Checking In
We arrived at the Wrightwood Community Center sometime after 4 a.m., checked in, and waited for the race to start:
Checking in, 4:51 a.m.
With a race start at 5 a.m., and sunrise at 6:38, it would be a while before I saw the sun, so I was prepared with my new headlamp, and with the removable lenses from my sunglasses removed, leaving only the prescription inserts behind. I had brought a jacket to the start, but it was actually quite pleasant outside, so starting the race with just my sleeveless Stevens Creek Software shirt seemed like the appropriate thing to do. The gold cloth on my left hip in the picture above was a bandanna I got back in 1995 at the Mutt Strut in Davis, California, a race where my now-deceased Welsh Terrier Nicky and I had placed second in our age group with a 21:18 5K, back in the days when I could actually run fast. This was both a symbolic item, since Nicky was largely responsible for renewed interest in running, as well as an essential item, to be used for wiping sweat from my face on an anticipated hot day.
Shortly before the appointed hour, the crowd moved outside, but, as is so often the case, no one wants to be the first to actually line up for the start. Which left the field open for me, first for the first and last time in the race. A minute or two later the rest of the field joined me:
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First one to the line, 4:55 a.m. |
Joined by everyone else, 4:58 a.m. |
And then, at 5:00 a.m., Saturday, September 18, 2004, I was off on the second 100-mile run of my life:
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They're off! 5:00 a.m. |
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The Course and the Plan
Here's what I had to look forward to for the next day (plus some), and my plan for accomplishing the task that lay before me:
To Inspiration Point
After winding our way out of the parking lot, the road immediately turned sharply uphill. Remarkably to me, a substantial portion of the field kept running, but I resisted the group pressure and immediately started walking. A right turn provided a few blocks of level running, and then a left on Acorn St. and it was more steep uphill walking (left); after the better part of a mile of this, the road turns into a trail, but continues relatively steeply up (right).
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Acorn St., 5:19 a.m. |
Acorn Trail, 5:54 a.m. |
Having loosened up a bit by now, I was starting to push much harder, and passed one group of people, but the trail was pretty narrow, and pretty soon I came up to another group and decided to save my energy for the long day ahead and just follow them up the hill. My biggest problem in this section, which recurred later in the race, was the "Kalalau Trail effect." The Kalalau Trail is the trail which runs the length of the Na Pali coast in Kauai, which I hiked several years ago. Much of it has steep drops off the side of hundreds of feet down to the Pacific Ocean, but one section in particular near the far end is a very narrow, very exposed section which literally had me on my hands and knees clinging to the inland surface. For several years afterwards I had nightmares about that trail. And it turns out that several sections of the Angeles Crest course traverse what seem, in the darkness where one has no idea what is "over the edge," to be Kalalau Trail-like conditions. A steep shale-covered surface, traversed sideways on a very narrow trail, where it appears (again, I emphasize "appears," since one really doesn't know given the darkness) that one bad slip could be fatal. Several times during the hundred miles I stopped running and had to walk slowly and carefully forward, just to reassure myself I wouldn't trip and disappear into the darkness; I'm pretty sure that the Acorn Trail was the first place that happened.
I reached the top after around an hour, having climbed 2150' in 3.5 miles. Shortly thereafter the day began to break as I and the rest of the runners opened it up a bit and began the gentle net downhill run to the first aid station.
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Pacific Crest Trail, 6:11 a.m. |
Dramatic burn area, 6:16 a.m. |
This portion of the run was quite exposed, with some fairly strong winds blowing, all of them (wouldn't you know it) headwinds, which not only slowed me down but were made me reasonably cold. If I had a jacket, I would have put it on, but I didn't, so I toughed it out. Next time, no matter how warm it is at the start, I'll bring one. Eventually, the run dropped off the ridge a bit, and the sun made it first appearance filtering through the trees in dramatic fashion:
First rays of sunlight, 6:36 a.m.
A few minutes later comes the first view of Mt. Baden-Powell, at 9399' the high point of the route (actually the trail passes 100' below the summit). Baden-Powell was still eight miles ahead, but from this vantage point it looked quite exposed.
First view of Baden-Powell, 6:41 a.m.
I was still two miles from the first aid station, but the lead runners, like this Tarahumara Indian in his traditional outfit and sandals, were already there, as was Debi:
Tarahumara Indian at Inspiration Pt., 6:48 a.m.
Pretty soon it was my turn, as I cruised in to Inspiration Point at 7:10 a.m. Since I was carrying my "cheat sheet" (shown at the top of the page) with all the mileages, estimated times, and planned food intake, I knew I was right on my optimistic 27 1/2 hour schedule, but of course, this early in the race, I wasn't actually that different from the 30 hour schedule. Naturally I chose to interpret it as the former. The race crosses a parking lot as it crosses the Angeles Crest Highway, and Debi had managed (as she did throughout the day) to secure a parking place only a few feet off the race route, so I pulled over and, with Debi's help, refilled my two bottles with Succeed (already mixed) and ice, handed off my headlamp, and was off. Our technique wasn't ideal, but unlike my plan at Western States, I didn't think trying to get in and out of aid stations in one minute was a goal to shoot for; with longer distances between aid stations, "better safe than sorry" seemed like a better plan, and in any case I was out in a minute and a half.
Inspiration Point to Vincent Gap
Leaving Inspiration Point, 7:16 a.m.
From Inspiration Point to Vincent Gap, the next road crossing, is a short section, 4.5 miles of running on beautiful trail on a beautiful day. In less than an hour, a 8:06, we drop down to the road again, for another aid station and bottle swap. Once again, I was right on my 27 1/2 hour schedule, still feeling fine.
Entering Vincent Gap, 8:06 a.m.
Mt. Baden-Powell and beyond
With a very long (12.1 miles!) stretch to the next aid station, including the 2500' climb up Mt. Baden-Powell, some serious planning was in order. First off, given my experience on the ridge early in the day, I was anticipating that it might be quite exposed and cold on the top of Baden-Powell, so I grabbed a windbreaker to tie around my waist. I had been planning on four bottles of fluid for this section, but since it wasn't a particularly hot day, I cut that back to three, leaving me a hand free to use in eating the bagel and cheese sandwich I also left with, after 2 1/2 minutes in the aid station.
Baden-Powell turned out to be a fairly gentle, albeit long (2500' in 3.8 miles) climb, and I pushed as hard as I could walking up it, passing several people along the way (with everyone spread out by now, passing people on a singletrack was no longer a problem). Unfortunately my bagel just wasn't going down well; my mouth was simply too dry to chew and swallow it. In training runs I had eaten the same food with no problem, but here, possibly because of the slightly higher intensity of the race effort, or possibly because of the low humidity of the desert, I just didn't have the saliva necessary to eat something that solid. Instead I scarfed down a GU or two. Together with my steady intake of liquid calories from the Succeed, I was pretty confident I'd be getting enough energy.
Climbing Mt. Baden-Powell, 8:47 a.m.
As it turned out, most of the climb up Baden-Powell was much more sheltered (see picture above) than I thought, and even at the top the wind was much lighter than it had been in the early morning, so I never did need my windbreaker. Still, better safe than sorry.
After reaching the high point of the course 100 feet below the 9399' summit of Baden-Powell feeling no ill effects, I looked forward to enjoying the net downhill to Islip Saddle, eight miles and three smaller climbs (Mt. Burnham, Throop Peak, and Mt. Hawkins) along the way. It was an outstanding section of trail, and a great day to be alive and running it.
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View of the desert to the east, 9:21 a.m. |
Beautiful scenery , 9:21 a.m. |
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Mt. Burnham (?), 9:26 a.m. |
Looking southwest to the finish , 9:26 a.m. |
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More trail, 9:32 a.m. |
Other runners heading up Mt. Hawkins, 10:03 a.m. |
I was running well in this section, doing my "usual thing" of running up the moderate hills (like the one shown above right) and passing other runners who tend to walk everything with a positive slope, then being passed by them on the flats and downhills since they were actually faster runners. But for some reason, on the final downhill into Islip Saddle, I decided to let loose, and flew down the steep but runnable slope to the aid station.
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Hammering the downhill into Islip Saddle to impress the crowd at the aid station, 11:15 a.m.
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I came into Islip at 11:16, just a few minutes behind the 27 1/2 hour schedule. Alas, a slow pit stop, which included a real pit stop to deal with some stomach distress as well as gulping down one of my Hershey's "Milkshakes" (a high-caloric drink I've been experimenting with on long runs; similar in some ways to Ensure which many ultrarunners drink warm at aid stations), and I didn't manage to leave until 11:27, just a few minutes short of the 30-hour schedule. I wasn't happy with that, but you gotta' do what you gotta' do, and I was still feeling great except for minor stomach distress so on I went.
Islip Saddle to Eagle's Roost
From Islip to the next aid station, Eagle's Roost, is only 4.1 miles, but it's a killer, climbing up and over Mt. Williamson, a 1380' foot climb in 1.6 miles. For me, it was pretty slow going, but finally I passed the top and and had a relatively uneventful run downhill into the Eagle's Roost.
The view from Mt. Williamson's front side
It was 12:40 p.m. by the time I hit Eagle's Roost, now well behind the 27 1/2-hour schedule and just a few minutes ahead of the 30-hour schedule, so I revised my target and figured 30 hours it is. I didn't take this revision as indicating I was running too slowly or having a bad day, since I knew that wasn't the case; instead, I just figured that I had made a poor estimate of my likely finishing time and accepted the 30 hours as clearly a better estimate. In Eagle's Roost I did have my one minor scare (and annoyance) of the race. Every aid station had an "in" timing table and an "out" timing table. Some people put their number on their hat, or their shirt, but I was planning on changing both during the course of the race, so I put mine on the pocket of my waist pack. Unfortunately that puts it on my side instead of on my front, so I would typically shout "58 in" as I arrived and "58 out" as I left, to assist the timing folks. Well, at this aid station, the captain had a bit of a hissy fit, because one of the pins holding the number had evidently come loose, the number was a bit folded over on itself, and he couldn't read it. As a result he quite unneccessarily threatened to disqualify me unless my number was clearly visible. Debi came to my rescue and tried to repin the number as best she could. Really, I didn't need that kind of grief, but I quickly shook it off.
Cooper Canyon
From Eagle's Roost the route heads into the dreaded Cooper Canyon, which has a reputation as a hellishly hot place to spend an afternoon. Although only 7.6 miles, my plan actually called for 3 or even 4 bottles of Succeed, depending on temperature. As it turned out, though, temperatures were ten degrees cooler than normal (although they still hit 80), and there was more shade in this section than I expected, so heat was not my problem. My stomach, however, was.
For years I have run with a one-bottle pack around my waist. In preparation for the long sections of this course, several months before the race I bought and began running (even when it wasn't necessary) with a two-bottle pack, to get used to the extra weight around my waist. For most of that time I was using standard-size (20 oz.) bottles. A few weeks before the race, I started getting worried about the need for even more water, so I bought two tall (24 oz.) bottles and began using those. They're not that much bigger, but I think the extra weight, combined with the slightly higher-intensity running I was doing in the race than in my typical training run, was beginning to cause me stomach problems (of course, it could have been something else entirely). Until now all of the aid stations (I think) had had bathrooms, since they were in roadside parking lots. Coming into Eagle's Roost I could have used another pit stop, but that aid station didn't have a bathroom, so I pressed on. The stomach got worse, but never bad enough to leave the trail. Finally, at the very bottom of Cooper Canyon, there was race director Hal Cooper, clipboard in hand, "taking names" of anyone who tried to shortcut the course at what I believe was about the only place on the entire route where that was possible (not for me, of course, since I was 100% unfamiliar with any of these trails).
R.D. Hal Winton in Cooper Canyon
Fortunately, a few feet away from Hal was an actual bathroom, and after getting his permission to leave the course (and return to it at the same spot, of course), I veered off and achieved a measure of relief.
I managed to pick up the pace on the uphill out of Cooper Canyon and passed a couple people on the way to Cloudburst, but I still managed to lose around 15 minutes on this section (compared to others in my section of the pack).
To see a movie of me emerging out of Cooper Canyon into the Cloudburst aid station (a 29MB Quicktime file), click here.
Reaching the aid station, I needed to do something to relieve the pressure on my stomach, and decided to switch to two hand bottles and leave the fanny pack empty of everything except my emergency supplies (bandaids, vaseline, etc.) and GU. I was also starting to suffer from sore toes, and decided to switch to my larger (a little) pair of shoes as well. I knew it meant losing more time, but again went with the "you gotta' do what you gotta' do" philosophy and just did it. Somehow I managed to eat up a full 15 minutes in the aid station, but finally I pushed off and headed out on the largely downhill section to Three Points.
Cloudburst to Three Points
My toes were still a bit sore, and I headed down from Cloudburst somewhat tentatively, allowing a couple people to pass me. But the worst was yet to come. Somewhere along the downhill, one of the people to pass me was my friend Sarah Spelt, and as she did, she called out "Hi Steve." As I turned my head to see who it was, whack! The big toe on my right foot, already a bit sore, smashed right into a large rock and brought me to a dead halt for a few seconds until the pain subsided. I really didn't need that but c'est la vie. The pain ebbed and I kept running, but it was definitely an issue.
By the time I entered Three Points, it was already past 4 p.m., and any worries about heat were totally behind me. Now there was just a little matter of 57 more miles, and one very sore toe, to contend with. But I was still running steadily, even on the uphill into the aid station, as this picture shows. Indeed, I had managed to pass Sarah, and I think a couple others as well, on the uphill section of this leg, which, like many of the mild uphills on the course, I was running while others were walking.
Entering Three Points, 4:23 p.m.
Three Points to Mt. Hillyer to Chilao
After a quick milkshake at Three Points, I headed out for some really enjoyable running, with some downhill and some uphill, and I managed to run it all fairly strongly until I hit the final section, a relatively steep paved road heading toward the summit of Mt. Hillyer. Even walking though, I was able to keep up a really strong pace, combining long strides and rapid turnover and passed more runners on the way to the top. Somewhere in here, I pulled off one of the great mental challanges of the race. My watch, as I had discovered during Western States a few years before, only measures times to 24 hours, and I knew this run would be longer than that, so I had planned to stop it and quickly start a new "run" somewhere along the way. I had been planning on doing this at the 10-hour mark, but missed it, but now, just as my watch hit 12:00, I had the presence of mind to push the right buttons and accomplish the mission.
At the aid station, an omen. Suki Martin is a very nice woman from Northern California, about my age, who has been in probably a dozen races I've done, and in virtually every one, she has started more slowly than I, passed me somewhere in the middle of the race, and gone on to finish well ahead of me. In other words, my nemesis (in a nice way!). The same thing had happened here, and she had passed me on the previous section to Cloudburst. But here I had caught her at the Mt. Hillyer aid station, and after a quick refill moved out before she did. This was a first! For once I wasn't falling apart as the race went on.
It wasn't to last long, however, because a quarter mile out of the aid station I pulled off the trail to water the bushes and she went by me. Shortly thereafter, we hit the actual peak of Mt. Hillyer, and started to wind our way steeply downhill through a scenic boulder field. Rather than a continuous downhill, this section (like others to come later in the course) was more like a series of jumps - land one foot on a rock, the next foot lands six inches lower on a sandy section of sand, then another rock, another drop, and so on. Every step had to be carefully measured to make sure I didn't whack my toe again, and even at that if I jumped down and landed on my right foot, the momentum would carry my big toe into the front of the shoe and cause a little jolt of pain. So I was taking it slow, and Suki was soon out of sight.
The good news was that it wasn't all downhill, and the last mile or so into the aid station had some flat and uphill sections, where I was able to pick up the pace and regain some of my lost time, again passing people as we headed into Chilao.
My original "plan" called for a time into Chilao somewhere between 6 p.m. (my 27 1/2 hour schedule) and 7:15 p.m. (the 30-hour schedule). With sunset at 6:54, and and end to twilight at 7:19, I was picking up (or actually re-picking up) my headlamp at Chilao. I did, however, have a small single-LED Photon light (actually two of them) with me at all times. But I pulled into Chilao at 7:06 with just enough daylight to spare.
Running through the night
My original expectation was to run through the night in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, but as I came into Chilao the temperature had dropped significantly and it was clear that was a bad idea. With Debi's help, I pulled on tights over my shorts; on the top went a dry sleeveless shirt, a long-sleeve Capilene turtleneck shirt over that, and finally a windbreaker. As I did this, I was thinking it might be overkill, and that I'd end up putting either the windbreaker or the windbreaker and the long-sleeve shirt around my waist at some point, but as it turned out I never did. I was a bit worried about the tights, knowing that I really wouldn't be able to take them off, and knowing that it can get very hot on this course over the last few miles, but I figured I'd just have to tough it out. As I left Chilao, it was fully dark and 7:24 p.m.; one more slow transition had put me nine minutes behind the 30-hour schedule, which had me in or out (I really hadn't thought that deeply about it) of Chilao at 7:15 p.m. I was a little worried about that, since it indicated a gradual slowing down; obviously I didn't want that trend to continue.
Headlamp on, I headed out of Chilao. Another runnable uphill gave me a chance to pass several walkers as I pressed on with my strategy; one of them was Suki (as it turned out for the last time). The map shows a short, fairly steep downhill section follows, which I don't remember too well, but then the last mile into Shortcut Saddle is uphill, and yet again my strong uphill running and fast walking took me past several more runners. As I neared the aid station, I passed by Catra Corbett, who was pacing her struggling runner, Howie Stern. Howie had told me before the race he was hoping for a "second-sunrise" finish (25:40 or better), so this wasn't a good sign (he would, in fact, drop at the aid station). A quarter mile later, an aid station person came walking down the trail, asking me if I was Howie, so obviously the word was out that he was in trouble. For all the warnings in race reports I had read about problems with this race (none of which came true), one thing that they really had "dialed in" was communication, with even the remote aid stations tied in in real-time.
At Shortcut Saddle for once I managed to breeze in and out of the aid station in a little over a minute, even including a quick hello for Debi, who I wouldn't see again for five hours or so. I was about to head out on one of the tough night sections, 8.6 miles with the first 6 steadily downhill, and then the last 2 1/2 steadily up.
As I headed down into the canyon, another problem reared its head - my quads were really sore and just couldn't take the pounding. Even though this was a nice fireroad, with a gentle downhill slope, absolutely perfect for running and making up some time, I was forced into exactly the opposite - walking downhill. I did that for a mile or more, before my not fully-functioning brain finally reminded me that I was carrying Advil, and if I only would take some, my problem might go away. Well, sure enough, I popped two Advils, and in a while I found I was able to run once again. I wasn't flying downhill by any means, but at least I was running.
In my usual contrarian way, hitting the bottom of the canyon actually lifted my spirits, knowing I was now facing a 1070-foot gradual climb (over 2.6 miles) up to the aid station. I trotted the gentlest parts, fast-walked the steeper parts, and pressed on, alone in my little circle of light. My new 4-LED Petzl headlamp was working to perfection, giving me plenty of light to plot my path (although this section was mostly fireroad with little to plot). Despite the light, thought, I did have my one and only moment of (slight) panic in this section. Running along the trail, all of a sudden I didn't see the trail continuing ahead of me. There was a bit of a clearing to my right, so I turned into it, thinking that the route might go that way, but after ten feet, it became apparent that it didn't. As it turned out, just a short while before, I had passed one of the few signs on the entire route, so I backtracked a hundred yards or so to the sign, to make sure I had gone the right way. I had, so I returned to my point of confusion, stared for a second or two, and finally spotted the trail continuing straight, with a ribbon off in the distance. What had happened was that some long grass had flopped over the trail, which had initially prevented me from seeing the trail. Problem solved, and as the only real moment of confusion in 100 miles, not bad.
Between the night and the unfamiliar course, the aid station never seemed to be there, but finally two hours and forty minutes out of Shortcut there it was. I had picked up a little time on the 30-hour schedule, although I was still a few minutes behind it.
Newcomb's Saddle was the first aid station where I had a drop bag and no crew, so a different plan was in order. My "drop bag" actually was a small zip-lock bag containing a couple GU and some Succeed powder. Instead of Debi simply refilling my bottles, I now handed them to the aid station people, along with the powder, and asked them to mix it up for me, which they were happy to do. Night-time aid station work has got to be a tough job, even though they had a small group there to keep each other company. But runners are only coming through every 5 or 10 or 15 minutes, so I imagine they're happy to be given a task like mixing my bottles. For sure I appreciated it. This particular aid station actually had a closed circuit TV transmission to the next major aid station at Chantry Flats, where Debi was waiting for me, so I sat in the chair in front of the camera and waved to whoever was watching on the other end. As it turned out it wasn't Debi. Oh well.
I headed out of Newcomb's Saddle feeling fine. Just a minute or so out of the aid station someone passed me as I was on the side of the trail taking care of business, but as soon as I resumed running I was quickly by him. The map shows a very similar downhill slope to the one in the previous section that I had walked much of due to sore quads, but this downhill was all single-track, and I simply run better on single-track. My biggest problem here was one or two "Kalalau trail" moments, sections where the trail got narrow with a dark, unknown drop off to my left, so as I did before I simply stopped running in those sections, walking slowly forward to make absolutely sure I didn't trip and head off into the void. But those moments were brief.
Shortly before reaching the major aid station at Chantry Flats, the route passes through some campgrounds. A couple rock-hopping stream crossings brought me briefly to a halt, as it wasn't immediately obvious which way to cross and where the trail picked up on the other side, but a few glow sticks in this section helped me decide on a path (most of the course, even at night, was marked with simple ribbons, which was perfectly fine. One unique innovation used here is the use of "chalk dots." In most courses, if you get to a place where you make a turn on a road, you might see an arrow chalked on the road. But if the arrow head gets smudged, you might not know which way to go. The "chalk dot" idea is the idea that a whole series of small chalk dots simply leads you on the path you are to take. A simple innovation that worked very well; unfortunately it wasn't applicable to the stream crossings).
During this time, I began to see spots before my eyes. Now I have run before at night, and when you run with a headlamp, all sorts of bugs fly toward the light. Also, dust in the air looks like it's coming toward you (which it is, if you're moving forward and it's stationary). But after a while, I realized what I was seeing was something different entirely - rain (or at least, drizzle)! No big deal, but quite a surprise! Fortunately, it wasn't coming down hard, because I had left my hat with Debi at Chilao, and hard rain would streak my glasses and really interfere with visibility.
The trail headed uphill, and I was running until shortly before the aid station, when the trail suddenly became a steeper, paved road, but that didn't last long, and pretty soon there was Debi and the well-lit, well-stocked Chantry Flats aid station. The campground itself had actually been closed by the Forest Service, due to fire danger, but they had agreed to allow Angeles Crest runners and staff to use it for the night. Good thing!
I came into Chantry exactly on my 30-hour schedule at 2:15 a.m., but my body was telling me I needed a bit of a rest and a bit more resupply, so I took my time, swapping supplies with Debi (new bottles, new GU, etc.) and then scarfed down some hot chocolate and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the aid station. Finally, putting my hat back on in case the rain did get heavy (as it turned out, it was basically done), I forced myself to leave the aid station. Beware the chair!
Two more climbs to go!
One of the toughest features of Angeles Crest is that there are two major climbs - Mt. Wilson (3100' ascent) and Sam Merrill (1960' ascent) in the last 25 miles. But I was prepared, or at least I thought I was. I had spent most of the time at the Chantry Flats aid station with another one of my Northern California compatriots, Kristina Irvin, and we left Chantry together, but she was walking and eating some more, and I was running well, even though the trail was uphill, and pretty soon had left Kristina behind. Or at least, so I thought. But after a mile or two I came to the "real" Mt. Wilson, where the trail turns sharply upward. For the first time since the start of the run, I found myself not only unable to push the uphill with my fast walking, but I found myself at times even reduced to a semi-"Everest shuffle" - four steps, stop for a breath, four steps, stop for a breath, etc. Before long Kristina came by me like I was standing still, and Kristina and I are pretty similar in speed, so I guess I was practically standing still. Other than the sore quads going down from Shortcut, this was the first real "bad patch" I hit during the race. Fortunately it was only a physical bad patch, not a mental bad patch, and I told myself "just keep going" and sooner or later I'll be at the top and heading downhill. Nearing the top the slope seemed to moderate (or else I was pulling out of the bad patch), and I started to push a little harder, even running a bit, until I finally hit the top.
At the top, an obstacle I hadn't expected - fog! Thick fog! Have you ever put your high beams on trying to drive a car through fog? That's exactly what it was like for me with my headlamp at first. I tried taking the headlamp off my head and holding it in my hand, but that really wasn't any better. The new Petzl headlamp includes a tilt capability, so I was able to solve the problem by putting the lamp back on my head and tilting it sharply down. That solved the reflection problem, but now my visibility was about two feet ahead, if that. The trail itself was a fireroad, which might have been ok, except it was fairly rocky and rutted, which meant that I really needed to plot my course down it. Which I couldn't do with the limited visibility. So I pretty much had to mince my way downhill, taking very short steps. I'm not sure if it was the fog, or just plain fatigue, but at one point I found myself staggering just a bit, so I took that as I sign that two No-Doz were in order. Because I had had "my own" aid stations during the race, I hadn't even visited a lot of the "real" aid station tables, where I usually regularly avail myself of Coke. But the No-Doz worked their magic.
Towards the bottom, as I neared the Idle Hour aid station, the fog lifted and the trail became more runnable, which unfortunately revealed two problems - my toe, which I had naturally whacked several more times along the way, was still hurting pretty badly, and a blister had developed on the rear of my left foot (just on the side of the heel), exactly in the place of the one and only other blister problem I had had, in my first 50-mile race at Firetrails. I was running, but certainly not as fast as I might have been, and the descent just went on and on and on, but eventually there was the aid station.
Between the slow ascent and the fog- and toe-slowed descent, this section had taken me 3:34, but even at that I had made up some time on my 30-hour schedule. Unfortunately I didn't know it because of a minor, but annoying problem - the schedule (the one shown at the top of this page) that I had been carrying with me as a reference the whole race had fallen out of my pocket at Chantry Flats during a supply swap, so I was now running "blind." The schedule itself wasn't that critical, but knowing the distances, terrain, and expected time from aid station to aid station had definitely proved useful up to this point. But now I didn't have it.
At Idle Hour, I knew I had to deal with the blister, so while one aid station person was mixing my bottles from the powder in my "drop bag," I solicited the help of another one to help me out. "What do you think this is, Western States?" he joked, alluding to the fact that at Western States they actually have podiatrists at some of the aid stations. "No problem," I said, pulling a Compeed out of my waist pack, "all I need is for you to help me put this on. Don't forget it has to be warmed up to stick properly." "No problem," he replied, "the top of the coffee pot works perfectly for that." Evidently I wasn't the first. I took off my shoe and sock, he warmed up the Compeed and then put it on the blister, and I was good to go. It was 6:08 a.m. when I left Idle Hour.
An uphill out of the aid station was immediately good for my spirits. Without my map, I wasn't exactly sure, but I remembered vaguely that I was around the 85-mile mark. My legs were feeling fine, my blister was taken care of, daylight was coming, and it was time to start pushing a little harder. A downhill followed which went a lot better than the previous one thanks to the patched blister, and by the time I hit the bottom of Idle Hour Canyon, daylight had arrived and I caught a group of runners, including Kristina who had left Idle Hour nine minutes before me. I was cruising, leaping up rocks as I passed other runners and started on the uphill up the final climb, Sam Merrill. The end was literally (well, sort of) in sight:
Second Sunrise, 6:52 a.m.
Sam Merrill climbs 1960 feet in 3.8 miles, which isn't that much, or that far, but when you're on a course you're not familiar with, it goes on forever. I ran a good portion of it, walked a bit when I needed to, and the trail just kept going. At one point the trail went downhill for quite a ways, and I convinced myself that I was on a Mobius strip, and was going to end up back where I started. It seemed like I was just circling around and around, but finally, there it was - the aid station at the top of the final climb (well, the final "real" climb):
Sam Merrill, the final climb! 7:58 a.m.
I spent five minutes recuperating at the aid station, more than I needed to, but by the time I left none of the runners I had passed at the bottom had even come into the aid station, an indication of how much time I had gained with my strong effort up the mountain.
Heading downhill toward Millard Campground, my toe reared its ugly head (or toe). This particular downhill was another combination of rocks and sand, just like the one coming off Mt. Hillyer. That was bad enough, and I had to proceed cautiously, until finally another disaster - another serious collision between my toe and a rock, which brought tears (figuratively) to my eyes and brought me to a dead halt for a few seconds. That one really hurt. I had to walk for a minute or two, but finally the pain died down. I was pretty much convinced I had lost my nail and that I could feel a loose nail floating around in my sock, but I wasn't going to worry about that. I started running again, gingerly. One more uphill along an abandoned railway bed, with no rocks (hooray!), and I ran a good portion of it, although as it went on and on, I walked a little too. I should have run it all, because by the time it started downhill again, there were more rocks and little jumps, and the running got a lot tougher on my tender toe.
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Dropping down to Millard Campground, 9:35 a.m.
I was pushing as hard as I could, given the limitations of my toe and the trail, but since I had lost my map and schedule my reference point was thrown off. At Sam Merrill I had pretty much concluded my chances of breaking 30 hours were slim, because I was thinking that it was 6+ miles from the final aid station at Millard Campground to the finish. But when I pulled into Millard, I learned it was only 4.7 miles. Usually I have a hard time doing calculations this late in a race, but here the calculation was pretty easy. It was 9:50 a.m., 28 hours and 50 minutes into the run, and I had one hour and ten minutes to run less than 5 miles, which I knew was net downhill and I thought was pretty much gently downhill the whole way. I remember calculating that I just need to average 14 minutes/mile from here to the finish, and telling myself - I can do that!
The Finish - 30 hours or die trying!
I got out of the aid station quickly for once, but was immediately faced with a harsh reality - the trail goes uphill from Millard, not downhill. And it goes uphill fairly steeply, not as steeply as any normal training run I might do, but steeply enough at mile 96 of a run that it was definitely not runnable. But it was "fast walkable," so fast walk I did. I quickly caught up with someone who had left the aid station just as I was arriving, and encouraged him to join me in the quest for a sub-30 finish, but he declined. I was on a mission, though, and not to be denied.
Finally the fireroad stopped climbing, as the route turned onto the final single track, the El Prieto Trail. It was a pretty trail, but sadly for my sore toe, more rocks and little jumps to slow me down as I navigated the obstacles. But when I could, I was pushing as hard as I could now, running all the small uphills which put themselves in my way. At one point Sarah's husband Wendell appeared, walking up the course presumably looking for Sarah, who was somewhere behind me. "Looking good," he said, which was true. "You're almost to the pavement," he said, which might be true if the distance remaining to the pavement was measured on a scale of 100 miles, but certainly wasn't true as far as I could tell at the time. I kept running and running, and the trail kept going and going, but finally there was the pavement.
Of course, what pavement that was I didn't know. I knew that I was eventually going to hit a parking lot, but what I didn't know is that there's a ways to go to get there. Well, finally the parking lot was there. I had been pushing as hard as could to this point, but now, feeling that I had a sub-30 in the bag but still not sure how far I was from the finish, I pushed even harder. Around the parking lot, down the road, looking, looking, for the finish line, where the heck is it, just follow the ribbons.
At this point, vanity hit me. Although it was a bright sunny day, the fog which had been present had kept it cool and I was still wearing the full outfit I had put on at 7 p.m. the night before - short sleeve Stevens Creek Software logoed shirt, long-sleeved shirt over that, and a yellow windbreaker over that. I really wanted my Stevens Creek shirt to appear in the finish photo, but I finally decided that was going to be too complicated, but I did at least take my windbreaker in my hand so I could ditch it before the finish line, which I did. In the meantime, I was running as hard as I could, still not knowing how far ahead the finish line was.
Finally, there it was, and there was Debi, not waiting at the finish line, but caught by surprise in the parking lot a hundred yards or so before the finish line. She had not only figured me for a later finish, but also counted on me shuffling toward the finish. She had planned to take some pictures of me, and then run ahead to get some shots at the finish line itself. Not gonna' happen! I was quite literally sprinting at this point, arms pumping like I was finishing a 5K. And that's how I finished, at 10:54 a.m., with six minutes to spare on the 30-hour mark. I had done it, thanks to a very strong effort over the last fifteen miles.
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Finishing, 10:54 a.m. |
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But I wasn't done running! Because Debi caught up with me at the finish line, and of course I had to do it again. I could have just gone back to the finish line itself, but somehow I got the idea that she was taking movies, which she had been doing, so I actually ran back 50 yards or so and once again literally sprinted across the finish line, only to find out later that she was taking still photos. Oh well. Note the slightly doctored nature of the photos above - I did take my long sleeve shirt off before the re-enactment, so that I could get the Stevens Creek shirt in the picture.
To see the two amusing movies of Debi trying to film my actual finish and totally losing it,
click here (7 MB Quicktime file) or here (29 MB file)
Post-finish
Having finished, it was now time to face the music and take my sock off and see what was going on underneath. It wasn't pretty. Under the nail was completely black, which I could deal with, but the real problem was below the quick, where a line of blood indicated that the nail had basically been jammed back into the quick. A medical person was quickly on hand with a foot bath (Epson salts) to soak it in, and then helped to bandage it up with a compression bandage.
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One seriously hurting big toe, on display and being treated. Note, however, the otherwise spotless foot which has not even been cleaned at this point.
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While I was sitting there soaking my toe, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times spent about 15 minutes interviewing me, asking all kinds of questions; a full-page story ended up in the paper the next day, with me featured prominently! And as time went on, the remaining finishers trickled in. I was still remarkably free of stiffness, but fatigue was definitely setting in, not having slept in more time than I wanted to think about. I laid down a little, chatted with friends a little, partook of the available food, but my biggest need was for a nap, so as soon as the awards ceremony began and I received my buckle, we took off for the hotel. I was very very happy, and very very tired.
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Getting the buckle from R.D.'s Ken Hamada and Hal Winton |
The buckle! |
Summing Up
After all was said and done, I had done it! I had juggled decisions about preparation, tapering, choices of equipment, fluid and caloric intake, when to push and when to back off, what to wear, and, in some sections of the trail, literally where to place every single footstrike, but in the end, I had solved the complex equations. It probably wasn't a miracle, but it sure seemed like one!
