Pre-Race
I
told myself I wouldn't but...I was horribly anxious pre-race: starting
Wednesday, and on and off through Friday night. A year ago, it was
whether or not I would survive. This time, it was whether or not I would
run to my potential...
I'd thought of Western States every day for at least six months (and....six of seven days, over the past year?). After a minor injury speedbump post-Sonoma, I went nuts in May: 500 miles, total, including a seven-day span on the WS course where I covered 195 miles. I covered every bit of the course from Duncan Canyon to Placer HS...at least twice.
The better prepared one is, the easier it is to feel pressure. I was fit and healthy; I was ready.
Race
Day
At
the start, I stood beside Jorge, who was already dishing out heaping portions
of smiles and positive energy to the runners around him. A year ago I was nestled far in the rear;
this year, I toed the starting line.
With seconds to go, I bent down and did some stretches. I stopped at eight. Then, I said in my own head, “I’m gonna get
eighth place today”.
I was wrong, but I
was close.
Dr
Lind fired the shotgun, and the 2012 edition was finally underway.
High
Country
A
little birdie told me a couple long-hairs were going to push the pace up to
Escarpment. I’m not sure that they
didn’t; while the pace didn’t feel fast, it was work to keep up with a compact
lead group consisting of Jimothy, “Como Neek”, Wolfe, Sandes, Sharman, and
others up the gravel road that switchbacked up the ski hill. Even two ladies joined in the fun; LizzyHawker was right in there with the fellas, with Ellie only a few strides
behind. I ran between them, until Ellie
said, “too fast” and backed off within the first mile. Soon, that lead pack began to pull away. I suspect each of those guys were
altitude-acclimatized (which also correlates with extraordinary fitness), as
guys like me, Dave Riddle, and Mike Wardian were hanging off the back end as
the road ceded to trail at high camp.
I
felt hints of wind as we wound up the road, but once on the plateau, it was a
gale. Sweat that formed on the climb
suddenly froze. My liberal coating of
olive oil on limbs and trunk were a godsend; yet the extreme chill still
necessitated a dolup of vasoline lube for “more sensitive areas” once I reached
Escarpment AS (5:41:34AM). A steep hike
and a jeep road shuffle got me to the top of Watson, right behind Wardian. A couple others were in sight along the
ribbon of trail dumping into the Granite Chief.
I cooled it behind Mike for a bit until I tiptoed my way around
him.
The
High Country section of the course – from Watson Monument to Robinson Flat –
was tough and unforgiving when Jake and I ran it in October. I was amazed at
its good condition on race day; loose rocks, debris, logs and ruts were
replaced with a smooth, runnable tread.
I ran in sight of a guy wearing a black garbage sack as a jacket, with
only one other runner passing us before exiting The Chief.
As
we popped out of the Chief, I was feeling strong but not ambitious enough to
push the pace. With Lyon around the
corner, I wondered how far back of the lead group I’d be: five minutes?
Ten? At that moment, a throng of runners
appeared from stage right, merging onto the jeep road beside me. What a nifty-gifty it was to see the fellas
again: Jimothy, Mackey, Sandes, Jorge, DBo, Tiernan. They all gradually worked their way past,
with Tim the last to do so. He seemed a
bit haggard already, so I tried to pep him up with some timely Jimmy
quotes. That evidently fueled his fire
and by the time we reached Lyon Ridge
(6:40:33AM/58:59), he’d moved past me.
With
the pack ahead of me, climbing hard up the ridge – and garbage bag guy behind –
I was alone for the bulk of Lyon Ridge.
The wind had died down, but was replaced with light mist and
intermittent sleet. I ran nearly all the climbs; hiking only the famed Cougar
Rock. My energy was good and I was
dumping gels into the system, one every 19 minutes on the repeater watch. However, my stomach was already growing tired
of them, only hours into the race.
Along
the high country, I had occasional flashbacks to our October run, including
where we missed the trail right before Red Star and ran an extra kilo
uphill. The trail was well-flagged and
manned this time, and I zig-zagged my way happily into Red Star AS
(7:34:27AM/53:54)) with a single runner in view behind me – Thomas
Crawford. At Red Star, re-upped on both
gels and vasoline and checked the watch: 2:34.
I asked the AS folks of my position: 12th! While happy to be in “prime” position, I was
also shocked. Jake had told me that, in
2007, Hal had split 2:34 en route to his first victory. That certainly tempered my efforts when
Yassine blasted up from behind and got past both me and Tom – who also passed
me as I fumbled with my pack outside Red Star.
When Yassine’s feeling good, he runs hard; it wasn’t long til he
disappeared in the fog ahead.
Tom
and I plugged along Red Star amidst rain, wind, and fog. Despite the conditions, my body felt solid
and warm, and the tread was shockingly smooth.
Sections that were pure rock had clearly been raked pre-race, and we
reaped the benefits with quick and effortless running. I caught and passed Tom on the two-mile
descent into Duncan AS (8:42:20AM/67:53), descending happily, knowing I would
soon see my crew.
My
stomach had started to rebel from the gels, and the protest spread to the lower
GI. When I saw Britt and Jimmy at Duncan
AS, I picked up my new jet pack as well as paper towels. I also sensed a bit of salt would calm my
stomach.
“Do
you have any broth??”
The
aid workers, perhaps alarmed at the speed at which the top ten-plus had
arrived, had not yet finished the broth.
A woman frantically stirred bullion paste into a foam cup for me.
I
grabbed it, then, with typical Uhanian franticism, dumped a nearby ice water
into it, downed it quickly and rolled out, just as Tom was rolling into the AS.
I
shuffled along the Duncan trail toward the creek, fumbling with my pack, as
gels were falling out onto the trail. I
ran along for a mile or two until the urge to go was too strong; I stepped off
trail and discharged some “gel paste”. I was mid-business when Tom caught back
up to me. We ran together down to a
shockingly low-flowing Duncan Creek before I pulled away on the climb
away. We chatted a bit on that initial
climb: about how I thought the climb to Robinson was among my least favorite of
the course, and how great it would be to close the book on the High Country.
Those
thoughts, and that of seeing my crew – which included my cousin and his wife,
who I hadn’t yet seen – fueled my climb to Robinson. I caught glimpses of Yassine’s orange coat on
the ascent, and when I finally hit Little Rob Flat, I finally saw the skort of
Lizzy Hawker. I looked at my watch,
which was still well before 5 hours.
“Wow”. I thought that for me, a
sub-five hour split was ambitious, if not borderline suicidal. Yet there were at least ten men and one woman
in front of me.
I
rolled into a cold and foggy Robinson Flat with great fanfare, running through
a wide path roped off on either side, with spectators at least two deep.. I was met at the med check by none other than
AJW and LB. They were excited about my
position, and spat information on position and status of the eleven runners in
front of me. I weighed in about four
pounds down, ran through the aid, and grabbed my new jet pack from Nate and
Steve. There I saw my cousin’s wife
Megan, gave her a hug, then asked, “Where’s Monty??”. He was on the other side so I gave him a hug,
got some enthusiastic “chopper claps” and continued on my way down the trail,
across the creek bridge, and up Little Bald.
Los
Canyones
I
shuffled up Little Bald, working through my vanilla Ensure as I wound my way up
the wooded switchbacks that, a month ago, were covered in snow. No more than a kilo out did I come along to
Jake, who was taking in the action amidst the conifers. He gave me more info on the field, including
my second report in as many minutes about how bad Zeke Tiernan looked (they
were so bleak and frequent, by the time I got to the Michigan Bluff, I was
expecting to see his grave marked beside Tonto). Jake said I looked the strongest of the
group, but the only problem was, I wasn’t feeling strong at all. I was flagging.
I
churned my way up Little Bald and back onto the WS trail proper. The exposed canyon rock gave free reign to
the cold winds; the fog rolled across the ridge as thick blankets, obscuring
all but the immediate tread ahead. I
focused on what I felt was crucial for me: “I’m not working hard” – the notion
that I would be efficient as possible in stride, and in taking and drinking in
every descent as effortless as possible.
I was completely alone. It was
peaceful, but intimidating.
Off
the ridge and onto the jeep roads approaching Miller’s Defeat, my gut began to
rebel once again. I needed to stop, but
I had not paper. I nearly went but had
the will to hold it until Miller’s (10:29:51AM/42:16), which was mercifully
closer than in 2011 by a full mile.
There I picked up some paper towels for the impending business. But I also had to get off the gel habit; I
grabbed PB&J tortillas and some mini-candy bars and hit the trail.
My
will to hold it lasted only a quarter mile, before peeling off and taking care
of things. I ran along, alone, along the
logging roads, feeling somewhat better but enormously flat. I was worried. “Am I shot? Did I blow it all in the High
Country?” Thoughts of a 15-minute-mile shuffle to the finish crept into
mind. It dawn on me that it was time to
take some salt.
Some
background: I agreed to review a new medical book for iRunFar.com. “Waterlogged”, by Tim Noakes, MD, addresses
the serious problem of over-hydration in endurance sports: how sports drink
companies like Gatorade changed the face of sports nutrition – going against
all past and present research – on the amount of water, salt and energy we
require for endurance performance. It’s
a very provocative text with exhaustive research findings. Among the many dogma-shattering
recommendations is the notion that we do not require supplemental sodium, even
for 24-hour endurance events. This is
based on the notion that the body has automatic mechanisms to maintain blood
sodium concentrations – regardless of hydration level. Hyponatremia, therefore, is an issue of
simply drinking more than the body actually needs.
With
regards to sodium, Dr Noakes points out several sodium-deprivation studies with
endurance exercise that showed a steady maintenance – if not increase – in
blood sodium levels when athletes are “forced” (in the study) to exercises for
several hours a day, for consecutive days, without any sodium intake. Moreover, he argues – with both theoretical
and empirical evidence – that ingestible sodium does not cease or prevent
muscle cramping.
These
concepts were hard to stomach. Yet the
research presented was difficult to argue.
Moreover, I had the opportunity to personally e-mail Dr Noakes and
clarify: even though we’re running for nearly an entire day, we do not need
supplemental salt – even dietary sources.
That
said, my experiment of one was to run Western States without supplemental
salt.
The
experiment ended about a mile out from Dusty Corners. I got out an S-Cap from my emergency pouch
and bit down. It tasted good. I descended toward Dusty.
Dusty
Corners AS (10:59:42AM/29:51) had a nice pack of spectators, including James
and Britt. I swapped out packs, and
grabbed a handful of potatoes for fuel and quickly departed, but not without a
quick peck from Britt (a selfish pick-me-up, for sure).
The
Pucker Point trail connects Dusty to Last Chance. A year ago it was here that we first felt the
heat; this year, it was still cool. I
ditched my gloves at Dusty but continued on wearing my PI jacket and winter
hat. My gut was still in bad shape; I
grabbed potatoes in hopes of calming my stomach, downing hunks every five
minutes or so. Less than a mile into the
trail I came upon a guy peeing in the woods – I wasn’t sure who it was at the
time, but I believe it was Neal Gorman.
I passed him going slowly – still battling the gut and the potatoes – so
when he finished up, he was quickly by me and down the trail. A re-adjustment of my jet pack and he was
completely out of sight.
Pucker
felt so-so until I took my second salt tab, about midway through. Then, two things happened: my energy vastly
improved and my gut quit churning. So I
pressed a bit, hoping to reel in Neal.
Temperatures
were still cool, with overcast skies, when I rolled into Last Chance
(12:41:55PM/42:13). Ever since my first
trip to “Los Canyones”, I’ve loved being at Last Chance: the gateway to the
canyons and the first true gauntlet of the race. I weighed in at Last Chance: 160! Assuming zero error in scales (which is
obviously untrue – it could be as much as +/- 5lb between each), I had gained
five pounds since Rob Flat. I grabbed a
handful of S-Caps, more potatoes, and bee-lined out of the AS.
My
goal for Los Canyones was to “preserve the vessel”: for me, that was to
maximize my strengths – flats and ups – and to mitigate the weaknesses –
descending. I pushed the flats and
gentle downs to Pacific Slab, then picked my way conservatively down to
Swinging Bridge.
The
plan for Devil’s Thumb was to hike most and run a little. I break it up into three sections: the rocky
bottoms, the sandy middle, and the “teaser summit”. The most runnable section is the sandy middle,
so I hiked somewhat hard to the midpoint, ran several big chunks, then hiked
the upper reaches to the AS. Just
before, I “hiked into” a group of folks that included Bryon, LB, and AJW. They were supportive but I could tell they
could perceive my struggles; offering more encouragement than excitement. I asked about the competition, but no one was
particularly close. AJW implored me to “descend well” and, after more potatoes
and some soda, sent me on my way.
Leaving
Devil’s AS (12:35:51PM/23:01+31:55) it occurred to me that my left thigh was
trashed. What? I had perceived nothing
until that moment; but it was clear that my left thigh – namely my medial quad
and adductors – were severely overloaded.
The minor descent to the logging area, then to Deadwood, was
uncomfortable. I didn’t panic, but I was
deeply worried – did I do irreparable damage to the quad, or is it just
cramping out? Either way, it was the
result – yet again – that my trunk had been wandering left. I focused on keeping it right as I picked my
way, somewhat gingerly, down to El Dorado.
My
descent was lackluster – nothing remotely “well”, as AJW implored. I split a 43:25 (1:20:17PM) to El Dorado AS,
grabbed some Coke, potatoes, and salt, and hiked my way out. The hiked out of El D is much like Devils, in
that it’s also a three-section ascent with a very runnable middle. I hiked as quickly as I could through the
switchbacks, then began to pick my way up the ascent. I was climbing poorly, feeling tired and sore
in both legs. S###. I did more math. A 50 split would be crappy, but a 47 would
still equal a 90-minute Devils to Michigan.
I plugged along, running as much as I could. I remembered what AJW had said at the Ale
House in May: “Don’t run the top end of Michigan too hard; you have to save
some to push it through Volcano Canyon”.
His words echoes in my fatigued nerve tissue as I shuffled upward, past
“ten minute creek”, the switchbacks, and finally – with a fair amount of
running – to the dirt road into Michigan.
An
enthusiastic crowd met me at the corner of Carol Hewitt’s house in MB, but I
was unable to reciprocate. I felt
cooked. My weight was back to normal
(155). I exchanged packs with Nate.
“How
you doin’?”
“Not
great, but I’m still moving. My splits
are still OK”
I
turned down an Ensure and exited the AS (2:02:09PM/41:52). I was buoyed slightly by my respectable
climb…and by my cousin Matt sprinting up to me from behind, clapping his
choppers loudly in enthusiasm. “You’re
stride looks a lot better than mine right now, Matt!”. I thanked him and my crew and did my best to
open up the stride down Gorman Ranch Road.
Down
the dirt road, then up again – mostly running, but not very fast. Both quads felt cooked; I tried to stay
positive, and focused on quick turnover down to Volcano. I popped another S-Cap after crossing a
Volcano, nearly inhaling the powder. A
few coughs and, surprisingly, I ran most of the climb out to Bath Road. More soda, and a gel – which I was able to
start taking again on the climb from MB.
I hammered the coke, then shuffled uphill, walking only a few times,
until I encountered Britt, who ran with my from the midpoint up to Foresthill
Road, where my sister was waiting.
I
should’ve been excited and happy to see them both – especially my sister
Brandie, with whom I’d never run with before that moment – but I felt like I
was barely hanging on. I ran as quickly
as my legs would allow toward the elementary school, again focusing on stride
mechanics that I knew were filthy. Soon
after, Jimmy met us and gave me a quick run down on the competition, and told
me that Jake was waiting at the AS. I
felt like I was going to disappoint him; he’d been so pumped about pacing me,
and about my prospects while at Robinson, but now I was a mangled mess on the
verge of a meltdown.
Hobbling
into the AS (3:00:20PM/43:22+14:48) under a blanket of supportive cheers,
quickly weighing and exiting after a quick swig of Coke and grabbing a cup of
ice. Jake met me there, took my jet
back, and led me out to my crew. I
stopped briefly on the corner of Church St and the main drag to a huge
crew. I thought about a Tecnu rubdown
but decided against it; instead I took the cube ice and rubbed it vigorously
against my left quad. I tried to put on
a happy face. “How’s everyone doing??”
Turning
down the Tecnu wash, I grabbed a filled jet pack and shuffled away with Jake.
“My
form is total shit, Jake. My left quad
is totally overloaded. I need your help
to fix my stride.”
Jake
went to work. “You’re braking hard on your left side. OK, well let’s get the cadence going, and
pull that left foot beneath you…”
And
so we rolled downhill, left on Cal St, and onto the trail.
“Your
splits have been great – you made it to Foresthill in ten hours.”
“Yeah,
but it won’t mean shit if I fall apart now.”
We
made a decent descent down the jeep roads to the trail. Jake gave terrific cues for maintaining a
quick turnover, getting my feet beneath me, and being sure I wasn’t
braking. He also kept a mindful eye on
my trunk alignment. Within minutes I
began to feel better – in both leg feel and energy. I was also back on gels with a solid
stomach.
“I
don’t feel like talking, but you can fill me in on the race so far.”
Jake
gave a good recap of the day: who was out front, who was looking good, who
wasn’t. We had some intel that a couple
guys – Yassine Diboun and Neal Gorman – were together about six minutes ahead
of us. That in mind, we pressed when
possible, Jake being sure I hiked as little as necessary on the odd hill and
got me going at the slightest slowdown.
Cal
1 came quickly (3:33:07PM/32:46 – this included our two-minute stop with crew);
Cal 2, as always, took longer than I remembered. Jake did a great job of keeping me moving and
hiking hard, especially on the steep double-climb between 1 and 2. The longer we ran, the more the confidence
and strength began to trickle back. The
famed “Elevator Shaft” came and went quickly; Jake implored “quick feet” and
celebrated our disposal of the steep, technical ascent. We rolled quickly in and out of Cal 2
(4:21:22PM/48:14). Besides being on top
of my nutrition needs, Jake was also on top of getting competition info; we
hadn’t gained on Yassine and Neal, but we were feeling good so we rolled.
Cal
2 to 3 went quickly; I felt stronger. I
verbalized to Jake an important concept: “Even though it hurts, you have to run
with normal mechanics, or else you run slow and destroy your legs!”. I pumped the legs hard on the downs – hip
extension, knee drive. The downs began
to feel good, but I still feared the ups.
As
we approached Six-Minute Hill – the steep, triple climb away from the rushing
river that can demoralize even the strongest runner – Jake declared, “We need
to do six minute hill [named for the approximate time it takes to power hike]
in five minutes!”
The
trail dumped us onto the road and the start of the climb. “I’m gonna run as long as I can”. I picked my way slowly, running nearly
two-thirds of the climb to the switchback.
More hiking, then more running. A
short hike, then more running. We
crested Six-Minute hill…in five minutes.
We
were officially rolling.
In
and out of Cal 3 (4:47:49PM/26:26) – slightly slower due to filling the jet
pack – we encountered our only bit of heat of the day in the unshaded north
canyon wall. I slowed only slightly – as
much as Jake would allow – but otherwise ran quickly to – and through –“Sandy
Bottoms”. Jake kept up the positive
encouragement and constant form cues. He
was being my brain, and it was working.
I felt strong, but I also felt on the edge.
Sandy
Bottoms ceded to the home stretch – the jeep road approached Rucky. “We’ve got to be getting closer to
them”. Sure enough, I looked up and a
shot of andrenaline hit me before my brain made sense of it – it was Yassine
and his pacer. I popped another gel,
swigged some water, then got after it.
“I’m not going to push to catch them, there’s too many damn miles left”. Jake agreed, but we plugged along, anyway,
gradually reeling them in, despite Yassine’s pacer’s efforts to keep his runner
going – we could see his pacer turn around frequently, and spurts of speed that
followed.
Less
than a mile from the AS, we reeled in the fellas. We all exchanged hellos, including a
fist-pound between Yassine and I. He’s a
terrific person and competitor. He’s
also a tough runner, and was definitely still “in the game” when we caught
up. But I was climbing better than he,
so I pulled in front and away on the final climb and descent into Rucky.
Now
we were racing. And running fast. “You’re gonna split a sub-2:30 Cal St!”, Jake
declared.
Rucky
(5:31:22PM/43:33) was ruckin’ with excitement: loud music, excitable crew, and
and ecstatic AJW!
“You
just ran a 2:28 Cal St! Neal is just ahead!
Zeke and Nick Clark aren’t looking good!” I got my pack quickly from Jimmy, scarcely
acknowledging my crew, as both Jake and AJW were escorting me quickly through.
LB was there with equal encouragement and smiles. “You’re taking boats across! Go!”
Down
to the river, we popped on lifejackets and hopped into the raft. With us came Yassine and his pacer, who’d
caught back up. I doused like a mad-man
(“Yeah, douse! Douse!”, screamed AJW from across the river). I felt hot and longed for a full dip – a
veritable baptism – that Jake and I thought I had coming, via a rope
crossing. So when we docked on the other
side, I quickly laid down in the “bathtub” and submerged. I quickly counted to
20. I barely made 15 before I heard,
“Get going! Get going!” from across the river.
Jake agreed; we had to go.
Yassine and his pacer were hiking, then running uphill.
Out
of the water, I grabbed my jet pack and my last Ensure and powerhiked
uphill. Yassine and his pacer began to
ran. I wanted to be patient, but Jake
had other thoughts. He implored me to run, so I ran. Though my baptism felt refreshing, it’d
stiffened up my legs; running felt terrible.
I hiked. Thankfully Yassine
hiked, as well. I did my best to reel in
the pair, but I struggled. Finally, we
drew equal to Yassine, just in time for a steeper grade; we both hiked. Once again, my hiking proved inferior, as the
trio quickly pulled away. The road
leveled again, and we began to run. And
I kept running – albeit quite slowly.
Jake and I slowly pulled away as we approached the final steep grade to
Green Gate.
The
River
With
a fresh jet pack and a belly full of “old lady shake”, I needed nothing from
the AS (5:52:40PM/21:18 – including bathtime) so we blew straight through. Having put Yassine behind us, I gained confidence
and strength heading onto the “home 20”.
And
it felt like home. Ever since 2011 – when I ran Green Gate to the finish
blindly, in the dark, clueless and miserable – I vowed to return and learn
every corner, canyon, creek and tree.
Between March and May I ran that section six times: frontward and back,
hot and cold, daylight and dark. So by
the time Jake and I set foot toward Auburn Lake Trails (ALT), I felt like
home. “This is just like a training
run,” I told Jake, “Green Gate to the high school, then we get a beer”. We made excellent time down the jeep road and
onto the trail. GG to ALT has several
rollers; I ran all of them.
Just
when Jake and I were speculating on where M10 was running, we came up on a
blue, orange and white North Face jersey, walking on the trail. “I think that’s Mike Wolfe!”, Jake
whispered. Walking along the flat, Wolfe
looked to be struggling. I stayed quiet
as we approached. Jake broke silence. “Hey Mike, you feeling OK? Do you need
anything?” He declined, ceded the trail
and we glided past.
We
were now M10.
Rolling
along quickly, our momentum built, but I didn’t feel safe. M10 is a precarious position until you hit
Placer HS – just ask Dan-O – so we pushed at every opportunity, looking to put
valuable time on both Wolfe and Yassine to prevent a resurgence. Moreover, we knew Neal Gorman was still
somewhere up front, as we’d been chasing his shadow since Cal St. We’d crossed our first stream and were
approaching the second – and the short climb onto the “Way Too Cool” course
when Jake and I – from across the little canyon – saw a guy peeing in the
woods.
“Are
you a runner or a pacer?”, Jake said.
“Runner.”
Climbing
past him, we ran into who must’ve been his pacer. The four of us shuffled
uphill through two switchbacks. “Who is that guy?” I whispered to Jake.
“What’s
your name?” Jake asked.
“Neal
Gorman.”
M9.
We
chatted briefly – I introduced myself, Jake chit-chatted about passing Wolfe,
and Yassine’s status. Despite my
deteriorating mechanics, I was climbing stronger than ever, and we slowly
pulled away.
I
chuckled at this excellent Seinfeld reference as we rolled along toward
ALT. It was glorious to do this section
in broad daylight, scarcely six in the evening.
I worked hard to open up the stride, maintain hip extension and fast,
“big” turnover. I felt legitimately good for the first time
since the high country. Cruising along,
Jake chattered extemporaneously, mixing form cues with movie and Seinfeld
quotes, and ocassionaly singing his favorite – or perhaps most annoying – poptunes. And just like that, we popped
into ALT (6:44:12PM/51:31).
It
was still relatively warm, and with my smaller jet pack, I gambled with a
“quick fill” of the hydration pack at the AS – which always takes longer. Our transition was a bit slow, closing the
pack, stuffing the gels. After crossing
the creek, we heard distant cheering.
Jake didn’t acknowledge it, but I knew it was a Neal resurgence. We moved along.
ALT
to Brown’s Bar is perhaps my favorite section of the entire course: smooth,
fast single track, gentle, runnable inclines and fast, effortless downs. I worked hard to “keep the stride open”, and
Jake was on top of my mechanics at every opportunity. I was absolutely driven to hammer these last
sections; I knew that if I ran “my splits”, that no one behind us could catch
up.
I
ran into a couple issues en route to Brown’s: my lower GI began to grumble, the
result of taking an S-Cap whole on my climb up from Green Gate; and, about two
miles from Brown’s, a large, developing blister (in the same place as Sonoma –
the result of my excessive lateral foot strike), ceremoniously burst, sending
waves of searing pain beneath my left foot.
“Oh, F###!” That freaked out Jake
a bit, but I didn’t break stride. I didn’t
care. We pushed on.
Jake
and I, like AJW, have mental tendencies to make “mini-splits” based on
geographic landmarks. As some say about
AJW, “He knows the split time between every tree”. Rolling along, we reached yet another
horizontal canyon and stream crossing.
Jake said, “OK, we only have about twenty five minutes to Brown’s”. I said nothing, but I thought, “Nope, that’s
not right. That’s ’14-minute
creek’…”. Running Robie to the River
this spring, I’d counted canyons from Brown’s Bar: there was “7-minute”,
“14-minute” and “21-minute” creeks. We’d
just hit the penultimate canyon.
Jake
took splits along the half-mile marked trail: “Eight minutes!”. We pushed along, Jake peppering the
positively and more pop tunes; though not my favorites, my 100-mile
brain gobbled them up and bandied them about, playfully. Within minutes heard the music of Brown’s Bar
AS (7:27:44PM/43:31). I rolled quickly
in and out, only a quick Mountain Dew swig and I was down the hill.
More
excellent stride cues: “Tap-tap-tap! Move the feet” as we picked our way
quickly down the steep grade, across two creeks, and quickly bottoming to
Quarry Road. My quads felt a bit cooked,
and the steeper Quarry Road descents were difficult. I hit a minor blip on the climbs up Quarry,
but Jake kept me moving, nervously looking back several times, knowing that
Neal couldn’t been too far behind. I
focused on using the pelvis and hips to pick my way up the road. Below us were terrific, sunlit views of the
American River. “It’s so awesome to be
here in the daylight”, I said.
We
hit the Quarry Trail – the most rugged, formidable climb since the High
Country. I’d run hard to Brown’s Bar and
Quarry, knowing that it’d be a slow ascent.
The trail is so rocky, and just steep enough, that it’s nearly
impossible to run consistently. Again,
having memorized these sections, I knew the climb to the creek was runnable, so
we shuffled our way up, then hit the rocky “trail”.
I
knew that my hiking was inferior to nearly everyone, so I ran: a slow,
medthodical “low gear” shuffle using my hips and pelvis. With Jake’s cueing for
quick feet, I put my head down and just ran. And ran. And ran. I ran nearly the entire climb – walking
perhaps only twenty seconds – until we crested out of the rocky trail and into
the woods. Our excitement built as we
heard the sound of zooming cars along Highway 49.
We
spat out of the woods into broad daylight and the cheers of a rauchous crowd at
Highway 49 AS (8:05:33PM/37:48). I was so excited to see my “OOJ Crew”, knowing
it was still daylight and, Gods willing, could remain that way to Placer HS. I “sprinted” across the highway, dropped the
jet pack, and quickly weighed in. I
deliriously scanned the aid table for my needs; I needed nothing. I waved to the crew and ran off.
I
did need something, but I’d forgotten it: paper towels. I needed to go, and I didn’t want to hold it
any longer. “I gotta go, Jake”. I stepped off the trail about a kilo uphill
from the AS and let it go. I had no wipe
aids…so I didn’t. We rolled along.
For
months, I’d had fantasies of running the entire way from 49 to Placer. I did my best but was forced to hike chunks
of the rugged uphill to Pointed Rocks.
Near the top, I started running again.
“I
choose not to walk!”, I declared. And
off we went.
Pointed
Rocks meadow in the evening sun was incredible – cool breezes and cooler
views. We pushed the pace through the
grasslands and into the descent toward No Hands.
For
the first time all afternoon, Jake was silent.
It was welcome for us both. I
leaned into the descent and rolled along.
Just another training run.
In
and out of No Hands (8:36:04PM/30:31) without a stop, still plenty of
daylight. The notion of finishing, and
being M9, began to sink in. But there
was still business to attend to. Three
creek crossings led to the penultimate climb, and to the spot where I’d given
up on myself and Sam in 2011. “I choose
not to walk!” We shuffled up the
switchbacks, over the final creek crossing, before powerhiking up the steep
grade to the jeep road. Light was fading
and glow sticks were visible. “No
headlamp!”, I told Jake. We shuffled up
the Jeep road to Robie.
I
grabbed my last shot of soda at Robie Point (9:00:30PM/24:25) and we took
off. I ran up Robie Point…and ran. Not fast, but I ran, and I didn’t stop. The road was dark beneath the canopy of
trees. Without a headlamp, we surprised the rocking “Mile 99 Party”, which only
added to their excitement as Jake and I, “The M9 Contingent” ran through. Screams, and cheers – people lined the road
on both sides, three deep. I gave high
fives as we ran through. My most vivid
sense was smell: the scent of glorious malted hops and barley, as we ran
through. Incredible. One mile to go.
We
ran along, and only then it occurred to me how positively awful my feet felt;
as if it were nothing but bare bones pounding the unforgiving pavement. I shuffled along, down the hill from Robie to
Marvin Way.
A
booming voice of a lone figure approached.
AJW! He’d run out from the track
to see us. Running along, he peppered us
with congratulations and encouragement, and finishing reports: Jimothy in sub
15, Clark Bar and Mackey finishing strong.
“You’re M9! Enjoy your lap on the
track – savor it!” And off he went, to
run in with fellow Virginian, Neal.
We
shuffled up the final uphill and picked our way downhill, across the White
Bridge. I wanted to be excited, but I
hurt so badly. Onto Finley, with a half
mile to go, Jimmy was there to escort us to Placer HS. Jake gave his final form cue, and we burst
into the light of Placer HS.
I
wish I would’ve felt – and looked – better on that final lap. The voice of Tropical John on the PA were
warm and welcoming, “Is that Olive Oil Joe?”.
A fist pump, and high-fives to spectators on the homestretch.
16:13:14
(9:13:14PM/12:46). M9! I doubled over,
hands on thighs. LB presented my
medal. It was over.
Post-Race
The
intial post-race was a blur – I wasn’t sure what to do. I hugged my mom, then made the rounds,
thanking anyone who looked familiar: my crew, Jake’s parents and in-laws. Nick Clark (15:4x) sat in a chair. “I made solid contact”, I told him, in
reference to his pre-race comment of, “You’re ready to hit it out of the
park!”. A hug to Jimothy, who absolutely
obliterated the course record, and the bulk of the field.
Got
a couple glamour shots from Larry Gasson: with the effervescent Jorge
Maravilla, and with my incredible pacer and friend, Jake. By the time I’d had blood drawn, I was
shivering and miserable. The post-race
shower at Placer HS was a production: thanks to Jimmy and Nate for physically
assisting me to the school and helping disrobe and dress me!
Showered
and clothed, the “OOJ Crew” enjoyed Nate’s home brew, “Placer High School
Finish Line IPA”.
*****
The
Grades
Pacing: A-. I had hard when I could, I eased
off when needed. I took it too easy in
the Canyons, alone. But I was
struggling. A conservative canyons led
to a hard-charging Foresthill to the finish: 6:13 over the last 38 miles, the 5th
fastest of the field. Jake, of course,
was an invaluable part of that…
Mechanics: C. Not…great! What happened to my left leg? A week later and I can still barely flex
it. Major overload, major braking. My number one goal was, “No braking!”, and I
did exactly that. In addition, I was
lateral striking horribly, and – once again -
got into flexed trunk, losing valuable hip extension. My finishing mechanics were the worst of the
top ten. I have a lot to work on. On the bright side, I was able to use my
trunk and pelvis marvelously, allowing the late-race climbing that I thought
wasn’t possible. All credit for the
second half mechanics goes to Jake: he kept me together, giving me valuable
cueing every ten seconds. At least.
In
spite of those significant inefficiencies…I was still M10. Fixing those things – which is quite doable –
bodes well for my future potential.
Hydration/Fuel/Electrolyes: B. In short: I spoiled
my stomach early with too many gels and not enough real food; I went low on
calories having only eaten potatoes for twenty miles; I went low on salt,
having taken none for the first 37 miles.
Once corrected – adequate salt and a happy stomach – I was able to
run. Late-race my stomach got a bit
upset (from whole S-Caps), but otherwise good.
Hydration,
drinking “ad libitum”, was perfect. I
drank when thirsty. And I never had any
deep “downs”, characteristic of hyponatremia.
My post-race blood sodium was 140 mmol.
Mental Toughness (Me/Jake): A-/A++. I
stayed strong a fairly positive early, but was down for much of the second
half. Jake absolutely kept me
going. His enthusiasm and joy for the
event – and knowing the true meaning behind what we were accomplishing – was
contagious, even for a grump like me. His
encouragement and helpful tips powered me those last 38. As a result, I was most competitive when it
counted: in the last 20+.
Pacer: A++.
Jake was marvelous all weekend: keeping me chilled and organized,
pre-race, encouraging amongst the trees at Little Bald, then beside and behind
me in the last 38. If it weren’t for his
form cues and positive encouragement, I’d still be lying in a ditch between Cal
1 and 2. He communicated something
useful – mechanics, encouragement, or information – about every 5-10 seconds. Infectious energy.
The
only negatives? “Drive-By”, by Train? “Give Your Heart a Break”, by Lovato? Really, Jake?
Were you jamming to the soft rock station on your way to Foresthill? Where was the “Party Rock Anthem”?
Joking
aside, his presence, indeed, “gave my heart [and brain] a break”. :)
Joy*: B.
This is an important factor worth grading. I stayed positive for much of the day,
bringing positive energy into Robinson for AS workers and my crew; I “put on a
good show” at Foresthill, staying positive, even though I was in my deepest
low. But, I have a lot to learn from the
likes of AJW and my new friend (and role model), Jorge Maravilla. AJW was in his element: huge smile, loud and
boisterous; infectious excitement. As for Jorge, though I’ll likely never do
any karate moves or “The Worm” going into Aid Stations, his smile - and maybe
some “Party Rock Shuffle” moves of my own – is quite doable.
(*new
category for 2012)
*****
Kudos
go to many, many people:
- To
my family, Meredith, Brandie, Nate, Evan, and Steve: for sacrificing your
time and resources to be there for me. And to Matt and Megan, who traveled
the farthest and were the loudest of anyone there. Great choppers, Monnnnnnnnnnty!
- To
my family friends, Chris and Frankie: so great to see you guys, and your
smiles around every corner – pre-race, during and after.
- To
my BEST friends, Brittany, James, and Jake: you sacrificed your entire day
– and many days before that – as well as time with your families, to be by
my side. I can’t fully repay you,
but I’ll try.
- To
my ultra friends and supporters, namely LB, AJW and Bryon: you’re the
“crafty veterans” and role models for us “younger” guys. Your love of the sport, the event, and
each other inspires us to run fast and run with joy.
*****
That’s
it. 7000 words; 70 words a mile.
Thanks
for another great year
-
“M9”
 |
| Coming into Robinson Flat, happy to see friends and family! Photo: Brett Rivers |
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| Shuffling out of El Dorado Canyon, trying to look good. Photo: Brett Rivers |
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| Hobbling out of Foresthill with Jake. Photo: Ultra Runner Podcast |
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| Savoring a cool bath, despite many protests, at Rucky Chucky. Photo: Glenn Tachiyama |
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| The last lap at Placer HS felt like this looks: a blur, and awesome. Photo: Karen May |
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| "The Odd Couple" - me with the effervescent Jorge Maravilla at the finish. Photo: Larry Gassen. |
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| Top Ten Fellas. Nice group of guys. Photo: Shahid Ali. |
