Our
problem is that inside us there’s a mind going, “Impossible, impossible,
impossible. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” We have to banish that mind from this
solar system. Anything is possible; everything is possible. Sometimes you feel
that your dreams are impossible, but they’re not. Human beings have great
potential; they can do anything. The power of the mind is incredible,
limitless.
--Lama Yeshe.
I knew that if I started that I had to finish. I didn’t want
to DNF for a second time at Run Rabbit Run 100 miler – that would seem like a
habit. That first DNF last year – I could rationalize it. I hadn’t recovered from
Leadville 4 weeks earlier. I registered as a Hare, when I was really a
Tortoise. The course was nearly 109 miles, not 100. So to get timed out… It
still belongs to me – I could have found a way to run when I walked instead. I
could have planned better. But the DNF doesn’t feel like a condemnation of my
ability to finish every 100 miler. Just that one, that day.
But I didn’t want to do that again. Ever.
I took two weeks off from running before this year’s race to
try to allow my foot to heal. I’d developed what I think is Tarsal Tunnel
Syndrome – like carpal tunnel, but in my foot. It hurts. With sometimes
shooting pain up my ankle. It didn’t go away, although I wasn’t limping on race
day.
The race starts at the base of the beautiful Steamboat ski
area – low wispy clouds clung to the slopes halfway up. The overnight rain
enhanced green of the trees and grasses practically glowed. What a perfect
morning to sit on a deck with a warm cup of something that isn’t coffee…. Ok,
sure, also a perfect morning to go for a run. The only problem with the
magnificence of the view was that it made it impossible to forget that straight
from the start line, we were going to go directly up the steepest vertical on
that ski hill. “And,” Fred the RD reminds us, ”your friends and family can ride
the gondola and see you just before the top!”
So, not only are we going to climb this thing, but we’d
better do it with a smile because people were watching.
I estimated 1:30 to the top, and got there in 1:42. That’s
ok, it wouldn’t have been smart to work harder. My foot hurt. That’s the last
time I’ll mention that, and just trust that you’ll remember that it hurt the
entire time. The route up did a few switchbacks on a trail through some woods,
and then went straight up under the gondola. Ooof. At the gondola station, we
diverted on to the road for the final couple of miles. Sweat dripped off my
nose, and I smiled.
After the Mt. Werner AS, we rolled gently down and up and
down to Long Lake. Off and on I joined with other runners for a stretch,
meeting Eric with his stuffed turtle, Katie, and a fellow from Telluride that
worked at a ski boot shop – Bootdoctors, as was emblazoned on the back of his
shirt.
I ate a few turkey wraps and an Oreo at Long Lake, thanked
them, and left. I was feeling like I shouldn’t waste any time, that I needed to
budget very carefully so that I would finish this year, no matter what. Down
Fish Creek trail I went. The top of this trail is flat-out gorgeous. Runnable
meadows, soft trail skirting ponds and then Fish Creek burbling next you. The
roar of a waterfall builds until the trail takes you right next to it – take a
look over your shoulder for that view framed in aspen and evergreens. The
trail, after having sucked you in and lulled you into relaxing, takes a rocky
turn for the last 4 miles down. Down. Dancing and stepping, trying not to turn
an ankle or land awkwardly, I keep trying to rein in the speed because, look
folks, it’s only mile 16, and we’ve a ways to go yet.
I meet a fellow that spent some time in Amsterdam. Paul?
Richard, a friend of mine, was also running this race. He
passed me going up Mt. Werner. The two of us ended up sharing a crew – our
friends Vicki and Albert, Betsy, Greg, and my husband Ken. At the bottom of
Fish Creek Falls, Albert and Ken were waiting and cheering for me – Vicki was
pacing Richard from this point across town to the Olympian. Ken walked me
through the AS – I was so happy to see them. Off I went – 4 more miles of
downhill on road, across the highway, and then the Olympian AS.
I remembered parts of this next section. I thought – ok hard
climb, then rolling nice trail down (totally runnable), then a couple gravel
road miles (should be runnable), then the Beall Trail. This Beall trail section had me
completely frustrated last year. I kept waiting for it to go up, and it never
really did. But I walked in anticipation of it going up, and wasted a ton of
time.
So this year – hard climb. People passed me. I’m not in
great climbing shape right now, so not unexpected. Ah, the Lane of Pain. Yup,
still painful. Huh, water stop is not where it should be, but no matter. Oh
good, the trail. Everything had stiffened up, but after a few minutes, I was
running and having fun. This year I could enjoy the views, beautiful grassy
slopes, mountains in the background under darkening skies… oh. Those are rain
clouds. Hey, they’re getting thicker. And I’m getting wet. It’s not a downpour
though, and my windbreaker does an adequate job of keeping me comfortable. No
need to break out the trash bag. Into the Cow Creek AS, and Albert is there. He
takes my picture, gets my pack filled with water and tells me that Richard is
going great before he sends me on my way. It stops raining – wahoo!
Ok, I ran most of the road, but it was not as easily
runnable as I remembered. It looked like it should be easily runnable…. I was
getting tired. Hrmph – it’s only mile 32. Out of the blue, my calf knots up
painfully. Dang it. I stopped and stretched several times, but couldn’t get it
to relax. Up the Beall trail I go. “Ah but this year, I have you figured out,
Beall trail.”
Or so I thought. It climbed a little for the first 2 miles,
then it’s more level as it traces the contours of the lush mountain. It winds
in and out of aspen, leaves tickling each other in the breeze, and pines, and…
blueberries! I stopped and picked a few. They didn’t taste exactly like
blueberries, but well, after eating several gus and waffles, I didn’t think my
palette was quite right. They were sweet, and I enjoyed finding them.
“Alright,” I think, “now the trail comes to the top of this ridge right here,
and we run into the gravel road again, and I head down.” I’m confident, and even though my calf is
still knotted up, I’m running ok. At the top of the ridge… the trail continues
along the contour of the mountain. “Ok, next ridge. Yeah, this was a little
soon. But I know I’m close.” A funny
misstep, and now my knee joins my calf in a pain duet. The next ridge –
finally. But the trail meets no road. And so it goes, for maybe another 3
ridges. I give up on the Beall trail, and just to spite it I walk. If it isn’t
going to cooperate and meet up with that road, fine then, I’m just going to
walk, you stupid trail. After a little bit of this self pity, I eat a waffle and
feel a little better. I run-walk, and try not to think about whether or not I
am close to getting to the road. This zen strategy is usually where I live, but
dang if it wasn’t really hard to find my way there right then.
The Beall trail did meet the road. And I did run down the
Lane of Pain (thinking about the Sting song for part of it). As I approached
the Olympian again, I was sorry I had let the Beall trail get the better of me
AGAIN.
And I was forced to let my people know that all was not
quite peachy keen. For the calf, Betsy worked a little icy-hot into it, and Ken
got me some Power Ice (electrolyte ice pops). It was great to see them again –
the balm of friendship was more important than the other remedies at that
point. Greg had made it after all through the flooding in Boulder, all prepped
to pace me the last 29 miles. They also had a very tasty burrito for me! Best
crew ever.
Betsy and I headed down the road, to start our 23 mile
section together. Soon, the first Hare runs by us. So smooth and strong, how I
wish I would look during a 5 mile run. At this point, we were ~43 miles in.
Betsy starts skipping backwards so she can keep an eye out for the next Hare,
and soon enough Karl Meltzer comes by with a runner right on his shoulder. Such
a neat aspect to this race, to share the road briefly in the midpoint with the
eventual winner, to see them putting out effort.
Betsy kept up a good conversation about her time in
Steamboat. She asked if I’d seen any wildlife, which I hadn’t but I mentioned
the blueberries I’d eaten. She paused. Asked how tall the bush was. “That was a
Sarvis berry – we don’t have blueberries here.”
I was almost afraid to ask the obvious next question – were the berries
edible, or was I about to get 10 kinds of sick from eating these blueberry
imitating sarvis berries? “oh, yes,
they’re edible. Funny thing about that name, on the USGS survey, there was a
service road that the berries grew on. So lots of people now call them service
berries instead of sarvis berries…”
We got to fish creek falls trailhead right at dusk, ate and
drank, and plunged into the shadowy trail. Up we went, pretty steadily. I wish
I had been able to keep up with Betsy a little better, but she swore she didn’t
mind. “Eating? Drinking?” she asked, keeping me on track. We ran the short
flat/downhill spot, and crossed the bridge.
Soon we got to the meadows – the smooth trail was a pleasure to trot
along. Suddenly I remember I wanted to warn Betsy – there was an upcoming
stream crossing that meant wet feet – at least for me. There were some rocks
partially submerged, but in the dark balancing on them would be tricky, I told
her. In the next forested section, all of a sudden Betsy was off the trail –
“go ahead” she said. So, ok… Next I hear some wood snapping. Betsy come
trotting back past me, carrying two walking sticks – “Maybe we’ll keep your
feet dry after all!” What a quick
thinking and resourceful pacer! And it worked too. I was slowing down, despite
the help – the pain in my calf had been joined by a throbbing pain in my
hamstring near the knee. Things were getting darker, my friends, and I don’t
really mean the sky. Into the Long lake AS we went – I ate, wishing I’d kept
the rest of that burrito. The AS personnel here were on top of everything. A
blanket for my lap, some ramen, some turkey wraps… After a shoe change, shirt
change and handwarmers, I was ready to head out.
Oh that knee was stiff. It did not want to bend, and it
didn’t like impact. The night was cool, but not cold – really perfect for running.
I just wished I could do more of that! I wasn’t sleepy, though, which I counted
as a bonus. More hiking than running on this section. Oh well. This is the only
section of the race I will never know what the scenery looks like – even the
hares go through it in the dark. The moon was beautiful, though, just about a
perfect half moon. Clouds surrounded it at times, making cotton-candy pink
colors and swirls in the night sky. Nearly two hours later, we pull into Summit
Lake AS. We didn’t stay long, I didn’t think there was anything that could
really be done for my pain, so now it was all about budgeting time, so that if
I had to walk the entire way from mile 65 in, I could. As we get up to leave,
Nick in the chair next to me gets up too. We’d been leapfrogging each other
since Cow Creek (mile 30 ish). “Mind if I tag along?” And Besty says, “no, come on, let’s go –
together we’ll get down faster.”
The company may have meant the time passed quicker, but
there was nothing speedy about my descent. I knew this road was flattish but
rocky at first, and then descended more and more as we got close to the AS at
Dry Lake. I remembered last year, being frustrated and down, looking at all the
runners coming up the road as I headed down to where I knew they would time me
out. We hiked and trotted, with Nick and Betsy pulling ahead of me, then me
yo-yoing back to them or them waiting for me. Over and over. I heard snippets
of their conversation. I started to have to focus all my energy on ignoring the
pain, and controlling my footfalls. Not too sharp. Make sure everything’s in
line. All you have to do Margaret, is make it to the next AS. It doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t matter how long it takes, you can finish like this. Keep moving. Eat
something. Drink. It doesn’t hurt… The monotony of the road merged with the
monotony of the soliloquy in my head. They were the same, one not existing
without the other, each a cause of the other. I tried to keep alongside Nick
and Betsy as they chatted, but it was too much.
So many sections of this race must go through a time-space
dilation. The Beall trail. Long Lake to Summit Lake. And now Summit Lake to Dry
Lake. With Betsy there, she could tell how far away we were, and it was a given
that I’d trust her and ignore the foreverness of this road.
We started seeing Hares emerging from the darkness, running
faster up the road than I was moving down. First a handful of men, and then the
first woman. Some seemed to be trudging. We cheered them all.
Finally, a sharp uphill, with lights at the top. We had made
it to Dry Lake.
Ken took one look at my walk – “what’s going on?” I told him I didn’t know how much running
there would be for the next 37 miles. My knee was swollen – I didn’t even have
to tell him what hurt. The calf was a distant pain compared to the hamstring.
Never have I had so many issues! Phooey. Dry Lake seemed to be humming with
activity. I know I was asked if I needed anything, but with all of my crew there
and my brain a little preoccupied, all that activity existed under a fog of war
to me. Ken got me a knee sleeve. I ate. And we left.
The knee sleeve helped – a little compression, and I could
ignore the pain better. Enough to run. So we ran down the smooth trail, mostly.
That is, it was mostly smooth, and I mostly ran, both. With Ken behind me,
telling me the news of the day, I felt encouraged. I figured I’d ride this
until it stopped. Who knew how long it would last. My muscles weren’t that
fatigued, as I really hadn’t been using them. Ken cheered me on, and I was
stubbornly happy to be running. This trail is amazing, bridges crossing back
and forth over spring creek, the sound of the water and the smell of fall
vegetation. Vicki and Richard counted the bridges – there are 15. A few rocky
sections break up the trail, but they don’t last. Mostly, the trail is smooth
and widens as it goes down. Ken told me how the other tortoise women were
doing. Did he say I was in fourth? I didn’t have the heart to tell him how
little this mattered. It was only mile 65. I was having a hard time moving, and
was only running because the trail was nice and he was behind me. Neither thing
was bound to last, and soon I’d be cheering on runners as they passed me.
Places don’t matter. All I could do was keep moving forward, and that was
enough. Richard was still doing well, and we saw him with Vicki as we got
closer to the AS coming the other way. It was great to see him, moving well and
seeming cheerful. The running down continued,
and I started to think it could last. The Spring Creek Ponds AS couldn’t come
fast enough for me, and when it did I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Another check point.
The downhill had gone well, thanks to the knee brace. The
uphill started, and the pain returned. Nope. Not good. Hike. Run when you can.
It doesn’t hurt… I was too sleepy now, this wasn’t working. I told Ken to lead
me, thinking that following his feet would help. Instead I fell behind and was
isolated in the dark. Switching from running to walking and vice versa was
incredibly painful, but I wasn’t strong enough to run the whole thing. I
started weaving and seeing double with sleepiness. I need a caffeine tab.
… more weaving… I need... I need a caffeine tab.
OK, STOP. I NEED A
CAFFEINE TAB!
When the thought finally coalesced in a cohesive sentence, I
told Ken. As I swung my pack around to get it out, he told me to take an
Ibuprofen, too. “You need something to take the edge off the pain so you can
move better. Take one.” I didn’t want
to, I’ve never needed one before. “You will do better, feel better – take one.”
So I did. (Caveat – my kidneys were working fine, and I was not dehydrated. I
felt safe taking it in this case.)
A small moment on the trail, but a huge effect on the rest
of my run. About 10 minutes later, I was feeling more awake, and the pain was
less. I ran as much of the rest of the uphill as I could. Ken’s encouragement
bolstered my courage. The distance seemed to pass so quickly, I couldn’t
believe it when we rounded the bend and the AS was there. I had all but given
in to the inevitability that I would be walking, slowly and painfully, the last
35 miles. But here I was, running. And I felt better than I had in 25 miles.
It’s an amazing and wonderful thing about an event that lasts so long. There
are many, many opportunities for ‘things’ to happen. Both good and bad. Turning
points can happen for the most dejected runner and to the runner flying high.
Experience is gold out there, but so is vigilance, patience, and obstinacy.
Some measure of wild and violent insistence, a spark of joyful naivete, and a
part of calm acceptance. The formula is different for everyone, maybe even for
every race it must be discovered and proven again.
Greg was here, and ready to go. And thankfully, marvelously,
miraculously, so was I. I told him the plan was to hike up the road to the top,
and then run on the trail as much as we could all the way in. I think I may
have grinned.
The road up was less monotonous – Greg and I spent most of
it catching up. He told me about the flooding in Boulder and his adventure in
getting to Steamboat. His mountain biking, graduate school… I filled him in as
best I could on what was going on in ABQ. Before long, I could turn off my
light – and found that Greg had already been hiking without his. Not daylight
yet, the shadowy tree forms bordering the road glided past us as we hiked
uphill. When daylight did come, it
brought with it sparkling blue skies ahead, with a few small harmless clouds
over a valley to our right of bright green and gold trees and grasses. It also
brought us to the top, a return to Summit Lake AS where they had pancakes! And
Sausages! (I had both, and a lot more food as well.) I took my time here,
actually brushed my teeth which felt very refreshing, reviewed my clothing
choices, and made sure I was set for the last 22 miles. A look to the west
showed heavy dark clouds. “Greg, do I bring my good slightly heavier rain
jacket, or stick with my light water resistant one, with a trashbag backup?” We
risked it.
As we left the AS tent, it started to rain, but not heavily.
It soon gave up any ambitions of becoming a downpour. The Wyoming trail under
our feet went uphill to start, giving us a great view of Summit Lake over our
left shoulders. Soon it turned into my favorite part of the run. It twisted and
turned, taking us slightly downhill. Meadows appeared through tree-framed
windows to each side. Small lakes waited silently to be admired. We passed
bogs, and open understory alpine forests on a nice soft dirt trail, sometimes a
two track, sometimes single. We ran. Sometimes I followed Greg, being drawn on
by his smooth footsteps – he stayed the perfect distance in front of me, never
too far or too close.
Always boosting my spirits with “great work, that was a
good stretch,” and pointing out mud spots or downed trees, we ran to Long Lake.
I was feeling more confident. Until I wasn’t. I started to flag more easily. I
switched to hiking on the slight uphills sooner. I was quieter. I see these
things now in hind sight. In the moment I was only thinking of reaching Long Lake,
of drinking. Of taking a salt tab when my watch went off. We got to the trail
intersection. The AS just felt close. Greg asks what I’ll need when we get
there – not much really – and then says, “you should take another caffeine tab
when we get there.” And only then do I see the signs that he has spotted.
“Yep.”
What a lift it was to roll in to that AS. I had been
anticipating the last Long Lake Aid
Station since the race started in a lot of ways – I was about to enter the
home stretch. I took a caffeine pill, and smiled at the AS person helping me.
“You are so perky, I love it!” She said.
I felt great.
I turned, and I was surprised to see Richard sitting there
in a chair. At first, I was so happy to see someone I knew, and then, “wait,
what are you doing here?” His legs were
finished, he said. Albert was piling food next to him, telling him to eat. He
said they just hurt. Oh, could I
relate to that. “Take an ibuprofen,” I told him. I knew he usually took one for
the last 6 miles, so I knew he had one on him. “Take it now, you’ll feel better
and be able to run.” He looked doubtful. Tired. I worried he was at the end of
his rope. I kept encouraging him. Albert was there, taking care of everything. Greg
had filled my pack, and I had eaten… it was time to go. I had seen a woman
leave shortly after I arrived at the AS. I wondered…
Greg caught up to me on the trail, and handed me a pancake.
“I think that woman left the AS because she saw me – you know?” Greg agreed,
gave me a high five, and then told me to go get her. We ran most of the next
6.8 miles, passing her and 6-8 other people. Getting closer to the end, I was
willing to work, to breathe harder than I had been only a few miles ago. At
some points on this section, I may have even run a mile without stopping at
all. Not so easy after 90 miles! Greg kept on firing me up, “you’ve got this
Margaret. -You rocked that last section. -You’re crushing it.” I fed on that. One
of the guys we passed said he was trying to break 30 hours. I looked at my
watch and thought that would be really tough to make.
Cruising along, Greg tells me, “you’ll never guess who’s
coming...” At first I thought – that woman! She got a second wind! And then,
no… it’s GOTTA be Richard! And it was. He came rolling through, looking just
great. He had taken the Ibuprofen, and was killing it. Albert waved and said, “Look
at this guy!” I gave a big whoop and
kept moving. I was so glad to see him recovered, and it looked like he was
enjoying himself again – that’s the way you want to finish a 100. I ran out of
water – Greg filled my hand held from his pack. (I found out later that he also
was out after that. I never suspected. What a great pacer!)
I knew this section had an uphill at the end, but I still
was surprised by how long the trail went, skirting around a ridge and following
below it for what seemed like MILES. I kept looking up through the trees –
where is the saddle? I’ve gotta be close… where is it, where is it, where is it…
It took a supreme force of will to tell myself to stop anticipating (and
getting frustrated) and just move forward. It doesn’t matter where the AS is,
it matters that I am putting one foot in front of the other, that I am putting
forth effort. Again and again in this race it was a battle in my head between “What
I wanted or thought SHOULD BE” and “what actually is, and being happy with it.”
Finally, finally. The last AS. Richard was already through. I
didn’t even want to stop. Greg filled my pack partway, I grabbed a little food,
and we left. As we were leaving, Greg says, “We have 1:15 to get under 30
hours. That’s 11 minute miles, Margaret. Downhill. You wanna go for it?”
Oh, I wanted to. but… But I was afraid to try and fail.
Thinking about working hard through the pain for another hour… And I was already going to make the goal I had
set for myself – to finish, hopefully under 32 hours. That negativity sitting
on my shoulder encouraged me to seek comfort. I’d done enough. No one cared if
I finished under 30.
“I don’t think I have it in me, Greg. Let’s just go.”
I didn’t look at him to see how he took that. I started
jogging down. It was so steep at the top. We passed a woman – must be a 50
miler, I thought – and a few others. I was going a little faster now, but only
because braking was so hard. But I could do this. I could go faster.
Screw that little devil on my shoulder. Let’s go for it. I
lifted my knees. Greg was right next to me. The descent became less steep – a perfect
pitch to actually run. So we did. I lengthened my stride, oh that hurt, and it
felt good too. To run fast, to change the stride from the forever shuffle felt
like I was cracking apart a shell that had encased me. (Ow.) Greg: “we’re going
faster than a 9 minute mile. Keep it up Margaret. We’ve got this.” He’s pretty quick on the draw even after 7
hours and 23 miles. He could see – I had the bit in my teeth, and I was working
for it. I opened a gel and took bits over the next 4 miles. I kept trying to
push the pace. Gotta keep working. I want that under 30. I want to work this
last section. These were the final miles. Working hard here, on a downhill, was
the best effort investment. I wanted it. Greg kept urging me on, “You’re making
me work. Way to go.”
The route split from the road, crossing a steep ski run.
Just as Greg was warning me about footing, my downhill foot slid out from under
me. “Ooof.” I scrambled up, paused, but nothing seemed broken – let’s keep
moving. Back on the road again, I struggled to recover that fast pace. Gotta
move, lengthen that stride, pick up your knees. Following Greg, I came up on
his heels, “Go faster Greg.”
“Faster? You rock, way to make me work. Dig Deep. You’ve got
this!” I smiled.
We turned left, and a volunteer said 1 mile to go. I didn’t
believe her, I knew I couldn’t trust that. It was flatter now, and I was
working as hard as I could. If she was right, though, my watch said I’d be
under 30… Don’t think about that, just move. The next spectator 4 minutes down
the road said, “Just under 1 mile, way to go!” See, you can never believe the
shouts of “almost there!”
Every time my pace slowed, or we came to a slight uphill, Greg
was ready with encouragement. Believable encouragement! More than once that
small devil on my shoulder (who apparently was carrying a piano – he was heavy)
told me I could slow down, that it didn’t matter, I didn’t need to care about a
few minutes or seconds one way or the other. Between Greg’s encouragement and
just knowing that I could run faster, and that it would be over soon, I could
ignore the devil and still carry his damn piano.
Running along the base of the ski area, we rounded a corner
and there was the finish. I found a little extra speed. Up the five steps, and
there was Fred waiting for his hug at the finish. I couldn’t believe it. I
sobbed a little, so relieved, so glad to be done. I had done it, through so
much pain. I stopped my watch – another unbelievable thing: 29:44. I had
finished under 30. No way. I may have sworn. I didn’t quit, even when it was
hard and painful and I thought I wouldn’t run another step. Even though my foot
had hurt every step for nearly 30 hours. I wasn’t defined by last year’s DNF. Ken
was there, Albert, Vicki, Richard. I was overcome. I was so lucky.
Through the brain fog, I hear Fred say something, and he
raised his hands in praise. What? “You’re the first woman Tortoise!” I looked
at Ken, disbelieving. “No, that can’t be…
Really?” They weren't lying to me. I had passed the 3 women in front of me between hitting bottom at Dry Lake and the finish.I have never worked so hard, for so long. And in the war of attrition of the RRR100 tortoise division, that was enough to win.
Unbelievable.
The Stats:
Ate:
18 oreos
3 whole turkey and cheese/cream cheese wraps (~15 pieces)
3 pancakes
1 sausage
1/3 burrito
Slice watermelon
Muffin (lemon pecan)
Brownie
Chips
Fritos
20 oz gatorade
5 Power Ice freeze electrolyte things
1 bowl ramen
A bit of mashed potatoes
4 gus
3.5 bars
11 waffles
(holy cow.)
