Part II - Miles 50-80
Miles 80-90
I arrived to the quiet little station of Wagner Butte Trailhead at something like 2:00am. One girl (a volunteer or supporter or something) was huddled in a sleeping bag on a massage table in back, but otherwise they were awake and supportive just like the other aid stations. (Read: they were awesome.) While one guy refilled me bag another got me a big cup of broth. Solid food aside from fruit looked repulsive, so I didn't even try.
"There she is. Miss Consistent!." I turned to see a middle aged runner and his pacer. "You've been strong all day. How do you feel?"
"I actually feel okay. Just trying to keep moving."
"You're doing awesome, and it's only your first hundred!" Don't remind me, lest something go wrong....
Broth fetching volunteer. "Do you have a pacer?"
"I almost did, but it didn't work out. It's hard when coming from the east coast." They nodded in understanding.
I sipped my broth. It was almost stupid how good it tasted. I didn't hear what they said because I was enjoying the salty, warm deliciousness. I asked for another cup.
"...did you know she just left?" Volunteer.
"Hmm?" Forcing myself to be alert.
"Jenn just left here five minutes ago. She was here a while too." He was referring to Jenn Shelton, current women's record holder and sponsored runner. I had been nipping at her heels all race, mostly because she was having a rough time.
I paused with elevated eyebrows for a moment. Same deer in headlights moment, where my brain says Ooooohmygoodnesswhatif... while some little rational dwarf whispers in my ear a reminder that I have no business racing for anything more than the last half mile. "What's the next section like?"
Steepest climb of the day, a fuzzy description of a scramble that no one could define as either rock or just a super steep dirt/gravel hill but would require hand-over-foot, and steep downhill.
I nodded and continued to sip my second cup of broth, now with eyes diverted toward the watermelon in part to hide the look on my face of *maybe* getting lucky. Being at 80 miles made having twenty left seem like a piece of cake - less than a marathon, no biggie right? Still, that was only if I keep things under control. Plenty of big races I followed over the last year had elites drop in the last miles due to blowing up. First time. Just keep moving. Just finish. I focused on the fact that twenty miles is still twenty miles. At home that would mean getting over the George Washington Bridge, somewhere between Alpine Lookout and the ranger station at the north end of the Palisades park, and all the way back home. Perspective. Steady.
Time to keep moving. As I hit the trail head, the middle aged guy was right behind me.
For the first couple hundred feet of gain Larry, as I learned was his name, let me lead the pace. In that time his pacer divulged that P2P was his last of the "Larry Slam," meaning his fourth hundred mile race within 11 weeks. His summer of racing started with Western States - a very significant race that this year had temperatures over 100 degrees for most the time (even at night). As our trail widened it remained a steep enough incline that your heels don't contact anything. Not as bad as the black diamond ski lift in Virgil Crest, but a higher effort level than the hand-over-foot rock stairwell from Escarpment Trail.
I found myself grabbing a handful of soft tissue around the side of each hip to give a little mechanical relief. "Sorry guys, I'm not trying to be crass. My ass is burning!" I offered them to pass whenever they wanted.
"Oh no. I like your pace." Yet Larry was easily now shoulder to shoulder with me instead of behind. He gave me tidbits of advice, though notably it was on developing ultra running as a hobby rather than simply tips on completing the race at hand. By another two minutes later he was ten feet ahead.
"How are you climbing so well if this is your fourth hundred within eleven weeks?"
"Eh. I liked your pace better."
Too bad, dude. You're off to the races. Gotta respect the pace your body wants to produce, be it slow or fast, or when it changes gears on you. I kept marching on my own, focusing on making my steps "easy" rather than trying to power lunge. In a handful of spots I had hands-on-thighs in Euro pseudo-hiking-pole style. As the steep stuff gave way to a more sensibly steep incline (read: grass could grow along the sides of the trail) I heard the stead chatter of another pair slowly catching up to me. At least the pacer was chatting non-stop. Bounced around on all kinds of subjects. I didn't mind.
I offered to let them pass, but they were happy to stay in line as the trail had started to weave sideways with some small streams sneaking up amid rocky bits. I looked ridiculously uncoordinated, but I think my shenanigans gave them a heads-up and let them be calmer. I joined in on a little chatter. They were Mike and Matt, racer and pacer respectively. Both locals, both familiar with the trail to come.
In a burst of verbal participation, Mike commented "You know, we may have a chance to make 24 hours if we push it." I was back with hands-on-knees due to a sudden resurgence of steeper grade.
"NOW?!?" I gaped.
They laughed heartily. Thankfully.
Matt clarified "No no, on the descent. this pace is great. It'd be pushing the downhills to the finish. We can try, if you wanna hang with us."
I looked at my watch. Fuzzy math skills in the wee hours of the morning or not, I highly doubted we'd be able to make it. Were we at the peak, then yes. But we still had at least two miles to the peak, which would mean something like six minute mile pace for all downhills - ten miles' worth- to the finish. Seriously? I mumbled a few non-words that hopefully sounded more like "Hmm...."
Finally we hit a switchback that leveled off and came to the out-and-back point. Mile 83-ish? I couldn't remember. M&M jumped off course into the grass to stash some of their gear to make the flag ascent easier. I opted to just continue on and use flats (well, flatter than previous, at least) to make up a little ground. It was a lot rockier here, still with overall smooth trail but with larger rocks flanking the trail as it wove around and through. This section reminded me of back home.
The two miles out to the flag felt like much longer, though that could have been over-eager anticipation. The relative flat became uphill enough to hike, and I made sure I was power hiking. I was surprised at the number of headlamps I saw along that stretch. It was difficult to make out who was headed toward/away until they were within range, in part from my slight nearsighted eyes and part because of not wanting to look away from my little beam of guidance between the rocks. Smooth ground and all, to forgo the tiny zig zags would result in barking your shin on the corner of a rock (much pointier when geologically newer in time spent as that particular rock) or snagging your shirt on bush.
Somewhere in there, I think on the early side, I crossed paths with Queens Mike (friend from home) and his pacer Keila. Keila gave a standard Heygoodjobkeepgoingdoinggreat salutation. Mike, who gave a little wave but did not lift his head from his focus at Keila's back, said, "Be careful on the scramble up there." He was tucked in as though he were drafting on a bike. I learned later that he was falling asleep here and Keila was at times literally pulling him to the aid station.
Not too long later crossed paths with Jenn. She was chatting briefly with all she encountered. She was also pacer-less.
"How are you doing?" I asked. I was more concerned about her physically than I was about the "race." She had to be a good two or more miles ahead of me since I had yet to reach the peak and turn around.
"Not so good." She stood with arms hanging limp.
"Not puking again, I hope."
"No." Sounding tired.
"Do you need anything? I have stuff to spare."
"No. I'll be okay."
"Alright. Take care you yourself."
"Thanks. You too."
And off we parted in opposite directions. The little dwarf of reason was silent now, but tapping my shoulder occasionally. As before our pause, I kept as much speed to my power hike as I could muster.
Another seemingly long mile or two later (who can accurately tell distance after so many miles and during the wee hours of the morning like that?) and I reached the peak. No one had actually been able to describe this scramble. It was something of a 30 foot genuine rock scramble. As in large rocks and a few boulders were dropped in a pile atop the peak, and it was a simple climbing scramble that became more of a legitimate entry-level bouldering problem when using only a headlamp to see what you are doing. Everyone's lights were making circles or drawing squares as you rotated from limb to limb to find purchase, occasionally lighting the direction of your barn door (your sideways fall) to get your hand or foot onto a legitimate hold. A cheap and simple aluminum platform with side rails had been constructed at the top. Once in reach I grabbed onto a rail and worked my feet on the rock to get around the far end and onto the actual platform.
Were the sun up then I'd have the best view of the day, including Mount Shasta. Since it was night, it was an incredible 360 degree view of the stars. The moon was on overdrive. I stood for a moment to take it in. I swear there was a shooting star. Absolutely incredible.
But this time the dichotomy of existentialism and sheer, emotional beauty was out of reach. I am a training monkey. That means I have a supreme ability to keep moving through incredible odds without blinking and eye or second guessing. The body turns on and the mind turns off, at least when it comes to theoretical higher powers. So whereas during the day my flag grab allowed a nanosecond of feeding my soul, this one was interrupted by the dwarf whispering. What if...? I made myself look around, seeing all the constellations I learned in grade school and have since forgot. But then put my head down and returned to forward motion.
As I groaned through the squatting and lunging involved in down-climbing the scramble, Marshall (or someone very similar) was just heading up.
"So Jenn is crashing again."
Crap. This may be happening.
"Grrmmmrrmr." I know, classy. That's all I could muster while getting my butt onto the rock to ease my way down. I'd rather squat and feel it that take too daring a lunge and break something. Finishing in under 24 hours was definitely out of the picture, but maybe, just maybe, I could work my way up to second female. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.....
Head down, eyes darting back and forth as though it would help my depth perception, I began the descent to the out-and-back marker. With the rocks I didn't trust a run, so opted for as fast of a falling power hike I could muster. Arms flailed in my best Killian Jornet impression. Adrenaline starting to pump. Keep eating. Keep drinking. Keep stumbling forward.
I was surprised to hear a female voice at the out-back marker, standing and talking to a male runner. It was Jenn. Again we stood facing one another.
"How are you doing?" I asked. She slowed a lot. And it was readable in her body language.
"I'm... okay...."
"Are you bonking? You sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm just having... problems." Ominously vague.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries and I repeated my offer. Then, as we left that spot, something like mile 87, I was in front of Jenn Shelton. How is this possible? This is happening, right? Not a hallucination?
With that my right foot landed on a very soft patch of loose trail and I started to slide down off the trail into who knows what. Some sort of four-limbed flail and air surfing later and I overcompensated by going uphill before falling back down and landing on the trail. Net fall of zero, but absolutely ridiculous. I think I made some sort of guttural sound. Very likely some profanities were said. I stood for a moment to make sure I was on solid ground.
"Yea, it's pretty hairy in this section," Jenn warned.
"I'm noticing that. Whew."
From there I had to put thoughts of the "race" out of my mind and focus on my footing and my little beam of light. Back to my so-called controlled downhill speed hike. A little nerve racking since this was one of the steepest descents and had many successive and tight switchbacks. M&M caught up as the turns started to open up into a more pedestrian decline. I inquired as to how close Jenn was.
"Pretty close, actually. We just saw her."
Crap. Keep stumble-hiking. Another duo caught up. I asked the same.
"She's slowing down."
I sighed and forced myself to put it to rest and just keep moving as best I could. There was still over ten miles left, a tenth of the course, so no reason to blow it all right now. The effort involved with a particular distance was no longer matching up, so as much as I was (relatively) okay mentally and as good as I could be physically those few miles seemed to last for forever.
This time I saw the lights before I heard the bell.
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Miles 90-100.5:
I wanted only fruit dipped in salt, though Road 2060 aid station (mile 90) had neither. They offered all kinds of solid foods - pretzels, chips, semi-smores concoctions, even grilled cheese. Instead I had coke and ginger ale. The guy offered me salt pills. I said okay. He showed the two brand choices. I stood there for a solid 30 seconds, silently trying to figure out the difference. He raised an eyebrow and decided for me - the one with caffeine and a few things for mental acuity. They had chicken noodle soup, so I took some plain broth.
I sat on the edge of a camp chair, careful to not allow myself to lay back and sink too comfortably low. As I sipped my eyes darted to the point of exit from the woods. Solid black. Not even a flicker in the distance. Is she really that far back? M&M were there, Matt handing Mike all sorts of things with assignment to consume. I got antsy from a momentary surge in mathematical ability. Jenn was out there somewhere, but if I played my cards correctly I could make it in under 25 hours. Time to move on. I thanked the volunteers for being there. Told them I wished I could stomach the plethora they had available.
I power walked up the dirt road. Last time to walk off a belly of fluid. I tried to duplicate my best 4+ mph effort, as based on cadence. My stomach was feeling odd. Sent some encouraging thoughts to my GI. Five minutes later I pulled over for a pit stop, thankful that it actually worked. Back on the road and M&M caught up, managing some kind of penguin trot that I was still not able to mirror. I kept looking over my shoulder for a lone light that might be Jenn making an incredible come back. I saw nothing. In total I hiked/walked for a thirty minute stretch. Time to try running. Five minutes of trot, back to five minutes of power hike. Repeat. I noticed my headlamp is becoming very weak. I was not able to see all the reflectors well anymore (they were attached to all course markers), and I worried about missing the turn off onto the trail. The sun was sneaking up on the west coast but definitely was not there yet. I stopped and switched out batteries. Full power again. Time to trot.
The dirt road then started to angle down while essing over and over to the left. I looked at my watch - I could still do it. The trot slowly opened up into something of a run. I passed one guy who was walking. Things loosened up in to an actual penguin run. I passed another guy, again walking. More essing to the left - back on the M. C. Escher course.
I hit the trailhead at 6:24 a.m. by my watch. A sign noted a mere four miles to go. I was full tilt now, flying as fast as my legs would take me. Four miles becomes miniscule in one's head after so many other miles. The sunrise was now in full bloom, adding to my fuel.
I could see Ashland down below in the distance. It looked really far down for being only four miles of trail away. I felt like I was descending my weekly hill for repeats (Fort George Hill in Inwood, something of a 8 or 9% grad) but without a break. The trail started to level out. The town was closer. A handful of turns later and the trail hit pavement. I caught M&M for the last time. Mike was moving gingerly. I looked like I was about to pee my pants. Even the roads kept descending steeply down.
I almost balked at an intersection since I didn't see a flag. Laura, stop it. Don't lose your head now. Continue straight unless told otherwise. More descent. Legs flying. Repeated watch checks. Waved to the deer strolling along the sidewalk. More turns.
A parking lot entrance. I recognized the volunteer from earlier. He smiled and cheered, gave a big high five as I sailed past with a huge grin on my face. The big, purple Rogue Valley Runners banner.
24:55:32. Second female. Twentieth overall.
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First hundred miler, first belt buckle, first "big" ultra. I loved every second of it. Never had a bad spell. Never needed music or some sort of distraction. On any other day Jenn Shelton would have blown me out of the water. Somehow, just this once, I capitalized on what for her was simply a bad day.
I have Julie, Melissa and Keila to thank for crewing me. I have stress-free accommodations via Queens Mike to thank. And this contingent of the ultra community proved itself light years beyond the normally supportive and welcoming nature of ultras I knew and expected. Maybe that's the nature of a hundred miler, maybe it was a west vs. east coast thing, maybe it was just this specific group. Regardless, I had a dozen watchful eyes on my the entire race, a form of supportive supervision and camaraderie. I had a lot of people looking out for me, whether I knew it or not. And the volunteers - it's not just handing you the cup you ask for. They knew how to help you make decisions or, if needed, make decisions for you. I felt like I had a little family out there, and I was actually sad that the race was over.
For five minutes after finishing I felt great. Julie and Melissa were there and gave me a big hug. The medical director checked in with me. Still a little hand and wrist swelling, but I last peed an hour ago. Should go down, just come see us if it doesn't. I walked the thirty feet to the car. Grabbed some clean(er) clothes out of the trunk. Turned to head in to the bathroom. All at once my legs turned to jello and yet were stiff as a board. Those last four miles? About 7:45 per mile pace. Mere minutes later I was hobbling like cowboy with malformed fracture healing.
That song in my head on the first climb was the same song looping at the finish. A bit of googling and I found it: Safe and Sound by the group Capital Cities.
Next stop: Hardrock lottery :)
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