Mt. Whitney and the Brazen Dirty Dozen

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In the past week I’ve faced two of my hardest physical challenges ever: the Brazen Dirty Dozen endurance race July 12, followed nine days later by a single day climb up and down Mt. Whitney, the highest summit in the continental United States. Why attempt two such difficult endurance tests on back-to-back weekends? It was sheer stupidity on my part, but I survived, and may even be stronger as a result.


The Brazen Dirty Dozen

First up was Brazen Racing’s “Dirty Dozen” and half dozen trail races: run as far as you can in 6 hours (half dozen) or 12 hours (dirty dozen). Unlike typical races, in this format everyone runs for the same amount of time, and the winner is the person who covers the most distance. What kind of sick person would even attempt a race like that? Apparently, someone like me. Having never before run further than 26 miles in 4 hours, I decided the 12 hour, full dozen event would be suicide, and opted for the half dozen 6 hour race instead.


The Dirty Dozen race was on mostly level trails at the Pinole Seashore, on the San Francisco Bay north of Oakland. The main course was a 3.3 mile loop with about 100 ft of elevation gain and loss. During the last hour of the event, Brazen also opened a second 0.6 mile loop. Only complete loops counted towards your distance total, with no partial credit, so the goal was to arrange yourself to finish your last loop just before the clock reached 6:00:00.

Prior to the race I’d been having a lot of trouble with both ankles and one knee, due to several unrelated running and hiking accidents over the previous weeks. Until a few days before the race, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do it at all, but the injuries seemed to heal just in the nick of time.

We started off at 7:00 am on a cool, cloudy morning with a light breeze. Unsure how to pace myself or what distance I should expect to run, I decided simply to take it very easy, and make my goal be to keep moving for six hours, whatever the pace. If I felt like I needed to slow down or walk, fine, as long as I kept moving. I settled into a pace around 9:00 to 9:30 per mile, which was a very easy effort level for me, equivalent to an easy jog or recovery run. I chatted a bit with the other runners, learning who was an ultra running veteran, and who was a first timer like me. I was a bit in awe of the people running in the 12 hour category, and took their advice to keep the pace slow and relaxed.

The laps went on and on. It remained cool and cloudy for the first four hours, though it did get warmer towards the end of the race. I never really had a problem with the knee or ankle. There were some random knee pains briefly about half-way through, but they went away and never came back. So I just kept running. With the loop format, after a while everyone was on a different lap, and I didn’t know where I stood in the overall field. When I passed someone, I didn’t know if I was moving ahead of them, or lapping them, or if they were already a lap up on me. But it didn’t seem like many people were running as fast as I was, and I was rarely passed, so I guessed I was doing pretty well.

Unlike virtually every other race I’ve ever done, I ate and drank a ton! Normally for a marathon I would eat some Gu or Shot Bloks, and that’s about it. But in this race I ate boiled potatoes, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, pretzels, soup… everything. I might have taken in 1000 calories or more. It just seemed like the thing to do, and the aid stations were well-stocked with a smorgasbord of food.

I kept running, and running, and running. Except for a few seconds to grab some snacks at each aid station, I ran the entire way from start to finish. I kept up a pretty steady 9:10/mile pace for the first four hours, then I faded a little to a 10:00 or 11:00/mile pace for the last two hours. I was getting exhausted. Mentally I think I was prepared to run a marathon distance, but no more. So when I crossed the 26.2 mile point and realized I still had lots more running to do, it was like getting a kick in the face. During the last big loop, I was kind of a wreck, talking to myself out loud, and just trying hold everything together for a few minutes more. As the clock ticked down, I had time to squeeze in one lap of the 0.6 mile loop too, finishing up in 5:56:52, staggering over the finish line in tears.

I had run 37.33 miles. Jesus God, that is far – almost 50% farther than I’d ever run before. Crazy far, like the distance between two cities. I avoided injuries, and I didn’t have any joint pain or blisters, but physically I was a wreck. I wobbled drunkenly around the finish area, wanting desperately to lie down, but afraid that my muscles would spasm and lock up if I stopped moving. So I stayed on my feet, and stuffed my face with ice cream, bagels, and Gatorade.

The results were posted about half an hour after the finish. I thought I’d done OK. On a good day, I can usually finish in the top 10% or 20% of the overall field at most races. I checked the results, and the winner had gone 41 miles. My 37.33 miles was good for 3rd place overall out of 182 people, and I won the M40-44 age group! Holy cow!

I missed a couple of splits near the end of the race, but it went down roughly like this:

Long Loops (3.33 miles)
1: 30:37
2: 29:45
3: 30:42
4: 30:32
5: 30:10
6: 30:53
7: 30:51
8: 31:39
9: 34:13
10: ~35:23
11: ~35:22

Short Loops (0.65 miles)
1: ~5:54

My marathon time was 4:02, and my 50K time was 4:51.

Overall, the Dirty (Half) Dozen was an interesting and exciting event. But I think I’ve been cured of any desire to do another ultra. Maybe, maybe I could do a 50K, but that’s about it. After finishing 26.2 miles at the Dirty Dozen, I just really didn’t want to be there anymore. TOO LONG!


Mt. Whitney in a Day

Nine days later, I found myself at Whitney Portal in the Sierra Nevada mountains, about to begin a single day hike up and down Mt. Whitney. At 14,508 feet, Whitney is the tallest mountain in the continental United States. The trail from Whitney Portal is 22 miles round trip over rocky terrain, with 6200 ft of elevation gain, and the whole distance at high altitude where oxygen is scarce. Smart people make the trip over several days, camping along the way. Only idiots like me attempt to do the whole thing as one giant day hike.

I’d been wanting to climb Whitney for a few years, but it wasn’t until this May that I happened to check the park service web site, and found there were still day use permits available for July. I grabbed two permits for July 21, convinced my friend Jeff to join me, and started making plans.

I’m in pretty darn good physical shape. I run 40+ hilly miles per week, and I do marathons and ultras. I’ve climbed three previous California “fourteeners”, and a couple years ago I hiked most of the John Muir Trail from Yosemite to King’s Canyon. So I assumed the warnings I’d read about how demanding the Whitney day hike is didn’t apply to me, and we’d be up and down the mountain far faster than average. Ha! The mountain kicked my ass.

Our acclimatization began on Saturday with a drive up to Yosemite and an easy hike around Tuolumne Meadows (8600), then spending the night at Mammoth Lakes (7800). Sunday we picked up our permits in Lone Pine, then did a day hike from Horseshoe Meadows up to Trail Pass and Mulkey Pass (10500). We spent Sunday night at Whitney Portal (8300) before beginning our hike early on Monday morning.

We awoke at 2:00 am, wondered what the hell we were getting into, then were on the trail at 2:35. We checked the scale at the trailhead, and my pack weighed 15 pounds including 2L of water. I carried:

  • ULA Catalyst pack
  • 2L water
  • katadyn water filter
  • two headlamps
  • 2500 calories of trail mix, energy bars, fruit, etc.
  • lots of extra warm clothes, most of which I ended up wearing later
  • first aid kit
  • emergency bivy sack
  • compass
  • sunscreen
  • camera
  • maps and timetable
  • WAG bag

We started off well, and I really enjoyed hiking in the dark. Our headlamps gave plenty of light to see what we were walking on, but not enough to see much around us, so it was like hiking through a dark tunnel. Occasionally we stopped and turned off the headlamps to gaze at the stars, which were tremendous. Around 4:45 am, somewhere past Mirror Lake, the sky began to glow a dull orange. Watching the sunrise and the alpenglow was incredible. I loved every minute!

Around 3 hours into the hike, Jeff began to lag. Up to that point we’d been averaging about 2 miles per hour, joking and singing as we went, but he quickly grew quiet and said he was feeling tired. We continued on, but more slowly than before. Our strategy the whole way up was to hike at a slow and easy pace, but keep going without any breaks except the occasional stop to remove a layer of clothing or get something out of the backpack. In retrospect, maybe we would have done better to take a 10 minute break every hour or so. After six hours of hiking we finally reached Trail Crest, the point at 13,800 ft where the trail crosses the ridge line onto the back side of the mountain. Jeff was not having a very good time. He was determined to keep going though, and said he would “dig deep” to make it to the summit.

My secondary goal was to climb Mt. Muir, a 14,019 foot peak only a short distance off the Mt. Whitney trail. From what I’d read, it was a fairly easy detour from the main trail, and only a few hundred feet up to Muir’s summit, involving a small amount of class 3 scrambling at the final summit block. It wasn’t clear to me exactly where Mt. Muir was or where to detour from the main trail, though. All the rocky outcroppings looked the same. Eventually I located it, and after some discussion, we decided Jeff would continue slowly on towards Whitney summit while I climbed up Muir, then returned to the trail and caught up to him from behind. I followed a faint use trail up the pile of rocks towards Muir’s summit block. It wasn’t great. There was nothing super difficult about it, but I was moving very slowly, climbing with hands and feet, and searching out the best direction to continue up after every few steps. After ten minutes I made it about half way up to the base of the summit block, then stopped and stared up. I looked long and hard at the summit block, and decided no, not today. If I’d been with someone more experienced who could have helped guide me up, I think I would have been fine, but I didn’t feel like pushing my luck while hiking there alone. So I chickened out and climbed back down to the trail, which was a lot tougher than climbing up had been.

This is as close as I got to the top of Muir. Somehow it looks a lot closer in the photo than it did in person.

I hurried to catch up with Jeff, reaching him about 15 minutes later. He was still moving forward slowly, with a look of grim determination on his face. This section along the ridge was absolutely incredible, with strange rock fins and pinnacles poking up everywhere, and dramatic drop-offs to the right through the “windows” between sharp needles of rock. I felt like we were really mountaineering now. We kept going, reaching a point about half a mile from the summit before Jeff stopped and said “I’m not going to make it”. I was about to reply with some motivational gambit, when he turned and vomited on the trail, retching over and over until there was nothing left in his stomach. Then he sat, feeling slightly better after the vomit. Groups of people appeared suddenly coming from both directions, seemingly unconcerned about stepping in the pile of vomit in the middle of the trail.

Years ago while climbing Mt. Shasta with Jeff, I got sick around 12500 ft, and he abandoned his summit attempt to hike back down with me. I was prepared to do the same for him there, but after 10 minutes of rest he felt well enough that he wanted to continue. We knew we had less than 30 minutes of hiking left to reach the summit, so off we went. Before long the roof of the Smithsonian hut crept into view, and then we were there. Hallelujah! I ran around shouting and fist pumping while Jeff collapsed on a rock, exhausted. Our total time from trailhead to the summit was 8:15.

The weather was great at the summit, with about two dozen people milling around in the sun. A layer of puffy clouds hung below the summit. Then I did something I’ve never dared to before: crept up to the very edge of the east face, sat on the last rock, and dangled my legs over the 3000 ft drop straight down. I was terrified and my heart was racing, but it made for a cool photo! 🙂

After about 25 minutes, we started back down. Jeff ate a little, and began feeling slightly better. As we descended, our conditions seemed to reverse. He began to perk up, while I started feeling crappy. By the time we got back to Trail Crest, he was in good shape, but my head was pounding and I was exhausted.

The rest of the miles seemed to last forever. The whole way down stretched out interminably, and I kept thinking we were farther along than we really were. I lost track of the number of times I said “I don’t even remember hiking up this.” Any sense of enjoyment in the hike was completely gone, and I was fully in zombie survival mode with no thought other than to reach the bottom. I think the altitude was certainly a factor, but the main problem was just exhaustion. The trail just went on and on, forever. It took us 6:55 to make it down, which wasn’t much faster than our time on the way up. Including time spent at the summit, the whole hike took 15:10 round trip. When we reached Whitney Portal at 6:15 pm, I was completely wrecked. I was almost in tears. But after some food and an hour’s rest, I bounced back and was feeling half-way normal again. Wow.

It was an awesome hike, and I especially enjoyed traveling in the dark, watching the sunrise from the trail, and traversing the ridge near the summit. But I think you have to be an idiot to want to do this as a day hike from Whitney Portal. Either that, or you need to be in outstanding physical shape and practically immune to the effects of altitude. With my prior conditioning and endurance running, and two days spent acclimatizing, I thought I could handle the Whitney day hike without too much trouble. I was wrong, and the last few hours of descent were completely miserable. If I ever climb Whitney again, it’ll definitely be as a two or even three day camping trip, and none of this day hike craziness. My hat’s off to those who can do Whitney in a day and return in one piece. That is one hell of a tough hike!

Garmin Soft Strap Heart Rate Monitor Failures


Heart rate monitors are temperamental things. In the past few months I’ve gone through two Garmin Forerunner 220’s, and in both cases the bundled soft strap HRM began to fail in the same peculiar way after about a month (roughly 24 uses). It’s driving me bonkers! Both straps worked great for the first month, but after that I began to see weird behavior on runs lasting more than an hour. Somewhere during the second hour, the pulse rate would start decaying steadily down, regardless of how hard I was exercising. Sometimes it would jump up again to a normal-looking value, but more often it would continue decaying downward from around 150 all the way to the 40’s, and stay there until the end of my workout. It rendered the HRM nearly useless for long runs.

An hour-long total decay, with eventual recovery:



Partial decay at the end of a marathon, with some earlier gaps:



Total and permanent decay at the end of a workout:



This pattern of failure seems different from the types of HRM trouble I’m more familiar with, which involves bogus (usually too high rather than too low) pulse readings at the beginning of a workout. That problem is normally caused by poor electrical conductivity between the strap and the skin, and can be solved by wiping on some spit or electrode gel, or just waiting until the skin gets sweaty. DC Rainmaker has a good explanation of this and other common HRM problems. But I don’t think that’s the problem here, and I always use electrode gel anyway.

What on earth might cause a problem like this, that only strikes after an hour or more into a long run, and only after a month of use for the heart rate monitor? When the first HRM started malfunctioning a couple of months ago, I tried cleaning the strap, tightening the strap, replacing the battery, and updating the firmware. Nothing worked, and I eventually exchanged the watch and HRM for a replacement. Now just over a month later, the replacement has started to do the same thing. Ack!

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s somehow related to the accumulation of salt from sweat, which builds up over time and shorts out the conductive thread woven into the strap. That would be consistent with a problem that doesn’t appear for a month (it takes a while for enough salt to accumulate), nor until running more than an hour (it takes a while for the strap to become saturated with sweat). The Garmin soft strap does say right on it that it should be machine washed after every seven uses, which I admit I’ve never done. But washing it once this problem appears don’t seem to fix it.

Some Amazon reviewers reached a similar conclusion, though their symptoms sound different from mine. Some found partial success in washing or soaking the strap, and others by cleaning the snap contacts on the transmitter with a deoxidizing cleaner. If I can’t find a reliable answer soon, I’ll probably have to throw the Garmin HRM in the trash and look for a compatible HRM from Polar or another vendor that doesn’t suffer from this strange decay issue. Sad.


Update July 13:

I’ve concluded the Garmin soft strap HR monitor is flawed by design, and I can’t recommend it to anyone. After lots more experimentation, I confirmed the problem is at least partly due to sweat and salt build-up in the strap fabric. Unfortunately, washing the strap doesn’t really fix the problem. In my tests, hand washing with soap in a sink of warm water didn’t help at all, and machine washing with other laundry (per Garmin’s instructions) only partially helped. After washing, the problem returned again within a matter of days, if not sooner.

The final straw was a 6-hour endurance race I competed in yesterday. The day before the event, I machine washed the strap and air dried it while lying flat, so it would be ready to go for the race. Despite the washing, the heart rate data started flaking out after the first hour. It recovered twice, but eventually it went completely nuts and gave me totally wrong HR data for the last 2.5 hours of the race. I was not happy.


Maybe the sweat and salt become so embedded in the strap’s fabric that even a machine washing can’t completely remove them? Or maybe the salt permanently damages the conductive threads in the fabric? Perhaps it’s some kind of mechanical failure unrelated to sweat and salt.

One thing’s for sure: after going through two of these soft straps, both of which worked great for the first month after purchase, I’m confident the problem has nothing to do with how I’m wearing the strap, or moisture on my skin, or the battery. It’s some kind of cumulative failure that’s inherent in the soft strap HRM design. Washing may provide temporary relief, but eventually the HRM will become a useless piece of junk. Stick with the tried-and-true hard strap design – the Garmin soft strap just doesn’t work.

Big Basin Skyline to the Sea Trail Marathon


The Skyline to the Sea trail is a gem. Just a few miles from busy Silicon Valley, this trail traverses most of the Santa Cruz Mountain range, 26 miles from the ridge at Saratoga Gap through foggy redwood canyons to the beach at the Pacific Ocean. I’ve hiked it a couple of times as a multi-day backpacking trip, and always wanted to try running it, but the timing was never right or the races were sold out. Then in January I saw Coastal Trail Runs had their Big Basin Skyline to the Sea Trail Marathon scheduled for June, and they still had space available. Yes! I was in.

Beginning in January, I started on a training program to whip my out-of-shape butt back into marathon form. It all went surprisingly well, and I ran several shorter races along the way, including two half marathons, to get myself ready for Skyline to the Sea on June 8. When race weekend finally arrived, I felt fit, healthy, rested, and ready to go.

We arrived at Saratoga Gap about 8:15 for the 9:00 start. Panic struck as I realized I’d forgotten my water belt! Nooooooooo! I took a 20-ounce waist-mounted water bottle on all my long training runs, and had planned to use it on race day during the long dry stretches between aid stations. Instead, I had to beg a used 16 ounce screw-cap disposable bottle from another runner, and carry it in my hands the whole way. I wasn’t happy with that solution, but there wasn’t any alternative.

Coastal Trail Runs organized the race as a marathon concurrently with a 50K, with an extra 5 mile loop for the 50K course. Since everyone was running at least a marathon, it was an athletic crowd. About 300 people squeezed onto the narrow trail at the start, with 175 in the 50K and 125 in the marathon.

Right from the first mile it was HOT! The morning weather in these mountains is normally cool and breezy even in summer, but this day was the hottest day for months, with forecast highs in the mid to high 90’s. The weather data from nearby towns shows it was about 83 at the start of the race, climbing to about 89 in the first 90 minutes. I was uncomfortably warm and beginning to cook. The trail trended downward, but with lots of small ups and downs and twists that demanded concentration. I kept willing myself to slow down and take it easy, but my body started to overheat.

Drinking from the screw-cap disposable bottle was more difficult than I’d expected. Just unscrewing the cap without dropping it while running was tricky, and then the water sloshed and spilled all over the place. I couldn’t squirt it into my mouth like with my normal bottle, and had to stop and walk for a few seconds to drink it down without spilling everywhere. Whenever I did this, two or three people passed me.

I reached the first aid station at Waterman Gap (6.5 miles) at 55 minutes, having averaged about an 8:30 mile pace. The heat had taken its toll, and I felt baked. I spent two or three minutes just lounging at the the aid station, which is something I’ve never done before in any previous marathon. I refilled my bottle, drank three more cups, ate some Shot Bloks, and just caught my breath. I overheard one of the volunteers say something about running low on water, which sounded bad considering there were many more runners behind me yet to come through. Whether the shortage was due to the heat or some logistical error, I don’t know, but it was a bad day to run out of water.

Leaving the aid station, I went into survival mode and just ran easy. I was pretty sure I was headed for a very bad day and lots of walking, so I forgot about racing for a while and just tried to keep moving forward. But a funny thing happened: I started passing people. Maybe they felt even more cooked than I did? The course climbed for a few miles, and many people walked the uphills, but I jogged up them slowly but steadily. Somewhere around mile 10 or so, I started to feel better and caught a second wind. I kept passing people. Many other runners were flagging already.

My GPS watch tracks distance and pace during my runs, but the endless switchbacks and poor reception in the canyons rendered it nearly useless for this race. I didn’t know how far I’d come, or how fast I was moving. And even if I’d known my current pace, how would I have known what pace I should be running? Uphill, downhill, scramble up a rock, come to a complete stop and climb over a fallen tree: it was impossible to keep a consistent speed.

After 1:46 I reached the second aid station at China Grade (11.2 miles), my average pace having now fallen to about 9:30/mile thanks to the climbing. My family was there, and it was all smiles and high fives for a few minutes while I refilled the bottle and wolfed down some food. Water, water, give me water! Once again I stopped at the aid station for several minutes, which seemed like an eternity, but I needed it.


The trail after China Grade was probably the most technically challenging section of the course. We exited the deep shade of the forest and hit a stretch of tilted rock slabs toasting in the sun. Part of it involved running on a side slope on slippery rock, up and down little steps, and through a few bits that were more like climbing than running. Despite my slow pace, I continued to pass other runners. Following this we returned to the forest shade and plunged down a very steep downhill that was like a minefield of roots and rocks and sharp turns. I must have tripped and stumbled at least a dozen times, but managed to catch myself before falling.

Somewhere in the forest around mile 13, while I was trucking down one of these steep rutted sections of trail, my foot landed wrong and I came over my ankle sideways with all my weight on it. There was a sickening CRUNCH and I screamed. But I had so much downhill momentum that I couldn’t stop, and had to hop down the trail on one foot. When I finally stopped, I was sure I’d torn or broken something, and would need an aid crew to help evacuate me to the nearest road. The race was over. But after a minute or two of walking, the initial pain subsided, and the ankle actually didn’t feel too bad. I moved into an easy jog, then within a half mile I’d resumed my former pace. I definitely dodged a bullet there, as I could easily have broken the ankle.

At 2:19 I reached the Gazos Creek Rd aid station at Big Basin Park HQ (mile 15.8). My average pace had improved to about 8:45/mile, so I must have been moving pretty fast considering I walked for several minutes after the ankle injury. My family was there, and I stopped again to exchange high-fives, rehydrate and refuel. I also picked up a second water bottle, knowing that it was a long way to the next aid station and my single 16 ounce bottle wouldn’t be enough. Carrying a water bottle in each hand is like lifting a 1-pound weight with each step. It’s small, but over time the effort adds up, and I could feel an unfamiliar ache in my biceps and shoulders.

The last big climb on the course was just after the aid station, about 500 feet up to the top of the ridge separating Big Basin from the Waddell Creek drainage. I chugged up the hill at my slow and steady pace. By this point the field had thinned out, and I couldn’t see any other runners ahead or behind, but there were lots of hikers on the trail heading to the popular Berry Creek Falls viewpoint. Nearly everyone was good about yielding the trail as I came through, but occasionally it was so narrow that they couldn’t, or I came up behind a hiker so suddenly that they were startled. I wasn’t really moving very fast, though, so pausing for a few moments to squeeze past a hiker didn’t bother me.

Across the ridge, I descended into majestic old-growth redwood forest, nestled into narrow canyons splashed with ferns and moss, with quiet waterfalls whispering at the sides. I was 18 miles into a marathon and hurting, but I grinned ear to ear at the beauty of it all. I can’t imagine a more lovely setting, and at that moment I was grateful to be there, healthy and alive and in the middle of it all. The canyons were filled with cool coastal air, and the temperature dropped from the 80’s into the 70’s or 60’s. Sweet relief!

I think I got passed once here, but also passed one or two people. My brain had floated away somewhere else, and I wasn’t really paying attention or even forming coherent thoughts. The trail went on and on. I passed Berry Creek Falls, a straight drop 65 feet down that’s tucked in between the redwoods and ferns. I crossed a creek several times, and went up and down again and again on little hills by the creek. Most of these were small, but a few were more challenging and one was a very steep uphill – the only place on the course where I walked outside of water stops. I ate more Shot Bloks, stuffed my mouth with raisins and almonds, and kept moving. After the falls, I was completely alone.

Somewhere around mile 21, I finally caught up to two runners. One was tired and walking, but the other still had some gas left. I passed him, then he sped up and passed me back. We’d spoken earlier on the course, and he told me this was not only his first marathon, it was his first race at any distance! He sure picked a tough place to start. We dueled it out for a short while, but eventually I was able to pass him for good. As it turned out, he was the last runner I saw before the finish line.

I bumped along a while longer, not knowing the distance or my pace. I knew I must be in the final 5 miles or so, and it was time to muster whatever energy reserves I had left, so I tried to dial in a hard but manageable level of effort. But with nobody in sight ahead or behind, it was tough to convince myself that an extra 20 seconds or even a minute were really going to matter. I managed something like a tempo run effort, but it wasn’t all-out 100%.

I was now on a mostly flat stretch of fire road in a broadening valley, approaching the coast. My lonely meditation was finally broken by a hiker walking up the road. He cheered me on, and told me I was in 7th place. 7th place! I don’t think I’ve ever been that high in the overall standings before, and the news really lifted my spirits. But it also ignited a fear of being caught from behind, so I turned up the effort level higher.

I reached the Twin Redwoods aid station (24.5 miles) at 3:58 – more than an hour and a half between aid stations! That’s a long, lonely stretch of trail. The volunteers confirmed I was currently 7th, and asked me how I was feeling. I felt surprisingly OK – I was even smiling! I quickly gulped a few cups of water, but didn’t bother to refill my bottle since I had less than two miles left to the finish.

Immediately after the aid station was the final climb on the course. It didn’t look like much on the elevation chart, but coming where it did in the last two miles, it was mean. I pushed up the hill with the best effort I could manage, paranoid that another runner was going to chase me down from behind through this final stretch. The hill wasn’t steep, but it seemed endless. After about a mile of hot and dusty chugging, I came around a bend and was rewarded with a breathtaking vista of the coast plain, the beach, and the ocean waves foaming in the distance. There was still a bit more climbing before the trail finally turned downhill. About 200 yards out, my daughter Alice met me on the trail, and we ran hand-in-hand down to the finish.

Woohoo! I was covered in dirt, bugs, and salt, and my muscles ached, but I felt great! My finish time was 4:14:33. It turned out that one of the runners ahead of me was actually in the 50K (and broke the course record), so I finished 6th place overall in the marathon and 3rd in my division. That was well ahead of my expectations going into the race, and I was thrilled. And that runner chasing me down in the final miles? There was no one. The next person finished several minutes behind.


I relaxed at the finish line for about an hour, chatting with the other runners, cheering as more people finished, and refueling with pretzels and soup. It was a very friendly and relaxed atmosphere, so different from the road mega-marathons I’ve done in the past. The post-race high wore off a bit when I got home and saw that my ankle had swollen up like a grapefruit, but thankfully it didn’t hurt much. With a couple days of rest I’m optimistic that it’ll be ready to resume running again.

Overall I was pleased with the Costal Trail Runs experience. From end to end everything was well organized, and the people were all relaxed and friendly. I really enjoyed the atmosphere at the finish line. It was obvious the Coastal people had hosted these races often enough to have the details nailed. There was only one spot on the course where I thought a turn could have been better marked, but in 26 miles of twisty trails that’s a pretty good record. My only big concern is that I heard some of the aid stations ran out of water for the runners at the back of the pack. Coastal isn’t responsible for the weather, but that’s still a major gaffe and they should have the experience to budget extra water for very hot days.

Before the race, I analyzed the results from past years to an embarrassing degree of detail. I looked for people who’d finished Skyline to the Sea within a couple of months of a flat road marathon or half-marathon, and then attempted to find a formula for predicting finish times. My conclusion was that Skyline to the Sea was 45 minutes to an hour slower than what a runner could achieve on a flat road marathon course. From my race results earlier this spring I’d estimated I was in about 3:25 marathon shape, from which I projected a Skyline to the Sea finish time of 4:10 to 4:20. That proved to be right on the money.

Lessons learned? While this was my slowest marathon by the clock, it was my best ever finish by overall placement or percentile within the overall field. Everybody was cooked by the heat, but I seemed to tolerate it better than most. I’ve never before had the experience of methodically passing so many people in the second half of a marathon. I think I also hydrated more during this race than during any prior marathon, and I definitely took in more calories from food than I’ve ever attempted before. That probably helped stave off the wall in the final miles. This was also the first time I’ve incorporated strength training into my marathon preparation, and I think it helped.

In my past marathons I’ve always been a slave to the clock. If I needed a 7:38/mile average pace to reach my goal, and I had a 7:55 mile split somewhere, I’d freak out and push harder. That kind of clock watching just wasn’t possible in this race, so I went by perceived effort instead. I’m not sure if it worked better or worse, but it certainly felt less stressful, and the results were good. Next time out I’ll definitely try this strategy again.

If you ever have a chance to hike or run Skyline to Sea, grab it! It’s an absolutely gorgeous stretch of trail through nearly untouched wilderness, only an hour’s drive from San Jose and San Francisco. The descent through the redwood canyons to Berry Creek Falls is breathtaking, and deserves a spot on anyone’s bucket list. As a race it was very challenging: steep, twisty, rutted, rocky, and gnarled with huge roots – about as technical as trail races come. But the experience of sailing through fog, ferns, and fairy rings en route to 26 miles of tough accomplishment was worth every step.


Guts – Racing to Your Max Potential


Twist a runner’s arm, and he’ll admit that racing is not fun. It hurts! Especially at shorter distances, it hurts like a crazy mofo! And if it doesn’t hurt that badly, you’re not doing it right. That’s the conclusion I’ve reached after talking with many runners of all skill levels, and analyzing over 100 of my own race performances. Being in strong physical shape is essential, but it’s not enough by itself. If you really want to excel you need guts.

What sets the upper limit on your race efforts? Do you run so hard that you puke, that you pass out? Very few of us can say we have, nor should we want to. My point isn’t that you should race until you black out, but that somewhere before the black out stage, something else steps in and slows you down. Some rational impulse says “Why am I running so hard through so much pain? It’s not really that important.” Or maybe a core bit of your brain says “Emergency! Body stress levels are critical! Shutting down…” It’s not so much that you can’t run any harder, but that you won’t.

How close to your physical limits are you willing and able to push yourself? That’s what’s called guts. For some runners, once things start to get uncomfortable, they’re not willing to run any harder. If they’re happy racing that way, that’s fine. Sometimes you’ll see such people in the later stages of a race, chatting with others around them, a clear sign that they’re comfortable. Most runners are willing to push themselves to higher levels of discomfort in order to achieve their goals. One popular mantra says “The pain is temporary, the pride is forever”. But when they’re 2 miles into a scorching 5K, and feel ready to lay down in a ditch and die, will the lure of shaving an extra 5 seconds off their finish time be enough motivation to keep up the pace?

At the elite level, the runners are experts at pushing their bodies as close as possible to their physical limits. You’ve seen the drawn, almost haunted look on their faces in the final stages of a hard race – they are suffering severely. But they’re so motivated to run their best, they’re willing to endure almost anything.

Look at this video of Kenenisa Bekele, Mo Farah, and Haile Gebrselassie at the finish of last year’s BUPA Great North Run. Look at their faces while both Bekele and Farah run sub-60 for the final 400m of a half marathon. This is what it looks like to push yourself to the utmost.

Next time you’re at a finish line, hang out and watch the other runners finishing. Look at their faces and their body language, and listen to their breathing. Do they look like they just came off a stroll in the park? Do they look like they’re about to die? Do faster runners push themselves closer to their limits than slower ones, or is there no correlation?

Personally I’m no great shakes on the racing scene, but over the years I’ve found a few things that helped me push closer to my physical limits:

Track Workouts – A series of lung-burning intervals on the track hurts like hell, but each one only lasts a few minutes, making it tolerable. This gives you a chance to get intimately familiar with that “oh my God this hurts” feeling. When it strikes again in a race it won’t hurt any less, but it’ll be a familiar hurt, and you’ll know from experience that you can endure it.

Setting Clear Goals – The middle of a race is a not a good time to wonder what the point of all this pain is. If you can’t remember why you’re pushing so hard, you won’t. Aim for a specific time goal, a new personal PR, or some qualifying standard. Put that goal in your mind during every workout and training run. Let the desire burn. When the pain comes, you’ll have a reason to push through it.

Competition – Nothing helps push you to your limits like head-to-head competition. Seek out races with an evenly-matched rival, or pick up on a stranger running just ahead of your pace. Every time you’re tempted to slack off the pace just a little bit, you’ll see his shirt recede ahead, and it’ll give you a kick in the ass to keep up.

Smile! – In the middle of a race when you feel your worst, smile! This is my single greatest trick. Some primitive part of the brain sees that you’re smiling and concludes things can’t be that bad, and suddenly you feel a little bit better. Try it!

What other methods have you found to help race close to your physical limits?


Woodside King’s Mountain Half Marathon

king's mountain half marathon

I’m back! On Saturday I ran the Envirosports King’s Mountain Half Marathon, my first race in over a year. It hurt like hell, but it was a good hurt, and after running almost zero for 2013 it was great just to be racing again. Roar!

King’s Mountain is a trail race, through a pretty redwood forest and up a mountain, then down again. Envirosports calls it a half marathon, but I think it’s more like 11.5 miles… nobody seems to know for sure. Maps don’t plot the trails very accurately, and GPS loses signals in the canyons, and it’s such a twisty hilly course that distance isn’t really the best way to gauge it anyway.

Severals days of very heavy rain drenched the area before the race, but on Saturday the weather turned milder. It sprinkled on and off throughout the race, but was warm enough and not too windy, so I didn’t mind. Footing was a challenge, however, as the days of rain left many parts of the trail a swampy mess.

I felt pretty good at the start. After two months of “get in shape” training from a zero baseline, my race plan was:

  1. Keep a controlled pace on the uphill, then let it rip on the downhill
  2. Eat an energy gel every 30 minutes
  3. Don’t fall in a ravine

I succeeded on 1 out of 3!

There were 118 people in the race. From the start I found myself in the lead group, running eighth. This should have told me something was wrong, because I’m not that fast, but I didn’t feel like I was pushing too hard. Maybe everyone else was just slow? But after a half mile fatigue slammed me, and I realized I’d started out going way too fast. Classic mistake, and I paid the price as at least 20 people passed me over the next half mile.

We reached the steeper section of the trail, and the climbing began in earnest. I was running with a heart rate monitor, and my HR was pushing 170. Aiyee, bad news! WAY too hard! That level of effort so early in the race was courting disaster and blow-up. Every time I saw my HR, I tried to slow down, but somehow I always just sped up again. It was like my body was determined to go too hard on the uphill and collapse at the summit, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

I mostly kept pace with the people around me, trading places with a woman in pink shoes at least 10 times. My HR was going through the roof. At 35 minutes I realized I’d forgotten the energy gel. I got it in my mouth, but had trouble swallowing, as if my need to suck lungfulls of air wouldn’t allow me to close my mouth to swallow the gel. I actually felt kind of nauseous. The climbing went on and on, an endless suffering slog of 10 minute miles. My HR kept climbing, eventually reaching 177, which is within a beat or two of my max HR and way, way, too high for this event. At 59 minutes I finally crested the summit ridge, and I thought I’d never seen a more beautiful sight. I hit the halfway aid station and was totally spent, like I was ready to stop the race right there, but I knew the downhill miles would bring me back home. Ten seconds to refill my water bottle, and I was gone.

As I began the descent, for a minute it was all I could do to gasp for air and try to recover a little, but once my HR started to come down I took off. I was positively flying downhill, which was scary as hell. I had to pass about 70 runners who were still coming uphill, squeezing past them at high speeds on a narrow trail overlooking a steep drop. And the trail was a muddy Slip-n-Slide, with sharp switchbacks threatening to shoot me into a ravine with a single misstep. Fortunately my mountain goat skills saved me and I stayed on my feet.

Even in my fatigued state, I started to pick off runners as soon as I began to descend. Many people will squeeze to the side and politely let you pass if you chase them down from behind on the trail, but some competitive types stay firmly in the middle and force you to “make a pass” by vaulting over rocks and roots at the trailside. I was stuck behind one slower runner for a minute or two, and finally cut the apex of a switchback to jump around and ahead of him. But just as I leapt, he cut the apex himself on an even tighter line, and I almost landed on him. I just managed to squeeze by safely.

With about two miles two go, I was chased down from behind by two guys who I’ll call “Camelback” and “Vibrams”. They were hardly going any faster than I was, but I just couldn’t muster the speed or the willpower to stay in front. They moved by me, and began to fade into the distance ahead. But then a moment later they took a wrong turn at a trail intersection, and by the time they realized their mistake I was a few seconds in front again.

At about one mile to go, I was determined not to let them pass me a second time, but Vibrams went by again and Camelback was tight on my heels. It was the part of the race where I should have given it my last, best effort, but I was so wiped it was hard to care anymore. My brain floated in a kind of fog, wanting only to be finished. I knew we were getting close. I managed to put a little distance on Camelback, but Vibrams crept further and further ahead. Then unexpectedly I was gaining on Vibrams! He was fading, but I was fading too. At a quarter-mile to go I was right there, two strides behind him. On another day I might have summoned the willpower to sprint him down to the finish, but this day I just didn’t have it. He was tantalizingly close, but I just couldn’t get past. Looking over my shoulder, Camelback was nowhere in sight, so I let Vibrams go and cruised to the waiting arms of the finish line.

My finish time was 1:45:33. Just after finishing, I realized I never took any of the energy gels after the first one. Doh!

Was this a good race? There’s no easy way of measuring how good or bad my finish time was, since the course was a twisty roller-coaster and I don’t even know how long it was. I finished 30th out of 118 overall, and 4th out of 12 in my division, which is respectable. Vibrams finished 16 seconds ahead of me, and Camelback was 39 seconds behind. My average HR for the race was 165, or about 92% of max HR for an hour and 45 minutes, so that’s a pretty good workout!

I wish I’d finished a bit higher than I did, but it’s still a good result for only having trained two months, and killing myself on the uphill half of the course, and not taking in the calories I’d planned. I’ll probably do some more halves this spring, then the next big test is June 8 when I’ll do my first full-length trail marathon. Woo-ee!

Running vs Cycling Heart Rate

Any good book on running will likely talk about training by heart rate zone. While the exact boundaries and definitions of the zones may differ between sources, the general idea is that exercising while your heart rate is in different zones will provide different benefits and physiological adaptations in your body. Training at 60-70% of maximum heart rate helps you lose weight without being too taxing. Long workouts at 80-90% of max heart rate improve endurance and the body’s ability to cope with accumulating lactate in the blood. Intervals at 90-100% of MHR stress the body’s aerobic capacity, but can be exhausting. This kind of structured exercise based on heart rate zone is the cornerstone of many training plans. This is old news.

What’s new to me is how the mode of exercise figures into this picture. Most runners would probably agree that jogging at 60-70% of max heart rate is fairly easy: they can carry on a conversation without trouble, and maintain that heart rate for over an hour. But for some people, reaching the same heart rate while swimming or cycling may feel much more difficult, or even nearly impossible. Why?

My curiosity on this question grew out of two recent purchases: a home spinning bike and a heart rate monitor. I took the HRM on some runs around the neighborhood, and found that a subjectively “easy” running pace raised my HR into the 140s. In the 150s, the required effort felt moderate, and the boundary where “hard” began was around 160. A short sprint or uphill charge pushed it well into the 170s. For a typical easy run of a few miles, my average HR was 152 or so.

Then I tried the HRM on some spin bike workouts. I’d already been using the spin bike for a few months, setting the resistance so the subjective effort felt similar to my runs. I was stunned to discover that the spin bike barely raised my HR to 100. What?!

I cranked up the resistance, trying to bring my HR to the same 140-150 zone as my easy runs, but the effort required felt extreme. It was like sprinting up a steep hill. My legs turned into blocks of stone, and I couldn’t keep going for more than a couple of minutes. Just for fun (this is fun?) I tried an all-out sprint with the bike at a high resistance setting, and found that I simply couldn’t push my HR beyond 162 on the bike, even as I was gasping for breath and sweating a river. After much experimentation, I finally settled on a resistance level that felt subjectively like a hard run, but still only raised my HR into the 125-130 range.


Explanation Please

What the heck is going on here? Why was the heart rate on the bike so different than the heart rate while running, when working at the same level of perceived effort? And what does the discrepancy say about the best way to combine training for running and cycling?

I did some research, and found that many other people have observed the same discrepancy between running and cycling heart rates, though mine was a bigger difference than most. This discussion mentions a 5% difference or ~10 beats per minute, this triathlon site refers to a 15 bpm difference in max heart rate, and this article talks about the discrepancy at length but doesn’t give any specific numbers. Intriguingly, though, it does mention that the discrepancy appears largest among runners with little cycling experience, and that pro triathletes with lots of cycling and running experience show little discrepancy in heart rate between the two activities.

Unfortunately, I never found any source that gave a really satisfactory answer for the discrepancy, but there are two general theories that come close to an answer when they’re combined. Theory #1 seems to be that fewer muscles are used while cycling vs running, so the demand for oxygen isn’t as high, and the heart doesn’t need to beat as fast. Theory #2 is that the leg muscles of a runner-turned-cyclist are comparatively weak, and it’s ultimately muscle power that limits cycling performance, not aerobic capacity. Taking a step back, these theories could almost be viewed as two sides of the same coin. In essence, they’re both saying that the ability of the heart to pump oxygenated blood to the leg muscles is not what determines the upper limit of cycling performance (and presumably perceived effort). More succinctly: cycling is a strength activity, not an aerobic activity.

Regardless of why the heart rate discrepancy exists, the real question for runner/cyclists is what to do about it. For somebody like me who’s primarily a runner, but uses the spin bike to supplement my training, should I structure the bike workouts to match the heart rate of my runs, or match their perceived effort level? Again, I couldn’t find a really great answer to this question, and the triathlon site was the only source that even partly addressed the question. Their recommendation is to establish a unique max HR for each sport, which will likely be lower for cycling than for running, and then to calculate sport-specific heart rate zones. That’s more-or-less the same as training for the same perceived effort in each sport. In my case and in my present condition, that’s really my only choice anyway, since cycling at a HR of 150+ is too difficult for me to maintain for more than a couple of minutes.

Unfortunately I find this answer vaguely unsettling. If I do a spin bike workout at the same level of perceived effort as my easy runs, and my HR during the workout is only 120, what part of my body am I actually strengthening? Will I get any meaningful aerobic benefit out of it? Or am I just training cycling-specific muscles, which isn’t a goal at all? I’m going to keep digging and see what more I can learn.

Running Past 40

399413_10150473342399538_1584481795_nAnyone ages 9 to 90 can get outside and run, but if you’re competitive and enjoy racing, it sure helps to be young. As you age past 40, and the days of setting new personal bests are behind you, what motivates you to keep going? Do your reasons for running change as you get older? And what can an older runner do to stay competitive?

As I’m now a “masters” runner myself, these questions have been much on my mind. Watching the Olympics over the past weeks, I was struck by the fact that for the first time, every single athlete is younger than I am. Not that I ever had Olympic aspirations or anything close to it, but this was the clearest signal yet that my peak athletic years are behind me. That’s a sobering thought.

My running career began 12 years ago, at the age of 31, and I took to it with a passion. I’d never been into sports while growing up, and wasn’t particularly fit, but suddenly here was something athletic that I was actually halfway decent at. Improvement came quickly, and I collected a few age group awards at local races. New PRs came easily and often. I increased my training volume, ran several marathons, and later qualified for and ran the Boston Marathon. I read all the training books, logged every detail of every workout, and took the whole sport very seriously.

Four years on, around age 36, things started to change. New PRs became rare. I had to do a high volume of training simply to match my old race performances, and forget about improving on them. Before long, I started to lose interest. I’d been motivated to run 50+ miles per week when it was bringing me constant improvements, but I wasn’t interested in training that hard just to match what I’d already done in the past, or even slip backwards. I floundered, and cut way back on running. I haven’t raced a marathon since, and my training volume in the eight years since then has been much less than during that early period.

Miles per Year

I look at this graph with some regret. While it’s easy to judge things in hindsight, I probably gave up too easily. Yes, improvements had tapered off, but if I’d kept at it and maybe tried some alternate training methods, I probably could have eked out more. I read somewhere (Daniels’ Running Formula?) that whatever age he or she starts, a runner can normally expect to see continued improvement for about 10 years. I gave it less than half that.

For the past eight years, my running has moved in cycles of a few months of enthusiasm followed by more months of low or no running at all. Part of this is mental: I’ll get excited and build up my training volume for a few months, but then when it becomes burdensome or the rate of improvement begins to slow, I just drop it completely. The bigger factor, though, is injuries. In the early years it felt like I could run forever, and while I might be exhausted, my body was fine mechanically. In recent years my body has seemed more like a junker car, with something always broken. Problems with my knees and ankles are always plaguing me, forcing me to skip workouts and reduce training until I just give up. Eventually they’ll heal and I’ll start running again, only to be sidelined by a new problem.

2012 was a halfway decent year and I logged over 1000 miles for the first time in six years, and even set a new PR at 8K. But then I fell apart again, and ran almost zero for the entirety of 2013.


As 2013 wound to a close while my running shoes gathered dust, I wasn’t a happy person. I wasn’t getting much exercise, and I felt guilty, cranky, and depressed. Around Christmas I finally decided that I had to force myself to run a few miles a week, as a prescription for better physical and mental health, even if I didn’t feel up to it. I viewed it like taking medicine. So I ran three miles every other day for a while, and a funny thing happened: I felt better. MUCH better. I’ve often read about the psychological benefits of running, but this was a much bigger boost than I would ever have expected. It was like I’d suddenly gone on Prozac, while all I was doing was jogging around the neighborhood.

Then another funny thing happened: I started wanting to run more, to train, and to race again. To avoid burning out anew or risking another injury, I kept with the every-other-day running schedule, but bought a home spinning bike for extra cardio workouts on non-running days. I also changed my routes, dropping the road courses I’ve followed for most of my running life for new routes that are almost entirely hilly singletrack trails.

While it’s only been a few months, so far this combination is working great for me. I feel strong, I’m injury-free (knock on wood), and I’m actually enjoying my runs for their own sake instead of viewing them only as a means to an end. I’ve developed a new interest in trail running as well. Instead of running my 50th road 5K and being disappointed with my finishing time, I can run some crazy 10.73 mile trail race through redwood forests, and feel great about pushing myself and being alive. Next week I’ll be running a trail half marathon, and in June I’ve got the Skyline to the Sea trail marathon, my first full-length marathon in eight years.

So there is life after 40, at least for this runner. I may no longer be able to match my times from 10 years ago, but I don’t feel like I need to. I’ve come to appreciate the physical and mental benefits of regular running, outside any worries over races. And my renewed focus on trail running has opened up all kind of new possibilities: ultramarathons? Adventure races? Who knows what’s in store, but I’m excited to find out!


Are Race Entry Fees Too High?

If you’ve registered for a race recently, you may have been suprised by the entry fee. Even a low-key 5K race can cost $30, and many marathons have entry fees of $100 or more. If you only race occasionally, then these fees probably aren’t a big deal, but for those who race a few times a month, the entry fees can really add up. What does your entry fee buy you? What determines the cost of producing a race? Have the costs increased significantly in recent years?

Anatomy of a Race 

Your entry fees help defray the costs of putting on the race, which aren’t always obvious to runners. In addition to the direct costs of give-aways like T-shirts, indirect organizational costs can greatly increase expenses, especially for large events in urban areas. Typical expenses for producing a race include:

  • Give-Aways: T-shirts, finisher’s medals, trophies and prize money
  • Aid/Finish Stations: Sports drink, water, cups, energy snacks
  • Permit: Fee paid to the city, park, or other entity for the right to use the location or close roads
  • Timing: Start/finish clocks, timekeeping computers, timing chips and mats, web site for results
  • Registration: Fraction of registration fees paid to sign-up services like
  • Police and Traffic Control: Overtime paid to police for directing traffic and monitoring intersections
  • Emergency Services: Ambulance or EMT on stand-by at one or more locations
  • Staff: salaries for race director or other paid staff at larger events
  • Insurance: Event insurance to cover the risk of disasters or lawsuits

Race sponsors can alter the economics by contributing cash in exchange for naming or advertising rights, or by contributing non-cash assistance, such as stocking aid stations or furnishing T-shirts and prizes.

It’s interesting to compare a race entry fee with the price of ski lift ticket, since they have many costs in common. A marathon costs about the same as a typical lift ticket, but the ski operator has the advantage of spreading its cost of insurance, permits, staff, and emergency services over an entire winter, while the marathon must recover its expenses from a one-time event. Furthermore, no ski area gives you a T-shirt and a medal at the end of the day. Of course the marathon doesn’t need to maintain snow making and snow grooming equipment, so it’s an imperfect comparison, but by this measure the cost of a typical marathon appears quite reasonable.

In the final tally, the entry fees plus sponsor assistance must do more than simply cover the race’s expenses. Every race wants to generate a profit, whether because it’s operated by a for-profit event promoter, or is a charity event whose profits will go to an organization like Race for the Cure.

Rising Entry Costs 

Over the past five to ten years, have race entry fees have increased faster than inflation or other cost of living measures? It’s easily to grumble about the cost of races while forking over $40 for the latest 10K, but have costs truly increased at an unreasonable rate?

To answer that question, I took a look at some of my own races from the past nine years, and compared the original entry fee to the current entry fee for the same or similar race. All 2011-2012 fees reflect the lowest possible early entry fee, and do not include online registration convenience charges or other surcharges. All original race fees are from my records of what I actually paid, and may or may not reflect early entry discounts or online registration convenience fees.

For shorter races between 5K and 10K, most of the earlier races no longer exist. Instead, I compared a sample of earlier races with current races of similar distance, size, and location.

Past Races 
2003 Mercury News 10K – San Jose CA – $25
2004 HP’s Up and Running 10K – Palo Alto CA – $25
2006 Banana Chase 10K – San Francisco CA – $30
2007 Juana Run 8K – Palo Alto CA – $30
Current Races 
2012 California 10K – Stockton CA – $25
2012 Union City Sport Center 5K – Union City CA – $35
2012 Du Three Bears 5K – El Sobrante CA – $30
2012 Dublin Shamrock 5K – Dublin CA – $25

For this sample of races, it appears that race entry fees actually haven’t increased. 5K and 10K races typically cost $25 to $35 today, as they did five or more years ago. But for half and full marathons, the story is quite different:

Past and Current Races 
Kaiser Permanente Half Marathon – San Francisco CA – 2004: $30, 2012: $50
Austin Motorola Marathon – Austin TX – 2002: $70, 2012: $100
Des Moines Marathon – Des Moines IA – 2004: $59, 2012: $68
Boston Marathon – Boston MA – 2006: $95, 2011: $130
Wineglass Marathon – Corning NY – 2006: $65, 2012: $70

The longer races saw entry fees increase by an average of 34% over a six to ten year period. That sounds like a lot, but it’s the equivalent of only about 4% increase per year. While that’s a faster rate of increase than most other expenses over the same period, it’s not an unreasonable rate.

One expense that has increased over this period is the widespread adoptance of online registration “processing fees”. Ten years ago, most race registrations were made by mailing in a form, and the race entry fee was all that was paid. Today there’s often an additional $5 fee when registering online, beyond the race entry fee itself. For more expensive races like triathlons, the processing fee can sometimes be $10 or more. Yes, the sign-up service must get paid too, but I find it hard to believe that automated processing of an electronic registration should be more expensive than paying someone to tear open envelopes and transcribe information from hand-written registration forms.

Race Bargains 

Returning to the original question, if race entry fees appear justified, then what’s the frugal runner to do? How can an active 5K racer avoid racking up a hundred dollars a month in entry fees?

Racing as a bandit without paying the entry fee is definitely not a solution. While some people may find ways to rationalize banditing, or claim that they shouldn’t have to pay to run on public streets and trails, it’s an ethically bankrupt practice.

Some races have begun offering a “no shirt” registration option, which knocks about $10 off the entry fee. For runners who already have a whole closet full of race T-shirts, this is a great option. Unfortunately the choice is not often offered.

The best way to minimize entry fees is to seek out smaller events in out of the way locations. It might seem that events with 10000 runners would offer cheaper entry, thanks to their ability to spread fixed costs over more entrants, but this is rarely the case. The greater costs of permits, police, and emergency services combine with the added glitz of larger events to drive their costs higher. Of the four marathons mentioned above, it’s no accident that the ones in Iowa and rural New York State are far cheaper than those in Austin and Boston.

In the San Francisco area, the Dolphin South End club puts on races nearly every weekend, with an entry fee of just $5. Races are held in San Francisco or other nearby towns, with distances from 1 mile to 12K, and may attract anywhere from a few dozen to a few hundred runners. For the frequent racer on a budget, it’s just what’s needed.