“And I wonder … If everything could ever feel this real
forever -
If anything could ever be this good again … “
-Foo Fighters, “Everlong” (video after post)
**
I’m not sure what I was thinking, but clearly I must have
slipped into one of my idiot moments.
I thought it wouldn’t be that big of a deal to run 100 miles
across the sky, fly back to town the next day, jump right back into the school
and work routine, and plunk out a race report by the end of the week. I managed to click those first few things off
the list, but when it came to the race report … not so much.
I’m still awfully tired, I guess. OK - make that undoubtedly.
However, there’s something larger at play in my lethargy as well. Part of me is still processing the whole experience,
partially in disbelief that everything went as well as I could have hoped
for. There’s also a fair amount of ennui over the fact that last weekend will most likely be the pinnacle of my
running career – and with each passing day that goes by, the memories will be less vivid, and the emotions will fade and feel a little less real. And when
I finally write the race report, the whole episode will be officially and
permanently in my rearview mirror, which makes me more than a little sad.
(Remember how I've mentioned that I can find the down side of
anything? And you thought I was
kidding.)
So while I’m working through this ridiculous bout of sturm und drang over my Leadville
report, here’s an advance Random Shot of Beauty from the course - click to enlarge for the full effect:
An abandoned ranch shack as seen at approximately mile 25, in the shadow of Mount Elbert (center background) and Mount Massive (at right), otherwise known as the two highest peaks in Colorado. This one
actually didn’t make the final cut for the race report, so perhaps it’s good
that I’ve become such a writing slacker this week.
**
And I suppose it’s fitting that one of my all-time greatest
running experiences should be paired with one of my all-time favorite rock
songs; one true classic to go with another.
Foo Fighters, “Everlong” (Live on Letterman - click to play):
"Getting good at
starting over every time that I return -
I'm learning to walk
again -
I believe I've waited
long enough -
Where do I begin?"
- Foo Fighters, "Walk" (video after post)
*
One of the reasons I look forward to racing season so much when
building up to a 100-miler is that it's very hard to simulate the feeling of
timelessness in routine training.
Virtually every other training run I do is governed by time
- or, more accurately, the lack thereof.
I'm constantly racing the clock to start my work day, or to get back to
family activities or chores waiting for me at home. And even though I can wake up crazy early
and knock out 50K before sitting down to my desk, I don't always seek out the
toughest routes for fear that the miles will put me too far behind schedule. It's not until I do races of 50 miles or more
that I really, fully dedicate myself to the trail, without regard for how many
hours it will take me.
Consequently, it's not until I'm in these races that I get
to practice my walking. Whether it's
going up a relentless climb, struggling to cope with extreme heat, or simply
shuffling my way through the inevitable low spots, long ultras give me an
opportunity to learn to walk again. While
that may sound strange to some, it's actually an important skill to develop in
preparation for 100-milers. Because
nobody runs a whole 100 - and if you want to be successful, you had better be
good at walking.
This year's Miwok 100K proved to be even more helpful than
usual in teaching me how to walk again.
The course was a almost a complete reboot from previous versions, with a
different start and finish area, steeper and more technical hills, and 20% more
climbing than last year's already daunting 10,000' of vertical. Oh, and it was another unseasonably warm day
in Marin County - all of which made for the "epicer" challenge I
mentioned in last weekend's post.
Across the board, race times were 1 to 2 hours slower than
previous editions. Race winner Dave
Mackey took more than 70 minutes longer than in 2011. Runners who normally broke 10 hours were
happy with sub-12s. And when I got to
the halfway point of the race and realized I was on pace to go nearly 2 hours
slower than last year, that's when I gave up concerning myself with time, and fully
embraced the notion that this was a perfect day for walking.
But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit - so let's get to the
race report, starting back at the beginning ...
... which was unlike any in Miwok history. In addition to being in the town of Stinson Beach
(instead of the customary Rodeo Beach), it was 45 minutes earlier than usual -
and the 5AM start ensured that we'd be running in the dark for more than an
hour.
Darkness might actually have been a blessing, because the
course climbs 1800' in less than 2 miles; if we had actually seen it, the hill
might have been completely demoralizing.
Instead, we kept rising into the dark, with only a stream of headlamps
in front and behind - that, and a supermoon overhead to give the trail a serene glow.
By daybreak we found ourselves on Miwok's infamous
"half-track" Coastal trail, where the side slope and narrowness make this stretch a
notorious ankle-twister. Between the
killer climb and the perilous descent, Miwok was swinging a big hammer before
we even reached the first aid station.
This stretch along Bolinas Ridge was a bit surreal, in that
it typically occurs during miles 26 to 40.
This year it was miles 7 to 20 ...
... and at the Randall Trail aid station, instead of having
28 miles to go, we had 48. Go ahead and
add psychological punishment to the list of challenges at this year's race.
On the long climb away from Randall, I started what would become
a recurring theme: catching up to scores of runners who had blown me away on
the previous downhill. I wasn't pushing
particularly hard, just walking and jogging in baby steps, but under the
circumstances, it was enough to make up a lot of ground.
Eventually we made our way back across the half-track, this
time in the sunlight ...
... where we got our first great views of the coastline,
such as this one toward Point Reyes that was shrouded in darkness the first
time through.
The descent to Stinson Beach featured another new route: the
absolutely beautiful and absolutely treacherous Matt Davis Trail. If the low branches didn't take you out ...
... the rocky footing, irregular steps, or twisty
switchbacks probably would. The most
common description I heard of this trail afterward was an obstacle course, but
I considered it more like parkour - complete with the occasional rolling on the
ground.
After giving back all the elevation we gained in the dark,
the Matt Davis Trail eventually dropped us back down to Stinson Beach ...
... where we immediately faced a 1400' climb up the
first few miles of the Dipsea Trail.
Bay Area trail runners know this legendary trail for two
things: a historic race, and a crazy amount of stairs. I'm very familiar with the trail, so I knew
what I was in for ...
And when I asked some hikers to take my picture, they
probably figured I was just enjoying the scenery. What they didn't realize is that I was
looking for any excuse to catch my breath for a few minutes ...
... before continuing the long slog of railroad tie stairs through
the steep ravine.
The Dipsea also passes through one of the most beautiful
redwood groves you'll ever see, which is almost enough to take your mind off
the fact you're still climbing. Almost.
Of course, as soon as we gained all that elevation, we gave
it right back again on a long descent back to sea level ...
... and the mile 33 aid station at Muir Beach. Honestly, the climb and descent to get here
were my worst section of the race: the day was getting warm, I was starting to
feel the miles on my legs, and the finish was still too distant to even contemplate. Not to mention, a ton of runners
passed me on the long downhill to the beach.
Fortunately, this was where I had my previously described epiphany about
savoring the full day out on the trails, which motivated me to keep plugging
along ...
... although the sight of beachgoers frolicking in the surf as
I labored in the heat was just one more slap from a course that had been doling
out punishment all day.
Once upon a time, I made the climb from Muir Beach three times
in 24 hours, so I was familiar with this long grind that opened the second half
of the race. Unfortunately, that didn't
make the current situation any easier ...
... but the first glimpses of the city in the distance from
the top of the hill helped make it worth the effort.
Following yet another long descent (to Tennessee Valley) and
climb back up to another summit, the city views became more breathtaking ...
... and the trail that rolled along the ridgeline was
relatively gentle for a change, which was a welcome relief on the farthest
outbound stretch of the course.
This doesn't have anything to do with my race report, but I
have to tell you how cool it is that there's a ridge named after me in the
Marin Headlands. Truly, it's an
honor. I'll be remembered for
generations in this part of the world. I
couldn't ask for a better tribute.
(Meanwhile, back at the race ... )
I rather appreciated this sign, made by the Coastside
Running Club who manned the Rodeo Valley aid station. It says, "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever." - which seemed like a nice little reminder at
mile 43.
By the way, what's better than an aid station at the
turnaround point of a killer ultra on a hot day? ...
An aid station at a killer ultra on a hot day with POPSICLES! In a related story, I fell completely in love
with the Coastside Running Club ...
... and at that moment, I was one very happy ultrarunner. But then a strange thing happened ...
These buildings are the Marin Youth Hostel - which in itself
isn't so unusual. The strange part is
that I wasn't supposed to be here; somewhere in my post-popsicle delirium, I
managed to miss a turn and go off course with a couple of other runners. We backtracked about a half mile, and I ended
up going down another wrong road by myself, which led me past these buildings. I eventually found my way back onto the course
markings ...
... but it wasn't until I arrived at Rodeo Beach with this
guy (who I had yo-yo'd with almost all day) before I realized we hadn't taken the same route to get there.
(Incidentally, after the race I tried to disqualify myself for
re-entering the course at a different point than I left it, but the RD graciously
declined my recommendation. She figured
I probably ran more than the original distance to end up where I did - and in
the understatement of the day told me, "Besides, it's not like you were in the top
three." I'm pretty sure that last part was meant to
reassure me. Either way, I was grateful
for her ruling.)
If the sight of Muir Beach earlier in the day was a slap,
the sights and sounds of Rodeo Beach at mile 45 in the hot mid-afternoon felt
closer to a stomach punch - especially when yet another long climb awaited us.
One highlight of this section was that there were a ton of hikers enjoying a beautiful Marin County afternoon, and most of them were clued
into the fact that there was some sort of race going on. Some people clapped, others asked how far we
were going ... and when I passed by, nearly all of them whispered some variety of
Did you see what that guy's wearing on his feet? It was a nice psychological boost just as we
were making our return back to the finish area - and from that point on, I was
in great spirits the whole rest of the way.
After another brutal climb, Rodeo Beach faded into the
distance below, and another long descent led us to the Tennessee Valley aid
station at mile 51 ...
... where signs leading to the aid
station were a little more pointed - but even more appreciated than the
earlier ones.
Stop me if you've heard this already - but after the aid
station we made another long climb. This
time, it was to the top of Pirate's Cove ...
... which is one of my favorite sections of the Marin County
coastline. In fact, I pretended that I
wanted my picture taken here because I love the view so much ...
... when I was actually just buying some time before the
very steep, technical downhill that leads to the shore. Between the tricky footing in my RunAmocs and
the fact that I was still reeling people in on every climb, I reached a point
where I was looking forward to the uphills far more than the descents. Ultras can do strange things to your head
sometimes.
The climb out of Pirates Cove isn't too extreme, and before
you know it you're glancing over your shoulder for a final glimpse of the coast
to the south ...
... and then turning forward to see the Muir Beach aid
station in front of you to the north.
From here, there were only 8 miles left in the race, and I was still
keeping a remarkably steady pace; all that was left was to grind it out to the
finish.
This is Willie. He
bombed past me at roughly mile 31, but not before stopping to chat for a few
minutes. He introduced himself by
saying, "I'm a big fan of the blog!" and was also wearing minimalist
shoes (Merrell Road Gloves); needless to say, we hit it off right away. All of which made me feel bad to pass him back
at mile 55 - or sort of bad, at least.
I'm pretty sure I felt a little bit bad.
For some reason, that part is fuzzy now.
(But for the record, this was his first 100K, and he toughed
it out and finished even after things unraveled on him on a brutal day. Kudos, Willie.)
The final stretch of the new Miowk course is primarily on
the Dipsea Trail, in the same direction as the namesake event. Dipsea veterans know that the course is 7.3
miles long and ends at Stinson Beach, so when you see rock markers like this
from the Dipsea Race, you know exactly how far you have to go.
On our way back, the same sun that spilled through these
redwoods on us from the east now split the trees from the west on our
return. Which is really just my roundabout way of saying it had been a very long day.
But all that remained was one last swoop down the Dipsea
stairs ...
... before a glimpse across "The Moors" (as this
section of the Dipsea Trail is called) brought Stinson Beach back into view, and
the finish line called us home.
I finally arrived there 13 and a half hours after I left,
which was nearly two full hours longer than this race has taken me in years
past. Despite that - or maybe because of
it - this year's Miwok just might rate as my favorite one ever. I managed the race well, never had a major
crisis aside from mild depression going up Dipsea the first time, and re-taught
myself the power of completely losing yourself in the moment, regardless of how
much time you spend there. I feel like
I'm finding my place in the realm of 100-milers again - now all I have to do is
keep growing stronger between now and August.
*
"I think I found
my place -
Can't you feel it growing stronger, little conquerors?"
- Foo Fighters,
"Walk" (Live on Letterman video - click to play):
See other race reports under tab at top of page.
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*Technically it was only about 49 miles, but that’s part of the longer story …
"Maybe the season - the colors change in the valley skies - Dear God I’ve sealed my fate - running through hell, heaven can wait - Long road to ruin there in your eyes ... "
- Foo Fighters, “Long Road to Ruin” (video after post)
**
Obviously, there’s not much suspense to the way this one ends: I've already announced that I didn’t finish the 100K race last weekend. Consequently, I’ve been predictably undermotivated to post a detailed account of one of the most disappointing events of my life, and pondered not presenting a report at all.
Two considerations ultimately changed my mind …
1) I’m still wondering how much of last weekend’s result was my own fault, and to what degree I was just an unfortunate victim of circumstance – and hopefully, writing an official report and getting some objective feedback (that means you, kind readers) may help sort some of that out. Also …
2) I took a ton of pictures and covered every trail on the course, so a full report might still be instructive (not to mention cautionary) to anyone thinking about doing this race in the future.
And with that, we’ll jump into the recap. I’ll try to keep things moving through the early stages, and spend some extra time on the more pivotal parts as we get there. Away we go!
The race started at 4:30AM, with about 20-25 people gathered in the darkness. Most of the first six miles are an uphill climb on a rocky, narrow single track …
… which poses some unique trail hazards not typically encountered in your average ultra.
One reason the race starts so early is to get some mileage under our belts before the fierce heat of the day takes a stranglehold on the course. Forecast temps were in the upper 90s for Santa Ynez (the nearest town), but we all knew the heat of the remote canyons would be far higher than that. The sun was coming hard – and the more shaded miles we could get in beforehand, the better.
Just past the Arroyo Burro aid station at mile 7, you spend a few miles on rolling single-track …
Before taking on a 2,000-ft climb towards Angustora Pass. Total elevation gain for the 100K course is more than 16,000’ - so while stretches of trail like this would be the biggest climb on many courses, at Blue Canyon it’s just a practice hill for later in the race.
From the aid station at Angostura, you’re awarded with a great view of Gibraltar Dam and Reservoir, and more than 3 miles of downhill fire roads ahead.
As you get closer to the reservoir, small rock features you first saw from a distance become larger and more impressive with every step.
This aid station marks the turnaround point of the 50K race held later in the morning, as well as miles 18 and 49 of the 100K. On my first time through, the morning was definitely heating up, and by the end of the day, one of the volunteers here (more about him later) told me the temperature reached 103. And this was a relatively cool spot: ultimately the course would take us 22 miles further into the hills, where the heat was noticeably greater. For the time being, however, I had no worries at all.
The next several miles skirt up and down the hills and around the inlets of Gibraltar Reservoir. This was one of the most scenic sections of the race – but later on, it would be the place where everything fell apart.
I’ve done two ultras this spring, and run past two quicksilver mines. I just thought that was an interesting coincidence.
The single-track portions of this race are best described as overgrown. Anyplace you could actually see the trail was a luxury; more frequently, you were stepping on top of tall grasses or through brush and brambles of various sizes (anywhere from shin- to waist-high), or bending over at the waist to avoid scratching the heck out of your face and neck. By the end of the day, the burrs and weeds nearly destroyed both my shoes and socks.
Even crazier is that these trails had actually been cleared prior to race weekend - so I’d hate to see what they looked like beforehand.
This is the Forbush aid station at mile 31. From the pre-race e-mails sent to us, here's what was supposed to be there: water, ice, soda, S-caps, Succeed, amino drink mix, GU gels, GU Brew, cooked potatoes, salt, crackers, jellybeans, chips, and various other snacks.
And here's what was actually there: water.
It might not have been so bad, except for one thing: the previous aid station was in precisely the same situation. The mile 25 station was billed as having the exact same list as above, but all it had was a single Gatorade container-sized stash of water and one bag of ice in an igloo cooler. And even THAT might not have been so bad, except for the fact that we had to pass each of these stations on the way back as well. And did I mention that the day was a little bit warm?
Nevertheless, I was still feeling pretty good here, and while I had my bottles filled, the volunteer assured me they’d keep replenishing the water supply throughout the day. File that one under “famous last words.”
Beyond the Forbush station begins a long descent towards Blue Canyon, which actually doesn’t look blue from here – but it sure looked challenging.
There’s really not much to the creek at the bottom of Blue Canyon, but a little later on, I’d get to know this particular area fairly well.
Leaving Blue Canyon is one of the steepest, longest, most difficult climbs I’ve ever done in an ultra. Throw in the fact that the trail was almost completely overgrown in parts and that the heat was becoming insufferable, and this was one of the most dreadful climbs I’ve ever experienced.
At the top, you’re rewarded by two things: this killer vista, and the knowledge that you’re only about three miles from the turnaround point.
I haven’t mentioned one other little unpleasantry yet: the whole course was simply CRAZY with flies. They were so widespread, so numerous, and so bothersome that I was compelled to pitch a tent over my head at times, like on this fire road that leads to the turnaround point. There’s really no way to accurately describe how irritating this was … but I’ll be darned if I’m going to let my race be ruined by a bunch of bugs.
Have you ever seen the turnaround point of a race in the distance, figured out that there’s nobody within miles of you, and realized you could just turn around early without being noticed? More importantly, if you were in that situation, would you spin around early?
Me neither.
There’s something about making the turn for home that feels great – and when it’s combined with the sight of a long downhill stretch in front of me, it’s not surprising that I was feeling really great through this section of the course …
… although the steep descent into Blue Canyon was almost as difficult on the descent as it was going up. The loose rocks, tricky footing, and steep grade were quite a challenge to my Evo shoes, which are super comfortable but a little bit lacking in the traction department. Worse, though, was that the heat was definitely becoming a major player in the event. Shady spots had long since disappeared, and there was really no escape from the conditions …
…except perhaps during a brief dip in the creek at the bottom of the canyon. In hindsight, this was probably my happiest point of the day: I was in the thick of the battle, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be able to survive.
Which is why I need to stop jumping to conclusions so much.
Even the bugs seemed friendlier around here: instead of the biting flies and gnats that swarmed everywhere else, this area of the wilderness was overrun by ladybugs (if you click to enlarge, you can see them). I like ladybugs: they don’t bite, they don’t try to burrow into your eyes or ears, and they’ve got that whole cute vibe going for them.
So I certainly didn’t mind giving several of them a ride for a while – even if it was on my head.
To this point, I was managing salt and calorie and fluid intake fairly well, typically draining my bottles 10 or 15 minutes before rolling into an aid station. However, I for the past several miles I also knew that I was dancing right on the edge of “managing” and “dealing with chaos”, and I could tell that my margin for error was razor-thin.
That’s why I was so glad to make it to back to the Forbush aid station, where the following exchange took place …
Me: Boy, am I glad to see you!
Volunteer: Hi there. Unfortunately I’ve got some bad news for you: we don’t have any water.
Me: Um … what?
Volunteer: We’re out of water, and we think the next aid station is out of water, too. I’m trying to get some more water in here, but in the meantime you should probably just sit in the shade and wait until it gets here.
Me: Crap. OK.
So I sat down next to a group of 50-mile runners who were also waiting for water, all of whom had already decided to drop from the race. It’s also worth mentioning here that I don’t have any ill will toward the volunteer, who was making the best of a horrible situation. All of this was happening at about 2 in the afternoon, at mile 41 on the course, after I had been running for more than 10 hours on a day when the temperature was well over 100 degrees. His main concern was keeping us safe, and I’m not sure what he could have done differently.
He eventually scoped out this little creek about 200 yards off-trail, where I spent the next 30 minutes soaking in the water, trying to lower my core temperature while simultaneously not letting my blood pressure boil because I was stressed out about getting back to the race.
I also contemplated just how sick I might get if I started sipping straight from the stream, but I flunked out of Boy Scouts too early to remember if I would get “life-threatening sick”, or just “bacterial infection or intestinal parasite leading to hospitalization” sick. Ultimately, I decided against taking the risk …
… and just stared at the happy ladybugs instead.
My own outlook was taking a significant downturn, however. After sitting for almost 40 minutes, my muscles were starting to cramp throughout my legs and feet, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to continue the race if I sat much longer. So I shuffled back towards the volunteer, where we had the following exchange:
Me: Any update on the water situation?
Him: Not really … I’m still trying to find out if anyone’s able to get some out to us.
In other words, the status report went from “We’ll replenish the water for sure,” to “We’re waiting on water to arrive,” to “We’re not sure if we’ll get any more,” in the time since I passed through here on my way out. For the first time all day, I wasn’t certain that my race would end well – but I became convinced that the way to finish wasn’t by sitting around here anymore.
And so I walked. Hobbled, more accurately. The next aid station was more than 4 miles away – a distance that seemed almost hopelessly far.
Along the way, I tried to hydrate through the skin as much as possible by lowering myself into whatever ponds or streams I came across, which was temporarily effective for cooling, but did nothing for my cravings for a drink.
Even though the terrain was only moderately rolling through here, I couldn’t run more than a few steps at a time because 1) my legs were still in cramp mode from the long rest, and 2) the more effort I exerted, the thirstier I felt. So I ended up walking most of the miles to the next aid station …
Which was out of water as well.
The Gatorade container I described earlier was completely empty, and all that was left in the igloo was an empty ice bag and a bit of standing water with lots of dirt floating in it (from ice being grabbed by messy hands). I tipped the cooler on edge enough to fill one bottle halfway, and eagerly drank the water almost all in one gulp …
… only to have it come right back up a few minutes later. By this time, I caught sight of the reservoir again. It’s hard to explain the feeling of seeing a huge body of water when you haven’t had anything to drink for several hours, and just thrown up while walking into the sun after covering more than 45 miles of hills … so let’s just say it’s unpleasant.
I was basically a dead man walking – my legs were cramped, I was completely lightheaded, and I had absolutely no energy to make it up even the gentle hills. And the day was running out on me: with a 9PM course closure, I was looking at a little over 3 hours left to cover 15 miles. That wouldn’t be happening.
So when I reached the 50K turnaround aid station at mile 49, I was cooked. I sat in the chair for a few minutes to see if I’d recover, but my leg pains just got worse, and my head wasn’t getting any better. So for the first time in my life, I officially dropped out of a race. Needless to say, it's not a moment I’ll remember fondly.
The only bright spot in the whole ordeal was this guy: Scott, a volunteer at the aid station who reads my blog. He recognized me on my first pass through the station as soon as I took my camera out for photos, and then he thanked me. When I looked puzzled, he explained that he was one of the winners of the Sockwa giveaway I did last fall. He was also the one who eventually gave me a ride off the course in his truck.
It turns out that Scott’s a super nice guy who’s fallen in love with trail running, and has two daughters who like Jack Johnson music. So obviously we hit it off pretty quickly. (He didn’t even complain when I made him pull over so I could puke again.) And I wouldn’t have known any of that if I hadn’t dropped out. The lesson here? Practice kindness – sooner or later it will come back around to you. And you never know who you might need to get yourself rescued.
Despite the pleasant surprise of finding a blog fan (really, what are the odds?) in the middle of the Santa Ynez Mountains, , I felt almost unbearable remorse as my final impression of the landscape was from the inside of Scott’s truck rather than standing upright on my own two feet. In the days since, I’ve spent an unhealthy majority of my waking hours vacillating between being disappointed in myself for not trying to finish the race - especially my decision to sit for 40 minutes instead of just trying to power through the Forbush aid station - and upset at the organizers who created a situation that invited so much failure and potential disaster.
Only 5 people finished the 100K race. Only 4 others finished the 50-mile race. From my standpoint, I’m absolutely certain that I could have finished if I had the support that was advertised, or even if I had an accurate sense of what to expect going in. I could have worn a hydration vest instead of carrying bottles, or I could have stashed fluids for myself at the drop stations. Other races have long stretches (10 miles or more) without aid, but that’s spelled out in advance so the runners can plan for it.
But to tell runners that aid stations will be fully stocked, and then have two consecutive stations turn up completely empty on the hottest day of the year on one of the toughest courses in California just seems irresponsible, potentially dangerous, and – in my case at least – a perfect way to ruin someone’s ultra.
I’ve decided to leave my ranting at that, but a friend of mine pointed out some interesting discussion that’s taken place since the race last weekend. I don’t really hold any bad feelings towards the event, although it’s unlikely I’d ever be inclined to race there again. In the meantime, I’ll just chalk this one up to a bad day and a learning experience, and move forward towards finding the next adventure to start building my mojo back.
**
Foo Fighters, "Long Road to Ruin" (click to play):
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