Plain 100 2014
I have said before that there is no such thing as an easy 100 miler. Nor is there any such thing as a normal 100 miler. Plain 100 is less easy and less normal than any of the others I've run. This seems to be more the organic result of the personalities of Chris and Tom, the race directors, that of anything intentional, but there are many things intentional.
Thing 1: Directions to Deep Creek, the start/finish line, drop bag point, and "aid station," cannot be found on the race website and were not given at the pre-race briefing. It's not clear if this was intentional or an oversight, but as others had said in fewer words, if you can't find a campground in the woods outside a tiny town in the mountains at the dead center of Washington State, you probably shouldn't run Plain.
Many mountain hundreds start with a big climb right out the gate. Plain starts out gently, with six or seven miles of nearly flat dirt roads, first to the original starting line in town (or what passes for one), then up a slight rise to another campground.
Thing 2: Those miles don't count towards the 100. The Plain course runs long, and not by a mere 0.2 or 2.0 miles like Western States or Bryce. Consensus and lore have it pegged at 106 miles, although some estimates go as high as 112. When the climb out of Deer Camp starts to get noticeable, you still have about 100 miles to go.
At Maverick Saddle, around ten miles in, I checked in with Thing 3, the Search and Rescue volunteers. They hang out at a few spots along the course with radios and trash bags to monitor runners' progress and collect our trash.
Thing 4: You are not allowed to receive aid on the course from anyone who isn't currently running the Plain 100. That means no aid stations, no pacers, no trail angels, no race photographers, no help from SAR. If you so much as ask them a question, they will remind you that hearing the answer means disqualification. If you go off course in front of them, they will wait until you're out of earshot to laugh. I took an extra minute at Maverick Saddle to double check my map and course directions.
Thing 5: The course is not marked. There are no flour arrows, confidence markers, wrong-way ribbons, glow sticks, LEDs, or flagging of any sort set out. What you get are turn by turn directions and a low resolution map on the website. Anyone too lazy to buy or print something better would have to make do with the bandana silkscreened with the course map given out at check-in.
Soon after Maverick Saddle, the trail got steeper, tougher, and more scenic, with some nice views of sunrise over the Wenatchee Mountains and the other side of the Entiat range. This was the first of what would normally be three approximately 5000 foot climbs.
Thing 6: Normally, the second climb would take us 5000 feet up Signal Peak in only four miles. This comes at the start of a 14 mile dry stretch, and most runners reach it during the hottest part of the day, so it must be climbed under the weight of hours worth of water and, hopefully, at least half your food for the loop.
Thing 7: Technically, the rule is no aid except at Deep Creek, the start/finish/"100K" checkpoint. This means you must carry all your food and gear with your for as much as 64 miles at a stretch, assuming you don't go off course for any bonus miles along the way, and all the water you might need between known stream crossings.
I felt every ounce of this weight when I landed badly coming down off a rock on the technical Hi-Yu trail and my lower back responded with an equal and opposite reaction. While I sat and stretched by the side of the trail I was passed by both Chihping and Noé, two fellow Bay Area runners I'd leapfrog with at the back of the pack for many hours to come.
Thanks to a couple of wildfires smoldering off to the north, the forest service had closed down part of the course, including the dreaded Signal Peak climb. This year's alternate route included a seven mile loop through the high meadows near 6000 feet above sea level. I've never noticed any symptoms of altitude sickness below 9000 feet, but that doesn't mean the thinner air can't slow me down. It slowed me down.
Over the next ten miles, my back worked itself out, assuaging my fear that my race was already over. I caught up with Noé again and overtook him on a downhill section. He told me he was worried about getting lost and about falling -- he'd only recently recovered from a bad shoulder injury. I slid and landed on my ass in the mud, laughing, as I took off ahead of him.
Thing 8: The trails are often kind of terrible. Where most mountain hundreds are run on trails maintained by and for hikers, these are mostly maintained by and for dirt bikers. Many sections had deep eight-inch wide ruts right down the middle of the trail, which got slick with mud up in the high meadows. Where switchbacks might otherwise provide perfect downhill running, concrete honeycomb was laid into the ground to prevent erosion while pummeling our soles and threatening sprains. Sometimes there were little jumps. On one particularly awful stretch of otherwise gentle trail, there were miles of whoop-de-doos, basically speedbumps that made it impossible to run with any kind of rhythm. Elsewhere nature provided, and the trail was simply covered with fist sized rocks.
Through the high meadow loop, I found myself slowing down, and it wasn't just the altitude. I was eating a gel or a handful of trail mix or jerky every 20 minutes like clockwork, but I was still feeling hungry and drained. I rallied for the Whistling Pig Meadow downhill and the last, easier part of the Signal Peak climb that was still on the course, and even put in some good descending from there on some bad trail before bonking completely. This was the worst. Here I was on a five mile downhill where my whole race plan hinged on making up time, and all I could do was walk and feel sorry for myself.Two miles downhill on this Billy Creek trail, a little after the Search and Rescue checkpoint and about eleven hours into the race, I let Chihping pass me for the last time and pulled off trail to take a giant dump. I started to piece together what was going on then: it was bright green. Like, greener than goose poop. Greener than a lot of the trail vegetation, and I was running in the Evergreen State. More to the point, the last time I could remember eating much of anything green was a giant spinach smoothie more than two days ago. Almost an hour and a half and only three miles down the trail, I took another giant crap, but this time it was two-tone: half bright green, half, you know, just kinda brown. Now it was all beginning to make sense: I hadn't really crapped in a few days, and my gut was backed up enough that I wasn't extracting nutrition from my food as efficiently as normally.
You know how a cat will fly all over the house like a furry little demon right after after it poops? It was kinda like that. I made a full recovery on the rest of the downhill, and began making up some solid time on the five miles out along the rolling Mad River trail. After only one or two, however, I was surprised to be overtaken by another runner - someone I hadn't seen all day. He told me he was running the 100K, a shorter race that stopped after only this first loop, and gotten lost. He also told me that from what he knew, Noé and another runner named Don had gone off course, and I was now in last place for the hundred mile race. I hoped he was wrong, mostly for their sake.
The narrow trail here snaked along next to and above the Mad River, anywhere from zero to about 80 feet above the water with a steep drop off. For the first few miles the ground was soft, but it abruptly gave way to a carpet of fist-sized rocks. Nonetheless, I still felt great, finally running well, high-fiving runners I hadn't seen in twelve hours who were coming back the other way and telling myself I could make it to the turnaround before putting on my headlamp for the night. I made it, but just barely.
Halfway back along the out-and-back, I was elated to see Noé headed toward me. He told me he'd been following Don when they made a wrong turn and ran about five extra miles. This was on the longest dry stretch of the course, so they'd run out of water, and Don had become dehydrated. Noé told me he had been leaning and falling over, but they'd eventually found a stream, then the right trail and recovered. I told him where the turnaround was and what to look for, and that he still had plenty of time to make the Deep Creek cutoff.
A mile later, I saw another headlamp coming my way, which of course belonged to Don. I told him I was glad to see him, asked how he was doing, and gave him the same information I'd given Noé. He only said "Yeah" or "OK" in response, which at the time I took as an indication that, like Noé, he was frustrated about having gone off course and lost so much time. In retrospect, this was a mistake.
Thing 9: Plain is not a fucking joke. When I saw Noé back at Deep Creek the next day, he told me he had essentially sacrificed the rest of his race to save Don's life. Here's what Noé wrote about it later:
Hours later when I was coming back from that out-and-back trail I saw Don who was in his way to that point, looking completely sick, leaning on his left side, clearly sign of dehydration. - He cannot be here, I thought, this section is extremely unsafe. - Noe, can I stay with you, I feel very dizzy and weak. I responded immediately - Of course, let's go together. He was not really walking, he was dragging his feet making a great effort to put one foot in front of the other and some times losing the balance of his body, like nauseous. It was already dark and everybody was gone, that was a single, rocky and narrow trail, so there's no much I could do, just escorting him and make sure that nothing worst happens. Moving at 50-55 minutes/mile and taking breaks. - That was ok, no rush, I said! We were in the middle of the forest, very remote area and there were absolutely no one nearby, just he and me.
At about 2 am. the temperature dropped down dramatically (probably to the 20's) when suddenly Don lost the control of his balance and dropped off to the cliff. - OH NOOOO!!!! I yelled very loudly. At first I thought that he had hit on any rock or he was on the river or he was dead. NO, he was trapped on two fallen old trees very close too the abysm. That section was very steep and he was like 20 ft down from the trail. Has he a broken bone? Or maybe is he bleeding? He was responding to everything I was asking so I tried immediately to rescue him.
I don't deny that I was also afraid to slip and cause a tragedy, my shoulder is not completely healed from a surgery and I still don't have much strength, so slowly I went down grabbing my arm on some branches, grabbed his hand and start pulling him from the area. - Don, you need to be strong and help me, I said. - Come on, little by little he was moving and finally I got him to a safe spot, what a relief!
If Noé hadn't been with him, and Don hadn't had the presence of mind to turn back earlier, he could have been in much worse shape by the time Search and Rescue found him. Thanks to how well prepared Noé was, he was able to walk the rest of the way to them instead.
Thing 10: Aid is only allowed from other runners, which means the only aid station is allowed at Deep Creek. However, it's not part of the race organization. Volunteers come out with a grill most years, but weren't able to this year. When I pulled back into Deep Creek after midnight 20 hours 38 minutes, there was no aid station, only my drop bag and a camp chair.
Nonetheless, I was happy to see both Chihping and Glen (another runner I'd spent time running and leapfrogging with) still there. I hoped to get out of my chair fast enough to leave with one or both of them, but I had enough to do just emptying and refilling my pack, putting on the right nighttime layers and lights, and eating what I could before heading out that even my fast stop took about twenty minutes, and they were both gone.
Too bad, too. This was the section I'd been most worried about. While I'd had no real trouble navigating the first 100K, the start of the second loop is notorious for getting runners lost in the dark. It starts on a trail that runs parallel to a road, and there are many intersecting roads and paths. In theory, though, all I had to do was keep following the same trail for ten miles.
This all went to hell at Goose Creek Campground where in my infinite wisdom I decided to ignore a sign saying "<--- TRAILHEAD." This was obviously completely unhelpful, since I wanted to keep going straight. Instead I spent at least twenty minutes wandering around the campground, trying to figure out where the trail picked up without waking anyone up. I must have crossed over the trail at least once, completely ignoring it again, by the time I ended up out on the road. I knew this was wrong, but eventually decided to run along the road until I could spot the trail again just off to the right, cut back over, then retrace my steps. It would waste a lot more time, but I refused to finish Plain having cut the course.
Eventually I decided it had been too long - I should have seen the trail or an intersecting dirt road by then - and decided to forge into the woods until I found it. I couldn't, at first, figure out why I was going down such a steep hill, or why I could hear water so nearby. How could there possibly be a river between me and the trail? It turns out running for 22 hours without rest can, in fact, take a toll on one's mental faculties. After more time than I care to admit, I realized I'd gotten turned around. Once I got back to Goose Creek, I had no trouble finding my way through this time.
I now had about six hours to get to the next checkpoint, and I wasn't exactly sure where on the course that was. I figured I still had a shot at making it, but it would be tight. Fortunately, I was still moving well. I just had to stay focused and avoid doing anything else stupid. Oh boy.
For the next eight miles, the trail continued to snake along parallel to the road before the last big climb up to Chikamin Ridge. At some point, the trail descended to what must have been a sharp bend that I didn't see right at the edge of the now paved road. I must not have seen the bend. what I did see was an obvious continuation of the trail across the road.
At seven in the morning, I found myself in the middle of Grouse Creek Campground. It should have been immmediately obvious that I was off course, but I didn't think I'd ever gone off course, so I just thought the map was confusing and looked for where the trail continued. I wandered back and forth through my second campground of the morning twice before pulling out my compass for some clarity. It kept spinning. I turned it over and found a big hole in the base, where the water is usually held in. I dug my phone out of my pack and waited for GPS, glad I had it for backup. Finally I saw where I was on a topo map.
Now that I'd stopped moving for so long, however, and the morning light had failed to find me in this steep mountain valley, I was shivering violently. I had only two hours left to try for the Chikamin Tie cutoff. I decided instead to head back downhill toward the Alder Ridge Search and Rescue checkpoint, which I knew I could find. The topo map showed a service road heading south from the campground that cut a more direct path than the asphalt, so I decided to follow it.
Of course, the topo map on my phone hadn't been updated in a few decades, and a short ways out of the campground it became clear the service road I was following hadn't been maintained in about that long either. I found myself climbing over and around thick brush and trees along a steep cliffside. Eventually I gave up and scrambled up the cliff 100 feet to the road. Before long, without so much as a thumb, I was picked up by two other runners who had dropped before me.
Plain is one of a small handful of races known as "graduate-level" 100 milers. I'm one of a few who learned why the hard way that weekend, although I certainly did not have it as hard as some. Still, for all its difficulty, it's an incredibly fun, beautiful race, and I'd be glad to go back anytime. I'll just make sure to doublecheck my map. And my compass.
This will be an unusual race report. It comes with a trigger warning. It discusses suicide in some detail, and vomit in some quantity.
I won't say a lot about what makes the HURT 100 so beautiful, so hard, and so rewarding. You can read my report from last year for that. I will say that I was extremely excited to know that I would be running it again this year, and that I considered last year's finish the hardest thing I had ever done.
Along with so many other things, that all changed approximately three weeks and five hours before the conch blew to start the race. Early on the morning of December 27 2013, or very late December 26 if you prefer, Conor Michael Fahey-Latrope killed himself. He was a close friend to me and a companion in adventures both well and ill conceived across the millenia.
I spent most of that night (or the next if you prefer) and the next few days at the scene, trying as best I could to help his bereaved wife and child, to sort through his possessions, to make That Phone Call to a number of our old friends. That was the hardest thing I've ever done, but unlike running and finishing HURT I had no choice at all.
I thought about withdrawing from HURT. Funeral details were up in the air for a while, and it seemed like everything would naturally be chaos for weeks, months, forever. I was only just recovering from a minor knee injury and undoubtedly undertrained. A week after Conor's death, under the strain of it all, I sprained my back changing into my gym clothes. I was drinking too much for the first time in eight years. I was a wreck all around, I knew it, and a stupid footrace didn't seem so important anyway.
I guess I can be pretty stubborn sometimes. Once the funeral was confirmed for the weekend before the race and my back showed improvement, I confirmed my travel plans, had a new race shirt printed up, and announced I'd be running in Conor's memory, to raise money for his daughter.
It must sound funny, but it was hard to leave Oakland and everyone I'd been grieving with on a plane to Hawaii in order to hob nob with friends and athletes I admired, all of them disconnected from this tragedy, and run the tough jungle trails I'd missed all year. I spent a lot of the first two days just re-learning how to hang out with people who weren't in a state of shock. It was hard, but it was good. Like in ultrarunning, maybe I don't always see a distinction.
And then, the night before the race, I did something stupid. I ordered the loco moco.
I can't be completely sure if it was the onion, the meat, the gravy, or one of the eggs on top, but something gave me an unmistakeable case of food poisoning. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the rice.
I woke up about one a.m. with diarrhea. It came back an hour later accompanied by vomiting. The nausea kept me awake until I purged the rest of my stomach, but I don't think I managed any more sleep before my 3:45 a.m. alarm anyway.
My usual morning prep time was at least doubled with some extra trips to the toilet, but I only puked once at the starting line. When conch blew at 6 a.m. and we began on our way up to the brutal Hogsback climb for the first time, my stomach felt even better. Maybe it would be okay as long as I kept moving.
Looking back, I'm sure it was only adrenaline that got me that far. Even before the top of Hogsback I slowed and fell to near last place. Shortly before reaching Manoa Cliff, I puked. By the time I reached the first aid station at mile 8, I was puking every 20 minutes. I couldn't even keep ginger candies or plain water down. Aside from feeling sick and wasting time, I was losing calories, hydration, and electrolytes on a warm and extremely humid day. My only chance was to spend some extra time refueling at the aid stations, move extra slowly, and hope to climb out of the hole I was falling into if my stomach recovered. If.
At Paradise Park I knocked back ginger ale, broth, and devoured fresh watermelon, but just a few minutes up the easy part of the climb it started to come up again. I gave myself two minutes to rest on a new stone wall along the tourist path to Manoa Falls. Before I could get started again, two volunteers on HURT Patrol found me and walked with me up the switchbacks to the lower bamboo forest, where I took advantage of a slight downhill to take off running.
"Do it for Conor!" they shouted, having asked about my shirt. I had to wipe away the tears quickly to keep a clear eye on my footing.
It wasn't long before they caught me again, clutching a couple stalks of bamboo and doubled over. So much for the watermelon.
At the mile 13 aid station, I stuck with ginger ale and broth. The station captain kept up a conversation while I sipped them to make sure I was lucid. I must have looked as good as I felt. I thanked him and grabbed another can of ginger ale to go, eying the calories on the label.
The steep climbs of the third leg helped put my predicament in perspective. Although my legs were fine, the climbs felt about as hard, and I was stopping to rest even more often, than on the fifth loop last year. On the other hand, having adjusted my pack to avoid any squeeze on my abdomen and having switched to an all-liquid diet, I was starting to puke less.
Back at the Nature Center start/finish aid station (mile 20), local volunteers and Bay Area friends checked in on me and helped me refuel. I guess I looked pretty bad. I thanked them and headed back out.
I only puked once on the next leg, a real turning point I was sure, but I was also pretty sure I'd just clocked my slowest marathon time yet, and it was getting dark already. Sometimes I do better at night on hot weather runs, but I wasn't ready to try caffeine on my stomach, and it would be a long night without it.
My lowest point came two miles into the long climb out of Paradise. I'd only managed 30 miles in 12 hours. The math was clear, and it was against me. I had 24 hours left to run 70 miles, never mind the intermediate cutoffs. Even if I made a full recovery, there was no way I could make up the time.
I felt like a failure. I'd failed myself. I'd failed Finn and Daed. I'd failed everyone who had contributed to the memorial fund because I was running this thing, and everyone back home watching for my name in the online results. I'd failed Conor. Again.
In the dark of the jungle, I sat on the side of the trail and wept. It didn't matter. I didn't care who was disappointed, or how fast I ran, or if I finished, or how far I made it at all. I wanted my friend back. I could never run well enough or be good enough or do anything to make that happen.
After a few minutes I looked down at my GPS watch and saw something strange. It told me I was moving very fast, five-minute mile pace or so, and ticking off hundredths of miles as I sat there. I must have landed inches enough off the trail to convince it I had floated up the next switchback. I stood up and started trying to do just that.
This would be okay, I thought. It wasn't about being perfect, about proving something, or anything more than trying in and with his memory. It was about showing that memory why I try so hard, why I wanted him to be able to join me and learn the same things the same way.
I'd long fantasized about Conor coming out to pace me for a loop at HURT. Even if it didn't get him into ultrarunning, I knew he'd love the trail and I knew his athletic ass would leave mine in the mud. We'd talked often about what I got from the sport and how it inspired him.
"I think the hard and important part is to take that and apply it to the rest of your life," he told me once about some hard-won running lessons. He could have some great advice for someone who couldn't even choose not-death over death.
So I wouldn't finish. So what? There's no shame in a DNF done right. I'd keep going until someone made me stop.
When I got back to Nu`uanu at mile 33, the station captain told me I looked much better and congratulated me on my attitude. I drank some ginger ale, grabbed some gels and a can of juice for the trail, thanked him, and took off.
A mile out, I sat on a rock and cracked open the juice. As I started to drink, I was elated to feel something I hadn't in over 24 hours: hunger.
A mile up Nu`uanu Ridge, it all came up again.
I started to ask myself, What would Conor do right now?
Yes, I was mad and disappointed, but I still loved and admired him. What might he do in a situation like this?
Conor would down whatever food was in his pack, puke it up, and sprint to the next aid statoin like nothing happened.
Conor would strike up a conversation with a stranger and find out what they think he should do.
Conor would quit.
Conor wouldn't be here at all.
Conor would put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.
I pressed on, stopping often to rest or to vomit. No matter how loud I turned up my earbuds, I kept hearing how he would have said, "Oh, no-oooh!" when I told him about this. I kept wishing more than anything he were there with me, or anywhere other than sitting on Daed's shelf in an urn.
At last I accepted I would need to rest until my stomach could recover. It was almost midnight -- 18 hours into the race -- by the time I made it back to the Nature Center at mile 40. I lay down on a cot where Allen "not that" Lucas checked on me every half hour. After he left, a volunteer medic took over, waking me to sip broth every 10 minutes. Even without moving, my stomach didn't start to feel settled until 6 a.m., but by then I was too weak and too dehydrated to press on for a third loop.
I'm sure I could have still made them pull me, but not in a good way. Instead I walked over to the timing table, told them I was done, and spent the next twelve hours slowly recovering and watching other runners come back in, victorious or otherwise.
As in my previous adventures, I learned a lot. Like Conor might have said, it wasn't all about running. It didn't pan out in the end, or really go well at all, but I'm glad I went.
After all, I didn't want it to be easy, and I know Conor wouldn't have either.
I signed up for this year's Run d'Amore 100 mile run only a few days before the event secure in the knowledge it might not work out for me. I was drastically undertrained, with about fifteen miles under my belt in the previous month thanks to a string of minor injuries and illnesses. I had other races on my calendar for the following weekend, and wouldn't want to push myself so hard I couldn't recover within a few days. With a short lead-up I wouldn't be able to quit caffeine in advance, normally a big part of my 100 mile strategy. Worst of all, on the Wednesday before the event I pulled an eighteen hour overnight shift replacing our office wireless network, so making sure I was rested for the race might not be possible.
Nonetheless, I showed up at Harvey Bear Ranch relaxed and excited. Run d'Amore uses the same course as Run de Vous, where I had set my sub-24 PR a few months ago, but they were changing it up this year. The standard version of the course was a nearly flat two mile loop run fifty times, but the new incarnation added a mile out and back along a fairly steep trail, which sounded great to me.
The loop course format lends itself to a great atmosphere, as the one aid station and drop bag location becomes race central. The short stretch of the course you get to look forward to every two or four miles is crowded with other runners you've started getting to know, their family and crew, the race directors, and the volunteers. The out and back section only added to this feeling since you can't help but bump into most of the field during those two miles, no matter how far ahead or behind you are. What's more, since Harvey Bear hosts three races in this format each year with many repeat runners, there's a remarkably strong feeling of community around these events. Regardless of how my race went, it was great to run it with so many people I've seen there and at other runs in the Bay Area.
I started out relatively fast on fresh legs, worried I was starting too fast but, since I was thinking of it as a training run and didn't have any particular goals in mind, I didn't worry about holding myself back too much. I finished my first four mile loop in forty-five minutes, and only slowed about one minute per loop up through mile twenty. I enjoyed running the steep downhill sections on the trail section hard, but found myself having a lot more trouble maintaining a good pace through the end of the asphalt loop then I had at Run de Vous.
By around the 50K mark, I'd slowed to over an hour per loop, and I never managed to speed back up from there. I turned on my iPod and started taking in a little bit of caffeine much earlier than I usually would in a 100 miler.
As soon as night fell, the temperature dropped fast. I felt fine as long as I kept moving, building up a sort of bank of core heat from the downhill trail mile on each loop, but because of this I may not have put on enough layers soon enough.
I left the aid station at mile sixty shivering, with a cup of hot soup in one hand and hot coffee in the other. Once I'd finished them both I tried to move faster, but my right leg cramped up and I found myself limping instead. I decided to skip the trail and run only the asphalt loop - if I recovered, I'd make it up the next time around. If not, I'd take the 100 kilometer finish and call it a day.
It took me an hour to limp those two easy miles. When I got to the timing table and told them I was done, race director Alan Geraldi wouln't hear of it. He suggested I take a nap and come back to it - even if I slept for three hours I'd still have plenty of time to make the thirty-six hour cutoff. I agreed, since a nap was next on my agenda anyway, but I didn't see it in the cards.
Of course, when I got back to my car I found I'd left the map light on and the battery was dead, so I wouldn't be able to run the heater before going to sleep. I crawled into my sleeping bag in the passenger's seat and passed out for two hours anyway, then found a jump from Donato, the winner of the morning's 50K, who had Kathy d'Onofrio, the co-winner of the 100 mile run passed out in his backseat. I hung out for a while eating and chatting, went back to my car to sleep until morning, got up to eat an amazing breakfast at the aid station, and cheered in a number of runners before heading home.
It's clear that undertraining and sleep debt were the biggest strikes against me. Still, I don't think I would have dropped to 100K if I'd started the race committed to a 100 mile finish. Even if I hadn't had my particularly low moment of shivering with a leg cramp until mile seventy, I might not have considered quitting so easily. But the race was a great experience overall, and I certainly got the kind of training I was looking for without taking myself out of commission for more than a couple days afterward.
As long as I continue to have no regrets, everything will have gone according to plan.
Don't run Euchre Bar Massacre. It could easily kill you. That said, if Sean organizes it again next year, I'll be back in a heartbeat.
This year I was one of three hearty fools to show up for the fifty mile division, while about a dozen runners made it out for the twenty-five. I arrived for the pre-dawn start in Alta, CA at the last possible moment, and missed most of the pre-race briefing. I'd made it home from work the night before later than planned, finished packing later still, and showed up at our group campsite nearby to sleep poorly in my car later than I would have liked, so while I was excited to get down into the canyon and start our adventure I was a little on the groggy side. It sounded like the briefing contained little key information that wasn't also in the maps and direction packets we'd been sent a couple days ago, but I'd just have to hope that was true.
The first two miles were a steep downhill on the wide, groomed Euchre Bar Trail, which was fun, easy running for me, and for the first time in any race I had to force myself not to pass the leaders. This bottomed out 1800 feet below at a footbridge across the North Fork American River where some runners stashed a bit of their gear and food for the return trip, and the trail then veered east above the banks of the river itself.
After a couple of miles of rolling trail along the river, things would start to get interesting. After a short segment along a dirt road, the first climb would take us up the switchbacks of an unmaintained trail that at a few points was fully overgrown with blackberry vines. Judging by the scat in the neighborhood, bears had already taken care of the berries, but they didn't take out nearly so many of the thorns for me.
About two-thirds of the way up, another group of runners caught up with me. They started to overtake me just as we reached the turn-off for Pioneer Mine, where we found our first book. In the tradition of the Barkley Marathons, each runner would tear out a page corresponding to their race number to prove they'd been their. Our inaugural book was the Kurt Vonnegut classic Breakfast of Champions. While part of me felt bad about mangling any book, let alone one I'd loved when I read it back in high school, I can't deny that another part of me was just sad I didn't end up with the famous asshole page.
From there, the instructions told us to keep switchbacking up the hill, vines or no vines. I followed the instructions a bit too literally when I angled into a sort of slanted T-intersection, and turned sharp right instead of continuing almost straight to the left fork. If I'd walked another few steps before making my decision I would have noticed a stick arrow laid out on the ground pointing the way. Fortunately, my trail disappeared after less than half a mile, but I lost a few more minutes making sure I hadn't somehow walked off the main trail and lost sight of it.
Back on course, I was treated with my second fast downhill. As it turned out, this would be my last chance to make up any real time, and it wouldn't be enough.
At the bottom of this jeep road, the trail followed a creek which fed into the American River. At the end of this trail I found book number two, Coast Road. From here the instructions said to tear out a page, fill up on water, cross the stream, and begin making my way up Ebeneezer's Highway:
"Scramble up the bank on the other side of the river and continue up the hill by the steepest route possible for 1500 vertical feet. Go straight up, if you angle to your left you will go around the top and cause yourself extra distance, and if you go to the right you will head up the canyon and have extra climbing. There are a few trails you will cross, ignore them and keep going straight up through the manzanita stands until you get to the clearing at the top of the climb."
Easier than it sounds.
The first few hundred feet were at a grade of over 50%, and covered in new pine mulch and chipped slate. The surface improved to dead leaves and loose soil, but the grade did not change significantly for the first 800 vertical feet. At one point I made the mistake of veering off to the left for only a few feet, and found myself rock climbing a short ways instead. My hiking poles were often useful here, as I could jam them deep into the top soil, but sometimes I was better off scrambling with all four limbs.
Just as the climb started to soften a few degrees, I heard other "runners" nearby off to my right. I reached a level trail intersecting my path in the middle of a manzanita grove, and followed it over to find Mark, the director of the almost equally absurd Me-Ow Marathons, and his daughter Lorelei resting up mid-climb. They were surprised to see me and not another runner, Kirk, who had been with them for much of the race so far. Lorelei said she planned to drop when she reached the 25-mile turn around point at the top of this climb. She was acrophobic, and didn't want to descend Ebeneezer's. I couldn't blame her. I was a little worried about descending it in the dark myself, something that seemed certain at the rate I was going.
The two of them continued along the trail to look for a way up that skirted the dense manzanita grove, while I decided to stick closely to the instructions. The climbing wasn't quite as bad for the second half of the 1500 vertical feet, but it was still steep, and I often found myself crawling under manzanita branches that tore at the fabric of my pack, if not my skin.
When I knew I had to be nearing the top, I heard voices through the brush, and figured I must be reconverging with Mark and Lorelei again, but it turned out to be Ginny and Eric on their way back down from the turn around. They had bad news for me: I was already twenty minutes past the first cut-off, and had a good ways to go. They estimated it had taken them about an hour just to get back down to where we were from the turn-around checkpoint, and at the rate I was going uphill I knew that meant more than an hour for me. I figured that even if Sean wanted to be flexible, I'd drop down to the twenty-five mile course: I probably wouldn't have the energy to push on steadily enough to meet the later cut-offs for the fifty regardless.
Finally, the scrambling of Ebeneezer's Highway topped out at Humbug Ridge. There was another 1500 feet to climb, but it was so gradual they were even able to build a fire road on it. And then fill that fire road with deadfall, forcing me to hike through the woods off to the side, but this was still a welcome relief. By the time things truly leveled out, I had climbed far enough that I could feel a difference in the oxygen level for the first few minutes.
Approaching the flatter Italian Bar road spur, I looked up from the trail to see a massive pile of bulldozed deadwood. As I continued along the trail around the pile, I heard two gunshots, far closer than I ever want to hear gunfire without knowing its source and direction. I called out immediately. A moment later a man walked over from behind the pile. "Are there any more runners coming behind you?" he asked. I told him I had no idea and kept going up the road. A moment later, the gunshots started up again behind me.
Just around the corner from the turn-around, I bumped into Mark coming back the other way. Apparently his route had worked out well. He told me Sean, the organizer, had run off to chase down Kirk, who had missed the last turn on this dirt road for the turn-around.
At fifteen miles in, a collection of drop bags and camp chairs in a remote parking lot was a sight for sore eyes. Lorelei was already there, and Sean and Kirk showed up soon after I started refilling my pack. As I'd predicted, Sean offered to let me continue, but I opted instead to make the return trip with Kirk, even though he told me he'd be a bit slower with some foot issues. I'd already missed out on meeting my original goal for the day, and I was fine with having a good adventure and training run out of it.
On our way back down Humbug Ridge, we started chatting, and I should have paid more attention to what Kirk had to say about how the morning went for him. Running past the turn-around hadn't been his only navigational error. When we started to approach the section where we'd need to drop down and descend Ebeneezer's, he suggested we begin our descent early and angle off to the right, cutting a more gradual line down the hillside. I hesitated, but not enough, before deciding it was worth a try, since after all I just wanted a good adventure and good training out of it. Worst of all, I failed to check my map and my compass to see that rather than cutting across and hopefully rejoining the line we'd taken up the cliff, we were dropping off another side of the hill altogether.
The descent wasn't easy, but it was far too easy compared to the trip up. That should've been our first clue. Our second clue should've been that we didn't encounter any manzanita. Finally, you'd really think we would have noticed that it was too wide and flowing a bit too much in the wrong direction to be the creek we'd crossed before. You'd think.
Instead, we continued under the assumption that we had arrived back at Humbug Creek, and somewhere above the other bank if maybe a bit off to our right we'd find the trail we took to get there, or the jeep road we took to get to that trail. So we made our way upstream until we found a spot to cross and attempt to climb up to a road that wouldn't be there, up a steep bank and overgrown bank, scrambling again at times, or carefully navigating over loose rock, looking for game trails that would take us in what we thought would be the right direction. It took about forty-five minutes of this for me to finally behave like a sane person, pull out my map and compass, and figure out that we were going in the wrong direction altogether. We must have somehow crossed the river, not the stream, and there was nothing but more hillside along this vector as far as ink met page. We decided to focus instead on getting back down to the river from where we were before the sun finished setting and try to work out a better plan from there.
At one point as we were climbing near a rocky outcropping, something gave way under Kirk who was uphill from me, and I heard him land hard. I called out to ask if he was okay when the dust had literally settled. He replied that he didn't think anything was broken, maybe a little sprained. Now the situation was starting to worry me, but there was nothing to do but press on.
Back at the river, we decided to continue downstream as close to the water as possible. Before long we expected to find the mouth of the creek we'd meant to cross originally, and from there it would be easy to get back on course. Unfortunately, staying on the riverbanks proved more difficult than we hoped. The October flow was low and gentle, exposing many of the sandbars, but the banks themselves often turned into jumbles of boulders or smoothly carved granite. When we couldn't boulder-hop, we crossed to the other side, waded down the middle of the river, or scrambled back up the cliff for a ways, again searching for game trails, dodging loose rocks, and sometimes enjoying the distinct pleasure of clinging to blackberry and poison oak vines for dear life.
Of course, our difficulties didn't end their. On top of compounding minor injuries, Kirk's headlamp was not up to the task. It's good that he had one, but his lightweight cap-mounted model was better suited to neighborhood jogs than wilderness pathfinding. When I suggested we ford a deeper section of the river, I learned that he couldn't swim, which at last explained his discomfort with many of the crossings I'd found easy. At times I worried he was on the verge of panic, and to be honest it was hard to blame him, but when he was moving he was moving well, so I tried to make sure to keep us moving. We both tried to keep the jokes going, at least most of the time.
Now that we had a plan, the "breadcrumb" map display on my GPS watch, which can be unfortunately confusing on its own, seemed to be showing us that we should hit the mouth of the creek any time now. Within half a mile. Within a quarter mile. Maybe a tenth of a mile, it's too close to be sure. Okay, maybe I was wrong about that, but it must be around here somewhere...
Eventually I realized we must have somehow missed Humbug Creek. Looking at the downloaded data afterwards, I would see that we did a remarkable job of climbing up above the opposite bank for just long enough to stand no chance of seeing it at night, but it may have deposited enough debris in the river to help us make that decision. Once I'd come to this conclusion, I spent about a minute comparing map, compass, and watch while Kirk was catching up behind me, then started taking off up the hill instead of following the river. Not two minutes later, after I was back on the Euchre Bar Trail, two miles from the footbridge.
As good as it felt to reach my drop bag at the fifteen mile point, it felt even better to reach the gear Kirk had stashed at the bridge. I asked him if he was sure he didn't want to head up Nun's Finger for book number three, a climb even steeper than Ebeneezer's Highway. He was sure.
That last 1800 foot climb back out of the canyon might not have been fast, but after travelling five miles in as many ours in, on, and above the North Fork American River, it felt pretty good to me. A few feet from the top we saw a couple lights coming down the hill toward us and called out. It turned out to be Ginny and Eric, who'd been waiting up at the trailhead, in contact with Sean. They had intermittent reception, and they'd be able to let him know we were both OK.
Although we've both talked about coming back next year, so maybe "OK" is just the slightest overstatement.
Don't run Euchre Bar Massacre. You've surely got too much to live for. Otherwise, I'll see you there.
Headlands was my first hundred mile run a year before in 2012, and would be my fifth a year later. I came into the weekend excited to relive the course and to see how much better I could do avoiding my rookie mistakes. I also ran it expecting too much improvement, and worrying too much about my target time instead of the adventure I had set myself on – a journeyman mistake.
At the seven A.M. starting line, things looked pretty different from last year. The race sold out weeks in advance, and there were hundreds of runners milling about for three different distances. Last year the run had been canceled and reinstated at the last minute, leading to a more anemic attendance but intimate feel. I showed up with time to spare for once and had a few minutes to catch up with co-RD Maureen Brooks, and Alex Mares who had finished a few minutes behind me last year. I bumped into at least five runners from Run-de-Vous, only a month before.
Foreshadowing is a hell of a thing. In the first four miles, I passed a couple of runners in the fifty mile race. One of them said to the other, “Don't worry about the people ahead of us now. We'll mop them up later on.” I thought, “I know this can be a hard course, but I hope I don't liquefy.”
Six miles in I was taking it slow up a hill and chatting with another runner about scuba diving. When I introduced myself, the runner who was passing us at that moment said it was my blog that had inspired him to sign up for the full hundred miles. I felt proud and inspired in turn, but twenty-nine hours later when I saw him staring at the ground waiting for a ride back to the start from the mile eighty-eight/ninety-six aid station, I wasn't sure how to feel.
As I cruised along the meandering uphill trail out of Pirate's Cove to the north, I couldn't help keeping an eye out for whales while trying to mind my footing. The scenery there is always enough of a hazard to begin with.
Bombing down the steep and rutty fire road into Muir Beach at mile eight, I was treated to the unusual view of an empty Muir Beach thanks to park renovations. I always seem to like that trail better on the way down.
After climbing up and along Coyote Ridge, winding down Miwok back into Tennessee Valley, and slogging up the Marincello trail, the course hits a six mile out-and-back section of mostly single track that starts out overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge on the SCA trail ridge and turns around at the base of the bridge on the Sausalito shore. Long story short, it's scenic as fuck, but stepping aside for other runners can be tricky along the cliffside switchbacks, especially early in the race when all the fifty-milers and marathoners are still sharing the course.
By the time I made it down under the bridge the first time at mile eighteen, my lower back and left glute were bothering me. I needed to stop a few times to crack my SI joint (under the tailbone) and stretch out my hamstrings. I was delighted to find the issue gone by mile forty. Either the problem fixed itself, I stopped feeling it, or I stopped feeling it until it fixed itself.
Coming down Bobcat Trail to the road at mile twenty-three, I was surprised to pass Tony Dunnigan, a faster runner I'd met trying to get myself killed in the woods at night. He was limping, and blood was pouring out of his knee – he'd taken a fall ("power-kneeling") and ground enough gravel into the skin that he couldn't bend it, even though he was otherwise fine. It was a good reminder to me that no matter how much experience I might gain running, with so many thousands of steps the occasional fall is inevitable. In fact, I'd spaced out and tripped on the sidewalk near my house only a week before, myself.
The Rodeo Beach mile 25/50/75 aid station, which doubles as the start and finish line, is the most dangerous place on the course. Here is where you check in, fill your bottles, and reverse direction for each subsequent lap, but also where you quit, limp over to your car, and drive home instead of running through the night. I'm always certain to make my stops here as short as possible.
Heading back out, it wasn't long before I approached the bridge again. The weather was completely clear, giving me a perfect down on the north end of San Francisco and a bay filled with boats for America's Cup. I have a few criticisms of the event and its effects on the city, but I wouldn't complain about the view.
The clear weather also meant that although the day wasn't egregiously hot, there was no relief from the sun. The Headlands are often a damp, foggy experience at any time of year, but even as the evening began aid stations were shoveling ice into our bottles and packs.
You'd think I'd know this course by now, but apparently I didn't know it well enough to spot a well-marked turn at mile forty-eight. You'd think I'd know better by now, but I ran a full mile downhill before accepting my mistake and turning around. Fortunately I was feeling good and moving well at the time, but with this died my intermediate goal of finishing fifty miles before dark. I turned my headlamp on for the first time as I was descending to Rodeo Beach.
For much of the night, however, the sky was clear and the moon bright enough that I wouldn't need it, at least when hiking uphill. At one point, when climbing up Coyote Ridge at mile fifty-nine, the reflection of the moon off the Pacific was so bright I thought my shadow must have been thrown by the headlamp of someone catching up behind me. It also stayed warm enough that I wouldn't need a jacket until just before dawn, a complete difference from last year's shivering in the dense fog banks on the SCA trail ridge.
By the time the sun rose again it seemed as though I might still have a shot at my ultimate goal of thirty hour finish, even after getting in my bonus miles, but my quads were starting to stiffen up, making it hard to lift my legs when hiking up hill or even jogging on the rare stretches of flat trail. I was still able to make up a lot of time flying down longer descents, but my attitude was getting worse. For the first time, I was thinking, a hundred miler was more suck than it was rewarding for me. I guess I'd already forgotten about the first twenty miles, and miles forty through sixty, and I'd already made my mind up about the rest of the race. This is where a good pacer might have done me some good.
I was right about one thing, though: there was more suck to come. A few aid stations in a row didn't have quite what I wanted, and I used this as an excuse to under eat. By mile ninety-four, when the new day had started to heat up, my stomach was fed up with water and gel chews. Finally, I stood by the side of the trail high above Pirate's Cove and forced myself to vomit.
I didn't feel good enough to start eating again, but I felt good enough to run the rest of the way into Tennessee Valley at mile ninety-six. I collapsed in a camp chair, and unexpected tears of relief filled my eyes. I'd made it here, so I knew I could make it the rest of the way. For the first time all day, I felt like I remembered why I ran these things. A volunteer named Marissa came to my rescue straight away with cup after cup of broth. Fifteen minutes later I was back on my feet and stumbling toward the last big climb up to Wolf Ridge. I'd already left thirty hours behind, but I'd still be able to finish.
One very long mile up the trail, two runners who weren't in the race passed me coming down to Tennessee Valley. The second of the two, Alisa, offered to run with me to the finish, an impromptu pacer. I'd never really run with a pacer before, even for three miles, but I'd take any help I could get. She ran off to tell her friend before turning around to catch up.
In the meantime, I noticed my left hand was puffed up to the point that I couldn't see my knuckles. Some people see this kind of swelling routinely in ultramarathons, but it was new to me, and I know that it can be a sign of overhydration, hyponatremia, or most dangerously of both. I knocked back the last three salt pills in my pack, and went the rest of the way with only a few sips of water. I doubted I was in any serious danger, but I was spooked nonetheless.
I had more trouble beginning the descent to Rodeo Beach than I remember from last year. From the top of the winding road at Wolf Ridge, it looks so close, but impossibly far below – indeed, the last mile and a half drops almost 900 feet to the finish line in a mix of smooth running and washed out high-stepping stairs. For the final half-mile descent, however, I was suddenly off and running. The pain started to wash out of my legs as tears filled my eyes, not just from the familiar joy of finishing but something else this time. There was a great sense of relief as well. This hadn't been my hardest or even my most painful run, but in crossing the finish line I felt as though I'd put closure to a very real struggle with my own mortality.
I finished the 2013 Headlands Hundred in thirty-one hours and forty-one minutes, well behind the thirty hour goal I'd held too firmly in mind, but almost an hour faster than the year before. After swallowing a few cups of electrolyte drink and some salty potato chips, I crawled into my car for a nap. I was sorry to miss some of the last finishers coming over the line, but sometimes consciousness is simply overrated.
I learned a lot from my first running of Headlands Hundred, all of which has helped me in the four other hundred milers I've run since. I thought I'd learned a lot that would help me run it a second time, but I let myself forget the most important lesson: Headlands Hundred is a hard goddam race.
Now at least HURT 2014 oughtta be easy, right?
From the outside, ultrarunning may look like monotony. To the runner, it is a series of interleaved challenges and endless surprises.
I had little idea what to expect from the Run de Vous 100 mile run. The course was simple: a two mile asphalt loop, with narrow dirt and gravel strips along either side, and a gentle hill at the start of each lap. Access to an aid station and my drop bag every two miles would make logistics simpler than the mountain races I'm used to, and the completely runnable terrain would make be sure to make for a faster time.
Still, I was just coming back from a couple minor injuries after Bryce. My foot was fully recovered, but I knew I'd have to stop to stretch my back often assuming it held up at all. Thanks to recovery time, I felt undertrained. Worst of all, I'd never run more than about 15 miles of flat or paved track, never mind both.
That's right, I skipped road marathons and went straight for a paved 100 miler. Because I'm smart.
With the path running through a cluster of tents and shade structures for runners, pacers, and crew near the aid station and timing booth, race central reminded me the slightest bit of a back street at Burning Man or Occupy San Francisco in its heyday. It didn't hurt that there were trays and tables setup with sunscreen and mysterious food-like concoctions, exhausted and sun-fried runners looking for ways to help out, and the same sweaty people kept stumbling through every twenty to sixty minutes.
As the race began at 6:00 am on Saturday, I tried to focus on pacing myself and learning the course. I had no hope of being the fastest runner there, but I had a shot at running the smartest race. In trail runs, my only advantage usually comes from my ability to run relatively fast down steep, tricky terrain, and that wouldn't be a factor here at all. Good pacing, quick aid stops, perfect nutrition, and cutting the shortest line possible on each lap would be the ticket. Not to mention a whole lot of caffeine.
The first quarter of the race went well. I moved easily, and I think I paced myself fairly well. I settled into a routine of walking a short section of the gentle hill after the aid station and trying to run the rest of the course. I became familiar with the undulations of the track along the irregularly shaped loop, which would help me keep my laps short at night. I had a nice view of a coyote padding through the fenced in cow pasture in the center of the park.
From around miles 28 through 40, I had a much tougher time of things. The heat reached the mid 80s, and there was absolutely no shade along the course. My hamstrings felt like cement pillars, and I feared that with my lack of training for this kind of race, I just didn't have the conditioning I needed for them to recover. For a while, I thought about dropping.
It occurred to me that I'd experienced this kind of doubt before. It occurred to me that this new kind of challenge was exactly why I'd signed up, and I just needed to get myself through the worst part of it. Finally, it occurred to me that things felt pretty bad, but they weren't getting worse. Based on the emotional and somatic ebbs and flows of my previous 100 milers, I figured that meant I'd come out the other side feeling great. I'm glad I had that presence of mind, because I was right. I came into the aid station at mile 40 just as it was starting to cool off a little, had some watermelon, and felt revived.
I was still having trouble keeping up a running pace, though. Mostly I kept an eye on my watch and if I couldn't keep moving faster than a fifteen-minute mile, I'd take a short walk break. It wasn't until around night fell, the temperature dropped about ten degrees, and I finally figured out the course that I was able to start making up time.
For 19 of the last 20 laps, I walked all of the first third (or two-thirds of a mile) from the aid station to the bench at the crest of the hill. From there, I was able to run the rest of the way in, every time.
It was also around then that I realized if I could maintain this average pace of under fifteen minutes per mile, including my walk breaks and aid stops, I had a shot at finishing in under 24 hours total. I didn't know if I could maintain it or not. Was I running too much, too hard?
For most of the night I ran under the nearly full moon without my headlamp. Sometime in the small hours, the hillside tore open with the howls of coyotes. I thought about grabbing my headlamp for the next lap, but saved it for moondown after all.
For the first time since I started running 100 mile races, I stopped worrying about finishing and started worrying about finishing fast. Headlands, HURT, and Bryce were about survival. This was about running.
I became obsessed with time, wanting to take less than 30 minutes on each loop so I could build up a margin that I felt certain I would inevitably need. After my watch gave out at mile 82, I would ask for the time each time I came in to finish a lap. After hearing a few disappointing but misleading answers, I started asking for the exact time.
With six miles left to go, I knew I would pull it off. I'd thought about aiming for twenty-four hours when I toed the line, but it had seemed like a fantasy goal until the final forty miles. Now it seemed certain. Walking up the gentle hill after the aid station, I experienced a rush of emotion and unbidden tears of joy, as intense and as beautiful as nearing the finish of my first 100 almost a year before.
I ran all of the 50th lap.
I finished in 23 hours, 31 minutes, and 35 seconds. It was my first sub-24 hour finish, and my first top ten finish as I placed eighth overall.
With a few naps mixed in, I stuck around to cheer for as many of the incredible people who were still out there running as I could. Less than a full lap behind me was 13 year-old Miguel Vivaldo, who would set a new world record as the youngest sub-24 hour 100 mile finisher. I don't know what distance she was going for, but I was told that one woman who was walking the course had had chemo the previous Monday. Several people kept pushing for a 100 mile finish straight through to Sunday afternoon, when temperatures were in the 90s and there was still absolutely no shade on the course.
Race director Rajeev Patel would say Run-de-Vous is "about you," but I'm pretty sure it was about them. I feel great about what I pulled off last weekend, but those people are just amazing.
Split times, for posterity:
10.05 miles: 01:47:00
20.10 miles: 03:45:00
30.15 miles: 06:06:00
40.20 miles: 08:50:00
50.25 miles: 11:22:00
60.30 miles: 13:59:00
70.35 miles: ????????
80.40 miles: 18:58:00
90.45 miles: ????????
100.5 miles: 23:31:35
One of the strange and scary things about hundred milers is how quickly even these monumental undertakings can start to seem routine. Bryce 100 was my third such race, and the third in only nine months, and I went into it excited, yes, but without any of the existential terror that accompanied my first two. Fortunately, all I had to do to cure this condition was run the thing.
I expected Bryce to be the easiest of my three hundred milers by a fair margin. Headlands had been my first, and I'd packed a number of big rookie mistakes into a rugged course with 20,000 feet of climbing and eked out a 32.5 hour finish just under the time limit. I'd been much better prepared for HURT, but it's an extremely technical course throughout that never stops rising or falling, with a total of close to 25,000 feet of uphill gain. There were different estimates for the elevation gain at Bryce - not only was this the inaugural running, but there had been several late course changes - but the consensus seemed to be settling on the neighborhood of 19,000 feet, which I was sure I could handle well under the 36 hour cutoff.
More interesting would be the actual altitude of the course. The first eighty miles were all above 8,000 feet, with a peak elevation of around 9,500. I'd done some recent training runs at around 8,000 feet in Yosemite, and I knew the thin air could slow me down on long ascents, already a weak point in my running. If that was the worst of it, though, I figured I'd be in good shape, and hoped to finish in around thirty hours.
When race morning arrived, we gathered at a parking lot for an ATV trail about fifteen miles from Bryce Canyon National Park. For most of the race, we would be running above the park, farther west on the Paunsagaunt Plateau. Due to limited space at the actual starting line, we'd be shuttled up from the parking lot. However, there was only one school bus (that I saw) running up the bumpy dirt road, and more than two hundred runners who needed a ride.
With forty of my closest friends, I jumped into the back of a twenty-four foot U-Haul for the trip. I clambered up onto "Mom's Attic" to make room for more runners, and threatened a quick stage dive. The truck started its way up the dirt road, and immediately filled with dust, looking for all the world like a crappy Burning Man art car. Fringe sporting event or conceptual art prank, on those trails my lungs would be full of dust by the next morning regardless.
Most of the first sixty miles were single track forest trails, so it took a while for the 210 or so starters (including forty 100K runners) to spread out. As soon we started to get some space between us, traffic backed up as runners all stopped to take pictures where the Thunder Mountain trail opened up to views of nearby pink rock hoodoos and the sweeping pine forest of the lower plateau. I commented to another runner that my time would only be improved by the fact that my phone's battery had died overnight, but in truth I never stop to take photos during a race anyway.
I rolled my ankle coming into the first aid station at mile ten. I don't know if it was here or later on that I hurt my foot, but by the next morning it would be a major problem.
Although I felt like I was pacing myself well, it only took a few hours for my legs to start feeling fatigued, which I attributed to the altitude. I never had trouble breathing, headaches, or worse symptoms of altitude sickness, but I simply wasn't sucking in enough oxygen to give my my muscles all the energy they needed. Worse, after the first 50K we climbed to above 9,000 feet and stayed there for about five miles, and here is where I really felt the effects. Although the terrain was pretty easy, I slowed to a crawl and started to fall asleep on my feet, a feeling I've never had before so early in a race. I resorted to caffeine at the next aid station, far sooner than I'd planned, which meant I'd be stringing myself along on stimulants for closer to twenty-five hours than the maximum of twenty I'd hoped for.
Another descent, another climb, and before long I was summiting Pink Cliffs, the high point of the run. At 9,500 feet, I expected to have more problems with altitude, but the ascent and descent were short and sharp, which I dealt with better. In the meantime, I did my best to savor sweeping views across the plateau, Bryce Canyon, and on beyond Zion.
Ten miles later, coming back up to the Pink Cliffs aid station after the turnaround, the sun disappeared and the temperature on the ridge plummeted in fast winds. The high school class out volunteering would spend their night not only making soup for us, but struggling to keep their shelter from blowing over. Shivering, I changed into a pair of tights, a long shirt and a light jacket, and made the mistake of changing my shoes. The first pair still felt good, but I thought a new pair would feel even better - two miles later I regretted it, but I was stuck with them for the rest of the race. Maybe that's what put my foot over the edge from aggravated to injury, but it's hard to tell. Certainly, they were less comfortable and left me with a couple of raw spots.
As soon as I started moving again and dropping down from the ridge, I warmed up and didn't have any more problems with the cold that night, even as the wind continued. Now and then it would pick up and send a dust devil skittering off like a trail spirit in the glow of my headlamp.
Shortly after sunrise I came up to the last familiar aid station before splitting off on the twenty mile finish leg of the course. I was handed a hot banana pancake and a cup of foul instant coffee (manna nonetheless) to eat on the go as I made my way up a dusty dirt road before beginning a long descent toward the next aid station, the King Creek campground where I'd spent the previous night.
Toward the end of this long dirt road descent, my foot finally gave out. I'd been feeling discomfort or occasional pain from the front of my left ankle now and then for I didn't know how many hours, but as long as I was careful to land on the front of that foot it seemed okay. Now it was overtaking me, and I was slowing to a walk even on gentle downhills. By mile 85, the morning was heating up, and I found myself presented with an unexpected climb up the (beautiful, but in the moment resented) Keyhole Arch trail. For the first time in a hundred miler, I found myself doubting my ability to finish the course. I spent some time sitting on a log when I knew I could have been climbing, just waiting, for what I don't know - for my foot to heal, for endorphins to go back to masking the pain, for myself to start caring again as much as I had only an hour before.
Once I started moving again, all I needed was to crest the hill for my problems to sort themselves out. I was able to really start running downhill again, free from pain and full of energy, excited by the familiar location of the campground and the knowledge that it signified the final leg of the course. Eleven more miles. After the day and the night I'd already been through, I could crawl eleven miles if I had to.
Except that the day was getting ripe, and hot, and the rest of the course was almost nothing but dusty dirt roads, free of shade. When I finally found a good downhill stretch, I started running hard again, but found at the bottom a water stop I'd forgotten was on the course, which meant I still had five miles to go. I pressed on slowly, resting a couple of times in the rare spots of shade, pouring out a little bit of water over my head as I went elsewhere.
Finally, when it seemed I couldn't possibly be more than a mile from the end, I picked up and started running again. It must have been fairly slow, but to remember the actual mechanics of running after so much time on my feet is always amazing. Only that one mile stretched into two, then three. Thanks to the last course change, the final leg of race had turned out to be thirteen miles instead of the planned eleven.
No matter. I kept running until I saw the finish, and then I even managed to pick up speed, crossing that arbitrary line in the sand with everything I had left in me, arms wide in celebration.
Every time I run, after all, that's the real point: everything I've got. In running all day, all night, and into the next day, I keep learning more about what that is.
It turns out sometimes that being hurt, being tired, feeling like the world and the sun are coming down on top of me aren't so bad. I've just got to know where I'm going and remember to breathe.
It was no surprise that the MeOw Marathons would be an unusual event. The first clue was that it was billed as a "West Coast tribute to the Barkley Marathons," generally considered the world's hardest trail race - only 14 entrants out of somewhere around 1000 have ever finished Barkley. MeOw wouldn't be that hard, but any race borrowing from Barkley almost by definition can't be doing so for the comfort of the runners.
Held in the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area, RD Mark Swanson had estimated the race would involve around 8,000 feet of climbing per marathon. However, his estimates were suspect, since it quickly became clear that he had no interest in making each "marathon" loop marathon length. At the end of the event, runners' estimates had it triangulated to about 32 miles per loop, but considering that no one managed to run the course without getting lost or doubling back at least once, all of our mileage counts were rough.
All ten of us dumb enough to attempt the double marathon started the day on the shore of Whiskeytown lake with a map of the park on which Mark had sketched, roughly, the course, and a sheet of directions that would take us through about the first ten miles. Along the way, there would be the occasional checkpoint where we pick up souvenirs to show we hadn't cut the course, as well as further directions. Both in order to find the souvenir drops and the unmarked trails not shown on the map, the directions would be essential.
The directions would also prove maddening. Written in the style of a children's book with more than a hint of Lewis Carroll, it would sometimes prove necessary to read ahead another paragraph to discover that you were following the tale of the character who had taken the wrong path. Or that you were reading about an optional shortcut - you know, the one completely overgrown with poison oak. Worse yet, Mark would occasionally get his left, right, east and west reversed. I might have been the only runner not to turn right at the top of the trail, when the directions told us all about how Beverly Anderson's Abs avoided all temptations to turn left and continued rightishly like a good Republican when she reached the top of the trail, and was therefore possibly the only runner not to get lost at that junction (Beverly Anderson-Abbs was the favorite for the race, and the eventual winner).
The course began by running along the lakeshore, then straight up the mouth of Brandy Creek, where the water was up to chest high. I thought I'd have a decent advantage in this brief section of rock hopping and stream navigation with all the technical running I've been doing in the Sierras lately, but in this badass crowd I hardly made up any time at all. If any. In a small cache on the shore of the creek, we grabbed our first souvenir - a Hello Kitty valentine.
Almost two miles up the trail, after checking the directions at a junction, I realized I'd somehow already managed to drop my first souvenir. Trying not to let it get to me, I turned right around, hoping to see it dropped on the trail, resigning myself to last place. I would have to go all the way back to the cache for a fresh Kitty.
Worse yet, on the way back up with my new valentine, I would discover that the front food pocket of my pack was empty. I had managed to let it dump its contents on the floor of my car without noticing before the race. I would have enough food to get me through the first loop in the main compartment, but just barely.
Only a couple miles into the race (with a few extra for me), we climbed the 5,000 up a steep, sandy jeep road with few switchbacks to the summit of Shasta Bally. The views of Mount Lassen, Mount Shasta, and the Trinity Alps were memorable, but if you ever visit Whiskeytown this is not the day hike you want to make. Near the top Sean Ranney surprised me by catching up with me on the last leg of the relentless ascent - he'd gotten turned around at Sheep Camp, the beginning of the climb, and put on some of his own extra miles.
Sean and I ran together for a while to the summit and down around the back side of Shasta Bally, help to keep each other on course, but he was too fast for me. After a while I came upon Aaron Sorenson, a name I knew from the roster of hardened Barkley non-finishers, moving slowly down a long fire road. He said he was having trouble with the heat and was ready to drop. It was only 11am, and poised to climb into the 90s. From what I heard later, Aaron would go on to get badly lost and spend many hours finding his way to where he could get a ride back to the start.
After picking up my second sheet of directions, getting only briefly lost, and picking up a souvenir at Boulder Creek Falls, I realized that while I was just finishing up a marathon under the nine hour cut off for the first loop, I still had another "chapter" of directions to go. I was disappointed, but I decided to push myself to bring it in with the best time possible, ideally proving to myself that I would have made it had I not dropped my first souvenir.
After a frustrating couple of miles on a steep trail choked with deadfall that made for very slow going, the course met back up with the steep Shasta Bally jeep road, and I bombed back downhill into Sheep Camp, where I was shocked to see a big circle of people waiting for me by the dropbags. Bull Dozier and Tina Ure had needed a full hour to recuperate between loops, and when I pulled up to the semi-aid station Mark told me I could keep going as long as I left when or before they did.
I pushed the temptation to drop out of my mind and refueled quickly, making a few mistakes in my haste. I shoved too much food from my dropbag into my pack, hoping to make up for my calorie deficit but only adding to the weight on my back. After the heat of the day, I hardly had any appetite for the rest of the run. I failed to apply bug spray, which would turn me into a feast on legs any time I stopped running for even a second once night fell. No matter, I was off, feeling a strange sense of relief and dread all at once.
I was joined by Josh Ritter, who had volunteered to sweep the course. This meant I suddenly had a pacer, and better yet since Josh knew the course I didn't have to put as much energy into finding my way. We started slowly along the trail from Sheep Camp to one of the most memorable parts of the course, the slick rocks of Brandy Creek Falls, which reminded me of HURT.
Shortly after, we reached the dreaded Salt Gulch Trail. I knew this because this was how the directions referred to it. I remember this because the grade was 30% or more for the better part of a mile. The good news was that my evening dose of caffeine was starting to take effect, turning my shuffle into something vaguely resembling a jog. The bad news was that now was when the mosquitos were coming out in force, coating the back of my neck any time I paused to catch my breath.
When we reached the next checkpoint, we became worried. On the second loop, runners were not only collecting directions or souvenirs but signing in at each location. Bull and Tina had been ahead of us since shortly after the falls, but they hadn't signed in. Josh found a signal and got in touch with Mark to let him know before we moved on toward the next check point at the top of Kanaka Peak. They hadn't signed in there, either. Josh sent me on ahead while he waited for them, but with his fresh legs it didn't take him long to catch up.
Eventually we learned that Bull and Tina had gotten lost following the direction to turn at the fallen pine tree at the side of the trail, having chosen the wrong pine tree. An amateur mistake! They lost enough time on this that they gave up and took a shortcut back to the finish.
As Josh and I continued on, it became clear that I wouldn't make it by midnight, the official time limit. As it became clear just how much more course there was to get through, 2am started to look like what we'd be pushing for. At the second to last checkpoint, I declined a ride back from Mark, opting to run it in the last few miles the shortest possible route along the road.
After cresting the last hill, I picked up speed and barreled down toward the lake running 8:30 miles. I had run 59 miles with at least 14,000 feet of climbing in 18 hours, but I was at least 8 miles short on the official course. No matter. I ran as hard as I could for the lake, the actual finish line, and washed myself clean of a hard, beautiful, glorious failure of a day.
And that is how I finish a DNF.
There's no way to understate this: the HURT 100 is hard. I ran it well, and up to a certain point I think I ran it smart, and it's still only due to the help of the amazing race volunteers and fellow runners that I was able to make it through to the end. If it had been a hotter year, I might not even be able to say that much, and most of us who started the race this year couldn't.
I came in knowing it would be hard, and I was neither disappointed nor underestimating the task. That wasn't exactly the same as being prepared for how hard it would be. No matter how much I'd read, how many videos and photos of the course I'd looked at, the true relentlessness of the run wouldn't sink in until I'd run at least one full lap.
It was also one of the most intense experiences of my life, maybe least of all physically. People who talk about ultrarunning being a mental sport but haven't run HURT might just be repeating filtered wisdom from someone who has. Esthetically, it was beautiful and haunting and unforgettable. Emotionally, it was deep and raw and tough and sweet, and I've cried less over break-ups than I did over finishing successfully.
In brief, the HURT 100 is run on five loops of a 20-mile course which climbs Honolulu's Mt. Tantalus three times on each loop. If you're familiar with Honolulu, Tantalus is due north of Waikiki, and you may have been there as a tourist to see Manoa Falls or Round Top Drive (both on course). If not, just know that Tantalus is steep as hell and covered in dense Hawaiian rainforest. In total, there's just a few feet shy of 5,000 feet of vertical climbing per loop. This means the average grade on the course is close to 10%.
That's not what makes it hard.
A couple days before the race, I went out for a preview with Ken "Running Stupid" Michal and co. We hiked and ran the shortest of the three legs of each loop, from Paradise Park through Pauoa Flats to Nu`uana-Pali Drive. Even though Ken, like me, was only in town for race week from the Bay Area, he was able to give me a lot of good tips. This year would be Ken's fourth attempt at finishing the full hundred miles, so there might not have been a better source of info on what could go wrong at HURT and how to persevere.
Each of three legs of the course finishes a 12 to 1600 foot climb at Pauoa Flats, a roughly quarter-mile section of trail that flips open the dictionary to the word "gnarly" and asks, "Are you sure you really wanted that? Because I can keep going." True, there are a few spots where the ground isn't literally coated in Banyan roots. Yep. There are a few.
That's not what makes it hard.
By the time we made it to Nu`uanu (the end of the second leg) I had a better understanding of what I'd be up against, and of all that Ken had pushed through over the past three years' runs, but still no true grasp of the weekend ahead.
I showed up on race morning rested and excited. The run starts at 6am, which in January means more than an hour of darkness still lay ahead. I waited at the back of the pack, which would help force me to take it slow up the first climb, a steep hill just around the corner from the starting line called Hogsback. When we topped out at Round Top Drive (just before Pauoa Flats), I took advantage of my better downhill running speed to pass more than a dozen people, landing solidly in the middle of the pack by the first aid station.
On the climb back up, almost half of those people would pass me again, since I tend to be a slower uphill runner. This didn't matter much to me, since I would overtake them at the Flats or coming down the other side by the time we got to the other station. In some cases, we would leapfrog each other this way predictably for as much as 80 miles. The majority of the trail is technical, requiring close attention to your footing if not the copious roots, slick rocks, and dangerous drop offs, with occasional scrambles or two-foot high step ups. This hits everyone in their weak spot, whether it's ascending or descending or just staying upright.
No, that's not what makes it hard either, but we're getting closer.
I caught up with Ken at the top of a steep scramble (coming up to Bien's Bench) after the second aid station. I was a little worried that I was going out too fast on the first loop, but my pace felt comfortable there, so I took his encouragement to pass instead of running with him for a while. I'd be seeing plenty more of him, anyway. On our way up we met another repeat attempter Jennifer-Anne on her way down, already, as she put it "puking out." She'd get back to the start and spend the rest of the weekend volunteering. Some of it in a giant cockroach costume.
I finished my first loop in 5:15, refilled my bottles and turned around for another climb up Hogsback. Now in the daylight, without the big crowd at the back and the excitement of the early going, I could learn to hate this hill. Between the heat of the day and the encroaching fatigue, I still felt generally good but my ascents were already getting much slower. All told, the second loop would take me about 75 minutes longer. With 40 miles done and the night about to begin, I was starting to worry that if my time kept dropping off, in the end I would to.
This is precisely what makes HURT so hard.
No other mountain hundred I know of has such aggressive cutoff times tuned precisely to chase down mid-packers like myself. I have no doubt that Hardrock is a tougher course, considering it climbs an additional 8,000 feet and summits the odd 14,000 foot peak for a lark, but with 48 hours to finish most runners never need hurry just to meet the time limit unless something goes wrong. HURT, however, has a 36 hour time limit, with hard cutoffs throughout the last loop starting at 29 hours in.
This means that even if you make all the cutoffs with time to spare, you never really get a chance to stop worrying about them. You can't rest for longer than you absolutely need to. You can't slow down, zone out, and coast along one of the few relatively easy section of trail. You have to stay focused on running your best for as long as 36 hours .
Although I didn’t get to enjoy as much scenery, the nighttime portion of HURT might have been my favorite. Things cooled off enough on the third loop to offset most of my encroaching fatigue, and the rainforest has its own kind of beauty by headlamp. I’ll never forget the sound of wind picking up in the giant bamboo groves high above Manoa Falls. My third loop took 7:43, or again about 75 minutes longer than the previous loop.
On loop four, I deployed my Caffeine Strategem. I’d stopped drinking coffee a month before, and quit caffeine altogether a week after that. I cracked a 24-Hour Energy and mixed it into one of my bottles of electrolyte drink, and sipped it on my way up Hogsback. By Pauoa Flats I was flying over the roots and crooning along with my iPod at top volume (my apologies to any delicate eardrums I may have passed on the way). I refilled that bottle with Coke at the bottom. All told, I moved up 15 places and ran my fourth loop ten minutes faster than my third.
Early on loop five, though, the wheels came off. I took it slow up Hogsback as the second day of the race began to heat up. By the second half of the first leg’s climb, I was feeling a little queasy, but I took some ginger and tried to push through it. I let another runner and his pacer push me to run the rest of the climb faster than I usually would have, and just before the top I pulled over and insisted they run on. I tried to force myself to vomit but nothing would come up. Well, that was dumb.
With four miles left to the first aid station of the loop, I was dehydrated. I had some water in my pack’s hydration bladder, but for whatever reason it wasn’t tasting good to me and I could only get small sips in irregularly. Neither electrolyte drink nor Coke was at all palatable, and I did my best to force as many sips of water as I could, and maintained my pace for the rest of the leg, finishing with a good downhill run into the Paradise Park aid station.
Where I asked for water, and collapsed on the pavement.
The HURT volunteers jumped to my aid and saved my run. I was given cup after cup of cool water (the first of which I couldn’t keep down). A cold towel was placed on my head. Someone sat with me and rubbed my back and shoulders while someone else got me a cup of cold vegetable soup and refilled my pack. After maybe ten minutes when I was ready to try moving on, two of them walked up the road to the trailhead with me. I was still unsteady for another mile or so, but I absolutely owe my finish to them.
Shortly thereafter, a runner coming into the aid station who had already timed out and was just completing her 67-mile “fun run” handed off her trekking poles to me. I don’t know what difference they made for my overall time since I’m not used to running with them and they interfere with my fast downhill style, but they were great for that uphill section while I was still shaky after letting myself get so low. I owe another big thanks to #55.
The next leg was by far the slowest of the race for me, at barely over two miles an hour. It was the only time I dropped more than a couple places. At the final aid station, I was fairly sure I’d make it as long as I kept pushing, but I had an eye on my watch climbing back out again and was just as worried about the few runners left behind me. At one point, ten minutes after leaving the station where the cutoff would be coming up in twenty, I remember bellowing up the trail, “Ken! You’d better be up there and you’d better be running hard!” Not two minutes later he and his pacer came running down past me, looking as determined as I’ve ever seen anyone.
After I met Franco Soriano sitting on a rock, timed out a mile above the last checkpoint, I cried thinking about how hard he’d fought and how close he’d come. Many runners quit at mile 67 if they think the cutoffs will be too close. Franco made them chase him down.
Shannon MacGregor caught up with me on the steepest part of the last climb, and we pushed each other along. He ran on ahead to Pauoa Flats, where I limped in thinking I was alone and stopped to stretch. I stretched one quad, and screamed. I stretched the other, and screamed. I leaned against a root to stretch each calf, and screamed twice.
From thirty feet down the trail, I heard, “Fuck!” It was Shannon, sitting on some roots. “My blister just popped!”
We pushed each other along a little bit more, to the end of the last extra bit of climbing up to Manoa Cliff, and Shannon ran on down ahead. I didn’t have the legs for it yet. I packed up my poles, and shuffled along for most of the descent, until the last mile, and suddenly I was off. It seems to happen to me for the last mile of every run – I just smell the finish and remember how to run. I tore down the last bit of trail, over the bridges, and into the Nature Center right behind Shannon. There was still a big crowd hanging around to cheer for me as I reached the finish sign, which I touched, kissed, hugged, and sobbed over.
We wouldn’t want it to be easy, indeed.
I guess I passed Patrick Castello on my way in, and he finished another minute behind me. I never saw him.
Eight minutes later, Ken crossed the bridge and rounded the corner into the Nature Center. I have never seen an ultrarunning crowd go wild like it did for him as he successfully completed his fourth attempt at the HURT 100 with fifteen minutes to spare.
What makes HURT so hard is not just the distance, the terrain, the course, the footing, and the heat, but the fact that it’s meant to be nothing less than the hardest challenge it could be. What makes HURT possible to run is not just the dedication and the passion of each runner, but of the entire network of HURT runners and volunteers, all 300+ of them.
Mahalo. `Aole makou e ho`ohikiwale kela.
: I know this may sound like a lot of other trails, but let me put it another way: there are actually brief sections where the trail itself goes over roots. The footing includes no dirt, rock, gravel, or artificial walkway, just a mass of gnarly uneven toe-stubbing fascia manglers.
: Of course, if you're a faster runner you have to spend the whole run worrying about running your best while focusing on your footing. Unless there was one I didn't hear about, this may have been the HURT 100's first year without a broken bone.
I'm writing on the plane to Honolulu. In five days, I'll be running my second hundred miler, the HURT 100. This one has a reputation. It's been a long, fun, and sometimes ill-advised journey to get here.
I don't know what it was exactly that possessed me to sign up for this race. I'd recently completed my first fifty miler, and I was pretty sure I wanted to try a longer distance someday, when I saw an email announcing that sign-ups would be open soon. Maybe that timing was enough. Deciding to take on the HURT 100 was bad enough, but deciding to take in on as my first?
People often roll their eyes when I mention it's a hard hundred miler, as though running a hundred miles is already such an impossible feat, there couldn't possibly be much delineation. Among ultrarunners, though, HURT has a reputation, and not just because of its cutesy intimidating name. It never stops climbing or descending, and by the time you're done you'll have climbed 25,000 feet. It's in the Hawaiian rainforest, which means tricky terrain full of roots, rocks, river crossings, and endless mud, not to mention heat and humidity. If all that weren't bad enough, the time limit is set tight at 36 hours. I've talked to people who have squeezed in finishes close to 48 hour cut off at Hardrock 100 in the high San Juans of Colorado, bagging 14,000 footers and struggling for air as they go, but timed out at HURT. One of them repeatedly on both counts.
So it sounded hard, sure, but it sounded amazing. The rainforest would be beautiful, and my favorite kind of running has always been on gnarly technical trails. I'd just have to get better at climbing. Endlessly.
Sign-ups opened at the end of July, and I surprised myself by forgetting to hover nervously before clicking "Submit."
When they ran the lottery two weeks later, I only landed a spot on the waitlist anyway. Worst of all, I was #28 on the list. Judging by the last two years' waitlists, I was just on the cusp - I'd probably get in, but I might not, and I had about four months of uncertain traning to slog through until I'd know for sure.
I lasted about three weeks. I didn't stop training, but I found another race. Last year's (2012) Headlands Hundred has been cancelled, then out of the blue reinstated under new management. It was only a week away, but I signed up and got my gear together.
Okay, sure, I was probably undertrained and hadn't really tapered, but I figured whenever I ran my first hundred miler, it would be hard, it would be impossible to fully prepare myself for, and to some degree it would just have to suck. I was right on those counts, and fortunately it was also amazing. I learned a lot from Headlands that I don't think I'd have any hope of getting through HURT without. Like that you need more than a week to prepare for a hundred miler.
Headlands left me with a little bit of ankle pain that I took too long to get diagnosed. Specifically, I waited until after Firetrails 50 a month later. Rather, I waited until after a few weeks of recovery from Firetrails 50. Oops. No damage done, but I might have missed out on some good training time.
Finally, in December, I moved off the waitlist to the entry pool. I ramped up my hill training, and started using the steam room or heading out for long runs with extra layers of fleece. Even in California, heat training takes work in the winter.
I joined a few other HURT runners and like minded fools for a forty mile nighttime training run in the mountains the weekend before Christmas. It all had a bit of a Tolkien feel as the eight of us set out into the woods at dusk. Two would turn back before it was (okay, got) too late. One would be separated from his companions and become horribly lost. Of course, I was that one.
At a certain junction where the trail apparently crossed the road, I was just a little bit behind another runner. I thought I saw his headlamp bounce off down the logging road which went down the hill off the road to the right instead of crossing. Something about it didn't look right to me, but I couldn't find where the trail was supposed to go, and I was pretty far ahead of the pack behind me, so off I went instead of waiting. Oops.
The problem with logging roads at night is that they are in fact a maze of twisty passages all alike. That there were no trail markings on any of the intersections was my second sign that I'd gone wrong. That I hit a dead-end at the stream with no crossing that didn't involve a twenty foot drop was about my fourth. That I tried to backtrack to the road and ended up in someone's backyard was actually pretty funny, but when I ran back down the road to where I'd gone wrong I still couldn't see how I went right. So I went back down the logging road. Like a boss.
Eventually I figured out that if I gave up on finding the trail and ran along that road, I'd find the main park entrance, which also happened to be our next major landmark on the trail. I lucked out and managed to pick up the trail from the road sooner than that, only two miles up, but all told my foray in logging added six miles to the run and I no longer had any hope of catching up with the group.
We'd had a lot of rain that weekend, so the stream crossings were high. The majority had footbridges or were still small enough to feel quite safe, until I got to one about five miles from the end of the trail where the bridge was out. I didn't know the area well enough to trust that I'd be able to backtrack and use another trail to get out (as half the group did), and backtracking all the way to where I could thumb a ride or otherwise find help could have meant risking hypothermia. Instead, I pulled out a perfect example of don't try this at home, and crossed hip-deep white water solo at 4:00 am five miles from the trailhead.
The first step was cold, but protected and still. The second step was into rushing water that wanted to suck me down stream, so I plunged my foot all the way in until I could wedge it into the rocks below. From there I could grab a boulder that was just submerged, and leverage my way up onto an exposed rock for steps three and four. Step five was onto a mossy boulder on the far shore, but I only had a one-inch ledge. I grabbed the top of the boulder at my full armspan with my fingertips, grateful for some rusty rock climbing experience, and, fatigued from forty miles of night running but terrified of falling backwards, hoisted myself over the top.
Five more miles of easy running, some urgent I'm-okays from the stupid smartphone and a nap in the back seat, and I was starting to feel better about my chances of getting through this HURT thing.
All I've gotta do is run smart. That shouldn't be so hard, right?