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.