2019 Hellgate 100k Race Report: A Cold, Rainy Day in Hell

THE RACE STORY

Chapter 1 - The Plan

Hellgate has been a race that has been on my radar for a long time. However, due to Dr. Horton’s abhorrence of the modern race signup tool known as the internet and my apparently latent bias to the United States Postal system, I had never put my application into the mailbox. This year, with the birth of my second child, Lily, I had promised my wife that I would limit myself to signing up for only five races. Early on in the year I had set my race schedule with four races, culminating in the Plain 100 in September (with the DC Northface 50 in April, Highlands Sky in June, and Twisted Branch 100k in August). I knew that I would want to do a race later in the Fall after Plain and tentatively began thinking about Hellgate.

My Hellgate plan did not become set in stone until July. As a result of my second child being born in February, I had to get creative in my training this year My purchase of the Nordictrack Incline Trainer helped. Did I run the Terrapin Mountain 50k on a treadmill? Yes I did. But I was also forced to run outside whenever I had the opportunity, which was usually when the rest of my family was sleeping. On a weekend late in July, my wife, kids and I piled into the minivan for a trip to the New Jersey shore to visit my parents. The route to my parents house cuts across New Jersey through the Pine Barrens before arriving near the shore. Looking at a map and devising a plan, I had asked my wife to drop me off on the way on the western edge of the Pine Barrens so that I could run the rest of the way to my parents house. Thus, a little after midnight on July 20th, which just so happened to be the hottest day of the summer (85 degrees at midnight) I found myself dropped off on the side of Route 70 with a general route that would take me 40 something miles on highways, back roads, and trails to my destination. It ended up being a transcendent run. From the beautiful desolation of some of the piney towns at night, to the mysterious nocturnal sounds of the pine bogs, to the respite found after the sun came up in running across the be-sprinklered lawns of a retirement village-- the run was both hard and joyous. At 7:00 a.m. at the end of the run, I knew that I needed to run Hellgate.

Leading up to the race, I decided to set an ambitious goal-- a sub-13 hour finish and a top 10 placing. After the entrants list came out, I knew that coming anywhere near the top 10 in such a competitive field would require a force majeure. Nonetheless, all I could do was set myself up to finish in less than 13 hours and let the race play out. In planning my race, I studied Aaron Schwartzbard’s invaluable course description and my friend Ryan Quinnelly’s strava data from his awesome 4th place finish at Hellgate in 2015. Did I use that information to make a split chart or anything else to reference during the race? Of course not. Because at almost 40 years old, I am an old man and extol the virtues of running by “feel” without any need to look at any of those new-fangled watches that the kids are wearing these days.

Training for the race went well. Well, as well as it could considering the needs of my family and job. Six weeks out from Hellgate, still feeling content and complacent after Plain, I decided I needed to set an arbitrary goal for myself-- run at least 10 miles every day for the next 10 days. That arbitrary goal worked, and resulted in 2 weeks with about 75 miles apiece. However, both weeks were sparse on long runs and relied heavily on the treadmill for elevation. For the next week, Ryan Q challenged me to us both hitting 100 mile weeks. That, too, worked, and included one long run on the fire roads in Shenandoah National Park. Then came the taper. Overall, I was very happy with the volume in my training but knew I was missing those back-to-back long runs in the mountains that would really season my downhill running legs. The treadmill is great for training for the uphills, but there is no substitute for the downhill pounding that your legs really need to get ready for a mountain race. Still, I felt confident leading up to race night. And as the weather forecast for the race started coming into focus, excitement combined with that confidence, as it looked like the conditions might make for an epic adventure.

I knew that I would need to try to tamp down that excitement at the start of the race. Going out too fast would ruin the possibility of reaching my goals. I only really was able to internalize this truth in 2017 after many years of running ultras and starting out too fast. The traits that make me a strong ultra runner-- stubbornness and hardheadedness-- are also a personality flaws in everyday life. Thus, despite reading and hearing that one should start out a race conservatively for a long time, it was not until I was forced to experience it at the Miwok 100k that I was really able to accept it. You see, at Miwok, first, I was accidentally stuck near the back of the pack when the horn for the race start was blown sooner than expected. Out of 400 runners, I started out in 200-something place and had to settle into a long conga line as the race immediately went up a major climb forcing me to hike. Then, while still in 200-something place, at the top of the climb, I took a wrong step and twisted my ankle. It wasn’t until about 20 miles into the race, with my adrenaline covering the pain in my ankle, that I was able to start moving up in the field. And move up I did. By the time of the final downhill to the finish, I found myself around 20th place. I would lose a number of places on the downhill due to my wobbly ankle, but a very valuable lesson was learned. A lesson that I planned on implementing at Hellgate-- without the ankle sprain, though.

Chapter 2 - The Prayer

I woke up at 6:00 a.m. on Friday the 13th to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was a message from my kindergartner son’s school-- school was cancelled due to the weather. I looked outside my bedroom window and thought that surely this must be a prank-- there’s no precipitation of any sort falling and the ground is completely dry. Checking the weather reports, however, it appeared to be a prophylactic closing- freezing rain was forecast for later that morning. That freezing rain never materialized in my location in Northern Virginia. However, as I look at the reports from Fincastle, Virginia, near where the race starts, it appeared that surfaces were being glazed over with ice. The forecast for that night is about as bad as it can get. Snow I can handle. Extreme cold temperatures are doable. Instead, it’s predicted that there will be temperatures hovering around freezing and rain-- lots of rain.

As I make the three hour drive from my office in Martinsburg to Camp Bethel for the race, there seemed to be a lull in the rain. It was foggy, but the precipitation had stopped. As I kept refreshing my weather channel app, it looked like the outlook was becoming more positive. Now, there was only about an 80% chance of rain overnight. While I was somewhat buoyed by the forecast, I was also completely aware of the curse placed upon me by the weather gods-- if I’m showing up for a hard race, the rain clouds will be following me-- the 2015 Cloudsplitter 100, where 24 hours of rain turned the former ATV trails into knee deep mud pits, the 2016 Thunder Rock 100, where I learned that 20 hours of downpours and no pre-race groin lubing does not lead to happy results, the 2016 Grindstone, the 2017 Ouray 100, and even this year’s Plain 100, where in a race known for it’s dry and dusty conditions, it rained for the first time in race history. In fact, the only 100 miler that I did where the weather conditions were benign was the 2017 Grindstone. However, like Mr. Bemis from the Twilight Zone, this was a cruel twist of fate because I did not get to enjoy the temperate conditions as I showed up at the start line with full blown sinusitis and laryngitis. With that history, I knew that the 20 percent chance of no rain was not going to happen.

I arrived in Camp Bethel in time to hear Dr. David Horton’s pre-race welcome and prayer prior to the buffet dinner. Little did I realize that the race would soon lead me to question my own religious beliefs, or lack thereof as an agnostic leaning atheist. As Dr. Horton offered a prayer, he said his thanks and then asked god for a small request-- to keep the rain at bay for the 140 or so runners about to set off at 12:01 a.m. Knowing Dr. Horton, perhaps he had his fingers-crossed when making this request. I choose to believe, however, that this is proof of the divine-- not of the benevolent, loving, touchy-feely sort, but rather of the vengeful, brutal god of the old testament. Because as we runners sat around munching on our pre-race lasagna, little did anyone have any idea about how nasty and brutal it was about to get after midnight-- where for most runners any time goals would be set aside and it would become all about surviving the night.

Chapter 3 - The Deluge

At 12:01 a.m. at the race start, it was raining. Not a downpour… yet… but definitely a steady rain. I started, according to my plan, conservatively, and placed myself in the midpack. Knowing it was going to be a long night, morning, and possibly afternoon, I started off slow despite the extremely runnable beginning terrain. It wasn’t easy for me, as I felt like zipping by runners in a long conga line that was forming, but I kept thinking back to Miwok and the lesson learned. Also, I made the best possible clothing choices, again taking some lessons from the Plain 100 this year. Despite shivering at the start line, I donned a short sleeve baselayer, with a long sleeve base layer, and my Outdoor Research Helium jacket on top. I knew that even if my clothes underneath got wet-- and if continued to rain, they would get wet-- my body heat trapped underneath of the jacket would keep me warm enough… as long as I kept moving. I also wore a pair of heavy wool glomitts that I had bought the week before and had a pair of waterproof gloves in a ziplock bag in my pack in case the glomitts got too wet. The only thing that I really questioned pre-race regarding clothing choices was whether to wear full length tights or shorts. While the tights would presumably keep me warmer, I’ve also experienced the displeasure of running for long periods of time in wet tights. Smartly, despite some other very experienced and much faster runners than me going out in shorts, I put on the tights.

As I hit the first climb up to Petites Gap, I naturally started to pass other runners. This is the terrain where I eat-- boring ass, moderately inclined fire roads-- and I make quick work of this milquetoast meal. The rain now seemed to be coming down slightly harder. Soon enough, I’m back onto another climb that’s in my wheelhouse-- up to Camping Gap. At this point, I’m having Terrapin Mountain flashbacks. Also, now it’s not only raining but there’s a thick fog that I’ve ascended into. The parade of headlamps ascending up into the gloom in front of me looked ethereal-- like ghost lights trying to lead me to my doom. As I caught up to one of the ghost lights, I realized it was my buddy Nick, who is a demon descender on the downhills, but who is moving along quite well up the climb too. I wished him a quick word of encouragement as I passed, without realizing the epic struggle through the harsh night that we will both be soon independently fighting. Soon thereafter, I realized that my wool glomitts are no longer keeping my hands dry and feel like boxing gloves filled with concrete-- weighing approximately 86 pounds each. I removed the one on my dominant side so that I could use my right hand to do all the important things-- adjust the beam of my waist light, squeeze and change my hydration bottles, wipe my butt, etc. Keeping it in the sleeve of my jacket seemed to be keeping it warm enough, but I realized I might be having some issues when I try to do the last thing on the above-mentioned list of tasks and can’t really feel if I’m holding onto the toilet paper or not. I then made a conscious decision to change out my gloves once I get to aid station number 4, which had my drop bag.

Chapter 4 - Purgatory

However, when I arrived at aid station 4, that plan fell to shit as I realized that there was something wrong. [None of what I’m about to say should reflect poorly on any of the volunteers who were out there all night and all day in the same miserable conditions. You were all awesome and I can’t thank you enough] If you’ve ever seen Apocalypse Now, there’s a scene in the movie where Martin Sheen’s boat gets to the last American outpost before he encounters Col. Kurtz. As a siege of gunfire and mortars ring out in the background from an unseen enemy, Sheen attempts to find a commanding officer, but quickly realizes there is none. The whole scene is seen through the eyes of one of the soldiers, who had just dropped some lsd. This is what that aid station was like. One of the volunteers tried to locate my dropbag, unsuccessfully. Finally, I was able to find it-- underneath a bunch of other bags which were in no discernable order. I quickly downed an Ensure from the drop bag, but completely forgot about changing gloves. I went to give my drop bag back to the volunteer and he asked me whether I needed help finding my drop bag, seemingly stuck in his own Sisyphean loop of searching for, but not quite finding the bags. I then went to try to fill up my bottles with Tailwind. There was no one there that was assisting in helping the runners fill up their hydration bottles. I asked out loud “what container has the Tailwind”-- there was no answer. Another runner next to me, who seemed to be getting visibly frustrated, was trying to figure out where the water is. His questions, too, went unanswered. I pointed him to an unmarked container and suggested that perhaps that contained water. It did not. He tried it and a brownish liquid poured out-- maybe coffee? iced tea? lsd-laced punch? who knows. I decided that I needed to leave this aid station immediately. This was purgatory and the longer I stayed, the less likely I’d leave. I found a container marked “Razz” and filled my bottles with it. Meanwhile the runner next to me was still calling out into the cold, uncaring night “Water, where is the water?,” as I quickly walked away. As I headed up the road, I called out- “Which way do I go? Is this the way.” No answer. Even though there were people around me-- either I or them had entered the spirit realm and could no longer communicate with each other. As I got further up the road away from the enthrall of the aid station, a person walking along the side of the road finally confirmed that I was in fact moving in the right direction. I only realized after the finish that the aid station workers were likely dealing with extremely hypothermic runners and trying to assist them while us runners that were less hypothermic were left to our own devices. However, it definitely added to the weird factor of an already-surreal journey. 

Chapter 5 - Survive Until Dawn

At this point in the journey, I started realizing that the cold and the incessant rain was having more of an effect on me than I had previously thought. I wasn’t shivering-- following through on my new motto of “just keep on moving” was working on keeping my core body temp from not falling too much. However, with a soaked-through glove on one hand and no glove on the other, I had completely lost dexterity in my fingers. Also, my face, and particularly my lips, felt frozen. I realized this when either I passed another runner or another runner passed me and I tried to offer them customary encouragement. After the words spilled out of my mouth, I thought to myself, “Did I just call that other runner ‘Goo Wad?’” “I hope that runner did not take offense to me calling them ‘Ice Wok’?” No longer able to enunciate with a frozen mouth, I decided that maybe I should just shut up.

At the next aid station, I finally remembered to change my gloves. It was an unreal struggle to try to get the dry, waterproof gloves on my frozen hands. I left the aid station, deciding to continue the struggle while moving forward uphill. Finally, the left glove went on. I then struggled with the right glove for what felt like 15 minutes, finally settling for the fact that I’d probably just have to wear it half on, half off my right hand. I thought of an OJ Simpson joke-- “if the glove doesn’t fit, you still can’t quit.” Luckily for them, there were no other runners around to share it with. Soon, though, my predicament no longer mattered. My so-called “waterproof” gloves were quickly soaked through and went back in my pack.

Adding to the challenge, all of that rain had started to freeze over on the trails. At first, there was a small area on the crown of the fire road where I could still get traction. Then, I was relegated to trudging along on the leaf-strewn sides of the trail. Still, I was moving well uphill-- more out of necessity than anything else because if I kept on moving fast enough I would keep the shivering at bay.

Finally, I allowed myself to start dreaming of daylight, which no longer seemed impossibly far away. I took a look around me, and the forest looked beautiful in the gloaming-- glistening, ice-glazed branches reflecting off the beam of my light.

Chapter 6 - It’s Business Time!

As the sun rose, so did my spirits. And I slowly realized that this is a race and not just survival. At the Bearwallow aid station, it was time to ditch my lights, my gloves, and anything else weighing me down. The only problem-- my fingers still didn’t work. I bashedly asked the aid station workers to help me take off my belt-- err… it’s a waist light… I swear…. that’s what I’m talking about-- and they graciously complied. Now unencumbered, I took off running up the trail. My legs felt great! I mean, I couldn’t feel my legs because they were so cold, but that was a benefit, not a problem. No feeling meant no pain and I was still running this late in the race. I decided now was the time to go on the hunt-- let’s see how far I can move up in the pack.

Chapter 7 - But First, It’s Pierogi Time!

I ran into the penultimate aid station and found the best offerings of the day- whiskey and pierogies! After a shot and several pierogies, I took off downhill on some good running legs. And as I ran, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about those pierogies! Truly the perfect aid station food. In my head, I began planning an aid station at a future race that would include nothing but pierogies. A smorgasbord of pierogi options-- potato, potato and cheese, sauerkraut and cheese, with caramelized onions, and with sweet fillings. And not only would there be any pierogi that a runner might desire at this aid station, I’d also hire a polka band to play Stanky & His Pennsylvania Coal Miners smash hit “Who Wants Pierogi?” I’d call it “The Pierogi, Polka and Perseverance” aid sta……….. and mid-thought I’m on the ground, having fallen on a smooth runnable road section of the race with no rocks or ice in sight. Luckily, it was just a small contusion on my right knee and some ripped tights. Not too bad. Presently, I was up and running again. I thought to myself, “Now where was I… Oh, yes, pierogies”……… and I fell again. This time I hit the road much harder than before, scraping both knees and the palms of my hands, which I used to brace my fall. The pain and oozing of blood snapped me out of my delirium. Enough of this dumpling day dreaming, I thought to myself. It was time to go on the hunt. And, in what seemed like a perfectly reasonable, not-at-all-insane thing to do at the time, I dipped my fingers in some of the freshly-shed blood on my knees and use the blood to put some warpaint on my cheeks. 

What I thought that I looked like with my "war paint."

 

A better representation of what I actually looked like.

Chapter 8 - Now Back to Business Time!

In thinking about this race and strategy, I had decided to imagine the final aid station, Day Creek, as the finish line. It’s the point in the race that is technically around the 100k mark. Also, it is at the end of the so-called single track “forever” section (which I did indeed hate, mainly because it was impossible to get into any type of rhythm) and involves a long sustained climb up a runnable fire road and then a fast and furious descent on fire road and road. I knew that if I could get to that point in relatively good condition, I could crush those last 6 miles.

As I headed uphill after the last aid station, I was passed by another runner who was seemingly gliding up the climb. Luckily, I decided not to try to chase him but stick to a run-hike strategy to try to conserve some energy for the last three miles. I soon saw, however, that he was struggling as well-- alternating between hiking and running-- and I was happy that I could keep him in sight. This continued for the entire climb-- a sort of slow-speed, geriatric chase. He ran, I settled in to a hike, I saw him start hiking, and I started running. Rinse and repeat. After cresting the climb, I passed him on the first bit of downhill as he stopped for a pee break, and I made a comment about us looking like two senior citizens racing up that hill. He gave a polite nod to my comment and I continued past him, pounding the downhill as fast as my battered quads would allow.

It was only after the race that I realized that the runner was the number 2 seeded person in the race-- Michael Dubova-- who was running the course in near record setting time when he had to sit in a car for a very long time to defrost after nearly dropping from hypothermia. I felt bad about my glib comment, particularly since I’m super impressed with his ability and drive to finish the race despite dropping out of contention. I think it speaks volumes for him as a fighter and for the respect that this race breeds in runners, as many other super-talented runners at other races would have simply dropped out rather than embrace the struggle to finish. In fact, the same can be said for any runner who finished the race this year, from Michael Owen, the number one seed, who has run a sub 6 hour race at the JFK 50 and also chose to finish Hellgate this year despite being waylaid by hypothermia, to the person that came in DFL, who had to struggle and fight far longer than anyone else. In fact, after experiencing the conditions of this race first hand, it astounds me that 128 out of 142 runners crossed the finish line. That is some amazing grit. That is what makes this race “special.”

Chapter 9 - Epilogue

I crossed the finish line in 13 hours, 10 minutes and change and in 12th place. It wasn’t quite the result that I had strived for of a sub 13 hour race and perhaps snagging of the last spot in the top 10, but I was and I am super stoked with my race. I also was the momentary winner of “best blood” as a result of my fall, but ceded the award to be handed out to another runner since I decided to drive home before it got dark. With the conditions as they were, I don’t think that I could have asked for a better result. I knew that I would need some carnage at the front of the race and gnarly conditions to have a chance at the top 10 and sure enough there was both. However, I (necessarily) took much more time in the aid stations than I normally would have and spent too much time fussing with gear (see below), which I amateurishly used for the first time in this race. While I’d like to think I’d easily have a “12” as the first number in my time if I had run this race in any other conditions, I’m also not sure how much easier the terrain was this year as a result of all of the water soaking down the leaf debris.

I do know that I’ll return to this race in the future. Perhaps not next year as I only have a limited amount of marital capital to take weekends away from my family for races and lots of races that I still want to experience. And when I do return, I worry that this year’s epic conditions may make every other edition pale in comparison. As singer-songwriter Dan Bern has lamented in his song “Tiger Woods,” which remains on almost all of my race day music playlists, perhaps I “went down on Madonna too soon” by completing this year’s race. Nonetheless, I will be back because this race, much the same as the Plain 100 did this year, feels like a family reunion for the tribe of people that make bad decisions. And I’m happy to be a part of this tribe, which for at least one night in December has David Horton as the patron saint and the patriarch.

THE SPECIFICS

Here’s the gear and clothing that I used during the race:

• Shoes: Altra Olympus 2.5
• Socks: Feetures light cushion crew socks
• Legs: $10 Chinese-manufactured tights from Amazon and $10 Chinese-manufactured shorts from Amazon, with liner cut out.
• Trunk: Highlands Sky Patagonia short sleeve base layer, Grindstone Patagonia long sleeve base layer, and Outdoor Research Helium rain shell
• Hands: Fox River Wool Glomitts
• Head: North Face 50 buff
• Hydration: Ultimate direction SJ Vest 3.0 with 2 soft flasks
• Lighting: Ultraspire 800 Lumen waistlight and $20 Petzl headlamp
• Timing: Garmin 310xt forerunner

WHAT WORKED AND WHAT DIDN’T WORK

1. Ultraspire 800 Lumen Waistlight

I hate talking about gear. I’m a total luddite when it comes to running gear. I mostly buy outdated models and cheap clothing or just wear the clothes I get from races. However, I decided before the race to splurge on one thing— the Ultraspire 800 Lumen waistlight. It’s without a doubt the most expensive running item I’ve ever bought, even with it being on sale at $165. Still, I figured that the money would be well worth being able to see well while running throughout the night. As for the lighting, it worked great! Particularly in the raining and foggy conditions where a headlamp would have been close to useless. However, perhaps because of the conditions, the supposed 4 to 15 hour run time is a complete myth. On the two fully charged batteries that came with the light, I was able to get 3 hours of run time on the 400 lumen setting. I had also brought a lightweight battery pack with me as well as it would also be able to run by attaching a usb cable from the pack to the light. The battery pack had about double the capacity of the batteries. That too only lasted for 3 hours. One of the features of the light is that it does not dim itself as the battery juice gets used up. That’s great.. while the light is on. However, it is completely disconcerting when you’re flying down a technical trail with a steep drop off on the side and suddenly find yourself in complete blackness. Also, because the light is attached to your waist, you have to slow down whenever the trail takes a sharp turn as your head turns much more quickly than your waist does. It does lead to a quite comical effect though as you have to suggestively thrust your hips around each turn as though air-humping the trail.

2. Tailwind

Tailwind is great! I’ve used it as both my hydration and calories in races for many years now and would never go back to gels. However, in such cold conditions, the Tailwind needs to be much more concentrated and not just 2 scoops per bottle. All of that water and no sweating meant that I had to stop to piss approximately 666 times. Did I start to think about just pissing myself? Of course, I did, but luckily I kept my dignity intact at least in that regard.

3.  Sleeping before the race

Before making the drive down to Camp Bethel, I removed the baby seats, folded the seats back, and blew up an aeromattress in my Kia Soul (That's right, if you've been paying attention, my family owns a minivan and a Kia Soul... eat your heart out everyone).  Between the pre-race meal and the race briefing and the race briefing and the drive to the start, I planned to lay down in my sleeping bag and get some shut eye.  Sleep did not come easily, though I figured that I had to have actually fallen asleep when I realized that I had no idea what was going on in the podcast that I was listening to.  It was probably only about 20 minutes of actual sleep.  However, that 20 minutes, plus the several hours of lying down was greatly beneficial, and I'd highly recommend trying to get any sleep that you can to any future participants in Hellgate.  I was never tired during the race, and (somewhat unfortunately) hallucinations were kept to a minimum.  The only notable hallucination to speak of was when running by the race photographer (who after the race I learned was Jessica Croisant from the Sugarstride Podcast, which I really enjoy, and who I should have thanked for creating) it looked like from a distance that she was a bear.  Not an actual black bear, but smokey the bear, which was perplexing because I was quite sure there was a 0% chance of wild fire that day. 

The damage, which my wife informed me really isn't nearly impressive as I think it is after I told her it was impossible to change the baby's diapers with such gnarled appendages.

  

2019 Plain 100: Honor, Indecision, and Plain Insanity

          Everything is murky.  It’s sometime in the middle of the night on loop 2 of the Plain 100, over 20 hours and 70 miles since I started.  The supposedly dusty trails of the Entiat Mountains are now covered in a patina of slick mud from the incessant drizzle.  My world has become a small cone of light illuminating the 8 inch wide muddy rut where I need to place my now-grinding-to-a-slow-stumble steps.  My phone-- which was my lifeline with a gpx map of the course on the Gaia app--- is back in my dropbag at the start/finish after it inexplicably drained of battery despite being in airplane mode within the first 10 miles of the race.  I’m reduced to finding my way analog-- with a now-crumpled map and sheet of directions.  According to the mileage on my watch, I should have hit the turn for the next trail over a mile and a half ago.  Now I’m standing in the middle of the trail riddled with indecision.  Do I keep going forward, though I’m now sure I’m on the wrong trail?  Do I turn around?  I didn’t see any turn off, but it would be pretty easy to miss the turn with my world now in grainy tunnel vision?  Fuck!  I stand in the middle of the trail for what feels like many lifetimes.  My hair turns gray, my skin shrivels, and my bones start turning to dust.  Eons pass.  And yet I still stand in the middle of the trail.  Finally, in the year 3029, I make the decision to move forward.  In 300 feet, I see the trailhead on the right.

           Having stood still for so long, I’m now shivering violently.  I check my map about 24 more times just to make sure that this is actually the correct trailhead.  All that indecision has made me inordinately sleepy on top of the clear delirium.  As I’m about to start moving onto the trail, I see a small stream of light coming from near the base of the tree up ahead.  Then the light is gone.  My mind races as my body continues to shiver.  What the fuck could that be?  Is it another runner squatting down to take a shit?  But why would they turn the light out?  Are the hallucinations starting already?  Then a strange thought comes to my mind.  I’m remembering the bushman of San Francisco-- an infamous homeless man who would hide behind a bush down by the touristy Embarcadero part of the city and who would jump out to scare unsuspecting tourists.  Now, I’m sure that there’s a bushman of Wenatchee just waiting to jump out from behind that tree to scare me and perhaps panhandle some of my Clif Bars.  Slowly, needing to move, I approach the tree waiting to be surprised.  Then, my headlight finds what awaits behind the tree and with the insanity of the scene, sanity starts to return to me.  It’s just two fellow racers, lying face up in the mud on the side of the trail, rain pelting their faces, settling in for a nap.  I shuffle on by and wish them a good nap.  It’s at that point that this race starts to feel like home for me.  Everyone that is out here has that special type of crazy in them that makes them think that running 100+ miles, without any support or markings, while drinking out of streams is their idea of “fun.”  These are my people.  The kind that think that lying down in the muck face up in the rain for a nap is a good idea.  And it was a great idea.  If I wasn’t already verging on hypothermic, I would have joined them.  And it just so happens that about 10 miles from the finish, both of the dirt-nappers would come flying by me on the long downhill section obviously rejuvenated. 

          Though I felt better after that, the second loop of this race was tough.  Much tougher than the first loop, which on paper was much longer and had much more elevation gain.  In fact, I’d say that the first loop was actually fun, not “fun” like the second loop.  Despite being experienced and successful when starting slow, I went out fast on the course.  The first 9 to 10 miles are on fire road, my forte, with most of it going uphill at a relatively mellow under 10 percent gradient.  I knew that perhaps I was a little too exuberant when I ran into the first Search and Rescue checkpoint- Maverick Saddle- in first and second place with the eventual winner of the race, Ian, who would go on to get a sub-24 time and the second fastest finishing time ever.  Smartly, I let him go on ahead as I had to fill my water.

A nice view.  Not from the race, of course, as my phone died early, but from the previous day's scouting run.

 

          I then settled in with a small group of runners, enjoying the scenery and the cool temperatures.  That was until I felt a bunch of stings on my ankles.  Looking down, we were being attacked by bees.  All three of us took off up the trail faster than any runner has gone in a 100 mile race swatting at our legs.  The swarm had got us all.  I counted at least 6 stings on my ankles and legs.  At the finish line, the race director Tim Stroh, would tell us that after getting reports of most of the runners getting stung, he hiked up to the location and found a small hole between some rocks that contained a mound of thousands of writhing bees.  He said that he was able to get a rock and was able to toss the rock on top of the hole, effectively plugging it, while quickly retreating downhill, which saved about the last 6 runners from getting stung.  For a race supposedly without any support, that’s some heroic aid. Despite trying to make sure to remove the stingers, my legs would be in pain for approximately the next 25 miles.  It wasn’t too bad-- just felt like the stinging nettle portion of Highlands Sky multiplied by ten.  At one point, as I approached the high point of the race on Klone Peak, I realized that my body might be having a small reaction from the stings as I had difficulty making a fist due to swelling in my hands. 

          Following Klone peak, there was a loooooonng downhill section.  About halfway into the downhill, I came upon the second SAR checkpoint.  Let me stop to talk about these checkpoints for a second.  While the race is remote and self-supported, the closeness of SAR personnel make it, in my view, probably safer than most other racers where some drunk aid station volunteers might be really good at dishing out some M&Ms but less good at saving your life.  In this race, the SAR personnel won’t offer you any aid unless you are dropping from the race and need it.  Also, though, they’re not just neutral but are actively trying to make your race harder.  At this checkpoint, the SAR personnel had a grill going throwing off some entrancing aromas.  Underneath a canopy, they had set up a formal table setting with chairs, a table cloth, place settings, and poured glasses of red and white wine.  It was a good gag.  Luckily, this early in the race there was no appeal.  My favorite, however, was at another checkpoint where the trail came out to a two way intersection.  We had to choose which way to go-- right or left.  On the map, the trail looked like it went straight, so I figured I would choose right which was only a slight right.  Another runner, Yngwie, was in front of me, confirming my decision.  Luckily, he was much better at reading a map and noticed we had chosen poorly.  The trail actually did continue on straight.  It was impossible to realize this by sight, however, as the SAR personnel had set up their tent directly in front of the trailhead, blocking it from view and necessitating a walk around the tent to find it. 

Some miles later, after more downhill, I reached the foot of the hardest climb of the race-- some 4800 feet in less than 6 miles.  Before starting the climb, as warned in the pre-race briefing, I stopped to fill up my water at a stream crossing.  This would be the last time that I would use a water filter.  None of the locals were filtering their water and trying to filter each time was taking much too long.  Even though I probably ended up drinking a lot of dirt, leaf matter, moss, and maybe a bug or two, it’s now a week after the race and giardia has not reared up.  The climb was long but I enjoyed it.  It was at this time, though, that the rain started, an omen for what was to come that night.  I actually used my cheatin’ sticks for the first time here, put my head down and grinded up hill.  It was probably the most euphoric I felt all race.  As I climbed, I created a dialog in my head between myself and my 5-year-old son where I was teaching him the lessons of doing hard things.  My imaginary 5-year-old took those lessons much better than my actual 5-year old would, who would have probably called me crazy and asked to be carried. 

After reaching the summit of the climb, there was a long downhill section-- sometimes very runnable and sometimes scree covered.  Soon, I was on the Mad River trail, which on paper was supposed to be easy and gradually uphill.  Rather, it was lots of ups and downs.  At this point I was running off and on with Yngwie and talk of the burgers that would await us at the end of loop 1 propelled us forward.  On this section, my legs were starting to hurt and I slowed down as Yngwie kept moving forward ahead.  My plan, as stupid as I knew it was, was to bomb the 6 or 7 mile downhill on the fire road to the end of the first loop.  I stuck to that plan.  I flew passed Yngwie on the downhill who despite apparently not having a lot of race experience was making the very smart decision of using hiking poles going downhill to preserve his quads.  This would prove out about 3 miles from the finish when I would see him again, this time him flying by me and gaining many minutes by the finish.  Still, I ran, hitting many 8 minute miles some 60+ miles into a 100+ mile race, and god damn was it worth it. 

          Saying that there is no aid in this race is not correct.  The start and finish is an aid station where you have a dropbag but also the race director on the grill cooking for you to order.  After 14+ hours of just Tailwind and Clif Bars, the veggie burger with pepperjack cheese and side of minestrone soup that he made me was a meal fit for the formal table setting back at the SAR checkpoint.  Going into that aid station, I told myself that I had to limit myself to ten minutes.  Thirty-five minutes later I was headed out onto loop 2 and into the dark night of my soul.

As recounted in the beginning of this report, loop 2 got “interesting” fast for a number of factors: 1.  It’s now dark and you’ll be running most of the loop in the dark; 2. The trail is constantly up and down and riddled with moguls, making it impossible to find a rhythm; 3. You’re getting tired-- it turns out that having to use your brain to make choices about water and directions uses a lot more energy than running alone.  I think I was more tired and sleepy on this loop than I was 48 hours into Ouray; 4.  This year, it rained the entire loop.  Visibility was awful and mud was plentiful.  And it was cold.  Stopping for five minutes to fill up water would result in violent shivers.  The only way to stay warm was to keep moving; 5. You feel completely isolated.  There was a lot of camaraderie on the first loop.  On the second loop, there was barely any interaction with other runners.  One runner passed me a mile into the second loop as I peeled off layers of clothing, I passed the 2 dirt-nappers and they passed me 25 miles later, and Yngwie passed me three miles from the finish.  At one point, I convinced myself that the race had been cancelled and I was the only one left out there.  The nappers had called it quits at the SAR checkpoint and everyone was warm and cozy at the finish line.  After all, there’s no way that even crazy sadists like the race directors would allow a race to go on in these conditions. 

Did I swear off running any more 100s during the second loop?  You better believe I did.  Did I question what kind of mental illness would make me actually pay money to endure such suffering during the second loop?  Absolutely.  Do I have a short memory, which is the human trait that allows women to have second babies and ultrarunners to sign up for subsequent hundos? Yep, I’m already antsy to find my next 100.

I’ll leave you with one story from my loop 2 travails.  The mud had made it impossible for me to stay upright.  Even using my poles, I was spending a lot of time on the ground.  There was one particularly bad fall about 30 miles into the loop, where I went down on my left side, plastering the entire left side of my body from head to toe with mud.  Still, I got up and hobbled on.  Some time later (it could have been a half mile or it could have been 3 miles), I looked down at my left arm to see how far I had left to go.  I couldn’t figure out what I was looking at.  At some point I must have put on an arm sleeve with some stupid looking pattern on it and the arm sleeve was covering my watch.  The only problem was that I’ve never owned a pair of arm sleeves.  Nope, what I was looking at was my bare arm, with my arm hair matted into uniquely shaped clumps from the mud.  It was horrifying.  Even worse, I realized that there was nothing covering my watch but that my watch must have broken off during the last fall.  Did it take me 20 minutes to decide whether or not to go back for the watch?  It did not.  It wasn’t even a choice as I kept moving forward-- the thought of backtracking and possibly or possibly not finding the watch too horrible to even dwell on.  As good fortune would have it, as I sat at the finish line, another runner-- an actual trail angel-- would come in and tell the race director that he had found a Garmin watch, the one I had lost.  I was super thankful even if I may not have seemed so at the time in my post-race stupor.

          As I stated above, this race felt like home.  I’ll steal a great quote from a former Plain runner-- it is like a “family reunion for the Tribe of People with Very Poor Judgment.”  This year, the race felt even more intimate, as the “password” we had to give the SAR folks at each checkpoint was the answer to “Who are you running to honor?”  We were running to honor Tammy, the recently-deceased wife of the co-race director Tim Dehnhoff.  Despite not knowing Tim or Tammy, that added an extra gravity to this race-- a reminder every 20 miles or so of the shortness of all our lives.  You can take that pathos and go one of two directions with it-- it either renders the race and all of the accompanying struggles as trivial in light of the very real tragedy of the loss of life and a loved one.  Or, if you’re a member of the TPVPJ, it makes you treasure not just this race but the intrinsic value of doing ostensibly stupid and hard things.  It’s quite easy, particularly for people in the socio-economic class of typical ultrarunners, to comfortably drive along in life, on cruise control until the highway abruptly ends.  But that’s not where real beauty, real inspiration, and real experience is found.  Those things are found in the margins and at the limits.  Those things are found by taking an abrupt left turn off life’s highway into the dirt and heading to find out what is behind that mountain in the distance not knowing if you have enough gas to make it.  The Plain 100 provides you with one of those opportunities and if you're a member of the TPVPJ, you'd be a fool not to take it.

Don't believe all the gobbledygook above.  This is the actual reason why I run.

Grindstone 2017; or, the Mustache

        This is a race report for the 2017 edition of Grindstone.  Now that I’ve made that clear, let’s talk about some obscure cinema.  Back in my college and post-grad days, before a professional career, before a marriage, and before a child, I was a huge cinephile.  The more obscure the movie, the more difficult to find its meaning, and the more, let’s say, pretentious it was, the better I’d like it.  I don’t have the time these days to seek out and watch 5 hour long Hungarian movies that were shot using only 10 long takes, but back then I did. (Actually, there’s probably a good thesis paper that can be written about the similarities between watching a Bela Tarr film and ultrarunning).

Anyway, back when I was a pretentious and douchey film nerd, I came across a French movie called La Moustache (or, if you are into freedom fries, The Moustache).  The plot concerns a moustachioed man shaving off the titular moustache, who then begins to become unwound as his wife, family, and co-workers fail to notice his clean upper lip and tell him that he never had a moustache in the first place.  As only a French film can, this premise is played completely seriously.  It is an existential examination of identity, memory, intimacy in a marriage, and likely many more heady ideas that remain lost on me.   
       
So, what the hell does this have to do with Grindstone?  Well, I’ll get to that soon.

I came into this year’s race in the worst possible way that anyone could approach a 100-miler.  I had signed up for Grindstone before I had completed Ouray 100.  My thinking was that I was almost certain to DNF Ouray and I needed another race on my schedule shortly-thereafter to sustain me through what I thought very well could be my first DNF.  Of course, I ended up completing Ouray, which left me lacking any motivation for Grindstone.  No motivation is no way to go into any hundred miler. 

The lack of training, resulting from my non-existent motivation, was also not ideal.  I figured that the high quality training that I had in my legs prior to Ouray would carry me through.  In the two months leading up to Grindstone, I only managed a single 80 mile week, but did throw in about 4 20 mile runs.  Not helping matters in the training department, work got super busy and running fell away to pulling 15 hour days at the office with minimal sleep.  Also, my wife was not too happy with me for running another 100 so soon after Ouray. 

With all of those impediments– low motivation, undertraining, and marital disapproval– you’d think it would have been an easy choice for me to DNS when a week prior to the race I came down with a nasty upper respiratory infection.  This culminated with me losing my voice completely on the Thursday before the start. 

Sometimes there is a thin line between stupidity and bravery.  This was not one of those times.  Completely stupidly I decided that taking the start line at Grindstone with a likely sinus infection, laryngitis, and the ability to only whisper was a good idea.  I joked with my wife (in a whisper of course) that I was going to put labels on my shirt with the food that I wanted at the aid stations so that I could point to my shirt to communicate with the volunteers.  Alas, I didn’t follow through with wearing my potato, quesadilla, pierogi, and mountain dew shirt, but Salomon, if you want to finance it, call me.

Why did I decide to ever leave my tent?

 
          I rationalized my decision to start the race because besides not having a voice and having a nose full of snot, I otherwise did not feel too bad.  At the start of the race, I threw my headphones in my ears, without any music, to attempt to avoid the awkwardness of conversation out on the trail where I couldn’t converse back, and off I went at the 6 pm start.  Through the first ten miles, my voice began to come back, probably due to the large quantities of Tailwind that I was imbibing (New marketing spin for Tailwind as a cure for laryngitis, perhaps) and I was feeling pretty good, though I was taking it relatively slow.  On the downhill from Elliot’s Knob to Dry Branch Gap, however, I began falling apart.  By the time I got into the Dry Branch Gap aid station, I was thinking about DNFing.  I decided to continue on from Dry Branch however and reassess at Dowells Draft at around mile 22.  The miles after Dry Branch would be the worst I have ever experienced in a race.  I felt feverish and miserable.  (I should also note here that I am the biggest wimp when it comes to being sick.  Sprains, bleeding wounds, and broken bones are nothing to me.  Some sniffles and a sore throat, however, and I’ll be crying for death).  I figured that maybe I would feel better once I finished the ascent of Crawford Mountain.  Nope.  I felt even worse on the descent.  I couldn’t run at all and was being passed by what felt like hundreds of runners.  I decided at that point that my race was done.  All I wanted to do was to crawl into the sleeping bag in my tent and doze off for 12 hours.  I stopped a few times to try to do a calculus of whether I should drop when I got to Dowells or turn back to Dry Branch.  Because I was going so slowly, I had run out of any water or Tailwind.  I decided that since Dowells was only about 3 miles away and mostly downhill that I would continue on and drop there.  I kept cursing myself for making the monumentally stupid decision to think that I could complete the race while sick. 

During this period of self-loathing and introspective despair, there was a faint thought just on the recesses of my consciousness that was telling me that miles 15 through 20 in a hundred miler are always, for some reason, the hardest miles for me.  I think it has something to do with the thought of the immense amount of running that is still ahead combined with the first feelings of tiredness in my legs that creates this slump for me without fail in every single hundred (and 50 miler) that I’ve run.  Perhaps this was just a particularly bad version of this habitual slump due to my head cold, or more precisely the mental doubt produced by knowing that I had another 80+ miles to run when I should have been home sleeping.  Of course, at the time, these thoughts were not as fully and consciously developed, and all I could think about was getting back to my sleeping bag.

As I descended, I decided to pop 2 ibuprofens (which is something that I would never think about doing so early in a race) and get some music pumping through my headphones.  Feeling warm and feverish, I also decided to take off my head tam, which I normally have to wear with my headlamp to keep my lamp secured on my head due to my long hair.  Then, magically, as can only be truly understood by an ultrarunner, I began feeling better.  As the descent mellowed out, I began running again.  Cornily and cliched, but serendipitously, Fear Factory’s “Resurrection” began playing through my headphones from my random iphone mix.  Tears came to my eyes as I thought that this was the reason why I loved ultras so much– the fact that one minute you can feel so bad and the next minute so ecstatic.  Coming into Dowells, I quickly grabbed my drop bag items, and ran up the ascent.  I was feeling great and passing lots of runners to boot.

Besides a stomach issue that I was able to resolve, so to speak, for the next forty miles I was feeling great.  I was feeling so good, that the fact that the snot rockets that I was blowing had turned red instead of green did not bother me.  As I reached the turn around, I even began to have thoughts of negative-splitting the course.  Along the way, I pulled off some 9 minute miles and even on the uphills was managing sub-12 minute miles.  I was flying past other runners.  I luxuriated in the gorgeous sunrise that we were being treated to. 

Trust me, it looked much better in person

          And I completely failed to consider what is axiomatic in ultrarunning– while it can’t always get worse and will get better, if you are feeling good, you are bound to feel bad again. You can’t let the lows get you too low or the highs get you too high.  As I hit the long descent after Little Bald, I would become intimately reacquainted with this maxim.  And this time, there would be no resurrection.  My body had simply given up the fight - it was fighting on too many fronts at once.  It was amazing how sudden it was– I went from feeling on top of the world to complete misery.  I had no energy.  My quads were shot.  My knees hurt (and I hadn’t had any issues with runner’s knee since 15 years prior when I first started running and decided it was a good idea to do so in a pair of $5 Pumas I had found at a thrift store).  I felt like I had a huge lump in my throat and could not clear it.  Meanwhile, I was making myself nauseous because I was swallowing so much bloody mucus. 

Everyone that I had passed, quickly passed me again.  I could still grind out the uphills, but the downhills were absolute misery. 

As I came into Dowells Draft, it was completely dark.  After Dowells, I knew there was only one remaining long uphill section and that it was net downhill to the finish.  However, somehow, despite having run this race last year, I had completely forgot (or suppressed) how extraordinarily difficult the last 20 miles are. 

And now we get back to the La Moustache reference at the start of this race report.  If you read anything about Grindstone online, you’ll learn that it is an out-and-back course.  You go 50 or so miles to the turnaround, and besides two short digressions up to two peaks, you return the same way you came.  The RD, Clark, will tell you that it is an out-and-back course.  Other runners will tell you it is an out-and-back course.  And this is where I feel like the protagonist of La Moustache, sure that I had a moustache when everyone around me tells me that my upper lip has always been clean.  Despite maps and even my Strava data showing me that the last 20 miles are the same as the first 20 miles, I swear to you that they are not and that Clark has somehow found a way to make the last 20 miles go through a parallel dimension where the terrain is altogether different and much more difficult on the way back. 

Running those last 20 miles, you’ll climb up to Elliot’s Knob on a 20%+ gradient on nothing but loose rocks and shale while perilously close to the edge of a steep drop off and know that this simply was not the same trail that you had run down some 20+ hours previous.  While on the way out it just looked like a normal trail, on the way back everything will look different and sinister.  You’ll get to a downhill section on a fire road, which you will remember from the way out, but you’ll keep running downhill on this fire road for much, much longer than you ran on the way up.  (This year that downhill section would be made even more surreal by the heavy fog that had descended upon the mountains, making visibility non-existent, and at least for me, the appearance of a runner passing me clad only in what I could guess were My Little Pony tightey-whiteys.  And I’m 99% sure this was real and not a hallucination).  Then you’ll get to the Falls Hollow aid station, where one of the volunteers will provide you with a slice of chess pie and a cup of coffee and you’ll really be confused about what parallel universe you have entered.  (But seriously, try that pie– it’s fantastic!). 

Then you’ll get to the last 5 miles.  A runner told me last year that the last 5 miles is on a different course than the first 5 miles.  I believe, that like Laurence Fishburne in the Matrix, that this runner was trying to offer me the red pill.  I’ve sat maniacally studying my Strava map on the way out and the way back, and on paper it looks like the same exact trails were used.  If you’re like me, you’ll begin to doubt your sanity.  You’ll know that those last 5 miles are not even close to the same miles that you ran on the way out.  You’ll know that those gigantic, jagged rocks that litter the trail simply were not there on the way out.  You’ll wonder what kind of rat bastard psychotic would transport and throw all of those rocks on the trail to make your return trip so much harder.  You’ll also feel that even though you are following the course markings, you are definitely going around in circles and wonder whose idea it was to design a spiral trail.  Also, those five miles will somehow feel like at least double that.  You will not recognize any of the course from when you set out what feels like months ago and you’ll think to yourself- “How long have I been out on this course that they were able to change the trail before I got back to camp?”  Like an acid-tripping Descartes, you will actually doubt the truth of everything and regard the material world as a mere dream.

Or, at least that was my experience.  YMMV.  The simple lesson- don’t try to run a 100 miler while sick or you too may experience such existential dread.  And if that lesson doesn’t resonate, let’s get back to the other reason why I referenced La Moustache.  During the last part of the race, concerned runners kept asking me if I was okay.  I thought to myself, is my existential dread really that apparent?  Also, I know I’m moving slow, but so is everyone else.  I only saw the reason for their concern after heading to the showers after the race.  Looking in the mirror, I was aghast.  Remember when I mentioned those blood boogers during the race?  Well, looking in the mirror, my actual mustache was stained and crusted red from running for many hours with a runny and bloody nose.  The next day, I would shave the moustache, not wanting to remember and needing to forget the horror of my bloody Tom Selleck.     
                 

Other thoughts:  

1.  Despite struggling both physically and mentally worse that I have in any race, I hardly had any hallucinations.  Near the end of the race, a runner ahead of me stopped to take a piss on the side of the trail.  I did have to apologize to him as I went by him for staring at him for so long because I thought that he had found a on-trail haberdashery, and I was interested in the suit and hat rack that he had stopped to peruse.  

2.  Sometimes you can learn something when you are full of despair and introspection out on the trail.  For me, I came to the conclusion that first, Grindstone is really a downhill course and downhill running is much more important to doing well, second, that Grindstone is actually more technical of a course than I remember from last year, and third, that my traits as a runner really do not suit me to doing well at Grindstone and that even if I am not sick, I always am going to struggle on the technical downhill sections.   

3.  Next year, I'm probably going to skip any organized 100 mile race, unless I hit the lottery with Hardrock or Western States.  I would like to try to get a good time at Mountain Masochist, which with its majority fire road course, would seem to suit my lack of coordination and technical running ability much better.  Also, I'd like to get into some multiday light-packing/running adventures, which I miss since focusing more on 100 milers and which are the reason that I really got into ultrarunning.    

       

2017 Ouray 100 Race Report

Transcendence through suffering.  Exultation through exhaustion.  Or perhaps just asceticism.  All of these phrases came to mind late in this race after talking to another runner at Fellin Park after he said that he had dropped because he simply was not enjoying himself anymore and was just suffering.  I could simultaneously relate and not relate.  After all, after 80+ miles of climbing at high altitude, going out for two more climbs with somewhere north of 8,000 feet of elevation gain, which would likely take me 8 hours or more, with no sleep for the past 36 hours, was not going to be fun. However, continuing to push my body through the pain and well past any point of comfort was going to be a reward quite removed from any notion of immediate enjoyment.  

I don’t say this to put any value judgment on any decision to drop or continue racing or to hierarchize my reason above all others for entering (or continuing) an ultra, but rather just to describe my personal (and likely damaged) psychological perspective as to why I entered the Ouray 100. Just reading race reports from those that have tried, but failed, to complete the Barkley Marathons, makes me cry.  I figured entering a race with more elevation gain than I have ever seen and with only five finishers last year would get me some of that sweet painful nirvana for myself.

Going into the race, my biggest concern was the altitude.  I had never run at altitude before. No matter how much elevation change I had in my legs through training, I knew it was going to be tough to go from the mountains of Virginia (with a max altitude of about 4,000 feet) to the San Juan mountains around Ouray, where the minimum altitude would be 7,700 feet with a maximum altitude of 13,300 feet.  Nor was I able to convince my wife to allow me to put an altitude tent on our bed during the last month before the race.  Nonetheless, I set out on a plan to get out to Colorado three days before the race and hopefully give my body a chance for some acclimatization.  I became worried after experiencing some shortness of breath just driving from the Denver airport to Ouray, and then from needing a rest after carrying my luggage up to my second floor room at my hotel, but after a hike/run up to the Bridge of Heaven on Wednesday and another hike/run up the first part of Twin Peaks on Thursday, I regained some confidence that my body was going to be able to handle the thin air. The hardest part ended up being trying to avoid any of the delicious craft beer that permeates Ouray in the days leading up to the race.  

The most beautiful Interstate rest area in the United States.  Sorry Maryland House on I-95.

Bridge of Heaven (pre-suffering)

Rather than going through the entire 49+ hours of the race, I’ll instead briefly discuss and rate each of the 14 climbs of the race.  For each climb, I’ll rate it on literally how breathtaking it was (i.e. how much I suffered), on figuratively how breathtaking it was (i.e. the beauty, objectively or subjectively) and will give you my weirdest hallucination. In honor of Chief Ouray, I will rate each between 1 and 5 meteors.  While this race had more vertical ascent per mile than any race I've ever done, it also had more beautiful scenery per mile.       

Climb 1 - Fellin Park to Silver Basin

Breathtaking (literal):  2 meteors.

The adrenaline pumping through my body caused me to cruise through this section.  It’s a long, gradual (for this race) climb on Camp Bird Road and then steeper towards Silver Basin.  

Breathtaking (figurative):  3 meteors.

The view at Silver Basin was amazing.  Am I on location for a live action adaptation of The Sound of Music?  I’ve never felt compelled to take pictures at a race until this one.  However, the climb up Camp Bird Road was beset by huffing in too much exhaust from the jeeps.

Weirdest hallucination:  None.  

Climb 2 - Lower Camp Bird to Chicago Tunnel

Breathtaking (literal):  3.5 meteors.

If I was British, I would say that this climb had a sting in its tail. The last half mile of this climb up to the bib punch let me know that this was going to be a tough few days. Nothing like struggling up over 30% inclines at over 12,000 feet altitude.  

Breathtaking (figurative): 4 meteors.

Again, an amazing view from the top looking down into the treeline, made even more amazing by being able to catch my breath and head back downhill.   

Weirdest hallucination:  None.

Climb 3 - Fort Peabody

Breathtaking (literal):  4.5 meteors.

Oh yeah!  Highest point of the course at over 13,300 feet in altitude, with the last half mile being straight up a talus slope.  “No, I’m not slumped over my hiking poles because I feel like I’m going to die, I’m just stopping to enjoy the view.”  

Breathtaking (figurative):  4 meteors.

Fantastic view from the top and during the climb to Fort Peabody, made both beautiful and ominous by the gathering thunder clouds.  Only downside, though, is that there were quite a few jeep peeps along the way.   

Weirdest hallucination:  None

Climb 4 - Richmond Pass

Breathtaking (literal):  3 meteors.

Those gathering thunder clouds began bursting all around.  Lots of loose talus on the trail.  While it looked like the storm had narrowly passed to the west, some angry clouds soon arose from directly behind Richmond pass.  Why does that rain hurt?  Oh, that must be hail.  Time to fast foot it across the wilderness portion of the climb and down the trail on the other side.  

Breathtaking (figurative): 4 meteors.

The wilderness section at the top of the climb following the flags was really neat, even though I didn’t get to enjoy it too much due to the running for my life to try to get down the pass and away from the lightning.  If I could have seen through the hail, rain, and fog, the downslope into Ironton likely would have been beautiful.  However, that brief moment where a rainbow appeared on the other side of the pass was one of the most beautiful moments of the race.    

Weirdest hallucination: None.

Climb 5 - Corkscrew Gulch

Breathtaking (literal): 3 meteors.

At this point, with the rain being non-stop and the first night impending, the toughness was more psychological than due to the trail.  The psychological toughness was vitiated, though, by the delicious cheese quesadillas and tomato soup being served by the Ironton aid station.  

Breathtaking (figurative):  3 meteors.

Mmmmmmm..... Those quesadillas were things of beauty. Scenery wasn't bad either, as the sun began to break through the clouds near the summit.

Weirdest hallucination:  None.

Climb 6 - Corkscrew Gulch (opposite direction)

Breathtaking (literal): 3 meteors.

The ascent from the opposite direction reminded me a lot of trails in the Dolly Sods area of West Virginia, only much less rugged and water-logged. I made two big mistakes that would catch up to me later. First, I somehow lost my tube of lube that I had in my vest and failed to put any extra in my drop bag at Ironton. The chafing situation, with the wet conditions, was not looking good. Second, I literally tore my sock in half as I was trying to pull my dry socks onto my still wet feet. There's probably a German word for the feeling you get when you have to put a soaking wet, muddy, and smelly sock back on your foot which accurately describes how I felt at this point in time.

Breathtaking (figurative): 3 meteors.

More of the same, this time with no sunlight!

Weirdest hallucination: None.

Climb 7 - Ironton to Richmond Pass

Breathtaking (literal): 4 meteors.

Very steep climb back to Richmond Pass, made even more uncomfortable by some chafing in my shorts. It's raining on and off at this point again. At one point, I take my rain jacket out of my vest to put on and also take out my reserve Garmin watch since the one that I'm wearing is about to die. I put the new Garmin on the ground and then promptly forget to put it on my wrist after putting on my rain jacket and starting up the trail. A few runners pass me and look confused about my situation. As I stop to tell the second runner about my dilemma and decide I'm just going to have to let the watch go, I spot the watch right next to my feet. If I'm already this mentally foggy on the first night, the second night is going to be a lot of fun. Later, I will decide that losing the watch was divine intervention, as I ended up going with another runner for the rest of the climb. This will pay off at the top, where the fog is so thick that it is impossible to see the flags marking the path over the wilderness area. Myself and the other runner will take turns fanning out in circles and calling to each other when we spot the flags. Finally, after the fog lifts and we are on the descending trail, we are met with a bunch of loose talus to negotiate down to the Richmond aid station.

Again, as if divine intervention, the Richmond aid station, which is supposed to be unmanned and water-only is manned by an angel. This angel gives me manna from heaven in the form of cheddar cheese ramen noodles, something that I never heard of before the race and during my college-ramen years, and which I'm too scared to check after the race if this is a real product.

Breathtaking (figurative): 3 meteors.

This section is likely very beautiful during the day in clear weather. There is also something ethereal and beautiful about being on top of the pass in heavy fog during the night.

Weirdest hallucination:  Why won’t that 3-foot tall miniature human get out of the middle of the trail and let me pass.  I don’t like the way he’s looking at me and don't think he has good intentions.  

Climb 8 - Weehawken to Alpine Mine Overlook

Breathtaking (literal): 3.5 meteors.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Weehawken will heretofore be called Freeballin, as the chafing in my shorts requires me to get rid of my base layer compression shorts. As chafed as I am, I am also chaste and it takes me a while to make this decision and significantly impedes my progress, but I feel better almost immediately. Meanwhile, because of both the chafing and because of the trail, the climb seems to go on forever.

Breathtaking (figurative): 3 meteors.

Nice view from the overlook. Less nice view for any unfortunate runner looking up the trail at me.

Weirdest hallucination:  Those markings on the white aspen trees really start playing tricks with a tired mind.  Perhaps I should ask another runner if the marks on that tree really says “Stop Now.” On second thought, I better keep that to myself.  

Climb 9 - Weehawken to Hayden Pass

Breathtaking (literal):  5 meteors.

You can flip a coin between this climb and the Twin Peaks climb being the toughest in the race. This trail is a mixture of exposed singletrack, overgrown singletrack, and exposed and overgrown singletrack.    

Breathtaking (figurative): 4.5 meteors.

The beauty of the views to the valley below, of the rock formations, and of the lush mountain meadows somewhat mitigated the toughness of this climb.

Weirdest hallucination:  One of the runners that I kept seeing (passing me while ahead of me) was wearing a sailor’s hat.  I found his boat on the way down from Hayden’s Pass.  

Climb 10 - Crystal Lake to Hayden Pass

Breathtaking (literal):  4.5 meteors.

The climb in the opposite direction was supposed to be shorter but, somehow, steeper than the other direction.  It was definitely tough, but after hearing the bagpipes and eating three different varieties of nutella sandwiches at the Feed Your Crazy aid station, I was feeling good.  

Breathtaking (figurative): 5 meteors.

If you’ve never danced while running down the very exposed section of Hayden’s Pass while listening to Devo’s "Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA", you’ve never truly lived.  “We shove the poles in the holes,” indeed.    

Weirdest hallucination:  

You don’t see a gnome performing cunnilingus on a naked woman in the middle of a trail every day.  

Climb 11 - Twin Peaks

Breathtaking (literal): 5 meteors.

Fuuuuuucccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

Breathtaking (figurative): n/a

Fuuuuuucccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.  I was told that the view at the top of the scramble was beautiful.  I have seemed to have repressed that memory.  

Weirdest hallucination:

That I somehow climbed 3600 feet in 3 miles and did not commit seppuku in the middle of the trail.  

Climb 12 - Silvershield

Breathtaking (literal): 1.5 meteors.

Easiest climb of the day.  This is the only race where a 2,000 foot climb in a little over 2 miles, after 80+ miles, could be called easy.  But there you go.  If this was rating the descent down Twin Peaks, it would be rated one long Fuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkkkk, though.

Breathtaking (figurative): 2 meteors.

In this race, you only get to the beauty through suffering.  

Weirdest hallucination:

No actual hallucination, just some amnesia.  The ascent and then descent of Twin Peaks, combined with the cumulative lack of sleep, kicked my ass so bad that I could not find my way back to the aid station at Fellin Park, as the second night of the race began.  I somehow ended up in the middle of town, completely befuddled and losing any sense of not only where Fellin Park was but of the reason why I was supposed to get there.  It took one of the local residents asking me if I was part of “the race” to snap my mind back into slight focus.  “Yes, I think so, but do you know where I’m supposed to go?” was my response.  After being pointed in the right direction, and wandering around an RV park for an inordinately long while (seriously, where did all of these RV’s come from?) I finally found my way back to Fellin.    

Climb 13 - Chief Ouray Mine

Breathtaking (literal): 4 meteors.

My course map and section description paper had been long gone.  My phone had been dead and was re-charging back at Fellin Park.  For some reason, I thought this section was short and relatively easy.  I’m glad I didn’t know that on paper this climb had the fifth most elevation gain of all of the climbs.  I did begin cursing Chief Ouray for putting all of those damn rocks in the middle of the trail.    

Breathtaking (figurative):  3 meteors.

From what I could see in the darkness, this would probably be gorgeous in the daylight, with at least two passes underneath waterfalls.  

Weirdest hallucination:  

None.  I did begin feeling like an old man angry at kids on my lawn, though, as the 50 milers had begun passing me in droves and I would silently curse them for being able to move so nimbly and quickly up the trail.    

Climb 14 - Bridge of Heaven

I have pictures of myself in college with the same face.  And all it took back then were some hallucinogenics, not 49 hours of running.

Weirdest hallucination:  

As I was climbing up the Old Horse Thief Trail in the predawn hours, I could not figure out where that replica of the ivory tower from The Neverending Story that I was seeing was in Ouray and why I had not booked a room in it.   

Breathtaking (literal):  4.5 meteors.  Breathtaking (figurative): 5 meteors.

What kind of masochistic genius saves the longest sustained climb of the race, a close to 5,000 foot brute, to the very end?  Earlier that week, when I had hiked the Bridge of Heaven route, I had told myself that as long as I had saved energy and not become over-exuberant on the previous climbs, I could attack the Bridge of Heaven as hard as I wanted.  So, I did.  With a newly recharged iphone pumping tunes into my ears and coffee pumping through my veins, I managed to hit 30 minute miles going up, which although seems turtlish now, felt hare-like at the time.  Goddamn it, I was going to see the sunrise from the Bridge of Heaven.  And goddamn it, I was going to enjoy it.  I had brought a single beer with me in my running vest as well as my wireless speaker.  It was just a matter of picking out the perfect song to listen to as the sun rose over the San Juan mountains.  In my mind's eye, I pictured other runners being at the summit as well and we’d all celebrate and cheer our accomplishment and the sunrise together.  The thought of it had tears streaming down my face. Lost in my reverie, reality quickly returned.  I wanted to stop and commiserate and celebrate with another runner that was on his way down.  No celebrations were to be had.  He informed me that I still had a mile to the summit and that I had better think of a way to move quickly down the mountain because there was a cutoff to think about.  And he was absolutely right.  I spent about 30 seconds at the summit sitting down, and then had to get back to the reality of descending 5,000 feet, on a trail that had lots of loose talus, on feet that were so badly macerated that every step hurt and on quads that had been long blown.  Like clockwork, my phone died while sitting at the summit.  There would be no beer, no celebration, and no soundtrack until I got myself back to Fellin Park.  And it ended up taking me a long time to do so.  The pain of each step being both a curse and a blessing, as the pain kept me from literally falling asleep as I descended.  But I would eventually make it to cross between the two cones that stood in for the makeshift finish line, well inside of the time limit.  

And the finish, as usual, would be anti-climatic- my base needs of food and sleep overpowering any higher sense of accomplishment.  But, as I sit a week on from the race, as usual, the pain, both literal and the memory of, fades and all that is left is the transcendent beauty.  It’s really a neat trick of human cognition, which allows all of us in this silly sport to have more than but a single race entry on our ultrasignup pages.   

As I hopefully said in person out on the course, thank you to all of the volunteers. You were all awesome and a huge help to an unsupported runner like myself. Thank you also to all the runners, both those who finished and those who didn't, particularly Andrew, Andrew's pacer, Trey, and all of the other runners whose names I can't recall. It was a privilege and inspiring to share the trails with you. And thank you to the RD, Charles, for putting on a well-organized, well-supported, and wonderfully difficult race.

Cankles, the ultimate race prize.