Turbulent Indigo: Tahoe Rim Trail 100 Miler DNF 7/15-16/2017

 

Blue. Of the color whose hue is that of the clear sky.

Blue. Low in spirits. Melancholy.

Blue. Music. Of, relating to, or used in blues.

Blue. Profane, indecent.

Blue. Sky. The Far Distance (disappeared into the blue).

(Merriam-Webster.)

 

Blue. How do you describe the word? Is it a color? Is in an emotion? An expanse? How does a color that conveys such abject beauty also hold such sorrow in her hands? Two weeks pre-race, I am surveying the start of the course, hoping to loop around to the finish, but am obstructed by snow banks. I cannot follow the small trail ahead of me, continually finding myself lost in the forest. I search for the lighter brown in between the largess of white and the grandeur of green and blue above.  I give up and retrace my steps. I seek out my photo of Marlette Lake below Lake Tahoe: small blue beneath larger blue. Before descending Canyon Road, I find a bench perched just above the waters of Marlette Lake. I sit and think about the race that looms before me. I am excited and fearful of the journey, as is apt for the situation at hand. I think of my father, whose memories flood the lake for me. Blue turns to purple hues as I cry. I am grateful for the quiet bench, for the unending blue before me, for the surround of green, for some solitude to let out the emotions that can get lost in a world that is too much grey.  I title my Strava run-hike “Blue”, an homage to Joni Mitchell, a play on words to contrast between the unending waters before me and the melancholy that fills me.

This race is complicated for me. I know from my training runs that it will be a challenge between the climbs, the altitude, the snow, never mind the imposition that is the distance itself. There is also the matter of my heart, of where I want to be, or of where I’m not sure I still want to be. My qualifier attempt at Canyons at the end of April fell apart due to illness after 40 miles of ear pain. But, I’m fairly sure part of my heart for running these distances gave way that day. Chasing the unending hills, the challenging terrain, managing through the heat which is never in my favor, searching for the joy I once found in ultras. I still have that joy for the trails, for the beauty, but there is perhaps no need for the longer than necessary journey to get there. I knew emotionally, I might be out of the game (that one specifically that will chase me to Squaw some day at the end of June). I maintained the plan though, I did the training necessary. I even had moments surrounded by utter grace and peace, more runs than not, along the way.

But in some ways, something else broke as I spectated and then paced at Western States three weeks before Tahoe. The day can come down to so many small factors, or to one ginormous factor, but to things well out of your control. You can be slowed by snow and mud and then be chasing time the rest of the day and night until it finally eludes you. You work years to get there and then have circumstances you can’t really prepare for. You make it through one stumbling block after another, you give the best your body and heart have to give, and you come up short. Your race ends before you’ve reached the track in Auburn and you’re left with blue. Not the beauty of blue, but just its despair. You try to shift the emotion to something brighter. You try to find yellow. But blue persists. And I understand and I feel that ache. Your body sometimes fails you.

I feel fear in the weeks pre-race, before deciding to let that go. Fear is red; it startles and then paralyzes. I used to live so much of life within that, but I let it all go. I hadn’t felt fear before a race in years and had no real interest in inviting her back in to my life. I shifted to gratitude, to wonder, to an appreciation for the journey. My goal was simple: finish. It sounds so very simple, doesn’t it? There’s nothing in the least simple about that. One foot in front of the other until you finish. 35 hours, 100 miles. Simple.

I prepped all my gear, getting giddy as I finalized my drop bags. It could have been excitement, but it might just have been the sugar rush. My husband Jim and daughter Sophie came with me on the drive to Carson City, going over the mountains and through South Lake Tahoe in the process. At the Nevada State Capitol, I checked in for the race and left my drop bags. I was all yellow: bright, eager, ready. Later, before the race briefing, I connected with my friend Kristen (who had switched from the 100 to the 55K to instead focus on a later WS qualifier); I was to have paced her last year at WS before her day ended too soon. (For every friend I know who has finished the race, there is always another whose dream was deferred on course.) The reunion is a happy one though and maintains my positive mindset. The race briefing is quick and to the point. The weather is stifling: upper 90s. There are few snow patches left on course; they have been well marked and carved out where feasible. There is a small chance of storms coming in late Saturday and a decision to hold the race in place until they pass is made, to avoid the dangers from the 2014 race.

Race morning, I take the shuttle bus to the start. I sit with my thoughts. I work to remain grounded in my mantras for the day: Patience and Gratitude. Patience to not overdo it, patience for the hours it will take, patience to get me through the roadblocks I will encounter. Gratitude for the opportunity to be here, for those who will share the journey with me, for the time to myself, for the raw beauty. Arriving at the start at 4 am, the finishers’ village is homey: large tents, ample chairs, heat warmers, food, plenty of facilities, friendly fellow racers. We chat in our nervousness about where we have come from, other races, course conditions. It is pitch black in the world, but I am surrounded by yellow. Just before 5 am, a runner comes up to me, “You’re Lorena’s friend!” Indeed, I am and she will be my pacer from 80 to the finish. Roberto is her neighbor and I have made a new friend on the trails.

At 5 am, the race officially starts. 210 other 100-mile runners join me as we set off in the dark. We head off down the firetrail of North Canyon Road with the blackness of night broken up by scattered headlamps. There is a slight grade to the road, the atmosphere tinged with the excitement of Christmas. I know from my training runs on course that it will take me a few miles to catch my breath as I work to adjust to the altitude (7000 ft at the start). I am patient, holding my mantra in my hand. The course joins single track at the end of the mile and we continue to climb in our conga line (roughly 1100 ft in the first 4 miles). As dawn starts to break, I catch a glimpse of Marlette Lake through the forest. It stops my breath for a split second, I take in the wonder of the dark woods interrupted by the sapphire glass of the water. I grab a photo, as I already know when the view will greet me. 

 

We run down to the lake. It is a tranquil morning. The obsidian reflection of the forest strikes the lake’s water as a bit of orange forms on the horizon below the lightening of the sky. Gratitude sits with me as I smile. I continue through the wooded fireroad, the stick like trees forming a canopy to hold us for a moment. We then start the climb to Hobart. I eat as I climb. I am patient in my pacing. The lungs are working, the soul has been nourished with the views. The climb up to Hobart will be another 500 or so feet. I am in and out of the aid station quickly at mile 7 and carry on the path. I have my camera ready as I climb up to Marlette Peak. The view at Marlette at 7800 ft was spectacular, but the one 400-500 ft higher is why you run this race. I am now well above Marlette Lake, catching a better perspective of its expanse of indigo, rimmed in emerald, the larger lighter hue of blue from Lake Tahoe behind it, with the white capped mountains of the West Shore on the horizon. And as we climb, the view improves. I am yellow and a warm and fuzzy, nurturing, baby blue. My friend Jon is just behind me on this climb; we chat for a bit about the awe before he moves ahead.

 

The terrain shifts again as the trail gives way to small patches of white. Small patches coalesce and become plains of alabaster. The world is a white field of snow. There is nothing technical, but it does require some slowing and more careful footfalls, as we are only 8-9 miles in to the race. I slip and slide a bit, but manage without becoming a snow angel. There are a couple of larger snow banks, requiring some climbing, but the race organizers have carved out a path and a stairway to heaven. Ivory greets the brightening blue sky on the horizon. I have no doubt why one runs this race. It takes your breath away. (Yes, I’ll get back to that, later.) After cresting the summit of the trail, the descent to Tunnel Creek is more runnable. Over the course of the switchbacks down, I peer through windows made by the trees and rock formations, catching little sparks of sapphire. Much of the course is a sand path with large grey boulders on either side, alternating with smaller boulders to navigate directly through. As the descent levels off, there is a large mossy green pond to my left. I make it to Tunnel Creek at mile 12 (2:55 race clock) and am in and out quickly after grabbing some food and hydration.

 

 

 

 

The next 6.5 miles of the course is the Red House Loop. It’s supposed to be the “hell” of this course. The race motto is, “A glimpse of heaven, a taste of hell.” The drop down the rutted fire road is littered with pine cones and spots of water and mud. Even though descending, it’s hard to pick up much speed given the steepness and the terrain. After a 1000 ft drop in less than 2 miles, we hit the swamp part of the course, trekking through drifts of water that culminate in a coursing creek. The murky brown waters are only about knee high though, much lower than even two weeks back. The coolness of the water is mildly refreshing though it’s only 8 am. There is then the gradual climb up the brown of the fire road.

After another mile or two, I spot the Red House in the distance. Whatever fires of hell are supposed to be painting it have left it a dark brown. The loop is not what I expected. To get to the Red House, the road climbs, but it is not nearly as steep as the drop was. There is another cooling stream to access the aid station; it helps wash off the bits of grime from the creek. I emerge at Alice in Wonderland’s party: bright pinks, purples, yellow, red and white mushrooms. The volunteers are friendly and have made the aid station a bit of brightness breaking up the muted tones of the forest. I refuel and head on out. It is another climb, but not so steep. Eventually, we hit a flume trail with a faint imperceptible incline which is reasonably runnable. On my preview run, my friends and I had not been able to find the correct trail to the Red House (follow the signs to Hobart Reservoir after the creek, for future reference), so we did the descent in reverse with a double swamp crossing. The actual course is much more forgiving than our route that day, which had given me a sense of the “hell” moniker.

Because of my prior harder climb back to Tunnel Creek, I am delightfully surprised by my good fortune. The path will eventually connect again with where I descended; it is an arduous climb, but temporary. Through here, I do have the opportunity to give well wishes to runners in the 55K and 50 miler (which left an hour after the 100 miler), both the ones passing me on their return and those dropping down as they started their loop. I maintain my patience; this remains a journey, not a race. Back at Tunnel Creek, I follow my plan, refueling, grabbing added nutrition and electrolytes. More importantly, I change my socks which remain soggy from my swamp life. At Kettle, my lack of sock changes eventually crippled my ability to run, given horrific blisters. I am managing those things that are within my control. During my time at Tunnel Creek, I am being waited on by one of the volunteers. I must commend the lot of them throughout the race- top notch, filled with generosity and kindness. I thank my own personal volunteer before heading off, after a quick potty stop.

Over the next three miles to Bull Wheel, I will cross the 20-mile mark of the race – 1/5^th done in 5:10, 30 hours remaining. In some races and circumstances, that amount of time would seem infinite. And it is in theory. Once you test drive it in reality, you understand how finite that clock becomes. I’m not there yet though. I am optimistic, I am on pace. I am being patient, which also means my pizza will be ready for me by the time I reach mile 30! The race course at this point is traveling along the Tahoe Rim Trail. It overlooks the Washoe Valley: Washoe Lake is a muted blue, there is brown in the valley, forested trees still with me as I travel. As I continue, I pass through a gauntlet of boulders and pop out on the Lake Tahoe side, where the green of the trees frames the distant cornflower blue of the lake and the cerulean sky. Bull Wheel at mile 21 is a quick water stop at the top of Diamond Peak Ski Slope.

Another 4 miles along the TRT undulates up and down. The lake views disappear and are replaced with brown stretches of sand and then swaths of white as the snow overtakes this section of the course. I am patient and work my way through. Eventually, the snow breaks and I start the drop to Diamond Peak Lodge at Incline Village. We were warned about the trail being a mountain bikers’ paradise. I have to dodge a couple of groups; some are better at calling out than others. I am taking my time as the descent is modestly steep and the trail has been carved out by the bikes, making for awkward gullies and cambers that my ankles don’t care for. It’s brown and dusty and the heat of the day is setting in. The whole course has actually been pretty dusty, between the combination of the dirt and the sand. I have no idea what the actual temperature is on the mountain; the gages will read upper 80s for Incline, though it feels much warmer on the exposure at the top of the Rim Trail. I have slowed down since I left Bull Wheel, but I know I need to moderate my internal thermostat. The heat is bothering me. I remain on top of water and electrolytes, I am using a cooling towel around my neck, have a visor, sunglasses. I cover the first 26.2 miles in 6:52.

With Jim at mile 30.

I get excited as I reach civilization, as I know the Diamond Peak aid station is nearby. I run through the trail as it narrows and is nearly hidden in the vegetation. I run in and see my daughter Sophie and husband Jim. I go to the bathroom before anything else and check in. Then I sit and have lunch: pizza and a Coke! If you’ve never had this in the middle of an ultra, you are decidedly missing out on the finer things in life! Have I mentioned the heat? Well, Diamond Peak Lodge is beyond warm. My drop bag was sitting in the sun and my Body Glide is a soupy mess, as it has completely melted. I do what I can with it. I change into a new shirt, new visor, switch out the socks and Run Goo my feet. Another bathroom stop to wash my hands and rewet my cooling towel. Photos and kisses goodbye and I am ready to take on the climb! I leave mile 30 at 1:05 pm (8:05 into the race). I am in amazingly good spirits. I am not going very fast, but I am moving fast enough. I have stuck to the plan and am giving Patience all the due she wants. My goal is simple: Finish. I don’t care about the time, well save for under 35:00. I need to be smart about this and preserve my energy to get through the day. And as I am moving along, I have the benefit of previewing (this is a 50-mile course x 2 for the 100 miler). It’s either a distinct advantage or torture. I remain optimistic.



The first part of the Diamond Peak climb.

Still climbing.

I have done the climb up Diamond Peak twice before my life: in 2014 in the dark at 4 am while pacing my friend at her mile 80 and 2 weeks prior on another warm day like today. I have no delusions about this climb. There is nothing technical like the climb to Devil’s Thumb, but it’s a steep beast and it is thoroughly exposed. There are no switchbacks to allay the climb, just 1700 feet up in 2 miles. But there is nothing to be done but to do it. I know it will be my slowest two miles of the race, so I care not for looking at the time. The heat is stifling, combined with the grade, it takes your breath away. During the climb, I become friends with Bruce. I have mostly had a quiet race, more solo, more introspective than my usual, but Bruce is a nice distraction from my solitude. Bruce is of course friends with Lorena (my pending pacer), because, well, Lorena knows everyone. So that kicks off our conversation. We talk about prior races, mutual friends, these goals. The climb is hike, hike, hike. Then stop to breathe, breathe, breathe. I take a rest in every small spot of shade on the mountain. They are far and few between, so I often must stop to gather my breath before I hit the next tree cover.

The view when you look back.

I take a few photos to try to catch the grade of the climb and to capture how high up it goes. But I know as I take the picture that the top of my field is a false summit and there will be another climb. I’ll know I’m there when I can finally see the top of the chair lift. The sand on our path is so light, you might mistake it for snow in a photo. There are snow blowers nearby; I wish they were working. And as I stop to gather my breath, I keep looking back. Now, during a road race, I would never look back. But, there is a reason here. Each step takes you a bit higher and when you look back your view improves and improves. It is a bright and clear day. The waters of Lake Tahoe are serene and calm from my vantage point 2000 ft up. The waters are a crystal-clear blue, the color of the sky above it, intersected by the mountains of the West Shore. The pine trees hide the homes and domestic life of Incline Village, civilization is lost in a rich green. The work is well worth the beauty that greets me. I finally crest and Bruce and I cheer. It only took about 70 minutes!

I am feeling the joy despite the hard work. Bruce is just behind me.

 

I refuel at Bull Wheel and chat with a volunteer as we talk about reasonable length races. The next few miles back to Tunnel Creek are fun and runnable, aided by the views of Lake Tahoe which take over my right visual field. I have regrouped from the climb and am running again, going back and forth with a couple of 50-mile runners. And I am struck by immense joy. I am nearly in tears. The ability to run through such terrain, to take in the views that my descriptors and even my camera lens cannot capture. I have no doubt about why I embark on these journeys. The grace and awe I am continually greeted with overpowers me. I live for these weep-worthy moments. This is when I feel the most at home, when I feel a pure sense of belonging, when I feel at peace. This is the emotion I want to hold on to. It is clear and it is blue, but it contains no sorrow.

I pass mile 35 at 2:59 pm (9:59 race clock). 25 hours left to cover 65 miles. I remain in the midst of infinity.  I move quickly through Tunnel Creek and out the other side. I think I did not properly appreciate the descent going in to Tunnel Creek at mile 12, as I become well aware of the ascent back to Marlette Peak.  I am working hard to climb and will gain 900 ft over the next few miles. It becomes more pronounced as I am overheating. I slow and take my time. I hear bells behind me, assume it’s Bruce (animal scaring tactic…), though it is a mountain biker. Bruce does eventually pass me somewhere through these miles and I wish him well as he continues to power hike the mountain.

I eventually break free from the brown and grey world created by the boulders on the trail and by the trail itself. As I get closer to the summit, I am greeted by the white world again. The sun and the passerbys have created a slushy world of the previously packed snow. The sky has also opened up, being more visible again as I break through the forest, with the double blue seas on my right: little blue underneath the big blue. I am struggling a bit to navigate through the white, periodically sliding out. At one juncture at mile 38, I have to descend a steep bank of white as the carved-out stairs have been obliterated. I see a tree branch 6-8 feet down from me, worry that if I try to walk down the edge I will be impaled by it. I settle on the safest measure I can envision. I sit on my bottom and slide down. Even with my brief pick up in speed, I narrowly avoid a painful confrontation with the branch. I am instead left with a sore ass and thighs; sliding through snow in short shorts apparently creates a rug burn phenomena.

 

I am slogging it through the snow and continue my slog even as I manage firmer terrain. The views are keeping my heart going, but the sun and exposure are wilting me. At mile 40, just before I get to Hobart, I send a message out to my crew/pacers that I have 3 more miles of snow and climbing before I can descend again. 40 miles at 4:40 pm (11:40 race time).  I refuel at Hobart, eating a quesadilla (corn tortilla; I eat it, but it’s rather dry), use the facilities, then move on. I should point out that Hobart has a bar (mile 7, mile 40, mile 57, mile 90 and a bar). You know, alcohol, a refreshing beverage, or perhaps just one to ease or forget your pain. I’ve promised myself I’ll have one when I return for the final time at mile 90. I will have earned it by then!

I head on my way to Snow Valley Peak around mile 43. I know I will have another long climb to get there and I am unsure how much snow will await me. This is the section of trail I could not navigate through two weeks prior for all the snow banks. Fortunately, much of the prior snow has melted and the course is perfectly marked. Sadly, I am struggling more. I can’t seem to get my internal thermostat to work. My system has gone on the fritz. Any A/C I had on is completely non-functional. I am just slowing and slowing. I keep moving ahead as best I can. Cognitively, I know I just need to keep moving forward. My face is flushed. I’m sure it’s red, as it is warm to the touch. I am so ridiculously overheated. My coolant towel will work for a bit heading out of the aid stations, but then it will crisp up again. It’s drying quicker and quicker each time it seems. I guess I’m not sweating anymore and the dry air and heat of the day just renders it useless.  There have been pockets of the last couple of miles when there is more wind swirling in the air. I want it to be cooling and I think it should be, but my temps remain in the red zone.

 

I think back to what the race director said about a potential storm and how they would hold the race until it passed. I’m out in the middle of a mountain, climbing higher, and all I want is a storm.  It would allow me to stop and rest, give me a reprieve from the clock that has finally starting ticking in my ear, louder by the mile. I’m working my way to above 9000 ft and I think a storm will save me. I get back in the forest for a bit and I just feel worse. I need a break. I find a lovely rock, grey to go with the emotions. I send a message to my crew: “taking a few minutes to regroup at 42.5- I’m too overheated.” They are supportive and encouraging. I try to take in my forest spot, to be in the moment. I can’t see the lake, but the tall trees surrounding me offer a bit of comfort. I take out some food and eat the multicolored and multiflavored gummy bears (clear pineapple, red cherry, orange orange, yellow lemon, green apple). A periodic runner comes by, asks if I’m okay, and I assent. But I turn my back to the trail and shed a few tears. It’s odd, I no longer fear the rock to sit on or the act of sitting, as I did before or at Canyons. I know I need it right now to get back on track. I need to cool down and continuing to climb will only sabotage that task.  It feels short and yet an eternity at the same time. I sit for 9 minutes.

My trees at mile 42.5.

 

And as simply as it started, it’s over. I’m back up and moving again. Wipe the tears after my snack, and move on up the mountain. My core temps are still not where I want or need them to be, but I’m ready to move on. After a short stretch, I reach another expanse of snow. I navigate through the white. And even though I’m not quite yet at the peak, I start to feel refreshed. No, the body and face are still overheated. But my soul becomes nourished. I am back to those weep worthy views. My earlier vision of Marlette under the blanket of Tahoe, well it was wow, but this… this is the why.  And it just improves as I continue, moving to the other side of Marlette. I have found just the right vantage point for appreciation. Patience has again yielded to Gratitude.

The sky is darkening with a hint of grey at the edges that yields to an underbelly of white. It could be snow if the image were reversed. Marlette becomes deepening blue, encased by a rim of forest green, which separates it from the grandeur of Tahoe. It is approaching the dimming of the day, as the yellow escapes the clouds. As I move to the southern end of Marlette, I am back on track. The emotion of the darker blues of lake under lake help me to move beyond the blues.  

 

I reach the Boy Scout aid station at Snow Valley Peak and refuel. I am filled with a sense of relief as I know my descent is through the tent. There are runners in there sitting, shivering, struggling.  I give my thanks and move out into the wind. The trail will be exposed for a couple of miles as the Tahoe Rim Trail navigates the ridge line of the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe. The winds are picking up, causing me to have to hold on to my visor in moments to keep it from blowing off. I am temporarily cooled, but still hoping to get cold. I follow the light green fields as blue and white sweeps my right visual field.  I finally start moving faster as I drop back in to the forest: the trail is light brown, the tree trunks are deeper browns. I come to terms with what a tough 50 miler this race is. But, it is also easily the prettiest race I have ever run.

 

I run, then catch my breath, then run again, then collect, and the pattern goes on and on. The miles are clicking away on my watch, but I realize I am being fed false information. I should have reached the water only aid station by now, set to be 1.7 miles out from Spooner. It is nowhere in sight as my watch reaches 48 miles, then 48.5 miles, then 49 miles. I don’t need the refreshment, but I just want mile 50 to arrive. I am eager for my family, for my pacer Murf. I feel as though I have traveled through enough emotional lifetimes since I left Diamond Peak 7 hours ago. I need some nurturing and some distraction. I finally come upon the aid station. I will reach Spooner at mile 51. My watch makes it to mile 50. I start up the Strava on my phone and put the watch away to charge.

When Murf joins me at mile 50.

 

In the final stretch to the (non) finish (for me), the mosquitos take over, jumping on my skin, picking and prodding at me. It is just before 8 pm. I finally catch sight of Spooner Lake and the reflections of the dimming of the day. The horizon is a faint yellow, nearly white, blending in with the cloudland that is obscuring the celestial blues. I reach the official mile 50 point (51 for me) just past 8 pm, 15 hours in to my race. I am happily greeted by Jim and Sophie. Murf is also there and ready to roll. I sit and eat a bit of hamburger (the bun is a bit dry and could use mustard; I just need calories). I chase it with more pizza and a Coke. I change my socks, lubricating the feet, which still look good. I repack what I need, getting my arm sleeves, pulling out my headlamp, bug spray myself. The relief I had in terms of temperature at the top of the mountain has long since been gone. The minute I dropped back in to the forest and the closer I came to Spooner, I was greeted by warmth and a mugginess in the air. I move through the feeling but can only await darkness, hoping she will grace me with something close to cold.

With Sophie at mile 50 dinner stop.

 

Murf and I leave Spooner at 8:25 pm. I have 19.5 hours to finish the final 50 miles. I am not focused on the time though, as I need to instead just keep moving. Though I have traveled this same route again, this second time will be different. I am no longer alone, but instead of darkness lifting, it is just setting in. As Murf and I head out on North Canyon Road, passing the meadow yields a sky littered with a deep violet purple, dancing with hot pink and warm yellow tones. I capture the final photo of the day as black will take over in the next mile. I am starting over in essence. Murf is chatty and we start talking about a bit of everything. The talking is becoming harder for me, though. We are climbing over these first few miles out and I am working to breathe. Murf asks when I can run. I do in very, very brief segments, but mostly am focused on power walking and hiking. It’s as though I’m having to start over and readjust to the altitude again. There are moments when I call out to hold Murf off from progressing. I stand and catch my breath before moving forward yet again.

 

We eventually come towards the shores of Marlette. There is no photo to capture the shades of charcoal on deeper black. It would be more calming if it weren’t so hot. On the road out of Marlette, I manage to jog a bit, taking advantage of the down. But then we are quickly at another uphill to get to Hobart and I am back to walking. Along this stretch we pass a runner lying on the ground of the fireroad, “I just needed to rest.” She is with her pacer, assents she has what she needs, and we continue, going back and forth with a solo skirted runner. On the climb to Hobart, I have to periodically stop to gather my breath. Climb a bit, stop, breathe, climb some more. This is becoming the pattern of my evening. It is as though I am back to climbing Diamond Peak, but this grade, it is not nearly as steep and it is not nearly as hot either.

I guess I should mention I have asthma. Pre-race, I knew it would be my greatest liability on this course. Since my training runs went fine without any significant asthma complications, I was optimistic it would not be an issue during the race. The race was extremely dusty during the day on the first loop, but I was breathing okay. I took my time on the climbs because I knew I had to in order to moderate the asthma. But the heat was my greater villain in daylight and I never felt significantly out of breath. We reach Hobart at course mile 57 and I am well aware that my pace has fallen off; it is just past 11 pm (18+ hours in to the race). The bar is still there and bartender is ready to serve me; I settle for some Coke as I’m waiting for mile 90.

We head out to Marlette Peak. The world has become shades of onyx on the horizon, though you can still make out baby black under big momma black. There is a faint glimmer of lights well across the sea of black. I must pause as we climb, taking a few seconds at a time to try to get air. The air starts to feel so much thinner and I can barely grasp it. We reach the fields of snow again, the white has started to harden again, steps have been reconstructed where I had my slide earlier. The white reflects in the night. This expanse to Tunnel Creek is a climb, followed primarily by a descent. The climbs gradually become shorter and shorter in length, but I start to have more and more trouble navigating them. I climb a bit, but then just standing to rest and catch my breath is not enough. My heart rate keeps spiking. I am working too hard to breathe. I need to sit on rock, after rock, after rock to try to slow down the thunder of my heart.

Murf is working hard to try to distract me. His words wash over me, but then I lose them as I can’t keep up. I try to focus on them, but they are beyond my reach. I get to the point where I can’t call out. I no longer have the lung capacity. The slightest inclines start to rob me of my breath. I eventually sit on a rock. I need to get some air. The night, its darkness, envelops me. I expend enough energy for a few tears, as I don’t think they require breathing. Murf comes back to me and I still need some more time before I can get up and try to move. Breathing, it seems, is required for walking. I figure I am 1-2 miles out from Tunnel Creek. I eventually get up and we continue on.  That ticking clock; it’s suddenly gone. I can’t think beyond getting to mile 62. I could have a million hours left in this race; it won’t matter if I can’t breathe. I move through the black, painfully slowly, pausing as needed to slow the heart rate, to gather the breath.

I reach Tunnel Creek, mile 62, and head to the Medical Tent. It’s probably just after 1 am (20 hours race time). I am given a seat, Murf another. I talk with one of the 3^rd year Family Practice residents from Reno, explain my asthma woes. Unfortunately, there is nothing to treat my asthma here; we both know a nebulizer would be fantastic, but we are on the top of the Tahoe Rim Trail, so it is not to be had. He does listen to my lungs; they don’t sound horrible. My pulse Ox is normal. I didn’t doubt I was oxygenating fine while sitting down. I do take a couple hits from my inhaler. The consensus is that I live at sea level and am currently at 8000+ ft, so while I did fine on training runs, I also was not covering this distance nor this amount of time on the mountain then. I eat and fuel when I’m sitting. Someone mentions prednisone might help. Oddly enough, I happen to have some in my pack (left over meds from Canyons due to poison oak at the time), and take one.

Murf and I strategize. I have updated Jim and Lorena. I debate about where I go from here and whether this is where my race ends. As others weave in and out of medical, I receive some comments about how good I look. Sitting, not climbing. I take care of my feet to prep if I decide to venture out; even medical thinks they look fantastic. I am developing chills and start to shiver. I have not been cold for one minute of this race. I get a quarter zip out of my drop bag and hand back the blanket they have enveloped around me. My doctor checks my lungs again; they sound better. The next section, the Red House Loop, is a 6.5-mile loop that takes me right back here. I know I have to give it a try. I need to see if there is any chance. No regrets.  We leave mile 62 at 2:04 am (21:04 race clock).

We are back on the “taste of hell” section of the course. But something magical happens. I feel not so bad. We descend and are taking our time due to darkness, but I am cool and finally not overheated. I am moving again. We get through the swamp and the water feels good. The climbing starts on the way out of the water. I feel energy returning. I am power hiking again. But most importantly, I am breathing. I can carry on a conversation again. I am moving, moving, moving. I feel hope. It is bright and yellow and wraps me up like a warm blanket. Murf and I strategize, we start making plans. I know the time will be tight, but I can make it. I need to get to Diamond Peak by 8 am and I will make it. We sail through the Red House aid station, a quick hello, thank you, goodbye, with a few Oreos for the hike. The day is lightening even though the exterior world remains black. I hold on to the yellow.

When I reach Tunnel Creek again, one of medical volunteers gives me kudos for pushing the loop and encourages me on. I quickly change my socks to have dry feet, use the facilities, fuel, and leave mile 68.5 at 4:21 am (23:21 race clock).  A bit over 50K remaining and 11.5 hours.  We are back to power hiking as there is some climbing again in the next section. I know daylight will be coming soon. I am moving and full of hope, eager again.

But just as quickly as the emotion greeted me, I lose her. On the slow climb overlooking Washoe Valley, my heart rate starts ticking up. I start struggling again to find my breath. I have to stop. I walk a few more feet, then I have to sit on yet another grey boulder. It is about 5 am. I take another couple of hits of my inhaler. Maybe I can recover. I sit and wait a bit. I eventually move on, but keep having to stop to catch my breath. The joy that came with my optimism on the Red House Loop is fading. I try to grasp and hold on to her, but my lungs are interfering with my fantasy. I acquiesce to reality as the daylight slowly rises. The blackness of night shifts to a slow grey blue, then to a lighter blue with a pale pink on the horizon. I cross over the boulders and am back overlooking Lake Tahoe. There is nothing but beauty in the world before me. I wish I could breathe enough to walk along her side.

Murf and I confirm my inevitability. I text Jim and Lorena, “No – I’m not going to make it today/ feeling worse.” The next aid station is Bull Wheel (mile 71.5), technically it’s just a water stop. I’m not sure of they will let me drop there; if not, I’ll have to plod along to mile 80 at Diamond Peak. I know it will take a few slow painful hours. I am walking along, taking my time, and I let the emotions trickle out of me. Along this stretch, a periodic runner will pass us, making headway, knowing the clock is ticking, checking in. Other runners are returning from Diamond Peak, at their mile 82+. Jon is on his return; I wish him well and advise of my fate. He looks good and will finish strong.

The clock has stopped ticking for me. There is no amount of time that will rescue me from my lungs. I want to savor the daybreak before I work my way back to civilization. I need a few moments to say my farewells to this race day. We come across a step-up of rocks. I find an ashen boulder to sit on. It is 5:38 am. It is not the prettiest view I have had all race, but it’s pretty enough. Everything before me is a muted blue, intermixed with grey, not quite enough pink: “No mercy from Turbulent Indigo.” (A Joni Mitchell song about Vincent Van Gogh.) The bright blues of yesterday were hope and clarity. They were sharp and precise, in line with my one simple goal: To Finish. On the other side of the black night, is loss and sorrow and uncertainty. I am blue. I sit and I weep. The trickle becomes a stream.

 

I gather myself and we move on. Bull Wheel is not far away. I am given permission to drop there as they radio down to Diamond Peak. While there is not rescue to be had at the top of Diamond Peak, it does mean I can walk down the ski slope, instead of having to draw this ending out for another 8.5 miles. The day breaks further, as deeper blues now mix with brighter tones of pink and orange. Relief adds to my sorrow. Descending is just as steep as ascending and still requires stops to catch my breath. On the way down, those still in this race are going up. Some seem confused by my direction, others clearly understand. I greet Roberto on his final ascent, wish him well, give him a hug.  The thing about the descent is you have the view directly in front of you the entire journey. No need to look behind your shoulder, no need to turn around to catch it. The immensity of the lake, the grandeur of its blue, might as well be divine on this Sunday morning. All the stories it might hold. I will add my own today.

 

Not the greeting I wanted to have for Lorena.

 

I make it down, I check in with race personnel, they take my bib from me. It is close to 6:45 am (25:45 race clock, not that it matters): 75.81 miles covered, over 12,826 ft climbed, at elevation from 6800 ft to 9000 ft.  We walk outside. Lorena arrives in a few minutes; I thank her for the pacing she was never able to do and for her support throughout this journey. Just before I leave, Bruce is arriving at Diamond Peak Lodge. We wish him well; he will finish. I thank Murf as we drive him back to his car; I could not have made it through the challenging evening without him.  I will rest and I will cry a river in the coming days. That evening, Jim, Sophie, and I catch the sunset on the Washoe side of the valley, miles beneath Tahoe Rim Trail. Sophie may be too young to understand, but Jim knows the heartbreak I feel. I have found myself here too many times.

This has been a hard race report to write. I had to step away from it for weeks as I searched for perspective. But the emotions were too raw. They still are. They still overwhelm me and leave me back in the space of the final hours of my race. I gave myself permission to do whatever I wanted for a couple of weeks. Now I’m back to marathon training. I haven’t been on the trails in 4 weeks, though have made a date with myself to get back there next week. I go there for the beauty and the peace, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the sorrow that may now be there. I’ve done what makes sense, that which is practical. I’m on a waitlist for a 100K Western States qualifier in October. If need be, I’ll run Rio del Lago 100 miler in November. I have 4 years invested in this game. I know I’d feel worse and be filled with regret if I didn’t give it one more shot. I think when I’m ready to walk away from the Western States dream, it needs to me on my own terms. I don’t want my body to decide that for me. It can’t be because of my allergies or because of my asthma. It must be when my heart is done.

I may be full of blue. The colors swirl around me. I find myself within all the hues of blue: royal, cobalt, aquamarine, navy, cerulean, baby blue, azure, sapphire. The blues envelop me. They draw me in even as they trap me. Yet, I can still appreciate all those facets of blue, all the reasons I am on this journey. I’m not quite done, even if that means accepting this turbulent indigo.