The RATS

Tuesday night softball. Crack. A ball is hit to the gap between center and left field. It is going to drop for sure. I speed towards it. The centerfielder does to. It is going to hit between us and roll. There is no way I can get to it in time. But then again, maybe I can. I shout, “Mine!” and dive just as the centerfielder extends. We collide in a hit worthy of ESPN highlights. The problem: I cannot walk.

Throw on top of that a cold and dead legs from the 35 miler the week before and you have the most unideal setting for a 50 miler. Days of icing and motrin left me still unable to run but the walk moved from a crutch to a hobble, and finally a limp by race morning. I had never been so uninspired for a run. I didn’t pack a GU, baby powder the feet, or Vaseline the bad areas. I just walked to the line 2 minutes before the gun, resolved to run to the end of the dirt road and back. I hobbled my way up the road in complete pain, head down, disappointed that I would DNF another race out of stupid circumstances. But at the road I resolved to go to the first aid station and back. At 6 miles, I figured I could make a lap of 25 miles out of it. At the end of the lap, I just kept going.

The first 25 miles of the race went fairly well for a wounded guy. I kept it slow, promising to learn the pace of the ultra. I ate and hydrated along the most beautiful course I have run. The Colorado River snaked through red-rock canons with green mountains and tall mesas. It was inspiring. When I rolled into the finish line of 25 miles, my buddy Michael cheered me in. He was shocked when I said I was going for it.

Miles later that would prove to be a costly decision. After descending for several miles to the start/finish, runners headed up to the top of the mesa immediately. Luckily, my time was spent chatting with an elite mountain biker running his first 50. We climbed for a while and left the 50K aid station in good spirits. But around 34 miles, I fell behind on a climb and really began to struggle. I was out of water and the heat was building. Instead of clouds and rain like the forecast predicted, we had a hot sun baking us every step of the run. It was hard to tell if my current problems were related to not having enough water or under training. I had been carrying a Camelbak all day. I had done long runs. I wasn’t sure why I was struggling so badly after starting so conservatively. I limped over every rock and was limited to running no more than 50 meters at a time. A team of mountain bikers stopped and let me take a few pulls from their Camelbak and gave me Gu to eat. What felt like an hour later, I jogged in to the aid station and sucked down 40oz of water.

The next 3+ miles were bliss. I was hauling, running nearly the whole stretch. It was the ultimate runner’s high and I had made 41 miles. But leaving the aid station started 3 miles of pain which took far longer than is acceptable. For 44 miles I had favored my right leg and every other part of my body was screaming at me. At the last aid station, a man was sitting down and another was leaving. It was odd to see runners after having not seen anyone for 20 miles. But they both left before I could refuel. The kind volunteer told me it was just a 10k to go and that was nothing! I laughed and looked at the road, then 1000ft. to the top of the mesa and back to the road. If the run were down that road, I told him, it would be no problem. After clipping on my pack my parting words were, “If sitting in this chair were finishing, I’d be the winner.” Then I was off.

Words cannot capture the misery and pain of the next 2 hours. The hike to the summit were the most painful three miles of my career. When the knot in my calf subsided, the nausea started. When that faded, the quads barked. I hated every step. But not as much as I hated the downs. Every switchback was torture, every rock a wall. Then I got off trail, and let me assure you that scrambling down a 50ft slope at 47 miles isn’t a great idea on legs that cannot break. When I finally hit the road, I nearly stopped, feeling as if that were the finish line and the rest was a formality.

But the worst pain was the foot. Every step for 7 hours placed a rock perfectly in the middle of my foot, and pain radiated through my leg. It was like being pricked with a pin once per second for an entire work day. I was going insane from the repeated stabbing. It was the worst feeling in running I have ever had.

Upon crossing the finish line, Brooks greeted me, amazed since he figured I wouldn’t have gone back out (considering he had about 5 miles on me at the turnaround). We talked while resting in chairs and munching on pizza. I was more proud of that finish than of any other single day event in my life. All things being equal:

Could I have finished in the top 10? Yes

Could I have run a PR? Yes

Could I have quit? Yes

But I didn’t. And that’s the only possibility that mattered.

Leadville 100..... or so....

Even though I could barely sleep in the early hours of Friday morning, I missed my dad’s phone call at 5:30am. I soon found that my grandmother had passed away on the night of her 85th birthday. The news was both devastating and expected as she had been sick for some time. My grandfather, aunt, and mother were shouting encouragement over the phone to run hard for grandma. I choked back tears and agreed, but that isn’t what grandma would have wanted. She was “a tough old bird” and she would have wanted me to run for myself – for me to take pride in my effort and be strong over the long haul like she was recently and throughout her life. She fought for months- years- and now I needed to take that fighting spirit with me to the mountains. Her battle was over. Mine was about to begin.

There couldn’t have been a more perfect day for a 100 mile jaunt in the mountains. The air was crisp but not cold and the sky was a splatter of white stars on a black canvas. Tony Krupicka brushed past me in the final moments before the gun and took his place among one of the most competitive start fields ever assembled at Leadville.

The first several miles went by without a hitch, as they should. As one guy went bombing past me downhill in a way that reads DNF all over it, tape, pain killers, and other medical devices flew from his backpack. I scooped them up and yelled to him but his headphones blocked all efforts. Not wanting to sprint early in the race for this guy who was violating several of my fundamental beliefs, I was about to huck his gear into the woods. But I slowly reeled him in and tugged hard on his backpack to which he finally realized other people were out there with him.

The fantastic Jamie Donaldson breezed by me just before the power line climb and I was shocked to see her back here at this point in the race, but she was soon out of sight, in pursuit of the great Darcy Africa who I had finished just in front of here in 2006. Once we gained the lake trail, I was in awe of the beauty of this course with the shimmering lake reflecting the trees and stars that surrounded it. It is truly frustrating that the most picturesque section of this race is completed both out and back in the dark.

Approaching the boat ramp on the outbound is always one of my favorite portions of the run. The headlamps are bouncing along in a line around the water’s edge like a string of fireflies in the night and all the while a dull roar grows louder as you approach a seemingly worthless crew point (mile 7). Yet, at 5am, hundreds of crew members were packed along the narrow trail 3-4 deep on both sides yelling and creating a tunnel of emotion as we rocketed through. Most people don’t stop here or take aid, but it is a nice boost just the same.

The next portion of trail was very challenging. Small rocks dot the otherwise smooth trail and narrow passages meet larger boulder. All of this runs along a narrow ridge and the trail is often muddy. People were far too eager and ran every little ridge of this trail. Trips and spills occurred just ahead and often behind me. It is always the same: A thunk, a loud swear, and someone is in the dirt. I just never saw the advantage of charging up hills and hurting yourself at mile 9 of 100. But to each his own. I rolled into May Queen (13.5mi) 6 min slower than 2006 and very happy. I had expended no energy. A new camelback, a toss of the headlamp, and I was gone up the road in mere seconds, as was my goal.

The next few miles of the course, I believe, are responsible in the end for more DNFs than any other part, and here is why: This section is early in the course and mistakes are made. Hours later it isn’t Hope Pass that ends people – it is Hope Pass with this mountain in your legs. First, you climb the Colorado Trail which you would run any day of the week, but not race day. It is just steep enough to burn you out if you run the whole thing. Then you gain Hagerman Pass Rd. and you think you can run to the top of the mountain. Well, it will destroy you. I hooked up with Brooks Williams on this section and started talking. We watched people continue to run up the hill but never pull away from us as we walked and drank. It was pointless. On top of the peak you can run forever down, but pushing too hard will leave you destroyed for the flattest and easiest part of the course. In 2006, I blazed up and hammered down this 10 mile section and it cost me physically and mentally later that night. I was casual, and came in only 4 minutes behind 2006, meaning I made up 2 min (probably in the aid station) while chilling out on the climb and descent.

What is really funny is the next 4-6 miles are about the easiest on the course. Pavement, flat, lots of aid before and after. But for some reason, this section really sucks. I think people who push too hard in the first 24 miles really pay starting here. The paved part is slightly uphill and you can see all of your competition up the road. This year I just set a good tempo and rolled. People came back naturally. Although I wasn’t in pain by the end of these 4.6 miles like 2006, it was still tough. But I was moving and not even remotely struggling.

Due to a military helicopter crash during the week, the course had been rerouted. The new section was welcomed – the approach to the Colorado Trail was more gradual and mostly on dirt road. I was still being ultra conservative by walking most sections that even resembled an incline. After all, I was only at about 30 miles. It was a pleasure to run some of this section with Lynette Clemons, the eventual women’s winner. I pulled away from her in an aid station and continued to be conservative, catching a few people anyway but also giving back a spot or two. I came up Jamie Donaldson who was really struggling. She looked like she had been throwing up so I walked some hills with her. Later she would recover for 2nd place. I wish I were that strong.

The descent into Twin Lakes is difficult, painful, and scary. I was begging for the end of the rocky slope and my wish was finally granted. A quick check of the watch proved I was about 30 seconds ahead of 2006 at 40 miles despite all of my conservative pacing! I couldn’t have been happier. Unfortunately, my luck was about to change.

After changing shoes, I elected to go with a single water bottle for Hope Pass. It was a long section but mostly shaded and I had some stomach issues that I was chalking up to too much Gatorade. So I went with water, and it was a mistake. But before disaster struck, I plowed through the open meadows and the river crossing at the base of the mountain. I was passed by Lynette and a group of guys as I emptied out my shoes. Then I started the climb. I would not be back.

The first step up the hill was terrible. Instantly I felt a pain in my stomach and could barely manage to keep going. Hoping that it would pass, I continued walking up the mountain as runner after runner went by. It was like watching myself in slow motion. I could see one foot go in front of the other but I could not get the message from my brain to my legs to go faster. There was a blocking wall in the middle of my stomach that would not let me run. I struggled significantly for more than an hour and felt blessed to finally come upon Hopeless Pass aid station. I sat on the ground drinking soup and Coke like it was going out of stock. The medic had me come to the tent where my pulse, oxygen level, and blood sugar were all checked and were all perfect. Yet my first few steps out of the aid station proved that I was no better off than when I arrived 20 min previously. Brooks gained the summit and shouted in triumph. Tony and Tim Parr both had gone past on the inbound while I was sitting on my butt.

There are few things less enjoyable than the descent of Hope Pass. The trail is narrow and full of switchbacks so getting a rhythm is impossible. If you aren’t in the top 10 then your entire trip down the mountain is halted by frequent people and their pacers coming back up. The sun is beating down and you are at a point of dehydration and exhaustion that makes the mere thought of going back up and over this beast in a few miles seem impossible. My trip down was all of these things. No momentum was gained because my stomach actually hurt more going down than up. My water bottle had half Powerade and half water (as refilled at the aid station) and none of it was going in. I shuffled down the entire path, stopping every 50 meters or so to let people pass me going up. I figured they had a shot to make a race out of this. I was looking to survive.

The dirt road into Winfield is miserable. It is all up hill and you are constantly reminded by how far back you are by the number of people on their way back toward Leadville. The worst part is the many cars of crew members coming and going on the dirt road. There is only one route into Winfield and it gets very crowded.

I staggered along the road running sparingly but not feeling the need to push any kind of pace what so ever. The long uphill road was unwelcomed as my water bottle yielded only hot Powerade. Upon finally reaching Winfield, I knew things had gone horribly wrong. I was about an hour behind where I should have been after leaving Twin Lakes. The sit down with Sarah and Michael was depressing. The urged me on like a good crew but I was reluctant to proceed. I figured that I could take some water, start walking, and eventually drop out. There was no need to prolong the inevitable. But stubborn as Michael and Sarah were, I walked about a quarter of a mile. It was depressing realizing that even if things did improve, hours had already been lost. I turned back dejected and frustrated. Getting your bracelet cut off is one of the lowest moments in ultrarunning.

Later that evening at dinner, the lack of calories final took their toll. I was dizzy and nauseous as I struggled to munch a taco with my head rested on the table. It was miserable. My hydration was low but came back fairly quickly and my legs were surprisingly strong the next morning. I just could not figure out what the problem had been. I have paced brilliantly and my legs felt perfect. Something deeper had gone wrong and it would take me another 3 months to get it together.

50 miles for you, grandma. 50 miles for each of the times you woke me up at 5am for hockey practice, fed, me, and pushed me into the frozen car. 11 hours for each year you sat on hard bleacher seats to watch me play hockey. You were a classy chick, and we love you. I wish I could have done more for you. Rest in peace, grams.