Minutes b/f the start.
Marty led the team meeting the night b/f the race. They wanted to make sure that you knew that
it was okay to DNF if your Achilles was acting up. You’d rather die than DNF. You’d rather die ten horrible deaths. It had, however, been your only anxiety going
into this race. You knew you could
finish the things as long as your foot held up.
You told them that you would do everything and anything in your power to
finish the race. You’d tape it up and
take a bottle of Tylenol, if you had to.
You didn’t want to push it until rupture, obviously. But you’d do everything in your power.
You were at the point of being superstitious about it. If you went one day w/out it hurting, you’d
analyze everything you did that day for it not to hurt. Which vitamins had you taken? Had you used compression that night? Anti inflammatories? Prayer?
Stretching? Since your pacers
Jessica and Marty had been out, you’d climbed four 14ers. You’d climbed five the week b/f. The all day ups and downs didn’t seem to
bother it much. But when Jess had
suggested the two of you do a little five mile shake out run, you had to stop
at one mile. You’d been icing it in the
mountain streams. You’d been taping it
w/ KT tape. It seemed to hurt whenever
it wanted to. This was the biggest race
of your life. Four of your closest
friends had driven out here to help you cross the finish line of a hundred mile
mountain race. They were getting nothing
out of this. They were here for you to
finish. And finishing looked grim. You didn’t want to let them down. They told you they understood if the injury
prevented you from finishing. You were
grateful to have such understanding friends.
But you wanted to finish more than anything in the entire world. You had sacrificed EVERYTHING for this
race. When you lay in your sleeping bag
the night b/f, you were scared and emotional.
You knew it was possible you’d be DNFing less than five miles into the
hundo. You had no idea what would
happen.
You had two alarms set for 2:30 am and kept waking up every
half hour out of nervousness of oversleeping.
Most of your crew drove you to the start of the race. You’d decided to walk the first mile to warm
up the Achilles. Then you’d begin
jogging. Not even close to your usual
approach and something you’d never normally do.
As you were waiting for the start of the race, Anton Krupicka walked
by.
Good luck Anton! / you said.
Do we have to check in? / he asked you.
No man, this is it! / you tell him.
He looked nervous about having to check in which was kind of
funny to you. This was his fourth time
doing this race. He’d won it twice. You’d think he’d know. He looked clear eyed and focused though.
They counted down and said go. There were camera crews and thousands of
people up in the middle of the night, cheering.
You remained in the back of the pack, walking. There were eight-hundred people ahead of you
and about five behind you. You walked
and it felt fine. Once out of town you
began the job. You were tentative. You weren’t toeing off. You baby it, knowing your other leg will
suffer the brunt of the day and night.
At mile five, you run right past where you’d been camping for the last
week. Your crew was is there, covered in
blankets and wearing headlamps, cheering everyone on. You stop and hug them.
How’s it going?
So far so good / you say, to your surprise as much as theirs. You and them both half expected you to drop
right there. They cheer you on.
At mile ten you decide to start passing people. The first AS is at mile 13.5 where Marty is
waiting for you. You shed the headlamp
and arm warmers. He tells you there is a
lot of runners ahead of you. That was
when you got to work.
It was the first big climb of the day. Sugarloaf pass. Your power hiking skills are decent and you
push. You don’t talk to runners. You push.
You grind. Once at the top, you
start running down, running eight minute miles.
You push it hard to National Fish Hatchery aid station at 23.5
miles. You tell the volunteers your
number so they can get your drop bag.
They look. They look. You help them look. No sign of it. They’ve lost your drop bag. You’ll be through this AS two times. It had extra shoes, socks, compression,
Carbo-Pro, Tums. It had everything you
need to make it through this race. The
tough just got tougher. You see your
crew all together for the first time this morning and they lift you up and make
you smile. Maggie touches your face to
give you positive energy. Everyone is
taking pictures and having fun. There is
a long stretch of flat road after that.
Tons of vehicles w/ crew members are going back and forth on the road
and cheering for the runners. You are
gaining confidence. The foot is feeling
good. You are passing people by the
dozen. Things are going your way. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself
though. Remain calm and focused on the
present. Remain humble. ANYTHING can happen over the course of a
hudo. Back to the trails w/ a four mile
ascent to the Twin
Lakes aid station. You are jamming on watermelon and gels. That is usually all your stomach allows. Your salt and hydration intake is down to a
science. Totally flawless. This is the aid station you began seeing
people crying. Two women and two men
were bawling. One guy was in the fetal
position, wailing. D/t injuries? The course being too difficult? Who knew.
You cross a river. Up
until now, all the runners had been pretty quiet. Not a lot of talk. But once you all begin the climb up Hope Pass,
everyone unites as brothers and sisters.
Everyone is encouraging each other and struggling to get up that
massive, steep climb that can humble the worlds best ultrarunners. Especially w/ forty miles on the legs. One guy said it was like running forty miles
and then climbing a 14er. That sounded
accurate to you. You have no idea how
long that climb took. Hours, for sure. You don’t take many breaks. You break treeline. Then there is an AS that’s so far up, it
takes llama farmers to haul up all the supplies needed to man an aid station
for a bunch of runners for the weekend.
You stop to put some calories in.
Someone tells you it’s only a half mile to the top. Eff!
You thought you were at the top.
A half mile of climbing may not seem like much but this could take an
hour. You are at 12,800 feet and it’s
like running w/ a sock in your mouth.
Luckily the food gives you a little boost. This is where you see the leader of the race,
Anton Krupicka and his pacer Dakota Jones bombing down as you are going
up. They are moving fast and they are
ALL business. Then you see Thomas
Lorblanchet (who went on to win the race) and his pacer Anna Frost not far
behind. Nick Clark is in third. These guys are your heros. They are about ten miles ahead of you. Someday.
Someday…
You run most of the way down. This is nearly an eight mile descent. You knees are blowing up. You make it to Winfield and you are
dehydrated and calorie depleted. Your
crew gives you Snickers, Red Bull, candy, water, anything and everything. The good news is this is where you can pick
up a pacer. Jessica is primed and
ready. Her energy is perfect b/c you are
spent. You’d just run the hardest fifty
miles of your life. Probably the hardest
thing you’d EVER done. And now you are
about to turn around and do it all over again.
But somehow your confidence is growing.
This was where you told your crew / I’ll finish no matter what. It may take me longer than expected, but I’m
going to finish.
You and Jess begin the eight mile climb. Hours go by.
She said it was the hardest thing she’d ever done. It starts to rain. She tries to stop you to put on the
raingear.
No, we have to keep moving.
But shortly after that, you have to sit down for a minute
b/c you are becoming confused and disoriented.
And then you keep going.
After making it to the top, you walk the half mile down to
Hope aid station. All you can get down
is chicken broth and candy. You take
down as much as you can. It’s enough to
push it hard down Hope Pass. You both
run down almost all of it. Five steep
miles down and your knees are screaming.
River crossing. Aid station. Switch pacers. Four miles up. It’s dark.
The headlamps go on. You and
Marty run a long flat section. You chat
w/ other runners who are struggling. You
puke on a gel. It’s going to be tough
getting the calories down from now on but you have no choice. The tough just got tougher. Your feet are trashed. Your shoes are falling apart. Wet socks.
Rocks and sand inside your shoes and socks. You need to make it to the next aid so you
can switch socks. You and Marty run a
half mile, then take a break. Run a half
mile, take a break. Achilles is getting
fussy. Top of your other foot is getting
fussy. When you finally make it to the
aid, you have your crew tape up your feet.
Your shoes are rotting right off of your feet. Since the race lost your dropbag and extra
shoes, you have to borrow whatever you can find. Thankfully, Jessica’s boyfriend wears the
same size as you but all he has are some cheap $35 Adidas and no one has spare
socks. You shake the sand and rocks out
and wring them out and put them and the Adidas on. The tough just got tougher. Switch pacers. You and Jess have one more monster climb,
Sugarloaf pass. You eat as much
watermelon and drink as much chicken broth as you can and go. You’ve been dreading this climb for hours and
you just want to get it done. You push
hard. Jess is struggling to keep
up. You are hiking faster than everyone
on this climb. All you see are headlamps
going up and endless climb. You devour
it. You have to stop to change your
headlamp batteries. There are six or
eight false summits. And what goes up,
must come down. For miles. It’s dark.
It’s cold. It’s quiet. You’re grouchy. You are not responding to Jessica’s
questions. Legs and feet are hamburger. Gone.
You are not having fun at all.
You are in hell. You just want to
be done. But there is absolutely no
choice other than to grind it out to the final end. You switch pacers for the last time. Marty is going to take you home. Thirteen more awful miles. You hate running. You hate runners. You push on.
As you and Marty are hiking, you see a building off to the right, near
the lake. A boathouse. But as you get closer, it’s gone. Or never was there. You see people setting up camp to your
left. That’s strange / you think /
--people setting up camp at 6 am. But
when you get closer, they are gone.
Never there.
Marty, I think I’m hallucinating.
Marty turns around and looks at you and smiles.
Welcome / is all he says w/ a wry smile.
The tough just got tougher.
Ten miles to go.
It’s the longest ten miles of your life. It feels like fifty.
Marty, I have to stop to get these rocks out of my shoes /
you tell him. Only they aren’t
rocks. They’re rock size blisters, right
on the critical spots of your feet and you are rendered unable to run. It’s going to be a hike aaaaallllllllllllll
the way in from here.
The tough just got tougher.
Ten and a half years later, you and Marty make it back into
town. Tawnya meets the two of you. You have just enough energy and pain
tolerance left to run the last quarter mile.
You hear your name. It’s 8:30
am. Twenty-eight and a half hours. Eight-hundred started. Only three-hundred finished. You are right about in the middle. And there’s no way you could have done it
w/out your crew that drove eighteen hours on their own dime and slept on the
ground or in their cars to do whatever it took to see you to the finish
line. It felt so good to have them there
and to hug them and thank them at the finish.
Words are never enough. THANK YOU
GUYS. They helped you achieve something
that you’ll have w/ you for the rest of your life. And that’s that.
