Race Recap... Part 3

Starting off with leaving the Foresthill School aid station (mile 62)....

My transition from Foresthill onward was a little shaky and rough.  Part of this was because of the fact that when I came in, the volunteers asked me if I wanted a pacer.  I replied with a definite "yes", but the ability of the volunteers to find one of the pacers on the spot was a bit rough (logically, since they weren't just standing in line waiting to be asked).  I continued to walk/jog down the road from Foresthill, trailed by an awesome volunteer promising me that a pacer was coming.  Luckily, just before I turned off of the main road to head back to the trail, Karen was there to jump in and join me for the remaining 38 miles as a pacer.

As we left Foresthill, however, I could feel that my legs were starting to fully exhibit the signs of fatigue from the ups and downs earlier in the day.  Although they were not exhausted (yet), they were beginning to show signs of tiring. 

We reached the next aid station at Dardanelles (mile 65.7) sometime around 9 PM, just as the sky was darkening, and our headlamps were turned on as we exited the aid station.

En route to the next aid station, Peachstone (mile 70.7), I was trying to do the math in my head, and I figured that if I could keep a decent pace of about 15 minutes per mile, minimize my time at aid stations (which would be easier with a pacer, and with seeing Erin more frequently), and dig deep, I still had a shot at breaking the 24 hour mark.  I psyched myself up and thought that I actually had a shot at this.  That elation lasted for about 10 minutes, and around miles 69-70, shortly before 10 PM, everything slowed way, way down.  I slowed way, way down.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, my fuel gauge and energy meters were on "E". 

This is a point that many people reach, primarily in marathons and longer distances, but can happen at any distance.  It is the feeling of being totally deflated.  Of having absolutely nothing left.  Of feeling like your abilities and determination were just sucked out in a vaccuum.  While this can happen at any distance, to have it happen around this time, with at least 30 miles more to go, is, to say the least, especially daunting.  My jog/trot was reduced to a walk, I began to feel a bit "outside" of myself, and I must have told Karen at least 20 times that I had no idea what happened, but I just needed to keep moving to the next aid station, take a seat, and regroup.

Lumbering into Peachstone, I immediately took a seat, and Karen began to order (though politely) volunteers to get me chicken broth and other things to nibble to try to get electrolytes back in me.  In the Western States guide, and through word of mouth, three words are prominent: Beware The Chair.  Sitting, while helping to recharge you, can only serve to seize up your muscles and deprive you of any momentum in the long-term.  When I sat, all of these problems came crashing in on me.  My legs and lower back immediately tensed up, and I felt even more "outside" of myself, dizzy, and tired.  Within minutes, I began to shiver pretty violently, as I was dehydrated, depleted, and, since my muscles weren't moving, cooling rapidly in the cooler night air.

This was my lowest point in the race.  In the past, at the LOST 118-mile run in Florida, I had dropped at mile 80 when I felt this way.  This was because of the long distances between aid (4-7 miles), the remoteness of the site, and the fact that I didn't have anyone with me.  Karen and a couple of other volunteers were being necessarily brash, telling me I needed to get up and get moving, but I could barely hear them over my own exhaustion and the voice of a warm shower, a comfortable hotel bed, and hot chow calling me from  miles away.  I kept saying out loud "I think I'm done".  I figured, I gave it a serious good try, my body is failing, and at least I'll be done.  However, I was told that if I dropped at Peachstone, I would have to spend the night there, as the location was so remote that there was no way out until morning.  Yikes.  That, coupled with a bit of spark renewed via chicken soup, and the thought of finally seeing Erin again (she was waiting for me 8 miles ahead at the Rucky Chucky river crossing) got me up out of the chair and slowly, SLOWLY, moving again.

With some extra snacks tucked away, more chicken broth in me, and a piece of ginger to calm the nausea, we were making forward progress again.  My walk for the first 1/2 mile or so was that of a failing animatronic from the early Walt Disney days, very shaky and mechanical, but over time I began to regain my flexibility and move a little more gingerly.  With some luck, the next aid station (Ford's Bar, mile 73), was only about 2 miles ahead, so it was a close, short-distance goal to focus on.  There, I was able to get some more food, some more GUBrew, and some more chicken broth in me, and were were off for the 5 mile trek to Rucky Chucky.

Rucky Chucky is the name of the American River crossing at mile 78.  The hills leading to this crossing, though nowhere near as steep or treacherous as in earlier miles, were like waves, constantly coming on and rolling us toward the river.  By the time we got to the near side of the river, it was 12:53 AM.  Karen, like many others, had promised that the river crossing was like no cup of coffee that I had ever had before, and that it would definitely serve to wake me up more.  This was extremely accurate.

Before we got in, we had a quick safety brief, and began to walk in behind another runner.  The water was extremely cold, and shocked my legs to tense a bit, but in a good way, if that is believable.  The more unbelievable feat was again the wonderful race volunteers, who were rumored to have 5 hour shifts standing in the river to help hold the steel cable for runners.  Even in wetsuits, I could hear them shivering.  They are incredible, and incredibly selfless, people, and they definitely earn respect from me.

The walk was about 100 meters log, and the large rocks were marked by glowsticks at the bottom.  The water level quickly went to waist-deep, which again was great because it helped all of my legs and some of my lower abs and back.  The even better help was that I knew that Erin would be on the other side, and as I neared, I could hear her cheering out for me.

Better than a cup of coffee: coming out of the waist deep freezing American River at 1 AM

Not visible in this picture: the smile on my face seeing Erin after traversing freezing water at 1 AM

It was fantastic to see Erin on the other side.  The freezing water definitely reinvigorated me, and seeing Erin made it all the better.  I suddenly felt reenergized and determined.  I climbed out of the rocks, kissed Erin hello, and sat down on a rock to change my shoes.  Often, some people skip changing shoes to save time.  With 20-plus miles to go, I was fine with an extra few minutes to get dry footwear on.  After shoe change, we hit the Rucky Chucky far aid station briefly before the hike up to Green Gate aid station.  I was energized, but this was still a hike.

Climbing, but the smile was still on my face.

I had thrown on a long-sleeve shirt since it was cold coming out of the river, but this was quickly discarded, and I wrapped it around my neck like I was at a yacht club.  Walking with Erin really did me good, and we got into Green Gate aid station (mile 79.8) at 1:40 AM.  There, I grabbed what was quickly becoming my normal aid station meal: chicken broth, melon, and some animal crackers.

Smiling so wide at mile 80 at 1:40 in the morning.

Erin had to return to the shuttle after Green Gate, so I kissed her goodbye and said I'd see here at mile 99 for the final walk in.  Karen and I continued on the trails, mostly walking, but trying to keep on "shufflin', shufflin'" on towards Auburn Lake Trails, and then made our way to Brown's Bar (mile 89.9).  Brown's Bar can only be compared to a virtual woodland fraternity house.   The 80's music was phenomenal, and I caught myself humming or singing many of the songs that I could hear from a mile out all the way to the aid station.  At Brown's Bar, I made a discovery in food that I only wished had come sooner, and would recommend for any endurance event, as it will be my crutch in the future.  I took salty, delicious pita chips, dipped them into chick broth, and gulped them down by the handful.  It was exactly what I needed... well, that and the 80's music.

The beautiful thing I kept reminding myself is that from Brown's Bar onward, the distance between aid stations were all under 5 miles, and would continue to dwindle in length between here and the finish.  On top of that, we left Brown's Bar around 5:10 AM, and the sun was starting to rise again.  As anyone who has pulled an all-nighter knows, the sun is the best energizing tool.  I was feeling better as we climbed up some smaller, but no less aggravating hills, en route to the Highway 49 crossing and aid station at mile 93.5.  With just over 6 miles to go, I was going to eat what I wanted, and I saw hashbrowns.  The Highway 49 aid station crew had made breakfast, and I immediately zeroed in on these perfect chunks of diced potato, grease, and salt.  I scarfed down about a handful of them.  The crowd at Highway 49 was great, and we headed out on the "light descent" towards No Hands Bridge.  The views were awesome:

Foresthill Bridge:  I would have enjoyed the view much more had I not been so tired.

We reached No Hand's Bridge aid station (mile 96.8) sometime before 8 AM.  We were so close, I didn't want to stop, but I still refilled my water and GU bottles, and we enjoyed the walk over No Hands Bridge, en route to the final climb towards the finish line.

No Hands Bridge: towards the end

The climb out of No Hands Bridge was not anywhere as steep as the climbs earlier in the race, but was neverthless challenging.  Still, I was motivated by the fact that the end was near, and that I was so close to seeing Erin again.  I power walked as fast as I could up those hills, and was ecstatic to see Erin ahead of me waiting at Robie Point to bring me in the final mile.

The last real hill in Western States

Relief: almost home.

Erin, Karen, and I walked gingerly to the track of Placer High School, and all I wanted to do was grab our son for the final lap.  Karen told me that it is Western States tradition that you have to run (or rather, trot) the final lap, so Erin grabbed Jackson and we began the trot around the track.  I honestly don't know who had it harder, me or Erin, who was carrying all 30 pounds in her arms for a full lap.

Family style.

Sure enough, in the end, we saw the final 50 meters, and we started our way towards the finish line.  It was wonderful, but as has happened with almost every distance race, the elation is equal with the feeling of exhaustion.

Home stretch: the last 50 meters

As if on cue, however, we of course had one final "speed bump".  Both Erin and I thought it would be a great idea to have Jackson either run or swing across the finish line with us, but, as with any young child, Jackson decided to refuse to budge on his own feet.

Kids: going to do what they want to do.

So, we improvised.  I grabbed the little guy and plopped him on my shoulders, and we walked the final few meters across the finish line.  Not the way we had planned, but, as with everything parenthood-like, you have to roll with the punches.

I love this picture.

In the end, however, I realize that this is a finish that I always wanted, not only for the Western States, but as a family.  Family has always been the backbone of my running, from my Dad to my Mom, and in recent years especially with support from Erin.  After coming home from a year-long deployment to Afghanistan, both Erin and Jackson allowed me to still slip out (although very early) for my daily runs, and long runs on weekends.  And we traveled all the way from Alaska to California, just so I could run 100 miles across isolated woods, and Erin could spend over 24 hours in a car chasing me around.  I was glad that we all got to cross the line together, because it truly was a family and team effort.

So, after 27 hours, 33 minutes, and 26 seconds, I officially crossed the finish line and completed the Western States Endurance Run, 100.2 miles of some of the most challenging terrain the ultramarathon world has to offer, and a legendary race that began the entire trail ultramarathon scene.  I was elated, and exhausted.

Since I have written and shared so much in this post, I will save the "aftermath" for a separate post in a few days.

Race Recap... Part 2

Picking up off Robinson Flat aid station (mile 29.7)...

Leaving the aid station, the rain "helped" to re-rain log my clothes, and so my fresh new dry t-shirt (from the Sky Pass Marathon... courtesy of Luke Reece), did not stay that way for long.  Although it was not great to be running through the rains, and only about one-third of the way through the race, I will diverge here to say that I was actually incredibly fortunate in some ways with the weather...

Western States is not only a punishing course because of terrain, but is also known for it's brutal weather.  Temperatures usually hover in the 90's or above, and because much of the course is without shade, the direct sunlight can push it well into the 100's, even 110's.  This is one of the great challenges of Western States.... but not as much for us.  The lower temperatures, wind, hail, rain and the overall overcast weather did provide some of their own challenges, but the respite from the sun and intense heat was a plus.  HOWEVER, this is not to say that the cold and rain was good.  From what I heard, at least 10 people had either dropped or been forced to drop due to hypothermia by the time they got to Robinson Flat.

The next aid stations at Miller's Defeat (mile 34.4) and Dusty Corners (mile 38) came and went without much of an issue.  The skies began to clear, the temperatures began to rise, but I kept my sleeves on most of the time to preserve warmth and save in case the temperatures cooled again.  Probably the most interesting piece of running through these miles was taking in some of the sights as the fog cleared.  Although you couldn't see for miles as we could have done in the earlier miles along the ridges, the sights were still nice in the forests, and as we began to approach the section known as "the Canyons".

Beginning at the "Last Chance" aid station at mile 43.8, the elevation would bounce up and down for at least the next 20 miles, although the elevation would never really let up until mile 100.  From Last Chance, the course literally descended 1200 feet, then rose another 1500 feet, before arriving at the next aid station at Devil's Thumb only 4 miles later.  It didn't help that I was feeling bloated by the time I got to Last Chance.  According to the scales, I was up to 216.5 lbs... having gained 8 pounds in approximately 13.5 miles or 3 hours.... yikes.  The excess sodium and electrolyte intake had to be cut down, or else I would continue to feel bloated.

Descending the trail towards the American River.

The drops and rises here really began to nail me.  One of the chief complaints of Western States runners is not from the uphills, but rather that their "quads are shot", which stem entirely from the downhill sections.  This is because that they are not short, gradual, or rolling downhills, but instead harsh, jaunting, and long sections of descent.  They are 50 meter sections of switchback, which mean you are constantly breaking to twist and turn downhill, without really breaking your stride.  This serves to destroy your quads.  To make matters even more fun, after finishing a descent, you quickly cross a 50-100 meter bridge, and then begin the ascent back up to the top.

Ups and Downs: the elevation profile of Last Chance to Devil's Thumb

The only "flat ground" between the hills.

The ascent up Devil's Thumb was harsh, and really smacked me back into reality after trying to cruise downhill from Last Chance.  When I got up to the top of Devil's Thumb, I was just under half way through the race, and I felt spent.  Luckily, as always, the terrific volunteers of the Western States run helped me out.  Devil's Thumb, normally known for it's roasting temperatures, has come to champion itself for freezing hell over, and therefore giving runners popsicles at the top.  I had two, and they were amazing.  They definitely helped bring me back to life. 

Devil's Thumb descended again to El Dorado Creek (52.9 miles), only to re-ascend up to Michigan Bluff (55.7 miles).  My strategy to make it through here was simple: take the downhills slow and easy, and try to charge up the uphills as best I could with hard hiking.  Also, I tried as best I could to minimize the time I spent at aid stations.  This is a strategy with a lot of people, but for me it was much more simple: grab food, and keep on moving as quickly as possible, no stopping unless there was a medical check.

The climb to Michigan Bluff on the left.

Switchbacks: one is fine, more than one is not.

The climb up to Michigan Bluff was not any more kind than the first major one up Devil's Thumb.  It was long, harsh, and lots of "fun", but eventually I began to hear the faint sounds of cheers coming from the aid station up ahead.  I also began to see that "backwoods" California can often look like backwoods anywhere:

Michigan Bluff: there are no words.

And as I came into the station, I saw a familiar face that I wasn't expecting: Erin had made the extra trip to Michigan Bluff (which required shuttling service as well) to see me and encourage me on.  It was sorely needed, and I was psyched to see her again (keep in mind, it was 6:13 PM when I came into Michigan Bluff, I hadn't seen Erin in over 14 hours).

Things I'm psyched about: 1. Seeing my wife, 2. Running the Western States 100, 3. Getting to the top of Michigan Bluff

Erin's presence gave me a huge adrenaline boost, and my weight was back down to 207.5 as I hit the weigh-in and medical check (keep in mind, this means I lost 9 lbs. in about 12 miles of running up and down hard hills).  I felt good that I could keep moving forward, but I know that the speed of my progress was slowing.  My race strategy quickly boiled down one of get to the next aid station.  I knew Erin would once again be at at the next aid station (Bath Road, mile 60.6), and be able to move with me for about a mile and half to the Foresthill aid station.

The sun was starting to go down in the sky, and I knew that night would be coming on soon enough, but after some rolling hills, I made it Bath Road:

March to the Top... somewhat: The hill kept going for another mile after this.

My Everything: Crew, pacer, emotional support.

Erin took me a full mile and a half into the Foresthill aid station (mile 62), where I got reweighed (I'm pretty sure I was down to 205 lbs. at this point... but feeling fine), and got re-energized by a huge crowd at the Foresthill school.  At this point, the Western States volunteers also offered to give me a pacer.  Due to the drop outs earlier in the race, those who had volunteered to pace others were free to pace anyone who felt they needed a pacer but didn't have one.  As I was starting to sag in pace, and night was creeping in, I readily accepted a pacer, and was very thankful to get Karen, an ultrarunning vet with multiple 100-mile finishes who lived in the area and knew the trails well.  I was glad to have the experience on the trails.  I also got a fresh shirt change, which was just as much of welcome relief.  Leaving Foresthill just before 8 PM, I was 62 miles and nearly 16 hours into the race, with 38 miles to go... and a much greater challenge ahead.

Race Recap... Part 1

While I would love to drop every miniscule detail regarding this run, I understand that the attention span of most nowadays has decreased significantly, and people may, or may not, be interested in details such as sock color, shoe grit, annoying wildlife, etc.  Therefore, I will try to par this story to the most relevant and exciting parts as best I can, while still giving a complete picture.  I also have divided it into 3 parts so as to pace myself in writing (pun intended), and because there were three major parts as I saw it broken down due to weather, time of day, and terrain.

The first thing I have to describe is the fact that the night before any significant run or competition is usually among my worst nights of sleep in my life, both in quality and duration.  Before I did the Ironman in 2006, I think I got about 3 hours of sleep.  Before I did the Stone Cat Trail Ale 50-miler in Ipswich, Mass., I got about 2-3 hours.  This has happened with nearly every event over a marathon since I was 17.  It's just something in my biology that rise my anxiety and adrenaline over my desire to sleep.  Friday night (the night before the race) was no different.  Although Erin and I retired at a respectable 10:00 PM to lie down and try to fall asleep, it simply did not work for me.  My best guess is that I fell asleep sometime between 1:30-2:00 AM, because 1:30 AM is the last time I remember reading on my watch.  Wake-up time for the race was 4:10 AM.

Luckily, Erin and I were fortunate enough (through her awesome planning) to have a hotel room a mere 5-minute walk from the starting line, which allowed me to wake up so close to the 5 AM start.  So, once up, I crammed down a Peanut Butter and jelly and a granola bar to get some calories in me, and we headed over there.

The nice thing about Western States is that, due to trail restrictions, the race field is limited to generally less than 400 people.  This, plus the general remoteness in Squaw Valley, means that the starting line is not the throng of people in the tens of thousands that one can typically see at popular marathons and endurance competitions these days.  This was good, as on race morning, runners also had to pick up bib numbers at the last-second prior to the start.

Erin and I sat in the Olympic Lodge at Squaw Valley, simply waiting for a little more than 5 minutes before the start to head out and wait for the gun to go off.  Nervousness was definitely evident on my face as we awaited the start.

Hooray for 2 hours of sleep and 100 miles to go before I can rest.

I decided to take this picture at the start to commemorate all of my "excitement".

 The gun went off at precisely 5:00 AM, and the race was ON... sort of.  For those unfamiliar with the course, the first 3.5 miles to the Escarpment aid station is an approximately 2,500 foot climb up the black diamond ski slopes of Squaw Valley.  For those not looking to break land speed records, this results in a simple strategic approach to the first few miles: speed walking.  It makes little sense to jog up these hills, which would expend a greater amount of energy for little, if any benefit.  So, for me and about half of the 400 person field, walking was the name of the game.

This did not mean that the first few miles were easy by any means, oh no.  While weather at the Western States has been notoriously hot, the "great" weather of this years (with highs in the 70's) was not necessarily true of the first 30 miles of the race.  The climb up to the Escarpment was calm for only about the first 10 minutes.  This was quickly followed by the first of many 30-plus mile per hour gusts, kicking up dirt and forcing all of the runners to crouch.  The winding roads were by themselves an omen of the course to come (seeing the route a mile ahead of you, and usually at an elevation above yours), but when we got to the top, the wind was unbelievably harsh, and a dense fog (or low-lying clouds, since at this point we were above 8,000 feet in elevation) restricted sight in some areas to only about 25-50 meters or less.  The Escarpment was simply a scramble over, get to the top, and instead of enjoying the views like most do in the race (it is said you can see the entire set of mountains of the course from Squaw to Auburn in years past), it was simply keep trucking through the fog.

Descending through from the Escarpment aid station (mile 3.5) to the Lyons Ridge aid station (mile 10.5) was a mixed bag.  It was wet throughout, and a freezing rain had descended upon the course, and upon all of us amazingly fortunate runners.  It felt good to finally start running a bit, but the course was saturated in a lot of places from the rains, creating some impromptu stream crossings, which only served to slow your speed to cross (so as not to break ankles in slipping) or get shoes overly wet.  Like most runners, I began to settle into my own groove of running the downhills and flats, and fast-walking the uphills, in order to pace myself and conserve energy for the long day ahead.




Hiking up Cougar Rock along Lyons Ridge.  Note the super-scenic fog.



In these first hours, my fuel strategy was simple: one GU packet (approx. 100 calories) per hour, chased down by one bottle of water and one bottle of "GU Brew" (GU's version of Gatorade) between aid stations.  At the Escarpment and Lyons Ridge aid stations, I also grabbed some watermelon and cantaloupe for good measure, just to get some more calories and water in me.  In addition, I was starting to use "S-caps", a small pill that contained sodium and potassium, but one that I had rarely used prior to the race.

Leaving Lyons Ridge, I still felt relatively good, and felt glad that I had already gotten through 10% of the race, but that's when hail and freezing rain began to really make an appearance.  For the next 20 miles (about 4 hours or so), we got to experience the exact opposite of the Western States race's infamously extreme hot weather.  We were still looking at winds of 10 mph, with gusts of 20 mph or so, but now it was accompanied by rain, and periods of pea-sized hail that pelted us.  Tree cover in these areas was sparse, so relief from these conditions was pretty much obsolete.  What was further, most of the trees were so inundated with rains, that when the winds shook them, it would be like standing under a sprinkler, and we would get even more wet.

The aid stations at Red Star Ridge (mile 16) and Duncan Canyon (mile 23.8) proved just how incredible the Western States Run is, not just in runners' accomplishment, but also as a testament to the true community aspect of ultrarunning.  Volunteers in these areas were camped out in these terrible conditions from the night before, cheering on runners, and were completely dedicated to refueling and helping runners any way they could through the aid stations.  It definitely helps me to get an extra shot of adrenaline and confidence when I saw such dedicated support throughout the course (as it was this way at every aid station).  When spectators saw that I had "US ARMY" on my t-shirt, I kept getting asked to do push-ups or sit-ups.... after once or twice, I had to decline further requests, as already at these miles dropping to do push-ups was getting me out of rhythm.

Wet, and loving it.

I pulled into the Robinson Flat aid station (mile 29.7) at 11:39 AM.  This was the first weigh-in/med check, where they would check our weight and vitals.  My weight was 208.4, which was terrific given how much weight can fluctuate throughout the race.  Unfortunately, although Erin, Jackson, and Michelle were supposed to meet me at Robinson Flat, they had been unable to beat the traffic with the other people (a shuttle was required for spectators and crew), so they couldn't make it.  Luckily, my back-up drop bags paid off, as I was able to change out my wet shirt and socks for a dry pair, and I left the aid station feeling slightly rejuvenated with clean, dry attire.  Unfortunately, I headed out right into freezing rain again, so the feeling of relief was short-lived.  Thus ended my first third of the race, and began my second third.