Welcome to the Beast Coast - Grindstone 2018

(I obviously haven't posted here in about a year, since before my first DNF at AC100.  But I have written a couple of race reports for other forums, and want to post them here just for my own archival purposes - I have no illusions that anyone reads this stuff but me.  But I'd like to "catch up" so that I can post some reports from this year, which I hope to be a big one!)
 
Early Sunday morning, October 7th, 2018, somewhere outside Staunton, VA:

Net net is that I limped, literally, into the finish in 35:46ish. My feet completely fell apart - blisters, macerated, likely black toenails and possible broken pinky toe. damn near half the course was rocks. Big rocks, small rocks, pointy rocks, round rocks, stable rocks, rocks that move. And those rocks ate me up. 
Of course I think this is all true. The last three hours out there I was hallucinating and paranoid. Still not really sure what is real, other than I know I’ve been awake since Friday morning.


Prerace

Trying to get some rest before the evening start

 
Going in I knew that the biggest challenges were going to be the course itself and the evening start.  I had never run on the Beast Coast, but knew that it would be rocky and technical, along with the advertised 23,200’ of elevation gain.  And the evening start guaranteed I’d be running through a night at the beginning with another night coming in the latter stages of the race.  But it would turn out that I severely underestimated the impact of both factors.

A whole lot of up and down

The first few miles were uneventful.  I forgot to start my Garmin until we were a couple of minutes in, no big deal.  After jogging for a half mile or so we came to a stop as we funneled onto a creek crossing and then singletrack, but I was in no hurry with 99 ½ miles to go.  A mile or two in we leave the camp and are on state property, which the race isn’t allowed to mark so we follow white blazes. It’s all one big giant conga line so I just follow along, waiting for things to open up and allow me to do my own thing.  It turned out I probably should have paid more attention through this section, more on that later.  It was probably just the excitement and buzz of the beginning of such a big adventure.  After about 5 miles we hit the first aid station, and it’s so crowded that there is a line of people waiting to get water.  Since I knew it was about 9 ½ miles to the next one I wanted to top off my bladder with Tailwind, but the jug was empty and the volunteer didn’t know where the Tailwind was (“this isn’t our aid station, I’m not sure”)!  She was holding a pitcher of ice so I asked her to just pour all of it in my bladder, and hoped that would give me enough fluids to get to that next stop at mile 14.6.  A this point only a bit over an hour in I was already drenched, with sweat dripping down my legs.  They had warned us during the pre-race meeting that the lows would only be down around 65 with highs 75-80 and high humidity, so to take care of ourselves out there.  And while I didn’t feel it was affecting my perceived effort, that humidity was pretty stifling.

Rocks

I’m no geologist, but my understanding is that these mountains were formed hundreds of millions of years ago and are among some of the oldest in North America.  It’s thought that at one time parts of the Appalachians were as high as the Rockies or the Alps, but that they have been eroded down over millennia into not much higher than 4-5,000 foot peaks.  Where did the rest of the mountains go?  They were broken down into rocks.  Millions and millions of rocks.  And that’s what would make up much of the course.  We reached the top of the initial 2,500’ fire road climb and summited up the peak of Elliot Knob, punched our bibs to show we made it to the top, and then descended back down a bit and turned off onto singletrack.  After a mile or two winding through the woods we hit the rocks.  Much of the trail in this section were flat rocks that slid and moved around on top of other flat rocks.  It was an odd sound hearing the rocks slide around as the dozens of runners ahead and behind me ran and hiked over them.  I was with a group moving at a comfortable speed, which was good considering there was no way to get around anyone – this trail made up of loose rocks was about a foot wide with a huge drop-off of a hundred feet?  A thousand feet?  I had no idea because it was dark, as it would be when I would come back up this hill the following night.  But I was feeling fresh and after about six hours hit the Dowells Draft aid station around mile 22.

Hey look!  More rocks!

I had worked out a pace chart for a 32-hour finish and included a column lining up with just making the cutoffs.  I had no idea what to expect, and the 32-hour pace was just about staying far enough ahead of the cutoffs to not worry about them.  But at this point I was close to that 32-hour pace, and happy with how things were going.  As I left the aid station I was told it was a big climb followed by rolling downhill, so pulled out my trekking poles for the first time and geared up.  I’d never run a race with poles before, having bought them earlier this year and trained with them just a handful of times.  But it turned out to be a pretty benign climb, much of it “runnable” under normal circumstances, so I ended up just carrying them in my hands before finally stopping to stow them away again.  This section of trail was smoother than the last, and we hit the top and descended into the Lookout Mountain aid station at mile 31 in 8:19, about 25 minutes up on that 32-hour pace.  I knew it was pretty much downhill from there to the North River Gap aid station at mile 37, but as I headed down the hill I would find that the rocks were back in full force.

There are lots of mishaps that can happen when trying to move quickly across rocky terrain.  I started giving them names.  The Roll (ankle roll).  The Stub (toe stubbing).  The Point (painfully stepping on a pointy rock).  The Flip (one foot flipping a loose rock up into the ankle bone of the other foot - that’s my favorite).  I started trying to keep track of how many times each of these happened, but I couldn’t keep up.  I do know I swore out loud several times, cursing the eons of erosion that had led to the creation of all these damned rocks.  Downhill mile splits of 18:00-20:00 miles.  Ouch.  Literally, as my feet were starting to really hurt, not blisters, but a pain across the toes and the bottoms of the feet.  I started thinking about ultra/trail runners gearing up for a road marathon talking about “hardening the legs” by getting in some road running prior to the race, and wondering if it was even possible to “harden the feet”.  But I knew it was, as evidenced by all of the (presumably) locals flying by me on the downhills.

Before the race I had reached out to local runner Andy Jones-Wilkins, a legendary member of the ultrarunning community whom I’ve crossed paths with a few times at Western States and Hardrock, to get intel on the race.  He graciously answered my questions and confirmed that this was one tough course.  As I sat down at the North River Gap Aid station with my drop bag to attend to my beat-up feet, I saw AJW next to me and introduced myself again.  “Sean!  Great to see you, how’s it going out there!”  I mumbled something about rocks, and he told me that when he crewed Western States RD Craig Thornley at this race a few years ago, Craig had come into this very spot cursing those same rocks.  So at least I was in good company.


Keep it Simple, Smart Guy
In almost all the 100K and 100M races I’ve run, I’ve had stomach issues.  It’s cost me lots of time in many races, and finally led to my first DNF this August as I was pulled by medical at mile 52 of Angeles Crest 100 after throwing up for 2-3 hours.  This has been exacerbated by the heat in most instances, and the hope was that an October race in Virginia I wouldn’t have to deal it.  But that wasn’t the case – it wasn’t Western States hot, but warm with humidity was taxing enough.  So my plan was to simplify things as much as possible at this race, and stick with just Tailwind, Bonk Breakers, and gels for as long as I could, and avoid the “real food” at the aid stations besides Coke and broth.  I also think I’ve tried to force too many calories at times in the past, so the plan was just to keep drinking Tailwind and supplement with at least one gel an hour, but not more than two – the combo should give me at least 250 calories, which should be enough.  To this point I had stuck to the plan, and things were going great.  But it was now almost 4:00 AM, I hadn’t eaten dinner, and I was hungry.  As I got ready to leave the aid station I saw AJW grab a handful of tater tots, and they looked so good that I grabbed a handful and chomped on them as I headed out into the night.

This next section would bring both the steepest and longest climbs of the course, about 2,600’ over 5-6 miles, beginning with a 1000’ climb in a little over a mile.  Now was definitely the time to break out the trekking poles, and I started grinding my way up the mountain.  For really the first time during the race, I was working hard.  And, of course, I started to feel nauseous.  It was such a rookie move, not only going against my plan that had been working but even more so taking in food right before a tough part of the course where the effort level would be high.  I had a few moments of panic, considering what had happened to me in August.  So even though the effort felt sustainable from an aerobic and muscular standpoint, I decided to dial it way back to try and get my stomach in check.  I had no choice.  Instead of passing people, I slowed down and people started passing me.  But I knew I had to get some blood back to my gut to get that food moving.  After about an hour the nausea was gone, and I made that mental note to stick to the plan going forward.

Happy to see this, and turn off the headlamp

I finally reached the top and ran along rolling, open terrain as the sun came up.  I remember noting it was just past mile 40 that it began to peak through the trees, and it was so nice to not be limited to that circle of light cast by my headlamp and be able to look around.  I finally hit the Little Bald Knob aid station at mile 45, and they pointed out the ridge line we’d be running along and down to the Turn-around.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but in looking at the map it appears we were effectively running along the border of Virginia and West Virginia through this section.  It was warming up again a bit, but I continued to just keep drinking Tailwind and taking in that gel an hour, and everything was feeling pretty good.  I moved pretty well through here with miles in the teens, building up more and more cushion against the cut offs and staying within an hour of the 32-hour pace, and got to the turnaround in about 15:50.

Despite changing my socks at each of the previous drop-bag aid stations, between the humidity and multiple muddy spots my feet had been wet since the start.  I sat down and peeled off my shoes and socks, and my feet were just white, wrinkly, and macerated.  So I decided to let them air out for 10 minutes to try and keep them from falling apart any more than they already had.  The rocks had taken their toll, I had several hot spots (but no blisters….yet), and they just hurt.  And I had the return trip through all those rocks still to come.  I sipped some broth and enjoyed a couple of minutes off my feet, only the third time I’d sat in about 16 hours.  Then it was time to go and I lubed up, got my socks and shoes back on, and headed back out to start the second half of this thing.

The only picture of me.  And West Virginia (I think)

A Foggy Day 
With the evening start, I fully expected to be exhausted on night two.  What I didn’t expect was to start feeling it mid-day on Saturday.  But as I ran back along the rolling terrain from mile 50-59 it moved into early afternoon, and I was beat.  I’d been moving for 18 hours and awake for almost 30, so the exceedingly tired feeling that often hits in the wee morning hours of a typical 100 miler were hitting me mid-day.  I zoned out for hours at a time.  I spent an hour or two writing in my head an amazing blog post on the “10 Things I Learned at Grindstone”.  On occasion I’d snap out of it and realize I should be moving quicker, but then I’d zone out again.  And of course I can’t remember any of what I came up with while out there (maybe I should record myself next time on my phone – I just know it was great stuff!).  It was surreal, moving through the peak daylight hours of a beautiful day but feeling like I was in a fog. 

At about mile 61 we started heading back down the hill in earnest, 19 hours in at around 1:00 PM.  I felt like I was moving ok at the time, but looking at my splits they were all 20-30 minute miles.  I survived the steep downhill and arrived back to North River Gap at mile 65 in a little under 21 hours, and while I sat for a few taking care of my feet (and not eating tater tots) I began dreading the incredibly rocky climb facing me, but kept thinking at least I’d be hitting it in daylight hours. And to be honest, it was a little bit better going back up as the expectation of decent splits wasn’t weighing on me at that point and it's almost easier to tackle rocky terrain going up than going down.   Two and half hours into it came the Lookout Mountain aid station at mile 72, which I reached in 23:28.  I was now almost two hours off the 32-hour split times, but still over two hours ahead of cutoffs so I was somewhat satisfied with my progress. 

The climb continued from there, and as the sun went down the low light, both in angle and intensity, started playing tricks on my senses.  “What are those three cars doing parked in the woods?”  Oh, there’s nothing there.  “I don’t remember a building out here.”  Because there isn’t one.  “Look, campers around a campfire, roasting s'mores.”  Nope.  And a lot of turning around to see who the runner was I could hear coming up behind me, only to find nobody trailing me.  All just signs of my mind starting to slip and slide into the grips of sleep deprivation, something that would only get worse as darkness set in and I tackled the final 25 miles.

The Downward Spiral
I wasn’t looking forward to staring into the circle of light of my headlamp for several hours, so I stalled on turning it on as long as I could.  But as I hit the peak of the short climb out of Lookout Mountain and began the descent, I had to pull it back out of my pack and turn it on.  I hit the bottom of the hill at Dowell’s Draft at mile 80, and my final access to a drop bag.  My feet had gone from a few hot spots to a few blisters starting to form between toes, on the side of my heels, and on the outside “ball” of my left foot below the little toe.  In retrospect I should have spent a little more time here addressing these, taping them, popping a few, but I think at the time I was just happy to clean and lube them up and get a pair of dry socks on.  I also decided to switch shoes here, going from the Hoka Torrents I’d been running in from the start to a pair of Altra Olympus, the model I’d worn for most of Western States and for those 52 miles of Angeles Crest.  The Altras have more cushion, which I thought might help with my destroyed feet, and with more room in the toe box I thought the change in where the shoe was rubbing might give some of my problem spots a break.   As I got up to limp out of the aid station I was so hungry, but with the final two big climbs coming I just drank a couple of extra cups of broth and Coke and headed back into the night with a pack filled with Tailwind and gels.  Damn those quesadillas looked good….

I couldn't see them in the dark, but they were still there

Going in I expected these next 10-12 miles to be a huge key - back-to-back 1500’-1600’ climbs with a short descent in between.  As I began heading up I passed several groups of runners, some with pacers, some just running together.  I felt encouraged to be moving better than those around me, and after about 20-30 minutes I found myself alone.  The trail narrowed and got rockier, and it was those flat, sliding rocks again which while tricky from miles 10-20 the day before now just seemed downright treacherous.  I just kept thinking, “grind it out, grind it out,” while pushing off on the trekking poles which I hadn’t put away since the steep descent back at mile 58.  My left thumb had started to go numb, as the strap of the pole pushing into the soft flesh between the thumb and finger apparently irritated a nerve.  And the climb just kept going on and on, slowly working our way up Crawford Mountain. 

Every once in a while I would catch my toe, or a rock would slide under my foot.  On occasion one would fall off the side of the 1-2’ wide trail, and I’d hear it tumble down into the darkness below.  Was the drop off 50, 100, 1000 feet?  I had no idea, and it really didn’t matter.  I was by myself in the middle of the night in middle of nowhere Virginia, and I’d been awake for going on 40 hours and moving on this damned trail for 28 of them.  I really started doubting myself and why I was doing this, and at one point said out loud, “What are you doing out here?  You have a kid!”  I had no choice but to keep grinding away, reaching the top and then moving down the other side – there was no way out other than forward.

I started the final climb at mile 87, and the pain in my feet was getting unbearable.  I realized I had been leaning slightly to the left, into the hill and away from the drop off (Subconsciously?  Consciously?  Was there a difference at this point?), so the blister on the outside ball of my left foot was killing me.  And the roomier Altras had turned out to be a poor choice on this uneven terrain as my feet just slid around, slamming back and forth into the sides of the shoes.  After 2 ½ hours or so of being alone, I thought I saw a light up ahead of me finally.  But it wasn’t moving, and it would disappear or fade, so I figured I was imagining that as well.  But as I got up close I found it was the one other runner from Northern California that was out here, leaning against a tree throwing up.  I paused to check on him then kept on going, alone again. 

After a few minutes I caught up to a group of 4-5 runners moving together up the trail.  Finally, some company!  It wasn’t that I wanted to talk or anything, I just hadn’t felt very safe being out there by myself on that trail.  So I happily fell into the little conga line as we made the final push up Great North Mountain.  My mental state started to turn around a little, as for the first time I allowed myself to think about the finish of this beast.  I remembered from nearly 32 hours earlier that the trail would eventually dump us out onto a steep fire road, although a runner near me said he didn’t think so.  I started questioning myself but sure enough, right around mile 91 we hit that fire road.  I took off down that thing, leaving everyone I’d been with behind.  Of course I look at my splits now, and it was 22:xx for the next two miles!  But at this point, that felt like I was moving.

The Home Stretch?  Or Just a Descent Into Madness?
In my head it was a few miles down to the Falls Hollow Aid Station, then a few miles through some state land near the finish.  But after about two miles on the fire road the markings took us off onto a singletrack trail to the side.  Hmmm, I didn’t remember this at all.  I caught two other runners here, and together we crossed a creek…then crossed it again….then crossed it again….wtf, were they messing with us?  I realized that they must route us through a different section here, instead of running all the way down the road to the aid station, and seemingly remembered some reference to this in the pre-race meeting that hadn’t made sense to me at the time.  The former RD is known for that kind of thing, and adding bonus miles, so I figured it was a Horty Special.  I said something to the guys I was running with about it and cursed myself for not studying the course more beforehand.  They were talking to each other, and as they pulled away I became convinced that this was all a big practical joke on me, and they were in on it!  My mental state continued to slide as I realized instead of having a couple easy hours left, it was going to be more like four.  This part of the course wasn’t difficult compared to what we’d done, but it wasn’t just running down a fire road. 

I finally arrived at Falls Hollow Aid Station, mile 97, in 33:17.  I had less than 5 miles to go (yes, the course is measured at 101.85 miles) and almost 5 hours to finish before the cutoff.  I had told myself once I got here I would allow myself some real food for the first time since those ill-fated tater tots the day before (or was it two days before?), and I downed three quesadillas with some broth.  Could I finish in 90 minutes and be done with this thing before 5:00 AM?  Sure I could!  The aid station volunteers reminded us that we’d be entering state land so we’d be following white blazes for the next three miles, with no other course markings.  It sure hadn’t been a problem on the way out, so I limped out ready to finish this thing.

But that little burst of quesadilla and “let’s finish this thing” energy would quickly fade, and the sleep deprivation had now officially taken over.  From here to the finish I honestly can’t be 100% sure of what happened.  But here’s what I remember……
 
I came out of the trees to find railroad tracks, and a runner ran by me and seemingly disappeared into the woods.  I saw a couple of headlamps in the trees on the other side and headed that way.  But I couldn’t find the trail.  I was a few hundred yards out of the aid station and already lost!  I back tracked to the other side of the tracks again, and this time went straight across and found a small opening with a little white square painted on a rock.  Ok, it was going to be like this, then.  It was largely fire road for the next mile or so, with the white squares painted on trees on the side of the road.  I was alone again, and stopped every several hundred yards to shine the light ahead, looking for the next blaze. The markers then led me off the fire road and onto a trail, and I caught up to a runner and pacer who were struggling with navigation as well.  The runner was limping worse than I was, with an audible grunt or moan that I was all too familiar with whenever his feet would hit a rock or root in the wrong way.  And we kept trying to find those white blazes, which seemed to be getting smaller and more hidden.

The pacer pulled out a phone or walkie talkie and started talking to somebody that was coming from the other direction who could help us find the way.  We dropped down into a creek, and together tried to find where to cross, all the while the guy on the other end trying to talk us through.  We eventually came upon someone, and they teamed up and began to quickly pull away, the light from their headlamps disappearing.  I stopped, looking for a marking, but could find none.  I called out to them, “which way do I go?”, but got no answer.  I back tracked a bit, found another marker, but was basically moving through a drainage of some sort.  I think it was at this point that I started thinking that none of this made sense, and that I must be asleep on the side of the trail somewhere, imagining all of this.  I remember thinking that I hoped I wouldn’t fall off the trail I was sleeping on, that I had found a safe, flat spot.  But what if I hadn’t?  I needed to wake up…..

Two runners that I had dropped when we first hit the fire road several hours ago then caught up to me.   One of us would find a blaze, we’d get to it, then we’d look for the next.  That went on for another mile or so, but this just wasn’t making sense.  I couldn’t believe they were having us run through creeks so near the finish, and that markers were so hard to find. 

We finally came out onto a wider road, and there were the familiar pink markings we’d been following all race.  Thank god!  But how do we get back to the start/finish?  We were all confused, and as we kept trying to find the next marker the confusion grew.  I was convinced we had gone in a circle, and told them as much.  But I also said, “my mind isn’t working right now.”  A few runners passed us, and some of them seemed confident we were going the right way.  I just kept feeling like we were looping around and around on ourselves.  What if I got lost, a mile from the finish, and wandered around for 4 hours missing the cutoff?  My unfortunate mantra became, “This just doesn’t make sense.  This just doesn’t make sense.”

We were passed quickly by two runners saying, “this is it!” and sure enough I recognized the dam we had crossed about a quarter mile from the start all those hours ago.  Up the gravel road, onto the Boy Scout Camp lawn, and finally across the finish.

35:52:54. 180th out of 257 starters, 208 finishers. 

It was a surreal state I was in at the finish, like a daze but also mostly aware that I was in a daze and just deeply sleep deprived.  I pondered whether I should get medical attention, but knew I was going to be alright with a nap.  I limped to my car, limped back up to the camp showers where the chaffing covering most of my back and groin area made me scream a bit, and then limped back to the car again where I climbed in the back and finally laid down at about 7:00 AM and closed my eyes.

Later that morning I drove to a CVS, bought a cooler, Epsom salts, and a couple of gallons of water and soaked my blistered, torn up feet.  I held that belt buckle in my hand and the emotion of it all hit me in a wave.  There I sat, by myself in a CVS parking lot across the country from home, feet in a cooler, exhausted and crying. 




 











Post script
Recovery has been decent.  Mentally, I was in a brain fog until at least Wednesday, despite multiple naps each day.  As for my legs it was such slow going, even downhill, that my quads weren’t that bad at all.  My feet were another story, and it was a few days before I could get shoes on.  I have two black toenails on my left foot, and all of the toes are a little numb but feeling is coming back.  The same is true of my thumb, which I literally couldn’t feel at all until about Wednesday after the race (it’s a weird sensation not knowing how much pressure you are putting on something you are holding), but feeling is coming back day by day, it's just kind of tingly now two weeks out.

It was really an experience unlike any other race I’ve done, including the three other 100s I’ve completed.  Being out there that long, on that terrain, over two nights…..I definitely don’t want to do that again without a pacer.  But despite the slow time I’m as proud of this as anything I’ve done in this crazy sport, no doubt.  I'm not sure what's next, although I've started looking into possibilities for next year.  Of course the Western States and Hardrock lotteries on December 1st are first, but with selection in either highly unlikely I'll have to figure it out from there.

 

On Wednesday after the race I finally looked at the Strava entry, to see specifically where the course had been different on the way back in those last few miles that caused me so much confusion.   Turns out, it wasn’t!  I was just so mentally screwed that I didn’t recognize any of it and convinced myself it must be different. Mind blown. 

2017 Western States - Not as Tough as I Thought

No, no, I'm not talking about the race itself.  Sure, I had heard from ultrarunners I respect that I'd already run "tougher" 100 milers in Cascade Crest and Pine to Palm.  And those races are tough, no doubt.  But Western States, the supposed "easier 100" was in no way that.  I have never had a better training block.  My diet was as good as it's ever been, I followed the Jason Koop plan of intensity earlier in the year and then had my most consistent volume and vertical ever in the two months leading in to Statesmas.   I took into account my racing over the past five years, what I had learned over four years of pacing and crewing this race, analyzing the Ultrasignup and Ultrasplits data, and I just knew I was capable and ready for a finish around twenty-seven hours. I was ready.

"Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth." - Mike Tyson

And then the race started.  Fifteen miles of snow and ice bridges and mud that pulled the shoes off your feet.   It wasn't just me.  All 369 runners got punched right in the mouth.  Any buffer you had against your goals, whether that was a course record, silver buckle, staying ahead of the cutoffs, or my twenty-seven hour goal was simply gone by Red Star Ridge at mile 15.8.  So I found myself in a situation I really didn't imagine, fighting the cutoffs from the start.  But I didn't stress, just like I knew I was in shape for twenty-seven hours, I knew I was tough enough to get this done.  After all, I'd never DNF'd a race.  I've fought wrecked IT bands, trashed quads, a shut down stomach, heat, mud, smoke, and the mountains themselves.  And I'd always made it to the end before the cutoffs.

_______________________________

The University of Kent's Samuele Marcora has published multiple studies that show a common theme - fatigue largely isn't a muscular issue, it's a mental one.  From a December 12, 2014, New Yorker article titled What is Fatigue

"Marcora believes that this limit is probably never truly reached—that fatigue is simply a balance between effort and motivation, and that the decision to stop is a conscious choice rather than a mechanical failure......Considerations like heat, hydration, and muscle conditioning, Marcora says, “are not unreal things, but their effect is mediated by perception of effort.” In other words, they don’t force you to slow down, as happens with the failing frog muscles in the petri dish; they cause you to want to slow down—a semantic difference, perhaps, but a significant one when it comes to testing the outer margins of human capability."

I'd say 100 mile mountain runs in 100+ degree heat qualify for "testing the outer margins of human capability," especially mine.  Thanks largely to the tough conditions in the high country, my goal of a 27 hour finish, one that would have me comfortably ahead of the cutoffs the entire race, was out the window before I hit the fifteen mile mark.  I was behind the average 30-hour finisher splits all day long.  By the time I got to my first pacer, drained from puking on the climb up to Devil's Thumb and another tough climb to Michigan Bluff, I was almost exclusively walking.  I just couldn't run much, I was spent.

With my final pacer.  PC Richard Walstra

But as almost always happens, that external push from Jim got me running a bit more. "Dude, you have to run this part."  I switched pacers at Foresthill and Wally used cajoling and constant pace reminders in an effort to keep me moving faster that I wanted to.  And then Jim picked me up again at the river telling me, "you're probably going to hate me for awhile." He knew he was going to have to push me.  He negotiated, bargained, pleaded, ridiculed, distracted, joked.  Whatever it took to keep me moving faster than I wanted to.  And of course I could.  Oh I was physically fatigued, but my muscles weren't shutting down. "You can puke, but you have to walk while you do it," said Jim at one point Sunday morning near mile 90.  So instead of sitting (again) on the side of the trail, walk I did.  And then I ran, and ran a little more.

_______________________________

Tim Noakes first put forth the Central Governor theory back in the early-2000s.  From an iRunFar article written by Joe Uhan:

"Noakes’s model, the Central Governor Theory, proposes that it is the brain that dictates exercise intensity and duration in order to ensure its own survival.

The brain is inherently selfish: it only cares about itself. It will do anything necessary to ensure it gets a steady flow of oxygen and sugar, and a reliable mechanism for transport. That said, any physical effort that might jeopardize those values will be tightly regulated. If not, the conscious brain might team with the body to literally run itself to death by either destroying skeletal or cardiac muscle, or by starving the nerve tissue of sugar and oxygen."

I feel like I haven't yet shown in a 100 miler that I'm tough enough on my own to overcome my brain, my Central Governor.  So while I'm extremely proud of all of my race finishes, I want to test my own mental toughness, to prove to myself I can push through.  I'm not talking about putting my health at risk, just finding a way to keep moving, keep running when my brain is trying to convince me otherwise.

So with some first-time lottery luck, a few months back I got in to the Angeles Crest 100, solo division.  No crew. No pacer.  Just me and my Central Governor, battling it out.  I'm looking forward to the fight.

I Am Ready

As I've written about before, the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run became a bit of an obsession for me back in 2012.  To someday be at that start line in Squaw the last weekend in June, the white bib pinned to my shorts, staring up at the climb up to the Escarpment while awaiting the shotgun blast signalling the start.

Three straight years of qualifying and attending the December lottery ended in disappointment, but it gave me the opportunity to run more races, and to learn more about myself and this sport.  I knew my time would come eventually, and I drove up to Placer High this past December hoping this might be the year.  And then Tim Twietmeyer called my name:

Since the Cascade Crest 100 in August, my running had been a little sporadic.  I was still getting out and enjoying time on the trails, but without any real focus.  After the lottery I had a trip to Oregon planned in late December, and a work trip to Vegas in early January, so I just focused on trying to get a little more consistent for that six week period with a plan to begin training in earnest in mid-January.

The break had also given me some time to re-evaluate my running and training.  If I'm honest, while I've learned more about how to run ultras, I haven't really improved my fitness much the past few years.  Looking back, that shouldn't be much of a surprise as I've lacked year-round consistency, and have pretty much just gone out and run easy most of the time.  I'd been reading Jason Koop's Training Essentials for Ultrarunning, and even had the chance to chat with him a bit up at the Ouray aid station during Hardrock last year.  So I decided to adopt his principles which are essentially:

1. Train the least specific aspects farthest away, most specific closest to event
2. You must incorporate all three key intensities during a training block - SteadyState, Tempo, Intervals
3. Work strengths closes to race, and weaknesses further away

This was a departure for me, but led to planning out a three-week block of vo2 max-focused intervals (2 x per week) in January-February, a short Endurance phase to ramp up my long run for Way Too Cool, a Tempo phase that went up to The Canyons 100K, and then the final several weeks leading into States were to be Endurance/SteadyState focused

Way Too Cool played out like I had hoped, I'd almost describe it as uneventful", which is exactly what I was looking for.  I ended up at 6:08:21, 14 minutes off my PR from 2015. But considering the muddy conditions and an extra .3-.4 of a mile (including a climb) on the course due to a washed out section of trail, I was really pleased with the result.  The purpose was to get in a long, supported training run, practice my nutrition (gel every 30 minutes plus 1 bottle/hour electrolyte drink), and come out uninjured.  So I considered the day a success.

Training went pretty well after Way Too Cool, and I ramped up to The Canyons 100K feeling pretty good.  If you haven't run that race, I'd highly recommend it.  I've run it the past two years, camping out in the back of the car behind Foresthill School, the race just has a cool vibe and provides the chance to cover 30+ miles of the Western States course.

Dirtbagging in the Duckmobile

This year brought the added bonus of Eric from Ultrarunnerpodcast and his lawn darts camping out beside me, and we threw those weapons back and forth across the lawn while sipping beers and telling stories for a couple of hours - a great way to relax before a big race.  And it is a big race, with over 15,000' of elevation gain over 63 miles.

Other than some blown quads on Cal St. thanks to taking the descent into Volcano Canyon a little quicker than I should have, the race went well for me and I came in at 16:40:53, over an hour and 20 minutes faster than the prior year.  A solid, long effort in my build up.

I recovered well, especially considering I had thought about dropping to the 50K going into the week to be sure I could keep training going.  After a single down week, I put in four straight weeks of 10-12 hours and decent (5800'-8800') vertical.  I did develop some pain in the back of my knee during the first 34-mile day of the Memorial Day training runs, so I took Sunday off but was able to run the 22 miles on Monday with no real issues. 

Robinson Flat looking a little different than I've seen it on race day

The pain in the back of the knee crept up anytime I went over 90 minutes, so after one more 20 miler I tapered a little more aggressively than I had planned.  I also got treatment from Dr. Chappy Wood, asking him to throw everything at it - electrostim, Graston, lasers, even cupping.  Along with 7-8 sauna sessions and a couple of runs in 90 degree heat while bundled up head to toe, I've done everything I can to be ready for this thing.  

110 degrees in the car

This has been the most consistent, focused training block I've put in since I started running ultras in 2013, the year after I first experienced Western States as a crew member and pacer.  I've dropped 20 pounds since January, rolled out my troublesome calves and IT bands daily, and put in 119 miles on the actual course.  As I stand here writing, hitting F5 on the Auburn weather forecast page every few hours (100 degrees on Saturday!), 2 days and 10 hours from the starting gun, I of course have doubts.  I'm scared.  I'm nervous. I'm excited!  But most importantly, I just keep forcing my mind back to the same mantra - I Am Ready.

#seeyouinsquaw

Tall Trees and Tough Trails - The Cascade Crest 100

It was about 1:00 PM on Sunday and I'd been running and hiking since 9:00 AM.....on Saturday.  I struggled up the final steep climb of the race going into mile 90, stopping repeatedly to catch my breath.  "Get your heart out of your ears and back into your chest," said my buddy Surf, who had been pacing me since mile 55.  We finally hit the top, with 6 miles of the Silver Creek Trail ahead of us to the final aid station, and I remembered the runners guide describing this section of trail as "steep downhill, moderate downhill, steep downhill."  If you've ever had IT band issues, as I'd been dealing with for the past 30 miles, then you know that's not what you want to hear.  My slow pace up and down the six short but steep climbs of the Cardiac Needles from miles 81-86 had put my pre-race time goal out of reach, but Surf maintained some ability to do math and determined that we still had a chance to beat my previous 100 mile finish time.  A chance for a PR, but I'd have to pick it up a bit through this section.  So I pushed down the hill, "running" when the trail was smooth, and painfully picking my way down the steeper sections.  When my watch finally beeped to indicate the mile split, I looked down and laughed out loud - I had been trying hard, and it wasn't even the slow pace I needed to average for the final 10 miles.

I slowed back down and tried to even out my effort, as now it was about just getting to the finish as efficiently as possible.  But that short push had set me back.  I'd been taking in calories, but only 100-200 per hour, not the 250 or more I knew I needed.  And I couldn't stop drinking.  I finished my 1.5 liter bladder in an hour, and was stopping to pee every twenty minutes.  I took another salt tab, trying to get my system back on track.  I had a bottle left and tried to slow down on the drinking, but I was so thirsty.  It was becoming a warm afternoon, but I realized my shirt was totally dry as I was no longer sweating.  Are my fingers puffy?  I wasn't sure, but it seemed like they might be.  As I kept moving slowly down the hill, I could just feel myself getting hotter and hotter.  I finally told Surf that something was wrong, but that I just needed to take some time at the next aid station at mile 96 to cool myself off.  Ice in my pack, ice in my arm sleeves, ice on my neck, ice water.  I poured the last of my water over my head, and as we started to hear the aid station off in the distance, Surf ran ahead to get me some ice water.  A few minutes later he came running back up the trail.  "They're out of ice," he calmly said.  My heart started to sink and my head started to spin just a bit.  I didn't come this far to only come this far.....


Pre Race

Karl Meltzer has famously said "100 miles is not that far." Considering the 'ole Speedgoat is out right now trying to set the record on the 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail, that may be true for him. But for most it's a long, long way. It's a distance I've only covered once before, at Pine to Palm in 2014. But after not running a 100 last year I knew I wanted to try another in 2016, so after being shut out of Western States (again) and Hardrock I threw my name in for the Cascade Crest lottery early in the year.  As a qualifier for both of the above races the popularity of this old school ultra seems to be growing, so it wasn't a big surprise in February that my lottery streak continued - now 0-7 in various ultra lotteries! But I was in the 20s on the wait list, so the odds looked pretty good that I'd end up getting in. And after submitting my qualifier and trail work information in June, on August 1st I was officially entered in the race.

The view from 14,058' Handies Peak on the Hardrock 100 Course

I had recovered pretty well from Canyons 100K back in May, with no lingering achilles or IT band issues. After a few weeks off I ramped back up through June, and had the opportunity to once again pace Surf at Western States. I then took advantage of my daughter being on vacation with her mother for a couple of weeks to head out on a "dirtbag runcation" road trip in July.  Such an incredible adventure with runs and hikes in Flagstaff, around Silverton and on the Hardrock 100 course (highlighted by going up Handie's Peak at 14,058'), and in Moab on the way back home, all while sleeping in the car and camping for free every night.  What an opportunity to experience real mountains and trails unlike any I've ever been on, not to mention spectating an amazing race at Hardrock.  Combined with good consistency and solid efforts earlier and later in the month, and July was my biggest month ever in terms of miles, hours, and total elevation gain.  After a two week taper I was feeling pretty good and confident in my training heading into the start.

These things never quite capture what it's going to be like!

Start to Tacoma Pass (Miles 0-25)

The start was the typical nervous energy as 164 runners and their family and friends milled about.  The unusually civilized 9:00 AM start allowed for a more relaxed morning routine than normal, and after the pre-race meeting and yet another porta-potty stop we lined up and were off.  We ran down a road for a bit, and as always I started comfortably at the back of the pack.  As we transitioned onto the trail I chatted with fellow Bay Area runner Chihping Fu who I'd seen at other races but had never met before.  It didn't take long before we began the initial 3,000'+ climb up to Goat Peak which would take us to almost the 10 mile mark and the Cole Butte Aid Station.  The miles ticked off slowly but easily, mostly power hiking before we finally hit some downhill switchbacks that allowed me to open up the stride and run for a bit.  Of course that only lasted for a couple of miles before it was back up, up, up to the Blowout Mountain Aid Station, still feeling good and enjoying the cool weather.

8:59 AM, let's do this!

Two things that had me anxious going into the race, besides of course the sheer enormity of the challenge of 100 miles, were bees and the Snoqualmie Tunnel.  Runners from previous years had reported running through swarms and suffering 5, 10, 15 bee stings, and most occurred on the section that was coming up.  I'm not allergic but I'm no fan, so I ran slightly behind runners in front of me, thinking I'd get a warning yell if we hit a heavy bee section and I could try and sprint through.  At one point I was cruising along some rolling single track, the last runner in a group of six when all of a sudden "zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" and BANG BANG, I took a sting on each leg.  One was on the outside of the right leg near the knee, and the other was right above the ankle bone on the left leg.  I let out a yell and took off, passing a couple of the runners in front of me - none of whom had gotten stung!  I guess they had gotten them riled up just enough to take out their aggression on me.

We soon hit the iconic Pacific Crest Trail, where we would spend the next 50K or so.  I kept an eye (and an ear) out for more bees while we cruised along, moving well (10:30-12:30 miles) on the downhill section after taking the suggested quick detour to the peak of Blowout Mountain.  It was foggy and cloudy up there so we missed out on some views, and the runners just in front of me had seen a military jet fly by - below where we were up on the mountain!  But the fog kept it nice and cool, perfect running weather.

Feeling good on the PCT (photo Glenn Tachiyama)

The first crew aid station was Tacoma Pass, just over 25 miles in.  I had created a chart with 28, 30, and 34 hour splits to give me an idea of how I was moving, and as I hit the aid station I was 6:30 into the race, about 10 minutes behind the 30 hour pace splits - pretty much where I expected I'd be.  It was great to see my parents and Surf, I was feeling great, energy was good, and other than the bee stings nothing really hurt.  As I would do each time I had access to my crew or a drop bag I cleaned and re-lubed my feet, changed socks, and filled the bladder in my pack.  Then it was back down the trail.

Tacoma Pass to Hyak (Miles 25-55)

Trying to keep the feet happy

This next section of PCT was still mostly nice and smooth, starting with an almost 4 mile climb out of Tacoma.  At one point we could hear cheering, but I knew that we were still at least two miles out from the next aid station.  The trail dropped into a clearing, and there we found a real trail party.  A PCT trail crew had set up "The Gauntlet", with beers lined up on both sides of the trail and a table full of beers and whiskey at the end.  I smiled and ran through to some cheers, and when I grabbed a Ranier off the table and threw a little down, the cheers got louder.  Thanks for being out there all, fun distraction!  The trail continued on, mostly rolling with some moderate climbs, and it took a little less than three hours to get to the next aid at Snowshoe Butte.  Just over eight hours for a 50K, pretty slow but faster than my first half at Canyons 100K by an hour and right about where I hoped to be.  It was another hour or so to my next drop bag at Stampede Pass where I took care of the feet again, and set back off on the PCT about 6:15 PM with the goal of getting to the next aid station without pulling out the headlamp.

Incredible views

We hit some pretty heavily wooded sections through here as the sun set, and continued to see PCT thru hikers who would cheer us on.  Many of them were starting to set up camp for the night, getting fires going and making dinner, which was starting to look pretty good after eleven hours on the trail.  I spent much of this section on my own, on occasion catching up to a runner or group running together and passing by when I had the chance.  I caught up to three or four runners moving together, with a thru hiker wearing a full pack keeping up with them!  I followed behind for a few minutes before finally passing by, and came into Meadow Mountain aid station at mile 43 just before dark.  As I was getting ready to leave, that group of 3-4 runners and the thru hiker came in to the aid station - we couldn't drop the guy!

I left with the headlamp turned on and headed out into the night .  The trail turned more technical here, and I started to get a little frustrated with how slowly I was moving as everything was seemingly steep or rooty or rocky.  I think I got a little behind on calories as well, as I was starting to get tired of the Tailwind in my hydration pack and anything sweet in general.  I passed by a campsite with thru hikers near Mirror Lake, laughing and enjoying a fire, and I started to wonder why the hell I was doing this.  Another series of climbs, then I dropped into Olallie Meadow aid station a little after 10:00 PM. Scott McCoubrey handed me a plate of pierogis at the aid station, and I'll be damned if they weren't the most delicious things I'd ever eaten.  After a second helping, I headed off and down a super steep and rough dirt road, spirits lifted again, looking for the ribbons marking where we would plunge down into the trees.

Snoqualmie Tunnel.  It's creepier in the dark (photo Doug MacDonald)

Yes, that's correct, at about mile 50 the course leaves the road and drops straight down a hill side.  Ropes guide you from tree to tree, with a grade my Strava file showed to range from -20% to -45%!  Pretty much straight down, and then it spits you out onto a fire road heading toward the tunnel.  The Snoqualmie Tunnel is a former railroad tunnel that runs 2.3 miles under 1,400' of mountain.  I had been a little concerned about feeling claustrophobic in here, so I turned off my headlamp, turned on my flashlight, and pointed it at the ground in front of my feet.  Just focus on that circle of light and run.  And I ran, and ran.  I saw a light up ahead and passed one runner, then another.  I started to realize that I was just too tired to worry about claustrophobia, and actually looked around a bit - enough to see the mice scampering about on the edges of the tunnel (what the hell do they eat in here?).  I passed a third runner and a few minutes later emerged on the other side, letting out a big "whoop" to alert the runners behind me that the end was near.  Then it was into the Hyak aid station, where my parents and Surf were waiting.


Hyak to Mineral Creek (Miles 55-75)

Surf ready for 55 miles of pacing duties

At Pine to Palm in 2014, I was at my lowest around the half way point.  I was struggling bad, and barely made the cutoff at mile 52.  But here I was at mile 55 feeling good, and looking forward to having some company on the trail as Surf was going to pace me from here.  I was about thirty minutes behind my projected 30-hour splits, but still moving well.  I put on some warmer clothes, said goodbye to my parents, and off we went.  After running on the frontage road for a bit we finally hit dirt again and began to climb, up 2,000' over four miles on a gravel road.  It was a bit of a grind, but it was good to have company out there.  We came into the Keechelus Ridge aid station, and I started to see the toll the miles were taking on some runners.  Three or four runners huddled around a propane heater, and one was asleep, wrapped up in a poncho.  An aid station volunteer woke him up, letting him know he'd been there for an hour and he might want to get moving.  I thought he might be done, but as we were running the four miles back down the hill he passed us, moving well.  Sometimes you just need a nap!

My body had been holding up pretty well so far, although my right IT band band had been tightening up a bit.  This long downhill finally put it over the edge, and I started to feel that all too familiar pain in the outside of the knee.  I was pretty happy that it had held up until the 100K mark, but I knew this was going to be with me for the final 40 miles or so, and the downhills were going to hurt.  Surf and I came into the Kachess Lake aid station at mile 69, where I put down some grilled cheese sandwiches before we were sent on our way and wished good luck.  Good luck??

The Lake Kachess Trail is better known as "The Evil Forest" or "The Trail From Hell".  I had seen bits and pieces of it thanks to the Ginger Runner's short film last summer, but that just doesn't do this section of "trail" justice.  Beginning with a log crossing six feet over the creek, it is basically four miles of scrambling.  Up steep but short climbs.  Under logs.  Over logs that have foot and hand holds chainsawed into them.  Down small drops.  Along the lake where the trail is completely washed out.  It was relentless!  The elevation profile looks totally benign, almost flat, but I sure don't remember any flat.  While we struggled through we tried to keep our sense of humor, laughing at how ridiculous this was.  As we neared the end the sun started to rise, bolstering the spirits a bit.  We finally crossed the creek that marked the end of this section and came into Mineral Creek aid station around 7:00 AM, beaten down more than just a little bit.

Sunrise over Lake Kachess, near the end of "The Trail From Hell"

Mineral Creek to the Finish (Miles 75-100)

I had a drop bag here, and again cleaned and lubed my feet and put on new socks.  A few other runners sat around, trying to regroup after that tough night time section.  I knew from the elevation profile that the final quarter of the race was basically 15 miles of climbing then descending back down to Easton over the final 10 miles.  Surf and I headed off on a long fire road section, chatting with other runners as we passed them or they caught up to us.  We finally came into No Name Ridge around 9:00 AM to find a beer garden set up, complete with volunteers in lederhosen.  I promised to come back for a beer after the race (sorry, Deby, that I didn't make it back!), and we headed off to tackle the Cardiac Needles.

The course guide describes this section as "the prettiest and toughest on the course".  Yup, the toughest section begins about 82 miles in!  We spent the next few hours climbing up some of the steepest, most relentless climbs I've ever experienced.  More than once, Surf or I looked up and exclaimed "you have to be kidding me!" as false summit after false summit kept us moving into the sky.  There were sections through here that reminded me of what I had seen of the Hardrock course, narrow, rocky trail carved into the mountain side with steep drop offs.  I definitely understood now why this race was a qualifier!  And like Hardrock, it was indeed beautiful, although I was too exhausted to take out my camera to capture any of it.  We finally came up to the Thorp Mountain aid station at mile 86, and were told to climb the half mile up to the summit and come back before getting any aid.  This was the only out and back section of this looped course, so it was cool to pass runners as we went up and back down, encouraging each other.  And the views were indeed worth it.  We spent a few minutes up there soaking it in, reminded yet again of why we do this.

Climbing up Thorp Mountain (photo credit Glenn Tachiyama)

The short and steep climbs continued after Thorp, just relentless, before hitting the highest point of the course just before the French Cabin aid station at mile 89. I had noticed my thirst increasing, I figured as a result of the effort I was putting in to get up the climbs.  I struggled to handle the downhills thanks to the pain in my knee, and while I knew it was "only" 10 miles to go, that still meant over three hours of being out here.  And I was ready to be done.  So we pushed, to see if I could pick it up and make that PR....

Trying to cool off in Silver Creek

After Surf told me there was no ice left at Silver Creek aid station, I struggled in.  His wife and kids were there, which was a nice surprise, and my parents were waiting as well.  I sat in a chair and told them I wasn't doing well, totally overheated.  Before UTMB earlier that weekend, Zach Miller had posted on Instagram "I didn't come this far to only come this far.  #perseverence".  Those words bounced around my head, as I struggled to figure out how I was going to get myself back together.  I could hear people talking, and I was responding, but I wasn't right.  Then I heard Surf say, "get in the creek", and my crew helped me over and into the cold, cold waters of Silver Creek.  I sat there for several minutes, trying to get my core temperature under control.  I was helped back into the chair, and the amazing volunteers kept helping - bringing over Coke, putting wet rags on my neck and head.  I was starting to feel better, feel a bit more "normal", and a medical volunteer came over to talk to me.  He said "you sound coherent, so I think you're ok to continue", and that was such a relief - my biggest fear was that I would be held there for too long, or worse yet just not allowed to move on.

I finally got up and got ready to go, and my dad put his hand on my shoulder and said "finish strong."  After what I had just gone through I kind of chuckled and said something like, "oh, I'll finish," but he said again, "finish strong."  Surf and I headed off down the trail, but my equilibrium was so off that I was shivering so bad my teeth were audibly chattering!  It took a good ten minutes or so for my body to figure out what was going on and reach some sort of stasis, and then I was running again!  Shuffling, very slowly, but shuffling along.  Then bam!, I felt a sharp pain in my little left toe.  Oh come on!  I knew right away it was a blister, and I just couldn't put any weight on it.  We found a log to sit on, I took off my shoe and sock, removed a pin from my race bib and started punching holes in the blister.  That damned pin was the dullest one I've ever seen, so that sure felt good, but I was able to get it drained and get my sock and shoe back on.  Surf had needed to do the same thing at about mile 85 of Rio del Lago 100 last year when I was pacing him, and I remember telling him that the next few steps would be the most painful he'd ever taken.  And now it was my turn!  It took another 5-10 minutes of limping along before the toe numbed up enough that I could shuffle along again.  We hit the final road section and Surf mentioned we could still make it in under thirty two hours, and it's funny how stuff like that matters at mile 98.  I got passed by a couple of runners, but then managed to pick it up and run it in (a 12:22 mile 103 on Strava!).  We crossed the railroad tracks toward the finish line, Surf reached out to give me a fist bump, and I finally crossed at 31:54:29, 94th out of 127 finishers and 164 starters.

It is done

Huge thanks to Rich White and the rest of the Cascade Crest crew, and all of the incredible volunteers for taking care of us out there.  A really well run race, with a great old school vibe.  And of course thanks to my parents for being out there until midnight, and again the next day.  And to Surf for keeping me moving.  I pretty much always train by myself, so between pacing him at three 100s and now him pacing me here, I've now spent more hours on the trails with him than anyone else!

"Thanks for the buckle, but I'd like to have some words with you about that Trail From Hell...."

Crewing and Spectating at Western States, and the Greatest Finish Ever

Crewing and pacing two college buddies in the 2012 and 2014 editions of the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run has fed my obsession with this epic event, making it number one on the race bucket list.  While I'm hoping the third time is the charm this December in getting in via the lottery, I wanted to head up and be a part of the 2015 edition of the race in any way I could.  I'm all out of fraternity brothers that run 100 milers and didn't have any luck with my Bay Area network of finding a runner to help, so I was planning on either just spectating or trying to volunteer.  But about two weeks prior I threw up a post on the event Facebook page, and within an hour had a response from a UK runner that was coming to Squaw by himself, happy to have some help.  So there I was at the track in Auburn on the last Friday in June picking up my runner and heading up the mountain to Squaw.

But let's first jump to the end of the race.  From 10:00 AM - 11:00 AM and the thirty hour cutoff on Sunday has been called "The Golden Hour" and "The Greatest Hour in Ultrarunning".  And this year more than lived up to the billing.  I sat by the entrance to the Placer High School track for the last 90 minutes or so, watching the runners that had been out there through two sunrises and a full night enter the track with their pacers, crew, and families.  I found myself getting teary eyed more than once as people celebrated this amazing accomplishment on their run around two-thirds of the track to the finish.  As time wound down, legend Tim Twietmeyer came over to where a few of us were anxiously awaiting any final runners, and said that there were two runners still on the course that had a chance, with the second being 70-year old Gunhild Swanson.  Just before 10:58 AM a runner named John Corey hit the track with all of us exhorting "Go, go, go!"  About 30 seconds after him in came Gunhild, accompanied by winner Rob Krar who had gone up to Robie Point in his flip-flops to help run her in.  Those assembled were now screaming, "You gotta go, you gotta go!  Go!" Several of us ran across the infield to the finish to see John cross with 30 seconds to spare, and then Gunhild hit the finish line at 10:59:54 - SIX SECONDS TO SPARE!  The crowd exploded, strangers hugging, people crying and cheering.  Western States released a great video of it, and I captured it from my spot as well:

A moment that no one there will ever forget, to be sure.

And now back to the start for a quick recap of the prior 30+ hours......

Saturday morning saw 371 brave souls take off on the 100.2 mile journey.  I took off to Robinson Flat to meet my runner, arriving a few hours before he was scheduled to arrive to spectate and watch the race unfold.  I missed the top 10 or so men but saw the women's leaders and then about two-thirds of the field come through waiting for my runner, who struggled early with the heat and arrived just 45 minutes ahead of the cutoff.  We got him in and out of there fairly quickly, and I headed back down to Foresthill to watch the front of the race.

Foresthill is what I imagine the big European trail races to be like - people lined along both sides of the road cheering runners along, drinking beers, and ringing cowbells.  I ran into some fellow Pine-to-Palm 100 alums and posted up in a shady spot near them, and was able to see both the men's and women's leaders come through with leads they would hold all the way to Auburn.

Rob Krar on his way to Cal St. and keeping his M1 bib for 2016

After several hours at Foresthill it was off to Michigan Bluff to meet up with my runner again.  From the online tracking I could see that he was losing time to the cutoffs, so after resting for a bit in my mobile crew station, I headed down into the aid station.

Trying to stay off my feet

Michigan Bluff is another big Aid Station, and a key point as runners struggle up out of the canyon on a pretty rough climb.  As time ticked toward the cutoffs, crews and pacers anxiously awaited seeing their runners come down the fire road.

Awaiting runners at Michigan Bluff Aid Station

My runner finally came in at 9:30 PM, just 15 minutes ahead of the cutoff, and left with just 3 minutes to spare.  We decided I would start pacing him at Foresthill instead of Rucky Chucky, and I told him he had to pick things up a bit if he was going to make it.  I drove back to town and changed, filled my hydration pack, and tried to rest a bit before pacing 38 miles to the finish.  Unfortunately, as the 11:45 PM cutoff neared and with no runner in site, I knew I was all dressed up with nowhere to run.  I headed out toward Bath Road to meet him, and brought him in to the aid station about 13 minutes late, his race over at 62 miles.

The silver lining was that I was able to get back to the finish line in Auburn to catch several runners coming in sub-24.  Most notable for me was my friend Erika Lindland moving up from her 11th place finish two years ago to finishing 9th this year!  So excited for her, what a smart race she ran moving up the field and making up around 50 minutes on the women ahead of her from Foresthill to the finish.    I then took a nap in the car for a bit before heading back to the track to watch runners trickle in, all the way until that incredible final two minutes.