A Little Plain

My toenails have almost fully grown back.

This can only mean one thing. It’s time for another 100 mile run in the mountains. Of course, with that comes the inevitable: planning, preparation and–in my case–finally writing up the report from my previous 100 mile race.

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The Swan Crest 100 was a special event: a first time race and the first 100 miler held in Montana. By design, it promised to be a very low-key event. Even so, it was not without a bit of prerace controversy that nearly kept it from starting. It had something to do with wilderness, bears and a certain individual’s belief that he should be the one to designate how others enjoy a shared natural resource. I won’t go into the details here except to add the following disclaimer:

No grizzlies were harmed in the writing of this race report.

To understand Swan Crest it might be best to first compare it to 3 of its neighboring 100-mile races all of which I have been privileged to complete.

Like Bighorn, Swan Crest is a true mountain 100. Elevations topping 8000 feet, vistas of far-off peaks and weather patterns capable of dropping a storm at a moment’s notice, all contribute to the sense of remoteness that this race shares with its neighbor to the southeast in Wyoming. Both mud and snow were present here too, though significantly less of both. Finally, each of the two has their unique wildlife concerns, Moose at Bighorn and the aforementioned grizzlies here. While we had to watch a mandatory “bear safety” video before the race and carry pepper spray throughout, there were no actual encounters; in fact, no sightings whatsoever. While the concept of meeting one of the great bears is frightening, in reality, Moose encounters are far more likely and more dangerous. Personally I was quit happy that the most dangerous animal with which I actually had to contend was the pesky mosquito.

Swan Crest also seems to share a few of the characteristics that make Cascade Crest such a unique event. However, in a state whose motto begins with the word ‘Big”, the challenges are just a tad larger. The overgrown trails are grown quite a bit more over –right over my head in places. There was a section traveling right on top of the un-cleared remains of an avalanche field that makes the famous “trail through hell” seem like a paved road. And then, there are the downed trees. Cascade has a few, but parts of the Swan Crest are a veritable obstacle course. Climbing over, crawling under or navigating through trees that appeared to have only recently crashed across the trail, this course takes more out of you than the simple analysis of distance and elevation change would imply.

Then there is Plain. This particular comparison was made right in the race pamphlet. The existence of course markings, aid stations and drop bags clearly makes Swan Crest a bit less a matter of self-reliance. However, with sections of 26, 24 and 14 miles between checkpoints, the necessity to take water from the course and the need to consult the map at numerous points, the comparison was not unwarranted. Even the initial gradual climb up gravel road brought back memories of its closest neighbor. One could treat this race as good training or a warm-up for the one in Eastern Washington. In fact, that was pretty much my thought going into it.

Despite the comparisons and similarities, Swan Crest stands on its own.  Like all great races it has a particular identity expressing the uniqueness of the land in which it is run – a certain “trail terroir”, if you will. Traversing the entire ridge that bears its name, this race gives the participants a taste of what the area has to offer: wild and beautiful, rugged and remote. Yet, despite all its challenges you are constantly reminded that the ridge along which you are travelling is but a taste, a mere hint at what Northwest Montana has to offer.

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Since I'm sitting in my hotel room in Logan, UT with 10-1/2 hours to go before the start of The Bear 100, I am going to take a bit of a cop-out on finishing this race report. I remembered to take my camera along with me for a change. So, I'm going to let the photos do most of the talking.

Beat and I traveled to Montana together and rented a cabin in Columbia Falls. Not only was it a quaint little  place to stay, it was also the location of the race finish. Since Swan Crest is a point-to-point race, the shuttle picked us up here in the morning for to drive to the start.

Our Cabin

The start of the race was near Swan Lake, about an hour's drive away. The shuttle got us there early so we muddled about, chatting with other runners in the cold morning, waiting for the race to start.

Jon Burg was the other Bay Area local running the race

Looking around at the start, I had another Déjà vu moment from Plain. I definitely felt like one of the least fit people there. As Beat put it the day before at the pre-race meeting, "geez, we're the fat people here."

Panorama of the 50 runners waiting at the start

Eventually we hit the road for about a mile before taking a left and beginning the gradual grind up the gravel double-wide.

Long gravel road

Some nice views along the way

For my last comparison to Plain (I promise), Beat and I started the race near the back of the pack. I was hopeful that the strategy would work out as well as it had there.

Beat and I stuck together in the early miles

Pretty easy going

After about 10 miles, we finally arrived at the first aid station. It was a beautiful morning and I was ready to take on some single-track. At least, I thought I was ready. Little did I know that "single-track" in Montana means pretty much no track.

Apologies to the lady in the photo, this is only intended to show the aid station

About as much trail as I was going to see for a while

For a little perspective, my head is just over Beat's shoulder

I began to feel more than a little intimidated when I could see neither my feet nor the sky above my head. Overgrowth is one thing, but being completely enveloped was something altogether new. On top of that, the lower brambles seemed a bit predatory or at least playful. About a dozen times, they snagged my laces and de-knotted them.

OK, so two but shots is probably going overboard, but there's a story here

As the shrubbery on steroids gave way, we breathed a short sigh of relief. This only because we were blissfully unaware that up ahead it had all been crushed beneath a mass of avalanche-downed trees. We came upon the first fallen tree and Beat worked his way gingerly over it. Impatiently, and perhaps a bit showy, I hopped up on top and over both him and the tree. I'm not sure what name he called me, but it was all in good fun.

The fun was about to end

Hopping over one tree like a youthful sprite is fine, but after the next tree, and the next, it grew a bit old. Then tree turned into trees until the ground completely disappeared and we found ourselves navigating over a virtual canopy of branches, brush and logs.

Trail? What trail?

Those red flags are the trail!

Exhausting doesn't even begin to describe it.

I never thought I would be so happy to see the overgrowth again.

After what seemed hours, we were finally on a real trail. Switchbacking up the hill, the mountains unveiled themselves. In truth, they were probably there all along, but I hadn't set my eyes above waste-level for some time.

Ahhh, mountains.

In fact, there was beauty all around both near and far. One just had to look.

Finally, upon reaching the ledge, we caught a slight downhill. Beat was a bit behind me at this point, but I'd no idea how far.

Catching a glimpse of the other side was the first reminder that we were indeed in "the mountains." The gathering clouds made clear their intention.

The second aid station, mile 19, was at the end of an out-and-back along a narrow ridge. It rolled and meandered offering views of distant peaks for distraction.

Shortly, the rain fell. I put on my light jacket and took a photo of what could be the first in a series of fashion shots for my favorite piece of gear, The Buff.

First rain, let it fall where may

The aid station was just the other side of some woods at the end of the ridge. I made good time in and out as it was raining more stiffly and I was getting a bit cold. Not a quarter mile on, Beat was heading the other direction and looking good. We both remarked how much the avalanche section had taken out of us.

Looking like a happy camper at mile 19

Back out along the ridge we'd just traveled, but things always look a little different in the opposite direction.

The ridge is narrow in parts

The rain stopped, the sun came out, it got warm and it was time for fashion shot #2. Pull up The Buff and let it dangle back Pirate-style.

This was the beginning of the first of the "long sections" without aid. It was also the longest such section at a little over 24 miles. The aid station volunteers told us that there was plenty of water on the course. What they didn't tell us was that most of it was in the first 10 miles. By the time I reached the snow banks, I'd drunk most of what I'd filled from streams.

Snow bank in the distance

At the snow bank

Looking back from where I'd just come I could see Beat

I ended up filling my water bottle from the snow. Unfortunately, one of the advantages of the insulated bottle became a disadvantage here. The snow did not easily melt!

Swan Crest pass through an awe-inspiring variety of terrain. One minute we were in a wide open meadow, the next snow, then fields of flowers followed by a burnt-out forest. Each had its charms. Unfortunately, none of them had any large flowing bodies of water.

Summer is like spring in these mountains

More snow

Looking back again

Another field in bloom

Water, but not near

Gratuitous Buff fashion shot - sweat band mode!

Rock-filled section

Burnt forest

These were all over

Return to lush, overgrown trail

Another ridge with great views

I distracted myself with taking photos, but I estimated it had been around 12 miles since I'd filled my water. I was totally dry. Unfortunately, I had in my head that the section was 2 miles shorter than actual. This is the excuse I give for automatically taking a left at a Y when the marker seemed right in the middle. I knew there was a split coming up and I knew it was a left.

There's always a point after taking a wrong turn when a voice in the back of your head tells you "this isn't right" and you think you should maybe go back to check. I need to learn to listen to this voice. The trail I was on narrowed to the point of a mere deer path. It then went over and through some brush. Normally this would give me bigger pause, but having run through the avalanche field, it seemed par for the course (except for the lack of markers). Once the  trail disappeared altogether, I knew it was the wrong way.

Back on the right path, I was even more thirsty than ever. I took a photo.

Nice shot, eh?

Another 1/2 mile or so, I met up with another runner. We cursed and commiserated the absence of water. Right around the next turn was a stream. I filled, drank and filled again ignoring the flying pests that took interest whenever I stopped for more than a few seconds.

With water comes happy

I felt much better, but there was still that matter of the under-estimated distance. I figured to be at the aid station shortly so I passed the next couple of streams and ran out again. As the climb started, my hydration dipped further. Thirsty, cranky and tired, I took a random spill onto my right side. You can only imagine how happy I was to finally reach the aid station at Six Mile Junction.

Very welcome faces after a long journey

I took a bit of time here, assuring recovery. Once I felt well enough, I pushed myself on as there was just a short 3 miles to the peak and back before I would return. Feeling good, I pushed the climb.

Red-faced at the peak

Peak Panarama

Feeling great, I bombed back down. Somewhere close to the aid station I saw Beat. He wasn't having a great day, stating he didn't feel good, he was heading to the peak carrying his water bladder in his hand. I told him head recover and then continued down. I was anxious to start the big descent before dark.

With 6 mostly-downhill miles, this next section to Quintonkon was expected to be fairly fast. I thought I might make it by nightfall. I was wrong.

The downhill went pretty quick at least the initial "free flow" descent. I recall a section of wide gradual downhill and then a rather sizable river. I didn't see any ribbon across the river, but there was really no other place to go so I made my way. This lead to a short path to a road. The route headed up the road. Guess work and hope would put the aid station not too far off.

The road seemed to go on and on. There was no evidence of any campground or other obvious location where an aid station might be. After a couple of more miles, I could hear something off in the distance. Slowly, the noises and then light grew closer. The aid station was here.

It turns out they had to move it a couple of miles further along the road making it 8 miles. I gave Brad, the RD, a bit of good natured ribbing. However, it sounded like some people took it a bit more seriously. It's funny, I don't quite understand how someone could be upset about 2 extra miles on a 6 mile section after having route that has sections of 24, 22 and 14 miles.

At any rate, I was surprised to find Jon Burg here waiting for me. A much faster runner (and walker), I didn't expect  to see him after the start. Everyone has their lows and his came while running with the above referenced complainers who dropped at this station. Jon and I headed out to tackle the 14+ miles together. With an initial climb and a nighttime descent, it promised to be a long go. It was nice to have a bit of company.

Obligatory night photo somewhere round mile 55

I felt good at the start, but I had yet to have my real low and I could feel fatigue kicking in. Jon let me take the lead at first, which worked OK since it let me set the pace. He is a very strident walker (excuse the pun) as I learned pacing him at a race last year. I worked to keep a good clip and we made a bit of time on a couple of runners ahead of us. It turns out that they were both Statistics professors at a local university. Jon is an actuary. I felt woefully out of place.

I'm not sure if it was just normal fatigue or pushing up the gradual climb, but my energy was waning. I let Jon go in front and shortly thereafter told him I was gonna have to take a break. I sat to try and gather my head for a second and then continued at my own pace. I was definitely getting tired as I was having trouble focusing my eyes on the trail and was weaving a bit.

I finally decided to sit for a little longer and try something new. I sat on a rock and closed my eyes. I let my mind wander the drift. I faded. I woke when my flashlight hit the ground.

According to my watch it had been perhaps a few minutes, 5 at most. However, when I stood up and headed out, my eyes were focused, my head was clear and I was moving much better. I always enjoy the night and this one was no exception. The stars were out.

I promised my wife I'd look at the stars. They were wonderful. Shortly, though the moon became jealous and came to outshine them. Later the moon would be overshadowed by the clouds obscuring show. I occupied myself with this play in the sky.

Not that it shows, but the moon and clouds put on quite a show

I felt good, but the night section is always a bit strange. So many things come and go through your mind that in reflection your never sure which was thought and which random association. I recall a rocky ridge and the view of many lights below. Mostly, I remember enjoying it immensely. Eventually there was a long descent to the aid station.

Of this, I have no idea. I must have thought I saw something.

The next aid station was the only time we came out of the mountains during the race. Mile 70 is always a telling point in a 100-miler and I was feeling good. I didn't waste time at Broken Leg because I knew the next 8 miles was a lot of road and would seem longer than it was.

I set my mind on auto-pilot and marched from dirt road to paved to dirt again. The last couple of miles began the ascent that would follow after the next aid station. Strawberry Trail would be our last major climb though it was also the beginning of our last long section without aid.

Morning was breaking at this aid station and I asked about the weather forecast. I should have known better when they told me it was supposed to be warm in the morning and showers in the late afternoon. We were in the mountains after-all. I dropped all my warm and rain gear in my drop bag reasoning that it would just incentize me to finish before late afternoon. I also should have known better than to try and reason anything the second day of an overnight race.

The initial climb was a grind, but at least it was over in a few miles. I felt fine and was ready to enjoy the sights and sounds of a second day on the trail.

OK, maybe I was just a wee bit tired as well

The overgrowth was back...

...so was all the natural beauty

I'm not sure when it started, but I do recall still being dry at this one confusing intersection. It was just a drizzle at first, but the sound of thunder in the distance was a clear indicator. You can't see the rain coming down in this series of pictures, but you can definitely see the muddy trail in the last one.

Perhaps you can see the wet and cold permeating my Buff and my normally upbeat persona.

To put it bluntly, it started dumping and I was freezing. I ran. I ran hard. I ran harder than I ever would have were I not trying to escape the rain and stay warm. I suppose I have that. The mud didn't help, but I had already dealt with much worse at Bighorn.

The good thing about being in the mountains for a summer shower is that it is generally short lived. I knew it would let up eventually and it did. The rain turned to mist and as the sun came out we were running in a dense fog.

The ever-changing mountain climate

I doubt the snow is fresh, but the cold rain certainly didn't melt it.

The sun eventually burned off the fog. The promised-heat was going to show up after all, only out of order from the storm.

 My running-crazed in the rain took a big chunk of time out of this 22 mile section. However, I wasn't exactly sure how much. There was a lot of talk about the final downhill and how "treacherous" it was. 5 miles of steep descent switchbacking down the mountain. I was so looking forward to it.

Having not studied the course, I believed that once I reached the ridge where I could see the town below, that the descent would not be far. Well, I could see that I was on the ridge.

When I arrived at what appeared to be the apex, I took one last panorama. The peaks of Glacier National Park to the East and Columbia Falls to the West. I was ready to fly down this mountain.

From that point on, every slight downhill slope was, to me, the start of the path down. Over and over I repeated the cycle of excitement and disappointment. Had I taken a moment to look at the hills in front of me, I would have realized that the trail wasn't about to descend until the near the final peak. Part of the beauty of this course is that it travels the distance of a visible ridge line.

Of course, the descent did arrive after awhile and i was so ready for it. I let it fly. Fast downhills at the end of long races are one of my favorite things on the planet. This, I have to say, was one of the best. Not only was it steep enough to just "let go," the switchbacks were wide enough to bank without slowing down. I can't imagine how fun it would be to run this while fresh.

I really should have committed more of the profile to memory. I had this idea in my head that the downhill ended right at the aid station. When the switchbacks stopped I expected a short ride down the more gradual grade to the break before the final 2 miles. One last dip and I ran right through a wide creak before a short uphill. Just a bump before some further descent.

When another uphill came, I was a bit annoyed, but still believed it would be brief. It continued up. It went around a curve and then up some more. I stopped. This was ridiculous! I'd gone up a couple hundred more feet and I could see we still had plenty of descent before being at the level of the town. I won't repeat the curse words here, but suffice to say, I said them all.

I took the rest of the trail easy realizing that I had no clue how long it actually was to the aid station. A change of perspective can do wonders. Once I stopped expecting, I was upon it in short order. At this point, I was very much ready to be done.

One thing I have learned from running 100 mile trail races is that nearly all of them end on the road. Whether its 1 mile of road or 5, it always seems long. The end of Swan Crest isn't long, but it does seem to wander a bit. I had a vague idea where the finish was, but really was pretty unaware. It was hot, the road was long, I took it slow.

I had no real time goals at this point. 30 hours and 31 had both come and gone. 31-1/2 didn't seem worth the effort so I just trotted on in for 31:34.

It was great to be done. It was a wonderful event. I took a shower, took a rest and then took a short nap. When I awoke, the BBQ was just getting underway and friends were starting to come in. The field was sparse and spread out. I actually finished top-10, but only 20 people total finished the race. Beat came in 34+ and just under 35 Jon Burg finished. I was surprised by this last as I didn't remember passing him. It turns out that Jon took the very long course with a long detour in the midst of an already-long section. I give him special kudos for continuing on to finish when the short path would have been to head back after finding the trail again.

Swan Crest is an adventure. Low key and filled with challenges. Minimal aid, trail obstacles, difficult course tracking, all part of the package. A highly recommended and highly successful first running.

Finally, when it comes right down to it, there is absolutely nothing Plain about this race.

En Route

My time and mental energy have lately been consumed by work. I have, however, managed a few necessary excursions and maintained my commitment to attempt my third 100 in as many months.

On the 4^th of July, I ran a 15K on roads in San Diego. It was actually the first time I have raced on roads in years. 9.3 miles is an unusual distance, but it was just long enough for me to treat as speed training for longer distances. I set the goal of going out easy and coming in strong. I started at bit over 8’s, finished below 7’s with a 7:23 average: just enough push to leave me feeling satisfied two weeks after my last 100.

A few weeks later I finished the Headlands Marathon (4:44) as my final long run towards my next 100. I opted out of the 50 miler since my body has been feeling the effects of both my long races and of the long periods sitting at my desk.  Two weeks further of minimal running–call it a taper–and I’m sitting on a plane heading to Montana for the Swan Crest 100. I’ve given so little thought to this race that I don’t really know what to expect. However, as I head into this next adventure, my mind is finally turning back to Bighorn

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The bandage is wrapped so as to hold my foot in a perfectly neutral position, neither compressing nor stretching the Achilles tendon. With a bit of work, I can come close to a 20 minute/mile walking pace on the relatively flat road. Mentally, it’s disheartening, limping along these last 5 miles, being passed by everyone I had just flown by on the final downhill. The race as a whole hadn’t really gone too well either with altitude issues and other challenges ending my sub-30hr goal. I had, however, still held out hopes for a strong finish, but now even that had gone by the side of the proverbial road.

This scene from the final stretch of my 2008 Bighorn 100 race still played through my mind as I headed back to Sheridan. I was looking for redemption from that race as well as from my more recent struggles at Massanutten. Bighorn was my first true mountain 100 and my first real experience slogging it out for a “just finish” goal. Returning, I had my mind set on replacing the image of those final miles with a better one. I wanted to run a strong race overall, sub-30 would be great, but mostly I just wanted to run to the finish.

Respite

Beyond just the running, I was also looking forward to enjoying a weekend in the mountains of Wyoming. Bighorn still stands as the most beautiful race I’ve done. When I ran it in ’08 the route had to be altered due to heavy snow at the turnaround. Not only did this mean that I hadn’t experienced the full course, but the sections of the Little Bighorn Canyon that I did see were completely in the dark. I was excited about having the full Bighorn experience.

Beat and Harry were joining me on this trip. With the early Thursday arrival and late Friday morning start time, it almost felt like three friends simply enjoying a nice vacation. We checked out the funky little downtown, hung out in our hotel room, shared some good conversation and, generally, just laughed a lot. More than the race itself, this sense of “getting away” was just what I needed. Spending the next day (and night) trotting along through some of the most gorgeous land in the country seemed a bonus.

Dramatic

That’s the only word to describe the impression one gets upon that first turn down the Tongue River Canyon and heading up the rolling single-track. I’d forgotten how beautiful it was. I’d also forgotten my camera back in the hotel room. I remember turning and telling someone, “you know, the one downside of this course is that it’s so beautiful, you just want to stop and setup camp alongside the trail.” It really is that stunning.

The views are quickly replaced with a distraction of a different sort as we make our way up the first major climb. Around 4000ft of ascent up and over 7800ft elevation is what Bighorn offers as an initial wake-up call. I was focused on taking things easy in the early miles, running a bit behind my two friends and focusing on keeping an even keel. However, the first downhill over the ridge made quick work of that. I think a let out a big “whoop!” as I dropped down the descent towards our first aid station.

Exuberance

Shortly after the Upper Sheep stop we crested the road and headed down onto single track. So excited I was to be flying back downhill that I barely heard the “Hey Steve!” up above me. Looking up I could see the trail of runners along the road that included Harry and Beat. Ah well, getting my wrong turn out of the way early in the race wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. That is, if I could keep it to just one.

I remembered the rolling jeep roads of the next section, grinding slowly up and down, leading to the big aid station at Dry Fork. I caught up with the guys at the stop then took off before them knowing I would lead the way on the steep downhill only to meet up on the following climb. I was hoping to continue along together for a while, but my stomach had a different plan. Just 15 minutes in the bushes and I wouldn’t see the two of them again for quite some time.

Remote

Cow’s Camp is sort of the separation point at Bighorn. You literally pass through a gate after this aid station, but more significantly, you enter the area that lends the “wild” to the “wild & scenic” motto. The narrow trail winding its way through the hills and into the woods with views of far off peaks was my first feeling of really being “out there” two years ago. Cow’s Camp is also where you are “welcomed back” the next morning with the smell of fresh cooked bacon and the smiling faces of fresh 50K runners. I had a long night ahead of me before that. For now my main task was to relax and try to take it all in.

The spectacular views of this section are accompanied by relatively easy trail and followed by a rewarding, downhill. At 20+ miles in I was feeling pretty good. As I exited the woods after Bear Camp, just before the steep descent, I stopped for my first view of the Little Bighorn River Canyon. Sheer carved canyon walls topped with the most interesting rock formations; I had to kick-start myself to get going down the hill. While the early course was relatively dry, there was plenty of mud on this descent: a hint of things to come. I managed to smack my head nicely, using a tree branch for breaking. Perhaps another hint to which I should have paid attention.

Serious

I was surprised to find Harry and Beat at Footbridge when I arrived. They looked well into their preparations so I asked for my drop bag immediately hoping to make good time in and out of the station. The tales of the upper course were beginning to drift down. Mud and cold were to be expected. I threw some of my warmer clothes in my pack and headed out shortly after Beat. Harry was still sitting. He wasn’t talking. A serious expression covered his face. I don’t know what was in his head, but the impression stuck with me as I out towards the race’s peak.

I didn’t know if I would be able to keep up with Beat over this next section. We were in for a long gradual uphill, climbing from around 4500 to nearly 9000 ft over the next 17 miles. It was time to focus on maintaining a level effort, to stop worrying about the entire distance, time to look around and enjoy the landscape. It was time to take another wrong turn. With night falling and mud thickening, I walked right past a sign post and into nowhere. The trail disappeared and I stood in what was basically a marsh. Looking around, I saw a trail of lights off to my left. I cut back cross-country to the proper trail; my feet were soaked and, given what was ahead, unlikely to dry up the rest of the night.

Muck

I took a few slips in the mud heading to the next aid station and wasn’t in the best of moods upon arrival so I was very happy to find Beat waiting there. While the sloppy mud leading here had been a pain, the story for the top of the climb was much worse. Apparently, it was one vast, frozen swamp. We headed out together and I told tale of my wrong turn giving Beat another opportunity to let me know what an idiot I was. Laughing at my stupidity made us both feel better. It was a good time to have a partner.

There was no exaggeration about the conditions up top. Reminiscent of a scene from Lord of the Rings, we tread carefully along shallow ridges winding between marsh ponds. I don’t know how much it really helped to try and stay along the marked path. It just seemed to take more time in a vain attempt to keep dry feet. Knowing Harry’s particular distaste for mud we both remarked that it was good he wasn’t with us. Smiling, we could hear his cursing voice inside our heads. However, we were also both a bit worried about him as–being the better climber–he should have caught us long ago. We eventually reached the peak and headed down through snowfields to the aid station.

Porcupine

So inviting was the ranger station with its big roaring fire, people mulling about and warm mountain cabin that we were going to have to fight the temptation of staying too long. Inside was packed with people with an atmosphere a bit like a triage tent; runners in various states of disrepair being tended to by extremely helpful volunteers. I can only imagine how I looked at that point. Since I was never too cold and I wanted to move efficiently back down to Footbridge, I dumped some of my warm clothes. I just accepted that my feet were going to be wet for a long while so I didn’t even bother taking off my shoes.

Beat made sure I resisted the campfire as he led the way out and up the hill through the snow. We were following a couple of women ahead of us for maybe a ½ mile before we realized we were off course. At least this time I couldn’t be to blame. Rushing to get back on track filled us with enough ire to make it efficiently up the (proper) climb. On the other side, we just stomped right through the middle of the marsh accepting the futility of following anything but a straight line. We stuck mostly together or would meet up at aid stations. I fell behind once as I foolishly tried to run the sloppy descents in my normal fashion resulting in a few spectacular near misses and one less-than-spectacular dump in the mud.

Daybreak

The rest of the night was mostly a blur. One good thing about a mid-July 100 in more northerly latitudes is that the night isn’t very long. Daylight came just as we reached the final rolling stretch of trail leading back to Footbridge. Anticipation made this section take longer than expected, but both Beat and I were happy to be back at the big aid station. We never did see Harry during the night. I decided to take a little time here, mentally preparing for the rest of the course. This is where Bighorn can get a bit long. Footbridge on the return is 2/3 done, but considering all you go through to get there, it feels as if the finish should be much closer.

I took on a change of socks and headed out knowing that Beat would likely drop me on the steep climb known as “The Wall.” From my previous experience, I knew I was in for a serious grind. Grinds are best spent heads down. It wasn’t long before I watched Beat disappear up the climb. Perhaps I’d catch him on a downhill later, perhaps not. I set my eyes to the ground and just focused on making it to the ridge. The next section was one I would just have to “get through.” It was morning. My thoughts were at Cow’s Camp.

Bacon

I’m not sure if you can really smell the bacon cooking on your way in, but you can certainly imagine it. This was the first place I ever tried bacon during a race and, I have to say, it is brilliant. When I arrived at Cow’s Camp, was so happy be there I chomped down three pieces of bacon immediately. Then I wanted something sweet so I grabbed a couple of Oreos. Then I grabbed another piece of bacon and an Oreo, wrapped the bacon around it and popped it in my mouth as I set out. Sweet, salty, fatty…brilliant! I headed up the road.

As I struggled to keep up with the mid-to-back of the pack 50K runners I felt slow, tired and more than a bit grungy. I tried to engage a few of the clean, chipper runners around me, but my focus wasn’t there. It’s a long 6 miles from Cow Camp to Dry Fork, but the difference between being 24 and 18 miles from the finish is huge. From Dry Fork, I could visualize the path to the finish. Beat and I joined back up here and essentially agreed to stick together to the end. Rolling roads to Upper Sheep and then a short steep climb were all that lay between us and the big downhill.

Again

Heading up the last short, but steep climb known as “The Haul” I had another reminiscence of my last trip here. I felt good here two years ago just before bombing down the hill only to strain my Achilles jumping over a creek at the bottom. I thought maybe I should take it easy this time. I thought about playing it safe. I thought better. You need to be true to yourself and I never feel more “me” during a race than when flying down a steep hill at breakneck pace on my way to the finish.

Beat crested the ridge just before me and headed down. I paused at the top to catch my breath, and then followed. I cruised down the initial fireroad until the left turn where it becomes steep. I considered briefly keeping my speed under control. But, as I passed by Beat, I decided to just lean forward and let go. From there on, it was all out at whatever pace the terrain dictated. I’ve no idea how fast I was going, but I do know that I held off one of the top 50-mile runners who came up behind me for a while.  Once the grade became a bit more moderate I had to step aside. I pushed a bit on the rolling trail into Lower Sheep arriving breathless and grinning from ear to ear. Filled with the joy of my reckless abandon and happy to still be intact, I turned to see Beat arrive not a minute behind me.

All

“Nice job, dude!” I congratulated Beat on his own crushing downhill. Doing the mental math, we both quickly realized that, not only was sub-30 in the bag, but breaking 29 hours was a possibility. We made haste and agreed to push each other to the finish. While the final 7 miles of the course show as a net downhill, there’s a lot of rolling terrain and short climbs. None of these seemed to be found in my memory from the previous morning. Eventually, the trail gave way to road and it was time to erase something else from my memory.

I would not be limping to the final miles this time. Of course, that doesn’t mean they would be without struggle. The road is dusty, hot, and long. And, no matter what the course description says, the road is also, at least slightly, uphill. I’m sure if viewed at another time I would see it different, but all I seem to recall is fighting against that gradual incline. After a mile or so it was clear that Beat had a bit more left in his legs than I did. I encouraged him to go ahead. He refused vowing to push me to the finish after I pulled him down the hill.

28:47

I did my best to impersonate a runner as I cross the finish line alongside Beat. It was more than I had hoped for. My redemption was complete.

The rest of the afternoon was spent relaxing in the park, savoring our accomplishment and waiting. Pride turned to concern. At first we figured Harry had dropped and was sleeping soundly back at the hotel. We eventually figured he was still out there. Martina was covering the same course in the 50-mile so we thought they might have met up and stuck together. As the afternoon went on we figured they had better be together. After many a false alarm we finally spotted them making their turn into the park. Martina’s running form is normally quite distinct, but I recognized Harry’s first this time. That special trot at the end of an epic: not a run to the finish, but just “to be finished.”  I’d used it myself just one month prior.

...

I started this report while en route to my next 100 mile race. That's now complete and I'm still behind a report. However, since I have trouble focusing on writing race reports when I'm not in running mode I had to go and sign up for yet another 100 for motivation. But, more on that later... 

Terms with conditions

Well overdue full MMT report

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Recovery from Massanutten took longer than usual, both physically and mentally. I really didn’t feel my body was back in full swing until running my next race at the Mt. Diablo 50K, three weeks later. It was the first truly warm weekend in the Bay Area which promised the usual hot temps heading up the mountain. Perhaps having been bested by the heat at MMT helped me out since I ended up having a relatively good race. In fact, due mainly to others suffering or dropping out from the conditions, I placed much better than expected.

Emotionally, things were taking even longer. Coming to terms with my finish was proving difficult. It’s not that I’m so performance driven as to be overly upset with my actual finish time and it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d slogged to the end of a long race. Whether out of sheer bullheaded stubbornness or a prideful unwillingness to quit, I should have at least been able to find some small joy in crossing the finish line. Instead, I felt only relief that it was over. In retrospect, I think it was a result of the low mental state I’d allowed myself to get stuck in, walking those long final miles. The self-doubts, the lingering questions, the specters of epics past whispering retractions in my ear, all worked to further degrade my sleep and calorie depraved brain.

It started out as do most such adventures with an appropriate mix of cautious optimism and fear. I’d come up with a fairly aggressive time goal to test my fitness, but reminded myself that big summer plans didn’t allow me to kill myself chasing splits in this first major race. When I stopped on the way to the Friday race check-in and felt the thick hot air flow in through the door of my rental car, I should have tossed any thoughts of a strong finish right then and there. Humid 90s were certainly not something for which the unusually cool west coast spring had prepared me. Just walking around, dropping my bags, chatting with the surprising number of people whom I knew at my first race on the other side of the country, I was sweating profusely. However, after returning to my hotel, clouds and a cooling breeze had moved in.

My renewed hopefulness went unexamined as other concerns came rushing in from home. Some work “emergency” had me on the phone sitting outside the hotel – the only place I had coverage – until about 9:30pm. Any hopes of taking advantage of my late-afternoon (PST time) energy lull and get some early sleep, were shot. In fact, by the time my 3:30am wakeup call came round for the start at 5, I think I’d have managed all of 2 hours sleep. As I drove the winding roads to the start, my only hope was that the good rest I’d managed two nights previous would be enough to make up for how out of sorts my body felt.

Stressed, sleepless and constipated, weren’t exactly how I had imagined feeling at the beginning of the race. Furthermore, the forecast for mid-80 temperatures weren’t going to help matters either. Nonetheless, I started out well. I took things very easy in the early miles along the fireroad. I walked many of the slight inclines, watched plenty of people pass me and enjoyed some time getting caught up with Olga. As we left the road and entered the first climb, I continued my moderate pace. In previous years, this climb up Short Mountain came much later in the course and I heard many a tale about how much easier it was to be taking this section early on.

We hit a few short downhills at the top of the climb and I was eager to test myself on these super rocky, technical trails. I passed a few folks and had one near miss trying to stop quickly coming up on a slower party. While I managed not to hit ground as I slid along the leaves, it was my first hint that it wasn’t the rocks that were the true source of this place’s well-deserved reputation. After a bit, I caught up with Andy Kumeda who I know is typically a fast started so I was probably being a bit over enthusiastic. Still, I knew a big downhill was ahead leading to the Edinburg Gap aid station so I wasn’t too concerned.

Andy caught me on the next climb out of Edinburg and then I him on the downhill after the peak. We stuck together for a while after that, departing and rejoining depending to which of our relative strengths the course played. I pulled over to empty my bladder letting Andy go ahead and it was quite some time before I caught him again at an aid station. My explanation for where I went was quite simply to show him my cuts and bruises. Very shortly after we parted, I had set back out along the relatively flat terrain. I let my mind wander for only the briefest passage of time and immediately found myself down on the rocks.

I would have 3 such falls in the coming miles. Handling technical downhill only to trip on flatter trail, is nothing new for me. However, Massanutten raised the stakes quite a bit. There really was no place along these trails where it was safe to let down the guard. The flat sections and uphill sections required the same diligence as anything heading down. For me, it seemed they required an even more concerted effort. Time and again, I would fly down a big hill and my natural tendency was to automatically relax my focus only to be reminded by the rocky course of what a dangerous habit it was. I, literally, had to tell myself over and over in my head to “focus, focus, focus” as I moved along these trails. At times it became stressful and it was certainly one of the least enjoyable aspects of those early miles even though my race seemed to be going quite well.

I hit the 32 mile aid station at Elizabeth Furnace more than 45 minutes ahead of my set split. While the heat was picking up, I continued to feel good and continued to stay on the sharp side of the pace chart. A couple of days before the race, I’d been asked what it is I think about during a 100 miles. Normally, the answer would be almost anything and everything. In this race – and especially in these most technical early miles – all thoughts were diverted to watching my feet. This over-focus on my every step is why I don’t have a particularly strong recollection of the miles leading up to Habron Gap. It also might help explain why I continued to gain time on my plans.

I don’t want to belabor the point, but not being able to really look around and enjoy the course, I was actually happy to be heading out onto the road. Hebron Gap, mile 53, was a major checkpoint for my status. I was 1 hour and 15 minutes ahead of schedule. If ever there was a point in this race for a wakeup call, that was it. But, the lies we tell ourselves at the half-way point aren’t the ones we need to hear much later in the race. I was feeling great.

I knew the conditions had taken their toll, I knew my pace was too fast; I told myself I had it under control. The next section was a long one starting with a steep grind of a climb. Trying to conserve energy on a steep climb is a bit of a lost cause. I could feel the heat built up in my body. Cooling down at night has always been an issue for me in these races. I tried squirting with occasional water on my head, neck, back, even directly on my stomach. I slowed. I promised myself to spend more time at the next aid station.

There’s a saying amongst those that run 100-mile races that the 100K and not the 50-mile point is nearer halfway. Camp Roosevelt was at mile 63. I was happy to be there. It would have been a good place to spend some extra time, to cool down, recoup, and prepare for the night. However, MMT has a sort of consolation prize that they give to those who drop out at this point in the race. They call it the Visitor’s Award. I didn’t want to be a “visitor.” I pulled out the miniaturized copy of the course profile I’d printed out. The next section was about 5 ½ miles with one sizeable climb.  It gave me slight pause, but the idea of being closer to mile 70 held a significant lure.

I tried to cool down as much as I could; I poured ice in my Buff and grabbed some more to munch along the way. I marched out onto the next trail. Night was descending and there were rumors floating round about cooling temperatures – perhaps even some rain. Hiking up yet another rocky, tree-covered ascent, I felt none of it. I don’t remember a lot about this section. I remember the night and realizing that it was actually easier to see the rocks by flashlight than through the sun’s scattered rays from the canopy above. I remember trying to cool myself with equal amounts of water dripped on my shirt as in my mouth. Mostly, though, I remember being OK.

I arrived at Gap Creek pretty much intact.

Mile 68.7 and I am only 16:20 into my race. Ten hours to go 33 miles. It still seemed within reason. I was feeling pretty good, but what is it I've said before about 100-milers? "Nothing you do in any shorter race can prepare you for what may happen after mile 70." However, the night always brings a renewed sense of wonder for me and I still held hope that the promised cool night temps would sweep in to offer a bit of respite

My only real concerns at the time were trying to cool down and a bit of constipation. Shortly after leaving the aid station, the course turned onto a gravel road. I decided to duck into the trees on the right side to see if I could take care of at least one of my worries. With little success, I popped out a short while later and continued on down the road. I was feeling good on the easy, rolling, non-technical terrain. I didn't see any course markings, but since I hadn't seen any side trails, I figured there was no need.

After a while, it occurred to me that someone should have caught up given my little break. I started to get worried and did my first of three stupid things; I sped up. Since I was feeling strong, my thinking was that I would either be putting some time in the bank that I could use on the upcoming climb or it would help me find out sooner if I'd missed a turn. When I first entered the road, there was another runner ahead of me. Surely he would be heading back by now if we were on the wrong path. I put my worries aside and kept pushing.

The road ended. No flagging. No reflective strips. No trail, just a dead end. I won't commit into writing all the various curse words, but, believe me, I said them all. At that point I did my second stupid thing. I ran back, hard. I did check my GPS so I could see how many bonus miles I was logging. When I reached the missed trail-head it had been 1.8 miles from the end of the road –3.6 for the round trip. To add insult to injury, the trail was exactly on the opposite side of the road from where I’d ducked into the trees. What kind of dumb luck was that? And, speaking of dumb, I then went on to complete my trio of stupid things; I continued pushing the pace as I headed out onto this trail.

Once I reached the climb, I was forced to slow down allowing a couple of runners to pass me and providing me opportunity to regale with my tale of stupidity. I eventually hooked onto a couple of them and made it to the Visitor's Center aid station, mile 77. Despite what the official chart says, I actually did those 12 miles (should have been 8.4) at an 18:20 pace. According to my calculations I still believed I could target something in the 27 hour range. So, I went ahead and topped off all my stupid acts with one final display. I sucked down an Ensure, took some caffeine, ate bit more and then grabbed some chips to go for the steep climb to come.

My stomach was sloshing and I still felt warm despite the cooler temps, but I pressed on. Given what I’d been through and the food, I should have let digestion take its course. This peak was the top one of the course and I had visions of mostly downhill for the final 20 miles. The climbing became difficult and a few people passed me as I stopped for a couple of breathers. I was feeling a little dizzy. After clearing the rockiest section and heading onto a bit wider trail, I checked my elevation to see that I was nearly done with the hill. I stopped once more to catch my breath before the final push.

That's when it hit me.

I went from hands on my knees, to on my hands and knees. First, retching, then gagging, then vomiting my guts out. I know there were at least a few people who got to enjoy the display as I answered the "you alright?" question more than once. After--I'm not sure how long--I finally got the convulsions to settle, but I had gone from being too warm to now shivering and chattering teeth. I got up and put on my jacket and headed up the trail. In shades of Western States, anything beyond a slow walking pace sent me right back over the edge.

I sat down on the side of the trail. Then, I lay down and closed my eyes. As if to punctuate my condition, it began to rain. Wallowing in self-pity, I knew my race was over. I eventually got to my feet and started the slow slog to the next aid station, the beginning of a longer, slower slog to come. My "race" was over, but the epic had just begun.

The rest of the night is mostly lost in a haze of dizziness, nausea and convulsions in response to even the smallest exertion of effort. It really was a repeat of last year’s Western States, only worse. I do recall arriving at Bird Knob and trying futilely to get some small bit of food down. I remember being back on the side of the trail starting down the first hill. I remember throwing up half a Gu. I also remember thinking how long the remainder of the night was going to be if I had to walk the entire downhill section at a pace slow enough to keep my stomach from revolt.

Somehow, I made it to the next aid station. I can only piece together the path from the evidence, but things must have degraded pretty badly. I was, surprisingly, still only 1 hour 15 over pace at Bird Knob. That had stretched to 2:25 at Picnic Area. As I sat covered in a Mylar blanket trying to see if the salt and fat from a few nibbles of bacon would settle, I pondered why in the world I would want to go on. It was 8.5 miles to Gap Creek, back where my whole ordeal had started.  I knew if I made it to mile 95.4 that I would force myself to finish the race no matter what. However, the time and effort it would take to make it there seemed totally unfathomable to my calorie starved brain sitting miserably at the 86.9 mile marker. I sat for quite some time.

Nearly four hours. That is both how long it was until I arrived at the next aid station as well as how far I was off my pace chart once I was there. My pace chart seemed a distant fantasy of a past life at that point. Though they did nothing to help my stomach overall, I found that ginger candies would stay put. I took some more ginger and managed a bit of soup here. I was in no big hurry to leave Gap Creek as the volunteers were taking such good care of me. I wanted to see if there was any last chance of salvaging my stomach for those final miles. Numerous people came and went as I sat watching myself slip further back in the pack. I knew this was a trend that would continue as I trudged it “on in” so I eventually just came to terms with it and headed out.

As I headed back up the bit of trail that I’d missed the night before, I shared my tale with a few fellow travelers trying to smile at the misdeed and all that followed. The story just felt stale. I put my head down and focused on just getting through the final miles. I had one small glimmer of hope at getting it done sooner during the first bit of downhill. Alas, it was short-lived as my stomach immediately let me know that the final payment for my transgressions would be doled out to the bitter end.

Like so many 100 mile races, Massanutten’s last miles are road miles – long, arduous road.

If earlier in the race I had been pining to be able to think or just let my mind wander, I now had opportunity aplenty.  In fact, I had too much of it. I’d struggled through the final miles of a race before. Bighorn came to mind. However, in that case, I was hobbled by a strained Achilles and managed to maintain sufficient motivation to go as fast as pain would allow. Here, I was down with a complete inability to push. What’s worse, I allowed my emotional state to follow down the deteriorating path of my physical condition. Whether from exhaustion, lack of calories, self-reproach or some combination of all these, I completely lost touch with any sense of motivation.

I kept moving forward because I had no other direction to go. I had no interest in talking to passing runners. At this point, my story just sounded like so much excuse. I hadn’t run a tough 70 miles only to push myself over the edge. I had run a stupid race; fooling myself into thinking I had ability beyond my means.  I was a 30-hour finisher arrogating himself into running a 26 hour pace. Past and future doubts came creeping into my psyche. Western States, C2M, and every other finish off the mark were evidence of my self-deception. And what of my future plans? Redemption at Bighorn, three 100s in three months, repeat at Plain, another PR at Javelina: what was I thinking?

All perspective was gone. The final single track trail – a victory lap for some – was simply one last slap in the face for me. Crossing the finish, I felt only relief to be done. I don’t know that anybody has look as dejected as I upon accomplishing such a challenging task. I felt a tiny bit better, cheering in other runners though talking about my own race still rung hollow. I couldn’t really eat yet and I had to make it back to Dulles, so I opted out of the awards ceremony.

I drove back to town and stopped at the frozen custard stand before heading onto the freeway. As the first swallow of cool, sweetness reached my stomach, a sliver of light penetrated my gloomy outlook. It’s not that I felt any better about my race, but it was the first hint of knowing that I eventually would.

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Massanutten is a unique event. While I didn’t quite approach it as one should a new experience, I can, at least now, embrace what it had to offer. Much like living at sea level and taking on my first race at significant altitude, coming from the west coast, and tackling this race presented many new challenges. From the time difference to the early start to the weather to all the inherent difficulties of the course itself, every aspect holds a lesson. I’m not sure if I’ll return for a repeat attempt any time soon, but I will certainly look back over this one many times in the coming years.