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.