I’m
going to the bathroom and the floor starts to move on me. Visually, there are
sparks of shadows and light dancing before me. I logically know there is no
actual movement underfoot, so can only attribute the distortion to the effects
of the heat finally catching up with me. Well, maybe the effects of the heat
and pushing it the past five and half miles to get here, doing my best to
garner more time on the cut-off. I’m running a precarious balance, triangulated
between patience, gratitude, and the damn clock.
I will eventually come to realize
this is new to me. I’ve been sick and I’ve willingly dropped from races because
I knew my body could not manage more. I’ve always stopped on my own terms. I am aware of the clock, but it’s always been
in a more abstract sense, numbers on the sheet in my pack, never the actual
numbers I pay attention to. My math skills remain focused on pace, distance to
the next aid station, distance and elevation gain of the next climb. The clock
is only there for me on road races, where it becomes a heavy burden, tick
tocking the minutes either to or away from the BQ. The clock is only there for
me on the trails when I am a pacer. I’m not sure I care for it as a runner. It
will become just as stifling as the heat of the day.
But as I start the race at 5 am I
am far away from the events that will unfold 36 miles in. I am filled with
excitement and hope and gratitude. I have run all the other 100K Western States
qualifiers in California (Miwok 2014, Quicksilver 2015, Canyons 2016 and partially
2017, Cuyamaca 2017). I am eager to experience Sean O’Brien 100K! I registered on opening day: September 1,
2017, wanting to have my 2019 Western States qualifier earlier in the year.
When I gained entry to the 2018 Western States 100 race, I decided to keep SOB
as an early training run. I have not yet not started a race I have registered
for; and while that may seem a silly reason to run a tough race, I didn’t want
to break my streak. I took some down time from the trails after Cuyamaca in
October, save for an RDL pacing gig, and returned to my trail life the week
after CIM in early December.
Training in the weeks prior to SOB
was tough. I was running my usual back to back runs, but the amount of
elevation gain I was covering was new and challenging, all set to mimic the
climbs at SOB. During the week, I would carry out the tempo runs and speedwork
or hill work. I was finally just doing what I was told to do. Follow the
training plan. Take my coach’s advice. I’m a bit of control freak, so giving up
control has been hard for me. I think it’s liberating at the same time. It has
required patience (my word for 2018) and trust. I know I am my own worst enemy
when it comes to restraint and the fact that I have little of it. I am working
to be more mindful, to rest when I should rest, to run when I should run. I even started stretching and foam rolling. I
started yoga, which has been hard too. I think I might finally be learning to
stop moving. I’m learning to find patience even when I previously could only
find that in running, running a lot.
I have no lofty race goals. Finish.
If it takes 16 hours, I am at peace with that. This is for all intents and
purposes a training run. Enjoy the journey. Get the miles in. The weather
forecast will dictate moderation. I’ve signed up for a race, so heat is a
guarantee. I’m just grateful I won’t have the added weight of the humidity from
Miami the prior week. The temperatures
for the day are predicted to be in the lower 80s. It might be a bad sign that I
no longer blink when I see such forecasts; it’s par for the course. Yet when
Paul gives me a ride to the start (thanks again!) and we chat with his local
running friends, the temperature gage in his car reads a cool 39 degrees. I’ll honestly take it as long as it lasts.
Race start is at 5 am. I wish Paul
well; he is also doing this as a WS100 training run. The race director makes a
few announcements, highlighting the predicted temps for the day, the tough
nature of the course, and the option to drop down to another distance if needed
(and who to notify). Then lights are on and we are off! I have no sense of the
course, only having an elevation profile to go by and brief snippets of video
from YouTube and descriptors from race reports.
It is pitch dark, so I take my
time, giving my eyes, my lungs, and my legs time to warm up. There is some
climbing right near the start when we segue on to single track. The road will
then widen again as we dip down. Within the 3rd mile, we cross the
single creek of the course. It is shallow, but there is a rope traversing its
width. I am amused by a couple of people who actually take off their shoes and
socks to cross to the other side… hmmm…
Leaving the creek, we start the first of many longer climbs which will
gain roughly 1800 ft over the next many miles. It is fireroad, but it is steep,
gaining over 600 ft in miles 3 and 4 individually. I am in power hiking mode. I
put my watch on my altimeter screen and tick off the feet until I get closer to
the top (which is around 2400 ft for the whole race). Patience, patience. I can
only focus on a moderate effort as the day is long. My leg briefly has some
cramping and then numbness in my foot but this passes within a couple of miles.
I think we have crested the
ridgeline as I catch more glimpses of the ocean; daylight is arriving long
before anticipated. By this point in time I am chatting with Gina, who lives in
Cool, near where I do much of my training runs. We are beckons of brightness to
greet the day, both clad in bright hues of orange. Sometimes it helps to pick a
cheerful color to help color your mood. Gina and I will continue to chat on and
off throughout the day. She will exclaim she just wants to keep me in her
sights. In reality, she pulls ahead and then I generally catch up some time
later, so I suppose it works for her plan.
I gather photos of the sunrise below us and to our left.
I think we should be at the top,
but there is another climb, making the first aid station sometime after mile 7
(advertised as mile 6.5), which briefly concerns me for the course running
long. The next climb is a wee bit steep (even though I won’t appreciate it
fully until my return hours later). I spot a photographer half way up the
immense boulder façade. I smile for my photo as I am careful tip toeing to
avoid falling. I’m fairly sure there should be a fantastic view behind me! I am
all about patience, not wanting to go out too aggressively and blow up. I also
want to take in the course, appreciate the terrain and scenery around me.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Howie Stern Photography. |
Over the massive boulder complex
and down the other side, I spot the first aid station at Corral Canyon. I grab
some potatoes, refill my flask (my powdered electrolyte, their water); I have
already been eating as I do on climbs, at least being aggressive with nutrition. I spot a porta potty and have to go to the
bathroom already (which is unusual for me; guess I’m hydrating well). But someone runs to it from the trail, so I
carry on instead. The next section of course puts us back on single track.
There is a gradual descent, but it is a ravine-like trail, so rock strewn and
technical, not conducive to bombing out the miles. I exercise the patience
needed to keep the ankles intact. The course is all rollers when you are
between steeper climbs. You think you get a brief break, but then the feet are
ticking up and down again. There will be another “mini-climb” before the next
aid station. It might be bad that I am already considering that 460 ft over a
single mile is “mini” anything.
In to the 2nd aid
station at Latigo Rd at mile 11 (the race distance has nearly corrected by
now), I pass off my pack for a refill and use the porta potty. The release
feels good. I eat a bit, refill my flask, and then don my coolant towel. Yes,
it’s roughly 8 am and I am already warm. So much for the start in the upper
30s. Coach Ellie has told me to start cooling measures the minute I start to
feel warm. I could not have anticipated it this soon, but cold water around the
neck and cold water on my cooling sleeves are needed. After a couple more miles of undulating
terrain, I reach the next aid station at Kanan Rd and my drop bag. I reapply Body
Glide, refill my nutrition, dump my headlamp and gloves, grab my visor and
sunglasses, enjoy my Milky Way, and get on the road. Around here, I realize
some of the 50 milers are passing by me; they started an hour after me. Okay,
so I am quickly figuring out that my pace might be too patient. I’m not quite
used to being “caught” this early in the race.
When I check my pace at varied
markers and aid stations, the average fluctuates between 14:15-15:30 pace. I
lose some ground on the climbs and regain it on the interim stretches. The
course has a 16 hour cut-off for the 100K, which is a 15:30 pace. Maybe I
should be worried, but I am ignorant of the course ahead. I mean, I know the
generalities and am still optimistic that something will level off at some
juncture or that I might find more runnable descents. It is a long day, I am
busy just moderating effort. By the time I reach the turn-around for the 50K
around mile 16, the 3rd place male in the 50K has just returned;
they started 2 hours back. Let’s just say, there’s some relief as I move on to
the course sections just covered by the 50 milers and 100Kers.
Back on fireroad and I am back to
climbing. Power hiking again and trying to digest a sandwich. I figure it’s the
only point in time during the day where it might not be blazingly warm such
that I can actually get the food down. Before I reach the next aid station
around mile 19, the lead 100Kers will be coming back (they are at mile 31-32
and are super studs; this is a Golden Ticket race after all). After a few
runners, the lead female is on the return in what appears to be long basketball
shorts. It throws me, but she is absolutely crushing it; she will go on to set
the course record as she grabs her ticket to WS100.
At the Zuma Edison aid station, I
refill my flask and rewet my sleeves, grab a quesadilla (which is absolutely
delightful!), and go. The next few miles will see a drop of around 2300 ft. I
know I need to move it; it’s all fireroad. I resort to my marathon legs and
will drop the 3 fastest miles of my race (10:29, 9:21, 9:41), even with
controlling the pace so as to not blow up my quads. I am enjoying the shift for
the legs, but also anticipating what I need to accomplish at the next aid
station. I am through mile 20 in 5 hours.
Bonsall Rd aid station just before
mile 23 will lead to longest gap between aid stations on the course and will
also cover the hardest 9 miles of the course, including two steep climbs of
1600 feet each back towards Zuma. The day is getting warmer and warmer and
there is not a hint of shade to be found. The race director sent out an email
to warn about hydration out of this aid station, after I was already warned by
two friends about this section of the course. I have pushed from mile 19
because I want a solid three hours in case I need it for the climb. For better
or worse, I caught the cut-offs at mile 19: out of Bonsall by 11:30 am, out of
Zuma again by 1:30 pm.
In to Bonsall, I run to the
bathroom even though it is a bit away from the aid station. Yes, I am doing an
excellent job of hydration; I daresay better than any prior race given my
bathroom stops. I grab my drop bag, get my grapes and snacks, Body Glide up,
grab the extra flask, fill both flasks, refill the pack, get ice in my arm
sleeves, water on my neck, and quick food. I skip the shirt change and the sock
change; they would be comforts, but there is only time today for necessity. I’m
pretty sure the peppy gal checking on me and the other runners and volunteers
is the race director; her encouragement and spark is much appreciated. I am out
the door at 10:30 am. 3 hours. I need to average 20 minutes per mile. Until you
run one of these crazy races, you never realize how challenging such a
seemingly “simple” feat can become.
The climb starts on single track.
And it’s a bitch, gaining 600 ft in the first mile. I am making fair time, all
things considered. It is tough and taxing. It is exceedingly warm, so much so
that the ice in my arm sleeves melts and they are nearly bone dry a few miles
in to the climb. I will douse them with a bit of water from my hydration pack
to try to remain cool. Through these miles, the walking wounded are starting to
collect. There is the periodic runner sitting on the side of the trail. I ask
if they need anything; they decline, I move on, again and again. Then there are
the handful of runners who start descending. I know they are going the wrong
way; they clearly know as well. It was me back at TRT, heading down Diamond
Peak to my end, but I was at mile 70+. These runners are turning around at mile
23-26. This might be a record for observed early carnage on a course.
I am acutely aware of my time
constraints, but also realize I am managing. I have energy, I am fueled, I am
moving, and I am maintaining. Gina and I reconnect through this climb and get
to talking a bit again. The words are short as we are both working. I reach the
marathon point in 6:38. By mile 27, there is a brief reprieve as the course
heads downhill, dropping 900 feet over the next 2 miles. I can get the legs
running again and it feels so sweet despite the heat. I have some foreboding
though as I know every step I sail down is another I will have to climb
momentarily.
 |
| Gina in orange before me around mile 27. |
The descent halts and is replaced
with another 1600 ft climb starting in the 29th mile. I treat myself
with my grapes, the perfect food on a warm day. I also then drink my second
bottle of electrolyte. I am managing with enough fluid in my pack, so spritz water
on my arms and neck to try to cool off a bit.
A gal in Boston yellow pulls out her phone to check the weather. It
mocks us, claiming 70 degrees and a “feels like” of 80. Who knows what the actual
temps were, but they certainly feel way warmer than 80. The temperature highs
for the day in Calabasas, the closest town to the start, were predicted to be
around 80. (I would have happily taken the Malibu high in the mid 70s, but we
were so far above and away from the ocean that I realized those predictors were
moot.) Later in the evening, the local news would report a record high of 90 in
the San Fernando Valley, in a town about 5 miles away. Either way, it was warm.
Certainly lack of heat training was a factor when I’d been running in the cold
up North. It felt warmer than Cuyamaca and warmer earlier in the day.
I am overjoyed when I spot the Zuma
aid station just above me. I gather ice in the pack and in my sleeves, find an
anti-chafing product (okay, so RunGoo works, though I only typically use it on
my feet), grab another quesadilla, and go. It’s 12:55 pm. I am officially at
the 50K mark of the course in 7:55. I leave out 35 minutes ahead of the cut
off. Crap. Well, good on me for making it up that climb in under 2 ½ hours, but
still. This is uncomfortable. I am not yet at the top of the climb and gain
another 600 ft in the mile out of the aid station, texting my husband about my
status. The minute I hit a descent, I roll. I will push over the next few miles
of fireroad. I need to get any time I can get back, as the aid stations will
start having tighter cut-offs very, very soon. I have until 3 pm to make it to
mile 36.
I am feeling good and moving
decently enough. I actually catch some spurts of energy through the next few
miles, knowing I have made it through the hardest part of the course and that I
am still intact and not wilted. I am planning my next aid station and what I
need to do there. My feet are starting to not do very well from a pain
standpoint, so I know I need time for the shoe change. I run in to Kanan Rd. I
go to the bathroom and the world starts to spin. Shit. I change my shoes, body
glide up, skip any shirt/visor change (no time), grab my Milky Way and grapes,
refill the pack (the volunteer mentions it is nearly still full…), get ice for
my sleeves. The volunteer confirms my distance and states I need to go. I know.
I know. I move out. It is 2:25 pm. I remain 35 minutes ahead. I was too slow
there due to the dizziness and give back 5 extra minutes I could have used. I
have to get to mile 43 by 4 pm. I am not
sure if I am aware of that cut-off yet. The only one on my mind is that I need
to be at mile 49.5 by 5:15 pm. That’s 13 miles from Kanan. How am I going to
manage that with less than 3 hours? I did realize at the half way point that I
would have to even split the race to finish under 16 hours, and yet, I remained
optimistic.
But, wherever I need to be in the
future, be it time or distance, suddenly no longer matters. My head is spinning
as I trudge out of Kanan Rd. And trudge it is. I am reeling and woozy and
nausea sets in. I know I just need to keep moving and hopefully the sensation
will pass. Gina catches up through this section and I wish her well, tell her
to keep pushing. I am working to stay upright, which means my pace has slowed
to a crawl. I eek out a 25 minute mile on modestly traversable terrain. Just
one step in front of the other. I would be focused on the clock if I could
think that clearly. Maybe I pushed too much between miles 31-36 and finally
have managed to get behind on fluids and nutrition in the heat. I try to eat
some gummi bears. They saved me during the hottest miles of Cuyamaca, but right
now are a congealed unpalatable mess. This is the moment when you know your
race is done. In the middle of nowhere and still a long way to go to get
anywhere, I know I won’t make the 100K. I am filled with some sadness with a
hint of despair. I let out the tears. I try to refocus on gratitude, but I find
myself not quite ready for it yet. I push all the emotions aside and just keep
moving.
I make it to the next aid station a
couple of miles down the road. It is a bit of a MASH tent (yes, the TV show was
filmed not far from here, around mile 52 ish of the course), with the wounded
on camping seats. I sit for a minute. On the radio, a volunteer from another
aid station talks about how they have 20 people there and no cars to get them
out. I know I won’t make it to mile 43 by the 4 pm cutoff. But one volunteer
reports that to even have the option to drop to the 50 miler, you have to make
it there by 4:30 pm. That doesn’t make much sense as some of us look at each
other; the 50 miler started an hour later, so it would be a way tighter cutoff
and that aid station is also open until mile 56 of the 100K. Well, crap. I’d
rather not have a DNF. I grab a rice ball and head out. Can I say how
delightful that was? And clearly my stomach is back on line and I have avoided
my prior urges to vomit. The head is finally righting herself too.
 |
| Really, mile 40! |
I am moving again, or at least I am
trying to. But, this course. This
course. I move on the descent out of 39. And then there is another huge climb.
Well it’s not as bad as some prior ones, but gaining another 600 ft on a
technical mile at this juncture might as well be the nail in my coffin. I am
slow as I have little left in me. I come across the walking wounded and the
periodic runner on the side of the trail again. I have little to offer. I do
move when I can though, but experience briefer and briefer spurts of energy and
runnable terrain. I think I am close, but I am not. I can hear the aid station
and then eventually figure out where it must be based on cars. I am still not
close enough. There’s no way I can make it there by 4:30 pm. Damn, another DNF.
I am pushing, but my heart is sinking. I am pulled back to Canyons, to all
those moments wondering if I was even made for these feats, and to whether or
not I want to be chasing them. I somehow, somehow made it through 2017 and was
graced with the ticket to States after a five year chase. Yet, how do I make it
there? I feel this immense frustration with running. What if June is the logical
end of my running life? What if we just need a break?
I make it to mile 43. It is 4:33
pm. I check in with the timer. She offers me the opportunity to continue to
finish the 50 miler. (There was no 4:30 pm cutoff here; I think that was at
Kanan Rd for the 50 milers.) And I am back. I thank her profusely and joyfully
accept the opportunity to traverse the final 7 miles of my own accord. I grab
some cookies at the aid station, thank them, and head “home.” My legs are
tired, it is still warm, my body is a wee bit ravaged. But my heart is back.
And sometimes, that’s all you need. I
can salvage the day. I refocus on gratitude.
I climb up the boulder encountered
at mile 7 of the race. It is still steep on both sides. I take in the views and
I grab all the photos I want. I am walking it in to have some time to process.
There will be nothing spectacular about the final 7 miles of the course in
terms of my racing. But the sunset to my right, the ocean in the distance in
front of me, the hills that stretch on endlessly before me, with the winding
road that marks the trail – all of these are beyond spectacular. So, I feed my
soul with them. I enjoy my cookie snack. And I process. I shed a few tears, but
I’m back in the right spot.
Darkness will eventually descend. Speedier
100K folks will pass by me and I wish them well. I think I should be able to move faster, but
even the descent is so damn steep. I am recovery-walking out of this one. It
will be my slowest 50 miler (unless you count the first half of TRT), but I
figure it’s not horrible given I’ve walked the majority of the final 14 miles.
I pull off the fireroad and estimate 3ish miles left. It seems to take forever
to find the creek in the darkness. I intermittently worry I have steered off
track as the night is so silent and I am alone for eons. Eventually I catch a
reflective tape or glow stick. Finally, I reach the creek; its cooling waters
soothe my achy feet.
The race is starting to get a bit
long for me. I keep hearing noise in the distance, but am fairly sure I have at
least a couple more miles to the finish. I realize on my watch my average pace
is sitting right around 17:00; I’d rather be at 16:xx. Small goals, I tell ya!
So, I set off, trying not to get lost. I pick up the pace and run for a bit,
then walk, run, etc. My pacing plan is going swimmingly until I am thrown back
on to single track and start to climb again. I have shifted from a park I
imagine is busy during daylight hours back in to the wilderness. Perhaps I am
not as close as I want to be. The challenge with a new course is traversing it
solely in darkness, which would be the first and final 5-6 miles of the course
for me. You could throw me out there in daylight tomorrow and I’d have no idea
where I was!
I still work to push it though,
managing a decent fast paced hike in between spurts of running. It still feels
as though I am headed back into the heart of darkness. I wonder what creatures
lurk in these wilds. Not helpful… My math skills can’t be that poor, though I
really do wish I had paid more attention to when exactly the creek crossing had
been this morning. Eventually I hit
pavement and go East, surmising from noise that I must be going in the correct
direction, though I struggle to find markers. A 100K runner sails up behind me
and passes. He gives me some encouragement and I start running again. The noise is getting louder. Finally, I round
the last right corner and go through the finish arch. A woman starts to put a
medal around my neck; I decline and state I dropped down from the 100K to the
50 miler. She persists. Apparently the 50 miler and 100K medal are the same (as
is the 50K and 26.2); guess I could have run less! I alert the timer and my status is adjusted to
the 50 miler.
It is decidedly one of the uglier
races I have executed, while still finishing. Obviously, it was not the
distance or the goal I set out for, but I did ultimately find some way to
salvage the day. It will take me days to process the non-DNF DNF. Part of me
will always view this as a 100K DNF, though I’m quite sure that attitude no
longer aligns with where I need to be. This is all part of a journey. It’s more
relevant to sort out what went wrong, what went right, and to take what I need
from the race in the coming 5 months to get me to Auburn on June 24th. I could sit in the negative emotion I felt in
two spurts during the race (36-38, 41-43), or I could take something better out
of the other 45 miles for the day.
What could I have done differently?
Be less patient and slightly more aggressive in the opening 10 miles. I took
too long to warm up and was too casual given the tightness of the future
cut-offs. So, I need to think about strategies that can warm up my lungs and my
left calf before I ever start a race. I should have maintained my fueling
strategy better after mile 31. I was perhaps too excited to reach that
milestone and felt the clock ticking too loudly, so I slacked off on nutrition
and fueling from mile 31-36. Granted the heat of the day might have impacted my
nausea and dizziness at mile 36-38, but perhaps fueling could have averted that
moment, as that’s the moment when I missed the future cut-off. One could argue
I could have given more in the final descent, but for me finishing the race was
all that mattered then, not the time. Having time to reflect and find the joy
on the trails was what I was left with once I missed the 100K cut-off. There
are infinite reasons for why I run; finish time doesn’t quite hold the sway it
once did for me. Heat-wise, I think I managed fair. Formal heat-training for
WS100 is a given. February makes warm runs outside hard to conjure. I had
considered the sauna, but race day predicted temps a few weeks out seemed
reasonable. I guess I should know better by now and just do it in case. Not to mention that the Sacramento Valley
will start to provide an ample supply of 90+ degree days by May.
What went right? I managed the heat
fairly well. I used my cooling measures early and often. I had an ample supply
of varied food available in drop bags and found items I could tolerate in the
warmth. I was aggressive with fueling for the first 8 hours; trust me, I never
pee that much during trail races! My climbing skills are improving. I was able
to move through the toughest section of the course without giving back time,
with steep climbs and high temps. I adjusted my plan as I had to, eliminating
some items I might have wanted at aid stations (shirt, sock changes) for the
sake of time and to instead use my resources on heat and nutrition management. When
I felt like crap, I kept moving along, albeit slowly, until I started to feel
better. I never felt the temptation of a rock or of pulling to the side of the
trail. I might have been battling some mental demons, but I still focused on
moving forward and even kept mentally fighting myself to get back to a better
head space. Ultimately, I stayed in a space of gratitude for 90% of the race. I
was willing to adapt, taking the opportunity for a finish, and not giving up
because of the missed cut-off. And my recovery has probably been a bit smoother
for the 12 miles I saved. And I made a friend in Gina as we both toughed out a
hard day; she would also drop to the 50 miler. Oh, and I got lots of great
photos! (Yes, I am moving when I take my photos and it’s well worth the few
minutes of overall race time slowing.)
Race stats for the nerds among us:
Overall time: 14:02:35 (16:51 pace) for 50 miles.
12th AG F40-49/14; 26th F/35; 88th
OA/111 (stats for the 50 miler, which included 58 who dropped down from the
100K; see rest of race details below.)
Garmin: 14:02:19 (16:55 pace) for 49.77 miles. Gain 10876
ft; loss 10702 ft; low 57 ft, high 2379 ft.
Miles 1-10 in 2:33:59 (15:24 pace); gain 2900 ft, loss 1139
ft.
Miles 11-20 in 2:25:32 (14:33 pace); gain 1709 ft, loss 2598
ft.
Race time miles 1-20 4:59:31 (15:00 pace).
Miles 21-30 in 2:37:50 (15:47 pace); gain 2503 ft, loss 2375
ft.
Race time miles 1-30 7:37:21 (15:14 pace)
Miles 31-40 in 3:14:37 (19:27 pace); gain 2553 ft, loss 1823
ft.
Race time miles 1-40 10:52 (16:18 pace).
Miles 41-50 in 3:10:19 (19:01 pace); gain 1208 ft, loss 2766
ft.
Race time miles 1-50 14:02 (16:51 pace).
General race stats (which shows it wasn’t just me, but it
was a tough day out there. It also is a tough race; not Canyons tough, but
harder than Miwok and the rest of the 100K qualifiers for WS. Canyons remains
the beast, but you do have more time to finish it; heat can or cannot be an
issue. Miwok climb lengths are similar but some of the descents at Sean O’Brien
are more technical and there are fewer stretches of pure runnable terrain in
between the climbs. Also Miwok, on a “warm day”, might top out in the mid 60s,
but tends to favor cloud cover and has actual sections of intermittent shade.
So my ranking of difficulty: Canyons, SOB, Miwok, Cuyamaca, Quicksilver.)
245 starters in the 100K: 134 finishers of the 100K (55%)
111 non-100K finishers (45%): 47 DNFs (19%), 64 drop-downs
(26%) (58 to the 50 miler).
