100-mile preparation: pack drop bags. Scope out funeral arrangements.

Leadville, August 22, 2015. Ready or not, it’s my 4th time in a row to line up in what seems like the middle of the night on 6th and Harrison, among 650 or so fit-looking buckle dreamers. Some of us hope to break 25 hours for the big version of the trinket. Others, like me, hope to finish because it’s the only way to exorcise last year’s DNF demons. Most of us wear buffs, beanies, or baseball-style caps, but I have, at the last minute, topped off my outfit with the cowboy hat I wore for the Leadville burro race. I am hoping for added sun protection, and for good luck. At 4 a.m, the shotgun blast sends me my fellow crazies out into the dark unknown. We take off down the boulevard and, a couple of miles later, file onto the single track around Turquoise Lake.
Mile eight or so brings the first low point of the day. I can’t figure out how to change the settings on my new headlamp, which is much fancier than the old one, but much more complicated. Yes, I should have practiced night running with it. Too late now. It’s on a dim setting and stays there. The conga line makes it difficult to find my rhythm. I trip over a rock and and fall. Sharp pain, a bloody knee, colorful language. The DNF demon wakes up briefly. I can hear him chuckle. But it stops hurting after a few minutes. and the demon goes back to sleep.
I reach May Queen in 2:16, right on target for a sub-23 hour finish, right behind the Dorito-fueled speed demon Adrian Stanciu. We climb Sugarloaf together. The weather forecast has predicted a zero percent chance of rain, but clouds are moving in anyway. A brief rain shower feels refreshing.

At the top, Adrian gallops off into the distance while I run down the powerline at a decent but controlled pace. Most importantly, I remain upright the entire way, which must mean I’m getting over my twisted-ankle PTSD. I arrive at Outward Bound in 21st place, bursting with energy.

Leaving Outward Bound, working my way up to 4th place, and to a bonk.

On my way through Half Pipe, Twin Lakes, and even up Hope Pass I pass other runners. By the time I get to Winfield, I have worked my way up the women’s field to 4th place. A brief stop to change into dry socks, a bite of turkey sandwich, and I’m out of there.
My energy level takes a sudden, steep dip on the return climb. I can almost hear the bonk happening. Maybe I should have had more than one bite of that sandwich. I look at the uneaten clif bloks and stinger waffles in my pack. What are they doing there? I think back beyond the Winfield sandwich, adding up my total food consumption since Twin Lakes inbound. The grand total is . . . two ginger chews. Ooops. I was so busy catching people that I forgot to eat. On the way back up Hope Pass, I regret my dumb nutrition strategy, but it’s too late. My stomach has stopped cooperating. I feel depleted, too weak to climb, but too nauseated to eat. I stop. I take a few steps, stop again. I dry-heave. I lean against a rock, doubled over. The nausea passes. I take another few steps, then repeat the process: stop, dry-heave, walk a few steps. I am not making much progress. Everyone I passed on the way down passes me back while I stand there with my hand on my knees. I feel to lousy to care. On a normaI day, I’m a pretty strong uphill hiker, but not today. Relentless forward progress becomes more and more difficult. I wish I could puke, but can’t. This whole race sounds like a really stupid idea right now. I curse Ken Chlouber for coming up with his hare-brained scheme in 1983. I curse my own stubbornness. I curse whoever designed this trail – a sadist who deliberately left out the switchbacks. In between cursing sessions, I try to think along more positive lines: Things could be worse. A lot worse. I could be injured, or have strep, like last year. Instead, every step, no matter how slow, brings me closer to the top. Not in time for a fast finish, but still under the 30-hour cutoff. Finishing becomes my goal because a 2015 version of last year’s DNF is too scary to even consider. The DNF demon, at home on my shoulder for the last 364 days, whispers familiar words into my ear: “Slowpoke. I knew it. You don’t have it in you. You are, deep down, a quitter.” I don’t have the energy to argue back. Step. Pause. Swear. Step. Dry heave. Repeat.
I eventually reach the summit. Even better, I let out a giant burp. This might mean my stomach has decided to go back to work.
Yessssss! Happy thoughts come back, along with optimism, and some energy. The DNF demon shuts up. Time to start running, down toward oxygen and the comforts of Twin Lakes aid station. Time to look forward to seeing my crew, to hugging my husband. I am beginning to feel more human again after I slurp some hot, salty ramen noodle soup at Hopeless.

Trying to smile for the camera at mile 58, but not fooling anyone.

I splash through the river, and then through a series of mud puddles, reaching Twin Lakes in the glow of the late afternoon sun, an hour off my goal time, which is not my goal time anymore.
Goals in an ultra, especially a gnarly 100-miler, need to be flexible. I usually start with a dream goal, an A-goal, and a B-goal. Today, the dream goal was a sub-23 hour finish. My A-goal, the sub-25 big buckle, is still within reach. Time to adjust, to regroup. I actually feel hungry now. Normally, I try not to fritter precious minutes away at aid stations, but now I sit down for a while and get some much needed calories in: potato chips crumbled into chicken broth, a divine combination of flavors and textures. An aid station gourmet meal that sounds appalling in real life but works magic in an ultra. I have a Fig Newton for dessert. Nothing has ever tasted better. We strategize. Our friend Rachael has dropped because of her knee injury, so her pacer, David (Infante), will run with me from Twin Lakes to May Queen, from where my wonderful crew captain-photographer-pacer-motivator combo model David (Silva) will take me to the finish. A much better plan than the original one of running without a pacer until mile 87.
We climb out of Twin Lakes until we hit the rolling singletrack through serene aspen forest, my favorite section of the course. The setting sun filters through the leaves, creating speckled patterns of light on the forest floor. Our pace picks up. Soon, we begin to pass people, most of whom I recognize: I have passed them on my way to Winfield, they have passed me on my snail-like crawl back up the pass. Darkness falls right before we reach Half Pipe. Unlike at Western States, I have brought my head lamp. And a flashlight. Yay!
We keep running strong and passing more people on the road to Outward Bound. After that, it’s time for the infamous powerline climb. This is the final insult of this course: several miles of going straight up at mile 80. At least five false summits. A deceitful, dishonest mountain that stands between runners and the finish line. The first time I climbed this, three years ago, it left me crushed and hallucinating. Now, I know what to expect, but I still can’ remember which false summit is the last. This one for sure, I tell my pacer . . . no, I lied. And I lie again. We go up. We level out. We go up again.
An intermittent sound keeps coming from above. Like a mooing cow, only deeper. A mooing rhino? Wait, what sounds do rhinos produce? And why would there be one at midnight on the top of Sugarloaf? It keeps getting louder. The unmistakable odor of weed wafts in our direction. Am I hallucinating again? No, we have reached a new addition to the Leadville course: the most surreal inofficial aid station of any race, on the Sugarloaf summit — the real summit, finally. Greenish light bathes the scene in an otherworldly glow. The mooing sound is some kind of horn instrument. People in Darth Vader masks offer bong hits and whisky shots along with more standard aid station fare.

Yes, it was real. A welcome sight on the powerline summit.

I am tempted for a second, knowing that THC or alcohol would send me into a deep state of relaxation, which is not what I need right now. I have visions of me sitting down in the middle of the trail, without any desire to move ever again, while my exasperated pacer tries to nudge me back into motion with a cattle prod. No. I opt for ginger ale. Refreshed, we cover the last few miles to the lake at a decent pace. My hamstrings are done for the day by then, but I still have some downhill speed left. David claims he has a hard time keeping up.

My husband is waiting at May Queen. Like a pony express rider, I exchange a tired pacer for another, fresh one – one David for another. The last twelve miles. Time to dig deep. I scrape up my last reserves, like from an empty jar of peanut butter. Here and there, I find leftover bits of energy. We jog, we powerhike. I want to slow down. David tries to make me run. He reminds me of how badly I want that big, shiny buckle. He reminds me of the layer of tarnish on my old one, and he exaggerates quite a bit in his description. I do what I can, but exhaustion is settling into my bones. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s one a.m. All the hard running I did from mile 60 to mile 90 is taking its toll. Because I know that the next time I stop will be the finish line, not another aid station, I scrounge up every last ounce of strength. Run, walk, run. David lets me take one-minute walk breaks on the uphills. I suspect they’re more like 30-second walk breaks, but he can be pretty convincing. We leapfrog a couple of other runner who use a similar strategy. Then, finally, the paved road. It’s a mile to the finish, a straight shot up 6th street. Time to dig deep one last time. David makes me run every step, which is why I look like a crazed lunatic on the finish line picture. The red carpet. The clock. 23:34, 34 minutes behind my dream goal and 18 minutes behind my PR, but much, much better than I had hoped after the return climb over Hope Pass. It’s good for 5th woman and first in my age group. And good for a tarnish-free, brand-new big, shiny buckle. I hope the DNF demons will take one look at that plate-sized thing  and shut up for good.

100 mile races are like roller coaster rides. They’re exciting. They’re scary but irresistible. Once you start, you have to enjoy the ride. You can’t control much of what happens. There are highs and lows, nausea and giddiness taking turns. After finishing, you have bragging rights. The only difference is: at the end of a roller coaster ride, I wish it had lasted longer. At the finish line of a 100-miler, I am happy to be done. But a day or a week later, I can’t wait to sign up for the next adventure.

Thank you, everyone, who helped make this weekend happen. Thank you, everyone who puts up with my ultra habit, most of all my poor husband, who signed up to run the Leadville 100 and selflessly gave up his spot to crew for his wife.* I appreciate you more than you know.

*Actually, his entire training program consisted of about 15 miles, spread evenly over the course of the eight months preceding the race. He tried to make up for not running by paying extra attention to nutrition, but no matter no matter how many burgers and fries he consumed, he did not feel prepared for the Leadville 100 and decided to crew instead. I thought that “selflessly gave up his spot” sounds nicer than “chickened out at the last minute.” And I really did appreciate his crewing and pacing.