"Let's go, boys. Time to put the screws to it and get this done."
The volunteer's words stuck in my mind as I quickly headed out of the Pot Hollow Aid Station at mile 84.7 of the Wasatch Front 100 Mile Endurance Run. My pacer Josh and I had bombed the last 2 miles of trail heading into Pot Hollow in a desperate attempt to stay ahead of cutoffs. Our next checkpoint, Staton Aid Station, was approximately 5 miles ahead. We had about an hour and a half to get there, and based on the terrain we had seen up to that point, I was doubtful that we could make it.
5 miles. An hour and a half. Over the course of the summer I had run hundreds of miles in training and competing in other races. I ran out of gas on Devil's Thumb at Western States. Set a PR in Vermont. Folded like a tent climbing Hope Pass at Leadville. And now, here I was. My dreams of finishing the Grand Slam of Ultrarunning had long since faded away, but I held on to the hope that I could at least come home with a finish on the historic Wasatch trail. I had been out there for well over 30 hours. The trail had taken its toll on me - I was tired, dehydrated, painfully sore, and hungry, but now wasn't the time to feel sorry for myself. After everything I had gone through over the previous day and a half - hell, everything I had gone through for the summer - it all came down to these 5 miles in 90 minutes.
I looked over at Josh. "You know, I think a lot of people are pulling for us right now."
"Yep. So let's get after it," he replied.
I tightened my vest. We walked out of the aid station together onto the dirt road that would lead to yet another climb, one of many that we faced that day. I was tired of climbing, tired of mountains, and just plain tired. But there was nothing to do now but push ahead and see where this road would lead.
Time to put the screws to it, indeed.
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Start to Francis Peak
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| This is my "I am so excited to run in the mountains" face! |
The race began on Friday with an early morning drive to the East Mountain Wilderness Park outside Salt Lake City, where the Wasatch Front 100 would begin at 5am. I was not particularly nervous, but I was definitely suffering from some confidence issues heading into this race. My recent humbling on the slopes of Hope Pass in Leadville was still fresh on my mind - and now here I was, about to tackle a course with almost twice as much climbing as I faced in Leadville.
The morning air was warm and humid - definitely not what I was hoping for - but it was bearable. I collected my gear and walked to the start line with my soon-to-be pacer and weekend companion Steve hoping that things might cool off in the higher elevations. I tried to keep my mind clear as the race director began the countdown to the start of the race. I tried to stay in the moment and not worry about elevation profiles, split times, or my race plan. At this point, the less I thought about what lay before me, the better. I would just take the day as it came and adapt as best I could. And then, with an understated "Go!", we were off in a cloud of dust.
The first stretch of the race began on a relatively flat dirt road that gently climbed up and out of the wilderness park. After around 3 miles, I reached the base of the Bair Canyon Trail - a 4+ mile hike straight uphill that would cover around 4,000 vertical feet. With my hands on my knees and my heels off the ground, I trudged up the seemingly endless climb to the top of Francis Peak. After almost 3 hours of climbing, I reached a wide dirt road that marked the upper part of the trail. My climb culminated at the famous observation domes on Francis Peak. From here, the trail leveled out and began to descend - gradually at first, then more dramatically. I picked up speed running downhill and reached the first aid station (mile 12) - which was not much more than a small table with a few volunteers refilling our water bottles. I took advantage of this early chance to catch my breath, and feeling pretty good, I promptly soldiered on.
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As Josh and I left Pot Hollow, we were pleased to see the narrow, technical trail that we had faced heading into this aid station transition into a wide dirt road; however, our enthusiasm was tempered by the fact that we were once again heading back uphill. We charged ahead as best we could and made decent time, but we were still up against the clock and we weren't moving as quickly as we needed to be. My frustration began to mount, as I wanted to run again - I NEEDED to run again - but this hill wasn't the time or place for it. Josh pulled me along, hiking hard up the hill. "I hope this ends soon," I thought. The clock was ticking.
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Limping Into Bountiful B
When the sun came out, the heat kicked in, and I began to find my strength wavering heading into the mile 17 aid station, "Bountiful B". The upper ridge lines of the trail were completely exposed to the sun, and coupled with the oncoming heat of the morning, I began to struggle at the almost 8,000' elevation. I slowed to a crawl on a long, sustained climb that began at around mile 14 and culminated at Bountiful. When I finally arrived, I found a lively and bustling aid station - a welcome sight, compared to the simple water table I had seen earlier. The energy of the volunteers lifted my spirits but I was still not feeling well. My plan of periodically consuming Huma and Gu gels and mixing in Tailwind was causing my stomach to revolt again, and I was forced to park at the aid station for several minutes while I tried to settle down.
Before long I set out again, walking slowly as I tried to pull myself together. I had 4 miles to the next aid station, Sessions Liftoff (mile 21). This stretch was the first of what would be several low points for me in the race. I walked the entire 4 miles into Sessions, and upon arrival, I collapsed into a chair and considered my situation. I was not well, not eating, barely drinking, and in a lousy mood. Volunteers came over to check on me and offered to help. I settled my stomach with some papaya tablets, potato chips, and a few cups of Sprite. After a lengthy stay I staggered to my feet. As I prepared to leave, a volunteer gave me some sage advice:
"Listen to me. I don't want you to touch your gels or your Tailwind. Eat REAL FOOD. Bland if possible. Nibble, and hike. Keep moving. Drink your water, and have some Sprite. Take some chips or crackers in a baggie with you on the trail, and keep your chin up. You can still do this!"
They gave me a baggie filled with potato chips. Everyone at the aid station came up to me to encourage me (that was REALLY cool of them) as I walked back out onto the trail. Feeling much better, I began to power hike - and found that I was able to cover a good deal of ground this way. Hiking, I passed a number of runners, which further boosted my confidence. There was a strong, cool wind up along the upper ridges that I found refreshing. I stayed with my potato chips and bland food, I drank my water, and kept on moving. I listened to some music while enjoying a long stretch of high energy, making good time while plowing ahead along the mountaintops. I hiked the flats and uphills, ran the downhills, and before long, I arrived at the next major stop in my journey, the Big Mountain Aid Station, at mile 32.
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| Arrival at Big Mountain feeling ok, all things considered... |
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| Discussing the situation with pacers Steve and Josh. |
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| Josh, Steve and me at Big Mountain Aid Station. |
Coming from the remoteness of the trail, running down the hill to Big Mountain was like descending into a street festival. It was crazy - there were people everywhere, tents and canopies all over the place, tables of food, medical tents, crews....it took me a few moments to adjust to my new surroundings and find my crew. In short order they actually found me, sat me down, and as I snacked on chips and pickles, we talked about my day. At this point I would pick up my first pacer of the day, Steve, whose company I was greatly looking forward to on the lonely trail. As glad as I was to be there with them, we needed to get going, and I could tell Steve was itching to get after it. We had a long way to go to get to the next aid station - over 8 miles - and we needed to get moving.
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"Almost there," Josh called back to me. The dirt road we had been hiking for the last several minutes had begun to level off. We made a slight right turn, and as I looked at what lay ahead, my spirits soared. I could not believe what I saw - a wide jeep road, not technical at all, at a gentle downhill grade.
"Dude! Can you believe this?" I asked. My eyes were like saucers. It was go-time. I asked Josh if he was OK with me listening to some music and going as hard as possible. "Man, do what you need to do!" he replied.
Fist bump from Josh. Earbuds in. Music on. "Get It", by Run The Jewels. And off we went. We now had 4 miles to go to make our checkpoint and I wasn't stopping until we got there. Josh was right beside me as we clicked off a < 8:00/mile pace. "This might just happen after all," I cautiously thought to myself...
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Big Mountain to Lamb's Canyon
I continued to make good time for the first few miles out of Big Mountain with Steve, as we were able to knock out long stretches together while power hiking the ridges. Things seemed to be moving along well until I started to waver in my energy levels again in the heat of the day. Our pace began to slow as I tried to recover, but I couldn't shake an oncoming wave of nausea that forced me to stop beside the trail. And it was at that point that I lost everything that was in my stomach - another of the several bouts of nausea that I would face throughout the race. I began to question whether I could get to the next aid station, much less the finish line. "I don't know if I can do this," I said aloud. After a few moments, Steve pulled me to my feet, and we trudged on.
It was up and down over the next several miles (literally and figuratively) until we reached the Alexander Ridge aid station, mile 40. I was forced to stop again and sit for a while to recover some of my strength. Steve brought me some chicken broth, Sprite, and crackers. I chewed more papaya tablets and waited for my stomach to catch up. Eventually I felt good enough to get moving again, and on we went. We resorted to our power hiking strategy as we navigated a long, gently rolling jeep road. We hiked, tackled another long climb, jogged down into a canyon, and bushwhacked through some dense underbrush. Darkness had descended upon us and our headlamps were on as we entered the Lamb's Canyon Aid Station (mile 46).
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Josh and I rounded a corner at full speed and ran into another hill. We were looking at a climb of only a couple hundred feet - somewhat steep, but not that bad. Neither one of us was in any mood to "take it easy" at this point. We pushed up the hill, passing several other runners along the way, and were soon looking back down a long stretch of dirt roads before us. We were cruising, and making great time.
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The Long Night - Lamb's to Brighton
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| Faking a smile upon leaving Lamb's Canyon aid station. |
Our night was anything but uneventful. Another long climb awaited Steve and me as we made our way out of Lamb's Canyon. A symphony of night sounds surrounded us as we plodded up the endless mountainside trail. Upon reaching the pass, and following a quick descent, we hiked another 3 miles up a paved road into the Upper Big Water aid station (mile 54). Once again, I had to stop to recover. I forced down some warm broth (this aid station was freezing cold) while wrapped in a heavy blanket. Steve insisted we keep moving, so that's what we did - and immediately upon setting out, we were climbing again. The next 5 miles were very difficult for me, as I had hit another low point and was struggling to stay awake. All I could think about was getting from one aid station to the next. Steve was very helpful in keeping me moving despite my several attempts to sit down beside the trail. Finally I stumbled into the Desolation Lake aid station at mile 59. I thought I was finished, but Steve had other ideas. He hit me with a few cups of Mountain Dew and more broth. Just as I was starting to settle in, he pulled me out of the chair.
"Let's go," he said.
It was clear to me that it wasn't a request.
The rest of the night was equally challenging. I dealt with fatigue and exhaustion, even hallucinating several times. I think I even fell asleep on my feet once or twice. At one point, I came within a few feet of stepping directly on a large porcupine! I asked Steve if I was dreaming that, but he said no, that was the real thing. "Now that would have been bad, really bad," he countered. I agreed, and tried to pay closer attention to my footfalls in the darkness.
In the very early morning hours, Steve and I made it to the ski town of Brighton (mile 67). Once again, I was certain my race was over. The Brighton aid station is in a large ski lodge and has everything a cold, tired runner could want - hot food, blankets, cots, crew access....and I could not wait to take advantage of all of these amenities. I was tired, I was hungry....and in my mind, I was done.
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Josh and I rounded a small ridge line, hauling ass and making up chunks of time against the cutoff. Finally, we looked ahead down the road and saw the brightly colored canopies of the Staton aid station about 3/4 mile ahead. We had to get to Staton, mile 90, by 2pm to make the cutoff. I looked at my watch.
It read 1:20 pm.
I could not contain my excitement. We picked up the pace, running even harder than before, and in short order were within the aid station's friendly confines.
"YYYYEEEAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" I shouted, as loudly as I could out of my dust-choked lungs. Josh followed suit, no doubt surprising the unsuspecting volunteers at the aid station.
"#85 in," I said as I dropped into a chair. A wave of emotion overcame me as it hit me - I was going to finish!
Josh brought me a cup of coke and told the volunteers, "An hour and a half ago, I might not have bet we'd be sitting here right now. What a day." I could not have agreed more. After a minute or 2 to collect our things and get something to eat, we set out - eager to begin the 10 mile journey to the finish line in Soldier Hollow.
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Chasing Cutoffs Out of Brighton
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| With Chris at Brighton Aid Station. |
I was never asked how I felt, how I was doing, or what I wanted to do next. The decision to continue was (wisely) not left up to me. Steve gave Josh a baggie with more hash browns in it while I prepared to head back out into the night. Minutes later, after a few final words of encouragement from Steve and Anne, Josh and I began the climb up and out of Brighton. It was just before 5:30am.
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| Getting ready to go. |
I considered for a moment how blessed I was to have him there with me. There are a number of reasons why I love this crazy sport - certainly because I love the mountains, the trails, the trees, even the thrill of competition; but really, it's the people. The friendships that have been forged over many lonely miles and countless hours of shared experience have become priceless to me. I probably "could" do these races without a pacer or crew. Perhaps it might even make me appear stronger as a runner to those who care about such things. But for me, the fellowship that I shared out there with Steve and Josh is really what it's all about. That's what brings me back. At this stage of my running career, that's what means the most to me - more than any number of buckles, medals, accolades, or PR's.
Josh and I crested the highest point on the course at 10,460'. We then began a long descent through a rocky valley and into the next checkpoint, Ant Knolls, mile 72. As we prepared to stop in, a volunteer informed us we had about an hour to cover the next 3 miles and get to the next aid station, Pole Line. He further told us we had a small climb ahead, then it was downhill from there. We hastily moved through the aid station, not allowing for any time to eat or refuel. We needed to get moving. The "small climb" the volunteer referred to was actually one of the steepest, most difficult climbs I had faced all day! It was relatively short, but it was very difficult for me. I was wheezing heavily as I pushed as hard as I could to keep moving, knowing that once we did reach the top, we'd have to take off and run all the way down to Pole Line. We didn't have a lot of time. This, I thought, was going to be a problem.
At the top, Josh looked concerned and turned to me.
"Truth time. We're going to have to run everything that we can run from here on out, no exceptions, if we want to have a chance to finish. You have to keep it together and find something you can eat. You have to get in some calories and we have to keep moving. That's it, or we're done."
I nodded in agreement. We ran hard into Pole Line, barely clearing the cutoff time by 8 minutes. The hard effort had once again caused my stomach to sour, and we had to hike the next few miles to allow me to settle down. Josh discovered some Reese's Pieces candies at an aid station, which I was able to keep down - and slowly, I started to recover again. He insisted that I take a Huma gel - if I threw it up, so be it, but I needed calories for the final push. I agreed. It was terrible, but I kept it down, and slowly but surely I felt my strength returning again.
"OK man, we need to go, now," he said. Here was the situation - we had a couple miles to go to get to the Pot Hollow Aid Station (mile 85). From there, we had to get to Staton, 5 miles further down the trail. It was noon. We had to be at Staton by 2. That was it. We'd either get there, or we would miss cutoffs and the day would be done.
My mindset from that point on was that I would run and push as hard as I could, for as long as I could, until someone told me to stop - whether that be at the finish line or otherwise. What lay before us was a long stretch of technical downhills into the Pot Hollow aid station. I fixed my gaze straight ahead, and Josh and I bombed down the trail.
We arrived at Pot Hollow with just a few minutes to spare. I nearly ran over several other runners in my haste to get in and get out. I slammed 2 cups of coke and headed back out. As I left, an aid station volunteer turned to Josh and me. What he said stuck in my mind:
"Let's go, boys. Time to put the screws to it and get this done."
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Coming Home
We took it easy on the long descent out of Staton. We had over 3 hours to cover the mainly downhill 10 mile stretch to the finish line, and after some hard running over the last couple of hours, I needed to catch my breath. But I was elated. We continued to move well, running easily down the side of the mountain and clicking off the miles. We crossed a few pastures and fields, passed through several gates and open farmland, and reached the day's last aid station at mile 94. After a brief chat with the volunteers and some snacks we moved on. As good as I felt, I was ready to be finished.
The final 6 miles were on a crushed gravel trail that paralleled a pristine lake ringed by the rugged mountains that had been my home for the previous day and a half. We weren't pushing particularly hard, choosing instead to walk most of the home stretch rather than run it. We shared our thoughts on the day, discussed the awesomeness of various fried foods and beer, and looked forward to reuniting with our crew again in Soldier Hollow.
And finally, after a short stretch down a paved highway, we made it to Soldier Hollow. More than 35 hours after beginning the Wasatch Front 100, I crossed the finish line.
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Takeaways
It's a humbling thing to realize that you're not as strong as you think you are. Ultrarunning has always pushed me to my very limits, but in many cases I have found that it's the strength of others that can push us beyond what we ourselves believe to be possible. With that in mind, I give my deepest thanks and appreciation to my crew - Steve, Josh, Anne, and Chris, who made sure that "quit" never entered my vocabulary. I would not have done this without them. They helped me find the strength I didn't know I had. That was a gift for which I will be forever grateful.
And so, my Grand Slam summer came to a close with the successful completion of 2 of the 4 great American 100's. I certainly had higher hopes than to finish only 2 of them, but I am at peace with it. It was the journey, and those that made the journey with me, that have made me a better person today than I was when I started. When I think back over the summer, what I recall the most aren't the tough miles, it's the people - journeying with other would-be and successful 2017 Grand Slammers, seeing my family and crew push me through tough times at Western States and then support me in my defeat, my coach Ryan and my New England buddies helping me rebound with a great day at Vermont (what's up, Westie??), hanging out with Berton and Lori in the thin air of Colorado, and finally my amazing crew and pacers at Wasatch...I can't help but become emotional as I look back over these crazy 90 days.
At some point I will probably look ahead again, but for now, it's enough for me to reflect on what has been an amazing journey. I am grateful to God for allowing me the privilege of taking part in it.
Ad majorem Dei gloriam.
