2012 Leadville 100 race report

For the third time this summer, after the Silver Rush and a training run up Hope Pass, David and I drive to Leadville and make it there in time for the medical check-in and packet pick up Thursday evening.  My first 100 miler, and many of my friends have  pointed out that a) running 100 miles is not a good idea and b) if I’m insane enough to try anyway, Leadville does not seem like the right place to start.  I think it is a great idea, and Leadville seems like the ideal place to me: I love this town. The mountains are beautiful. There are  lots of other runners, which minimizes my chance of getting lost and freezing to death in the dark forest, or falling asleep and freezing to death while still on the trail.  Nothing else really scares me.  Not Hope Pass, not the thin air, not the climb up Sugarloaf at mile 80.  I don’t really fear blisters, pain, and stomach issues.  Sometimes, ignorance is a good thing.

The town feels electric with pre-race jitters.  I proudly wear the plastic bracelet with my timing chip.  Over 1000 runners have signed up.  Hotels, restaurants, and everything else in Leadville is filled to capacity, and then some.  Allen and Amy, our friends from Arizona, share a tiny room at the Delaware with us, which feels cozy but slightly chaotic.  A space designed for a maximum of two now contains four people and enough headlamps, hydration packs, water bottles, duct tape, medical supplies, clif bloks, stinger waffles and clothes to outfit one runner, three crew members and pacers, and seven drop bags.   Cramped quarters and piles of stuff on every inch of horizontal surface must be a common sight all over Leadville this weekend.

We spend Friday attending the pre-race briefing, packing and re-packing piles of drop bags, and having a pre-race early dinner reminiscent of the last supper

My genius race plan — actually, a crumpled piece of paper I now can’t find, with some handwritten and barely legible notes on it —  called for going to bed at 7 PM and getting a full night’s sleep before our very early alarm, but I’m too keyed up.  Two hours and one melatonin later, I drift into a series of naps interrupted by dreams of highly unlikely worst-case race scenarios, like finding myself naked and shivering in a snow storm near the top of Hope Pass.  Still, I feel rested and energetic at  3 AM on race morning.

We walk to the start in the chilly pre-dawn darkness.  Very fit people in running shorts and head lamps are wandering around everywhere.  I find Kelley and her sister, we hug for good luck while David takes pictures.  At 4 AM, we count down to zero, the shotgun goes boom, and we’re off.  It’s happening, it’s really happening.  I almost forget to start my Garmin.  We head down 6th street and onto a dirt road.  People are cheering us on from their front lawns.  A car stereo blasts Born to Run.  I remind my legs to not to move too fast.  10 minute miles are pushing it, considering what lies ahead.  The trail around the lake is slightly technical singletrack, but my night running practice is paying off and I navigate roots, rocks and mud without falling.  I am also stuck behind a long row of slow runners and feel like I’m standing still, but this is probably a good thing.  We approach May Queen as the sky turns pink and the sun rises.

 

The head lamp goes into the drop bag, along with gloves.  More nuun goes into the camelbak, and I restock my pockets with clif bloks. My not very scientific nutrition strategy is at least 200 calories an hour, and I know clif bloks will go down and mostly  stay down.  After May Queen, we begin the climb up sugarloaf.  I feel good, and also feel the need to make up for lost time.  I pass a few people on the uphill, then pass many more on the technical powerline downhill.  The more cautious pace of other runners should have been my clue that there were still 80 miles to go, but I feel oblivious at this point.  I blaze into Fish Hatchery, shed my jacket, move more clif bloks into my pocket, and run on out.  A few flat miles on a road follow, then a smooth double track trail towards Half Pipe.  I go on autopilot, and one small rock in the smooth sand does what all of powerline’s tricky, technical descent  failed to accomplish.  I land in the dirt, face first, knees bloody.  Grrrrrr.  I recall, brilliantly, that picking up one’s feet is an important part of chi running technique, not to mention a key element in staying upright and uninjured.

After Half Pipe, the trail winds through beautiful forest.  The sun is shining, birds are singing, and life is good.  I feel connected to nature and completely at peace with the world.  This is why I run, this is what I came for.  I catch up with Ken, we chat for a few minutes, and descend towards Twin Lakes together.  Ken looks at my bleeding knees and helpfully points out that lots of people do face plants on the steep downhill leading into the aid station.  He also points out that these face plants end up all over YouTube.  Is he speaking from experience?  I reach Twin Lakes enveloped in a cloud of serenity, David takes pictures (luckily I take Ken’s advice and don’t fall), stash my rain jacket, and take off.  Mile 39 or so, I have lost track of what time I was supposed to be here, but regardless, I feel good, and ready to tackle Hope Pass.  The river is low but freezing cold.  I briefly consider taking my shoes off for the crossing, see the people ahead keeping their shoes on, and charge on through.  On the other side I see Mitch, putting his shoes back on.  Mitch is a 2:30 marathoner shooting for a big-buckle time.  What he does deserves imitation, and I immediately focus on the squishing sound in my Montrails. I imagine blisters popping up on my feet like mushrooms on a damp forest floor. Grrrrr.

Hope pass rises before us, the heart and soul of the race. Energized by the cold water, I begin powerhiking with Mitch and, unlike on our training run, have no trouble keeping up with him.  We pass quite a few people on our way to Hopeless, where the llamas look down at us with a mildly curious expression on their furry faces.  A sight too cute for words.  I have to stop and take pictures of a couple of particularly adorable creatures, and we continue towards the top.  Anton Krupicka, in the lead at this point, comes flying past us near the crest, shirtless and seemingly effortless, providing a study in efficient downhill running, not to mention a dose of eye candy (for me, probably less so for Mitch).

My legs still feel alive on the descent, but my camelbak runs dry.  I suck a few more times on the empty tube, in utter disbelief, before panic sets in.  Why, oh why did I hand it off to a friendly aid station volunteer and did not refill the damn thing myself at Twin Lakes, knowing how tricky it is to fill all the way? And why — the pinnacle of ultramarathon stupidity – why did I not get water at Hopeless? Was it oxygen deprivation? Llama enchantment? A stubborn but misguided belief that a 2 liter pack would surely last all the way to Winfield, even if it probably contained a lot less than 2 liters to begin with?

Suddenly, all the elation is gone, replaced by worry.  Instead of harmless blister fantasies, I now envision the local vultures feasting on my desiccated corpse.  My skeleton, perched against a large boulder, with the tattered red camelbak still attached, will remind runners in years to come to take enough water across the pass.  I humbly share my rookie predicament with Mitch, who generously offers to share his water, but doesn’t have that much left himself.  It seems unfair to let him pay for my  mistake, so I sip just a little from his pack.  It serves me right to suffer a little.

The trail towards Winfield is pretty, rolling singletrack, my favorite terrain.  I would enjoy it much more with adequate hydration.  My mouth becomes dry, my fingers swell.  The aid station appears in the distance like a fata morgana, and we climb up and away from it instead of moving toward it. A cruel joke? We cross a little mountain stream, and I greedily slurp a stomachful of icy and probably not very drinkable water.  The aid station does not seem to come any closer, and I’ve been stumbling along this hot, dusty, uphill for what seems like several hours.  Not drinking also means not eating.  The thought of choking down clif bloks without water is not worth contemplating.  Is this hell? Is this the standard punishment for atheists like me?  My vision blurs. Dust tickles my throat. I consider a religious conversion in exchange for a miracle i.e. a full camelbak, but no luck.

Finally we turn left and downhill.  I see Amy coming towards me.  She tells me it’s another half mile to Winfield, but more importantly, she is carrying a water bottle, which I yank away from her immediately.  I drain it in one big gulp.

The scale pronounces me 6 pounds down.  Not good, but not as bad as I thought.  Dry socks, some food, water, coke, and more water.  After 10 minutes I feel somewhat better.  Allen, the world’s best pacer and multiple 100-mile veteran, seems to think I can recover.  We walk out of the aid station, slowly at first, then start picking up the pace, and soon begin shuffling along, at least on the downhill sections.  Nick, Dan, and Kelley are making their way towards Winfield, and we exchange quick hellos. I feel human once again, and we climb the steep back side of Hope pass slowly but steadily.  Even at our snail’s pace, we pass quite few people.  At the top, I turn around a little too quickly, forget about the lack of oxygen, and tumble a few feet down the mountain before regaining my balance.  A quick glance around confirms that no videos were taken. Two falls in one day.  I’ve exceeded my quota and hope to stay upright all the way to the finish.

We run the downhill at a steady clip.  I can finally pee again, in a normal color, and feel rehydrated and rejuvenated.  We cross the river.  Cheering people line the meadow section leading towards Twin Lakes, and Allen tells everyone in sight that I’m running my first 100 and that I’m doing a fantastic job.  Good guy that he is, he does not tell everyone in sight that I ran out of water within a couple of miles of an aid station, or that I’ve lost my race plan.

Twin Lakes, inbound, mile 60 or so.  It is still light, but cooling off.  I try to visualize my race plan but only manage to conjure up the image of a crumpled piece of paper with a few scrawled lines.  Time to improvise.  I am sick of clif bloks, also sick of nuun electrolytes.  Fig Newtons, crackers, and clear broth seem like an appealing supper.  We’ve passed several puking runners, and I thank my stomach for remaining cooperative so far.  Change into tights, dry shoes and socks, tie jacket around waist.  I dawdle for what seems like an eternity.  David does not know exactly what’s in my drop bag, or his crew bag.  I can see why having a legible race plan, maybe even several copies of it, is a good idea for a 100 miler, and why it would have been an even better idea to go over it with my crew.  David is my husband, we are as close as two people can be, but he still can’t read my mind.  What on earth was I thinking? I barely remember to get my headlamp.

The climb out of Twin Lakes gets hot, but soon the sun goes down and I’m grateful for my tights.  I put on my jacket and top off my water at Mt Elbert, even though we’ve only gone a few miles.   It’s a case of live and learn. I’m able to run a fair bit of the pretty, rolling trail before Half Pipe.  It’s dark now, and I feel thrilled to be running through the night, within the circle of headlamp light and to the sound of Jimmy Morrison singing Break on Through.  I am alive, and deeply grateful for this surreal experience.

For most of the way between Half Pipe and the Hatchery, I feel stronger than Allen, who is struggling with the altitude.  I run ahead, feeling invincible, and  bonk suddenly and severely right before Fish Hatchery.  Serves me right.  I have forgotten to eat the last few miles, and my stomach is cramping and sloshing.  Ugh.  I don’t barf, but wish I could.  Broth with crackers helps.  My legs feel dead, especially my quads. I wonder why?  Was it maybe not such a good idea to power down the downhills earlier?  David has changed into the warmup tights from my drop bag and is ready to pace me to May Queen while Allen rests a little.  I look around the aid station tent and feel like I’m in a zombie movie.  It is past midnight, and several runners are slumped in chairs close to the heater, complexions greenish or deathly pale.  I feel awful, but not that awful, and we powerwalk toward the powerlines.  One foot in front of the other.  I am several hours  ahead of the cutoff, and I know I can finish. 20 miles to go.  Even if I walk the entire distance, I’ll get there in time. We shuffle along, walk a little, then shuffle again.

At this point, the uphill sections begin to feel more pleasant than the downhill, and only flat sections are still somewhat runnable.  My quads are screaming.  The technical downhill into May Queen seemed so beautiful this morning, but now every little rock looks like a huge obstacle.  I am too tired to lift my feet, and keep seeing things that aren’t there, like cowboys leaning against tree trunks and roots that turn into snakes.  We slow to a crawl, and several runners I’ve just passed now pass me.  Like Winfield, May Queen seems to be moving further away the longer we go, and I wonder if some cruel individual has moved the glow sticks just to mislead delirious runners.  David listens patiently as I alternate between whining and hallucinating, but probably curses the day I signed up for this race.  This is the low point, the dark side.  Break on Through to the other side…finally, the paved road, parked cars, lights, voices.  My spirits lift.

It’s 2 AM and May Queen is rocking.  The volunteers for this race are saints, all of them.    Someone is cooking pancakes. I force myself to eat a couple of them.  My stomach wants to rest at this hour, not work, and I can’t really blame it.  A plate of freshly cooked sausages appears next to the pancakes.  I shudder and almost gag.  David wants to take finish line pictures, or maybe he just wants to not hear me whine any more.  Allen is ready to pace again.  He fills a ziploc baggie with PB and honey sandwich bites, and we’re off.

It’s cold.  I can’t run at this point, but we walk at a decent pace.  It helps that the temperature has dropped even further.  I need to keep moving to stay warm. 13 more miles.  My slowest half marathon ever.  Allen force feeds me bites of PB and honey.  My legs are trashed, but my mind is ….not exactly clear, but less muddled.  I’m in pain but happy.  I have broken through to the other side.  A parade of silly ultrarunning mantras marches through my head. Keep moving.  Relentless forward motion.  It’s not supposed to be easy.  You are tougher than you think you are.  Dig deep.  Always look on the bright side of life.  Crucifixion? Could be worse.  We must imagine Sisyphus happy.  etc.

We pass the boat ramp, lined with rowdy, cheering people, just before dawn.  The morning light brings a burst of new energy.  I feel a couple of blisters, finally, but decide to suck it up and take care of them after I finish.  I tell the blister pain to go and join all the other pains — the knee, the quads, the chafed bits.  All my pains, get together, mingle, have a party! Knee pain to black toenail: how long have you known Katrin? Oh, we run into each other every so often, but I haven’t spent much quality time with her until today….One last section of downhill remains, a short, steep hill between the lake trail and Hagerman road.  My legs are not cooperating.  They just quiver and refuse, like a horse refusing to load into a trailer.  Allen hands me a walking stick, and I navigate the loose terrain not very elegantly (i.e. like a woman in her nineties…make that late nineties).  Eventually (i.e. what seems like eons later) I find myself on level ground.  There are no more course markers.  Without Allen, who remembers the course from last year, I would get lost at mile 97.  It gets lighter, closer to sunrise.  The sky turns pink again.  I feel overwhelmed with happiness.  We walk faster.  A high school appears on the horizon.  We break into a shuffle, then a jog.  The finish line appears in the distance.  I somehow manage to run all the way to it, and across it.  Merilee hugs me.  I know she has hugged at least a hundred gross, sweaty, stinky runners before me, but it feels genuine.  How does she do this? 26:50, third in my age group.  I gaze at my medal.  I hug and thank Allen, David, anyone else within reach.  I laugh, I cry.  Final step on the scale — 3 pounds up? Huh? Hmmm, lots of sweating and no more electrolyte tabs because I was sick of the taste of nuun.  Not smart, like so many other decisions today, but I finished anyway.  A truly epic experience.  I can run 100 miles. I can do anything.

 

 

I feel deeply thankful.  Thank you, body, for holding up.   Thank you, volunteers, Thank you, Leadville.  Thank you, Kelley, Mitch, Ken, and all other ultrarunners I know. Thank you, Allen, for sharing your experience and wisdom so generously. Thank you Amy, for all the encouragement and positive energy. Thank you, David, for being the world’s most supportive husband, in addition to being the world’s best crew and pacer.  Without you, I would not have crossed that finish line.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.