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| As I reach the Escarpment - Mile 4. (Photo: Keshav Dahiya) |
Patience
I am
half way up the first climb of the race, plodding along. Two miles in to the
race, dawn is starting to break. I am giving my lungs their due time to warm up.
I am also being gentle with my left foot, which is already numb from the grade
of the ski slope. I am not apt to look back in races, but I glance over my
right shoulder, wanting to catch the sunrise photo above Squaw Valley with the
hint of Lake Tahoe in the background. There is a faint orange on the horizon,
it is muted and tamed. There is no explosion of light today. But as I catch the
view, I notice there is little in the way of life behind me. There are a
handful of straggling, struggling runners ascending the trail. I estimate I am
roughly single digits from being DFL.
This is a humbling way to start your dream race. Part of me wants to
panic, but I remain in my rational mind, as panic will not serve me.
 |
Dawn breaking over Squaw. (Photo: David Bowers.)
Thanks to Dave for providing photos of sections I lost on course and congrats to him on his 1st 100 miler! |
I need
to just run and execute my own race. I knew this climb would be challenging as
I’m not a very strong climber. I also anticipated both my foot numbness (which
has occurred at the start of nearly every ultra for the past year, but tends to
subside within 3-5 miles) and my breathing challenges at altitude (asthma).
Logic aside, this is hard. I set the emotion aside and focus on the remainder
of the ascent. Even the brief flatter sections I will power walk as I am still
catching my breath from the climb. I just need to get to the peak and then I
will be okay.
There
are a bevy of spectators who made it to the top of the escarpment for the
morning’s festivities. I appreciate Brad and Brenda out there cheering! I am so
slow that, many spectators are coming back down at me as I continue higher.
(And, yeah, to those couple of folks taking the scramble section down while
racers were still going up and forcing me to yield to you, you are the ultimate
assholes. I would have told you off if I had any breath to spare. Most
spectators are instead encouraging and are taking alternate non-pink flag
sections down.) I smile as I reach the top, knowing the photo might be worth it
on another day. I glance back to catch
the view before dropping to the other side of the mountain. One spectator, an
old timer, decidedly a veteran of this dance, sends me off with the words,
“you’re doing this the right way”, referencing my patience on the climb to
start the 30 hour and 100 mile journey. I take heart to those words; my actions
are not by choice. 1:16 in to the race, I have summitted to Emigrant Peak at
8700 ft, 2500 ft gained in just under 4 miles.
I look
forward to the new views over the next 25 miles. Mainly though, I look forward
to being able to breathe again. I clutch at optimism. I focus on the things in
my control, I eat, I hydrate. One step in front of the other, power hiking,
since running does not come to me. There are mini climbs through the trail and
I am huffing and puffing. I am forced to periodically walk the level areas to
regain my breath. I take in the views, those are free and do not leave me
gasping. I even take some great photos (which I will lose when my phone
crashes, only to be revived two days later with complete amnesia). My mottos for the race, Patience and
Gratitude, are being tested early. The patience is being forced more than I
would care for. The benefit, though, of the excessive amounts of walking and of
my measured pace is I have more time to see everything around me: gratitude.
 |
Official race photo. (Photo: WSER.)
|
 |
| The start line! |
The
days leading up to the race were filled with excitement. There is an energy
about Western States that are not encountered in other ultras. I have taken in
the days and the experiences, and I am calm. I am inspired by the ceremony at
the top of the mountain pre-race, “Western
States proves that honor lies not so much in reaching the finish as in daring
to arrive at the start.” (Antonio Rossmann). I want the finish, but I will take
the final steps on this journey, for however long they will be mine. I travel
with those that brought me here. A small purple heart is on my hand, as under
my sleeves, I have written “Daddy” and “Tonia”. I run for Project Purple; my
dad died from pancreatic cancer, Tonia is a survivor and ultrarunner (who told
me she would kick my ass if I didn’t finish). My Patience and Gratitude bracelets
are on my opposite wrist. I take my pre-race calm and work to channel it in to
the day before me.
I will
encounter the periodic runner, am rarely passed, pass a handful on the short
stretches where I can manage a trot. We were warned there will be forest
service personnel monitoring us through the Granite Chief Wilderness area to
ensure we do not cut the single track. Yet I am startled when I spy the ranger
sitting in the middle of nowhere in between the trails. I am able to run a bit
as I head in to Lyon Ridge as the terrain levels off briefly. I refill my flask with water to mix with my
electrolyte powder and grab a couple of Oreos for the road. And then, the
climbing starts again. The terrain between Lyon Ridge and Red Star Ridge is
appropriately named. If you have only 5 miles of the course to ever run/hike,
these would be my recommendation (don’t ask me how to get there, I think it’s
incredibly inaccessible, so yes, it might be a 30 mile round trip from the
start). The mountain drops off to your left and you are witness to an expanse
of forest; the scenery nourishes me.
Lyon Ridge mile 10.3 in 2:57 (17:11). Placement: 347th/369.
 |
| The High Country. (Photo: David Bowers) |
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| Part of the Ridge Line in the High Country. (Photo: David Bowers) |
I
mostly stay in my own head, I reflect on all the smaller journeys that brought
me here. Often during races, I will start talking with other runners, weave
them in to my story. But today, I am consciously avoiding any conversations,
saving what lung capacity I can muster for forward motion. The asthma did not
bother me until after 50 miles at Tahoe Rim Trail 100 last year, so I thought
I’d fare decently here given the high point of the race comes at mile 4 and
then you drop down. I focus on getting to Robinson Flat as I should be fine by
the time I reach 6800 ft.
 |
| Cougar Rock. (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
 |
| Trying to keep my balance. (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
I focus
ahead and have flashbacks to Quicksilver 100K 2015 as I see a rock scrambling
climb. I joke with the photographers, briefly curse, and turn around to grab
the view when I am at the top past Cougar Rock. Wow. This is the why. Every
moment of struggle has its purpose, whether we recognize it in the moment or
not until days, months, or years later. I am solidly grounded in gratitude. I
will take everything I can from this day. I will remain patient until my lungs
want to work again. I focus on each step, each mile, the distance traversed
from one aid station to the next. I am already well behind my calculations and
race day predictors. I worry about my family and friends tracking me; I hope
someone will figure out what the delay is.
 |
| Made it to the top of the scramble! (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
In to
Red Star Ridge, the volunteers have my drop bag ready. They refill my pack
while I change my socks (as suspected there were some stream sections in the
High Country and a dry pair of socks feels fantastic). Out and power walking, running in spurts when
I can catch my breath. I am still right around 7000 ft of altitude and this
seems to be the line at which my asthma fights me. I will go back and forth,
trading places with Erin, a Grand Slammer from Utah. I try to keep her in my
sights to keep moving. I am roughly an hour ahead of race cut-offs; not where
you want to be 15 miles in to a race, but you have to take what the day gives
you. I strategize about the future through these miles. Should this race be
another DNF, I come to peace that my days of 100 milers are done. Too much
work, too much training to have the lungs fail me, again. And if I somehow make
it through, race selection will be key moving forward. This is logic, not emotion.
My head will keep me in the day and I need to put my heart aside for now. Focus
on one cut-off to the next; take the lessons you learned at Sean O’Brien.
Red Start Ridge mile 15.8 in 4:27 (16:53). Section pace
16:21. 337th/369.
After a
few miles of undulating terrain, I start to descend to Duncan Canyon. The trail
is rough as we are directed straight through the switchbacks to make up some
mileage lost on a reroute before Lyon Ridge. Nevermind, as I am finally running
again. My lungs are working as the altitude drops. I have some time to make up!
Nothing wild mind you, but the feeling of motion and faster forward progress is
an absolute delight!
 |
| Focus heading in to Duncan Canyon. (Photo: Tonya Perme) |
Duncan Canyon mile 24.4 in 6:24 (15:44). Section pace 13:36.
312th/369.
I am
focused as I run in to the aid station at Duncan Canyon. It is bustling. A man
with a long haired wig takes my pack to refill it as I grab some fruit and
continue cooling measures. I am in and out quickly, after a brief greeting to
Jon, Jess, Kat, and Martin who are spectating. I start to eat some pizza and
grapes on my first mile out, pushing what nutrition I can, remaining steady on
that plan. Charley Jones is ahead of me. He is a sure thing, running his 11th
WS, a steady and consistent runner. If I am able to keep him in my sights, I
will finish. As we descend to Duncan
Creek, the air continues warming. It is late morning on a day when temps will
each the upper 90s/low 100s, depending on your course location. I thought this
would clearly be my liability for the race, but, while I feel the heat, it is
not causing significant problems for me. It is present, I am managing it. I
take a 2 minute sit down in Duncan Creek, splash my whole body off, as I know I
will need it for the climb. This will be one of the more delightful moments of
the race, cold crisp waters surrounding me, and views of growing light green
and white on the mountainside as it becomes reforested.
 |
| Out of Duncan Canyon; taking a break from eating. (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
 |
| The climb to Robinson Flat. (Photo: David Bowers) |
The
climb to Robinson Flat is more exposed due to limited trees as I hike through
the noon hour. I am eager to arrive to see my crew. I am well behind schedule,
but feel the timing isn’t horrible given my asthma and given the stretch that
awaits me. I arrive roughly 50 minutes ahead of the cutoff. I am greeted by my
husband Jim, daughter Sophie, and stepmom Kathy. Volunteers refill my pack as I
go sit to change my shirt and shoes, munching on a slice of pizza and drinking
a coke. Everything in my drop bag is soup from the heat, food stuff has melted
together, solids have become liquid. My crew is encouraging as I am progressing
and passing others; apparently I look good too.
I use the restroom, then get myself iced up and sponged off for the next
section. I leave around 40 minutes under the cut off.
 |
| With Kathy and Sophie before I head out of Robinson Flat. (Photo: Jim Garrett) |
Robinson Flat mile 30.3 in 8:18 (16:26 pace). Section pace 19:19.
311th/369.
It is
approaching the height of the heat of the day. I know I need to do what I can
over the coming 14 miles. The terrain is runnable and I need to give myself as
much of a buffer as I can before I hit the next canyon. And so, I run. I am
careful to not overheat, running for a stretch, taking a few second walk break
in the shade, then running again. The legs feel fantastic, likely better than
they ever have 30+ miles in to the race. Turns out when you have asthma and
have to walk a lot early on, your running legs are preserved. This section is
often exposed. I inwardly marvel at my forward movement. I am not wilting. Heat
was supposed to my Achilles heel and yet during the hottest portion of the
course, I am moving the fastest I have. The ice in my sleeves, the coolant
towel around my neck, the ice in my drink, they are all doing precisely what
they were meant to do. All that time spent in the sauna in the weeks pre-race
was worth every minute of discomfort, for I am not suffering now.
Miller’s Defeat mile 34.4 in 9:24 (16:23). Section pace 16:05,
but included time at RF. 319th/369.
I start
to encounter some mild GI issues, feeling a little queasy with only the
faintness of dizziness. I know this is the heat. I have to be careful as I am
having a harder time eating anything; I eventually shift to almost complete
liquid nutrition. This slows my pace slightly, but I keep my legs moving. For a
road runner, which, let’s face it, I am, this section is fun. The course here
is incredibly runnable. Actually, save for very brief segments, it is a
runnable course (whether you can actually run for 100 miles is another
conversation). In to Dusty Corners, I am again greeted by Kat, Jon, and Jess;
Kat and I briefly touch base and she provides continued encouragement. I grab a
baggie with ice and a baggie with fruit to keep moving.
 |
| With ice and fruit in hand, out of Dusty Corners. (Photo: Kat Domingues) |
Dusty Corners mile 38 in 10:15 (16:11). Section pace 14:09.
315th/369.
We
leave the dusty fireroads and drop back to scenic single track through the
forest. I am still moving, passing others, feeling strong. My goal is to be
under a 16 min/mile pace average by the next aid station to allow the buffer I
need to get to Devil’s Thumb. I can’t stomach the fruit I have brought with me,
but do enjoy the ice chips and keep my core modestly cool between that and all
the ice in my clothing. I run on and off with Charley in my sights through this
section. I go to grab a photo when I am at Pucker Point, but only come to
realize my phone is disabled. I figure it is the heat (it will be the
perception of someone trying to unlock it and it will eventually need to be
erased to revive it). Best to keep what photos I can in my mind’s eye. I am
fortunate that I do have photos from 75 miles of the course from training runs,
at least. In to Last Chance and I take some grapes to go with another bag of
ice. A wise woman suggests I have a potato to absorb the acid in my stomach; it
works. By now, I switch over to the electrolyte on course. I have been using my
high calorie powder precisely to get added calories, but can no longer stomach
it. I make it in to time to have the give I need for the next climb. I am an
hour ahead of the cut-off.
Last Chance mile 43.3 in 11:24 (15:47). Section pace 13:01.
282nd/369.
I run
while there is still a fireroad, getting inspired by the signs that line the
exit of the aid station. Many speak to the years to get here. 5 years for me;
it resonates and keeps the motivation in check. I feel solid. I feel grounded.
I have no delusions though about the race ahead and know the next 13 miles will
provide the hardest terrain of the race. But I have been managing, making each
cut-off, picking up a bit of time where I can.
The 1.5
mile stretch down to Swinging Bridge is tortuous for me. I don’t care for this
descent on the best of days, as technical descents are not my forte. However
today, my feet respond with utter pain. Each footfall that hits a rock or a
root results in searing pain. It’s a long stretch of ouch, ouch, ouch, slowly
tiptoeing through to stay upright. I am passed my many through here and let
them go so I can run my race. I am nearly overjoyed when I reach Swinging
Bridge because my feet are crying for the descent to end. That thought is, of course, a wild bit of
folly. The worst climb of the race awaits me: 1600 ft in 1.6 miles, up
technical switchbacks.
The
ascent to Devil’s Thumb is just a nasty as usual given the grade, but this is
compounded by some heat still trapped in the canyon and the prior 45 miles of
wear and tear. Before I’ve gained much of the elevation, my lungs start
screaming at me. I am forced to slow and then to stop to catch my breath. I
will repeat this process again and again. I marvel at how I think I once did
this climb in a decent time at Canyons 100K (and at how I once thought that
race was hard; it is, but this is harder). My lungs beg for patience and I can
do nothing but acquiesce. I do know this section is time limited and can at
least recognize the hardest will be behind me once I summit.
The
thumb is finally in sight, still painfully further away than I would care for.
One foot in front of the other, rinse, repeat. As we approach, a figure is up
the hill yelling down, I think calling my name. Mansour is too comfortable as
he jokingly berates me for being behind schedule; we had agreed on a popsicle
meeting time here and I am tardy. Roger (bib #400, aka the last person entered
in the race, the day before) both know Mansour and take his cajoling for the
final hundred feet to the aid station. I am spent, worn from the hypoxia of the
climb. I pass off my pack and find a chair. Denis (WSER board member, who I met
years ago at a talk when I dreamed of the opportunity to run this race) tells
me I can’t sit for long, I look too good, and 15 minutes sitting could get me a
mile down the trail. I promptly agree, state I want 3 minutes to sit, and enjoy
a popsicle while my lungs recover.
Mansour helps me get what I need and I pack some potatoes to go, says my
thanks, and I am off. There is immense relief in getting through this juncture,
I am 45ish minutes ahead of the cutoff. It’s not ideal, but I am moving again.
Down the trail, Robert catches up with
me to grab a photo (and I thank him again for the help at the aid station,
while I remain grateful that I have no intent to see him again as he must be a
sweep for this section).
 |
| Recovered coming out of Devil's Thumb. (Photo: Robert Myers) |
Devil’s Thumb mile 47.8 in 13:20 (16:44). Section pace
25:46. 309th/369.
The
next section is enjoyable in the way that running through the forest on soft
covered terrain is. I run when I am able, with a runner in tow. I might walk
very briefly, but then am powering on again. I know I need to do what I can
here through to Deadwood Cemetery before I tackle the next canyon. It has
become harder to eat and stomach anything, so I persist on my liquid diet. The
several mile descent to El Dorado Creek is much slower than I would care for,
the terrain again battering my weary feet and causing zings of pain that
reverberate through my being. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I do my best to move through
the smoother sections, but falter as I reach rocks and roots. I pass the 50
mile mark and am halfway through the race in 14:05 (just under 16 hours to
finish). Once at the creek, I cross the bridge, request what I need. I really
wanted a bathroom and there is none to be had; I settle for coke and chicken
broth. It is dusk at this juncture, I am unsure if I am still hot or if I am
starting to get cold. I was overheated and pulled my arm sleeves down after
forgoing ice at Devil’s Thumb as I felt a chill.
El Dorado Creek mile 52.9 in 14:45 (16:43). Section pace
16:39. 305th/369.
I am on
my way quickly, eager to conquer this final large climb, and eager to get to
crew and my pacer at Michigan Bluff. The top will leave the hardest parts of
the race behind me and should be better, as I will no longer be alone. I have
run a more solitary race than is typical for me, mainly just being mindful of
conserving what energy I can for running and breathing. I have kept emotions
out of this race as that is an energy expenditure I don’t have space for. This
is business: keep moving forward, make each cut-off, garner added time when you
can. It is far from what I envisioned this day would be, but it is also about
managing the necessity of what the day as given me. I just hope that everything
I have learned in the past five years to get here will prove enough to get me
through the day, even though the time has not been in my favor since the start.
I am living from one aid station and one cut-off to the next. The benefit is I
am incredibly present.
I need to stop briefly to address
chaffing issues and am summarily attacked by mosquitos. They sting and zing me.
I pull up my arm sleeves and march on. I still have to stop for brief spurts
due to the asthma, but these are seconds long to gather an extra couple of
breaths as the insects are vicious. It is getting darker, I pull out my lights,
but they are still fairly useless. I am struggling but push on. I crest the 2.8
mile 1700 ft climb and then am moving again as I close in on the aid station.
Murf and Jim are there to attend to my needs, as I grab a bite and some soda. I
ditch my useless phone, stop my Garmin and plug it in to charge it. I kiss Jim
goodbye, tell him it will take 1:45-2:00 to get to Foresthill. I leave out at
9:05 pm, 50 minutes ahead of the cut off.
 |
| Coming in to Michigan Bluff at dusk. (Photo: Jim Garrett) |
Michigan Bluff 55.7 in 15:59 (17:13). Section pace 26:25.
305th/369.
(My watch stopped at Michigan Bluff with 55.1 miles in 16:02
(17:28). Gain 10,269 ft, Loss 12,497 ft. Altitude range 2079 to 8612 ft.)
Gratitude
Murf is
an instant distractor when I pick him up as a pacer. We get running as I am
still trying to stuff Oreos in my face (this is the one bit of solid food I can
surprisingly stomach). He promises I can eat when we hit the climb in 0.25
miles; I know it’s closer to a mile away.
My light sucks so I am struggling to see the road (user error and I fix
it a bit later; I guess I had it on the lowest setting). I aim to follow Murf
who is lit up like a Christmas (Statesmas!) tree. He points out blips in the
terrain, advises what side of the trail to stay on, predicts undulations, tells
me when to run, when to power hike. I am decidedly in good hands. My feet are
beat up though and this becomes more obviously painful as we descend to Volcano
Creek; just as the past two technical descents, my feet are just crying out.
This is not an issue I anticipated, having thought it was solved with sock
changes, shoes changes, and the use of Run Goo. My feet have been fairly happy
trail running for over a year and yet they are becoming the rate limiting step
now. There are blisters growing, blisters which are on the verge of the pain
that was Kettle Moraine 100 (90.5) miler. We cross the creek and the cold water
feels absolutely delightful. On our hike back to Foresthill, Kelly comes along
(Rhode Island gal who now lives in Long Beach); she is struggling with her feet
as well, having spent an hour at the last aid station getting them tended to.
 |
| My greeting at Foresthill! |
Once we
crest the pavement, I feel a bit better, as at least I can power hike at a
faster rate. We pop out on Foresthill Rd and I can run and do. I know I need to
use every runnable section and take advantage of my marathon legs. I hit the
bathroom before I make my official entry to Foresthill. Jim is there, along
with future pacers Lorena and Rhoben. I am also happy to see some fellow ACME
animal runners: Badger, Ibex, and Jayhawk. I quickly greet them, plunk down in
a chair to change my socks and shoes. Murf urges me to have medical take care
of my feet. I am hesitant; I don’t have time. Medical comes to me and convinces
me, so I hobble inside. I am treated to two volunteers, one working on each
foot, as I am propped up in a lounge chair. I eat pizza and drink a Coke as my
blisters are lanced and then taped up (the damage at this point is a monstrous
blister on the bottom of my left heel, a smaller brewing one of my right heel,
and a medium sized blister on my right forefoot). In retrospect, the blisters
were likely the result of excessive power hiking/speed walking sections on the
rocks in the High Country, a clear side effect of my asthma. I am wary of the
time, but grateful for the help. My feet as they were would have eventually
limited my forward progress. The volunteers here, as at every step of this
race, are phenomenal. You ask, they give, and with a positive attitude. During
the training runs, I met an elite who commented that “WS is a hard race to
DNF”, referencing all the encouragement from the volunteers. She is right. They
reassure me and get me on my way.
Foresthill mile 62 in 17:55 (in) (17:20). Section pace
18:24. 292nd/369.
As I
head down Main St Foresthill, quickly waving goodbye to my friends, I realize
I’m missing my flashlight; Murf grabs what he can- it’s my junky headlamp. I do
at least have my good headlamp and it more than suffices along with the glow of
the moon. I check my watch, it is 11:20 pm. The cut-off at Foresthill was 11:45
pm; I am now just 25 minutes ahead. Here, I should mention the cut-offs. These
signal the absolute final time by which I need to be out of a given aid
station. The 30 hour time (which is what is required for an official finish) is
faster than those cut-offs, typically by about an hour. Shit. The feet repair
was necessary, but I just don’t like this tightness. Murf is reassuring, there
are only a few climbs, there are lots of downs and runnable terrain over the
next 16 miles to the river.
This
section was once my favorite of the course. It arguably provides some of the
prettiest views on course (assuming this were daylight and you could appreciate
the mountains in the distance, the lushness of the forest, and the river which
meanders in and out of sight on the single track). It actually is rather
runnable; I’ve gone through here bombing down to the river, skipping, jumping,
throwing caution in to the wilderness in a way I rarely do. But the only two
times I’ve raced on Cal Street have been disasters. In Canyons 2016,
electrolyte imbalances had me zombie shuffling every inch of this terrain. At
Canyons 2017, I dropped from the race half way to the river, my ear in
agonizing pain which meant a crawl from Cal 1 to Cal 2. During the same Canyons
race, I let this dream die, this dream of Western States. I could no longer
fathom why I was chasing it and my optimism for its eventuality was dimming. There
is a bit of heartbreak I feel now when I run through this beauty; it sits there
as a thud in my chest even though I try my best to suppress its weight.
But as
I start off, despite the darkness, I am bounding down the first switchbacks to
the fireroad. Murf is calling out, strategizing, stay to your right, now to the
left! We are flying. We are passing others. I am finding joy! Yes, I still need
to power hike every ascent, briefly stop to catch my breath, and regroup. But,
in between, I am feeling motion I haven’t felt in hours. The worry and dread I
felt running out of Foresthill is replaced with hope. I just keep Murf in my sights and keep moving
as fast as I can to keep up with him. I just need to stay close enough to hear
his encouraging words. We arrive at Cal 1 in no time; I refuel with liquid and
move on. On the climb out of there, Tim Twietmeyer passes. I do a double take,
but it is definitely him. I then realize why and call out, “Are you pacing your
son?” Indeed! That’s a pretty cool sight to see. We will go back and forth for some time, me
struggling on the climbs, but moving with force on the flats. We will do this
dance with a bevy of other runners on Cal Street, Dancing in the Dark, it
seems. It’s suddenly a magical place. My heart is finally and solidly in this
race after 65 miles of trepidation.
Cal 2 mile 70.7 in 20:38 (17:30). Section pace 18:44
(included foot time in FH). 290th/369.
I would
have thought the darkness would be cooling, but I think my increased rate of
motion has offset any drop in temperatures. At Cal 2, I have ice put in my arm
sleeves and enjoy a sponge down before heading further down in to the forest
and to the river. I continue moving. The
taped up feet have allowed my legs to show what they have left. We will dance
through the next section with the Frenchman Michel. Let’s just never ask Murf
to speak French! Merci! Through the sand and we keep moving. The fireroad pops
up and I know we are narrowing in on Rucky Chucky in under 2 miles. I glance at
my watch, 3:15 am. We have been moving and shaking. I have finally erased the
race nightmare that this section was for me. I express my utter gratitude to
Murf. In the final stretches to the river, my road legs take over, still
moving, still running, still passing. I again encounter Kyle through here (we
had been going back and forth all day and enjoyed running together at the
training camp in May).
 |
| Murf and I have made it to the river! (Photo: Jim Garrett) |
Rucky Chucky mile 78 in 22:38 (17:24). Section pace 16:26.
261st/369.
 |
| The river might be the prettiest nighttime sight! (Photo: Jim Garrett) |
We call
out as we run in to Rucky Chucky, “Rhino is coming!!”. (I was later advised
that Murf’s light up the night vest always provided a grand entrance.) I grab a
new drink, hug Murf farewell, give Jim a kiss, and pick up Lorena to take over
pacing duties. On my way out, Ken compliments me on my speedy time from
Foresthill. I almost can’t believe I just did that, but I savor it. We are
locked in to lifevests and get moving across the river. It is 3:40 in the
morning and I finally sense some relief. I am now 80 minutes ahead of the
cutoff, but have gained 55 minutes in the past 16 miles. I know I will finish
the race. I’ve waited 78 miles to have that feeling; it washes over me as only
joy can. I know there are no guarantees, but I know the rest of the course like
the back of my hand, and I know I can manage the 19-20 minute per mile average
that I will need to get to the track. The cool of the river provides added
relief (well after the initial sting to all my chafed parts). I chat with the
volunteers in the river as we cross, thanking them for their time. I might just
be absolutely giddy!
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| Crossing the river and getting cooled off with Lorena! (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
Up the
other side and I proceed with a slow shoe change (the cots are nearly full and
canted so you feel like you’re falling, there is dirt/mud everywhere). Lorena
has managed to borrow the largest light on the face of the universe (thanks
Brad!), so her head beams cross the width of the fireroad as we ascend to Green
Gate. Forward motion and I am taking my time; I advise Lorena of my issues with
climbs and needing to periodically catch my breath. We run across Robert
through here; he wishes us well as he waits his runner. We reach Green Gate, I
do a quick refuel and we are off after a hug and greeting from David. Samir is in the chair here; he states he is
fine and will be along soon (we had met during trail work).
Green Gate mile 79.8 in 23:32 (17:41). Section pace 30:00.
276th/369.
We move
on. Dawn is still on the horizon and I struggle a bit with the rocky terrain,
but just power hike when I cannot run. Lorena and I catch up. I learn that Eddie dropped at the river; I know something must have gone wrong in terms
of an injury as he trained the hardest of anyone I know for this. My heart
breaks a bit with this news. Lorena and Murf are among the chattiest people I
know; it serves them well as pacers. The miles will pass. I just work to keep
Lorena in my sights, to catch her as I can. We find our rhythm, having to
decide when to pass others (flats) and when to hold back (hills), back to
dancing. Dawn finally breaks just before we hit ALT. My thoughts drift to
Turtle who struggled mightily through this section when I paced her last year
(a race of scraping past cut-offs that eventually ended at mile 85). I run in
to the aid station to find Margaret and give her a hug (she is running a tight
ship here!). A volunteer helps me refuel and change out the lights for my visor
and sunglasses. I am ready to greet this day and to see it through to Auburn!
My thanks and I am gone again!
Auburn Lake Trails mile 85.2 in 25:10 (17:43). Section pace
18:08. 277th/369.
As we
exit ALT, I notice we are finally ahead of the 30 hour pace (6:25 am). More and
more relief is setting in. I will push the best I can through the next segment
of single track; it is the most runnable of the race and the one where I felt I
shined at WTC 50K. Mind you, my idea of speed at this juncture is anything I
can run, even if my running pace merely sits at 14-15 minute miles. I know I
have to average just under 20 minute miles. But, I know I have to manage a
handful of 15-16-17-18 minute miles to allow me the give that I will need from
Quarry Rd up to Cool. I store what I can in the bank to get a bit of reserve.
Lorena does her job and compliments me in still being able to run. It takes forever to reach the right turn to
Brown’s Bar. I think a bug gets in my mouth and I am hacking and dry heaving;
my stomach might just be revolting (the same happened on the way up to Michigan
Bluff). I try to vomit, figuring I might feel better, but hour upon hours of
mainly liquid nutrition means there is nothing in my stomach to actually vomit.
I move on, but with a bit more trepidation, trying to avoid getting sicker. I
take a bit of soda when we reach Quarry Rd before carrying on. Save for
Robinson Flat and Foresthill, aid stations have been a quick in and out affair:
grab what I need, take it with me, and get going with my thanks yelled back.
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| Still working on moving through the single track of day. (Photo: Lorena Van Rein) |
Quarry Road mile 90.7 in 26:43 (17:40). Section pace 16:54.
275th/369.
I have
15 minutes on the 30 hour time and am roughly an hour ahead of the cutoff. I am
filled with joy again as I know there are a mere 9.5 miles remaining. Lorena
asks if I will be okay finishing in the 29th hour, wondering if I
want to push it to try to get a faster finish. No, my goal going in to this was
always a modest 29:59 or under, i.e., a finish. I knew I would have only one
opportunity my whole life to run this race and finishing is all that matters. I
just want the buckle. The time is inconsequential. I have been humbled enough
in recent years by these ultras; I take no finish for granted. There is too
much that can and will go wrong; if you can persevere, you have won. If you had
asked me 10 miles in to this race if I would have finished, my answer would
have been “doubtful”. I was behind from
the start because of my asthma. Making it to this point is a feat, in and of
itself. But mile 90.7 is even more than that. It is the furthest I have made it
since my first 100 miler at Rio Del Lago. The Kettle ended at mile 90.5 when my
body gave up and my mind was becoming a confused mess. I feel strong now at
mile 90.7 and my mind is fresh and alert. There is nothing that will impede
this finish.
The
hike, and that’s what it is, to Highway 49 is painful, with excess rocks
underfoot. Apparently at some juncture when I started running, I took the
pressure off my battered and blistered heels and returned to my mid-foot
striking. As a consequence, I can feel the blisters spreading there and each
stony surface evokes a wince and a curse or an ouch from me, some louder than
others. But I have enough time, so I
power hike as Lorena no doubt worries about that 23 minute mile. I trot as we
get closer to the road and cross highway 49. Cool is not far now and it is far
from cool. The day heats up as we make that climb up the rocky terrain to the
meadows of Cool. The brush is dry and yellow, the air is hot and stifling. They
announce my name even before I come in to view. I am greeted by Jim, Rhoben,
Murf, Gooney! It is a quick hello and goodbye from me, ditching my hydration
pack, and just moving on with my flask of ice water- I have a date with the
track!
 |
| In to Pointed Rocks! 6 miles to go! |
Pointed Rocks mile 94.3 in 27:56 (17:46). Section pace
20:16. 273rd/369.
Rhoben
takes over as my final pacer. I have 2 hours remaining to cover the final 6
miles of the course. I am eager for the
next 2.5 miles of downhill, though the day is heating up. I love this stretch
to No Hands and I really feel I am flying, even doing my airplane arms through
the forest on my favorite hairpin turn. My watch clearly tells me otherwise-
but I only need modest motion, no true rhino speed. Rhoben catches me up and we
both agree the foot taping was the best decision of my day. We process this
diversion from our usual routine. The past few years, we go to the Finish Line
to watch the winner cross and then head to spectate our friends in Foresthill
before Rhoben drops me off so I can go pace at the river. He gets emotional for
a moment and I am touched; I am honored to have him here with me. The pacers,
my dear friends, are the ones who have salvaged this trying day for me. I am
still in pain, but they continue to propel me forward. We make good time, pop
out with the view of Foresthill Bridge. I allow a split second of emotion to
let in; still too soon, but I am now 4 miles away from the goal.
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| Rhoben and I are off for the final 6! |
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| About 2 miles from the finish. (Photo: Rhoben Dalusong) |
Down to
No Hands, we are conga lining with other runners; some with more pep than
others, but all of us know we will finish and share that mutual joy. I have my
flask refilled and then am sponged off, with ice topped off. We cross the
bridge and are 3.4 miles from the finish! Sarah and I cross the bridge at the
same time, we catch up to Samir. I check the watch 9:36 am. 1:24 to finish
this. Doubt left me at the river, but I’ll happily take this reassurance. There
will be 800 ft of climbing in these final three miles, but walking is all that
is required. I start my power walk; I would run, but the heat is ratcheting up.
Rhoben is correct in noting that my walking pace often exceeds others’ running
pace. We chit chat as we march with views of the river to our left. There are a
few milder climbs, but this is pancake compared to what we have covered.
Robie Point mile 98.9 in 29:18 (17:46). Section pace 17:54.
245th/369 (I don’t think that number is correct; the race stats are
missing 30 places at this aid station).
 |
| Final cool off 1.4 miles to go! (Photo: Rhoben Dalusong) |
We
approach the final fire road to Robie Point. Mansour comes down to greet me and
get me moving (I have time!!). I enjoy my final sponge bath of the race from
another kind volunteer. It is 10:13 am. I wanted 30 minutes minimum. I am good.
I can hear my friends at the gate; Rhoben (Duck) starts barking at them and
they return in cheers! I take another flask of water and ice from the aid
station. My party of 2 has swelled and I find myself overwhelmed and surrounded
with love and encouragement. My ACME tribe has joined me: Fox, Gooney, Ape,
Mule (Murf), Smoke, Jayhawk, Flamingo. We head up the cruel final very long
asphalt grade to the mile 99 marker. We are joined by Badger, Ibex, Newt,
Hedge, Akita. Parrot (Lorena) joins in, then my husband Jim. My daughter
Sophie, stepmom Kathy, brother Khris (yeah, he flew in from the Netherlands for
this! ) join the parade. Farah is taking video. Jim gets my daughter Izzie on
Facetime from Seattle (she happens to have a break in rehearsals), my mother in
law (who is ill) gets a Facetime cameo as well. Jim starts Facebook live
streaming.
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| My tribe! (Photo: John Murphy) |
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| Yeah- I'll dance to this sign! (Photo: Jim Garrett) |
I take every single second of this
1.3 mile journey and I savor it. I walk it because I want it to last just long
enough. I have held in all my emotions for 29+ hours and I finally give myself
permission to let them out. I finally can allow the energy of the emotions of
this journey out, both the five years spent to get here, as well as the painful
and equally nourishing miles of the past day and change. I am filled with
gratitude beyond anything else. This family, these friends, they helped me grow
up on the trails. I feel blessed to have them in my life and to have them here
to celebrate this incredible day.
 |
| Just about to enter the track. Love! (Photo: Rhoben Dalusong) |
We cross the White Bridge and are
headed on the final downhill towards the track. Jim gets me on video confirming
this is a one and done for me. There is nothing coerced it. I need nothing else
from this race. I just wanted one opportunity to run Western States and I just
want one finish. So much was put in to getting here, so many tests of who I was
as an athlete, tests of what I felt I could endure for the love of this race
and this sport. But this is not the race for me; it doesn’t suit my strengths.
I’m not sure what is next for me. I’ll find different challenges, I always
do. But, I think I needed to know I
could do this. I needed to know I could put together all the hard days, all the
failures on this journey, the DNFs, the body’s failings, my lungs’ fragility; I
needed to know I could put it all together for success. I have that sense of
accomplishment that I sought. And I am sated. This race is too hard to get in
to. It is a once in a lifetime race. And now, I leave it to the other dreamers
to find their way here.
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| The final 300 m! |
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| Rounding the track! (Photo: Rhoben Dalusong) |
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| Oh yeah! (Photo: Jay Van Rein) |
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| Joy! (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
We are nearing the track. I think
I’m expected to start running! I do start a trot; not sure it’s that pretty,
but quite sure it doesn’t matter. My tribe joins me as we enter the track at
Placer High School. I am running. I am trying to listen to the announcement as
my bio is read; it is drowned out by my friends. Smoke had made a comment about
the bio, knowing I would have chosen some prime, well thought-out comments.
Indeed, I did. But I am in the moment
and even more present than the rest of this race has forced me to be. The track
is magic. Friends are calling out as I run: Martin, Kevin from the inside of
the track, in the stands, my mom and stepdad, Jay, Nuria, Michael, Kelly,
Allie. There may be some I miss and there are some Rhino cheers in there too.
In the final home stretch, I leave my crew and my tribe to finish on my own. I
am elated. The finish arch, the finish clock, all pure magic. I run through,
arms up in victory, in celebration. Whatever emotions have been building since
I left Robie Point are permitted to overflow. I did it! I did it.
Finish mile 100.2 in 29:41:36 (17:46). Section pace 17:51.
282nd/369 (299 finishers, 70 drops).
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| This is the right emotion. (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
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| 29:41. (Photo: Facchino Photography) |
The
Golden Hour (between 10-11 am on Sunday the last weekend in June at the Placer
High School track) is a magical one. I have wept in prior years watching
strangers and friends alike finish in this hour. If you can’t derive
inspiration from the emotions and the years people place on that track, you’re
not likely to find it anywhere. I leave my emotions out there. I am awarded a
medal and some water. John comes to
check on me (he’s working medical, but I told him before I would not be using
his services at the finish line). I grab a seat (and wish I had more shade) and
I take it all in. I hear the cheers as subsequent runners come through in the
final minutes of the race (29:59:59 is the maximum time allowed). I will give friends hugs to thank them for
coming out to see me and for their support. I will meet up with family. I will
crumple on the ground because I’m actually, finally, rather tired. I do manage
to sip on some rather delightful Schramsberg with my family, though I cannot
stomach any food. Way too much later, I will lie on the grass near the awards
tent, overheated and unable to stand, as I listen to the top runners announced
and then the runners listed in order of their finish times. I will get myself
upright in time to join my fellow 29ers ; we give each other hugs before our
names are announced. I will receive my coveted bronze buckle from Denis and I
hug and thank him for getting me out of Devil’s Thumb; sometimes those 15
minutes (or 19) matter. I go home and clean up. I will be achy, unable to bear
weight on my feet for days due to my blisters, I will be in pain from my
inevitable outbreak of poison oak. I will be more emotional; I have 29 hours of
emotions from the most physically arduous day of my life that I had to
withhold so that I could see that finish line. But, I feel at peace. I am
satisfied. I am content.
 |
| Satisfied. (Photo: Nuria Duran) |
 |
Worth it.
|
So, about the bio that was to be
read on the track. Mine was partly heard, but the energy and the emotion of
those final 300 meters muted it. Not to mention that the Golden Hour was
rolling, rolling, rolling with finishers. To finish, it’s important that I
recreate the sentiment of that bio, if not the exact words. “This is Rhino’s first WS100 finish and her 2nd
100 mile finish, a veteran of 31 marathons and 24 ultras. Rhino is a child
psychiatrist by profession and an avid collector of wine and rhinos.” And the
rest should just be in my own voice. I extend my gratitude to my coach Ellie
Greenwood who taught me restraint and to embrace a lot of vertical, whose
positivity and smile stay with me and propel me along. My gratitude to my
pacers, Murf, Lorena, and Rhoben, who were patient with me while nudging me
along the trails. My gratitude to my ACME runner friends, my Boston training
group friends, and to those friends I’ve made on the trails near and far and
who have shared this journey with me. To my family, Kathy and Sophie, and their
help with crewing. Gratitude to those who can’t be here: for Izzie who is busy
following her own dreams, and to my Dad who is always with me. But mostly, my
thanks and love go to Jim ,who has supported me day and night for years on this
road; for your patience, you have my gratitude.
