Nothing about the 50 mile last year prepared me for this course. My only solace is that the front runners also expected to finish 3-4 hours sooner than they did. Well, that and the fact that less than half of the hares that signed up made it through. I was in extremely good company.
What possessed me to sign up as a hare? Good question. Honestly, I thought I could finish the 100 miler in less than 29 hours, the original hare cutoff. It was at lower altitude than Leadville, at least, some of it was.... And I wanted to support the race - it's a neat format. I did not think I was going to win any $$, I just wanted to pad the women's field a little. Let me explain. Fred's little race, Run Rabbit Run 100 starts the self-proclaimed tortoises at 8 am (pretty civil start time, eh?) and then the hares start at 1:00 pm. Five hours after the tortoises - but everyone had the same finish line cutoff. The hares were running for serious prize money - 10K each for the male and female winners, and reduced amounts 5 deep. Pretty cool, except as race day got closer, there weren't many female hares. Fred hinted he might only go 3 deep on the women's side. So I thought, heck, why not? I can finish before the cutoff. And seeing a mid pack runner in there might stir some others to give it a shot. Besides, it'll be fun to sleep in and then get to catch and run through some of the tortoises perhaps.
I have to say, it was odd to have to wait around to start until 1. I couldn't figure out what I should eat, when I should eat it... And then, the nerves had plenty of time to build while I was waiting around.
From the middle of the first climb, I realized I would be chasing my predicted splits all day. We went straight up the ski hill. Bushwacking under the gondolas. Straight up. Ups are something I need more practice at - I hadn't gotten any practice in between Leadville and now. Pretty quickly I was bringing up the rear. I expected that, though, so I kept chugging. And chugging. Holy cow this is a long ski hill. Oh good, the gondola station. What, another climb just like that? ...ok....
My calves were burning, I was sweating like crazy. At least the other runners had beat the trail down for me a little. Finally at the second gondola station, the course joined the road, which now meant I had the luxury of switchbacks to the top of the mountain, instead of a beeline. Really, I was thankful. Truly.
I had tried to take that first section easy, but after 6 miles, my legs felt like they'd done 30. Ooof. I think I use my calves too much as I climb, and not my glutes... something to work on. I tripped and fell 3 times on the slight rolling downhill 6 miles to the second aid station. I just hoped my calves wouldn't feel any worse. It was so pretty up there that I mostly didn't mind.The aspens were bright yellow against the dark evergreen background, yellow flowers dotted the mountainsides, blue sky topped it all off. The trail to Long Lake is rolling, with a few roots to make things interesting. After the AS, the first 2 miles of fish creek falls trail was gorgeous and runnable - gentle turns, slight downhill and flat, through glowing green meadows and a backdrop of evergreens and yellow aspen. I still hadn't recovered from that climb, but I was running at least. The falls continually next to the trail forced me to stop and admire at least twice, the sounds keeping me company throughout those miles. The trail then became technical and rocky, more downhill with switchbacks, until finally I hit the road. I thought I'd dislike this part - pavement and all - but the smooth easy running made it fun.
Through the high school AS, through town and to the Olympian AS. Ken was there waiting for Richard - he cheered me on. I was trying to be quick through the AS's - I knew I had to be to make cutoffs, and I didn't have a dedicated crew to help. As I was leaving the Olympian at 6 pm, I realized I didn't have any food on me. I hiked back down the ski hill - luckily only a short way. Ken gave me two waffles out of his pack, and off I went again. Ok, we are going to tackle this climb, and then as it gets dark, we are going to love running some trails.
Wait. Dark....
I don't have a headlamp! Back to the AS. I run in, and explain to Ken I need my drop bag as I look around wildly.
Wait. Drop bag...
I don't have a drop bag here, it's at the previous AS 0.9 miles back. With my lights - three of them.
It's at this point that I start realizing how smooth having a crew makes things. And how from a psychological stress point of view, being a crewed runner is so much easier than being a runner's crew. Facing the miles ahead falls on the shoulders of the runner, but keeping the runner able to face those miles is an undefined challenge to the thoughtfulness, organization, and creativity of the crew for hours and hours.
Luckily, I did have a crew at this AS. Ken, still waiting to pace IV. As I despaired over the thought of running back to my drop bag, he hands me his headlamp and says he'll grab my light from my bag as he and IV pass through the high school AS.
Third time's the charm. I head up the ski hill, so steep that I use my hands and feet at some points.
Running (ok, hiking) up the road at the top of the ski hill as night falls, I greet runners coming down with encouragement. I switch on my headlamp, and it glints off the rocks. The glints flicker - no wait, they BLINK. And blink again - a small rodent? as I get closer the blinks launch upward and swirl, spiraling off into the velvet sky. Not a rodent - a bird? Ten steps later, two pink glints in the road again, blink then loop smoothly and dart up and away. A third time, and I could swear it was the same bird over and over, leading me down the road. What was this avian guide? I slowed my pace to soften the crunch of gravel, sought the smooth areas of the road. I held my breath hoping that no runners would come from the other direction to spoil the moment and spook my guide. Two pink glints in the road. I turned my head slightly so only the edge of my light would catch the bird. Slowly a low mottled gray shape took form, the neckless profile and headshape - a nighthawk. I've seen them in flight, and heard their reedy "neeep" call as they hunt mosquitos, but I had never seen one. I stopped and resolved to remember the feeling of discovery, the wonder of sharing just a moment with another creature, to see the world through it's eyes. A final blink, spiraling off into the air, weightless and gone, and I was alone again.
I was alone for much of the rest of my race. The next 15 miles pass steadily if not quickly. I love running downhill, though I am slowed by lack of agility and a few roots. The Beall trail comes, and I found it tricksy. I expected to hit a steep section to take me to the top of the ridge, but instead it winds up then down over and through, never steep. Always runnable, but thinking it will turn steep I walk most of it. And here I start learning that instead of running for what I think the trail will be, I should run the pace for the trail that I am on. I reach the road downhill, and realize that I've wasted time, valuable time on false expectations. What other lessons will I have to learn? I pass several people going down, now catching some tortoises and a hare or two. Chatting with K D'onofrio was fun as we headed to the Olympian AS.
I barely pause here - no drop bag, remember? and head to the high school, catching WM on the way.
Here I have to stop. I was getting cold, and the night was just starting. I put on my ls, and forget to put my ss Jemez mtn trail run shirt in my bag, losing it forever. If anyone finds a women's small royal blue Jemez Mtn Trail run shirt, I will pay you good $$ for it. It was my favorite shirt. Seriously.
Jacket over top, gloves, but I leave the handwarmers behind, thinking I am tougher than that. The AS volunteers watch me from a distance wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags. I change the batteries in a flashlight, and a volunteer steps up to lend me her light. I ask her to fill my water, then get some broth before heading into the night, with the kind encouraging words of the volunteers fading into the stillness.
And then returning because I had forgotten to bring any food with me. Again.
I am about to find out how tough I am, alone with the cold dark night. stretching out in front of me, eclipsed only by the number of miles left for my feet to trod. The road to Fish Creek Falls trail passes quickly, and I pass a couple of tortoises - it wasn't what I imagined the rear of the field to be, the quietness some parts desperation, resignation, determination, and even some peacefulness. I start some positive self talk as I hike up the steepish rocky trail, trying to mimic DPB on hope pass at Leadville - you're doing it, you've got this, one step at a time... but the words sound a little hollow and a pale reflection of my pacer's enthusiasm. My mind goes to other thoughts and recalling the wonderful miles spent with friends keeps me company as I climb past waterfall after waterfall crashing through the dark expanse. I don't want to, but I make myself run when the trail levels out. My feet ache - I meant to change into more comfortable shoes at the HS, but by mistake I had put the shoes in the drop bag that was still ahead of me. My feet are beat up. Toughen up, though, we are only at mile 45. My teeth chatter and force me to keep running when the trail is flat. I let out a croak of excitement when my light catches a handwarmer on the ground! The excitement drains out of me when I pick it up and only feel a cold chill soaking through my gloves. Run more. I need to get to the AS to layer on more clothes and change my shoes. After my other AS gaffes, I make a mantra of the things I need: another shirt first. Change my shoes. Eat something warm if they have it. Get rid of trash (including cold handwarmer). Pick up more food. More water. Subconsciously in there I think, get warm. I'll get warm there. I'll be able to stop, and I'll get warm. I'm shivering and running and still enjoying the twists and turns, the frost on the grass blades glimmering diamond-like in my (Ken's) light.
Closer to the AS, I can feel it pulling me, and I focus on running all the way there. All the way. Shirt. Shoes. Eat. (warm.) Water.
I get there, and the volunteers take care of me - chair, blanket, drop bag, pancakes, broth. I take off my jacket to put on another shirt, and my uncontrollable shivering makes it hard to get my hands in the sleeves. Jacket back on, quickly now... Ok, pancakes before they get cold... can't get them to my mouth - no fork just a spoon to use and now it's a NASA test of hand-eye-mouth coordination, the shaking hands threaten to launch each dollar size pancake balanced precariously on plastic spoon through the icy air, my mouth agape straining like a baby bird to get the worm and swallow it whole without complaining. No pancakes were lost as a result of my race.
I consider not changing my shoes to avoid the cold - my feet are cold and numb already. I discard that idea as a dangerous lazy mistake, knowing that my feet are not tough enough anymore for the Inov8 bare bones shoes. I wish for crew, but start tackling the laces myself with cold thick fingers. Shoe off, quick now, other shoe on before the cold sinks deeper. Both shoes done, time for broth. The warmth seems so good. My chair rattling with my shivering, I know I'm staying here too long. I can't warm up here, I need to move. Don't forget to pack food. Water. Ok, you have to leave now. Don't think just do.
My cold fuzzy brain says it's ok to walk to digest your food and get the muscles moving again. An hour passes, but it both takes an eternity and passes so quickly it can't be noticed. My eyes cross, and with wonderment I realize I'm sleepy. I've never gotten sleepy before. I'm still so cold and shivering. Finally I think about the cold problem and tell myself to run to get warm. It works. Without a pacer though, I stop to walk at the slightest amount of adversity. Then have to work to make myself run again. I don't see the pattern, and it plays out over and over again without a conscious brain to talk me through it. Finally it starts getting light, and I realize I've been walking for most of the last 2 hours. I have to run this flat section.
At the Summit Lake AS, I look at my watch, and try to deny the time I see there. I leave quickly, embarrassed and with a creeping sense of finality. I run down the hill. Run. I have to run. Will I see Ken and IV? IV had a knee issue and was worried about dropping. Every runner I see in the distance I hope will be them. Runner after runner passes me, they encourage me. The encouragement almost makes the reality worse, but I try to only think about running. Still no IV. Where are they? Did they have a problem? They have to be coming up. I hold onto the thought of seeing them, turn after turn on the downhill gravel road. Aspens catch the morning light and I know that the beauty will last beyond this moment. I have to run, but sometimes I walk, head down. Where are they? Will I see them at the AS? I try to use the anticipation, and to keep looking forward. My legs are fine, my feet hurt but it is bearable - the clock is relentless. Finally. Yes, it's them. They're moving well. I hope not to see sympathy in their eyes and smile firmly as I find out how IV is doing. I soak in the big hug from Ken, then tell them to get after it and keep moving. I wait another 10 minutes before checking my watch, and receiving the bad news waiting for me there. Maybe they won't cut me, maybe they won't enforce the cutoff. I hold on to that faint hope and run. Now asking how far to the AS, and running harder - I can run harder, which only makes the negative self talk more strident - I should have been doing this all along....
At the AS I get a refill of water and am only thinking of getting out of there. As the AS volunteer hands me my full pack, he catches my eye and says quietly, "You know the cutoff at the High School is 9:30 am."
"yes" (is this how this happens? my mind skitters, not accepting yet.)
"It is now 9:15."
"yeah." I can't meet his sympathetic eyes, and turn to putting my pack together.
"ok, so we are going to cut you here."
"ok. Can I just run down to the HS? It'll be easier to get back to my hotel from there, catch a ride, I want to get to my drop bag. I can just run down there, you can cut me here." I don't like the waiver in my voice.
Pause. "Ok. Are you alright to run down? Do you feel ok?"
"yeah, I'm good." I just want to be on the trail again alone to vent the shame of failure, to find my equilibrium, to hide my tears. I know in the scheme of things, this is a small, small matter. All my defenses down, my emotions take me like a leaf in the capricious wind.
"You did 62 miles, that's quite an accomplishment. You should be proud."
"100K - it's not nothing. Thanks for everything, for volunteering. It was great. Thanks."
I try to look energetic heading off down the trail. I'm not proud. I want to explain - I should have been a tortoise, I would have made it if I'd signed up as a tortoise! I want to keep going, but I know I can't do that to Fred, I've always said I wouldn't make volunteers stay beyond when they're supposed to go home just to be selfish and finish a race. Some runners heading up still offer encouragement. I shake my head but cheer them on, wishing I was them, willing them forward. I dwell on where I could have worked harder, the mistakes I made, my foolishness.
The rest of the story is happier - the mayor of steamboat (no - he corrected me, the president of the city council) caught up to me and ran down, bringing me out of my funk with tales of other running adventures, dogs, steamboat peculiarities. Also driving me to my hotel once I had checked in with the solo High School AS volunteer, who I'd forced to wait for me by insisting on running down. I apologized for being selfish and making her wait. She smiled and said that there were still a couple others on their way down too. I thanked her profusely for putting up with us.
I showered and got to the finish line in time to see the winners cross. (I tried to hitch hike there from the hotel, but no one picked me up.) IV went on to finish it also, looking so happy at the line, I was so proud of him for facing that tough course as his first 100.
I have so much respect now for those that run 100's without crew or pacers. I think I have to try this again. I didn't realize the focus I'd need.
I can see in hind sight the difference all the prep for Leadville (both times) made for the race. Knowing the course and what to expect would have been golden especially when going it alone.
I think I would actually like an ipod for the night section if I don't have a pacer - something to else to pay attention to. I normally love spending time in my head, but in the night it was not an interesting place to be.
I was unprepared for running through the night alone. I needed to take another layer with me, and the handwarmers that I was "too tough" to need. Set pride aside for a moment and keep in mind the worst case scenario.
Don't eat a large breakfast, then a large brunch before running at 1 pm. A normal breakfast, and a normal brunch is probably more appropriate.
Fish creek falls is rocky, and hard on my feet - sturdier trail shoes would have been nice.
This race has seriously steep long hard climbs. Some of the downhills are technical and hard to run. The course is a little convoluted, but takes runners on some really fantastic trails. I wished several times for more "confidence markers" on the course. Studying the race map kept me on course the entire time without problem, but many got off course. It was longer than stated - that isn't unusual for 100 mile races, just expect it. I gets very cold up at 10,000 feet at night, and the AS were not in enclosed shelters except summit lake. The yellow markers were hard to see, but I trust that the race will change those for next year. Not all the volunteers knew what to do, but when asked they were more than willing to help. Overall, I enjoyed the race, at least, the part I got to do. I'm ready to go back and try it again.
