athenadiaries

Baboo and Ian head to packet pickup.
Drop bags just ahead.

Dear Diary,

13. This past weekend I crewed himself at the Wasatch. I avoided cluttering my mind with details until we were on our way there, and then started studying The Book. The Book is a binder that Himself put together that had all our plans, information about each leg, driving instructions to each leg, his own pace charts, and information on what he might need at each aid station.

It also had the profiles for each leg in it, and Oh. My. God. Here’s the first three legs – the first 25 miles of this race:

Ian (on the left) is a veteran 100 miler.
And he still does them.  He's sixty nine.
So, what's your excuse?  

12. I did a few things differently in crewing this race.

After dark, I socialized less and napped more. I drove immediately toward each aid station, parked a half mile away, and set my alarm for 30 minutes ahead of his projected arrival time, and get an hour or two of sleep.

When my alarm went off, I’d drive to the aid station to see him. I almost missed him at Brighton, when he had really picked up the pace, but otherwise, this worked well.  I didn't drive directly to the aid stations, because they are crowded as it is with people hanging out for hours, and because it's easier to nap in the dark without all the cowbells.  This way I was fresher and more clear-headed.

On the way to Brighton Lodge during the day.
Just in case you thought it was flat.

So, essentially, I spent my weekend chatting, driving, napping, and eating a jar of Nutella that I had convinced myself I bought for him.

Shhhhhhh.

11. Himself finished in about 33 hours or so. I was told that 60 people dropped out of this small race, or about 25%.

10. I bought myself a cheap cowboy hat, which will go nicely with my red belt and red cowboy boots. Now I need a red hat band.

9. I enjoyed this race immensely, because it was more “ultra marathon-ish”.
Wasatch had about 200 racers in it, total, and well-behaved crews. It was easy to get to and from each aid station. People cooperated, and helped each other. You saw lots of the same people you see at other races. It’s a family.  Like most ultras.

Leadville is an ultra that has become a circus full of people shouldering each other out of the way (not MY friends, obviously).  Now that a large corporation has bought it, it’s noisy, crowded, full of large groups of spectators standing in the way of the crews and runners and generally being a nuisance. People were staking out large areas for their (one) runner and informing anyone, while glaring, that this was their space.  I tried to set a good example by helping crews for new runners.
When informed that a space was "saved," I smiled brightly and said, “Well, we don't mind sharing!” And pointedly ignored their frustration.  You simply do not get bitchy and territorial at ultras. It Isn’t Done.

In case you wondered, stuff like this
is why we do stuff like that.  

8. For part of the time my companion was Ian, who picked up Sweet Baboo at mile 50 and paced him to the finish. Ian has done a whole bunch of these runs, and has been doing them for decades, including Western States. He knows everything. I asked lots of questions.

Facing East, just before sunrise.  I was
listening to "Waking Up" by OneRepublic.

7. They had a very awesome tracking system that predicted arrival at the next aid station, and for the most part, it was dead on. It was incredibly helpful. I just had Sweet Baboo’s 3G ipad and used it to access the Internet in all but one aid station to predict when he would show up.

6. At the end of the trip, I had settled on my Next Big Thing.  More on this later.  Meanwhile, I'm reading "Relentless Forward Progress", the Kindle edition, if that's any clue.  Another clue: it's in  October 2012, in Arkansas, and will be part of my, “Thank fuck, graduate school is over” celebration.

5.  I miss my mom.  But on the other hand, I'm pretty sure that she would have tried to talk me out of some of the stuff I've done by now.  Or maybe she would have just taken pictures.  Or both.  My mom was quirky that way.

Good morning, Wasatch.

4. This week at work, I found out that a court official, who is not a mental health clinician, did not agree with a diagnosis and treatment recommendation I made and is holding a grudge against me because I didn't give her the result she wanted me to give.

All together now: Big.  Fucking. Deal.

As you might guess,  I lost little sleep over that.  In fact, I was all, "hey, I pissed off a JPO, don't I get a T-shirt or something?"  For the record, JPOs and public defenders are usually on completely opposite sides of what they want.  Nobody always gets what they want.  What makes this so amazing is that this official, this "professional," is actually holding a grudge.  Whatever.

Himself, when he was chilled at mile 75, and had to be
put in the warming tent.

3.  Catching up on stuff you don't care about: I'm having good results on the work on my skin.  Perhaps a little too good.  It is the antithesis of dry at this point.

2.  More stuff you don't care about.  My project for September is to organize my pantry.

1.  Himself wrote his race report, so I'll let him tell the story.