That Which Does Not Kill Me Just Might Someday: 2017 Canyons 100K DNF

                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 4^th 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 5^th qualifier, is this what I want? Do I want to attend that WS lottery in December again, walk away with my 5^th 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 2^nd). 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.