PCT 100 ("Hundred in the Hood")

Sept. 26-27, 2009

Dealing with adversity on the Pacific Crest Trail, or, "S**t happens"

also, "Training Helps"

Mt. Hood from Mirror Lake, Thanksgiving, 2005

Prelude

In June I DNF'd at the Western States 100 for my third 100-mile DNF (Did Not Finish) in a row. The first two (Rio Del Lago 2007, Rio Del Lago 2008) were only semi-DNFs. In 2007 I had some serious knee issues in the months before the race, and really shouldn't have even entered, much less started. I did, thinking I'd see how it went, but I dropped out at mile 67 with severe knee pain which kept me from running for several months thereafter. In 2008 I was healthy, but took a wrong turn around mile 55 and spent several hours wandering around the woods lost until I finally stumbled out on a nearby road and got a ride back to the start.

But Western States 2009 was different. I was healthy, reasonably well trained (more on that shortly), but just had a lousy race. The heat (it hit 103 allegedly) definitely got to me, but that wasn't all. Because I was going slow in the heat, I found myself for the first time in my life confronting cutoff times, which put me in a bit of a panic. When I got into Michigan Bluff at mile 55 after dark, a good two hours after I had arrived there in two previous (successful) atttempts at Western States, the panic deepened, especially since my best light was at Foresthill, seven miles ahead. Well, to cut to the chase, I got to the Peachstone aid station at mile 71 just before the cutoff, but, having really struggled just to get there (e.g., walking even the downhills, taking more than two hours to go that last 5.0 miles), and very much depleted from having eaten very minimally in the heat, I couldn't bring myself to leave before the cutoff, and that was the end.

In a way, it was a double-whammy from getting older. On the one hand, I'm getting slower. On the other hand, I've already completed this race twice, so the thought of struggling and suffering just to complete it a third time, or maybe not completing it if I were to arrive at a later aid station after the cutoff, was too much for me to handle. Well, that's the way I thought at the time. But later, I felt bad about what had happened. Really, really bad. A third straight DNF, and this one, a semi-voluntary DNF. I needed redemption, and I needed it as soon as possible. Looking around, I found the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail) 100, also named "Hundred in the 'Hood" (after Mt. Hood, in whose vicinity the race is run) or, in some places, "Hundred in Da 'Hood." Not only was the timing good, but my cousin Deena and her husband Dennis have a cabin in Government Camp, just 30 minutes from the starting line. The decision was made.

The cabin

Deena and Petey

Preparation

I had exactly three months from Western States to the PCT 100, and I was determined to make the best of it. In retrospect, I had gone into Western States undertrained, somewhat taking the race for granted. Which was rather stupid, since it had taken me four years to get back into the race (two years of getting rejected in the lottery, then the race cancelled the third year due to fire). I should have gone all out, but both life and a bit of complacency got in the way. I was trained, but not as well as I could have been. This time, I would go all out. I decided I needed both more consistent mileage and more frequent long runs and, as the chart above shows, driven by my need for "redemption" I succeeded admirably. I had five runs over 30 miles in the eight weeks prior to the race, and in 9 out of the 12 weeks prior to the race, long runs of 20 or more, with totals just under 50 pretty much every week. Compared to either my training for Western States, or any of my other previous races, it was definitely a step up. As the race report (coming soon!) will show, it definitely paid off.

My other preparation, which was not to turn out so well, involved calories. One of the reasons for my DNF at Western States was a severe caloric deficit – I wasn't eating enough. You (well, at least I) can only take so much GU (gel), and little else ever seems to appeal to me. But 100 miles of running can easily burn 13,000 calories; more after adding in the vertical climbing (12,000 feet in the case of the PCT 100). I was determined to replace as much of that as possible.

During my training I discovered the joy of golden raisins. At a fraction of the price of GU or similar products, I can buy boxes of raisins (golden because they are somewhat moister than dark raisins) and put them in little bags to carry, and throw down a handful or two periodically as I am running. No packets to dispose of, as with GU, and unlike GU (for which I need to rip off the top, squeeze the packet, then fold it carefully including the top and put it back in my pouch), I can even carry out the operation completely without looking. So that was one way I planned to increase calories for my next attempt. In addition, a common 100-mile fuel for ultrarunners which I had never chosen to use myself is Ensure - cans (or, now, plastic bottles) of drink containing 250 calories, and which I could chug down in just a few seconds. Four bottles making an easy 1000-calorie addition, replacing the need for 10 GUs.

Many days of the week my lunch consists of a small sweet roll with some turkey and mayonaise, and in previous races I've added one or two of those for still more calories of "real food." Most real food can be hard to eat without saliva, which disappears after a couple hours of running, but with enough mayo, combined with the moisture content of the turkey, a few of those seemed like a good way to add another 1000 calories or so to the mix. You can see I spent a lot of time worrying about food.

Drop bags are always a consideration in races. This race would be run through a much colder evening than I had done in the past, so suitable clothing was a no-brainer (a rain jacket was on hand too, but with the weather forecast at 0% rain, I didn't even bother with that come race day). The main decision had to do with lighting. For reasons I don't understand (or agree with), this race started at 5:00 a.m., nearly two hours before daylight (most long races begin at first light). Not only does this mean that my "crew" (and everyone else) had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to drive me to the race, but also, given an anticipated 24 hour plus or minus finish, they would have to do it again the following day.

But the main problem with the pre-dawn start has to do with lighting. I only have one "good" light, a 3-watt Black Diamond Icon (with 100 lumens of output capable of illumination over 100 meters), along with a backup light, a 4-LED Petzl Tikka Plus (40 lumens, 29 meters). In the old days, I used to be a "minimalist," and worried about the extra weight and annoyance of the 3-AA battery pack on the back of my head from the stronger lights, but now I've come to realize how valuable that extra light is. I really wanted to use the stronger light for all the running in the dark. Unfortunately, because of the nature of the course, I would hit daylight somewhere between the second and third aid stations (mile 14), and not need the light again until the mile 55 aid station. My original plan was to ask my cousin to take the light at mile 14 from me and bring it to the aid station at mile 55. But I really hate to do that kind of thing. Even with a completely reliable crew, what if she got a flat tire or something on the way to the pre-night aid station? What if we mis-timed the rendezvous, either because I was too fast or she was too slow? A ride to find that aid station the day before the race only confirmed my fears – it involved not only a long ride, but the final three miles were on a rocky, uneven dirt road. In the end I decided to go with the weak light for the first two pre-dawn hours and know with absolute confidence that my strong light would be awaiting me for the nighttime.

The race

Finally, on to the race! The day before the race we headed over to the start to check in. I was supposed to be #90, which would have been great because from the race I was headed straight to New Jersey for my mother's 90th birthday. But when I arrived, bib #90 was strangely missing, so I was reassigned #180 instead. As Deena pointed out, this was actually better, since my mother is a twin, and of course it was her twin's birthday as well; 2x90=180! A good sign, although I can't say that the race organization (or, in this case, disorganization) gave me a lot of confidence. This was already a race in which, from the moment I registered online, I had not had a single piece of correspondence, and since this was the first year this race was held, I was prepared for the worst in terms of screwups. The bib# problem only made me more fearful of what might be to come [As it turned out, there were some very serious problems for the front-runners, who arrived at some aid station locations before the aid stations were set up, missed part of the course because course markings also weren't ready, and so on. Fortunately none of these problems affected us mid-packers.]

Headed to the race early, scarfing down a turkey sandwich and an Ensure on the way to get some calories in the tank. Arrived at the start, where I learned that bib #90 had been found (of course it was stuck to the back of racer #89's bib), but, since I already had #180 pinned to my shorts, I decided to go with that. One of the curious features of this race was that check-in was allowed up until 15 minutes before the start. That's normal for a 50K race, but for a 100-miler? Continuing with the low-key nature of the race, Race Director Olga Varlamova steps up at about 5 minutes to 5 and starts to address the crowd with the briefest of brief instructions. Almost as an afterthought, she mentions that one of the aid stations won't be there, because there's no road access to it (did they just find this out?), but the aid stations on either side will walk out a couple miles and leave jugs of water. That means there will be 10.6 miles between aid stations. Carrying two bottles of water, I can certainly handle that even without the jugs of water, although at night, 10.6 miles can be a long way. Anyway it is what it is. There won't be many ribbons, she informs us, just follow the PCT unless told otherwise, but at Olallie Meadows, be sure to watch for the 0.3 mile detour off the PCT to the aid station. Without any voice amplification and with her Russian accent, I pity those in the back of the crowd who are unlikely to have heard any of this. Anyway it's time to start.

We start with a short jaunt up the road to where the PCT crosses the road, which is good because this allows some self-sorting to occur, fast folks in front, slow in back. I slot myself somewhere behind the middle where I think I belong. Once on the trail, my weaker light immediately becomes a detriment. The first few miles of the trial are some of the most technical of the entire route, with rocks and an uneven surface. I try to stay close to the runner in front, who has a brighter light, which works, but not as well as if I had had my own brighter light. Anyway, it will have to do.

I had spent the previous three months training, for the first time in my life, with a heart rate monitor, and had determined that a "low 130" HR would be a good target for this race. I've always had a problem starting too fast, and I was planning to use this technique (with an absolute limit of 140 out of a maximum of 169) to keep myself in check. Unfortunately, the need to hang on the heels of the runner in front, plus the "conga line effect" at the start of a race (with runners in front and behind, a narrow trail, and dark to boot, it really behooves you to just hold your place in line), had me violating my plan almost immediately, and the first few miles were all run in the low to mid-140's. Certainly that's an effort I can easily sustain on a shorter training run, but it was defnitely not in my plan. But I managed not to stress about it, figuring that A) I was pretty much stuck in the line; and B) there were a lot of miles to go which I could take at the planned effort.

The first two aid stations were at 6.2 and 9.2 miles, and my crudely drawn schedule anticipated 1:15 and 2:00 times through them. When my actual times (see table at the bottom of the report) were 1:14 and 1:55, I was feeling pretty good about both my estimates (which predicted a 24:50 finish, but that was based on a distance three miles shorter than what the actual course turned out to be – more about that later) and my keeping my initial exuberance in check, higher than planned heart rate notwithstanding. My biggest problem so far was tripping. With my poor light, and the tricky footing in the first miles, I must have tripped a dozen or more times in this section, and joked with myself that I was going for a new world record. But I never actually fell (nor would I for the entire race)!

On the way to the 14.2-mile turnaround at Frog Lake it started to get light, good enough for our first views of Mt. Hood (not nearly as pretty without snow as in the picture at the top of the report, which I took while visiting my cousins at Thanksgiving several years ago), as well as for the race photographer (center picture below) and another runner (picture at right, below) to catch me on camera.

The last mile or so to the turnaround is downhill, and here (and actually before) the lead runners started to pass me headed back south. Point-to-point races, like Western States and Angeles Crest that I've done, are very satisfying because you get to say (or think) "I ran from point A to point B, e.g., from Squaw Valley to Auburn." But races with out-and-back sections have their own nice feature, which is that you get to see every other person in the race (and, in the case of this race, twice, given a 28-mile northern out-and-back followed by a 72-mile southern out-and-back). Curiously, although I was running downhill and they were running uphill, almost every one of the leaders gave me a "looking good" as we passed, when of course it was really they who were "looking good." It actually happened so much I was beginning to feel paranoid. Did I look like some decrepit old guy with my gray hair, and the fact that I was running at all made them think I was "looking good"? I admit that in the picture in the middle above I am looking good, but still...

Just before the turnaround came a rather strange feature of the race - the one and only road crossing of the race, and it's a major highway! Amazingly, cars were stopping, and I got across safely to the aid station, where I was met by Deena, ready to take my headlamp and long-sleeve shirt and hand me an Ensure and a turkey sandwich. At each aid station was a person with a list of names and numbers checking people off. I'd come in, with my number 180 showing, and they'd look and look, and couldn't find me, and say, "who are you?" I'd tell them my name, and say "Look under #90, that's what I used to be." As the day went on, and this scene repeated itself over and over, I'd simply arrive at aid stations announcing "#180, formerly #90" to save time.

My time of 2:57 was now a full 18-minutes ahead of my prediction, and visions of suger-plums (and thoughts of a sub-24-hour finish) began to dance in my head. But, there was a long way to go, and with the aid of my heart rate monitor I was not going to push to hard too soon, only to pay for it later. Instead, I walked out of the aid station, eating my turkey sandwich.

Coming into Frog Lake AS

Headed south (literally, not figuratively!)

Hwy 58 AS, Mile 19.2

I actually managed a fair amount of running on the uphill portion of the return, keeping an eye on the heart rate the whole time. By the time I reached the mile 19 aid station I had widened my "lead" (over my expectation) even more, to 21 minutes. Things were definitely going well, and the calorie-dense and taste-tingling fudge brownies offered at this aid station didn't hurt! The running just couldn't have been better. After passing the unstaffed (water jugs only) Little Crater Lake AS, you get back to that technical section we run before dawn. Of course it was much easier when the footing was clearer, and much more beautiful as well, since now we could see Timothy Lake which the race skirts for several miles.

By the time I returned to (near) the start (the aid station is actually where the PCT crosses the road, a few tenths of a mile from the start itself), I was still running great and feeling great, and was now 25 minutes ahead of schedule. Keep this up and I'll be sub-24 for sure! But I know better than to dwell on that fact, as much as I would like to run such a race, because there's a long way to go, and stuff happens. The old ultra saying is "it doesn't always get worse," but of course the corollary is that sometimes it does get worse. But that was still to come.

The PCT 100 has a unique feature as far as crews are concerned, because from mile 28 to mile 55 (and, later on, from mile 75 until just short of the finish), the course passes through the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, and, while the race received special permission to set up three aid stations in that stretch, crew access was strictly verboten, and, for typical midpack runners like myself, that meant the afternoon off, since I was leaving one aid station at around 11 a.m. and wouldn't arrive at the next crew access until 5:30 p.m. Perfect for my cousin with her cabin 20 minutes away!

As for me, I pressed on. To this point, everything had been going almost perfectly. Eating a mixture of raisins and GU, drinking one bottle of water and one bottle of the race electrolyte (Heed) in between each aid station, running steadily and keeping my heart rate in check. The one "failure" had been with a Payday bar, which I had brought along for a change and some extra calories, and which I've been eating recently on some long runs. Alas, in the cold northwest weather, the Payday became super hard, and after taking a few bites I was afraid I might break a tooth on it, so I abandoned that. Other than that, no problems.

I didn't know what to expect during the reservation portion of the run, but it turned out to be indistinguishable from the rest of the run. Were it not for passing a single sign saying "Now entering Warm Springs Indian Reservation" you'd never know you had changed jurisdictions. Just one single track trail, heading south. As advertised, there were essentially no ribbons, and no need for them. At a couple points the route crossed a dirt road, usually straight across, once with a jog of 10 yards or so (helpfully marked with ribbon); other than that, just keep on going.

There were some unique features in this section. At one point, the route descends to the one river crossing (Warm Springs River), which was very pretty. Actually this was perhaps the most surprising aspect of the whole race – in 50 miles of trail, this was the single water crossing. I'm used to more on runs in California; here in the Pacific Northwest, I was expecting many more, but that wasn't the case. After a climb, a special treat at the Warm Springs aid station - home made pumpkin bread. Nice! Following that comes the ascent up Pinhead Butte to the Pinheads aid station. I walked some of the ascent, but as with the climb after the 14 mile turnaround, I surprised myself by running quite a bit of it too, still keeping my heart rate in the target range. Along the way to the top, I was rewarded with one of the rare views on the course (picture below right). I also encountered what I believe was the one and only switchback in all 50 miles of trail. While there was a fair amount of climbing on this run, all of it was gentle; the fact that I can only remember a single switchback along the way is testament to that.

Some quick notes on the natural aspects of the run based on the pictures above. The trail pictured above left was very typical of many miles of the trail, with a few things worth noting. First, the amount of time spent in the direct sun was virtually nil. Early on I decided to forego both sunglasses and hat, and that turned out to be a perfectly sound decision. With thinning hair, I never run without a hat, but this was one of those rare runs where it was justified. Second, there was quite a bit of red vegetation, but it was all huckleberry – not a speck of poison oak (or poison ivy) on the whole course! Quite a treat for those of us used to paying constant attention to every branch and leaf near the trail. Third, a significant portion of the run was, as shown, just plain dirt (and leaves and tree bark and nice soft things), with few roots and rocks. Those were present, of course, but only in a few sections (as we shall see). And finally, as becomes very clear in the picture above right, the ecological diversity of the terrain was, to put it mildly, limited. I'm used to passing through all kinds of different ecosystems during the course of even my shortest runs; here, as the picture shows, one could run mile after mile without significant change of vegetation. Attractive scenery, to be sure, but definitely a bit monotonic.

Approaching Pinheads, my first signs of trouble all day – my stomach. I pass through the Pinheads aid station, with its wacky signs, and then head out on the long 10.6 mile stretch to the next aid station, Olallie Meadows, where I'll be meeting Deena and my drop bag. The stomach slows me a bit on the easy downhill after Pinheads, but I keep moving steadily along. All day I've been running in close proximity to, and frequently swapping places with, my friend Anil Rao, and as I approach Olallie Meadows my running is going so well that I pass him yet again, but my stomach is getting worse and worse. As I exit the PCT on the 0.3-mile (allegedly; I say it was longer!) side trail to the campground/aid station, I can feel myself really slowing down.

The day before, when my cousin and I scouted the aid station situation, we had seen a bathroom at this campground, and I was really hoping to take advantage of it. Unfortunately, when I arrive at the aid station, announcing "my stomach is wonky," I learn that the bathroom is nowhere near where we are, and there are no other facilities available. A definite bummer. I've arrived at the aid station in 12:24, a whopping 40 minutes ahead of my prediction (which can as easily prove my prediction was poor as that I'm running well), but I'm fearing it will be tough going from here on. I have no idea.

After "suiting up" with my headlamp and windbreaker and tying a long-sleeve shirt around my waist (it's only 5:30 p.m., and just starting to cool off, but by the time I return it will be hours later, so I need to be prepared), I head out. My stomach is really bothering me, but I figure I'll tough it out. Wrong! Before I even make it back to the PCT, I realize that I need to do something, and fast. I find a secluded spot off the trail, unwrap the shirt from my waist, take off my 2-bottle waist pack, and take care of business. Big time (not to put too fine a point on it). The only leaves available are tiny huckleberry leaves, but no problem, I carry WetNaps for this purpose (or various other purposes), so I'm fine on that score. Put back on the waist pack, re-wrap the shirt around my waist, and I'm off. Quite a bit of time consumed, but hopefully it will help.

Well, it did, but not as much as I had hoped, and as I start running, seeing more and more of the lead runners headed back toward the finish, my stomach is still bothering me. Unfortunately I don't really know what the problem is. Is it the raisins, which I've been eating for months in training, but maybe not as many as today? Was it the Ensure, which I've never used before? Was it the race's electolyte fluid, Heed, which I've also never used before? The fact that I didn't know made me leery of everything. I decide to at least cut out the electrolyte, which I had been counting on for needed calories, and try to ingest a few more gels to compensate. My pace slows dramatically as I make my way first to Olallie Lake 3.6 miles south, and then 6.4 miles further to the southern turnaround at Breitenbush Lake. Adding insult to injury, this last section includes some very technical, rocky sections which slow me (and everyone else) even more. I'm still chugging along, but the stomach continues to bother me, and somewhere past Olallie Lake, just before dark, it was off the trail again for a second pit stop. Am I still having fun? Yes, but a lot of discomfort at the same time.

A view of Mt. Jefferson in the waning daylight, mile 60

By the time I reach Breitenbush Lake it's quite dark. I sit for a while to try to gather myself, sipping on some noodle soup as I do, and try some soda crackers which are always touted as stomach-calming. Anil shows up and as I'm getting ready to leave offers me a Tums to help settle the stomach, which I figure couldn't hurt, so I take it. Well, maybe normally it couldn't, but as I swallow it it manages to bruise my throat, so for the next hour or two every time a swallow my throat hurts. It never rains but it pours!

To ease the pressure on my still-hurting stomach, I've headed out with my two bottles just half full each (with water only, since I'm scared to drink the electrolyte now). The lighter weight definitely helps, and I'm actually running well and even passing people, but at one point the stomach cries out and yet a third pit stop is in order. Hard to believe there's anything left in my stomach at all (technically my GI tract, not actually my stomach), since I haven't eaten anything solid for hours, but there is (although much less than before). But I'm still going! Remarkably, the rocky sections seem even easier in the dark than they did when it was just dusk and I was heading the other way. A 3W light is really a useful thing to have! One of the "knocks" against a headlamp, and one of the reasons a lot of people like to carry a flashlight, is the issue of shadows. A light near your eyes cast shadows at an angle directly in line with your vision such that you can't actually see them, as opposed to a flashlight held low which casts better shadows. But with a strong enough light on your head, all you need to do is to tilt your head up to illuminate the trail many feet ahead and it becomes really easy to prepare for the rocks and other obstacles that are approaching.

Heading back to Olallie Lake, thoughts of DNF enter my head. I expect my cousins will be there, and a car ride will be awfully tempting. I'm still running remarkably well, but without being able to eat anything, I'm figuring it will be awfully tough to finish. Fortunately (?), when I arrive back at Olallie Lake, they had long since decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and that driving out on that horrible road was a thing best done in daylight, and had left. I do need to do a serious regrouping, though, not to mention suiting up for a night which promises to be quite cold (I believe it was in the very low 40's, although I did hear one claim of 30's). I take off my shoes to put on bicycle legs which unfortunately won't slip over my huge shoes; after I do that I discover my hands are so cold I can't tie my shoes again. Fortunately there are some spectators left willing to help! I add a second long-sleeve shirt, meaning that I'm now wearing a short-sleeve shirt with separate arms, two long-sleeve shirts, and a windbreaker. Complete the picture were gloves and a winter headband covering the ears. I only have light gloves, and if Deena and Dennis had still been around, I was planning to beg warmer gloves off them, but they weren't, so the lighter gloves would have to do. I ditched one of my two bottles entirely, and only filled the other one halfway, even though I was facing a 10.6-mile stretch to the next aid station. I threw down my last Ensure, just to have some calories in me, and sipped a little bit of noodle soup, and at last, after about a half-hour stay, I headed out. Time to knock the bastard off! (quoting Sir Edmund Hillary, of course).

And then...

...a miracle occurred. For the next 25 miles (with one exception I'll come to in a minute), I ran like a man possessed. Despite eating essentially nothing (nor having done so since mile 55, with the exception of that last Ensure), and despite drinking almost nothing, my running was as good as ever. I ran steadily, even up most of the milder uphills (and most of the uphills on this course are mild), only walking for any significant time during the last pitch up to the Pinheads aid station. I passed at least a dozen people, and maybe twice that many, between Olallie Meadows and the finish (it's hard to tell for sure, since many or even most people run with pacers, so when I pass two people I don't really know if it's two runners or one runner and a pacer). Not that this was a competitive thing, to be sure, since how many people I finished ahead of or behind was completely irrelevant, but it was some sort of validation as to how well I was doing.

As I approached Pinheads, I sensed my headlamp was losing a bit of juice, so when I arrived there, I sat down with some cream of broccoli soup (great idea!) and asked someone to change my batteries for me, handing them the spares along with a penny needed to turn the screw holding the battery compartment in place. While that was going on, I suddenly felt nauseous, and retreated to a corner of the aid station for some "dry heaves" (all the pain and annoyance of throwing up but with nothing actually coming out). What fun! (not) The aid station person gave me my headlamp back, only he had thrown out the batteries! Perfectly good batteries, just a little depleted! I made him retrieve them from the garbage, stuck them in my pack, and headed off. Remarkably, although I had just passed some runners not that long ago, and I spent a fair while at the aid station, there was still no sign of anyone else before I left. It's amazing how much time you can put on someone at night when you're still running and they're not.

I ran into the Warm Springs aid station at 23:54, joking about how I'd really need to hustle to make my sub-24-goal. Considering I had 8.5 miles to go (or, at least, thought I had, more on that shortly), it wasn't going to be today, that's for sure. After a few minutes rest, I push on, first downhill to the Warm Springs River crossing, and then back up to the final aid station at Red Wolf Pass, which is where gravity finally got to me. That last push up to Red Wolf is a killer, at least, it is after 95 miles after 24 hours of running (I certainly didn't remember it as a major downhill as we headed out earlier in the day!). For the first time all day, even in the height of my stomach problems, I was slogging rather than walking briskly uphill. Closing in on the aid station, daylight broke, and, right around the same time, I was passed by what I think was the only runner to pass me in the last 25 miles. Good for him! At the aid station, another short break was in order. Spying a cantaloupe on the table, I asked for some, and instead of the usual small square pieces that aid stations dole out, the volunteer cut and handed me a huge wedge. I think it was the first thing all day that appealed to me, and I eagerly gobbled it down. Not many calories involved, but it seemed like a good idea. Just before leaving, I made a comment about "just 4.9 miles to go" and was told "oh no, that was a mistake, it's really more like 6!" Oh, great. I still don't actually know what it was; the website now seems to show 5.5, for a total mileage of 102.5. Who knows?

The last section is mostly downhill, and my energy level was finally starting to go a bit downhill as well, but I kept going. I had taken two (or was it three) NoDoz up to this point, intentionally taking them as a prophylactic before I got tired rather than waiting for drowsiness to occur, and probably could have used another one, but figured it was too close to the finish to do any good. I never did see the sign indicating I was leaving the reservation, but finally here comes the last turn which detours off the PCT, and there's my cousin Deena, waiting for me! I must be close to the finish! Well, not really! The route seemed to go backwards at this point, and wind around interminably, and I was really ready to be done, and, as the top picture below shows, I was starting to drag (head down). But, one foot ahead of the other. Finally I hit the road and ran the 100 yards or so down to where you enter the "finishing straight." I told Deena to run ahead and get a picture of me crossing the finish line, but she said no, she wanted to get the word "Finish" in the picture, and on the other side of those signs it reads "Start"! OK, I said, but then you'll have a picture of my back crossing the finish line. My solution? One foot before the finish, I leap into the air, spin around and throw my arms out, so I'll be crossing the finish line backwards, facing the photographer. Well I did, but, as the photo below shows, she didn't; by the time she took the picture, I was just standing there looking backwards. Oh well. I impressed the finish line spectators, anyway! 27:17:17, well off a hoped-for 24-hour finish, and certainly an hour or maybe as much as two slower than I "could have" done were it not for the digestive problems, but a very satisfactory time nonetheless!

Still a mile to go, and definitely fading!
"#180, formerly #90", finishes the race!	Take Two!
A well-deserved rest!

I sat for a while, chatting with fellow finishers and eating some hard-earned minestrone soup and a huge piece of chocolate cake, my digestive problems now in the past. But it was cold, and there was no awards ceremony or anything like that, so before long Deena and I headed back to her cabin, where another treat awaited me. But, first things first, a shower to deal with this:

100 miles worth of dirt

Believe it or not, that's just dirt you are looking at. I didn't have a single foot problem all day, not a blister, not a smashed toenail, not even a stone in my shoe. So, after washing the dirt off, it was time to immerse myself in Deena and Dennis' streamside hottub. I know that the traditional recommended treatment after a long run is cold water, but believe me, that hottub felt great!

Aftermath

As noted above, I don't really know what went wrong as far as my intestinal issues. I may have to consider whether I want to eschew solid foods entirely from now on, should I do this again. But digestive problems aside, I can't emphasize enough how utterly satisfied I was by this race. I ran solidly, dealt with adversity, and had a strong finish which is always the best way to finish! How I managed that on virtually no food and little water for the last 40 miles or so I can't explain, other than that I was running slowly enough to be in the "fat-burning zone" (i.e., no carbs needed), and it was cold enough that there was little or no sweating or other water loss. My urine was reasonably clear from the moment I finished the race, meaning that I was not dehydrated despite the lack of water. And my muscles – my muscles were truly remarkable. I was ever so slightly stiff for a few hours, but before the day ended (and ever since) I was walking perfectly normally. In short, my recovery from this run was essentially instantaneous. I can only attribute this, and my very satisfactory performance in the race itself (stomach aside!) to my stepped-up training, which really paid off (and, of course, was enjoyable in and of itself; as I've often said, races are just the icing on the cake, and if you don't enjoy the cake, you're in the wrong sport).

Before the race started, I was a little worried. With three straight 100-mile DNFs, and at age 60, I was worried my 100-mile running days were coming to (or had already come to) a close. After the race, a different story. I'm still not one of these people who does multiple such races every year, because I like to treat each one as a very special occasion, but I can certainly see myself doing another. Finishing a run like this provides a tremendous sense of accomplishment.

Equipment Notes

I ran the race in Brooks Cascadia 4's, just a single pair, and, as noted, had nary a foot problem all day. My Black Diamond Icon headlamp was superb, I'm really happy with how much better I can run with good lighting! I undoubtedly could have gone through the night on a single set of batteries; only the fact that I was going to take a short aid station break anyway led me to change them halfway through the night to make sure of maximum output. My iPhone was set to "airplane mode" so it wouldn't use up any power searching for a phone signal in an area where there was none anyway; in that mode, it easily supplied me with non-repeating music for the 27+ hours that the run took with battery power to spare, including taking a dozen or so pictures during the run. My 2-bottle Nathan waist pack performed as well as it had in all my training runs, with no bounce at all, aided by a strap which I could easily tighten on the downhills (to totally supress bounce) and ease up on on the flats and uphills. Was it possibly part of the cause of my stomach problems? I'd previously run as much as 45 miles with it without any such problems, but who knows. Having that weight on my midsection was certainly a problem once my stomach did act up. I had decided that I run better with both hands free, not to mention having both hands free helps with eating, taking pictures, removing and putting on clothing, and so on, but maybe in the end my old technique of one hand bottle and one waist bottle would be better for a 100-mile run. I'll have to give that some serious thought.

The Data

With one exception, I didn't time aid station stops, as I usually do, so almost all of the times below are times into the aid station. At night especially I spent several (or many) minutes at various aid stations, making the apparent pace to the next aid station appear slower than I was actually running when I was on the trail.

* Aid station time at Olallie Meadows (adding clothing, etc.)
** Actual time 27:17:17; somewhere my watch was stopped for less than a minute
*** Ascent/descent estimates are very crude

I was trying to keep my heart rate in the low 130's during the day; at night, I knew there was no way I was going to be going too hard (which was the main reason I was monitoring), so I really stopped paying attention. Here's the 27+ hour graph:

What you see is an almost linear decline all through the run (whenever you see a sharp dip, that is invariably an aid station stop). The minimum (at 19:26:40 on the x-axis) is during my long rest at Olallie Meadows at mile 75. After that you can see I was ready to go for quite a while, although from just short of Pinheads it levels out (except for that huge spike, which I believe is real, and at a point when I stubbed my toe and nearly fell, which is a great way to spike your heart rate!). What is remarkable is how well I can run (relatively speaking, of course) at a heart rate in the 100 range, a long way from my usual training range.

Want to send feedback on this report? Click here.

Return to Steve Patt's Race Page