Saturday morning we got up about 3:30, and dressed and headed out, so that we could drop off our drop bags and check in. We got long-sleeved techno shirts, and a copy of the map in a protective sleeve.
Sadly, we drove to the race without the camera, so, no pictures. Oops.
So now, I present: Old Pueblo by the numbers.
50: How many miles that course was supposed to be.
51-point-something - how far we actually went
2: How many of the downhills weren't covered by a thick layer of soft-ball to apple-size angular rocks.
1/3 - how many miles we got off course before heard someone calling to us, to warn us that we were off course (whew!)
10: The number of pounds I've lost since Ghost Town, and that I didn't have to haul around the course.
"About 7" How many stream crossings a well-intentioned volunteer told us we were be facing.
at least 15: How many stream crossings there actually were. At the beginning of the race I was all what a happy little mountain stream!
By the end of the race, I was shouting, I'm pretty $#@&ing sick of this $#@&ing stream!
And I'm not even counting the parts of course that WERE the stream.
42.5: The mile at which Sweet Baboo actually hoisted my 160-something pounds across a stream. These weren't streams you could just hop across. They were 8 to 12 feet wide, and up to about a foot or two deep, and my feet already had duct tape wrapped around them because of developing hot spots and blisters.
4: Number of times Sweet Baboo carried me across streams.
18.5: The number of hours it took me to finish the Rocky Racoon 50-miler in 2009, which was pancake flat.
16.5: The number of hours it took us to finish this, most unflat run.
Between 33 and 40: The mile markers between which I seriously bonked. I didn't know what was wrong; I thought it was dehydration, so I drank; then I thought it was electrolytes, so I took a couple of E-caps; I was staggering and hearing things. Finally figured out it was food. I ate some. I felt better. Perked up.
Started doing some more power-walking, because after mile 40, running was gone, y'all.
33: The mile marker where I was hoping we would get pulled. I was exhausted, felt like crap, and couldn't conceive going another 17 miles. They waived us on.
40: The next aid station were I was hoping we'd be pulled.
They waived us on.
46: The aid station where I had decided I was going to finish this thing.
20: The number of miles the last 4 miles felt like.
2: The number of times I rolled each ankle, but just enough to scare me and make me swear.
0: Number of times I fell.
6: The number of blisters I thought I had on my feet.
1: The number of blisters I actually had (the rest were just hot spots)
2: Number of toenails I may lose.
7: time in the evening that my phone apparently went dead, because I left it on to search fruitlessly for a signal (Sorry Pirate. I couldn't answer you back.)
~12: Number of time I nodded off uncontrollably on the way home today.
0: Number of times Baboo nodded off, since he was driving.
4: Number of egg McMuffins & hash brown patties Sweet Baboo ate on the way home today.
2: Number I ate.
2: Number of happy doggies who leapt all over us when we got home.
2: Number of kitties who ignored us when we got home (but we know that they were happy by the way they ignored us)
1: Number of pints of Haagen-Daz Dulce De Leche ice cream I think I've earned.
0: Number of times I'll wake Baboo when he nods off at home. And the number of 50-milers I want to do in the next couple months.