I ran my first race this year, a 4.2 mile 4th of July run in the town I grew up in. I don’t refer to it as home. Home is very much where I live now, a sweet cottage tucked on a hillside in Oakland, CA. That is not to say that I don’t hold the place where I grew up fondly. It is a beautiful place filled with good memories including many with my friend Betsy Richards who regretfully (tragically) left this world in 1991. Betsy was one of those mysterious girls that you could only love for her quirkiness, unique interests and super creative mind. She had an ethereal way about her, a madly contagious giggle and when I was 14 I wanted to be her best of best friends. She had lots of friends without even trying. She lived out on Gurnet Point in a fishing cabin rumored to have been Daniel Webster’s. To live on Gurnet Point was to live by nature’s rhythm and more specifically by the ocean’s rhythm. No electricity meant no distractions, you had to use all of the daylight hours because the generator only ran for so long each night and then it was lights out. When I was lucky enough to spend time out on The Gurnet with Betsy we would collect seaweed, sleep out on the deck, and run around the beaches and dunes. Time always flew by when I was in Betsy’s world.

I write about Betsy today because she is why I run. When I took up marathon running in 1999 it was secretly in honor of her, remembering her beach running and realizing that she was always one to go for it. I do not have a single run where I don’t think of her. So, as I willed my legs along this past 4th of July on a muggy East Coast morning along with 800 others passing our old high school and following one of the classic Duxbury running routes around Powder Point I thought of Betsy. Just before mile 2 clicked by I found myself running next to a young girl with what appeared to be her father. She was all sinewy muscle, light on her toes with a huge smile. She was so in her element that I found myself covered in goosebumps. I said a secret little thanks to her for being such an inspiration and surged on trying my best to keep her in my sights. My running this year has been nothing to write about, as I have been focused on my new business. I managed to finish the race in 35 minutes! I was excited about running 8.19minute miles. Later, when my sister and I were looking over the online race results I noticed a name pop out of the sea of names in the 0-14 age category. Betsy Richards.

I’m fairly certain this girl’s father is Betsy’s oldest brother. I’m so glad her days of running 25 years ago lives on in more than one person.

love the mud

Well, those socks were a mistake purchase (i thought they were black!) but I do wear those 5 finger shoes a few times a week now. I can manage about 40 minutes in them so far. They instantly improve my form but my body is still adjusting from the lazier running form we all have in our cozy padded running shoes. Last week I found myself stomping through squishy mud puddles and feeling like a 10 year kid. I found myself aiming for the deepest squishiest mud and hitting the water with accentuated splashing. You just can’t help but smile. Instant de-stresser. And I need all the de-stressing I can get at this time so today was a good day to recommit to more steady running and longer runs again too.

The West Coast of the South Island is a sparsely populated paradise. Hours of driving through tunnels of fern encrusted living walls 20-25feet high, New Zealand Tree Ferns, Nikau Trees that look like sturdy stumpy palms, and the Rata Tree grow thick across the steep and jagged landscape. Mt Cook draws in the weather, keeping the clouds gathered close around her. It’s rare to get a clear view of the glaciers unless you hire a helicopter to take you above the cloudy skirts.

We stopped and ate “whitebait” at a beach shack down a gravel road. A cheerful fellow fried up the little fish, tiny black eyes still intact, with and egg batter. He chatted about various sights we could see along the road. The whitebait was perfectly served on fresh white bread and it all went down before I remembered to taste it. There was another stop at the Pancake Rocks, limestone rock formations that take a relentless beating from the Tasman Sea, named after Abel Tasman who was the first Brit to sight the land now called New Zealand long before Captain Cook made his adventures in the Pacific.

A 3 hour ferry crossing from Picton to Wellington across some decent swells in the Cook Straights made more than a few teenagers on a school trip sick. Akira explored the huge 9 story ferry and found a padded playground where he spent most of his time throwing his body around as the ship pitched and heaved.

Today we make the last push to Auckland, 5 hours driving and then we get to be spectators to Sally’s sport, sailing. She has several races this evening in Auckland Harbor an area of Hauraki Gulf. Looking forward to the ocean going part of the trip.

Laurel: I hate to write a post while Lisa is running ultra-marathons and taking pictures of the most amazing beautiful sites, and I am stuck in an ultra-inversion of smog that is creating its own weather system of humidity and fog. Winter is so hard in SLC. If there is snow, all is well. Without storms it stagnates and we get “red-air” days which are unsafe for exercise of any kind or old people or young people and just generally oppressive. And when they get really bad, the fog rolls in. Today I escaped to the blue skies up on the ridgeline… where I spent a good portion of the week-end, actually. Trudging through the icy slushy snow and slippery mud with the dog, just to get UP and out of the muck.

BUT, I also had a lovely morning at the spa getting my feet prettied up, and worked on art all week-end (!), which I am thoroughly enjoying (though slightly troubled by, since the idea is stolen/borrowed from an artist that I saw on the internet. Eeek.). And I am three weeks deep into a 12-week mountain bike strength training program, so I keep myself busy while I ponder the longevity of a life in a place where winter feels like poison and smells like a sewer. Pray for snow, as they say.

Malcolm leading the 7in7 train

With 15k to go in yesterday’s 60k run the edges of my vision became foggy. I’d been giving a good effort for the first 45k and felt best when we were working the ridge line through the tussock with an endless blue sky above, cool enough breeze for a woolie hat and views of the surrounding wilderness. This was my first experience running in a group and a seasoned trail-running group at that. I studied Malcolm’s running stlye, shoulders back, short steps, loose and light. We were also lucky to have Sue from Wellington running with us. In typical Kiwi spirit (though she is originally from Australia) she was the utter definition of humble. We had spotted Sue in town and knew that she was a bad-ass trail runner, the kind of all muscle, small frame, walking on tip toe figure and imagined that she would be a contender for first woman to cross the line. But she had come to run with the 7in7 crew. We chatted for a few kilometers and I noticed that her breathing was the same as if I were walking at an easy pace. I preferred running behind her to watch her as she gently and quickly tapped the ground with her forefoot giving the appearance of a quiet rabbit hopping along without effort. A perfect running form.

We kept a steady walking pace on the 2 hour up-hill grunt with a short rest at Luxmore Hut where we had just broken out of tree line. A teen-aged rock-n-roll band welcomed our arrival as well as a bag check to make sure no one had ditched the required long-undies, emergency blanket, rain gear, hat and gloves. We continued up to the ridge another 45 minutes and enjoyed the undulating single track trail for a bit until the true descent began back down through lichen encrusted beech forests.

a little snow ball frolic at a snowfield alongside the trail

Malcolm pointing out where we'll go after reaching valley as seen on right

Down down down we went to Iris Burn Hut, the halfway point. We were greeted by Santa Claus and Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer and an assortment of twinkling fairies. The forest had been decorated with balloons and silver fringe. A fantastical and sweet scene. A few more hours through the boggy land of spring runoff from all the sheer peaks and I began to realize that Malcolm was driving the train ever so slightly harder. There was much banter back and forth among his regular band of runners. Robin Hood and his Merry Men. I considered myself lucky to be invited into this crew. One of them, whom I’d nicknamed “the goat” thanks to his constant running ahead so that he could take video of us running past, is a champion of “rogaining”, long-distance cross country navigation.

Malcolm let Dee and I know when we’d reached 26 miles and the crew congratulated us for having completed two marathons in one week. A few kilometers later was when my eyes went blurry at the edges. I was fighting a queazy belly too. I’d also been managing to ignore a tweaky left ankle. But with 15k to go and all these little physical signals my mind tried to get the best of me, enter the demons. Self doubt, check. Pity, check. Critic, check. I faded and watched the train pull on ahead. I wanted to be alone to battle these demons anyway. I couldn’t ignore them so it was just a matter of focusing. I acknowledged them, imagined myself collapsing into a sobbing heap on a grassy patch and then carried on. I shifted my attention to the forest, the dappled light through the delicate leaves of the beeches and sweet smelling springtime air. Dee waited for me and assured me that she was spent too. We hobbled, walked and glided through those last 15k. At 9k to go there was Akira waiting to cheer me on. I choked up for a second and then we were off again. And then 500 meters to go there was Sal, ever bright and cheerful and I choked up again, turned the bend and actually ran the rest of the way to the finish following Dee’s footsteps. Malcolm was there and pointed out the time. We had finished in 9hours and 55minutes! I had no idea. I thought for sure it was nearing the 12 hour cut off. Choked up again.

And now all those teaspoons of concrete are making me walk like Granny Frankenstein. Cheers.

Dee and me at the start

boy & girlie

Gore is one sleepy town. We made three attempts at finding lodging but no one was answering the knock at the door until the long drive down a gravel road led us to Hokonui homestay. Shona and Brian, former tree farmers, treated us to a real kiwi farm experience. After a massive brekkie of granola with rhubarb AND eggs and bacon (oof) out we went to say hello to the horses and working dogs. We jumped into the trailer pulled by Brian’s “bike”, a 4-wheeler, and raced the dogs to the sheep paddock. The dogs listened to Brian’s direction and herded those darn sheep right up next to us in less than 2 minutes. Impressive.

guardians

Dunedin is a college town and the B&B we stayed at was shabby but homey. An old Victorian with worm-eaten floorboards (pretty patterns) and an excessive amount of red decorating the walls and curtains. We had an early dinner, wandered and stayed up late worrying about Malcolm. He wasn’t feeling good on Sunday after the marathon and Monday’s 60k had put him in the hospital to get rehydrated. Tuesday’s leg was supposed to be the most challenging given all the elevation but finally there was a Facebook post from him saying that he was fine and had had a great day. The doctor whom had tended to him the night before ran the whole way with him and he was feeling gooood. phew.

On Wednesday we toured the Otago Museum (Otago is the region) which has a large collection of Moari carvings and artifacts. Akira dug into his research, taking notes on his Ipod touch, oooing and ahing as he went. I thought of my Tibetan friends when I read about the importance of objects that touch the chief’s head. The Moari make beautifully carved wooden boxes to store such objects as feathers and combs and then they hang the boxes from the ceiling of the chief’s home and it is said to protect all those who dwell there. In Tibet the head is also very important and it’s asking for trouble if you do something such as take a close-up photo of someone and not include the head.

Now we are in Gore, the Brown Trout fishing capital of the world, woo hoo, staying at a B&B in the middle of sheep fields. Brekkie time!

I tried to ignore the amused man across the street clearly watching us as he casually ate an ice cream cone. Turns out it was Donald, a local artist who in fact is the maestro of all things steampunk. He unlocked the building and gave us a tour. He has a wealthy patron backing his endeavor to turn the old building into a steampunk wonderland. How exciting. He has already made an old train full of rusting skeletons seemingly busting up out of the ground in the center of town. Every night it’s a show complete with steam and sound.

We wandered through this old warehouse district full of metal working shops for both industrial and artist use. There were a few galleries. There was an artist who makes greenstone necklaces with the primary Maori symbols. He gave us a good tip for rock hunting. We had a shandy at a corner pub. We wandered all over town looking for a place to stay. One of the B&B’s we couldn’t get out of fast enough. Think Bates Motel. Another B&B we found ourselves at after driving down a long driveway flanked by lush gardens, a giant old home that used to be owned by the town’s sole merchant at the turn of the 20th century. We were greeted by James, the new caretaker from New York by way of Beijing. He and his partner, also James, bought the place 4 months ago. It is the finest digs in town called Pen-y-bryn Lodge. James #1 gave us a tour. While I’m plugging B&B’s, I can’t recommend enough the Renmore House run by Rosie and Blaire in Wanaka. We were taken care of to perfection.

Finally as dusk was upon us we made our way to see the rare yellow-eyed penguins first and then into town for wine and pizza and a hop and skip around the corner to the blue-eyed penguin colony. Both types of penguin head out to sea at daybreak and come back in at dusk to roost in cliffside holes. We had fun watching the funny little creatures waddle up out of the shore and in some cases stop traffic as they cross streets to get to the cliffs.

Now it’s time for brekkie at 61 on Derwent, another B&B as the Pen-y-bryn was too rich for our blood.