  When I was about halfway up, the wind started blowing fiercely, knocking large chunks of snow off the trees and onto my head.  Luckily, when that happened I was on fairly stable parts of the trail, as had it happened on steeper bits, I would have been knocked down.  The trees were creaking ominously under the weight of the snow and force of the wind, and I feared it was only a matter of time before I got hit with a tree next.

When I got to about 500 meters from the ridge line, all I could see was white.  Snow was whipping everywhere, including in my eyes, taking my breath away.  I rounded a corner and met a short vertical slope completely iced over.  Looking around at the lack of scenery, thinking about the likelihood of falling trees, and not wanting to attempt that slope sent me back down the mountain in defeat.  I decided if the weather was nice the next day, I would try again.

Returning to Akadakekosen, I had a futon to myself, a nice dinner, and plenty of room to relax.  However, I don't recommend hanging your things in the drying room, as they don't turn on the heater.  When I went to retrieve my things the next morning,  I found them not only still wet, but also partially frozen.  Luckily, I had brought extra gloves, but there was nothing to be done about my jacket except put it on.

The night had brought a horrible storm with wind whistling through the gaps in the hut and about 10 cm of new snow.  I was apprehensive about trying the course again after the snow, but found it much easier to climb as the deeper snow made for more stable footing.  Inclines that had been very steep before were now much easier because I could kick a broader step.  The weather was absolutely perfect, and I could see pristine white mountains in every direction.

I easily made it over the steep bit where I had been stopped yesterday, and finally could see Iodake and the entire ridge.  I got to about 100 meters from the ridgeline when I paused at another almost vertical slope.  Someone had blazed a trail already using feet, knees and hands to crawl their way up.  Testing it, I found it no problem to get up, but worried how I would get down.  Turning around, I tried a few steps down, and the angle of the steps almost sent me face first down the mountain.  Instead, I caught myself and only slid a few feet on my bum.  After reading this blog http://climbjapan.blogspot.jp/2010/03/yatsugatake-winter-ridge-hike.html about climbers who had been in an avalanche on this very slope and died, I decided that attempting to glissade down would not be an option either.  I turned around for the second time.

The closest thing I would get to a summit shot.

It was only 100 meters.  I could literally have thrown my axe up and hit the ridgeline.  The summit was so close I could see the faces of everyone on it.  Why did I turn around? Missing the trail in the dark on Kitadake and climbing up the "X" side to the summit, sideways skittering searching for hand and footholds on Tsurugi, falling down Kashimayari and catching myself on a branch--fear had never stopped me from continuing before.

Besides the genuine concerns for my safety, my body was toast.  Just like the trail race I bailed on in November, if I would have fallen I didn't trust myself to have the strength to get myself out of it.  Two 5+ hour climbing days with a heavy pack had taken an unexpected toll on my body, and my calves had nothing left to give.  I took two falls on the way up the trail, and I wasn't able to successfully get myself into the self arrest position either time.  I needed more practice at falling properly in snow.

On the trail down to the car park.

Hiking in snow is to hiking in summer as trail running is to road running.  Or driving in the dark is to driving in the day.  It takes a lot more mental energy, concentration and focus.  I know that I get sloppy at the end of every long trail run or hike because I'm mentally exhausted as well as physically exhausted.  Knowing I had to descend all the way back down to the car and drive back home was another factor in deciding whether or not to push myself further mentally.

 Additionally, I was taking a lot of heat for attempting a snow summit on my own.  Though I took every precaution possible (submitted a climbing plan at the base, notified family members of my itinerary and where and when to call if I didn't arrive, packing emergency gear for injuries/getting stranded, etc.) I felt keenly that if something happened to me on this hike it would be blamed on me climbing alone.  I value my solo hikes more than any other hobby in my life, and I've worked hard to earn the trust of those I care about.  Though I find it illogical to assume that accidents won't happen when climbing in a group (I would argue they are more likely, because people are distracted talking to each other) I always feel like I have to be *extra* careful to compensate for the fact that people think I am taking a large enough risk simply by hiking alone.

So where does this experience leave me?  Slightly worried about my hike up Tsubakuro, as it's most likely a 7 hour hike, since the 12 kilometer mountain road is closed in winter.  I was completely toasted after only 5 hours this weekend, and I plan on taking a pack of similar size.  However, I'm very thankful I went to Yatsugatake because I was able to learn a lot about my limits in the snow, while practicing a variety of winter hiking techniques.  I know that the more experience I have in the snow, the more confident I will become in trying more challenging routes.  I hope for the best on Tsubakuro.

Akadakekosen, the ice climbing wall and the ridgeline.

Bumps in the road

This year has been one of the best for me in a long time in terms of running.  After slowing down my pace, I can now run all the races I used to run, as well as start training for ultras and running trails.  Haha, suck it injuries!

My friend loves running trails, and since I like running and mountains, it only seemed logical to give trail running a try.  When my friend suggested running a trail race near Lake Biwa in Shiga Prefecture, it seemed like a great location and a great opportunity to add another "first" to my list of races.

However, this was the first year this race was held, so when we signed up all we knew was the location (Takashima trail) and distance (40K).  We had no idea of the course, elevation, or anything else.  I should have known better.

As more and more information came to light about this race, the more nervous I became about running it.  Particularly the elevation profile, with a total gain of 3000 meters.

Then, the cut off times were revealed.  The first cut off time was more than reasonable, allowing 5.5 hours to get to the 22k mark (12 p.m.).  The second cutoff time was at the 33k mark, and only allowed you two hours, cutting off everyone coming through after 2 p.m.  The last seven kilometers had a time limit of two hours, with the total cutoff time for the race being 9.5 hours (4 p.m.).                                                                                                                                                           

    I wavered back and forth about whether or not I should attempt this race with these considerations, if I should try to switch to the short course, or bail at one of the aid stations...  Asking questions at the reception tent the day before the race did nothing to allay my fears, and I headed out race morning with no clear strategy in mind except the cut off times for each aid station ricocheting around in my brain.

Race morning.  It's cold!

I've never run a trail race before, so I was unprepared for how crowded it would be.  I ran the first 10k much faster than I was planning, because I felt pressured to keep up with the people ahead of me and go fast enough for the people behind me.  No one asked to pass me (which I thought they were supposed to) but I felt like I was being "tailgated".  So I would occasionally step aside to let someone by, but then get stuck there while everyone decided to pass me.  It was actually quite stressful.

Then, as I was coming down a rocky road to the side of the ski lifts, I took a tumble on my left knee and rolled several feet down the incline.  Luckily, I was only 200 meters from the 10k aid station, so I kept going and asked if they had a doctor on staff.  There wasn't anyone there, so I had to wait for about 15 minutes until someone came with a medical kit and medical experience.  They cleaned it out and bandaged me up, and said I was free to continue if I wanted.  However, that cost me between 20-25 minutes, having already lost 15 minutes waiting in line around the 5k mark to climb a rope.  I was now almost 40 minutes behind, but not of my own choosing.

I was most sad about ruining my pants.:(

All cleaned up.

I still made it to the second aid station with an hour to spare, so I decided to see how bad the second mountain was before the third aid station.  I had heard it was horrible, and the descent wasn't much better, but I had decided I at least wanted to make it to 33k in the race, even if I couldn't finish.

That mountain was a bitch.  Pardon my language, but seriously.  On the elevation profile, it looks like you go up one big mountain, then get to descend some, with the occasional uphill.  Nope.  In reality, it's basically an 11k mountain with no switch backs, interspersed with steep descents that make your quads want to cry.  Luckily, I was climbing with a nice group of people who all looked like I felt.  When I reached the top of what felt like the 73rd mountain, I asked the man standing at the top how many kilometers until the next aid station.  I was at 7 hours on my watch, and had only 30 minutes to make it to the aid station in time. He said maybe 3 or 4 kms, so I took off, only to be greeted by yet another uphill.

Here I made a decision.  Having heard from the reception desk people that it could take 2.5-3 hours to do the last 7 km, I knew that even if I made the third gate in time, the likelihood of me finishing the last 7 km in time was slim.  So I slowed down, and decided to take my time getting to the third aid station, and if I was cut off, so be it.

Sure enough, I reached the third aid station at 7:39 on my watch.  They asked for my number and my timing chip, and escorted me to the food and the bus back to the goal line.  As I reached the aid station, another bus full of people retiring from the race was just leaving.  I'm curious to know the percentage of finishers of this race, as it did make me feel better that I was in good company on my ride of shame back to the finish.:)

But in all honesty, my legs were toast and that 11k from 22-33k completely did me in.  I was nervous that if I was too tired and fell down again, I'd seriously be in the hospital.  I think stopping at 33k was the right thing to do, but there's always that nagging part of my brain... if I hadn't stopped to go the bathroom and eat at the 22k aid station, if I'd gotten up and left immediately after getting patched up at the 10k, if I'd run the tiny 100 meter bits in between inclines instead of walking... because my friend who ran the race with me said she ran the last 7 km in only an hour and a half, meaning I probably could have finished the race just in time had I made it to the 3rd aid station earlier.  

So it was a learning experience all the way around.  I do love running trails, and I had a great time training for the race.  But I don't like working under strict time constraints, and I don't like feeling crowded and pressured.  I can't really say that I enjoyed any part of this race, besides the brief moment we ran through a neighborhood and the most adorable old lady waved happily at me from her doorstep.  I might try another shorter trail race in my neighborhood in late spring, but I think I'll stick to racing on the roads, and leave the trails to explore on my own time, as I please.

Not the victory photo I was hoping for, but it was still an accomplishment and my friend had a GREAT race!

Children of the Corn

I stepped out of my house this morning for my run, turned the corner, and walked into a cold, windy world of misery.  Adjusting my ipod and walking past the abandoned house formerly occupied by a creepy old man, a giant gust of wind blew my headphones out of my ears.  "Fucking hell!" I exclaimed, while fumbling to retrieve them.

I heard a strange rustling to my right, and turned to look towards the overgrown cornfield.  Brown corn stalks leaned precariously at all angles, supported only by a company of dead vines and weeds.  From the earth itself rose a small hump, slowly morphing into a wrinkled obaachan.  She came silently out of the cornfield to stand expressionless, judging me.

"Samui desu ne." I greeted this apparition, turned on my ipod and ran away.

In Japan, it's typical to make repetitive complaints about the weather over and over again for an entire season.  It gets to the point where you want to physically hurt someone if they exclaim how hot or cold it is one more time.  I promise to spare you from that ear pain by getting it all out of my system right now.

I hate cold.  I hate the dark and cold.  I hate running in the dark and cold.  I really hate running in the dark, cold and wind.  Obviously, rain/snow plus dark, cold and wind is a scenario too gruesome to be imagined.

During the week, I run in the evenings because it's slightly warmer than the mornings and I suck at getting up early.  Our village has very few street lights and an abundance of wildlife. Most evenings, you can find me running in the pitch black with a bear bell jingling on my bum, my only light the weak beam coming from my head lamp.  Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of shiny yellow eyes in the bushes, and if I'm lucky, unidentified black shapes dart across the road in front of me. I pray the bears are too busy getting ready to hibernate to bother me.

The other evening I made the mistake of trying to do speed intervals in the park next to the river.  As the air cooled on the river, mist rose off in waves, and combined with the bouncing beam of my headlight, I felt like I was running in a club with a strobe light and fog machine.  It was making me a bit ill.

When I return home to my warm, lit house I find my tights have been attacked by various burrs of all shapes and sizes.  I've become the Johnny Appleseed of weeds, carrying their seeds on my legs and distributing them throughout the land.

I strip off my tights, long sleeved shirt, fleece and gloves. It's only about 10 degrees C outside, and I'm not even hot.  Come January, I will most likely be running in full ski gear.

This will be me! Photo credit: Nagoya Women's Marathon

And why am I running?  Because I have an early March marathon.  And because without consistent cardio, I gained over 15 lbs in the last 2 years that I've only just this year gotten rid of.  But mostly, it's the race.  You get a Tiffany necklace!  I know I could just go out and BUY a Tiffany necklace as after you add in the marathon fee, hotel, and train tickets, it might have worked out cheaper, but that just seems so much more extravagant.  It seems way more logical to run a marathon for it, don't you think?  And then there's that June 100k I'm contemplating....

But back to the cold. Someday I will live in a place that is warm. All the time.  Preferably a small tropical island tucked quietly away somewhere.  But with my track record in tropical places, I will probably inflict a 1 woman climate change...

Jeju Island, South Korea

Noto Hanto, Ishikawa Japan

Iriomote Island, Okinawa

Port St. Joe, Florida

Running Commentary

Many people ask me why I run, especially long distances.  Do I like running?  Mmmmm... some days.

I'd never been a particularly fit person, though my parents made me participate in sports in school.  I ran track (so I could sit around in skimpy clothes, get a tan and flirt with boys), played a few seasons of volleyball (no boys, so I quit) and even was a cheerleader (again, so I could sit around and flirt with boys--can you guess what was on my mind in high school?  I'm not proud of it.;)

My black belt presentation with a broken foot.

As an adult, I didn't really do much exercise either.  It wasn't until I split from my first long term relationship after graduating university that I took up martial arts.  I wanted to become more confident and able to take of myself, so I started taekwondo and tai chi.

 I started hanging around with a lot of people who ran.  "Sarah, you should race a 5k!"  they said... every single bloody day. Finally, tired of the nagging, I signed up for a 5k.  From there, I got a brief pat on the back from my friends before they urged me onto the next race.  Just 4 months after running my first 5k, I signed up to run my first marathon.

My first half marathon.

When I ran in the U.S. it was a great way to have some peace and quiet in my hectic day as a preschool teacher and after school nanny.  It gave me time to think and relax and listen to good music.  It was also pretty easy.  Marathons and shorter races don't require a lot of gear or special planning--all you really need are clothes that don't chafe and good shoes.  You don't have to buy a gym membership or pay for lessons.  It's portable--you can run anywhere, anytime.  You don't have to have any special skills. Can you put one foot in front of the other?  Great.  Let's run!

Like many newbie runners, I got cocky and made the fatal mistake of over training.  Determined to qualify for Boston, I focused all my energy on exactly how that could be accomplished.  Just when I'd finally gotten my half marathon time down to qualify for the New York marathon, I splintered my third metatarsal in my left foot.  The doctor said I most likely had multiple stress fractures in the bone that went unnoticed, which is why it shattered to pieces when pushed too far.  My doctor wanted to put a plate in it, but not having health insurance at the time, I had to let it heal naturally.

Though I did follow the doctor's instructions fairly well (by my standards) I still ran the Chicago Marathon the week after I'd been cleared to get out of my cast.  Obviously, I didn't tell him I did that.  From here was a downward spiral of trying to come back too fast, causing me innumerable problems in my left leg that sidelined me from competitive running for 3 years.

Ibigawa Marathon

Last year, I ran my first marathon since 2011.  My goal was just to finish.  I learned that if I run
slowly, and train less, I don't have as many problems.  But with these restrictions, the appeal of the marathon was lessened. If I can't run any faster than my PR time, what's the point of running yet another marathon?  So I put running on the back burner, until I started hanging out with a new group of people--trail runners.

My first triathlon, 2009.

In the U.S. I have many triathlete and marathon running friends. I've done two triathlons, one long and one short.  I despise swimming, and find the fast pace of triathlons uncomfortable.  I'm the kind of person that doesn't hit my stride in any activity until a couple miles in.  By that time in most triathlons, it's time to switch to the next activity. So triathlons were out.  Road races--also out, as per above.  In the Midwest, we don't exactly have a lot of mountains, so I'd never met any trail or
ultra runners before coming to Japan.

Just as with my friends in the U.S., my Japanese friends and other ex-pats made trails and ultras sound not only totally doable, but easy.  I realized I had found a way to re-visit running in a way that was both challenging and new!  Having trained for the marathon last year without many injury-related problems, I signed up for the Noto Hanto Suzu Ultra marathon 60K race (we'll leave out the drama surrounding the race I got "kicked out" of that I was supposed to run instead:).

I chose this race because according to the race description, it was run along the coast line of the peninsula, offering amazing views of the Japan Sea.  Living in a landlocked prefecture, I thought that sounded like a nice change of pace.  Since I was nervous about increasing my distance in combination with mountains, it also seemed like it would be flat--I mean, it's a coastline, right?

Wrong wrong wrong.  The elevation profile for the race was never uploaded to the website.  I saw it the night before in the official race guide at the explanation meeting.  It looks like this:

Having a minor panic attack about the big mountain in the middle, I decided that because it was just after the half marathon point (where I usually hit a wall anyway) it would make for a good walk break.  I planned to walk up, and run down.

It was a lot longer than it looks.  Up to the half marathon point, I was about 20 minutes ahead of schedule, with a split time of 2:12.  I climbed from 21k to 25K, and when I reached the top, my time was 3 hours.  I'd lost almost 45 minutes in 4 kilos!

The way down was even steeper than the way up, with a 14%-16% grade most of the way.  However, once reached the bottom, I turned onto the coast line and picked up some speed. Happy that the worst was behind me, I hit the 35K point in time to put me at about a 4:30 marathon.

Then I saw the mountain.  On the elevation profile, it's only a 100 meter elevation gain, but it looked like the tallest thing I'd ever seen.  And it lasted for 5 kilometers.  Called "racket road", it's known as the most difficult part of the 100K course. Yes, it was scenic, but I didn't have time to look at the scenery, because I had to get up this *&^% hill smack dab in the middle of my race that I wasn't at all expecting.  About halfway up was a photographer sitting on the side of the road taking pictures of us going up.  He motioned impatiently at me to run, and if I would have had the energy, I would have thrown something at him.  I managed to run for a few seconds, he snapped his pics, and he mistakenly told me that this was the last big hill I'd have to run.

Racket road from the top (from the race website).

Heartened, I re-planned my strategy to accommodate this unexpected time suck, realizing it was still possible to make a decent finish time as long as I didn't have to climb and descend any more mountains.  As you can see from the elevation profile, from 50K until the end of the race was rolling hills, climbing and descending almost continuously.  After walking the second big hill (the last pointy one on the elevation profile) I'd changed my race strategy to just finishing before the cutoff time.

I also discovered that anger is a powerful fuel.  I was so angry by about 50K: at myself for running a race without seeing the elevation profile, at the race director who designed the course (I also killed time imagining all the fun and painful things I'd like to do the director), for all the poor people running the 100K who had to deal with the same end to their race that I did, but for them it was from 75K to the finish... etc.  I almost lost it when we had to walk up an almost vertical hill just to see a stupid lighthouse and reach the last checkpoint.  I think the look I gave the checkpoint people when they told me I had to go all the way around the lighthouse actually frightened them.

When I saw the sign for the last 4K, all I wanted to do was finish.  I kicked it in gear and ignored the pain pretty much everywhere, and sprinted (relatively) to the end.  I passed no less than 15 people, including one incredibly annoying man who had apparently picked me out as the person he would beat.  If you run any sort of race, it often helps to set your eye on someone to either overtake later or stay ahead of.  It gives you something to do and motivation when you're feeling weak. I was apparently this guy's "someone" and it was adding to the list of things I was pissed off about. So I blew past him just after the 4K mark, and didn't see him for the rest of the race.  I also ran

Finished!

into a couple of people who had been very encouraging to me earlier in the race when I was walking up the hills and cursing everyone and everything, so I did slow down for a second to give my regards to them.  But mostly, I just imagined the start line, and stopping, and the food I was going to eat, and how good the onsen would feel and pounded through the last kilos without breaking stride.

If it wasn't for the elevation gains, I think I could have run a great race.  It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, distance-wise, and my training must have been pretty solid to be able to do a race of a difficulty level that I wasn't really prepared for.  So, it gives me a little confidence for the race I'm most nervous about--my first trail (almost) marathon, with a 3000 meter elevation gain.  From here on out it's trails and more trails in preparation for that race, and after that, we'll see about possibly tackling a 50 miler or 100K...

Kashimayari

I keep saying that this or that mountain will be my last climb, and I keep managing to sneak another one in.:)

The early fall weather is making up for the lousy summer by offering up beautiful, cloud-free days with temperatures just cool enough to keep the haze from shrouding the mountains.  I was lucky enough to squeeze in a day climb up and down the Akaiwa course to Kashimayari the day after my school festival.

The tunnel through the dam.

Originally, I'd planned to spend an extra day on the ridge line, having brought back my backpacking gear from America especially for this trip. I'd toyed with the idea of summitting both Jiigatake and Kashimayari on the same day, or possibly continuing on to Goryu. However, A and my schedules didn't mesh, and he needed the car both Sunday and Monday.  Luckily, he was kind enough to drop me off at the ripe hour of 5:30 a.m. and pick me up so I was at least able to do the day trip.

Having met a bear on this course in July, I held my bear bell in my  hand and was shaking it like a percussionist at a Christmas concert.  I didn't meet anyone else on the forest road until I got to the official start of the trail at a large dam.  Coming back to this course, I was much better prepared for the steepness of the trail, which starts climbing basically straight up shortly after beginning.  Despite the steepness, there are a lot of ladders, offering a nice respite from boulders and tree roots.

Looking towards Kashimayari through fall foliage.

I had amazing views even from the base of the course of both Kashimayari and Jiigatake.  By the time I reached the first resting spot called Takachihodai, I was a half hour ahead of schedule even though I'd stopped numerous times to take pictures of the early fall foliage.  From here to the hut is a bit rocky, but really no more steep than what I'd been doing.  I passed one exhausted-looking older man who asked me if the trail was that steep the whole way.  I said yes, and he said he'd only climbed Kashimayari from the more popular route, which is apparently easier.  I never saw him at the summit or anywhere coming back down, so I hope he made it safely.

Views from the start of the ridge line.

When you reach the ridgeline, you almost walk right into the Tateyama range.  Suddenly, it's there staring you in the face, and you can turn in a full circle and start name-dropping peaks.  The Kita Alps, Tateyama and Tsurugi, Fuji-san, and once you reach the summit, Goryu and Shirouma.  I met the group of climbers I'd been alternately passing and being passed by, and they were just as giddy as I was.  I truly love the mountains, but I especially love the energy and enthusiasm of the others I meet along the way!

Up down up down 

Mentally refreshed, I jogged down the ridge line to the hut.  After refilling my water and using the loo, I continued along the ridge towards the south peak.  You can see the up and down required to get there from quite some distance, and the trek is just as bad as it looks.  Though not technically difficult (no ropes, ladders, chains, hooray!) you have to summit and descend one smaller peak before heading up the long slope to the top.  By the time I was about halfway up the last slope, I was following a man whose body language perfectly indicated my own feelings.  Walking hunched over with his arms alternately on his hips or folded across his body, he trudged up the switch backs one slow step at a time.  I went to my marathon place, focusing on taking each step, avoiding looking up to see how much further I had to go.  In these times, I just remind myself that if I keep moving, I will get there eventually.

Finally, there was no more up, and this time I walked right into a view of Goryu and Shirouma.  Turning in a full circle, I think my mouth really did drop open, as I could see almost every mountain I've ever heard of.

The summit with Tsurugi in the background.

Trying unsuccessfully to balance my camera on the pointy rocks, a nice man on his way to the descent offered to take my picture.  Asking me which mountain I preferred as my background, I happily told him Tsurugi.  After my disappointing climb up it earlier this summer, I consider this trek revenge for the beautiful views I didn't get from there!

Looking towards Goryu and Shirouma.

Including break times, I made it from the trail head to the summit in under 5 hours.  I allowed myself a half an hour to enjoy the top, playing with photo angles and taking a short video.  I could have stayed there all day.  Besides the fact my legs were crying out at the prospect of returning all the way back down, I was desperately curious what sunrise and sunset would look like from the hut's campground.

Sadly, I shrugged my pack back on and stopped for another 25 minutes at the hut for lunch and rest.   I was pretty much entirely alone on the return trip, but I think I pushed my legs too far, as about an hour in I tweaked my right knee.  Unable to bend it more than about a quarter of the way, I had to limp the rest of the two and half hours it took me to return to the dam.  This has to rank near the top of my most unpleasant physical experiences, as all the boulders, tree roots and rock faces that had to be negotiated required a lot more thought with only one good leg.  After about an hour of compensating for my right leg, my left quad was shaking uncontrollably.  Literally grabbing it with both of my hands, I continued down the trail, using my hands, back and even sliding on my bum for support.  Several times, I accidentally tried to use my right leg, and the shooting pain had me doubled over and near tears.

After what seemed like days, I finally made it back to the dam.  The light was waning, and being paranoid about bears, I opted not to rest.  I'm not sure if you've ever been injured before, but I have more often than I'd like.  Though it's definitely not a good thing, eventually, the injury sort of goes numb (or your brain does:) and you are able to push through to the finish.  This is what happened once I reached the dam, as the road was a fairly flat forest road with no more difficult bits to negotiate.  I headed down the road so fast I passed two other groups of people.

Legs shaking and sweat soaked clothes starting to cool, I sat down on the picnic table at the trail head and elevated my leg. It was 3:45 p.m., exactly 10 hours after I'd started.  I dug out my down coat, hat, and gloves and waited for A to arrive to take me home.