Karma at Arrowhead 135

 

I’ve been in a warm place for about 18 hours since finishing the Arrowhead 135 mile race in northern MN. I’m still wearing a few more layers than normal as I sit down to write this.

Arrowhead 135 is a point-to-point race from International Falls, MN (called the coldest city in the lower 48, and also, “the icebox”) to Fortune Bay near Tower, MN on the Arrowhead trail - a snowmobile route, groomed and maintained by local clubs. The race is held late in January, ideally when temperatures are the lowest. Race Directors are an odd bunch, aren’t they? 

I like to problem solve, and to plan, I like running in the cold (mostly) – and I like a challenge. Plus, pulling a sled for 135 miles just sounded silly.  So, I signed up. Twice actually, because 2021 was canceled. My lime green sled had been resting in a corner of the garage (getting the side eye from my husband who doesn’t like clutter) since Oct. 2020.

How does one train for a race like this? Looking at the finishing times, I clearly won’t be moving faster than 4 miles an hour. And what does it feel like to pull a sled? And what kind of cold specific training can I do in Albuquerque?

It was a test of my commitment and planning skills. 2022 wasn’t a great snow year for Albuquerque – no snow until late in December. I finally couldn’t wait any longer and started pulling the sled on grass with a 24 pack of pop loaded in it. I tried Hardin field on KAFB – it’s about 0.3 miles around and flat. BORING. Balloon Fiesta Park - the best place I found to pull - also featured a large fan base of geese that honked their encouragement (or were they laughing?) the entire time. I managed to break my sled twice (I think we’ll call this on-the-job training). Turns out that U-turns would break the fiberglass poles. Also, if the sled gets stuck on something, I can’t just yank on it.

Here’s what I learned about sled construction:

My set up:

Hiking pack hip belt
--> Connected to eyebolt via 3/8” bungee cording I cut and threaded through the hiking belt
-->Eyebolt screwed into female connector that was epoxied onto 3/8” fiberglass poles 6’ in length.
-->Heim tie-rod bolts (look like a hip socket) epoxied onto other end of pole
-->Hitch pin goes through the tie rod, and is bolted to the sled.

***The bungee cord was nice for a little give, otherwise the sled jerked against me uncomfortably with every step. I tried a stiff connection, and also a thicker bungee connection, and the 3/8” bungee connection with two very short lengths instead of one long continuous length. One long length was best.

***I learned nearly everyone at arrowhead uses a rope instead of my set up with fiberglass poles, so that when they get to a downhill, they don’t have to unclip the waist belt to sit on their sled like I did. The trail hardly has any sections of camber, so the fixed poles didn’t offer any advantage for side slipping. And not sledding easily is a disadvantage for sure.

***I tried putting metal “fins” on the bottom to keep the sled tracking, but they created way too much drag. And, as Arrowhead had no camber, this was not at all needed.

Pulling a sled is such an unknown – I obsessed about how I could train to be sure I could pull for two or more days straight – and I never felt completely confident about it. (Actually I still don’t.) I pulled the sled 5 times for about 12 hours total before the race. On the Sandia service road which is groomed for x-country ski, I had to wear snowshoes = 2.5 mph. Same for the x-country ski area near Pajarito – I could only average just over 2 mph. Ack!  Ken convinced me to drive to Chama with him, which I resisted because I didn’t know what kinds of trails would be up there. But he was 100% right, as the snowmobile packed trail there allowed me to pull for 3.5 hours and faster (>4mph!) and easier than any other outing. It was not really enough, not nearly enough, but it would have to do.

The conundrum of how to get a sled from NM to MN was solved by my wonderful husband. He undertook a road trip in the truck to drive my sled up north with our friend Richard. AND he made it look like a blast, stopping to see friends in various places along the way. All so I could use a little less vacation and not be road weary at the start line. I flew up, watched him take on a 23K x-country ski race (which was awesome) on Saturday morning. Then Saturday night we got to International Falls. It’s cold but not frigid. It’s hard not to stand outside and test myself against it. At the Chocolate Moose restaurant, we eat a good, pretty standard Midwest family restaurant meal (no seared ahi tuna on mixed greens…. But decent chicken breast for me with wild rice and veggies.) A couple comes up to us as we are enjoying cheesecake for dessert, and she asks with a gleam in her eye – are you doing The Race? I get the swooping sensation in my stomach and look down at my plate, but Ken proclaims, “she is! It’s going to be great. It’s her first time….”  And we talk just a little about the weather forecast and running it versus ski or bike. She asks my name, and says that her house is just off the course and she will come out to cheer, maybe, she says, she’ll see me out there. As she waves goodbye, I realize I didn’t ask HER name – sheesh, what was I thinking? And also, it would be a lot to ask of a stranger to come out and cheer for someone they met at a restaurant.

The race can be done on fat tire bikes, skis, kicksleds, or on foot. I had written two plans, one for finishing in 49 hours, and one for 54 hours – but I really had no idea. Even though on some of my training pulls, I was barely able to move faster than 2 mph I just hoped I’d be able to move faster than that on the race course.  And if not, what could I do? If the trail was so soft I had to wear snowshoes, I likely would not be able to finish.

We lucked out with the weather - there was no Polar Vortex this year pushing the temperatures to -45 or lower. A small part of me was a bit disappointed that wind chill would bring our coldest temperatures down to only  -27 Tuesday night.  Race morning was about 9 F, with a 10 mph headwind. Maybe the threat of trenchfoot during the warmth of Monday would be enough of a challenge…. I just hoped the snow wouldn’t soften too much and slow things down.

 Two days earlier, I had bought a pair of wool leggings to wear under my insulated tights. So Sunday, the day before the race, I test them out on a little 1.5 mi run to get me away from organizing, making lists, packing food bags, and arranging my sled. The tights make me too warm by far, so I decide I will not wear them. And I will also not even bring them along. Because I know – if it gets cold out on the trail, I will NOT be stripping down to bare legs to put them on. My final starting clothes include smartwool Sport Fleece Wind Tight (awesome if a bit loose), wool sports bra that doubles as a soft flask holder, long sleeve wool shirt and windbreaker, plus a smartwool midweight jacket on top. Wool socks and gaiters. A Salomon hydration vest with soft flasks up front that fits under my jackets. A waist belt for my food, also under the jackets. A buff. Glove liners for my hands. And a warm hat with a bill, insulating fake fur and ear flaps, and a removable mask portion – ridiculously awesome.

Unsaid in all of this prep, is Ken. A foundation. Taking off my blinders. Reminding me of my strengths. A sounding board for silly decisions that don’t matter. Someone who appreciates the racing stripes I put on the back of my sled.

Pretty cool fireworks sent off the bikers at 7 AM down the still dark trail leading out of town. I had read that it would be 4 minutes til the skiers left, then another 4 minutes for the foot division to leave. Ken stood next to me -I had felt awkward getting my sled out of the truck. Awkward trying to attach the poles to the sled, and fumbled with the hip belt trying to clip it over my jacket. I was going to have this attached to me for the next 50 hours or so, maybe more. Probably more.  And now I felt awkward not knowing where I should stand in the small group of people, how to maneuver my sled around other sleds… And then I realize that all the people are moving away from me down the trail! “I guess I’m leaving” I said to Ken – kissed him once more and headed off. I think he reminded me to be smart, and to not go too fast for the first 100 miles.

I didn’t have my headlamp out, and used the lights of others for about 10 minutes. The trail was 12 ft wide, flat and firm for the first 18 miles, and the pulling was …easy.  I was trotting along easily. What a relief. Even if the hills in from miles 37 to 114 slowed me down, it felt so good to be able to move with some purpose, not reduced to trudging with snowshoes. (Which were packed in my sled on the bottom just in case.) On the side of the trail, there was typically a fast line of smoother packed snow while the middle was chewed up by snowmobiles. I started in the back, and passed people one after the other for the first 6 miles, and met Greg a friend of a friend. We trotted together for several miles exchanging stories. He’d done the race before, and let me know we were on course record pace. I wasn’t concerned, though, as I was keeping my effort very low, not sweating, beyond easy running pace. I focused on my posture, trying to make sure the sled didn’t drag my hips back.  We saw the sun’s glow breaking through the leafless brush on the side of the trail and stop to take a picture. Eventually Greg and I part, but not before he recounts to me seeing “dog” tracks on the trail. Thinking how nice that people come and walk their dogs out here. In the middle of nowhere. And then realizing that they were wolf tracks – no one is coming out miles from town to walk their dog on a snowmobile route.

Along the way, I see an insulated metal water flask in the middle of the trail that someone must have lost – slipped right out of their sled. That could be race ending to not have liquid water available! I pick it up and run some of the cording on my sled around it tightly. I remember wondering if I would notice the weight increase (it’s full) but I don’t think I can. Eight miles later I come up on Pam Reed who has done this race a few times, and it was her bottle. She was so happy to get it back and we shared a few miles on the trail. She thanked me several times, and I just thought, “Good Karma – some time I’ll be the one needing help!”

 

A few bends later, I see a woman bundled up on the side of the trail, just standing. As I get closer, she calls out – Margaret?  I couldn’t believe it – the woman from the restaurant! I stopped and thanked her for coming out, and asked her name – Elayne. She had been tracking me, so she knew right when to come out on the course. That had me smiling for several miles. I couldn’t believe she would do that and it made such a difference to me – otherwise there were no people around. And after about 25 miles, there weren’t even other racers near me. A few snowmobiles passed me, giving me plenty of room and I waved. I could feel now that my feet were wet, and wondered if these “Snowbug” shoes were not letting my feet breath enough since the weather was warm. They felt a bit odd, sensitive almost. Otherwise I felt fine – pulling was still easy, no chafing from the belt, I was doing a good job of getting 250-300 calories per hour in. Easy to do when you are moving so slowly!

Getting to the first aid station at the Gateway convenience store at mile 37 in 9 hours I was well ahead of schedule. Ken and Richard met me here, but the race doesn’t allow crew, pacers or any outside help. They couldn’t get me anything, but it seeing them was great.  The only worry was that the warm temperatures made trenchfoot and overall wet feet a real problem. I pulled off my shoes – which were soaking wet, stripped off the socks and my feet had white patches of saturated calluses. While I considered what to do about that, I bought soup, chips, Rice Krispy treats, Junior Mints, and a Reese’s candy bar. And Coke. I started eating and dug out the notecard that detailed what I was supposed to do at this aid station. Trash – check. Water – check. Feet? Hmm. Just then, the store owner wanders by. “I’m not telling you what to do or anything but there are socks down that aisle…”   I blinked twice – looked at Ken nodding his head. Down that aisle there were actually merino wool socks – so I bought a pair. Size 6-12 the package said, but at this point, who needs sizes? I had two more pairs of socks in my sled, but I wanted them for later. I eat as much as I can, save the rice krispy bar and the junior mints for later, keep the chip bag in my hand to finish off as I go. I stuff my too large socks into my still wet shoes, and get myself back outside. I leave my gaiters up around my calves to let my feet breathe as much as possible. The volunteers remind me to check out, and Ken walks a few steps with me, reminding me that the race doesn’t start for another 24 hours. 

The trail is getting dark now, and I challenge myself to get as far as I can before turning on the headlamp. Mostly because I don’t want to have to deal with changing batteries if I don’t have to; but it’s going to be dark for 15 hours. There’s a been a bit of a headwind all day, but now it starts to bite. I flip down my ear flaps. Finally, I realize I need the light, but also I should get my cold avenger (neck gaiter + silicone cup cover for nose and mouth) and my windproof mittens out. I remember carefully considering what I was going to do during the stop, the order of steps, where everything was in my sled so that I would be stopped for as short a time as possible. Not because I was racing, but because the cold would be worse if I stopped moving. The course was a sinuous ribbon of small gentle rollers trailing off into the darkness ahead. And darkness behind. No headlamps in sight, but snowflakes start to swirl. Each downhill made me smile, unclipping my belt, flipping the sled poles and belt back, then sitting on the sled with the poles resting on my shoulder. Then I’d use my heels and my poles – kicking and pushing like mad till I got up to speed. Then, Whoosh! Not always going straight, giggling and whooping occasionally. I figure I got in about 2.5 miles of sledding during the race, sitting on top of my gear, squinting against the snowflakes in the wind and dark.

At one of the few road crossings, I spot a figure. Must be a volunteer to make sure we get across the traffic ok. But then I hear, “Venga!” and the figure resolves into Ken. A few encouraging words and I scoot off the road down the trail.

I’m still eating and drinking like a champ. After one stop as I’m getting some more food, another foot person passes me. I’m glad to see someone else, and also impressed at his ground-eating strides. I start trotting again, and sledding. My lack of sled control is a little obvious when I pass him a short while later on a downhill, perhaps a little too closely. Ooops.

A snowmobiler passes me, then stops and talks – he says I’m not far to the AS at mile 72. I thought crossing the lake would be so cool! I was a bit disappointed to find it just a flat expanse, with few markers on it. No creaking. No exposed ice. But I could see some lights in the distance and headed for them.

Just like the previous stop, I dug out my notecard and read off what I needed to do. Get my one drop bag of food, Eat, change socks, charge my watch, and load food into my pack. My clothes were fine. Make mashed potatoes to eat around mile 86. I set my shoes and socks next to the wood stove and let my feet air out. They weren’t worse, maybe a little less white and less wet now that it was colder. I restocked my pack, and the volunteers asked if I wasn’t going to plan on sleeping? There was another cabin set aside for racers to sleep in. But I felt good, wide awake and ready to keep going. This was my plan, what I do at 100 mile races, and didn’t see a reason to change it. (Still don’t – this was the right choice for me.) I reviewed the course (I had taped the elevation profile to the back of my bib in segments). The next AS was 42 miles away, and between here and there were more hills. I planned to stop and eat at mile 86, then again at mile 98 before the AS at mile 110 where there was no food, just water. Racers had to be self sufficient after the mile 72 AS, no more drop bags, no outside food or gear.

My food was separated into 3 ziplock bags. I loaded as much as I could out of the mile 72 bag into my waist belt, and a few gels into the pockets of the hydration pack. The insulated container with the hot mashed potatoes went into a duffle. There was still some food left in the mile 72 bag, and I nestled all three in my sled and tucked the burrito wrap around it all, strapped it down with the bungee cords, and headed out close to 4 am.

I had on an additional puffy jacket now as the temperature had dropped some more, but while moving I was very comfortable. I still took every opportunity to sled downhill, sometimes trying it on hills that weren’t really long enough. I found another heavy insulated metal water container on the trail and picked it up. Somewhere around mile 76, I stopped eating as much as I had been. I felt good, I was happy with being still an hour ahead of schedule. It was still dark – darkness lasts about 15 hours up here. And I started thinking – ok, 60 miles left, I’ll probably slow down some…. Maybe 2.5 to 3 mph… running numbers in my head. I was going to be out here another 22 hours?? Ooof. Maybe that’s not right. Try it again. 60 miles, 3 miles an hour, is 20 hours or 2.5 miles an hour is 24 hours…. I started to get down. “I’ve been out nearly 24 hours, and I have that many still to go. And it’s not like I can go any faster.” I’ve never allowed myself down this rabbit hole before – I think because other 100 mile races don’t have 42 mile gaps between aid stations. I made myself eat something – always step #1 in a low spot. Then I focused on the next milestone – my planned food stop in 8 miles. That’s only 2.5 hours away. Lift up your head and look around – clouds obscured the stars, but snow and shadows playing among the trees quieted my grumbling. I came to a road crossing… and stopped. On the other side, the trail split 3 ways. There was no reflective marker. I double checked the trail crossing. Nope no markers. Finally I dug out my phone on airplane mode, pulled open Gaia, and started moving down the correct trail.  Even that small problem solving took energy, but also being successful renewed my focus and determination.

I kept plugging on, and saw Ken at a road crossing just after dawn, which was uplifting. He still couldn’t help me with anything, but seeing him on the now windy and colder trail was great. A little while later I sat and ate at my first break – mashed potatoes! They were cool now, but still tasty. I reloaded out of the next food bag and pushed on, aiming for mile 98. The wind, cutting through my gloves, drove me to get some handwarmers out of my gear. I was a little sloppy packing up the sled, but the bungee cords were tight. I was alone on the trail, plenty of time to admire nature’s snow sculptures. The hills were more constant now. Some felt too short to sled down. I was getting tired of unclipping my belt all the time. Large painted signs would appear advertising food and gas for snowmobilers – just 2 miles down this path!  Not for me. My eyes started playing tricks on me – an evergreen decked out with small Norweigan flags on each branch slowly resolved into dollops of snow on each branch. Branches close to the ground made outlines of carnival ride animals against the snow. Weird. And every straight, angled downed tree looked like a shelter roof. On and on the trail went, and it seemed like the day wasn’t progressing – no bright sunshine, just a whole day of diffuse light.

At my next break at mile 98, time for a food reload. Standing over my sled slack-jawed, I was stunned to find that two bags of food, for the last two chunks (37 miles) of the race, had slipped out of my sled at some point in the last 11 miles. I walked back along the trail to the top of the last hill I’d crossed, but saw nothing. What was I going to do? The next aid station at mile 110 was 3 hours away, and they didn’t have food for racers, just water. I had a few things left in the mile 72 bag, and whatever was left in my hydration pack and waist belt. For 37 miles.

There’s no way. I’m not going to be able to finish.

I was stumped. I decided to keep moving until the shelter that I knew was coming up, and take stock. When I got there, a pair of bikers were fixing a meal, their bikes propped up in the shelter. There didn’t seem to be much room. I told them what had happened, and they reminded me that the upcoming Aid station wouldn’t have any food, just water. There was nothing really left for me to do – I didn’t want to spend 20 minutes inventorying what I had left with an audience. I walked back to my sled, and decided to ration what I had. I could make it 12 miles. And then figure out how to do the last 25 miles. In the cloudy fog of being awake for 30+ hours, this turned into not eating anything at all for 3 hours. I was focused on getting to the aid station. I stopped sledding downhill – wrestling with the belt clip was too much work. Just keep moving. One or two people passed me, and I asked them if they had seen any gallon ziplocks filled with gels? But no luck.

I hung with Nathan, an unsupported racer, for a mile or two just before the aid station, the wind now had picked up and I could see it was getting close to dusk. I was tensed against the cold, but to stop NOW for another jacket?!? The aid station had to be around the next corner. Or the next one….

By the time I got to the aid station I had let myself get cold, I was drained, and wasn’t sure I would even have enough food to continue.

Ken and Richard were there and they had heard from a guy that passed me that I had lost my food. The amazing aid station captain, it turned out, had started a new energy gel brand called Embark based on his organic maple syrup farm. He pointed me into the warming hut, and I started pulling all the food I had (except the emergency 3000 calorie stash I had to finish with) and laying it out. There was more than I thought, about 1200 calories. I started eating the mashed potatoes I had forgotten existed – cold now, but still good. The aid station captain gave me two samples (600 calories) which with what I still had left would be enough for the last 25 miles. I could keep going. I couldn’t thank him enough. I didn’t have anything caffeinated, which was going to be an issue, but at least that was something I could face. Counting the hours – 10 hours left, that means I need roughly 2000 calories, though 3000 would be better. I figured I could eat a granola bar from my stash now as well as the mashed potatoes. It was hard to get warm even huddled next to the stove radiating heat.

I dug out my notecard and followed the instructions. I pulled off my socks and shoes, got on a new pair of socks, and set about reloading my pack. The night was supposed to get cold, -27 F, so I also decided now was the time to put on all my layers: 2 shirts, 4 jackets, and wind pants over my tights. I changed the batteries in my headlamp, and put it around my neck.  

A racer comes in, and holds out something toward me – “Are these yours?” He had picked up my two food bags, and carried them for miles! Karma – that was a pretty quick turn-around!! I was so relieved to have the caffeinated gels and everything back. I thanked him over and over again.  I repacked my hydration pack with a few caffeinated things, and caffeine pills, making sure I knew where they were. I kept the energy gels the AS captain had given me, I felt like they were now part of my gear. I did take a long time in that aid station to warm up and to eat as much as I could before heading out 1h 25 min.

It took me several trips in and out of the warming tent to get everything reloaded, and I really didn’t want to forget anything. I couldn’t find my headlamp until I remembered it was around my neck.

Ken told me I was second woman which I had a hard time believing – I was moving so slowly. He watched me helplessly fumble with my belt clip. I was so happy to be leaving for the last section, knowing I had everything I needed. It was nearly dark and I wanted to be down the trail before turning on my headlamp – it’s the small goals that you hold on to. Off I went, after a quick picture.

There’s a renowned hill, “Wake ‘em Up” hill just after the AS, supposedly wickedly steep. As I was tromping up it, sure I could feel the weight of my sled, but it was still only 150 yards long – really not bad. And the downhill was awesome!! I skidded recklessly through the night, feeling the cold nip at my eyes – the only thing exposed. It was over too soon, and that would be the last sledding adventure with my trusty, racing striped sled.

I was with another runner, back and forth. We crossed a road, and the markers were confusing. There was one marking the straight-ahead direction, and one marking a right turn that paralleled the road. The other runner made the right turn, but after a minute or two, I felt doubtful – there were not a lot of tracks. I stopped and pulled out my phone – hand getting very cold – and yelled out. We doubled back to the straight ahead path, and got on course. There were drifts here for the first time – pulling the sled up a drift, feeling it slump down the drift, up and down, almost enough to make you queasy. I yo-yoed with that racer for a bit, feeling good. I had the Embark salted maple syrup energy gel – ooo, tasty! And not at all too thick when cold. I would run for 15 minutes, walk for 10, start to feel tired, have some more maple syrup – repeat.   

The last 25 miles were flat, and seemingly never-ending straightaways. It was dark again, and here I am still trudging and trotting through the snow pulling a sled. What absurd things we do. My yo-yo partner finally leaves me behind as I’m pausing more and more trying to get to food. A shooting star streaked across the night, just before the last road crossing where Ken was waiting to cheer me on one last time around midnight.

The -24 with wind chill made getting a gel, or getting a caffeine pill into a project – propping my poles on a near by tree or snowdrift, taking off gloves, unzipping 3 jackets, poking around in my vest until my fingers got too cold to feel. After the 4^th or 5^th try, I gave up. I was not going to be able to get to any of my caffeinated products without taking my jackets off completely – the pocket they were in was too hard to get to. And that was just not going to happen. I had my Embark maple syrup gels, and some non-caffeinated gels, and some beef jerky sticks. Nothing sounded appetizing – I was fighting against being sleepy so much, that I ate less.

My feet were hurting (blisters and heel rubbing), but I kept moving as well as I could. I talked to myself to keep awake, sang a few songs, and worked at solving the world’s problems. I believe I solved them too, if only I could remember what I was thinking…

The trail narrowed a bit after crossing another trail, and there’s a sign for the Thunder Bay resort – the finish line. I’m close. I had to untie my shoes because the pain of the heel cup digging into my Achilles was so bad. I’d spent several hours in the space where I would walk until that made my heels hurt so much that I’d groan, then I’d run/trot until the blisters on the balls of my feet would get so painful I’d have to walk again. I remember clearly the moment when the heel pain was getting so bad that I just decided I was going to have to trot the rest of the way. The trees seem to crowd the trail here, but I see snow fencing, and the glow of lights over a hill - I finally round the last corner and see the finish line. I wish I could say I picked it up and sprinted across the line, but I was happy to trot across it, period. I finished 2^nd woman in 44:15, very happy, very tired, and a little cold.  

 

At Long Last - requited love and pain at the Hardrock 100 - 2015

Sometimes driving now, I turn my radio off, and it feels like I am still in the San Juan mountains.

Little Molas Lake environs

One of my favorite feelings during hundred mile races is to get to the 70-80-90 mile mark and realize that “Geez, I’ve been going for X hours, here it is MILE 90 and I AM STILL RUNNING!” There isn’t anything like that feeling. Even though it (without doubt) hurts and aches, and all manner of things may have happened in the race so far, I can still run. That is wonderful. It even makes me look forward to the aches and pains that precede that capable feeling. 

The Hardrock Hundred is a race beyond comparison, without equal, and whatever other superlatives you can think of - that’s HRH. Since I first saw pictures of the course in 2008, I knew I had to get there. Nothing could dissuade me – not the stories of puking, getting lost, 47 hour finishes, lightning, endless climbing – all those risks were peanuts beside the awesome mountain vistas and trails. It took five years of qualifying races and lottery entries, pacing, crewing and volunteering at Hardrock to get my place at the starting line. I was so excited the last week before the race that I would forget to eat.

Hardrock Sister, Susan

Husband/Crew Chief /HRH veteran keeping me calm and happy

Some look at their goal races as a test, a final exam, even – but I’ve always considered races to be the party at the end of all the training and planning.  And there was lots of planning for Hardrock. I lined up five pacers + a crew chief, had a prerace meeting, plotted maps, estimated times, made hotel reservations, took vacation for 2 weeks to go up early and acclimate.  

HRH ram logo on my toes!

Race morning came – party time – but first there was a test: I couldn’t find my sunglasses. Panicking and practically in tears, I was failing at keeping my cool 30 minutes before the start. Not for the last time, Ken (husband and crew chief) came to the rescue and lent me his. At check-in, friends and crew wished me luck while I couldn’t believe I was going to get to be on the Hardrock course. Too much excitement, exhilaration, elation made me leak more than a bit from my eyes. Let us on the course already!

 And then we were.

Sherrie stood with this sign race morning cheering me on! 

A mile through town in the misty cloudy morning, then onto the trails. With an easy pace, in the cool crisp air, the course opened up to me. We were to climb over 33,000 feet: one 14’er, 7 passes around 13,000 feet and ~4 more above 12,000 feet in our 100 mile circuit of the San Juans, so the course wasted no time in getting us up the first one – Dives-Little Giant. To every side, around every corner, in front of and behind me the vistas waited to be admired. After ascending for a few miles, Silverton was cloaked, hidden under clouds and mist lit snow-white by the sun with a backdrop of ochre shaded mountains. A line of runners wound up the trail through a snow patch on the mountain’s shoulder becoming smaller and smaller until they seemed to cross into the sunlight. 

Remembering that I wasn’t simply out for a long run, I repeated my first goal out loud: Get to Grouse in good shape. I ate, drank, and kept my pace easy, but I couldn’t keep my smile in check. I guessed if I sprained a cheek muscle before Grouse, I’d still be ok.

 We dropped in to Cunningham Aid Station (mile 9.3) and half my crew cheered me across the river. Already the second or third crossing. Barry, Vicki and Fred snapped a few pictures (me guzzling a V8 and chowing down on some pb&j – quality ultra beauty poses). I felt great and told them so, and then waved goodbye on my way out.

near the top of Cunningham

In training, the climb out of Cunningham Gulch seemed steep and nasty, guaranteed to have me gasping and heaving for air on every step. Today though, I planted my poles and hiked up with purpose, easily and steadily. I reached the top of the second climb (Green Mountain) behind a friend and Hardrock veteran Tyler, who is known for being a “closer” – someone who speeds up on the last 40 miles of this course. I hung with Tyler a little, talking about the course to come until he paused to get something out of his pack. We dipped down into a basin with clouds building to our south before traversing and climbing up Buffalo Boy ridge just as slantwise sleet and rain borne by cold biting wind pelted us. No lightning, though, so I dug out my rain jacket and gloves and kept moving. At the top of the descent, a poor volunteer decked head to toe in waterproof gear and layers stood near a “snow wall” with a notch in it – apparently the way down. At the notch, she said, “don’t use your poles, other runners have broken theirs.” A ten foot vertical drop on the other side ended in a snow drift! I sat in the notch, and dropped down, whooped and stumbled a bit, then kept moving, relishing being out of the wind for the moment. 

Down to Maggie Gulch Aid station (mile 15.4, 5 hours in) and the other half of my crew is volunteering here. I’m so excited to see them it’s hard not to skip coming into the aid station.

I have little to relate except how great life is, but I hear that Josh saved a runner choking on watermelon by giving him the Heimlich! Now that’s an aid station volunteer giving excellent service!

Climbing out of Maggie, I still couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be out on the Hardrock course. My ankle ligament, partially torn 6 weeks ago was uncomplaining, and everything else felt great too. After crossing the Continental Divide trail in a field of yellow flowers, the trail turns to a sweeping downhill.  Wildflowers in blue and yellow, pink and white bobbed their heads at my passing and splashing. For most of this section, the trail couldn’t be distinguished from a muddy stream running through a wide open high altitude meadow. I tried for awhile to pick the best footing, running on the edges, but eventually I tired of the tip-toeing. Since my shoes were already wet, it wasn’t a point of saving them from the mud and water. Pole Creek Aid Station (mile 19.7) – remote, remarkably well provisioned but also cool, friendly, and relaxed – served me a cup of broth and some fruit before I followed another runner I’d been leapfrogging (Mike) out of the aid station. More mud, then more and more, until we reached a river. (Which of course we crossed. And then crossed again.) The trail wound through more willows, still wet everywhere. 

One step changed my race. A running footplant into ankle deep mud, and I yanked my foot out. I felt immediate pain in my injured ankle ligament. Crap. I scaled back the running and thought about my first goal - how to get to Grouse in good shape, not too likely anymore.  I’d have to go slower, and minimize heel striking with my right foot which aggravated the ligament. I was really hoping that any ligament pain would wait until the last half, but at least I had a plan. 

With an achy ligament, I ran past gorgeous Cataract Lake in the rain, and began the long forested descent before Sherman. The river tumbled noisily down next to me, the switchbacks bringing us close then turning us away over and over again. Trying to protect my right ankle, I was landing and breaking with my left leg. Rocky at first, with some big steps, the trail eventually turned to rooty steps. Down and down, I could feel my left leg getting tired. I backed off the pace some more, walked, used my poles, stopped and stretched. Normally loving downhills, I wished I was at the end of this beautiful pine needle carpeted somewhat steep descent. Nothing for it but to keep moving down, I planned out my Sherman Aid station stop – no crew here, so I had to be self-sufficient. Put some “Sore No More” on my right ankle. Change my socks. Eat. Sunscreen. Keep moving. I knew I was close when hikers started appearing headed up the trail, and soon I popped out of the woods to a shelter, picnic tables, and the best bathroom in ultra running. I stuck to my plan, ate a delicious chicken –bean-avocado-salsa-cheese burrito and some cherry cobbler, and headed out. My right ankle was achy but not too painful to run, my left leg/quad/ITB area was decidedly tired and put out by all the extra work it was doing. Maybe, I thought, this isn’t the race I hoped to have, but I could still finish and still enjoy the course. I would have to be careful to keep these issues from getting worse, and I wasn’t looking forward to telling Ken and my crew that I hadn’t exactly been able to deliver on that first goal. But. I was still moving.

Before the climb up Handies, the 14er, the Burrows Park Aid station supplied me with some ice which went conveniently in my calf sleeve on my ankle. Much better. I was hitting Handies late afternoon – perhaps a perfect time to take a kite and a key to the top to replicate Franklin’s experiment, but otherwise not recommended. A storm rolled over three others and myself hiking just above treeline, but luckily without an electrical component. Other than my aches, which didn’t bother me uphill, I still felt good, was eating and drinking – at least that part of the plan was working. The final short rocky switchbacks to the peak became a methodical trudge, just focusing on another step while feeling the altitude. What a relief to step onto the broad top and be able to first stride across, then run! 

Atop a 14,000 ft high mountain, the world seems separated in two parts like oil and water. There’s Sky. And there’s Mountains. These two elements make up the entire world, and we are but a small part that witnesses the two. 

While another runner sat on the peak and took in the view, I knew I was far behind my planned pace. My crew was waiting for me, and I was the bearer of not-so-good news. As I started down, I realized the news was worse than I thought – running downhill was now more than uncomfortable. I thought my ITB was about to go out on me. Thankfully though, after the steepest section, I loosened up a bit and could jog down. I could feel dusk descending, and frankly it was doing a better job of it than I. I made it down to Grouse Gulch in the falling twilight. Not for the last time, my crew had solutions for my problems. Ken, without knowing about my issues, had asked Jean Herbert to come in case my ankle needed some help. I headed out of Grouse much better than I had gone in. My goal now was distilled and straightforward: Keep moving – I must get to Telluride (mile 72.8) still able to move as I am now.  Do that, and I will be able to finish.

Heading out of Grouse Gulch

 Vicki, my pacer and I admired the string of pinpricks of light of runners climbing in the dark ahead of us as we climbed up to Engineer's Pass. Normally I don't talk much, but we kept up a good conversation most of the time. At the top of the climb, we stopped to admire the stars peaking through the clouds. A slight rain and slippery ground at the top of the descent made both of us skid uncontrolled on some parts. Many runners got it much worse - at the Engineers pass AS nearly everyone had skids of brown mud on their tights. Farther down, the exposed shelf trail high over the rushing bear creek didn't bother Vicki and we steadily made our way down running on shale that sounded like broken plates, We could hear runners above and below us tinkling in the dark. Finally, the lights of Ouray (mile 56.6) came into view. I gave Vicki a list of things I wanted to remember to do: ditch my (dead) GPS watch, get rid of trash, new gloves, etc. It seemed to take forever to get through town, those 5 blocks are KILLER, I'm telling you. At the aid station, I was so happy to see everyone I forgot that things hurt that weren’t supposed to. They pushed food in my hands (a second warm steak tortilla, how did they do that?), clothes over my head, water in my pack, and before I finished the steak tortilla they gave me, we’re ready to go. I was moving ok, still on track for goal 2- get to Telluride.

Richard is in charge of me as we head up Camp Bird Road over Virginius pass to Telluride, an iconic Hardrock section. The 6 mile gravel road approach is monotonous in the dark, but then the course turns to confront the mountain range just at daybreak. A missing tooth-like gap in the rim was the goal of our ascent. Morning sun lit the three snow-covered near-vertical pitches we have to climb. I looked over my shoulder to see Richard staring back across Yankee Boy Basin at the mountain range behind us in the morning light with the largest smile I’ve ever seen. “Dig!Dig! Come on, Push!” Volunteers from Kroger’s Kanteen, an Aid Station secured by bolts into the rock in that gap yell and encourage until we reach the top. They wear rock climbing helmets and gear for good reason up here. A short break for a hot pierogi and I’m ready to start the steep downhill to Telluride. I took slow, steady cautious steps. Suddenly I was bent over, gasping in pain. It felt like someone was ripping out the muscles/tendons in my thigh at the top of my knee. Richard stayed calm, helped me stand. He asked, but I couldn't explain what had happened. I tried another step and the same ripping, searing pain. Locking my knee, I took a few steps before the pain comes again. I pulled up my calf sleeve to cover the area as a brace, I used my poles. I tried walking backwards and sideways. Each option was met with such pain. I thought about crawling. 

That’s it. I can’t even look at Richard. What can I do? I can’t even walk. 

We decided ibuprofen might help – we had to get down to Telluride somehow. We told a passing runner we know to let Ken know I’m hurt but will move down slowly, and am otherwise ok. If I locked my knee out, I could make a few steps at a time. At a snow field crossing, I stopped and filled the calf sleeve turned knee brace with snow. I was going to have to give up. I knew it. I probably wouldn’t even make the cut off at Telluride. There was no way I could make it, not running, not even walking. 

Tyler, the veteran closer, shouted a greeting as he headed towards us stopped at the trail side. At first he gave me grief for getting passed by him, but then he saw my face. Tyler happens to be a doctor. After palpating the area, he told me exactly what I needed to hear. “You have not caused any permanent damage. Keep icing, 20 min on, 20 off. Get down to Telluride and give it a rest.”

“You can do this. You’re tough. You have time. Don’t run another step. You can walk it in from here.”

“Don’t Quit. You can do this.”

He held my gaze fiercely for a long moment. I took his word. The pain seized my quad a few more times on those first dozen steps. Slowly, the ice/ibuprofen combo dulled the pain. We walked down, slowly at first, then a little faster on the flat sections. Richard filled a bag with snow to take with us for refills. Although he’d been on the move since 2 am, Richard calculated in his head how much time I needed if I walked the last 28 miles at 2 miles an hour 50% of the way, 1 mile an hour 15% of the way, and 1.5 miles an hour 35% of the way. He said I could do it. I was walking. I believed him. At first I felt like I had no choice but to believe him, but as we got closer to Telluride, that choice felt like the only thing I ever wanted.

Into Telluride, I blurted, “I have to walk the rest of the way in.” My crew already knew, of course – Tyler and all the other runners that passed us had been through and told them. Not for the last time, they had what I needed. Ken found someone to tape my knee. My gear, which took up 2/3 of the Aid Station space, was set up.

There were 3 chairs set up in front of this and at least 2 more bags. 

See the tape, quad sleeve, and calf sleeve? I am stylin'. Even got comments from the hikers on the # of patterns I was wearing.

I changed, grabbed more ibuprofen for the way, and headed out with Albert, Richard's Magic Ice Bag and some grilled cheese in my hands to eat. I could walk, so dang it I was going to hike up as fast as I could since descending would not be fun. I told Albert that I wanted to get to Chapman AS, 9.3 miles away in 5 hours. I had to finish. 

The section out of Telluride is unmatched in beauty. Following alongside a river broken by so many waterfalls, the trail winds through wildflowers and trees, across bridges, switchbacking up through pussy-willows and moss until you reach the wide hidden basin that contains the river’s headwaters. I learned later that the winner Killian Jornet got lost here among the snow fields.

Even getting lost didn't stop him from setting a course record.

He didn’t have Albert. Albert would dash ahead to find the next cairn, go up over hills for better views, giving me encouragement and direction to the pass. On the other side, we slid down a snowfield (hee hee!) to a traverse and made it down the rock slide descent. I was moving unbearably slowly. I’d pictured being able to run down this tumbled rock path tired but happy. I’d counted on that. But I could only walk. And hope. I felt like I didn’t even have time to look at my watch. As we got within sight of the Aid Station, I asked what time it was. We had made it in 4:57. I could do this. It was do-able. 

Another quick stop – I didn’t want to spend more time sitting in aid stations than I had to – my crew telling me to do things (eat this, drink all of this, take this salt tab) and I followed directions until they let Barry and I out on the course. Time to climb. Up through a pine forest until openings in the trees gave us a view of the golden rocks of Oscar’s pass. It looked incredibly imposing and far away, but I had just gone down that with Albert.  Soon we crossed the tumbled rocks and grassy mounds to the base of the loose scree leading straight up 100 yards to the top of Grant Swamp Pass. I thought surely it would be snowy and easier to climb, but the snow ended abruptly near the base. Rather than struggle with the straight up approach, we opted for the switchbacks to the right side. Both paths dealt with loose gravelly rocks sliding out from underfoot, with larger rocks threatening to slide down behind you or on you.  With Barry leading the way, we made it to the top and the late afternoon view of little island lake. Though we maintained the ice routine with Richard’s Magic Snow Bag, the descent was still painfully slow. A brief spot of rain, and then a full rainbow just below little island lake, everything green and glowing in the late afternoon light. As it leveled some I walked as fast as I could, envisioning Olympic race walkers and promising myself I wouldn’t ever chuckle at the strange gait again. I knew this section well, and knew that it had possibly the last good chance for fast walking – Kamm’s traverse, a ~1.5 mile slight consistent downhill on easy trail. I focused on faster and faster and faster walking, wishing every moment I could run. Finally, the last full aid station came into view. 

Josh was lined up to pace me, but it was Ken dressed in running clothes at the Aid Station! I didn't know it, but it was exactly what I wanted. 

The last climb was in front of me. It was now the second evening of my race, but it all melded together for me like taffy. It could have been one day, or it could have been four; it didn’t matter, I just needed to keep moving forward. I felt energetic and ready to take on this last climb, make it mine, and then-

The finish. 

Ken and I chatted a little, memories of the first time I’d paced him on this section. Him losing a shoe briefly to the mud, the rain and cold. We passed a few people – I had passed these same runners on the last uphill section, and they’d caught me on the downhill. One of these runners was the one I saw sit down on the top of Handies more than 24 hours ago. Motoring up, I felt fantastic, fast, smooth. My headlight was crazy bright. Every so often I’d see something fantastical out of the corner of my eye at the edge of the light – an ewok under a tree, a line of clowns sitting at the edge of the path, a pinwheel – if I looked directly, though, the tree or stump would resolve itself in the full light.

Near the top, it started to get cold and windy. In the open above treeline heading cross country, mists or clouds blew through us. Finding the markers, reflective though they were, became difficult. Again, Ken came to the rescue, and knew what to do. We paused, getting our gear on and waiting for a group of 4 runners and pacers to help with the search. We’d find a marker, then fan out to find the next and shouting out to the group, “This way, I got one!”   Over and over again, until we were at the top of the ridgeline, the wind was really blowing now, streamers of fog reflecting our lights back at us. We fanned out, but there was no marker to find. We regrouped at the last marker. I sat and started to put on tights, the cold damp setting in, fingers numb, teeth chattering, feet wet and getting colder. I wondered how I was going to get warm. Even if, even when, we found the next marker, we were starting to head downhill. I couldn’t use speed to warm up.  Everyone else would run down. I had no more layers to put on. A shout came, but my tights comically were only partway on. I struggled, too many things to take care of. Finally moving, but cold and so slowly. One of the other pacers turned back to make sure we were finding the markers again.  Ken seemed far far ahead. Part of me knew he had to keep drawing me forward, down where the wind would still and an aid station awaited. Finally, the wind stilled. Finally, the cloud cleared. Finally, there was a trail beneath our feet. And finally, we got to the last, the very last aid station, Putnam Basin. I ate a little without much enthusiasm, drank some Mountain Dew. We headed out again, now with warm hands and bellies. The last 5.8 miles would take hours, I knew. Downhill across rocks and roots I began to take a few more chances and increased my walking speed. I wanted to finish, already. Where it was level, I pushed until I was double poling because my legs were moving too fast. Two miles an hour seemed very fast in the dark after 40+ hours of moving. 

 Is that shouting, maybe cheering? A party? This noise could be heard sometimes. Then, it became constant whooping and rhythmic banging. Were people at the Mineral Creek river crossing? Not people, just one person, one guy, cheering us on with a light trained on the rope to help us cross the swift water.

Crossing Mineral Creek in a spotlight

Like a tour guide, he led us, “this way, this way, great job” to the road. I was only two miles from the finish now. I ran this short path three times in the weeks leading up to the race. All that prep, but I could never have imagined the feeling of being here now. There was no dogged running the last uphill, or tired wooden jogging of the final streets in town.
There was no time goal to strive for.
There was walking. 

I would never have believed the joy and satisfaction. Not of working hard, or running hard, but of resolving hard. I kissed the rock.

There were so many things I wanted from this race. In the end, I could hold on to none of those things; I let them go without prejudice. It was everything just to finish.

All my thanks to my crew and pacers: Ken, Josh, Vicki, Albert, Richard, and Barry.

Wasatch Front 100 2014

Fred advised keeping your heart rate at 60% on the first climb.
Phil said to run both road sections between Lamb's and Brighton.
Use a headlamp at the start.
Use poles.
Nobody should use poles at the start.
It'll be hot.
It'll be cold.

Whatever anyone tells you, what you get on the day of your goal 100 mi race is the unexpected.

An echo of that feeling of facing my first 100 at Leadville nibbled at my heart for this, the Wasatch Front 100. The unknown. A hard test. A chance to see if I can. Pictures from someone's adventure years ago showed mountains, running on them, across them, and being surrounded by them. It was a good hook, though it took 6 or so years for me to enter the lottery. Which I did on the day I didn't get in to Hardrock 2014. I think I said, "Wahoooo!" when I won the Wasatch 2014 lottery, but in my head I was thinking, "Finally!!  I win a race lottery!"

 Intentions were good, and early training went great. I did long runs. I did hill workouts. On race day, though, all I could think was that my volume was much lower than for any other 100, and I was a little too well tapered.

Andrea convinced me early on that we should go for a "sub-30 hour" buckle. That sounded like a great challenge! absolutely! and then I do my  planning and research... most years, only 10 women get an under 30 hour buckle. Some years, a lot fewer.

That's a challenge.

Methodically, I looked up other runners splits who finished between 28:40 and 30 hours in 2013. With that I had data from twenty runners, and good estimates for the split times I'd need to be under 30.

But was I an under 30 candidate? I pulled out my 2013 Run Rabbit Run 100 splits and the elevation chart. I mapped my pace from that race to Wasatch over similar terrain taking into account early miles and end of the race miles. Answer: I would finish in 30 hours and 50 minutes.

Yikes....well....  yikes.


On Race Day Eve, the antsy feeling buzzed in the background of my thoughts. I couldn't help reaching out to Ken for a hand, an arm, something to hold. I wanted quiet and calm, but couldn't stand the silence. Puttering around in the hotel room while Ken picked up my Crew (the fabulous DreadPirate, Chris, Mark, and Miki) I managed to lay out clothes and food for the 2:10 am wake up, I painted my toenails and packed my suitcase. I made a few notes for my crew, though I didn't think they'd need them. They trooped into the room with a stern, "We only have 10 minutes, then you have to sleep." A few details, pointing out my crew bags, handing them my notes, and they were gone waving and smiling out the door. I wouldn't see them again until my race was 1/3 done (nearly 10 hours in), assuming I could hit those splits. Many things could happen between now and then....

I felt good at the start. Nervous - how long would I be out here today (and tomorrow)? 30 hours? 36? We ran in a line across the base of the foothills, sometimes dipping into a canyon before coming out again to the lights of sleeping Salt Lake. Sometimes on easy trail like this, I hear Sean Martin telling us the Navajo belief at the Canyon de Chelley 55K, that mother earth will carry your feet, and father sky will fill your lungs, and you are connected, are the connection between the two.

I didn't bother passing people, I knew we'd be headed uphill soon. No use spending that energy here.
The climb starts easy enough, through trees and scrub, switchbacking up. The climb stays easy, too - too easy. hm. There's no room to pass with scrubby brush lining the trail and a line of 50 people directly in front of me. After an eternity, or maybe 2 hours, the line came to a stream crossing and everyone stopped to fill up except for me, Andrea, and the antsy guy behind me. Thank goodness.

Just in time for Chinscraper - a steeper section that you have to scramble up.  :)

The trail traversing form the top over to the road is a little brushy and rocky, but I can finally stretch my legs. I run it, thinking I'm probably pretty far off my splits already. I get to Grobben's Corner, where Sir Grobben himself fills my little 10 oz pink water bottle. My pack is still half full. He looks at me with a gleam in his eye, "Are ya sure you want me to fill this all the way up?"
"Well, I don't know, can you spare that much water?"
"It's gonna get pretty heavy..."

I'm smiling until I glance at my watch, and my smile falls off my face with a thud. I'm about 42 minutes off my pace which means even being a steady second half runner probably won't save me. I lost my race to the sub thirty buckle in the first 3 hours of Wasatch.

Well, bugger. I'm not giving up yet. That's going to mean a little bit of work right now. I run, pushing just a little but trying to think relaxing thoughts. Four miles plus to Francis Aid Station.... no, no, no - relaxing thoughts.....admire the view (Wowza up there! I'm telling you!).

The detached part of me starts making notes - interesting, at Leadville when you were trying for sub 25 and went too fast down sugarloaf, hurting your quads, you gave up much sooner than this...

Great, now I have an armchair psychologist in my head.

I'm in and out of Francis quickly, because I have to be. Sunscreen, food bag, empty trash, fill water, GO.

I'm moving pretty well, I don't feel stressed, but I'm doing more work than usual. I think. Ok, you can move a little faster. Push a little up this hill. Holy cow a lot of people are passing me. Geez my legs feel heavy. Ok, ignore that, look at the view! ... I'm in the trees. But they're pretty trees! Really! Wow, I just do not seem to be making any progress. Head down, now. Breathe, good posture, use your butt muscles.

ok this isn't working! I am just slowing down!

wait, when was the last time I ate something? hm. I still have 3 of 4 bars, and all my gels.... and I'm nearly 5 hours in.

dumb. So a salt tab. A gel - its the fastest to absorb. Water. oh, hey I was thirsty.  (eye roll from the direction of the armchair). I backed off a little. More people streamed past me, but the job in front of me was not the trail anymore, or my watch, but the food in my pack. In twenty minutes, I ate a bar, and I started feeling a little better. That tiredness though seemed to hang on. I pointedly ignored it. I drank and drank. Between Sessions Lift off Aid Station and Swallow Rocks Aid Station there's a beautiful traverse and ridge line trail. I caught on to the back of 4 runners, two I had met at the race start - Wendy and Matt - and I decided it was time to start working again. I stayed with them all the way until 1/2 mile from Swallow rocks. I had found my groove again, and I passed the train as it slowed a bit, and cruised through Swallow rocks - which was the first AS to have any kind of protein - turkey sandwich (thank goodness! I was craving that.). I headed out looking forward to seeing my crew at Big Mountain. I was clueless as to how far I had to go - something between 4 and 8 miles. This bugged me. I always know how far it is. So many parts of this race were just way outside the norm for me. I knew my job, though - get there well hydrated, well fed, and ready for more. And in decent time too - I was still behind the curve from the mornings goofs, from what I could tell. I hadn't made up any time.

Into the Aid Station and my crew has food and ice. A cupcake (yum). I eat as much as I can, trying to get some protein, but there isn't much at this Aid Station. I drink 1/2 of an ensure. (blech) Then they tell me I'm doing great, to which I say, "No, I'm 40 minutes behind!" I was here at 3:13 and I wanted to be out of Big Mountain Aid Station at 2:45 pm. Ken says that I'm ahead of my split though. I don't know what that means. Well, either way, there's more Wasatch to be had. And I was still behind overall and really uncertain about where I could possibly catch up.

The last 25 miles of wasatch has been known as the hardest 25 miles in ultrarunning. To cap off an already tough 100 mile run - full of mountains, big elevation gains and losses, tough technical trail of every kind, the course dragged runners down "the dive" and "the plunge" - wickedly steep loose rocky trails, and then through the knothole of "Irv's Torture Chamber."  For 2014, the course had been re-routed. These challenges were a part of the race no more. The last 15 miles were now reported to be smoother, faster - 20 to maybe 40 min faster than the 2013 course. Now that I was hunting time, maybe this change seemed like a good thing. I didn't want to need the help, but without any real choice in the matter, I'd take it without complaining.

DreadPirate and I left Big Mountain AS, headed up a rocky slope. She asked me what the trail had been like so far. "It's beautiful: rough, rocky, techy, and every time you leave an Aid Station, the trail goes up. Like this!"After topping out though, it was pretty runnable. We chatted a bit more. "Ken says you're a closer." she says, into a deepening break in the conversation. Could she feel me worrying about time? Could she see my shoulders tightening? Ok, I can do this. Ken thinks I can, DP thinks I can. I know I can.

Lets go.

The trail turned down slightly, and I ran and let the momentum carry me and lift my legs. Straighten up, I don't run bent over. (thanks Kathleen & No Limits Fitness). On the next slight up hill, DP catches up and reminds me to eat. (Right.)   And she points out the incredible colors - the maples are turning on the next ridge over - beautiful. We're moving right along. I pull ahead a bit on the downhill sections, and DP takes pictures and catches me on the uphill parts. The trail gets rockier. It takes longer for DP to catch me - she doesn't like rocky trails. I'm beyond caring about rocks.  Catching a few people fires me up and I let myself work a bit more. And the trail gets rockier, and steeper. I don't hear DP behind me anymore. If I can get to the aid station, I'll get water and ice and everything, and she'll come in right then and we can go. I held on to this thought, and tailed a couple of runners down a steep scrabbly pitch. I worried. She's not going to like that descent. Looking back, the trail was empty.

It was getting a bit hot. Coming into the aid station, I looked over my shoulder before filling my water. I grabbed some chips, and watched the trail as I ate. Should I wait? I couldn't decide what to do. I grabbed more chips, but I didn't really want them. Ok, settle down. She wouldn't want you to wait, there's an Aid Station here if she needs help. Keep your head screwed on. I told the Aid station people that my pacer was a little behind me, but that I was going to continue.

I followed the two track under the power lines out of the aid station, and the heat built. Rolling again, but now the trail is rolling up. In a straight line disappearing into the folds of the mountain. Hot. Totally exposed and no relief in sight

..... some days when times aren't so tight...
when the day goes down on water town.....

Ok, it's really hot, I'm singing Bruce Hornsby and the Range. Aw crap, I forgot to get ice. No wonder.

DP would tell me to drink something, so I do. and eat. Keeping my effort controlled, I really try not to look up, not to get caught in that head game of trying to figure out how far I go on this trail. When I finally make the turn I'm so excited for it - cool through forests! Amazingly wonderful! After a short uphill, the trail descends and winds - great running, in the shade, soft trail. I feel good, and can't wait for the aid station.

There's a slight uphill getting into Lamb's Canyon. My crew is at a fenceline cheering and they lead me to a seat with food piled around it. "DP's still out there.."

"we know, it's okay. we'll take care of it. How do you feel?"

"You know? I'm fine. How...?"

"Eat something."

I shove a quantity of food in my mouth that I am astonished by. There's a croissant, there's some sports drink, there's a cake type thing, and a waffle dipped in chocolate.. Holy cow. Ken gets me a ham sandwich - I'm still craving protein and salt. And apparently my stomach is having a ball out here, because I can eat like a horse.

I need resolution, though - "so you guys will wait for DP?

Thank you crew for putting up with a rather dense and stubborn version of me.

They force a little more food on me, I throw on a long sleeve shirt and grab a jacket, ditch the cap/sunglasses, grab a beanie and gloves. Ken tells me my time - I've caught up. Really? Really. Mark leads me out. I'm ready.

We hike the road with another runner (after a little route finding - no markers near the interstate?) who outpaces me after a bit. I thought I might run this road, but now that I have caught up to my goal times I'm happy to hike and let my food settle. On the smooth trail, we go up and up. people seem to be passing me non-stop. I pass one or two, and then 4 come by me. In the dark now, we chat but it can't distract me from the fact that I am falling through the field. Ugh. Milcreek A.S. comes finally. They have grilled cheese sandwiches which Mark falls in love with. I get some lube on my feet - I finally remember that the balls of my feet are hurting when I can do some thing about it. After too long a stop - I start getting cold - we head out again. I'm looking forward to Desolation Lake - it just sounds cool. A screech owl calls eerie in the stillness as we come up to Dog Lake. It's hard to keep the momentum now, the steady uphill is grinding. When we get to Desolation Lake AS, I walk right through - I feel like I am moving so slowly.  Best not even to stop. I don't need anything. Mark stops to fill up. When he catches up to me suddenly I realize I never checked out. With a short laugh, Mark turns around and runs back down the trail. We get to the ridge a little later - I remember the race reports saying this next little bit was runnable, and not to stay up here because it can be cold. Let's go then! I'm anxious to start moving faster again - anything uphill seems like a struggle. We mix running and hiking on the rolling ridge, enjoying the lights of Park city on one side, and Salt Lake City far off on the other side. Scott's peak AS is brightly lit. I grabbed a little something and ask Mark to catch up to me - I'm kind of enjoying this little game of "catch-me."
Soon, we start heading down. The trial isn't to techy, and then we hit a road. I'm excited to get to brighton, and to Ken. Have I maintained my time? I have no idea. So many people passed me on that climb. Dang it.

The ski lodge is an incredible bustle. Filled with people, I can't tell runners pacers or crew. DP takes my to brush my teeth after pizza and other food items. Then, Ken and I are out.

The trail leads us up through large rocks, whitish in our headlamps. I can't see any markers. "Do you see any markers?" Ken says, "we're on the right trail."

"But do you see markers?"

"we just past one."

This sounds suspiciously like pacer double speak to me - when your runner is asking you pointless questions and you will say anything to get them to... well... shut up.

In the end, though, he was right, and we were on the right trail. A couple runners passed us going up. Man was I tired of being passed. The trail turns down finally, and I thought I'd really be able to run this part - it was described like smooth bike trail. That person, whoever they are, they are on crack. Erosion has turned that trail into a steep v, so either your feet are at an angle on the sloped sides, or you're crossing your steps to plant your foot in the bottom on scrabbly rock. ARGH! I'm having to tip toe down this, Ken is right behind me, obviously not having any issues with the stupid trail, and all of a sudden I have totally lost my cool. Expectations will do that to you.

I let out a yell, and then accept what I can do and keep moving. Into the aid station, and I treat a blister on my toe, put on another layer, and attempt to eat the hot things Ken has brought me. I'm so lucky to have him with me.

We don't stay too long, as I am not sure what kind of trail the new section will really be - who knows how long it will take me? I'm cutting it pretty close.

As dawn seeps into my consciousness, we're on a jeep road descending steadily. I see the second to last AS, and cannot wait to get there. They don't have any protein, but are pretty friendly anyway. I force myself to run as much as I can. Even uphills, I try to run. I'm working hard, Ken encourages me, telling me I'm making my race, this is the time and place. Head down, things are uncomfortable, but I'm still running.

There's a final turn onto single track for a short 1 to 1.5 miles, but holy cow it feels like forever. The last aid station I can hear through the trees, but we turn away from it and I could just about throw a tantrum. I want it to be HERE right NOW.
(deep breaths.)

Through the aid station, and the morning is getting hot. The gravel road we're on now rolls a bit and reflects the light and heat. My head throbs a bit. My stomach turns a bit. I look at my watch and know that I'll make it under 30 hours with at least 30 min to spare. I only have 5 miles to go. I'll make that goal. A woman passes me, moving like I wish I was moving.

I could trot along this easy undulating road and I'd be fine. And people would pass me. And I'd be slower, I'd have given in again to that cautious mouse on my shoulder. Who cared if I got sick in the last 5 miles? So what if my stomach goes now? Why not?

"Bugger" I said. And sped up. I drank more and wet myself down a little to help cool off. I picked up my head. I tried to lift my knees. It actually felt BETTER for crying out loud. Better to move like I meant it.

To the pavement, and a last little rise pushed me to gasping. I held on though to the finish, so happy to see 29:05 above my head.