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.