I felt torn about whether to go home and dig into a backlog of work, or whether to stick to the run in an attempt to get closer to achieving my goal of running more than 60 miles that week as part of training for the March 25 Oakland Marathon and May 5 Miwok 100K.

My head felt as though it were clamped in a vice, and my limbs felt weighed down. A stream of negative phrases when through my mind: I don’t want to be here. I can’t get anything done. Nothing is working out right. I can’t even run. I feel like I’ve gained 10 pounds. I feel like I’m 80 years old.

I shuffle-jogged about an eighth of a mile and then did something I rarely do: I gave up. I turned around and walked back to my car.

I could have coached myself with a pep talk. I could have acknowledged the fact that following the gym’s not-for-wimps boot camp class with an hour-plus trail run, and considering that to be my “easy” day, is a testament to how high my standard of fitness has become. Or the fact that running 50 to 55 miles during a normal week is a big increase from ten years ago, when my marathon training would peak at 40 to 45 miles a week. Or that I was doing the right thing by listening to my body telling me it needs rest, especially since I was probably fighting a virus passed on from my sick kids.

I also could have focused on the fact that I actually have been doing a good job with the thing that matters most: taking care of my family. I’ve been spending extra time with my 13-year-old daughter and 10-year-old son, because they’re both making developmental leaps and dealing with issues. In recent weeks, the hours slipped away while I lingered with my daughter to help her organize her closet and watch her YouTube videos, or I played ping-pong with my son and helped him with math. I also worked by Morgan’s side and gave him emotional support to help him ride out some rough spots at work. I lost myself in a novel and wrote a poem for Valentine’s Day.

All of which meant my various projects, resolutions, training plans and grand ambitions got pushed to the side.

Sitting in my parked car at the trailhead, I sunk further mentally and ramped up the self-criticism about my inability to accomplish what I set out to do. Objectively, I understood I was being too hard on myself and sabotaging the ability to enjoy a life that I recognize is quite enviable. But that objective awareness made me feel worse rather than better, because then I felt more frustrated and inadequate for the stupidity of my mood. When I got home, I drafted the ugly paragraph below:

Blog posts usually inspire. Blog posts tend to brag. My inbox receives RSS feeds daily about destinations where global travelers venture out to the most incredible undiscovered spot (always a superlative), while my runner friends passionately detail their miles logged and their challenges overcome. That’s how I tend to blog—when I blog—which, lately, I haven’t been doing, because I can’t write. I don’t want to write. I have nothing worthwhile to share. I’m not traveling. I’m running but not particularly well. What am I doing? I’m cocooning and trying to work and drawing my kids close. I’m splitting a bottle of chardonnay nightly and eating enough dinner for two. I’m wasting time on Facebook even though I find the detritus and musings of other people’s lives increasingly annoying, and it depresses me that 9 out of 10 people whom I follow aren’t real friends. I’m in a funk, and no one wants to read this shit anyway.

So, that’s why I’ve been a little quiet on the blogging front.

Why am I now “oversharing” (as my family likes to say when I blurt too much info)? I was inspired in part by Bryon Powell’s recent post on iRunFar, in which he described his disappointment and self-criticism sparked by not meeting self-imposed expectations. I realized I’m not alone in these funks that periodically derail manic, over-achieving runners, and I wanted to balance out all those “look at the amazing thing I did and here’s how you can too” type of blog posts with one that shows me honestly feeling weak, unproductive and unbalanced.

I realize in hindsight I made the oft-repeated mistake of measuring myself against others, both professionally and athletically, and letting that comparison inordinately influence my satisfaction and sense of self-worth. For example, I went to a book-signing event a couple of weeks ago that did a number on my head because it stirred up dormant feelings of regret stemming from a memoir project that I spent months on before giving up. At the time, I concluded it wasn’t the right time to write it, and I ultimately didn’t feel right going public with my story. Still, listening to that author talk about her memoir, I couldn’t help comparing myself to her, which sparked feelings of inadequacy and envy. In terms of running, I know I excessively compare myself to peers who fit in more miles and clock faster times at races while also managing demanding work and family schedules. I stopped listening to my body’s internal cues (such as fatigue and muscle tweaks while running, fullness while eating). Rather than being flexible with my expectations, and achieving moderation and enjoying life in the moment, I fell into all-or-nothing extremes and black-or-white thinking.

I went home from Skyline Gate, caught up on sleep and lowered my expectations of what I could get done during the day. Turns out that giving up, or giving in, was the first step to getting better. I spent more time with my kids and back-burnered this blog and several other non-essential tasks. And then, like magic, I bounced back. The cloud over my head lifted. It’s amazing what eight hours of sleep and a day with hardly any agenda can do.

I ran well over the long holiday weekend. (OK, better than well: a relatively fast 20-miler on a flat and paved course Saturday, a nice and easy recovery run with a friend on Sunday, a strong and gorgeous 28-mile mountainous trail run on Monday.) Life feels manageable again, even though I still haven’t caught up on work and myriad chores. No, much better than manageable—this time with my family and time spent on the trail feel gratifying and precious. By cutting myself some slack, I regained perspective on priorities and progress. I didn’t exactly regain my ability to write, but so what, I’m going to put this out there raw and imperfect anyway. That’s the way it is.

Morgan and me at the start of the K42 Adventure Marathon in Argentina

Two hours into the Salomon K42 trail marathon in Patagonia while approaching the halfway mark, the course hit a low point that coincided with my own. After the thrill of sprinting down a forested single track as slick and curving as a luge course, I hit a flat stretch that briefly intersects with a main road just a quarter mile from our rented cabaña in this Argentina ski town called Villa La Angostura. My frustration with a problem involving my shoes was telling me to call it quits and chalk up the effort as a solid half-marathon. I planned to peel off the course, walk back to the cabaña, get out of those dang shoes and hug my kids. Then we would all head to the finish line to cheer on Morgan, who was on the course somewhere behind me. Yes, that’s what I’d do. It seemed so reasonable.

Then, in a split second I’ll never regret, I changed my mind and stayed on course.

The Salomon K42 calls itself an “Adventure Marathon,” but I didn’t expect its course or my experience on it to go to such extremes. I figured I could run it without much special preparation, since I had run seven other marathons or 50Ks since the start of 2009. Suffice to say I was reminded that it’s best to expect the unexpected and prepare for any and every thing that the course might deliver.

An hour after almost dropping out, approaching Mile 18, I was grasping at branches of shrubs that lined a narrow chute of mud and snow on a stretch of trail that seemed as steep and slippery as a wet playground slide. At one point I had to scramble to the side to avoid being toppled by a guy who lost his grip and came skidding butt-first toward me.

Morgan took this shot of a slick, snowy uphill stretch along the course.

But I dug in and hiked ahead, and when I finally emerged on a blissfully runnable stretch, I noticed I was slightly ahead of a couple of women who, unlike me, had low race bib numbers designating an elite status and the advantage of a seeded start. Squinting in the brightness of endless snow-white Andes peaks and deep-blue glacial lakes, I picked up my pace and ran hard toward a ski lift that marks the summit of the course.

A panoramic shot from near the summit.

I was clueless about the Salomon K42 Adventure Race series until just three weeks before this final event, which Morgan and I stumbled upon through a Google search for Patagonia running. We were still on a high from having run the Buenos Aires marathon on October 11 and hoped to find a trail running event during our family’s month-long stay around Bariloche, in the Lake District of western Argentina.

We settled into Villa La Angostura, which sits on the shores of Lago Nahuel Huapi, a vast lake in the middle of the country’s oldest national park and about 26 miles from the border with Chile (so we could have run a marathon to another country!). Six smaller lakes also color the map blue around Villa La Angostura. The water and its wind-driven breakers come into view around every corner. Several forested islands emerge from the lake, and on every shore a mountain peak juts ups with jagged, nearly black rocky ridges that cut through swaths of white snow. It looks as though the most dramatic peaks of the Rockies were lifted out of their range and transplanted to the surface of a bay.

Salomon’s event in Villa La Angostura actually features two races, a 42K and 15K, with about 1200 runners doing the long course and 800 the 15K. The 42K (26 miles) has a total elevation gain of about 10,000 feet as it traverses the mountains behind Villa La Angostura and climbs a peak called Cerro Bayo, site of a small ski resort. It also crosses a river with glacial water at Mile 8, which in past years has been knee high.

Fresh snow fell five days before the race but mostly melted and left the mountains fairly muddy for race day. This being Argentina, where people dine at 10 p.m. and go to bed past midnight, we weren’t surprised that the race had a relatively late start of 10 a.m. Morgan and I donned our sky-blue race shirts (everyone is required to race in the same matching shirt) and took at taxi to the start at Lago Espejo, or Mirror Lake, on the outskirts of town.

Me at the start at Lago Espejo, near the Argentina-Chile border.

(At this point, everyone always asks, “What did you do with your kids?” We left them in the care of the owners and teenage daughter of the lodge we rented. We felt very good and trusting toward that family, and the kids felt safe and happy there. They ended up having a great day.)

The first 100 seeded runners assembled in a corral up front, followed by the 42K runners and then those doing the 15K. Since it’s not a chip-timed race, some pushing and rushing ensued to get toward the front right before the start, and Morgan and I found ourselves smashed somewhere in the middle.

It was stop-and-go, push-and-trip, wait-and-walk for the first couple of uphill miles, as runners funneled into a trail that could fit only two abreast. By the time the trail widened to a dirt road and evened out, I was ready to run. When we hit the first big pocket of cheering spectators at an intersection, I was so jazzed and happy that I called out, “Gracias! Soy de los Estados Unidos!” The spectators pumped up the volume upon hearing that, and from then on I felt quite proud to be an American and grateful that every time I mentioned los Estados Unidos I got a positive reaction.

The upcoming river crossing sobered me up, though. Morgan and I had speculated it could be above the knee, given the recent snow, and surely frigid. With the sound of the river growing louder, I approached what I expected to be the Rio Grande and found … a babbling stream only ankle deep. It even had a makeshift bridge across it, in the form of a fallen tree about 20 feet upstream. About half the runners opted to cross on the tree and keep their feet dry. Wussies! I knew Morgan would never let me forget it if I took the easy way out, so I followed the line of runners who ran through and felt a refreshing coldness surround my feet and ankles.

Morgan's shot of the runners behind him crossing the stream.

¡Ojalá! That’s Spanish for “if only” or “God willing.” If only my wet shoes and socks had cooperated. Or if only I had taken the tree bridge and stayed dry. I soon discovered, on a steep uphill after the arroyo, a problem never encountered: my wet ankle-high socks began to slip under my heel and bunch up on the uphill climbs. If only I had worn taller socks. As I ran and hiked up a steep slope, the fabric formed a hard ball under my arch. The back of my heel, meanwhile, give warning signs of a blister as it rubbed against the shoe.

I had no choice but to pull over, sit down, take off my shoes and pull up my socks. The procedure only took a minute, but five or six people I had worked hard to pass on the single-track sped by as I messed around with my shoes, so I was stuck in the back of their conga line again. You might guess what happened a half mile later: same thing. Those socks kept slipping, and I kept stopping. After the fourth time, I discarded the socks for good and felt my bare feet squish around the shoes’ dampness. I was around Mile 12 at this point, convinced I had set myself up for blisters on both feet. Running poorly and feeling overly sorry for myself, my energy and spirits tanked.

I neared the halfway point and settled on my plan to drop out and return to our cabaña to reunite with the kids. Two things kept me on the course: (1) not experiencing significant pain, which would have been a legitimate excuse; and (2) realizing that the pleasure gained from ending a lackluster run would be short lived, while the inevitable disappointment with myself for quitting would last forever.

The second half of the course proved more challenging than the first, not because of my feet (which thankfully turned out to be okay barefoot in my shoes) but because the terrain grows increasingly steep, muddy and technical.

Morgan and I definitely underestimated the severity of the course. My hopes for breaking four hours quickly faded after I hit the halfway point around 2:10 and saw the muddy miles-long ladder we had to climb. But I kept power hiking and clawing my way up. Around this point I heard a back-handed compliment from a guy: “Corres bien para mujeres” (you run well for women).

I ran up a dirt road to the base of a ski lift and finally reached the course summit. Whoo-hoo! I was ready to fly down the next eight miles to the finish. But what happened next seemed like a scheme Wile E. Coyote would cook up to catch the Road Runner: Spread several tons of gravel and quicksand in the roadway to stop the unsuspecting Road Runner in his tracks.

I was utterly surprised and dismayed when I followed the trail off a ridge, down a slope—and promptly sank past my ankles. I looked down at the bare ski slope we had to run down and realized the footing was loose-packed pebbly dirt. It filled every air pocket in my shoes, and when I pulled my foot free and took a step forward, dozens of tiny pebbles poked my soles. Ouch! I tried to run and couldn’t take the discomfort and weight of carrying so much dirt in my shoes, so I took them off yet again, emptied them out, and resumed running. A few yards later I found myself in the same predicament. I took off my shoes again and tried to run barefoot down part of the slope. But the stones were too sharp, so I resumed the on-again, off-again pattern of filling and emptying my shoes. Meanwhile, three women I had passed on the uphill zoomed past me (they were smart enough to wear gators and/or better at toughing it out). I lost count of how many times I sat and messed around with my shoes during this race.

The footing returned to normal shortly before Mile 20, and the final 10K was mostly uneventful—just steady running through a dense, winding forest on a trail that reminded me of the French Trail in Oakland’s Redwood Park. I thought about the highs and lows of the first 20 miles and committed myself to the goal of running steady and staying positive, which I did, and the final miles just kept getting better. To be able to say that about a marathon is a gift indeed!

In the final mile

The race runs its final mile through Villa La Angostura’s main street, and it seemed as though the entire town turned out to cheer on the finishers, with every sidewalk full of spectators. I ran solo the whole three-block stretch of the city center, and the cheering motivated me to sprint all out and feel ecstatic when I saw the finish.

I've never been so happy to finish a marathon in 4:35.

I crossed the line 4:35:12, or 122nd overall, which I felt pretty good about, all things considered. The amazing men’s winner finished about an hour and a half ahead, in 3:07! I felt even better when I learned I had finished as the tenth woman (the winning woman was from Brazil, in the 35 – 39 age category, with a time of 4:11). And then, as I was waiting for Morgan to finish, I heard my name announced repeatedly (Sah-rah Smeeeth!) because I was being beckoned to the podium to take the first-place trophy for the 40-44 age group. ¡Qué sorpresa!

Morgan crossed the finish with a big smile on his face (read his race report), and we both agreed this was one of the best destination marathons ever, reminding us of why we love to run trails and motivating us to travel to an extraordinary corner of the world.

Yay, Morgan!

With three other runners, I was exploring the Ramage Peak Trail maintained by the East Bay Municipal Utility District (EBMUD). It lies in between Anthony Chabot Regional Park to the west and Las Trampas Regional Park to the northeast. More than once I said to myself, I can’t believe this is out here. I can’t believe it’s so big and so remote.

To the west, toward Oakland and the bay, multiple hills and ridge lines carved by oak-filled canyons blocked the site of the urban corridor along Interstate 580. To the east, toward the suburbs that sprawl along I-680 between Walnut Creek and Dublin, many more hills with ridges crowned by rocky outcroppings filled the view.

After gazing at this open space on a map for years, and looking down from an airplane and wanting to explore it, I finally found myself in the middle of this vast greenbelt of grazing land and protected watershed. I could scarcely believe I was right in the middle of the urban and suburban areas where I’ve been living and commuting for nearly two decades. I felt transported to another place entirely—to a Northern Californian countryside completely removed from development.

A sample of the views from the Ramage Peak Trail looking west, above the canyons surrounding the San Leandro Reservoir.

Many runners and hikers don’t know of or don’t use the treasure trove of East Bay trails maintained by EBMUD. I hesitated to write this post and spread the word, because part of what makes these trails special is the fact that you’ll encounter far fewer people on them than on the park district’s trails. But I can’t imagine they ever would be heavily used, because these trails take preparation and endurance.

Here’s what you need to know to run or hike on them:

• You absolutely must obtain a permit. Then you have to sign in at the kiosk of the trailhead with your permit number, and carry the permit in case you’re stopped by someone patrolling the area. One of the guys I was with said he hiked an EBMUD trail without a permit several years ago and was detained by an authority who treated him more like a criminal than a hiker. The water district understandably wants to guard against vandalism and contamination, so they keep tabs on anyone using the land. Good news: the permits are pretty easy to obtain through the EBMUD website page http://www.ebmud.com/recreation/trail-use-permit/east-bay-trails
• The EBMUD website also has two downloadable maps—one of the north watershed’s trails around Briones and San Pablo reservoirs, and one of the south showing those around the Upper San Leandro reservoir—but the maps are barely adequate to show you where to go. Several fire roads and other trails branch out from the main trails, so it’s relatively easy to get lost. But the fire roads loop around and connect, and the trail signage is pretty frequent, so you won’t get too lost. Have patience and carry a compass.
• Carry water—lots of it—and iodine purification tablets to treat water from streams or springs in case you run out. The trailheads and staging areas, for the most part, do not have drinking water. I carried 64 oz. in a hydration pack and two hand-held bottles, but I ran dry an hour before finishing and started to dehydrate.
• Be prepared for encounters with grazing cattle and, potentially, big cats. I wouldn’t recommend running solo out here due to the safety risk of animal encounters. Follow precautions detailed in an earlier post, “How to Run or Hike Safely.”
• No bikes allowed, period.
• No dogs allowed off leash; dogs allowed on leash only on a few of the shorter trails (Oursan, Hampton, and Kings Canyon Loop).

We started at the EBMUD’s southern-most trailhead, the Chabot Staging Area near the intersections of Redwood and Miller roads, just north of downtown Castro Valley. Our idea was to run Ramage Peak and Rocky Ridge trails, which sort of make two sides of triangle, all the way to Moraga, and then back—about 25 to 28 miles, depending on whether you add a portion of a loop. We wanted to reach the Rancho Laguna Park Staging Area because it has water.

The first stretch of Ramage Peak Trail.

So we set off at 7 a.m., the clouds in the sky pink from sunrise, and followed a trail that runs next to a Christmas tree farm. A little more than a mile in, we hit the first trail intersection and made a significant mistake, since the sign’s arrow was ambiguous. It seemed to point up toward the wider trail, so that’s where we went. But we should have kept straight and gone down the single track.

Oops -- this is the intersection where we took a wrong turn. We should have gone down that trail but instead headed up on the fire road. Pictured (L-R): Lance Fong, Jeff Pflueger and Tom Baudendistel

We ran a couple of miles on fire road and gained quite a bit of elevation before realizing we weren’t on the Ramage Peak trail. It wasn’t a bad mistake to make, since it rewarded us with a gorgeous view from a summit, but as we ran back down, we realized we were looping south back toward the parking lot. We worried we had sabotaged our long-run plan, and our map proved useless—we had no idea where we were.

This fire road is *not* part of the trail, but we had a good run up those hills ...

... and a great view from the top. (That's me with Jeff Pflueger.)

Fortunately, right after we resigned ourselves to running back toward the trailhead to retrace our steps and find the proper trail, we happened upon an intersection with the Ramage Peak Trail—a lovely, meandering single track. We figured we had gone off course nearly 2 miles—no biggie.

Thank goodness, we got back on the right track. This is the trail marker approx. 3 miles from the Chabot Staging Area.

For the next fives miles to its intersection with Rocky Ridge Trail, the Ramage Peak Trail covers an impressive diversity of terrain and landscape. Many portions followed a single track through canyons dense with oak and bay trees. Sometimes oak leaves crunched underfoot; at other times, long, slippery pieces of  eucalyptus bark carpeted the trail. Higher up, green grass blanketed the barely discernible trail.

Taking a break after one of many uphill climbs along Ramage Peak Trail.

Our friend who was supposed to be our guide, who had run this before, had canceled at the last minute, but he left word that we were supposed to look for an oak tree on a ridge line on a summit, and that’s how we’d know where to go. This seemed absurd as I gazed at many ridge tops with numerous oaks. Which tree was he talking about? But, sure enough, the trail climbed switchbacks out of a canyon to a summit where a distinctive oak stood anchored in a natural monument of rock. A lone white plastic ribbon hung from its branch, a subtle trail marking. This may have been the summit of Ramage Peak, but I’m not sure—we reached so many peaks, I don’t know which was the trail’s namesake.

This is *the* tree at the summit you want to find. The trail drops sharply into another canyon on the other side.

At the intersection with Rocky Ridge Trail, we abandoned our original plan to run all the way to Rancho Laguna Park in the interest of time (and wrongly thinking we had enough water). We instead chose to do the Rocky Ridge Loop before heading back on Ramage Peak Trail. The three-mile loop addition definitely is worth doing—but extremely steep. “Good Ohlone training,” we all agreed, a reference to the Ohlone 50K, and indeed those uphills mimic the Ohlone course in the Sunol wilderness to the south.

Rocky Ridge as seen near the intersection with the Ramage Peak Trail. The Rocky Ridge Loop Trail goes around and behind it.

The Rocky Ridge Loop hits the border of Las Trampas Regional Park, and we looked down to glimpse Bollinger Canyon Road, an artery to the suburbs.

At the border between EBMUD land and Las Trampas, we could see Bollinger Canyon Road down below and Mount Diablo in the distance.

Another view of Rocky Ridge, looking northwest toward Oakland.

Jeff and Lance run the ridge at the edge of Las Trampas Regional Park, approaching the radio tower before a long descent on Rocky Ridge Loop Trail.

After the loop, we headed back on the Ramage Peak Trail, running at a steady pace but hiking a lot of the uphills. We spooked flocks of wild turkey and pheasant but otherwise didn’t see wildlife, although the skeletal remains of  some medium-size animal on the trail indicated that more game and prey call the place home.

Heading back through the canyons and oak-bay woodlands of Ramage Peak Trail.

We got back to the car after about 5.5 hours, having covered about 23 miles—a slow pace, including breaks, but not too bad considering the elevation gain and loss. Jeff’s altimeter calculated about 6000 feet of up & down.

Me near Rocky Ridge midway through the run.

EBMUD maintains about 80 miles of trails through 27,000 acres of open space, and with this run/hike, I can say I’ve covered all but two major portions of the network (the Old San Pablo, Inspiration and De La Vega trails in the northern half).

Before, I had two favorite EBMUD trail runs: the Kings Canyon Loop/Redwood Trail in Moraga, and the Oursan/Bear Creak loop around Briones Reservoir near Orinda. Now, it’s Ramage Peak.

Two final thoughts:

Where does the name Ramage come from? I don’t know, but I’d like to find out.

And, why do I yearn to spend half the day virtually by myself, unplugged and removed from civilized life in this hiding-in-plain-sight open space? Same answer.

There we go, up and around the mountain that's in front of us, then looping around another peak. (Photo courtesy Scott Dunlap)

That's me about to cross the bridge in the thick of a damp and tangled forest. (Photo courtesy Scott Dunlap)

And here's a view of Pacifica from near the summit (photo courtesy Inside Trail Racing).

The distances offered ranged from 10K to 50K, and I chose the 30K (just under 19 miles). I focused on breaking three hours and sprinted like mad down the final mountain loop while doing the math in my head to realize how close I was to the three-hour mark. I crossed in 2:59:30 to finish 1st female, 8th overall.

What seems more interesting to me than my individual experience out there was the event itself and what it reflects about the growing sport. I decided to depart from a regular race report to share some thoughts that occupied my mind as I surveyed the runners at the start and pondered the various events I run—thoughts about how trail running has evolved, who’s doing it and why.

This event attracted a wide range of runners, including a marathon training group from San Francisco venturing out to do a long run on dirt, and younger participants in the 10K who looked like college or high school cross-country runners. The body types ranged from ultra fit top-notch ultrarunners (guys like Gary Gellin, Leigh Schmitt, Scott Dunlap) to larger folks who got hooked on trail running for health and wellness—guys like Chris Thomas, formerly over 400 pounds, who finished the 50K in 7:41. He’s captured on this inspiring little video (thanks to Lia Kuek for posting):

The event also featured quintessentially friendly volunteers. I do trail races as much to enjoy the scene as to compete, and volunteers are key players in determining whether it’s a good day out there. I liked shooting the breeze at the start with “the Tims” (co-RDs Tim Long and Tim Stahler) and UltraRunnerPodcast‘s co-founder Eric Schranz.

Ultimately, what I greatly enjoyed about this event was not only the trails and topography of Pacifica’s San Pedro Valley Park, but also the group’s intimate, not-too-competitive feel. Sure, I like the hoopla and high stakes of the North Face Endurance Challenge 50M, but I also love the less-crowded, low-key nature of a lower-profile event like this, which was very professional and well-organized but also had an “old-school” vibe of a group picnic with legs. I also appreciate that the short-to-long distances of 10K to 50K encourage more runners to consider graduating to ultra distances.

Is there a downside to these events that convert more runners from road to trail and spark more people to sign up for true ultras? Only insofar as demand outstrips supply when more and more people try to register for classic, big-name ultras, and the scene grows so big that it feels more like a crowd than a community. A lot of longtime trail/ultrarunners understandably have been worrying over the past several years that hordes of participants could send entry fees through the roof, sponsors could make the events too slick, and the sport could lose some of the magic stemming from its humble, organic roots. (In this post I’m using long-distance “trail running” and “ultrarunning” synonymously, but I know there are differences—read here for a nice definition of terms.)

Earlier this month, I went through a ritual shared by many: developing a calendar of races for the year. Since I’m a newbie to events 50M and longer, I didn’t throw my name into any of the high-stakes 100-mile lotteries, but I know many who did. For ultrarunners, the exercise of picking and registering for races takes on a sense of urgency because the marquee events fill up early, and a lottery system often determines who gets in. Unlike road marathons that accommodate thousands, trail race permits limit the field to hundreds. This inevitably leads to disappointment, as in the case of one woman I know who wrote on Facebook last month, “No Western States for the 5th try and no Miwok,” and then wrote the other day, “I hate lotteries. No UTMB [Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc] either.” I felt sorry for her—and grateful that I got a coveted spot in the Miwok 100K.

One person who takes both credit and blame for changing the sport is “Ultramarathon Man” Dean Karnazes, as I found out last year while reporting a profile on him for Trail Runner. (Click here to download a PDF if you’d like to read it.) Dean is a self-made celebrity in a sport where many top athletes eek out a living through day jobs while training and racing in relative obscurity, and he elicits strong reactions among runners, from adoration to antipathy. To some degree those mixed reactions reflect the feeling that Dean did to ultrarunning what Oprah, Team In Training and the Rock ‘N Roll marathon series did to marathoning: opened it to the mainstream. If anyone can “run” a marathon—which now is generally accepted as crossing the finish line with a lot of walking breaks and slow jogging along the way, as opposed to really running the whole 26.2—then what’s to stop anyone from finishing an ultra distance?

As Dean’s good friend Topher Gaylord, a very accomplished ultrarunner and president of Mountain Hardwear, told me, “Dean is one of the first people who brought ultrarunning to the masses. A lot of people would like it to remain a close-knit niche sport, so I think it’s perhaps a natural reaction that some would criticize him. … By no means is running 100 miles mainstream, but I think some people who really like that small, almost home-grown feeling feel like it’s being diluted, and that’s the growing pains of a sport.”

On the trail with Dean Karnazes, whom I genuinely like and appreciated getting to know. He's just pretending to look tired though.

Scott Dunlap, who has known and run with Dean for many years, shared a great anecdote with me about him that illustrates the tensions in the sport: A couple of years ago, Scott was riding the shuttle bus to the start of the Ohlone 50K when he heard a couple of old-timers say it’s hard to get into the event now because Dean Karnazes is “ruining” the sport. Scott turned around and told them, “I’m so tired of hearing that.” Then he stood up and did a quick poll to ask how many on the bus were running their first ultra, and a little over half indicated they were.

“If just one of those rookies gets as much out of the sport as I have over the last ten years, then Dean’s efforts are paying off beyond measure,” Scott said. “He’s giving people permission to add adventure to their lives, and I’m sorry if it means you have to register early, but it feels like a very positive change.”

I completely agree with Scott’s view, and to think otherwise seems kind of elitist. I used to be one of those beginners toeing the line at local 10Ks in the mid-1990s, and then I was a purple-shirt-wearing Team In Training groupie flooding big-city marathons around the year 2000. I felt like I found my tribe and discovered a new world when I ran my first trail marathon on Mount Diablo seven years ago. My horizon expanded further when I graduated to the 50K and 50M. I wouldn’t want to deprive anyone else of that discovery.

I would add, though, that while Dean was a catalyst for the sport’s growth, due to the popularity of his 2005 book Ultramarathon Man, it has since grown beyond him. More people are running on mountains and trying ultras due to numerous factors, such as Chris McDougall’s book Born to Run and incredible videos by Salomon Trail Running. Running a marathon may no longer be that big of a deal, but ultramarathoning is.

Ultimately, the market seems to be meeting demand, and I believe it will continue to do so—hopefully helping the wilderness (through open-space preservation) more than hurting it in the process. Though you may have a slim-to-none chance of getting a spot in Western States, you can choose to participate in dozens of other hundred-milers and scores of races in the 50K to 100K range that are happening around the country. Just check out Ultrasignup.com, which has a comprehensive calendar along with a “hot list” of soon-to-sell-out events. New trail-racing companies spring up to put on more events, and if you look hard enough, you can probably find a group that’s planning ultrarunning’s version of a flash mob: a fat-ass run.

So while I sympathize with those who are disappointed by the lottery system and understand the concerns some feel about the state of the sport, I feel we’re pretty blessed to have so many different trail-running events to choose from, and I welcome newcomers to the events. When I flip through the terrific Tribute to the Trails calendar, which lists many but by no means all trail races on the national and international calendar, I’m amazed and inspired by the variety of events happening in the year.

I also believe that some of the best trail racing can happen on a quiet, rainy Sunday, when you’re solo or with a small group, and the contest comes down to you and that rocky, slick chute of dirt. Can you really run up all those switchbacks, and then can you sprint down without falling on your face? What flora and fauna will surprise you around the next bend?

The trail and your watch may be all you need for a great race.

For a colorful writeup and photos on the Brooks Falls event, see Scott’s race report. Thank you, Scott, for the use of your photos. This one below shows Gary Gellin, me and Scott—three members of the new Inside Trail Racing team. Can you tell I was having a good time out there?

Call for comments: What do you think are the pros and cons of how trail running & ultrarunning have changed? Have you altered your annual race plans because of the challenge of getting into some of the most popular events?

This guest post comes from Moire’s blog, “Running Over Mountains and Around the World.” She is a 35-year-old champion Irish mountain runner living in Cambodia and working for an international aid organization. She previously lived in Kenya for seven years to work with disabled children there. In 2008, she made a solo attempt on the Wicklow Round, a trail that spans over 100K and 26 of Ireland’s most rugged and remote peaks. She collapsed and didn’t finish—but she returned the next year to become the first person ever (male or female) to complete the Round in under 24 hours. Then she wrote a memoir about the experience and her journey of self-discovery, called Mud, Sweat and Tears (click the link for more info and to buy it).

Moire O'Sullivan running in Ireland. (Photo from her blog, by Paul Nolan.)

I asked Moire permission to reprint her latest blog post here, since it changed my perception of Cambodia’s capital city and sparked an interest to travel to that part of the world. I’m also impressed at how this mountain runner can maintain her commitment to fitness no matter where she finds herself. She admits in another post that she is running much less now, but biking quite a lot through the region; her post on where to bike around Cambodia is worthwhile, too.

 For additional advice on traveling to Phnom Phen, I recommend these posts:

• Nomadic Matt’s guide to Phnom Phen
• “Cambodia, A Land of Ancient Triumph and Recent Tragedy” on Living the Dream blog

Also, I noticed that today’s Sunday New York Times Travel section listed Koh Rong, Cambodia, as number 23 on its list of “The  45 Places to Go in 2012.”

The following text and photos are by Moire O’Sullivan:

Phnom Penh's Independence Monument

Not many people realise how beautiful Cambodia’s capital city is. In fact, my weekday running route is pretty incredible when it comes to impressive buildings. Within one kilometre of my front door, there’s the imposing Independence Monument. Built in 1958, it commemorates Cambodia’s independence from France in 1953.

Right beside it, there’s a long park that runs part of Sihanouk Boulevard. Every morning and evening, hundreds of people turn out to walk and run around this green spot.

The park off Independence Monument, the place to come and walk around in circles.

Some play badminton on the park’s paths. Others do karate. A few wear uniforms and do tai chi with swords. Some form a group to kick around a shuttle cock type of Hacky Sack. By 6:30 a.m., most of these people are already finished and have made their ways back home to start their jobs by 7:30 a.m.

The Vietnamese Cambodian Park Monument

Turning north, I’d run through the Vietnam Friendship Park. The Monument at its centre was built in the late 1970s by the communist regime that took power after the Khmer Rouge regime was overthrown.

The Throne Hall, part of the Royal Palace.

Less than a hundred metres on from there is the Royal Palace. The Kings of Cambodia have occupied it since it was built in 1860′s, only moving out during the Khmer Rouge.

Finally I’ll reach the waterfront, or Sisowath Quay. Early in the morning, this is THE place to do line dancing aerobics with many other women. I prefer to jog on, watching the sunrise over the Mekong and Tonle Bassac rivers that meet in Phnom Penh.

Phnom Penh's scenic riverfront

Though running options are pretty limited in Phnom Penh, this one route is admittedly a very scenic way to start one’s working day.