Bryce Canyon 100

June 14, 2014.

At 6 am, the dawn greets the 150 or so intrepid souls who have gathered at the starting line of the Bryce Canyon 100. Adrian, Rachael and I snap a last pre-race photo so we have a “before” picture. Matt Gunn, the RD with a knack for spectacular course designs, sends us off without much ceremony. We run down a mile or so of dirt road before filing onto singletrack and up the first of countless climbs of the day.

The sun rises, and we settle into strategic positions for the miles ahead. I have been nursing a pulled adductor and an ankle injury, but decided to throw caution into the wind and run anyway. The photos on the website were too gorgeous to ignore. And who knows, maybe my injuries need nothing more than a little tough love to heal. After ten miles or so, the adductor loosens up and stops hurting. I feel validated, and blissed out by the unfolding panorama of red rocks under blue skies, hoodoos in otherworldly formations, green meadows, old forest. Cameras flash all around. This is one of the few times, ever, that I wish I’d brought my phone along on a run.

Sunny optimism prevails until mile 25, when, while blazing down a gnarly piece of descent, my left ankle rolls and I take a nosedive. Sharp pain shoots up the outside of my calf.
Ouch. Same ankle as last week, which is not good. I remain curled into the fetal position for a bit, wallowing in a puddle of self-pity while using a full alphabet’s worth of English and German curse words that makes several passing runners blush.
@(#(&$%. @(&$(&#&(*%$
(This part of the race report has been censored).
I figure this will be my inaugural DNF. The next aid station is at mile 28, and getting there will take me a while in this reduced condition. I limp along slowly, still using foul language that eventually subsides to a muted grumble, until the welcome sight of Blubber Creek, where I sink into a chair, feeling defeated. The ankle has reached the size of a grapefruit, and not a pretty one. A kind volunteer named Lee offers kineo tape from his personal stash. I’ve seen those bright strips of tape on other runners, but always figured they put it on themselves just to look badass, like a type of war paint. Adrian Stanciu zooms by and asks what happened, sympathy in his voice. I shrug, resignedly. Oh well. But once Lee finishes his expert wrap job, I get up and realize I can walk without a limp. Yippeeee! I jog a few steps. No pain. Ok, very little pain. Maybe I can make it to mile 50, which will at least allow me to see the entire course.
I thank Lee, aka the patron saint of Blubber Creek, and take off.

The sun climbs higher, along with the temperature. The singletrack becomes double track, and less technical, which my ankle appreciates. Climbing feels better than descending. I negotiate the downhills gingerly, conscious of the taped ankle. I know that another roll will end this race, and probably future races along with it. But when the spectacular pink cliffs come into view at mile 45, I begin to think I should finish. By the time mile 50 approaches, have found many totally rational reasons to continue: Allen, my mentor and friend, has come all the way from Texas to pace me for the second half of the race. I can’t let him down. I will see the pink cliffs again in the evening light on the way back — a view worth risking permanent joint damage for. My ankle still feels pretty good after running 25 miles, so another 50 should be ok. And so on.
Ultra runners are known to be very sane, intelligent people full of common sense. It is perfectly normal to try and run 75 miles on a sprained ankle. I decide to follow the voice of reason, which whispers in my ear to go for it. Allen is waiting at the turnaround. Thankfully, he agrees that finishing is possible on a taped and sprained ankle. Experienced ultra runner that he is, I tend to trust his judgment. But then I remember pacing him at this race last year, when he ran twenty-plus miles on a torn Achilles’ tendon. Maybe his judgment regarding injuries is not as sound as I thought. In any case, we’re off. I have counted three women ahead of me, not very far ahead, but while I feel I can go on, I also know that it’s the wrong day to race anyone. I chase all competitive thoughts out of my head. Finishing without further damage becomes my A-goal. Staying upright is essential to achieve it, which means absolutely no hammering the downhills. I have been trading places with Adrian several times since the start, but at mile 65 he races ahead, looking strong and confident on his way to a spectacular sub-24 hour finish. I continue to jog along, at a cautious but consistent pace. The sun sets, the bright colors fade to shades of grey, then to black. A full moon rises over the trees and hoodoos, casting their silhouettes in a surreal, silvery twilight. This is one of my favorite parts during a 100 mile run: being out there in the dark, traversing the wilderness one step at a time and trusting that the little reflective strips gleaming in the distance will lead to the next aid station. Fine dust dances in the circles of light our headlamps throw on the trail. Left foot, right foot, breathe in, breathe out. The night is chilly and quiet, and the chaos of the world seems far away. Running like this is a reminder to live in the moment. There is no point in worrying about anything outside the spot of brightness just ahead. But my spot of brightness begins to dim around mile 79. No problem, I just need to get the ziploc baggie with the spare batteries from my pack. I sit down on a log and frantically dig around every pocket until I remember that I’ve thrown a wad of ziplocs into the trash can at mile 65. One of these contained my spare batteries.
This has got to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, in an ultra or otherwise. Without Allen, I would have to wait for the next runner to come along, or prepare to bivouac in the woods until morning. His head lamp is still strong and allows us to negotiate the three miles to the next aid station, with me feeling like a complete idiot.
My head lamp takes an exotic type of short, fat battery. No one at the aid station has any of these to spare, which isn’t surprising. While feasting on Ramen noodles, we agree that the best solution is for me to go on alone. I appreciate Allen more than ever. Only a true friend would consent to being left behind at an aid station in the middle of nowhere at 3 a.m. because the runner they’re pacing is an irresponsible scatterbrain. I put on Allen’s head lamp, thank him from the bottom of my humbled heart, and take off.
The last 18 miles are full of climbs and descents. My legs still are in good working condition, but I do feel that ankle. I run all the gentle uphills and downhills, and walk the steeper sections. Still, I catch up to a couple of other runners who move at an even slower pace, or have stopped moving altogether. Mile 90 brings a welcome surprise: my friend Risa is volunteering at the Thunder Mountain aid station. She has traveled from LA to pay back some of the kindness she experienced at the Zion 100. Ultra running is full of wonderful people. I love this sport, for its challenges and its good karma. We wave goodbye as I leave, fortified by soup, peanut butter, and warm emotions.
The last ten miles have some serious climbs in them. I dimly remember the steep downhills from this morning . . . no, yesterday morning. I also remember thinking that the uphills on the way back might feel grueling after mile 90. But I don’t remember just how many more hills there are before the finish. For a while, I expect to see the dirt road open up around the next curve, or the next. Or the next. Nope, another climb. And yet another. I try not to get my hopes up after going through the cycle of anticipation and disappointment a few times. Instead, I try to accept, and appreciate, the present moment: the first light of the new dawn. The rosy clouds in the morning sky. The rock formations in shades of red, pink, and orange. Allen’s powerful headlamp, which I now get to turn off. My body, which, apart from the by now somewhat sore ankle, feels pretty good after covering 96 or so miles. I can still run. My quads are tired but not destroyed. The dirt road finally opens up, and I decide to race the last couple of miles. I have energy, and it feels safe on a gentle, level surface. I pass another runner less than a mile from the finish. Maybe taking it easy for most of the last 70 miles was a good idea. I’ve never sprinted like that 99 miles into a 100-miler, but then this is only my fourth. I’m still learning.

I finish in 25:08, fourth place female, having missed third by only 15 minutes and less than an hour behind the first-place woman. Not bad, considering everything that went wrong.

This is a beautiful, challenging, mind-blowing and very well organized race. Thank you, Matt, for your energy and vision. Thank you, Lee, for the magic tape. Thank you, Allen, for all the moral support and good advice, and for the light in dark places. Thank you, Rachael and Adrian for sharing this beautiful experience. I’m looking forward to our next epic adventure.

The Dead Man Peaks 50 is one of my favorite events. A race report will follow in a couple of days. These are my scribblings from the evening before.

Dead Man Peaks 50 tomorrow, probably the last ultra of the year. I will take pleasure n each and every one of the 53 miles. I will relish the dark chill of the early morning, feel awe and wonder at the desert sunrise, and hopefully watch the equally beautiful desert sunset from the comfort of a folding chair at the finish. I will feel grateful for the boundless, genuine friendship and support of the ultra community. I will smile from the bottom of my joy-filled heart at every fellow runner, crew member, spectator, and aid station saint. I will treat my clif bloks and peanut butter packages with the reverence usualy reserved for gourmet meals. I will happily reach for the slightly grimy pretzels and M&Ms from the communal aid station bowls and savor them one by one. I will thank my resilient body, my supportive husband, my hardworking muscles, my lucky stars. I will feel a deep connection to all living things on the planet, even the cactus poking its pointy spines through my Hokas. I will compliment and loudly appreciate each and every one of the volunteers who sacrifice their weekend for ours. I will enjoy feeling the burning quads, the blisters, the raw spots, the fatigue. I will fall, and I will get back up. I will display my bleeding knees and bruises proudly. And I will really look forward to that first post-ultra beer.
Whether I PR, DNF, or cross the finish line DFL doesn’t matter. I will celebrate the day because there is nothing better than being intensely alive and running on a beautiful day in the New Mexico desert.

I have been a horse trainer for twenty years, and a runner for ten. Having to compete at horse shows fills me with dread, but I register with happy anticipation for trail ultras. Why is the competition in ultra running so much friendlier than in equestrian disciplines? The simple answer is this: less money is involved, and less subjectivity. By money, I don’t mean prize money. In this regard, dressage and ultrarunning are remarkably similar. However, the expenses for training and competition are in two different leagues.

To get started, an aspiring trail runner will purchase a pair of shoes and a handheld water bottle. A hydration pack might follow, or several hydration packs, until one really works. Torn between the laws of fashion and those of function, a runner will accumulate a closet full of minimal shoes, maximal Hokas, shorts, skorts, bra tops, jackets and shirts in matching colors, as well as a drawer full of technical socks, all in dusty brown and not all of them matching. Add race entry fees, travel costs, piles of gels, and large jars of whey protein and vaseline, and many will argue that ultrarunning is not a cheap sport.
A horse costs anywhere from what you pay for a small used car to more than a large new house, and has living expenses similar to your own, except that it needs four shoes every six to eight weeks. not just two. Add a saddle, tack, and trailer. And this does not include coaching for you, or training for your horse. You will now agree that trail running is a cheap sport after all, compared to equestrian competition. Once you have invested your life savings in a hobby, the pressure to do well increases.

An even more important factor is the fairly democratic nature of ultra running. If you train more, and more wisely, you will improve. If you slack off, you will not. Money is useful, but only to a point. If you can afford to pay someone to clean your house, you can run an extra couple of hours. Extra dollars can buy better shoes, cuter outfits, coaching, and treadmills. But you still have to go out there every day, log mile after grueling mile, and discover what you’re made of the hard way.
Even the best treadmill will not prepare you for rocky terrain, steep climbs, gale-force wind, sleet, river crossings, hypothermia, heat exhaustion, blood blisters, face plants, or getting lost in the dark. There is no placebo for these experiences. And this is what keeps ultra running fair and the competition friendly. When someone passes you in the last few miles of a 50-miler, it is because because you have gone out too fast and are now paying for it, not because she was able to afford a better pair of socks. When you pass a fellow runner who is vomiting margarita-flavored Clif Bloks into the bushes, you will not feel smug and superior, mainly because you know you could be in the same unpleasant position a few miles from now. The playing field is really quite level.
In dressage, enough money can buy a much more tangible advantage: a talented, already trained horse, tuned up, fit, and ready to compete. To fully comprehend the implications if such a thing were possible in ultrarunning, imagine a future where body parts are easy to exchange. A set of legs and a pair of lungs can be transplanted back and forth between people in a quick and painless but still very expensive surgical procedure. In such a world, an wealthy. ambitious newbie ultrarunner could take shortcuts. He could buy the fitness he needs without having to go through the trouble of training a flabby, inexperienced, and undisciplined body from scratch. Instead, he would start out on a pair of schoolmaster legs, purchased from a seasoned and accomplished veteran, to learn what ultrarunning feels like. Then he would retire or resell these legs and move on to a younger, very talented new set. Mistakes become much more forgivable this way. If you skimp on warmup or cool down, if you beat up on one pair of legs physically or psychologically to where they refuse to run as well as before, you simply move on to a new pair. Imagine the starting line conversations: “Did you see her legs? Just imported from Europe, I hear they used to be Kilian Jornet’s. Of course she has to get them waxed every five minutes…” The gloating new owner of said legs struts by at that moment, stifling further catty comments. When she wins, whispered speculations ensue. Will she keep winning? Or will she trash these legs and move on to a new pair? Once money can buy a significant head start, the competition becomes less pleasant.

The second part of the puzzle is that dressage is a judged event with very subjective standards based on correct execution of movements and the judges’ aesthetic impressions. Runners compete against the clock. Ultra runners, in addition to the clock, often compete against the desert, or the mountains. The clock never lies. The mountains are equally tough on everyone and impressed by no one. If runners were like dressage riders, they would be judged instead on their style, leg turnover, cadence, and general fitness and appearance by a panel of judges sitting in booths along the ultra route at crucial points of the course, like the last climb at mile 90 or the top of Hope Pass. Each runner would receive a score between 0 and 10 for each segment of the course, along with a brief comment, which may range from benignly condescending to openly contemptuous, e.g:
-Runner has lost elasticity in her steps.
-Needs to move feet quicker and lift them higher.
-Seems reluctant to keep climbing.
-Stumbled. Needs better balance.
-Desire to move forward is not apparent.
-Neon pink shorts and flyaway hair distract from overall positive impression.
-Runner not adequately prepared for this level of competition.
And so on. At the finish line, the highest average score determines the winner. Scores of 70 and over earn the big buckles. To ensure fairness, the judges undergo a rigorous qualifying process. They have to practice their judging skills in many shorter races before being allowed on the course of such prestigious competitions as the Western States 100. And the judging standards are based on time-honored, classical principles of distance running, starting with Pheidippides.

How would this change our sport? Very probably, the actual placings, especially, near the front, would not change very much. People like Timothy Olsen and Ellie Greenwood would get high scores. They would still win, maybe more under some judges than others. They are fast because, among many other factors, their form is flawless. They look like highly trained ultra runners because that’s exactly what they are. So why not focus on style instead of speed?
Because the clean-cut nature of the competition would go away. Quibbles about the judging standards would become common, especially among slower runners who look more like ordinary humans and participate because they enjoy it. Most judges would not really care how these runners scored, and many judges would think that such middle of the pack plodders should not run ultras in the first place. Many discouraged runners would quit entering races altogether. Ultrarunning would become a very exclusive club.
And this is why, after more than 20 years in the horse business, I choose to take a break from professional training and competing. I am leaving the exclusive club. I will always love horses. But the sport of ultrarunning is indefinitely more rewarding in terms of fairness, camaraderie, and joy.

The 2012 Leadville 100 was my first 100-miler. I finished in 26:50, but after the initial elation wore off, I began to wonder if I could improve my time. The 2013 Leadville 100 was my third 100-miler, and at 4 AM on August 17 I toed the starting line with the confident knowledge that, barring ultra disasters like a bad fall, injury flare-up or continuous projectile vomiting, I could cover the distance. For the first time, I treated a 100-miler like a race: I wanted to run as fast as possible, not just finish somewhere under cutoff and more or less alive. This changed my approach: instead of heading out without a plan, I wrote down split times and actually carried them with me. Instead of trying to keep up with the fast crowd in the beginning and paying for it later, I conserved energy early and moved at a decent pace in the second half. Instead of ignoring hot spots until my feet resembled hamburger meat, I stashed extra socks in every drop bag and planned for at least two sock changes and thorough foot inspections, no matter how scary the sight. Instead of crawling along at a death march for the last twenty miles, or the last thirty, like at Western States, I finished strong. Could it be that I’m getting not just older, but wiser?
The weather forecast is perfect: high of 72, low of 41, very little chance of rain or thunderstorms. I pack my gear and supplies, a strategic game of weighing the benefits of traveling light against those of being prepared for anything. The non-negotiable essentials: Garmin, rain jacket, clif bloks, salt tablets, ginger, toilet paper, chapstick that can double as bodyglide. Sunscreen and sunglasses in the May Queen drop bag, socks in every drop bag. Warm clothes, dry shoes at Twin Lakes, and that’s it.
Chaos reigns at the corner of 6th and Harrison, where excitement fills the air, along with lots of apprehension and nervous chatter. The finishing rate of the Leadville 100 is consistently around 50 percent. Altitude sickness, nausea, twisted ankles, falls, cramps, blisters, dehydration and hypothermia take their tolls, and every one of those 1000 or so very fit-looking people secretly dreads the real possibility of a DNF. Last year, this palpable energy led me to run down Sixth Street at a much too fast pace, and to fly down the powerline section among superhuman front runners that were clearly out of my league. This year, I consult my Garmin early and frequently, which helps me maintain a measured, controlled 10-plus minute mile.
The people of Leadville have every right to be upset by large crowds of runners, loudspeakers and shotgun blasts at 4 AM. Instead, they choose to hold a block party. Music and cheers from porches and front yards send us on our way toward the mountains. Springsteen’s “Born to Run” has never sounded better.
I make my way around the lake and reach May Queen in 2:23, a few minutes after sunrise and a full ten minutes behind my goal time. David, my husband, aka my crew, pacer, sponsor, cheerleader and race photographer, seems a little worried, but I run off toward Sugarloaf, trying to stick to my plan of saving energy and quads for the second half. This is not easy. The day promises to be almost overwhelmingly gorgeous. As the sun rises, surrounding mountains appear in a crisp and inviting panorama view, bathed in the glow of the early morning light. Wooden bridges punctuate the uphill singletrack section through tall, moss-covered trees. Keith Straw, easy to recognize in his pink tutu, is on his third Grand-Slam 100-miler, spreading his usual good cheer but struggling with the thin mountain air. I pass him as we make our way up Haggerman pass and reach the top, from where the long, steep, and totally straight powerlines trail appears to beg for a fast descent. Every year, these lines seduce runners, especially innocent Leadville virgins, into hammering down toward Fish Hatchery as fast as they can. Last year, I followed their siren call blithely, and paid for a few minutes of exuberant fun with wasted quads and hours of excruciating misery on the way back. This year, I resist the temptation. Like Ulysses tied to the mast of his ship, I descend at a measured, easy pace, allowing other runners to blaze by me while inwardly pitying the poor fools.
Outward Bound is a busy place. David snaps a few pictures, informs me that I’m still seven minutes behind goal time. He takes my jacket, and I’m off. On the road section toward Half Pipe, I begin to pass people. The descent into Twin Lakes confirms that my quads are in good working order, ready for the Hope Pass double crossing. At Hopeless, someone tells me I’m the ninth place female, which means very little at mile 45. Once more, I remind myself to maintain a conservative mindset on the downhill toward Winfield. Save the planet, save the whales, save the quads…My legs are still tired from the climb, which is a good thing: I feel much less temptation to hammer the descent.
Winfield is a zoo. Lines of cars, with people weaving between them. Pacers and crews are sprinting up the road, trying to connect with their runners. I don’t see David, and am not surprised. In anticipation of Winfield chaos,I have stashed extra sunscreen and other essentials in my drop bag. Five minutes and one boiled potato later, I head back out. The decision to run without a pacer until mile 75 seems a wise one as I negotiate the single track and the steep climb back up the pass. There are more than enough people on this trail, in both directions. I run strong, passing several others, until the climb starts. Holy cow! I had forgotten just how steep, just how relentless a climb it is. The downhill runners look as dazed and out of breath as we uphill runners, and I use the term “runners” very loosely — uphill snails would be more accurate. We crawl up the singletrack, using trees and rocks for leverage, gasping for nonexistent air. Traffic is not too much of an issue — though the downhill runners officially have the right of way, everyone, no matter which direction they’re headed, seems more than happy to step aside, and let others pass. Are we being overly polite, or just looking for an excuse to stop moving for a few seconds?
Oxygen becomes an even more precious commodity above treeline. I notice my shoelace has come untied, and take this as an opportunity to stop briefly. A little below the top, my hamstrings begin to cramp, and I find a rock to sit down on while I dig around my pack for a couple of salt tabs. But other than that, I move forward and upward, at a slow but fairly constant rate, finally reach the crest, and soak up the view for a moment before beginning the descent on unsteady, quivering legs.
Hopeless seems even more aptly named on the way back. The llamas stare at the carnage before them with slightly bewildered expressions on their adorable faces. Hypothermic runners are shivering under space blankets and sleeping bags. Others sport bloody knees, sprained ankles, revolting stomachs. Altitude sickness takes its toll, and several people sit with their heads between their knees, dizzy from exertion and lack of air. I don’t feel wonderful by a long stretch of the imagination, but at least I’m upright and moving, and jog on out down the mountain in the afternoon sun in an optimistic mood, toward warmth and O2. My strength returns, along with more reasonable oxygen levels, but I still navigate the downhill carefully. Like a catholic virgin, I want to save myself, and like a catholic virgin, I resist the temptation to rush things.
The river crossing is an excellent opportunity to sit down in the ice-cold water. My quads are grateful, and dry shoes await at TwinLakes. The crowds have thinned considerably by this point. There is more carnage, and more people visibly wrestling with the DNF demons, but David and Bobby greet me with my drop bag, big smiles, and big hugs. I have not seen them since this morning and feel overwhelmed with gratitude. This is the longest planned stop: change into dry shoes and long tights, tie jacket around waist, stuff headlamp into pockets, take hat and gloves along. The sun is still up, and it won’t be dark for a couple of hours, but I morph from a catholic virgin into a good Girl Scout and reason that it is better to be overprepared than underprepared.
I am sick of clif bloks by now. It is dinner time anyway, so I pack a ziploc baggie of turkey and peanut butter sandwich bites. This whole pit stop has only taken a few minutes, and I head on up the hill, toward home. To my surprise, my legs feel strong. I am able to run everything except the steep uphills and don’t need to turn on my head lamp until Half Pipe. My stomach feels worse than my legs. I try to soothe it with fizzy coke and ginger. Nothing much tastes good, but I nibble enough to avoid a bonk. A little after 10 pm and still running, I arrive at Outward Bound, mile 76, where my slightly undertrained stepson Bobby is wearing his pacer number, smiling but looking apprehensive. We hike through the darkness up the powerlines, then run toward May Queen. Last year, the downhills were excruciatingly painful by this point, and running had turned to mostly walking, accompanied by a soundtrack of my whining and whimpering. This time around, I run strong all the way into the aid station, passing several people who look like I did in 2012. Running the earlier downhills like a catholic virgin was a good idea, it seems. I have no idea where I am in the field, but am guessing still in the top ten. No women have passed me since before Winfield, and I may have passed a couple. Since most runners have pacers, it is difficult to know who is running and who is pacing, and I try not to worry about such lofty goals as age group awards.
Bobby is barely keeping up with me as we blaze into May Queen. I’m proud of him. He calls me a beast, hands the pacer number to David, visibly relieved I have not dropped him, and staggers off to retrieve the car. My Garmin has died at mile 75, but it is only a little after midnight. I have more than four hours to make it back to Leadville before the 25-hour cutoff. For the first time today (and, technically, yesterday), I allow myself to think of this dream goal as not only achievable but likely. Even if I walk the remaining 13 miles, I will make it.
My stomach is still acting like a finicky Chihuahua, or a spoiled toddler. It wants no more boiled potatoes, no more crackers, and certainly no more clif bloks. We argue for a few minutes until it agrees to a few spoonfuls of Ramen noodles. I pack a couple of sandwich pieces, and we (meaning: Katrin, David, and the protesting stomach) are off toward the finish line.
It It is not nearly as cold as last year. The full moon shines brightly over Turquoise Lake, a beautiful night panorama. My legs are finally getting tired, but the finish line is moving closer with every step. We walk the uphills, but still run everything else. I choke down some tortilla with cheese and implore my queasy stomach to please, please be a team player with the other body parts for a little while longer. While I hardly ever barf in an ultra, I have many times felt so nauseous that I wished I could. My stomach is really pretty well-behaved overall. Most of the time, it eventually settles, with a little walk break, a little ginger, a little tough love. Tonight is no exception. I follow up with some caffeinated jelly beans, and begin to feel less nauseated, which is good because my legs are finally getting stiff and tired.
The lake seems to go on forever. David’s skills as a trial attorney make him an excellent pacer: he can lie so convincingly that a jury will believe the sun rises in the North, and he can shrink his otherwise expansive heart to the size of a piñon nut whenever he thinks it necessary. He keeps telling me to pick up the pace because the tenth-place woman is right behind us. My addled brain does not stop to consider how he would know such a thing. The possibility that he is just making it up never crosses my mind. I dig around for my last reserves. The lake finally ends. Home stretch, six more miles. We pass more people, whose pacers are obviously less skilled in the art of argument. The last steep downhill hurts, but not nearly as much as last year, when I had to negotiate it backward and with the help of an improvised walking stick. We run to the next pink ribbon, the next uphill, the next tree. Walk a bit, run again. “If we hurry, you can finish in under 24 hours.” I believe everything I hear. Like an obedient pony, I force my exhausted legs into a jog time and again. “This is not really an uphill” David points out. It looks and feels like an uphill to me, but what do I know after running continuously for twenty-plus hours? “You look great!” my husband asserts, and I finally think he may be stretching the truth with that one.
The Boulevard definitely feels like an uphill to me. “Hurry, the girl behind you is gaining on us.” What? Does David have extra eyes with perfect night vision in the back of his head? But surely he must be right. It is still pitch dark, but pavement begins, and street lights appear. The finish line is lit up like a Las Vegas (Nevada) casino. I dig even deeper, for my very last energy reserves. Run. Down 6th street, then up, toward lights and loudspeakers. The red carpet. The finish. I can stop. Merilee welcomes me home. The clock says 23:16, and I blink in disbelief. Fourth woman, first in the Master’s division. How did this happen? Am I hallucinating after all? I blink again. No, it seems to be true. I hug everyone in sight. I thank David, Bobby, Merilee, and anyone else awake at this hour.
What a day! What a night! What a team effort! And yes, what a buckle!

Final tally:
Hallucinations: 2012 — several scary ones. 2013: zero

Puking: 2012 — zero times, but came close. 2013 — exactly the same

Blisters: 2012 — quite a few, some on top of each other. 2013 — zero, except for one blood-filled monstrosity that formed the next day under my big toenail

Really, really low points: 2012 — one, complete with tears and whining. 2013 — zero

Walk breaks: 2012 — one long one . . . from mile 80 to the end. 2013 — a few brief ones

Falls: 2012 — two full face plants, resulting in bloody knees and bruised ego. 2013 — one very minor stumble

Sunrises witnessed: 2012 — two. 2013 — one. I kind of missed that beautiful second morning this year, but not enough to slow down and wait for it.

Giant belt buckles:
2012 — none, just its pint-size baby brother.
2013 — one. Have to say, though, that its impressive size causes ribcage pain, especially when worn with yoga pants, bike shorts, bikini bottoms, or formal evening attire. Also, my husband complains that it gets in the way of marital relations.

Final note:
I know that many runners were disappointed in this year’s Leadville 100. I know that ultras and large for-profit corporations like Lifetime Fitness are two concepts without much common ground I know 1200 people are too many for the trail to Winfield. I know there were chaotic parking situations, traffic jams, lots of missed crew and pacer connections, and that aid stations ran out of basic items. But Leadville is, and always will be, a special race to me. I sincerely hope that the original, incredibly positive spirit of the Leadville 100 is stronger than any issues runners experienced this year.

I finished Western States exactly two weeks ago, to the minute. And here I am, in Leadville, at the base of the Dutch Henry ski hill, under an overcast sky that is slowly turning pink, shivering in anticipation of the silver Rush 50-mile race. Expert advice generally recommends a period of rest after a very tough 100-mile run like Western States. However, most experts also agree that recovery does not amount to weeks spent in a state of sloth-like inertia. Active recovery is key, and how active the recovery phase will be is open to interpretation. It depends on the lingering aftereffects of the 100-mile race, like levels of residual quad pain, levels of residual fatigue, and the post-100 mental slump. Anecdotal evidence suggests that ultrarunners suffer from a temporary loss of brain cells after every hard effort of more than 24 hours, especially if this effort involved a silver buckle that remained close enough to taunt and tempt, but nonetheless just out of reach. Like after a hard-fought and narrowly lost boxing match, the bruised body craves rest while the bruised ego needs a new challenge as soon as possible. This means that running another ultra as soon as physically able seems like a good idea to some of us, and that a tough 50-mile mountain race seems like an appropriate measure of active recovery.
At 6 AM, Ken Chlouber’s deafening shotgun blast sends us off. Maybe my damaged brain cells are beginning to regenerate. I have enough sense to not participate in the mad dash to the top of the hill before the start of the actual Silver Rush. Instead, I hike up at a reasonable speed and break into a trot while crossing the timing mat. The morning is beautiful, the rising sun shines through the clouds, and a day of running in the mountains lies ahead. What could be better?
I am not pushing very hard during the first ten uphill miles, running only the most moderate grades. My Silver rush PR from last year was 8:55, which meant an age group win, but last year the Silver rush was one of my A races, not something I did for fun two weeks after a challenging 100 miler. I fully expect a finish of about 10 hours today, not sub-9. But by mile 12, I feel really good, have passed a few women runners, and begin to wonder how many are ahead until someone at the second aid station inform me that I’m in seventh place. In addition, the weather forecast looks ominous for the afternoon. Dark clouds gather over the mountains already. An added incentive to pick up the pace.
It is not too hot and only intermittently sunny, ideal conditions. By the time I reach Printer Boy, I have advanced to sixth place, and my legs remember what it feels like to run downhill without wincing — something I have not been able to enjoy since Western States. But I enjoy it now, heading down from Ball Mountain toward the turnaround point. This is one of my favorite sections of the course: the grand view of Mosquito Pass, enhanced by the comforting knowledge that, unlike in the Leadville Marathon, I don’t have to climb up that thing, and the opportunity to cheer on the race leaders who are already flying back to Leadville. I eye the five other women ahead of me surreptitiously, which makes me realize that a fourth place finish might be within reach if I can keep doing what I’m doing all the way to the finish.
Right after the turnaround with its new, gratuitous and demoralizing uphill loop, I reconnect with Adrian, a runner I remember from last year’s Silver Rush. We ran large sections of that race together, supported each other through tough spots, and both finished sub-nine hours. This year he has not done the mountain bike ride the day before and runs a little faster than I do after the turnaround. Paul is not too far behind me. Nick is coming down the hill, looking strong. Rachael is a little behind him, moving at a steady clip. We exchange waves and nods. I feel motivated because I am trying to keep up with Adrian, and to stay ahead of my friends, and also because the runners heading toward the turnaround now cheer for us. I try to return the favor until the climb back up Ball mountain leaves me gasping for air and shuts me up.
Ken Chlouber is patrolling the course on his four wheeler, and jokingly offers me a ride. I am only tempted for a moment. A light rain begins to fall, and temperatures cool markedly. 12 more miles to go, two uphill, ten mostly down. I am beginning to feel fatigue in my still not recovered quads, but decide to dig deep. Hike. Run. Hike again. The gentle uphill seems to last a lot longer than two miles. Some hail joins the rain, and I have to move fast enough to stay warm. I pass Adrian. The downhill comes into view, and the fifth place woman. I breeze by, hoping I can maintain my lead. Right before the last aid station, five miles from the finish, I glimpse yet another bobbing ponytail and move into fourth place. Now I really can’t slow down, though I wish I could. Keep it up for three more miles. Another skirted silhouette up ahead. Last reserves push me into third. I glance over my shoulder, struggle to stay ahead, and wonder how much further it can be to the finish. My Garmin is not much help, since I forgot to turn it on until about 40 minutes into the run. I have not eaten anything for the last twelve miles and feel depleted. Running on empty, on pure fumes. But the five mile mark was a very long time ago. I glance behind me again, see no one, and slow down just a little. Uphill. walk. Run. Cross road. A steep uphill, but the cheers from the finish line drift my way. From last year, I remember the extra loop around the ski hill, and pull out my very last bit of energy. The finish line clock comes into my field of vision showing 8:53, and I sprint across it in 8:54, a scant minute faster than last year, but a PR is a PR. And a third place is a third place. I feel proud and accomplished. Adrian comes in a couple of minutes behind me, as do the two women I have passed recently. Congratulations all around.
The rain has stopped but the sky looks darker than ever. I walk to the motel, take a shower, and return to the ski hill, hoping to cheer on Nick and Rachael and to reward myself with a massage. When the clouds open up and the rain starts pouring with a vengeance, I am still inside the massage tent. Water soon saturates everything. The field turns into a small lake. The noise level is deafening, it is more or less impossible to hear the announcer, and the finishers who cross the line try to find shelter as quickly as possible. I glance at the results screen, see that Nick and Rachael have already finished, with respectable times of 11:04 and 11:08, respectively. I splash back across the road to the Super 8, hoping that Rachael has done the only sensible thing, which is to avoid hypothermia by means of a hot shower. This turns out to be the case, and we go for post-run cheeseburgers at the Tennessee Pass Cafe warm, dry, and very happy. Lesson learned: active recovery is indeed more than just rest. It can include a 50-mile mountain run, even a PR.

“The thing I don’t like about Western States is that you show up at the
starting line in the best shape of your life and a day later you are in
Auburn in the worst shape of your life.”
– Andy Black

June 29 2013. It is here! During the six months since getting lucky at the Western States lottery, I have logged hundreds and hundreds of miles, injured and rehabbed my IT band, worn out several pairs of shoes, been labeled insane, rearranged my life priorities, gone through serious heat training in the Moab desert, and several phases of serious nail biting and soul searching. As part of our tapering program, my friend and training partner Rachael StClaire have decided to drive to Squaw Valley from the Southwest. Our epic and wonderful road trip through the Navajo reservation, Las Vegas, Death Valley, and Yosemite has distracted us successfully from pre-ultra jitters. After a few slightly otherworldly days of ghost towns, aliens, ancient Anasazi spirits and fake European monuments, the prospect of 100 very tough, very hot miles suddenly seems very real, and very daunting, but it is too late to change our minds now. We have weighed in. We have signed — but thankfully not read — all the waivers. We are proudly wearing our plastic bracelets. The drop bags are dropped off. This is it.

My very long day begins at 3 AM in Squaw Valley and ends the next morning on the Placer High school track. During the time in between, I experience a range of mental, emotional, and physical highs and lows that resemble the jagged course elevation profile. When the alarm rings long before dawn, Rachael and I wake up giddy with excitement. After we pin on our numbers, our small but mighty group of runners from New Mexico meets for a pre-race photo and good wishes all around, and then it is time to head to the starting line. I hug Rachael. I hug David, my wonderful crew-pacer-husband combo. This is it. At 5 AM, under the very first light of dawn, almost 400 runners take off toward Auburn along the Western States trail, hoping to get there within 30 hours.

When the gun goes off, I take off running but slow to a powerhike almost immediately. The climb up Emigrant pass is steep, and with over 99 miles left to go it seems unwise to waste energy. A gorgeous view of the sun rising over Lake Tahoe greets me upon reaching the top, and I settle into the conga line heading down the single track, somewhere in the middle of the pack, when water starts squirting from my hydration pack hose. The bite valve has come off for no apparent reason, and I spend precious minutes backtracking to look for it while I visualize the misery of death from dehydration after all the water has drained from my pack and it has warmed up to the forecast high temperature of 102 degrees. The prospect fills me with panic and dread, but then I remember that my pack has a shut-off valve. My stress levels go down to normal. Drinking involves some additional effort, but is still possible, and I seem to remember packing a spare bite valve in the crew bag.
The scenery is beautiful, and the morning still cool. I feel great, and decide it is time to move up a little. Keith, aka the man in the pink tutu, is in front of me, and we pass several runners while chatting amicably about his grand slam plans, Leadville, and Hokas. He says he wears the tutu to make running 100 miles look easy. After watching him catch up to runners and then leaving them behind as though they were standing still, I develop my own theory: he is a super athlete and wears it to demoralize other runners who might take themselves too seriously otherwise. Getting dusted by a bald guy with a British accent and a ruffled skirt will fix any delusions of grandeur. Eventually, he leaves me behind on his way to a sub-24 finish, but this is one of the many indelible, surreal images of this race day: Keith running along the Red Star ridge, his pink ballet outfit contrasting sharply with the varying shades of green mountains and the blue sky. I feel lucky to be alive, and lucky to have found this sport.

My crew – David, Bobby, and Margaret, greet me at Robinson Flat. The place is buzzing with energy. The aid stations at Western States are like a cross between a pit stop in a formula one race and a friendly, cozy but professionally managed roadside cafe. I weigh in at five pounds less than this morning, which is not good, eat some watermelon and peanut butter sandwich, then replace the bite valve, put on the cool tie in preparation for the heat of the day, hug my wonderful husband, and run off toward the canyons.
I feel strong, and pass more runners. Temperatures are definitely on the rise, but I feel prepared for dealing with oven-like conditions. The bandana around my neck is doing its job, and the ice I have stuffed down my bra and under my hat is slowly melting. But I am definitely dehydrated. While cruising down a fairly easy stretch of beautiful downhill, one little root catches my toe and sends me tumbling down the trail head first, narrowly avoiding a cow patty. I thank my lucky stars, scrape the dirt and pebbles off my knees, assess the damage and decide it is not worth the emergency band-aid in my pack. Onward, down to the river and the ominously looming Devil’s Thumb. Several runners, fellow New Mexican Ken Gordon among them, are cooling off in the river before facing the steep climb, but I decide against it because of my tendency to sprout blisters inside wet shoes. I have lots of time to regret this decision as I struggle up the almost vertical incline in the sweltering heat of midday. In retrospect, the blisters would have been more tolerable. We pass a runner lying motionless on a log by the side of the trail. Concerned questions and some gentle prodding elicit a weak thumbs-up sign. My stomach, which has been cooperative so far, refuses to continue as a team player with my other body parts and decides to rebel. I feel nauseous, and a piece of ginger brings only short-term relief. Ugh.
After traversing hell for what seems like (and probably was) several hours, we reach heaven, where friendly angels in green T-shirts drape a cold towel around my neck, hand me a Popsicle, and gently remind me to drink more. I come close to experiencing a religious conversion, but after a few minutes, my core temperature drops and wonderful but very definitely human aid station volunteers come into focus. I force a boiled potato and some watermelon down my dry throat and into my protesting stomach, and walk on out, still an atheist. Ken tries to coax me into a run, but the potato is unsure of which way it wants to go, and I would rather barf in the privacy of my own port-a-shrub than in front of Ken. Besides, the 24 hour goal I am now abandoning is still within his reach. Once alone, I keep walking, drinking, and chewing pieces of ginger. The sun is merciless, but for some unfathomable reason I am slowly beginning to feel better and break into a jog. The climb up Michigan Bluff is longer but not as grueling as Devil’s Thumb. I drain almost my entire hydration pack. By the time the aid station comes into view, I am once more hydrated, smiling, chatting with other runners, and looking forward to seeing my wonderful family.
My weight is back up to where I started, and my stomach can handle part of a turkey sandwich. I fall into the chair, the first time I have allowed myself to sit down, and tell David to force me into action again in five minutes, no matter ho much I beg him to let me sit longer. Dry socks feel amazing, as does more ice and cold water. Refreshed, I head out.
My quads are beginning to hurt on the descents, but the sun is finally losing some of its blunt force. I reach Foresthill around 7:15 pm, still feeling strong. Margaret is wearing her pacer number, and we exit at a brisk trot. The trail is beautiful, rolling and smooth, and for several miles the 24 hour goal moves within reach once again. Then my quads begin to really hurt. They cramp and seize on every little downhill. Darkness falls, and my energy level plummets. The pain is so intense I almost cry, and for the next ten slow, excruciatingly painful miles, I walk, break into a shuffle, walk again. I whine. I complain. I curse in German, and in English. Margaret is probably tempted to abandon me to the local wildlife, but is stuck with me for the time being and remains incredibly positive and reassuring. Yes, we have done three quarters of the race already. No, I am not the biggest wimp she has ever paced. No, finishing Western States in more than 24 hours will not make me the laughing stock of the ultrarunning community. Yes, we have already gone at least a mile since the last aid station. Yes, the next aid station is right around the corner. My addled brain suspects her answers may not be entirely truthful at this point, but if she does lie, it is out of pure kindness and compassion. I concentrate on moving forward. Anybody walking or crawling, still beats anybody stopping. The 24 hour mark slips once more into the realm of fantasy. I don’t even care, I just want to finish. Or lie down and sleep. Or get drunk. Or be devoured by a bear. Or a cougar. Anything to end this misery, anything but run. The last five miles to the river crossing feel more like 15 miles of agonizing torture.
There are stairs leading down to the river. My quads recoil at the sight, but for some reason I manage them unassisted. Cold water to my waist feels surprisingly refreshing, an the sight of people in wetsuits standing in the river all night, helping runners find their way along the treacherous and slippery rocks fills me with overwhelming gratitude. Dry shoes are waiting in my drop bag. My legs feel refreshed, or maybe just numb, as we hike up to Green Gate. Luanne Parks has come back from the dead. She passes me, looking strong and confident, and invites me to tag along for a still possible 24 hour finish. David takes the pacer number from Margaret, and we actually take off running for a few miles.
Once the effect of the cold water wears off, my quads begin to scream again. I slow to the fastest walk I can manage, sigh deeply, and watch Luanne and the silver buckle disappear into the dark, trying to convince myself once more that bronze is a lovely color for a belt buckle. The night is warm and very beautiful, filled with moonlight and the sounds of crickets and frogs. David and I spend a romantic couple of hours hiking and shuffling through the enchanted forest. A deer stands right next to the trail and looks at us with mild interest. In spite of my trashed quads and what feels like a huge blister on my left foot I feel a deep sense of joy and peace. A few similarly struggling runners pass us, and we pass some of them. Conversation ebbs. The next aid station has a Christmas theme, and a helpful elf patches up my blister while I munch on a piece of quesadilla. Several runners with complexions ranging from pale gray to olive green are slumped in chairs or curled up on cots, and I feel fortunate to be able to move, however slowly.
We walk toward Brown’s Bar, occasionally attempting a shuffle. My head lamp dims, and a branch slaps me across the bridge of my nose. I pay no attention. Rock music sounds in the distance, and the hum of a generator. Time for a battery change. Someone asks me politely if I would like to clean the blood off my face, but since battle wounds mean I am still a tough chick, though not a sub-24 tough chick, I decline. Ten more miles. The finish becomes imaginable. I manage to break into a slow trot once more, then a climb toward the highway crossing serves as a welcome excuse to walk again.
Bobby is excited to pace me to the finish. I know he has been apprehensive about being able to keep up, but my snail-like pace reassures him. I try to focus on the beauty of the darkness just before dawn, and the magic of this race, rather than my now totally defunct quads that feel more like hamburger meat than actual muscles. The blister hurts quite a bit and seems to extend over half my sole by now, but the legs hurt so much more that my brain is unable to focus on both pains at once. This is probably a good thing. More climbing, which hurts. More descending, which hurts worse. This has to be the last hill. I find the energy to run across No Hands bridge at dawn. Three more miles, a 5k. Anyone can run a 5k. I have run 97 miles, I can manage three more. Breathe. Move. Another uphill. Another downhill. We turn off our lights. Yet another hill. The town of Auburn appears. A paved road. Like a tired horse on its way home to the barn, I straighten up and weakly trot a few steps at a time. Robie point. One more hill. One more mile. I begin to think of finish line pictures, wonder how my hair looks and whether the salt crust on my face counts as makeup. I am also grateful that photographs are digital and not scratch and sniff.
The stadium appears. I have visualized this moment since December. I enter the gate and start running around the track, heroically breaking into what I perceive as an all-out sprint that on the video turns out to be a shuffling jog-trot. 24:58. Less than an hour off my dream goal. I collapse on the grass, happy and exhausted and utterly drained of all energy.
One of the most grueling and beautiful days of my life is over. I cannot wait for the next chance at the silver buckle.

And now for some post-race analysis…

What Western States has taught me:

Elevation profiles can be deceptive. This looks like a much easier course than Leadville, but it isn’t. There is actually more elevation change involved, the up and down is relentlessly constant, and the heat is a force to be reckoned with. Like a frozen cocktail with a cute umbrella stuck in it, this race packs an unexpected punch, The 22 000 feet of downhill mixed with the oven-like temperatures form a concoction that looks quite harmless from the outside but becomes lethal once ingested.

2. There is no substitute for experience. I am still not really sure I can finish this distance, and the only way to acquire confidence is to run a few more 100s. The scary part is that I already look forward to my next one.

3. It is legitimate, and sometimes inevitable, to reassess one’s goals during a 100. Bronze is a lovely color for a buckle. It really is.

4. There is nothing to be gained from fighting hills, or heat. The hills are the hills. The weather is the weather. These factors are things I cannot change, and any attempt is a big waste of energy.

At my next 100, I will practice more and better:

Pain management
Quad maintenance
3. Running my own race from start to finish

At my next 100, I promise to practice less:

Whining in English
Complaining in German
Cursing in Italian
Moaning aloud with every downhill step after mile 75
Making grunting sounds with every uphill step after mile 82
Trying to keep up with people who are clearly in a different, much faster and potentially superhuman league
Asking my pacer in 30-second increments when we will get to the next aid station, especially if she does not know the course any better than I do, and I know that she doesn’t know it

All in all, this was a blast.
It is a good time to be alive and running.
Katrin

Deadman Peaks Race Report — Cowboys and Aliens

We drive to Cuba, NM on Friday, October 19th, 2012, for our romantic 20th anniversary getaway weekend. Running an ultramarathon seemed like a fitting and obvious choice for the special occasion, though not one our friends and family can understand.
The alarm rings at 4:45, but we still manage to get lost on our way to the 6 AM start and almost miss it. We park, toss our drop bags into the waiting piles, turn on our headlamps, and are on our way. It’s dark, and it’s freezing, but we — the lunatic fringe of the running community, according to runner’s world magazine — take off under the stars, 75 or so happy, slightly insane people. We look forward to a grueling and scenic race: 54 miles of desert vegetation, rock formations that seem to have been dropped from other planets, tough technical climbs, and views to knock your socks off.

After a mile or so on a dirt road, the race turns on to the single track Continental Divide Trail which runs from Mexico to Canada. This is one of its lesser-known and little-used sections, though it must be among the most scenic. We climb, gradually, with our headlamps lighting the way. As the sky turns from black to grey, and then to pink on the Eastern horizon, we find ourselves running along the jagged edge of a tall mesa. The panorama below us is mind-blowingly beautiful, and almost everyone stops for a moment to take in the view and take a couple of pictures. The sunrise adds bright golden highlights to the views, and warmth to our fingertips. A steep scramble down a mesa brings us to the first aid station at mile 9.5. From there, we embark on the next 8-mile section, the most desolate and most surreal part of the course. Barren slickrock fields, gnarled trees clinging sideways to large boulders, and unlikely rock formations make it easy to think we’ve been kidnaped by aliens.

During the last few miles to the turnaround point, the backdrop changes from science fiction to classic western. The trail winds through sagebrush and sand, with Cabezon Peak hovering on the horizon. We run along a rusty barbed wire fence and pass a couple of old windmills. I imagine outlaws hiding in the hills and poor lonesome cowboys riding the range.

Randy and I get to the turnaround at exactly 5 hours, ahead of schedule. We see David on the way back, limping, cramping, and generally suffering, like many other runners. The heat is taking its toll. We slow down and hope for a breeze, some shade, or both. No such luck. 20 miles to go. The sun is high, intense, and merciless. We pass a couple more cramping runners. The aid station at mile 37 looks like a hallucination but turns out to be real. I dump ice over my head. Keep running. The surreal rock formations seem less friendly and more threatening. We did pay money to do this. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, not so much. Eight miles to the next aid station. I begin to feel a blister. Sock change at mile 44. Less than 10 miles to go. The tall mesa looms ahead, and I remember this morning’s steep downhill scramble. Now we have to climb back up, using our hands as much as our legs. But this is the last climb, and we’re counting down single-digit miles to the finish. Seven. Six. Five. Four. My Garmin informs me that we’ve covered 50 miles. This is a mentally tough place. My legs are like overcooked noodles, my stomach is beginning to rebel against the flavor of electrolyte tabs, and my blister is becoming larger as well as more painful. Why can’t we be done after 50 miles, like normal people?
One foot in front of the other. Randy is suffering. I am suffering. We are running on our last reserves, then on willpower alone. But we have passed several runners who are suffering even more. We start walking all uphills, then cheat and walk a perfectly level section. Turn on the dirt road. The finish line appears on the horizon. We walk another perfectly level section just to be able to run across the finish. And we finish in 10:39, much better than the sub-12 goal we decided on this morning.
David is at the finish, already showered and recovered after missing the 27-mile cutoff. We hug, he takes pictures, and then we feast on the best finish line cookout we have ever seen or tasted: home made enchiladas, sopaipillas, burgers, posole, wine. And Jim Breyfogle’s birthday cake for dessert. Runners cross the finish line, exhausted but glowing. A tough and beautiful day winds down. There is no better way to spend one’s anniversary or one’s birthday than here, surrounded by good friends and the glorious desert. Thank you, Jim, thank you, Nick, thank you Ken, thank you Margaret, thank you, everyone else whose name I don’t remember. This was an amazing race, a reminder that it is a good time to be alive and running.

We are starting our ultrarunning season early this year: Bandera, Texas, is the site of an exceptionally friendly, professionally organized, rocky, hilly, gnarly race ideal for couples with varying levels of masochism between them. David is running the 50k, while I repeat the loop for the 100k. The morning of January 12, 2013 is unseasonably warm, as well as unseasonably wet.  As we line up for the start, a drizzly fog hangs over the Texas Hill Country.  The landscape looks like a part of Tolkien’s middle earth, and the assembled fellowship of trail runners is huddled around the lodge, about to embark on an epic quest for the buckle of power.

Mighty wizard Joe Prusaitis says a few words of last-minute encouragement, and we’re off toward the mist-covered mountains.  The first couple of climbs offer none of the expected views as a reward, but the slightly surreal experience of watching the sunrise through a prism of drifting fog more than makes up for this.  I breeze through the first aid station, cheerfully staffed by volunteers dressed in superhero costumes.  All aid stations on this course are top notch operations, lovingly stocked with everything a runner might want, including mashed potatoes and positive energy.

Soon, I notice that my legs seem to be getting unusually heavy.  Our main enemy today is not an army of orcs.  No, it is something much more powerful and sinister: clumps of reddish mud have attached themselves to my shoes.  At every sharp rock, and every root, runners stop and scrape their feet.  The mud is persistent, though, and keep coming back.  It changes color periodically, from red to beige, from beige to dark brown, from dark brown to black, from black to tan.  Dry grass clings to the mud that clings to my shoes, with the result that they become wider in addition to taller.  I shuffle through the mud like I’m wearing large snowshoes.  I slip, slide, brace, rebalance, fall, get back up.  Others do the same. Everyone is pretty much covered in mud.  Coming from the high desert of New Mexico, I rarely get to experience mud in this quality or quantity.   I look ahead, look behind, and feel exhilarated: this is ultra running at its finest, a bunch of otherwise intelligent, grown up people playing in the mud all day long.  In addition, we have to contend with the various types of cactus along the trail.  The race website describes the Hill Country as “a place where everything cuts, bites, and stings.”  This is accurate.  Sotol and various other pointy plants draw blood, which mixes nicely with the mud on my legs.

I reach the lodge and am briefly tempted to drop down to the 50k.  Would Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn have done that? No, they finished.  And I’m halfway done already.  Off I go.  The afternoon brings some sun, and noticeably drier conditions, but by sunset, the moisture is back.  Thankfully, I only have about ten more miles to go.  Darkness falls, and the mist makes it difficult to see.  Soup at the Last Chance aid station feels like a magic potion. I negotiate the last few tricky climbs and descents over slippery rocks slowly, passing a limping runner who rolled his ankle. He declines my offer to walk together, and I continue, even more cautiously than before. The temperature drops, the wind picks up, and I put on my rain jacket for the last few lonely, technical miles.  This is a thing I love about ultras: the time spent alone in the dark, when all distractions are stripped away, when exhaustion sets in, and when everything boils down to a contest between the inner voice that says “why”? and the other inner voice that says “keep going, one foot in front of the other, that’s it!”.  Finally, I see lights, and a finish line. David hugs me.  Joe Prusaitis, the wizard who never sleeps, hands me the buckle.  Quest is fulfilled, in 12:27! I thank everyone in sight.  David has finished the 50k.  We are proud and happy, and deeply grateful to Joe, Joyce, and every single volunteer who sacrificed a weekend or more to make this experience possible.  We warm up for a while in the heated tent as other runners arrive.  This is one of my favorite events, and I already look forward to next year’s race.

Mount Taylor race report

On September 29, we gather in the pre-dawn chill, 145 of us intrepid souls, for a day of celebration: of the changing seasons, of the beautiful mountains, of the sport of ultra running.  David and I have driven to Grants from Las Vegas, New Mexico the night before, along I-40, straight into a gorgeous sunset.  We’re excited about this race. New Mexico has been our home for decades, but we have never climbed Mount Taylor, and we’re curious. The inaugural Mt Taylor 50k begins with an unceremonious “Three-two-one…Get out of here!” at daybreak, around 6:30 AM.  The sky lightens from grey to blue as we make our way up a dirt road and son turn onto a beautiful, leaf-covered trail.

The timing of the race is perfect:  the changing leaves have erupted into an impressive  fall panorama. The sun rises over the aspens, an explosion of brilliance in shades of gold, contrasting with the bright blue above them.  Life is good, in spite of the relentless uphill towards La Mosca, the first, but not only, significant climb of the day.  I run next to Randy, and we decide to shoot for sub-6:30 together.  Animated conversation ensues.  Randy is an example for what makes our sport so enjoyable and unique: I met him a year ago in Pagosa Springs, when we suffered through the last few miles of the Devil Mountain 50-miler together.   Though we haven’t seen each other since, we are able to pick up our conversation right where we left off and slide back into the easy camaraderie of old friends.  He has trained on the course and advises me, wisely it turns out, to save some energy for the last few miles.

Absorbed in the beautiful morning and the rehashing of recent ultras, I overlook a devious rock in the middle of the trail and land face first in the dirt.  Playing tourist is not a good idea, though a big temptation. A quick check reveals that all body parts are present and accounted for, and though my knees are bloody, they still function.  A kind aid station volunteer offers first aid, but also tells me I’m in fourth place.  I feel a twinge of ambition. I am in the top five, and besides, dirt clots blood very effectively.  Off we go, more miles and more beautiful trails are waiting.  We practice controlled speed on the downhills, plod up the uphills, marvel at the beauty of the CDT, and soon begin the long climb to the top of Mt Taylor.  Here, Randy leaves me behind.  I’m no slouch on uphillls, but he must have learned his powerhiking skills from a mountain goat. I can’t keep up.  Gasping, I finally reach the top and take a moment to savor the 360 degrees of gorgeous views of  green and gold.  I feel at peace, with life, with nature.  Even hardcore atheists can have their spiritual moments.

It’s all downhill from here…not quite.  For a while, I fly, propelled by the promise of lower altitude, more oxygen, and only six more miles to the finish.  I imagine a cheeseburger calling my name and soon catch up with Randy, who has been nursing a cramp.  Five more miles to the finish..wait, what is this? Another climb is staring us in the face.  Another mountain, not just a little hill.  We groan. We curse. We barely inch forward and upward.  But we eventually make it to the top,  where the last aid station greets us.  Two and a half miles to the finish, mostly downhill.  I look behind me and see another woman approach.  Ambition, forgotten during the last grueling climb, perks up again. I am determined to hang on to my 4th place and race ahead.  It’s not smart to run a technical, steep downhill as fast as possible.  It’s even less smart to do so on tired legs in the last mile of an ultra.  Sure enough, I crash, for the second time today.  More scrapes, on both knees.  Halloween is still a month away, but I could go trick-or treating right now, covered in dirt and grime and blood, as a zombie queen.  I manage to scramble back on my feet and keep going, still ahead of Stephanie, and cross the finish line in 6:08, bloody and exhilarated.   Ken Gordon, RD of the world’s best inaugural ultra, suggests I take a picture of the carnage for future advertising.  Ultrarunners do have a slightly sick sense of humor.

I gather my award, a beautiful and unique poster, along with a finisher’s bracelet and medal.  The finish area is humming with positive energy and infused with the aroma of burgers on the grill.  Runners come across the finish line, exhausted but happy, David among them, proud and happy.  Congratulations and hugs are everywhere.  This is ultrarunning at its best: a spectacular day in the mountains, surrounded by beautiful scenery and good friends. Thank you, Ken, for putting on a first class event.  A giant thank you to all volunteers who helped with aid stations, course marking, and all the details that make an ultra a celebration.  This is a good time to be alive and running.

Here is what I’ve learned from the experience:
How not to run your first 100 mile race at Leadville:

1. Don’t bother with a race plan.  Sure, the 800 or so other runners have worked diligently on theirs for months, but just because they have such a document doesn’t mean that you need one, too.  Especially if it’s your first 100.  If you do decide to write a race plan, limit it to a few handwritten notes,  and put them in the pocket of some jeans you leave at home in the laundry basket. Do not, under any circumstances, share your race plan with your crew.  Nothing is more exciting during an ultra than an element of mystery.
2. Don’t bother to reserve a room early for race weekend.  Why should you? Surely not because hundreds of runners, plus their pacers, crew and assorted family members, will be in town for race weekend.  Sharing a twin room with three other people will be a bonding experience between you an your crew.  Contrary to popular belief, a good night’s sleep is totally unnecessary before a 100 mile race.
3. Pack your drop bags according to a system only known to you, not your crew.  This will force you to spend more time than necessary at each aid station, looking for things in unlabeled little ziploc baggies.  The suspense will make the race more exciting, especially at 2 AM: did I bring extra batteries for the head lamp, or did I not?
4. If you feel the irrational urge to make up for lost time early in he race, even though, not having your race plan handy, you can’t be sure whether or not this is actually the case, go ahead.  Feel free to go fast before mile 25, especially on straight, steep , and long downhills, like Powerlines.  Your quads will thank you later.
5.  Don’t bother to make sure your hydration pack is indeed full after leaving an aid station.  Blindly trust a kind aid station volunteer to know the quirks and peculiarities of your pack, even if it took you several months to figure them out.
6. Don’t bother to refill your pack at every opportunity.  If you have enough faith, an aid station will appear on the back side of Hope Pass, right before your pack runs dry….oh, wait, you’re not Ryan Hall.  And your religious belief is based on Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Never mind.
7.  If you get sick of clif bloks, just stop eating altogether.  And if you get sick of citrus electrolyte taste, quit taking electrolytes.  Just use your imaginary superpowers for nutrition and hydration.  Whatever else you do, don’t listen to experienced 100 mile veterans if they try to get you to eat something at mile 87 when you don’t really feel like it.  What do they know, just because the’ve run a bunch of 100 milers and you have not?
8. After the race, take a quick shower (nothing has ever felt this good!), but don’t    stretch, use the foam roller, or take care of your blisters.  Don’t eat, either.  Instead, lie down for a 10-minute nap before going back down to the finish line to cheer on your friends as they come in.  Wake up hours later and realize you’ve missed all of them.  Spend the next few hours feeling apologetic, and grateful for their understanding.

Undeterred, but hopefully a little wiser, I am already planning our next ultra adventure.  David’s first 100.  My next 100. 
This is a good time to be alive and running.

Third in my age group.