I’m
roughly 11 hours in to my journey. I finally find what I’ve been looking for: a
large smooth rock on the edge of the Western States trail. And I sit. I cradle
my face in my hands as I hang my head down and I shed a few tears. I have been
working towards this moment for miles: acutely since I left Cal1, but really
since Foresthill (the first time around at mile 0.0). It offers little relief
or absolution. I am still 1-2 miles away from where I need to be in the middle
of nowhere. And while I will make my way to somewhere after a few minutes, this
is the moment of the end.
I have
this very clear rule about sitting down during ultras. Simply put, I don’t do
it. I will give grace for using the facilities or for changing my shoes or
socks, but that is all and I rarely indulge even that. Race after race, I have
seen the outcome of sitting down. Tahoe Rim Trail mile 83 ish a lost soul stuck
between Bull Run and Tunnel Creek, working his way back to Bull Run to drop,
though sitting and clearly going nowhere. Rio Del Lago mile 80 some odd, a man
sitting, nearly lying down on the expanse of a wide rock, again trapped between
aid stations knowing the inevitable is at hand. What it would have meant if I
had taken one of those beseeching benches in the Kettle; even miles later, I
stumbled to my demise and never sat. There is a look that goes with the
acquiescing: it is a hollow, almost vacant stare. There is a glaze, an energy
that has been lost.
I have
taken a long time to think about it. I know the clear ramifications. But I no
longer care. I was done with this one before I started. I just took my sweet
time in letting it go. The day before the race, the poison oak outbreak from
the previous week’s run down Cal Street ravages my abdomen. I am on fire,
burning, itching, worsening as I spectate my daughters’ track meet. I am in
tears due to pain by the time I arrive home that night, 11 hour pre-race. I
bathe, trying to cool the raging blisters. I just want to claw my skin off. The
irony of my extreme sensitivity to poison oak and my trail running passion is
not lost on me. I bathe in Tecnu after each exposure, but some of the sumac
oils always manage to escape and attack me. My extremities are clear, so my
torso falls victim this week. I pride myself on my pain tolerance (I have
birthed children without a drop of medicine), but I have little when facing
this. It’s nearly 7:30 pm; I have 7
hours until I have to wake. I gobble a couple of Benadryl; maybe they can stop
the itch and allow me some rest. And I manage to take a couple of prednisone as
I slather my skin with drying creams. Yes, desperation has set in. I will just
have to see how I feel in the morning.
By the
time I wake at 2:30 pm , I carry a modicum of hope with me. I was snowed enough
from the Benadryl that I was able to sleep. The anger of my abdomen has
tempered, the red welts and inflammation have diminished. I feel somewhat
human. I get ready, gather last minute gear, and leave. I pick up my friend
Lorena for the drive to Foresthill. We are quite a pair: she with her plantar
fasciitis and me with my poison oak and allergies. My left ear has been clogged
for the better part of the past month from severe allergies. This leads to an
on and off popping experience, sometimes also involving my right ear, which can
be painful at times. The sensation was worse last weekend when running on the
trail, as well as when doing my trail work for TRT100, noticeable even when I
was driving and past the 1000 ft elevation of Auburn (Foresthill, the race
start, sits at 3200 ft). I have been
struggling since December between asthma, severe allergies, bad poison oak
outbreaks, and even had a bout of pneumonia in there. I have seen a couple of
specialists and the good news is I have no hearing loss and no dire illness.
However, the cure is time, only sweet time; the truck load of medicines I am on
are just for my baseline functioning.
Lorena
and I have only one goal for the day: get through this and get the Western
States qualifier (sub 18 hours). We arrive to the start line in Foresthill over
an hour pre-race, get our bibs, finalize our drop bags, eat, and wait. I see
some friends around the start, including Mark, also doing the Boston2Canyons
race series. Karyn and Scott are in the starting corral prepping for their 50K;
I am envious of their distance. Lorena and I will run together as it works and
separate when it works. She tackles the downhills harder than I am willing and
I am a stronger climber.
At 5:30
am, the race starts and we are off, running up Foresthill Rd in the darkness.
The course starts at mile 62 of Western States 100 and first runs towards mile
46 at Swinging Bridge before rewinding back to Foresthill to follow the course
to the river at mile 78 of WS100 at Rucky Chucky, before the final quarter
return to the start. The elevation estimate is 15,000 ft of gain and equal
drop, with most of this coming in the first 50K of the race. I ran this last year and the first 50K
remains my hardest 50K (nevermind the timing as the start of the race). I also
had a fantastic mid-race implosion due to electrolyte issues in 2016, though
managed to regroup and finish, obtaining my 4th WS100 qualifier.
The
start is reasonable; pavement is my strong suit on ultras, after all. Within a couple of miles, we hit the trails
with a steep descent to Volcano Creek. Runners start to fly the minute the
descent picks up; I pull to the side to take my time as daylight is still
emerging. I don’t care for this frenzy; careful and methodical could be my
middle names. I relish patience instead and take my time. The usual back up
occurs just before the creek crossing near mile 3. A gal asks my name and
advises me she read my blog about the race and about this delay. A runner
behind says she also read my race report. I’m tickled that my writing has found
its way into some utility. The creek is
higher than last year. I grab the upper rope, but am still waist-high as I
cross, with my foot briefly getting stuck before I can find the traction to
scramble to the other side. Then we climb to the fireroads, already trying to
dry off.
 |
| Lorena and I a few miles into the race on the way to Michigan Bluff. |
I will
catch up with Lorena on the firetrails and we run the couple of miles to
Michigan Bluff together. The conditions are easier than last year from the
standpoint of terrain; there will be no slip and slide mudfest today. The
temperatures are reasonable in the upper 40s, but my gloves are too warm within
miles. The day’s high reports upper 60s, which seems reasonable. (Mind you,
this forecast turns out to be wildly inaccurate, but I do not know that yet. I
do know the temperatures in the Canyons will always be higher than what is
reported for Foresthill.) In and out quickly through the first aid station at
Michigan Bluff, 10K down, 90K to go, we head out to El Dorado Creek. I have
brought my own electrolyte powder and refill my flask at each aid station,
taking a few minutes to mix my powder with water. 2016 fell apart due to on
course electrolytes; I am taking no chances on that variable in 2017.
Three
more miles and we have descended to El Dorado Creek. My friend Veronica is a
cheerful greeter at that aid station. I refill my bottle with mix, grab some
M&Ms, cross the bridge and start the climb to the Pump. The race elevation profile
is akin to jagged teeth. The climbs are steep. This one gains 2200 ft over 3
miles, making it one of the more forgiving climbs. My ears feel the changes.
Pop, pop, pop as I descend. Pop, pop, pop as I ascend. Over and again. I wish
it were just an irritant, but eventually there is a steady component of pain. I
am focused on my footing, the trail ahead of me, my breathing, and the pop, pop,
pop of my ears. Through this climb, Andrea starts talking to me, a conversation
initiated by a compliment about my Lululemon shorts. Andrea is just behind me,
as is her friend Sabrina: the two gals with the trekking poles. I wonder how
and whether or not these help; I just think I’d be too clumsy with them and
would be afraid of impaling someone (or my own foot). We will trade placement back and forth over
the course of the day, with mini conversations along the way.
 |
| The climb to the Pump. |
 |
| Part of the reason you run this. |
I grab
a couple of pictures of the view as I climb. At mile 11, the leader of the 50K
comes sailing down the hill (his mile 20). Yes, the races did start at the same
time! When I pop off the single track and back on fireroad, I catch up with
Lorena, then move on to the Pump, running where the terrain allows this for me.
A quick refill and a brownie and I head off to Devil’s Thumb. There is a bit of
log climbing and a large watering hole on the way, with the speedy 100Kers and
50Kers coming back the other way. We greet and cheer: “Good job!”, “Nice
work!”, “Looking strong!”. I appreciate the distraction and the comraderie. I
then descend towards Swinging Bridge. The trail gets steeper and is littered
with the debris of fallen tree limbs. We eventually have a couple of conga
lines with brief interruptions: one that I am descending and another ascending
on the steep single track. The terrain is tight at times, but this is worlds
better than the mud sludge that this section was last year. Through this
section, I will see friends coming up the trail: Mark, Karyn, Scott, Paul,
Jonathan, Katy, Lorena. I reach the turn around just yards before Swinging
Bridge (there is a slide just before the bridge, which we avoid). I grab my
proof of life bracelet and take a few selfies with the creek in the background,
then start my ascent. The greetings will continue as I see Nattu, Karen, and
later Kelly and Jess. Our conga line is led by Paul (Zane Grey guy, until I
asked his actual name). I greet strangers, using the names on their bibs to
keep me entertained. The pace is reasonable, though the course is tough, being
the hardest climb of the course (1700 ft over 1.4 miles) . I chat with Nattu
just behind me as we climb.
 |
| Near Swinging Bridge. |
 |
| Proof of life 3:53 in to the race. |
What I
notice more than the searing of my lungs from the climb, is the heat. It is not
even 10 am and the sun is out and bright. It is hot. This does not bode well,
but I am still moving, ear popping and all. I made it through Swinging Bridge
(1/4 of the course) in 3:53; 7 minutes ahead of last year’s time and 7 minutes
ahead of schedule. I am not feeling great, but my time is reassuring. I am just
here to get this done. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other until
the 63.6 miles are done. The climb up to Devil’s Thumb has impacted me. I
struggle to get my running legs back as I return to the Pump. I know I need to
move on any non-climb sections of this course to stay on target, but my legs
are fighting me. My hands are not quite right. I realize I have overcorrected
the electrolyte issue. Over the subsequent miles, I will pull back on fluids
and my hands will normalize. I eventually manage an awkward urination in some
trees past the pump and at least my bladder is relieved. (The sole portapotty
on the first 50K of the course is an irritant, though I will also visit it
before I leave Michigan Bluff.)
 |
| The heat of the day approaches. |
 |
| Devil's Thumb beyond the trees. |
I do
manage to run down towards El Dorado Creek, but find my pace not quite what I
feel it should be. Timing wise I am actually on target, so maybe it’s more that
I just don’t feel well. My ear is bothering me more during the descent. By the
time I see Veronica again at the aid station, I realize I am struggling. I do
the best I can, fuel, rehydrate, take drink with me. I have already put on a
coolant towel around my neck. The day’s heat is rising. I take the climb to Michigan
Bluff (1700 ft over 2.7 miles). It’s a slog fest. I am working and just
working. I have brief conversations. But
mostly, I am sitting in my own head. This is work. This is a means to an end.
The existential questions start at this juncture. Why am I doing this? Do I want
to be doing this? I know the why, but the answer is no. I’m not particularly
enjoying my day. I’m going through the motions. How many days do I have to go
through the motions to get to the end game? And will it even be worth it when I
get there? I don’t even know. And I fear it won’t be. I fear I may be putting
all these years of work forth for little in return. These are questions for
another day. Well, they’re clearly in my head, but they should decidedly be
left for another time. They are useless at mile 23 of a 63 mile race.
I am
counting down the distance as I count up the feet towards Michigan Bluff;
should be around 2.75 miles from El Dorado Creek. I’ve memorized some distances
as I hiked this last week for trail work. It’s infinitely easier in shorts and
running shoes, despite my ear pain. I finally crest the hill and start to run
towards the aid station. My name is called out- it’s Greg who I slogged through
the end of the race with last year, who provided some comfort through the
darkness of that night. He is spectating and crewing this year; he is a sound
man. In and out of Michigan Bluff, I
move on towards the marathon point of this race, hitting it around 7:10 on the
race clock. 5 miles to go in 1:20; I remain on target. Through the firetrails,
I will talk a bit more with Andrea and Sabrina as we trade places before
hitting the single track towards Volcano Creek. Somewhere through this stretch,
I also converse with Karen, who will be running Western this year, along with
some Ironman races. She is always a bit of peppy purple energy. These micro
conversations might be all that keep me trudging along on what is becoming an
increasingly challenging day for me. I am clearly on target pace-wise, but my
heart and my body are not in this. There are so many ebbs and flows emotionally
and physically. I stay focused though on the task at hand. One foot in front of
the other.
I cross
Volcano Creek, getting thankfully less wet than on my way out. During the climb
out, I am just waiting to reach the road. There are more of us on this climb
and we top out of the pavement together. We continue the pavement climb,
empowered by the varied cheer signs for runners with names that are not ours. Once
out on Foresthill Rd, I am running again towards town. A text comes through on
my Garmin from my husband, “Run, baby, run!” I may have just popped back in to
reception, but it comes at a fitting time when running is actually feasible. I
actually feel good coming in to Foresthill. The ear is popping less than it was
at the bottom of Volcano. I arrive at 8:29. One minute ahead of schedule and 4
minutes ahead of last year. Goal made. I’ll take any little victory today.
I grab
my drop bag, change my shirt, visor, socks. I apply sunscreen as I sit in the
searing sun. I eat my fluffernutter and some candies, chasing them with
Gatorade. I have called over to Jay (Lorena’s husband) and Tim (Lorena’s
pacer), who I see across the way. Lorena is faring well and left just minutes
before me; I had last seen her and called out to her when I arrived back at the
Pump. I am glad she is managing without concerns. I quickly go to the bathroom
and catch Spike on my way out, grab a big hug, then get ready to leave. Spike
and I became friends after last year’s race here; let’s just say he was working
for the medical team and I wasn’t doing so well post-race.
Moving
out of Foresthill and turning down Cal St, I take the technical reprieve of the
pavement before joining up again with the Western States Trail. I am moving and
enjoying the descent. I am keenly aware that I need to move through this
section to the river, taking advantage of the more runnable terrain and the net
descent. I am conscious of what I am doing, pushing to run more. I make it to
Cal1 without issue and move through it. I have what I need and there is mild
congestion. I pass Sabrina who is there (I assumed Andrea was there as well,
but it is cluttered and I am not paying attention). On to Cal2. The trail
remains runnable. Last year it became the beginning of my demise as my
electrolyte issues took over. My hands are fine; there is no significant
swelling. The legs are working and functional. But my ears, especially my left
ear seems to be worsening. The left ear has picked up its pop, pop, pop
serenade. But the pain is intensifying. All measures to clear my ear, extreme
yawning, etc are futile. The pain is ravaging.
The day has also heated up (other
race reports will estimate temps in the 80s) and there are stretches of the
single track that are more exposed. Throughout the day I have been using my
sunglasses to help try to cool me; I take this on and off as I dip between sun
and shade. They help some. My coolant wrap around my neck also helps some. But
as the day heats up, even that offers little relief. At one juncture well
before I returned to Foresthill, my coolant has become crispy and dry from the
heat, as I presumably stopped sweating in to it.
I’m not sure if it’s the heat or my
ear, but the desire to vomit comes and stays with me. This starts to limit the
consumption of fluid and food. I see the spiral coming and I am just trapped
within it. I’ve been here before. At the exact same stretch of this race last
year, in these same miles. The most runnable section of the course. My head is
searing in pain. I just want to be anywhere but here. And the thoughts that I
have been contemplating all day cascade over themselves. I am still moving
forward physically, albeit at an increasingly slowing rate. But my mind is
moving backwards. I wonder what brought me here. I wonder if I want to be here.
WS qualifier #5 is on the line. It is actually off the grid for me in this
moment. I just don’t care anymore. 16 tickets in the lottery for WS100 2018 are
on the line. I get the qualifier here or I start over from scratch. (I am
running Tahoe Rim Trail 100 in July, but did not want the pressure of having to
pick up the qualifier there.)
It’s not so much the question if
I’m built for this. I think, when healthy, I can do this. But, do I even want
to? Finding joy in this race has been immensely challenging. I have spent the
better part of 11 hours fighting my body to continue on when it wants to curls
up in a ball, be able to hear again, be free of pain. I think back to all my
ultras, the videos of races past scrolling through my mind. I have struggled at
every race above 50 miles. There is only one notable exception: my first 100
miler, Rio Del Lago 100 in 2014. That race was a thing of magic, of pure
happiness, of love. Everything else: Miwok, Tahoe Loop the Lake 72,
Quicksilver, Canyons, Kettle have been about having to overcome or correct
something that went very, very bad. They have been about endurance, but maybe
just for the sake of endurance. I did endure all of them other than the Kettle
and it took me 90 miles to give up that battle. But, to what end? I’m not sure
I want or need the physical and mental test of endurance just for the sake of
having it. Will I continue this fight to get in to Western States because it’s
some race I’m supposed to aspire to run? I’ve paced there and I think it’s a
pretty special race, but that doesn’t mean that it has to be the special race
for me.
I reevaluate my skill set. Yes, I
am an endurance runner. The marathon is probably my best racing distance. The
trails provide the peace and beauty I crave, but I think 31-50 miles of that
might be enough. My best races have been 50Ks and 50 milers on the trails. I
still feel I have room to improve there. I still have room to find joy there.
My racing mantra for much of the past year derives from Kanye’s song
“Stronger”: “that that don’t kill me can only make me stronger.” And I think
there is strength that derives from adversity. But sometimes, the boundaries we
push may eventually crush us. Ultimately, it may be a matter of which battles
we pick, which mountains we choose to climb, which trails we choose to race.
This may not be mine. This uber-long distance quest may not be what is best
suited to me. It may not be what brings me joy. And I don’t think it’s just the
race talking or the challenges of the day talking.
I’m not sure that I’m burnt out in
the traditional way. Yes, I’m sick of being sick. I’m tried of being tired. I’m
tired of fighting my body and wanting it to be capable of what she could once
do. But, even apart from that, I think it’s fair to evaluate whether I want to
be on this journey. Does it still serve me? Am I better to find joy in
something else? Even if I were healthy and could finish this race and get that
5th qualifier, is this what I want? Do I want to attend that WS
lottery in December again, walk away with my 5th reject, and do this
dance yet again next spring? I understand the odds are such that as long as I
get a qualifier, I would eventually get in to WS. But, is it something I even
value anymore? I don’t have that answer yet. I know this qualifier is not
happening today, as I am done. I will give it go a Tahoe Rim Trail 100 in July.
But if I don’t get it there, I sense there might be some relief in ending that
quest. It’s an incredibly frightening thought, but one that might just result
in long term happiness. I start to feel
some relief in the letting go.
I find my rock and I let go. I will
trudge the final mile or 2 to Cal2. Climbing down the elevator shaft on any
other day might be challenging. But today, I am taking my time. There is no
hurry anymore. I will get to Cal 2 when I get there. Through this stretch,
Sabrina has caught up with me. She is of my same mindset and ready to call it a
day when she reaches Cal2. Another gentleman is in line with us as well, though
he will continue to the river when he reaches Cal2; how much beyond there or if
he ever met the cutoff at the river is an unknown for me. I feel relief in the
final footsteps.
I make it to Cal2 around 4:45 pm
and advise I am dropping. The cheerful folk of the Donner Party Mountain
Runners man the aid station and try to convince us to keep going towards the
river. I know my ear will not tolerate another 8 miles in the abyss. This is
not a decision I take lightly. I make my decisions without regrets. My only
regret would have been not starting today, so 40.5 miles is the upside of the
equation. I didn’t make the goal for the day of the WS qualifier, but I am at
peace with that. I sit in a chair. Spike is here and gets me a blanket. Kin
gets me warm soup as my temp starts to drop. My back is soon stinging as mosquitos
start to attack; I get some bug spray. I call my husband Jim, tell him I am
done. Sabrina is next to me and eventually is able to advise her husband of her
decision through the spotty reception. Andrea did continue on and should be
moving towards the river. We see the front of the pack coming back from the
river, they look hardened by the course, though regroup and head up the hill
for their final 8 miles. The back of the pack comes down the hill. Most will
continue to the river, though mathematically, most will not reach Rucky Chucky
before the next cut off. Susan eventually joins us in the drop pile.
 |
| Sabrina and I post nap; long after being done. |
I do catch Mark coming back from
the river and wish him well; he is having a solid and strong race. The temps
are steadily dropping and we are shivering. Spike helps Sabrina and I get in
the back of his flatbed, while Susan goes in the backseat. Sabrina and I rest
in the warmth and briefly chat; a friendship forged in trying times. We are there for some time. Cal2 is in the
middle of nowhere. I don’t really care though. I know I could not have made it
further than I did. Eventually, Sabrina’s husband is given permission to
collect us and he arrives after dark. I thank Spike and we go with Sabrina’s
family. The drive out of Cal 2 is Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride: backwards up a rugged
and steep firetrail that is decidedly very narrow for this full size truck. I
am just grateful to be going in the right direction, so let go of my fears. We
eventually make it back to Foresthill. I thank Sabrina and her family. I go to
my car, change to warmer clothing after a scrub off with Tecnu.
I connect with Jay (Lorena’s
husband) after getting some warm food and a Coke. We sit together and watch the
runners come in through the darkness. We discuss Western States dreams and
goals, as well as what other adventures might be better served instead. We are
anxious for Lorena to finish. Runners trickle in as we cheer. I see many I saw
earlier in the day and am happy for their accomplishment. I see friends finish.
Spike returns from Cal2 and I thank him again for his help. Sabrina makes it
back after getting cleaned up. Eventually Andrea will come through, providing
us both with some relief. I realize I am seeing runners I was with during the
final 10 or so miles of my journey. Lorena was ahead of me and ahead of them at
one juncture. The final half-hour is at hand to make 18 hours and the Western
States cut-off to be a qualifier. The race directors were clear if you made the
aid station cut-offs, you can still be an official finisher, without the WS
ticket.
 |
| I thank Spike in Foresthill. |
The time is getting too tight. We
are eager with each pocket of light coming up the frontage road, cheers
encourage, then we deflate as it is not her. There is one final runner coming
up the hill at 17:59:xx. The remaining audience is loud and shouting,
encouraging, cheering. The runner is fighting and running in a sprint to the
line. 18:00:33. It is not Lorena. Jay and I decided some time ago that missing
by seconds would be crushing, better to not be that close, to avoid the second
guessing and doubts. I have been tracking Lorena and I know she is still
working her way out of the canyon; the as-the-crow-flies distance is useless. Lorena
will arrive a half hour later with her pacer Tim. She had made the final aid
station cut-offs with minutes to spare. But the end of 64 miles is never
forgiving, especially when your feet are hurt and injured. We hug and then will
part for the way home. She is talking about running 100 to get the qualifier
(her 2nd). It’s only one ticket, let it go, I tell her. Time will
tell, time will tell.
 |
| Lorena finishing! |
I was not alone that day. 29% of field
(96 runners) did not finish; 14 of the 225 finishers fell short of the WS time.
I know it’s a tough course on your best day, nevermind how I felt at the start.
I think in other circumstances, I might have fought harder to carry on. At
best, I would have made it to the river, another 8 miles, but would have been
short of that cut-off. I understood when I ended where my body was and where
time was. I also knew where my heart was and it was gone from the fight.
Canyons 100K DNF at Cal 2 mile 40.5.
Garmin stopped at 39.12 miles 11:20:02 (17:23). +9426 ft,
-10820 ft.
Epilogue:
It’s been two weeks since I dropped
at Canyons. I’ve obviously had time to think, just as I did on race day. My
thoughts are no different now than they were then. Whether healthy or not, I
think it’s fair to reconsider the quest and the goals. The first week out from
Canyons, after resting for a few days, I ran a total of 9 miles. Recovery is
much easier after 40 miles of Canyons vs a finish. I also got back on my bike, with two medium
length rides each week. The change in activity has been good. A 6-week trail race
series started a few days after Canyons; I had signed up to run a 10K race each
week. Having had those two races to date is a good reminder of some speed I
once had on trails. It’s also been rather nice to have a trail race that you
know is finite (as in less-than-an-hour finite). I even ran a 50K this weekend:
mainly a training run, as I know I have TRT100 up ahead and too much time off
will sabotage that venture. And the thing was that I ran my slowest time ever
for a 50K. And I didn’t care. I enjoyed the race, I enjoyed some new trails, I
enjoyed being out there without any set pressure, I enjoyed the solitude (there
were very few people running the marathon or 50K). And I enjoyed the fact that
I knew it was a distance I could manage. I could be slow, but I knew it wouldn’t
break me.
I have never been one to shy away
from adversity. And there is strength that you derive in working through
adversity. But taking on adversity for the sake of adversity? I might be done
with that. I want challenge and I want to grow through the challenges I
undertake. But I don’t want to be crushed by them. I seek to enjoy the journey.
I want to love the journey. I don’t want to just barely survive it. I don’t have
answers to what lies ahead in my running life. For now, I’ll take it one step
at a time, put one foot in front of the other, and hopefully find my way home.
